#gettin some berries

[earththings]

[therealjendavis]

i am replaying celeste in a new file and tell me why 3a took me longer than 1b and 2b combined

[vuhjungle]

Gettin some berry vibes here

[noxturnalnymph]

The Hunted

SerialKiller!Joel x F!Reader (8.2k)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He notices she’s said I, not we.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

He really can’t wait any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

Then you see it - recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-yer what?” he interrupts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have a type?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Do you have se-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You…. you want this?”

“Why not?” he immediately answers.

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

“What a way to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is the first to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling.

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

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

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

“Catch me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 9: Longing

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

cw: mentions of death/gore* & the smut we’ve all been waiting for 🖤

word count: 6.7k

The clouds dance and whirl overhead, bringing with them a wind so sharp you think it might cut right through the heavy cloak, all the way down to your skin- maybe even deeper than that.

“Storm’s moving fast..” You say, more to yourself than anything, but Simon hums out an agreement anyway, casting his eyes upward with a squint,

“C’mon, there’s a village not too much further-”

Tugging at your hood, you begrudgingly squeeze your chaffed and aching thighs in order to urge the mare forward. Never in your life had you ridden for so long at one time- over the span of a week, you’ve hardly gotten off the beast unless it’s to relieve yourself or when it’s time to set up camp; and your very spoiled and sheltered life is proving to be a great disadvantage at the moment.

“Sore?”

His question confuses you, your cheeks beginning to burn, though the heat has nothing to do with your wind-chapped skin,

“From the saddle, love..” You can’t help but to roll your eyes at the amusement in his tone, turning into your cowl even further, only to gasp when you feel his hands around your waist-

In quick succession he had gotten close enough to you on his own horse to reach across the short expanse and pull you over, settling you side saddle between his legs, “Simon!”

But, it seems he quite enjoys your disgruntled fussing, “Is this all right?”, he asks, “If not, I’ll put you back-”

“No.. no.” You give in quickly, too enamored by the heat of his body against yours, his delightful warmth leaching into you, and the way your legs and pelvis scream at you to stay. Stay here in this very unbecoming position, one of his arms wrapped snugly over your hips, fingers loosely holding the reins, as the other works to tether your horse to his,

“It takes some gettin’ used to.” Simon coos, holding you closer, “But, you’ve done so well..”

His praise makes your skin feel like it could be on fire, and the steady rocking motion of the horse’s gate does nothing to help- well, except for the tiny splashes of the first rain drops beginning to fall.

And by the time you reach the small square, you’re both thoroughly soaked. Your cloak and petticoat feel ten pounds heavier, sticking to Simon’s jacket as he helps lower you down to the muck and mud before dismounting himself.

The village is quaint, deserted due to the conditions, but it still manages to feel cozy somehow- with candles and lanterns flickering in almost every window, there’s a warmth to it that strikes you differently than you’re so used to. And the closer you get to the inn, the sounds of raucous laughter and amused banter bleed through the foggy windows and from under the solid door.

With Simon’s hand hovering against your lower back, he opens the door and you both shuffle inside. The air is thick with a lazy sort of heat, your nostrils immediately filled with the hearty scents of herbs and fatty meats slowly cooking. You’re grateful for all the noise then, grateful it hides the way your stomach rumbles and growls, excited for a meal that isn’t foraged berries, stale bread, and whatever small game Simon had hunted along the way-

“This way..” Simon guides you through the open area, firmly polite in the way he excuses some of the more rowdy patrons- and it strikes you then, oddly and out of place almost, that none of these people give you a second look. Sure, some of their gazes linger, half-lidded and plied with honeyed mead, at the strangers making their way to an empty table in the corner; but as soon as the next distraction comes, you’re easily forgotten.

An older woman sweeps by with two pint glasses frothing with amber liquid, “Travelers, eh? Been pishin’ a doon out there, I tell ya.”

“Aye, it has-”, you respond with a small chuckle, ordering two of whatever that delightful smell originates from when the matron asks.

“Do you have a room open for the night?”

“Tsch- o’course. Always a room open for a native lass, like y’rself.” She graces you with a warm smile, one that reminds you so much of your own mother it hurts, patting your shoulder before giving a.. less than welcoming glare to the man sitting across from you as she flits away with a hmpf.

You unpin your cloak, tugging it from around your shoulders- a bloom of heat coloring your cheeks when you lock eyes with Simon, a sly grin just barely tugging at the corner of his lips,

“What?”

His head tilts just enough to catch a bit of light from the hearth, casting his features in a deep, handsome glow as he studies you without saying a word. Those damned eyes finally thawing at the sight of your mess of hair still damp, and cheeks stained pink, the way you try to hold his gaze but always end up looking away- pretending to be interested in the wood grain of the table under your hands,

“It’s nice.. Seein’ you like this.”

Nice? You roll the word over your tongue a few times, unsure of what exactly nice entails- but your pondering is very quickly snuffed out by the sound of your name being spoken. They aren’t speaking to you, no, thank the gods, but the more you turn your ear towards the group, the tighter your chest feels-

“May the gods rest ‘er soul..” One man says, lifting his glass in the air, the others following suit in the impromptu eulogy.

“Aye.. Gods rest.”

“A right Scottish Queen on the throne- married off tae tha’ bastard. Now look at ‘er.. Butchered and they say they ne’er found ‘er heid.. A goddamn shame-”

“I heard the King’s heid was sat on the mantle- crown on and all.” Another one offers, staring vacantly into his cup before coming back to the present, “Bodies burnt to a crisp.”

You grit your teeth, images of their gossip wracking through your mind and body; the raw, visceral reaction unstoppable as a bone deep shiver quakes through you. Simon’s hand covers yours, squeezing just enough to draw your eyes back to him-

“‘Ere we are.” Two steaming plates are sat in front of you, roasted pheasant and a healthy portion of potatoes and boiled leafy greens, “‘S a shame, ain’t it?”

She glances back at the table of men, “I dinnae normally like to give in tae the rumors, but-”, her voice takes on a morose lilt, her hands buried deep in her apron, “it’s jus’ so heartbreakin’’. And to think it were her guard! Of all people..”

You really think you could be sick before you’ve even got a bite of your food down, the smell that had enticed you so, now feels too heavy in your nostrils, too rich and fatty, too thick-

“It is.” Simon interjects, tapping the heavy ring around his thumb against the table in that comforting pattern, “Gods rest-”

The woman sniffles, nodding her head before pulling a handkerchief that’s been tucked in her bosom, “Aye, gods rest. Ye two enjoy, lemme ken if ye need anythin’ at’all.”

With a nod and tight lipped smiles, she bustles away, the weather bringing more people into the small tavern than you think is usual. And within the hour, the room quickly shrinks to barely allow for standing space. The already warm air becoming near stifling the longer you sit, pushing bits of leftovers around the wooden plate,

“C’mon, love.” Simon stands, holding his hand out to you- “Let’s get some rest.”

You know he’s right, you know you have another full day of traveling tomorrow- which causes the ache in your bottom and thighs to rear its ugly head yet again. But you feel so utterly restless. The men’s words, long forgotten by them, have not left your mind. They bounce around relentlessly, conjuring awful images and memories- things you cannot forget.

But you let him take your hand, let his warmth anchor you, his steady hold guide you through the crowd and toward the small staircase that takes you both up and up. The air seems to cool step by step, a little easier to breathe the further you get from the noise.

Yet, the closer you get to the room, the more your thoughts seem dead set on casting you into the void entirely. You feel too warm and too cold at the same time, your body and mind unable to escape the vicious fight or flight cycle-

What have you done? What do you truly know of this man? What if he- could he be? Could your Simon be anything like the King? Maybe not right now, but what if- what if- what if-

“Your thoughts are loud tonight, little queen..”

It’s only at the sound of his voice that you notice you now stand in the middle of a spacious bedroom. One with a large bed that commands the space, a wardrobe stood in one corner and a gloriously deep bathtub sat opposite- and sure, you had shared a bed with Simon before, you had clung to him in the middle of forests, with only a thin sheet of canvas between you and the unforgiving wilderness.

But this.. Very suddenly, you’re confronted with the intimacy of the space you share now. Of the single bed, a bed untainted by the memory of another man, of him- you study the crackling fire, and the torrential rains still pelting against the fogged up window panes. Your eyes on anything other than the man that watches you so ardently.

“Was this..” – you suck in a shaking breath, meeting those beautiful amber eyes, the ones that seem to burn brighter than the flames in the hearth, “Did we-”

Oh, such a way with words you have- gods, just get it together.

He tilts his head, “Did we do the right thing?”, with a single step, he’s right in front of you, “Depends on who you ask. Though, I believe your people would say yes..”

“I hate that they think that you- that you would-“

“Kill you?”

Tears sting your eyes then, flooded by everything that happened that night- the poor woman’s body that had been stolen from the infirmary, the fire and blood, the way the King’s crown sparkled on his head as it sat on the mantle. All the horrendous acts that Johnny and Simon committed, for you.

Oh, perhaps Johnny was right all along, you are just a stupid, selfish girl-

“I should be dead, shouldn’t I?” You admit, turning away from him, “At least that way, you and Johnny, you could’ve had your lives- you would not be out here, in the middle of nowhere, helping me escape mine, at the cost of your own. I should be-”

“Don’t.” Simon’s grip on your arm isn’t forceful, it’s not painful or demanding, but you can feel the urgency, see the anguish in his eyes, hear the agony in his voice, “Please.. Don’t say those things.”

He takes up your field of view, holding your face between his hands before pulling away with a huff,

“Don’t you understand? I would do it all again, I would do it a hundred times. Because before you.. I-” – he stops mid-pace, raking a hand through his hair, “I had no life, none beyond a battlefield. My life has only ever been death. My hands..”

You watch him look at his own appendages as though he wishes to remove them completely, “My hands have rarely known or given a kind touch, they are tarnished and unworthy-”

“Simon, no-”

It’s you who reaches for him this time, taking his hands in yours- your lips pressed against the rough skin without a second thought. You kiss them slowly, softly, over and over, listening to each unsteady breath that rattles through his chest,

“I do not know the hands you speak of..” You whisper, looking up at him, “I only know the hands that have saved me, that have held me- hands that have only ever been kind and gentle.”

And to see him now, see every raw edge of him- you feel silly for ever thinking he could be anything like your late husband. That he would ever bring a hand to you that was meant to incite fear and pain, or turn his voice into a weapon to degrade and belittle you.

No, Simon had shown you his heart- openly, tenderly. He had allowed you to see him, pried open his chest and let you settle yourself there, in a space he has never allowed anyone before.

“But you’ve seen what they were made to do. Seen them bloody-” He shakes his head, letting it fall, eyes clenching shut, “I told you before that I am not a good man. The things I have done cannot be atoned for.”

Your hands move cautiously, blazing a slow path from his wrists over his forearms, the cords of muscle twitching and flexing under your palms until you reach high enough to cup his jaw. He doesn’t look at you right away, choosing to lean into the cool touch of your palm before speaking again,

“I’m afraid-” – he whispers, and you can see it in his eyes when he finally opens them, see the terror, the longing, these feelings so obviously and painfully foreign to him, “- that one day.. I will kill you. That I will bring Death right to our doorstep, and he will take you, just as he’s taken all others from me.”

His words feel like fire and frost in your veins. Never would you have thought Simon, your Simon, your steadfast protector- your lover - to harbor such a thing as fear. Much less, a fear of losing you, a fear so great it seems like it could bring the Titan of a man to his knees.

And yet, it’s that fear that fortifies you. If he can be so relentlessly strong for you in times when you thought you were shattering, then you can be that for him- because what is love, if not picking up each other’s pieces when they cannot?

Love was never meant to be only beauty and light, love is disturbing and messy; it is brutal in its hold and unfair in its unpredictability. You cannot choose who you love, not really. There are strings of fate that bind you- how else can something so dark and so wonderful dare make sense?

A sad smile pulls at your lips as you look up at him, thumb brushing back and forth through the stubble on his cheek, “Simon.. If Death should come for me, I will take his hand in mine- and with my other, I’ll hold yours, so that I might find you in every lifetime after.”

The breath that leaves him sounds like it might as well have been punched from his lungs, labored and groaning. But, in the next second you’re being pulled forward- leaning up onto your toes as he captures your lips in a desperate kiss, his arm snaking around your waist as you crash into him with all the grace of a newborn fawn.

But he doesn’t let you fall, he couldn’t dream of such a thing- no, he holds you closer, the span of his fingers covering your lower back, his immense warmth radiating even through the thick fabric of your dress-

“Wait, My Queen.. Wait-”

You feel how he braces himself, forcing his hands to gently push you just far enough away that you couldn’t reach his lips, “Simon-”

Tears well up at the very corners of your eyes, out of frustration or sheer petulance, you’re not sure. It’s just.. your body feels wound too tight, and your mind is so lost in its own haze of desire and longing that you can’t control the way your bottom lip quivers-

“Oh, sweet girl-” Simon presses a kiss to your pitiful pout first before holding your face up so that he could kiss your tears next, “Do you trust me?”

You nod against him, your hands still tightly tangled in the loose material of his tunic, “Yes, but-”

Another kiss causes your complaint to be forgotten at the back of your tongue, overtaken by the taste of his mouth on yours- and the subsequent throbbing deep in your core. Your body truly and utterly aches for him.

He sweeps you out of the room despite your small protests, leaving youstill unsure of what exactly his plan is, or why he insists on denying you and himself for even a moment longer. But you stay, standing by a large bay window, watching how the rain carves chaotic little paths down the glass, and catching glimpses of your reflection when the candlelight flickers just right.

You look properly disheveled. Tendrils of hair frame your dirt stained cheeks, your eyes slightly hollow from the nightmares that have plagued your sleep, lips chapped and raw from the wind, and Simon’s kisses-

Slowly, you untangle your braids, vainly attempting to rake your fingers through some of the mess when you hear boots ascending.

A man you don’t recognize appears first, followed by a much taller, much more familiar form just behind. They both carry a large basin in each hand, the water inside fragrant and steaming as they make their way inside, dumping the pails into the deep copper tub-

There's a small grin on Simon’s lips when he passes by, the men repeating the same act twice more before you watch them shake hands- the taller man slipping a few pieces of silver to the other in thanks,

“A bath?” You look up at him with wide eyes, unable to hide your excitement after weeks of bathing in frigid rivers and streams.

“Mh..” – he hums, moving to hold you again, those long fingers trailing up the laces of your bodice, “You deserve comfort, so, while I can give that to you, I will. And one day.. I’ll draw a bath for you whenever you’d like.”

As he speaks, his voice takes on a softer edge, dipping his head down to nuzzle against the skin of your neck. He lavishes the flesh with kiss after kiss all while his hands work to loosen every lace, methodically pulling until you can feel the ties give way enough to take a deep, shuddering breath-

“Is this ok, My Queen?” Simon asks, pulling back to search your face for any sign of discomfort.

It tugs at your heart in ways you didn’t think possible. Because the King had never asked, he never cared what was ok or not- and you didn’t know any better anyway.

But Simon waits, he waits to hear the soft ‘yes’, waits for even a second longer just to memorize the way your eyes sparkle for him- beautiful and bright. And with the same tender movements, he pulls the dress from your shoulders, easing the fabric down your arms, every prolonged graze of his fingertips leaving a wake of goosebumps.

You’ve never been completely bare to a man before- even your husband had never seen all of you at once, never taking the time to bother with undressing you when he could just hike your nightgown up.

What if he doesn’t find you appealing when he sees you so exposed? What if he thinks the stretch marks on your thighs are ugly? Or maybe the size of your hips and the fatty flesh that covers them- the King always made sure to remind you of how unsightly those parts of you were.

What if he doesn’t like how your stomach squishes and jiggles-

“Look at me.”

You hadn’t even noticed that your eyes were focused on the floor, cast down in shame when your gown pooled around your ankles. And you really should’ve known that one look at the man in front of you would take all your insecurities and wash them away, because to him, he’s never seen a woman so perfect.

Simon’s never seen skin as soft and unblemished as yours- and he finds himself wanting to kiss and mark every single inch of you, make you his and only his.

Instead, he tilts your chin up, relishing the sight of your swollen lips parting just so, like you, too, couldn’t get enough of him. No one’s ever looked at him that way, like he were something to be coveted and desired.

“You’re beautiful.”

That’s all he gives you before wrapping you in his arms, sealing his lips over yours- and this time when you pull at his belt, he lets you. He lets you loosen it around his hips, lets your hands wander, fingers skimming over the feverish skin of his torso. He helps you by tugging the tunic over his head, blessing you with the glorious sight of him; his muscles, and scars, and freckles, and moles- every stunning imperfection that has shaped him.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room just before the rattling boom of thunder, as if Mother Nature herself were as enthralled with this moment as you were-

“C’mere..” Simon takes your hand, offering a steadying hold for you to step into the bathtub, “‘S too hot?”

The water stings for only a moment on your legs, but you pay the slight discomfort no mind, lowering the rest of your body into the bath with a sigh,

“No, it’s perfect.” You say, looking up at him with a gracious smile, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything more, opting to push his trousers over his hips and legs- and you know you’ve felt him, felt his length pressing into you through his pants, seen the outline of him straining against the fabric.

But this- you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, aware that your staring is entirely unladylike, but unable to find it in yourself to really care. How could you? When you’ve imagined his cock many a night as you touched yourself to merely the thought of him, to the idea of how good you just knew he could make you feel.

And now, here he is, naked as the day the he was born, towering over you, built like he was carved from the gods of war themselves-

The water sloshes when he steps one foot in, then the other, sitting opposite of you- one leg stretched out against yours and the other propped up so that his knee breaches the surface,

“I’ve never done this.” You admit, cheeks flushed a bright pink from the heat of the water, but mostly from the way he stretches his arms out over the rounded edges of the tub, the way his head tilts lazily to the side,

“Can’t say I have, either.”

You stay like that, watching him until he leans over, plucking a sponge from the small table, “May I?”

Well, how does he ever expect you to refuse when he looks at you like…that.

With a small nod, he inches himself forward, maneuvering your legs to rest atop his, your bodies precariously close again- and with not a thing but the water separating you from him. You avoid looking down, keeping your eyes focused instead on the myriad of scars that litter his broad chest- you watch the bulging muscles move under the skin as he washes you.

He starts with your hands, his eyes glued to you, reverently studying each part as he goes- cleansing you of dirt and grime, “What are you thinking, little queen?”

“That your self-control is admirable.” You respond without thought- the flesh he touches warming even more so when a he bellows a genuine laugh-

“It’s no easy feat. I assure you.”

When his fingers brush against your sensitive inner thigh, a traitorous moan escapes you, one that causes him to tense. And you think even with the hot, slippery water around you- the slick between your legs becomes more apparent, your thighs clenching on their own and your head rolling back,

“Simon..”

Hearing his name uttered as little more than a whimper makes him dizzy, large hand clamping over your thigh like it might steady him- his want for you reaching a peak he had never quite felt before,

“Careful, love..” He growls.

But it’s too late, because you cling to that tiny fault in his control, the wanton, lecherous parts of you gnashing and gnawing their way to the surface. A streak of confidence, or outright arrogance, guiding you to pull the sponge from between his fingers,

“May I?” You coo, repeating his own kind gesture, but you would be lying if you said you had nearly as pure intentions-

He nods, and you begin to mimic his movements- scrubbing his hands, and arms, letting yours linger and softly grope as you go. Every minute or so, you find yourself glancing at his face, seeing his brows knitted together, eyes steeled and unblinking as he watches you clean him- a queen, washing his skin, his queen, bathing him. His cock twitches and swells painfully at the thought-

“Has anyone ever called you beautiful?” You splay your small palm over his thigh, again forcing your eyes to stay away from the water, away from.. Well, away from gawking at his how his length only seems to grow bigger with your efforts.

A sharp laugh fills your ears, his dimples sinking in as he clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, “No.”

You do meet his eyes then, scooting forward so that your thighs are now settled over his, practically straddling his lap, “Well, you are. You look like those statues of the gods.. Like art.”

The sponge slips from your hand when you’re jerked forward, big hands spread out over the fleshy globes of your ass, his fingers kneading into the fat and muscle with a satisfied groan- followed in quick succession by your breathy little whine from the feel of his hardness pressed against your cunt.

Lips and teeth and tongues collide, your body rolling and writhing above his, hips eager to find that delicious friction again-

He moans when you tug your fingers through his hair, thrusting up hard enough to cause water to go splashing and spilling onto the floor below. But neither of you stop, neither of you wanting to fight that burning, deep-seated desire for a moment longer,

“I need you.. Simon- I need you.” You pant, swiping your tongue over his, “Please.”

Without pause, the giant man stands, your legs and arms flailing to stay firmly wrapped around him; even if you know that his hold on you is ironclad, the motion is so abrupt you can’t help the fleeting fear of being dropped. Or worse, either or both of you falling-

But he moves with that effortless confidence he’s so good at, stepping out of the tub, water dripping and puddling on the floor until you’re being nestled safely into the feather down mattress- skin prickling at the cold sheets beneath.

Thankfully, his hands and mouth make quick work in warming you.

“You can stop me-” Simon says, kissing over your jaw and down your neck, “All right? You say the word, and I’ll stop. We don’t- mh- don’t have to do this.”

You tilt your hips up, straining to wrap your legs around his waist, “I want to. I want you..”

He moves to hover over you, those damned eyes picking you apart layer by layer, almost begging for a reason to remove himself- not because he doesn’t want you just as badly, but because he still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you want him.

Simon has been with women, out of need and lust, sure. And while you are not the first person he’s been with, when you look up at him like that, with those big eyes, and that sweet smirk, he vows to himself then, that you will be his last.

“You already have me, sweet girl..”

Too quickly, he pushes away, your lips chasing after him until you see exactly where he’s headed-

“Wha- oh..”

A warm chuckle fans out over your tummy, “Just need a taste, sweetheart.” – he says, like it were the most normal thing in the world.

The thing is, you’ve never actually had someone do that. You’ve only read about it, heard stories from your handmaids-

Dreamed of it..

The memory of your heat-induced fantasy flashes before your eyes- only then, you didn’t even have a face to fantasize of, but now..

Well now, the vision of Simon’s face settled between your thighs is enough to make your head swoon. Feeling the dark hair in your hands, his breath against your center- that alone is enough to make your back arch off the bed,

“Feelin’ needy, little queen?”

You scoff, the gripe on the tip of your tongue forgotten at the feeling of his thick tongue dragging through your folds- the sensation unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, hot and wet, firm and soft. You cry out, gripping his head tighter, your legs attempting to squeeze shut until he pries you open again,

“Mm-mm..” Simon groans into you, “Don’t hide..”

With another sharp gasp, your head rolls back into the pillows as he latches onto your clit- the swollen bud already entirely too sensitive. And when he circles your entrance with a rough finger, it’s almost enough to take you over the edge right then, feeling the blissful stretch of his digit, and then two- it’s enough, more than enough, and yet, nowhere near enough.

“Mmh- Oh gods..” You moan, using both hands now to guide him, “Right there- right th-there.”

It’s as if you’ve thrown oil onto fire the way he ravishes you, lapping and suckling until you’re nothing more than a trembling, whiny mess beneath him- your body tensing and curling as the orgasm burns through you hard and fast, his name on your lips and yours on his-

“My good girl- fuckin’ hell.. That’s it.”

He praises you, pacing his ministrations to draw out your pleasure until every fiber of your being feels like you’re floating above the heavens.

You’ve reached your finish before, but never so.. intensely; and never at the hands, or mouth of another.

And to have it now, from a man you’ve wanted for so long.. You know you shouldn't uphold him as an idol, as a being deserving of prayer.

No, that is a blasphemous act.

But you do.

“I’ve dreamt of havin’ you on my tongue..”, he drawls, not bothering to wipe your slick from his lips before kissing you- shoving his tongue forward like he wants you to taste yourself, “Of tasting a queen, My Queen.”

A soft hum bubbles out of you, spreading your thighs for him again, and keening at the weight of his cock as it settles over your slit-

“I’m not your queen anymore, Simon..” Is all you can manage to say, reaching between your body and his, no longer slickened by water, but instead glimmering with a sheen of sweat. You wrap your hand around him, another soft whine parting your lips at the way his length jerks at your touch.

Simon nuzzles into your neck, “Aren’t you? Shall I give you my vows again, then?” – his words are muffled by your flesh, his lips warm and wet, “Vow to defend you..”

Kiss.

“To obey you-”

Another kiss.

“To give my life for yours-”

Before he can punctuate the next vow with a kiss, he leans up to cradle your face in his hand, “But.. I suppose I am not fit to be your guard anymore..”

Your brows pull together, “And why is that, Ser Simon?”

His hand settles at your hip, gliding up your thigh to hitch it a bit higher on his waist- the other still cupping your jaw, “Because I cannot promise you to never wed..” – he says, molten amber eyes piercing into you, “I cannot promise to never take land- cannot vow to father no children..”

You don’t need the answer, you know it, but it doesn’t stop you from whispering, “Why?”

Simon’s dimpled smile gives you comfort, the calloused pad of his thumb softly grazing over your cheek, “Well.. if you asked me for those things, I wouldn’t think twice about giving them to you.”

Once more, you’re stunned by the simplicity in which he says it- like he weren’t proposing a life with you. Like he didn’t just admit to wanting more with you, wanting everything with you.

“The thought of you havin’ my name..” – he grinds down as if to prove his point, that the idea of you taking his name is more than enough to turn him on, “Of givin’ you land, buildin’ a home with you.. Children, if you want them.”

Your legs clench around him, not entirely of your own free will. It’s just the things he’s saying, and that fucking voice- it will surely be your downfall. But, if this is falling, you don’t mind how sinfully good it feels.

“Mm..” You hum, leaning up to claim his lips, “In that case, I permanently relieve you of your duty, good Ser.”

You feel his grin, but in the next breath, you also feel that burning sense of urgency return to his movements- hands scorching flesh, lips offering only a temporary reprieve, and it’s all so perfect.

Simon leans up one more time, another question in his eyes as he covers your hand on his cock. You don’t give him the chance to ask though, quieting his thoughts by reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck, voice hardly a whisper,

“I love you, Simon.”

His eyes widen, pupils already blown into thick, inky voids- and for only a second, you worry you’ve said too much, too soon. That he will pull away from you for good, but that notion is lost when he presses forward, his plump tip pushing into you, slowly, inch by mouth-watering inch, while he watches you like it’s the last thing he might ever do.

He watches your lips part into the prettiest shape around your gasp, watches your eyebrows scrunch together, your fingers tightening in his hair-

And fuck, you knew you were shamefully wet for him, but the lewd sound your cunt makes when he sinks into you makes your cheeks bloom a deep red, eyes fighting to stay open, to stay on him. But you feel so full. The stretch of taking his girth so new that it stings, but the pain only seems to make the pleasure multiply. It makes no sense, but you suppose nothing ever really has with him.

It’s when he’s fully seated inside you, arms now propped on either side of your head, sweat beading on his skin that he gives you, and himself, just a moment to adjust. He peppers your lips and cheeks and neck with kisses, swallowing your sweet moans before moving again- languidly drawing back, and pushing in just as slow.

There’s nothing quick about the way he ruins you, he takes his time, wanting you to feel every single moment- wanting to watch the pleasure etch itself into your features, the pleasure he gives you. Deliberately and thoroughly.

Time could have ceased to exist in this moment. You wouldn’t know, you wouldn’t care. Because you can only feel the way he consumes you, your mind and body, spirit and soul, he can have it. Just as he told you that he was yours on that balcony what feels like a lifetime ago now, you knew that you were just as much his.

So, yes, he could take whatever he wanted- it had belonged to him from the start.

Simon Riley is the man fate bound to you.

Just as the familiar pressure blooms once more low in your belly, you feel his fingers lace with yours, his free hand wandering between your bodies, “You feel like a dream, sweet girl.. Better than dreams-”

He groans when your walls flutter and tense around him, his fingers working gentle circles over your clit, the flesh of his hips smacking against yours with every bone-deep thrust. And you knew it would only be a matter of seconds if he keeps up like this, so before you’re lost to the bliss yet again, you pull his head down, licking and nipping at his bottom lip,

“Simon– mmh-”

Your body trembles right before its release, your orgasm somehow deeper, more spectacularly bright than the first. It rings in your ears, only made better by Simon’s own guttural moans growing higher, more desperate- his panting breaths mix with yours, your name spilling out over and over. His rhythm is indiscernible now as he chases his end, your slick and his prespend glistening over your thighs and the thick curls at the base of his cock.

And you really didn’t think it was possible that you could be more enamored or entranced by him than you already are, but seeing him above you- seeing every trace of that unshakable stoicism melt away, leaving just Simon behind.

Leaving just a man, not a knight or a queen’s guard, not a killer, nor a ghost. Just a man who has seen too much of the world, been hurt by it, lived too many lives isolated in his self-made fortress.

You see a boy who was forced to become a man far too soon. A boy who never got the luxury of feeling the sunlight on his face, or a warm breeze on his skin that wasn’t accompanied by guilt or pain. You see his story written in scars, from burns and blades, arrows and spears-

Yet, he is beautiful.

With a final string of grunts, he bullies his cock so deep inside your channel, you can’t help the shrill little squeak you give at the feeling. Pain and pleasure collide as you hug him as tight and close as you both can manage- chests slippery and heaving, the room falling into a comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of your breaths.

“Did I hurt you?” He whispers, either unable or unwilling to lift his face from where it lays on your chest, shaking fingers absently tracing over your palm.

“No, not in ways I didn’t enjoy.” You hide your face in his hair, pressing a long kiss to the sweat-dampened locks.

A chuckle floats over your skin, his lips chasing the chills before looking up at you-

“I- I don’t know.. love, My Queen. I’ve read of it, though I can’t say I’ve actually seen it. I wouldn’t know what to look for, or recognize what it feels like. But-” – you give a warm smile, silently praying that one day soon, he might tell you his story.

But, for now, you understand.

“I do not need to hear it.. And perhaps, I don’t know much about the feeling either. But, you feel like the fairytales I grew up reading.”

This time, the chuckle grows into rich laughter, his fingers gently tickling your sides to pull a sweet laugh from you, too,

“Fuck’s sake, little queen. Tellin’ a man he feels like a fairytale.”

You squirm under him with another bout of giggles, “You know what I meant!” – you swat at his arm, groaning suddenly when you feel his cock sink a bit further inside you, his seed dribbling onto the sheets,

“I know happy endings are for children’s stories, but.. the way they speak of love..” —you trail off, looking up at the ceiling for something more poetic, something you might find in one of your books. But you don’t think Simon is man of great proclamations or fancy words-

So, you settle on meeting his gaze, voice soft, “Well, I love you, Simon Riley.”

He leans up to kiss you, slow and deep, “Say it again.”

“I love you, Simon.”

taglist: @spxctorsslxt @ssc7514 @ficcharsimp009

[yeyinde]

thank you for tagging me @ivymarquis ! i debated between this, the regency fic (fleshed out), or one of the other Price fics i'm working on (home from college for the summer and seducing hot older neighbour Price whomst you had a crush on since sixteen (aka daddy issues, the playbook), DomPrice, etc), but i think the Soap fic will probably be finished before all of those. so, here is the baby trap piece with Soap.

nothing smutty but this def captures their odd, imbalanced dynamic perfectly, i think:

“And you have no cellphone? No satellite phone?”

“Ye can check it—” he makes a flippant motion toward the glove box in front of you. “Deader than ever.”

You hesitate only briefly. Long enough to level him with a searching look that yields no results (every expression hidden behind a thick, unruly forest of overgrown hair jutting out to his Adam's apple) before you reach for the compartment, gingerly pulling it open, and—

Sometimes, things get overlooked by their surroundings. Swallowed in the vacuum. Blending seamlessly into the muddle, the commotion. Or hidden. Can you spot the mountain lion in this tumble of rock and bush?

This isn't like that. 

It sits on top of a manila folder. Sleek black and cold silver. You're not terribly well-versed in guns—the extent of your knowledge stemming mostly from formulaic crime shows aired late at night; CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds—but you recognise this one instantly. Some sort of handgun. Police issued, you think. It's bigger than you'd expected. Looks heavier, too. 

Your heart stutters. The air galloping out of your lungs in a stammering rush. 

He makes a noise, soft and nonchalant, as if keeping handguns in the glove box of his old, burnt umbre truck is perfectly normal. 

“Fer protection,” he mumbles. You catch the jerk of his chin in your periphery. “Forgot I had it in here. Been usin’ the rifle for huntin’ mostly. Or the shotgun.”

Three guns. You swallow. “Why—” your voice comes out in a brittle whisper. You clear your throat. Pretend it helps, that you don't feel as vulnerable as you sound right now. “Why, um, why do you need three?”

“Not fae around ‘ere, are ye?” He echoes your words from earlier with a wry twist of his mouth, eyes slanting in the sunlight. “Tha’,” he takes his hand off your thigh to jab his finger at the handgun. “Is fer wolverines.” His index finger falls, his thumb juts out. He jerks it over his shoulder. “Tha’ is fer huntin’. The shotgun back home is fer bears.” 

You try to move out of the way when his hand falls back to your thigh, but the pain radiating up your leg immobilizes you. There's not much you can do in this situation but endure.

Military. Wounded in action. Three guns. Touchy. 

You're not sure what to think. It would be easier if you couldn't. 

“What do you hunt?” You ask instead, glancing out the window to the barren landscape rolling out around you. There doesn't seem to be much in the jagged hills, towering mountains. 

“Gettin’ hungry? Donnae worry, doe. Go’ tha’ pesky hare I was tryin’ tae shoot on the ledge fer dinner tonight.” 

It's not much of a comfort. The idea of being injured—by accident, he claims—to such an extent over a rabbit makes you feel a little sick. 

“That's it?” 

“I can make a mean steak outta anythin’. Stews fer tougher meat. Fish, too—whitefish, arctic grayling, and lake trout. Learned how tae make a nasty fishfry from the locals in Nahanni Butte. Bannock, too. Got berries ‘round ma cabin. Caribou, Moose. Taste better in tacos or burgers. Mountain goat, Dall’s sheep. Been eatin’ better ‘ere than ah did at home.” 

“And you're—just allowed to hunt them?” The website advised of a permit through some special outfit needed to hunt when you requested your pass into the park. Said that only aboriginals were allowed to do so. “You're not—”

“Aye,” he cuts you off with a small nod. “No huntin’ in the park. But. We're not in the park anymore.”

“Where are we?” You ask again, firmer this time. 

“I told ye. Nearly home.”

“And where is home?” 

The way he sucks his teeth makes you recoil slightly. Wet. Irritated. As if he's tired of this conversation already. 

“Close.”

You don't let his flat tone deter you. “Are we—are we still in the Northwest Territories?”

“Thereabouts.” 

It's not an answer. It doesn't reassure you in the slightest. 

You open your mouth to say so, words curling on your tongue when he jerks his chin toward the handgun, brow furrowed. 

“Thought ye wanted tae check on the satellite phone.”

His tone is severe. A growl curdling the ends, pitching it down, down. Displeasure, irritation, blooms in the gnarled petals of witch hazel when he narrows them into slits. 

[kvetchlandia]

Baron Wolman Chuck Berry, Berkeley, CA 1969

"People don't want to see 17 pieces in neckties. They wanna see some jeans, some gettin' down, and some wigglin'." Chuck Berry

[of-many-fandomss]

Daryl taking care of sick reader for a valentines request if u would like to write it? 💗🤭

I love Daryl so much, and that’s a fact

—————

“Come on,” Daryl urged softly, “Lift yer head up… jus’ like that, there ya go.”

You groaned, flopping back against the extra pillow your boyfriend propped up behind you and pouted up at him, “This sucks,” Your voice came out sounding weird due to your congested nose.

His lips quirked up for the briefest of seconds before he cleared his throat, taking a step back from your bed, “Nah, it doesn’, jus’ focus on gettin’ better.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, not failing to notice the amusement in both his tone and expression that he was trying to hide, “What’s so funny?” You challenged, forcing down a cough that tried to rise up in your throat as you spoke.

“Nothin’, nothin’,” Though, Daryl couldn’t hold back a slight snicker any longer, “Your voice is just adorable.”

Under any other circumstance, you would be forced to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at his words, instead you would smirk up at him and tease him mercilessly for thinking so. But now, laying on your bed in your shared cell in the prison, drowning in all the blankets that the others could find you, you could barely even shoot back a retort.

“It’s not adorable,” You whined, even as your words came out slightly slurred together, “And it’s not fair that this is happening on Valentine’s Day!”

That did manage to pull a frown out of your boyfriends face.

You have been raving for weeks about how you had managed to convince Rick to give the two of you the day off from any sort of responsibility so you could enjoy the day together. On more than one occasion, you excitedly talked your boyfriends ear off about the picnic you were planning for out in the yard, with the special food you had been able to scavenge while out on a run and the wine you had found.

Now though, you were holed up inside of the prison with a common cold, nonetheless, even in the midst of the apocalypse.

“‘M sure Rick’ll let us have yer picnic another time.” He reassured you, guilt rising inside his stomach a bit as he remembered how much this day meant to you.

“It won’t be the same,” You whispered, sliding backwards onto your pillows and sniffling for reasons that didn’t involve your sickness.

A moment later, you cleared your throat and sat up, “You should get out of here,” You told him, “I don’t need you getting sick on account of staying in here with me.”

He didn’t say anything, simply exiting the room, leaving you to let your head fall backwards against the cool, stone wall. But your eyes snapped up in curiosity when Daryl returned only a moment later, a basket and neatly folded blanket in his grip.

It was all the supplies you had carefully set aside for today.

“What are you-“

“Since we can’t go out, we’re gonna have the picnic in here.” He interrupted you, carefully unfolding and draping the blanket across the small ground space.

Your heart melted as he gently helped you down the bed, having you sit with your back against its frame and draped one of your blankets over your lap before plopping down on the other side of the blanket.

He began rummaging through the basket and pulled out its contents. It wasn’t much, but there was an unopened bottle of wine, a box of crackers, and some berries you had found growing near the gates.

“Daryl, maybe we should just do this another time, I really don’t want you catching this-“

“Hush, now.” He playfully scolded, munching down on a cracker, “It’s Valentines Day and ain’t no way we’re gonna spend it apart. This day means too much to ya.”

Despite yourself, tears began to fill your eyes and you looked over at your boyfriend with such love and adoration, that it made him falter slightly, “Thank you.” You whispered, “Thank you so much.”

He shrugged stiffly, swiping at his nose to try and draw attention away from the way the tips of his ears began to turn red, “‘S nothin’.” He mumbled.

“I love you.” You told him.

A smile crawled onto his lips, “There ya voice goes again, soundin’ all cute.” He said those words mostly to himself before looking at you and reaching over, pushing away a stray strand of hair from your eyes, “I love ya too.”

[fellthemarvelous]

The Small Back Room - Maggie's Record Shop (unhinged meta no one asked for, part 1)

I'm going to cover these in two separate posts because there are a lot. This post is going to be dedicated to the artists with multiple covers in Maggie's shop.

*This is all bonus content from The Arrival (2x1).

What is the purpose of the record shop? It's called The Small Back Room, and it's connected to Aziraphale's bookshop. And a small back room seems like a place someone would store their records.

"If I owned a record shop, I'd be more concerned about people breaking in and leaving more records behind." - Nina

And someone left more records behind. Records of "Every Day".

Aziraphale hears Gabriel sing a human song that Aziraphale is unfamiliar with, so he goes to the record shop to ask Maggie, who actually has way too many copies of "Every Day" because of a pub in Edinburgh, the place with the cemetery that has the statue of Gabriel.

There is more to it though. The pub called the Resurrectionist that plays "Every Day" over and over on the jukebox (and somewhere in America John Mulaney is cackling like a madman) now has direct ties with Aziraphale's personal life because they ended up in Maggie's record shop.

The place where they met Elspeth and Wee Morag, Mr. Dalrymple, messed with dead bodies, and where Crowley saved one woman's soul from Hell.

We heard one passage from Aziraphale's diary, and it was about the time he and Crowley went to Edinburgh that started off with them looking at the statue of Gabriel.

We know Aziraphale has more than 600 volumes of personal written history (as of 1827).

Where is he going to store records of his life on Earth? A record shop that no one other than him visits, attached to the building he owns.

The walls lined with record covers that are telling stories. Clues as to where the story is going to take us? Could they be Aziraphale's diaries or other important records Aziraphale has kept for thousands of years?

And is anyone else concerned about "Come on Over to Our Third Floor Apartment" or is that just me? Heaven is the third floor when you look at the button arrangements on the lift. ⬆️⬆️ ⬇️⬇️

Oslo Revival 1. Come on Over to Our Third Floor Apartment (We're Having a Party / Just for You / Four in a Bed / Have This Drink / It Doesn't Taste Weird / We'll Take Care of You / We Love You / You're One of Us Now / Together Forever) 2. Disguises (Carol and Her Hat / The Bicycle / Memories of a Windchime / Lunch / Who Am I Today? / Make Me Cry / Peggy Asked for Her Jumper Back) 3. It's Raining in My Kitchen (You Cast a Spell on My Wife / Running into Danger / Transcending the Patriarchy / Plumbing / A Dozen Eggs, (Too Many) / Someone New in the Bedroom) 4. Better Together

Kubasulu 1. Great White Lies (Fishy Business / Fluent in Shark-asm / Vanish into Fin-air / Gettin' Chummy / You're Gill-ty / No-fin Left to Lose / I Chews You) 2. Sweating in the City

Rat Keith 1. Look at This Mountain (The Mountain I Climbed / Assorted Wailing Chants of Peril / I Ate Some Berries (Shouldn't Have Done That) / What Happens on the Mountain, Stays on the Mountain / I See It in My Dreams / Soiled Leaves and Soft Bark / Don't Touch the Mushrooms / Huddle for Warmth / My Map Blew Away / This is My Home Now / Finally Rescued) 2. A Dog in God's Hot Car 3. Chem Trails

Raga Koboj 1. Raga Koboj 2. Earth, Swallow Me Whole (Why Can I Just Stay in Bed? / Sighing Loudly / No One's Going to Lunch / I'm Hungry But I Don't Want to Eat Alone / I Wonder What's on the Menu Today / Probably Something Mediocre / I'm Tired / It's Friday / I Wish It Would End) 3. Just Sounds 2.0 (Falling Coin / Stubbed Toe / Oops! / Rice in a Bowl / Spoon Clang / Gagging / Crinkled Paper / Bad Alphabet / Winded)

Deaf Dust 1. Change the Lightbulb (Cartwheels in Mexico / The cinnamon candle / Hold Me / Let Go / Who wait's for us? / Awesome / The basement's pretty dark / Broken Bulb / Stairway to your Mum's house) 2. Snapshots from the Moon

Randa Ransom 1. Doin' it in the Dust (Hard on the Rocks / Ridin' the Horizon / Tall Drink of Water / Wear My Hat / Call My Name / Let Me Use a Saddle / Just Us in the Dust) 2. I'm Lost and I Don't Speak the Language (Lost in Tokyo / WHat's that shop selling? / Sex Dolls (Self-Assembly) / Where's the Bathroom? / This Toilet is Singing / More Sex Dolls / There's a Cafe for Cats / I Want to Go Home / What's Home in Japanese? / Take Me Anywhere Taxi Man) 3. The Answer May Surprise You

Georgina O'Georgia 1. Gorgeous in Georgia ("Oh, George You're Gorgeous" / "It's Georgia with a G!" / "Get your hands off my hair" / "Yes, that's my real name") 2. Spur of the Moment

CT Bazz 1. Locking Up & Looking Down 2. Dank Balaclava

I've never seen anyone talk about these though, but they seem important. Have I missed conversation surrounding these? I'm just really curious as to what other people might think.

As I said above, there is a part two, but that part will cover artists with only one cover.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

We've been expanding the chicken run a little at a time as more and more of the chickens start enjoying their yard, and we finally have all of them using it so it's time for the final push lol. We've also been smothering invasives and reseeding with native wild plants and locally bred heirloom crops like Turkey Craw beans and carolina reapers. It's going really well, and as much as I've been stressed that we aren't at subsistence peoduction yet, I'm remembering way back at the beginning when I SAID to myself I probably wouldn't manage it in year one without a whole lot of good luck. We didn't exactly have bad luck but we didn't exactly have good either, and yet! We're definitely on track at this point to be growing subsistence level grains, veggies, berries, and stone fruit by end of next summer. And that's genuinely been a huge relief to realize.

Also! One of the hens got REAL broody today and was trying to nest in the dirt bath section of the run. Gettin real particular about what straw she added to her nest, all that. And then she spooked and ran inside. But a few minutes later, EGG!!!

The first egg of the flock! She's looking lovely, and I'm excited to crack her open and see if she's fertilized or not (we're pretty sure there's still a roosting amongst the hens we haven't fully ID'd yet) so we can decide if we get to eat it or the dogs do lol. Either way! I'm really fucking excited because ideally this means no more $3/dozen egg prices for me!!!

You have to understand, on a normal month, I buy 144 count egg boxes at least once, and on months when I'm having trouble with meat I buy one of those every two weeks. That is. So much money. And I've done the math. The chickens cost WAY less to keep and use for egg and meat supply than buying other people's eggs and meat costs, AND I know the conditions they're kept in and the ethical practices of their slaughtering. It's fucking. Great. I understand intellectually that most people do not enjoy/are not cut out for the subsistence farming life, but historically, the farther from it I get, the sicker I get, and the doctor's try to help and DO help, but they can't stop it either and keep saying "avoid this, avoid that" like doing that doesn't mean avoiding the godsdamned world.

I dunno. I love my work. I love my home. I love being a wretched little dirt weasel and the smell of fresh spread hay and the feeling of mucking out a stall and the taste of leaves you ripped out of the dirt yourself. In my ideal world, I supervise my interns, see a few clients a day for half the week, and spend the rest of my life poking around in the topsoil. In my ideal world, when I'm hungry I wander out into my garden or my store room and grab a packet of tea or some preserves and chicken jerky or a bundle of kale and just go eat it in the corner with my hands while furiously ink washing my calligraphy bunnies. I will come online for raid nights on weekends and say things like "there are 15 plums left and they need to be eaten or preserved in the next 24 hrs, who wants to bet how many plums I can shovel in an hour?"

My joys are small but I revel in them with hedonistic abandon

[eartheats]

have you seen any weird orthworm color variances? i imagine seeing them all the time, there's gotta be some memorable ones

!!! anon, ya caught me at a good time, actually--i was about to go and make a post with someone i was happy to see out and about again, but! this'll be a really good opportunity to talk about this, so here we go!

so! so so so. the orthworm ya typically see are a bright, blazin' red, but some orthworm are born blue instead! yer "shiny" orthworm, essentially. there's not a whole lotta difference between 'em and a regular orthworm despite the drastic color shift, but the few shiny friends i've seen have been mostly localized to the asado desert, and they tend to be more on the ravenous side. i ain't sure if that means they got somethin' similar to lulu's iron deficiency goin' on here, but they tend to be on the hungrier side, from my experience with 'em. shorter limbs, too.

but!!! very occasionally and mostly at night, ya can see somethin' similar to these orthworm out and about:

[picture: a bright, almost minty green orthworm with a very light green underbelly, pink eyes, and instead of the blue limbs it has pink ones. unlike the picture, it almost looks somewhat oxidized; the skin is quite splotchy. and while averting it's gaze from the camera, the orthworm seems more shy than anything]

now, these fellas right here--if i had to make an educated guess, i think this is what albinism looks like in an orthworm! these guys have a lotta sensitivities to the rain and sunlight in particular, so ya don't see 'em very much :( and fer good reason. most'a the ones i've seen don't tend to do well, and the other orthworm tend to be pretty unkind to 'em due to the constant need to eat. so they still exist, but they usually have to burrow much deeper underground and eat a LOT more.

the picture i got here is of one i called niki! i saw her quite a few times when i first started workin', but she was real sweet when i did! 😊 and she definitely fancied lulu a bit, heehee. but that was years ago. i hope she's doin' okay.

but! funnily enough, i saw this old bastard's still kickin' even after the storm, and ya wouldn't believe my relief at it!

[picture: a deep, plum colored orthworm, with a dark metallic green underside. it's eyes are a deeper shade of pink, while it's limbs are a dark purple that's almost black. unlike the picture, this orthworm looks like a surly bastard; very scarred up, and he's missing at least two of his limbs and half of a third. while he sits still for this shot, he looks very annoyed and seems to have been given a figy berry for his cooperation. his skin also look somewhat oily, or at least seems to have a shine that's almost reminiscent of a rainbowy oil spil]

this old boy's been around fer as long as i can remember, and he's actually recognized and protected by the rangers around here--he's officially got the name bismuth, but we just call him the old shiny bastard. heehee! he's one tough customer; most pokemon and even trainers around here learn real quick that ya don't fuck with 'im, because fines are the least of yer worries with this guy. he's apparently got a bit of a reputation as like...he'll help the rangers sometimes if they got a mutual enemy (usually somethin' that disturbs his huntin', because BOY does he hate gettin' bothered without incentive), but otherwise? ya leave this old bastard to his business. old man's survived his share of battles and ya can occasionally see him chewin' on tinkatuff hammers for funsies. this guy does NOT fuck around.

i thought the storm could've been a problem for the big guy, but i went out recently to train lulu and get outta town for a bit, and i saw him! scrappin' with some young orthworm about somethin' or other. the fact he's still kickin' after all these years and with the injuries he's got definitely makes me real happy to see. i don't really know a whole hell of a lot about his habits given that i usually give 'im a wide berth; this picture was actually taken by someone else with permission, last i checked. but i know fer a fact he's nocturnal as hell, and a damn good hunter when he feels the need to be.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 "𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧" 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲) ✯ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: On a rare day off, you get to help Jake on the Carolina farm. A lot of future plans are made in the whimsical heat of the day. The afternoon ends with the two of you completely alone in your bedroom. ✯ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 𝟕.𝟕𝐤 ✯ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✯ 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐓𝐗 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟐𝐧𝐝, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖

You like the smell of barns. There’s a certain must about them, an odor, that you find appealing. The scent of the earth is thicker here, aided by the horse shit Jake is raking and the dusty hay you’re throwing into the stalls. It smells like animal, really--it’s a smell that makes your eyes water, a smell that makes your throat tickle. 

“Careful,” Jake pants from the next stall over, peering at you between rusted bars with his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “That mare’s a kicker.” 

You’re still holding the rusty stall of the kicking mare open with your hip as you ready to throw a tuft of hay into her stall. She’s a big chestnut thing, a spot of white down her long muzzle, and she’s eyeing you carefully as she stamps her foot into the dirt.

“What’s her name?” You ask, the hay pricking your bare forearms.

The mare still eyes you, her big brown eyes almost as dark as her fur. She has little ginger eyelashes that flutter as she blinks at you, seemingly nodding her head and whinnying for you to hurry the Hell up with her breakfast. 

You toss in the hay gingerly, careful not to get too close to her.  

“Sugar,” Jake answers, rolling his eyes. 

“Ha,” you mutter, leaning against the musty wood to watch Sugar start munching on her hay. “She’s real pretty,” you tell Jake, marking the curve of her spine with your wandering eyes. 

“Well, pretty is as pretty does,” Jake tells you, leaning against his rake as Chief brays behind him and nudges him softly with his muzzle, attempting to take Jake’s cutoff between his teeth. “So I reckon she ain’t very pretty at all.”

“Think you’re gettin’ away with talkin’ about me straight to my face, mustang?” You tease him.

“Apparently not,” he teases right back. 

The door whines as you shut it, the metal clanging shut with a thunderous clang. It echoes all the way down the muddy barn and claps around the little arena that’s made up of loose dirt. Down the concrete pathway, below the sneaky house sparrows that have made their homes in the rafters, there are about twenty-five more stalls, all of which have been cared for by you and Jake. 

Jake picked you up before the sun rose after you told him that you didn’t have the opening shift at Dairy N Berries. You rode to the Carolina’s barn on the handlebars of his bike, leaning against his chest and blinking the sand out of your eyes as the Texas sun rose ahead of you. You had to fight the urge to jump off his bike and into the grass when the pasture first came into view, when you saw the horses lazily roaming the green crabgrass. 

“Finally where you’re meant to be,” Jake teased as he turned onto the winding driveway of the Carolina’s. “A farm. Though I did think you’d end up at the funny farm, not a horse farm.”

“That’s a joke your grandpa would make,” you told him, wrinkling your nose. “Who calls ‘em funny farms anymore? Get some new material.”

He pinched you--not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for you to jump forward on the bars.

“So I shouldn’t make a joke about the deal with airplane food?” 

You had rolled your eyes, chewing your lower lip. But you did love to be around horses--as your income would have it, horseback riding lessons were never in your cards. Tack that onto the laundry list of things your daddy’s always felt guilty about. 

Now you’ve been doing this all morning; gathering tufts of hay and chucking them into freshly mucked stalls, carrying a dirty hose to each stall and refilling the troughs. The Carolina’s have about twenty-two horses, each of them quarter horses, and they have each and every one of them taken your breath away. 

“‘Bout done here,” Jake tells you, wiping his forehead clean of sweat with his dirty tank. If you weren’t so busy watching Sugar devour her breakfast, your breath would be bated at the sight of Jake’s midriff. “Then I gotta lunge one of the rascals.” 

Jake’s pauses for a moment when you don’t respond. You’re still outside of Sugar’s stall, on your tip-toes in those beat up cowgirl boots that you probably outgrew a couple years ago. You are holding onto the bars of her stall, practically smushing your pink cheeks against them as you watch her. The straps of your tank are falling off your freckled shoulders and your shorts are too big so you have them tied with a shoelace. He can see it in your eyes, the way your lashes flutter, the way you’re chewing the inside of your cheek with a smile: you’re just happy, the kind of happy that is uninhibited. It makes his chest hurt watching you watch something you love so much--especially since he knows he probably won’t ever be able to give it to you. 

“Earth to Filly,” Jake teases, snapping in your direction. You smile at him, your eyebrows knit. “Did you hear me?” Jake asks. 

You hum, nodding. You had. You’re always listening to Jake. 

“Which one’s gettin’ lunged?”

“That one on the end there,” Jake tells you, nodding towards the last stall. “Buttermilk.”

You stand outside her stall, watching as she chews on bits of hay you gave her. She has the lightest lashes you’ve ever seen--they’re the color of freshly fallen snow. And her nose is pink, pink like a kitten’s tongue. 

“Remember my neighbor Gilda?” You ask Jake, leaning against Buttermilk’s stall. 

Jake hums, raking the soiled hay into the wheelbarrow beside him. 

“The old lady?” 

“Yeah,” you answer. “She was always alone. Like no one ever visited her. Mama felt real bad for her so we were always visitin’ her. Her trailer smelled like cat piss.”

He hums again, sniffling. 

“What about her?” 

“She used to subscribe to PONY Magazine,” you tell him, sighing. “And I guess her and mama got to talkin’ one day ‘cause somehow she found out that I liked horses. So after she finished readin’ the magazines, she’d give ‘em to me.” 

Jake wipes under his nose very carefully with the back of his wrist.

“That’s nice of her,” he calls. “I didn’t know that.” 

It surprises him that there are still things about you that he doesn’t know. 

You nod. 

“I’d cut all of the magazines up,” you tell him, remembering the dull slice of the kitchen scissors and how meticulously you’d trace the outlines of the horses. It was probably one of the only things you ever actually did carefully. “Paste all the pictures on my bedroom walls. Had my own little farm in there.” 

“I remember,” Jake tells you. He can very clearly picture the palomino and clydesdale horses that were pasted to the wainscoting around your bedroom window. Your mama didn’t realize you were gluing them to the walls until you’d already covered half of your room. “And I remember how much trouble you were in when your mama found out about the glue.” 

You laugh--it’s drier than you mean it to be. You were in trouble. Of course you were--your family was only renting the trailer, anyhow. Your punishment had been a weekend spent with your dad peeling the pictures off the walls and patching the blemishes. 

You cried the whole time. 

“Those’re two days of my life I won’t ever get back,” you sigh softly.

Jake swallows. He remembers how you cried--how your mama tried to get you to hang other pictures on your walls with thumbtacks and how your daddy tried to get you more PONY Magazines. But you were an unrelenting thing. You wouldn’t hang anything on your walls out of principle; you punished your mama right back with that unwavering stubbornness, with the grudge you held against her. 

A chill runs up his spine when he thinks about being on the receiving end of that temper.  

“Who knows,” he says. “Maybe you will get ‘em back.”

“That’s not the way it works,” you say, smiling with your brows furrowed. 

You meet Jake’s gaze through rusted bars. He’s smiling, too. 

“What?” 

“The world,” you tell him. “Time.” 

He shrugs. 

“You don’t know that,” Jake tells you, amused. “You don’t know nothin’.”

You grin. 

“And you don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.” 

He knows he would give those days back to you if he could, even if he wasn’t the one who took them. He’d do it in a heartbeat.  

It’s hot outside--hotter than it’s been all week. It’s hardly noon and as soon as the gravel crunches under the soft soles of your boots (which are really making your toes cramp), a flush breaks out all over your skin. Even in your shorts and tank top, you’re burning up. Jake is, too, grasping rough rope as he leads Buttermilk to the outdoor arena. Even Buttermilk seems to be affected by the heat, braying and kicking the gravel with her hooves. 

“Whoa, girl,” Jake says, patting her milky fur. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you chide, elbowing him. 

He grins at you. 

You sit on the fence watching Jake as he attaches a longer lead to Buttermilk’s bridle, clucking at her and letting the rope go slack. You watch, entranced, as Buttermilk begins trotting around Jake. She moves with such grace, each of her mighty muscles unfolding beneath her skin, her white fur glowing in the sun. Even the sound of her hooves thudding against the ground is something you’ve heard in your dreams. 

“Giddy up, now, girl,” Jake calls to Buttermilk with a grin, beads of sweat dripping down his neck as he lets his body circle with her. “C’mon!”

“She’s doin’ her best,” you call to Jake with a bright grin, fanning yourself as you squint beneath the yellow sun.

Jake grins. 

“No, she ain’t,” Jake promises. “You should see the way she comes runnin’ when she hears grain hit her bucket. She really picks up the pace then.”

As you continue watching Buttermilk, you pull a cigarette from the pack in your pocket and light it, taking a long drag as Jake turns in circles again and again.  

“She looks like the kinda horse I’ve always wanted,” you tell Jake, ashing your cigarette. 

Jake glances at you. You’re biting your lip, holding tight to the bar beneath you, your legs dangling. The cigarette is billowing thick, elegant smoke all around your graceless frame. You’re just watching Buttermilk, your hair blowing softly in the wind. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “You want a white horse?” 

You nod. 

“Yeah, I do,” you tell him.

“Doesn’t every little girl want a white horse with a knight riding it?” Jake asks.

 The two of you catch each other’s gazes for only a moment, a fleeting look that neither of you are willing to submit to. 

You take another drag from your cigarette and shrug, looking down at the toe of your boot.. 

“I’d name my horse somethin’ different.” 

Jake hums, clucking once more when Buttermilk’s pace starts to falter. He pats the thighs of his jeans hard, encouraging Buttermilk’s pace as sweat starts to gather on her fur. 

“What would you name your white horse?” 

Not a beat passes before you answer. 

“Willow, probably.” 

His throat grows warm when you say it. Willow. It’s a pretty name--a real pretty one. For a moment, he’s overcome with a want; a want to give you a big white horse that you can name Willow and ride whenever you want. He’d do it if he could--for you. 

There seems to be a growing list of things he isn’t able to give you--it’s starting to make his belly hurt. He understands, now, how your daddy has been feeling your entire life. You want for so much and get so very little.  

“That’s gotta ring to it,” Jake agrees. “Think I’ve always wanted a paint.”

Ashing your cigarette again, you tilt your head. 

“And what would you name him?” 

Jake thinks for a moment, squinting. 

“Spot,” he answers. 

You laugh--it’s a sound that echoes across the flat pasture and against the sturdy oak trees that line the Carolina property. It makes Jake laugh, too, and startles Buttermilk into a rearing stance before Jake soothes her with his calloused hand. 

“How original,” you tell him. “C’mon, what would you name them really?” 

Jake shrugs. 

“How ‘bout this,” Jake starts, holding your gaze, “when we get our horses--and you get your white horse named Willow and I get my paint--I’ll let you name mine.”

Your heart squeezes. You’ve always known that you’ll know Jake forever. But now, now after everything the two of you have done and the places he’s touched you and the kisses you’ve shared, it feels different to hear him say it. There is a certain sense of togetherness that hasn’t quite touched the two of you before--one that is less about friendship and more about lust. But now it’s here, sitting int he arena, and you’re watching it as you finish your cigarette.

“Deal,” you answer, pretending like your cheeks aren’t flushed. 

Jake watches the way you chew on your lip--he wants to kiss you. That’s something that’s been happening a lot since he touched you against the tree by the spring; he has these urges now, ones only you can relinquish.

Since the day at the spring, the two of you have found each other again--a few times, actually. Once it was in your bedroom again, just after midnight, and by the time he went home he was dizzy from arousal. Another time it was in his bedroom in the middle of the afternoon and your cheeks were so flushed that you had to tell everyone you were sunburned when you came to the living room. Another time, the most recent time, it was last night after you closed the ice cream shop. It was quick, just the two of you hungrily kissing each other against the fridge, all the lights off and the doors locked. 

But now Jake wants you all the time and you want him all the time. 

More than that, though, more than that fire you’ve lit in the pit of his belly--he just wants to hear your laugh again. So he glances towards the red house at the base of the hill, the one that’s a good few hundred yards. Surely Mr. Carolina won’t come out now--it’s too damn hot. He’s too damn old. 

“Hey, Filly-girl,” Jake calls to you. You look at him, your eyes bright. “C’mon over here. I’ll give you a boost.”

There is not an ounce of hesitation in your being. It’s not in your nature to mull over decisions before making them. So you don’t look towards Mr. Carolina’s house and you don’t think about the fact that you’ll have no saddle or reins. You don’t think about Jake getting in trouble or falling off. You just hop down from the fence, chewing a grin, and approach Jake as he brings Buttermilk to a halt. 

“She’s a good girl,” Jake tells you, which is true. He’s overwhelmed by the scent of your skin, like choking on a citrus grove. He clears his throat and continues as you carefully run your flat palm over the curve of Buttermilk’s sweaty back. “Don’t pull her hair none. And--don’t, like, fall off, I guess.” 

As if Jake would let you even hit the ground. 

You nod, eager as ever. You’ve only been on horses a handful of times, usually at carnivals and fairs when the price of admission could be haggled by your silver-tongued father. And each time you settled on their backs, each time their girth spread your legs, each time you held those leather reigns--something inside of you eased. But your time was always fleeting; it was never enough. 

“Ready, girl?” 

You’re not really sure if he’s talking to you or Buttermilk. But again, you nod. Your breath is bated right now, your fingers tingling.  

You can smell Jake now, too; he smells like sweat and salt. This is what he smells like when the two of you come together, too, the few times that you have. This is what he smells like when he’s working hard and lunging horses and mucking stalls; but this is also what he smells like when he’s pressing his fingers against your folds and thumbing your nipples and pressing sloppy kisses to your mouth. You like this smell just as much as you like the smell of barns: there’s an animalism to it all.

Firmly, he grasps the seat of your shorts. It doesn’t bother you, but it still makes you flush. And then he heaves you up and you throw your leg over Buttermilk and suddenly you’re tall and the breeze is warm and the sun is hot and your thighs are moist from Buttermilk’s sweat. Jake holds onto your thighs for a moment, letting his fingers splay against your skin, and tries not to get dizzy with his urge to lay you down in a bed of hay and touch you again. 

“Y’good?” He asks you. 

He hopes, for a fleeting moment, that you’ll tell him that you want him to keep you steady. But you’ve never needed anyone to keep you steady. So he carefully retracts his hands from your legs, holding tight to the lead. 

You softly pet Buttermilk and she seems to keen under your touch, whinnying lowly. 

“Hi, girl,” you whisper to her. It makes you smile when her ears fold back to hear you. You comb your fingers through her knotted mane--the two of you have that in common, though hers is the color of a pail of cream. “You’re a pretty thing, huh?” 

It’s one of the softest Jake has ever seen you, petting that horse with your bare thighs hugging her ribs. You’re sitting on your crotch, your feet dangling by the bulge of Buttermilk’s belly, and your chin is squared. You look good--you look like a natural. It makes Jake’s throat warm. It makes Jake want to comb his fingers through your knotted mane and call you a pretty thing, too.

More than anything, you just look right sitting there. You have the ability to look right anywhere you go. He doesn’t understand that--can’t emulate it, but he recognizes it in the glint of your eyes and the way you make your upper lip stiff.   

“C’mon, girl,” Jake clucks, tugging on the lead. Buttermilk follows his insistence, braying, trotting happily along. “Y’alright up there?” 

You’re giggling--you can’t help it. There are butterfly wings against the lining of your belly and sunshine in your hair and fresh air in your lungs and you’re being jostled by the movement of a horse. You’re happy; so, so happy.

“Yeah,” you tell him. Your voice is thin. 

Jake watches you fondly, watches as you make sure to keep your grip on Buttermilk soft. And he’s watching when your eyes slip shut, when your lips pull into a cautious grin, when your chest expands with an exhale. The sunlight kisses your eyelashes, each and every one, and he thinks how lucky the sun must be to kiss each part of your face everyday. 

“Lookin’ good up there, Filly,” he calls to you. His voice is thin, too. He wants to tell you how beautiful you are. He wants to tell you how perfect you look. He wants to tell you that looking at you makes his chest hurt because he fucking loves you. 

“I am good, mustang,” you tell him, peering at him through your lashes. He’s grinning something fierce at you, his Adam’s apple sitting thickly in his throat. It makes something in your belly clench--just how pretty he looks when he’s looking at you. “I’m very good.”

✯ ✯ ✯

Your home is empty from about six thirty in the morning until about six o’clock in the evening. Your daddy wakes up early and takes his motorcycle to work, thundering down the road as the sun rises. And your mama walks to work at the corner store where she stocks shelves and presses price tags on cans. 

So that’s where you and Jake go once you’re done on the Carolina’s farm. He parks his bike in the grass and you open the shitty front door that’s never locked and even if you don’t have air conditioning inside the trailer, the shade makes it feel much cooler. 

“Hungry?” You ask Jake as you kick your dusty boots off by the door. You sigh when you stretch your bare toes out; the muscles there tight from being cramped into those little boots. 

“Starvin’,” Jake answers, closing the front door and kicking his boots off beside yours. 

He watches as you flex your toes and stretch your arms, clenching your fists as you grow accustomed to life off his handlebars. He wants to tell you that you could quench that hunger--you, just you, only you. 

“Bologna okay?” You ask. 

He nods.

As soon as you’re in the kitchen, you flick the little radio on. Your mama insists on turning it off when no one is home--calling it wasteful of all things--but you and your daddy keep in it on every hour you’re home. Country Roads, Take Me Home by John Denver floods your tiny kitchen.  

Your home is small--very small. But that doesn’t stop Jake from sitting on the countertops as you slather mustard on white bread. He unwraps the Kraft singles for you and you peel the plastic casing off the bologna. He’s watching your fingers as they grip the plastic knife in your hand, looking at those little half-crescents of dirt under your nails and the grime that coats your fingers.  

“Gonna be my apprentice now?” Jake asks, watching as you sprinkle a handful of Dortios over the cheese and then smush the sandwich down. It crunches under your palm--Jake’s belly suddenly feels entirely empty. “The ranch hand’s ranch hand.” 

“S’gotta ring to it,” you tell him with a small smile. 

You’re tired now--exhilarated, but tired. Your eyes are heavy and there’s a yawn sitting in the middle of your chest. You’re hungry, too, mouth full of water as you cut the sandwiches and flop them on flimsy paper plates. 

“You really do look good on a horse,” Jake tells you, watching pink flood your cheeks. “Picture-worthy.” 

“I’d like to think so,” you tell him as you eat. You don’t bother swallowing before you continue conversing. “I’ve decided on being a professional cowgirl when you go off and do your whole college thing.”

Jake swallows hard. College still feels about a million years away--even though he’s leaving at the end of summer. He’s leaving a week earlier than Hyde and Ruth, too, because workouts start. It’s making him nauseous to think about. 

You can tell you’ve stumbled--so you chew slowly and pick at the crust on your sandwich. To a certain degree, you don’t think Jake leaving at the end of summer feels real, either. It’s unimaginable, really--so unimaginable that the two of you have danced around talking about it until just now.

“You gonna be an outlaw, then?” Jake asks after a long beat, recovering finally. He licks a dot of mustard from the corner of his mouth and watches you ball up a tiny piece of soft bread between your thumb and index finger. 

Humming, you shrug. 

“I think I’ll go wherever I can get some new dirt under my boots,” you say wistfully. Then you grin at Jake, a tiny piece of bologna stuck between your front teeth. “Did that sound like a cowgirl?” 

He shakes his head, reaching out without warning and picking the meat from your teeth without saying a word. You push through your initial confusion before submitting to his fingernail scraping against your teeth.

Silently, he retrieves the tiny piece and, without thinking about it, puts it in his own mouth and swallows it. It takes a lot to gross Jake Seresin out--and he isn’t sure that any part of your body, least of all your mouth, could make his stomach turn. He loves you--even the little pieces of lunch meat that get stuck in the gap in your teeth.   

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jake answers with a shrug. “Gotta get yourself a pair of cowgirl boots that fit first.” 

“Yeah,” you say with a little roll of your eyes. “Let me just dip into my savings.” 

“I’ll get you a pair,” Jake says. He’s tired of not giving you what you want today and he’s only half-joking right now. 

You laugh. 

He doesn’t, just keeps eating. 

“Oh, you will?” You tease. You take another bite and then hum. “I have expensive taste, though.” 

He smiles small. 

“Hit me with your best shot,” he says. “Don’t you know how handsomely ranch hands are paid, Filly-girl?” 

You bite your lip, thinking. 

“Well, they’ve gotta be genuine leather. None of that side-cut shit either, I want that double-butt cow hide,” you take a breath and let your sandwich fall back on the floppy paper plate. “But I want them to be shiny and silver--like think aluminum foil here, okay?--and there has to be a little pocket sewn inside for my lighter.” 

Jake’s grinning, nodding along with you. 

“Piece of cake,” he tells you, shrugging. “How shiny are we talking here?” 

“Like you can see me comin’ from a mile away.” 

Jake nods again. 

“Spurs?” He prompts. 

You hum, wiping your hands on your dusty shorts. 

“Rosebuds,” you tell him.

Jake nods once more. He’s cataloging all of this, saving it for a rainy day. 

“And are we goin’ for the matchin’ hat and belt buckle?” 

Picking up your sandwich again, you think for a moment.

“Cream-colored hat. Suede, of course,” you tell him, squinting. “With silver medallions all over it.” 

“And the belt?” 

“Silver concho, of course,” you answer. Your daddy has one--you used to drag it all around the house like it was a metal snake you’d chopped the head off of. You can still remember how heavy it was pressed into your palms, the loud noise it made as you heaved it across the hollow floors. “Even if it ain’t traditional--I don’t care. I’m a cowgirl, I’ll do whatever I damn well please.” 

“Who am I to stop you?” Jake says, laughing. “I’m the one buyin’ your getup.” 

It makes your throat warm. 

Jake doesn’t have two quarters to rub together. 

“You’re just tryin’ to get in my pants,” you tell Jake, mouth full of sharp mustard and salty meat and thin bread. 

He shrugs, grinning at you. 

“Tryin’?” He says softly. “Is it…workin’?”

Your cheeks flood but you still give him the gesture for so-so. 

The two of you are grinning at each other now. You both know what will probably happen after this: you’re gonna go upstairs to your bedroom, you’re going to take your pants off, you’re going to kiss, you’re going to touch each other, and then you’re going to go about the rest of your day like nothing happened. It’s what you’ve done the last few times, too. 

Jake knows you’re a virgin. He knows that he’s the first boy to ever kiss you with tongue or put his hand down your pants. He likes everything that the two of you do--more than he has with any of the other girls he’s fucked, even if they were more experienced than you--but there’s been a thought creeping into his thick skull for a few days now, one thick like like white fog rolling in. 

Is he going to be the one that takes your virginity?

He’s thought about it. He would, he definitely would. But he’s only ever had sex with one virgin and it was when he was a virgin, too. They were fourteen and high for the first time--he thinks her name was Grace Lynn or something like that--and it happened very quickly. There was no thinking about it, no talking about it: it just happened. 

He knows that isn’t how it will be with you--there has to be some sort of conversation, some sort of acknowledgement that he is taking your virginity. He’s worried to bring it up, afraid that it will spook you. He’s worried that he’s thinking about it too hard and that maybe you’re not planning on it at all. He’s worried that you just expect it or maybe haven’t even planned on it.

“Wanna go upstairs?” You ask, swallowing hard. Jake is being very quiet, his paper plate empty. “We don’t have to--!” 

“I want to,” he says. 

He meets your eyes and you blink at him a few times, trying to read that crease between his brows and the frown tugging at his lips. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

He knows he can’t avoid answering--you’ll either annoy it out of him by calling him piss-pants again or you’ll clam up out of stubbornness and he’ll cave. So he takes a deep breath in, lets his eyes fall to the dot of mustard on your plate, and shrugs. 

“How far’re we gonna go?” 

You’ve thought about it--of course you’ve thought about it. You don’t think you’re ready to have sex yet, but you don’t really know what it feels like to be ready. But you know that when you are ready, Jake will be there. He’ll be the one to take it. And it almost makes you ache because that is what people that are in love do--they take virginities and they’re nice about it and they’re slow with each other the way he is with you.

But then you worry that it will be too much for him--like he won’t want to cross that boundary, won’t want to put in all that effort into something that isn’t a real relationship. So, like him, you’ve just been marinating in the thought of it since all of this began not so long ago. 

“As far as you take it,” you tell him. You swallow hard, wring your hands together. “How far do you wanna take it?” 

He rakes his hands through his hair and sucks in a deep breath. 

“Bout as far as you want me to,” he says. 

It’s silly because the two of you have no issue telling people exactly what you want most of the time. You know that, he knows that. There is just a crucial disconnect happening between the two of you about this sex and love stuff, one born from fear of rejection and naivety. 

“You know I’m a virgin,” you say softly. You’re not embarrassed to say it--and you’re almost positive that he does know. “I mean, I’m sure you do.”

He nods. 

“And I know that you’re not. Obviously,” you continue. 

He nods again. 

“And you’re the first guy who’s done a lot of--well, you know that.” 

He nods, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. 

“You just gonna stand there and nod, mustang?”

Jake sucks in a quivering breath. 

“Will things get weird if we have sex?” He almost blurts it out, gripping the flimsy linoleum countertop beside him to steady himself as you blink at him. 

Your heart is sitting heavy in your throat now, pulsing. You swipe your toe against the floor in a repetitive sweeping motion, trying to think about it. 

“Things haven’t gotten weird so far,” you say quietly. It’s the only thing you can think to say. “Don’t see why sex has to be any…different.” 

He clears his throat, nodding. Yeah, that makes sense. You’re making perfect sense.

“I mean, I think you’re pretty much stuck with me at this point either way,” he tells you. 

It diffuses almost all the tension--makes you roll your eyes and grin at him. Your chest doesn’t feel so tight anymore. 

“Plus, you know…you’re goin’ away soon.” 

There’s that little pain nicking Jake’s throat, the one that makes it hard for him to swallow. He doesn’t want to talk about him leaving--not right now. 

“What’s your point?” He says, raising a brow at you. 

There’s a faint blush covering your cheeks. You square your jaw and shrug very small.

“I don’t want to be the virgin that stays home,” you tell him. 

You’re telling the truth--the thought has kicked around your head here and there, especially now that you and Jake have been doing what you’re doing. You already have an innate feeling of otherness at the simple notion of all your friends leaving you behind--you don’t want to be left behind in the sex category, too.

“Filly,” Jake says, eyebrows knitting. 

You push his chest softly, smiling. You know he’s about to say something that’s mushy, something that will prance around the folds of your brain when you try to sleep. So, you won’t let him say it.

“Oh, I’m only kiddin’,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

You both know you’re not kidding--but Jake gives you this one.

But now Jake is just looking at you. Undeniably, you’re dirty right now. There’s a layer of dust over your dried sweat, your hair is in a disarray on top of your head, your shorts are still too damn big, your feet are bare, your hands are filthy. But he likes you just like this--smiling up at him, a twinge of pink on your cheeks. You’re fucking beautiful--you’re the kind of beautiful that doens’t make sense. 

You’re looking at him, too, letting your eyes wash over his serious eyes and his soft mouth. He’s already tan from working in the sun, his hair just a touch lighter than it was last month. And he’s got dust on his pants and strewn across his cheek like baking flour. He’s still holding onto the counter like he’s trying to steady himself. When your eyes fall to his fingers, heat pools between your legs.   

“Let’s go upstairs,” he says now. 

You just nod, saliva pooling on your tongue. 

Jake turns the radio on in your room, loud enough so that it won’t be silent but quiet enough that the two of you could hear someone coming if you needed to. 

Heaven On the Beach With You by Robert Lester Folsom is playing when you fall back on your bed with Jake’s mouth attached to yours.  

You still wear your tank top and neither of you wash your hands. 

But you sprawl out over your little bed, the unmade quilt bunching beneath you and suffocating your warm back. Jake hovers you, hardly able to fit himself on the bed while you’re in it, too. He’s panting already, his shirt discarded and his pants, too. He’s looking down at your swollen lips and the wet stains his lips have made against your throat. 

“You can--you can take my underwear off,” you pant, swallowing hard. 

The two of you have hardly done anything yet and you’re dizzy with pleasure. Even though your room is downright stifling right now, you’re almost drunk on the feeling of his bare skin against yours combined with the fact that you’re utterly alone with Jake. You feel, like all teenage girls do when alone with a boy, a bit invincible. 

“Okay,” Jake whispers. He pauses for a second, sitting back on his haunches. “Should I take mine off, too?” 

His heart is thumping in his ears, so loud that he can hardly hear you when you whisper a meek yes. God, he’s so hard that it hurts. He’s straining against his boxers, desperate for some form of contact. But he doesn’t want to push anything on you--doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. 

There’s a bit of shuffling as he shimmies out of his underwear, letting it fall onto your floor beside your shorts and shoestring belt. You pull your own tired underwear off, your heart pounding, your throat hot. 

Then he faces you, on his knees again. And you’ve never seen a penis before--it makes your cheeks a bit red, but you make a point of looking at it. It’s Jake, all of him, and you grow wet at the sight of those veins and the rosebud color of his tip. Strangely, you feel very flattered by it--it’s a physical marker that he wants you. And that makes you want to roll your eyes into the back of your head. 

“Take a picture, why don’tcha?” Jake teases you. But his cheeks are pink too. 

You have your thighs pressed together and they’re tensing, the anticipation for what’s about to come tickling up your spine. This is the first time the two of you will have uninterrupted hours: the past few times, there was always a shift to get to or a parent in the next room or friends swimming just down yonder. But now it’s just you and it’s just Jake and your mama and daddy don’t get home until supper time. 

“I like it,” you tell him, biting your lip. You sit up on your elbows and he releases a breathy laugh. “It’s…pretty.” 

“Filly, did you just call my boner pretty?” 

Biting your lip harder, you nod, shrugging. 

“What do you want me to call it?” 

His palm is spread across your thigh now, very softly massaging it. He is biting a smile of his own as your eyes wash over him. Just knowing that you’re looking at him, just knowing that you’re going to touch him is making him even harder. It’s almost surreal knowing how close the two of you are right now. 

“Magnificent would do the trick. Glorious, too. I’d settle for big, though,” Jake says. 

You’re grinning at him, the flush fading from your chest. You’re glad that the two of you are talking as openly as you are right now--if things were quieter, you worry you’d get too in your own head about things. And you want this--you want this uninterrupted time with him and you want to explore his body and open yours up to him. 

“Don’t wanna give that head-a yours any more reason to inflate,” you whisper. 

And then, very slowly, you give in to the slight pressure of his palms and spread your legs for him. Immediately his breath hitches. Something ticks in his jaw and then he’s slowly moving to hover you again, letting his aching cock rest up against the bone of your hip. 

Your heart is thumping again, but you want this so bad that you think about moving his hand to your heat to jumpstart things. But he’s pressing his forehead against yours, letting his nose graze yours, before he closes the space between your lips. You aren’t sure that you’ll ever get over kissing him--how warm his lips are, how soft his mouth is, how smooth his tongue is, the taste of his saliva on your tongue. Jake is thinking the same thing--his cock hardening at the feel of your tongue tracing a steady line across his bottom lip, the way your breath feels when it puffs across his face. 

He can’t take it anymore, pulling back and resting his forehead against your temple, panting already. 

“Spit in your hand,” he whispers softly. It’s not much of a demand--if he thought you didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t have said it. He knows you want to do it and he keens when you blink at him before bringing your palm to your mouth and spitting in your palm. “Yeah, like that. That’s good. Now, just wrap your hand around it and pump.” 

You’re quivering with red-hot want as you let your hand drift to the hardest part of him, the part that is pressed against your hip. When you wrap your hand around him, you’re surprised that his skin is so soft and warm, but even more surprised at the string of curses that fall from Jake’s parted lips. 

“Did I hurt you?” You ask, beginning to retract. 

Hastily, Jake shakes his head. His eyes are screwed shut and his forehead is wet against your temple. He’s hovering you still, pressing himself against you just right. 

“No--God, no. Not a bit,” he promises. He exhales, relishing in the wet warmth of your hand. “S’good the way you’re holding it. Spread all that spit around now.” 

You do as you’re told and he releases a throaty groan, his hips tensing into your hand. You’re growing very wet at the sounds he’s making, at the way they’re thrumming straight to your cheek and down to your core. 

Then you start pumping, keening when he gasps and moves to hold the back of your head. He’s kissing you, barely able to move his mouth except to gasp and whimper. There’s a heat flooding you just knowing that you’re making him like this--you’re melting him into the bed practically. 

“Good?” You breathe into the kiss. 

He nods, holding onto your hair tightly. 

“S’good,” he promises, his voice pitched.

He reaches down then, lets his hand drift over your belly, then lets his fingers graze your folds. Fuck--you’re so wet that it makes his hips involuntarily buck up into your palm. You would feel so good wrapped around him; it would be the closest the two of you have ever been and he feels high just thinking about it. 

“Oh,” you gasp when he presses down and lets his middle and index finger gather wetness. It feels remarkably good, especially with your hand wrapped around his cock the way it is right now. 

Jake is moving his fingers quickly across your wetness, basking in the silky way you feel against his fingers. You’re panting into his mouth and he’s drawing in every breath quickly, devouring you. He’s holding onto you tightly, keeping you close, crashing his forehead against yours as you pump him. 

It isn’t the best handjob he’s ever gotten--but to be fair, he’s gotten a lot of handjobs--and you don’t know exactly what you’re doing and he knows that. But there’s something about it that makes this the best sexual encounter he’s ever had; he isn’t sure if it’s fifteen years of yearning or all that misplaced love he has for you that sits in his throat or if it’s just because you’re thoroughly alone together right now. But this is the best he’s ever felt in his life and he never wants to stop. 

“Spit again,” he whispers to you, panting still. 

He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, nudging your clit on every hasty upstroke. You’re trembling as you bring your hand to your mouth and spit into it again, attaching yourself to his cock again as your chest heaves. 

Carefully, he slows his pace against your cunt. You’re still panting, eyes screwed shut and brows knit. But then he lets his middle finger trace along your silk until it falls into you just a bit further. You gasp at the sensation, your thighs trembling, your hand stilling and he freezes. 

“Is this okay?” He pants. 

You don’t open your eyes, just nod and let your teeth sink into your lower lip. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, tongue thick with saliva.

He presses his finger into you just a bit more, his jaw tensing when he feels the warm wetness that is you. You, his best friend and the girl he’s been in love with his entire fucking life, and your wetness wrapped around his finger to his first knuckle. 

It feels foreign, but good--this is the first time you’ve ever had anything inside of you.  Not only are you dizzy from the deep sense of pleasure that’s washing over you, but from the simple fact that this is Jake. This is Jake’s hand and Jake’s finger and his body is pressed up against you and things feel so fucking blindingly good right now. 

When you start pumping him again, it is with a quicker pace now. You have already learned when you’re supposed to spit in your hand and Jake moans when you do it a few times without him asking you. There is sweat covering your bodies and his finger is slowly pumping in and out of you, dipping into your core and nudging that smooth spot inside you that makes your mouth go dry. 

Jake can feel an orgasm rapidly approaching, so much so that his cheeks are red and his hips are flexed and his hand movements are starting to stutter. He’s still holding your hair, keeping your face pressed up against his. 

“I’m gonna--oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he whispers and it’s the closest you’ve ever heard him get to whining. 

“Okay,” you answer, swallowing thickly. 

And with another pump, he falls into you, cumming with a grunt as silk ribbons spread out over the little bit of your belly that pokes out beneath your tank-top. And he stays on top of you and you stop pumping and lay there, his head in the crook of your neck, grinning up at the ceiling. You’re elated--you feel so old suddenly, so blissfully adult. 

“Oh, my God,” he mumbles into your hair, drunk on the scent of oranges on your skin. “Jesus Christ.” 

Reaching up, you let your fingers graze his locks softly. He’s growing his hair out this summer and you love it--love how shaggy it looks already and how blonde it’s getting beneath the Texas sun. 

“How was it?” You ask, cheeks pink.

“Fuckin’ incredible,” he mumbles. 

The grin is spreading, capturing all your features now. You’re endlessly pleased. 

He blinks a few times, his vision still white. Then he feels your chest tightening as you begin to giggle. He pulls back, looks at you, and you’re turning red trying not to laugh out loud. 

“What?” He asks, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, shaking your head. A few giggles bubble from your lips before you can bite. “I’ve never done any of that before.” 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. 

“You don’t say,” he says mockingly. “Probably shouldn’t get a case of the giggles after making a boy cum.” 

But that breaks you entirely--you’re hiccuping out laughter, throwing your head into the pillows and letting it ring through your small bedroom. His cum is still sitting on your belly and you’re careful not to let it fall onto the sheets, but you’re still laughing all the same. 

He can’t help it--he starts laughing, too. How could he not when you’re in stitches right before him? 

“You’re a real piece of work,” he says to you, grinning.

You tug at his locks very softly, biting your lip. 

“Uh huh,” you agree, sighing. A beat passes and he just shakes his head at you amusedly, chewing on his lower lip. “Let’s do that again!” 

✯ 𝐚/𝐧: eeek! honestly, I know this story has gotten less engagement than Landslide/my oneshots, but I love it! it's gonna take a really fun direction and I've worked hard on it! remember to reblog and comment if you liked this piece! I'll give you a smooch if you do!

✯ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

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✯ 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

✯ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬:

@violetta-ximena

@hazyretina

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@chicomonks

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@djs8891

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✯ 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝/𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬, 𝐃𝐌 𝐦𝐞!

[veterantrainerray]

Aight, time for another name poll cuz opinion’s ‘round the ranch are split.

It’s high time my Slowking got a proper name. For folks who ain’t been around the blog to know, or maybe just missed this, I caught myself a Slowpoke without usin’ a ball at Blueberry Academy while visiting. I’ll recount the details below for folks who want them, but feel free to go ahead and skip ‘em.

After seein’ me rescue Aria from a Beartic and get on her good side with some food and medicine, the director thought it’d be good to show the students some “Pokemon husbandry” first-hand. First I’d heard that term, by the way. So I found a beach near one of their battle courts in that fancy Terarium they got where they have some Slowpokes from back home. Showed the students the basics of roasting berries for Pokemon to eat (Cut some slots on two sides, keep the fire low, etc) and how to read how a critter’s feeling ‘bout ya. Since Slowpoke are well, slow, they’re easy to read as their expressions and body language change, so I was able to run through a lot of the common signs of aggression and comfort critters can show in the time the berries were cooking. Contrary to popular belief, Slowpoke ain’t stupid, they just need some time to process information. So one livin’ in the Terarium, after gettin’ to know me and my cookin’ for a while, knows what a Pokeball is, it’ll have seen students use ‘em enough to piece it together. So when I offered and empty ball, after a few minutes to process what I was offering it (which I spent talkin’ about how to approach more aggressive Pokemon safely), it went and pushed the activation button on its own, to the surprise of the city folk among the class.

After the Skarmory incident later that day, I found out my Slowpoke buddy had evolved while I was unconscious. Nobody went and told me how or when, but seein’ as it was Slowking’s dab hand with medicine that helped me get back on my feet, I ain’t inclined to dwell on that.

Like with Aria, all these were run by Slowking and these were the ones he liked. Doc is what we’ve been callin’ him in the meantime, but he wants an “official” name, and even if that’s just Doc still, I think he’ll be happier knowin’ it’s formal.

What he’s usually doing ‘round the ranch is monitoring the younger Pokemon and tending any scrapes or bruises he sees. Real gentle, caring sort, even if he looks scary. Ain’t no wonder he gets along with Old Spooky and Bruce. He even helps look after trainees that gets scraped up during training.

Oh, and for folks confused, my Slowking is the Galarian sort. I keep forgettin’ most folks ain’t used to the ones we got here. They got a great head for medicine and are plenty smart ‘nuff to read and learn more. Got spooky powers too.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 11

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note. I'm sorry for the long wait, but at least this chapter is a lengthy-(ish) one, at 6,200 words! :)

Please enjoy!

A twig snaps.

When I open my eyes, it's still night-time. The moon bathes the forest floor in a pearly blue light, just bright enough for me to make out what's happening when I lift my head from the tree roots. A bulky, black silhouette groans loudly as it staggers toward the tree. A walker. A big walker, wearing a white cap. Just as I suck in a breath, ducking back down to hide, it trips over its own two feet and lands on its stomach like a big, fat seal, on top of the entanglement of roots. It lazily claws down at me with its grey-ish hands through the gaps.

I feel around for a rock, pulling one out from the dirt. I toss it away from the tree. I hear it tumble down the hill. The walker gives it a slow backwards glance, but little-girl-meat must taste a whole lot better than rocks, 'cause he turns his attention right back onto me.

He resumes moaning.

Darn.

Looks like I'm stuck with this jerk until he leaves on his own.

"Goodnight, I guess."

I close my eyes, settling back down in the dirt to try get some sleep as he flails above me.

Morning comes.

My eyes flutter open at the first sign of daylight. It filters past the roots like white-gold ribbons, onto my face. I slowly come to. I almost expect to be back in Dad's truck, wrapped up in the fish-print blanket, but the dream quickly vanishes when my skin begins to itch and my back begins to hurt. Right. The woods. The mosquitos. The ditch beneath the tree. I'm still lost and alone. I hear birds twittering in the trees.

Dirty and exhausted, I sit up.

My new friend, the asshole-walker, moved a little in the night, I see. He's rolled over onto his side, laying dormant.

I sigh, my eyes heavy. If only he did that last night.

I take my time crawling out from underneath the tree, and then I stand all the way up and stretch out my arms— God, that feels real good — and then my legs — That feels even better — and gaze out over the misty greenery around me. Wow. I made it through the night. A good start. I walk down to the stream and rinse my bug bites in the cool water, enjoying the way it burns. I'm thirsty, I realize, as I watch the water bubble past. I can't drink it, though, 'cause this is where foxes and birds and frogs poop and pee all day, and it'll make me sick. I can use the mud, though. It's thick, and runny. I smear it over my face and my neck, 'cause it's gonna get hot today, and I'll burn easily.

I pick the twigs and leaves out my hair.

When I look back up the shallow hill, I see the walker is on its feet.

"Fuck you," I call out to it, and then turn on my heels.

I follow the stream for hours.

The sun climbs in the sky.

My Dad got lost in the woods, too, once.

The way Grandpappy Dixon always told it, my Dad went missin' for nine whole days as a child. He ate wild berries, drank pond-water, and wiped his butt with poison oak to survive, and when he eventually stumbled his way back home, the first thing he did was walk straight into the kitchen and make himself a ham and cheese sandwich. My Pappy used to say that Dixons are like cockroaches. They're tough, they're mangy, and just when you think they're gone, they pop right back up again. I'm a Dixon, just like my Dad. I know how to find North, and I know which mushrooms will make ya go green and puke your brains out, and which ones won't. It's been one day for me so far. The only difference is I got people lookin' for me. I'd call that an advantage.

I also know what poison oak looks like. Three leaves, notched edges. No way I'm makin' that mistake. Ouch!

I scale a small mound that clings to the bank of the stream, sweating through my shirt like a hog. I was right. It's gettin' real hot today.

When I stand, I notice a still, black lump amongst the underbrush.

I decide to check it out.

I push back a fern, revealing the lump.

It's a really, really old walker.

Its body is shrivelled and thin like a rotten fruit skin, and it's laying on its back, staring up at the sky with glazed eyes, with its entire chest cavity torn to shreds around it. It's innards hum with flies, gooey and black like thick tar. I almost retch. It smells like every type of yoghurt in the world got mixed with dead fish brains.

I look around the tiny clearing.

I see boot-prints leading to and from the corpse.

Oh. The group.

This must have been them.

Eugh. Why?

I also see tiny bones littered around the place, which prolly came from the walker's stomach, which is flipped inside out on its thigh, which makes me gag. It looks like it's been sliced. They cut open its stomach and pulled out the bones, I realize, which deserves another gag. It's nasty, but at least they saw that none of the bones were Harley-sized. They know this walker didn't eat me up.

Disturbed, I find my way back to the stream and push on.

No walker's gonna eat me up.

I ain't never killed a walker, but I done killed a lotta other things.

Startin' small, I killed plenty of bugs before. Easy, peasy. Movin' up the food chain a little, I shot a rat with a sling shot, before. Its itty-bitty brain exploded around the pebble I flung at it, and that was that. Crunch. Dead. Then, fish. Lots of fish. So many fishing weekends. Apparently, fish don't got no feelings, so that makes it easier. Then, squirrels and possums. My Dad always makes me finish those off when he can, 'cause he says it makes me tough, and I ought to be tough. I don't like the sinking of the blade through their fluffy pelt, or the sad little squeak that comes when they die, but that's just how it is. It's how we ate when money was tight. Then, biggest of all, there's a walker. A full-grown, human person.

I haven't made it there, yet.

My Dad hasn't taught me to kill walkers like he's taught me to kill game. I know what to do in an emergency — You gotta stick 'em in the brain, Harley — but that's it. An emergency hasn't happened, yet, 'cause my Dad's always been there to kill 'em for me.

I won't let anything happen to you, I remember Shane telling me.

I bet he's already found a way to blame this all on my Dad.

I wonder if they've fought today.

Sophia's doll.

I find it caught on a branch in the water.

Dizzy from the heat of the sun, I stumble into the stream to try and fish it out.

By now, it's around mid-day, and I've tied my hair back into a pony-tail, soaked my shirt through with water about two miles back to try cool myself down, and scratched my mosquito bites completely raw. I've eaten a handful of wild raspberries and drank some water from a hole I dug adjacent to the stream, 'cause that's how you filter out the animal-germs, but I'm beyond tired. And against my best efforts, a little sun-burnt, too, all over my upper body. There's been no sign of anyone since the mutilated walker, but this— This is Sophia's doll. It's got orange yarn for hair, and two giant, blue buttons for eyes. It's definitely hers.

Matilda, I think she named it.

I lean over the fallen branch and pull the soggy doll out.

"Hi, Matilda. You're lost, too?"

I wonder if Sophia dropped her while searching.

"Don't worry." I smile, tucking her wet hair behind her round ears; petting the mud off her patchwork dress. "I'll get us both back."

I climb back outta the stream.

"This way, Matilda."

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon!"

I come to a sudden stop sometime in the afternoon.

"You come and go, you come and go-o-o."

That's music. Like... from a radio. As the static-y popstar voice continues singing loving would be easy, if your colors were like my dreams, I step through the dry foliage in the direction it's coming from and come across a tiny, green tent. The owner is nowhere to be seen, but the radio hasn't had time to run out of battery, so they might still be nearby. I scan the trees. No one around.

I cautiously step inside the tent.

There's the radio.

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma—"

I search around.

There's also a sleeping bag and a backpack. I sift through it for food or water, but there's only junk in here. A book, a crucifix, another music cassette tape, rope, and... And a steak knife. I pull it out, turning it over in my palm. It's the exact same as the ones in Dale's kitchen drawers.

Black handle, gold button.

This.. I recognise this.

Jim.

This is Jim's knife. This is knife we left him with.

That's the same rope, too.

"Oh, my God."

I back out, taking the knife with me. I take in the camp again with new eyes, feeling alarmed. The cap resting on the stump by the fire, that's Jim's, too. Those foot-prints, those discarded boots — They're both about the right size. Over there, too, that's — That's the peanut butter jar.

It's all Jim's.

This is Jim's camp.

He's alive.

"I'm a man, without conviction!"

If he's alive, he's gonna be real angry with us.

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon!"

I ca— I can't be here.

I spin around and dash straight for the thicket, more than ready to leave this camp far, far behind, but I run into something — Fabric, and string, a makeshift washing line — and as I'm tryna untangle myself from it, a pair of hands shoot out from the other side. They latch onto me. The shirts are ripped off the line as I struggle against them. I can't help it — I scream, and I scream loud. It's Jim, it's Jim, it's— No, no it's not Jim. It's not even a person. It's grey skin and bruised nails and yellow eyes and puffy gums, and jaws snapping in my face.

It's a walker.

It's wearing a white cap.

It's the same one from last night. It's been following me through the forest all day.

It slams me into the ground.

I brace my arms against the heavy walker's chest, crying out in pain. Underneath me, wetness begins to bloom. Then, pain. Searing, searing pain. As I writhe, I drag around a trail of blood that stains the dirt a dark maroon. I look at it, panicked. I can feel a deep slice in my flesh.

I-I think I landed on the knife when I fell.

God, it hurts. It hurts real, real bad.

The walker hisses like a feral cat.

My fingers slide against its slippery, bloody skin as I grapple with it, kicking, kicking, kicking its stomach, and hitting, hitting, hitting its chest. The skin comes apart as easily as layers of lasagna. It peels off and falls onto my bare neck — Oh my God, yuck, yuck, yuck! — and my fingers sink deeper into the soft meat underneath. Cold, red sludge drips down onto my cheek. I turn, squirm; clamp my mouth shut. I use all my might to keep the walker's weight offa me, but I can't keep this up forever.

The knife. Where's the knife?

I dropped it somewhere.

I throw my hand out and feel around for the knife. My arm buckles under the walker, which drops closer to my face, growling and twitching just an inch from my nose. That's a leaf. That's a twig. That's the tin. Come on, come on. The knife. I need the knife.

I squeal when my foot suddenly breaks through the walker's belly.

Slimy entrails slide down my leg.

I moan miserably.

That's a twig.

That's another twig.

That's— 

That's a knife hilt.

I wrap my fingers around it.

I have to kill this thing now.

With a violence I don't recognise, I swing the knife all the way down into the base of the walker's neck and then again, and again, and again, and again, again, again, in the collarbone, and the cheek, and the throat, and the shoulder, and then the soft membrane of the under-jaw, which splits open like a water balloon and splatters me with more sticky blood, like cold, chunky soup, and again, again, and again, in the chin, and the nose, and the forehead, but not the brain, 'cause the skull is just too thick to break through. I think about all the times I've heard of skulls breaking, like in car crashes, and I think, why can't you break again, just break now. I drive it into the scalp, again, again, again, but it doesn't work. You gotta stick it in the brain, Harley. I gotta get the brain. I gotta.

The meat hanging from the walker's jaw vibrates as it gurgles at me.

"Come on!" I grind out, losing my strength.

This is when somebody like Rick or Dad or Shane would step in and end it for me, in this moment right before death, but nobody's here to save me this time. I have to save me.

I cry out once more.

The knife squelches through the walker's eye socket.

I drive it deeper and deeper and deeper, until the blade reaches the sweet spot, and pink brain-slime comes leaking out. I twist it and I twist it and I twist it, forcing the razor-edge up into the socket, until the hilt starts to disappear, until my hand starts to disappear. Until— 

Until the walker gives out one last croak.

It slumps over into the dirt.

It's dead.

I scramble away, clutching the knife, shaking.

My first walker kill. It weren't nothin' like killing a damn squirrel, not even a little bit, not by a mile. It ain't squeaked. The damn thing squelched. It had layers of skin and meat and bone and cartilage, and I felt them all with my bare hands, and I killed it.

I killed it all on my own.

"I killed you." I laugh, elated. "I killed you! Fuck you!"

Hell yeah!

My side suddenly pangs again, making me groan.

I peel my bloody shirt back.

"Oh, God."

It's a gash, alright. I won the fight, but now I'm gonna have to drag myself through the woods, alone, with this crippling wound in my side. I groan as I take off my shirt. It's still wet. It's bloody, too, now, so I throw it away. As my vision blots, I pick up a new one off the ground and lethargically pull it on, wanting so badly all of a sudden to just lay down and go to sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open.

I cradle my side as I stand.

Chunks of walker-flesh fall off my leg.

There's blood in my hair, on my face, on my neck, on my hands.

I look around for Matilda, 'cause even though I'm about to faint, I know I don't wanna leave her behind. Sophia needs her. I find the doll laying by the fire and pick her up, leaving behind a bright red hand-print on her pretty tartan dress by accident.

"Oh," I pant, shaking my head. "I'm sorry."

"Red and go-old! Red and go-old!"

I hug Matilda to my chest.

"It's okay. Carol will wash it."

The radio continues singing its happy tune as I stagger away.

The hours blend together in a long, hot slurry of sweat, heat, and blood. Barely conscious, I stumble alongside the stream, holding my bleeding side. I have to be close, by now. I've been walking for hours. I focus on my breathing. I focus on walking. I focus on keeping the setting sun on my left shoulder, to ensure I'm headed North. I think I can hear church bells ringing through the forest at some point, but I'm not sure.

It's all so confusing.

Next thing I know, my knees are hitting the ground.

It takes me a while to figure it out, but I realize that I've fallen down a small slope and landed in a watery ditch filled with reeds.

Cold water trickles silently past my hot skin.

I gaze up at the orange sky.

It's nice here. It's so nice here.

I let my exhaustion seduce me into closing my eyes.

I need rest.

I can... I can rest for a minute.

"You don't gotta follow me out here, man."

"I know."

When I open my eyes, woken by the sound of voices, it's night-time again. I must've slept for a long time. My entire side aches when I roll onto my back, trying to see what's going on up there. Through the thin shoots of grass, I glimpse a band of white flashlight illuminating the distant trees.

Those— Those voices. I'd recognise them anywhere. It's my Dad and Rick.

I listen to their foot-steps crunch through the underbrush with a grin on my face.

"You can't drag me back to the highway, so yer gonna babysit me instead? That it?"

"Well, you know I'd prefer you get some rest, like everyone else." Rick replies. Never thought I'd say it, but it's so good to hear his stupid voice. "Trying to, at least. We've been searching non-stop, for I don't even know how long. We can't afford anyone else gettin' lost out here, especially in the dark. Even Shane settled down, eventually, and you know how he's been."

I hear Dad scoff. "Yeah, well, there's no way I'm takin' a fuckin' granny nap while my daughter's lost in the woods."

"Trust me, I'm done tryna convince you. Hence, the babysitting."

"To Hell with Shane, anyway, man." Dad says. "Don't need him out here."

"What the deal between you two, anyway?"

"Whatchu mean?"

"I mean, look at you. Shane gave you a black eye today. He wouldn't do that for no reason."

"Yeah," Dad sighs tiredly, "Well, I gave him a broken nose, and I wouldn't do that for no reason, neither, so think about that."

A black eye?

A broken nose?

They did get into a fight today.

"Okay, I'll think about it. I'll think about it aloud, even." Rick concedes. My Dad huffs but lets him continue speaking. "Since you joined us, you and Shane have avoided each other like the plague. You work well together — I've seen it — but as people, you don't get along so great. That's how it used to be. Suddenly — As in, this is the first time I'm seein' this — You're throwin' hands for no reason, in the middle of the night. Black eye, broken nose. I mean— Well, it just don't make any sense to me, is all I'm saying. Like I said, Shane ain't like this, usually."

"You must not know your buddy so well, then." Dad retorts. "'Cause he's a piece of work."

"Oh, no denyin' that." Rick chuckles flatly. "But I don't know why you're so insistent on buttin' heads right now. Especially right now."

"Hey." My Dad's voice gets louder. "I'm out here right now, runnin' on two hours'a sleep with a busted face and a fucked-up eye, combing these woods for my lil' girl — Who if I recall right, is lost 'cause of your fuckin' super-plan — So don't go tellin' me I ain't got my priorities straight, man. If I beat Shane up, it's 'cause he fuckin' deserved it. You heard the shit he said t'me, you would'a done the same. Father to father, I know that."

"H— What? What'd he say to you?"

"He said it's my fault Harley's out here." Dad snarls. "Said I don't protect her right. Said I ain't a good father to her."

Rick stammers. "Wow. That's both... way outta line, and not true at all. He's got no right to say those things."

That makes Dad almost laugh.

"Nah, man." He scoffs. "Nah, you don't know."

Nobody knows. Nobody besides me, Shane, and my Dad knows about what happened at the CDC.

"I do know." Rick insists, oblivious. "No, I'm bein' serious here. Listen. I've seen you with her. You'd do anythin' do protect her. 'Sides, you said it yourself. You're out here right now, even when others aren't — Even when it jeopardizes your own safety. A lesser man, lemme tell ya, would not be out here in the state you're in. I don't even know how you're still standin', to be honest."

Dad brushes him off. "Nah, you don't get it. It's not— It ain't about that."

"What's it about, then? 'Cause from where I'm standing, I— I honestly struggle to see what Shane's talkin' about."

"Wait."

Their foot-steps come to a sudden stop.

I hold my breath.

"Those are new tracks." My Dad mutters.

My eyes widen.

"You think it's—?"

"It's Harley." He says definitively. "Look. This set go South. This set's comin' our way. She's been following her own tracks back."

There's a pause, like they're shell-shocked and can't quite speak.

Yes. Yes, I have been followin' my own tracks. I slept in a ditch, and I walked for hours, and I killed my first walker and stabbed myself, and then I walked some more, and I'm tired. I'm so, so tired. I can't wait to go home. I can't wait to go back to the group. I can't wait to sleep with a proper pillow and blanket. I hear Dad and Rick's foot-steps suddenly kick back up again, and more of their hushed, intense voices, becoming louder and louder as they follow my most recent tracks. I hear foliage bein' trodden on and snapped. I hear my Dad calling out, Harley, baby, we're here, where are you, and then, finally, after two long days, I see their faces.

I can't believe it.

We've found each other.

As they skirt down the hill, calling my name, I slip back into unconsciousness.

The next morning, I'm woken by sunlight dancing across my closed lids. There's a soft pillow under my head. I feel heavy blankets wrapped around my aching body, and new change of dry clothes rubbing against my skin. I'm warm, and finally, I'm safe. When I open my eyes, groaning lightly, I'm greeted with the blurry sight of the RV bedroom, draped in yellow morning light.

Rick and my Dad must've carried me here last night.

I hear someone moving to my left.

"Daddy—?"

"It's me." Shane says, sitting up. Oh. I look up at him as he reaches for my hair, tucking some behind my ear. "You're okay."

My side pangs suddenly, making me groan again.

I lift up the covers, and then my shirt, revealing a patch of fresh bandages taped to my waist.

Shane shushes me. "Hey, easy."

They cleaned it up pretty good. There's only a small flower of blood stained through the cotton-y material.

"Hurts," I croak, closing my eyes.

"I bet." Shane soothes. "You got stitches under there."

I open them again. "Stitches?"

"Yeah. It's okay. You were in pretty gnarly shape when we gotcha; gash is real deep. Jacqui made quick work of it, though." He says, smiling lightly. "Nothin' we can do about the bug bites. Just gonna have to put up with 'em for now, but you're tough. I know you can do it."

Exhaling thinly, I slowly nod.

I take a minute to look at Shane like this.

A strip of white gauze is plastered over the bridge of his nose, which sits on an awkward, crooked angle. He notices me starin', but doesn't make me look away. He doesn't explain how it got broken, though, either. He just strokes my hair, letting me come to my own conclusions.

"Dad hit you." I whisper, stating it as a fact.

I heard Rick say so, last night.

Me and Shane have barely talked since that day in the parking lot. It's strange to say that we're friends, now, but we are.

He pulls his hand away. "Who told you that?"

I shrug.

He frowns lightly, eventually nodding. "Yeah, he did."

"You hit him back."

Again, he simply says, "Yeah, I did."

I could ask him why, but I already know that, too.

As the silence stretches on, his gaze drifts from my face, down to the floor. He leans forward to pick something up. It's Matilda. They brought her back, too. He holds her for a minute, looking over her orange hair and her green dress — Still covered in my blood — and then he hands her to me, muttering that she fell off the bed during the night. He watches me hug the doll to my chest with a distant sort of look in his eye. I wonder if he feels guilty, but he's prolly just tired. I heard Rick say they were searching for me non-stop these past two days, and that includes Shane.

It looks like he stayed awake all night, too, waiting by my bedside, which for some reason, my Dad didn't.

"Let me get you somethin' to eat." Shane murmurs.

He stands to leave, squeezing past Carol on his way out.

She stands in the doorway, looking at me with tender, puffy eyes. She glances at Matilda. I think she's been crying.

"You found Sophia's doll?" She asks me quietly.

Yeah, I did. I nod.

She comes to sit beside me on the bed, smiling weakly.

"May I?"

I hand her the doll.

"I'm sorry I got blood on it." I mutter. "It was an accident."

She shakes her head, breathing shakily.

"Don't be sorry, sweetie. We're just glad you made it back to us in one piece."

"Can I give her back to Sophia now?"

Carol takes a deep breath. "I don't think you can. Not right now."

Oh. "Why not?"

"Because, sweetie," Carol says, placing a little kiss on Matilda's cheek, and then facing me again, on the brink of tears, "After you were able to escape into the forest — After the herd passed — Sophia ran after you." That makes my eyes widen. Sophia ran after me? Into the woods? Carol purses her lips, so tight it must be painful. "Yes. Your Dad, Rick, Shane — They were already chasing after you, but Sophia just wouldn't give up. Sh— She broke away from me before I could catch her, and we— We haven't seen her since. We haven't seen her. We haven't."

Carol breaks down into squeaky, tiny sobs, clutching the doll to her forehead.

I don't know what to say. I had no idea that the whole time I was missing, Sophia was missing, too.

"I— I found the doll in the creek." I say, feeling unhelpful. "I don't know where exactly, but... In the creek."

Carol nods. "Thank you. Thank you, sweetie. I'll tell them."

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry I can't help more. I didn't see any other signs of Sophia out there.

Sophia, lost and alone, just like I was — Except Sophia's never learnt how to find North. Sophia's never learnt which plants are safe to eat, or how to out-run a walker. She doesn't know how to start a fire from nothin', or how to wring a rabbit's neck. She doesn't know the stuff I know.

She doesn't have the same chances that I had, which were pretty darn low to begin with.

Carol puts her hand on my knee. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Harley."

"I— I wanna look for her."

"You can't." She soothes. "You're hurt."

"Sophia might be hurt."

"Nobody's gonna let you look," Carol tells me, "So there's no point in arguing. You know, your Dad has been worried sick about you this whole time. He pretended he wasn't, but it was obvious. He didn't care about anything other than finding you. I saw him maybe one or two times these past couple days, because he's been in those woods for hours on end. Dale's been blaming himself for letting the herd get to us while he was distracted. Shane's been... a mess. Then, last night, your Dad and Rick came running back to the highway with you, and they were barely hanging on. They were covered in mud, in blood — Your blood — in sticks, leaves, scratches. They ran with you for five miles, Harley." Carol frowns. "It's a miracle you're with us. Trust me when I say nobody's letting you back out there anytime soon."

I lower my head, fiddling with the blanket seams.

Carol changes the subject by gently asking, "What happened out there?"

I look up at her.

"I... I just kept walking, I guess."

That's all I did. I walked, and walked, and walked. I wonder if that's what Sophia's doing.

"And I killed one of the dead people."

I can still feel his cold flesh sliding against mine, and how he smelt like old steak.

Carol stiffens.

"Sophia prolly won't run into any." I shake my head. "There was only one."

"Where there's one," She whispers, "There's a hundred."

I stay quiet.

Shane comes back in through the door, holding a bottle of water and some snacks.

"Here you go, sweetheart," He says to me under his breath. "Gotta eat if you want your strength back."

I take the yoghurt-granola bar and the packet of pretzels, but the thought of eating makes my stomach churn. 

"Where's my Dad?" I ask instead.

He's the first person I expected to see when I woke up.

"He's still out looking." Carol answers, sighing. "After he found you, I thought I would've had to beg him to look for Sophia, but I didn't. He went on his own. I'm sure it's nothing, sweetie. He's just worried about Sophia, just like we all are, and he's going to find her. I know it."

My Dad's never shown concern for anyone other than his blood. I don't think he's as worried about Sophia as Carol thinks he is, 'cause I know him better than she does. I think back to the conversation I heard last night, and how my Dad almost admitted to Rick the reason he and Shane haven't been seein' eye to eye recently — Almost admitted to hitting me. I wish he would talk to me about it, instead of Rick, but that's not how my Dad operates. I know why he's still out in those woods. He's doin' anything he can to keep avoiding talking to me about the CDC, especially after the beating Shane gave him.

A wake-up call, is what it's called, I think. Shane gave him a wake-up call. Dad's bein' challenged, for the first time in his life.

Shane looks at me. I can tell he knows exactly what I'm thinking. He knows I've figured it out — Figured him out.

"I thought I told you not to help."

Shane goes still.

He glances at Carol, who frowns in confusion.

"What do you mean?" She asks me.

Please don't help, I begged him that day, Please don't do nothin'. Our conversation got cut off when Dale interrupted us, but I wish it hadn't. I wish I made myself more clear. Shane established that I'm allowed to be his friend, but he ain't established my Dad bein' the scum of the Earth, like I know he wants to. He prolly convinced my Dad that's what he is, which is why he's guilty, but he won't convince me. I'll be his friend, but I don't need this.

"I told you not to help." I repeat, a little harsher. "But you hit him, anyway."

"I— I did." Shane calmy nods. "After he swung at me — Broke my nose — I had to subdue him. I had to hit him back."

What a load of crap, I want to argue, You prolly hit him first.

"The fight?" Carol tilts her head. "How did you hear about that?"

I tear my eyes away from Shane's.

"Right before Dad and Rick found me, I heard 'em talkin'." I tell her truthfully. "Rick said Dad has a black eye, now."

"He does." Carol hums. "But you shouldn't worry about it. It's just men bein' men. Right, Shane?"

We both look at him expectantly.

"That's right." He agrees, tense. He's lucky Carol's so clueless, and just gave him an out. He claps his hands. "Now, how 'bout you try gettin' some'a that stuff down, and I'll see if I can't getchu some dessert for afterwards? Maybe a cookie, for our tough little cookie, here, huh?"

Carol smiles warmly. "One tough cookie, alright. Dragged yourself all the way back here with that gash in your side."

I try to smile back. "Uh-huh."

"Alright, then. Let's give her some space." Shane says.

Carol stands, tucking Matilda in besides me with great care. She strokes the doll's hair, and then mine. She even gives my cheek a kiss.

Shane nods her out the door.

After she leaves, he lingers there.

"You told me we could color together." He randomly reminds me. "I reckon I wanna take you up on that offer, later, if that's alright wit'chu."

Oh. He does? This is the first time he's brought this up since I decided he could be my friend, which I told him meant he could color with me, and do my hair, and play games with me. I don't know why he's decided so suddenly that he wants to do this. Maybe it's because my Dad is away.

I think about it for a time, but then I nod.

I don't see the harm in coloring.

Slowly, I nod.

He grins a little.

"I'll send Jacqui in to have a look atcher side in a little while." He says, before nodding, seemingly pleased. "Alright. See ya later, Harley."

"See ya later."

I hear him walk away.

Shane's got a way of makin' me like him, even when I don't wanna.

After I force down three bites of the granola bar, I lay back down, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

Matilda stares back at me with her giant button eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sophia." I murmur.

A short while later, I get a visitor.

"Somebody has a present for you." Lori sing-songs quietly as she guides a nervous-looking Carl into the bedroom. He clutches a large canvas bag to his chest, squeezing it tightly like a teddy-bear. There's a slight sunburn underneath his freckles, and a scab on his eyebrow, but he made it out of the herd just like everyone else did. I don't know Carl so well, but I'm real glad he's alright. I think he's sad about Sophia, and sad about me, too, 'cause his eyes begin to water the longer he stares at me. Lori rubs his back. "Off you go, baby."

He takes slow, calculated steps toward me, and stops about a foot away from the bed.

I notice him glancing at Matilda.

I tell him, "I'm gonna keep her until we can give her back to Sophia."

'Cause we're gonna find her. We're gonna.

He sniffles, nodding.

He likes that idea.

"I— I kept something for you, too." He sniffles. "While you were missing."

Lori hurries over to help me sit up properly, as Carl sits on the edge of the bed.

He carefully places the heavy bag over my lap.

I lay my hands down on it, feeling it out. It's hard. It's kinda crinkly. I look up at Carl, excitedly smiling at what I think is inside.

He's smilin', too, now. "Open it."

He scoots closer as I flip the bag open.

I laugh.

"No way! You got it!"

It's the Pokémon folder, in all its sparkly, yellow glory. The blood on the cover has been wiped away. It looks almost brand-new again, untouched by the horrors of that deadly afternoon. On the name-tag sticker, which was previously blank, is now written in bulky but neat letters, Harly Dikson.

"I had to ask your Dad how to spell your name." Carl says. "But he wouldn't answer. I hope I got it right."

Carl's never been good at spelling. The thought makes me laugh even harder.

Suddenly, I'm hugging him.

He hugs me back.

"He's been very eager to give those back to you." Lori smiles, her hip cocked as she watches on fondly. "He even slept with 'em the first night."

Carl pulls back. "Mo-om!"

She holds her hands up. "Sorry. Embarrassing?"

"It's okay." I giggle. I pull the Lugia card out of my pocket and show it to him. "I did, too."

He gets immediately excited again. "Woah! Another GX card!"

"Yep!"

"Here we go." Lori rolls her eyes.

We spend about half an hour going through the cards and snacking on pretzels together on the bed.

It's as we're on the last page that Lori gently takes hold of my shoulder.

"Harley," She says to me, "I know you're both having fun here, but I think it's time we all got together and... talked about what happened to you in those woods... Okay? We all think it's a good idea. We've been waiting to know ever since you got back, and... Carol says you killed a walker." She smiles tightly. "Would you like to go speak to us about everything? Get it off your chest? Maybe... help us piece everything together?"

I get the sense I don't got a choice in this. They need to understand what I went through; what signs of Sophia I came across.

She senses my answer, and stands, urging Carl out the door.

No more Pokémon cards. 

Time to talk about Jim, and the stabbing, and the church bells, and everything else I endured in those Hellish woods.

I just wish my Dad would come back.

Author's Note. For some reason, I ssssstruggled with this chapter. Like, a lot. It's always the most random chapters that seem to kick my ass. Maybe it's because Harley was alone for the majority of it. I tried to make it interesting, nonetheless.

And here is the beginning of Sophia's whole shtick 🫥

Thank you for your patience, and I really hope you enjoyed reading this one!! <3

[pumpkinsy0]

We need more Purly headcanons. MORE.

MORE.

MORE.

guys anon is literally holding me and my family hostage to post hcs so i gotta post purly hcs its the rule!!!

•at some point whenever either one of them goes like “im gonna bash my head into a wall” or somethin like that the other just goes “same” and thats unironically one of the ways they emotionally bond, just simple understanding and not having to explain themselves

•pony learns some haitian creole for curly, maybe not like the while thing hes not fluent but hes fine in the most basic of convos in that language

•curly thinks its nice cause thats like the first time anyones ever done that for the guy!!

•sometimes they b watching horror vids on yt but it ends up in them watching like spongebob or somethin cause pony was watching it in the dark and he does NOT feel safe anymore and the light will NOT help‼️‼️

•once curly got a job w the idea of gettin money for pony to do fuck all w but boy oh boy his patience is being tested by his boss

•pony tends to get small eensy weensy crushes on the fictional characters he reads about and when pony says something that jokingly flirts about em curly gives him a look and pony immediately just back tracks going “if what i would say if i didnt already have a bf right by my side 365 24/7 WOO🙏🏻”

•they can actually do some cool shit together im ngl, once to jump over a fence to sneak somewhere they did that thing where u run towards a person and u jump on their hand and they kinda throw u up like that shits amazing

•and say what u want, curly cant cook w a stove or oven but give him a microwave and hes a 5 star chef and pony can vouch for that

•pony and curly r like 2 little pest in tims kitchen, tim turns on the light and he catches pony and curly in the corner eatin berries and they scurry off like tim is genuinely so done

also thx to my lively gf for some help w this o forget some hcs i got xoxo

[aliypop]

Anyway You Do Part 2

Word Count: 2,860

Writers Note: Here's part 2, I'm excited to write this now twister of a story

Warning: A bit of angst

Pairing: OC x Elvis

Plot: What happens when love, at first sight, becomes fate.

Taglist:

@darkmoviesquotespizza

@sissylittlefeather

Tennessee July 3rd, 1956

"I can't believe you would do this after everything I've done for you..." 

"It's not that bad, Mother..." 

"My boy... this could be career suicide..." Tom grumbled,

"What are we gonna say." 

"How am I gonna cover this up, my boy."

"Any way you do..." Elvis shrugged. Tom was nearly devastated, sitting in his office looking at Elvis like a parent would, "You are already in trouble for dancing like a colored man... now this!" he slammed the newspaper on the table, "Lightin' up, Colonel. It was just some fun."

"We were just gettin our kicks,"

"Some kicks... Cecelia..." Denise grumbled, "Cecelia Shanel Valmos! Just on the other side of us in Alabama, there's the bus protest where we're getting beaten and slandered for having our skin color," 

"It's not that serious..." she rolled her eyes.

"You could lose fans over this, Elvis."

"Already lost 'em with that damn hound dog trick Colonel," he said, pushing his hair back. 

"Mama..." Her mother glared at her, "Mother, he's kind and sweet. He's crossing barriers. Maybe I could too." Cecelia said as she looked love sick, her mother and manager hating it, 

"The only barriers you could cross is in music."

"Maybe that's what I wanna do." she mumbled, "And besides, why not Chuck Berry or Little Richard." her mother kept listing artists. 

"Mama Little Richard ain't exactly uh... well..a lady's man." she hinted as her mother rolled her eyes, "And besides, El is good people. We're neck and neck on the charts." she smiled, 

"Yeah, neck and neck on the charts with a colored woman who pretends to be you," Tom mentioned as Elvis groaned, 

"She ain't pretending to be me. If anything, she's better than me." 

"How's that, my boy..."

"Well, she's got stage presence. It's like she commands the crowd, and they listen." 

"They do the same to you." Tom rolled his eyes, looking at contracts.

"Yeah, but when she does it... it's I can't explain it..." he sighed. He was lovesick. And he had it so bad it was like a fevering cold. 

"She's..."

"Brave, mother, I mean, he goes up there coat tails looks like a butler still manages to look handsome and... Mornin Midge." 

"Morning Cece, talking about Mr. Presley again."

"When is she not." Denise sighed, "You've got some memos and calls, Mrs. Valmos." she said, 

"From who?"

"Frank Sinatra, Ella, Sammy, Dean, Sam," Midge sipped her coffee, "And Elvis A Presley." she smiled as Denise took the card, 

"Oh no, this is for Ms. Valmos..." 

"For me..." Midge gave her a nod, 

"Tell him I'll call him back."

"Tell him to stop calling the studio so damn much..." Denise rolled her eyes. 

"I'll handle it..." Midge smirked, 

Cecelia dialed the number on the card. She could hear the phone ring as a lump in her throat appeared, Cececlia had never been scared to have someone answer the phone, but this time was different. 

"Hello, Elvis, darlin!" 

"Who is this..."

"Cecelia Valmos and you..." 

"Mrs. Gladys Presely, his mother." she glared at her son, who was in the kitchen eating a quick lunch, covering the bottom half of the phone. She took a deep breath, "Elvis Aaron Presley...How many times have I told you stop givin' those wayward girls the family phone number?"

"Mama, I-I..."

"There's one on the phone now. The name is Cecelia Valmos, which can't be right cause the only Valmos I know is the jazz singer an-" Elvis took the phone from his mother as he cleared his throat from embarrassment. 

"I-I uh uhm Cece, Hi!, Hey..." he tried to play it cool as she laughed,

"Hey El, I was, uhm, returning your call. My manager, Uh, well, she hung up on you." Cecelia laughed as she leaned against the wall of the studio. 

"Figures... Hey, look, you doing anything tomorrow night," 

"I can't. I'm flying back to New York."

"O-oh... I see." he had a tone of despair in his voice. He had hoped she wasn't moving back because of anything he had done. 

"Why, what's wrong..." 

"Nothing." 

"El...EP... Mr. Pretty Blue eyes, tell me." she said as he blushed, "Nothing Cece... uh, enjoy New York an bring me back one of them big hot dogs." he laughed. "Thanks..." she sighed. Something had to be wrong, but what was it. 

"You look sad, Booby.." Gladys sighed, 

"I'm fine, mama..."  

"Looks like it's about a girl..." Vernon smirked,

"It seems like it always is with you." 

July 4th Russword Park 1956 Memphis Tennessee / Ed Sullivan Show NBC New Yor City

The plane ride to New York was relaxing, but all she could think of was why in the world did Elvis sound so upset. Did she say something wrong, or did her mother say something, "Midge..." Cecelia called out as she looked at the dresses picked out for her to wear. They were all more modest and hardly even danceable. "What's wrong, Cece." 

"It's about El..." she sighed, dressed in the bright yellow detachable cumberbund skirt dress. "Oh, tonights the Russwood Park Concert." Cecelia looked at her, confused,

 "It's the biggest event in anyone's career," Midge smirked, 

"Can we still get back in time before he performs..." 

"I can arrange something." After Cecelia performed, she sat in front of Ed Sullivan, in front of an America that didn't resemble her. But here she was on her best behavior. 

"Lovely to have the daughter of the Legendary Valmos with us tonight. Tell us how you keep your nails so pretty while playing the guitar." 

"A guitar pick and practice." she smiled.

"And those moves, Now I remember seeing you on another show dancing like a... ah, what's his name, the Elvis fellow." she sighed, knowing what question was coming next, "How's it feel to be compared to him as the lady Elvis... or are you perhaps his lady..." she was asked as she was about to open her mouth Cecelia was spoken overtop of, "I'm joking a girl like you might not even be his type." he laughed as she laughed along, 

"Actually, he and I are great friends..." she smiled. 

Thousands of screaming fans flooded the park as the cop cars and escorts drove into Russwood Park. Elvis was trembling like a leaf, with one person on his mind, and she wasn't there. He'd thought about what she'd say or a little joke she'd tell him, but it wasn't the same without her there. 

"What are you gonna sing, my boy." 

"I'll know it when I feel it." was all he had to say. He was all dressed in black. And he was ready to make a statement. Elvis wanted to be taken seriously, sure he was a singer. He was young. Elvis also wasn't a fool, and Elvis wasn't going to change for some lousy tv people from New York City. He wasn't fit for the good boy image, not that he wasn't a good boy, but Elvis wasn't what they were looking for. He was a Tupelo, Mississippi boy with a God-given talent. And if anyone was looking for trouble, they came to the right place. 

"Midge, can you drive any faster!" Cecelia shouted, the two nearly racing down the street in Midge's Chevrolet Bel Air, "And get a ticket and end up in jail and dead, fuck no!" she sighed, putting the pedal to the metal. Bobbing and weaving through traffic, 

"You're gonna do great out there, Booby..." Gladys smiled, kissing his cheek, 

"Just don't go wigglin a pinky, son," Vernon laughed. Both Gladys and Elvis shook their heads.

"Come on, come on, come on..." Cecelia sighed, the lines were atrocious, and the security was multiplied by 10. getting an idea, Midge looked at Cecelia and groaned, "You're not ripping that dress... It's custom-made Dior." 

"Don't care..." Detaching her skirt, Cecelia took off her shoes as she began to climb the hot metal gate hoping security wouldn't notice her. 

"Hey, you in the yellow..."

"Shit..."

"Me..." she pointed to herself.

"Yeah, you..." the guard pointed to her. Cecelia was at the top of the gate, the height from where she was, was a tad too high, but it was either she jumped or missed the performance in total.

 "Ain't you that jazz singin' colored woman's kid."

"Yeah, I am..."

"Then get yer ass down here..." Cecelia gulped and jumped. Breaking yet another pair of heels. Now she had to find a way to get close to the stage, There was a straight line in the middle, but it was also the color barrier, and she couldn't risk breaking it. Or maybe she could, maybe she would.  

Midge grumbled, looking through the gate. She could see Cecelia preparing to make a run for it via the segregation rope, and God did she hope Cecelia was going to do what she had in mind that she might actually do.  

"Godspeed, Cece..." 

"Those city folks ain't gonna change me none!" the music began to start, and so did her feet, "Oh, her mothers gonna kill me..." there she was on the wrong side of the tracks running as if her life depended on it. But at the same time, this was her friend. Midge only hoped he'd be there for her the way she was for him. As the performance ended, Cecelia went to find him backstage, running like the flash to get to him, until Cecelia saw a beautiful blonde kissing him. Her heart sank, and suddenly all she could think of was running towards the studio and recording her feelings. 

How do you think I feel?

Well, I know your love's not real

The Boy I'm mad about is just a gadabout

How do you think I feel?

King Creole Premier Hollywood, California July 2nd, 1958

"Elvis, look at the camera!"

               "No, look at this one!"

"Elvis over here..."

The crisp California air was no stranger to Mr. Presley, nor were the cameras and interviews. This had been his 4th movie premiere in the span of only 2 years, and the press and women loved him. But there was something still missing, or more like someone still missing. He'd been on numerous dates, some his mother didn't approve of, others that she did approve of too much. As he continued walking down the red carpet, he heard and saw the commotion coming from down the start of it. He could smell the scent of Femme de Rochas perfume, making him do a double take on the scent. 

        "Cecelia tells about your tour!"

  "Ms.Valmos, do I hear you're going be on The Lucile Ball radio show?"

Cecelia had been the talk of every household. And now the red carpet, her once long locks of 1956 were now cut into a short bob, similar to Betty Boop. She was in a skin-tight lilac dress with a satin ribbon bow around her waist and black Dior gloves,

  "All the rumors are true..." she said with her signature smile. Cecelia had been busy, now finding her footing in Rock n Roll and blues, becoming a heartthrob, and attending rallies with King since her debacle in 56. She was quite the cat's meow. There were still more questions, and she answered them all the best she could. As Cecelia kept walking, Midge saw, some friends of hers that she wanted to say hi to. 

"Say there I've never seen you be..." 

"Elvis..." 

"Fore..." Elvis looked at her as she hugged him, "Look atcha and your hair..." he was mesmerized by her new look, standing before him wasn't the same 21-year-old woman who was running him out of crowds, no she was a beautiful bombshell, and he couldn't take his eyes off her when she hugged him he wanted to hold her forever, "El..." she kissed his cheek, red lipstick lingering, 

"Oh sorry you probably got a girl now an-"

"Actually I don't... I-I uh, I came here by myself minus the Colonel." he laughed, "Bet you got a ton of men following you." Cecelia laughed, "Oh me nah, came with Midge. You remember Midge right?"

"Your mama's assistant,"

"Yeah..." she blushed her eyes getting lost in his own, something about him in the suit was doing it for her, it was like she was back during the Hayride days and she had first glanced at him,

 "Would you maybe wanna be my date then?"

"Me your date?" she laughed,

"Oh, come on, doll, you know you're in love with me..." he laughed as she looked up at him. This was true, but she'd never admit it, so she'd hoped she wouldn't.

 "Where'd you hear that sugarpie." 

"One of those magazines." he laughed, taking her hand and walking into the theater. Midge wasn't too far away from them but she gave them space. 

Watching Elvis act had been one of her favorite things, especially when it came to his kiss scenes, she'd just imagine herself instead of the actresses, which was how her mother caught her accidentally kissing a microphone.

She was on the edge of her seat the entire time and he was loving every second of it, taking his arm he placed it over her shoulder as she leaned in closer towards him. He had been focused on her the entire time, almost like he wanted to see the world through her eyes, the way that she saw him. He had noticed that when he sang trouble she was breathlessly mesmerized, in a trance even. 

"Hey, Cece..."

"Shush... you're singing," she responded as he chuckled a little, when the movie had finally came to its end and everyone was walking out of the theater, there was Cecelia and Elvis walking out together laughing and joking, 

"I never asked why you stormed off during Russwood..." She felt her heart sink again as she remembered that night. 

"You saw me..."

"In bright yellow," he added,

"I had to leave early..."

"Cece..." 

"An emergency..." 

"Ms. Valmos, don't lie to me..." 

"I saw you kiss another girl and..." 

"You got jealous..."

"What, no! I'd never get jealous of... of my friend!" stepping closer to her and laughing his hand on her cheek, "Besides, your Elvis Presley, EP... Now Danny Fisher... A man I'd like to kiss." the last part slipping out of her mouth. 

"You wanna kiss me?" he blushed,

"I wanna kiss Danny Fisher..." she poked him,

"Darlin I am..."

"Are you though." tilting her chin he leaned in and kissed her sweetly, with a bit of need and longing, her arm was around his neck the other on his chest. When he pulled away her knees nearly went weak and she could hardly stand. "Darlin... I think there's somethin between us and... It's the most alive I've ever felt." Elvis said, "Sugarpie..." She looked at him.

"What do we do about this.."

"I don't know but it's gotta be before September ..."

"Why's that..." She looked at him,

"Well... I leave for Germany." he sighed kissing her hand. "Right, the war..." a somber look in her eyes,

 "Hey, It's only July, we got time." he grinned, "

Guess we do." she smiled, "So let's make the most of it." 

Memphis Tennessee July 4th, 1958,

"Wanna explain who's this girl your kissin..." Gladys said as Elvis sunk down like a puppy dog. "Who we haven't met yet..." she smiled at him, both hands on her hips as Vernon smirked, "Cecelia Valmos and it was just a kiss nothing else..." he blushed, 

"Damn, you're just as red as the carpet," Vernon mentioned, "If you like her all that much... then let us meet her." he shrugged, 

"Cecelia you can't keep compromising yourself..." Denise said, she sighed, "We cleaned your image and now you're kissing him on red carpets..." 

"What's so bad about that mother..."

"You're not of his kind!" she slammed her fist on the table, 

"I KNOW THAT, MAMA!" she sighed, "But give him a chance." Cecelia tried to calm down. She took a deep breath, "I'm 23 now and I can make my own decisions." 

"Baby, he'll only hurt you, like you know who hurt you! she shouted, watching her daughter leave out the door. 

"Where's she going Midge," 

"Don't know..." 

Tears streamed down her face as she drove like a bat out of hell to Graceland. It was late but she needed to see him she needed to get away from the madness. 

"Hold me close, hold me tight," she heard her radio start to play, " Make me thrill with delight." she took a deep breath, "Let me know where I stand from the start." she could see the gates sprinkled with fans waiting, " I want you, I need you, I-I love you..." pulling into the gate, she drove to the front of his house.  

"With all my heart..."

"Cecelia..." she ran into his arms as she sobbed " Won't you please be my own? " she looked up at him, as he wiped her tear-stained cheeks, "Never leave me alone

'Cause I die every time we're apart..." he focused on her voice, 

"I want you, I need you, I-I-I love you...

With all my heart "