#rega finalmente me la sono tolta dai maroni

[la-principessa-della-squadra]

Serial Killer!Ghiaccio X Fem!reader (Part 1/?)

TW: NSFW content, Yandere, sexual harassment, kidnapping, violence, blood, gore

PLEASE NOTE: The reader of this story is not going to have much control on her surroundings.

SUMMARY: Fem!reader is invited to a laurea (graduation party) and finds Formaggio, Illuso and finally Ghiaccio. After a flashback explaining how fem!reader and Ghiaccio met, She decides to head to her dormitory with him. That was a poor choice.

Il Santo Bevitore bar,  00:31

“DOTTOOOOREEEEE…DOTTOOOOREEEEE!!!!”

October, Graduation month.

This was the third time you heard that chant.

“...Dottore nel buco del cul! VAFFANCUL!VAFFANCUL!”

The chanting was followed by the popping of a Prosecco bottle and a flying cork rolling at the feet of some random students, who probably weren’t even invited to the party.

However, that was never a problem from the start. After all, having gatecrashers at your graduation party is so common that it is now a tradition.

The foamy neck of the bottle, still steaming from its own coolness, slips into your plastic cup supported by Giorno’s quivering hands, who is once again in charge of pouring the alcohol for every single guest. From his rosy cheeks and shaky steps, it was clear that Giorno would not be able to keep himself upright much longer. 

“Grazie Gioà, sei sicuro di non dover vomitare?”

(Thanks Giorno, Are you sure you’re not feeling sick?)

You ask him sheepshly and with a slight note of worry, but before the blondie could answer you’re interrupted by a loud voice.

"UAGLIU!"

Your head quickly turns back. It’s Guido Mista, Giorno’s best friend.  He's also kinda drunk...Guido doesn't waste no time and after catching a big breath he starts shouting at the top of his lungs to give an additional toast.

“AIZ AIZ AIZ, ACAL ACAL ACAL, ACOOST ACCOST ACCOST, A SALUTA NOST!!!”

The rhythmic chant ignites a roaring wave of excitement throughout the bar, fueling Giorno's enthusiasm to the point where he eagerly presses his lips against the giant bottle. The poor guy started drinking since early in the afternoon, and the blame undoubtedly fell on Guido.

As a matter of fact, Guido kept filling up his friend’s glass with whatever alcoholic concoction was within arm's reach. Giorno had finished his graduation speech at 3:30 p.m. By 3:37 p.m. Guido had already made him chug half a bottle of shoddy Tavernello, all complemented by the bursting of confetti and colorful streamers.

Since you knew what a dangerous mix of cheap alcohol was broiling in Giorno’s stomach, you swiftly step back as an anonymous blonde boy decides to intervene by firmly confiscating the bottle of Prosecco. He looked a little concerned. However, you’re pretty sure you’ve seen him before, what was his name again?

“UEEEE PANNAAAA’ààà!!A’Pannacotta!! Ué fra, pcchè nu staj bvenn?"

(PANNACOTTA! Why aren’t you drinkin’, brah??)

You hear Guido shouting, while Giorno’s perfectly bowed laurel wreath had already fallen on his delicate, red face, messing up his golden locks. 

“Mannagg a miserij Guido, ma t'e sciumunut? se m mett a bev pur ij, aropp chi a guid a machin?! comm v port a cas? Nun me facc' ritirare la patente n'altra volta."

 (For fuck's sake Guido, have you gone nuts??If I start pounding drinks too, then who the hell's gonna get your ass home? I ain't letting those bastards revoke my damn license... again.)

Replies the friend in annoyance while adjusting the laurel wreath of a drunk and smiling Giorno.

“E ij che n sacc, stu bar è chin r ingegner autoveicolo, fatt costruì na mongolfiera. vann a naft no?”

(That sounds like a you problem, this bar is full of automotive engineers, ask them if they can build you an air baloon .They run on gasoline don't they?)

“Tu staj proprij a for.”

(You can’t be that stupid.)

At least Guido isn’t wrong, the bar is swarming with engineers looking for one thing and one thing only.

“...Aò, ma’ndò sta la figa??”

(...Yo, Where the bitches at?)

A strong smell of Menabrea invades your nostrils before an anonymous arm swiftly sorrounds your shoulders and traps your body against a men’s chest.

You quickly recognize the man’s voice.

“Formi…”

It’s Formaggio, your favourite drop-out engineer. 

A legend among your faculty for being the ultimate judge of the nightlife, Formaggio lags two years behind you. Throughout the entire semester of you two chilling together, you've taken an oath that you've never laid eyes on him cracking open a book or even getting close to one.

Formaggio's library visits are solely reserved for bugging his buddies, making quick pit stops at the restroom, exploiting his student discount on vending machine goodies, or diving into his favourite pursuit: charming the ladies.

Since it was common knowledge that Formaggio had a preference for freshmen, he very often did not hesitate to physically show you  his affection in front of other people.

“Zì. Questa festa è per i laureati in biologia, non scienze della formazione.”

(Dude. This party is for biology majors, not education majors).

That saccharine yet disinterested tone could only belong to Illuso. You don’t know much about him except that he lives with Formaggio somewhere in the centro storico and that he's majoring in architecture.

It is common knowledge that architects and engineers are natural enemies, like engineers and mathematicians, engineers and physicists, and engineers and other engineers…Damn engineers! They ruined STEM...

Despite all that, these two seem to get along perfectly.

“Mecojoni...”

(DAMN.)

While immersed in your own thoughts, your left check is refreshed by the condensation of Formaggio’s Menabrea as he tries to hold you closer to his chest. He drank too much, and therefore he’s getting even more touchy.

“Ti vedo accaldata chicca, ti prendo qualcosa da bere?Lulù perchè nun vai dall’oste e ce piji quarcosa? Tiè, prendite ‘no scudo e facce fa’ due gintonic.”

(I see you're sizzlin' up, babe. Need a drink to cool those flames? Lulu, hit up the bar, grab some stuff for us. Get a couple of gintons in the mix)

“Oh no no…sto apposto!”

(UH,Nah…I’m fine!)

Panicked, you encounter Illuso’s sight, who immediately gives you an almost disgusted look, as if it was your fault if his friend is drooling all over you. His eyes narrow above a tight and twist smile, and Formaggio gives him a flickering smile back.

"Facciamo che ci vai tu fino al bancone dato che stai preso bene."

( Why don't YOU go to the bar and get us something?)

"Sei propio da' a Lazio, Lulù."

(You're a fucking cunt, Lulu, you know that?)

“ Immaginavo di trovarti qui.”

(I knew you were here.)

Your body is shaken by a sudden shiver. At first glance, you connected that chill to the Menabrea freezing damp glass, but you soon catch on that the bottle is no longer grazing against your cheek.

It’s his voice that made you shiver.

It’s too familiar.

“Oh, Ghiaccio,ce stai anche tu.”

(Oh Ghiaccio, you’re here too.)

Formaggio turns his head behind his shoulders while still keeping his hands on you. His smile fades and his friendly tone vanishes, now resembling Illuso’s.

Regrettably, you know exactly the reason behind Formaggio’s sudden change. It’s no secret that Ghiaccio is an expert in ruining the mood with his bad attitude. In the past, Formaggio tried to warn you many times about Ghiaccio's sudden violent outbursts. 

You found it hard to believe since Formaggio never looked really concerned for his friend but rather preoccupied about his 'party pooper’ attitude.

According to him:

If sober, Ghiaccio would kill the buzz. 

When drunk, Ghiaccio would kill people. 

Even if you seriously doubted about the 'killing' part, everyone on the faculty thought that Ghiaccio was a bit of a weirdo. 

Not that engineers in general aren’t labeled as ‘weirdos’. However, Ghiaccio was giving all those signs of someone you shouldn't approach. After all: ‘ quale persona sana di mente si iscriverebbe a ingegneria, per di più a ingegneria chimica?’

Every time someone actually took the courage to come up to his desk and try to have a word with him, his responses were always dry and blunt. Hunched over his computer and with a MATLAB tab permanently open, not once had he raised his head to engage in conversation with his interlocutor. 

As a matter of fact, it was only his eyes that tried to move.

The gaze behind those thick glasses became suddenly glacial and sinister, accompanied by a tone so saccharine and dismissive that it would have put anyone off.

Ghiaccio sat stiff and still like a taxidermy animal, looking more dog than human.

Ghiaccio sat there, rigid and lifeless, more canine than human. In fact, he often stood as alone as a rabid dog.

Right now, his friends felt his gaze - that of a rabid dog.

“Qualche problema Maggio? Non hai qualche matricola da seviziare?”

(Any problems Maggio? Couldn’t find any freshman to harass?)

Ghiaccio’s sharp tongue brings you back to reality. The blue-haired boy appeared out of thin hair behind Illuso’s back, startling him. He stands there with his glasses slightly fogged up from the air humidity. His right hand clutches a plastic cup that filled with ice, just ice. Weird.

“Cristo Ghiaccio mi hai quasi fatto prendere un infarto. Sembri un morto che cammina.”

(Jesus Christ Ghiaccio,you almost gave me a heart attack. You look like a walking corpse.)

Comments Illuso, glancing in Formaggio’s directions as he lifts his arm from your shoulders and starts loudly chugging the rest of the Menabrea. This visibly annoys Ghiaccio who instinctively shows his teeth, clenching them in a crooked and forced smile.

“Ciao Ghia, come ti vanno le cose?”

(Hello Ghia, How is it going?)

The smile fades. Ghiaccio starts purposely ignoring the two men, and instead he focuses on you:

“Secondo te, tosa? Domani ho Analisi 2.”

(What you think, tosa? Tomorrow I got the Analysis 2 exam.)

“Non sei preparato-”

(Did you stu-)

“Che domanda der cazzo fai chicca, dove pensi che è stato fin ora, se non chiuso in biblioteca?”

(What a damn dumb question, babe. "Did you study?" Like, where the hell do you think he were just a sec? In a freakin' library, duh.)

Formaggio cuts you, mocking your girly voice.

You cautiously raise your hands, waiting for Ghiaccio to burst out for being interrupted, but that doesn't happen. The blue-haired man just shoots Formaggio a death stare, head slightly cocked, eyes piercing through those thin brows. You notice him instinctively baring his teeth and gums at the man like he's about to bite his neck.

It's a warning.

Formaggio takes the hint and casually peers into the bottle, scrounging for any last drops. Meanwhile, Illuso's ego is so massive that he flat out brushes off Ghiaccio's response and jumps right into schooling his buddy.

“Dove pensi che sia. SIA. Il congiuntivo l’hai lasciato al Quadraro?”

(Where do you think He was. He WAS.)

“Lulù stai cercando una capocciata o una bottigliata? Posso dartele entrambe. Te lascio scegliere l’ordine.”

(Listen Lulu. Do you want to catch these hand or the bottle? I can give you both. Just say a word.)

Formaggio's tone takes on a slurred edge, like he's got a bit too much booze in his system for fooling around. Illuso catches wind of this and takes it as the perfect chance to blow off some steam. Weirdly enough, Ghiaccio stays dead quiet, sitting this convo out.

Now that's a twist.

Still, you catch a little something. Even though the guy's zipped his lip, you spy the plastic cup in his grip utterly squashed.

Why's he holding back? You can read it in his expression, he's just itching to unleash his piece.

“Ziofà facciamo che se sei ignorante non è colpa mia.”

(It’s not my fault you’re ignorant)

Replies the tall man while stiffing up and crossing his arm to feel superior. Now Illuso is not even glaring at Formaggio anymore, and he's perfectly aware this is going to drive him mad.

“Ma chi credi de cojonà a' Pariolino?Ignorante lo dici a tua sorella.”

(You did not just call me ignorant.)

“Ignorante nel senso che ignori la grammatica italiana.”

(Don’t take it personally. I said Ignorant because you're ignoring the Italian grammar)

“Allora tu sei un imbecille perchè Imbelle”

(Then you’re an imbecile because you're imbecilin')

“BOJA FAUSS QUELLO CHE HAI DETTO NON HA UN CAZZO DI SENSO, ZI.”

(That doesn’t even make any sense! You just MADE UP. A FUCKING WORD.)

Finally, Illuso comes down from his pedestal and starts hatefully staring at his friend.

"CHICCA!"

(BABE!)

Formaggio turns towards you for half a second and hands you the empty Menabrea before turning his gaze back to Illuso.

"PIJATE STA MENABREA. MO' TE PARTO DE CAPOCCIA!"

(HOLD THIS FOR ME. THIS FAG IS ABOUT TO CATCH THESE HANDS!)

Formaggio's voice blares like a damn siren, catching the attention of everyone in the joint. A bunch of folks, wreaths atop their heads, swivel around, and others in the joint follow suit. In the midst of the mob, you spot Guido secretively trying on Giorno's laurel wreath while the dude's occupied with some pink-haired girl, fussing over his fancy-ass braid.

"Ragazzi non fate gli stupidi. Non potete fare a botte qui- Ci stano guardando tutti..."

(Guys. Stop this nonsense. You can't fight here. Everyone is looking-)

You make a move to put a stop to their antics, when a chilling voice sneaks into your ear...

“Vieni.” 

(Let's go.)

Freddo.

This sensation is familiar, it’s like being in one of those deep, paralyzing sleeps where the weight of the bed covers feels like a boulder. But this time your body seems as if covered by a light sheet. A cold sheet, as if it had never dried. It’s wet and icy, a cold so sharp that starts biting into your skin.

Your head starts spinning, even though you are sure you haven't moved. 

You remain motionless, unable to do anything but inhale icy air.

You feel as if my whole skin is covered with frost.

Your memories are confused and jumbled...you cannot make sense of them.  Under your clenched eyelids, lights, sounds and colors from llast night mix in a continuous spiral, causing you to feel nauseous. After taking a few breaths, your head finally stops throbbing like the speakers of a disco. Your back hurts as it's lying on a hard surface that is even colder than the surrounding air. The unpleasant sensation given by your skin attached to the icy surface challenges you to move your muscles.... But something is wrong. 

They won't move. They can't move.

You sense your hands resting next to your body, the tips of your fingers numb with cold... However, when you flex them in order to warm them, they do not respond to your thoughts. Panic suddenly makes you lucid. you open your eyes.

Your eyes snap open, only to be assaulted by a blinding white radiance. It's intoxicating, that brilliance. A sea of white stretching to every horizon.

A single source of light reigns, the ceiling lamp above you. You lie atop a slab of metal, nothing but gravity pressing you into its unforgiving surface.

“ah...ah…”

Your breath begins to shorten.

White smoke lazily rises from your lips, disappearing into the neon. The light illuminates your figure yet denies you any heat. You look around, trying to figure out where you are. Your neck slowly begins to loosen, allowing you to get a better look around the room...

Beyond, darkness reigns, a domain devoid of form or presence. Yet, something sinister looms along the walls, whether furniture or pillars, they crawl from floor to ceiling.

Your vision drifts downward, over your frozen feet, past the table's edge, until a glimmer dances at the periphery.

A door? 

“C-C-C’è���c’è q-qualcuno?”

(is-is anybody there?)

Your voice is hoarse, cracking when you try to speak. The icy air scratches your throat, your skin quivers.

The tips of your fingers have now lost sensibility, as if they have become one with the table. You cough... then you try to speak again, louder.

“Pe-Per favore!!COFF! AIUTO!! Sono qui!! Non cè nessuno?!”

(Anyone! Anybody!!Please, some-Cough-SOMEONE HELP!!)

After shouting, you wait panting for an answer... a sign...any sign. 

Suddenly you hear footsteps approaching, slow and measured. A shadow obscures the narrow glimmer coming from the door. The sound of several locks being opened echoes in the room. 

The door slowly opens, letting a much stronger light invade the room, revealing an unknown figure.  A man is watching you from the threshold but the light beyond him prevents you from recognize him.

Your eyes flicker as the light sound of your chattering teeth signals you've just regained control of your jaw muscles.

The expression you’re making seems to amuse the man. A soft chuckle escapes him as he strides into the room, sealing the door in his wake. He drags in a cart, and upon its enigmatic cargo, your gaze falters, unable to discern the details.

“Non ti conviene sforzarti così tanto…rischi di farti male.”

(Oh dear, you shouldn't push yourself too hard...you'll end up hurting yourself.)

His voice slices through the air, sharper than the chill. Dread claws at you, its grip tightening as his teeth catch your attention more than his eyes do. A grin stretches across his face, a gruesome expanse that reveals his gums. His gaze remains unaltered, a predator's stare, unrelenting and piercing.

Behind those glasses, his eyes undress you, baring your vulnerability as if you weren't already stripped bare.

“G-Ghiaccio?”

 “Shhh..ti fa male da qualche parte?Come va il respiro?”

(Shhh. Does it hurt anywhere? is your breathing okay?)

All of a sudden, the man puts on a genuinely concerned face, and seems to be focused on your face.

"C-Che è successo??...Ci siamo schiantati?”

(what.... what happened...where am I? did we crash?)

Your voice tremble, it’s stuttering. You gasp as you notice his hand resting on the table, beside your ankle.

" Non c'è niente di cui avere paura...concentrati e rispondi alla domanda: ti fa male da qualche parte?"

(don't worry about it now.... take a breath, stay focused and answer me: does it hurt anywhere?)

The situation is surreal.... what happened? Perhaps you're in a hospital? Did you have an accident? Are you paralyzed because of that?

"n-no. Non c'è niente che mi fa male...ma non riesco a muovermi...h-ho così tanto freddo..."

(n..no.... nothing hurts.... but I can't move..p..I might have something d- to put on...I'm so f-ing cold...)

You murmur, your voice trembling from both cold and unease. Shivers run through you, the icy fingers of anxiety now accompanying the chill. The man's lips curve at your hushed words, his face inches from yours. Your cheeks burn, tainted red by a mix of emotions.

"In un attimo, chicca."

(In a moment, babe.)

He purrs, his tone velvety. However, that ' babe' part is filled with venom and resentment. You quickly notice he's making a sloppy imitation of Formaggio's accent.

His face inches closer, his gaze locked onto yours.

"Sto controllando che sia tutto apposto...dimmi..."

(I must make sure everything's alright... tell me...)

His hand touches the sole of your right foot, a warmth you haven't felt since you woke.

"Senti le mie dita?"

(Can you sense my fingers?)

"Sì..."

(Yes...)

You're aware of his index finger trailing over your skin, a sensation that sends ripples through your body. Past your knee, ascending your thigh, the warmth causes both your form and fear to tremble. His other fingers join the index, like sinister accomplices, tracing your flesh. With a creeping exploration, his hand moves until it firmly presses against your inner thigh.

"Dimmi quando non le senti più."

(Let me know when you can't feel them anymore.)

"a-ah!F-fermo!"

(a-ah! Stop!)

You attempt to resist, but your defiance only manifests in the frustrated shake of your head...

"Rilassati..."

(Relax...)

He coos, his voice a syrupy assurance.

"Non ti farò niente...per ora. Non sei contenta di ricevere un check up gratuito?"

(I won't do anything... yet. Isn't a complimentary check-up something to be glad about?)

His hand still lingers on your inner thigh, its touch a languid caress that ignites a warmth, craving coursing through your body. You relinquish the sensation, only to be met once again with the unforgiving cold of the table.

"C-Che cosa è successo?"

(What... What's happened to me?)

Breathless, you gasp, your chest heaving. The man's features retain an eerie calm as you sense his touch upon you once more. His fingers slip under your right hand's palm, lifting it, while his other hand blankets your back.

"Solo un attimo chicca, devo finire il chek-up...Poverina, le tue mani sono congelate."

(Just a moment, babe. I need to finish the check-up... Poor thing, your hands are freezing....)

 He smiles as his warm hands rub against yours, giving you such relief that a sigh of pleasure escapes you.

"oh-"

This time, his 'babe' doesn't feel as a mockery.

You catch the sight of his tongue darting across his lips, a prelude to him exhaling gently onto your fingers. His warm breath works its magic, coaxing sensitivity back into your once-numb digits.

"Ti piace, non è vero?...lascia che ti faccia stare meglio..."

(Feels good, doesn't it? let me do something special...) 

Before you can say anything, his mouth is pressed on your fingers as he starts to kiss them, slowly.... how can those lips be so warm.... the gesture is so unexpected that leaves you speechless. You feel your head dipping into a fog-you are still dreaming. You are definitely dreaming. There is no other explanation, 

-ah-

Your index finger slides into his mouth, encountering the sensation of his warm, wet tongue caressing your nail, descending to its very base. It's a repulsive, slimy sensation, made eerier by the expression he wears—a perverse delight akin to a child sucking their favorite treat.

"M-ma che fai? S-Smettila..."

(N-no... no, stop...)

You stammer, horror clenching at your chest, urging him to cease.

Your gaze locks onto the dreadful scene unfolding before you. Slowly, he extracts your index finger, his lips gripping its tip. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, Ghiaccio gazes at you, his eyes holding an unsettling glint. As terror courses through you, his teeth begin to close deliberately, his molars biting down, the pressure intensifying with every passing second.

"No-C-Che cosa-AHI. AHIA!! MI FAI MALE! L-Lasciami!! SMETTILA!!"

(No—what are you doing? Ah!AHH! YOU'RE HURTING ME!! It hurts! NO!)

Recognition dawns as you comprehend his sinister intent. The sound that echoes from him—a chilling crunch—is oddly familiar, like the memory of your grandmother offering freshly harvested, crisp carrots from her garden when you were a child.

*CRUNCH*

A scream rips from your throat, pain blurring your sight. His jaw locks around the bone with an aggressive grip.

In a split second that catches you off guard, Ghiaccio tears two of your phalanges away, wrenching your finger free in a swift, brutal motion. The forceful snap of his head results in a gruesome sight—a gushing surge of blood spraying forth.

Your hand remains locked in his.

The vile squelching of his chewing churns your stomach. He's like a rabid dog ravaging his prey.

"Mmh... sapevo ne sarebbe valsa la pena"

(Mhh... delicious... just as I'd imagined.)

Your shrieks of torment transform into violent retches. You twist your face aside, desperate to avoid vomiting, yet there's nothing left to expel. The sound of his swallowing grates on your ears. More convulsions wrack your frame, forcing your eyes to shut.

You can hear him dragging the cart closer, your gaze drawn to the crimson smears that now stain his scrubs. You can't muster the strength to confront your mangled hand.

"Ci vuole calma e sangue freddo, tosa."

(Baby, it's cold outside.)