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sematarygirls · 3 months ago

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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

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quarterlifekitty · 23 days ago

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cw: Ghost’s childhood, abuse, suicidal ideation, obsession, dark stuff

For someone faceless, Simon is perhaps blessed with a good memory. He can recall most people he meets with a surprising clarity.

It’s the one that dwells in his mind in obfuscation that paints the background of his dreams. The one that looks like charcoal smeared over vellum and left in rain. The one thing you must recall.

Simon didn’t live in a neighborhood with a lot of kids, growing up. God knows the little fucker didn’t make friends by coming to school covered in bruises with a thousand-yard stare.

There was one girl. In a house a couple down from his own. Lived across from the old lady that called him a nice young man, despite it all. She could stomach him. It didn’t matter to him that she couldn’t play outside a lot of the time. In a house where being seen was a miracle, being liked was nothing short of divine.

He was too young for a great many things that happened anyways. Everyone else probably saw it coming from miles away. The schoolboy who wanted to run away to the end of the world did not.

What is the death of a loved one to a child that can depend on nothing? It’s another rejection. A candle that blows out, leaving shadows with teeth in its place. The pain of loss is one thing, but the pain of something unfulfilled, something yet unsaid, is what cages the soul and stunts it until it warps, cramped and contorted to be unrecognizable. It makes monsters. The kind that are just as ready to point the gun to themselves as they are to the rest of the world.

Your resemblance to the emissary of his suffering is a passing one. But it’s enough for those combing teeth to snag when he sees you.

#thinking about making this a part of the serialkiller!Ghost universe #not sure #writing #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cw dark #cw abuse #cw obsession #cw child death #cw sui mention

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noxturnalnymph · 1 year ago

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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)

#joel miller x reader #SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader #joel miller smut #Serial Killer Joel Miller #joel miller #patti7dc #pedro pascal characters #noxturnalpascal #noxturnalnymph

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darkcherry6916 · 21 days ago

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Yandere serial killer x fem!reader

For those who like the kind of men that deserve to be punching bags

TW: NSFW ,stalking , mild knife play, degradation, mentions of murder, drugging , kidnapping and everything "nice"

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who was patrolling for his next victim, ready to see the life drain from another pair of teary eyes.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who is handsome, notably covered in lean muscle, a stance that exceeded confidence and a face surely sculpted by god himself. He wasn't just looks , and he knew it. He enjoyed old english literature, he ran and hiked religiously, he pre-planned and cooked all his meals,and he listened ; far too well at times.Smart too.Top of his class in college and a proud valedictorian in high school. A total fucking steal , with a charm that knew how to get under thick layers.

Yandere-SerialKiller-Who had no reason to kill just entertainment and a hunger for cruelty. Who wouldn't be seen pleading for his life if he ever got caught , he found those who did pathetic. Why apologize for putting art into the world ? That's what he considered himself , an artist of sorts.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who knew in an instant you would be his next doll. An ordinary girl with a seemingly boring life who fit right in with the crowd. As far as ancient tales go, things that blend in are not easily traced when gone.

Yandere-SerialKiller-Who followed you home every day , your day to day routine proving him right. You were worthless , another little ant trying to find a treasure to feed on. One that would never come , your life was in his hands ,and he planned to toy with it.

Yandere-Serialkiller-Who officially met you at the grocery store, in the middle of your shift , politely picking up a product you had dropped ; ensuring your fingers brushed together as he handed it to you.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who hit you with one of his infamous body melting smiles, as he spoke of a "you're welcome" to your timid 'thank you'. Slyly, looking you up and down, admiring the way your figure so shamelessly called for him "So what's your name, clumsy girl."

Even the way he mocked you was tentative , the silly pet name crawling at you

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who knew exactly what he was doing with his 'mr nice guy' act. Who raised his eyebrow at your quick, "I'm very particular about giving my name to strangers." Of course, you were only half-joking , but he was quick to retaliate.

"Dont be so cruel, we can always change that."

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who already knew your full name , your address, and your number. But still asked for it with a candid glimmer in his eyes and that virile tone of his.

"I'm on the hour," you said, a smile of your own plastered on your lips. "Lucky for you , i'm no snitch." his voice low and coated with rotten honey as he stepped closer.

How could you resist ? His charm being beyond slippery wasn't a joke , it was intelligent and played extra well with the stroking rasp in his voice.The kind most fantasized about groaning at their ear.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who only let two days pass before he was asking you on a date. Telling you he was willing to plan around your heavy work schedule.

You were ecstatic , so excited at the fact someone had finally taken interest in you.

Yandere-SerialKiller-Who thought you looked so good in your dress,a complete contrast to your bland uniform. Who felt the tiniest pinch at his heart , at just how happy you looked , how desperate were you really ?

Yandere-Serialkiller- Who acted like a true gentle man.Opening the car door , pulling out a chair for you , asking you all the right questions and giving all the right answers.The list went on ,he was doing a exemplary job at getting on your 'take home list' , what you didn't know is that he would be the last on the list.

Yandere-Serialkiller- Who captured you with his lips , inhaling you in as you attempted to open your apartment door. Who wrapped your legs around him , his fingers at the back of your scalp tugging you closer. Noses all smushed together in passion having a make-out of their own; tongues greeting each other in cold lust.

He was devouring you , clouding your senses like the predator he is.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who fucked you so good that you were seeing the moon and the stars , his fat cockhead hitting that spot you liked in a way that had your body churning.Slamming himself in and out with a precision that felt criminal.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who was now plunging into you like no one had before, his large hand around the back of your neck, keeping you in place. His hips meeting your ass with a vicious tempo "Holy fuck, you and this pussy." He groaned next to your ear, taking in the feeling of your pussy dripping down his balls. He had you exactly how he wanted you fucked out, crying, and clueless.

"It might just save you." He cooed with not a ounce care if you heard , but his inching threat was easily muffled by the sounds of your pleasured moans.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who essentially fucked you to sleep , kissing your forehead like the sadistic fuck wasn't planning to cut you open in a few minutes .

"It's a shame, what I have to do now." He whispered into your skin, a teasing pout at his full lips. Truly it was , you were pretty and a great fuck.But he had the ability , to make you would look so much prettier , adorned with white ribbon around your sliced limbs.

Yandere-SerialKiller-Who let you sleep just a little longer than the others . Watching the way your chest lifted and caved with every breath. It made him wonder , if you were worth conserving not wanting to drain the color from your rosy face just yet.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who woke you up with gentle taps on your cheek.Whatever was touching your face was cold and flat. You who greeted him with a smile as you began to stiffen from limb to limb.The flashing memory of his lips against yours and his cock assaulting your g-spot putting a grin on your face.

That glint in your eyes, turning into one of absolute horror.Your grin wiping off clean , at the realization.-You weren't in your bed anymore , nor did you recognize where you were. Your memory now turned hasty, and the ache in your limbs conciously apparant, you couldn't move-why couldn't you move.

" Finally, you're awake , I missed those gorgeous eyes."

Yandere-SerialKiller-Who made you watch as he prepped his tools , doing it slowly just to watch the panic rise across your pained features "Whats wrong , baby? Thought you liked surprises."

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who was ready to cut you open , and peak inside. Inching towards your face only to lick the tears off your face with a delighted hum.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who watched you tremble and sob. Your eyes following the blade, which surfaced your skin like sharpened feather , getting steeper and steeper. The blade was threatening to bite, and pretty soon, it would.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who just couldn't bring himself to slit your throat without a last-goodbye, your soft cries making his dick hard all over gain.

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who untied you after a mental discussion with what he referred to as his other self. A self that was passive and tranquil for the most part , the self that decided he would spare you from his blade, only to settle on using you. He was a self-ish being with no guilt factor ; the best of both worlds.

After all , you did give some killer blow jobs

Yandere-SerialKiller- Who threw you off the table onto the floor with a single shove.The tranquilizer he had injected you with while fucking you from the back ,was doing its job exceptionally well. You couldn't move ,especially not when fear was consuming you , striking you nerve to nerve like a rabid animal.

"Let me make you a deal , suck my cock good enough, and maybe-just maybe I'll let you go"

Newflash, he was bluffing big time , worst part you knew it. But just like he had asked , with limp muscles and fat tears.You parted your lips, letting him slide himself past them with ease . His muscular thighs serving as your support and your demise.

"There you go , like a true slut."

Who knows perhaps he could keep you instead ,he never had a pet growing up.They had the tendency to mysteriously go missing.

#yandere #re-blogs are appreciated not demanded #brian moser from Dexter was my inspiration #yandere scenarios #yanderexyou #yancore #yandere×reader #yandere serialkiller #slasher #non-con #romance #yanderelover #yandere drabble #bro has some serious issues #his good very very VERY deep down

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fanfictilltheend · 5 days ago

Text

"The Bear" Snippet 1

Very First Part of The Bear aka (SerialKiller!Medieval!General!Joel x Whore'sDaughter!reader fic)

Warnings for this snippet: VERY DARK!!! Medieval Au, graphic depictions of violence, serial killer, attempted sexual assault (nothing graphic), mentions of prostitution, probably so historically inaccurate!!!!!

Masterlist of "The Bear"

Masterlist of all my work

The other soldiers call him “The Bear.” Joel cannot say if it is because of his size or the way he kills or maybe it is the hunger for blood they see searing in his eyes through the slits in his helmet.

What they don’t know is that Joel’s killing does not stay on the battlefield. He takes it home with him to the cobblestone streets of his kingdom. He cannot stop it. It is a need inside of him greater than anything he has ever experienced. On the battlefield, there is a distance to killing – the length of a spear or sword or bow, the barrier of heavy metal armor. In the streets, he uses his hands, a knife, his teeth. He feels the ooze of blood against his tongue, the copper taste of it, the heat of a body fighting him back, screaming, begging. His men are more correct about him than they will ever know.

***

Joel is out late one night stalking the streets for prey. Usually, it is a woman he finds attractive, but Joel doesn’t discriminate. Blood is blood. Flesh is flesh. Screams are screams.

He passes the house of the whore he goes to sometimes, Genevieve. He’s gone to her for years. Nothing Joel could ever do to her would ever phase her; she’s seen it all which is probably the only reason he isn’t burnt at the stake or hanged in the public square yet. Next to her domicile is a popular pub.

This time, he sees a small, lonesome-looking girl crouched outside the alley wall of the bar, her face clutched in her hands. She looks like she is crying or freezing or both due to how she is shaking, without even a cloak on. Joel considers her an option, but then two, young, drunk men stumble out onto her side of the street. She starts at the noise and looks up and then Joel can see her face and realizes it is the whore Genevieve’s daughter, Y/N, who can’t be more than 12 or 13. Ridiculously young never did anything for Joel, so he grumbles to himself and mentally crosses her off his potential kill list. He turns to leave, but that stupid little girl, he notices, got into a conversation with those drunken – likely savage – men. He thinks they are newly recruited soldiers, but isn’t sure. He should save her. That’s what a good soldier would do. Joel snickers.

“Quit your crying!” one of those hooligans is chuckling to Y/N and his friend.

“Who said I was crying?” The girl snaps, shivering from the cold.

“Kinda pretty if you smiled,” the other observes, circling her like prey, backing her further against the wall. “And didn’t talk back like that.”

“Hey, open your mouth,” commands the first, reaching to undo his trousers. “You’re that whore’s daughter aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she says, holding up her hands quickly. “I mean, not after what happened to the last guy…”

“What is she on about?” The second man asks the first.

The other shrugs, staggering a bit from the alcohol.

“Well, didn’t someone tell you when you moved here? I’m the town witch,” she says, dead seriously.

Joel rolls his eyes.

“Like curses and that?” One of the grown men asks stupidly.

“Like worse. Like transforming! You know what that is? It’s like shapeshifting. And you know what I can turn into?”

“What?” The first man snickers.

“A bear!” she growls dramatically. “You know, like they have in the circus! With big, sharp teeth, and claws, and the point is I could chop off your prick no trouble if I wanted so I would keep that back in your trousers, I mean, if I was you.”

The first one laughs.

“Is that true?” The second man asks the first skeptically.

“It’s starting!” The girl cries, leaning back against the cold stone wall and shaking every part of her body dramatically. “THE TRANSFORMATION!”

“Shit. Shit. Is this real?” The taller one mumbles in confusion.

“I’m too sloshed, let’s not risk it,” the other whines. “My auntie got cursed by a witch once and she’s never been the same.”

“Yeah, yeah, forget it,” the other nods.

And to Joel’s amazement, the grown men stagger away down in the direction of most of the brothels in town and away from this little girl.

Y/N smiles at the sky and sighs in relief, sits up, and surveys her surroundings as it begins to snow.

And then she sees him.

She sits up straighter, stops smiling.

“Are you alright?” Joel forces himself to ask now that she’s acknowledged his existence.

They only have a business relationship. She opens the front door for him, for all her mother’s clients he supposes, brought him a towel a few times over the years, offered him water. He doesn’t know her. She means nothing to him. Reminds him of no one.

And just because his mother was a whore too doesn’t mean they have anything in common. Not even when Genevieve had had that boyfriend or husband or boss or whoever the fuck it was whose eyes had wandered. Joel had gotten rid of him, but that was a public service. Anyone would have done that. Anyone.

“I…” the girl stammers, so much less confident than when she was playing those boys, looking up into Joel’s face, her breath mist. “I’m fine, Sir Joel.”

Joel steps closer to her and she visibly cowers. He feels strangely sorry about it. Or was it just the cold?

“Take this,” he grunts, pulling off his cloak and awkwardly draping it over her shoulders. “Go home.”

“But she—“

“Please, Y/N, it’s safer than these streets at night. I’m sorry ‘bout whatever she’s done. I’m sure it was awful but it’s better than finding your body out here. Understand?”

“Yeah,” she finally nods, the tears in her eyes turning to ice crystals.

“Don’t let me catch you out here like this again,” he snarls as she turns away to go home, but Joel doesn’t exactly move out of her way either.

She checks her surroundings.

“Y-Y’know, I’ve got a few magic powers and I got some bear teeth on accident,” she half-heartedly tells him, shaking ever so slightly. “Yeah, from I spell I cast because I’m a certified sorceress ‘n all if you didn’t know. Yup, I know, pretty weird, right? But they’re wayyy in the back. And I can even summon the occasional claw which can rip through human flesh if my nails are sharp enough so I wouldn’t try anything you wouldn’t stand by losing a hand for is all I’m trying to say. You know, I mean, just for your sake, I’m just saying…”

Joel smirks and instinctively grabs her roughly by the jaw and pulls her close, the large paw of his hand engulfing her chin. He grips her tightly, his cold fingers digging into her flesh.

She struggles instantly, her eyes going wide and wild like a caged animal’s, terrified, and Joel takes in her expression, drinks it in deeply. He looks into her eyes and lets out a sigh that sends a rush of visible mist into the freezing air. Finally, though, he comes back to himself when, after a while, she’s able to still as Joel does nothing worse to her. He gets back to business, squeezes her lips open, and examines down her throat into the back of her mouth.

“Don’t see any of them bear teeth,” he sneers. “And one day, lying about magic and monsters and beasts ain’t going to save you,” he spits, more angrily than can explain.

He drops her back to the ground where she lands slumped up against the paved wall.

“Go home.”

And then, after staring up at him for a moment, she has the audacity to roll her eyes.

“Pretty funny,” she says after a while, staring Joel down now unflinchingly, smirking, like she’s seen right through him. Like she has been here a million times before. Joel doesn’t like that at all. She bites her fingernail absentmindedly and spits. “I know what they call you and all too. Call you ‘The Bear’ this and ‘The Bear’ that and then they whisper about who keeps killing all those people in town over the years. But it’s funny. I don’t see bear teeth on you either. Or your claws. Never even heard you roar neither. And I’ve heard a lot in my time. Anyways, just a thought. Thanks for the coat, General Miller. See you ‘round.”

And to Joel’s immense relief, she stands up and heads home.

Dumb, stupid girl is lucky she doesn’t get to see the side of Joel that he barely wraps away in daily life! Maybe she’s seen flickers of it over the years, observing from the shadows of the dimly lit house he fucks her mother in. He can’t say. Joel is a monster, sure, anyone would agree to that, but even he has some limits. Maybe she’s even seen even worse than he. Who knows? But more importantly, he doesn’t care. This is nothing. To him she is meaningless.

But no teeth, no claws, no roar? He can’t help but wonder, the thoughts gnawing and clawing at the back of his mind. What did she mean? What did she even think she was saying? And most importantly: Why had she stopped looking up at him with that intoxicating fear in her eyes?

Well, no matter. Joel has an answer for her.

***

The next morning, two mangled male bodies appear in the little courtyard square that compose the pub and Genevieve’s home. The corpses are mutilated almost beyond recognition: bite marks, teeth marks, claw marks, chunks of missing flesh, blood soaked into the cobblestones all around them.

Joel joins the crowd that forms casually, acting just as surprised.

Women cover their children’s eyes and shuffle them away quickly, a man dry-heaves onto the pavement.

“Saw them at the pub last night!” exclaims the town butcher in surprise. “They were just fine, but definitely wasted. Christ.”

“Weren’t they soldiers in training?” A young woman Joel doesn’t know asks and a few people nod.

“Hope whoever did this gets hanged!” growls another young army recruit.

And then what Joel has really been waiting for occurs: Y/N steps out from her house, dumping out a wash bucket, and then sees the commotion.

She comes closer to get a good look and Joel sees the horror cover her features, the recognition. She looks away, her hands shaking, her face draining of color, and finally sees Joel.

He winks.

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yameoto · 2 months ago

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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

#phallic imagery yada yada god look at the way he takes that #loser!serialkillers getting their just desserts has a special lil kick to it #🎈#inbox !#.misc

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lugiaanimates · 5 months ago

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do you guys still like sk!j

#scott the woz #scott the woz fanart #stw #wozblr #scott wozniak #jerry attricks #serialkiller!jerry #serialkiller!scott

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unacknowledgeable · 2 days ago

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Continued: Serial killer reader x yan!batfam

.........Ooooookay, I guess yall really liked my serial killer!reader? I guess I'm honor bound to continue??? Oh noooo, the horrorrrr. But seriously, I'm glad! Because it only gets worse from here! >:}

Anyway, this was really difficult to write because I literally could not find good starting and stopping points, I tried to make my thoughts flow into each other as seamlessly as possible but there's SO MUCH I wanna write for this, it’s eating me alive, (also like, feel free to send asks bc I get sidetracked a lot in my writing and looove just answering questions as jumping off points, so please gimme gimme)

That being said, enjoy!

WARNING for disturbing imagery, untreated mental illness and trauma, blood, and depictions of murder (seriously)

So obviously, this M/c is a serial killer, so how do they go about keeping this hidden while simultaneously living with the world's greatest detectives?

Simple, ya don't.

Okay so that's not completely true. Compared to the average criminal, you put in a lot of effort to not get caught, but the average criminal doesn’t live with THE Batman either

Compared to the rest of your family though? You basically put in the bare minimum required to hide your… unsavory activities

Of course, you'll wash your blood soaked clothes yourself, in the lesser used washrooms of the manor, but once in a blue moon, when you’re too tired to care or your catch of the night put up a greater fight then anticipated, you'll throw your tainted clothes in with the rest of the families

And they just… don't fucking notice.

Or when they do, they just assume that one of the others had an unfortunate run in with some criminal while in civvies

You've overheard many admonishments from Dick or Alfred over the years, telling Tim or Jason to “Please stop putting bloody clothes in with the whites, there's a basket for them two feet away!”

It was always pretty hard trying to keep a straight face when hearing those scoldings, but you always did, you didn't want Damian demanding to know what was so funny and dampening your mood

Or Cass giving you one of her calculated looks and suddenly getting nosy, that would make losing your clothes to Tim’s closet a lot less worth the laugh.

It’s just that, this assumption is waaaaay more plausible then say, the serial killer they've been tracking relentlessly for literal years, is just…tossing their VERY incriminating evidence in with the family's laundry, then passing out on some couch in one of the many sitting rooms of the manor, while the family goes out and discovers their latest victim

It's just easier to assume it was one of the others, Dick would never connect you, of all people, to the gore tossed haphazardly in the hamper, it's way more likely to be one of the many crime fighters of the family, not the soft spoken hermit of the manor, and even if that was a possibility in his mind, you don't even have a scratch on you

Not that he’s ever bothered to check you for injuries before, like he does almost religiously for the others

And Alfred? Well he's of the belief you'd grown out of your… tendencies, that it was a one time thing. Despite his reputation as an omnipotent presence in the manor, he never did realize just how deep your mental issues ran. Not until it was far too late.

You don't even have a specific weapon either, half of the time you'll just take one of Alfred's steak knives and hit the lower levels of Gotham, wandering around the decrepit streets till you found someone suitable

Other times, when you’re in an exceptionally bad mood, be it because Damian said something particularly venomous or Alfred missing an important event for you because something came up with one of your siblings, or even when your classmates decided it would be funny to key your car-

Or it's just one of those days

Those days when the abstract voices simmer louder in the back of your mind, pushing and nagging. Images that you desperately want to forget but can't help the need to recreate. All threatening to boil over until you either crumble into a sobbing heep on the floor or go out and do the one thing that has always been able to shut. them. up.

Those days you’re… forgetful

On those days, you forget to grab one of Alfred’s pristine knives, but that's fine, Gothams streets are littered with dangerous items, so there's no shortage of tools at your disposal. You're creative, resourceful, you can use whatever's on hand at the time, whatever's in reach.

But if there's nothing? No sharp objects, no discarded bricks or loose pipes or even a half empty beer bottle, well… you're no stranger getting your hands dirty

Those times however, are pretty hazy in the aftermath.

You’ll forget certain details, like how they gripped your arms in a vain attempt to draw your own blood as you drew theirs, in the event that if they dont get away, at least you'd be caught, (all it leaves are dark, tender bruises along your arms, that you'll spend weeks poking and prodding at, in the hopes of reliving that moment)

Or how they'd flail their legs, inches from the ground, trying to kick your legs out from beneath you (it was kinda cute, how much shorter they were then you, how little their attempts to free themselves did when it mattered the most)

Even their last, warbling pleas for mercy were lost to you. You know they said something, could vaguely recall that they spoke, too absorbed in watching their bloody lips turn blue as the oxygen in their body slowly ran out (No no please please…My girls are waiting)

No, no you don't remember much but what you do remember, what you always, always remember, are the eyes

You remember the tears, the fear, the acceptance, the rage, the refusal, the disbelief, the confusion, the indignation, and most of all the recognition.

Whether it be them recognizing just who you are or realizing that this is who will end their life, you don't know, you’ve never bothered to ask.

You prefer to think it’s the latter, it's hard to explain, but it makes you feel so so important

When it’s over, and the adrenaline in your veins soften, your breathing calmer, the blood rushing through your ears no longer so deafening, and you can feel the pleasing ache in your limbs, you sit, and asses the damage, as you always do

You always make sure to grab their wallet, take out the ID and memorize it, before gingerly putting it back, and finally walking away, head clear and numb in the cold Gotham air

There's no real reason why, its mostly force of habit at this point, it started with your very first kill, you don't feel like breaking the little ritual now, or anytime soon

It just feels wrong, to take a life and not even know whose life it is...was.

Later, long past any reasonable hour, you lay in bed, fresh out of the shower and thumbing the bruises, listening to the voices over the family's communicators (you stole one of Dicks, he has a nasty habit of leaving them around the manor) as they patrol the Gotham streets for crime and mayhem

You honestly can't help the small smile that graces your face, falling into sleep, as you hear the quiet, defeated sigh over the highly protected com link, “B, I've found another one, it's…it’s pretty rough tonight”

The pause is long before a small, gruff, “I have your location, ETA in 10 minutes”

You slept pretty good that night

Damn, sometimes the shit I come up with scares even me, again, feel free to send asks (shh I'm not begging), the brain worms are always hungry and I have sooooo many thoughts about this thing. lol

Hope you enjoyed!

#yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batfam #yandere dc #gender neutral reader #gn reader #platonic yandere batfam #Serialkiller!reader #dead dove do not eat #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere damian wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere bruce wayne #wtf this was 3 1/2 pages long dear lord

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ghoulsamgrusam · 5 months ago

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

BeastsofBedlam AU

#rwby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #bumbleby #BeastsofBedlam #AU #serialkiller/detectiveau #BedlamBees #tw blood #tw dental

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nihilism-0 · 20 days ago

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I didn't want to say this buut Jeffrey Dahmer interpreted by Evan Peters is very hot.

#erotophonophilia #necroposting #tw necrophillia #autoassassinophilia #bl00d kink #cnc k!nk #knife k!nk #knifeplay #self h@rm #serialkiller #abuse k1nk #mask kink #actually necro #canibalism #rape/noncon #flesheater

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vocemematouprimeiro · 4 days ago

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Seven - David Fincher

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azzehkarla · 1 year ago

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

#mindhunter #david fincher #serialkillers #crime drama #bill tench #holden ford

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noxturnalnymph · 1 year ago

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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.”

*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.

#joel miller x reader #serial killer joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #serialkiller!joel x f!reader #dark joel miller #noxturnalpascal #noxturnalnymph

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