#vueve

[cursedcupcakemaster]

no one asked me for this but fuck it this fandom deserves more

Characters: Saga Latour, Mist Flaive, Elizabeth Veuve

Warnings:fluff with sprinkles of angst here and there, implied sadness, blood drinking mention, some of these are short, slight nsfw

Notes:i do not own these characters these fictions are my interpretation of how they'd be in a relationship with someone, reader can be a vampire or human up to y'all, I use "you" for the reader reader is neutral, I use he/him for Beth here get over it , in this au the scarlet moons rule was changed to if someone allows themselves to be bitten then it isn't an offense

I am not including Jack here because while he is chronologically 18 he was turned into a vampire at 8 years old , i will however do platonic headcanons in a later post

Enjoy everyone~

Type: Black Raspberry Macarons

Lost Eden Relationship Headcanons

Mist

Mist is very sweet with his partner

I honestly think you'd have met through Saga

Boy is whipped once he gets a crush and it shows when he's all blushy around you

Once you accept his affections , he will treat you like a king/queen

He basically takes care of anything you need including housing

Mist likely prefers time alone with you and home dates for said time alone, movies, snuggles and snacks , Chess is also an option

Mist is supportive of whatever you want to do

Mists kisses are gentle and ferverent

If you're a vampire already , joined up with lost Eden or not he let's you drink from him first since to Mist , your happiness is priority

If human he may turn you , if you ask him that is

He loves you dearly so your opinion matters most

Treat this guy well , he needs hugs after what happened during his life

Saga

It takes a lot to break this man's walls down so if you managed to get into a relationship great job

He was very hurt by Guil so a romantic relationship may be tricky

Saga would likely be very protective of you, human or vampire doesn't matter to him

If you're human he'll be the one to turn you so you won't die as easily

Either way blood drinking Saga goes first but he knows not to take too much the first time

He likely does mostly home dates which includes video games and jam sessions with you since he's not much for mushy stuff but if you want to watch a crappy romance movie he'll do it so you can make fun of it together

He's a rough kisser but he knows what he's doing , he makes you feel alive when you kiss or drink each other's blood

He may not be the most romantic but one thing Saga does have for his partner is passion

Elizabeth

Okay so Beth has lived for a very long time and if you happen to catch his eye you'll be treated well

Elizabeth makes sure you take care of yourself as much as he does himself

Dates are usually Spa days for you both, Beth knows when your hair or nails need a touch up

He makes clothes custom made for you , yes that includes shoes

His kisses are soft but when he's feeling it he can get rough

If you can sew or design he'd be over the moon because now you can work on something together

Beth might not have been the one to have turned you when you were human if you were one before you met but he'd be happy you can spend longer together now that you're immortal

If you were a vampire when you met then he'd still be happy

Blood drinking between you usually Beth goes first and I'd say he goes for the wrists or thighs since it's easy to cover the marks

He won't let you do it somewhere obvious like the throat

He isn't as protective of you as some of his band mates are of their lovers because he believes you can protect yourself

Beth will probably come off as aloof sometimes but he does love his partner

[kensingtonmarketstall]

whoops my first song of 2024 was Living On My Own

[maddi--paige]

champagne and caviar anyone? | phx, az | oct. 19, 2023

[kindheart525]

Snowcone & Vueve barbie mugshot meme

They got arrested because Snowcone doxxed one of Veuve’s critics on Horse Twitter. Vee is terrified of getting canceled, but Snowy would do it again.

[neeversurrender]

Y de repente todo empieza a sonar como antes, no quieres pensar que estas callendo otra vez, pero aunque lo niegues tu lo sabes ahi esta otra recaida, otra vez lloras por todo, la comida se vueve algo que simplemente no quieres ver, la sonrisa que tenias todos estos meses se fue simplemete se borro...

Solo yo se lo que se viene la peor parte de mi la mas oscura la que tanto me asusta...solo espero esta vez poder echarla pronto...

[mvelazquez71]

Sólo espero

Que entiendas

Que un amor 😍

Se debe de cuidar

Y no jugar

Con nadie...😠

Porque Yo 🙍

Te daba mi querer

Y aún sin merecer

No te dolio dejarme😭

Ahora vueves

Buscando mi calor

Diciéndo que jamás

Lograste olvidarme 🥰

Pero te aclaro

De una vez y lo

Debes de entender 🤔

Que ya es demasiado

Tarde..💔🥀😢

Gigoló Velázquez

[postsofbabel]

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[leonbugsy]

Add Some Cones🍃 & Vueve🍾

[theoffbeatdrummer]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: VUEVE CLIQUOT Pink Rosé Champagne Insulated Lunch Bento Box Tote Bag NEW.

[mhouellebecq]

Tant de cœur ont battu, déjà, sur cette terre Et les petits objets blottis dans leurs armoires Racontent la sinistre et lamentable histoire De ceux qui n'ont pas eu d'amour sur cette terre.

La petite vaisselle des vieux célibataires, Les couverts ébréchés de la vueve de guerre Mon dieu! Et les mouchoirs des vielles demoiselles L'intérieur des armoires, que la vie est cruelle!

Les objets bien rangés et la vie toute vide Et les courses du soir, restes d'épicerie Télé sans regarder, repas sans appétit

Enfin la maladie, qui rend tout plus sordide, Et le corps fatigué qui se mêle à la terre, Le corps jamais aimé qui s'eteint sans mystère.

So many hearts have already beaten on this earth And the small objects nestled in their cupboards Tell the sinister and lamentable story Of those who have not had love on this earth.

The little dishes of old bachelors, The chipped cutlery of the war view My God! And the handkerchiefs of old ladies The inside of the cupboards, how cruel life is!

Objects tidy and life empty And the evening shopping, leftover groceries TV without watching, meals without appetite

Finally, illness, which makes everything more sordid, And the tired body that mixes with the earth, The body never loved which dies without mystery.

From: La Poursuite du Bonheur

[leonbugsy]

Add Some Cones🍃& Vueve🍾

[blacklistanditshost]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by s a m m y (@sammyleonard1)

[raventhekittycat]

These two together <3

[clemventines]

había ido a dejar regalo de navidad a maisie inclusive había llevado a miel para saludarle sin mucha suerte, dejando aquel paquete con encargado en ese momento se dedicaba a observar panadería con atención, concentración le vueve casi ignorante a sus alrededores hasta que es voz masculina aquella que llama la atención, sonrisa extendiéndose cuando alza la mano derecha a manera de saludo, negando suavemente con la cabeza. ' oh no, para nada, soy más de los roles de canela, todo tuyo. ' y en gesto casi ceremonial le termina cediendo el paso antes de echarse a reír. ' ¿ya estás preparado para el año nuevo? ' inquisitiva es curiosa, casi culpable, se toma aquella licencia de familiaridad porque a su criterio interacciones han sido exitosas.

#     PANADERÍA,      para un starter situado en Maple & Mistletoe.

va ahí por puro pretexto, la realidad es que quiere ver a la dueña del lugar y a su pequeña, pero es demasiado orgulloso para admitirlo, así que termina dándose un par de vueltas por los pasillos decidiendo qué piezas de pan comprar. ni siquiera necesita tanto pan, vive solo. "oh... hola," saluda casi con torpeza cuando reconoce facciones femeninas cruzarse en su camino. "dime que no te vas a llevar ese croissant porque es el último y ya le había echado el ojo," apunta en dirección al pan cubierto de chocolate y nueces. es su pobre intento de ser un poco agradable con una de las personas que ya reconoce en el pueblo y de hecho, hasta le muestra una tenue sonrisa, indicadora de que está bromeando. ( con @clemventines )

[goonmilk]

Rocket's KD Year Celebration

The Gang came together to celebrate Rocket’s 35th Birthday this passed Sunday with a GANG only Brunch full of Champagne and, Great Food, Gas, and plenty laughs!

I’ve known John aka “Rocket” and the GANG going on 8 years now. Instantly became family. From clubbing to GOONS gym to the countless sessions, I’m glad to have a GANG like ours!

[slippinmickeys]

Yesterday Cathy asked me for a Making Out in a Cab fic. When I asked for a little more direction, she said: “How about just before their first time, both knowing it will happen sooner rather than later. Maybe a little tipsy, but not so much that they can blame it on the booze.”

Here’s what I threw together:

“You can’t hail a cab in LA,” Mulder says to her.

She’s standing on Pico Boulevard, cars whizzing past at speeds far too fast for the middle of a city. She’s still wearing that little black dress and the headband that makes her look like a co-ed. She's got a hand up like she’s on 5th Avenue in New York and he just knows they’re going to be here all night, him stuck in this starchy monkey suit, leaning against the fence in front of Stage 26 while a bored security guard watches them from 20 yards away.

“Says who?” Scully asks, not looking back at him — she’s still focused on the road. BMWs drive by. Jaguars. Audis. A few Accords and one Chevy Cavalier, just like the one she used to drive. No taxis, though. Do they even have taxis in LA?

“Everyone,” he says. “It’s… it’s known.”

She grunts something, but doesn’t move from her spot. Pretty soon a Lexus or something is going to pull over and offer her a ride. Christ, he would. She’s a fucking vision.

After he’d made a break from the Zanuck Theater on the 20th Century Lot and she’d found him moping on Stage 5 — the soundstage somehow still dressed from a movie they’d wrapped months ago— she’d pulled him away with the promise of a night on the town with a Bureau credit card. But then she’d found a cold bottle of champagne hidden away in an icy bucket just inside the Zanuck lobby, sweating in the LA heat, and she’d swiped it and backed away from him, tearing the foil off the top and luring him with her eyes. It had probably been waiting for some swaggering studio executive with a too-large paycheck and a bunch of bad notes, but this wasn’t Agent Scully, this was Dana, who’d stolen her mom’s cigarettes and ridden a pumper truck home from prom. She’d steal a bottle of Vueve if you left it sitting there unguarded, and she’d goddamn enjoy it.

They’d ambled down the empty asphalt in between stages, past Star Wagons propped up on cinder blocks and empty golf carts parked at angles. She’d popped the cork out of the bottle with a practiced twist and had taken a frothy swig, wiping a foaming drip from her chin with the back of her hand as she passed him the bottle. He’d taken a long pull, his gaze never leaving hers. There was a challenge in her eyes tonight, a dare; something unnamed and dangerous, brimming with potential energy.

Past soundstages and production offices, under an arch of fluorescent bougainvillea they’d wandered, the bottle getting lighter, her shoes finding their way into his hands, dangling by the straps from his long fingers. They’d passed a random brass bust of Homer Simpson’s head and strayed, quite by accident, onto the studio backlot, the buildings merely plywood edifices of an artificial, grungy New York street. She’d kissed him there in front of the fakey looking ‘Royal Diner,’ kissed him stupid and surprised — raised up on the tippiest of toes and whispering in his ear that they should head back to the hotel. He’d nodded at her dumbly and followed her south through the studio gate, their bottle of champagne warm and holding only flat dregs left forgotten on the artificial Bronx sidewalk.

And now he stood, ever so slightly tipsy, watching a petite woman try to hail a cab in a taxi-less city, her shoes still dangling from his hand.

“We could maybe catch a bus or something?” he offers lamely, turning back to look at the nearby security kiosk, thinking maybe the guy would let them use his phone. He’s thinking of the king sized bed in his 7th floor hotel room, and all of the things they could be doing in it. He’s waited years for this. Decades, it feels like. He has lifetimes worth of pent up love, eons of affection. He’s been saving up his kisses and finally she’s come to collect.

“Why would we need a bus?” she says, and when he turns back to her, she’s standing there, barefoot and smug on an LA sidewalk, holding open the back door of a yellow Crown Vic. An honest-to-god licensed Los Angeles taxi cab, engine running, meter poised to start, ready to whisk them through the chute of the Wilshire corridor and on to the door of their Beverly Hills hotel. He’s so grateful he feels his knees go weak, but still manages to drag himself the ten or so feet to Scully’s side.

“After you,” he rumbles, not even hiding that he’s watching her ass as she scoots across the dark vinyl.

He follows her a moment later and closes the door on the sounds of traffic. Inside the car smells of evergreen air freshener, Old Spice, maybe a hint of stale cigarette smoke. The driver, a burly man with a thick black mustache sits behind a plexiglass barrier. Mulder’s knees hit where the thick plastic is screwed into the seat back so he has to sit with his legs spread wide, his left leg coming up against the warm skin of Scully’s bare knee.

“The Four Seasons on Doheny, please,” he says to the driver, who merely grunts and flicks on the meter, pulling away from the curb with a high chirp that suggest the car’s tires probably need replacing.

They roll through the blocks of chic houses that make up Century City, all of which used to sit on Fox land until the film Cleopatra cost the studio so much money that it was forced to sell off more than half.

Mulder sets Scully’s shoes gently on the seat in between them and nods toward the floor.

“How are your feet?” he asks.

“Better now now I’m off them,” Scully answers, her tongue swiping across her lower lip decadently.

He wants to say something like ‘you’re going to be off them the rest of the night,’ but it seems crass, and she’s the one who’s ever so slightly out of character tonight, she’s the one running this show.

As the cab hooks right up Beverly Glen, the parabolic momentum sends him sliding across the bench seat and into her side, and she looks up at him as the car straightens and all that potential energy that’s been crouching there in her eyes turns kinetic. She hoists herself up off the seat with both palms and presses the twin pillows of her lips into his. And this time there’s no stunned pause on his part, no time for her to pull back even to whisper something suggestive in his ear — this time he kisses her back, both hands on her cheeks, fingers splayed in a v around the cups of her ears. She’s not getting away, he won’t let her.

Her mouth tastes heavenly, like warm spring and alcohol, the effervescent rush of champagne still lingering on her tongue, sending a surge up the back of his neck like a bead of bubbles running up a glass flute.

He feels loose and warm from the booze, pliant, his muscles like tepid water sloshing around the side of a bathtub. Scully leans into the kiss, plants her hand on the vinyl seat between his legs, just to hold herself up, just to better angle her ingress, but her hand is dangerously close to his eager cock and the material of his dress pants is very, very thin.

He thinks he hears himself groan.

The light leaking into the car from outside is an orangish, sodium-glow, the collected illumination of street lamps and security lights, the dull gleam off the matte canvass of a billboard hocking the fabricated story of their lives. How Wayne Federman could even hope to capture an ounce of Scully’s particular brand of mystique is an X-File in itself. Mulder hasn’t scraped the surface and he’s spent seven years trying. The light makes her hair appear even redder, like a carmine bloom just under the surface of a dark lake. He pulls the headband from her hair, freeing it — and her — just a little bit.

Another right and they’re headed east again, the turn pulling them briefly apart.

Scully’s eyes are round and wet, a mirror of her lips, which glisten in the dull glow from the dashboard. The driver, silent and stern, keeps flicking his eyes to the rear view. Let him watch, Mulder thinks, let him get an eyeful.

He moves in more slowly this time, brushing his lips over hers lightly, a fluttering like moth wings over a light. She breathes into him, a shuddering, excited sound. It makes his cock jump in his lap, but he makes no move to deepen the kiss, just moves his hand to the round curve of her bare knee, stroking the skin there with his thumb.

He could spend hours here learning the individual creases of her lips by feel, but hours are really all they have left before they have to fly back to DC, and he intends to use the time on other pursuits.

Impatient, she flicks her tongue out, trying to draw out his, and it works, chasing her of its own volition. It’s no use fighting it — he always comes when she calls.

Their kiss is slow and elaborate, her breath hot on his upper lip. Up front, the cabbie opens his window a crack, flooding the car with the smell of cut grass and night water — they’re on Wilshire now, rolling through the improbable golf course that fans out on either side of the road and abuts skyscrapers on two ends. He opens one eye briefly — they’re fogging up the windows of the car.

How can she be real? he marvels. She wields guns and scalpels, science and facts. She’s saved him and yelled at him and snapped his bones back into place. She kisses with the energy and aplomb of a water sprite.

They finally hit a red light as they reach the western border of Beverly Hills, the car rolling to a stop under a half-full moon. Mulder pulls back from her with a wet-sounding slurp, squeezing her knee in apology.

He feels compressed and overwrought, his breath coming in overeager little puffs. Scully merely grins at him and slides back in as the car starts moving again. A crash of love hits him so hard his psyche spins out into the night.

This woman regularly carved the still hearts out of the dead, but she’d scooped out his years ago, still beating and warm, and held it even now in her hands, however they might be clutching at the scratchy wool of his tuxedo jacket. He wonders if she knows.

There’s a mighty jostle under them however many minutes, hours, years later, the front bumper sliding over the steep concrete berm of the hotel driveway, and before he knows it a liveried doorman has swung open his door, letting in the nighttime noise and the blazing light from the lobby. They disengage, looking at each other, a little embarrassed, and he gives her a look that makes her smile. The cabbie mutters a dollar amount at them and Mulder doesn’t really hear him over the roar of blood in his ears, just hands him a couple of twenties and slides out of the cab. Scully follows, moving demurely and holding her strappy heels with a manicured finger.

He has the strongest desire to sweep her off her feet and carry her the rest of the way upstairs, but instead holds out a hand which she takes firmly, twisting her hand so their fingers are entwined.

Beside them, the car door closes and the cab sweeps away back into the night. His heart falters a bit, thinking of the short time they have left, how it’s not nearly enough. If he could conjure more, he’d do it, pay whatever price the magic asked of him. But then he looks down and Scully’s looking up, her eyes the same blue as the Sargasso. She has somehow managed the impossible tonight. Perhaps she can manage a little bit more.