ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ sᴇᴇ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴᴇ's ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

[interpersonally]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

USERNAME:
IL SANGRE

text ❖ audio ❖ video

(this inbox is a choose-not-to-warn experience, please read at your own discretion.)

Comments

[interpersonally]

I'd make a joke about pilfering from the wine cellar, but, I don't need rumors starting. ( The Balfours do take great stock in talk. ) I do bring my own bottles. The Balfours stock Il Sangre, but variety is the spice of life.

( And he, like Stephen, he bets, enjoys a fine bottle of red. And good company. )

And there's nothing wrong with inviting someone back and impressing them with your good taste. ( And, it's what do they call it? A "throwback" bottle. Vintage. Like them. He steps forward, a smirk forming as he lightly clinks his glass against Stephen's. ) My good taste.

[rehandle]

[ The ring of met glasses and the evocation of taste, and Stephen tips his head in acknowledgement, mouth tugging at its corner as a little skitter of pride wraps around the thrill of closeness and implication and bursts bright somewhere deep and vital.

He lets those last words and the answering tension hang in the air for a moment before he turns his head and lifts his glass for another sip. ]

It's a fine vintage.

[ One more hesitation, a lingering cut of his gaze back to Stefano— and he tips his glass again, swallowing down the contents in a few smooth draws, leaving his glass with nothing but the sluggish red stain of the dregs as he surfaces with a sharp exhale and draws a fresh breath.

He'd intended to take this respectably slowly, see what happened as it happened - conversation, empty glasses refilled and emptied again. But he's not sure that he can stand to reminisce, play catch up with the intervening years. Some moments just need to be taken in hand before you can think better of them. ]

I'd like to try another.

[ Vintage. He hopes it's fairly evident he's no longer talking about the wine. ]

[interpersonally]

( Stefano knows better than to refill a glass tipped back just-so. He prides himself on knowing the edges of every situation. He knows why he invited Stephen. There was very little pretense behind it. Get a load of his picture. Stephen bit the hook he dangled. He expected nothing less.

What he needs today is an escape from disappointing his son, angering his ex-wife, inexplicably saying the wrong thing to his brother again.

Stefan takes the glass from him, and his own, filled glass, and sets them aside. They clang lightly against the bureau. He takes the time to cork the bottle as well, preserve anything he can. Perhaps, they'll have a drink after.

Untucking his barely buttoned shirt, he smirks at Stephen, finding his eyes in the mirror. He turns, nibbling his lower lip, eyelids barely raising as he takes steps back to plant himself in front of him once again. )

Are you saying I've aged like fine wine, Stephen?

[rehandle]

[ Stefano takes the cue, collects his glass and peels away to set it down, to take care of the wine so Stephen's haste doesn't waste it, and he watches him every step of the way. Catches his gaze in the mirrored glass, drops his own to catch the flash of extra skin as Stefano's shirt escapes its confines. Then he's back, and Stephen swallows around nerves and want and the swell of his ego, and tilts his head, smile wry.

That is exactly what he'd been saying, but for the sake of play - ]

I'm saying you've aged. I'd like a tasting.

[ Maybe the wine metaphors need to stop, but he's committed now. He pairs it with a light step in, swallowing up what's left of the scant space between them.

He's out of his depth here. Status and power hover, static bright when he's so rarely needed to notice them before, used to his own being a match for or surpassing the rest of the room. He can't rely on his money or his age or his gender or his wife to guarantee for him how this encounter's going to go, and it's both invigorating and terrifying to be so exposed, so in the dark. Gaze drops to Stefano's lips, lifts to catch his eye again. ]

Then I'll let you know how fine you are.

[ And back down to his mouth, unsteady hand reaching to slide up under Stefano's pulled loose, barely buttoned shirt, his first touch of warm skin over taut muscle smoothing up over abs and sinking to settle and root him at the hip as Stephen leans close, lights the kindling they've laid down with the nudge of his nose to a cheekbone and the gentle flirt of an opening kiss. ]

[interpersonally]

( Stefano steels these kind of moments when out of his routine. He has one person he tends to favor, and who favors him, but when the notion strikes with a man or woman, why not follow it through. He looked up to Stephen, had a measure of attraction he'd never otherwise be able to give a title at such a young age. He saw talent. He saw healing hands. And in Stephen's, that looked like power.

He's always loved power.

That Stephen isn't the same man he used to be, that power may have slipped through his fingers means he is the one with the power now. There is always an imbalance to his relationships, one he'd rather leave behind in the intimacy of his bedchamber. He opens things fade together, that Stephen sees two equals.

He captures Stephen's lips, letting the other man set a pace. His palm finds Stephen's chest, pressing himself closer to Stephen and that hand on him. His other hand grazes up his thigh, and over his belt, his shirt, until both start to work on the buttons on his shirt, all the way, prolonging this first kiss.

How's he taste? )