timothee chalamet imagines!

cake

You go live on Instagram and bake a cake. Timothée comes home halfway through and doesn't realize you're live-streaming.

Timothée Chalamet x Fem!Reader

Warnings → Strong Language

Word Count → 900

You stepped back, pressing the 'go live' button on your Instagram. In the shot behind you was your oven and white countertops, a few plants, and the earthy green cupboards.

Since you had done 73 questions with Vogue, your New York City penthouse apartment had become sort of famous. Everyone had absolutely died over your kitchen, adoring the many plants and bronze pots and pans hanging from the ceiling.

You were dressed in a pair of white flowing pants, overtop of it was a simple black tank top and a grey zip up that belonged to Timothée.

Within the first few seconds, thousands of people had joined the livestream. Comments began to flood in, some of them making you laugh while you leaned in to glance at the phone you'd sat against the counter. There were dozens of remarks just on the atmosphere of your apartment. 

It was heavily raining outside, a thick smog covering the city. You had lit candles all throughout your's and Timothée's shared space. He didn't mind the crystals scattered around, resting on windowsills and shelves. He quite often asked for you to read his tarot cards, loving the way you would sit crisscross in front of him on the carpet and explain what everything meant.

userone: im so fucking in love with you

usertwo: where's timmy????

userthree: make a tiktok pls

You scrolled through comments, laughing at a few, making sure not to dwell on some of the harsher ones. You smiled at the few familiar friends joining the live, exchanging a bit of banter as you grabbed some ingredients out of the fridge.

"Okay—so, as you all know, I'm no chef," you snorted, holding up the box of cake mix. "All it needs is like eggs, water, and oil—I figured I couldn't really fuck that up."

florencepugh: i'm disappointed y/n

oliviarodrigo: you'll find a way y/n/n

"Flo, I'm sorry," you whined, drawling out the y.

The soft hum of Fleetwood Mac played in the back, Spotify just barely visible behind you on your laptop. Timothée was out, and you had tried to occupy yourself, finding nothing better to do than bake.

You cracked the eggs into the large plastic bowl, grinning at the phone in the process. You couldn't help but laugh at the fact that someone would turn these clips into an Instagram edit.

userfour: i love u sm

userfive: how do u look so effortlessly good tf

usersix: i love ur kitchen stoppppppppp

userseven: bi panic

"You guys are hysterical—shit, I think I almost put too much oil in," you said in a hushed tone.

lydianight: NOT U LITERALLY FUCJING UP CAKE OUT OF A BOX PLEASEEE

odessaazion: ur literally so hot y/n even if u can't make food for shit

userseven: LMAOO DID SHE EVEN READ THE BOX ???

"You guys have no faith in me," you said, chuckling as you whisked. "It's disheartening, really. I'm hurt!"

You jokingly placed a hand on your heart, pretending to cry. You had bits of the packaged cake mix on your cheeks, hair pulled back and out of your face. The pan was greased in front of you, This Town by Niall Horan coming on behind you.

You were so focused on getting the clumps of chocolate powder separated that you hadn't even heard the jangle of keys at the front door, or the sound of it shutting. You held the bowl up to the camera, nodding that it looked good enough.

You yelped when a pair of hands slid over your hips, pulling them back and making you jump. Timothée turned you around a moment later and cupped the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a quick kiss. He was in a grey hoodie and black joggers, hair skewed about under a navy blue baseball cap and slightly wet.

"If the whole world was watching I'd still dance with you," he mumbled, spinning you around in a playful dance a moment later.

"Didn't hear you come in," you giggled at his swaying motion.

"Yeah? I yelled your name," he pecked your lips in between each word.

usereight: im gonna go cry now

usernine: tell me ur single without telling me ur single

userten: fuck that's so cute

usereleven: AND NIALLLL STOP

"I'm on live," you said, watching him look over at the phone and awkwardly wave.

"Shit, why didn't you tell me?" He chuckled, dipping a finger into the cake mix before you could swat his hand away.

He sucked on his index finger a moment later, ignoring you as you hit him a few times with the oven mitt at your right. He snatched the wooden spoon not far from him and held it up with a wide grin.

"You sure about that?" He mused, waving it in the air.

"Was the cake mix any good, at least?" You couldn't help but ask, watching him take off the hat, ruffle his hair a bit and then put it back on.

"I love you—but it tasted like shit," he barely got out, running as you started to swat him with the mitt again.