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Summary: You tell Jack more of your story, bringing you two closer, the way you’ve wanted since the day you met him. (~4.4k)
Contents: 🔥 18+ nsfw, intentional drunk driving, past domestic violence, past murder, smut, p in v, oral sex (f receiving)
-Part 1 here: Death in the Desert-
-----
Jack doesn’t need to kill. But if he didn’t kill people, you wonder where it would all go.
Everything that builds up inside of him.
Passion and intellect. The wrongs of the world and injustices done to him that he can never correct. Love and hate. Disdain and desire.
It explodes out of the barrel of his rifle, going fast enough to kill.
The pleasure isn’t in the death. It’s in controlling someone else’s destiny.
Neither of you had a lot of say in your own, until the day you’d started killing.
“Where are you from?” You ask him as you lay next to him in his silver airstream, the desert wind blowing through the dark.
Jack’s chest lifts as he takes a big breath. Your head, resting on his ribcage, goes along for the ride.
“Let’s just say that I wanted to get away from it. I even tried my hand at becoming a military man. I thought they’d take me in a heartbeat, being of age and sound body. But part of their initial assessment was asking me who I was, and I don’t think they liked my answer.”
Jack’s hands are behind his head. He starts humming a tune, something he does a lot. He sings to himself. He has a beautiful voice. It’s smoother when he sings, lighter, and it’s even more hypnotic than when he talks.
You scrunch your body down the bed a little further to feel the musical rumble in his chest.
A chuckle rolls through him, making you smile. He drops one of his hands down to your body, rests his hand on top of yours, where they’re folded over your stomach.
“You like that, don’t you?” He says. “When I sing to you.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. “You sing for me? I thought you probably always did that.”
“I picked up my guitar from time to time before you came prowling around here with your questions and your pretty smell. A man needs to express his soul and there is no better way than music. But I confess that now, I save my songs for my desert rose.”
You close your eyes to keep tears from escaping you.
Jack always has words. Sharp ones, that make you wonder if he cares about anything or anyone, even you. Languid ones, that pick you up in their current, swirling and floating you along his brilliant mind. Complimentary ones that make your mouth go dry, your body hot, between your legs wet.
You’ve wondered, though, if that’s just his way. He means everything he says. But is it just running commentary? Do the people he kills hear the same things from him before their minds go dark forever?
He’s never tried to take your clothes off and lay you down.
His body wraps around yours sometimes when he’s teaching you to shoot desert junk at the makeshift range he’s made for you.
You’d started sleeping in his narrow bed together. An agreement you’d both come to without words or asking.
The first night, he’d twitched in his sleep so hard you’d woken him up to make sure he wasn’t having nightmares.
“Isn’t everything a nightmare?” He’d mumbled, giving your arm a squeeze and rolling over to go back to sleep.
Nighttimes are peaceful now, a few weeks later. Jack is still. You sleep deeply with his warmth and presence up against you. You let your body curl up to his when you sleep. He doesn’t do the same.
You hear Jack take in a big breath of air through his nose. “You smell that?”
It smells like sand and night air, the faintest whiff of dinner, which is why you’d opened the window in the first place. “No,” you say.
“Smells like a little kitten in heat,” Jack says. He taps his hand on the back of yours, which has somehow wandered down to the pocket of his jeans, playing with the curve of it, the thick seam running down toward something you’ve been dreaming about for awhile now.
You snatch your hand away and sit up. Your face gets so hot you wonder if the whites of your eyes are blushing.
Jack rubs his knuckles feather-light against your chin, then up and down the back of your neck. You don’t look at him.
“’S alright to want. It’s human nature. The bottom of the pyramid on which rests everything else in our lives. But like a pyramid built in the desert, you have to make sure you dig deep first, kitten. Or your foundation’s likely to shift and crack, likely to buckle at the first unbalanced stone that gets set down.”
You turn so you can drag your gaze back to his. He looks serious. His eyes are almost hard, scrutinizing you in the low light.
“What are you saying?” You ask.
“We’re not equals, you and I. And as much as I’d like to,” he pauses, lets his eyes wander from your face, down your neck, a heated path down your body. “It has been a long time for me. Not that I need to give in to the pleasures of the flesh much. Or rather, not the sexual ones,” he smiles with the corners of his mouth and waves his hand to the closet across from the bed. It’s where he keeps his rifle.
“’A man's desire is for the woman, but the woman's desire is rarely other than for the desire of the man,’” Jack says.
Your eyebrows draw together. “That’s not how I feel about you. Is that what you think of me?”
Jack’s fingers go firm around your chin, a little too hard. “Don’t go soft on me, kitten. We can’t afford that. Not on the eve of your return to that glorious stage.”
Your eyes cut again to the closet. You know what he wants from you.
You’d only ever killed the once, out of absolute necessity.
Jack pulls his body up slightly, so his face is closer to yours. His eyes are a little wild. “I may be a fool to think this, but I consider my life an enviable one. More so with you here. I don’t think my life unfair, as I once did. Everyone else being handed things that should be earned and appreciated.
“You, my brave desert rose, have given yourself to me. And I appreciate you. I feel that through my deeds, my misdeeds some might say, I have earned the right to have you. And you have me,” he laughs lowly, “yes, you certainly do. But if you want me to help you with that special ache, kitten, well, that is something you have to earn from me.”
“With blood,” you say.
“To put it crassly, yes.” Jack lets your chin go, smiles enough so you see the gold glinting out of his mouth. “What do you say, are you ready to tell me about the patricide that brought you to me?”
He grins at your surprised expression.
“I thought you'd want me to,” you say, not bothering to finish your sentence.
Jack laughs at you. “You are many wonderful things, but a good shot is not one of them. No, no, you’re not ready for that. Though I suspect your true nature will compel you sooner or later, to do as I do. I would simply like, as a change of pace, for you to do the talking.” He lays back down, casual as anything. “You tell me your misdeed, and it will be my absolute pleasure to make you purr.”
You suppose it was too good to be true, Jack never asking you details. You’d told him during your first conversation that you’d killed your father. Even though you’d hinted that it might be a lie, Jack had seen through you.
He pulls you back down to lay as you were, your head resting on his chest.
“We have all the time in the world. You’ve read about my little forays into the forest, about seven times now. You tell me about your one and we’ll be even,” he says.
He pulls one of your arms so it crosses over his body. His other arm cradles you, his hand pulling on your shirt, lifting it up inch by inch until he can touch your skin with his fingertips.
It’s hot, delicious torture, the way the callouses on his hands graze your side. You close your eyes, practically purring already.
“You fall asleep?” Jack says. “I do believe I’ve lost my touch.”
“No, I’m awake. Just surprised. I’ve never heard you quiet for so long,” you joke with him.
He pinches the thin skin along your ribs, making you laugh. “Don’t make me tell you to go cut a switch. You’d walk for forty miles out here and not find one big enough to tan your delicious backside with.”
“I got my father drunk and encouraged him to drive,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “We were out here in the desert. I was helping my father study a particular flower he was writing a paper on. There was no one else around for more than a hundred miles. I kept handing my father the bottle of vodka until it was almost gone. Made it sound like he’d be fine to run into town for more. The actual road was a good fifteen miles away, though. I was counting on him meeting one of the boulders or rocky outcrops along the way. And he did.”
Jack runs his hand softly along your ribcage, catching just the underside of one of your breasts.
“My father was smart. Not brilliant or with wild theories about the bigger picture like you. But he was smart enough to not get caught doing all the things he used to do to my mother and me. Which meant he’d never stop.”
You’d barely been able to write notes for your father, out here on that last trip. He’d twisted your wrist the night before for not bringing him a drink fast enough. Your mother had been too bruised and beaten to get out of bed and say goodbye to you the morning you’d left.
Jack’s hand stills. He gently moves his body away from yours so he can lay on his side next to you. You run your hand over his face, brush the hair away so you can get a good look at his tan skin, the lines around his eyes.
“You’re handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you how fucking handsome you are?”
Jack grins.
“I don’t think I wanted to kill him,” you say. “I just wanted him dead.”
Jack touches the tip of his finger to the tip of your nose. He smiles at you, wide and shiny . “I understand you perfectly.”
“I thought it would make me feel safe, hearing him crash his truck into a bunch of desert boulders, seeing his body in the cab. He was already dead, but we were so far from anything that he would’ve died waiting for help anyway.” You close your eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe.”
Jack’s hand brushes back under your shirt, over your side, caressing your skin.
“I can’t promise you’re safe with me, I’m sorry,” Jack says. “I cannot protect you from the bad men in the world. The good news, however, is that many would consider me one of those men. And I have no intention of harming you, ever. But, I am not an easy man to live with. This you’ve learned, yes?”
You open your eyes, surprised that they’re dry. You nod.
Jack’s thumb swipes gently over your bottom lip. “And a promise is a promise. But not tonight, I think. Tonight we’re going to sleep in this desert. You and I. Strangers to the world, but not to each other. Not anymore.”
He leans forward and touches his lips to yours. Just a quick, solid press and one more at the corner of your mouth. You want more from him, so much that it makes your stomach hurt.
Jack reaches up and shuts off the light. He lays back on the bed. You curl up facing away from him.
You won’t sleep. Not with Jack on one side of you, fueling your dreams, and his gun in the closet on the other side, reminding you of the things you have in common.
You tuck your hands under your head, starting to count in your head from zero. Maybe somewhere around ten thousand, your body will give up and you won’t have to think until the sun rises again.
You feel Jack shift, turn. One of his arms wraps around you, and before your breath can hitch in your throat, his body presses warm and solid against your back. He threads his other arm under your pillow so he can wrap himself around you, tangle his leg in between yours.
You fall asleep with Jack’s lips at the back of your neck, and no, it’s not safety. But it’s damn close.
*****
You wake up with Jack’s morning erection nestled between your ass cheeks. You feel his steady, shallow breath on you. Normally you can get out of bed without waking him, but he’d kept you tucked into him all night and you can’t move now. Not that you want to.
His hands are solidly around you, still and warm. You can’t begin to imagine the things his hands have done. But you know what you’d like them to do.
“You’re having dirty thoughts about me. I can hear ‘em,” Jack says, clearing his throat as he wakes. His fingers catch the top edge of your underwear and slip over top, down until he can feel how wet your underwear is between your legs. A byproduct of waking up feeling him hot and hard behind you.
His nose nudges over the back of your head. “You always wake up like this? Boiling hot and spilling over. My little jungle oasis in the middle of the desert. I could get used to that. I do believe I could get used to that very quickly.”
He’s in a good mood this morning. No surprise. He has everything he wants out of you: your stories, your devotion, love probably (but you don’t want to think about that one too hard).
“You promised,” you say, trying to rub yourself harder on his infuriatingly-still hand.
“I did. I don’t make promises lightly. You should know what you’re getting into, though, kitten,” he says, dragging his hand against you until he’s just touching your clit with the end of his middle finger. He withdraws his hand and you groan in frustration.
You try to turn to face him, but he holds you, keeping your back to him. His hips move slightly, though. He’s thick, big. Your mouth waters.
Impatient now, you rub your backside against him. “Kitten. Rose. You always call me soft things, Jack. I don’t think I am. I feel like I’m on fire. Just fuck me please.”
He hooks his thumb into your underwear and helps you drag them down your thighs. You kick them off as you hear him undo the jeans he’d fallen asleep in.
“Parts of you are soft, kitten,” he says, as you both undress the rest of the way. “I’m looking forward to living the rest of my days buried in that softness. But there is no part of me that’s soft. Remember that. I won’t be any softer just because I’m at my most vulnerable. I am exactly the man that circumstances have created me. Whether I’m taking life, or putting the stuff of life inside of you.”
You feel the head of his cock poke between your legs.
Jack chuckles. “You are the wettest thing for miles around. Oh, kitten, you’ve been in need for a long time now, haven’t you.”
“Yes, please,” you beg him.
He leans his head forward so his breath feathers along your ear. He lays his hand on your shoulder, telling you without words to hold still as he lines himself up with your wet heat. He slides his tip back and forth over you. More torture. You whine.
“I like that sound. You suffering for me. Don't get hysterical, I'll give you what you need.” He pushes against you, not enough to split you open for him, but enough to make you moan again.
He grabs your chin and turns your head, kissing you and shoving his tongue deep inside of your mouth as he pushes again. This time the head of his cock pops inside of you and your lips go slack. Jack licks around the inside of your mouth, sucks on your lips.
He pushes into you, the thick length of his cock stretching you wide. You try to relax, but your body won’t let you. It’s excited, having anticipated this for weeks.
Jack pauses about halfway in. “You’ve been so good, kitten. I know you’ve wanted to touch yourself at night. Lying here in the dark next to me. But you don’t. Do you know how desperate you really are? Do you know your body moves against me in your sleep? Do you get off to that, in your dreams?”
He pulls out slightly, dragging the head of his cock back through you.
“A perfectly formed desert rose, with the yearnings of a common whore,” Jack says roughly, thrusting back into you, all the way this time. You gasp, your body pulling away at the sudden intrusion, even though you want him more than air.
Jack pulls you back down on him.
It’s been awhile for you and his thick cock burns slightly at your entrance, your skin stretched and barely holding, with no choice but to accommodate him.
No, he’s not going easy on you. But if you’d wanted easy, you would never have come looking for him in the first place.
He starts fucking you, hard and sharp, snapping his hips up, pulling you down, fucking your cunt over him like his pleasure is all you're good for. Somehow, it's exactly what you've always wanted.
You reach back and grab onto his hair. His teeth bite into your shoulder, might be breaking the skin. Your fingers curl, grabbing harder as you urge him to use your body.
He rolls so you’re under him, a better position to fuck to you from behind, pounding himself into you over and over. You have no idea when you started coming, but he’s making it impossible for your body to come back down. Harder and harder. Keeping your cunt seizing and tightening on him, the rest of your muscles taut and ready to break.
You try to push yourself up, give yourself some leverage, but Jack pushes you back down. You let him give you that, let him give you the freedom to do nothing more than be his. Nothing more than one, constant, crying, shaking orgasm.
You can’t feel anything but the friction of his cock inside of you, Jack’s hand pushing between your shoulder blades as his pace goes frantic, uneven. You want to see his face. Jack out of control, unable to think his beautiful thoughts, lost in you.
He comes with a loud growl, filling the trailer with the sound of him, just like he fills you with his cum, hot and wet. He’s so far inside of you, so big, you feel him leaking out, every squeeze of your cunt milking more out of him, just for it to drip out onto your thighs and the sheets below you.
He shudders as he finishes coming, letting his hand ease up. You take a big breath of air and let your body relax.
You glance back at him.
His eyes are closed, pillowy lips slightly parted. His long hair is sweaty and matted against his face. His hips roll again, his body still wanting you, even as his face winces slightly at how sensitive he must be.
You reach down and grab your t-shirt from where you’d tossed it on the floor, pushing it under your body to catch most of what you know will flood out. Jack waits patiently, letting himself go softer inside of you.
He hums a quiet tune as he pulls out, the sound catching in his throat at that moment when you’re not connected anymore.
You think he’s going to get off the bed, begin his morning routine: start the kettle, a quick wash in the water shack next to the trailer, dry off in the sun, clothes, make the coffee, clean his gun outside at the table.
Instead, his eyes are more relaxed than you’ve ever see them. Crinkly and warm at the corners. He helps you roll back over and settles his body on top of yours, taking care not to lay too heavily on you.
You lift your head and kiss him. He briefly hesitates, startled, before he kisses you back. It’s slow and perfect. As sweet on your lips as the harsh reminder of him between your legs, an almost too-much ache from how hard you’d let him be with you.
As if he can read your thoughts, like he often can, he uses his hand to set your head back down on the bed gently.
“You’re okay now, aren’t you.” He says, more of a statement than a question. “I treated you just right, didn’t I?”
“Yes, just right,” you smile, still hazy.
He grins. “That’s as easy as I know how to go on a lover. And I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”
You reach up and tuck his hair behind his ears. “You can be harder. I can take it.”
Jack growls, bends his head. He rubs his cheek against yours. “My desert rose, you don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t know how beautiful you are. Don’t know how much I want to suck bruises on your neck, hold your hips down until my fingerprints are part of you, a scar or two on your soft skin. How fiercely I feel for you. How it would break my heart to see any mark on you.
“Only the sun is allowed to change the color of your skin, my beautiful, beautiful rose. I dare not allow myself to indulge. I know you’re not fragile, but I swear, I never want to see your spirit broken. Not even by me.”
You guide his head back so you can look him in the eyes. “I love you, Jack. And I’m already broken. I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Not if you accept me that way.”
Jack chuckles. “Accept you that way? I embrace you in any way you present yourself. Especially like this,” he runs the back of his hand down along your body. “My rose, my rose. With your strength and my cunning, we are unmatched.”
He bends to kiss you deeply. Then, his lips trace a line down your chin, your neck. He sucks on one of your nipples gently, biting a soft goodbye before he moves on to the other.
“I have big plans for us today,” he says, mouthing the words as he traces down your torso and stomach.
His eyes hold yours as he parts your legs wide and settles his head down between them. He licks his lips, just so you can watch, before he lays his tongue flat against the warm soreness of your cunt.
You bite your lip.
“Oh, kitten, I can’t let you throb and hurt all day.” He keeps his tongue soft as he gently licks the ache between your legs.
He moans into you, his tongue playing with your folds and the mix of fluids you still feel inside of you. His nose hits your clit in time with the up and down of his lips, dragging a syrupy sweet orgasm from you, slower than the soul-re-forming one from earlier.
Your body shakes, too tired from its prolonged contraction mere minutes ago to try and solidify again. You sob into the pillow, lifting your hips so Jack can bury his tongue inside of you, licking your walls and filling you with his sounds.
A few more soft swipes of his tongue and he retreats. This time, he does get out of bed. He turns on the little burner that runs on the solar he has set up on the roof of the trailer. He runs his hand through his hair.
“I’m going to take a cold shower. Don’t you move.” He points a finger at you. “I want to think about you laying in here, okay?”
You nod, rolling over on your side. “Hold on a sec.”
He walks back over to the bed with an impatient smile. He puts his hands on his hips and you try not to be distracted by him, a perfect height for you to see his still half-hard cock, to take it into your mouth. You could taste yourself on him, just like he’d tasted you earlier.
You look up at him. The look in his eyes tells you not to. He’s started his day already, and he likes things to go a certain way once the train leaves the station.
“Thank you,” you say. “Obviously for the wake-up, but for after too. You didn’t have to do that for me, with your mouth, I mean.”
His grin fades. “I don’t like your implication. Don’t let me hear it again,” he says firmly. “The way you should to be treated is clearly mine to demonstrate, since you think you don’t deserve better. I will disabuse you of the notion time and again. I insist on it.”
Your cheeks feel hot. He’s right. You feel guilt for how much pleasure he’d given you. “Okay then. But I do think you might have the wrong impression of yourself too,” you say.
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t like being corrected.
“You said, after we had sex, that was as soft as you could be. But then you did just about the softest thing a man can do for a woman,” you smile at him.
His irritated look dissolves. “Ah, well, aren’t you the clever one,” he says admiringly. “Very good, kitten. Very good. You know, you’re healing out here much faster than I anticipated. Must be the desert air.”
He raises his arms and stretches as best as he can in the low-ceilinged trailer.
Any healing you’d done is because of him. You both know it.
“I think you’re ready,” he says. He looks over at the kettle, switches it off just before it whistles at its deafening pitch.
“For what?” You ask.
Jack smiles at you, the predatory gleam you’d seen when you’d first met him.
“You make the coffee while I shower. We’ll talk it over.” He runs his hand over your head, then walks out the door, pausing to rest his hand on the frame and look back at you. “Today, we traipse off into the forest, Rosalind. I'm going to write a poem and hang it up for you. Hang it high from a tree branch. A poem about the beauty you've brought into my life. We just have to go out and find the lucky soul to be my pen and paper."
You all knew what you were doing, talking to me about this man... knowing I have a weakness for weirdos (and he's dirty and a murderer, which are not negatives). So, thank you for doing that.
*if you read this, you are shaking my hand that you will not put spoilers in comments or rb's*
Summary: You drive out to the desert looking for a killer. You find one, but it's not what either of you expected (~1.5k)
Contents: no smut, Jack gives reader female nickname, murder talk (nothing gory or explicit), kidnapping (but maybe not), just too much talking and way too many references to ‘As You Like It’ (don’t @ me for my shitty Shakespeare thank you!)
---
The legends are true. You can’t believe it as you drive your car up to the cluster of small buildings out in the middle of the desert.
It had taken you hours to drive out there, to this spot that the idiots on that true crime podcast had completely missed. They thought the serial killer who left shot and mangled bodies in the Mojave desert lived closer to L.A. You knew they were wrong.
In fact, having spent a lot of time out in this desert as a kid, walking around with your dad and later, just to have somewhere to think by yourself, you actually had a few guesses as to the area the killer might be in.
It had to be somewhere that hadn’t been searched. But close enough to hiking trails that people would wander through. Somewhere low enough to hide a place to live, and supplies stored.
Somewhere far enough that if he did have any victims at his home, no one would hear them scream.
You had almost missed the road into the gully. There were no tire tracks, but something about how the sand laid tingled at your base of your skull. There were no tracks or marks in it at all, nothing. Like someone had laid down a smooth blanket of sand to hide something.
You’d put your car in neutral and let gravity carry it silently down the road until you’d spotted the small outcrop of buildings in the distance. You hit the brakes gently to get a better look from a distance.
And then you heard a rifle cock at the open window of your car.
“Well, not often I receive a social call, but I am delighted to make your beautiful acquaintance,” a deep, gravelly voice says. “Turn your head. Let’s get a good look at you.”
You had no idea what you’d expected the Mojave Murderer to look like. Hadn’t truly believed you’d ever see him at all.
In some ways, this man looks like a desert serial killer. He’s a little dusty. His long, dark hair is tied back with a bandanna around his forehead and his smile is sharp, a glint of gold from his mouth. And the rifle. Definitely murder vibes.
But he’s unexpectedly handsome. His white shirt is clean enough and his shoulders are muscled and strong under the fabric. His deep, brown eyes don’t seem to sparkle with blood lust, but with interest.
You look at the compound, then back at him. You'd never get your car started and into reverse before he shot you dead.
“You're very expressive when you think. But we both know you're going to do exactly as I say. We’ll have a little chat around my table. That's all. Promise I’ll keep my hands to myself,” he says, backing up a couple of steps.
“And what about the gun? You keeping that to yourself or are you going to share a bullet with the back of my skull?” You ask.
He laughs, a raspy, almost stuttering sound. “Well, well, well, my dear Rosalind has wit. And grit to come out here all by her lonesome. And she does have the beauty.” The thick, wet tip of his tongue glides along his lips. “Yes, you do, Rosalind. Certainly are a sight for these poor, tired eyes. The desert, she is beauty, but she is nothing. I don't mean that as a slight to her, you understand. Her nothingness shows us who we are. I, for example, am merely a man, and as such, delight in filling my eyes with, well... one as captivating as yourself. But don’t try those tempting wiles on me. Oh no, we’re keeping this civilized. Give me your car keys.”
You slowly open your car door and step out into the fading orange desert sunlight. The wind’s picked up a little, blowing the tiniest bit of sand into your face as you walk back toward the silver airstream trailer and assorted other buildings. You’re grateful he’s made a windbreak as you sit down at his table and hand him your car keys.
He smiles at you and goes inside. He comes back unarmed, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses that used to be jam jars.
“You drink, Rosalind?” He asks, casual but calculating.
You shake your head. “Not unless you think I’m going to need it.”
“Now, I’m disappointed in you. Thinking the worst of me. Other than aiming my gun at you, which I have every right to do seeing as how you’re here for presumably nefarious purposes, I have done nothing but be a kind and gracious host. In fact, let me get you a drink of water. You sit here and consider showing me a little grace.” He picks up one of the glasses and goes to one of the shack-like buildings.
Without your car keys, you know you’ll have to play along. Exposure could kill you overnight, especially in your tank top and shorts.
The guy doesn’t seem like an idiot either.
In your anxiety, you have some trouble with his overly-verbal style. You get the impression that he wants you to think well of him, and yes, be a little afraid. He has the upper hand. He knows it.
“Call me Jack,” he says as he sets a glass of water down for you. Then, picks it back up and takes a sip himself. He gives you a little grin and sits back down, pouring himself a drink of whiskey. “If you came all the way out here to die, I am going to have to disappoint you.”
You fiddle with a dry gouge on the wooden tabletop, pulling at the splinters, almost hoping one of them drives itself under your fingernail. You try desperately to put into words something you can’t even fully think about.
Why had you come out here? Alone. Unarmed. Just you, your car, and as much stupidity as there are grains of sand.
“People are afraid to come out to this part of the desert because of you,” you say, picking up the already sweaty glass of water to take a drink. You try to match his relaxed posture, to will yourself to stay calm.
Jack tilts his head at you, a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips. “I would argue people are afraid of their fear. That’s the true reason I don’t usually have visitors to my little corner of the untouched wasteland. I don’t kill everyone I see, but no one gives me credit for that. Then again, I’m not saying you’re wrong either.” He smiles, takes a sip of his drink. You can almost feel how the golden liquid must burn down his throat.
“My dad spent his whole life studying desert ecosystems. This one in particular,” you say, watching Jack fix a pleasant look on his face. “He would’ve hated that no one gets to see how beautiful all of this is because they think coming out here is death.”
Jack’s eyes light up when he senses something he can sink his teeth into.
“Death, you say? Oh, Rosalind, no no no. I’m not death. You’ve simply met a fool in the forest. A motley fool.” He smiles. “I might give you a piece of advice, though. If you came out to my forest to tell me to stop enjoying the pastimes that fortune provides me, then I would caution you that fools do not often heed well-meaning words.”
Your heartbeat picks up. You can’t tell if his conversation is just that: conversation, or if it’s a warning to tread lighter on his ego. You look around at the desolation and decide that either way, you're a mouse caught in his trap.
Jack gives you an encouraging look.
“Can’t you pack up this collection of sandy salvage and haunt somewhere else? A different desert? An actual forest? Just, anywhere but here,” you say with a frown.
Jack taps his glass on the table, smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling at you in the dying light. “I might. I might just do that, Rosalind. I do believe that you’re about as interesting as I’m ever going to find out here.”
Can he see your fear? Probably. But strangely, it isn't only fear. You find yourself wanting to talk to him. To find out what goes on in his head. What he sees when he looks out at the world. If he shoots you, you'll never know.
Jack laughs at the scared, frustrated look on your face. “I told you I’m not going to kill you. You can take me at my word. I do have some honor. Though it may not resemble the shape that has been thrust upon it by the rest of the world, so caught up in appearances and ownership, looking back over your shoulder to see if someone is watching you walk away. I do have honor,” he lays his hand flat on his chest. “No harm will come to you while you’re under my care.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” you say slowly.
He grins. “When you came out here, you must have known there’d be no going back. One way or the other.” He looks at you expectantly.
The sun’s going down in earnest now. The shadows on Jack’s tan face give him a sinister look, even though his demeanor stays almost friendly. You finish the water in your glass, the gritty sand at the bottom rolling over your tongue. Like the desert wants to remind you where you're from, what you've gone through together. The desert and you.
“Your father, erudite and savvy as he is,” Jack leans back in his chair. “Is he going to come looking for us? Am I going to have to sleep next to my rifle like I’m camping out in bear country?”
You shake your head. “No, my father’s dead.”
Jack’s dark eyes hone in on yours.
Please, you silently beg him, ask.
You close your eyes against his strong, brutal gaze. Your pulse and blood go strangely calm. Like you finally know why you’d come out here. Why you’re sitting with the Mojave Murderer, agreeing to a bargain only he knows the terms of.
You open your eyes again. Whatever look Jack sees fades his smile into a seriousness you haven’t seen yet in your brief conversation. He’s not wearing a mask anymore. He looks at you with piercing honesty.
“What happened to your dear, departed father?” Jack asks quietly.
You take a breath and drop your mask too. “I killed him," you say. "I'll let you decide if that's true or not.”
Part 2: Death Comes for You (contains smut)
----
a/n: if you liked the ending, please don't put spoilers in any comments or rb's THANK YOU!!!! and yes, I do want to write a second part of this.
Summary: After Part 1- Murder Story, you deduce that the murderer you’ve been researching for your next book is your boyfriend, Jack.
Contents: 18+, knives and blood and sex (~1.8k)
:: monsterfuck-tober masterlist ::
*****
You’re shaking, but the more Jack growls at you to ‘put the knife down,’ the harder your sweaty hand grips the handle.
The salt and tears get in your eyes, but you’re afraid to close them. Afraid to blink.
You’ve been sleeping with a killer. Living with one.
You’re in love with the Mojave Murderer.
Jack grins, his expensive, black button-up rolled up to his elbows. Expensive pants. Expensive shoes. His Mercedes is parked in your driveway, outclassing the peaceful street you live on.
The Mojave Murderer is supposed to be a desert rat. Dusty. A loner.
He’s not supposed to be in Real Estate. Then again, you’ve never really seen Jack work. Only heard about it.
Fuck. It’s all been a lie.
“Don’t come any closer,” you say loudly. “I’ll fucking stab you.”
Jack has his hands palm-out to you, as if he’s not a threat. All your research, scattered over the floor of the living room, tells you differently.
Jack had come home early from ‘work’ with a pizza and a bottle of his favorite bourbon.
You hadn’t wanted to confront him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to call the police either. You’d been sitting on the floor crying when he’d found you.
Rather than looking horrified or angry when he’d seen that you’d figured him out, Jack had looked ecstatic. Thrilled. He still does.
“My sweet angel’s spitting fire tonight.” His dark eyes gleam at you in the lamplight. He licks his lips. “I have been captivated, watching you research my work. Not that my life was lacking direction before you, but it certainly lacked substance. Fulfilling, but in hindsight, very vapid. And I know, that you know, I don’t mean selling multi-million dollar houses to the rich and personality-absent. You've figured out that my true profession is somewhat more valuable to the world.
“I’m not saying it’s an ego thing, in fact, it’s almost the opposite. I’m proud of you. Watching you circle around me, trying to tighten your noose, watching you stay up until sunrise. You’ve been thinking about me day and night. And, well,” he chuckles, “I guess it is about my ego. But old Sigmund’ll have to forgive me if I don’t buy that whole ‘penis envy’ thing. No, my dear, it’s I, who envy you. My brilliant, brilliant woman.”
“Stop talking,” you shake your head. “You’re trying to talk me in circles.”
Jack stands straighter, scrutinizing you.
“I’m conversing with the only person on this God-forsaken blue and green ball of shit who I've ever, really, wanted to talk to. That’s all this is. Just talking.” His eyes flick to the knife, then back to your face. “You and I both know that even if you stabbed me to death. Even if you took that axe I gave you for your birthday as a little joke about manslaughter, and just-” you wince as he slaps the side of his head a few times, too hard, the sound echoing in the living room, “that I’d still be inside of your head. I’d still live in this house. I’d still reside in the marrow of your bones. I’d never give you up.”
You feel your breath hitch in your chest and try your hardest not to start sobbing again.
“So,” Jack says, one of his hands reaching out, “you’re a woman of logic. Reason. Reasonable, some might say. And aren’t you interested in my reason? In my reasons? In all your years of writing and researching, you never have talked to a real serial killer. Have you, my dear angel? No, you never did quite work up the courage to do that. And isn’t one of your pet ideas that people like me love to take credit? Love to share their little escapades?”
To your utter horror, Jack’s hand closes around the knife. The blade. He squeezes it, seemingly unaffected by the sharp edge digging into his flesh.
You feel your body go cold as you see the tan skin of Jack’s fist drip blood down onto the floor. You drop the knife. It clatters dully in the pool of red. It's so wet and shiny you can almost see your reflection in it.
Jack’s grinning when you look at him, when you back up as close to the wall as you can get. There’s madness in his eyes. Nothing of the man you thought you knew.
His bloody hand moves closer and you flinch, but it rests only on the wall by your head. You look the other way, the bloody hand-print already imprinted on your mind’s eye.
He leans in close. His breath smells like bourbon. His eyes are focused, hard.
“There are no ‘people like me.’ I’m not a serial killer in the traditional sense. I don’t get off on being a misanthropic genius. I’m not driven by insanity or blood lust or psychopathy. No. I’m driven by love. Love, my sweet angel, for you.”
His bloody hand lifts again, rests on the side of your face. You’re too terrified to move. But you feel the hot, sticky liquid on your skin, dripping from his veins and down your neck.
“You’ve said you love me, and I know that you mean it. I’m a man of too-many words, but of all my shortcomings, my inability to say out loud, what you mean to me, is my greatest failing. But I couldn’t. Not until you found my true nature. I only kill for you. I love you.”
You can’t help it. You start crying again. Too many emotions course through your body. They have nowhere to go but out. Jack pulls you into his arms, strokes your head, shushes you gently.
“I don’t want you to kill for me,” you say, words scrambled, blubbered around tears and spit and snot.
“It’s too late, angel. Far, far too late. We’re caught in that infinite death spiral, the two of us. A ballet of blood and history in the making.”
He pulls away enough to scan your face. He uses the hem of your shirt to wipe your face. He looks at you with an understanding gaze from under his heavy eyelids.
“My talent for killing and maiming, and your talent for writing about such things is fate.” He kisses your forehead. “It’s fate. The only thing that exists in this universe because it’s completely beyond our control. Don’t you want to write about us?”
You shake your head. Your thoughts are coming back to you, but it’s like your entire psyche has shifted. Warped just off its axis. You’ll never be the same after this.
You fist your hands in Jack’s shirt, straining the black fabric.
Jack kisses your bloody face, your mouth. His tongue digs between your lips, and you grip his shirt harder, harder, until you have enough material to rip it open. The sound of fabric and buttons and Jack’s grunts as he pulls both of you to the floor.
He lays down in the pool of his own blood, both of you tearing at each others’ clothes. You want him to give you as much pleasure as he has hurt. You want to feel something other than this pain and horror. You want to fuck him to death and then be buried alive with his corpse.
You help him pull down his pants, tearing them off his legs. When you move up his body to straddle him, the adrenaline in your body freezes in your veins.
Jack’s holding the knife. He'd picked it up while you were busy tearing your clothes off.
He looks almost gleeful, turning it in his hand with skilled, deft fingers.
He grins.
“Come here, angel.”
You push off him, your body ready to flee, but he fists his hand in your hair, pulling enough that you cry out.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, not much. I just want to demonstrate the dance that we’re currently engaged in. No, no, no,” he says as you struggle to get away.
You hit at him with your fists, but he keeps looking at you with an almost amused smirk.
Anything you do to him, you know he’s endured worse. It could be another lie, everything he told you about his past. The hurts he’s had to endure and recover from.
But you don’t think so.
Part of you, oh god, part of you thinks he’s not lying.
Or that he only lied about real estate.
His childhood. His admiration for you. His love.
Those things are real. You know it.
You know it.
Somehow, Jack’s incapable of lying. He deceived you, yes, but you follow his logic.
You know that when he said he'd ‘sold a house,’ he meant that he’d killed someone. Who knew what other codes were hidden in the regular life you'd thought you were living. A million moments pass through the filter of your new reality.
Everything is different.
One thing is the same.
Against everything you’d first thought when you’d put the pieces together this morning, when you realized your Jack wasn’t who you’d assumed he was, you still love him.
You stop fighting.
Jack smiles, lets go of your hair.
“I have to admit. I’ve always wanted to make love to you when we’re both covered in blood. I just didn’t think it would be mine,” he jokes. “But holding onto the business end of a knife is nothing to me. Nothing compared to what I have done and what I will do for you.”
He holds up the knife and you finish your journey up his body, your core sitting over his. Your thighs braced under you, ready to sink down onto him.
Jack flips the knife point-down, rests the sharp tip against the smooth, tan skin of his chest. He holds the handle. The bloody drip from the palm of his hand has stopped now, but the blade is still covered in it.
He looks up at you, that sweet madness that you recognize now as who he truly is.
“If you’re going to turn me in, then you might as well drive this knife right through my sternum. You’re the only one I’d trust to take me away from this mortal plane,” he growls. “But let me die inside of you.”
Your body still shakes. Not from fear, though.
If this is what Jack feels when he kills, some heavenly balance of ecstasy and sin, then he’s given you something priceless. Never, in your research, had anyone described anything like this.
He’s shifted your entire world, your entire perspective.
Jack’s not the monster. And neither are you.
It’s everyone else.
You reach down and grab his cock solidly in your hand, and let yourself down onto him, both of you moaning. He’s harder than he’s ever been. You flex the muscles of your cunt and Jack’s eyes roll back in his head, rendering him speechless for the first time in your memory.
He looks at you in utter bliss.
“This is the only way to die, angel. You have done me a great service,” he says.
You move your hips, gliding them over his, a rhythm your body knows, but your brain has new purpose now, new knowledge.
Your hand slides up his chest, to where the knife point has made a dot of blood on Jack’s skin. You grab the blade and ride him harder.
:: Previous Fic: My Girlfriend is a Werewolf (Jake) ::
:: Next Fic: The Duchess and Her Tentacle Lover (Leto) ::
So you know like, the trope of the serial killer dating a writer who writes novels about serial killers?
But the writer doesn't know their partner is the killer???
That but with Jack Mojave. It's all I can think about (not because I'm watching documentaries aslskshfbsi)
I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS IDEA!
Contents: no smut, fade to black, (<800 words)
Your office floor is littered with maps and newspaper clippings. You sit at the center, making a timeline. It’s how you start every project.
You’ve written 3 books so far, novelizations of actual serial killers and victims.
This one, however, is close to your heart.
He operates not far from where you live on the outskirts of Los Angeles. And they haven’t caught him yet. You know you should want the police to stop him, but the unsolved ones are always the most interesting.
You hear footsteps and look up.
“Hey, honey,” you say to Jack. He leans against the door frame, his hands in his black suit pants “How was your day?”
He walks in and bends down to kiss the top of your head. “I do believe I sold a house.”
You’d met Jack almost a year ago at an absolutely unbearable party in the hills. He said he was in high-end real estate. You started talking about houses near here that had famous murders happen in them and you’d fallen for his strange accent and hypnotizing brain right away.
He’d been living with you part-time for a few months. You’d asked him to move in for real, but he was still deciding. He worked odd hours and didn't want to disrupt your routine, he said.
As he kneels down to join you, you notice he has dirt under his fingernails.
“What’s all this?” he growls at you, distracting you back to your task.
“The Mojave Murderer,” you say.
Jack laughs, low and rumbling.
“What?” you ask, a smile on your face, though you don’t know why.
He runs a hand over his shaved head. “You never cease to amaze, that’s all. I’ve never heard of anyone with a nose for investigation like you, not outside of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. I do believe you could deduce everything about me with a single glance.”
“I don’t solve the murders, I just write about them,” you say.
You lay out the newspaper clippings in chronological order.
“He’s been quiet for awhile now,” you say. “They tend to do that if they don’t get caught. Then, they pop back up out of nowhere, and everyone wonders if it’s really the original or a copycat. Something I’m thinking of playing around with.”
“Mm-hmm, and the maps?” Jack asks.
“Where the bodies were found,” you say, having marked the desert map with red x’s. “But some of the locations are weird to me. I don’t know.”
“Well, consider me a cornfield.” Jack says. “For you, I am all ears.”
You pull the map over as Jack sits close to you. You set it next to the newspaper clippings.
“The first ones are a grouping here,” you point to the map. “The next ones are scattered. Looks pretty random. But, I happened to plot all this out on a topographic map. You see this?” You point to the question mark you’d made. “It’s a dip in the landscape. The Mojave isn’t as flat as people think it is. It has a lot of basins. On foot, all these bodies are pretty much the same distance from this one spot.”
Jack’s hand runs up your neck, warm and solid.
“Areas like this, way out there, might be BLM land, law enforcement can get in kind of a pissing match with each other over jurisdiction. I think it’s why the Mojave Murderer hasn’t been caught yet. Things keep slipping through the cracks. Sorry," you say with a smile, "you're usually the one going on monologues. I just get excited when I start a new book."
You see Jack shift around. His face nuzzles close to yours. “No, don't apologize. Hearing your brilliant mind at work has made me all kinds of aroused. I don’t suppose I could talk you into taking a brief pause? Perhaps to give a weary working man the kind of welcome he deserves when he comes home to his beautiful partner in life and love?”
It draws a smile out of you. “I could be talked into that.”
“Good.” Jack leans toward you, his hands on your arms.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he gently lays you back on the floor, right here in your office.
His teeth nip along your jaw line as his thick thigh slides between your legs.
“Are my intentions not clear enough?” He pushes up your shirt. “I want to make you come.”
“At least let me move my research.” But you’re already leaning into his touch, breathless.
His fingers find the waist band of your jeans, undoing them deftly. “Leave it. I’m sure the Mojave Murderer won’t mind.”
:: Part 2 here ::
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Hi firstly I'm a huge fan of yours. I wanted to know how you feel about Jack from Mojave. I can't get over the fact that Jack and Nathan almost share similar hairstyle. 🙈❤️😅
I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. These give the same energy to me:
I am not immune to the grungy desert charms of a mad genius serial killer. I like him a lot more than I like Garrett Hedlund’s character in Mojave.
I like Jack in all of his forms.
Stringy dirty hair, Red Dead npc energy, until he stalks out of the desert night to share a campfire and is cult-leader compelling, talking about Hamlet and Jesus. And black suit pink swim trunks little dog Jack, who murders a guy and takes over his house and pool, when all the guy wanted was to rent a motel room and exchange money for sexual favors.
I, like that poor unsuspecting man, find Jack alluring because he could make you dirty. Really dirty....
Shoving your face into the sand, both of your clothes off just enough for him to ram himself into you, thick fingers making purple bruises over your hip bones as he holds you so tight you’re afraid he’ll break you. But you want him to break you.
You saw the marks on his gun, the exact number of victims that were found dead in this exact stretch of desert.
But none of them had marks like yours. Not just the already painful ones on your thighs and hips, but the spots where Jack bit the skin around your neck until you bled, like a piece of jewelry he was bestowing on you. A shallow knife wound on your wrist where he’d hastily cut you free from your bonds so you could wrap your arms around him and urge him closer to you. His blood on your lips because the first time he kissed you, you’d bitten almost all the way through his fucking skin trying to get away. Until you discovered how much you loved the taste of him, the feel of his sweaty skin on yours, the way he grunted and moaned in your ear. The way he filled you perfectly, in a way you'd never felt in your entire life.
If you asked him to stop killing, he just might. But you'd never ask. It's part of what you need from him.
.....
That's how I feel about Jack from Mojave.
Although, I have a fondness for the white patch and Jack doesn't have it, while Nathan does.
I liked Pearl (2022) so so so much. All Old Hollywood references in music, cinematography, credits, even the way the characters talk... You can tell that it was made with huge love for the cinema history.
And Mia Goth's acting was insane, where's her Oscar? The way she managed to portray Pearl both as psychopathic killer and just a girl™.
I just fuck with this trilogy so hard, as Charli xcx said in her letterboxd review of Maxxxine.
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Il materiale di origine: Balibo Film Pty Ltd / Oscar Isaac on location in the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste for the filming of Balibo (shot in 2008). #myedit
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