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uniquevocashark · 2 years

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Tea and Ice Lattes Part 3

hnnnng part 4 coming soon

Its Saturday morning, and though it had been storming for most of the week, it seemed as if Alcina’s sheer desire for a good day for your date had pulled the sun out from behind the clouds.

The café was busy in the morning but the kind of busy that was all take out and no stay ins. The doors had been wedged open, and the breeze that blew in was welcome.

You checked the clock.

Eleven minutes to ten.

You drummed your fingers on the table. The noise was pleasant at least, familiar. Grounding, as you stared at nothing in particular to avoid blushing when Alcina looked at you.

The shop tables were all but abandoned that morning, but for you, her and her ducks, who waddled about your table inquisitively. She was wearing a long orange dress, ankle length, with a high neckline decorated in three yellow roses. Her ducks wore little capes of a matching colour, the family crest on the bottom left corner.

Conversation had been dry; on her side a preoccupation with the time, and on yours from the crushing realisation that this was, most technically, a date. And only the start of a date at that.

You had been nervous all week, spiking up to a new high on Tuesday, and it turned into something uniquely hell inspiring when she sat in front of you.

…

It had started on Tuesday night. You had just gotten home, a bone deep tiredness settling in your bones and a light coffee induced headache rattling in your skull, when you were approached by the oddest dressed woman you had ever seen. She was on the reedy side of tall, muscled but with little else, and covered in scars that looked like bitemarks, bearing the crest of the Countess on her breast pocket.

She licked her teeth anxiously as you approached, a cream box underneath her arm, “Do you live here?”

She had gestured at your door.

“Who are you?”

You watched her visibly relax and then hand the box to you like it was a cursed, burning object, “This is from you. From the heiress.”

“Um.” You didn’t grab the box.

“From Miss Dimitrescu,” She repeated, her voice going into an even shriller whistle, “I must be going, so take it.”

And then she was gone, like a phantom on the wind, and you stood at the door of your apartment holding a box that looked like it cost more than your entire wardrobe. You unlocked the door and went in. You really had to talk to her about the gifts.

There was a huge letter attached, lilac in colour, and it seemed to radiate a certain kind of malice only present from intense apprehension. It, and the box which was equally suspicious, sat unopened on the opposite side of your tiny couch for three days before you finally felt compelled enough to open it.

You didn’t know the difference between grades of paper, but just the feel of the envelope felt disgustingly expensive. The lettering was golden filigree, or maybe even golden ink?, and when you ripped it open you felt intensely lower class that was probably unintentional.

Probably.

There were two papers in the envelope: a small crème card, your name in bold red letters, a formal invitation out underneath it in looping black lettering. A small I’m so excited to see you this Saturday was scribbled in the corner, with a little smiling duck next to it that made you smile. And behind it was a handwritten note, on paper blotched in different kinds of ink, with a different loopier handwriting. There was no address line, or even a simple hello, but you could guess who sent it.

Rest assured that this gift given in good faith, and from Alcina alone, and that I merely wished to impart my congratulations to my dear daughter’s girlfriend (you noted that the word was indented into the paper deeply, like the person had been pressing too hard with their pen) of whom I have not be appropriately introduced.

I am so looking forward to our second introduction, for my daughter has been quite tight lipped about you.

Till this evening and with my fullest, warmest regards,

Countess Dimitrescu

You read it over, then looked at the box.

You almost threw it away. Almost.

And then you remembered that if you did, the Countess would almost certainly destroy your life.

You opened it.

Inside was a frock and you could barely believe you were holding anything when you picked it up.

The fabric was impossibly light and soft, a dark and luxurious peach colour, and it was your size. You turned it around in your hands, and checked over the measurements, and you had the strongest urge to just lay down and not move for the next day. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

It was fine, this was just a kind gesture, you were sure. A bit of an assumption, true, but you were positive it was just a gift from one friend to another. You weren’t that bad with your clothes, you had good clothes to wear, you didn’t really need this, she just wanted you to have something good to wear.

You rubbed the fabric between two fingers, barely able make out the individual threads of the expertly woven garment.

Oh god, it was a total fuck me frock.

Was she coming on to you?

You set it down carefully in the box, it was your goddamn size, and then grabbed your empty mug. Another coffee would have made you manic, and you were in no mood for a stomach-ache, so you filled it with water and sipped through it slowly while staring vaguely into the distance. You would have to wear the coat, wouldn’t you?

…

Here you were, Saturday morning, wearing the frock.

It was a really good dress, and you normally didn’t have any time to wear something so nice. It might have seemed a bit shallow but, it was made for you, and it did look good. You were certainly going to bring it up with her, it was concerning that she knew your size for fucks sake. The little duck buttons on the cuff were cute but goddamn did it make a statement you weren’t too comfortable with.

If you were her girlfriend, and had she asked beforehand, maybe you would have accepted it. it was an almost sweet gesture but for the little addition that how the fuck did she know your size and who the fuck told her where you lived. It might have even been friendly other than those details.

You really were going to bring it up to her. Soon. Definitely soon.

How would you even explain this gift? How would you even phrase it? Oh yes, my sort of friend who might have a crush on me and is taking me to a rich person place for a date and who gave me the frock I’m wearing. Yes, it was a gift. No, I’m not a sugar baby, why do you ask?

Maybe it was also because it was a sign that someone cared about you and that you were happy for that, hence wearing the frock. Or maybe you were overthinking because you were going on a confirmed date with Alcina Dimitrescu and were going to have a formal, awkward introduction to the mother that gave you some sort of plague sore. Overthinking was more like you.

“Are you sure you don’t want a coffee before we go?” Alcina asked, and you realised you had been staring straight at her unblinkingly.

You cleared your throat, “I’m alright, I’ve already had two today.”

“I see.” She recrossed her legs, Archibald laying on her hand like a villainous cat.

She stared back at you and drummed your fingers on your leg, “Hey, about the dress.”

“It looks very good on you.”

You sucked in a breath to stop from stuttering, “Thank you, but I was more thinking about how it was sort of out of the blue.”

“oh,” she even had the sense to look embarrassed as she said it, “I jumped the gun a bit, didn’t I?”

You thanked your lucky stars she understood, “Yeah. It was really uncomfortable to find some random woman outside my house with a dress my size.”

“A woman?”

“A maid, I think?”

“That isn’t right.”

“That’s how it happened.”

“It was supposed to come to the store,” Alcina muttered, one hand covering yours gently, “I swear, she was only supposed to come here and nowhere else. I don’t even know where you live.”

From the way her whole face seemed to ooze sincerity, you believed her, “Your mother left a note with it.”

She hissed and you laughed nervously. You curled your shoulders in more, the back of your neck prickling.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Alcina said gently, “My mother has been doing this since I was younger.”

“That sucks.”

She winked at you, but it didn’t make you feel any better, “You get used to it.”

Her watched beeped before you could answer, and she offered you her hand while her ducks filed into her purse. “You don’t have to come, if you’re not comfortable.”

You looked at her and sighed, “Of course I’m coming.” You said and took her hand. Her fingers closed over yours gently, and warmly.

It felt surreal to hold her hand. It was so much larger than yours, all encompassing, and warm as a blazing hearth too. God. You were so gay. She helped you stand and then your hands fell away from each others, and you caught a glimpse of Maxwell and Rosalyn exchanging worried glances from behind the counter. That was super reassuring.

You followed Alcina to the car that fishtailed through the busy morning traffic, sliding up to the curve with nary a care to the way the quick stop made the tires screech. Alcina opened the door for you and you slid in, and wow, the car was spacious. Alcina slid in beside you, her hip bumping into yours even when you went to the other side, and you realised you’d be that close to her for the entire car trip.

“So,” She started as she shut the door, stretching out her legs and resting them on the empty seats opposite you both, “We’re going to a restaurant not to far from here, Beneviento’s, that I thought you might like.”

“The insanely expensive one that will bankrupt me for one meal?”

She looked at you oddly, “It’s not that expensive, surely?”

How could you have forgotten that she was filthy fucking rich. “It’s 600 to book a place if you’re,” You gestured vaguely, “more human than not.”

“Oh, I had no idea,” She said flippantly, “I know the owner, she promised a free spot for you.”

You gaped, “You know the owner?”

“Yes? We grew up together.”

“The current head Beneviento. The one that’s travelled the world over and is renowned for a palate so exact she could accurately age a cauliflower by taste down to the hour?”

“Yes?” She raised her brow and then her purse quacked in protest.

“I forget that you’re rich, often.”

She frowned, and looked at you from the corner of her eye with a soft pout on her lips while she riffled through her purse, “I’m sure it’s not that different to how you live?”

You almost called her completely out of touch. Instead, you grabbed her other hand as she whispered admonishments into her purse. You sort of leaned into her, and she leaned back, just a touch.

“Not really.” You answered after ten minutes, after she had fully seated her ducks into their little chairs, and the car was speeding down the road, and your head rested on her bicep lightly, her cheeks a soft shade of pink.

#its 11:59 when posting this it counts #lady dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #tea and ice lattes #my fic

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