memoirs.
warnings; mentions of death/murder, blood
a/n; hi everyone, long time no see!! I feel more like myself now, so hopefully I’ll be writing again :3 this is something I’ve had in my drafts for a while now. It’s a teenage Jack Napier POV where he’s deep in his thoughts. It’s a bit darker than normal, but I hope you enjoy! This could be a jack x fem!reader if you like :) moon x
tag list; @amethystmoonprincess @sadclowncat @notcallingyoualiar @feral-trash-panda @loveletterstoledger @ahsxual @hyaenaaa @into-crazy @vivamus-moriendum-est @tsukiakarinobara@thatbisexualnerd @90sheathlover @pascoespunk
My hands slide up her dress, careful. Her skin is soft, my fingertips tickle her skin. I feel her flinch under my touch, surprised at first, and smile into the kiss. I’m barely touching her, my hands are shaking so much I barely grace her skin, but I fear it’s too much.
I screw my eyes tighter, distracting myself by kissing her with more fever. Her own hands, unsure (just like mine), gently rest on my shoulders. Her nails dig in more, lips moving with a growing hunger. I know what’s going through her head - don’t touch him too much, he doesn’t like to be touched - and for once, I’m glad she listens.
It’s something I told her ages ago, when we were just friends. She had jokingly asked why I never sit near her, that she doesn’t bite. I told her that I just didn’t like it, but never why. She found out the reason soon enough, when my dad came home early one night, drunk as always.
The memory of it makes me kiss her harder. She moans, it’s clear she didn’t mean to, for her body stiffens under me. I want to tell her it’s okay, that she doesn’t have to worry, but I’ve never been good with words.
We carry on like this, kissing each other with a hunger that’s been dissatisfied for too long. My mind clears. Her hands are inching up by my neck. It tickles. My mind is clear.
Warily, my hands draw up further to rest on her hips. I realize with a jolt that she isn’t wearing any underwear.
“Sorry...” I mumble against her lips, pulling away. My mind begins to fog. But she just moans with a slight shake of her head. It’s okay, she tells me, but it isn’t. I don’t want to hurt her.
She’s been my girlfriend for a while now. About a year, I think... or has it been longer? I don’t know, I’ve been distracted, confused, for a long time. I have... thoughts when I’m around her. At first, they were in the back of my mind. Springing up if I looked at her for too long, but gone as quickly as they came.
But they got worse. And I don’t think they’ll get better. Over time, they got more frequent. From barely visible flashes to the only thing I could think about. I’m thinking about them now. And I can’t stop.
It’s not the thoughts themselves that bother me. It’s that I like them. They make me feel better in myself, they give me confidence. It’s fucked up, I know but... I don’t care anymore.
They used to bother me, but I’ve gotten so used to them. I guess it’s that association. My thoughts make me better, and the more I think about it, the more they make sense.
Have you ever read something and gone, holy shit! That’s just like me! Maybe it’s about introverts and how being around people tires them to no end. Or maybe you wish people with ADHD would stop being so Goddamn relatable, because it’s starting to worry you.
Apparently it’s because humans, whether you want to believe it or not, are all egotistical. We compare information to ourselves to better understand it. Have you ever read something that isn’t quite like you, but could be? And you’ve said yep, that’s me alright, when it only is just a little bit?
I know I have.
And it’s starting to become increasingly real.
But I doubt you’ve ever compared yourself something you shouldn’t. No one does, right? You haven’t ever read up on the psychology of the latest serial killer and thought ugh, tell me about it...
I have.
Right now, I’m thinking about strangling her half to death. Until her face turns from red to purple. I know how long it’ll take. About five minutes. I know where to put my thumbs so that I don’t crush her windpipe, but block it nicely.
Her hands slide down my back, tugging on my shirt. I nod a little and she balls the material up into her fists. My heart beat quickens.
Then maybe, as she’s on the brink of consciousness, I’ll find a knife. Her skin’s soft. I bet it’s easy to cut through. I think about slicing her stomach open, watching the blood shimmer as it pools out. I wonder what her screams sound like.
I groan into her mouth, grinding my hips up into her. She gasps and her nails dig into me.
Or maybe, it could be the other way around. She could be the one with her finger around my neck. She could hold the knife. Both scenarios are as sweet as the other.
When Ed Kemper finally murdered his mother and chopped of her head, he didn’t want to kill anymore. It was like he finally had closure.
She didn’t question me when I made the first move. She didn’t ask why I wanted to be touched all of the sudden. Why I didn’t care when her skin was on mine, why I didn’t flinch when she sat so close. Why I’m wearing different clothes than I was earlier. It didn’t seem strange to her that this morning, I hadn’t even wanted to hug her, but now I was grinding into her like a man possessed.
My stomach flutters when she touches it. Her eyebrows furrow. I smile. I grin. She’s frozen, like she knows what it is but doesn’t want to face the truth. Her hands start to shake and she looks me in the eye. I laugh in her face and she says something, but I don’t hear it.
She pulls her hand from under my shirt. The one that was once so soft and pure, now tainted with the blood of my father.
