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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 8: The New House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, infidelity, kids, parenthood, historical topics like violence and discrimination, Cakes with Christabel, angst?? Who am I kidding. Angst!!!!!!

Word Count: 5.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @gemini-mama @daenysx @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbelll @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰🧁

“I have no idea what he’s thinking,” Christabel tells Alicent, a low furtive murmur around nibbles of a cinnamon French toast cupcake. They are both sitting at the kitchen counter as you scuttle around wiping down burners and handles and knobs, trying not to listen in, unable to help yourself. At the table, Amir is frosting a Lady Baltimore cake and chatting with Criston, who has eaten no less than three miniature cherry pies in the past fifteen minutes. Amir keeps casting you wide-eyed, flummoxed glances. He means: Can you believe these people? No, you can’t.

Alicent sips the glass of sweet tea you poured for her and gazes vaguely around the room. “Oh, you know how Aemond is, dear. He works so hard. He’s so consumed by the Lake Verret project.”

“But shouldn’t he talk to me?” Christabel’s large blue eyes are luminous, persistent.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Of course he talks to you.”

“Sure,” Christabel says, frowning. “He talks to me about the weather and the garden and the koi in the fish pond. He asks if I listen to Dire Straights or AC/DC. Nothing of consequence, nothing revealing. And he never touches me. Alright, fine, there’s a hand on my shoulder or my waist once in a while, for a moment. There are quick, courteous kisses. But that’s all. And he’s so…so…” She struggles to decide on a word. “Formal!”

“Have you tried the cannoli cupcake yet?” Alicent asks, sliding the plate towards Christabel. “It’s just divine. I absolutely adore it.”

“When we’re apart he says he misses me, but he hardly ever calls. He tells me that he loves me, but only if I say it first.”

“He’s marrying you!” Alicent declares as she restlessly twists her assortment of glittering rings, gold and diamonds and emeralds. “What more is there to say, dear?”

“Surely there must be something,” Christabel mumbles. She obediently samples the cannoli cupcake, carving away a tiny sliver with her fork. “Oh, that is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s my favorite one yet.”

They have twelve flavors to choose from, some familiar and some new: vanilla bean and triple chocolate of course, the classics, and then also cannoli, cinnamon French toast, carrot, red velvet, Boston cream pie, apple cobbler, peanut butter and grape jelly, Neapolitan, Louisiana crunch, and hummingbird. Christabel surveys the selection and then looks to where you are vigorously scrubbing an already clean stovetop. “Aemond mentioned something about banana bread cupcakes. Do you have one of those we could try?”

And again, you are amazed by how much he remembers: the very first cupcake from the very first night. “Um…I’m not sure, actually. Amir, didn’t we make a batch earlier this week? Are there any still on the table?”

Amir checks the cake plates, lifting glass covers, until he locates a single remaining banana bread cupcake for your customers. He ferries it to the kitchen counter with great ceremony. “Everyone raves about this flavor! And it’s so quintessentially southern. Perfect for a Louisiana wedding.” You give him a miserable, deadened stare and he offers a millisecond smirk of commiseration. What else can we do? Amir means. And you think: Nothing.

Christabel samples the cupcake, an infinitesimal morsel speared on the very tip of her fork. You recall how Aemond tasted like sugar and honey and cinnamon when he kissed you on the night you met, rough, dominating, irresistible, without the aching weight of disappointments or betrayals. If time was a cobweb you could rip and walk through, you’d be back in that May dusk in an instant, you’d live there forever and never leave.

“That’s it.” Christabel grins as she licks cream cheese frosting from her full, pink lips. “This one. I want a banana bread cake.”

“Mmm,” Alicent agrees, taking a bite. “It has so many dimensions! Sweet with just a touch of salt, light and fluffy but with a certain substantial, rustic quality, don’t you think? It’s the cinnamon, perhaps.”

You make a note on your yellow legal pad—a reminder you don’t need—so you can avoid Christabel’s benign, guileless gaze. “Is there a design you’d like for the frosting?”

“Wildflowers.”

Amir emits a startled gasp before he can swallow it back down. You look up at Christabel. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Just like the vanilla bean cake you made for the engagement party.” She draws blossoms in the air with her fingers, whimsical like a fairytale. “There was white icing and then all these gorgeous flowers in a dozen different colors. You could do that for a wedding cake, couldn’t you?”

“Of course.” And then you amend: “Well, Amir can. He’s our Picasso.”

“You’ll need something for the rehearsal dinner too, dear,” Alicent tells Christabel. Then she turns to you, tugging anxiously at one of her auburn ringlets. “You’re the expert, love. What would you recommend to impress upon our guests all the history and mystique of the Deep South?”

Your mind is blank, your thoughts gnarled up with visions of Christabel meeting Aemond at the end of an aisle. Amir sees this and he saves you.

“A Napoleon cake,” he announces with his best salesman enthusiasm, powerful enough to sweep everyone else along with him.

Alicent claps her hands, elated. “Oh, just like the town!”

“It has layers of puff pastry and rich custard cream, very French, very elegant and sophisticated, but also a nod to Napoleonville. And we can add a cherry jam to make it more romantic, if you like.”

“Doesn’t that just sound heavenly, darling?”

“Does Aemond like cherries?” Christabel asks Alicent. You know he does, but you don’t say anything.

“I think so. We’ll ask him tonight to be sure.” Alicent is opening her clutch purse to get the cash to pay you; she is eager to have this errand finished, you believe. “And can you put wildflowers on top of the Napoleon cake as well?”

“You can have the Declaration of Independence written on it if that is your heart’s desire,” Amir says, then steals a glimpse of you. You’re jotting the order down and then tracing over your own letters again and again.

“That’s the color scheme,” Christabel says a bit dreamily, forever woolgathering. “Wildflowers. And I think you suggested it at the engagement party,” she tells you, appreciative. In your recollection, it was less of a suggestion than a confession of what you once dared to hope for. “Everything has to have wildflowers. Even the dress.”

Alicent groans. “Oh, Christabel, not this again.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so resistant, those dresses were spectacular.”

“Whoever heard of a multicolored wedding dress?” Alicent asks you, Amir, Criston. “It’s absurd. The bride always wears pure white, everyone knows that. It’s tradition! It’s dignified!”

“Well now I get to solicit opinions too.” Christabel reaches into her own purse—a quilted shoulder bag, light blue with red roses and a label reading Souleiado stitched inside—and produces several polaroid photographs. She gives them to you; they are all of her posing in different wedding dresses, stylish white gowns freckled with wildflowers like splashes of paint. “All anyone can talk about is what I should wear, what the guests will expect, what they will chatter about when they gossip afterwards,” Christabel tells you. And in her vast, shimmering eyes you can detect no resentment or slyness, only quiet desperation. “But you’re a real person. So be honest with me, because there’s only one thing I really care about. Will my husband think I look ravishing in any of them?”

“These theatrics,” Alicent sighs to herself, lighting a Marlboro cigarette. Again, she is peering aimlessly around the kitchen. Amir fidgets with the dogwood flower in his hair as he watches you wearily. Criston compulsively eats another miniature cherry pie.

You study the polaroid photos. Each one feels like a split lip, a fractured rib, the shredding elephantine pressure of a contraction. You wait to speak until you’re sure your voice won’t break. “They’re all stunning. But this one…” You place one picture on top of the pile. “This dress was made for you. Just look at your face. Glowing like a lightning bug.”

“Thank you,” Christabel says, beaming, immensely grateful, and she takes the photos back. She seems pacified. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“I was, yes. Briefly. Not very happily, I must admit. But it was worth it to get my daughter.”

She smiles. There’s no uneasiness; she doesn’t shy away from displays of human frailty. “I’d like a few daughters one day. We could all dress up together and style each other’s hair.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. If I tried that, I’d get my hands chewed off.”

Christabel laughs. She wears a casual blue t-shirt, blue gingham capri trousers, and white flat pumps. Her eyeshadow is a sparkling gold, her mascara flaking onto the apples of her cheeks. She is still marveling at you with those aquamarine eyes when Alicent pulls a list out of her clutch and grudgingly crosses off items with a black ballpoint pen.

“So we’ve got a wedding cake, a rehearsal dinner cake, a dress, a venue, flowers, photographers…I still need to call about hair and makeup…and we need to pick out candles…”

“Where are you getting married?” you ask Christabel.

“The most unique, picturesque, atmospheric place in the entire state of Louisiana, I’m sure of it.”

“We took a drive to visit that church you mentioned,” Alicent says to you. “And it was absolutely perfect. None of our guest will have ever seen anything like it. And it’s so historic! Over 150 years old! The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens.”

Amir squeals, a distressed mewing that he stifles with a feigned cough into his elbow. You stand shellshocked for a few seconds before managing a generic encouragement: “Really! Wow! Amazing! Great!”

Now Christabel is rather melancholy again. She scrutinizes her engagement ring, a large teardrop emerald with a gold band. Her voice is low, like she’s talking to herself. “I just wish…I don’t know. That we had more time together before the wedding, I suppose. Then I think I’d feel like I had more of a handle on things. It’s all been such a whirlwind, such a shock. A good shock, but still. We hardly know each other.”

Alicent prompts her: “You care for Aemond, don’t you, dear?”

“I’m in awe of him,” Christabel replies, a little dazed, a little defenseless. “He’s so clever and gallant. He’s the most inspiring man I’ve ever known. And the scar…it gives him quite a roguish look, doesn’t it? Like a Bond villain. It’s not a detriment in the least.”

“Yes, yes,” Alicent says impatiently, like she’s waiting for the conversation to be over. “Then there’s nothing more to worry about. You care for him, he cares for you, and you’ll have the honeymoon to get better acquainted. Criston, would you go outside and start the Lexus, please?” He dutifully departs.

Honeymoon. Your stomach lurches, the sea in a storm. You can see Aemond’s hands on Christabel’s face, in her hair, skating up her bare thighs. You can hear him moaning her name.

“We’re going to Greece,” Christabel informs you, thinking she’s being polite. “Athens, Mykonos, Santorini, and Corfu. Have you ever been?”

I’ve never been anywhere. But instead you say, forcing a smile: “Not yet.”

When Christabel, Alicent, and Criston have gone, you look to Amir. Your blood has turned to cement: cold, heavy, immobile, trapped. “You realize she’s getting my wedding, right? The one I always wanted. The wildflowers. The candles. The chapel.”

“And she’ll even be taking your favorite dick home at the end of the night.”

You cover your face with both hands and shake your head, trying to clear it, to drive out mirages of someone else’s oasis. This can’t be real. I can’t handle it, I can’t survive it.

Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, gently now: “If we’re catering dessert, we’ll have to go to the wedding. The rehearsal dinner too.”

“Why would they want that? How can they not see how insanely awkward and wrong this is?”

He shrugs. “They probably think it’s normal. Wasn’t Camilla at Charles and Diana’s wedding?”

“If one more person tries to talk to me about Camilla Parker Bowles, I’m going to feed myself to the gator.”

“You’ll have to come to terms with it or you’ll have to end it. Those are the only options.”

“Yeah.” And it’s not just about me. It’s Cadi’s life too.

Amir sits down at the kitchen table, crosses one leg over the other, kicks his foot nervously. He rests an elbow on the tabletop and his chin on the knuckles of his left hand. “I hate to give you more bad news.”

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve been dreading it for months. “You have enough money saved for San Franscisco.”

“I do.”

You exhale, your shoulders collapsing, tapping your fingertips against the counter. The air conditioner whirrs; the cicadas shriek in the trees outside. The house is hushed and still. Cadi is away at horse camp. Each day you receive a postcard in the mail that you assume the employees forced her to write at gunpoint. “When are you leaving?”

“The end of July. I’ll wait until after the wedding, once all the dust has settled. But I can’t wait any longer than that.”

“I want you to be happy,” you say. “I really do. But I’m going to miss you so much. You’ve been my best friend for a decade. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a partner in life.”

Amir smiles faintly. “Come over here.”

When you sit beside him, he takes your hands in his; and you remember how he visited you in the hospital after Cadi was born, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers he picked himself and a Tupperware container full of crawfish pistolettes. He had been just a casual friend before you found out you were pregnant, one of a group, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t keep him at an arm’s length. Amir was different, and not in a way that you fully understood or accepted yet. But he was the only friend who had no judgment for you when you told him you were pregnant, who cared about how you felt, who wanted to be a part of whatever would happen next. He was the only one who stayed.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Amir tells you. “I’ve never even been on a date, not once. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never had sex that wasn’t a one night stand in a New Orleans club or the back seat of my Ford Escort because those were the only places we had to go. And I’m starting to believe that people like me can’t have more than that. So I have to go someplace where I can have more, where I will have more. I don’t want love to be something that only other people get to experience. I don’t want to be afraid of leaving my house after dark or wake up every day wondering if someone has broken a window out of my car again. I have to go. There’s no future for me here. If I stay in Napoleonville, this place will kill me, one way or the other.”

Okay, you think. I can let him go. After everything he’s done for me, this is how I can be the friend that he deserves in return. “You should leave, Amir,” you say, tears stinging in your eyes. “I hear you, I understand you. I just wish I could go with you.”

“No, don’t cry, don’t cry! This isn’t the end. I’ll fly back to visit, you know that. Grandma’s still here, you and Cadi are here. And you can visit me too. Maybe you’ll even settle down on the West Coast someday. Eight more years and you’re free.”

You try to imagine your life then: Cadi headed off to college—and she will go to college, you’ve already decided that—and your tether to Willis weakened, closer to 40 years old than 30, Aemond and Christabel nearing their anniversary. How many children will they have by then? Three? Four? And the Lake Verret project will be well-established and no longer in need of so much of Aemond’s attention, and the house they call The Last Desire will sit empty on the lakeshore, warm draughts breathing through it like blood in veins. “I wouldn’t know how to exist anywhere else.”

“You’d learn,” Amir says confidently. “Now, have you ever made a Napoleon cake before?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.” You consider this. “My mom might have a recipe lying around somewhere. I’ll call and ask her.”

“Yes, do that,” Amir agrees. “If she doesn’t, I’ll try to dig one up at the library. We’ll want to have a few practice runs before the rehearsal dinner. Gotta impress the Rockefellers and their soulless millionaire ilk. Unless you were planning to have a homicidal meltdown and make the custard out of antifreeze or something.”

You chuckle. “No. Probably not.”

“It would be difficult to blame you.” And he turns on the little pink Panasonic radio: Alone by Heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

In a spacious corner booth of the Olive Garden in Gonzales, Aemond is talking about Lake Verret as you pick at your Tour of Italy and Frank Sinatra pipes through the speakers. You could swear they have the same three songs playing on a loop: Fly Me To The Moon, My Way, Luck Be A Lady, back to outer space again.

“But by total coincidence, Daeron has been researching desalination techniques for his latest article. Apparently there are ways to try to mitigate the damage and reduce the brackishness of the water, so we’re going to be—”

Abruptly, you ask: “Where does Christabel think you are right now?”

Aemond’s forehead crinkles, his fork hovers above his plate of herb-grilled salmon. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and his Marlboro jacket, jeans, Adidas sneakers. “Why do you care?”

“She’s getting the wedding I always wanted, did you even notice? She’s getting married at the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens in Belle River. She’s getting wildflowers and flickering candles.” And she’s getting you too.

“Okay,” Aemond says slowly. “I’m not involved in any of that.”

“I think you are, actually, because you’re kind of the groom.”

“But I don’t do the wedding planning,” he insists. “I have no idea what Christabel has arranged. My job is to be there on the day in a suit and that’s just about the extent of the real estate it takes up in my brain.”

“She’s never mentioned any of that to you? Not once? You’d swear on your life?”

He sets down his fork with a clang and stares fixedly at you. Your waitress glances over from several tables away where she is refilling a couple’s sweet tea glasses. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry you had good ideas and other people liked them. It fucking sucks that you didn’t get the wedding you wanted when you were seventeen. But that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know you yet, and you didn’t know me. You can’t blame me for what Willis or anyone else did.”

“But it’s not fair,” you choke out, sounding weak and juvenile, and you hate it but you can’t stop. “I understand that you’re marrying her, I get that, but she can’t have everything.”

“Look…” Aemond laces his hands together on top of the table, and his voice softens. “Even if Christabel didn’t exist, even if you were from my world, even if you were a duchess or a socialite or the daughter of the president of the United States of America, I still couldn’t marry you.”

You scoff; it’s despicable. “Because of Cadi?”

“No,” Aemond says, like that’s preposterous, like he’d never consider her to be a liability. “Because I have to have heirs.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss with vitriol that stuns him. Now the waitress is gawking. “You’re going to manipulate Christabel into walking down that aisle and then immediately get her pregnant?”

“Why are you mad at me?! I’m listening to you, I’m respecting you! You don’t want to have any more children of your own, fine, completely reasonable, I would never ask you to have a baby and go through all of that again for the sake of the Targaryen dynasty, but somebody has to!”

“You really don’t understand why I would empathize with a teenage girl trying to raise a child when she’s lonely and exhausted and confused about why the man she married isn’t turning out to be who she expected?”

Aemond shakes his head like it’s not a valid comparison. “She wants this.”

“She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t understand what she’s signing up for.”

“Everyone from a family like mine goes through this,” Aemond says. “My grandparents did, my mum and dad did, Aegon did, even bloody Charles and Diana did, and now it’s my turn. There are growing pains, but people adjust and it all works out eventually. Christabel will learn to manage her expectations, and once the children are born she can find happiness wherever and with whoever she wants to.”

“But you’ll be with her,” you forced out, voice fracturing, and at first Aemond doesn’t grasp what you mean. “You’ll…you’ll sleep with her. You’ll touch her, you’ll kiss her, you’ll do everything with her.”

“Surely you, as someone who called up a stranger from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal, comprehends that sex can be a solely physical act under the right circumstances.”

“So what, you’ll fuck me and then go home to her? Or you’ll fuck her and come home to me? And I’m supposed to live like that?”

“Yes,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s easy.

You gaze morosely out of the restaurant window. In the distance is a Dollar General, a Burger King, the Kmart where you had to buy your own engagement ring.

“Do you want me to tell Christabel to change the wedding?”

“No.”

“Because if I tell her to pick a new venue, new flowers, new cakes, whatever, she’ll do it.”

“No. She likes her wedding. I can’t take that away from her. She thinks I’m her friend.”

“Cupcake,” Aemond says, tenderly now. You turn back to him. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m going to be gone for a while, four or five days. I have to fly to Norway and inspect some of the offshore rigs we have up there.”

“In the North Sea?” you ask, alarmed. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I mean, it’s oil drilling. It’s one of the most deadly professions in the world. But that’s how we built our fortune, our legacy. I’ve survived before, I’m sure I will again. If you need anything while I’m gone, you can call the house. Criston knows that you’re to be taken care of.”

“No one else can go to Norway instead of you?”

“I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my responsibility.”

“Because Viserys told you to?”

“They amount to the same thing.”

“I don’t think you should listen to him.”

“I have to go,” Aemond says again. He takes out his wallet and lays $30 on the table. “But there’s something I need to show you first.”

As Aemond’s red Audi Quattro barrels down Route 70 southbound towards Napoleonville, you say very little to each other. Once you were strangers, and the words flowed easily and your bodies intertwined with effortless need, and now you have known each other for nearly two months and shared days and nights and confessions and yet every ghost filled up the space between you until it was a splinter, a gap, a gulf, a chasm. You miss the person he was when he showed up on your sloping, creaking porch steps back in May. You miss the person you were before you found out about Christabel.

A Men At Work song comes on the car radio, and it takes you a moment to figure out which one. It’s Down Under, a bewildering hit from 1981. “I never understood this song,” you say, staring through the open window as a jungle of southern live oaks, dogwoods, and cypresses rolls by. Rivulets of opaque, slow-moving bayou water snake through the wild green. Pelicans flap their wings in the pink-golden dusk sky. “What’s a head full of zombie? What’s a Vegemite sandwich?”

Aemond laughs, a smoldering Marlboro Red nestled in his left hand. You wonder if once he’s married he’ll wear a gold band on his ring finger, if he’ll take it off when he cheats with you. “Cupcake, it’s obviously about Australia.”

“What?”

“Down Under? As in, literally below the rest of us in the Southern Hemisphere? Head full of zombie means they’ve been smoking weed. Vegemite is a kind of yeast spread they put on sandwiches. I’ve had it, it’s disgusting. The whole song is in Australian slang. Everyone knows it’s about Australia.”

I didn’t. You look out your window again. Aemond takes note and swiftly backpedals.

“But I mean, I can see how an American wouldn’t know that. No big deal, okay? To anyone in the Commonwealth, Australia is like our fuckup sibling. It’s our Aegon. But you guys probably don’t really learn about Australia in school. So…yeah. It’s probably not as obvious as I assumed.”

“Maybe I missed that lesson,” you say. Maybe I missed that year.

In a brand new neighborhood just outside the town center of Napoleonville, Aemond parks in the paved driveway of a ranch house on a three or four acre lot. The yard is bordered by a white masonry fence with chicken wire around the base to keep snakes and gators out. There are a few dogwood and bay laurel trees, and one monstrous southern live oak that’s probably two hundred years old. Aemond cuts the Audi Quattro’s engine and steps out into the twilight.

“Aemond? What are we doing here?”

“Follow me.”

“Why?”

He walks around to your side of the car, opens the door, and leans down to grab your face with his right hand, his fingers hooked around the curve of your jaw. Instantly, there is a bolt down your spine: hunger, warmth, weakness, momentum that is thoughtless like falling from a great height. “Follow me,” he repeats, grinning mischievously. “Right now.”

Aemond has a key that unlocks the front door. Inside is rose pink carpeting and mauve walls, a sunken conversation pit, popcorn ceilings, mini blinds on the windows, closet doors covered with mirrors. You can see your face reflected in them, puzzled.

“This is the living room, clearly,” Aemond says as he continues briskly through the house. As an afterthought, he kicks off his Adidas sneakers so he doesn’t track any dirt inside. You do the same, sliding off your cheap flats from Kmart. He points down a hallway. “There are two guest bedrooms down there, and then a big one at the other end of the house with its own private bath. Here’s the kitchen…” He leads you through it, mint green with pristine black and white tiles on the floor. “And over there is the dining room.” It’s a kind, golden yellow like dawn or sunset.

“Aemond, what—?”

“Bedroom next,” he interrupts, hurrying you along.

At the end of the hall, he opens a door to reveal a sprawling chamber. It is blue like his bedroom in the Targaryen mansion, but not a deep, vivid sapphire color; it is a pale blue like prairie flax or a clear midday sky. The carpet is lush and soft. There are mirrors on the ceiling.

“Those are optional,” Aemond clarifies, pointing upwards. “But personally, I like them.”

“Aemond, whose house is this?”

“It’s yours,” he says.

“It’s what?!”

“Well, technically, it isn’t yours quite yet,” he admits. “I bought it in cash, it will close in a week or two. At that point I’ll sell it to you for $1—the same price as one of your cupcakes, incidentally—and then it will officially be your house. And it doesn’t even have a sinking foundation or any alligators. Imagine the possibilities.”

“But…but…”

“Cadi’s bedroom is green, like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve been told the yard is big enough for one horse, or two very small horses. Ponies, I guess.”

“You cannot buy me a house,” you say, aghast.

“I think I already did.” He holds out the key to you, resting in his palm among lines of prophesy.

You are paralyzed; it takes you forever to find your words. “Aemond, I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. It’s a gift, not a trade,” he says, the key still lying in his outstretched hand. “Every cent I spend on you, every second I spend with you, is solely because I want to do it and for no other reason. There’s no obligation. There’s no quid pro quo. And that’s what I feel like you don’t understand. I have no logical reason to keep you in my life, absolutely none, aside from the fact that I want you to be here. And I want that with everything I’m made of. I never stop wanting it. So let me help you. Take the key. Take the house.”

His right eye is on you, imploring, commanding. At last, you lift the key from his palm. Studying it like the cryptic letter of a foreign language, you murmur: “You shouldn’t have done this.”

Aemond rakes his fingers through your hair, tilts your face up towards his, skims his lips feather-lightly from your cheekbone down to your lips—though he doesn’t kiss you, only ghosts his flesh over yours, a taste, a taunt—and then up to the curl of your ear. His whispered voice is colored with wicked scarlet desire. “You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to do.”

If he yanked off your t-shirt you would let him. If he unzipped your denim shorts and slipped his artful fingers inside them he would find panties soaked through for him. You would let him do anything he wanted to you, here in this glass-fragile liminality before he becomes Christabel’s in law, in body, in inked and inerasable history. But it would not be because you want to, not because you feel ready in your bones, not because you trust him again. It would only be because you could not bring yourself to resist.

Aemond reads this on your face; he stops before you have to tell him to.

~~~~~~~~~~

On July 1st, Cascade Stables is swarming with parents as they descend upon the property to collect their children and meet the horses they’ve spent the past week with. There is a stereo somewhere blaring Your Love by The Outfield; apparently, this does not disturb the horses. You find Cadi beside the stall of a very tall, willowy beast, ears upright and alert, one bulging eye onyx and the other a striking icy blue. Its coat is white with a splattering of rust-colored stains. Even its mane and tail are comprised of alternating strands, dark, light, earth, clouds, cocoa powder, granulated sugar.

“His name is Patches,” Cadi tells you proudly as she pets the leviathan’s velvety muzzle. “He has a wall eye. And he’s a real handful and usually they only allow the experienced campers to ride him, but they let me try and he listened so well I got to keep him all week!”

“Wow, that’s incredible! Good job! Did you learn a lot about how to take care of him?”

“Yeah. They taught me how to feed Patches and clean his hooves and put a saddle on him. And how to hit him with a hairbrush when he tries to bite me.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Right. Okay.”

“Can we buy him? He’s for sale. Probably because of all the biting.”

“Who, Patches?” You definitely cannot afford to board a horse; and then you remember the new house. “I’ll think about it.”

Cadi peeks around you. “Daddy isn’t here too?”

“No, honey, I’m sorry. He had to work. But he really wanted to see the horses and he is looking forward to hearing all about your adventures.” This is a lie—Willis seems only dimly aware of the concept of a horse camp, and he is staunchly incurious by nature—but a compassionate one.

Cadi accepts the explanation readily enough. “Alright. Is Aemond your boyfriend yet?”

“Um.” You thread the horse’s forelock through your fingers to buy yourself time. It seems unwise to try to deceive her again; Cadi will learn about Christabel sooner or later. “No, we’re still just friends.” You pause. She watches you, knowing there’s more. “Actually, he’s getting married this month.”

“What?!” Cadi is shocked, but she’s outraged too. “To who?!”

“To a nice lady named Christabel. And I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.” Another lie. And you think for the first time: If I settle for being Aemond’s mistress, if I let it tear me to pieces…what am I teaching Cadi?

Your daughter doesn’t say anything for a long time. She pets Patches’ speckled face, her own expression tense and thoughtful, lines and worries that should be far beyond her age. At last she says quietly: “Is it because of me?”

You are mystified. “What, honey?”

“Is the reason why you and Aemond can’t get married because of me?”

There is a flash of crimson wrath in your skull—protective, animalistic, wronged on her behalf—but no one to direct it at. “No. No, absolutely not. Why would you say that?”

Cadi shrugs, and you recognize it as her self-preservation, faux-flippant shrug. “I don’t know. One time I heard Michelle’s mom talking about how no decent man wants to deal with some other guy’s kids. And that’s me when I’m at your house. Another guy’s kid.”

Oh, fuck you, Janet. “No,” you say again. “Aemond likes you a lot, Cadi. He cares about you.” He picked out a house that could accommodate a horse for you. “You’re the opposite of a problem. He actually likes me more because of you, I think.”

“Okay.” And she’s relieved, although she’s trying not to show it. “Then why is he marrying someone else?”

“Well…it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Where the hell do I start? “Aemond and I are very different people,” you tell Cadi. “And we want different things out of life. We like to spend time together, but that doesn’t mean that we’d be able to share our whole lives…homes, careers, values, everything. His family has a lot of expectations of him that I don’t feel right supporting, but Aemond wants to respect their rules. And, you know. He’s a robber baron.”

“But he doesn’t talk about Jade Dragon Energy or oil around me. He talks about history.”

You sigh, watching dust motes swirl through the hot, sunlit stable air, listening to horses nicker and huff. “I know, honey.”

“I don’t even think he wants to be a robber baron. I think he wants to be something else.”

“Like what?” you ask, picking stray bits of yellow straw out of her short, disheveled hair. And remarkably, Cadi tolerates this.

“I don’t know, just…just…” She battles with the words, then finds one she likes. “Free, I guess. Just free.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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creepswrites · 11 months

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MEAT PIES (Thomas x Reader)

as a result of the poll i made, here is a lil something with Thomas Hewitt! also, this is sort of in celebration of 500 followers so thank you so much for that!! :D

Thomas Hewitt x gn!Reader (they/them)

Summary: You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

WARNING: 18+, violence, murder, c/nnibalism

Living in Travis County was becoming more and more difficult, particularly in Fuller. There were whispers around town that the meat processing plant had gone bad. The latest drought had caused illness in the cattle but the plant did nothing about it, continuing work as expected.

Those whispers had reached your ears almost immediately. Fuller was a relatively small town as is and the sick meat would be bad for your business.

Currently, you ran a little corner store making and selling various baked goods, though your little meat pies were especially good. Despite the town's size, you had various customers come in almost every day. When you'd first moved to town about two years ago, many of the older residents had turned up their noses when you'd continued to work on Sundays, not being particularly religious yourself.

Their attitudes quickly changed once they got a taste of your baking though.

You made various things as well, from cakes to breads to cookies. There was little you couldn't make. In summer, you'd whip up vanilla ice creams with apple cobblers and in winter you'd make warm honey and vanilla cakes. The town couldn't get enough of it.

Today was a warm day, as were most days in Texas. You'd just finished cleaning up one of the tables when you heard someone come inside. "Be right with you!" You called over your shoulder as you finished wiping down the table with a disinfectant wet wipe.

When you spun around, you smiled at a familiar face. "Hey Mrs Hewitt, how can I help ya?"

Luda May Hewitt was a regular of yours, always paying you generously to bring home some of your cakes and plates of cookies. She bought more than any other customer but you certainly weren't complaining. Sometimes she'd bring you some of her own family recipes for you to try, always looking proud when they came out a success.

You were always respectful to her, which you could tell she also appreciated. "Just here for the usual, dear." Luda May smiled at you.

With a quick nod, you slipped back behind the counter and began collecting chocolate clip cookies into a paper bag. "Did somethin' a lil different with 'em this week." You gave the old woman a secret smile. "Added a bit more salt to this batch, so let me know what ya think!"

"Ooo!" Luda May smiled. "I'm sure they'll be delicious as always. My Tommy's such a big fan of your bakin' you know."

You looked up at her, giving her a raised eyebrow. "Tommy?"

She nodded. "He works at the meat plant. Walks by your lil store every day on his way to work but he's too shy to come in, poor dear."

"I hope I don't scare him," you laughed good-naturedly as you sealed up the bag before collecting a dozen cupcakes into a paper tray. "He's welcome to come in if he wants! Can make him a hot chocolate if he shows up before openin.'"

Luda May gave you a fond look. "You're such a darlin,' don't know what angel sent ya to Fuller but I know the whole town's grateful." She paused, fidgeting with her fingers. "You heard 'bout the plant, right?" Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke.

You nodded at her, leaning closer over the counter like the two of you were sharing a dark secret over the little cakes and cookies. "Yeah, heard the meat was bad."

"Not just bad, dear." Luda May frowned. "Been stomach infections all over the country 'cause of the spoiled meat. A health inspectors comin' out this week to see."

A soft gasp left your lips and Luda May nodded sadly. "I mean... is the plant-?"

Luda May gave a wistful smile. "You've heard the rumors. I'm sure you've seen the families movin' out of Fuller this past month. Everyone's already cut their losses an' moved on."

You frowned, crossing your arms over your cool counter as the old woman opened her purse to pull out coins and bills to pay you. "What're you gonna do?" You asked her, chewing on your lip.

She looked at you with a soft look. "Don't you go worryin' about an old woman like me. I ain't last this long on pillows and cotton." She teased you, making you smile slightly. "I got my boys to look after me. We got a farm out in the country, we'll get by. I still got my job at the community center, for now."

As she slid the money across the counter and took the two bags of sweets, you gave her a polite wave. "Let me know if I can help somehow, yeah?"

Luda May just gave you a smile as she left, leaving you alone in the empty store as the bell of the door echoed emptily. You just hoped her family would be okay.

The Hewitts were a fairly reserved family but were the heart of the little community. Luda May and Charlie had a strong presence in the town and, despite the sheriff's best attempts, the town looked to the Hewitt family for advice. So you'd heard of Thomas Hewitt - Luda May's son who, according to rumors, was mentally challenged and physically disabled. You'd never met him but you'd heard stories.

You finally got to meet him just a few days after Luda May's visit.

It was early in the morning and you'd barely gotten dressed when you padded downstairs in socked feet to your little shop. You lived above the store in a small, one room apartment. It was convenient though!

A knock on the glass door confused your still-sleepy brain. You crept towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it. An enormous man stood there, staring at you with surprise. His hair was long, messy and matted, and he wore a mask over his mouth that obscured a lot of his face. You opened and closed your mouth for a minute before managing to choke out a few words. "Thomas, right?"

He nodded and you felt yourself smile. "Luda May told me 'boutcha! C'mon in," you stepped aside and shuffled back towards your coffee machine. You heard Thomas enter slowly, shutting the door carefully behind him. "You want coffee?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

Thomas looked dirty, the apron he wore stained with blood. If he didn't work at the meat plant, you would've been more alarmed. He just stared at you, unblinking. "Hot chocolate?" You tried, earning a quick nod. "Comin' right up!" You gave him a bright smile as you set about making coffee for yourself and hot chocolate for your guest.

"Luda May says you walk by my shop a lot." You hummed as you worked. "You're allowed to come in, y'know? I ain't gonna run you off."

Thomas was silent still. You got the feeling he didn't talk much. So you went into the back room as drinks brewed and opened one of your storage boxes. Despite the dusty, rough nature of the rest of the town, you prided yourself on keeping things clean and tidy. So you grabbed two cinnamon rolls and went to reheat them in the little oven.

All the while, you felt eyes on you. For some reason, you got a heavy feeling in your stomach but you pushed it down. He was strange, not dangerous.

You slid the man a mug of hot chocolate and a warm cinnamon roll across your countertop with a smile. "Yer always welcome here."

To be polite, you turned your back to him as you drank your coffee to let him take off the mask he wore to eat better. The two of you enjoyed breakfast in relative silence until, without much fanfare, Thomas stepped away from the counter and slipped out the front door, back into the Texas heat.

He was strange, without a doubt, but he meant well. It was clear Luda May adored him so he must just really be shy with strangers. You'd start stocking up more hot chocolate, despite it being summer, for if Thomas ever visited you again.

And, later that very afternoon, hundreds of men were seen leaving the meat plant. It was shut down for good by the health inspector. You watched from your windows as the angry men stormed home, yelling in protest and anger with each other.

You didn't see Thomas in the crowds though. You hoped he was okay...

With the meat plant shut down, life in Fuller came to a complete stop. Where once it had been difficult, it was now near impossible to continue living there. At least 85% of the town moved away by the end of the month, abandoning their properties or selling them. The town, effectively, shut down in a matter of weeks.

But you remained.

You didn't have anywhere to go or the means to leave. Selling the property was an option but where would you even go? You didn't exactly have a means of moving. Your little car couldn't hold all your possessions and getting a moving company to help was ridiculously expensive...

You felt trapped.

Luda May visited you late one afternoon, a sad smile on her face. "Hello dear." She said softly, the overhead bell ringing to announce her arrival.

Glancing up from the catalogue you were browsing, you smiled back. "Hey Mrs Hewitt. How can I help ya?"

She made her way up to your counter, looking down at the catalogue before looking back up at you. "The Jamisons moved away." She said softly. Your eyes widened and you straightened up. "Just this afternoon." Her voice was shaky as you reached over to hold her hands.

"I'm so sorry..." Your voice was soft as the old woman looked close to collapsing. "I know how close they were with the town, I-"

Luda May held your hands back tight. "It's been so hard, havin' everyone move away just like that. Like this town ain't worth nothin' without the meat plant." She grit her teeth against a wet sob. "My Tommy ain't got no place to work an' we- we can't leave. But if everyone else goes, what'll happen to us? What'll we do?"

You let go of Luda May long enough to slide over your counter to hug her. "I'm so sorry. I- I wish there was something I could do to help..."

She held you tight as she let herself sob. You swayed with her for a moment, trying your best to console her. "Ain't nowhere left to work in this town. We can't survive on pennies from my community center job, sweetheart. It's gettin' too hard." Luda May wept.

You felt for her, truly. "If there's anything I can do, please let me know. You an' your family have done so much for me, for the town. Least I can do is repay the favor."

Luda May pulled back slightly, wiping her cheeks. "You're too good for this world. Certainly the Lord blessed us when he sent you to this town." She sniffed once, straightening up and adjusting her glasses. "You should come on by for dinner tonight. We got guests comin' over an' I think you'd fit right in."

"Oh!" You perked up, smiling at her. "I'd love to! I've got this pie recipe I've been meanin' to try out, I think y'all will love it."

Luda May smiled and nodded along. "I got two hours left in my shift at the community center. I'll come on by and getcha after, alright?"

You nodded excitedly. "I'll get cleaned up. Thank you, I'm honored to be invited along!"

When you turned to hurry up the stairs to your little apartment, you missed the way Luda May's smile faded away. Her heart ached with remorse for what she was sentencing you to.

As she left the store, she cried silent tears for the betrayal she was about to give you.

But, as promised, Luda May came to pick you up just as the sun was going down. You'd gotten cleaned up, dressed nice in light clothing to protect yourself against the hot Texas afternoon. An airy, white and blue striped shirt with the collar pressed nicely alongside matching navy blue shorts. The boots you wore were simple and the cleanest shoes you owned.

When Luda May spotted you, smiling and waving at her as you clutched a wicker basket in your hands, she almost told you the truth. Almost made up a lie to keep you from coming over, to save you from the fate that Charlie - Hoyt, he'd insisted now - would surely sentence you to. But he'd been right. The family needed to eat.

She just wished you'd left town earlier. Packed up your cute little things into neat, nice boxes and left this shithole of a town. But no. You'd stayed because you were sweet. And you trusted her. Which only made her feel worse about putting you into this situation.

You, who had only ever been so kind and loving to her, her family, Tommy...

But she didn't say or do anything. She just smiled as you got into her old truck and drove you down the old, dirt road towards the Hewitt house. The old blue truck rattled but you were polite and didn't say a thing. You were too good for this world, in Luda May's eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, there could be a way to save you still.

The Hewitt farm was much bigger than you imagined. The large, manor-like house lay surrounded by various barns, cattle pens, and a nearby junkyard. You didn't let it show on your face but the whole place felt... Dirty.

Like dirt caked every surface, even lightly. As though if you were to drag your fingers across anything, you'd find layers of dirt and dust left on the tips of your fingers. You suppressed a shudder as Luda May left her truck, shutting the door rather loudly. You were quick to follow her up to the big house, stumbling slightly as you hurried.

"Now, be wary of the boys. They tend to be a bit rowdy this late in the day. Once dinner rolls 'round they'll settle. If any of them give you trouble, you come straight to me." Luda May said as you approached the door.

You gave her a quick nod. "Yes ma'am."

The smile she gave you was fond but it was also... something else.

Before you could figure out what, you heard a scream. Your heart lept to your throat but Luda May took your hand in hers and squeezed. "The boys play rough. They're alright, dear." She gave you a warm look. "Lets just get inside 'n outta this heat."

You obeyed, swallowing down a sick feeling you had rising in your stomach.

The inside of the house was. Messy, to say the least. But, you had to remind yourself to be polite as you were guided from the foyer to the kitchen. Some dishes lay in the sink, making Luda May curse. "Monty!" She called somewhere into the house. "Next time ya fuckin' leave dishes in the sink, I'm havin' Tommy throw your damn truck out!"

You blinked back in shock. You'd never heard her talk like that.

A man, who you could only assume was Monty, poked his head into the kitchen. "God damn woman, ain't my job to clean the place!"

Luda May scoffed. "I pride myself on runnin' a clean house. You start undoin' my hard work an' you can sleep in the barn with the other stupid animals!" She let out a loud huff. "Where's Tommy anyway?"

Monty shrugged. "Ain't seen 'im. Might be downstairs." He looked you up and down, over and over. The gesture made you feel dirty. "You can go look for 'im while I entertain our, uh, guest."

"Absolutely not." Luda May said, scrubbing a plate with a brush. "They're my guest, you an' Charlie can keep your dirty hands off. They're the sweet baker from down the road who makes those sweets y'all like so much."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are they now? Well I'll be damned."

You flushed under all the attention, fidgeting nervously with the basket in your hands and deciding to just set in on the counter nearby Luda May. "I could, um, go find Thomas. If- if you wanted?"

Anything to get away from Monty's leering eyes.

Luda May nodded to you. "He should be down in the basement workin'. Don't mind if he doesn't hear ya, you can shout."

You nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Luda May call the directions to you. Down the hall, first door on the left. Easy. The door in question was underneath a large staircase that led upstairs from the entry foyer. As you reached to open it, your hand froze on the doorknob. The sound of a revving chainsaw and screaming could be heard just beyond the door.

The sounds of heavy footsteps on the staircase above made your stomach swoop and you quickly opened the door and slipped inside. Your breath caught in your throat as the sounds got quieter, the screams turning to gurgles and the chainsaw dying down. Fearing the worst, you were silent on the rickety, old, wooden steps that went down into the darkness of the basement.

You held your breath as you neared the bottom, looking out into the dimly lit room.

Ice-hot fear shot through you at the sight. Thomas, standing over a man's body that was strapped to a table. The chainsaw he'd used lay on a bench beside the table as he appeared to be skinning the eviscerated man laying before him.

Thomas looked up at you and you slapped your hand over your mouth to cover your gasp. Tears filled your eyes as you scrambled back up the stairs, utterly terrified. You tore open the front door and took off running, only going faster when you heard Thomas chasing you.

But he knew the land better than you.

Eventually, through all your running and hiding, you found yourself cornered in one of the large, dusty barns. The ceiling and walls were wooden and the floor was just loose dirt. You whimpered when you saw Thomas's shadow approach you, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stood in the open doorway, meat cleaver in hand as he stared at you. You backed up until you hit the wall but Thomas kept approaching you. "Are you going to hurt me?" You choked through a sob.

Thomas froze and just stared at you. You could tell your question had surprised him but he was quick to recover. He nodded. You felt your heart sink as you slid down to the dirt floor, curling up on yourself.

You sat there, curled up in the fetal position, and began to cry openly. Thomas made a soft grunt but you couldn't hear, too busy crying. You didn't want to die, much less at Thomas's hand. He'd always seemed nice, if a bit intimidating, but you thought he and Luda May were good people.

The memory of the basement flashed in your head and you blinked up at Thomas with wet, red-rimmed eyes. He seemed to deflate then, sitting down criss-crossed in front of you, careful to keep his distance. He set the cleaver down and put his hands in his lap and just watched you.

You sniffed. "Can... can you at least do it quick?"

Thomas looked guilty as he made a grumbling noise. You wished, momentarily, he could talk to you. At least then maybe he'd tell you what he was planning to do to you. Instead, he surprised you by picking up the cleaver and tossing it further away before looking expectantly back at you.

You blinked. "You're... you're not going to hurt me?"

Thomas shook his head.

"Are..." You swallowed a thick lump that had been lodged in your throat. "Are the others...?"

That made Thomas pause. With a thoughtful look, he shook his head once before holding out his hand to you. Slowly, like you were reaching for a dog that might bite your hand off if you were too fast, you slid your hand into his.

The size difference was considerable. His hand was at least a quarter size bigger than yours, if not more, and it was rough. You knew he'd worked at the meat plant cutting up meat so of course he'd have workers hands. He gingerly ran his thumb along the back of your hand, trying to reassure you.

"You won't... let them hurt me, right?" You asked, voice low.

He nodded his head, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. Whatever had changed his mind about hurting you, you weren't willing to question it. "Okay." You said softly, letting Thomas help you stand up. Your clothes were covered in dirt but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Though you did almost retch when you saw the blood on his apron.

"Tommy, where'd you-" Luda May called out, freezing when she saw you with Thomas. He still hadn't let go of your hand as he stepped in front of you with a pleading sound. Luda May's shoulders seemed to sag. "I'm sorry, dear." She looked at you with a remorseful look. "I... I was hopin' to keep you from findin' out. Charlie's been... persistent 'bout gettin' food for the family an' I had no choice."

Your mind slowly caught up to what she was saying. "You... you brought me here to... to be killed and eaten?!" Tears began falling again, streaking down your dirt-covered cheeks.

Thomas squeezed your hand again and you felt like throwing up. Luda May didn't say anything as she looked to Thomas. "Charlie'll be angry to know you're keepin' them alive. Are you sure about this?"

He nodded once, still standing protectively in front of you. As terrified as you were - of both Thomas and the entire concept of being made into dinner - you felt a bit reassured that he was set on not hurting you.

Luda May sighed quietly. "Alright. Dinner'll be ready soon. Proper meat." She shot you a reassuring look. "You two get cleaned up. Charlie'll be back soon."

Thomas tugged your hand gently, looking down at you and asking you to follow. He guided you to walk ahead of him, gently pushing you along after Luda May. You glanced over your shoulder as you walked to spot Thomas picking the cleaver back up. When he noticed your alarmed look, he quickly put it behind his back with wide eyes.

You almost laughed at the hysterical nature of it all. You were being invited to dinner - which you nearly became - and the guy who was going to butcher you was hiding the cleaver so you wouldn't be scared of him. Like you were a kid who had no object permanence.

Thomas genuinely did not want to scare you. You knew that. It didn't make you any less terrified though.

Charlie Hewitt - or Sheriff Hoyt as he was calling himself now, as you were terrified to learn he'd also killed - was currently having a fit.

When you'd come downstairs having mostly cleaned off in the bathroom, he'd spotted you quickly. When Luda May informed him you were a friend of Thomas's and definitely not dinner, he'd been enraged. He'd started throwing things around the house, yelling at Luda May and Thomas, who both stood strong. "I asked ya to find somethin' for dinner and ya bring back nothing? Just some sad lookin' baker kid who ain't worth jack?!"

Luda May glared. "You give em any trouble, I'll beat ya black and blue and make ya sleep outside, ya hear? I ain't puttin' up with your shit tonight, Charlie."

"Hoyt, it's Hoyt now!" He yelled back, smashing a plate.

"Every dish you break, you buy a new one!" Luda May yelled, smacking his arm hard.

Hoyt's eyes fell on you as he glared. When he moved forward to grab you, Thomas was quick to interfere. You ducked behind his arm as he stood between you and Hoyt. "Thomas. Move." Hoyt snarled.

But Thomas didn't budge. In fact, he looked surprised as he looked down at you clinging to his forearm, terrified out of your mind. While you were scared of everyone in the room, Thomas was the most likely to defend you and defend you hard. The cleaver he'd been carrying was laying out on the table and, while you'd known Luda May longer, you doubted she'd be able to use it against Hoyt if he came closer.

"I won't ask you again, boy," Hoyt snarled. Thomas calmly lifted Hoyt up by the collar of his shirt and threw him aside, sending the man crashing into the table with a hard tumble.

Luda May spoke up then. "That's enough!" She snapped at both Hoyt and Thomas. "You two clean up this mess."

Hoyt glared over at her. "We look after family. They," he pointed a finger at you as he stood, "ain't family."

You shared a nervous look with Luda May, who remained steady. "They may as well be. Far as I'm concerned, they're the only one who provided food for dinner tonight." She glared down at Hoyt. "While you were runnin' around playin' dress up."

Hoyt was quiet. "What'd they bring?"

"Meat pies." You said quietly. When Hoyt looked at you, you repeated yourself louder, fearing his anger. "I brought meat pies. L-lamb ones."

The room was silent. "Ya brought lamb pot pies?" Hoyt asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. You nodded frantically and he sighed. "Alright, fine, ya can stay." He grumbled, leaving the room with a huff.

You looked up at Thomas with nervous eyes. The mask he wore obscured a lot of his face but you could see his eyes. He blinked slowly, a softness there you were surprised by.

Clutching his arm tighter, you let yourself relax as Thomas stood protectively beside you. You could survive this, you thought to yourself.

You will survive this.

#🔪 creeps writes #slasher fanfiction #slasher x reader #the texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw the beginning #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #thomas hewitt x you #the hewitt family

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bones4thecats · 6 months

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2023 Halloween Special; TWST

A/N: Part 2 of the Halloween Specials, my special announcement in regardance to my Request Form will be posted later today, enjoy~~

Their Favorite Thing To Do With Their S/O During Halloween

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🧁 Trey loves baking year round, and during Halloween, he would decorate the pastries in special frosting in themes of pumpkins, ghosts, witches, etc.

🧁 But spending this year with you? He doubled down on it all.

🧁 This vice housewarden definitely does candy corn bingo with Riddle whenever he was done with his duties

🧁 And it was quite funny watching as you spun the cage, seeing them both sweating since they both needed different numbers to win

🧁 Trey also enjoys going outside and trimming the roses with you, since they did it year round, but seeing you munching on a treat he made got him smiling

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🐍 This Viper boy loves to test new recipes of pumpkin or other squashes during the spooky holiday

🐍 He never really had to do many things in regards to Kalim before attending NRC, as his family had the day specially planned for him

🐍 But when they came here, he basically has to watch him constantly, but with you by his side, it’s easier to enjoy

🐍 Jamil has helped Kalim plan his costumes every year, and when you came into the dorm wearing the kitsune outfit, he blushed and hide himself in the kitchen until you ranted on how cute he was

🐍 That reminds me, cider.

🐍 He loves making cider with you, doesn’t matter what apple or whatever else it used, he makes it taste good

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🏹 Our hunter boy here adores doing anything in regards to Halloween

🏹 You wanna go to the pumpkin patch to find a certain squash to carve? Okay.

🏹 Wanna go to a haunted house? Yes, he wants to see the gorgeous costumes and makeup!

🏹 This guy literally doesn’t care where you go and can find the beauty in anything

🏹 Like watching a horror movie like Saw? He finds something so minor and rants about it forever, successfully distracting you from it all

🏹 But, he really enjoys corn mazes, or rather, watching people do them, he always wins in the end, they’re easy for him, he has an amazing sense of direction, but seeing people struggle remembering directions makes him laugh

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🍎 Anything that has to do with apples and Epel loves doing it

🍎 His family always made apple pies, drinks, and just anything in general, since they normally had so many leftover from that year’s harvest

🍎 When his grandmother sent him a box of amazing fresh apples, he smiled and went to the school’s kitchen to make treats with you, we don’t want Vil getting mad at a mess again, huh

🍎 Epel mainly makes ciders and cobblers, which was something he always remembers how to do on the top of his head

🍎 It’s quite impressive how amazing of a baker this guy is

🍎 The treats always end amazingly, ngl

🍎 Epel also enjoys costumes, but he also complains on how ‘girly’ the Pomefiore’s looks on him

🍎 This guy needs more confidence in his manliness

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🦁 This lion, oh sweet Seven

🦁 Leona doesn’t really do much when it comes to the holidays, but Halloween, he considers doing some things

🦁 Scaring his dorm members is something kinda fun

🦁 But watching you dress up in a pirate’s outfit like him made him quite flustered, though he is good at hiding it

🦁 Leona enjoys doing Halloween-themed bingo with you or Ruggie, as he normally wins by watching the board, his pieces, and hearing the numbers spectacularly

🦁 For someone as lazy as him, he’s quite fun to spend the day with

🦁 He doesn’t enjoy trick-or-treating very much because he normally has to take Cheka, but having you there made him more bearable

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sterekfests · 8 months

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Welcome to our Fall round of Sterek Fests! Sterek Fall Fest will run from September 3rd - October 7th in celebration of Fall, whether you enjoy drinking every kind of pumpkin spice drink or visiting a pumpkin patch every year. There’s a little something for everyone!

Check out our Rules and FAQs.

We also have a Discord you can join that has events running such as @sterekbingo and @sterekweekly along with @sterekfests.

How to Participate:

Participating in Sterek Fall Fests is easy and stress-free! This is a no-commitment fest where you can participate as little or as much as you want. Participate in one week and none of the others if you so fancy, or participate in all of them! We have an AO3 Collection for you to post all of your creations in! This fest is open to both Fic and Art, so create to your heart's content!

How to post:

You can post your creations to any website that you want, as long as they are viewable to the public, whether that’s Tumblr, LiveJournal, DreamWidth, or our AO3 Collection. @sterekfests so we see your creations to reblog them. Use the tags #sterekfestsfall2023, and #sterekfests for generic tags. For weekly tags: #sterekfestssweater, #sterekfestsbaking, #sterekfestsbonfire, #sterekfestspumpkin, #sterekfestshaunted,

Late Posting:

Late posting is always welcomed! The collection will stay open for late submissions.

If you have any questions, feel free to send us an ask!

- Liam (@sterekbros) & Dori (@evanesdust)

Keep reading to see all the awesome theme weeks ahead!

September 3-9: Sweater Weather

As the leaves change to a beautiful rainbow of colors, it’s time for Stiles and Derek to break out the sweaters and savor some cozy autumn days. Do they explore harvest farms and drink seasonal cups of pumpkin spice latte? Or maybe they take a hike through the woods or visit a corn maze? The possibilities are endless as they embrace the season and all the flavors of fall.

September 10-16: Baking

It’s that time of year when cool weather brings out everyone’s love for baking! Tarts, pies, pumpkin butter, cookies, cheesecake bars, and cobblers are on the menu. Is Stiles in a baking mood with the change of the weather, getting ready for the upcoming holidays? Is Derek making his mother’s from-scratch apple pie? Maybe there’s a local bake-off for a harvest festival, where Stiles or Derek is the undefeated champion, and the other has come to challenge them to an on-the-spot bake-off. May the best baker win!

September 17-23: Bonfire

The air is crisp and autumn’s arrival is the absolute perfect time of the year to take advantage of the cool nights and starry skies and to make memories around the fire pit with friends, pack, and family. Roasting marshmallows for s'mores and getting cozy with your mate is one of the many things Sterek can enjoy this Fall around the bonfire. Are they having a pack get-together at the rebuilt Hale house where Derek is hosting a bonfire party for the pack? Or perhaps they’re at the beach building up a bonfire to fight off the salty chilly air? Wherever you take Sterek this Fall, they’ll be snuggly and warm, enjoying the starry night together.

September 24-30: Pumpkin Patch

It’s that time of the year when everyone loves to visit a pumpkin patch! It’s one of the most Fall things you can do. Are Derek and Stiles getting ready for October, which is just around the corner? Are they picking out pumpkins so they can roast the seeds and use the rest for tasty recipes? Or maybe they’re taking their family to visit the games, including hayrides at their local pumpkin patch to support local farms and their seasonal farmers market? Perhaps the pack shows up for family photo ops for Eli’s first pumpkin patch visit! The possibilities are abundant, along with those cute adorable pumpkins we can only enjoy during the Fall season.

October 1-7: Haunted House

Phantoms and demons and ghosts, oh my! With Halloween around the corner, Stiles and Derek would certainly be brave enough to visit a haunted house or two, racing each other to see who would make it out first. Or maybe they work in one, chasing screaming patrons through the attraction. Either way, their wild energy and fearlessness would make for some thrilling entertainment.

@teenwolffandomevents @thebigbangblogproject @sterekevents

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queercoshon · 5 months

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I wrote another thing! This one has been in the works for a while. It is also posted on my deviantart. It's a little bit softer than the usual content I post. As always, please feel free to leave suggestions/ideas

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When I first moved into your spare room, I was definitely on the smaller side. Adult life had bulldozed me, and I learned quick meals and protein bars were the easiest way for me to eat. If I had to make something more complicated, chances are I would just forget to eat entirely.

You, on the other hand, loved to cook, bake, and create different cocktails. Every overindulgence in the past few years showed on your body, curves cascading down your back and flaring at your hips, and your belly often hanging over the waistband of your pants.

You quickly picked up on my food habits, and were quite frankly appalled.

"How can you not love food? Every flavour, every texture? Food is art to me. Have you had good food before?"

I shrugged, because, no, not really. My experience with food thus far had been boxed pastas, cans of soups and chilis, whatever frozen meals were on sale, and various boxed snacks. Eating them didn't bring me a fraction of the joy you got just from talking about food.

Thus began your mission of making me fall in love with at least one dish.

You really could have stopped at the first dish. The leek and potato stew blew my mind. I had never had leeks and found potatoes flavourless mush. But somehow you managed to make such mundane ingredients into a symphonious dish, tastes layering over one another. I could not get enough. The warmth spread from my stomach to encompass my body, and in my cozy bliss I just kept eating, chasing the high of this delectable experience.

I had eaten so much my stomach didn't even slosh when I painstakenly got up from the table.

Your first success spurred you into overdrive. You sought different flavour profiles and combinations, testing to see which ones would make me melt. Most of them did.

Most days I was coming home to the scent of dinner leading me down the hall, with an underlying sweetness hinting at dessert.

You tried a wide range of cuisines. Pot pies, various proteins with rice and veggies, curries from all around the world, and so many different types of pasta. Desserts include cobblers, doughnuts, pies, cakes, and a variety of pastries. I could not believe how much flavour was in everything, and was desperate to get as much of it as possible. Every meal ended with me breathing shallowly, hand caressing my overburdened gut, and you with a satisfied smirk on your face.

With your increase in cooking came your increase in eating. Slowly your body started to billow outward, filling out all your clothes, finally forcing you to look at specialty stores to restock.

My weight gain was not so slow. My body was so used to running on minimal to average calories, it didn't know what to do with the sudden influx, now having to process at least twice what I used to eat in a day.

The first place it was noticable was my gut. It only took a week or two before I had a cute little pot belly. It would push open the buttons on my shirt, and cause issues when buttoning my pants. The rest of my body followed suit. My thighs and ass started to swell, my arms felt constricted in my t-shirts, and a double chin was quickly noticable. I barely noticed. I was so caught up in a whirlwind of culinary pleasure that I paid no mind to my tightening waistbands and my gut starting to peak out of my shirt.

Soon you started cooking breakfast, too. The table would be covered in food, from pancakes to bacon, hashbrowns to quiche. Each day there was something different, and each day I gorged until nearly comatose.

Eating like this every day rapidly changed my body, I had put on 100lbs in 11 months, from the first time you made that stew. I had upgraded my wardrobe 4 times, and was needing to again soon.

And then is was December. The month of overindulgence. Holiday parties every weekend. Potlucks, cocktail parties, hearty meals, sometimes multiple events in the same day.

This was the first time I truly appreciated food; the tastes, the textures, and the stories behind each dish. I tried everything, and then I tried everything again. Most nights I struggled to waddle from the car to my bed. On the rare occasions I wasn't fit to burst, you sat me down on the couch and made me try your creations for the next party. On those nights, I was bound to pass out in the living room, eyes glazed over, gut too stuffed to think about getting up.

Despite all the socializing and gatherings, Christmas day was quiet, just the two of us. I didn't want to fly across the country to see my few relatives, and you were going to do a late holiday dinner with your family at the end of January, when work slowed down for your parents.

I received two sets of pajamas that year. One from you, plaid pants and a red flannel top. It was a little big, but we both knew that wouldn't be the case for long. The other pair I got was from a childhood friend I hadn't seen in person in over 2 years. The pants were baby blue with snowflakes, and the tank top had a cheesy graphic and the phrase "Let it Snow!"

When you went to go work on the feast planned for the day, I tried the second pair of pajamas on. Despite being incredibly stretchy, I could barely get the pants past my thighs. My ass was hanging out the back, and the drawstrings were instantly lost in the waistband. The graphic on the shirt was horrendously distorted, and I could feel a breeze on the bottom of my belly. I was about to change back into the first pair of pjs when you called me for Christmas meal. My mind now only focused on one thing, I stopped what I was doing and lumbered to the table.

You called it Christmas Meal, because it was past noon, but well before dinner time. With the amount of food you made though, we could be there well into the night. There was the traditional fixings; turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, honey roasted carrots, sweet potato casserole, and dinner rolls, but you also added a baked ziti dish, homemade pizza rolls, and cottage pie. Bottles of wine, apple cider, and sparking water lined the middle of the table. There was enough food for 10 people, and we were just 2. I could smell desserts being baked to perfection in the other room.

"This looks amazing! I've never had anything like this. I'm sorry I couldn't help..."

You patted my stomach and laughed. "The only help I need is getting it all eaten. Load up and dig in!"

I piled my plate high with everything I could fit. It would take me at least 2 plates to try everything, probably 3 with the portion sizes I was taking. I looked over, and saw your plate faced the same overburdened fate as mine.

You ladled me a generous glass of mulled wine from the crock pot.

"Cheers!"

And then we fell into a frenzied silence, only the cacophony of two gluttons enjoying a sinfully indulgent feast, and the tv still playing Christmas special reruns in the other room made noise in our tiny apartment.

I still don't know how you did it, but every bite I took had me holding back a moan.

My family had attempted to make a turkey once in my life, and it resulted in a tasteless hunk of disappointment, the bird so dried out that the white meat was somehow pointy and sharp. The one you made was opposite to everything I expected. It was nearly falling apart in my mouth, the seasoning from the brine and rub made it to every bite. Different levels of flavours washed over me, and my eyes nearly rolled into the back of my head.

Every dish you made was like this. Some of them I had equally dismal expectations of, like the green beans, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes, and pizza rolls, all things my family had made sacrilege of once. Everything else I either hadn't had, or only had store bought. Even the best store bought ziti bake didn't come close to yours.

I was put into a trance. There was not a moment where I was still, constantly chewing, swallowing, and reaching for the next bite. Everything was washed down with copious amounts of wine and cider.

My shirt was pushed up by my rounding gut, bunched up under my chest by the end of the 3rd plate, my cheeks were warm, and every gurgle my belly let out just pushed me to eat more.

Your clothes had given up containing your belly. It sat naked on full display, hanging out of your defeated shirt, pushing your thighs apart as it sank further. You were absent-mindedly rubbing the crest of your gut as you shoved another role in your mouth. I poured the last of the 2nd bottle of wine in your glass, and popped open the 3rd to serve myself.

It wasn't until just after starting my 7th plate that I realised how overstuffed I was. It all hit me at once, the bottom of my belly itching as my skin stretched around my stomach swelling forward, my breathe shallow and pained, my lungs given no room to expand, pushing out a burp with every other gasp of air. I couldn't lean back without getting a stitch.

You were in a similar state. Hiccups jolting your body shaking out burps, your hands gingerly massaging your gut which was red and almost shiny.

I don't know how long we sat there, just rubbing our guts and moaning. There was still food left, but maybe enough for 1 averaged-sized meal for both of us. Everything else was crammed into our bellies.

Firmly drunk now, the sensation of rubbing my belly was sending sparks along all my nerves. Between that and riding the high of the first Christmas meal I had ever enjoyed, I was lost in my own little world of bliss.

A harsh timer bell going off in the kitchen jolted me out of my stupor, unleashing a string of burps and a new bout of hiccups. You groaned as you got up, supporting your back and belly like you were 9 months pregnant.

You looked at me with a wine-soaked grin.

"Ready for dessert?"

#queer feedism #feedism story #intox wg #soft feedism #stuffing literature #mutual stuffing #mutual gaining #stuffed fatty

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