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novaursa · 4 months ago

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The Queen's Command (2/2)

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- Summary: You came to Westeros to offer your services to the crown as a healer. And once the Dance starts and both Queens start to curry for your favor, you are forced to change the already written destiny of this war forever.

- Paring: Rhaenyra Targaryen/male!reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: Be aware of the time jumps.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @subjectac7 @isansstuff @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog

The night air on Driftmark was suffocating, the aftermath of Laena Velaryon’s funeral long overshadowed by the violence that had erupted between the children. The stone halls of High Tide, once somber in mourning, were now buzzing with fear and anger as lords, ladies, and guards gathered in the Great Hall, surrounding the injured prince.

Aemond sat on a stone bench, blood streaming down his face from the horrific wound where his eye had once been. Grand Maester Mellos hovered over him, his hands shaking slightly as he prepared his tools, the sharp tang of herbs and ointments filling the air. Viserys stood pale and helpless, watching over the scene with a deep sadness, while Alicent paced beside him, her face a mask of fury and concern.

Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys had arrived moments earlier, alerted by the chaos. The moment they saw Aemond’s bloodied face and the children huddled in fear and anger, it was clear the gravity of the situation had far outstripped any funeral rites. Corlys’s voice cut through the din as he barked orders to his guards.

“Go fetch him,” Corlys commanded, his tone grim. “Bring our healer.”

Rhaenys glanced at her husband, surprised but trusting. Corlys’ employment of a mysterious healer had always been a point of contention with Mellos and the other maesters, but he had proven his worth time and again. Now, with Aemond’s life hanging in the balance, Corlys wasn’t taking any chances.

The Kingsguard stood in a tense line, swords at their sides, unsure of what might happen next. The children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena—were still being held in check by guards, their faces pale as they watched the horror they had played a part in unfold. Luke’s face was stricken, his small hands covered in blood, shaking from the realization of what he had done.

Mellos looked up as he applied pressure to Aemond’s wound, muttering to the king, “We need to act quickly. The wound must be cleaned, stitched, or infection will take hold. I fear the eye is lost, Your Grace. There is nothing more I can do.”

Alicent, standing beside Viserys, her hands clutching each other tightly, looked frantic. Her son was maimed, his face forever changed. Her gaze flickered to Luke and Jace with seething anger. Before she could respond, the doors to the hall swung open, and the guards returned with you in tow.

You strode in, wearing your Asshaii robes, the dark fabrics catching the torchlight as you approached. The moment you entered, the room fell into a deep silence. All eyes were on you, and the tension ratcheted up even further. Your face was concealed behind your mask, as it always was, and your appearance—foreign, strange—made you stand out even more starkly against the richly-dressed nobles of Westeros.

Mellos straightened immediately, bristling at your arrival. “This is not necessary, Lord Corlys,” he said sharply, his eyes narrowing. “I have the situation under control. The boy’s eye must be treated properly, cleaned, and stitched before infection sets in. This man’s methods are… unorthodox.”

Corlys ignored the Maester’s protests, his voice calm but firm. “I trust my healer’s skills, Grand Maester. He has proven himself more than capable of saving lives where others have failed.”

You approached Aemond, your eyes flicking briefly over the prince’s injured face, assessing the situation with the calm detachment of a healer who had seen far worse wounds. Mellos, still standing over the boy, looked at you with open disdain, stepping in your way as you neared.

“The eye is gone,” Mellos said flatly. “There is no saving it. The boy will need to be stitched up before it festers. That is the only way.”

You did not respond to him, instead turning your attention fully to Aemond. Your voice was quiet but clear, laced with your distinct accent as you addressed the room. “The eye is not yet lost. I can save it, but only if I act now.”

A wave of surprise rippled through the room. Even Aemond, despite his pain, blinked up at you in disbelief. His mother, Alicent, took a step forward, her voice sharp with hope. “You can save his eye?”

Mellos scoffed, turning to Viserys and Otto, his voice rising with indignation. “This is madness. His methods defy the very will of the Seven! The wound is too severe—if we do not treat it in the traditional way, the boy could lose more than just his eye. Infection, fever—it could kill him!”

You stood firm, your hands steady and prepared. “I have seen injuries like this before. The methods I use are from Asshai, far beyond the knowledge of Westerosi maesters. I can save the eye if you allow me to work.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the King or the Hand to respond. Viserys looked torn, his eyes filled with uncertainty, but before he could speak, Alicent stepped forward. Her voice cut through the silence, firm and unyielding. “Let him do it.”

Otto Hightower stiffened immediately, his gaze darting toward his daughter. “Alicent—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice cold but resolute. “This is my son. If there is even a chance he can keep his eye, I will take it. Let him work.”

Otto frowned, his mouth tightening into a hard line, but he said nothing more. The decision had been made, and Alicent’s gaze had a fire in it that brooked no argument.

Mellos, clearly furious, stepped back, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line as he moved aside to let you through. “You will regret this,” he muttered under his breath, but no one responded.

You knelt beside Aemond, pulling your satchel open, and began to work quickly and methodically. The room fell into an uneasy silence as you applied a dark salve from the Shadowlands, your hands steady as you worked with a confidence born from experience. You could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you—Mellos watching like a hawk, Otto frowning in the background, and Alicent standing near, her gaze never leaving her son.

As you worked, Aemond hissed in pain, but he did not flinch. The boy was strong, and you could sense a resolve in him that reminded you of those you had treated on the battlefield—those who had survived even when the odds were stacked against them.

Minutes passed, tense and quiet, as you stitched the wound using thread coated with a special tincture. You worked with precision, ignoring the disapproving mutterings of Mellos nearby. Finally, you sat back, your work complete.

“The healing will take time,” you said, rising to your feet. “But his eye will recover.”

Alicent released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her relief evident. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

The doors to the hall slammed open with force, and in strode Rhaenyra and Daemon, their faces a mixture of worry and fury. They had clearly heard the commotion and rushed to see what had happened. Rhaenyra's eyes immediately fell on her children—Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena—who were standing apart from Aemond, looking shaken but defiant. She moved to them quickly, kneeling down to inspect them, her hands brushing over their faces and arms, making sure they were unharmed.

But then, as she glanced up, her eyes fell on you. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, her world stopped. She hadn’t expected to see you here, not after all this time—not after you had promised that your paths would cross again. Yet, here you were, standing over Aemond, your mask now removed, your dark and foreign features bathed in the flickering torchlight. The sight of you stirred something deep within her, a flood of emotions rushing through her heart.

Before Rhaenyra could speak, before she could ask why you had returned, Alicent’s voice cut through the air, sharp and venomous.

“Look at what your son has done to mine!” Alicent barked, her eyes blazing as she turned on Rhaenyra, her finger pointed toward Aemond, who still sat on the bench, his face bandaged, the remnants of blood on his cheek. “He has maimed Aemond! He will never be the same because of your boy.”

Rhaenyra’s shock turned to rage as she rose, her protective instincts flaring. But before she could speak, the children began to talk all at once, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mess of accusations and defenses.

“He stole Vhagar!” Jace shouted, his eyes wide with anger, his fists clenched at his sides.

“He called us bastards!” Luke added, his voice trembling with both fear and defiance.

“He has no right to Vhagar! She was our mother’s dragon!” Baela cried out, her face flushed with fury as Rhaena, standing beside her, nodded in agreement, her own tears threatening to spill.

The hall erupted in noise, the children’s voices mingling with the angry murmurs of the gathered nobles and guards. Rhaenyra’s hands tightened into fists at her sides, her eyes narrowing as she glared at Alicent. Daemon stood at her side, his eyes cold and dangerous as he surveyed the scene, his hand twitching toward his sword.

But before the situation could escalate further, you stepped forward, your calm, measured voice cutting through the chaos like a knife.

“Dragons cannot be stolen.”

The room fell into a sudden, stunned silence as all eyes turned to you. You met Rhaenyra’s gaze briefly before turning to Aemond, your expression neutral but supportive. “Vhagar chose him. Just as your dragons chose you,” you continued, your voice steady. “The bond between a dragon and rider is not something that can be taken by force. It is forged by something deeper.”

Aemond looked up at you, his good eye wide with surprise. For the first time since the incident, someone had spoken in his defense. Despite his injury, there was a spark of gratitude in his gaze as he listened to your words.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered with a mixture of emotions as she processed your defense of Aemond. Part of her bristled at the thought, but she knew you were right. Even in her anger, she could not deny the truth of your words.

You turned back to Aemond, your tone softening as you spoke to him directly. “You should rest, Prince Aemond. The wound will take time to heal.”

Aemond nodded slowly, still clearly in pain but comforted by your calm presence. You turned away then, making your way toward the door, your dark robes flowing behind you as you moved through the silent hall. As you passed by Mellos, you caught his muttering discontent under his breath, but you paid him no mind. His opinion no longer mattered.

Viserys, standing by the edge of the room, watched you go with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. As you passed him, he whispered, “Thank you,” his voice so low that only you could hear.

You offered the briefest of nods before slipping out of the hall, leaving behind a room full of tension and unfinished arguments. You knew the storm brewing within these walls was far from over, but for now, you had done your part. The rest would be up to them.

And as the door closed behind you, the weight of Rhaenyra’s gaze followed you out, her heart still racing from seeing you again after all these years.

Later that night, the corridors of Driftmark were quiet. You were alone, standing in a small antechamber, gazing out of the window into the dark sea. The events of the evening played on your mind, but you were used to such chaos. The court had always been a breeding ground for chaos and intrigue, and tonight had been no different.

The door creaked open softly behind you, but you didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Her presence was unmistakable. Queen Alicent’s footsteps were light, hesitant as she approached.

“Y/N,” she began, her voice low, almost uncertain.

You turned to face her, watching as she stood there, her fingers clutching the folds of her gown nervously. Her face was a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something she seemed to be struggling to put into words.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, her eyes lowering briefly before flicking back up to meet yours. “For what you did for Aemond. You saved his eye. I... I didn’t think it was possible, but you did it.”

You inclined your head slightly. “I was doing my job, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

Alicent’s lips pressed together, as though she had expected a different response, something more personal. There was an awkward pause as she seemed to weigh her next words carefully. You could see it—the conflict in her eyes, the weight of her father’s warnings, the judgment of the Faith. Yet there was something else there, too—something that had been stirring within her for far longer.

“I know why you were dismissed by the crown,” she admitted, her voice softer now, as if confessing a secret. “My father warned me about you. He said your methods were unnatural, that you were dangerous. And yet...” She trailed off, stepping closer, her eyes searching yours. “I watched you in court, when you served. I couldn’t help it. There was something about you. Something that I couldn’t ignore.”

Her hand, hesitant at first, slid up your arm. The touch was light, testing, as though she expected you to pull away. But you didn’t flinch. You stood still, your eyes steady as you watched her, understanding what she wanted, what had been stirring within her for years now.

“I was always drawn to you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if speaking the words aloud might break something fragile within her. “Even if it was against everything the Faith taught me. Everything my father said.”

You allowed her touch, her hand moving up your arm, her fingers brushing the edge of your robes. There was a tension between the two of you now, palpable and thick, and yet you didn’t move away. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, allowing her to continue.

Alicent’s breath hitched, her hand lingering at the edge of your robe, her fingers trembling slightly as they slid further up. Her gaze flickered with uncertainty, but also desire—desire that had been buried beneath layers of duty and repression for far too long.

“You don’t stop me,” she whispered, her voice almost accusing, though there was no heat behind it. Her other hand reached up, brushing against the edge of your collar, her fingers trembling slightly. “You let me...”

You tilted your head, your expression calm, though your eyes held hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “I understand what you want, Alicent,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. “I will not stop you. You’ve been bound by chains for far too long.”

Alicent swallowed hard, her breath shallow as she processed your words. Slowly, she began to disrobe herself, her fingers moving with deliberate slowness as she unclasped the brooch holding her gown together. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath, and she stepped closer to you, her eyes never leaving yours.

Her breath came in soft, uneven gasps as the gown fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. For a moment, she stood there, vulnerable, exposed in more ways than one, waiting for your reaction.

You remained still, your eyes studying her without judgment, your hands at your sides. The quiet understanding between you stretched on, the boundaries of propriety and duty long forgotten in the silence of the night. There was no need for words now. What was about to happen had been written long ago, a secret desire neither of you could deny any longer.

Alicent reached up, her fingers grazing your jaw, her touch tentative but filled with need. You did not pull away. Instead, you allowed her to explore this moment, to embrace what she had been too afraid to admit to herself for so long.

The moon hung low over Driftmark, casting its silver light through the windows of the chamber where you and Alicent stood in the quiet aftermath of your encounter. The fire in the hearth had burned low, embers crackling softly as the room filled with the muted sounds of fabric rustling. You pulled your robes over your shoulders, the dark cloth sliding easily into place as you fastened the ties and reached for your mask.

Alicent, still standing near the bed, dressed slowly, her mind seemingly far away. Her hands moved absently over the delicate fabric of her gown as she pulled it back into place, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. The silence between the two of you had settled into something heavy, and it lingered as you adjusted the mask over your face, returning to the familiar anonymity that had shielded you from the world for so long.

As you fastened the final strap, covering your features once more, Alicent finally spoke, her voice quiet but filled with uncertainty. "What happens now?"

You turned to face her, your eyes meeting hers through the shadow of the mask. For a moment, you simply regarded her, the vulnerability in her expression, the weight of everything that had passed between you still hanging in the air. There was no regret in her eyes, but there was something else—something fragile, like she was standing on the edge of a precipice and didn’t know what lay beyond.

“Now,” you said softly, “I leave.”

Alicent blinked, her brow furrowing slightly as she took a step closer. “You’re leaving? Where will you go?”

“Where I am needed next,” you replied, your voice calm and even, as if the answer had always been inevitable.

Alicent’s lips parted as she struggled with the reality of your words. “I can speak with my father. I can convince him, perhaps even convince Viserys. They could employ you again—bring you back into the court. Your skills could still be of use.”

But before she could continue, you raised a hand, cutting her off gently. “No,” you said, your voice firm but not unkind. “The crown is dead, Alicent. It is no longer something I need to serve.”

The words hung between you, stark and final, and you could see the flash of confusion in her eyes. She had spent so long within the walls of power, serving the whims of the crown, that the idea of someone simply walking away from it, choosing another path, seemed foreign to her. She stood there, searching your eyes, trying to understand.

“But...,” Alicent began, her voice faltering as she realized there was nothing she could say to change your mind. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” you said softly, taking a step toward the door, “that my time with the crown is over. I go where I am called now, and Driftmark, King’s Landing... they are no longer places for me.”

Alicent took a deep breath, her hand coming to rest against the frame of the bed as if she needed the support. “Will I ever see you again?”

You paused at the door, your hand resting on the handle as you turned back to face her one last time. The mask obscured your features, but your eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something unspoken between you.

“Perhaps,” you said quietly. “But our paths were never meant to follow the same course for long.”

With that, you opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, leaving the warmth of the chamber behind. The torches lining the halls flickered as you passed, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the silence.

Behind you, Alicent stood alone in the room, watching as the door slowly closed. The weight of the night, of what had transpired, pressed down on her as she stood there, feeling the chill of the empty space where you had once been. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though trying to hold onto something—something that had already slipped away.

And outside, the sea whispered against the shores of Driftmark, its endless rhythm a reminder that the world moved on, even when the heart wished to stay.

The wind howled around Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant, ever-present whisper of the sea. Within the stone walls of the castle, chaos reigned. Word had come from King’s Landing, brought by a raven in the dead of night—the news that shattered the fragile peace Rhaenyra had built around herself.

King Viserys was dead.

And the Hightowers had already acted, crowning Aegon the Elder as king, usurping the throne that rightfully belonged to her. The blow had struck deep, sending Rhaenyra into a state of shock so profound that her body had betrayed her. She went into early labor, her third child with Daemon, not yet due for weeks, now threatening to come into the world far too soon.

For three long, agonizing days, Rhaenyra labored. The cries of pain and anguish echoed through the halls of Dragonstone, casting a pall of anxiety over everyone within the castle. Daemon had not left her side, his face etched with worry as he paced outside her chambers, unable to do anything but listen to her suffering.

On the night of the third day, the storm that had been brewing over Dragonstone reached its peak, dark clouds swirling overhead, the rain coming down in sheets. Inside the dimly lit chamber, Rhaenyra writhed in pain, her body struggling against the birth that should not have come so soon. Maesters and midwives hovered over her, their hands trembling as they attempted to assist, but her strength was fading. And in her agony, her voice broke through the noise, crying out a name that hadn’t been spoken in years.

“Y/N!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and desperate, echoing through the stone walls. Her hand gripped the edge of the bed as another wave of pain wracked her body. “Y/N!”

Daemon, standing just outside the door, stiffened at the sound of the name. He glanced at the midwives who scurried in and out of the chamber, his jaw tightening. The name lingered in the air like a ghost, a reminder of someone he hadn’t seen in years—a shadow from Rhaenyra’s past.

Before he could make sense of the moment, one of his men rushed to him, breathless and soaked from the storm. “My lord,” the guard panted, “a ship just docked, and a figure... a masked and robed figure... arrived. He is asking for you.”

Daemon’s heart pounded in his chest as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. He turned sharply to the guard, his voice low and filled with tension. “Where is he?”

“On the beach, my lord. He came ashore alone. The crew stayed back.”

Without another word, Daemon stormed down the corridors of Dragonstone, his footsteps heavy with purpose. The rain was relentless as he stepped outside, the wind whipping his silver hair around his face, but he barely noticed. His focus was singular, his mind racing with the implications of what this could mean.

The beach was a blur of grey and white, the storm churning the sea into violent waves. And there, standing alone on the shore, was the figure Daemon had heard about. The robes were unmistakable—dark, flowing, and shadowed by the flickering light of the torches held by his men. The mask covered his face, just as it had years ago when Daemon had last seen him.

The healer from Asshai. Y/N.

Daemon approached quickly, his sword at his side, though his hand did not rest on the hilt. His eyes locked on the figure before him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice rough from days of sleepless worry. “Why now?”

You turned slowly to face him, your mask hiding the expression beneath, but your eyes gleamed in the torchlight. “I go where I am needed,” you said, your voice as calm and enigmatic as ever. “And she called for me.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. “She needs more than your tricks,” he said coldly, though there was a flicker of hope buried beneath the anger. “She’s been in labor for days, and the child—” His voice faltered, betraying the fear he rarely showed. “The child may not survive.”

You nodded once, stepping forward. “Take me to her.”

The storm raged on, but within the halls of Dragonstone, the tension was even more palpable. The midwives and maesters surrounding Rhaenyra barely noticed as you entered the room, your presence commanding without needing to say a word. All eyes turned to you, but none dared question your right to be there.

Daemon entered behind you, his gaze never leaving Rhaenyra’s trembling form on the bed. Her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her face, and her eyes fluttered with exhaustion. She looked up as you approached, her breath catching.

“Y/N...” she whispered, her voice weak but filled with relief. “You... came.”

You knelt by her side, your fingers brushing lightly over her forehead, feeling the fever that had taken hold of her. “You called for me,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the noise of the room. “And I am here.”

Rhaenyra’s lips trembled, her fingers reaching out to grasp yours weakly. “Save my child,” she begged, her eyes filled with desperation. “Please.”

You glanced briefly at Daemon, who stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes dark with worry. Then, you turned back to Rhaenyra, your voice steady. “I will do everything I can.”

As you began your work, the room fell into an uneasy silence, the storm outside roaring as you focused on the task at hand.

Daemon watched, his heart pounding as he placed his trust—once again—in the healer from Asshai.

The maesters and midwives stood by, their faces pale and uncertain, as they reluctantly stepped aside to allow you to approach Rhaenyra. The storm outside seemed to echo the turmoil within the room, the howling wind and crashing waves matching the chaotic emotions swirling around them all. The maesters exchanged uneasy glances, their rigid adherence to tradition conflicting with the reality of Rhaenyra's condition and your presence.

Your hands moved with calm precision, though the weight of the room’s eyes was heavy upon you. The midwives whispered among themselves, clearly uncomfortable with what was happening, but they dared not challenge you—not with Daemon standing nearby, his gaze dark and intense, a silent command that kept everyone in check.

The birth was long and painful. Rhaenyra’s cries echoed off the stone walls, her body wracked with exhaustion after days of labor. Daemon’s face, normally so controlled, was tight with worry as he watched her struggle, his fists clenched at his sides. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each moment pulling tighter on the threads of fate that bound them all together.

And then, in the oppressive silence that followed, the child came into the world.

You held the small, silent babe in your hands, her tiny body still and unnervingly quiet. The room seemed to hold its breath, the absence of a newborn’s cry weighing down on everyone like a leaden shroud. The silence was deafening.

“It’s a girl,” you said quietly, your voice cutting through the tension as you gently cradled the child in your arms.

Rhaenyra’s head turned weakly toward you, her face pale, eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. Daemon’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes fixed on the still form of his daughter. The maesters and midwives shifted nervously, their faces filled with dread.

“She’s not—” Grand Maester Gerardys began, but you cut him off with a calm but firm voice.

“Leave the room.”

The command was simple, but it hung in the air like a challenge. The maesters hesitated, Gerardys stepping forward as though to protest, but before he could say anything more, Rhaenyra’s voice, weak but filled with authority, spoke up.

“Go,” she ordered, her eyes sharp despite her exhaustion. “All of you. Leave us.”

The room fell silent once more, the tension crackling like lightning in the air. Daemon gave you a long, searching look, his face tight with uncertainty, but he nodded slowly. His hand lingered on Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turned to leave, his steps slow and reluctant. The others followed, filing out of the chamber one by one, the oppressive silence returning as the door closed behind them.

For hours, Daemon stood outside the chamber doors, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Grand Maester Gerardys stood beside him, his face stiff with skepticism and unease. The storm continued to rage outside, its fury mirrored by the fear that gnawed at Daemon’s heart.

“Whatever that man claims to be able to do,” Gerardys muttered, his voice tight with disbelief, “it is impossible. The child was born still. There is no—”

Before he could finish, a sharp, piercing cry filled the air.

Daemon’s head snapped toward the door, his heart pounding in his chest. The maester’s eyes widened in disbelief, his face paling as the newborn’s wails continued, clear and strong.

“That... that is not possible,” Gerardys stammered, his voice trembling with shock. But Daemon was already moving, his hand throwing the door open as he rushed back into the chamber.

Inside, the sight that greeted him was something no one could have expected. Rhaenyra lay in the bed, her body weak but her face alight with emotion as she cradled her newborn daughter in her arms. The small babe was very much alive, her tiny fists clenched as she cried out into the night, filling the room with the sound of life.

The midwives gasped in shock as they gathered near the door, their hands covering their mouths as they took in the miraculous sight. Even Gerardys, ever the skeptic, stood frozen in the doorway, his disbelief etched into his every feature.

Rhaenyra, tears in her eyes, looked up at Daemon as he approached the bed, her voice soft but filled with awe. “Her name is Visenya.”

Daemon stood there, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide as he stared at the tiny girl, alive and well, nestled in her mother’s arms. His gaze flickered to you, standing quietly in the corner of the room, your robes shadowed by the flickering light of the fire. He looked at you, bewildered, searching for some explanation—some answer to the impossible.

But your mask, as always, betrayed nothing.

You stood silently, watching as the room filled with wonder and disbelief, your role in the miracle already fading into the background. Visenya’s cries echoed around you, the sound of life returning to the hall. And as you moved toward the door, your part in the story complete, Daemon’s gaze followed you, questions burning in his eyes—but you offered no answers.

As you stepped out of the chamber and into the cold corridors of Dragonstone, the storm outside began to fade, leaving behind only the soft whisper of the sea and the distant cries of a newborn who had defied the odds to enter the world.

You stood by the hearth, your hand clutching a letter—its seal bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Hightower. The letter had arrived just hours ago, carried across the sea from King’s Landing. It bore a simple message, written in the elegant hand of Dowager Queen Alicent, summoning you to the capital.

The words echoed in your mind as you reread the letter one final time:

"I now have the power to employ you once more. Aegon, the rightful King, and Aemond both support my decision. Come to King’s Landing. Your place is with us."

With a flick of your wrist, you cast the letter into the fire. The paper curled and blackened as the flames consumed it, the message reduced to ash. You watched it burn without a word, your face expressionless behind your mask.

The sound of the door opening behind you pulled your attention away from the fire. You turned, your eyes narrowing slightly as you saw Rhaenyra step into the room. She was calm, her expression soft but thoughtful as she moved with the quiet grace that always seemed to surround her. Her silver hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her violet eyes held the weight of too many burdens.

You nodded in greeting, acknowledging her presence, but said nothing. She took a seat in one of the chairs by the hearth, her fingers tracing the armrests as she stared into the flames for a long moment. The firelight danced across her features, highlighting the exhaustion that lingered beneath her outward composure.

“I don��t know how to ever repay you,” she said quietly, her voice filled with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show. “For what you did for me, for my daughter.” She paused, glancing at you with an almost sad smile. “You refused every reward I offered.”

You stood silent for a moment before speaking, your voice low but steady. “I need nothing, Rhaenyra. I live to serve.”

Rhaenyra frowned at your response, her eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and concern. “You speak of service,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I wonder… who or what do you serve, truly?”

You didn’t respond immediately, the question hanging in the air between you. It was a question you had asked yourself many times, but the answer remained elusive, always just out of reach. Rhaenyra watched you closely, waiting, but when you offered no reply, she didn’t press. Instead, she sighed, her gaze softening.

“You abandoned me,” she said quietly, her words carrying the weight of years. “All those years ago, when you left the court. You left without a word, and I never saw you again.”

There was no accusation in her voice, only sadness. It was a wound that had never fully healed.

“I have abandoned many things in my life,” you replied, your voice even, though there was a hint of something deeper beneath it.

Rhaenyra rose from her chair, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps. When she was close enough to reach out, she did, her fingers brushing against the side of your masked face with a tenderness that had never dimmed over the years. The warmth of her touch was a stark contrast to the cold distance you often kept between yourself and the world.

“You will always have a place by my side,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with conviction. “You belong here, with me.”

For a moment, you stood there, her hand resting against your mask, her touch filled with affection and something more. The weight of your shared history pressed down on you, and the years you had spent apart suddenly felt insignificant compared to the bond that still tied you to her.

But just as quickly as she had come close, Rhaenyra pulled away, letting her hand fall back to her side. She gave you one last, lingering look before turning and leaving the room, her footsteps fading into the distance as the door closed softly behind her.

You were left alone once more, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

And now, you were faced with a choice.

On one side, there was Rhaenyra—the Black Queen, the woman who had just bared her heart to you, offering a place by her side in the fight for the throne. She had never forgotten you, never let go of the connection you shared, and now she was calling you back, offering you a role in her kingdom.

But on the other side, there was Alicent, waiting for you in King’s Landing. The Dowager Queen, who had always been drawn to you despite her father’s warnings, now had the power to bring you back into the fold. She had reached out to you, offering a place in Aegon’s court, with the support of both Aegon and Aemond behind her.

Two queens, two crowns. Two paths.

And now, the choice was yours to make.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x male reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x y/n #alicent hightower #alicent x reader #alicent x male reader #alicent x you #alicent x y/n #queen rhaenyra #hotd alicent #queen alicent #hotd rhaenyra

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 1 year ago

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The Hives - Two-Timing Touch and Broken Bones 2005

"Two-Timing Touch and Broken Bones" is the second single from the third studio album Tyrannosaurus Hives (2004) by Swedish rockband The Hives. The guitar riff is borrowed from a song by The Monkees 1966 hit "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone". The song was included on the soundtracks of the video games Madden NFL 2005 and MotoGP '06.

After gaining traction in Sweden through the 1990s, The Hives rose to worldwide prominence in the early 2000s during the garage rock revival. Their mainstream success came with the release of Veni Vidi Vicious (2000) and its single "Hate to Say I Told You So", considered their signature song. They are known for always dressing in matching black-and-white tuxedos and for their energetic and eccentric live shows, with critics hailing them as one of the best live rock bands of the last two decades. Some of their famous collaborations include hip-hop producer Timbaland on the track "Throw It On Me" from his 2007 album Shock Value (the band also featured in the track's music video), as well as the tracks "Time For Some Action" and "Windows" from N.E.R.D.'s 2008 album Seeing Sounds. "Two-Timing Touch and Broken Bones" recieved a total of 66,7% yes votes!

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#sweblr #finished #high yes #the hives #00s

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rastronomicals · 17 days ago

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7:45 PM EST January 6, 2025:

Minor Threat - "Steppin' Stone" From the album Complete Discography (1989)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Calling Minor threat "Straight Edge" seems both sufficient and insufficient. It works 'cause after all they invented the term, but it doesn't work because doing so lumps them in with a whole bunch of bands who were NOT as good as they, and with none who were.

On the other hand, even saying "East Coast Hardcore" has its issues, because through Rollins, the link between Black Flag and Minor Threat, West vs. East, was probably greater than the one that existed between Minor Threat and let's say, Bad Brains, who came from the same town

File under: First Wave East Coast Hardcore/Straight Edge

#Minor Threat #Complete Discography #Steppin' Stone

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semperamans · 6 months ago

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benny is back home n'he's missed you so much he may just have to fuck you over it!!!

warnings!!!!

benny is toxic! unprotected sex! benny is toxic! i didn't proof read it!!!! so there are probably so many mistakes!!!! n' this is LONG, so read at your own risk <3

despite its stillness, there is something deafening about the july air. there's nothing more to hear than night bird song as it falls over the slumbering city. gone are the rumbling engines on i-90 n'the chatter of women parading down the sidewalks. there are no babies gigglin', no ice cream trucks wailing, no sirens squwakin'. there's nothin' stirrin' in this humid night besides the rapid beat of your heart because, well, you shouldn't be here. you know that jus' as well as i do. you should be at home, sprawled beneath the ceiling fan, eyes closed, blissfully disconnected from the world, n'you're a good girl, so i'm sure that's what you would be doing had the shrill urgency of benny's call not woken you.

"hi baby," is what he breathed over the line, and despite the distance you could smell the jack daniels on his breath. "m'home." he had been home for a few days now. johnny had called you n'made you aware the second benny's wheels crossed the county line. and then you waited. and waited. and waited. and were your feelings hurt when benny didn't call? absolutely. by day three you were going insane. like mosquito-bitten legs, it was painfully hard to ignore the absence of his voice through the receiver. every purring engine had your head whipping 'round. every blonde head had your heart hammering, but it was never the right engine. never the right head. never benny. johnny'd tried to get you to come down to the clubhouse, but you didn't wanna look desperate (even though you were). it was just so hard to think about. all you could see in your mind's eye was benny splayed across a bar stool, lap empty, hand wrapped around a whiskey glass when it should've been around your throat.

"m'missin' you so much." you wouldn't have assumed he missed you much at all with how radio silent he'd been since leavin' over a month ago. your girls told you that if benny really cared he would make more of an effort - wouldn't run off whenever things other than his dick got hard - an' yeah, you knew this was likely true, but he was enigmatic and enticing and everything.

"wan' you to come see me."

you should've hung up the phone right then, but you didn't. and you definitely shouldn't've pulled a sleep shirt over your nightgown n'sneakers on your bare feet, but you did. now here you stand - peerin' up at benny's front door - tryin' to tell yourself it's all right. nothin' to be nervous over. but you were nervous, so you counted the steppin' stones - 14 - and then there he was.

he looked good, there was simply no denying it. when it was particularly hot, benny wore nothing beneath his colors n'tonight you could see his bare chest glistening with sweat from the glow of the porch light. moths and june bugs spun themselves dizzy 'round him, but he didn't flinch. his sights were set, smile wan and excited and focused on you.

"c'mere." benny's voice had a medicinal quality about it - you figured that out some time ago. his voice was a salve on sunburned skin. it was a cool mid-day rainstorm. it was enough to have your eyes flicking upward, your body moving forward, your mouth forming the shape of his name. "look at you," he practically purred. he seemed more coherent, which was great. you didn't like fuckin' benny when he was drunk - always fearin' it never meant the same as when he pressed himself into you sober. he held you at arms length, eyes traipsing the familiar paths his fingers and tongue had mapped repeatedly. "y'know, i could travel from here to fuckin' the ends of the universe n'never find a girl s'pretty as you."

"s'that what you're lookin' for when you leave?" the words escape your mouth before your brain can register the impact they will have, but benny doesn't seem all that deterred. he just shakes his head; half-hearted guilt tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lets ya go n'invites you inside. benny would never apologize for leavin'. that just wasn't his forte, but he'd make up for it. he always did.

the interior of benny's place is nicer than you'd expect n'it's all because johnny outright fuckin' refused to step foot in the place when benny'd first moved in. it was terrible, but now the trailer actually looks decent. s'not much: a small livin' space with a couch, a tiny kitchen, an even smaller bathroom, and a bedroom big enough for a few pieces of furniture, but it smells like benny: like motor oil and sandalwood and smoke and body wash and you wish they sold the scent in department stores because you'd buy up every bottle. it's the aroma you miss terribly when he runs. it's the scent you wish lasted just a bit longer on your bedsheets. it's now overwhelming as benny plods over, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. hands unoccupied, he has nothing better to do with them than wrap 'em 'round your waist, tuggin' you into his slick embrace. his chin fits so nicely atop your head n'he's always told you that you were meant to be. "fuck soulmates. i think god s'got a big ass puzzle n'he just, tears it up. throws the pieces here n'there. but me'n'you, baby? we're always gonna fit together. m'always gonna find you." he wouldn't need to find you if he didn't run but when you're pressed so snugly together like you are now - well - he could say anything and you'd agree.

"look at me, darlin'. wanna see those eyes again. missed 'em so much." n'when you do look at him, you wish you hadn't. he looks better (somehow) than the last time you saw him: skin so clear, eyes so bright, smile taken from a fuckin' toothpaste commercial. it's unfair how good god made such a bad boy look. "there's my girl." and damn if his voice doesn't sound even better.

a half-hearted hum rolls from the back of your throat. you want nothing more than to be his girl, but he'd never really allow that. never really allow you to get close enough and the hurt must register on your face because benny's takin' your cheeks between his palms, eyebrows furrowing.

"what's goin' on, baby?"

baby. the word sounds so good rolling off his tongue. you wanna be his baby more than anything, but you say "nothin'" cuz that's all this will ever be.

"doesn't seem like nothin'. tell me." you think about it. could you, rather, should you tell him? the words are there, right there. right on the tip of your tongue; i miss you. i've missed you. i so badly wanted to see you. i want to be more than the girl you call when you want to fuck. the words are so hot you want to spit them out, but you can't say those things n'likely will never be able to. the words are toxic. poison. those words would assassinate this arrangement n'as much as it hurts, you know deep down you'd rather have pieces of benny than none at all so instead of speaking you rise on your tip toes and press your lips against his.

kissing benny is something you could never tire of. it's the delicate bite of his perfect teeth on your pillowy lip that has you opening your mouth - inviting him in - begging him to take. it's the taste of mint and cigarettes and liquor that lingers on your tongue that makes you long for more. but benny pulls away first - always does - n'that's when you notice the wrinkle in his brow is gone because he is no longer concerned about what's racketing around your brain. no. he's had a sample, and now he wants the whole thing.

"c'mere." it's an impossible command. you're already so close - any closer and you would - benny dips slightly, circling your thighs with his arms, pushin' you atop the high-backed couch where you wobble and clutch onto him which makes him smile but then everything changes because "want another kiss. missed that mouth so much." and you collide in a spit-soaked show of affection sure to bruise the flesh now scraping so deliciously against his beard.

this is familiar to benny. he knows where to touch you. knows how to caress your skin as he peels the shirt from your flushed torso and pushes the thin straps of your nightgown down. you're soft. he's always loved that about you. your voice. your hair. your skin. so supple. and there are times benny's gotta stop himself. he's gotta repress that primal urge to take, to claim, to mark but it's hard so hard because you are so soft. his agile fingers float down your neck, relishing in the plume of perfume that billows out as your body contorts closer and closer and closer. you're so responsive: gasping in the right places, arching into his hands so perfectly. your dainty inhales fuel him. he wants to do more. wants to hear more.

"you're gonna let me fuck you right here, aren't ya?" benny asks, pulling back to gauge your reaction. "missed me so much you're gonna let me fuck you on this couch, eh?"

"you're the one who called me." you say, smile wide and knowing as you feel benny's cock twitch. his eyes turn molten lapis. he had called you. he had missed you. but he wouldn't say it. couldn't.

"awfully mouthy," he clucks, pressing his mouth into yours for another taste. "why don't y'use it for somethin' else?"

before you, benny'd never been a fan of oral sex. i mean, he'd come around to enjoyin' it thanks to johnny but, it wasn't high on his list 'til you started suckin' him off any and every chance you got. for a mouth belonging to such a precious gal, he never would have expected the sinful things you could make him feel. n'now, knelt before him, he can barely fight the urge to shove his dick in your mouth.

"s'pretty. always so pretty." you hum. you got him out of his jeans in record time and thank god because it's probably a million degrees in the goddamn trailer. now he's free; cock out, dripping precum and he can see the pride puffin' up your chest. no other girl could get 'em like this - could rile him up 'til his cock was thick and heavy and veiny and hot to the touch - no one but you n'at the first whisper of your fingers, his head rolls back. his precum is good lubrication, but you need more. could always use more, so up you come, crossing your cute little feet under your bum, and then - fuck - you lean forward and spit on his heated skin. yeah, benny thinks he may cum from that alone.

"touch me, doll. c'mon."

"shh," your fingers form a loose circle 'round the base of his cock. "i've got you."

"jesus christ," its the feel of your lips on his thighs and your fingers on his dick that makes him squeeze his eyes shut. he's got one fist balled at his side, the other tucks its way into your hair because he's gotta do something. anything.

"y've still got your christmas tree up, so, y'know, could be insensitive what with the holidays n'all. chirstimas in july." and despite the fact that you've got his pulsing length so wet and hard in your hand - benny fucking laughs.

"you're so -" but whatever adjective he had planned to use flies from his mind the moment your mouth covers him. all he can think about now is not cumming. you don't need to know that he hasn't fucked another woman since the last time he was balls deep in you. you don't need to know that he hasn't jerked off in god knows how long in preparation for this night. the only thing that you need to know is that he fuckin' loves this. he just lets you work. just relishes in the feeling of having you there. of having your mouth on him. it's so heavenly. cavernous yet tight. wet and warm and "fuck - oh fuck - stop."

and you do with no hesitation. you pull away so quickly that strands of saliva trickle down onto your tits. okay. maybe not jerking off wasn't the best idea, benny determines.

"did i do something wrong?" your voice is husky, eyes wide and slightly frightened and benny thinks he may love you.

"no." he shakes his head, grabs your arms, pulls you up. "no. fuck - i wanna fuck you." he brushes his palm across your cheek, wiping the spit and precum away. "want to fuck you right here. on the couch. c'mon," he maneuvers you around, makin' it to where his bare ass is on the couch and you're hoverin' above him, smiling so cutely at him he's sure he's gonna explode. you're so fucking cute that it nearly suffocates him.

"gimmie another kiss." he breathes, cupping your cheek once more. your lips meet in a cacophony of sighs. relief slackens your shoulders and now anticipation builds because you know what's coming.

"benny,"

"mm?"

"unless you have rubbers tucked in the cushions," you have to fight through his kisses. "you can't fuck me here."

the words marinate. the ceiling fan bats them around like a cat does to yarn and then benny finally responds.

"let me fuck you raw."

there are a hundred good reasons why it's a horrible idea, but you can't conjure a single fucking one as your head bobs in agreement.

"yeah?" perhaps christmas miracles are still valid in july because holy shit. "yeah?"

"please."

"come 'ere then."

you're obedient. benny loves that about you. seconds later you're spreading your legs, shimmering with sweat as you fight to maintain your balance n'you look so hungry - so eager to please - so pretty n'he can feel your wetness seeping onto his bare thigh as you pepper tender kisses along his chest. you want this. you want it just as badly as he does. he can tell. those preening noises comin' from the back of your throat and the bite of your nails into his shoulder are the only things grounding him to this moment. he feels so light - like he could fuckin' float if you weren't sat atop him - but there is work to do. a certain set of things that need to be done before he can spear you on his cock.

"gonna stretch you open first," he tells you, pushing your hip back but you don't budge. your head shakes, lower lip juts out. no.

"i wanna feel it." you say, voice almost a whine. you're tired of waiting. tired of playing this game so you propel yourself onto your feet, nearly toppling as the cushion gives under your weight, but you've got this. you sweet capable being. "wanna feel you now." your right hand circles his cock. "just want you to be in me benny. jus' you." it's a confession spoken like gospel. n'with your help, his gushing head probes your wetness and benny's thoughts spiral recklessly. "ready?"

it's cute. the way you ask him. the way your pretty little head cocks to the side. it's even cuter the way your pussy so greedily takes his cock once benny gives you an answer. yes. a singular nod. then everything is hot. he's too close to the sun, but the burn is delicious.

every bump. every vein. every groove on his cock awakens something within you. your eyes are closed so tightly - you may rupture a vessel - but you don't care. you're full. so full n'he's only halfway in. it's never felt like this before. you're in uncharted territory so the first roll of your hips is exploratory. the second is more confident. the third is a plunge and benny is drowning.

"god. fuck." words to form coherent sentences have long since vanished from benny's vocabulary. and you? usually so deft with language, you're somewhat embarrassed at the foolishness of your grunts, but benny loves it. he watches you move from squinted eyes. you're fascinating; body shifting with ease up and down up and down up and down. the muscles in your stomach tighten and wan as his cock disappears deep in your cunt only to reappear seconds later dripping and glistening with remnants of your wet. it's hypnotic n'benny thinks you're magic and sweet and good but dirty - oh so dirty. his balls and heart squeeze simultaneously n'it only gets worse when you toss your arms around his neck. benny can feel your cool breath on his throat - it adheres to the damp indications you lips left behind - and your tits, god your tits press against the material of his colors and rub and rub and rub. it's intimate. it's too much. too long like this and benny knows he'll be spillin' his secrets and his seed and that's not how he wants this to go, not yet anyway.

the change in position catches you by surprise, he can see it on your face. those puffy lips part in confusion, but he silences your questions with a shattering kiss. your teeth gnash and spit slips down your chin as he bites your inhibitions away. he's got you beneath him now. missionary. his favorite because he just likes lookin' at you. likes being close, so close. he's in his element; forehead pressed against yours, mouth open, grunting obscenities as he pushes harder and harder and harder into your sobbing pussy. you're slowly disintegrating. the way your ankles lock around his spine perfectly aligns your clit with his pelvic bone and my god nothing has ever felt quite so good.

"benny," your voice is a dark whisper that grows brighter brighter brighter as he thrusts into oblivion. you want more. want it harder. and benny is happy to oblige. the sound of his nuts slapping against your soaked center reminds him of a fuckin' metronome. your pitiful little moans could put pornstars to shame.

"you're so fuckin' tight." and it's true. he's said it to other girls before out of courtesy, but he means it with you. "when i cum you're gonna take every drop, mm?" benny's ability to say such delivish things so close to your face drives you insane. it's as though he's tellin' you what the weather is gonna be tomorrow, or sayin' his favorite color. "s'my favorite pussy to fuck. no one feels like you." he should stop, but he can't. it's too good. you're so good. "only girl i wanna fill. only girl i wanna give my cum to."

if pride were a flower you'd be a fuckin' garden. confidence flourishes like ivy as he keeps. going. it's in this moment you know it's worth it. the hours waiting for him. the lonely nights. it's all worth it. benny is worth it.

"are y'gonna cum in me?" at the sound of your voice, benny's forehead crashes down on yours. his eyelashes are so long they kiss the tops of his round cheeks.

"fuck - yeah."

"yeah?" you angle your pelvis, gasping at the new sensation. n'benny knows what to do. knows how to send you over. snaking a hand down, his index finger rubs circles around your clit, dipping down, pullin' your shared juices up. you're not gonna last much longer n'as much as he wishes he could keep you here forever his fucking nuts are so tight. he's so close.

"fuck - baby. shit."

"do it deep. wanna have you leakin' out of me for days. want somethin' to remember you by." you've never spoken like this before - his sweet darling - where did this mouth come from? one hand squeezes your jaw. something to remember him by? he'll give you something. he pushes your head to the side, latching his teeth into the side of your neck. the rough yet delicate suck and soothing stroke of his tongue add another element to the amalgamation of pleasure, and now you feel like you're drowning.

"m'gonna cum." benny’s choked voice rasps in your ear.

"cum in me."

"fuck im gonna cum in you."

he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to. there's no willpower strong enough to allow him to extract his cock from your pussy. he's sure of it.

"need you to cum with me." his index finger circles around and around and around. "gotta cum when i tell you. yeah? gonna be a good girl n'listen to daddy?" your toes fuckin' curl, digging into the cushion. "use your words." he doesn't know - doesn't care - that your words have magically turned into alphabet soup; there are letters and sounds but no coherence, but it's no excuse. benny, devilishly, begins to slow. "use. your. words." each syllable is punctuated with a sharp thrust n'the head of his cock is wedging so deliciously against your spongy center that you nearly cum, but you don't. you're good. so good.

"m'gonna listen." you wail. "gonna be good." your reward is a kiss and the continuation of benny's deliriously fast pace.

"knew you would." it becomes hard to speak with you squeezing round him like that. his pleasure is melting into an unidentifiable mass. he knows nothing of isolation. his body no longer belongs to him. he can't tell where you start and he ends but he knows where you will finish. "gonna need you to cum, pretty baby." he's unable to do much more than whisper. "ready?" you nod. "ready?"

"please."

"now."

you couldn't hold back even if you tried. the first spurt of benny's cum is so warm you make a surprised little gasp. he's so deep, pumping his load so deep that the lower part of your abdomen has stretched in accommodation. your bodies flounder together; fingers pressing, lips melting, legs tangling. benny thrusts once, twice, three times more before he's spent. his body begins to still - his weight slowly pressing upon you before collapsing. your thundering heart could lull him to sleep if he'd allow it, but he can't allow it because unlike with other women; the lustful haze refuses to dissipate. post-nut clarity doesn't exist when the woman you fucked looks and feels the way you do and it scares benny so much that he collects you in his arms n'moves you off of him.

"i'll bring you somethin' to wipe off with." he doesn't look at you as he rises. instead he chooses to focus on how his legs don't feel like his legs. how the hot water won't warm up n'he can't give you a cold rag. his disappointment grows when he returns to find you already shrugging back into your nightgown. the pair of you tend to yourselves. you wipe benny's cum off your thighs and toss the rag into the dirty clothes pile on the floor. you try not to linger. you know it only makes things harder, but benny's gazin' at you with those eyes. he's fixin' your necklace and opening the door for you.

"gimmie a hug?" his bravado is gone. his voice is quiet, his arms are welcoming. you fool yourself into thinking he's gonna miss you too. you've got his cum dripping down your leg and he's got your heart in his hands but nothing has changed. things would never change. n'you wanna stay here - wanna stay with him for eternity - but if history repeats itself you will only have another minute in his embrace. he who holds your pieces together is the one responsible for their fractured state n'maybe you're a masochist. maybe you're in love with the wrong person. maybe none of it is supposed to make sense anyway.

when you part, you want to cry. benny kisses you. it's soft, a delicate kiss you wanna bottle and keep forever next to his scent. you worry that one day you will unknowingly have a last kiss with benny, but for now you allow yourself this moment. he won't promise to call n'you won't say goodbye. you'll just slip out into the night - probably call johnny usin' the payphone down the street and spend the rest of the night sobbin' into his neck.

but it's worth it. somehow even after it all, benny cross is still worth it.

#clo really doesn’t know how to write smut #i really ran with this #it's so long and it feels so bad because i have been staring at it all day #but enjoy!#nsfw!#benny cross smut #austin butler #benny cross #the bikeriders #austin butler x reader #benny cross x reader #the bikeriders x reader #the bikeriders smut #austin butler smut #benny boy :')#✍🏼#toxic!benny

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headworldofficial · 8 months ago

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it’s me micky dolenz i need money to afford a dark magic ritual to revive the monkees and go on tour to the cities of my best fans on tumblr. aiiiaaiiaaaiiiahhhmmm not your steppin stone

#vivi attack

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noxturnalnymph · 1 year ago

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The Hunted

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader (8.2k)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices she’s said I, not we.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

He really can’t wait any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

Then you see it - recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-yer what?” he interrupts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have a type?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Do you have se-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You…. you want this?”

“Why not?” he immediately answers.

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

“What a way to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is the first to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling.

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

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

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

“Catch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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