#The English Distillery

[blackandgolddistillery]

The Rich Heritage and Craft of English Gin

English gin is deeply rooted in the country’s history, evolving from a once-controversial drink into a symbol of British craftsmanship and innovation. The spirit’s journey began in the late 17th century when William of Orange, the Dutch-born king of England, introduced genever to England. Genever, a juniper-flavored spirit from the Netherlands, quickly gained popularity in England, particularly among the lower classes. Over time, it morphed into the version of gin we know today.

By the early 18th century, Gin distillery had become ubiquitous in England, particularly in London. Its affordability and availability led to widespread consumption, a period infamously known as the "Gin Craze." The government, concerned about the social problems linked to gin abuse, introduced a series of laws to regulate its production and sale, culminating in the Gin Act of 1751. This act helped curb the excessive drinking associated with gin and laid the foundation for more controlled and higher-quality production practices.

Fast forward to the 19th century, the invention of the continuous still allowed distillers to create a purer, smoother gin. This marked the rise of "London Dry Gin," a style that became synonymous with England. Unlike earlier versions, London Dry Gin had a cleaner, more refined flavor, and was less sweet. The name doesn’t imply that it must be made in London; instead, it refers to a specific production method that prioritizes the use of natural botanicals and a precise distillation process.

The essential ingredient in any gin is juniper berries, which lend the spirit its distinctive piney, fresh taste. However, distillers often add a variety of other botanicals to give each gin its unique character. Common botanicals include coriander seeds, angelica root, orris root, and citrus peels, although many modern gin producers experiment with exotic and locally sourced ingredients.

In recent years, gin has experienced a renaissance, particularly in England, where craft distilleries have popped up across the country. This gin revival has led to an explosion of creativity in gin production, with distillers experimenting with flavor profiles, barrel-aging, and even limited-edition releases. The growth of the craft gin movement has also seen the rise of boutique distilleries, each offering their take on the classic spirit, and this artisanal approach has garnered global recognition.

In particular, the rise of flavored and pink gins has attracted a new generation of gin drinkers. These variations often emphasize fruit-forward botanicals and cater to those looking for lighter, sweeter spirits. Additionally, the gin and tonic, a quintessentially British drink, has regained its status as a fashionable cocktail, with bars offering bespoke G&T menus featuring a variety of tonics and garnishes.

Today, English gin represents a balance of tradition and innovation, with a deep respect for its historical roots while embracing modern techniques and flavors. Whether enjoyed in a classic martini or as part of an inventive cocktail, English gin continues to captivate spirit enthusiasts around the world.

Source & Reference: https://sites.google.com/view/blackandgolddistillery/the-rich-heritage-and-craft-of-english-gin

[frangipanilove]

This is not a drill; the kissy episode is the most Bethyl episode ever😱😱😱

And Greenland = Green(e)land CONFIRMED

(Massive spoilers for TBOC 2X2 below, proceed with caution)

Guys! As we all know by now, Paramount+ France accidentally released all the episodes at once, and naturally the internet did what it does best, meaning it preserved them for eternity. They’re floating around out there, and I’ve watched 2x2. That’s the dreaded episode with the D@rabelle kiss, and guys! It’s literally the most Bethyl episode I’ve ever seen. I’ve written in other posts how I expect season 2 to be full of Beth callbacks and dialogue parallels, and boy howdy did 2x2 ever deliver!

First, for some context, I wrote a speculation-post a few days ago about Carol and Ash making a stopover in Greenland, or Green(e)land as I’ll demand it be called from now on. Read that for full context, because I can’t be bothered repeating myself. Let's just say my speculation was rather precise on this particular occasion.

I expected to hear Beth dialogue parallels and see Beth callbacks, and that’s exactly what we got. The Greenland stopover was nothing but a long series of dialogue callbacks to 4x12 Still and 4x13 Alone! In one of the reviews that came out before the premiere, it was described as "bizarre", and that caught my attention, because that normally means it does nothing to drive the narrative forward, which usually means it is included purely for symbolism purposes. And that's exactly what we got. A truly bizarre story, with crazy amounts of symbolism.

So, in episode 1, we saw Carol and Ash plan on making a stopover in Greenland, to switch out the ethanol tanks.

Ethanol/alcohol is a metaphor for a cure/resurrection in TWDU, and I’ve written countless posts on it, here's my latest. One of the reasons I refuse to leave it alone is because Beth is right in the center of this symbolism due to episode 4x12 Still, in which “Still” is a reference to “distillery” a place for the production of ethanol/alcohol.

Also, Beth is known to enjoy a drink or two, and she made getting drunk her entire purpose for living in Still. The girl is pretty much the queen of alcohol/ethanol at this point, and remember in TWDU, that’s a good thing, as it is directly tied to a cure/resurrection. It represents surviving.

Ok, back to Carol and Ash. They land on Greenland/Green(e)land, having some issues with a fuel leak. It needs to be fixed. They immediately run into two survivors, climate scientists, who have been stuck there since the fall of civilization, and one can safely say the isolation hasn’t done them any good. A bit on the crazy side, both of them.

Ash and Carol return with them to their research station, and from there on out it’s absolutely MAYHEM in terms of Beth callbacks and dialogue parallels. The French subtitles are in white, the red is my English translation as the dialogue was spoken in the episode:

Right off the bat; "home sweet home".

In 4x12 Still, which is a reference to a "distillery", meaning a place for the production of alcohol/ethanol, Daryl explained that his father used to have his own moonshine distillery. And interestingly, so did the crazy scientists on Green(e)land:

The Greenland scientist explain that they distill their own Aquavite (and for anyone who is still undecided on the hypothesis that alcohol represents a cure/resurrection, "Aquavite" is a Norwegian/Scandinavian liqueur, the name translates to "water of life"):

Then we immediately turn to drinking, as you do:

...they pour drinks...

Carol likes Aquavite about as much as Beth likes moonshine, meaning not at all...

They start off amicable, and say "skål" which means "cheers" in Norwegian...

There are references to games...

...then things start to go slightly sideways...

Meanwhile, Ash is on his way back to the plane with Crazy Scientist #2. There's a reference to something or someone "nuts"...

...and something or someone beautiful:

In the beginning of the episode we see Laurent gift Daryl a hand carved dog he has made. Dogs are Sirius symbolism and represent resurrection/return/coming back (I've written tons of posts on why it is so, but long story short; it refers to Sirius the Dog Star that disappears from the nightsky only to return some time later):

Later, we hear this:

Carol insists on going looking for Sophia (meaning Daryl) alone, and demands Ash stay in place to watch the plane. If she's not back in two weeks he should leave without her, she says. Ash's response:

Guys! I know we aren’t thrilled about the kiss. I’ll briefly give you my interpretation of it, perhaps it can be of help, although of course this is just my subjective meaning.

The kiss makes a little more sense in its full context of the episode actually, at least to me. My interpretation is that this is very much also about Laurent. Daryl is shown to be seriously bonding with Laurent, and I’m not saying he doesn’t also like Isabelle, but it’s definitely a package deal for him. Daryl is drawn to the three of them as a family unit, more than just to Isabelle as an individual, in my opinion.

I think he’s just desperate for companionship and a healthy relationship with a decent kind adult. And I’m not saying that to minimize Isabelle in any way, but that’s the vibe I’m getting. They’re not star crossed lovers, they’re two lonely adults who desperately seek some kind of meaningful connection. And I don’t want to ridicule or minimize that, that’s a perfectly valid motivation for a relationship, and I believe it can work out wonderfully. But yeah, it’s not primarily about love and lust, imho.

And think about it! This is Daryl’s first onscreen kiss! TPTB absolutely knew it was going to break the internet as well as people’s hearts. They knew this episode would be scrutinized under a microscope! Why in gods name would they throw in all these super specific Beth callbacks and dialogue parallels in such a massively important episode for Daryl, the episode they knew EVERYONE was always going to absolutely ruthlessly dissect?

It’s because Beth’s the real story here. And I keep saying, that whatever happens between Daryl and Isabelle, it is always on some level commentary on Bethyl. I wrote about it here, and we see it more than ever in this episode. I wrote that I expect the Beth-proxyness (which I maintain is totally a word) of Isabelle is going to be turned up a couple of notches this season, and that is truly what we're seeing.

I’ve only talked about Green(e)land and the Carol/Ash storyline in this post, but I could easily do a similar one where I point out all of Daryl and Isabelle’s Beth callbacks and dialogue parallels, because there were tons of them.

Cheer up, friends, I think this season is going to be fun for us!

[diejager]

My deep dark desire for a distillery au wherein each force is a competing distillery and you yeet an expert taster reader in there who is in charge of judging each whisky and ranking them. Either they are pulling out all the stops on your tour and treating you like a princess or doing the opposite and threatening you to rank them the highest :')

Mhairi, I am the worse person to ask about whiskey, my parents have delicious smelling ones, fruity and spicy ones, but taste wise? I gag like there’s no tomorrow, especially gin!! I hate gin. The only thing I can stomach so far is sweet, coffee and cream flavoured Baileys Irish Cream. (I know there’s Irish whiskey in it, but it’s only 17% compared to the 40% of any other whiskeys)

Eau De Vie Cw: Alcohol drinking, whiskey taste, tell me if I missed any.

Whisky had always been your favourite, your little secret that you shared with your closest friends alone —your penchent for judging whiskeys and bourbons alone, managing to include rum and brandy in rare occasions. So when you were approached by a known figure in the Whiskey industry that acted as the face for many distilleries across the world, you couldn’t turn down the offer when you were given so much in a simple deal.

You were responsible to drink and rank many popular brands by taste and smell alone, the only person delegated to become the judge. You were given the privilege of taking home a bottle of each brand after this competition, another reason to accept it. So you signed the contract without a second of hesitation, shaking her hand to conclude the deal before she left you squirming with excitement in your office home.

You were flown from your city to a calm part of the Scottish countryside, a chalet overlooking the Scottish highlands and its green beauty. This was the quaint house you would temporarily live in with the rest of the team orchestrating this friendly competition, leaving the connecting house up the cliff side to the different distilleries. From what you’ve heard, Kate Laswell - Kate you called her after a few meetings that had fully bloomed into a friendship of alcohol connoissoir - the participating teams were the British company 141 - who in coalition to Chimera and the ULF - would represent their alliance, the American Shadows, the multi-national KorTac and the Russian brewery Konni. They were all popular brands distilling whiskey and brandy in their own countries, creating a plethora of tastes and sensations that would explode on your tongue after a few sips.

You were ecstatic, your mouth salivating at the simple thought of tasting the finest whiskeys from around the world, but you had a few days to rest and tour the side of Scotland you were shipped to. What you expected to be calm and mild-mannered men and women from their side of the world to meet and eat with refined etiquette, was shattered the second you peered through the door after walking down the connecting path from your chalet to their house.

They were loud, rambunctious in the very sense of it, loud and jovial, hurling insults and hissing out jeers at one another. It was a dogfight between brewers, like cats and dogs. You felt like a stranger, gawking at the group hurling words at one another until it all stopped, the open living room falling in silence when they heard you drop your bag on the polished wood. You’ve never seen humans move so fast until the second after the silence, scrambling to clean the room up and wooing you with their compliments and sweet pleasantries to appease you.

They gave you a tour of the house, the rich wine cellar that was open to you whenever you wanted a drink, the wooden patio that had it’s own lounge and bar, and the various rooms in the mansion-like chalet. They all vied for your attention, ripping one another’s throat to have a second of your attention, kissing up to you with sweet compliments and even sweeter praises.

The Brits - well, three English and one Scott - were a good mix of mature and zealousness, low voices and near-overwhelming figures with their broad shoulders and stocky mass. They came with other people to represent their company: Farah and her devoted Alex from ULF, and the crude Nikolai and Krueger from Chimera.

The Shadows were American, the most American you’ve ever seen, energetic and determined to win you over, and the CEO, a man with a southern accent and a seductive smirk, swiping you off your feet with pet names that made you fluster.

KorTac had as many accents as they had people of different countries, both men and women skilled in multiple languages and conversing so fluently that you started to question if you were on the same planet.

Konni was rough on the edges, their leading figure as scheming as he was gentlemanly, his thin lips letting out the most vicious praises to have you squirming under his dark gaze and unmoving determination for the win.

Days later, you met them at the compound farther down the road, away from the beauty of the coast and cliff, a long table exposing their finest to you. Poured in a cups, one with ice and another without, they were left for you to decide which would win the prize for both straight and on the rocks. Today was the day you would nominate one as the best, standing higher than everyone else without bias despite the times they rendered you a flustered mess and made you unendingly grateful for their help.

Your pallet exploded with flavour every time you sipped on a different brand, eyes rolling to the back of your head with the deliciousness of every bottle. 141 brought three bottles of their aged whiskey: a smoky Scotch Whisky made in the same Highlands you were tasting it, the bitter spiciness of rye whiskey from the American branch of the ULF - credits to Alex for introducing it - and the woody and fruity aroma of Chimera’s whiskey. Shadows had brought - unsurprisingly - their most popular types of whiskey to the table: Bourbon made in their own distillery in Kentucky, a sweet and mellow sub-type of their first one and the smooth flavour of their wheat whiskey. KorTac had a large variety to it’s collection: a floral tasting whiskey that outmatched Hibiki Harmony, a nutty sensation of a bottle made in Ireland and the rich and peaty on of a danish-made bottle. And finally, three Russian bottles from the biggest distillery in Russia: a sweet and smoky bottle, a second one with rich malt and honey, and a third focusing on aroma with it’s spicy odour and fruity taste.

They were all so delicious, if you had these bottles when you working at the bar, mixing concoctions for paying clients, you would’ve been overjoyed, but those days were long gone, your priority standing elsewhere than fulfilling your dream. Truthfully, you didn’t know who to give the medal, the flavours so vast and unique. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if you took a second or third sip just to be sure.

Part 2

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @kaelysia @notspiders @velvetsoulweaver @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

[feefymo]

Heart Deco; James Patrick MarchxF!Reader

summary: James Patrick March is still alive and well. Prohibition reigns but he doesn't conform to the rules. With the intention of satisfying his alcoholic whim, he will make your acquaintance.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5953 words | murder, sex, violence, blood... it would be easier to indicate what is free of warnings!

a/n: little reminder that English is not my mother language so be gentle, please! I hope you'll enjoy this... long thing(!!!), especially @taintandviolent , to whom I want to dedicate it. Bye, little hummingbirds!

Year 1926.

Prohibition dried up the throats of Americans. It spread like a stinging disease, too bad James Patrick March liked the itch. He knew not to scratch but he hated the restrictions, so he was ready to relieve the tingling with a metal rake if necessary - even if it wasn't, in fact. If you're reading this, you know James Patrick March's special habits: he was a serial killer of the worst kind, sure. But that doesn't mean he didn't indulge in "surface" pleasures as well. Gentleman's pleasures, denied by society but still more accessible to the higher ranks. What hypocrisy! James, still alive and well, had received a tip-off and so here he was, heading to his car with fascinating cunning. Delighted by the pale sun that hit his figure, he was preparing to leave, arousing the interest of the ladies and the envy of some gentlemen. He knew the destination: he had decided to go to an isolated distillery in Calico, Ghost Town. A Sunday concession that brazenly opposed religious objections: a pair of sunglasses and the magical disappearance of the car hood were enough. James felt he was being watched, his ego picked up the signals and basked in it. At the same time, Mr. March succeeded in the fleeting attempt of not giving importance to anyone among those who remained entangled in his less dangerous net. Therefore, he set off enjoying the feeling of leaving anyone who bored him behind, there, to get intoxicated in the cloud generated by the exhaust pipe of his car.

The distillery stuck out of nowhere like the only tooth left in a homeless man: rotting, decadent, a building whose exterior was so ugly and run down that it aroused very little suspicion in the rare customers who passed by. For James, however, it was a picnic like any other that didn't affect his ginger mood at all. Indeed, the darker side of his spirit gradually took over, hoping to get much more than a sip of alcohol.

"Mr. March, it's a pleasure to have you here. We've heard about you!" "We've heard great things about you!" Mrs. Holland entered, interrupting her husband. The couple, too warm in their welcome for what James knew about the Dutch, stumped him with idle chatter. Pleasantries, useful insights into his constant thirst for blood which, if he wanted, he could have indulged in the blink of an eye. The man, treated with kid gloves, observed the two foreigners taking turns and competing to see who could best ingratiate him. For his part, the owner of the Hotel Cortez was experiencing a strong intolerance that he would keep at bay for a little while longer, behind a pair of wide, black eyes. Behind a plastic smile that his mustache shaded with surgical precision. While the types of alcohol available were explained to him, James soon realized that he was once again afflicted by the disease of boredom. A boredom that took him down, down, down into a spiral void that met and matched his homicidal instincts. Then came a first taste and his expression lit up faintly: "Aaah!" he croaked smugly, glancing at the bottom of the glass. "I was just impatient to savor what you praise so much." he turned on his heels with a movement tinged with theatricality, determined to take his own space and explore that dusty labyrinth of barrels and bottles.

He needed to stifle his bloody impulses out of mere opportunism and staying close to Mr and Mrs Holland made it unbearable. Almost impossible. So, whistling a dark tune that made him a recognizable target, he continued as if he were at home until a staircase aroused his feline curiosity. "Oh, it goes even lower! Are you perhaps going to distill all the way to Hell?" the man joked before biting the dusty air and performing a sizzling descent into the underworld. He wasn't greeted by a very different scenario, except for one detail that took his breath away once he understood it in its entirety. An arch had been carved into the wall in front of him. A blasphemous niche, made inaccessible by the glass that separated its "contents" from the rest of the distillery.

The content in question? You. Just you: disheveled, wild, ethereal. An otherworldly creature yet so seemingly fallible. Fragile and candid. You sat backwards on an old wooden chair, dressed only in a long cream-colored nightgown. In the center of the chest, sewn onto it, was a very red anatomical heart detailed with inlays and disturbing sparkles. Clinging to the back of the chair, you seemed twisted like the trunk of an olive tree to study the intruder without your expression being able to be deciphered.

For his part, James had been pierced in the chest by the poisoned arrow of a corrupt Cupid. Still, in a sculpted dictator pose, James let your bottled essence seep and nourish him. It seeped into his veins and electrified his brain. He gave you a stunned expression, as if your existence were an irreparable disgrace. "Well I'll be blessedly darned."

"Ah, you have found our Heart Deco." Mr. Holland congratulated, as if it were a treasure hunt. "We brought a gem from Amsterdam." The owner of the shack was pleased with the way James reacted to that vision: no judgement, no disappointment, no threat of turning to the police. What a morally healthy person would have found disgraceful at the very least, aroused in James an atavistic energy that he was just channeling onto this Heart Deco in its entirety.

It was as if Mr and Mrs Holland had totally disappeared from the planet: they spoke to him but James didn't turn around. His attitude had changed, he excluded them. He barely moved from the spot where he was pinned to observe and study you maniacally. For your part, you didn't show any kind of reaction: you didn't seem scared or infatuated. Curious, perhaps. You returned that oily look with equal intrusiveness. Imprudence, perhaps. There was something profoundly naive about you but that naivety was polluted and James picked up on it. He could feel it and appreciate it greatly. That day, he suddenly decided to turn his back on you, as if he had been burned by the mere image of you.

However, he returned. He came back and came back and came back. "Leave us alone." he commanded, his voice no longer composed solely of velvet but also of nails. A multitude of rusty nails. Your meetings, on the surface, were similar. Beneath the surface, something different, growing and perverse simmered more and more. James' ritual was always more or less the same: he also used a chair very similar to yours. It moved slowly, as if you weren't trapped and could escape.

He perceived you as wild and he was right. He sat calmly, sipped his cordial and smoked. Slowly. He stared at you like an artist stares at his unfinished work for hours, searching for the detail that would make it perfect. That same search afflicted James like a disease and made him more and more frustrated. By now, you were able to notice it from small details such as the pulsation of the jaw or the dilation of the nostrils. The very black, compact tuft that fell on his forehead and the pallor that increased on his marble face. You could even glimpse the muscles underneath his clothes so much so that, one day, you stood up.

You took him by surprise, forcing him to straighten his posture and roll his eyes. A few centimeters from the obstacle that separated you, you waited for him until he understood and stood up to meet you. Dazzled by your presence, he would have drawn a hundred fountains of childish blood just to hear you speak and his anticipation grew. It modeled his facial expressions, increased his breathing. In fact, you opened your mouth but to breathe on the glass and plant a kiss on it while your left hand slid in a squeaking sound until it rubbed at the crotch of James' pants.

There was no contact that wasn't imaginary, and yet, the man's erection grew instantly. James exhaled a tremulous sigh as he rested his forehead on the cool surface; he almost didn't notice that he had pushed himself against the glass to rub his cock against it. An uncomfortable, unsatisfying yet necessary friction. It hurt, it tugged at the intimacy of his skin but this increased his raging pleasure. He hated you and, at the same time, he depended on you. From the question he asked himself: "how fast does his heart beat?"

With a fist, he hit the divider and retreated but you were able to cut off his fury by holding on to the long pearly skirt of your dress. Wrinkle after wrinkle, you picked it up, revealing your legs and, after a few seconds, your pussy. Wet and luminous, you pressed her against the glass as well as your breasts hidden by almost transparent fabric. So, James fell to his knees with an expression halfway between disdainful and subjugated, venerating what you conveyed. "Oh, my precious creature…" he opened his jaws and licked nothing as if it were your cunt. He followed the lines of your crotch and worked his way into your tender center. His destiny was already written: he would eternally remain a murderer with the spasmodic urgency of authentic love. Devoted, if not downright submissive.

///

"And yet, we were convinced that you were interested in alcohol. You're ruining us like this!"

"If I really wanted to ruin your suffocating rat existence, I would already have burned you alive in this building. Without wasting even an ounce of creativity on it."

"Please, Mr. March. Leave these grotesque jokes aside. It's not something we can afford to give up!"

"Indeed. It's not a 'thing'… and neither of you take me seriously."

"You force me to be adamant, March: Heart Deco will not go away with you, that's out of the question."

"Adamant, you say? Mh! My dear gentleman, this negotiation has become very tedious and time, alas, is a tyrant. I apologize if the request has got you so… tangled up. On the other hand, you two are not even compelling interlocutors, therefore, thank you. Ad majora! If you allow…"

Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum. To err is human, but to persevere is diabolical, asserted Augustine of Hippo. And the Dutch had erred while James merely persevered. He traced his allegorical crop circles, pointing out the obvious, in reverse, on the only Bible he has left. What the couple had taken as a joke in bad taste, accidentally exploded together with their Ghost Town and without Heart Deco inside. Heart Deco, you, had sped away together with James, in the car that would take you to the Hotel Cortez. A silent but vibrant journey of adrenaline that, in different ways, you shared electrifying the road.

///

"Mr. March? Mr. March, wait!" a small nervous looking man chased James until he caught up with him but James didn't stop walking along one of the corridors on the first floor of the Cortez. "Forgive me Mr. Shaffer, I am desolated but, as you see, I have an unbreakable commitment." the owner of the hotel began by pronouncing his words. He sped up his march in long, elegant strides that distanced him from any mix-up. For his part, the little man in question was responsible for managing some projects relating to the building and, although he was intimidated by the figure of the other, he tried to insist: - But Mr. March, I need… -

"I must ponder, inept!" James interrupted him with a theatrical gesture of his hand, as if to chase away an insistent fly. "I'm not convinced about the color of the pool lining." he murmured with a caricatured thoughtful expression: although he seemed to be addressing someone, he was talking to himself, appearing and disappearing among the cones of light emanating from the walls. "Cerulean or Powder Blue? Cerulean or Powder Blue?" captured by that Hamlet-like doubt, James stroked his mustache and continued in his vicious circle. Mr. Shaffer stopped, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and took a breath but the hotelier burst out: "PALE TURQUOISE! … Perhaps." and then he disappeared, swallowed up by the dark secrets of Cortez. One, in particular, who fed his blood with trepidation.

///

Click.

Your breath flickered like a fish, simultaneously with the sound of a pause being pressed. Gradually, the huge room you had been led into began to light up. Small detail of no small importance: you could perceive the light but you still didn't know where you were because you were blindfolded. Blindfolded and with your wrists secured to two heavy iron rings stuck in the floor. Only later, you would discover that there were many others around you. Meanwhile, they kept your arms slightly open at the sides of your torso, in a gesture of false welcome. You remained still as long as you could, then you started to get agitated and not with the aim of escape. You fretted, smiling left and right in hopes of receiving more clues. "Mister… Mr. March?" you ventured, boldly, without receiving an answer. At least not immediately because, shortly after, the echo of slow footsteps began to spread and allow you to guess the owner of the shoes.

"Oh, but look at this. Look at yourself." the man began, as if it wasn't him who placed you at the bottom (extremely deep) of the indoor pool. "You are the Emperor's Nightingale, aren't you? I have always asked myself numerous questions about that fairy tale." James spoke, syrupy, feline and you heard him far away. You felt him close. You felt it everywhere, yet not there with you. "Freedom. A golden cage and no hunter will ever slaughter him. But if a mechanical bird takes over, precious, tireless, without feelings… what do I do with anything else? The mortal one?" a metallic noise interrupted James' prayer for a few eternal moments and a sense of bewilderment assailed you. "There, there dear: I'm here, with you. Who are you?" the strides lengthened and the man reached you, crouching in front of you. Despite exuding the heat of a living being, a drop of icy sweat ran down your vertebrae as if they were stairs. "Are you the living nightingale or the mechanical one? - it came naturally to you to make a gesture in support of your prompt response but this reminded you that you couldn't move your arms.

On the other hand, James was already thinking about it: you could smell the stupefying scent. The alcoholic notes on his breath that blended masterfully with the cologne he was wearing. Which he would soon impregnate you with. "Come closer. Come closer and feel how my heart beats, my Emperor." at that point James took a sharp breath through his nostrils and moved quickly against your chest, to make sure you weren't lying. To make sure there were no squeaky gears inside you. He was a serial killer and not a watchmaker for a reason. So, combined with the palpitations with which you were spoiling him, the man expressed himself in a low moan that was the soundtrack to his hands. He kept them open, caressing your nipples until they became hard enough to scrawl his palms. At that point, he grabbed both of your breasts, pressing his nose between them. You felt the ring he wore on his little finger create an inlay in your flesh and it was a pain that didn't seem enough. "Your ventricles flutter like little wings. Delicious." he noted, panting between his teeth, before grabbing the blindfold over your eyes and slowly but firmly pulling it down. "Good evening, my darling." James greeted slyly, tilting his head perfectly nestled in the hair jelly. A grin opened slowly, like a fan of premises to which you responded with a reverential nod. "Ooh, I like women who are a little formal and have hard nipples. How do you know it? You read my mind, maybe?" James, kneeling between your thighs, straightened his back in order to rummage through his kit.

“Are you going to kill me, Mr. March?” you asked without fear of the answer you would get, so his night gaze darted onto you. "I have the impression that it will entertain you more if I don't reveal it. " quick and imperative, he grabbed your ankle so that it rested on his shoulder and the fabric of the dress slipped, revealing a calf caressed by thick, weak and pale hair. Mr. March didn't care at all if and how much hair covered your gorgeous body, he was already incredibly aroused but he found it useful. They tested his lucidity like Russian roulette. Then, he began to touch your leg with the solemn touch of someone who comes across the fleece of some Greek deity; so typical of James. A master in veneration as well as in sugarcoating the pill. That could mean a night of his more conventional devotion to you or the calm before a storm.

Seeing the sparkle you saw in his fist, a tangle of dread expanded in your stomach. James held a razor in his hand. From the kit, he had taken only that. He slowly raised it so that you could get into visual confidence while he bent over your leg, lightly rubbed one cheekbone and then began to lick it in long stripes down to the knee. His irises, wells of black water, stared at your face, becoming opaque with growing eagerness. "Sometimes the pen hurts more than the blade��� do you agree?" James asked in a slightly contemptuous whisper. Swallowing before going back to licking you. He stared at you expectantly, in a position that made his trousers extremely constricting. “Do you want the honest answer or the one you would like to hear?” your ulterior question bounced off the sinister and apparently pleased grin of the man, who snapped the blade and passed it over the (deliberately) insufficient layer of saliva. Once, twice, three times: the aim was not to shave you but to exhaust the viscosity and make you react to the burning. Craving it with the composure of a heartfelt gentleman, until you tried to withdraw and his grip became steel. James' idolatry of blood, your blood, could be read in his expression: "Oh, look at you Deco: I was so certain of your merit." Tiny blood gems decorated you like aristocratic stockings and, for each one, you suffered a little. However, the presence of James Patrick March continued to dominate the rest and your body, which reacted with pleasure.

The luck inherent in that individual lay in his wearing of many masks. Every day a different James, always methodical and lethal but often subject to boredom. He also put your other leg on his shoulder but he wasn't going to torture it, the idea had already tired him - exactly. He would bend over, literally lay between your limbs as the wrinkles in your robe rose and pooled on your contracted belly. Semi-prone, he seemed ready to swim in the absence of water, but instead, he gave himself the momentum to catch you by surprise and lift you up. Pushing yourself off the ground, more than half of your body was raised to his will. He had taken you away from the Dutch couple but not to free you. He had moved you from one prison to another, however, you loved every bar of this one. You stared at your warder with languor in your eye sockets: it seemed that his finely drawn lips were now made up with the blood you gracefully shed. He, however, did not return the gaze: ensnared by your shiny pussy, he had actually made sure of the absence of underwear. You weren't wearing any and it was as if your wetness were reflected shimmering in his dilated pupils; surrounded by the tiny splashes of blood now transferred to his facial features like freckles. He was exasperating you: he studied your sex with growing veneration but only his breath deigned to barely touch it.

"Mr. March… ?"

"What, my dear?"

"Please…"

"What. My dear."

“If you free my wrists, what can I offer you in return?”

Slowly, softly, James's frown became…pitying. He cocked his head to one side again and his eyebrows curved downwards. A vibrant "aaaw" tickled his whiskers. Whether it was a joke or not you wouldn't have been able to define it, especially since his aura made you numb. You were the clew of a sagacious cat whose canines terrified you more than the razor.

"As much as I love seeing your waiting cunt cry…" Mr. March could utter iniquities as if they were arabesques on silk. The premise sounded sinister and tempting: the ellipses were filled by the intrusion of his thumb, which approached your clit but circumnavigated it. It descended in two parentheses between the labia, then collected your juice with the linearity of a surgeon. You meweld impatiently and your thighs trembled. "…I don't see why not." he was indulging you and, even if you trusted him like a scrap of velvet decorated with splinters and glass dust, you couldn't help but rejoice.

"Of course, an exchange is an exchange. Calling it a "barter" sounds higly vulgar to me, so let's see…" he proceeded, crawling against your shaken torso until he stopped near your left breast. He caressed the nipple with a kiss before unsheathing the razor and cutting the edge of the areola in a dry line. Immediately, his mouth returned to collect the blood that rained down along with your squeal. He drank like Romulus with the She-Wolf, at the dawn of the birth of Rome. His eyeballs rolled, showing clearly visible capillaries. In raptures, he insisted on the wave of your snorts and your truncated syllables. As soon as he freed the first wrist, you brought your hand to his hair and, between spite and passion, closed it into a fist. You messed them up and tugged at them, eliciting a joyful, guttural laugh from the man's throat. "Some… milk is a fair price, don't you think? A favorable price." he had transformed you into the mother of sin. That milk had corrupted him and you, under hypnosis, were grateful for it. Electric, you closed like an oyster around him, licking away the crimson traces from his lips that had become your slave. The man's euphoria in seeing you as an accomplice, not at all impressionable, began to crumble his staid movements.

You were quickly reaching the same overwhelming rhythm of desires to express and this was underlined by a kiss that he dared first. His tongue, cryptic, pushed past your teeth in search of its twin. It swirled around it with the exasperation of a lightning-fast, toxic, iron-like love, bringing with it a long, hoarse groan. His beastly verse got caught in your throat and mixed with the notes you sang. Messyly, you grabbed onto James' suspenders and tugged on them in an attempt not to break the now soaked kiss. For his part, Mr. March stepped back with an air of surrender and opened his trousers. He lay down at the bottom of the pool with the sole purpose of dragging you onto him with primordial ardor. His grip on your hips was as merciless as that of a pincer: he was the one orchestrating your movements. The rubbing of the sexes, still hindered by his underwear.

“Are you confused, little creature?” he murmured, like a breathless movie actor. He smiled, though. He experimented, he pressed you against the veins of his cock in a shameless but still elegant dance. He raised his pelvis, rubbing his length between your melting folds. You, sometimes exasperated by the adrenaline rushes that James inflicted on you, tried to unbutton his shirt. "Do you wonder if… I will make love to you like a gentleman or… hm! Like a criminal?" with an abrupt interruption, he slide between your legs until his face could rest between them. “Should I treat you like a goddess or a prostitute?” he spoke deliberately close to your femininity, meeting it in a lustful stroke that turned into wide, slow lapping. He stared at you; he wanted a dirty answer of your reactions to his impromptu meal. He was entranced by the taste of you and he let you know by the moan that preceded the action of his right arm. He grabbed you by the throat but tightened like an hedcherkief.

"I can be… I can… a Greek goddess or not… there will be no difference between grace and dissoluten- oh James… James!" your desire to argue was overwhelmed by the pleasure offered to you. James had understood what you were trying to say and, appreciating your fine brain, had intensified his care. Small flicks of his tongue tapped on your clit, alternating with sucking. He stuck his tongue as deep as he could, fucking you through it before returning to the tangle of nerves. The middle finger took over immediately below and, shortly after, the ring finger. A cry strangled you and you almost lost your balance but the man bent a knee so you could lean against it. You swayed against his face and his fingers in blind desperation, so much so that you spontaneously grabbed the razor abandoned near you. James didn't feel threatened, on the contrary, he let you do it by curving his phalanges and detaching his mouth from your cunt from time to time, to observe how you melted on him. He stretched his solid neck, grinning with exposed fangs and nodding. He followed your moans but without adding sound; the wet chin jutted out and the nostrils dilated.

"Are you a mirage? Hm, are you darling? Prove to me that you're not at all…" you both knew what that meant. The grip around your slender neck intensified and the fingers, inside you up to the knuckles, became ever so slightly faster. Unstoppable like Mr. March's tongue that tirelessly slapped your clit until you heard yourself scream. Your sex pulsating furiously around the offending phalanges, dripping with scorching juices. For a moment you thought you would never recover. It certainly wasn't your first orgasm but you had never, ever experienced one like it and, at the mercy of delirium, you moved your right arm to the left and then quickly returned to the right and thus opened a cut in your lover's cheek. - HA-A! -the hotelier let out a long baritone growl bringing his hand, made slippery by your orgasm, to the wound. He stared at you with his eyeballs poised in their sockets, a furious bull who almost came in his own pants. Disoriented, you felt the need to rest that fought with the expectation of continuing and facing the consequences. You felt James Patrick March's impatience bubbling beneath you as before Pompeii was submerged by lava and you would not disappoint his expectations. Not after seeing him slowly lead the weapon of your defeat to his jaws to test it. Cleaning it of suspicious evidence as he scrutinized you and red flowed from his face. You curled up and licked it.

You looked like a dying candle and the dress contributed to the image, so you raised yourself on tremulous limbs and let it slide over the feline figure of your lover. Completely naked, you allowed yourself to look him up and down, still dripping onto his designer clothes. Juices, blood, tears, sweat. This created a growl in the back of his throat and he decided to get on his knees in front of you. Just like when a glass obstacle separated you. You preceded him, going back down and emulating his position before bending over at his crotch and unsheathing his thick cock. While you were admiring it, the owner of the Cortez proved to be prepared: he equipped himself with a cigarette. He turned it on and he took a greed drag from it. "You're also a warrior, then." The fact that he appeared relaxed was false, however, he guided his figure in sinuous nods that untangled your hair. He caressed your cheek before his cock was grabbed at the base and gently slammed against your cheekbone. Next, the tip passed over your lip perimeter like an obscene lipstick: consumed by haste, you tried to interrupt James but he hit you again with his cock. Harder. "Ah-ah-ah… greedy." he scolded in a grainy voice, as if he wasn't the first to have an insatiable hunger. In a mock bored manner he began to masturbate, his fist away from your initiatives: "Okay, lost creature: eat." March spelled out the order disguised as an invitation, slightly hunched over, before gathering your hair and giving you the go-ahead. You, out of breath, limited yourself to titillating only the frenulum, forcing James to stiffen like a statue of Italian marble.

"I am capable, Sir." you announced with renewed confidence, insisting on that very thin strip of skin. "I know how to pleasure a man with my mouth" you added, hotly, starting to dedicate yourself in great detail to the entire tip of the length. "And with the blade." James added as he studied you with clenched teeth around the cigarette filter, but his eyelids swayed heavily on his voluptuous gaze. Heart Deco, your stage name, emerged more and more from your arched body so that your captor's attention slid down your back to the roundness of your buttocks. "I know how to give an unforgettable blowjob." the punctuation of your provocation was replaced by March's dry groan. You began to repaint each raised vein with saliva, until you deemed it appropriate to go further. You began to swallow James's sex inch by inch, gradually. At the same time, your lover's no longer immaculate shirt fell from his muscular shoulders. He exhaled smoke like a dragon, taking a plastic pose as he held up what was left of the cigarette. Upwards, like a kind of torch to illuminate your sensuality. "Everything, Deco. Swallow it all. More. Mmmmore." declared the rich American, wetting his lips. "I believe you." he added hoarsely, blowing out a nicotine moan that accompanied his hand among your rebellious locks. He forced himself, thrusting his hips forward with the bluntness of a stab. The now extinct cigarette butt fell next to you as you expertly suppressed a retch. Your left palm crashed into James Patrick March's abdomen, enticing him to hold you by the skull. To ruffle you, indulge you…

He didn't warn you. He pulled back and positioned himself behind you in the span of an instant; you almost struggled to realize it. You preferred not to turn around, in fact, the sensation benefited you: now beyond your endurance limit, Mr. March grabbed you under the ribs and entered you in a tearing way. He remained still for a few seconds, exhaling ragged breaths and enjoying the suffocating welcome of your pussy. This allowed you to get used to it before the man began to pound you with the impetuosity of someone who discovers Eros giving in to Thanatos.

"OH MY GOD!" you yelped, snapping your head towards the kidnapper. You found him already looking at you with a pitch black strand cutting his forehead in two. With a caressing movement he pulled you up and leaned close to your ear: "Call upon me, not him: I killed God some time ago." what he said, how he said it, only made you more excited and needy. While he fucked you, vigorously massaging your breasts, you found purchase in his clean-shaven nape, naming him. Making you an echo of yourself. After a while, he responded to you with a roar and walked out of you gracelessly. He forced you to stand up and slammed you against the pool wall. You felt like an orphan but not for long because James came back to fill you, taking the breath away from both of you. Still between your walls moisted with longing, he brought your arms up. Up, up, up in a double and lascivious caress due to which you found yourself tied by the wrists again. You were the longest hand on a clock that now showed another hour.

"Please, James. Can you… hurt me? Can you do me ah-more? More? I'm begging you."

"If I can?" a sharp laugh filled your ear as he backed away with the aim of thrusting back into you like a slamming iron door. "I must." he huffed, continuing to push and push and push. His teeth clinging to the flesh in the crook of your neck: he was now transfigured into a pure beast, his claws stuck in your buttocks as he spread you apart with the sole imposition of his body. He wasn't a stingy or selfish lover, he had proven that to you. Now, however, his hasty descent into the Underworld of an unhealthy form of enjoyment was evident. You were his deadly river. You were his Styx and he had nothing but delirious, hissed compliments for you. One for each thrust into your now happily broken body. He squeezed your hands into fists and you, smiling, cried.

It was when an inhuman noise gradually exploded from James' lungs enough to fill the pool that he pressed his hot seed into your pussy. You, shocked, touched erotic epilepsy through his ecstasy. The tendons in his red neck ready to snap like whips as "Mr. Cortez's" knees buckled in a little snap and his temples threatened to explode. He directed his growl first at the blasphemed God then, with a movement of his head, at his mentor Demon. He fucked you beyond the climax until he suddenly stepped aside and staggered. He stepped back, trying to focus on you as a whole with the tip of his tongue at the corner of his swollen mouth. He nodded. He laughed, softly at first, but you only understood when his shoe hit the ground and made a watery sound. Now that he was settling down very calmly, March's laughter was louder and more theatrical: he was filling the tub and you were tied up. And even if you weren't, you couldn't swim. The color given to your cheeks by sex disappeared, turning into grey. Without the strength to struggle or the saliva to soothe your throat, you simply stared at your tormentor in astonishment. He approached you one last time, gently grabbing you by the chin and bringing your gaze up to his. He kissed you with the sweetness of a good and normal man.

“I could ennoble you with purpose.” James stated from an iron ladder, as if there were an audience watching the scene. "A subversive purpose: the end of Prohibition in America! AH! I could leave you here, soaking in water like the forbidden fruit that rots to transform into something far more diabolical. You could become the secret ingredient in my personal liquor." he insisted lewdly. Subtly morbid but blatantly thoughtful. From the opposite side of the pool, along its decorated edge, he watched you smugly as the water level rose. To the even number of jets, the same number were added. “Let me stay and look at you. Let me… think about it some more. Maybe-maybe, instead, you deserve our hearts hammering together…”

The degree of your agony would have increased along with the pure bliss of the memory. The ghost of James Patrick March's body, still stuck inside you. His cum still dripping down your thighs. His earthly version that studied you and, sadistically, toyed with your life. For you, nothing would have made more sense within the screaming walls of the Hotel Cortez.

"Oh, darling? I really need some advice." James awoke, as if from a long torpor and he grinned. "What color would you make this pool?"

taglist: @silverzoomies @doll3tt33 @wh0re43van @fear-is-truth @lacucarachapisser @nahoyasboyfriend @marchsfreakshow @coentinim (I took the liberty of tagging you but, if you prefer to avoid it, let me know! This tagging thing is unngfhdidsj ouff)

[sgiandubh]

Recognize errors? Never! This person continues to dig up rubbish and give himself an air of authority.

https://www.tumblr.com/maximumwobblerbanditdonut/748236381973823488/landcons-propose?source=share

Dear Mythomaniac Anon,

This idiot simply cannot and will not make the logical difference between an event regularly organized by a third party and a one time side event to a fan convention, organized by the producer himself.

This is what The Fraud implies: S's price is unrealistic, therefore S is a crook. The argument?

Blink once and you would think this is hosted by the Macallan distillery, on their estate, right?

It is not - notice the tiny difference between the two screencaps with otherwise identical content?

Yup, you'd be correct: the tasting she is quoting is hosted, staffed and managed by a London restaurant, MAP Maison (321 Kingsland Road, by the way), which offers the same kind of experience/activity for a well-known Irish whisky brand, Bushmills. So, she lies on purpose, deceptively leading her clueless readers to believe the tasting she mentions is hosted and produced by the Macallan distillery itself. But, one more time: no expert from the Macallan distillery ever participated to these tastings - they are exclusively managed by the restaurant's staff. Something she conveniently left aside of her screencap.

Because she is not only a mendacious, but also a lazy twat, she just picked the first Google result for a simple general query: 'Macallan whisky pairing experience'

Perfectly unaware or indifferent to the fact the Macallan Distillery organizes its own experiences, at the very Estate - but that was the second result and maybe she was in a hurry?

Prices differ and vary from £ 35 (tasting at the Estate's Bar) to £250 (tasting and dinner at a local renowned brasserie) for the Macallan tastings and that was not really convenient, because we are getting closer to the price asked by S for his own tasting in Paris. He simply equated his direct presentation with similarly priced offers of other producers, such as Macallan. Cheeky? Perhaps. But the mommies paid in droves and he's laughing all the way to the bank.

But why would a self-proclaimed Scottish woman quote a London restaurant experience, instead of the local and authentic one organized by the producer? And what English native speaker would gleefully make enormous, almost absurd grammar mistakes like this one:

If this woman is a Scot, then I am Chaka Zulu, Anon. Nope. Not a chance in hell: I have been monitoring her for a good while now and she makes these mistakes quite often. This woman probably assimilated a couple of things the wrong way, while learning English as a foreign language, and she is simply mechanically reproducing the same mistakes over and over again.

I am not done with her yet. Just so you know, Anon.

[rin-fukuroi]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 [𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairings: Diluc x fem!reader

Warnings: just comfort holiday’s fluff!

▶• ılıılıılıılıılıılı. Freya Ridings - Ultraviolet

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq

art: @eea9a9

«You know you're always welcome at the distillery»

You burrow deeper into your warm voluminous scarf, replaying Diluc's words over and over in your head, like a mantra to calm down, which still cannot calm the excitement. This is the first time a man has invited you to his house for such as… Family activities. You felt awkward even when he just voiced his proposal with the same stoically serious expression on his face, typical for Diluc, so what is going on in your head and heart now when you approach the door of his luxurious mansion is hardly possible to describe in words at all.

Of course, the reason for most of your panic is the feelings that you have been desperately trying to hide for several long years, during which the friendship between you and Diluc seems to have become stronger, but this is absolutely not what you really want. And, as a good friend and a girl who never seems to dare to declare her feelings out loud, you simply had no right to refuse an invitation.

Outside, the snow-dusted distillery is already decorated with bright flashing lights, and a charming Christmas wreath flaunts on the door. This place has always seemed cozy to you, but now the warmth seeping out from the walls of the estate feels even brighter than usual on a slightly frosty pre-holiday day.

You hesitate, hesitantly clenching your fingers into a fist before knocking softly on the heavy door. You hear the soft click of heels, recognizing Adelinda in painfully familiar steps, who opens the doors in front of you, spreading a friendly smile.

— Lady Y/N, — the woman bows, stepping aside and letting you into the manor.

— Come on, Adelinde, we've known each other for years!

— Ha-ha, it's true. I suppose I could even call you a member of the young Master's family.

— Wh-what are you saying? — you mumble sheepishly, unwinding the scarf around your neck before handing it to the maid along with your coat. — Is Diluc in his office?

— No, it seems that Master has already started decorating the Christmas tree, — the woman grins, motioning you to go further into the living room. — I think he's going to need your help anyway.

You turn around, running your gaze around the spacious room, noticing Diluc standing in the corner, dressed in his classic trousers and shirt, thoughtfully peering into a large box standing on the coffee table. His hair is tied up in a high ponytail today, and you can't help but smile a little, remembering how you once mentioned that you like it. Not far from the puzzled red-haired man, on the right side of the fireplace, there was a tall Christmas tree, on which still no decorations were noticed, while you slowly crossed the living room, approaching your friend.

«And this is called "started decorating"?»

— As I see, you really can't do without my help here!

Your voice snaps Diluc out of his thoughts, and the man turns around, meeting your undisguised curiosity when you try to look behind his back.

— You're late, as always, so I decided to start without you.

— How rude! Moreover, apparently, so far your endeavors haven't been crowned with success, — you again glance at the bare Christmas tree, and Diluc sighs heavily, turning away towards the box.

— Of course. I have just started, and the selection of jewelry takes a lot of time.

You roll your eyes, standing up on your toes and looking over Diluc's shoulder. The box you are interested in is filled with a wide variety of toys and tinsel so much that your eyes run away. It seemed that this box had been filled for several decades with various decorations that had been passed down from generation to generation. Red, green, white and gold balls are neatly stacked on one half, while colorful tinsel and garlands are arranged on the other.

— Wow, you really have a lot of toys! — you take a step to the side, standing next to Diluc. — But I still don't understand what you're thinking about. Let's just hang them the way we want!

Diluc presses a relaxed fist to his lips, slightly clearing his throat.

— It was usually Adelinde who did it.

—Oh, — you nod knowingly, before a stunning realization gradually comes to you, and your face takes on a surprised look. — Wait, then why did you decide to do it now?

— There's no particular reason, — the man looks away. — I just found some free time this year.

— Is that so?

There is silence between the two of you for a few seconds before you break it with a thoughtful chuckle, after which your hands reach for the huge box.

— What are you doing? — Diluc asks anxiously, noticing how hard you are trying to tear the box off the table.

— It seemed much lighter in appearance! I thought it would be more convenient if we put the decorations next to the tree, so… — you giggle, making another futile attempt to lift the box, when suddenly it becomes surprisingly light and rises by itself in front of your eyes, making you cry out in surprise.

— You could have just asked me right away, — you feel Diluc's forearm touching your chest as he snatches the box from your hands, and instantly give up your desperate attempts, jumping aside.

And why did he take it into his head to do it now? Your heart is so restless again now, and you can feel the blood inevitably rushing to your face, fortunately, at the moment when Diluc is already turning away, easily transferring the jewelry box to a small bench in front of the fireplace. You always knew he was strong, but now his displays of masculinity make you even more nervous.

— T-thank you … — you move closer to the tree after Diluc, taking a deep breath to at least sort out your chaotic thoughts a little, and put your fists on your sides, raising your head in satisfaction. — Well, great, we can start!

Time flew by unnoticed. The two of you were just chatting about everything and nothing, as usual, but this time it felt like this… In a family way? You've never felt so close to Diluc as you do now. He's a complicated man. You can almost see the heavy weight he has shouldered on his own shoulders, but he steadfastly and worthily withstands his weight day by day, although he looks insanely lonely when you look at him from the outside. As a friend, you should have tried to lighten his burden, but you never made such attempts.

He doesn't need it.

For some reason, you have the strong impression that Diluc is one of those people who don't need words, don't need help. He just needs someone to be there for him, even though he will never admit it out loud. That's why he invited you, that's why now his face is decorated with a modest barely noticeable smile, that's why he doesn't even try to argue when you're running this little event organized just for the two of you. Therefore, his ruby eyes sparkle when he watches you enthusiastically inspect the tree from all sides in search of an empty place where you can hang another ball.

You are the most ordinary girl — that's what you and, perhaps, most of your friends think, but Diluc sees you differently. You have the power that he can't have. You are free, carefree, still retaining the interest and craving for life that Diluc lacks, and which you unknowingly share with him whenever you spend time together.

And he just… so tired.

Day by day, his childish naivety and thirst for adventurism, which still live in your heart, melt away before your eyes, replaced by a sense of banal duty. That's why he wanted to see you today, wants to see you tomorrow and every day of his dreary life after that. After all, you bring colors to his gray days, like those with which you decorate the once boring and nondescript Christmas tree near the fireplace in Diluc's living room, breathing life into it.

— Have you finished yet? — Diluc gets up from his chair, approaching you when he notices you taking a few steps away from the decorated Christmas tree, giving it an appraising look.

— Yes, but… something is missing.

Diluc follows you with his eyes as you hurriedly run to the front door, fumbling in your bag hanging on a hanger.

— I wasn't sure if you didn't have something like that, so I didn't get it out as soon as I came in.

You return to Diluc as cheerfully as you ran away, opening a small box in front of him, in which the top of the Christmas tree in the form of a red star lies neatly.

— Why the red one? Shouldn't the star be yellow?

— Well, there really were a lot of different yellow stars in the store, but as soon as I saw this one, I immediately thought that it reminded me of the color of your hair! — your lips stretch into a radiant smile when you look up at Diluc.

— Really? Did you buy it for such a silly reason?

You were almost pouting and were about to take offense at Diluc's words, when suddenly you saw his face for the first time in all the many years that you spent together, decorated with a genuine sincere smile, followed by a quiet laugh, muffled by his big palm leaning against his lips.

For some reason, this sight made you feel such indescribable lightness and… happiness?

Yes, indeed. If you were ever happy, it was at this moment when Diluc managed, even if only for a miserable moment, to let go of everything that burdens him. And it was you who caused it.

— Well, that's it, stop laughing at me already! — you turn away from Diluc, trying to hide the blush tingling your cheeks, and head for the tree, awkwardly rising on tiptoe in an attempt to reach the top of the tall tree.

You don't even notice how Diluc's quiet laughter subsides behind your back, and his hands are on your waist, catching you off guard even before your feet suddenly lift off the floor.

— Wh-what are you doing?! — you cry out, feeling Diluc's fingers pressing into your ribs in close proximity to your chest, while he just holds you up effortlessly, like you're a light little kitten.

— Didn't you need help?

— Y-yes, but… — you swallow nervously, hoping he doesn't feel your poor heart pounding. — Thanks.

It's so awkward, but so insanely pleasant that you're ready to squeak with delight, barely restraining your gusts of happiness while your trembling hands place a red star on top of the Christmas tree.

— You can let go, — you reluctantly signal to Diluc, actually wishing that he would hold you like this for at least a little longer.

Which he does.

You feel him slowly pulling you closer to his body, so much so that you can feel his breath on your lower back as he gently lowers you to the floor, just holding his hands on your waist for a few moments before letting go. You freeze, trying to record this moment in as small detail as possible in your memory, when you hear Diluc embarrassedly clearing his throat behind your back, forcing you to turn around and see how he looks away.

— Well… it seems that's it now.

— Oh, yes, — you take a step back again, standing next to Diluc and just admiring the result of your joint work. If you weren't involved in the process, but you still saw what this tree looked like before you both decorated it with balloons and garlands, you would be amazed at how much it has transformed, now really imbued with the Christmas spirit. — In my opinion, it turned out well!

Diluc also raises his head, scanning the elegant Christmas tree with ruby eyes, and if you put your hand to his chest now, you could feel his heart skip a beat. One look at it was enough to take him back to his childhood, when he decorated the Christmas tree with his father and brother in the same way. A peaceful, carefree and happy time, the warmth of which settled back into his soul thanks to you.

— Y/N, — you look up at Diluc, but he still doesn't take his eyes off the iridescent multicolored lights burning on the Christmas tree. — Come to us… no, to me for Christmas.

And this time he let you see how the pale skin of his face turned slightly pink when he said those words.

You just freeze, not taking your eyes off the beautiful man, who now looks even more charming when the twinkle of a garland is reflected in his scarlet eyes. Your lips open, ready to make some kind of barb or shower Diluc with awkward questions, but you just smile, twisting your own fingers behind your back before nodding gently.

— I'll definitely come.

[fatehbaz]

[T]he growth of lavender historically [...] [is] drawn into [...] [a] narrative journey as matters of horticulture in the English countryside give way to questions of beauty culture at sales counters in the faraway American Midwest.

---

England's cultural association with lavender is of long standing. A flowering plant native to the Maritime Alps, Lavandula angustifolia was [probably] [...] [brought] to the British Isles by the Romans. [...] By the eighteenth-century, lavender farms were a striking presence in the agrarian landscapes of Surrey in southern England. The village of Mitcham was renowned for fields which grew purple through late spring and early summer. In 1749 physic gardeners Ephraim Potter and William Moore founded one of England's earliest commercial distilleries at nearby Figges Marsh, distributing perfumed oils and manufactured toiletries [...].

South from Mitcham, in a belt of land characterized by the light gravelly soil well-suited to herbal production, lavender farms, market gardens and smallholdings grew to encircle neighbouring Croydon [...] and Sutton. During the Regency period, the essence of Lavandula angustifolia (the taxa commonly referred to as ‘English lavender’) was judged by perfumers as superior to the French variety (Lavende de Provence) and so commanded a higher market price.

Romantic voices sentimentalised a pastoral landscape of dewy-fields and honest toil: ‘In every direction, the low hillsides of the farms are swept with the bloomy pastel tint of reapers in the fields. As the day wears on, the fragrance rises like incense in the air, wandering tribes of paper-white butterflies drift over the fields and in the clear depths of blue-sky, larks discant the joy of life.‘ This golden age in Surrey's horticultural history was recalled in a sales booklet for lavender-scented ‘Old English’, its manufacturer the House of Yardley recalling a landscape hazed with lavender: ‘distilling fine perfumes from English flowers for England's grand dames.’ [...] Status as one of the nineteenth-century's best-loved fragrances is owed to Queen Victoria. As well as being the preferred scent for soap-bars and toilet-water in the Royal household, among the general population lavender was believed to serve well as, variously, a cure-all [...], a moth deterrent in wardrobes and drawers, [...] and a pleasing scent given to freshly laundered bed linen. [...]

---

During the early twentieth century, the rapid expansion of Greater London southwards meant that the reaches of Surrey once synonymous with lavender were consumed by a metroland of roads, suburbs, and factories.

The interwar period saw the emergence of a new English lavender growing region in North Norfolk. In 1932, around the village of Heacham [a] farmer and plantsman [...] sowed six acres of lavender beds as an initial experiment [...]. Queen Mary, consort of King George V and a renowned flower fancier, was sufficiently impressed that a lease of land was arranged from [a] neighbouring [...] Estate, property of the Royal family. Lavender production prospered. By 1936 more than a hundred acres of nursery beds and open fields were planted with a widening range of hybrids and cultivars [...]. During her tour of the flower fields, Queen Mary was accompanied by an influential escort. Mr William Arthur Poucher was a figure rising to prominence in Britain's modernising beauty industry, and recently appointed as chief perfumer to the House of Yardley. [...] [Poucher] established a contract making Norfolk Lavender exclusive supplier of flower extract for use producing Yardley's flagship line of women's toiletries [...]. The firm was issued with a Royal Warrant of Appointment as the supplier of perfume to the household of H.M. Queen Mary; and permission was thus granted to display the patron's royal coat of arms on product packaging. With it, the idea of lavender as a quintessentially English scent was once again revived. [...]

---

[A]vailability at the department store beauty counter signall[ed] suitability according to social position [...] [and was] calibrated against the class-based identifications of British interwar society [...]. During the 1930s, the coupling of Englishness and loveliness was not only domesticated but identified as an exportable asset. [...] Subsidiary companies [...] were established in Sydney, Paris, Toronto, San Francisco, and New York [...]. [A]dvertising art pictured an idealised geography of English virtue and cultural tradition [...]. [P]romotional brochures enabling mail-order purchase across North America promoted London's West End as a global centre of fashion and taste [...]. [Commercial] domestication of 'Home Treatments' was pivotal in these tactile geographies of the body [...], turning [...] treatment away from the uptown salon [...] and extending technical expertise to the individual [...] [who was encouraged to] diagnose their own skin [...]. The codifying of complexion also configured powerful ideas of what was normal (and by inference abnormal) [...], heightening awareness of the social costs that came of 'failing' to treat 'bad' skin [...]. The [flagship lavender-scented] powder's tonal palette began at 'Natural' (a normative term used as an indicator for the fairest skin), then graduated from 'English Peach' [...]. It culminated at 'Gypsy'. None of the labels in this typology is unproblematic. [...] [C]ommodified culture of colour [...] served also to confirm racial categories, and normalise sensuous descriptors (softness, freshness, smoothness) as virtuous forms of whiteness.

---

All text above by: Hayden Lorimer. "'An aid to loveliness': lavender, femininity and the affective economy of English beauty". Journal of Historical Geography Volume 79, January 2023, pages 13-25. DOI at: doi dot org/10.1016/j-jhg.2022.12.002 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/conntractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[acommonloon]

Spent the last couple of months drying out last years beer/booze aftermath so I’m somewhat excited to restart my normal consumption/consumerism.

I’m especially wanting to lay in product that may be affected by tariffs. La Fin Du Monde is a Canadian brewer who makes mostly Belgian style beer. The other two are a Welsh Lager (not seen previously in market) and the Fullers bitter ale is an English staple.

The Elijah Craig barrel proof is an allocated bourbon I’ve not seen on a regular shelf at retail price in five years or more. I think the bourbon industry is headed for hard times. They invested in expanding their distilleries and now the extra bourbon may end up on shelves domestically because of retaliatory tariffs.

Beer imports have only recently begun to pick up again after being crushed by Covid. Too bad there isn’t a vaccine for stupid.

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

Translation:

I went to Scotland for a few days in December 2024 to discover the sets of the series @outlander_starz.

And of course a gin produced by @samheughan made me want to taste it 😋

For Sassenach:

- 1 teaspoon vanilla syrup - 2 teaspoon lemon juice. - 2 shoots of pear juice - 2 bar spoon of Espelette pepper liqueur - 1 shoot and half of gin @sassenachspirits - A few dashes of Angostura bitter

A nice "heat in the mouth"* the kind of recipe that comforts. 😌 * It means a burning sensation in the mouth, to describe a strong alcoholic beverage. ** I converted the Cocktail Measurements 🍸

Slàinte! Cheers!

@cocktailsguy

Outlander has no connection to Sassenach Gin, it did not feature in season 7 of the Outlander series. Additionally, there is nothing in the series related to gin that could be utilised to promote Sam Heughan’s booze with a cocktail 🍹 Sam appropriated the Gaelic word Sassenach* in the series from the moment he became involved in his private alcohol business. He even learned how to utilise significant Outlander highlights to his advantage.

*The term originated in the Highlands and was originally used as a derogatory term in Gaelic-speaking circles to describe the English.

Gin arrived in the New World with European settlers in the mid-18th century, but It's unlikely that it was commonly consumed during the American Revolution period of season 7️⃣ of Outlander.

Without the Outlander series, an independent cocktail creator would not know Sam or his booze and relate Outlander's image on social media promoting his drink. The real question is: What would Sam be without Starz?

Another point that needs to be corrected which is mentioned by the independent cocktail creator. Sassenach Scottish Gin is NOT produced by Sam Heughan. Sassenach Wild Scottish Gin is produced by Crafty Distillery in Newton Stewart, Scotland, a company that makes Heughan’s Sassenach Gin; Graham Taylor is the founder of Crafty Distillery in Scotland, and Craig Rankin is the Master Distiller. Together, they create spirits from scratch at the distillery. Basically, Crafty Distillery is the one who creates the spirit itself and the entire production cycle, not just the packaging stage. So little research was done during his visit to Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Some people misinterpret situations, and Sam is not capable of correcting them, for his benefit. He wants to give the impression that he has done everything himself, which is not true. Important Scottish professionals play a crucial role in the production of whisky and gin that Sam often boasts about, yet he consistently forgets to mention and acknowledge them. These people are responsible for creating the liquid inside the bottles that Sam showcases.

Sam promotes his brand and uses Outlander series to his advantage this is clear. Now he will put this Sassenach cocktail in his book Cocktails Diaries 🍸 📖 🙄

Posted 6th March 2025

[handeaux]

Though Never Popular As Horse Racing Or Boxing, Cincinnati Sports Enjoyed Rat Baiting

On a hot August day in 1899, a reporter for the old Cincinnati Commercial newspaper climbed the wobbly stairs to the second floor of a dowdy commercial building on Main Street. He squeezed his portly frame through a door blocked from fully opening by dozens of close-packed display cases housing the stuffed remains of monkeys, owls, bats and other taxidermied wonders to locate the proprietor, a proper English gentleman named William “Billy” Gale.

The reporter was on a quest to examine Mr. Gale’s prize possession, the mounted carcass of a miniature terrier named – according to a silver plaque attached to its wooden plinth – “Tiny.” This little dog, weighing just five pounds when alive, was the world champion of the long-forgotten sport of rat baiting.

At the Blue Anchor pub on Bunhill Row in London, England, on 28 March 1848, Tiny killed 200 rats in 54 minutes and 50 seconds. This mass execution was accomplished in one of many rat pits scattered around London at the time. Tiny’s feat earned a handsome payday for his owner, Jim Shaw, who also owned the pub and the pit. On Tiny’s demise, Shaw presented the dog’s earthly remains to Gale, who preserved the little canine in the act of crunching a fat rodent’s spine. Gale told the Commercial reporter:

“There are three or four people in Cincinnati who saw the dog in matches in England, and they wonder at it being in America. I have had good offers for him from English fanciers, but have grown too much attached to Tiny even to part with him. Rat killing is now so much a thing of the past that the younger generation is ignorant that it ever existed. The present generation simply sees in it simply a form of cruelty, but those who enjoyed its excitement also recognized its practical side.”

In other words, apparently, since we are overrun with rats anyway, we might as well make some money while exterminating the little vermin. For a good part of the 1800s, matches pitting dogs against rats were fairly common in Cincinnati. The general rule of thumb was to pit a dog against a number of rats based on the dog’s weight, so a five-pound dog versus five rats and ten rats against a ten-pound dog. Small dogs like Tiny were preferred because they were quicker and more agile than larger dogs. The Enquirer [10 July 1892] reported a typical bout in one of the city’s many saloons:

“Mike Montague, of Fifth and Sycamore streets, obtained thirty-nine live rats, and last night placed them in a ‘piano-box’ pit in his cellar, with ‘Daisy,’ a little black-and-tan, and ‘Skye,’ a terrier. A number of Mr. Montague’s customers enjoyed the sport. ‘Daisy’ at first killed two rodents, either of which was as large as herself. She then tackled fourteen at one time, and was fifteen and one half minutes getting away with them. ‘Skye’ dispatched the remaining twenty-three in a leisurely manner, thirty-three minutes elapsing before they were all dead.”

Despite Mr. Gale’s belief that rat-killing was extinct as a sport, the Enquirer carried the report of a most unusual match in its edition of 17 March 1901. The contestants were two local sportsmen, each of whom owned a champion ratter, one named Daisy Fox, the other Clifton Beauty. Rather than dumping their pups into a pit full of rodents at some saloon, the two gents organized a processional match of sorts, starting out at the stockyards in Cumminsville, forging on to a tannery in the East End and culminating in a slaughter at a distillery on Gest Street in the West End. The assault was intense:

“The dogs were simply wild with excitement, and battled on, heedless of the big red fellows that clung to their necks and shoulders. Daisy Fox would toss one into the air, reach around and kill another that clung to her flank, while her eyes seemed fairly to blaze with anger that she could not kill them all at one bite. Clifton Beauty, her white sides dripping with blood from the onslaughts of the now thoroughly aroused rodents, stood her ground without a whimper, and bit and tossed with the rapidity of lightning.”

At the conclusion of the bloody frenzy, everyone agreed that the two dogs had killed 286 rats between them, but no one could agree if one dog had killed more than the other. The match was declared a draw. The two combatants were given carbolic acid baths and were reported no worse for wear the next day.

Despite the popularity and prevalence of rat baiting, the sport was illegal in Cincinnati – more because of the gambling involved than because of the cruelty. As early as 1861, William Speers, who ran a “bowling saloon” on Fifth Street, was fined $20 in Police Court for allowing dog fights, cock fights and rat baiting at his establishment. Consequently, when a group of businessmen organized a rat pit in the Bottoms, they framed it as a secret society, with passwords and discreet announcements of upcoming matches. According to the Cincinnati Times-Star [25 August 1887], the underground cabal was known as the Independent Order of High Kickers Against Rats. Unlike most other Cincinnati basement rat pits, this one was constructed on the third floor of one of the many warehouses near the river. The Times-Star elected not to name any of the members, but their description suggests this was not the usual low-rent Levee crowd:

“About the pit was a circle of heads of big families and equally big business houses. There were white silk ties, fashionable Derbys and modish hats in straw with aesthetic bands. Nearly everybody had a pair of eye glasses, and polished shirt fronts were in the ascendancy. The facial expressions were of the utmost delight and almost feverish expectancy.”

The businessmen told the reporter that they had organized the pit as a way to reduce the rat population along the riverfront. Rat traps in those days captured the pests alive and the captives were usually let loose in the streets where they would be killed by dogs, but too many escaped. The pit provided entertainment as well as 100 percent lethality.

So entertaining was rat baiting that local sportsmen sometimes found themselves fleeced by unethical promoters pulling the old bait and switch. For example, Lewis Kohus, a saloonist in Addyston, announced through the papers that his prized rat dog, Tramp, would kill twenty rats in twenty minutes or forfeit a $50 purse. In addition, Kohus promised a cock fight and a boxing match between two local pugilists. And, to top it all, he arranged for a late train to carry attendees back to the Queen City.

Unknown to the gamblers from Cincinnati, Aurora and Lawrenceburg who flooded Addyston, Kohus decided – after issuing his challenge – to determine whether his dog really could achieve the promised task. Tramp did his best in a trial run, but he was obviously not quick enough to dispatch twenty rats in twenty minutes. Kohus let his pooch kill all the rats so, when the time for his exhibition arrived, there were no rats to be had. All bets were off. The cockfight was also cancelled, replaced by a lackadaisical wrestling bout that left the crowd yawning and the prizefight was equally boring. According to the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette [24 April 1895]:

“The spectators were utterly disgusted with the whole affair, and denounced the entire business as the rankest fake of the season. The sports from the city were compelled to stay all night, as there was no arrangement made for a special train, as promised.”

[graysedai]

Elayne having that QEII, precise English aristocratic accent was such a perfect choice! And her bearing! Indicating where to put the cushions with a glance, a genuine crinkle of the eyes, the utterly self-possessed confidence of the gracious thank-you, taking the service as her due.

And then immediately pivoting upon realizing this is her Novice wall-mate! The Cadsuane to her Elena, the other half of her future legend. Coincidence, yes, but Elayne and her homemade distillery under her bed can convince this tax dodger Tower-assigned bestie to be as legendary as Elayne has every reason to believe Elayne herself will be!

[evita-shelby]

Purpose

for @duckprintspress May Trope Mayhem: Mentor and Mentee

Frida 'Florence' Solomons/Jael Bauer Peralta(oc) x Patricio Riley Aramburu (oc) ft Eva Smith

cw: trauma, mental illness, alcoholism, ptsd, consequences of living in harsh conditions, period typical attitudes

fc for Florence/Jael is Marin Hinkle

The Eva who returned is not the Eva who left.

She is quiet when she used to be loud, void of feeling and emotion as if she has cried herself dry, and sleeps fitfully with a knife in her hand hidden under her pillow because she won’t sleep at all of a knife isn’t within reach of her.

But the things she learned at the front were rough but impressive. In a fit of momentary madness it had taken two men to subdue her after the chambermaid made the mistake of waking her up from her nightmare. She could break into anything with even just a hair pin when she only could with the lock picking tools her father gave her.

“She has potential, Patricio.” Jael Peralta tells her lover when they meet outside of Mexico for their intel briefings and the continuation of their affair away from his wife’s watchful eyes.

The woman had arrived as Jael Bauer, the very elegant very fashionable secretary to Patricio Riley and eventually left his employ when his wife, Alejandra, was close to discovering the affair and what exactly Jael did for the company.

The beautiful English Jew was a consummate killer, efficient tracker and could get into and out of things in ways that Houdini would envy.

“She’s a mad girl in need of peace, the revolution already fucked up a perfectly normal girl. Eva should be worrying about parties and boys, not whether she will have to fight her way into tomorrow.” He has refused each suggestion to allow her to be trained by her. Like she did with Santiago as a favor to the man who got her this identity.

But Eva is different, Eva is Isabel’s only living memory, Eva looks like her mother and has inherited her magic meaning she holds more value to the family than even Pato’s own son now that Maria Dominga Aramburu de Riley is dying.

“Eva won’t get that peace until she has something to give her purpose, Santiago told me how he found her. I care for the girl, I don’t wish her to spend her life tied to her bed because she’s a danger to herself.” The woman who used to be the wayward Frida Solomons, who found herself in a prison cell with the choice of death or a life as an Agent of the Crown.

You have the makings of a great one, my dear, the woman had said before setting out to make a lady out of a street rat and a killer out of a petty thief.

Eva was born a lady, born as restless as her Romani father and by the time Jael signed her name as Jael Peralta ---after finding a Jewish man who was willing to turn the other way while she continued her services to the Rileys and whoever could afford her rates--- showing promise of being the sort of girl Jael could mold like her late mentor had done.

“I am going to regret this and it will be me who answers for it to my sister.” Patricio sighed and gave in knowing it was better to try than keep his favorite niece in a sorry state of existence.

“You will tell her it is me who she should thank for getting her daughter out of that hole.” Jael extends her gloved hand to seal the deal and moves on to the next item on their agenda, finding ways to return Aramburu, Riley and Smith to its former Glory via the American and English underworld.

Patricio had contacts with South Boston gangster, Jack Nelson, the former General Manager of the Bethlehem Steel Shipyards who wanted more power than his former guardian and late benefactor had amassed. Jael had a younger half-brother who ran less than legal distilleries in Camden Town along with the gang she helped found, the Yiddishers.

Jack Nelson had expressed an interest in making an alliance in blood with Patricio, Eva’s paternal uncle had wanted to keep the Midlands on their side and suggested the second eldest of Polly Gray’s nephews and Jael had reminded him it could be very useful for them to take advantage of Leopoldo Carranza’s unrequited love for his niece. A husband ---the more powerful the better--- was a sure way to protect her and keep the family legacy alive.

And for that, Eva needed to appear sane enough to marry, what better way than harnessing her abilities into being an independent agent like Jael and Santiago? Give her something to channel all that rage into, give her the tools she needs to make her own path if staying in high society isn’t what she wants, give her a new purpose beyond being a burden.

Jael Peralta returns to Mexico City having no reason to raise suspicions from the current government and is not at all surprised to discover Eva uncorking a bottle of rum with her teeth after having broken into the cellar while the rest of the house slept soundly.

The assassin takes the bottle, chiding her like she were an errant child, “It’s very rude of you to break into your host’s cellar. What would your mother think?”

“Can’t disappoint the dead, or a woman who couldn’t bother herself with raising me.” The witch tries to fight for the rum, having become dependent on alcohol to drown the screams in her head, but three years of living at the war front, 40 days lost in the desert and hampered by a hangover that’s lasted a week, she fails to take the bottle and is with left no choice but to obey.

“Delia would be so disappointed in what’s become of you, kid.” Jael names the nanny that raised Eva and her siblings instead and gets the angry girl looks at her with hatred, the same way Frida looked at her mentor, Rebecca, when she told her Frida was dead and buried.

“Bathe and dress for breakfast, Evita, you belong to me now.”

[seanblues]

Mistwalker Distillery is moving through the mist to another world. We are planning a new sci-fi story, members will appear as new oc in the story.

Thanks for company over 12 years, hope see you again soon.

Guild wars 2 oc will main with Sanemi and Nataphay.

よろしくお願いします，還請多多指教… damn I don't know how to say these in english, thanks for suport? love you guys!

[rin-fukuroi]

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 [𝐊𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐡 𝐱 𝐊𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐚]

Please do not translate or publish my works without my permission.

The originals of my works can be read here

Fandom: Genshin Impact Pairings: Kaveh x Fem!reader x Kaeya Warnings: polyamory and just fluff<3

Note: English is not my native language, so I apologize if there are errors in the text qq 

I love this request as much as I love these men, thank you very much. It seems to me that although they are both very different, they have enough in common to get along together, which is why they seem so insanely cute to me together. I hope you enjoy it (´꒳`)♡

Orangestar - Sunflower (feat. 夏背.)

— …And then he just took and abandoned this project, imagine! Archons, I'm so angry that today you just have to give me a couple more glasses of wine, — Kaveh fatefully settled his head on his hands folded on the table, continuing to mutter to himself. His cheeks were already sprinkled with a slight blush from the glasses of alcohol he had drunk before.

— Ho-oh, don't you say that every day? — Kaeya sips wine from his glass, leaning back on the bench in the tavern, pulling her trademark smile on his face.

— I think you've had enough, Kaveh, — you giggle, picking at your padisar pudding with a fork.

And this happens almost every time. Every time Kaveh, dissatisfied with his work, quietly whines in the corner from his side of the table, giving Kaeya only more food for the next witty jokes, while you just enjoy, which has become almost a tradition, another joint trip to the tavern with your lovers. Often they just exchanged various barbs, gently joking with each other (although, let's be honest, often all the jokes that accompanied your feasts came from Kaeya, mocking another failure of Kaveh), but you never felt superfluous. Perhaps you were always the person Kaveh needed when you comforted him, protecting him from Kaeya's playful attacks.

But none of us have ever held grudges.

Kaveh knew perfectly well that you both care about him, just in your own way. Kaeya never interrupted Kaveh, while he could rant for hours about how hard it was for him to interact with customers, what efforts he made not to betray his own aesthetics for the sake of someone's whim, carefully listening to every word the architect said.

— You just don't understand! — Kaveh suddenly emerges from a makeshift shelter in his own hands, turning a pleading look at you. — Y/N, at least you support me! I don't have any work for tomorrow anyway. Because of this idiot, even all the efforts spent on drawings and sketches were in vain. I just want to relax!

— Why don't you just change your profession? I think such an experienced taster would not be superfluous to Diluc at the distillery.

You gently nudge Kaeya in the side, pouting your lips.

— Who would say, you yourself drink with Kaveh every day. You could just set him an example by drinking tea with me.

— Well, well, this time we all ordered desserts, as you wanted. I admit, they don't go too well with wine, but they'll pass for a snack, — Kaeya playfully wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to kiss the top of your head.

— Why do I feel like a child sometimes with you? Lambad! — Kaveh raises his hand, attracting the attention of the tavern owner. — More wine!

You roll your eyes, sighing softly. Indeed, Kaveh sometimes behaves in such a way that you have to feel like a parent with him, who is obliged to surround his child with comfort and care, but, in fact, you even like such moments. Unlike Kaeya, who hides his feelings, at least you could tell exactly when Kaveh is upset, having the opportunity to cheer him up the way you know how.

—You're both insufferable, — you return to your dessert, scooping up a spoonful before turning your attention to the untouched sweetness on Kaveh's plate. — Kaveh.

The man's ruby eyes suddenly turned to your figure as you thoughtfully peered at his plate.

— Can I try it? Your nuts look very appetizing, it's strange that you haven't even touched them, — you're pouting again, shaking your head disapprovingly.

—Oh… sorry. Of course, here, — Kaveh's thin, elegant fingers cling to one of the pieces of Sumeru sweetness, bringing candied nuts to your lips. You move closer, biting off a corner. A cloying but pleasant sweetness touches your tongue, nuts gently crunch on your teeth as you slowly chew the frozen syrup, then smiling contentedly.

— Mmm! It's very tasty! Kaeya, do you want to try it too?

A blue-haired man, savoring another sip of wine, seems to break out of his own thoughts when he meets your eyes with a childishly pleased look fixed on him. You are like a breath of fresh air in their world with Kaveh, saturated with exhausting worries. Whenever they are burdened with another unbearable burden, whenever they are tormented by doubts or frustrated by failures, you are always there. So relaxed, light, like a breath of the Mondstadt breeze. The clouds of anxiety that sometimes hang over both men seem to be dispelled by the mere sight of how this perky smile stretches on your face, always too contagious not to smile back at you.

Therefore, now the corners of Kaeya's lips also lift in a slight smile when he quietly grins to himself, leaning closer while you wrap your small palm around Kaveh's wrist, bringing his hand with sweetness to Kaeya's mouth.

— Hey, it's not fair, I only treated Y/N!

— You should be more vigilant next time, otherwise someday I'll steal Y/N from you right out from under your nose, and you won't even notice, — Keya teases the poor architect, now squinting his scarlet eyes and puffing up his cheeks.

— How dare you! — for the next few minutes, Kaveh spewed out a ton of discontent, which always amuses Kaeya, who is quietly grinning from his seat at the table.

And everything is in its place.

You are sitting quietly sipping wine from your glass, running your gaze from a disgruntled, pouting, like an anemo slime, Kaveh, to Kaeya, who is holding his drink in his hand, continuing to bring the blonde to the boiling point. But you know that they are dear to each other as much as you are dear to them.

It was so amazing to watch how these two got closer and closer every day, although from the outside it might seem that you were caught in the middle of two fires that never stop arguing with each other. You knew that Kaeya is always ready to support Kaveh with the support that you are not capable of, and you knew that Kaveh never takes Kaeya's caustic words seriously, although every time he boils with half a turn.

Let it all look like a stupid quarrel, it seems that Kaveh no longer looks as depressed as at the moment when the three of you gathered at the same table.

— Y/N.

You are floating somewhere in the clouds, watching with a smile two men who somehow magically captured your heart, when suddenly your chaotic thoughts are dispersed by a soft male voice, accompanied by a look of ruby eyes and a warm touch of long fingers to your hand holding a spoon stuck in the pudding.

— Hm? — it's like you're waking up from a dream, slightly relaxed after drinking alcohol.

— Can I… Try your pudding too?

Your eyebrows lift in surprise for a second before you turn your attention to Kaveh's palm covering yours.

— Oh, of course! — you are scooping up some padisar pudding, bringing the spoon to Kaveh's lips with his fingers still wrapped around your palm, when the purple jelly suddenly disappears into the mouth of Kaeya, who has intercepted the dessert halfway to Kaveh.

— Mm, next time order me this dessert, Y/N, it's very tasty, — Kaeya closes his eyes, savoring the sweet taste of soft pudding on his tongue.

— Hey! Then share yours too! — Kaveh reaches across the table, dipping a spoon into the almost untouched cream of the Sumeru rose in front of Kaeya.

—Ha-ha! Maybe I should make you some Mondstadt pancakes when we get home?

— If you think that this will somehow make up for your guilt today, then you are mistaken, — Kaveh grumbles, licking his spoon. — But I think Y/N would like to try…

— Well, well, I already realized that you are interested, you don't have to always hide behind Y/N.

And, it seemed, the anxiety tormenting Kaveh completely disappeared at the moment when the air above your table was filled with the sound of two men talking and your quiet giggling while you stretched out your hand to taste Kaeya's dessert too.

Sweet. And this sweetness, which replaced the tart bitterness from worries about Kaveh, spread a pleasant warmth in your chest. You would like everything to remain just like this, and never change.

[namenotyourown]

(nikolaj coster-waldau, 45, he/his) Goodness, PETER DRAKE, THE PORT OWNER  has arrived in London. HE is FORTY FIVE, of DUTCH ANCESTRY. Though they are NEW to the season, we can only describe them as ADAPTABLE and JEALOUS, dear reader. Accompanied by NO ONE, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their DECEPTIVE WAYS. (blake, 30, he/him, bst)

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STATUS: ONLINE / OFFLINE / LURKING DRAFTS: 0, QUEUE: 4

. PETER PIET VEENBOER DRAKE.

Real Name: Piet Veenboer Fake Name: Peter Drake Age: Forty and Five Nationality: Dutch but pretends to be English Sexuality: Fluid, prefers men.

.APPEARANCE AND PERSONALITY.

Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Sandy brown with grey at the side Height: 6'2" Scars: Various over body. Tattoos:  Faded crossed anchors on the webbing between thumb and finger, faded rope around wrist, nautical star on chest, anchor on stomach and small swallow on shoulder blade. Positive traits: Witty, resourceful, resilient, dashing, brave, lively and adaptable. Negative traits: Deceptive, jealous, greedy, secretive, cunning, cruel and ambitious.

.FAMILY HISTORY.

The sea is embedded in Piet’s history from before he was born. A far back as the Veenboer family has existed, they’ve had ties with ships and a long-standing reputation. Son of an admiral, he was born on the sea and has always found himself on it more than not. His family has a history of fighting at war under contract of the Spanish Royal family.

.EARLY LIFE.

Born in Delfshaven, Amsterdam as the third son and fourth child to an admiral. Entire life is spent around boats because Delfshaven main sources of income were fishing, shipbuilding and distillery of jenever. The Veenboer’s own part of a fleet used for privateering and occasionally working with buccaneers for profit.

Age 12-15: first job as a fisherman before he moves on to work on his fathers ship at 17 as a privateer.

Age 15-35: the senior Veenboer takes a job as a privateer for the royal family, Piet joins and finds his love of fighting mixes perfectly with his job.

Age 35: Abandons the war for a life of piracy.

Age 35-41: Pirating around the world. They stash away countless treasures from their plunders. Crime, murder and theft happened throughout the years.

.CURRENT LIFE.

Age 41: Returning from the Bahamas, Piet’s ship is lost in a rough storm that claims all but three souls. They are rescued by a privateering ship and quickly come up with a story that they were a merchant ship returning from a contract. There he meets Tobias Thorpe and quickly deduces that the boy is of noble blood. There’s extra effort to be his closest friend because of this.

Age 43: The relationship between Piet and Tobias surpasses friendship. There is a mutual attraction building for nearly a year. Piet makes the first move and uses it to influence Tobias to be more pirate than privateer. The other two men from the shipwreck are still with them and they form a close bond but never reveal their suspicions on Tobias.

1813 / Age 45: Piet decides to leave the pirate and privateer behind. Instead of chaos of the ocean, he wants a place to put down roots and to settle since he is getting older and his reputation is catching up to him. Papers are forged and he becomes Peter Drake, a rich merchant after selling the majority of his wares and comes to London to find a high value place to spend the rest of his life. He becomes owner of the ports and docks from his wealth but knows in order to keep to his lifestyle and the law away from him, he needs to secure ties with the noble families. The other two pirates he was saved with chose separate cities but he keeps in contact with them.

Reason for being in London: Owner of the docks/ports, Piet/Peter is very wealthy with more money than he can spend. Years of a pirate life and breaking laws across every country he was in left him a target of the law. Believing London to be a safe place to hide he takes up the mantle of master mariner and manager of the docks/ports. He believes finding a wife will give protection and having a child with a high society bride will be the way to keep safe and live out his days rich and in peace.

Other info: Piet/Peter is in regular contact with the remaining two pirates. The three men chose different places to live and hide from the law. Piet is London, another is France and the third Spain. They are close enough to keep in contact and seek each other out if they need to. Managing the docks and ports gives him the ability to conduct his business of all kinds and provides and easy escape if he needs it…

[boyslit-moving]

not sure if i shared this bit but i keep writing Bluocha parts for the prohibition au that don't really have much to do with the main plot because they're my special little princesses and i have a huge section of my brain cordoned off for the bluocha brainrot lol

» in this au, 'Blade' is an English code name he uses for illicit activities and working with Wildfire, and Ren is his chosen name. He left his birth name (Yingxing) behind him when he fled home and left for America with Luocha 👍 Luocha has also technically abandoned his birth and family names, and Ren was the one who gave him the nickname "Luocha" to refer to the way he could twist himself into whatever he needed to be to convince, cajole or threaten their targets. From this he derived a pseudonym with which to do business in America as an apothecarist: Louis Chandler 🤭

anyway that's all fluff, here's the meat <3

-

Clearing Things Up (Luocha, Ren)

Ren sighed, letting go of some of the annoyance balled in his chest. "This was a waste of our time," he growled. He warmed his hands around his teacup, hoping the warmth would soothe some raw nerve of irritation.

Neither of them liked the self-styled but now deposed "Bourbon King" of Tennessee, but business was business and they had to get imports up to Penacony from somewhere. Bathtub hooch didn't bring in the big profits and distilleries with vaults of years-aged amber gold sitting useless on their shelves itched to sell.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Luocha said tiredly, sitting at their low table across from him. "I'd had no idea he'd be bringing anyone along, much less his… lovely, daughter." There were wrinkles of irritation in his own usually flawless countenance, and Ren noted with some relief that it wasn't just his own regular annoyance with visitors. The two visitors together had been a social nightmare.

They'd made it out alive without either tripping into a marriage arrangement or breaking their trade agreements, but it was a close thing. Luocha rubbed some tension out of his wrist absent-mindedly.

"I didn't come this far out from under my father's thumb just to cave to some drunken troll of a peddler," he murmured.

Ren choked on a gulp of tea, coughed, and began to laugh. Luocha smiled at him fondly. Ren held his gaze and then lowered his own, staring through the table. "There's only one person I'd consider marrying."

Luocha nodded, sobering. His long-ago betrothed, Dan Feng. They should, by now, have been married for some time, had Dan Feng not perished in battle before the wedding. The two living men both carried ghosts, and Luocha could hardly begrudge Ren a torch carried for someone who was no threat to him.

Ren reached across the table, taking Luocha's chilly hands in his own, rubbing some warmth into his palms gently. "What are you thinking of?" Ren murmured.

"I'm grateful to have met you… but if your Dan Feng had lived, I would never have gotten the chance. I suppose I feel guilty for thinking I prefer having met you."

Ren gave a little scoff under his breath. "Things can't be changed by wishing. If they could, I'd be a warlord's wife by now." He held Luocha's hands tighter, and looked at him pointedly. "I like things as they are now."

Luocha smiled again, but faintly. They'd had this conversation several times since Ren had told him of his past.

Ren peered at him carefully, then sighed. "You still don't understand. I wasn't speaking of Dan Feng. I want to marry you, you ridiculous man."

"Oh." Heat gathered in Luocha's cheeks, and his smile widened. "I'd…" He cleared his throat. "I'd like that very much."

"Good." Ren's smile was small, but there was a sparkle in his eye that belied some giddiness. "I will find an auspicious date to make the proposal properly, then."

"I look forward to it." Luocha couldn't pull the beaming grin from his face. Ren wasn't as far out of his reach as he'd feared, after all. Maybe he could have something he wanted, at long last.