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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 8: The New House]

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

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

Word Count: 5.9k.

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

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

Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰🧁

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it’s my favorite one yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wildflowers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

Amir smiles faintly. “Come over here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle. “No. Probably not.”

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my responsibility.”

“Because Viserys told you to?”

“They amount to the same thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond? What are we doing here?”

“Follow me.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Aemond, what—?”

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

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

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

“Aemond, whose house is this?”

“It’s yours,” he says.

“It’s what?!”

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

“But…but…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Right. Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are mystified. “What, honey?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well…it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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iamnotoriginalphil · 2 years ago

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Hi there, just have to say - you’re fantastic at writing, can’t wait to read more of your fics! Wanted to ask if you’d consider writing something for Reader x Larissa Weems, where they are a family now and got a son. Potentially that son is to attend Nevermore and the rest - up to you. Only if you’d like to write something along the lines, of course, no pressure. Many thanks!

Domestic Larissa is a good Larissa to write. I hope you like it!

“Mooooooom.”

You grinned, tugging on your son’s tie, doing your best to straighten it. He tried to bat your hand away, wriggling to try and get away from you. You ruffled his hair, giving him a playful shove.

“Stop your whining, kid,” you said, “you know how this goes.”

“Have you seen my pearl earrings?”

You turned at the harried voice behind you. You couldn’t help but smile at your wife. Without her shoes on and her fingers curling her hair up onto her head, she’d never looked more beautiful to you.

“In the dish on your bedside table,” you replied, “you left them on the dining table last night.”

“Thank you.”

Larissa pressed a quick kiss to your temple, disappearing back into the bedroom. You turned back to your son, placing your hand on his shoulder to tug him back towards you. You turned him around, eyes scanning over him.

“Go on, comb, hair, now.”

You pushed him towards the bathroom, ignoring his grumbling. You flipped the toast in the pan, listening to it sizzle.

A long arm wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. The familiar scent of florals and ink took over the scent of cinnamon wafting up from your French toast. You lent back against your wife, letting her hum in your ear.

“First day of semester,” she murmured.

“With your son,” you replied.

“Oh, he’s my son is he?” she chuckled.

“He is when he complains about combing his hair,” you said, turning to press a quick kiss to her cheek. She laughed, low and throaty in your ear, and you knew you’d made the right choice when you’d asked her to marry you all those years ago.

“That he gets all from you,” she said.

“Are you guys being gross again?”

Larissa pressed her lips together to suppress her laughter as she moved back from you. You pulled the plate closer, beginning to remove the toast from the pan. Your son hoisted himself onto the counter next to you, sticky fingers reaching towards it. You waved him off.

“Be grateful your parents love each other,” you said, “not everyone can say that.”

“Well can you love each other when I’m not around. It’s gross,” he said.

“If you sit at the table I’ll consider it,” you replied.

He sat across from his mother, slouching in his seat. You caught Larissa nudging his foot under the table, offering him a secret smile. You placed the toast in front of them, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head. He tried to shove you off but you caught his smile.

“It’s wonderful, darling,” Larissa said.

“Thanks, mom,” your son said through a mouthful of food.

You sighed as you sat in the only free seat. Crunching into the toast you let yourself enjoy the moment of quiet with your family.

“Alright, come on,” Larissa said, standing up, “I’m your ride.”

“But then everyone will know my mother is the principal,” he complained.

“Kid, everyone’s going to know when they hear your surname,” you replied.

“Shut uuuuup,” he whined.

“No can do, kid,” you said, “it’s my job as your mom to annoy you.”

Larissa put her arm around his shoulder, leading him towards the door. You paused then realising jumped up, rushing after them.

“Wait,” you called as Larissa pulled open the door of the car.

She turned expectantly, waiting for you to say something. You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a quick chaste kiss to her lips. You ignored the gagging noise your son made, pressing a much louder kiss to his cheek.

“Have a good first day,” you said to them.

“We will,” Larissa said, giving your forehead a quick kiss before climbing into the car.

You waved until you couldn’t see them anymore. Your heart swelled with love for your little family. You’d never been happier and your life had never felt so full. You wouldn’t change anything in your life at all.

#larissa weems imagine #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #principal weems imagine #principal weems x reader

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morethansalad · 3 months ago

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Cinnamon Crunch Croissant French Toast (Vegan)

#vegan #breakfast #brunch #French toast #croissant #cinnamon #coconut milk #flax seeds #anilla #strawberries #mint #whipped cream #coconut sugar #maple syrup

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batsyforyou · 11 months ago

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Lillies in the Library

Tags: Nakedness, crack, dream, poem, 1st person pov

Pairing: Glorfindel x reader

Author's Note: This was written by like 15 year old me. The original prompt was given to me by my creative writing teacher at the time and it was 'what would you do if you woke up to your favorite character in your bed?' I made it into a fanfic and made it a dream where a modern person was dreaming of nightmare Glorfindel every night because they were torn apart soul mates. I clearly dropped it like a hot potato. But I still laugh at myself every time I see it so I decided to post it so everyone else can laugh with me.

Warning: It's not good lol.

Lilies in the Library: Prologue

The path of two strangers collide,

A river divides them, though the stream is gentle,

Traveling their way across may not be possible,

The venture deemed unsafe, though untested

But this does not sway their curiosity

They walk alongside the river’s edge

Where white daisies grow, in the fields they wonder

Content as they were to know each other this way

But soon they ached for more,

If they tested the waters depth,

Then maybe . . .

Lillies in Library Chapter 1:

A warmth consumed me as I slept, hot sunlight seeping into my skin and heating me from the inside. I shifted, stretching my legs and curled into myself, the silk sheets of my bed making an excellent pillow. Humming a little sigh I truly felt content, after all, it had been a long while since I could actually sleep in for once. With all the customer complaints, the late nights, my boss being an absolute prick, and my manager making an ass out of himself (as usual) it was about time I got some well deserved R&R.

Soon though, I knew I would have to eventually venture out of bed and into my kitchen for some food. Oh, man, just thinking of all the sweet, creamy, and delicious things I could create this fine morning made me smile. I could just smell the soft cinnamon and brown sugar of the sweet rolls (mother’s recipe of course) and the soft raspberries decorated on top. I could just imagine popping one in and squishing it against the roof of my mouth, the taste of its tartness trickling down the sides of my tongue. And the french toast, the crunch of the bacon and the spice of the eggs. Aw, man, did that sound like heaven, just remembering the quick granola bars I’d been forced to consume before work was a nightmare in itself.

Happily day-dreaming of my breakfast to be I rolled over taking the crumpled sheets in my arms with me. I sighed, taking a deep, long breath. O, the ginger biscuits, the taste of the sweetness in the berries paired with the full, fluffy buttermilk pancakes and the maple syrup and the-

“Good morning!”

Startled from my dozing I gasped and jerked my eyes open to meet the bluest pair of eyes I had ever seen. Shocked, I threw myself into a sitting position grasping the sheets to my chest in surprise.

“What the heck?!” I shouted.

Beneath me the stranger laughed. A man's voice. It was a man. There was a man in my bed. Laughing (of all things) and laughing at me!

The man in question was resting his head on one hand, leaning into his elbow, and looking all too happy to see me with the biggest shit eating grin the Earth has ever known. And lacking, if the nakedness of his skin was any indication, clothes or maybe just a shirt.

‘What the heck?!’ I thought. ‘Why is there a man in. My. Bed!?’

He had blueberry eyes. The fairest of skin that looked delectably smooth. A smile that could challenge even the brightest of stars. A body sculpted to look like a greek statue and hair to rival the greatest shampoo ad matched with the hair of a golden retriever who had recently from the groomers. The shininess of his hair was so bright it was like the sun itself had made a home amongst his golden locks. And the length seemed to be well past my arm (he had longer hair then me gosh dang it). To top it all off, he even had pointed ears so big that they could contend with the greatest halloween costumes made and still come out on top.

Admittedly, the man was beautiful if not awkwardly so. No man had any right to be this gorgeous and still manage to give off a masculine vibe as the specimen before me was most differently male.

The sound of his laughter continued to ring in my ears like chimes dancing (obnoxiously) in the wind. The sound, and sight of him, would have been pleasant if the whole situation hadn’t been so down right creepy.

“M’lady, forgive me for startling you, but I must ask, whatever do you mean?” His voice was perfect, deep and pure like—

—Like a deep flowing river as its richness crept right past you as it licked at your ankles.

Oh my gosh who was this man? And why was he in my bed? Oh, good gracious, I didn’t sleep with him did I?

Well, I cocked my head and ran my eyes over his body, chewing my lip, even if I did would that be such a bad thing? I mean look at him! He was way out of my league. He'd be quite a score even I had to admit that.

I frowned and tilted my head. ‘No, wait.’ I could still feel my underclothes tightly secured on my waist and my fuzzy purple mario party pajamas still hung loosely against me. Besides, I was still (sadly) a virgin and knew that if I had undergone such a thing there would most definitely be a soreness somewhere in my body.

Right?

But seriously, who the frick-frack-of-the-tic-tac was this man and why was he in my bed? My slight panic begins to twist into quick short breaths, though I forced myself to try and be quiet about it. There was no need in letting my. . . whatever he was, know he had me slightly flustered and well, a little scared.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Trying to force more confidence into my voice then I actually had, considering this man could probably snap me in two, it probably would have been a better idea to try a subtler approach. He frowned at me, the pull of his lips and the puppy-like look in his eyes tugged at my heart. I felt incredibly guilty, far more guilty than a woman who just woke up to a stranger in her bed should feel. Goodness I hadn’t gone drinking did I?

Goldilocks ignored my subtle shift towards the edge of the bed instead pushing himself up to lean against his arm. “Truly, do you not know?”

Pausing in my retreat I squinted at him. I mean he did look familiar but I couldn’t place him. Squinting a little harder (deciding to risk it) I leaned a little closer to him, humming.

“Well, I mean you do look familiar but ...” Leaning a smidgen closer, he only grinned at me, almost beckoning me closer with a teasing look in his eyes. This close I could practically feel the heat radiating off him and it was quite strange. His skin was scarred in places, some even wrapped around him like some kind of snake where he had some burn marks of some sort. His skin was covered in scars. His skin was washed in scars, so much so, the scars looked like they had a vice grip on him, resembling that of an angry viper. I tightened my grip on the sheets pulling them a little closer to my chest thinking hard, trying to place him. Maybe I did go drinking last night and this man somehow got sucked up into one of Rickie’s dares or something. It was then he shifted, the sheets moving with him and naturally my eyes followed the movement. Only for my eyes to travel across the bare skin of his hip and thigh.

Squealing in surprise, I peeled back shouting, “Oh—you're naked!?”

Instinctively I threw the sheets over my face trying to hide before squealing, like that of a frightened pig. My cheeks burning, I ripped the sheets away, throwing them at him, and shouting, “What is the matter with you?!”

Desperate, I scrambled off the bed hitting the floor.. With a hard thump, shoving myself up on shaking legs I tried to back away, before tripping over my own feet, my back slamming against the wall as I stumbled. My hands shot up to cover my face, fingers covering my eyes as I was torn between saving this man's dignity or keeping an eye on a possible threat. ‘Forget about trying to remember him!’ I mentally cried, ‘not only do I have a man in my bed but a naked man in my bed!’

Seemingly angry the man shot up faster than I could blink, ripping the covers off and rushing forward. Screaming I backed away, looking for the door, cause if there wasn’t anything scarier than a buff naked man running at you it was a giant and buff, naked man running at you! “Door, where's the door?!” I shouted.

But it was too late, the man was on me before I could so much as flinch. Strong hands grabbing hold of my upper arms and slamming me into the wall, shaking me. “This isn’t fair! You can’t keep ignoring me!”

He slammed me into the wall again, “Ow! Ow, you're hurting me!” I cried, tears spilling over my face as the images in my eyes faded. Flashes of gold being the last thing I see.

“You can not ignore me!”

Masterlist

#tolkien #silmarillion #the silmarillion #lotr #old writing #glorfindel x reader #glorfindel

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dk-wren · 11 months ago

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Buddy Daddies Week - Headcanons

Welcome to Day 3 of my Buddy Daddies 1 Year Anniversary Celebration Week!

Today, I present to you...more headcanons!

12 more to be exact, corresponding with the number of episodes (plus a bonus 13th one that is kinda a hc to honor the recap ep). Hope you enjoy them! Feel free to add on to any or add some more of your own!

One day, while Miri is at daycare, Rei and Kazuki are relaxing with each other on their couch. Rei is scrolling on his phone while Kazuki is playing some word game. Eventually, Rei calls Kazuki's name and shows him a picture on his phone, asking Kazuki if he can find this the next time he is at the market. It's a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Rei is absolutely enchanted by the idea of little cereal that is supposed to taste like French Toast. Kazuki is pretty sure he won't be able to find it at their usual market, but he promises to look since he's sure Miri would also love it. After much research and online scouring, Kazuki finally finds a box and has it shipped to their place. Several weeks have passed and due to Rei not bringing it up again, Kazuki thinks he might have forgotten about his request, and the intensity in which he asked Kazuki about finding this cereal. So, Kazuki decides to surprise Rei and Miri by telling them that they can have cereal for breakfast, but instead of their usual bowls of Choco Rings, Kazuki places three bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Miri absolutely loves it, asking for a second bowl, Kazuki doesn't think it's that bad, but it's way too sugary and his homemade french toast is definitely better, and Rei is in heaven.

Kazuki definitely has pictures in his wallet of Miri and Rei, and if anyone asks about his family, you bet he's pulling out this little album and proudly showing whoever. It started out on a whim when he had some pictures printed and was given a complimentary "wallet size" print. Not thinking too much about it, Kazuki stuck it into his own wallet. After a few weeks, he realized he liked seeing these pictures of the fun times the three of them spent together and slowly began to add more photos to his wallet, as well as updating them by taking older ones out and replacing them with newer adventures.

In the third audio drama, Rei pulls out a gun a handful of times throughout their apartment. Logically, Rei is probably keeping the gun on him for self-defense or to be ready if anyone tried to attack him, Kazuki, or Miri. But, for the sake of comedy (or the gag), I headcanon Rei has several guns or other weapons hidden around the house, way out of Miri’s reach, and unknown to Kazuki, for quick access in any room should an attack occur. So each time Rei pulls one out in this story, it’s a different one, which Kazuki eventually catches on to and always causes him to have a slight moment of confusion or perhaps questioning over how long it’s been hidden, how’d he keep it hidden even from him, and how many more are hidden.

For his birthday, Kazuki decides he wants to have a picnic on the beach with Rei and Miri. Since it's his birthday, Rei tells Kazuki that he will take care of their lunches. Kazuki is a little hesitant, but if it means spending the morning with Miri coloring, being beaten at Morio Kart, or whatever activity she decides on, he agrees. Kazuki even decides to leave Rei alone in the kitchen and not watch over him, thinking that if Rei needs any help, he'll come ask Kazuki. When the time comes to eat their lunches, Kazuki opens his bento, and somewhat to his surprise, it's pretty good. He notices that a lot of the items Rei put in are what he normally puts in the bentos he makes for Miri on special school occasions (or on previous family outings). And while it may not be the prettiest looking, Kazuki knows it was made with so much love, making everything taste incredible. After they finish their meal and are relaxing by the ocean, Kazuki asks Rei how he figured out everything since most of the time, Rei is elsewhere while Kazuki is making the bentos. Rei shrugs his shoulders and tells him he decided on what to include based on what Kazuki likes, what he remembers Kazuki put in previous bentos, and from past conversations with Miri about the special lunch Kazuki had made for her that day. This makes Kazuki's heart melt knowing how much consideration went into making it.

During the end credits, there is an image of Miri in a kimono looking at three fish (which, side hc, I've always thought she or her papas would have won at a festival). These fish come home with them and are technically Miri, Rei, and Kazuki's first family pets. Kazuki can't do much to prevent the fish from coming home because they won them, but he still argues he doesn't want a pet. Kazuki then tells Rei and Miri that it is their responsibility to look after them, such as by making sure their bowl stays clean and that they are well fed. Kazuki knows he'll have to help out here or there, but considering fish don't do much (or could cause that much havoc), he's okay with having fishes for a pet. Despite Rei and Miri working hard to take care of the fish, and proving they can both responsibly look after another living being, the fish eventually pass away, which causes Miri to become sad since she enjoyed taking care of them and watching them swim around their tank. Seeing how down Miri is after their fishes pass, and knowing how much they would both love it, Kazuki finally gives in and allows them to get a cat for their next family pet.

Karin was originally the over-protective little sister. When Yuzuko first brought Kazuki to meet Karin, she totally interrogated him about his motives, his likes/dislikes, how he would treat her big sister, and was the one to give Kazuki the "talk" about dating Yuzuko. She eventually realized Kazuki had nothing but good intentions and how in love Yuzuko and Kazuki were with each other, causing Karin to ease off on her questioning. She would continue to do so in a teasing manner, which Kazuki eventually picked up on and would play along with his answers. It is this understanding of their love for each other and how good of a man Kazuki was to Yuzuko that leads Karin to seek Kazuki out, not out of anger, but to check in on him and remind him that he can be happy and change without forgetting her big sister.

In the flashback shown in ep. 7 of Yuzuko's death, Kazuki is seen wearing a black (or possibly navy, sorry couldn't exactly tell) jacket that at least stylewise bears a strong resemblance to his signature green jacket. What if that black jacket is what Kazuki regularly wore on missions, similar to how Rei always wears a suit? And what if on one of their earlier missions together, something goes terribly wrong, leaving Kazuki injured and that jacket in shreds? Kazuki is left to rest in bed for a short period of time, with Rei feeling guilty that the mission went so wrong because of him. Wanting to apologize and perhaps express some of his gratitude for all that Kazuki has begun to do around the apartment, Rei tries to find Kazuki a replacement jacket. He can't find the exact one, and instead orders the green one he is constantly seen wearing in the show. When Kazuki finally makes it out of his room, he opens his bedroom door to a package waiting just in front, with a note saying something short and sweet like "I'm sorry" or "Thank you." And perhaps it is this gesture from Rei, which Kazuki was not at all expecting, that causes them to start getting to know each other better and spend more time together.

Because this post would've become too long according to Tumblr's guidelines, click here to go to Part 2!

#buddy daddies #buddy daddies anime #buddy daddies headcanon #dk wren's bd celebration week #buddy daddies anniversary #kazuki kurusu #rei suwa #miri unasaka

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