#I act like some fucking sommelier or something

[keferon]

How you feeling post MoMU chapter 72?

My way of reading MOMU requires me to stop while I'm reading it to make an illustration every time I like a particular moment. Also, I usually reread each paragraph twice, with and without a translator, to both understand what is going on and enjoy the writing style at the same time. All this together means that I need at least five hours of free time to read a chapter.

☝️The whole fucking explanation was to say “I haven't read it yet but not because I don't want to, but because I'm waiting until I have enough time haha»

But the fact that you asked this…..makes me kinda nervous ngl….

[lambden]

another 'cliche' prompt fill! Ledgea requested some Lambert/Aiden shenanigans and I love them so I had to oblige! <3

42. I’m going to save you from the terrible date you’re having T, 1.3K, modern AU, misunderstandings

“I feel like we never talk anymore,” Lambert grouses, leaning back in his seat. The night is winding down to its inevitable conclusion, as all nights must, and the late hour is making him bolder than usual. “I mean, you used to keep me updated on all your drama.”

Without properly glancing up from his cell phone, Geralt mumbles, “I have no drama.”

“Now I know that’s a fucking lie.” His glass of merlot is running low, but their server has been tending to a busy party on the other side of the restaurant and Lambert isn’t in a hurry to hunt him down. There’s another server that’s been watching him all night, and Lambert would be lying if he said he wasn’t returning the looks. The man’s wavy hair is nothing compared to Lambert’s curls but he’s tied it up in a small bun, and the few strands still hanging around his temples draw attention to his beautiful, sharp smile. He tilts his head inquisitively and Lambert nods gratefully, draining the rest of his wine and setting the glass down. “What about darling Yen?”

“Off with someone else,” Geralt shrugs. “Named… Frin… Fran… Frin-fran-something.”

“Well, you don’t seem too bothered. Then, what about Triss?”

“Haven’t talked to her in a while.” The man squints at his phone, fully ignoring Lambert.

“Fine. Then what about your musician friend?” The server who’s been making eyes at him brings over a glass and a new bottle— he must have sprinted to the bar to retrieve it. Lambert straightens up, grinning. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” the server smiles back, flashing those bright teeth again. Lambert wants very much to invite him into the back alley, or the staff washroom, or perhaps if they’re really pressed for a location the walk-in freezer. But he isn’t so rude as to flirt with someone while they’re stuck working, so he just nods and lets the man pour.

Finally looking up from his screen, Geralt raises a judgemental eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” The server sucks in a quick breath but remains silent, hands steady as he pours Lambert’s glass. “You’re the one paying for all this, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Lambert rolls his eyes. There’s a time-honoured tradition of swapping who pays for the bill every time they all go out— a tradition that Eskel always breaks by trying his hardest to sneak his credit card to the till before anyone else can. But their third brother isn’t here tonight, and unfortunately, it’s Lambert’s turn. “Don’t avoid the question. What’s going on between you and Jaskier?”

“Nothing,” growls Geralt, but his gaze reveals more than he wants to let on as he glances, lightning-quick, at his phone.

“I knew it,” Lambert crows. “You’ve been texting him all night!”

“No. I’ve been thinking about buying a new horse.”

Knowing Geralt, either option could be true. Lambert scoffs anyway, taking a sip of his new glass of wine. “Oh, that is phenomenal,” he exhales, leaning back in his seat and undoing the top button of his shirt. “What year is this?”

“Don’t act like you know a thing about wine,” Geralt teases. Out of the entire family he’s the one closest to a sommelier; after all, he does own shares in an actual vineyard. Lambert rolls his eyes anyway— Geralt might be right, but he doesn’t have to be a dick about it. “And keep your clothes on, we’re in public!”

Just then, the server accidentally knocks a glass of water onto Geralt’s lap. “Shit,” he blurts out, hurriedly putting the bottle down and reaching to unroll some folded napkins. “I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

“I’m just fine,” Geralt reassures him, a little coolly. Lambert nearly winces at the tone— he knows that his brother doesn’t mean to come off like that, but it’s hard to deal with it sometimes anyway. Geralt climbs out of his seat, grimacing at the large wet stain on his pants. “I’m going to go dry off in the bathroom. Don’t run off and leave me with the tab, you mooch.”

“Ha-ha,” Lambert deadpans, picking up his wine and taking another sip. He expects to have some free time to rifle through his social media, maybe send a text to Eskel about how they missed him tonight. But nearly as soon as Geralt has vacated his seat, the gorgeous server with the bun slides into it, frowning softly. “Oh, uh, it’s alright, really. I’m sure he isn’t mad.”

“I don’t care if he’s mad,” says the angel in waiter’s clothing. His dark eyes are intensely focused on Lambert, and his thick eyebrows drawn together only adds to his concern. “Listen, alright? That guy’s an asshole. You deserve better.”

Lambert gapes.

“I’m sorry, I know this is extremely not my place, but…” The man glances in the direction of the bathroom nervously before reaching across the table to offer Lambert his palm. Lambert, bewildered and delighted, accepts it. The man’s grip is warm and dry, and his broad fingers instantly send Lambert’s pulse racing. “I had to do something to save you from this terrible date you’re having.”

“Oh,” bleats Lambert.

“You don’t have to put up with bullshit like that,” the man tells him, dead serious. His earnest, compassionate worry is nearly too much to handle when paired with his perfect smile and eyes. “You say the word and I’ll kick him out of here, alright? And don’t worry about having to foot the bill. I’d gladly cover you. Or poison him. Just say the word.”

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “You’re sort of a maniac, aren’t you? This is really, really bad for me— you’re already completely my type. You can’t be this gorgeous and unhinged, it isn’t fair!” Mr. Gorgeous And Unhinged smiles, flashing those pearly whites again, and Lambert’s heart quakes. “What’s your name? You know, so I can tell the necessary authorities?”

“Aiden.” He’s even got a hot name! Lambert is going to need to dump cold water onto his own lap very soon. “And you are?”

“In trouble, I think,” Lambert sighs. He tugs his hand away from Aiden, shaking his head. “I’m Lambert, and the asshole you dumped water on is Geralt.”

“I’m serious,” Aiden insists. “Well, not about the poisoning, maybe, but you don’t have to put up with that kind of treatment. If he doesn’t treat you with the respect you deserve, then why waste your time dating him?”

“You make a valid point,” replies Lambert, as seriously as he can manage. Then he spies Geralt making his way back to the table, and throws a warning look in Aiden’s direction. “Don’t look now, but he’s coming back.”

“Just think about what I said,” Aiden quickly says, jumping to his feet. Geralt frowns slightly, probably confused about the clumsy server who took up residence in his seat. “Sorry, I was just getting to know Lambert here!”

“Alright,” Geralt replies mildly. Now that Lambert knows about his dislike for the man, he can practically see Aiden’s shoulders bristling— and it’s fucking hilarious.

But then Aiden turns to leave, shooting Lambert one last parting look of sorrow over his shoulder, and Lambert just can’t let the most hilarious misunderstanding of his life go undiscovered. He also can’t let someone so perfectly insane leave without a second chance, so he blurts out, “Wait, let me— let me introduce you two! Um, Geralt, this is Aiden. He’s quite… passionate.”

Geralt shoots Lambert a glare that very clearly spells out you disgusting little man, did you hook up with a waiter while I was in the bathroom for three minutes tops. Then he nods to Aiden, smile slightly pursed at the corners. But it’s likely the best they’re going to get.

“And Aiden, this is Geralt,” Lambert tells him slowly, lining up the kill shot. He inhales. “My brother.”

After a very pregnant pause, Aiden says, quietly but with great feeling, “Fuck.”

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 11

Y/n returns to Quantico and sees a familiar face. 

@deadman-inc-bikeshop @viviace and @dovahdokren 

Trigger warnings: mention of FGM, graphic descriptions of violence, bombs, religiously motivated violence, torture, cults, implied sex abuse

Out of everywhere you expected to see him, the FBI headquarters was the last place you'd have possibly thought of.

But he was there. His intimidating height was even more pronounced now that he wasn't sitting on a bar stool. The harsh fluorescent lighting enunciated his sunken bone structure, giving him an eerie halo. The fact that he was standing over a flayed corpse didn't help.

"Ms. [L/N]!" Jack greeted. "This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, he occasionally acts as a consultant on large cases such as this one."

"Hello again, Miss [L/N]." Hannibal said, eyeing you up and down with an unreadable expression. "I'm dreadfully sorry these are the circumstances under which we have to meet, but it is a delight to see you nonetheless."

"Dr. Lecter." You nodded, trying to cover your nervousness with a smile. "It's always a pleasure."

"You two know each other." Will said in complete non-surprise.

"Her bar is the only one in town that carries my favorite Bordeaux." Hannibal explained. "Though I've come to find that the bartender is excellent company."

Something about how he said "her bar" made your heart flutter. You'd convinced him that you were in charge, and you were determined to keep it that way.

"Not to break up the reunion." Dr. Katz interrupted your thoughts. "But we are standing in front of a dead cultist's body."

Jack cleared his throat. "Thank you, Dr. Katz. What can you tell us about this woman?"

"Her name is Catherine Miller, or at least it was." Dr. Katz began, grabbing the corpse by its left hand and revealing a scar on its inner arm. "I think Chase may have just been calling her 'unwoman'."

"Erasing a person's identity is one of the many warning signs of a dangerous cult." Hannibal observed, crossing the floor.

"Usually they try to change their names in an attempt to make them shed their genuine personality in favor of the cult personality." Jack agreed. "But she must have been so far gone to willingly give up her entire identity."

"That's not even the beginning." Dr. Katz rushed to the other side of the examination table. She paused for a second and lowered her head in respect. "She was mutilated."

All eyes turned to the body's lower half. Dr. Katz took the corpse's hand and rubbed her thumb gently across the back, as if to comfort it. You and her shared a look of mutual disgust and anger. No words had to be exchanged.

You were the one to break the silence. "In Handmaid's Tale, circumcision was a punishment for... gender treason."

"Homosexuality." Hannibal said, looking down. "Well, more accurately, any sexuality or gender identity that exists outside Gilead's biblical worldview."

"I wonder if that's why Chase strapped her to a bomb." Dr. Katz added with quiet conviction. "He needed to destroy any evidence of brutality."

"She said that she once was a sinful woman like me." You said. "Or something to that effect."

"Was she perhaps under the impression that you existed outside of Gilead's biblical worldview?" Hannibal asked, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. He was asking out of his own curiosity and you could tell.

"Well, I am." You admitted. "But I'm not sure how she or Chase could have known that."

"Evangelicals make assumptions about people all the time." Dr. Katz groaned. "I wouldn't worry too much about it."

"And here I thought the bible said 'judge not lest ye be judged'." Will added, not looking up from the body. He took a few steps and pointed to some strange laceration. "What's this?"

"I have no fucking idea." Dr. Katz answered. "It looks like someone tried to skin her like a deer, but only in that one spot."

"And it's done very sloppily at that." Said Hannibal.

"Yeah, well when you're guided by the hand of god, you don't need a medical license." Dr. Katz's voice was sharp with sarcasm.

"I'll bet that's why Chase strapped her to a bomb." Will said. "It would destroy all the evidence of brutality."

Dr. Katz looked sadly on the body and closed its eyes. "I think Catherine has suffered enough for the time being. I'm going to close her up."

Jack gestured to you. "Miss [L/N], Will and I are going to examine the crime scene. Dr. Lecter will be taking your statement."

"I know it’s unorthodox, but I am nothing if not a professional." Hannibal peered down at you.

Hannibal silently escorted you to an out-of-the-way office where he promised you’d have some privacy. Privacy to discuss what, you were unsure. 

“I’m sure you have a million questions, Miss [L/N].” He said, closing the door behind you. “But if I could trouble you with a few of my own, I can make it worth your while.” 

He sat on a nearby couch and patted the space beside him. You awkwardly stood in the middle of the room, looking everywhere but at him.

“Come, sit by me.” He beckoned you with his fingers. “I’d like you to be close.” 

You let your feet carry you to his side, still avoiding any eye contact. You fidgeted with your purse straps and kept your head down. 

“You and Will Graham have met?” He asked.

You wordlessly nodded your head. You had a sinking feeling that he was about to scold you. 

“Have you been intimate?” 

You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you. “There’s no use lying to me, Miss [L/N].” 

You dropped your shoulders. “How did you know?” 

He leaned towards you and took a short, audible breath in. “I find it quite hard to believe that you wear the same aftershave.” 

“Is he your boyfriend or something?” You said, somewhat sarcastically. 

“Or something.” Hannibal tilted his head. “An object of my affection, is probably a more accurate term.” 

“You want me to back off?” You raised your eyebrows. You had just witnessed this man examine a flayed corpse without so much as a flinch. You didn’t want to get on his bad side. 

“No.” 

His answer took you by surprise. “Pardon?” 

“When two objects of your affection find each other, there are certainly far worse fates than to see them enamored with one another.” Hannibal explained. “It can lead to some highly desirable outcomes.” 

You understood what he was saying, you just couldn’t believe it. “Like what?” 

He grinned. “I think you already know what.” 

“You mean, like a threesome?” 

So much for professionalism. 

Hannibal clicked his tongue. “Now don’t make it sound so crass, darling. I’m an intelligent man of strong moral character. I’m not driven by lust alone.” 

At least he shared your contempt there. The word ‘threesome’ conjured up bad memories of being approached by straight couples on dating apps who saw you as nothing but a disposable sex toy to boost a straight man’s ego. For that reason, you stayed away from the idea altogether. Hannibal, however, had you reconsidering. 

“So a throuple.” You said. As the word left your mouth, you found yourself more amenable to the idea than you’d anticipated. “I just don’t know how I’d feel being shared between two men.” 

“Oh, [F/N],” he purred. “You would be worshipped by two men. Loved obsessively. Given everything you could ever desire. Not to mention protected at all costs.” 

That last point struck you. For so long, you had lived alone and in fear. And now, you would take any opportunity to not be alone. 

"You like the sound of that. I can tell." Hannibal broke the silence.

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?" You said, pushing your hair behind your ear.

He smiled proudly. "I thought so."

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

WOE.BEGONE starter sentences

Sentences taken from seasons 1 - 2

tws: blood, death, self harm, animal death, paranoia. murder

“Maybe being so far in the lead will grant me some leniency.”

“Just because you got used to the falling doesn’t mean the descent is over yet.”

“My brain has patiently learned how to better understand extreme amounts of pain so that I can savor every little morsel. I have become an injury sommelier.”

“I’ll get to why s/he’s tied up and not dead in a second.”

“If you came all the way out here for answers then I guess you deserve the truth.”

“Seeing someone pop in from the future makes for an extremely compelling argument. I should know, I’ve done it a few times.”

“_____ is/was probably great at dragging corpses into the woods.”

“What do you want with me? What will happen to me? What will happen to me? What the fuck will happen to me?”

“I’m somehow still bad at doing dangerous shit, even though doing dangerous shit has been my whole life for awhile now.”

“I thought the point of this would be to maintain that humanity---I thought there would be something about myself still remaining that deserved to be protected.”

“I have been in complete meltdown mode for so long that from my current vantage point, it seems like a miracle that no one died who wasn’t supposed to.”

“Why, _____, you have me all wrong. Of course I didn’t come here to kill you!”

“I have permanently exceeded my ability to comprehend traumatic events.”

“Things are about to get interesting or _____ is about to become a corpse. I don’t really see a third option.”

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised at how good at this whole brutality thing I am.”

“It had become cold and clinical at that point, just doing a job.”

“The past remains locked away, the future remains a mystery.”

“From all angles, it appeared set on killing me, possibly eating me, though I’m not much interested in its postmortem plans for me.”

“I guess I’m doing a lot of work to justify a murder.”

“There is an even deeper feeling inside me: a knowledge that it is absolutely vital to kill you in order to survive.”

“ This is/was the beginning of my indelible need to destroy _____.”

“The only solace I can hope for is that I can reduce you in the way that you reduced me.”

“I got to my current position by acting quickly and without regard for my own body.”

“The goal is to be able to enact your heinous plan, not to keep them from ever feeling skeptical or suspicious of you.”

“I’m less in control of my life than I have ever been, at least it feels that way.”

“I look awful. I feel like if I were someone’s pet, the veterinarian would put me down out of mercy.”

“Can I actually do this? What if I get partway through it and can’t finish the job?”

“Before ______ I didn’t consider myself a violent person. Not a good person, but not a violent person either.”

“It’s over. It’s over. There isn’t any more of this. There can’t be.”

“Kill me if that’s the plan. I don’t have anything else.”

“Your blood seeped through the floor and dripped onto the people living downstairs.”

“I wish that I had saved my “Jesus Christ”s and my “fuck”s and “goddammit”s for this heightened intensity.”

“I hate it. It makes me feel like a child.”

“On the count of 3 I want you to be as calm as you have ever been in your life.”

“I spent an inordinate amount of time researching how to cut my arm off.”

“Maybe you’ll kill me and I’ll just hit the ground before I can get the words out.”

“The body seems so fragile most of the time. We are frail sacks of blood that can be knocked over dead by the slightest thing.”

“That wasn’t a happy ending. It wasn’t an ending at all.”

“I’m okay. I’m not actively dying right this instance, which is what “okay” has gradually come to mean for me.”

“This pain is all going to mean something, someday. When that will be and what will lie in-between still horrifies me.”

[queenk00k]

red wine lips part 1 // rafe cameron

Warnings: alcohol, drug use, sexual content 

Word count: 2000

PART 2 NOW UPLOADED 

PART 3 NOW UPLOADED

FINAL PART NOW UPLOADED

fic idea from my ship with rafe from @socialwriter

moodboard idea from @harrysbbby

You were going to be late.

Correction: You and Rafe Cameron were going to be late, and it’s all his fault for hosting a party the night before, in what you assumed was an effort to impress you (which, by the way, didn’t work) and you were pissed.

You had overslept and Rafe, having been preoccupied with multiple bags, hadn’t slept at all.

“Rafe!” You yell. “We’re going to be late, and I will not have you turning up to this thing in anything less than a suit. Get dressed and hurry the fuck up!” You hop across the first-floor landing, pulling your heels on as you made a beeline for Rafe’s bedroom.

Not bothering to knock (when had you two had any manners towards each other anyway?), you push open the heavy wooden door to see Rafe bent over his dresser, half dressed in navy suit pants and an open white shirt. He’s surreptitiously cutting the last of the night’s supply into neat lines with his black AMEX card, tapping his foot absentmindedly.

“Keeping the party going, are we?” You ask, folding your arms across your satin clad chest.

Rafe doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he finishes what he was doing before you interrupted, snorting his line and wiping his nose as he turns around.

He smirks. “Looking good, Y/N. That dress would look better off you though.”

You roll your eyes. “Firstly, keep it in your pants, and secondly, you better not be thinking about bringing coke to the tour. We’re being classy today, Cameron,” you say, using the nickname only reserved for when you were annoyed at your long-time friend.

Rafe chuckles and starts buttoning his shirt, stepping towards you as his brows furrow in concentration. “I’ll behave.”

You look up at him incredulously.

“Promise,” he says. “I’ll just get drunk today. That’s what wine tastings are for, right?”

You figured him being drunk was the best-case scenario. At least you could guarantee the absence of Pogues – no fighting today.

“I’ll take it. Come on, we need to go. Our driver’s outside.”

You turn to leave, but Rafe grabs your wrist suddenly, holding you back. “Wait, wait.” Rafe’s blue eyes stare down at you intensely and, you’re ashamed to admit, you think they’re actually quite pretty. “I do really think you look nice today. Red’s your colour.”

There’s a brief pause as you wait for the usual sexual remark, but a beat passes without one and you���re pleasantly surprised.

“Thanks, Rafe,” you reply with a smile as you head out the door, but before you fully leave you pop your head back through the frame.

“Oh, and Rafe?”

“Mm?”

“Wear a red tie.” You wink before turning on your heel, swooping the dress behind you as you make your way downstairs.

There’s excited chatter amongst your group as your driver pulls up to the iron gates of the most prestigious winery in the Outer Banks and you gaze out the window at the vines spread out across the field.

The car comes to a stop and Rafe jumps out before you, impressing you by taking your hand and helping you step out of the vehicle onto the gravelled road. You look up at him and think to yourself how handsome he looks and, not to mention, how good you both look together in red.

You and Rafe first met as kids, when you were both left at the country club’s “kidZone” whilst your mums sipped champagne and got uncomfortably close to men who weren’t their husbands. Since then, your families were always close and you and Rafe became good friends, bonded by your love of two things: money and having a good time.

There was underlying sexual tension between the two of you since you were old enough to wear a bra and Rafe was old enough to notice, but neither of you had ever acted on it.

Sometimes the fun was left in the unknown, the untouched possibilities, the lingering gazes and suggestive comments.

“Like what you see?” Rafe teases, snapping you out of your reflective state.

You chuckle. “What if I do?” You walk away without giving Rafe a chance to reply, feeling his wandering eyes burn a hole in your back as you make sure to swing your hips in a way you know will have him distracted for the rest of the day.

Like you said – sometimes all the fun was in the chase.

Maybe this time he could catch you.

_______________________________________________________________

“So this one here is our flagship viognier – it’s a full bodied white wine, and because it’s been aged in oak like our chardonnay, it’s a very rich taste and you’ll be able to taste notes of vanilla,” the sommelier explains as he pours an annoyingly small amount of wine into your glass before moving onto Rafe’s next to you.

You notice he’s gone light on the wine as he’s serving to your group, clearly uncomfortable with the raucous group of barely legal 21-year-olds.

Rafe swirls the wine around his glass and says “how much for a bottle?”

You scoff. “You haven’t even tasted it yet. See if you like it first.”

“Don’t be so bossy, Y/N,” he replies before downing the wine in one gulp, much to the horror of your sommelier.

You quickly follow suit, taking a bit longer to savour the taste of the wine before you swallow completely. You actually enjoy this wine stuff, taking the time to learn about different types of grapes before you organised this trip for you, Rafe, Topper, Kelce and your group of girlfriends from college. You notice Rafe watching you as you tip your head back, his blue eyes following the curve of your neck, his jaw clenching as you swallow.

No prizes for guessing what he’s thinking about you swallowing instead.

After a few more glasses as you make your way down to the final bottle of wine, you feel yourself getting dizzier and your friends are speaking louder and louder until Rafe finds it necessary to bring his lips to your ear every time he wants to speak to you.

“You know, you and I….we could have some fun together,” Rafe says as he trails a finger up your thigh.

You slap his hand and move it off you, bringing your gaze to his face which is tantalizing close to yours, willing yourself not to bring your gaze to his lips which are stained ever so slightly with red.

“You said you were going to behave, Cameron,” you remind him, raising your eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

“What, I can’t treat my princess to something I know she’s been waiting for all these years?” Rafe looks at you expectantly. 

“Your princess?”

“You been cosying up to anyone else today?” Rafe points out, fingering the collar of his suit jacket that’s been draped over your bare shoulders at some point in the afternoon.

Fuck, he’s right.

“…I was cold,” you say, witty replies be damned.

“Mmhm.”

You stare at each other for a beat, before Rafe spins in his seat (almost toppling off) and faces the bar.

“How much is a bottle of the merlot?” He asks the sommelier.

You see the guy purse his lips.

“It’s our most expensive bottle.”

Rafe scoffs. “Weird price. How much is it?”

The sommelier furrows his brows and looks around the room, his gaze falling upon Topper and Kelce who were talking animatedly, their ties hanging loose around their necks.

“Where are your parents? Maybe you should wait for them to get here and they could pick something out for you?”

Oh boy, you think. Not difficult for you to predict how Rafe was going to react to that comment.

True to form, Rafe pushes back from the table and stands up, his jaw clenched and his large frame towering over the server, who at least has the common sense to look intimidated.

“Do you know who I am, bro?”

“Don’t answer that,” you warn him with a wave of your hand. “Better to just let him tell you.”

You had seen Rafe on power trips like this in the past when his influence has been questioned. It proves troublesome when whoever he’s talking to just isn’t having it, but usually you find it pretty hot.

Rafe places his hands on the counter and leans over to look the server in the eyes.

You do him a favour by holding his tie back, so it doesn’t take a dip in the cabernet sauvignon.

“I’m Rafe Cameron. Do you know who my father is? Yeah,” Rafe says as the sommelier gulps, “Ward Cameron. We basically own this island. Do you own an island?”

The server shakes his head in defeat.

“I didn’t think so,” Rafe says, standing up straight again and shooting you a brief smirk as you take your hand off his tie.

You figure he’s grateful.

“Now, my group and I here would like 10 bottles.”

The sommelier clears his throat before replying. “Of course, sir, which 10 bottles would you like?”

Rafe chuckles as he flashes his AMEX. “Oh no, you misunderstand. I want 10 bottles of every single wine you have.”

Your painted lips curl into a smile.

It was going to be a good afternoon.

_______________________________________________________________

Before you know it, you’re sitting next to Rafe at a table in the courtyard, your leg moving dangerously closer to his, his eyes grazing over your chest intermittently.

Topper is telling a story about his ex-girlfriend Sarah, who he insists he’s “completely over” (yeah right) and you’re barely listening, your eyes glazed over as you bring the crystal glass to your lips absentmindedly.

Hard to concentrate on anything when Rafe Cameron’s hand is inching closer up your thigh, pulling the satin fabric up with it until your leg is almost completely exposed to the cool afternoon air.

You’re thankful for two things.

One, the fact that you had the foresight to shave that morning.

And two, the biological blessing that was your ability to hide how completely and utterly turned on you are in that moment.

You start squirming in your seat, clearing your throat as you become increasingly aware of how flushed your cheeks feel, warmth pooling in your belly as you swallow thickly and turn to Rafe.

He looks at you expectantly and in a daring move, presses his lips to your neck softly.

Completely out of character for Rafe, it’s almost sweet and doesn’t do your state any favours as you squeeze your thighs together, wetness already starting to spread to your underwear.

Goddamnit, you think. You look up at Rafe through your long eyelashes, and bring your lips to his ear to whisper “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Rafe looks at you excitedly, and you figure it wouldn’t hurt (too much) to drag out the inevitable just that bit longer.

“Do not even think about following me,” you say as you stand up, praying your arousal hasn’t started to show on your dress. You picked a good day to wear satin, for goodness sake.

Rafe looks hurt as you walk into the ladies’ bathroom, not doubting that he will follow your wishes. He may be a sexual deviant but he’s not one to cross boundaries, especially yours.

You brace yourself on the porcelain sink, breathing heavily as you look at yourself in the mirror. You look frazzled and flushed, all because of Rafe.

You have an idea, and smirk to yourself as you prepare to leave.

You make your way out of the bathroom, walking slowly back to the group, stopping where only Rafe can see you.

You don’t have to wait long for Rafe to look up and catch your eye. It gives you some sort of satisfaction to see his face change from confusion to shock, and you know you’ve got him hooked.

You’re holding your red lace thong in your hand, winking as you stuff it discreetly into your clutch. You’ve never seen Rafe look so impressed.

Game on.

_______________________________________________________________ 

tag list my beautiful bbys: @letsgofullkook​ @stargazingstarkey​ @hoeforpankow​ @harrysbbby​ @ptersparkers​ @socialwriter​ @thatjohnd​ @ssjiara​ @jjsmentalpolaroids​ @bailspogue​ @jjmaybankx​ @jjtheangel​ @jjmeybank​ @drewstarkey​ @obx-direction-sos​ @sortagaysortahigh​ @pixelated-pogues​ @jjmbanks​ @ims0golden​ @obbx-tings​ @honeyycheek​ @softstarkey​ 

please let me know your thoughts and if you’d like a part 2!! (planning on it)

[sabraeal]

Traffic Lights Are Burnin’

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @nebluus‘s birthday! She asked for some WFB, and of the options I gave she chose the next part of our Six Flags saga...only the beginning scene of that chapter ended up ballooning out into this so...it ended up being less Amusement Park Shenanigans and more Wholesome Boys Will Be Boys Content. I’M SURE MADI WILL BE JUST FINE WITH THAT TOO 😂

“Are you making an omelette?”

English is not, functionally, Mitsuhide’s first language. Not that he thinks of it like that-- first or second, third or fourth; there’s no ranking in his life, no moment in which one language followed another. There was English with Mama and quebecois with Papa; a plan quickly scuttled by Mitsuhide being the fifth Lowen sibling. Refusing to be pigeonholed into a single language no matter how many times Mama repeated consistency is key, his brothers mostly spoke a tossed salad of both and assumed he’d understand the lettuce.

Coupled with the fact that all his cousins lived in Toronto anyway, Mitsuhide had hardly begun talking himself before it became outside quebecois and inside English. Unless they left the province, in which case it was a free-for-all that left his few monolingual aunts and uncles dizzy.

Which is to say, Mitsuhide only becomes aware of the precise inner ranking of his languages in moments like this, where gut immediately kicks out a dry ‘j’essaie.’ The translation is vetoed on the grounds that although in quebecois he’s never met a word he couldn’t steep in sarcasm and smuggle in a sacre, he prefers to keep his English so clean it squeaks.

You’ve got it all backwards, Kihal had told him as he sweltered under the San Juan sun, English is fake, you can be as much of an asshole as you want it in, it doesn’t count.

It’s true, there’s something that’s more real to him in French, that’s more real about him, but, well-- there were far fewer cousins to tattle on his potty mouth this way. And now that he knows Obi...

Well, if Kiki ever made good on her threats to teach him any of his “church swears,” he’d probably never sleep easy again. So instead, he scrolls through his mental rolodex of possible appropriate replies before settling on, “Would you like one?”

Zen glances up from his array of pamphlets, glossy paper glaring beneath the overhead lamp. It matches the way Zen is looking at him. “We don’t have time for that.”

Mitsuhide frowns, giving his eggs one last vigorous whisk before pouring them into the pan. “There’s always time for breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

He glances over just in time to see Zen’s grimace. “Shirayuki really could be your sister.”

There’s really no reason he has to look so horrified by the idea. His brothers may all be broad shouldered, barrel-chested giants, but plenty of his cousins made pocket money in high school through catalogue modeling. And they’re all very nice girls.

He doesn’t mention it. A conversation never ends well if you have to whip out photos of female relatives to prove your point. “Would you like one?” he repeats instead, a safer tactic overall.

Zen’s nose wrinkles beneath some dubiously drawn eyebrows. “Are you putting spinach in there?”

“Kale,” he agrees. “And chicken.”

“In a breakfast omelette?” He clucks his tongue, just the way the Wisteria’s chef would when he attempted to cook at the estate. Quel dommage, he would say, sighing over the cutting board, why would you do that to perfectly good eggs? “Why would you do that?”

Because these muscles don’t come cheap; Mitsuhide chokes down a truly staggering amount of chicken in order to keep them. Roasted, of course-- boiled is technically better for protein, but even he has to draw the line somewhere. The eggs have less, but they are calorie efficient; he’d eat more of them if he could stomach the slimy, snake-like sensation of swallowing them down hard boiled.

But explaining his diet regime usually ended with glazed eyes, so he settles for, “I could always put something different in yours. There’s ham.”

Fancy ham, Obi calls it. It’s just from the deli counter, fresh sliced from whatever quality cut’s on sale, but considering how the first time Obi saw a charcuterie board, he shouted, Oh, Lunchables!--

Well, Mitsuhide can accept that maybe they have different benchmarks for fancy. And somehow just the simple act of calling it that does make it taste better. Or at least more satisfying when it’s shoved between a Hawaiian roll and deli cheese.

There’s a soft shuffle by the kitchen door, and a wild thatch of bristle peeps around the frame. Mitsuhide shakes his head with huff. That’s a new one-- just think the devil’s name and he appears.

Obi lopes into the kitchen, all long limbs and smooth movements, blurring right into the background without any effort at all. He’d gotten Mitsuhide a few times when he’d first moved in, popping up wherever it was sure to be the most inconvenient, grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth. But once you knew the trick of it, well-- it’s no effort to keep the kid in his sights.

Which is why he has a full, uninterrupted view when Obi slips right up to Zen’s elbow, and asks, “Whatcha doing, chief?”

“Wah!” Pamphlets fly up, a glittering flock of wings swooping beneath the lamp. Zen slaps them down before they can skitter off the table’s edge. “Obi! Make noise for fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry,” he sing-songs, not a sincere note in it. Two long fingers pluck a pamphlet off the wood, twisting it between them. “What’s all this? They starting to put theme parks on exams now?”

“No.” Zen scowls, snatching it out of his hands. “I’m just making today’s itinerary.”

Mitsuhide slides his omelette onto a plate, turning just in time to catch the glance Obi sends him. It somehow says is he fucking with me while also implying I’ll hold him down if we gotta send him to the doctor. “An itinerary?”

He leans a hip against the island, fishing out a fork. What was it Obi always said? Dinner tastes better with a show. Time to find out whether it extends to breakfast too.

Zen fixes Obi with a look that could have had trenches with all its affront. “You can’t go to an amusement park without a plan. How else do you get on all the coasters?”

“It’s only Six Flags New England.” A week ago, the name alone made Obi flee like a cat from a bath, but now every syllable drips with derision, like a sommelier reviewing boxed wine. “They’ve got what? Superman?”

Mitsuhide shoves a corner of his omelette in his mouth. It’s not as good as a sausage, mushroom, and cheese, but, well, it’ll do. “Bizarro.”

“Bizarro.” Obi scoffs. “See? Nothing. Besides, I thought you were the kind of guy to spring for fast passes, boss.”

Zen’s always been sensitive; the sort of kid who tended to pop off when a situation came to a simmer instead of trying to turn down the heat. When Izana had been sitting president, he’s spent half his tenure fielding tense calls, sometimes even climbing into a towncar at a moment’s notice to be taken back east. The school, he’s always say, lifting a shoulder, my brother is proving to be a challenge, and my mother is...unreachable.

He’d thought this Zen kid must be like the ones he knew on the ice, punching first and asking questions later, complaining about being put in the box. All temper and no temperance, Mama used to say when she drove him home, can’t talk when you got plastic between your teeth.

But then he’d met him, undersized and stick-limbed, living in that house with people paid to be invisible. A kid with too much on his shoulders and too many eyes to watch him stumble under it. He’s come a long way from there.

So when Zen squirms in his chair, red already starting to lick up his neck, Mitsuhide doesn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, Zen’s discomfort is his discomfort, a failure of him to keep the watchful eye on him that Izana asked him to.

But it also doesn’t stop him from adding, “Shirayuki believes that waiting in line is part of the amusement park experience.”

Obi looks as though he’s just been told it’s his birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one. “Of course she does.” His mouth sharpens to a wicked grin. “So you’ll be lowering yourself to the peasant’s lines today, huh, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, swatting him away. “No one’s being lowered anywhere. We won’t be running into any of them so long as we get there early and hit the coasters in the right order.”

Obi coughs. Or at least, makes it sound like he is. “Uh-huh.”

“Where is Shirayuki anyway?” Zen glares at the empty doorway, brows heaving like thunderclouds over the bridge of his nose. “I thought you said you’d get her.”

“I did.” Obi twitches his shoulders; as good as a shrug, from him. “She’s getting ready.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes.” Zen’s glare changes target to him, thunder rolling in the tone of his voice. “Shirayuki doesn’t take this long to get ready.”

When Mitsuhide glances up, chewing around another stab of egg, kale, and chicken, Obi’s eyebrows are already there to meet him. His head tilts, just the barest degree; this is your show, big guy.

Mitsuhide coughs, trying to clear his throat of leaf bits. “Girls,” he starts, the ground sinking beneath him with each word, “like to look nice. Especially when they are on, uh, dates.”

“This isn’t a date,” Zen informs him, more than a little put out. “Obi’s going.”

The sound Obi makes can only be termed as distressed. “I didn’t want to.”

For exactly this reason, is what he doesn’t say. Doesn’t even show it on his face, though it has to be lurking beneath it, considering how he--

Well, considering nothing Mitsuhide knows for sure. But certainly a few things he reasonably suspects.

“Chief.” Obi flips the chair next to him, straddling it. “You know, I really thought it couldn’t be true. I really wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But to hear you now--” he leans in, one narrow brow raising the same time his voice drops-- “you really do chicken out when it comes to getting chummy with Doc.”

Mitsuhide nearly chokes on his chicken.

Zen’s red all over, like someone pulled him from a boiling pot and put him on a plate. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” he says, so easy. “Doc told me.”

“She said that?” His skin’s so flushed Mitsuhide’s half afraid he’ll pass out, but instead he just collapses against the ladderback, head buried in his arms. “Shirayuki?” 

“Pretty much.” Obi sighs, hands braced on the table. “I mean, is it so hard to say she looks nice when she dresses up? Or that you like her hair, or--” he stumbles, shaking his head-- “no, not the hair. Too loaded. But you know, one of her floaty little numbers. Her freckles. Something.”

“I have!”

Obi lifts a dubiously narrow eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Ah...” Whatever the answer is, it’s not helping his blood flow problem. Mitsuhide nearly opens his mouth, searching for a good way to make himself a target-- “The Big E.”

Well, there goes that plan.

Obi’s inquisition crumples into confusion. “What? When did you--”

Every word ekes into the air with the utmost resistance. “When she was wearing your hoodie.”

“When she was wearing my--?” Gold eyes round to coins. “Chief.”

For a solid minute, that’s the only reaction-- wide-eyed disbelief, earned from two sides. But Obi coughs, mouth twitching, and it’s a snort, a smirk, and--

And then Obi launches himself away from the table, both hands still gripping the edge as he falls apart utterly. The chair’s back keeps him from putting his head between his knees, but spiritually he’s there, tears tracking down his cheeks as his laughs wheeze out of him

One hand finally slaps the table, like he’s asking for a time out. Zen frowns down at him, red finally fading to a painful pink. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” Obi squeaks, and Mitsuhide has to shove his last bite of omelette into his mouth to stifle his own noises. It’s no good-- Zen whips around and gives him the same glare he’s been saving for Obi.

“If you don’t cut it out,” he says loftily, “I’m going to let a freshman stay in your room.”

Well, that brings Obi up. “Fine,” he coughs, voice still ragged from laughing. “But still. My hoodie.”

“The sleeves hung over her hands! It was cute.” Zen huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine, if I’m so bad, why don’t you two show me how it’s done?”

There’s a pause, long and loaded; enough that Mitsuhide glances up from his plate to see just what tomfoolery he should brace himself to break up--

Only to find Zen staring at him.

Intellectually, Mitsuhide is aware that Zen is a Wisteria. He met him through Izana, after all; he’s been over to the manor, he’s even met their prodigal mother on one of her rare stopovers between vacations. But when he thinks of the name, it’s Izana who springs to mind, the gears churning behind his eyes.

It’s not often that Zen reminds him of his brother; Cookie’s always said that Izana takes after their mother with that long and lean model build, while Zen has always been Kain’s child. But now, now--

He sees it, and it sends a shiver right through him.

With a quirk of his lips, Zen says, so like Izana that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t know any different, “You first, Mitsuhide.”

Obi’s mouth curves into a leer. “Yeah, Big Guy. Show us the skills that got you Ms Kiki.”

This probably isn’t the time to tell them that it wasn’t him who got her; Mitsuhide hadn’t been trying to do anything more than be the friend she needed, to be a person she could confide in, could trust. People like that were thin on the ground for girls like her; heiress tended to make men see dollar signs instead of personality. But Kiki--

Well, she had other ideas. Ones he’d only cottoned onto when she climbed on top of him and shoved him against the couch cushions with her mouth.

“D-Don’t look at me!” he manages, trying to busy himself with anything. But there’s only a plate to be put in the sink, and a pan to be wiped. Not enough to fake a decent amount of responsibility. “I’m not--”

“Aw, c’mon, Big Man. Don’t leave us hanging.” Obi leans back, grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Lemme paint the scene. You’re single, Doc is adorable, and she’s waiting there--” he gestures to Zen, who flutters his eyelashes in precisely the way Shirayuki doesn’t-- “for you to make your move. Go!”

He could point out he’s not single, and that he doesn’t have any plans to change that anytime soon-- but that only ends in one way: a two-pronged mockery with additional ridicule provided by the impending arrival of his better half. He could also point out that of all the people in this room, he’s the only one who hasn’t wanted to date Shirayuki, but-- well, the problems with that one were obvious.

Instead, Mitsuhide takes in a deep breath, learns on the counter, and says, “Why, Shirayuki! You’re looking beautiful this morning. Those shorts really flatter your legs.”

There is a long silence, and then to everlasting embarrassment, they burst out laughing.

“Her shorts?” Zen’s hand is pressed to his chest, like he needs support to keep upright. “That’s all you can think of? Her shorts?”

“Well, Obi said not to do her hair,” he protests. “Complimenting her dress seemed like low hanging fruit. I was trying to be unique.”

Obi doesn’t even bother to remain horizontal, sprawling himself over the long forgotten maps. “So you went for her legs?”

“There’s nothing wrong with legs!”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Zen sputters out in an effort to keep his mouth straight. “Definitely a very neutral place to comment on.”

“Definitely not known for being attached to things like asses.” Obi’s mouth twitches, as much a sign for danger as thunder rolling in the distance. “Or puss--”

“I was not trying to comment on that.” He’d felt bad for Zen earlier, but the sentiment doesn’t seem mutual. “It’s not typical, sure, but Kiki never seems to mind when I compliment--”

“Kiki?” Zen squawks. “Kiki?”

“Well, I think we’re all learning a little too much about Big Guy today,” Obi wheezes. “Mainly that it’s Ms Kiki that chased him, and not the other way around.”

“Yeah.” Zen shakes his head, long and slow and solemn, like a doctor about to give a terminal diagnosis. “No game at all.”

Mitsuhide’s not a competitive man. Sure, he was forward on the ice, the kind of player that got sent to the box before the end of the first half and slid right into the captain spot when it was vacant. Aggression is part of the game, competition laced in every turn of his skate and lift of his stick, but that’s a different situation, a different language--

But it’s that part of him that surges beneath his skin right now, that makes him want to saunter over and put both hands on that rickety, painted wood until it creaks. That makes him want to take a full minute to bend down, showing off every centimeter of his one-ninety plus, and ask real low if either of them has made a girl beg on their cock lately, but--

He puts it in its place. That sort of talk always sounded better en français anyway.

Zen waves his hand, slipping his pamphlets out from under Obi. “Anyway, enough messing around. Are you still making omelettes, Mitsuhide?”

“Ohh, omelettes?” Obi spins to him with wide eyes. “Can I get mine with fancy ham?”

Mitsuhide blinks. “Wait, aren’t you going to do your take?”

“Nah.”

Zen shrugs. “Joke’s over.”

“So I just did that for no reason--?”

“I wouldn’t say no reason,” Zen wheedles. “It was very educational.”

Obi grins. “Mainly about how Big Guy likes legs--”

“Oh,” drawls a voice that makes his body go cold and hot at the same time. When he turns, it’s Kiki leaning against the jamb, a single elegant brow raised, excusing amusement and menace in equal measure. “Am I to take it that the show is over?”

“K-kiki,” he stammers. “How long--?”

“Hm.” She saunters over to the counter, slipping onto a stool with a casual grace that still leaves his mouth dry. “Long enough. I have to admit, I was looking forward to seeing a display of Obi’s fabled moves.”

“Ms Kiki,” Obi simpers, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’d be happy to give you a personal demonstration anytime.”

Both her brows raise. “Did I say I was desperate?”

He’s saved from Obi’s answer by Shirayuki padding into the kitchen, flushed and breathless. “Oh, you were right Kiki! Everyone is already ready. Sorry to make you wait.”

There’s a hesitation in the air, and Mitsuhide can’t figure it out, not until he sees-- she’s wearing shorts.

Shirayuki blinks. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kiki hums, sending him a gaze so wicked it should be illegal outside the bedroom. “Do you have anything to say to her, Mitsuhide?”

“No!” It comes out a little too harsh, a little too loud. “I mean, I, uh...like your sandals!”

“Sandals,” Obi snickers, a sound that’s only covered by Zen’s hushed, “Shut up.”

“Oh!” She blinks down. “Thank you. I got them at Payless. I, um, don’t think they make them in your size.”

“No,” he manages mildly. “I don’t imagine they would.”

“You do look real cute, Doc,” Obi chimes in, slinking out of his seat to circle around her. “Did you dress up for today?”

Zen makes a noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp, but even with the pink brushing her cheeks, Shirayuki’s too used to his antics to do much more than sigh.

“Of course I did, Obi.” Her fists perch high on her hips, cocked as she talks to him. “It’s the last time we’re all going to be going out together, isn’t it? What could be more special than that?”

Mitsuhide may not be a competitive man, and especially isn’t a malicious one, but when Obi’s jaw goes slack, the tips of his ears darkening just the slightest bit, well-- he does indulge in the slightest bit of schadenfreude.

“Well,” Zen says, a little sharp. “Let’s get going.”

“Aw!” Obi whips around. “What about fancy ham?”

“I don’t think you need--”

“Oh, I haven’t had breakfast either!” Shirayuki adds, eyes wide. “Do we have time?”

Zen hesitates, and then with a sigh, relents. “We’ll stop at Dunkies.”

[gauntie-o-dimm]

Gaunter & Olgierd | Innocence Lost

(I couldn’t find any GIFs of Gaunter and Olgierd together. So I picked this one - Olgierd is kind of in this picture too :,))

Prompt: “Thing is, I might not be the only one that loves you.” Word count: 3600+ Warnings: Smut, swearing, threesome

The air was cold as I knocked upon the door of the Von Everec Estate, causing me to shiver. Patiently I awaited it to open, music emerging from the other side. With creaking hinges it opened for me, a lady that I'd seen before standing in the door frame. 'Whaddaya want?' I clenched the basket with wine bottles tighter into my hands. 'Mister von Everec summoned me.' 'Let her in, Adela.' I swallowed at the sound of the voice of Olgierd von Everec. I had always found the man intimidating, yet he asked to see me every now and then. Claimed I was the best sommelier in all of the continent, even though I did inherit the vineyard from my father and did nothing of the wine-making myself. Hesitantly, I stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the room come towards me immediately. Some sort of party was going on, like often, and Olgierd gestured me to follow him upstairs, his bedroom, the only place in the Estate where we could find a moment of peace.

'I brought a well-aged bottle of Signon, one bottle of fairly young Kalcava Rouge which has a fruity after taste and a robust Gugulet.' Olgierd sat down at his desk, eyeing me with interest. 'All self-produced?' ' As usual.' I placed the basket in front of him, making him reach out and inspect the contents.

'You're a sweet girl, (Y/n).' Olgierd spoke, smiling sincerely as he took two cups from the drawer, pouring both of us a bit of Signon. I blushed a bit, bowing my head. 'Tell me, how's Geralt? Still a regular customer?' 'Naturally.' The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. My gaze involuntary wandered over the scar on the side of his head.

The redhead handed me one of the goblets, clinking his against it before taking a swig. His eyelids fluttered shut and he hummed lowly, letting the taste spread through his mouth. 'What do you think of it, sir?' He looked at me bemused. 'It's perfect. Just like you.' My cheeks were set aflame. 'You flatter me, sir.' I spoke softly, letting my gaze fall to the floor. A chuckle filled the room as the man stood up, placing the cup down. 'How much will it cost me?' I smiled a bit at his question. 'Ah, we could do thirty for each bottle.' I gazed down to take my coin pouch from my belt, opening it so I could receive the pay.

Moving to stand in front of me, I felt his hand upon my cheek, thumb grazing my jaw. I looked up with a bewildered expression, not sure what he was doing. 'I am so glad you could come over. That party downstairs had started to become a bore.' 'M-Mister von Everec, I-I think I should leave.' I already reached for my basket, but he took my wrist gently. 'You're a beautiful girl, (Y/n)...' 'Sir, I need to attend business. If there's anything else you need, you know where to find me.' My voice nearly broke as I tried to free my arm, yet it was to no avail. 'Shut up.' Olgierd murmured, leaning down to press his mouth against mine. There I stood for a few moments, completely frozen. I didn't move, eyes wide open as I was completely surrendered to his graces. After a second or ten, he pulled back, resting his forehead against mine. 'Hm, just as I imagined they would taste like. Forgive me for being so bold.'

I blinked a confusedly, stopping my attempts to run. Something inside me said that I in fact could not run anymore. 'Sir, I don't know what you see in me, but I am just a girl from a viney--...' 'It's Olgierd, I told you many times. And no, you're not some ordinary girl to me. Ever since I met you whilst you were helping alongside Geralt, fulfilling those wishes, I realized something.' I felt my breath hitch in my throat as his gaze flickered to my lips.

'I have fallen for you.' 'What about your wife?' I instantly asked without thinking twice. 'She has been long gone, you know that. I need to move on. Fuck, I am lonely.' I tore myself from mhis grip, trying to process what has happened. 'Is this a confession?' Olgierd gave me a grin, brow furrowing. 'Perhaps it is.' he muttered, straightening his back.

'Thing is, I might be not the only one that loves you.' I frowned, looking at Olgierd with a confused face. 'Someone else that was part of this pact has taken a rather... Particular interest in you as well.' From behind one of the pillars, I saw him emerge, hands folded in front of him, that one devilish smirk on his face. My stomach fluttered oddly as I looked at both men. 'Hello, (Y/n).' Gaunter mused, smiling.

'I don't know what you mean with that, Olgierd. What possible interest could this man have in me?' I asked, not greeting back the balding man in front of me. 'Oh, don't act so innocent, dear (Y/n).' Gaunter sighed, reaching out to stroke my cheek softly. 'Look at her.' Olgierd cooed, letting out a light laugh, 'She looks so adorable with those big doe eyes.'

I took a step back, shaking my head. 'Please, gentlemen, I don't know why you wanted me here and why you both are acting like I am some kind of goddess, which I am clearly not!' Gaunter chuckled darkly. 'Guess she is more innocent than we expected.' 'What do you mean for heavens sake?' I cried out, running my hands through my (h/c) hair frustrated. 'What we mean, sweet (Y/n)...' Olgierd said, striding around me, halting behind my back. I jumped as I felt a pair of hands on my hips, pulling me closer. I gasped as I bumped into Olgierd's chest, a hard bulge pressing against my butt. 'That we both... want... you. We're just going to share.'

He brushed a strand of hair from my neck, kissing the skin lightly. I shivered, my palms resting on his forearms. I watched as Gaunter took my chin in his large hand, tugging down my bottom lip with his thumb. 'For how long I have imagined slipping my cock into that warm little mouth of yours...' Before I could respond, he leaned in, kissing me for a second. There I stood, absolutely baffled as he pulled back. 'Such beauty...' Olgierd chuckled. 'Look at her face, isn't she lovely?' 'Tell me something, Olgierd von Everec. We are in luck that (Y/n) has two holes. Three, if you count the mouth.'

I felt a hand on my ass, pulling up my skirt. A yelp left me before Olgierd pressed his face into my hair. 'Hush, (Y/n). It is all good now.' 'We are going to give you a good time, trust us.' Gaunter muttered, studying my face with darkened eyes. I felt that Olgierd pushed aside my panties, prodding a long, ringed finger against my rosy folds. I couldn't suppress a moan and my knees immediately gave up underneath me from the sudden, unexpected friction. I wanted to fight, but I couldn't. 'We have her bucking already.' Olgierd laughed, crouching down to help me up.

'No, hold her that way.' Gaunter said, smirking as he unzipped his pants. From his loincloth, he took his manhood, that was standing up straight and proudly. 'I have a little treat for you, (Y/n). Want to have a taste?' I swallowed thickly, looking at his length, that was erect and glistening with pre-cum. My stomach tightened, in a good way. Somehow, the Man of Glass had noticed the change in my expression, for he chuckled. 'Oh, see that? You like that, don't you?' He stroked himself a few times, a lewd sound coming from the friction. I couldn't fight the instinct that I had to run anymore, I had to give in. With a sound, I took his shaft between my lips, sucking on it firmly. 'Oh, fuck. Yes, (Y/n)...'

Slowly, I started to bob my head up and down, taking in his full length until the base, gagging as the tip hit the back of my throat. Olgierd had slipped his finger into me as he sat crouched down next to my trembling being, pumping his finger up and down in an agonizingly slow way. I closed my eyes, humming lowly as Von Everec's ragged breath was heavy in my ears. 'Such a delicious little slut...' he sighed, his free hand running through my hair as Gaunter was grunting and panting, fucking my face by moving his hips. My eyes watered as I lacked oxygen, desperately attempting to inhale some air in between Gaunter's thrusts, yet he only seemed to speed up.

My hand pressed against his hip, wanting to push him away, yet his hand clawed into my hair, keeping me in place. Snot and tears ran down my face as the Man of Glass kept on rolling his pelvis into me, my jaws hurting as my nose became irritated by the patch of pubic hair that brushed my nose with every pound. For a moment I really thought I would pass out, but then Gaunter removed his length from the depths of my throat, making me gasp and nearly topple over for air. Strings of saliva still connected me to his member as his eyes gazed at me intensely, a smirk on his face. 'For someone as innocent as her, she sucks cock pretty well.' He grabbed the bottom of my dress, pulling it up a bit so I could wipe my face dry. Olgierd let out a chuckle as he removed his fingers from me and I winced at the feeling of it. His skin glistened with my arousal, and fuck, I hated it that I felt aroused. A pang of guilt went through me as I imagined the disappointment from my mother who was looking down at me right now from above. It was almost as if I could see her shaking her head. (Y/n), I didn't raise you like this. You're one of them whores at the Passiflora. You are not my daughter anymore.  

I barely had the chance to regain my lost minutes of oxygen as Gaunter pulled me up to my feet, legs trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. 'Look at that, what a fucking mess... Imagine what she will look like after we're done with her.' The leader of the Wild Ones circled me, hand on my waist, roaming up to the neckline of my dress. I closed my eyes, not daring to meet his intense gaze. With a swift movement, he ripped off the fabric until my breasts were popping out. Shamefully hard were my nipples at that moment, making Olgierd smirk.

'Delicious, like ripe cherries begging to be eaten.' Olgierd took my left breast, starting to suck on it firmly. Now the right side was still exposed, Gaunter latched his mouth until the other, teeth grazing against the tout bud. I lightly moaned, blushing as they looked at me with amused glances, my hands both resting on the back of their heads. I bit my lip as their tongues continued to play with me, soft sounds leaving my throat as they seemed to enjoy it a lot. Suddenly I felt a hand graze against my thigh, I wasn't sure to which one of the men it belonged until I felt a few rings on the fingers, implying that it was in fact the leader of the Wild Ones that was slowly starting to remove my knickers, plunging a finger into me yet again.

I gasped, letting out a small moan as Gaunter let my nipple go with a pop, standing up straight to kiss me. I closed my eyes, enjoying how much warmth came from this man, demon, djinn, I didn't even know what he was, but hell, I was sure what he was doing to me. Feeling a push against my pelvis, I stepped back until I hit the side of the large bed that was located in the room. I sat down, still not wanting Gaunter to break the kiss. Olgierd pushed up my legs, removing my underwear expertly. 'She's soaked...' He dragged his fingers across my folds and I moaned into Gaunter's mouth, his tongue massaging mine for a few seconds before pulling back and facing what Olgierd had just revealed.

'Bloody hell.' the balding man hissed. 'She looks so tight, I am not sure she could fit the both of us up that cunt.' 'She is moist, though. Dripping... I can't wait to fuck that tight pussy.' Olgierd mumbled. Gaunter smirked. 'Let me go first, you really should feel how her blowjobs are.'

Being pushed onto the bed I was, Gaunter grabbing a hold of my thighs. He pulled them over his hips, the shaft of his throbbing cock aligning with my entrance. He didn't push in just yet, only stroked teasingly across the rosy labia which were burning with anticipation. I had sex before, but I was terrified of what he would feel like inside me. I might've imagined having sex with this man once or twice, for could you blame me for being turned on by his intimidating and authoritative nature, but I never dared to dream that it would really be happening one day. As I looked to the side, I saw Olgierd strip down, his manhood standing up straight as well. He moved to crawl onto the bed and straddled my face, inserting his cock into my mouth.

'So warm...' I let out a moan as Gaunter guided himself into me, walls immediately tightening around him. 'Is she still a virgin? Her cunt is so fucking tight...' he muttered, not giving me the chance to adjust to his size. He didn't waste any time and began pounding into me relentlessly and I moaned out loud, thankful that the music downstairs was still going on fine. Olgierd started to roll his hips as well, grunting as he fucked my face. Yet again my eyes began to water. His scrotum hit my chin uncomfortably and his weight felt heavy on me, veins throbbing against my tongue. 'Fuck, (Y/n), just like that.' he hissed, grabbing my hair tightly, almost restraining me from breathing properly. Tears ran down my face and I resisted the urge to gag as he slid in his length way deeper than I expected him to. And the feeling between my legs combined with this... I cursed myself for enjoying this.

Gaunter rested his hand on my hip, pulling me closer, causing Olgierd to nearly topple over me. The redhead let out a chuckle, re-positioning himself before continuing the pace that he had before. The back of my throat was sore already. Moans were unable to escape me, even though the feeling of the Man of Glass pounding me had me trembling and gasping for more. I placed a hand on Olgierd's abdomen, pushing gently to make him shift. For a moment, his gaze flickered worriedly over my face, scanning for any sign of pain or regret. He pulled himself out of my mouth and I gasped, arching my back the second he let his body slip from mine. I gasped for both oxygen and more of the feeling of Gaunter fastening his thrusts. I shuddered, freely letting out the whines that I could let out now.

'Make some room.' Olgierd ordered, causing Gaunter to let himself slip out of me. I winced at the removal and felt cold immediately. '(Y/n), stand up please.' Olgierd instructed and I did as he said, arising with weak knees. Gaunter laid down on the bed, jerking off his length a few times before beckoning me to come sit on his lap, facing him. I obeyed once again, straddling his legs as I slowly eased myself down onto him. Gaunter hissed as he slid in completely, the sound of my glistening skin pressing against his making me eager for more. Behind me, I felt Olgierd get onto the bed, a pair of strong hands taking a hold of my hips. 'This might hurt a bit.' he warned, pressing a kiss against the small of my back before carefully spreading my ass, letting a string of his saliva lube up the entrance. He leaned down a moment, letting his tongue glide against it. I let out a moan, biting on my lip. I was taken aback by how lewd it sounded.

Gaunter smiled, brushing a hair of (h/c) from my face. 'Fuck, if you just keep looking like that I might orgasm right away.' he whispered, his hand cupping my cheek. I shut my eyes tightly as I felt Olgierd pressing the tip of his penis into my ass, a searing pain shooting through my body. 'Calm down, (Y/n). It will ease.' Gaunter muttered, leaning up to kiss me softly. I was surprised by how gently he caressed me right now, whilst Olgierd filled me from behind inch by inch.

When I had adjusted completely to his full size, he leaned down. 'Are you alright, (Y/n)?' I nodded, smiling softly as Gaunter started moving his hips into me. The same feeling as before caused my stomach to clench together immediately, but an orgasm was not there just yet. I threw back my head, moaning loudly. The feeling of both men doing this to me filled me with a desire I had never felt before. Something in this moment told me that this would not be the only time this would happen. I was positive that another meeting would be arranged shortly after this session.

Gaunter sucked on one of my nipples, his hands holding my body in place as he fucked me with a rough pace, his sweaty skin on mine making a lewd sound. His eyes were darker than ever, my entire being trembling with anticipation at the sight of him. The feeling of Olgierd's balls slapping against my butt with each thrust made it even better; Even though it had been slightly painful at first, I had gotten used to it within the minute and I liked it more than was acceptable to admit.

I felt my walls tighten, the familiar feeling of an orgasm building up between my legs and in my belly. I simply forgot how to breathe, the entire sensation of the two men pounding into me at a immense rate making me light in the head. The sounds of their groans and grunts resonated through my skull, making me a bit drowsy. 'Fuck, shit, fuck.' Gaunter suddenly uttered, his hands tightening around my waist. 'I am going to cum so hard...'

As a warm load suddenly filled me, I sighed deeply, making sure that I was in fact not collapsing on top of him. After a few thrusts his high finished and he removed his now-limp length from me, only to replace it with his fingers. He rammed them into me at the same pace Olgierd was stimulating me from behind. Said man had tightened his fingers on my hips, moving them to my ass to squeeze it firmly. 'There we go...' he grunted, thrusting into me one more final time before releasing his load into my depths. Gaunter kept fingering me as my entire body felt warm and on the verge of a climax. As his finger grazed against my g-spot, he pushed me over the edge.

My eyes rolled back into my skull and I moaned loudly, squirting all over Gaunter's naked body and the bed. 'That is one hell of a mess.' Olgierd laughed aloud, letting himself slip out of me. Even though the removal was painful, my high was still going on. My body finally gave up and I let myself collapse, still needy for air and more stimulation. Olgierd brushed his hand against my clitoris for a few moments until both men were sure that my orgasm was finally over. Even though I hadn't caught up to the lost amount of oxygen yet, Gaunter pressed a kiss to my lips.

'Lovely.' he mumbled, gently pushing me off him before standing up. 'Luckily for you Olgierd, you have a few servants that can clean up that... Soaked mess of a blanket.' Olgierd laughed as he stood next to Gaunter, both of them turning to me to admire me, a panting, heavily sweaty mess.

'Next week we will be in need of some more Signon again, (Y/n).' Olgierd spoke, smiling a bit. Gaunter hummed, reaching for his underwear. 'Good to know, I might just drop by.' the near-bald man spoke. I brushed some hair from my face, looking at them. 'Next week you say? You sure didn't mean in two days?' I gave the redhead a smirk. A loud chuckle came from him as his gaze flickered over my naked form. 'You might just be right. I should return downstairs now. People are probably asking where the man of the house went.' I watched them both dress, not saying a word, nor did I move, for my body felt too weak and sore to get into action at the moment. Gaunter was the first man to finish putting on his clothes, walking over and leaning down to kiss me for a moment. 'See you next week... Or in two days.' No answer left my lips, I simply stared at him as he vanished in thin air. Olgierd finished as well, striding over to me, pressing his lips to my forehead. 'You are invited to come downstairs, though I doubt it you can walk right now.' I bit on my bottom lip, watching as he walked towards the door, a slight limp in his step. Leaving me behind, he went back to the party. I finally came to my senses now that I was alone and cooled down, realizing that I was not the pure farm girl that I once was. Even though it might mean earning the disapproval of my mother looking at me from above, it would be worth coming back here time and time again.

[chelsrps]

The Tipsy Tulip

This quaint little winery/florist & plant nursery combo is located on the outskirts of Clifton. It opened up about five years ago and business has been booming since. TT is host to a number of events, but most commonly live bands play Friday and Saturday nights. It’s also been known to hold wedding ceremonies and receptions, because the garden is huge and well maintained.

There aren’t a lot of employees and because of that, things can get intense during these events. But they are like a tight knit group that treat each other like family.

I’m gonna request some people based on the show Girls, because I have 0 shame and honestly even if you’ve never seen it, the descriptions I’m giving are gonna be a general idea of the character. You are free to run with just the description. The faces & species are left open, but there are some connections that are semi-important.

There is so much room for drama in this little group, so don't be afraid to throw ideas at me. I chose this show as inspiration mostly due to the fact that all of the characters are slightly awful in their own ways and the drama literally never stops. There are also other positions available and a character does not need to fit into the specific characters in this ad to work here. Just hit me up and I’ll add your character in!

the jessa, estp. (addelaide rossi. 32. owner.) sarcastic. free-spirited. full of anger at the world probably. often seen as a little bit too on the wild-side, not having much in the way of a moral compass. non-committing-polygamous, serial hump-n-dumper, definitely has a small collection of cute people that she calls her harem. prefers plants to people. open-minded. sarcastic & witty, but rational. thinks the marnie is really stuck up but keeps her around because of she admires how put-together she is. has probably fucked the adam a few times. sorry not sorry.

the hannah, enfp. (first last. ##. sommelier.) super sensitive. a dreamer. crybaby. brutally honest. impulsive. avoids discussing things that make her upset. will probably do anything if she's dared to. really bad at her job, mostly just talks to customers about her experiences in life. close with her parents. probably an only child. best friends with the marnie, but probably gets on her nerves (definitely gets on her nerves). dated the adam in college, but broke up with him because he was too detached (according to her).

the marnie, estj. (first last. ##. nursery manager.) no-nonsense. expects people to carry their own weight. the mom-friend. punctual. uptight. lingers on the past but refuses to admit it. non-confrontational. sometimes childish & over-emotional. doesn't necessarily get along with the jessa because of their differences in personality & views on the world. best friends with the hannah, but wishes she'd pull her weight.

the shoshanna, esfj. (first last. ##. florist.) chatterbox. eager to accommodate everybody. everybody's personal cheerleader. straight-forward with her feelings. tends to act with her feelings first and then feels bad after. fashionable. practical & down-to-earth. naive but can sense when something is amiss with people she is close with. romantic idealist. probably a virgin. she tends to be the voice of reason, especially when the jessa and the marnie argue.

the adam, istp. (first last. ##. maintenance worker.) unafraid to offer his objective opinion about literally anything. incredibly detached. keeps his thoughts to himself unless asked. will try anything once just for the experience. brutally honest but often spot on in his observations. visionary. anger issues. expects others to know how he feels despite not saying it outright. dated the hannah for a short time when they were in college, but they broke it off due to "differences of opinion" (according to him). only got the job because the jessa thought he was cute & interesting.

the ray, entp. (first last. ##. assistant enologist.) hard-working. knows what he can and cannot handle. brutally honest. grumpy. deeply emotional. calm and collected. tends to mock others. admits he's a loser. very sincere. on a quest for self-improvement after being shut down by the shoshanna. strives to be the best at his job. butts heads with literally everyone. dubbed grumpy cat by the adam and hasn't been able to get rid of the nickname since.

sommeliers (0/3)

nursery associates (0/3)

florists (0/2)

[lilad10]

tibetan pop stars / feminist reclamations of selfhood / imagination & disguise

so here’s the t, the real t is that i haven’t been able to spend a single day in my life without listening to this song at least once since my first listen. so in honor of the incredible moment we are experiencing as mitski stans, i’m going to try to describe why this song has unexpectedly been the precursor to the success of radical, unflinching vulnerable songs written by women. in this case, frances quinlan of hop along and “tibetan pop stars” from their sophomore release “get disowned” (march 2012). 

we begin with a whistle, and then: a flood of unsuppressed guitar on E, the most achey major, followed swiftly by the discordant and lovely C#m. we have a conversation. a question: how content are the ones with simple demands? 

we know, to a degree, they must be more content than those with more complex, perhaps darker, requests. and these requests, the evidence of them, point to our dissatisfaction in uncomfortable clarity--this belies the interrogative nature of the question, but it also provides a level of distance from completely admitting to our desire. because desire is weak, is fragile. what is simple: cherry-picking. Canadian vacations. 

but even what appears simple has its own demands, manifesting in the disembodiment of the only named male-figure in the song: he is seven-fingered, he is the picture of disappoint, maritally and emotionally. something about this quick-draw stick-figure man is missing, causing us all to despair of whatever notions we imagined may cease if only we could be more content. 

& just listen to her voice. i recently read a pitchfork (fuck i know) article that put it perfectly: 

If you listen to Frances Quinlan sing long enough, you will attempt to describe her voice. This is a trap, and you should not do this. The frontwoman for Philadelphia indie rock band Hop Along doesn’t have one voice—she might have 10. Listing them would yield no insight, only a deranged sommelier’s tasting notes: cat, bugle, Rod Stewart, roaring motorcycle. 

when it is time to leave, you just know. you can feel the dread of non-escape creep against your legs, begging you to get a move on before the unknowable tomorrow sucks you into a pattern you’re trapped by. so you leave for some action: you are pursuing so you cannot be pursued. running toward something looks the same as running away from something, the body performing the same, the mind and heart saying different things nonetheless. having admitted that every single one of us is searching, we go out into the world with our feet bare and our pockets empty. the reminders of civilization, of obligation, become distant cousins to the gnawing sensation of nobody having asked you, “hey, where are you going? why are you alone? what about your other?”

because we’d like to answer them, wouldn’t we? 

we become each other’s gazes, each other’s strangers, and therefore we become strange to ourselves. you have an easy time othering that which you do not understand. the glamour of being watched and sought-after comes at the price of losing power over whoever is gazing at you. so goes the history of music written about fantasy, face-less, strangered women from the minds of men who only want to seduce them in the same careless fashion of car wrecks, of unaccountability for masculinity. 

am i saying the speaker of this song is subverting this tradition because she is a woman? no, and in fact, the desperate desire to have this capacity for detachment and objectification is exactly this imbalance of power in action. behaviors that society have permitted cis men to exhibit at no cost come at a much higher a price for the speaker, an unfairness she clearly understands--she admits, yes, me too. i wish i was you, maybe. i wish to be your stranger. 

ok this is the verse right here that clutches everything in its hands and whispers and cries and carries it to the tallest hill in an abandoned town just for a glimpse of the sunset and i don’t have much to add to that except:

I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. 

- Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”

listen to frances quinlan’s gasp between “India” and the return to “i’m gonna be creeping on you” on the hook. you can feel her revving herself up to fess up, confront, scream, fight. this song is anthemic in so many ways: its meter, its explosive progressions, its unremitting melody. and the way she soars above the phrase “pop stars”!!! none of us, not a single one of us listening, are left to wonder about what’s happened to the speaker’s heart. its cracks are on full display, accompanied by the full energy and distortion of a perfect indie punk act. 

at this point, we may begin to wonder: what’s so fantastic about this dream? you’re either a stranger or a stalker, you’re a waiting game or a disappointing statistic, you’re on hold with life & unfulfilled either way. is this song actually steeped in too much despair? 

NO & fuck you! we’re doing OK so far!!!! despite everything, despite it all. the only criminality of heartbreak is in its misunderstanding and contortion. as it exists, as it impacts us all in its most simple manifestations, we are united. 

and not only that, but in this whole wide world, yes, you. you are still the only one. you are. 

Of all the Souls that stand create — I have elected — One — When Sense from Spirit — files away — And Subterfuge — is done — When that which is — and that which was — Apart — intrinsic — stand — And this brief Drama in the flesh — Is shifted — like a Sand — When Figures show their royal Front — And Mists — are carved away, Behold the Atom — I preferred — To all the lists of Clay!

- Emily Dickinson, #664

from here until the close, there is not a single second spared for the doubt that shelters us all from truly expressing what we are, who we are made of, because after all the love, there is the difficult, crushing, invisible struggle of...waiting. this whole song the speaker has convinced us she has the patience, she has the measured rage necessary to hold on in the face of a firestorm of impossibility. but what can become of that waiting if someone never returns? wouldn’t it be worse to offer a home and have someone reject it? if you never have to ask for someone to return, you never have to admit you missed them. and she misses them, fuck. who else sings “india” like that? someone in deep, passionate ecstasy, someone living in the sublime trap of finding and losing and wanting. 

so that’s the reason why we have looped. we are discontent, we are content, we are tibetan pop stars. we are waiting for home to come back to us, a home that has metamorphosed into a symbol of potential consequence, failure, another round of brokenness. here she is, at the mic. here she is, asking. here we are, in the gold room, where everyone finally gets what they want. 

a coda: a hand, outstretched. can you hear everyone singing along now? can you hear us all sharing in this desperate, beautiful noise? isn’t this love so average, and aren’t we all the more powerful for it? 

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

John Wick: Chapter 2 review

John Wick is one of the greatest action films ever made, no joke. The lighting, the music, the protagonist, the story, the action, it all blends together into something truly incredible. So how the fuck is it possible to even follow something like that up? It can’t be possible, it’s just a Sisyphean task, it can only end in failure.

It ended in a critically acclaimed sequel that most view as even better than the first one. I’m one of that “most.”

I expected this to be great – it’s a movie made in the greatest year of cinema I’ve ever seen, 2017, after all – but holy fuck, it blew me away. It took everything that was great about the first movie and cranked it up to 11; no, past that, it cranked this shit up to 12! John Wick: Chapter 2 is a lesson to anyone who wants to make a sequel; this is how you build upon the world you created, this is how you take your characters in new directions.

So what has John gotten himself into this time? Well, after retrieving his stolen car from the first film, John is all set to just retire for good, his quest for vengeance complete. But it’s never that easy, is it? Santino D’Antonio comes calling, and John unfortunately owes him a favor. Bound by blood oath, John has to help propel Santino to a seat at the High Table, the cabal of the criminal underworld’s most powerful members… by assassinating Santino’s sister. And being John Wick, he does just that… and then Santino stabs him in the back by putting a seven million dollar bounty on John’s head. What follows is John’s second quest for vengeance, as he slaughters his way through assassins to pay back Santino and give him exactly what he deserves. I’m not even going to bother posing the typical question I usually end these summaries with, because you know that John motherfucking Wick is going to get the job done. That’s not spoilers, that’s just a fact.

One of the most intriguing parts of the first film was the hints of the inner workings of the criminal underworld, the Continental, and all of that, and that stuff is on full display here, with all the codes of ethics, oaths, and whatnot. You get to see quite a bit of how this complex underworld works in the universe that has been created, and man is there some cool shit, mostly in the form of one-scene wonders such as the Continental’s gun salesman, the Sommelier (played by Peter Serafinowicz) who enjoys his job a lot and acts as if his wares are the finest of wines (he reminds me a bit of The Butcher from Baby Driver), and the Bowery King (played by Laurence Fishburne, in his long awaited reunion with Keeanu Reeves), the master of the homeless who has eyes everywhere in the city and who has such massive balls that he is not even remotely intimidated by John Wick. The worldbuilding here is excellent, is what I’m getting at, truly fleshing out the world hinted at in the first film.

No story about a carnival of killers out for the blood of the protagonist is complete without, well, the killers! And my oh my do we have an awesome collection of killers, the likes of which has not been seen since the Thomas Jane Punisher film! Much like that movie, most of the memorable assassins are one-scene wonders: the killer violinist, the sumo assassin, and the two guys at the bar being the Holy Trinity of the film. All three fights are cut together, jumping back and forth as we see the shit John has to deal with. The former two are memorable for their impeccable style and their awesome fights, while the bar boys are not so much for who they are but how they are killed. Let’s just say that John Wick must be a fan of the Joker’s disappearing pencil trick.

But it’s not just the one-scene villains who are awesome; our main antagonistic assassins are awesome as well. The first of these is Cassian, played by Common, who was the bodyguard of Gianna (Santino’s sister) and who is just as hell-bent in vengeance as John is. The best part of this is the two clearly see each other as worthy adversaries and have a great deal of respect for each other, making each of their numerous fights very morally gray; who do you root for when both men have totally valid reasons to be fighting for their lives? Who do you want to see get out of this alive when both men are sympathetic in their goals? The second assassin is Ares, Santino’s right-hand woman, and she is played by Ruby Rose. She is mute, and communicates via sign language, as well as facial expressions. Pulling off a character like this is hard, but Ruby Rose did an excellent job while also remaining cool and badass. She’s not quite as prominent as Cassian is in the plot, but she is pretty cool when she appears and fights, though notably John seems to see her as another annoying mook rather than the worthy opponent he saw Cassian as.

This movie has everything you could want out of a John Wick sequel: a grander story, even more fascinating characters, stellar worldbuilding and expanding of what was already there, and some of the most epic action you will ever see. I think this movie might just be the greatest action film ever made, it is just that good. I definitely recommend this, especially if you were a fan of the first movie; if you liked it or if you like action at all, you will NOT be disappointed.

There has to be a third one of these. The ending is something else, something I dare not spoil, but it means there NEEDS to be a third film to conclude the thrilling saga of John Wick. Gotta find out if that puppy makes it out of all this okay, you know?

[xbarrjallenx]

Night Changes

Pairing: Zach Dempsey x Reader

Request: “Could I please get one with Zach, just a really cute date night but it goes wrong cuz either Marcus or Bryce show up and are very inappropriate with her but Zach protects her and just a lot of fluff. Thank you so muchh”

Word count: 1.585

Posted: 06th of May 2017

A/N: It’s saturday and I wrote some imagines today, happy to tell you that there will be Monty, Zach, Jeff imagines. So you should keep an eye out! Thank you for the request and I hope that you like it! Enjoy guys.

P.S.: Which character x reader imagine would you like to see the most? Answer in my ask box, if you have time.

- G. x

Warning: Rude comments. (Y/L/N) is Your Last Name and (Y/E/C) is Your Eye Colour.

It was one of your date nights with Zach and you both decided to go to a fancy restaurant, just to shake the stress off, to have a good talk and to drink a high-quality wine together.

“Babe, are you enjoying the food?” Zach happily asked as he enjoyed his plate full of cold cuts and cheeses. You knew that he was addicted to food and it made him happy.

“Yes, the pasta is cooked well, perfect sauce and al dente pasta.” You happily said as you chewed carefully and silently your food. Zach just giggled softly and grabbed his still-white napkin and wiped the dirty edge of your lips.

“Someone’s a little bit too excited because of her green pasta!” He mocked you and you both laughed as he carefully dabbed the napkin to assure that there was no sauce left. “Here you go.”

“I can’t imagine you called my pesto in that way.” Your eyes grew wide in disbelief and you shook your head. “Dude, green pasta? Really?”

“Sorry, it’s green and I am calling it green pasta.” He pointed out and you both laughed loudly. You loved it when he goofed around you and he really felt comfortable with you.

“Captain Obvious.” You rolled your eyes playfully and he shook his head, still with a smile flashed on his face. You smiled back at him as you realized how wonderful and handsome he was. You’ve always thought that Zach was good looking, who would never think of that? But he also had a good heart and he is intelligent too. “Thank you, Zachary.”

“Am I in trouble for that? What’s with the full name basis?” He raised an eyebrow and you just winked at him. “I’d love to be punished tonight.” He grabbed your hand and caressed it lasciviously as he winked back at you, just fooling around and teasing you.

You let out a soft laugh and you smacked his hand for his actions. “Contain yourself, goofball!”

He laughed back and you shook your head because of his naughtiness. “I love you, (Y/N).”

You loved your relationship with Zach. It was just so true and you loved your intimacy. Your relationship was full of inside jokes, bluffs and pranks. Your day was always full of laughter and it seriously lessened your stress and your disquietude.

“I love you too, Zach.” You honestly replied with a wide smile. You both took your wine glasses and clinked them together, cheering for the two of you, for the success of your relationship.

You both sipped a drop of wine from the glass and Zach convinced you that he really had a great taste when it came to choosing a wine. The restaurant’s sommelier had to let him taste different wines before he’s got the perfect choice and you were so amazed because he really knew everything about wines. That was surely a tough thing to do.

“Oh, if they aren’t the famous perfect couple: Zach Dempsey and, his lovely girlfriend, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” You woke up from your deep amiable thoughts as you heard a familiar annoyingly honeyed voice coming from your left side.

“Bryce.” Zach shortly called his so-called-friend, a little bit uncomfortable and annoyed for his presence. He was afraid that he might ruin something great.

“What’s up, Zach?” Bryce asked with a miffing tone and you couldn’t admit it, but he was really vexing you. “Dating your girlfriend so you could have fun tonight?”

“Bryce, what do you want?” You butted in and you got a lustful and lascivious glance from Bryce. He was eating you with his eyes and your cleavage was the perfect bait that triggered his obscenity. You uncomfortably pulled your dress up as you cover your not too revealed cleavage.

You wore a really sexy dress, as you wanted for the night to be special for you and Zach, but it didn’t mean that these disgusting maniacs had the right to be rude to you because they thought that you were wearing something that could trigger their dirty minds.

Girls should be allowed to wear whatever they want and boys should be taught how to behave themselves.

“Damn, if my girlfriend was this pretty, I wouldn’t ever let a moment slip through my hands.” He winked at you and you felt disgusted and scared at the same time. You looked at your boyfriend and the rage in his eyes was perfectly seen.

“What the fuck, Bryce?” Zach protested as he stood up, ready to hurt him if he ever continued acting inappropriately with you. “Can you just please leave us alone?”

“Oh my God, I was being kind and it was some sort of compliments. Same shit.” Bryce insisted as his eyes were still dark and full of lust. He glanced at Zach and then at you once again.

“Fuck off, Bryce.” Zach debated and he raised his fist in air as if he was about to start a fight between the two of them.

Bryce took advantage of the moment and he punched Zach twice in his face and your eyes grew wide for the happening. Blood was dripping from Zach’s cheeks and it stained his white button up shirt and his black tuxedo. Zach punched Bryce back, not caring of his wounds, and you heard the crowd gasping for the scene your boyfriend and the asshole maniac was doing.

“OMG!” You rushed to Zach and you pulled him away to dodge Bryce’s attempts of hurting him even more. “Stop it, Walker!” You shouted loudly, trying to shoo him away, but you had no success.

“Sluggish!” Bryce spat his words while considering Zach’s eyes. You didn’t mind him and you somehow felt relieved when two security guards quickly blocked him and brought him out of the restaurant.

“Are you okay?” A hurt and injured Zach asked you and you just nodded, worrying for him instead. You looked around the restaurant and it seemed like the whole world was watching the two of you. You felt ashamed because of what happened and you just unleashed a quiet but deep sigh.

“I think we should go home now. I need to cure those wounds.” You suggested and Zach quietly agreed, leaving some bills on the table to pay for your cozy, now ruined, dinner.

You both walked out of the restaurant and you felt some worry glances that stared at you. You felt anxious as the crowd was silent and Zach held your hand tightly to feel you more comfortable.

“Sorry.” Zach murmured once you got out of the restaurant. You smiled at him and you let the cold breeze of air to kiss your skin. The silence was dominating the place as the sun already set and the night took in, but the full moon and the stars illuminated the whole town and the emanated light helped you to see your way. “I ruined the night.”

“You didn’t, Zach.” You said as you tried to cheer him up.

“I did.” Zach opened the passenger’s door of his car for you, still being the gentleman that he was. He was trying to mend the what-he-called damaged night. “Careful.”

“Thanks.” You entered the car and Zach smiled sadly before he shut the door. You followed his steps with your eyes as he went to the driver’s part and he went inside the car too.

“I’m really sorry, babe.” Zach crestfallenly apologized as he glanced at your beautiful face. “I promise that I will make it up to you.”

“It’s okay, Zach.” You smiled at him and you caressed his chin to assure him. “It wasn’t your fault.” You sweetly muttered and he smiled at you. “Thank you, instead.”

“All I did was to protect you.” Zach sincerely said whilst looking into your (Y/E/C) eyes. “I did the right thing and you shouldn’t thank me for doing that.”

“Aw, Zach.” You bit your lip and you both smiled sweetly. You had some seconds of silence, the comfortable one, and Zach started to lean in to give you a kiss.

You just shut your eyes as you waited for Zach’s lips to touch yours. You’ve always admitted that waiting for Zach’s kisses still made you anxious, the butterflies kept on moving in your stomach.

You locked lips with him as soon as you felt the heat of his lips. He slowly caressed your soft cheeks while tasting your lips and you honestly liked the feeling of kissing Zach. It was the cherry on the top of every cake.

Once you broke the passionate kiss, you both considered each other’s eyes and smiled.

“It doesn’t matter if our date night was ruined, babe.” You said in a low and soft voice. “There’s nothing to be afraid of even when the night changes.”

“But it’s horrible. I want the night to be perfect.” Zach insisted, still feeling down for the scene and the disgraceful words that Bryce expectorated.

“It doesn’t matter,” You assured him. “because it will never change me and you, mostly the love that I am feeling for you.”

“I love you so much, (Y/N).” He pulled you into a hug and you lingered his tight touch. It made you feel protected, loved and wanted. At the end, those things were what all we needed the most, right? Yup, right.

“I love you too, Zach.” You sincerely and sweetly replied. You both stayed in silence and the only thing that could be heard was your heart going lub dub lub dub quickly.

[artificialqueens]

Crossing pt. II (Katlaska) - Sebald

A/N: [3444 words] Sex is sex, the rest is just noise. But maybe Justin likes the noise.

If there is one thing Justin prizes more than good sex, it is a good night’s sleep. Sleep, he has long realized, is a luxury. He knows this to be true for most people—students, overworked minimum wage laborers, parents, white collar professionals, you name it. For internationally known drag queens, even an hour-long nap on a plane ride is a blessing, never mind that Justin has to contend with leg space fit only for people of Kenya Michaels’ stature. Hotels are fine—more luxurious than his own bed, certainly, but before he can really indulge himself in the fresh sheets, his alarm is ringing and he has to pack and leave for the next city, the next country, the next continent. It is only at home that he gets to have pure, uninterrupted sleep. Sometimes he’d marathon it even: get up at one o’clock, take a long piss, have dry cereal, put on The Golden Girls, and pass out on the couch for another five hours.

It is too early to be past noon, he can tell by the soft light filtering through the charmingly ugly floral curtains his grandma had given him last Christmas. Justin buries his head under his pillow and blindly reaches out for his phone to turn the alarm off, but when he brings the offending device to his bleary sight, there is no alarm to put out.

He huffs and tosses it to the other side of his bed, ready to be pulled back into sleep, but instead of the soft thud of the mattress, he hears the phone flopping down on something very firm. Whipping his head, and instantly regretting it because of a crick in his neck, he sees Brian rubbing his chest where the phone hit him.

Oh, right.

“Sorry,” Justin croaks, voice raspy with sleep. He gently pats Brian’s warm chest and rests his hand there. Brian lets him.

Katya had a gig with Jackie Beat down at Precinct last night, and Justin had come out to see the show. They hadn’t seen each other since they’d slept with each other a week ago, and hadn’t really talked apart from a few texts. (Few texts being Brian linking him to stories of alien sightings, and Justin sending back pictures of quick alien doodles he’d made after dutifully reading every link.) Truthfully, he hadn’t planned anything by coming out last night, just genuinely wanting to have a fun night out, watching a drag show instead of performing in one. If it had been any other queen, he still would have come.

Of course, if it had been any other queen, he probably would have ended his night alone at home, or perhaps with some rando from the club. But Katya saw him in the audience and beckoned him backstage, and what Justin had anticipated to be a quick hello turned into, well, a quick blowjob—which is a good greeting in itself, isn’t it? What better way to convey warmth and welcome? He’ll add it to Alaska’s glamtr0nian mythology, sex as platonic greetings. Katya went on to do her second set completely blissed out and untucked beneath her ugly flared skirt, and Justin watched from the wings with an amused smirk and the musky aftertaste of her cum in his mouth.

“Good fucking morning to you too,” Brian grumbles, finally reaching out to turn his phone alarm off. Justin has half a mind to whine about the alarm on his day off, but before he can open his mouth, Brian’s already wrinkling his nose and offering an apology. He offers an unglamorous morning sight—hair sticking out, fabric marks on his cheeks, dried-up drool at the corners of his lips, his sleep-swollen eyes squinting at the earliness of the morning. Justin holds back his laughter, knowing he’s not such a welcome vision either.

It’s been some time since he’s had a hookup at his house. Usually it would be at a hotel. The last guy he slept with on this bed was a steady boyfriend. He needs a refresher for morning-after etiquette. Food, he thinks. He should offer food.

“I don’t have any food,” he announces, realizing he’s existed on takeout for a week. He reaches across Brian to retrieve his phone, thinking of having something delivered. “I think I have orange juice though.”

“I might have to bounce in a bit, actually. Hence the alarm,” Brian says, trapping the arm that was reaching across his torso. Justin gladly obliges and clings to him in a half-embrace. He is certain that he hears a note of apology in Brian’s voice, as if he truly regrets turning down the rather sorry offer of orange juice for breakfast. Brian stretches his arms over his head, and Justin stares unabashedly. They are at once soft in the morning light and firmly muscled under the pale skin. “Trixie’s boyfriend’s friend apparently told her that I stood him up, and now she’s demanding I rectify her damaged reputation as matchmaker by seeing the date through.”

“It’s a date now, huh?” he teases. Brian rolls his eyes. “Last week it was just a hookup.”

“Whatever. I’ll take him out to lunch, jack him off, delete him from my phone, and go to my yoga class. It’s really just to get Trix off my back,” he says. He sits up against the headboard, leaving Justin’s elbow resting near a suspicious tent under the covers. Justin makes no effort to move, keeping his arm looped around Brian’s waist. Smirking up at Brian, he waits for a go signal, but Brian just smirks back at him and then brings a hand to scratch Justin’s head. “How about you? What’s Her Majesty up to on this blessed Sabbath?”

All right then, maybe Brian’s saving it for Trixie’s guy. Not desperately horny enough to pursue the matter, Justin instead closes his eyes and cozies up to Brian’s hand. If he keeps this light massage up, Justin is going to conk back out of consciousness. “I’m meeting up with Cory. He’s dragging me to this gym where he got free memberships because he’s dating this girl who works there.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Sundays are the best day to go because literally no one else is there,” he replies matter-of-factly.

“Oh, so you’re a gym rat now, Joanne?” Brian teases, lightly trailing a hand across Justin’s bicep. “Giving me that insider info.”

“As if.” Justin rolls his eyes. “I just tag along with Cory, and I think he’s just going ’cause his girlfriend has Sunday duty. He did that with his last girlfriend too. She was a sommelier up in Wilshire, and he would go there all the time to see her.”

“Cory’s always dating someone,” Brian observes lightly, the way one talks of the weather. Justin feels him moving his hand away, so he reaches out for his wrist to keep it on his head. Brian obliges, continuing to run his fingers through Justin’s hair.

“Don’t I fucking know it. He’s always waving it in my face and calling me an old crone,” he scoffs.

“But you’re always dating too,” Brian counters, rubbing lightly behind ears now. If it didn’t feel so good, Justin would complain about being petted like a dog.

“Sure,” he allows. He does date around quite a bit. He’s a Pisces who needs constant companionship, sue him. “But not nearly as much as him.”

Brian tuts. “Ah, but that’s a statistical impossibility. There are more blonde, tanned girls in LA than there are tops. Cory’s bound to date more people.”

“But see, I’m not geographically limited to LA. And I still lose to him,” he says with an exaggerated pout, making Brian laugh. It’s a nice sound, isn’t it? The haze of the morning light must be putting a filter over his eyes, because Justin suddenly finds it quite pleasant to watch Brian’s dry lips stretching over his stunningly white teeth. And then to delight in the roughened edges of his smoker’s laughter too? Justin really needs to wash the sleep out of his system.

“Maybe you’re just bad at dating,” Brian says sympathetically, tapping Justin’s nose. Justin glares up at him. “It’s okay. I’m terrible at it. I still get laid every other night.”

“Well, you don’t care about dating,” Justin reasons. In the time he’s known Brian, he’s never known him to date anyone. At first he’d thought it to be because of the demands of the job—it’s not easy to see someone when you’re constantly travelling. Justin has learned this with Aaron, and then again with Alex, and Carlos, and Kevin, and Jeremy. He wonders sometimes if it’s really his career getting in the way of his relationships, or if it’s just him. To protect his ego, he chooses to believe it’s the former. Still, most Ru girls manage to see other people. Some steadily, and others sporadically. Brian’s a rare case among them, never dating around. “Or am I making false assumptions?”

“No, you’re right. I don’t really see the appeal. Maybe once upon a time, when I was a baby gay, I wanted that whole romance extravaganza. Monogamy and slow dancing and all the works. The whole music video romance, you know? But now I don’t really see the point in it.”

“Really? And yet you tortured me with that unending Lana Del Rey playlist in Aspen?” Justin complains incredulously.

Brian holds up a finger in indignation. “I won’t have Lana slander, not on this good Sunday morning, no ma’am. Don’t speak against the lord herself. I’ll never stick my dick in you again, I swear to god.”

“He that is without sin, let him first cast a stone,” Justin says grandly, smirking up at Brian. “I’m not the one worshiping at Lana’s feet and then denouncing music video romances behind her back.”

It’s amusing how quickly Brian springs into animation, his sleep-encrusted eyes suddenly turning bright and sharp with a presence that commands Justin’s full attention, even if he has absolutely no interest in Lana Del Rey. Brian grabs his shoulder to get him to listen, completely unaware that he’s already caught Justin hook, line, and sinker. “You’re getting it all twisted. Lana isn’t commodified romance, really, she’s—”

Justin squints dubiously. “She’s a successful radio act, how is that not commodified?”

“Fine, okay, but at least she operates within pop culture as this brilliantly unachievable ideal that is very self-aware of its own ideality. Her music, her whole brand, it’s not going for realness. It’s not deceptive, you know what I mean? It’s drag, it really is. That’s why I love her. But romance, real romance”—here he puts air quotes around ‘real’—“it’s a joke.”

An impassioned defense of Lana Del Rey’s artistry isn’t exactly standard morning-after fare in Justin’s experience, but he find himself a willing student. He sits up finally, his interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. At some point I just figured romance isn’t real. It’s a whole manufactured spectacle designed to maintain this whole order of—well, the patriarchy obviously, but also probably some more complex and insidious societal riggeries and giggeries that we haven’t even yet caught on to. Because they’re so effectively run by the big guys, you know?” Brian says. Justin nods, even though he doesn’t fully agree, and lets Brian continue. “Romance blinds us and forces us into compliance with…” his hand fans the air as he looks for a word.

“The world order?” Justin offers dryly. He wonders if he should have saved this conversation for some other time, when he’s not still half-asleep.

Brian points at him and nods. “Hashtag thatpart. Capitalism, globalism, the whole she-bang. I don’t know how, but I’m sure romance is part of the mechanism somehow. We just gotta Winston Smith ourselves into the truth, Joanne.”

“Girl, you’re gonna have to help me out here. Is that the 1984 guy?“

“The very one,” Brian says, nodding.

Thank god Justin was a good student, reading all his assigned texts and turning in all his book reports. Let it never be said that basic education is useless. He scrunches his nose, trying to remember the novel. There was Big Brother, doublespeak, and lots of illicit sexual activities. And weren’t there also rats? Or was that A Clockwork Orange? What else? “How did it end again? Didn’t he go back to sucking Big Brother’s dick?”

Brian frowns. "Okay, yeah, he did. But he was tortured into compliance. You’re missing the point.“

“No, okay, I do get what you were saying: romance makes robots out of us, and love isn’t real.” Justin looks up to Brian for confirmation, which Brian gives with a nod. “Can I suck your dick now?”

His question goes ignored as Brian careens full speed down his socio-philosophical train tracks with no end in sight. He flaps his hands quickly, as if his monologue is powered by kinetic energy. “Or no, maybe it is! Or love is—okay, yes, that’s it, I think love is real, but romance is manufactured. Romance is the institutionalization of love, like… like Drag Race is the institutionalization of drag! Or like Catholicism is the institutionalization of the socialist sort of spirituality that Jesus preached!”

“Who told you to bring Jesus into my home?” Justin laughs. “I’m not having it. Is this what you do with all your guys? Is this a guerrilla tactic, educating the unenlightened masses one hookup at a time?”

Brian cackles, head thrown back, eyes wrinkled, teeth catching the light. “This should be how the revolution starts. Can’t get more grassroots than this.”

“I’ll pass it on to the next guy I suck off, comrade. We’ll get Bernie into office yet,” Justin promises solemnly, closing his eyes and bowing his head a fraction. He brings a fist up to his heart and intones gravely, “Unhappy the land that is in need of heroes, but love, like war, always finds a way.”

Brian bursts into a wheeze that possesses his whole frame. Justin was going for a laugh, but even then Brian’s full-body flailing impresses him. Being a comedy queen by trade, Justin takes to laughter like Tinkerbell to applause, and to him Brian is the Platonic ideal of an audience—open and generously receptive. And those perfect damn teeth don’t hurt either. If all he has to do is pull stage play quotes out of his ass to send Brian into irrepressible laughter, then he’ll gladly resurrect his theatre education and put it to good use. He allows himself a cackle as well, glad to join in with Brian.

“See, that’s the type of love that I’m advocating. Free and unburdened by societal expectations,” Brian says easily, likes it’s the simplest, truest matter in the world. “None of those tired old romantic tropes. Just love and sex for all.”

“Do you really mean that?” Justin inquires. “You don’t really sleep with everyone, do you?”

“Only because there isn’t enough time in the world, mawma,” Brian laments jokingly. Of course. And then he looks at Justin with a knowing grin. “I do have some time to spare before I absolutely have to leave though. You down for a quick round?”

Justin doesn’t realize that he was hoping for a serious answer until Brian shrugged it off kiddingly, but maybe that’s his problem. He’s always looking to ascribe meaning, always looking to pierce through the pleasures of the skin into—the soul? The heart? Whatever trite concept he imagines to connect people beyond just sex. Theoretically he understands free love, and can perhaps put it into praxis, as evidenced by the voluminous ledger of men he’s slept with, but if he’s being honest, he’s just an old romantic. All this no-strings-attached sex he’s having is less a choice and more a second resort until he finds someone more permanent. But maybe it would be healthier, smarter, worldlier to adapt Brian’s mind-set. To stop looking at sex as a means to an end but rather an end in itself.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says readily, letting the matter go. As his mouth takes in Brian’s length, he wonders why they’d spent so much time talking nonsense.

~~~

An hour into what Cory promised to be “bro bonding” at the gym, Justin already wants to die. His biceps feel as though they are aflame after Cory militantly forced him to do cable curls. And then Cory pretty much left him alone after that, opting to do some unnecessarily intimate spotting for his girlfriend on the bench press. Such a straight dude, Justin thinks.

He walks over to them, intending to just sit down for a second and watch as he lets his arms regain locomotive will. Kiara, the girlfriend, smiles up at him, and he is appalled by how casually beautiful she manages to look, even drenched in sweat. She is quite short, which is normal for Justin, who towers over most people. But what she lacks in height, she makes up for in muscle—solid, firm, meticulously sculpted. This she carries with her leonine air. Despite the disparity of their height, she seems almost larger a presence than Cory, who himself is taller than Justin.

“You’re way too gorgeous to be settling for Cory,” he comments, settling down on the floor and stealing Cory’s thermos, earning him a light kick on the shoulder from his brother.

“Trust me, I know,” Kiara plays along, but then she looks up at Cory with such a warm laugh as she pushes the weights up steadily. Cory returns the laugh with the easy, unbothered assurance of someone in love.

“Don’t listen to that idiot,” he says. “He probably hasn’t gotten laid in a year.”

Justin sputters for show, hastily withdrawing his mouth from the lip of the thermos. His jaw drops in mock offense. “I got laid this morning!” he whines, fully aware of how his last syllable is drawn out in the grating manner that Cory hates.

“Using your dildo doesn’t count as getting laid,” Cory retorts. Kiara just laughs at them, shaking her head as she finally gestures for Cory to take the weights off so she can sit up. “You’re such brothers.”

“Whatever, I totally got laid,” Justin insists.

“Good for you,” Cory beams proudly, carefully placing the weights back on the rack and handing Kiara a towel. “Do I know the unlucky guy?”

“Yeah actually,” Justin says, deciding that it’s all right to kiss and tell. If he’s gonna commit to the whole carefree, casual sex thing, there’s really no reason to be all coy about his sex life, even if it’s around his brother and her girlfriend. “It’s Brian.”

Cory looks at him blankly, in the way he often does. “Who the fuck is Brian?”

“Katya, sorry.”

“Oh. I like her,” Kiara pipes up cheerfully, and then, cheekily, “And you, of course.”

“Thank you,” Justin says with a huff of a laugh.

Cory settles down on the bench beside Kiara, but his eyes are on Justin. He rests his elbows on his thighs and clasps his hands, looking rather serious for Justin’s liking. Cautiously, he asks, “Are you a thing? Like with Sharon?”

Was he being a concerned brother? It’s a little endearing, Justin finds. He smiles reassuringly. “No, we were just fooling around.”

Cory raises a skeptical brow but says nothing more, grabbing his thermos from Justin’s grasp and tossing it back with impressively large gulps. Once upon a time Justin would have dismissed it as an aggressive display of masculinity, but after his own little session with the cable curls he’s sure he was lapping that water up like a man stumbling through the Mojave. Kiara snags the thermos from Cory, even though her own water bottle is sitting right by her foot. She tips her head back and finishes it up, and then races Cory for the bottle on the floor. They squabble a bit, holding each other back playfully, but Kiara eventually lets Cory have the first sip, sitting back and watching him fondly.

Again Justin is afforded entry into their world of easy touches and effortless interactions. For a moment, it makes him doubt his decision to trod the path that Brian’s on. The path of skin and sweat and cum and thank you and goodbye. But just as quickly as doubt flutters through his new resolve, he dismisses it, because he knows it’s not all easy touches and sticky smiles, really. He’s been there countless times, and they all slipped through his fingers like a shaft of morning light. Gaga really was on to something with “Perfect Illusion,” he thinks with a chuckle.

[graevite-blog]

hello yes -- do all the crystal headcanon asks you haven't done yet --

[ crystal headcanons ]

THERE IT IS– I KNEW IT’D BE ONE OF YOU SADISTS– AND AFTER I ONLY SENT YOU LIKE FOUR– 

under the cut for length…….! oh my god this literally took over an hour to answer I’m gonna kill you 

abalone - what kind of situations compromise my muse emotionally:

fighting with (your) Dazai :’)! alternatively, if anything happened to Kouyou, he’d be ready to murder everyone even remotely related to it.

aegerine - my muse’s opinion of the supernatural:

after running into and fighting Lovecraft, he’s… more of a believer than he was before. he’s not… terrified of it or anything, because he’s confident in his strength, but he doesn’t like the thought of there being more things like Lovecraft out there.

agate - how my muse calms down:

going for long drives! alternatively, taking out some aggression with sparring sessions and such. or long, hot baths!

blue lace agate - my muse’s favorite form of communication (verbal, letters, texting, etc.):

he tends to prefer verbal - particularly face to face - but lately he’s discovered that texting can be… useful. 

fire agate - if my muse is brave or cowardly:

brave lol next

moss agate: if my muse has a high or low opinion of themselves:

depends on when you catch him. :’) he’ll always act like it’s high, and sometimes he is genuinely self-confident (for example, he’s always sincerely confident in his strength), but deep down he’s more or less aware that he’s ‘in a cage’ as his character song shows (in his canon-verse, that is) and knows that the second he stops being useful he’ll be discarded, and he’s also scared of his own Corruption, so it can be pretty low at other times!

amazonite - what kind of situations call for my muse to be dishonest:

any time it might benefit him with people he’s not close to or whatever, although he tends to be truthful anyway unless it’s necessary, simply because he doesn’t usually need to play mental games when the truth can be much more painful. with people he’s close to, he’ll only lie if it’s absolutely necessary, or if it’s something that’s freaking him out he’ll act like it isn’t, that sort of thing.

amethyst - what my muse would most like to be able to shape-shift into:

here!

ammolite - how lucky or unlucky my use is:

generally decently lucky? but he refuses to play card games against Dazai. :’)

angel aura quartz - my muse’s opinion of LGBT+ issues:

it’s not something he really pays that much attention to - lol what does the mafia care about laws? - but he does hold rather progressive views and is glad when more LGBT+ issues are resolved in the favour of the LGBT+ community.

apache tears - a sadness headcanon:

he’s good at ignoring it, usually. it depends on what made him sad in the first place, but he’s generally good at acting like nothing is wrong. if he does need comfort he might go hide with Kouyou for a while to sort out his feelings, or of course your Dazai. 

apatite - a headcanon about my muse’s intuition:

incredibly good when things are straight-forward! if there’s manipulation or subterfuge going on, he can sort of get a general sense as to who to be wary of, but that certainly doesn’t mean he can’t be manipulated.

apophyllite - my muse’s religious/spiritual beliefs:

None - or, well, atheistic, basically. 

aquamarine - where my muse feels most calm/relaxed:

here!

biotite - the biggest problems my muse is currently dealing with:

…. you know full-well what that is yourself. :’) in main verse, that would be the fact that he accidentally hurt (your) Dazai. 

bloodstone - how my muse sees themselves as part of the world at large:

He just wants to be useful to the Port Mafia; he doesn’t necessarily care about his own achievements. In a way he sees himself as separate from the world at large since the Port Mafia operates in the shadows and such.

calcite - my muse’s social tendencies (introverted vs extroverted, parties vs one-on-one conversations, etc.):

He’s quite extroverted most of the time, but just like anyone else, he needs time to himself to recharge. Basically he can be quite charming and sustain large conversations with many people, so he’s quite comfortable being the center of a party/mission, but that’s more for… Business things. If it’s something not related to the Mafia, he’d generally rather talk one-on-one with people.

carnelian - an art-related headcanon:

here!

celestite - how my muse deals with anxiety:

Not Well™. Probably drinking, unless he’s anxious before a mission in which case possibly just pacing and going over the plan a million times to be sure he has everything down, or trying to distract himself by getting into other conversations. After all, he’s lost a lot of subordinates in the past, and he’d rather not have a repeat of that, thanks–

chalcedony - the saddest my muse has ever been:

in main verse, that’d be… right now, actually. :’) in canon verse, that’d be when he was a child and lost everyone he cared about.

chalcopyrite - how my muse deals with ending relationships:

Depends on how invested he was. Since he’s unlikely to get into serious relationships in canon-verse, he’d likely be able to end them pretty easily, to the point where the other person might begin to wonder if he’d ever cared at all. In main verse, though… Well, they’re getting married, so of course if anything happened he’d be devastated. Expect lots of drinking and unhealthy coping mechanisms!

charoite - who my muse looks up to:

main verse, your Dazai. in literally every verse, Kouyou, and to some degree Akutagawa, but that’s more just like a respect thing, not necessarily ‘looking up to’ him.

chrysocolla: a money-making headcanon:

lol he doesn’t need more money the Mafia pays crazy well. if he did, for some reason, need money, he’d probably just sell some belongings or possibly publish/sell some poetry?

copper - how I think my muse will end up when they’re older:

lol “older”?? he’s gonna die young, fam :’)

coral - how my muse views the natural world:

He loves things like cherry blossom viewing or going to natural wonder sites (like Mt. Fuji), because they’re beautiful, and a nice source of inspiration and such.

diamond - a sex headcanon:

He likes having his hair pulled, as has recently been discovered, but he’s also generally not that submissive, generally speaking. Sure, he can be, and sometimes would be, but generally he prefers to be at least somewhat in control… A power-bottom, if you will, when he does bottom.

dolomite - a sleep headcanon:

here!

emerald - how my muse tells someone they love them without words:

here!

fluorite - what my muse’s room looks like:

he has more than one apartment (for safety/convenience reasons), but his main place can basically be described as lavish as fuck. expensive art, fine wine - he’s even working on installing a wine cellar - and very tasteful, modern furniture and such while still focusing on comfort (since he has to unwind there at the end of long days).

fossil - what my muse’s dream job is:

… he hasn’t seriously considered a life outside the Mafia. but being a sommelier/professional wine taster would be cool.

galena - what it’s like to be in a relationship with my muse:

ask your Dazai ;) generally one can expect expensive restaurant dates when he has time, or lots of nature-related scenes - flower viewing, historical site visiting, etc - again, when he has time, which probably isn’t frequent. if it’s with someone outside the mafia it’s…… probably gonna be short-lived simply because of how busy he is and the danger he’d be putting someone in by getting close to them.

garnet - what my muse’s perfect partner would be:

your Dazai lol. EVEN IF I’M BEGINNING TO WANT TO KILL YOU FOR THIS– no but in all seriousness, someone who understands him and knows how to get through to him - someone he can trust to have his back and who he doesn’t have to worry about becoming a victim/target, someone who can help him when he feels ‘stuck’, basically just someone he can trust completely and who isn’t scared of him or his Corruption. so, again, your Dazai.

gold - my muse’s financial situation:

rich as fuck, to put it bluntly. 

hematite - how squeamish my muse is:

Not at all. he literally tortures people, there’s not a lot that bothers him.

hiddenite - how much of an “inner child” my muse has:

his childhood was garbage, but he can sometimes… still be pretty childish. :’) this is pretty rare to see as anything other than his short temper, though, since he’s an Executive and mostly tries to keep it to himself.

iolite - my muse’s drinking habits:

frequent, excessive, not at all healthy, -100000 / 10 do not attempt at home

jade - if my muse would ever cheat on a partner:

no, he’d just break it off if he was unhappy. he’s part of the Mafia, but he’s not fucking disgustingly heartless.

jasper - what my muse would be like as a parent:

… probably not all that great, but not through any particular fault of his own, he’s just really busy. he’s also terrified of fucking up a kid’s life honestly, and does Not want children. He’d also be scared that Corruption might get passed on.

kyanite - an anger headcanon:

For all that he can be incredibly easy to piss off, he can also calm down quite quickly! But that’s not really headcanon. 

lapis lazuli - where ‘home’ is to my muse:

main verse: wherever your Dazai is.

canon-verse: the Port Mafia, particularly wherever Kouyou is.

lodestone - what kind of people gravitate towards my muse:

the dangerous kind (as both friends and foes), or the filthy-rich kind with expensive tastes. he’s a high-class kid, y’know.

malachite - what my muse as a child thought they would be when they grew up:

I don’t think he necessarily thought much about it - probably just following in his parents shoes/expectations.

mica - what my muse views as their worst personality trait:

How easily baited he is.

moonstone - my muse’s opinions on outer space:

He enjoys looking at stars and the moon and such, though he doesn’t actually know that much about them. Thinks it might be interesting to go if he gets the chance, but who knows if he’d actually take the opportunity if it was presented.

mother of pearl - if my muse tends to lift people up or bring them down:

if they’re friends/allies he does his best to lift them up and if we’re talking literally he can certainly lift people– but if enemies, he has 0 problems bringing them down again, literally as necessary–

nebula stone - how good my muse’s memory is:

Pretty good, but not like super detailed unless it’s something he’s super passionate about.

obsidian - which of the seven deadly sins my muse would be:

wrath lol don’t fuck with the Port Mafia kiddos

opal - how creative my muse is:

Relatively! He likes poetry and art and such, so he’s actually quite a creative writer.

pearl - a mental health headcanon:

no healthy ways of dealing with mental health issues we die like men (aka wow talk about repressed trauma and terror of himself and self-loathing to a certain degree etc etc etc)

petalite - what my muse would do if they found a wallet on the street:

he’ll say he’d keep it, but honestly he’d probably turn it into the police because a) he doesn’t need the money and b) he actually isn’t completely heartless, no matter how much he pretends otherwise 

pyrite - a physical health headcanon:

his physical strength and condition are obviously quite good, but I imagine his health is actually quite good as well - he sleeps pretty consistent hours and does lots of exercise and makes sure to eat balanced meals, so he rarely gets sick… from anything other than a hangover. his liver’s probably gonna fail sooner or later. it’s sort of a wonder it hasn’t already, actually.

quartz - how my muse thinks other people see them:

this is another instance of ‘it depends’ - he knows his subordinates are generally fond of him and consider him a good, competent and friendly leader (as long as they don’t fuck up too badly), but he also knows/believes that a lot of people are actually terrified of him losing control to Corruption. (besides those who are scared of him for being a Mafia Executive, of course.)

rhodonite - if my muse prefers elegance or convenience:

depends on the day. if he has time for fancy meals and such, he’s all about it. if it’s been a long day/week/etc then he’ll deal with convenience over elegance, but he won’t be happy about it.

rubellite - if my muse has any ‘triggers’ that inspire painful memories:

He sure does! But he’s done his best to repress all of that. mmm healthy coping mechanisms!! 

ruby - a happiness headcanon:

when he’s really happy/excited, he can definitely act more childish 

sapphire - if everyone my muse knew was hanging off a cliff and they could only choose three to save, the rest certainly dying, who they would choose:

in main verse, Kouyou, your Dazai and Akutagawa, I suppose?

in canon-verse, Kouyou, Akutagawa and Mori.

serpentine - how my muse would seduce another:

skillfully. he didn’t grow up under Kouyou without learning anything. He can be effortlessly charming, and in terms of art/fine wine/expensive hobbies, he’s quite knowledgeable, so witty conversation is easy for him as well - he’s a great conversationalist and he knows he’s conventionally attractive but wouldn’t be overly arrogant. Act every inch the gentleman as necessary, be completely charming, spend money or not as his partner seems to prefer, take them wherever interests them, etc etc etc. He’s good at this. 

silver - if my muse prefers masculinity or femininity:

he’s not one who’s particularly caught up in that sort of thing, but for himself he obviously tends towards the more (stereo)typically “masculine”-coded things. on other people he could not give less of a fuck.

tsavorite - if my muse believes in destiny or fate:

in terms of ‘everyone will die eventually’, yes. as in some higher power controlling his every action… well, wouldn’t that just be Mori/Dazai? so fate/destiny, no.

ulexite - how empathetic/sympathetic/compassionate my muse is:

with people in the Mafia, he’s pretty sympathetic, generally speaking, and does his best to relate to others/hear them out when they need to vent. with people outside the Mafia, he largely doesn’t give a single fuck about compassion except in the case of innocents who are just in the wrong place at the wrong time, in which case he’ll spare them if he can afford to. he doesn’t feel that bad if he can’t afford to, though. Mafioso, kids. 

unakite - what my muse’s ideal pet would be:

something that doesn’t require a lot of attention/care, since he’s often quite busy and gets sent abroad frequently. possibly a cat, since he could just have someone trusted drop in and check up on it/change the litter/give it fresh food and water as necessary. dogs need too much attention - walks and such - so probably not a dog.

verdite - my muse’s ethnicity/family history:

???? good question. popular fanon seems to dig him being French, or half-, but who knows! for his history, I imagine his parents died/were killed when he was pretty young, hence his joining the mafia at such a young age.

zebra stone - what gets my muse excited:

here! 

zoisite - does my muse believe everything’s going to work out for them in the end or not?

Nope! That’s why he wants to make the best of whatever time he has.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 6

So we’re slowly but surely getting into the Hannigram shit I promised.

Someone with murderous intent finds y/n just as she thinks her life is beginning to improve. Little does she know, it will. 

@deadman-inc-bikeshop and @dovadokren here you go homies

Trigger warnings: Suicide bombing, graphic descriptions of violence, gun violence, death, cults, cult manipulation

You waited until he had left the restaurant to read that all-important scrap of paper. For some reason, you felt the need to hide in the bathroom to read it. It was probably just a name and phone number, but your brain was anticipating some kind of love letter. 

You carefully unfolded the receipt like it was your most treasured possession. Inside, it simply read ‘Hannibal Lecter’ followed by a phone number. 

You hugged the paper against your chest and a huge smile overtook your face. You couldn’t attach any rhyme or reason to why you suddenly felt so alive, other than you were completely and utterly infatuated. You felt like you could break into song. 

“Hey, [F/N]!” Charissa said, banging on the stall door. “Not to interrupt whatever this is, but could you take out the trash please?” 

“Oh.” You answered, your voice cracking. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.” 

Charissa trailed close behind you as you collected the bags from each can around the restaurant. She was uncharacteristically quiet, probably waiting for you to start spilling every detail of your night. The joke was on her, because you could let the silence go on forever. She wasn’t getting a word out of you. 

“So you’re not going to tell me?” She sounded deeply offended. 

“What’s to tell?” You said, hoisting a very full garbage bag over your shoulder. “Nothing happened.” 

“He sunk his teeth into you, didn’t he?” Charissa asked. At this point, you weren’t sure if she meant it metaphorically or literally. “That’s why you’re acting all, y’know, not downright miserable?” 

“Is that how I act usually?” You began to make your way to the back.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but,” She prefaced. “You basically have two moods. Depressed and customer-service happy, which is just depressed with a facelift. And whatever is happening here doesn’t fit into either of those categories. So something happened.” 

“Detective Charissa Rodriquez does it again.” You rolled your eyes and put one hand on the back door. “Some things just have to stay between a bartender and her... possible love interest.”

You punctuated the last sentence with a wink, sending your friend into a righteous fury. 

“Holy shit, [F/N]!” She exclaimed, smacking her hands together. “Come on, [F/N], I’m your best friend. You’ve got to let me in.” 

“I’m still trying to process what happened myself.” You said in earnest. “Believe me, if I’m telling anyone, it’s you.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Charissa wagged her finger. 

You tightened your grip on the garbage bag and lugged it outside. The night had fallen, and the orchestra of cicadas and crickets was in full swing. The warm pre-summer air welcomed you. As much as you resented her for bringing it up, Charissa was right. You hadn’t been truly happy in a very long time. And, as terrifying as the thought may have seemed, in a way, you owed it to Chase Mulvaney. 

You hauled the garbage bag into the dumpster and slammed it shut. The crash echoed and you turned back towards the door. 

Someone grabbed your arm. Your immediate thought was that it was just Charissa playing a cruel joke, but then they twisted it back and shoved you against the wall. You felt the cold blade of a knife against your neck and you froze up. 

“You didn’t repent.” A manic voice hissed into your ear. You could feel your heartbeat against the cold brick wall. The hands that bound you were soft and the voice was much more female. This was noticeably not Chase. 

You sputtered as you tried to articulate any of your thousands of questions. “Who the fuck are you?!” 

“Silence, she-devil!” The girl slammed you against the wall. “Keep your forked tongue between your teeth or I’ll cut it out!”

Her voice and hands shook and she enunciated as if she were reading off a script with a gun to her head. The adrenaline turned to genuine fear when you felt something hard strapped to her midriff. You knew in that moment that she wasn’t going to use the knife. 

"I thought Chase wanted to kill me himself." You muttered.

“Did you really think vanguard would be stupid enough to come back here?!” She forced a laugh but her voice was broken with fear. 

“Yes.” You said back, resigning to at least die with honor. “And, why is Chase the one in charge?!” 

She tightened her grip on your arm and smashed your head against the wall. “Don’t you dare talk about vanguard that way!”

He ripped off his cult leader title from fucking NXIVM? You thought, fully aware that it could easily be your last thought ever. 

“No, but seriously, think about it!” You implored her, hoping that if you got her talking, she wouldn’t hit the detonator. If there was one thing you knew about evangelicals, it was that they loved to hear themselves talk. “Chas- er, vanguard attacked me in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses. You’re smarter than he is! You came after me when I was alone in the dark!” 

“Everything he does, he does for a reason.” She shouted. "It's not the unwoman's place to question vanguard!"

“Oh god, now he’s ripping off Handmaid’s Tale?” You said out loud this time.

“Vanguard told me that you would try to fill my head with lies!” She growled. “So long as you are alive, you stand in the way of god’s work! You spread only falsehoods about our savior!” 

“Is this about the TattleCrime article?” You ask. “Because I didn’t say anything about god, I only talked about--” 

Then it hit you, again. “Oh, so this is a cult cult.”

"It's not a cult!" The girl screamed. This was the first time you'd sensed any genuine emotion behind her words. "Vanguard takes good care of us. And he can take care of you, too [F/N] [L/N]."

"By sending someone to kill me?" You spat.

"No!" The girl exclaimed. "No, no, no, no, no! Silly! I'm here to save you. If you repent now, and let Jesus Christ into your heart, your earthly shackles will be broken!"

"And what's in it for you, huh?" You struggled against her grip. "The privilege of blowing yourself up for Chase Mulvaney?"

"I was a sinful being like you, once." She said. "My grand reward is to give my life to save another."

You heard the click of a gun behind you. “Put the knife down and take off the vest!” 

The girl grabbed you by the neck and turned you to face this approaching foe. She held the knife to your throat. “If you shoot, she’s dead.” 

You couldn’t make out the details of his face, because he was backlit by headlights. You could, however, see the face of your captor. She was completely emaciated with bones protruding from her skin. Her head was sloppily shaved and whatever instrument she used to shave it left deep cuts on her scalp. 

She reached a shaky hand into her pocket and pulled out a detonator. Tears streaming down her face, she began to chant. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

The man let off a shot, sending a bullet into her leg. She fell backwards, dropping the detonator and the knife and giving you an opportunity to run. The man gestured for you to get behind him and you obliged. He then let off a second shot, this bullet hitting her right through the skull. The girl collapsed backwards, her brain matter painting the side of the building. 

The man dropped his gun, mumbled something about a bomb squad into his phone, then turned to you. Finally, you could get a good look at his face. Immediately, you noticed his rich brown curls and a smattering of scruff around his jaw. His features were soft, comforting even. But a long enough examination of his face told you that he was just as deeply haunted as you were. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, weakly.

“You...” You said over desperate gasps for air. “You saved me.”

Soon enough, the first responders joined you. But for a few minutes, it was just you, the man and some unspoken mutual understanding words couldn't articulate.

[kevwas-blog-blog]

The Sommelier’s Tale. By Kevin Wash (F.O.S.)

I saw a great quote recently from Sir Richard Branson along the lines of, “ if you get offered a job and don’t know how to do it, take it and learn”.

Well, that’s kind of how my life was especially in my younger years, this story goes way back when.

I was living on a small Island which was famous for its food and wines, where I was working as a bartender in a pub mainly frequented by locals,  one day one of them asked me if I was interested in a job, I didn’t know him but had seen him in there on a few Sunday evenings where he always seemed to be alone and spent his time watching the bar staff, in fact, I thought he was  friend of the owner checking up on us.

It turns out he was the GM of a small local hotel that had a fabulous restaurant, his name was Alan Wynch,  so along I go to meet with him to find out what his offer was going to be, possibly a cocktail barman, I had a very open mind.

“So Kevin, let me get to the point, I have been watching you for several weeks at the bar, you are very good with customers and very good with your Portuguese colleagues, I think I may have an extremely attractive proposition for you”.

I was keen to hear so let him continue, “ You know the Moorings Hotel and the famous Lobster Restaurant”? I nodded in agreement, who didn’t know the place famous for its shellfish viveur and also its saddle of lamb dish carved at the table.

“I would like you to be my new head waiter” Alan paused to see if this had registered with me, “ how does watching me pull pints tell you I could be your head waiter”? I enquired,

“ Good question Kevin, it’s more about the way you deal with your colleagues, I have a bit of a Portuguese mafia situation that I need to break, and think you are the perfect person to do it”

“Alan, it would take them 10 minutes to figure out I’m not even  a waiter never mind a head waiter” (in fact my experience had been to help out  a hotel over Xmas with its banquets, I was possibly the worst silver service waiter on the planet, great at serving potatoes, but nobody got any peas on my station!!)

“I’m not sure this would be such a good idea, they wouldn’t respect me, so I don’t think I can help”?

“I’ve thought of that, I’ve seen you serving wine at the bar, you are excellent at it, so I would introduce you as our new Sommelier, which is the number 2 behind the head waiter, so we would move you in gently”

(A sommelier, or wine steward, is a trained and knowledgeable wine professional, normally working in fine restaurants, who specialises in all aspects of wine service as well as wine and food pairing)

I have to say I was impressed with the deviousness of this idea, of course, I could serve wine, I had opened plenty of bottles behind the bar, Red White and even Rose.

“Ok Alan” I heard myself saying,  “I’m your man”, wow would that statement come back to haunt me.

So a week or so later I rocked up at the Mooring’s Hotel collected my Burgundy jacket and commenced  my career as a Sommelier in a fine dining establishment, the Portuguese lads were very friendly with me and quickly showed me my area of control, the wine cellar with over 700 different wines,

7 fucking hundred!!.

So much for Red White and Rose, when I saw the prices I was horrified, some of these were more than a month's wages for me, and I was in charge of this, in charge and alone.

The first few services were fine, quite simple, mainly regular clients taking the table D’Hote menu with wine by the glass, I was starting to feel confident, the lads would always offer me help with wine and I would help them with service, what mafia I was thinking.

Sunday lunch was a big event here, and on my first Sunday we had over 200 booked for lunch, I was busy getting ready when Alan put his head into my cellar, “everything OK Kevin” “ Fine Alan the lads are great with me and I’m starting to get my head around the wine list”

“Enjoy your first Sunday, by the way, you’re taking orders today as well as wine”

Well nothing like the deep end, at least the menu was fairly straight forward, I went to see my friends the chefs, they were cool as, nothing phased them, “you’ll be fine Kev, just done overload us”

Taking orders turned out to be exactly as I thought, pretty easy, then it was onto my wine, I had regulars who again knew what they wanted, so easy, take the order, find the bottle (that was a mission at times) take it to the table open, pour smile and leave.

Confidence can sometimes take us to places where talent hasn’t quite reached.

I was starting to feel a tad cocky with this Sommelier lark, in fact when one client asked me for a full bodied red, I selected one, a beautiful Rioja from one of the finest wine regions in Spain.

So when I started to pour the posho blabbered “Taste man taste”

“Don’t mind if I do sir” I replied, I poured myself a glass, and knocked it back in one, “Yup this is good stuff” I said as I continued to fill their glasses. I didn’t know why they (4 old farts) looked so shocked, the wine was red and good and not the most expensive, “Everything Ok” I asked.

The old guy could hardly speak, “The Taste the taste” “ yes bloody marvellous,” I said, “ I was supposed to taste it, not you”

Again he was blabbering and slightly foaming at the mouth, a particularly unattractive look at the best of times.

“But sir you specifically told me to taste, so I did and don’t worry it’s a fine drop of plonk”

“ you bloody fool I’m supposed to taste it, not you, you’re the bloody waiter”   “Sommelier actually” “well your a bloody lousy one, go and get me another bottle”

“planning a bit of a sessh are we sir?, no problem I’ll crack another one and keep it on ice for you”

Some people are just never satisfied.

I walked away thinking that with his red face maybe knocking back a second bottle wouldn’t be such a great idea.

I also found out that day, that as acting head waiter, I was expected to help out and carve the famous saddle of lamb at client’s tables,

How difficult can this be I thought to myself? bloody nigh impossible would have been the answer if I had bothered to wait for a response.

I think I was slightly better than Edward Scissorhands would have been, but only just, mind you I have always preferred my lamb in unstructured lumps rather than thin slices, I felt that possibly some of my clients didn’t share my views on this, oh well, they will get used to me.

The kitchen didn't seem overly impressed with me either, normally a full saddle would serve 16-20, with my “rustic” style it was maxed out at 4…… I could hear the chef screaming from the kitchen,

“ 4… what the fuck is he doing out there”? 

he was obviously pissed at somebody…

One particular posho had ordered the lamb for his group of 6, he called me over to the table,

“Sommelier, (at least he got my title right) I would like you to recommend a wine to go with the lamb,” “No problem sir, in fact it’s my speciality in the FOS” “What’s the FOS” he enquired “ Federation of Sommeliers, we meet monthly to look at new ideas and wine pairings, so you are in perfect hands”

It was complete bullshit but even I was impressed with this line, so posho sat down and ensured his fellow diners they were in for a fabulous wine to go with lunch, “recommended by the FOS no less”  I heard him say.

I had overheard two of the waiters raving about a wine they had been drinking the previous night in their local Portuguese Restaurant and had managed to find it in my cellar, so off I went to this expectant group to allow them to enjoy the benefits of my rapidly improving knowledge.

Posho told me they had tried, several Burgundy's, Barolo’s Bordeaux's and even the odd Chateaux Lafitte, so they were very excited to see what I would recommend.

There is an old saying in the restaurant business “when the table is quiet the food must be good”. (I actually made that up as well)

I’m not sure the same principle applies to tasting wine, I didn’t bother with the tasting, especially after the fuss the last old boy had made, so instead just filled all of their glasses one after the other almost to the brim, I liked to serve a good portion.

There was an unusual silence from them, in fact, the roast potatoes and lamb on their plates made more noise, “what the devil is this” enquired posho “Vinho bloody Verde” ?? “ No sir this one is just Vinho Verde” excellent choice don’t you think”.

Long story short they really didn’t appreciate my visionary pairing, of a slightly sparkling very young very cold Portuguese white wine with a beautiful saddle of roast lamb.

I still don’t understand why…

Although I did hear him say rather unkindly,

 “FOS, Federation of Sommeliers, Full Of Shit more like”….

The following day a very well turned out lady came in with three young men, probably around 15 years of age I would guess, she sat down and called me over, “Sommelier” these are my grandchildren and they will be taking over the family vineyard, we have been producing fine wines in our family for over 12 generations so I would like you to give them the benefit of some of your knowledge as only a Sommelier could. I’m sure you are very familiar with our wines”?

No idea, in fact absolutely not a clue who she was, I would shortly find out though.

“Of course ma’am, it will be my pleasure”

I should have run at that stage and realised this was going to be tricky and quite probably outside of my very limited skill sets, but that old devil called ego kicked in, and took me to places I really shouldn’t have gone.

My day hadn’t got off to the best of starts, One client had ordered steak tartare, when I asked him how he wanted it cooking, he seemed a tad perturbed, when he didn’t respond, he was mumbling and shaking his head about something, I said “shall we just go for medium”? seems my recommendation wasn’t what he expected and he started frothing at the mouth (a lot of unhealthy people seemed to frequent this establishment)

The chef’s (who had obviously figured me out) took great delight in this when I gave them the order.

So back to my Mystery Lady.

“Please bring us a bottle of each of your finest Pouilly Fuisse and Pouilly Fume”

So I scuttled into my cellar to try and find them, I didn’t even know what colour they were, eventually, I found out they were both White, French and quickly reading the label knew they came from the Burgundy region, and they were in my white wine fridge and should be served cold, bingo what more did I need.

“So ma’am, any preference in order”?

“Yes please Sommelier go for the classic style, however before that could you kindly explain the wines and grapes to the boys, they must learn what to expect on their tongues and noses”

Classic style, wtf was classic style?

Tongues, noses, they were about to have a drink, not a fight, I really didn't have a clue what she was talking about, however, me and my old friend self-confidence decide to go for it,  

“It’s all about the soil, the Pouilly Fuisse is sometimes referred to as the water of the desert, this is because the grape is always planted on north facing slopes with a  30% Sahara sand compound in the soil, so you should taste the flavour of the Sahara in this baby, very dry and with a hint of dates and camel droppings, a perfect companion to chicken.”

“Now the Fouime (I was warming to this, as I could see I had these lads enraptured) this is a completely different ballgame, these grapes are hand turned 17 times per year by teenage virgins, always planted on a downward slope and always facing south, grapes originally imported from South Korea known as the cherry of white wines, a perfect pairing with rice pudding”

With that I poured them all a huge slosh into tall glasses, I thought topping them off with a tonic water was a classy touch, and said: 

“get that down your necks lads”.

The boys seemed to be very happy and were busy chatting amongst themselves,

the lady took me to one side for a quite word (and probably a huge tip).

“Young man” she said (what happened to sommelier?) you are most definitely not a sommelier, in fact, I would dare go so far, as to say you know almost nothing about wines, however, you do tell a bloody good story, so thank you”

It was only later I found out she was, in fact, Dame Rothschild and actually one of the owners of the hotel, and co-incidentally my employer.

As sacking experiences went, this was one of my nicer ones.

The Portuguese mafia, well they certainly didn’t bother me, and they didn’t even have to get the horses head routine dusted off to see the back of me.

I really enjoyed the experience and even today when I listen to people pontificating about the qualities of various wines, it makes me smile when my wife points out to people that I was a Sommelier, they generally go very quite on the wine subject and just watch me.

I am now an expert at a tasting, I write reviews in my own inimitable style, but my true forte is drinking the stuff.

So Sir Richard I have to agree with you when in doubt blag it.

Bottoms up.

Kevin Wash

[3one3]

The Sequel - 876

Velvet Cherry

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“He asked before I saw him off if it’s really okay to write something, and I think he asked because he got an impression from talking to us. I doubt he knew we were ever together. I doubt most people know. I think you have always had a bad perception of who did. It wasn’t like we announced it on Twitter. Those articles…he wouldn’t have read them. Nobody reads them. They were mostly wrong anyway.”

“What impression? He probably just realized that all my answers made it seem like I married a useless person who doesn’t do any of the essential best friend functions, which is so not true.”

“I don’t know, but you don’t have to worry about him writing anything like that. You read him constantly. You know it’s not his thing.”

“Mhm.”

“How much did your dress cost?”

“Why?”

“It looks expensive. It looks like armor. I’m afraid to touch it.”

“It’s just metallic lace.”

“Which looks like armor.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you being cold, or distant? I can’t tell.”

“Yes you can.”

“I’m trying to make you smile, cariña.”

“Sit closer.”

Socks was a temperamental jerk in the City of Barcelona Cup. Christina couldn’t even be that upset with him about it, because he’d been home for almost two months, doing very little. She was never in a good mood on the first day back at school after an extended break either. They fought each other over many of the jumps, and finished 5th. That was especially grating for the rider because her performance was most un-Messi-like.

Juan took her out for cocktails at a really beautiful, popular bar and lounge with all things gold and velvet, and some really flamboyant bartending. They picked one end of a long tufted banquette to sit on because Christina wasn’t in the mood to watch the mixology show at the bar, or be social with the friendly mixologists. She sat with about a foot and a half between her and her Chelsea companion, legs crossed toward one another, and it was quite comfortable for quiet chatting. But she was slightly bummed, and feeling low on energy because of the disappointment, and she wanted to be much nearer her favorite antidepressant. She wanted him to do the thing where he made her negative stuff evaporate into thin air.

“Close enough?” he smiled after sliding over with his wine glass. He cautiously reached to touch one of her sleeves too. Her dress- a cocktail-length, long sleeve J. Mendel number in a steel sword kind of color- really was slightly painful looking. The very sheer metallic lace was almost like fishnetting, and overlaid with more silvery-gray designs that looked like a crossing of straps over her upper body, tiered bands of little rings in the skirt, fringe at the hem and neckline, and a cinching belt at her waist. Christina felt powerful and sexy in it. It did sort of look like it might hurt one’s fingers to touch it though. She spared the player any potential pain by diverting his palm to her thigh instead. Their table was very low, and provided no cover for such a gesture. She didn’t care. Nobody is gonna notice that here, she thought, sipping her Bordeaux. All the many liquor bottles on display and intriguing cocktails on offer didn’t tempt her. She just wanted to enjoy a couple of glasses of wine before they went to dinner.

“Give me something to think about that isn’t how I probably have to show more to keep my horses ready to compete,” she requested after patting his hand on her leg to encourage it to stay there. He had no intention of relocating it. His fingertips tucked in between where her thighs were pressed together.

“Do you want to go to the casino after dinner?”

“Not really. Maybe tomorrow night though? I’m tired.”

“You look beautiful though.”

“Thanks.” Christina tilted her head a little and smiled at the Spaniard. She wanted to be present with him, and unwind, and not get caught up trying to draw conclusions about the competition weekend and the two sour notes on which the major events concluded. André told her not to worry about the team result since Nick was fabulous as usual and the final placing had nothing to do with her. He told her not to worry about Socks either since it was his first show back and she didn’t get upset when Nick and Rio were rusty in Rome for their first show back. She knew he was right about the double standard. It was just hard to switch off her horse show brain and switch on her charming date mode. Usually putting on an expensive dress, curling her hair, and meticulously painting on deep, deep burgundy crème lip color was enough to get her head in the right place for a night out. Her mindset was having trouble catching up to her look.

“We can go early for dinner,” Juan suggested sympathetically. He tried to cut the cocktails out of the plan and schedule their meal a bit earlier in the first place, but Christina said she still wanted to go sit at the trendy bar and people-watch, and chat. Doing so in a bar felt different to her than doing it at a nice restaurant. They were two separate experiences and she wanted both. Plus, she really needed that wine. It wasn’t something she’d want to have with food.

“I’m okay. By the time I finish this glass, I’m going to be more entertaining. Schü does that, you know. He can be in some kind of shitty mood and he’ll set a deadline for it and then it actually ends as scheduled. I’ve been trying to figure out how he does that for years. And also why he doesn’t do it when he should,” the girl in the delicate-armor dress laughed, digressing. Sometimes being in a shitty mood feels good, I guess. I know I enjoy it now and then.

“Getting tipsy and setting a deadline are different things.” Juan winked at her profile and squeezed the top of her thigh. “Just don’t go the other way. You’re unbearable when you’re wine-drunk and unhappy. Especially when the wine is French. I have experience.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m confident you can help me be happy.”

“How’s that?”

“I dunno.”

“Uhhuh.”

“You’re beautiful too, by the way. You should let me fluff your hair up this way all the time. It makes your face skinny.”

“And a skinny face is beautiful?”

“Very handsome. Plus I like it when you wear black button-ups and blue jeans.”

“I like how I know you like my black button-ups and you know I like your white dresses.”

“I know you like this color too.” Christina let her mouth hang open in an editorially indifferent way, and then slowly swiped the tip of her tongue across just a small part of her upper lip.

“I do.”

“But back to Sid Lowe. How long do you think I should wait before I tweet him about Marcos Alonso again?” I’m gonna suck on his finger later with this favorite lipstick of his, she reminded herself, her mood turning somewhat toward more positive thoughts. I’m going to feel a lot better when I get to make him feel good. That’s one of the best reasons to have boys around. It always feels good to make them happy. Doesn’t even matter which one, or how you do it. Oh! Reminds me. I promised Lulu Schü I’d get him a good present.

“When does he do his podcast?”

“Monday.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“More, please.” Christina finished her nice wine and held her glass out in front of the player since he was marginally closer to the bottle on the table. Her Spanish sommelier had to let go of her leg to refill her drink, and that was okay because she uncrossed her legs and turned more toward him to share a story about how she tried to re-institute the old tradition of making a wager on the result of the feature class of the weekend with her teammates, which she’d given up over the winter when she felt she wasn’t a safe bet anymore. No one wanted to take the odds against the girl who jumped 5 clear rounds at the Olympic games. She couldn’t find anybody, in or out of her team, who would agree stakes. Heiner was willing to bet that she’d curse on live TV when she sat down to chat with the FEI TV host in the broadcaster’s ringside studio. That did seem like a pretty safe bet. Christina could think of no reason why she’d be compelled to curse, and was too trusting in her coach’s desire to avoid scandal to suspect him of foul play. He paid her friend Kent a lousy €10 to run up onto the studio platform and moon her. The world #2 happily took his money, and she muttered “What the fuck?” in the middle of her interview. She then refused to make good on her wager with Heiner due to force majeure.

The pair of friends finished the Bordeaux and then strolled leisurely to a fine dining restaurant a few blocks away for dinner. The menu was full of classic Catalan and Northern Spanish dishes done with some modern flavor twists. The decor was full of contrasting geometric textures in bright whites and all the grays. The ambiance was unique- it was somewhat noisy in there, and really well lit, but each table seemed to have its own bubble of coziness so that diners felt alone with their companions but able to look out at and listen to everyone else too. Christina let Juan pick food for her, and for once managed to refrain from whining about seafood and being picky and skeptical. He was delighted by her willingness to experiment, and to trust him. Inside, she really didn’t want to. It seemed like a good way to let go of the horse show though. She could laugh at herself when something upset her palette and the reaction was extreme. She could genuinely marvel at flavors completely new and unexpected. And most importantly, she could watch and enjoy the Chelsea man’s smile. He always talked about what it meant to him for a girl “like her” to need him for something, or look to him for important things, and it seemed as if the small act of letting him guide her culinary journey for the night and asking him lots of questions about the traditional dishes upon which their veritable tasting menu was based was enough to give him that much coveted sense of responsibility and influence that Christina in turn always found ridiculous. He was one of two humans without whom she had no idea how to function in life. She always felt he overestimated her independence and capability, and underestimated his influence and impact. All of that aside, it was just fun to not care. It was easy to be vulnerable about dodgy food after her ego and image took a beating at the polo club two days in a row.

Christina decided that she wanted a glass of champagne before bed, and dragged Juan into the lobby bar at the Fairmont. The hotel had a makeover since the previous edition of the Nations Cup Final. The boring red and cream motif was gone. Everything was new. There was a lot of gold and shine in the public spaces, and the two friends agreed that the rooms were the furniture and decor version of a heather gray wool sweater worn over a white collared shirt with nice blue jeans and a brown leather belt. That covered every texture, color, and mood of their guest room, from the soft, knitted gray throw pillows to the caramel leather sectional. The update made the hotel feel more befitting of the occupancy rate. Christina liked returning to it on Sunday night more than she used to like walking in there.

“Did you finish the zoo book yet?” the Spanish player asked her while she changed in the bathroom. He was shifting things around on her nightstand to make room for the glass of water he poured for her. There was a stack of magazines and two books crammed on the small table that was essentially just a double shoebox-sized drawer sticking out of the wall, with a small glass orb holding a couple of flowers, a large telephone, a radio clock/iPod dock, a hairclip, her iPad, and a Chap Stick.

“Yeah. I’ve been able to read a lot lately. And actually absorb the words on the pages instead of moving my eyes over them while I think about 26 other things. I really liked it. I thought I texted you about it?”

“You might have. Sometimes my eyes move over your words on my screen while I think about 26 other things. Are you almost finished? My bladder is way over capacity.”

“Mhm. I’m just combing out my hair.”

“Don’t take off the-“

“I didn’t,” Christina smiled in the bathroom doorway, her poison apple red pout freshly retouched. Her dress had to go and so did her fluffy, wavy ponytail, but her lip color and mascara stayed. Juan turned around and smiled back. As if he hadn’t just said he was waiting to use the bathroom anyway, she summoned him there with one beckoning finger and a sexy, almost contemplative puckering of her wet-look and deeply red lips, which she then delicately pressed against his bare set. The feeling I get when I make him happy is unique and wonderful. The feeling I get when I know I’m turning him on too is even better. Butterflies, the rider said to herself during the four-second kiss. Her right palm was tentatively held to his cheek, and he turned to smooch it before stepping into the somewhat weirdly laid out and proportioned bathroom. He left the door open and kept talking.

“I think your slowed down schedule has been very good for you, cariña.”

“Yeah?” I’m thirsty, his friend thought, not paying much attention to what he was saying. She spotted the glass of water and headed for bed.

“You’ve been pretty happy, you said your ankle is better, you’re good with André, you have time to read…”

Oh he just wants me to say something about the Schü part. Either refute it, or laugh it away, or whatever. So that he can feel better about it. There’s no way he genuinely feels glad when me and Schü are actually acting like people who adore each other. And we have been. For now. Speaking of… The Nations Cup competitor paused her water gulping to grab her phone and see if André replied to her second goodnight text. They’d already chatted a bit while she was in the car back to the hotel. He took Lukas to see a kids’ movie earlier, and they watched her ride online. Then the tiny Schü had a lengthy bubble bath and the big one did some things on his laptop in the bathroom at the same time. He had dinner with his friend Dom and spent the rest of the night relaxing with his feet up. His individual training program, aimed at getting him really fit again, was kicking his butt. And he wanted that. Being tired was very satisfying. He was pretty okay with his wife having a few days’ playtime in Spain with her friend rather than doing nothing on the couch with him. They’d had plenty of that.

“You’re not setting an alarm, are you?” Juan inquired fearfully when he returned to get in bed beside her.

“Hehhhhhll no. I was just saying night night to Schü. I don’t care when we get up. As long as we get to go to the horchata place, I actually don’t care what else happens tomorrow,” Christina yawned.

“I want to tell you something.” Her favorite Chelsea midfielder mirrored her yawn as he lay down and tried to put his head in her lap. He was perpendicular to her, and had to curl up his legs to fit on the mattress that way. She had to unfold and flatten her legs to accommodate him, and smiled knowingly down at him beyond her phone. It didn’t occur to her in the moment, but it was the first time in a long time that he could make a statement like that and not ignite an inferno of instant anxiety in her stomach.

“Mm?”

“You surprised me tonight.”

“Because I let you feed me unidentifiable seafood?” She put her iPhone down on the nightstand to play with his hair with one hand and rub his chest with the other. One thing she did notice since he got to Barcelona was how fiendish she was for physical contact with him. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so in need with him, and couldn’t find any explanation in a forensic analysis of their time apart. Also, it was very different. The cravings for physical affection with Juan that she could remember were all about laying on him, or him holding her and petting her. Christina was desperate to be the petter.

“No.” He reached up to secure a large chunk of her not-so-sun-highlighted-anymore hair behind her ear when she leaned over him a bit, so that it wouldn’t obscure her face from him. “Because you shrugged off a shit result to have fun with me like it was nothing, and you made me get over the shit result I came to you to forget.”

“You’re easy to have fun with.” The rider offered up a sweet smile with her vibrantly painted lips, and winked with her long and plush matte lashes.

“Beautiful girl.”

“Handsome boy.”

“You know what they say about beautiful girls and handsome boys…”

“No, what?”

“They enjoy anal sex together.”

“I could smother you with a pillow right now and say it was an accident- that I drank too much and accidentally put the pillow on your face, laid on top of it, and passed out.”

“Why do you look so much younger when you change from the sexy armor dress to the big t-shirt?” Juan asked curiously, abandoning the mish-mosh of serious testimony and sarcastic banter. There was no room in the hotel room for a heady conversation about the mood-reversing services they’d provided each other that weekend. It would have been self-defeating. Not taking their failures too seriously felt really, really good. Lifting each other out of regret and disappointment without actually having to talk about it- to use fun and companionship as the method instead of reassuring rhetoric and cuddling through dejection- felt really, really good. “Your face looks different. Maybe because your hair is down.”

“It’s been down all night. I think I’m just cuter in oversized white V-necks,” Christina shrugged. She did flip some hair over and fluff it up though.

“Not cute. Beautiful.”

“Mkay.” A slight blush accompanied her dismissive eye roll. It was no big deal- no rarity- for the Spanish star to call her beautiful. But he seldom did so with such intensity in his gaze, and such conviction in his voice. The genuine article instinctively embarrassed her. He slid his fingers between hers on his chest and squeezed her hand.

“Do you still want to stay at Hotel Juan for Eden’s wife’s birthday?” Some of that intensity eased away with the normal blinking and changing of his expression to go along with asking a question. Christina nodded and kept watching his eyes anyway, because his face was still the best looking thing in the room by miles. “I want you to help me put up some pictures. They’re with the frame shop right now. I don’t know where to hang them yet. You’re good at finding the right place.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“All kinds. Black and white, cityscape, portrait, the colors of the sky…”

“They’re not all of me, are they?”

“No.” Juan shook his head and glanced up and to the left with a sort of pinched frown- a sarcastic rejection of her faux narcissism. She said she was just checking, and acted like her question was entirely logical, not just reasonable. “What do you want to do?” he asked her after further teasing. “Sleep? Movie? Show me any recent pictures and videos of Lukas that you missed from the 300 I saw at dinner?”

“I want to do whatever you want to do. We’ve been doing what I want to do all day, minus that interview. That feels so long ago! This day was like three different days- the pre-horse show stuff, the grand prix and all the BS after, and then our night on the town.” The subtly smiley brunette used her left thumb to push some lighter brown locks up from the hairline right in the middle of Juan’s forehead. That section was styled to stand up a little, and look fuller and more “done” than his everyday no-style style. She always liked it that way, and thought it somehow elongated his face, which was somehow more handsome. The touch was on her mind more than the sight though. I still long for him every day, but lately it’s because I just want to see and hang out with him, and less because I feel like I desperately need him or I can’t cope with whatever I’m coping with. That’s good for both of us, I think. I still miss him like crazy. I miss messing with his hair and holding his hand, not just being safe in his arms, or literally leaning on his shoulder. That’s the difference between when I’m having Schü issues and when me and Schü are pretty happy. I like that. I like that I still really miss being with him. That’s how you know your feelings are real and not just a byproduct of some dependency.

“Okay but what about the birthday? You didn’t answer,” Juan reminded.

“Yes I did! Of course I want to stay at Hotel Juanin.”

“For how many nights do you want to book?”

“I don’t know. Ask me closer to check-in.”

“What is your method of payment?”

“Do you accept kisses?”

“Of course.”

“Do I need to put a deposit down to secure my reservation?” Christina asked with an unavoidable smile.

“That’s the standard policy,” he replied casually before she bent down to smooch his mouth. She couldn’t turn her head enough to match up their lips, so she just kissed him crooked. Once wasn’t enough, evidently. “You have to pay one night up front,” he told her. Without dropping her smirk, she slid down the bed some to get flatter, upsetting the player using her lap as a pillow. He turned over onto his right side and lifted his head to move to her chest instead of her thighs- crucially, close enough to be further paid. Her chin poked out and so did her red, puckered lips. It was a little weird to her to kiss that way- almost flat on her back with just her head and shoulders elevated, and her partner in the kiss practically resting his cheek on her chest. But it was nice too, and it went on for a while- at least long enough for the Spaniard to get into it enough to want to hold her head, and to end up with quite a bit of that Tom Ford “Velvet Cherry” color on his face.

“Aww, you look like Lukas after an icepop,” she laughed when she gently pushed him away to give her neck some relief. The pillow supporting it didn’t do enough to prevent her from feeling like she needed to strain and hold it up the whole time she was smudging lipstick all over him. Juan wiped carefully around his lips with his fingers, and swatted her thumb away when she tried to help.

“How is it that it stays just on your lips? Are you that bad at kissing that you can’t keep yours on mine?”

“Oh, okay, I’m bad at kissing. Sure. Makes sense.” Her chuckles predictably lit up her face and refocused her friend’s attention. His eyes twinkled back at her. Almost there, she commented to herself. Almost to the full, mesmerizing mosaic thing they do. That thing they did always did things to her too. The butterflies that made themselves known in the bathroom doorway flapped their wings a couple of times just to let Christina know they were still awake and aware.

“This is why.”

“Why what?”

“I fall for you every other day I spend with you. This is why I never give up. Angel.”

“You’re adorably in touch with your feelings, Juanin.” Christina couldn’t mirror the Chelsea man’s sincerity. What he said was just too sticky sweet to do anything but make her feel high and kind of silly. Sometimes he says stuff and I just- It’s like pounding a fistful of Pixie Stix and washing the rainbow sugar down with orange soda. She reached out to comb that same section of hair that she was playing with earlier back up straight and tall again and told Juan he was also too adorable not to touch. He sat up and got on all fours for a second so that he could crawl over her in a more sensible position, and then lowered his body down hers, and his face to hers, and his lips to hers. Then her stomach made an unpleasant grumble, followed by a squirting sound, and a lengthy bubbling noise. Rider and footballer both burst into laughter. “It’s your fault!” the former protested. “You’re squishing my tummy and forcing all the air in it to move around!”

“Why is it so full of air!”

“I don’t know. Because you made me eat weird food, probably. Ow!” The Germany anchor winced as her friend accidentally leaned too hard on her right breast and moved a little sideways, taking it with him. He laughed and apologized, and slid down enough to make room for her chest. She let her legs flop open more, completely relaxed and immune to embarrassment about anything her body could do, and immune to caring if anything else hurt. Some of the muscles inside her thigh were not in great shape, and she probably should have been more vigilant about what she asked them to do before stretching, but she just couldn’t care. That was the kind of thing that seemed to change post-Olympics. The very little details that caused small amounts of anxiety or stress to pile up into significant influences were just gone. Coincidentally, the worries about her double life were newly absent too. “You’re really overwhelming for such a small person,” she told the primary pillar of her alternate life, elbows out at the sides of her head the same way her knees were flopped apart so that she could mess with her own hair instead of his. Most of the rest of her body was fully immobilized by the midfielder laying on top of it, either because it was physically smothered or because his presence and his words and his smiles lulled virtually all of Christina into a deep relaxation. Marathon day. Good way to end it, she thought. Can’t move and don’t wanna. No- Wha- Why am I moving, she complained to herself as Juan slid his hands and arms under her back. It actually made for a nice stretching feeling.

“You’re very easily distracted for such a successful person,” he suggested before kissing between her breasts. Her already too big shirt was caught between them and the neckline was getting further stretched out, leaving plenty of access. The player pushed small and tidy smooches on the inside curve of each breast, and some way up her sternum while she questioned what she could possibly have been distracted from. “Weren’t you going to do the thing where you think you’re all seductive and womanly? Isn’t that why you put more lipstick on? Instead you’re all lazy and yawning and laughing at everything.”

“I just put it on for you,” Christina retorted, still kind of laughing. “I didn’t have a plan. I adore not having a plan right now.” Her breathing deepened ever so slightly, but enough to make her chest lift noticeably toward the stimulus. She stretched her arms up over her head too, and really pushed her chest up for the satisfying feeling in her spine. “If we’re having sex, can I turn over first? Asking for my back.”

“It hurts?”

“No. It just wants to arch that way instead of rounding the other. Also I like when you kiss between my shoulder blades more than when you kiss between my boobs.”

“I kiss your boobs for me, not you.”

“Selfish.”

“”Kiss between my shoulders, kiss between my legs, kiss between my butt cheeks”, she says.” The Spaniard smirked at her while subtly squeezing her torso tighter in his arms. “But I’m the selfish one.”

“I have never in my life asked you to kiss between my butt cheeks.”

“Not with words, maybe. But ever since-“

“Shh.” His quasi-partner covered his mouth with her palm and shook her head. I don’t want to hear him talk about the time he did the thing with my butt. Nope. Don’t even want to think about it. Because then I might want him to do it again. “Kiss more. Talk less.”

“Why do you always have to be so difficult, baby girl?” He pretended to be frustrated with her when she removed her hand from his mouth and patted his head, but it was very clear that he enjoyed her particular mood that night. He has that Spain glow turned up to 10 tonight, she giggled in inside. Maybe it’s because there was gold leaf in our dessert.

Thirty minutes later, Christina almost regretted turning over, precisely because of that so-called glow she believed highlighted Juan’s face whenever he was in his home country. She wished she could still see his face instead of her pillow and the headboard. But it was just “almost”, because feeling was better than seeing. Whatever was anatomically different about him from André was no more exposed than when she lay on her stomach with a pillow under her hips and one between her elbows to squeeze or drop her forehead on while Juan kneeled between her legs and moved at what she called “blah” pace. It was actually the tempo he adopted at rest, when he was tired from fucking her harder or at a different angle, or when he was just trying to prolong the experience and not rush through it. He kissed the nape of her neck and around her shoulder blades, and between them the way she talked about earlier, and his palms traveled everywhere they could reach. That steadiest of rhythms was just heaven for the German girl. It was different from the kind of heaven she felt during orgasm, or in the immediate build to one. It was a long-term thing, almost like getting a professional massage. The specific feeling was one she never experienced with anyone else. There was something about him, or something only he ever thought to do. It was wonderful.

“Do you want me to-“

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” the Chelsea creator half-heartedly scolded before tamely biting the top of her shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” Christina mumbled back. Her eyes were shut and she let her head hang down between her arms.

“How do you know?”

“Because all I want is this.”

“Too bad.” Juan abruptly separated from his girl, to much whining and complaining, and plopped into the spot beside her that he was reclining in earlier. He held onto her wrists when she sat up to complain further, and used them to help invite her into his lap. “I like to kiss your front too.” He grabbed at more than kissed her left nipple, his lips starting out wide and then drawing together to suck at it as well. Then he suddenly stopped, lifted his head, and squinted at her reddened face. “Are you peeing right now or did I somehow cum without knowing it?”

“Wha?” The rider peered back at him with one eyebrow up and one down. She scratched vigorously at the side of her scalp too, causing her already fluffy hair to fly all over. Her host unceremoniously gripped her butt and tried to lift her up.

“I’m all wet…” Sure enough, there was a glistening wetness all over his thighs, and the part of him that had just been inside her was covered in something the consistency of watered down icing. A section of the white sheet directly between his legs was darkened with wetness.

“That’s just me,” Christina sniggered. I should be embarrassed, probably, but I’m not, she decided after her cheeks threatened to get even redder for just a second. Why should I care if he knows I’m so turned on that I’m producing that stuff by the bucket? Okay gross. Don’t put it that way, Chris, she chided herself. The Spaniard still looked perturbed.

“I didn’t know you got off already.”

“I didn’t. I just really enjoy when-“ She tried to explain herself and evidently did well enough without even getting to the point. He put two hands- one sticky, one not- on her face and leaned forward to kiss her, hard, and dramatically. He kind of snorted at the same time, and pulled her with him when he leaned back against he headboard again. She held the tops of his shoulders for balance, so he let go of her head and palmed her butt instead. That’s twice in as many months that he and I discovered something new about ourselves, sexually, Christina realized. That only happens with him. Schü and I haven’t learned or done anything “new” in years. But we’ve also had a lot more sex, so… Stop it. Stop thinking about that. Enjoy that you’ve just made him absolutely wild just because you’re literally making puddles on him. Just enjoy that. No need to contextualize. Just like there’s no need to contextualize anything else that happened here, like with the horses.

“Angel,” Juan muttered in between mauling her mouth and mauling her neck. He had both arms around her and couldn’t get her close enough for his liking. I like being his angel and I don’t like being in a team with a bunch of nobodies. Both of those things are okay, and they don’t mean anything bigger than that.