chriscolfer If I had a nickel every time someone called me the “Burt Reynolds” of my generation… I’d be in debt. BUT it was fun to pretend! Absolutely loved surprising the audience of #GoldenGirlzLive with these geniuses. 👨🏻🍰

Lmao Dr. Jackie with Drag Queen Jackie Beat and Sherry Vine is hilarious 😂

A Drag Queen Psychotherapist is what the world needs right now.

Right, forgot to mention I went to see Bianca Del Rio and Sherry Vine live on the Unsanitized tour in Stockholm!

I haven't laughed this much in ages, I really needed that.

I couldn't take pics of Bianca because we weren't allowed and I respect that, but here's some pics of Sherry Vine.

Sherry: Hey, is this whiskey or perfume ? Pacster: *grabs the whole bottle and drink it* Pacster: It's perfume

I made a lazy reanimation of the vine

Sherry: I can't find my phone.

Leon: I'll call you.

Sherry: No wait-

Sherry's phone: ♫you are my dad YOU'RE MY DAD boogie woogie woogie♫

Leon:

Sherry: I can explain.

At times in the writing of wine history, wine itself has been treated as a historical actor. This is the case in many of the sweeping histories of wine, such as Hugh Johnson’s original Vintage: The Story of Wine, Paul Lukacs’s recent Inventing Wine, John Varriano’s Wine: A Cultural History, or Marc Millon’s Wine: A Global History. These lucid and entertaining histories, written by great narrators with serious wine expertise, follow a similar narrative arc. Wine is the central protagonist, the potable Zelig, popping up in different historical moments in different parts of the world. The story begins in the Fertile Crescent, where Wine is born, or in the ancient Mediterranean, where Wine enters a boisterous adolescence in the symposia and bacchanalia of the ancient Greeks. The reader is invited to pause and appreciate the wine-themed mosaic and shards of amphorae. The story then skips a few centuries and a few hundred miles, to medieval Europe (we are left to wonder what Wine has done in between), where Wine joins forces with powerful and institutionalized Christianity and canny monks create a patchwork of orderly clos on the Côte d’Or: bless them! Wine remains in France, or perhaps summers in Germany, and Bordeaux emerges in the seventeenth century, eventually finding its way to Britain (we are treated to a Samuel Johnson quote, or Pepys). Port and sherry have their seafaring adventures. The nineteenth century opens with Champagne surviving war, producing widows and conquering Russian markets; France produces Pasteur, who produces better wine, a triumph of science and the Enlightenment; wine is enjoying its golden years. Then, three-quarters of the way through this drama, tragedy strikes, in the form of the vine disease phylloxera. Wine is dealt a staggering blow and its very survival is threatened. Fortunately, a new world of scientists, mavericks, and neoliberal entrepreneurs emerge: capital is found, the plucky New World steps in to help, and new vines are grafted. Wine is saved! This cannot be criticized as being a Eurocentric narrative, because the tale concludes in California, or Uruguay, or China. Undeniably, at the conclusion of this story there is incredible momentum and optimism. Global wine production is the highest it has ever been, consumption of wine is high, and wine is (relatively) cheap. Were he a wine historian, Francis Fukuyama would declare it the end of wine history.

This hagiography of Wine is a great read: a mouth-watering tale of high drama, blind monks, and supple tannins. And it is not necessarily inaccurate. But it is, on the other hand, what British historians have called a Whiggish narrative: one that presumes continual progress, culminating in the current era, which is assumed to be the best ever. This Whiggishness may overlook some of the current difficulties in the market, or shrug off past problems in the wine industry, since all ended well. Geographically and chronologically it is uneven, such that the producers studied here generally do not merit inclusion until they have become major global actors. This type of narrative structure is what gives the false impression that South Africa produced a great wine called Constantia in the eighteenth century, and then produced nothing again until 1994. The place of Wine as the embattled protagonist who overcomes many hardships (vine diseases, consumer apathy, high taxation) and emerges triumphant and affordable in the late twentieth century, is also what is known in Marxist terms as “commodity fetishism.” As Bruce Robbins has argued, in the new commodity histories, “each commodity takes its turn as the star of capitalism.” The commodity itself, rather than the social and economic relationships that led to its production, becomes the driving force of the narrative.

Jennifer Regan-Lefebvre, Imperial Wine: How the Empire Made Wine's New World

Young durgetash drable, I'm insane . (Will be using Wynne from my durge route 💫)

NSFW! Minors DNI!!!

Tldr: a young lord gortash celebrates his new lordship with his childhood friend

Cw:/ piv, semi public sex, sex in an odd place, local 20 year olds consummate their craving for each other

The echos of the party boomed in the distance, amongst the thorny vines of a rose labyrinth Lord Enver Gortash had a craving to fill.

The moon glazed off the tall drows features, silken brown skin marred with tight peach scars. Her burgundy eyes almost looked silver by the light of the moon. Lips puffed outward, sleeves pulled below the shoulder. Seams popped against the air, taught against her skin. A deep red color turned purple by the light of the moon.

The fountain droned on as Gortash untied her bustier, kissing her breast that fell out of the loosened clothes. He took the hardened nipple into his mouth shifting to remove the rest from her torso. It pooled around her hips, revealing the frills of her underwear.

"my my, you're a blessing." He crooned stepping off of her to allow her space to maneuver out of it. She slipped her sandals off kicking the loose fabric into the brush. She seated herself back in his lap cupping his inky black hair and tilting his head up.

"I have never felt this- for anything other than blood. But you ...make me feel... Things other than the thirst for it. I thirst for something more- I think. You are an evil thing, worming your way into my mind." Wynne hummed as his hands found her thighs, cupping, squeezing and pinching the bared flesh.

She rocked her hips, grasping his hair and curling into him. His stubble sketched the sides of her cheek, lips a rosy pink and eyes glazed over. She traced his pouted lower lip, his lips were chapped.

She pushed him down amongst the side of the fountain. Her fingers nimbly lifted his cotton undershirt, kissing from his navel to sternum. His hands pushing her hips down against his, cool night air rushing around them. "How I yearn to taste your skin..."

"later on my darling, this isn't the place for that." He gasped at her cool hand slipping through his waistband. "Ah my love, certainly you are- craving this at another time."

"there is no time like the present, lording. I crave you now." Her ears twitched in anticipation "but if you are unsure..."

"no.." he paused, his voice hushed "id like- I'd love that... I too have been craving this sweet sensation... For a while. Since you grew- flourished- I've craved you. I've been patient."

"Enver- you don't know what you do to me." She closed in on his lips, his hand taught around her hips. He tasted of sweet sherry and smoke, his cologne of oak and magnolia.

His skin bloomed pink in the hazy light. Steely eyes softened to a gaze of carnal need. He shoved down his trousers. He let out a low hum pulling aside the frills of his lovers undergarments, a smile of pride at her wet folds. He kissed her lazily, pinching and squeezing her clit- a delightful volley of sighs falling from her lips.

Her hair clung to the sweat on her face, curling against her ears and the furrow of her brow. Wynne nipped at his ear, pulling at his lobe his skin bloomed colors under her not so gentle touch. She licked a stripe up his vein feeling his faint and thrumming pulse under her.

His fingers prodded at her entrance, piercing her on them. She gasped into his mouth, feeling him curl inside her.

"you will feel heavenly, I know of it. Maybe something not of this world. Tell me if it hurts- you'll let me know, right my dove?"

His touch receded, replaced with the warmth of his head. Fingers fumbling to grasp onto something, he gided her hips onto him, lips clasped into a tight kiss.

The stretch was divine.

She felt her sides tighten, cramping down around him. The pain was immaculate.

She sat back admiring the view of the lord. He was undone in the best way, hair splayed about him, hands shivering at the touch of her skin. To be embedded in something so wonderful- his eyes relaxed to the heavens.

"I am... Not going to last much." His breath was strained, feeling an ache within his core. "This is so embarrassing. I had wished it.. our first time wouldn't be so short." His chest heaved, thighs flexing under her weight.

Every throb and twitch was matched with the tightest squeeze. His hand snuck between them wet with spit to circle around her clit. The other hand cupped her chin, guiding her lips to his.

Her ears wiggled even at the softest movement of his hips, the tang of copper from his tongue and the sighs from his lips. Her own private performance, her own symphony.

"you are abseloutely delicious, defiling the little lord, your parents will have a fit when they find out."

"don't say that-" he whined "they know my heart is saved for you." His hips bucked contently into her heat.

She paused, her hips slowing.

"do you mean it...?"

"yes- I'd love.. to have you-" his voice strained, knot close to breaking.

"swear it." She rocked her hips in kind careful to not scrape his soft skin against the tile.

"I swear- I owe you my heart."

"then my beloved- may this be the first night for the rest of our lives." Her teeth closed down on his neck marking him as hers.

He shook beneath her, emptying himself into her heat, a delightful sense of saeity rushed through her body. His beautiful skin potchmarked with bruises and teeth indents. His inky black hair strewn accross his face, eyes squinted in pleasure. Envers breath was soft contented, satisfied. A smile played on his soft lips.

"you are wonderful... My assassin, my...huntress.."

"oh stop-! Don't go all sappy on me." She patted his cheek "you are ridiculous"

His laugh, light and arid hung in the night air. "unfortunately - we must separate for the night. I shall send you.. something the druids have made. We had been.. less than cautious."

"I am not sure bhaal allows his son's the gift of child rearing. But if it makes you content I shall submit to your will." Her hips ached, lifting them gingerly off of him. "You are divine lordling"

"as are you my sweet."

A little over a week ago now, I met Bianca Del Rio. My partner literally pushed me forward in the meet and greet line because I couldn't move. She asked my name and reached out to hug me and I didn't want to let go. It was only after it was over and I was sitting outside the venue, watching the local black-bellied whistling ducks seeming to have an intense conversation with the muscovies in the park that it dawned on me that I had held onto her longer than was appropriate. But she was such a good sport about it. She kindly held me, then held my hands and was sweet instead of roasting me while she talked to my partner, who had not lost his voice because he isn't medium-key obsessed with her. Of course I thought about her heart; of course I thought about my own. It's nearly impossible not to think about these things. "You should have brought one of your stethoscopes and asked to listen!" a friend playfully chided me a few days later. But not only was this place quite loud, playing everything to delight my elder millennial senses like SNAP!'s "Rhythm is a Dancer," but I wouldn't have been able to speak if I had even managed to show her one of my stethoscopes. It would've looked like some truly bizarre offering that must've been meant for a different celebrity.

My friend went on to explain that if they were a celebrity and a fan wanted to listen to their heart, they would say "hell yeah!" because the weird and unexpected things that people are into are so intriguing. I love this outlook, but it makes me realize how far away it is from my own perspective. By the time I got to see Bianca, she had performed over 50 times on this tour alone. She smiled broadly, made small talk, cracked jokes, and posed for photos with a long line of fans each time. She offered everyone a hug. I wouldn't even be able to tolerate that, much less something out of the ordinary and pretty intrusive. To say I would've been overstimulated would be an understatement. I'm glad she's not like me in that regard. She and Sherry Vine had us laughing so much our sides hurt--I can hardly wait to see one or both of them again someday.

Transcript and additional/expanded information below the read more

The Parasitic Rot (also known as simply “The Rot” or “The Mold”) is a mutated variant of the cancerous Rot that was infecting Five Pebbles, created on accident by the iterators Shadow Under Umbrellas and Distortion of Soul. 

The Mold resembles Mother/Daddy/Brother Longlegs, however the strands are stationary. Mold growths do not necessarily move, but they do spread through contact with living things and form from spires that protrude from the ground. How these spires form is not exactly known yet, but there is a theory that drippings from vines or spores from the “roots” of the “trees” help facilitate their growth. 

Large growths of Mold form a kind of “forest,” completely changing the biomes they infest to better suit their needs. “Trunks,” “branches,” and spires are semi-solid in nature and resemble mycelium stalks while vines and drips are more like mold strands. 

Although the Mold is stationary, it does not mean that it is harmless or “motionless.” Every part of a “tree” is sticky and adhesive and will immediately cling and spread onto whatever living thing touches it - DO. NOT. TOUCH. IT.

This stick and spread behavior has allowed the Mold to quickly spread through regions, infecting the ecosystem down to the smallest batfly. Avoid the Rot and you will avoid infection. 

Now, that being said, there are three main ways of contracting the Mold:

Stepping on a spire

Spires are fresh mycelium growths and are very, very sharp

Once stepped on - and once the mold has punctured the skin - it will go from hard and sharp to squishy and sticky, entering the body through the puncture wound

The mold can then quickly travel through the bloodstream

Being attacked by an infected creature

The most common way of being infected

If it wasn’t clear before, infection is mainly spread through injection (in some cases, ingestion as well. Do NOT eat a creature that you believe has been infected)

Most common form of injection is through being bitten or scratched by a Molded (or “infected”) creature

The Mold can be spread through saliva but also through blood-on-blood contact 

Ingesting the blood of a Molded, or getting their blood in an open wound, will also allow the Mold to infect you

Direct implantation

This can only be achieved through direct contact with the Mold - such as brushing against and getting stuck to a trunk, getting entangled in vines, engulfed by a drip, or inhaling spores from the roots

The Mold quickly adheres to fur and skin and will spread across and into the body through any open wound or orifice - even if the Mold can be washed off the outside, it cannot be washed off the inside, if you are not fully engulfed by the Mold, you are now infected by it

Wesker, Jill, and Sherry were infected in this way 

However, as is the case with Ethan and Mia, interacting with the being known as Eveline is also a surefire way to be implanted directly - however, how she does this is unknown, as Ethan was unaware he was infected before arriving at Camp

If you come into any form of contact with an odd-looking grayscale slugcat with spines on their shoulders - Run. 

“ you have a way of promising things. ”

@cadisfly

   Sea salt licks the air that hovers over the open terrace, curling up from the water and settling against the villa's east-facing wall. If left untreated, its searing fingers will cause the paint to blister in no more than a few years' time. The wounds will need to be sanded down, the broken skin shorn off to ensure that the new finish will lie flat. To ensure that it will stick. Hannibal wonders idly whether he and Will will be here long enough to see the building reborn or whether they will have moved on by that time—perhaps even before the first imperfections show.

   He lifts his chin and draws the scent of the morning into his lungs, coating his soft palate with the thick brine of marine life and the filmy aftertaste of decomposition. It makes an interesting complement to the lemon tang of their sherry cobblers, which spit crisp-scented fizz from tall glasses dripping with condensation. A marvelous choice of cocktail, Hannibal reflects with pride; the citrus cuts delightfully through the viscous air, like stirring blood into melted chocolate.

   "'Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin,'" he recites. With the insinuation of a smile, he reaches out and twists a plump grape from the desiccated vine on his plate, relishing the wet snap that the fruit emits as he pries it from the half-eaten cluster.

   He would promise Will the world, should he feel it to be within his power. But the laws of nature bend to no man, and there are some feats that exceed even Hannibal's capabilities. Still, that loss doesn't weigh too heavily on him; he and Will can content themselves with the ache of old wounds, the easy peace of their seaside villa, and their oft-replenished storeroom.

   Hannibal rolls the grape between his fingers, holding his hand out in front of him so he can watch the neat pink scar on his wrist pucker and twist. Even now, the sight elicits something carnal in him. He places the grape in his mouth and tongues it to the side, nestling it between his teeth. He holds it there for a moment, cradling its smooth, round form between his molars, and then bites down, bursting the skin and splitting the flesh. Sour juice washes radiantly across his palate, and he exhales in pleasure, rolling his contented gaze back toward Will—knowing, playful. "Even God knew the importance of keeping one's word."

25 and 32 for ask game…..

25. first song you remember hearing?

Sherry from jersey boys!

32. top five favorite vines?

I can't remember that many but it's the

I won't hesitate bitch one

Sherry: I think I have a A in math. Skeebo, what do you have in math? Skeebo: Uh, crippling anxiety mostly.

[ID: a banner showing line art of three potion bottles, in white, blue, and yellow, against a dark brown background. The white text on the right reads “A Rival Most Vial: Potioneering for Love and Profit.” End ID]

Theft - Part 2

Part 1 lives here.

Synopsis: Eli rushes to Rosemond Street after hearing about a robbery at Ambrose’s potion shop.

Word Count: 516

TW/CW: blood/injury mention

Eli half-ran, half-limped, half-cursed his way back to Rosemond Street. The healing potion hadn’t reached his leg yet, where someone had thwacked him with her stupid practice sword—and it forced him to take the downward ramps in a clumsy, frantic sliding motion.

Ambrose was fine, he tried to tell himself. He had a blast wand under the shelf, and an alarm statue on the counter. Sherry was across the street, surrounded by weapons. Dawn was down the street, surrounded by weapons. Grim was right next door, a weapon unto themself. He was fine, he was fine—

But the adventurers back in the pit weren’t the only ones curious about the robbery. Crowds snarled the intersection of High Vine and Rosemond, forcing Eli to push his way towards the potion shop. He glanced over at the Whirling Wand Emporium as he passed. The shop was closed, Dawn absent from the counter. 

Inside, the rose-shaped alarm statue pulsed red, casting a garish glow on an abandoned pile of wand boxes.

“Ambrose?” The name left his lips without thinking as he shoved back into the crowd. “Ames?”

When he finally stumbled into open air, his boots crunched on broken glass. The crowd huddled around the glittering shards like crows, peering into the shattered windows of the Griffin’s Claw. Beyond the splintered wooden frames, the shop was dark, shaded by unfamiliar figures. The front door hung off its hinges, scorch marks littering its face.

Eli’s heart choked his throat.

By the windows, a bored peacekeeper tried to wave off the crowd. “All right, move along. Nothing to see here.” When Eli broke the perimeter and made for the door, he held out a gloved hand. “Hey, this is off-limits to—“

Eli ignored him and dove into the shop.

“Where is he?” He stumbled to a halt inside. Broken bottles and dark puddles littered the floor, the shelves, the tables. More scorch marks skidded across the counter, spattered stains against the back wall. Eli swallowed bile and rushed forward, past peacekeepers with cleaning wands to a huddle of familiar faces.

“Sherry? Grim?” He grabbed the orc’s shoulder. “What happened?”

They both reached for Eli at the same time, Sherry’s hand on his arm, Grim’s palm on his shoulder. 

“He’s all right,” Grim said. “He’s upstairs with Dawn, giving a report.”

Grim’s knuckles were bloodied, leaving pink marks on Eli’s sleeve. Eli couldn’t bring himself to look back at the dark puddles by the counter.

“Who did this?” he demanded. “Did they get away?”

Sherry snorted. “‘Course they didn’t get away. He hardly took one step out of the shop.”

“Dawn got him with her wand first,” Grim muttered, frustration underlining their voice. “Kid always had good aim.”

But judging by the orc’s torn knuckles, they had still made their sentiments known to the intruder. Eli wished he could’ve seen it—or joined in.

“Can I…?” He nodded to the steps. Sherry gently pushed him forward, and he ran up the stairs, heartbeat still thudding in his ears. Part of him wouldn’t believe Ambrose was fine, not until he saw him.

I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE WITH SHERRY FUCKING VINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🪄

sunset sherry, she's got veins like vines she's a damaged rose in liquid valium times

— dogs d'amour, mr. addiction