Saucy Side: Death Comes To Disneyland (Ambrosia Version) (Patreon)

Ambrosia had never considered herself to be sexy.

She was wrong, of course, as you take every opportunity to point out to her, often loudly and in public so that she has no choice but to agree with you in order to quiet your shouted declarations. Your girlfriend is sexy, and that is a fact.

She’s also dead.

To be fair, you’re also supposed to be dead. Would be dead, if not for your and Ambrosia’s meet-cute. It’s a tale as old as your romance (which is to say, two years): Human meets Grim Reaper. Human hits on Grim Reaper. Grim Reaper delays collecting Human’s soul out of curiosity over Human’s illogical behavior, and eventually ends up falling scythe over heels for Human.

Make no mistake: Ambrosia will kill you someday. It’s something that you’ve talked about in length, especially since you won’t be able to have dinner with her family until you’ve kicked the bucket. But for now, she’s leaving you alive so that the two of you can go on dates to Disneyland.

You smile and adjust Ambrosia’s mouse ears, ignoring her put-upon sigh.

“I don’t comprehend the appeal of this place,” she complains, gesturing to the hoard of other tourists around you. “It’s overcrowded, and I fail to understand the allure of rollercoasters.”

“It’s about the thrill,” you say. “Going fast, feeling like you’re about to die . . . it’s exciting!”

Ambrosia smirks. “Do all humans find brushes with death to be so thrilling?” She leans in close, her breath tickling the upper shell of your ear. “Is fear truly so . . . arousing?”

You smack her arm. “Knock that off,” you order. “There are children present here.”

“Then we should go somewhere else,” Ambrosia suggests. “My place, perhaps?”

“For the final time, I’m not prepared to die yet,” you retort, glaring at her disapprovingly. “We’ll move in together when I’m good and ready.”

“Whenever you wish,” she sighs. Her defeated expression quickly gives over to desire as you place a placating kiss upon her lips, and she wraps an arm around your waist. “In the meanwhile. . . how about our hotel room?”

“You’re extremely sexy right now,” you tell her.

“Knock that off,” Ambrosia echoes back. “There are children present here.”

* * * *

Truly, almost dying was one of the best decisions that you ever made. Not that you’d been trying to kill yourself—you hadn’t—but chasing Sally into a burning building without protective gear hadn’t been your smartest move. It all turned out for the best, though, since that’s the day that you met Ambrosia.

Once inside your shared hotel suite, she pushes you onto the bed and pounces. Usually, she takes her time, but a day spent waiting in lines has made her impatient. She doesn’t bother to undo the buttons of your shirt: after the first fumble of hasty fingers, she simply pulls it open, her supernatural strength shredding through the fabric with ease.

“I’ll buy you another,” she promises before you can chastise her for ruining yet another article of your clothing. Then her lips prevent yours from replying, and you forget everything except her.

Prior to the first time she kissed you, you’d expected Ambrosia's touch to be cold. The man is literally Death, after all. But instead, her skin is like an inferno, so much so that the heat of her kiss borders on painful.

“Mortals aren’t meant to touch Death except for the once,” she’d told you. “I’ve never been concerned with whether my body temperature pleases them.”

Well, it pleases you. She pleases you.

The initial tentativeness with which she first touched you has long since vanished; her mouth twists in a feral snarl of need as she strips away the remainder your clothing.

“So impatient,” you tease, only to gasp as her fingers curl around the edge of your pant waistband.

She pauses at your words, her firebrand touch stilling against your skin.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

Ambrosia shakes her head. “I’ve never been impatient before,” she says. “Immortality means never really having to wait. Everything will happen, and sooner is no different than later. But with you . . .” she trails off, gazing at you with eyes bright with desire and wonderment.

“Waiting in lines today was intolerable,” she says, “because every hour in a line meant an hour waiting for this.”

She lays over you, hips aligned with yours. The heat of her skin is near unbearable, yet you clutch her shoulders and beg her for more. Later, you’ll examine your body for burn marks only to find that there are none. For now, you can only comply with her silent commands as she presses you into the mattress, her caress branding your skin, her lips scalding your neck, her every movement bringing you both closer and closer to falling apart.

Hours later, you wake up to find yourself using Ambrosia’s chest as a pillow. She smiles fondly as you blink at her groggily.

“You’ve taught Death to be impatient,” she says. “But I’ll wait to take you until you’re ready.”