#wood and cream wine cellar

[thereisanother]

Transitional Wine Cellar - Wine Cellar

An expansive transitional wine cellar design example with a dark wood floor.

[diejager]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 2

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

[count-alucard-tepes]

Headcanons for my One Piece hotties: What their bedrooms look like

Kizaru✨

His bedroom would have a custom bed that would be over ten feet tall to fit this guy. He likes warm colors so dark mahogany wood furniture and cream bedding and curtains. He’d have large walk in closet for all his fabulous suits.

Akainu🌋

He would have a modern Japanese style bedroom, he doesn’t like to hurt his back by sleeping on the floor so he does have a custom made bed. He keeps the colors neutral and even has a plant that he grew himself in his bedroom. The doors of his bedroom open to face the garden.

Ryokugyu 🌱

He’d have a dark green themed bedroom which has dark wooden floors and furniture. He does have a few plants in his bedroom and the room is well lit because he needs a lot of sunlight in the mornings to feel like himself.

Fujitora 🐅

He has a pretty simple bedroom as he doesn’t see the need to have anything extravagant as long as it’s comfortable that’s all the matters to him. He does prefer a simple Japanese style bedroom.

Sir Crocodile 🐊

He favored a dark and sexy bedroom with large windows that look out at the desert. He has a walk in closet attached to his room which

Doflamingo Donquixote 🦩

His bedroom would definitely be having the beautiful ocean view and a balcony where he could sit out and watch the sunset. He likes warm colors throughout his home. His bedding is of the finest quality and he has a little wine cellar tucked away there too.

Benn Beckman 🔫

He likes a simple and clean bedroom with light colors and wooden floors. He likes that he has a view of the countryside from his bedroom and it puts him in a real good mood when he wakes up.

Katakuri Charlotte 🍡

He has a bedroom with high ceilings for obvious reasons and a very cozy bed so when he lay on it, it feels like a marshmallow (probably made out of it too). He likes a blend of light and dark colors with large windows so that his room is brightly lit.

Killer🔪

He likes a simple and rustic style bedroom with warm colors that isn’t too much for him to deal with. He just wants to rest there and then he leaves so he doesn’t put too much effort into making it too special.

Kaido🐉

He likes something simple but still a little bit classy with high ceilings. He never really had much luxury in his life so he does enjoy having that when he goes to rest if he can make it to his room at the very least. He wanted strong wood floors and huge bed that could handle his weight. He didn’t care for the coyotes as long as he had a balcony to step out on, it was fine.

King👑

He would have a bedroom that was dark and sexy (like him omg King) with selected artworks that he found when he travelled to different lands. The bedding needs to be high quality so that they don’t hurt his sensitive wings and fire proof too. He has a bookshelf with several books that he’s currently reading.

Queen👑

He would have a bedroom that is comfortable for the ladies and himself. He definitely would have a jacuzzi to entertain his company when he has them around. He likes dark colors and super comfy blankets.

Izou🔫🔫

He likes a simple and elegant room with a feminine touch to it. He definitely has a walk in closet where he stores all his beautiful kimonos and make up. He has several floor length mirrors in his room so that he can see himself in different angles.

Dragon D Monkey🐉🐒

He wanted something that still had quite a bit of light coming in and a comfortable bed that doesn’t hurt his bad. He likes neutral colors that don’t stand out too much. He also has some chairs in there so that he could sit and read from time to time.

[sylvinuk-turkey]

Today (Tuesday) was another great day! You can’t go wrong with learning about history, seeing incredible sights and amazing food!

We got to sleep in a little, and the guide and taxi driver picked us up at 10a.

We started our day by driving through a town called Mustafapasa, there was an old house, turned hotel, that was the main location of a popular Turkish tv show, and a church.

Then we drove for an hour, past the agricultural areas, seeing how they’ve cut large storage areas into the mountain sides (like wine cellars) to keep produce. We ended up at Kaymakli Underground City, which goes down ~200 ft and is one of at least 3 underground cities (not the largest). Kaymak is a type of cream they usually mix with honey and spread on bread for breakfast. But here they make it differently, they dry it! We got to taste some after touring the 4 (of at least 8) stories of the underground maze-like city. A mix of storage, spiritual places, wine making and cellars and defense - a great place to hide and defend the small passage ways if anyone comes to fight.

Next we drove to pigeon valley for another incredible view point. Gokay was very excited about the pigeons and bought some seeds to feed the birds. We washed our hands thoroughly before lunch, I promise!

The guide asked if we wanted very local food, and we obviously said yes. So they drove us through the industrial part of town lots of car repair and part shops and lumber yards. It was definitely a little weird to find an amazing restaurant in the midst of all of this, but working people have to eat! It was the most amazing Pide (wood fired oven made), and meat (tepsi kebabi) that you can put into the bread. Plus some foaming ayran (a salty yogurt drink, which I like).

We then drove to the Goreme open air museum to see the amazing spiritual complex (churches and monasteries) built into the rocks and cliffs. You know how yesterday I mentioned I was sad to see how terribly treated the frescos were in some of the other places. Well this place, due to being both government run and weather protected, had incredible full color frescos. You’re not allowed to take photos, and guides are not allowed to talk inside because the CO2 could ruin the frescos. The tour also included a couple storage rooms, kitchens and dining rooms. Including one dining room that had a last supper fresco at the head of the long table. It was really cool to see. Its crazy to think this imagery was done in 4th - 12th century, which some is earlier than European churches!

Our second to last stop of the day was the three beauties. At first when taking pictures I had only seen two or the wrong three. But as we walked across the built viewing platform I noticed there was a third small one. There is a myth about it being a family (father, mother and child). The mother was the daughter of the king, and because she wanted to marry/married a shepherd (the father) he banished her. They had their child and she thought “maybe by now he’s forgiven us.” She thought wrong. When they showed up, the king was very angry and banished them again. As they left, the king sent an army after them. The mother prayed for help and the story is that god turned them into stone so they couldn’t be hurt.

We finished our guided tour seeing the top of the hill in the town where our hotel was, Urgup. There used to be an exhibit in the small building about the local librarian. The story is, no one came to the library, so the librarian would take books on his back or on a donkey around to the villages to share knowledge. Now it’s a government building. Next to it is a “museum” which used to be a family home, turns out the librarian was an uncle. Instead of making it into a hotel, the family preserved their home and items from 4 generations back. It was four levels carved into the cliff face. It had balconies and everything! Incredible!

We got dropped off and let the taxi driver go after we paid him the fixed price that was agreed for the two days. The guide stayed. Gokay and I quickly changed, it had been a humid day with a little rain, so we were sweaty. Then the guide took us to get dinner and supplies for our sunset picnic.

He was very sweet, he said he’d get some local wine if we picked up the food. So we started at the local grocery chain and got cherries, olives, cheese and the wine. We then picked up chicken Döner (tavuk Döner) to go. He drove us to Kizilcukur Valley to eat and watch the sunset. We spent an hour eating and talking. We were first there but many cars came a little later. We also had two dogs come up to us, we fed our leftover Döner and some water to them. It was beautiful.

We got home around 8:45p and went to bed quickly after that as we had to be up at 4a for a 4:30a pickup for the sunrise ballon ride.

[tagteamestatesale]

Previous sale

Tag Team Estate Sale

Demolition/Tag Sale

March 3rd & March 4th

9:30m - 4pm

11 Wood Edge Court - Watermill

We are selling modern kitchen cabinets with white Cesar Stone/Quartz countertops, Miele cooktop and wall oven,Miele dishwasher, Sub-Zero refrigerator drawers, Andersen windows and sliders, wine cellar - cooling unit and shelving , light fixtures - Veronique linear chandelier in polished nickel- bathroom fixtures - Restoration Hardware bathroom hardware, Robern medicine cabinet, Kohler toilets, washer/dryer, pool fence from 2020, awning, new Azek fence, belgium blocks, bricks , AV & HVAC equipment , Sono’s, Gym equipment including Octane Fitness Elliptical, Hoist V 4 Universal, True Fitness Treadmill, Life Core Rower, New carpet from Stark, ping pong table, Tv’s, teak furniture, exterior heat lamps, custom black out lined drapery and polished nickel drapery hardware throughout, beautiful “Hepburn” cream leather coffee table from Mecox Gardens, accessories and more. Some photos are posted below.

[doccywhomst]

So, it's a well know fact that Eight smells of honey, so what do you think the rest of the Doctors would smell like (Yankee Candle Gallifrey Limited Edition Scents Range?)?

this is an incredible question, and i'm extra excited to answer it because i have smell-color/texture synesthesia! most of my senses overlap significantly - so let's switch on the smell-o-vision and see what's up.

first doctor: the attic. dust, vanilla, clean linen, wool. creaking floor boards. the smell that i associate with a bright window in a dark room. warmth. old, yellowing books. humming. somewhere in the distance, windchimes.

second doctor: the back garden. gardenias, petunias, roses. sweet but earthy. grass and rich, damp soil. cold water. a brook babbling over large, rounded rocks. a recorder. two people talking quietly, then laughing.

third doctor: the garage. metal, oil rags, newspapers, old boxes. clean clothes and grimy hands. a sigh of relief. someone scratching out notes with a fountain pen. operatic singing, including the instrumentals.

fourth doctor: the parlor. honeyed whiskey, smoke, old rugs, books. a drunken game of charades. a gramophone playing softly. glasses clinking. loud, booming laughter. scattered applause and a bow.

fifth doctor: the lawn. freshly cut grass, a cup of afternoon darjeeling with lemon. falling asleep in the sunshine while reading. "tangy." daisy chains. birds singing, friends strolling. ozone - chances of rain later. pages turning.

sixth doctor: the scullery. eggs, toast, ham, and fresh fruit. a spice cabinet. lavender soap. freshly-brewed coffee: two creams, three sugars. morning sunlight through a window prism. reading the paper with your feet up. a friendly and intellectual discussion.

seventh doctor: the library. ink, parchment, leather, your grandfather's cologne. brass knobs on locked mahogany doors. a clock ticking on the mantle. vases filled with fresh lilies. dusty photo albums. someone muttering. typewriter keys clacking. ding.

eighth doctor: the music room, adjacent to the library. the scents mingle with lemon furniture polish, old brocade upholstery, and oil paintings. velvet and satin. darjeeling with honey. an open window. sandalwood. a violin: the whole house sings with it.

shalka doctor: the basement near the cellar. red wine, cheese, oak, cinnamon. chaise lounges, wooden chests, decorative beaded lampshades from the 1920s. an Édith Piaf record plays quietly. framed sepia pictures on every surface. a fireplace glows with embers; he's taking a nap. there's a plate of snickerdoodles on the mantle. (thanks, six.)

war doctor: he hasn't been home in a while.

ninth doctor: the main stairway, just past the foyer. a little trace of every room, plus the metal slag and sulfur on his clothes. a dab of vanilla. halfway up the stairs or halfway down? up, he decides. humming, he reaches the top and wipes the blood from his boots. he hangs his jacket on a hook and smiles.

tenth doctor: the master bedroom, if you can call it that. it's mostly storage space: boxes, filing cabinets, drawers, antique desks, and shelves crammed with mementos. maps cover the walls, but he rarely looks at them. his bed is always made, and never slept in. wood pulp, musk, candle wax, ink, and roses.

eleventh doctor: the games room. chalk, polish, tea brewing, a splash of whiskey from the decanter. billiards and backgammon sets. the Candy Land and Monopoly boxes are well-loved but shelved. the arcades along the back wall are dark and dusty. in a corner, a man plays both sides of chess. he sighs.

twelfth doctor: the office. wood paneling, Persian rugs, a jukebox. piles and piles of ungraded essays. a coffee with ten sugars and a peeled orange. black nail polish, chocolate, spice. every book in the room has been read and annotated, twice. dents in the ceiling from throwing and catching a cricket ball. somewhere, a guitar strums. laughter.

thirteenth doctor: the balcony. fresh air. a hammock creaks. an empty flask of vodka, pink sunglasses, rainbow socks with toes. crystals and half-finished machines litter the stone. plants in painted pots, little gurgling fountains, trays of homemade incense baking in the sun. oh, and windchimes.

so, this turned into a bit of a poetry project, haha.... oops. if you got this far, i congratulate you. in the same way that Yankee Candle names can be very abstract, i wanted to capture the general mood of the doctors' scents and how they relate. ❤

[valaruakars]

I’ve Been Saving All My Summers for You (Part 1)

Viktor x f!Reader || Royalty AU || 1.7k || SFW (...for now!)

Prologue + Part 2

Scion of your noble household, the time has come to ensnare a husband. Your eye is trained on Prince Jayce Talis, for you were raised with the ambition of making such a fortuitous match. You will spend the season attending his lavish parties, hoping to entice him with your wit and charm. Which is difficult, when you are most certainly in love with his advisor instead.

♥ still not historically accurate and yeah that’s only going to get worse. jayce is a horse girl next question

It has been near a month since invitations were dispersed to the lofty houses of Piltover’s nobility, summoning their eligible daughters to the court of Prince Talis for this summer’s social season. The day of reckoning has arrived, waking a frenzy within the palace like beating a beehive with a stick. The panic is thick and palpable. Tensions are high.

The first ball will commence at dusk, and the grandeur must set a precedent for the rest to come.

He’s seen it all before. Servants will scramble about to make the final arrangements. Wine will be hauled from the cellars and little delicacies laid out by the heaping plateful, hoping to satisfy the finicky appetites of nobles. The ballroom floor will be shined and the instruments tuned to perfection for a long night of dancing. They will gild the palace in golden light, the chandeliers lit candle by candle.

And, as before, Viktor is liable to be knocked off his feet trying to navigate that very commotion.

He is much safer upstairs, in the relative calm of the palace’s residential wing, but not excused from participating in the preparations. Rather than a palace, he must prepare a Prince.

His cane thumps softly down the carpeted hallway leading up to the Prince’s door. The windows have been thrown open, a delicate breeze hardly ruffling the heavy drapery that frames them. It’s quiet here, like the calm before a storm.

Blessed with perfect timing, he lets himself into Jayce’s lavish apartments, all dark wood and oil paintings, just as his valet takes leave. Ever polite and yet intruding uninvited, he clears his throat and hovers close to the door, head bowed in modest deference. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Viktor! Good morning!” he beams, buttoning the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt. It takes only a few strides for Jayce to enter his space, clapping him gently on the shoulder in his usual way. “Why so formal? It’s just us.”

He brightens and lifts his head, a soft crinkle at his eyes suggesting of a smile. “Ah. I see. Good morning, Jayce.”

“Much improved,” he nods, “Come, sit down!”

Jayce beckons he follow to a small table in his antechamber, one that is dressed for an exclusive breakfast. Two plates waiting to be piled with fruit and tiny pastries, two cups to be filled with a strong pour of coffee.

Viktor is taken aback by the forethought. They rarely spend mornings together. Not anymore.

“How… How did you know I was coming?” he asks apprehensively, settling into place at the neat little table.

“We have a big evening ahead of us. Call it a hunch,” he shrugs, filling each cup before Viktor can reach for the fine silver coffee pot himself.

He mutters a thank you upon being passed his cup, free to improve the acrid taste with the necessary amount of cream and sugar. Which is to say, a lot. When he looks back to Jayce, the man is staring at him expectantly across the table.

“What?” he asks, wide eyed and innocent. Not that Jayce will buy it.

Something in the deep hazel of his eyes has dimmed and turned stormy. Troubled. “I know you’ve been sent to have a talk with me. By my mother, I suppose.”

Viktor can feel the weight of Jayce’s words settle heavily over his heart. The suggestion of choosing sides, of betrayal, bites like a knife to the ribs. It’s immensely unfair. His station demands that he act as commanded. His job demands that he guide Jayce towards right and responsible decisions. Sometimes he is just the messenger to be shot, loaded down with harsh truths and reality checks to deliver. Sometimes Jayce just can’t see that.

He makes his choice then. Viktor doubles down on who he’s supposed to be. The role he’s supposed to fill. The one that isn’t ‘Jayce’s closest companion.’ The one that hurts more. Call it growing pains, as they grow apart and into the people they’re expected to be.

“If you wish to cut to the chase, then fine,” he says curtly, setting his shoulders, “She asked that I do my job and appeal to your better judgement, rather than encourage your… rakish behavior. Her words, not mine.”

“But you’ve never done that.”

“That is not important,” he snaps, “She begs that you take this season seriously. You have always treated the stakes as if they are low—”

“But—”

“You have, Jayce,” he says sternly, unwavering, “But the Queen Mother grows weary, and Piltover is ready— eager, Jayce— to have you as King. The unrest grows at your behest. This is serious… I am serious. This is not a game you can continue playing at.”

Poor Jayce. He has drawn into himself, as though waiting to be struck.

And strike him Viktor will.

“You must choose a bride, Jayce.”

The sudden scrape of his chair punctuates the Prince’s departure from the table. Perhaps even the conversation. He flees, but not far, to slowly pace the window lined walls. Nothing gets him worked up quite like confronting the reality of marriage. How lucky he is that an arranged one has yet to be forced on him.

Whisperings of the prince paint him as quite the charismatic flirt, dodging the shackles of betrothal for his own pleasure-seeking selfishness. This is very incorrect, as only Viktor seems to know. Jayce loves his freedom in that he be free to fall in love at his own pace, completely and organically.

He has professed his hatred of balls and socials many times over, and they both agree: formal events bring out the worst in people. The snobbery, the shallowness, and all the petty squabbles in between. And even if the nobility could behave themselves, intimate, forthright conversations are hard to come by when your name is Jayce Talis and your pull on every exquisite young lady in the room is simply magnetic. Often he could turn his attention away for scarcely five minutes, only to find Jayce with another partner in dance or conversation by the time he looked back. Hardly the ideal environment for him to pick a bride— a partner with which to lead Piltover into the future, strong and stable.

And anyhow, Viktor could never fault him for wanting to love and be loved in earnest.

“Are you actually this angry with me?” Jayce asks upon reproaching the table, uncharacteristically meek. Full of shit, Viktor knows, as he tries and fails to deflect.

“I will be if you take nothing from this conversation, yes.” Looking Jayce square in the eye, he stabs at a piece of melon on his plate, just for effect. It makes him squirm. “I’m tired of being treated like your governess, you know,” Viktor mutters around the piece of fruit in his mouth, sounding just as sour. I only have your best interests at heart, he doesn’t add. Deep down, it feels like a half-truth. It is difficult to lead him into making a commitment for the sake his kingdom at the expense of his own happiness.

“I’m sorry, Viktor—”

But he is cut off decisively when the apology’s recipient raises a hand to silence him. That same hand also gestures for him to sit again.

“A conversation for later, please,” Viktor says, leaning back in his chair, “For now, I need to know if you have… how to put it…? Studied your prospects? Like we discussed, do you remember?”

He chews at a sweet pastry too thoroughly and stares anywhere but at Viktor. “I remember…”

“And?”

“And I promise, I know who to look out for. Just not everything about them,” he mutters, begging to be understood in a code only Viktor can decipher. He just wants this to feel natural.

“That will… have to be enough,” Viktor resigns with a sigh, “I do have faith in your conversational skills, so perhaps we needn’t expect a total catastrophe, hm?”

Jayce’s response is a winning smile that makes him want to curl up under the table and die there.

They’re fucked. And not in a way that will keep Viktor’s delicate position at court intact.

That night, Viktor haunts the dais as a shadow dressed in sharp black, tucked just behind the left of Jayce’s throne. He leans hard on the gilded handle of his cane—”for fancy occasions!” said Jayce, when he gifted it to him years ago—as the pain of standing like a pillar for so long swells. His knuckles are white and his patience grows thin.

Two more noble houses to be presented, and then he can find a perch from which to watch Jayce shine and suffer in equal measure.

Ever watchful, Viktor notices out of the corner of his eye that the Prince has begun to slouch, no doubt bored of the formalities. He gives the back leg of Jayce’s throne a soft, subtle tap with his cane. A silent suggestion to right his posture, to sit tall and attentive for these women who have dressed in all their pretty finery for him and him alone. Right on cue, Jayce straightens. Even smiles a little more convincingly.

He follows the Prince’s line of sight back to the hopeful young lady at the front, the daughter of a Viscountess.  Which one was totally unimportant, as advanced discussions had already discarded her as a viable option. She hated horses. Jayce would not like her. And as a good friend and better advisor, he’d dutifully led the other royal counselors to believe that the dismissal was pragmatic and political.

The chandeliers threw a bright glint of light off something a few feet back from the Viscountess, laying the flattery on thick. The array of diamonds affixed to Marchioness Kiramman’s ears beckoned him to look and be dazzled. For a moment, he was. Mostly wondering how they didn’t weigh her head to the ground.

His eyes slid away from the Marchioness, and caught instead on shimmer of a great diamond choker. Perhaps indecent to notice, the chest supporting it rose and fell a little breathlessly. His gaze tracked up, interested to puzzle out the next prospect for Jayce’s inspection.

But then, as once he feared, catastrophe befell that gilded, marble ballroom. It didn’t look like Jayce storming out or bringing a lady to tears. It was not quite so dramatic as a fire breaking out or a coup being staged. If only it was minor, like a noble losing their shoe or spilling a little wine.

No, Viktor thinks, stunned and terrified and schooling his angular features to show none of it.

Catastrophe looks like a woman with swathes of glossy hair and painted lips, peering into the abyss of his soul with a deeply unsettling stare that betrays nothing.

It looks like you.

[fiddles-ifs]

Because worldbuilding is my most favoritist thing, here’s some actual theoretical recipes for making the TKP crew’s comfort foods. As an aside, I’m a fantastically bad cook (more of a baking guy, really) so I don’t recommend making these even if they somehow sound good in theory.

SMOKED VENISON AND SORREL TEA

Prepare venison by trimming excess fat and dry-brining in salt. Chill for 1-2 hours. (In Ruzayn, this is traditionally done by digging an ice well or leaving the meat in an earthenware pot in the root cellar)

Prepare a dry rub of dried, ground sage and rosemary. Coat the meat with olive oil, and apply the rub liberally enough to coat the exterior of the entire cut. Wrap with linen and chill for at least one hour.

Smoke the venison low and slow with apple wood logs.

In the mean time, steep dried sorrel and raisins (black or redcurrant for authentic Ruz flavor) in boiling water. Strain through a fine cloth. Add goat’s milk and optionally honey. Toast barley corns and add to the tea for Crunch(tm)

SCALLOP STEW

Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil.

Add a dry, white wine that pairs well with seafood (I recommend an Albariño or Muscadet) and simmer until slightly reduced and the alcohol burns off.

Add heavy cream, seafood stock, pepper, ground celery seeds, and rosemary. Simmer until reduced.

Add scallops and sauté on both sides for one minute.

Remove from heat and serve.

SAFFRON HONEY CAKES WITH CURRANTS

Combine flour, honey, yeast, and salt in a large bowl.

Heat water, milk, butter, and saffron threads until very warm.

Gradually add the milk mixture to the flour mixture. Beat until smooth, scraping the bowl.

Add an egg and more flour. Beat some more.

Stir in more flour until the batter is stiff. Fold in red currants.

Distribute into earthenware ramekins for the authentic Alandrian experience. Cover and let rise in a warm, draft-free place until doubled in size.

While the cakes are rising, heat honey, turmeric, saffron, and water into a smooth, sweet syrup. Keep warm.

Once the muffins cakes have risen, bake until golden brown and a cake tester comes out clean.

Once the cakes have cooled enough, remove from the ramekins and drizzle with the warm honey syrup and chopped toasted walnuts. Go to the dentist to fill in your new cavities.

YILBE

Combine maida flour, turmeric, cinnamon, and chickpea flour.

Add milk curd and water until a smooth, free flowing batter forms (a little bit wetter than ribbon consistency)

Melt a very huge amount of ghee in a deep pot.

Fry large dollops of batter until golden brown and slightly puffy.

Enjoy with various sweet or savory sauces.

[checkeredflaggirl]

What the drivers make me think of

My opinion, you can add in the comments

Team Mercedes

Lewis Hamilton

carpets, new sneakers, smell of tea herbs, winter mornings, bomber jackets, magazines, tigers, color indigo, wallpapered walls, industrial kitchen, oil, aviator sunglasses, dresser full of colognes, stainless steel

Valterri Bottas

Swans, woods, pine tree smell, the color of clay, sunset through a window, ceiling to floor windows, wooden floors, fur, newspapers, boat sports, coffee cream, Moscow mule

Team Red Bull

Max Verstappen

Lions, grass smell, warm water, coffee beans, shaving cream, balconies, flower baskets, clean towels, horse races, mimosas, brunch, fireplaces, marble floors, sculptures, orchestra concerts

Sergio Perez

Parrots, colorful fabrics, flutes, jungles, sunsets reflecting on water, black and white tiles, roof tiles, white walls, light sheer curtains, lemonade, morning dew smell, pottery, hibiscus

Team Ferrari

Charles Leclerc

Cannes, old photographs, vintage cameras, photo albums, the smell of paper, vinyl record playing, doves, white mugs, chandeliers, lattes, piano, journals, black and white films, rings

Carlos Sainz

Boots, tiles with intricate designs, cactuses, terracota, Mallorca, palm trees, canaries, citronella candles, sandals, brown colors, cinnamon, roasted pork, powdered sugar, guitars, orange juice

Team Mclaren

Lando Norris

Neon, cinemas, midnight, digital clocks, boxed juice, blackout curtains, blue colored walls, comfortable bed, navy bedsheets, white socks, hoodies, joggers, athletic wear, AC, online shopping

Daniel Ricciardo

Flannels, granola aesthetic, teva sandals, deers, x games, jet skis, ATVs, Fox apparel, American Apparel, oversized tshirts, Patagonia, gloves, lumberjack, waterfalls, bungee jump, the band Foster the People, tattoo shops, leather, vans sneakers

Team Alpine

Fernando Alonso

Mansions, family crest, stables, red wine, gold jewelry, candles, tobacco, Cuban cigars, wine cellars, mirrors, oil paintings, dinner time, fur, expensive rugs, roses, arched windows, drapes, baroque style decor

Esteban Ocon

Cottages, country side, small flowers, flower crowns, picnics, cheese platters, pears, marble fountains, linen, glass cups, pearls, small gatherings, old radios, hand fans, soft breeze, clean scent

Team Aston Martin

Lance Stroll

College, jet set lifestyle, wedges, expensive watches, neck pillows, planes, Ibiza, waking up at noon, parties, bachelor life, ray ban wayfarer sunglasses, the movie 21, coming home past curfew, blindfolds, silk pajamas

Sebastian Vettel

The band Journey, Rocky movies, Christmas, family dinners, warm food, a study at home, black coffee, granite toppers, comfortable couch, fireplace, first day with snow, golden retriever, pancakes

Team Alfa Romeo

Kimi Raikkonen

Eurodance, la Bouche, the movie a night at the Roxbury, clubs, sequins, disco balls, vip areas, buying drinks for your friends, having a designated driver, sunglasses at night, monochrome wardrobe

Antonio Giovanazzi

White wine, grapes, vineyards, lunchtime, tennis, hair products, carousel, saxophones, hair brushes, feathers, sheeps , milk, wooden windows, staircases, dimly lit restaurants

Team Alpha Tauri

Yuki Tsunoda

Skincare, pastel colors, watercolor paintings, clothing with no patterns, summer rains, festivals, karaoke, body creams, slippers, rooftop bars, arcades

Pierre Gasly

Champagne towers, New Year’s Eve, gold confetti, missed phone calls, music vibrating on the walls, supermodels, glasses breaking, loud laughs, live music, basement parties, sweating inside a club

Team Haas

Mick Schumacher

Surfing, boats, windbreakers, dry fast clothing, sunscreen, wet suits, bonfires, marshmallows, the movie Point Break, jeeps, soft sand beach, red cups, hiking, pura vida bracelets, pineapples

Nikita Mazepin

Gambling, casinos, blackjack, counting cards to win, security cameras, bodyguards, bags of money, movie John Wick, cyberpunk2077, bartenders, colorful drinks, bloody knuckles

Team Williams

George Russell

Bakeries, victorian england, the sex pistols, punk, studs, black boots, earl grey, turtle necks, boarding school, knee socks, convertible cars, shooting sports

Nicholas Latifi

Chocolate factories, glass jars, laundry day, knitted sweaters, black umbrellas, brownies, vanilla ice cream, mittens, baking, nespresso coffee machine, football matches, violins

[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​

[songzhong]

I love wine and was talking to my friend who plays Diluc and doesn’t know things about alcohol and was like. Why not just copy paste that too and make a really basic 101 of wine for Diluc RPers who don’t drink ? It is a bit vulgar as it tries to relate to people who just do not drink so they can picture it on their take on characters. ANYONE IS MORE THAN WELCOME TO REBLOG THIS or idk share this with your DILUC RPERS/LOVERS if you liked it ! Let’s get to it.

This really is a guide that gives up quick basics so you can really flavor your RP threads with this even without being an expert !

Thank you @noctuxcellus​ for the cute Diluc and wine bottle icon, this post is dedicated to you ~.

TYPE OF CLASSIC GRAPE WINE AND THEIR MOST COMMON PAIRINGS

Red wine is full bodied and heavier. Think like drinking a natural juice vs a cheaper concentrate. It's thick and has a strong sweet flavor. So it pairs well with meat as the fat brings out the unique flavors and appetizers or by itself because of the fancy flavor profile.

White wine is more acidic. Think as like drinking clear light limonade vs that thicker fruit juice. It is lighter on the palate and is more about subtly complementing a dish than being the star of the show. Think about how PBJ sandwiches and other type of food like this are not the same at all because one cancels the other's less pleasant aftertaste. White wine goes well with seafood dishes as it clears the mouth from the fishy aftertaste and pasta so your meal doesnt feel as heavy.

Grapes are typically what are used to make wine. However, nearly anything can be turned to wine or mixed in with the grapes.

There's a large debate about also making drinks which dilute wine, whether it is like innovative or absolutely unethical.

QUICK AND DIRTY LOOK AT THE DISTILLATION PROCESS

Wine are put in barrels and ferment that you surely know. What happens is that just like coffee or pulled noodles, the taste and texture will be entirely different depending of the altitude, the pressure in the barrel, the wood used for the barrel, the amount of fruit juice put in the barrel, what the fruits are, the soil the fruit grew in and what they were given, the humidity of the basement they are put in and its light exposure, the materials the building they are in is made of and the local climate.

This makes for wine to become extremely expensive and sought after when being recognized because it means you just cannot get it anywhere else, with all those parameters being a heavily guarded trade secret.

THE LEGAL PROTECTION OF RAGNVINDR WINE

The Ragnvindr wine is also legally protected from what I got since merchants who tried to reproduce the wine were called out as impostors from saying they are selling Mondstadt wine. If it wasn’t legally protected, anyone who uses the same fermentation techniques as in Mondstadt could call it Mondstadt wine. However, the Ragnvindr family probably paid extra to whatever is the wine guild of Teyvat so their label can only be put on bottles made by them and in the region of Mondstadt. This simply raise the price A LOT due tot the exclusivity and greatly helps Mondstadt economy which relies on the winery.

An example of something legal protection in real life alcohol trade like this would be:

Scotch and Whisky are the same thing. Only you cannot call your whisky a scotch if you didnt make it in Scotland.

Just like you cannot call all sparkling wine Champagne unless your brew comes and has been officially labeled by the Champagne region in France.

You probably know indirectly the mainstream notoriety of champagne because to celebrate people never say they’re getting sparkling wine. They get champagne. The clever marketing makes it so people assume that sparkling wine is of a lesser quality than champagne. It is often due to people who make sparkling wine knowing it wont sell unless they make it champagne so they pay hard to have it approved. (technically the label of champagne has been loosened but for our purpose I won’t go about it)

DILUC’S WINE EXPERTISE AND SAMPLING TECHNIQUE

Diluc can 100% run the winery without liking wine himself since he is knowledgeable about it and can differentiate a good or bad brew even if it is not to his personal liking, thus I imagine his distaste increasing because once his scientist brewers say "Ok this passed all the requirements time for the boss to approve it".

When you sample one you dont drink it. You gurgle and spit it. So Diluc doesn’t have to ever get drunk or even actually drink any wine.

Ideally when sampling wine, you have an empty stomach and have drank crystal water to not have any bias during tasting. You smell it, shake it to bring out the aroma. Then you slurp it in. Hard. Loudly. Because you want the liquid to coat all your tongue and stick to the back of your throat. You then gurgled it a bit around and then spit it out. Rince your mouth and repeat the process.

By doing so an expert sommelier can identify multiple parameters in wine (which ones is a constantly different depending on how the wine is processed) like which fermentation process the drink went under, the fruits in it, its age, etc. because they are so good they can identify each layers of how the wine was made. Compared to lets say a casual drinker who didn’t do all that tasting stuff and can just tell the fruits. The tasting process may sounds and look funny to others, but it is a highly respected practice that is not exaggerated in its process.

MASTER SOMMELIERS AKA THE WINE EXPERTS

MASTER sommeliers are very sought after in restaurants. To get your master sommelier credentials you need to go through a LOT of wine tasting. Identify the label of the bottle, its ingredients, describe the aroma accurately, which region it was made it, etc. All of this blindly. If you miss one, you’re out. Some people spend years and years preparing for evaluations process to be selected amongst other candidates as a master sommelier. When you get your credential ? Massive bucks. It could definitely be valid to say that Diluc got a master sommelier credential due to the high importance and respect of his family winery heritage.

MASTER sommeliers are highly respected since there are so very few, since you can be a sommelier randomly in a restaurant and just not be too good. In our world, Master sommeliers make 150K a year, making them one of the top earners industry experts.

A sommelier's job is to evaluate wine from the industry brewing it and/or restaurant. When you go to a high end restaurant and ask for wine, the sommelier, who can be found in the wine cellar at times visible when sitting at the restaurant to show off the selection, will come to your table and give you a recommendation based on your meal. He also is the one who decide which brews the restaurant will serve according to the menu. He's an expert the owner hires.

A very vulgar way people who dont know about it call a sommelier someone who just drinks wine and tell you which bottle you should buy even if you cannot tell the difference between two.  That is what you have Master sommeliers. You KNOW they are the REAL experts who know their shit spend all their life mastering the aspects of wine.

A GOOD HEADCANON MEME

Kaeya never spat the wine when sampling, he always swallowed it and got drunk. ( Its always a meme in the tasting industry just like ice cream tasters who eat it instead of spitting it. Or actors who always eat their food on set even after the 15th take instead of spitting with everyone in the bucket. )

[girlwithwolftatoo]

Archer of Shinjuku & Berserker cottagecore headcanons

Because I love two (2) grumpy and outrageous old men.

Archer/Moriarty:

*A tiny place in the middle of the mountains is perfect for one thing and one thing only: C R I M E S.

*No, but seriousy, he may built this hut just to play the “this is obiously your evi lair” with the other servants, but is actually a nice place, aways clean and neat.

*Englishmen need tea, so most of his aesthetic that doesn’t fit with math is about tea: a colection of cups, plates and spoons, a variety of herbal teas from around the world, honey, cream and sugar of the highest quality... 

*Plus tea helps him with his old bones, you know grandpa Moriarty’s back hurts.

*Probably has a cat, maybe two. The second one came one day and he didn’t have the guts to cast it away. 

*Most of his daily routine goes by cleaning, making evil, preparing lunch, evil, tea time, evil, some nice reading and listening old tunes, and evil.

Berserker/Vlad:

*In life he was a man made by himself, and keeps that idea building his own cottage from the begining.

*Obviously has a special room for all his sewing and kniting work, filled with nice fabric, threads, needles, buttons...

*Also made a cellar for his favorite wines, for he’s not a man of softer beverages. Of course, the drinking is just a hobbie, but enjoys it ery often.

*His “nephews and nieces” from Chaldea can visit him and he’ll be happy to see them, but as always the urge of being by himself makes him ask for a quick visit from them.

*More a bird man, so in the trees near the hut you can find handmade birds houses that he fills with seeds. Some of the houses are very detailed, like tiny palaces hanging from the woods.

[nancybryans]

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[scarlettrhettelizabethrichard]

Chapter 4. The Boutique Robillard, my GWTW fanfiction

Atlanta, May 1876

Scarlett stood on the pavement, checking the wrought-iron sign that had just been installed above the freshly painted storefront. "The Boutique Robillard", a simple name, a French touch, easy for the customer to remember. She had set her sights on this building, whose vast spaces had just been vacated. With its large display windows, ist Corinthian columns separating the exhibition areas, and four small private fitting rooms, the shop was reminiscent of the splendour of a plantation reception hall of the past. The lighting was provided by beautiful gilt bronze wall lights with cut crystal tulips. Three large, finely chiselled bronze and brass arms with gas spouts hidden under crystal cups, surrounded an impressive white milk glass lampshade. They enlightened the cream burlap-covered walls and made the flamed mahogany veneer of the shop furniture glisten. Elegance and femininity, that's the atmosphere Scarlett wanted to create in her new business. Clearly, the gamble paid off. "Mrs O'Hara, could you tell me where the fans should be placed?  "Emma Whising interrupted Scarlett in her contemplation. This dynamic young widow was delighted to have been hired. Another saleswoman, a seamstress, a retoucher and a delivery man completed the staff brigade. "The three glass cabinets are for fashion accessories. Place fans, umbrellas and parasols in the first cabinet. Highlight silk gloves and mittens. Hair accessories, brushes, silver combs, hairpins should also be displayed there. Devote an entire display case to leather purses, pearl reticules, and embroidered ball pouches. The largest glass cabinet is for hats, bonnets and capelines." Scarlett sighed with contentment. What a rebirth in her life since that fateful day in November 1873! She had decided to stop dwelling on the past. A few minutes of introspection would be enough for her to sweep away almost three years.     First the shock of the divorce. The clean and frank break with Rhett, the love of her life, well, of her old life. It is true that he had greatly facilitated her task to turn the page: by crudely mocking her physical appearance deteriorated by lack of appetite, alcohol abuse and the absence of her husband, Rhett had brilliantly succeeded in making her feel ashamed. She, Scarlett O'Hara, had become uglier than the least of the whores, he had made her understand. "What the hell !" The affront had to be addressed. Solange Robillard's little girl was going to straighten her head, and quickly!     The day after Rhett left, she ordered Dilcey to throw out all the liquor bottles in the house, the wine cellar and the kitchen. A strict schedule of meal times in the dining room with her children was put in place. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners were calibrated to ensure balanced meals with fresh vegetables and fruits. As in Tara during the war, there was no question of leaving the table before finishing one's plate. This had always been the rule for Ella and Wade. To the surprise of her children, this was now also the rule for their mother.

Thanks to this diet cooking, her graceful curves started to be restored and her figure slowly sculpted. To gain back her skin's elasticity, Scarlett took a daily walk with her children. Ella Lorena was reluctant the first few days, not being used to long walks. But soon the outing was a time of discovery, play and laughter. The O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy family was coming back to life. The two children's faces were slightly tanned by the sun. Scarlett took care to bring an umbrella to preserve her pearly complexion. Her cheeks were flushed with physical exertion and fresh air.     How sweet it was to take care of one's body again! The relaxing scented baths were followed by the application of regenerating creams and ointments. The texture of her skin became softer and smoother. The beautiful hair that Rhett used to like to wrap around his neck at night at the beginning of their marriage had become dull, the tips brittle. It took Prissy's careful handling to untangle the long tresses and massage them with castor oil. Her nails were treated in the same way to strengthen them. The physical discipline she had been practising for many months was eventually rewarded when, on a sunny morning, Scarlett gazed at her reflection in the large mirror in her bedroom. The young woman in front of her radiated health and beauty. Her first battle was won!

"Mrs O'Hara, should I sort the clothes by colour or size? "Emma asked. "Choose one of each item from the display shelves. You will carefully arrange the other sizes inside the drawers of the counters. Above all, don't forget to protect each piece with tissue paper. » Emma set about her task, marvelling at the quality of the interior design of the furniture, which was covered in bird's eye maple veneer. The rich purple hues of the sideboards and wardrobes contrasted beautifully with the golden sheen of the wood inside. At first glance, the clientele was assured of the presence of luxury in every detail. Scarlett resumed her rambling. Her biggest battle, of course, had been to fight the infamy of divorce. News of the Butler couple's scandalous separation had spread like wildfire through the good society of Atlanta and the surrounding counties. How could they not be offended? It was the first divorce to occur in this Georgia city. Two camps were facing each other: the ladies of the Sewing Circle - headed by Mrs Merriweather, Mrs Meade and Mrs India Wilkes - had welcomed Captain Butler's decision. „The good man had loved his little Bonnie so much! For years he had endured his wife's disgusting attitude towards Ashley Wilkes without flinching.“  "Serves her right," said Mrs. Easling. "This will bring the arrogant, pretentious Scarlett down from her pedestal. » These well-born ladies agreed that, sadly, her offspring could no longer be invited to their grandchildren's parties and birthdays. "It's a shame about poor Wade Hampton Hamilton and Elena Lorena Kennedy, but it's all about the goodwill of our society. » Yet a minority had sided with Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy. How could such a boor as Butler dare to abandon his wife and children? All of Atlanta knew of this vermin's degrading association with Belle Watling, the most notorious brothel keeper in the state of Georgia. If Ellen and Gerald O'Hara had been alive, they would never have accepted the misalliance of a Robillard with a banished man from his native Charleston. The first to be scandalised by the news was, of course, Scarlett's solicitor who had to deal with the formalities of the divorce. Henry Hamilton, Wade Hampton's great uncle, was incensed that this Scalawag could jeopardise the future of Charles Hamilton's heir by damaging his mother's reputation. A divorcee's son! How was this brave little boy going to endure the offence? "Butler gone? Good riddance! "Ashley Wilkes was the first to think so, and to say so loudly. He had taken the time to analyse his cowardly behaviour when India had created the scandal on his birthday. Instead of defending Scarlett and assuring everyone that nothing had happened between them two at the sawmill, he had taken refuge, as usual, behind the fragile figure of his wife. Melanie had proudly protected her dear sister until her last breath. Since the war, Scarlett had bravely helped the Wilkes family. When his beloved Melly died, she took charge, as she had in the past. She organized a funeral worthy of the greatest lady Atlanta had ever known. Today, it was up to him to protect 'his' delightful Scarlett who had had the misfortune to meet this sad sire at Twelve Oaks. Scarlett, so full of passion, whom this Butler had broken. Ashley's support warmed his childhood friend's heart. She had been delighted to find that he had defended her against her sister India at a meeting of the ladies of the sewing room in his house. "This is my home, India. In my presence and under my roof, I forbid anyone to criticise the sister my Melly loved so deeply. "His unexpected tirade and determined tone had stunned those present at the meeting. His words were widely reported among their friends and acquaintances. What had hurt the former Mrs Butler most was the disastrous impact of the divorce on Wade and Ella.  „Divorce". It was a word Wade had already heard spoken in hushed tones around him, like a threat hanging over Peachtree Street. More than once, the young boy had had to raise his voice at a classmate who had made fun of his mother. He had even come to blows, much to Scarlett's dismay. For Ella Lorena, the word 'divorce' meant nothing. She just noticed that her friends Bridget and Karen had not invited her to their birthday parties. Above all, they missed Uncle Rhett. He had always told them that he considered them his children. Finally, he had abandoned them, without any explanation, simply by bringing them presents in November. As if the two children were no more valuable than two packages. This drama brought the mother and the two children together. A valve had fallen off. The little girl with the red curls was no longer afraid to tell her mother about her daily activities and games, without her mother scolding her for being too noisy. As for Wade, he tried to anticipate his mother's every wish. He would bring her a glass of water before she asked for it. He would carry her parasol when she didn't need it in the street. And above all, he would hug her tenderly. In gratitude, his mother would stroke his hair gently, sometimes slipping a kiss in. Yes, the divorce was finally good for their family. For her children's sake, and because Scarlett O'Hara had never given up in the face of adversity, she put all her newfound energy into her "redemption" with the Old Guard. Oh, how hard it has been! The Merriweather ladies and other paragons of virtue blocked her first gestures of peace. Scarlett pretended not to notice. Remembering her past experience in Bonnie's time, she was aware that her money would not be enough to secure their good graces. She volunteered to buy and transport the raw materials needed to distribute meals to the needy affected by the financial collapse of 1873 which was beginning to distress the middle classes. She made a point of sharing the Old Guard Ladies’ long embroidery sessions to supply the charity stall at Christmas. Magically, some debts pending at Kennedy's shop disappeared from the shelves, 'through accounting errors'. At other times, prices of items coveted by the ladies were abruptly lowered, 'due to end of stock'. This was never openly mentioned.

Scarlett's good deeds combined with an apparent less stormy behavor slowly began to bear fruit. Until one day, a blue hand-decorated cardboard card invited Ella Lorena Kennedy to share the Merriweather grandson's birthday cake. The child was overjoyed. Her mother had tears in her eyes. Her biggest battle was won!

With a clearing of her throat, Emma allowed herself to interrupt her boss's reverie once again. "Peter arranged the rolls of fabric on the scroll racks. He placed the most precious silk textures high up to protect them from soiling. He did well, didn't he? On the other hand, I arranged the lace rolls, ribbons, buttons and thread spools in the beautiful haberdashery cabinet, as you asked me to. I love its little drawers with glass knobs!" Scarlett smiled at the enthusiasm of her young saleswoman. "Let's hope that she will show the same smiling look to the most reluctant customers!" said the new owner of "The Boutique Robillard". She had been dreaming about this shop for three months. When her body regained its beauty, when her reputation was restored, she finally took the time to think about her future. How could she continue to live without passion? Her bank account was now well filled. Thanks to the terms of the divorce settlement. As soon as the funds were transferred from Charleston, she opened two savings accounts for Wade and Ella. This would come in handy when they decided to embark on life's adventure. „"Uncle Rhett," who always boasted that he considered my children his own, will ultimately leave only a trace in Ella and Wade's lives, dollars to make them forget his abandonment." With her children's financial security assured, she could now move on from the Kennedy shop. It no longer gave her any excitement. Hugh Easling bought it. After many years, and thanks to the constant supervision of his boss Mrs Butler, he had finally learned to manage it properly. To please the Old Guard, she gave him her "first child" with easy payment terms. The land belonging to her first husband Charles Hamilton, including the houses she had built, was also sold at a comfortable price for Scarlett. She also sold the second sawmill. Her first sawmill, Ashley now owned it. It had hurt so much that she had given it up on Rhett's advice. It was her baby, the one that had allowed her to support her family. How long would it take Ashley to destroy what she had worked so hard to build? Poor Ashley, she would always have to be a protective and discreet support. She had promised Melly that. As for Beau, a third savings account was already reserved for him. Scarlett was amused that Rhett would finally contribute to the cost of raising his former rival's son. This money would be managed by Ashley, providing Melly's child with all the comforts a member of Southern society had a right to expect - a pony, Melly had made him promise on his deathbed - payment for his education, his future Grand Tour in Europe. Melly, from Heaven where she was watching her together with her dear Bonnie, could be satisfied. "Of course, theoretically I would not need to work anymore. But will I become a matron devoted to her good works? What a horror! I have to find a new passion that makes me want to fight every morning. » ********************** Fate was waiting for her in Savannah. Savannah, February 1876 In February 1876, she made an emergency visit to her mother's hometown upon learning of the sudden death of her grandfather Robillard. The same man who had broken young Ellen's heart by preventing her from marrying her cousin and only love Philip. Scarlett had no reason to mourn the death of the cantankerous old man who had refused to help her financially during the war, when they were struggling not to starve in Tara. She had visited him several times, accompanied by two of her children - not Bonnie, Rhett wouldn't have wanted her to deprive her of his father, even if only for a week. The meetings between the French aristocrat and the Franco-Irish descendant were... interesting. Two beasts gauging their strengths: Pierre Robillard, full of himself, a master of pithy phrases, scornful of those around him, and amusing himself by persecuting the two daughters he had left, Aunts Eulalie and Pauline. Opposite him was his granddaughter, Scarlett, the eldest daughter of his beloved child, Ellen. Ellen who had betrayed him by marrying an Irish peasant. Indomitable and fierce Scarlett, whose beauty and temperament reminded him with a twinge of his only love, his wife Solange Robillard. After several explosive confrontations, Scarlett had become convinced that her grandfather hated her. In a final "thumbing of the nose", he ended up leaving her his entire fortune - an opulent one - simply by giving his two daughters a comfortable monthly pension that would protect them until their death. This was fair, because until now it had been Scarlett who had supported her ungrateful aunts, even during the war, while she had struggled to keep everyone in Tara alive. Family had always been sacred to this Irish descendant. Pierre Robillard rewarded her for this. This unexpected generosity allowed her to reject Rhett's money out of hand. Her departing husband had carelessly boasted that he would 'generously' give her a pension for five years to thank her for getting rid of her. As soon as the Robillard estate was settled, Scarlett informed Rhett Butler's solicitor of her decision to refuse the pension. The money that had already been paid since the day of the divorce was returned to him in full. "Free, I am free, Rhett, and I don't need you!" The last link between the two former friends - spouses - lovers - was definitely cut.         On the last day of her stay in Savannah, she treated herself to a visit to the city's fine shops. The coquettish Scarlett suddenly stopped in front of an ocher painted antebellum shop, with the sign  "La Mode Duncan". In the display windows, wooden mannequins wore the prettiest dresses the elegant Atlanta woman had ever seen. She pushed open the sandblasted glass door, engraved with the sign "Duncan Vayton". The manager of the establishment greeted the beautiful young lady with respect, quickly understanding that she was not going to be satisfied with buying a single item. He explained that the owner was a young fashion designer based in Paris, Rue de la Paix. Back in his native South, he had decided to give the Ladies of Savannah the benefit of his best creations. "I am a business owner myself, back home in Atlanta. I have a hunch that the rich people of Atlanta would quickly fall in love with such quality clothing. Would it be possible for me to meet with your landlord to discuss my project? » "With great pleasure, Ms. O'Hara. Mr. Duncan Vayton will be delighted to meet you. » That day Scarlett knew that, eventually, she had found her new 'baby' - a fashion shop. It also marked the beginning of a the relationship between two enthusiasts, Scarlett O'Hara and Duncan Vayton.

"Yes, it has taken courage to get through the past 31 months. There have been many shocks, disappointments, pain and tears too. « I, Scarlett, had to show humility - Rhett would have laughed about it, in another time - courage and resilience. But it was worth it. Almost three years later, I have survived. Rhett, you didn't get me down! Scarlett O'Hara is up and ready to fight! »

#GWTW fanfiction, #GWTW, #Gone with the Wind, #romance, #Savannah, #Scarlett O'Hara, #Atlanta, #roman historique, #écriture, #littérature

[ellaofoakhill]

The Ice Cream Pail

Meline woke with a stretch and a groan. It was the last afternoon of September. She dressed, opened the kitchen window, had a quick breakfast of timothy bread and a saskatoon with tea, and gathered her medicine bag, her staff, and her mantle, along with her pack. Tonight was a gathering night.

In the time between times, after sunset but before the first star, Meline whistled a tune and opened her door. And jumped back with a start.

Fetched up against her door was an ice cream pail. It was upside down, and poking from beneath it was a plastic bag. It was the bag, snapping in the breeze, that made Meline jump back. It would’ve caught her full in the face if she hadn’t moved. As it was, the bag did touch her braid. The smell of burning hair filled the room, and Meline was seized with a fit of coughing.

Once she recovered, Meline used the tip of her staff to shut the door. A bit of bag still poked in under the jamb, but Meline was not about to open the door again. She cut off the smoking tip of her hair.

“Okay,” she said to herself, “I have a plastic bag and ice cream pail sitting over my front door, which will burn me down to nothing if I touch them. No problem. I’ll just stroll out my back door and go get help!”

She opened her back door and stared at the enormous plastic bag sitting over it. It had cuts and holes in it, and out of these poked more plastic bags. It wasn’t directly in front of the door, at least, but the narrow stair leading up from Meline’s back step left no way around it. Even in the gentle breeze, the waving, snapping bits of plastic would be sure to strike her.

Meline took a deep breath. Maybe tonight was not going to be a gathering night.

She went to her bedroom window and started piling furniture. Once her room was in complete disarray—it had taken a long time to get the bed, the dresser, and her bookshelves to cooperate—she climbed up on her dresser and tried the window. It slid open. Grinning to herself, she ducked her head through, then her shoulders. Chest and waist just slipped through, and then Meline’s hips caught. She scraped and pulled, but the moss kept breaking just as she got purchase. She looked back over her shoulder. No, she thought to herself, I’d never make it out this window any time after my six hundredth birthday.

After some wriggling and pushing, and more cursing than many fey would expect of her, Meline tumbled back into her room, whacking her skull against the headboard of her bed. Rubbing the sparrow’s egg swiftly making itself known, she went to her kitchen. She pulled out her measuring string. Her hips gave her no chance against the kitchen window.

Meline took a few deep breaths. “My front and back doors are blocked. I cannot escape through my windows. I blocked my cellar door last autumn with a rock bigger than Havel could lift, and it’s outside, where I can’t touch it, so my magic’s out.”

It was getting dark. Meline spoke a word of power, and her wall crystals glowed to life. She blinked, and looked back at them.

She hopped down from the window, and took out a small chrysoprase box. She lifted the tarnished silver clasp, and flipped up the lid. On the bottom of the lid was a crystal mirror. In the box was a series of square glass beads. Each bead had a letter in the Feyish script embossed in it.

She spoke a word of power, and the mirror flashed to life. Meline saw she had sixty-four unwatched messages. With one finger Meline tapped the letters that spelled Ella’s name. Shot in the dark.

“Fairy not found.” Meline supposed, since they’d been exchanging letters for almost three months, it should be unsurprising that Ella didn’t have a scrying mirror.

Evelyn was next on the list. The mirror crackled, and then Evelyn appeared in the mirror.

“Hi, Evelyn, it’s—”

“Hello, this is Evelyn and Vedris of Pondside. We’re out at Oak and Stone just now, so if you wouldn’t mind leaving a short message, we’ll get back to you soon.” A thought seemed to occur to the Evelyn in the mirror. “Oh, if this is Archie, we reached an accord with the crayfish. And Meline, we’ll be expecting you for lunch night after the first quarter. Ta-ta!”

Meline bit her tongue to keep from cursing. When the mirror chimed, she said, “Evelyn, it’s Meline. I have an emergency, and can’t get out of my house. If you could recruit a stoat or a fox, or even a couple leopard frogs to come help, I’d be very grateful. I hope you’re well, and you get back very soon.” She closed the box, waited a moment, and re-opened it.

Her parents were much too far away to be of any help. Felix was at a concert in Oak and Stone. Gillian was visiting her in-laws until the first quarter. Julian was on his nectarmoon—Meline remembered after scrying she’d attended the wedding. Millie was actually home. She was also forty thousand years old, mostly deaf, and altogether unable to do anything herself to help. She said she’d try to flag down a nice bunny, though. Meline thanked her, and patiently explained that rabbits did not like being called bunnies, and never had, and it hadn’t been acceptable to call them that for over three thousand years. She wasn’t sure how much Millie heard and how much she pretended not to hear.

So that was every fairy Meline knew and trusted outside Oak and Stone. The fluttering plastic under her door mocked her.

She went back to her kitchen window. She laid a hand on the bare earth. She spoke a word of power, felt it ripple in the ground. She took a deep breath. And howled at the top of her lungs. “Is there anyone who can help me? I’m trapped in my house!”

How could the normally sweet sound of cricket song, she wondered, suddenly become so grating? The moon started to rise.

A quarter of an hour later, she did the same again. And then again. And again. By the fifth time, she didn’t care what she said, if someone would just pay attention. Just as she finished a stirring tirade which would’ve turned her father’s face permanently red, and stalked away from the window, she heard a flap. She turned back, and flushed. A red bat was crouched by her window with a broad grin.

“I was just flapping past, dear,” she said, wiggling her impressive ears, “looking for moths, and couldn’t help but overhear. What was that you said about the wood-rasp and the cricket strigil?”

Meline’s face could’ve boiled granite. “Nothing important!”

“Oh, well, have a fine night, then!”

Meline’s hand shot out. “Wait!” The bat stopped and turned around. “Alright,” Meline said, “what’s your name?”

The bat pricked up. She swung her impressive wing around in a tottery bow. “Maia Squeak, at your service.”

Meline gave a perfunctory curtsy. “I’m Meline of Wild Rose. If you deliver a message for me, I can give you four cutworms for your trouble.”            “Ooh!” Maia squeaked. “The babes do love their cutworms! What’s the message?”

“Uh… give me a moment?”

“For four cutworms I’ll wait an hour,” Maia said as Meline dashed to her cupboard and pulled out an envelope and a sheet of mothwing parchment. She took a quill and wrote:

 Ella,

There’s a plastic pail over my front door, and a plastic bag blocking the back. I can’t get out of my house. I’ve scryed everyone I know. Help will likely not come until late tonight at the earliest. I’m okay, but please come quickly. I l

 Meline.

 She threw the letter in the envelope the instant the ink was dry, addressed the envelope, and gave it to Maia. “Take that to Ella of Oakhill,” she said. “She lives in the oak by the house in the yard on the far side of the pasture. Please hurry.”

Maia nodded her head. She crouched, adjusted her grip on the letter, and sprang forward, digging her wrists into the ground. Her long arms extended, vaulting her into the air, and with a powerful flap—Meline’s shutters banged against the wall—she was a black spot in the night sky.

 Meline started reading, and gave that up. There was nothing she could cook that didn’t need her to gather ingredients. She played solitaire, and Fey’s Bend. She cleaned her kitchen, the living room, and the dining area. She even tried to rearrange her bedroom furniture.

The night was old when she sat at the table, poured herself a goblet of rosehip wine, and munched on a honey biscuit. She glared at the plastic poking out from under her front door.

“I hope Ella gets here soon,” she said, to hear someone talk. “She’ll probably bring Coarser, and Havel.” She chuckled to herself. “He’ll make someone very happy someday.”

Meline mulled her half-finished goblet. “Ella’s not impossible to read, but hard enough. Is that how nobles are? Different manners, different sensibilities?” She sipped. “It’s been nice, you know? Having someone to talk to, who clearly wants to talk to me. We’re really different—she’s a lord, I’m a witch, she works metal, I harvest the fruits of the earth, she’s tall and strong and has the ageless beauty of a glacier lake and I… can’t squeeze out my bedroom window.” She swished her wine. “So… why do I think she loves me back?”

Still thinking along these lines, Meline was starting on her second goblet when a sound rolled through the window that stopped her heart.

Ella’s horn. Just on the edge of hearing, but she’d recognize it anywhere. Meline rushed to the door and flung it open.

The bag flapped up and snagged on her wrist. She cursed, wrenching her hand back and slamming the door. Her hand turned angrily red in seconds, and blisters started rising on the last two fingers.

The horn sounded again as Meline, cradling her hand, grabbed a pot from her kitchen. The redness was spreading. It’d be above her elbow in minutes if she didn’t do something. She

dumped six cups of fine clay and one of charcoal in the pot, and added the last of her water. She mixed them until the consistency was even.

She pulled out a small sealed jar labelled “Fairy Tonic”. She unscrewed the lid—the pain grew only slightly more agonizing—and, with a dropper, squeezed three drops on her tongue.

She swallowed, and resealed the jar. Then she immersed her hand in the clay, and let out a sigh. Her hand only felt like someone was burning it.

She allowed herself a moment to savour the relief before she began speaking. Words of power flowed from her tongue. As the lights around the room dimmed, the clay began to glow. Softly at first, but as Meline layered word upon word, it glowed brighter, until it blazed like a white sun.

The air thrummed. Meline was so focused she didn’t notice the third horn blast, much closer, or Maia land outside her window, beady eyes wide with wonder.

Meline took a deepest breath, spoke one final word, and the magic ended. The clay went out, and the only light in Wild Rose shone in through the windows.

Meline put a hand on the worktable to steady herself. Even with the tonic, she was dead on her feet. She slid her hand out of the clay, which crumbled as she moved. It was bone-dry and steaming. She felt her hand. It was slightly warm, and had the waxy, bumpy texture of burnt skin. She’d keep an eye on it the next few nights, but the poison had likely been drawn out.

“Meline!” She looked up at the window. Maia, whom she’d just realized was there, hopped aside as Ella came into view. “Are you alright?”

“You came.”

Ella grinned. “Of course I came! Now are you alright?”

Meline nodded. “Yeah.” She’d never let me live it down if I tell her how this happened. “There’s the ice cream pail out front, and another bag at the back door. The pail’s got a bag stuck under it.”

“I’ll see to them,” Ella said, “In the meantime, stay put. Havel’s coming behind with the rest of the gear.”

Meline waited by the front door. There was a tapping and a hammering, with muffled curses. Plastic scraped against wood and earth. Meline saw the plastic under her door draw tight. She eased the door open, and it slid out and away. She closed the door again.

After a short pause, there was a knock. Meline opened. She rushed forward as Ella lowered her head. Her forehead banged against Ella’s helmet. Their stifled curses turned to laughter.

Then Meline’s arms were around Ella, and Ella’s were cradling her, her fingers stroking Meline’s hair.

They held each other for a moment. “Havel is going to be disappointed he couldn’t help rescue me, I think,” Meline said, still chuckling.

“Havel will be happy enough to help haul away this trash,” Ella said.

Meline was crying. The wet spot by her ear suggested Ella was likewise.

Ella spoke so gentle and quiet Meline would’ve missed it if her mouth hadn’t been so close.

“I love you. Please don’t scare me like that again.”

“No promises,” Meline said. They both chuckled, a bit wetly. Meline turned her head, raised Ella’s visor, and kissed her. “I love you too.”

[ssojack]

A Comprehensive Listing of Enterable Buildings in Jorvik

For @juni-ravenhall! Note: I didn’t include beauty salons, partially open structures you can enter on horseback, or indoor locations that are only accessible during a specific quest.

Moorland:

Jasper’s Old Barn

Nilmer’s Highland:

Abandoned Barn

Circus

Fort Pinta: 

Pet Shop

Central Silverglade:

Clocktower

The Fashion Barn

Silverglade Castle

Barney’s Silo

Clubroom (for Riding Club members)

Winery:

Library

Wine Cellars

Silver Fork Restaurant (roof)

Valedale:

Druids’ Cottage/Jail

Stone Circle/Fripp’s Room

Mario’s Observatory

Firgrove:

Mrs. Packard’s Kitchen

German Tourists’ Barn

Goldenhills: 

Jasper’s Barn

Harvest Counties:

Wolf Hall Inn Kitchen

Treehouse

Goldspurs’ Upper Silo

Goldspurs’ Upper Barn

Goldspurs’ Lower Silo

Theater

Pet Shop

Herman’s Kitchen

Jarlassons’ Silo

Jarlassons’ Barn

Linda’s Apartment

Epona:

Rockwells’ House

Jamie’s Kitchen

Professor Hayden’s House

Bunker

Mrs. X’s Observatory

Mistfall: 

Log Cabin in the Woods

Dino Valley:

Stonecutter’s Vault

Mall:

Golden Saddle Café

Clothes Shop

Tack Shop

Accessories Shop

Purple Pony

Fashion Week Venue (seasonal)

Jorvik City:

Café Harp (Aideen’s Plaza)

Leonardo’s Ice Cream Parlor (Governor’s Fall)

Lab (Pier 13)

Crane Tower (Pier 13)