#new bordeaux looks

[frmisnow]

BORDEAUX !

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stupid fucking question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he turns around.

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

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

[p0orbaby]

A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

-

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🍷Illicit Affairs🍷

Lilia Calderu x fem!reader

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

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

wc: ~ 3.1 k (Chapter 1/4)

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

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

-> 3rd person/OC version on Ao3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That was a long time ago."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's okay, mamma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you sleep here. End of discussion."

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing. Just thought about someone."

She wiggled her eyebrows. "Someone, huh?"

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

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

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

"Right."

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

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

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

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

"You being serious?"

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

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

"No, but..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know how old I am."

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

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

"Don't be so morbid!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

"Night, then."

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

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

"Will you be long, I—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would she give you a goodnight kiss again?

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

[alexsnerdycorner]

You're My Girl

Title: You’re My Girl

Word Count: 2450

Warning: Smut, Swearing, reader wears a dress, PIV sex, Oral (F receiving), orgasm denial (female), multiple orgasms, no cuddling or aftercare., a bit of a praise kink,

Fandom: X-Men/Marvel/X-men 97

Pairing: Remy LeBeau/Gambit X Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature

Request: hi hello I am SO here to provide Remy smut requests. reader gets jealous of Bella Donna flirting with Remy so he has to remind her who his girl REALLY is (also she totally hears them)

Summary: Remy has eyes for Y/N but when the League of Assassins and Guild of Thieves have other plans for him, things don’t go well. Bella Donna has been flirting with Remy all day at their engagement “party” which makes Y/N jealous. When she starts giving him the cold shoulder, he takes her into his room and fucks her within earshot of his fiancé. Remy gets off on the fact that she can hear you two.

A/N: Ah! I love this idea! I will say I have yet to read all of the Gambit comics, but I have watched x-men TAS/97 and have read some of the comics with gambit and belladonna. I’m so stoked to be writing this!!! I squealed when I read this request. My dear ANON, if you have any more requests for any character, please reach out. I might even do a part two to this is you all like it.

Work:

When you were thirteen, you were banished from home after showing the mutant ability to create portals that teleported you and others anywhere you could think of. Jean-Luc LeBeau of the Thieves’ Guild took you in off the streets after witnessing you steal some food from a stand in New Orleans’ French Quarter. He introduced you to his adoptive son and mutant, Remy, a handsome fourteen-year-old. Jean-Luc and Remy taught you the ways of their world, turning you into a master thief.

You had always been attracted to Remy from the moment you met him. Remy was always there for you no matter what. He had a soft spot for you as he too was abandoned for being a mutant. The day you turned eighteen, Remy asked you out on a date. You, being in love with him already, said yes.

Things were going great until Bella Donna Bordeaux entered the scene. Bella Donna was the daughter of a high-ranking member of the Assassin’s Guild, the Thieves’ Guild sworn enemy. She also couldn’t resist Remy’s charm and good looks.

Behind your back, Jean-Luc and Bella Donna’s father arranged a peacemaking marriage between Remy and Bella Donna. When Jean-Luc announced it a few months after you turned twenty-one, you were heartbroken.

A few weeks later they held an engagement party for Remy and Bella Donna which you were forced to attend. This is where you were now. Sitting in the corner near where Remy stood in a suit and tie, you watched as Bella Donna came over and linked her arm with Remy’s. A huge smile was plastered on her face. Remy smirked up at her.

“Oh, Remy, mon amour, would you come meet my friend, she has been just dyin’ to meet you?” She said.

“Uh,” Remy paused for a moment as if unsure to go with her, “Sure. Why not, Cher.”

You rolled your eyes and watched as Bella Donna guided him over to a dark-haired woman almost as beautiful as she was. He extended a hand in greeting which she accepted and shook. You couldn’t hear their whole conversation, just bits and pieces as it was loud in the ballroom of the Thieves’ Guild compound. You were supposed to be socializing but just sat there in the corner by the bar and watched Remy.

Bella Donna was giggling at something Remy said and took her hand and pressed it to his chest in a flirtatious gesture. You heard her say the phrase “be a doll” and then the word “drink”.

He turned to her and said something you couldn’t hear and she replied to him. Remy started to walk to the back of the room towards you and the mini bar. He smiled at you as you sipped your drink.

“Hi Cher,” he greeted you.

“Remy” you said flatly.

Seeing the bartender was busy with someone else, he reached over the counter and poured himself a bourbon. He placed the bottle back over the counter, The bartender came over and asked how she could help.

“An expresso martini for miss Bella Donna, please,” he turned to the bartender and then back to you when she turned to make the martini.

“She looks like she’s having fun.” You nodded in Bella Donna’s direction. Her back was turned and she was having an animated conversation with her friend.

“Yeah she is.” He said wistfully and stared at you for a moment with an undeterminable look on his face for a moment. You shied away from his look and found yourself staring at the ground.

“Sir, the drink,” the bartender pushed out the glass to Remy.

“Yes, thank you, mon ami.” He grabbed the drink from the bar. You watched him as he walked back to Bella Donna and hand her the drink. She smiled at him in thanks.

She sipped the drink slowly and glanced up to see you staring. You overt your eyes for a moment as she set her drink down on the table in front of her. You looked back up as she whispered something in Remy’s ear and held out her hand to him. You can’t help but roll your eyes. He looked up at her and took her hand. He led her over to the dance floor.

A slower song started to play as she held onto his shoulder with one had and his hand with the other. He led her in a slow dance. Bella Donna looked back over to where you were sitting to find you staring at the two of them yet again. She leaned forward and planted a kiss on Remy’s cheek, making your blood boil.

You shot out of your chair and over to the entryway where Jean-Luc stood.

“I’m not feeling that great, Jean-Luc,” you lied, “I have a migraine, is it okay if I lie down for a bit?”

Concerned, Jean-Luc places a hand on your shoulder, “Are you alright, darlin’?”

“I will be,” you said forcing a smile onto your face, “I would just like to lie down in my room for a bit.”

“Yes, go. Go. I will get you when food is being served.” He patted you on the back.

You take one last glance over to Remy and catch his eye. He raises his brow in question. You roll your eyes and portal to the next room over, your bedroom.

Once in your room you let out a sigh and kicked your shoes off. How could he do this to you? How could he just let her flirt with him all evening without even so much as a look at you to see if you were okay? How could he be –

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts. You open and see Remy standing there sheepishly. You looked past his shoulder and could see Bella Donna waiting by the entrance to the ballroom.

“What,” you said coldly but let him in. He closed the door behind himself.

“Pa said you weren’t feelin’ good. I came to check on you.” He said lightly.

“Shouldn’t you be out there with your fiancé?” you asked harshly.

Remy sighed and then chuckled, “That’s what this is about, cher?”

You clench your jaw and look away from the man you loved, “Not like you even care.”

“Come on, dats not fair.” He reached out to touch your arm but you backed away.

“She’s been flirting with you all night at the party for your engagement and you don’t even have the balls to ask me how I’m doing,” you spat.

“Cher-” he starts.

“Don’t ‘cher’ me, Remy. We were dating for almost three years before she found a way to get you away from me. And then you pretend that we never were together. That we never even mattered.”

“Y/N,” he said, “We do matter.”

“That’s not how you’re acting. You never even objected to the marriage. You chose her over me.” Frustrated tears brimmed at your eyes.

“Y/N, dat’s not true. Not true at all. I begged Jean-Luc to let me have you. To find a ‘nother way to unite the guilds. He said I will either marry her or get banished without you. And I couldn’t stand the tought of loosin’ ya. It was Sophie’s choice, cher.” He found your eyes with his own and didn’t let them go. “Don’t ya tink for one second that I chose her over you.”

He moved to touch your arm again and you let him this time. You look up at him with watery eyes, “I miss you already”

“I’m right here, cher. Right here.” He pulled you into a hug.

“Don’t leave me Remy. Please.” You said into his chest, “Run away with me.”

“Dey will hunt us down, cher, you know dat.” He said into your hair.

“Let them,” you pulled back and looked at his face.

“Y/N,” he said sadly.

“Remy, I love you. I always have and I always will. Nothing will change that. I want you. No one else. You”

You could see something go off in Remy’s brain the moment you said you loved him. When you finished talking he leaned forward and kissed you hard on the lips. You kiss him back and wrap your arms around his body. He broke the kiss, “I want you too, mon amour.”

Remy shrugged off his suit jacket, placed it on your dresser, and kicked his shoes off. He then walked you back to the bed and you sat down on it. He knelt on either side of your legs and kissed you. His tongue parted your mouth and danced with yours. His fingers danced at the hem of your short dress. It was flowy so the skirt was around you instead of under you.

“You’re so beautiful in this dress cher,” he said between kisses, “but right now I want it off you and on the floor.”

He pulled up the dress up over your head and tossed it to the ground

“You’re my girl, my only girl,” He growled and loosened his tie before sliding it over his head.

He went back to kissing you. As his hand roamed your body you started to undo the buttons to his dress shirt. You pushed the shirt off his body and let it fall to the floor in a heap. He held you to him, stroking up and down your back and then around to your front, grazing your breasts before stopping at your shoulders. He gently pushed you back so that you were lying down and hovered over you.

“I’m gonna want you to scream my name loud enough so she can hear that you’re my girl. So they all can hear that you’re my girl.” He whispered into your ear. He trailed kisses down your neck and stomach and to the waistband of your panties. He replaced his mouth with his hands and slowly slid your panties off. He tossed them aside all while maintaining eye contact with you.

He scooched back so that his head was hovering over your midsection. He lowered his mouth to your core and started to lick at your clit. His hands holding onto your thighs. Your hands moved to his head, removing his hair from his pony tail, and running your fingers through it.

“Oh god your mouth feels so good,” you moaned. He licked long and slow circles down your clit. When he put more pressure on it, your hips bucked and you let out a moan. He grabbed your thighs harder and let out a soft giggle that vibrated against your throbbing bud.

He introduced a finger into your pussy and you arched your back off the bed. He inserted another finger and you groaned out his name.

“Cher, I’m gonna need you to be a bit louder for me. I know you can do that for Remy.” He began pumping his fingers in and out all while lapping at your clit. He introduced one last finger and began a harsh and fast come-hither motion on your g-spot.

“Oh Fuck, Remy!” You shouted.

“Now dats better, mon amour.”

Your breathing hitched and you felt a coil deep in your stomach start to unravel. Your walls started to spasm and contract around his fingers.

“I’m close, baby.” You cried out. But before you could climax he removed his fingers and mouth. You whined in protest.

“Ain’t no way I’m just gonna let you cum on my fingers. I want you to cum on my fucking cock so you remember that you’re my girl.” He pushed himself up off the bed and removed his belt in one fell swoop. He unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down with his boxers revealing a long hard cock glistening with precum.

You sat up and reached for his cock. You opened your mouth but he stopped you with his words, “No cher, tonight’s all about you and your pleasure. Lay back and enjoy.”

He bent down to kiss you as you laid back down on the bed. He teased your wet pussy with his hard cock and then pushed in in one quick thrust.

“Oh, Remy! Yes!” you couldn’t contain your moans.

He began a slow and agonizing pace to let you get adjusted. You wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Ça c’est une bonne fille” he panted. That’s a good girl.

You clenched around his cock at his praise, “Oh, God. I love you Remy.”

“I’m gonna need ya’ to be a bit louder, Y/N,” He grunted, picking up the pace.

He soon began a merciless rhythm with frenzied thrusts and grunts. That familiar feeling of tension came back to your stomach and you hungrily kissed him.

“I’m close, Remy! Please,” You begged loudly.

Please what, cher?” He urged, “use ya’ voice.”

“Please let me come!” you pleaded. The coil tightened, threatening to push you over the edge.

“Go ahead, Y/N,” he howled, “come for me.”

The coil in your stomach shattered, flooding you with pure ecstasy. Your walls clenched around his cock and he swore loudly.

“Merde! Y/N, I’m gonna cum,” he moaned.

“Come for me baby,” You kissed his neck.

He let out a grunt and frantically shoved into you before allowing himself to release his seed into you. He pumped his cum into your pussy with his cock and slowly pulled out of you.

He grabbed some tissues from your nightstand and cleaned your pussy gently. He grabbed more and cleaned himself off.

“Woo, cher, Remy loves ya’ so much!” he exclaimed. He took in the sight of you completely undone on the bed from his doing and smiled, “Whaddya say we go back out there? I wanna see the look on ‘er face.”

You knew who exactly she was. It was Bella Donna. So you smirked and nodded your head. Remy helped you up and dressed you before dressing himself in his now wrinkled suit.

He gave you one last kiss before opening your door and leading you out. Jean-Luc was in the corner with Bella Donna and her father. The moment she saw the two of you she raced over as fast as she could while wearing high heels.

“You fucking man-stealing whore!” Bella Donna yelled at you. She raised a hand to slap you but before she could Remy caught her wrist and tutted in disapproval.

“Uh-uh Bella, you don’t touch her. She’s mine.” Remmy growled and released her hand. She stood flabbergasted as Remy turned to you, “Can I have this dance?” He held out a hand to you and without any hesitation, you took it and he led you onto the dance floor leaving a sputtering Bella Donna at the entrance.

[buckysouvenir]

souvenir

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

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

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

New York, back in August.

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

Then there was him.

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

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

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

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

And God help you, you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second the door clicked open, everything unraveled.

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

Kisses in every corner. The bed forgotten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “For what?”

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

Your breath hitched.

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

This was something neither of you had ever had before.

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

#taglist: @cjand10

[crappymixtape]

gold & glitter

REQUEST → @superblysubpar, A VERY MERRY MIXTAPE ❝ i’m thinking a little rich!steve harrington, a little spicy somethin, somethin and a holiday play – spicy is right, steve takes you to see the nutcracker, but you don’t even make it to the first act • 18+  | ( 3.1k – smut with a dash of fluff, rich!steve x reader )

G O L D & G L I T T E R 🎶 the nutcracker suite, tchaikovsky

“Good evening, Mister Harrington. Miss. May I take your jackets?”

“Thank you, Charles. Did you order the MacCallan Anniversary malt?”

“Of course, sir. It is available neat here from your decanter or we can dress up however you like. Miss, your jacket?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you opened them again expecting the finery before you to disappear into thin air like a dream, but it didn’t.

“Oh ye-yeah. I mean-yes. Yes, thank you,” you stumbled over your words as the waitstaff took your coat and disappeared behind the curtain. God, you were working overtime to maintain the same level of calm and collected sophistication that seemed to come so easily to your date.

Steve Harrington. Son of John Harrington and heir to the Harrington fortune. One with a foundation built by generations of brokers and wealth managers. Carried on throughout the years to be passed down to the eldest or, in Steve’s case, the only son.

You’d been together for over a year now, but you still weren’t used to it. This lifestyle.

Going anywhere with him meant multiple planned routes in and out of your destinations. Private cars with dark tinted, bullet-proof windows. Black American Express cards, Gucci loafers, and champagne flown direct from the Garonne Valley in Bordeaux, France.

And of course, at Christmastime, a viewing of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker from a private balcony, performed by only the finest troupe at the New York City Ballet.

You’d been to the theatre, the opera, but never like this. A suite all to yourselves, up and away from prying eyes, and upon each seat rested a pair of exquisitely golden opera binoculars for your viewing pleasure. It felt otherworldly. Lush and dark, gilded and polished. Long, red, crushed velvet curtains draped heavy to the floor and on a small table thick, crystalline tumblers sat next to a matching decanter full of only the finest single malt whiskey.

Lifting a hand, you ghosted an immaculately manicured finger around the rim of one of the glasses.

“Is it up to your standards, honey?”

The low, warmth of Steve’s voice broke your trance and pulled your gaze quick to look up at him.

“What?” you wondered aloud, still surprised at how he could ask such questions, “My standards? God. It’s beautiful.”

“Good. M’glad you like it.”

A smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth as he watched you walk to lean out over the balcony and look down at the sea of seats below. You were wearing the emerald green dress he’d bought you especially for the occasion. Made of the finest silk and fitted tight against every curve and dip of your body. Your hair swept long over one shoulder, soft skin exposed through the keyhole cut into the back. You were exquisite.

And you were all his.

Tucking a hand into the pocket of his slacks he reluctantly looked away from you and took up the decanter to pour a measure of whiskey for himself. MacCallan, single malt, from 1928 and around three-hundred thousand dollars a bottle. Lifting the tumbler he inhaled deeply and let his eyes drift shut. Worth every single penny.

“Charles,” his voice notched up in volume and the man from earlier appeared through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Sir?”

“A bottle of Dom and a chilled glass,” Steve took a drink from his whiskey and let it sit on a his tongue for a moment before swallowing it down. “Oh, and my cigar case.”

“Sir, you know smoking isn’t permitted–”

Steve hummed, a low thrum in his throat, and stepped forward toward the other man.

“How much do I pay for these seats, Charles? How much does my family pay for these seats? Since the theatre opened in 1964…I’ll let you do the math,” he took another sip of whiskey and lifted a hand to smooth down the other man’s cravat, “My cigar case.”

“Yes. Of course, Mister Harrington,” the man replied quietly, eyes glued to the cheap, shiny black plastic of his dress shoes.

Steve put on a smile, the one he gave to clients when he knew he’d closed an account, and gripped the man’s shoulder, “Good man.”

And without another word Charles was off again through the curtain.

There was no denying it, Steve’s presence always held weight. Held power. No one could tell him no. Stood in boardrooms dressed to the nines. Gold heirloom cufflinks, custom tailored jackets and Tucci de Lusso oxfords included, but this version of him was different. Somehow more and you didn’t know how it was possible.

Brunette locks perfectly coiffed. Custom black Armani suit fitted tight across his chest and shoulders. Gold signet ring with his initials engraved upon it shining up from his index finger, and damn if his ass didn’t look incredible in those slacks.

You clicked your tongue at him and fixed him with a look, closing the gap between the two of you.

“Babe, he’s just trying to enforce the house rules,” smoothing a hand up his chest, you pretended to adjust his tie as an excuse to touch him.

“Honey, you and I both know who makes the rules around here,” he drawled, his tone making you weak in the knees, and he set his glass down in favor of taking hold of your waist. His hand wide and warm on the small of your back as he ran it down the curve of your ass and squeezed, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Steve,” you chided, no heat behind it, and he dipped down to press a kiss to your neck.

“This really is your color,” he whispered in your ear and your eyes fluttered at the sound. Pressed your thighs together as he traced a finger across your exposed collarbone. Warmth blooming in your core as he followed the hem that chased along the edge of your shoulder.

“You’ve got good taste,” you whispered back, swallowing the moan that had crept up your throat and he grinned.

“I do, don’t I.”

“Sir, your cigar cas–oh!”

Charles came back through the curtain to find the two of you pressed into each other, Steve’s nose buried in the crook of your neck. Your cheeks burned at being caught.

“My sincerest apologies, sir! I should’ve–”

“S’alright,” Steve chuckled, pulling away from you to casually take the case from the other man without missing a beat. He reached into his money clip and slipped a hundred dollar bill into Charles’ hand, “Now. That will be all. If I need anything, I’ll ring you.” The finality of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Excuse me,” and with that Charles disappeared again for what you were certain, after all that, would be the last time.

“Shit,” you breathed, cheeks still bright red as you bit back a laugh.

Steve was laughing too, but no where near embarrassed, and he grabbed your hand to pull you close to his chest again as the theatre lights flickered and slowly dimmed.

“Mmm, damn. Showtime,” he murmured softly into your hair.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of having to sit so still, and so far from Steve for three hours, but then another thought came to you. One that made your cheeks flush again and you pressed your face into his lapel, breathing in the citrusy, cedar scent of his cologne.

Pulling away just enough to meet his gaze the expression you maintained was innocent, but the look in your eye wasn’t. It was dark and needy. Warm and flickering at the feeling of his hands on your waist.

“We could freshen up first,” you suggested quietly and as Steve put your words together his pupils blew wide. Pools of black edged in gold and he squeezed at the plush of your hip.

“Uh-huh,” came out strangled and it was all he could manage. Unable to focus on anything other than rucking that silk dress up around your thighs, and without hesitation he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the thick, velvet curtains.

The corridor was empty, Charles hiding wherever he’d rushed off to, and everyone else was in their seats to catch the opening act as Steve led you the short distance down the hall.

Luckily for you, the neighboring balcony’s ticket holders had filed for bankruptcy earlier in the year and now the restrooms on this wing were exclusively Steve’s. Doors crafted from thick oak and etched with breathtaking carvings of Swan Lake and Slyphide, they were heavy enough to drown out anything happening on the other side.

Thank god.

Ignoring the men’s and women’s signs, Steve chose the closest door and shouldered into it, bicep straining against the tight fabric of his shirt as he held muscled it open. It was a hurried mess, both of you tripping into the room on the train of your dress in a fit of giggles as Steve huffed a laugh and cursed under his breath.

“Baby.”

Heels clicking on the white granite tile floor, you regained your footing and finally took in all the exquisite details of the ornate room. Wide marble slabs. Bottles of lotion and perfume that cost more than your mortage. Gold fixtures shining in the low light falling from crystal chandeliers that refracted bright shards of color against the walls.

You would have appreciated the incredible beauty of it all, but Steve. You couldn’t have cared less and neither could he.

He spun you around to face him and hooked his arms behind the backs of your legs. Scooped you up off the ground and pulled a squeal from you as you held on tight around his neck to steady yourself.

Squeezing his hold on you, he freed an arm and swept it across the counter. Knocked the soap dish clattering into the sink basin and paid absolutely no attention to the lush basket of designer hand towels that fell to the floor as he lifted you with ease onto the marble surface.

“Steve,” you protested weakly and when he notched himself between your legs you felt yourself melt under him.

His hands were everywhere. Your waist, the small of your back, fingers pressing into your cheek and pushing your hair over your shoulder to drag messy, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. It pulled a moan from your lips and at the sound he groaned into you.

“Christ, babe. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since you climbed into the limo. Pretty as a fuckin’ picture in this thing. So damn hot. All for me, huh?”

“S’always for you,” you half-laughed, but it caught in your throat as he slipped a hand between your thighs, “God, Steve.”

“This for me too, honey?”

He gathered a handful of emerald green silk in one hand and pooled it at your waist as the cool air of the room sent a shiver up your spine. Then he caught sight of the black lace panties hugging tight against you and sucked in a breath. Bit down on his bottom lip and looked like he might cry.

“You’re gonna kill me with these. Are you kiddin’ me? Baby. Look at this,” he babbled, just standing there not touching you and you grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged him back into you.

“Talk too much,” you murmured against his ear, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and dragging your nails against his skin, “It’s all yours…Mister Harrington.”

And fuck if the dress and panties weren’t enough, the sound of your voice wrapped around his name did him in.

“Damn right it is.”

He growled as you tugged on his hair, slipped his hand back between your legs and tugged the thin fabric of your panties aside. The way he had been kissing and talking at you out on the balcony had been plenty to send you pressing your thighs together, but the way he was handling you in here had you soaked.

His fingers slipped in your slick as he felt just how wet you were and he smirked against your skin as he dragged his lips up to your jawline. Tutting softly he slowly circled your clit, his other hand moving to wrap gently around the column of your throat.

“Bet you want me to talk now, huh honey? You want that? Talk dirty to you?” his voice was barely above a whisper as his fingers slid down to press against your entrance.

You swallowed against the hand he had on your throat, your lips dropping open into a perfect little ‘o’ as you squirmed against the counter, impatient for him.

“Uh-huh,” you breathed and he smirked at how he had you wrapped around his finger, literally as he slid one into you.

“That’s my girl. I know what you like, don’t I? Give you everything you need. Take care of you, hm?” he babbled, kissing and sucking at the hollow behind your ear as he began to slide his finger in and out, in and out. A slow drag at first before adding a second finger and pulling a moan from your lips.

“Good care of me,” fell out mindlessly as he gently tightened the hand on your throat making your heartbeat thud in your ears.

“This isn’t enough though, is it? Not enough. Want me to fill you up, don’t you honey?” he whispered and you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, and god you wanted him to make you see stars.

He pulled his hand from between your legs to undo the button on his pants and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the loss of his touch.

“Shh, I got you, baby,” he coaxed, pulling down his zipper and reaching in to free his rock hard cock.

It sprang out of his pants without any encouragement and he wrapped a hand around it. Rubbed it against your slit as it practically cried in anticipation and as he slowly pushed himself into you it made you sucked in a rasp of a breath.

“Steve,” you begged and he moved his hand to grip your thigh.

“I know, baby.”

An inch more and he was into you up to the hilt. Filling you so much that you could feel the tip pressing against the spot only he could reach. Easing out he groaned as you clenched down on him before pushing back in and he set the pace there. A slow drag. In, out. In, out.

The wet sounds coming from you as he fucked you slowly were obscene. Made louder by the empty room, but you didn’t care. You wanted more.

“Harder,” you pleaded. He wanted it too and as he looked down at the sight of his cock sliding into your cunt he nearly lost it.

Letting go of your throat he grabbed onto your other thigh for purchase and pulled you to the very edge of the counter. Picked up the pace and started fucking you faster, the slap, slap, slap of his thighs against yours filling the air.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Feel so good. You like that? Huh? Want more?”

“More–shit. Yes, god. More, Steve.”

Your knuckles were white with how hard you were gripping the counter, moans falling freely from your lips now as Steve pushed you both closer and closer to climax. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach as he squeezed into the plush of your thighs and your hand flew up to grab at the back of his neck.

“Gonna–ugh–come, baby. Come with me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth, jaw ticking when he clenched down, and as he rocked his hips back into you, you both came.

Your orgasm wrapped around you tight. White hot. Electric. Every inch of you buzzing and sparking like fireworks on the fourth of July and you cried out as his thrusts fell out of sync, jerky and messy as he came down.

A soft thud echoed against the tile as your head fell back against the mirror behind you, beads of sweat holding your hair messy across your forehead. Steve leaned into you, rested his head on your chest, and slowly your breaths evened out.

Your lips twitched with a smile, your hand lifting to cover your mouth as you held back a laugh, and Steve seemed to have the same thought as he chuckled against your dress.

“Someone heard us. For sure,” you finally said, voice crackly from breathing so hard.

“And? Who gives a shit. Maybe we just gave them a good idea,” Steve grinned, looking up at you from where he rested his chin on your belly.

You swatted at him, gasping as he pulled out of you to avoid getting hit.

Bending down, Steve grabbed a couple of the hand towels from where they’d landed on the tile and ran warm water on them. Quickly cleaned himself up and then took his time with you. Paid close attention to where he’d held onto your throat. Where his fingertips pressed into your thighs. Dabbed softly across your forehead and spent extra time on the mess between your legs.

You touched up your makeup and perfume, adjusted Steve's tie and hair, and when you both finally emerged from the bathroom the piece the orchestra was playing reached a crescendo and the theatre filled with applause.

It couldn’t be the end of the first act?

Steve walked you easy back to the balcony and held the heavy velvet curtain open for you. Your gilded opera binoculars were still sitting perfectly upon your seat where you’d left them and the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon was on ice along with a champagne flute – you hated whiskey.

You both sank into your seats as the orchestra began to play again and you recognized the piece and shot Steve a look.

“The party scene just started,” you whispered, “We’re not even out of the first part of act one.”

“Christ,” he groaned, grinning into his hands as he rubbed them across his face. Then, glancing over at you he grabbed his cigar box, “We can always make up for it next year. Right?”

Your eyes grew wide.

“Skip the Nutcracker?” you asked incredulously and he quirked a brow at you.

“Yeah. Skip it and we’ll go catch part two of the bathroom scene at mine,” he said giving you a wicked grin and you feigned shock, your own grin threatening to shatter your facade.

“Mister Harrington, what would your mother say?”

And the look he gave you then was the absolute definition of smug.

“My Stevie boy always gets what he wants.”

And damn if she wasn’t right about that.

[zyonsay]

can you write a fic with toto?? cuz it's A NEEED FOR ME

Bustling Night TW

Fem aligned people may read but not f3tishize my work!!

Summary: You and Toto go on a date!

Reader: Male

Warnings: Toto del Rey?!

Now playing: 'Lolita' by Lana del Rey

AN: Hey there dear Anon! Thank you for the request! When i first read this request, this reel came to my mind immediately haha

So for this one i only made a one shot because im not really a Toto person (he's precious tho), but nevertheless i hope you enjoy. I accidentally wrote it for a male reader, until i realized you didn't specify the readers gender- I hope this isn't a problem, otherwise reach out and i'll make it genderneutral!

Also, i always thought his german was SO WEIRD and just a few minutes ago i found out that Torger Christian Wolff is in fact austrian. I was so convinced that he's an Alman (European Slang for 'german person') , but it makes sense that his german sounded silly to me lol. Austrians are so unserious and i can't get over it lmao

His big hand was snaked around your waist, as bright flashes danced before you. You and your husband Toto stood on a stunning carpet while being photographed for the press. The FIA had planned an extravagant Gala Event for all the Formula One associates.  

Your hair was combed nicely, and your dress shirt hugged you perfectly. Toto was smiling sweetly while he secretly gawked at you from time to time. A loose strand had made its way on his forehead, you gently brushed it back and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. The city was alive, and you couldn’t wait to get out and about after the event. Of course, you would’ve liked to stay longer and enjoy some drinks and maybe embarrassingly dance when the party started, but you and your beloved partner made a reservation at a fancy restaurant.

Before anyone could notice, you two had snuck out of the building, breathing in the fresh night air. A few Cars were rushing by, and it felt like the nightlife was breathing and bustling. The valet handed Toto the keys to his steel grey Mercedes Benz 300 sl, nodding gratefully he handed the young man a suspiciously high tip.

He opened the passenger door for you, before hopping behind the steering wheel. He glanced over at you, still smiling like a schoolboy. The Austrian slowly snuck a hand on your thigh, making small talk with you, as the car swiftly rushed through the lit-up city streets. It didn’t feel overwhelmingly lit like New York, but homier and more romantic. The windows of the car were fully open, and the wind played through his dark hair.

The moon hung in the sky like a sweet melody and its light accentuated Toto’s sharp features, his eyes seemed to shimmer with adoration.

Once you arrived at the restaurant a smell of delicious stone oven pizza hit you. The walls of the restaurant consisted almost fully of big, beautiful windows and on the inside, there were stunning Bordeaux red curtains. There were various nicely dressed couples sitting on the terrace, while sipping coffee or chatting the night away.

Your lovely partner pulled you inside, checking the reservation with the hostess. She was a short, sweet looking woman with curly blonde hair. The lady then guided you two towards a table next to one of the big windows, telling you that your server would be with you shortly. Toto gripped your hand with his bigger one, giving you a gentle kiss on the knuckles.

“I love you, Schatz”, a sweet grin spread across his face as you chuckled.

“I love you too.”

[spankedquail]

Putting the D/s dynamic aside, I am curious if you and your husband have any romantic moments in your marriage (like quality time, kissing, cuddling, love making, etc)? Also, what does aftercare look like in ur relationship?

In full honestly, the D/s is not the majority of our marriage, it's just the pervy part that's fun to write about. We have so many romantic moments in our relationship; I honestly doubt the dynamic would work for either of us if there wasn’t a foundation of love, trust, and genuine connection.

We love cuddling—whether it’s on the couch during a lazy evening or in bed before we fall asleep. There’s something grounding about it, like all the chaos of the day melts away when we’re wrapped up in each other. It’s not always some cinematic moment; sometimes it’s just us, half-asleep, in old T-shirts, legs tangled under a too-hot blanket, but it’s ours, and it’s perfect.

Sweet nicknames are part of our daily life, too. I’m always telling him how handsome and wonderful he is (because, frankly, he's 🔥 af), and he never fails to remind me that I’m beautiful, cute, and special to him. It’s not forced or routine—it’s just who we are. There’s a simplicity to those affirmations that I love. It’s like saying, “Hey, I see you, I love you, and I’m glad you’re mine.”

Kissing is definitely a big part of our affection, too. On busy days, we’ll share small pecks as we say hello or goodbye, but when we have the time, we’ll indulge in longer, more passionate kissing. You know the type.

When it comes to intimacy, we’re not really wired for soft, romantic sex—it’s just not who we are. But afterward, there’s always this quiet, intimate moment of connection. We clean up, and then I’ll curl up in his arms or lay my head in his lap while we chill. Maybe we talk, maybe we don’t. It’s the kind of stillness that speaks louder than words, where you realize you’re safe, loved, and exactly where you’re supposed to be.

We also bond a lot over cooking. He’s the better chef and really enjoys it, so he takes the lead in the kitchen most of the time. I love helping him prep and clean up while we chat and joke around. It’s one of those small, everyday rituals that feels special because it’s ours.

We’re big foodies, and one of our favorite things to do is try new restaurants. He’s into wine, so we plan trips to places like Napa or Bordeaux, where we can nerd out over pairings and flavors. But honestly, my favorite thing is just walking around a foreign city with him. No itinerary, no big plans—just wandering. We check out museums, try street food, and stop at little cafes to people-watch. The conversations we have on those walks feel endless, like there’s always something new to discover about each other, even after all this time.

At home, we take walks around our neighborhood almost every night after dinner. We’ll talk about our days, point out the pretty lights on someone’s house, or just share random thoughts and trivia with each other.

It’s not all fancy or traditionally domestic, though—we love the simple, silly things too. We’ll share dumb or cute memes with each other throughout the day, especially if they remind us of each other. It’s our way of staying connected even when we’re apart, and it always makes me smile to know he’s thinking of me.

We also love to gossip together. Whether it’s about a TV show, a funny thing that happened at work, complaining about something annoying a sibling or parent did, or something one of our friends said, it’s one of those small, intimate, but casual things that makes us feel like we’re truly each other’s confidants. There’s a comfort in knowing we don’t keep secrets from each other and that we can share anything without judgment.

Aftercare for us isn’t formal, but it’s always there. It’s in the little reassurances, the way he’ll hold me after a tough moment or make me laugh when I need it most. It’s the quiet, shared decompression where we let the world fade away and just focus on each other.

Thanks for the sweet question 🥰 It’s always nice to reflect on how much love and joy this relationship brings, both in and out of the fun, kinky stuff.

[xiaq]

It’s giveaway time!

I have 2 signed/personalized copies of All Hail the Underdogs up for grabs (shipped to you for free if you’re in the US). You have 2 ways to enter:

1. Like + Reblog this post 2. Make your own post rec'ing one of my books (or fic, if you'd rather) and tag me in it.

Or do both for 2 entries. The contest closes and I'll announce winners on Friday the 6th. There's another contest happening on Instagram as well if you want to improve your chances of getting one!

Also! I ended up having to order more author copies of AHTU since I oversold the first 100 I offered. If you just want to pay ($20 w/shipping) for a signed/personalized one, you can email me at elmasseywrites@gmail.com.

Ok, ok. Here’s the blurb so any unfamiliar folks can be enticed into buying it:

When seventeen-year-old Patrick Roman is offered a scholarship to a top hockey preparatory school, he thinks maybe his notorious bad luck has finally ended. With a hearing for his legal emancipation on the horizon, he dreams of getting scouted and securing a place on a D1 college team. There’s only one problem: Roman has serious beef with his new winger on the team, Damien Bordeaux. They’re supposed to be perfectly in sync on the ice. But Roman, with his buzzcut and tattoos, has nothing in common with trust-fund-kid Damien, his floral scrunchies, and designer T-shirts that cost more than all of Roman’s secondhand hockey gear combined.

When eighteen-year-old Damien Bordeaux starts his senior year, he tells himself he’s going to focus on hockey and school. No more making out in the stacks, no more dorm parties. He needs to decide what his future will look like. Does he pursue his long-held dream of becoming an author? Or stay in his lane and do what he’s good at: hockey. Regardless, he’s not going to let any pretty boys distract him from figuring his shit out. Except his new center, Roman, is possibly the most beautiful boy Damien has ever seen. And his hockey—the way he moves on the ice—might be even more beautiful. Too bad he’s also probably a homophobic, racist asshole.

But their antagonistic beginning turns into an unlikely friendship and then turns into something much scarier for them both. Navigating relationships is hard enough for normal teenagers. It’s a lot harder when contending with lawyers, NHL scouts, and mutual past trauma. Roman and Damien have to decide: What do they really want in life? Are they willing to fight for each other—including fighting against their own pasts and prejudices—so they can have a happy ending?

[sseomtada]

being [ruben dias]

you finally learn the truth behind that night.

warnings: none | wc: 5565 | 3/???

“Umm, what are you wearing?” Aki lowered the bottles in her hand.

You cluelessly peered down at the clothes she’d literally seen you wearing earlier in the office. It took a while for your mind to construct the meaning of her slight chastise. Slacks and a button down was certainly not the appropriate attire for the occasion.

“Right! Shit…” You sprang into action, letting her in.

She made herself comfortable in your loft, beelining to the kitchen while you got prepared to join her in the long overdue ritual.

Some time had passed since the launch party at Nike. You’d been so busy with chasing up the next project on the agenda that your tradition had sadly slipped through the cracks. Luckily, your best friend was there to always remind you of the important stuff.

After sprinting through a shower, you slipped into a silk romper and joined her out in the living room. Her ability to whip up a master charcuterie board was out of this world. When did you even buy honey and feta?

“Early 2000s or something new?” Aki pondered as she scrolled through streaming options.

“I’m feeling modern tonight.” You replied around a cheese topped cracker.

She agreed, filtering for options within the last year. While the opening credits ran, you emptied the first bottle of wine she brought between your two glasses. That earned you a look of surprise to which you responded with a cheeky one of your own.

While you were on the more conservative side of alcohol consumption these days, you liked to let loose every now and then. What was the use of working so hard if you didn't blow off steam by getting a bit tipsy with your favorite girl?

Halfway through your glass, you started to wonder whether or not you’d made a mistake. Not on the wine, that was top tier, but the era of movie you chose. Film companies just didn’t put their soul into producing quality rom-coms like they used to.

You chugged the remainder of your Bordeaux and went in for seconds. Maybe fast tracking the intoxication would make this dry ass movie more palatable. Aki followed suit, hissing dramatically at the burn of her massive mouthful going down.

About five, or fifteen minutes passed - you honestly didn’t know now given your warped senses - before you turned to her with a grimace. She was already looking at you with an expression that made you burst into laughter.

“This movie fuckin’ sucks.” You gasped.

“I know!” Aki struggled to breathe. “I’m so sorry for picking it!”

Instead of torturing yourselves with the remainder of it, you decided to place a bet on what the ending would be. It was obvious that they’d end up together given the tone of the movie so far, but how they would get there was up for debate.

Ultimately, one Wikipedia page scan later, her guess was closer to being correct than yours.

“Okay…how about we do a drunk capsule now?” Aki dared you with her eyes.

It was an offer you couldn’t refuse, especially due to your current state. In these traditional events, nothing was off limits and everything was confined to the safety of the moment. To put it plainly, whatever either of you said couldn’t be held against you once you’d sobered up.

“Go on, I know you’ve been waiting for this forever.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

She clapped giddily, shuffling until her knees touched yours.

“Starting off a bit strong, but,” Her bottom lip reduced between her teeth. “Why haven’t you dated anyone since. You know.”

You blew a raspberry. “I-I have been on dates.”

“How many in the last year? Or two?” Aki hiccuped. “Come on, you’re still young and sexy! You should be getting pounded religiously!"

“Ew!” You slapped her leg. “Things have been really hectic with the company, you know that. I’ve barely had time to have a proper chat with my mom much less date a guy.”

That was the God’s honest truth. It was arguably a bigger task than you realistically could’ve handled, deciding to open a new branch of Bana.

The risk had to be taken, though. If you sat there trying to rationalize it through figures and statistics, you never would’ve committed to this next step that already was paying its weight in gold.

You also really needed to carve out time to call back home for more than just a quick hello.

Aki was the only other person who knew just how time consuming all of this was, so she accepted your response - albeit with an emphasized pout.

“We spoke,” She ran a finger along the rim of her wineglass. “Ruben and I.”

Your head reared back as you screwed your eyes shut. That information wasn’t too surprising considering that when you left, they both remained at the party. Still, it hit you with rather powerful force.

Trying to picture that conversation pulled your mind in several directions. Aki was a different person than you in many ways, her methods of communicating being one of them. She was far more straightforward than you were and was never the type to do a long song or dance before getting to the point.

The situation she had with him was rather complicated, though. She was collateral damage in his severance from you. His parting message to her was just as curt and painful as the one he’d sent you - with an added layer of which you now realized was the audacity he always had. 

We can’t be friends anymore. Take care of her.

Going through something like that could create deviations in anyone’s behavior. You wouldn’t hold it against her if she found herself too flustered to articulate herself properly. Especially if he’d displayed the same attitude to her that was directed towards you.

“How are you holding up?” It was embarrassing to admit that this was the first time you’d really checked in with her regarding the entire situation.

She sighed deeply and then nodded. “I’m okay, said what I needed to.”

o passado

aki

Her eyes had been on you since that giant blond man had made his way over.

Not exactly the type she’d seen you fawn over, but there was a first time for everything, right? Besides, it didn’t hurt that he was clearly acquainted with Ruben - whose gaze was glued to you and the guy like his life depended on it. Maybe it would hit him where it hurts.

She prayed it did.

“And that was basically how I figured out I was a genius!” The long winded man she was conversing with finally wrapped up his story - full cackle to boot.

“That’s amazing!” Aki matched his energy, going as far as to throw her head back for good measure.

“Was that your CEO you were sitting with - the one in the white?” His tone immediately had her eyes narrowing.

Your dress was cream, but he was a man so she’d let it slide.

While his appearance was more towards your usual taste, there was no way she’d let him near you. Not with his clearly inflated sense of importance and clear habit of never letting anyone else speak for more than ten seconds without interruption.

“Yep, that’s her.” Aki nodded proudly. It was always nice to tell people that her best friend ran a company.

“Is she single? I’m sorry that might be a bit forward, but I’m sure you’ve noticed how stunning she is.” He chuckled awkwardly.

“She…is.” The smart retort part of her brain clicked off when her gaze drifted to find you talking to Ruben.

Whatever thirsty homeboy was droning on about fell yet again on deaf ears as she watched your interaction with shallow breaths. It was the first time she’d seen him in years, stirring up strange emotions to say the least.

When he’d messaged her that night, her heart broke and sank all the way to her toes. Only a fraction of a moment passed as she tried to rationalize why she’d so suddenly lost the person who was like the brother she always wanted. Her mind almost immediately went to you.

Take care of her.

Fuck, those words still filled her with rage to this day. He knew just how deeply you were in love with him and he didn’t even have the decency to say that shit to your face, or give you a reason. He knew how badly it would break you. Yet, he did it anyway.

Aki would never forget the way every bone in your body shook as she held you. She’d never get over how the heartache ate you from the inside out, watching you turn into a hollow shell of the vibrant girl you used to be.

But more importantly, she wouldn’t ever forget watching you pick yourself back up. Piece by piece, you took shape. Watching you find and love yourself after what he put you through was the proudest she felt in your friendship.

And here he was again.

She thought she’d seen a ghost when you showed up soaking wet and in tears on her doorstep a few weeks ago. It wasn’t a question in her mind as to why you were that torn up suddenly because there was only ever one person that could do that to you.

What did Ruben want? So much time had passed, did he think that was an excuse of some sort to suddenly start popping up like a whack-a-mole? She would’t stand by idly and let him create chaos the way he once did.

Aki watched him as he watched you making your way to the exit, his expression forlorn. It twisted her insides like they were filed with bile instead of bubbly. She excused herself from Mr. Know It All and shot straight to her target.

“Ruben.”

He spun around, eyes widening. “Aki…”

“Look, I’m not interested in the past and I’m definitely not here for any kind of apology.” She breathed. “I just wanna know what you’re doing, Ruben?”

His brows pushed together, “I was just having a conversation, Akenna.”

“Don’t do that.” Her jaw ticked.

He didn’t have the right to say her full name like he used to in jest anymore. They weren’t good friends, they weren’t anything to one another as things stood - all by his doing.

“And don’t play dumb.” Aki scoffed, anger rising by the second. “You weren’t there to see the fall out. No, you were living it up as the nation’s new hot shot and embracing all that came with it. You fucking,” She pressed her nails into her palm to steady herself. “You devastated her.”

Ruben flinched. Her words and the severity of it all finally seeming to click into place. She could see the thoughts swimming around his mind, imagining probably the worse case scenario that she bet wouldn’t even scratch the surface of reality. The air around the two hung heavy, as still as a day with no wind to sway the trees.

“I’m not trying to hurt Y/N, or you, again.” He eventually whispered.

That was rich, was she just supposed to take his word for it? Aki sized him up with scrutiny, wondering what position he thought he would get into with you both to repeat such a thing. Yet despite all her glaring, she still couldn't grasp his intentions.

Maybe deep down, she didn't want to.

In any case, by the looks of him, life had appeared to go unjustly in his favor despite his misdeeds. While that was an annoying observation, she chose to cling to the other side of it. She decided to celebrate that you were infinite miles away from the version of yourself he’d last seen.

A new form of yourself that she'd silently vowed to protect at all costs.

“Then whatever you trying to do, stop.” Aki warned. “She’s in a good place now, don’t ruin that.”

o presente

you

Whatever she was able to get off her chest seemed to provide her with relief.

That left you grinning. Heartbroken or not, Aki stuck to her guns. It made you promise silently to yourself that you’d adopt her stance. If you ever crossed paths with him again, though you should say when since it seemed all but inevitable in this city, you’d lay it all out on the table.

“So…have you tried Hinge?” Aki smiled sheepishly.

You exclaimed and pounced on her, smacking her with a sofa cushion as the light-hearted mood returned. She was surprisingly agile for someone so tipsy, narrowly dodging most of your blows with full bellied laughs.

I’m just doing your mom’s bidding - ah, watch the face!

The small brawl ended just as quickly as it started. Your tolerance was far below what it used to be, lethargy taking over your limbs. With a huff, you flopped onto the carpet. Aki raised your head to tuck a pillow beneath it before assuming a cozy position of her own.

“We’re gonna regret drinking this much tomorrow aren’t we?” You groaned, a hand running over your tummy.

“Nothing a good, hot cup of coffee can’t fix.” She yawned.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

Even after shaking the last of a double shot into your mouth, you were laced with regret. As much as you adored celebrating last night, you currently wished you could’ve slept it off a bit longer.

However, duty called. You had two meetings to knock out and needed to get through a morning brief about both of them.

“Wow, you guys look…” Cindy tried and failed to hide her shock.

“Don’t worry,” Aki pushed her sunglasses up to her hair. “I brought the emergency makeup kit.”

“Let’s just get through this quickly.” You grimaced, clutching at your blouse.

As Cindy walked you guys through all the research she compiled, you chugged down a liter of water to bring your insides back to life. On top of regretting taking wine to the head, you felt guilty about letting a bit loose while she was probably busy working.

Another mental note: give her additional vacation days.

Erling’s online presence was pretty standard for a public figure and athlete. His social media was tightly managed as well. That was obviously smart on his part, enough people in similar standing had sometimes irredeemable flubs by not thinking before posting.

The water was kicking in, leaving your mind devising the skeleton of a pitch. It might’ve been jumping the gun a bit since you still didn’t know their hopes for partnering with Bana.

You always liked to be prepared for anything though, especially when it came to working with busy clients like him. Quick thinking could easily be the difference between success and failure.

“Uh, guys.” Cindy tapped her phone. “You’re gonna need to get started on using that kit - Erling’s assistant just asked if you could meet him for lunch instead.”

Aki yelped, immediately rifling through her bag. You high sprinted to the bathroom to empty your bladder before rejoining the room. After a quick touch up to make you resemble the human species again, you gathered everything you needed.

Since the meeting had been moved up, it would clash with a virtual call you had with another potential client. Cindy volunteered to stay behind to cover given that she was the only one other than yourself with extensive marketing knowledge.

“Where are we headed for this lunch?” You slung your tote over your shoulder.

“City training grounds.” Cindy pulled a face. “Not the most glamorous, but I guess he’s staying on brand?”

Your mind immediately went there. Of course it did, it wouldn’t be normal if he didn’t make an appearance in your thoughts when hearing the location. What you were grateful for, though, was that there was no sinking feeling. No ache in your chest or pit in your stomach, just neutrality.

Aki looped her arm around your free one and tapped your bicep. “Let’s catch this fish.”

“Good luck!” Cindy waved as you exited.

Uncharacteristically, you were the one that had to be forcefully awoken and shoved into the shower this morning. That meant Aki drove you both to work, so you hopped into her passenger seat once more as she fired up the engine.

“What do they even eat there?” She pulled up the address on maps. “Baked chicken and sweet potatoes?”

You snorted loudly. “I don’t think they have a whole team of chefs just to make Instagram fitness bro meal preps.”

Aki made a noise of agreement and then got to daydreaming aloud about their potential offerings. Her imagination had your stomach growling. You hadn’t been able to even sniff the muffins in the cafe earlier without turning green in the face, but you were finally entering the phase of your belly signaling for sustenance.

Her phone rang with an unsaved number on her dashboard. You pulled a face at her suggesting that it could be one of the suitors she’d been seeing under the guise of getting to know the new city. She bit at you like a puppy before answering.

“Hi Akenna, this is Meredith from Dr. Johnson’s office. We’re just confirming your visit today at twelve thirty.” The voice sounded out.

Aki’s mouth dropped open as she looked over to you. “H-hi Meredith! I…”

You didn’t know she had a doctor’s visit scheduled and by the looks of it, she didn’t recall either. That was one hundred percent okay with you. Obviously, her health came before anything else. Your head nodded incessantly, urging her to confirm.

“I will be there.” The words sounded as if she’d dragged them from the bottom of a deep well.

“Cheers! We’ll see you soon.” Meredith disconnected the call.

“Is everything okay?” That was your main concern at the moment.

She groaned. “Yeah, it’s just time for a routine check up with the pussypractor.”

You let out a laugh. Being happy at her using that word to describe her gynecologist was far from your normal reaction, but you welcomed it in place of the fear you’d felt for a minute.

“I’m glad you’re taking care of your magic conch.” You relaxed back into your seat.

“Are you gonna be okay? I feel bad leaving you there all alone.” Aki pouted.

“I’ll be fine.” You shot her a grin. “I’m just going to complete the mission and get back ASAP.”

Whether or not she was convinced remained a mystery. That question was a double edged sword, but so was your answer. You weren’t going there with any intention beside getting your job done.

And feeding the beast in your belly.

Thankfully, the grounds weren’t too far away and traffic wasn’t as horrendous as usual. She turned her car into the security checkpoint that went by without a hitch since they’d been notified of your arrival beforehand.

“This is…weird.” Aki peered around after parking out front.

It was like deja vu. Seeing the turf, hearing the sprinklers in the distance - your senses were all lit up and connecting the dots to your past experiences in a similar environment.

“Yeah.” You refocused on the task at hand, opening the car door. “I’ll see you at home. Want me to bring over an ice pack?”

“I’ll probably already have beat you to it, smart ass.” Aki shook her head. “Text me when you’re back.”

The lady at the front greeted you brightly and let you know that Erling’s assistant would be out shortly. In the meantime, you busied yourselves with taking a look at the large pictures lining the walls. Where City clearly had the money, they also had the success. Image after image were filled with bright smiles, medals and trophies.

“Y/N, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” A young brunette woman appeared into your impromptu gallery viewing.

“Likewise.” You shook hands, extending a smile.

“Please, this way.” She directed you to follow her down a hallway.

Animated voices became louder the further you walked and the smell of rich flavors filled your nose. Whatever was being cooked was so far from barely seasoned cutlets and bland potatoes. Your stride hitched at the sound of one particularly loud laugh.

Right. It must be lunch break for the entire squad.

Just as your ears started to ring, unwanted sensations deciding to make their return, she pivoted off to the left to deviate your path from the cafeteria. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding just as your eyes looked back to catch Ruben’s - wide and confused, watching you disappear around the bend.

Coming somewhat prepared worked well in your favor.

Erling had a rough idea of what he wanted to do, but first asked your opinion about the direction you would suggest. Given the current era socially and culturally, coupled with the timeline of his playing career being almost predefined, you focused on building a diverse brand that spoke to longevity.

Football itself was such a vast world with many paths. You constructed a plan in front of him that held his passion at the center surrounded by interest that could tie back into it. If he wanted to expand his humanitarian efforts, a foundation was always the best bet - donating to boys and girls sporting programs, hosting summer camps, auctioning iconic jerseys for a cause.

Partnerships were the biggest way to expand image wise. Of course, there were the well known luxury brands that would die to have him as their ambassadors. If he wanted to hone in on a relatable image, he could partner with more affordable brands for an athletic line.

You wanted to show him that there was a world of possibility that was easily within his reach. All he had to do essentially was point the team at Bana in the direction he wanted to do and you would get it done.

Erling was extremely pleased with what you pitched to him. His assistant took notes for him to go over later in order to single out where he wanted to start, and get back to you guys with contract details. You were left buzzing with pride and very full with the most delicious chicken salad you ever had.

“I’m excited to see where this partnership takes us.” He beamed as he walked you back to the entrance.

“We intend to take you as far as you want to go.” You promised.

Him and his assistant headed out to his next appointment after you said your goodbyes. There wasn’t anything else on the agenda for the day now with both that meeting and the virtual one at the office being done.

You figured you might as well head home to check on Aki. Also, turning in early for a good night’s rest would be the best thing you could do for your body.

You requested a ride back to your place and hoped the wait would be less than 10 minutes. The confirmation came back to show that the driver was just under that, which nearly made you roll your eyes. Instead, you decided to be grateful and message Cindy to see how her call went.

“Are you going to wait eight minutes for Jeremy to pick you up?”

Your head craned to spot Ruben peering at your phone over your shoulder. Though there was nothing to hide, as well as him already seeing what was on your screen, you tucked the device into your chest and spun around.

“Obviously.” You cleared your throat.

“Why would you do that?” His gaze was scrutinizing.

“It’s what one does when they left their car at home and require a lift.” The hand holding your phone tilted it back slightly - six minutes.

“Come with me.” Ruben boldly suggested.

The laugh that left you was incredulous, there was that fucking audacity again. Under what circumstance would you get into his car with him?

You were actually starting to wonder, seriously, without any offense, whether or not he was entirely there mentally. It was like he had no recollection of what he’d done to you.

Or worse, that he didn’t care.

“No.” Your eyes turned downwards again - four minutes.

“Let me take you home.” He reached out to take hold of your wrist.

There was a slight tremble to your mouth that you were quick to shut down by pinning your lips together. Those words shoved your mind through a wormhole back to all those warm nights in Amadora. Your backpack slung over his shoulder, his fingers laced through yours. Both of your laughs bouncing off concrete structure lined streets.

“Absolutely not.” You spoke weakly.

A step too late, you registered his movement. Your small lunge was futile against his giant step back after he’d snatched the phone away from your unsuspecting grip. Getting onto your tippy toes was even more useless against his extended arm as he canceled your ride.

“Please, I owe you that.” Ruben handed it back to you. “And everything else you need to hear from me.”

Freedom of choice in this situation was an illusion. The opportunity to gain all the clarity you sought, all the answers to the questions that haunted you for years, landed in your lap without any effort on your end. Did the option of rebooking a ride share move the needle away from you wanting to know everything?

Not even an inch.

“Okay.” You conceded, motioning for him to lead the way.

Ruben walked you over to his jeep and opened the passenger door for you before you could even try. The gesture that once made you feel giddy did little to stir anything in you today. You fastened your seatbelt and placed your tote on your lap as he got in.

“Now would be a good time to,” He pointed at his console.

“Right…” You pulled up his gps to enter your address.

“Before you think something weird, just a warning that I’m leaving from the service exit.” His car spun in the opposite direction that you entered in. “Things get a bit crazy in the front with the fans and all.”

Wow, what a hero. You didn’t know whether or not to thank him for at least respecting your right to privacy, so you stayed silent and offered a nod.

The first few minutes of the ride stayed much like that - quiet. You wished he hadn’t turned off the music immediately as the car started. Whatever he listened to these days would’ve been miles better than the sound of his smooth engine running and the hissing of his tires on the lightly misted road.

“I’m sorry about the other night.” Ruben spoke alas. “It wasn’t my place to step in with a stupid suggestion like that.”

“No, it wasn’t.” At least you both agreed on that much.

He chuckled at your swift concur. “Everything went well with Erling then, I suppose.”

“You’re on a roll, Dias.” You said drily. “Two for two.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, catching your attention from the corner of your eye. It was becoming apparent to him that this interaction wasn’t going to happen the way he imagined - whatever that may have been.

Did he expect you to be the same doe eyed girl you were seven years ago? Even without your shared history, that would’ve been an extremely naive ideal.

“Y/N…” Ruben tapped his steering wheel. “About that night…”

You dared to look at him for the first time during the ride. All over his face was the war he was fighting in his mind. As stupid and misplaced as it was, you actually felt a bit sorry for him. He had been a source of pain for you for so long, yet you still couldn’t stand to see him experiencing discomfort.

“Was it something I did, something I said?” Your biggest insecurity fell out uncontrollably. “Was it me?”

“No.” He interjected swiftly, almost angrily.

“What made you do it?” The question being posed directly to him after all this time didn’t offer you what you’d hoped.

You thought that if you had ever came to this moment, you would be on some sort of emotional pedestal. So far out of reach and so beyond what had transpired that no response he gave would have a great impact.

In actuality, it was completely the opposite. You didn’t feel elevated or safe out of reach from any negative outcome. Sitting beside him, getting swallowed up by his big leather seats, you felt small and vulnerable.

You were afraid.

“When I sent that message - those messages - it didn’t even feel like it was me.” Ruben appeared to be focused on the road ahead, but his eyes were distant. “I never felt like I truly deserved you. Sometimes when I looked at you, that feeling was overwhelming. I saw how much I meant to you, knew you’d do anything for me, maybe even give up everything for me…and I can admit it now that in those moments I was right about myself.”

He was really on a hot streak here. Three for three because you also felt like it wasn’t him speaking to you that night, or shutting off the lights on you. Four for four, actually. You would’ve done anything for him and yes, even given up everything if it meant you got to be with him.

The last part confused you though.

“Right about what?” You sought out comprehension.

“I didn’t deserve you.” Ruben provided it. “Because anyone who did wouldn’t have felt pressured by that. They would’ve stepped up even more and lived up to be the kind of person who was worthy of that kind of love. Instead, I was the type who was convinced that it was too much and ran away from it. I selfishly cut my emotions off and did what I did, not even considering the outcome.”

The fear you had was replaced with disappointment. You truthfully didn’t know what you expected his explanation to be. Maybe it wouldn’t have felt like this if he had said he started having feelings for someone else, or any other partially plausible explanation.

You guessed this was just as rational as all others in his mind, but you just couldn’t wrap your head around it. The guy you knew never showed any signs of wavering in confidence or expressed the slightest doubt that he was deserving to be deeply loved.

A part of you understood that everyone all wore masks, especially around the people they wanted to appear to be strong for. But he never had to do that with you. At least, you thought he knew that he didn’t have to pretend to be anything when he was with you.

“Ruben…” Your gripped tightened around your tote straps.

What could you even say at this point? The one expectation you did have that was met when you got into this car was that you’d received an explanation. It was just difficult to come to terms with the fact that all of your whys boiled down to something so simple yet complex.

Insecurity was an easy emotion to name, but far from that to dissect. And it certainly made people do often very shameful and hurtful things. Still, knowing all of that did nothing to ease the ache you felt watching him bite the inside of his cheek.

The drive suddenly didn’t feel so long as you realized he was pulling up to your building’s entrance. He put the car in park and reached to leave to get your door, but your hand quickly shot out to touch his arm.

“I’ve got it.” You slowly let it fall to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride.”

Ruben left it until the very last second, calling your name as you were about to shut the door.

“I’m sorry for everything I put you through.” His shiny brown eyes held yours for as long as you could take before you finally sealed it shut.

You rushed inside, not daring to look back so that your tears could fall unnoticed. With rasps of breaths falling from your lips as you pressed your head against the back of the elevator, massaging the space over your heart, you found yourself asking a new question.

What would you do now, knowing that which you’ve longed to?

[cartridgeconverter]

Don Giovanni characters as fountain pens

I have long postponed making this post as I was afraid it might convince me to spend more money. However, armed with a new sense of fiscal responsibility, I think I am prepared.

I've tried to have a range of prices that roughly correspond to the status of the characters, as well as many different brands. Honestly all of these are just vibes, but I've tried to give my justifications were I can.

Leporello - Sailor Profit Junior in Kohiru ($60 as part of a limited edition set, including other products)

I know I just said that I would try and match the lower-class characters to appropriately-priced pens, but look at it. It has a bunny on it. This is the best pen ever.

Don Giovanni - Visconti Opera Gold in Red ($348)

This is probably the only pen on this list that I would absolutely never buy, no matter how much opera-themed branding it has, because it is a ridiculous price and also looks stupid. But "ridiculous price" and "looks stupid" are both things I associate with Don G, and he would definitely be a Visconti whore -- it's a brand highly associated with luxury.

My other choice for him is also a Visconti model, this time the Divina Matte in Bordeaux. This is an even more ridiculous price, at $796. However, it is less obnoxiously red than the Opera Gold, so it is an alternate. He probably would have both anyway.

Donna Anna - Nahvalur Voyage in Shanghai ($130)

I have this one! She is beauty, she is grace. She is also very poorly designed but I forgive her for that. This pen is super elegant, albeit large, and is made from resin with real diamond flakes in it. I love the color also - black, with streaks of blue that show up under light. It reminds me a bit of Anna's costume in the Kasper Holten production. It's simply a very beautiful pen (with tons of design flaws and constitution issues, grr).

The Commendatore - Parker Jack-Knife with silver filigree ($5 in 1902, which is equivalent to $183 today)

This is a very lovely vintage pen from the Parker company, of which I scoured this ancient website for a picture (https://parkerpens.net/index.shtml). As an aside, this site is great; it's very well-kept and contains a detailed account of Parker models through time, with pictures. This pen, though gaudy, is exactly the type of thing that I think old men who do things like duels in the middle of the night would have. (Please work with me here, I don't exactly have a lot of content to go off of :P)

Don Ottavio - Sailor Pro Gear Slim, Shikiori Amaoto collection in Kirisame ($360)

Honestly, any purple Sailor will fit for Ottavio. They're generally on the smaller side, but the designs have an elegant simplicity to them. Also, purple. It's him! It's just him.

This will probably be the ultimate piece in my collection. It's such a lovely little thing, with a 21k gold nib. Unfortunately, I will not be purchasing it any time soon, due to my responsible spending habits.

Donna Elvira - LAMY Al-Star in Black Purple ($48)

Also another model I own -- I swear by Lamys as a great everyday pen. They're reliable and ergonomic, even if they're not as visually appealing as some other brands. The Al-Star, being made of aluminum, is a bit of an upgrade from their plastic model, the Safari with a slightly higher price. I think it's very fitting for Elvira, as a travelling woman.

Zerlina and Masetto - LAMY Safari in Savannah Green and Terra Red ($19)

The Lamy Safari is my favorite everyday pen to use, full stop. It's the same model as the Al-Star, but made from a lightweight plastic. They have a very practical and minimalist aesthetic, but it works, and it works well. They're super durable and apparently can survive being run over by warehouse equipment. I just think this model really suits these two, or maybe I'm biased since it's my favorite.

In particular, these are the two special edition colors made to celebrate the 40 year anniversary of the model, as they were the original colors to be manufactured. The green (which I own) matches Zerlina's dress in the IvH production, which is why I named it Zerlina to begin with. That seems to have been a good name - although filling the converter for the first time was a dramatic ordeal, it's been a reliable pen no matter how much wear and tear I put it through (the black paint on the clip has completely flaked off by now).

Hope you guys enjoyed this tenuous connection between my nerdy hobbies that was actually just a vessel for my rant about how much I love Lamy Safaris. I had fun putting it together, even if a few of these are out of my price point right now. Maybe I will do inks next, although I have put less thought into that.

Off of this list, I hope to eventually buy both Sailors (Leporello and Ottavio) as well as the other Safari (Masetto), although that's not a priority. I just like thinking about having nice things.

[lesmisletters-daily]

The Year 1817

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.3.1

1817 is the year which Louis XVIII., with a certain royal assurance which was not wanting in pride, entitled the twenty-second of his reign. It is the year in which M. Bruguière de Sorsum was celebrated. All the hairdressers’ shops, hoping for powder and the return of the royal bird, were besmeared with azure and decked with fleurs-de-lys. It was the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sunday as church-warden in the church-warden’s pew of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in his costume of a peer of France, with his red ribbon and his long nose and the majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has performed a brilliant action. The brilliant action performed by M. Lynch was this: being mayor of Bordeaux, on the 12th of March, 1814, he had surrendered the city a little too promptly to M. the Duke d’Angoulême. Hence his peerage. In 1817 fashion swallowed up little boys of from four to six years of age in vast caps of morocco leather with ear-tabs resembling Esquimaux mitres. The French army was dressed in white, after the mode of the Austrian; the regiments were called legions; instead of numbers they bore the names of departments; Napoleon was at St. Helena; and since England refused him green cloth, he was having his old coats turned. In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned; Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso. There were still Prussians in France. M. Delalot was a personage. Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand, then the head, of Pleignier, of Carbonneau, and of Tolleron. The Prince de Talleyrand, grand chamberlain, and the Abbé Louis, appointed minister of finance, laughed as they looked at each other, with the laugh of the two augurs; both of them had celebrated, on the 14th of July, 1790, the mass of federation in the Champ de Mars; Talleyrand had said it as bishop, Louis had served it in the capacity of deacon. In 1817, in the side-alleys of this same Champ de Mars, two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted blue, with traces of eagles and bees, from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns which two years before had upheld the Emperor’s platform in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the bivouac of Austrians encamped near Gros-Caillou. Two or three of these columns had disappeared in these bivouac fires, and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this remarkable point: that it had been held in the month of June and in the Field of March (Mars). In this year, 1817, two things were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuff-box <i>à la Charter</i>. The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun, who had thrown his brother’s head into the fountain of the Flower-Market.

They had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Department, on account of the lack of news from that fatal frigate, <i>The Medusa</i>, which was destined to cover Chaumareix with infamy and Géricault with glory. Colonel Selves was going to Egypt to become Soliman-Pasha. The palace of Thermes, in the Rue de La Harpe, served as a shop for a cooper. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny, the little shed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the naval astronomer under Louis XVI., was still to be seen. The Duchesse de Duras read to three or four friends her unpublished <i>Ourika</i>, in her boudoir furnished by X. in sky-blue satin. The N’s were scratched off the Louvre. The bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated, and was entitled the bridge of the King’s Garden [du Jardin du Roi], a double enigma, which disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin des Plantes at one stroke. Louis XVIII., much preoccupied while annotating Horace with the corner of his finger-nail, heroes who have become emperors, and makers of wooden shoes who have become dauphins, had two anxieties,—Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau. The French Academy had given for its prize subject, <i>The Happiness procured through Study</i>. M. Bellart was officially eloquent. In his shadow could be seen germinating that future advocate-general of Broë, dedicated to the sarcasms of Paul-Louis Courier. There was a false Chateaubriand, named Marchangy, in the interim, until there should be a false Marchangy, named d’Arlincourt. <i>Claire d’Albe</i> and <i>Malek-Adel</i> were masterpieces; Madame Cottin was proclaimed the chief writer of the epoch. The Institute had the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte, stricken from its list of members. A royal ordinance erected Angoulême into a naval school; for the Duc d’Angoulême, being lord high admiral, it was evident that the city of Angoulême had all the qualities of a seaport; otherwise the monarchical principle would have received a wound. In the Council of Ministers the question was agitated whether vignettes representing slack-rope performances, which adorned Franconi’s advertising posters, and which attracted throngs of street urchins, should be tolerated. M. Paër, the author of <i>Agnese</i>, a good sort of fellow, with a square face and a wart on his cheek, directed the little private concerts of the Marquise de Sasenaye in the Rue Ville l’Évêque. All the young girls were singing the <i>Hermit of Saint-Avelle</i>, with words by Edmond Géraud. <i>The Yellow Dwarf</i> was transferred into <i>Mirror</i>. The Café Lemblin stood up for the Emperor, against the Café Valois, which upheld the Bourbons. The Duc de Berri, already surveyed from the shadow by Louvel, had just been married to a princess of Sicily. Madame de Staël had died a year previously. The body-guard hissed Mademoiselle Mars. The grand newspapers were all very small. Their form was restricted, but their liberty was great. The <i>Constitutionnel</i> was constitutional. <i>La Minerve</i> called Chateaubriand <i>Chateaubriant</i>. That <i>t</i> made the good middle-class people laugh heartily at the expense of the great writer. In journals which sold themselves, prostituted journalists, insulted the exiles of 1815. David had no longer any talent, Arnault had no longer any wit, Carnot was no longer honest, Soult had won no battles; it is true that Napoleon had no longer any genius. No one is ignorant of the fact that letters sent to an exile by post very rarely reached him, as the police made it their religious duty to intercept them. This is no new fact; Descartes complained of it in his exile. Now David, having, in a Belgian publication, shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had been written to him, it struck the royalist journals as amusing; and they derided the prescribed man well on this occasion. What separated two men more than an abyss was to say, the <i>regicides</i>, or to say the <i>voters</i>; to say the <i>enemies</i>, or to say the <i>allies</i>; to say <i>Napoleon</i>, or to say <i>Buonaparte</i>.

All sensible people were agreed that the era of revolution had been closed forever by King Louis XVIII., surnamed “The Immortal Author of the Charter.” On the platform of the Pont-Neuf, the word <i>Redivivus</i> was carved on the pedestal that awaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Piet, in the Rue Thérèse, No. 4, was making the rough draft of his privy assembly to consolidate the monarchy. The leaders of the Right said at grave conjunctures, “We must write to Bacot.” MM. Canuel, O’Mahoney, and De Chappedelaine were preparing the sketch, to some extent with Monsieur’s approval, of what was to become later on “The Conspiracy of the Bord de l’Eau”—of the waterside. L’Épingle Noire was already plotting in his own quarter. Delaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M. Decazes, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at his window at No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominique, clad in footed trousers, and slippers, with a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed on a mirror, a complete set of dentist’s instruments spread out before him, cleaning his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated <i>The Monarchy according to the Charter</i> to M. Pilorge, his secretary. Criticism, assuming an authoritative tone, preferred Lafon to Talma. M. de Féletez signed himself A.; M. Hoffmann signed himself Z. Charles Nodier wrote <i>Thérèse Aubert</i>.Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called themselves colleges. The collegians, decorated on the collar with a golden fleur-de-lys, fought each other <i>apropos</i> of the King of Rome. The counter-police of the château had denounced to her Royal Highness Madame, the portrait, everywhere exhibited, of M. the Duc d’Orléans, who made a better appearance in his uniform of a colonel-general of hussars than M. the Duc de Berri, in his uniform of colonel-general of dragoons—a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was having the dome of the Invalides regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked themselves what M. de Trinquelague would do on such or such an occasion; M. Clausel de Montals differed on divers points from M. Clausel de Coussergues; M. de Salaberry was not satisfied. The comedian Picard, who belonged to the Academy, which the comedian Molière had not been able to do, had <i>The Two Philiberts</i> played at the Odéon, upon whose pediment the removal of the letters still allowed THEATRE OF THE EMPRESS to be plainly read. People took part for or against Cugnet de Montarlot. Fabvier was factious; Bavoux was revolutionary. The Liberal, Pélicier, published an edition of Voltaire, with the following title: <i>Works of Voltaire</i>, of the French Academy. “That will attract purchasers,” said the ingenious editor. The general opinion was that M. Charles Loyson would be the genius of the century; envy was beginning to gnaw at him—a sign of glory; and this verse was composed on him:—

“Even when Loyson steals, one feels that he has paws.”

As Cardinal Fesch refused to resign, M. de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie, administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of Dappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterwards General Dufour. Saint-Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some garret an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark; a note to a poem by Millevoye introduced him to France in these terms: <i>a certain Lord Baron</i>. David d’Angers was trying to work in marble. The Abbé Caron was speaking, in terms of praise, to a private gathering of seminarists in the blind alley of Feuillantines, of an unknown priest, named Félicité-Robert, who, at a latter date, became Lamennais. A thing which smoked and clattered on the Seine with the noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of the Tuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV.; it was a piece of mechanism which was not good for much; a sort of plaything, the idle dream of a dream-ridden inventor; an utopia—a steamboat. The Parisians stared indifferently at this useless thing. M. de Vaublanc, the reformer of the Institute by a coup d’état, the distinguished author of numerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after having created them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to have M. Delaveau for prefect of police, on account of his piety. Dupuytren and Récamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre of the School of Medicine, and threatened each other with their fists on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis and the other on nature, tried to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons flatter Moses.

M. François de Neufchâteau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmentier, made a thousand efforts to have <i>pomme de terre</i> [potato] pronounced <i>parmentière</i>, and succeeded therein not at all. The Abbé Grégoire, ex-bishop, ex-conventionary, ex-senator, had passed, in the royalist polemics, to the state of “Infamous Grégoire.” The locution of which we have made use—<i>passed to the state of</i>—has been condemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch of the Pont de Jéna, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining aperture made by Blücher to blow up the bridge had been stopped up, was still recognizable on account of its whiteness. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the Comte d’Artois enter Notre Dame, had said aloud: <i>“Sapristi! I regret the time when I saw Bonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvage, arm in arm.”</i> A seditious utterance. Six months in prison. Traitors showed themselves unbuttoned; men who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of battle made no secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the light of day, in the cynicism of riches and dignities; deserters from Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazenness of their well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monarchy in the most barefaced manner.

This is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year 1817, and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars, and cannot do otherwise; the infinity would overwhelm it. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial,—there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in vegetation,—are useful. It is of the physiognomy of the years that the physiognomy of the centuries is composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians arranged “a fine farce.”

[simonsrosebud]

WIP Game: can I have some Brussels?

Nathaniel barely remembered the day that they ran.  It was only four years before, but it was the middle of the night.  He was young, and traumatized and tired.  His eye was freshly swollen and the only thing he was able to think about was the idea of getting caught sneaking out.

Mary held his hand tightly as she led him to the old car parked around the corner.  He had so many questions, but he was forbidden to talk until they got out of town.  Until they passed the exit sign on the edge of Birmingham and made their way to London.

Nathaniel watched it pass by and sunk down further in his seat.  “Where are we going?”

Mary didn’t look at him.  Her bruised knuckles were white against the steering wheel.  In French, she said, “Grab the book I put in your bag.  You need to start studying.  No English until we’re out of the country.”

Nathaniel reached towards the bottom of his backpack until he hit something hard.  He looked at her with a grimace.  “Germany?”  She nodded once.  “Why can’t we just go to Nan’s in France?”

“Not in English, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel frowned, but obeyed.  “But Mum, we’re in a car.”

Mary didn’t answer.  She had gotten the car from someone Nathan didn’t know, but there was no telling what he was capable of.  Wiring a car could’ve easily fit the bill.  “Where do you think he’s going to look as soon as he notices we’re gone?” she asked.

Nathaniel sunk in his seat.  “Bordeaux,” he mumbled.

“So where are we not going?”

He leaned his head back on the seat and sighed.  “Bordeaux.”

-

Nuremberg was gloomy when they arrived, and Stefan quickly discovered that he was terrible at learning German.  And he wasn’t doing well with responding to his new name.  He didn’t see why he couldn’t keep his if they were a whole two countries away.

The only good thing was that he was doing great in French class.  That, and he could pretend to be whoever he wanted without repercussions.

But eventually pretending gets old.  Boring.  Sad.

In Munich, Alex tried making friends.

In Dijon, France, Olivier wished his mother would keep him in the loop.  He was fourteen years old, he could handle responsibility.

In Croatia, Luis wondered how his mother got away with sneaking her gun to different countries.  He asked if she would teach him to shoot it, but he was ignored.

Antwerp challenged Chris with a new language.  Dutch wasn’t something that he’d ever thought he’d have to learn, since the computer at the library said that there were French speaking schools in Belgium, but he didn’t pretend to understand his mother’s intentions in enrolling him elsewhere.

The Netherlands surprised Sebastian by how normal it felt.  Pictures made it seem more interesting, more touristy, but the people were nice and he felt almost like they could make a home there. Then he kissed a girl, and took the Eurostar while hiding a red handprint on his cheek.

Amsterdam was better than Almere in Dominic’s opinion.  He was allowed to go off on his own a few times, which was surprising.  His mother finally taught him how to use the gun, but never let him fire it.

Stuttgart was Liam’s favorite.  He’d spent more time speaking German than Dutch, and liked the language more than he remembered.  He kissed a girl this time around in Germany.  It was fine.

Strasbourg, France, was not fun for Timothée.  He was lonely and growing out of his clothes, and his classmates deemed it obvious that he wasn’t French even though they admitted that he had the accent. He thanked his mother for that.

Brussels was better.  Neil liked Brussels, even though his Dutch was still far from perfect.  They’d arrived in early November, and his first day at the new school proved to be the best first day he’d had in four years.

His first teacher of the day told him where to sit, next to a kid with blonde hair hiding his eyes.  “Andrew is an exchange student from the United States, so I figured it would be easier to pair you together.  Your mother said that your Dutch is not as strong.”

Neil tried not to frown.  American. It was almost insulting. “My Dutch is fine,” he said, and found his seat.

The American didn’t pay attention to him until the end of the class period.   He looked up and spoke in Dutch. “I won’t give you special treatment just because you’re the new kid.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Good,” he said. He leveled Neil with a slow stare, up and down, and left to go to his next class. 

next

[pikachu66]

Gene Spanking and fingering Paul in bed resulting in them fucking loudly enough everybody can hear them which makes Gene go faster and Paul more vocal plus needy please? loving your writing so much, hoping your having a good day!!

Shout it out loud!

❤️, 🚢, 🍋 Paul x Gene

«Paul was being a brat.»

Gene reminded himself as he threw his singer on the bed.

All week long, the Starchild had been a pain in the ass.

Starting with Sunday. During the "Hotter than Hell" photo shoot, Paul was so drunk that between shots, the Demon had to lock him up in the closet so that he wouldn't get hurt or ruin the session.

Monday. Paul kept teasing Gene for the whole day about a new outfit he had bought. That kind of outfit that you only wear in private for your partner. Only for him to share a room with Ace, once they got back to the hotel.

Tuesday. During the interview, Paul kept suggesting that Gene wasn't completely straight. And mind you, the 70s were not the most open-minded years on earth.

Wednesday. Paul kept "accidentally" dropping his guitar pick, every time he walked in front of Gene. And every time, he would bend down like a dog on his heat to pick it up.

Thursday. The warmest day of the week. Paul emptied the whole pack of ice lollies. The ones that look like a fuse. And instead of eating them normally, he would suck on them like his life depended on it.

Friday. Paul would let out small suggestive moans every time he hugged Gene.

Saturday. Today. They were having a concert. And Paul kept on teasing Gene. He would slide his leg between Gene's, kiss the Demon's neck, you name it.

But today was Gene's last straw. Today, he wasn't letting that slide. Today was different. They are finally sharing a hotel room. So Gene was gonna get his revenge.

As soon as the car parked in front of the hotel, he grabbed his boyfriend by the wrist and pulled him to their room, leaving their two confused bandmates alone.

"...Paul is gonna have a bad time," Peter said.

"Oh definitely. He'll probably enjoy it though," answered the Spaceman.

"...Wanna Sip and Gossip?"

"Oh hell yeah!"

And the duo went to Peter's room.

~

Gene pushes Paul on the bed.

"The he-" the Starchild was interrupted by his Demon boyfriend's lips on his.

Gene, without losing a second, sits up, and lays Paul on his lap. And before Paul can complain, his pants and underwear are sent flying on the floor. Gene massages the now exposed butt, a devious grin on his face. He spits on his fingers and slides them in, gently.

Paul's eyes widened as he slaps Gene's knee, more by surprise rather than to hurt him. But as he feels his lover start to move, he can't hold back the moans. He closes his eyes and subconsciously raises his hips a bit, making his lover smirk. Paul's moans get louder and louder every time Gene's fingers touch his prostate.

"I-I'm cumming-" And at Paul's words, Gene pulls his fingers out, making the singer groan in annoyance.

But suddenly, within the beat of an eyelid, Paul is pushed back down against the bed, his wrists tied to the bed poles with pretty silk scarves. The Demon walks to him like a tiger to its prey. In his left hand, the "magic wand" as they like to refer to it. Paul's eyes widened as Gene crawls between his legs, the magic wand vibrating as he rests it on Paul's hardness. A loud moan escapes Paul's lips, as he throws his head back. The sweet sounds escaping Paul's lips are like a melody to Gene, who decides to put his abnormally long tongue to use. And as soon as Paul feels the long wet muscle enter him, he feels like he is in another dimension. Gene always knew how to give him the butterflies, and he proved just now. It feels so good that Paul can't control his voice anymore, filling the room with his loud moans.

~

Peter and Ace had decided to play some UNO before bed, sipping a cup of Bordeaux wine, when they hear sounds coming from the room across the hallway.

"That's Paul???" Peter nods in answer to the Spaceman's question.

"That's unbelievable," the Catman sighed.

"...I bet we can be louder~" Ace teased.

"Bet." Peter smirked.

---

There we go! Thank you for that interesting request! I'm sorry if i modifier your idea a bit but it's my first time writing lemon 😅

I really hope you guys enjoyed it though!

It's the time to tell you guys something! I'm planning a big KISS AU soon! There are gonna be a couple chapters, but I'm still planning everything with my bestfriend! 😊 And since this is gonna be my first big project, i have a little surprise for you guys 😏 I'll explain it in the next post~

And with that, have a good day ☀️

My parents for real istg 😭

Was listening to "BLA BLA BLA" from Må while writing this post 🖤

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I could live very happily in this funky little ancient fairy tale artist's stone cottage in Juignac , Charente , Poitou Charentes, France. It has 2bds, 1ba €88,000 / $94,000. (It will need a new roof soon and a new septic tank, though.) Only 10 minutes from Montmoreau, which has everything you need including, schools, a train station, doctors, and vet. Aubeterre 15 minutes, Bordeaux 1h15. 

Look at the entrance. They don't date it, but you tell it's ancient.

That's like an entrance hall, before you go down some stairs to the main living area. The current owner is using it as an art/living space.

At only 500 sq. ft., it's a tiny house, but the high ceilings make it appear larger. Do you love this stone fireplace, and look at the built-in shelf.

Check out bedroom #1, which is in a loft. Is this a storybook cottage or what?

The opening in the floor allows you to look down into the kitchen and see what's cookin.'

This is a den or family room and above is a loft with the 2nd bedroom. The bathroom is not shown in the listing photos.

How adorable is this whimsical little kitchen?

Double doors in the kitchen open to a lane that leads to a barn and a meadow with fruit trees.

And, in this photo you can see the tree covered lane.

[veloursamour]

HELLO HELLO! So excited to be here with my bubbly muse who's loosely based off Elle Woods from Legally Blonde ( yep, so very very inspired after recently watching that movie with my sister and cousin ). You can have a look at his DOSSIER to learn more about him and maybe check out a bunch of random IDEAS I've compiled?! If you'd like to plot or perhaps fancy something from the list, just hit the 💗and I'll pop by asap!

Lysander's twenty - four going on twenty - five and he's a fashion stylist for DAZED magazine while working as a freelance fashion writer for clients who hire him to independently write articles, interviews or op-eds for them. Also if you prefer nicknames, he also goes by Ly ( as in LIE to me and break my heart ) or Zande ( like XANDER but 'unique' according to him ).

He's moved around a bit throughout his life from Sydney, Bordeaux, London, Paris and now he's in Seoul ( to create trouble ) to make new memories in his life. Okay so truthfully he actually won the lottery six months ago and kept this a secret from everyone, including his parents and grandparents. He really just said Let me chuck all this money in my separate accounts and move to Seoul in October 2024 for funsies. Never let anyone know your next move. Next stop: LA or New York. Maybe. Okay but really, he doesn't know what to do with all that money. Once he does give in to his impulsivity, he might just start living recklessly ( someone please save him before it's too late or maybe he'll play it safe after all??? who knows??? )

He's a bit of a yapper in all good and bad ways, uses humor to cope with his feelings, very bubbly and generally just tries to get along with everyone. He's also very affectionate, kind-hearted and hardworking. He can be persistent too and that might rile some people up. He's also assertive and won't hesitate to speak up if he feels wronged or if he witnesses an unfair situation.