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norman-fucking-reedus · 2 months

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I'd hate myself if I didn't do something for Valentine's day so we're going to pretend it's not the day after!!! 🎀🎀

If nobody else is gonna bring back smoking during sex then goddamn it I will

STAINED RED

Valentines day with Daryl Dixon, your own way.

Happy Valentines Day - D.D

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You hummed to yourself as your hands brushed and curled your hair, making sure it looked just right for the night ahead. It was Valentine's day and you so badly wanted to celebrate it with Daryl, which is why you had planned the romantic night the day that Eugene had made the announcement that the holiday was in a week. It gave you enough time to find and decide on what to get him, stumbling upon a department store on one of your secret runs.

The first half of his gift was a red button-up to match the other half, which was the skimpy party dress you had on, one you knew would drive him insane. You also made him a card with crayons, considering the two of you didn't talk much about gifts.

Standing in front of the full body mirror, running your hands down your sides as you turned around, checking yourself out. The way the dress hugged your hips, complimented by the heels you had on, fuck you turning yourself on.

The oven timer went off downstairs, and you quickly dragged some lipstick over your plush lips, a dark red in contrast to the lighter fabric. Your heels clicked against the hardwood floor as you carefully went down the stairs, grabbing the oven mitt and opening the oven, poking the meat with a knife.

Daryl was supposed to be coming any minute, agreeing to get ready at Carol's house so the two of you would keep your clothes on.

The table was already set and the scent from some of the candles set a warm ambiance, the added smell of cooked venison. You cut the meat into slices, plating the thick pieces next to some mixed vegetables and a scoop of mashed potatoes, topped with brown gravy.

You poured two cups of wine and tuned the ratty radio until it landed on a smooth jazz station. As you did that, the front door creaked open and you turned to see Daryl, heart pounding as he looked so damn good in red. "Hot damn girl" He whispered breathlessly, closing the door behind him as he stepped forward, placing a hand on your waist as his eyes raked your whole body. "Could say the same for you, handsome" You giggled and Daryl's heartbeat stopped for a second, your smile standing out much more with the lipstick. "What'cha hidin?" Your eyes flickered down to his one hand behind his back. He smirked and revealed a large black bag.

He handed it to you silently, watching your face contort as you opened it and were hit with an intense smell of weed, the smell immediately filling the room. "Where did you-?" You walked over to the counter and pulled a sticky bud out, heels clacking as you fished around for something to smoke with. "I still wanted ta get ya some flowers, but I found flower instead" Daryl eyed the plates of food but moved his gaze up to your figure, licking his lips as he once again drank in the sight of you in that dress.

The feeling of rolling the bud pieces into a thin piece of paper was one you truly missed, dragging your tongue across the edge and pinching it shut, turning to Daryl with the newly rolled joint hanging from your lips. He fished out the lighter that he always kept on him and held your hip as he held it, watching you take a deep, long pull before plucking it out your mouth, coming close to Daryl as if to kiss him, blowing the smoke past his parted lips then holding the joint up to them.

"The food is getting cold" You whispered, watching him take a long drag of his own before pulling the joint away, the dining room becoming hazy with smoke. "Microwave 'em real quick" Daryl mumbled, taking another hit before you snatched it out his mouth, sticking it in your own and turning to heat the food up. "Sit down, Dixon" You slammed the microwave door shut and started it for a few minutes, heels clicking as you walked over to Daryl and straddled his lap, taking a finally hit before dropping the butt onto the floor, stomping it out as you pulled Daryl by his collar and clashed your lips together, exhaling the smoke into his mouth along with the air, kissing his jaw and neck as he coughed. "Ya smearin' yer lipstick" Daryl cleared his throat as you looked at him, dark lipstick in fact smeared onto your cheek. It was worth it, considering Daryl's skin was littered in red kiss marks.

You gave him one final kiss, going to retrieve the plates of food out the microwave. As the weed was really starting to flow through your system, your stomach rumbled as the smell of meat filled the air again, not strong enough to over power the joint.

Daryl wondered how he got so lucky with you each time he ate your food, the taste even better with his heightened senses. "M'gon marry you" He spoke around a mouthful of potatoes, staring at you with lidded reddening eyes. You leaned your head against your hand as you ran your heel up his shin. "Dude, we're like, already married" You laughed while finishing off your vegetables, stuffing a piece of venison into your mouth. Your heel kicked his shin, trailing up it a few time before Daryl reached and blindly yanked it, lurching you forward into the table and knocking over the forgotten wine glasses.

“This was supposed to be romantic” You pounded your fists on the table, not actually angry. Daryl shrugged, teeth pulling at a tougher piece of meat. “Still romantic just in our own way. Ya did real good gorgeous” He leaned back in the chair as he winked at you, undoing the first few buttons of that sinful shirt. You suddenly remembered you didn’t have on any underwear, cunt starting to throb. “M’gonna roll another” You gathered the fallen cups and your empty plate as you did, taking Daryl’s and snagging his last piece. He couldn’t argue, not with the way your legs moved and your hips swayed.

Daryl ran a hand through his hair, much curlier and softer since he took a really long shower before coming here, even adding some cologne Carol had mysteriously given him. He thought you hadn’t noticed it, but you did, and you wanted to smell him up close and personally. You become absolutely feral when your man was smelling and looking clean.

You came back with a much bulker and longer joint, once again straddling Daryl’s lap as he brought the lighter to the end, and a hand to your hip.

He watched your blood red lips as they took a deep and somehow sensual pull, so long that a chunk of burnt ash fell from the end, you quickly swatting it out the way so it didn’t land on your husband. You coughed as Daryl plucked the joint from you and brought it to his own lips, eyes lingering on the lipstick stain forming around the filter. He knew there were similar stains forming on his skin, especially as you kissed and sucked at his neck, grinding your hips down in the process.

Daryl leaned his head back as he continued taking drags from the joint, groaning softly as you lavashed his throat, hands drowning in his soft hair. You could feel his bulge right in between your dripping folds, and ground down hair, moaning as your clit rubbed against him. His free hand rested on your hip, roaming up your waist and travel down the swell of your ass, feeling how your tight dress had rode up to reveal your bare cheeks. “Got dessert already waitin’ fer me?” He picked his head up, bringing the joint to your lips as he lifted you onto the table, kneeling in front of you as you spread your legs, which he threw over his shoulders.

A wanton moan came from your chest as Daryl’s tongue was on you instantly, your hand gripping his hair as the other held the joint, occasionally tossing your head back and hitting it, releasing the smoke with a deep pleasured groan. Your whole body buzzed with warmth and fire as Daryl’s tongue worked between your folds, slipping into your hole before pulling out and moving to lap at your clit once more. His own cock throbbed and pulsated in his pants, the taste of your cunt so much sweeter on his high tastebuds.

He licked and slurped at your folds as if he hadn’t eaten minutes prior, tongue coming up to your clit only to suction his lips around it, beginning to suck as his fingers came to tease your folds.

You whimpered as the thick digits slid in, roach of a joint pinched tightly between your fingers. Your eyes rolled back as Daryl started to thrust and curl his fingers slowly but steadily, sending fire through your body. It felt so good but you just needed more, yanking Daryl’s head back. “Bend me over this goddamn table” You said more breathlessly than intended, jerking slightly when Daryl pulled his fingers out and rose to his feet, hovering over you and pressed his cock against your still stimulated cunt. “Yes ma’am” He whispered deep from his chest as he softly kissed you, pushing you to lean further back as he freed his hard cock, groaning into each other’s mouth when the tip slapped against your clit. His hand dragged the head between your folds, not wasting anytime as he fully rammed himself inside, your jaw going slack as it knocked the wind out you.

Daryl readjusted your legs on his hips, slowly rocking before quickly building speed, a deep moan in your chest as his cock easily thrusted into your sweet spot, each one getting increasingly quicker. “Oh God baby just like that” You dropped your head down to shut your eyes, but they caught on where Daryl was sliding in and out of you. He leaned his head against yours to watch as well, hands groping your waist. “M’gonna fuck yer brain out” You bit your lips and gripped the back of his neck. “That’s all I want you to do”

At those words, he pulled away from you suddenly, throbbing cunt clenching desperately around nothing until Daryl flipped you onto your stomch, collecting your curled hair into a sloppy hand held ponytail and yanking you back onto his cock, sliding so so much deeper than before, resuming his pace at higher velocity, moans beginning to uncontrollably fall from your smeared lips. “My lil valentine all nice ‘nd stuffed, gonna give ya lottas cum, kay?” Daryl’s words were going straight to his dick and into your cunt, eyes rolling into the back of your goddamn skull when he yanked you back by the hair, hand releasing the strands only to wrap around your throat, each strangle gasp and cry vibrated under his palm. He really could snap your delicate neck, not that he would but fuck if you wouldn’t let him.

He leaned down so that you could be flush against his chest, other hand grabbing your hip and occasionally sliding up to the bunched up fabric of your dress. He kept his hand comfortably tight around you, kissing and licking your bare shoulders. His hips sped up as he continued marking your skin, groping you hip as the hand around your throat tighten. You knew he was close, and you were almost off the edge yourself, so close, so close until you were toppling over, broken and choked moans coming from your lips. Daryl’s hips slowed to a stop, and he moved to release your throat but was stopped by your hand. “What happened to ‘lotts of cum’? I want my guts scrambled all night, Mr.Dixon” You turned to him and pouted, clenching around his still hard cock. He hummed, before pulling out and once again flipping you over, only you yelped as he fell down onto the seat with you in his grasp, fully seating you down onto his cock. “Ride me, gorgeous” Daryl gripped your hips, smiling up at you as curls fell into his face. His cheeks, jaw and lips all adorned dark red smooch marks, along with his neck and the hickies sucked into the skin.

Your man was just too fucking fine, gripping his face and licking into his mouth, beginning to bounce as he happily allowed you entrance, tongues pressing against one another as you slid your finger tips into his hair, heels firmly on the ground as your hips increased their pace. You pulled away from Daryl, a string of saliva still connecting your lips before your head lulled to the side, hand eagerly tugging your straps off and grabbing your tits, lewding moaning as you squeezed and pinched your nipples, grinding down and bouncing harder down.

One of your hands slid down and began rubbing circles in your clit. With the hand still rolling your boob, you grabbed Daryl’s face and shove it between your squishy tits, wildly moaning as you stimulated your whole cunt, cock hitting such a soft and sensitive spot inside you. “Love when ya take control ta get wha’ ya want” Daryl mumbled into the soft skin of your breasts, bringing the one your fingers pulled at into his mouth, feeling the way you convulsed around him, moaning as your hips stuttered and head dropped against Daryl’s shoulder. Your hand pulled from your sensitive cunt, however you stayed seat on Daryl’s cock.

It was quiet for a few moments, before your lips were trailing the side of his jaw. “Still not done, woman?” Daryl ran his hands up your side, rolling his hips up into you. “Nope. Carry me into the bedroom. Bring my weed” You giggled against him, legs wrapping around him when he rose to his feet, cock still buried deep inside. “Happy Valentines day m’beloved” He whispered taking only a few steps before pinning you against a wall, unleashing an attack on your neck as he started to move his hips, smiling softly against your skin as he did. You were in for a long, long night.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

#daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl #daryl x female reader #norman fucking reedus #twd #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixion smut #daryl x you #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl imagines #twd daryl #daryl x y/n

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 4: The House Of Glass]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, koi fish, smoking, drinking, drugs, kids, parenthood, Willis Warning, impractical architecture, angst, Adventures With Aegon, historical topics including war and discrimination, let's all give a nice warm welcome to Christabel! 🥳

Word Count: 7.4k.

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

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

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰🧁

It’s dawn, but you’ve already been up for hours. The sky turns from indigo to embers to flames to a cool, cloudless blue; mourning doves coo, goldfinches chirp, swamp rabbits gnaw on blades of grass glittering with dewdrops like diamonds. As the vanilla bean cake bakes in the oven, you go to Cadi’s room, sit on the edge of her bed, lay a hand lightly on the indistinct knoll that is your daughter curled up beneath her Rambo-themed blanket.

You murmur as she stirs awake: “Bonjour, ma cherie.”

Cadi rolls over, blinking groggily. You don’t call her this often. It’s something you picked up from Willis when you were married. You have a vision—sudden, jarring, though not entirely unwelcome—of him pacing back and forth with Cadi in his arms, one month old, 1 a.m., Willis humming some Cajun folk song to lull her to sleep. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I called Cascade Stables, there’s a spot reserved for you.”

“What? Really?!” Her face glows, Christmas lights, the Fourth of July. “But you said…how…?”

You can’t take the credit. You won’t give it to Willis if it’s unearned. “Actually, Aemond offered to pay. So you don’t need to worry about anything. The house is fine, the car is fine. No need to sacrifice your birthday presents.”

Cadi sits upright and ponders you, enigmatic childish confusion. “Mom…is Aemond your boyfriend?”

Well, honey, at first he was just some stranger from a kinky personal ad and then he was a delicious distraction and now I fear I might be starting to want more from him, something not so temporary, something forbidden. But I don’t know who he is. “I don’t think it’s quite that serious yet,” you say instead. “Would you like for him to be around more?”

She shrugs, and you recognize it not as true reluctance but rather as feigned, self-preserving indifference. “Yeah. I mean, I guess so. He’s okay.” Then she adds: “What happened to his face?”

“I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Maybe he was in a war,” Cadi says, glancing down at her Rambo blanket, Sylvester Stallone armed and stern and shirtless.

“Um, yeah, maybe.”

“Can I have cake for breakfast?”

“No, you cannot,” you say, smiling. “But you can have some of Amir’s leftover jambalaya that’s still in the fridge.”

“Fine.”

“Get up. Get ready. Amir should be here soon, once he can watch the cakes I’ll drive you to school.”

“If you let me stay home, I could help you bake.”

“You definitely wouldn’t help. You’d just spend eight hours playing that Nintendo.”

Cadi grins. “Probably.” Then she rolls out of bed and shuffles towards the kitchen over the creaking, sinking floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, what the fuck,” you hiss to yourself as you park behind Willis’ sheriff’s vehicle—a Plymouth Gran Fury—which just so happens to be towing a 20-foot jon boat. You step outside into glaring 90-degree sunshine, slam the door of your Chevy Celebrity, and jog into the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office. You are carrying a white bakery box full of cherry cobbler muffins.

“Hey sugar,” Willis drawls when he sees you. The holding cells are empty; the electric fans are whirring. Heather Locklear is simpering from where her poster is taped to the wall.

You throw the bakery box down onto his paper-strewn desk. “What the hell is that outside?”

“My new boat,” Willis says proudly. “Picked it up first thing this morning.”

“So you can get a new boat, but Cadi can’t go to horse camp?”

He throws his arms wide, exasperated. Men love to make a habit out of being exasperated by things that should be obvious. “She’s gonna get way more outta that boat than from spendin’ a week brushin’ horses! We’ll be fishin’ in it together ‘til she starts poppin’ out her own babies. If Lake Verret ain’t a puddle of oil by then. You know I’ve had three deputies resign in the past ten days? Three! I’m bleeding manpower. I can’t compete. With overtime, they can make twice as much workin’ security on the rigs.”

“I thought you voted for Reagan and his energy independence.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want them drillin’ in my neighborhood.” He flips open the box, grabs a muffin, and takes a huge, messy bite. Crumbs go flying everywhere.

“Well, Cadi is going to get to brush those horses after all,” you tell Willis. “She’ll be gone from June 24th to July 1st. Just so you know.”

His forehead crinkles as he chews. “Where’d you dig up a spare $300?”

He gave me $400, actually. “A friend offered to pay. Kind of embarrassing that they stepped up instead of you.”

Willis ignores this jab. It is uncharacteristically combative of you; but you’re hot, you’re exhausted, you have a splitting headache, you still have four cakes to finish before noon tomorrow. Sweat rolls in beads down the slope of your neck, the curve of your back. It will evaporate once you’re back outside again, once the sun bakes it off you like nightmares fade in daylight. “A friend, huh?” Willis is more fascinated than annoyed. He gnaws on his muffin, contemplating you. “The only friend I know of is Amir the Queer, and he ain’t got nothin’.”

He does; he’s just squirreling it all away for San Franscisco. “Don’t call him that. Don’t be a neanderthal.”

Willis’ thoughts are elsewhere. If not Amir, then who? Who? He asks, smirking: “You got a petit ami, sugar?”

A boyfriend, he means, a beau, a lover, a partner, a suitor. Do I? “No,” you decide. “No, he’s just a regular friend. Really.”

Willis chomps on his cherry cobbler muffin. His smirk stretches into a grin. “Sure he is.”

“Okay. You called and asked for muffins, and the muffins have been delivered. Now I gotta go. I have a hell of an order to finish for tomorrow. Which reminds me…” You take the folded piece of yellow legal pad paper out of your shorts pocket and open it to read the address of the Targaryen residence. “Where is 1066 Loch Raven Terrace? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, that’s in a brand new development, real highfalutin, mansions and all. That’s where the Jade Dragon folks are livin’. You gotta go way down 401 towards Lake Verret. Turn onto Owlet, then Egret, then Loch Raven.”

You snatch a blue pen out of the mug on his desk—World’s Best Cop, it says—to scribble the directions down on your paper. “Great. Thanks. Why’d they name it that? We don’t even have ravens in Louisiana.”

“Maybe they got ‘em back in England and the Rockefellers want to feel right at home.”

You nod. This makes sense; this is a sufficiently egotistical explanation. You check the clock on the wall; it’s almost time to get Cadi from school. “You’re picking up Cadi tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. ‘Round 8:00, as usual.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

Willis asks longingly, looking nowhere in particular: “Remember when we were gonna go to Mexico for our anniversary?”

“Yeah. And I remember when we didn’t.”

He shrugs, perhaps regretful, mourning some hypothetical versions of yourselves. “I got busy. I got lazy.”

“We would have ended up in the same place, Willis. It just might have taken longer.”

“Sure,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. He’s reaching for his second muffin as you push through the glass door and step out into the sweltering afternoon sunlight.

Twenty minutes later, you’re rolling into your driveway: windows down, cicadas screeching, a flock of pelicans flapping by overhead, Cadi singing along to Jump by Van Halen. But when you cut the engine, you catch a glimpse of something strange in your rearview mirror. You have a visitor. He’s coasting down the driveway in his red Audi Quattro, displacing a grey wave of gravel. You and Cadi climb out of your Celebrity to greet him.

“Aemond?” you say, hands on your hips, a growing involuntary smile. You weren’t supposed to see him until Saturday night, until your talk about the future, a future you both disavowed before starting to get a taste for it. “What are you doing here?!”

“I only have a minute.” When he emerges from the Quattro, he’s dragging his neon teal duffle bag.

Cadi gasps. “More Nintendo games?!”

Aemond chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry, not quite.”

Cadi groans dramatically and sprints off into the house, probably to devour an ungodly amount of baked goods.

“Don’t eat the Cap’n Crunch Treats!” you shout after her. “They’re for a customer!”

Aemond strolls over to you, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and his Adidas sneakers. His ever-present Marlboro jacket has been forgotten. His hair is a mess, he’s touching his chin restlessly; he really does look like he’s in a rush. “Hey,” he says softly, returning your smile.

You point to his duffle bag. “So you’re not here to tie me up.”

“Regrettably, no.”

“Cadi was really, really happy this morning to learn that you paid for horse camp.”

“I’m glad. Please don’t mention it again.” Aemond glances to his right and spies the alligator sunbathing a few yards away, a deep swampy green and fast asleep. “Oh, fuck!” He grabs your arm, pulls you to him, walks with you briskly towards the house. “You need to get that thing turned into a purse or shoes or something.”

You laugh. “She won’t go after you. She knows you’re bigger than she is.”

“I’m not going to take your word for it.”

In the living room, Aemond tosses his duffle bag on the couch, unzips it, and lifts out a Nikon F3 digital camera. Amir peeks out of the kitchen, flour and powdered sugar dusting his palms, his forearms, his cheeks. “What the…?”

“I need a white wall,” Aemond says distractedly, peering around. The living room walls are pink, the kitchen is mint green, Cadi’s room is yellow, the bathroom is a pale blue. Cadi watches as he darts around the small house, sitting at the kitchen counter and chomping on a ginger molasses cookie. Then Aemond snaps his fingers, remembering. He turns to you. “Your bedroom has white walls.”

“And of course he knows all about your bedroom,” Amir says.

“Come with me,” Aemond orders you.

“Okay…?”

“Cadi too.”

You and Cadi follow Aemond into the bedroom, Amir trotting close behind to satisfy his curiosity. Aemond shows Cadi where to stand against the wall, in a spot where the lighting is good, no shadows, no cracks in the paint, no paintings or photographs. He raises the Nikon and gazes through the viewfinder with his right eye.

“Alright, here we go…just from the shoulders up…yeah, look at me straight-on, just like that…big smile, one two three!” He takes a picture; you can hear the click. “Beautiful! You’re Cindy Crawford! Naomi Campbell! Linda Evangelista! Let’s go again…”

Cadi giggles as she poses: a few respectable smiles, a few silly faces, a few where Aemond asks her to act serious. Cadi says, with an exaggerated grimace: “Look, I’m Mom when Daddy tries to talk to her.” Amir guffaws from the doorway.

“Your turn,” Aemond tells you, waving you over. Aemond directs you like he’s looking for excuses to touch your shoulders, your waist, your face, making minute adjustments that can’t really matter. You’re good at the serious faces, but he’s not satisfied with your smile. “No, a real one. A real smile!”

“I am really smiling!” you protest.

Aemond lowers the camera and raises an eyebrow at you. “You can do better. I’ve seen it.”

And suddenly, effortlessly, you’re beaming.

“There you go,” Aemond says in approval, and snaps a few frames. “Done.”

“What do you need pictures of us for?”

“Just a little project I’m working on,” Aemond says, evasive. He ventures back to the living room without further explanation.

As Aemond zips the Nikon into his duffle bag, you go to the kitchen to see how far Amir has gotten with the Targaryens’ engagement party order. In a dozen different icing colors, he’s painted wildflowers—your favorite since you were Cadi’s age—all over the white buttercream frosting of the vanilla bean cake. You wrap an arm around his waist, rest your head against his chest. “You’re Picasso.”

“I’m a sad, single, four-eyes twink who lives with his Grandma.”

“You’re the love of my life.”

He laughs and smacks a noisy kiss onto your cheek. Aemond watches, amused, thoughtful. He has that same look he had when he walked in on Cadi and Amir dancing to Kyrie, like someone studying a work of art in a museum, something beautiful but arcane, crafted by a foreign stranger who’s been dead for centuries. You start chopping pecans for the hummingbird cake.

“Okay,” Aemond announces with a heavy sigh. “I gotta run.”

“Already?” Cadi says, more disappointed than she’s trying to let on.

“He’s a very busy man,” you tell her. “He’s an engineer. And a historian, too.”

“Just an engineer,” Aemond says, startled.

“Only a historian would think to quiz me about Napoleon to see if I was worthy of his time.”

“You should know something about the man your town was named after.” Aemond leans in close—smoke and cologne, sun and salt—and growls into your ear: “Bye, Cupcake. Taste you later.”

“Bye.” And you watch him leave with his neon teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder, so preoccupied you completely forget about the pecans. Your knife rests on the cutting board, your thoughts are tangled up in what you and Aemond need to talk about tomorrow. I want more than something casual. I do, I really do.

Amir whips you with a dishtowel. “Ho, we’ve got cakes to bake! Let’s go, let’s go!” And then he asks more sympathetically as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose: “How’s your headache?”

“Oh,” you say, only realizing it when he asked. “It’s gone now.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The driveway is long and meandering, brand new but meant to look old, cobblestones lined with meticulously manicured hedges and beasts carved out of marble: bears, dolphins, horses, dragons. On the shores of Lake Verret, out of sight of the rigs and surrounded by towering gnarled southern live oaks older than the United States, you find the Targaryen family residence—manor? estate? chateau?—and park your Chevy Celebrity amidst a sea of Lexuses, Audis, Porsches, Cadillacs, and Alfa Romeos. There are willowy whooping cranes tiptoeing their way across the lawn. A blue merle Great Dane, gigantic and glaring menacingly, lurks behind the white columns of the wraparound front porch.

“That is not a house,” Amir says, gazing up at it through the windshield. “That is a castle.”

“That is where we’re going to make a lot of money if we can impress the Rockefellers.”

“Whoo hoo!” he cheers, climbing out of the car. “San Fran, I hope you’re ready for me!”

You’re dragging the coolers out of the back seat when you are descended upon by a herd of servants, dressed in black so as not to distract from the festivities, so they can fade into the backdrop, so they can become invisible. You and Amir have missed the memo. Your sundress is from Kmart: white with pink zinnias, a cheap and unextraordinary flower for an undistinguished woman from an anonymous town in one of the most impoverished states in the nation. Amir is wearing neon orange shorts and a (very tight) t-shirt from Queen’s Magic Tour that he found at a yard sale.

“These are the cakes?” the head butler asks impatiently, a grim-faced man with salt and pepper hair and spotless white gloves.

“Yeah, that box has the coconut cake, and that one has the key lime, and there are the Cap’n Crunch Treats, and…hey! Wait!” You watch helplessly as the fleet of servants ferry the boxes up the porch steps and into the house. You and Amir stare at each other as you stand abandoned on the cobblestones. “What do we do now?”

“Do we just…leave…?!”

“You made it!” Alicent cries, sailing out of the doorway and swathed in a flowing cream-colored gown. Her large dark eyes are bright and ever-shifting, almost manic; sunlight shimmers on her auburn hair. There is music pouring out behind her, thudding but indistinct, rumbling bass, heady guitar strums. “Come inside. You simply must come in.”

“Oh, we couldn’t impose!” Amir says, already inching towards the house.

“I’ll hear no more of that. You rescued me in my hour of need and I shall not forget it.” Alicent beckons you closer. Her smile is broad and radiant but tight, like she’s having to remember to keep it that way, like her muscles are beginning to ache. “Enjoy some hors d’oeuvres, at least. We have shrimp cocktail, miniature quiches, vol-au-vents, clams casino, Swedish meatballs, little smokies, deviled eggs with paprika, and lots of champagne! Quickly now. There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Amir glances back at you as you follow him up the porch steps. “People, huh?”

The Great Dane stalks over to you, sniffs, growls deep and low. You freeze, not wanting to provoke it. Its eyes—muddy greenish-brown and swimming with a cunning hostility—remind you of an alligator’s, not the five-footer that idles on your lawn but one of the true monsters of the bayou, old and grizzled and always hungry.

“Vhagar, no!” Alicent scolds, pushing the beast’s massive muzzle away. You imagine it chomping on her hand until it’s gone: one bite, two bites, nothing left but gristle and blood. “No! Bad dog! Go away, go!” The Great Dane reluctantly retreats, glowering from behind a column. “I’m so sorry about that. I’m utterly mortified. She’s terribly unfriendly, but she doesn’t bite. Usually.”

“It’s fine!” you say, heart still racing.

“She belongs to my son. My children…their obsessions confound me. But as mothers, we’re powerless to stop them, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so,” you reply, thinking of Cadi’s wildness, willfulness; though trying to change her would feel wrong.

“Now I certainly owe you a glass of champagne,” Alicent says, billowing like a cloud into the house, her gold heels clicking on the marble floor.

You pass through the doorway and into a vast, crowded foyer, all white and gold: a massive crystalline chandelier, oriental vases and sculptures of men you don’t recognize, paintings on the wall, servants flitting around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. On one table is a tower of champagne glasses, each with a single red cherry marooned inside. Guests mingle in their sport coats and suits and taffeta and sequins, and oddly, none of them are talking about the couple whose engagement is being celebrated. They talk instead about ski trips, polo matches, oil futures, the Soviets, the Saudis, the godawful humidity in this misfortunate corner of the world that they can’t wait to leave. There are stained glass windows everywhere, scenes of suns, stars, sunflowers, dragonflies, lemon trees, sand on beaches. It’s cold, extremely cold, frigid drafts gushing from the air conditioning vents. A Dire Straits song pours not from a Panasonic boombox but from a stereo system with a pair of speakers as tall as you are, Sultans Of Swing. There is a baffling dual chorus clanging around in your skull: Nobody needs this. I’ll never be able to give my daughter anything like this.

Amir whistles as he peers around, eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “This place must cost a fortune to cool.”

“I Teleftaia Epithymia.” Alicent struggles with the pronunciation; she speaks slowly, effortfully. “It’s what my husband named the house. What we named the house, I mean. It’s Greek for The Last Desire. As in, no one could possibly want anything more than what this home can offer. Isn’t that poetic? I’ve fallen quite in love with it.” Still, there is that slight nervousness to everything she does, that over-eagerness to please, that restless rushing fidgeting. She wears large gold teardrop earrings that she keeps touching. “We knew we’d have to build something here for the new project on the lake. My son is overseeing it, and he’ll have to spend the next year here, at least. It’s a big step for him. It’s the first drilling operation he’s been given command of. And he—”

“Alicent!” A man comes striding through the crowd. He has shoulder-length pale blonde hair and is wearing a black pinstripe suit, a business suit, authoritative but not joyful. He doesn’t notice you or Amir. You don’t exist to him yet. “Where the hell is the ice sculpture? You said there would be an ice sculpture.”

“It’s on its way, darling. I already called.”

“It should be here now!”

“Viserys, please.” Alicent’s voice is low, embarrassed. “The driver got lost, you know our address is new. They stopped at a payphone and rang us and I straightened it out. They’ll arrive any minute.”

“They better,” the man grumbles. “It’s her family’s crest, for Christ’s sake. We need that ice dragon.”

“This is my husband,” Alicent tells you and Amir, forced smile, pleading eyes, trying to pivot. “Viserys, do you remember the wonderful people I told you about? From Hummingbird Bakery?”

“Bakery?” He seems to have only a vague recollection and even less interest. His gaze is already wandering to other guests. He flashes a grin and waves at a few middle-aged men in grey suits.

“They saved me. They were able to bake us six beautiful cakes with only two days�� notice.”

“And Cap’n Crunch Treats,” Amir adds.

Now Viserys Targaryen does turn his attention to you, and his forehead knits into perturbed wrinkles. His cool blue eyes skate over your Kmart dress, your forearms still dotted with flour and frosting, your cheap pink flats with bows on the front. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he looks to Amir—orange shorts, too-tight shirt that stops at his navel, dogwood flower in his hair—and seems to startle a little. “Alicent, you didn’t mention…uh…he’s…oh well. Too late now. It can’t be helped.”

You and Amir share a glance, polite smiles pasted on your faces. Alicent is abjectly horrified. “Viserys, he’s extremely professional.”

“There are the Lannisters. I must be off.” And the Targaryen family patriarch unceremoniously departs. You and Amir pretend to admire the stained glass windows. Alicent picks at the beds of her fingernails, her rings jangling against each other, her eyes misty.

Criston appears out of nowhere, wearing a white suit with a zebra print shirt underneath. Today his single earring is silver to match. He glides a hand around Alicent’s waist and leans in so close that his nose brushes her fiery hair. “What? What do you need?”

“The ice sculpture people—”

“I’ll wait outside for them,” Criston says, and departs as swiftly as he arrived.

“Please allow me to give you a quick tour of the house,” Alicent says, recovering somewhat. “I’m so grateful for your help. And things keep happening that only make me feel more indebted.” Then she hands each of you a flute of champagne, spins on her heels, and leads you out of the foyer.

Each room is a different color. The living room is red, furniture of lush velvet and Italian leather, bookshelves tall enough to need ladders, a brick fireplace that they’ll never use. Through a pair of French doors you can glimpse a garden and a pool with a water slide. The dining room is a cheerful butter yellow. The kitchen is teal, and like all the rest of the house has stained glass windows to match; these are shaped like a cathedral’s and run all the way up to the ceiling. Servants have arrayed your cakes on the counter, each with a label handwritten in cursive and a set of knives to cut it with. A plate of Cap’n Crunch Treats has been tucked away back by the stove like something they’re a little ashamed of.

Everywhere she goes, Alicent introduces you and Amir to the guests she crosses paths with. “Have you met these heavenly people from Hummingbird Bakery yet? Yes, they’re local, true Louisianans! I see you’ve already helped yourself to a slice of the key lime cake. Isn’t it just fantastic?! And a gorgeous shade of green! It’s so peculiar, you won’t believe what this sweetheart has living in her yard, a real-life alligator…”

You whisper to Amir: “Are we her pet poor people?”

“You might be. I’m proudly undomesticated.”

“Christabel!” Alicent shouts jubilantly as the girl scrolls into the kitchen. “There you are, dear! Come see your cakes.”

Christabel complies, shy but agreeable, peeking out from under a shock of feathery blonde bangs. She wears gleaming diamond earrings and a very bridal white one-shoulder dress, showing quite a bit of skin; you notice that some of the other guests milling about the kitchen cast her judgmental smirks. Christabel asks Alicent, as if she’s afraid of the answer: “He’s not here yet?”

“You know how busy he’s been,” Alicent says, apologetic. You think, remembering the drunk man from the holding cell: Yeah, busy committing misdemeanors. “Those rigs…the S&P 500…anyway, he’ll be home before you know it. In the meantime, let me get you a piece of cake. You’re disappearing, love.”

Christabel skims a palm down the front of her dress self-consciously. “Alright. Just a tiny one.” Then she acknowledges you and Amir. “You must be the masterminds then. Alicent told me all about you.”

Amir says: “About our excellent service and reasonable prices?”

“Yes.” Christabel isn’t skittish like Alicent, but there’s a sort of pensiveness to her, an impression that she is eternally woolgathering. Now she looks at you in particular with a small, warm smile. “And about how beautiful you are.”

Amir laughs at your stunned expression. Me? Beautiful? And the only other person to call you that in years has been Aemond, tangled up with you on your bed in your falling-down house, and you aren’t sure if that counts. “Oh, um, thank you,” you manage. “I really like your dress.”

“Really? I fear people think it’s too…revealing. I liked it fine this morning when I put it on. I didn’t have any notion it might not be suitable. Now I’m feeling like an idiot.”

“No, it’s so nice!” you say, pained for her, one misfit recognizing another. “I never would have thought there was anything wrong with it.”

Alicent gets a plate from the pile on the counter. “What flavor would you like, Christabel?”

“Whatever this one is.” She points to the vanilla bean cake, adorned with Amir’s frosting flowers. “Isn’t it stunning, with all the colors?”

“Amir is the artist,” you say. “I love wildflowers.”

Alicent asks: “Did you have them at your wedding?”

No one bothered. No one remembered. “I wanted to.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely, Christabel?” Alicent passes her a slice of vanilla bean cake. “Wildflowers? It would be different. Everyone has roses or lilies or something. But wildflowers? I can’t recall ever going to a wedding with wildflowers. Especially if you’re going to get married here. It would fit with the scenery. This place is so exotic, so untamed!”

Christabel nods, taking nibbles of her cake. “Wow, this is delicious! Yes, wildflowers. We could use them for the bouquet, and the corsages…”

“Now we just need a venue.” Alicent sighs. “We’ve had such a terrible time trying to find a good place. Somewhere historic, but not rundown or unsavory. I mean, you can’t get married on an old plantation or something. Bloody hell. How tone-deaf would that be?”

“Very tone-deaf,” Amir concurs.

“There’s a church across the lake in Belle River that you might like,” you say. “The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens. It’s a historic site, I believe. It’s not very big, but it would make for nice pictures.”

“There’s an idea!” Alicent chirps, then she is stricken as a woman walks into the kitchen. Her fair hair is tied up in a messy bun. She wears a white t-shirt stained with dirt, denim overalls, and Converse Chucks. There is a bluish-green chameleon perched on her shoulder, goggling at everyone with its rotating, conical eyes. “Helaena, put your dress on.”

“Dreamfyre doesn’t like the silk. She won’t sit on my shoulder if I’m wearing it.”

“Helaena, it’s a lizard.” Alicent is exasperated. “Go upstairs, stick it back in its cage, and put your dress on, now.”

“Fine,” Helaena mumbles before wandering off.

“Oh, is that the ice sculpture?!” Alicent cries, peeking out into the foyer through the kitchen doorway. “At last! If you’ll excuse me…” She scurries off to attend to it, Christabel trailing her like a shadow.

You put your empty champagne flute in the sink. “I need to go find a bathroom.”

“I need some shrimp cocktail,” Amir replies. “Do you think I should try to explain the evils of gentrification to people?”

You giggle. “Yeah, definitely. Start with Viserys.” You part ways, Amir headed towards the foyer, you journeying down a mysterious hallway that adjoins the kitchen. The walls are flame orange and decorated with portraits of grave blonde people, each with an outlandish name etched into the plaque beneath its likeness: Baelon, Alyssa, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Aenys, another Alyssa, Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya. “This family is so fucking weird,” you mutter to yourself as you continue down the hall.

You find a bathroom, but there’s already a hoard of glamorous, ornamented women waiting outside of it. They’re chattering about which is the superior place to take a holiday, the Canary Islands or the south of France. They stare at you like you’re vermin, a nutria or a raccoon. You keep moving.

At the top of a spiral staircase, you find another hallway. The first door you try is a home movie theater complete with a popcorn machine, neon signage, several rows of seating and a plethora of bean bag chairs. Behind the second door is a bedroom, but it’s not unoccupied. You are greeted by the sight of the man who must be the groom. He looks much like he did when he was detained in a holding cell of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: slicked-back hair, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, flushed cheeks, tiny shorts, flip flops. He’s hunched over a desk with three lines of white powder on it. There’s an HP computer—something you’ve never seen in person before—in one corner of the room, a television and collection of hundreds of VHS tapes in the other. His walls are black and cluttered with posters of punk rock bands, the Ramones, the Clash, the Misfits, Minor Threat, Social Distortion, Bad Religion. His Akai stereo is blaring Fight For Your Right by the Beastie Boys.

“What?” the man says agitatedly. There’s powder on his fingers and his nose. “What? What? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Um, sorry, I was just…uh…” There’s some kind of rodent running around on his unmade bed. Its fur is a sandy yellow color, its body freakishly long and four legs stumpy. What the fuck. “I was looking for a bathroom.”

He blinks, muddled recollection. “You’re the cake lady.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Delivering cakes.”

“Oh. Right.” He points directly across the hall. “There’s a bathroom.”

“Okay, great, thanks.” He starts snorting another line before you’ve even shut the door.

You spend a minute or two in the Targaryens’ lilac-colored bathroom, paintings of the night sky hung on the walls—comets, moons, stars, galaxies—and amethyst geodes on the sink, a stained glass window with a scene of a lavender field. By the time you navigate back down to the kitchen, the man is there. He’s eating a Cap’n Crunch Treat, cocaine still streaked across his pink face and caught in his wisp of a mustache.

“You did this,” he says. “I know you did. It’s too good to be anyone but you.”

With his hand that’s not holding the Cap’n Crunch Treat, he’s cradling the lean rodent against his bare chest like an infant. “What is that? A weasel?”

“It’s a ferret. His name is Sunfyre.” The man nods to a photograph pinned to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like miniature oil rigs. There are two people in the frame, a woman and a girl, their cheeks squished together as they laugh on a pink sand beach of some topical island you’ll never visit. “That’s my dad’s first wife.”

“He’s divorced?”

“Widowed. She died in a car accident.” He taps on the girl in the picture, perhaps Cadi’s age. “That’s my half-sister Rhaenyra. She’s an Olympic fencer. She lives in the Lake District and fucks our uncle.”

You shake your head. You must have misheard him. “She what?”

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. I’m not kidding. She lives in a castle and fucks our uncle and has kids with him. Fucking sick, man. And I’m the screwup? Because I like coke and strippers? I’m supposed to feel bad about that? Bite me, Viserys.” He grabs a second Cap’n Crunch Treat and gestures for you to follow him into the foyer. “Come on. You need some champagne.”

You chuckle. Mental or not, there’s something likeable about him…though you can’t say you envy Christabel. To be married to someone like this man must be hellish. Now, to be married to someone like Aemond… “I’ve already had a glass.”

“Okay, well I need some champagne, and I don’t want to go out there alone.” His flip flops slap noisily against the marble floor as he plods out of the kitchen. He looks back to see if you’re following, and then you hurry after him. The heir to the Jade Dragon fortune weaves through the crowd, ignoring everyone and being ignored in return. In the packed foyer, he plucks a flute of champagne from the tower and chugs it. He eats the cherry and holds up the stem. “You know how to tie these with your tongue?”

“No, I definitely do not.”

“I do,” he announces proudly. He shoves the stem in his mouth, wiggles it around for a while, accidentally swallows it and has to hack it back up. He spits the cherry stem onto the pristine white floor, attracting a few grimaces. “Wait. Wait. Let me try again.” He reaches for another glass of champagne. The opening notes of Asia’s Heat Of The Moment boom from the speakers.

You give him a sympathetic smile. “Pre-wedding jitters?”

He snorts. “I’m not the one getting married.”

“Wait, you’re not?”

He cackles, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I already have a wife. Stephanie, she’s a princess from Monaco. Right now she’s in Ibiza or something. I haven’t seen her since New Year’s. This New Year’s? Last New Year’s? I’m not sure. Maybe it was the Grand Prix. I remember a lot of confetti.”

You gape at him. “So who’s getting married?”

“My brother Aemond.”

“Who?!”

He points with his Cap’n Crunch Treat. Across the foyer by the front door, Aemond is grinning and accepting congratulations from a gaggle of men in suits: black, grey, navy, tan. Aemond himself is wearing emerald green, dark and luxurious and striking and expensive, because he’s a Targaryen who’s marrying a noblewoman and he’s an oil tycoon and a millionaire and he is most certainly not single and not looking to change that.

“You fucking liar,” you hiss.

The man with the coke in his mustache peers over at you. “Huh?”

You can’t tear your eyes away from Aemond. You feel scarlet rage soaking into you drip by drip, you feel the blood turning hot beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be this upset over a man you barely know, you don’t understand why you are. Except part of you does, and it’s heartbreaking, and it’s humiliating beyond words. Of course he’s marrying someone like Christabel. Of course he’d never choose me.

Aemond bids farewell to his well-wishers, and as he turns away from them his right eye catches on you. From across the room, his face shifts from disbelief to astonishment to horror. His jaw drops open. The flute of champagne he’d been clasping shatters against the marble floor. Immediately, a flock of servants materialize to clean up the mess. You flee from the foyer to the living room, through the French doors, into the garden. It’s midday and hot as hell, humid, swampy, suffocating to the British aristocrats that fill the house. You don’t see anyone else outside. You run past the swimming pool and through cobblestone trails bordered by blue cardinal flowers, orange coneflowers, coral honeysuckle, resurrection ferns, maypops, white sage, firewheels, magnolias, cinnamon ferns. You stop at the edge of a fish pond larger than your kitchen and glare down into the water, trying not to let tears blur your vision as glimmers of scales—red, orange, black, white, gold—dart beneath the transparent rippling water.

I have to go back inside. I can’t leave without Amir. I can’t leave without formally saying goodbye to Alicent and thanking her for her hospitality and licking the boots of these people so they’ll throw just enough cash at me to keep a roof over my daughter’s head.

You hear hurried footsteps; Aemond appears on the cobblestones. He’s found you, but that’s as far ahead as he’s planned. He holds his hands open, not knowing what to say.

“You told me you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She’s your fiancée, that’s worse, don’t you get how that’s worse?!”

“Okay, this looks bad, but it’s not what you think—”

“You’re marrying her, right?” you demand, and he hesitates. “Right?!”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, and it feels like knuckles to your stomach.

“Then you’re a liar and a cheater.”

“It’s not…it’s…” He gestures frantically, not knowing how to explain, how to translate it into words you’ll understand. “There’s not an expectation of fidelity.”

“Does Christabel know that?”

“That’s the thing, that’s what you don’t get, it’s not like that between us. We don’t discuss it, we’re not…” More vague, frenzied gestures. “We’re not…um…” He groans, rubbing his scarred forehead. “We’re not fucking. At all. Nothing close to it. It’s not a physical relationship yet.”

“But she doesn’t know about me.”

“No, God no, of course not.”

“So she thinks you’re…abstinent…?”

He sighs, defeated. “I don’t know. I don’t really care, honestly.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping with her?”

“Because we can’t until we’re married.”

“I’m sorry, are you Pilgrims?! Are you time travelers from the 1400s?!”

“It’s her family’s standards,” Aemond says. “It’s not uncommon for women of her…status.”

“Girl,” you pitch at him. “She’s a girl. How old is she? Eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

You’re furious that she exists; you’re furious on her behalf. “And she’s planning her fairytale wedding while you collect local women to act out your kinky fantasies with.”

“One woman,” Aemond says softly.

“What?”

“There’s one woman currently. Just you.”

You shake your head, swiping enraged tears from your cheeks. “Why are you marrying her?”

“It’s sort of an…arranged thing.”

You stare at him. “Someone set you up?”

“My father knows her father. They think it’s a good match. Her family needs money, my father wants ties to the nobility. She’s one of probably five people on this planet that he would approve of. And she seems enthusiastic about it, so it’s happening.”

“Aemond, that is an insanely bad idea.”

“I have to do it.”

“You’re marrying her because your dad told you to?!” You explode. “Are you serious?! Everyone with the sole exception of Amir told me to stay with Willis, my friends, my family, my neighbors, my bakery customers, the checkout ladies at the Piggly Wiggly, my goddamn mailman, my father was in the hospital dying of lung cancer saying that his last wish was for me to never get divorced, and I still went through with it because I knew it was the right thing to do and no one was going to stop me!”

“I don’t want to talk about Willis,” Aemond snaps.

“Well, he’s kind of an inescapable aspect of my existence, so if I can get over it I’m sure you can too.”

“I hate that guy,” Aemond seethes, and you have no idea how to respond. You gaze down into the pond and watch scales and fins and tails fly like bullets beneath the surface.

“Those are the biggest goldfish I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“They’re koi,” Aemond scoffs.

“Oh, is that what they teach people about at Imperial College in London? Fancy fucking fish?”

“Don’t be a bitch to me, just…just give me a second, I didn’t think I was going to have this conversation until tonight, this is not how I wanted it to go.”

You say quietly, betrayed: “You’re a robber baron.”

“What? Like Vanderbilt or Rockefeller, that kind of robber baron, that’s who you think I am?!”

“That’s who you are! You hoard and exploit and use and pollute and destroy! I don’t destroy things, I create them!”

“You bake cupcakes!”

“And I don’t hurt anyone by doing it!”

“You are so goddamn delusional, you are completely insane—”

You start counting out crimes on your fingers. “I don’t kill people, I don’t endanger the Earth, I didn’t irrevocably screw up Ketchikan, Alaska—”

“So I’m terrible because I want to bring jobs to your pathetic, dead-end town?! Because I want there to be a few less pregnant teenagers and more high school diplomas? That makes me a war criminal, that puts me right up there with Jaruzelski or Pinochet?!” He realizes what he’s said when he sees the wounded fury unfold on your face. “Oh fuck. Come on, I didn’t mean you.”

“No, you just meant people who are exactly like me in every way.”

“You know what? I take it back,” Aemond says, knife-sharp, wrathful. “I did mean you. Because you are wasting your life here, and you’re too stubborn or too scared or too much of both to recognize an opportunity to have something more. Don’t you think you deserve better? Don’t you think your kid deserves better?”

“I built something here, I made a future for myself and my daughter here, and you’re going to work our people to death and poison the lake and then pack up and leave when it all goes wrong because that’s what oil tycoons do! The opportunity is for you, not us! More mansions, more champagne, more coke, more demented pets!”

“Then leave! Get in your car and drive back to your sad, structurally unsound house and live happily ever after with whatever braindead barbarian you marry next.”

“I will,” you pitch back. “Enjoy being married to your marquess.”

“She’s not a marquess. Her dad is the marquess. She won’t inherit the title until he dies.”

“Enjoy being married to your future marquess, you pretentious prick.”

“Women can’t be marquesses. They can only be marchionesses.”

“Yeah, you’re so smart. I’m really impressed. At least I don’t have to tie people to beds to delude myself into thinking I have some semblance of control over my life.”

You storm through the garden and back into the house as Aemond watches you, violently disappointed. You yank open one of the French doors and slip into the midst of the festivities. Illustrious guests are still mingling, toasting, boasting, scrutinizing you skeptically when they notice you at all. In the archway between the living room and the foyer, Amir joins you, sipping a flute of champagne.

“Hey, ho! Did you get lost? Did you find the cellar where they keep the bodies of their political enemies?” He has eaten so many hors d’oeuvres he’s basically waddling. “You look stressed. How about a nice shrimp cocktail?” He follows your eyeline to where Aemond is trying to sneak covertly into the living room through the French doors. Christabel intercepts him, relieved that he’s finally arrived, beaming, sparkling, entirely unaware of any conflict. Aemond conjures up a smile, fond yet guarded. She doesn’t touch him, and he doesn’t touch her either. He clasps his hands behind his back instead. “Is that…?!”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s…?!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Amir says. “Oh.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes wide and shellshocked. “We should have made him buy all of us Nintendos and a week at horse camp.”

“I want to go home.”

“You got it, let me just grab a few more of those Swedish meatballs—”

“Amir,” you say, tears brimming in your eyes. “I really want to go home.”

“Okay, okay.” He slings an arm around your shoulder, smacks a kiss against your temple, walks with you towards the front door. “Then let’s go home.”

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

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 years

Text

A continuation of Sweet On You (part three Hard Candy here)

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [2.9k] prompts: Say you want me and I'm yours" and "I don't know what to do. I could teach you." Best friends to lovers, sofa sex, who doesn't have a praise kink?

The walk home to Steve’s house was less awkward than you thought it would be, considering your drunken admission.

But the cool night air had sobered you up and there was something nostalgic about walking down the empty road with your best friend, the night sky inky and endless above you.

Hawkins was quiet, the dull thud of the party left behind and Steve was next to you, one foot in front of the other as he balanced himself on the white lines of the tarmac. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat in the quiet of it all, if he would hear the way it was rattling off of your rib cage, if his was doing the same.

He stole glances at you, not so subtle gazes from under his lashes when he thought you weren’t looking, as if he wondered where this night was going, where those white lines were leading you both. You turned the corner into his street, the houses growing bigger as you went, the cars on the drive more expensive and the smell of chlorine filled the air, the soft trickle of backyard pools and front lawn fountains filling up the silence.

“You staying?”

It was an almost rhetorical question. Steve knew you would, you always did. There was one of his old basketball shirts balled up under the pillow he knew you liked best, waiting for you since you wore it last weekend, vodka drunk and clutching Robin as Steve steered you home to his.

And besides, you were there with him, on the sidewalk in front of his empty house, breath stuck in your chest ‘cause, oh my god, you told your best friend you were jealous of a girl he was with.

You didn’t know what to say. You knew the boy was simply checking, wondering if the fresh air had changed your mind, had woken you up and made you regret what you’d said when your head had been filled with smoke and bass, tequila on your tongue and a little green monster on your back.

It’s probably why he looked nervous, eyes low, lips a little twisted at the side as if he was preparing for rejection.

But you nodded, leaning lazy against the frame of his porch as he fumbled with the front lock. The night had become warmer, or maybe it was just you, but tension fizzed in the soft breeze and heat gathered on your skin, like the entire town was warning you of a storm brewing.

It felt like something big was about to happen. Something astronomic, something dangerous.

You walked into the dark house when the lock finally clicked, Steve holding the door open for you as he always did, taking his time to put the deadbolt back on, a habit over the years.

Your legs took you to the kitchen, normal routine after a party. You’d normally raid the Harrington’s fridge, scalding yourself on the oven door as you fished out almost burnt pizzas and sharing slices with Steve.

But you stood at the countertop, bottom lip tucked between your teeth and waited for Steve to follow. You heard his shoes hit the floor, one by one before the shuffle of his jacket sliding off his shoulders. When he finally emerged into the room, he flicked the light that hung over the dining table, soft and low, and far away enough from you that it didn’t hurt your eyes.

The entire room was cast in a glow, Mrs Harrington’s love for anything crystal making the lightshade throw reflections across the kitchen, the tiles, Steve’s face.

You swallowed, hard.

His hand found yours, pulling at it from where it was twisted in your shirt sleeve until he could twine his fingers with yours. The boy used it to guide you into him a little, your back still pressed against the counter top and although you’d been wrapped around him not even an hour ago at the party, this felt different.

Intimate, altering.

His other hand caught your chin, lips parting at the sudden touch of him and you obeyed easily when he tilted it up, silently asking you to look at him. Everything about Steve oozed confidence, it always had, and despite the way he put his hands on you, gentle but a little domineering, there was a softness in his eyes that told you he was holding onto some doubt. It flickered there, buried in the warm brown, honey and golden, and it made you soften against him.

His fingers spanned the length of your jaw, reaching to the highest point of your cheekbone and his thumb bumped at the corner of your lips, a touch that sent a shock through you, and briefly, you wondered if that storm you thought you felt outside had arrived.

Steve’s voice was hoarse when he spoke, rough with nerves and the leftover silence you had both walked home in but he murmured to you, eyes trained on your own.

“Did you mean what you said?”

An exhale, an inhale, yours or his you didn’t know. You were close, so much closer now. You didn’t know when your other hand had reached up to clutch at him, his shirt fisted in your hand as if he was the only thing grounding you, as if you had to make sure this was real.

It didn’t feel like a game, like flirting gone too far. You’d toed the line with Steve many times, usually when one or both of you were tipsy, a little high and seeking affection. Sometimes it was a battle, quick words and smart ass comebacks on sharp tongues that eventually turned to teasing, raised brows, tongues pressed against teeth and eyes that gave away too much.

‘Cause this was Steve Harrington. Best friend of ten years, professional piggyback giver, part time babysitter and the only person in this godforsaken town that could call you ‘sweetheart’ and not receive a kick to the shins.

You didn’t wanna ruin that. You couldn’t handle that being taken away.

He saw your doubt too, the nerves. He saw right through you, always had. The boy could read you like a book and it was as infuriating as it was helpful. He gave you the nudge that you needed, his knees bending a little so he could bring his face level with your own, noses so close to brushing together. His gaze was liquid gold, buried treasure under sand, full of promise.

“Cause if you did, just say it. Say you want me,” Steve let out a huff of breath, as if even saying the words out loud affected him more than they should, like he wasn’t supposed to admit to it. “And I’m yours.”

His admission hit you in the chest like a good old fashion sucker punch, flooding you with heat and something else you didn’t quite understand yet. You weren’t sure what he meant, not fully, but with the way your best friend was looking at you, you didn’t think this was the time for a talk about labels and what ifs.

You thought about the girl, the one with the pink lips and permed hair, perky and pretty and all over Steve. You thought about the way it made your chest hurt, like it cracked you down the middle and made your heart ache. You wondered if you could make it feel better, if you could fix it.

You didn’t answer, not really, not properly. You just used what was left of your liquid courage to push yourself up onto your toes, hand still curled into the neck of Steve’s shirt as you pulled him to you.

You kissed him with more authority than you thought you owned, more than you should’ve considering your lack of experience with boys but the answering moan from Steve filled you with confidence, lips moving over his, chasing the taste of red vines and cheap beer.

And as his hand pushed at the material of your shirt, tucking it up and out of his way so his palm could slide against your bare waist, you wondered how any decision that felt so good could possibly be bad.

The push and pull of it made your body fizz, a buzz in your chest that felt better than any high and a sigh escaped you, soft and a little desperate. You felt the boy's thumb at the corner of your mouth again, bossy as it tugged on your bottom lip, asking you to open.

Honestly, it was everything you expected from him. .

Hands rough, touch soft, lips impatient and greedy, like you were the last spoonful of ice cream. He chased your kiss, groaning when you parted your lips for him, pushing up and into him a little more. You took what he gave you, handed it right back, hot and heavy. Despite this being your first kiss with Steve, you were used to this dynamic, his touch, the way you felt safe beside him. Your heart still hammered, but there was a comfort in the rhythmic beat of it, your own personal soundtrack to the way he kissed the breath from you.

You weren’t sure who moved first, you just know it was a little clumsy, bodies swaying, legs tangled, dancing across the tiles and lit by low lamps and the moon. Steve was still bending down for you, lips still joined, hands roaming but he gave up when you both bumped into a bar stool, the harsh squeak the only other sound next to your harsh pants.

He gathered you to him then, closer than before, hands around your waist so he could pull you up against him, walking you backwards on the tips of your toes as you leant into him, arms looped around his neck.

You made a stop against the doorframe, your back against it as he crowded you, kiss deepening and hands getting bolder. Steve snuck the flat of his palm higher up your shirt, warm and smooth along the side of your ribs until his fingers grazed at the band of your bra, lace under his touch.

He groaned when you gasped, lips stuttering over yours as he pulled away just enough to mumble against your mouth, “god, you make the prettiest sounds.”

And then you were tumbling through the hallway again, tripping over the shoes you had both abandoned and Steve paused at the stairs before deciding the climb to his bedroom didn’t allow him to keep kissing you and fuck, well, that just wouldn’t do.

So you both headed for the lounge, a room that was showcased by a large archway, and it held a huge fireplace and squishy sofas, everything surrounded by marble and wood panelling. You had never been in that room, had only ever seen it used at Christmas time, but when Steve led you to the forest green sofa, you happily let him pull you down onto it, and suddenly it was your favourite place in the whole damn house.

“Steve,” you whispered his name into the kiss, voice husky and you felt the boy shift underneath you at the sound. “Fuck, please I-”

“Tell me,” his voice was throaty, like sex and excitement, and he pulled you further into his lap, legs splayed on either of his and his chest heaved at the sight of your dress pushed up your thighs. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give you it sweetheart, I swear.”

His words were too much for you and you moaned, noses bumping as you surged back into him, a little messy, the kiss hot and deep. Your hands found his hair, fingers scraping into it from the nape of his neck and you gripped the ends, tugging a little.

The response you got was overwhelming, a roll of his hips under yours, the thud of his head as it fell back and hit the wall behind him. The dirty groan that broke your kiss, chest vibrating beneath you. You pulled back, staring, lips parted. His eyes were wild as he gazed up at you from under thick lashes, jaw slack and lips rosy from your lip balm.

His hands had found your hips, dipping into the curve there before running over your thighs, toying with the hem of your pretty, green dress.

“Did you like that?” You whispered and you wished you could say you were teasing, taunting him but god, you were so genuine, so in awe of having that sort of effect on the boy.

Steve nodded, swallowing hard and he sucked in a breath, eyes still dark on you.

“Do it again.“

You shivered but ran your hands deeper into his hair, pulling a little more than you did before and you were rewarded with another low groan, the sweetest sound falling from his lips.

You couldn’t help the way your hips rocked, forehead touching Steve’s, barely kissing but lips brushing over his and you were both losing it a little, panting hot air into each other’s mouths.

He whispered your name and you swore you’d never heard it sound so good. Steve made it sound like sin.

“Please babe, shit, what do you want, huh?” His mouth was back on yours, kisses longer, more drawn out the messier they got, as if he couldn’t bear not to taste you. “Tell me what you want.”

You knew he’d do anything for you, give you anything what you wanted, what you asked for. Steve Harrington had spent a decade proving that he would, from late night car rides, your favourite cherry slurpees and walks home from dates that never worked out. If he told you he wanted to give you the world, you would’ve believed him. If you asked him to stop, mid kiss, dress messy and rucked up your thighs, he would.

But he didn’t expect you to say what you did. A request that left him breathless, his jeans tighter than he thought possible, mouth dry.

“I wanna touch you,” you told him, voice quiet and shy ‘cause there was a flush of warmth there, embarrassment lingering where excitement should’ve been.

“Holy shit,” his reply was a rush of breath, a strangled moan and he looked up at you as if you’d answered all his prayers, like you were a dream come true.

“You do?” Steve asked. You nodded and his hands tightened their grasp on your thighs. “Oh fuck.”

You leaned in sweet, kisses turning a little shy and you pressed them to his lips, the corners of his mouth, his jaw, until you reached his ear. You paused, worrying your lip between your teeth before you gathered the courage to speak. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, voice small and you were already mentally scolding yourself because you were hardly a blushing virgin and of course you knew what to do. Logistically, anyway.

Steve pulled back to look at you, brow furrowed in confusion - because hell, he knew enough about your sexual exploits, whispered between groans and laughter over the counter of Family Video, his and Robin’s eyes equally wide. He just didn’t happen to know how much of a failure they truly were, and at the sight of you worrying your lip, he shifted his expression to neutral.

He cleared his throat and the awkwardness that had settled between you, one hand running soothing up and down your leg as the other one tapped at your chin, silently asking you to look at him. You did, gazes meeting but you couldn’t help but twist your lips, wondering if you could take back the words, if you could distract him with a kiss instead.

“What d’you mean?” the boy asked, and his voice was soft and genuine, his eyes searching.

You shrugged, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt, twisting the material in your hands so you didn’t feel so still, so open and watched as he kept his gaze on you.

“I dunno,” you mumbled, confidence slipping. You flicked your eyes to his, not at all shocked to see him still watching you. You swallowed, urged on by the hand that was running circles over the top of your knee. “Most guys I’ve hooked up with only really wanna get to the main event, y’know? They’ve never really had much patience for anything else.”

You said it matter of factly, hands soothing over the creases you’d made in Steve’s top, wondering if you had managed to completely kill the mood. Your lips were already missing his, your hands aching to wander, to pull off his shirt and map out every mole and freckle you knew he had.

“So yeah,” you said with a little finality, wondering if you’d already had your last kiss with your best friend, “I don't know what to do, not really.”

There was a beat of silence and it was filled with the crackle of a promise, the warmth of something undiscovered and exciting. Steve was still looking at you but there was a lift to his brows and he smiled, shoulders shrugging as if what he was about to say was the most casual thing in the world.

“I could teach you.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fluff #stranger things #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagine

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eganeyes · 7 days

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indulgent domestic modern!au clegan headcanons for the soul:

they're both really good in the kitchen!! i see them both as well functioning adults ngl so they both do the cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc working together like a well oiled machine.

bucky's more of the savory cook out of the two of them—I've been so into tinned fish talk on tiktok lately and been busy imagining this man just doing easy recipes for dinner and lunches. he likes making donburi, the air-fryer is his best friend, a risotto recipe he stole from benny's mom, wine marinated steaks, etc. he's the type to have to be in action to be calm so it's pretty common to see him running around the kitchen doing like six things at once.

buck's more of a baker, he has a sourdough starter on the counter and in the refrigerator bucky stays far, far away from. he makes the bread bucky uses for avocado toast breakfasts, cupcakes he shares liberally, dog friendly peanut butter cookies he made specifically for meatball, etc. rolling and smacking thick dough is like a stress reliever for him, so nearing the anniversary of him finally leaving his childhood house, the oven is on near 24/7 and the entire house smells like a bakery. everyone pops by now and then to take home some of the overload of baked goods and offer distraction in the form of chaos—at first by bucky's invitation but nowadays it's like an unwritten yearly calendar thing.

buck's usually in charge of breakfast. he makes fluffy pancakes more often than not, scrambled eggs on toast, always has two coffee pots ready for each of them because they go through it like its water. brady has made some very pointed suggestions on their kidneys, especially bucky's, but gets called out right back on the actual tobacco pipe he still smokes with in this day and age. if bucky wakes up earlier, he makes them avocado toast because he tried it at this hipster cafe as a joke but it's really not a joke anymore now.

they're both morning people it's revolting. when curt stays over he makes it very clear he won't be up before 9 the earliest and fuck them both if they try anything to actually wake him up. they wake him up. there's a guest room that may as well be curt's and his clothes are folded neatly in the dresser.

buck likes cantaloupe, so bucky regularly cuts up the fruit and packs them into lunch boxes for him.

brady shares the same birthday as meatball. so every year without fail, aside from his actual cake, bucky gets an extra plain cake with meatball printed on it with the words happy birthday meatball!! in large letters and a tiny (and brady) under it.

two of the shelves displayed in their house is just full of tchotchkes from all over the world from their adventures. yes there is concerning amount of unicorn statues. buck always looks moderately pained when someone asks about it. among them is a rock that tripped bucky up one random hike and somehow caused him to fall of cliff and get stuck in an outcropping of rocks. air rescue had to be called and he was an absolute nightmare of a broken ankle patient. again, buck always looks moderately pained when somebody asks about it.

they're hemming and hawing over getting a dog which the others find absolutely bewildering and when asked about it they both say its like cheating on meatball, which makes zero sense because the dog is benny's do not even think of stealing him cleven i swear—

they do get a dog from the shelter though!! they get a beagle. no really the dog is literally the bane of their existence they just had to choose the most exuberant 5yo dog with a powdered sugar face that's literally the antithesis of meatball. they name him tomato. benny despairs on how his dog isn't even really just his.

obsessed with the thought of them building their house by themselves like grey's anatomy's derek no hear me out architect!blakely helping them design the house and they have an open plan design which i kind of hate but the image of buck cooking in the kitchen yelling at bucky who's got his feet up on the coffee table oh

they go on these planned little adventures for dates and one of said plans is doing a pilates class together. hear me out: they both suck at it 😭. an hour in and bucky is literally stuck on the machine terrified of moving, he has cramps in muscles he didn't even know could get cramps. he looks to the left and buck is flat on the ground unmoving. they sign up for another class but bring curt into it thinking it'd be hilarious but no curt becomes the instructor's favorite within minutes. they sign up for another class in protest and bring brady and nearly kill the guy from sheer anger. their competitive asses work overtime and somehow end up getting instructor certificates just to prove they could.

the day they discover kahoot is honestly a mistake because when they host get togethers they do little presentations on what they've been doing since they last met and do full on kahoot quizzes and several expensive glasses are sacrificed for the worser worse. 'what was the shirt color of the lady photobombing us in that beach selfie?' and dougie straight up lobs his phone at bucky's face.

some extra casually possessive clegan hcs:

passenger princess buck with bucky's hand always casually draped over buck's closest thigh, absentmindedly playing with the inseam of his pants when they hit a red light

or: buck laying a hand on bucky's thigh to calm him down when some asshole cuts them off, or when bucky starts going past the speed limit, or just for comfort during a long drive

sitting thigh to thigh during breakfast/lunch/in the bar, sometimes even overlapping, buck's arm always around the back of bucky's chair

when they're sitting on high stools, bucky's leg is always propped up on buck's footrest

buck sitting on the only high stool available, bucky leaning by his side with an arm tucked around his hip

this pose of dua/callum insanity. squinting down on a tourist map of madrid for a random trip together, bucky's arms around buck with their heads bent trying to read tiny spanish lettering under the overbearing sun, buck tucking his hand into bucky's backpocket and tugging him closer like that'll help them find their hotel easier

some vacation fun: actually from this post I've added a few to and had brainworms on

the buckies go on a 7 day trip to somewhere with beaches and resorts and spa days and fruity little drinks with tiny little umbrellas and tell literally 0 people. they get ambushed on day 4 anyway.

in every beach outing thing, there has got to be a scene where they do each others' sunscreen. doing buck's, bucky purposefully leaves some parts of his skin unsuncreened on his back spelling out 'I SUCK' with an arrow pointing down to his ass. thankfully buck's blessed with perfect golden skin so he doesnt sunburn like at all.

buck brings a whole rack of books to read while sun tanning, a cute little folded table, cooler, bright towels for mats, and a rented umbrella setting up his downtime perfectly.

bucky leaves him to it for the first two hours because he loves the man: he goes to play beach volleyball with some random people he charms within minutes, saves a kid's sandcastle from being eaten by the waves and somehow ropes the kid and 4 other random children to build a giant fortress with a moat, accidentally step on a few crabs, takes hundreds of pics with other random tourists for some strange reason (they think he's a movie star and he does nothing to dissuade that), does karaoke near the beach bar with several equally enthusiastic drunk people, and pets every dog in his vicinity. he acquires exactly 9 numbers despite telling people he's very much taken, several insider local attractions added to his knowledge, and finds out the dirty sordid underground clubs in the area. all within 2 hours.

he comes trotting back to buck without a single hit to his stamina, and finally starts lobbying for a jet ski race.

in the two hours he was gone, bucky had flirted heavily with the jet ski rental managers, and rented 2 jet skis with a discount he refused and without an actual boating license but he's like really persuasive guys you don't get it. they do know how to ride it though because they're the kind of couple with a terrifying amount of qualifications in their CVs.

buck pretending not to be as competitive as his partner and hemming and hawing about going on the jet ski but the minute the race is on their trash talking gets so loud beach security has to stop by to calm them down.

buck leaves bucky with their kit to get some ice cream and comes back to bucky lounging on the mat. without pause, he kicks up sand directly on top of bucky and buries the man within minutes without giving the man the chance to defend himself from buck's onslaught.

buck sends the 100bg gc a pic of bucky buried under the sand with a coke right beside his head and a straw poking out straight to his mouth for easy access and it becomes the gcs new pfp.

the boys trace their location within days and on day 4 of their vacation they get ambushed in their hotel room and it turns into a big outing. jack scoffs at the buckies' itinerary and types out a new one for their entire group.

#a no pain day <3 #gathered all my eggs in one post so i could be done with them #mota #masters of the air #buck cleven #bucky egan #clegan #buck x bucky #mota headcanons #mota hcs #mota modern!au #just indulgence honestly #curt biddick #benny demarco #john brady #james douglass #jack kidd #this is literally just for me im sorry 😭#eganeyes

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somekindofpoet · 1 year

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Like A Movie Part VIII

Summary: Filming starts and it stresses Jenna out. Reader learns a valuable lesson.

Word Count: 4.3K

A/N: This is NOT what I had planned to write for this chapter, but sometimes that's just how it works out. For clarity, Jenna calls reader JD as in James Dean, one of reader's many new nicknames. Anywho, enjoy!

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you pulled up to Jenna’s house. A mansion in the hills, maybe, or a penthouse downtown. All you knew was you weren’t expecting this. You double-check her text, making sure you hadn’t gone to her address in the wrong zip code, but no, this was it. You park your car in her driveway and get out, taking in the neighborhood.

You knew Venice beach like the back of your hand, it’s where artists congregated to smoke weed out of the backs of their vans and surfers ran around shirtless and salty. Your first kiss was at the Venice Beach skatepark in sixth grade. To say you were shocked to find Jenna’s home squashed in between the others facing the beach would be an understatement. It was modest and subtle on the outside, though you knew beachfront property in California was worth a pretty penny. Maybe it made more sense than you gave it credit for, but still, to know she had been here all this time was mind blowing.

You pull the top over your car and grab your Jansport, locking it and strolling up to her front gate like you weren’t just having a starstruck moment. You press on the doorbell button at the gate, and her voice comes over the little speaker, tinny and small.

“Hey! Just a sec I’ll buzz you in.”

Half a second later the door buzzed and you push it open, pulling it shut behind you. Her front door opened and she was there smiling at you like she hadn’t just seen you 12 hours ago.

Her house suited her so well it was almost ironic. The exterior was covered in dark cedar planks with black trim and giant bay windows. When you followed her inside you immediately felt comfortable, like you’d been there before. The floors were some kind of red orange stone, the masonry intricate and warm. The ceilings were untreated wood, the walls white, creating the atmosphere of a cabin but with views of the beach.

“Jenna, this is incredible. Why haven’t we been hanging out here? My apartment is a shoebox compared to this.” You tell her, your jaw dropping open.

She smiles as she leads you into the kitchen, shrugging. “I don’t know, I like your apartment. It’s comfortable and I like having all those scripts to go through.”

She returns to the stove, motioning for you to sit at the counter facing her. You pull out a high backed barstool, resting your elbows on the counter. She pours you a glass of red wine and gently slides it over the counter to you, her own already resting next to the stove. You take a second to absorb your situation. You’re in her home, she’s cooking you dinner, and you could kiss her at any moment. The realization hits you and you slide off the stool, rounding the counter and striding over to her.

You wrap your arms around her shoulders and hold your forearm over her chest as she continues to work, turning her head to give you a quick kiss. You can’t believe this is your life.

“Smells good, whatcha making me?”

“I figured I’d pull out all the stops and impress you, I’m making some lemon garlic mahi-mahi and,” she points with her spatula to the oven, “some roasted asparagus with golden potatoes.”

You take a deep breath, smelling all the food mixing together and it makes your mouth water. “Well this is putting my cooking skills to shame.”

She laughs and leans her head over to rest on yours, “Your pancakes will forever have a special place in my heart.”

You reach down to grab a piece of fish that broke off the filet, only to have your hand swatted away.

“Awh come on just a little taste, I’m starvin here.” You pout, dropping your chin onto her shoulder.

She takes the piece you reached for between her fingers and turns, letting your arms stay hung over her shoulders. The glint in her eyes makes your stomach flutter, and you gulp.

“Here,” she says and you open your mouth, letting her feed you.

Your lips wrap around her fingertips and her lip quirks up as she pulls them back. “Don’t get any ideas JD, we have to eat first.”

“And second?”

“We’ll see.” She says, but her expression tells you she already has plans.

————

Weeks start blurring past, you splitting your nights between your apartment and Jenna’s house, waiting for the set to be built so filming can start and working with the studio on production. You’re flying by in a state of new relationship bliss. You learn more little things about her every day, like the way she brushes her teeth, how she paces around when she’s thinking, the moments she likes to hold your hand and how she somehow takes up more bed space than anyone of her stature should be capable of.

The first day of filming is finally upon you and you’re giddy with excitement. The night before was one of the few nights you’d spent apart and you were impatient to get out to set to see her. You were also thrilled to watch your movie begin to come together at last, and you rushed out to the ranch as early as you thought socially acceptable.

Jenna’s Volvo is in the newly crafted parking area, so you swing in next to it. When you get out you can’t believe how much they’ve transformed the old house. What was once barren ground now held trailers and tents, people crossing every which way around them. The house is still utterly terrifying, even in the middle of the day. You make your way through the temporary buildings to stand at the foot of the porch stairs, staring at its peeling paint in awe.

“Well look who it is, our very own Casanova out of her sex dungeon.” Olivia’s voice rings out over the set commotion.

You turn around and dap her outstretched fist. She’s already in costume, her hair and makeup perfectly in place.

“Okay, look at you hot shot. All ready to attempt to woo my girlfriend?”

Olivia scoffs, “Attempt? Please y/n, she’s going to marry me. And we’re just gonna skip right over my sex dungeon comment huh?”

You point your finger at her, “It’s bait and I’m not taking it. And don’t get too handsy in there, I’m bunking with your boss don’t you forget it.”

“Is bunking what we’re calling it now?” She smirks.

You roll your eyes but you’d cant help the grin pulling at your lips. “Walk me to her trailer would you? This place is a fucking maze.”

Olivia nods and sets off into the labyrinth of trailers. You joke together and poke fun at each other on the walk over. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, and you’re genuinely happy for her. You hope the movie is a big break for her, because she’s got some serious talent. She stops in front of one of the many identical trailers and points up at the sign in the door.

“This one is hers. Mine is two rows down if you want to come by later to tell me how incredible I was today.”

She sets off, leaving you at the doorstep, laughing to herself. You shake your head at her back, grateful for her friendship and lame jokes. You look up at the door and you’re feeling star struck again. Jenna’s name is there in plain black print under Secessus, and the word Judas is printed under her name. You reminisce back to the day you told her you thought she should play Judas, just as starstruck then as you are now.

“Oh the star is such a diva, I wouldn’t approach her before filming.”

Jenna’s voice behind you makes you jump and she laughs, wrapping you in a hug when you turn around.

“You scared the hell out of me woman.” You tell her when she steps out of the hug.

She reaches up for the door handle nodding. “That was the goal, gotta get you ready for a jump scare or two.”

She opens the door and steps inside, you follow her close behind. You plop onto the couch, kicking your feet up on the arm, putting your arms behind your head. Jenna side eyes you from the kitchen, pulling a water from her fridge. She comes over to the couch, pushing your waist so you scoot over, and sits with you.

“What scenes are we doing today, Judas?” You ask her.

She cringes, “It’s probably better that you disassociate me from Judas now, so it’s easier later.”

Her tone is serious, so you sit up, your back resting against the arm of the couch. She’s nervous about something, and that makes you nervous.

“What’s going on?” Your concern is showing, so she reaches out to hold your hand.

She’s chewing on her bottom lip, her brows knitted together. She starts playing with your fingers, moving and bending them in her own. She opens her mouth to speak, but then hesitates and closes it. You reach the hand she’s not holding out, tipping her head up to look you in the eyes. You don’t say anything, but you tilt your head in question. She will say what she means to say, if you just give her time. Eventually she does speak, her words slow and unsure.

“It’s just that. Well you know, you wrote the story. You know who I’m going to have to become to play this part. And what I’m going to have to do.”

You let out a breathy laugh in relief, “You’re not going to actually kill anyone Jenna.”

She shakes her head, “That’s not what I mean. I have to be a different person on set. And I’m going to have to pretend to have sex with your friend.”

You gulp at the thought. You knew that but was coming, you did write the story. You’re kicking yourself now for not writing something more PG, but it adds to the narrative. You gather yourself for her benefit.

“If you’re worried about me, I’m going to be okay,” you assure her, “it’s just a job. Just an act. I can handle it.”

You’re not actually sure of that, but how can you be? You’d never been in this situation before. But you do know you wouldn’t let her job come between the two of you now. Not after knowing what it felt like to have her in your life like this. She sighs but nods with resignation.

“Not to bring out skeletons or anything, but I’ve had…trouble with this in the past. My last relationship ended because they couldn’t separate me from my job. And I admit sometimes I couldn’t either.”

She’s searching your eyes as she speaks, looking for any signs of possible doubt. You fight to remain nonchalant, trying to show her you could handle this. You could do this for her.

She continues, “I just don’t want to mess this up. And I want you to know what you’re in for.”

“I know what I’m in for. And I’m here, I’m in it. We’re going to be okay.”

Your thumb brushes over her cheek as she gives you a soft smile. Her posture relaxes and she leans over to kiss you. You pull her over, making her lose her balance and catch herself on the side of the couch. She laughs into your lips and you feel successful. Her stress drains out of her and your heart sings seeing her more at ease.

A knock bangs at her door, a man’s voice calls out, “Everyone is in place, they’re ready for you!”

Jenna leans back from you, her eyes bright with excitement. “Showtime.” She says, standing up and pulling you off the couch.

You follow her back outside and weave through the trailers at her side. She smiles up at you and grabs your hand.

“I’m only directing today, so stick around okay?”

You nod in agreement, the pep in your step carrying you all the way to set. When you come into view of the scene set up, she drops your hand and puts on a straight face. She means business now, and you mean to stay the hell out of her way.

She does an incredible job at directing. You think there’s no fucking way she’s never done this before. She’s stern but encouraging, sure but flexible, taking the actors’ thoughts into account. She choreographs the camera crew and her voice carries across the set with ease.

You swell with pride watching her work. She asks you for input here and there, picking your brain for scene cues and what emotions you were looking for when you wrote them. You’re thrilled to be able to give feedback, whispering about an eyebrow raise and the trail of a finger on the porch handrail, and the level of lighting you imagined. You’re once again struck with the fact that this whole thing came from your mind. It seems surreal now, it’s taking a life of its own, independent of you.

—————

The days of filming are long and many. You’re not able to spend as much time with Jenna outside of work as you want to, but you’re both usually so exhausted by the time the day is done you just go home. You’ve been privileged to see her direct and act now, and to say you’re impressed with her would be an egregious understatement. If you thought she was a star before, now you think she’s a galaxy. An entire universe of stars, pulling everyone along in her wake.

You’re laying on your couch on a rare day off, considering writing but not really intending to. You don’t have the brainpower to sit down and crank out another story. You just need to chill. Life on set is chaotic and exhausting, and you can’t fathom how Jenna does this for months on end.

You take a tennis ball from your coffee table, one of the many things you keep around to make your hands busy while you think. You toss it up above your head, waiting till the last second to catch it before it hits your face. The repetitive motion with little thought is soothing, almost meditative. You toss it up, and your phone rings on the table, surprising you. The ball drops and hits you on the forehead before rolling off under your couch.

Frowning and rubbing your head, you swipe to answer your phone without looking at who’s calling, putting it on speaker and dropping off the couch on your hands and knees.

“Yello?” You say as you crawl over to the spot you saw the ball roll. You reach your arm under the couch, blindly sweeping for it.

“Y/n?” A tear choked voice comes through the speakers and you jerk your head up, slamming it on the coffee table.

“Shit.” You say, holding your head with one hand and walking over to the table on your knees. It’s Jenna’s name on your phone.

“Hey what’s going on what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just.” She sniffs hard, trying to stop crying, “Can you come over?”

You jump to your feet, the tennis ball forgotten. “Be there in 20.”

You shove your phone in your pocket, not even hanging up and skid in your socks to your entry way. After a brief moment of Scooby Doo running in place, you finally find traction and make it to your shoes. You pull them on your feet, grab your keys and fly out of the door. You’re halfway down the stairs before you hear Jenna’s voice in your head say ‘Did you lock the door?’ You stop, almost hurtling yourself down the steps and turn around, running back up to lock the door.

You sprint down the stairs and jump in your car, peeling out of your parking lot.

There’s no open parking on Jenna’s street, her car in her driveway blocking where you’d usually park. It’s strange, she almost always uses her garage. You have to park two blocks down, and jog to her house. When you get to her gate you type in the code she’d given you, throw it shut behind you and run to her door knocking loudly.

You’re gasping for air, the run down the blocks reminding you that you should probably give up the vape and spend some more time in the gym. When she opens her door you can immediately tell she’s a wreck. Her eyes are swollen from crying and her hair is falling out of her bun, hanging in her face.

You step inside, kicking the door shut. She turns away from you but you grab her shoulder turning her back to face you and pulling her in to embrace her. You don’t even know what’s wrong, but right now all you want to do is comfort her. She melts into you, her arms wrapping around your waist and her hands gripping your shirt.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbles into your chest, and you lean back, trying to see her face.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” You ask her, craning your neck around so you can see more of her face.

She’s breathing steadier now, her eyes closed and her cheek pressed firmly into your shirt.

“For calling you like this. I’m sorry. I was just freaking out and you were the first person I thought to call.”

You gently push her shoulder back, trying to get her to loosen her grip on you. “Hey, hey it’s okay. Let’s go sit down so you can tell me what happened.”

She nods against your chest and lets go of you, leading you to her couch. There is paper everywhere. Copies of Secessus with her handwriting all over it, set designs, cue cards, stage lists all strewn about the room. You consider saying something about it, then think better of it. She sits down, pulling you with her to the cushions.

She gestures around at the paper, “I can’t get any of this right. It’s not perfect. I don’t know why I thought I could do this.”

You nod, understanding what was happening. You’d never seen her this way, but she had told you about the times she’d had panic attacks over work.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning, and you walk me through what happened?” You tell her, your thumb running across the back of her hand.

She takes a deep steadying breath, closing her eyes again and nodding. “I can’t get this scene together. The lines are making me crazy. And directing myself…it’s basically impossible. I’m not doing well enough-“

“Woah woah woah,” you say, interrupting the spiral she had spun herself back into. “Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re being too hard on yourself right now, you’ve been amazing every time I’ve seen you on set.”

She pulls her hand back from you shaking her head. “No, it’s not good enough. You don’t get it. You wouldn’t know.”

Her words sting you, but you let it slide. You’d talk to her about it later, when she wasn’t in such a state.

“Maybe not.” You say quietly, “And I probably can’t convince you otherwise right now. But I want you to know that I think you’re extraordinary.”

She groans, falling back to lay on the couch. You’re starting to question why she called you over if she didn’t want your help. You want to comfort her, but you’re not sure how.

“It’s too much. I can’t do it.” She whispers, pressing her hands into her eyes.

Her words send a chill down your spine. Your stomach twists in knots. You reach your hand over to her knee, resting it there.

“What can I do? What do you need from me?”

“Nothing.” She says, her voice going cold. “I don’t know why I called you. It’s your script. Your movie. I can’t do it.”

You know that she doesn’t mean it. You know that she’s desperately searching for something to be angry at so that she doesn’t feel the despair that is very apparently taking her down a rabbit hole of self sabotage. But that doesn’t mean her words don’t hurt. You pull your hand from her leg and stand up, looking down at her. She doesn’t take her hands off her eyes.

You want to shake her. To tell her that she’s the sun and everyone orbits around her. To show her the person everyone sees and loves. The person you see. But she’s not there, and you’re not going to let her talk to you the way she had. Even if she was the sun.

You don’t say another word to her and walk to her back door. You glance back and she’s still in the same position. You leave out the back, kicking your shoes off on her patio. You walk down to the ocean, the sand warm under your bare feet. You sit down a few feet from where the tide is licking at the shore, watching a group of kids play frisbee down the beach.

You’re angry with her for calling you over. You’re disappointed with her for saying things to you that she doesn’t mean. It’s the first moment you realize that she is shockingly human. Imperfect and flawed, just like everyone else. Just like you. The anger seeps out of you, and you resolve to sit there for a while before you go back inside and talk to her again.

The sun warms your skin, and the sounds of the ocean crashing onto the sand settle you. You smile to yourself because as unpleasant as the interaction you’d just had was, it was still with her. You wouldn’t rather fight with anyone else. You’re lost in thought, face pointed toward the sky, eyes closed.

A shadow passes over your face, and a body drops into the sand next to you. You turn your head and open your eyes. Jenna. She’s looking at you like she’s lost you already, and it breaks your heart to think that she believes something so small would send you packing. You open your arm out and she takes your invitation, sighing in relief as she leans into your side.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

She wraps her arms around your waist and rests her head on your shoulder. She looks up at you, and you glance down at her, not moving your head.

“Can you forgive me?” She asks quietly.

You smile, “You were forgiven about five minutes ago.”

“Before I even apologized?” She asks, sitting up to look at you.

“Yes.” You say simply.

“So I didn’t need to apologize?”

“Oh no, you definitely needed to apologize. You were mean.”

“I didn’t mean anything I said. I mean, I did mean that I was stressed. I am stressed. But it’s not your fault.”

You gaze out over the water, nodding your head. “I know. Still stings, though.”

She sighs, “Have I told you I’m sorry?”

You shrug and turn to look at her. Her eyes are wide and fearful. She’s afraid of losing you, still. It brings you some comfort, but the desire to reassure her is there again. You’re not going anywhere, and you want to make sure she knows that.

“What do you need when you’re feeling that way? You know, for next time?” You ask her because you know there will be a next time.

You know that she’s not suddenly going to become less anxious and neurotic just because of you. But you want to know how to help her, not send her into a spiral again or piss her off by comforting her in a way she doesn’t want. Everyone has a love language, and everyone has a preference on how to be settled. Hers was very apparently NOT words of assurance. Which makes sense to you now, seeing as she’s probably told every day by millions of people how incredible she is.

Her expression softens impossibly further, and she looks like she’s going to cry again.

“No one has ever asked me that.” She gulps, frowning, fighting back tears.

“Well that’s just an absolute injustice.” You say, smiling.

“I guess I don’t want to be comforted. I want to be distracted. When someone tells me I’m great and I’m telling them I hate my performance, it feels like an argument. And the last thing I want to do in that mindset is argue. So next time, I’d like to be distracted.”

“Oh now that I can do.” You reply, smirking.

She looks at you wide eyed and confused, and you throw your body over, tackling her onto her back in the sand. You plant little kisses all over her face, drawing a surprised laugh out of her. You press one last kiss to her lips and roll off her, lying by her side.

“Thank you.” She says shyly, staring at your fingers in the sand.

“Let’s go clean your mess up,” you say, pushing yourself up onto your knees.

“Stay with me tonight?” She says, still lying in the sand, “Let’s watch movies and get drunk.”

You cover your heart with both hands like she’s stabbed you and dramatically drop back into the sand next to her. “Oh, oh no.” You cry out, “Cupid's arrow, right through the ticker.”

She laughs and leans over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot now. So feed and water me, shower me with affection.”

She stands and offers you her hand, pulling you up. “What are we watching tonight? Lady's choice.” She asks you as you walk back to her house.

“Ooooh let’s watch Scott Pilgrim Vs the World.”

#jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday #tara carpenter #vada cavell

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cupidgwk · 8 months

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. . ! oblivious — kim gyuvin

► more friends to lovers !!!!

► synopsis: you and gunwook devised the oh so, full proof plan to get gyuvin to fall for you!!!

► slightly proof read

► p.s gunwook is best wingman

step one — get closer to him (physically)

gunwook laid out the steps for you one by one. first, you’d have to get close to him but in a subtle way!

his bright idea? turning up the a/c. what you didn’t expect was gunwook setting the temperature to a chilling 60 degrees.

“oh it’s pretty cold in here isn’t it.” gunwook ponders.

“yeah, just how cold is it?” you glared at gunwook as your teeth chattered.

“oh don’t worry about it! the air conditioner must be broken.” he shrugged avoiding eye contact.

gyuvin still had his eyes fixated to the tv in full focus in his mario kart race.

“are you cold y/n?” hanbin questioned. “you can wear my sweater if you want!”

“oh thank you hanbin! you shouldn’t have…” your fully slightly pained smile spilling out as you accepted the wrong person’s hoodie.

gunwook physically smacked his hand against his forehead.

spoiler alert: it did leave a mark on his forehead that lasted a good two days.

step one. failed.

step two — make him good ol’ baked home goods

you trusted gunwook with your life after all. well, not after the kitchen fiasco that was.

“uhm, is that supposed to be bubbling?” you questioned in concern watching the “cookies” bake in the oven.

“i don’t think so,” he trailed off in fear. “just how many tea spoons of baking powder did you add?”

“i think, around 3?” you replied.

“that can’t be right, then why is the-“ realization flashed through his eyes.

“oh man..” he started.

“what did i do.”

“well, you may have used table spoons instead of tea spoons.” gunwook stated re-reading the baking instructions.

he pointed his finger to the top of the ingredient list. “also, we used baking powder instead of soda.”

to make the situation even worse, the smell of smoke entered your nostrils.

“there is no way…” you raced to the oven and fished the tray of slightly burned cookies.

of course at the worse timing ever, gyuvin enters the kitchen, clearly looking for whatever he can stuff into his mouth.

“yay cookies!” his eyes lit up. “i love home made ones the best!”

“gyuvin wait!” but you and gunwook were a little too late. as gyuvin munched into the baked good that didn’t even deserve to be called a cookie.

gyuvin’s face went from joy to confusion to pure disgust.

“oh wow guys this is the best thing i’ve ever tasted!” he managed to cough out.

“dude, you can be honest.” gunwook deadpanned.

“i need a moment.” he mumbled making his way toward the bathroom.

in the distance you can hear the faucet running as gyuvin attempted to get any taste of that concoction out of his taste buds.

“great! i gave him food positioning!” you slouched onto the floor in defeat.

step two. failed.

and so the saga continued. gunwook would come up to you every day with a new plan to push gyuvin closer to you. of course, most. well. all of the attempts resulted in failure.

one failed attempt after another felt like a never ending rollercoaster. step 4? yujin beat you to asking gyuvin to share an umbrella on the walk home. step 5? we don’t talk about step 5.

“gunwook, i am one failed attempt away from dropping out and moving across the country. the continent even!” you flailed your arms in annoyance.

gunwook shook his head in disagreement. “no can do!” he shook his finger. “i got this covered y/n, just you wait!”

do not fret. gunwook wasn’t class president for no reason. he devised yet another foolproof plan by adding any steps necessary to ensure by the end of the day you and gyuvin will be a couple.

step ??? — become partners for the upcoming group project

gunwook may or may not have pulled a couple strings to ensure that you and gyuvin would be partners in the newest english assignment.

“hey y/n!” gyuvin greeted pulling up a seat next to you. “what exactly did the teacher say? sorry i think i fell asleep for most of it.”

you laughed at his demeanor before quickly explaining the project requirements and such. surprisingly enough, gyuvin listened intently nodding along to the words spilling from your mouth.

“thanks y/n!” he smiled. “so, when is this due?”

“we have around two weeks or so,” you tapped your pen on your bottom lip as you scanned the instruction sheet once more.

“wanna visit the café across the school so we can sort stuff out?” gyuvin questioned tiling his head.

your face erupted into a smile at his suggestion. “you sure this isn’t just an excuse to try their new season menu?” he pouted at your words lightly shoving your shoulder. “come one! please~”

you rolled your eyes at his antics. “of course gyuvin~” teasing him.

conversations filled the hallway as students rushed to beat rush hour on the train. the two of you continued to converse as you made your way to the train station. of course, gyuvin forgot to reload his train pass resulting in the two of you missing the train.

“i’m so sorry!” gyuvin apologized clasping his hands together. you laughed at his dramatic apology shaking your head playfully. “don’t sweat it, it gives me more time to spend with you.”

“what?” gyuvin questioned. your face immediately burned up as regret filled your mind. before you can even stutter out a response, gyuvin came up with one himself.

“glad to know, my plan worked,” you raised an eyebrow in suspicion. he turns to face you. “why don’t we turn that study session into a real date? you know, to make up for missing the train and everything.”

you rolled your eyes playfully. “of course!” a smile erupted on his face as he suddenly engulfed you in his arms.

“i’ve been waiting so long to do this.”

gunwook’s full proof plan to get you and gyuvin together: SUCCEEDED

#zb1 x reader #gyuvin x reader #gyuvin scenarios #zb1 gyuvin #gyuvin fluff #gyuvin imagines #zb1 imagines #zb1 scenarios #zb1 fics

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coffeebrownn · 10 months

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i might recompile my winterfield headcanons that i've written in twitter but here's a new one (food edition(??)):

ethan is pescatarian, before re7 he eats chicken but never other types of meat, chris manages to reintroduce him to eat chicken again for his military training but ethan became sick.

because of ethan's new diet, ethan went in and tried different types of fish for variety, but at the end he sticks to his favorite week night fish meat is the typical salmon or tilapia, for him grouper fish is the best for soup meals

ethan does't eat raw sashimi or any raw meat due to re7 incident.

ethan doesn't like shellfish too much due to the texture, some are okay like abalone.

chris prefer seasoning that punch your taste buds, something very strong like Garam Masala, Cajun, Shacha sauce (Chinese BBQ), while ethan preferences is pretty mild, so around the circle of Herbes de Provence.

i'm not saying that ethan can't handle the spices or the heat, he just prefer simpler taste and the natural taste of the main ingredient (salmon, etc).

acidity for food, like lemon and vinegar are exceptions, ethan describes it "brings the whole dish back alive!"

from my previous headcanon, i've mentioned how chris is very big into safety (guns, cars, etc), this includes him being cautious with picking meat suppliers and checking labels on where they got their meat from ((again, it's because of the RPD incident, even though he is not there to experience it singlehandedly, he saw his close ones living in that situation, same thing with his parents dying due to a car incident)) it's more so long term over short term, sure he'll try an exotic meat like squirrel/snake from a trusted restaurant/supplier but he's not going to eat that meat everyday

chris' priority isn't about enviromental sustainability (sadly), really just for health wise for him and his close ones (IF they ask, ethan and rebecca agreed, claire doesn't care, jill and leon is indifferent with these sets of informations)

as for chris, he eats whatever meat, he prefers lean meat due to his training, so chicken is very important for him. other meat such as beef and pork is more so a treat for chris. he WILL try exotic meat.

but again, I think both are okay eating the same meal over and over again, and genuinely not picky, Chris doesn't pay too much attention if the meal that he'd ate is the same with the previous meal, he only cares of it's healthy or not (claire and him grew up eating leftovers after leftovers, claire sometimes complained about it). Ethan has a different reason, i think of him to have phases cater around his interest and that phases last in 6-8 month or so.

most of the main dish were picked by ethan, most of the time it's made using dutch oven, so something along the lines of cassrole or stews were often dinner meals for them. with a side of light salad or carbs like stale bread.

Chris isn't the "health police", he's really just a very cautious man. OHH the irony since he smokes the most in the group.

He still sneaks in some chocolate and sweet treats too.. ethan finds it adorable to see that chris is a sweet tooth like him 😭 soemtimes ethan will ask chris if they can get ice cream and you can see the man struggling to say no 🥺

chris sometimes substitue his cigarette with licorice lozenges. he doesn't like patches, but he will take one if he's in a very long flight.

chris HAS to sleep in plane flights, if not he'll grew restless due to him not smoking. he'll wake up to eat or take a piss and that's it.

#headcanon #winterfield #ethan winters #chris redfield #text #ramble #re #resident evil #rebhfun #re8 #re7

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breannasfluff · 5 months

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Winter Interlude - 1

All of the boys are familiar with snow. After so many adventures and eras, it’s a given to be equipped to deal with the cold.

Yet there’s something different about waking to find a layer of white softening the landscape, while inside a cozy house.

Ravio must have risen early and stoked a roaring fire. The heat of it fills the rooms and halls through a series of cleverly enchanted pipes. Given the nature of bowerbirds, built for tropical temperatures rather than cold, it makes sense.

The nest is warm and cozy as Legend wakes, despite the lack of Ravio in it. Through the nestroom window, he can see the mound of white on the sill, reflecting sunlight. Snow.

At his side, Hyrule burrows into him without going anywhere. Wild is draped around Hyrule, his larger wing acting as a blanket over the brown thrasher. Legend’s wings may be bigger than the traveler’s, but his thinner feathers don’t have the same insulation.

The bowerbird shifts to stretch and Hyrule gives a small grumble, rolling in search of a better pillow.

Wild automatically lets his flockmate curl into him, giving a sleepy chirp of comfort. One eye slowly blinks open to peer at Legend, who gives a reassuring coo. Settled, the magpie goes back to sleep.

Legend extracts himself from the nest and finds a change of clothes. Here at home, he can pull on loose, warm pants and a slouchy, open-back sweater. It ties at the base of his spine, but he leaves the straps swinging free. The sweater stays on—barely.

The comfortable heat of the nestroom isn’t lost as he steps into the hallway and heads toward the kitchen and living room.

He pauses by the fire, radiating heat where it’s built into the bricks, and watches Ravio for a moment.

His flockmate trills to himself as he putters around the kitchen, pulling out cups and setting out tea. There’s a pot of coffee steeping to the side. From the breadbox comes a variety of pastries and rolls for the table, laid out buffet style.

Meat buns steam juice as Ravio pulls them from the oven to put on the table. There are rolls with shiny beetle carapaces decorating the top to appeal to Four and Wild. A fish mousse from the fridge for the seabirds. A jar of cream—fresh, given the frothy yellow at the top. Apples are front and center on the table, but so are a multitude of other fruits. Cheeses and jams are tucked throughout it all.

The air is heavy with the scent of hot food and fresh coffee, underlaid with the sweet smell of wood smoke from the fire. Beneath Legend’s feet, even the tiles are warm to the touch.

Ravio slides plates on the end of the table and looks up as his bowerbird counterpart pads in.

Good morning, he trills, forgoing words.

Morning, heart-of-mine, Legend answers. His cheeks still pink with the indicator call, but both birds proudly wear each other’s feathers.

“Look outside,” Ravio says and joins Legend as he moves to the kitchen window.

Snow covers the landscape; a foot at least, and more still drifts down. The garden is hidden, as is the lawn; smoothed over by the blanket of white. There are no sharp edges, only curving slopes with shadows of blue and grey.

The morning sun, still rising, sparkles off all of it. The few trees in the backyard are laced with ice and dusted in snow.

“It’s beautiful,” Legend breathes.

Beside him, Ravio hums and reaches under his feathers to grab the errant ties of his shirt. “It is. I’ve got a lovely breakfast spread for the flock and more to heat up when everyone is ready. Eggs and bacon to start, unless they need something else?

Legend shakes his head, still taking in the pristine landscape. “It looks and smells wonderful, Rav. They’ll love it.”

Ravio finishes off the shirt tie and leans into his side. Their wings bump as the bowerbird presses a soft kiss to Legend’s cheek. “Love you,” he whispers to the ear tilted his way.

Even the beauty of the winter landscape won’t draw Legend away from his flockmate. His hands find Ravio’s waist, fingers sliding under his shirt to stroke soft, plush skin.

Legend pulls the merchant into his chest and, despite being similar heights, Ravio is languid enough to melt and look up at him. The vet traces the faint freckles on his face and the flecks of purple in his eyes. The small, slightly upturned nose—like a bunny, he said once. Sweet pink lips, just slightly parted.

Well, if he’s going to look like temptation, there’s no reason for Legend to hold back on kissing him.

Read the rest here!

#Winter Interlude #lu wing bois #linked universe #linkeduniverse #ravioli #ravio #ravio x link #raviolink #ravio x legend #lu wild #lu legend #lu ravio #lu hyrule #lu four #lu wing au #breannasfluff #my writing #ravioli ship

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cloverque · 5 months

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up on tokio hill (msby bj)

masterlist, ch 1: the newbie is our new housemaid! (not)

upon arriving in tokio hill, a misunderstanding occurs the moment you show up. your new housemates seem like a lot to deal with– and a lot more handsome than you expected. but things will work out, will it not?

5488 words

“I swear I’ll call security on ya if ya don’t leave right now!” The blonde man before you shook his phone in the air, ready to fulfil his threat. His orbs were flaming with the fury of a thousand suns and his face was pulled back to a snarl– he looked like he was ready to drop-kick you out of the house itself.

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. I don’t even know what’s going on!” You held up your hands defensively and stood firmly (as much as you could without shaking).

The urge to take flight in the face of a livid, insanely handsome dude was so strong that you may just leave the country altogether. This was definitely not the way you imagined your first day at the share-house would go.

“Everyone calm down!” Another man begged. Behind the silver haired man is an oven with smoke leaking out of. His hands were held up as well, like the scene in Jurassic World and the raptors.

For the love of the gods, Uncle Tai, what have I gotten myself into…?

(A few hours ago…)

Tokio Hill was a quiet suburb in the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t exactly what it sounded when Uncle Tai had introduced it– you’d imagine it was a bumpy piece of land with tall grass and mice scurrying about. According to Google, it was home to plenty of rich folks, celebrities and some of Japan’s biggest sensations. It used to be a paparazzi hotspot until the local authorities decided to protect the inhabitants by conducting regular security checks. There were even a couple of police outposts in the area.

It was a wonder how a normal person could afford living in such a high end place. If it weren’t for your ‘niece discount’, you would never have moved into the area. Uncle Tai barely told you about the other tenants, but they must have been loaded. With that said…

“How on earth did Uncle Tai bag this place?” You wondered aloud as you stood outside a gated property, a pet carrier in one hand and a luggage bag in another.

This house was unlike the (extravagant) others down the road. An off white coat of paint with a deep, navy blue roof. It had a number of floors, you guessed three altogether. The fence had barely any gaps between them, preventing you from peeking through. It did a splendid job obscuring the ground floor from public view, but the other floors were visible.

A meow came from the carrier. You peered inside; a stubby Sphynx sat comfortably inside, whiskers twitching curiously. You slipped your fingers through the gaps to rub its hairless head.

“Oh Meru, I guess our new life starts today,” you whispered. Its bright blue eyes twinkled with (what you assumed was) curiosity. Your pet mewed back as you returned your focus to the house.

It all starts here. A fresh start. You inhaled deeply then exhaled. It’ll work out– it has to.

You approached a smaller gate that was off to the side of the entrance. A silver intercom was built into the gate. You pressed the biggest button, probably the doorbell. It didn’t take long before you got a response.

Static buzzed from the intercom. A man’s voice crackled, “...Ello? Hey, hello?”

You straightened up, “Hi! I’m new here. Today’s my first day, and–“

“Oh, I know you! Yeah, come on in,” The man interrupted. The crackling stopped and you the gate clunked. Gingerly, you pushed it open and entered the estate.

The front yard was huge, accommodating two shiny cars and a front yard. Concrete seemed to extend around the area, tall enough that you doubted you’d be able to see the other side without a ladder. Lining the walls were hedges; green and freshly trimmed. Off to a corner was a grassy area with an outdoor swing and bird fountain. A fish carved from stone spewed a steady stream of water into the pool.

Your eyes wandered around as you moved towards the main door. Footsteps thudded inside the house before the door swung open. A giant loomed over you and Meru. Your pet cat and you simultaneously tilted your heads up to look at him– a man with silver hair, peppered with grey tips. He was all smiles in a frilly apron.

This guy must be almost two metres tall! Both your cat and you stared in awe. You stared holes at the super girly apron. A magical girl was printed on the front. M-Moe gap…

“I was expecting you! Come on in,” he patted his hands on the apron, “I’m in the middle of something, so you can just do the second floor first.”

“Okay. Wait, what-?”

An alarm sounded inside the house. The man whipped his head towards the source before turning back to you. “Uh oh, we gotta hurry! Come on in already,” Without hesitation, he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the house.

You clambered in, luggage and all, and Meru screeched from its rocking carrier. Full of apologies, you tried to console your pet whilst he shut the door. He noticed Meru, who stood on its haunches at the salt and pepper haired man.

“You can leave your things here first,” He gestured where you stood. When you set Meru on top of the shoe cabinet at the entrance, he reached out to you. His larger hand enveloped your wrist effortlessly and he began pulling you along. His hold was gentle enough so as to not bruise, but secure enough to make sure you couldn’t run. The unwarranted warmth on your wrist gave you goosebumps.

What on earth was going on? This was some sort of misunderstanding, right? Before you could process that thought, he stopped at the end of the hallway, where a closet awaited. He rummaged through it and produced a few items.

“Here’s what you’ll need. This, this– oh, this too…” Without looking, he handed you cleaning tools: bleach, sprays, gloves and more.

As he progressively piled more into your arms, the alarm continued beeping in the background. You practically cradled the load, “Umm, mister, I don’t think I’m who you think I am. I’m actually-”

The man ran off to the kitchen, where a cloud of grey began seeping from an oven. He screeched incoherently and began fussing over whatever it was inside. As he began murmuring to himself, you sighed. There was no way of getting through to him. At least, not now.

You took in the living room slowly. In the corner of the house was a flight of stairs. The rest of the place was split into three areas: the lounge, dining area and kitchen. The lounge was furnished with a massive flat screen television and a long couch. In-between was a paper strewn coffee table and magazines haphazardly stacked. Meanwhile, the kitchen was occupied by none other than the silver haired man, who stood by marble countertops. There was an island table as well, though it seemed counterintuitive when there was a dining table present.

The layout of the place was exactly like the photos Uncle Tai had sent you. And the place was big. As expected of a private estate in a posh area. Again, how did your good for nothing uncle score this place…?

You looked at your cleaning supplies. He said just the second floor, right? Maybe he’d listen to you afterwards. You waved goodbye to Meru and began your way up the flight of stairs, tools in hand.

When you reached the second floor, you peered around the corners to view the hallway. There were three rooms available, two on either side. One of the doors had a little sign that read ‘bath and laundry’. You peeked inside: there was a common area with a sink and mirror that stretched across one wall. Laundry machines and baskets were on the other end, with one of the baskets piled up with off-white sheets. You walked deeper in and into the connected shower room, which had a huge bathtub. On the shelves built into the walls were a mess of different bottles of miscellaneous hygiene items.

There was a lot to be done, you realised as you walked out of the shower room. You approached the laundry and realised there were jars of different powders on the shelves hanging above the laundry machines. There was even a note, a handwritten one with a few annotations. You scrutinised it with a squint.

“For every extra bedsheet, use a third of a cup of detergent. Only use this brand of fabric softener for the sheets. I will come after you if they are not properly washed,” You read aloud. A giggle escaped you, “What the heck? They sound like a troublesome person.”

You eyed the baskets– you could start with this one. The instructions written by the troublesome person could guide you for your first task. The counters and shelves could do some wiping and reorganising as well.

“Guess I better get started,” You left to return downstairs, “I better set these things down first before I drop them.”

While you laid out your cleaning appliances, a man entered the laundry-cum-wash room. The man pulled his shirt over his head, ruffling his blonde hair. It fell to the floor, along with the sweatpants he had shimmied out of. He swooped up his clothes and hung them over one of the baskets. Quietly, he closed the bathroom door behind him, forgoing the decision to lock it. After a shower, he stepped into the bathtub for a soak. With a long arm draped over one side, he closed his eyes and began dozing off. Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of the door, you had begun to do the laundry.

　The tumbling of laundry filled the room. You watched the sheets toss and turn inside the machines as you squatted, hands on your knees. Thanks to the meticulously written notes, it was easy to figure out the buttons and amount of detergent to use. While they were washing, you wiped down the counters and surfaces. Your cleaning rags were coiled up in the bottom of the pail beside you.

While cleaning, you came to the conclusion that the guy in the kitchen had mistaken you for a cleaner. Uncle Tai must have told the tenants that you’d be here, right? There’s no way that bozo would forget to inform them… right?

“Knowing him, maybe it’s not out of the picture,” you sighed and rested your face in your hands.

You heard footsteps from the hallway and your face lit up. Was he finally free to speak? You turned expectantly but came face to face with another stranger. A half-naked man wrapped in a towel around his torso stood at the doorway of the shower. His hands tried to hide his exposed chest and his face was…

Oh– This isn’t good.

He let out an ear-piercing scream.

. . .

Oh right, so that’s what had led up to this situation.

You blinked at the blonde who droned on about the cops and trespassing. This guy was a broken record, nothing was going through him. His shoulders heaved up and down aggressively. Was it from anxiety or anger? It was hard to tell.

“Tsum-tsum, you gotta chill out! It’s the new maid Taichii hired, remember? He told us about it last week!” the silver haired man clarified. He still adorned the frilly apron with the magical girl.

“The new maid’s only supposed to be here when we ain’t around, ya moron!” The blonde man said, eyes wide. “I can’t believe ya let a stalker into the house, Bo-kun! Besides, it looks like she’s moving in, not cleaning for the day!”

He jabbed a finger in the direction of your luggage. Meru, who had been anxious throughout, flinched. It hissed in the direction of a frowning ‘Tsum-Tsum’.

You blocked his line of sight to Meru, “Woah there, you’ve really got the wrong idea. I’m not your stalker because firstly, I swear to the gods that I don’t even know who you are. And secondly, I’m your new housemate– I have the contract and texts to prove it!”

The blonde raised his brows before returning to his scowl. He seemed to ponder it over.

“Huh? So you aren’t our new housemaid?” The man named ‘Bo-kun’ blinked incessantly.

“Or a stalker?” The blonde folded his arms crossly.

Before you could retort, the main door clicked open.

“I’m home!” You heard a voice call out. Footsteps thumped in the hallway before another man appeared in the scene. This person carried a bag of groceries in one hand, and a cap in another. His bright ginger hair contrasted against the cream walls of the living room.

“I saw another pair of shoes at the entrance. Is (l/n)-san finally-“ He made eye contact with you and the others, “–What’s going on?”

“Hinata! Help–” Apron guy cried as the ginger hurried over. “Tsum-tsum thinks our new maid is a stalker-!”

“For the love of– How many times must I tell you guys that I’m neither!” You threw up your hands in desperation.

The ginger blinked once at you before looking at the others, “Did you guys forget? Taichii-san’s niece is joining us here starting today. Isn’t this (l/n)-san?”

The three men turned their heads to you. A long sigh escaped you. It seemed like they would finally listen. Thank the gods for this man named Hinata.

　Meru roamed freely in the living room, sniffing the kitchen counters. It approached the oven, which was half-open. A tray of burnt cookies sat inside, and your cat ran off after a tentative sniff. Meanwhile, you stared at the men sitting across from you. They had introduced themselves briefly, and the three men across from you were known as Atsumu, Hinata and Bokuto.

Uncle Tai forgot to mention that I’ll be living with a bunch of dudes, you side-eyed your sphynx. As if it could hear your thoughts, the hairless cat mewed back.

“I’m so sorry, (l/n)-san,” Bokuto blushed. He sat across you at the dinner table, his forehead practically squished against the surface as he bowed apologetically. His form was shrunken with embarrassment, his broad shoulders drawn in.

Atsumu sipped on his mug of coffee. He appeared indignant over the situation, as much as someone could be after accusing an innocent person of a crime. He would send not so inconspicuous gazes your way too. As you stared pointedly, your eyes met and he averted his gaze. An irk mark formed on your head.

This guy hates to swallow his pride, huh? What an asshole.

Whilst sparks flew between the two of you, Hinata scratched his cheek. He sat in between the others awkwardly. “This vibe makes me feel like I should apologise too…”

“It’s been a while since I heard of the news and I… completely forgot… and mixed up the housecleaning visit with your moving in. I’m terribly sorry for making you clean the place up–!” Bokuto added, still grovelling.

You held up your mug of coffee, “It’s fine now, Bokuto-san. And please, there’s no need for you to do this. It’s okay.”

He lifted his head cautiously and you reassured him with a nod. You took a tentative sip.

“How can we make it up to you?” Hinata spoke up, to which you rubbed your chin.

Meru mewed at the foot of the table. You lit up and turned to the trio, “Oh, I know. How about you show me around the house?”

It didn’t take much convincing for a house tour. Although, a certain blonde had slipped away during the tour, refusing to entertain your questions. The remaining duo properly showed you around the house, including the backyard. They shared that sometimes, they would have barbecues with friends, though rarely. You learned that Atsumu and Bokuto stayed on the second floor, which probably explained how the former had entered the bathroom without you knowing, due to it being right across his room. Meanwhile, Hinata, another tenant and you stayed on the third floor. As for the toilets…

When you enquired about it, the guys exchanged a look before Hinata sheepishly said, “Taichii-san had specifically requested that you use the third floor’s bathroom only… Um, he mentioned that it wouldn’t be right for a lady to share a bathroom with men she had no familial relation with.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I’m being a bother,” Your eyes widened.

“It’s totes fine. We’re not at home much... Besides, we only have toilet fights when Tsum-tsum’s in the kitchen. Which is rare-” Bokuto rambled before Hinata slapped a hand over his mouth. The man with salt and pepper hair blinked in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it!” The ginger grinned. You raised a brow. That wasn’t reassuring one bit.

They led you to your room and the duo retreated downstairs. You watched them leave with Meru in your arms. You stood outside a room, the only one with a sign hanging on the door. It was your name arranged in hiragana with wooden blocks. A flower was even glued to the end.

Does Uncle Tai think I’m still in preschool? You tried to take it down only to realise it was superglued to the door. An irk mark formed on your head. A certain bozo was about to hear it from me later on the phone…

You closed the door behind you and set Meru down. Its tail trembled curiously as it inspected the floor. Gazing around the room, you noted the stacks of cardboard boxes in a corner. Huh, Uncle Tai really wasn’t lying when he said this place was bigger. You sat down on the bed. The naked mattress was soft yet firm, awaiting to be clothed in sheets. The evaporated stains of cleaning liquid on surfaces notified you of its recent cleaning. And much to your pleasure, the room was modestly furnished the way you had requested it to be. Just a table, wardrobe and cabinet.

Suddenly, you were reminded of your luggage at the door. You had forgotten about it during the chaos. It was the least of your worries when you were dealing with the probability of being arrested. You opened your door and peeked out of the room. Unexpectedly, your luggage bag was waiting outside. You glanced around the hall and at the stairs.

Someone has helped you out! You watched for any movement at the stairs but neither saw nor heard anything. With gratitude, you muttered thanks and wheeled it in.

You spent the rest of your time unboxing and decorating your room. Meru helped by laying on the bed and its new sheets. It dozed off in the warmth that filtered through your windows. You made quick work of unpacking clothes and arranging your decorations and merchandise. As you finished setting up your monitors, you pondered over the earlier argument.

Why did the blonde guy react so explosively earlier? Was he a celebrity of sorts? You were certain that you were up to date with pop culture, but neither his face nor name rang a bell. Though you wouldn’t doubt if he wasn’t famous. He was as prickly as a sea-urchin but undeniably a handsome man. You rummaged through your pop culture schemas but produced nothing.

A thump outside your room broke your train of thought. You peeked past your door to investigate and found yet another giant in the hallway. What did the tenants of this house eat…? This man was dressed in a stylish turtleneck and coat, and he stood across you, fiddling with the keys to his room.

Suddenly, Meru mewed. The man in the coat spun around, keys in hand. Your cat yawned and nuzzled the bed. You met his obsidian eyes nervously.

“Umm, hello…” You started. He stared back.

Despite wearing a mask, he was also quite the looker. Why was this house full of good looking dudes? Was he a celebrity of sorts too? The man had a mop of curly dark hair atop his head and two moles above an eyebrow. Wait, two moles? Your eyes widened in recognition, “Sakusa Kiyoomi!?””

Sakusa knitted his brows together. His mask twitched as he spoke, “Do I know you?”

“Are you for real? We attended class together in highschool . Remember, with your cousin Komori-kun. I was with you for all three years!” You gestured at yourself. He stared hard, as if considering what you had just said.

Heavy footsteps filled the stairway and Bokuto reappeared, “Oh! I see you guys have met already. That’s awesome,” He grinned and gestured over his shoulder, “C’mon, we’re heading out for dinner!”

“Huh? But I just got back,” Sakusa rubbed his temples with a sigh.

Bokuto simply placed his hands on his hips, “It won’t be good if you miss out, Yoomi! Besides, we’re having a welcome party!”

　By the time you set foot, it was already evening. The restaurant they intended to visit was within walking distance, on the outskirts of the city that edged towards the suburbs. Rows of shops were situated on one side of a river, where cherry trees lined along. With spring fleeing from Japan’s grasp, the trees had already lost most of their blossoms. That didn’t stop you from catching a lone fluttering blossom as you stood outside a restaurant. Warm light filtered through the paper screen doors as the sign above read Onigiri Miya.

The guys opened the doors and a windchime rang in the doorway. You peeked past their broad shoulders to take in the place. The interior was a modest mixture of Japanese and modern design, with cream walls and wooden floorboards. Customers dined at the counter that looped around the kitchen or on the floors, at the low tables. The clamour of conversation and oil crackling was almost homely, like the izakayas in back home. As your eyes scanned the place, a waiter with freckles practically bounded towards your group.

“It’s been a while since I last saw you guys!” The boy said. He must have been in high school with his doe-like gaze.

“Sup,” Atsumu grinned. He was surprisingly cheery despite the earlier situation, “Is Samu here?”

“He left earlier for a catering event. The boss has been busy lately!” He noticed you and quickly added, “Oh, who’s this?”

“She’s our new housemate. Taichii’s niece,” Hinata added, gesturing at you with a smile. You nodded shyly and the waiter beamed.

“Arighty! My name is Yuuma and I’ll be your waiter for the day!” He swooped up a few menus and gestured, “Please follow me!”

Yuuma led everyone to the back of the restaurant. This area was partitioned off with screen doors, and it was far quieter here. These rooms must be reserved for special customers. You entered the room last and everyone took their seats, leaving the only open spot next to Atsumu. It wasn’t your intention to sit beside him, so you made it clear by respectfully scooting an inch away from him. After inspecting the menu, and with thoughtful insight from the guys, you decided on a warm bowl of curry udon, with a side of a speciality onigiri.

An awkward silence fell in the room the moment Yuuma left to place the orders. You half-heartedly scratched the fabric of your clothes when Hinata spoke up.

“We haven’t had a proper opportunity to introduce ourselves, so let me start,” the ginger smiled. His amber eyes held a homely warmth that could melt the barriers of anybody’s heart. He gestured at himself, “I’m Hinata Shouyou. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“I’m (l/n) (y/n). The pleasure is mine,” You bowed your head. Mirroring Hinata’s smile, you added, “Uncle Tai and I share the same family name, so feel free to call me (y/n), if you’d like.”

“Can I call you (y/n)-chan? That’s such a pretty name!” Bokuto straightened up and thumbed at his chest, “Ah– And I’m Koutarou Bokuto! It’s real nice to meet ‘cha!”

Bokuto’s gaze arrowed at the blonde beside you. The former seemed to be staring expectantly for him to introduce himself. Maybe because of the awkward incident from earlier. Ah… this awkward introduction gave the vibe of adolescents during a mixer, or something.

“Miya Atsumu,” the blonde practically exhaled. He looked at you from the corner of his eyes. He thumped an elbow on the table and rested his chin on it, “Nice to meet ‘cha, I suppose.”

“Y-Yeah, it’s nice to meet you, Miya-san,” Your smile wavered. Even if he mistook you for a stalker.

“Atsumu will do just fine.”

A half hearted sigh escaped you internally. Then there was Sakusa, who seemed disinterested in the conversation from the start. He had his gaze fixated on the wall behind you this whole time. Your eyes met for a brief second.

He spoke up softly, “Sakusa Kiyoomi. But you seem to already know that.”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember me. I was the class president in all our years in high school,” You leaned forward a little. Would that be enough to jog his memory?

Sakusa looked up at the ceiling, seemingly disinterested. You sighed with a dejected smile. Figures. It had been a number of years after graduation. So this reaction wasn’t much of a surprise. Your shoulders drooped in defeat.

“Sooo… does that mean you attended Itachiyama Institute?” Hinata spoke up. “What was Sakusa-san like?”

“I’ve attended since middle school all the way to high school. I may be wrong, but Sakusa-san transferred at the start of his first year of high school,” You lit up. Grinning, you cheekily added, “Girls were all over him for the next three years. It was never a boring day.”

“It was annoying,” Sakusa admitted. His focus remained on anything but you, but he indulged in a half-smile. “The only good memories I had were on the court.”

“Somebody’s shy,” the blonde beside you sniggered, “I’m surprised he had chicks when he’s this much of an asshole– Ow!”

Something thumped under the table. You could only assume Sakusa had kicked Atsumu under. A nervous smile creeped up on your face. Beneath his mask of calm he must have been riled up a little by that comment. Who knew he’d grown to be so petty.

Meanwhile, Atsumu grinded his teeth, “Fall over and shrivel up!”

The waiter returned with trays in hand. In a sing-song voice, he said, “Atsumu-san, please keep it down.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes and pouted. What was he, five? While Atsumu hyper-fixated on a dent in the floor, Bokuto helped Yuuma place the dishes on the table while Hinata began distributing cutlery. You took a pair of chopsticks and pulled your meal closer to you. The five of you shared a quiet meal, as much as one could when a blonde was seething beside you.

After some time had passed, you asked, “So are you all from the Kansai region? Except for Atsumu-san, the rest of you don’t sound like it.”

“Yoomi and I are from the capital, but Hinata’s from Miyagi.” Bokuto responded with a mouth full of ebifry. He took a swig of beer before exclaiming, “Woo! This stuff is great!”

Sakusa leaned away from Bokuto, a disgusted expression on his features. He shifted his meal away from the guy, who dropped a shrimp tail from his mouth. Meanwhile, Atsumu nagged at the guy to eat less sloppily.

Hinata chuckled before turning to you, “Yup, I’m from the more rural side of the prefecture. What about (l/n)-san?”

“I also lived in the countryside up until grade school. That’s when I moved to Tokyo,” you took a bite of a potato. It was soft and tender, like the rest of the veggies in the curry.

“I totally get it,” Hinata grinned. I can imagine it was a big change!”

“And now you moved from Tokyo to Osaka.” Bokuto prodded with half another ebifry sticking out from his lips. “Why’s that?”

You stopped mid bite. You raised your head to meet Bokuto’s eyes. The others were preoccupied with their food, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t listening. Like wisps of steam on a hot day, your appetite dissolved. Suddenly your curry udon and speciality onigiri didn’t smell so appetising anymore. With a far off look in your eyes, you managed a timid smile.

“I… guess I needed a change of pace.”

. . .

“And then she said to me… ‘Who do you think you are, asshole?!... And- Oh, I don’t feel sho gud…’” Gurgled Bokuto, who remained limp in Hinata and Sakusa’s grasps. They were practically dragging him at this rate, with how in and out of consciousness he was.

“He’s a goner,” Sakusa announced. He jabbed a finger into Bokuto’s face before clicking his tongue, “I even told him to hold back a little.”

Hinata chuckled. The tips of his ears were dusted pink but not as saturated as Bokuto’s. “He’s the life of a party. You’d know by now that Bokuto-san can’t stop once he starts.”

“I’m well aware of my teammate’s awful drinking habits, but we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. He’s going to whine about his hangover during practice…” Sakusa trailed off.

Night had long fallen upon Osaka, and the way back was arduous with a passed out drunk in your party. You laughed light heartedly as the trio in front of you stumbled over a pebble. A flurry of insults at the unconscious man in the group spewed from Sakusa. Poor Hinata tried to defuse the situation on behalf of a man who was too drunk to care. Frankly, it was hilarious.

“What’s so funny?” Atsumu mumbled beside you. He was also tipsy, but not as bad as Bokuto. The two of you trailed behind the others.

Your smile fell, “Umm, it’s nothing.” You didn’t want him to misunderstand, so you quickly added, “I haven’t had this much fun in a while. I’m really happy.”

He hummed, seemingly in thought. A few moments of silence passed, and just when you figured that was the end, he muttered.

“Hey, about earlier.”

“Earlier…?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” the blonde said quickly, jamming his fists into the pocket of his hoodie. The warm light emanating from the street lamps cast a gentle glow on the contours of his handsome face. His brows furrowed, “I’ll be honest with ya, I jumped to conclusions and said some pretty awful things, my bad.”

He must not have been used to this– he was chewing on his bottom lip. It looked like it took everything in him to apologise, if you could consider this an apology.

The corners of your lips tilted up, “It’s okay. I would’ve been pretty spooked if some stranger appeared in my bathroom too. I may have done the same.”

“Oh, I mean. It’s not like ya did something wrong. Something like this happened before… sorta.”

This had happened before? Your surprised gaze was missed by Atsumu, who fixated on the path ahead. His eyes were downcast, and you frowned. With a face like his, it wouldn’t be out of the question to have obsessive fans. But stalkers were a different thing, no?

“I think I misjudged you,” you commented. “You seem like an okay guy, Atsumu-san.”

He gave you the side eye, “Hey, just because I apologised doesn’t mean you can make fun of me.”

“You call that an apology?” You chuckled when Hinata called out suddenly.

“(l/n)-san, Atsumu-san! Can you help buy us some painkillers? We ran out and need some for Bokuto-san tomorrow!” He gestured at the FamilyMart nearby.

Atsumu groaned. He flashed an okay-sign to the guys before looking at you. “Boy, yer going to witness an ugly sight tomorrow. We’re going to buy five different types of painkillers only for Bokuto to refuse to eat any.”

He entered the store first. Staring at his back, you looked behind your shoulder at Hinata, Sakura and Bokuto. They were fussing over the guy in the middle whose eyes were barely open.

A smile crept up your face. Who knows? Maybe living with these guys is going to be alright.

“(y/n)-san,” Atsumu called. He stood at the doorway, arms crossed.

“Be there in a second!” You hurried over, shoes clacking on the pavement.

With the trio waiting outside, Atsumu and you searched the aisles for medicine. You took a handful which Atsumu dumped into a basket. As the two of you waited in line, your phone– which you had left behind on your desk– buzzed with notifications.

44 notes · View notes

fadingdaggerr · 1 year

Text

rose infusion - l.w.

pairing: (college) larissa weems x gn/fem!reader (reads more fem but no gendered terms/pronouns for r)

summary: larissa smoking weed for the first time with a “good friend” (and r practically foaming at the mouth over her the whole time)

warnings: marijuana use, smoking, shotgunning smoke for the plot, rolling tutorial, discussion of drug use, making out, references to drinking, friends to lovers <3

note: this was fun to write considering smoking is one of my very few talents /lh. i also based a lot of the background on stuff that’s i’ve done or seen when i lived on campus lol

after probably breaking several traffic laws, i finally got to my destination. amir’s house was up the street a little ways, but i desperately had to change my clothes. putting my car in park, i fling my upper half into the backseat in search of the spare clothes i left there to change into. after a delightful struggle to remove my work uniform of khakis and a black button up, i finally got my jeans and long sleeve on. the black converse sneakers could stay, they were only part of the uniform that i had any say in.

opening the glove compartment to my right, i fish around until my hand knocks against a heavy piece of metal and a sandwich bag. grinder, check. weed, check. i look in my middle console, blindly moving the napkins and random plastic utensils until i find my prize, slowly raising it out like a claw machine. baby blue lighter, check. papers were the only thing missing.

i drive up the road, praying they remembered, then clapping to myself when they did, i see the spot in the driveway they left open for me. once in park again, i grabbed the grey, oversized zip up from my backseat, wrapping it tightly around me as i began to make my way to the house. finally making it to the door, i open to a sea of people. dancing, talking, yelling, oddly dangerous making out on top of the oven, beer cans littering the floor, and loud music blasting through the speakers. this was definitely an ‘amir and co. party,’ as it had been coined by himself, and himself only.

i find him by the makeshift pong table, a bookcase that has been brought face down, balancing on milk crates placed at each corner. incredibly stupid, but inventive, so i let this one slide.

“oi, you got papers?” i say loudly as i stand to his left, trying to be heard over the music.

he yelps, “you scared the shit out of me, you god damn ghoul,” he sinks a ball into a cup, followed by a happy fist bump to his partner, tomas.

“nice one. now, papers?”

“nah. go check out back i’m sure one of them has a pack of ‘em. if you can’t find any, sneak to my room and use one of my glass pieces. i don’t need you cranky at my party,” he smiles to me, before groaning at mikal when he lands a ball in a cup.

“you’re the best,” i say, turning and walking towards the back porch. i had opened at work, and been asked to stay later, and i wanted, no needed, was to sit and smoke in peace.

i get outside, and find my usual smoking buddies. i greeted them, gladly accepting a hit off of one of their pipes. after asking, more like begging” for only one or two papers, i was gifted five little sheets, and a couple spare filters dominic had prepared before the party.

“if i wasn’t gay, i’d so kiss you for this,” i joke.

“if we’re both gay, does it cancel out?” he jokes back, and we talk back and forth for a bit. i move to sit down to finally roll for myself, my very own joint. all i had been thinking about since leaving work.

i put some weed in the grinder, turning and turning the cover. grabbing one of the papers, i gently fold it in half to create a crease for the bud to sit. just as i reach for the grinder, the seat next to me dips down. i almost made a comment telling them to get lost, thinking it was amir coming to fiend off of me. every cell in my body thanked me for looking before i spoke.

when i looked to see who sat next to me, i’m greeted by the greatest sight for sore eyes the gods have ever created. larissa weems. ever since freshman year move in day when i first spoke to her in the hallway, she’s been the only thing on my mind. we had somehow been in the same english class every semester for the last three years, and i always had admired her from afar. she was always top of the class, peer reviews showed her masterful writing, and sitting close to her let me see her kindness up close.

we had become friends. most of first year we were just ‘school friends’ mostly, only sharing the one class each semester and sitting close to each other. second year the ongoing classes together became funny coincidences, now sitting directly next to her and coming in early to talk with her in the longue. this year, third year, andrea started crushing on tomas, so they both were becoming frequent guests of amir’s house, and larissa and i would just sit and talk the whole time.

i took her in, still not used to her outside of a school setting, or with her hair down for that matter. she had her long legs covered by light blue jeans, a fitted, white university t-shirt, and a golden necklace with a sun pendant. she finally looked back at me, realizing she had sat with someone.

“oh, hey,” she said shyly, eyes only looking in mine for a second, like she was checking to see if i was bothered by her presence. i was most definitely not.

“hey, larissa. i didn’t know you’d be here tonight, how are you?” i pray to every god that could hear me that i sounded normal.

“i’m good, i guess. and i’m here because andrea dragged me here. tomas asked her to come by and she ‘had to say yes’ because finds him ‘yummy in eight languages.’ her words, not mine,” she shakes her head at the thought. i fake gag muttering ‘straight people’ with a shiver, making her bark out a laugh.

“i definitely wouldn’t word it that way, not even if i was held at gun point, but tomas is a sweetheart. andrea’s in good hands, a little stupid, but good,” she laughs at this, tomas wasn’t known for being the brightest student, but he was the kindest kid out there.

“anyways…” wanting to get away from the topic of andrea and her conquests, i change the subject. “you decided to join us here in the smoking lounge. can’t say i’m not surprised, you never mentioned that you smoked,” i say lightheartedly.

“i don’t. well, i guess it’s more that i haven’t. this is the first year i haven’t lived in a dorm since before high school. never really got the chance,” she looks almost embarrassed by her confession.

“that’s totally fine. did you… did you want to? you can smoke with me, if you want. if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. i don’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything,” i make eye contact with her to try and prove my honesty, wanting her to know she’s not going to be judged.

“i want to… i just have a dumb question first,” she says in a small voice.

“no such thing as a dumb question, i’ll tell you anything you want to know,” i give her a assuring smile.

“is there a way… to make it, i don’t know. is there a way to make it not taste as gross as it smells?” she asks unsurely.

i think for a second. when we were in high school amir and i would take mint and lavender from his mom’s garden to lessen the smell. this wasn’t an option now, seeing as amir’s apartment was closer to growing blue cheese than mint, but mr. cho next door had a rose bush. i close up my grinder, and put the papers and baggie of weed under it, using it’s weight to secure them there. i stand up, offering my hand to larissa. she slowly reaches out, placing her warm hand in mine. her hand is so soft, and the weight of it in mine grounds me.

i pull her in the direction of the fence that lines the yard, stopping when i reach the hole that brings you to the other yard. i drop her hand, and get lower to slide through the opening, but before i can, she grabs my elbow.

“what in fresh hell do you think you’re doing?” she whisper yells at me, not letting go of my arm.

“getting something to help with the taste, you asked if there was a way. i’m getting the way,” i say, trying and failing to loosen her grip by shaking my arm.

“that is someone’s yard, you’re gonna be trespassing,” she said, making it clear that she was not coming with me.

“you’re worth it,” i say, and she goes to say something but i cut her off, “plus, i’m barely going into the yard, just to the side of the house to grab one little, tiny thing. he’s asleep i’m sure, he’s like a thousand years old and he only has a cat,” and with that, i drop down, finally losing her grip. i carefully go through the fence, trying not to get dirt on my clothes.

i look back, seeing larissa staring back at me. i wave to her, she lets out an breathy laugh before waving back. i run low and quick across the yard, coming up next to a rose bush. i stick my hand just a little, a few thorns digging into the top of my hand and wrist, but i pluck the head off of one rose. looking around, i make sure i’m in the clear, before grabbing swiss army knife from the pocket of my sweatshirt, detaching a perfect rose from the rest of the bush, closing and sliding the knife back in my pocket. i turn and head back to the fence, sliding under it. i pop back up into standing position, the head of the rose in my palm, the full one hidden by my sleeves.

“tada!” i say with a smile, “this should help a bit with the taste, and the smell.”

“you trespassed, on a man old man’s property, for a rose bud.”

“yes, now let’s go,” and with that, i begin making my way back to the porch. larissa follows after a second, walking by my side. she walks around the table, i follow her with my eyes as she moves to sit back down, a little shiver going up her spine as she does.

i grab and open the grinder, tearing up little pieces of the rose and adding it to the already grinded weed. ideally this would be dried rose, also ideally not from mr. cho’s yard, but the fact that i would be smoking with larissa made both of those facts mean nothing to me.

“i’m guessing you don’t know how to roll,” i state, looking larissa as she nervously plays with her hands, she shakes her head, confirming my assumptions. “that’s okay, i’ll show you. come here,” i motion her to come closer, and she immediately does, making me blush just as fast.

“you do it, i’ll talk you through. sound good?” i ask her, she nods, “okay, gently hold the paper in half the long way,” she does. “good, now reopen it, and put a filter in at the end,” i pass her a filter, my skin tingling at the short brush of our fingers. she lays the filter against the end closest to her left hand, “now, we just add the weed and rose, then the hard part.”

she looks at me desperately at the mention of ‘the hard part,’ i place my hand on her knee and caress the skin with my thumb, “nothing you can’t handle.” i don’t miss the blush that creeps up her neck, but i hope she missed mine.

i watch as she sprinkles the weed and rose mixture into the paper. long fingers grabbing small bundles of the plants, distributing it evenly. her rings make little noises as her hands move, and i can’t help but watch. she looks at me for confirmation each time before adding more, i only stop her by putting the cover back on the grinder.

“alright, now we roll it, get it all packed and into the right shape. it doesn’t have to be perfect, most of the time they look quite sad,” she giggles at the last bit, and my heart flutters, my smile growing.

i adjust her hands, showing her the motion to make, but when she gets frustrated and mutters something about “should be smart enough to figure it out,” i stop. i grab her hands, moving them manually, showing her the motion myself. she initially freezes, and my hands drop from hers with an apology ready on my lips, but she pulls them back with a ‘it’s okay, i’m just jumpy.’

my eyes go back to her hands, my own coming to help her again. she takes a deep breath, before focusing on the motion harder than before. after i see that she had gotten used to it, i moved away, watching the small smile on her face grow from pride.

“now, we seal it up. tuck, roll, lick, twist, done,” i say quickly, she chuckles warmly. “okay, for real this time. wrap this around the weed, start by the filter,” i start the tuck for her to show her, she quickly understands what to do next, beginning to finish rolling it up. she looks at me for the next direction.

“you have to lick it,” i say, barely being able to look her in the eyes, “ya know, to seal it.”

“is that really necessary?”

“what did you want a little water dish to dip your fingers in? that’s marijuana not a spring roll there, babe,” her eyes widen at the pet name, mine do too. i was not expecting myself to call her that either.

she looks at me before asking, “can you do it? i don’t want to mess it up.”

“you wouldn’t,” i say quickly, not liking how she talked down on herself twice now, “but i can do it, if you want,” she quickly passes her little creation to me, “this looks much better than the first joint i ever rolled, you should be very impressed.”

“i’ve had a pretty great teacher,” she says with a smile, but i’m frozen because her hands hadn’t left mine yet, both our hands cradling the almost finished joint.

with all my strength, i move my hands away from hers. i make eye contact with larissa, raise the joint to my mouth, poke my tongue out, and drag it alone the paper. her eyes are not subtle as they watch my tongue with intent, instead of my eyes. sealing it, i grab a twig off the ground to pack it down, then twist the end. i hold the joint by the filter and hold it up.

“our marijuana and rose mixture, m’lady,” i say with a smile that she matches instantly. i hold it out to her, offering the first hit, but she shakes her head.

“you first, it’s your stuff and you were patient enough to help me. plus you trespassed on someone’s lawn, lots of hard work,” she quips, making me laugh. i was not going to live down the rose bush, was i?

placing the joint between my lips, i look around for my lighter. it had just been on the table, i was sure of it. my head whips around a couple times before i hear a little click, click click.

larissa hold up the lighter, flame glowing. the orange hue lights up her face, her pale skin warmed by the fire. she was so close to me, faces only about a foot apart, knees touching as we faced each other on the couch. the shadows of her face and hands accentuated, her lipgloss shining, eyes reflecting the light. i knew in that moment that nothing more beautiful had ever existed.

she brought the flame to the twisted end of the joint, lighting it gently. no words between us, eyes on each other. i inhale for a few seconds, hoping to get it started as well as calm myself, before my hand rises to my lips to allow myself to exhale. i hold it out for her to grab, but she doesn’t move.

i lower my hand, “you don’t have to if you don’t want to, i’ll put it out if you want.”

“it’s not that, i just don’t want to make a fool of myself. you know, like cough my lungs out in front of you,” she looks at her lap the whole time, twisting her rings around her beautiful fingers. goosebumps grow on her arms as the wind picks up, the sun now past the horizon.

i sit up as i start talking, “you will not make a fool out of yourself,” i slip off my zip up, “everyone coughs when they smoke, if they make you feel bad about they’re idiots,” i hold out the sweatshirt for her, “and i most definitely will never think anything bad of you.”

she accepts the sweatshirt with a hesitant grasp, but once she puts her arm through one sleeve, she’s rushing to pull it fully on. she wraps it around her, i’m giddy at her in my clothing, but i try to remain calm.

“i mean, there is a way that might make you cough less. but it’s a little different and i’d be in your personal space,” i say, not wanting to pressure her or scare her away.

“what is it?” her eyes perk up, looking into mine.

“it’s called shotgunning. basically i’d take the hit, then exhale it into your mouth while you inhale, like passing it along. you can say no, i know it’s weird.”

“i wouldn’t mind you in my personal space,” she whispers, “i’ll try.”

i look at her quickly, making sure she’s serious, and she definitely was. i mumbled ‘okay’ before bringing myself closer to her. i stand on my knees, straddling one of her thighs. one hand on her shoulder, the other holding the joint. i slowly get closer, but she seems to be more impatient. her hands move to my waist, pulling me closer quickly. now fully straddling her, i decide to stay standing on me knees, my hand now around the back of her neck.

i bring her face closer to mine, she tilts her head back just in the slightest while her hands slide down to hold my thighs. i lean over her, moving my hand up to cup her face, stroking her jaw. i look into her eyes, asking permission once again, and she nods.

smoke fills my lungs and mouth, the joint resting between my lips, pulled away a couple seconds later. the smell of weed and a hint of rose surrounds us, but it’s nothing compared to her perfume. i raise my eyebrows while looking at her, letting her know to start inhaling.

i exhale slowly, my lips puckered so no smoke is wasted. smoke smoothly starts to flow my from mouth to hers, her hands grip was steady the entire time, my thumb never stopping the slow, circular motion against the bottom of her jaw. when all the smoke cleared my lungs, i watched her exhale a paler cloud. still perched over her lap, i take a hit from the joint again, this time for myself. i exhale slowly again, blowing the smoke up and away from her, not only to be polite but as to not cover her face.

her hand grabs my wrist, pulling it towards her mouth, this time taking a hit on her own. my eyes never leave her lips, watching as they wrap around the filter and how they leave a shiny print of her lips from her lipgloss. how the smoke leaves her mouth, swirling and dancing around her. her and i just look at each other for a minute before she squeezes my thigh and speaks up.

“i prefer your way,” she whispers, a tiny smile toying at her lips. my heart races.

“i think i do too,” i say back, though i wasn’t just thinking it, i’m fully in love with the idea. i never wanted her fo smoke another way ever again, always like this, me in her lap and her hands on me. i would be content living as her personal cigarette holder. taking another hit, i tap my thumb against her jaw, telling her to inhale once again.

by the time the joint is halfway down, she tells me she ‘believes it’s starting to kick in’ with a slightly more dopey smile, eyes now lightly tinted red. thighs beginning to tire from holding myself up on the cushions, i decide to sit down on her thighs. her stiffens, only for a moment, until her hands comfortingly rub my own thighs, before her hands slide up to my waist, pinching my side playfully.

she takes a hit herself again, choking on the smoke a bit when i bend away from her. i crawl off her lap, grabbing the rose i had plucked for her. i guarded the rose from her sight, i use my knife to remove the thorns so they wouldn’t hurt her.

“what is that you’ve got?” she asks through a giggle, trying to peek over my shoulder. her efforts unsuccessful as i practically fold myself in half to block her view.

“none of you business, now just sit there and look pretty,” i laugh, then wince as i jab my ring finger into a thorn. once the last thorn is removed, i look over my shoulder to look at her. her eyes are already on me, big, blue, and beautiful. “close your eyes,” she does so without hesitation.

i grab the joint from her hand, placing it in my lips, “okay, pretty. open,” i let smoke come out between my words. i had the rose held out to her, nervous smile on.

her eyes open, first focusing on my face then the rose. her smile grows instantly, eyes now flicking between the flower and i. i held it out a little more, urging her to take it.

she tentatively reaches out, hand grazing mine. her fingers wrap around the stem, eyes watering a little, “for me?” her voice was so small.

i nod, letting go of the flower so she can inspect it. her smile makes me heart race and stomach fill with butterflies, but the way she looks at the flower is what makes me weak. she looks at it like it’s precious, like i have gifted her the first rose to ever grow. her arms move around my shoulders within seconds.

“thank you,” she whispers into my ear, my arms wind around her waist, squeezing tightly. i mumble an ‘of course’ into her hair, i nuzzle my nose into her. when we part, she stays close to me. i roll another joint while she rests her head on my shoulder, her eyes watching my actions closely.

with the joint in my mouth, bringing the lighter up to the end. before the flame can reach, a pale hand swipes the lighter from my hand. she lights it in her own, lighting the joint for me. her eyes stay on mine as i inhale, hold, and exhale, still making the point to exhale away from her face. she stays facing me, an expectant look on her face.

with her face held in my hand again, i take another drag, exhaling slowly into her mouth again. she smiles, i smile back. the slider door opens, and larissa nearly jumps out of her skin, but doesn’t move from my side. andrea peeks her head out, grinning largely when she sees larissa. as she makes her way over, she grabs the joint from me, taking a hit, and puts it back between my fingers.

“okay, so on a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if i stayed the night here?” andrea asks larissa, begging hands in front of her.

a sigh leaves larissa, “solid 8. you’re going to make me walk back to the apartment alone?”

andrea is practically pleading, larissa is irritated. i turn and see tomas in the window trying to see the outcome of this conversation. i shake my head at his antics. i take a long pull off the joint, breaking the ash off and putting it out, then cutting andrea off.

“alright! you have fun with tomas, just don’t use the bathroom in the hallway. boys live here,” they both look at me weird, “larissa, i’ll walk you home, if you want,” she smiles softly. andrea squeals loudly, running inside, no doubt to tomas.

“you don’t have to walk me home,” is all larissa says.

“i know i don’t have to, i want to. i would offer to drive you but,” i pointedly hold up the joint and take a drag, “so i will gladly be walk you home.”

— — — — — — —

the party had died down, the only people left were amir and his three roommates, some ‘too drunk to leave’ stragglers, larissa, andrea, and i. sitting on the couch inside, larissa’s head was resting on my shoulder, an arm wrapped lightly around mine. andrea and tomas slowly disappeared from the living room, larissa and i both chuckling at the clumsy duo sneaking away.

i lean my head onto hers, speaking into her hair, “want to head home?” the only response i receive in a gentle nod against my shoulder.

i begin to stand, saying my goodbyes, then give mikal and amir hugs. larissa finally stands, wobbly for a moment. she makes her way to stand by my side, polite goodbye and thank you’s sent to the guys. after grabbing my grinder and weed bag, i pick around the pockets of my sweatshirt, which was still on larissa. finally getting a hold of my keys, i pull her gently along to start the leave.

the air had gotten much colder during our time inside, my arms wrap around myself tightly. there was no way i was going to ask for my sweatshirt back, the view of her wearing it was enough to keep the cold from consuming me. always observant, larissa notices my shivering and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into her side. my own arm goes beneath the sweatshirt, hand now resting on her waist.

i pull the remainder of the joint from earlier, it’s a little bent but can still do the job. i hand larissa the lighter, and she takes the hint, lighting it for me as she had previously tonight. we pass the joint back and forth as we walk.

“thank you, for tonight,” she says when we’re about half way to her apartment, she’s gently playing with the rose between her fingers.

“of course. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. and you’re welcome over to smoke, or not, whenev- i mean if you want,” i say, hoping that she’ll take me up on my offer to at least hang out. i just needed her presence, she was too beautiful to lose.

“be careful with that offer, you may never get rid of me,” she chuckles, smile bright and eyes glowing. she was a star plucked from the heavens and placed here on earth, just for me.

“maybe that was the plan all along,” my voice is quiet, i’m stuck in a trance by her beauty.

we arrive at her building, climbing shaky stairs to her door. she opens the door, motioning for me to come inside with her, and i follow with no hesitation. she walks quickly down the hall, to what i assume is her room, before coming back out with a sweatshirt. with an amused smile, she hands me her own cream colored zip up to wear.

we sit crisscross on the couch facing each other, my arm resting on the back of the couch to hold my head up. larissa just sat up, playing with her hands in her lap as we spoke.

“why did you give me that rose?” she asks, her eyes back on my face.

i can only be honest with her, “because it’s pretty, and so are you. i didn’t really think much before cut it, just that i wanted to give you a flower.”

she presses her lips together to hide her smile, but the blush on she cheek betrays her. when she finally allowed herself to look at me, she whispers, “do you actually think i’m pretty, or are you just high?”

i’m taken back by the question, my heart cracking at her thinking i wouldn’t find her beautiful. i reach for her hands, leaning close to her, “i think you’re beautiful. i always do, sober included,” i tilt my head to catch her eyes that dropped to our hands, “i gave you the rose because i like you. like a lot, like so much that amir has banned me from talking about you when we’re in the car because it’s ‘too tempting to kick me out while moving’ in his words,” this both shock and amuses her, so i go on, “i was sober when i picked the rose for you, i wasn’t when i have it to you, but the rose was always for you, larissa.”

she looks me in the eye, probably in search of a lie, but she won’t find one and she didn’t. her hands tighten their grip on my own, “i really like you too, incredibly so. and not just because i’m high. i’ve liked you ever since freshman year in that intro writing seminar, you lived right down the hall and i never got the courage to just knock on the door.”

i have no words to offer her, only an awestruck stare. my heart was frantically beating in my chest, my hands frozen in hers. in a sudden rush, i throw myself at her, and wrap my arms around her shoulders, back on her lap after hours away. her strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in further, her head burying in my neck. god, she was just so warm and she was so close, this was what heaven felt like, i’m sure.

her head picks up, now only an inch from my face, “can i kiss you?” her voice is so small, but the grip on my waist is confident. my arms slide from her shoulders, hand coming up to cup her jaw on both sides

“please,” and she does. her lips are so soft, gently dancing with my own. i pull her face in more, needing her closer, closer, closer. my hands slide into her hair, gently threading through soft tresses. her hands grasping my back, gripping my clothes. sliding down, her hands are on my ass, pulling my body in as much as she can. and i let her, and i’ll keep letting her. her tongue asks for entry, and i allow her in immediately, moaning into her mouth at the contact. the high from the marijuana mixing with the high of her touch was creating an addicting feeling, one i didn’t want to live without ever again.

she pulls away slightly, and i whine as i pull her in again. she gives in, laughter lightly vibrating in her chest. i pull away this time, breathing becoming necessary. i rest my forehead against hers, not daring to open my eyes so i can’t ruin this perfect moment. lips press against my cheek, gently moving up to my temple, before she’s back resting on the crook of my neck.

“stay,” she says into my neck, arms wrapping around me tightly. i definitely didn’t want to walk back to amir’s alone, and i most definitely didn’t want to leave her. i just hug her tighter, pressing kisses to her hair.

we stayed like this for a little while, wrapped in each other’s arms and mumbling to each other. i could feel her relaxing against me, likely ready to fall asleep, and i wasn’t far behind her. i pull away from our hug, holding her face in my hands. big blue eyes, soft from sleepiness were staring back at me, a barely-there smile on her lips.

“bed time?” i whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“you have to stay with me,” her voice is like honey, eyes never leaving mine.

“i wouldn’t dream of leaving,” pressing a kiss to her lips, i move off her lap and stand in front of her with my hand out for her. she grabs my hand so gently, as if she’s afraid she’ll hurt me, and lacing our fingers together. she leads the way down to her room.

with the lamp turned on, i could see her room is impeccably clean, only mess is her unmade bed. she lets go of my hand to walk over to her dresser, and i walk around looking at the photos and decorations. a photo of her and a girl with long black hair stand out, arms wrapped around each other, wearing matching uniforms. ‘cute,’ i think to myself. a little rainbow flag rests amongst pencils and pens on a desk in the corner, a matching little lesbian flag with the makeup brushes in the cart next to the desk. these make me smile, knowing she’s proud of herself had my heart melting.

she taps my shoulder, presenting me with sweatpants and a t-shirt of hers when i turn around. we both move to stand on different sides of her bed, she turns away and i copy her. we get changed quickly, or at least i did, wanting to be able to have my eyes on her again. she throws an ‘okay?’ over her shoulder, which i only respond to my picking up my clothes and folding them neatly, moving to put them on top of her dresser. she busies her self with pulling back the comforters and sheets, fixing her many pillows.

settling into bed proves a little awkward at first, both of us laying side by side, not speaking, lamp still on. she moves first, turning the lamp off before settling back in, now on her side, facing me. opening my arms, i motion for her to move closer. she scoots into my side, head resting on my chest as my arm wraps around her at her shoulders, our legs wrap around each other.

“larissa?” i whisper out, she nods against my chest, “i really like you,” i say quietly, my free hand grabbing hers and playing with her fingers. i’m fully aware she can feel my heart beating quicker.

she squeezes my hand, “i really like you too.” she places a kiss to my clothed chest before resting her chin there. “can we get breakfast tomorrow?”

i laugh at her sudden change in conversation, “of course we can, we can go get my car and we’ll go wherever you want, and you can get whatever you like.”

“french toast from the diner on dawson street?” she bites her lip with a smile, and my own smile grows huge on my face. she’s so impossibly adorable, and i get to witness it.

“it’s a date,” i say, relishing in the excited look on her face. she stretches up and presses a long kiss to my lips, then a short one right after, then gets settled back on my chest.

once i hear her breathing even out, her grip on my shirt loosen, i finally allow myself to close my eyes. i thank my lucky stars for this moment. to be holding larissa, falling asleep in her bed, wearing her clothes. heaven has got nothing on this, nothing on her.

hope y’all like this one, i actually really loved writing this and how it turned out. all feedback is appreciated <3

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems fanfic #larissa weems #gwendoline christie #larissa weems is a lesbian #wednesday netflix #brienne of tarth

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