#The Macallan Estate

[butterbourbonandothersins]

The Macallan at Sotheby's

The Macallan is more than a whisky. Its deep roots and unwavering passion for perfection and innovation set the standard for the entire industry.

The highly respected Macallan brings impressive results at the Whisky & Whiskey auction. What began in a humble wooden shed with only two stills in 1824 is now a world-renowned single-malt whisky. The Macallan is one of the most respected names in Scotch whisky, known primarily for its creativity and innovation, such as sherried seasoned oak casks. Macallan is well respected for many reasons.…

[olympain]

An intimate and raw performance of ‘Roots’ by Emeli Sandé in the Cave Privée at The Macallan Estate, during our 200th Year, depicts the tale of two timeless characters from The Macallan’s past and future. Scottish actor David Tennant is our protagonist, characterising both roles. 

[sgiandubh]

Recognize errors? Never! This person continues to dig up rubbish and give himself an air of authority.

https://www.tumblr.com/maximumwobblerbanditdonut/748236381973823488/landcons-propose?source=share

Dear Mythomaniac Anon,

This idiot simply cannot and will not make the logical difference between an event regularly organized by a third party and a one time side event to a fan convention, organized by the producer himself.

This is what The Fraud implies: S's price is unrealistic, therefore S is a crook. The argument?

Blink once and you would think this is hosted by the Macallan distillery, on their estate, right?

It is not - notice the tiny difference between the two screencaps with otherwise identical content?

Yup, you'd be correct: the tasting she is quoting is hosted, staffed and managed by a London restaurant, MAP Maison (321 Kingsland Road, by the way), which offers the same kind of experience/activity for a well-known Irish whisky brand, Bushmills. So, she lies on purpose, deceptively leading her clueless readers to believe the tasting she mentions is hosted and produced by the Macallan distillery itself. But, one more time: no expert from the Macallan distillery ever participated to these tastings - they are exclusively managed by the restaurant's staff. Something she conveniently left aside of her screencap.

Because she is not only a mendacious, but also a lazy twat, she just picked the first Google result for a simple general query: 'Macallan whisky pairing experience'

Perfectly unaware or indifferent to the fact the Macallan Distillery organizes its own experiences, at the very Estate - but that was the second result and maybe she was in a hurry?

Prices differ and vary from £ 35 (tasting at the Estate's Bar) to £250 (tasting and dinner at a local renowned brasserie) for the Macallan tastings and that was not really convenient, because we are getting closer to the price asked by S for his own tasting in Paris. He simply equated his direct presentation with similarly priced offers of other producers, such as Macallan. Cheeky? Perhaps. But the mommies paid in droves and he's laughing all the way to the bank.

But why would a self-proclaimed Scottish woman quote a London restaurant experience, instead of the local and authentic one organized by the producer? And what English native speaker would gleefully make enormous, almost absurd grammar mistakes like this one:

If this woman is a Scot, then I am Chaka Zulu, Anon. Nope. Not a chance in hell: I have been monitoring her for a good while now and she makes these mistakes quite often. This woman probably assimilated a couple of things the wrong way, while learning English as a foreign language, and she is simply mechanically reproducing the same mistakes over and over again.

I am not done with her yet. Just so you know, Anon.

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

Let the journey begin!🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇪🇸

The Macallan at the opening date for its brand new dining experience. TimeSpirit is open to diners on The Macallan Estate on 31st October in celebration of the distillery's 200th anniversary in collaboration with renowned Spanish restaurant El Celler de Can Roca.

TimeSpirit at The Macallan Estate marks the next chapter in their gastronomic journey and El Celler de Can Roca's first dining concept outside of Spain. El Celler de Can Roca is the three Michelin starred Catalan restaurant from Girona- Spain which was opened in 1986 by the Roca brothers, Joan, Josep and Jordi. In 2015, it was once again named the best restaurant in the world by the Restaurant magazine.

Joan, Josep and Jordi Roca's restaurant is ranked among the best in the world.

The Macallan has collaborated with El Celler de Can Roca to launch a new permanent dining experience at The Macallan Estate - TimeSpirit, where El Celler de Can Roca and Scotland's cuisine combine.

Over three decades on from the creation of El Celler de Can Roca and inspired by the long-standing partnership of twelve years, The Macallan Estate was identified as the natural location for their international culinary venture debut.

The Macallan has launched the new dining experience as it continues to celebrate its 200th anniversary.

Founded by Alexander Reid, the Distillery is situated on their 485 acre Estate with the historic Easter Elchies House at its heart, the spiritual home of The Macallan. Overlooking the famous River Spey in the beautiful Scottish Highlands.

Together, they have crafted a dining concept that is a culinary exploration and playful expression of The Macallan’s story as we celebrate 200 Years Young. A pinnacle of culinary excellence in Scotland, TimeSpirit pays tribute to the past and marks an exciting new chapter as they look forward to the future. ​ @the_macallanand @cellercanroca A fantastic collaboration showing the best of both worlds 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇪🇸🥃

@the_macallanand @cellercanroca #TimeSpirit #TheMacallanEstate #ElCellerdeCanRoca #Scotland #Spain #Girona #ScottishHighlands #whisky #diningexperience #200thanniversary #EasterElchiesHouse #thebestofbothworlds

Posted 1st November 2024

[marymccartneyphotos]

Mary and Stella McCartney collaborated with The Macallan (a whiskey company based in Scotland) with two drinks, Amber Meadow and Green Meadow. The sisters designed their logo and barware in limited edition.

Tasting notes: The Macallan Harmony Collection Amber Meadow (ABV 44.2%) Color: Summer evening Aroma: Rich orange and lemon, honeysuckle, vanilla, coconut and ripe barley fields Palate: Rich oak, lemon, melon, classic scone, almond and green tea Finish: Rich, sweet, long and complex

Tasting notes: The Macallan Harmony Collection Green Meadow (ABV 40.2%) Color: Spring morning Aroma: Fresh orange and lemon, wild primrose, petrichor, honeydew melon, bluebells Palate: Rich lemon, barley sugars, creamy vanilla, almonds, fresh oak Finish: Sweet, fragrant, long and creamy

TOGETHER: A Collection for The Macallan by Stella and Mary McCartney includes –

Pair of Glass Tumblers Glass Water Jug Glass Ice Bucket and Brass Tongs Ceramic Flask with Apple Leather Alternative Sleeve Pair of Ice Stamps in Apple Leather Alternative and Wooden Presentation Box Set of Three Ceramic Bowls Set of Six Ceramic Coasters Brass Napkin Weight Brass Tray with Apple Leather Alternative Inlay Lambswool Blanket Pair of Limited-Edition Brass Framed Prints, Photography by Mary McCartney of The Macallan Estate

Photographed by Mary McCartney

[ailtrahq]

The Singapore Police Force is planning to take further action in response to the largest money laundering case in the country. Currently, cryptocurrencies valued at $26 million have already been seized in relation to the case. Major seizures It was reported in August that Singaporean authorities apprehended 10 foreign individuals, between the ages of 31 and 44, all of whom were holding Chinese passports. A new report from local media added the sum implicated in Singapore’s most extensive domestic money laundering investigation is now estimated to be $1.76 billion. In response, the official statement confirmed their intention to escalate their efforts regarding the case, which focuses on foreign nationals orchestrating illicit activities, including fraud and online gambling overseas, and subsequently laundering the ill-gotten gains. The new total in confiscated assets now totals over $828.5 million in bank account deposits, exceeding $55.8 million in cash, which includes foreign currency, as well as 68 gold bars, 294 designer handbags (including Hermes branded bads), 164 luxury timepieces (with names like Patek Phillipe), 546 items of jewelry, and in excess of 26 million in cryptocurrencies, alongside 204 electronic devices. Law enforcement authorities have also imposed prohibition orders on 110 real estate properties and 62 vehicles (including Bentley and Rolls-Royce cars), collectively valued at over $170 million. Additionally, various pieces of jewelry and alcohol (aged Macallan whisky) have also been subject to these measures. Solidified its position as a crypto center Over the past few months, Singapore has taken several steps as part of it’s larger goal to become a cryptocurrency center in Asia, including seeking input from Ripple on stablecoin regulation. [embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcGL4HY6pNM[/embed] Unfortunately, as Al Jazeera reported, this makes Singapore an attractive option for money laundering and other bad actors due to its status as a major financial center. Therefore, despite once being a squeaky-clean business hub and attractive location for cryptocurrency develop, the region is now facing increasing scrutiny as more details are uncovered about the size of this money laundering case. In response, members of the Singapore Parliament have filed 32 questions about anti-money laundering initiatives, including how the Monetary Authority of Singapore plans to identify suspicious transaction reports. The Ministry of Home Affairs, along with other ministries, will respond to the queries in a ministerial statement in October. Source

[greatdrams]

THE MACALLAN ESTATE: A TRIBUTE TO OUR HERITAGE AND HOME

THE MACALLAN ESTATE: A TRIBUTE TO OUR HERITAGE AND HOME

The Macallan has unveiled Estate, an extremely special new single malt containing rare spirit distilled with barley grown at Easter Elchies estate, the iconic home of the world-famous whisky.

A rich and complex whisky with a remarkably long finish, The Macallan Estate was created by Whisky Makers to celebrate the single malt’s peerless provenance and heritage.

It also represents a unique…

[pedrito-friskito]

twelve months with the devil - chapter five: december - part iii

summary: your last days at the cabin with matt, truths are told and bodies are…explored.

warnings: mentions of trauma, canon-typical violence, depictions of violence, p-in-v sex, oral (m and f receiving), fluff, language (which should surprise no one)

a/n: the way the last 2k words of this came at me in a covid-soaked haze (yippee for me 🤒) it kind of wild but HERE WE GOOOOOO

murdock tags: @moonlarking @saintmurd0ck @mindidjarin (if you wanna be on the list let me know!)

(series masterlist) (main masterlist) (ao3)

Twenty minutes later, you’re both cleaned up, having moved downstairs and set up shop on a blanket in front of the fireplace. The cottage is a comfortable temperature, Matt sticking to his boxers, you in your underwear and his unbuttoned shirt. You sprawl on the blanket, a plate of waffles between you, pillows stolen from the couch cushioning the floor. And the bottle of Macallan, glasses left discarded in the kitchen, is nearly half empty.

“If I tell you this,” he says before he begins, holding the bottle towards you, “will you tell me something? From your past?”

You take a long pull on the bottle before setting it down again. “I will.”

He nods once, and you watch his face as it turns towards the fireplace, the flames casting an orange glow across his profile, shadows on his skin. A strand of hair has fallen across his forehead and you reach over to smooth it back into place. You make a little humming noise when he grabs your hand, fingers knotting with yours, and kisses the inside of your wrist before setting your clasped hands on the blanket.

“It was my mother,” he says quietly, his voice breaking on the word, and he clears his throat. “She left my dad when I was little; I don’t remember her, and she doesn’t remember me.”

Your brow furrows. “Then why…?”

“The woman who answered the door is her nurse, Marion. My mother…she has Alzheimer’s. She built a life, after she left us. Remarried, had more kids, made a new life. Her other kids all live out of state, and her husband died five years ago. Ever since that, every Christmas, I…” He reaches for the bottle, swigs, sets it down again. “I visit her around the holidays, see how she’s doing, bring Marion a Christmas gift.” His hand tightens around yours. “She thinks I’m her estate attorney.”

“Oh, Matt…”

He shakes his head once. “She’s not lucid often, according to Marion. And it’s gotten worse as years have passed. But today, she…” His voice cracks again, and you move the bottle out of the way, sliding closer to him on the blanket, adjusting yourself until he can lay his head in your lap, his arms twining around your waist. “She looked right at me. I felt it. And then she said my name. Matthew, my son. Then Marion came back into the room and she was gone again. Just like that.”

“Has she ever…?” You trail off, carding your fingers through his hair, your throat burning when you feel his silent tears on your thigh, hear the hitch in his breath as he continues.

“No, I never told her who I really am. Played along with the attorney thing, tried to give her some good legal advice. But then today…”

“I’m sorry, Matt,” you whisper, your hand still moving through his hair, the other going up and down his back. He cuddles deeper into your lap, flipping onto his back after a moment, his wet, blank eyes looking up at you. You just look back at him, your palm resting against the curve of his jaw, the other moving rhythmically across his chest. He blinks and a tear slips down his face, but you catch it with your thumb, wiping the trail from his skin.

“It all seems so small,” he whispers, “compared to everything else happening in the city. My problems, they’re not…real problems.”

“It’s not small,” you tell him, shaking your head, “and it is real. I wish it weren’t, for you. I wish there was something I could do to fix it, but I…”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and reaches up, his knuckles skimming your jaw. “Now you know how I feel.” You sigh, reaching for the scotch. It burns like hell on the way down and you grimace before setting it back down.

Slowly, Matt lifts himself out of your lap, turning to face you, reaching for your legs and adjusting you both until you’re sitting across from each other, legs crossed. Your hands fold awkwardly in your lap, fingers knotted together, and Matt puts one palm on your thigh, warm and smooth against your skin.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “you’re okay.”

You nod, and open your mouth to speak.

When Pepper and Tony had come to get you, you were covered in blood, sitting in a police station.

You and Pepper are only half-sisters, on your father’s side, but until Pepper had reached out after your father died, you had no idea who she was. Your mother had you, and your brother — Andrew, with another man — the two of you less than a year apart in age. She’d never been the type to stick around, and you’d bounced from state to state as long as you could remember, rarely staying in the same town more than six months.

As long as you could remember, you didn’t have a father. Your mother had always referred to him as “the sperm donor”, having a similar moniker for Andrew’s dad, and she wasn’t the type of woman who enjoyed being pressed for information. You had learned quickly that Mommy didn’t like it when you asked questions, the earliest memory being a five-year-old meltdown resulting in a screamed “where’s my dad?!” and a backhand so hard it put you on your ass. 

It had been more than backhands, as you’d gotten older, and she was always careful to only leave bruises where no one could see.

Once you turned sixteen, you’d tried like hell to get as far away from her as possible, Andrew following you when he could. You were both resourceful, smart kids. You managed to get a full ride scholarship to the University of Nevada, Andrew found a job, and you were far off Mom’s radar.

“At that point, it had been almost eight years, since I’d seen her,” you say, your voice quiet. “And then there she was, on my doorstep.”

You haven’t told this part of the story to anyone. Not since…

Pepper and Tony had found enough details on their own, from the cops, and had put two and two together enough without questioning you. And Pepper had known what a piece of work your mother was, trying to support you when she could after your father died and she discovered you existed.

“I had a job, I was doing well in school, we had an apartment. Andy was talking about proposing to his girlfriend. We were good, and then all of a sudden, there she was. Strung out on one drug or another, going on and on about the debt she had, that people were after her, that she was in deep shit. She kept saying it, over and over. I’m in deep shit, you don’t even know.”

Matt reaches up, swipes his thumb beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t noticed about to fall. His brow is furrowed, the hand on your leg moving to cover your still knotted fingers. “What happened?”

“I tried to get her to leave,” you say, swallowing hard when your breath starts to hitch. “Tried to call her a cab. She was crying and Andy was trying to get her outside, and then…” You suck in a breath, tears falling faster as the images replay in your head, the all too familiar feeling of terror crawling up your spine. 

“Hey, shh,” Matt murmurs, starting to collect your into his arms, pulling you into his lap. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here now. You’re safe. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do,” you cry, burying your face in his chest. “I have to tell somebody.” You heave another breath. “All these men broke through the door, yelling, trying to grab my mom. One of them shot Andrew, shot him right in the chest, grabbed her, and then took off.” Your voice cracks. “I held him while he died, right there in the living room, and I…I couldn’t do anything. I just started screaming.

“My neighbour called the cops, they took his body away, took me to the police station, questioned me. The only detail I remembered was that they all had tattoos on their necks, some stupid looking bulldog symbol. They made me ID a bunch of guys; turned out Mom had gotten mixed up with the wrong dealers, owed a whole lot of money to a whole lot of people, and the Dogs of Hell had come to collect.”

Matt goes still as a statue. “The Dogs of Hell.”

You nod, pulling back. “You know who they are?”

“There’s a chapter in New York,” he tells you. “I knew there were more in Nevada but I never…” His mouth drops open, eyes shining as he continues, “The man who attacked you that night, when I…he was a—”

“I know,” you say tearfully, pushing your face into your hands. “I recognized the tattoo. I probably could have gotten away myself, but when I saw it, I just…” You shake your head slowly. “I was right back in that living room, covered in my brother’s blood, and I couldn’t…and then you…”

A sob crawls up the back of your throat then, and you can’t keep talking, words getting trapped behind your teeth when you try.

“It’s okay,” Matt shushes you, holding you closer as you cry into his shoulder. “You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you, okay? Nothing’s gonna happen to you. You’re safe. I got you, okay? I have you.”

“I’ve been so scared,” you manage to say after a few moments, “that they sent him after me. The man that attacked me, what if they’re targeting me, Matt? What if they want me dead?”

He shakes his head, tightening his arms around you. “No. It’s a coincidence. I don’t want you to think anything different. He was a repeat offender. You got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more. That man is behind bars now, and he’ll stay there for the foreseeable future. I’ll make sure of it, okay?” He lifts his chin, kissing your forehead. “You’re safe now. I swear.”

Matt kisses your cheek, then your nose, then your mouth, his lips slotting over yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him with everything you have left. His forehead leans against yours when he pulls back.

“Now you know,” you whisper, your eyes searching his, glancing across his face.

“Now I know,” he repeats. “And now I know what to look for. The Dogs were already on my radar, but if anyone tries to get close to you, I’ll stop it. It’s coincidental, I know it is, but I’ll still keep a lookout. And the men in Nevada, the ones that shot your brother, did they…?”

“Life without parole, for the one that shot Andrew,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “The others only got a few months, but I was long gone by the time they were released. You’re sure it was a coincidence?”

He nods. “I’m sure. He had countless other victims, in the Kitchen and beyond. It’s all six degrees of separation, sure, but it’s a coincidence, I promise you. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

+

The snow doesn’t stop.

For four days.

You’re grateful, in a way, and more than content to wait out the storm in the comfort of the cabin, especially since you’re accompanied by Matt, who, since getting a taste of you when you’d first arrived, is intent to commit you to memory, any chance he gets. The days are a haze of sex and drinking and more sex, the pair of you spending the first two days exclusively in the bedroom, only leaving for bathroom breaks, more booze, or to search for snacks. 

There’s a lot of talking and joking; Matt’s an awful flirt and has endless work-related stories. You find them interesting, and he’s got such a way of telling them that it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest the cases he’s pulled off. He’s well-spoken and fuck, if he isn’t somehow more attractive when he recounts cases he was clearly passionate about, unable to pull the smile off his face as he tells you how he won, the evidence they tried to use again him, the look on his client’s face when the judge let them go.

You can’t help but pull yourself into his lap as he tells one about an early case he and Foggy took on, his hair mussed from your fingers and his glasses on the nightstand, sightless eyes not watching you but tracking your movements in that way that he has. His eyes are bright with passion, and the corner of his mouth quirks up as you slide yourself into his lap, your knees settling either side of him, hands pushing through his hair.

“When they read the verdict that she was innocent,” he’s saying, and you’re listening, you really are, but your hands tighten in his hair and you tug lightly, just enough that his head drops back against the headboard and you can lower your mouth to his already hickey-covered neck. “I wish I could have seen, in that exact moment. I couldn’t see her face, but I heard her heart pick up. She was so damn happy.”

You smile against his pulse, letting your tongue drag across his steady heartbeat. “Sounds like you picked the right line of work, Mr. Murdock,” you whisper.

“I must have,” he replies, hands reaching for you, one at your hip and the other in your hair, “seeing as it brought me to you.” Your grin widens and you ignore the roar of butterflies in your stomach. He must hear the change in your body, because he asks, “Too much?”

“No,” you mumble against his skin, and you pull your face from his neck to find his mouth with yours, nipping at his lips until he gives in to the need and rolls you both over, pinning you beneath him.

Matt doesn’t talk any more about his mother, nor do you about yours or your brother, and neither of you presses the other for more information. The stories seem to hang in the air above your heads, on display but out of reach, secrets no one else knows but the two of you. It’s both comforting and terrifying, and as the days go by, you can tell you’re getting in deeper and deeper with Matt Murdock. The lawyer, the vigilante, the enigma wrapped in pretty brown eyes and a prettier smile.

+

After the third day, Tony offers to send a jet to come pluck you out of the snowy landscape, but you’re both quick to decline. Foggy has a handle on things at Nelson and Murdock, and while you know Matt is itching to get back to crime in the Kitchen, he assures you he’s also happy for the break, and happy to be spending it with you.

Tony doesn’t pry, and says something about it being nice to see you out and happy since you came to New York, and especially after what had happened in the alley that night. “Be good to her, Murdock!” he calls on out on speakerphone, and you go to hide your blush, then realize it’s of no use. Matt just grins.

Later in the day, you head out into the winter wonderland, as it were, armed with a shovel and hoping to clear a path for the Jeep once the main roads have been clear for longer than an hour. Really, you just need something to do, and the cold gives your mind a break from the heat that seems to spark to life around Matt. It’s instantaneous, like lighter fluid and a match, when you so much as lay eyes on him, memories of the various encounters you’ve had over the last few days rising to the surface of your mind. It’s like you’ve been dying of thirst for ages, and the only remedy is his tongue down your throat and your body in his hands.

An hour or so of shovelling later, the snow starts to pick up again, and you all but launch the shovel into the banks that have formed either side of the driveway. Frustrated, you head back inside, stripping your wet gloves and hat at the door, toeing off your boots and shucking off your coat. All the while, your teeth are chattering, loudly, and it’s only a minute or two before you see Matt’s familiar form padding down the stairs, head cocked to the side. “You’re cold.”

The man hasn’t worn a shirt since you peeled it off of him your first night here, and honestly, it’s almost an affront. He’s ridiculously cut, and your eyes travel the length of him over and over as he makes his way towards you, hands in loose fists at his sides, stomach flexing as he inhales deeply. Your own head tilts to the side as he gets closer, eyes travelling over the different scars littering his body, memories sparking of the few you’ve traced with your tongue, watching his body react beneath yours in the bed upstairs.

He reaches for your hand first, fingers curling around your wrist, and you nearly gasp at how warm his skin is. You go malleable in his grasp, letting him pull you close to him, stepping out of the pile of wet clothes you’ve left by the door. He reaches for the hem of your sweater, yanking it quickly over your head, and then his mouth is on yours, hotter than hell, tasting like Matt in a way that make your toes curl in your damp socks.

It makes your head spin, how familiar he’s become to you so quickly. You cuddle close to his broad chest as he drops your discarded sweater to the side, and then his hands are on your back, skimming your spine, flicking open the clasp of your bra like it’s nothing. He moves to your waist then, dropping to his knees as you let the straps fall down your arms, tossing the bra to the side.

You make a quiet noise when his jaw scrapes along the curve of your stomach, the stubble lining his skin making it that more pleasurable, and when you look down, you see his eyes roll back, a growl rumbling through him as he bites at your skin, marking you.

Claiming you.

It sends a thrill through you as he manages to get your pants down over your hips, peppering your skin with love bites and kisses as he goes, his nose prodding your skin and teeth nipping at the elastic of your underwear. “I don’t even know why you bothered to put these back on,” he mumbles and you grip his shoulders as you step out of your pants, another bundle of fabric to add to the pile he’s created.

Your teeth are still chattering as he knocks your knees apart with his shoulder, reaches up to yank your underwear to the side, and licks a stripe up your core. It nearly makes you fall over, your legs instantly shivering — both from the cold and the pleasure that immediately floods you — but Matt is there to catch you, those strong arms keeping you upright, lifting your leg until it’s resting on his shoulder and letting you lean some of your weight onto him.

“Gotta get you warm,” he mumbles into your thigh after a moment, pulling back, giving you a momentary reprieve before he nips at your skin and goes right back in. His hands are everywhere, roaming your body, squeezing your ass, dragging gentle fingertips up the small of your back. You can feel his body heat enveloping yours, the soft sighs he moans into the core of you making the warmth flood faster, replacing any cold feeling in your body like magic.

It’s almost insane, you think somewhere in the back of your mind — four days alone with you and he knows your body like no one else ever has. He knows that if he squeezes your thigh when he sucks hard at your clit, it makes your whole body tense and a moan drop from your mouth. He knows that if he drags his fingers from the flesh of your ass to your pussy, wetting them with your first release and tasting it on his tongue, your back arches and you’ll grip his hair even harder than you already are.

He knows that if he gives you just a little bit of teeth, a little bit of pain mixed with your pleasure, you cum so hard you see stars.

What he doesn’t know this time, however, is that as soon as the haze of your own pleasure recedes into the back of your mind, slinking back to the base of your spine but already hungry for more, there’s only one thing on your mind.

His pleasure.

“I’m warm now,” you murmur, carding your hand through his hair, letting out a low moan of his name before you’re nudging at his shoulder. “I gotta do something, honey.”

He lifts his head from between your legs, and it’s truly a miracle you don’t cum again just from the look on his face. The shine of you on his lips and jaw, even the tip of his nose coated in you. His hair is mussed beyond belief, the product of your tugs and occasional yanks, and those eyes. Pupils blown wide as dinner plates, rolling around in his skull as he licks his lips, cleaning the taste of you from his skin, his breathing heavy and his chest heaving. You don’t miss the glimpse of his hand around his cock, now pulled free from his boxers and hard as anything. “Wha-?”

You ever heard the term cock-drunk? Well, if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that Matt Murdock is pussy-drunk. And heaven above, if it doesn’t make you feel powerful.

He lets you pull him to his feet, lets you push him towards the living room. He’s as malleable in your grasp as you were in his, and he listens well, sinking into the large chair. You lower yourself as he goes, reaching for the waistband of his boxers and shoving them past his knees. He makes himself comfortable, adjusting his hips and you dive forward, dragging your tongue up the middle of his scarred chest, his skin tasting of salt and sweat and Matthew.

And you need more.

Matt shivers when you kiss the scar on his left pec, moans when you do the same to the one on the right. Your hands roam just as his did, dragging your nails down his thighs, squeezing his muscle before moving back to his hips. His cock bounces between his legs, desperate for your attention, and he throws his head back and groans when you drag the very tip of your nail along his vein, swirling across the tip as you lean up slightly to kiss the column of his throat. Another heavy breath when you suck at his pulse, another dark mark adding the collection you’ve created on his skin.

Marking him, just like he’s been marking you. Claiming him, just like he’s been claiming you.

You’re safe, his voice plays on repeat in your mind, the groans and gasps falling from his mouth creating a symphony in your ears. You’re safe with me.

He nearly shouts your name when you take the head of his cock between your lips, your eyes flicking up to his face, twisted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut and that beautiful mouth dropped open. He grabs your wrist then you reach up to splay your hand in the centre of his chest, and holds it there on his skin. You can feel his racing heart, the heady up and down of his breaths, the way his moans on the inhale and groans your name on the exhale.

Matt sinks the hand not holding yours into your hair, the still-wet strands twisting around his knuckles, making your eyes roll back when he tugs just a little. A gasp gets caught in his throat when you sink down on him completely, his tip hitting the back of your throat, the salty taste of precum painting your tastebuds.

You moan at the taste, moving your free hand to the base of his cock, curling your fingers around what doesn’t fit in your mouth, dragging your nails across his balls. He keens, hand tightening in your hair, knees jerking and a sound almost like a whine meeting your ears.

“I’m gonna…” he starts, and trails off, the word dropping into another moan, his chest flexing beneath your hand, heart absolutely racing. “Oh, fuck, I’m…you’re…oh god.”

He cums with a loud, drawn-out moan that makes a spark of pleasure zip down your own spine, the beast he had momentarily sated rising once more, purring at the sounds he makes, the taste of his cum down your throat, the way he jerks upright and pulls you up when you try to suck again at his over-sensitive tip, immediately guiding your face to his and kissing you hard.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes into your mouth, lashes fluttering as you return his kisses, moving up so you can climb into his lap. “Incredible.”

+

That night, the snow stops.

You’re the first to notice. You’re astride him in the bed, his hands holding your hips in an iron vice, yours white-knuckling the headboard. He leans up to bite at your nipple and you throw your head back, Matthew dropping from your lips, and that’s when you see it.

“It stopped snowing,” you say, the words still half-gasped.

“Sounds like something to deal with tomorrow,” he mumbles into your skin, canting his hips up and rolling his cock deeper into you. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

+

You get back to New York around midday the next day, taking Matt straight to his apartment. He almost declines when you offer to walk him upstairs — you see the hesitation on his face, but then he accepts your arm with a tiny grin — and you can almost see the transition as you lead him up. The change from the Matt Murdock with no secrets, the one who’s spent the last four days baring his soul to you (in almost every sense of the word), to the Matt Murdock who nobody really knows, not truly.

“I’d invite you in,” he says when you reach his front door, “but I don’t wanna—”

“Trying to get rid of me that fast, Murdock?” you laugh, cutting him off.

“No!” he replies instantly, leaning his cane against the door so he can take your face in his hands, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. “I was gonna say, I don’t wanna be presumptuous.”

You giggle, giving in to his soft pecks, looping your arms around his waist. “Just checking.” You turn your head at the last minute, catch his mouth with yours. “I should go home though; Tony and Pepper will be waiting.”

“Do me a favour and tell Tony that the whipped cream stain on the seat wasn’t my fault, please?”

You scrunch your nose. “I’ll think about it.”

He grins back, diving back to kiss your neck, tongue swiping over all the marks he left. “Oh, and tell your sister I’m not responsible for the hickeys.”

You bark a laugh this time. “You really think anyone is gonna believe that, Murdock?”

“No,” he mumbles into your skin, “but it’s worth a shot.”

There’s a brief silence, your eyes slipping closed as you inhale his scent, rubbing your hands up and down his back. He breathes you in just as deeply, nose against your pulse. “I’ll see you soon?” you ask. It’s an open-ended question, you know. There’s probably more than enough crime and (masked) punishment for him to dole out in the Kitchen. As for you, Pepper will most likely have a laundry list of things for you to slowly work through, still insistent on your gradual return to work. The thought of going back to it all, to going back out into the world instead of returning to a bed filled with him, makes your heart race.

And he notices, you know he does. “You will,” he whispers, and his nose drags up your neck until his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. “I told you, you’re safe with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another kiss, then another, and then he’s fishing for his keys, unlocking the door easily and stepping across the doorway. He leans back, drops another peck to your cheek. “Bye.”

“Bye,” you whisper back, and slowly the door closes, and he disappears from view.

+

“What in the hell?” are Tony’s first words when you return to the Tower a half hour later. You’re instantly red, pulling at the collar of your sweater to hide your throat, but it’s no use. “What, did you and Murdock fight off a sentient vacuum cleaner at the cabin?”

Pepper bursts into giggles and just puts her arm around you. “Welcome back,” she whispers, linking her arm through yours and pulling you away from Tony’s blatant staring. “You had a good time, I gather?”

“We did,” you say with a nod. You both come to a stop in front of your door, and you push a nervous hand through your hair. “I told him.”

Pepper turns to you, her brows pinched. “Told him…?”

“Everything,” you say, and it feels like a weight has slid of your chest. “I told him everything.”

[quickienewyork]

Traditional Drink and Masturbation Pairings

First time

When you’re settling in for the first time, or maybe it’s just the first time in a long while, it’s important to give yourself space to truly indulge. So why not lay back on the couch with a nice glass of rose´ and let your fingers do the talking?

After all, you’re not a child anymore.

Visiting your parents for the holidays only to discover they voted for Trump 

The holidays are tough for many of us even under the best of circumstances. But when politics come up, space is tight, and your old bedroom has walls that are paper thin, there’s just one traditional choice.

During desert, surreptitiously fill your coffee mug with a generous helping of your dad’s twenty-five-year-old Macallan. Drop it off in your room before ending the meal with a few choice words concerning Putin, Exxon Mobil, and Wikileaks. Smile as you climb under the covers and remind yourself that you did your best.

With the mug in one hand and the other hand deep beneath the warm blankets, taste the warm malty goodness and revel in your wit and satisfaction. You deserve it after all.

Uber Passenger (with a friend) - 

When you’re in the back of a cab with that old friend you only see a few times a year, the party doesn’t start until midnight, and you want to catch up the best way you know how, it’s traditional to share a can of Sofia Coppola's Sofia Blanc de Blancs Sparkling Wine, preferably with two straws. Lay back and look out the window as you remember your times together in college. 

Try not to slurp at the end, but don’t worry if you do. After all, your night is just beginning.

Uber Driver 

When you realize the two passengers you just picked up are enjoying themselves in the back of the car there’s little you can do. After all, you don’t want to be a creeper, but neither do you want to be left out.

Sneak a hand under your seat and pull out that bottle of Lillet Blanc you’ve been saving for just this occasion. They’re too busy to notice as you bring it to your lips for a long slow drink before you subtly join in the fun.

But remember, more than two or three sips is just bad manners. After all, you are the one driving.

Port Authority Bathroom on a Friday Night Before Hitting the Clubs 

You’ve left Jersey behind, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have that Jersey spirit. And what’s a better way to start off your night in the city than a nice wank in the second floor south tower’s men’s room? 

If you can find a stall with a door, settle in for some alone time in the near privacy of your very own piece of New York real estate. Open that flask of manhattans you mixed at home with the Old Overholt and Antica vermouth. You thankfully didn’t forget the orange bitters this time, and the cold seat is hardly a concern. Feel the warmth in your throat and stomach as you settle in for a leisurely release. 

After all, there’s no place like home.

Under a blanket on an airplane when there’s an empty seat next to you and a view of the Grand Canyon out the window 

Maybe it’s the passing flight attendant, the pur of the four engines, or possibly the beauty of the gaping chasm beneath you that turns you on, but you have the privacy and the time to truly enjoy yourself. Order up a classic gin martini (with a twist if they have one) and cover yourself with a blanket. 

It won’t be perfect, but what does it matter? You’re used to traveling, and you have hours before you land. Take a few sips before you begin, but remember, it’s traditional to save most for the aftermath. 

Because is there anything better than looking down at that red rock splendor after a quiet yet intense orgasm as you sip your gin martini? We certainly don’t think so.

You were just dumped but it’s for the best and besides this hotel has a whirlpool bathtub 

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? They left and while a part of you knew it was coming, maybe even welcomed it, you find that the anger outweighs your typical magnanimity. 

But the tub is large and the water is hot and it’s time to get to know yourself again. When was the last time you indulged in your own pleasure? When was the last time you let it all be about you?

So sit back in the water with a bottle of the 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux without a glass in sight. This isn’t a time for manners or restraint. This is your time, so lay back and enjoy it as the jets begin to bubble and the warm water helps you slip easily into the right frame of mind.

Sure, the bottle costs over $2,000. But after all, you still have their American Express card, don’t you?

-gny

Website/Books | Erotic Newsletter | Medium | Patreon | OF | Twitter

[hsw88]

Artwork for @the_macallan 🥃 Inside #TheMacallan NESTLED ABOVE THE RIVER SPEY - An obsession with quality has been the hallmark of The Macallan since its founding by Alexander Reid on a plateau above the river Spey in north-east #Scotland. The distillery is surrounded by a 485 acre estate with Easter Elchies House at its heart. © 2022 Seungwon Hong ​ ______________​ #TheMacallanmoments #TheMacallandoublecask #macallanwhisky #sartorial​ #painting #art #fashion #fashionillustration #illustration #seungwonhong​​​​​​ #페인팅 #맥캘란 (at The Macallan) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChrSbG0rfAI/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[axwalker]

Bad Timing: Kismet

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x Alexis O’Brien (MC) 

Synopsis: Alexis O’Brien is escaping a terrible past. After months of running  she settles  in Cordonia where she meets Drake at the bar where she works and they spend a passionate night together. 

What happens when a one-night-stand turns into unexpected parenthood? 

This chapter

MASTERLIST 

WORDS: 3,890 🙊

POV: Dual 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None for this chapter. In the future, mentions of domestic violence, and explicit sex scenes. 

ALL MY FICS ARE +18 

A/N: I apologize for any grammatical errors. 

I switch between Drake’s and Alexis’ POV several time in this chapter. I hope it’ll be clear enough!

PRESENT TIME Alexis

 After a one-hour bus ride and a 20-minutes walk, I finally find the correct address. When I reach the massive iron gates, I punch in the code Mr. Beaumont’s assistant gave me on the phone and gape as the extensive estate comes into view when I walk through. Acres and acres of super green grass littered with pines surround the massive house in the distance. The closer I get, the more I feel like a foreigner. This might have been my world once, but my new reality couldn’t be further apart from all this luxury. I have fifty dollars left in my wallet, an eviction notice back in my 200 square foot studio, and to top it all, the worst freaking headache I’ve had in my life. Talk about a bad streak. Ironically, I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My life belongs to me; I don’t have to live in constant fear and –most importantly, I’m free. Unattached. I want to do a lot of things with my life, and no one will stop me. That’s worth the worst headache in the world or a few money problems. 

I ring the bell, and a gorgeous woman opens the door. Her deep blue eyes scowl at me when I smile at her. 

“Who are you looking for?” She doesn’t ask as much as she barks the question. 

“Eh,” I haven’t been called shy a single day of my life, but her attitude it’s messing with the positive vibes I had coming up here. “I’m looking for Mr. Bertrand Beaumont from Beaumont Caterings.”

 “This door is for house guests only. The help,” she says the word as if it tastes bad in her mouth, “must go around the house and ring the bell back there.” She’s about to close the door right in my face when two hot guys come to the door. Seriously, what do people eat in this country? 

“Penelope, what are you doing answering the door like a simple maid? Where is Jessa?” 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “She had to leave early. She said she asked you for the afternoon off.”

The older man nods as, the younger one grins at me. “We can discuss Jessa’s schedule later, Bertie. Please, come in, Ms.?” He asks me, still smiling. 

“Ortiz. Alexis Ortiz.” I grin back, instantly liking the man with the kind blue eyes. “I’m here for the catering job.” 

“I’m Maxwell Beaumont. This is my brother Bertrand—the owner and Penelope Brim, one of our party planners.”

I follow them to a huge office and give Bertrand the resumé I printed at the internet place next to my building.  

“Is this all true?” He asks after a quick read.

I nod my head.

“Are you sure, Ms. Ortiz? It says here that you were working as a bartender, a barista, and a waitress in a very exclusive French restaurant, all at the same time.”

Penelope gives me a dismissive glare. “She’s obviously lying. That isn’t even possible. Unless she’s iniquitous.” 

I know better than to interrupt a potential employer, even worse if it’s to correct them, but this woman is grating on my nerves. Plus, I had a lifetime of keeping my head down with Matt, and I just don’t have the patience for this kind of crap anymore. And she called me a liar. Hell no.

“No, Ms. Brim, I’m not ubiquitous.” Maxwell snorts, and I swear the other guy, Bertrand, smiles behind my CV. I refrain from telling her what iniquitous actually means because I do need this job. “I worked as a barista in a Starbucks from 5 to 11 am. Then as a waitress at “Clair de Lune” from 12 to 6 pm. Finally, as a bartender in an Irish pub from 7 to midnight or 2 am, depending on the day. You can call any of those places and see I’m not lying.” Just please, God, don’t ask for my papers.

Maxwell reads the resumé when Bertrand gives it to him. “Do you speak French and Spanish as well?”

I shrug. “I love languages, and I grew up in a house where my mom and grandmother only spoke Spanish. I learned French in school. I had an amazing teacher.” 

Maxwell and Bertrand look at each other. The older brother, a younger, sterner version of Hugh Jackman, clears his throat. “I’ll be honest with you, Ms. Ortiz. Two of our waiters are absent, and tomorrow we’ll be catering to one of the most important events of the year. If everything in your resume is true, you can start training today --paid of course, and start working tomorrow.”

Paid training? Despite my throbbing head, I want to scream with happiness. “Everything is true.”

“That’s settled then. Penelope, please, darling, show Ms. Ortiz the kitchens and the ballroom. You can ask Naomi to train her for tonight. You know Regina, and she’ll want everything to go as smooth as possible.” 

“Right.” Penelope turned at me with an uptight smile. “Come with me.” 

I turn and beam at Maxwell, who’s giving me a thumbs up. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.” 

Bertrand shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet, Ms. Ortiz. Just do an impeccable job.” He glances at my Vans. “And for the love of God, only heels tomorrow.” 

I nod and follow Penelope down the hallway. 

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

DRAKE

 “This is why you ditch your friends who get hitched to a relationship,” I grumble, sitting in my chair. 

“He’s five minutes late,” Liam says. 

Leo shakes his head. “Well, I want a goddamn drink. How come I can’t order one until he gets here?” 

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two are acting like children. You can wait five minutes.” 

“Maybe, but I need something, and fast.” 

“Ah, there they are,” Max exclaims, hands clasped together, staring at us. “My boys.” Jesus Christ. Liam is scooped into a hug and then set back in his chair. 

From over Liam’s head, Max points at me and shakes his finger. “Come here; you handsome Walker bastard.” 

I hold up my hand. “I’m good.”

 “Nope.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to pass up Max’s snuggles.” Before I can move, he swoops to his knees, pulls me into a hug. . . and nuzzles. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Beaumont?” I ask, my voice strong as I try to push him away. 

“You smell like heaven,” he says, chuckling. No one likes to fuck with me as much as Maxwell Beaumont does. Unfortunately for me, he’s one of my best friends, and the bastard is well aware of it. 

“Get out of here.” I palm his face and push him away. 

Leo laughs. “Come on, man, you know Walker is a sour bastard.” 

With another laugh, Maxwell retreats to his seat, unbuttons his jacket, and sits down. Hands-on the table, he looks between us and declares, “I’m in love.” 

Christ. “We know,” Liam and I say at the same time, irritation heavy in our voices. Leo just rolls his eyes as he looks for a waiter. 

Maxwell has only been dating Rashad for a few weeks, so it’s no surprise he’s like this—a hopeful idiot with a relentless smile. Hell, he’s been in love with the man for years. It took him a really, really long time to finally make a move. He adjusts his tie as he says, “You don’t have to be rude about it. I’m just sharing. Isn’t that what this is all about? Sharing?” 

“Sharing? I thought this was about drinking as much as possible and hooking up with a hot waitress,” Leo says, flagging down our waiter. 

When he arrives, I talk above the guys and quickly say, “Macallan, neat.” 

“Dalmore, on the rocks, please,” Liam says, and Leo orders the same. 

When the waiter turns to Max, he rubs his stomach and says, “You know, a hot cocoa would be perfect right now.”

 What the actual fuck? “No.” I step in. “He’ll have an Old Fashion. Thanks.” A little confused and probably slightly disturbed, he takes off as Max complains. 

“Hey, I really wanted a hot cocoa.” 

“Not happening. First, because they don’t serve hot cocoas here and second because we’re supposed to be out drinking, Beaumont. And you fucking love Old Fashions. You order one every damn time. Stop complaining.” 

“Sheesh.” Maxwell unfolds his napkin and sets it on his lap. “What’s up your ass?” 

“Nothing.” I push my hand through my hair. 

“It’s a girl.” Leo smirks, causing Liam and Max to practically jump out of their seats.

“A girl?” Liam cocks his eyebrow. “Surely not Drake --permanent bachelor, Walker. My fucking heart can’t take it.” 

Fucking Leo. “It’s not what Leo is making it out to be.” 

“He met her two months ago, and he’s been thinking about her ever since. Magical pussy right there.”

“I swear, Leo; I don’t care for how long we’ve been friends, next time you talk about her like that, I’ll personally break that shit-eat grin off your face”

The clown raises his arms. “I rest my case.”

 “What?” Max’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. “Drake Walker doesn’t get attached, and he doesn’t duel his friends for a girl.” 

Jesus. Thankfully the waiter brings our drinks at that moment, so I have a second to compose myself. 

“You slept with her?” Liam asks after a swig of Dalmore. He’s been in a stable relationship with Hanna Lee for a year now. Once the most popular guy on school, he now spends his Friday nights curled up with her watching Netflix. I can’t even remember the last time he went out with us. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. The only reason this fuckhead is bringing it up it’s because I went looking for her, and he saw it.” There I said it. Better me than Leo fucking Rys. 

Max and Liam exchange a look, but Max seems too stunned to talk, so Liam asks. “You did what?”

I chug my whiskey and ask for another one. “I don’t know why. I just …” Tired of this fucking conversation, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We had a great time. That’s all.”

 “How come Leo knows about this girl, and I don’t?” Liam complains. 

Max complains too. “Dude, you know I’m the romantic one. Leo over here has a brick for a heart, and Li is too busy. You need to discuss these things with me.” 

“I don’t have a brick for a heart,” Leo says, surprisingly offended. 

“No, you’re just still hung up on Maddie,” I say with a smirk. He shifts in his chair but doesn’t say anything. What does it feel, Rys? 

“So . . . who is the girl?” Maxwell asks. 

For fuck’s sake. I might as well get it over with. “I’m going to say one last time that I’m not interested in her anymore, so before your little hearts starts beating wildly for playing cupid, it’s not going to happen.” 

In a snarky tone, Leo replies, “Well, of course, it’s not. She left the country. Are you that bad, Walker? Because I can give you a tip or two.” He’s so fucking annoying. 

“Oh.” Max sighs, disappointed.  

Leo elbows his brother and says, “He hasn’t slept with anyone since.” 

And there it is. The real reason why Leo is worried about this. He lost his wingman. “I’m not an animal, Leo. It’s not the first time in my life that I go two months without fucking. I’m not you. Anyway, all this is pointless. She’s gone.” 

My friends grew up with me, so they know when it’s time to stop pushing. Max interrupts the silence that follows because nothing makes little Beaumont more uncomfortable than a gap in the conversation. “Everything is ready for the party tomorrow night. The thirtieth anniversary of Rys Corporation will be a success.” 

Liam nods. “Regina talked with Hana this morning. It’s the first anniversary since I took over as CEO. I need everything to be perfect.” 

“What about the staff, Max?” Leo asks, smiling. Having sex at every anniversary party is a personal challenge of his. 

“We actually hired someone today. She’s gorgeous.” He turns his head at Leo. “But she’s off-limits.” Leo smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. “I mean it, dude. Bertrand said he’s tired of looking for new waitresses. Two quit yesterday morning when they found out that the event was for Rys corporation.”  

“Hey, I never lie. It’s not my fault if they think I’ll call them anyway.” 

“Whatever, just don’t mess with her. Plus, I got to talk to her after her training today. She’s super nice. She’s Am--. Wait.” He says when his phone chimes up. “Sorry, boys. It was a text from Penelope. Apparently, the Chablis hasn’t been delivered yet. I have to call Joelle before I lose my big brother over a wine crisis. See you all tomorrow.” He finishes his cocktail and stands up. 

Liam stands up too. “I should go home too. Han arrived today from Hong Kong.” 

Leo checks his phone. “Wait, Li. I’ll go with you. I have a date with this girl I met last night at Kismet. Do you want to come, man?” He asks me. “I’m sure she has a friend she can introduce you.”

I shake my head. “I’ll finish my whiskey and head home. See you all tomorrow.”

It was only one fucking night. Why can’t I get her out of my head? 

It’s maddening. Or maybe it is a blessing. If I’m still thinking about her after one night, imagine how bad I’d have it after several. It’s best that she stays far the fuck away from me. I’m not interested in long-term attachments of any kind.  I don’t want to think about Lexie Ortiz, but she’s infected my brain. The sound of her teasing laugh haunts me.

And I can’t deny it; it was one hell of a night.

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

ALEXIS 

 “This is a single girl’s paradise.” 

“No,” I grimace, trying to clean the spilled tomato sauce from my shirt. “Paradise would be a tropical beach with a hot cabana boy giving us free massages... and an endless supply of piñas Coladas.” Naomi laughs, the sound almost lost in the chaos of the kitchen. Chefs shouting orders, Penelope and Bertrand panicking, plates being dropped—the world of catering is a noisy business. 

“Cabana boys may have hot smoking bodies and virility, Lex, but they lack two essential qualities: prestige and money.” 

“So, what you’re saying is that you’d prefer an old limp dick over a young hard one? Interesting,” I answer, teasing her. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, smart ass. I’m saying I’d take a solid bank account over a solid dick. Think about it—with all that money, he could never fuck me at all, and I couldn’t care less. And I’d be treated properly. Rich guys know how to treat a lady.” 

“Trust me on this, Naomi. Money has absolutely nothing to do with how a man treats a woman.” I should know. “In any case,” I retort, grabbing another tray of drinks, “if you’re looking for old rich guys, there are tons of opportunities out there.” I laugh at the dreamy look on her face, partly because it’s hilarious and partly because I know she’s kidding. After my training last night, she invited me to her house, where I met Theo, her little boy. He’s eight years old and the absolute love of her life. 

“Speaking of fucking,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “did you see the Rys brothers? One of them is taken, but the other two are single and oh so yummy. Especially the tall and brooding one. I’ll kill for those smoldering brown eyes looking right at my soul” 

I snort. “You really should stop reading romance novels, Nao. And yes. I served one of them and his girlfriend champagne earlier, but he was blond and didn’t have smoldering, brooding eyes. I thought they were only two brothers, though.”

“Well, technically, yes. But Constantine Rys --the super-rich owner of Rys Corporation-- adopted two other kids. A boy and a girl. They all grew up together.” She uncorks several champagne bottles as she speaks.

Now that my uniform is clean, I grab one of the Veuve Clicquot bottles and help her pouring the cold liquid into the glasses on our trays. “How do you know all of that?”

“I’m Cordonian, girl. The Rys siblings are almost royalty in this country. The one that is not an actual Rys is the one with the smoldering eyes. He doesn’t work for the company, though. He’s a … a vet, I think.”  

A veterinarian like Drake. My stupid heart flutters when I think about him. 

“Do we pay you to work or to gossip, ladies?” Penelope screams from the kitchen door. 

Naomi and I roll our eyes and grab our refilled trays. 

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

DRAKE

“This is a huge night for Liam,” Regina says behind her champagne glass. Constantine has been telling everyone, especially her, that he’s ready and happy to retire, but she knows him better than anyone. Leaving Rys Corporation and pass the torch to Liam is much more difficult for Constantine than he cares to admit.  

“It’ll be all right, Regina. Don’t worry. Liam is more than ready to handle the responsibility.”

She throws a glance at Liam, who’s standing a few feet behind me next to his dad. “I just hope he doesn’t forget that his personal life is equally important. He and Hana work too hard.” 

I’m about to answer when one of the waitresses distracts me. Her back is turned to me, so I can’t see her face, but there is something incredibly familiar about the way she moves. She’s passing drinks amongst Regina’s friends. I want to go and see who she is, but Liam catches my eyes across the room.  We exchange a look, one that we’ve exchanged several times over our lives. It was Liam and me when we were younger, walking into his father’s office after getting into a fight at school. It was the two of us when we came home late, and his parents were waiting in the living room as we walked in, drunk. It was the two of us when we wrecked Leo’s new Porsche when we were sixteen, and right now, I know he needs me. Constantine is a great father, but he has too many expectations for his younger son. Liam needs a break. 

Regina sees the exchange and smiles. “Liam’s very lucky to have you, Drake.” She is not our biological mother, but she loves all of us as if she was. And she’s more my mother than Bianca Walker will never be.  

A couple of men look at me, and I try to remember if I should know them from somewhere. I think they’re both on the board of directors at RC. As much as I love the Rys, I will never get used to this shit. Socializing and pretending to like a bunch of people that annoy the fuck out of me. Ignoring them, I make my way to my best friend. Liam is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking serious and put together like the CEO of the largest company in Cordonia should. 

“I think it’s going well,” he says as I approach. “Father was driving me crazy with all his advice.” 

“It’s not only the anniversary of the company, Li. It’s also his first one as the former CEO. It’s normal he feels out of place.” 

Liam nods. “I know. I just wish he’ll trust me more.”

“He does, Liam. He’s just nervous.”

 I’m cut short by Liam’s grin. His gaze slides right behind me and lights up. 

“Would either of you like a glass of champagne?” a female, very familiar voice nearly whispers behind me. 

“I’m good,” Liam answers, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “How about you, Drake?”

 I turn around, and my heart skips a beat. Soft curves, tanned skin, and a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. The brightest, most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Alexis Ortiz tucks a strand of her rich brown hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. Her eyes widen, and I see she recognizes me but doesn’t mention it. Instead, a faint smile ghosts her luscious lips, and she lifts her chin like she has a secret she won’t tell. A secret we share. Her gaze remains on Liam, almost like she’s afraid to look my way. Finally, she turns to me, and when she does, an adorable blush color her cheeks. 

“Would you, uh, sir?” she asks, taking half a step backward. 

“Would I what?” I press, enjoying too much the way her cheeks turn even pinker. 

“Would you like a drink?” The words leave her lips fast like she wants to pronounce them and run away. I take a step towards her, remembering the night she spent in my arms and how damn perfect she felt. I know I make her nervous because I see little goosebumps erupting on her soft skin.  I smirk at her. “That depends on what you’re offering.”

 I shouldn’t be toying with her, but I can’t help it. I want to keep her talking, to watch her reactions, to see that sweet smile again.  

“I don’t have much to offer,” she says, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Unless you like champagne, sir.” She emphasizes the last word.

“I like all sorts of things.” I keep my gaze heavy against hers, not allowing her to look away. She fidgets with her tray and swallows hard but never takes her eyes off mine, too rebellious to look away. The longer our eyes match, the hotter my body becomes. She bits her delicious bottom lip slowly, her dark gaze boring into mine. 

“Is that so?” Liam laughs beside me, and I watch her jump like she forgot he was there. Alexis clears her throat and glances around the room. She turns back to us again, this time a practiced smile on her face. The easy grin and soft laugh are both gone. She wants to get away from me, I can feel it, and I understand. She’s working; it wouldn’t be professional. This is not the time or the place to reconnect. Unfortunately for her, I have other plans.

“Gentlemen ...” With a nod, Alexis walks away as fast as possible. She doesn’t look back, but I watch her until she’s out of sight. 

“What was that?” Liam snickers, loosening his gray silk tie. “I thought you were going to jump on her.” 

I rub my thumb over my lip, still surprised as hell.

“That was Alexis, the girl I met a couple of months ago. Now, if you excuse me, Li, I need to go talk to Bertrand.”  

@mskaneko @burnsoslow @gkittylove99 @kat-tia801 @no-one-u-know @thegreentwin @twinkle-320 @forallthatitsworth @kingliam2019 @marshmallowsandfire @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @princessleac1 @twinkleallnight @tinkie1973 @drakexwillow @moneyfordiamonds 

@yukinagato2012​ @alyssalauren​

[scydakman]

❝ SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 6TH, 2021 — at the akman family estate with @augustortiz​.

Emerald silk shimmied over spandex leggings that were cast off and abandoned in the driver's seat of a car. Heels were hopped and hobbled into on an ascent up the stairs. Shay was running late - as usual - but she’d be damned if she waltzed into the dining room looking any less than the level of perfection her mother would expect. 

 No - demand. 

Deft fingers coaxed a pair of diamond teardrops through her ears and she paused in the powder room off the grand foyer just long enough for a swipe of color across her lips. MAC’s ‘Please Me’ pink - an apt choice for what surely lay ahead. Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not the last, Shay stared at her reflection, wondering why even the simplest family dinner had to be such a show. 

As if their family’s finest china cared whether she picked at the food upon it wearing something from Saks or a pair of ratty sweats? Would the marble floors weep if they were kissed by the scuff of old Chucks instead of the Aquazzura’s pinching her feet? 

For one bold, reckless moment Shay wanted to find out. 

She stood there, sucked into that yawning wasteland of indifference within her meticulously made up eyes, and wanted to ruin something. One of the priceless ginger jars her mother had scattered about - not because she liked them, but because it’s how all the other ‘mistresses of the lake’ were decorating these days. Their five course meal fit for an army instead of a party of three. The fortune of soulless art on the walls. Herself. 

An familiar, incendiary urge toward destruction swept through Shay’s veins like a brush fire, and yet... steady hands smoothed a wayward curl into submission. Skimmed over her hips, her thighs, and adjusted the fall of her dress. 

Almost thirty, and she was still her mother’s little marionette. 

She pilfered a glass of Macallan from her father’s study on her way to the dining room and approached the imposing double doors, twenty minutes late. By the time she tossed it back, chucked the crystal snifter in one of her mother’s many potted plants ( hah! ), and ventured inside she wished she would’ve made it two. Or five. 

It wasn’t the exquisitely dressed table - complete with far too many settings - that stole the breath from her lungs, or the flinty glare in Cemre Akman’s eyes above a deceptively saccharine smile. It was who stood beside her, dapper in his three piece suit yet looking every bit as desperate to be anywhere else as she was.

August.

It’d been two years since Shay was last home. Two years since she’d last seen him. She never called to say she’d returned this time around, though it struck her now that perhaps she should’ve. Perhaps if they’d talked once in these two months she would’ve realized tonight was about more than just dinner with her parents. It was a spectacle of an entirely different beast.

Cemre slinked forward on stick thin heels - the epitome of poise, grace, and silent but deadly condemnation. Twenty minutes late, scotch on her breath, and not a drop of polish on her unadorned fingers. She’d be hearing about this later. At present, her mother just pressed forth to kiss each cheek, not so subtly shoving between Shay’s shoulder blades to force her front and center for their company. “Şeyda, you remember Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop. Their son, August, their daughter—”

Shay tuned her out. Shay tuned everything out but the achingly familiar landscape of his face.

It might’ve been two years, but she remembered their last moments together as if it were only yesterday. How her fingertips penned invisible promises and apologies alike over the canvas of his back. The way weak rays of morning light rimmed the curtains drawn over her hotel windows, edging the thick drapery in luminous gold. It’d spilled across his still form. Across that back, tattooed and lightly marred by the crimson streaked evidence of her love. She remembered how badly she wanted to dip in and taste the ink and sunshine off his skin. How she pressed a kiss to his passion-swept hair and left him sleep, instead.

Whenever he’d woken up, be it five minutes or five hours later, she’d already been gone. Shay texted him to say she’d made it back to New York okay later that evening, or perhaps it was the next week. She never told him how hard she’d cried during take off, though. How close she’d been to coming back.

Now - roughly seven hundred and thirty days later - she never would.

The whip-snap of her mother’s voice pulled her out of the reverie, reminding Shay that manners demanded an actual response. Her throat stubbornly resisted her attempt to swallow before she managed to sink into a pretty, heart-wrenchingly impersonal smile. “Of course I remember, anne. They’ve only lived next door most of my life.” 

Ignoring brittle tightening of Cemre’s mouth in response to that sprinkling of sass, she greeted his mother and step father first. It was a coward’s move - one that only granted the tiniest reprieve and chance at finding composure before she had to face him, too. 

“August.” Her gaze tried to flee for the floor of its own volition, but she forced herself to look up again. Shay’s eyes honed in on him through the thick, onyx fringe of her lashes and it took every ounce of self restraint not to lean in too close. Not to ping into his arms like some long lost magnet finding home and reclaim what’d always been hers. He wasn’t. He wasn’t hers, or her home. Not in the ways he always should’ve been - the ways he deserved.

“It’s lovely to see you again.” So unremarkably neutral, so polite. She could’ve been greeting the mailman or the grocery clerk, not the only man to ever seen her naked soul. It made Shay sick, this false pretense of loose acquaintance. The way they came and went in each others lives with a self-imposed lack of permeance. Her fault, not his. 

“How’ve you— how’ve you been?”

[gh0sthoodie]

Jasmine Cottage, sometime after the End

[on AO3]

Anathema Device is four whiskeys deep when she cocks her head like a little bird and says “why?”

Crowley—who has kept pace with her mostly for the look of the thing, and because Aziraphale is off doing something fussy and bookish at an estate sale, and because the witch girl has half-decent taste in alcohol—tilts his head back until it touches the wall and says “why what?”

“Why help us? Why save the world?” she says, and then, when he rolls his head to the side and raises one dark eyebrow: “I saw you on that airstrip—”

“Clever of you.”

“—you. And the angel. You looked absolutely frantic about the whole thing. Why? Would they”—she wiggles her fingers at the ceiling and he can, at least, appreciate the complete lack of reverence in the gesture—"have killed you too?”

Crowley lolls his head a little more and lets his glass dangle loosely from the hand draped over his knee. He’s hardly near to drunk, but it’s a look.

“If the Host had won, yeah, sure. I wasn’t planning to stick around and see.”

“But you did.”

“Eh,” he says. “It was that or Alpha Centauri, and the angel was being a tit about leaving.”

Anathema makes an ah-ha! sort of face. “So you did stay for Aziraphale. Funny, I never fancied you for a romantic.”

“Nor I you, witch girl.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“And I’m…more than that. By six thousand years at least.”

Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. If the drink didn’t have her just a little bit off-center, and if her hair wasn’t falling in little wisps out of her bun and tickling her nose, Crowley reckons it would be a proper, hellish glower. The sort to cow mortal men and turn beasts from the door and yadda yadda yadda.  It’s not bad.

“The point…” she says.

“The point,” he says, “is sushi. And orchids, and bizarre designer sex toys and classic cars and…” he raises the glass to the light and peers up through the lovely deep amber of it. “Macallan, is it? Quite good.” He tips his glass to her and throws it back. “Yeahhh, that’s the stuff. You don’t get this in Hell, witch girl. You’d think, oh yeah, vice up the wazoo. Just an utter Bacchanal of lust and gluttony and sloth and the rest, for all eternity.” He curls his lip and reaches for the bottle on the coffee table between them. “S’not. It’s mostly blood and paperwork.  Humans invented the Bacchanal.”

“Not Bacchus?”

“Humans invented Bacchus. Good idea all around, really.”

“I’ve heard his followers got naked and tore men to pieces.”

“And I’ve heard the same about witches. Rumor’s a powerful thing.” He grins a big sharp grin while he pours. “Now that I may have had a hand in.”

“Great.”

“Not the nudity bit specifically, mind. Or the sexism. Or the gender thing at all, really. That was all your lot.”

She lifts a finger at that, opens her mouth, and then closes it, her brow creasing and her lips pursing.  “Huh,” she says.

“Indeed.”

He refills her glass and lets a gentle silence fall between them.

She breaks it.

“You did stay, though. You were going to leave, whiskey and sex toys be damned. You just said so. But you stayed.”

He waves his hand as if to swat the whole train of thought out of the air. She goes on, undeterred:

“You really couldn’t leave him, could you?”

Crowley tilts his head back again, fast enough this time to bump it into the cottage wall. He takes off his sunglasses, blinks twice at the astrolabe hanging rather inexplicably from the ceiling, and puts them back on.

She waits.

“I thought he was dead,” he says, finally. “Real, proper dead. Extinguished. Gone. His bookshop went up in flames and I thought, that’s it, they’ve taken him, he’s never coming back.”

“Who’s they?” she asks, voiced hushed in a way that the room suddenly seems to demand.

Crowley snorts. “My people. His people. Not much difference, in the end; maybe he was asking too many questions, maybe he was getting in the way. Maybe Gabriel finally decided having a principality cavort about feeding ducks with a demon was a bit of an embarrassment.”

“So…you came to Tadfield?”

“What? No. I got drunk.”

“Oh.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do. End of the world, right? Why not spend it shitfaced in a gastropub.”

“But you were going to leave,” she says. She does the scrunched-up, confused-bird thing with her face again and throws her hands up on either side of her head. “If Aziraphale was what was keeping you on Earth and, and you thought he was gone and staying could have been a death sentence then why not just….go?”

Crowley takes his glasses off again. The window behind Anathema is open, and he watches the breeze puff the curtains out like gauzy white balloons. He looks down at his drink, and at the bottle, and then at her.

She blinks.

“Oh,” she says. It hangs in the air between them.

He closes his eyes.

“You know, I didn’t realize,” she says. “That day you hit me with your car, after you dropped me off, you called him angel. It never would have occurred to me that he was actually…I mean. I just thought. Well.” She folds one hand into the other. “It just seemed to fit. You and him.”

“Did it,” says Crowley into his drink. He puts his sunglasses back on.

[ruou-tot]

Macallan

Macallan là một trong những nhãn hiệu rượu Scotch Whisky hàng đầu trên thế giới, nổi tiếng với chất lượng cao và sự đa dạng trong sản phẩm. Được thành lập từ năm 1824 tại Estate Craigellachie gần làng Easter Elchies ở Moray, Scotland, Macallan đã trở thành biểu tượng của sự tinh tế và sự hoàn hảo trong ngành công nghiệp rượu whisky.

Với sự kết hợp của nước nguyên liệu tinh khiết từ suối ngầm Springs of Moray, lúa mạch Scotland chất lượng cao và các thùng gỗ sồi đã qua sử dụng, Macallan sản xuất ra những loại whisky với hương vị đặc trưng và phong cách riêng biệt. Từ whisky dễ uống hàng ngày đến các phiên bản cao cấp và độc đáo, Macallan đều thể hiện sự tinh túy và sự cầu kỳ trong từng giọt nước.

Không chỉ là một sản phẩm, Macallan còn là biểu tượng của sự sang trọng và đẳng cấp, được yêu thích và tôn vinh bởi những người yêu thích rượu whisky trên khắp thế giới. Đắm chìm trong hương vị và hương thơm của Macallan là một trải nghiệm khám phá vô cùng đặc biệt và tuyệt vời.

#wine #winelover #ruoumanh #macallan #ruoutot

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

ART-Drink

Uncovering the coolest contemporary fine art, pop culture, museums, street-artists, galleries and sculptures to add some flair to your home or walls.

ANECDOTES OF AGES

A limited-release whisky and art collection with renowned British pop artist, Sir Peter Blake. Our third collaboration in a partnership spanning almost four decades, this collection celebrates the legacy and history of Sir Peter Blake and The Macallan.

Each bottle features its own distinct original collage art on the label, and uniquely captures stories from history, community, and the beautiful natural landscape of The Macallan Estate.

AN ARTISTIC PRESENTATION

The outer box for these special whiskies has been modelled on Sir Peter Blake’s own traditional art supply box, bringing together the world of art and whisky. A squirrel is laser etched on a removable panel, revealing a thumbnail photography collage documenting Sir Peter’s journey with The Macallan for the creation of this collection.

On the side a sliding drawer features Sir Peter’s signature laser etched into the oak. Within is a leather bound book sustainably sourced in Scotland, revealing the 13 unique stories behind the full Anecdotes of Ages Collection.

Sir Peter Blake CBE RDI RA (born 1932) was one of the key members of the British Pop Art movement in the 1950s and 60s. His celebrated oeuvre includes collages infused with images from popular culture, often merging ads, comic books and mundane mass-produced cultural phenomena, as well as his distinctly fantastical paintings.

The Macallan 8 Decades with Sir Peter Blake Celebration Box Single Malt Scotch Whisky

[marymccartneyphotos]

Mary and Stella McCartney collaborated with The Macallan (a whiskey company based in Scotland) with two drinks, Amber Meadow and Green Meadow. The sisters designed their logo and barware in limited edition.

Tasting notes: The Macallan Harmony Collection Amber Meadow (ABV 44.2%) Color: Summer evening Aroma: Rich orange and lemon, honeysuckle, vanilla, coconut and ripe barley fields Palate: Rich oak, lemon, melon, classic scone, almond and green tea Finish: Rich, sweet, long and complex

Tasting notes: The Macallan Harmony Collection Green Meadow (ABV 40.2%) Color: Spring morning Aroma: Fresh orange and lemon, wild primrose, petrichor, honeydew melon, bluebells Palate: Rich lemon, barley sugars, creamy vanilla, almonds, fresh oak Finish: Sweet, fragrant, long and creamy

TOGETHER: A Collection for The Macallan by Stella and Mary McCartney includes:

Pair of Glass Tumblers Glass Water Jug Glass Ice Bucket and Brass Tongs Ceramic Flask with Apple Leather Alternative Sleeve Pair of Ice Stamps in Apple Leather Alternative and Wooden Presentation Box Set of Three Ceramic Bowls Set of Six Ceramic Coasters Brass Napkin Weight Brass Tray with Apple Leather Alternative Inlay Lambswool Blanket Pair of Limited-Edition Brass Framed Prints, Photography by Mary McCartney of The Macallan Estate

Photographed by Mary McCartney