#allegedly tipsy and flirty

[fatally-alive]

Flirty when Tipsy ! Part II

Part I here

[mikauzoran]

Adrienette: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: Kiss Forty-Six

Read it on AO3: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: ...out of envy or jealousy.

They were at a Gabriel charity event, and it had been twenty minutes since Adrien left Marinette talking to one of the lead designers at Chanel to allegedly go get her a drink.

Now, the conversation had ended with the exchange of business cards, and Marinette had no drink and no idea where her fiancé had gotten to.

At five feet, eight inches (ten in shoes, as Adrien always reminded defensively), Adrien was practically impossible to spot among the crowd of gracefully lithe models, tall businessmen, and women wearing ridiculously high heels.

She was just about to pull out her phone and call him when the crowd happened to part enough that the bar suddenly became visible, and she spotted him. She paused mid-step to squint in confusion as a tanned, thirty-something young man leaned into Adrien’s space and said something suavely flirty—Marinette could tell by the way the man’s eyes smoldered.

Adrien laughed, shaking his head as he replied.

The man smiled predatorially and inched in closer, casually placing his hand on top of Adrien’s resting on the bar. He ran his thumb back and forth over Adrien’s knuckle, leaning in some more and seemingly lowering his voice.

That was it.

No one hit on her man like that without getting a piece of Marinette’s mind.

She took a deep breath, composing herself and squaring her shoulders before, head held high, striding confidently over to the bar.

“Adrien!” she called in a factitiously cheery tone. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over.”

Adrien turned at the sound of her voice, opening his mouth to greet her only to be ambushed as she pulled his arm to her chest (nearly causing him to spill his drink all over the slimewad who had been flirting with him) and caught his lips in a territorial kiss.

Adrien blinked, stunned, as Marinette pulled back and grinned widely at Adrien’s equally startled companion.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized with artificial sincerity. “I hate to be rude, but I need to steal my fiancé for a minute. His father, Gabriel Agreste, needs him.”

Adrien’s eyes flew even wider open, this time in terror. “What?!”

“Come along, Darling,” Marinette cooed, almost making Adrien trip as she practically dragged him away.

“Sorry, Kumar!” Adrien called back over his shoulder as Marinette hauled him over to the far corner of the ballroom.

“What does my father need me for?” Adrien inquired urgently when they came to a stop.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t need you for anything. I made that up to get you away from that creep.”

Adrien blinked uncomprehendingly. “Kumar’s not a creep. He was really nice. He recognized me from my modeling mainly, but he said he’d seen me in a couple of the productions I’ve done while in university too. He really liked me as Viola in Twelfth Night three years ago,” Adrien beamed with pride, and Marinette almost hated to crush the illusion.

Adrien always believed the best about others, always gave them the benefit of the doubt. It was something Marinette treasured about her partner, but sometimes it made Adrien too credulous, too trusting, and that had burned him in the past.

“He’s actually a director, and he wants to do a modern-day adaptation based on the Arsène Lupin books. He wanted me to audition,” Adrien informed with all the excitement of a puppy about to go for a walk. “He gave me his number.”

Marinette smiled patiently, her annoyance subsiding as she reached up and lovingly stroked Adrien’s face. “Oh, My Love…maybe he really is a director and he really does want you to audition, but I know one thing for sure, and that’s that Kumar was coming onto you.”

Adrien blinked, staring at her incredulously. “What? …N-No. No. He wasn’t. Yeah, I mean, he bought me a drink, but it wasn’t like that.”

Marinette pursed her lips but didn’t argue.

Adrien frowned. “Okay. Maybe he was being a little friendly, but he was kind of tipsy. You get super handsy when you’re tipsy. It’s not uncommon.”

Marinette didn’t fight back and, instead, let him put the pieces together himself.

“Though…” Adrien bit his lip. “I mean… He did…”

Mentally, he reviewed the exchange, cringing as he saw things in a new light.

“Okay,” he admitted with a sigh. “Maybe he was trying to pick me up a little bit, but he definitely wanted me to audition for his play too.”

“I’m sure he did, Chaton,” Marinette encouraged, giving Adrien’s arm a pat and leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “He would be crazy not to want you in his play.”

“I know, right?” Adrien nodded, trying to convince himself of that fact in order to save face a little.

“Mmhm,” Marinette confirmed. “You’re an amazing actor, Adrien. You’re going to be famous all over again in your own right before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Adrien sighed, beginning to look glum.

“You okay?” She took his hand and gave it a bolstering squeeze.

He squeezed back. “Just feeling kind of foolish for not realizing I was being chatted up.”

She shook her head and waved the incident away. “It’s just because you’re so used to it. People hit on you all the time, so flirting doesn’t really register anymore.”

That got a glimmer of a smile out of him. “You’re not wrong. I am in rather high demand.”

“I’m going to have to put a collar and a bell on you so everyone knows without a doubt that you’re taken,” Marinette snorted teasingly, giving her fiancé an impish grin.

His smile widened into a full-fledged beam. “I’d be delighted if you’d make it official and put a collar on me, My Ladylove.”

She bopped his nose playfully, giving him her Ladybug smirk. “The wedding’s not until the summer, Chaton. You’ll have to wait.”

“I can’t wait,” Adrien hummed, pulling her in to rest his forehead against hers. “Seven whole months? It feels like a lifetime.”

“Patience,” Marinette chuckled, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

Adrien gave a soft grumble, making Marinette laugh harder.

“Come on,” she coaxed, stepping back but retaining his hands in her own. “Let’s work the room and rub it in everyone’s faces how obnoxiously happy we are together.”

Adrien chuckled as he shook his head and gazed lovingly at his future bride. “As my Princess wishes.”

[rhinkthreeways]

Puzzle (Angsty Version)

Things had been light and flirty between them lately. That was the spade that Rhett lived for, and exerted superhuman levels of self-control to not push the limits of. 

When Link playfully snapped the waistband of his boxer briefs, Rhett leapt on the defensive.

“I’m sorry, man. Didn’t realize anything was out of bounds with you. Hold on. Is that a… tattoo?” 

Rhett’s underwear had ridden high enough up his buttcheek to expose a tattoo in the shape of a puzzle piece. Or rather, the empty space where a missing piece of a puzzle might go. 

“How’d I not know you had this?”

“Because you’re not supposed to be lookin’ at my bare ass, Neal!”

Link’s brow furrowed.

“Does it… mean somethin’?”

Rhett swallowed the lump in his throat. They didn’t have secrets between them. Aside from this particular secret that Rhett had tried desperately to keep buried. Because if he let it see the sober light of day, who knew what else might get dug up. Or worse, what might get buried in its place.

They’d stumbled back to the dorms. 

Beyond tipsy. 

They’d had their arms around each other, allegedly to hold themselves up on their jelly-legs. But Rhett knew in his heart that he was committing his impaired focus to remembering the feel of Link’s waist under his hand, his brain silently screaming that it belonged there. He still felt Link’s body like a phantom sensation as he pulled away and headed down the hall.

“Wrong turn, dumbass,” he called out in a whisper.

“I meant to go this way!” Link insisted, not at all in a whisper, putting his hand on the doorknob of their floor’s common area - assuredly locked this time of night. 

Rhett shushed him harshly.

“Whassa matter, Rhett? You don’t wanna watch a movie, or… play a game with me?”

Rhett knew it had to be the booze, but he coulda swore Link was flirting.

“It’s locked, brother. And you gotta lower your voice.”

Their eyes went wide in unison as the door opened. A mischievous grin spread across Link’s face. “Someone forgot to lock up.”

Rhett felt he had no choice but to follow him inside. He closed the door behind them and it was near pitch dark.

“We’re not s’posed to be in here,” Rhett said lamely.

“We’re not s’posed to be in here,” Link mocked in a sing-song voice.

Rhett startled backward, discovering the shadowy form of his best friend closer than anticipated. He stumbled l into a table that someone had left an unfinished puzzle on. “You gotta lower your voice, man,” Rhett insisted. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

“Lower your pants, and I’ll show you trouble.”

Rhett was speechless as he felt Link’s hands fumbling to undo his pants. How long had Rhett wanted this? He couldn’t ever remember not wanting Link. But did Link want him? Or was he just drunk? 

I should stop him, he thought. 

But he didn’t.

The loose puzzle pieces bit into his flesh as he rested his weight against the table, leaning back and forth into the sensations, biting down onto his own upper lip.

The look on Link’s face after would haunt him for decades.

They returned to their room in silence. 

Rhett couldn’t look at him. Why had he let Link do that? Did Link hate him now? Rhett remembered salty tears streaming down his face as he worried himself to sleep.

The next morning Rhett woke up with a headache, and a puzzle piece stuck to his asscheek. He plucked the piece from his skin just before hearing Link’s rough voice travel down from the top bunk. 

“Wild party, huh?”

“Sure,” Rhett said nervously.

“I, uh... don’t even remember getting home.”

Whether Link forgave him or forgot him didn’t matter. Rhett just had to be sure he never let that happen again. He grabbed a pen from his nightstand and traced the still visible imprint of the puzzle piece. A reminder to never be so careless with the one he cared about the most.

When the artist asked him, “Why a missing puzzle piece?”

Rhett replied, bitter. “Because a broken Link of chain would be a little too on the nose.”

“It means I made a mistake. It’s just... a reminder is all.”

“The common room in the dorms,” Link said wistfully. But not exactly unfondly.

“You remembered?” Rhett breathed.

“Man, we weren’t that dang drunk. You, uh… wish that room had been locked?”

“Nah, I think I needed to see that look of…” Rhett cleared his throat, hoping he wouldn’t cry. “To see how disgusted you were... after.”

Link rested a hand on Rhett’s shoulder. “I wasn’t disgusted. I was scared. I couldn’t imagine what you musta thought of me that night. That I was the kinda guy that just did stuff like that? Or that I’d try it again with you. Which, by the way, I am that kinda guy, and I woulda done it again in a heartbeat. If I didn’t think it would scare you away from me. If I thought you’d still wanna have all this with me.”

Link gestured vaguely, and Rhett knew he meant more than the dressing room. 

“You never spoke of it,” Rhett said, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“Neither did you.” Link smiled softly. 

“I just didn’t wanna mess things up between us more than I thought I already had. When we fell back into our normal rhythm, I knew I couldn't tempt fate again.”

“Do you still… feel like that?”

“Every. Damn. Day.”

“Then consider me tempted.”

Link pulled Rhett down for a kiss. Link’s lips were soft, and as warm as the tears running down Rhett’s cheeks.

“Shit,” Link murmured.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just thinkin’ how painful it’s gonna be, now that I gotta get that ‘missing piece’ tattooed on my ass…”

[grace-facing]

I’m so upset that there’s no active fandom for designing women on this site because I really need to scream about Mary Jo and Suzanne for a second. Like really really bad omfmfjfjd

So far I’m halfway through season 2:

- Mary Jo and Suzanne slow dance in one episode in the first season. They get awfully close and look awfully intimate for a moment before they let go of each other because it’s gotten too awkward. Also Mary Jo comments on her cleavage. *cough* gay

- Mary Jo bets Suzanne personal jewelry (Mary Jo’s pinky ring and Suzanne’s diamond bracelet given to them by their respective ex-spouses) that she can get the most handsome man on a singles cruise to be her date to a captains dinner or whatever. Suzanne ends up spending her day with allegedly the most handsome man and Mary Jo thinks she lost. The handsome man ends up hitting on Mary Jo and insutls Suzanne. She gets angry and defends her as the “Rolls Royce of females” and admits that “one of us loves Suzanne and I guess it’s me.” (The waiter/drag queen gives Suzanne the tea on what happened and describes the entire thing as if Mary Jo was proclaiming that she was in love with Suzanne. *cough cough* gay.) At the end of the episode, Suzanne gives Mary Jo her diamond bracelet willingly after pretending she didn’t know what Mary Jo said about her. They hug and I melt like a puddle at the sight 🥺

- in the very next episode, Charlene has a WWII dream sequence, where Suzanne is a pageant winner dating an elderly rich man that falls asleep all the time, and Mary Jo is the cigarette/candy girl that argues flirtatiously with Suzanne and comments on her cleavage at every chance she gets and it all just sounds super flirty. Especially when Suzanne laughs coquettishly omg. The sexual tension! That’s all!

- Mary Jo, who’s usually the more level-headed, reserved one of the group, gets a lot tipsy and insults an IRS worker whom she went to speak with, along with Julia and Charlene, on behalf of Suzanne, one of the reasons being that she didn’t like him calling Suzanne a “full figured gal.” *bonus thing from the same episode: Suzanne comes inside whimpering and visibly upset, and immediately drops her head into Mary Jo’s lap.

The list can be longer once I watch more episodes and try to recall more similar moments from the eps I’ve already watched. These are off the top of my head.

[hermannsthumb]

18. wine tasting that leads into 9. Ghost tour, drunk ghost tour!!!

from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 9. ghost tour

this one was especially fun bc i am a biggggg fan of ghost tours myself, and i got to make up a bunch of fake lore for the “haunted house” hehe. you can decide where this is set……. (content warning for alcohol!)

—————————————–-----------------------------------------

One of the rare occasions that Hermann actually acknowledges that he and Newt are a thing and lets Newt use romantically-coded words like boyfriend or love or feelings to refer to the two of them–instead of just a terse and incredibly vague this is my partner, Newton when he needs to introduce him to a colleague at work–is on their anniversary. Not that he’ll call it their anniversary, of course. It’s always that time of year again or their special day or flowers thrust quickly at Newt and a kiss pressed to his cheek while he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. Anniversary is too serious. Too intimate. And God forbid Hermann Gottlieb be intimate with someone; it took a month after they got together for him to even take his shirt off in front of Newt. Newt doubts he’ll even let him use the word when they eventually get hitched.

Anyway, it’s that special Time of Year again, Their Day, and Newt has taken it upon himself to book them a weekend getaway. Their first weekend getaway. Usually, for Their Day, they just sit at home and make out or something until their forgotten dinner burns in the oven, but Newt’s determined for them to start acting like an actual couple. Actual couples do things for their anniversaries, like go out to fancy overpriced restaurants. Or have beach vacations. Or rent a room in a cozy mountainside inn (surrounded by beautiful autumn foliage) for a weekend for a wine tasting.

“Yes,” Hermann says, “but most couples don’t go out of their way to hunt down a wine tasting in the most–allegedly–haunted inn possible.”

“That’s because most couples are boring,” Newt says. “We’re not boring. We’re cool.” He clinks his wine glass against Hermann’s. “And don’t say allegedly. It is haunted. I did my research.” He takes the suggested tiny sip of his wine (a sweet dessert wine that tastes more like straight-up honey than any wine Newt’s ever had before) and forces a measure of false casualness into his voice. “They, uh, have ghost tours and everything.”

Hermann groans and sets his glass down. “Oh, Newton, you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newt says.

Newt does know, and he did. Wine tastings are fun and all, and it’s a nice excuse to get Hermann to gussy up a little (because that grey suit he’s rocking tonight combined with his tidied hair is making Newt feel all kinds of hot and bothered) but they’re also a little boring. And gross. Spitting into a bucket for two hours while a bunch of wine snobs sniff their glasses and eat tiny crackers? Boring. Newt’s preferred method of ingesting wine is sticking a curly straw into a box of Sunset Blush Franzia and waking up on the bathroom floor twelve hours later. He just thought–well–he could spice up the experience a little. Especially since it’s October. People do these sorts of things in October. It’s seasonably appropriate.

“Look,” Newt says. “The ghost tour starts at eight, right when this ends, and it’s only an hour. Only around the inn. I already bought us tickets when I booked the place–”

“Newton,” Hermann groans again.

“–but we don’t have to do it!” Newt says, in a way that makes it clear he’d really like to do it. “I just thought it could be fun.”

Hermann scowls at him a bit more, but his shoulders sag. Probably doesn’t care enough to put up more of a fight. “We have a gas fireplace and a bathtub the size of a bloody swimming pool in our suite,” he says, “and you’d rather creep around in the dark and play paranormal investigator. I shall never understand you, Newton.” He takes a long sip of his wine. He doesn’t spit this one out. “I’ll be picking where we go next year. Now fetch us more red.”

“Next year,” Newt echoes happily.

“Don’t push your luck,” Hermann warns.

They have more red, and then they have more white, and then they round it out with some rose, by which point Hermann seems to have given up all pretenses of the tasting factor. Hermann is not tasting; Hermann is imbibing. Copiously. “I revoke my earlier complaints,” Hermann declares, after sloshing half a glass of prosecco down his poor clean shirt and grey suit, “this is a marvelous idea, Newton. I’m–” He sloshes more prosecco onto the tablecloth. “Enjoying myself. A great deal.”

Oh, jeez. “Oh, jeez,” Newt says. “Hey, babe, uh, maybe you should lie down for a bit, before–”

“No,” Hermann says. “I feel very fine. You ought to try this.”

He swings his glass towards Newt, and refuses to allow him to push it away until he’s had a sip. “It’s good,” Newt says, because of course it is–every single bottle here has been fucking great, and fucking expensive, as shit. He gets another taste of it (and about three other wines) a second later when Hermann swoops in and kisses him with no small amount of tongue. “Hermann,” he mumbles, “people are staring.”

Tipsy Hermann is a different breed of Hermann that never ceases to straight-up weird Newt out. It’s like all Hermann’s carefully constructed layers of repression finally unravel like a ball of yarn, like someone’s finally popped his cork and tossed out his filter and let every single mushy, horny thought he’s ever had come pouring out. Tipsy Hermann is handsy. Tipsy Hermann is flirty. Tipsy Hermann calls Newt things like lover and pretty thing and even just ooh, Newton with a little giggle and twirl of Newt’s hair.

Newt thinks he probably should’ve been keeping a closer eye on how much Hermann was drinking; he thinks this especially when they move on from the tasting (with two newly purchased, at Hermann’s insistence, and unopened bottles of the prosecco in Newt’s tote bag) to the ghost tour, and Hermann can barely keep himself upright, even with all his weight shifted to his cane, and Newt has to practically hold him. He’s going to be pissed at Newt for his hangover tomorrow. Because of course he’ll blame Newt.

Their tour guide is a young woman, probably an undergrad at the nearby college working the gig part time, dressed up in old-timey Victorian-looking clothing with an actual lit candelabra. She seems to enjoy her job, at least: she explains the logistics of the tour with a lot of enthusiasm and a lot of wild, animated gestures. (It’s an hour long, they’ll be walking up and down no more than two flights of stairs, one of the tour’s usual stops will be off-limits tonight due to construction, please silence your cell phones, she’s excited to be their hostess tonight!) “You sure you can manage?” Newt whispers to Hermann.

Hermann reaches up and tugs at Newt’s earlobe. “Certainly,” he says.

A hard maybe.

Their tour guide leads them to the narrow front lobby, and they file in in a circle around her as she begins to explain the inn’s origin. It was built in 1823 as a manor; it was converted into the building it is now during the 1870s; the room they’re in now was originally the parlor. “The painting above the fireplace is as old as the house,” she says. “It’s been hanging in that same spot since 1823.”

“Bloody ugly painting,” Hermann snorts.

Newt swats at Hermann. “Dude,” he hisses back.

“I’m only saying,” Hermann says. “They ought to burn it.”

Their tour guide didn’t hear, thankfully, and has gone on into describing the paranormal events of the former parlor. “You can still catch whiffs of his cigar smoke,” she says (referring to the original owner, whose name Newt missed, thanks to Hermann), “and some people have even claimed to spot a dark figure sitting in the armchair in the corner–” It’s faded emerald and ratty as hell, with a small velvet rope blocking it off from the rest of the newer furniture, “–also an original piece of the house, and his favorite spot while he was alive.”

The tour guide leads them down to the creepy basement next (haunted by the ghost of a former maid who’d been brutally murdered by the eldest son of the house–her lover–in 1859 and buried there), up to the kitchen (where servant bells still go off, despite the system being nonoperational and purely for show since the ‘70s), over to the bar (hidden behind a sliding wall throughout Prohibition and only recently re-discovered, where stools move on their own and translucent patrons flit around after closing) up more stairs to the former master bedroom-turned-unoccupied grand suite (where faucets turn on by themselves and strange shadows glide across the antique mirror), down the hall to the nursery-turned-honeymoon suite (where toys turn up out of thin air and ghostly babies cry in the middle of the night).

“‘S all rubbish,” Hermann declares at that bit. Still not loud enough for their tour guide to hear–not yet, anyway–but loud enough that a handful of people in their immediate vicinity turn and frown at him. “Ghosts are rubbish. Not real. I reckon they put--” He waves his hand. “Speakers, in the vents.”

“We fought off giant interdimensional aliens,” Newt says, grinning despite himself, “and ghosts are what you have a problem with?”

Hermann immediately gets snooty. “Kaijus–” (Newt cringes, because come on, how many times does Newt have to explain you don’t need the s?) “–had a logical reason for being here. And there was proof. Loads of it.”

“Stop being such a buzzkill,” Newt laughs. “This is just for fun, dude. No one gives a shit about proof.”

“That much is obvious,” Hermann sniffs.

“Is there a problem?” their tour guide suddenly says. She looks completely earnest, too, not angry at them for talking–like she’s genuinely worried Hermann’s upset or offended about something. 

“No,” Newt cuts in quickly. He wraps his arm around Hermann’s waist and pinches his side to shut him up. It has the opposite effect of what he wants: Hermann doesn’t look affronted, but instead, very pleased at the sudden touch, snootiness evaporating. Of course. “Forgive my partner. We, uh, just got done with the wine tasting, and he missed the memo on spitting.” He cracks another grin.

There’s a small chuckle throughout the crowd that turns awkward fast when Hermann turns to him and says, in a faux whisper (too loud, too flirty, face too close to Newt’s), “I thought you preferred when I swallow.”

Newt chokes on air; he turns bright red. “Hermann!”

The tour ends on a mildly disappointing note. Their guide takes them up to the attic and passes around quote-unquote EMF detectors, with the promise that almost every group (to date) has caught something up here with them, but after twenty minutes of waving the little boxes around with not even the smallest beep it’s very clear their group will not be joining that number. If Hermann was sober, he’d probably say I told you so. He’s not, so instead, Newt says goodbyes and thank-yous for both of them, and Hermann collapses face-first into their ridiculous canopy bed almost the very second Newt gets him through the door of their suite. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes first. Or drop his cane--he’s still gripping the handle.

Newt shucks off his docs and tie, moves Hermann’s cane to rest against the clawfoot bedside table, and flops down next to him. He pokes Hermann’s shoulder. “You are not allowed to blame me for this tomorrow,” he says. “You got it?”

“Whatever for?” Hermann mumbles, sleepily, into his pillow.

“The hangover you’re absolutely going to get,” Newt says, “and for dropping sex life bombs on a group of strangers. That was all you, buddy. All you.”

Hermann turns on his side to face Newt, though he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “You’re being awfully loud. Will you turn off the light, please?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Newt has to shuffle all the way across the room to switch off the ancient floor lamp, and by the time he gets back, Hermann is already halfway to snoring, mouth open, drool at the corner of it, dress shirt rucked up from his waistband. It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he looks this cute. “I love you, you weirdo,” Newt says fondly, and leans in and kisses his forehead.

“Mm,” Hermann agrees.