mrofontaineâ:
ââHow could you not like me? Iâm fuckinâ fantastic?ââ Olivier was laughing, and it felt so natural even if the action itself seemed devoid of who the man had allowed himself to become. But behind his eyes, there was something sinister. It was there, lingering, awaiting to pounce on anyone that dared challenge the man. ââYou arenât too bad yourself.ââ He added to the round of the compliment the man didnât know how to take.Â
For a man who was usually bashful about those kinds of things, at least.
ââThe scotch is the reason I spend uncontrollable amounts of hours here.ââ With that, he raised his glass toward the other man, the corner of his lip tilting into a smirk. ââThat, and of course the womenâââ for the first time in a long time. He wasnât thinking about her.Â
The bitch with tits. It was a new name heâd come up with this morning; it helped, sometimes.
ââAre we on a black out drunk kind of vibe, or a slow and steady?ââ Truth be told, Olivier would be on the black out drunk route, regardless. Anything that would help him fall into a deep sleep to which he wouldnât have to worry about the dreams that he knew would come.Â
ââOr, we could do something else?ââ
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âSomething else, huh?â Andrew said light heartedly, âWell, youâre a handsome devil, but Iâm afraid I donât swing that way.â
âBut in all honesty, that bottle of Macallan has been calling my name for awhile. Iâll split it with you?â He waved down the bartender without waiting for an answer. âExcuse me, sweetheart?â With a charming grin he pushed two hundred pound notes across the counter. âA fresh bottle of the Macallan 18, if you donât mind?â














