aspolivier

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia​:

Cassius knew what they wanted, the expectation of a tale laced with champagne carbonation, petal soft edges, of a ring slid onto a slender finger and a look from him like he wanted to simply devour her - at least on that he could deliver. Corners of lips northbound, words poised to kill, a horn-adorned cupid with an arrow nocked, but he glanced away from Aspen, drinking in the expectant look on the bartender’s face, and a sugar-spun story dissolved on his tongue, “It wasn’t any sort of grand gesture. I had the ring sitting in my bedside table for months, waiting for the right moment,” Cass paused, eyes locked on the woman standing above them, the previous notion of playing pretend lost on a moment, “She was riding me, and I looked up at her and I knew, in that moment, that I’d never get sick of it. Her.”

And there was the look they wanted, as apparent shock calligraphed itself across the bartender’s face before being abruptly masked by the bark of a fake laugh; his eyes were hungry on Aspen��s, with a single look as if he wanted to swallow her whole, and continued, “Seconds after I’d come inside her, I pulled out the ring and… I suppose the rest is history.”

He dropped his glass on the countertop, far more aggressive than was warranted, “Another,” the word is firm but husky, a subtle crackle from the burn of the tequila, the burn of her salutation lighting a path through every organ before coiling itself in the deepest pit of his stomach. His lower lip separated from his other, the faint click of his tongue against his teeth indicative of a response, yet no retort dripping in sarcasm, no cutting remark dropped between them, unusual silence lingering heavy as another shot was placed in front of  him. He plucked the glass from the tabletop and turned back to her, “You’ll have to pass that message along to my father, it won’t sound nearly as convincing coming from me.”

The satin of pretend grazes the burrs of reality, and the swell of a full mouth peels back to a grin incandescent, mirth painting her something lustrous: it’s believable, and not only in the froth of feigned for the girl across the bar, but for Aspen: she could see it, feel it— his digits pressing to the swell of her flesh, the gleam of a ring presented between them. She is golden in only a manner Cassius can bloom, and it fissures the moment her gaze lands on her finger, how easy she had slipped into a version of herself that would house the right ring from the right man, how swiftly her balmy rays fissure at the sight, a near recoil that has her reaching for it, an ‘it’s too big, can’t lose it’, is a tepid tumble from her mouth as it is slid off her digit, pocketed in the depth of a clutch. Who had it been for, the sugar-spun explanation? Oh, but herself. And when she reaches for him, the surface of a palm resting atop his, a tender squeeze of a silent thanks, her hand is bare.

She half expects fragmented glass to spit from the bend of his mouth, for barbed honey to split flesh— but his silence breeds an ache, a regret that tethers weight to ribs and starves a satin tongue of moisture. I didn’t mean it, she wishes to say, she nearly says: I didn’t mean it, you fool. But Aspen is silent too, pupils dilated to the width of stones as she watches him reach for the shot, gaze stalled on the beads of moisture that gleam atop the billow of his bottom lip. “I have a decade long list of things I would like to say to your father,” it’s bitter on her tongue, and the thought of the elder Garavoglia coaxes something leonine to stretch between ribs, “now may be the best time, I can grab a mic so all of Manhattan hears.” She’s in the trenches of a daze for the swell of a moment, a length of a breath and she’s elsewhere, in the back of a town car with limbs folded small atop the lap of boy she’d fetch constellations earthside for, saccharine syllables unfurling between them to balm the hurt inflicted by a man who’s opinion she wished he would simply choke on.  

At the next shot, seraphic features contort to a wince, her surroundings blurring to a sway as tequila sloshes alongside vodka and champagne alike. She is seventeen again, reaching for him in a manner habitual, instinctual; features tenderly rest to a bicep, arms loop at a broad waist. It settles her: the proximity, the contact, returning to a home of flesh and ferric bones. I love you still, I love you always— but instead the tips of fingers are knotting fists to the fabric of a dress shirt, “I think I’m going to be sick, Cass,” she peers up at him then, lacquered lashes splaying sable to the angled rise of cheek bones, “can we go home?”

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia​:

It was a decades old sentiment that had grown claws throughout the years, and a decades old wound to match; each syllable a stone-sharpened talon caressing the duo gently, subtly, before digging in and twisting, a hallucinatory finger dripping ribbons of sinew to mock them, accuse them, promise them that it was an inevitability for the pair of them to ruin each other. And he could see it play out for worse or for better; for worse - an attempt to stifle a grimace and a discomfort swelling around the evening as a whole, surface level conversation, an additional awkwardness as they both realize the server has left her number scrawled on a napkin for him, the evening punctuated by Cass burying himself in her in the bathroom before her shift has even finished, or for better - Cassius reaching out to loop his fingers between Aspen’s, raising them far enough to press a kiss to the back of her hand, and another to the crevice where her jaw meets the gentle curve of her neck, the entire evening bathed in a swathe of blushing golden hues when either of them remembered to play it back weeks later.

“The ring looks positively hideous in comparison to the woman wearing it, don’t you think?” The inquiry was immediately followed by the gentle upswing of his mouth, making an uncharacteristic play for the more optimistic daydream, Cass cataloging the disappointed fall of the server’s eyes as his thoughts came to fruition, fingers against fingers, lips against skin, “I’m sure she’ll make me regret the day I put it on her finger,” and in the same breath he bit down on the regret the playacting wrought forth, the tip of his tongue stinging from what could have been reality and the points of his teeth.

An entire bottle of tequila ordered and placed between them, the spaces between his fingers empty of hers now and filled instead with glass as he plucked the bottle from its perch and dumped its translucent contents into two small glasses, picking his own up and directing it toward her, “Give me a toast, Aspen. Make it hurt.”

His syllables coax something to press like thorns to the velvet of lungs: it flowers like hope but aches like decay. It’d hurt more: the aureate swathe of pretend, of almost; of it could’ve been, of it should’ve been. But it’s tethered to them, instinctive, habitual, the reach for pain as though the hurt is home. Perhaps it’s because they’re raised on it, the inferno of sacrilege, of splitting ribs and offering a heart on digits slicked with plasma only to have the other grin, then look away; maybe in another life. And so, above, the archangels fold a breath behind teeth angled sharp as Cassius reaches for her fingers: almost, they murmur it in a manner hymnal, almost.

Features of a raven bend like flora to Helios’ descended form, she looks at him and thinks that even if she didn’t know him, she’d love him; in spite of knowing him, she loves him. It’s August but it’s his phantom touch that sears down to tendons. It flushes her Aurora— light of a thousand stars blooming as his mouth presses to the throb of a pulse, and somewhere heaven sighs. Mirth twines to features, the corners of a full mouth tilting upwards, “as if,” and she looks at him with an ease that suggests the familiarity of being spent stitched together in this lifetime and each one before it, “you’re stuck with me now.” Like a tongue probing the fleshy pit of a pulled molar, Aspen seeks torment in a manner reflexive; if they were to play pretend, she’d make it hurt, she’d come undone— the ghost of a bend is maintained to the swell of a mouth and she looks at him through lashes splayed onyx, and in that light Aspen looks a lot like a girl in love, “tell her how you asked, Cass.”

The placement of a crystalline bottle between them has jest coaxing constellations to gleam in the obsidian of pupils, “not only have we not outgrown getting tequila drunk, but we’ve upped it to being at a work event. I’m proud of us, Cass.” Digits wrap to glass, the male’s request prompting syllables to tumble from the crescent of a mouth like barbed honey: “to the man I love most and the man I’ll marry, thank heavens they’re the same,” it’s punctuated by the lithe lift of a wrist, and the burn of liquor doesn’t compare to the inferno of words that has the bartender lifting a palm to her chest in exaggerated awe. Liar— the gods hiss, but her mouth coils upwards, teeth flashing in low light as she reaches for the bottle, “another?” features tilt, “hungover seems like the perfect way to start your new role as man in charge, I’d say.” 

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia​:

A hiss threatened to pull from between his teeth and he bit down, the taste of copper coating his tongue; love me. He felt more beast than man of late, heart ripped from the sanctuary of a ribcage and tossed on the floor before them, fingertips stained ruby to match blood coated canines but a singular swallow cleaned his mouth, cleaned his thoughts, and he sought her face again, words dull as he responded, “If that’s all it took you should have said something sooner, tesoro.”

Conversation cut short to avoid any further picking at wounds, they had become gaping with little else to ebb them but a tourniquet of avoidance, fingers wrapping around a clothed bicep eliciting a moment of deja vu. Her comment wrought forth half-hearted insults at Liam’s expense, the words flying to the tip of tongue and settling, dissolving before they could meet air, and his eyes arced up to meet hers again, “There’s a bar up top. Very exclusive entrance but I think they’ll do a favor for the man who has the world in his hands.”

It feels empty. An elevator ride in near silence later and they were thrust into brisk Manhattan air, a romantic setting greeting them, mocking them, string lights spun around the edge and an intimate bartop across the patio. It feels empty, he wanted to say, let the emotion leak into his words for once, the pain etch itself across chiseled features, but instead, “Celebratory shot? I’m sure they have a bottle of Don Julio with your name on it. Might take the edge off.”

Relief flushes her radiant at his suggestion, and from the view of onlookers they've seamlessly returned to a vision most guests have pictured countless times prior, whether personally or through the lacquer of tabloids: connected by the stretch of a palm curved to imported fabric, she's tucked near his side, a raven destined to trail in the sun's wake (the union of their frames would coax brows to ascend and gossip to fester, surely-- though scepticism would douse it just as swiftly-- they're childhood friends, she's engaged, if they were meant to end up together they would have already).  

Her contact departs as their silhouettes enter the elevator, an absence that has the gleam of ivory molars descending to a clench, determined to still how it makes her shake. Returned to the balmy rays of his presence, it was dreamlike, and Aspen's skeletal hums as though her marrow had known none but winter in his absence. "You know I can never say no to tequila," a simper twists at the bend of her lips, but it hurts-- the familiarity, the ease; she doesn't realize she's held the swell of a breath during their ascent until the elevator doors recoil and her mouth parts to an exhale.

Inky orbs trail the rooftop's expanse, stalling on the string of bulbs and the glow of romance they emit, settling an unease between the ridges of a spine. A lissome frame folds to a barstool, the tilt of her mouth rolling inward as the server approaches, faltering in her step, a breath seemingly robbed from lungs at the visage of the gilded features perched near Aspen's side. Her mouth splits to a grin of sin, one faltering swiftly as she turns to the raven-haired girl following her conclusion of eye-fucking Cassius, her gaze descends to stall on the sole diamond lustrous beneath the sun's rays, "wow, that ring is beautiful," her grin turns sheepish, peering at them now as a whole, "you two make a stunning couple, congratulations."

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia​:

The words must have felt like chalk on his father’s tongue, like dust against gums, causing bared teeth in the mockery of a grin. It felt hollow in it’s entirety, the arid congratulatory speech, punctuated by a saluti, champagne flutes then as empty as the gratitude Cassius offered, and he felt equally as such - as though his flesh had been peeled back, insides presented to the room at large, and then carved away until he was little more than an empty shell. Had the vision changed or had he? Years back, the moment was imagined much differently, a wave of elation caused by the celebration or the champagne or both as his father passed over his elder brothers in favor of him, neither instance marred by a figure with a spotlight on a left finger, a shadowed silhouette stitched to her side, and rather than a literal flute in his fingertips, he held the metaphorical needle and thread sewing them together.

Obligatory rounds were made, palms meeting palms and Cassius kept the duo on the periphery of his orbit; he knew eventually he’d exhaust his excuses and have to acknowledge them directly. Yet even with the heat of his father’s disapproving (or was it triumphant?) gaze casting between the back of his skull and the woman whom he had once been misled to believe was Cassius’s better half with his business partner, he avoided them. He avoided near the point of obviousness before they came into his view, Aspen like stardust and Liam little more than black matter in comparison. Not for the first time, Cass had his father to thank for his penchant for passiveness, his face carved from stone as Liam’s congratulations and handshake reached for him and the words that dropped from his tongue were encased in soft mirth he had no desire to offer, “I’m sure there’s something we can find for you to keep yourself busy, Liam.”

Liam left them to heavy silence, a godlike pair eyeing each other through a cacophony of days, months, years and leaving them in this moment, completely hollow. He accepted her words with a nod, teeth exposed in some semblance of a grin, “You always were willing to bet on me. Even when the odds begged you not to,” he offered the near empty champagne glass in her direction, a mockery of a cheers. “For the record, so did I. I always knew you would find someone to take my place,” the words were laced with a humor he didn’t feel, the infamous Garavoglia mask remaining in place as he cast a sidelong glance in her direction, “I’d bet good money he’s not half the man I am in bed though.”

Akin to fauna, a raven visage twists to meet the sun's rays fleshed out whole in Cassius in a manner destined, thorns of longing turn honeyed between the ridges of a spine as a gaze meets pupils stretched to obsidian and rimmed with cerulean; a weight barbed to tinder ribs lifts within his presence, and for the first time in months she can breathe. "Someone had to be in your corner, you were looking awfully lonesome amidst all those women. I pitied you," the swell of a full mouth tilts upwards, fragments of amusement stitch celestial to syllables, mirth masking the candour beneath it all-- they were one another's home, once; now, it seemed to be fragmented moments belonging to another lifetime.

I always knew you would find someone to take my place. In the distance that fit like barbs between them, Aspen had nearly forgotten how the male's syllables could split flesh with such languid ease, splintered glass from the bend of a pretty mouth, she visibly winces as they brush against a cheekbone cut high-- the fall of amusement coiled to full lips, a knead of brows for a fraction of a moment. Pupils descend to the lustrous rock housed to a lithe digit, betrayal threading serpentine between tinder ribs and doubling the inferno set to her marrow to something blistering even in the shade. "Probably not," her gaze lifts from the diamond to the boy more god than man, "but Liam can do something you never quite could, Cass--" syllables are an octave below a whisper, strung out to a honeyed drawl that the cosmos itch to swallow whole, "love me."

Verity is soot on her tongue, and Aspen chases the taste with the tip back of the flute's remaining contents, the liquor coaxing a slight blur to her surroundings. "I have to sit," practiced over a decade, it's habitual how lacquered digits outstretch to curve to the coil of his bicep, the contact intended to still how her surroundings seemed to sway, "Liam will be pissed if he finds me drunk at a company function." The plains of features soften as she peers up at Cassius through a splay of lashes, "join me, Cass? You can tell me all about how it feels to have the world in your hands."

[aspolivier]

She's six champagne flute's deep, each intake tripled by the hour, the tip back of a slim wrist garnering a sideways glance from Liam, from her betrothed, her veins teetering on more liquor than ichor. But it's how Liam knows her: a blur of a girl once feral, edges softened by the intake of alcohol meant to dull the ache festering to her skeletal the moment a diamond had been placed to a lithe digit; a rock for the wrong girl, a promise from the wrong man. A longing for all that could have been is clutched between lacquered digits like pearls, something acidic blistering to a velvet tongue as she watches the man of gold just as she's destined to, as she's damned to (oh, how cruel the god's had been a decade prior, stringing them together in youth in the lustrous substance of the cosmos: they're like the sun and the moon, they had noted, and so it's fated: they'll only meet in a manner mirroring an eclipse, a short stretch of time all consuming, over just as swiftly as it starts). The vision of Mr. Garavoglia stood broad near his son brings her to another time, another place, her syllables now resting like thorns between the knots of her spine: I knew he'd be the only boy I'd ever love.

"Cassius, I believe congratulations are in order," alas, it isn't Liam's lilt that tugs the raven-haired girl from wispy thoughts, but instead a presence that manages to lift petite bumps erect to copper-hued flesh even then, "I look forward to seeing where you take the company as CEO, and assisting you in any way I can." A moss-hued gaze lifts to meet a stretch of aureate features she would have known even in the dark, and irises don't depart even as a palm presses flush to the dip of her back, "babe, I'm just going to go grab us another drink." Perhaps if she did, she would have noticed how her fiancé's gaze lingered on the departing view of an assistant-- descending from yellow curls to the inward draw of a waist, stalling at the swell of her ass.

Aspen peers up at the male through a fan of glossy lashes, descending for the stretch of a moment to peruse the gilded plains of godly features: the shadows tucked beneath high cheekbones, the straight of a nose, the crescent swell of his mouth. Another thing she's damned to, the habitual worship. She hates it, just as true as she hates him. "Congratulations," her cadence is hallowed, intended for that of a stranger: but their last reunion burns to the back of lids with each blink, she's haunted by him, by them: his digits knotted to dark tresses at the base of her neck, hymns moaned to the flesh of his throat. She swallows thickly, and when she speaks again her words are composed of a fondness none knew but him, "I always knew you could do it, Cass."

[aspolivier]

Aspen doesn't need to glance to the corner of the bar to know he's there: each body seemingly breathes in unison to the thrum of his pulse, features tipping to the side to mask syllables he couldn't possibly hear, frames stumbling to the boy who's more of a god; and a moon amidst stars, she follows. Celestial girl, the shadows greet her fondly-- strobe lights paint her feral, purple then blue then white and she's grinning, even at seventeen she's something feline; all teeth and laughter that could make the room spin. Greed and arrogance are thorns to her spine and she watches him on her approach: a full mouth tugs to a purse, onyx lashes cascading shadows to cheekbones cut high. She redirects a gaze of embers on her arrival, acutely aware of the men shifting to offer their attention in whole, features departing from the swan-necks of Milan's finest, offering Aspen grins open-mouthed with sin wedged between their teeth. "Noah," features tilt in a beat of feigned innocence, peering at one of the men as though he puts the stars in the sky, "didn't you promise me a dance?"

And within a handful of moments they're tucked to the edge of the crowd, her pulse mirroring the thrum of the beat with movements a grind to his groin, frame clad in not-much; the grace of her prior gown discarded for something less, fabric hitching to the swell of copper thighs and pulled taut at the promise of curves. With a broad frame curved to her spine, palms rest to his wandering grasp, up and up and up-- between the shadows of silhouettes she manages to meet a gaze of amber, and the grin she offers Cassius is something wolfish.

[aspolivier]

things you said when you thought I was asleep

It’s stitched to their marrow following their descent from stars, satin punctured to wrists with the metallic scent of salvation– it comes in fruition somewhere within the first few months of knowing one another, holds true even two years later. She manages to ignore the thrumming tug for a few hours: allows the moans of a diplomat’s son to skew her thoughts, she drinks spiked punch until her lips are stained ruby and she laughs fragments of constellations.

Commotion brings movement to a willowy frame, Aspen’s surroundings a blur as she swivels from atop the warmth of a lap belonging to a boy who’s name she had long forgotten. Pupils the width of saucers tug up to the duo stumbling in from the balcony, did you fuck her, Garavoglia? and in the stretch of a moment, he’s pinned to the wall, a shoulder lifting to a shrug as a wolfish grin splays to his mouth. Silence swallows the room whole, each sinful offspring of Paris’ most influential stilling to catch a glimpse– within a blink they’ve stumbled to the floor, golden features marred with each blow, and it is when laughter sputters up blood from his mouth that she’s moving towards them; seventeen, but she’s still a hundred degrees even in the night. “Bryce,” but the trance remains, violet already blooming to a high cheekbone of her aureate counterpart, “Bryce, get off,” honey blisters to acid and it’s when her palm falls to the bend of the male’s shoulder that the boy looks up from his fury, spitting to the marble below as he rises, “you don’t fucking deserve her, piece of shit.” And his wrath’s brief interruption of pity, Aspen isn’t quite sure if he meant the girl Cassius had fucked, or her.

He doesn’t speak to her during the elevator’s descent, or when she folds his frame against the imported leather of a town car (not before all the crimson liquid she had gulped the hours prior met the sidewalk– she hasn’t yet grown accustomed to the lengths he’ll go to forget, to feel). Passing buildings illuminate features painted boyish as exhaustion lulls him to sleep, the brunette’s gaze steady to the rise and fall of a broad chest. Lacquered digits reach out, tenderly sweeping wheat-hued curls from his face before she utters, “you’re going to be the death of me, Cass.”

[aspolivier]

Invitations had reached their recipients eight months prior, the curve of Aspen's tongue dragging the lengths of one-hundred-and-ninety envelopes; none who's faces were marred with a loopy inscription of Cassius Garavoglia. She was certain he had heard (and he had-- a willowy blonde had pressed it to the bend of his jaw in a club that held the pulse of Italy, draped to his lap: did you hear, Cassius? Looks like she finally found someone half as interesting as she believes she is. There was a laugh near them, a girl who was no-more than that added, and twice as pretty). But he didn't give it away when she was beneath him four months later, all long limbs and skin the hue of copper; they had fucked (over the counter where every french curse she had learnt in primary school fell from the bend of a mouth, against the wall hard enough for picture frames to fall and paintings to skew) and made love (against the shower's tile she had picked from a catalogue two years prior, tangled in silk sheets until a seemingly permanent notch had been carved where bedpost met drywall). Like it was the first time, like it was the last time. I remember, I remember, I remember, her body had sung, I will always remember.

As much as she hadn't expected him to arrive, with as much fibre in her being she hoped he would, and the thought alone was enough for her to vomit three times that morning, lifting the brow of a great aunt who had spread the gossip to any and all guests that would listen within the hour. And he did, just as idle chatter settled and the thrum of the symphony began, there Cassius was: broad silhouette propped to the weathered frame, clad in enough ebony that he looked to be attending a funeral (and the god's laughed at this).

His approach is languid, feline, chin tilting as a gaze of ash ascends the length of her silhouette and the tips of digits follow; trailing up curves swathed in ivory fabric to tresses collected by pins made of starlight (a gift for her loyalty, wrapped in a velvet box and received three nights following her declaration that he could retrieve the orbs from heaven above if he so wished). Spring's air still clings to his frame, and he smells of pollen and nicotine; and if she were to turn, remnants of white powder would be visible beneath a nostril. "I've dreamt of you like this since I was seventeen," syllables are like gravel, meeting flesh and prompting a shiver, and he watches  as she swallows thickly, as molars fall to a clench to keep all that cannot be said from the tip of her tongue. "Cass," the sole syllable falls from her mouth in a manner hoarse, both desire and sadness unravelling satin against lungs, and the way her back arches is involuntary. His chin tilts, meeting her gaze in the mirror's expansive reflection, and perhaps for a moment it is remorse that softens the shadows of his features: "Congratulations, bambina." And he's gone in the swell of a heartbeat, and Aspen considers perhaps it was her that was dreaming.

A roomful of magpies swivel to catch a glimpse of the girl in white, a handful of curls falling to frame stunning features just as the symphony lifts to a birdsong (with ichor in their veins, guests would insist it to be magic-- unaware of the boy in a car clutching a hairpin until it bit his palm in protest).

And Aspen wept, for all that had been and for all that would never be again.

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia‌:

His lungs constrict as she takes him in her mouth, neck curving back against supple leather as a shallow moan hums between his lips; drawing his gaze back down, he observes the rhythmic bobbing of her head, the sight causing him the harden further. Minutes tick by as breathing continues to shallow - the irony isn’t lost on him that the boy Aspen had described meeting years prior would have been out for the count within mere seconds beneath her tongue. A husky grunt escapes his esophagus as she moves, burgundy silk pooling around her hips as her frame hovers over him. “Fuck,” an expletive curls around a moan as she lowers onto him, the hiss of his name slipping between her teeth eliciting an arrogant grin to curl the corners of his lips. Broad hands twist around her body, fingers digging into the smooth skin of her ass as she rides him; leaning forward, incisors graze the curve of a swanlike neck before his lips seek the shell of her ear and he bucks his hips to drive deeper into her, “Say my name.”

The cuss rolls from the curve of his tongue, drips down the flesh pulled taut against her neck and her silhouette hums; euphoria threads the silken duo as one in a manner all-consuming, beneath his touch she's alive. His request prompts the release of winged creatures to flutter against lungs, monarchs surely crawling up her sternum and prompting a full mouth puckered ruby and swollen to quirk upwards, meeting an oceanic gaze as an upward thrust evokes a breath to suck from lungs, "fuck--" rapture causes brows to knead, lids fluttering shut once more; features soften beneath his touch, the weight of the worries and what if's dissipating swiftly, "Cass," manicured digits dig into the swell of his shoulder, pressure building against her abdomen; his name falling from her mouth like a prayer. "Fuck, Cass," canines bite down on her bottom lip in attempts of silencing the moans threatening to spill out, "no one fucks me like you do."  

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia‌:

Her words were fire, each syllable wrought forth with embers dancing in her eyes; the vehemence of her spiel caught him off guard and forced his focus to lips spewing flames - he barely heard a word she uttered. There were few whom he’d met that could pique his interest with their words alone, the blinding passion in her voice making the edge of his lip curl upward. Bottom lip dropped from the top, the words - I fucking love you - poised on the tip of a velvet tongue, yet instead, “You’ve been listening to too many TED Talks, bambina.”

He watched her, pensive, as both her palms cupped a chiseled jaw momentarily; cool air nipping his skin as the warmth of her hands continued elsewhere. The directness of her gaze caused his cock to pulse, the dexterity of her actions at his belt buckle eliciting a sharp exhale to whistle between his teeth. His muscles tightened as her tongue slid along his shaft, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair and tugging roughly, the other curling around the base of his length to guide his cock into her mouth.

The golden boy responds in a manner Aspen would've nearly predicted; she'd have thought an algid shrug off to be more likely, but the sarcasm that comes instead is welcomed with a gracious upturn of her mouth, amusement coaxing a galaxy to the depth of pupils. "Just make sure you credit me when you get it white-girl tattooed to your ribs," her mouth bends upwards to a simper, both relief and fondness coiling in a manner serpentine within ribs as she watches light return to his features.

In a manner languid, slow as honey, the full of her mouth wraps around the male's cock, motion finding rhythm as her head begins to bob. After a handful of minutes (far shorter than the driver would have preferred, surely) her silhouette lifts, the bend of knees moving to press against the leather on either side of his thighs; fingertips disappear beneath her dress, the fabric of panties moved aside as she lowers to the tip of his cock-- the ridges of a spine bend to an arch, chin tilting back as a his name tangles with a moan and detaches from the ridges of her throat, moving downwards until the male's cock fills her whole.

[aspolivier]

cassgvoglia‌:

Eyes flicked up from the loose grasp around the neck of the bottle, locking on like-hued pupils, unspoken words swimming in hers. “I’ve heard history has a habit of repeating itself,” he muttered, brow knotting momentarily before noble features became blank once more; it was the only gift he would credit his father - he was a chiseled statue, marble forever stoic. The dreaded future playing across her mind echoed in his own, a vision of another man with his hand placed gingerly and unsatisfyingly on the small of her back; Cass pressing another svelte frame against a counter, a window, a mattress (always his chest against their back, keeping their face tucked away to make the image of Aspen easier to procure in heightened moments). “You don’t have to stick around to watch me make my father’s mistakes,” bitterness soured the words, having never learned to have proper faith in his ability to alter the course of history. He could scream that he wouldn’t turn into his father until the echoes of his own words reverberated around him, lungs constricting in desperation for air, but his father’s version of a man was ingrained into his very marrow. 

She pulled him from his thoughts as she slipped the bottle from between his fingers, the flesh of her palm cool against his feverish skin. Use me to forget. It wasn’t the first time a similar sentiment had been uttered between the pair, each time marring them that much more; wise enough to be aware that taking this further wouldn’t repair what’s already broken, hurting enough to not give a fuck. He reached up to place the expanse of his hand over her own for a brief moment before twisting his neck slowly, lips connecting with the porcelain flesh of the inside of her wrist. “Make me forget,” it was little more than a breath against her skin before he began a slow path down her arm, each peck placed against her skin swollen in a plea. He worked his way up, his lips pressing a punctuation at her shoulder, her jaw, and a stall against her ear, “make me forget.” 

His syllables coax anger to gnaw at her marrow, crawling up the ridges of an ivory ribcage until it simmers acid atop her tongue; anger for all that his father had wrongfully instilled into him, anger for all that she could never undo. "You're nothing like him, Cass; you're driven, and passionate. You could move the mountains and bring down the stars. He hates it, how little similarities you two have-- you're everything he isn't, everything he could never be. It infuriates him, it intimidates him," her words rattle with a vexation she hadn't realized had been pent up, slender digits lifting to rub at her jaw, "you are going to accomplish so much, Cass. Not because you're a Garavoglia, not because you're anything like him. Because you're you." The feline ferocity prompting features sharp begins to soften, the scald of embers declining with a mere swallow, "and the mistakes you do make?" she meets his gaze, "i'll be there; at three in the morning, halfway across the world. I'll be there for you, Cass. Always."

A girl forged from iron, of ice, of steel-- immediately malleable against his touch, the mere graze of his mouth against her flesh and skin is set ablaze. Desire coaxes lids heavy as she watches his motions, a flutter of a breath falling from the bend of full lips. Make me forget. Her chin dips to a nod of compliance, of obedience; of lust and crave. Slender limbs move gingerly, shoulders rolling back to allow the slim straps of her dress to descend, skin bronze and bare and interrupted solely by the crimson fabric curved against her breasts. The subtle expanse of palms lift to cradle his jaw, the swell of a moment spent taking in the entirety of his features; she was in awe with him, and she was certain there would never be a time she wasn't. Digits move down: down to cup the ridges of his throat, to the material stretched taut to his broad chest, to italian leather rested at his waist; down, down, down. The fabric adorning his groin pulled to his knees, raven curls falling to pool against his lap as Aspen's tongue ascends the length of his cock, swirling at the expanse of the tip.    

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A heated gaze settles on his lips, the weight of her heavy-lidded stare leaving an impression far more lasting than another insignificant conquest’s lips on his own. Cassius drops one lid in a wink at the tease, matching the headiness of her look with one of his own. “What can I do to tip you over the edge, bambina?” The ill-advised banter drips from his lips like honey, sticky and saccharine sweet; if it were any other woman seated across from him, he would feed the words to her with his tongue, lick them off his fingers and be clean of it. As it were, the dark features appraising him through a backseat laced in shadows would far more likely result in a sting, the irritating hum of regret beneath his skin.

“Stop,” the syllable is harsh, several octaves louder than intended as a sharp inhale whistles through his nose. You will never shed that weak backbone of yours if you’re so willing to accept pity on behalf of others. The deep cadence of his father washes over the silence, Tighten up, son, and get the fuck over it. “I wasn’t suggesting you did, dolcezza, simply speculating that Alessia is going to sound more like Aspen tonight when my father inevitably sticks his dick where he shouldn’t,” reaching across the seat, nimble fingers pluck the bottle from between her grasp, fingertips brushing over knuckles momentarily in an uncharacteristic show of gentleness reserved only for her. “Thank you for coming, by the way,” lips press against the lip of the smooth glass as contents are tipped back, “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

His lilt sends a shiver up the length her lithe silhouette, ending with a shift of her frame; lust builds against ribs, prompting an unsteady breath, "after all these years, and you don't already know?"

A lonesome syllable falling metallic from his mouth prompts ivory molars to greet with a clench, gaze sweeping from his set of gilded features to the blur of passing architecture with a knead of brows-- they exhaled words meant to bruise and later connect them with the warmth of a mouth; i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry (for all that I am, for all that I'm not). "That isn't what I meant--" she didn't want Luca, that was obvious; but she also didn't want that-- for the golden boy tucked at her side on wife number three and her halfway across the world bent against the kitchen counter by another man (she'd swallow a bottle a night and weep the nights she did not; it should be him, the shadows would say. It should be him.) His touch is what coaxes irises to return to his set of features, the warmth gone just as abruptly as it appears, though a tinder skeletal is set ablaze; desire for more prompting a thick swallow. The bend of a shoulder ascends to a shrug, she'd do it all for him, and surely he knew that.  

She watches his throat bob as liquid is swallowed back, digits reaching to remove the crystalline bottle from his broad grasp as brows tug to a knead, "I don't think holding your hair back later was part of the agreement," mirth is forced between syllables, but concern maintains features soft. With the bottle discarded and the shadows as their witness, she reaches for him: the stretch of a palm presses gingerly to the side of his face, a thumb tenderly drawing down the swell of his bottom lip. A chin tilts, wisps of dark tresses falling to graze against cheeks carved high, "use me to forget, Cass."  

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They left in a rush, liquor and annoyance hitting Cass more absolute when he stood; he left the farewells to Aspen, not bothering to utter a goodbye to his father or his latest conquest. Head spinning, he followed her frame as she wove through the elegant setting, onto asphalt, then leather following. I hate him. Aspen’s words cut sharp through the silence, a sentiment echoing through years of daddy issues Cassius would never own up to having. “Fuck me,” a noise escaped his throat, the hybrid of a scoff and a chuckle, as nimble fingers pried open a cabinet below the seat. 

“He would take that as a compliment,” Cass muttered, amber liquid sloshing against glass as he raised a bottle of whiskey in a mock saluté before taking a pull. He offered her the bottle across the seat, “And a challenge. Did you see the way he was looking at you? I could practically see the table rise from his hard on.”

The syllables falling from his mouth are spat out as broken glass and Aspen's neck tilts to meet his cadence (reflex, perhaps: a raven keen to the glint in the shadows). A fragment of laughter descends from a satin tongue, a melodious noise jarring to the inky hues splayed across features, the corner of a full mouth curves upwards as a dark brow quirks, "tempting." She watches him in a manner other girls would (could) never: pupils constrict at the sole beam of light engulfed in the shadows; gaze descending from the arch of a brow to the stretch of high cheekbones, stalling at the swell of his mouth. She'd swallow him whole if she could.

Watching the male retrieve the glass housing amber prompts a swallow, an unfamiliar foe of pity wrapping weighted to a sternum; the tips of fingers twitch against imported leather, nearly reaching out to graze the stretch of a jaw in an offering of comfort. Nearly nearly nearly. But an action of tenderness would likely be met with recoil, and that thought alone prompts the aversion of her gaze, digits finding the bottle and bringing it to the bend of lips and swallowing the liquid until it’s flames coax her trachea numb.

"I'm sorry we went. I, fuck--" melancholy wraps it's digits to her throat and prompts a choke, "I don't want that, Cass." 

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He can predict the direction of her words before they drop from her tongue, the subtle baring of incisors curling a lip taut; even if Aspen hadn’t hung her emotions on her face in a manner matching clothes on a line, Cassius could have done so. The complicated nature of their relationship had led him to this point - he could read her like the Book of Kells and revered her in similarity to the text. It was this thought and the mockery etched across her face that caused pride to swell and lips to rise, Cass glancing at the elder Garavoglia for his reaction.

It was momentary, far too swift to be caught by the untrained eye but there it was; the flash of humiliation in Luca’s eyes, swapped for sheer ire as he noted the look of amusement in his son’s. A smile quirked the corner’s of the older man’s lips as his eyes raked over Aspen, “You’ve got a firecracker on your hands, Cassius. I wouldn’t mind this one sticking around if you don’t snuff her out as you do the rest of them.”

He’d drowned himself in similar sentiments before, cursing his inability to reciprocate substantial feelings to the woman sitting beside him - and here it was, like knives against supple flesh, the words hitting their mark, a shiver running down the notches of his spine. Cass swallowed a retort and a grimace, chasing them both with the fresh glass of scotch sitting in front of him. “Not that this hasn’t been fun,” he turned toward Aspen, the liquor already working through his bloodstream, his tongue thick with it as he entered her space, lips flush against the curve of her ear, “I’ve had enough. Take me home, bambina. Get me drunk.”

A deep lilt draws her attention, gaze flickering to a man who's weathered features she knows in youth: was this what Cassius was to be damned to? A man engulfed in beauty in each of it's gleaming vices, yet remain alone in it's entirety? Perhaps it was their curse: for her to be engulfed by love, and for him to never know it. The thought coaxes flesh to be tucked between molars until the velvet of her tongue is coated in a taste metallic, but words doused in familiarity prompt her to breathe.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, I appreciate finally being able to put a face to a name after all these years, Mr. Garavoglia," a visage shrugged on like silk, she's a doe of a girl: a swan-neck bends, the chandelier overhead splaying a gilded light against features in a manner that makes her godly (and, that night while Luca fucked his fiancé from behind, he would recollect Aspen as such).  

It is not until their frames are folded to the leather of the male's car that her cadence interrupts the welcomed silence: "I hate him."

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Every vertebrate notch of his spine snaps to, the question dropping from Alessia’s lips the catalyst. It was all too familiar, an inquiry poised on the tips of everyone’s tongues typically followed by a denial that stood in stark contrast to the response offered now. She was always the first to speak as such questions had only ever wrought forth silence on his behalf or otherwise elicited brutal sarcasm. Aspen’s words were painted desolate, perceptible only to one who knew her inexplicably well; his eyes downcast, he had never been able to meet hers when the truth settled at the forefront of his mind.

“You sure know how to compliment them, bambina,” Cass responded lightly with the quirk of a brow, fingers finding purchase around crystal, scotch finding purchase against lips. The farce was coated in irony; every word both a sugar-coated lie and a mirthless truth. I hated him for it, too. “I think you’re remembering wrong. If all it took was one glance to win you over, I’d have lost interest much sooner. I was wrapped around your finger from the moment you had that ‘no fucking way’ look on your face. I knew right then I was in trouble.” 

“Be careful not to become too invested, Aspen. This one’s penchant for responsibility is abysmal.” His father’s words punctuated his own, falling quickly enough for Cassius to infer that they had been sitting on the elder’s tongue all evening, syllables heavy behind teeth, coating gums.  

A story for their company, but for the swell of a moment it is just the sole pair of celestials within the room: features are cast warm, Aspen's mouth curving upwards. A collection of words fallen from the male's mouth that would be rolled between the tips of digits sometime later, curled into a fist so tight they're forged smooth. But alas, the shadows grown accustomed to the sweeping plains of her features return swiftly, hope leaving her skeletal abruptly.

Be careful, be careful, be careful.

Aphrodite had pressed the trio of syllables to the petite shell of an ear nearly a decade prior, the moment the male's visage snares her gaze, the moment Cosmos and her favoured star meet as mortals; be careful, be careful, be careful: he is not yours, he will not ever be yours.

Dredged from the ashes, it far less resembles a hymn when cut sharp on the tongue of Luca Garavoglia. And so she all but winces: the clench of ivory molars, a moment longer and a decibel harder and surely ivory would shatter. Alas, the second passes and the full of a mouth coils upwards in a manner feline (in the shadows she finds strength, for Cosmos belongs sheathed in a blanket of noire), "I'm afraid you're far too late, Mr. Garavoglia, and for that I'm thankful. Perhaps otherwise he'd be on wife number--" her gaze flutters to the woman (read: girl) tucked to the eldest Garavoglia's side, chin cocking as she meets her gaze, "forgive me, it seems I've completely lost count."

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Each syllable she spoke was candy floss, spun sugar and entirely artificial; it was a rare tone, throwing Cass more off balance than he already was - her greeting was honey, punctuated by the sweet kiss of a sting. His eyes snapped in her direction, locking briefly with her own in a silent apology; I would if I could. Cass forced a chuckle, entirely devoid of humor, “Wife number five, isn’t it? Wouldn’t exactly give that a gold star for commitment.”

A scathing look was quickly replaced by a mirthless laugh, Luca Garavoglia had mastered the bluff long before his son had, though his eyes never lost their steel. “Ah, Aspen, right. Never forget a name like that.” The once over was apparent, Cass’s eyes following his father’s down the length of her body; he had grown accustomed to glances trailing after her, though none held the weight or elicited the ire his father’s did. “You’ll have to excuse my son’s manners, his refusal to pay attention was legendary even as a child. I’m not surprised they didn’t stick.” 

Cassius slid a chair out from beneath the table for Aspen, either in an inane attempt to prove he wasn’t lacking etiquette or a weak attempt to shield her figure from the lingering gaze of his father. 

Cursory introductions were made, Cassius gleaning enough information from his father’s companion to recognize she was little more than a trophy whose best before date would expire in eighteen months - Alessia, 28, never married, by the time she had begun discussing her newly discovered passion for jewelry design, Cass was already three scotches deep. The fifth found him slightly dizzy as she directed the conversation back toward them, “Your father didn’t mention you had a girlfriend, how long have you two been together?”

How long have you two been together?

An inquiry that had brushed the curvature of her ear's shell more times than she could count, one that traveled in their wake in hushed cadences and behind lifted palms, one knotting the trio of Aspen and Cassius and together. Alessia's words elicit the upward bend of a full mouth-- a faint simper, typically followed by the pinch of a petite nose, by a oh, we're not together. But alas, the girlfriend was her role in that moment; and perhaps it would only ever be just that: momentary.

"I can barely remember ever not being together--" a flute is balanced between tender digits, the syllables falling from the bend of her tongue are distant, threaded with a certain hue of melancholy-- a longing for the past, a dread for the future, "It's hard to believe there ever was such a time. I was fourteen the first time I saw him, and I thought that is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. And he was horrible, too. Witty, and arrogant. And terribly honest. I was hooked in that exact moment, and I knew he'd be the only boy I'd ever love. I hated him for it, too." I still do. Aspen swallows thickly, forcing a melody of laughter and the pullback of lips to reveal the remnants of feigned mirth, irises of dredged honey redirect to the boy of gold tucked near her side-- could Cassius see the heartache wedged between ivory enamel? “And we’ve been more or less together ever since, wouldn’t you say, Cass?” 

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“I am certain you’ll figure out a way,” His response was quick, snideness apparent; her inquiry a mockery turned sour, conjuring images of handsomely built men he had been forced to exchange handshakes with, messes he had later cleaned up without question. Dourness turns to mirth at the next words out of her mouth, the suggestion interrupting his train of thought. “I’d rather a quickie in the bathroom, if you’re willing to accommodate,” Cass punctuated the sentence by leaning across her, popping open the door as they rolled to a stop.

“Like I said, the bathroom is always an option,” Cass muttered against her ear as he allowed himself to be pulled forward. “Shockingly spacious, private stall. We’ll only run into a problem if they hear you scream. If memory serves, you’re the opposite of quie-” Words cut off mid-sentence at the sight of the elder Garavoglia, a sharp exhalation on behalf of the younger causing a low whistle to sound through his lips as they approached the table. 

“You’re late.” 

A typical greeting, the expressions on both men marking a clear desire to be anywhere but where they were at that moment. “Dad,” a single syllable tasted sour on his tongue, an obligatory title that the man would never be worthy of, “You remember Aspen.”

A mere string of prurient syllables tangled with the warmth of an exhale and felinity sprouts; pupils dilate to mirror dinner plates, hairs lift erect to the length of slender arms, canines grasp the flesh of cheeks to keep a grin at bay. The tender tips of fingers move towards the male's zipper--

“You’re late.”

It had been nearly a decade since Aspen had been in the company of her counterpart's predecessor and at that time he had not managed to snare much of a reaction, though in that moment he manages to elicit the fervent thrum of a pulse. The man is fetching in the same manner as Cassius-- strung of gold, otherworldly. "Mr. Garavoglia, it's nice to see you. It’s been too long," her words are saccharine, honeyed in a manner that prompts a thick swallow. “Congratulations on your engagement, good to know it is possible for a Garavoglia man to commit,” mirth is stuffed between syllables in attempts to dissipate some portions of tension, the bend of her mouth tugging upwards as she peers over in Cass’ direction.