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[innovativesourcing]

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[thepastisalreadywritten]

The Bordeaux Wine Festival 2024 features a stunning drone show with hundreds of LED-lit drones creating synchronized patterns in the night sky.

Choreographed to music, these drones form images related to wine culture, such as bottles, grapevines, and landmarks.

🎥: @lost_in_bordeaux

[psycheapuleius]

The Broadmoor • Colorado Springs

Summer 2024

[turquoisellama]

[frmisnow]

BORDEAUX !

summary. after you realize that the man you had a drunk one night stand with, was in fact your new ceo. you settle on avoiding him as best as you could- but why do you feel so drawn to him?

notes. welcome to a new verse (aka. series), usually most of my series are more fluffy w a touch of smut (besides two whores, one job lol) but this one is gonna be a lot more angsty and smutty! so i hope y'all are into that kinda jam 🍷⭒⋆｡˚

warnings /includes. (1.7 k words / suggestive!) non idol! ceo! jungkook x non specified! reader, alcohol, shitty ex :/, jk is an alcohol nerd?, reader kind of uses him to kill bad memories ?, making out

the air was heavy with the scent of alcohol and smoke melted with the faint music somewhere in the background: jazz, how unfitting for this kind of environment. the enviornment which people go to specifically to escape reality, for a few minutes, maybe a few hours.

the alcohol wasn't bad, at least judging by the wine and it offered a sense of peace or rebellion, stupid fucking rebellion. your ex used to despise wine with all of his heart, he hated the scent of it, didn't want you to drink any of it near him.

he didn't like when you drank alcohol over all, he was stern on the idea of keeping you innoccent. you chugged down the glass like a shot at the sheer memory of the behavior you used to put up with.

the glass hits the table with a dull thud and you could almost hear his voice, scolding you for how reckless you were. you reach out for the bottle, pouring yourself another glass. and this time you savor the taste on your tongue, the rich flavor.

you feel eyes burning into your face, no- not burning, observing. it didn't feel uncomfortable but you could firmly feel them on you. the man's presence cut through the fog of alcohol and self-pity that had settled over you, and for a moment, you simply stared.

you should have looked away, but you didn’t. instead, you lifted your glass to your lips, taking another sip of wine, feeling the liquid slide down your throat, heavy and warm. he watched you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes never leaving yours.

he stands up making his way to you, and suddenly the crowd and all the shitty memories fade away, it was almost like he had a bigger effect on you then the alcohol did and that said a lot.

finally, he spoke, his voice low and smooth, like velvet draped over steel. “mind if i join you?”

the question was formal, did he work in business? no, that would be stupid to assume based of just a question. you nod, slowly but surerly, motioning towards the chair next to you.

he takes the seat next to you, signaling for a nearby waiter, requesting another glass, before turning his attention back to you. his gaze is intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to see straight through to your soul.

“rough night?” he asks, his tone conversational but his eyes still focused intently on you.

his thigh touched yours, the proximity with somebody you didn't know should make you feel uncomfortable but it strangely didn't. "yeah," you mouth. the whole truth was too complicated, too raw, to lay out infront of a stranger.

a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, before he speaks again, his voice was soft, almost soothing. "you're downing that glass like it's water."

you look at the almost empty glass that your fingers had been circling around while talking to him, he was right. you didn't even remember how many glasses you had, three perhaps?

"you have a pretty voice," you mumble, finshing what was left of liquid in the glass.

he raised an eyebrow at the compliment, surprised by the sudden comment from you. he can't help but chuckle a little, amused by the drunken confession. "thank you," he replies, sounding sincere.

you both barerly talked, you were two strangers in a cheap bar, why bother talking about boring jobs? the night was young.

the music in the background shifted, a slower, bluesy tune now. the more you looked at him, the more you could firmly feel his thigh pressed into your own. his fingers, tattooed, why hadn't you noticed that earlier? took the wine bottle from earlier, tilting it around to look at the label. he seemed to know the brand, humming in approval.

"it's a good vintage." he says, still holding the bottle but his eyes are on you, studying your face in the dim light.

and this actually managed to crack a smile out of you. it wasn't meant to be a funny comment, in fact he seemed serious about it. was he an alcohol expert? the fact that you knew absolutly nothing about wine made it better.

he takes a sip from his own glass, his eyes never leaving yours. he can't help but find your lack of knowledge about wine oddly endearing.

please, talk me stupid about alcohol. i want to know what rebellion tastes like. the words linger on your tongue but you don't cave into the urge of saying them. i want you to teach me what he was so afraid of showing me.

"i have a whole collection of rare and expensive wines back at my place. some you would never find even in the best bars," he pauses, his hand brushing slightly against your arm.

"are you trying to make me come home with you?" you ask though it's not a question you necessarily need an answer to, you knew what he had meant.

"and if i was?" his eyes stay on yours, tilting his head, "would you come with me?"

stupid fucking question.

the second you step into his apartment, the door closing behind you, he is already on you. his hands are on your waist, holding you firmly in place as his tongue invades your mouth, tasting the mixture of your saliva and the rich flavor of the wine.

when you both take time to breathe, you ask, "so where is the wine you were talking about?" your tone is clearly intoxicated, your eyes a little hazy as he doesn't let go of you and you both stumble towards his living room together. the action seeming strangely domestic.

"it's right there." his voice a tad bit breathless, he motions towards a large display of alcohol, his eyes scanning the selection before settling on a particular bottle.

he reaches for the bottle, the arm around your waist still keeping you close to him, the alcohol clearly making the both of you more touchier then you would be sober.

jungkook holds up the bottle, letting you get a good look at the label. it was an expensive brand, even you could tell that, the words written on it swirling in an elegant script.

you hum, "italy," leaning into his touch sub counciously whilst he drew little circles over the clothed skin, twisting the bottle, "when did you get this?"

"i have a guy who brings me the good stuff from time to time."

your eyes wandered over the display, you wanted to kneel forward to look over the bottles but didn't want to get out of his embrace either.

it felt good, doing everything your ex would scrutinize you for. he'd be disapproving off even letting you look over all of these.

his head made a little motion towards almost like a silent 'go on' like he could firmly hear your thoughts.

the bottles seemed rare, visably very espensive and whilst you looked over the alcohol, he looked at you.

"what do you think?" he asks after a few minutes, tone soft and quiet like he didn't want to disturb you.

"i think i've had enough to drink already but it's all really pretty," you trail off, "you're really pretty"

jungkook smiles at the comment, reaching forward to run his fingers through your hair, the gesture seemingly absentminded yet surprisingly tender, "is that the alcohol talking?"

you shrug, grinning, "i honestly don't know"

he studies your face for a moment, his eyes roving over your features. he reaches out, his fingers grazing your jawline, the touch light and gentle. "you know, you're very pretty yourself," he says, his voice almost a murmur.

the color of the red wine in your hands is now the exact color of your cheeks and your mind is empty as you lean forward to kiss him once more.

this time when your lips meet, it was rather delicate and slow. as you both sat on the ground next to the large display and kissed eachother like it was the end of the world.

and you don't stop when you felt like you couldn't breathe, placing your hand on his chest, feeling the pulse beneath the shirt. this was what drowning memories was all about.

your ex didn't kiss like this. he didn't hold you like this and he most certaintly will never get the chance to redeem himself ever.

you find yourselves sinking to the floor while jungkook craddles your face as if you were something precious, something worth cherishing.

your ex kissed you just to check of the foreplay box, jungkook kisses you because he wants to.

"i want you," you mumur against his lips as you both take time to breathe.

you wake up to harsh sunlight filtering through the blinds, you realize you're lying on a coach. his coach. the cool leather fabric is a stark contrast to your bare skin, that's when you notice — you’re only in your panties. red lace with little bows.

the rest of your clothes are scattered on the floor, your shirt draped over the armrest, your skirt crumpled beside it.

you try to piece the events of last night together, did you sleep together? ... you can't quite remember. you sit up slowly, your head pounding with the dull throb of a hangover.

jungkook's presence was no where to be found, the apartment was dead quiet. he left you here, naked and confused: what a dick.

you do your best to gather the clothes, slipping into them, you search for your phone, finding it next to the alcohol display. you take another look at the various bottles, now sober.

you shake your head at how easy you were yesterday, checking the time on your phone until your heart drops — the meeting. the meeting you could not afford to miss.

you let out a groan of frustration, fighting the zipper of your skirt, great- you were going to meet your new ceo looking and feeling like a mess.

you step into the large building with your heart still pounding, why did the metro station have to be so far away from your job? running as fast as you can had been your only option.

you push through the glass doors of the conference room, instantly sitting down, you did not want the people to look even more then a second at the wrinkled skirt of yours.

the important man stands facing away from you, writing something down on a white board. he seemed pretty tall, confident posture.

and then he turns around.

your expression drops. it's him. it's the man from last night.

🍓 tag list — @chansloverr , @marimarvelfan , @bxcndd

[lexiputellas]

Jealous? Me? Never

The restaurant is the kind of place where they don’t put prices on the menu—because if you have to ask, you probably shouldn’t be here. Dim candlelight flickers on pristine white tablecloths, and the air hums with soft jazz and whispered conversations.

Everything about this place screams exclusivity. The silverware is heavier than your wristwatch, the chandeliers glow like molten gold, and you’re fairly certain at least two people here have old-money last names carved into European castles.

Alexia, of course, fits in perfectly. She sits across from you in a tailored black suit, draped in effortless elegance, the candlelight casting golden hues on her cheekbones. She doesn’t even have to try—she just belongs.

You wouldn’t say you were a jealous person in past relationships. You were chill, secure. But with Alexia? Oh, you’re very jealous.

Not because you don’t trust her—she’s perfect. But because you don’t trust other people.

She’s one of the best footballers in the world. The captain. A living legend. And, in your very humble and unbiased opinion, the hottest one too. So when the waitress approaches and immediately directs her full attention to Alexia, you start to feel… unquiet.

Not a glance in your direction. Not even an acknowledgment that you exist.

“Good night,” she purrs.

Alexia, ever polite, smiles. “Good night.”

And that’s all she says. Yet, the waitress beams like Alexia just whispered the secrets of the universe to her.

Would you like to acknowledge me, ma’am? I’m right here. Across from the footballing goddess you’re mentally undressing.

But no. She doesn’t even glance at you. Instead, she leans just a little closer to Alexia.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, voice velvety smooth.

Not you two. Not you both. Just her.

You sit back, watching, waiting.

Alexia, blissfully unaware of the blatant disrespect happening before your eyes, hums in thought. “We’ll have a bottle of Château Latour 2009,” she says, pronouncing it effortlessly, like she didn’t spend twenty minutes last night reading about Bordeaux wines on the internet. “And two glasses.”

The waitress nods, still maintaining laser focus on Alexia, as if you’re not sitting directly across from her.

Alexia turns to you, finally pulling you into existence. “Baby, do you want something else?”

Oh. Now you exist.

You pick up your menu, pretending to consider your options. “Yes,” you say, voice smooth as silk. You turn directly to the waitress, who is still refusing to meet your gaze.

“I think we should start with the foie gras with black truffle and…” You let the pause stretch just to force her to acknowledge you. “The gold-leaf caviar.”

Alexia hums approvingly. “Good choice.”

She looks back at the waitress. “We’ll take that as well.”

The waitress scribbles the order down, still only looking at Alexia.

Your eye twitches.

Alexia leans back, sipping her water, completely at ease. “It’s nice here, huh?”

You exhale slowly, gripping your napkin. “Mmm.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say, setting your menu down with an exaggerated smile. “Nothing at all.”

Her smirk is soft, effortless. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She takes another sip of water, watching you with curiosity. Meanwhile, the waitress is at another table, distributing eye contact like it’s not a limited resource.

You glance back at Alexia. “I just think it’s fascinating how I’m sitting right here and yet, somehow, I am a ghost. Very paranormal. Someone should call the Vatican.”

Alexia nods, completely serious. “Yeah, ghosts are real, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

She gestures vaguely. “There was this documentary I watched—”

You groan. “Alexia, focus.”

Her lips twitch. “I am focused.”

“Not on paranormal activity. On the waitress ignoring me.”

Alexia frowns, glancing toward the waitress. “Is she?”

You stare at her. “Are you kidding?

She shrugs. “I mean, I guess she’s been looking at me a lot, but people do that.”

Oh. Oh, that’s rich.

“People do that,” you mimic, rolling your eyes. “Wow. Must be so hard being beautiful and famous.”

Alexia chuckles, reaching for your hand across the table. “Baby, are you jealous?”

You scoff. “Jealous? No.”

Her smirk deepens. “You so are.”

“First of all, I don’t get jealous,” you lie, crossing your arms. “Second, I just think both guests should be acknowledged at a table.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s just basic manners.”

Alexia bites her lip, amused. “You want me to ask her to make eye contact with you?”

“Don’t you dare.”

She laughs, lifting your hand to her lips. “You’re adorable when you’re like this.”

“I’m furious.”

“I know,”she teases, squeezing your fingers. “But I like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, do you?”

“Very much.”

The waitress returns with the wine, pouring it smoothly into two glasses. She hands Alexia hers first, of course, smiling like she’s about to ask for her autograph.

Then she places yours down without looking at you.

Oh. Oh, it’s war now.

You inhale sharply.

Alexia, fully enjoying the show, clinks her glass against yours. “To being the most beautiful, most important person in this restaurant.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you toasting to yourself?”

She shakes her head, tilting her glass toward you. “No, baby. To you.”

You blink. And just like that, all your irritation dissolves into a flustered mess.

Damn her.

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🍷Illicit Affairs🍷

Lilia Calderu x fem!reader

(2nd person narrator on tumblr & OC with 3rd person narrator on Ao3!)

tags: Wine Mom AU, Lilia is Alice's mom, Lorna is Lilia's ex wife, divorced lesbian!Lilia, reader is Alice's best friend, and has a crush on her mom, Crushes, Yearning, Family Fluff, pet names,

wc: ~ 3.1 k (Chapter 1/4)

summary: Alice has been your best friend for years—you're a familiar face in the Calderu household. But recently, you have developed a crush on your best friend's mom Lilia.

A/N: canon Lilia is Sicilian but I couldn't find enough resources on the language and culture to write it confidently, and since this is an AU anyway, I went with her being Italian and got some advice in from a friendly reader <3

-> 3rd person/OC version on Ao3

*************************************

The setting sun shone in your face through the large window, casting a golden glow over your face, your hair, and your fingers moving over the frets of the guitar. It was magic. Golden. A sparkling spell wrapping around Alice and you.

You swung the guitar into the air as the last riff rang out and Alice struck the final chord behind you on the piano. You wiped the sheen of sweat from your forehead that two hours of band practice had put there and dropped onto the piano stool next to your best friend.

"I think we're good for Saturday," you said, gasping for breath, and rested your head on Alice's shoulder.

"If you still have a voice by then." She nudged you with her elbow. "Seriously, don't stress so much about it."

"It's our first real gig." Your tone had a bit of a pout to it. Alice was right: you were overdoing it and straining your voice, but the thought of a room full of people listening to you just made you want it to be perfect. No. The thought of Alice's mother, Lilia, who she lived with, watching did.

"And so what? It's only my other mom's pub."

"As if your other mom wasn't Lorna fucking Wu!"

"That was a long time ago."

"Damn right it was!" Lilia called as the front door fell shut and you heard her dropping her bag onto the floor. "That old hag couldn't carry a tune if her life depended on it these days!"

You both laughed, familiar with Lilia's crude yet harmless sense of humour, and followed Alice into the hallway, leaning against the doorframe as she greeted her mother with a hug and a kiss to each cheek. But then Lilia focused on you and frowned, beckoning you closer. "You don't wanna let mamma go without a hug from her dolcezza, do you?"

Blushing at the term of endearment she always used on you, you joined them, and as you wrapped your arms around both, Lilia pressed a sloppy kiss into your hair and then her daughter's. When you'd first befriended Alice in college, you'd envied her for how open and loud her family's love was, but you'd quickly learnt that there was no reason to. They treated you just the same.

"Why are you home so late?" Alice asked as Lilia released the two of you. "I thought with the new concierge things were running smoother at the hotel..."

"I wish, piccina!" Lilia exclaimed with a sigh and headed for the spacious kitchen, where she took out a bottle of Bordeaux and poured each of you a glass. "If they weren't all behaving as if they didn't have a head on their shoulders."

Her grey, shoulder-length hair cascaded in waves down beside her neck as she tilted her head, contrasting the white blouse and pastel plaid scarf draped across one shoulder. She handled the bottle with elegant flicks of her wrist, light catching in the golden rings on her fingers, and set it down to pick her own glass up.

"To the imbeciles I work with!" she toasted with a subtle shake of her head that made her bangs swing and took a generous sip from her glass, leaving a crimson lipstick stain behind that you eyed longer than you should.

"Will you be there on Saturday?" you asked her, slipping onto a stool at the kitchen island as Alice had done.

Alice sent you a scolding look. You knew that Lilia refused to go anywhere near Lorna since the divorce, but you couldn't help but want her there. Alice and Lilia had been the best support you could've wished for when you'd first figured out you were into women: Lilia had let you stay at her house for a week after your first situationship had ended horribly, and... you liked Lilia. A lot. More than someone should like their best friend's mom.

"Oh, I'm not sure, honey," Lilia declined politely and hid behind her glass. For all that she was cocky about Lorna and their divorce, you'd known her long enough to know it still stung.

"It's okay, mamma."

The mood dampened a bit. It was easy to tell that Alice would like her there too, but she'd long gotten that idea out of her head due to the situation—but you couldn't let it rest.

"It would mean a lot," you said, biting your lip as her eyes locked onto yours. So big and brown and beautiful.

"Oh, my dolcezza." Lilia gave a loud exhale, her eyebrows pinched together as she softened for you. "You know I can't say no to my favourite girls."

It was your turn to hide the effect of her words behind a sip of wine. The cotton comfort it washed over you was much needed. These days, her proximity was enough to send your stomach into a flutter.

It had started a few months ago. You'd been tidying up after band practice, alone, since Alice had had a date that night and needed to leave early, and that's when you'd heard Lilia sing in the kitchen. It was the first time you'd heard her voice, and you hadn't been able to believe your ears. It was so rich and melodious, with a strong vibrato and an unfathomable depth of emotion that pulled you in.

And so you'd gone to investigate, tiptoed through the polished hallways, all decorated in apricot and pale blue, towards the kitchen, careful not to alert her to your presence. She'd been washing up the pile of dishes, putting some in the dishwasher, soaking some in the sink, drying others, and putting them away, all the while floating through the kitchen and singing Time After Time, a nearly empty glass of red on the counter.

You'd been mesmerised. She'd still been in her work clothes—a knee-length black dress, long-sleeved, with a low-cut neckline and lapels, tied at the waist—but her hair had come loose from its updo and whirled around her head as she moved. You haven't looked at her the same since.

"Thanks, mamma," Alice said, and Lilia cupped her daughter's cheek.

She'd done that the night you'd found her singing to you. When she'd finally noticed you—startled and nearly dropping the plate in her hand—she'd invited you to sit with her. You'd complimented her singing, but she'd insisted she was terrible and that she was embarrassed you'd heard her. It had been adorable to see the proud woman you knew all flustered.

You'd filled hours with banter and laughter without noticing. She'd touched your hand here, patted your cheek there, brushed your shoulder—all without intent, but it had already been too late for you. She'd let you sleep on the couch, covered you with a blanket, and then... she'd kissed you goodnight. The brush of her lips against your temple, however brief, had followed you into your dreams and left your heart aching.

"Now girls, what d'ya want for dinner?"

"Oh, I was just leaving," you said, gesturing over your shoulder. "Got work in the morning."

"Macché!" Lilia huffed as if offended, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass like your stomach at the sight. "You're staying."

"But I won't get enough sleep if I get home too late."

"Then you sleep here. End of discussion."

You raised your eyebrows and muttered, "Yes, ma'am," into your glass as you drank the rest of your wine and shared a conspiratorial grin with Alice, who was used to her mother's antics.

***

As was the custom in the Calderu household, everyone had to help prepare the meal. Pasta. Lilia found it terribly cliché, but it was the go-to dish when nobody was in the mood for an endless discussion about what to cook.

You were assigned the tomatoes, Alice cooked the spaghetti, and Lilia was in charge of salt, pepper, and spices, because everyone knew she wasn't beyond yelling if someone ruined her pasta.

Cyndi Lauper played in the background, and Alice and Lilia were talking a mile a minute about the outdated plumbing at the hotel, about Alice's new job as a security guard at the casino, and about your music. No one was more excited about your band than Lilia. She'd already promised she'd let you play at the hotel and use her connections to get you more gigs, but Alice had wanted to do a test run first and spoken to her other mom, who was equally supportive, though Alice saw her less.

She'd moved back in with Lilia when she couldn't find a job after college right away, and when she did, Lilia and Lorna had just gotten divorced, and she hadn't wanted to leave her mom on her own. The house was more than big enough for two people anyway, and they all did their own thing, but they took comfort in knowing that they always had someone nearby.

You were washing the tomatoes under the sink when Lilia's perfume, rose and jasmine, filled your senses. Then two warm hands settled on your hips as she tried to move you aside so she could reach something in the cupboard above the sink. She tiptoed and stretched her arm out, using your hip for stability, and her front brushed against your back. Your heartbeat quickened, and you held your breath until she'd taken what she needed.

"You okay, hon?" she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Should I turn the heating down? Your cheeks are burning up."

"I, um..." You squirmed. "Yeah, it's a bit hot in here."

"Should've said something!" she said and went to turn down the thermostat while you had to set the tomatoes down for a moment to collect yourself and do everything in your power to erase the shape of her breasts from the tactile memory of your shoulder blades.

Alice, having taken note of your change in demeanour, put her hand on your shoulder and grabbed a few tomatoes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just thought about someone."

She wiggled her eyebrows. "Someone, huh?"

You picked up the remaining tomatoes and headed back to the counter, where Lilia had already prepared a cutting board and knife for you. "It doesn't matter."

"Come on, spill the tea." She bumped her hip to yours. "You met someone?"

"Alice, shut it!" you snapped and surprised yourself with the sharpness of your tone. Even Lilia stopped her rustling and looked over her shoulder. You closed your eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry. It's complicated."

"Right."

Alice returned to the stove, still a bit put off, and you began to chop the tomatoes. It was quieter now, each caught in their own heads, until Lilia stood behind the both of you and rubbed your backs with one hand each, though to you she leaned in and spoke close to your ear. "Don't you want to talk to me, my dolcezza?"

To Lilia, yes. You always wanted to talk to her, in private, close, but not here in front of Alice. But her voice was so soft in your ear, her breath caressing warm down the side of your neck. You gave yourself a push and spoke, though you couldn't look at anyone for fear of giving yourself away. "There's a woman... who's older."

"Hm!" Lilia hummed teasingly, her eyes flashing with amusement. "Hear that, Alice? Our girl's got her eyes on a cougar!"

Alice chortled, and though you didn't appreciate the show Lilia was making of it, you were glad that she always knew how to bring Alice around. She might be the cornerstone of your long-lasting friendship.

"You being serious?"

"Well, I didn't mean to." You shrugged apologetically. "And besides, nothing can happen anyway."

"Why's that? She your boss or something?"

"No, but..."

"Honey, look at me," Lilia interrupted, and you couldn't help but obey even though it was the last thing you wanted to do. The moment your eyes locked on hers, your heart leapt and your mouth ran dry. "Give me your hand."

She put her own on the counter and wiggled her fingers until you relented and put your hand into hers. The way she squeezed it made warmth blossom in your chest, and you had a hard time not averting your eyes despite the burn that built behind them.

"Now, listen to me. Love is the law." Your breath hitched, and your fingers crumpled the hem of your dress. "It knows no ethics between consenting adults. So she's older; now what? So she's your boss or goes bowling with your mother. It does not matter. You hear me?"

You nodded, pressing your lips together, holding back your confession of how you couldn't stop thinking about her, how you persuaded Alice to practice at hers not because the acoustics were better but because you so desperately and pathetically wanted to be near her.

"And you've got us. Alice and I won't judge."

"Yeah," Alice joined in and patted your shoulder.

"Thanks, guys," you said and slipped your hand from Lilia's—you couldn't bear it one second longer—and hugged Alice.

"What about you, mamma?" Alice asked once you'd all continued your respective tasks. "You haven't dated anyone since the divorce."

"You know how old I am."

Alice scoffed so hard you feared she might've spat into the boiling water. "What sort of excuse is that?"

"It's not an excuse, piccina. Most women my age are either married or dead—"

"Don't be so morbid!"

"—and don't see the point in dating anyone anymore."

"You could take a younger lover," Alice suggested in jest. "Like your dolcezza."

You choked on your own saliva, eyes widening as the other women fell into bright laughter, and coughed.

"Yeah, yeah, wrinkly old thing like me," Lilia snorted and chuckled more.

The sound made your skin tingle, although her words chafed at your heartstrings. "Your age doesn't make you any less desirable," you said as neutrally as you could muster.

Lilia stared at you for a split second, then cracked a small smile.

***

You'd eaten at the long table in the dining room, with a matching pale blue runner across it and a hearth at one end with a fire crackling in it. The pasta was perfect; no less was allowed at the Calderu's, and the conversation light as opposed to the one in the kitchen. More wine had flowed and had put you all in a sleepy haze.

You and Alice were going over a few details for the gig when Lilia returned from the living room. "The couch is ready for you, hon."

"I'll be off too," Alice announced, stretching her arms and yawning. "Day's catching up with me."

"And I've got an early start," you said and stood up. "I'll see you after work tomorrow?"

"Don't think we need another run-through, but sure."

"Night, then."

You went to the bathroom first and readied yourself for bed with a wine-clouded mind. While you brushed your teeth, your gaze drifted to the towels, and you wondered which one was Lilia's, which one wrapped around her form like your arms did in your daydreams when you swayed together. The tins of anti-ageing creams saddened you.

After you were done brushing your teeth, you picked up the wooden hairbrush with the distinct grey hairs in it and turned it in your hands, ran your fingertips over the bristles as if they could tell you what her scalp felt like and how her moans sounded at the gentle massage after a long day of having her hair pinned up.

"Will you be long, I—"

Lilia cut herself off, stopped in her tracks, and blinked at the image of you clutching her hairbrush to your chest.

You scrambled for an explanation. "I—I didn't bring a hairbrush; I'm sorry. I should've asked—"

Shaking herself out of her state of surprise, Lilia stepped up to you and took the hairbrush from your hands. "It's no problem, honey." She began to comb your hair for you as if it were second nature to her, brushing the ends first and working her way up, your hair slipping through her fingers. You watched her in the mirror, at a loss for words. "But I would've cleaned it for you, you know."

"No, I... I don't mind."

"There we go," she said, finishing up and setting the brush back in its place. "You should go to bed now. It's late, and you've got an early morning."

"Yeah," you breathed, still all over the place after she had touched you like that, brushed your hair with her hairbrush. "Goodnight."

You left on autopilot and headed into the living room with the wall that was more window and sat on the couch. Lilia had readied for you with a sheet and a duvet. She'd also put a folded pair of pyjamas of Alice's out for you, and you wished she'd given you one of hers instead.

Changed and tired, you fell into the sofa cushions and pulled the blanket over you, listening to the sounds of the house: Alice in her room, Lilia in the bathroom. It smelt of scented candle. Everywhere in the house, it smelt of vanilla, even in the bathroom. It mixed well with Lilia's perfume.

"Have you settled in?" Lilia's voice reached your ears, quiet and tentative. She approached in her white nightgown and cream silk dressing gown and bent over you, putting her hand on the curve from your waist to your hip. "It's not too cold, is it? I can get you another blanket just in case—"

"No, no, I'm fine, Lilia. Thank you."

Would she give you a goodnight kiss again?

She nodded, and you thought she'd leave when she removed her hand, but instead, she sat on the narrow space in front of your stomach. "I was a little worried about you earlier. You wanna talk some more?"

Your breath stuttered, and an invisible hand clutched your heart. You wanted to put your head in her lap, wanted her to stay with you all night.

"No, I'm okay," you assured her. "Just a little nervous about Saturday, that's all."

"Are you sure?" She reached out and ran her fingers through your hair and along the side of your face, nudging your nose with a tender smile on her lips. You couldn't help but return it.

"Yes."

You wanted to say more, ask her for a hug, anything—but you stayed quiet.

"I'll hit the hay too then." She leaned down and kissed your forehead, and your stomach promptly did a somersault as your cheeks rounded with an even bigger smile. "Sleep tight, dolcezza mia."

[coco-loco-nut]

DTS

pairing: carlos sainz x reader,

summary: Short blurb :)

requests are open masterlist

—————————

“Carlos,” you whine, him trying to drag you off the couch where you had just gotten comfortable.

“Hermosa,” he chuckles, wanting you to join Lando and him on some sort of adventure.

“Carlitos, let me watch Netflix in peace,” your French accent contrasts his Spanish accent.

“We can watch it when we get back,” he offers a compromise and you look at him stubbornly.

“Non. I am not going just to third wheel you and Lando,” you huff, acting irritated. You didn’t mind the two’s close bond, but you also didn’t quite enjoy third wheeling them.

“Mi amor, I promise you are never a third wheel to me,” you quirk an eyebrow at the Spaniard. “I’ll ask Oscar if he would like to join,” Carlos sighs.

“We can third wheel together,” you feign excitement. You love all three of them, but sitting on your couch with a nice Bordeaux watching Drive to Survive was much more appealing.

There are so many times where you’ve thurd wheeled your boyfriend and his friend, and you know that they mean well, but it’s getting a little grating.

“I just told Lando we aren’t coming,” Carlos reappears wearing fuzzy pants and a t-shirt. You didn’t realize he left in the first place.

“Mon Nounours, you didn’t have to. I will be ok, go do your thing with Lando,” your heard secretly swells at his choice.

“Move, y/n, so I can cuddle,” he grabs the bottle of wine and pours two glasses, getting comfortable on the couch. “Plus, you always have a good taste in Netflix. What are you watching?” he kisses your shoulder.

“Drive to Survive,” you smirk while sipping the red.

“Amor!”

[buckysouvenir]

souvenir

pairing: bucky barnes x y/n authors note: day one of the valentine’s day collection 2025, yay!!! i hope you find this as fun as i do.

the valentine’s day collection 2025: for the first 14 days of february, i’ll be posting a series of short stories inspired by songs, all centered around bucky barnes.

reblogs, likes and comments are always encouraged and highly appreciated! thank you ♡

New York, back in August.

The air was thick with heat, the kind that settled on your skin and made the city feel alive. You stood on the 10th-floor balcony, watching the smoke curl into the night sky, the distant horns of taxis and the muffled sounds of laughter from the streets below blending into something strangely soothing.

Then there was him.

You watched him from the doorway. Bucky Barnes, leaning against the railing, his metal fingers tapping absently against the edge.The light breeze rustled his hair, the strands falling into his eyes, but he made no move to fix it. Instead, he turned his head slightly, gaze catching yours. His wild blue eyes locked onto you like you were something worth memorizing.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, the warmth of the evening doing nothing to stop the chill that ran down your spine when he looked at you like that. There was something about the way his gaze lingered—not just admiration, not just desire, but something deeper. Something that made your heart stutter in your chest.

You tried to look away, tried to ignore the way your stomach twisted into knots, but it was impossible.

"Come here," he murmured, voice low, rough.

And God help you, you did.

The night air wrapped around you as you crossed the balcony, the city lights flickering in the reflection of his metal arm. You leaned against the railing beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

The elevator ride to the suite was a blur of stolen touches and muffled laughter.

His fingers found your wrist first, a barely-there brush against your pulse before he traced up your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. You shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold.

You reached out before you could think better of it, your fingers grazing over the back of his hand. He stiffened slightly at first, but didn’t pull away.

“Stay,” you murmured. “Just for tonight.”

When the doors slid open, you barely made it two steps into the hallway before he turned, fumbling for the keycard while you pressed up against his back, your breath warm against the back of his neck.

“Patience, doll,” he muttered, though his own hands were anything but steady.

The second the door clicked open, everything unraveled.

His lips found yours before you could take a breath, urgent and desperate, like he needed to make up for lost time. You melted against him, fingers tangled in his hair as he backed you into the room, knocking over something—maybe a lamp, maybe his resolve—before he finally pinned you against the wall.

Kisses in every corner. The bed forgotten.

Bucky was methodical, precise in battle, but here, with you, he was reckless. Hands roaming, mouths searching, bodies pressing so close you thought you might dissolve into him completely.

He whispered your name against your skin, like it was the only language he knew how to speak.

And when you gasped his in return, he sighed, as if that was all he needed to hear.

Later, wrapped in nothing but sheets and moonlight, you watched him reach for the bottle of wine sitting on the nightstand. A Bordeaux from 1993—something expensive, something older than some of the scars on his body.

He poured two glasses, but before he handed you one, he paused.

“Keepin’ this one,” he murmured, setting it aside, fingers tracing the rim thoughtfully.

You arched a brow. “For what?”

His lips quirked, but there was something softer beneath it. “A souvenir.”

Your breath hitched.

Because, deep down, you already knew—this wasn’t just another night. It wasn’t just another city, another warm evening in August.

This was something neither of you had ever had before.

And the way he looked at you then—the way his eyes burned like Egyptian blue, pulling you under—made you wonder if maybe, just maybe, Bucky Barnes had finally found something he didn’t want to leave behind.

#taglist: @cjand10

[innovativesourcing]

A Guide to Different Types of Wine Bottles and Their Uses

Have you ever noticed the diverse shapes and sizes of wine bottles lining the shelves? Beyond aesthetics, the design of a wine bottle often signifies the type of wine it holds and carries a rich history rooted in tradition and practicality. Understanding these differences can enhance your appreciation for wine and even offer clues about what’s inside. Join us as we delve into the fascinating world of wine bottle shapes and their specific uses.

The Classic Shapes: Decoding the Bottles:

While variations exist, several iconic wine bottle shapes are instantly recognizable. These designs have evolved over centuries, often linked to specific wine regions and grape varietals.

1. The Bordeaux Bottle:

Shape: Characterized by its tall, cylindrical body and distinct, sharp shoulders.

Commonly Used For: This is perhaps the most ubiquitous wine bottle shape, predominantly used for red wines like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, and Petit Verdot, as well as dry white wines such as Sauvignon Blanc and Sémillon, particularly those from the Bordeaux region of France.

Why the Shoulders? The sharp shoulders are believed to help trap sediment as the wine is poured, especially important for older red wines that naturally develop sediment over time.

Keywords: Bordeaux wine bottle, Cabernet Sauvignon bottle, Merlot bottle, Sauvignon Blanc bottle, red wine bottle, dry white wine bottle.

2. The Burgundy Bottle:

Shape: Distinguished by its rounder body and gently sloping shoulders that transition smoothly into a long neck.

Commonly Used For: This elegant shape is traditionally used for the red and white wines of the Burgundy region in France, primarily Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Its use has expanded globally for these and other similar varietals.

Why the Shape? The wider base is thought to aid in the development and aging of these often delicate and nuanced wines. The sloping shoulders don’t serve the same sediment-trapping function as Bordeaux bottles, as Burgundy wines are often less prone to heavy sediment.

Keywords: Burgundy wine bottle, Pinot Noir bottle, Chardonnay bottle, round wine bottle, sloping shoulder bottle.

3. The Hock Bottle (or Rhine/Alsace):

Shape: Easily identified by its tall, slender, and often gracefully curved shape with a long, narrow neck and minimal or no discernible shoulders. These bottles are traditionally amber (brown) for German wines and green for Alsatian wines.

Commonly Used For: This elegant bottle is primarily used for the delicate and aromatic white wines of Germany’s Rhine region (Riesling, Gewürztraminer) and the Alsace region of France.

Why the Shape? The tall, slender design is believed to have originated as a way to showcase the clarity and elegance of these often lighter-bodied white wines. The color of the glass traditionally indicated the region of origin.

Keywords: Hock wine bottle, Rhine wine bottle, Alsace wine bottle, Riesling bottle, Gewürztraminer bottle, slender wine bottle.

4. The Rhône Bottle:

Shape: Typically shorter and sturdier than Bordeaux or Burgundy bottles, often with sloping shoulders similar to Burgundy but less pronounced. Some Rhône bottles feature an embossed crest or design near the neck.

Commonly Used For: Wines from the Rhône Valley in France, including Syrah/Shiraz, Grenache, and Viognier, as well as blends from the region.

Why the Shape? The sturdier build might reflect the often more robust and full-bodied nature of Rhône wines. The embossing can be a regional tradition or a way for producers to add a distinctive touch.

Keywords: Rhône wine bottle, Syrah bottle, Grenache bottle, Viognier bottle, sturdy wine bottle, embossed wine bottle.

5. Sparkling Wine Bottles:

Shape: These bottles are heavier and have thicker glass than still wine bottles to withstand the significant internal pressure created by the carbonation. They often have a punt (the indentation at the base), which also adds to their strength and stability. The neck is designed to accommodate a cork secured with a wire cage (muselet).

Commonly Used For: Champagne, Prosecco, Cava, and other sparkling wines.

Why the Shape? The robust construction is essential for safety due to the high pressure inside. The punt may also help with handling and pouring.

Keywords: Sparkling wine bottle, Champagne bottle, Prosecco bottle, Cava bottle, thick glass bottle, punted bottle.

Exploring Other Bottle Variations:

While the above are the most common, you’ll encounter other bottle shapes that often indicate specific wine styles or regions:

Port/Fortified Wine Bottles: Often similar to Bordeaux bottles but can be darker and sometimes have a bulge in the neck to trap sediment.

Dessert Wine Bottles: Come in various shapes and sizes, often smaller (375ml or even smaller) due to the richness and typically smaller serving sizes of these wines. Ice wine bottles are often tall and slender.

Rosé Bottles: Can vary widely in shape, with some producers opting for elegant and distinctive designs to reflect the often lighter and more aromatic nature of rosé wines. Some common shapes include a slender bottle with a long neck and a skittle-shaped bottle.

Why Shape Matters:

Beyond tradition and aesthetics, the shape of a wine bottle can serve practical purposes:

Sediment Trapping: As seen with Bordeaux bottles, the shoulders can help retain sediment during pouring.

Surface Area to Volume Ratio: The shape can influence how the wine ages in the bottle by affecting the amount of contact between the wine and the air trapped inside.

Handling and Pouring: The shape and neck length can affect grip and the ease of pouring.

Brand Identity: Unique bottle shapes can help a winery stand out on the shelf and build brand recognition.

Protection from Light: Darker-colored glass (green or amber) helps protect the wine from harmful UV rays that can lead to oxidation and off-flavors.

Conclusion: A Bottle Tells a Story

The next time you reach for a bottle of wine, take a moment to appreciate its shape. It’s more than just a container; it’s a vessel steeped in history, tradition, and practical considerations that can offer insights into the wine within. Understanding the different types of wine bottles and their uses enriches your wine experience and connects you to the fascinating world of winemaking. Cheers to exploring the stories behind every bottle!

[heylittleriotact]

snippet sunday (but monday, because it's a holiday)

Still plugging away at the next chapter of i heard people are dying to get in here. Hoping to have it ready this week. But here's an appetizer in the mean time.

Sorry I've been so quiet/inactive lately. Super busy with work/life/etc. I miss you guyyyyys <3

The hours ticked away filled with delicious drinks, festive music, and a sumptuous cheese fondue shared at the table in the breakfast nook. Emmrich had wanted to set the sprawling ebony dining room table for their dinner due to the holiday, but Rook insisted on the smaller one: it was more intimate - simpler… the way she liked it.  

The name of the game on Wintersend was killing time with your loved ones until midnight, or more precisely - the middle of the longest night of the year. The darkest hour. The blackest day. But on the other side of that twelfth chime was change: the infinitesimal tilt in the planetary axis towards a day that would not be so dark, and a sunrise that would appear only a few seconds earlier than the last, over and over again until the pendulum swung the other way and there was more light than darkness in a day.  

A cyclical reminder - held dear by Nevarrans - that harkened to their deeply rooted appreciation for the order of things: life and death; the changing of the seasons; and the sanctity of the Great Mysteries beyond their knowledge or control.

The stroke of midnight also meant gifts - it was considered bad luck to exchange them any earlier in the day.

Try telling that to a five-year-old who’d spent the entire day getting utterly wired on sugar and anticipation - Rook remembered being small and chomping at the bit before she could even tell time.  

“Soon?” She’d ask her Dad from her cross-legged vigil in front of the digital clock on the VHS player in their living room.

“You asked me that thirty-seconds ago,” he’d laughed. “The number hasn’t even changed. It’s still 10:21.”

Things were quite a bit different for a twenty-five year-old who was desperately in love and well into the third bottle of wine that had been opened and shared that night.

She was oblivious to the clock on the wall behind her that read 12:07 as she straddled the skinny hips of the man who’d opened and poured the wine, making out with him like their lives depended on it, their most recent hand of Wicked Grace forgotten on the table behind her.

Emmrich was fucking garbage at cards.

The least she could do to take the sting away from his fourth consecutive loss was give him a kiss - he was so graceful in defeat… and everything else.

She whined against his lips, both her hands woven in his hair, kissing him ardently as he clutched the table with one hand to keep the chair they both occupied from tipping backwards due to her enthusiasm.

He just looked so sad...

How could she not plant herself on his lap and lick the frown off his face?

She coaxed a muffled and rather surprised grunt from him when she rolled her hips against his. His fingers tightened on her ass and he flinched slightly, jolting the table and causing the Bordeaux in their glasses to sway.

He seemed to summon the willpower required to pull away from her at last, and looked up at her, head tipped back enough that his lips were out of her reach.

“Don't you want to open your gift, my dear?”

When he looked at her like that - down his nose with half-lidded eyes… a bit smarmy… no. No she didn’t.

“This gift?” She purred, hand resting over his semi-hard cock.

His head tipped forward, and a few strands of hair that Rook had disheveled slipped over his brow. “As deeply flattering as it is to know that I’m all you wanted for Wintersend, I did think to buy you something that falls outside the definitions of carnality.”

“Shame - I was gonna give you sex for Wintersend: a hard, sloppy fuckin’.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. He pinched her side and her foot jerked up so hard it hit the bottom of the table. “Ah! Fuck! Asshole.”

Emmrich reached past her to steady a wobbling wine glass. “Careful, darling. Wouldn’t want to make a mess, now would we?”

“‘Wouldn’t want to make a mess’,” Rook parroted, doing a ridiculous imitation of Emmrich’s voice, letting out a clipped yelp when he dug his fingers into her side again, taking full advantage of the exact spot he knew was incredibly ticklish.

“Keep that up and I’m not giving you your present at all!” She panted.

“Ohhhh - so you did get me a gift?” Teeth flashing as he went to tickle her again and she batted his hands away.

“Well… I got one for Manfred. He’s been such a good boy, you see.”

His hand stilled. “Did you really?” 

“Of course I did. Can you imagine being subjected to those sad green eyes while he longingly watches us open our gifts? I can be bitchy, but I’m not mean.”

“Rook…” a sappy smile pulled at his lips. “That’s incredibly heartfelt of you. You didn’t have to.” 

“Don’t thank me till you see what it is."

"Oh dear."

"Don't worry - it's nothing too dangerous." She slid off his lap and straightened, grooming some of his hair back into place simply to enjoy the softness of it again. "I'll go get it... and I suppose the thing I got for you too..."

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

CHAPTER FOUR: BREATH PLAY

*image of Jensen Ackles is used with permission of the photographer Mandi Lea Photography.

Summary for this chapter: The things they don't want from each other are just as loud as the things they do.

Characters in this chapter: Brandy Miller x Soldier Boy

Warnings/tags in this chapter: 18+ ONLY, explicit sexual content, queening/breath play (no choking), anal play/rimming, drug use (smoking weed and implied cocaine), no condom, dirty talk

Words in this chapter: 3k

Author’s notes: This fills my #Breath Play square for @jacklesversebingo

Thank you, @brrose-apothecary, @stunudo, and @talltalesandbedtimestories for holding my hand and for your patience with my histrionics

Spotify Playlist - key songs this chapter: “Need You Tonight” by INXS, “Hem Of Your Garment” by CAKE, “Pepper” by Butthole Surfers, “I WANNA BE YOUR SLAVE” by Måneskin

CHAPTER FOUR: Breath Play

I exhale, and my skin begins to cool as I blink and shake my head to clear the malaise. I reach for the throw on the back of his couch to warm myself. He’s banging around in his kitchen, presumably for food. The thought of him preparing food is batshit to me. 

His couch is leather. I just realized that. This space feels like a hotel suite — aesthetically pleasing, with satisfactory creature comforts, but impersonal and detached. When you check out of a hotel, no matter how good the coffee or lush the bedding, you leave at 10 AM and go about your life without a second thought.

I hear his voice in the kitchen, but he isn’t talking to me; he’s talking to Siri. Soft music begins to play from an invisible sound system, and I close my eyes and breathe. 

I don’t want to date. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t know if I ever will, after realizing how disconnected I was from myself and Eric, even after so many years together, sharing a home and a mortgage. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for intimacy.

But Amber told me to use this experience, to use him to push past this thing, whatever it is, that’s paralyzed me for months. She trusted me. I need to trust myself.

BJ returns from the kitchen with a large sandwich cut in quarters and some grapes.

He is so cruelly handsome. He looks soft and sated, walking barefoot to the couch with food and a bottle of wine like some stupefying romance novel hero. I’ve never liked romance novels.

“Don’t get too excited; I got DoorDash, but I do know my wine.”

“I would expect nothing else,” I reply as he walks around the coffee table. 

“How’re you doin’ over there?” He shoots me a wry look as he sets the platter on the table in front of us and fills a couple of goblets before handing one to me.

I accept, swirl, and sniff. “Honestly, I’m a little-” I pause to take a sip, and the wine slowly warms me from the inside out. “I’m trying to connect the dots in my head.

“Dots,” he sighs, dropping to the couch beside me and taking a long drink, looking everywhere but at me. “We about to have The Talk?”

“Like I’m gonna get answers from you? I can have thoughts that don’t require your manly expertise to suss out.”

He clenches his jaw and tilts his head, glaring at the wall. 

“I’ll be fine, that was just- intense.”

He nods, then peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “Fuck drunk?” He shrugs. “I get it.”

My eyebrows jump. “You get it, like get it?”

“Yeah. Not on a real dick, but I had a girl who used a strap on me from time to time. I like it. Next time, we’ll use my fingers or a dildo so I can edge you for an hour without worrying about coming all over your pretty face.” He winks, relaxing into the BJ I’m used to.

“Yeah, no coming on my face, Captain America.”

He huffs and shakes his head, taking another obscenely large drink of his $200 Bordeaux.

“But, uhh, you took a strap-on? I’m- impressed?” I reach for one of the sandwich pieces and take a bite.

“Sex is good. I like it all.” He gives me a pointed look. “You do, too.”

He’s playing all the right cards and holding the others close to his vest, biding his time to get what he wants from me. I idly wonder why me, but then again, I’m here with him, and the dots slowly start linking in my mind.

“Ya know,” he shifts to lean back against the arm of the couch, kicking one long leg up and tucking his bare foot behind my back. “We’ve got a connection; it’s not so wild.” 

I narrow my gaze and drop my chin to my chest. “Don’t start trying to convince me we have a connection now; we don’t even like each other.”

“Not that kind of connection. It’s energy and eroticism and craving.”

My insides quiver at his look, the words he uses, and his enunciation of each syllable. I take another sip of my wine to settle my nerves.

“OK, not The Talk, but,” I kick my stilettos to the side and mirror his posture from the opposite end of the couch, sliding a foot under his thigh. “I do have a few questions.”

He arches a brow and eyes my foot under his thigh before returning his gaze to mine with a nod.

“You have a son.”

“I do.”

“Are you married?” 

“Twice. Failed miserably.” He finishes his wine and reaches for the bottle to refill his glass. “My ex-wives hate me, and my son will barely look me in the eye. I’m unreliable, adulterous, and selfish. I’m not a relationship guy, Brandy.”

I roll my eyes and sigh. “Just because I was choking on your dick 10 minutes ago doesn’t mean I want to be seen in public with you. I just wanna be sure I’m not wrecking any homes.”

“No home to wreck. I can make you see God, but no one’s gotta know about it, no one’ll give a shit, anyway.”

He’s remorseless. ‘No one will give a shit’ is a pity statement, but not coming from him. He is joyfully unburdened.

“You are deeply damaged.”

He barks a laugh. “That I am. I’m an enigma, baby.”

“But I have no interest in trying to puzzle you out and put you back together.”

He meets my eyes with fire. “Good.”

I finish my sandwich and glass of wine in silence, except for the generic, soft sounds from the music in the background. Once my glass is empty, I set it aside, then crawl across the couch to climb astride him. 

“You ready to go again?” 

I drop my eyes for a beat before meeting his again as I reach around my back and unclasp my bra, letting it slide down my arms and tossing it to the coffee table with a hint of a smile and a nod of affirmation.

His juts his chin, reaching to cup and squeeze my breasts while I shift and swivel my hips enough to gain some friction against my clit. This is pleasure and balance. I’ll get what I want from him and he from me.

“You’ve got great tits,” he mutters, slowly pulling my nipples taut.

“And you’ve got the prettiest face.” I caress his smooth cheek and jaw. “Can’t wait to ride this masterpiece.”

He licks his bottom lip, dragging his hands up and down my sides. “Wanna do that now?”

“Yes, I do,” I reply, climbing higher as he slides down to settle his head on the seat cushion so I can center myself over his mouth. 

He presses his lips to the sheer crotch of my panties, fingers trailing the backs of my thighs and calves. His hot tongue wets the fabric before he blows cool air across it, and I moan.

I drop a hand to the top of his head and gently fist his hair. “Good boy,” I whisper, slowly undulating against his mouth and nose.

“Mmm, turn around so I can get at all this,” he directs, lightly smacking my ass. “And get those panties off. I want you bare and open, and smothering my face.”

I snort a laugh but follow his instructions, shimmying out of the scrap of lace and strings. “For real? Like you want me to cut off your air.”

He nods, snapping his fingers for me to hurry up. “I’ll snap if it’s too much.”

“Okay,” I reluctantly agree, mounting him backwards and letting him situate me. 

He tucks his face between my legs, nose between my cheeks and mouth on my bare pussy. I hover over him, knees denting the couch cushion, as he kisses and licks my smooth lips, using a thumb and finger to open my slit and tease my clit. 

I breathe and relax, touching myself, stroking my skin, and tweaking my nipples. He’s so turned on that his cock is tenting his pants. His lips and fingers skate and dance around my clit, and his jaw provides velvety reassurance to my inner thighs. I never want to get off this ride.

“Please don’t grow your beard back, my god.”

He chuckles between licking and sucking my clit then slipping his tongue inside. My quads burn from trying not to put too much weight on him and staying upright, so I slant forward, resting my head on his thigh and nuzzling the bulge in his pants.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, having a new angle, and his tongue swipes up between my cheeks to circle and press my back hole. 

He pulls my cheeks apart and slides the flat of his tongue from top to bottom, back and forth, rapidly flicking across my clit on the upside. When he nips at the thin skin around my hole, I jolt against his face, and he grunts, wrapping an arm around my hips to hold me there.

I’ve never felt anything so wet and warm and all-consuming. BJ Davis redefines eating out. 

I rear back to show him that I like it, and he grunts again, but there’s no snap. His mouth is like a hot whirlpool, swirling and sucking. “What’re you doing to me?” I moan, grinding his face. 

I pop his button and unzip his zipper, reach inside and grip his cock tight. I can’t focus on anything except the singular pleasure of his mouth and the heat of his smooth cock in my hand. I mindlessly lick and pump him as my insides whirl and tighten. 

Heat and tension expand from my gut to my toes and fingertips. My neck and cheeks are on fire, and I gasp for air, rutting against his beautiful face as everything explodes.

Somewhere in my haze, I hear him snap his fingers, and I slump forward. He grips my thighs, pumps his hips, and spills over my fist.

“Holy,” he breathes. “I promise not to grow my beard back if you promise to keep this wax job, fuck.”

I chuckle and slide off of him. My legs are wobbly, and my thighs and nylons are sticky with sweat and cum. “What a mess.”

He laughs as I wander over to the table for my bag. 

“I have to pee.”

“Down the hall on the left.” He sits up and fastens his pants.

I nod and make my way to his bathroom. I strip off my thigh-highs, clean up, comb my hair, reapply some oils in all the right places, and change into my knicker set, a robe, and feathery slippers. When I return to the living room, he’s eating a sandwich and scrolling on his phone. 

He looks up and grins. “Damn. Red does you right.”

I drop my bag in a side chair before settling back on the couch. “Now what?”

“You should eat more,” he says with a mouthful of sandwich before dropping his phone to the table.

“I’m not hungry.”

He rolls his eyes. “Then drink some water. I brought you a bottle.”

“What’re you, my mom?”

“No, but I don’t want you passing out on me, either.”

“Because you’re such a big, strong man, you’re gonna wear me out? Jesus-”

“Brandy?” he cuts me off with a razor’s edge in his voice and his eyes. “No more shit talk.”

I shut my mouth and nod. 

He holds my gaze for a beat before wiping his hands on a napkin and heading toward the hall. “I gotta take a piss.” 

When I hear the bathroom door close, I reach for the bottle of water on the table, crack it open, and gulp it down before picking up my abandoned sandwich to eat. 

I remind myself again that I want to be here, and if I want to get what I came for. It’s no secret to either of us that we are not a love match; I’m just belaboring the point by poking the bear. 

As he returns to the living room, he changes the music to something more upbeat. 

“Refill?” He asks with a sniff, filling my glass before I answer. He swipes his glass from the table and starts to move to the beat of the music, bobbing his head and moving his feet.

“You like INXS?” I ask, genuinely surprised. I took him for more of a Kid Rock fan, but I keep that slight to myself.

“I’m Gen X, Applejack, ‘course I like INXS.”

He shimmies over to the fireplace and opens a carved wooden box, pulls out a joint, and strikes a match. I sip my wine and watch in amusement as he spins and dances back to me, exhaling a velvet cloud of fragrant smoke.

“Take a hit, Applejack.” He hands me the joint.

This could be very good or very bad. I roll the dice and accept, taking a small drag before handing it back to him. He takes it, pops it in his mouth, and pulls me to my feet.

I loop my arm over his shoulder and let him lead. He can dance. Not that I’m surprised, judging by the way he fucks, but I never imagined, not in dreams or when I’m taking him deep inside me, that we’d dance a bachata.

The song shifts to Butthole Surfers, he spins and dips me, and my heart starts to race. He hums along as he takes another hit, holding it for a moment before dropping his head to shotgun into my mouth, kissing me like he’s plundering hallowed ground with every pull of his lips. I inhale enough, and the rest of the smoke billows from the joint of our mouths.

“Cinnamon and sugary and softly spoken lies,” he quietly sings against my ear.

I feel wooly and warm, my skin sensitive to every brush of his fingers and lips. Every song has new meaning, sensual and exhilarating, and I want more. He spins us closer to the fireplace and taps out the joint in an ashtray next to the open box full of weed and white powder. I’m dizzy, sliding my hands up around his neck and into his hair. He’s so smooth and hard.

“Want you,” I whisper, nipping at his jaw and nuzzling his neck.

“Yeah?” he whispers back, dropping his head to kiss me again. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

I drape my arms around his neck as he lifts me and wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me down the hall, and once we’re inside his bedroom, he sets me in the middle of his bed. 

“You look like a little angel devil,” he says, pulling his T-shirt over his head.

I giggle. “Which?”

“Both.” He shucks his pants to the floor, and his cock mesmerizes me. “Those big sea-green eyes and those cherry lips. And this wicked little red devil outfit.”

I lie back as he moves to crawl over me, stretching my arms overhead and clasping our hands together to press mine to the bed. “Sexy little thing.”

I sigh and raise my knees on either side of his hips as he presses wet kisses to my throat. He’s hard, rubbing against the crux of my thigh and my pussy, working alongside and then inside the leg of my loose silk shorts. He brushes my wet slit and we both groan.

I’m so wet and aching for him to slip inside, deep and easy. 

“Feels so good,” I breathe, arching my neck to give him full access. He ruts against me slow and slick. I spread my legs wider to feel more of him. “I love your cock.”

“You want it raw, angel?” He slips inside an inch before pulling back, and I whimper, squeezing his hands with mine, bucking upward to pull him in again.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pushing up onto his hands and watching himself dip in and out, making me lose my mind. 

I grab the backs of my knees to lift and open my legs wider, watching him tease my soaked pussy with his fat, hard cock. He plunges deeper on each dive, curving into my g-spot. I curl my tailbone and lift my knees higher to get the angle right, and he hits it.

“Oh, fuck yes! Right there.”

He huffs a laugh. “Such a dirty little angel. Take my cock so good.”

He glides over and over that spot, silver moonlight casting shadows and shine over the tantalizing ridges and vales of his body and face. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and wail long and loud, throbbing around him.

He pulls out and rolls me to my stomach, straddles my thighs, and slams back inside while I’m writhing and popping my ass against him. 

“This body,” he mutters, pulling my hips backward. “This needy little cunt, always so wet and ready for me. Always comes so fast for me.” 

Every thrust punches the air from my lungs. I grip his comforter in my fists and relax my head and shoulders. I can feel every inch of him, skidding across my nerve as his tip bumps and massages my cervix. 

“So good,” I whisper, reaching down to fondle my clit.

“Can’t get enough, can ya? That’s a good little devil, play with your clit while I fuck you nice and hard like you deserve.”

He yanks my hips, digging his fingers into the fat. I take him, our bodies orchestrating a salacious symphony of slapping, squelching, and sighs. I press and rub the mound of flesh surrounding my clit and the solid slide of him.

“C’mon, Brandy, come on my cock. Make me come. Wanna fill you up.”

“Oh, shit,” I whine, and my pussy constricts on command.

“That’s it. Oh, fuck!” He pounds into me twice more, shoving me over the edge again. I’m coming in layers and sobbing, before his hips stutter and still, flush with my ass, and he empties inside me.

Chapter Five

Series Master List | Other Soldier Boy Fic

[tejennnn]

France nii-chan!🌹

France 🇫🇷 with the red wine from Bordeaux🍷🍇

I rarely draw him, but he is one of my favorite characters. He made me enjoy the dub ver so much 😭 I might draw his gangsta ver with Hennessy Cognac someday..

Also bonus:

At first I wanted to make the bottle look more 3D, but maybe I'll try it next time :|

[queenshelby]

Our Little Secret (Part 62)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Age-Gap, Triggers, Smut

That evening, after you settled in, you chose to cook dinner for the three of you while Cillian played with Mara on a big blanket, he had rolled out on the living room floor. 

You brought some of her toys with you on this trip, and she still seemed particularly fond of her stuffed giraffe, Gigi, who by now, looked pretty worn.

But Mara didn't mind, she still loved playing with her.

As you watched Cillian playing with her, you couldn't help but feel grateful for him. Despite everything that happened between the two of you, he had never let that affect Mara's relationship with him, always making an effort to be there for her.

He loved her  with every fiber of his being, and it showed.

As you continued to cook and watch your daughter with play with her father, you couldn't help but feel a sense of longing and sadness wash over you. You missed this, missed having Cillian in your life, in your bed, as more than just Mara's father.

But you knew that the past was in the past, and that there was no going back. You had made a decision to leave him, and you do so for a reason.

"Hungry?" you asked Cillian, as you stirred a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. You were trying to focus on the task at hand, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the life you had shared with Cillian, before everything fell apart.

Cillian looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, playing with Mara, a soft smile on his face. "Yeah, I'm starving," he said, winking at Mara who giggled at her father's antics.

"Sghetti" Mara  tried to say, her voice squeaking with excitement as the aroma of the sauce filled the room. Spaghetti was her favorite food and you knew that, within the next fifteen minutes, she would be a mess, covered in sauce. 

Hurriedly scooping up some food onto plates, you carried them to the dining table along with two wine glasses and a bottle of Bordeaux. 

Cillian put Mara into the highchair the hotel had provided for you  , tucking her in snugly before going to sit himself at the table.

"Cheese?" Cillian asked Mara, pointing to the bowl  of grated parmesan. Mara nodded her head up and down excitedly and watched as Cillian carefully grated a heavy dusting of shavings over her spaghetti before stirring and cutting them up.

"Alright then, ready for the airplane?" he then asked, picking up the spoon, pretending that he was engine. "Big aa...,"  he made the sound of an airplane taking off, and Mara squealed with delight as the spoon made its way towards her mouth.

"You know your own food will go cold if you keep doing this?"  you said with a playful smile, hinting at Cillian's antics while feeding Mara. He smirked, the corner of his lips curling upward,

"That's alright. I can eat later," he smiled before pretending to be an airplane once again , and Mara burst into a fit of giggles.

"Okay, okay, alright. I get it," you rolled your eyes in amusement, unable to suppress a smile.

You couldn't believe how much joy this simple action brought to Mara.

It was truly heartwarming to witness the unfiltered happiness on her face.

As Mara continued to eat with Cillian playing alongside her, you couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia.

The three of you had shared so many precious moments like this before, and you missed them dearly.

You couldn't help but think about how it used to be when you and Cillian were still together. The way he used to make you laugh, the way he used to touch you, the way he used to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. You missed the intimacy, the connection, the warmth.

You shook your head, banishing the thoughts away. There was no point in dwelling on the past. You had made your decision, and it was for the best. You needed to focus on the present and the future.

After a while, Cillian ate too and then he got Mara ready for bed, reading her a bedtime story and tucking her in while you cleaned up the dishes but, just as you had your hands in the sink, you heard a quiet knock on the door.

You dried your hands quickly and walked over to open, finding an attractive blonde woman standing in the hallway with a bottle of wine in her hand and two glasses.

"Can I help you?" you asked the blonde woman, feeling a little confused. You had just arrived in Liverpool and wondered who she was, even though her face looked familiar to you.

"Oh, hey, uhm, I was after Cillian actually," she  smiled sheepishly, glancing at the door you were standing in front of.

"Well, he's currently putting our daughter to bed," you told her matter-of-factly, wondering why she was even there.

"Daughter?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion before it clicked. "Oh, right, you must be Y/N then? I didn't know you were coming to stay here. I am so sorry," the blonde woman replied, a look of embarrassment on her face. "Cillian didn't say anything," she explained further before finally introducing herself.  "I am Annabelle by the way, and Cillian and I have a few scenes together in the next couple of days," she added, holding out her hand.

You shook it, trying to keep your feelings in check. "Right, uhm, nice to meet you," you said, unsure of what else to say.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at her presence, seeing how you had just realized that she was playing Grace Shelby, Cillian's love interest in the show. On top of that, you just remembered that there had been some allegations against her for having had an affair with Cillian in 2014 when he was still married to Danielle and, even though Cillian denied that any of this was true, you couldn't shake the sudden feeling that she had taken a liking in him. 

"Do you want me to take a message or something?" you asked Annabelle, trying to remain polite despite the sudden wave of unease that had washed over you. 

"Oh, no, it's fine. I was just coming over to hang out and have a drink with him, but I will see him tomorrow on set," she replied, giving you a polite smile.

You felt your smile falter for a moment before gathering yourself and saying, "Well, that's nice. I will just tell him that you came by," you added, making it clear that she needed to leave.

Annabelle nodded, then turned to head back to her studio down the hall.

As she walked away, you couldn't help but notice the way her hips swayed in the expensive-looking dress she wore. She was undeniably attractive, but something about her left a bad taste in your mouth.

You shook your head and returned to cleaning up the kitchen. Your thoughts were in turmoil, and you weren't sure what to do.

You didn't want to be the jealous ex, but Annabelle's sudden appearance had brought up old insecurities and doubts. You decided to push those thoughts aside for the night and focus on spending time with Cillian.

After cleaning up the kitchen, you settled onto the couch with a glass of wine, flipping through the channels on the TV. Cillian soon joined you after putting Mara to bed, sitting close enough that your knees were touching. The intimacy of the moment felt strange, unfamiliar, but also comforting in a way.

"Hey, uhm," you began to say before cutting to the chase. "A woman named Annabelle came by while you were putting Mara to bed,"  you informed him matter-of-factly, trying to keep your tone neutral as possible.

He raised an eyebrow, furrowing it slightly. "What did she want?" he then asked, somewhat confused and you turned to face him. 

"She said she was coming over to hang out and have a drink with you," you elaborated, taking a sip of the wine in your glass.

"Alright," he simply responded before picking up his reading glasses from the coffee table in front of him.

"You know you can go if you want to?" you then offered, letting him know that he was free to go if he felt so inclined, especially since it appeared that Annabelle had planned to come over for more than just a quick drink.

"Go where?" Cillian asked, a look of confusion on his face as he adjusted his glasses.

"To see her, I guess. I mean, I don't know. I don't mind," you replied, trying to maintain a casual tone. Cillian studied you for a moment, his eyes dancing with a hint of mischief.

"Really?" he then chuckled, removing his reading glasses again. "Do you want to get rid of me?" he then asked, a teasing tone in his voice that made you chuckle despite the tension that had been building up.

"No, I just don't want you to feel like you have to stay here. Mara is asleep and I have nowhere to go, so you can hang out with your costars if you like," you clarified, your tone light.

Cillian looked at you for a long moment, a strange expression crossing his face. "I want to be here, Y/N, with you and Mara," he finally said, his voice gentle and earnest. "Despite, I still need to learn the script for tomorrow and then hit the hay early to get some sleep. My first scene is at 5 o'clock in the morning," he added, holding up the pages he had brought with him from the studio.

You nodded, understanding his situation. "You know the couch will be really uncomfortable and, if you don't get enough sleep, then  you won't be able to focus on your scenes tomorrow," you said, worry seeping into your voice.

 "It will be fine Y/N," he assured you, running a hand through his hair, but you shook your head. 

"Seriously Cillian. You can take the bed, and I will have the couch. I can't go to sleep that early anyway so it would be more practicable that way," you suggested but Cillian didn't agree.

"No chance Y/N. You came all this way and are staying here with me now so that I can spend some extra time with Mara. You didn't have to do that, so you take the bed," Cillian insisted, a determined look on his face.

"Well, how about we share the bed. It's not that we haven't slept in the same bed before, and it will probably be more comfortable for the both of us," you proposed the idea, trying to play it cool.

Cillian looked hesitant for a moment, as if considering your suggestion.  "Do you seriously think that would be a good idea?" he said, pondering your unexpected proposal. 

"Yes, I mean, nothing has to happen. If we both mind our own business, it will be fine," you said, trying to reassure him.

"Alright, then," Cillian said, seemingly satisfied with your response, although still reluctant about where this might lead. 

Tags:

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@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

[charliedaltonswife]

I cannot stop reading your stuff, so good. Would love an academic rivals with Henry. A realllllll deep-rooted hatred. I want those two nasty. Rude. Mean. Go about it however, I love the way you write and trust you completely!

An Education in Loathing

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

omfg when i get a cute little compliment with the request, you dont know how much my heart swells. thank you nonnie, sending my love!!!

Summary: You and Henry Winter have spent years locked in a battle of intellect. But is it possible to despise someone this much without wanting them just as badly?

Warnings: none! stark contrast with Buttons which i just posted ahahahah.

master list found here

"If you tell me one more time to be civil, Francis, I swear to God I’ll hide your cigarettes every time I’m with you."

"You wouldn’t dare, besides, I'm only saying," Francis interrupted, swirling the wine in his glass, "that I think it would be nice if, for one night, you and Henry didn’t act like two stray dogs fighting over the same scrap of meat."

You snatched the cigarette from Francis’s fingers, taking a drag and exhaling through your nose, the smoke tickling your upper lip. "I don’t know what’s more insulting my dear Francis, you comparing me to a stray dog or the fact that you seem to think I’m the less civilized one."

Francis took a slow sip of his wine. "I wouldn’t say less civilized, per se but you have a certain quality."

You shot him a sharp look. He merely raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow in return, before flicking his forehead lightly. Out of everyone in the Greek class, and you knew you shouldn’t have favourites, you were closest with Francis; you felt as though you could speak and act freely without any care. That is not to say that you didn’t feel comfortable within the group, you had your place, however you found that outside of group dinners and class, you spent more one-on-one time with him. He knew you best, and you hated that he was always right. 

However, the evening had started out promising. Charles had managed to get his hands on several bottles of an obscenely expensive Bordeaux, which meant that the twins were playing gracious hosts, dinner spread out decadently across the long, wooden table, crystal glasses catching the candlelight, the whole room smelling of rosemary and red wine.

It was pleasant. Almost peaceful.

Oh and then, Henry arrived.

He was late, of course, something that bothered you for a reason you couldn't actually understand if you looked back at it. He swept in unbothered, his coat slung over the arm of one of the chairs, nodding his greetings before sitting down directly across from you. His gaze flickered over you just once before he reached for the bottle in front of him, pouring himself a glass.

That was fifteen minutes ago. And in that short time, you’d already managed to start resenting the shape of his mouth and the way he felt the need to correct anyone.

"You’re clenching your jaw again," Francis muttered under his breath, nudging you slightly with his elbow as he cut into a roast vegetable. 

"I am not." You responded, reaching for your knife and fork.

"You look like you’re about to shatter your teeth."

Your grip on your fork tightened. Across the table, Henry was speaking to Camilla, something about the wine, his voice a low hum of authority. The kind of voice that made people listen. Frankly, you wanted to take your glass and throw it at his head. His stupid perfect head. 

And then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, he turned toward you. "That reminds me, what were you saying earlier? About Plato?" 

His tone was casual. You didn’t buy it for a second. Prick. 

You took a slow sip of your wine before responding. "I read somewhere that Plato’s Republic is less about governance and more about the philosophy of the self. It’s about what makes an individual just, not a state. The reading makes absolute sense to me."

Henry made a quiet, considering noise. "That’s reductive." You saw in the corner of your eye Francis slump in his chair.

"Oh, is it?" You retort, earning a sigh from Charles or Bunny, you weren't sure. 

Richard shifted uncomfortably beside you again, reaching for his pocket where his cigarettes were safely tucked away. "It’s a valid reading."

"It’s an incomplete reading," Henry countered, turning fully toward you now, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "If you reduce the text to a mere psychological treatise, you ignore the fact that its entire structure is built around the metaphor of the city-state. Plato was not interested in a singular man, he was interested in the composite whole."

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, your wine glass dangerously close to tipping. "Is that not a predictable interpretation? God, if Plato were alive to hear you say that, he’d throw you off a cliff."

Charles snorted into his drink.

Henry’s lips curved ever so slightly. "It’s not an interpretation, it’s a fact. If you actually understood the dialogue, you’d-"

"Oh, here we go," you interrupted, waving your hand dramatically. "If you actually understood. Always the same argument with you; everybody else is stupid except for Henry."

"It’s not my fault if you can’t comprehend basic philosophical principles."

"God, you are such an asshole."

"Alright," Camilla cut in, her voice light but firm, a warning. "Let’s not do this tonight."

You ignored her. "You act like you’re some omnipotent genius when really, you’re just an overgrown child who throws a tantrum when someone doesn’t agree with you."

Henry’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening around his glass. Oh Henry, when will you learn to not take the bait, is your ego that fragile. You wanted to smile. "And you act like being contrary for the sake of it makes you interesting. It doesn’t."

"At least I don’t talk just to hear myself speak." You responded, placing your cutlery down with a clank. 

"I don’t have to. People actually listen to me." He leaned forward.

"Because they’re afraid of you."

"And no one’s afraid of you, are you jealous, is that it?"

You scoffed. "God, you are pretentious."

"And you are exhausting."

"Enough," Francis sighed, rubbing his temples. “Please, I’m going to have to start taking pills before dinner to get through them now.”

"Really," Richard added, clearing his throat. "I mean, it’s, um. It’s just dinner, you know?"

But neither of you were listening anymore. You could feel it, something beyond the argument itself, beyond Plato or philosophy or whatever the hell it had started as. Something dangerous curling beneath your ribs, thickening the air between you. You wanted to hit him, scream at him. 

It was Henry who broke first.

His jaw tightened, his grip on his glass so white-knuckled you thought it might shatter. He exhaled sharply, and then, with the smoothest, most deliberate motion, he leaned back in his chair, bracing one arm against the side of the armchair, in such a carefree way it made your chest set aflame with rage.

"You know what your problem is?" His voice was softer now, almost amused, but there was something sharp at the edges, something that cut. "You hate that I don’t take you seriously."

Your pulse stuttered.

"And worse," he continued, head tilting slightly, "you hate that it bothers you."

The room was quiet. You blink when you hear a quiet cough from Camilla and a very small ‘christ’ from Francis. The heat of his gaze, that steady and unrelenting expression, felt like a challenge. You willed yourself not to flinch, not to let it show.

And then, very carefully, you leaned.

"You know what your problem is?" you murmured, lips just barely curling. Henry’s expression didn’t change. "You think you don’t care what I think of you." You let the words settle between you, let the realization flicker behind his eyes before you leaned back again, your work done. "But you do. And you fucking hate it."

He stared at you, unreadable.

And then, with no other reaction, he simply sat back further into his chair, as if nothing had happened at all.

Camilla exhaled. "I need more wine."

-

If dinners were considered bad. Class could be considered a heated catastrophe. 

"You’re wrong." The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, though not by much. Across the table, Henry lifted his eyes from the book slowly, as if you had just uttered something too ridiculous to warrant a real response, as if the words were so baffling he was thinking about if he had actually heard them correctly.

"Sorry, am I?" His voice was measured, mild, which was frankly infuriating. Though, you hated that he sounded sweet, and you knew it was because Julian was in the room. 

"Yes," you said, pen tapping against your notebook. "You’re misinterpreting Dionysian catharsis as a moral failing rather than what it actually is, an inevitability."

There was a brief pause. You knew that pause. It was the one he took when deciding whether or not you were worth the effort of dismantling today. You could feel the entire class watching. Francis, idly flipping his pen between his fingers; Bunny, chin in his hand, smiling faintly like this was all terribly amusing. Even Julian, his expression unreadable but certainly entertained, waiting for whichever one of you was about to win this round.

"Fascinating," Henry said at last, sitting back in his chair. "Except you’re overlooking the fundamental nature of Greek tragedy, which is that the fatal flaw isn’t just inevitable, it’s deserved."

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "You think Pentheus deserves it?"

"I think Pentheus is a fool," Henry said simply, tilting his head. "He mistakes his own rigidity for righteousness. It’s a common error."

The insult was not subtle.

Your nails dug into your palm beneath the table. "You do realize the Greeks didn’t think in terms of deserving the way we do, don’t you? Their gods were arbitrary. Their punishments were inevitable, not ethical."

Henry's mouth quirked, barely a smile. "How convenient for you."

"How convenient for me?" You smiled, raising your eyebrows, “Oh do humor me.”

Henry paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "That you always find a way to argue that nothing is anyone’s fault."

You narrowed your eyes. "And you always find a way to argue that suffering is justified, as long as you were smart enough to predict it."

"Better than pretending it’s meaningless."

Julian sighed, but there was the ghost of a smile on his face. "Children," he said lightly. "Do try not to start throwing things."

Henry still hadn’t looked away from you.

"Go on, then," you said, gesturing toward him. "By all means, tell me why I’m wrong."

Henry closed his book with a quiet thud. And then he did, he let you have it in front of Julian, in front of the class, your friends. 

The class had ended, mercifully.

You stalked down the stone steps of the humanities building, the late afternoon sun too bright, the air sharp with October. You were still simmering. The worst part about arguing with Henry wasn’t losing, because you never actually lost, but that he had a way of getting under your skin, setting up camp in the hollow of your ribcage, his voice echoing there long after the conversation had ended.

You should have known he’d follow.

"You left rather quickly," Henry’s voice drifted behind you, dry as parchment.

You didn’t bother to turn around. "Maybe I just didn’t want to be in the same room as you for another second."

"But you spend more than a few seconds just then to talk to me." 

Here you were, indeed. Taking time out of your day to let him get under your skin. You exhaled sharply, halting on the steps, feeling him come up beside you. You turned to him, arms crossing, expression tight. "Did you follow me just to piss me off?"

Henry adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his tone infuriatingly casual. "No, I followed you because you were wrong."

"Jesus Christ." You let your head fall back slightly, staring up at the clear sky, as if appealing to the gods. "You don’t give it a rest."

"But you were wrong," he continued, unfazed. "And I find it hard to believe you don’t know that."

"I was not wrong," you snapped, your eyes flicking back to him. "You just don’t like that I’m better at this than you are."

That made him smile. A small, almost imperceptible thing, but a smile nonetheless.

"You think you’re better than me?" He almost let out something reminiscent of a laugh. 

"No, Henry," you smiled up at him, “I just am better than you, see I have no need to idolise my teacher like a fucking school girl with a crush. I can enjoy the classics just fine without that.”

Henry faltered for a second, his jaw clenching at your words; you had never gone that personal, restrained yourself to purely intellectual battles, and weirdly, you wanted to swallow the words as they came out. Henry hummed, shifting his weight slightly. "Your ego is truly staggering."

You scoffed. "Oh, and yours is what? Charming?"

"Mine is warranted."

You wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or push him down the rest of the steps and walk away before you had to acknowledge either impulse.

You hated how he stood so close, how his presence had the gravitational pull of something celestial, how he could make you feel like you were hurtling through space even when your feet were firmly on the ground.

His gaze flickered over your face, as if deciphering something. "What?" you snapped.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly. And then, a moment later: "You have ink on your wrist."

You glanced down, seeing the smudge of black ink where your pen must have leaked against your skin. Henry reached out, his fingers barely grazing the inside of your wrist, before he seemed to catch himself and withdrew his hand.

You swallowed. You considered telling him it was a birthmark, that you were actually born with an affliction that caused pretentious men to materialize whenever ink touched your skin. But then he might take that as a compliment, and you’d sooner fling yourself into oncoming traffic than let him think you admired him in any capacity.

"Careful," you murmured, your voice quieter now, a little unsteady. "Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were being nice to me."

Henry’s mouth twitched, and for a fraction of a second, he looked like he might say something else, something important. But then the moment passed, and he merely turned, descending the last few steps.

"You should read more Euripides," he called over his shoulder. "It might teach you something about hubris."

You stared after him, pulse thrumming in your throat. It was going to be a long semester.

[comatosebunny09]

with a pretty bow on top | astarion a.

summary: you’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. but you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all, including a certain snarky elf who’s difficult to please. genre(s): romance, fluff, modern au, friends to (possible) lovers warning(s): alcohol, profanity, mentions of blood, mutual pining notes: merry chrysler! i hope everyone has a lovely christmas! thank you so much for reading! screenshot credit

For the umpteenth time, the paper rips. 

And for the umpteenth time, you feel this is a lost cause. Deflate like a balloon, a sigh rushing past your lips.

You’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. Usually had your mother or roommate to carry that burden. 

You routinely opt for gift bags. Easier to drop a present inside, dress it up with pretty tissue paper and a witty card, and go about your business. 

But you made a terrible mistake, forgoing the convenience store in your haste to get to your Airbnb.

It’s a tucked-away cabin in the woods. Secluded and ominous, shrouded by the night. The pristine blanket of snow building outside makes up for its creepiness. It’s nice to be away from the city, too, surrounded by people you adore. People who’ve filled the space between your ribs for years. 

On cue, their merriment reaches your ears, streaming from the kitchen. 

They’re hammered. You should be, too. But you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all. Wrapped neatly and tucked beneath the Christmas tree, waiting to be ripped open come morning. 

You huff, balling up another sheet of paper and chucking it. 

Errant pieces of tape litter your clothing. Strips of foil wrapping paper gleam in the light emitted from the fireplace. The ribbons you haphazardly cut shift in the ceiling fan’s breeze. Your battlefield. 

The medium-sized box sitting between your spread legs leers at you condescendingly. You fold your arms, nudging it with your foot. 

“I’m not your bitch,” you mutter, turning your nose up with a scowl. 

“Well, that’s no way to greet an old friend.” 

You start, your attention pilfered by the man wandering towards you. 

He paints an ethereal picture in the firelight, curls flouncing about and glowing like a halo around his head. A bottle of wine and two Bordeaux glasses greet you from between his fingers. He wears that effervescent smirk beneath round frames. Brow pitches up with amusement, gait flamboyant whilst the kitchen blurs behind him. 

You swallow, your lips trembling around a greeting when he plops down beside you. Cross-legged, scooting closer like a friend bearing gossip. Fills your lungs with the smell of brandy and cracked vanilla beans. He’s naturally corpse-cold, but the slightest bit of warmth radiates off his skin, permeating through the layers of your clothes. 

Must’ve fed on something viscous wandering the woods before he found you.

He brings you back when he pushes a glass into your hand. 

“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Astarion purrs, his tone colored with alcohol. With your breath held in your esophagus, you watch as he pops the stopper off the bottle with a pointed tooth. Spits it out. “Mind if I impede on your party of one?”

Your lips twitch. Like you’d ever say no to him. “Course not.”

And no, you do not nearly jump some 50 feet out of your skin when limber fingers curl around yours, bringing the glass up for him to fill it. He catches your stare over the rim, scarlet spun eyes alight with mischief. You look away as heat branches up your neck. 

The dark liquid sloshes about as he fills his own glass. Fizzles, the sweet fragrance curling around your nose. “Finally, some good shit,” you breathe, taking a sip. Release a content sound as it bubbles on the back of your tongue. The burn of it washes over your nerves, loosening them.

Astarion scoffs, leaning back on the hand he positioned behind you. Adam’s apple bobs in your peripheral as he takes a swig. He redirects his attention to you, something of a pout occupying his lips. “Darling, you wound me. As if I would bring anything worse than that cheap excuse for booze you lot rave about. Four Loko, was it?” 

You snicker, nursing your glass. Turn the stem between your fingers, examining the hardwood floor beneath. 

Sure, he’s always had this thing with you. This way of squeezing himself beneath your skin where no one else could, turning you into some flustered mess. But you can’t deny you’ve missed his company. His eccentricities. His smell.

The years have dragged you all apart. Pushed you in different directions, your careers casting you out to sea. But like driftwood, you all floated back to shore. United under the same roof to celebrate Christmas and usher in the new year.

It’s a pleasant sensation, idling with the wine warming your veins.

The hum of his voice eases through your musings. “Mm, what’s this about?” Astarion queries around another mouthful of wine, signaling to the massacre at your feet. 

You shrink. An uneasy smile rounds your cheeks. “Yeah, about that. Kinda got carried away.” 

“Carried away? By the hells, it looks like you got into a fight with a pair of scissors and…lost. Abysmally.”

You snort. “Alright, alright. Take it easy. We can’t all be gifted with our hands like some people, Mister Art Teacher.” 

Your stomach plummets. Blood turns to ice. The double entendre hits you like a sack of coal. You bring your glass to your lips to mask your unease. To mask the shakiness of your limbs. 

Astarion exudes smugness, admiring his nails with a flourish of his fingers. “Well, these hands aren’t just made for sculpting works of art, my dear.”

You sputter, speckles of wine flying everywhere. 

Astarion chuckles, the sound of it smooth as velvet. Leans closer, his elbow brushing your thigh as he reaches for something in front of you. You stiffen, biting the rim of your glass. It’s almost like you two haven’t been friends for years. Haven’t seen each other bleed, cry, piss, for God’s sake. 

“Come,” beckons Astarion, taking up a roll of wrapping paper and plucking the box from between your legs. 

You huff a disbelieving laugh. “What are you doing?” 

He scoffs. Side-eyes you as if it’s as apparent as night and day. “Well, clearly, no one’s taught you the art of wrapping a bloody gift. I mean, look at this. A child could do better.”

Your shoulders touch your ears. Astarion’s disapproval is akin to upsetting your parents. Even after all this time apart, he still knows how to lay the insults on thick. 

It’s kind of comical how he grumbles like an embittered old woman, unraveling some of the paper. Still methodical in everything he does, positioning the box in the center. Concentration pulls his brows together. “Fetch me that tape.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you relent before doing as he demanded instructed. His fingers ghost over your hand in pursuit of the tape, and you bristle. 

Astarion goes into full scholar mode hereon, paper rippling around him as he cuts away. Moves like a butler masterfully laying out a tablecloth. No trace of inebriation lies in the shift of his fingers. It’s as if he hadn’t polished off a bottle of brandy before finding you. 

“Typically, wrapping paper comes with a template. A set of squares or lines you can use to gauge where you need to cut.” 

He gestures for the scissors. You scramble for them like a student eager to please their instructor. 

“Depending on how precise you want the wrapping to be, you must trim off as much excess as possible whilst ensuring you have enough left to cover your parcel.”

“Interesting.”

You angle yourself closer, sitting up on your haunches. The bulb of your glass grows warm, stained with your fingerprints. You nod, genuinely intrigued. Chin finds the pocket of his shoulder—an affectionate gesture amongst longtime friends. 

Astarion tenses. You wince, flinching away.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s quite alright, darling.” He clears some phlegm from his throat. Squeezes your kneecap, presenting you with a fraction of a smile. Dragonflies tickle the lining of your stomach. He resumes his lesson as if his muscles aren’t pulled taut. 

Your lips twitch. Seems Astarion’s not the only one capable of disarming those around him. 

You cant your head along the slope of his shoulder, watching him work with the curiosity of a child.  

“It helps to tape here.” Carefully, he layers a strip of tape near the edge of the box where paper meets cardboard. “So as to keep your paper from shifting.”

As Astarion leads on, you find yourself terribly distracted. Your vision ebbs and flows. Body buzzes. From his proximity or the wine, you’re unsure. It’s a pleasant sensation, nonetheless.

The cacophony of the cabin and your friends fade into a dull hum. Only the rumble of Astarion’s voice fills the wrinkles of your brain. He’s surprisingly nurturing despite how he outwardly projects himself to the world. Soothing as he speaks to you, gaze occasionally flitting your way to ensure you’re still with him.

Try as you might to focus, you find your lids drooping, your vision blurred around the edges. An inebriated smile teases your lips. You could fall below the inky depths of sleep like this, led into it by his voice. Still would feel perfectly safe on your descent, knowing he’d be there to haul you back to the surface. 

You sit up to take him in. To observe the furrow of his brows, the coil of his lashes. The gilded lenses perched on his nose like a librarian. His mouth pulls into a tight line while he focuses. Plump and petal pink. Skin’s still smooth and dewy, glowing in the firelight like he’s descended from heaven. His hands move seemingly of their own volition. Caught in a dance he knows all too well, still pretty and delicate-looking, untouched by time. 

You imagine what they’d feel like, clasped in yours. Thumb cruising over the grooves of your knuckles, pushing reassuring beneath your skin. How he’d look with a careless smile, whispering the sweetest supplications into the crown of your head.

Reality comes pitching forward, the moment ending too soon. 

You blink out of your reverie as Astarion slides the box toward you. It softly thumps against your leg. Expertly wrapped with a bow in its center and ribbons waterfalling down its sides. You stare in awe. You could never master something so intricate. 

“And that, my dear, is how you wrap a present.” Astarion pats your thigh with finality before leaning back with a sigh. Looks smug as ever whilst taking a sip of his forgotten wine. 

You smirk. Offer Astarion a half-hearted applause, and he eats it all up.

“I envy whatever bastard receives this, honestly,” he croons around the mouth of his cup. “I outdid myself.”

You chuckle. Your inhibition is thrown to the wolves. You eye the present, your body vibrating with anticipation. Maybe it’s the liquid encouragement urging you forward, loosening your tongue. Whatever the cause, you push on. 

“I mean, I’d hope he likes it. He took his time wrapping it, after all.”

Astarion casts you a sidelong glance. Snorts into his glass. Realization gradually descends on his features. It’s funny watching his face morph into something akin to a confused puppy.

You shrug, caught like a child rifling through a cookie jar. It takes a moment, but his brows finally lift with an unasked question. 

Seriously, they ask. For me? 

You reach for the box, pointedly avoiding his stare. The heat of bashfulness inhabits your cheeks as you carefully slip the box into his lap. Your hand lingers. Fingers tenderly grip the meat of his quad, stars dancing across the stratosphere of your eyes when you muster the courage to look at him.

“Merry Christmas, Starry.”

He sputters. Sits up. Glances between you, the box, and the clock perched above the mantle. It’s midnight. Tradition dictates you open one present at the cusp of Christmas day.  

Astarion laughs, something airy and pleasant. His hand closes over yours, and he squeezes. He’s beautiful like this. Youthful as he glances up at you, his mouth working around a reply.

“You cheeky little shit. Making me wrap my own gift. The gall.”

He acts offended, but you know that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“Would you rather I have wrapped it?”

You both warily eye your shit attempts at wrapping his gift. 

“Fair enough,” he jests with a resigned drop of his shoulders. 

You share a laugh, the air between you charged with affection. Through it all, you note Astarion’s hand has yet to leave yours. Thumb kneads reassuring circles into the clutch of your hand. Your heart thrums a war cadence in your ears, blotting out the sound of his wine glass clinking against the floor as he sets it down.

He releases a breath. Observes you a moment longer with a warm smile on his lips. Shifts his gift onto the floor beside him. “Come here,” Astarion murmurs, saturating your vision with nothing but him as he leans closer.

You heed his request, and your lids lower, a pleasant shiver sifting through your bones at his glacial fingers at the nape of your neck. You have but seconds to appreciate the flutter of his lashes before he closes in.  

He fuses his lips to yours with such precision. Tender, supple. Just like you always dreamed they would be. He’s frigid, but he scorches you from within. Gently takes possession of your cheek, coaxing your lips to part with the slide of his tongue after your body relaxes. 

You grant him the entry he requests with an abrasive sound easing from your throat. Warmth pools in the chasm of your belly whilst your tongues intermingle and the maple taste of brandy pushes into your mouth. 

His voice vibrates in your mouth as he chuckles something satisfied. He breaks the kiss with a soft click, and you chase his mouth in pursuit of another. 

“Don’t be greedy, darling,” he husks with a teasing tap to your nose.

Your eyes cautiously slide open. Lips still pursed, head still swimming. “What was that all about,” you breathe into the space between your mouths. 

Astarion chuckles, all fangs and mirth. You follow his gaze skyward, a blur of forest green and red nestled between the space of your lashes. Slowly, the distortion works itself into discernable shapes. You laugh at the telltale plant dangling above your head. Held by him.

“Mistletoe,” he croons as if it’s the most obvious thing.

You giggle, your nose brushing along the peak of his whilst you draw him in to press your foreheads together.

The time eases by with you sitting together by the fireplace, your cheek resting on Astarion’s shoulder as you regale stories of a childhood once passed. Hardly notice when you’re beckoned to sleep by the pretty girls of slumber.