A/N: Another one of the 100 Theme Challenge. I really have no idea where this came from, it just popped into my head when I was trying to think of something to write for this. Hope you enjoy, please R & R, all reviews are returned.

Just his type. No doubt about it – that weird mix of woman and girl, yet at that moment in time, neither. The age when things seem so confusing, when half the people treat you as an adult, the others treat you as a kid. Girls seemed to get it worse than guys, and for longer too.

She was just his type.

So slowly he approached her where she sat, legs dangling off the chair as she leant close to her friend, listening as the friend's red lips moved quickly in her ear. She glanced up when he was a few feet away, and he winked.

He could see the small smile now forming on her lips, he watched as she tilted her chin up ever so slightly, studying him carefully, taking him in.

Finally, a spark of approval came into her eyes and when he cupped his hands around air and tilted it up to his lips, she nodded. He noted the brand name on the bottle of beer she was drinking and headed for the bar.

He was an expert at this game; he'd played it a thousand times and was a master. The girls he picked, well, they were little more than novices, so naive and young and...oh, so innocent.

It was hard for him to keep back a smile as he leant over the bar and ordered the drinks.

- - -

Robert had grown up in a very upper class household; he'd inherited much of his attitude towards women from his father, a man who firmly believed in the mantra "a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom."

His mother was a very quiet woman who did as she was told by his father, his sister escaped at the age of sixteen with her boyfriend after being hit one too many times by Robert, and he had no idea what happened to her after that.

Not that Robert cared. Around the time she buggered off he was turning eighteen, and on his birthday his friends managed to find a woman who'd be willing to take his cherry.

They saw him off with wolf whistles and joyful shouts as she led him from the pub and towards her car. Driving off, she chatted easily to him and ignored his shaking body. He hated it, every moment he spent with her he felt small and insecure and such a boy.

Yet he was introduced to the game, and with it, oh with it came such ecstasy for him. Almost as soon as they were done he grabbed a taxi back to his house and let himself in, crawling to his bed and falling onto it. His eyes stared, fixed at the ceiling, and he knew it would happen again, soon, for he wanted it so bad.

And Robert, ever since he was a baby, always got exactly what he wanted, whether it was at the expense of others – such as his sister – or not, he got it.

- - -

Robert slowly expanded his sexual horizons, but always went for girls lower than himself – in age or class or simply naivety. It was easier that way. Eventually, he'd given up on washing his sheets of blood and replaced them, instead, with dark red sheets – that way, he didn't have to rush to wash them, and sure, there were a few dark stains but they were barely noticeable, especially not to the girls he brought home with him.

He had been left a fortune by his parents when they died, and lucky for him and his spending habits, it wasn't a small fortune. No, it was more than enough for him to live, party, drink...and find girls. Most of his thoughts were taken up with women; how to find them, how to seduce them, what to do with them after the act.

One evening, deep in the summer with the air humid and hot, when sweat seemed to almost evaporate before it dropped off your body, Robert found himself very bored. He nursed a glass of brandy in his hand, and stared into the empty heath. The radio blared in the background, white noise against his musings. In the other room, he could hear the voices of television presenters discussing some menial activity they were about to undertake.

He sipped at the drink, wondering what he could do next. The game was growing boring, and he was getting fed up. He would leave it, but how?

Then a thought occurred to him, and a slow smile grew across his face. He would leave with a bang. A very big one, at that.

- - -

He leant over the table, eyes fixed on the girl with blonde curls and big blue eyes. She looked sweet enough he thought, as he placed the bottles on the table. Her friend gave the girl a sly smile before spotting someone and darting off. He took her seat, leaning over to the girl and pushing the bottle towards her.

"I need a favour," He whispered.

She turned her gaze onto him, a small crease between her eyebrows as she frowned. A gentle, sweet frown with no real malice or anger in it.

"And what's that?"

He lifted his hand, running it along her jaw line, eyes taking in every small aspect of her. He was certain about her. She would be the one.

"I need you – I think you're the one."

She laughed, a sound that made him smile, a noise that showed how unsure and now uncomfortable she was.

"Not the romantic one," He laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "A different kind of one."

"What are you on about?" She asked, taking a sip of her beer, eyes now glancing uncertainly around for her friends.

This was one of his favourite parts; watching them struggle inwardly, wondering if they should stay with this madman or return to those people they'd originally come to the club with.

He took his arm off her shoulder, turning his body slightly as he surveyed the rest of the club. "Of course," He continued. "I could always find someone else..."

"Why don't you do that then?" She huffed, pushing herself up and snaking her way through the throbbing pulse of people dancing, finding her friends.

He smiled to himself as his lips smacked around the rim of the bottle and he drank.

- - -

"May I borrow a light?"

The girl hanging off his arm was very different to the blonde who now turned her gaze towards him, her eyes growing dark as she realised who it was, and who was beside him. She shook her head.

"I don't smoke. She does," She gestured to her friend, who gladly handed him a blue, cheap petrol station lighter. He smiled his thanks before lighting the cigarette that was dangling from his mouth.

"I didn't catch your name earlier," His eyes returned to the blonde, who lifted her head slowly up.

"Rosaline."

"Ros? Beautiful. I'm Robert."

"And who's your friend?" Her eyes snapped to the girl, a brunette who was stunning, and clearly knew this fact. Her lips turned downwards as she surveyed the younger girl.

He sputtered, making a show of forgetting her name. Acting embarrassed, he glanced towards the girl who sent him a dark glare, before taking a breath and proclaiming, loudly "Michelle."

"Nice to meet you Michelle," The blonde muttered, just a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Robert smiled as he took a drag on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke slowly. He had her.

- - -

He pulled her close to his body as they got to his house. Ros took a deep breath, inhaling the mixture of aftershave and nicotine that lingered over his body. She could not put her finger on what had made her accept his offer to share a taxi home, and what made her agree when he asked her to come to his as they were halfway there already and, well, as he'd stated it'd be at least another five quid to get to her own place.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or something. She pushed the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right out of her mind and focused instead on the fact that his hands were pulling her into him. It felt nice, she thought, being held like this.

She hadn't been held like this in what felt like forever.

Everything, her anger at the world, her fear of what she was sure was going to happen, it all just drifted away. She let herself sink into him, let him guide her into the house and up the stairs, their hands locked together as he smiled gently at her.

"Don't be scared," He whispered in her ear, his hands slowly pulling down the straps of her dress. In the darkness, she blushed. "It won't hurt, I promise."

"How'd you know?" She asked, eyes wide as she gazed at him.

Softly, he kissed her forehead. "I just do babe."

- - -

He loved the girls he brought back here; each and every one. They were so desperate, so eager to do what their friends had done long before. After all, who wanted to admit to being a virgin at the age of eighteen, nineteen, twenty?

Of course, he did get the odd girl who'd tell him she didn't do one-night stands, and that they'd rather be in a relationship before climbing into bed with him. He still brought them back though, with the promise that nothing was going to happen.

Those he didn't get to sleep with. But the second satisfaction of the night....well, he had a one hundred percent success rate with that.

He sat with his arm around her, her light panting in his ears. A lit cigarette was clutched between his fingers. Slowly he exhaled, and her eyes followed the smoke as it drifted upwards.

"You were so innocent," He muttered. "But now that's gone."

She shifted herself, glancing at him. Ros frowned. "What do you mean?"

He pulled himself from her grasp, stretching as he stood up. "What good is a girl once she's no longer innocent? You'll get older, you'll get experienced...but it's gone. The...magic, as it is. You'll use men, twist them, be twisted yourself...."

"You're rambling," She pulled the duvet tighter around her breast, staring at him with shock and fear. "You're still drunk, Robert. You should sleep it off."

"Oh darling," he laughed, crossing to the cupboard on the right hand side of the bedroom, "I'm completely and utterly sober." Half-turning his head, the light caught his face, casting half of it in shadow as Robert smiled. "It just seems so, so pointless for you to carry on, doesn't it?"

- - -

Robert ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the blonde girl. The cuts criss-crossed across her chest, one going from just under the right breast he'd fondled just over an hour ago and ending at the left side of her waist. He grabbed a camera and took a snapshot before logging onto his computer. Moments later, and the e-mail was sent.

His eyes drifted towards her once more as he waited. His handiwork was impeccable. He took pride in it, almost. Shame, really, that he hadn't showed off the others. The dark haired pale girl with large brown eyes had been...well, he had been very proud.

Robert dropped himself into the armchair that sat in one corner of the room, his eyes still fixed on the girl. Slowly, he lit up another cigarette and lazily drew drags from it, eyes staring at her through the smoke.

The early morning sunshine was starting to enter through the curtains when he heard the sirens.

A slow smile crept up his face as he stood and once more opened the wardrobe. His hands unclasped the lock on the box, and he drew the object out. Sleek and black, it had been in his family since the Second World War. It would do.

They were halfway up his garden path when he threw open the door and stood on the porch, smiling at them, gun behind his back.

"Robert Smithson, you're under arrest for the murder of Rosaline Walker..."

Before the poor guy could finish, handcuffs out towards Robert, the young man cut him off, reeling off a list of names of everyone he killed.

"Virgins," He laughed. "Every single one of them."

"You bastard!" The cry came from one of the men standing further back, now charging towards Robert. A few of the others stepped forward to hold him back. "You evil bastard! Emily was my daughter!"

"Emily Eliot?" The grin was fixed on his face as he turned to the man. "Ah yes...you look like her. She told me her father was a copper."

The original man, the one who'd tried to place him under arrest, stepped forward, opened his mouth to continue, his arms shaking at what Robert had revealed.

Before he could say a single word, Robert had placed the gun to his temple. Blood flew out, splattering the few policemen closest to him. Eliot, the father of Emily, missing for nearly three months, cried curses and damnation as the body fell to the floor, the sickening, twisted grin still on his face.

- - -

They searched the house. Michael Eliot was later found hanging in his own two-story house by his wife, mere hours after he'd seen the mutilated body of his daughter in the basement and the other girls who had been killed by Robert Smithson.