BBGORL. 💖
The imaginary title I have for you is… Cellar Door.
🥰🥰🥰🥰
HIIIII BBGORL 💖
Okay SHIIIIT okay my first thought was kidnapping. But we won’t go into that lmfao. I’m dark but I probably shouldn’t go that dark. Okay my immediate second thought was this: Marcus Moreno AU.
In said fic, Marcus owns a vineyard. Imagine, Napa Valley, California. Those sprawling acres, dotted with rows and rows of vines and lush fruit, ripening under the sun. The curve of the grapes, how they burst hot in your mouth when you pluck them from their root, the tannins of the skin kissing your soft palate sour.
It’s too much land for Marcus to tend by himself, he knows this. He has staff and farmers and plenty of helping hands yes, but he is
alone.
Hasn’t always been. He used to have a partner. In many ways, he used to have someone to share the work with— his work.
His life.
But she’s gone now.
It’s been years— there are vintages in the winery younger than her absence. It’s been years, but he still feels her. Still sees her. In the morning, especially— still sees how the early tines of light cut through the green grape leaves, made veiny and chlorophylled in the sunshine.
It’s been years, and the truth is Marcus is lonely. Fuck, he’s just a man. He’s a simple mortal man and he misses warmth. He misses the touch of a woman. He misses the sounds they make, the soft swathes of their valleyed breasts, the supple slopes of their calves. He’s just a fucking man and he’s working himself to the bone— working the vineyard, the winery, giving tours, handling exports and imports. He’s running this business on his own, he barely has time for himself— and God, is he pent up.
Marcus runs a hand through his hair, lifting his glasses from his face to rub at the bridge of his nose. Alerted to a sound from outside, he returns his glasses to their rightful place when he hears the gravel crunch— tires, grating along the dirt path leading to the winery: the telltale sign of his 2 o’clock appointment. A bachelorette party, on a tour of the wine country, flitting from vineyard to vineyard.
Shuffling away the forms he was studying, Marcus stands, the gaggle of women approaching the thick oak door. He can hear them laughing— sharing a joke— and with a downward thrust of the old latch, they step inside.
He spots the bride straight off— she’s wearing a shirt stating as much— and his focus flickers over the six or so ladies filing in. You give a small wave when you see him, Marcus standing there in the foyer, crisp cream shirt sleeves rolled up around elbows, and bound up to him, setting yourself apart from the group.
“Marcus? Hi,” you smile, breathy. There’s a flush to your cheeks— from the sun, from the drink. His vineyard wasn’t your first stop, he can tell. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Ah yes, the maid of honor. Hello again.” Ever charming, he extends his hand to shake.
“And what an honor it is,” you quip, dryly - coy - and accept his hand, meeting his eyes as you hold it— shaking it once, twice, before releasing his palm and returning your arm to your side. “Thank you so much for taking us. Sorry in advance, for—“ you gesture sheepishly to you and your friends, two of which have wandered off already, oohing and ahhing over the massive barrels rutted into the cobbled walls.
“I’ve seen worse,” he replies, eyes crinkling as he smiles.
“You say that now.”
He laughs. You laugh. You both laugh together.
Marcus shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, shifting back and forth on his heels, his gaze catching at the way your mouth curves when you speak— how it swoops and arcs when you grin.
Damn, you’re pretty… and God, is he lonely.
(And they both fuck in the wine cellar later. Just saying.)
✨ send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it ✨
