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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Comet Donati [Chapter 9: Why Don’t We Go There]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (+18), beef cattle, drugs, alcohol, smoking, Walmart, vegan baking, David Archuleta, mental health struggles, pregnancy, pigs, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, Jace acting vaguely human, angst, Southern Baptists, Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

Word count: 8.6k.

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

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

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The last day of summer, the first day in Kansas City: emerald seas of soybeans, cornstalks taller than you are, massive tractors rolling laggardly on the shoulder of the road, red-tailed hawks perched on utility poles, cloudless cerulean skies, sunlight that beats down like soft rain. There is a long, rambling dirt driveway that leads from Route 210 to your parents’ farm. When you climb out of the Escalade, you cannot hear traffic or voices or some playlist of bygone pop hits or ice cubes jangling in misty glasses or the roar of jet engines. You can hear only the sounds of the Midwestern earth: wind in the leaves, cicadas humming, the distant mooing of black angus cattle. For a moment, Comet Donati just stands there breathing in the unhurried, golden air like the atmosphere of a new planet, their lungs acclimating, their eyes wide and peering around. Where have we landed? Any signs of intelligent life?

There are footsteps and then the squealing creak of the screen door as your dad throws it open. Along with your parents pour out five Australian cattle dogs. They bark uproariously, herding the new arrivals like errant calves. Aemond laughs and crouches down in the dust of the driveway to pet them. Rhaena screams and clings to Luke.

“Belmont! Bel, you git down!” your dad scolds, pulling her away from Rhaena by the collar: pink, so everyone knows she’s a girl. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, she don’t bite none.”

“Unless you’re a cow, of course,” your mom adds, tittering merrily. She starts handing out glasses of sweet tea, already dripping with condensation. Outside it’s 80 degrees even.

Your dad whistles as he studies Aemond’s scar, his sightless left eye like a pool of blue fog. “That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Jeff!” your mom objects mildly; she abhors swearing.

Aemond considers your dad: a man who doesn’t flinch away from him, who doesn’t bury truths under the cover of night. “It did.”

“My uncle came back from ‘Nam with something like that. Was never right again.” He taps his own skull. “You must be tough as nails to be carrying on like you are, son. What happened to you was a damn shame.”

“Jefferson, please!” your mom says.

“The man’s been to New Jersey, Carol! I think he’s heard worse words than bitch and damn!”

“Her name’s Belmont?” Rhaena says, frowning nervously at her canine tormentor: rust-orange, brown-eyed, tail wagging eagerly at the prospect of making new friends.

“You betcha.” Then your dad informs Aemond: “That’s Lone Jack you got there.” He points to the remaining dogs. “And the others are Carthage, Kirksville, and Island Number Ten. We call her Tenny.”

“They’re all named after Civil War battles,” you tell Comet.

“Civil War battles in Missouri,” your dad says. He turns to his guests. “Were you aware that over 100,000 Missourians served in the Union Army? Ulysses S. Grant’s first military assignment was in Missouri. He met his wife Julia here.”

“Daddy, they’re English. They don’t know what the Union Army is.”

“Were they for or against staying colonies?” Aegon asks, and Criston covers his face and groans.

Your dad spots the motorcycle Aemond rode here from the airport, weaving between the Escalades until Criston stuck his head out a window to yell at him. “Lord almighty, is that a Gold Star?! Made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company?”

“Yes sir,” Aemond says, smiling down at a delighted Lone Jack and scratching his long pointy ears.

“An ingenious piece of machinery! ‘55?”

“1960.”

“Remarkable.” Your dad admires it. He’s wearing red flannel, Wrangler jeans, the UChicago hat that you bought for him your freshman year of college.

“We’ve been told you don’t eat meat,” your mom says to Aemond, with a gentle, sympathetic tone like she’s conscious of some bad luck that’s recently befallen him: a grim diagnosis, a storm that carried away his house. “So I’ve got some chicken soaking in buttermilk to fry up for supper.”

Aemond chuckles uncertainly.

“No, she’s serious,” you tell him. And then: “Mama, we went over this on the phone. He’s vegan. That means no animal products at all. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no dairy, no eggs, nothing that came from an animal.”

“Well I’ll be, what the heck does he eat?!” your dad says. “Carrots? Acorns? Sticks and leaves? He can graze out in the pasture if he likes.”

“We’ll find you something,” you promise Aemond.

Your dad surveys Aegon (white cargo shorts, neon pink tank top, sparkly matching Crocs) and then Jace (black skinny jeans and a violet sequined blazer with nothing underneath except a mosaic of tattoos). “I suppose you two will be wanting to share a room. Well, it ain’t my place to pass judgement, I reckon. But I don’t want to overhear nothing that couldn’t be done in church.”

Jace is confused. “Huh…?”

“No, Daddy, they’re not gay.”

“What, me?!” Aegon exclaims. “Gay?! For Jace?!”

Jace says: “Sir, if I ever start looking at Aegon that way, I give you enthusiastic permission to take me out back and shoot me dead like a horse with a bum leg.”

Your dad guffaws, a deep gruff rumble like an earthquake. “I don’t think I could oblige you, buddy.”

Your mom gestures to the front door. “Y’all go on in and make yourselves at home. We got a few extra bedrooms and a nice big den if anyone’s willing to sleep on a couch. But be warned: you’ll probably end up having a dog or two snuggled up with you.”

“We are guests here!” Criston shouts at the band as they begin dragging their luggage inside, suitcase wheels bumping up the creaking wooden steps of the wraparound porch. “You will not humiliate me! You will not break things! You will not cause any problems whatsoever or you can stay at the Hilton with the security guys and I’ll have them handcuff you to a bed!”

“He will,” Aegon warns the others. “I’ve seen him do it before. To…um…somebody.” He disappears into the five-bedroom farmhouse: mint green paint, white accents, two rambling stories plus an attic and a cellar.

Criston waves to the security detail as the Escalades turn around in the driveway—stirring up dust like a parched cough of earth—and then head back towards Route 210, towards the light pollution and acclaimed barbeque joints of Kansas City. Now Aemond is standing by the barbed wire fence of the pasture and looking longingly at the black angus cattle grazing on tall swaths of windswept, green-gold switchgrass. Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville are all bounding around him hoping to elicit praise and scratches. Tenny has taken a liking to Baela and follows her and Jace into the house. Belmont, still held captive by your dad, whines and struggles.

“Aemond, you can’t pet the cows,” you say. “They’re beef cattle. They spend most of their lives out in fields, they don’t get handled very often, they’re not used to people. They can be aggressive.”

He is disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

“You can pet the pigs though,” your dad says.

“Pigs?” Cregan perks up. “There are pigs?”

“Sure are. Well, they’re pigs now…come Thanksgiving, they’ll be hams! Hahaha. They’re right ‘round the back of the house. You’ll show ‘em, chickadee?”

You reply: “Yeah, Daddy. I’ll show them.”

As the rest of the band claims sleeping spots and unpacks their suitcases inside, you lead Cregan and Aemond—and Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville, all blue speckled with random splatters of white markings like stray dabs of paint—to the pigs. They have a large, muddy enclosure surrounded by a wooden fence that stops at your waist; pigs, fortunately, cannot really jump. They immediately come trotting over to their visitors, tails swishing and snouts twitching, spewing a chorus of guttural oinks. Aemond leans down to pet them, beaming, then takes a Ziploc bag of raw cauliflower out of his jeans pocket and starts dropping pieces into the pigs’ gluttonous, slobbering, gaping mouths.

“Wow,” Cregan says. He’s grinning broadly, something that’s rare for him. He slips out his phone and starts taking pictures. “Iris is going to love this.”

On the second floor of the farmhouse, a window slides open. “Aemond!” Aegon calls. “I need help! It’s an emergency!”

“What’s your problem?” Aemond snaps.

“Tell Jace I need the bigger bedroom!”

“Please go away.”

“Aemond! Do not betray your favorite brother!”

“Hey!” comes Daeron’s muffled objection from inside.

“Aemond! Threaten to break Jace’s face again!”

Aemond exhales in a loud sigh and then makes for the house.

Still taking pig photos, Cregan glances over at your belly: ten weeks. Not enough to be properly showing, but enough that you can feel a difference, an extra inch here and there, a heaviness that settles in you like stones plinked in a jar. Your parents don’t know. Nobody knows but Aegon. “So,” Cregan says. “Have you told Aemond yet?”

Your attention jolts to him, a lightning strike, a surge of adrenaline. “What?”

“I remember what it looks like when someone’s trying to hide the fact that they’re pregnant.” He smirks. “And I remember that night at Club Camelot.”

People are going to start figuring it out eventually. Aemond is going to figure it out. “Do you think he’ll take it well?” you ask hopefully.

“No,” Cregan says.

In your chest, a sinking like dead weight: “Oh.”

“But he’ll probably come around to the idea eventually.”

After he’s said something unforgiveable. After he buries another knife in me, spilling blood and scraping marrow. You stare down into the pigpen, observing them root around for remnants of cauliflower and blink their awfully intelligent eyes, too clever for the fate they’ve been assigned.

Cregan lights a cigarette and puffs on it, taking advantage of a rare moment out of Criston’s line of sight. “When I first found out about Iris, I did not behave in a way that I would consider to be honorable. But fortunately, nature gives everyone time to adjust to these things. I had my head right by the time she was born. If I had to guess, I’d say it will be similar for Aemond. Then again…” He takes a deep, meditative drag. “I’d like to think I was never as fucked up as he is now.”

You study Cregan. “So you’ve been watching me. I’ve been watching you too. You haven’t been partying as hard. A few vodka shots, a secret cigarette on occasion. But no more disappearing with Aegon to do lines in the bathroom or arranging drop-offs with drug dealers.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to be the adult. Someone has to help Criston look out for the others. It used to be Aemond, but not anymore. He’s different now. One day he’ll figure out where he’s supposed to be and he’ll stop touring with Comet altogether. So I’m going to do it. There are people who need me.”

“Comet is your family,” you say. “Just as much as your mother and siblings and Iris. They love you. They belong to you, and you belong to them. And that will never change.”

He smiles; his greyish eyes are teasing but kind. “Good luck, Stargirl. You need it.”

“Thanks, Cregan.” And together, you leave the pigs and join the rest of the band inside.

Your parents’ farmhouse, the same one you grew up in—a different world, a different you—is painted in shades of gold: late-afternoon sunlight, chicken thighs and drumsticks browning in canola oil, mashed potatoes wet with cream and butter, corn cut from the cob, an enormous pan of baked macaroni and cheese, homemade rolls, a butterscotch pie cooling on the windowsill. You find a vegan alternative for Aemond in the pantry: a box of Barilla spaghetti, a jar of Ragu marinara sauce. Criston insists on cooking it so everyone else can enjoy their supper. Cregan asks your parents about tips for raising pigs; Rhaena asks about the history of the farm; Aegon eats butterscotch pie until he has to roll out of his chair and lie sprawled on the hardwood floor for a while, Australian cattle dogs licking at his pink palms and cheeks. And when Aemond finally receives his spaghetti and marinara sauce, you think: That’s the same thing he was eating in Rome. And you remember the razored sting of the comet tattoo, the nightscape motorcycle ride, the incomplete truth about Aegon, the realization of what you felt for his scarred, perfect, brilliant, haunted younger brother.

“I didn’t know the weather would be so nice here,” Baela says as she scoops herself a third helping of macaroni and cheese. Tenny lies by her feet under the table, her muzzle resting on her paws.

Your dad nods, but his words hold a warning. “It can turn quick.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He could be a stay-at-home dad,” Aegon suggests. It’s the next day and you’re up in a hundred-year-old white oak tree, killing time until the Escalades arrive to shuttle Comet to soundcheck and their first of two shows at Arrowhead Stadium in downtown Kansas City. You’re sitting on a colossal, sturdy branch only four or five feet off the ground, your feet dangling; Aegon is a few limbs above you, alternating between swinging like a monkey and lying on his stomach so he can peer down at you with those large, oceanic eyes.

“No. If he chooses to, sure. But not because he has no other options. A baby is not something to paper over a quarter-life crisis with.”

Aegon thinks, then is struck with inspiration. “He could work for your dad on the farm!”

“The beef cattle farm?” you say. “You want the traumatized vegan to spend the rest of his life as a cog in the blood-drenched machine of American industrial agriculture? Besides, I’m sure he hates Missouri.”

“I don’t know, I mean I thought I hated Missouri too. But lowkey it kind of slaps.” Aegon closes his eyes and smiles as the warm, sunlit breeze breathes through him, tousling his hair. It’s long again, it’s almost down to his shoulders. He smells like sunscreen and Axe body spray and the homemade waffles your mother made for brunch, soggy with dollops of butter and a river of amber-colored maple syrup. Something’s missing. It takes you a moment to realize it’s the scent of beer. Your parents don’t approve of drinking, the house is bone dry. Aegon hasn’t complained about that yet, a miracle, Moses turning the Nile to blood. Maybe Missouri is good for him after all. “How’s Starbaby?”

“Good, I think. I’m not nauseous anymore. Now I’m just super hungry and horny.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say stuff like that around me, now I’m having immoral thoughts.” He squeezes his eyes shut, frowns mournfully. Goodbye forever, pornstar pussy. “When are you going to tell Aemond?”

“Soon,” you say noncommittally, like a coward. Not a coward: someone who’s been hurt before. Not just hurt: slaughtered, buried, exhumed, robbed for the jewels on the bones of her fingers. You’re finally whole again. You’re in no hurry to imperil your resurrection. “Cregan knows.”

“Rhaena knows too.”

“What?!”

“She asked me in Dallas, but she waited until I was sloppy drunk first. Smart girl. I tried to deny it, but honestly she already had it figured out.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “If you wait much longer you’re going to lose control of this thing. It’ll get to Aemond before you can. And I think it will be worse if he finds out from somebody else.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll tell him, Aegon, I promise. Before Comet flies out of Kansas City.” They’ll be leaving you here, though no one except Aegon and Criston know that yet. Their private jet will take them to New Orleans, and then Miami, and then all the way to South America: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Now someone is trekking across the field behind your parents’ house and towards the centenarian white oak tree. It’s Jace. He’s wearing a rather understated outfit today: a lavender polo, denim shorts, boat shoes. His dark curls whip and tangle in the wind.

“Ugh,” Aegon says once Jace close enough to hear. “Why don’t you go try to pet a rage-filled, 2,000-pound mound of unprocessed cheeseburgers?”

“I’m here for my complimentary therapy session.”

Aegon stares at you. You stare back. The only sounds are made by the earth and the sky and the animals, air in the leaves, the low mooing of cattle. You both wait for Jace to rescind his request. He does not. At last, you relent. “Okay. Fine. Aegon?”

“You want me to leave you alone with this inked-up ogre?”

“Confidentiality is important. I’ve always given it to you, Jace deserves the same.”

“Does he really?” Aegon flings back; but he obediently climbs down from the tree and walks to the farmhouse. Your parents have no booze, no internet, a landline telephone, and a single tv with basic cable. Everyone else is in there playing Uno, doing animal-themed puzzles, and baking apple cider cookies in honor of the first day of autumn. You’d think Comet would be losing their minds after adapting to months of nonstop, breakneck excitement, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You don’t miss the jet, you don’t miss the bars or the five-star hotels, you don’t even miss your apartment in the city that is still being sublet by some grad student with a Flemish Giant rabbit. You wonder if you ever wanted to leave the farm at all, or if you only wanted to leave the way you felt about yourself the last time you called this place home.

Jace grins and hauls himself up onto the tree branch to sit beside you. “Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Comet has definitely already been to Kansas City.”

Still, he’s acquired one, left wrist, black ink: a single star the size of a quarter. “For you, Stargirl. So I don’t forget about you. So I don’t lose you in the sea of gorgeous women I have marooned myself in.”

“It looks like a pentagram,” you say. “That’s appropriate, since you’re basically Satan.”

He’s not offended. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”

“I already know.”

“Do you really?”

“You’re happy, but you feel bad about it. You wanted to be the leader of Comet, but you wish it could have happened a different way.”

Jace opens his hands and offers you a crooked, wry smile. “I might jibe at Aemond, but I don’t hate him. Why else would I let him knock out four of my teeth without expecting any penance in return?”

“No, you certainly don’t hate Aemond.”

“And what happened to him…it sucks. I mean, obviously, it was life-ruining for him. Not ruining, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’ll get a new life someday. But it wrecked him in ways I’ll never be able to understand.”

“You’ll have to let him go when the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Jace says, unusually somber, gazing out across the field of white wild indigo, prairie dropseed, blue star, yarrow.

“And if Baela gets into ballet school, you’ll have to let her go too.”

Now Jace turns to you, startled. “I can’t. I’d miss her.”

“Yes, but you aren’t right for her. Sometimes we have to give people the freedom to realize they want something more than us. It’s the greatest act of love we can do for them.”

He laughs, a disdainful little snort. “That’s what everyone says. If you love someone, let them go. But then nobody ever really does it. They cling and they manipulate and they beg. Nobody helps the people they love leave them. Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret.”

Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let Aemond regret meeting me, touching me, maybe even loving me. “Why do you think that is, Jace?”

And he says, like it’s obvious, like you should already know it: “Because letting go is too fucking painful.” He hops off the branch and drops into the tall grass below. Then he extends a hand to help you down. “Come on. I bet those apple cider cookies are ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You see glimmering dresses, incandescent string lights, neon signs, the winding reptilian sheen of the Missouri River in the distance, faint dots of stars muted by the city’s synthetic luminance. You taste your faux Bramble: ice, cranberry juice, a sliver of lemon on the rim, sweet and tart and cold. The speakers are thumping out Prayin’ For Daylight by Rascal Flatts. Aegon is in neon yellow. You almost wore the same, but the flowing yellow gown you bought in Reykjavik suffered an unfortunate Australian-cattle-dog-related incident before Comet left your parents’ farmhouse for the concert. You opted for the short sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars instead…and hurried out the door before your parents could catch a glimpse of your comet tattoo.

“No way!” Baela cries as she checks her phone. “Look, look!” Liam Payne has just posted a selfie on Instagram. Cuddled up next to him on a beach in Ibiza is Shelby, tan and with her long blond waves flying everywhere. The comments are a smorgasbord: Cutest couple EVER! Aww, did you and Aemond break up again :( Enjoy your vacay, girlie! Guess love really can’t conquer all. You are stunning, Shelby! I’m still hoping you guys get back together. You deserve better! What is Aemond even doing these days?? Is this why Comet took A Girl Named After A Car off their tour setlist :(((

“Damn, poor Liam,” Daeron says. “Should we warn him?”

Aegon replies: “Bruh, this is so tragic. That dude has enough demons already.”

“Good luck, Liam,” Luke says, toasting his Mai Tai against Aemond’s fully-alcoholic Bramble. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Maybe he’s dumb enough to sign up to be her boy band baby daddy,” Aemond quips. You and Aegon exchange an uneasy glance. Then Aegon gets an incoming FaceTime call. It’s Taylor Swift. He beams—he lights up, he glows—and rushes away to find a quiet spot where he can talk to her. Criston chases after him, extra vigilant since Aegon’s overdose in Las Vegas.

You gulp down the rest of your not-cocktail cocktail. The bartender calls over: “Another cranberry juice, ma’am?”

“Cranberry juice?!” Daeron says. “That sounds…healthy?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Baela asks you. It would be a rude question if you didn’t know each other so well. Though not quite as well as she thinks. Cregan and Rhaena peer awkwardly down into their glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Because. Um.” You hesitate. Aemond looks over at you curiously. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Baela blinks. “You’re what?”

“Um. I was developing an alcohol problem so to be safe I stopped drinking altogether.”

“How mature of you!” Rhaena chirps, then drags Baela towards the dancefloor. Luke and Jace go with them. Daeron and Cregan depart to charm some potential paramours: a flock of Kansas City University students for Daeron, a bachelorette party of flattered, giggly soccer moms for Cregan. You procure another cranberry juice from the bar and then return to Aemond. You are alone together, a strange combination of adjectives: solitary, secretive, appreciated, known. You migrate towards the edge of the roof and sip your matching drinks, wearing your matching black clothes, wind in your hair and the sounds of late night traffic on the streets below.

“So this is the place,” Aemond says, playful, wistful. “Where you and Aegon…met.”

“It feels so different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look out over the city, breathing in humid night air and a verdant, ancient wildness. “You know how when you’re a kid, you’ll go somewhere and it feels endless and magical, and then you go back five or ten or fifteen years later and you’re disappointed? Like, that’s it? Is this even the same place?”

He swigs his Bramble. Ice clinks; the glass is frosty in his hand. “I know what you mean. But it hasn’t been that long. A little over a year.”

“I guess I’ve changed.” More grounded. Less restless. Less aimless. More pregnant.

“I hope Comet hasn’t traumatized you.”

You laugh, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only two people at this rooftop bar, in this city, on this planet: one river blue eye, one pool of sightless otherworldly mist. He hasn’t worn sunglasses since Shelby’s deportation from the band’s retinue. “Not yet.”

He is mischievous. “There’s still time.”

Not much of it. Aemond’s iPhone rings, Mr. Brightside. He checks it. “Is that Shelby offering you ten thousand blowjobs if you take her back?”

Aemond smiles. “No. It’s Helaena.” He answers and puts it on speakerphone. “Hi, LaeLae. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m at a very loud, very crowded rooftop bar.”

“With her?” Helaena asks, delighted.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay. Call tomorrow. I wanted to tell you about the praying mantis I found in the garden. Check the weather. Goodbye!” She hangs up before Aemond can.

“Weather…?” he muses, then shakes his head and slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. He returns his attention to you. “Ten thousand blowjobs, huh? I think I’d rather have another ten minutes in a bar bathroom.”

You are so game. It’s humiliating how game you are. Dear Starbaby, today I had slutty bar bathroom sex with your slutty dad, the same place I hooked up with your super slutty uncle. “Really?”

“No,” Aemond says sheepishly. But the corners of his lips are curled up in fond nostalgia. “That’s not my usual style.”

“What is your style?”

He drains his Bramble and turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You want few things more. “Yeah.”

You leave your empty glasses on a tray by the edge of the roof. Aemond lets Criston know that you’re taking one of the Escalades back to the farm. Aegon pauses his conversation with Taylor Swift just long enough to wink at you. No need for condoms, he mouths with a grin. And then he shouts, as the opening notes of Starboy blare from the speakers: “Stargirl, it’s our song!”

The Escalade makes one pitstop: the Walmart just off Route 210, the same one you always shopped at growing up. Aemond piles the requisite ingredients for vegan chocolate chip cookies in the screechy-wheeled cart, flour, baking soda, salt, white sugar, brown sugar, dark chocolate chips, rice milk (Aemond swears it tastes like Rice Krispies), vanilla extract, coconut oil. You wander down the aisles together talking, joking, finding excuses to touch each other, hands on wrists and collarbones and waists.

As you scan the items at one of the self-checkout kiosks, two guys buying frozen pizzas and White Claws peek over at you and start snickering. You grab snippets of their conversation like fireflies from the air: critiques of your body, critiques of your soul. You ignore them. This happens sometimes when you’re home. Someone from high school will recognize you, someone will remember.

Aemond is staring at them. Not staring; glaring, seething, mentally splitting flesh and dislodging teeth.

“Aemond, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset. Just ignore them.” He walks away from you. “Aemond, don’t!”

He grabs the closest man’s shoulder and spins him around. “You got a problem?”

Both men gawk up at him, mouths hanging stupidly open and eyes inane like fish. The one he’s clenching sputters: “I’m sorry, are you…are you…are you Aemond Targaryen?!”

“I’m the guy who’s about to go to prison for second degree murder if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

He puts both hands in the air. “Hey man, I am actively shutting the fuck up. You have a nice evening.”

Aemond releases the man with a shove that sends him staggering back into a rack of tabloids. He returns to you, puts the bags in the cart, starts pushing it out to the parking lot.

The man turns to his friend. He is starstruck, elated. It might be the best day of his life. “Bruh, I just got assaulted by Aemond Targaryen…!”

The Escalade glides through the dark to your parents’ farm and drops you and Aemond off in the dirt driveway before zooming back towards the city. Aemond insists on carrying the shopping bags…but he doesn’t go inside. He stands near where his Gold Star is parked and gazes up at the night sky: moon, stars, the hazy white shadow of the Milky Way, all unmarred by the arrogant, buzzing radiance of electricity.

“Aemond?”

“You can see everything out here,” he says. “Maybe Kansas isn’t so bad.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri,” Aemond agrees. “But you’re still the best thing about it.”

You smile. “I don’t know the names of any of those constellations.”

He points to show you. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Perseus. Draco. Hercules.”

“Heroes,” you say.

“And animals.” He ascends the steps of the front porch. They creak beneath him, weight that will soon be gone, to New Orleans and Miami and South America and God knows where else.

Your parents are watching the 11:00 news in the den. The weatherman is issuing tentative warnings for tomorrow. Summer is gone, storms are coming in. They politely ask what you and Aemond are up to and then try not to look repulsed when you mention vegan cookies. You’re actually pretty excited; you love cookie dough, and because it will have no raw eggs in it, you can eat as much as you like without endangering Starbaby.

On the kitchen counter is the same CD player that your mom has owned since 2008. You press play on whatever she has currently spinning around in there. MercyMe? TobyMac? Danny Gokey? What you hear instead is Crush by David Archuleta.

“That’s a throwback,” Aemond notes.

“My parents love David Archuleta. He’s Christian, he’s cute, he’s gracious, he doesn’t swear. I remember them incessantly calling in to vote for him when he was on American Idol. They put in a prayer request at church to help him win the competition. I guess God used his executive veto power.”

“Do they know he’s…?” Aemond draws an invisible rainbow in the air with his fingers.

“No, they don’t use Google.”

“We won’t tell them. He needs the record sales.”

You and Aemond mix the cookie dough and then portion it out on a baking sheet. He slides the sheet into the oven, sets the timer, and then notices the reserve of dough you’ve left in the bowl. You dip your pinky finger in and then lick it slowly, savoringly: sweetness, chocolate, fats obtained without the sacrifice of a soul.

“Looks good,” Aemond says, a little hoarsely.

You swipe your index finger around the curve of the bowl and then offer it to Aemond. He holds your hand still and licks your finger clean, his tongue dragging over your skin, goosebumps rising on your arms, heat stirring up everywhere. You’re transfixed by him; you can’t stop watching. Then he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his palms and kisses you, not in some glittering city or on a stage or for an Instagram post but in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the home of nobodies. His lips are sweet, swift, seeking more. He only pulls away when the noise of heavy footsteps approaches the kitchen.

“Smells great in here, chickadee! Even if they are vegan cookies.” Your dad says the word vegan like someone else might say the name of a tourist destination halfway across the globe. He can’t quite get the pronunciation right. His eyes snag on the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “Lord almighty, what is that on your back?!”

Your comet tattoo, that’s what. “Uh, Daddy—”

“It was my idea,” Aemond says quickly, seamlessly. “They’re my lyrics. Lyrics I wrote before the accident, I mean. And I was feeling just…purposeless, and useless, and really doubting myself. She wanted to show me that my work still mattered. So when the band was in Rome, Jace got a tattoo and I suggested she get one too. It’s entirely my fault.”

“Huh,” your dad replies uncertainly. “Is that right? Well, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it now.” He chuckles and moves your hair so it’s covering your tattoo. “Let’s not mention it to your mother. She’s already got high blood pressure. Say, can I try one of them cookies when they’re ready?”

Criston and the rest of the band arrive back at the farmhouse just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Miraculously, no one is drunk enough that your parents are aware of it. Everyone samples the vegan chocolate chip cookies and agrees that they are nearly as delicious as the cruelty-enhanced version. You and Aemond watch each other from across the kitchen that’s now crowded with people, hearing them but also not, wanting more and knowing you can’t have it, here in this place with little privacy and very few remaining secrets.

Comet scrambles to get ready for bed, racing to claim bathrooms and banging on doors to peer pressure people into finishing their showers faster. Back in your bedroom, clean and alone and wearing an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, you rearrange your pillows over and over again and try not to think about the band leaving in two days. Strangely, you don’t really want to go with them; you don’t want to board the jet, you don’t want to sightsee, you don’t want to be surrounded by people ingesting poison in all its forms. But the thought of being away from the band—from Aegon, from Aemond—is impossible, unbelievable, horrifying. You’re humming something as you crawl into bed. You don’t even realize what song it is until you’re under the covers and sinking into sleep: The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.

You’re only asleep for ten or fifteen minutes. When you wake your eyes are watery and you can’t remember your dream—you almost never can—but you know that Aemond was there. Now he’s here in your room as well. He’s gently stroking your cheeks, your forehead, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he’s murmuring, only a silhouette in the darkness. But you would recognize him anywhere. “You had a nightmare. You were crying, I heard you.”

“Were you lurking outside my door or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks: “What were you dreaming about?”

“You.”

And when you reach for him, he meets you without hesitation, his hands in your hair and his lips on yours, blankets thrown aside, his weight between your thighs, your fingertips ghosting against his face, reading his past and future like braille. He bites your lower lip, nips at the curve of your jaw, kisses a path down your throat like the contrail of an airplane. You yank off his t-shirt. He lifts away yours. He’s touching you everywhere, fingers beneath your pajama pants, smothering his moans against your neck so no one else will hear.

He whispers breathlessly: “I don’t want to rush this time.”

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.” Forever, I hope. And then: “Can I turn on the light? I want to see you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. And then he reaches out to click the lamp on. The nightstand is cluttered with your souvenirs: refrigerator magnets, snow globes, figurines, cosmetics, snacks, crochet celestial objects, the frisbee from New Jersey, your plushie sika deer nestled together with the hammerhead shark from the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay. In the weak golden lamplight, you study Aemond like a painting, a marble statue, a comet you’ll only see once in a lifetime.

You say, softly like a prayer if you believed in such things: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t stop. He wants to see you too. Your clothes are gone, every scrap of fabric and concealment; if he is cognizant of any minuscule changes in your body, he is not suspicious of them. Now he is bare for you as well, now he is pushing your thighs apart so he can marvel at you, taste you, drench his mouth and chin in your wetness, bring you to the edge of a cliff with no bottom, no rocks to rupture against. Now he is inside you, tremendously big but also careful, listening to you, watching every line of your face, slowly, so exquisitely slowly, his tongue darting between your lips and his palm against your cheek. And you remember how Aegon felt—always so simple and yet transient, soothing and welcome but never necessary—and Aemond could not be further from that. Nothing about what you have with him is simple. It is profound and intense and singular, and the thought of it not lasting forever is agony.

Afterwards, he retrieves his vintage metal lighter—small, square, Targaryen etched into one side—and a shimmery gold pack of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his pajama pants that are crumpled on the floor. He lies on his back and takes deep, drowsy drags, smoke like opaque morning mist in the air, one arm draped across you as you rest your head on his chest, lungs and heart and bones and blood.

Secondhand smoke isn’t good for the baby. You get up out of bed and sneak across the treacherously creaky hardwood floor. “Let me open a window.”

“So your parents won’t know?”

“Yeah.” You push the window open and then turn to him. “You should stop smoking. It’s really bad for you.”

Aemond smiles faintly. “Why would I care about that?”

“It’s bad for the people who love you too.”

He looks at you for what feels like a very long time. “Come back,” he says at last.

You do: to Aemond, to his warmth and lust and tenderness, to the space he occupies that will soon be empty like the vast expanses between comets, between stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I would like to say something.” You rise from your seat at your parents’ long dining room table, perfect for hosting judgmental-church-people gatherings and family reunions. Lunch for Comet Donati is steak and baked potatoes, lovingly prepared by your mom just before she and your dad left in their Ford F-150. It’s Sunday, and your parents will be at church socializing with their friends until late afternoon. Aemond is suffering through another meal of boxed spaghetti and Ragu marinara sauce. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite; not for food, anyway. You take turns glancing at each other and then looking away, smiling, flushing. Now he is intrigued by your announcement. His brow knits into thoughtful little grooves. The Australian cattle dogs scuttle around under the table for scraps. The television is on in the den. A tornado watch has been issued for the greater Kansas City area; no big deal, they get alerts like this once or twice a week here sometimes. It rarely amounts to carnage. Outside the sky is a tumultuous grey but not especially sinister at the moment: no greenish hue, no cloud rotation.

“You agree that Aegon hooking up with Taylor Swift would be disastrous for everyone involved,” Jace jokes.

“No, I know what it is,” Aegon says. He pokes at his baked potato with his fork, melancholy.

“I want to thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity,” you tell Comet. You have perhaps not dressed for an occasion of this significance: flip flops, a tie-dye One Direction hoodie, an old pair of shorts you found in your bedroom dresser. You like the way Aemond watches you when you wear them. “And I’ve experienced so many things, and learned so much from all of you, and I sincerely hope that we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever. But for right now…for this tour…Kansas City is my last stop with Comet.”

“What?!” Baela cries.

“No!” Rhaena gasps, her dark doe-like eyes glistening.

People are asking you why, people are asking you to reconsider. Aemond only stares, a sharp hostile look, menacing like storm clouds.

“I really, really appreciate everyone’s concern. But it’s been over three months, and this was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. Right, Aegon?”

“Right,” he reluctantly agrees.

“And it’s time for me to figure out what the rest of my life is going to look like, because I can’t just follow Comet around the world forever.”

Cregan nods to Criston. “Did you know about this?”

“I did, yeah,” Criston confesses. “We finished up the paperwork last week.”

“But we’re going to miss you,” Baela says. She sounds shockingly close to tears. Jace tries to soothe her and she shrugs his hand away.

“I know,” you concede. “And I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll still talk all the time, and I’m always willing to help you guys with anything, and maybe in the future I can visit—”

Aemond stands, his chair squealing against the hardwood floor, and flees from the dining room.

“That went well,” Jace says.

Aegon points towards the doorway Aemond left through and asks you: “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll do it,” you say, and go after Aemond. He’s outside by the pigpen, his hair and t-shirt whipping wildly in the strengthening gusts of late-September air. Sparse raindrops fall from the sky. The pigs are agitated, pacing, oinking, scampering in and out of the shed they have for shelter. Aemond is smoking, embers glowing on the end of his cigarette; you purposefully stand upwind from him.

His voice is stunned and dazed and beneath that dangerously angry. “You’re leaving the tour.”

“Yes.”

“When we get on that jet tomorrow, you’re not going with us.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you told Aegon and Criston but you didn’t tell me.”

“I had to tell Criston. And Aegon…” What can I say? What is the truth? “Aegon is easier to talk to about things like this.”

“So you feel like you can’t talk to me?” Aemond demands.

“Well, yeah, because sometimes you’re kind and patient and the single most incredible man I’ve ever met, and then something rattles your demons awake and you’re this…this…this vengeful, mistrustful, irrationally insecure person, and I can’t do anything right because you’ve already decided what my intentions are.”

“I want you to stay with Comet,” he says suddenly.

“I can’t, Aemond.”

“In Tokyo you asked me what I want, so now I’m telling you. I want you to stay.”

“Why, so you can sometimes love me and sometimes hate me, and refuse to build a new life for yourself, and relive what happened at the Budokan over and over and over again because that’s the background noise of everything you do now? Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “So we can figure things out.”

“I’m figured out, Aemond! You’re the one who isn’t and I can’t help you anymore, you have to do it for yourself, you have to want it!”

“You’ve never wanted to stay with me. You’re a liar, you’re a user. I’m glad Comet could fill that gap in your resume.” He takes a forceful drag and exhales smoke that the wind snatches away. “All you do is keep things from me.”

Venomous, violent disappointment blooms dark and scarlet in your veins. “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You watch him, mourn him, commit him to memory for when you can’t see him anymore, every thread of him, miraculous and doomed. Saint Jude, you think, a man your parents as good Southern Baptists do not pray to. You tell Aemond: “You’re a lost cause.”

“And you’re a nobody.”

You turn away from him like ripping a page in two. You don’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in your eyes, escaping down your cheeks, marking you as someone who was weak enough to believe you could save him. You know that’s not the way it works, you know people have to be willing to accept the truths you help them uncover like prehistoric bones. Still, you believed in him. Why? Why?

Because I wanted to. Because I love him.

Your flip flops pound against the soil of the driveway, raindrops leaving spots like freckles, dust flying everywhere. You swipe at the tears that blur your vision. When you are far enough away that nobody can see you from the farmhouse, you rest your trembling hands on your belly. The life in progress there is half-built of Aemond, you carry pieces of him around with you like coins jangling in you pocket. You can’t forget him. You can’t forgive him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to somebody and yet so far away.

There’s no one out on Route 210. Your flip flops cross from a dirt road to black pavement. You lose track of how long you’ve been walking. Five minutes, ten minutes, it doesn’t matter. What are minutes when your mind is years away?

How will I keep Aegon in my life without tabloids finding out about the baby? What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?

A vicious wind, so strong it snaps branches from trees and almost knocks you over. And then you hear it, that sound that every inhabitant of the Lower Midwest knows: a deep rumbling like a train. You peer up into a sky that is dark and murderous and glowing a strange sickly green. And above your head, spiraling with increasing speed: a funnel cloud, an emergent tornado.

~~~~~~~~~~

Criston is herding everyone towards the cellar, bellowing, waving frantically: Aegon, Luke, Rhaena, Jace, Baela, Cregan, Daeron, five yelping Australian cattle dogs. Through the window, they can see the tornado approaching the farmhouse, a column of shadowy atmospheric fury, unpredictable and unstoppable, here and then gone, the meteorological version of a comet.

Aemond slams the door as he sprints inside from the field behind the house. He breaths heavily, his chest heaving as his clear right eye studies the band’s panicked faces. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where is she’?!” Aegon pitches back. “She was with you! She’s with you, right?!”

Aemond looks at Aegon, looks through the glass at the tornado, grabs the keys to his 1960 Gold Star off the dining room table.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re running, but you can’t see; there’s dust and debris everywhere, there are pieces of trees and fences careening through the air, when you breath you choke on airborne earth. The wind keeps pushing you off the road and then you have to fight your way back. You have to find your parents’ driveway. You have to get to the house. The sun is gone, and the roaring like a freight train is louder, louder, louder. And now there is another sound too, a different sort of growling, mechanical and familiar. Punching through the haze like a bullet, Aemond and his Gold Star screech to a stop beside you.

“Get on!” he screams over the storm, then helps drag you onto the seat behind him. You link your arms around his waist and then you’re flying together, just like Rome, just like before Reykjavik or Paris or Singapore or Tokyo or East Rutherford or Las Vegas or any of the other cities happened, back when you believed you could cure him like a witch with a spell, back when you wanted him in a way that was unburdened by truths you wish you didn’t know.

The Gold Star rockets by trees, utility poles, fence posts seconds before they are ripped from the ground by 200 miles per hour winds. Aemond steers roughly onto the dirt road of your parents’ driveway. You cling to him, breathing him in: smoke, cologne, memories, nightmares, dreams. In the rearview mirror is a maelstrom of dark, churning grey peppered with wreckage.

Something collides with the motorcycle, a fence post, a tree limb, you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. The Gold Star is knocked off the driveway like a bloodied tooth from a jaw. You sail off of it as it begins to roll; you hit the ground hard on your back, loose a pitiful wounded howl, try to start crawling towards the farmhouse.

“No, stay down, stay down!” Aemond is saying over the roar of the tornado. He covers you, he shields you, he pins you to the ground, he puts his hands over your eyes. The last thing you see is the Gold Star lying on its side a few yards away, its wheels still rotating. It’s over 400 pounds, too heavy for Aemond to lift even if you helped him, even if that couldn’t hurt the baby.

The baby?? Your own hands go to your belly. You try to ascertain if the heat throbbing in your back has traveled anywhere else, reached with blood-red, needle-sharp talons to your child, to your future.

The wind is letting up; is that your imagination? No, the tornado is receding, the debris fall to the earth, the deafening runaway train made of rogue air evaporates. Cautiously, Aemond rises from you. When you look at him, the right side of his face is riddled with shallow, bleeding gashes; but his eye is mercifully unharmed.

“Aemond,” you say, pained, reaching for him, trying to clean the blood from his face with your sleeves, a hoodie with some boy band on it, men you don’t know and don’t care to meet, fantasies that pale in comparison to the reality that stains you like rust.

“I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so…”

They come stampeding down the driveway: Criston, the rest of Comet, the barking Australian cattle dogs.

“Oh my God, they’re alive!” Jace exclaims, and soon everyone is there, surrounding you and Aemond like a circle, a ring, an orbit, something that goes around and around and might fade but never ends.

You aren’t worried about the baby. There’s no cramping, no pain except the throbbing in the curve of your back, blood loosed and then trapped, indigo bruises tattooed under your skin like ink. You press your palms to the earth and brace yourself so you can stand. No one is helping you get up; why is no one helping you? Why are they only staring, gasping, covering their mouths with shaking hands?

“You’re bleeding,” Aemond says, a panicked voice through fog. Slowly, like trying to run in a dream, you look down. There are thin rivulets of scarlet snaking their way down your thighs, calves, shins, ankles, painless ruinous tributaries, constellations unraveling until the patterns cease to exist, no myths, no monsters, no men, just senseless pinpricks of distant light you’ll never know the names of.

“No,” you whisper, like you can stop it from happening if you refuse to believe it, like it’s a mistake you can talk yourself out of. You gaze up at Aegon. Knowledge flies between you, something shared like an heirloom or an oath.

“Call an ambulance,” Aegon says to Cregan. “Tell them that she’s…” His eyes dart to Aemond and then back to you. “Tell them to hurry.”

Aemond is holding you, he is touching your face, he is asking: “Are you cut, do you need stitches—?”

“I’m alright, it’s nothing, it’s—”

“What are you talking about?! It’s not nothing, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?”

“Aemond, it’s nothing—”

“Tell me what to do, tell me how to help you!”

“It’s just…” And a sob breaks from your throat, and your words are brittle and splintering, and you can’t lie to him anymore. You’re out of time in so many ways. “It’s just the baby.”

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aegon ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii

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notbecauseofvictories · 2 years

Note

hi! i've been very wistfully admiring of your cooking and baking prowess but i'm about at the level of "pasta, vegetable, protein, jarred sauce" at this point and can't imagine getting to where you are. are there recipes you'd recommend for beginners? who hypothetically maybe have never used their oven?

Personally, right now I'm just about in the same spot---my desire to cook things has dropped precipitously, I've survived the last few weeks on salads and roasted chicken and crackers with cheese. But the good news is that there are plenty of options for the lazy cook! And the even better news is that I have all sorts of recipes for you...

DO NOT MAKE ME USE THE OVEN, SO HELP ME GOD

Quinoa Tabbouleh (lots of chopping, but afterwards you can make a giant vat of it and eat it slowly over the course of a week...)

Greek Tuna Salad (throw a bunch of cans together in a giant bowl, then eat it on lettuce)

White Bean and Broccoli Dip with Pesto (I make this by the bucket in the summer, though typically I use parmesan instead of nutritional yeast---and I eat it off of rice cakes!)

Pesto Gnocchi (green beans, cherry tomatoes, and delicious, delicious gnocchi, all smothered in pesto. Literally, where would you go wrong?)

SANDWICHES ARE GROWN-UP FOOD!!

Spicy Vegan Wraps (I am not personally vegan, but I make this all the fucking time)

Lemon Radish Tartine

Roasted Tomato Tartine (....listen you call it a "tartine" and I immediately get really interested)

Chicken Avocado Wraps (not something I make too often, but incredibly easy and mostly about shredding your chicken properly)

I HAVE EXACTLY ONE (1) POT

Quinoa-Kale Bowl (unbelievably easy, and the result is delicious)

BBQ Chicken Quinoa Casserole (this in particular makes for really great leftovers---especially if work has a microwave)

Dump & Bake Chicken and Rice (sometimes you just want a bunch of stuff covered in sauce and it's warm and delicious.)

Smothered Mushrooms and Kale (it's got nutrients and also tastes pretty good)

KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES (I.E., WHAT TO COOK WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING COMPANY)

Beet Bruschetta with Goat Cheese and Basil (I have made this for multiple different groups, as well as for myself, and every time---EVERY TIME---it's amazing.)

One-Pot Pasta with Sausage and Squash (slightly more sophisticated than the one-pot recipes above---but so fancy! and delicious.)

Puff Pastry Fruit Braid (did you think I'd get through this entire list without a single dessert? this is probably the most adaptable, consistently delightful recipe I have---and incredibly, incredibly easy to use, manipulate, or do whatever you want with. Features helpful pictures, and I think I've used every fruit combination you can imagine.)

#no love sincerer than the love of food #tw food

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harryistheonlyoneforme · 2 years

Text

Could We Live With Just A Taste*

pairing: drug dealer(plug) harry x reader

warnings: drug use, intoxication, unprotected sex, oral (both receiving)

YESTERDAY

YN: What are you up to tomorrow night?

Harry: Nothing, why? That desperate for me already? I just had you crying on my cock yesterday😏

YN: Shut the fuck up, asshole. I have something I want us to try🙄

Harry: You’re no fun😐

YN: *sends a tiktok of vegan weed brownies*

Harry: Yeah, I’m down. I can buy all the ingredients and you can come over tomorrow night so we can bake them?

YN: That works

Harry: Liked “That works”

CURRENT DAY

Harry is currently at his local grocery store, glancing down at his phone as he scans the aisles for all of the ingredients he needs to execute the recipe that YN sent him yesterday.

He obviously has the CBD oil that’s needed for the brownies, but of course his home is not stocked with any of the other ingredients needed for it to work.

Before he left his house, he searched all of the cupboards for anything he could use in the recipe, and that was a reality check for him. He literally had no groceries, so he made a mental note to grab some along with whatever the recipe called for, as well as some things to cook and eat for a while. He also vowed to stop eating out as much, it’s truly a shame how much money he spends on delivery each week.

Once he has all of the ingredients and groceries in the basket, he makes his way to the front of the store, toward the shortest checkout line.

Just his luck, the shortest line is being worked by a woman about his age who has been ogling him and his tattoos since he walked in, but he’s completely uninterested.

She’s a gorgeous woman. Breathtaking, actually, but for some reason he doesn’t even look at her twice. He makes his way to the belt and places his items on, sliding toward the pay area as she scans them.

Her attention is mostly on him, not on the groceries, as she eyes his thick biceps and the tattoos that reside all over him. Once he’s directly in front of her, he notes that she bends forward a bit and pushes her shoulders together slightly to show off her cleavage, and both Harry and the bagger that looks to be a teenager roll their eyes at the futile attempt.

She goes to open her mouth, no doubt to flirt with him, but he speaks up before she can.

“I have a girlfriend,” he responds gruffly, sliding his card into the chip reader and ignoring the way her demeanour changed from flirty and bubbly to annoyed and rude.

He types his pin in and transaction is approved, and he chuckles to himself as she snatches the receipt from the machine and forcefully passes it to him, but he thanks her anyway and grabs his bags, heading out of the store and to his car.

He was lying, of course. YN isn’t his girlfriend, but she didn’t have to know that.

YN hums softly as she rinses the soap from her body and turns the faucet off, stepping out of the shower before wrapping her towel around her wet body.

She takes her time getting ready to leave, not wanting to leave too early and arrive before the time she and Harry agreed on. It takes her longer than normal to dry off and moisturize her skin, but once she’s done she has enough time to pick a comfy outfit

Her decided outfit is just some plain grey leggings with a black thong and a t-shirt that she’d stolen from Harry after she’d spent the night at his place, and she’d forgone a bra, as they always tug at her nipple piercings.

She’s barely able to contain her excitement as she sprays on some perfume, throwing on some shoes before grabbing her keys and phone to head out the door.

The bright sun in the sky makes her squint as she heads to her car, hopping in before exclaiming softly in pain as the seats and seatbelt buckle burn her skin.

She shakes it off and turns on the engine, letting the car get cool before she pulls out of the driveway and makes her way to Harry’s house.

On the way, she sees his favourite Chinese restaurant and decides to stop in to grab them some food, realizing just how hungry she was. It takes longer than she expected, but she’s honestly kind of happy for the delay, not wanting to arrive at his house on the dot.

A knock sounds on Harry’s door as he’s just sitting down and watching some TV, awaiting YN’s arrival. He hops off the couch almost too excitedly, opening the door to see YN smiling brightly at him and holding a paper bag to pass off to him.

She speaks up before he can, and he’s never been more glad for that, because he genuinely doesn’t think he can form words right now, and he’s just admiring how gorgeous she looks.

“I went and grabbed some Chinese on the way, I hope that’s okay?” she questions, and he just nods, still unable to form any words. She stands there awkwardly for a few seconds before she speaks up again. “Can I come in or…?” she trails off, chuckling as he snaps out of his trance.

“Oh, shit, yeah. Of course, sorry,” he tells her, moving out of the way so that she can enter. She heads straight for the couch as Harry closes the door before trailing behind her, mentally berating himself for being an actual idiot.

The two of them settle in on the couch before he passes her the remote to find something to watch, and he isn’t surprised at all when she chooses Jane the Virgin, the show they’d started binge watching together the last time she was over.

They dig into their food for a bit, but they get pretty full quickly, plus they want to save some room for the brownies. At some point during the episode, YN ended up cuddling with Harry, her body underneath his arm as she rests her head on his chest.

He doesn’t mind, of course, but it really is hard to focus on the show with how close she is to him. It’s like she can sense him staring at her, and she looks up with a small smile before sitting up slightly and pressing a kiss to his lips.

It surprises him, but he’s quick to snap back and leans down to kiss her again, deepening it slightly before biting down on her lip gently. That sends her over the edge, and she’s unable to keep her cool any longer, maneuvering her body and climbing onto his lap while their lips are still connected.

He groans into her mouth as she sits down right onto his erection, her warmth encapsulating his cock. He’s rock hard beneath her when she starts to grind against him slowly, providing pleasure to the both of them. The feeling makes him buck up into her as well, precum leaking from his cock and leaving a small spot on his pants.

Placing his hands onto her hips, Harry matches YN’s hips the speed of his own, working her on his lap through their clothes. It’s all so rushed and messy, but neither of them care, pleasure clouding their thoughts.

She groans into his mouth as he helps her along his erection, the friction from their thin clothes providing some much needed stimulation to her clit.

YN pulls away begrudgingly, trying her hardest to ignore the wetness that’s started to leak into her panties. Frowning, Harry tries to go in for another kiss and she grants him a peck before pulling away once more.

“Okay, okay. We’re never going to get to the brownies if we keep this up. Cmon, I’ll suck you off while they’re baking” she tells him, standing up and heading to the kitchen.

Harry’s never moved so quickly in his life, hopping off the couch clumsily, but he doesn’t follow her right away. He can’t help but stare at her ass in those tight leggings as she walks away, adjusting his pants a bit before following behind her.

Taking a look at all of the ingredients on the counter, YN pulls up the recipe and calls Harry over so they can get started, reading them aloud. The two of them move like a perfect pair as they mix all of the ingredients, and by the time they’re done the kitchen smells wonderful.

YN places the brownies into the heated oven as Harry cleans up the remaining clutter on the island, taking the oven mitts off and placing them on the counter. She leans back against the cool marble, just watching him move the things around before he’s making his way to her and trapping her in front of the counter, leaning down to press his lips to hers.

They kiss passionately before YN reaches down to the bulge in his pants, making him pull away with a groan. “If I remember correctly, I think you promised me something while the brownies are cooking,” he smirks, and she rolls her eyes playfully before dropping to her knees and tugging on his pants, right in front of the oven.

She spits in her hand a bit before stroking him slowly, his precum working as the perfect added lubricant. He moans softly as she does, but his breath gets caught in his throat as she leans forward, placing her lips on the head of him before taking him about halfway down.

The heat radiating off the oven is a nice touch, and she reminds herself to ask Harry to do something to keep her warm the next time she sucks him off.

It’s a gift, really, the way she can multitask this way; literally sucking a cock and thinking about other ways to keep warm the next time she does it.

Stroking what doesn’t fit into her mouth, she suckles on the head of him for a bit, dipping the tip of her tongue into his slit and humming at the bead of slightly salty precum that gets on her tongue.

“Shit, ‘s like you’ve been taking lessons on sucking cock. Your mouth is heaven,” he pants, thrusting shallowly into her mouth and throwing his head back when she gags on him slightly, closing around his sensitive head. “Ohhhh fuck I swear your mouth was made for me,” he whines, slamming his hand onto the island to stabilize himself, his knees buckling slightly.

She hums and chuckles around him at the reaction she’s getting, the vibrations sending shocks through Harry’s entire body. “Wait, shit. Do that again, ‘m close,” he warns her, choking on a moan when she does so immediately. It’s insane how quickly she can make him cum, no one has ever had this effect on him.

“Fuck me,” he sighs, shivering as a chill runs through his body. “I definitely need a break after that one, you just sucked the life out of me,” he tells her. squeezing his eyes shut as she tucks his sensitive cock back into his pants.

She laughs loudly at his words, and Harry has to squeeze his eyes shut as she tucks his sensitive cock back into his pants. They head to the couch and continue their show while the brownies cook, just as they did before.

When the brownies are done cooking, they let them cool for a bit before cutting them and eating them right over the pan, that’s how fucking delicious they are.

They eat two each before waiting a bit, watching some more TV as they wait for the effects to kick in. It doesn’t, though, and they’re confused when they feel as normal as ever.

With a disappointed sigh, YN speaks up. “Maybe we did something wrong, measured the oil wrong or something. I don’t feel anything,” she mumbles, snuggling into him on the couch.

“Yeah, we probably didn’t put enough, we can try again another time,” he encourages her, rubbing up and down her arm gently as he knows how excited she was for this to work.

She nods gently and lies her head on him, shifting her attention back to the TV as they continue watching their show, not feeling any different than they normally do.

By the time they’re about two more episodes in, they finally start to feel something. Their heads are floaty and their eyes are droopy, their bodies entirely relaxed.

YN is hyper aware of everything happening around her, all of Harry’s body heat, the fibres on the couch, and even the slight static that can be heard beneath the TV show, and it’s sending her mind into overdrive.

They’re high out of their fucking minds, and they’re realizing one brownie was probably enough to get them high. It’s too late now, though, and when Harry looks to YN lazily with those droopy eyes, she’s ready to jump his bones. She’s still soaked from the dry humping, and she can’t take this much longer.

“Do you wanna have sex?” she asks him bluntly, catching him by surprise. He’s speechless for a moment, but as his mind finally catches up, he sits up abruptly.

“Hell yes, cmon. Take your clothes off,” he tells her, making her giggle. She instantly obliges, standing up to take her leggings off and heading to his room, but he stops her and pulls her into his lap.

“No, need to see you get off right here,” he tells her, and she looks at him confusedly before he’s helping her out by moving her to straddle his thigh. “Y’gonna ride my thigh so I can see you fall apart before I actually get my hands on you,” he explains, the filthy words making her moan.

She immediately places her hands on his shoulders and moves her hips to test, a groan leaving her lips as the material of his pants creates the perfect amount of friction against her clit.

It’s way better than where they’d left off earlier, the removal of her panties and pants feeling absolutely life changing. To make the experience even more wonderful for her, Harry leans forward and takes one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking gently on the sensitive bud before pulling away breathlessly.

“Fuck, I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful” he whispers, keeping his eyes on her as he wraps his lips around her nipple once more, focusing on the reaction he gets from her.

He flicks his tongue around the silver barbell once more before catching it in between his teeth and pulling gently, prompting her to let out a guttural moan, the bite of the pain making her entire body tingle.

“Such a needy little thing, hm? Just so desperate for Daddy to take care of you?” he coos condescendingly, humming as she nods and quickens her pace, chasing her orgasm. She throws her head back slightly and her jaw drops as she starts to throb against the material, her orgasm so close she can practically taste it.

The filthy sight makes his cock twitch in his pants, and he can barely contain himself when she bites down onto his shoulder to conceal her loud moans as her orgasm takes over her, shooting through her body.

After giving her a moment to collect herself, he pulls her into his chest and stands from the couch on slightly shaky legs, wrapping hers around him as he carrie’s her up the stairs and to his bedroom skilfully, and neither of them know how he does so intoxicated.

Stepping into the room, he places her down on the centre before climbing on as well, lying on his stomach so that his face is right by her pussy.

“I really need to taste you,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around her thighs before diving in immediately, no time wasted. Her back arches at the feeling of his tongue swiping between her swollen folds, her clit still sensitive from cumming on his thigh just moments ago.

“Shit!” she cries, reaching down to fist at his hair, tugging on his roots as he devours her, licking places she didn’t even know could feel pleasurable. She’s already close from all of the overstimulation, and when he shoves his tongue into her as far as it can go and his nose nudges her clit, she cums all over his mouth with a broken gasp, twitching and pulling away from the sensation.

Her chest is heaving as he sits up, his chin glistening with her orgasm as he climbs up and presses his lips to hers. She groans softly at the taste of herself on his mouth, reaching down to stroke his hard cock gently while their lips are still attached.

He’s definitely ready to go now, not as sensitive as he was when she sucked him off. Pulling away, he looks to her for permission. “Are y’ready for me or do you need a minute?” he questions, looking into her eyes for any sign of uncertainty.

She nods eagerly at his question, wrapping her legs around his waist in response. He immediately lines up with her sopping hole, angling his hips to slide into her. The feeling makes her gasp in shock, wrapping her arms around his shoulders so that she can bury her face into his neck.

The feeling of him stretching her over sensitive walls is like no other, and she wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world. She can feel each and every ridge and vein along his thick shaft, and his leaking head is nestled right against her g-spot.

All of these things have her bucking her hips in attempt to get him to move, desperate for another orgasm, this time on his cock. He obliges instantly, pulling out to thrust into the exact same spot once more. The fast pace he sets immediately has her seeing stars, the precise movements of his hips making her lose all sanity.

She’s already squirming and sobbing loudly in pleasure, trying to find some relief from his bruising thrusts, but he supplies her with none, knowing that if she truly needed to stop she’d let him know. They have safewords and signals for that exact reason. Not to mention the fact that he knows her body like the back of his hand by now, and he’s very certain of her limits.

“Wait- please, fuck!” she yells, her eyes rolling back as another inevitable orgasm builds, causing her to shake unceasingly, his thrusts unforgiving. “Can’t take it,” she whines,

“You can and you will, always do,” he coos. “I’ve got you, just cum for Daddy,” his soft words are grounding for her as his hips don’t falter, forcing her to take the pleasure. At that, she finally relaxes and lets her mind and body go, her orgasm hitting her so hard she chokes on her breath.

Harry leans down to press soothing kisses all over her neck and shoulders, keeping her close as he feels her start to squirt around him and soak his lower stomach. She’s shaking as she does, a loud wail falling from her dry throat.

It only prolongs her orgasm when he doesn’t stop thrusting deeply inside of her and by the time she’s finished squirting, wordless babbles are the only noises she can produce.

“Made such a mess for me, pet,” he rasps, sitting up and rubbing the evidence of her orgasm all over her thighs and making the mess bigger. “Gonna have to make you lick this up when we’re done,” he coos to her, making her eyes fly open at the meaning of his words.

That means they’re not done, and she groans at the thought of cumming again, but she wouldn’t ask him to stop even if the world depends on it. He truly fucks her so well.

Her over sensitive walls are fluttering around him as he adds some more depth to his thrusts, tears of pleasure falling from her eyes when he hits her g-spot. The pressure makes her eyes roll back, and Harry just has to say something about it.

“Such a dumb baby, look at you, all drunk on m’cock,” he teases condescendingly, bringing a hand up to her jaw and placing his thumb on her bottom lip to force her mouth open.

The moment it’s wide enough for him, he leans over and spits into her open mouth before tapping her gently, a silent command to swallow it. She does immediately, desperate to obey even when she struggles to do so. Her face scrunches slightly as he gives her a particularly deep thrust, grazing her cervix and creating the most delicious bite of pain.

“Y’always look so pretty when I’m fucking you, ‘s not like anything I’ve ever seen,” he praises, feeling his cock twitch inside of her in warning of his impending orgasm. “Bet you can feel me deep in y’tummy, hm?” he questions, and all she can do is nod at his words, starting to shake in his tight hold once again.

He doesn’t let up at all and she’s cumming again seconds later, locking down on him and creaming so much that it leaves a thick layer of her cum on the base of him.

He manages to hold off his orgasm until she comes down, and the second he feels her relax around him again he quickly pulls out and stands up shakily on the bed, YN sitting up onto her knees.

She looks directly into his eyes and sticks her tongue out as he quickly strokes his cock in front of her face, his face scrunching up in pleasure as his balls draw up. The icing on the cake was when she grabbed her tits, one in each hand, and plays with her nipple rings a bit, the contrast from the innocent eyes to the filthy action sending Harry over the edge.

His legs are shaky as he tries to stay upright, grunts and groans leaving his lips as he releases his load all over her tongue, but some gets on her face and even on her tits, making her look even filthier.

His chest is heaving and he’s breathing heavily by the time he’s all done, just eyeing the way she looks absolutely

“You never did have the best aim,” she teases, looking down at the mess on her chest before looking into his eyes innocently. “Now what should I do about this mess?” she questions in faux exasperation, before gasping as it she’s come up with an idea.

Harry’s eyes darken once more, his sensitive cock twitching as he watches her reach up to swipe her index finger through his mess, gathering some on the tip before slowly bringing it up to her mouth. Opening her mouth, she places the finger on her tongue before closing her lips around it and sucking, humming at the taste.

“Ass up, I’m not done with you yet,” he grits, gripping her arm tightly enough for him to manhandle her into the position he requested, stifling a groan as she arches perfectly for him, her swollen, messy cunt on display.

She’s so open for him, and he wastes no time in stroking his semi hard cock to get fully erect, lining up before sliding into her with a single, hard thrust. He starts a fast pace immediately, gripping her hips to pull her back and meet his thrusts.

The sound of her cries below him only spur him on, but she’s not loud enough for him. Not by a long shot. He needs to know that he is absolutely wrecking her. Lifting one hand from her hip, he lands it back down onto her ass cheek roughly, satisfied as her cries get louder.

He repeats the action on the other cheek, then again to the other and he keeps spanking her until he’s satisfied, knowing there’s a sharp sting beneath the soft skin and that she’ll be sore tomorrow.

Looking down to where they’re connected, he’s mesmerized by the way her ass jiggles against the skin of his thighs with each bruising thrust, and the filthy, squelching sound of their skin colliding only adds to his awe.

She’s leaking so much around him that every time he pulls away, he can see a thick string of her arousal connecting them, making his mind spin even more. The sight, the sound, and the feeling all overload his senses as his orgasm nears, his stomach clenching in warning.

“Baby,” he babbles, his hips still pounding against hers. “Gonna cum, please let me cum in you,” he begs, trying his hardest to hold off his orgasm until he gets an answer. He takes the opportunity to make her cum even faster, licking his right thumb before pressing it to her asshole, forcing his way past the tight ring of muscles.

Turning her head, she looks back at him with the filthiest, most fucked out face he’s ever seen. She’s literally so full that she feels she could explode, but she’s determined to keep it together until he fills her with his cum. “Yeah, yeah. Please, fill me up. Need it so bad, gonna cum too,” she cries, burying her face back into the duvet as he doubles his efforts, it seems like.

His brutal thrusts send the both of them over the edge with loud yells, her cunt squeezing him so tightly and milking him as he floods her, stuffing her full. He pulls out when there’s absolutely no more room for him, letting some of his cum leak out before helping her move onto her back.

He takes some time to admire how absolutely fucked out she looks, dried cum all over her and messy hair, her chest heaving as she pants. Her legs are spread enough that he can see his cum starting to leak from her abused hole, and he knows he has to document this.

Reaching over to his bedside table, he grabs his phone and asks her permission, which is granted, to take a picture of her like this. His camera clicks loudly in the quiet room as he takes a few of them, surveying how provocative she looks like this.

She’s still catching her breath for a few minutes, her body limp as she comes back down to Earth. The entire time, Harry is beside her, rubbing her arms and cooing softly to her to let her know that he’s there. When she’s finally back, he smiles softly at her before brushing some hair from her face.

“Bath or shower?” he questions, gently running his thumb over one of the bruises he’d left on her neck. Humming thoughtfully, she takes in how tired she is now and realizes she won’t be able to withstand a bath tonight.

“Shower tonight, and then we can take a bath in the morning to soothe our muscles?” she suggests, and he nods softly, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her lips.

“Yeah, that’s fine. You need help getting up?” he questions concernedly, his mind spinning as he realizes he might’ve gone too hard.

An adorable chuckle snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks down to see YN smiling up at him before climbing out the bed, heading to his bathroom.

He just shakes his head fondly and follows behind her to the bathroom, stopping and leaning against the doorframe as she turns on the hot water and lets it heat up before stepping in, immediately placing herself under the water.

She just relishes in the warmth for a bit, forgetting she isn’t alone until she sees Harry from the corner of her eye, a soft smile on her face as she looks to him.

“Are you going to stand there like a creep the whole time or are you going to join me?” she chuckles, grabbing his soap and starting to lather it on her body.

Standing up from the frame, the smirk never leaves his face as he steps in as well, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close before pressing his lips to hers. He pulls away with a smile on his face, the same one on hers.

“Be my girlfriend,” he whispers, making YN’s jaw drop.

“What?”

#plugrry #plugrry smut #plugrry x reader #harry styles fic rec #dbf harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles filth #harry styles fic #smut #harry related writings #harryistheonlyoneforme #new fic

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cutestkilla · 1 year

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Tea for (more than) Two

So, in a delightful turn of events, I recently got together with some pals who are also TOTALLY NORMAL about Carry On. And we did our best to replicate afternoon tea at Lady Ruth’s house. And I thought it would be kinda fun to share the results (and some recipes, which are at the end under the cut). So, here they are, featuring:

Scones! (Sour cherry, ofc.)

Cake! (Chocolate with Chocolate-Orange Buttercream featuring a super respectful remembrance, Lemon Drizzle, and Classic Victoria Sandwich.)

Lavender Earl Grey shortbread cookies!

Finger sandwiches! (Egg & cress, Lemon and prawn, Caprese on focaccia, and Coronation chicken - all on freshly baked bread.)

A selection of teas! (Including Simon's Sour Cherry looseleaf blend, Simon Snow Tea, some proper English Breakfast, and of course Earl Grey.)

A giant slab of butter! (Fancy butter.)

A basil plant!

A crucible!

A sword through the table!

Special cameos by a Watford goat (wings hidden) and Prof. Minos (tiny fluffy edition)!

Sadly, no tea trolley, but we did our best to provide glamorous staging anyway.

It was pretty much the best, guys! Highly recommend. Recipes (including dairy-free versions for many treats) below the cut.

Chocolate cake with chocolate-orange buttercream (dairy-free)

Using this recipe for the cake, and this one for the frosting (instructions at the end for a chocolate variant). A hot tip is to use egg whites instead of aquafaba (they whip up much faster) and of course to add orange zest, per AWTWB ch 89.

Lemon Drizzle Cake (dairy-free)

Using this recipe, using vegan butter and replacing the self-raising flour with some flour/baking powder/salt ratio from the internet. Garnish with Kellogg's ICEE Cereal or any other weird cereal you saw at the store and couldn't resist trying, for a little visual flair.

Classic Victoria Sandwich (dairy-free)

Using this recipe, substituting butter with vegan butter, milk with a non-dairy milk alternative (ideally soy but in this case oat milk was used), and replacing the self-raising flour with the same flour/baking powder/salt ratio from the internet as above. Regular old granulated sugar can be used in place of caster sugar. Garnished this with some black raspberries, but any attractive fruit (or weird cereal) could be used.

Sour Cherry Scones

This recipe from the Joy of Cooking does the trick! Use the GOOD butter.

Lavender Earl Grey Shortbread Cookies

You can find the recipe here

Overnight Focaccia Bread

Lemon and Prawn Sandwiches

This recipe came from @cookingmywaythroughcarryon and there are tons more there for tea party inspiration, including alternate versions of some of the above, so definitely check it out!

#carry on #the simon snow series #dairy-free baking #the simon snow trilogy #simon snow #rainbow rowell #tea for more than two #except at lady ruth's this is probably the spread she would put out for only two people #rainbow if you see this i hope the oxford commas aren't too offensive 😂

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fishsticksloser · 1 year

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Pound Cake

Hobie x gn!reader

Warnings: baking not vegan friendly..., kissing, goofing off

A/N: I will not be writing his accent... Hobie Brown, Peepaw Leo, and Astarion are invading my brain... Send help

Hobie knew how you felt about your birthday, not particularly interested in celebrating. Still he was determined to help make this birthday special. He wanted to make you love your birthday again. No matter how many times you tell him you don't want to celebrate, he refuses to believe it. Birthdays are special, and you deserve to be celebrated. And you're going to be celebrated whether you like it or not.

You walk into the kitchen and see him standing there with a cake mix and all the other ingredients needed to make a cake. "What's this?" You laugh, a bit anxiously.

"What isn't it?" Hobie answers with a grin, motioning to the ingredients. "I'm making you a cake." He replies simply, though his smile gives away how excited he is.

"Bee, you've never baked a day in your life." You point out, walking over to him. You carefully inspect the boxed cake mix and other ingredients he's laid out.

"So?" He looks at you, his grin not fleeting. "How hard can it be? It doesn't take a master chef to bake a cake. I can figure it out." He shrugs. This is, of course, completely untrue. But he wants to celebrate you on your birthday, so he'll give it a try anyway.

"Can I help?" You ask quietly, grabbing an egg to break and put into the bowl. You knew he wanted to celebrate you today, but you didn't like the thought of not helping. You didn't want to feel any different, no matter how much he wanted to celebrate your birthday.

"He considers the offer for a moment. "I was going to do this by myself as a surprise," he says. "But I guess I that doesn't really work if you're already here..." He trails off. Hobie loves cooking with you and he knows you love spending time in the kitchen with him. Plus, now he doesn't have to try and figure out how to make a cake by himself, which definitely would've been a disaster. So he doesn't argue. "I'd love for you to help."

After the cake is in the oven, you turn to the counter again. You assess all the left over ingredients: milk, powdered sugar, butter, and vanilla. "Are we making out own frosting?"

"Well, I was planning on it." He replies. "Unless you have a better idea." He's never actually made frosting before, but he's sure he can figure it out - it's not like baking. Then again, he's also never made cake from a box before, but he seems to have managed that okay. So he probably can figure out how to make frosting, too. At least he hopes he can.

You shrug, grabbing the softened butter. "I know how to make it." You tell him, pulling him closer so he can learn. Hobie grins as he wraps his arms around you, making the most of the position so he can steal a kiss. He'll gladly learn anything from you. He rests his head on your shoulder while he gives you his attention.

"Beat the butter first..." You mumble as he stands behind you, his hands firmly on your waist. You start the mixer, letting it beat the butter until light and smooth.

"What's next?" He asks when you stop the mixer. His fingers trail across your hips, and he leans into you as you continue to teach him the ways of frosting making. Of course he does sneak a few kisses in between steps.

The oven beeps and he takes the cake out. We put it in the fridge to cool faster before moving back to the frosting. "What colors are we thinking?" You ask, starting to separate the frosting into bowls.

"Do you have any requests?" He questions, he doesn't really care what color the frosting is. The frosting is just another excuse for him to stay close to you. If you want neon green frosting, he'll gladly make it. He'll still eat it too, as long as you're with him. But it's your cake, and you're celebrating your birthday.

"So helpful." You tease, picking a few colors. "Wanna split the decorating? You do one side, I do the other?" You suggest, pulling the cooled cake out of the fridge.

"Deal." He agrees. "But you better be prepared to be wowed. I'm a masterful cake decorator." He says with a smirk, you can tell he's absolutely not serious. But since he's never decorated a cake before, he's having a lot of fun with it, putting as much effort into decorating as he can. He makes no guarantee that it will be good, but he does promise to give it everything he's got.

"Oh? Masterful?" You laugh playfully, cutting the cake and moving down the counter a bit to give him some elbow room to work. "Can't wait to see what you concoct."

"Prepare to be dazzled," he says with a smirk. His hand brushes yours as he takes his half of the cake. He takes advantage of the fact that he's standing close to you by pulling you in for a quick kiss. He sets the cake down to work on, glancing over at you and grinning. "Just you wait. This cake is going to be the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen."

You chuckle and move to work on your own half of the cake. After a while, you're close to being done and your mind drifts. "Hey, Bee?" You smile, turning to look at him sweetly as he works on his own half.

As he spreads the frosting over his half of the cake, he glances at you, his eyes sparkle with curiosity. "Yeah, love?" He asks, still working on the frosting.

You whip some frosting onto his lips, laughing softly. He grins as you do this, his expression turning from curious to hungry. Hobie doesn't waste a single second before pulling you close and kissing you deeply, with intent. The hand that was decorating the cake is now clutching your hip, pulling you close as he can. Your frosting covered fingers gently cup his jaw as you kiss him back. All thoughts of cake, frosting, decorating escape your mind as he pulls you closer. He keeps kissing you, his breath mingling with yours as he kisses you fiercely and deeply, not wanting to leave any part of you unloved and unexplored.

He groans into the kiss, and when it's over, he rests his forehead against yours. His voice a whisper. "I'm glad you were born, my love."

#atsv hobie #hobie brown x y/n #hobie spiderverse #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown #hobie x reader #astv hobie #spiderverse 2 #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderman #spiderpunk #into the spider verse #spider punk #spiderpunk x you #spiderpunk x y/n #spiderpunk x reader #{fish birthday•°}

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ransprang · 7 months

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thank you @tolkien-fantasy we hope you like your match ups <3

if anyone else wants a personalized fic this is our ko-fi

your bg3 match up is....

HALSIN!!!

SFW

How you met: Halsin was taking a walk through his neighbourhood when your gorgeous garden caught his eye. He was entranced. Never had he seen nature’s bounty bless a land so thoroughly. You caught the man looming over a lovely flower bush. You debated calling the police but settled on walking over to him and cheerfully greeting him good morning. Halsin smiled warmly, and began complimenting your garden. You were happy to share a few techniques with him and invited him inside for tea. He was charmed by your love for nature and wisdom, and started showing up more and more often to chat with you with the excuse of admiring your garden.

In terms of gifts, Halsin would never buy you flowers, only seeds so you could plant them. He would often get you books that he thought you would like or reminded him of you.

Since you are 4”10 Halsin would often accidentally almost step on you. He would be very apologetic about it though. Thanks to his size you would also end up calling him over to reach the top shelves in your house or the grocery store. Sometimes instead of getting you the item himself, he would just pick you up so that you could reach it yourself.

Both of you being incredibly wise, would never have fights as a couple. All your couples friends would come to you for advice.

Halsin is the type of person to slow down and appreciate the beauty of the world around him (including you <3). Your dates would involve long walks in parks and cute picnics. He would make you delicious sandwiches and other baked goods, though they would all probably be vegan.

Halsin respects your work as a death doula since over his 400 year lifespan he has come to appreciate the circle of life. He is always there to offer you support and be a calming presence when things get a little too overwhelming.

Halsin is Oak Daddy and he would often end up somehow unofficially adopting some children who would follow him around. He loves watching you interact with the kids, watching them be put to ease by your bubbly, cheerful and friendly personality the same way he was.

Halsin will never make fun of you or tease you since you don’t like that. Besides, he prefers cracking dad jokes.

He likes engaging in different parts of nature with you. Exploring the lands of Faerun, and trying different activities to interact with the nature. If y’all ever go fishing he’s gonna make this stupid joke: “What do librarians take fishing? Bookworms.”

He’d be very gentle and caring when it comes to your chronic illnesses. Halsin being a powerul and wise druid would know some possible cures or spells to alleviate the pain. He also has a wide network which he’d use for this cause.

NSFW

Halsin is very gentle and uses his years of wisdom and experience to find new sex positions to accommodate your physical illnesses.

Everytime you go off on tangents about things you have learned from books, Halsin gets horny, he can’t help it. Of course he admires your intelligence, but he also can’t stop imagining how it’d feel to pull his cock out and stuff your mouth with it.

Because of the height difference, Halsin does have a bit of a size kink. He likes overshadowing your smaller frame with his large body. He’d also love to try standing positions like you giving him a blowie while standing.

Your physical affections are very much encouraged by Halsin. He loves the feel of your arms and lips on his body. Often his mind is filled with innocent love, some other times his mind wanders and he presses your body back against a wall and grabs your ass.

Halsin has intense animal urges, he growls and grunts. Grits his teeth, as he would hold you by the back of your neck tightly and look into your eyes. His desperation visible as his cock would throb to be released against his pants.

Halsin likes to overstimulate you, he loves to pump you till you are scratching his back or pulling on his hair. “By Oak Father's blessings, you are beautiful like this. Cum for me,” he would say, while he watches you squirm.

He enjoys slow sex too, he would ask to make love to you. He would fuck you side ways so he can kiss you while cuddling and holding you in his arms.

Halsin picks you up over his shoulder as he would smack your ass cheek and kiss your hips. He would carry you to the bedroom and lay you down gently before playing with your clit while kissing you deeply. You can heel his muscles, and pecks move up and down against your body as his breathing gets heavy.

Sometimes he would like to watch you get undressed or touch yourself as he rubs his cock and strokes it up and down. He will ask you to clean his precum off his red tip before continuing masturbating for you.

Halsin would cook for you after sex, something to get you feeling less tired and energetic again. He would also like to feed you playfully by keeping food on his muscles or taking a bite by keeping small foods on your breasts and licking them off.

your beach waves,

admins sar, sav & san

#Halsin x reader #Halsin x tav #Halsin bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #Halsin smut #x reader #Halsin x you #bg3 fanfic #halsin silverbough #Halsin fanfic #bg3 #bg3 Halsin #halsin bg3 x reader #baldur's gate 3 x reader #baldur's gate 3 x you #bg3 x tav #bg3 x reader

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angel-of-the-moons · 1 year

Text

A Rose Under the Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Domestic violence mentions, hints at child abuse, child abuse mentions violence, phantom pains

MINORS DNI: I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Again, none of this is beta read. We die like the younglings Anakin snuffed in the Jedi Temple

Taglist: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @bad4amficideas

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Chapter 3:

The Victims

You sighed, checking the little egg timer in your apron pocket to see how long until the scones you were baking had left in the oven. Fifteen minutes. Ugh.

It had been a few days since Steven had come in and purchased his pillar of books. The two of you would make small talk, him thumbing through books and rambling about a subject on ancient Egypt that he knew. The moment you brought up your own obscure facts you have memorized from the things your father would read to you as a little girl, Steven’s eyes lit up and he got the biggest grin on his face, and launched himself headlong into info-dump mode. It was kinda cute, really, how excitable he got. You could tell the poor guy probably didn’t have many friends, aside from his brothers, whom he’d told you about, and a friend named Layla. You also found it endearing how his messy, bed-raggled curls would flop over his face, or how animated he’d seem when he would interrupt himself to bring up another fun fact…

But, it had been a day or two since he’d come in last. And to be honest, you kinda miss the guy. He was probably the nicest most engaging customer you had. He even admitted that he didn’t come in just for the books. He told you he liked your teas and treats, and he loved the comfortable atmosphere of your shop over a crowded cafe. But one day, he just had to ask:

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” He started, looking at the muffin in his hand.

“Hm?” You hummed as you stocked shelves.

“Are these… vegan?” He seemed hesitant to touch the muffine now, as if it were poisoned.

You giggle softly. “Yes, actually. I try to use recipes that everyone can enjoy. Vegan, gluten-free…”

“Oh! Wonderful!” He scarfed the muffin down rather quickly after that, his nose buried in the textbook on archaeology he had in his hands.

You set your phone down as you sipped your spiced tea. It was a rather cold and gloomy day today, not uncommon this late in the year, but still, it sucked. It reminded you of where you grew up in Maine, off the coast. Storms blew in all the time, you’d remember as a little girl getting up in the morning, wanting to run outside and play, just to be met with a dark and angry sky, blistering winds, and pelting rain.

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Your poor little six-year-old heart was crushed one day when a particularly bad squall blew into town, and you were trapped within the confines of your house, arms crossed, feet firmly planted as you glared out the window, lip wobbling.

How dare the weather ruin your plans for the day? You were going to play in your treehouse! Now the stupid wind was gonna blow it away! And if it did, your father would have to build another one, and that would take forever!

“Hey, there, Lil’ Bit.” Your dad said, kneeling behind you, as you stubbornly looked out the window in a seething rage. So, so angry for a little girl. You inherited your temper from your mother, surely. Though you personally never saw her mad, of course. Ever. But then again, she worked so much…

Your mom was what your dad told you was a “breadwinner”, which was a term you found dumb. You mom never entered contests and she certainly never won bread as a prize. It was so dumb! Why did adults have to use such dumb words for things?

“Hey, kiddo.” Your dad sang, leaning forward from where he was crouched to put his chin on your tiny shoulder.

“No, daddy, ‘m angy.” You mumbled, trying to shrug him off as lightning flashed in the distance.

He chuckled, his voice warm, much like your favorite pair of fuzzy socks after they were just taken out of the dryer. “Come on, princess. It’ll pass. They always do.”

“But why did it have t’ do it today!” You whined, not budging.

“Dunno, kid. The sky just felt like dumping buckets, I guess.” He said, humoring you.

“Daddy...” You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Clouds don’t use buckets!”

“Sure they do!” He grinned, waggling his eyebrows at you. “You just never see em!”

“You’re silly.” You scoff.

“You’re silly!” Your dad laughed, scooping you up and spinning you around, finally getting a smile out of you as you shriek in laughter.

He tucked you against his chest and kissed you on your forehead. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you some sna–”

His eyes went wide and he gasped when you writhed, crying out and wincing like you’d just been struck.

“Babygirl, what’s wrong?” He asked, hurriedly sitting you on the couch as you curled in on yourself. He could see the welts start to peek out from beneath the sleeves of your little pink shirt.

It was happening again.

The pain in his heart gripped him like ice, knowing he couldn’t do anything to ease the pain his daughter was feeling. His poor, poor baby girl, whose soulmate was constantly being inflicted with whatever horrors they faced with.

He would curse it, sometimes. Your mark. Your bond. You were already enduring abuse that wasn’t directed at you. Or maybe it was in a way… Given that it was happening to your other half. Who you would one day meet. Maybe things will be better, when you had. Maybe.

But one thing was for sure, he hated whomever was inflicting those injuries on your soulmate more. Not only were they hurting your soulmate, they were hurting you. He’d imagined that you were close in age. If so, who the hell would abuse a child in such a way? The concept was completely foreign to him.

He rubbed your back, murmuring sweet and loving things to you.

He noticed something odd about your mark about a few years ago, right when the welts and bruises started to show and you would recoil in phantom pain... There was a new addition to your mark. At first it was one crescent moon. But then one became two, and two became three.

Right now, the bottom right moon was full.

He wasn’t sure what it meant… But he noticed your crying slow to soft little hiccups and sniffles as you sit up, rubbing your eyes.

He rested his forehead against yours. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

“I jus’ wanna know why it hurts so much, daddy.” You sniffle.

“Trust me, I know. Me and your mom are similar. I remember when we were kids, before we met… She fell from a tree and broke her leg. Man, it hurt so bad…”

You looked up at him, your big beautiful eyes glistened with tears. Your mother’s eyes. Little gems of hers that you would always have.

“Really?” You peeped.

“Really.” He stood and walked over to the bookshelf above the living room fireplace, and plucked a book off of it. He turned back to you and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap and kissing the top of your head.

“This book came from your great auntie over in London. You remember her, yeah?” He hummed.

Your fingers grazed the cover, old and worn, obviously well-read and well-loved. It had a picture of a woman with wings and a pretty dress on it. You couldn’t read the other words on it just yet, you were still learning how to read the bigger ones.

“Want me to read you some of the stories in it?” He inquired.

“Uh-huh.” You nod.

Your father flipped the pages open, and hummed again, softer.

“Now, let’s start with the tale of Isis and the Seven Scorpions…”

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You jumped, almost dropping the egg timer you had in your hand when your shop’s door dinged and swung open. A frantic young woman rushed inside, her sunken and baggy eyes looking at you, wide with fright.

You skipped the usual welcome and regarded her with a confused expression.

“I… Can I help you–”

“Please, I just need to–to hide!” She said, rushing over to you and gripping your hand, pulling you behind her and further into the winding shelves that made up your bookstore.

“Hey, Hey.” You say, putting your hands on her shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“My–my boyfriend. He… He’s… I messed up and burned lunch and…” She looked to the side trying to check if he somehow didn’t materialize out of thin air over her shoulder when she wasn’t looking; and when she did… you saw them.

The already darkening bruises on her delicate throat.

Immediately you went into protector mode. You gently urge her towards the door leading to the stairwell that went up to your flat above.

“You hide up there, and call 999, okay?” You say to her. “You can stay here until the police arrive. If it makes you feel safer, there’s a deadbolt to the door up there. If your boyfriend comes in I’ll act like I didn’t see anything.”

You rush to the oven when you hear the timer go off, and pull out the scones (after slipping on your mitts), when the bell to your store dings.

You curse under your breath and say to the girl quietly. “Stay quiet, honey. I’ll be up when the police get here.”

You carefully slip the tasty treats onto a plastic tray and toss the pan into the sink with a clang; instantly regretting it when the young woman flinched and curled into herself, her arms instinctively reaching to cover her head.

You muttered and apology and balanced the pan on your hand as you hastily make your way down the stairs, to see whomever was incessantly dinging your “ring me!” button at the register.

When you finally break free of the labyrinthine bookshelves, you spot a rather large and angry looking man.

This had to be the boyfriend.

“Hello, one moment, please.” You say tersely, sliding the scones into the small display case showcasing the fresh treats of the day.

“Oi, you seen somebody come in here?” He demanded gruffly.

You take another visual sweep of his appearance. Rather big build, probably abuses the gym too much. He looks like he exclusively dines on protein shakes more than food… He could be trouble, if he got violent. The only upside is that you knew the layout of your little shop by heart, he didn’t. You really wished you had a gun under the counter, right about now.

You made a mental note to sign up for the courses and get the certificate from the police..

“Other than you, no, you’d be my first customer of the day.” You force the cheer into your tone as you bring a box of books and begin to half-assedly place them, hoping to look normal.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ customer.” He growled. “Don’ want no books.”

“Well, I also offer a variety of coffees, teas, and snacks–”

“I ain’t no fuckin’ customer!” He barked, getting in your face.

You could smell the alcohol on his breath. That explains the slurred speech.

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask that you please back away, you’re a little too close…” You say, your hands up in a submissive gesture, hoping to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Does it look like I giv' a fuck? Ya fuckin' muppet?" He hissed at you, his eyes dilated and glassy.

"Look, I don't want to cause trouble, but–"

He seized your arm and gripped it painfully tight, you could feel the crunch of your radiocarpal joint being squeezed under his rough and indelicate fingers. "Did ya hear me, ya fuckin' cunt? I'm lookin' for my girl, I know she came in here! Don't lie t' me!"

"Sir, people come into my store all the time, and it's not really my business why unless they buy a book or a muffin. Let me go!" You retort, trying to pry his fingers from around you with your free hand.

"Shut th' fuck up!" He snarled, pushing you back against the bookshelf so hard the back of your head cracked on one of the shelves. Great, another pain.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" An unmistakably American accent called from the door of your shop.

How had you missed the bell? How did you not notice the sound of the door opening?

The drunken man holding you turned, still gripping you. "Great, another fuckin' yank? Can't you fucks stick to ya own country?"

You felt your pulse quicken, and your eyes widened at the man who stood in the door; dark, honey-tinted eyes aflame with anger. But the man the eyes belonged to?

Dead ringer for Steven. But he carried himself entirely differently, he even had his hair styled back in a different way. He wore a white hoodie, faded blue jeans, and some steel-toe boots.

"None o' ya fuckin' busniess, you dick." The man sneered, looking back down at you.

"It is if you're hurting the lady." He said gruffly.

"Oi, you got a listening problem?"

The man turned again, but he was met with the knuckles of the American man who just came to your aid; straight to his jaw, knocking him back against a cart you had full of discount books, sending them to the floor with a clatter.

The man cracked his knuckles, before gently grabbing you by the shoulder and moving you behind him for cover.

At this distance you could just barely catch a whiff of sandalwood and some kind of spice. A hint of aftershave wafted into your senses in accompany.

"You fuckin' dick!" The man grunted, shaking his head in an attempt to reorient his brain.

"You need a better repertoire of insults, buddy. Or stop hitting the sauce." The other man sneered. "Probably both."

The drunk lunged at him, and this guy was one step ahead, intercepting him by grabbing his wrists.

The crunch of bone was enough to make you squeeze your eyes shut, and when you dared to peek again, the drunk was clutching at his now bleeding and broken nose. Your savior on the other hand?

Barely broke a sweat. He headbutted him with the hardest part of his head, crunching bone and cartilage.

"Stay down, asshole." He growled. You spun on your heels to look at the door when two clothed officers came in, hands on their pepper spray.

"Everybody just calm down!" One of them shouted.

Ugh. Now you had a headache…

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By the time the officers, the battered girl, and her boyfriend all left, it was just you and your knight in shining hoodie. Who looked way too much like Steven.

You sat him down at one of the reading nooks and shakily wring your hands out to calm down. "Uh… Yeah, so…" You try.

"My name's Marc. Marc Spector." He said. "You, uh… met my brother, already. Steven."

You gasp. "The heathen!"

He choked out a startled laugh. "What?"

"Oh! Uhhhhhh…" You clear your throat awkwardly trying to change the subject. "You and Steven have different last names!"

Marc huffed through his nose. "It's uh… a long story."

"What, were you guys separated at birth or something? He speaks with a typical Londoner accent, you're full-blown American." You smile.

"Or something." Marc murmured, unable to meet your eyes.

"God, and Steven and I joked about my life being a setup for a book." You giggle softly. "You guys sound like you're straight out of a Dickens novel!"

Marc kind of squirmed in his seat. "Yeah…"

"So, uh… what brings you here today? From what Steven told me, you don't exactly pick up books all the time like he does." You say to him, tilting his head.

Marc wiped at his face with a groan, "Ugh. Don't get me started on Steven's books! He has too goddamn many–"

"Ah!" You say, flicking a stray curl. You weren't sure why your brain told you that was okay to do. It just felt right. The look he gave you afterwards sent your heart leaping into your throat.

Raw confusion, maybe some surprise?

"Uh… No talking like that is allowed in my store, there, pal…" You stammer out. "So… why are you here?"

"Steven said you had coffee. Didn't feel like dealing with a lot of people today." He kind of mumbled.

"Oh, I get that." You sighed softly in sympathy. Already, Marc struck you as the kinda guy who didn't like dealing with people unless he had to.

And honestly, you kinda felt for the guy. Something about him made your heart twinge in a funny little way.

"Tell you what, as a thanks for helping take care of that asshat, coffee is on the house, and I'll even give you a cup of my personal blend instead of the stuff on the menu."

"Uh, you don't have to–"

"Ah!" You say, wagging a finger at him as you walk away. "None of that in my store!"

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You sat and talked for a while. Hours, really. Whereas Steven loved to babble about things he knew, and was rather energetic about it, Marc was… reserved. Shy, almost. He was content to let you lead the conversations, piping in here or there on a subject.

He told you some about his time in the Marines, and how something happened to him mentally that got him discharged early. He was vague about what he did after that, but he mentioned moving to London after he and his wife ran into problems.

At first you almost asked a rather impertinent question, "Why did you guys split up?" But decided that was far too rude of a thing to ask. Even if you wondered why he married outside of a soulmate bond. Even if a marriage like that wasn't entirely uncommon…

"I'm sorry." You say softly, sitting across from him, your coffee long finished, the mug cold. "You've been through… a lot..."

"Yeah, you can certainly say that." Marc sighed, turning his mug in his hands for probably the hundredth time.

"So… Thanks again. For y'know. Helping me." You smile.

"No problem, easy enough to deal with a drunk." He shrugged. "And he looked like he was about to hurt you, so I had to do... something."

"Well I'm glad you did that something." You chuckle.

Marc cleared his throat and smiled back, a soft thing on his face, really. But it was nice to see.

He moved to stand, "I should, ah… go. Thanks for the coffee." He reached out to hand you a few notes from his wallet, and you declined, gathering the mugs to go wash them.

"Nope, I already said it was on the house." You tell him.

"But–"

"No buts!" You called out as you vanished into the expanse of bookshelves.

When you came back, you noticed that, stacked neatly on the counter, was a bundle of notes, your egg timer sitting neatly atop it, with a post-it note simply saying:

"Tell me your life story next time. Thanks. -Marc."

Chapter 4: Link

#A Rose Under the Moon #moon knight x you #moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #steven grant x reader #soulmate au

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