#serialkilling

[sematarygirls]

The House On Peachtree Lane — Rafe Cameron.

pairing: serialkiller!rafe x fem!reader

summary: the abandoned house across the street had always given you the heebie jeebies, its crumbling foundation, and overgrown lawn looking like something straight out of a horror movie. however, when you began to notice a dark figure sneaking in and out of the house at odd hours of the night, you started to wonder if the house across the street was really abandoned at all.

warnings: very dark; viewer discretion adviced, male masturbation, sexual fantasies involving violence, icky rafe, stalking, mentions of murder, degradation, reader is a little freak, some manhandling

word count: 5.6k words !

a/n: starting off october right, yall. i have a strange fascination with writing characters that are actually batshit insane

The abandoned house on Peachtree Lane had a looming presence that seemed to overshadow the other houses on the residential street. Perfectly manicured lawns with each blade of grass a blindingly vibrant shade of green and cut to a perfect two and a half inches—never more, never less—lined the street of white picket fences and pristine white two story homes.

Peachtree Lane was the picturesque suburban neighborhood that you envisioned when you thought of that perfect, upper-middle class lifestyle. Each house was filled with a matriarch that had placed their entire self-worth into being perceived as the nuclear all-American family.

Then, there was that abandoned house. It threatened the image that had been so pristinely crafted to reflect the traditional values of suburban America. It was a blemish on the otherwise immaculate, postcard-worthy neighborhood. It stood tall and haunting in stature, casting a dark shadow over the neighborhood like a storm cloud foreshadowing the eventual fall of rain.

You, like the house across the street, were out of place among the families and elderly couples that lived on your block. You were a single woman in her twenties that had inherited the house after your grandmother passed away—a fact your mother nearly had a conniption over.

Your grass was a dull green, always too long or too short to fit neighborhood standards—both facts that you'd been reminded time and time again to remedy, but you didn't pay the PTA moms much mind. You knew they didn't have anything better to do than fuss over a strangers lawn, especially when they were so desperately trying to ignore the fact that most of their husbands were probably repressed homosexuals or fucking their secretaries.

You felt a sense of kinship with the abandoned house, an odd comfort with the fact that you both seemed to be peculiarly out of place. you often stared at it for hours, observing every detail.

It was a beautiful house with dark, Victorian architecture that stood out among the carbon copies surrounding it. The windows that weren't broken were boarded up, the tall, waist-length grass that surrounded the property and the animal carcasses hidden amongst it acting as a 'keep out' sign for potential trespassers. The roof looked like it was practically caving in on itself, and you couldn't help but wonder why the house was still standing. Why hadn't it been bulldozed and been replaced with another cookie-cutter American Dream Home? It was strange, intriguing even.

Even more strange was the fact that the house, at times, seemed to stare back at you.

Your fingers curled onto the edge of the windowsill, leaning forward and sticking your head out to feel the cool night breeze on your face. Almost instantly, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck perk up, bumps raising on the backs of your arms as the feeling of being watched crept up on you.

Your gaze immediately fell on the house across the street. The pit in your stomach that formed when your eyes darted from each shattered or dirtied window to the next seemed to confirm that your subconscious was almost positive that the pair of eyes on you was in that house.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your mouth suddenly feeling dry as your eyes narrowed, trying to see past the darkeness and into the old house. You felt a strange vulnerability despite having checked and double-checked the locks on every door and window in your house atleast ten times that night.

Everyone knew of the serial killer that had been plaguing your town for months, brutally killing the fathers and occasional mother of the exact type of families that lined your street.

Knowing that you weren't his target demographic did little to ease your worry, though. There was always that nagging thought in the depths of your mind that you could be next, and that's what made this uneasy feeling of being watched all the more troubling.

Unbeknownst to you, the house on Peachtree Lane that everyone feared—whispers and rumors of monsters and decaying bodies inside keeping anyone from staring too long at the decrepit structure—was not abandoned at all.

Cameron Development owned the building, and when Rafe Cameron took over for his father, he made sure that the house stayed in his possession and that any attempts to renovate or demolish the property had fallen through.

The house, despite being an eyesore, had actually garnered significantly less attention than one may think. No bored, gossip-hungry housewives or nosey elderly couples with nothing better to do with their retirement than people watch would be intruding on his business and noting his presence if it was perceived as uninhabited.

Any spare glances at the house were brief and filled with distain. No one wanted to look at the rotting wood and trash-littered lawn for longer than they had to, which worked in the man's favor. No one would notice him entering and exiting at all odd hours of the night, nor would they think twice about the sharp, metallic smell that permeated the air around the house. It was the perfect cover.

He watched from one of the battered second story windows, sitting on a metal fold out chair with his legs spread wide, his presence hidden by the cover of night. A camera stood on a tripod in front of him, aimed strategically at your bedroom window.

He had been watching you since you moved in, and he knew that some deeply in tune facet of you was keenly aware of this fact. Subconsciously, like the way your eyes flickered to the 'abandoned' house when you felt your hair stand end, you knew someone was watching you, and he suspected that a part of you even liked it.

The way you pranced around your bedroom in your short nightgowns—fitted with a lace trim and small bows or flowers that made his dick twitch in his pants—and got changed carelessly with the windows open, blinds raised, and curtains parted for anyone to see. You were putting on a show for him; he was sure of it.

His bedside table was filled with pictures he had taken of you through your exposed window. In some of them, you were fully clothed—just having gotten back from work or the gym. In some of them, you were wearing those tempting, delicate little nightgowns that he was dying to rip off of you, and in the rest of them, you were completely naked—or naked adjacent. Pictures of you in nothing but a towel, in your underwear, and even completely nude with your tits or perfect ass on display made up most of his perverted little collection.

Nothing came close to the highs he felt when he came to your photos. He had tried, and failed, to find release in other women, fucking them hard and without reprieve to let out his pent up frustration. He even tried pretending they were you, pushing their heads into his pillows, so he didn't have to see their faces and be reminded that they weren't really you, but none of it worked. You were the only thing he wanted.

He watched your gaze dart from window to window, brows furrowing slightly as you searched for the source of that uneasy feeling that had settled deep within you. Strangely, you seemed more curious than you were afraid. He couldn't help himself as he ran his hand slowly up his thigh, fiddling with the button of his jeans and popping it open before pulling the zipper down.

He had a victim in his basement, probably screaming their head off and tugging at the restraints binding them to the chair, but he didn't care. His attention was fixed on you, and the way you seemed to search for him despite not really knowing that he was there.

He pulled his hard cock from his underwear, spreading his legs wider as he leaned back against the chair. His tip was flushed and leaking precum, just the sight of you working him into a frenzy. He swept his thumb over his aching head, smearing the evidence of his arousal across his hot skin. A sharp hiss tumbled from his mouth as he captured his bottom lip between his teeth, watching the way your gaze lingered on the very window he was in.

For a moment, as he dragged his hand down his throbbing length, the thought that you could see him flickered across his mind, and for that brief moment, he wished it was true. He wanted you to see him, to know that you had caused this.

But, then, just as quickly as your gaze had seemingly fallen on him, piercing into his soul in a way that had him groaning with animalistic need, it had retreated.

He watched with frustration, his movements speeding up, mimicking his inner strife for your actions, as you pulled back from the window and drew the curtains. You were teasing him, and he didn't like it.

Your curtains were sheer, so with the wind blowing in your window and the blinds still hiked up, they did little to actually disguise anything going on inside. This fact only fueled his annoyance because it meant that your act was out of defiance rather than self-preservation. If there was anything Rafe hated, it was when people defied him, especially when that person was you.

He tore his gaze from your house, head falling back and lips parting in pleasure as he continued to work his hand up and down his cock. He let his eyes flutter closed as he imagined all the things he'd like to do to you.

He pictured you, bound to the chair in his basement that so many had met their demise in. He would run his knife along your soft, smooth skin and watch you shudder in a mix of fear and anticipation. He wanted you teetering on the edge of terror and desire, never knowing whether he was going to fuck you or kill you.

He let out a low moan, imagining the tip of his knife dipping into your plush thighs. The sight of thick, hot blood dripping down your flushed skin as he carved his initials into your perfect flesh.

He could practically hear your soft whimpers and cries, his hand moving faster as he felt his pleasure building within him. You would beg and plead for him to stop, looking up at him with teary eyes that would only encourage him to keep going, to see how far he could go before he lost all self-control.

He couldn't decide what he wanted more: to hurt you or to pleasure you? Just as easily as he could see you in the basement of his murder house, he could imagine you laying in his bed, blissfully unaware of his dark side and the hundreds of pictures of you just beside your head. He could mold you into whatever he wanted, filling your pretty head with lies that he knew you'd eat right up.

The combined images flickered back and forth between domestic and depraved finally sent him over the edge with a cry of your name—which he'd learned by looking through your mail—as hot spurts of cum covered his hand and jean-clad thighs.

He panted, picking his head back up to look at your bedroom window. You had turned the light out, your room engulfed in a darkness that signified you had settled in bed and would soon be drifting off to sleep, if you hadn't already.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he let out a deep sigh, his brows furrowing as he tucked his softening dick back into his pants and stood, stretching his limbs as he wiped the sticky, white substance coating his hand onto his jeans. He walked to the door, giving your window one last glance before leaving and making his way down to his awaiting victim.

You had eventually brushed off that intense feeling of being watched after carefully examining the house and coming up empty. You had chalked it up to your paranoia surrounding the serial killer running amuck in your little town and settled into bed, letting your unease be washed away by the comfort of sleep.

It was only a couple hours later when something jolted you awake, your heart racing as your peaceful state was torn from you, replaced by an indescribable panic of unknown origin.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, searching for any potential threats that could have been the cause of such a violent awakening, but you were greeted with nothing of note. You exhaled in relief as you confirmed that you weren't in immediate danger, trying to slow the pounding of your heart.

You swung your legs over the side of your bed, toes brushing the soft fibers of your plush rug, which provided a sense of comfort that grounded you to reality as you pushed yourself off the bed and into a standing position. Curiosity gnawed away at you with each growing second that you didn't have an answer for what had stolen you away from such a blissful dreamstate.

For reasons unknown to you, you felt a pull inside you, urging you to tiptoe over to the window. You moved slowly, tentatively, as if any sudden movements would somehow put you in harms way.

When you reached the window, curtains blowing wildly with the force of the wind, you hesitantly reached out, pulling back the sheer pink fabric so you could get a good look at the dimly lit street below.

Goosebumps raised on your arms, a cold feeling creeping up your spine from the mix of the chilly night air and the anticipation of what you might find.

You didn't truly expect to see anything. You lived in a safe neighborhood where the greatest crime to be committed was bringing a gluten dish to one of the neighborhood potlucks, but still, in that same part of you that feared being the Kildare Killer's next victim and always knew to look across the street at the abandoned house when you felt a sense of being watched wash over you, you knew something would be waiting beyond those decorative curtains.

You squinted, eyes scanning the sidewalk for a moment for anything out of the ordinary when suddenly, movement in the tall grass beside the old Victorian home caught your attention.

A figure, clad in a dark jacket with the hood pulled over their head, was dragging something heavy toward the street where a large, dark-colored SUV was idling. Your head cocked to the side, brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity as you watched the person intently.

Even from this distance, you could tell they were tall and, judging by the size of the object they were lugging, strong, which led you to theorize that it was mostly likely a man. You couldn't help but notice how suspiciously human sized the trashbag seemed to be, your mind immediately jumping to the countless news stories detailing the crimes of the Kildare County Serial Killer you'd half-listened to while making dinner countless nights.

You were frozen in place, the rational part of you screaming at you to run to the phone and call the police, but again, that darker side of you prevailed, keeping you exactly where you were as you watched him load the person object into the SUV.

Your trance was only broken when the man lifted his head and looked directly at your window, almost as if he had known you were there. Your eyes widened as you quickly dropped to the floor, not even attempting to get a good look at his face as your self-preservation instincts finally kicked in, and you rushed out of view.

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest as you sat there, waiting for something to happen. You half expected to hear glass breaking or knocking on your front door as the man tried to dispose of the only witness to his crime, but your house remained silent, eerily so now that you were thinking about it.

You stayed on the floor, your knees pressed to your chest, for what felt like hours as you mustered up the courage to peek out the window and see if the man was still outside. When you finally pushed yourself up, glancing down at the street below, you found it completely empty.

A relieved sigh fell from your lips as you braced yourself on the windowsill, taking a few deep breaths to calm yourself as you tried to rationalize what you'd seen.

Maybe it was just someone cleaning out the old house. In the middle of the night? Your mind had nagged, despite your best efforts to push your doubts away. There was no way a serial killer was operating out of your neighborhood, and there was no way that you had just seen him. You wanted to remain blissfully ignorant as to what you'd witnessed, deciding against dwelling on it if you could help it.

The next day, around three in the afternoon, you were in your kitchen baking obsessively—your own little way of trying not to dwell on the possible murder aftermath you witnessed the night before—when a knock sounded at your front door.

You huffed, wiping your flour-coated hands on your jeans as you approached the door, expecting to see one of the mom's from the neighborhood that wanted to bitch at you about stuff you didn't care about or one of their children telling you that they accidentally threw a ball over your fence, and you had to retrieve it.

However, your eyes widened in surprise, a soft "oh" falling from your lips as you opened the door and came face to face with a tall, imposing man. He was incredibly handsome, clad in black dress pants and a white button up with the sleeves rolled back to reveal his forearms. His brown hair was fairly short and slightly tousled—a contrast to his otherwise put-together appearance.

"Um, can I help you?" You asked, your words laced with confusion. His smile seemed to widen as he took in your shocked expression, gaze darting to the white powder on your jeans before meeting your eyes again.

"I'm Rafe Cameron," he introduced himself, his blue eyes seeming to search yours for any sign of recognition.

"Nice to meet you, Rafe," you said, brows furrowing and tone uncertain. He found your confusion endearing in a pathetic sort of way, though, he was glad. This meant you didn't get a good look at him last night, and the lack of crime scene tape around the house across the street meant you hadn't called the police. Maybe you were more clueless than he thought.

You hesitantly introduced yourself because, even though you were completely unaware of who this man was or why he was at your door, it was the polite thing to do. You stared at him for a moment, cocking your head to the side as the name Cameron echoed in your mind.

"Do I know you?" You asked suddenly, crossing your arms as you pondered. The name was so familiar to you, but you couldn't quite place it. A flicker of darkness crossed Rafe's features at your question.

"No, I don't believe so. I'd remember a pretty little thing like you," he flashed a charming, disarming grin and suddenly, it came to you.

"Cameron Development," you said, demeanor brightening as you finally recalled where you'd heard his name. That smile he gave you was the same one you'd seen on signs in countless empty lots throughout town. "I've seen your signs."

"Right, yeah," he nodded, visibility relaxing a little bit. "I'm just in the neighborhood asking around about that old house across the street. We're interested in renovating it, but we need to do our due diligence."

"Well, what do you want to know?" You asked. There wasn't much to tell about the house. It was old, practically crumbling, but you could see that just from looking at it.

"Well, have you noticed anyone hanging around, maybe squatting inside the house or loitering?" He asked, watching you with an eerie intensity. "I only ask because it could make our job more difficult if we have to fight with any unwanted guests."

"Yeah, no, I, uh, I get that," you cleared your throat, shifting your weight uncomfortably. You didn't like to lie, but you couldn't bring yourself to tell the truth either. You were, undoubtedly, afraid, but overshadowed by that was this morbid fascination that you'd found yourself having for the house and the strange man you'd seen. "I mean, I haven't noticed anyone," you shrugged casually.

He smiled again, still regarding you intensely, but now, also with a glint of curiosity. He nodded, seeming satisfied by this answer. "Well, thank you for your time," he thanked you, your name rolling off his tongue in a way that made your stomach flutter. He said it so confidently, with a certain familiarity that put you strangely at ease for a reason you couldn't quite place.

"Of course," you smiled at him, your cheeks heating up as he stared at you for a few long seconds, taking in every dip and curve of your face, memorizing the way your lips quirked up and your eyes sparkled. He'd never seen you this close before, and it took every ounce of self control not to push his way inside.

"Have a nice day, ma'am," he nodded politely before hesitantly turning and heading back to his car, which was parked right in front of your house.

"You too," you called after him, leaning against the door and biting your lip as you watched him retreat. Once he reached the sidewalk, you reluctantly pulled back and pushed the door closed, not wanting to be caught staring and be perceived as some kind of creep.

Despite knowing where you'd seen his face, you couldn't shake this sense that you knew him from somewhere else, somewhere other than those advertisements posted around town. There was a strange nausea that settled in your throat as you watched him leave, a feeling of dread that perplexed you.

In the following weeks, that gnawing feeling only intensified as your paranoia did. Little things started to catch your attention, your perception of reality cracking with each slightly opened window or drawer, missing piece of clothing, and creaking noise that jolted you awake during the night.

You weren't sure if it was just your mind playing tricks on you or if something was really going on, but you felt like you were going crazy. You felt unnerved being in your own home, like you weren't safe. The feeling of watched had grown to something thick and suffocating, but for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to do anything about it.

You should've called the police. You should've went to your mother's house or a hotel, anywhere to get away from the man across the street that you suspected was to blame for all the out of the ordinary occurrences, but you didn't. You stayed put, letting yourself be the mouse in whatever sick game he was playing because deep down, a part of you—that you wished desperately didn't exist—was enjoying the attention.

It was around two a.m., and you were tossing in bed, a restlessness settling over you. You'd been obsessing over that house, always staring and seeking signs of life now that you knew someone had been there, and it was starting to take over your life. You needed to know what was in there. You needed to know if it truly was a murder scene.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself up, leaning back on your arms as your eyes darted around the room. Were you really going to investigate a potential serial killer's house in the middle of the night? You pondered the question, briefly wondering if this would classify you as clinically insane.

Clearly, your survival instincts didn't fully develop as a child because you found yourself pushing the comforter from your body and getting to your feet.

You grabbed a plush throw blanket from your bed and wrapped it around your body for comfort and to keep warm as you traversed through your house, down the stairs, and to the front door. You steeled yourself for what you were about to do, slipping a pair of shoes on.

You sucked in one last breath before unlocking the door and pulling it open. Stepping outside, you found yourself pulling the blanket tighter around you as the chilly air brushed against your exposed skin.

The house looked even more imposing the closer you got to it. In the darkness, it seemed like it could come to life and eat you whole. It made you feel so small, so insignificant in a way as you looked up at the looming structure before you.

The wind whistled, echoing through the silent night, which set you even more on edge, but still, you didn't turn back. Your curiosity was stronger than your fear—an incredibly dangerous thing.

You seemed to shrink in on yourself as you stepped onto the pathway to the front door, the untamed grass reaching across the concrete to grab at you. Grimacing, you pushed the grass aside with one hand, the other keeping your blanket securely around you.

Stepping onto the porch, you were careful to step around the patches of collapsing, rotting wood. The front door stared back at you, daring you to open it and satisfy your gnawing curiosity, and you obliged, shaky hands reaching for the knob.

You turned it and pushed the door forward, a deafening squeak of the seldom used hinges reverberating off the ruined walls. The smell of rot immediately infiltrated your senses, making your face contort in disgust as you stepped into the house, eyes flickering from the delicate ground to the dusty furniture inside.

A deteriorated stone fireplace sat against the left wall, the mantle filled with dusty photos encompassed in cracked glass and broken frames. An old, red cabriole sofa—which looked more like a muted maroon color from all the dirt and grime coating it—sat facing the fireplace, a matching arm chair adjacent to it.

You could imagine how lively and warm the house likely once was, with children's feet pattering against the hardwood as they chased each other through the home, careful to avoid their parent's precious vases and other expensive decorative items.

It made you feel sad that such a beautiful home that once knew vibrance and love was now left to be forgotten to the unforgiving perils of time—all the priceless memories and moments that had happened within the walls obsolete when compared to the true vastness of the universe.

You continued your journey into the home, the scent of decay growing stronger with each step you took toward the unknown. You entered the kitchen, brows furrowing as you saw a small doll laying in the middle of the floor.

You crouched down, refraining from reaching out to it. It was a pale fabric doll with stringy, dirtied yellow hair and big blue eyes. What caught your eye, however, was the big splotch of dried blood on the front of her pink dress.

You shuddered, standing back up straight and letting your gaze wander the kitchen, taking in the beautiful antique architecture and color scheme. The cabinets were a rich brown with green accents, a chunk of remaining glass in one of them indicating that it was once a lovely diamond pattern.

Suddenly, a hand snaked around your waist, pulling you from behind into a hard chest. Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth to scream, but the person behind you quickly clamped their other palm over your mouth.

"You shouldn't be here," the man said threateningly, his breath hot against your ear as he dipped his head down.

Your heart raced in your chest, breath quickening in shock and fear. Your fight or flight instincts took over, unfortunately deciding to freeze instead of doing anything helpful.

Through your panicked haze, you realized that you knew this voice. You had been replaying the short conversation you had with that handsome man since it happened, his deep, smooth voice that made your legs clench and your heart flutter echoing through your mind on repeat.

"What am I gonna do with you, hm?" he hummed, his fingers dancing from your mouth to your neck; meanwhile, his other hand stayed splayed on your stomach, keeping your body firmly pressed against his. His large palm wrapped around your neck, squeezing gently, which elicited a gasp from you.

"Oh, you like that, huh?" You could hear the amusement in his tone as he mocked you. "You're fuckin' sick, aren't you?"

In one fluid motion, he turned you around and shoved you back against the kitchen island. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth as your back collided with the edge of the counter.

You looked up at him, your eyes widened as your mind raced with conflicting thoughts. You knew you should've tried to run, but when your eyes locked onto his cold, blue ones, you found yourself glued in place.

Your compliance seemed to please him. A sadistic grin tugged at his lips as he looked down at you, reaching out to grab your jaw roughly, his grip bordering on painful. "You saw me the other night, didn't you?"

Your breath hitched, and after a beat of silence, you hesitantly nodded. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you.

"God, you're fucked up," he laughed cruelly, causing your brows to furrow. Was the serial killer who gutted people and staged their bodies for their families to find really calling you fucked up?

"Aw, I'm sorry," he cooed mockingly, leaning so close that you felt his breath fanning your face and could smell the faint scent of beer and a breath mint. "Did that upset you?"

"You killed them," you finally spoke, your voice quiet and shaking with fear and uncertainty.

"Uh huh," he grinned proudly, his voice dropping as he spoke again: "Does that scare you?"

It probably should. You should be shitting yourself right now, screaming and crying while trying to escape. Instead, you were curious—an emotion you couldn't seem to shake lately.

You wanted to know more about him. Why did he kill, and more importantly, why mostly family men and father figures? You wanted to dive deep into his psyche. And, truthfully, the feeling of his hands on your skin was addicting. Now that you'd felt it, you wanted more.

"I don't know," you practically whispered, feeling your cheeks heat up as he regarded you with that same intense stare. His thumb caressed your cheek, feeling the growing heat against the pad of his finger.

He grinned at your answer, his grip on your jaw tightening as he pulled your face forward, smashing his lips onto yours in an aggressive, sloppy kiss. You gasped softly in surprise, allowing him to deepen the kiss by sliding his tongue into your mouth.

Every inch of you was screaming at you to pull away, but you hadn't listened to the rational part of yourself at all thus far, and you weren't planning to start now. Your hands curled into the material of his grey t-shirt, pulling him closer as a small noise of pleasure bubbled up your throat.

His hand slid back into your hair from your jaw, gripping tightly as he tugged your head back a little. His other hand gripped your waist roughly, his fingers digging into your skin through your nightgown.

Rafe had been fantasizing about finally getting his hands on you for months, but never did he think that you'd walk right into his little murder house and practically serve yourself up to him on a silver platter. Something about you knowing what he truly was and fearing him but also desiring him made him want you more than he thought was possible.

When you finally pulled away, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, Rafe's grip didn't let up; in fact, he tightened it the slightest bit, as if he was afraid that you'd change your mind and try to run.

"You know I can never let you go now," he hummed, a hint of smile pulling at the lips. "Can't risk you exposing my little secret."

You looked up at him, your eyes widening slightly as you processed what he had just said. "What?" You asked, lips parting slightly and brows furrowing in confusion.

His gaze darkened as he imagined shoving his dick between your pretty parted lips. "You're mine now, doll," he clarified, leaving no room for argument. "If you're a good girl, I'll let you stay with me at home, but if you try to leave, I'll lock you in this very basement."

You swallowed hard, considering his threat carefully. You didn't want to know what was waiting for you in that basement if you decided to be difficult. "Okay," you conceeded, nodding as you sealed your fate and agreed to your new life under his surveillance 24/7.

As you watched his features soften slightly in satisfaction, you thought about all the barbaric things that had probably happened in this house, all the wonderful memories you'd imagined before now tainted by the sheer weight of what Rafe had done here. How had the once beautiful house on Peachtree Lane, filled with life and love, turned into a house of horrors?

tags .ᐟ @nemesyaaa

[ghoulsamgrusam]

Staring into the eyes of the beast

BeastsOfBedlam AU

[noxturnalnymph]

The Hunted

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader (8.2k)

DARKAU! POV will switch between Joel and Reader. This is dark compared to anything I’ve ever written before. I am a spooky girlie at heart and I wanted to give this idea some legs. If it’s not your thing, that’s okay. Spooky Halloween everyone!

Summary: This Ken is a Ski Instructor. This Ken is a Veterinarian. Well, this Joel is a Serial Killer. The canon Joel is actually kind of a serial killer too, if you think about it. But this version is No-Outbreak, 56-years old, and a Violent, Deranged, Serial Killing Loner. When a new victim practically falls in his lap, he doesn’t take the time to see that she could be his undoing.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. This is a little dark (for me). Murder, Dead Bodies, Sex, Kidnapping, Bondage, DubCon (they want it but they’re tied to a chair), creampie, blood, violence, semen, crime scenes.

A/N: This is: creepy plot with porn at the end. It’s my first posted tumblr story. Spooky Season is upon us!! Please be nice 💜

He’s been enjoying the silence of the cabin in the woods all afternoon. The only sounds surrounding him have been the soft bird songs and din of cicadas drifting through the open window from the outside, and the rustling of his own body moving about the small rooms inside. 

The sound catches him so off guard, that at first he looks around the inside of the cabin, trying to figure out where the hum could be emanating from. The cabin is not hooked up to electric, so what could be making that sound? Then he realizes it's coming from outside. He looks out the windows and sees a figure hunched in the bushes, a stone’s throw away from his front door. 

He steps to the front door and quietly opens it, watching her at the wood’s edge. It’s definitely a woman, he can tell by the double braids winding down the back of her head, ending in pigtails. She is wearing dark wash blue jeans, a green jacket, and has on a rust-colored backpack. He can hear her humming even clearer now, the melody traversing the short distance to his ears.

He watches as she stays hunched over, reaching into the bushes and rustling the leaves. Nearly a minute passes before she finally stands, wiping her hands off on her thighs. He notices a small wooden bowl at her feet, stuffed full with berries. She is sucking on her fingertips, stained a light purple, when she turns and meets his eyes.

“Oh!,” she says, startled by his presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was in this ol’ thing.”

She gestures towards the cabin. She has a point. Even at first glance, the woods surrounding the cabin appear to be putting forth their best effort to reclaim it. The roof is covered in fallen leaves, moss and lichen cling to every surface, and the front steps - made of flattop logs - are sinking down, seeming to retreat back into the forest floor. And what he knows that she doesn't - yet? - is that the musty smell of the forest has permeated every square inch of the old log cabin’s interior, and everything inside of it. 

He puts on his warmest smile, softening the way his eyes are squinted, and blinks slowly. “Yeah, she’s not much but she keeps me honest,” he says, and he notices the way her body relaxes at his gentle, comforting tone.

“I’m guessin’ I’ve wandered too far. Sorry, I didn’t notice any signs posted.” The gentle lilt of her southern accent hits his ears like a sweet melody. 

“Yeah, state land ends at the treeline at the bottom ‘a that hill,” he gestures to the distance, her gaze following where he points. “But I don’t shoot or bite or nothin’, so don’t worry about steppin’ on my property,” he chuckles. He can see her continuing to relax under his welcoming reception. 

“I appreciate that. I’ve got one ‘a those little vans in the clearing down there, ‘n I expected more people to be around if I’m being honest.”

He notices she’s said I, not we.

“It’s gettin’ the end of camping season, so there’s fewer ‘n fewer out here, I think,” he waves his hand, hoping to convey how little he even notices the campers on the adjacent land.

“Well I’m sorry about stealin’ your berries. You want ‘em?” and she takes a few steps forward, closing the gap between them, holding the small bowl in her outstretched arms. 

The pigtails make her look young. So does the innocence in her eyes, which are partially hidden behind her thick-framed glasses. She stops short of the steps, still about six feet away now, still holding out the bowl. 

“No, ‘course not,” he gives her a sideways grin. “Those were gonna get eaten by birds before they got eaten by me. You enjoy ‘em little bird.” His guts twist at the smile that breaks out on her face. The way she looks down, almost bashful.

She turns to walk away and then stops, turning back to look at him. He watches her as she gives the outside of the deteriorating cabin another once-over, and then looks him up and down. “Can I ask you somethin’?” and before he can even respond, she continues. “Is it safe around here?”

His stomach clenches. He gently furrows his brows, “yeah, sure it is, why?”

“I’ve heard a couple things recently about people going missin’. Hikers and campers near here,” she gestures in a circular motion with her finger. “You heard anything about that?”

She is worried. He can tell because she looks worried. God, every emotion she has is playing across her face right now. He can read her like a book. She is so vulnerable. She’s a young woman camping all alone in the woods and she is worried. She should be.

“I haven’t heard anything myself, no. But that happens every year. People underestimate it.”

“Underestimate what?” she interjects, her doe eyes scanning his face.

“Nature,” he replies, and now he gestures around with his finger.

He gives her another soft smile and blinks his eyes slowly. She lets a genuine grin break through her worried features and she nods, taking in his response.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, there’s no one out here to cause ya trouble,” he offers, hoping she notes that he is clearly not a danger. “Besides, if anything happens, you can come back here.”

This time her smile falters a bit. He’s pushed too far. She’s worried. She’s alone. She’s not looking to seek refuge in a stranger’s cabin. He backtracks.

“I’m sure the worst thing that’s gonna happen is ya find a spider in your van,” he continues, “But please don’t come back here for that!” 

He gives a low chuckle and is glad to see she does the same, good humor returning to her now relaxing face. She gestures to the bowl of berries and flashes a toothy-smile as a thanks, before turning to retreat down the hill. He hears her call out a goodbye after she turns and he calls one back in response. 

He goes back inside and finishes watching her leave until the trees hide her departing figure. He has about seven more hours until dark fully takes hold. Seven more hours until he can seek her out in the clearing with the safe knowledge of remaining undetected. Plenty of time for him to finish prepping the cabin and get himself some dinner.

*****

He thinks he might be getting too old for this. His lower back is aching, his thighs are on fire, and he’s had a stabbing pain in his neck for the last twenty minutes; all due to the fact that he has been hunched against this tree for over an hour. Usually he wouldn’t still be here. He’d have made some observations, taken some mental notes, and planned for additional reconnaissance later on.

But he doesn’t know how long you’re going to be here. You haven’t unpacked anything - not even a folding chair - to indicate that your campsite setup will be anything more than a one-night stay. If you’re gone tomorrow and he has missed his opportunity, he’ll regret leaving now. He has spent the last eight hours thinking about nothing but you. 

He’s thought about the way your delicate lips wrapped around your fingertips and the gentle melody you hummed before you knew he was there. He has thought about the kind way you offered him the berries you picked and the way your jeans hugged your ass as you sauntered away. What would your eyes look like if he took your glasses off, if he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, if he wrapped his big hands around your delicate throat?

No, he has to do it tonight. He can’t wait any longer. 

Your van is all black. Besides the windshield, there are windows only at the two front seats and the rear double doors. However, you have all the windows covered with blackout panels. Smart. You’re a young woman camping alone, keeping your privacy is a smart thing to do. And keeping peeping eyes out of your space is probably important to you.

You’ve been playing music inside the entire time, though he doesn’t recognize any of the songs. Sometimes he thinks he can hear you humming along. He imagines you’re eating the berries you picked from the bushes outside his cabin. Maybe you’ve changed into more comfortable clothing, maybe you’re sitting on your bed, maybe you’re reading a book. Maybe you’re even thinking about him. He tried not to make an impression earlier but part of him hopes he did.

He really can’t wait any longer.

He moves slowly, not just because his body is quite literally creaking, but because he has to keep his head on a swivel and continue to make sure there are no eyes watching him. He makes his way towards the van, choosing his steps carefully. His head moves back and forth, checking in front of and behind him, watching for any movement. The night is so quiet all he hears is the gentle wind rustling the tall grass and the constant cricket song.

He finally reaches the side door of the van. The music inside is louder from here but he still doesn’t recognize the song. He pats his pockets, obsessively triple-checking he has the supplies he’ll need. He pulls a small tool out of his shirt pocket and sticks it in the door lock. He feels rather than hears the soft click that he knows means he now has full access to you. 

He puts his hand on the door handle and inhales a breath, holding it with full lungs. He closes his eyes and imagines what he’ll see when he opens the door, warm light spilling onto him from the inside. What will you be wearing? Will you look excited to see him? Frightened? Will you scream?

“Hey there little bird,” he says quietly as he throws the door open. Confusion falls across his face. He looks down onto the floor of the van, where a single bluetooth speaker sits, still playing music. The single overhead light from the van’s interior barely illuminates the inside, but it doesn’t matter, since there isn’t anything to see. 

The inside of the van isn’t a camper. It’s an empty utility van. There are no seats and no wall panels. In fact, the entire inside of the van is covered in thick plastic sheeting, which vibrates a strange buzz from the reverberation of the bluetooth speaker.

He has barely taken it all in when he feels a pinch in his neck. He grabs at it with his hand but there is nothing there and before he can react further, everything goes black.

*****

You hear a couple deep breaths and then some grunting. Maybe this means he’s finally waking up. You walk around in front of where he sits bound naked to a chair, and bend over, hands on your knees, face close to his, cooing gently for him to wake up sleepyhead. 

Standing up straight, you watch as he slowly opens his eyes, bit by bit, working to focus. He is blinking long, slow blinks, and his eyes raise to your face. His pupils start going big and then small, his eyes start rapidly blinking as his swirling thoughts begin to come back to him. 

Then you see it - recognition.

He crinkles his brows, the crease between them going so deep. His mouth begins to form a question but only a short, dry croak comes out. You can’t help yourself, you laugh at him. A quiet, melodic chuckle.

“Sorry, I think I gave you too much back there,” with two fingers you brush some hair off his forehead that has fallen forward. “I thought you were fatter under all these clothes, but you’re doing alright for yerself there.”

His eyes fall to your shirt - well, his shirt - and then to his own lap. He’s just realizing he’s naked. Then his eyes trail back up your body as he takes in the fact that you’re wearing all of the clothes you stripped off him.

His mouth opens again but you don’t let him even try to speak this time. You grab his face and his eyes snap to meet yours. “Remember when I asked if you knew anything about those campers and hikers goin’ missing?” You drop your hand from his face and step to the side to reveal a folding table set up behind you. Along the table you have laid an array of different souvenirs he had plucked from his victims. 

“You told me you didn’t know anything,” you continue, as you watch his eyes grow larger as they rake across the table, taking in the items he had hidden away in his cabin. “But honey, I think you know a lot more than you said you did.”

His eyes slowly come back to yours and you can’t hide the smile you now have plastered across your face. “I don’t-” he starts. You quickly shove your finger overtop his mouth in a shush motion.

“Don’t even try that honey, we’re way past denial now. I already found all yer little trophies.” 

Now he flexes in the chair. Your finger drags down his neck and across his shoulder as you walk around the chair, circling him. You watch him continue to strain, testing the ropes, checking to see for himself if you knew what you were doing when you tied him to the chair. You did.

“So what is this?” he mutters, “One a’ them yer friend? Your brother or sister or somethin’?” He continues to push against the unforgiving ropes. “This some kinda revenge plot you got brewin’?” 

You can’t help it, you laugh again. “Oh honey, is that what you think?” You place your finger at the top of his forehead and slowly run it down his face, “You think you’ve hurt me?” over his nose, “Think I’m your victim?” over his lips, stopping on his chin. You lean in and ghost your lips right over his. “I’m not your victim honey,” you whisper against his lips, “you’re mine,” pressing into him with a kiss.

You stand up and take a step back. “I know what you are. I know exactly what you are because I’m the same. Well, almost the same,” and you laugh again, breaking eye contact. “When I was young, my adoptive father recognized it in me n’ taught me how to direct it. He called it my dark passenger and I-”

“Y-yer what?” he interrupts.

“What?” You’re back to looking him in his eyes.

“Did you say your dark passenger?” He looks past the folding table strewn with his trophies and sees the ‘camper van’ parked with the side door still wide open, inside still covered with plastic sheeting. “Dark passen- isn’t that from that fuckin’ TV show? Dexter?”

“What the fu-,” you slap your arms against your thighs in frustration. “Don’t tell me you get fuckin’ Showtime in that piece a shit cabin. There wasn’t even a fuckin’ TV in that shithole.”

“Well I don’t fuckin’ live there sweetheart that’s just where I-” he stops short but just rolls his eyes at you. Then he gives you a look like he’s embarrassed for you. 

“Oh well excuse me for wantin’ to add a little flair to this situation!” you yell out to the ceiling. “I guess we can’t have any fuckin’ fun around here.”

“So what’re you gonna do now Dex, chop me up and take me out to the ocean?” a cocky fucking grin settles on his face.. 

“Jesus Christ what’d you watch the whole fuckin’ series?” You look down at his smug face. He thinks he has the upper hand again. This motherfucker. Naked. Tied to a chair. Still thinks he’s smarter than you. 

“You know how much fuckin’ work it’d be to chop your fat ass up?” and you watch his grin get wiped off his face. “Think I’m gonna take the time to dismember you? You? I could leave you just like this in a shallow ditch ‘n not one person would even miss you honey.”

“Then whatcha’ fuckin’ waitin’ for, huh?” He snarls, his smugness gone. “Get it over with, let’s go.”

You walk behind him and grab a second chair, dragging it noisily across the floor until it’s parallel to his own chair but facing the other way. You plop down in the chair and lean closer to him.

“I really don’t know how you’re still not gettin’ it,” you say quietly. You drag your finger along the ropes across the front of his chest as he lowers his chin to watch you. “But you are not in charge here.” He lifts his head and his hard eyes meet yours.

“Now… I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re gonna answer me honestly.”

“And why would I fuckin’ do that?” he says calmly, quietly.

“Cuz otherwise I’m gonna call 9-1-1 right now. When they get here they’ll see I’ve done all their work for ‘em.” you hitch your thumb back to point it towards the table behind you. He sighs a deep breath and - growls? - under his breath.

You point to the table again and ask, “How do you choose your victims?” He shakes his head, tries to shift in his chair but the ropes are tied too tight to allow for much movement. You really do know what you’re doing. He still doesn’t seem to believe it, flexing his arms and chest against the ropes yet again.

“I don’t.” You give him a beat to add more to the sentence but he just stares at you with black eyes, mouth closed and tight-lipped.

“You’re gonna have to do a little better n’ that honey,” you gently coo. He suppresses another growl. You can tell that your little nickname for him is finally starting to grate on his nerves. 

“That’s my answer,” he grumbles, refusing to elaborate, staring ahead at the folding table.

“Okay hun, no problem,” you reply as you lean forward and pull a cell phone out of your back pocket. You punch in the lock code and begin to dial. You type in 9 and you see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You quickly type in the 1 and then hover your finger over the button, ready to repeat the motion. You pause and look up, meeting his eyes.

“You wanna call my bluff or you wanna start talkin’?” and then you smile as you hear jesus fuckin’ christ muttered under his breath and watch him spend some more time straining against the ropes. “Get it over with, let’s go,” you repeat his words back to him in a bad impression of his gruff voice. His scowl deepens.

“I don’t,” he repeats. “I don’t choose ‘em.” He sighs, and you open your mouth to protest that he’s still holding back but before you can speak he continues, “I just take what’s there.”

“You don’t have a type?” 

“You seem to know everythin’, look at ‘em,” he nods towards the table where you have placed cut out photos from the missing posters next to the trinkets you found in his cabin. “Does it look like I have a type?” You remember the photos of men and women from all backgrounds on that table.

“So you just take whatever… whoever you can get?”

“Easier that way. Don’t have to go findin’ something specific.” He’s not making eye contact anymore, even though you have leaned in so far your faces are just inches apart. “Less suspicious that way too. Looks less like one person is pickin’ ‘em all off.” He shrugs, then quiets.

You lean back in your chair now, thinking over what he’s said. He’s been doing this for years. You could connect some of his souvenirs to known missing people but he had more items stuffed in his floorboards than you had pictures. So who knows how high his number really is.

“Is that all of ‘em?” nodding your head back towards the table again. His head is still down, seemingly very interested in a freckle on his left thigh. But you see a smile tug at one side of his mouth. He tries to hide it before you can see but it’s too late.

“Yeah,” he lies, unconvincingly. He doesn’t see you roll your eyes. God he’s shit at lying. 

You raise the phone up and wave it in front of his face, showing the 9-1 still dialed in. “Is that your final answer, honey?” He lets out a big sigh, like you’ve spoiled his fun. That’s right, we can’t have any fun around here, can we?

“Not exactly,” he grumbles. “Camping season is short ‘round here. Winter comes on quick. I have somewhere else I go sometimes,” he vaguely adds. He doesn’t elaborate further.

“Do you have sex with ‘em before or after you kill ‘em?” you ask, not even taking time to absorb his previous answer. His head snaps up to yours, his eyes wide.

“What?”

“Do you have se-”

“I don’t fuckin’ do that,” he spits, face contorted in disgust.

“Yeahhhh. But that’s what they all say. And, spoiler alert,” your voice goes high and teasing, “they ALL do it.” His face is still tight, mouth curled into a frown. 

“Well I fuckin’ don’t,” he looks back down at the freckle on his thigh, continuing to curse under his breath how disgusting you are for asking. “Killin’ doesn’t get me hard,” he snarls.

“Oh honey, I don’t know why you’re goin’ all shy on me now,” you coo, he’s still looking down, shaking his head now. “I’ve been in your little hidey-hole, ya know. It smells like fuckin’ loam ‘n body odor. I took a black light. That place is truly fuckin’ disgusting.” You adjust your glasses on your nose and continue, “I didn’t find a single cleaning product in the whole place. And now you’re gonna act like you’re not in there sprayin’ blood and cum all over the walls?” He doesn’t raise his head but his eyes meet yours under his eyebrows to scowl at you. You lean in till your noses almost touch. “A black light,” you repeat.

“That’s a huntin’ cabin sweetheart, and it wasn’t always mine. So I can’t tell you what yer little black light saw but it wasn’t me doin’ - that - with any ‘a them,” he nods to the table. 

Now you consider what he’s said and decide if you believe him or not. He’s a terrible liar, right? Maybe. Or maybe he’s just been playing you this entire time. You don’t give a shit that he’s a murderer. Anyone would murder under the right circumstances. But sexual assault? That’s a line you’d never cross. In fact, most of the men you’ve killed have been guilty of it themselves. Pigs, all of them, who’d stick their dicks anywhere for a moment of pleasure. They deserved what they got. Is this guy one of them?

“Well like I said, that’s what they all say, n-”

He interrupts, muttering jesus fuckin’ christ again, and more curses follow in whispers. “Is there fuckin’ evidence that I did any ‘a that? Any… sexual assault?” he spits the last two words out with particular venom, speaking the term for the first time.

“You’re askin’ if there’s any evidence on the months-old decomposing body parts found half-eaten in the woods?” You poke the freckle on his thigh he’s been seemingly obsessed with. “Surprisingly, no, there was not any evidence of sexual assault found.”

“Well then, there ya go,” he grunts out, as if that settles it. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. You can’t tell if it’s from shame, discomfort, or disgust. He’s doing a good job pretending it’s disgust. Is he pretending?

You try to ask another question but he is done talking. He won’t look up from his lap now. You even hold up the cell phone again but he doesn’t flinch. He knows by now you’re not going to dial the police. He’s shut down. So you get up and pull your chair away, disappearing behind him for a moment. 

When you come back in front of him you sit on his lap, facing him, straddling his legs with yours. He looks up at you with cautious eyes and opens his mouth to say something - but say what you’re not sure. When he feels the sharp poke just under his ribs he stops short. He looks down and sees the 5” knife you have pressed into the soft spot where his sternum ends.

“I guess it’s time then, honey,” you hum. The hand not holding the knife traces the side of his face. He looks almost sad for one singular moment before his eyes turn hard and all the muscles in his face pull tight.

“If ya expect me to beg, you’re wastin’ yer time.” His pupils are blown wide. “Just do it.”

“How about you stop bein’ so bossy on our first date?” You lean in and kiss him on the nose, then the right cheek, then the left cheek. “Well…..  Our last date,” and you kiss him on the mouth.

You press your lips hard into his and wait. When he doesn’t relent you take your free hand and squeeze his cheeks, hard, forcing his mouth open. Risking him biting your tongue, you push it into his mouth. Your gamble pays off when he doesn’t bite but instead pushes his tongue back and forth along the length of yours.

You wrap your free arm around his shoulders, bracing yourself and grinding your body down into his naked lap. You press your chest into his as your hand moves to the back of his head and fists in his wild curls. You continue kissing him, tongues wrapping around each other, lips moving sloppily across each other’s mouths. 

You move your wet kisses down his jaw, mouthing at the patches in his graying, scruffy beard. You grab a handful of his hair and squeeze your fist, tugging gently at the roots. He grits his teeth and groans, attempting to buck his hips up. 

Of course he can’t move against the restraints, but you grind down again, and you can finally feel that he’s gotten hard through the baggy jeans you’re still wearing. You let a low chuckle slip out.

“I thought killin’ didn’t get you hard,” you smile against his mouth.

“Who am I killin’?” he mutters, still simmering with anger at the topic.

Oh yeah, you giggle, your breath ghosting across his neck. “I guess I’m the one who it’s gettin’ hard,” you whisper. 

You can’t help it. The anticipation of the kill is thrumming through your veins. It’s always like this, the energy, the electricity. Killing makes you feel more alive. You usually aren’t making out with them though. Never, in fact. This time feels different. You’re not sure why.

You lick a stripe up his neck, rolling your hips over his hardened length, and now he bites, nipping gently at your jaw. You squirm and the knife pokes harder into his abdomen. He inhales a sharp breath through his nose at the contact. You silence any additional protest by kissing him hard on the mouth again.

You pull back, face flushed and panting. He is looking at you with wild eyes and puffy lips, his hair pulled at strange angles from your hands running through it. Do you want to fuck this guy? You just brought him here to kill him but now you think you want to fuck him. This is a morally gray area. He’s bound to a chair and you have a knife at his ribs. Can he consent?

“Why’d ya stop?” he huffs out, bringing your attention back to him. “Are we doin’ this or what?”

“It feels kinda fucked up,” you say meekly, the first time he’s seeing any hesitation from you. You look down, twirling the knife against the rope crossing his chest. “It’s not gonna change my mind ‘bout what happens here ya know.”

“I didn’t say it would,” he says quietly, and you look back into his eyes. His eyes are dark, like fresh brewed coffee. They’d be kinda nice if they weren’t about to be on a dead guy.

“You…. you want this?”

“Why not?” he immediately answers.

“Because I’m gonna kill you after,” and even though you’re sure he doesn’t need the reminder, you poke him lightly in the ribs with the knife again, leaving a little red dot from the tip. He doesn’t react this time. He just lets a small smile ghost across his face and his eyes soften as they land on yours.

“What a way to go.”

It’s all you need to hear. You get up and uncinch the belt that is the only thing holding his pants up around your waist. As soon as it’s loosened, the pants fall to the floor, the belt buckle tinkling as it hits the concrete. You’re not wearing any underwear but the view of your cunt is obstructed by the long flannel shirt draped over you.

You take the knife and stick it in the edge of the shirt about breast-high, just above where you have the first button done up. You slowly drag the knife down the placket, cutting each button off easily with the very sharp blade. The buttons clatter to the floor one by one and when you’ve reached the last one, the shirt opens up a bit.

It’s just enough to see the valley between your breasts, a line of your soft stomach, the patch of hair on your mound, and your pink folds peeking out between your legs. You watch him looking you up and down, devouring the sight of you. His brown eyes now black with hunger. Now you can finally take the time to admire his body. 

Yes you had stripped him naked and then tied him to the chair. The whole process had taken nearly thirty minutes. Your hands had been all over him, this grown man you had to maneuver while he was unconscious. But that wasn’t about sex. That was just a body. And you’ve had your hands on plenty of bodies. It’s not sexual. 

But now…. now you can really admire him. He has a long and muscular neck, a broad chest, and freckle-dotted shoulders with strong muscles that continue down his thick arms. He isn’t very hairy but he does have soft arm hair, a little chest hair, and a trail of hair that starts beneath his belly button and continues down to a large patch around his cock.

His cock. Now you can appreciate what you were feeling on his lap. Why does it look so good? Cocks shouldn’t look this good. It’s fully hard, leaking precum and leaning against his stomach, his balls pulled tight at the bottom. You’re surprised to notice his pubic hair isn’t growing wild, it looks as if it was trimmed but has grown out a bit. His cock is both a little larger and a little thicker than what you know to be average. It’s not the biggest you’ve ever seen but that’s alright. In this context you aren’t looking for something that’s going to destroy you. You need to be able to walk later, you’ll have a body to dispose of.

You look back at his face and his eyes are meeting yours. You wonder if he can see the same hunger in your eyes that you saw in his. He’s smiling again but this time it’s not the same cocky grin as before, this one is genuine and filled with excitement. Your heart is pounding. You feel intoxicated. Is this the thrill of the kill or the sex?

Double ropes make an X across his chest, fastening his torso tight to the back of the chair. His arms and wrists are also bound to the back of the chair, causing his arms to be extended stiff at his sides, hands dangling towards the ground. Another X of the double rope crosses his thighs, attaching him to the seat of the chair, and his ankles are tied to the chair’s front legs.

You consider for one brief moment if untying any part of him would increase your enjoyment but quickly decide that’s not a good idea. Even if you might want his hands on your body, if you find them on your throat, it could all get very messy very quickly.

You give your shoulders a slight shrug and his flannel begins to fall off your shoulders, brushing down your arms as it falls to the ground. Now you stand before him completely bare. You don’t miss the fuuuck he silently mouths. Jesus christ what is this guy doing to you? You swear you just felt your clit twitch. 

It is now obvious more than ever the effect he’s having on you, as your unobstructed cunt is so wet that the cool air hitting your thighs makes you realize you are a fucking sopping mess down there. Not wanting to wait any longer, you straddle his thighs again. This time you don’t put your legs on either side but rather rest your legs on top of his. Your feet rest inside of his thighs right under his balls and your ankles and shins lay on top of his thighs. This position is you going give you the best leverage to raise and lower yourself, since you know he can’t help with driving his cock into you.

You can see his arms straining against the ropes. By now he should have learned that they’re too tight for him to move but you think this might just be out of habit. He wants to touch your body, you can tell by the way he moves his head forward - the only thing he can freely move forward - and laps his tongue anywhere he can reach.

You grab his face with one hand and crash your mouth onto his, a mess of teeth and lips and tongues. With your other hand, which is still holding the knife, you carefully use two fingers to tilt his cockhead directly under you and you slowly sink down on it.

You both let out wanton moans into each other’s mouths at the sensation. You continue to press down until he’s seated all the way inside you, and then you pause to let your body adjust. He feels bigger than he looked. Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve been with anyone but this feels borderline painful. You don’t move up and down but rock forward and backwards ever so slightly, giving yourself some more time. He groans a little bit, maybe impatient but you don’t care, and you just smile against his mouth.

You feel your own wetness dripping out of you, down around him, and you feel like you’re ready to go. Pulling your face back from his, you look in each other’s eyes, almost tenderly. You put both hands on top of his shoulders, careful to have a good grip on the knife but not have it too close to his skin. You don’t want to be the one to do anything prematurely in this situation. 

You start slowly at first, ignoring the quiet groans coming from him. He’s not whining but he doesn’t sound or look pleased with the pace you’ve set if the pained look on his face is any indication. You continue moving but grab his face to ask you good? The pained look immediately disappears from his face as his eyes snap open. He grunts and mutters a quiet it’s been awhile before he closes his eyes again, trying to focus.

“Don’t you end this early on me,” you warn. It’s a little funny to you when you realize that his punishment for doing that would be death. It shouldn’t be funny but it is. Probably because you’re fucked in the head. He barely reacts and just mutters I won’t between clenched teeth.

Your pace starts to pick up and you alternate between quite literally bouncing up and down on his cock, and grinding forwards and backwards on it. Each time you switch movements he lets out a strangled groan, clenching his eyes tighter. You can feel your orgasm start to build as a little ball of energy deep in your torso.

You picture what it would be like if he could put his hands on you. You take your own hands off his shoulders and run them up and down your thighs, careful to not let the blade hit either of your bodies. You run them across your stomach and up your ribcage, grabbing your breasts, the cold blade of the knife pressed against one of them. You cry out at the sensation and notice he has opened his eyes now and is watching you intently.

You throw your head back, squeezing your breasts, and bring two fingers to pinch each nipple until they’re over-sensitive and stinging. You look back down and watch his face, inches from your breasts, mesmerized. Without warning you shove one of them right into his mouth and he greedily accepts it, tonguing and biting your nipple. 

You continue to move on his lap, driving his cock in and out, up and down, filling you up, hitting all the right spots inside of you. Your bodies are sliding against each other, lubricated by the sheen of sweat covering them. The sounds of your skin slapping echoes off the walls. The slurping noises of his mouth are turning you on even more. You can feel your orgasm now just below the surface. You know you’re close. 

“I’m gonna come honey,” you moan. Jesus fuckin’ christ you hear him grunt beneath you, mouth still full of your breast.

You push yourself closer to him, pressed up against his chest, his mouth popping off your nipple. You wrap both arms around his neck and pull him tight, rutting hard and deep on his lap. It’s just there, so close. Then he latches his mouth onto your neck just below your jaw, and he sucks. 

A white-hot release immediately hits your body, spreading from the core out. It hits you so hard that you actually scream. Your movements stutter and slow as you work through your orgasm, feeling your pussy contracting on his cock.

Seconds later you hear him against your neck, a long and drawn-out moan, as you feel him releasing repeatedly inside of you. You continue gentle rocking motions against him until you feel his cock still. His mouth is still against your neck, breathing heavy breaths in between curses of jesus fuckin’ christ, and holy shit.

You push yourself up off him using the leverage from your shins on his thighs just enough for him to slip out of you, your combined release dripping out onto his lap. You lay your head down on one of his shoulders, gently kissing his neck. At the other shoulder, your arm rests with the knife dragging up and down along where his carotid artery lies.

You sit like that for a while, both of you catching your breaths, getting your bearings back. You are vaguely aware of the mess on his lap you’ll have to clean up later. It’ll have to wait. You think that orgasm made you dizzy. You’re pretty sure your legs will be jell-o for a bit. You haven’t felt like this in a long time. Fucked out and cockdrunk.

He is the first to speak.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says tentatively, “before ya….  ya know.”

“You have a question for me?” you scoff, “I’m flattered,” which is true, even considering what you’ve just done.

“Were ya serious about doin’ this before? The killin’ part?”

“Well yeah, what makes ya think I wasn’t serious?” you lift your head to look him in the eyes just in time to see him roll his.

“Probably the part where ya pretended to be Dexter-” he starts.

“Oh my god I can’t wait till you stop breathin’ so I don’t have to hear about that again. I was just trying to- ya know what? Nevermind,” and you push the blade forward into his neck a little. It’s hard enough to pierce the skin. It draws a couple drops of blood but you’re mostly just teasing him, since you have no desire to clean five liters of blood off the floor of this rented garage. But you can’t help the thrill that shoots into your stomach at the way he clenches in fear.

His body relaxes after a few seconds when he realizes you haven’t pushed the knife in any further. He had clenched his eyes shut, not letting you see the panic in them. Now they flutter open and meet yours, barely able to focus, your faces are so close together.

“My question was somethin’ else,” he mutters, barely audible over the sound of your pounding heartbeat whooshing in your ears. You say nothing, just continue to stare at him wide-eyed, unblinking. “My question was… why. Why do ya do it?”

You are taken aback. Literally and figuratively. You physically pull back from him, resting on your heels back where his knees are. Your hands remain on his shoulders, one still clutching the knife against his neck. Someone is looking for the answer, you think to yourself. It’s almost sweet that he thinks you have it.

“I do it for the same reason you do it.” You scan his face, searching for that smug smile, waiting for deception to play across it, for something. For anything. It doesn’t come. He genuinely doesn’t know. “I do it because it fucking feels good, honey.”

He just keeps your gaze, nodding his head slowly as he takes in your answer. He doesn’t ask anything else or add to your answer. He’s just considering it. You get up off his lap and fold up the knife in your hand, dropping it on the floor on top of the discarded flannel. You walk behind him again and grab the pre-filled syringe you set up. This is the way you like to do things. Clean. Efficient. No stains or smells to deal with later.

You walk up behind him, standing so you are pressed to the back of the chair, his head resting against your bare stomach. You put your hands down on top of his shoulders, the syringe in your dominant hand tapping against his skin. He looks down at it and then tilts his head back to look up at you.

“Why me?” he asks. Not whiny, like most people are. Just a curiosity. Why him? Why did you pick him? Out of everyone in the world, why is it him? It’s almost romantic.

“I thought it’d be fun. I mean, it’s always fun. But I thought it’d be more fun than usual, huntin’ someone like me. Well, almost like me. I’m better at it,” and you tap the syringe against his clavicle a few times, “obviously.”

“Well you weren’t exactly playin’ fair, were ya sweetheart?” he says in an accusing tone.

“How do ya mean?” you ask, your eyes going wide, insulted by the implication. “You knew people would be lookin’ around and askin’ questions, maybe even the police.”

“Yeahhh,” he concedes, “but the police‘re idiots.” He keeps his eyes on you, watching you nod your head in agreement. “I didn’t think I was up against someone like you.” He pauses and then flashes you a cocky grin. “Someone smart.”

“Oh stop, now you’re just tryin’ to flatter me,” and you swat the syringe on his shoulder.

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling.

“Kinda seems like you are, ya ol’ flirt.” and you wink down at him.

“No, what I’m tryin’ ta say is…” and he finally looks away, staring straight ahead before he delivers the next sentence. “I bet you couldn’t do it again.”

“Do what again?” You continue to look down at him but he’s still looking straight forward, not meeting your eyes.

“Catch me.”

Now you’re annoyed. “Honey it really wasn’t that fuckin’ hard the first time. I highly doubt th-”

“But,” he interrupts, “I bet you couldn’t do it again.” His cocky smile is back, head thrown back staring up at you again. “You couldn’t do it now that I know you’re lookin’ fer me. 

You push off his shoulders and walk around the front of him. Bending over, you pull his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans laid on the floor. You’re gonna wipe that smug grin off his face once and for all. “Well Joel Miller,” and you read off his home address in Texas, “I really do think I could find you again.”

“Then do it.” His smile is gone. His face is expressionless. He’s just staring at you. “Find me again,” he taunts.

You drop the wallet back to the ground and sit down on his lap, almost considering what he’s saying. You run your hand on the side of his stupid smug little face, syringe still in the other hand. You lean your face to his and gently pepper his face with kisses.  

“Honey, I don’t want you sufferin’,” you coo between smooches. “Yer gonna miss me too much if I let you go.”

“How long you think I’d have to suffer?” he counters, “Hmm? How long you think it’d take you?”

“It took me less than a week this time honey. So probably not long,” you continue the kisses down his neck.

“Then come find me,” he growls, stilling your motions. “End my sufferin’.”

You pull back from him. Fuck. The thought of it made you undeniably excited. You were practically vibrating with anticipation and you weren’t even thinking about killing him anymore. This was about a chase. An honest-to-god chase with someone that might be something close to a challenge.

He had a point. You didn’t want to admit that to him, but he didn’t know you were looking for him. He had no idea there was someone like him in the area, whereas you had begun to suspect last summer, and had spent the last year putting pieces together and planning your trip this way. 

It did take you less than a week of moving around to different areas of the state land with your van, finding different places to camp, until you ran into him and his filthy little cabin. But you had spent much longer than that reviewing his victims, studying his patterns, and getting yourself into his mindset as best you could. 

He has confirmed your suspicions that he moved on after the summer to hunt somewhere else. But where else? Where he lives in Texas? Another off-the-grid cabin? It could be anywhere. It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out. 

The phone you’ve been threatening him to dial 9-1-1 with is actually his phone. You'd used his fingerprint to gain access while he was out cold and then changed the passcode to something that only you know. You can gather a lot of information on him from his cellphone. That will help and he doesn’t even yet realize you have it. 

You already have an upper hand on his little proposition. You’re already outsmarting him.

You press your lips to his one last time and stick the syringe’s small needle into his neck, pressing the plunger halfway down. With open eyes kissing him you see his eyes go wide and then shut. His entire body goes limp under yours, including his lips. His plush lips. You feel his heart still beating strong under your hand so you take the time to indulge, holding his head up and stealing a few more kisses before you have to start cleaning up.

*****

Joel wakes a while later, how long he’s not sure, but the room he’s in looks very different. The van is gone, as is the folding table covered in trophies and photos of his victims, as are you. In fact, very few things remain in the room. 

His clothes are folded in a stack on the floor in front of him. Next to them are his wallet and truck keys. Finally, there is a folded note stuck to his leg. It’s pinned to him with your five inch pocket knife having been driven into his thigh.

The restraints around his wrists have been cut so that he can reach forward to take the knife out of his leg. When he does, the note drifts to the floor a few feet away. He ignores the searing pain and blood now streaming from the wound on his leg and manages to work himself free of the rest of the ropes. 

He moves to stand up out of the chair and immediately his legs give out, collapsing him unceremoniously onto the floor. He is free of the chair for the first time in - judging by the physical state of him - what has probably been half a day. With shaky hands he reaches out and picks up the paper where it had fallen, unfolding it.

In pretty, looping handwriting it reads: ‘Catch ya later!   xoxo’ 

*****

READ THE NEXT PART HERE (THE CHASE - PART 1)

[yameoto]

IM GONNA CUMM!! is yammy a ethan landry lover? (Pls i NEEEEED him and sam.)

-🎈

i’m a carpenter sisters lover. just obsessed with the way this scene mimics a blowjob. and the way he takes it

directly after he hollers “I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO STICK SOMETHING IN YOU TARA!” too like get his ass

[lugiaanimates]

do you guys still like sk!j

[azzehkarla]

Does anyone else occasionally email David Fincher to beg him to continue Mindhunter or is it just me?

[celestialspecial]

In Cold Blood (Pt. 2)

Warnings: Dub con, knife play, blood, smut/p in v-do i even need to say its 18+ (also dont do it with serial killers irl....you know this)

The pounding relentless beat of the club echoed out onto the pavement. The sidewalk under your feet seemed to shake with each new bass drop, lights from the floor to ceiling windows washed along the crowd waiting in line.

You stood single file, all asses and elbows waiting to get to the front velvet ropes. Your nerves were frayed, the last few weeks had been leading you up to this moment. 

Once you had a photo of the killer with his mask it was easier than before to find snippets of him on local cctv camera footage. His steps were more traceable but you still didn’t know his motive. 

The more you learned the less it made sense. 

You'd tracked his wanderings for over a month now, the trail had gone cold but you had it on good authority he'd be here tonight. The Killer, looking for his next victim.

With some intense persuasion your team had allowed you to go under cover and act as bait to draw out the madman. Your skimpy dress and overall look blended you into the background of the crowd waiting in line.

You looked like you deserved to be there. Were meant to be there.

After god knows how long of waiting in line you finally were able to escape the chilly outdoors and feel the intense heat of the ravenous club before you.

Bright lights pooled the dance floor and if you had thought the outside was crowded this was even worse. How anyone managed to dance was beyond you but that wasn't why you were here.

Making your way to the bar in hopes of escaping the intense smells and rhythmic dancing to clear your head. A buzz from your phone got your attention.

One of your colleagues.

"He's there." Your heart beat increased its pace. Eyes darting around the mass of gyrating people but you couldn't see shit. Everyone was moving so erratically, it would be impossible to find him.

After a moments pause you wondered if maybe this was a wash and to call for backup and corner the bastard wherever he was here instead of coercing him to follow you somewhere private where an arrest could be made.

At that your phone buzzed again. What the fuck did they want?

Only this time it was a call. From an unknown number. He was here.

"Hello?"

"Detective. You look mouthwatering tonight." You gulped in response suddenly realizing this might be a bad idea but taking a shot from the bartender strengthened your resolve.

"Do I?"

"Oh yes. Have you come here to arrest me, Detective? Looking like that?"

"Maybe I came here for other things."

A long pause on the other end had you believing he had hung up until you heard a brief inhale on the end of the line.

"Is that so?"

"Will you turn me down?"

This was very dangerous. You were being reckless with your safety but if it drew him out and you had a chance to throw this sucker away for life you'd take it.

"Never."

"Then come get me."

"No... I think you need to find me first. Hasn't that always been your goal? To find me."

You cursed under your breath. Of course he wasn't going to make this easy for you. Why had you been so stupid.

"I don't know if you know this but you picked the most crowded club in the city tonight."

"Don't worry. I'll give you hints. But I can tell you right now you're very cold."

You stepped away from the bar and turned left.

"Warmer."

You considered that when you caught him you'd just kill him and say it had been an accident. And yet a sick and twisted part of you felt a thrill you couldn't explain.

And honestly were afraid to examine further.

Another few twists and turns to the tune of, "Warmer" and "you're getting colder." Lead you to a bustling staircase that took you up to the balcony overlooking the entire club.

Masses of people swarmed around you and at some points it was hard to even hear the phone if he had said anything at all.

You reached a hallway that was suspiciously empty. Lines of velvet padded doors with brass buttons on their exterior beckoned you forward.

“You’re getting warmer, Detective.”

Your hand twitched, trying not to rest on your concealed weapon.

“Warmer.

You'd made it halfway down the hall when you decided this was enough and it was time for backup. Your left heel stuck in place before you were about to turn tail and run.

“You’re burning up.” 

 A large hand snaked around your waist pulling you away from the door you had been looking at wearily. Then it all went black.

You came to, eyes blearily blinking in the low light. A deep red hue filled the room, curtains of lush fabric draped the ceiling, hanging askew and clinging to matching red sofas.

A black crystal chandelier hung above your head. The pounding of the music from the club could still be heard, the bass vibrating the surface you were on. 

Stuck on. No, strapped to.

You wiggled your wrists realizing they were handcuffed to the table beneath your body. Your senses started to come to you faster as your breathing increased with each panicked heartbeat.

Your ankles were tied down as well, a chain clanging against the surface. The sound blunted by the space. 

“Help!” You shouted, screaming as loud as you could. “Somebody?! Anybody!”

“They can’t hear you.” That voice. You’d heard it before. So many times before, but this time it wasn’t distorted by a device. No scrambling or altered sound. Deep, even more attractive than you’d thought.

If you didn’t know better you’d say it was almost warm, inviting. Like a lamb to slaughter, that’s how you felt. A wolf in sheep’s clothing and you were falling for it.

It was nearly impossible to lift your head fully to look upon your captor. Out of the shadows in the corner stood a man, tall, lean, leather jacket scuffed and torn and the mask. You recognized that.

He toyed with a large silver knife, pressing the point into the pad of his thumb, mask downturned as he examined the large weapon before you.

Turning back to look at you he traced the knife along the padded velvet walls. Cocking his head towards them as he approached where you lay.

“These walls are solid thick. The padding also helps block out the noise.” You couldn’t see his face but his eyes…they were black and they caught the red light just right and they almost-glimmered. 

When he spoke next you could hear the smirk on his lips. 

“Perfect place for screaming…of all kinds.” Your eyes closed, brows drawn together, a shaky rasp escaping your lips.

“You’re going to kill me.”

His head tilted to the side, taking you in, probably in more ways than you realized. Moving closer to you, the glimmering buck knife scraping against the wood of the table. You could feel your pulse racing in your neck, knees wobbling.

Once he’d approached your side, cracked white mask looking over you he lifted the glinting blade. You watched with wide eyes as the edge came down as he drew lines over your exposed flesh.

“Now why would I do that?” Cool metal bit into the side of your thigh, not enough to draw blood but enough to have you gasp at the pressure. His bottomless eyes darted to your face at the sound.

You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling. Captivated by you writhing on the table before him. Setting the knife down to rest on the center of your torso the man before you removed one of his gloves.

Flesh met flesh as he placed his large hand on your inner thigh, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your heated skin. His skin felt warm against your leg, you’d waited for it to feel cold, clammy but it was neither of those things.

“I’ve watched you for so long, Detective. Been wanting to feel how soft your skin is for far too long.” 

You wanted to fight it but you couldn’t help your poor body giving in to his caresses. Each stroke against your knee, shin, then moving back up to rest so close to your center. 

You tasted blood from how hard you’d bit your lower lip. Dying to not moan, to not let him know you were enjoying this. But he knew. Dammit he knew. 

“You knew I’d take the bait. And I did. Because you KNOW me. And I know you.” 

“You don’t know me.” You spit out, you tugged against your constraints to drive home your point. 

“I know you’re enjoying this.” 

“And how do you figure that?” 

“Because I am.” Fuck him. That’s all you could think. All you wanted but didn’t dare admit. He was a psycho…and maybe you were too for wanting him this badly. 

He retrieved his knife, this time letting it settle between your thighs, the tip catching on the string of your underwear. You could feel the blade against your skin and you did your best to breathe in shallow gulps.

His wrist flicked and what little pathetic swatch of fabric you’d had on under your dress was done for. An elastic snapping noise, a sting as it smacked against your skin and then he moved back a foot.

Pulling with him the knife and your underwear torn and tattered stuck to the tip of the blade. He held up the weapon and its new bundle of fabric to examine it, fingering the underwear with his free hand.

“Detective. These appear to be wet.” 

If you’d had your gun you would’ve shot him. Or you’d like to think you would in this moment. Anything to get out of this situation. Scorching heat seared across your face, you could feel it beading up on the back of your neck as well.

He leaned forward, bracing his hands against the table, fingers brushing against your sides in the process. 

“Care to explain?” His head gestured to the sad excuse for underwear left. 

“Fuck you!”

“Soon, but not yet.” His gloveless hand resumed its place on your inner thigh but this time his fingers dared higher. You could feel him part you and drag a long finger up your center, dipping in before pulling his hand back to inspect.

You wanted to cross your legs, anything to prevent you from wanting more. The noises that had scratched at the back of your throat  as you felt him briefly inside you, were scrambling to escape. 

His fingers were coated in your wetness, masked face exploring your own, gauging your reaction. Then he slipped those same fingers under his mask, a sucking noise could be heard and his eyes rolled back.

“You taste just as I imagined.” Your eyes met his, instead of looking away you kept your focus. Challenging him. He wanted to play games, so could you. 

Maybe he was right, maybe you two did have some connection because as your eyes remained locked with his you could feel the static energy in the room shift around you. 

“What else have you imagined?” 

The hand of his that held the knife lifted again, the lip of the blade coaxing under the hem of your dress. The tip poking through the satin fabric, slicing as it moved upwards. 

Cool air rushed over your heated skin, the fabric falling away. You carefully watched the knife as it made its way across your stomach, towards your chest and finally reaching your neckline.

The stitches popping as the dress shredded away, two useless swath's of fabric toppling to the floor. Exposing your remaining lingerie that you had carefully selected for the night, something that would fit nicely under your dress.

He let out a low whistle from under his mask. Taking the knife and quirking it underneath a loose bow on your black lace bustier. Untying the ribbon as he twisted the knife expertly.

“Detective. Is this all for me?” 

“Untie me and find out.” At that he chuckled, plucking another seam with the blades tip.

“You’re very clever, but not that clever.” 

He tapped your cheek with the flat side of his knife, wiggling his finger in a childlike admonishment as he moved to the end of the table. Standing between your legs that were still strapped down.

You watched as he slipped the knife into his back pocket, removing his other glove somewhere in the process. 

The way he watched you as he moved. Those depthless eyes examining every inch of your body. How they shone a little brighter as his gaze landed on your exposed lower half.

He lowered himself onto his elbows but not before clutching your hips and tugging you further down the table towards him. You grunted at the tightness overwhelming your bound wrists, scraping against the metal handcuffs.

Then you felt his mouth against you. Crying out at the feel of his lips sucking against you. Lapping up your juices and teasing the sensitive flesh there. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, panting, then moaning. His evil mouth coaxing every new noise from your body. Trying to look down and see him but the mask sat on top of his head still blocking your view.

That tightness and aching sensation started to gather in your center, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. Your moans grew louder, sparks flared behind your eyes and then with an extra savory sucking sensation you were tumbling over the edge.

You screamed, pulling against your handcuffs, hips lifting off the table to meet his mouth more readily and from the way the floor and walls pulsed and pounded around you, you knew he was right.

No one could hear you.

The ecstasy washed through you, draining your remaining fight down to nothing. You didn’t even notice that he had stood up and knelt by where your head rested.

“Next time scream my name.” 

“That’s a little hard since I don’t know it.” You managed through gasps of air.

You could feel him moving beside you before you turned to come face to face with that taunting white mask. You instead focused on his eyes beneath the plastic exterior.

Every nerve ending came alive as you watched his large hands coming up and unclasping the fasten behind his mask. The cold façade fell away and you felt pin pricks of both dread and wonder overtake you.

The masked killer-unmasked.

And remarkably, if not tragically, handsome beyond your comprehension.

Those same dark eyes that gobbled up any light in the room, curtained by long strands of dark hair. Mussed from the mask, and his previous explorations of your body.

A small mole rested under one eye, well shaped nose and perfectly carved smile adorned by pink lips. His jaw was severe but softened by the rest of his features when he smiled.

It set your whole being on edge. Looking at him, the man you'd been talking to for months. Who'd been taunting you at every turn.

Who'd killed people.

"Do you prefer the mask, Detective?"

You swallowed thickly at the insinuated repercussions of having seen his face. Knowing you could pick him out of a lineup easily. You'd never be able to forget that face.

Terminally Handsome.

He smirked at you, as if reading your thoughts. Grip tightening on the knife and drawing it in lazy circles and arcs over your skin once more.

Pressing deeply just under your ribcage, a rivulet of blood being drawn to the surface as you sucked in a ragged gasp.

The pain mixed with excitement as you felt yourself dampen again just watching him.

"Let's remove this, shall we?" He nodded to your bustier that was beginning to feel very tight and hot against your body.

You felt the blade slip under the center point where it laced up corset style and watched as each ribbon gave way to the sharpened metal slicing its way upwards.

You felt like your chest could finally expand and take in oxygen once he reached forward tearing the offending fabric away from you. It even took your hazy brain to register that now you lay completely exposed to the monster before you.

Monster...or man. You couldn't decide at the moment.

The blade tip circled one nipple then the other, your body betrayed you in every sense of the word as you groaned at the cool sensation. The tight bud responding eagerly to his ministrations.

There was no mask hiding his expressions now. Amusement and darkening shadows of lust.

"I can tell you're enjoying this as much as me." He leaned in close and whispered, licking the shell of your ear. Then placing a heated kiss to your neck before working his way downard.

Taking your nipple into his hot mouth and sucking enough for your eyes to roll back and hips rise up in need. He then turned his attention to the other breast. Tongue stroking you as you felt the knife pressed to the other side keeping you in place.

"Please." You wanted to cringe away from how helpless you felt as the word escaped your lips. Not helpless asking to be let go, but helpless-begging for more.

At that the gorgeous man above you's eyes rose to catch your powerless gaze. You knew this entire time, for months, you'd never been the one in charge. It had always been him. And you fell for it- hook, line and sinker.

"Billy."

"How do I know that's not a fake name?" You ventured, crying out when his mouth tortured you again.

"Does it matter?" No. Nothing mattered at this moment. Your world had shrunk and it was just you and him. You and Billy.

"No. It doesn't." He seemed to like that. Continuing his assault on your body until you couldn't tell where your body ended and his began.

Dizzy from pleasure and wanting, no, needing more. You could feel his arousal pressed into your thigh as he hovered over you kissing and marking up your shoulder.

"Billy I-"

"Shhhhh." The cool press of the blade against your lips. "I know."

And damn him, he did. You couldn't control how your body reacted as you watched him slowly unbuckle his belt, black pants dropping to the floor around his ankles.

His pupils blown wide, moving towards you, no longer a man. A killer stalking his prey. He moved in near silence until he was hovering over you.

His lips were on yours again, demanding, controlling, guiding every movement and you followed him like a lost puppy. Biting his bottom lip before he could pull away, drawing a drop of blood to fall between you two.

He pulled back, fingers tentatively touching the small wound. The look he gave you next was feral. No humanity left in it. Only terrible delight and amusement.

You felt him pressing at your entrance, hot and hard. Your knees fell apart further and you heard him chuckle into your chest as he drove home.

It was truly criminal how good it felt, how right it felt. You were turned on and disgusted by yourself all at once, but soon that little voice telling you to hold back was drowned out by each push of his hips against yours.

You wanted to hold onto him, to run your fingers through his hair to claw at his back but all your wrists could do was press against the metal holding you back. Bruises rubbing into your skin.

He struck something deep inside you and you muffled a cry into his shoulder. Building higher and higher, soaring above you body with each movement.

You could feel him getting closer too, a shift of his hips catching just the right angle and your toes curled.

"Scream for me, Detective. Like you've been wanting to all these months."

His pace picked up, Billy groaning and the sounds of your bodies coming together again and again and again.

Your body couldn't take it anymore, fucked into oblivion. Your body clenched then released, fireworks filling your vision and spikes of pleasure drove through ever cell of your body.

"Billy!" You screamed as loud as you could, the clanging of your wrists and feet fighting their confines as your back arched into him.

At the sound of you coming again he drove in deeper than he had before and followed you over the precipice. Groaning loud as his fingers dug into your hips.

He whispered your name into your ear as he came, punctuating it with a final crush of hip hips against yours. The sound of your full name on his lips made your head hazy.

You felt a sharp prick on your side and the room around you began to swim. You could feel his fingers caressing the side of your face.

"This has been very nice Detective. I look forward to doing it again sometime." He placed a passionate kiss to your lips before giving you a soft almost tender kiss to your forehead. "Sweet Dreams." Then the room went dark.

You didn't know how long it'd been but you blinked eyes squinting at the bright light overhead. You were in a hospital, sounds of people milling about made you turn your head to the side.

"Detective!" On of your colleagues exclaimed, jumping up from her seat. " You're awake!"

"What happened?"

"We found you in the club...Tied to a table. But wearing different clothing than you'd been wearing before going inside." she gulped. "We saw the torn fragments of dress though."

So he'd been a gentleman and dressed you before leaving.

"Have you found him?" Her eyes fell to her clasped hands before shaking her head.

"No not yet but we will." Her phone beeped and she gave a baleful smile before pausing to walk out and take the call.

When you turned over onto your other side on the side table you noticed a large bouquet of flowers. A note placed in the center with a heart drawn on it.

You scrambled to open the card.

"Thank you for the amazing night, Detective. Until next time."

[bloodyrecounts]

RICHARD RAMÍREZ

Born on February 29, 1960, in El Paso, Texas. He suffered violence from his father, who was an alcoholic abuser. Richard suffered multiple head injuries during his childhood, according to some psychiatrists, this provoked him temporal lobe epilepsy, aggressivity, and hypersexuality. Richard Ramírez was not a born psychopath, but a “made” one, due to his childhood and experiences, THIS DOES NOT TAKE HIM OUT OF RESPONSIBILITY FOR HIS CRIMES. Once he was captured, he was convicted of 43 crimes on 20 September 1989. Ramírez spent the rest of his life at California’s San Quentin State Prison, where he received letters from fans. He even got married!!! He would end up dying on 7 June 2013 of cancer.

[thesurgeonisalive]

Did Martin's Therapy In Claremont's Psychiatric Facility Actually Have a Positive Effect on Martin?

When we are officially introduced to Martin Whilty in the TV Series "Prodigal Son" we learn that he's been in Claremont Psychiatric Facility for at least 20 years. So that begs the question, did Martin Whilty actually benefit from the therapy and medications he was given in his incarceration in Claremont? It is said numerous times that Serial killers are made not born and therapy is meant to be used as a tool to safely deal with and talk about childhood trauma or any life traumas we may have faced and been affected by.

It's safe to say that Martin was given a mix of solo therapy sessions and group therapy sessions throughout his incarceration in Clarmont (before he escaped in Season 2 Episode 10 I believe). He would have also been given a mild sedative for aggression and/or irritability as well as possibly some mood stabilizers (we don't know what medications Martin was given or if was given any medications besides Benzodiazepines a.k.a Benzos).

However, it's safe to say that Martin was probably given different kinds of drugs to help calm him and stabilize his mood throughout his stay. It's also important to note that therapy would also be implemented in his treatment plan. So the question I have is the following:

Was the therapy actually effective in changing Martin's mindset on murder, and did it allow him to genuinely care for his son, Malcolm?

We don't get a clear answer for this in the two seasons of "Prodigal Son", however, we do get subtexts that suggest that Malcolm is in denial of his father's improved mental state due to Martin being diagnosed as a megalomanic Narcissist who craves power and control. So it's safe to say that Martin's "love" for his son Malcolm became more of an obsessive desire to prove his worth to his son Malcolm.

As the events in "Prodigal Son" unfold we see Martin Whilty desperately trying to do everything in his power to prove to his son Malcolm that he is a changed man. Martin starts to prove this by helping Malcolm solve murder cases. This action alone is enough for Malcolm to become slightly more dependent on his father's input on the cases he's working as well as ensure that Malcolm visits Martin more often.

However, these simple interactions are not enough for Martin to prove to Malcolm that he (Martin) is indeed a changed man. We also see Martin becoming obsessed with the idea of being good, which in itself, is also a quite toxic mindset. This is because obsession, whether over something good or bad can result in toxic, manipulative behaviors that can be more hurtful than good.

In Martin's case, his obsession with proving himself a changed man results in Martin manipulating his fellow inmates into doing actions that result in Malcolm, and at some points Ainsley, being in Martin's cell and giving Martin the ample opportunity to further manipulate his children, mostly Malcolm into believing that he, Martin is a changed man.

Now that's not to say that a part of Martin is indeed a change man in some way. It's a big improvement for Martin to say multiple times that "murder is wrong" given the fact that he killed 23 people when he was an active serial killer. Now, that's not to say he completely changed. After all, psychologically he can't stop being a serial killer because he'll always have the urge to kill someone.

So we have to take into consideration that he can fight the urge to kill someone and that by the time we officially meet Martin in the present day, he's roughly 55 years old, so he doesn't have the physical capacity to continue killing someone, even if he wanted to. He's also been incarcerated in Claremont Psychiatric Facility for 20 years and has grown to only really care for Malcom visiting him.

So, it's safe to say that he's changed somewhat. but not completely. We get to see in the finale of Season 2, that Martin doesn't kill anyone nor does he go into his "old ways". He instead abducts his son Malcolm and attempts to bond with him by solving a missing person's case that ties into a local serial killer (not Martin of course). The goal of this was to ultimately prove to his son that he "doesn't want to murder anymore" and that he's "a changed man" to some degree.

However, when Malcolm finishes solving the case he calls in the location of the victim that they saved, as well as Martin Whitly's location. This action proved to Martin that his son would never accept him in any capacity and also proved that Martin wasn't as changed as he claimed to be. Especially when Martin decided to kill his son. This action proved that he was still "the monster" that Malcolm said he was while also showing that he still craved control, especially over his family.

So, did the therapy that Martin underwent at Claremont really help Martin? Well yes and no. Yes, it helped him realize his own toxic behaviors however it didn't help him to stop those behaviors. Therapy actually helped Martin to better hide those behaviors. Yes, it did help him to somewhat change and understand that murder is wrong, and helped him not want to murder anymore.

It also gave him the tools to become obsessive with his love for Malcolm and his family. Now that doesn't mean that Martin doesn't on some level truly love his family. It just means that Martin struggles between how to love someone and what loving someone actually entails. Due to his nature as a psychopath, he doesn't have the capacity or ability to feel/express empathy, sympathy, or remorse, however, that doesn't mean he can't on some level "love" someone. It just means he can't understand or empathize with someone else.

That said, we can safely say that therapy helped him somewhat but not completely because Martin himself didn't allow the therapy to truly be effective in changing his mindset and personality. Instead, he used it as a tool to further his obsession with Malcolm, and even went as far as manipulating the Claremont staff into getting him a job with a staff member who had a gold card once he learned that a gold card can open ALL areas of Claremont.

[milwaukeevictim]

No trial

Don't you find that weird that Jeffrey Dahmer has never had a trial to determine if he was guilty? You know, trial with witnesses and their testimonies, evidence, lawyer defending Jeffrey and prosecutor trying to prove his crime? What happened instead? Jeffrey revoked his right to fair trial and was assumed to be a murderer based on his confession only. One can admit to everything, it's not a valid proof. Read The Dahmer case - a critical analysis for more info https://thedahmercase.substack.com/p/alleged-jeff-dahmer-victim-curtis

[innardsdk]

Dennis Rader BTK Bondage Polaroid

[pulkitoki]

That day of the year.

[ghoulsamgrusam]

“I’ll make you just like me, detective”

BeastsofBedlam AU

[noxturnalnymph]

The Chase (Part 2)

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader   (7.29k)

DARKAU! SEQUEL TO THE HUNTED. POV will switch between Joel and Reader. This is dark, even darker than the first part. Read the warnings if you’re worried. Skip them if you don’t want anything to be spoiled.

Summary: Joel Miller is on the run after being released by his captor - a woman who claims to be a killer just like him. He’s so focused on trying to outrun her that he hasn’t killed anyone in months. Will her obsession or his own be his undoing?

Warnings for Part 1&2: 18+ MDNI. This is dark. Unprotected PiV sex, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, kidnapping, stalking, bondage, violence, punching, kicking, slapping, choking, blood, mention of needles, talk of murder. *TW: Character Death*

A/N: When you see "*****" - that indicates a POV switch. SECOND DATE CONTINUED - LET’S GET TO THE GOOD STUFF!! *wink wink. So this part is… let’s use the word *physical*. 

(READ THE CHASE PART 1 HERE)

**CABIN LAYOUT POST IF YOU'RE A VISUAL PERSON LIKE ME**

Where we left off....

You’re still blowing on the spoon in front of your face, watching him. He lifts another spoonful to his lips, and freezes. You haven’t put that spoon in your mouth. You’re just staring at him, watching him eat. He looks down, past his spoon, into the bowl. What is this? What is he eating? He looks back to you, your eyes still boring into his own, still gently blowing on your spoon.

“Eat your dinner,” you bark, “little bird,” you quietly add.

What. 

Is. 

This?

He drops the spoon into his bowl, otherwise keeping very still. You stop blowing on your spoon, blinking slowly. Biting your tongue to suppress your smile, you make an obvious glance at the revolver in the table’s center. When you meet his eyes again he blinks but refuses to look away, unwilling to look at the weapon. You break eye contact again to look once more at the gun, letting your gaze linger longer this time. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed, and a deep line settles between them. 

You sigh. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to go for it. He refuses to even acknowledge its presence. Maybe he knows you emptied it back at the campsite. Maybe he just wants to use his hands instead. Either way, it seems as though he’s not going to eat the carefully crafted dinner you made for him, so it’s about time to get this show on the road.

You must give something away because before you can move a muscle he is lunging across the table, his right hand immediately at your throat. You grab the syringe taped under the table with your right hand and in a wide motion, aim it for his open left side. Unfortunately he expects this and grabs your wrist with his left hand before you can even come close to making contact.

His large fingers are digging into the tendons at your wrist, painfully separating them, weakening your grip on the syringe. Meanwhile the fingers on his right hand are steadily increasing pressure on your windpipe. You need to focus. You can’t hold onto the syringe if you’re unconscious. You use your left hand to dig your nails into the skin of his arm at your throat. When it has no obvious effect, you drop the syringe and immediately bring your right arm to join the efforts.

This must not feel good, because before you can see it, you feel it; the open palm of his left hand cracks against your face. You’re surprised how much it knocks the wind out of you, but then again, you’ve never been slapped across the face by a grown man before. Instinctually you reach out to grab his face, clawing at the air as he is out of the range of your arms.

His face is serious, his eyes black, the sound of his harsh breaths filling the room. He raises his hand in a show to slap you again and you’re embarrassed by your body’s reaction. You flinch. Not even a little. A huge flinch. Your eyes squeeze shut, your face contorts, your arms raise up to defend your head, and your body tries to turn away from him. You forget to even focus on his other hand cutting off your oxygen supply.

But part of your brain is fighting to live, and with the dwindling spirit left, your body lets out a pathetic gurgle from your mouth. It catches his attention. He blinks his eyes rapidly, focusing them on your face as though he’s seeing you for the first time. His mouth falls open, his breath gasping. His hand falters at your throat, the grip becoming almost light. 

You reach your left hand out towards his head as gently as you can muster, cupping it to receive his cheek in your hand. Even without words he understands the gesture, and slowly brings his face in to meet your hand. Once his smooth cheek is resting against your palm, he closes his eyes, the grip on your throat barely felt now.

You draw your right hand back as far as you can and slam the heel of your hand against his nose in an upward motion. His eyes fly wide open, as does his mouth, a loud cry piercing the silence of the cabin. Blood almost immediately begins to flow out of the nostrils of his crumpled nose, his hands flying to his agonized face.

With your small window of opportunity, you reach down to grab the syringe off the floor. It takes a moment longer than you expect as it’s a little slippery. The syringe is already covered in blood drops because the whole floor is already covered in blood drops. You look up at him and see that he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. His fury-filled eyes meet yours. Your window has closed.

There is pressure once again at your throat as both hands forcefully raise you up to standing, the syringe slipping out of your wet fingers. His grip at your throat resumes its efforts, his focus singular once again. Before your nails can find purchase in his skin a second time, you feel the ground under your feet disappear. The lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy but you’re pretty sure the entire room is actually spinning. It’s only when your body slams against the floor do you realize what has actually happened. 

He has thrown you to the ground.

He stands above you, eyes wild, blood covering his lips, his chin, even his teeth, which are bared in an animalistic snarl. Before he can dive on top of you to finish what he’s started, you notice his legs are straddling one of your own. Planting the outside foot, you bring the other leg up as swiftly and as forcefully as you can. 

Your shin makes a sickening noise when it comes in contact with the apex of his legs. This time the noise he makes is much quieter, as all his breath seems to leave his lungs before he can cry out. His hands are cupped over his balls as he drops heavily to the floor, falling with such little care that the back of his head slams against the dirty planks.

Not wasting one moment this time, you grab the syringe and climb on top of him. You straddle his torso, attempting to pin his arms cradling his manhood below you. He is able to get one arm out from under you before your full weight settles on him. You take the syringe in both hands and press it towards his chest. With his free arm he grabs your wrists and attempts to push them back, to move the needle away from him.

You squeeze your thighs around his torso, keeping his other hand bound under you. You lean forward, putting more weight onto your arms to press downward. He is still fighting, unsuccessfully, to stop the forward movement of the syringe. One hundred percent of your focus is on the needle inching towards him. You squeeze your legs harder and hear him struggling to breathe. You lean forward and down, pressing the needle closer. Closer. Closer.

You watch the needle disappear into his shirt, piercing his skin below.

*****

He’s watching your face. You’re watching the needle. You won’t take your eyes off of it.

The needle is in, you’re going to push the plunger. You’re going to kill him. He’s going to die. 

“Baby,” he croaks with the little breath you haven't squeezed out of his lungs.

Your eyes snap to meet his. 

You pull the needle out and sit back.

The needle falls to the floor once more and you lean forward again, this time capturing his lips with yours. He knows his face is covered in blood, hell most of him is covered in blood. You broke the shit out of his nose. But you don’t seem to care. He doesn’t care either. Your mouth is on his and you’re kissing each other and tasting each other and he was about to die but he’s alive and you’re fucking crazy and you’re his.

His hands are all over you, one on the back of your head attempting to push your tongue deeper into his mouth, the other roaming your back, both pulling and pushing your body forward into his chest. You lift your pelvis up slightly and then grind back down into his lap, making him groan loudly, but you probably don’t realize it’s from pain. Maybe you forgot how hard you just kicked him in the balls. 

He pulls you tight to his lap to try and curb your movements on his sore crotch but you’re absolutely feral. You’re moaning into his mouth, licking and devouring him. Your hands are fisting in his hair, pulling and scratching. Your body is gyrating and smashing on top of his, drawing out breathless grunts from him. He’s trying to enjoy himself but he’s still in so much pain. Everything hurts right now.

He pushes off with one foot, gently flipping you over so you rest under him now, parting your mouths for a beat. You look at him for a moment and the intensity he sees in your eyes is mind-altering. There is a tightness that seizes his whole body, making his head swim. He feels a heaviness settle in his belly and a throbbing desire begins to come forth. He hasn’t felt this way in a very long time.

He hunches over and dives his face into your neck, nipping and kissing at the skin over your pulse point, remembering well the way you cried out when he did that last time. He keeps his body above yours, avoiding contact with his center, leaning his head down into you. Your hands go under his shirt, scratching at his back as you arch yours and resume your moaning. The syringe lies completely forgotten one foot away from your writhing body.

He starts to notice that everywhere he kisses you is wet and upon pulling back, he sees it’s because your neck is covered in blood. His blood. It’s all he tastes, so he didn’t even realize he was still actively bleeding, saturating you. You open your eyes and look at his face, then down at your chest and realize what he sees.

He leans back but brings you forward, not wanting to separate too far. He pushes himself up onto his feet gently and grabs you by the waist, pulling you up from the floor and against his chest. You gesture with one arm, and he leads you the short distance to the kitchen sink. He lifts you up and sets you on the countertop, moving close to stand between your legs.

You reach behind you and grab a roll of paper towels, and you both use them to clean each other up. You gently push paper towel wads into his nostrils, he wets some and wipes down your neck. He gently dabs the corner of your mouth where your lip split from his strike, you wipe off the bottom half of his face. A pile of wet and bloody paper towels begins to form at his feet as you each take care of the other, working to repair the damage you did to one another.

When you’re both finally cleaned up, he gingerly pulls the paper towel out of his nostrils. He dabs up a single blood drop that weeps slowly out of one side, but otherwise the bleeding has stopped. With his hands on your thighs he begins to kiss your face, slowly at first and then deeper. You’re both being gentle with each other now, careful. Tender. 

He can’t breathe through his busted nose, so he has to keep pulling back, taking frequent breaks from kissing you. Your eyes meet his every time he does, pupils having swallowed your irises. The tightness returns to constrict at his chest, making his insides feel hollow. He keeps rubbing his hands on your thighs, trying to ignore their trembling.

He guides your legs to wrap around his hips and he lifts you off the counter, carrying you into the bedroom. He sets you down on the large bed where it’s obvious you’ve been sleeping and slowly begins to undress you. The way you maintain eye contact and blink slowly as he peels your clothes off piece by piece has him beginning to harden in his jeans.

When he has removed everything but your underwear, you lie back on your elbows, feet dangling off the side. Neither of you has said anything since he called you baby just as you were about to end him. He lowers himself to his knees in between yours and drags his hands up your legs, wrapping his fingers around your underwear before slowly pulling them off.

Keeping eye contact, he leans forward and places kisses on the tops of your thighs, up your hip, across your lower stomach, and overtop your mound. He finally closes his eyes when he lowers his face into your patch of hair and inhales, stifling a smile when you gasp sharply. With a hand on each knee he gently pushes your legs open, pleased when he meets no resistance.

He leans back down into you and begins to lick. Just as with your kissing he starts slow and gentle, increasing pressure and speed as he goes. Still unable to breathe through his broken nose, his breathing through his mouth goes right into you, creating sloppy slurping noises that, mingled with your moans, fill the room. This time when he pulls back from you to take breaths, he meets your gaze and whispers praise into your core.

God dammit you taste so good.

I’ve thought about you like this for months.

You look so beautiful.

Louder… louder I wanna hear you.

Your moans increase, an edge forming on them, becoming desperate. Your head is thrown back on the bed, unable to look at him anymore, back arched, legs beginning to shake. He’s talking you through it and he knows you’re close but when your noises turn into whines he realizes you need something more. 

He slowly pushes two fingers into you, wet but tight around him, until his knuckles are seated against your lips. He latches his mouth over you and begins to suck, swirl his tongue, and move his digits in the same motion all at the same time. That’s what you needed because you immediately cry out his name and start pulsing on his fingers, wetness leaking out onto his palm.

He wasn’t expecting you to say his name when you came and it has him absolutely dizzy with need. Between the way you taste, the way you feel, and the way you sounded moaning and screaming his name, he is so fucking hard in his pants it’s painful.

He stands up and unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off and wiping you off his face with it before letting it fall to the floor. You shift to pull your legs and feet up on the bed, laying on your side facing him with your head on his old pillow. He further rids himself of his pants and underwear, your eyes drawn to his cock, deep red and leaking. He crawls across the bed until he’s hovering over you, speaking in a gravelly voice.

“Tell me yer name.”

He watches your eyes look back and forth between his, a smile forming on your lips.

“My name is whatever you decide,” you whisper, and hook one leg around his waist to pull him towards you. His cock bumps up against your wet folds but he resists, growling, pulling back and grabbing your face with one hand.

“No. I wanna know what it is,” his dark eyes search yours. “Tell me yer name,” he orders again, “please.”

*****

Your self-satisfied smile fades away at his final word, at his seeming desperation. This is what you wanted, right? You wanted him to know you, to want you, to feel you. You wanted him to experience a shred of the agony you’ve been experiencing for five months; wanting him, needing him. You’ve been so close and yet not close enough to touch him or taste him or feel him. Now here he is, doing everything you’ve been dreaming about, and you have the chance to hear your name on his lips.

“My name,” you whisper in a broken voice, “is Kathryn.”

Kathryn, he repeats. He rolls it around his mouth a few times, looking at your face, trying to decide if it suits you. He lets a smile creep across his face and leans down to whisper your name in your ear as he pushes himself into you. He fucks you slowly, slower than you’ve ever been fucked. He kisses your mouth, your face, your neck, he even lets you suck a painful hickey into his shoulder as you moan into his skin.

You think he’s going to speed up but he doesn’t. You think he’s going to flip a switch after you mark him but he doesn’t. You think he’s going to lose control when you wail at the feeling of his thick cock dragging along your walls, but he remains steadfast. Only when you cry out, finally the one to break, does he even acknowledge the agonizing pace he’s set.

You whine, a truly pathetic high-pitched sound, that you need more and he huffs a laugh into the crook of your shoulder. Even then he doesn’t pick up speed, he continues to drag himself in and out, the squelching sound of your wet cunt being drowned out by your howling. He reaches between you, touching your clit, and with only a few strokes you nearly black out from the intensity of your orgasm. 

It’s like a bomb goes off inside you, jolting electricity down all of your limbs. You hear ringing in your ears but can’t quite process that it’s from you, having just screamed loud and long. You’re still convulsing on him inside of you when you feel him sit back on his heels. Remaining pushed all the way into you, he spreads his thighs and pulls your hips to tilt up on his lap.

He leans over you once again and whispers in your ear that he’s really going to fuck you now, as if what he just did was somehow something else. But when he follows through on his promise, rolling his hips into you, slapping his pelvis into the back of your thighs, slamming his cock deep inside of you, you believe him.

He pushes your legs up and leans on the back of your knees, pushing your legs down into you, pressing you deep into the mattress. He fucks you faster, snapping his hips into you harder and harder, pushing breathy moans out of you now. He fucks you until your moans increase and then go silent, watching you intently as you begin to come on his cock again. He follows you immediately with his own release, stilling with his hips pressed inside you, grunting as he pulses his load into you.

You hear him groan ‘Kathryn’ several times as he cums, and now you’re annoyed with yourself for lying. That could have been your name he said, if you didn’t have such trust issues. Oh well. You can pretend to be Kathryn for the night. Maybe for him you could pretend to be Kathryn for longer than a night. You wonder if he’ll stay.

*****

He wakes in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around you pulled close to his chest, the way you both fell asleep. He starts thinking about how the day has gone. Part of him didn’t want you to catch him, fearing what you could be capable of. Part of him did want you to catch him, longing to be reunited with you again. A constant war inside him, going back and forth, pushing him along over the past five months but tethering him to the thought of you.

You were on his trail the whole time. Did part of him know? Did part of him want that? Was he ignoring the signs the entire time, leaving you breadcrumbs and letting you watch him from afar? Every thought he has is now consumed by you. He is overwhelmed by you. The smell of your hair, the feel of you in his arms, the warmth of your body against his. He instinctively clutches you tighter, passing on the constricting feeling spreading in his own chest.

What is this? Are these feelings? He has been half numb for decades, the only thing akin to emotion that ever rises to the surface is rage. He feels it even now, even among the other feelings brewing inside him that are threatening to spill out. He feels his rage as a low flame deep in his gut, and lets it rise up to warm him, twist his guts, burn his ears. 

But then you turn your body into his, awakened by his tightening grip, and you wrap your arms around his torso, one under him and one over. You pull him into you and smash your lips onto his and the flame stutters. It’s pushed back down by the rest of what’s inside him, which expands now, filling up the empty spaces, making him feel like an inflated balloon.

Maybe there’s a compatibility here, which seems an absurd thought. He thinks you’re crazy, but he’s sure people would call him crazy as well for the things he’s done. You might be the only person who can understand him. Well, understand who he’s become. He wasn’t always like this, but there’s no going back now. You were right when you said you do it - killing - because it feels good. It feels so fucking good, and he likes it too much to stop.

Although it occurs to him that he has stopped, that he’s gone six months without it, that he is starving a part of himself he had kept regularly fed for a very long time. He pushes that thought away as you deepen the kiss with your tongue against his lips, your nails dragging along his back and scratching through his hair. He lets you wrap your legs around him and he rolls into you, joining you in the exploration of each other.

You use mouths, tongues, and fingers, familiarizing yourselves with one another’s bodies, taking turns getting off over and over. He loves you like this; when your head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted. In the dim light he watches your face crumpling in ecstasy at what he’s doing to you. He feels you holding your breath right before a shockwave hits you, orgasmic bliss washing across your body. You look so beautiful when you let him take you apart. 

Sweaty, sore, sated, and sleepy; you both collapse back into each other’s arms and fall into unconsciousness. He sleeps solid and soundly, for the first time in a long time.

He wakes up to the sound of a thump on the wall and realizes you’re not in bed with him. He can hear what he assumes is you in the bathroom, on the other side of the bedroom wall. He faintly hears the water running and some rummaging around, then the closing of a cabinet door. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and by the time you’re walking back into the bedroom in a towel he has woken up. 

“Good morn-  oh,” you say as you rake your eyes over him in the morning light. You don't continue. He must look more than worse for wear if it gives you pause. If it’s any indication of what his appearance must be, his entire face is aching and throbbing.

“Maybe I need… a shower?” he asks. You only reply with a head nod. If he didn’t know better he’d say you had a look of remorse in your eyes. He pulls his head from the pillow and the pillowcase sticks to his face for about a foot until it peels off and falls back to the bed. Dried blood had melded his face to the pillow. Must be his broken nose had sprung another leak.

He hoists himself off the mattress, still feeling pain in between his legs where you kicked him, and his back not loving him at the moment either. He walks past you, rummaging through the dresser at the end of the bed for clothes, as he heads out of the room. He sees you now in the daylight, fresh face clean of makeup, damp hair down and shorter than the last time he saw you.

He notes you’re not as young as he thought you were the first time he saw you. You’re still significantly younger than his 56 years but you have a couple gray hairs at your temples, some lines starting around your eyes. He wonders how long you’ve been doing this, and if you’ve ever found anyone else like you before, like him. Anyone else you could truly share yourself with.

“Oh,” he says at the doorway, turning back towards you. “Do you prefer Kathryn… or Kathy… or Katie or…..”  he lets the last word linger in the air, expecting you to finish the sentence.

You’re only partially turned towards him but he sees that you briefly squint, a look passing across your face. It’s gone in an instant and you shrug your shoulders, still not looking towards him, “I don’t really have a preference. Just whatever you want.”

He waits a beat and then decides not to ask the next question on his lips. “Ok sweetheart,” is all he replies before he heads into the bathroom.

In the ghoulish reflection of the bathroom mirror he sees what you saw; a face covered in bruises. Two black eyes, a red-purple nose still bent at an odd angle, a pool of dark dried blood from his nostril to his cheek, red marks bitten down his neck, and a sizable maroon hickey sucked into his shoulder. He looks like a colorful palette of pain.

Stepping in the shower he places his palms on each side of his nose and braces himself. He pushes his palms together against his nose and drags them down and to the right, attempting to reset his own broken nose. The consequences of his action are searing pain stabbing backwards into his head along with a renewal of the river of blood flowing from his face.

He also cries out loud, despite himself, and feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He hears you call through the door asking if he’s okay and he calls back that he’s fine. The nasal tinge to his voice must give away the source of his outcry, as you don’t ask any follow up questions.

By the end of his shower the bleeding has slowed to a trickle and he grabs some toilet paper as he steps out. He reaches for the mirror to open the medicine cabinet to check for a first aid kit, but his fingers slip off the edge. It’s not a medicine cabinet, it's just a mirror. He looks around the bathroom for a cabinet. He’s sure he heard you in here earlier closing a cabinet door. 

Shower, shower curtain, window, toilet, pedestal sink, mirror. That’s it. There is no cabinet.

He suddenly recalls the look that passed across your face when he asked you what nickname you preferred. The look was… what was it? Confusion? As if you didn’t know what he was talking about. Then you told him you didn’t have a preference. You apparently didn’t care what people called you. How unusual. Just whatever you want. What did you say last night when he asked your name? My name is whatever you decide. That’s what you had said.

A vile tightness grips his insides as he feels the familiar flame begin to rise deep within. Can he trust you? He wants to. He stuffs the toilet paper into his nostrils to free his hands and gets down on the floor, still naked and wet. He feels around the floorboards, checks the baseboards, and even checks the toilet tank. Then just as he’s about to stand back up he sees it. Kneeling at the toilet he can see the wall paneling under the sink has a loose board, sticking out just a fraction.

He quietly pries the board loose, and sees the plumbing for the sink behind the wall. Stuffed inside the wall among the pipes are several plastic bags and a small messenger bag. He carefully removes the cloth bag and opens it, finding personal items inside. This bag is most likely being used as a purse, as it contains an address book, a women’s wallet, and two cellphones - one of which used to belong to him. 

A soft knock comes at the door.

“You okay in there?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, trying to sound calm and not like he nearly just jumped out of his skin.

“You didn’t bleed to death, right?”

“Nawww, can’t get rid a’ me that easy,” he chuckles for good measure. “I’m just….” he isn’t sure what excuse to give. If he says he’s treating his wounds you might want to come in and help and he’s just now realizing there's no lock on the bathroom door. The silence goes on for what feels like forever.

“Seein’ a man ‘bout a horse?” you ask. He exhales the breath he was holding. You think he’s embarrassed about taking a shit. Sure, that works. He’ll let you think that.

“‘Fraid so,” he answers, “won’t be much longer.”

He hears your footsteps go into the next room and move about the small kitchen. He’s still kneeling naked on the floor, purse in hand. His heart is racing in his chest and every muscle in his body is aching with tension. He pulls out the wallet and opens it up, eyes immediately finding the driver’s license. There you are, a version of you, staring back at him. 

You’re wearing a bright smile, an unfamiliar haircut, and the name written next to you is different from the one you gave him. He takes the license out of the holder and checks the anti-fraud hologram, and the other security measures the state that issued it put in place to prevent fakes. He has many years of experience with fake IDs, having made many himself. It’s only gotten harder to make them as the years have passed and he knows the one he holds in his hand now is a legitimate ID.

He can’t trust you. You lied to him. You gave him a fake name. You made a big stink about him not asking your name and then when he did ask you; you lied. You don’t want to share yourself with him. You don’t give a shit about him. You tried to poison him at dinner and when that didn’t work you tried to stab him with that needle full of shit that probably would have stopped his heart. You broke his fucking face. You kicked him in the goddamn balls. You’re a crazy fucking bitch.

He comes out of the bathroom and casually checks over his shoulder, seeing you in the kitchen preparing some kind of food that he definitely won’t be eating. He steps into the bedroom to grab his clothes from yesterday off the floor but you’ve picked them up already. Instead he finds a stack of clean clothes sitting on top of the dresser, more of his clothes you stole from his house.

He hastily gets dressed and walks out into the main room, passing by the open bathroom door and glancing down, where the concealed items he found are still spread out on the floor. The flame of rage is tearing at his insides, beginning to set fire to everything you’ve done together in the last half day. He marches up to you at the kitchen counter, cracking eggs.

“What’s your name?” he huffs out. He sees your hands falter.

“Kathr-”

“NO,” he interrupts, “I know that’s a fuckin’ lie. Try again.”

You drop the eggs, shells and all, into the bowl on the counter and turn towards him. You smile sweetly at him, not answering. He hardens his gaze but it has no effect. You don’t stop smiling. You don’t answer him. You don’t tell him your name.

The inferno inside him has reached flashover, combusting everything inside his body at once, turning it to ash. Yesterday he complained that you had the upper hand and you were insulted. But you have been nothing but withholding since the moment he met you. Nothing but a liar. You have manipulated him in every step he’s made and what’s worse, is that he’s let you. 

You had the nerve to make a complaint about him not knowing you, when you won’t let him know you. When you don’t care to know him. When you don’t care about anything. He had all of these things inside of him, filling him up, expanding his physical body with the surge, and you don’t care. Everything he had to give you, and you don’t want it. You don’t want him. 

*****

You see it out of the corner of your eye and it takes every shred of effort not to instinctually duck out of the way. His left hand cracks against your cheek, sending you flying into the table, knocking the gun that sat atop it onto the floor. Your hands scrabble against the table as you fight to keep yourself upright, the pain temporarily blinding you and making you want to sink down to the floor. Then you feel his hands on your arms, pulling you back up to him.

He holds you by your upper arms now, shaking you, red-faced and screaming for you to tell him what your name is. You don’t fight back, letting your body go limp like a doll, letting him rattle your brain around your skull. His legs sweep behind yours and you fall to the ground, but notice that his hands are behind your head to catch you before you can knock too hard against the floor.

Not wanting a repeat of yesterday he quickly climbs on top of you this time, squeezing his thighs on either side of your hips. His hand reaches out to your throat but the grip is so soft at first. You look at his face and his angry eyes have gone momentarily soft. He must have noticed the bruises all over your neck from his fingertips yesterday.

Any shame he felt is washed away quickly, as he catches your still-smiling face peering up at him. His grip gets tighter and tighter, as he growls repeatedly for you to tell him your name. He goes until your vision starts to blur, and the black starts to creep in around the edges. Your eyes slide back in your head. Then he lets go and shakes your neck, allowing oxygen to rush back into your lungs as you choke and gasp for air.

Once he’s given you a moment to breathe he repeats the constriction on your throat, screaming for your name as you barrel towards the edge again. Why is he even doing this? You can’t answer him. He’s asking a question and then depriving you of the ability to speak. You suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end, since you won’t be giving him what he wants either way. It occurs to you as you begin to lose consciousness again that this must be what his victims experience.

You’re shaken back into existence once again, met with his red seething face as you open your eyes. You put the soft smile back on your face and continue to lay passive at his ministrations. You think your smile might actually be making him angrier. You notice there are tears in his eyes threatening to spill over and he has started to mutter to himself. You do your best to decipher what he’s saying even with the dwindling oxygen to your brain.

You don’t think I’ll do this but I will, you’ve done this to me, you’ve driven me to this, you’ve been chasing me, I’ve been running away like a rat, I haven’t killed anyone in so long, you don’t think I’ll do this but I will, I have to do this, this is what I am, you’ve done this to me.

You know that he’s losing it, maybe he’s already gone, already snapped. You’ve been able to step away from this chase over the last many months and fulfill your urges but you know he hasn’t. He’s been starved this whole time and now he has his hands around your throat and you don’t think he’s going to be able to stop himself. Maybe he doesn’t want to stop himself.

Maybe this is all this has ever been. Him waiting to get his hands around your throat. He’s been hungry for it since the first day he saw you, you recognized the look in his eyes. He’s played your game, made you believe you were kindred spirits, taken everything he wanted from you, all so that you could end up here. 

It surprises you a little that after everything you’ve survived, you’re not even fighting back.

Oh well. If even this man can’t love you, then who could? Let him have you in whatever way he wants. No one else wants you. Let him take whatever you have left to give. Let him take your life. 

You weren’t really honest with him about much. Not your history, not your motivations, certainly not your name. But you were honest with him when you gave him yourself, when you gave him your body. So you’ll give it to him now, let him suffocate it, let him smother the life out of it. After all the lies he deserves some peace. You’ll give it to him.

He also deserves to at least know the truth about how you feel.

*****

He is delirious right now, consumed with rage, drunk off the feeling of his hands tightening around your neck, watching you go in and out of consciousness. You made him feel things he thought were long dead, he doesn’t even understand how he let you worm your way inside him and dig these feelings up. They’re mixing with everything else and confusing the shit out of him.

This should be familiar. The rage. The thrill. The choking gasps beneath him. But it’s different this time because it’s you. Fucking you. What have you done to him? He’s confused and angry and… hurt. Why did you hurt him? Why did you fucking lie to him? Why did he let you? Why were you doing this to him? There’s unfamiliar things happening too. There’s hate. There’s… love? There’s excitement, and terror. He can’t take his hands off you. He can’t let go. He can’t stop squeezing.

This is familiar. This always ends the same way; with a limp and lifeless body beneath him. But it’s different this time, right? You’re staring back up at him, a lazy smile on your face, eyes hooded. The periphery of his brain notices that your hands are not trapped under him, they’ve been resting limply on his thighs this entire time. You could be fighting back but you’re not. 

Are you egging him on? Do you think he won’t do it? Do you think he doesn’t have it in him?

You think he’s weak. You think you breached his walls and tore down his defenses. You think you’re smarter than him. You think you’ve always had the upper hand. You think you’re better than him. You think he’s dumb. You think he’s sloppy. You think you know him. 

You’re going to. It’s going to end the same way it always does.

He wraps both hands around you now, pressing his body weight down into your neck, watching your blinks get slower and slower. His vision has tunneled now and all he sees are your eyes, all he hears is his own blood pumping a muffled beat in his ears. He barely registers the touch of your hand on his cheek, finally noticing when your thumb brushes over his lips. 

His vision opens up enough to see you mouth the words, I love you.

He shakes his head repeatedly, not letting up the downward pressure. Even after your hand drops from his face to fall listless at your side. He sees your pupils get slightly larger, despite the sunshine pouring in from the front windows. He feels all tension leave your body beneath him. He has lost track of time. He blinks rapidly and releases his tight grip. 

You don’t inhale. He shakes you. Nothing. He slaps you. Nothing. He slaps you harder. He watches your chest, you’re not breathing. He checks your pulse, he feels nothing. 

He went too far. You’re fucking dead. 

He fucking killed you.

Bile forces its way up his throat and he turns his head to the side, throwing up all over the floor. His vision is blurry and all he hears is a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He slaps your face with both hands, back and forth, screaming at the top of his lungs for you to wake up. He grabs your shoulders and shakes you hard, letting your head bounce around on the floor.

He vaguely recalls being trained for a summer lifeguard job almost four decades ago, and with limbs that feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each he attempts to mimic that training. He haphazardly pounds on your chest, frequently huffing his full lungs into your mouth. He’s fighting the dread slowly consuming him from within and swallowing back the nausea that threatens to cause him to vomit again.

Raising both arms up high, he beats down on you, hoarse shouts echoing through the too-quiet cabin. Pausing to shove his fist into his mouth, to stifle the sob that falls out of him now, he vaguely registers the soft bird songs outside. Sunshine, dewy grass, birds and bugs and wildlife outside in stark contrast to the macabre scene inside.

You, lifeless, lying on yesterday’s bloody floor. Dead by his hands.

Suddenly you jolt awake, gasping loudly and coughing violently. He jumps off you, letting you roll to your side as you grab your chest and sputter wildly. Holy fucking shit. You’re alive.

He stands up, horrified by what he’s done to you, terrified by the anger, and the hate, and the love racing through him. What has he done? He did what he always does. He destroyed. He is nothing but a destroyer. In another life he was handy, but now he lives a different existence. All he does now is break things, pull them apart, and scatter the pieces.

*****

You focus your vision in time to see him backing away from you, wide-eyed. He watches as you gather enough strength to wheeze out a quiet sentence, “you love me too,” and then he takes off. He runs into the bathroom and when he comes back out he’s holding your purse. He ducks into the bedroom and when he emerges from there he’s holding your pillow (that you stole from him).

He grabs the empty revolver off the floor, checking and seeing the empty chambers, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He rounds the table and goes to your jacket, draped over one of the chairs, and fishes his truck keys out of the pocket. He heads to the door and opens it, turning in the doorway so you can see his face, still tear-stained and flushed.

He doesn’t make eye contact with you.

“This is over. You hear me?” he doesn’t wait for you to answer or even look at you for acknowledgement, “No more chasing me. It’s done….” He inhales a strong breath, and says in a low and steady voice, “If I see you again, you’ll stay dead.”

.

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*peers out from behind rock. everyone okay? i hope it wasn't too much....😬

✨🔪These two will return in.... The Surprise🔪✨

TYSM to @theywhowriteandknowthings for helping me flush out ideas, talking me down from panic, being a pretty amazing human being, and being a fucking awesome writer. LOVE YOU.

[murder-and-maryjane]

Did You Know🤔

The Suzano massacre, also known as the Suzano school massacre, was a school shooting and a failed bombing, that took place on March 13, 2019, at the Professor Raul Brasil State School in the Brazilian municipality of Suzano, São Paulo State, The perpetrators, 17-year-old Guilherme Taucci Monteiro and 25-year-old Luiz Henrique de Castro, murdered five students and two school staff members, Before the attack in a car shop near the school, the pair also killed Monteiro's uncle. After killing most of their victims in the school, Monteiro killed his partner and then committed suicide. Eleven additional people were injured by gunshots, and gunfire was also exchanged with the police. Some were injured while trying to escape. The attack was the second major and second deadliest school shooting in Brazil, after the Realengo massacre in 2011. It is also the ninth fatal school shooting in Brazilian history. The shooting has inspired many copycat killings in and outside of Brazil.

Earlier in the day, at around 9 a.m. local time, the gunmen shot three times and killed Monteiro's uncle, the shopkeeper Jorge Antônio Moraes, in a nearby car shop. The man was taken to the hospital but succumbed to his injuries, dying hours later. According to the investigation, Castro was planning on killing a neighbor of his that was an electrician because they had had a misunderstanding months before. They had a pact, in which each one would kill someone before the school massacre. An hour and half before the school attack, Castro went to his neighbor's house. Finding the gate closed, he persistently called him out, but the man did not answer, and so Luiz went away. In the same day, one of the killers posted a series of photos in a social media platform, where he appeared with a skull mask, holding the firearm he would later use and doing a gun sign with his hand against his head. The two attackers then drove to the school in a white Chevrolet Onix that Castro had legally rented at Localiza. The crime occurred at around 9:40 a.m. local time on a Wednesday, March 13, 2019, in the Professor Rual Brasil State School, in Suzano, Greater São Paulo. Guilherme Taucci Monteiro, 17 years old, and Luiz Henrique de Castro, 25 years old, entered the building hooded, with combat boots and balaclavas with skulls. Monteiro entered the building first. He then turned around and began shooting at two school staff members as well as several students at a distance of approximately 3 feet (0.91 m) in front of him, before entering the main patio in search of more potential victims. He disappeared from camera and then moved on to the institution's linguistics center. By this time, Castro appeared on camera entering the building in a hurry while holding several weapons, including a bow which he eventually left on the floor. He approached the corpses lying on the ground and struck them with a hatchet. Fleeing students started to run from the patio towards the school entrance hall. On the way, they encountered Castro, who was still in the entrance hall. Other students who had hidden themselves when they first heard gunshots were able to avoid being shot. Five students between 15 and 17 years old and two school staff members were killed. According to the 2017 School Census, the institution had 358 students between 6th and 9th grade (middle school and freshman year) and 693 students in secondary school. The school was locked down by police, who searched it and found a caliber 38 revolver, speedloaders, a crossbow, a traditional bow and arrow, possible Molotov cocktails, a hatchet and a wired bag. A bomb squad was dispatched to the scene and found that it was a fake explosive.

[sematarygirls]

i love writing stuff where the target audience is literally just me and no one else