#trampling my yard

[skittsyteacup]

you buffoon why did you let him escape!!

[bunnyb34r]

aww the construction guys moved the hose so it lined up with the walkway instead of just haphazardly thrown on the lawn :') idk why but that just seems really nice to me

It's the little things absgdgdg

[maybeicanbesaved]

just had to yell at two kids because they had the audacity to come dump the water i’ve been keeping out for the stray cats (which i go to great lengths to keep cold/cool throughout the day bc of the severe heat) & then proceed to try and throw the container up onto the roof over our door,, they didn’t know i was looking out the peephole as soon as i heard kids outside the door, because i happened to be in the kitchen at the time. yeah i don’t fucking think so. little shits. didn’t even apologize or anything, just went from brief shock to running off, probably to cry to their parent about the mean lady wahh. yeah good i wish their parent or whomeever would come knocking on my door to ‘confront’ me, because i sure as fuck have a lot to say to them

[headspace-hotel]

some times i see people talking about the Earth and climate change saying things like "now i know it is difficult to deal with utter hopelessness, terror, and visiting the thoughts of death"

and it's like wow I am so deeply sorry about the suffering. but...concern. Concern. Tell me, am I missing something important? Why do I feel a sense of hope for our planet? Am I a lonely fool? Have I been consumed by naïveté and misguided optimism?

That would be weird. It feels weird. It feels like I would be well suited to despair. My natural temperament is Mortal Terror making my body crushed for a thousand years at the bottom of the deepest trenches of the ocean. I've thought before "I can't live any more. This exceeds the tensile strength of the human spirit."

And then? After irreversible catastrophic failure of the soul, there is...what?

We try to imagine the future where we fight to save our home and it is very painful. The resistance feels so small and the machine of death feels so vast. But something's missing.

Everyone else is missing—the plants, trees, bugs, beasts, and creatures. Hello? Are the other humans seeing this? Nature wants you to know that she is not a princess in a tower. Look! Look at the chaos moving through every cell! Iterating! Adapting! Becoming! Thriving! Watch the pollinators tirelessly at work, observe the mycorrhizal network in the forest floor distributing the rich fruits of decay and photosynthesis for every inhabitant! Pay attention! We belong here too. They feed and shelter us, give us the very air we breathe, and in return we plant and propagate, cull, thin, and burn, shape, trample, till, shepherd and sprout seeds. Our species can look toward the future, to the world of our descendants. We can call every plant and animal by name and teach our children to use and care for them responsibly. We can feel this anger, pain, and grief on behalf of the family of Life, OUR family, and we can love the smallest beetle and the humblest moss.

Look at it! This thing is nothing like me, it does not benefit me, it has no use or purpose for me, but LOOK at it! Look at its intricate structure! Look at the marvelousness of its behaviors and biological functions! Look at its uniqueness throughout the whole universe! Look at it, and see its infinite value!

I saved a baby tree from the scorching hot gravel of a parking lot. I watched it grow and thrive in the hands of its caretaker. Many more followed, trees and herbs and flowers, rescued and carefully placed in cups and old tubs that once held yogurt and sour cream. This is so strange, I thought. They're everywhere, offering themselves for free, and no one thinks to take them. Everyone thinks transplanting a tree is hard and that nothing grows on the edge of the pavement but weeds. But it's so easy??? This is weird. Plant Nurseries Hate Her: Get Free Plants With This One Weird Trick.

I protected an old barren garden patch where nothing had thrived from being mowed and weed-whacked, and transplanted little plants that I found. I marveled at the bees that came. Chicory bloomed, then asters and goldenrod. I shed actual tears over a spicebush swallowtail. I ordered some milkweed from the internet, and the monarchs came for them. Less then twenty-five bucks for a divine experience like this. Wow, everyone else really needs to know!

I started volunteering at a nature center, and was allowed to transplant flowers where they sprouted in inopportune locations. I collected tons of seeds all fall and winter long.

There is much, much more, all of it bigger than I ever would have imagined. But this spring there were more birds, in number and in species, than I'd ever seen in my back yard before. Chickadees, swallows, finches, nuthatches, jays, cardinals, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers of every kind...I remembered just a couple years prior when all I ever saw out there was a couple grackles or starlings or robins, with the occasional sparrow. Those birds come in flocks rather than couples now. And then the bumblebee arrived. An American bumblebee, endangered now, a queen. For a few days she was always out there, would fly out and buzz around me when I came out to tend to my now-innumerable plants. It's nesting time for them. She chose this place I was creating. She saw that this place would take care of her.

A week ago, I discovered wild strawberries growing in my Mamaw's driveway. I found lyreleaf sage growing beside a gravel road. I've become a master of transplanting; I took several of each home. Yesterday, I saw a tiny, metallic blue bee, an Osmia mason bee. Today, I saw an oriole and a strange, very fancy fly. I see something new almost every day. Every day I am being irreversibly changed as a person. How did I ever fail to see how much this matters?

I said I feel hope...do I feel it? I don't think it's a feeling, I think it's a practice. It's being part of our communities and our ecosystems. Nature's interconnectedness is both reality and example: to survive, we take care of one another. And when one member of the community helps another thrive, it creates a cascade that increases the thriving of all. Just by existing, you help us all survive.

You can only take care of so many plants before you have to give some away. You can only hold so much knowledge before you have to give it away. I gave seeds to a dozen different flowers to my next-door neighbor and she invited me inside and wouldn't let me leave without food, and we talked about plants and trees. A family friend lets me have goats' milk and heirloom vegetables in exchange for help around the farm, and I listen to him talk about trees, bugs, and soil and learn so much I feel like I'm about to explode from knowledge.

Being a caretaker is unavoidably a community-oriented, community-forming thing. You can't grow plants all by yourself. Your garden will make too many tomatoes. Share them. Your milkweed will make hundreds and hundreds of seeds. Spread them. Wild blackberries invite you to take and eat. Your lonely retired neighbor invites you to talk and keep her company. Once you grow delicious fruits or little oak trees, you always have a reason to greet someone and say, "Look, it is a gift!"

We're not alone. We are not separate. We take care of each other. Every species, every individual. A single action of caretaking creates a cascade effect of thriving. A single unapologetic love for a creature creates a blossom of curiosity and fascination in everyone surrounding. It's so powerful.

As my chemical romance says "I am not afraid to keep on living"

[planetary]

dr doofenschmirtz would have done this but for like some totally different reason he’d be like you see perry the platypus im sick of all the four-armed four-legged people buying up all the good mittens for winter. now when i have to go out and shovel the snow off the sidewalk in front of my evil building i have to use my old mittens and they’re not waterproof and my hands get wet and its very uncomfortable. now if i split these people in half they’ll be so busy looking for their other half they won’t even remember to go to the annual summer tri state area mitten sale!! and they’ll have less hands to buy mittens for too. and then perry would kick him in the face and knock the human splitter inator remote out of his hand and it would accidentally fire a beam all the way across town and candace would be like YOULL SEE MOM PHINEAS AND FERB MERGED THEMSELVES AND THEIR FRIENDS INTO A HORRIFIC HUMAN CONGLOMERATE but the inator beam would hit them and unfuse them right as candace brought her mom to the yard and her mom would be like hi kids do you want a snack and they’d all be laying in the grass like haha sure mrs flynn fletcher! and candace would be like WUH. BUT MOM O_O and then dr doofenschmirtz would be like ah well. at least i can still beat the four-armed four-legged people to the annual summer tri state area winter boots sale. but then he gets trampled by a mob of the four-armed four-legged people in big boots and theyre all like IM SO GLAD WE GOT TO THE ANNUAL SUMMER TRI STATE AREA WINTER BOOTS SALE EARLY AND BOUGHT ALL THE GOOD BOOTS! and doctor doofenschmirtz is lying on the ground all crumpled and goes CURSE YOU PERRY THE PLATYPUUUUUUUS!!!!!

[grimesgirll]

heyy could you write Negan smut, with them both fighting for dominance while they fuck, taunting each other; Maybe because they known each other before the apocalypse so she isn’t as intimidated by Negan like the rest.

you have to be the hottest thing he’s seen in quite sometime.

negan, simon, and dwight had heard the gunshots from your shotgun and stumbled upon you; all alone, fending off a few dozen walkers.

simon had insisted that they leave and not risk their safety for “some broad”, and negan was on board until he realized that wasn’t just any broad - it was you.

the three cut through the horde of walkers at negan's insistence. braving bloated corpses and trudging over the trampled isn't a simple feat - even with guns. minutes pass until you're finally face to face. half dazed, you did a double take once your eyes suddenly met the disgraced gym teacher's.

then you hit the ground.

when you woke up, mr. smith was there. you were shocked to see him and even more surprised to learn that he was the leader of an up and coming survival group.

“what about your wife?” you’d asked. “mrs. smith is really cool.”

made slightly dramatic by age, the pained twist of the former faculty's face has you regretting your question.

mrs. smith was really cool.

mr. smith had once been too. kind as well. negan is looks cool, and you can't deny that there's a cult of personality that can't be beat with him. not kind though.

no, you'd learned your first week that the gym teacher who had once teased you about college partying on the playground was now a certified psychopath. as a teaching assistant and faculty shadow at the school, you'd befriended negan easily. the two of you pulled off witty banter as you dropped the kids off for gym, even accepting invitations to join the day's activity.

mr. smith was no more and negan's now burning faces off. you'd seen that. just like you'd seen the floggings, the beatings, the spankings, and even the wall. waking up one day to see the nurse you'd grown fond of outside wandering as a walker was enough for you to tweak.

“what did she do?”

negan looks up from a map of northern virginia to grin at you. “hey, doll! what’s goin’ on?” he kicks his feet up on the desk. “don’t see much of you around here.”

“yeah, because i can barely get by your goons.”

he shrugs. “seems like you got up here just fine.”

you’d sideskirted fat joey when he left his post to top off his dr. pepper. it was easy enough to walk your way to negan’s office to confront him.

“why is the woman who trained me walking around the front yard as a zombie?” you question, not breaking eye contact with the smirking leader. “what could she have done to deserve that?” you let out an exasperated breath, reigning it in with another deep umhals before asking, “don’t you think that’s fucking extreme?”

if negan softens, you really can’t tell. all that comes from the man is a laugh. “you mean the nurse who was planning on robbin’ us all blind and hightailing it with nearly all of our narcotics?”

you don’t even have the care to gawk at him. “could she not have been rehabilitated?”

he scoffs at you. “once an addict, always an addict.”

a sudden wave of dread comes over you, and for a moment you think it may be your lunch coming back up but one look at your former fellow faculty member and you know it’s purely disgust.

“she was my friend!”

“you’ll make more!”

“she was my only friend here,” the words croak out of your mouth.

negan just chews on his lip and shrugs. “sorry, honey, you’ll just have to start bein’ friendlier then.” a smirk spreads across his leather-like, aged face. “might have to drop the whole resting bitch face.”

you’re fuming. the column of rage growing from your belly pangs with no place to go. “for you freaks?”

your outburst has fat joey huffing and puffing his way through the threshold of the door.

“everything, okay, boss?” the grunt looks from your red face to his relaxed leader. “sorry bout’ her. she shouldn’t be up here.”

negan waves a hand. “don’t worry about it, joey. i can handle her.”

joey nods when a “handle me?” is flying from your mouth and negan just shoots him a cheeky grin.

“let me walk you back down there, doll.” negan insists.

when he rises from his desk, you realize how he towers over you, something you’d never clocked despite how often you two had been in close quarters back at school. you’re glaring up to meet his dark eyes - the ones that glint in the light like he hadn’t subjected a young woman to the most gruesome death - not including her life after death.

“this way, you,” negan is shepherding you with a hand on your back and all you can do is grumble as you pass his lazy goon.

once the two of you are in the hallway, you slap his hand off of him. “don’t touch me,” you sneer.

he chuckles. “whatever you wish, princess, just stop interrupting me from my important shit with your emotional shit, ‘kay?”

you shake your head. “what would mrs. smith think of all this? surely you don’t think you’re in the right. your wife would’ve hated this.”

negan gestures to the empty, desolate stairwell the two of you are descending. “she look like she’s here?”

“doesn’t matter. what happened to your morals?” you spit, stopping in your tracks to turn and face the taller man, standing on a higher step so that you’re both at eye level. “you were a school teacher.”

“yeah, and you would’ve been dead if we hadn’t brought you in.”

“so i should be happy with the freak show you’re putting on here?”

the expressive leader throws his arms out to motion to the compound. “look around, it’s bread and circuses!” he says simply. “you work, you get a bed, and a safe place to live.” a devious expression overtakes his countenance. “and a show!”

“i hate it here.” you declare nastily.

he snorts. “you hate not being in control, and all the safe little assurances we had before. things are different now.”

“no,” you counter, face coming closer to his. “you’re different now.”

“gotta be to survive nowadays, darlin’, now hurry it up. you need to get back to stitchin’ up my men so they can go out and bring you back ravioli, morphine, soap, toilet paper, all that shit you’re bitchin’ about having.”

“you’re a psycho,” you huff at him as he ushers you down the stairs, another level, and the familiar way towards the infirmary.

“you’re just not adjusted yet. just stick to changing bedpans and we won’t have a problem,” negan instructs with a hand on your back again.

you brush him off once you two have entered the sterile, white infirmary where doctor carson is talking quietly with one of negan’s goons.

“what’s goin’ on here, doc?” negan questions, startling the two.

negan’s man is pale - and sweating buckets. the doctor stands from his bedside to face negan.

“hello, negan, we were just finishing up.”

“finishing up what?”

the pit in your stomach grows when you notice the sickly man on the bed scurrying to fold the fabric of his shirt back over his stomach. the doctor has a pokerface but you didn’t need them to answer to know what was going on.

“what’s goin’ on, dan? feelin’ alright?” negan doesn’t give the doctor a chance to answer before he’s next to his commissioned scavenger, towering over him now.

dan nods. “feelin’ fine. just scraped up and tired as hell after gettin’ back from carolina.”

“i bet!” that loud voice booms throughout the room. “mighty long trip that was. thanks again, man.” the clap to dan’s back from his leader almost has him buckling. “but you don’t look so good, bud. got something to tell me?”

“negan-,” the doctor starts but he’s quickly silenced by a simple raise of the leader’s hand.

“nope, doc. i wanna hear it from dan here.”

the man’s nervous eyes flicker from doctor carson and to you. you want to crumple where you stand. though his eyes are pleading, there’s nothing you can do. only manage your growing disgust as you watch negan reach for his sidearm.

then negan does something that surprises you, he leans down to embrace the man in a hug.

“thank you, it was just a long trip.” dan’s bumbling, but negan shushes him.

“don’t worry bout’ it, dan.”

that’s when the bullet departs the chamber and implants itself in dan’s brain.

the man who’d just been alive slumps down and falls onto the newly bloodied bedsheets. the white wall behind him is sprayed with brains and chrome. the salt and pepper haired leader stands from the bed and yawns, stretching as if he wasn’t leaving a mess of blood and trauma for you and the doctor to clean up and process.

“back to work. keep an eye on her, doc.”

“negan, you sick fuck.”

this time, negan’s holding his council and heatedly harping on gregory.

the man lets out an exasperated breath. “who the fuck wasn’t watching the door?”

his legion of doom is bewildered to see the sullen nurse standing in the doorway. dwight’s apathetic as always, but is the first to offer to escort you out while simon’s telling gregory to “shut the fuck up” and laura’s looking at you as if no one could be more annoying as to drag this meeting on.

“joey!”

one shout and you hear heavy footsteps thudding down the hall. breathing raggedly, the guard wraps himself around the doorway and drops his sandwich at the sight of you.

“so sorry, boss. she really sneaks in!”

the older man just shakes his head. “don’t let it happen again or gregory gets it.”

laughter erupts from the room. everyone at the table is dropping their dauntless demeanor as if on cue. the only one not laughing is gregory of course.

“negan, listen-,”

“ah!” negan interrupts him, straining against his leather jacket when he turns his body towards him. “you shut it! i hate having my shit interrupted, and i hate having supply drops interrupted far more than meetings.” he directs his attention from the man from hilltop back to you. “why don’t you just take a seat, honey? we’ll be done soon.”

you shake your head. “i’m not trying to stay here any longer than i have to. i need this sorted out now.”

“if you wanna talk, doll, you’ll have to wait your turn. i’m talking to gregory right now.”

“i don’t even want to talk to you.”

he exhales flippantly. “then why are you here? interrupting my important meeting.”

“i came for my shotgun.”

negan chuckles, crossing his arms. “you think you’re gettin’ that thing back? after the mood you’ve been stirring up here?”

you do your best to ignore the way he’s laughing and dismissing you or how he’s manspreading all over the chair he’s parked in.

“i need my stuff now. i’m leaving tonight.”

it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room. you can see negan’s jaw tighten in real time, and the room stiffens. waiting for a reaction is half the angst but you don’t have time for it. don’t even want to defend your decision, especially in front of everyone here.

“out!”

chair legs scrape against the ground as some of negan’s senior partners in psychopathy begin to egress.

gregory is just looking flabbergasted. “but we had a meeting?”

“everyone, out. now!”

all it takes is a “negan doesn’t like to repeat himself” and dwight is shuffling gregory out of the room, simon taking up the rear.

“see you soon, hun’,” he taunts to you.

you don’t have enough time to process his words because he’s shutting the door behind you and probably mentally rescheduling this meeting. you could care less.

“enough, negan smith.” he blinks at the full name callout. “i want my stuff and i’ll be out of your hair. you won’t have to worry about me.”

negan’s off his feet again and sitting on top of the table now. he points to the chair next to the head. “sit.”

“i don’t want to sit.” you insist. “i already told you, i don’t want to talk, i want to go.”

“yeah, well we’re gonna talk first, so sit your ass down.”

you don’t want to spend anymore time in this nutjob factory than you have to but you want your shotgun back. so you walk across the room and you stand at the chair.

“what do you have to say to me?” you inquire.

“god, look at you!”

you roll your eyes.

“a few weeks after getting your life saved, getting your needs taken care of and you’re ready to go back to that?”

“i don’t want to be at your constant mercy.” you say plainly. “not that you can really call it mercy.”

with every retort from him being a laugh, your patience is growing thin. he snickers upon seeing your frown. “so, you want to take your chances out there instead of taking a little time to let me help figure out your problem?”

you throw up your hands. “figure out my problem? i came to you to help figure out my problem and you said to just deal with it. to ‘adjust’. well, i can’t. i can’t live like this. it’s not humane.”

“yeah, and it’s humane out there?”

“better than bitching in here.”

“well, i think i can help with that. won’t be getting your shotgun back.”

“oh, so you can’t help at all?” you snap.

he whistles. “never said that.” his eyes drop from your gaze down your torso to your thighs. he pats the table next to him. “come sit on the table.”

“no. i want to go. now.”

“alright then.”

“negan!”

you exclaim when he scootches off the table to scoop you up by your legs and middle and plop you down.

“let doctor negan see if he can help.”

“what are you-,”

“ah! look at that.”

“ah!”

the sudden sensation of a finger against your denim covered cunt has your face flushing and red. “been touched there in a while, honey?”

“just give me my shotgun,” you breathe, desperately trying with your eye contact to communicate that things aren’t going the way you expected.

“let me give you some reprieve, clear your head, and then we can see if you still want your shotgun.”

you shake your head as he starts pulling down your pants. “you think your wife would be okay with this?”

“she here?”

you curse yourself for giving him such an easy answer. you curse yourself for not doing anything other than pouting and wiggling once he’s at your waistband. you curse the little wet spot soaked though your underwear even more.

“god, i knew confrontation would get you wet.”

“so you planned this?”

the older man shakes his head, taking another moment to fully lock eyes with you, even as he towers over you on the table. “no, i’m thinking that we both walked into this.”

maybe you shouldn’t have walked in, you ponder as negan walks your undies down your thighs with his fingers and walks them right back to your dripping center. the hair you have down there is already slick, a damp curtain pried open by negan’s thick fingers.

“shit,” you rasp when a finger braves the pool of anticipation that’s only growing and delves further against your inner walls.

“want me stop there?” the fucker’s finger stills inside of you and the other dancing just above your clit comes to a halt.

you don’t respond, just lock eyes with negan and try to catch your breath. “that’s not fair,” you point out in a voice just above a whisper. “can’t stop now.”

“or can i?”

you shake your head. “don’t.”

maybe clearing the tension that’s been building like a twentieth century skyscraper inside of you will sort you out. or you could just say fuck it. the world’s ended anyways.

negan surely fucks a finger stationed inside of you back and forth. twisting and testing the waters before adding another. the extra finger curls inside you deliciously while he utilizes another to play around your clit.

the attention he’s paying to your once undisturbed nether regions is enough to have you creaking and moaning like an old door hinge and hinging forward into negan. he’s quick to let you fall forward into his arms. the sudden acceptance is all he needs to speed up.

“i know that feels good, honey.”

“mhmm,” you murmur into his shoulder.

there’s a spot inside of you that he’s massaging just right and another on your exterior; an x doesn’t need to mark the spot for him to rile up your clit. slow, lazy circles have you grinding against him on the table. how can you bemoan him when he’s about to pull the perfect release from you?

you know that because your breath is picking up again and you’re blubbering into his sturdy shoulder. those motions are telltale. mrs. smith’s memory hasn’t kept this man celibate.

the widower has his hand on your back again and the hand beneath you has its own task. the task at hand is executed with more skill than any boy you’d ever fooled around with in college or anyone who came after - not that there were many given how things had gone. you’d like to think that if shit hadn’t hit the fan, you would’ve settled down with someone like mr. smith but younger. this would have to do.

“clenchin’ so tight just around my fingers, baby. you always had the hots for me?”

you shake your head no truthfully. “this is the hots?”

“you feel hot down there baby, and my are you hot.” he lands the compliment with a kiss. you lean in, letting his tongue slip into your mouth because you’re too occupied with the build up brewing inside of you.

one glance down between you two and you see his fingers pumping. your heart rate jumps when you see the addition of another and now you’re being stretched out on his fingers on this table.

“god, you’re gorgeous. what a sweet little thing to have fallen into my lap.”

you curl further into his lap, legs now around him and his fingers knuckle deep inside of you. all he has to do is curl his fingers and you’re yowling. “mhm, they’re deep.” you say, brain just observing.

“too deep?”

“no.”

thus, they plunge further. until the extra finger on the outside is stirring up more than your slick and heat courses through you. you shudder against negan but that doesn’t stop his routine. the shape of his fingers change inside of you and you’re bucking against him to feel each one.

“fuck, i’m gonna come,” you don’t want to say it out loud but you do anyways.

“on my fingers?” negan sniggers. “you poor thing. c’mon now, i know it must’ve been a while.” he presses the pad of his thumb against your clit. “just let go, honey, it’ll help.”

and it does.

letting your lizard brain take the lead is all you need for your mind to go blank. if even for a second, it releases the anxiety and the anger that’d consumed you. you pulse and clamp down around his digits until suddenly he’s not moving at all but you’re rotating your hips against him.

riding out such a feeling, you blink the tears out of your eyes and do a double take once you notice negan removing his fingers and starting on his belt.

“what’re you doing?” you question, pussy still pulsing with a mind of its own.

“if you thought that helped you relax, this will put you to sleep. no more sleeping pills for you, darlin’.”

“how did you know about that?”

“doctor carson doesn’t keep secrets from me. he didn’t need to tell me you weren’t adjusting well either.” negan states matter-of-factly, then dropping his blue plaid boxers.

you’re not sure how you’re going to adjust to the sight you’re met with. the cock in front of you is larger than any you’ve ever seen before. if negan’s fingers had you losing it, this thing will ruin you.

“i don’t think it’s gonna fit,” you admit when his hands land on your hips.

the distance between your needy bare entrance and his thick dick is only inches now. you shudder at the longing that’s whipping you and your thoughts around. you moan when he slides his hard, veiny cock against your entrance, slapping it against you once for good measure.

“nope, you’re tougher than you think.”

you meet his eyes again as if to question him. sure, he feels good against you but this is next level. better than fiction but what would happen after you both got your orgasms out of the way?

there’s no time for you to speculate because his lips are on yours again and you feel him lining himself up against you. “you want me to fuck all those fears out of your head, honey? you wanna feel good?”

how can you say no to that?

one nod of your head and his tip is teasing you. it takes you telling him, “please, put it in. i want it,” and then he’s plunging inside.

your face scrunches as a little burn becomes prominent from his size, but he kisses the lines away from your face. your temple, your nose, your lips, your cheek, he’s kissing you, saying, “good girl. you’re doing fantastic.”

you just eat up the praise and look down to see your pussy devouring him whole. the first two or three inches were a struggle just from lack of use but your lack of pleasure - the near sexual deprivation you’d experienced since shit hit the fan - overcomes it, and is pleasantly fulfilled.

in and out of you, negan works his hips and you can’t be happier. could a man you’d branded a psycho just minutes before be so adept at addressing your pleasure?

seems like it.

“god, you fuck well for a gym teacher.”

negan won’t let the snide comment slide so he wraps up his tour of purple rain against your collarbone to simper at you. “yeah, and for a frigid bitch, this pussy is hot and ready.”

“maybe i’m one of those dumb girls who’s attracted to psychos and serial killers?” you ponder playfully and wrap your arms negan’s neck to pull him in closer.

“oh, i’m gonna fuck you dumb, honey, don’t worry.” and with a roll of his hips, you have no reason to worry he won’t live up to his words.

you whine when he suddenly rams into you. his girth juts along your tight, inner walls. you meet his gaze again and just looking at his smug face has you tightening around him.

“god, baby, did you just fuckin’ squeeze me?”

“can you adjust?”

he grunts. “can you?”

you don’t have time to ask what you could possibly have to adapt to next because negan’s turning you into your stomach onto the table, tossing his leather jacket down for you to bury your face into. his absence from between your thighs brings on another whine but one moment of motion and now you feel him flush against your back, filling you to the brink with his cock.

“yeah, bet that brain can’t even think about an escape plan with that dumb little pussy stuffed so full. you gonna’ be able to walk tomorrow, honey?” he asks you tenderly as if he’s not on the verge of taking out your cervix.

“ne-negan! sto-,”

“-stop what?” he gyrates his hips nice and slow into you, dragging on the sensitive insides of your poor, overstimulated little cunt. “stop fucking you? because the way your pussy is clampin’ down, i don’t even know how i’m backing out of here baby.”

“don’t!” you beg.

“what?” he leans down to take your chin in his hands and see the angsty, pleasure induced tear starting to roll down your cheek. “god, you even look pretty when you cry. fuckin’ face like that.”

hips are stammering and negan’s words burn straight through to your core. he moans like a motherfucker when he feels the squeeze of your clingy little core on him. haywire all of this had gone, and now your climax is taking you over the edge.

“negan, don’t stop. don’t stop. don’t be an asshole,” you’re pleading.

he’s back to spearing you on his cock, leveraging your hips and throwing his head back. “don’t think i could, baby. not with a pussy this fucking fantastic.”

the praise is what does you in for the second time. any thought of undead nurses or public floggings leaves your brain and all you’re left with is the molten hot pleasure exploding inside of you. negan’s hand drifts down to your clit to have you absolutely crushing his cock.

“god, doll, you’re fuckin’ tight. so fuckin’ hot when you come like that. gonna have me doing a fuckin’ one and done for now.”

the huskiness of his voice and the twitch of him against your walls only eggs you on. your eyes are shut tight but you he’s all you can imagine. head on top of his jacket, you breathe in his scent, musky with a hint of the same cologne he wore back at school, and you’re creaming around him.

“fuck, doll!”

and he’s shooting his cream inside of you. the warmth fills you up and you no longer have the energy to move. any gyration of your hips has halted. a few more thrusts and he’s in the same boat. he collapses atop you for just a moment before pulling out and padding towards the table against the wall laden with napkins and refreshments that were supposed to be for the meeting.

you don’t turn your head but you can hear him grabbing some paper towels off the roll and clutching some other things.

“just gonna wipe between your legs,” he instructs and you let him.

your forehead against the table and those pretty eyes squeezed shut has negan rethinking a thing or two. suddenly he’s regretting not fucking you like the sweet thing you are. you deserved better than a table - at least his soft, king sized mattress if not a cloud.

once he finishes, he pats your back and nudges you up where he’s waiting with a water bottle - already open with the cap off. you accept with no issue and gulp the mini-sized bottle down easily.

“listen, why don’t you have dinner with the girls and i tonight? i’m not gonna give you your shotgun back just yet, but might change your mind about some things.”

[thedepressionoftrees]

Okay I didn't realize that I would ever have to make this post but I was scrolling through reddit and saw a post with a cute moose calf full of comments of people talking about how cute moose are and how they'd love to interact with them in the wild and I just have to beg you DO NOT EVER FUCK WITH MOOSE. As someone who has lived around moose all my life, NEVER FUCK WITH THE MOOSE. Do not look at them, do not approach them, stay the fuck out of their way. They are 8 feet tall (2.5 m) and weigh over 1,000 lbs (450kg for my metric friends) they are one of the few types of megafauna surviving from the ice age. They can survive getting hit by a car going 60 mph (97kph) and walk away from the impact. They will kill you with little provocation. DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MOOSE. I have been chased by moose for merely existing within 200 yards of them. I had a friend who was killed by a trampling moose. Moose commit more attacks on humans than bears and wolves combined. DO NOT FUCK WITH MOOSE. I love animals of every kind. I geek over spiders, I awww over snakes, I love all types of animals but for the love of god treat moose with the respect they demand or they will kill you for it

[miheartsedthings]

All The Lovers in the Night

“Smells like rain.” 

Billy glances from the movie he’s watching to where you’re leaning on the window sill, your nose nearly pressed against the screen. 

“Hm?”

It’s cool out, early spring. 

“Rain,” you say again, “C’mere.” 

Graduation was months ago, and since then you and Billy spend as much time as possible together. Now, you’re at his place while his dad is away on a business trip. Susan doesn’t stand in the way of you being together, as long as you all have some idea of which friends Max is hanging out with. She’s with Lucas and the others, so you and Billy have the house to yourselves and you’ve taken up in the living room. 

You’re on your knees in front of the window beside the TV, transfixed by the little green yard and the trees just beyond. All settled under graying clouds. Billy comes to stand beside you. 

“Smells like…” he pauses, leaning down and closing his eyes. He’s been so at ease since his dad left. Since his ribs healed and the nightmares lessened. So much more thoughtful. More like his true self than he ever would’ve been before. 

“Kinda like ocean.” He says as he looks out. He’s smiling but only with his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you say, taking another big inhale. “Wet dirt, and like…” another breath “the way it smells on foggy mornings, ya know?” 

He nods. He sits down on the hardwood, one knee bent as he reclines on the opposite arm. 

“You’re missing your movie,” you say. 

His eyes are far away, looking out into the sky. 

“It used to be quiet in our house when it stormed,” he says. “My grandma lived with us and she used to make me and my mom huddle up in the living room and pray until it passed. Normally, my dad bitched about everything that woman said, but…when it stormed, something came over him, too. Everything would just get mellow and we’d sit there…damn. I forgot about that.” 

A cool, damp breeze rolls over you, and slowly a shush drums up from the ground as the rain starts to fall. Quietly at first, and then louder, filling the air with scattered water and the sour smell of soil. Billy loops an arm around your waist and pulls you into his lap. He tucks his face into your neck and kisses the chilled skin before returning his eyes to the window. You settle into him, closing yourself into the warmth of his arms. 

“There’s so much I wish I could change about what happened to you.” 

Your words feel thin. Maybe they’ll slip right out the window and be trampled by the rain. Broken through like butterfly wings. 

“I know,” he says “I know what you'd do for me if you could.” 

His arms tighten around you, somehow bringing you closer to his chest. You know the words are meant to be comforting, but they make you feel powerless. You sit there drowning in all the nothing you can do to fix the things he suffered with. Before you know it, you’ve sniffled, and he turns you to face him with a hand under your chin. 

“Hey,” he says, his face tightening into a stern glare. “You don’t get to be mad at yourself about shit you can’t change. Remember we made that rule?” You nod, but it only makes it worse that he cares so much. “Keep being a crybaby you’re gonna get yourself in trouble.” 

A laugh bursts out of you, regardless of your tears. He’s able to make you laugh whenever he wants, it’s like some weird superpower he has. He smiles a little and kisses you, letting his lips linger. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You can’t have more regrets than me and shit…I’m here.” 

You’re flooded with more words, more sentiment than you’d ever burden one person with. It’s too much. So you kiss him again and try to telegraph it all through the dense space between your internal self and his. You try to send him healing and care. Compassion beyond description. Forgivenesses not yours to give. All of it. Everything. 

For a moment, when he’s filling you, you think he feels it. By some miracle of the body and the sound of rain, he finally feels how much you love him. You’re so happy you could die. 

Artist Credit: Cécile Berrubé

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

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, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

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 @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Less Talk | Part VII

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: Swearing, suggestive language, excessive banter & fluff

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Masterlist

Jake walks out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. You’re sitting on the top step with your elbows resting on your knees and your chin in your hands.

“You look happy,” Jake comments, taking a seat beside you.

You glance over at him jadedly. “I’ve had a day,” you respond.

Jake gives you a pointed look. “You don’t say,” he notes sarcastically. He had gathered as much when you fled the living room after snapping at Bradley for trying to interrogate you once more.

You roll your eyes, but your mouth moves into a slight grin. “Shut up, Seresin.”

Jake leans sideways to nudge you gently on the shoulder. “Wanna get out of here?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “This is your party.”

Jake waves a hand. “It’s Bradley’s party.”

You eye him skeptically. “Right,” you say, seemingly unconvinced. “What’s he celebrating again?”

Jake endeavors to keep a straight face while meeting your gaze. “How should I know?” he asks.

You half-scoff, half-laugh in response and this makes Jake bizarrely happy. It’s stupid how giddy getting you to smile makes him feel.

He watches you steadily, wondering how many times you’ve caught him staring at you when even he hadn’t realized it. “Seriously,” he says. “What’s stopping us from just taking off?”

You glance at him with a somewhat bewildered expression. “Where would we even go?” you ask.

Jake shrugs. “Wherever you want to go.”

You narrow your eyes distrustfully. “You’re doing it again,” you say.

Jake grimaces. “What?”

“Being nice.”

“It’s strange that you find kindness suspicious,” he responds. “It’s kind of a red flag.”

You let out a soft laugh. “In my defense, I don’t ever expect it out of you.”

Jake nods, not entirely surprised at your response. Nonetheless, he exhales wearily and turns to face forward.

He feels your shoulder as you nudge him back. “Well, don’t sulk about it, you big baby,” you say playfully. “Is it my fault you’re usually an asshole?”

Jake stares at the porch steps before him stiffly, having barely registered your insult. You’re still leaning into him and, as a result, his entire body is in a state of acute arousal. Thoughts of reaching over and sinking his hand into your thigh to pull you in and wrap your leg around his torso are trampling his original intentions of carrying on a respectable conversation. “Did you just call me baby?” he mutters absently.

“Umm.” There’s an awkward pause after this articulation during which you straighten your back, thereby releasing Jake from the stupor caused by your innocent – yet noticeably prolonged – nudge.

Jake turns to look at you, still mildly dazed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I missed that last part.”

You blink at him mutely, then tear your gaze away and rise to your feet. “I said, you’re an asshole,” you say causally.

Jake creases his eyebrows, glancing after you as you skip down the steps. “I might’ve missed a little more than just the last part, then,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. Then he gets up. “You know who’s an asshole?” he says, confidence gaining in his voice. “Mustang.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t even know him.”

Jake cocks his head inquisitively, wondering if your ex might have something to do with your elusive behavior. “I know enough,” he says, hoping to provoke you into conversation.

You kick at the overgrown yard. “You should cut your grass,” you say moodily, clearly attempting to change the subject.

Jake sighs, disappointed that you didn’t take the bait. “It’s No Mow May,” Jake says half-heartedly, surprised that you aren’t familiar with the trend considering your aggressive views on environmental preservation.

You give him a disgusted look. “Don’t tell me you buy that crap.”

Jake gawks at you. “I’m saving the bees!”

You lift an eyebrow judgementally. “For a month?”

“Look at all my dandelions!”

You shake your head disapprovingly. “All you’re doing is delaying the inevitable. Your weeds are already outgrowing your grass and you’re going to end up needing pesticides before the summer is through, thus negating your supposed act of good will.”

“It’s about spreading awareness, genius,” Jake bites back.

“It’s about a lack of awareness, actually.”

Jake sighs audibly, rolling his head back to glance upward in frustration. He puts his hands on his hips before looking back down at you. “Must you always be so goddamn pessimistic?”

You scoff indignantly. “And what happens when you mow your lawn in June? You destroy the food source of all your precious pollinators. Maybe chop up some unsuspecting field mice or bunnies that have taken up shelter in your luscious yard.”

Jake’s jaw drops in horror. “Stop talking,” he says with a cringe.

“Well, don’t be an idiot and cut your damn grass, Seresin.”

“It was Bradshaw’s idea,” Jake retorts. Now that he’s learned your opinion, he no longer needs to take credit for the so-called eco-friendly practice of propagating weeds.

You eye the unkempt grass skeptically, apparently not sold on the notion that Bradley Bradshaw should be on the receiving end of your criticism. But just when you open your mouth to voice your displeasure on the matter, Jake lets out a resolute breath, takes a swift step toward you, and plants his lips right on top of yours.

It takes a moment for him to even realize what he’s doing, let alone recognize that you aren’t pulling away or shrieking in alarm or punching the living daylights out of him. On the contrary, you’re completely still, frozen in place; possibly traumatized.

And Jake, well, Jake is just as shocked as you are, if not more. And, as a result, just as immobile. Never in all his years has Jake Seresin underperformed so tremendously. Never has he delivered such an inadequate kiss. A kiss? Could he even call it that? He ponders as his lips remain glued motionless on top of yours.

And then, you shift ever so slightly forward. And this gesture, this cue – because that is how Jake decides to interpret your movement which could just as easily be attributed to uncomfortable footwear – gives him a much-needed confidence boost. He places his hands firmly on your hips, clutching you with purpose, with conviction.

In response, you slide further into him, forcing him to wrap his arms all the way around your waist. And you open your mouth, letting him slip his tongue inside while your lips brush softly over his. And, when he feels your hands rest tentatively on his abdomen, he nearly loses his balance, paralyzed all over again.

He takes your hand – the one creeping up his chest – easing the tension in your curled-up fist as his kiss draws you closer and closer. He is so consumed by the feel of your body in his arms, so stunned that you’re actually allowing him to hold you, that your earlier argument about – birds, was it? – has thoroughly been swept from his mind. And your previously puzzling behavior is but a distant memory.

Until, that is, the front door creaks open and the two of you abruptly disperse, and you have the audacity to welcome the intrusion with a wide, guilt-ridden smile. “Bradley!” you exclaim. “We were just commending your decision to participate in No Mow May!”

Jake turns to look at you in awe.

Bradley appears skeptical. “You were?”

Jake watches you sourly before turning to his roommate. “She was going on and on about it,” he confirms.

Bradley glances between the two of you suspiciously. “So, you guys are just out here admiring the lawn?”

Jake purses his lips. “More or less,” he responds.

Bradley nods slowly. “Yeah, I think it was a good decision,” he says finally.

Jake watches you take in a controlled breath and grins. “Definitely,” he says. “If nothing else, it serves as excellent fodder for conversation.”

“Not that the two of you ever lack fodder,” Bradley notes sarcastically.

“Speaking of fodder,” you say, placing a hand over your stomach. “I’m hungry.” You start for the door, but Jake intervenes before you even reach the porch.

“But,” he says, “our…the…” He sighs. “Don’t you think we should finish our conversation?”

Bradley steps aside to let you pass and turns to Jake. “I didn’t realize you were this enthusiastic about biodiversity.”

Jake gives Bradley a flat look. “Who isn’t?”

Bradley nods appreciatively. “Want to talk to me about it?” he asks.

Jake narrows his eyes at him as though he can’t believe that his friend isn’t catching on yet. “Not really.” Then he hops up onto the porch after you. “You’re going inside?” he asks, catching up to you. You glance up at him and he meets your gaze in a bit of a panic. “It was quite a riveting discussion we were having that Rooster so rudely interrupted,” he says, giving Bradley another pointed look before turning back to you. “Don’t you have anything to add?”

Bradley rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “Do you really have that much more to say on the topic of grass, Hangman?”

Jake makes a face at him. “Bradshaw, don’t you have a party to host?”

You let out a quiet chuckle and Jake reverts his attention to you. You grace him with a tight smile and say, “We can chat later, Seresin.”

Jake stares at you dizzily, trying to determine whether the two of you are on the same page, metaphorically speaking. When your eyes linger suggestively on his, he dares to return your smile. “Looking forward to it,” he responds cheekily.

Then, Bradley, who, by this point, has also made it back up onto the porch, clears his throat. “Actually, while we’re on the topic of local ecosystems” – he says, but Jake interrupts him before he can finish.

“Good god, are you still here?”

Bradley stops talking and blinks between you and Jake. “Did I interrupt something?” he says.

“No,” you reply.

At the same time, Jake says, “Yes.” You give him a sharp look and he adds, “An argument.”

“Ah.” Bradley nods, apparently completely satisfied with this response.

“And it was very heated,” Jake continues.

You roll your eyes.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I came out when I did,” Bradley says, resting his hands on both yours and Jake’s shoulders. “Before things got physical.”

Jake draws a deep, irritated breath, eyeing you knowingly while you avoid his gaze. “Yeah, we definitely wouldn’t want that,” he says tersely.

…

After finally losing Bradley, who seems hellbent on speaking with you in private, Jake watches you head downstairs with an entire bowl of sliced watermelon. He sets down his beer and proceeds after you, rushing down the steps until he arrives at the bottom together with you.

You look over your shoulder in surprise, and he grins at you broadly.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says cheerily.

You snort, making your way into the rec room with your bowl.

Jake follows you leisurely, as though he isn’t utterly dying to get his hands on you again. “What’s with the fruit?”

You set the bowl down on a side table and plop down onto the couch. “This is the best watermelon I’ve ever eaten.”

Jake raises his eyebrows, approaching the couch. “Guess who picked out that watermelon.”

You throw him a taunting smile. “It’s ridiculous how proud you are about this.”

Jake scoffs, staring at you in amazement. “You just said it’s the best watermelon you’ve ever had! Of course, I’m proud. You’re a hard woman to please.”

Your smile widens and you lower your gaze in a – if Jake didn’t know any better – bashful manner. “Have you been trying?” you ask, glancing back up at him. “To please me?”

Hearing the words please and me come out of your mouth in direct succession sends a significant amount of his blood south, leaving insufficient quantities for frivolous brain functions such as, for instance, speech, so it takes him a minute to formulate a response. “Extensively,” he finally says, his throat a little dry and his voice a little hoarse.

Despite his frankness, you regard him with an air of suspicion, as though his assertion isn't altogether reliable. When he moves to take a seat on the couch, you say, “Did you know that there’s actually a method of picking a good watermelon?”

Jake smiles as he plants himself on the opposite end of the couch, realizing that he finds your evasive techniques remarkably endearing. He looks up at you with feigned interest and says with a hint of sarcasm, “I bet I’m about to.”

You give him an impassive look. “I don’t have to tell you if you don’t want to know.”

Jake laughs. “Are you telling me that, all this time, I could have just asked you to stop talking?”

You pucker your lips trying to keep a straight face. You pull the bowl off the table and extend your arm. “Want some?”

“Some of the best watermelon you’ve ever had?” he asks facetiously.

You roll your eyes. “Get over it, cowboy.”

Jake chuckles. “I’m good,” he says. You shrug and take a slice out of the bowl for yourself. Meanwhile, Jake is in the mood for something entirely different but not any less sweet.

“Hey, Seresin,” you say, setting the bowl back down and sinking further into the couch, getting cozy. You pull your legs up and sit cross-legged, biting into your watermelon. “I have a sort of weird question for you.”

Jake stretches his arm over the back of the couch, facing you. “That is weird,” he says. “Normally, all you have are answers.”

You make a face at him but continue, “What do you want out of life?”

Jake watches you carefully, wondering if this is yet another attempt to pull his leg.

“I mean” – you wave your hand casually – “disregarding the fact that we are tiny, meaningless specks of matter in an infinite expanse of universe, and our existence is inconceivably fleeting in the grand scheme of things and thus our desires absolutely irrelevant.” You meet his gaze earnestly. “What do you want?”

Jake raises his eyebrows. “Disregarding all of that?” he asks wryly.

You sigh impatiently. “Don’t be a dick.”

“It’s hard.” Jake cringes. “Sorry, bad joke,” he adds. “I’ll stop.”

You shake your head and look away. “Forget it.”

Jake takes advantage of your brief lapse in vigilance to slide a little closer. “Does this weird question have anything to do with that thing you don’t want to talk about?”

Your silence confirms Jake’s theory. His arm is still stretched over the back of the couch only, now that he’s closer, his hand is resting right behind your head. Hesitantly, he lifts it and skims his fingertips up the back of your neck. You look over at him sharply, startling him enough that he nearly jumps.

You study him guardedly, but the intensity of your gaze isn’t the threatening kind. Your teeth graze your bottom lip as your eyes flit down to his mouth. Meanwhile, Jake sits very still, trying to supress any physical manifestations of the pandemonium surging in his gut and setting his insides ablaze.

Finally, you relax your posture and slump into the couch, resting your head back, right into his hand. Jake curls his fingers into your hair and runs his thumb along the curve of your ear, admiring your side profile. After several minutes, you turn your head so that your face rests in his palm and give him a small smile.

Jake debates whether he should kiss you again since you seemed to not mind it so much the first time around. Besides, now that he’s tasted your lips, he can hardly think of anything else. So, before you have a chance to bestow upon him yet another random piece of wisdom, he leans forward and brushes your lips with his.

And he can feel your face lift from his hand as you stretch your neck to kiss him back, and he compensates by sliding his hand down your neck. And you reach outward to grab a chunk of his shirt to pull him in, and he obliges by moving closer. And you gasp softly into his mouth when his other hand finds its way to the side of your face, and Jake lets it linger over your cheek because you seem to like it there.

And the way your tongue rolls gently against his; the way your breaths coincide with his every movement; the way you whisper, “Jake,” like he’s the source of your pleasure has him on the brink of a very precarious precipice.

He cups your face between his hands, breathing out steadily as he tries to control the unrelenting urge to rip the clothes right off of your body. The way you’re panting against his mouth tells him that you may be anticipating a similar scenario.

And maybe he should. Maybe he should just give it to you right here in the middle of the rec room in the musty, old basement. Maybe he should just take you right now in the midst of your mysterious, emotional crisis. Maybe he should just get you out of his system and move on.

Only, he already knows that you’re not that kind of girl. The kind of girl he could just fuck and forget.

Only, he isn’t the kind of guy who could get over a girl like you. Not anymore.

Only, your kiss is interrupted again. This time, however, it's Bob, and he's stumbling down the stairs in search of an unoccupied bathroom in which he could, in his own words, violently hurl and subsequently die and possibly piss, if he remembers to do so.

And, as Jake directs him to the facilities, you wander back upstairs and Jake, who spends a good hour ensuring that Bob doesn't, in fact, die, doesn't see you again until the following morning at Mickey's birthday brunch, to which you arrive in a white fucking mustang.

Read Part 8

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[willalove75]

Alcina's New Maid. Lady Dimitrescu x Reader

This idea has plagued my mind for almost two weeks and I need to get it out of my head so I can function😅😂

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu brings you in as one of her maids, at least, that's what you thought she brought you to the castle for.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI

Tags: flirty, fluff, slow burn, smut.

Notes: This might be a few parts idfk I just need it out of my head NOW 😅😅

Click here for the rest of the series

It's the early hours of the morning, the sun has just risen and you're out in the back tending to the garden. You bring the mornings harvest into the kitchen and greet your aunt and uncle, both sitting down at the small kitchen table.

"Good morning." You say.

"Good morning dear." You aunt says, your uncle grumbles at you. "Are you off to get the children ready for the day?" She says, less asking and more telling you.

"Yes, I was just on my way to take care of them."

"Wonderful."

You walk into the bedroom, three young girls in a deep sleep in their beds. You begin to wake the oldest, Ana, who is about 10, and make your way to the middle and then the youngest, Elena, the youngest in the family at only 4 years old. You help them get dressed and send them down for breakfast, you make your way into the other bedroom where the two twin boys are still fast asleep. You wake them up, dress them and accompany them into the kitchen. You prepare their food and serve each child, you try your best to personalize each meal for each child, although your family is not wealthy by any means, you make do with what you have.

Once the children are fed and the kitchen is restored to its usual state, you bring them outside as you sweep the cobblestone path leading up to the house. The children are running around in the yard and in the street, kicking up dirt and rocks as kids do. As you're sweeping you hear the bells, you drop your broom and rush over to the children and begin to quickly usher them into the house.

The bells are only rung when the Lady of the castle comes through the village in her carriage. You've never seen her before, but you've heard rumors of her ruthlessness, many of those brought into her castle are never to be seen again. To avoid her, or her daughters, who are rumored to be worse than the Lady herself, the townspeople ring bells throughout the village to signal her arrival. All of the villagers rush inside and lock their doors, fearful that if the Lady or her daughters even see you, you will be whisked away, never to be seen again.

You hear the stomps of hooves a short distance away as you try and wrangle the children and get them inside, one by one they enter the house and you realize you're missing one. Fear shoots through you as you look into the road and see Elena, bending down in the road, picking up the rock she was playing with. You see the carriage, mutant-like horses pulling it, hurdling towards the child. Before you realize it, you're sprinting towards her, just before she's trampled you dive into the road and knock her out of the way, the two of you tumbling away from the carriage. The horses rear, bringing the carriage to a halt. You scramble and scoop the child into your arms, cradling her close to your chest as you sit in the dirt.

"Oh Elena," you say breathlessly, "are you hurt?"

Aside from a few scrapes, she is fine, but more scared then hurt and begins to cry.

"Shh, you're okay." You whisper to her.

You were so focused on Elena, you didn't realize someone emerged from the carriage until you see the hem of a cream dress and black stilettos standing just a few short feet in front of you. You slowly follow the dress up with your eyes, by the time you expect to reach the face of the person in front of you, you realize your eyes are only up to their waist. You strain your neck up and finally reach the top of the woman in front of you, her face shielded by a shadow cast by her large hat. You wrap your arms around Elena tighter as you're frozen by fear, realizing you're sitting at the feet of the Lady herself. Her one hand draped across her chest, her elbow resting on her arm with a long cigarette holder sitting between her two fingers, a lit cigarette sitting on the end of it.

"And what do we have here?" Her sultry voice taking you by surprise.

You sit there, still frozen in fear, your throat suddenly dry.

"I do not have the patience today to be ignored." She says, leaning down towards you. Piercing yellow eyes emerge from the shadow as she moves.

"I- I am so sorry Lady." You say bowing your head. "The child- she- she's just a child." You say with a shaking voice, your arms wrapped tightly around Elena as you try and hold back tears of fear.

The Lady says nothing, you can feel her eyes burning into you as she stares.

"Please," you say as you sheepishly look up at her. "Please don't hurt her."

She stands up straight and the shadow covers her face again. She says nothing for a moment and then speaks.

"And what if I want to?" She says, her voice sending chills down your spine.

"Hurt me instead, whatever you want to do to her, do to me instead, please, I beg you, don't harm her."

You hear her smirk, even though you can't see her eyes you know they haven't moved off of you.

"Is she your child?" She asks.

"No ma'am, she is my cousin."

"And you would be wiling to die for you, cousin?" She asks as if she's more surprised at who you would be willing to sacrifice your life for than the fact that you're willing to sacrifice your life at all.

"Yes ma'am, my purpose is taking care of them, if anything were to happen to them, I would never be able to live with myself."

"Your purpose?" She asks.

"Yes ma'am. I serve no other purpose than to take care of the children, without them, my life has no meaning." You say sincerely. Since your aunt and uncle took you in, you've taken care of the children, you have no job, you're not suitable for marriage, you truly believe that the only purpose you have in your life is to care for them.

"How pitiful." She says. You look away and stroke Elena's hair, still trying your best to comfort the terrified child. The Lady bends down, you look up and she brings her hand to your chin, you close your eyes, terrified that she's just going to kill you where you sit. You feel a soft gloved finger under your chin, she lifts your face and you open your eyes and look at her, a shadow still mostly covering her face. "Pitiful that such a beautiful maiden is nothing but a servant for children. Children that aren't even hers."

Taken back, you stare at her, you know what you heard her say, but your brain cannot process it. "Beautiful? Did she call me beautiful?" You think to yourself.

"Tell me draga, where do you live?"

"Just across the way." You gesture to the small house behind her.

"And who cares for you?"

"I- I live with my aunt and uncle." You say, unsure of why she's asking you these questions.

"Bring me to them."

You nod your head and stand up with Elena still clinging to you. You walk past the cart and take notice of a buzzing noise coming from the inside.

"Girls," you hear the Lady quietly growl to the cart as she walks past. "Behave."

The buzzing quiets and you walk up to the house, your aunt and uncle standing at the door with horror on their faces.

"Oh Elena." You aunt says as she takes the girl from your arms and carries her inside.

You stop at the door and turn and look at the woman, unsure of what to do next, she stands taller than the ceilings inside, you don't think she'd be able to fit.

"Well are you going to invite me in?" She says, looking down at you.

"Yes, of course." You say and make your way inside.

"Girls." The Lady says and turns towards the carriage.

A massive swarm of flies emerges from the carriage and three girls emerge, all dressed in black robes, one with blood stains on her cheeks. The Lady removes her hat and hands it to one of them.

"Stay here." She commands them.

"Yes mother." They reply in unison.

She bends down and enters the house, kneeling on the floor inside. Finally able to see her face, you're almost taken back at her beauty, her inky black hair curled and held in place with pins, her blood red lipstick, glowing yellow eyes, you're less afraid and more fascinated. She looks over at you and sees you looking at her, you quickly look down as your cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

"How may we help you Lady?" Your aunt politely asks, a little afraid.

"Your niece," she says gesturing to you. "She tells me the only purpose she serves is caring for your children, is that correct?"

"That's all she's good for." You uncle says.

She slowly turns her head and glares in his direction.

"And why is that?"

"She has no skills, she's an orphan with nothing to her name so she's not suitable for marriage, no man will have her, and besides being a burden, all she can do is care for the children."

You look down at your feet as your uncle speaks, although you've heard those words your whole life, they still sting. The Lady purses her lips.

"An orphan?" She asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Her parents, my sister and her husband, perished in a fire when she was a child." You aunt says, you hear the three girls outside of the door giggle. "Our only choices were to take her in or-" she pauses and doesn't finish her sentence, everyone knows what she would have said, all orphans are sent to the Lady's castle.

"I see." She looks back over at you, you keep your eyes on the floor. "Well, if she is such a burden, I will gladly take her off of your hands." You look up at her with fear in your eyes.

"And who will care for our children?" Your uncle asks with anger in his voice.

"You're their father, are you not?" She snaps at him, he doesn't speak but he still has anger in his eyes. "If losing her will be an inconvenience, I will pay you handsomely for your troubles. Much more than a marriage proposal would fare." She laughs as she finishes her sentence.

"How much are we talkin'?" You uncle asks.

"Uncle!" You say in disbelief, you know he was never fond of you, but you never thought he would sell you, especially to her.

"Silence you wench! You have no say in this matter." He shoots daggers in your direction. You look at your aunt, tears filing your eyes, she looks away from you, not able to look you in the eyes.

The Lady's glare becomes more intense as she watches him reprimand you. She turns and looks at the girls out of the corner of her eye.

"Girls, my bag please."

"Yes mother." One of them says, disappearing into a swarm of flies, they fly over to the carriage and return, the girl emerging from the swarm with a large, leather purse in her hands. She hands it to the Lady and she pulls out a large pouch, handing it to your uncle.

"That would be half. I shall have one of my maids bring you the other half in a few days."

You uncles eyes light up as she drops the bag in his hands, it looked so small in hers, but easily fills both of his hands.

"Deal." He says, his eyes not leaving the large pouch in his hands.

"Uncle please," you beg.

"Enough, pack your things." He says.

You run into your room and lean against the door, tears falling down your cheeks, trying to stop the hyperventilating. You hear a small knock on the door, you take a deep breath and turn to open it, you aunt and Elena are standing there.

"How could you let him do this?" You say through tears. "She's going to kill me. You're sending me away to my death."

"I'm sorry, there was nothing I could do." She says, her eyes watery. You were never particularly close with either your aunt or uncle, you were always looked at as lesser than them. Although your aunt was kinder than your uncle was, maybe because you looked so much like your mother, regardless, neither of them seemed to care much for you.

"Don't go y/n." Elena says, tears in her eyes. You lean down and hug her.

"I'm sorry love, but I have to. I don't want to leave you, but I have to." Her little hands grab at your dress and you hold her close.

You aunt pulls Elena off of you and you pack your things. You don't own much, so everything fits into a small bag. You walk back out into the living room, your hands gripping the bag, trying your hardest to stop them from trembling.

"My Lady," you aunt says, breaking the silence. You uncle stares daggers at her, while the Lady looks at her curious of what she's going to say. "What can we do to ensure her safety? I- I don't want harm to come to her."

The Lady laughs, her deep laugh shakes the walls of the house, a terror fills your chest.

"You have my word, no harm will come to her." She says as she caresses your cheek with one of her gloved fingers. "And I am a woman of my word."

Her touch sends shives down your spine, the corners of the Lady's mouth curl as she feels the effect she has on you.

"Say your goodbyes. We must be going."

You turn and hug each child, you get to Ana and hold her tightly.

"Take care of them, okay?" You gently say. She nods her head with tears in her eyes and hugs you.

You get to Elena and you wrap your arms around her and kiss her head.

"I love you, please listen to Ana, okay? For me?"

She cries and nods her head, burying her face into your dress.

"Be brave." You say gently.

"I'm scared." She cries into you.

"I'm scared too," you say, looking into her eyes, "But we have to be brave when we're scared, when we have to do things we don't want to. Okay?"

She nods her head and hugs you again.

"I love you y/n."

"I love you too Lena."

The Lady clears her throat and you take a deep breath and let go of the child. You wipe her tears away and kiss her on the head again. You stand up and hug your aunt and turn towards the lady and nod your head.

"And what? You don't have anything to say to me?" You uncle says angerly. "You ungrateful, useless-" he stands up and walks towards you, the Lady reveals one of her sharp, long claws and puts it to his neck. You all gasp and your aunt tries to cover the children's eyes.

"I surely hope you treat your daughters better than that." She growls. She must have put the fear of the Black God into your uncle because for the first time in your life, he's silent, and terrified. She retracts the claw and looks at you.

"Let's go."

She backs out of the door and takes her hat from the girl holding it and places it back on her head. You follow her out the door and she leads you into the carriage. You look back at the place you called home once more and wave to the kids before climbing in. The Lady climbs in next to you, the carriage leaning to the side as she gets in. A massive swarm of flies enters the carriage and the three girls appear across from you.

"Oh mother she looks fun!" One of them says.

"Oh yes, mother can we play with her? Please?"

The third one grabs your arm, staring intently on the cut you got when you were saving Elena.

"She smells delicious mother, can we have a small taste? Please?" She begs.

"Girls, enough." She commands, the three girls immediately falling silent, the one releasing your arm. "She is going to be one of my new personal maids." She says, looking over at you, you feel her eyes on you and you keep your eyes on the floor.

The girls giggle and begin to chat amongst themselves. You hear whispers of them talking about a dungeon, who they were planning on taking down to it, whispers of hunting, you try your best to keep your nerves under control but the Lady seems to pick up on them immediately.

"No need to be afraid," she says looking down at you. "As long as you're obedient and you behave, you will never have to experience the dungeon, or worry about any of them." She says gesturing to the girls. She gently pats your leg, her hand can practically wrap around your entire thigh. The thought sends chills down your spine and you look out the window to distract yourself from thinking about it.

You reach the castle and you look out the window in amazement, you've never seen it up this close before, it's as breathtaking as it is ominous. You get out of the carriage and Lady Dimitrescu leads you inside.

"I presume you know how to clean, and well given you've watched after so many children for so many years?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good, I will introduce you to the head maid and she will give you your assignment and a uniform. You start tomorrow morning, I suggest you clean yourself up and get a good nights rest tonight." She says, eyeing the dirt stains on your dress from earlier.

"Yes ma'am."

She leads you into the kitchen and introduces you to the head maid. She excuses herself and you're lead to the maids quarters, you're shown your small room, although it's still bigger than the room you had at your aunt and uncles house. You're given fresh uniforms and the head maid hands you a sheet with your duties.

"You will begin in the library tomorrow morning, I will show you around for the first few days, but after that you must remember where to go on your own. It is also very important that you do not, under any circumstances, enter the Lady's study or chambers without her explicit request, understand?"

"Yes." You say, looking over the list of chores.

"I can't tell you how many new maids I've lost due to them wandering in there, either on accident or to snoop around. Do not do it. Understand?"

"Yes. Understood." You say, looking up at her.

She leaves and you shower and put on the clean pajamas that were left in your wardrobe. You lay down in bed, surprised at how comfortable it is, and before you know it, you're asleep.

You wake the next morning and put on your uniform and pull your hair back. You grab your supplies and meet the head maid. She gives you a quick tour as she leads you to the library, you do your best to remember which room is which. You make sure you engrain into your mind which room is the Lady's study and which is her chambers so you never accidentally end up in there. You get to the library and the head maid leaves you to work. You look over your list, you have to dust, polish, return any stray books, sweep and mop the floors. The library is large, but you figure the floors are going to take the longest. You begin by putting away any books you see laying around, carefully replacing them to their correct spot.

You hear a faint buzz across the room and the sound of giggles, it's incredibly unsettling, but you do your best to ignore it and keep working. You hear books falling to the floor, the sound echoing across the room and it startles you. You walk towards the sound, the closer to the mess you get, the louder the buzzing gets. Out of the corner of your eye you see movement and turn around, you see one of the daughters giggle.

"Oopsies." She says, covering her mouth as she laughs and disappears into a swarm of flies.

You kneel down and pick up the books and return them to their shelves. "Well, it's not much more different than dealing with the kids at home." You think to yourself.

Once the mess is cleaned you return to dusting and polishing. As you're cleaning you hear the shrill laughter of the girls as they buzz through the castle, although much more frightening than the laughter of children, you quickly get used to the sounds and eventually you don't even notice it.

You hear the laughter enter the library and you do you best to keep focused on the floors. You hear footsteps behind you and you turn to see the three girls, the redhead running up to you and getting right into your face, examining you closely.

"Daniela please, let the girl do her work." The blond says.

"Get out of the way!" The brunette says, pushing the read head away. "I want to get a closer look at her." She says looking you up and down. "Oh I bet you taste sweet," she says, licking her lips. "I would love to get just a little taste." She holds up a sickle. "Just a little taste."

"Cassandra mother will kill you if you lay a finger on her." The blond reprimands her.

"Ugh." She says lowering the sickle. "You always ruin the fun Bela, I wanted to make her squirm!"

The girls still tower over you a bit, you don't even notice the smile that crossed your face as they bickered, reminding you of the kids you practically raised.

"What are you smiling at?" Bela says, looking at you curiously.

"Oh, nothing, sorry." You say as you look down. "You guys just reminded me of the kids a little, that's all."

"Oh, were they bad?" Cassandra asks with wild eyes.

"No, not at all, they were amazing."

"Well that's no fun." The Daniela says. "I can't wait to see what mother has in store for you."

You look at her, unsure of what she meant.

"Oh Daniela hush, you don't even know what mother wants with her." Bela says.

"All I know is that if she ever brings you down to the dungeon, I want to be there so I can get a taste of you." Cassandra says, licking her lips.

"Do you know why mother paid to bring you here?" Bela asks.

"Honestly, no. I have no idea." You say.

The three girls look at you curiously, none of them seeming to know the answer themselves.

"Well, it was lovely talking to you girls, but I really should get back to cleaning, I wouldn't want to fall behind on my first day and anger the Lady." You say.

The three girls look up and giggle and disappear in a swarm of flies.

"I should be offended that you would think it takes so little to anger me." You jump when you hear the voice behind you.

"Oh, Lady Dimitrescu, I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were there." You stutter. "I didn't- that's not what I-" You fumble with your words, trying to save yourself.

She chuckles. "Oh draga, I am not offended. Not this time."

"Oh," you look down at the floor, avoiding eye contact. "Thank you."

She steps away and takes a seat on one of the chairs near you and crosses one of her long legs over the other.

"Is there anything I can do for you ma'am?" You ask, your eyes still focused on the floor.

"You are allowed to look at me dear." She says.

You look up and she leans forward, your eyes go to her massive chest as she leans forward, her dress perfectly showing off her impressive breasts. You immediately snap your eyes up, hoping she didn't notice. Her lips curl into a smile, "damnit. She noticed." You think to yourself. She sits back into the chair and opens the book you never noticed in her hand.

"There is nothing I need from you draga, not yet." Her yellow eyes feel like they're piercing your soul. "Please, continue, don't allow me to distract you from your work." She smiles at you and you shyly smile back.

"Oh, okay. Well, if you do need anything, please let me know." You say.

She turns her attention to her book and you go back to finishing sweeping the floors.

As you're cleaning you swear you catch her watching you, you try to focus on doing the best job you possibly can even though your nerves are extremely heightened at her presence.

You finally finish in the library, you look around and realize that Lady Dimitrescu is no longer in her chair, you didn't notice that she left, you're not entirely sure how long it had been since she left, but you're grateful that you were able to do a good enough job where she didn't say anything.

You gather your things and head back to your quarters to look for the head maid to see if there's anything else you needed to do since it was only the afternoon. To her surprise, there was nothing left for you to do so you had the rest of the day to yourself. You showered, changed into a new outfit and hung out in your room until dinner.

Once dinnertime came you made your way to the kitchen and got in line to eat. You could tell there was a pecking order amongst the maids, made up between the highest-ranking ones and the ones who have been here longest. You did your best to not step on anyone's toes as you waited in line. You could tell there were cliques among the maids, you tried to make yourself as invisible as possible as you tried to find an open seat with your tray in your hands. You notice a maid stuck her foot out to try and trip you, you carefully walked around her and avoid looking at her as you pass.

"You think you're better than me?" You hear someone say.

You had no idea who they were taking to, but you didn't think they were talking to you so you kept walking.

"You, new girl." You hear her say. You turn around and realize she was talking to you. "You think you're better than me?" She asks, anger in your eyes.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were talking to me. But, no, I don't not at all." You say.

She walks up to you and smacks your tray out of your hand, your meal scattering across the floor.

"Know your place bitch." She growls at you. "Now clean up the mess." She says as she walks back to her seat.

Stunned, you stand there for a second before cleaning up what was going to be your dinner. You look over and realize that there wasn't much left and you head back to your room. You lay in bed, your stomach growling. "How was it easier to deal with the three girls than it is dealing with the other maids?" You ask yourself. You finally roll over and fall asleep, hoping there won't be any more issues with the other maids.

The next few weeks are about the same, the one maid knocking at least half of your meals out of your hand. You eventually figure out when she gets to the kitchen for meals and try to get in before she does so you can actually eat, it angers her, but you do your best to ignore her. You have more run-ins with the girls, they seem fascinated by you, and you couldn't help but be a little fascinated with them too. Lady Dimitrescu pops up a few times throughout each week in whatever room you're working in, it strikes you as odd, but you try not to think too much of it. You can't imagine that she has time to visit every maid as frequently as she sees you.

You were eventually given the task to take care of requests that the girls ask of you, although they really didn't ask for too much. You removed blood stains from their dresses, cleaned and polished their weapons, usually their sickles, helped them remove blood stains from carpets their mother specifically asked them to not get blood on, the usual, at least the usual for this castle.

One day you're cleaning the main stairway, leading from the foyer to the second floor. You hear the usual buzzing and giggles and you smile as the girls run amuck through the castle. A swarm of flies appears in font of you and Daniela appears.

"Y/n, I need your help!"

"What's up Daniela?"

"You have to tell Cassandra that I'm less messy than she is. She doesn't believe me!"

"Daniela, respectfully, I am not getting in the middle of whatever you and Cassandra have going on today. Plus, it's not nice to lie." You say with a smile.

You hear a laugh from the second floor and you look up to see Lady Dimitrescu staring down at the two of you from the balcony. Your cheeks turn red as you return your attention to your work.

"Ugh!! Mother! Make her tell Cass!" Daniela whines.

Lady Dimitrescu descends the stairs towards the two of you.

"She's right Daniela, it is not nice to lie."

Daniela bursts into a swarm of flies and angerly storms away and you try and hide the smile on your face.

"You're very good with the girls, I know they can be," she pauses for a moment to carefully pick her words. "A handful."

"They're not so bad, plus, they're like any other siblings, they all bicker the same, just over different things."

She smiles at you and gently hums as she walks down the stairs past you. You pause for a second to listen, you never realized she was able to sing, no less had such a beautiful voice.

"What else is on your to-do list today?" She asks as she reaches the bottom of the steps.

"Once I finish the stairs I just have to dust and mop the hall up here."

"And you are off tonight, correct?" She asks.

"Yes, my next night shift is tomorrow night."

"Delightful, I am going to need your assistance tonight."

"Oh, uh, yes of course."

"Meet me in my chambers after dinner."

You freeze for a second and look down at her, she looks up at you with a smirk on her face.

"In your, uh, chambers?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No ma'am. I'll be there."

"Excellent."

She walks away and you take a deep breath. You continue the stairs and try to finish as quickly as you can while still doing a thorough job.

Once you finish you shower and change into a fresh uniform, you hurry to the kitchen and quickly grab your food and eat before the maid that has it out for you throws your dinner across the kitchen. Luckily you're able to finish by the time she shows up, she sees you cleaning up your plate and she shoots daggers at you. You have no idea why she seems to have it out for you, but you try your best to ignore and avoid her. You go to leave the kitchen and she goes out of her way to walk past you with her tray in her hands. You look forward and try to ignore her, as you pass you feel a sharp pain across your arm and you yelp and put your hand over you arm only to realize you're bleeding. You turn to look at the maid and you see her turn her kitchen knife back in.

"Oops. Sorry." She says sarcastically.

You hurry to your room and wrap a bandage around your arm, you realize you have a little blood on your dress but you don't have time to change. You rush out of your room and make your way to the Lady's chambers.

[impala-dreamer]

Tourniquet - Chapter One

A Supernatural Dean x Reader Series Told Backwards

~Y/N has been by Dean’s side through his worst days, always there if he needs her, forever just a call away. Love is impossible to fight and more impossible to live with. Just a side character in his epic life, Y/N would give anything just to give Dean a moment’s peace.~

Please see MASTERLIST for full info/warnings/chapter links.

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

All The Damage That This Dark World Does

It had been raining on and off for days and the ground was little more than a muddy expanse that swallowed up the soles of their boots like quicksand. 

The forest was dark and the air rang loud with the requiem of nature. Birds sang low and sad; branches crackled underfoot. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled and the hunters froze. Each set of ears turned towards the sound and eyes darted about while tired minds calculated distances. 

Bobby’s gruff whisper broke through the rain’s symphony. “‘Bout a half a mile east.” 

Dean nodded and Y/N squared her shoulders. 

“And where’s the rest of them?” she asked, tone a little harsher than it needed to be as she glared at the old man. 

Dean shot her a look but she didn’t flinch. Mary shifted uncomfortably between them, not wanting to get involved. 

Bobby adjusted his cap and shrugged. “Gotta be close. They’re hunting us as sure as we’re hunting them.” 

She sighed. “So which way do we go? I’d rather not run right into the pack.” 

Dean cleared his throat and cocked a brow her way. She wasn’t going to let up and he knew it. 

“Why don’t we split up,” he suggested, looking at Bobby and his mother. “You guys go south, we’ll keep heading west.” 

Mary nodded. “OK. Just stay safe.” She smiled and Y/N half returned it. 

Bobby huffed. “You two be careful and holler if you get in trouble.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes and set off before Dean could spin around. 

“Why are you such a bitch to him?” he asked, easily catching up to her with his long stride. 

“You know why.” She swatted at a low hanging branch and groaned. “That’s not Bobby and it’s fucking creepy.” 

Dean laughed at her. “It is Bobby-” 

“Not my Bobby.” 

He sighed. “You get used to it.” 

“No thanks.” 

Another howl, this time closer and followed by another. 

Y/N stood still and tall, listening with her entire being. Dean came up behind her and she held a finger to her lips, ordering him to be silent. 

The earth was damp. The fallen autumn leaves were too wet to make a sound, but she heard the squelch of mud as a creature ran through it. The being gained speed, and the wind picked up, chilling their faces as sure as the adrenaline prickled their skin. 

She nodded towards his right and Dean raised his pistol, gripping it tight and following the line of sight into the dank woods. He squinted and a mess of black, matted fur moved behind the trees. 

“Shit.” 

Y/N flipped off the safety on her gun and steadied herself. She took a breath, gave him a wink and set off to the left. 

He knew her well enough to understand the plan without conversing, and Dean moved off to the right. They’d wrap around in a circle and meet behind the beast, hopefully catching it off guard and raining silver down upon it. 

It was a good plan. Solid. Proven. 

Y/N moved swiftly through the trees, careful to tread lightly through the muck and avoid the fallen soldiers of the wood. The rain picked up and with the distance now between them, she lost sight of Dean, but she wasn’t too worried. They were professionals, after all. 

Another few yards and the tree line gave way to a clearing. Y/N wondered for a moment if she’d gotten turned around in the forest, but her internal compass told her she was going the right way. 

A wolf’s cry made her sure.  

The grass was tall and free, untouched by blades or trampled by tires. She pushed through the weeds and a flash of memory struck her. 

The sweet smell of spring; the tickle of grass against her cheek. Rusted metal and chrome gleaming in the sun. The smell of burgers burning on charcoal. Perfect green eyes. 

Y/N shivered at the sensory overload and blinked into the clearing. She was taller than the grass now and so much older than her days in the junkyard.

She took a deep breath and heard her name. 

From across the field, Dean emerged from the trees and shouted her name. He spun his hand in the air and she cocked her head, staring at him, confused but smiling. He was just as beautiful as the first time she’d seen him, though a bit more broken down and tired. 

Again, he yelled for her, and the slow motion world around her cranked back up to full speed. 

“Y/N!” 

She heard it then- the horrid, hungry growl. She smelled the dirt, the wetness. Felt the fear as her body tensed. 

Y/N turned and the wolf attacked. She pulled the trigger but it only made the beast more aggressive. 

Powerful jaws clamped down on her defending arm; razor claws ripped through her flesh. The wet ground accepted her body as they fell, the mud curled up around her as the grass gave way. 

Two shots rang out and the wolf was hit. It reared back and leapt over her, gunning for Dean. 

Y/N flipped over in the mud and tried to get up to help him, but her arms gave out and she sank down, her face cradled by the soft grass. 

One more blast from the gun and she heard the monster fall. Boots splashed through the mud and she felt Dean’s warmth as he fell to his knees beside her. 

Big hands turned her carefully and Dean scanned her face. Her eyes were rolling, her lips curled into the sweetest smile. 

“No. No. No.” His bottom lip trembled as he peeled back her jacket and saw the damage. Her chest was torn, her stomach ripped open and gushing blood. He pressed his hand into her middle and she cried out. 

Pain spread through her at his touch and then subsided. 

She grabbed at his arm, wrapping her fingers around the canvas sleeve. 

“I… I’m sorry, Dean.” 

Her voice was quaking as badly as his hand and he closed his eyes, shook his head.  

“No.” 

She smiled, laughed a little. “Yeah.” 

Again, he shook his head, refusing to let her go. “No.” He sat up a bit, craned his neck over the tall grass. “Bobby! Somebody! Help!” 

Weakly, she lifted a hand to his face and guided his gaze back down to her. 

“Hey. It’s OK.” 

He raged inside. Grit his teeth. “It’s not OK!” 

Blood rushed beneath his hand like a dam had burst on a river. Her skin paled, her eyelids fluttered. 

His heart raced, breath quickened. “Please don’t. Don’t leave. Please.” 

Her shoulders twitched inward and the pain returned. She cringed but kept her smile, unwilling to go out like some terrified victim, some damsel in distress. 

“Dean…” She pet his cheek, wiped away a hot tear. 

“Please.” 

“Do you remember when we met?” 

He chewed his lip, closed his eyes, and took a breath. 

“Yeah, Y/N/N. Of course I do.” 

Her fingers tensed on his cheek. “You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. You still are.” 

“Don’t say goodbye to me, Y/N/N. You can’t.” He turned his face and kissed her palm, grabbed her wrist with both bloody hands and kissed her fingertips, kissed her knuckles, kissed every inch. “You can’t leave me.” 

With her free hand, she tugged at the chain around her neck and pulled the necklace free. 

“Here. Take this back,” she whispered, hardly able to spare the breath to speak any longer. 

Dean gasped and dropped her hand, ran his fingertips over the old lug nut pendant. “You… you still have this? After all this time?” 

She laughed painfully. “Of course I do, you idiot. I never take it off.” 

He closed a fist around it and shut his eyes, trying to erase the tears and be strong for her. It was all ending and he knew it. She had just moments left and he couldn’t let her go without letting her know the truth. 

“It’s my good luck charm,” she said under a harsh breath. She coughed and the taste of iron flooded her mouth. She swallowed it down and held on. 

“Didn’t do you much good today.” 

She smiled and closed her hand around his. 

“I’ve always loved you, ya know. You… you were always it for me, Dean. Always. I’ve… I’ve loved you since that first day by the stream. I’ve never not loved you. I just need you to know that.” 

He shuddered, sucked in an uneasy breath. “I knew, Y/N/N,” he confessed. “I always knew. I… I love you, too. So fucking much.” 

Her eyes lit up for a second and she shook her head sadly. The tears broke free and refused to leave. 

“Then why? Why didn’t-” 

She couldn’t finish the words, but he understood. 

He pressed his hand lightly to her forehead and smiled. “Come on. I’ve told you a thousand times, Y/N/N. I don’t deserve someone like you.” 

He leaned down, held her cheek, kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. 

Y/N closed her eyes, safe in his arms, and felt the sweet pull of sleep yank at her limbs. 

“Shut up, Dean,” she whispered. 

He laughed gently. 

She smiled. 

He would be OK.

Dean stared into the fire, watching through bloodshot eyes as the flames licked at her silhouette. 

Her necklace gleamed in the pyre’s glow and he closed his fist around it, holding it tight. Despite the heat of the fire, the metal was cold against his palm. 

She was really gone. 

She’d been there almost his entire life, always at his side when he called, always there to stitch him back together. But now she was gone. 

He’d watched a hundred bodies burn over the years, said goodbye to every friend he’d ever had, but this was too much. There was a piece of him gone, a wound had been carved out of his chest that would never heal. 

So many things he should have told her, so many times he’d taken her for granted. Guilt pulled at him and grief chewed at his veins. So many years wasted. So many nights he could have been alone with her, happy and loved. 

The blaze burned hot, the wood crackled. 

Dean stared silently, drowning in his pain. Forever the man she loved. Still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

The boy with the green eyes.  

Tourniquet Tags: @prettyinplaid94 @winharry @muhahaha303            

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!) @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lyarr24 @nancymcl @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @sexyvixen7 @the-wounded-healer05  

[corrroded-cofffin]

Euphoric Reputation - Five

Trans Eddie Munson || Steddie Series CW: Binding with bandages, blood, scrappy fighting, bullying

ao3 | One| Two | Three| Four | Five

“Freeze, foul vermin,” Eddie rumbled as deep in his throat as he could. In front of him, he brandished a gnarly stick as thick as his own forearm - a noble staff for a Warlock such as he. “I am your master now,” Eddie continued, “Step forth and obey me or all… shall… perish!” Eddie swang the staff as hard as he could, a thrill shooting through him as it cracked hard against the tree and splintered. He hissed and snatched up the fragments, holding them like daggers and turning in a circle. His attention darted off, however, as he saw a beetle on the bark of the tree he’d just hit, scampering around the base of the tree.

Eddie dropped the sticks he was using as daggers and crouched down, shuffling closer. He picked at a bit of bark, peeling it off the trunk, and breathed in sharply when half a dozen more beetles scurried out from behind the bark. Eddie reached out and put his finger in front of one of them, and when the beetle crawled onto Eddie’s nail, he brought his hand closer and stared at it.

It was brown, and plain. Eddie could see its tiny head and tiny little shell, and he wondered how big it got to. It didn’t look like it could bite, and Eddie turned his hand this way and that as it crawled all over his arm.

“What are you doing?”

Eddie startled, and stood up from his crouch, his school backpack slipping down and hanging in the bend of his elbows. Before Eddie could answer, the boy in front of him trampled through the underbrush to get closer.

“Gross. Is that a bug?” It was the Harrington boy. His nose scrunched as he got closer to Eddie, staring at his hand, and Eddie turned his shoulders away as he shielded the beetle crawling on him. “Don’t you kill it, man,” Eddie snarled, and Harrington just looked at him with a somewhat bewildered expression. “What?” He huffed out a laugh, frowning at Eddie. “Why would i kill it? It’s just a beetle, its not like they can kill you,” Harrington glanced at Eddie, suddenly looking unsure. “Right?”

“Right,” Eddie said, starting to smile. “Well. At least, not these ones.” “There aren’t any bugs that can kill you. Just spiders,” Harrington said with a surprising amount of confidence. Eddie extended his hand so the beetle could crawl onto Harrington, but looked a second away from diving in to save it if the boy made any funny moves.

“There’s bugs in Australia that can kill you,” Eddie said seriously, and Harrington made an exaggerated shuddering movement. “Everything in Australia can kill you,” Harrington agreed, and Eddie giggled as he, too, made another exaggerated shiver of fear.

“So why are you in my back yard?” Harrington asked, watching the beetle. “What?” “This is my back yard,” Harrington repeated. “It’s the forest, numbskull. Do you live in the trees?” Eddie giggled again, rolling his eyes. “No, i live in the house back there, see?” Eddie squinted, and sure enough, through the trees, he could see a house. “My dad says we own these woods so… I guess that makes it our back yard, i think?”

Eddie sniffed and looked around, skeptical.

“So what, are you gonna kick me out of your woods?” Eddie eventually demanded, his eyes widening as Harrington immediately began to shake his head and wave the hand that didn’t have the beetle on it. “No! No way, absolutely not, nonono. It’ll just be cool to have another guy living on my street, is all. That’s all.”

Eddie stared at Harrington. Then he sniffed, and with his hands still covered in dirt, he shoved his hand out and squared his shoulders. “Eddie Munson,” Eddie declared. “It’s short for Edward, but my name is Eddie.” Harrington huffed a perplexed laugh, but there was no malice behind it. He shook Eddie’s hand with the same one that had the beetle on it, and Eddie held on tight as he watched the beetle scamper over to his side again. “Steve Harrington,” Steve said, huffing out another laugh. “Short, uh— Short for Steven, but you can’t call me that.”

Eddie slapped his hand over his heart. “I will take it to my grave.”

Steve laughed properly, and Eddie felt all his air leave him as he watched it. “You’re so weird, Munson,” Steve said happily, walking off a little deeper into the woods. “There were toadstools over here the other day.”

“Holy shit, toad stools?” Eddie breathed, his elation palpable as he followed the prince deeper into his magical woodland domain.

My favourite detail about stranger things is that Steve's house and the trailer park are like a 5 min walk apart.

Look me in the eyes and tell me Steve didn't play in that forest as a child

Please comment if ya can c:

[leiawritesstories]

The Rustler, 2

Written for @throneofglassmicrofics July prompt "Outlaw" & this part also uses "Finagle"

The Rustler masterlist

word count: 855

warnings: *giggles* none ;)

enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hat tugged low to protect against the blazing Western sun, Rowan Whitethorn urged the quarter horse beneath him into a gallop. "C'mon, boy," he coaxed. "Wanna fly?" The horse whickered as if in agreement and sprang forwards, hooves clattering across the grassy, dusty ground.

Even at a gallop, it took over an hour of hard riding until the crossbeam over the entrance to his nearest neighbor's ranch came into view. Rowan tugged on the reins, pulling the horse back into a more sedate trot, and called out a greeting as he rode up the packed dirt path that led into the neighboring ranch.

"Anyone here?" His call echoed around the wide blue sky.

A moment later, another set of hooves clattered into his hearing, and a beautiful Paint mare trotted up with a woman on its back. "Howdy, neighbor!" Aelin Galathynius called, guiding her horse to a stop a few feet away from Rowan. "Long time no see, yeah?"

"Been a few months, I s'pose," Rowan admitted. He tugged his canteen out of his saddlebag and took a long, deep drink of water. "I reckon I came by to ask if'n ya had any trouble last night."

A stormy frown crossed Aelin's face. "How 'bout ya c'mon with me, Whitethorn, and I'll show ya?" She nudged her mare with her boot heels and led Rowan towards the west pasture of her ranch. Aelin was a cattle rancher, and her stock was well known throughout the region for being high quality.

As they came into the west pasture, Aelin slowed to a stop, dismounted, and tied her mare's reins to the fence post. On foot, she took Rowan to the fence line, and he whistled lowly at the sight. "Well...damn."

"You could say that," Aelin agreed. A good ten yards of her fence lay in ruins on the ground, and from the heavily trampled grass, it was clear that a good-sized portion of her cattle had been stolen. "Woke up this mornin' and came out to the pastures to find that some goddamned cattle rustlers must've gotten here first."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Aelin," Rowan murmured. "Looks like I wasn't the only one targeted last night, then."

Aelin turned to him with a puzzled expression. "Whitethorn, ya don't own cattle."

"Nah, but I've got horses." He scowled. "Seems like your cattle rustler might've been in cahoots with the horse thieves who stole my Asterions."

"No," Aelin gasped. She rested one gloved hand on his forearm. "God, I'm so sorry, Rowan. Have ya told the sheriff?"

He scoffed. "What good would that do? Sheriff ain't been out to these parts in months."

"Guess so." Aelin removed her hand, but Rowan caught it, his hand warm and solid and strong around hers.

"Tell ya what, Ae," he began. "How 'bout a li'l partnership?"

She raised her brows skeptically. "You proposin' to me again, Rowan Whitethorn?"

An adorably vivid blush stained his tanned cheeks red. "Now why'd you go and bring that up again, Galathynius?" He flashed her a teasing grin. "Nah, you told me exactly what ya thought the first time I did that. So, here's my deal: I'll help you fix up your fence and look for the cattle rustlers if'n you'll help me catch the horse thieves."

"You askin' me to turn vigilante, Whitethorn?" Aelin joked. "Hell, after what happened last night, I'd be best off doin' just that." She stuck out her hand. "Throw that ranch hand of yours in to help with the fence and we've got us a deal."

"Alright." Rowan shook her hand firmly. "I'd best be gettin' back to my place now."

"Send word when ya want to talk 'bout capturin' some rustlers," Aelin said, waving as Rowan mounted his horse and rode away. He tipped his hat to her as he galloped down the road that led off of her property.

When he was no longer visible, she swung herself up onto her horse and nudged the mare's flanks with her spurs. "Let's get goin', my girl!" She headed off towards the eastern corner of her property, slowing to a walk when she reached the stand of scrubby trees that clustered around that corner of her ranch. Dismounting, she tied her mare's reins to a tree, set her up with a bucket of water, and headed off into the patch of shade that the hardy sycamores offered.

Tucked into a closely spaced cluster of trees was a stable big enough for a dozen horses, its wooden planks painted to blend in with the shadows of the trees overhead. Aelin rapped three times on the door and pushed it open, blinking in the hazy gloom of the windowless building. A horse whickered softly at her approach, and she strolled up to its stall and stroked its nose.

"Shh now, Kasida girl," she murmured, calming the beautiful silver Asterion mare who was still a little antsy after having been taken from her familiar, comfortable stall on Rowan Whitethorn's ranch.

"You'll be out in the wind tonight, my girl, I promise," Aelin whispered. "If we're lucky, you might even find yourself a new home."

~~~

tags:

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@aelinschild

@renxzs

[avonne-writes]

Would you feel inspired to write something for #38 Multiverse? I imagine them falling in love with each other in every universe 🥹💓

Thank you so much for the prompt, lovelies ❤️ This is exactly why I have "In Every Universe" on my blog!

I'm so sorry but this got very angsty... This is a multiverse of two new and wildly different AUs. Tell me if it’s too much and I should delete it. I uploaded it to AO3.

Warning for angst, MCD and suicide.

~~~

It's no harder to die in sunshine than in rain. It’s a fat fucking lie that tragedy avoids the light. In fact, in John's experience, heat and blue skies bring more pain striking at unsuspecting hearts than a storm or nighttime. This is why today is so fucking perfect - not a cloud in sight above the wide plains of the desert. The wind whips past his ears as he pushes his chopper to speed on towards the valley as fast as it can go.

The road is straight and empty. A path devoid of life.

Nothing makes John feel more alive than staring that gaping nothingness in the face and accelerating. The sun tilts towards the earth with sharp, cheerful rays the colour of the marigolds in the front yard of John's Ma. The marigolds he trampled to death when Gale told him he was going to 'Nam, the marigolds that grow in the park where his love rests now. It's the same hazy, warm sunset that shone when Gale’s Huey was shot down.

A light John will never forget. Fire under blue skies, his own bird straining to stay up high. The same heat that rose from the pyre of Gale's helicopter wreck that day will see John off on this last flight. His bike's engine roars like a cry of rage, and he laughs even as the tears spill out his eyes.

"That’s what you get for being sentimental." Gale's deep drawl says in his mind. Then a kiss, the last one, pressed hastily to his lips behind a jeep in the deep, silent night, his gift for remembering a simple date in the calendar. Not much.

If he had known, he would have given his own life instead, but he couldn’t, so here he is now, rectifying that mistake even if it doesn't bring Gale back. Down to the exact date. Still sentimental to the bone. He promised Gale they would ride these roads together one day - it feels right to end it here.

John lets his focus slip as his bike flies towards the end of the road, the wind in his curls, sunshine warming his side, and Gale’s voice riding with him, "still with me?" His dog tags feel heavy on their chain. He blinks, and his sight blurs. Reds and blues and marigolds rust together into one glistening swirl of colour. Light shatters in his eyes, and the blood in his ears deafens him to the screech of his skidding bike, do you hear me? John John -

"Bucky!" Gale's voice rings loud and clear through the sudden silence that snaps into clarity around John. He closes his eyes for a moment to fight down a wave of nausea, then sits up with a groan.

Around him, all he sees is a sleek, dim cabin with dark furniture and an oval window like a ship's, only larger. Outside, the night sky. A strip of teal light lines the feather-soft bed he’s sitting on, and ink black clothes as soft as silk rustle as he bends his arms. Somewhere off to the side, he hears the sound of a shower running.

Is this the afterlife?

"Gale?" He calls out tentatively, his heart stumbling painfully over every breath, scared to believe but helpless to hope.

"Finally." Gale mutters.

John's lips twitch into a smile. This isn’t the heaven he imagined but nothing matters, as long as they're together wherever they are. He’s sorry it took him so long to make it here. He’s sorry Gale had to wait two whole years for him to follow.

"I know that you're sorry, but come over here already, will ya?" Gale says impatiently.

"I'm coming!" John jumps up, then promptly falls back on the bed when something yanks him down. Something flexible around his neck with a transparent mask dangling from it, connected to the headrest behind him. He’s curious, but there’s no time. He needs to get to Gale, he waited long enough. He needs to hurry.

"Damn right, hurry up." Gale says, then part of the seamless black wall hisses open to reveal a doorway with rounded corners. Warm air and steam rushes out, and a golden glow radiates from the space inside.

John extricates himself from the strange tubing and pads towards the light on bare feet. Perhaps, the space he’s in is Purgatory, and he’s headed to Heaven now. He just needs to follow the voice of his love. His heart swells with joy as he steps inside.

Behind the curtain of steam, Gale laughs that stifled chuckle of his that John has always loved ever since they met at the country fair three years before they went to war. It's him. John's best friend, his love, his man - everything. John rushes towards him but he stops dead in his tracks when the air suddenly clears at the press of a button and Gale turns to face him head on.

He looks older than John has ever known him, closer to thirty than the twenty-one of his death. There’s light stubble on his jaw and twin scars on his cheeks. Silky-smooth, sleeveless blue pajamas cover a frame a touch too thin but familiar. His hair is long enough that he could pass for a hippie, well over the regulation cut he said he would grow out again once their tour was over. But he never got to do that, not John's Gale, so he doesn’t understand -

"Whoa!" John exclaims.

A pair of hand-sized... things flare out behind Gale's ears. They look like iridescent palm leaves. They twitch, ripple, then fold away as Gale winces and turns to the mirror on the wall.

"That bad, huh?" He says. Then, whispered in John's ears, disappointed. His lips don’t move, but John hears him as clearly as if they were standing inches away.

John's heartbeat speeds up. When one of the appendages on Gale’s head flares out again, John jumps.

Irritated, Gale's voice says without uttering a word.

"It’s just a goddamn haircut, not the end of the galaxy. No need to panic." Gale says, holding a device up to his hair. Blond locks fall to the shiny grey floor with a swish. "I thought you'd like it."

Insecure. Sad. The whispers echo in John's ears. When Gale shakes himself and gives him a faint smile from the corner of his eyes, the murmuring changes to hopeful. "Come here and tell me how much I should cut."

John takes a step closer, then another, until he’s close enough to touch. His trembling hand finds Gale's shoulder. When it connects with solid, warm muscle and the jut of an unbroken bone, skin healthy and not burnt, John's breath hitches around a suppressed sob. His eyes water again.

"Buck." His voice cracks. He raises his fingertips to Gale's cheek. Saltwater runs down his own. "Is it really you? Are we in heaven?"

This time when the flaps flare around Gale's head, he expects it and only jumps a little before he leans in for a kiss, long and desperate because he spent two years wishing he held Gale longer the night before his death. He never wants to let go of him again. It barely even registers in his brain that Gale keeps whispering feelings close to his skin even though his lips are pressed to John's.

Confused, confused, happy, affectionate -

John figures it's something about this place that lets him hear Gale's thoughts. They're one in God - must be, if their souls are tangled like this. A shared heaven. Peace. The pain of John's grief is nothing compared to the slowly spreading happiness he feels.

"How about this?" Gale mumbles, pulling John's hands to his hair. It’s longer in the back and shorter on the top, an unusual style but John likes it, but he doesn’t know why Gale is so preoccupied with his hair. Don’t they have more important matters to discuss?

"Gale." John says quietly, running his thumbs over Gale’s cheek scars. He wonders how they got there. He didn’t think they’d still have marks like that after they die. "Do you remember Vietnam?"

Gale draws his eyebrows into a severe frown. Irritated, John hears him again. "Don’t tell me you named that mutt and smuggled him aboard."

"What?" John replies. His pulse starts racing with his confusion again. "Aboard?"

The appendages behind Gale's ears flutter wildly as Gale stares at him with those bright blue eyes of his. His expression is one of surprise and bafflement before a look of realization passes through him.

Alarmed, exasperated, John hears in his ears, then, calm. Pitying.

Gale's voice, when he speaks again, is patient and reassuring. "Is that where you come from? Viett-namm?"

He takes John's hands and pulls him gently towards the bedroom, too gently not to be suspicious. John's scared now. He doesn’t know what's going on or what he did wrong. Perhaps he only hit his head and didn’t die like he wanted, and these are the last fever dreams of his mind. Or, what if he didn’t say the right thing and he’s expelled from heaven?

"What are we doing?" He asks, chest rising and falling rapidly from the fear he tries and fails to control.

"We're just going to lie down, and you'll put your mask on." Gale says. "Calm down. Tell me about Viett-namm."

"I don't want to." John swallows, sitting on the mattress when Gale pushes him down. "You died." He grabs Gale's hand again. "Figured I'd follow you."

The anguish washing over John doesn’t feel like his own, but Gale’s face is kind and unreadable as he keeps pressing on John's shoulders until he lies down.

"Tuck these in." Gale says, sitting by John's hip and touching something around John's head.

"Ah!" John yelps when he feels a part of him flutter. He has those feeler things too, he realizes, gobsmacked. He reaches up to touch them, and they flare out against his pillow again.

Fond, heartbroken, he hears before Gale reaches up and tucks the things away again. When John tries to raise his hands to them once more, he pushes them away. They keep swatting at each other until Gale cracks a smile.

"Stop playing with you antennae."

"Yes, sir." John grins, but Gale just gives him a confused look as if he doesn’t understand.

He pulls the tubes around John's head again, then tries to put the mask on him, but John resists. "Wait, wait a second. What the hell is going on?" John tugs at the device. "What’s this? Where are we, Buck?"

Gale gives him a sad look and strokes John's face. "I'm not your Gale."

When John gapes at him, he slides the mask over John's face. He presses a button, and a sweet smell fills John's nose. Like a meadow. His limbs grow heavy, and he tries to protest and fight this strange, alien Gale off, but his strength drains from his limbs, and all that's left to him is to blink at Gale through drooping eyelids. His fingers flop on Gale’s thigh.

"My Bucky likes to use this device to see things happening to him in other times and other places. But this thing -" Here, Gale’s jaw clenches. "- is so goddamn old that sometimes it fails to wake him up properly. So you need to go back to sleep." He leans over John and strokes his head.

When John's antennae flare open again, he gives John a fond, amused smile. "In every universe, huh?"

The world starts darkening around the edges. Shadows cling to John's vision, narrowing it down to Gale's face, then only his eyes. A drop of wetness trickles down John's cheek.

"Gale..." is all he manages to say.

"He's waiting for you in your world." Gale says quietly. "Just go to sleep."

He's dead, John wants to say, but the words don’t make it to his lips. His eyes close, and he can’t open them again.

The soft touch of a kiss brushes his forehead. I love you, Gale’s voice whispers, but John isn’t sure if he really hears it.

Darkness descends, and he leaves.

[garglyswoof]

I was inspired by @push1na 's amazing klaroline version of Klimt's The Kiss and so wrote a ficlet inspired by it This is me writing on my phone in an airport lounge so hopefully it comes out ok <3

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They come for him while the blooms are still bright, trampling them beneath an army of bootheels, and it's another point against them.

Because she loves the flowers, and he will have to get his minions to replant them when he crushes this threat. He often uses her own words, thrown at him with such vitriol years ago, just to see her eyes roll and barely hide the smile behind. But she's not here with him now. She is safe, he reassures himself.

It's only been a few years with her and he is greedy for a thousand of them. Last month he'd approached her here in this yard, in the suit she'd insisted he wear “for nostalgia reasons, obviously” with the blooms flowering their riotous colors in the golden light of sunset, and kissed her cheek as she stared at him with something that made his heart kick in his chest like a prey animal.

It was terrifying and joyous and his greedy, greedy heart cannot get enough.

He told her so, just a few days before, when he'd learned of this new vampire threat and sent her off to New Orleans despite her furious protests. He couldn't put it into words at the time, that losing her would break him worse than the hunter’s curse ever had. That to touch her was one thing, but to hear her spitfire words only made this stutter step in his heart worse. Instead he’d merely said ‘I need to keep you safe,’ and he knows it wasn't enough. 

He would enjoy his acts of contrition, truth be told, tangled in the sheets with his mouth tracing patterns on her skin.

The wind picks up then, ruffling his hair like it did her dress that golden-tinged summer evening, but this time it carries the scent of vampires instead of Caroline’s own. He keeps his pose casual, hands clasped behind his back, walking back towards the house and avoiding the wildflowers underfoot.  Let them think him clueless and weak, it made their destruction taste almost as sweet as the notes of jasmine in Caroline’s perf-

“No.”

“Yes,” she replies, and he looks up at her, standing in the doorway, her sundress abloom with flowers to match the yard, and his greedy heart thumps.

“They're almost here,.love. If I - if I,” he can't even say it, as if speaking the words could manifest them. He feels the impotent rage rise up, knows his next words will push her away.

Her hand cups his shoulder.and squeezes before he can betray himself. “I know.  But you won't. And you can't ask me to stay away when you're the one in danger. So you're just gonna have to learn to trust me. Plus you just gave me that fancy mini fridge and Im spoiled by how good the wine setting keeps blood at the perfect temperature.”

He grumbles at this, because he doesn't get her choice of diet when she could have it fresh from the tap, but he takes the hand at his shoulder, admiring the glint of sun off of some ancient queen’s ring he'd bestowed upon Caroline, you’ll forgive him for not remembering who, and kisses the palm of her hand, her wrist. 

Her intake of breath is a revelation, as it always is, that she is just as affected as he is. It makes him think that perhaps this madness that takes hold of his greedy heart isn't one-sided. He hoards her gasps like jewels in a dragon’s den. 

The thought steels him and his eyes are wild as he turns to face the onrush that he knows is upon them. Her hand stays clasped in his own, for a moment, and if he has the brief thought of never letting go, it is one borne of a poet’s thoughts that he’ll remember for later, when the path of his brush traps their moments together.

The sun descends, but she still shines to him, monster’s visage above the blooms of her dress, the neckline covered in blood, her hand clutching a still-beating heart. He only has a moment to appreciate her, his brilliant blonde distraction, before he turns back to the fray.