#Nobody drinks fucking merlot

[wine-porn]

9 of 7

Spent a couple hours this morning on a very informative zoom with the vigneron from this place and although I had opened their two least expensive and most-distributed wines the past week, had not really acclimated myself with what was in the rest of the care-package. Sure enough, there’s a 100% Merlot in there and lord knows I love myself some Italian Merlot (and we’re not talking super-Tuscan…

[p-idiot]

AUDIT

I'VE GOT A BUSINESS, I'VE GOT A LOVELY WIFE EVERYTHING I COULD WANT, I'VE GOT A PERFECT LIFE IT'S LIKE YOU'RE HARDLY WORKING WHEN IT'S SOMETHING YOU LOVE A BRAIN OF CALCULATION, IT'S HEART AN ABACUS BUT I THINK I'D BE LYING IF I DIDN'T SAY THIS I'VE GOT A WAY WITH WORDS BUT NOT A WAY WITH EMOTIONS I'VE GOT A SILVER BULLET, I'VE GOT A SELF-PRESCRIPTION I SAY HAND ME ONE MORE DRINK, YOU CALL IT AN ADDICTION I OPEN UP THE BOTTLE, LET INHIBITION GO MAYBE I SHOULDN'T, THOUGH I KNOW I SHOULDN'T, THOUGH IF IT BECOMES A PROBLEM, IF IT SEEPS IN MY BONES NOBODY HAS TO KNOW NOBODY HAS TO KNOW I'VE GOT A BUSINESS, I'VE GOT A LOVELY WIFE MAYBE I LIE A LITTLE, BUT I'M DOING ALRIGHT I SAY THAT I'LL GET BETTER, I SAY I'M TRYING TO QUIT BUT IF YOU KNOW ME, YOU WOULD KNOW I'M FAKING IT IT'S ONLY TWICE A DAY, THEN THREE, THEN FOUR, THEN FIVE IT'S NOT LIKE IT'LL KILL ME, IT MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE AT LEAST I THOUGHT THAT IT DID DON'T LET THEM KNOW I TOLD YOU THIS BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW TO RESIST I HATE MY OWN EXCUSES- CHOKING ON DESOLATION, SIP ON AMARETTO WON'T MAKE ME BETTER, THOUGH I WON'T GET BETTER, THOUGH I CAN'T STOP WHEN I WANT TO, I STILL HAVE SELF-CONTROL BUT I'LL NEVER SAY NO BUT I'LL NEVER SAY NO I KNOW I FUCKED IT ALL UP, I'M NOT A PERFECT MAN BUT I SWEAR I'LL GET BETTER, THIS ISN'T WHO I AM IT'S REALLY NOT YOUR PROBLEM, YOU SHOULDN'T GIVE A DAMN YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I'M FEELING, SO DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND PAST 60 ON THE DASHBOARD, PAST 08 IN MY BLOOD I'M FEELING KINDA FUNNY, ALL COMMON SENSE UNDONE SWERVING ALL OVER THE ROAD, GOT CHILDREN IN THE BACK HOW ARE WE GONNA GET HOME? (I'M REALLY SORRY, JACK, I-) THE CRASHING SOUND OF METAL, THE BLEEDING FROM MY NOSE I'M SO STUPID, I KNOW FUCKING AWFUL, I KNOW THE IRON TASTE IN MY MOUTH MIXES WITH THE MERLOT THEY WON'T BREATHE ANYMORE THEY WON'T BREATHE ANYMORE I'VE REALLY DONE IT THIS TIME, WHERE'S THERE FOR ME TO GO? GODDAMNIT, I DON'T KNOW HOW COULD I EVER KNOW? A SHALLOW GRAVE FROM MY HANDS, FLESH AND BLOOD DOWN BELOW PICK UP, PICK UP THE PHONE PICK UP, PICK UP THE PHONE

[mothz11]

I REALLY like this song but I dont listen to the damn lyrics WTF??? Spotify fucksed up my liked playlist and starts playing random but banging songs that I didn't even liked?????

Swearing and djjejrebf mentions of blood and flesh

AUDIT - weevildoing

I've got a business, I've got a lovely wife

Everything I could want, I've got a perfect life

It's like you're hardly working when it's something you love

A brain of calculation, its heart, an abacus

But I think I'd be lying if I didn't say this

I've got a way with words, but not a way with emotions

I've got a silver bullet, I've got a self-prescription

I say, "hand me one more drink, " you call it an addiction

I open up the bottle, let inhibition go

Maybe I shouldn't, though

I know I shouldn't, though

If it becomes a problem, if it seeps in my bones

Nobody has to know

Nobody has to know

I've got a business, I've got a lovely wife

Maybe I lie a little, but I'm doing alright

I say that I'll get better, I say I'm trying to quit

But if you know me, you would know I'm faking it

It's only twice a day, then three, then four, then five

It's not like it'll kill me, it makes me feel alive

At least I thought that it did, don't let them know I told you this

But I don't know how to resist, I hate my own excuses

Choking on desolation, sip on the amaretto

Won't make me better, though

I won't get better, though

I can stop when I want to, I still have self control

But I'll never say no

But I'll never say no

I know I fucked it all up, I'm not a perfect man

But I swear I'll get better, this isn't who I am

It's really not your problem, you shouldn't give a damn

You don't know how I'm feeling, so don't try to understand

Past 60 on the dashboard, past .08 in my blood

I'm feeling kinda funny, all common sense undone

Swerving all over the road, got children in the back

How are we gonna get home?

I'm really sorry, Jack, I-

The crashing sound of metal, the bleeding from my nose

I'm so stupid, I know

Fucking awful, I know

The iron taste in my mouth mixes with the merlot

They won't breathe anymore

They won't breathe anymore

I've really done it this time, where's there for me to go?

God damn it, I don't know

How could I ever know?

A shallow grave from my hands, flesh, blood, down below

Pick up, pick up the phone

Pick up, pick up the phone

[pasiveagressive]

Broken Heart // h.s

Heavy angst and a little bit of heavier language then I normally use.

“Fine leave!” you scream “Go fucking make out with Olivia for all I care!” you slam the door and it makes an awful noise. You fall against it and slide to the floor.

You remember knocking over the wine glass in the middle of your fight and when you look down at your dress you see the awful crimson splotch, that’s when the tears start to fall. You stand up and walk to your bedroom stripping the dress off. After throwing it in a heap on the floor you face plant onto your pillow. Your tears won’t stop and you aren’t sure you want them to as you let big ugly sobs leave your body. At some point after you feel the tears stop you head to the wine stand. Not caring anymore you uncork it and drink straight from the bottle. You head to the couch still nursing the bottle and turn on some stupid drivel as you feel the tears start again. Sometime between reruns of Friends you fall asleep.

You are woken up the next morning by the sun in your eyes. You let out a whine from the pain in your head. Looking over you notice the empty wine bottle and groan. After a minute you refuse to waste any more time crying. You stand up and rub your eyes, wincing when you pull your hand away and notice the makeup remnants. A sigh comes out, I am a mess, you think to yourself. Walking to the bathroom more of last night comes back to you. The wine stain on your favorite dress really stands out. That’s when you decide to make a checklist and follow it.

-Shower

-Get dressed in something more than the lingerie you currently had on

-Review the damage to the dress  

-Check out the door

In the shower you don’t even notice the tears start to fall again. Of course he would leave you, a nobody compared to Harry Styles, a small-time songwriter that he had his fill of and was now onto more important people. You let the water hit your skin as hot as it would go relishing the pain, it was better than being numb.

After getting dressed you pick up your now wrinkled and stained dress. This was your favorite dress and it is now ruined. You try and wrack your brain for how your mom showed you to remove a stain like this but come up with nothing. Sighing you pickup your phone 

“Hello?”

“Mom?” you say.

“Hi baby! What’s going on?” Her voice getting excited

“Mom, I miss you.” you hear your voice break as tears start falling for what feels like the millionth time in the last 12 hours

“Sweetheart what’s wrong?” the concern evident

“There’s merlot all over my dress and I can’t remember how to get it out.” full on sobs are now rocking your body

“Okay, it's going to be okay Y/N. Take a deep breath.” you do as she asks “Now what is really going on my sweet girl?” You flashback to last night

You and Harry had been getting in little fights over nothing for the past couple weeks. It was getting really real that he would be leaving for tour any day now. The two of you had never had to deal with that. Your first date had been one week before the world shut down, and therefore you had never been more than ten miles apart when your relationship had really taken off. But now, there had been rumors that he and his director were a thing, and you knew that they were just rumors but you also knew that the way he smiled at his phone while he was texting her or the tone of his voice when he was talking about her wasn’t just a rumor. He smiled the way he smiled at you the first year of your relationship. It worries you. You never thought that Harry would be one to cheat and you still didn’t but there were other ways of cheating besides fucking someone else that could be read as just being friends to the naked eye.

“I just don’t understand what your issue is with her coming!” Harry shouted at you 

“And I don’t understand what you don’t understand! This party is just for family and friends that might as well be family!” 

“Well that should include Olivia!” you roll your eyes at him and start to walk away “Why are you acting like a teenager over this?” 

“Oh I am acting like a teenager now! You want to know why I don’t want Olivia there, Harry? Maybe it’s because my boyfriend who I thought might just be the love of my life looks at her the way he should be looking at me.” Tears prick the corners of your eyes. He furrowed his eyebrows

“That’s crazy. I don’t think about her that way at all.” you scoff

“Okay so now I am a crazy teenager that's just great Harry. You know what I don’t even care anymore invite her to the stupid party H. It’s not like that's going to change anything anyway.” His phone dings and he looks at it. A gorgeous smile graces his face. “See that is exactly what I mean. You don’t smile at me like that, let alone smile at my texts. I need a break. I am going to bed.” It’s like your words don’t even register.  You walk away.

When you get to your room you pull out your phone. There are about a million texts and missed calls from your sister, your best friends and your publicist. You open them and see red.

“Are you actually kidding me Harry!” you storm back into the living room. “ ‘I don’t think about her that way at all.’ I believe those were your exact words.” He looks at the picture you are shoving in his face and then up at your face which you are positive is as red as a tomato.

“I am leaving. I will be back tomorrow and we can maybe have a conversation like civilized adults.”

“Fine leave!” you scream “Go fucking make out with Olivia for all I care!”

“He doesn’t love me mommy.” you sob

“Oh sweetheart, that is not true.”

“Yes it is. He left me in the middle of a fight, and he went to her.”

“I am coming over okay. I will be there in twenty minutes.”

Fifteen minutes later your doorbell rings. You open it and fall into your mom's arms weeping.

“It is going to be okay Y/N.” She sits you on the couch and hands you a cup of tea. After asking you where the dress in question is, she floats off. When she returns ten minutes later smelling of cleaning supplies, she picks up your legs and sets them on her lap.  

“Tell me everything.” So you do. When you finish you ask

“Mama, can you die from a broken heart?” 

“No sweetheart you can’t. It will heal and become stronger. But I don’t think that is going to happen either.” She points behind you and you turn to see Harry, looking absolutely wrecked. “I am going to go now.” she kisses your head “I love you.” Silence follows and you hear the door close. 

“Hi.” you whisper 

“‘Ello.” his voice was more raspy than usual “Can I sit?” He points to where your mom just was. You nod your head. Silence follows for another minute.

“Do you love me?” you ask

“Yeah of course I do.” 

“Do you love her?” more silence and then 

“No.”

“Then why?” you ask carefully. You didn’t want to get into another screaming match or cry.

“I never touched her or even thought about touching her that way. She was helping me with something for you. All the texts and phone calls were about you.” your eyes narrow in confusion 

“What?” 

“I needed help picking a ring.” you audibly gasp. 

“What?” 

“I want you to marry me.” he says earnestly as he pulls a velvet box from his pocket. He opens it and sets it on the table. “I can’t be with someone who gets jealous like that though. It's not fair to either of us.``He grabs your hand “I am going to stay in the hotel until I leave for tour. Here is a plane ticket for Houston.” He places it on the table beside the ring. “If you want this to work and you want to marry me I will see you there. If you don’t think you can handle this then I won’t see you there.” He stands up and heads for the door, stopping with his hand on the handle.

“I love you so much Y/N. I hope to see you in Houston.” he leaves 

“I love you too.” you whisper, staring at the ticket now in your hand.

[heresathreebee]

That G-D Ring of Yours

High Fidelity’s Robyn Brooks X Female reader

Summary: You seek comfort from your neighbor Rob

Masterlist

There's probably gonna be a part 2

Word count: 2.5k words

Warning(s): +15 | implied cheating, internalized homophobia, heterosexism, author and Rob swearing, no hate to polyamorists but major hate to bad faith players, shameless self insert, no beta, barely edited, long as fuck I'm so sorry

Author's note: I'm having anxiety for no discernable reason and my brain has decided this is ideal fuel for a fic, so please enjoy. EDIT: ha ha yeah still anxious but we're doing stuff about it

-------------------------------------------------------

"-- And she just touched my hand by accident and I just felt this–  this spark between us…" 

It was so sweet how he was talking about it. Or at least it would be were this not your fiancé explaining how he had been seeing another person behind your back. Had you rushed into things with him? Gotten hitched after three months because of familial pressure to settle down and start your family? Quite possibly.

But it didn't make that stabbing in your gut hurt any less. 

You had been a little gung-ho from date number 1, but he had been right there with you the whole time. Date number 2 happened the following weekend and then you just kept seeing each other more and more until before you knew it you had been introduced to each other's extended families and announced your engagement on Valentine's Day. 

You started to suspect something was amiss on Sunday, when you were braiding your hair on the bed and he had gone to take a shower. He accidentally set his phone screen aside with a text chat still open. Thinking nothing of it (he had already told you he was talking to Mark about getting drinks tonight), you looked at the name and saw it belonged to a woman you had never heard of before. Your immediate reaction was 'she must be a new coworker or a cousin,' but then you glanced again and saw the text conversation mirrored the same kind of ‘sentiments’ he texts you. 

The dirt burned into your brain for eternity: 

You had looked away then. You were actually not going to say anything at all to him that night– had planned to bring it up after Tuesday dinner with your auntie's family, but something came up. It turns out that Jessabelle also frequented the same Starbucks as you (and she's your age, not a teen like you worried). You can't even find it in you to be mad at her since it seemed like she had no idea who you were when she showed you the picture of her date at a baseball game. You tried not to puke as you asked for her number and to send her that picture "for her contact profile." 

You hadn't heard a word your fiance had said since the beginning of the phone call and you cut him off with some excuse you barely remember. You tossed your phone carelessly onto the couch and laid back on the cushions in defeat. What now? 

You weren't really a drinker or a smoker, and you didn't exactly have friends who would be supportive right now. You could hear them now, your family too– asking you what you did wrong, telling you to just forgive him or how to get even, or simply saying 'well what do you expect? Boys will be boys.' 

Maybe… no, you definitely need to get this off your chest before you do something stupid like pretend to forget about it. You had a bad habit of that because you tend to fall fast and hard. Perhaps your neighbor could give you some advice. 

Thank the Lord for fire escapes. Rob lived on the floor beneath you, always playing something good from her huge collection of vinyl records. You've told her at least a hundred times before if she played nothing but Phil Collins for the rest of eternity, you could die happy. You crossed your fingers and hoped you weren't being weird or invading her privacy. 

Thankfully, she seemed to be expecting you. She even motioned that the latch was undone and waved you inside. Ok the second wine glass made your face grow hot. 

"I'm not interrupting am I?" 

Rob gave you a warm smile. "I could hear you pacing around your kitchen for about an hour. Was about to come and get you actually." 

She pressed the glass into your hand and you made an effort not to grimace. Rob liked her drinks cheap and strong and she never held back. You tried a sip just to be polite, and she snorted at the face you pulled. 

"That's right, you like that sweet stuff. What's it called again?" 

"Stella Rosa," you mumbled, grateful when she takes the glass back and hands you a water to replace it. 

"Favorite flavor," she asked looking at her phone. 

"Uh… the peach and the rosé. They're all pretty good, not gonna lie." 

"OK, take this, grab a blanket from the hall closet, and tell me what's going on." 

You curled up on Rob's couch and put your feet up. There were piles of records all over the place, empty beer cans and a pizza box or two on the coffee table. Your neighbor tapped away at her phone screen before silencing it and slipping it in her back pocket. She gave you a minute or two to speak up, sipping her drink like you two had all night. Which actually you did as you did not want to see your fiancé right now. 

You felt two fingers gently tap your forehead. "Come on, dreamer, tell me what's going on in that head of yours." 

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I feel a little over dramatic saying my life is about to fall apart." 

Rob raised her eyebrows at you. "Damn, OK." 

You rush to correct yourself– explain your weird sentiment in more detail but you end up just vomiting words until your voice is hoarse. 

"I mean– like– like it's not falling apart per say or whatever– I… the rest of my life is fine its just my relationship that's screwed. Which I guess I'm more worried about because it's gonna screw up all my other relationships for a while too– dang it, let me start over–" 

"Babe! Slow down. Breathe." Rob switched drinks with you and against your better judgement you took a sip. Oddly enough it did calm you down. "So… it's your fiancé, right? What did he do?" 

You stared at her trying to unscramble your thoughts. "He… I found out he was kind of... dating another person. After I found out, he tried to explain that he didn't think I would mind–" 

Rob barked, "let me guess: he didn't think you were exclusive? Pull the Main Chick, Side Chick schtick? Tried to claim 'polyamory' after he got caught?" 

Two and two clicked together at last. "Yeah… yeah, he did!," you scoffed, "and it's not like it didn't ever come up in conversation: we spent our third date talking out our, like, sexualities and fantasies and fetishes and shit. If he was polyamorous, wh- why wouldn't he have brought it up then?" 

"That is so fucked." 

You took a deeper draft of her wine, coughing before setting it aside. Up until now, you've been numb. Now there's this wave of anger boiling up to the surface and you hear yourself getting louder. Rob doesn't flinch but she does give you this look of empathy unlike anything you've seen before. 

"If he– if he would have just asked me, I would have told him it was fine. My family does shit like that all the time: nobody bats an eye! If he really thought I wouldn't mind, he wouldn't have been so freaking sneaky about it. He literally lied, Robyn!" 

You whipped around and for a brief moment you knew you looked crazy. "He said he was going out for drinks with his guy friend, but he was making plans to go to a baseball game with a girl I've never heard of! If he really thought I wouldn't mind, or if he 'thought I would understand,' then why would go out of his way to lie about who he was with?" 

Someone buzzed Rob's door and she left you on the couch momentarily, coming back quickly with two bottles of your favorite wine. "Damn girl, these are kinda bougie: Peach or Rosé?" 

"I--"you choked, "Robyn you didn't have to–" 

"Peach it is!" She unscrewed the caps and handed you the whole freaking bottle of white, downing the last of her merlot and getting a fresh glass for you. 

You felt a little guilty she had spent money on you. But then again it had been her choice. If she didn't want you there, Rob wouldn't have let you in in the first place. Maybe you were just a tinsy bit worried you shouldn't be here. 

You and Rob took a break from talking to put on music and get a little tipsy. It came much easier with the help of the Stella Rosa, though Rob initially complained it was 5.5%, she did get accustomed to the sweetness pretty fast, and after consuming half the bottle, realized it was a little easier to get carried away with a drink like this. She admitted it was her first time trying rosé and now she was hooked. Eventually you started talking again, just spilling your guts out with no filter anymore. 

"I really think I just hate myself," you said cuddling the cool glassware. "When I found out, I wasn't even thinking of it as a betrayal of my trust– it felt like I was trying to come to terms with it so I could continue with the relationship. Not because it would make me happy but because… I don't know… it's what everybody else wants me to do. They don't even know about it and I was fully prepared not to tell them even though they'd want me to marry him whether they knew or not." 

Rob barked a laugh of surprise. "Doh-K!" 

"What?" 

"Nothing, nothing…" she said, "keep going." 

You stared off into the middle distance and leaned into her side. She was a tiny bit warm despite her lithe figure. Made you want to throw your blanket over her shoulders and share your greater warmth. 

So you did (you're not great at acting out your desires but this is nice!)

"It's just easier," the words left your mouth unbidden, "I don't even know what that means, but it's true. I don't want to marry him anymore but I don't want to break it off. Not marrying Fiancé means disappointing my family. It means having to find an entire new man to marry sooner rather than later because I'm already 'behind' and lowering my already low expectations. 

"It's not gonna make me happy, but I just think it's easier to keep this wedding going because at least I won't have to find somebody new who might not be as good for me just because I didn't want him. Another man won't make me happy so there's no reason to drop him... except that I don't want him." 

Rob's brow furrowed. "Are you saying it's easier for you to please your family than it is to be happy?" 

"Yes? I– no, I– … I don't know," you sigh. "I guess you could say my priorities are a little… mismanaged." 

"Sure, you could say that." Rob wrapped her arms around your shoulders and you inhaled the scent of her soap and cigarettes. "What if you tried… like… not doing that anymore...? You just said you do whatever your family wants you to do. So, just like do what makes you happy for a change." 

It really does sound so simple the way she puts it, doesn't it? Why are you doing this to yourself? You're not dependent on them for money or security or happiness for that matter. So... why has your whole life been centered around pleasing them? 

"I think… I think I've never really sat down and thought about what makes me happy," you admitted. "I think it's just been that way forever and I might have been too scared to try anything else." 

Rob hummed. "Are you still scared now?" 

Are you? You look into her eyes and ask yourself a question that has never crossed your mind with such depth. You used to be scared– but what is it about your happiness that you are so afraid of? OK, let’s start a little simpler: what are things that make you happy? 

“I like…” you swallowed, trying to break down the barriers you’ve built years and years ago. “I like… coffee. I like… short skirts. I like… girls– I like… my job. I like… music. I think I’d enjoy camping, you know, some day…” 

Your words… these things seemed so arbitrary and trivial. But in your house, these things cause dissent. “My family has an opinion about everything. There’s no right way to live in all of their eyes, but I think I figured out a way to get past it. Keep my head down and do what’s expected of me. Graduate college, get a respectable job, find a man to marry, drop the job and become a mother. Just… don’t make waves. It seemed better because the cousins who didn’t or couldn’t… well they became the butt of every joke at the family dinner. Lisa had one miscarriage so she was a ‘failure’ and Don never dated girls so he was gay and that was ‘bad,’ but grandma Zelda did everything a good Christian woman could do and they still gossiped about her behind her back… 

“And I just… I just let their ignorance control me for my entire life.” God, you could cry right now, but somehow it just felt too good to say it outloud. “That.. that is so fucked.” 

Robyn snorted, and you turned to her as if you’d forgotten she was there. There it was again, that sympathy. Not pity, she did not burden you with tears of her own or try to be angry for you. She just listened and understood. You twisted the diamond encrusted ring on your finger and stared at her. You felt it, that feeling in your heart. No one else had given you that look, like she could really see you. 

“You’re not going back to Fiancé, are you?” Her question was equal parts worrisome and hopeful and you already knew the answer in your heart. 

“No.”

And that was it. Decision made. Actually easier than you'd thought. Maybe not down the road but it felt good for now. There's the telling your fiancé it's over, the moving out, the public announcement, the inevitable feeling of failure, your family, god, his family too. Untangling your lives would be long and hard. You're not sure if you have that level of commitment and motivation in you but fuck it. Problems for tomorrow.

You rest your head on Rob's shoulder and hope your not pushing any boundaries. She doesn't stop you though, in fact she snuggles you deeper into her. You get the feeling she's been here before though your not sure which side or how bad it was for her.

"I like you way more in the few times I've met you than any man I've ever dated," you heard yourself say. "I'm sure that means something but I'm too tired to decide anymore. No tonight at least."

Rob chuckled. "I like you too, sugar."

If you made it this far, hi 💛 appreciate you, leave me a comment! Or just comment "💛"

[smileyoongle]

MASTERPIECE (A Yandere Park Jimin AU)

So basically this is where everything really starts. I swear, the ending that I have planned for this is mind boggling. I'm still surprised with the plot that I've planned. But I can't exactly just jump to the end so let's take it slow.

Summary: You thought it was just a painting until you bought it. You thought the man in the frame was beautiful until you saw him. You thought it was a masterpiece until you were ruined.

Pairing: Yandere! Jimin×Reader, Taehyung×Reader

Warnings: Contains mentions of smut, deaths, blood, obsessive behaviour and mental health issues. Please read at your own risk.

You wiped your forehead and stepped down from the stool, a sigh of pride escaping your lips as you stared at the painting that was now hanging on your bedroom wall. It was sad that you had to take down the previous Helen Frankenthaler piece. But it's time was up. And no painting had made you so fascinated before. 

"Did you take down that nursery school painting?" A voice invaded your ears, your lips stretching into a smile as you turned to the source of the sweet voice. 

"Took you long enough to find me." You teased, opening your arms and hugging the older woman who had just entered your room. She chuckled and patted your back before ruffling your hair, her faint wrinkles making themselves visible as she smiled. You grinned at the mother-like lady who stood in front of you, who you lovingly called Nan. Since you moved into this house and away from your family, she had taken great care of you. She was originally the caretaker of the house and lived in a cottage nearby. But after you moved in, something clicked. Maybe it was because of the lack of affection from your mother and the absence of a daughter in Nan's life. In just a couple months, she was giving you the love that your family never gave you and you were beyond grateful for it.

"Says the girl who spent her entire day outside. And that too without eating any breakfast." She complained, giving you a playful glare. You shook your head and held her hand, pulling her in front of the new addition that you had made to your room.

"You can complain about it later but right now, I want you to tell me how you feel about this." You stated, nudging your head towards the painting. 

Nan raised her eyebrows and you could tell that she was impressed. Now that was even more surprising. Nan literally didn't care about any of your paintings. Mostly, because she didn't see what you saw in them. 

"Seems like you do have good taste, darling. He's a beauty." She said, staring at the painting for a second longer. You hummed in response and fixed your gaze at the swirls of paint on the canvas. You had to admit, even though the painting looked messy, it managed to look elegant. It was probably because of how good looking Park Jimin was but you had also seen your fair share of handsome men. Taehyung being one of them. And that's how you knew it wasn't just the pretty face, something about it was mysterious. You just didn't know what to assume. From the delicate frame to the faint patters of red that tainted the bottom of the canvas, you felt attracted to every inch of it. There was a story behind it. And you really wanted to know.

You gasped when you felt a slap on your shoulder, your eyes widening as you turned to Nan who was looking at you with narrowed eyes.

"Even though I know this is just a painting, let me just say that I won't approve if you fell for an imaginary man. And especially when you have an entire Kim Taehyung ready to sweep you off your feet." You rolled your eyes at her dramatic description. Sometimes, you swore that Nan was secretly running a fanclub for your and Taehyung's relationship. Even though she knew that you would never date him, she still tried. And you couldn't exactly blame her either, Taehyung was too charming.

"I won't fall for that man but I am definitely in love with that masterpiece." You said, walking out of your room and down the stairs. You heard her footsteps behind you as you entered the kitchen, your hand immediately going to the unopened bottle of merlot that rested on the table. 

"Too much isn't good for you." Nan stated in disapproval but you just shrugged, grabbing a wine glass to pour your treat for the night. 

You saw Nan shaking her head in your peripheral vision as you took the first sip of your red velvety liquid.

"Oh and your father called. He was asking if you were gonna go visit during Christmas." 

Your jaw immediately clenched, the red wine suddenly tasting bitter to you.

"What did you say?" You asked calmly. You didn't wanna lash out on Nan, she did nothing but worry about you.

But you couldn't say the same for your family.

Nan could sense the anger radiating off of you. She knew better than to mention your family but it was important in order to break your walls.

"I told them I'll talk to you about it." She answered, looking at you with concern filled eyes. 

You glanced at her, your fingers clenching around the glass in your hand. If you applied a little more pressure, it would surely break.

Nan opened her mouth to say something but you stopped her.

"I feel good today, Nan. It's probably the first time in months, so how about we just drop this and order pizza. I'm starving." You gave her a tight smile, breathing deeply to calm yourself down. 

Nan nodded in understanding, tucking a strand of gray hair behind her ear as she smiled at you. In all her years living with you, Nan knew that it was important for you to be happy. Your happiness meant that you were getting better and your therapy sessions were getting shorter. It really broke her heart to watch you get lost in your own thoughts. Bad thoughts, to be precise.

All because of something that happened years ago.

You headed upstairs in search of your phone, tipping your head back to gulp down all the liquid in your glass. The floor where your bedroom was located, was eerily dark and quiet. But what else could you expect? It was only you and Nan in the house. 

Even though you should have been used to it by now, you couldn't help but shiver. It was weird.

You switched on the lights in your room, skipping towards your bed where your phone lay. You plopped down on the soft mattress and grabbed your phone, dialing in your favourite pizza place's number. 

You inhaled deeply as the phone rang, signalling that your call was going through. And as soon as the receiver picked up, you felt it.

Hot breath fanning the back of your neck, shallow sounds of someone's breathing filling your ear. Your heart stopped, your body feeling the presence of another being right behind you. It was too real to be just your mind playing tricks.

It could be Nan.

"Y/N, I'm going to the cottage for a minute. I'll be back." 

Your eyes widened when you heard her voice from downstairs, followed by the slamming of a door. 

It wasn't her.

"Hello? Ma'am, are you there?" The pizza person asked, his voice growing bored with the lack of response. Goosebumps rose on your skin when a low hiss came from behind you. There was definitely someone standing there. You clenched your fingers around your phone, bringing it away from your ear as you gulped. Your heart was pounding so hard that you thought it was gonna jump out of your chest. 

With a shaky breath, you slowly turned around, your eyes closing in fear of seeing something you didn't wanna see. Another gush of air fanned your face, your eyes shooting open only to meet his.

Brown eyes stared into yours with as much stillness as a rock possessed. You placed a hand on your chest and sighed loudly.

"Fucking hell." You cursed, glancing at the painting that had startled you. You shook your head and laughed at yourself. There was nobody. It was just your mind. Or the fact you had merlot running through your veins. 

You narrowed your eyes and held your empty wine glass, bringing it closer to your face. You tilted your head as if to examine it. As if there was something wrong with it.

"I haven't even had too much yet." You mumbled before letting out a frustrated hiss and standing up from your bed. You grabbed your phone again, dialing the pizza place's number again as you exited the room. You definitely needed a break.

___________________________________________

The noise from the TV fell deaf to your ears as you slept on the couch. The empty pizza boxes were scattered around the huge living room, an empty bottle of merlot sitting just below the couch. Your mouth was slightly parted and your hair was all over your face. Nan had already left for the night, the comfort of her own cottage inviting her back home. It was 3AM when the soft footsteps echoed through the staircase, the TV screen suddenly going black. Your chest rose and fell rhythmically, your peaceful state making him more and more curious. 

Fingers trailed over your cheek, brushing away some of your hair from your face. You unconsciously shivered and whined, turning away to lay on your side with your cheek pressed against the soft material of the couch. A low chuckle made you frown in your sleepy state. You were awake only for a second before your body screamed at you to just ignore it and go back to sleep. And so you did. 

Nothing woke you up after that. Not even the feeling of his breath on your face. Not even the feeling of his lips next to your ears. Not even his voice. 

"Such a pretty little thing. I can't wait to ruin you."

____________________________________________

"Y/N, wake up! You have an appointment today." 

You groaned and covered your face, whining as the covers were pulled off of you. You flailed your hands in an attempt to grab them again but Nan knew you. And she had already tossed the blanket on the floor. 

"Sleepy head, wake up. We're gonna be late. I told you not to drink that entire bottle. I might have to take Taehyung up on his offer of banning the winery from sending you more." Her voice caused your head to throb. You winced and held your head, shoving your face into your pillow. 

Pillow…

Blanket... 

Realisation hit you like a huge tsunami, your eyes shooting open as you jolted awake. You frantically looked around, scoffing in disbelief as your bedroom came into view.

What the fuck?

Nan frowned and stared at you with concern, her hands halting their movements immediately.

"Are you alright?" She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder. You blinked twice and ran your fingers through your hair. 

"Did-did I sleep here?" You asked, glancing at Nan whose eyes were still fixed on you. She nodded in confusion, not understanding the cause of your dilemma at all.

"You were sleeping here when I came in. Why? Something wrong?" She enquired, narrowing her eyes at you. You clenched your eyes shut and hissed, falling back into the soft sheets.

"I don't remember sleeping here... I'm probably just hungover." You stated, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You heard Nan tsk in disapproval. 

You obviously lied. You had been drinking for years now and you definitely knew when you were hungover. You clearly recalled falling asleep on the couch. So how did you end up here? 

"I don't know about you but I'm definitely telling Dr Kim about your little drinking sessions." Said a voice from the doorway. Once again, you sat up in bed with immediate effect. Your eyes meeting his beautiful brown ones, his lips stretching into a fond smile as you frowned at him.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Taehyung shrugged and plopped down on your bed, waving fondly at Nan as he turned his attention back to you.

"I took a day off. Work's getting overwhelming." He replied nonchalantly. His fingers picked at your silk sheets, a habit of his whenever he was lying. You narrowed your eyes at him and crossed your arms.

Your glare made him roll his eyes as he raised his hands in defence.

"Fine. I was worried about you and Nan called me just in case you decide to cancel your appointment like last week." 

Your eyes turned to Nan for an explanation. But she seemed unaffected by your gaze. She was pretty used to it. At her lack of response, you sighed and looked at Taehyung.

"Why were you worried? And also, I cancelled my appointment last week because I don't think I need therapy anymore. I'm completely okay now." You said, gesturing to yourself. Taehyung and Nan glanced at each other before looking at you with pursed lips. You gave them a confused look, raising your eyebrows in question. 

Taehyung cleared his throat and sat up, shifting closer to you and tucking your hair behind your ear. You leaned into his touch, unknowingly. His warm hands providing you relief from your headache. He smiled softly, caressing your cheek before leaning forward.

"You called me last night, my love." He stated, tilting his head and looking at you with worrisome eyes. You frowned and shook your head.

"No I didn't…"

"I have the call log. You called me at around 3 in the morning." He interrupted you, making you shake your head even more furiously. Noticing your panic, Taehyung cupped your cheeks and hushed you.

"What did I say?" You questioned, your heart pounding in fear of an answer you didn't wanna hear. Taehyung's eyes turned to Nan who was watching you with sympathetic eyes. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to tell you this, but he knew that he'd calm you down in case you happened to have a breakdown. 

"You were crying for help. And you were repeatedly saying that he was gonna kill you…"

Your stomach churned and you yanked yourself away from Taehyung, your feet harshly hitting the wooden floor as you rushed to the bathroom. You threw the toilet lid open and fell to your knees, emptying all the contents of your stomach. Nan followed you and held your hair back, rubbing your back until you were done.

After you composed yourself, you stood up with shaky legs and rinsed your mouth before splashing your face with cold water. 

Your eyes met your own in the mirror, your mind hating the way you were showing pity for your own self. It had been months since you last had an attack related to the bitter memory that was engraved in your mind. You really thought you were getting better.

You were so wrong.

After a minute of self loathing, you went back to your bedroom, leaning against your closet as you stared at the floor. Taehyung stood with his back to you, his eyes dancing over the man who now resided in front of your bed. Nan was gone, leaving you alone with your handsome best friend. 

You really appreciated the presence of these two people in your life, seeing as how others had proved themselves unworthy of your attention.

"Do you think I'll ever get out of it?" You asked in a hushed tone, Taehyung's head turning to face you. He gave you a soft smile before walking towards you. He gently placed a finger under your chin and lifted your head up.

"You're Y/N Y/L/N. You'll always find a way." He stated before kissing your forehead. At times like these, you questioned your feelings for Taehyung. Your heart fluttered but you hushed it down. You hated him for being so good to you. But you also didn't wanna let him go.

Selfish was the only way to describe you.

"Also, should I be worried?" Taehyung asked, eyeing the painting suspiciously as you hummed.

Jimin's eyes stared back at you, making you shiver slightly. Sometimes, you wondered if paintings ever came to life.

Like toy story.

Or night at the museum.

The thought made you giddy and excited. With a firm look at your new favourite masterpiece, you mumbled under your breath and Taehyung's eyes turned to you with a playful glare.

"Maybe…"

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-XX

[arthurkanemoto]

for → @marionstewart location: a seedy bar in lafayette square time: saturday, 11:30PM

Two-and-a-half minutes.

Two-and-a-half fucking minutes was all it took for Marion to infiltrate all of his senses, scramble his brain into gray mush every single fucking second of the day he was awake. It didn’t matter that he deleted the message as soon as it hit his phone, didn’t matter that what had really gotten him were the mere seconds that was driving him up the wall, unable to do anything about it.

For the longest time, he believed that when he’d left, he’d severed the last of the connection to her. That nothing would remind her of him, and vice versa, and their hands would be cleansed of each other forever, with only dusty memories, neglected, dulling as time went on.

That was what he’d done, at least. Perhaps thirty-one was old in society’s eyes, but Arthur was barely grown, still untangling the meanings and workings of being a responsible adult (hell, he still didn’t know how to do it) and back then, the prospect of a child seemed… unimaginable. How was he supposed to father a child, something so small and fragile and innocent when he couldn’t turn that gentle eye towards himself?

In the end, it was easier to run and leave everything behind, even if it meant that he’d never find love again. Love was unnecessary; he’d survived three decades without it, after all. Every fucking morning, seeing her and then perpetually falling apart, fraying at the seams. His heart betraying his pride whenever he’d find her, after a long day, curled up on the couch with a mug of something wicked. Feeling the velvet of her skin, tasting the hint of Merlot and mint lip balm on her lips. Paradise, for a blip in his timeline; a taste of something good for once in his life. 

But Heaven was for the righteous, and Arthur was far from that.

Arthur needed to punish himself. And there was nothing more punishing than thinking about Marion, thinking about the fucking baby, and drinking half-a-bottle of bourbon in one night to relieve him of the pain that spread through his chest when he thought of her.

The bartender had side-eyed him, opened his mouth to no doubt, cut him off, but Arthur was still sober enough to throw the guy a dirty look or two, so the liquor continued to flow to his cup — and really, it helped that he was handing the guy tips like nobody’s business. It was when he was stumbling back from the bathroom after his tenth or eleventh drink that he had a thought, that maybe, he’d finally take home a woman to fuck the pain away. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a blonde, and fuck, was he predictable, but he could pretend, like he’d always done. Some nights, it worked like a charm. Others, it only made the hole in his heart bigger. The odds were never in his favor, but he knew how to play Russian Roulette with his emotions like the back of his hand. 

“Hey —” Walking over, he placed a hand on her shoulder, a self-assured grin on his lips. And then the woman turned.

Well, fuck me.

Marion. Was he really that one-note? “Shit — I - I thought you were someone else.” It was a sorry excuse, but half the truth. Pausing, he glanced around, eyes wandering the seedy joint, and he furrowed his brow. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

[tommyplum]

- tis the saison | tommy/alfie, modern au  for @boundinshallows’ sholomons prompt fest 2019

Nobody much cares for holiday parties, but everybody's got to go to them nevertheless. Tommy Shelby's no exception, much as he would like to be. .

notes: takes place in the same modern au as eggplant peach question mark - maggie

"Tell me one more time that you don't want to go, Tommy Shelby, and I'll not only send Arthur round to drag you there, I'll buy you a Christmas jumper with mistletoe pinned to the hem and sit back and laugh at the thought of you jumping around the room like a scalded cat trying to avoid being kissed on the cock."

"Christ Almighty, Pol." Tommy rubbed his fingers over his eyebrows, using the heels of his shoes -- currently hooked up on the edge of his desk -- to drag his wheeled office chair forward. "Giving me a little too much credit, aren't you?"

"Giving the other attendees of the liquor board holiday party too little, more like it." Polly's voice sounded amused and warm, even over the tinny speakerphone. "Thomas, you know I usually take on party duties, but it simply can't be helped this year. You're going to have to represent for us. It won't be so bad! How many distributors can you have slept with already?"

Tommy felt it was quite admirable that he had the grace to just let silence stretch between him and speakerphone Polly in answer to that question. Pol, however, didn't seem to share his viewpoint on that.

"Oh, hellfire, Tommy! It's a wonder you get any fucking work done at all, I swear to God."

"Look, I'll go, I'll go. I won't like it, but I'll go." He used his heels to push himself away from the desk, drag himself close again, bony knees accordioning up on each approach as he chewed a thumbnail and mentally totted up the likely suspects he'd be running into over fusion dim sum appetizers and rounds of whatever vodka blended drinks were on the themed menu. "Might even make it out of there unscathed."

"You're a horror." Polly paused, and then said, "--Alfie Solomons is going to be there this year. He said since we were clear that it's a holiday party and not a Christmas party, he felt at peace in his devotions with dipping a toe in the secular festivities. He literally said those words."

Tommy grunted, thumping one shoe down onto the floor. "So what? So he's religious. I've seen you twirl a rosary or two in your time, Aunt Pol."

"Shut it. Don't fuck anybody." 

The dial tone followed this warning, and Tommy ended the call on his desk phone. With Alfie Solomons around being the cock-blocking arsehole he'd more than once proven himself to be, Tommy thought sourly, there wasn't much chance of his even being able to disobey Polly's orders.

---

Hour One of Holiday Representation Hell consisted of two tremendously terrible courgette gyoza, a peach-and-satsuma nightmare of a blended drink, and two elderflower ciders in quick succession to rinse out the taste of both. It also consisted of Tommy smiling and nodding as a number of representatives of small labels that wouldn't see next year paraded themselves past him, pressing flesh and telling him their names with voices of great import. Tommy made jokes that didn't land half the time, but watched them all laugh anyway.

Hour Two of Not-Christmas Carnival of Nonsense saw the introduction of wasabi cheese straws (somehow more tasty than the gyoza, and Tommy had one in his mouth at all times through that hour), another cider, and a few shots of green apple soju. Luca Changretta followed him around for at least twenty minutes trying to sell him on fruit wines, and Tommy finally promised to try his blueberry merlot before hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the hour and feeling up one of the servers through her sensible cotton pants. She ate the rest of his cheese straw and he retreated once the coast was clear.

Hour Three of Whatever It Was, the peach-and-satsuma nightmare had become much more tolerable with the addition of most of a bottle of peach schnapps, and Tommy watched a short parade of those small label representatives conga out the back door. 

"What are they called?"

Tommy blinked, raising his eyebrows as he turned and found Alfie Solomons standing next to him, munching a wasabi cheese straw as if it were a stalk of hay and himself the laziest cow in the pasture. "Pardon? What? What are who called? Make sense, Alfie."

Alfie snickered and nodded at the tail end of the line. "They all gave you their names when you glad-handed them, love, and you looked oh-so-terribly interested in each one. I'll give you five pound and a kiss if you can tell me the name of even one of the poor blighters."

"Why would I bother to remember their names?" Tommy said, irritated, and looked around for where he'd put down his drink. "It's a party. Bad manners to expect proper business at a party. If they had any sense they'd give me business cards."

Tommy spun back towards Alfie, startled to find the man's fingers delving into one of the back pockets of his jeans … and extracting a little sheaf of business cards. "You mean these?" Alfie said, then laughed and pitched them in the air. Tommy made no move to stop him, only groused, "The serving staff won't thank you for that, Mr. Solomons."

Alfie made a noise that Tommy would swear he'd heard a high-fantasy tree make in a movie once, and took Tommy's hand in his own -- warm, surprisingly deft, with a crown tattoo near the thumb that Tommy'd somehow failed to notice before -- and brought it to his lips. For one heart-stopping moment Tommy thought the daft bugger was going to kiss his fingertips, but all Alfie did was brush the very end of his nose above Tommy's fingers and intone, "...and you've already ingratiated yourself to the serving staff from the aroma of it, eh, darling?"

Eyes blazing, Tommy snatched his hand back and rubbed it against his shirt. "Pick those up," he snapped, pointing at the cards scattered on the floor. "Really, Alfie. Some fucking manners."

A low chuckle followed on Tommy's heels as he marched away, in search of a fresh drink and maybe some fresh air. His face was feeling awfully hot, for some reason, all of a sudden.

---

Hour Four of the Wonderful Year-End Festivities found Tommy performing his best booze-related trick for a captive and somewhat plastered audience: lopping the cork off a bottle of mid-range champagne with a short saber brought expressly to the party for that purpose. Tatiana shrieked with triumph when he managed to pull off the feat, champagne geyersing from the neatly broken neck of the bottle in dry-scented frothing excitement, and flung her arms around his neck to claim a very wet and vodka-fumed kiss. 

"All Tatiana's idea, I assure you," Tommy told the remaining celebrants as they applauded him and he brandished both bottle and saber around. "In fact she's the one planned this whole party. A round of applause, ay, for Tatiana?"

The gathered people obliged, and Tommy handed off the bottle but kept the saber as he trailed over to the decimated cake in the shape of a squat beer keg and used the sword to hack off some frosting for himself. He bore it carefully outside, using a case of bottled water to prop the door open, and leaned against the railing of the stairway landing to swipe his thumb through the clot of frosting and stick it pensively in his mouth. 

The party hadn't been that bad, all told, apart from that fucking courgette repeating on him and the hopeful looks some of those nameless reps had been shooting him all night. The server girl with the sensible knickers had caught his eye and it was clear she'd be up for it, if he wanted a go. And she was pretty, with curly hair dyed some sort of pale purple and a snub nose and freckles across her dark skin. 

But, Tommy thought bleakly as he bit frosting from his thumb, there was just something … wrong. Something missing. And the thought of ending the night as he'd ended so many others, making the trek back to his quiet, junk-filled flat with a bottle of gin to fall exhaustedly asleep on the settee and wake up to dry toast and jelly, it was … well, it was depressing. And Tommy was getting heartily tired of feeling depressed.

He lifted the saber with the thought of bringing it whooshing down again so that the gobbet of frosting on the end would sluice off, somewhere down three floors to hit the ground, but a hand grabbed his wrist and -- dammit -- here was Alfie Solomons again, peering at Tommy in the dim light. "Steady on, sweetie," Alfie said, "don't want to disappoint the cleaners more than you already have, eh?" He nodded towards the party, now in its decided downswing. "That girl you had as an aperatif has gone off with one of the Young Bolsheviks--"

"Young Turks, you mean?"

"No, red's back in fashion, it's very woke to talk about the evils of capitalism at the drop of a knitted hat these days." Alfie grinned, twisting the saber out of Tommy's unresisting grip and scraping the frosting off on the railing before sliding the sword into his belt.

"Ridiculous," Tommy said, although whether that was about the saber, Alfie's wearing it, or his farcical claim about young people and their politics, he didn't care to draw a bead on. But that hollow feeling had eased, somehow, and Tommy was suddenly in no hurry to get back inside. "You don't look the slightest bit drunk. Have you turned teetotaller, Alfie?"

His companion shrugged, heavy shoulders rolling under t-shirt and plaid. "I don't get sloppy at company hurrahs, love," he said. "Hard to erase that picture when you're back at the grindstone trying to cut deals with suppliers and distributors. I save my getting squiffy for when I'm with friends."

"And you've got some," Tommy scoffed. "Friends."

"Not all the ones I'd like." Alfie reached into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and pulled out a cellophane bag tied with twine, holding it up by the cinched bit to swing in front of Tommy's face before Tommy took it and opened it, taking out one of the rings inside and laying it in his palm before looking at Alfie, perplexed. 

"What's this?"

"Oh, come on now, Thomas -- I know you Shelbys grew up the ragamuffins on your street, but surely even you, the benighted orphans, had biscuits once in a while? A chocolate finger or two? A fucking Jammie Dodger on the High Holy Days or whatever your kind celebrates when you're not busy moaning and rending your garments?"

Tommy scowled, closing his hand over the bag and -- just barely -- easing up his grip enough not to crush the remaining rings of cookie it held. "High fashion party rings," Tommy said after a moment of studying the one in his palm. Begrudgingly. The damn thing had flower petals as decoration. He looked up at Alfie. "Why on earth--"

--and then he was being kissed, and Alfie tasted somehow of fizzy lemonade and smelled of cake frosting and hops, and his hand was cupping Tommy's jaw (so deft! Who would have thought) and stroking the crest of his cheekbone with one thumb. His mouth is like a peach, Tommy thought stupidly as he breathed and opened up and swayed into Alfie's space. Or maybe a satsuma.

Alfie's lips closed and he smiled, not moving away, staying close with Tommy in his space. "Been wanting to do that all fucking night," he rumbled. "Longer, if I'm honest."

"Make some fucking sense," Tommy said, because damned if he was gonna give in that easily to this. He curved his palm enough that the scalloped edges of the delicate biscuit nipped slightly at his skin and said, "you never liked me. I never liked you. It's a happily mutual distaste we've maintained for each other."

Alfie made a hurt, indignant noise. "You wot! I know for a fact that I've been nothing but lovely to you, sweetie, sheer loveliness on a sodding stick."

"You're in my phone as 'that loser who keeps texting me,' and I'm in your phone as 'how about no.'"

Alfie considered this for a moment. "Aside from that." He laughed and took Tommy's hand, curling his fingers over into a fist until the biscuit he was holding snapped, in one place, then two, then crushed into more pieces than Tommy could tell without opening his hand to look. "Don't tell me you'll let a little thing like that stand in the way of what could be a bloody mind-blowing shag for the both of us, Tommy. After I brought you a little prezzie and all."

"Which you've just ruined."

There's three more." But Alfie looked fainly contrite, letting Tommy unfurl his hand while still keeping his own beneath it. Tommy sniffed and tossed his head imperiously, the smell of sugar seeping up from the warmth of his palm. 

"How about no," Tommy said, and ducked his head, licking up crumbs and icing and petals like a horse nosing around for a sugar cube, licking the gritty bits down onto Alfie's fingers, grabbing his wrist and turning his hand over, sucking down hard on that crown tattoo as he listened to Alfie sucking in his breath like a dying man.

Straightening, Tommy slid his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed, lips parted, eyes hooded as he regarded Alfie steadily. "Did you pick up those business cards like I told you?" he asked, voice low and measured, thrumming in his throat. "Like a good little boy?"

Alfie reached into his back pocket, crumbs and spit smearing against his jeans, and brought out the slightly crumpled wad of cards, holding them pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Mmmm," Tommy hummed, and knocked his hand against Alfie's wrist, sending the slips of cardstock fluttering over the rail as he grabbed the back of Alfie's neck and kissed him, deep and wanting, all thoughts of shame or restraint sent down to the ground three floors under.

A beat passed, and then Alfie growled, the saber clatering against the concrete barrier when he shoved Tommy against the wall, hips crowding in against him, cock thick and promising when he rolled his groin into Tommy's and felt the answering rise there. "That loser, eh?" Alfie muttered, nipping hard at Tommy's jawline. "I'll make you eat those words along with the rest of your biscuits, pet, see if I don't before the night's through."

"You can make me do whatever you want, Mr. Solomons," Tommy said primly, knuckles white as he gripped the back of Alfie's belt, clung to the back of his collar, cellophane crinkling into the nape of Alfie's neck. "Dip your fucking toe into the secular festivities."

"I'll be dipping more than that, Tommy," Alfie said, with a firm thrust that drove Tommy's breath right out of him.

Maybe he'd have to ask Pol where he could find himself one of those mistletoe jumpers.

/end 

[spine-buster]

Alone, Together | Chapter 3 | Morgan Rielly

A/N: Thank you for the positive feedback, likes, reblogs, comments, and tags so far!  This chapter is kinda sorta filler (3000 words worth...) but, you know...whatevs.

Bee hoped what she was wearing was okay.  She almost wanted to cancel when Morgan told her to meet him at the corner of Spadina and King Street West, where they would walk to the place together.  King West was swanky.  There were a lot of trendy shops and restaurants, and a steady flow of cool bars kept popping up all the time.  It was beyond Bee’s comfort zone.  She loved walking down there, and she loved the old architecture and the facades of the buildings…but to actually go in to one of them?  No.  Those types of places weren’t meant for her.

But she didn’t cancel.  She didn’t cancel because Morgan only told her about an hour before where to meet him, and it would have been exceptionally rude.  She didn’t cancel because, yet again, Angie – still in Kingston – threatened to come back to Toronto and force her to go.

She didn’t cancel because she really wanted to see Morgan.  

As she approached the intersection, Bee could see Morgan leaning against the side of a building, looking down at his phone.  She had walked from her place all the way down Spadina, and she thanked God there was a cool breeze out or else she probably would have been a sweating mess.  As if on cue, he looked up from his phone to see her walking, and gave her a little wave, pushing himself off the wall and shoving his phone into his pocket.  

He pulled her in for a quick hug when she was close enough, his hands lingering a bit on her hips.  “You look great,” he looked her in the eye as she said it.  

She knew her pants were tugging on her hips.  And she knew her top was a bit too big and her shoes were old and her bag had seen better days but apparently that didn’t matter.  She smiled at the compliment.  He was wearing a pair of grey slacks, a short-sleeve button down, and his ever-present baseball cap.  The sight of his biceps made her knees weak.  “Ready to go?  Where’s the restaurant?” she asked.

“Have you ever been to Cibo?”

She gulped.  Cibo was one of the best wine bars in the city.  “Nope.”

His hand slipped quickly from her hip to hold her hand, and she could have sworn her heart fluttered at the contact.  God, he had to know what he was doing.  “Then let’s go.  You’re gonna love it.”

They arrived at the restaurant still hand in hand.  As it was a Friday evening, it was packed with people.  There were diners everywhere, and there was a group of people waiting inside as well as a line up outside the doors.  It was busy.  As Bee slowed down to entire the end of the line, Morgan tugged her inside.  She looked around to make sure nobody was giving them a dirty look.  ‘We aren’t cutting’ she wanted to tell everyone.  ‘I have no idea what he’s doing, but we’re not cutting!’

“It’s currently a 45 minute wait for a table,” the beautiful blonde hostess said to Morgan and Bee as they approached her – no hello, no formalities, just the time.  “We can write down your name if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.  We have reservations,” Morgan said.  “Und --”

“Cibo doesn’t take reservations on Friday nights,” she interrupted.

Morgan gave her a look for being rude.  “Well someone here took my booking.  It’s under the name Morgan.”

“Take a seat,” she nodded towards the benches where some people were waiting.  

“But we have --”

“Morgan, it’s okay,” Bee felt the need to intervene.  She shook his hand, which was still holding on to hers, to get his attention.  “It’s okay.  We can wait for a bit, and if it’s too long we can just find somewhere else.”

After twenty minutes of waiting, Morgan was becoming increasingly impatient.  He probably would have approached the hostess again, but Bee kept telling him not to say anything, that it’s okay, that they’d eventually get a table.  He wasn’t so sure.  He needed this night to go well, and right now, it was a disaster.  When she went to the washroom, he finally took his chance.  

He approached the hostess once more, trying to remain calm.  “Excuse me…we have reservations.  We shouldn’t be waiting this long for a table.”

“It’s Friday night, sir.  Cibo gets busy.  And like I said, we don’t take reservations on Fridays.”

He took a quick look around to make sure Bee wasn’t coming back from the washroom.  He absolutely hated doing this, but he knew he needed to in order to salvage the night.  “Listen, Ben usually works Friday nights, right?  Tell him Morgan Rielly is here.”

He could see the girl roll her eyes.  “Morgan O’Reilly?”

“No no, just Rielly.  Mor-gan Rie-lly,” he said slower.

He watched as she picked up the receiver, pressed a button, and waited for someone to answer on the other end.  She barely batted an eyelash when she finally said, “Hey Ben – I’m supposed to tell you Morgan Rielly has been here for twenty minutes.”  Her tone was very sarcastic and dry.  Something was clearly said because she straightened up her back and hung up the phone.  “He’s on his way out,” she said quickly.  

“Great, thank you.”

As if on cue, he watched as Bee exited the washroom and Ben – the manager that usually handled the boys whenever they wanted to discreetly come in – whip around the bend and start walking towards the front reception.  When Bee noticed Morgan still at the front, she pursed her lips slightly.  “Still no table?”

“It’s coming,” Morgan nodded his head towards Ben, making Bee turn around.

“Mo!  How the fuck are you?” Ben’s voice bellowed over the mass of people congregated in the restaurant.  He and Morgan shook hands and bumped chests before he continued.  “You’re back in town early!  You got Matts with you?”

“No no.  It’s Briony’s first time at Cibo,” Morgan said, placing his hand on the small of her back.  

“Let me bring you to your usual right away,” Ben said.  “Apologies about the wait.”

Morgan’s hand slipped to hold Bee’s as they made their way through the restaurant until Ben brought them to a booth at near the back corner.  They sat down across from each other and were promptly handed the food and wine menus before Ben told them their server would be there shortly.  He patted Mo on the back before leaving.  Bee wondered if he came here a lot.

“Do you know what any of this means?” Bee mused as she looked through the wine menu.  She wasn’t a complete idiot – she obviously knew there were different types of wines, and they came from different regions around the world, but she could never taste the difference between a cabernet sauvignon, a merlot, a chardonnay, or anything else that was put in front of her.  People who did kind of freaked her out, only because it meant they had so much time on their hands that they could actually think about this sort of stuff.  Ah yes, I can smell the oak.  The taste of the cranberry is very pert.  Like, no you can’t.  All wine tasted the same to her.  It was all good.  

“Yeah, of course,” Morgan said, giving her a weird look.  “I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t.”

“So you can order for me, then?”

“Do you trust me?” he smirked.

It was a loaded question, sure, and there was a definite double entendre in the question and the way that he asked it (at least Bee thought so).  She knew everything was still new, and fresh, and she knew that it had only been a small amount of time since meeting him, but Morgan had never given her any reason not to trust him.  Was it perhaps a bit foolish on her part to trust him?  Maybe.  But right now, she did.  And she didn’t feel queasy about it.

Wait – they were talking about wine, right?

“I trust you,” she said, smiling back at him.  “I know nothing about wine.”

“You wanna get something to munch on?”

Bee hesitated.  She was already going to be forking out what looked like $15 for the cheapest, smallest amount of wine.  She never factored in that there was going to be food in this.  Morgan only said drinks.  “It’s okay,” she shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

She sighed.  “I um…I don’t mean to sound cheap but I can’t afford to eat out right now, so I’m gonna have to pass.  You can get something though.  I don’t mind.”

“Wait, what do you mean you can’t you afford it right now?”

She cringed.  “Because I’m a starving Master’s student, Morgan.”

“Briony.”

She couldn’t meet his eye, especially after her name rolled off his lips like that.  How could she?  Here was a guy who was taking her out on a date to an expensive wine bar and here she was, getting by on the littlest amounts.  “Listen, I’m basically living off of multiple scholarships right now.  I don’t exactly have the funds to eat out at fancy places like this,” she explained.  

Morgan looked at her as if she had three heads.  “Do you honestly think I would bring you to a place like this, on a date, knowing you’re a university student that’s been supporting yourself for years, and not pick up the tab?”

Bee felt tears lining her eyes for some reason.  “It’s not…it’s not about that,” she said, shaking her head, trying her hardest not to let her voice crack.  “It’s…”

“Briony, come on.  Why are you so nervous?”

He just had to use her full name again.  Had to.  “I’m not used to this.”

“You --”

“I hardly ever go out.  Because I can’t afford it.  And when I do go out, it’s definitely not to places like this.  We’re talking five dollar pitchers at the Green Room, not bottles of wine from Italy or Napa Valley.”

“Then --”

“And for that matter, I like to cook.  It’s like…I don’t know, my hobby.  I try to prep and make everything at home because it’s cheaper.  That way I’m not tempted to spend my money on food.  I know not a lot of people do that anymore but it’s how I survived growing up so I’m just used to it.”

“Then ignore everything else.  Ignore everything around you.  It’s just me.”  There was a moment of silence as Bee considered the words, and Morgan took the opportunity to reach across the table and grab her hand, clasping it tenderly.  “It’s just me, Briony.”

She nodded her head.  She knew that.  And he made it so simple.  There didn’t have to be all the bells and whistles.  She could ignore it.  For now, it was just Bee and Morgan.  “Do you mind letting me know about the wine a bit, then?”

He obliged readily.  For someone who worked in the sports industry, he sure knew a lot about wine, and he definitely knew what he liked.  The regions in Italy, the regions in France, his preferences which tended towards wines from Napa Valley – Bee clearly needed to re-evaluate what type of people liked wine and how much time Morgan had readily available to him.  She absorbed the information as much as possible, but she knew she would forget most of it after they left.

Soon enough, a professionally dressed waitress approached their table to take their order.  “What would you two like?”

“We’re gonna get the cabernet sauvignon…Pine Ridge from Napa Valley,” Morgan told the waitress.  Bee quickly scanned the menu to see the bottle was a whopping $120.  “And we’ll get the carpaccio, the bruschetta, the fromaggi platter, and some bread please.”  Bee’s eyes scanned the menu again, quickly adding up the prices of the platters.  She gulped.  “Thank you.”

All they did was talk.  They talked and talked and talked, and when the wine came out, and Bee took her first sip, it was good, and so she drank and they talked some more, and when the food came out, she ate some cheeses, and it was really good, and so she ate and they talked some more, and when the carpaccio and the bread came she paired all three together and it was heavenly, and so she enjoyed the food and wine and they talked even more.  Neither of them could stop talking.  Morgan revealed more about himself – how he grew up in West Vancouver, how he had an older brother, how his dad owned a lumber company and his mom owned a medical research company.  How happy his childhood was.  How he’d get up early to play hockey with his dad.  How he played at the country club (yes…a damn country club) growing up.  Bee didn’t think she’d ever met someone who was actually a member of a country club.  She couldn’t help but wonder what that was like.  

By the end of the night Bee was sure she had half a bottle of wine flowing through her veins.  She was by no means drunk, but she was definitely warm and fuzzy.  Definitely happy.  So when Morgan paid the bill and his hands wandered to her hips and the small of her back again as they walked out of the restaurant, she didn’t mind.  Actually, she wanted them to stay there.  And when he suggested he walk her home – the whole 45-minute walk home back up to the Annex, she could only nod her head and slip her hand into his as they walked up Spadina.  

He mentioned how he was going back to Vancouver for two weeks.  It was to see his parents, he said.  He hadn’t seen them in a while.  And his brother, of course.  And his beautiful golden lab, Maggie, his girl, that took up a majority of the camera roll on his phone.  Bee never had any pets growing up – they obviously couldn’t afford it.  But Bee promised herself that the second she could have enough disposable income she would get a pet.  Adopt a cat from the Humane Society or something.  

As they finally hit Bloor Street, Bee began to get nervous.  She started asking him if he’d ever been walking in the Annex (he had not) and if he’d ever want to (he did).  She noticed he slowed down his walking, and truth be told, she did too.  But the realization only made her more nervous.  And when she got nervous, she didn’t shut up.  It was a curse.  Just like her rambling about books, she was now rambling about the Annex.  She honestly couldn’t stop.  

“We’re coming up on mine now,” she said, nodding her head towards the house where her apartment was.

It was a massive house – one of the traditional Annex mansions that lined the streets and that people in Toronto paid millions upon millions for – but it looked older than some of the others in the neighbourhood that had been lovingly restored.  It wasn’t dilapidated by any means, but Morgan could tell that not a lot of care had gone in to maintaining the place – a shame, really, since these houses were relics of a bygone era.  They didn’t build houses like this anymore. 

Morgan tried to imagine Bee living here.  He tried to imagine her coming home from classes everyday, or her leaving with reusable grocery bags to do her weekly shop.  He tried to imagine her apartment.  Did she have a desk against the big bay window?  Was she on the main or second floor?  Was there still an original, working fireplace?  Did she use it?  But the more he tried to think, the more his thoughts were drowned out by her rambling voice.  What was she talking about?  At this point, he had no clue, but she was being so cute and he knew she did this all the time when she got nervous and, well, he was nervous too, because all he had wanted to do when he saw her at the beginning of their date was kiss her.  

She walked him through the gate and on to the front porch, but she wouldn’t quiet down.  “There’s, like, five apartments in here,” she said, looking up at the house.  “On the main floor there’s mine and the one in the back – it’s the same on the second floor obviously – and then there’s a small apartment on the third floor too.  The basement just has some storage rooms – laundry too, obviously – and, like, the furnace room…nothing special,” she babbled.  

He leaned in, needing her to stay silent for just a moment so he could collect his thoughts.  “Briony?” he mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Oh!”  She loved that he asked permission, but she was stupid.  She was so, so stupid.  “Of course.”

Morgan kissed Bee the way she had always wanted to be kissed: soft at first, with a gentleness that could deceive you, but with a streak desire that exuded like a flame.  As she was a willing participant and readily reciprocating, he continued to kiss her, his hands wandering to her waist and down her hips, settling on the small of her back before pulling her body closer to his.  

It turned into a full-blown make-out session before Bee had to stop for air.  Morgan’s eyes remained closed as she tried to catch her breath.  

It was late.  He had a plane to catch tomorrow morning to go home.

“Have fun in Vancouver,” she whispered, moving to unlock the front door.

Morgan’s eyes shot open.  “What?”

“Goodnight,” she smiled.

“Nonononono,” he pulled her back against him, giving her another kiss.  She reciprocated again, but pulled away quicker than Morgan liked.  

“You have an early flight tomorrow.”

“I don’t care.”

“Goodnight,” she smiled, pushing the door in.

“Briony.”

“Goodnight.”

“Briony!”

As she shut the door, he chuckled to himself.  This was going to be a long trip back to Vancouver.

[wine-porn]

Bun in the Oven

You’re gonna hate this wine. Why? Because it doesn’t taste like what you have been led to believe Merlot should taste like. Because it’s real. It’s sultry and earth-ridden. It’s tight and bitter and acrid and biting and doesn’t slobber your face with its tongue when it kisses you. Everyone loves to hate on Merlot–then wants every red they drink to taste just like it. Oh, it’s California for…

[fanfictiondotme]

Caught

Fandom: Supernatural

Ship:  Sam x Reader

Summary: The Reader is having her downtime to calm her anxiety and fears and big ol’ fucking Sam interrupts

Warnings: pure fucking fluff but also anxiety and foul language, ddlg

A/N: Please don’t be mean over this fic. Source for the goodness that can come from healthy BDSM. It quotes, “This research suggests that engaging in kink can lead to empowerment and self-actualization.”

For: Abuse / Mental Health

If you ever need help please contact someone you trust or local law enforcement.

“What a fucking hunt, huh?” You threw your bag on the couch, going to the refrigerator a pulling out three beers. You sat on one of the stools in the kitchen, Sam and Dean taking a beer for themselves, Sam wrapping his arm around your waist. “Yeah, tell me about it.” You smiled at him, enjoying his warmth and comfort. “Alright, I’m going to go take a shower,” Sam muttered, not missing your pout, Dean grunted in agreement. Just as you heard the two boys go into their respective bathrooms you raced to your room. 

You locked your door behind you, starting a bubble bath for yourself, jumping with glee. You pulled the trunk out from your bed, pulling out your necklace that holds the key you unlocked it to reveal your biggest secret. You pulled out the dinosaur covered purple bottle and your hidden bottle of merlot, swiftly pouring it, filling your bottle. You pull out your bag of bath toys and your favorite piggy pacifier and plop it in your mouth. Quietly humming to yourself as you headed into the adjoined bathroom, starting your bathroom cartoons on the small television Sam mounted to your wall last month. 

Laying back against your freestanding tub you sighed, taking the paci out and drinking some of your wine. The hunt was hard and you needed to unwind. You picked up your phone, opening up the app Alpaca World to enjoy some quality downtime. After about half an hour you sighed to yourself. On days like these it was hard, hard hunts and coming home to do everything yourself and having nobody to take care of you was exhausting. You needed this downtime to relax, but it was hard when you had to be so big. 

Hey baby, where you at?

You smiled at your telephone, wishing that you could tell him but it was so scary, you hadn’t told many people, you figured they wouldn’t understand. You loved Sam and you hoped one day he could be your daddy, but you just didn’t know. 

Hiya! I’m still in the bath, enjoying some of my special wine.

Want me to come join you?

No, I’m alright, need to relax after today’s hunt. 

Okay, if you’re sure, I’ll head to bed, I love you babygirl. 

You giggled, feeling tipsy, playing with Octocop who save Gaterboy from Landlegs. After a few minutes and another bottle you laid back, letting the water slowly drain so you could refill with warm water. You popped your paci back in your mouth and put some more bubbles in the bath before turning back to your cartoons. The We Bare Bears theme song seemed to be a lullaby to your exhausted and overworked brain. 

The next thing you know Sam is screaming your name and turning the faucet off. You immediately panic, the paci falling from your mouth into the tub, pushing the bottle from the side of the tub into the tub in an attempt to hide the most vulnerable part of yourself. You scrambled out of the tub, quickly wrapping in a towel and tears springing to your eyes when you realized you were standing in two inches of water. 

“I-I’m so sorry Sam,” your tears freely flowing now, “I-I’ll clean it up, I promise, j-just let me get dressed.” You were moving frantically now, a quickened pace trying to move past Sam who followed your sobbing figure. “Y/N, baby, it’s okay I’m not mad.” You nodded, “I-I must’ve drank too much,” you felt so guilty, you had made a huge mess and you had no idea how Sam would react. He walked back into the bathroom, you assumed to let the tub out or asses damage. 

Sam walked back into your bedroom while you were sliding your shorts on. Your crying had not stopped, only accelerated. Sam tapped your shoulder, you quickly rubbed your eyes, opening your mouth to say something but being quickly filled with something. Then it hits you. Your pacifier. Your hand is greeted by your bottle and your eyes are met with Sam’s smile. Then you started sobbing harder. 

Sam encased you in a hug, grabbing your thighs to hold you. He sat gently against your bed, hands running through your hair. “Shh, shh, shh little one, daddy is not mad at you. It was an accident, right?” Sam felt a pang of guilt as you sobbed harder. You nodded in response, lifting your head to look at him, but your face was dripping with fear. Sam gently removed the pacifier from your mouth, shushing you when you followed his pull. 

“Babygirl, what in the world are you so afraid of?” Sam held your hands, waiting for you to breathe. “I-I,” you sniffled, “I-I was afraid y-you would want me, a-and then I was b-bad.” Your sentence came off in sobs, getting worse when you insulted yourself. Sam was instantly crippled by your insult, “Listen here little girl,” your attention was fully on him, “did I ever once give you the impression that you couldn’t trust me?” You shook your head, eyeing your pacifier, he reached it back into your mouth, you hummed and bounced a little. “Now, do you think you could enjoy the rest of your bottle and some more cartoons while I clean that mess up?” You took the pacifier out of your mouth, “I’ll clean it, I will, I will, I can be good!” you sniffled, trying to get up but Sam stopping you. “You already are good baby. You’re a good girl. I will clean it, you stay here and rest baby.” You nodded and he put your cartoons on. 

When he was done he laid down with you, you snuggled into him. You had a very long conversation with Sam about how he found out about this lifestyle. College apparently, and it was more common than you thought. Sam had spotted your little side before Dean did, but he never mentioned it to Dean until Dean himself brought it up. He figured you didn’t even know so he was going to slowly bring it up to you piece by piece. You couldn’t help but cuddle more into him. 

“S-so does that mean you w-want to be my d-daddy?” Sam chuckled a little bit, rubbing small circles on your back. “Of course, I do baby, you’re the bestest baby I do believe I’ve ever seen.” You blushed, your entire face turning a bright red. You hid your face in his neck, although it was pointless, he gently grabbed your chin and made you look at him. He kissed your pacifier, three times in quick succession, making you giggle. 

He peppered kisses all over your face, making you laugh so hard your pacifier fell out. You instantly started crying, but he quickly put it back in your mouth. You continued too pout and whimper as you rubbed your eyes. “Aww, my poor baby, someone ready for bed huh?” You shook your head gently, but your eyes were already closed. “Goodnight my sweet girl.” He kissed the top of your head as you drifted to sleep.

You woke up to Sam’s arm around your waist. You immediately starting crying. Sam woke up almost instantly, wrapping you in a moose burrito. He shushed you and you giggled a little. “What’s so funny baby?” You giggled again, “I-I wanted you up and now y-you’re up?” Sam looked at you amused. “Already spoiled rotten I see?” You nodded proudly, getting up with Sam’s disapproval. “S-Saaaaammmm,” you started but when he raised his eyebrows you restated, “d-daddyyy, I have to potttttyyyyy.” He giggled, letting your hand go, smiling at you. “C-can you pick out my outfit for today?” You didn’t give him time to respond before shutting the bathroom door. 

When you came out he was going through your closet. You sat on the bed waiting patiently. He picked out two different outfits, one being your usual around the house and one being quite possibly the smallest outfit you had in your closet. You blushed, “I-I can’t wear that around D-Dean!” Sam smiled at you, “I told you, he knows, but if you’re not comfortable you don’t have to.” You sheepishly put the outfit on. 

You trailed closely to Sam, holding his hand. “Baby, he’s not going to think any different of you, I promise.” You blushed, but Sam couldn’t see. Wiggling your toes in your knee high Winnie the Pooh socks and squeezing your piggy, you walked into the kitchen and Dean turned to look at you. He seemed to be swallowed with joy. “Shit! She finally told you!” Sam laughed and nodded. “Special pancake breakfast?” Sam nodded and sat you on a stool, before giving you apple juice in a bottle he seemed to have hidden. “Thank you, daddy.” Sam smiled at you, “You’re welcome my little Piglet.”

[writetohell]

The Red Lights pt 3

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4

Everyone at the party was already plastered by the time we arrived. I told Tally I would drive if she wanted to drink, but most of the bottles littered all over the kitchen counters and floors were sucked dry. We knew the host from one of Tally’s old jobs, but he was nowhere to be seen. We caught up with the few people who could stand up straight. One of them was a hostess at the sushi place Tally worked at last. Her name was Molly and she was made up and dolled up like she was attending an old New York socialite gathering, the slit in her silky indigo dress reaching all the way to her hip, flashing a rhinestone embedded garter.

She burped as she laughed out, “When the aliens get here, I’m going to fuck ‘em.”

I laughed with her, but she suddenly turned her lips into a disapproving frown while her head bobbed trying to keep me in her line of sight.

“I’m serious!” She threw her arm down for emphasis and spilled almost all of her rum punch onto the floor. “I’m serious! I want to fuck an alien!”

“I know you will, Molly,” I said.

She giggled again and cocked her hip out, striking a pose with both arms angled behind her head, showing off her entire delicate, square-ish frame.

“What do you think?” she asked. “I’m going for the Fay Wray look.”

“Those aliens won’t be able to resist.”

She laughed, belched mid-laugh, stopped, looked around her, and wandered away, dropping her drink on the ground behind her, and left me alone as if I’d melted away and out of the conversation.

I regrouped with Tally in the corner of the living room where she was sniffing Solo cups to determine their contents.

“I could just go on a beer run for you,” I offered.

She scrunched her face to the side, looking into an abandoned drink, and finally knocking back with newfound resolution.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want you to go outside if you don’t have to.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.” She sat on the arm of the couch, and ran her fingers through her hair. “Nobody knows that.”

“Are you scared?”

“Of course I am. Are you not?”

“Yeah, but I’ve just been thinking of all the things I still need to do. Like, all my procrastination time is used up, and there’s a lot to get done now.”

“I wish I could think like that.” She looked out the back window for a half a second, saw the lights, and turned back to me, shaking her head. “All this uncertainty … It’s why I was scared of the dark for so long.”

“Uncertainty?”

“Like, sure, it could be harmless, but if nobody knows anything, who’s to say it’s not malicious?”

I sat on the couch next to her and put one of her hands in both of mine. “You can lean on me.”

“Thanks, baby,” she said, kissing the top of my hair. “But please find me more booze before I have a panic attack.”

I went hunting, and found a half full bottle of Midori and an unopened bottle of Trader Joe’s brand merlot. I brought them back, and stole a glance out into the backyard. There was a figure standing at the fence, looking up, swaying. I excused myself to Tally and went outside to investigate, only to recognize the figure as the host himself, Ryan.

I stepped beside him. “Doing alright there, buddy?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He was squinting up at the lights with one eye shut tight, like he was trying to figure out which angle he should come from to photograph them. I looked too. They were even more unnerving at night, when the rest of the sky fell pitch against them, and they remained the same high, primary fullness of red we saw during the day. Not actually emitting light, but still wholly there. They so vividly did not belong there, but here they were. Thinking of it annoyed me. If anything it looked tacky.

Ryan began sobbing, huffing and grunting into his knuckles. I rubbed his shoulder, but he flinched out of my touch, and looked to the grass underneath him for comfort instead, balling the fabric of his shirt in his fist and sniffling.

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4

[wine-porn]

Nobody Drinks Merlot

Amazingly funky from first pour, deep brick in the glass–actually brown throughout–a most un-inspiring color psychologically but redeeming itself in spades as moments progress. The tincture of mercury causes great pause but nothing points to failure in spirit as of yet. Glassine of bouquet, with faded fruit following, the entire feel that of washed-out berry and progressed tertiary. Tasting it…

[doubledrivel-blog]

06. Lebron Sauvignon - Rodney Hood Robbed of a Contract - CJ McCollum Off the Bench

Greg: Welcome to another quickie episode of Double Drivel. We are a weekly podcast offering a fan's perspective on the news and issues surrounding the NBA. Thank you for joining us. My name is Greg and I am joined as always by my co-host JT. You can find us on twitter @doubledrivelers or email us @doubledrivelpodcast@gmail.com. JT what up my friend?

JT: Christ Greg, I just want to talk about basketball. I'm tired of talking about fucking Twitter beefs and this bullshit. How long do we have we have?

Greg: A quickie episode worth, and two days of real time. I'm actually fairly excited. I love this stuff. This is why I watch basketball, not just for the exciting athleticism, the suspense, and all the other stuff you get. I love the little beefs, the fights, and all the trash. We are chock-full of that today.

JT: Fights? These fools don't fight Greg.

Greg: We'll get to that later, relax. We have a few little issues to get to, Rodney Hood, Mr. CJ McCollum making some poor decisions, and MJ and LeBron in wine country. We're gonna start with a quick little story about LeBron James. This really gets to my heart. He had a quote this week that shined a little light on himself. What was that quote JT?

Greg: Here's a quote from our man LeBron, “I'm not turning on data roaming. I'm not buying no apps. I still got Pandora with commercials.” and quote.

Greg: How great is that? I personally love that. How do you feel?

JT: It's confusing to me man. It's funny to me how you can be so particular about penny-pinching in certain areas, but then in other areas have no problem spending money.

Greg: I can understand that not turning on data roaming. That's insane to just jump on any carrier. You never know who you're gonna end up on. I like that he doesn't like to waste his money. That makes me happy. Not buying apps, it pains me to say, but I can't remember the last time I bought an app. Especially an app that cost more than a dollar. I'm a sucker for a free app, or at worst a dollar. I don't like spending that. The $2 app I'm gonna hem and haw, and I'm gonna go back and forth. If it's $5, it might as well be five million. I'm not buying that app, it's just not gonna happen. I can understand where he's coming from. Pandora with commercials, he's probably on half of them and has to endorse them. He makes so much money off of commercials. He has to endorse the experience of listening to something with commercials like he has to act like he rides in a Kia and enjoys it.

JT: I can't see LeBron in a Kia IRL.

Greg: They got that huge Kia though so, maybe.

JT: One thing that LeBron seems to have no problem paying top dollar for is his beverage of choice.

Greg: Oh you have some inside info on Mr. James, and his, I don't even know what it is, like a merlot? Is that a red wine?

JT: Merlot is a red wine.

Greg: Oh yea, look at me. I got a bottle of Gatorade in my hand talking about some Merlot.

JT: This is not secret stuff. This took me just a minute or two on the old Google machine to find. People have compiled all the wines that Mr. James has tasted and enjoyed. and posted pictures of the bottles and labels on his Instagram over the years. And I tell you my friend, Mr. James, he's got an affinity for the upper echelon of cabernet sauvignon of the Napa Valley region of Northern California.

Greg: He spoke out on Twitter this week about the fires that are going on, something that you know a lot about. He spoke out in support of the Sonoma area and the Napa region.

JT: LeBron frequents the area during his offseason. He has a taste for a certain variety of wine that is very popular in the Napa Valley. May I throw some numbers at you Greg?

Greg: Oh please do.

JT: LeBron, who's not really willing to shell out a dollar or two for an independent developer who probably worked his tail off to buy or to create an app or game, has no problem paying-

Greg: I'm sure he doesn't pay.

JT: He likes a certain wine called Opus One Proprietary Red, and the cost for the public Greg comes in around $350 a bottle. Another one he enjoys, Staglin Family Vineyard’s Booth Bella Oaks is about $400 a bottle Greg.

Greg: Hm, yes, unquark one of those for me to.

JT: I've had the opportunity to drop in the Opus One winery on Highway 128 in the Napa Valley. At any other winery Greg, a tasting costs five, ten, dollars. At Opus, $180 to $120 Greg, just for tasting. Just to let my lips touch the bottle. So if we're gonna be conservative with our money Mr. James, perhaps we stay out of Opus One. Staglin’s not cheap either my friend.

Greg: That's why you have money. If you're not drinking expensive wine then you're not doing it right. He does all the other stuff right. He's got nice houses, nice cars, and an insane medical staff. You’ve got to drink the expensive wine, that's just part of the game. There's no other reason to be rich. It's one of the one of the top reasons. It's something you have to do. I support it.

JT: I feel no ill will towards our friend LeBron. We both love him very much, and I appreciate him bringing attention to the food and wine industry and in particular the region in Northern California affected by the fires. he is good people and we love him.

Greg: I saw some growers on the news and they said the best thing you can do is continue to buy our wine, continue to come and visit. It's not the end of the world. It's just some fires. Things will be rebuilt. Don't be scared away. Tourism is a big deal. Get out there.

There's no real way to transition, so I'll just go into it. CJ McCollum is going to be suspended for the first game of the season. It's for a stupid rule, but he was also stupid to violate it. It's a rule that's been instituted for a few years now. It's about leaving the bench when there is a fight. I'm gonna turn this over to JT because you were watching this as though it were your final for some sort of class. I've never seen you go over a video this much just try to figure out what exactly was going through his head. I'll let you explain JT, please take it away.

JT: When a scuffle takes place on the floor during active play players that are not currently playing, ie on the bench, may not leave the bench. You're not allowed to do it. In this instance Caleb Swanigan and Alex Len, two big men, positioning down low for a rebound. They got tangled up. A little shove here, a little shove there. This wasn't that serious of a scuffle as far as NBA scuffles go. None of these motherfuckers are trying to fight each other okay? No one's tried to fight in the NBA in like 20 years okay?

Greg: Bill Laimbeer was the last guy that was getting pissy or throwing fists. There hasn't been a lot since then.

JT: You're not trying to fight each other. Everyone should just shut this shit down because it's so stupid. These guys get mixed up, and then CJ McCollum takes four steps onto the floor. He doesn't touch anyone. Then one of the Blazers trainers or medical staff, some suited individual, comes and pushes it off. That gets you 86 for a game. He's gonna miss the first game of the season for taking four steps on the floor, doing nothing, and getting pushed off.

Greg: My only contention is it's not a new rule. It's probably been a rule close to as long as he's been in the league. I can't say that I feel bad for the guy.

JT: I can. This is so stupid. Especially because in the West, the Blazers are positioned similarly to the Jazz as far as projections go. They're both looking at competing for the final playoff spot. Every game matters. You're looking to win every single game. You need your best players available who aren't injured, and you're taking yourself out of the game for nothing. You didn't even get a chance to intimidate someone. You didn't get to send a message for next time these guys are in town you’re going to remember this. I think CJ just kind of forgot what he was supposed to do in this situation. He just let instinct take over.

Greg: You can't let a game go in the West. He's giving a game away.

JT:This is really taking it under a microscope, but at the very least you’re teammates are gonna have to play harder. If you look at the whole season maybe that takes a toll. Maybe that has an effect somewhere down the line. It's just so dumb.

Greg: It's actually pretty funny. Their first game of the season is verse the Phoenix Suns, who this whole incident occurred against.

JT: Advantage Suns, I have to say.

Greg: They gave up a nobody player. No one got suspended from that right, the two guys that were actually in the scuffle just got technicals? CJ was the only one that was actually dumb enough to go on the court. That's too bad.

JT: I've had the pleasure, the displeasure, of seeing Damian Lillard play opening day two years ago.

Greg: Oh, Dame D.O.L.L.A got them beats!

JT: He smoked the Jazz. He came out just 100% ready to go. Maybe Lillard is on point for game one and makes it no big deal. He could be dropping dimes everywhere. He's nasty Gregg.

Greg: He's a guy that's missed the all-star team a couple years because of various things. I think he may have made it last year. I know on his contract year, I think it was two years ago, he didn't make it. That was a big deal. He didn't expect to not make it. He was on the cover of the video game NBA 2k that year. To make that all-star team in the West, very tough in the West. Certainly not the East. It is so tough in the West because of something that people call super teams. A super team is some team with a lot of superstars. I don't consider the Warriors a super team.

JT: What the fuck?

Greg: Before Kevin Durant they were still winning. I guess now that they have Durant they are a super team. Fine, I'll take that back. The Warriors are a super team now. Previous to that they built their team. They did it the right way. That's how you're supposed to do it. Buying Durant was just a ridiculous cherry on the top of it all. There's a lot of teams in the league who are just building out the way of super teams. One person who does not like this is Michael Jordan of all people. Michael Jordan is an owner in the league. He is an owner of my favorite team, the Charlotte Hornets. His quote kind of worries me. He said with super teams you end up with 28 teams that are garbage and two that are good. That makes me think he's not talking about the Hornets as one of those two good teams. If even he knows his team is garbage how does that make me feel? I'm rooting for these guys every single night. He's not gonna lie. It concerns me that even the other owners know that they're up against very difficult odds.

JT: Not the best way to pump your people up man. Give us some fluff. Sell it a little bit.

Greg: He could say it just means we have to work harder to beat these supposed super teams, anything is possible, or me and Scottie weren't a super team. He could say other things. We needed Rodman to win. It's just too bad. He's probably right, but it makes me feel bad about my team and I don't like that.

All right well that's about it for today's episode. What'd you think JT?

JT: Greg can't we talk about my man Rodney Hood?

Greg: I tried to skip it. I did all I could to skip it. We can certainly talk about Rodney Hood. We're gonna end on some news-

JT: Greg he’s my man! Tell me your beef with my man!

Greg: I don't think he's good. You know what, fine, let's talk about this. It makes sense to talk about. Please continue. What are we talking about with Rodney Hood?

JT: S Jazz fans are hoping that Rodney Hood and jazz brass would come to a contract extension agreement before the season began or at the deadline, which was yesterday.

Greg: He wants his playoff performance to be the last thing in their mind before he signs some sort of contract or does negotiations?

JT: That's not a great way to phrase it. These guys get their rookie deal as soon as they get drafted. That lasts three years. Then they get their next deal wherever so you're not a rookie anymore.

Greg: You're not a rookie anymore, you're a man! You're in the league, and now that your man in the league, that's the kind of performance that you put on for us in the playoffs.

JT: I don't know why you have to keep phrasing it that way. It’s like, we have to do this next deal, and can we agree on it or or do you want to not agree on something? Then it goes to restricted free agency and he can shop around and hear what other teams have to say. Jazz aren't gonna lock him up where it gets to that stage. They're gonna let him play a little bit of basketball, see how he looks, and then shop his value around. It could work out fine for everyone, but depending on the individual it can leave a bitter taste in your mouth if he team you're playing for didn't want to settle up with you right away, worry about other shit, and want to see you perform more. You know I love Rodney Hood. It's all gonna work out great. He's gonna win Most Improved Player of the Year this year. It's not gonna be a big deal.

Greg: Mr. Hood woke up and realized that he didn't get this contract extension because of that sour taste he left in their mouth at the end of the playoffs last year. I bet you they gave him the chance. Now that that trader named Gordon Hayward is gone he's gonna have new opportunities. He's gonna have a whole new chance to prove himself. Maybe they're gonna give him the opportunity because they're very good about that in Utah. They're very giving there. They will give you the chance. We'll see if he takes advantage of it. If he has a performance like he did, and continues to play that way, then they made the right decision. I would not have resigned him either. I wonder who would be itching to get their hands on Rodney Hood. I wonder who the GM's are they're sitting around with him up on the big board. They got Rodney Hood penciled up as number one, like “f my man Rodney becomes available we're gonna make some moves. We're gonna make it happen to get Rodney Hood in a Magic uniform. What it’s gonna take to get you in Orlando Mr. Hood? I don't think so.

JT: You're a Hood hater. That's nice I see it and I recognize it, and that's alright. You'll see.

Greg: I must say, I was impressed with the Jazz in the final or the finals.

JT: Oh my god, last year verse the Warriors in the playoffs?

Greg: They played very hard. You can tell they’re a good team. They're coached well. If they had a better player where Rodney Hood’s spot was they could have made a little bit of a difference. He definitely let them down when the lights were the brightest and it mattered the most.

JT: So did a lot of other teams playing the Warriors. They wiped the floor with everybody last year. There's not a fucking mouthwash strong enough to clean your whore mouth Greg.

Greg: It's just true. I can't help it. You're not gonna beat the Warriors with players like him. I'd hate to take the gloves off on Rodney Hood of all people. You're not beating the Warriors with subpar players. You're not beating them with bullshit. The best player since Michael Jordan can't beat them. It's not about the players it's the supporting cast. He is not part of a supporting cast. That's troubling because somebody needs to beat them, and God forbid it be the Rockets. I hope it's Oklahoma City or somebody.

JT: You remember all this next time you want to skip a talk on my man Rodney Hood.

Greg: This is a great little great chat we had about Rodney Hood, you and I enjoyed it. We'll be back next week for opening night. In the meantime, follow us on Twitter @doubledrivelers, and you can email us at doubledrivelpodcast@gmail.com. Subscribe to the show on iTunes, podbean, or Google Play. We are also on Instagram so check us out. Until Tuesday, see you on the Internet.

[anavoliselenu]

Hiched chapter 2

And then the cancer diagnosis. Diagnoses, plural—first Mom in my freshman year of college, then Dad just last year.

But even though I’d had a front-row seat to Mom’s mortality, Dad’s still came as a shock. He’s as wise and proud as ever, and he puts up a brave front for the rest of us, but I can tell what the cancer is doing to him. I’ve been his daughter for twenty-six years; I know where to look. It’s those little moments, like when his hands shake when we talk about the future, or he gets that faraway look in his eyes.

Dad has so little time. Sometimes it’s still hard to remember that. All too soon, Rachel and I will be each other’s only remaining family. And my little sister sure as hell won’t run Tate & Cane Enterprises. She has never been interested in the business world; she loves fashion, not finance. Although maybe I should ask her advice on graphic design, for revamping our marketing campaign styles . . .

I frown into my sangria. Damn, I’m thinking as if Tate & Cane is already mine. As if I’ve subconsciously taken my responsibilities for granted.

Well, why shouldn’t I? Dad always told me that his seat would be mine someday. This company is my birthright. It’s Dad’s legacy—the hard-won fruit of all his blood, sweat, and tears. He shouldn’t spend his last days worrying about what will happen to it. And soon, this company will be all I have left of him. Assuming I actually manage to hold on to the damn thing.

Personal sentiment aside, T&C also employs over six thousand people. Six thousand lives that will be turned upside-down if our rivals take over.

Fuck. I can’t believe I’m even considering this ridiculous contract.

But my career is everything to me. It always has been. While other girls enjoyed normal social lives, I studied for hours every night. While they picked out homecoming dresses and sneaked booze from their parents’ liquor cabinets, I did internships. While they rushed sororities, I co-chaired my university’s Women Entrepreneurs Club. I aced every single one of my undergrad and MBA classes. No partying and barely any dating. I never coasted on Dad’s reputation; ever since I was old enough to understand what a huge responsibility waited in my future, I wanted to be ready for it.

Well, I’m ready now. I’ve worked hard all my life, and I’ve earned the right to prove myself as head of Tate & Cane. I’m confident that I can fill Dad’s shoes.

I can’t let Dad down. I can’t let my younger self down. This company is mine; the thought of losing it to a rival is even worse than the thought of Justin making suggestive comments at me for the rest of my life.

This company can’t slip through my fingers, so I won’t let it—even if that means I have to partner with Justin. Not just partner, but dear God, marry the son of a bitch. Our fathers must have gone temporarily insane when they wrote their wills. Then again, they always did have weird, old-fashioned ideas about dating and courtship.

But no situation is impossible. If I can just calm down and think clearly, an optimal solution will emerge. Any seemingly impossible goal can be managed by breaking it down into bite-sized component tasks.

I breathe deeply to calm myself and try to let my training take over.

Camryn has made two important points. First, both Justin and I want to save Tate & Cane Enterprises. This company is our birthright, our fathers’ legacy—and its employees are our responsibility. And second, this marriage is just another form of legal partnership. Which means it’s a contract open to negotiation.

Yes, it royally sucks that I’m not marrying for love. My closet romantic side cringes at the thought. But I try to set aside as much emotional baggage as I can. Not every marriage has to be like a Hollywood romance, after all. Justin and I don’t need to be in love with each other to successfully co-pilot a company.

The $100 billion question here is: How well would we work together?

Can we even get along? Will our partnership be stable and productive? Or will it implode . . . taking Tate & Cane down with us?

This decision doesn’t rest entirely on my shoulders. Our fathers have always said that we’re stronger together—that’s why they paired us off in the first place. So Justin ought to do some heavy lifting too. In fact, I could argue that it’s his job to convince me, since he’s already on board.

So, let him make his sales pitch. Let him prove himself to me. Let him demonstrate how and why this relationship could actually succeed. I’ll do my part too—I’ll try to maintain good faith and stay receptive to the idea of us becoming friends. But I’m not the type to commit to something unless I know I can follow through. If I’m going to marry Justin, then by God, I want to win at it.

The end of my inner debate must show on my face, because Camryn reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.

“I’m going to order us dessert.”

“I love you,” I say on a sigh. Even with my newfound determination, I’ll need some serious chocolate to get through this.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re really brave.”

I force a smile. “Thanks.”

Grumbling to myself, I fish my phone out of my purse and call Dad to schedule another meeting with Justin and Prescott. I have to give them my answer as soon as possible.

• • •

Late that afternoon, almost the close of the business day, I open the same conference room door I walked through yesterday. Nobody turns in response; the three men seated at the table have already looked up at the sound of my footsteps in the hall.

Justin’s crooked smile is just a little bit too smug. What was that you said earlier? Something about not marrying me? it seems to gloat. How’s that humble pie taste?

A muscle tenses in my jaw. He didn’t even have to say a word and I’m already irritated all over again. Goddamn it, he’s so annoyingly attractive—with his charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and merlot-colored tie, all expertly tailored to fit his six-foot-two frame—and the fact that he can get under my skin so easily just annoys me even more.

His entire demeanor screams confidence. From his deep, inquisitive eyes that see too much, to his strong hands with neatly trimmed nails, to the thick column of his throat that bobs when he smirks at me. He’s the thing my teenage fantasies were made of. Woodsy male scent. Muscular, yet trim frame. A quick wit that always finds a way to pull me into a debate.

Ignoring the pounding of my heart, I force my eyes away from Justin and address the room. “Thank you all for reconvening on such short notice. I have a proposal to make.”

“I thought that was my job,” Justin interjects.

Pointedly ignoring his joke, I explain. “I’ll sign the inheritance contract at the end of the month . . .”

Everyone blinks at me. Dad and Prescott look pleasantly surprised. Justin’s annoying smile is gone, replaced with a slightly furrowed brow.

“But only,” I continue, “if Justin can show me that a relationship between us could work. After all, Tate & Cane’s fate hinges on our ability to cooperate as both business partners and spouses.”

“A trial period?” Dad asks.

“You could describe it like that. I also think that getting to know each other better will help the company’s public image. We need to make our relationship believable; it’ll look strange if nobody ever sees us together before we marry.”

It’s also a chance to dip my toes in before diving straight into the deep end. An attempt to inject a little normality into a deeply abnormal situation.

But I don’t say that part out loud. I don’t want to admit right now that marriage still scares me a little. Not with Justin blinking curiously at me, and Prescott looking frustrated at the prospect of even further delays.

Justin finally speaks up. “So, essentially, you’re asking me to date you.”

I nod at him. “Yep, that’s the idea. At least take me out for a drink before I consider taking your name.” I look straight at him, waiting to see his reaction before I hit him with my next clause. “Oh, and another thing. Refrain from having sex . . . with anyone.”

Chapter Three

Justin

She wants me to woo her?

Of all the scenarios I imagined—from the most likely, where Selena rips up the contract, to the even crazier, where she actually signs it—this wasn’t one of them.

She’s laid down her own stipulations, ensuring that I’ll have to work to win her over. Though I probably should have expected a curveball. This is Selena Cane, after all.

“If there are no further questions, I should get back to work,” Selena says. When nobody responds, she turns and struts out of the conference room, her round ass swaying as her heels click across the floor. The door swings shut.

“That was interesting,” I say under my breath.

Fred stops beside me as I stand, trying to process what just happened. “It sounds like the ball’s in your court, son. But don’t worry. I know you can pull this off.”

“Thanks.” I nod, then take off toward her office. She doesn’t get to drop a bomb like that and then saunter away.

She’s inside, perched in her cream-colored leather chair, stilettos kicked off under her desk. Her toenails are painted light blue, and she’s tapping her foot in time to whatever tune she’s humming. Something on her computer screen has her complete attention.

Startled at the sound of the door opening, she looks up, her wide crystal-blue eyes finding mine. “Did you need something? I have work to do.”

She mentioned us going for a drink. Which is perfect, considering I need to prove how compatible we can be. But first, I need her to see something. This isn’t just some game; I need her to understand exactly what’s at stake if we don’t succeed.

“Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”

I tug her up from her desk chair, allowing her a moment to slip her delicate feet back into her heels, then tow her from the office before she can argue.

“Where are you taking me?”

I grunt and mumble, “You’ll see.”

“Don’t be such a caveman; use your words.”

“We’re going to the mail room.”

She scoffs. “What on earth for?”

I don’t answer, just punch the button for the elevator. We cruise down to the basement floor of the building with an eerie silence hanging around us. When the doors open to the basement, I take a deep breath.

“Ahh . . . you smell that?” I grin at her.

Her mouth turns down into a frown. “Mildew?” Her gaze darts around the large open space stacked with boxes. “The health department would have a field day down here.”

This is my favorite place in the whole building, so I don’t take too kindly to Selena turning up her nose at it. “Don’t be such a grouch. Come on.”

I lace my fingers with hers once again and tug her farther down the fluorescent-lit hallway. When we reach the mail room, I wonder for a moment if Rosita is on her break.

“Now, what is it that you wanted to show me?” Selena raises her eyebrows and places one hand on her hip, obviously not impressed.

Wide shelves line all four walls. They’re numbered with the corresponding floors of the building and hold various envelopes and packages. It’s not a high-tech operation, but it gets the job done.

“Not what, but who.” I tip my chin toward the Latina cheerfully humming a tune to herself. Rosita’s back is to us as she sorts mail at the far end of the room.

“Rosita,” I call out.

She swivels around, clearly not expecting anyone, and her shoulder-length hair swings. A look of surprise is painted across her pleasant features, especially her large dark brown eyes, and a hint of pink comes to her round cheeks.

Rosita immigrated here from Mexico when she was just eighteen, taught herself English, and worked hard to support her growing family. Now, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

A company of this size usually employs a mail-room staff of three to four people. But Rosita said they’d just get in her way, so she runs the whole operation herself. She took ownership of both the position and the space, and made it hers—even hung cheery posters on the wall. One of a monkey dancing. Another of bright orange poppies.

“Mi amor!” she cries, already heading toward us. “Abrazo.” She opens her arms to me, expecting our customary hug.

“Gracias, Mamacita,” I reply, giving her a light squeeze.

It’s the same way she’s been greeting me for the past six years. I know about a whopping four words of Spanish, but I always use them with her. I want her to feel at home, I guess.

Coincidentally, Rosita and I started work here on the same day. We even attended orientation together. I was a fresh college grad, still wet behind the ears, and Rosita, fifteen years my elder, was skeptical about the owner’s son. Unlike Selena, I haven’t worked here since I could walk. I had other jobs during college and made a point of interning at another firm so I could see how the competition worked.

When I met her, I thought Rosita might assume I was some rich, privileged punk who didn’t have to earn his paycheck. It made me all the more determined to prove her wrong. And Dad always was big on learning the ropes from the ground up, anyway. So for my first two weeks at Tate & Cane, I began working right alongside Rosita in the mail room.

It was during that time we cemented our relationship. We delivered packages and memos side by side, and shared jokes and stories. But when I really fell in love was when she shared her empanadas with me at lunch.

Rosita’s eyes widen slightly as they swing from mine to Selena’s. “Miss Cane,” she says, her voice soft and quizzical. It’s not every day the CEO’s daughter wanders down to the mail room.

“Please, call me Selena,” she says, correcting Rosita with a smile meant to ease. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Everyone at the company knows Selena, even if they haven’t met.

“Did you . . . need something?” Rosita looks between me and Selena again.

I shake my head. “Nope. Just came to say hello.”

Rosita’s posture relaxes and she smiles. “Did you get my invite for Maria’s birthday party?”

“Of course. Two weeks from Saturday, right? It’s already on my calendar.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” She smiles and reaches out to smooth one hand over my silk tie. “I worry, you know.”

I smile. “I’ve eaten. Thank you.”

Sometimes when I’m busy, I’ve been known to skip lunch—that is, until Rosita forces herself into my office with a sandwich from the deli down the street. It’s like she can sense when I’ve missed a meal. She often blurs the line between coworker, friend, and mother.

I’ve brought Selena down here today because I want her to see there’s more to this company than what the numbers say. Some things can’t be learned from a spreadsheet. The perspective Selena has perched in her corner office chair all day is quite different from the perspective one gets on the ground floor of this operation.

Standing here, looking into Rosita’s rich mahogany eyes and feeling the warmth and care that pours from her very soul, it’s impossible for us not to be aware of the importance of our responsibility. We can’t fail at this. If we fail, we take all these people down with us.

And I, for one, won’t let that happen.

After pleasantries are exchanged, Selena and I head back toward the elevator.

“She’s important to you, isn’t she?” Selena asks.

“Very.”

She nods, looking contemplative.

I check my watch as we step inside the elevator and let out a sigh. Selena looks as overwhelmed as I feel. We’ve been under a mountain of stress lately, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get more intense.

“Today was unexpected,” I say. “Just like that, after weeks of negotiation, you’re actually going to consider this, huh?”

“I will do this on my terms, if and when I’m ready, Justin. Consider the next few weeks a trial period.”

“That will be easy, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it won’t be easy,” she says, correcting me. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Are you sure about that, Mrs. Tate?”

“I told you not to call me that, either.”

“I know. You told me to take you out for a drink before you’ll consider taking my name.” I smirk at her. “Which I think is an excellent fucking idea. Brilliant, in fact.”

I coax my first smile from her and feel like thumping my chest. Although I have a desk full of work to get back to, the idea of sitting across from Selena and hearing her tell me about this supposed trial period sounds like a lot more fun. Time to push a little harder.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere, you know.”

“We’ve had a lot going on. I think we could use a cocktail,” she says, amazing me that she actually agreed.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen?” I know she’ll never agree to leave without wrapping up the last of her e-mails.

“Sure.”

Then I watch her ass as she saunters away toward her office.

• • •

Once we’re seated at the elegant Stanton Room, a swanky bar across the street from our office building, Selena and I place our order with the waitress—a vodka martini, extra dirty for her, and a Scotch on the rocks for me.

“Extra dirty, huh?” I wink at her.

“Surprised?” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

“That the straitlaced Selena Cane likes it extra dirty? Why, yes, I am.”

“Don’t overthink it, Justin. I’d hate to see you burst a brain cell.”

I scowl at her. If there’s one thing Selena and I do well, it’s banter. And though she’d like to believe otherwise, sexual tension runs rampant just below the surface.

I lean in toward her, my elbows on the table. “So, how will all this work, exactly? Me and you? I just like to be clear on expectations so I can exceed them.”

Her gaze is cool. Not icy, at least, but still a long way from where I want her. “Well, I haven’t put a lot of thought into it yet, but you’ll have to win me over. Show me that this crazy thing could actually work.”

If there’s one thing I know about Selena, it’s that she refuses to fail. Something tells me that with everything that’s on the line, Selena needs to know I won’t fuck up and embarrass her as a husband. We have to work together, live together, and actually pull off this whole coupledom in a big way.

“So you said you want to date? I don’t date, Snowflake.”

“Winning over doesn’t necessarily mean dating.”

She takes a sip from her martini glass and sets it down with an inquisitive look on her delicate features. She may look like your average, sweet girl next door, but at her core, Selena is a ballbuster. A total triple threat. Sexy, intelligent, and talented. Which is perfect, seeing as those are the qualities I always dreamed my future wife would possess. Well, those, along with a tight—

Selena clears her throat, interrupting my train of thought. Fuck.

“Winning over means that we can be in the same room together without ripping each other’s throats out.”

I nod. “Okay, we’ll be civilized about it.”

“Fine,” she says. “And we should figure out what the hell we have in common.”

I think we already know what we have in common—and to my understanding, it’s a long list. But I’ll go by whatever definition she wants. I’ll win no matter what it is.

“Seeing as we have to put on a show, I agree. I should know a bit about my future fiancée,” I say. “For instance, your favorite sexual position . . .”

She coughs and sputters, choking on the olive in her drink. For a minute there, I think I’m going to have to perform the Heimlich maneuver, until she swallows the damn thing and glares at me.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she croaks out, her voice still hoarse.

I chuckle. “Settle down. I just want to know how to please my future wife, is all.”

“You can please me by buckling down and getting to work at the office instead of taking those three-martini lunches you favor.”

“Darling?” I blink at her. Since I’ve been told by more than one ex-girlfriend that my eyelashes are enviable, I’m hoping it has the exaggerated effect I’m going for. “We were supposed to be discussing what we have in common.”

“Right. Well . . .” She begins listing items on her fingers. “Summering in the Hamptons. Working at Tate & Cane, obviously. Our families are friends.”

“We both lost our mothers,” I point out.

Her gaze drops to the table in front of her, but I don’t feel bad. It’s just a fact of life, one we’ve discussed before, and I’d rather skip the superficial bullshit and get down to a real level.

“Yes. What else?” She drums her fingers on the table.

“I, for one, like anal. You?”

Damn it. Again with the choking. I stand and pat my future fiancée’s back until her airway clears.

“Another drink?” I ask, noticing that hers is now empty.

She looks flustered that she downed it so quickly, but signals to the waitress for another round.

“I know what I’m getting myself into, Justin. Besides, my focus is going to be on saving this company, not pretending to be the happy little wife to my fake husband.”

“Correction.” I lean closer. “Soon to be real husband. I’ll win you over, Snowflake. This will happen.”

Chapter Four

Selena

Win me over, Justin says. Real husband.

There’s nothing real about this. He can call this trial period “dating” if he wants, but all I’m after is reassurance that we’ll mesh as co-CEOs. No need to confuse the issue with love or sex, no matter how dangerously attractive he is. I just have questions that need answers.