#aiguillettes are on point
Note
ok, my request is: nikolai lantsov x reader where they are married for convenience but are friends and support each other. they secretly love each other and that's why they kiss when they don't have to and sleep together, really adoring each other, and that's where spicy comes in, although it's completely optional if you don't feel comfortable doing it. oh, and i imagine that after zoya becomes queen, nikolai and reader finally declare themselves to each other, assuring that they love each other with or without a crown. like, angst/comfort and fluff at the end? if you can't include spicy it's ok! you write wonderfully well ♡♡♡
An Exhausted Smile
♡ Summary: You consider your position as the Ravkan King's spouse. It doesn't feel as fulfilling as you'd like it to be, and he surprises you by feeling the same.
♡ Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x Reader
♡ Fandom: King of Scars, Grishaverse
♡ Warning(s): 18+, says cock once, mentions nausea
♡ WC: 5.5k
Hi hi! Tysm for this request!
I didn't know what gender you wanted reader to be. However after writing the whole thing I feel it's obvious that you may have wanted a fem reader, but this is what I came up with!
It doesn't get completely smutty, but it does reach a point that I'd consider adult. So I hope it's still to your liking <3
Please ignore any spelling and grammar mistakes, the beginning of this before the bedroom scene was written with a massive headache so I do apologize if it seems a bit rough around the edges there.
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The ballroom is filled to the brim with people. Each one varying in their level of importance and showcasing as such by either vastly overdressing or being a bit more modest, but still wanting to put on their best for their King.
And you, by proxy.
Your clothes match your husband's in their own right. He wore the standard garb that fits a King, white base and gold accents, matching gold aiguillette wrapped around his shoulder. While you lacked the fancy rope, Genya compensated with a few select ribbons and even jewelry where she felt it needed.
The rings on Nikolais gloved fingers made your decorated wrist feel less alone.
"Just have to get through this and then we can retreat back to our room." He whispers, working on his smile in a silver vase.
The way he says "our" still makes your heart flutter, even close to a year after your marriage was sanctioned.
You give him a glare, despite him being unable to see it. "You act like this is only going to last an hour or two. You know just as well as I do that this is going to be an all night endeavor." A sigh nearly deflates your entire being. "Especially with the representatives from Kerch. They always get everyone riled up."
He chuckles. "You speak of them as if they're just regulars at the tavern and not government officials."
You pick off a piece of hair that managed to dislodge itself from your scalp and wrap around your fingers. Genya's going to be mad when she sees you.
She hadn't done much with your hair aside from the occasional color correction, but she did make a point to get any kinks out and help it move in one solid direction in contrast to your usual bedhead.
You feel a little bad for messing it up, smiling when you imagine her reaction.
It's not as if you weren't royalty before your engagement. You were simply second born. So it's not like anybody particularly cared so long as you appeared to be put together and well behaved. Your hair was allowed to be a bit messy if you were extra respectful and made an effort to engage when spoken to. You were allowed to have your clothes a little rumpled so long as you came in late, apologized profusely, and fixed them while doing so.
Exceptions were allowed to be made. But now...
Nikolai is in front of you, boots oddly quiet on the tiled floor. His fingers card through your hair, fixing it and moving strands that wandered one way or another.
You weren't meant to accomplish much in your life. Until Nikolai offered his hand in marriage.
"Keep doing that and you'll go bald."
You swat at his hands, no real anger behind it, an uncontrollable grin pulling at the corners of your mouth. He smiles too, and it's a pretty little thing. Teeth poking out and lips shiny with a gloss you know Genya made clear and taste like berries.
You know because he kisses you now, hands pulling you close.
And it hurts.
It makes your heart ache in all the wrong ways.
But you can't help but lean into it, hand pulling at his neck to make him come just that little shuffle closer.
A throat clears from behind him, which he promptly ignores and chases after you when you go to pull away, a chuckle spilling from both of your throats.
"As lovely as it is to see you both happy," Genya marches forward, inserting herself between you both, "you are messing with everything I have spent the last several hours crafting. Hands off until after your guests leave."
She quickly begins fixing your hair, drawing color from swatches she keeps around her wrist and fixing your cheekbones, smiling when you wet your lips and taste the gloss.
It takes everything in your power to not let your eyes nervously flicker around the room, instead letting them settle on Nikolai, who looks just moments away from gently pushing Genya to the side.
"If Ravka and it's neighboring countries have a problem with a King who openly loves his partner, then that's their business."
A plethora of feelings cascade over your mind and heart, seeping into your essence.
It feels... complicated.
And you feel like one of those annoying novel protagonists for saying so, but really you can't find a word in any of the languages you know that could give someone, anyone, some sort of insight into your internal dilemma.
Nikolai is your best friend. Has been since you were eleven.
But you have also loved him since you were fourteen, the feelings slowly moving through your veins like a poison, obvious to you from the very beginning and only becoming stronger as the days pass.
And as far as you can tell, Nikolai does not feel the same.
You remember the day he proposed you get married, and the exhausted and pained expression he wore when he presented you with a ring, smile completely and utterly fake.
You know all of his smiles by heart. And you know on that day, in that moment, he was grieving.
No matter how many times he kisses you behind closed doors, you cannot be rid of the fact that this marriage is for convenience and convenience only.
Love is not shared between you two. Not in the way you want, anyway.
But you take what you can get. Every fruit flavored kiss. Every hand perfectly slotting into your own. Every night filled with hushed sighs and names whispered behind the shell of your ear because he knows you hate the feeling of hot breath no matter who is speaking into it.
You take it, and you put a cold rag over your sad, swollen eyes when you feel like you can't.
Once Genya is done fixing you up, she moves onto Nikolai, who now looks more concerned than anything.
You flick invisible dust off your shoulders, giving yourself a moment to compose yourself when you turn to the silver vase Nikolai was using earlier.
Everything is warped on the surface. Parts of you look bigger than they should when you turn one way or another. You don't know how he could make himself look as good as he does while using it.
"I know you aren't over there poking around at everything again."
"I'm not." You say. "Just admiring your work."
She hums. "As you should."
Nikolai is still looking at you as you turn around, a silent question flickering across his face.
You give him your answer by walking up to him, looping your arm through his and offering a small smile.
He's not convinced. But the doors are opening, and you both have to step through with smiles on your faces and hands outstretched, taking on Ravka's problems and hoping there's enough favors in the world for what's coming.
There's music playing in the corner, people are mingling but still trying to stay in tightly knit groups, and a few refuse to stray farther than a few feet from the table which held a constantly refilling onslaught of finger foods.
For the next few hours you're approached by various people, most of whom you remember from your wedding.
But there's a few who make snide comments, with very thinly veiled insults.
It bothers you a lot more than it should, having thought most of them during your darker hours.
"Will you remain after the war?" Someone from the Kerch council asks.
You chuckle, feeling nauseous. "Of course I will. The war being over doesn't null our marriage."
They just smile and say 'Of course' before walking off, whispering lowly to each other.
After the third time, everything feels a little too much.
"Excuse me." You don't wait for whoever approaches you to nod or protest.
Navigating out of the ballroom feels a little too much like an act of survival. You think a few people try and talk to you, but you're not sure, exiting out a side door and standing in the middle of the hall.
What the is going on with you?
You wipe your clammy and shaking hands on your clothes, dusting off invisible dirt and grime from your hips and chest.
It feels like you're going to buzz out of your skin. You tighten your ears, making a rumble in your eardrums to drown out the music and idle chatter from inside.
The guards that stand outside the ballroom doors give you the side eye. No matter how long you've been conventionally married to a King, you will never get used to having eyes and ears on you at all times. It feels like you can't even breathe without them judging or assuming something is going to happen.
You get it. You really do. After the bloodbath that was Nikolai's birthday, security had been upped. It'd be a political nightmare for something such as that to happen twice. It'd prove that Ravka was as weak as everyone thinks it is. That it lacks the means to protect itself, that it's an open buffet for everyone to take a piece of.
But did they have to have such probing glances? Legs so ready to spring and hands itching to take hold in the face of the slightest danger?
Sometimes your body doesn't feel like your own.
And maybe it's not.
Not when your marriage is founded on a lie.
You exist as an arm piece. Your presense only has one use: to provide the illusion that should Nikolai perish, the country will remain strong.
"Are you alright, my love?"
Nikolai puts a hand on your back, leaning forward to look you in the eye.
Guilt immediately eats at your gut.
"Ill be fine in a few minutes." You manage, relaxing your ears. The rumbling seizes and your head teeters backwards as you whisper, "Just too much pretending."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes roaming over your face with what looks like disappointment flashing over his features. "Do you need to head to bed for the night?"
You chuckle. "Good luck explaining that one to Zoya. The ministers and ambassadors and whatever other important persons there are, are expecting both of us tonight. We cannot disappoint."
'I cannot disappoint.' Is something you keep to yourself.
"You forget that I'm the King, not Zoya." The way he rubs at your back with his gentle fingers makes your heart stutter. "If my partner is feeling ill and wishes to retreat to their room, then they shall do so."
You only sigh, not having anything to say to that.
The bed did sound particularly comforting about now.
For a long moment the world becomes dark as you imagined yourself out of these formal clothes, dressed in your worn out shirt and wide flowy pants that didn't feel like they were castrating your legs. You imagined crawling into your plush bed, tightly packed wool sewn into soft silk.
It was a mistake.
"Nikolai?" You hum, eyes opening to stare at him with heavy lids.
"Yes?"
"One more hour. Then I'll head to bed."
It was a compromise, one he didn't usually entertain. He would much prefer you laying down when you got like this than have you force yourself to stay until the party ends.
But you lean into him a little, wrapping your own arm around his waist, and he becomes a bit more pliable.
"One hour," He agrees. "But I get to check in on you every quarter to ask if you're alright."
You chuckle. "I wouldn't except anything less, Sobachka."
You do not miss the way his eyes go just a bit thinner, a black well forming in each of his multicolored irises.
Just because you feel poorly for your situation doesn't mean you have to make him feel miserable as well.
Especially since you know he's really trying.
Guilt continues to eat at your gut throughout the night, because even if being just an arm piece is your role, Nikolai hasn't done anything to make you feel that way.
He has only ever treated you with the utmost respect and affection. Triumvirate meetings always include you should you wish to go, and your opinion is never overshadowed by him, always taken into consideration even if playfully mocked by the others. He knows every little ick you have made known to him and ones you have not, and has done his best to purge those things from your daily routine.
If what he's craving for that night doesn't suit your tastes or contains a texture you find reprehensible, he makes sure the palace chefs make something that you're craving too.
'It's only fair' he says.
At night, in the dark of your shared bedroom, he'll talk and talk about the things he loves most and rope you into them, dumping any information he has right into your lap for you to pick apart and inspect, and he'll watch as the cogs turn in your brain and find the right questions.
There's never a rush to get the conversation over with. It doesn't feel like just a nicety, because he's still your best friend at the end of it all and he still cares.
He has only ever done his absolute best to make you feel adored.
But it doesn't feel like enough.
Even as he does his last and final check in, not missing the other three by even a minute, you see the way his shoulders are squared and his attention is half elsewhere.
He is a King. He is a performer. And you're part of the act.
"You ready for bed?" He asks, voice low with a flute of undrunken champagne in his jeweled fingers.
You take a look around, and sigh deeply. "Yeah."
His face morphs into a wide smile, immediately finding a server and handing them the beverage to deal with as he ushers you out of the room and towards your shared chambers, flashing that changed expression to the people he was just talking to and giving them some sort of excuse about your health.
The buzzing has lessened, now that you're promised a nice rest. Nikolai nudges you along, but walks at your own pace as you undo ribbons and clasps and buttons.
There's an urge somewhere, to scream. It creates a feeling of anxiety that attacks your backside, feeling as if someone is behind you.
But Nikolai continues to rub your back when he feels you begin to stiffen, sees your hair stand on end, and the feeling dissipates, albeit slowly.
As he opens the door for you, he begins giving some long winded instructions towards the guards that stand outside the doors, everything you were feeling before is replaced with longing and grief.
It's taken you a year, but you're finally realizing that this is your life now.
You won't ever be going back to your home except as a guest. You love your husband. And everything feels too hot and tight.
You shed your outer layers, tossing them over the chair at his desk and undoing your shoes. All that weight feels like a blessing to be shed so easily.
The cool air sends goosebumps trailing up your arms, and Nikolai is there to rub them away.
"I've told the guards to not bother you unless the word comes directly from me." He presses a long, lingering kiss to your temple. "Ill be back in a few hours, hopefully with some leftover snacks from the tab-"
He doesnt get another word in before you turn and capture his lips in yours. Surprise holds his mouth still, but it doesnt last long before he's pressing back into you.
For saints sake (you almost cringe when you remember they're real, according to your husband), if this is your life now, why can't you be a little selfish with it?
You swear you have this oh moment once every few months, but it sinks in a little deeper every time.
It hurts, you think, as you part for only a moment, lips coming back together.
But it feels worth it for now. Right here. Where you can kiss him and kiss him and use the married excuse.
His hands cradle each side of your head, his body pushing into yours. You can hardly feel anything through that damned coat but you'd be hard pressed not to try, fingers feeling the silhouette of his ribs and the way they flow to his hips.
You want that coat off, and pop just one button before you're rudely interrupted by Nikolai walking backwards, taking you with him.
He sits on the plush bed you fantasized about crawling into, and you climb on top, feeling powerful in the way you're able to look down at him.
His mouth opens to speak, but you kiss the space between his brows, trailing down his imperfect nose and finally catching the corner of his still open lips as you undo even more buttons.
Your shoulders feel like they're on fire, a sort of fog clouding anything besides the link between your mind and core desires.
But you'll still take this slow, loving on him and edging him towards the side of staying rather than gaining his senses and walking out that door.
The door that closes behind you.
That, is enough for you to take a squallors power to the fog that covers your brain.
He has a party to go to, you think, turning around and looking at the door, watching a shadow retreat off to the side. He has people to entertain and people to ask favors of.
"Are you alright?" Nikolai asks for what seems to be the hundredth time today.
You feel a little embarrassed, about wanting to ravage him and nearly succeeding with the door wide open for the guards to hear, to see.
And now that you really think about it, the feeling gets so much worse.
"Um- yeah." You decide after much deliberation. "Just wasn't aware the door was still... open."
You move to get off of him, but he hooks his arm around your back and flips you over. You meet the bed with a little 'oof', and in the span of only a few seconds he's got you pinned down.
No real weight is applied to you, but you have no where to shimmy off to should you desire.
One of his legs are between your own, much to your dismay, a hand pressed into the bed beside your head, and a hand gripping anything he can grab of your hip.
His vest is wide open, a loose white shirt the only thing between you and the warmth you crave.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
It almost feels like he's trying to seduce you into honesty.
You release a shaky breath, silently fighting with yourself if this is the moment you want to potentially ruin.
"I love you."
It's really a shame that the seduction works, and that you're just too damn tired of pretending anymore.
His hand tightens around your hip then, the tips of his fingers beginning to dig into your skin. It makes you take a deep breath, almost unable to pass the lump in your throat that was left after your confession.
A horrible parting gift of sorts.
A reward for your idiocity.
But then he leans down, hand coming away from your hip as he slowly sinks down.
His fingers trail up the side of your torso, hips pushing into yours as the rest of him trails behind, stomach meeting stomach and chest touching chest, and if they could you think your ribs would slot together just perfectly with his until your hearts could meet.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your open mouth, hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together.
"Promise?" He asks, heavy eyes and blond lashes fluttering as they look into your own.
Moments like these almost convince you that he loves you too. That he lays awake at night thinking about where to go from here. That he doesn't on some level completely regret getting on one knee and asking for your hand.
"I promise."
He smiles, so genuine and soft.
You feel your heartbeat spread throughout your body, blood pumping harshly through your veins, and you know he feels it too when he has to shut his eyes and compose himself.
You want to move, want to feel him.
So of course that's when he decides to parrot back at you the words that constantly play on loop in your head.
"I love you too."
You look at him then, really really look at him, and watch has his eyes fall open, pupils blown and red waves flowing over his cheeks and nose.
It's a sight to behold.
You want to believe the words that spill out of his mouth, and there isn't anything about him that gives him away as a liar.
But you just can't believe him.
And he sees that.
Because just as well as you can read him, he can read you too.
"I love you." He says, leaning down and kissing just beneath your eyes.
The gloss makes his lips soft, a stark contrast to their usually chapped texture. But he's also just plain gentle, kissing you and whispering small 'I love you's between each one as he moves to your jaw and then to your lips.
"Nikolai." You whisper. Nothing comes to mind anymore.
"I love you." He says again. "And ill do anything to make you believe it."
The lump in your throat returns. "Nikolai."
"I'll whisper it in the morning when you wake up. I'll yell it at you from across the courtyard. I'll scream it from the top of my lungs everytime we—fuck." A moan spills out of him like thick candy, your own gasp surprising you despite it being your fault that your hips came up to press into his.
He takes a moment to think, to wrangle in the words he wants to say before they escape him. "I'll declare it before all of Ravka all over again. I'll eat the little things you hate because I love you more than I hate anything."
It can't be real.
He leans down, his nose brushing against yours till your foreheads meet. You can feel his lips barely brush your own. "What do I need to do to make you believe me?"
"Stay?" You say without thinking. "For starters? Just for a while."
He kisses you, the taste of blueberries welcomed by your tongue.
"With the way you were talking to me, I won't even make it half a bell."
That makes you chuckle, which is completely replaced with a low moan as his cock presses into you. It makes your fingers twitch shut around his gloved hand, the rings digging into your bones.
The pants he's wearing are too tight for your liking. You can't really feel him. Just a vague idea.
And right now, vague ideas are not going to cut it.
He seems to have the same idea as he leans back, climbing off the bed. His coat slips off his body, and his fingers tease under his shirt, well within your line of sight from where you sit up, missing the warmth and friction he was graciously giving you.
"You'll have to wait until I get all this off, darling." He sheds the shirt and moves to his hands, slowly plucking off the rings. The gloves come off after, and you nearly whimper at the sight of his blackened fingers. "It could take a while."
You shuffle to the edge of the bed, not giving him the opportunity to back away as your legs hook behind his own and bring him back to you.
He stills as he watches you reach forward, the tips of your fingers feeling the edge of his pants and barely touch the skin of his lower torso, veins teasing your eyes. You feel like you're floating, the littlest sparks popping around your neck and exploding below your naval.
"We can't have that, can we?" You croon, finding the clasp of his belt and undoing it. "You still have a party to get back to."
He groans the moment his belt slackens, pants falling soon after you unzip the little zipper that held everything together.
You almost wish he would have worn his first army outfit for tonight.
"That I do." He gets out, the sound of various metals falling to the floor. "We should make this quick."
You should be worried about the rings, you think. Either you or him will step on them later and hurt your feet.
But as he leans down again, pressing his lips to your neck and starts sucking that little patch of skin he's mapped out so well, you can't bother to think about it.
You have a King on top of you. You'd be a fool to think about anything else.
-----
The moment Nikolai relinquished his throne in front of the four present nations, your heart sunk.
He didn't look at you for a while, focusing his attention on Zoya, and you were almost thankful for it as you did everything in your power to keep your expression even, forcing a smile on your lips as Zoya began to take charge, addressing those around her for her place as Queen.
You wanted to smack Nikolai for not giving you some sort of warning, but it seems Zoya didn't know either as she gave him the occasional glare when the crowd seemed too focused on gossiping with eachother.
But more importantly you wanted answers.
After that night where you told him you loved him, pouring every bit of meaning into those little words, things were looking up for your relationship.
Little by little you allowed yourself to believe him. He did everything he proposed to you and then some. You unwrapped more of him than you could have ever accessed before and you found yourself allowing him to do the same.
But if he loves you like he says he does, has loved you for just as long as you have, why the hell did he look so damn sad when he proposed to you?
Would he still love you now? Now that he's not King and there truly is no more use for you?
Because despite everything that he's done within the last few weeks, fighting for his country on the front lines and somehow still finding some way to tell you he loves you, staying up into the dead hours of night writing letters and just thinking while holding your hand, you still have your doubts.
He came to you out of obligation. You werent his first choice but he came to you anyway when it seemed the other options were no longer there.
Now that he wasn't King, would he still try?
The Darkling came out from the shadows, challenging the authority of The Apparat.
Nikolai stood beside you, shoulder just slightly between you and the little spat.
Now that he was just Nikolai, would he still find worth in your presence?
He can have anybody now. He doesn't have to worry about the political nightmare it might cause for him to take on a partner with a less than desirable upbringing. He could go for the seamstress at that little hat shop he likes to eye or a baker from the heart of Novyi Zem.
The Apparat is surrounded by Royal Guards and Sun Soldiers nearly leap from where they stand in pursuit of the Darkling. Zoya talks with Nina and the young prince of Fjerda, and Nikolai stays put, a giddy almost childish smile barely contained on his face as he stares at you.
You look at him, begging him to explain as Zoya is roped into conversation with various Ravkan officials, but it seems he's just absolutely overcome with joy.
It makes you smile too, despite the dread and confusion building up in your gut.
"Would you care to explain what just happened?"
He chuckles. "I, just set us free."
"What?"
It's so... surreal.
He looks nervous now, looking around as Ravkan officials slowly peel themselves away from Zoya, the masses still chanting their approval for a Grisha Queen. The seats around the hall are completely empty, and the longer he waits to explain to you what he means the more you feel like you're going to burst out if your skin.
Finally, the last of them leave, and Zoya turns her angry gaze at Nikolai once more.
Wind whirls around the hall, windows shutting. "I," she points a finger at Nikolai, "am going to choke you."
"You'll have to wait in line for that." He takes your hand and squeezes it.
She looks at him then, and scoffs. "We will discuss this after you're done here."
"Depending on how this goes that would be either my greatest pleasure or worst nightmare."
She's already out the door, probably not having even heard a word Nikolai said.
Once the door is shut he turns back to you, a steady breath exiting his lungs.
"Nikolai Lantsov you had better tell me what in saints name you were talking about before I have Zoya throw you so far into the sky you'll touch the stars."
He's still smiling, and giving you that look he always does right before he says the sappiest things.
"It became clear to me a long while ago that no matter what I did I would not be accepted as the Ravkan ruler everyone wants." He takes both of your hands in his now, giving them another squeeze. "And, not so strangely at all, the more I thought about it the lighter I felt. The crown has to go to someone, and as lovely as you are, it brings me great sorrow that those around here wouldnt have found solace in you being crowned ruler either."
And it's true. You were a topic of conversation for no more than two minutes before everyone moved on. You didn't want the crown, and Nikolai was right that the age of the Lantsov's had to come to an end.
"So, I gave the crown to Zoya, because it wasn't all that improbable that they'd accept her after her little display on the battlefield." He chuckles, and you follow along, heart beating hard and fast. "But I would be deemed a liar if I said I didn't have some doubt about it, since it might have meant losing you."
Your blood runs cold. "What?" You want to ask how he could think that, but you were just thinking the same not minutes before. "Nikolai-"
"I am no longer a King. Meaning any marriage I had before means nothing to the people... but it means everything to me." He gets down on one knee, smiling up at you. "I was hesitant asking for your hand in marriage last year because I didn't want to trap you in an arrangement that you found no joy in. But these last few weeks with you where you said you loved me and I've had the joy of showing you I felt the same, have made me feel so grateful that I eventually did."
You could swear your heart was about to explode. You half want to look around the room for a heartrender, convinced someone else is doing this to you.
But it feels so genuine, and it hits you like a pile of rocks why he looked to utterly exhausted that day he proposed.
His lips greet your knuckles, his lashes shiny with what you can only assume are tears. "I will continue to love you, for as long as I shall live, if you will let me and wish for the same."
And suddenly you can't see, because you're squeezing your eyes shut, relief nearly sending your entire system into shock.
You fall to your knees, dirtying your expensive clothes you have absolutely no care for, and grip him into a hug.
"You- You utter buffoon." You sob, tightening your grip on him just as his arms come and wrap around your waist. "Of course I want the same."
That's all he needs to squeeze you against him. You can feel his eyebrows squish together against your neck as he tightens his hold.
If he could completely envelope you into himself, merging your bodies together, you think he would.
If he could hold you so tight that your hearts could kiss, you know he would.
It's a long time before you eventually pull apart, and humor is not lost from him when he does.
"What are you going to do now?" You ask.
He sighs, helping you wipe your tears. "Well considering youre my spouse, I feel like there's an obvious answer here."
You scoff, taking his hand away from your face. "Animal."
He laughs, catching your hand and lacing your fingers together.
"How would you feel about becoming a privateer?"
You look around the room, pretending to think about it.
How would you feel about a life on the seas with your husband? Sailing in nearly any direction you please with goofy hats and guns strapped at your side? Walking the decks with a crew you'd trust with your life and fish and brandy for dinner?
What is there not to love? "I think that'd be pretty fun."
There's hardly anything you can do to make him wait to get back to the palace before stripping your clothes off, the word "captain" coming out of your mouth and sending you both into a fit of giggles.
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@xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx
#ask#nikolai lantsov x reader#nikolai lantsov x you#nikolai lantsov x y/n#nikolai lantsov fanfic#grishaverse fanfic#grishaverse x reader#grishaverse x you#grishaverse x y/n#fanfic#anon
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La Mode illustrée, no. 11, 18 mars 1900, Paris. Collet de printemps en drap, orné de rubans de velours. Modèle de Mlle Louise Piret, rue Richer, 43. Collet de printemps avec franges nouées. Modèle de Mlle Louise Piret, rue Richer, 43. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney
Collet de printemps en drap, orné de rubans de velours.
Ce collet en drap blanc plissé, taillé avec un col à empiècement terminé devant en pans d'étole, est cerclé de plusieurs rangs d'étroits rubans de velours noir. L'empiècement est terminé par un col Médicis bordé à l'intérieur avec des rubans en velours. La partie supérieure du collet s'ouvre avec des revers taillés en pointe, garnis de la même manière.
Chapeau en paille de soie blanche, garni de nœuds de ruban blanc et de touffes de jacinthes de couleur.
Spring collar in cloth, decorated with velvet ribbons.
This pleated white cloth collar, cut with a yoke collar ending in stole panels at the front, is encircled with several rows of narrow black velvet ribbons. The yoke is finished with a Medici collar bordered on the inside with velvet ribbons. The upper part of the collar opens with pointed lapels, trimmed in the same way.
White silk straw hat, trimmed with white ribbon bows and tufts of colored hyacinths.
—
Collet de printemps avec franges nouées.
Ce collet en drap merveilleux noisette, disposé en petits plis piqués, est fait avec un empiècement ajusté sur les épaules, et garni d'une haute frange grillagée en soie de la même teinte; cette frange masque la jonction du collet. Les petits boutons de satin et les agrafes de passementerie terminées par de longues aiguillettes, sont de la même nuance que le collet; on double le vêtement avec du taffetas vert-réséda.
Chapeau rond en paille crème, garni de plumes d'autruche et de nœuds en ruban de velours vieux rose.
Spring collar with knotted fringes.
This collar in wonderful hazelnut cloth, arranged in small stitched pleats, is made with a fitted yoke on the shoulders, and trimmed with a high mesh fringe in silk of the same shade; this fringe hides the junction of the collar. The small satin buttons and the trimming clasps ending in long needles are the same shade as the collar; the garment is lined with reseda green taffeta.
Round cream straw hat, trimmed with ostrich feathers and old pink velvet ribbon bows.
#La Mode illustrée#20th century#1900s#1900#on this day#March 18#periodical#fashion#fashion plate#description#Forney#dress#cape#collar#Modèles de chez#Mademoiselle Louise Piret
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Sleepless in New York: Epilogue - Into The Night
Series: TRR
Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)
Synopsis: What if Drake met Harper on the first night of Prince Christian’s New York bachelor party? A stand-alone AU written from Drake's POV.
Masterlist: Sleepless in New York
Chapter Summary: On the long-dreaded night of the Masquerade Ball, Drake has a revelation...
Word Count: 4,600
Rating/Warnings: M (angst, way too many f-bombs, drinking, references to drug-use, fluffy fluff fluff)
Chapter theme song:
A/N1: This is my slightly belated submission for @choicesprompts Flufftober 2023 event I got this out as fast as I could! The prompt that this fits is '31 - You don’t know me and I promise I’m not a creepy stalker but...' and possibly this one:
A/N2: I have no clue how many people actually listen to the chapter theme songs for these fics, but if you have time, I highly encourage you to listen to this one! I dredged it from the depths of my Middle School memories because I realised that it was perfect for this chapter (in my head, if Sleepless were a movie/TV show, this is the song that would play as the end credits song).
Epilogue - Into The Night
"You okay?"
I shoot a scoff across the room. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"You could," Chris concedes, meeting my eye through the full-length mirror as he adjusts a cuff. "But I am not the one who has been staring into that whiskey glass for the past ten minutes."
"Speak for yourself," I reply, quickly draining what's left of my drink. "You've been eyeing up your reflection for the past fifteen."
"I just want to make a good first impression, is all..." he admits while obsessing over the gold aiguillette draped across his jacket.
"Isn't that what the job of the so-called ladies?" I ask dryly, dropping the now empty glass back onto the bar cart.
"I am certain they will be pulling out all the stops," he sighs, smoothing his already immaculate hair down. "But, given the occasion, it is only fair that I reciprocate."
"Well, short of emergency Botox, I think you've more than crossed that T."
Chris snaps his head around in bewilderment. "Pardon me?"
I shrug apathetically. "You're fast approaching thirty, buddy. And those crow's feet aren't doing you any favours."
He quirks a brow at me. "I think you'll find that they are laugh lines..."
"Now you're just splitting grey hairs, old man..."
Chris bursts out laughing. "Speak for yourself, Drake! You were born three months before me!"
"True," I concede. "But unlike you, I ain't got no wrinkles."
His mouth pulls into a knowing smirk. "Only because you hide them under all that unkept facial hair!"
"You should try it sometime," I riposte, running my hand suggestively over the bristles on my jaw.
Chris shakes his head with a wry grin. "I must've done something very wrong at some point for you to be my best friend..."
I spread my arms. "Hey. I'm just here to keep you humble."
Chris scoffs. "Yes. By reminding me that I'm fast approaching middle age..."
"It took your mind off the Ball, didn't it?"
"Yes," he concedes after a pause. "I suppose it did."
"Not just a hat rack, my friend," I grin with a tap on my temple. "But seriously. You look great. Warts and all."
A wan smile ghosts his lips. "Thanks, mate. You don't look too shabby yourself."
I glance down at the black tux that I'm wearing. "Yeah. Well... Given the occasion, I figured I should make some kind of effort as well."
"You know you don't have to dress up on my account... I know how much you dislike donning evening wear."
"Tell that to the prick who put 'black tie' on the invite..."
Chris chuckles. "That would be my father."
"Figures..." I say with a roll of my eyes. "He's got more dinner jackets than you can shake a stick at."
"A necessity when you are a king, I'm afraid..." Chris reminds me. "But at least it isn't a white tie 'do."
"Oh, sweet Jesus..." I groan, remembering the last royal event that I had to subject myself to in a bow tie and matching waistcoat. "I was sweating like a priest in a brothel strapped up in that monkey suit."
"It certainly did not help that the air conditioning system had been broken..."
"In the middle of a heatwave..." I add. "With five hundred people packed into a room."
"Yes, that Venice trip certainly was memorable."
"For all the wrong reasons," I grunt sourly. "I somehow managed to get food poisoning as well."
"I remember," nods Chris sympathetically. "But at least you missed the terrible opera."
"Honestly, I would've traded that hellhole of a night for an entire week's worth of bad arias..." I grumble. "I definitely got the short end of the stick in that trade."
"You only say that because you do not know what it is to sit through four hours of off-key yodelling," Chris says with grimace.
"No," I admit solemnly. "Because I always bring earplugs."
Chris' eyes widen. "And you never thought to share them?"
"Doesn't really work if you only block one ear..."
Chris rewards my factual clap-back with a shove. "You are a sod, you know that right?"
"Thought that was old news," I reply with a grin, dodging out of the way.
"And yet you nevertheless continue to raise the bar..."
"Hey," I wink as I reverse my way back to the bar cart. "I have high standards."
Chris shakes his head with a wry grin. "You're impossible."
"Thought I was a sod," I quip over my shoulder as I refill both our glasses.
"An impossible sod," accedes Chris wryly as he slips on his monogrammed Breitling.
"Just so we're clear..." I smirk as I retrace my steps to offer him one of the tumblers.
"Thanks," he acknowledges, taking the heavy crystal. "What shall we toast to?"
I think for a second. "How 'bout blind, dumb luck?"
Chris lifts a brow. "That's a new one."
"Seems to be in short supply of late," I tell him, raising my glass.
"Very true," he agrees. "To Lady Luck, then! May she bestow her golden smile upon us once again!"
"'Cause we could all do with a fuckin' break," I add dryly, clinking my glass against his.
Chris brings the gin to his mouth with a laugh. "Did we not just have one?"
"Not all of us," I remind him, throwing my refill back.
"Well, we'll need to make sure you take some time in lieu, then."
"I'll be fine," I assure him. "I'll just chalk it up as overtime."
Chris chuckles. "At the rate you're going, you'll soon have more overtime on the books than regular time."
"Yeah, well..." I shrug. "Shit needs doing. But I'm planning on dropping off the grid for a couple of weeks once the Bash is behind us."
"Take a whole month," Chris advises, clapping a hand onto my shoulder. "You will have more than earned it by then."
I scoff. "I can't just—"
He firms up his grip. "I insist."
Lifting my gaze, I find his clear, emerald eyes locking me down.
I huff out a low breath. "Fine. I'll think about it."
"That is the best I'm going to get out of you, isn't it?"
"Yep," I tell him with a slap on his arm. "Now, hop to it, Cinderella — your ball awaits."
"Yes, I suppose we best get on," he concedes, depositing his empty glass on a side table. "Would be rude to turn up late for my own party..."
Turning on his heel, he strides determinedly towards the door of his suite. The footman stationed by the wall quickly grabs the latch and pulls the door back.
"Here we go..." I mutter under my breath as I drop my tumbler off as well and follow after him.
This is it. The start of the slow, downward skid towards the inevitable. The beginning of the end.
Because tonight's ball kicks off not just the months-long circus that is the social season, but the countdown to Chris' coronation as well.
As despite all the official interviews and press releases, it's no secret within the Palace that Constantine is living on borrowed time. His pancreatic cancer had been diagnosed too late, and even with vigorous treatment, it had spread. And even based on the most optimistic outlook, chances are good that he won't make it to Christmas.
Which is why New York — by necessity — had been such a whirlwind tour. Because any day could end up being the old bastard's last, and Chris has to be ready to step up to the plate at a moment's notice. Not that he isn't already running the country in all but name... It just isn't official yet.
But that's why the race to find the next Queen is exactly that — a high-stakes time-trial where the clock is against everyone.
Especially Chris.
Because if Constantine's condition takes a sudden turn for the worse, Chris may not get the luxury of choice. As some dumbass had had the bright idea a few centuries ago to enact a law that states that Cordonian monarchs must be married or engaged at the time of their coronation. Which means that Chris' hand could end up being forced by circumstances — and selfish interests — outside his control.
So, we better pray that he finds someone, and fast. Or that the doctors are wrong. Ideally both.
Otherwise, we're gonna be up the proverbial creek without a paddle, hurtling down the rapids of a constitutional crisis that could very literally tear the kingdom apart.
"Well... This is it," declares Chris as we arrive at the doors of the ballroom.
"Yep," I agree over the soft hubbub of gossip and classical music that's seeping out into the ante-room we're standing in. "Last chance to cut and a run."
"I am honestly considering it," he admits with a shaky laugh as the footmen prepare to open the double-height doors.
"Hey," I say, stepping in front of him. "If you need a time out—"
He shakes his head. "I'll be fine."
"You sure?" I ask, fixing him with a critical eye as I wave at the staff to hold their horses.
"Yes," he nods determinedly. "Just... Just some last-minute nerves, is all."
"Understandable," I concede. "There are only about a dozen girls on the other side of that door waiting to throw themselves at you."
He eyes the barrier uneasily. "I suppose I should feel flattered..."
"...but you're seriously thinking about jumping off the balcony."
He bites out a strangled laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"You never could beat me at poker."
"Shit..." he mutters, running an agitated hand down his face.
"Hey," I say, clamping my hands onto his shoulders to make him look at me. "It's a fucked up situation. I get it. Your dad's got one foot in the grave, you're trying to run a country, and the last thing you want to do is play Royal Bachelor in front of all these tossers. But you need a Queen. And the season's your best bet at finding one."
"But how will I know which is the one?"
"You won't," I admit. "Until you do."
Christ knows Gale struck me like white lightning out of the blue...
His lips curve into a ghost of a smile. "Blind, dumb luck..."
"Blind, dumb luck," I confirm, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Chris heaves a low exhale. "Here's to chance, then."
"Knock 'em dead, buddy," I say with a grin as I step back.
Chris lines himself up in front of the entranceway again. The footmen reach for the handles as the herald takes his position.
I give everyone the go.
The double doors swing open, and the herald clears his voice.
The music and the hubbub come to an abrupt halt as every neck in the room cranes around with unfettered interest.
"Preeesenting His Royal Highness, the Duke of Applewood!"
Chris squares his shoulders and lifts his head. And just like that, the man disappears and in his place stands the Prince — cool, composed, collected — any wayward reservations masked behind the diplomatic smile he's been practising since the age of three.
The crowd parts...
...and with one final inhale, Chris steps over the threshold and the doors close behind him.
A breath that I didn't realise I'd been holding explodes out of me.
Phase 1 — check.
Now to try and get through the remainder of the ball without any front-page scandals, culinary clusterfucks, or assassination attempts upsetting the carefully staged high-society apple cart.
Because I hadn't been joking earlier when I'd said we could all do with a fuckin' break. The media storm kicked up by Leo's abdication was still raging in full force through the pages of the tabloids, and it's only gonna be a matter of time before the paps get wind of Constantine's condition.
Which is why it's so critical that tonight's event goes off without a hitch. As the royal family — Chris especially — is in desperate need of a publicity uplift before the coronation... and the funeral.
And it's my job to quarterback while Bastien coordinates from the command centre.
So, I need to be especially on it tonight. As we can't afford any cock-ups.
Spinning on my heel, I make my way towards the closest side-door as I activate the hidden mic clipped to my jacket. "Falcon has flown, over."
"Confirmed," comes the crackled sound of Bastien's voice over the comms. "Blue Team — do you have eyes on Falcon?"
"We have eyes on Falcon, over," affirms Marquez.
"Walker, you're clear to take up secondary position, over."
"Roger that, over."
I feel my shoulders relax slightly as I reach the end of the service corridor.
So far, so good.
Just need to stay focused for the next six-or-so hours, and make sure that nothing goes sideways.
Opening the white-washed door in front of me, I slip into the ballroom near the back of the royal dais. Clicking the latch closed softly behind me, I catch sight of Constantine.
He's dressed to the nines in full royal regalia, patent oxfords polished to within an inch of their life. But the carefully coordinated window dressing can't hide the fact that the old man is a shadow of his former self.
His cheeks are sunken, his greying hair is sparse, and despite the carefully applied make-up, his skin lacks the usual vigour of health.
But I gotta hand it to the man. Despite his failing health, he's out here tonight. Putting on a united front for the sake of the kingdom — for the sake of his son — to make sure that the royal show goes on. Even if it fucking kills him.
Because that's the price of duty.
And regardless of his other failings — of which there are many — you have to respect him for that, if nothing else.
He spots me out of the corner of his periphery. "Drake..."
"Sir," I acknowledge with a respectful nod, coming to a stop.
"I trust everything is under control?"
"Yessir."
He eyes me for a moment before leaning back into his upholstered chair. "Let's ensure that it stays that way."
Knowing a dismissal when I hear one, I resume my path around the perimeter, scanning the crowd as I walk, always keeping at least one eye on Chris.
Because Constantine's direction had been clear.
Don't fuck up.
Not that I plan to.
I learnt my lesson the hard way in New York about taking my eyes off the ball. And like hell am I gonna—
"Managed to find a new shirt, I see..."
I freeze. No fuckin' way.
I must've imagined it. A trick of the space... A wayward echo... An auditory illusion.
But if that's true, then who the hell is standing behind me? Eyes locked onto my back like a laser-sight? Their familiar scent tickling my nose?
Camomile with a hint of honey.
I shake my head, trying to rejig my senses.
It doesn't work.
Which leaves me with just one option.
Steeling myself, I turn slowly around, part of me convinced that I've well and truly lost the plot, part of me 'bout ready to believe in miracles.
Because that voice... Here? That's just not possible. Unless there was something in that whiskey and I'm tripping major ballsacks right now.
Wouldn't be the first time Max pulled a stunt like that...
But as I complete the about-face, it quickly becomes clear that I ain't just obviously high — I've lost my motherfuckin' mind completely.
That, or a bomb has just gone off in the ballroom and I'm now stood at the Gates of Heaven, about to receive final judgement.
Because I can think of no other scenario that would explain why she's here, in front of me, wrapped in a shimmering, floor-length white dress that clings to her curves like wisps of a dream, a coy smile playing at her lips.
"But I guess you can't show up at a place like this in cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans, huh?"
The soft lilt of her voice slices through me like a boot knife. "Harp—"
I make the mistake of catching her eye.
And whatever semblance of rationale thought I may have had left dissolves instantly in the sparkle of her hazel-green gaze.
The crowd... The Schubert... The entire fucking kingdom crashes into inconsequence as I feel my already tenuous grip on reality slip, leaving me stranded on the twilight edge of reason, struggling for breath.
How—?
I have no clue how long I stand there, rooted to the spot like a vegetate stoner as I try — and fail — to make sense of what the actual fuck is happening.
Because this shit? It sure as hell ain't real.
"...Drake?"
The sound of her voice finally unglitches my brain.
I blink.
But she's still there. Staring at me. Like an unabating hallucination with a bad sense of humour.
With concerted effort, I force myself to choke out the only salient question. "The hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Why?"
"You left your jackets behind and—"
My jaw drops. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Who — in their right mind — chases someone halfway around the world? Because of a goddamn jacket?
Nobody. That's who.
The girl's obviously crazy.
Her smile falters slightly. "I thought I'd surprise you..."
"Yeah. Well, I hate surprises," I cut in acerbically, still trying to process this shitshow.
"Yes," she snips, hazel eyes hardening. "That much is becoming clear!"
"What the fuck did you expect, Gale?" I hit back. "That I'd just—?"
"I don't know what I was expecting!" she snaps, the force of her annoyance propelling her forward as she flings an arm out. "But it sure as hell wasn't this!"
"Well, that makes two of us," I bite out, suddenly finding myself nose-to-nose with her. "Because I would've expected a fucking heads-up!"
Her eyes narrow. "Do you know how many Drake Walkers there are online?"
I feel my jaw clench. "What the hell does that—?"
"Over a hundred!" she shouts into my face... loud enough for a few nearby aristos to turn their heads. "And none of them are you!"
I grab her by the arm. "So, you just decide to jump on a plane and—?"
"Yes! Because it's not like I had your number, either, Walker," she continues forcefully, jabbing me in the chest. "Because you just left and—"
"You fucking think I don't know that!" I yell back, the inherent accusation of her words ripping away the last vestiges of my sanity.
Several more heads to turn.
But I don't give a shit.
Because I can't seem to think straight around this girl on the best of days. Let alone when she springs herself on me like some damn jack-in-the-box — for the third fuckin' time just as many days — leaving me slap-faced and scrambling, and then accuses me of being an asshole?
Like fuck am I gonna act rational...
...also, why the hell does she have to look so damn good in that dress?
She's glaring up at me, chest heaving. "This was obviously a bad idea..."
I scoff humourlessly, her face inches from mine. "No fucking shit."
Her body tenses... but in the next instant the fight goes out of her just as fast as it ignited. Dropping her gaze, she mutters, "Glad we got that cleared up..."
There's something in her tone that I can't quite place.
But my burnt-out brain is too slow at cottoning on, and before I have a chance to figure it out, she's spun out of my grasp and I'm left holding nothing but air...
"Harp—"
...but by the time I look up, she's already turned and vanished into the crush.
Shit.
That obviously came out wrong.
But what the fuck had she been thinking? For me to just throw my hat over the moon like some star-struck moron? To sweep her off her feet and kiss her like we were in a goddamn rom-com?
I catch sight of the flash of her honey-caramel hair halfway across the room.
Crap.
That's exactly what I should've done.
Ignoring every single warning light going off in my head — she's not been vetted, she didn't have an invite, how the fuck did she even find me? — I throw myself after her.
Because as pissed off as I am that she was able to get the jump on me like she did — someone's sure as shit getting fired for that — I can't deny the fact that I'm still a complete and utter fool for her.
And the thought of her walking out on me — like I'd walked out on her — hits worse than a bullet to the gut.
"Harper!" I shout, pushing through the crowd of beady-eyed onlookers to try and get to her, much to their undisguised disgust.
"Oi, watch it, you!"
"C'est intolérable!"
"Do you know who I am!"
But if she hears me over the growing furore, she doesn't stop.
"For fuck's sake..." I grunt under my breath as I momentarily lose sight of her in the sea of heads.
This girl's going to be the death of me.
But if I'm going to have any chance of catching her, I know I need a change of strategy.
Spinning on my heel, I cut a hard and fast path back to the edge of the ballroom, spilling more than a few fancy drinks in the process as I knock aristos out of the way like bowling pins.
Heedless of the chaos left in my wake, I burst out onto the periphery of the crush. Throwing myself into a sprint back towards the tail end of the room, I bump off anyone stupid enough to get in my way.
I'm not losing her again.
Rushing past the raised dais, I see Constantine turn his head in my direction...
...but I've blown past him before he has a chance to open his mouth.
Sliding to a haphazard stop in front of the wall, I pause for just long enough to wrench the hidden door open before hurling myself down the service corridor.
Rushing past doors and junctions on my left and right, I pull up a mental blueprint of the Palace, trying to extrapolate her most likely position based on her speed and prior trajectory, and cross-reference that against how fast I'm going to determine the best option for an interception.
There. The main foyer.
Skidding around a corner, I double-time it down the narrow passageways, praying and hoping that I've been able to make up for time lost in the ballroom.
Arriving at the exit point, I throw myself against the door — nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process — and crash back out into the Palace-proper...
...but I can't see her anywhere.
"Fuck!" I cuss, running an agitated hand through my hair as I spin around.
Maybe I miscalculated. Maybe she's already gone. Maybe—
"Ooph!"
I collide bodily with someone speeding around the corner from the opposite direction, their head smacking into my jaw.
Agony shoots through my mouth as the unexpected impact causes me to bite down on my tongue.
Motherfucker!
But the sharp sting of the pain doesn't stop my body from reacting. If anything, it kicks my training into gear. Moving more on instinct than anything else, I execute a targeted sidestep to realign my centre as my hand snaps out to grab the other person by the arm to stop them from falling backwards.
Using their weight as a fulcrum, I redirect the force of our momentum into a spin to bring both of us to a stop next to the wall.
"You okay?" I ask, peering down at the panting, hot mess in my arms.
Gale snaps her head up so fast she nearly breaks my nose as well. "How the hell did you get in front of me?"
"Trade secret," I tell her.
She lays into me. On the exact same spot she hit me last night.
"Christ!" I exclaim, reeling back. "What the hell was that—?"
"For being an asshole!" she decries, hitting me again.
"Asshole?" I scoff. "You fucking ran into me!"
"Well, maybe I wouldn't have done if you hadn't been such a jerk, Walker!" she shouts, smacking me again.
"What do you want, then?" I demand, catching her wrist. "A goddamn apology?"
Her eyes blaze. "It would be a damn good st—"
Fuck it.
Giving her wrist a hard tug, I use the inherent resistance in her arm to yank her forward. And before she has a chance to object, I've crashed my lips against hers.
I hear her suck in a sharp breath of surprise before her body suddenly softens, melting against mine with a sigh as she gives into me.
The scent of her wildflower perfume subsumes me as she throws an arm around my neck, and I'm — at long last — home.
Because it's not until this moment that I realise how much I fucking missed her. Even though I barely know her, and I have no clue how... or even if we can make this — whatever this is — work, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was a monumental idiot for not going back to find her in New York...
...for the fact that I walked out on her in the first place.
Because this girl? She's unlike anything I've ever seen before.
The sheer fact that she's here — despite all the myriad-and-one ways in which I've screwed up with her — proves that.
And I'll be damned if I'll find another like her.
"Harper... I'm sorry," I pant between kisses, reaching up to cup her face in my palms. "For being an asshole... for being a jerk... for getting you fired... for hurting you... for—"
"I'm sorry, too..." she gasps, gripping my hair as my lips skate down her neck. "I didn't mean to... freak you out... like that... and I should've—"
"How did you even get here?" I ask, spinning her around to press her up against the wall behind me.
"Leo," she moans, arching up towards me as I drop a hand down to her ass, pulling her back into me. "He came to the apartment and—"
I scoff as I capture her mouth again. "Un-fuckin'-real..."
I'm gonna murder the bastard.
Because if this is his batshit way of saying 'thank you' for me being here for Chris instead of him, then he's definitely more than one brick shy of a load.
As regardless of whatever kind of happy reunion he'd cooked up in his mind, there's only one possible outcome to this royal SNAFU — me losing my job. Because there's no way in hell that Bast will be able to overlook the fact that I deserted my post to chase after a girl.
Again.
As unlike last time, there are a good two-dozen witnesses who can throw me under the bus. And they'll do so with impunity, given half a chance. Because one of those witnesses is Constantine. And no way is he gonna let such a flagrant dereliction of duty fly. Especially not after the very clear command he gave me.
Plus, it's not like I can justify my behaviour with any kind of rational argument. Or swear on a stack of Bibles that I won't do it again.
I'd tried that in New York.
It hadn't worked.
But as I glance down at Gale's flushed face, one thing is crystal clear.
I'll deal with that shit in the morning...
~ Fin ~
A/N: This is it! We have arrived at the end! 🤗 Thank you so much for bearing with me over the course of this fic, which has been 2 long years in the making! Hopefully, the journey was worth it! There will be some Extras in the near future (art, a bonus chapter), but no ETA on any of these yet (too many other WIPs I want/need to finish). Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, reblog, comment, emote, and generally encourage me through this project! I - for one! - have certainly grown to love Drake more as a result! 🥰 Hope you have too!
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Sleepless in New York only
@bebepac
Picture Credits: Harper - Cordonia - Drake - Constantine - Kiss - Christian
#drake walker#harper gale#sleepless in new york#the royal romance#trr au#choicesprompts#flufftober 2023
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Oh anon, thanks for mentioning this because I too want to know how Harry knows when William speaks to him as the heir and not as William. Is there a change in his voice?
It's simple, let me explain. He's Willy when he agrees with everything and for everything, never questions anything, case in point: he was probably Willy when he didn't wear his ADC aiguillettes to the grandchildren vigil.
He's William The Heir when he does things Harry doesn't like, which now basically means breathing, but usually it meant acting like a boss, husband and/or a father, not agreeing, questioning, telling Harry to slow down with a relationship, case in point: he was William The Heir when he had The Queen's cypher on his uniform at the grandchildren vigil.
When those two Williams appear simultaneously, then it's probably William The Heir because Willy would never allow for William The Heir to appear.
This...sounds about right.
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Bestie I’m begging you to talk about forestella’s costumes for this comeback (do we consider this a comeback?). I think so far they only have three versions-the white ones, the pink from the mv, and the black ones from You Heeyeol’s sketchbook that I’m pretty sure where also I’m the mv. Oh and the set of outfits where Hyungho is wearing a red jacket
i LOOOOOVVVEEEEEEEEEE the costumes for this comeback!!!!! obvs i'm sad that a.c.e isn't here but if it means that forestella gets their jewelry budget i will accept their hiatus gracefully. i don't think there's anything crazy deep with the costumes but since the other set indications from the mv are neoclassical/greco-roman and there's both old norse myth (the world tree) and biblical references, so i'll take a guess that the costumes are meant to be 'modern but also timeless' interpretations of god-like/demigod-like figures OR priests/religious mediums of some kind. the mv quite literally puts them on pedestals and a big stylistic point of the costumes are these quite elabourate jewelry pieces and fabrics associated with luxury (lace, silk, brocade). the table and lace veils makes me lean slightly more towards religious mediums, who also among many different cultures often have elabourate jewelry and accessories, but it could go either way. i really like that they went for an out of time look for this styling because it lends really well to the ambiguity of the visual and textual references in the mv; obviously all the clothing is in a modern cut, but there are specific choices and accessories that pull each look specifically away from being solidly 'modern'. across all the looks they've got calf or knee height boots, which was the standard height for boots for quite a while historically, but was most famously common in the early-mid 19th century. in the beige + white lace looks: lace in the first place, woorim's lace tie and lace cuffs (references to 18th cent lace jabots and cuffs), hyungho's lace front (reference to bib front tuxedo shirts), mingyu's lace torso overlay (looks like a jerkin/vest with a plain shirtsleeve underneath), doohoon's sash (common in military dress uniforms). in the black/white looks (these are primarly just inverted versions): woorim/hyungho/doohoon's shoulder pieces (large ceremonial collar type jewelry, but also could be referential to aiguillettes or gorgets), mingyu's cross body belt (bandolier), hyungho's lace collared shirt (could be referential to a stock tie or just lace collars in general), and woorim's amazing fringed cape jacket (it's a single armed CAPE, which appears all throughout western men's fashion from as far back as the late middle ages). i didn't get a good look at all of them from the set where hyungho is wearing the red jacket, but that particular getup is very victorian; it was a huge trend in the late victorian era for suits of garish patterns and they also were still wearing frock coats then (although i think maybe they had migrated to sack coats by that point? i can't remember. technically frock coats are shorter than it looks like hyungho's is, but i'm not counting for accuracy here). also the structure of suiting in general gives them a sense of power and authority, since it is, of course, closely associated with patriarchal power systems. like i said, it's not crazy deep but there are a lot of little details that are fun for a designer to play around with, i bet the styling team had a great time with this one, especially when you look at all the different textures they play around with too.
#like woorim's fuzzy shirt?! combined with mingyu wearing faux leather????? i love texture stylists need to play with it more#kpop questions#kpop styling#forestella#forestella w#really getting to flex my knowledge of the history of the necktie in this ask thank you#i also know so much about the history of the suit (shrug emoji)#it was one of my specialty areas in school#text#answers#anon whoever u are i love u thank u for asking me about forestella
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7 février 2024
J-219 avant événement surprise
J-14 avant rdv médical important
Aujourd’hui, je continue a me miner avec cette histoire de fou. C’est malheureusement quelque chose que j’aurais préféré éviter d’en arriver a ce point , mais j’y suis contrainte force de raisonnement.
J’ai defaillé aujourd’hui, avec mon goûter pour les enfants, mais aussi les TCA (troubles du comportement alimentaire) que j’ai du mal à gérer quand ça ne va pas.
Le boulot, les enfants, la routine pour ce jour.
Petit-déjeuner :
1 thé vert à la menthe accompagné d‘un muffin anglais oméga 3 et fromage à raclette (plus de camembert).
Déjeuner :
Aiguillettes de poulet rôties et semoule.
Goûter :
Pain perdu
Dîner :
Sauté de veau aux légumes, avec une cuillère de pâtes ainsi qu’une compote pommes-poires.
Je vous souhaite une très bonne journée.
E.
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ALAIN LE GENTIL
SOLDAT
Il servit le roi Charles VII dès l’âge de douze ans, comme archer, ayant été enlevé par des hommes de guerre dans le plat pays de Normandie. La manière dont il fut enlevé fut telle. Tandis qu’on allumait les granges, qu’on écorchait les jambes des laboureurs à couteaux de ceinture, et qu’on jetait les fillettes à bas sur les lits de sangles, rompus, le petit Alain s’était blotti dans une vieille pipe de vin défoncée à l’entrée du pressoir. Les hommes de guerre renversèrent la pipe et y trouvèrent un garçonnet. On l’emporta à tout sa chemise et sa cotte hardie. Le capitaine lui fit donner un petit jaquet de cuir et un ancien chaperon qui venait de la bataille de Saint-Jacques. Perrin Godin lui apprit à tirer de l’arc et à ficher proprement son carreau dans le blanc. Il passa de Bordeaux à Angoulême et du Poitou à Bourges, vit Saint-Pourçain, où se tenait le roi, franchit les marches de Lorraine, visita Toul, revint en Picardie, entra en Flandres, traversa Saint-Quentin, vira vers la Normandie, et pendant vingt-trois ans, courut la France en compagnie armée, où il connut l’Anglais Jehan Poule-Cras, qui lui fit savoir la façon de jurer par Godon, Chiquerello le Lombard, qui lui enseigna à guérir le feu Saint-Antoine, et la jeune Ydre de Laon, qui lui montra à abattre ses brayes.
Au Ponteau de Mer, son compagnon Bernard d’Anglades lui persuada de se mettre hors l’ordonnance royale, lui assurant qu’ils vivraient grandement tous deux en enseignant les dupes avec les dés pipés, qu’on nomme « gourds ». Ils le firent, sans quitter leur attirail, et ils feignaient de jouer, à l’orée des murs du cimetière, sur un tabourin volé. Un mauvais sergent de l’official, Pierre Empongnart, se fit montrer les subtilités de leur jeu et leur dit qu’ils ne tarderaient pas à être pris : mais qu’il fallait hardiment jurer qu’ils fussent clercs, afin d’échapper aux gens du roi et de réclamer la justice de l’Église, et, pour cela, tondre tout net le haut de leurs têtes et jeter promptement, en cas de besoin, leurs collets déchiquetés et leurs manches de couleur. Il les tonsura lui-même avec les ciseaux consacrés et leur fit marmotter les sept Psaumes et le verset Dominus pars. Puis, ils tirèrent chacun de leur côté, Benard avec Bietrix la clavière, et Alain avec Lorenete la chandelière.
Comme Lorenete voulait un surcot de drap vert, Alain guetta la taverne du Cheval Blanc à Lisieux, où ils avaient bu un broc de vin. Il revint la nuit dans le jardin, fit un trou au mur avec sa javeline, et entra dans la salle où il trouva sept écuelles d’étain, un chaperon rouge et une verge d’or. Jaquet le Grand, fripier de Lisieux, les changea très bien contre un surcot tel que le désirait Lorenete.
À Bayeux, Lorenete demeura dans une petite maison peinte, où on disait qu’étaient les étuves des femmes, et la maîtresse des étuves ne fit que rire quand Alain le Gentil voulut la reprendre. Elle le reconduisit à l’huis, la chandelle au poing, et une grosse pierre dans l’autre main, lui demandant s’il avait point envie qu’elle lui en frottât le museau pour lui faire faire la baboue. Alain s’enfuit, en renversant sa chandelle, tirant du doigt à la bonne femme ce qui lui parut être une verge précieuse : mais elle n’était que de cuivre surdoré, avec une grosse pierre rose contrefaite.
Puis Alain partit errant, et à Maubusson rencontra, dans l’hôtellerie du Papegaut, Karandas, son compagnon d’armes, qui mangeait des tripes avec un autre homme nommé Jehan Petit. Karandas portait encore son vouge, et Jehan Petit avait une bourse avec ses aiguillettes, pendante à la ceinture. Le mordant de la ceinture était d’argent fin. Après avoir bu, ils délibérèrent tous trois d’aller à Senlis par le bois. Ils se mirent en route sur la tarde, et quand ils furent au plein de la forêt, sans lumière, Alain le Gentil traîna la jambe. Jehan le Petit marchait devant. Et dans le noir, Alain lui donna rudement de sa javeline entre les deux épaules, cependant que Karandas lui croulait son vouge sur la tête. Il tomba ventre à terre, et Alain, l’enfourchant, lui coupa la gorge de sa dague, d’outre en outre. Puis, ils lui bourrèrent le cou de feuilles sèches, afin qu’il n’y eût pas une mare de sang sur le chemin. La lune parut à une clairière : Alain coupa le mordant de la ceinture, et dénoua les aiguillettes de la bourse, où il y avait seize lyons d’or et trente-six patars. Il garda les lyons, et jeta la bourse avec les virelants à Karandas, pour sa peine, tenant la javeline haute. Là, ils se départirent l’un de l’autre, au milieu de la clairière, Karandas jurant le sang Dieu.
Alain le Gentil n’osa toucher Senlis et revint par détours jusque vers la ville de Rouen. Comme il s’éveillait, après sa nuit, sous une haie fleurie, il se vit entouré par des gens cavaliers qui lui attachèrent les mains et le conduisirent aux prisons. Près du guichet, il se glissa derrière la croupe d’un cheval, et courut à l’église de Saint-Patrice, où il se logea contre le maître-autel. Les sergents ne purent passer le porche. Alain, étant en franchise, hanta librement la nef et les chœurs, vit de beaux calices de métal riche et des burettes bonnes à fondre. Et la nuit suivante, il eut pour compagnons Denisot et Marignon, larrons comme lui. Marignon avait une oreille coupée. Ils ne savaient que manger. Ils envièrent les petites souris rôdeuses qui nichaient entre les dalles et s’engraissaient à grignoter les bribes du pain sacré. La troisième nuit, ils durent sortir, la faim aux dents. Les gens de justice les empoignèrent, et Alain, qui se cria clerc, avait oublié d’arracher ses manches vertes.
Il demanda aussitôt à aller au retrait, décousit son jaquet, et enfonça les manches parmi l’ordure ; mais les hommes de la geôle avertirent le prévôt. Un barbier vint raser entièrement la tête d’Alain le Gentil, pour effacer sa tonsure. Les juges rirent du pauvre latin de ses psaumes. Il eut beau jurer qu’un évêque l’avait confirmé d’un soufflet, quand il avait dix ans : il ne put venir à bout des pâtres-nôtres. On le mit à la question comme un homme lai, sur le petit tréteau, puis sur le grand tréteau. Au feu des cuisines de la prison, il déclara ses crimes, les membres tout affolés par l’étirement des cordes, et la gorge rompue. Le lieutenant du prévôt prononça la sentence, sur les carreaux. Il fut lié à la charrette, traîné jusqu’aux fourches, et pendu. Son corps se hâla au soleil. Le bourreau prit son jaquet, ses manches décousues, et un beau chaperon de drap fin, fourré de vair, qu’il avait volé dans une bonne hôtellerie.
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Fantasy Guide to Royal Uniform (Male)
Like any job, being royal comes with its own uniform. For the men, there is usually some kind of military uniform. This is mainly because it is seen as a service to the country especially for younger sons of Royal houses to serve their country.
Tunic
This is the jacket of the uniform. Convential colours are usually red, black and dark blue though in fantasy works they can be any colour. The tunic was usually high-necked and long-sleeved.
Epaulette
The Epaulette is the shoulder piece of the uniform, usually fashioned with fringes and and a badge denoting rank or organisation.
Aiguillette
The aiguillette is the corded braid that runs over the shoulder of the uniform, usually pinned to a singular shoulder. The aiguillette is usually tipped with tags or a pointed tip. The size and thickness of the aiguillette denoted importance and rank.
Sash/Ribband
The sash is the strip of coloured fabric worn around the torso, pinned to shoulder and hip. The sash width and colour denoted rank or Station.
Uniform sleeve braid ranks
This is thick embroidery about the cuffs of the uniform, usually stitched in a particular fashion or colour.
Gorget patches
These patches of cloth are usually patches of cloth pinned to collars displaying insignia of regiments and ranks.
Orders and badges
These are badges given specifically to the person for being apart of a certain military rank or given as a sign of favor. Usually there are orders and badges named for past/present monarchs or religious figures, often dipicting their likeness.
#Fantasty wardrobe#Military uniforms#Royal insignia#Royal uniforms#Fantasy Guide to to royal uniforms#writing#writing resources#writeblr#writing reference#writing advice#writer's problems#writer#spilled words#writer's life#characters#Writing guide#Writing help#Fantasy guide
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So thanks to @microcosme11 who showed a lot of interest in the incredible painting “Battle of Leipzig” by Johann Peter Kraft I’ve decided to consecrate a series of posts to the main participants of the event depicted on the canvas!
It’s simply going to be a bunch of my guesses about who is who over there. 👀
Unfortunately I’m going to illustrate my ideas with such an amount of pictures that it’s simply a necessity to divide this post into several parts…
Well, as an old Russian saying goes, “Don’t feed me bread, just let my speak a lot about 19-century men in fancy uniforms”!
Ahem.
So here comes part 1!
First of all, let’s start with the most important participants - three allied monarchs themselves. Here they are: Alexander I of Russia, Franz II of Austria and Friedrich Wilhelm III of Prussia. 👑
…Aaaaand I was lucky enough to find some old photos I took in the State Hermitage Museum during my last trip to Saint-Petersburg!
I guess Saint-Petersburg is at some point the second home for each and every lover of the Russian Empire. Even nowadays the city itself represents the living remains of that illustrious period in Russian history. :)
As for the paintings those epic depictions of allied monarchs are located in the Military Gallery of the Winter palace. The portrait of Franz II is also one of Kraft’s works which was presented by Kaiser himself to Alexander I when the latter decided to organise the Military Gallery (which is also dedicated to the victory of Leipzig, what a coincidence) in the 1820s while the portraits of Alexander and Friedrich were made by the German painter Franz Krüger who had been working for the Russian Imperial court for a long period of time.
All three of them look truly magnificent but it’s a little bit hard to find the right angle for a photo because they hang pretty high and are gigantic. 😅
Okay, back to the “Battle of Leipzig”~
Since monarchs were usually followed by an escort of their loyal courtiers, the exact same thing goes for the Kraft’s painting. This time for the major part it consists of different military men. I believe most of them come from the general headquarters.
There are three major figures accordingly behind Alexander, Franz and Friedrich - three chiefs-of-staff of the allied forces.
The first man in the crowd is (I’m still not entirely sure about him but it would be still logical to some extent) August Neidhardt von Gneisenau, quartermaster-general of the Silesian army and Blücher’s right-hand man.
The second one is probably (like I don’t know where his aiguillettes are but the resemblance is quite obvious) Pyotr Mikhailovich Volkonsky, chief-of-staff in the Russian army.
He became one of the Alexander’s closest friends since he was introduced to him by his father Pavel I, the emperor of Russia, when Alexander was still a grand-duke (or how we call him in Russian - цесаревич / tsesarevich ✨).
By the way, Volkonsky and his colleague Mikhail Semyonovich Vorontsov, a general who also went through all Napoleonic wars, were the only commanders in the Russian army who received the Grand Cross of the British Order of the Bath after all the struggles.
And here is Vorontsov as a small postcriptum. :)
Mikhail was the eldest son of Semyon Romanovich Vorontsov, a Russian diplomat who served as an ambassador in the United Kingdom for almost thirty years! That was the main reason why he knew English language as well as his mother tongue, Russian.
In the nearest troublesome future he and Wellington actually became very good friends as well! 🇷🇺🇬🇧
To be continued 🔜
#napoleonic era#napoleonic wars#battle of leipzig#völkerschlacht bei leipzig#battle of the nations#alexander i of russia#franz II of austria#friedrich wilhelm III of prussia#august von gneisenau#pyotr mikhailovich volkonsky#mikhail semyonovich vorontsov#19th century
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La Mode illustrée, no. 47, 20 novembre 1864, Paris. Toilettes de Mme Bréant-Castel, 58 bis. rue Ste. Anne. Ameublements et Bronzes de la Mon de Commissin Générale, r. Hauteville, 53.
Robe en gaze de soie bleue, à filets noirs et fleurettes noires. Le bas de la jupe est garni avec un volant tuyauté, surmonté d'une ruche composée de feuilles découpées en taffetas bleu; corsage décolleté à pointe; berthe croisée se terminant derrière en deux pans très-longs et arrondis. Coiffure en roses et velours noir. Manches courtes. Gants blancs et très-longs.
Robe en velours brun doré, ornée avec sept rangs de cordon rond en soie, remontant sur le côté gauche où ils forment une large rosette accompagnée de longs glands. Ceinture large à pointe. Chemisette blanche, plate, en nansouk plissé. Corsage mousquetaire en velours semblable à la robe, doublé en satin de même nuance; les pans du corsage sont relevés sur chaque côté. Une aumô-nière en velours de même nuance que la robe est suspendue sur le côté gauche de la ceinture. Le corsage est bordé avec deux rangs de cordons ronds. Les manches, étroites, ont un revers orné de cordons, et des aiguillettes sur chaque épaule. Chapeau en tulle de dentelle noir, bordé de velours ponceau. Large nœud en velours par derrière en guise de bavolet.
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Blue silk gauze dress with black nets and black flowers. The bottom of the skirt is trimmed with a fluted frill, surmounted by a ruffle made up of leaves cut out of blue taffeta; low-cut bodice with point; berthe crossed ending behind in two very long and rounded sections. Hairstyle in roses and black velvet. Short sleeves. Very long white gloves.
Dress in golden brown velvet, decorated with seven rows of round silk cord, going up on the left side where they form a large rosette accompanied by long tassels. Wide pointed belt. White, flat, pleated nansouk shirt. Musketeer bodice in velvet similar to the dress, lined in satin of the same shade; the sides of the bodice are raised on each side. A velvet chaplain of the same shade as the dress hangs on the left side of the belt. The bodice is edged with two rows of round cords. The sleeves, narrow, have a lapel decorated with cords, and aiguillettes on each shoulder. Hat in black lace tulle, bordered with ponytail velvet. Large velvet bow from behind as a flap.
#La Mode illustrée#19th century#1800s#1860s#1864#periodical#fashion#fashion plate#retouch#color#description#velvet#gauze#lace#cord#Bréant-Castel
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Voici la découpe de boeuf, ainsi que les morceaux et les modes de cuisson :*LE COLLIER : il est particulièrement destiné aux cuissons lentes, comme les plats mijotés.*LES BASSES COTES : plus fermes que les cotes, elles demandent une cuisson plus longue.* L’ENTRECOTE : cote et entrecôte sont persillées et font les plus belles grillades. .* LE FAUX-FILET : moins tendre que le filet, il est plus savoureux. Grillé ou poêlé, préférez au tranches épaisses destinées a plusieurs personnes. C est une pièce noble longeant la colonne vertébrale. Texture proche de l entrecôte mais moins persillée.* LE FILET : entier pour un rôti. les steaks et la pointe donne de petits tournedos (entouré de fils, d'où son nom). C'est le plus tendre des morceaux mais le plus gouteux.*LE RUMSKEACK : grillé ou rôti. Le filet se prépare en pavé, l aiguillette en rosbif. C'est le parti de l'aloyau (arrière de l'animal), très appréciée. viandes à fibre courtes et très tendre. .* LA TENDRE DE TRANCHE : ses quartes parties : muscles surnommés araignée, la poire, la tranche et le merlan dont l'artisan fait de bons biftecks et parfois des steaks hachés.* LE GITE A LA NOIX : il peut être braisé ou rôti. Le rond de gite, lui, se cuisine en carpaccio.* LA TRANCHE : le rond de tranche de cuisine en médaillons, le mouvant en rosbif et le plat de tranche en brochettes. cout est raisonnable.* LES GITES : appelés aussi jarrets, ils se préparent bouillis ou en pot au feu. Son cout est économique.* L’AIGUILLETTE : l aiguillette baronne, longue et conique, est destinée aux rôtis ou aux steaks. Son cout est élevé.* L’ONGLET ET LA HAMPE : ils se préparent tous deux en biftecks, au grill ou à la poêle. L onglet est plus tendre que la hampe.*LES BAVETTES : celle du flanchet doit être dénervée avant la cuisson. Mais celle d aloyau est la reine du bifteck ! Un muscle de l abdomen aux fibres longues et peu serrées. Viande très tendre* LA POITRINE : à bouillir ou à hacher. Les tendrons servent pour le pot au feu et le flanchet est utilisé pour les farces.*LE PLAT DE COTES : pièce a cuisson lente, elle se fait bouillir et sert en salade ou en effiloché. C est 13 cotes sous les épaules, muscle épais et entrelardés de gras. A réserver aux amateurs.* LES MACREUSES : celle à pot au feu sert pour les hachis Parmentier. Celle a bifteck se détaille en grillades et en brochettes (viande foncée et maigre, surnommée « noix » ou « boule » à griller ou à poêler).*LE PALERON : gélatineux, il se cuit lentement et s utilise pour les braisés, les carbonades, les daubes et le bœuf mode. .*LES JUMEAUX : celui à bifteck se cuisine aussi en brochettes. Celui à pot au feu se sert en daube ou en bourguignon.
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Didn’t Scobie say in FF that H was upset that he wasn’t an ADC when William was? I remember some commentary during the wedding about how they had gotten permission from the queen to wear the frock coat of the blues and royals where they both are majors - the only difference being W wearing his garter star and the golden aiguillettes of an aide-de-camp. They said H wanted to wear that uniform since that’s the regiment he served in (I can buy that) and if he’d wear his most senior uniform (CG of the RM) hed be the most senior military member there except for the queen and that would be weird for his guests (as if this decision was up to him, the queen decides). H wore his star as a Knight of the RVO. A few months later after the wedding H was made an ADC. Anyway, the commentary about the aiguillettes was on bbc, and if he was reading tabloid comments, I’m sure he was aware of that, a comment pointing out how he was “below” William.
I don’t remember if the book mentioned that, anon. I do remember that the book said ge was sad and that his wife didn’t understand why they did that.
I still think he was made aide-de-camp because he threw a hissy fit about it. He got things during this reign that would have made more sense during Charles’ reign. Like I have say multiple times, he was treated like William’s equal when he was not, and that was their biggest mistake.
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"Can you wait for me?"
#8
Mr Love Queens Choice//MQLC
Rating//G
No content or trigger warnings apply
Pt.1
//
We are standing in the middle of a road, hearts repulsing like two ions that are never destined to meet.
You put the hair behind the ear, eyes darting down and up, glance digging into flesh. Is it propeller blades that are cutting me so bad?
Your cheeks the same shade as this sunset, our first kiss and the sweater you hide under the coat. Tell me why am I still hoping?
Your lips part, filling my whole sight with these motions. You said something? Because it seems like aiguillette is suffocating me squeezing the chest. Or was it your embrace?
In a blink your hair pointed the new direction to the wind, it seemed to me that all seasons had time to change themselves reappearing our silhouettes under the nearby tree. Blood screams from just starring at your back.
Familiar lines once covered in my kisses dissolving in the dark as I close my eyes.
I will bury your photograph under my pillow when I'm in bed or under the ground when I'm absent.
I had a choice to bring you with me. Make you drop your dreams, bare yourself from all hard work.
But who would I become by diminishing you to seed size if you're a wave among the constellations?
Sure as Brute tortured in the abyss, sure as my gloves growing into the skin. You'll build the stairs to heaven and my shoulders become the foundation. Meeting you on the upper step with open gates is one more dream that I cannot make true.
#fictober#my work#fictober19#mlqc#mlqc gavin#mlqc bai qi#gavin#Bai Qi#mr love#mr love gavin#mr love bai qi#mr love queens choice#fanfiction#gavin x reader#恋与制作人#Bái Qǐ#love x evol#evol x love#love x producer
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For the Clue AU, you wouldn't happen to have resources on Royal Navy dress uniforms (for Captains, specifically) of the era, or, due to the character's age, the preceding Victorian era, would you?
Oh! Shoot, I know I had some somewhere...
Gets a little long, so have at under the read more!
Here’s a bunch of pics from WWI! With some color references in this tweet.
(A lot of the officers of various navies wore similar uniforms of the time, which consisted of naval double-breasted peacoats, peaked caps, ties, so on.)
For the preceding Victorian era...
They’re still kind of holding over from the Napoleonic era, with bicornes, epaulettes, tunic coats (or coatees) and stiff collars.
Here’s some links for you that I found! Maybe they can help point you in the right direction, if they don’t have the information you’re looking for!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniforms_of_the_Royal_Navy#Defunct_uniforms
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Navy_ranks,_rates,_and_uniforms_of_the_18th_and_19th_centuries
http://www.militaryheritage.com/navyuniforms.htm
https://www.bagpipers.eu/1902-royal-navy-admirals-full-dress-tunic-being-a-double-breasted-coatee-prodetail5111
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrambled_egg_(uniform)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Full_dress_uniform
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Service_dress_uniform
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Executive_curl
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aiguillette
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goldwork_(embroidery)
https://handembroidery.com/services/military-and-ceremonial-embroidery/
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Tahiti, le retour
J 79 à 82 - 8 au 11 août 19
Retour à l’ile principale dans la famille de Yann. Nous faisons le tour de l’ile avec François comme guide, ce qui nous prend une bonne journée. Départ de bon matin par la route, qui nous emmènera à la pointe Vénus, lieu de débarquement des premiers missionnaires porteur de l’évangile, puis au trou du souffleur , rocher au bord de mer où le ressac s’engouffre. Quand la vague se retire, ça crée une énorme dépression et l’air ressort violemment par un trou sur le dessus du rocher. (cf. vidéo ci-dessous ) On continue notre ballade aux trois cascades, petit lac d’eau douce et promenade dans la jungle pour y accéder. Après une poignée de kilomètre, nous arrivons à la presque ile, au sommet du plateau. Une belle vue sur les deux côtes de Tahiti. On terminera la journée par le Jardin botanique et le Marae, ancien lieu de culte et de cérémonie qui fait étrangement penser à un temple inca.
En fin de journée, on ne se lasse toujours pas de regarder le coucher de soleil sur l’ile de Moorea, voisine de Tahiti.
Le reste de la semaine se déroule en mode vacances avec beaucoup de plage et de plongée, canoé pour rencontrer les dauphins, marché à Papeete et repas de famille avec les cousins des iles.
Notre chasse visuelle de ce dimanche dans le lagon et sur la barrière de corail :
3 tortues marines
1 poisson-pierre
1 requin à pointe blanche
1 aiguillette de 1m
2 murènes
1 lot de poissons multicolores
Pour les deux jours qui nous restent en Polynésie , nous allons visiter l’ile de Moorea. Ferry lundi à 8hoo.
pirogue en “cale sèche”
le trou du Souffleur
l’une des trois cascade
panorama depuis le plateau de le presque ile.
jardin botanique
les Tikis du Marae
le Marae
banc de dauphins
Marché du matin en ville
Marche du soir en ville
Papeete street art
Merveilleux Saumon des Dieux
“le Baiser”
Moorea en découpage
Dubois-De Jonckheere-Serez
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C’est en plein coeur du tout nouveau quartier exclusif et novateur “One Monte-Carlo” situé sur la place du Casino et à deux pas des mythiques Hôtel de Paris et Hôtel Hermitage, que le chef Marcel Ravin du Blue Bay a ouvert sa seconde adresse en principauté avec la SBM : Mada One. Un véritable lieu de vie et de dégustation où le chef a ingénieusement et délicieusement créé le concept de la “snackonomie” chic à toute heure de la journée ( du petit-déjeuner à l’afterwork ) pour satisfaire toutes les envies gourmandes de tout un chacun et à tout moment. Une décoration à la fois élégante, ultra tendance et bien vue, signée du britannique David Collins qui a réveillé le Bar Américain de l’Hôtel de Paris et de nombreux établissements prestigieux londoniens.
One Monte-Carlo ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
Le chef étoilé Marcel Ravin que l’on connait depuis l’ouverture du Blue Bay en 2005 au Monte-Carlo Bay Resort, où il offre une cuisine des plus créatives et inspirées de la région. Il fait scintiller tel un diamant ses assiettes d’ingéniosité gustative aux saveurs méditerranéennes en “saupoudrant” une touche pimpante de son île natale, la Martinique, tout en sublimant le produit local en grande justesse. Mada One, de son nom, est déjà un clin d’oeil aux origines du chef, Madininia/Madiana, ancien nom de l’île qui signifie “île mythique”. C’est à partir de cette idée que le chef a souhaité délivrer une cuisine simple, sans complexe, savoureuse, exotique et sans frontière de saveurs.
Le chef étoilé Marcel Ravin ©Marcel Ravin-SBM
C’est en empruntant la nouvelle Promenade Princesse Charlène, en longeant les nouveaux immeubles à l’allure profilée et racée et au détour des boutiques aux grands noms du luxe, que vous accédez à Mada One. Sa grande terrasse au calme à l’ombre des palmiers vous invite à découvrir ce nouveau lieu de vie monégasque. La salle est inondée de lumière naturelle par les grandes baies vitrées ouvertes sur la terrasse. Les longs comptoirs en bois beige cerclé avec style de laiton offrent la vision de toutes les possibilités gourmandes : salades, quiches, tartes salées, différents pains et viennoiseries et la partie dessert en toute splendeur sucrée. Puis le bar à cocktails n’est pas sans rappeler ceux de bars d’hôtels tendances.
Terrasse Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One – La salle ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One – La salle ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One – les comptoirs ©lepetitlugourmand
“La Snackonomie” c’est aussi se faire plaisir à n’importe quel moment de la journée pour des envies instantanées.
Le Mad’Midi peut se composer de plusieurs manières suivant le temps que l’on dispose et l’envie : les plateaux chic “Bento box” Mad’Soup ou Mad’Day sont parfaitement indiqués pour un repas sain goûteux et rapide avec la soupe ou l’entrée du jour et son dessert. Pour des moments de partage et d’amitié, piocher dans la carte et choisir différentes entrées aux saveurs nomades est le choix idéal : Le Féroce d’avocat au cabillaud demi-sel est très bien balancé d’une parfaite “férocité” équilibrée, le Rouleau de papaye verte aux crevettes d’une grande fraîcheur aux légumes croquants rehaussé de menthe enrobé d’une douce et légère sucrosité pourrait vous faire revivre les images d’un film à la douce moiteur d’un Vietnam d’autrefois. L’houmous crémeux est judicieusement texturé à la pointe citronnée vous fait partir directement vers une chaleur méditerranéenne. La salade Mada, Souskaï de poisson au lait de coco et la Salade de pois chiches vous baladent entre deux bouchées vives et bien menées vers les Antilles et la Provence. Des entrées qui s’harmonisent intelligemment entre elles et vous procurent de belles sensations gustatives.
Féroce d’avocat au cabillaud demi-sel / Rouleau de papaye vertes aux crevettes / Houmous / Salade Mada, Souskaï de poisson au lait de coco et Salade de pois chiches ©lepetitlugourmand
Salades et petites entrées Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
Comptoir salades et petites entrées ©lepetitlugourmand
Quiche du jour et comptoir à salades ©lepetitlugourmand
Les plats sont dans la même veine fusion et bien placée, efficaces de gourmandises comme les Aiguillettes de saumon, kumbava, patates douces et pack choï ou encore les Keftas de boeuf au boulgour, avocat et sauce tarator. Le Carpaccio de boeuf black Angus, roquette, parmesan et baies roses à la finesse rare est parfaitement assaisonné et efficace. Les Gnocchetti au curcuma, meat balls coco et olives aux agrumes sont en légère surcuisson et les meat balls manquent un peu d’assaisonnement pour apprécier le potentiel de ce plat savoureux à la lecture, les olives aux agrumes apportent la touche pimpante.
Aiguillettes de saumon, kumbava, patates douces et pack choï ©lepetitlugourmand
les Keftas de boeuf au boulgour, avocat et sauce tarator ©lepetitlugourmand
Carpaccio de boeuf black Angus, roquette, parmesan et baies roses ©lepetitlugourmand
Gnocchetti au curcuma, meat balls coco et olives aux agrumes ©lepetitlugourmand
Pour terminer sur les douceurs, pourquoi ne pas se lever afin de choisir, tel un enfant les yeux plein de malice et de délice en montrant d’un doigt gourmand à la vitrine des Mad’Sweets. Un éclair à la pistache, une tarte au citron ou encore le tout chocolat voire simplement des fruits de saison.
Ebène : entremet chocolat grué de cacao ©lepetitlugourmand
Eclair pistache ©lepetitlugourmand
Les pâtisseries ©lepetitlugourmand
Mad’Sweets ©lepetitlugourmand
Pourquoi ne pas terminer avec un expresso ristretto en l’accompagnant du délicieux Munégu ( “Monaco” en Monégasque et “le goût des gens” en Créole ) – fait du jour pour une parfaite fraîcheur – et découvrez un savant mélange entre le pannetone et la fougasse monégasque aux couleurs de la principauté. ( Egalement à emporter tel un “gâteau de voyage”).
Le Munégu ( “Monaco” en Monégasque et “le goût des gens” en Créole ) ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One est un véritable lieu de gastronomie nomade et stylée, entre brasserie, café, boulangerie, épicerie à déguster sur place dans ce bel écrin ou à emporter en commandant directement sur le site internet : parfait pour un pique-nique chic ou un repas raffiné et équilibré au bureau. L’ Apéro-thérapie est un “concept original” pour une fin de journée méritée et méritante avec cocktails et bouchées salées et sucrées à partager.
Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
Mada One ©lepetitlugourmand
L’équipe de salle est vive, présente et parfaitement à propos et est brillamment menée par Angélo, venant du Blue Bay.
Mada One et sa “snackonomie” fait maintenant partie des incontournables de la vie des monégasques, des touristes, des collègues, des amis… pour vivre un moment en toute franchise savoureuse et parfaitement gourmande.
Ouvert du lundi au samedi de 8h à 20h
Mad’Matin 8h à 12h – Mad’Midi 12h à 16h – Mad’Aprèm 15h à 17h – Mad’Apéro 17h-20h
Formules Petit-déjeuner 5 à 24€ et à la carte
Déjeuner : Plateaux 17 à 32€ – Carte : Entrées 7 à 22€ – Plats 17 à 28€ – Desserts 6 à 9,50€
Afternoon Tea 12 à 32€
Apéro-Thérapie 2 à 16€
Mada One – One Monte-Carlo – MC 98000 Principauté de Monaco
Tel : +377 98 06 68 68
https://www.montecarlosbm.com/fr/restaurant-monaco/madaone
Mada One – Monte-Carlo – Marcel Ravin C'est en plein coeur du tout nouveau quartier exclusif et novateur "One Monte-Carlo" situé sur la place du Casino et à deux pas des mythiques Hôtel de Paris et Hôtel Hermitage, que le chef Marcel Ravin du Blue Bay a ouvert sa seconde adresse en principauté avec la SBM : Mada One.
#Bistrot#Côte d&039;Azur#Chef#Gastronomie#Marcel Ravin#Monaco#Monte Carlo SBM#One Monte-Carlo#Restaurant#Snackonomie#Terrasse
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