MATRIARCH.

           eyes narrow as they rise, nose slightly tipped toward the glass in her hand. a soft inhale brings the scent of rich wine and it clouds her head for all of point two seconds, but olivia’s newfound personality is disconcerting, and confusing, and above all else, suspicious. it almost seems as if the upir – cares, and that prompts a crease to form between regina’s brow. their relationship is hardly sunshine and rainbows, in fact, the mere thought of such a thing is almost enough to make her gag, but she’d sworn at olivia, and olivia hadn’t sworn back. it unsettled her. make her nose crinkle and lowers her glass to rest in her lap. ❛ – what is wrong with you ? ❜  she drawls with a slightly clipped tone, despite her demands for solitude and the determination to not get involved in olivia’s shit for at least one night, at least tonight… still, a ‘nice’ olivia is a rarity and regina’s not entirely sure how to deal with such a thing… she’d rather the psychopathic kind.

                     still, she watches in relative silence as her… -friend- makes herself comfortable, and after a moment, regina offers her own glass of wine with an outstretched hand, reaching blindly for the bottle to replace the drink she’d forfeited. rolling her eyes, she hummed. ❛ – i ran out three hours ago… if i’d known you were going to show up, i’d have asked you make yourself useful and brought more. along with a bottle of vicodin and a razor… why are you here olivia ? – what do you want ? ❜  

                       wordlessly, olivia takes the welcomed drink —  a thin eyebrow twitches as she looks before the glass — she takes a lengthy sip; not forgetting to tug a gentle smirk over the rim as she drinks. a silent thanks. (and a tease) their friendship had always been a rather odd entity. coming from completely different backgrounds and spouting from just as contrasting lineage, the two should not find any form of accord between them. it was nature, after all. but here they were; completely unaffected and should’s and shouldn’t-s that their species dictated before them. (things like mixing bodily liquids— so to speak) 

                      but the olivia doesn’t care. her mouth curves around the rim and she swallows deeply, with a hunger that could make any other witches shake in their boots. (or broomstick, she thinks) finally she pulls away, pressing her naked lips together — reminiscing in the apple scent that intoxicates her mouth — titling the glass slightly; she glances down at the red stain that coats half of the rim. lipstick: regina’s. that’s what she could taste. through all the sticky wine and dulled chalkiness of her pills — all olivia could taste is that ruby red slickness that the witch wears day to day. oh how her father would rage if he could foresee the scene before her — but more to the point, how much stronger would that rage burn at the thought of this not being the first time that regina had overwhelmed her tastebuds?