Summary: Joel should feel relaxed. He should feel more relaxed than he has in years. There isn’t anyone chasing him, no one even vaguely looking for him. He doesn’t have to run. He should be at peace, able to start anew. But he can’t stop thinking about what you said to him, what he did to you, and what it stirred up inside of him.
A/N: Slightly different format - divided up into “HIM” and “HER” like mini chapters. God, both of my little murder babies are so insane, I love them sm. Moodboard does not reflect the race/body type of the reader character - they have very little physical description in the story. This is dark, and gets violent (maybe more than last time even?). Read the trigger warnings carefully.
Warnings: You are responsible for the content you consume. 18+ MDNI. DARKAU! Murder, blood, sex, jealousy, stalking, bondage, rough sex, biting, spanking, straight up physical assault (beating with an object, hitting in face, breaking nose, stomping, stepping on). Mention of: death, killing, choking, sexual assault, and pregnancy. There is a post-assault hospital/evidence collection scene that could be triggering. Joel is a BAD man, reader is manipulative. They are both terrible people.
Previous: THE SURPRISE - PART 1
PART 2 (6,131)
HER
You leave the aging Mercury at the end of the driveway and carefully make your way to the front door, noticing the kitty litter on the driveway even in the darkness. Even if Vinnie didn’t fix the broken motion light at the front of the house at least he did something to soak up the oil spill his truck had apparently left. He could have swept up the litter and finished the job, but just this once you’ll let his laziness pass for grief.
“Okay she’s admitted,” you holler into the house, expecting Vinnie’s worried face to come flying around the corner. “They want to keep her overnight but nothing’s broken,” you continue as you toe off your shoes and shuffle your coat down your shoulders. You’re met by only silence. “Vin, did you hear me?” you say louder, dropping your coat onto the bannister and fighting the urge to go right upstairs to bed.
It’s been a long fucking day. In the two weeks since Vinnie’s birthday party you’ve been on edge, startling at every little noise, expecting Joel to jump out at every creak, seeking revenge for the little after-party show you’d put on when you were hoping he was observing. With every passing day of silence, of nothing, you should relax, but find that the anticipation and anxiety have only intensified.
To complicate matters further, the PG-13 lapdance you’d given Vinnie - after obscuring the view from Joel’s camera - has made the scumbag even more confident that you’re going to let him fuck you. Even though this fool came in his pants three minutes into your scantily-clad gyrations, he thinks he’s won you over and paws at you day and night, even attempting to kiss you goodnight several times. If Joel doesn’t come take you away from here soon you’re worried your own urges are going to win out.
When you heard Carmela shouting in the driveway this afternoon you thought he’d gone and killed the poor little bitty. Thankfully it wasn’t Joel taking his anger out on Carmela but unfortunately, she had slipped on oil in the driveway while taking Biscuit for her afternoon constitutional. You called Vinnie to let him know and then took the old lady to the hospital right away, which is where you’d been for the last nine hours.
“Hey, Vin-”
You stop speaking as you round the corner of the kitchen archway, met with the sight of Vinnie in the center of the kitchen floor. He has one hand clutched at his neck, trying but failing to hold in all of the blood spurting out of his body. His eyes meet yours, wide and panicked, as his blood continues to spray all over the cabinets and the floor. You hear wet gurgles, and the scrabbling of his feet.
He’s moving his feet slowly, leaving trails in the blood in his failing attempts to get up. Bloody, smeared handprints mark the bottom half of the cabinets as he paws at them with his free hand. There’s blood spattered on the oven door, sprayed across photos pinned with magnets to the fridge, and pooling on the old linoleum floor underneath him.
Less than a minute passes and he’s stopped moving, his eyes still open but his gaze no longer piercing. You’re still standing in the doorway, mouth agape and staring down at his now-lifeless body. The floor creaks behind you slightly and you turn around slowly. Emerging from the darkness of the living room into the beam of light spilling from the kitchen is Joel Miller, holding a knife in his hand.
He lifts his arm and lets the knife lay across his chest, the blood on it glinting in the yellow light. His mouth curves into a smile that looks more like a snarl as he continues to slowly stalk towards you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
HIM
“What the fuck took you so long,?”
His smile fades, his brows knit. A long silence goes by.
“W- what?”
“What took you so fucking long, Joel??”
And then your hands are on the side of his face, pulling his mouth to yours and kissing him eagerly. He kisses back slightly but is distracted trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.
“You’re not… upset I just… killed… your boyfriend?” he manages to mumble out between your incessant kisses.
“My boyfriend? Jesus Christ I was gonna kill him if you didn’t show up soon.” and you pepper his face with more kisses, moving your hands to unbutton his shirt.
Now he pushes you back by your shoulders, knife still in one hand.
“No, no wait, I saw you fucking that asshole.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes!”
“Did you actually see it?”
“....I-”
“Or are you so crazy obsessed with me that you stupidly put obvious cameras in this house using my own network, and then when I discovered you fucking with me I put on a little show, and let you see exactly what I wanted you to see?” You try to push forward and kiss him again but he stops you.
“You found the cameras? When?”
You just cock your head and stare at him.
“Why did you pretend to fuck him?”
You continue to stare at him, blinking slowly. He stands still while you lean forward and put your face into his neck, inhaling deeply. He doesn’t stop you this time when you run your lips up the tendons in his muscular neck, grazing your teeth over them. You reach his jaw and leave soft kisses in the patches of his beard.
“I’m still mad at you,” you murmur between kisses. “It’s been eleven fucking weeks. What took you so goddamn long?”
“That’s what you’re mad at? Not that I-,” his voice trails off before he can give words to what he did to you.
Hurt you, choked you, killed you.
“How many more people gotta die before you just admit your feelings for me?” you ask, pointing to Vinnie as if you didn’t practically offer him up on a silver platter.
“I don’t have feelings,” Joel lies, anger stirring inside of him that you’ve manipulated him once again. “You do all this shit just to get to me,” he points to Vinnie again, as if he himself wasn’t the one who made the mess of the young man.
“Oh?” you lean forward, whispering in his ear. “Why would it get to you?”
He snarls and pushes you back again, gripping your arm too roughly, teeth clenched, meeting your eyes with a burning rage in his own.
“Don’t play coy with me. You pretended to fuck that asshole, thinkin’ I’d see it, and then what? Come barging in here and profess my undyin’ love for you? Is that what you think this is?” He pushes you backwards into the dining room until your ass hits the large, oval table. “This ain’t a romance novel sweetheart, I don’t yearn for you, and I don’t give a shit who you fuck.”
“Then why’d you kill him Joel? He didn’t do anything to you.”
“Cuz it fuckin’ felt good,” he snarls, dripping with sarcasm.
“Why’d you kill him Joel?” you press, your voice lighter, drawing him in.
“What do you care, you don’t even fuckin’ care,” Joel snaps, pointing once again at the body behind him on the kitchen floor with the bloody murder weapon still in his hand.
“Why’d you kill him Joel?” you whisper.
He inhales through his nose, leaving a beat before he snaps back. “Cuz he fuckin’ touched you, is that what you wanna hear?” His shouts echo in the still house. “You’re lucky I didn’t cut his fuckin’ hands off and feed ‘em to him.”
“Jealous Joel,” you tsk your tongue. “Now why would you be jealous? You don’t care who I let touch me. You don’t care care who I let fuck me,” you continue to goad him, even-toned.
“You’re always tryin’ to play games-”
“You fucking love me,” you interrupt.
“You’ve got some serious Daddy-issues,” he snaps.
“Ohhh,” surprise quickly flits across your features. “Someone’s been googling me. I didn’t think people your age were good with the internet.” His scowl deepens. “You and I? We’re the same, and you’ve just confirmed that you fucking know who I am and so you know we’re perfect for each other.”
“You don’t know the first-”
“You fucking love me.” It’s not a question. “And it scares you so much that the last time you were confronted with the reality of it, you high-tailed it out of my life.” Your voice takes on a tinge of pain, “Well first you killed me. Then you left me.”
Instantly, his whole face softens. He looks down, exhaling a big breath and slumping his shoulders. When he looks back up to meet your eyes, his face looks pained.
“I’m… really sorry ‘bout that,” he says quietly.
“Which part?” you sniffle, the waterline of your eyes now shimmering. “The killin’ me or the leavin’ me?”
“Both, baby,” and now he’s moving towards you, putting his arms around you. “I’m sorry ‘bout both,” and he kisses you now, deeply.
He drops the knife and brings his hands to your face, brushing away the burgeoning tears sliding down your cheeks. He slips his tongue into your mouth and lets your arms wrap around his middle, feels you pull him in and crush your bodies together.
HER
You let him guide you to lie back on the dining room table, and watch as he drags his knife - blunt side against your skin - cutting off your leggings and underwear. He pushes your oversized t-shirt - one of his - up to your neck, before cutting off your bra in the same way. He keeps the shirt intact but once you’re exposed to him, he sets the knife down on one of the chairs and begins palming and kissing your breasts. He gives attention to each one equally before moving lower, kissing along your hips and giving gentle bites to your inner thighs.
He stops, before getting to where you really want him, and tells you to touch yourself.
“I was kinda hoping you’d be doing the touching now that you finally showed up, Joel.”
“I wanna watch you do it first, baby,” he mutters.
You wonder if he’s feeling a little unworthy, given his recent behavior. You think you’d rather have him on his knees making it up to you, but you’ll allow him his behavior since the metallic smell of blood is in the air and you’ve gotten a little high off his jealous energy.
He stands up, maintaining his position between your legs, one hand on each knee, watching you as you bring one hand to pinch your nipple and drag your other hand through your folds to touch the sensitive bud at the top. You close your eyes and give a little moan, just for him, and feel his hands tense around your kneecaps in response.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he says.
You nod in assent, hoping he continues, thinking his voice could really help get you there faster.
“Did he ever see you like this?”
“No!” you bark, freezing all movement. “Ew, that’s disgusting. No, he didn't ever see me like this. I told you we didn’t fuck.”
“What you thinkin’ ‘bout right now, hmm?” Joel hums, ignoring your statement, and you resume touching yourself.
“Thinking about how much better this would feel if it was your hand instead,” you smile, pushing two fingers inside yourself.
“You ever think about his hands?”
“What the fu-,” you stop again, sitting up on your elbows. “You’re ruining this. If you’re gonna keep talking about him I’m not gonna be able to come.”
“I just-”
“In fact, I think I’m definitely still mad at you and you haven’t done nearly enough groveling.”
“I don’t think I did any groveling. I apologized to you, and I meant it.”
“You need to tell me you missed me,” you counter, resuming touching yourself.
“I did miss you,” Joel’s eyes follow your hands, watching closely. “I couldn’t stay away, baby. I came to find you because I missed you.”
“And because you love me,” you say as you circle two wet fingers over your clit.
“I don’t know if-,” Joel starts.
“Say it, or I’m getting up right now,” you demand, making eye contact with him.
He stands there in silence, his eyes darting back and forth between your eyes and your hands. You continue touching yourself for several more minutes, letting your empty threat simmer and basking in his silent attention. The room is filled with your quiet whimpers and his heavy breathing, the wet sounds of your cunt. Finally, when you’re getting close to your orgasm you hear him say in a near whisper.
“Come for me, baby. I love you. Come for me.”
And that does it. You throw your head back and let your release hit you like a tidal wave. You open your mouth to fill the room with your moans but his hand is there to clamp over your lips, muffling your noises of pleasure. Once you’ve come down from your peak he takes his hands away.
“You want more?” he asks, as he unzips his fly.
You look down, noticing how hard he is, straining at the denim.
“No, I wanna wait another eleven weeks to get fucked,” you answer sarcastically.
“Your mouth is gonna get you in trouble someday,” he tuts.
Before you can answer him with another quip he pulls you up and turns you over, bending you over the table. You hear rustling and crinkling behind you before you look back to see him putting on a condom.
“I told you I didn’t fuck him!” you reiterate, but Joel ignores you.
He pushes into you hard from behind, sheathing himself completely in one thrust, knocking all the air out of your lungs. You feel him lean over and fish something off the chair and before you get a chance to look backwards he grabs your hands, lays them together across your back, and zip-ties them together. He then grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, licking at the shell of your ear.
“If I’m doin’ a good job go ahead and let the neighbors know, okay?”
Holy shit, you didn’t know he was gonna get so kinky with it, damn. You don’t love that he’s the one in control right now but it’s still a little hot, so you nod your head and let him take the lead. Joel slowly pulls out of you, almost completely, before ramming himself back in. He fucks you rough, without abandon, like a man starved. He’s pounding into you, slapping his big paws against your ass, and you’re practically shouting with every thrust, sure the neighbors can hear you at this point and might be wondering if you’re being fucked or being murdered.
As another orgasm winds itself up your spine you feel him swelling inside you, his stuttering hips letting you know how close he is. The feeling of teeth clamping down on the skin over your shoulder blade tips you over the edge and you orgasm just as he slams his hips flush to your ass, driving himself as deep as possible, thrusting several times as he empties himself into the condom.
You turn your head to see him pulling out, noticing for the first time that he didn’t even get undressed, he just pulled his dick out through his fly and fucked you with all his clothes on. Before you can comment on that you see him tuck his softening member back into his pants, zipping it away without even taking off the condom.
“You got somewhere to be?” you ask him.
HIM
“There’s a dead body in the kitchen, baby,” he explains, his body still partially covering yours but his attention divided.
“It’s not a big deal, we have all night to clean it up, just unbind my hands and we can-”
“I gotta go with Plan C,” he says, meeting your eyes, watching your brows draw together.
He takes a step back and lets you stand up and twist around, facing him with an unamused look on your face. Your shirt falls back down, covering your nudity and affording you a bit of modesty. Good, he doesn’t want you to feel any worse than you’re already going to.
“Ha-ha, very funny, Joel,” you say, straight-faced. “Get these the fuck off-”
You’re interrupted by the strip of duct tape that he places over your mouth. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head. He watches you give a mock laugh and shake your head and he can’t understand anything you’re mumbling now behind the duct tape but he’s positive it’s all very colorful language and that you’re feeling a lot less like you love him with each passing moment.
“This is Plan C, baby,” he says by way of explanation.
He knows you don’t know what it means but it’s the only way he can protect you after what he did. He has to make sure the police don’t look at you as a suspect and since anyone could have seen you come home from the hospital, they’re gonna know you were in the house when Vinnie died. This is the only way.
He turns you around again and bends you back over the table, holding you down with a massive hand in the middle of your back. You struggle against him before he leans over you, bringing his mouth to your ear.
“I don’t want to do this, but I have to, baby. You have to be a victim too.”
He knew you wouldn’t be fond of playing that role, and it’s confirmed when you let out a scream, which is suitably muffled by the duct tape. You struggle harder against his hold, your shirt riding up enough so he can see your welted ass cheeks as he leans down, pulling an umbrella off the chair that he’d found by the front door. Joel raises the object above his head, muttering apologies you can’t hear over your muffled cries, before bringing it down on your soft body.
He connects with your arms, your shoulders, your ribs. He hears you screaming during the first several blows but then you go blissfully silent. He isn’t sure if you’re on board with the plan or if you’re plotting his demise. Maybe both. You’re still struggling against his hold so he has to put most of his body weight down to keep you from squirming off the table. He continues to lift the umbrella high, and bring it down to connect against your back, your hips, and your legs. He’s going as quickly as possible to get it over with but he’s not being gentle, he knows that the only way this works is if it looks real.
“You gotta stop moving around so much, you’re just making it more difficult for us both,” he whispers in your ear, leaning over your body.
He sees you turn your head and can practically see fire in your pupils so he backs his head up a split second before you rear your head back, attempting to break his nose again.
“Having my blood all over the floor is not part of Plan C, sweetheart,” he mutters before grabbing your arms and dragging you back into the kitchen.
He pushes you down onto your knees just outside the pool of blood Vinnie expired in. He points to his lifeless body with the umbrella.
“Someone broke into this house and attacked him with a knife. Maybe the police don’t know how much you love stabbing people with knives, but maybe they start diggin’ into your background. How deep does your little alias go? How clean is that RV out front? Maybe they find out who you really are. Or… maybe you were attacked too. Assaulted and beaten, but left alive.” He pulls his hands back from you as you’ve finally stopped struggling. “Now you’re not a suspect, are you? No. You’re a victim too. This is Plan C. Okay?”
He sees your eyes, full of tears, look up at him from your position on the ground.
“Okay?” he asks again.
You nod silently, no longer fighting him or trying to talk back. You let him push you onto your side and he can tell you’re trying your hardest not to struggle when he raises the umbrella, which is looking worse for wear at this point, and hits you in your shins, your stomach, your chest. Looking at your face , he can see the tears streaming down your cheeks. He grabs your chin and raises the crooked umbrella over his head, preparing you for the final blows. He sees you give a subtle nod, tacit permission to finish the plan.
He hesitates, struggling with bringing the weapon to your face while looking you in the eyes.
“I love you,” he says.
He closes his eyes and brings it down hard, right across your nose. He raises it back up and brings it down twice more in succession, as hard as he can, your nose smashed at an unnatural angle and already dripping blood down the duct tape by the time he opens his eyes and drops the mangled umbrella at his feet.
HER
You struggle to breathe through the blood pouring out of your nose, so you’re sputtering and coughing, wishing you could ask him to get the goddamn duct tape off your mouth but of course you can’t ask him anything since there is goddamn duct tape over your mouth.
Plan C fucking sucks.
He lets go of your chin and lets you sink back to the floor, bleeding your own tiny puddle of blood next to Vinnie’s. You look up at Joel as he slowly raises his booted foot up - briefly thinking about how upset Carmela would be that Joel is wearing dirty boots inside the house before realizing that might be the least of things to upset her at this point.
By the time you focus back on Joel he’s bringing the boot down on your chest, letting dirt smudge the white t-shirt you took from him all those months back. He slowly, so slowly, begins to transfer all his weight onto the foot on your chest, and you struggle to inhale as the boot gets heavier and heavier, pushing you down into the linoleum.
Your eyes go wide and you start to panic, already struggling to breathe past the liquid pouring out of your nose and now he’s crushing your lungs? What the fuck is he doing? You look to the side and see his other foot is on booted tip-toe, meaning his entire body weight is pressing down on you. You hear cracking and aren’t sure if your ribs or your spine are breaking, but can’t even think straight due to the lack of oxygen.
Then, he lifts his weight off you quickly and squats down, pulling you up to a sitting position by your shoulders. He cradles you in his arms while you suck air back into your battered nose, wheezing and sputtering under the duct tape.
Fuck Plan C.
“You did so good, baby,” he coos. You’re 100% angry and 100% in pain and 100% traumatized, not even sure how you’re crying so hard when you can barely breathe, but he holds you for a minute while you sob, blood and snot and tears making a total mess of your face. He leans forward and kisses you against the duct tape barrier, getting blood all over his own lips.
“You gotta call 9-1-1 as soon as I leave or it’s gonna look suspicious, alright?,” he asks, waiting for you to nod in acknowledgement. “There’s a roadside motel off 95 near Attleboro, Massachusetts. Stay here and get things in order and then meet me there, okay?”
You look at him, repeat the information in your head, commit it to memory, then nod your head again.
“I love you,” he repeats, before turning and stomping out of the house.
Great, you think. He finally loves me and this is what I get for it. Serves you right for not falling for the kind of men who just bring you flowers.
You shuffle yourself into the front room and use the area rug to rub your face against, slowly and painfully peeling the tape away from your mouth. Using the corded phone next to Carmela’s recliner you dial emergency services and are glad the ambulance arrives relatively quickly. Some police officers arrive just before them as well, and you see the driveway overflowing onto the street with flashing red and blue lights, neighbors from the block pouring out of their homes in concern.
The EMT’s come in and see you still crouched in the front room. You watch them give a quick glance to the police standing in the doorway to the kitchen - who just shake their heads - and then crouch down in front of you to start assessing your injuries. You hear the police barking at them from behind you, shouting about evidence and not messing with you too much, and you see the EMT’s faces turn sour. They do the best they can but are all but shooed-away when the detectives arrive shortly after.
This must have been a slow night because it’s only been a half hour since you called 9-1-1, and the investigators are already here, along with three evidence-collection techs, and two photographers. One of the detectives rides with you in the ambulance to the hospital and for a fleeting moment you’re glad Joel didn’t hold back. You certainly couldn’t bring yourself to shed tears the whole ride if he hadn’t fucked up your nose so badly.
The hospital is well-synchronized chaos. You’re hooked up to an IV and heart monitor by some of the most amazing nurses you’ve ever encountered. They gently talk you through every movement they make as they photograph, swab, and clean your bruised and battered body. They take pictures of your nose, the boot-print on your t-shirt - which they cut off of you despite your protests, and the bite-mark on your back. Oh shit, you forgot Joel had bitten you. Was that part of Plan C? Stupid Plan C.
The investigator comes in after you’re cleaned up and dressed in a scratchy, clean gown, surprisingly compassionate as he asks you questions about the evening. You find yourself barely having to lie. You tell him about Carmela’s fall and subsequently having been at this very hospital all day. You tell them the time you left, pointing out a parking receipt in your purse to help them with their timeline. You describe coming home and finding Vinne dead, and then being attacked. You just happen to leave out the part where the attacker was your oft-wandering serial-killer lover, and find that it’s pretty believable.
The investigator treats you as nothing but a victim and while you’re glad not to be under suspicion, the pretense of being victimized rattles in your brain and stirs up old, bad memories. You feel phantom itches crawling under your skin and blood-drenched memories flashing in your mind begin to take you out of the present. You’re struggling to answer a question when one of the nurses - a girl closer to your own age with beautiful caramel skin and dark hair pulled back into a bun - comes to your aid.
“She’s had quite the day, detective. Maybe we save the rest of our questions for tomorrow?”
She is your hero, and after the detective respectfully packs up and leaves your room, you can’t thank her enough. You’re rattled but feeling more grounded as she sits at your bedside. You talk to each other like old friends for almost twenty minutes before she offers to give you a great night’s sleep and you happily accept, a sore smile on your face, while she injects a swirling clear liquid into your IV. You fall asleep quickly with devious ideas for the future blooming in your mind.
HIM
Joel shuffles quietly past the nurse’s station in the center of the wing, having changed back into the correct-sized shoes he’s able to move about more quietly. He waits until the single nurse there has her back turned before making a beeline into your room. You’re in a double-occupancy room but have it to yourself and he finds you sleeping peacefully despite a heavily taped-up nose and some lingering blood smears marring your otherwise placid face.
He shouldn’t be here, he knows that. He should be halfway to the motel outside Attleboro right now, waiting for you like he said he’d be. But God, he just couldn’t stand driving away from you… again. Not after leaving you battered and broken on the floor… again. He told himself he’d come check on you and once he saw you were okay, then he’d be able to put some temporary distance between you.
He sets the bouquet of two-dozen roses he brought down on the rolling table at your side. The girl at the 24-hour grocery store did a quick google search and told him that pink roses were meant to convey strong emotions, like regret and a desire to apologize. So she wrapped up the bubblegum-pink buds and tucked them into a matching paper. Now that he stands here before you, your skin mottled with dark bruises and red splotches covering your white bandage dressings, the pink seems too cheerful for the situation.
A young nurse with dark hair pulls back the curtain covering your side of the room before Joel even registered there was someone else in the room. Goddamnit, he’s slipping.
“Oh!,” she yelps, clearly surprised to see him. “Visiting hours are-”
“I’m her dad,” Joel blurts out.
“You’re her-, oh I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah,” Joel fumbles, glad she isn’t immediately calling security and having him escorted out. “I came as soon as I heard, I know it’s late.”
“It’s okay,” she hums. “You can take some time with her, I’m sure she needs it right now, she’s had quite the night.”
“But she’s okay, right? She’s gonna be okay?”
Joel listens as the sweet nurse tells him a watered-down version of what happened to you and makes sure to end with how “perfectly fine” you’re going to be, as if people who go through this sort of thing are ever perfectly fine after. He tries so hard to regulate his face into looking the right amount of shocked and upset when he really just feels like a giant piece of shit, knowing everything she’s describing that you went through was done by his own hand.
Plan C involved making you look like a second victim of Vinnie’s murderer, so he had to make sure to leave plenty of evidence - evidence that would never lead back to himself. He made sure to wear a condom when he fucked you, and even though it was enthusiastically consensual, binding your arms and having very rough sex with you would leave marks and bruises consistent with Plan C’s cover story. He left a bite-mark on your shoulder using dentures he’d gotten online, and a shoe-print on your shirt wearing boots four sizes too large that he’d grabbed out of the trash.
Everything was going according to pla-
“And the baby’s perfectly fine too,” the nurse tacks on.
Joel feels the blood in his veins turn to ice.
“Baby?” his eyes snap to your sleeping form, remembering the blows he rained down on you with that umbrella only hours ago. “What baby?
“Maybe they weren’t telling people yet, it’s still a bit early, but she’s pregnant,” she explains with a smile.
Joel can’t even fake it, can’t even crack a grimace as he clenches his teeth, that familiar fire growing in his belly. That motherfucker got you pregnant? You said you didn’t fuck him. A wave of heat rushes over Joel’s body, breaking him out in a sweat that beads up on his forehead. Why did Plan C include killing Vinnie in such a painless way? He should have cut his fingers off and shoved them up his ass. He should have cut his dick off and shoved it down his throat. He should have made him suff-
“Don’t tell her I said anything but since she’s just over eleven weeks I imagine she’d be telling family soon,” the nurse babbles.
Why is she still fucking talking? Why can’t she read the room? Why-, wait... did she just say eleven weeks?
“It’s been eleven fucking weeks. What took you so goddamn long?”
You weren’t fucking Vinnie eleven weeks ago. Eleven weeks ago you were fucking him in a little cabin in the woods… right before he put his hands around your throat and choked you to death. And now you’re pregnant with his child. And tonight he beat the fucking shit out of you.
Joel’s head swirls violently. Plan C was a terrible idea, why did he fucking tape your mouth shut? What was he fucking thinking? Nausea rolls across him and the nurse, seeing him about to get sick, reaches out to touch his arm. He pulls away from her like she’s on fire and runs into the hallway, retching overtop a dinner cart left out a few doors down. He almost trips over it but catches himself, suddenly feeling like these boots aren’t the right size either.
He reaches out to brace himself on the corner of the central nurse’s station but his hand slips, his palms sweaty, and he nearly falls to the floor, someone behind him asking if he’s okay. The young nurse from your room is standing in the doorway with a confused look on her face and he can see her mouth moving but he can’t hear any words, his pulse is too loud in his ears. He looks around, seeing a few more out-of-focus faces looking at him with furrowed brows and decides there’s only one thing he can do.
HER
When you wake it’s slowly, hearing the beeping of the machines and then the low sounds of voices before opening your eyes and seeing the gray outside turning a light blue as dawn approaches. Eventually you hear the curtain gently being drawn, and turn your head to see your nurse friend rolling a tray with a saran-wrapped plate of food towards you.
“Good Morning,” she says gently. “How’d you sleep?”
“Great,” you answer. “Considering my condition.”
“I can give you some pain meds if you want,” she offers, but you wave her away, thinking that you might need the pain to produce tears later when the police come back. She hangs out and checks your vitals while you sip some Orange Juice and munch on some toast. “So that guy that you said might stop by?”
“Yeah?” you draw out the word, giving her your full attention.
“You were totally right. He came by around 2am, said he was your dad, asked if you were gonna be okay.”
“Interesting,” you say - more to yourself - and try to tamp down the smile that will irritate the splits on your lips. You knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away. You knew he’d sneak his way here to see you. You knew he fucking loved you.
“He’s not your dad though, right?” she asks.
You knew this one was clever. You shake your head. “He’s my ex,” you half-lie. “He’s basically a stalker, always trying to get back together with me. I figured he’d hear about what happened and turn up like a bad penny.”
“He brought you a huge-ass bouquet,” she points her chin to a vase overflowing with roses. “Nothing says get well soon like a bunch of pepto-pink roses. Speaking of pepto, he barfed in the hallway and then ran out the emergency exit. I can’t believe you didn’t wake up when the alarm went off.”
You struggle not to laugh. “Yeah, he’s kind of the worst.”
“He did give off toxic-ex vibes, not dad-vibes. Daddy vibes, maybe.” She laughed as you groaned and cradled your broken ribs. “I know it’s wrong but I’d probably still fuck him.”
You were right about her, she’s a little fucked up just like you. “That’s the problem, girl. They’re toxic but hard to quit. Sometimes men put you through the most fucked-up shit and you just gotta make them prove they’re not gonna make the same mistakes they did before. You need to give them a challenge and see if they rise to it.”
She nods, agreeing. “Is that why you wanted me to lie about you being pregnant?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
.
Thank you to @violetbranwen and @strang3lov3 for ideas for the pics on reader's phone and for beta-ing this back in the early days of writing it. Thank you to @beefrobeefcal for editing the finalized product and for your constant encouragement and positivity.
Thank you to anyone who read, liked, commented, and reblogged the stories in this series, these two are so much fun to write. I have at least one more part planned for them and I hope not to take over a year to update it this time.... 😬
*reblogs are VERY appreciated as I don't know how visible my blog is at the moment. Thank you to all my moots, readers, and future friends in advance🫶
Summary: Joel should feel relaxed. He should feel more relaxed than he has in years. There isn’t anyone chasing him, no one even vaguely looking for him. He doesn’t have to run. He should be at peace, able to start anew. But he can’t stop thinking about what you said to him, what he did to you, and what it stirred up inside of him.
A/N: Slightly different format - divided up into “HIM” and “HER” like mini chapters. God, both of my little murder babies are so insane, I love them sm. Moodboard does not reflect the race/body type of the reader character - they have very little physical description in the story. This is dark, and gets violent (maybe more than last time even?). Read the trigger warnings carefully.
Warnings: You are responsible for the content you consume. 18+ MDNI. DARKAU! Murder, blood, sex, jealousy, stalking, bondage, rough sex, biting, spanking, straight up physical assault (beating with an object, hitting in face, breaking nose, stomping, stepping on). Mention of: death, killing, choking, sexual assault, and pregnancy. There is a post-assault hospital/evidence collection scene that could be triggering. Joel is a BAD man, reader is manipulative. They are both terrible people.
For anyone looking for a timeline I have it worked out -
Vol 1 - The Hunted - takes place on October 1, 2023
Vol 2 - The Chase - takes place between October 2, 2023 and February 29, 2024 (The Chase pt 2 is leap day. Story spans into the night and the next morning)
Vol 3 - The Surprise - Begins March 1, 2024 ---- May 19, 2024
This won't make much sense if you haven't read the previous installments - catch up here with the series masterlist.
Where we left off:“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.”
PART 1 (7,074)
HIM
Joel leaves you on the floor of the cabin and drives through the night for nearly two days straight, suspicious that you might somehow still be following him. He drives north, then east, then west, with no destination in mind just wanting to put time and distance between you. So tired he’s seeing double, he finally stops to rest. He sleeps for fourteen hours straight and then decides that he should sell his truck for a new one, to give himself a clean slate. He spends the afternoon at a dealership going through all of the totes and boxes in the truck bed to flush out any hidden trackers (he finds three), and transfers all of his worldly possessions into the shiny new truck.
He then heads back to Colorado, the first time he’d touched land in the state since you chased him out of it five months ago. Once inside his old cabin he sees it’s relatively untouched, save for a few rodent visitors and the obvious evidence of you digging around when you stole all his trophies. He strips the cabin of the few personal items left there - the few you didn’t take - and locks it back up. Then through the same back channels he purchased it, he sells the cabin for cash.
As he’s driving out of town he passes the bordering state land and sees a young man, alone, pulling in with a camper hitched to the back of his truck. He briefly gets a familiar itch deep inside him but it’s quickly overtaken by the feelings of guilt he still bears for the last time he lost control. He didn’t mean to choke you like that, didn’t mean to hurt you. Guilt. Regret. Jesus, it’s been a long time since he felt those.
He drives on and begins to head West, trying to get as far away from the memory of your body, lifeless on the dirty floor, as he can. He starts staying in nicer hotels, not as worried about you following him, hoping you understood his message loud and clear. He doesn’t want to run from you anymore. He doesn’t want to be chased. He’s so tired. So goddamn tired.
The words he spoke to you implied that he didn’t want to see you again, but that’s not exactly the truth. The problem is that seeing you and being near you brings out very confusing things inside him. He gets all twisted up inside, unsure of his own feelings and even more mistrustful of yours. It’s like you paralyze him and he can’t fight you off. It makes him nervous he’s going to make a mistake, and he’s not a man who can afford to make mistakes.
He enjoys the hot breakfasts offered by the chains he stays in, luxuriating in the working AC and the high thread-count sheets in the rooms. He’s got stacks of cash from selling every home he ever had and now he’s not afraid to spend it. Gone are the roach-infested roadside motels and the speedy truck stop showers. He’s completely sure you’re not trailing behind him this time. It should be comforting to him. He should be able to relax. For the first time in decades he has an opportunity to put down roots, turn over a new leaf, and live a normal life.
He has the chance before him to live a life without murder.
But could he even fit in a life like that? Is what drove him to living this way, doing what he’s done, out of his system? He doesn’t think so. Just because the memory of his hands around your throat is haunting him doesn’t mean he’s a changed man. What’s more, he can’t organize his thoughts enough to decide what he should even do next because he can’t stop thinking of you.
He thinks of you underneath him, his hands gripping your hips, pushing into you slowly. The way you moaned and bit into his neck, a mark that by now has all but faded to nothing. He thinks of the longing way you looked at him. Then he remembers the way you looked at him with his hands gripping your neck, pushing his fingers into your windpipe slowly. Why didn’t you fight back? Did you believe he wouldn’t hurt you? Did you trust him?
Do you love him? Those were your final words before he squeezed the breath out of you. You could have said anything. You could have said nothing. You told him you loved him. That’s stupid, you can’t love him. You don’t even know him. And yet, you know him in a way that no one else alive knows him. What are you doing to him? What is swirling inside him?
Does he love you?
He can’t get that thought out of his head. Why did he feel bad as you lay there, dead on the floor? You weren’t the first person he killed, nor the tenth, not even the hundredth. And yet when he couldn’t rouse you, a blinding panic washed across his body like he’d never felt before. Well, maybe once before. A long time ago, when he lost everything that was important to him. When he turned into this thing he is now.
And the parallel of losing you with what he lost back then, and how similar they felt to him, causes a new brand of fear to grip him. Can you already mean that much to him? Is there any way he can truly escape the thought of you? Is he already in too deep?
Does he love you?
He pushes the tidal wave of these thoughts back with rational commentary as best he can. This is just about sex, it can’t possibly work out long-term, the two of you are not compatible, this will only end in bloodshed. And yet, every moment his mind is still, you are there. You have barged in and taken over, uninvited. You have made yourself a place there, at the front of all his thoughts. The thought of you never leaves him, you’ve taken up a permanent residence.
HER (the day of)
Well… that could have gone better.
You slowly ease yourself up onto your elbows, wincing as the movement causes your victimized neck to burn. You think you’ve had just about enough of being strangled, that’s not an activity to repeat. Does it smell like puke? Did you puke? You don’t remember puking. You look to your left and see a puddle of what is very obviously puke. Oh shit, maybe he puked.
After he killed you he must have thrown up… what a baby. He’s really got it bad for you.
The thought makes you smile before it turns into a grimace from the strain it puts on your battered face. That could have gone better but it could have gone worse too. After all, you could still be dead. That would suck. Or maybe it wouldn’t? Maybe the afterlife would’ve been cool. You won’t find out today though, judging by the sting in your cheeks and the welts already blooming on your chest, Joel fought pretty hard to drag you back to the world of the living.
You groan as you lift yourself back to vertical and slowly limp around, taking in the disheveled state of the cabin. Your belongings are scattered on the bathroom floor, the bedsheets are rumpled and dirty, there’s a large pot of poisoned soup that was left out overnight still sitting on the stovetop, a bowl of eggs and shells scattered on the countertop, and a floor covered in all sorts of bodily fluids. Looks like it’s time to burn this place to the ground and hit the road.
With the setting sun and the flaming cabin in your rearview, you check on the trackers you’d hidden in Joel’s old truck. You’re shocked to see that he’s already hit the Carolinas, heading north on 95 towards DC. That man has driven like a bat out of hell away from you, running like a man who knows he fucked up. He’s probably ugly-crying while driving, torturing himself thinking about what he did to you. God, you wish you could see him right now.
You close your laptop and punch in an old address on your GPS, thinking that if he’s heading north that you should too. You have some contacts in New England that will have work for you to do - mostly hacking - while you wait for Joel to regain his senses and come crawling back to you.
He told you to stop chasing him but did he say he never wanted to see you again? Of course he didn’t. And if he didn’t want to see you again, then why would he have taken your wallet and your cell phone? He wouldn’t have. He took those things because he’s obsessed with you and in love with you and even though he can’t admit it yet, it only took him choking the life out of you for you to see how real this thing between you actually is. He’ll realize it too and then he’ll be back.
He won’t be able to stay away.
HIM
It’s been about five weeks and though he’s taken a wandering, winding path, he’s almost made it to the Pacific. He hasn’t seen those salty waves since he was much younger, a different man then, perhaps even someone else entirely. He’s almost made it to the coast, only a couple towns away, but stops to spend a sleepless night in a motel, tossing and turning.
He’s still lying on his back, wide awake, when the sun rises. He resigns himself to an idea that - although he’s been trying to ignore it - has been persistently moving towards the forefront of his mind; he’s going to find you. He doesn’t know how, but he has some ideas. Ideas that have been swirling nonstop among his thoughts. He’s not even sure he wants to admit what he’ll do when he finds you, that’s not something he’s ready to think about just yet.
All he knows is that he can’t stop himself. Every thought is of you. Are you okay? Are you healed up from what he did to you? Where are you right now? Have you forgiven him? Are you thinking of him? Are you thinking of him the way that he’s thinking of you? Are you wondering what he’s doing, where he is? Are you missing him? Did you mean what you said?
Do you love him?
***
He fishes your wallet and cellphone out of his truck and hooks up your cell to his laptop, spending most of the next afternoon looking through all the emails, text messages, and photos on your phone. He notices that your email has been all but stripped bare, likely deleted by you from another device before he got to looking into it. He reads your text messages, but they give little information, as very few of the exchanges seem overly personal. Your photos however, reveal more…
Scrolling back to the beginning, the first pictures he finds are of his old cabin, both inside and out. Then pictures of his house back in Austin; dirty dishes in his kitchen sink, his rumpled bed sheets, the clothes in his closet, his mail in your hands, a closeup of several pairs of his shoes. Then pictures he expected, taken of him while he thought he was out of your reach. In between them, pictures he didn’t expect, nude pictures you took of yourself, filling your camera roll.
Joel crouched nearly naked on the shore, washing himself in a creek on a cloudy morning.
You, sitting in a vehicle in the twilight, shirt tucked under your chin, baring your breasts.
Joel at night, sleeping in his tent, taken through a small opening in the mesh window.
You, laying on your stomach on a bed, dressed only in skimpy underwear, ass in the air for the camera.
Joel walking into a motel room on a sunny afternoon, wearing his toolbelt.
You, standing in a room, naked under one of his old flannel shirts. The shirt sits loosely on your shoulders, the roundness of your breasts peeking out, your hands covering your mound.
He looks down and sees that he’s wearing the same flannel shirt as you are in the picture, one of the shirts you returned to him back at the little cabin. He shifts uncomfortably, feeling his hardness straining against his pants. The next several photos he flips through quickly, he can’t stop and focus on them.
You, fully naked, laying on top of his flannel on a bed, legs spread, exposing your core to the camera. In subsequent shots your hands roam over your body, squeezing your breasts, and petting your center.
He had no idea these pictures were on your phone. He shoved your phone and wallet in the glove compartment when he bought this truck and that’s where they’ve been since. His quest to find you is completely derailed for the day as he spends the rest of the evening jerking off repeatedly to the naked photos you took of yourself on your phone. A voice in his head tells him that you took them for him to find.
The next morning he opens your wallet, determined to make this day more productive than the previous one. He pulls your license out and studies it once again, noticing your middle name is the same as the one she gave her… the same one his wife gave his daughter. He tries to shake that thought loose and throws your wallet back in your purse before spending the next several hours pacing his room, trying and failing to stop the memories of his little girl from haunting his every thought.
The guilt spider-walks up his spine, igniting that flame of rage deep within him and trailing the flames up his torso. Why did he let them go alone, why didn’t he just take off work and go with them? He knows the answer. ‘Just a quick trip to my parent’s house,’ she’d said. It was just a half day’s drive and they’d be there for the long weekend, safe and happily visiting with family. He had a deadline at work and both he and his crew had to work through the holiday.
He remembered the grumbling of his electrician, who had a new baby at home, and how plenty of his guys would have rather been with their families than earning double time working a holiday. He’d given his electrician a half day and thought he was doing the right thing. He should have given them all a half day. He should have been with his wife and their daughter. He should have died with them in that awful crash when the drunk driver had barreled down the wrong ramp on the highway.
He feels a bit better after lunch, after disassociating for a while and stuffing his belly full of bbq ribs. He forces himself to sit back at his computer, propped up on the sticky formica motel room desk. He begins to google the name - your real name - on your license and to say that Joel is unprepared for what he finds is an understatement. Many articles don’t reveal your name, having been a minor at the time of the incident, but your family name is listed and it doesn’t take him much effort at all to connect the dots.
When you were only seven years old a very bad man took advantage of your mother’s kindness, forcing his way into your home and snuffing out the life of your mother and two siblings while leaving you as-good-as dead. But, as Joel already knows, you’re a survivor, and although you were in a coma for quite a while, you pulled through.
Most articles describe you as catatonic and non-verbal after the trauma of your experience and Joel thinks he knows exactly how your father must have felt. Although you were technically alive, your father had his whole family taken from him in one day. Just like Joel. Also just like Joel, your father turned his grief inside out until it resembled something more like fury, and began taking it out on the world around him.
The Backwoods Butcher, the Hunter of Hikers, the Appalachian Trail Killer. Your father had many nicknames through his active years.
Joel can only imagine the horrors you witnessed as a child, both done to your family and by your family. If you witnessed even a fraction of the things these articles - and the courts - claim your father did, then it’s no wonder you turned out the way you are. Calculating, manipulative, violent, detached. Crazy. You grew up to be the perfect little psychopath. The afternoon is spent with Joel’s spiraling thoughts of how you two are so similar and yet so different.
He finally calms down around sunset, realizing another day has been wasted, spent yet again by intrusive thoughts of you plaguing his mind. Whatever you are to him, whatever that definition turns out to be, you are rooted deep. He can’t do anything but chase you at this point. He starts to wonder if these things he feels for you aren’t more akin to a disease, to an infection.
Maybe it’s not love, maybe this is a cancer of the mind. He’s been rendered helpless as you’ve dug deep and latched your claws in. He can’t stop waves of emotions washing over him all hours of the day, every day. Why did he react like that? How could he be another person to hurt you, to leave marks on you? He is overwhelmed with reminders of how he failed, how he always fails. You’re making him pick at scabs he thought were long-healed. You’re payback for every bad thing he’s ever done.
You’re Karma.
HER
You slam your laptop shut and mutter out a curse, hoping your host didn’t hear you - she’s so persnickety about cursing, after all. You’d been bouncing around the tri-state area for weeks now, biding your time and waiting for that old snake to come slithering back on his belly. You’ve been keeping busy and not even paying attention to the trackers… until today. And the data confirms what you’d begun to fear in the passing time since he ran out of that cabin.
Joel might very well be done playing your game. His trackers have been sitting in what’s marked as a dump outside Gary, Indiana since about four days after he left. This means he found the trackers and ditched them, and a subsequent search lets you know he also traded his old truck for a new one. You don’t bother tracking the new plates, sure that he’d be smart enough to change them from what the dealer had given him. He’s really out there, on the run. He’s been running for almost a month.
You didn’t think it’d take him this long. You got so tired of living in hotel rooms that you found yourself a cozy little house in an old neighborhood in Jersey. No matter that a little old lady - Carmela - already lives here, she was easy to convince to let you move in. She might have dementia - among a host of other health issues - but she’s as sweet as the days are long and she’s been happy to have the company.
Of course her grandson, who seems to come over more and more often these days, seems to think you’re her new live-in nurse. You don't correct him, since running to the pharmacy and cooking dinners for her isn’t that much work, and you still have plenty of time to do your own work while she spends her days watching soap operas and walking her half-blind little dog around the neighborhood. And after she goes to bed at eight in the evening you have all night to make the short drive to the city, fulfill some of your darker urges, and be back by sunrise with her none-the-wiser.
Her grandson, who can’t be much different in age than you, seats himself across the table, taking your closed laptop as an invitation - that you definitely didn’t extend - to speak to you. You’re in a pissy mood as it is, so when he starts talking to you about how he’s moving in next week, you nearly blow your top.
“You don’t wanna live on your own?” you ask through clenched teeth, barely masking your annoyance.
“It gets lonely on your own,” he croons, giving you a blink that you’re pretty sure was supposed to be a wink. Ew. “Plus, I want to save up for a place of my own and I can’t do that when I’m paying these horrible rent prices.”
You try so hard not to roll your eyes and when you fail, you close them, hoping he reads your expression as weary, and leaves you the fuck alone. You want to lecture him about the new, bright red F-350 he made his grandmother cosign with him for, and how it’s not conducive to his alleged trying to save money, but you have little faith in yourself not to make commentary about the size of the massive pickup in opposition to the assumed size of his dick. So you keep your mouth shut. You have to play nice with the host’s grandson… for now.
“Speaking of making money, when are you finally gonna come into the dealership and buy that campervan from me that we’ve been talking about?” he transitions awkwardly.
You want to stab him. In the throat. You just might do it, the old lady probably wouldn’t even remember he was over here tonight. You haven’t talked with him about anything of the sort. You mentioned one time - which you now regret - that you once drove a campervan and now he wants to set you up with some kind of deal - which you are fairly certain is just salesman-speak for he’s only going to slightly overcharge you.
“I’m getting an award this month so your picture would probably go up on the website,” he adds, as if being on the website of a local RV dealership is some great fucking honor.
“I really-,” you start to dismiss, and then it occurs to you; if your photo is on the internet there’s a chance Joel might see it.
You cringe internally that that was the first thing that came to mind. Why is that old fucking man at the forefront of all your thoughts? Because you love him and he loves you. You bat away the thought that flies forward, anger renewed that he’s still absent from your life. He’s being a real fucking asshole and you’re seriously considering not letting him be your boyfriend if he continues this behavior. You might even have to try and kill him again.
Speaking of killing, if this idiot man-child across the table from you is going to be moving in, it’s gonna be a lot harder to steal his grandmother’s Grand Marquis and sneak into the city to get your fill. Maybe an RV to do your dirty deeds wouldn’t be such a bad purchase afterall. It’s not like you don’t have the cash, since - unbeknownst to the government - your dad left you very well-off when he got locked up, and your contacts that you get hacking jobs from keep you so comfortable that you barely need to touch that blood money.
“I really would love to come see you this week,” you finish your sentence, surprising both of you with your positive reaction.
His stupid face lights up, and you fight the instinct not to reach across the table and slap him. He gives another blink/wink and tries to tell you he’s gonna take good care of you before you push away from the table, heading up the stairs for bed and signaling he can let himself out. God, he’s pitiful, like a scrawny little puppy-man you just want to kick in the teeth. Before you head up the stairs, you turn and give him a shy smile and bat your eyes. You’re gonna let this pathetic excuse for a man sell you a big, shiny new RV and post about it on the internet for the whole world to see.
Eat your heart out, Joel Miller.
HIM
The next several days are spent deep in an increasingly frustrating search for you, using the clues from your wallet and your text messages. He does reverse lookups with all your credit cards, googles your license address, and searches across all social media platforms with your name, email, and phone number. He crops one of your photos to just your face and tries to reverse google image-search you. He even looks on the dark web, which he’s not as familiar with but has used in the past.
He pours over the pages and pages of results but comes up empty-handed in the end every time, each trail he follows being over a decade old. He knows you must still go by your real name, since it’s on a recent driver’s license but he can’t find anything unrelated to the death of your family or your father’s crimes. He spends hours every day driving east, towards the place where you first met, not even sure where he’s going to head next. Then he spends the evenings in roadside motels, staring at his laptop screen until his eyes hurt from the artificial light.
On day six of searching he has a dream about you, you’re writhing under him while he pumps himself inside you. He can hear himself moaning that fake name you gave him and it makes him bitter and angry enough to wake himself up. Upon waking he comes to the realization that he hadn’t really been searching for you under fake names, only your real one, and given what your real name is associated with, he suddenly realizes that you probably go by different names in your adult life even if your legal name hasn’t changed. He curses himself under his breath that this hasn’t occurred to him earlier.
He begins searching using the fake name you gave him - Kathryn - trying different last names in conjunction and nearly kicks himself when within an hour he finds you, using the name Kathryn Miller. First he finds a vehicle registration, which doesn’t include a photo, but the registration is for a camper. That’s an interesting coincidence. Then he searches the dealership’s website and is surprised to find a photo of you taking possession of your new recreational vehicle, shaking the salesman’s hand and giving the camera a thumb’s up.
Not a coincidence after all.
You’ve dyed your hair a bright blood-red and you are wearing his decade-old threadbare Coors Light sweatshirt. Written under the picture is a caption: Kathryn Miller buying her first RV from Vinnie C, our top salesman this month! You’re using his last name. You’re wearing his old sweatshirt. You’ve allowed your face to be plastered on a public website. So… you are thinking about him.
***
Joel stands outside the storage unit he’s just rented in a small New Jersey town, the building across from the RV dealership where you made your purchase. He pulls the overhead door down and locks it, then walks a half mile to a shitty little used car lot down the road. He hands $800 cash to a guy in a pit-stained shirt named Bob for a silver 2-door 1994 Hyundai Excel, something he normally wouldn’t be caught dead driving. He figures if he wouldn’t expect to be driving it, then you won’t expect him to be either.
The days are getting longer, so the sun hasn’t dipped below the treetops yet and it shines directly in his face as he makes the 35 minute drive in after-work traffic to get to the address he scribbled on a hotel notepad six days ago. He drives past the house and pulls his car into a bank parking lot across the street. He knows it’s still the right address because he can see your RV parked in the driveway.
It doesn’t take long before he sees a brand new, cherry-red truck, coming from the same direction he came from, pull into your driveway. The garage door opens and the truck pulls inside, shutting the door behind it. He sits there in the empty bank parking lot for two more hours but doesn’t see a thing in the house with the curtains drawn and doesn’t see anyone emerge from the house.
He notices a ring camera doorbell and signs in the garden advertising a security system. As the sun sets and darkness overtakes the neighborhood he sees shadows moving inside the house, more than one shadow, more than one person. You’re not in that house alone. Do you have roommates? Maybe you’re staying with family. He decides that he has some more work to do tonight, he can’t run in there and have a reunion with you like he wanted.
He has to be careful, planned, and meticulous. Not sloppy, like you once implied.
Joel checks into a hotel for the night and searches the county tax records, finding that the house is deeded to a Carmela Caruso. He checks census records for this Carmela and finds she was born in 1936 and is still alive. By his calculations she could maybe be your grandmother. That could be the other shadow in the house. He closes his laptop but something still itches at the back of his mind.
He spends the night tossing and turning, feeling like there is something just outside the grasp of his mind, feeling like he can’t remember something important, feeling weighted as if his limbs were too heavy for his body. Just as the rising sun casts a golden band of light through the slit in the curtain, he sits straight up in the hotel bed. The fog of his subconscious has finally coalesced into a solid thought.
He takes his time preparing for his day, getting lost in thought in the shower, combing back his wet, silver-flecked curls, trimming up his unruly facial hair, and using the hotel iron to make his least-dirty shirt unwrinkled and presentable. He pulls his beat up coupe into the RV dealership, walking around the building slowly to find what he's looking for. As he rounds the back by the service entrance he sees it, a gleaming, cherry-red pickup truck.
He marches inside, typing furiously on his phone, confirming his suspicions with a dmv look-up. His brows furrow as he walks past the front desk, avoiding eye contact with the young woman sitting behind it. He passes by a sea of low-cubicle desks spread out on the sales floor and ignores several salesmen trying to get his attention as he continues scanning for a familiar face.
Finally he reaches the desk he's looking for. The nameplate sitting at the front reads ‘Vinnie Caruso.’ The fresh-faced man behind the desk looks up at him for a brief moment before jumping out of his chair. He has spiky blonde hair and bright hazel eyes, and he extends a pale, manicured hand to Joel, animatedly introducing himself.
He doesn't need to. Joel already knows who he is.
He's the salesman who sold you your new RV. He was touching you - shaking your hand - in the photograph on the website. He's the owner of the red truck in the parking lot, the one that’s registered at the same address where your RV is registered. He’s most likely the grandson of the owner of the house, with whom he shares a last name. He's the man who lives in the house that Joel thought was yours. He's the man who lives with you.
He's a fucking dead man.
Joel reaches his massive hand out and grips the other man’s much too firmly. Vinnie winces slightly from the unexpected pressure. This is the hand that shook yours, that touched you, that might touch you still. This hand that's attached to a tall, gangly, boy of a man. He looks like he can't even grow facial hair and he's touching you with this hand?
Realizing he's holding on too tight and too long for a normal handshake, Joel releases Vinnie's hand, watching as he subtly shakes it to restore blood flow.
Joel spends nearly an hour talking to this over-eager golden retriever about an RV he doesn’t even want, fists balled up and struggling not to grimace the entire time. Why are you living with this guy? Who is he? Is he a cousin? An old schoolmate? Your boyfriend? Do you like him? Are you letting him fuck you? He probably can't even make you come. Joel's face gets red hot with rage at the thought.
Joel isn't sure who this guy is to you but he's pretty sure that Vinnie has never choked you to death, so that's one thing he has going for him. Either way, he’s probably gonna die. Joel’s anger is palpable and Vinnie just has one of those faces you want to punch.
HER
You’re in the kitchen putting groceries away, nearing the end of your rope between listening to Carmela prattle on about the blue pills going missing and the security system panel beeping non-stop. That piece of shit system has been showing errors every day for a week and even though you asked your new housemate - Carmela’s skeezy grandson, Vinnie - to fix it, of course he didn’t.
What did he do instead? He somehow managed to convince his grandmother - AKA, you - to organize and host his birthday party this coming weekend. This motherfucker. He won’t shut up about all his friends meeting you and you’re absolutely sure he’s told them all that he’s fucking you. In his fucking dreams. You’ve found yourself gripping a knife and standing behind him at dinner too many times. You know you need to let off some steam but to add to your bad luck, you stepped outside this morning to find a tree branch had fallen right into the front window of your RV.
You cleaned up the branch and glass as best you can, covering the hole with some tarp, making sure Vinnie wouldn’t spot the broken window and offer to have the repair done at his dealership. You don’t exactly want your mobile kill-lab traipsed through by the yahoos at his job… who he also probably told he’s fucking you. Ew. To top it all off, it’s been exactly two months since Joel ran out on you and you swear that you’re just about ready to throw these overpriced eggs against the wall.
“I’ll call the pharmacy and the alarm company after lunch, okay Carmela?” you mutter, not wanting to lose your temper with the sweet old lady.
She hobbles to her recliner in the living room and waits for you to bring her soup, petting her yellowing maltese she lovingly calls Biscuit.
After eating lunch and getting into a verbal altercation with the pharmacist - who swears he gave Carmela her correct heart medication and not the allergy pills that are in her prescription bottle now - you dial the alarm company’s customer service number. You’re absentmindedly doing a reverse lookup to find the Pharmacist’s home address - for potential murder purposes - when the alarm company picks up and informs you that several windows and a door sensor have gone offline.
You’re told that the problem could be as simple as a battery issue or it could be network connectivity, which would require a technician. Since you’re quite technologically capable, the support representative helps you search through the security system’s independent network, which is supposed to function separately from the home’s wi-fi.
You notice the sensors that are showing errors aren’t communicating with the system, as they’re not listed as being connected to the security network. What is listed, however, are four devices labeled as cameras. This security system doesn’t have any fucking cameras. Did a neighbor accidentally put their wireless cameras on the wrong home network? Then you notice their network names.
What the fuck is KMbed??? Katherine Miller bedroom? Jesus Christ, did that fucking sleeze-bag Vinnie put a fucking camera in your room? You resist the urge to immediately storm upstairs and rip it off whatever perch this pervert placed it on and instead pull up your own camera feed. Obviously, you set up a camera in your room when you moved in, not necessarily because you didn’t trust the little old lady, but because you don’t trust anyone.
As you start going backwards in time through footage, you realize that in your annoyance at Biscuit’s constant running into your room and setting off the notifications coupled with your blind trust of Carmela’s inability to go up the stairs, that you hadn’t checked on any movement alerts in weeks. And there it is - eight days ago. In the darkness while you slept, a hulking figure entered your room and set up a tiny camera on a shelf nearly hidden behind the door.
This man you’re looking at is too broad to be Vinnie, looks to be too much of a man. Then you notice, after he places the camera the shadowy figure takes a moment to regard your sleeping form before turning to exit the room, favoring one of his legs ever so slightly. The leg you stuck a knife into the first time you met.
HIM
It was about 8pm on this otherwise quiet Saturday when Joel’s phone started going nuts, alerts on the cameras he placed surreptitiously around your house going off like crazy. He pulls up the feeds to see a dozen people scattered around the house, with more arriving every few minutes. He sees people are dressed up and carrying a gift, letting him know that this must be the birthday party he’s heard grumbles about all week. He watches for a little while but silences the notifications for a couple hours when he notices you don’t leave the kitchen table, remaining seated with the little old lady playing a card game.
It isn’t until almost midnight when he raises the lid of his laptop expecting to find the party over and everyone in bed, only to be met with an infuriating shock. The house appears empty of all guests, the garbage overflowing with paper plates, lights low, and soft music playing. You’re slow-dancing in the living room with that scrawny piece of shit, Vinnie, who has a drink in one hand and a handful of your ass in the other.
What. The. Fuck.
Nothing he has seen between the two of you in the last week has given him any indication he would be seeing what he’s still not sure he’s actually seeing right now. He checks the other cameras and increases the resolution, zooming in and also bringing his laptop too close to his face to make sure he’s correctly identified you. He thought you didn’t really like this guy, was sure he heard you muttering under your breath about him more than once. Then again, you do have a strange way of showing affection.
He’s debating on slamming the laptop shut while simultaneously acknowledging that absolutely nothing could rip his attention away from this scene right now. The song ends and you peel yourself out of Vinnie’s weak grip. He watches as you guide the boy backwards to sit on the couch and then - to his horror - sees you begin to peel off your clothes, revealing a lacy lingerie set that leaves little to the imagination, the outfit making both Joel’s and Vinnie’s jaws drop open.
He can hear a faint whisper that you utter about giving the young man his birthday gift before you take the red plastic cup out of Vinnie’s hand, and set it on the shelf right in front of the frame Joel placed the camera behind.
What. The. Fuck.
Joel can’t decide if he’s grateful for the blocked view or if he’d rather watch every movement you make to match the sounds he can still hear both of you making, letting them sear into his memory. The only saving grace for Joel’s own sanity is that whatever is happening on the other side of that plastic cup, thankfully only lasts a few minutes before he hears Vinnie coming to a quick climax.
He’s definitely going to fucking kill this guy now. There was a small window that existed where he was considering letting the guy live, but it has slammed shut now. Vinnie is going to die. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with you yet. For starters, he’s definitely going to make you watch as he kills your little boyfriend. Knowing you though, you might be into that. Maybe he’ll frame you for the murder, plant some evidence and lead the cops to the only obvious conclusion.
Maybe you lost your mind and killed Vinnie before taking your own-
The memory of you, lifeless on the cabin floor, flashes into his mind and he immediately dismisses the thought of killing you. Even as mad as he is, he knows he could never do that to you (again). You and him are the same kind of person. Devious. Detached. Dangerous. In fact, maybe he should leave Vinnie alone and see how long it takes you to get bored with him and poison his meatballs and marinara.
He needs a plan A, then he needs a plan B and a plan C. He’s already been messing with the old lady’s prescriptions, ready to replace her nightly pills with sleeping pills if he needs her to stay in bed, and has disabled several security sensors on points of ingress to the home. He dropped a large branch onto your RV’s front window and correctly assumed you wouldn’t take it right into the dealership to get fixed. He placed the hidden cameras and has been watching and waiting for the right moment for your reunion.
Now is the time. He can’t wait any longer. He has to get this right, he has to account for every possibility. He won’t let you catch him unprepared again, not now that he’s finally got a one-up on you.
.
THE SURPRISE - PART 2
Tagging some people who expressed interest in this series via reblogs or comments: @covetyou @auteurdelabre @iamasaddie @survivingandenduring @r1chgal @morallyinept @sheepdogchick3 @pedroswife69 @jenna-ortega @itsbrandy
*reblogs are VERY appreciated as I don't know how visible my blog is at the moment. Thank you to all my moots, readers, and future friends in advance🫶
thanks for the tag @iamasaddie - I actually am writing for the first time in MONTHS so I can share a piece.
rules: post the last line that you wrote and tag someone for every word in the line
ANOTHER peek of "The Surprise" - the third installment of my Serial Killer Joel Miller series. Yes, I've been working on writing this part for XX months... No, I don't know when I'll be done.
With the setting sun and the flaming cabin in your rearview, you check on the trackers you’d hidden in Joel’s old truck. You’re shocked to see that he’s already hit the Carolinas, heading north on 95 towards DC. That man has driven like a bat out of hell away from you, running like a man who knows he fucked up. He’s probably ugly-crying while driving, torturing himself thinking about what he did to you. God, you wish you could see him right now.
I'm not tagging a ton of people. I don't even know if my posts are being seen right now cuz my blog is currently dead in the water... (read why here)
@strang3lov3 @beefrobeefcal @covetyou @auteurdelabre
Final Sneak Peek reblog of The Surprise - WHICH WILL POST TOMORROW (Tuesday the 18th of Feb). You can read this - and all the other sneak peeks IN THEIR ENTIRETY... YAYYYYYY.
Vol. 3 *The Surprise* coming tomorrow
Catch Up Now 🌲🔪🩸
Vol. 1 The Hunted
Vol. 2 The Chase pt 1 pt 2
*reblogs are VERY appreciated as I don't know how visible my blog is at the moment. Thank you to all my moots, readers, and future friends in advance🫶
👀 additionally, I humbly request more dregs of the next serial killer part, pretty please. I miss my murder babies so much.
Thank you for your interest in our two favorite psychos baby bunnies. Here is a slightly redacted snippet of part 3 (The Surprise) in my Sanity is a Cozy Lie series - featuring everyone's favorite Serial Killer Joel 😍
Below is a wee little snippet from The Surprise - the upcoming part 3 of my Serial Killer Joel series (Sanity is a Cozy Lie). Warning: It's rated VasF - for Violent as Fuck. Previously posted snippet HERE.
He has one hand clutched at his neck, trying but failing to hold in all of the blood spurting out of his body. His eyes meet yours, wide and panicked, as his blood continues to spray all over the cabinets and the floor. You hear wet gurgles, and the scrabbling of his feet.
He’s kicking his feet slowly, trails in the blood indicating that he’s been attempting to get up but most likely slipping back down. Bloody, smeared handprints mark the bottom half of the cabinets where he pawed at them. There’s blood spattered on the oven door, sprayed across photos pinned with magnets to the fridge, and pooling on the linoleum floor underneath him.
He’s stopped moving now, his eyes still open but his gaze no longer piercing. You’re still standing in the doorway, mouth agape and staring down at his now-lifeless body. The floor creaks behind you slightly and you turn around slowly.
I did it all for love
I did it, all of this on no drugs
I did all of this sober
Don't you know I did it all for us?
👀😜🔪🩸
I'm gonna pretend I posted this b4 midnight. (It's still Wednesday somewhere)
This is a snippet from Part 3 (The Surprise) of my Serial Killer Joel series - Sanity is a Cozy Lie
Whatever you are to him, whatever that definition turns out to be, you are rooted deep. He can’t do anything but chase you at this point. He starts to wonder if these things he feels for you aren’t more akin to a disease, to an infection.
Maybe it’s not love, maybe this is a cancer of the mind. He’s been rendered helpless as you’ve dug deep and latched your claws in. He can’t stop waves of emotions washing over him all hours of the day, every day. Reminders of how he’s failed, how he always fails. You’re making him pick at scabs he thought were long-healed. You’re payback for every bad thing he’s ever done.
You’re Karma.
Thank you to @theywhowriteandknowthings for the tag, and for the help when I need it.
Thank you for the tag @theywhowriteandknowthings (and thank you to @gracieispunk who tagged me last Wednesday 💜)
Here is an (unedited, unbeta'd) little snippet of The Surprise, which is my upcoming third installment in:
Sanity is a Cozy Lie (Series)
DarkAU! SerialKiller!Joel Miller x f!reader
He’s being hyper-vigilant now, having become extremely paranoid given your history. He’s completely sure you’re not trailing behind him this time. It should be comforting to him. He should be able to relax. For the first time in decades he has an opportunity to put down roots, turn over a new leaf, and live a normal life. He has an opportunity before him to live a life without murder.
But could he even fit in a life like that? Is what drove him to living this way, doing what he’s done, out of his system? Just because the memory of his hands around your throat is haunting him doesn’t mean he’s a changed man. What’s more, he can’t organize his thoughts enough to decide what he should even do next because he can’t stop thinking of you.
He thinks of you underneath him, his hands gripping your hips, pushing into you slowly. The way you moaned and bit into his neck, a mark that by now has all but faded to nothing. He thinks of the longing way you looked at him. Then he remembers the way you looked at him with his hands gripping your neck, pushing his fingers into you slowly. Why didn’t you fight back? Did you believe he wouldn’t hurt you? Did you trust him?
I am working on this and hitting mental roadblocks but I really hope to get this out before the end of the month. Catch up on this series by checking out the pinned post on my page. Just like the first and second parts of this series, there will be dark twists and turns, murderous actions, and filthy smut. Bon Appétit!
no pressure tags: @gasolinerainbowpuddles @strang3lov3 @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @multiversed-daydreamer @covetyou participate if you want to! 💖
Don't blame me, love made me crazy
If it doesn't, you ain't doin' it right
Lord, save me, my drug is my baby
I'll be usin' for the rest of my life
If you read and liked my DarkAU! SerialKiller! Joel Miller story The Hunted - check out the follow up - The Chase (presented in two parts - both out now).
The Chase (Part 1) (Part 2)
My name is whatever you decide
And I'm just gonna call you mine
I'm insane, but I'm your baby
If you liked any of these stories, reblogs are appreciated 🖤🔪
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.
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: REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD! When you see "*****" - that indicates a POV switch. This is Part 1, at 5.4k words (there is almost no smut here - sorry), Part 2 will be slightly longer and will have smut.
He’s been on the run for almost five months now, though it feels longer. He saw the hungry look in your eyes when he suggested you let him go in order to chase after him again, but when the needle went into his neck he thought it was all over. Suffice to say that ever since he came-to in that empty garage he has been scrambling to stay two steps ahead of you.
What he realized too late was that you still weren’t planning on playing fair. You left his wallet but took his driver’s license. His actual driver’s license with his actual home address on it. He also realized you had searched through his truck when you cleared out his cabin, taking all of his ‘hunting supplies’. And finally, it struck him much later than it should have that the phone you kept waving in front of his face was his own phone, which you also took with you.
So you have the location of his northern cabin, his home address, and would probably be able to find his secondary southern cabin with his map data in his phone. All three were burned. He has to start from scratch, and he has to do it all while staying hidden. He decides to risk it and immediately heads home, thinking there’s a chance that if he drives through the night, he might beat you there. If you didn’t head there as soon as you left, and maybe you didn’t - thinking it was too obvious of a place to start - he has a shot.
He gets there and the house appears empty, no strange car in the driveway, doors locked the way he left them. He thinks things are looking up. Then he finds another note on his kitchen table. It says ‘Miss me yet?’ in a looser, more erratic handwriting scrawled in the middle of a large piece of paper. Covering the rest of the paper are lipstick prints smooched in varying shades and intensities. Jesus fuckin’ christ, he thinks, you are unhinged.
He checks the house carefully, looking in closets and under furniture, but you aren’t there. You must have been there for a little bit, there is evidence you made yourself some food and took a shower, but didn’t stick around. He gets right to work on his plan. He showers, his reflection and another lipstick print staring back at him from the vanity mirror. Then he spends the morning packing up anything he thinks he’ll need into boxes and totes and limping them out to his truck bed, his leg wound still fresh.
He doesn’t pack much, he’s not that sentimental. He packs up some old photo albums, all of his non-perishable food, a bunch of cash, a variety of clothes, a variety of weapons, and all of his camping supplies. While packing he notices that you spent enough time in the house to go through a lot of his things. You have stolen a bunch of his clothes, his toothbrush, some photos off his walls, and his pillow.
He makes some phone calls to arrange for the packing up and donating of the rest of the items in his house and then selling the house itself, making up some excuse about moving to his cabin permanently. He gives his forwarding contact number as the burner phone that he picked up at a Walmart halfway back home.
Neither of his cabins were purchased through ‘regular channels’ and his real name isn’t associated with either of them, so they should be safe to hold on to for now but as long as you know about them he can’t step foot near them. He gives his truck a very thorough once-over for tracking equipment and leaves his neighborhood.
That was 21 weeks and 3 days ago.
He was so careful at first. He would constantly check his mirrors to watch for following cars. He wouldn’t use any roadside motels or even register at campsites, preferring to drive deep into public land and boondock in his tent. He washed up and did his laundry in creeks, ate the canned food he’d packed up, and even utilized his boy scout skills - foraging for edible plants and hunting small game animals.
He would think about you constantly. Not even because he wanted to, but because he was constantly gripped by the panic that you were on his tail. One time he could have sworn he heard your voice calling his name as he leaned over a mountain stream, the bubbling water carrying it downstream. He saw movement across the water out of the corner of his eye, but when his head jerked up, all he could track was the tall dried grass swaying in the light breeze.
After a couple months of this behavior his food supply was completely tapped out. He was tired of sleeping on the ground, tired of washing his body in cold streams, and tired of hiding away like a prey animal. He got in his truck and drove for three straight days back to the deep south, so he could escape the cold of winter where he had been further north. Halfway through the second day he was so tired he almost pulled over to sleep, but then it was as if lightning jolted through his entire body when he thought he saw your face in a passing car. A double take relieved him of that fear, but it woke him up enough to keep him going for another day.
He checked into an old roadside inn that he drove by twice before stopping. He didn’t see any security system outside of the building. In the office he inquired about a room and noticed that they weren’t even using electronic equipment, instead keeping a written logbook of guests. He paid for a week in cash and when they asked for his ID, he handed them one of his fakes, watching as they copied the false information into their book.
The musty smell of the room didn’t bother him, nor did the squeaking of the ancient air conditioner in the window, nor did the roaches that scurried out of view when he turned on the bathroom light. This place was such an upgrade to what he’d been living with, it felt like the Ritz. He took one of the longest showers he’d ever taken, groaning with relief at the warm water and the clean feeling of his skin when he’d slathered it with soap.
He gave his hair a proper wash, the first in many weeks, and felt just how long it’d grown. He ran his fingers through his hair and remembered your fingers in his hair, scratching his skull and tugging at his curls. He remembered your mouth on his neck, and your moans in his ear, and before he could stop his thoughts, he was half hard in the shower. He refused to touch himself and give any merit to those thoughts of you, that his traitorous body was enjoying.
What he should have been thinking about is not what happened last time you caught him, but what might happen if you catch him again. He knows you’re crazy. He thinks you’re like him, at least that’s what you said. And if you’re anything like him, then he knows you’re very dangerous. He tried many times to search for you with the limited clues he had, using his data on his prepaid phone. But with almost nothing to go on, any attempt at getting additional information about you had been futile.
After a week of sleeping in scratchy sheets and listening to the sink drip all hours of the day, he’s ready to move on. He didn’t just stop somewhere for the relative comforts. He stopped somewhere in order to stop running. He wanted to stand still for a time, to see if you would pop up behind him. He wondered if he could catch your scent on the wind, sense any sign of you approaching. It was a week of silence, of stillness, of nothing. It was a week of peace.
His next weeks of travel took him to remote towns along back roads. He didn’t spend more than a couple nights in each place, but he was able to replenish his canned food stash, wash clothes at a laundromat, do some repairs on his truck, and replace some of his hunting and camping supplies that had worn out with use. He even splurged and got himself a new tent, the old one having sprung a leak a week before he stopped using it.
The pressure to stay hidden starts to lift off his shoulders. He feels less like a frightened baby gazelle being stalked by a lioness. He doesn’t feel the need to constantly check over his shoulder, fearing the ghost of your hot breath on the back of his neck. He is careful but he’s more relaxed. He decides to stick by the Gulf of Mexico, and travels between four states now, repeating stops in little out-of-the-way towns. He sees familiar faces, but finds that it benefits him.
In another life he was handy, taught by his dad to build things, to fix them, to take them apart and put them back together. He has struck up a deal with some of the motel owners to do some minor repairs when he stays there, in exchange for a reduced rate. He doesn’t have to go more than a week now without a hot shower. He helps repair machines at the laundromats in exchange for free laundry services, so now he doesn’t have to re-wear dirty clothes.
Several food markets give him boxes full of dented cans and near-expired products. He may wait until he looks dirty and unkempt enough and stop by these places to give them the impression that he’s struggling and homeless. It very well may be a working ruse, but it also might not be a total ruse. He kind of is struggling and homeless, thanks to you. It’s been almost two months of this routine. He still uses fake IDs, pays in cash, and doubles back when driving well-worn roads.
To further conserve his cash supply, he alternates between stopping at the motels and camping on public land. If he’s honest with himself it’s also not just about saving money. He isn’t ashamed to admit that he enjoys the amenities that the cheap little roadside stops provide as compared to the backwoods camping he endures, but his urges start to creep up on him when he’s around people for too long. Sticking himself in a tent all alone in the middle of the woods keeps him from killing anyone.
One afternoon last month he entered a small room in a dump outside of Lafayette, LA, where the guest complained the door wouldn’t lock properly. Without even needing the masterkey, he entered the empty room and was overwhelmed with the feminine smell that hit him immediately. An open suitcase laid on the bed, items of clothing draped along the side. A bottle of perfume, hand lotion, and lip gloss sat on the dresser next to the TV. Each item his eyes landed on was more tempting than the last.
How badly he wanted to snatch a piece of clothing, to pocket the perfume, to leave the lock unfixed so he could return to the room later and put his hands around the throat of the woman who was staying there. It took every ounce of self control to only fix the lock and leave empty-handed. He couldn’t give into his urges. He couldn’t draw any attention. He couldn’t risk you hearing about his lapse in judgment.
He checked out of the hotel that very day and drove into Mississippi to escape the scent of the room with the now-fixed lock. You were on his mind the entire drive. He hadn’t thought about you that much in a long time. But as he laid in his tent in the growing dark, his mind was consumed by you. He couldn’t remember what you smelled like, but he imagined. He barely got the chance to touch your skin last time, but he fantasized. He definitely recalled what you felt like; the weight of you bouncing on his lap, the wetness of your tight cunt. Your moans played on repeat in his mind as he, not for the first time, fucked his fist while dreaming of fucking you again.
The moniker little bird passes his lips as his cum spills over his hand, and he wonders if this delusion will ever come true. Will he get to fuck you again? Will he want to? Will you want to? What will happen if you catch him? Sex might be the last thing on your mind. You’re fucking crazy. You might just kill him. He might not even see it coming.
Yesterday he was working on the back of a dryer in a laundromat and he listened as a young man, trying to impress a young lady, explained how he was traveling alone in an old cargo van across the country to the grand canyon. He listened to this man confess everything you don’t want a stranger to know, only to have the girl giggle and walk away, excusing herself while admitting that she doesn’t speak English very well.
Joel took almost three hours to repair the dryer because he spent so much time kneeled behind it planning a way to inconspicuously kill the young idiot without alerting you or the authorities as to his activities. By the time he had a plan in place and emerged from behind the appliances, the young man was gone. He allowed common sense to return to him before he could run outside to seek the camper out, and carry out his desire for blood.
And that is how Joel finds himself setting up his tent again, this time in the Florida Panhandle. He has once again had to run away from his urges, which grow stronger with each passing week. It’s been almost five months since you left him in that rented storage garage and almost six months since he killed anyone. He hasn’t gone this long between kills in a very long time. He likes to think of himself as methodical and controlled, even though you called his cabin disgusting and implied he was sloppy.
But he has self control. He doesn’t kill on a whim, he plans it. He keeps it discreet. No cop has ever come knocking on his door. No one at all has. Except you. Even if you picked berries in his yard instead of knocking, you knew what you were doing. You were hunting him. He had no idea. He thought you were alone. He thought you were scared. He thought you were weak. He thought he was in control. How wrong he was.
And how wrong he is now. How wrong he’s been to have stopped looking over his shoulder. How wrong he’s been to let himself get comfortable with his surroundings. How wrong he’s been to ever doubt that you could catch up to him. Because as he turns around to reach for the rainfly to his tent, there you stand. Hands on your hips at the tailgate of his truck, smiling.
“Hi honey.”
*****
You watch him intake a quick breath, his face falling in dismay, his pupils dilating. It’s so obvious how hard he’s trying not to look at his rifle, which sits on the tailgate behind you, partially covered up by his tent’s rainfly. He makes a quick calculation as his brows knit on his forehead and you see him twitch forward an inch.
“Watch it now honey,” you point one finger to your hip, tilting your pelvis to display the 8” knife hanging from your belt. He freezes again and eyes the knife, then rolls his eyes. He must recognize it. You took it from his truck almost five months ago.
“Looks a little familiar,” he huffs.
“Does it? I had to replace the one I used to have…. left it somewhere a while back,” and you nod towards his leg. He winces, then looks at you for a moment before a cocky smile settles on his face. There’s that shit-eating grin you missed.
“I got myself a new one too,” and he tilts his own hip, showing off the sheathed knife hanging from his belt loop. “It’s ten inches.”
Your eyes go wide in a mocking display and you tsk your tongue against your teeth. “Oh honey, haven’t you heard? It’s not about size…. it’s about knowin’ what to do with it.”
His smile turns ugly. He’s feeling confident. He slowly reaches his hand back as he takes a step forward, muttering, “oh trust me I know what to do with it.”
You quickly reach your hand back into your waistband and grab the small revolver out, pointing it at him with a smile. “This look familiar too?” You ask him, mockingly, watching as he once again freezes in place. His smile is gone, replaced by an annoyed look as he registers that the gun you now have aimed at him also once belonged to him.
“You don’t really look happy to see me, honey.”
“Should I be?”
“Well the way we left things, I just thought you were gonna be missin’ me a lot more.” He is frozen still, watching you wide-eyed, struggling to find the words that will piss you off the least. He kind of looks scared shitless, this is amazing. He looks down for a moment and when he meets your eyes again, his whole face has softened.
“I did miss you sweetheart.”
There he is, there’s your charmer. You can’t help the smile that flashes across your face.
“Oh you did? You missed me?”
“All the time,” he nods slowly. “Every single day,” he adds. Now he’s pushing it. You try not to roll your eyes. You don’t want to be a brat after all this time apart.
“What’d you miss about me?”
Silence. Too long of a pause. He holds his breath and then begins to stutter something out. It’s too late. You’ve caught his lie.
“You didn’t miss me you fuckin’ liar. You’ve been runnin’ away from me for months,” you seethe.
“Runnin’ away was the point sweetheart,” he attempts to soothe you. “This game we’re playin’. Me: Mouse, You: Cat. That’s the game, right?”
Maybe he has a point. It still annoys you. Maybe it even hurts your feelings a little. Feelings?
“I just thought you’d be sufferin’ more than you seem to be,” you try not to sound whiny.
“I’ve been so busy sweetheart,” he coos.
“Busy?”
“Busy tryin’ to stay two steps ahead of yo-”
You can’t even help the laugh that bursts out of you. You clap your empty hand over your mouth but it’s too late. He’s got his face scrunched up, watching you too closely. Oops. You might as well tell him.
“That’s what you’ve been busy doin’? Is that what you think?”
The crease between his eyes deepens, his body settling into his stance while also visibly tensing up. He’s bracing for your next sentence.
“Were you two steps ahead of me washin’ your laundry in that creek in Wyoming?” He’s holding his breath. “Or what about when you finally came back to civilization in Arkansas? Man, you really needed that shower. You stunk to high heaven!” His eyes look like they could pop out of his head. “How many steps ahead of me did you think you were in Mississippi, when you got in your tent, turned off your lantern, and whispered little bird into the dark?”
“What the fuck?!?” he gasps out, expression wild. “What th- How long- Did-,” he can’t even think of what question to ask first. “Was I ever even one step ahead of you?” he says through clenched teeth.
You just shrug your shoulders, trying your best to hide your smile, fully enjoying his realization and subsequent freakout.
“I shoulda fuckin’ known you weren’t gonna play fair,” he’s shaking his head, scowling.
“The fuck you mean by that? Play fair?”
“You always had the upper hand. You haven’t been playin’ fair. AGAIN.”
You mockingly frown at him. “If I wasn’t playin’ fair then why didn’t I just hide under your bed and kill you when you went home?” Men always have something to fucking complain about.
“I dunno. Probably has to do with the fact you’re fuckin’ crazy.”
What the fuck did he just say? Your right eye twitches. Your fingers tighten on the revolver.
“You had all the advantages,” he continues. “You had my first and last name, my home address, and my fuckin’ cellphone. I don’t even know your first nam-”
“And whose fuckin’ fault is that?” you interrupt, absolutely livid.
He snaps his eyes to yours, noting your tone. “I-”
“You never asked me my fuckin’ name did you?” you snarl.
“I-”
“You didn’t. Never asked. It was all wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” you glower.
“That’s not exactly how I remember it goin’ down,” he mutters under his breath.
“What’s my fuckin’ name?” you take a step forward, white-knuckle gripping the gun now.
His eyes flicker between yours and the revolver in your hand.
Your eyes bore into his, growing wider and wider. His mouth opens and then shuts, his pupils fully dilated. He swallows loudly, the only sound he makes.
“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” you growl, pointing towards the passenger side with the gun.
He stiffly marches to the passenger side and plops himself on the seat, pulling the door closed once seated. You raise your leg and stop the door from closing with your foot.
“Wait a fuckin’ minute cowboy,” you mock. You grab handcuffs out of your back pocket with your free hand, the other still pointing the revolver at him. You toss him the handcuffs and warn him, “make ‘em tight, this ain’t my first rodeo.” He clicks them into place and then you double check them, giving each a couple more clicks until the metal is digging into his wrist bones.
Slamming the door closed and walking around the back, your arm sweeps his rainfly and his rifle off the tailgate onto the ground. You close and lock the back up, and round the truck to the driver’s side door. You look in through the window and make eye contact with him, his face expressionless. You know that getting into a small space with him is dangerous even if he’s handcuffed. Better not to have a gun for him to grab.
Well below the window and out of his eye-line, you flip the revolver open and let the loaded bullets fall into the grass. You flip it closed and tuck it back in your waistband at the small of your back. Opening the door, you climb in the driver’s seat. You hope he thinks it’s still loaded. Part of you even hopes he reaches for it, so you can punish him for his indiscretion.
He lied about missing you. He didn’t seem to be suffering without you. He looked like he was having fun playing cub scout in the woods. He called you crazy. He said you weren’t playing fair. He’s acting like a fucking victim when you gave him 21 weeks and 3 days more to live than you had originally planned. What an ungrateful fucking asshole. He has ruined this reunion.
*****
You drive in silence, which he takes as a bad sign. He can vaguely hear you grumbling under your breath through clenched teeth and see you white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. He thought he had you calm for a minute back there. He was smiling, you were smiling, things were looking up. And then he said something that pissed you off, right about when he said you weren’t playing fair. He’d insulted you and now you were taking him somewhere, probably to kill him.
He thinks about grabbing the wheel, about grabbing his knife, about going for the gun he’s pretty sure is back in your waistband. But he knows you have the knife on your left side and probably a syringe hidden somewhere waiting to stab him with if he makes the wrong move. He sits in silence during the short drive and feels slight relief when you pull his truck up to a cabin, smoke billowing out of the chimney. This is better than what he was expecting - a six foot hole in the ground.
You park the truck right outside the cabin’s front door, exit the vehicle and head inside, front door slamming behind you. You’ve left him out in the truck alone. He should run. But he’s handcuffed, and you have his truck keys. What did you do with his rifle? He slowly exits the truck cab and shuts the door as quietly as possible, watching for movement at the cabin’s door. He heads to the back of the truck and quickly realizes you’ve locked both the tailgate and the bed cap’s door closed. Looking through the windows he doesn’t see his rifle and assumes you left it at his campsite.
He might be willing to run for it with these handcuffs still on but he can’t leave everything in this truck and take off with no weapon at all. You’d catch him again in no time. He can’t run, he has nowhere else to go. He has to go inside the cabin, which of course you already knew and is the reason why you didn’t bother to drag him inside or babysit him until he came in.
He walks inside the front door and you immediately shout “SHOES!” His feet shuffle as he skids to a stop. You’re less than six feet away, at the sink of the small kitchen, not even bothering to turn and look at him. He toes his dirty boots off at the door as he looks around the small cabin, assessing the layout. To his left is a small couch, chair, and wood burning stove. Beyond the small sitting area is probably a bathroom and at the back of the cabin he sees a bunk bed through the open door.. On his right is the tiny kitchenette and directly in front of him sits a small dining table.
He can’t help but notice that sitting on top of the otherwise empty table is the small, shiny revolver. He can’t help but notice it because it’s glaringly obvious. It’s clearly not an accident. You left that there for him to see as soon as he entered the cabin, turning your back to entice him into grabbing it, probably so you could shoot him with a different gun you have tucked into your waistband now. It’s such an obvious trap, he’s actually insulted that you think he’s that stupid.
“Come ‘ere,” you snap, grabbing his attention.
He waits a beat but shuffles towards you, your back still turned. When he comes up behind you, you turn around, a knife in your hand. He flinches slightly and hopes you don’t notice. It’s a paring knife. You’re peeling potatoes. Knife still in your right hand you grab onto his handcuffs, pulling his arms up in front of him. You reach into your pocket with your other hand and produce the handcuff key, unlocking them without a word.
He resists the urge to rub at his wrists where the metal has been digging into his bones. You point towards the back, at the door he assumes is the bathroom, and then turn back to the sink. You still aren’t speaking. You must still be pissed but at least he’s still alive. He won’t test your patience. He heads into the bathroom and quietly closes the door behind him, noticing a cardboard box sitting on the toilet.
Inside the box is a change of clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, and shaving supplies. He recognizes all of them as items you stole from his home all those months ago. He showers, shaves, changes, and takes a deep breath to steel himself as he exits the bathroom. You remain at the kitchen sink, the gun remains on the table.
He stands just outside the bathroom, able to see the entire cabin from his vantage point. Behind him is the bedroom, bunk bed on one side of the room and a double bed on the other. He can’t help but notice his old pillow on the unmade side of the double bed, presumably where you’ve been sleeping. The larger room in front of him is filled with the smell of dinner, a large stockpot simmering on the stove.
He slowly makes his way into the kitchen, looking into the pot and seeing a creamy stew, green flecks rolling along the surface as it gently bubbles. He approaches you timidly and sees you’re still armed with a paring knife, slicing strawberries now. He takes a risk and places his hands on your hips. You still your movements, but don’t move to stop him.
He’s pretty sure you have a weapon stashed somewhere. He slowly moves his hands along your hips towards your belly button. No gun tucked in the front. He presses the front of his body up against the back of yours. He hopes it’s not obvious that he’s checking for a weapon at your back now. He feels nothing but your hair tickling his nose. He inhales. You smell like a campfire.
He presses his nose deeper into the back of your head and inhales again. He faintly smells the shampoo from the shower. He realizes he’s still gripping you at your stomach and pulling you into him while pressing himself into you. He also notices his growing erection is pressed against you, digging into your ass. You haven’t resumed your strawberry slicing but you haven’t stabbed him either, which is a surprise.
He lets go of his squeezing grip of you and puts his hands chastely back on your hips. He waits while you slowly resume your preparation of the last of the strawberries. Impulsively, he moves his head to the side of yours and noses around the shell of your ear, his freshly shaved face brushing against your cheek. He can’t stop himself from inhaling again, memorizing your scent.
Suddenly losing all control, he closes his eyes, kissing just below your ear and slowly down your neck. A part of his brain tells him to keep checking for weapons and so he moves one hand up to cup your breast and the other hand down, fingers dipping below your waistband. He hears the clatter of the knife being dropped in the sink and his eyes snap open, you turn in his arms to face him. You gently push him backwards, his arms dropping back to his sides.
“Dinner’s ready,” as you nod to the table, an obvious instruction to sit down.
You ladle the stew from the pot on the stove into two bowls, setting one down in front of him and the other down in front of you. You drop a spoon in each bowl and sit down across from him, the revolver now serving as the meal’s centerpiece. He still won’t look at it, knowing it’s a trap. You bring a spoonful to your lips, blowing on the steaming liquid.
“Eat,” you order, your eyes not leaving his.
He grabs the spoon and mimics you, blowing on the steaming soup before taking a loud slurp. It’s very hot. You’re still watching him. What even is this? He thought you were going to kill him but instead you brought him here. What are you doing? You made him shower. You implied he should shave. You cooked him dinner. He swallows another burning spoonful. Are you playing house? What the fuck is going on?
This is just part of your game. You’re fucking crazy.
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?
*****
NEXT PART: The Chase (Part 2)
**CABIN LAYOUT POST IF YOU'RE A VISUAL PERSON LIKE ME**
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’
SANITY IS A COZY LIE (SerialKiller!JoelMiller)
Favorite Bits
In celebration of volume 3 (The Surprise) coming out... I wanted to take a moment and reflect on what's come before it. These are my favorite parts of the three volumes of this series
What are your favorite moments from the first two volumes?
Vol. 3 coming soon
Catch Up Now 🌲🔪🩸
Vol. 1 The Hunted
Vol. 2 The Chase pt 1 pt 2
Found posted to a tree near a campsite in the Ozark National Forest (circa 2021):
A poster the FBI released when they were seeking information on what appears to be two people (working separately), wanted for questioning in several cases of missing and murdered persons.
jacobvanloon
ellievsbear
stormborns
dededos
2087
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner