#ic: monsieur de paris

[pareidoliaonthemove]

A New Policy

Part Two: VIP (Very Important imPosition)

(And since Tumblr is being a pain and I can't find Part One here, you can find it here on AO3).

Apolline Morel looked up as the door gave its discreet chime.

And swore.

She had been the Invoicing and Reception Operative at Tracy Industries’ prestigious Custom Transport Paris office for the last seven years, and had seen all sorts of eccentric – and rich – persons come through the door, and by far Francois Lemaire was the worst of the worst.

She and her colleagues had often dreamed and schemed about refusing the obnoxious idiot service, and they had initially been overjoyed at the thought that they had official permission from the highest authority – Scott Tracy, CEO and homme de rêve – to do so. Until they realised that they would have to tell Lemaire that they would not sell whatever it was he wanted.

To his face.

Apolloine, as had all her colleagues, had consoled herself that the chances of having to actually do so were remote. After all, the Blacklisted persons had all been notified that they would no longer be served by Tracy Industries businesses, non?

Non; or at least, Lemaire hadn’t got the message. Apolline’s heart sank as the man burst through the secondary doors, a damned hovercamera flitting around him, and his wife – Madeline – trailing behind him, with the air of a woman who knew she was about to witness a train wreck and was helpless (and disinclined) to stop it.

“And here we are, at our first stop towards adventure! The luxurious offices of Custom Transport Paree” – Apolline rolled her eyes as his English-language monologue made a point of over-emphasising the proper (that is, French) pronunciation of the city – “where the best designers and technicians will spare no effort – and I will spare no expense – to ensure that I, Francois Lemaire, will be in comfort as I forge yet another world first! The first person to drive up Mount Everest!”

Apolline remembered his previous ‘expedition’ to Everest. It had taken three sherpas to carry the man’s cheeses to the top of the mountain. The outcry from the amount of rubbish that had been left on the top of the mountain – not just holy, but considered an actual goddess – had been the final straw that saw the Nepalese severely restricting access to the mountain. Never mind the idiocy on the descent that saw the man trapping himself and three sherpas in an ice cave. With a yak.

Lemaire’s monologue ended with a flourish as he presented himself to the desk. The holocamera drifted out for dramatic wide angle. “I am Francois Lemaire. Adventurer. Explorer!”

A pointed cough from behind him. “Oh, and this my biographer, Madeline Lemaire.” A vague handwave behind him.

“Your wife.” It was muttered, and not meant for Apolline to hear. Apolline met the woman’s eyes, and was surprised when she smirked. “Give it to him good” was mouthed silently.

Apolline didn’t have a chance to acknowledge Madeline, Lemaire had resumed speaking. “And I have come here today, to Custom Transport Paree to order the construction of a car that will enable me to be the first person to drive up Mount Everest!”

He struck a pose, clearly expecting some kind of accolade or ovation.

Apolline smiled at him, tightly. “Does Monsieur have an appointment?”

He stared at her, bewildered. “I am Francois Lemaire,” he repeated. “Explorer? Adventurer? World Famous? First person to visit Halley’s Comet? I brought the Solar Wind off you people!”

Apolline typed into the computer, as she tried to figure out how to handle this. “Francois … Lemaire …”

The computer beeped before Lemaire could list more ‘accomplishments’.

Apolline looked at the display. Apparently Lemaire had also brought a bathyscape, Artic snowcrawler, and submersible from them as well.

Across the client file display in big, violent red letters was the words ‘Account Closed. Blacklisted’. Apolline’s eyes widened. Management wasn’t taking any chances here, were they?

She took a deep breath, and went for broke. “I am sorry, Mr Lemaire, it appears you do not have an appointment, and that you no longer qualify for a client file.”

Apolline had once been visiting friends in Sicily when Mount Etna had undergone it’s biggest eruption in recorded history. The effects of the volcano had nothing on Lemaire’s reaction.

“I AM FRANCOIS LEMAIRE!!!” he screamed. “I AM WORLD FAMOUS!!! I AM RICH!!!! YOU CANNOT REFUSE TO BUILD MY MOUNTAIN CLIMBING CAR!!! I WANT IT!!! AND YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE IT TO ME!!!”

Apolline got to work on the computer as the man continued his tantrum. DM channels; where was … Ah, here. Blacklist: Situation. She started typing rapidly.

Name: Apolline Morel

Section: Invoicing and Reception, Custom Transport Paris

Details: Francois Lemaire arrived office, no appointment, demand construction of ‘mountaineering car’ to be ‘first person to drive up Mt Everest’. Became hysterical on being told no longer qualifies for client file. Request assistance.

She hit send and eyed the time display discreetly inlaid into the desk’s surface. Response within ten minutes, the memo and training packages had said. Well, she’d be testing that promise out today.

She didn’t think she could stand more than ten minutes of this.

They were seven and a half minutes in and Apolline hadn’t seen evidence of Lemaire drawing in a breath as his high-volume tirade continued non-stop. Behind him, Madeline was disinterestedly examining her nails as the holocamera zoomed around the room erratically, closing in and out from Lemaire and careening around in circles, apparently controlled by Lemaire’s hand gestures, his wild gesticulation had sent it haywire.

She was just about to try again to speak when in the ceiling a previously unknown holoprojector flared into life.

Lemaire was finally silenced as everyone in the room stared in shock as a hologram – a very high quality, almost solid appearing hologram – of Scott Tracy appeared standing behind the desk, next to Apolline, as large as life, and almost as physically real.

Mr Tracy turned to Apolline. “Ms Morel,” he said, smiling slightly at her. “I am sorry that you have had to deal with this. Please, take an extended lunch break – with full pay.”

Apolline quickly swiped her employee card at the terminal, logging her out of the system and securing the terminal, and she stood, fighting the urge to curtsy to her employer.

“I am sorry to have bothered you, Mr Tracy. Thank you for your assistance. If you need me, I shall be in the employee lounge, sir.”

Scott smiled, and nodded. “Thank you, Ms Morel. Please take your time.”

He turned back to Lemaire as Apolline backed away, awed to be in the presence of the legendary Scott Tracy, even if said presence was a holographic one.

In the background, Madeline grinned at her, and gave her a discreet ‘thumbs up’ – Apolline smiled back at the woman, and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her.

Holographic Scott Tracy had turned his attention to Lemaire as Apolline ordered the elevator to take her to the second floor. “Now, Mr Lemaire, I believe there are some matters we need to clear up…” was the last thing she heard as the elevator doors closed.

It seemed like every member of Custom Transport Paris’s staff was crammed into the employee lounge.

Apolline barely had time to register this fact when Andre, her manager, seized her by the arm. “Apolline, are you all right? It must have been awful, dealing with that terrible man!”

“I’m fine. But what’s everyone doing here?”

“Word got around that Lemaire was here. We all wanted to see what would happen when you refused him service.”

Apolline snorted. “Thanks. Nobody thought to help me?”

“I think you had plenty of help, without us.” Andre gestured at the security hologram of the lobby and reception desk on display in the centre of the room.

Apolline stared. A holographic Lemaire was scowling at the equally unimpressed holographic (double-holographic?) Scott Tracy. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“After you left Mr Tracy ‘reminded’ Lemaire that he had been blacklisted, and no Tracy Industries companies would serve him.” Andre started.

“And Lemaire kicked off about how that it was illegal,” snickered Juan, one of the designers.

Andre glared at him. “Mr Tracy’s just finished going through the legal details of why and how that is allowed,” he continued. “Mr Tracy either has a very thorough knowledge of business and customer service law, or he has been very well briefed, very quickly.”

“Shhhh!” someone hushed from near the hologram. “It’s starting to get good!”

Everyone pushed closer to the hologram, those in front sitting or kneeling down to allow a better view for those in back.

The tiny Lemaire was pouting, “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, nobody died! Anyway, if the car that your company provides fails, you run International Rescue. You can stop people dying because your company provides inferior products.”

There were outraged gasps around the room. Most of the designers were casting longing looks at the door with clenched fists, but were being held in place by their friends from other departments.

Lemaire kept going. “Is that why you started International Rescue? So you can play the hero when your substandard products fail and put people in danger?” He was attempting to poke the hologram in the chest with his fingers. “You put me in danger! I could have got back from Halley’s Comet if your company had given me a safe spaceship.”

Scott Tracy’s eyes blazed. “MISTER Lemaire. I must warn you that, as per the signage, for security purposes the premises integrate security cameras, and that what you are saying is slander.” A hand appeared from behind Mr Tracy, disappearing into a red and black checked sleeve, and lightly touched his shoulder. Muttered words and Mr Tracy made a visible effort to calm himself, before speaking again and the hand disappeared.

“Mr Lemaire, your stated purpose for commissioning a quote ‘mountain climbing car’ is to ‘drive up’ Mount Sagarmatha–”

“Um, No! I’m going to drive up Mount Everest! I said that VERY clearly. Mount EVER-REST.”

“Mount Sagarmatha, and after your disastrous previous ‘expedition’ – and the numerous crimes you commited during that time–”

“What ‘crimes’? Now how’s slandering who? I committed no crimes!”

Mr Tracy stared. “You mean other than making false statements to gain your climb permit? Fraudulently claiming you had climbed other 8,000ft peaks? Fraudulently claiming you had appropriate insurance. Mistreatment of the Sherpas you hired? Interfering with burial sites?”

Lemaire shuddered. “I was not going to share a camp site with corpses,” he declared. “After all that fuss they made about ‘polluting’ the mountain, you think they’d clean up the corpses. Health hazard, that is.”

“Mr” – and there was no mistaking the disdain in that title – “Lemaire, Mount Sagarmatha is a recognised burial ground. It is dangerous to try and remove from the mountain anybody who cannot realistically be saved. What you did – pushing the bodies off the mountain – was a crime. And as such, the Nepalese Government deported you and banned you from ever returning to their country again.”

Lemaire waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not going back to Nepal. Why would I want to? Much better to drive up Mount Everest from Tibet. The route is all planned.”

There was a sigh. “In any case, other than approved helicopters at both North and South Face base camps, no mechanised vehicles are permitted on Mount Sagarmatha or Mount Chomolungma. Even Thunderbirds are forbidden under normal circumstances. As per our agreement with both the Nepalese and Tibetan Governments, International Rescue do not respond to calls from the Holy Mountain, other than at the request of the governments.” The disembodied hand returned, resting comforting on Mr Tracy’s shoulder.

Apolline shuddered. How many calls for help from dying mountaineers had they been forced to ignore? He heart ached, but she realised that the phrase ‘Holy Mountain’ was how Mr Tracy reminded himself that his help, there on a literal goddess, was not appropriate.

Lemaire sniffed. “Nobody will deny me. Nobody turns away the money I can pay. I’ll drive up Mount Everest. I’ll be the first person to do it, and the world will be watching.” He turned away. “And I’ll make sure everybody knows that Tracy Industries refuses to serve customers.”

Suddenly Lemaire spun back, again stabbing fingers at Mr Tracy’s holographic chest. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing my idea! I’ll sue you into poverty if I find out you’re even thinking about driving up Mount Everest before me!”

Lemaire turned again and flounced out of the building, the holocamera faithful tailing him, with Madeline reluctantly behind. Scott Tracy’s hologram remained, standing in front of the reception desk, hands on hips and frowning at the retreating ‘explorer’

In the employee lounge, people erupted into cheers and catcalls at Lemaire. There were backslaps and hugs all around.

All of which fell to awed silence as the hologram of the reception lobby disappeared to be replaced by the lifesized Scott Tracy. An eyebrow went up at the packed room, before he spoke. “Ms Morel?”

Apolline stepped into the holograms reception field – although she suspected from his reaction that when Mr Tracy accessed it, the reception field was greatly expanded – assisted by a push from Andre. “Yes, Mr Tracy?”

His eyes raked her, assessing, “I wanted to make sure you were alright after your … unpleasant … experience earlier.” His eyes darted around the room. “And I must say, I am very pleased to see you so ably supported by your colleagues.”

Mr Durand, the General Manager, stepped forward. “Please forgive us, Mr Tracy. Mr Lemaire has in the past been an unpleasant person for many of our staff to deal with. When it became apparent that he had returned, despite his Blacklisted status, many people hoped for the satisfaction of seeing him turned away.”

Mr Tracy nodded, thoughtfully. “I hope I didn’t disappoint.” A pause. “And, to further reassure you all, the recording of Mr Lemaire’s statements here today will be forwarded to the Nepalese, Tibetan, and Chinese Governments. If anyone is foolish enough to supply him with the vehicle he is trying to purchase, he will be stopped before he can get anywhere near the mountain.”

There was a general murmur of approval throughout the room, and Mr Tracy frowned again. “Mr Durand, you said that Mr Lemaire has been unpleasant do deal with in the past. Can you please forward to an elaboration on that to my email? And sometime in the next fortnight, please provide a list and broad details of any comparable clients. It appears we need to educate some of our customers as to how to behave politely in public.”

The General Manager nodded, as another murmur of appreciation went up around the room. Mr Tracy turned back to Apolline. “Ms Morel, I am deeply sorry that you had to deal with that outburst earlier. If you feel you need it, please do not hesitate to take time off. I will make sure you receive full pay for any time.”

Apolline gathered herself. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr Tracy. I am perfectly all right. I do not need any time away from work. And it is I who should apologise to you. I am sorry that I disturbed you to deal with this matter.”

Mr Tracy smiled easily. “No apology necessary, Ms Morel. I am afraid we did expect something like this when we instigated the Blacklist, it’s why we set up the Blacklist DM. The people we have been forced to refuse custom are … not known for their social skills, and tend to operate with little regard for safety and the welfare of others.”

Apolline bowed her head. “Then I am sorry that you have to deal with them, Mr Tracy. Hopefully, this will be the last time.”

Mr Tracy sighed. “I doubt it, Ms Morel. Unfortunately, other companies will build what he wants because they cannot afford to turn away commissions. And they will wash their conscience by saying it falls to others to ensure the rules he will break are upheld.”

Someone else spoke up then. “Do you really not rescue people off of Mount, uh –”

Mr Tracy smiled. “The highest mountain in the world? It does get rather confusing about the name issue, but it was only fifty years ago Nepal and Tibet agreed on the official height of the mountain. And as for agreeing on an official name … Well, miracles do happen.” Then he sighed. “And yes, as I told Mr Lemaire, unless we get official requests from the appropriate governments, we do not respond. It is part of the agreement International Rescue has with the Council of World Governments that allows us to operate. We wouldn’t park a Thunderbird in a church, we will not park one on the mountain. Everyone who climbs the mountain does so knowing the risks, and they must accept the consequences.” He seemed to wilt, “It’s hard, but we must do it.”

A klaxon sounded, and a voice announced, “International Rescue, we have a situation.”

Mr Tracy glanced over his shoulder, before turning back to his employees speaking rapidly. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go. But thank you again, Ms Morel for your sterling work in a difficult situation, and thank you, everybody, for your support of your colleagues. It’s always a pleasure to see people who work together and look after each other. Mr Durand, I look forward to working with you to ensure our people are treated correctly. Tracy Island out.” The hologram fizzed and blinked out, the view of the empty lobby returning.

“Wow.” Apolline didn’t realise she had spoken until Andre placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Do as Mr Tracy says, Apolline, take some time. I’ll take over the desk for the rest of today.”

Apolline shook herself, and went to speak, but she saw the rest of the company nodding at her, encouragingly. She reconsidered. “Thank you, Andre. I think after this morning a break from reception will be welcome. I will work on invoicing today, if I may.”

Andre glanced at Mr Durand, and they both shrugged. “If you feel that’s best for you, Apolline,” he said.

Mr Durand nodded. “And before everybody returns to their work, may I please request that you provide me with details of past … unpleasant encounters, both with Mr Lemaire and other clients, as Mr Tracy requested. Hopefully we will be able to prevent further such displays.”

The room broke up, Apolline snatching her lunch from the refrigerator before joining the huddle of Invoicing and Reception staff returning to their backroom offices. As she joined in with her own stories of horrible customers, she felt a sense of pride. Not just in herself, but in her colleagues – her friends. Coming to work was still a pain many days, but Tracy Industries went out of its way to treat its people well.

And today proved how far out of its way it would go.

Notes:

I MAY have been fantasising a bit about employers who actually care about and support their employees.

I may also have been catching up on some reading / viewing and had a convergence of Mt Everest (name used for simplicity) related 'texts' (most of which is 'Dead Lucky: life after death on Mount Everest' by Lincoln Hall) - and I now understand MORE about the logistics of doing so, and understand LESS about why anyone would be so insane as to wish to do so.

I hope everyone has employers and colleagues as supportive as Apolline has.

[graceandfamily]

Edward Quinn meets Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier of Monaco

I was lucky to have been there when they first met.

During the Cannes Film Festival in 1955, an editorial director of Paris Match, Gaston Bonheur, suggested that a meeting between the Hollywood star Grace Kelly and the bachelor Prince Rainier of Monaco could make a nice story.

When he was asked, Prince Rainier agreed and an appointment was arranged. As I already knew and had photographed Prince Rainier and also Grace Kelly, I was asked by Match to go with their team. There was Pierre Galante, then married to actress Olivia de Havilland, Jean-Paul Olivier and Michel Simon. Grace kept us late, so the American car that was to bring her had to speed off. Just as we got to the main road, the driver, Monsieur Lapinière, a Metro Goldwyn representative, suddenly braked. As I was driving very close, so as not to be left behind, I could not stop and crashed into the back of Grace’s car. Fortunately, there was no great damage and we were able to go on.

As there had been no time for lunch, Grace said she wouldn’t mind having a sandwich, so we went to the bar of the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo.

Grace Kelly at the bar of Hotel de Paris.

We got to the palace just after three o’clock, the time set for the rendezvous with the prince. Colonel Severac, the commander of the Palace, came to greet us and explained that Prince Rainier was delayed, but he had telephoned to say that Miss Kelly’s visit to the palace could begin without him. One of Prince Rainier’s personal servants, Michel Demorizi, guided us around some of the great number of rooms in the palace.

In the “Salle du Throne”, Monsieur Demorizi explained that all the reigning princes of the Grimaldi family had been enthroned in this room. We moved through the York Chambers, the “Salle des Glaces” and into the Napoleonic museum, where Grace was obviously impressed when she was shown a lock of Napoleon’s hair. The only one amongst us who did not seem to enjoy the visit was Monsieur Lapinière. It was now nearly four o’clock, and he said that Grace had to leave at once if she was to be ready in time for the official American reception for the festival.

After a while, we all got worried and began to think that Prince Rainier might not come. By now even Grace showed some signs of nervousness, but perhaps not for the same reason. She looked around for a mirror to make sure her makeup was alright. While we all waited, Grace questioned us: How does one address a prince? Could Prince Rainier speak English? How old is he?

Finally, the prince arrived and Grace Kelly, who had rehearsed her royal curtsy several times, hardly bent her knee when she was face to face with Prince Rainier. With a reassuring smile and a simple “Hello, pleased to meet you”, the prince seemed to put Grace at ease.

Grace Kelly meets Prince Rainier. The moment of the first formal handshake.

It was amazing, however, that these two famous persons seemed shy and intimidated. Grace looked at Rainier and seemed at loss for words.

Sensing this tension, I thought it might be an appropriate moment to suggest that I would like to take some photos in the palace gardens. This broke the ice. Prince Rainier was relieved and agreed at once. Naturally my main reason for asking them to go outside was just a photographer’s reaction. The light was better outside and of course the garden would make a better setting. Prince Rainier took Grace over to a spot where he could show her the view over his principality. They were both relaxed now. Their conversation became easier and they seemed to be getting on well.

Prince Rainier took Grace down to his exotic gardens and then to his lions’ cage. Grace seemed astonished and quite frightened when Rainier put his arm into the cage and stroked one of the lions. We were all quite happy to prolong this enjoyable visit, but the merciless Monsieur Lapinière seemed on the verge of a nervous fit and kept pointing to his watch. Grace had to take the hint and explained to Prince Rainier that she must go back to Cannes as soon as possible.

Probably not even Prince Rainier realized, while he was doing the honour of showing his palace to Grace Kelly, that she was to be the future sovereign. Grace was quite silent as she was driven back to Cannes. Her only remark was: “He is charming, charming.”

The pictures of Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier appeared in Paris Match, but the story was quickly forgotten by most people, except by Prince Rainier and perhaps by Grace Kelly. Prince Rainier arranged for showings of all of Grace Kelly’s films in his private screening room at the palace. According to his friends, the prince was intrigued and fascinated by the cool enigmatic star from Hollywood.

When Prince Rainier visited the U.S. a few months later, there were a few discreet meetings with Grace Kelly, thanks to the kindly American priest who was Prince Rainier’s palace chaplain, Father Tucker.

Prince Rainier asked Grace Kelly to marry him during a private party in New York. The unofficial news of their engagement travelled very fast and on January 4th, 1956, I was awakened in the middle of the night by a telephone call from New York. At that time long distance calls were still an event. It was Charles Eisnitz of the famous Globe Photo Agency, who called to inform me about Prince Rainier’s engagement and asked me to send all the photos I had of the couple.

The end of the story is well known. After the marriage of Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly, it became more and more difficult to get exclusive pictures. I decided to concentrate my work on the artists, and especially on Pablo Picasso.

Edward Quinn

[sansonservantarchive]

@monsieur-de-paris

“You......truly wish to cease from being an executioner, from being the Monsieur de Paris and leave the Sanson estate, Lord Charles?!”  

Did he hear that right?!  Yes, the burden of being the Monsieur de Paris was a heavy one.....but no master had, in all of Andre’s years of service - from being the attendant of Lord Nicolas, Lord Baptiste, and now to Lord Charles - been determined to leave both occupation and home behind.  Had Lord Charles been born the second son like Lord Nicolas, it wouldn’t be such an issue in the first place!

[fiulnoapte-a]

         ❛❛  It looks quite heavy.  ❜❜

         HE HAD WATCHED the man take practise swings in the field for a little while, having gone unnoticed by them as they seemed awfully concentrated on how to swing it. How big their swings were, he was almost a little surprised that they hadn’t noticed them, but then again, his presence was something akin to that of a ghost at times.

         ❛❛  What do you call it, professionally? I’m taking it’s not just a sword.  ❜❜

         STARTER FOR @monsieur-de-paris

[forlornprodigy]

🎁 + a real hypoallergenic kitten (feel free to throw it back at him lol, but i saw a pattern)

           🇸​🇪​🇳​🇩​ 🇮​🇳​ 🎁 ﹢ 🇦​🇳​ 🇮​🇹​🇪​🇲​ 🇹​🇴​ 🇬​🇮​🇻​🇪​ 🇲​🇾​ 🇲​🇺​🇸​🇪​ 🇦​ 🇨​🇭​🇷​🇮​🇸​🇹​🇲​🇦​🇸​ 🇵​🇷​🇪​🇸​🇪​🇳​🇹​﹗

WHAT’S THIS? The young bluenette’s dainty fingers grasped upon the kitten as he held it in his hands, and to his surprise, he wasn’t sneezing nor having problems breathing. ❛ ━   𝐔𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐈 𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐦𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐈 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦... 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭. ❜

[ggomos-maribat]

The Perfect Blend

"It's coffee ice cream."

Adrien looked down at the cone in her hand. Three brown scoops. Chocolate chips embedded. "Huh, so it is."

"This is from Andre," Marinette emphasized. "It's coffee flavored. Why the fuck is my soulmate ice cream coffee flavored?!"

"Dunno. Maybe your soulmate's a caffeine junkie like you are."

They strolled on the Pont des Arts, leaving behind the long line of teenagers waiting to get their ice cream. Marinette ate her ice cream carefully. "I don't buy it. There's no one else who'd inject coffee into their veins like I do."

"Maybe you'll be surprised," said Adrien, taking a spoonful of his blueberry.

Marinette's foot caught a bump on the bridge. She flailed around, forgetting about her ice cream, and crashed into someone who was also in the process of stumbling forward. She felt a hot sticky liquid splatter on her front, while her ice cream collided with someone’s chest.

"I'm so sorry!" Both cried out, but in different languages.

Marinette looked up to see a boy whose tired eyes mirrored hers. His fitted shirt was soaked in both coffee and ice cream just like her blouse.

Adrien hummed in amusement. "So there he is."

Marinette glared at him before turning back to the stranger. She switched to English. "I'm terribly sorry, monsieur, I'm so careless."

"Me too," the stranger blurted out. "Your---your shirt---"

He hastily fished out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Ah, no, no, I stained your shirt as well. Please use it," Marinette declined, getting some tissues from her bag.

"No, I insist." The boy smiled sheepishly.

She bit the edge of her lip. "Take these napkins at least. Oh! And let me buy you a new coffee."

They tried their best to clean themselves up, but the stains were persistent. Marinette frowned when she saw that the ice cream drips had also come down to his pants.

"My house is nearby. I have extra clothes in there just about your size," she suggested. "We own a bakery on the first floor. Would you like to wait there? Only if you're not busy! I'd hate to disrupt your day."

The stranger beamed. "A---A change of clothes would be nice. Don't worry, I was just planning to walk around the city today."

She nodded and began leading him down the path. Adrien sidled up to her. "You got a boy to come home with you so quickly!"

She shoved him playfully, scowling.

Marinette coughed, looking up at the boy she had bumped into. "I'm Marinette, by the way. This is Adrien. I'm guessing you're vacationing in Paris?"

"Call me Tim. And yeah, I'm here mostly for business though."

"Ask him if he's single!" Adrien whispered into her ear.

She shoved him again.

"I am, actually." Tim's eyebrows raised.

Red took over Marinette's cheeks. "Wait a minute---"

"On another completely unrelated topic." Adrien smirked. "Are you, by any chance, addicted to coffee?"

"What qualifies as 'addicted'? I usually finish five cups a day but I think that's pretty normal."

Adrien gasped, eyes glittering at Marinette. Meanwhile, Marinette was shooting silent threats at him. "You're in luck!" Adrien wrapped an arm around her shoulders and patted her head. "This tiny girl can down six to seven cups a day!"

"I'm not tiny!"

"You are miniature."

"You're cute."

Tim's eyes widened at his accidental compliment. He averted his eyes nervously as Marinette's face turned hotter.

"I---I mean," Tim coughed. "I mean---uh--"

"Yo---you don't look too bad yourself," Marinette said in a small voice, playing with the hem of her blouse.

Adrien whispered in her ear again, less subtly this time. "Now ask him out."

Tim perked up. "I'm free tonight!"

"What---what a coincidence!" She squeaked out. "Me---me too!"

"Can I pick you up at seven?"

She smiled widely. "I'd love that." 

a gift for @tinybrie <3 Cross posted on AO3

[tutuandscoot]

Moulin Rogue X Manon

Part 2: Come What May/ ‘The Swamp’ Pdd

A little project I’ve been working on:

Virtue/Moir Moulin Rouge is essentially the final two Act 3 Pdd from the ballet Manon.

Part two of this series explores the choreographic and story similarities between Come What May and ‘The Swamp’ pdd at the end of Act 3.

Come What May explores Satine and Christian expressing their undying love for one another, unaware Satine is on the verge of death, and in the end promising to love each other for eternity. While at this point in the ballet, Manon and Des Grieux have escaped the Gaoler and are now lost in the hot, damp Louisiana swamp, as Manon takes her last dying breaths, they commit themselves to love each other forever.

While Tessa and Scott have performed many “balletic” programs throughout their career, Moulin Rouge is their ballet. Their production, their telling of an epic, timeless, tragic love story. They do in 4 mins with just the two of them, on a house lit, sponsor-branded ice rink, what it takes a ballet company of 100-200 people in a purpose built, set adorned, orchestra accompanied production to achieve. They move you.

Tessa and Scott are exceptional. They are the greatest ice dancers the world has will ever see. Their skating, their talent, their connection, their ability to transport you. While their career may be adorned with Olympic Gold Medals and a series of unbeatable records for the history books. This, their artistry will be their legacy.

I have included the links to both pdd from Manon as well as Moulin Rouge from GPF17. I challenge you to watch both and see the uncanny similarities between VM and professional ballet dancers (ie ballerinas Marianela Nunez and Sylvie Guillum).

A brief synopsis of each production:

Moulin Rouge: a young writer meets a courtesan actress in Paris. As their feelings of love for each other grow, she is repeatedly abused by the wealthy and powerful duke who controls her life as an actress. As the opening night approaches, she and Christian consider fleeing, they profess their love for each other in the finale of the show, before Satine dies and makes Christian promise to write their story so their love can live forever.

Manon: a young student- Des Grieux and courtesan Manon meet in Paris. She is arranged to be sold off to a wealthy older gentleman by Monsieur GM. Before the deal is made, Manon and Des Grieux fall in love and run off together. She is soon found and taken away as Des Grieux is bribed with jewellery and money to let her go. Des Grieux arrives at a hotel party looking for Manon, who arrives with Monsieur GM. Manon and Des Grieux cheat the Monsieur at cards, try to escape but as panic breaks out, Manon is arrested for prostitution. She is sent to the colonies in New Orleans to be sold as a slave. Des Grieux follows her and rescues her from the Gaoler who as assaulted her. They escape into the swamps of Louisiana, but as Manon, barely alive from sickness and abuse, professes her love to Des Grieux and dies in his arms.

Video links:

‘The Gaoler’ Pdd (starts at 1:37:00)

https://youtu.be/LryyMf74p40

‘The Swamp’ pdd:

https://youtu.be/ZPTFh89tRLI

VM Moulin Rouge GPF 17:

https://youtu.be/WUUPc727Jjg

Part 1: Roxanne/‘The Gaoler’ Pdd

[thatyanderecritic]

Is nicolas charles gabriel sanson from innocent a yandere?

Oh wow, I haven't heard of that manga for a very long time.

Anyways, hi. Hello. Kai here to answer your question.

I vaguely remembered reading this manga way back in high school (oof, I can't believe that's a long time for me). So my memory of this story is hazy at best and barely that reliable considering I was bored out of my mind reading it but just pushed through it because people were praising it as a "cult classic" or whatever. So take what I say with a grain of salt. That said, from surface-level reminiscing, I can't remember any yandere-like characters from the top of my head.

Pulling out the wiki for this guy, nothing about Nicolas screams yandere either. Just some guy with mommy issues. Let me explain.

The very first thing we have to figure out is if he can be considered to be in the running of being a yandere. That requirement being: romantic love. With Nicolas, we either have to acknowledge one of two things. Either he had an incestual love for his mother OR he doesn't. Personally, I don't think it's incest here. As a character, the author made it very clear that Nicolas's driving motivation is to be recognized for his achievements and skill. He wants to be acknowledged by his mother and by the people of Paris. He wants the power, the money, and the prestige. He wants everything and he was willing to do anything for it. And that "everything" he wanted included his mother's affection.

While we made it clear that a yandere can have other goals outside of their S/O, that goal shouldn't be more important than the S/O. Here, everything is clumped together into this massive ball. His mother's attention is icing on the cake for him. If he managed to become the "Monsieur de Paris" but didn't get his mother's affection, Nicolas will certainly be bummed out but he would eventually get over it as he turns that dissatisfaction into a different drive. Nicolas loves himself over everyone else at the end of the day.

Overall, Nicolas-Charles Gabriel Sanson isn't a yandere. 0/5

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Thurs[day] 21 August 1834

..

9 3/4

L

get on as fast in the night as day – n[o]t long[e]r in chang[in]g horses – fine, b[u]t dull, cool morn[in]g – th[e]re h[a]s

been a gr[ea]t deal of r[ai]n ver[y] recent[l]y – it preced[e]d us last night – the dust qui[te] laid even fr[om] M[on]targis –

on[l]y one postill[io]n for our 4 horses all the way fr[om] Nemours to Essonne, th[e]n 2 ag[ai]n – want[e]d to be

p[ai]d the sa[me] as if 2; b[u]t, tho’ I profess[e]d to gi[ve] 2/. p[e]r p[ai]r dur[in]g the night, I w[oul]d n[o]t do th[i]s, and on[l]y ga[ve] h[i]m 3/. p[e]r p[air]

at 7 1/2 sm[all] drizzl[in]g r[ai]n – Fr[om] Fontainebleau, the count[r]y, tho’ neith[e]r beaut[iful] n[o]r pict[uresque], improves – good

lit[tle] towns or vil[lage]s – good maison de campagne – evid[entl]y appr[oa]ching the capit[a]l – at Villejuif at 9 53/..

and off ag[ai]n at 10 – a dirtyish look[in]g goodish 1 st[ree]t vil[lage] – Fine view of Paris, and Montmartre,

en sort[an]t de Villejuif – the day clears a lit[tle] and the sun app[ea]rs – traces of a gr[ea]t deal of r[ai]n here in the

night – Pass the barr[ie]r int[o] Paris at 10 29/.. – pass[e]d by the r[ue] S[ain]t Vict[oi]re n°27 – sev[era]l let[ter]s 15

days, and s[e]nt immed[iatel]y to Geneva! how terrib[l]y unlucky – the wom[a]n s[ai]d I h[a]d prom[ise]d to wr[ite] and say

when no mo[re] were to be forward[e]d – I do rememb[e]e so[me]th[in]g of th[i]s, b[u]t nev[e]r th[ou]ght of it till th[i]s

inst[an]t – How unlucky! – Alight at Meurices’ at 11 1/4 – noth[in]g b[u]t a sm[all] 3me – lit[tle]

sitt[in]g r[oo]m and bedr[oo]m and 1 ver[y] sm[all] pl[a]ce for Eugenie – ta[ke] it – a lit de sangle put up in

the bedr[oo]m for A- [Adney] w[oul]d n[o]t tell the pr[ice] -    br[eak]f[a]st at 11 5/.. – wash[e]d and dress[e]d – and wr[ote] 1 end and finish[e]d

A-‘s [Adney] let[ter] to my a[un]t writ[ten] at Clerm[on]t – afr[ai]d we sh[oul]d n[o]t get off fr[om] Paris till Mon[day] – will

wr[ite] a few lines fr[om] Lond[on] – wr[ote] also to ‘Monsieur  Monsieur le directeur de la poste

aux lettres, à Genèva, Swisse’ begg[in]g h[i]m to forw[ar]d mine and A-‘s  [Adney] let[ter]s to me aux soins de

Mess[ieu]rs Laffitte and c°, bankers Paris – A- [Adney] and I out at 4 – walk[e]d immed[iatel]y to the gr[ea]t poste

aux let[tre]s r[ue] Jean Jacques Rousseau – too late for let[tre]s affranchis – the off[i]ce closes at 4 –

b[u]t put in the let[ter] (vid[ere] 5th line ab[ov]e) to Geneva – saw the hall an bled (inter[io]r and walk[e]d all r[ou]nd it) –

saw als[o] the ch[ur]ces de S[ain]t Eustache and S[ain]t Roch, and call[e]d and ask[e]d M[ada]me Contant ab[ou]t Edredon –

n[o]t m[u]ch the bet[ter] for th[a]t – ord[ere]d one (w[oul]d ta[ke] 2 1/2lb. Edredon at 28/. p[e]r lb.  (us[e]d to be on[l]y 25/.) to be

116fr. – ho[me] at 7 10/.. – din[ner] at 7 1/2 – ver[y] fine day – F[ahrenheit] 71° at 9 35/.. p.m. neith[e]r of us the

worse for being up all night –

[liquid-luck-00]

Reverse Robins + Identities

Bio!Dad Bruce

Day 18: Reverse Robins - Day 19: Identities

Ao3 ~~~ First ~~~ Previous ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

How this came to happen Mari had no idea.

She was leaving Gotham to patrol Paris like usual, but all of her brothers decided that they wanted to go with her. Mainly to get Andre’s Ice cream for breakfast, and hopefully not be yelled at for doing so by Alfred.

One minute she and her brothers were patrolling Paris in the early morning, some time around 5 am. The next they saw a flash of golden light.

"Let's go. Everyone is on comms" Nightwing took the lead. "Rosu how long for your team to arrive?"

At that moment, her yo-yo rung "Hey Bug who do we have this time" Chat Noir answered in that moment Abeille, Viperion, and Ryuko appeared on screen.

"Comms on guys" she took the lead as easily as Dick had. "The bats are here" with that they all logged off and made their way to where the golden lights kept flashing.

"Any idea on the akuma's powers?"Red Robin asked the miraculous team that arrived before them. Ryuko shoot her head.

The akuma then noticed them "Ladybug, Chat Noir everyone's big sister and big brother. Let's see how you feel taking orders now!" A golden light swept thought the area engulfing the heroes.

"Ha! I think your powers are busted. Um... I don't know your name" Chat yelled.

"Chat!" she scolded but her voice was sharper. She looked around and that was when it hit her. Well specifically she saw a mini Nightwing who looked no older than 15.

"What the hell!" was yelled by a younger Red Hood, 16, complete with a voice crack.

"Huh I didn't change" was spoken by Red Robin.

"That is because you are the middle child, imbecile" was said by an older, 27, Robin.

"Why are you older you’re a big sister" the akuma began throwing a verbal tantrum.

"Sorry I'm actually the youngest in my family" she spoke, 30.

"But everyone listens to you" the akuma stomped her foot "All the heroes listen to you since your older" she huffed trying to find an answer.

"Actually, I'm the oldest in the Miracle Team" Viperion commented, seeming to be a year or two younger.

"Besides" Ryuko spoke stepping towards the girl "We listen to Ladybug because we trust and respect her."

"But that's not how it works" the akuma wrung the wand in her hands.

Ladybug knelt next to her and took the wand releasing the akuma and capturing it.

“Chat catch the butterfly when it is released" she ordered, and he nodded his head. "Lucky charm" she called and, in her hand, fell a small tracker.

She released the Akuma which chat caught and placed the tracker on it. She opened her yo yo and saw the blip on the screen.

"Robin" she moved to her brother who removed his hood and handed it to her, which her brothers then formed a protective circle around her covering her completely. She de-transformed, fed Tikki, and transformed again handing her brother back his hood.

"Ladybug what are you planning?" Abeille asked.

"Give me a moment. Kaalki" the little Kwami came out. She held out her hands and the little horse sat down, and she touched their foreheads together.

"Understood" Kaalki nodded and flew through a portal.

"Follow me" she motioned once the little kwami had left.

"Please tell me you are going to fix us?" Red Hood whined.

"Not yet"

"Why?" this time Nightwing asked.

"Because" she held up her yo-yo showing the blip "we can end Hawkmoth right now"

"How sure are you that the butterfly went to Hawkmoth?" Red Robin asked. As if on cue a ladybug landed on her screen, a bee landed on Abeille, and a cat rubbed against Chat Noir's leg.

"Okay point taken" Robin spoke. "Red can you get the coordinates, and we can make plan?"

"On it"

"Azur can you and Chat go inform the police" she said as they both nodded and left." Vipereon and Ryuko do a quick spar with Hood and I'll spar with Robin" everyone nodded.

"Why the spar bug" Robin asked as they began to pass blows.

"Chat, Abeille, Ryuko, and Red didn't change the rest of us did"

"So, this is to figure out the changes, and sending Nightwing off was better because he is more aerial" Robin hummed as she nodded.

Red Robin sent the location to Nightwing and chat as the rest of us stopped to plan.

The storm at Agreste Manor.

Red Robin shut down all security measures. Robin, Vipereon, and Ryuko went in to scan the rooms and that was sent to Red Robin. "Who is inside" Red Hood asked the three who just came back.

"The Agreste bodyguard, Gorilla, is here and these two would be Gabriel and his assistant, Natalie” Chat explained.

"Doesn't Gabriel have a son?" Robin asks "Adrien correct"

"Yes, he does but he is not here " Abeille answered ending that conversation everyone nodded in acknowledgement as they made their final preparations.

They first took out Gorilla and left him with the police instructing than to stay out of sight.

The team split up to converge on the office. She and Chat Noir were the first to enter.

"Good Morning Monsieur Agreste and Madame Sancoeur" she began.

"As much as I appreciate the visit from our beloved heroes" Gabriel started with a slight venom in his voice. "But this is breaking and entering"

"We are sorry for the inconvenience" but Chat was cut off as Natalie lunged at him.

"So, the calm way is off the table" she sighed as the rest of the team crashed into the room. Gabriel took that time to descend by a hidden elevator, which she followed. She watched as Gabriel transformed and akumatized himself.

In the end the fight took no longer than five minutes as the group of heroes escorted Natalie and Gabriel out of the mansion. They found the body of Emilie Agreste in a cryo chamber comatose.

She went back inside to find the butterfly with the tracker, as well as to retrieve the peacock miraculous from the safe. She also found the grimoire and now she had recovered the two miraculous and the book of miracles all before 8 am and everything looked bright.

She stepped outside and was going to cast the cure when the was a flash and a smiling Wonder Woman and a Superboy holding up a phone.

"This is far too interesting to not document my sister, you will send me that won't you Superboy" he gave Ladybug a bright smile and nodded to Wonder Woman and Mari could only smile as she now cast the cure.

"We have a few things to discuss" she motioned to the Miraculous team to follow her. Leaving the Batboys, Wonder Woman, and Superboy in front of the Agreste Mansion.

They landed on the roof of Le Grande Paris. "Now that Hawkmoth was been defeated, and as guardian, I would like to know whether you would like to keep your Miraculous in order to protect others in this world?"

"But I thought" Chat was beginning to cry "Yes I want to keep being a hero." the others seemed to share his sentiment.

"Alright. Tikki spots off." in a flash there she stood as Marinette. "As a means to protect the Miraculous, hello my name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng Wayne, but you guys already know that" she smirked.

One by one they dropped their transformations.

"Figures that the only idiot to be dorky enough to be Chat Noir would be you Adrien" Chloe rolled her eyes smiling.

"Meow-ouch your hurting me Queenie" Adrien feigned hurt.

"Chloe can we go to your room" Chloe nodded and they followed her.

"What is your plan Mari-hime?" Kagami asked once in the room.

"Chloe meet your father and set up a meeting/announcement for noon" Mari started.

"As me or Abeille?" she asked.

"Power up, you too Luka. I need you to go to the police, so that Gabriel and Natalie are present."

"What about me?" Adrien asked.

"You'll be on stage"

"Why?"

She was going to answer but Kagami beat her. "Your father is going to be revealed as a terrorist. Your involvement will be questioned. I assume that is why Wonder Woman is here."

Mari nodded." Everyone but you will be transformed but Chat will still be there"

"Do we want to know your plan, Melody" Luka questioned.

"I think its best you don't" she smiled. “we'll meet up when it's time, stay in touch" she transformed and was about to leave.

“Where are you going?" Chloe asked the question on everyone's mind.

"I need to speak with Wonder Woman then check in with my dad since I'm supposed to be in Gotham."

A collective group of "Ohs" sounded through the room remembering that their friend was supposed to be in America for the break.

She made it to her brothers, Wonder Woman, and Superboy. She then explained the planned conference and why she called Diana and Jon. At noon, the Mayor held the conference in front of City Hall. He stepped aside and allowed Ladybug to command the stage.

"Hello citizens of Paris. This morning my team and I" she motional to the Miraculous team to her left "With the aid of Gotham's vigilantes Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin" she motioned to her right "Were able to discover and defeat Hawkmoth and his accomplice Mayura.”

There were cheers from the crowd, but many were apprehensive.

Out walked Gabriel Agreste and Natalie Sancoeur being escorted by guards, behind them walked

Adrien and Wonder Woman.

Ladybug moved to stand next to Chat Noir and allowed Wonder Woman the stage. She draped the Lasso of Truth over them.

"This is the Lasso of Truth; it's power compels you to only speak the truth." she started "What are your names?"

"Gabriel Agreste"

"Natalie Sancoeur"

"Were you the villains Hawkmoth and Mayura?"

"Yes, I was Mayura" Natalie answered.

After an internal struggle Gabriel also spoke "I was Hawkmoth, and this is not where I fail Ladybug" he spat towards the young heroine.

"Why is that?" Wonder Woman asked.

"Lila Rossi aided me in creating Akumas as well as took them willingly, she will continue in spreading fear, hatred, and distrust for when I gain my freedom again." He looked smug until he realized he spoke aloud. Gabriel and Natalie were escorted off stage and Wonder Woman beckoned Adrien forward.

He willingly took hold of the lasso. "What is your name?"

"Adrien Agreste"

"Did you know your father was the Villain Hawkmoth?"

"I only learned that today" He answered "But I can totally see it with how neglectful and emotionally abusive he was as a father" he answered still holding the Lasso.

Everyone was now staring at the boy known as Paris' Teen heartthrob and sweetheart with looks and words condemning Gabriel.

Wonder Woman regained her composure and spoke "I believe this is a discussion best had in private." Adrien gave her a sheepish smile as she led him off stage.

"Ladybug, Ladybug, Ladybug" several reporters shouted but she ended on calling on Aurore.

"Ladybug are you, or any of the heroes on your team, going to stay and protect Paris, will the Miraculous remain active?"

"The Miraculous will remain active, if I or my team so wish to continue wielding them." she answered "the same can be said of Paris, if anyone from my team or I wishes to stay in Paris that is their choice, if they decide to protect another city it is within our right to do so. Bug Out." she finished and all the heroes on stage dispersed in every direction.

"You know you really can pull off orange" she hummed.

"I prefer my red and blue" Jon stated as he de-transforms, leaving Super boy in place of the fox.

"Who knew Superboy would make such a good fox" she teased.

"You know both of us can't lie to save our lives" he gave her a grin "but we can see through them much easier than most"

"Come on this go get ice cream to celebrate with everyone, they found Andre."

"Lead the way" he gave her a bright smile and they were off.

~~~~~~~~~~

Clear a few things up:

1. Lila stayed in Paris but everyone in the school knows she is a liar and take everything she says with a heaping ton of salt

2. Mari’s knowledge and control of her powers granted by the Miraculous were expanded as if she had held it for 15 years, that is reversed when she cast cure but is something she will be able to do later.

~~~~~~~~~~

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@mochinek0 @justafanwarrior @abrx2002 @ranger-gothamite @fantasiame @moonystars14 @mochegato @bigbeautifulandfullofsugar @maribat-is-lifeblood @iglowinggemma28 @miraculous-ninja @talutah0 @vixen-uchiha @danielslilangel @witchsblackfox @pawsitivelymiraculous @lizziejay @marinettepotterandplagg @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @dast218 @sassakitty @miyla-lokidottir @lilkymilky @tazanna-blythe @tired-butterfly @lozzybowe @smolplantmum @queencommonsense @loopingtangent @chez-pezeater @paintedhope7 @technicallyburninggarden @meme991001 @wannajointhecrabcult @melicmusicmagic @trippingovermyfeet @greatcatblaze @fidget-eep @miraculouslydumb @iamablinkmarvelarmy @laurcad123 @hauntedwintersweets @fc-studios @fusser90 @madking-warqueen @buginetye @little-lady-bird @thebooki3h @iamabrownfox @galla02006 @syrencall @gimpedmercy

[ja-khajay]

Stuff I read (and liked) this year

As promised, here’s a list of the novels, comics, manga, etc... I read this year, focusing on the ones I enjoyed and would recommend to people. Under a cut, this is going to be a little long.

-------- Books --------

Favorite book of the year: Stranger in the Woods, by Michael Finkel

Non-fiction. Based on the interviews of the man himself by the author, it is about a man who felt so unfit for society he decided one day to leave it, and spent the next 28 years as a hidden hermit in forest in Maine. The book details how he survived there, how he was eventually found, and some of his reasons for doing so. It’s a great reflection on the nature of loneliness.

Indian creek, by Pete Fromm

...Yet another detailed tale of living alone in the woods. This time, the diary of a student who spent a winter in the mountains to help tend for salmon hatchlings, and how he spent the rest of his days hiking, hunting, meeting the locals. It’s a fun little book who, being set almost the whole world away from where I live, was a nice way to travel.

Howl’s Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones

I don’t feel the need to explain this one since everyone and their mom has seen the movie adapted from it. The book, that I first read a decade ago before I actually watched the film, is a less romantized, more spirited telling of the same story. The writing is absolutely delightful and so is the world it paints, and it’s the first time in ages a book had me laughing out loud during my entire read.

-------- Comics (BD) --------

Favorite comic of the year: Monsieur Désire?, by Hubert and Virginie Augustin

A discreet young woman becomes a maid for a decadent, unbearable, byronesque young lord. Caked in the rigid and oppressive social hierarchy of the victorian era, you follow a mental and verbal joust between the two, as the lord tries his best to offend and corrupt his new unrelenting servant, to little success. The writing and especially the dialogues were stellar, drawing me into the tense atmosphere, watching this trainwreck of a character flamboyantly destroy himself. While there’s no precise content warnings that I can give, this is a mature and heavy story.

World of Edena, by Moebius

Anyone who’s followed this blog for over a month knows how much of a Moebius fan I am. Edena combines the vague, dreamlike, wordless storytelling from stuff like Arzach or The cat’s eyes with an actual plot. While I haven’t completly finished the story, the evolution of the main characters and how the story is told have been great to read through, and as always the art is beyond gorgeous. Unfortunately suffers from some good old sexism in the writing that even if minimal, tasted sour

Le roman de Renart, by Joan Sfar (book 1)

Sfar’s work always has a signature vibe of being dreamy and light without being light hearted, of being down to earth but drifting in the fantastical, and this one is no exception. It’s an adaption of a series of medieval folk tales I grew up with, who uses the same characters to tell an original story. If you’re familiar with icons like Renart as well as other mythological big boys like Merlin you’ll fit right in. There is something special in how the dialogues are written, who feel natural in a way that you’d overhear in a street corner and is very special to me.

The mercenary, by VIncente Segrelles

Another one I post about a lot on this blog. The mercenary is a king on the throne of fantasy cheese. The worldbuilding is interesting at times but the writing is a pretty pathetic display of glorious old time sword and sorcery sci-fantasy 10 years too late for it’s prime (warning for ye old sexism and orientalism that plagues the genre, cranked very high...) but you come and stay for the art. The entire thing is drawn in a series of hyper detailed oil paintings with an insane eye for technical detail, from the engineering of the weaponry, to the architecture and weather, to the anatomy of the fantasy creatures... Each panel stands out as it’s own painting which makes even flipping through it without reading the scenario a treat. Click here to see more of the art, in my Segrelles tag.

The ice maurauder, by Jacques Tardi

A short story about mad scientists entirely drawn like a 19th century engraving. In great Tardi tradition everyone is ugly and mean, it ends terribly, it’s both a hommage to the genre of late 19th cent. to early 1900s dramatic adventure novels and a critical eye on it, and it’s morbidly funny. Most people I saw online hated the way this was written but I’m not them and I really recommend this book. Die mad

-------- Manga --------

Favorite manga of the year: it’s a tie between the following two.

Cats of the Louvre, by Taiyo Matsumoto

Most wonderful comic I have read in ages. The story follows a bunch of semi-feral cats secretly living in the Louvre museum’s attic, and the small group of humans who share their life, walking through the museum as the night watch. When the cats are together, they are represented in a humanoid way, but still act like animals, and “become” cats again when a human is nearby. The plot is a sort of supernatural mystery centered around a kitten who walks around paintings. It’s a love letter to art, sincere and beautiful, with a unique art style and great characters.

Memoirs of amorous Gentlemen, by Moyoco Anno

A sex worker in early 20th century paris starts writing down a diary of the clients she meets, in a quest to cope with the troubles of her life. You follow her, her colleagues, and her bittersweet relationship with an abusive lover. I don’t have much words about this comic, but the art and writing both are amazing, it’s the perfect length and drew me in like little series had before. Obvious content warnings as this is an adult story that talks about sexuality, but also depicts both mental and physical abuse.

Hana, also by Taiyo Matsumoto 

A very short story, this was not made to be read as a comic originally, but served as storyboarding and visual development for a play, and the way it is written follows that. Hana is a slice of life story set in a fantasy world, of a young boy, his family, his village. Despite the setting being an original one, the character interactions are refreshingly... normal, and there is no huge plot to speak of, just a bit of the life of these characters. The art is beautiful, entirely black and white, with a scratchy style and an emphasis on contrast. Matsumoto is on a speedy road to becoming my favorite manga artist haha

Delicious in Dungeon, by Ryoko Kui

While not marked as my year’s favorite, I still consider this series among my favorite manga ever. The art and writing are amazing, and it’s both heartfelt, well concieved and plain hilarious. The story follows several parties of dungeon diving adventurers each on their little quests with a premise of our protagonists, on a panic rescue mission, surviving in the dungeon by cooking and eating the monsters they come across. From a DnD party turned cooking manual dinner of the week beginning, the plot creeps up on you and slowly thickens. I don’t want to spoil anything about the overarching story of this because it was a delight to discover for myself. While everything about DinD rules, I am especially fond of the design philosophy of the author, who puts great detail in the practicality and biology of what she draws, as well as the character writing. Everyone even side characters has so much charm and depth to them, the cast is so diverse and entertaining...! Each character is just a bit lame enough but endearing, and has their own little backstory that shows in the way they exist. It’s a delight

Chainsaw man, by Tatsuki Fujimoto

I went into CSM expecting a borderline campy hyperviolent dumb fun thing to read and was very surprised to find an uncomfortably well written story about a teenager being groomed. The hyperviolent dumb fun fights are here nonetheless and the series still qualifies as shonen for some reason, but the more mature character writing as well as some truly outlandish visuals make it something very special. If you can’t stand shonen, not sure you will like it, but if you don’t mind it, worth trying.

Witch hat atelier, by Kamome Shirahama

The oh so elegant fantasy seinen every cool kid started posting about this year, who I also succumbed to and fast. Witch hat is hard to explain, as most of it’s plot revolves around the rules of the world it’s set in, specifically the regulations around it’s magic and the social and historical reasons for them. It’s about growing up, learning, disability, making art. You follow a little girl taken in by a witch as an apprentice, her magical education, and learn little by little why her lovely teacher is so willing to break a lot of rules... While a bit too gentle and pretty for my taste at times, Witch hat has great worldbuilding and explores sensitive themes I rarely see in manga, much less in fantasy. And Berserk wishes it had art this good

[bourreau-de-roi-blog]

@cinneasachd

Cont. [x]

    She had merely been jesting when she said she was too tired to stand up. Though she was very sleepy thanks to all the happenings of the day, she could have managed. When he scooped her up, the herbalist was is a state of shock. Surely he would strain his back! After all, she was a short woman but she was also very─ fluffy. Though after a few long moments when he showed no sign of lifting her to be terribly laborious, the shopkeep relaxed. Tilting her head up, Doris pressed a soft kiss to Charles-Henri’s cheek. ❝ Tha mo ghion ort, ❞ she whispered to him softly.

Charles-Henri smiled, holding her close as he gave her a gentle peck on the forehead and then on the tip of her nose. While he had basic understanding of her native tongue, the intention behind her words was clear in the tender sigh of her voice.

“Tu es ma joie de vivre, mon plus précieux bijou.” He whispered in return as he carried her towards their shared chambers. “You work yourself too hard, mon amour. My heart weeps. The madame of a household should have afternoon tea and take leisurely strolls in the garden. Does neither of those appeal to you?”

[sansonservantarchive]

@monsieur-de-paris

“Forgive me, Lord Charles, but I need to discuss with you on a certain....delicate matter that has been disturbing me every night for over a week now.  Since you have medical knowledge, I believe that you might know the cause and how to relieve it.”  

The hands that held the tea tray began to shake, rattling the tray’s contents.  He immediately regretted the topic, his face showing a hint of red out of embarrassment.  Andre wanted to slam the tray down and run away, but his feet were firmly planted and his heart felt like it was about to burst.  For awhile now, indecent thoughts had crept into his mind, and Andre’s body seemed to have had a reaction, but he didn’t want to phrase it in such disgusting terms to his current master.

[artificialqueens]

More Devoted: Night Walks (Katlaska) - Kamylove

A beautiful night and a difficult conversation.

A/N: Another entry in my collection of Katlaska one-shot ficlets. As if anybody but me is still interested in Katlaska! 

They had one midsummer night together in Paris. It was like a fucking movie. It was a fucking movie, if either of them had the grace of Julie Delpy. Katya had flown in that afternoon for a show tomorrow and had the night off; Alaska had a show that night and a morning flight.

“Where are we going?" Katya asked, by the exit at the back of the theater.

Alaska was still in full makeup and had entrusted everything but the clothes she was wearing to the tour manager, to take back to the hotel. She was exhausted but didn't want to sleep. "No idea," she said. "Just walk."

So they set off, hand in hand, no more unable to break contact now than they had been in the dressing room between Alaska's numbers.

The Marais felt like a carnival with beautiful men and thumping music. They wandered with few words, partly aimlessly and partly south. They stopped for both gelato and crème glacée, determined to say once and for all which was better. (They failed.) In each shop Katya ordered in what sounded to Alaska like flawless French, though she knew Katya despaired of her accent.

"I apologized to the glacière for my unforgivable Americanness," Katya said as they started walking with their cones. "She said, 'Oui, monsieur. Quel dommage.'"

"She was joking." Alaska only knew a few words of French, but she knew a lot about tone and body language. "Even I could tell that!"

They crossed the Rue de Rivoli and passed the Hôtel de Ville before stopping on the bridge, for the scenery and a bit of a make out session. Alaska slid her free hand into Katya's back pocket.

Katya licked Alaska's lower lip and asked, "Are you sure you don’t want to go back?"

Their tours were managed by the same company; they had rooms in the same hotel; and as usual they’d only had a few fast, naked moments together in one of them before Alaska's show. 

"I'll sleep on the plane," Alaska said, and kissed Katya again. "Oh, fuck, the ice cream!"

Citron was melting over her hand. She lapped it up what she could around the top of the cone. "I can’t even finish this," she said.

Katya took it from her and tossed it in the river. Then she raised Alaska's hand to her mouth and licked it clean, staring flirtatiously into Alaska's eyes.

“Do you want to go back?" Alaska asked.

Katya just started walking again, leading Alaska by the hand in the opposite direction from their hotel. Alaska laughed, relieved. 

They passed the scaffolded, looming hulk of Notre Dame, then they walked a bit along the river before deciding they both needed caffeine. A quick search on Google Maps led them to a late-night cafe in the Latin Quarter, where they settled into chairs on the same side of an outdoor table.

Alaska was not a fan of coffee, but she was a fan of staying awake. Katya ordered two espressos, again in French.

"See?" Alaska said. "He didn’t even notice your unforgivable Americanness."

Katya looked at her with faux pity. "He’s Greek. The accent is obvious. Can’t take you anywhere."

You can take me everywhere, Alaska thought, but she didn’t say it. There was no point. 

The Latin Quarter was as busy as the Marais: no one else wanted to be inside, either. They watched the world walk past and eavesdropped on an academic argument taking place in British and Australian English at a nearby table.

"Fuck, I love France," Katya said. "Pretty sure she’s wrong about the late medieval economy of Lisbon, though."

Alaska laughed. Katya had never taken an economics class in her life and had kept her savings in a thermos before Drag Race.

They fell silent while they finished their espresso. One half of the English-speaking table left, and the other half pulled out a laptop and a book.

The silence, comfortable at first, turned oppressive. Katya was tapping her foot under the table and had Alaska's hand in hers, lightly drumming on each of Alaska's fingers in order and back again, over and over.

"I hate this," Alaska finally said.

Katya didn’t stop tapping or drumming. "I know."

"I hate sleeping alone. I hate missing you all the time."

"I know."

"It’s not like it was before."

"No, it’s not." She let go of Alaska's hand.

Quarantine. Quarantine had changed everything. 

Before 2020, they'd never known what it was like to have more than a few weeks together at a time. Now they did. Now they’d slept in the same bed, almost every night, for more than a year.

Katya shrugged and said, "We knew it would be like this when we got together." 

"No, we didn’t," Alaska said. "We knew what it used to be like. We didn’t know what it would be like now."

"That is a very confusing set of statements."

"Don't be an ass. You know what I mean. When do we say enough is enough?"

Katya blew out a long breath. "Maybe right now."

Alaska turned to stare at her. "What?"

The waiter approached and asked them if they wanted anything else. Katya briskly ordered another espresso for her and a fizzy water for Alaska. Then, realizing how brisk she'd been, she more politely ordered a pain au chocolat.

"Maybe we need to start saying no," Katya said when the waiter had left. "We're the only people who won't let us say no." 

"We’re both booked through next year," Alaska said. In their excitement about getting out in front of audiences again, they’d been a little overzealous with the scheduling. And they really were bad at saying no.

"Obviously we're not going to break any commitments, because we're us," Katya said. "Maybe reschedule a few, but beyond that. No, unless you want both of us. Or no, unless the other one is also free to travel."

"The same commitments," Alaska mused. "The same schedule?"

They'd talked about it before, not seriously, but in passing. With a sigh and a wouldn't it be nice?

"Why the hell not?" Katya said. "Our friends bring their boyfriends along all the time. Why can't we?"

The waiter returned. Katya said, "Merci, monsieur," and Alaska smiled and also said, badly, "Merci."

They each tore off a bite of the croissant and chewed thoughtfully. Alaska noticed a pair of lovers at a far table, sitting with their arms entwined and eyes locked, silently screaming let's go home and fuck.

"It would mean going public," Alaska said. 

"You're the one who has a problem with that." With a sigh, Katya added, "I miss you, too, but if you still want to wait, we'll wait."

"No, I--"

"And you're the one who brought it up."

Alaska could tell that Katya's brain was operating a millisecond faster than her own. It happened sometimes. She tried to catch up. "I know, but--"

"Either we keep complaining," Katya said, though most of the complaints came from Alaska because Katya shockingly had more zen or possibly maturity about shit like this, "or we shut up and do something about it."

That was true. Alaska sighed and when she said nothing, Katya added, "I'm sure about us. Aren't you?"

"Of course I'm sure." For a long time Alaska had wanted privacy because her breakup with Sharon had been public and messy, but her relationship with Katya was anything but messy. The people in their real lives had known forever, and the fans already thought they knew. Still... "We haven’t always enjoyed touring together." 

Katya jumped on that. She was losing her zen. "Now who's being an ass? We haven't tried touring together lately. Would we rather be in each other's space and argue about who lost the key card and who's keeping who awake, or be apart and hardly have time to talk? I know which one I'd choose." 

Her ears were red and it was spreading to her face. Alaska grabbed her hand.

"I'm not arguing with you," Alaska said. "This is not an argument. I'm just thinking about contingencies."

Katya's hand relaxed in Alaska's, and the tension in her face melted into fondness. "Of course you are. Because you're you and you think before you reach the cliff, and I'm me and I've already plunged right to the bottom." She punctuated that by miming a soaring fall and a crash with her free hand.

"Why we complement each other," Alaska said with a smile.

"Why we drive each other crazy," Katya said.

"Sometimes." Alaska tore off a piece of croissant and put it in Katya's mouth.

"Is that your way of saying we've made a decision?" Katya asked as she chewed.

"It's my way of making you smile. But yes. Let's make a call as soon as it's business hours in LA. What's that look for?"

Katya was scowling. "You'll already be two countries away when it's business hours in LA. Zoom call."

"Story of our life," Alaska said, "for now." She gave Katya a quick kiss. "Let's finish up and walk some more. I'm going to get sleepy soon."

"Hotel?" Katya asked as she pulled some Euros out of her wallet to leave on the table.

Alaska shook her head. "I want to be conscious the whole time you're here. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay," Katya said. "C'est magnifique! C'est parfait! C'est formidable!" 

"Je t'aime, you fucking weirdo."

[thisisthehardestthing]

тоска, 18+ Tanaka x Reader, 2.2

Written for The Smut Pile Server Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

тоска tus-ka: Russian, noun It is a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness.

Russian Mafia AU: Tanaka Ryu x A Reader OC Rating: E for explicit Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death, Masturbation, Oral sex, Public Sex, Grinding, Cheating, Denied Orgasm, Manipulation, YEARNING Word count: 9,328 Part 1 | Part 2

GLOSSARY

Enjoy the final part of this two part hell.

Special thanks to: @joyousandverywarlike for being my ride-or-die,  @pleasantanathema , @present-mel and @linestrider for hosting this collab, and everyone in the server for being amazing friends. I would not have been able to write this without any of you, and I truly mean that. @the-smut-pile​

2.2

6. Tanaka

Daichi, Sergei, Ryunoslav and Yuuri sit in the wooden banya, white towels wrapped around their waists as they sweat and speak about the Georgian trip. It smells of cedar, rich and woody, and sweat. Like men.

“Boss Vashadze is unwell,” Daichi muses, knees spread wide as he relaxes against the hot walls, facing the glass door. “It won’t be long until he retires.”

Tanaka sits perpendicular to him, on a lower step with one foot perched up and his leg bent. Yuuri is opposite Tanaka, and Sergei stands, lightly smacking his back with a Venik, the scent of eucalyptus and birch dispersing through the air with each tap against his skin.

“That is good for you, bad for connections,” Sergei says, “how is business there?”

He always talked numbers first, pleasure second. Yuuri laughs, reaching for the besom of herbs from Sergei’s hold to lash his legs.

“Fine. I am gaining more of a footing around the ministers... However it will still take some time before they trust me. There are rumors of a new political party rising. We have to keep an eye open for unrest in Eastern Europe.”

“Ukraine?” Sergei asks, rubbing some of the leaves that stuck to his arms into his skin.

Daichi nods, then his eyes slide sideways to peer at Tanaka. His shaved hair has grown out slightly, which will be trimmed tonight, and he picks at his toenail of the foot bent beneath him.

“We can discuss strategy after we eat. How was your weekend, Ryunoslav?” The Bulldog asks, eyebrows raised.

Tanaka lifts his head casually with a simple smile.

“Just what I needed, spasiba Boss.”

Daichi’s laugh booms in the sauna, and Yuuri joins in, slapping the wood next to his thigh.

“Tell us more, Ryu! When I saw the first prostitute leave after thirty minutes, I thought it was over. But then, when I saw a second one arrive at midnight, I thought you must’ve not enjoyed the first.”

Tanaka frowns, looking at Yuuri in confusion before realising who he meant. He had seen Valentina arrive late at night, although he didn’t recognise her, or so he hopes.

“She was banging on the door very loudly, woke me up. Tell me, was it the same one from before wanting a second round?”

With a glance to Daichi, who is scanning his every expression,Tanaka shrugs.

“It was the same whore. I must be very good in bed.”

All the men burst out in laughter, but Tanaka laughs the loudest in compensation. Daichi closes his eyes as he tilts his head back.

“Well, she stayed for a long time. I only saw her leave past five am.”

“Yuuri, are you stalking Ryunoslav?” Sergei questions, using the water the Venik was soaking in to rinse off his body, the liquid sizzling as it hits the warm floor by his feet.

“No, I just found it interesting that Ryunoslav will fuck someone twice in a single night when there’s only been one woman he’s ever wan-”

“Yuuri.” Tanaka growls, cutting off his closest friend who has had too much vodka before entering the sauna. The heat and alcohol is loosening his tongue too quickly. Daichi sits up at this news, leaning forward so that muscle bulge and inflate.

“Oh? Is this true? Who is this woman?”

Tanaka waves his hand dismissively as he glares at Yuuri, “I met her years ago, when I first started working for you, Boss. No one of importance now.”

“Surely she still means something if you don’t want Yuuri to talk about her.” Sergei chimes in, climbing past their heads to sit on the top bench next to Daichi. Tanaka avoids his gaze, but can feel the Bulldog sniffing at the faint nerves that climb up Tanaka’s spine, his ears blushing red from the heat. He feels closed in, backed into a corner.

“It is an unrequited love, so please, I would prefer not to speak about it anymore.”

The men all murmur in understanding, except for Yuuri, who says, “I will just have to get you drunk to tell us about her then.”

7 - Valentina

Daichi sits across from you in the chartered jet, the beige leather seats muted even further with the deep rumble of the engine and the third glass of champagne in your veins. He’s reading a newspaper, you’re staring out at the cotton-peach clouds as they pass by. To your left, Sergei Sugawarov scribbles in books filled with numbers, the taptaptap of the calculator permeating the heavy air.

“Refill, Mrs. Sawamurova?” the air hostess asks, her smile wide as she holds the Moët & Chandon bottle in her manicured hands. She’s trembling slightly, and you smile reassuringly.

“Leave the bottle, thank you,” your heavy Russian accent drips from your tongue as you answer in English, and the bottle is placed in a silver ice bucket on the birchwood table between you and Daichi.

Two hours have passed during the five hour flight from Ufa Airport to Côte d'Azur Airport, and you pour another glass for yourself as you watch Daichi turn a page. He glances up at you with a small smile, but his eyes are hard. Something happened while he was in Georgia with your father. With a small smile of your own, you turn your gaze back to the window, leaving red lipstick on the rim of the glass.

A phone rings, and you hear Tanaka’s gruff voice answer the call, the memory of last week shooting painfully through your core.

“Oi?”

Some silence, before the Khazak turns in his seat behind Daichi and whispers through the space between the leather and the wall of the jet. You can’t help the way you look at him, stormy grey eyes peering out at you as he whispers into the ear of your husband. Your brow furrows when Daichi jerks his head in a slight nod, tense.

Tanaka retreats back around and you’re left staring at the empty spot, snapping your eyes to the calculating gaze of The Bulldog.

“Is everything alright, my love?” you ask, deciding to stand from your seat and sit on his arm rest.

Daichi folds the newspaper away, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other takes a sip of the champagne straight from the bottle.

“It seems this trip will not only be pleasure,” he muses, eyes closing as he swallows. However, when they open, his face melts into the calm reassurance you’ve always known when he smiles up at you and places a kiss to the cream wool crepe of your blouse. “I have something to take care of, but it will only be a moment. Nothing to worry about.”

You nod, delicate hands stroking at Daichi’s hair, but Tanaka’s cologne wafts up, invading your nose.

“I understand.”

***

The drive to the private Villa La Vigie winds between grey and green rock mountains to your left with glimpses of the dazzling azure ocean of where the French Riviera gets its name to your right. You’re invited to stay in the home of your fathers dear friend, Monsieur Lagerfeld, situated on a private hill just outside Monaco. He will not be there, March being the month he spends in his apartment in Paris, so you and Daichi and the many bodyguards take residence for the week.

You’ve visited this house a number of times in your youth, in your adulthood, and yet it steals the air from your lungs each time you return. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon when you pull up the driveway. In front of you, the two story villa looms in it’s beautiful white-painted glory, the sun a beacon shining upon it. Light brick extends below to where there is a wine cellar, garage and access to the private beach club below.

The car parks, and Daichi kisses your cheek in the backseat before he exits the vehicle and strides up the steps and through the large glass double doors, answering his phone while bodyguards open the way for him. You see Tanaka grip the steering wheel, the leather of his gloves stretch and squeak. It is the first time you are alone with him since that night a week ago, and the heater in the car feels sweltering against your skin.

“Thank you for the drive, Ryunoslav,” you mumble, shifting to the edge of the seat to leave out of the side Daichi had.

“Val,” he starts, then his mouth shuts and his eyes catch yours in the reflection of the rearview mirror, “of course.”

The terracotta tiles of the terrace reflect a salmon pink up the walls of the villa, and you smile at the men as you pass by and find the master bedroom on the first floor. You can already hear Daichi negotiating in the connected office, and you decide to bathe. As the water runs in the porcelain tub, the water mists with the scent of lavende de provence, and you open the windows looking out over the meditterean ocean. The salt and trees wash over you as the sound of the ocean crashing against rocks floats up, and for an instance, you imagine jumping out the window and into that endless blue. The winter air trickles into the warm bathroom.

Notes of a waltz dance in from the direction of the office and you see Daichi’s shadow move around in the bedroom as he unbuttons his cufflinks and loosens his navy blue tie. He walks into the bathroom where you’ve already slipped on the linen bathrobe, your blouse and jeans folded neatly onto the clothes ladder leaning against the wall.

“Care to join?” you ask, clipping your hair up. Daichi peels his shirt off and drops it near your own in a crumpled pile, his thick muscles rippling with each movement as he undresses.

“Prosti, Gadyuka. I have to get to the board meeting before the gala tonight,” he apologises, turning on the glass door shower as he gets into it on the opposite side to the bath. You watch as the water in the faucet of the bath sputters, and your heart imitates.

“Ah yes, I forgot. What-”

“The car arrives at seven, Khazak will escort you.”

Your head whips around to stare at Daichi as he massages white suds over his body, large palms running over his chest where the Sawamurov crest is tattooed in a large circle. He raises his eyebrows. You clear your throat, standing to drop the gown and dip a toe into the water.

“Not you?”

“Unfortunately no, but I will be there waiting for you. I know the dress you are wearing and can’t have any man trying to steal you for himself.”

Daichi’s honeyed words wash over you as you submerge into the water, turning off the faucet and staring out to the sea, a stark sapphire against the lily-white of the bathroom walls and window pane. In the mirror above the sink, you can see The Bulldog get out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his defined waist while he shakes the water from his hair.

You laugh as you turn to observe him while he pats on the cologne displayed on the sink, before brushing his teeth.

“I doubt anyone will try to steal me away.”

He looks at you in the reflection, a curious expression in his eyes, before he spits and rinses.

“Yes, well, you never know. You might run off with a French vineyard heir by the end of the night.”

“Never, Daichi. No one can be my Bulldog but you.”

He snorts, turning to watch as you lather yourself in Chanel shower gel, the scent mixing with the lavender already clinging to the air.

“Da, no one is like me.”

He leans down to place a chaste kiss on your lips before he exits the bathroom and changes into a clean outfit waiting for him in the Master bedroom. The made-to-measure Chanel suit hangs in a black garment bag that he carries out with him as he leaves to join the council meeting of the European Casino Association before the Annual Art Auction tonight.

The interaction runs through your mind as you mull over the look in his eyes, the way he tensed before he kissed you goodbye, the faintest flicker of jealousy in his eyes that flared when he joked about you leaving him. Suddenly, you remember Ryunoslav’s lips against your neck and you squeeze your eyes shut.  With a deep inhale, you sink deep under the water to feel it tickle your nostrils and earlobes, before submerging your head.

Your fingers find the curves of your thighs, dragging up slowly to feel how the water moves around your hands and displaces against your skin. You lift your face slightly, until the edge of the water tickles your skin and you inhale, swirling the skin of your clit. In your mind, Ryunoslav’s kisses fall hot and wet against your body, skin red and heated in the bathtub while you press hard circles against sensitive nerves. You’re not trying to take it slow, coaxing the first wave of clenches quickly as you imagine a thick cock sliding over and over inside you.

Ryunoslav morphs into Daichi, and you sit up with a gasp, fingers not slowing, your hand gripping the handle of the tub tightly as your abdomen contracts. Uncontrollably, Ryu and Daichi alternate, their bodies shifting fluidly until a faceless man fucks into you.

You orgasm on the verge of tears, confused and aching. The styling team will arrive in an hour.

You stand, feeling the cold winter air touch your heated skin. Wrapped again in the robe, you close the window and bind your hair in a towel.

A Russian Waltz still plays on the radio inside the ensuite office, and you look around to filter the channel to a French songstress crooning over the small speakers. Next to the stereo, is Daichi’s small black book, open to his to-do list, and your eyes scan over it before you can stop yourself, reading the neatly scribbled words.

14 March 2006, 1:00 am, La Serpent Fleur

That was the name of the Superyacht you and Daichi are to go on after the gala for the afterparty to the auction. You frown, thinking of the myriad of reasons what he might do there, who he’ll meet with other than the ECA board today. It must be to do with what happened in Georgia and was whispered to him during the flight.

You turn, leaving the book just as you found it and unpack the suitcase that was brought to the bedroom in preparation for tonight.

8. Tanaka

Ryunoslav waits at the front door, facing the short five-stair foyer that branches into the stairwell leading to the first floor. The golden light of the sunset filters in gentle waves through the chiffon curtains of the entry hall.

The first thing he sees of Valentina is in the reflection of the large silver mirror facing the stairwell on the landing. A single leg slinking out from a thigh-high slit, while a heart shaped pump in patent black is clasped around her ankle. The metal YSL heel clinks with each step. Next is the black, silk crepe de chine perfectly draping to the floor–not clinging to anything but the curve of her hips–and the bodice tailored to her waist in a tight structure that pendulums side-to-side.

However, what steals the very air from his lungs, stops his heart, is the bustier covering her breasts. The dress is strapless, the neckline two rounded cups that trace down the sides of her cleavage and towards her ribs before turning and meeting in a gentle hill at the end of her sternum. The dress is Yves Saint Laurent. Ryunoslav watches as Valentina rounds the stairwell and stands at the top of the foyer, opera length gloves running up her arms and with one hand on her hip while the other clasps a small black Bulgari clutch. Around her neck is a pendant necklace, emeralds glittering amongst diamonds and silver, set in the shape of a viper head. Matching emerald drop earrings hang from her lobes, reflecting the golden sun and glittering green against her neck. Valentina’s hair is pinned up, and that tattoo that curls from her left shoulder down her arm disappears beneath the gloves, reminding him that beauty is a secret poison. He swallows, blinks, then climbs up the steps to hand her the white fur coat he was holding.

“Vot eto da… You look beautiful, Mrs. Sawamurova.” Tanaka whispers, mindful of the bodyguards and staff littering the villa.

“Spasiba, Khazak,” she smiles, slipping her arms into the silk lining and fixing the collar. “Is the car ready?”

“Da.”

“Good, let’s go.”

The exchange between them feels mechanical, and Tanaka rushes ahead to open the car door, waiting until she is comfortable before shutting it and sliding into the driver’s seat. It is nowhere near the low temperatures of Russia in March, however he can’t stop the shivers that travel up his spine, and the ugly twist of jealousy that stabs at his heart.

The Casino de Monte Carlo, where the gala is being held, is a mere five minute drive from the villa, yet the silence is heavy, weighted, and slows down time.

“I missed you last week,” Valentina whispers, looking out the window at the midnight blue sky. A traffic light changes from red to green.

“Me too.”

The conversation ends when Ryunoslav pulls the Aston Martin around the fountain, waiting behind a elder couple stepping out of their black limo. The statues on either side of the Casino name look down at him as he parks and climbs out, a porter beating him to her door.

Camera’s flash, the music of a quartet floats out from the massive wooden doors up the entryway, and Ryunoslav remains closely behind Valentina’s right arm as he escorts her inside, pulling the ticket for both of them from his inner coat pocket and handing it to the doorman.

The grand foyer of the Casino is massive, ceilings high with a stained-glass skylight and the floor a white tile with black triangles in a circular pattern. Posed around the room, mostly in the center of the circles, are the artworks up for auction: a variety of paintings, sculptures, artifacts and some vintage designer jewellery. The golden chandeliers light the air with a sepia filter that softens the chatter and noise within. On the first floor bannister across the long hall, is a banner exclaiming, ‘2006 Annual ECA Art Auction’. Couples mingle, champagne is sipped and the Hors d’oeuvres are ignored in favour of the alcohol.

“I will check our coats,” Tanaka murmurs low in Russian, watching as Val slides the white fur down her arms to hand it to him with a polite smile, the kind he’s seen her wear in the public eye alongside Daichi for many years now.

“I’ll wait here, then we go find Daichi.”

His heart thumps painfully, the curve of her shoulders delicate as they flex in passing the heavy coat, but he nods and heads to the coat check just off the side. In passing, he spots Daichi at the top of the red-carpeted staircase, head bowed to speak secretly with someone Ryunoslav can not see, but knows. Daichi’s eyes find the growing storm in Tanaka’s with a smile, and he straightens to bid the woman a goodbye and descends the stairs.

“Sir,” Tanaka nods, pocketing the number for the coats.

“Ryunoslav,” Daichi returns the greeting, casually clapping the man on his shoulder. “Enjoy the evening, I will see you at the yacht later, yes?”

“She could’ve seen you, sir.” Tanaka whispers, carefully keeping eye contact with his Boss. Daichi smirks cooly, glancing back up the stairs and at a retreating woman’s back wearing a deep green dress.

“She did not see me. Thank you, again, for keeping this secret. Now, go, enjoy the party. Hell, if you see something you like, bid on it. I will pay.”

With that, Daichi walks past his Head of Security, chest puffing up as he walks towards his wife. Ryunoslav watches as she gives Daichi a gentle kiss on the cheek before wrapping a gloved hand around his bicep and following him into the crowd.

9. Valentina

The evening passes by in a blur.

The dinner and speeches take up half the evening before the auction begins, and the gala attendees disperse throughout the Casino, while you and Daichi walk to the gardens. Heaters are spaced periodically, warmth sinking below while gentle lights litter the walkways and grass. The stone steps leading there are cool, and you see your breath misting with each exhale before you’re back under the warmth.

The area of the auction outside has statues, planted with lighting that bring the romantic and violent figures to life.

“This one would look beautiful in our gardens in summer,” you muse, studying a small mermaid brushing her hair, tail flicked up and shells covering her breast.

“Anything for you,” Daichi replies, writing down a number with his auction code and placing it in the poll box besides the statue.

You just laugh politely, aware of Daichi’s two bodyguards following the both of you.

“Let’s go back inside. I want to see how our bid on the Kandinsky is doing.” Daichi offers, but you shake your head.

“I’ll walk around here for a bit longer. It’s such a beautiful night and the noise inside was giving me a headache.”

“As you wish.”

You spend a few minutes admiring the remaining statues, finding a waiter that hands you a glass of champagne. With small sips, you hug an arm around your waist, looking over the stone wall at the beautiful, glittering scenery of Monte-Carlo below. You find yourself tucked away in a dark corner of the ledge, where the lights of the gala are few, the tree branches of the gardens overhang, and the city has come to life beneath you. You can hear jazz music from a bar down the road, and you wish you were sitting on a terrace with a glass of wine instead.

“C’est magnifique, non?” A heavy french accent sinks into you, and you glance at the man that leans with his back to the view, a deep purple suit contrasting against his tanned skin and sharp cheekbones. He smokes a hand-rolled cigarette. You look back out at the city.

“Oui, trop beau,” you reply softly, taking another sip, shifting onto the foot farthest from the stranger. He turns and offers you one of the smokes, tucking it away in his jacket breast pocket with a smile and a tap when you decline. His eyes travel down your breasts, before glancing back up to your arching brows and unamused eyes.

“Je ne parle pas de la vue,” I do not mean the view, “Emmanuelle Beauchant,” he offers an outstretched palm.

“Valentina,” he lifts your gloved hand to his lips, but hovers just above contact when you continue, “Sawamurova.”

“Desolee, I did not realise you were not French, or married,” Emmanuelle apologises in English.

You smile politely, lifting the glass to your mouth to down the last of the fizzing alcohol.

“An honest mistake.”

“Your husband’s Casinos are some of my favourites. Please, accept my apologies. Let me get you a new glass.” He waves down a waiter, plucking the empty flute from your fingers and replacing it before you can reject. “I am the coordinator of this petite soiree. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Sawamurova.” With that, he leaves in a hurry, scampering off into the light much like he had appeared, leaving you alone again. Almost.

You feel the warmth of another body to your right, and you almost sigh from exhaustion when Ryunoslav’s gruff voice washes over you in comforting Russian. It breaks like the wave against the shore.

“I thought I would have to scare him away.”

Tanaka’s serious eyes beneath the shadow of a deep brow pulls the first real chuckle of the evening from your chest, and you see his shoulders somewhat relax as he leans with a hip on the stone.

“It was innocent, Ryu.”

“He wanted to fuck you.”

“He’s French,” you counter, placing the champagne glass down, sliding it away from your body and towards the party. “And everyone wants to fuck me.”

You spin, losing your balance as Tanaka pulls your hand towards him and twists you so that your back presses against the cool stone in a darkened alcove. His forehead is on yours, eyes shut, and breath fanning over your lips. Your own chest heaves with the sudden rush. His hands dig into your hips, yours into his shoulders. Your bag drops to the floor.

“You have no idea,” each word is punctuated by palms shimmying up the side of your waist, thumbs digging into the fabric, “how badly I want to fuck you too.”

He wraps his thick forearms behind your back hugging you tight and into himself as he folds over you and brings his lips to touch yours. It’s deep, and although passion usually pours from his kiss, this one is born out of jealousy, desperation, and desire.

Compliments drip like honey from Ryunoslav’s mouth as he mumbles them into your skin, words melting so that they become part of you.

“Ryu, Ryu, stop, we can’t. It’s so open.”

He shushes you, a palm snaking under the boning of the open neckline to cup the breast, nipplie erect from the night chill. “No one saw me come here.”

“But the people. They know who I am, mmpf.” A pinch to your nipple has you moaning under your breath, head tilting back against the stone, cold against heated flesh.

“They are all too busy with their own conquests, showing up one another.”

“You light a fire in my heart,” his onslaught of compliments don’t cease, and you realise that tonight is the tipping point. The intensity of his words drag you beneath his waters, much like the way his fingers find the high slit of your dress and sink into your folds. Your knee falls open to let him pull you deeper.

“Underwear?”

“Not with this dress.”

“Whore.” Teeth nip at your neck.

“Yours.”

An animalistic groan rumbles through your veins from his mouth, and you clutch at the lapel of his jacket as his fingers thrust shallow, over and over again. You want him–need him– inside you, and the thought of public sex no longer scares you. In this moment, only Ryunoslav exists, the smell of lilies and the fresh ocean fill you, devouring you with a hint of something darker that you recognise as human.

Sin. And something else.

A zipper comes down, his cock unfolds and stretches you out.

“I love you.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and even then, you don’t keep them in as you whisper, him thrustsing into your aching core. You vaguely hear him mumbling it back to you. His voice low and sincere, forehead against yours, lips against yours. Your bodies become one.

“Blyat, where can I?” desperation fills his voice, and you barely utter the words before he spills inside you, keeping you warm and plugged up, panting against his face, chin tucked down.

A hand rifles through his pants pocket, and he pulls out his regular small handkerchief, stained, but comforting. You take it from him, careful to keep your face hidden as he pulls out and you wipe yourself under your skirt.

“Ryunoslav.” His name feels like lava, molten on your tongue as it rolls down your body and ignites a fire over your skin, burning you. “We have to stop seeing each other.”

He tenses against you, arms shielding you from the world so only the two of you exist.

“Why?”

“We’ve changed. We’re not just having fun anymore, Ryu-”

“What do you mean we’ve changed?”

“Us. This.” You curse, gesturing vaguely to him and yourself, feeling the fire spread to your ears and your heart.

“Nothing has changed. I have always loved you.”

Your heart drops into your stomach, turning over and over as you digest it, painfully aware of how much truth rings in his words, and how you’re sure you’ve always loved him back.

“We have to stop. Or we have to tell Daichi.”

His lips connect with your forehead. You hear him swallow.

“Tonight then. Together.”

“Together.”

Ryunoslav stays close to you as he picks up the bag from the floor, handing you the mirror inside to fix your lipstick, your hair, before you dust the stone from your back and ass.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers to you a final time, stepping to the side so you emerge from the shadow, pick up your forgotten champagne glass and head back into where art dances together and people mingle.

10. Tanaka

Tanaka watches as Valentina saunters away, past the bodies to rejoin the party. With a heavy sigh, he leans against the stone, cooling his forehead and calming his thumping heart. His feet bump against something and with one eye, he squints at the ground and spots glittering emeralds in the dark. Her necklace.

Quickly, he picks it up, carefully placing it in his suit jacket pocket, and curses when he sees the time on his watch. He has to find Daichi and head to the yacht to do the final security checks before he arrives. Vines wrap themselves around his intestines, anxiety leaking into each step, the emerald necklace a dead weight in his jacket.

He finds the Boss surrounded by influential board members, holding a glass of vodka casually as they all laugh at his jokes. The Chanel suit drapes down his broad back perfectly, clean cut and sharp, the single seam a crisp line.

“Sorry for interrupt,” Tanaka apologies, English tangling on his tongue. He continues in a low Russian to Daichi, sweat beading on the back of his neck, palms clammy and therefore kept in his pants pocket. It’s better that way, his tattoos are less appreciated around the higher class of society.

Daichi nods, a loose smile along with his loosened tie. He hands Tanaka a paper that shows he won the bid on the Kandinsky painting. “Arrange this on the way out. Leave Valentina’s coat with mine.”

“Ya ponimayu.”

Tanaka turns to leave, but Daichi calls out one more time.

“Ryunoslav?”

“Da?”

“You have lipstick on your collar.”

Tanaka feels nausea bubbling up his gut, not from the proximity of your scent to The Bulldog’s nose, but from the thought of later tonight. He forces a cocky smirk and shrug, turning on his heel to head to the back office to finalise the paperwork for the painting and add the delivery address, before shrugging his thick coat on and stepping outside by the valet. The air has cooled considerably from the heat of the balcony and between your thighs. Once safely in the car, he rubs the stain furiously in the reflection of the rearview mirror, making it set even further into the white fabric. It blends into the threads like spilt blood. With a grumble, he drives to the harbor.

La Serpent Fleur is a sleek superyacht with three decks above water and one below, housing jet ski’s, a speedboat, storage and crew quarters. The middle and lower decks have outdoor and indoor seating, with main bedrooms for up to 15 couples to sleep in. The flooring and interior is light teakwood, rich brown accents amongst cream and white leather and fabric. It’s unmissable in the late night, lit up in silvery white, the name illuminated against a navy blue sky and pitch black water. It reflects stars in the meditterean sea.

Tanaka greets all staff, deploying his bratva across the yacht to inspect all rooms and inform the captain of the upcoming helicopter landing at 1:00 am. It’s not often that Mafia business mixes with Business business, but as money is always intertwined, this time, it is unavoidable. The pool on the top deck shimmers aquamarine, and Tanaka inspects that the bar is fully stocked for the upcoming meeting. Vodka and Campari. This floor is only for Daichi and a select few.

“It’s like I’m a fucking assistant,” he grumbles under his breath, withdrawing a small hand-gun strapped to his calf and securing it in the hidden shelf under the bar top. You never know, he smiles, tapping the holster against his back for comfort.

All checks are done by the time the first of the guests arrive, high-stakes rollers for the gambling about to happen. Tanaka keeps to the shadows, lighting a cigarette as he surveys the walkway leading up to the yacht, and it’s guests. They are all smiling, huddling together in their pair against the cool ocean breeze. He takes a look at the pack that was confiscated from Ukai with distaste, flicking the cigarette into the ocean water.

Daichi and Valentina are the last to arrive, and although he’s smiling, she is not, lipstick slightly faded and a smudge of mascara under her eyes. Tanaka watches as she disappears as soon as she set foot on the yacht, hurrying off to inside the cabin before anyone can stop her. Tanaka’s eyes follow her retreating figure, the white of her coat bristling, before he steps up to greet Daichi.

“Everything is ready for Kuroo Testuro to arrive, Boss,” he reports, murmuring low.

“Perfect, evening has turned into disaster. Make sure no one will disturb us except for emergency. It will not take long. What is his eta?” Daichi never lowers the corners of his mouth, but those brown eyes are hard mahogany. Tanaka checks his watch, the light above reflecting in the glass, shining in the storm in his eyes.

“Forty-five minutes. We have to set sail now, all guests have arrived and the poker tables inside have been set up.”

“I will wait upstairs.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Tanaka sighs, running a hand over his shorn hair, a shiver rippling down his spine. He hears his name, and he turns to face one of his brothers, following after to inspect a stairwell.

It does not take long for the party to fall into full swing. Continuing with free-flowing champagne is the key to keeping rich socialites and underground dealers happy and oblivious. Daichi stands near the railing, ice cubes in his glass clinking while he surveys the decks below and waits. Tanaka stands to attention off the side, the cool winter air breezing through his suit jacket, the veins on his knuckles and forearms almost frozen; he stuffs them into his pockets. The cool silver of Valentina’s necklace shocks him and he remembers he has to sneak it back to her. He peers over the edge, spotting her in the distance, smiling once more, makeup fixed and socialising.

His heart thumps, emeralds and diamonds cutting a hole in his jacket pocket, beating faster until it syncs up with the incoming helicopter blades. They whir around in a steady beat that consumes the noise below and thrums through his bones. Then, the wind hits him. Air cold as ice as the machine descends, the collar of his jacket whipping up and folding into itself. Kuroo Testuro has arrived.

The blades come to a halt and Tanaka steps forward, two men overtaking him to climb up the stairs of the helicopter pad landing and open the door. Long legs dressed in a black pin-stripe suit step out, a lopsided cocky smirk plastered on the Italian boss’s face.

“Ciao Daichi, it’s been a while!” Kuroo calls over the wind, arms stretching out while he’s patted down. “Khazak, you’re looking sour.”

Tanaka scowls, not entirely sure what The Panther of the Testuro family said to him. Daichi turns to face the man completely, walking until he stands next to Tanaka, waiting for the man to descend the white metal stairs to the upper deck. The Boss’s exchange a stiff handshake, their eyes piercing as one fights for dominance over the other. Daichi wins, his hand slapping against Kuroo’s back in a hearty greeting.

“Let’s get to business, something to drink?” The Bulldog offers, but Kuroo is laughing, already walking to the leather sofas around the pool, flopping down onto it with one leg crossed over the other. He waves to one of his bodyguards, pointing at the bar.

“Always so formal Daichi, tell me, how is Valentina? Still married to you?” Kuroo’s words tumble out quickly, Italian accent thick enough that Tanaka can only pick up on a few words. He registers your name, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention, ready to attack at Daichi’s order. The Boss takes a deep breath, his teeth gritting.

“She is fine. Enjoying party below.”

“Pity, I think she’d be happier up here with us. Won’t you call her?”

“Careful, Kuroo.”  Daichi warns, but the Panther just smiles his wicked Cheshire grin in return.

“Ah, I’m joking. I will just keep the fantasy of her lips around my–”

A hand darts out over Kuroo’s shoulder, interrupting any further explanation of imagination. Tanaka grabs Daichi’s arm, one that had tensed with it’s fist closed around a concealed gun in a holster on his back.

“Campari, sir?”

“Ah! Grazie!” He takes a sip, setting it down on the glass table beside him. “Now, we can talk business.”

Tanaka listens to the low conversation between the two bosses, the discussion of the new trade route of cocaine between Italy and Russia. It takes some time to adjust to the accent, but then he’s following along, standing with his hands in his pockets, a thumb gliding over the necklace. There had been an interruption along the coasts between Lecce and Albania, several different Sicillian Mafia’s holding up some of Daichi’s shipments due to unpaid ‘reparations’, a farce to ignite a turf war between the Families in Italy and their Russian connections.

“You must call off your friends in Italy. We keep up our end of bargain. I will not be so understanding in future.”

“Ah, but you see, they are greedy and believe you are not paying properly for the passage.”

“I assure you, I am.”

Tanaka stiffens, seeing how Daichi begins to inflate, irritation lacing his voice. Kuroo chuckles, taking a slow sip with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, I believe you. I can convince them but I’ll need some extra incentive from your end.”

Tanaka speaks up, eyes narrowing as he sniffs out Kuroo’s angle. “We can not give you that.”

“You are one of the largest groups in the world, surely you have some men for me?”

“No.”

Tanaka’s blood begins to boil, nails biting into the skin of his palms enough to draw blood. The gun strapped on his back heavy as it calls to be unholstered. His men are not dispensable. Kuroo sighs, then his eyes glance to the left where the noise of the party floats in the night air, and he smiles.

“Then maybe you have a woman.”

Tanaka turns to follow his gaze, and climbing up the stairs slowly is Valentina, a hand on the metal rail, the white fur coat hanging down her back as it drapes from her elbows, lipstick blood red. She’s drunk, giggling to herself but stops when a vor blocks the final step onto the deck. Then, she sobers, straightening instantly with narrowed eyes.

“Asahi,” she says, voice sharp but breathless.

“The Boss is in a meeting.”

Her makeup had been fixed, the tips of her nose and ears pink from the chill, her hair no longer pinned up but wild down her back from the wind. Tanaka glances at Daichi, his eyes muddy and lips tightly pursed.

“Oh, let her join, huh?” Kuroo grins, setting his glass down and leaning forward to interlock his fingers and rest his elbows on his knees. “Surely, you trust her enough.”

“Of course.”

Daichi and his guest battle in their stares, but ultimately the Panther wins. With a sigh, Daichi calls out to Alexei, “let her through.”

Valentina strides over to the men, coat dragging on the floor behind her. Surprising everyone, she stops in front of the cocky bastard, who stands to greet her, and their cheeks brush twice, left then right.

“Kuroo, how lovely to see you again. I hope my husband is kind.”

Tanaka holds back a wince, the feeling of her warm breath against his neck still teasing him in his memories. He has to admire her acting, even inebriated, she commands attention. Their eyes follow when she walks to the head of the table and flops down onto the chair, slit falling open with crossed legs.

“He’ll be kinder now that you are here.”

Valentina laughs, “yes, but I might not be.”

“Enough.” Daichi cuts through the jovial small talk, fists clenching and resting on his knees, his back straight. “I am tired of games.”

Tanaka thinks he catches a double meaning, heart racing as he readies himself for anything.

“You own Casinos,” Kuroo drawls, but he’s no longer smiling, still standing. Daichi gets to his feet, shorter than his counterpart, but thicker.

“We are getting nowhere. I will not be included in your battle for control, and if my next shipment continues to be held, God is not the only one that can turn water into wine. Capisci?”

Their stares are intense, and seconds tick by in eternity, before Kuroo nods with a sigh, a hand tucking into his pants pocket while the other extrends. They shake, curt and stiff, and Tanaka rolls his shoulders, loosening the knots in his upper back, eyeing Valentina curiously. She has her eyes focused on Daichi, pupils narrow and mouth pressed into a thin line; the same look she had when she boarded the yacht. She snaps out of it, lips curling up as she stands.

“It was a pleasure, although short,” Kuroo tells her, and they exchange polite kisses. Tanaka hears the rumble in Daichi’s chest, and he briefly wonders if she’s purposefully trying to anger the Bulldog. She’s always been unafraid of his bark, a viper teasing with her fangs.

They wait until Kuroo climbs back in the helicopter, until the blades whir to life with that beating drum that pumps adrenaline through his body and until it is quiet once more, the waves sloshing far below against the yacht. The air is crisp, and the silence heavy. Valentina turns to face Daichi, neck tense, mouth open but Daichi cuts her off.

“Don’t embarrass me like that again.”

Tanaka bristles, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He controls the need to step in front of Val, to shield her from his Boss. The weight of her necklace in his pocket keeps him anchored. His heart pounds in his ears, Daichi glances at him briefly before keeping an unwavering eye on Valentina’s fierce gaze. It’s odd. Tanaka always has a plan, knows what will happen next, and yet, he is at a loss. Unsteady on his feet as the boat rocks. He’s unsure of what she will do, how she will tell her possessive husband–

“I’m seeing someone.”

11. Valentina

Lightning flashes in the distance when the words leave your lips, the thunder rumbling in the silence that follows. You watch Daichi carefully, standing your ground even though parts of you scream to take a few steps back. You resist the temptation to glance at Ryunoslav. During your musings, you decided not to say who it was right away. Daichi glances down at your bare neck, the necklace he’d given you missing, lost somewhere at the gala when you finally lost yourself in emotion. You remember the fight with him when leaving the venue.

You expected Daichi to burst in anger, explode outwards and destroy everything with his fury. Yet he remains silent, eyes mattifying as he draws inward, no longer oiled mahogany but rather sanded wood. When he speaks, it’s so low you almost miss it, but it penetrates you with the next flash of lightning.

“Leave.”

White, hot anger burns through you at his command, your hands raising as though to grab his lapel. Quickly, you reroute to pulling your fur coat back onto your shoulders.

“You don’t want to know who?”

“You don’t want to know what I am thinking right now, Gadyuka.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Ryunoslav cuts you off, “take the boat, please.”

You stare incredulously at him, but he is already speaking in a low voice onto a handheld receiver, then back at Daichi, who’s body slowly begins to vibrate. However, Daichi is no longer looking at you. Instead, his eyes have shifted to Ryu, brows furrowed. Thunder claps. You feel the first spray of rain misting onto your eyelashes.

“Fine, we will talk more at breakfast.”

You turn on your heel, the sound grating against the wooden deck, and someone from the Brigade accompanies you down the stairs, walking just slightly ahead of you, silently asking you to follow.

You descend slowly, crossing the second deck with a practised smile, apologising to anyone that approaches you with an easy lie. Most of the crewmen begin to pack up and rearrange the party to continue on indoors. You enter the large cabin, and walk down another flight of stairs, to the first deck and then lower still. Here, the walls change from luxurious wooden, glass and metal to open beams, and white gritty flooring. It’s slightly wet, from the rain that batters against the open exit and the ocean water shimmering inside.

A small speedboat waits for you, not fully submerged, and a captain, yet his face is wary.

“Mrs. Sawamurova,” he holds his hat in his hands, a navy raincoat wrapped around his uniform, “wouldn’t you rather wait for the storm to pass? Please, enjoy the evening and when the water is still, I can take you to shore in an instant.”

“My husband wants me gone.”

“But not dead.”

You laugh, bitterly, feeling your intestines swirl, unsettled by those words. He’s brave.

“How long do you think it will take?”

“A few minutes, maximum. It is the winter rain, harsh but quick.”

“I will wait here.”

12. Tanaka

When the top of Valentina’s head disappears down the stairs, Daichi speaks, not looking at Tanaka. The first of fat raindrops begin to fall onto their shoulders.

“I will have to talk to her father, after I kill her.”

Tanaka’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, every bump dry and scratching against his throat. He can’t be serious. Slowly, Daichi turns to face him, eyes raking over his closest subordinate’s features, down his throat, and settles on the crisp white collar peeking out from his suit jacket, stained the same colour as Valentina’s lipstick.

“Khazak, who is it?”

“Boss–” but he doesn’t know what to say. The memories of the prison hospital bed, bare with just a sheet, an unsterilised IV drip stuck into his arm flashes in front of his mind. Daichi’s calm face that visited him before he woke up somewhere else.

“Tell me right now, or does your loyalty mean nothing?”

Tanaka winces, “nyet, Boss, you know I am loyal to you.”

He takes a deep breath, then reaches inside, fingers looping around diamonds to pull out the necklace, the viper head swaying back and forth. His heart claps with the thunder, the clouds breaking into a heavy downpour. Chill sets in instantly, his bones freezing beneath his suit.

“Supply snakes with a meal, and you will have them all by the fangs,” Daichi whispers under his breath, barely audible above the pattering of the drops against the floor, but Tanaka’s sensitive ears pick it up. “She played me for a fool.” Daichi’s wide-set eyes lift from the necklace to Tanaka’s.

“Mne ochyn zhal,” Tanaka begins to apologise profusely, but the hardened look shuts him up.

“I was wrong, Khazak,” Daichi interrupts, his hands moving to his pockets, Tanaka dropping his arm to his side. He starts to walk towards the sheltered area of the deck, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. “You are the one that is going to have to kill her.”

Tanaka’s heart drops to his stomach, falling straight into the floor and sinking to the bottom of the unruly ocean. The Boss does not joke around, but he wishes for it to be one.

“I can not, Boss,” his head shakes, body vibrates. This is the first time he has ever refused an order from Daichi. The Bulldog watches with raised eyebrows, the question evident on his face.

“I am in love with her.”

The bark that erupts from Daichi’s throat echoes above the rain, above the thunder, and shatters inside Tanaka’s heart. He holds the cigarette to his lips, and Tanaka feels the rain drip down the rivulets of his shaved hair and under the collar of his suit and shirt. There’s a flicker of orange as the Marlboro tip glows.

“And you think she loves you back? Valentina is a snake, a woman. They know only two things: how to lie and how to fuck. You have fucked her, da? It’s magnificent. Was she the second whore of that weekend? Or was she first as well? How long have you been fucking my wife, Ryunoslav?”

Tanaka wants to answer, but it catches in his throat. His tongue refuses to mould the shapes, his lungs refuse to exhale the sound. Daichi sighs.

“It does not matter. Only one thing matters. Come.”

Tanaka walks towards Daichi, each step kicking water down his shoes, his socks wet. He’s never felt more like the ocean than now, swallowed by the rain, drowning. He stops when he stands under the partition, Daichi’s large hands cupping themselves under Tanaka’s chin to lift his head slightly, wiping the rain from his skin, the gold rings cold against his jaw. There may have been tears but Tanaka can’t tell, numb and expectant of Daichi’s next words,

“Tell me, do you love her more than me?”

Cigarette smoke tickles Tanaka’s nose, and he holds his breath. Without him, Tanaka would be dead. Daichi knows this, Tanaka knows this.

“I owe you my life, Pakhan.”

“Now, you owe me a life. I am not without mercy. You have been the closest brother to me. You have tasted the sweet fruit of sin, I can not blame you. You know I have done it too. But I am expected to sleep with someone else. She has embarrassed me. I can not have that. A Boss that can not keep his woman in line? No one will respect me, her own father will not respect me.”

Tanaka remembers the conversation in the banya, the plans to take over completely, the poor health Valentina’s old man is in.

“Are you loyal, or are you just another predatel, scum like the men you erase from existence?”

The storm in Tanaka’s eyes swirl around, clashing against the hard forest floor of Daichi’s. He is loyal. Strangely, in this moment, he remembers the lilies of his home, and their sweet, comforting fragrance, his mother making dinner, and his sister who ran with him to their new life before separating. The pain of losing her no longer stabs at him, maybe this pain someday will not either.

13. Valentina

The room is white and grey, the smell of oil and rubber and metal and salt clinging to the air, to your skin. All the alcohol consumed over the evening seeps from your pores, creating a pounding in your head. You begin to wonder if it was ever a good idea to tell Daichi. You wonder what happened when you left, and you wonder where your necklace is. Your fingers brush over your sternum, feeling the ghost of the viper head and of Tanaka’s mouth.

You taptaptap your toes against the floor, the rain echoing in time, the water drawing in and out rhythmically as you wait for the storm to pass. Only a few minutes, you were told.

“Few minutes, my ass.”

The walkie-talkie connected to the captain’s hip shocks to life, and broken Russian floats up, but you can’t make out the words. He answers, smiles at you, “please, wait here. I will be back soon.”

Then, he leaves, and you’re left alone with the brat that accompanied you. He sighs heavily, as though the inconvenience to him is all your doing, and you glare.

“Is there a problem, soldier?” you ask, standing straight, arms crossed in front of your chest. They seem to forget, Daichi married into your family, not the other way around.

“Nyet, Gadyuka, prosti,” he apologises quickly.

Silence settles over the hull again, claustrophobia leaching into your veins. If you look out at the open hatch, you can see inky blackness, and far in the distance, the faint yellow lights of Monte Carlo. You are about to ask for some water when footsteps echo against the metal walls, a familiar gait.

“Leave us, pazolvste.”

Ryunoslav says to his subordinate, who swiftly salutes him and walks up the stairs. The door at the top clicks shut. You’re speechless, and he is sopping wet.

“Ryu,” you whisper, walking towards him and draping your arms around his shoulders, uncaring at the feeling of water pressing into the fabric of your dress, dripping between the open gap of your breasts. He’s stiff when you touch him, but soon melts, nose nuzzling into your neck and breathing deeply. He still smells like crisp apple and fresh seawater.

“Why are you here?”

“Daichi knows.”

You’ve never felt colder, warmer, like a fever and frostbite all at once. You feel him rustle against your bodies, and you let go to watch him pull the Bulgari necklace out, lifting your hand to place it in your palm. Your fingers close around the jewels automatically.

“I told him I love you.”

There are no words that come to your mind in that instant. Emotions, many. Relief, nausea, stillness and rage, love for the man in front of you. You ache to feel his warm, corded muscles against your skin. He looks pained, eyes tormented as he looks into your soul.

“How did he react?”

“Not well.”

“And?”

He gives no space for continuation, pulling you tightly against his body, arms snaking around your waist as his lips fall against your mouth. His skin is cool, wet, pressing to your heated cheeks, but his mouth is inviting. There is passion unlike what you’ve experienced before. It tastes like freedom, like a new day and endless night. It’s the smoke on the fire, and the salt of the sea. He’s crying, you realise, and you open your mouth to lick up a tear on the corner of his mouth.

The necklace slips from your fingers when you grab him, pushing the jacket of his suit from his shoulders to drop to the already wet floor. There’s a faint crunch, but neither one of you pull away to look at the crushed jewel beneath your heel. It’s just so right to kiss him. In this moment, the world falls away and it’s just the two of you. His taste fills you with a feeling that rivals being whole, satiated. Something hard pokes against your hip, and you smile into the kiss, lips moving to his jaw to suck on an earlobe.

But you freeze. Daichi is at the top of the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Ryunoslav whispers.

You frown, his words not registering and when you pull back to ask what is happening, he ensnares another kiss from you, tears flowing freely, something hard, cold, now presses against your temple and–

.

.

.

End.

-----

Thank you for reading, truly. This fic honestly has so much of my heart and soul in it. I had so much fun writing it. I hope you’re not too mad about the ending lmao.

@dee-madwriter , @pleasantanathema​​​ , @lookslikeleese​​​ , @linestrider​​​ , @hisoknen​​​ , @mindninjax​​​ , @whats-her-quirk​​​ , @messwriting​

[northernmariette]

Countess Potocka dines with the Emperor

Yes, every time I want to get away from Countess Potocka she reels me in again with some anecdote I can't resist. This time she narrates her dinner with Napoleon. She has been invited to Saint-Cloud (French pronunciation: Sain [silent T] Cloo] for dinner in very restricted and select company, namely the imperial couple, the Empress's uncle the Duke of Wurtzbourg [sic; I will let German-speakers correct this spelling], Pauline Bonaparte the Princess Borghese, and Cabinet Minister Montalivet. This is the very dinner interrupted by the arrival of a greatly agitated Eugene, as related by @josefavomjaaga in one of her posts.

Another memoirist, whom I shall soon introduce, also made the acquaintance of the Duke of Wurtzbourg, and relates a most comical episode about the occasion. Both she and Countess Potocka comment on the Duke's expressionless demeanor, reportedly enamoured of Pauline Borghese whose lovely figure was too often admired, as Countess Potocka previously reported, using italics in her text so that we understand her meaning.

Finally, I would not be one to turn down artichokes with sauce poivrade, but it seems Napoleon's guests found them too rustic - so Napoleon ate them all. So would I have. La table de l'Empereur avait la forme d'un carré long. L'Impératrice et son oncle, tous deux personnages muets, occupaient un des côtés, Napoléon, vis-à-vis d'eux, se trouvait entre deux places vides. 

On était à la fin du mois de juin, il faisait grand jour, le soleil dardait ses rayons au travers du feuillage, mais en dépit de cet éclat, les candélabres étaient tous allumés et les fenêtres ouvertes. Ce double jour produisait un effet fort peu favorable. C'était là une bizarre fantaisie ; l'on m'a assurée que jamais l'Empereur ne dînait autrement. Un page se tenait derrière sa chaise, une serviette à la main ; ce page faisait mine de présenter une assiette, mais Napoléon ne le souffrait pas, un officier de bouche remplissait cet office.

Le service marchait avec une extrême célérité. On l'eût dit confié à des sylphes, tant le silence était grand.

Napoléon mangeait peu et fort vite ; les plats les plus simples étaient ceux qu'il préférait. Vers le milieu du dîner on présenta à l'Empereur, sur une assiette plate qui ne faisait pas partie du relevé, des artichauts à la poivrade ; il se prit à rire, et nous proposa de partager son modeste repas, faisant un grand éloge de ce mets d'anachorète. Mais comme personne ne sembla tenté d'en goûter, il fit passer l'assiette devant lui, et n'en laissa rien !

Par contre, l"Impératrice, fort préoccupée des plats qu'on lui présentait, n'en refusait aucun et paraissait contrariée de la promptitude avec laquelle ils se succédaient. Vers la fin du repas, l'Empereur rompit le silence, et s'adressant à M. de Montalivet, il l'interpella sur les travaux entrepris au château de Versailles qu'on commençait à restaurer. 

- Je veux, dit-il, amuser les Parisiens comme au temps passé, - il faut que les eaux jouent tous les dimanches. Mais est-il vrai que sous Louis XVI ce divertissement coûtait chaque fois cent mille francs?

Sur la réponse affirmative du ministre :

- C'est beaucoup, s'écria Napoléon, pour aller regarder des cascades. Eh bien, si je refuse ce plaisir aux badauds de Paris, qui tiennent à s'amuser plus qu'à toute autre chose, ils n'auront pas le bon sens de comprendre que c'est pour faire un meilleur usage d'une somme aussi considérable. 

Tout en parlant des jardins de cette royale résidence et de leur immensité, il se mit à chercher le nom du célèbre Lenôtre qui les a tracés.

Par un hasard singulier, M. de Montalivet ne se rappelait pas ce nom, et tous deux s'impatientaient sans résultat. 

Je m'aventurai de le souffler à l'oreille de la princesse Borghèse, qui le répéta tout haut. 

- Ah ! fit Napoléon, ce n'est pas de vous, cela ; je parierais que vous ignoriez que Lenôtre eût jamais existé... il n'est pas mort de votre temps ! 

Puis il me jeta un regard charmant.

Nous allions nous lever de table lorsque le chambellan vint prévenir l'Empereur que le vice-roi d'Italie l'attendait au jardin. Il se leva précipitamment sans laisser à Marie-Louise le temps d'achever les glaces, ce qui la contraria au point qu'elle ne put se défendre de s'en plaindre à son oncle. 

The Emperor's table was rectangular. The Empress and her uncle, both mute figures, sat on one side, Napoleon, opposite them, was between two empty places. Princess Borghese and I sat at one end of the table, and Monsieur de Montalivet at the other. The Emperor usually invited to dinner the minister with whom he had worked during the day, in order to continue discussing such topics, although less serious, related to that day's work.

It was a bright day at the end of June, the sun was shining through the foliage, but in spite of this brightness, the candelabras were all lit and the windows open. This doubling of the light created a rather unpleasant effect. It was a strange whim; I was assured that the Emperor never dined otherwise. A page stood behind his chair, a napkin in his hand; this page made as if to present a plate, but Napoleon did not tolerate this; a serving officer was entrusted with this function. 

Dishes were served with extreme speed. One would have thought that it was entrusted to sylphs, so great was the silence. 

Napoleon ate little and very quickly; the simplest dishes were those he preferred. Towards the middle of this dinner, the Emperor was presented with a plate of artichokes with poivrade sauce; this was not part of the meal plan; he started to laugh, and offered to share his modest meal, praising this dish suited for a hermit. But as no one seemed tempted to taste it, he asked that the plate be set in front of him, and left nothing on it!

For her part, the Empress, much preoccupied with the dishes presented to her, did not refuse any of them and seemed annoyed by the rapidity with which they followed one another. Towards the end of the meal, the Emperor broke the silence, and addressing Monsieur de Montalivet, he questioned him about the work undertaken at the Palace of Versailles which was then being restored. 

-” I want”, he said, “to amuse the Parisians as in the past, - the fountains and water features must be put in play every Sunday. But is it true that under Louis XVI this entertainment cost a hundred thousand francs each time?”

On the affirmative answer of the minister:

- “That's a lot," exclaimed Napoleon, "to go watch waterfalls. Well, if I deprive the gawkers of Paris of this entertainment, they, who seek pleasures above all else, will not have the good sense to understand that it is to make better use of such a considerable sum.”

While talking about the gardens of this royal residence and about their immense extent, he started to search for the name of the famous Lenôtre who designed them.

By an odd happenstance, Monsieur de Montalivet could not remember this name either, and both of them were becoming annoyed to no effect.

I ventured to whisper it into the ear of Princess Borghese, who repeated it aloud.

- “Ah!" said Napoleon, "that's not from you; I'll bet you didn't even know that Lenôtre ever existed... he died before your time!”

He then glanced charmingly at me..

We were about to leave the table when the chamberlain advised the Emperor that the Viceroy of Italy was waiting for him in the garden. He got up hurriedly without giving Marie-Louise time to finish her ice cream, which irritated her to such an extent that she could not help complaining about it to her uncle.

https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5463019n/f325.item, pp. 278-281

Saint-Cloud no longer exists. It was destroyed during the war of 1870.