#instead of brown soup of vagueness

[theydoctor]

[pomefioredove]

FLIRTY PROMPTS FLIRTY PROMPTS!!!

May I ask for "I just want you to be happy! And perhaps a little bit naked." with Lilia, pretty please 🥺

I've been looking forward to this oneeee

summary: "I just want you to be happy! and perhaps a little bit naked" type of post: short fic characters: lilia additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is probably yuu, not proofread, Malleus being Lilia's wingman instead of the other way around for once LOLLL a part of this event

"Come on, just one taste?"

Lilia pouts; he knows the power he wields with his cuteness, and he somehow finds a way to use it in every possible situation.

"I worked so hard!"

Your gaze drifts from the bowl of... something he's holding out to you to Silver and Sebek as they shake their heads behind him, trying to save you from your fate.

"...I just ate," you say. Silver sighs with relief.

Lilia huffs. "Again? What does the cafeteria food have that mine doesn't?" Silver opens his mouth, and Sebek shoots him a glare.

"Oh, well... More for me!"

You watch, shaking your head as the elder fae leaves the lounge, the warm bowl of brown sludge cupped between his hands.

Silver and Sebek follow, the latter grilling the former about respect.

"My... what do we have here?"

Malleus, for as tall and imposing as he is, appears in the lounge without a sound, filling the vacancy that the others had left behind.

"Lilia's cooking," you say. "He's been getting really into it lately."

Malleus blinks. And then he laughs. "Ah... aha. I thought I smelled something burning again. He really is quite smitten with you, isn't he?"

"Smitten?"

Now, that's a new one. You can't help but smile, deflecting the word in a single awkward laugh. "I don't think so,"

Malleus raises his brow, as if surprised by your denial. As if it should be obvious...

What a silly thought.

"Do you doubt my sincerity, child of man? I haven't seen Lilia so taken with anyone in... some time. He's rather adamant on impressing you with such things,"

He gestures to the bitter scent wafting from the kitchen.

You want to say that's not possible; Lilia is flirtatious by nature, but actually being interested in you...? Let alone going out of his way to woo you...?

You turn towards the arched doorway that Lilia had left from earlier. Malleus follows your gaze with a subtle smile.

"Well... I have a club meeting to attend. Good evening, child of man... unless you would like to join?"

"What?" you look back to him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Uh... no, not this time. Thank you, though."

He gives you another knowing smile and takes his leave without another word, departing and deserting you with your thoughts in the lounge.

You're not alone for long.

"Still here?"

A streak of black and pink drops down from the ceiling in front of you, changing the feel of the room to one of mirth and mischief.

Lilia smiles, studying your pensive expression carefully. "Fufufu... have you changed your mind? Want a taste of my soup after all?"

"No," you blurt out. He laughs at your nervousness.

"Oh, my... did I startle you? And here I was, starting to think that you'd grown used to my surprises..."

You roll your eyes at the tease in his voice and take a generous step back. His distaste for personal space is the last thing you need right now...

"That's not it. I was just... talking... to Malleus..."

Lilia narrows his eyes. The crimson is even more striking in the dark of the lounge... "Oh? About?"

"Nothing," you lie. It's pretty obvious. "...You."

"Little old me?" he asks, shuffling a little closer. He says it like a question, though he's not really looking for an answer.

...Almost like he already knows. Why do you suddenly feel so nervous?

"He was just... speculating..." you say. "...About you and I."

Vague... but not vague enough. Lilia seems to understand what you're implying immediately, another impish grin playing at his lips.

"Was he? And what did he say?"

You force a laugh; it's all you have left. "It's... it's funny, he thinks that you've been doing all these nice things to impress me because... because you like me,"

Lilia goes silent for a moment, cradling his chin in his palm as he watches you deflect the undeniable tension with another laugh.

And then, he starts giggling along with you.

"Fufufu... Oh, how innocent... mm, yes. Malleus is a smart boy, but he lacks social awareness. Otherwise, he would know I am not trying to woo you with cooking..."

You force another chuckle, though this one sounds weaker, scratchier. Of course, you should have known.

The chances that Lilia actually likes you... like-likes you... that he even thinks of you as attractive...

"I just want you to be happy..." Lilia goes on, his smile as merry as ever. "And... perhaps a little bit naked."

Pause.

He's always had a terrible enjoyment of pulling the rug out from under you, but this is almost insidious.

Lilia seems to enjoy your speechlessness, his grin only widening.

"Oh, my... you look flustered. I truly hope you didn't take my homemade meals as flirting, otherwise, you're in for quite a surprise.

...because I haven't even started yet,"

[dutiful-wildcraft]

I re-emerge with a soft and vaguely angsty Nik/Price/F!Reader

Unedited, 1k, enjoy <3

It's not unusual for Nikolai to look after her while Price is away. As a matter of fact it grew common, the burly Russian staying with her more often than not, even when John was home.

And what had originally been a friendly extension of John, extra security at her call, had evolved into another soft body in their bed, both men's mingled cologne sinking into her sheets as she slept tucked between them.

However, these last few days had been devoid of soft embraces and stolen kisses, but rather wretched coughing and sniffly noses. 

Nikolai, has been sick as shit for days.

Thankfully, he'd been minding her with only a small amount of caterwauling. Huffing and puffing about her not sleeping beside him, whining as sickly boys are want to do.

His raspy voice somehow stupidly effective in getting him his way. 

Can I have more blankets lisichka? he rumbles pitifully.

What will we have for lunch?  he asks with big brown eyes. 

As if he could keep anything more than cheese and crackers down.

Unable to sleep due to Nikolai’s chainsaw level congestion snores, she slinks down stairs in the wee hours of the morning. Having already decided to make her favorite comfort food. Something simple, savory and carb heavy for the pair of them. 

On a whim she gives John a video call, setting it up on the counter while it rings and rings. 

She hardly expects him to answer, he rarely does.  And considering he'd already been gone 4 out of his supposed 6 week stint, she was sure her man was still up to his chest in work.

She's got a maw full of shredded cheese when John's voice rings through the receiver.

“Hello darling”

She sputters, recovering quickly to flash him a big goofy smile.

“Hey love” she whispers back, heart fit to burst as she takes him. There isn't much to see, just the pale light of his phone illuminating his features in the darkness. His beard is scruffy, bags under his eyes far too heavy for her liking. 

“Hello” he repeats again, an infinite fondness in his voice. His sweet cheeks pulled up into that little smile that still makes her blush. She sheepishly brushes the remnant shredded cheese off her tits, tries to quickly adjust her hair. 

She can see her own image reflected in the top corner of her screen, she looks like hammered hell honestly. Hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes, clad in ratty stained oversized shirt. She almost feels a little guilty for not looking more presentable for him when he chimes in again.

“Missed that sweet face.” he murmurs, and all those nagging thoughts plop right from her noggin. The goofy man would think she'd look hot in a trash bag. 

“Missed your face too baby, you okay?” She knows better than to ask about the op, instead lets him pick and choose what he likes to talk about. 

“Much better now, might even be home sooner than we thought.”

Her ears perk at that, spiritual tail wagging hopefully. She missed him dearly, occasionally shed tears in the lonely showers away from Nikolai, when the weight became to much for her to bare. She does her best not to say anything, doesn't want him to feel bad for being so far away. Instead she sends him updates, pictures of the animals, of her meals, this weeks favorite song.

He doesn't reply, she knows he can't, but he does read them, follows up with each one in a big text or call when he can. Somehow holding the details despite whatever hell he sees.

“What you makin’ over there?” he cuts in, trying to eye the counter with a raised brow through the screen. 

“I was hankerin’ for some potato soup, thought the patient would like it too.” she chuckles a bit.

“Mmm, sweet thing aren't you? How is he?”

“He's only a little whiny, spends his day trying to coax me close enough to cough on me, claims he just wants a cuddle” she laughs.

John chuckles too, shaking his head with a fond exasperation.“Well, you gonna show me how to do it?”

“Huh? Right now? I was just calling…you can get your rest babe, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I'm far from tired with a pretty thing cookin for me, now go on.”

She flashes him a knowing look. John Price was no chef, he did well enough, but she'd caught him on more than one occasion following along to the little cooking videos he'd dug up on the internet. Especially those made by other soft southern women.

With an expectant look she continues her work, cutting vegetables and getting the stock pot ready. 

“Talk to me love, need to hear your voice.” he reminds her. 

Not want. Need. And who was she to deny him? So with a little fumbling she starts narrating, mimicking the smooth diction she'd often heard in those same videos, biting back a smile as she watches John fight sleep. Tired baby blues drooping lower and lower, closing briefly before the sharp snick of cut carrots stirs him again. Eyes straining to keep watch.

Sweet man.

She knows he's exhausted, more so than she can probably imagine. What hell he's had to dodge up until this point, and possibly a few days more until he can see them again.

Something in her chest stirs at how he stills for her, easily drawn into the soft bubble of comfort she can provide at such a distance. Lulled easily by a silly soup recipe, simply because it's her voice. She wonders now if he uses her voice messages similarly. She wonders if he would let her read him to sleep.

She files it away. Along with the thought of sending him softer voice messages for when he's away. 

She looks to him again, bristly face squished against his pillow. Eyes closed serenely. 

“Wanna know my secret?” she asks, soft and playful, watching one of his pretty blue eyes creak open at her tone.

“W'sat luv?” 

“I use instant mashed potatoes to thicken up my soup, makes it extra potatoe-y” she giggles.

“My clever girl” he mumbles dreamily, followed by a string of more barely intelligible praise. It rolls easy and proud from his chest, voice no more than a sleepy purr that makes a grin split her face. 

By the time she's finished up John is fully asleep, his measured breaths pouring through the receiver just shy of a real snore.

Her heart aches deep in her chest, a chunk of it long gone and far far away in the form of one John Price, and while she can see him now, know he's alive and relatively well, she longs more than anything to crawl in next to him. Hold him close tucked beneath her chin, where she can keep him warm and safe herself.

As if on cue, a pair of strong arms wrap around her middle, Nikolai’s hot cheek pressed to her temple where he briefly lays a kiss. This time she doesn't fight him. 

Getting sick be damned.

“Pretty thing isn't he?” Nikolai rumbles quietly, eyeing the phone screen with those fond brown eyes. 

She simply hums an affirmative in his arms, words caught in her throat by the emotion that's threatening to escape her. 

Nik seems to catch on, giving her a soft squeeze. “How is he?” he whispers instead, voice low to not wake the man on the other side of the world.

The question is able to at least shake a little out of her. “He seems okay, worn out, fell asleep watching me cook.” She watches John for another moment before sucking in a deep sigh, squirming around in Niks arms to face him, tuck herself into his arms. 

“I'm just ready for him to be home” she mumbles into the soft plush of his chest.

Nik pulls her in closer, warm hands petting along her back, squeezing the back of her neck soothingly. “Me too, malyshka” he returns, the weight of John's absence equally heavy in his own voice. 

The pair stay there for some time, swaying gently in each other's embrace, listening to John's soft snores until the sun paints their meager kitchen gold.

[wizzard890]

Hey guys I invented a soup to use up all the leftovers in my fridge last night, and it turned out insanely, blisteringly good, so I’m gonna call it Emily’s Vaguely Thai-Inspired “Oops Everything Is About To Go Bad” Soup, and tell you how to make it.

INGREDIENTS (note: don’t be precious about the amounts, adjust as needed, I’m not your mom. you’re an artist and the heavy-bottomed dutch oven is your canvas)

three cups of any hearty mushroom, sliced (I used white and baby bella)

a stalk of lemongrass, bashed to reveal the tender insides and cut in two inch lengths

five large carrots, diced in rounds

one knob of ginger, around the size of your thumb, minced

three garlic cloves, minced

one red thai chili, diced

one large yellow onion, diced

fresh cilantro

3 cups veggie stock 

3 cups chicken stock 

(you can use better than bullion in water for either of these in a pinch, and if you want to bulk up the veggie stock, add all the trash bits of the onions and garlic and carrots and ginger and the tough outer leaves of the lemongrass with some peppercorns and star anise and let that puppy simmer for like ten minutes before straining.)

two giant handfuls of any sturdy leafy green, like bok choi, kale, or spinach

three eggs

one lime

fish sauce

coconut or brown sugar

frozen dumplings of any kind

gochujang paste

INSTRUCTIONS

add a few tablespoons of neutral oil to a large soup pot over medium heat

once the oil is shining, add the garlic, thai chili and ginger and sauté until fragrant

add the lemongrass and the onions, and continue to sauté until the onions are soft and translucent

in go the carrots, the zest of one lime, and three heaping tablespoons of your gochujang, stir stir stir until everything is tender and the paste has worked its way into all the nooks and crannies. 

pour in the strained veggie stock, bring to a boil, then down to a simmer. cover, and continue to simmer for ten minutes.

remove the lid, stir the reduced broth, and add your mushrooms and your chicken stock. make sure it’s all well combined. 

we’re going to start adjusting the flavor now: add two tablespoons of fish sauce, and a tablespoon of coconut sugar (brown will do if that’s what you have).

cover and simmer for another 10 minutes.

add more gochujang plus the juice from your naked lime and chopped cilantro to taste.

now you add your frozen dumplings and your greens and just keep an eye on them until they cook through. 

meanwhile, break the eggs into a bowl and scramble them with a fork. pour them into the soup in an even, unbroken stream while you stir. this will give you those pretty egg-drop ribbons.

serve in deep bowls and garnish with more cilantro and lime juice.

NOTES: like I said above, nearly everything in this recipe can be substituted, save for the aromatics, and if you’re a vegetarian you can just double the amount of veggie stock, instead of adding chicken stock. 

[ladylooch]

I just have fluffy thoughts for whenever you feel like writing. So you have a 9-5 corporate job, and the weekends are your only break in the week, so with the games scheduled this week, your plan was to spend the weekend with Nico and go out for Halloween Saturday. But, since Nico got hurt you decide to be his full-time nurse (through the no sleep and the meds), and he feels bad because it is your only free time.

Inside your bedroom, Nico is glowering at the skimpy Halloween costume hanging on the front of the closet door. You are supposed to be putting the finishing touches on your outfit to go out with your group of close friends. Nico was excited to send you off, knowing how much you had been looking forward to the night. Plus, knowing you’d come crawling in, drunk and desperate for him later wasn’t a bad thought.

Instead, you’re in the kitchen, putting together soup for him because getting up to do so himself makes him dizzy. 

“Babe.” He says when he sees you coming in with a tray of food for him. “I’m fine. I promise. Go out with the girls.”

“You are not fine, Neeks.” You murmur, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You scared me earlier when you almost fell over in the living room.”

“I got up too fast. That happened before this too.” He gestures vaguely. “I want you to go have fun.”

“How am I going to have fun knowing you’re in here like this?” 

“Love me less for one night.” He suggests, brown eyes innocent and weak as he looks back at you. He has dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and his overall complexion is paler than normal. He is not well. Your heart sags further in your chest. 

“Impossible.” You whisper, frowning deeply. “I’m not leaving, Nico. Stop asking me to.” Nico’s heavy sigh sags the bed under your butt. 

“I don’t want you missing out because of me. You barely see your friends as it is.”

“That is not your fault. That is the stupid corporate grind I insisted was the life for me.” Nico silently tilts his head. “I’m not ready.” You remind him. Yes, you are in this for forever. Yes, Nico has begged you to quit your job so he can support you. Yes, you refuse every single time. “And you look like a sad puppy when you do that.” You pinch his thigh.

“I’ll get you a puppy if you go out tonight.”

‘Ha. Nice try. Eat your soup and be sad.” You tease him, sticking your tongue out. Nico crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at you. “If you eat your soup, maybe you’ll get a private viewing of that costume.”

“But you said…” He trails off hopefully. The electric anticipation tingles in the air.

Suddenly, Nico Hischier’s favorite meal is soup.

[a-suspicious-lack-of-bagel]

Smoothie: a very silly treatise

In my opinion, the perfect smoothie has 3 ingredients; these being bananas, milk, and spices. (Perhaps I should have said categories of ingredient!) I have several thoughts to share on this:

1. The equipment. There are many ways to process foods into a mush, and some are marketed specifically for use in smoothification! My personal choice, however, is a stick mixer. It does the job and it's handy for sauces and soups also. In terms of container; I use a tall, cylindrical plastic container (jug? vase? I'm not sure. It's food safe, anyway) with a diameter of about 8cm. If you use a different one, you might end up with more or less milk than I use - but my measuring methods are vague and not particularly repeatable and frankly, who cares.

2. The bananas. Bananas used for smoothie should be bordering on over-ripe. Ideally, they should be past the point where you don't want to take them for lunch (because you know they have insufficient structural integrity to survive your bag); but before the point where you put them in the freezer, thinking (optimistically) that one day they will be used for banana bread. Their role is to provide sweetness and texture. You can use 2, or 3, or however many your heart desires! Peel them, break them in half (they may do this themselves), and put them in the jug/container/whatever.

3. The milk. You can use whatever sort you like! When there's milk in our house, it's usually "light" cow's milk, so I use that. Personally I haven't found a non-dairy milk with a taste I like - because I don't like change, and I assume it would be very hard to get a plant milk to taste EXACTLY like cow's milk. Lactose free would be fine - you're not likely to notice the extra sweetness in something like a smoothie. In terms of amount, I like to mostly cover the bananas and leave about a dollar coin's height of banana sticking out. What's that, 3cm? Probably.

4. The spices. Which ones you use is up to you, but make your ancient ancestors proud. You want to use ground spices - the stick mixer won't grind things for you, and it looks pretty when they go into the milk! I always use chilli; often I also add cinnamon and ginger, paprika can also be good. Don't be afraid of using too much (though don't be excessive) - if your smoothie isn't brown at the end, you could Definitely have added more spices. Without the spices, a banana smoothie is OK - but rather bland. Then again, some people are wierd and don't like flavour in their food. They're wrong, but they're allowed to be wrong. You don't need spices! (But I think they're pretty good).

Now, some things ARE wrong - especially, adding more ingredients. Things you may be tempted to add, and shouldn't:

1. Mango. Why? The texture is viscous enough, the smoothie is sweet enough, and I don't think you're adding much to the flavour. You want a mango smoothie? Make one, don't hijack a banana smoothie.

2. Berries, or any other sort of fruit. See above - if you want those in your smoothie, you're making a different sort of smoothie and should leave the bananas out. As a side note, I'm not a fan of a mango smoothie, and I'd prefer to just eat the component fruits of almost any other smoothie.

3. Chocolate or coffee. They might complement the banana flavour, but again - if you want those in your drink, make a drink where they're the focus.

4. Honey. Why? It's sweet (and thick) enough already from the banana. Use the honey in tea or biscuits or something instead.

5. Oats. Again, why? The texture is perfectly fine already.

6. Any form of extra protein. There are other, yummier ways to get protein if you need it. If you're the sort of person who needs the extra protein in their smoothie, do Not be fooled - a liquid breakfast/post workout will Not sustain you for long enough! Take the time to EAT something, and you'll feel better overall, and food is delicious.

7. Vegetables or vitamins. See above - enjoy your smoothie, enjoy food, and get them somewhere else.

8. Ice. Your drink is a frappé now. By definition, it is no longer a smoothie.

9. Anything else. You surprise and confuse me; but if by some miracle I can eat whatever you're mixing in, I may yet be convinced.

Finally, if your bananas HAVE got to the "freeze them before they smell and make the other fruit go off" stage, or you're adding in frozen banana for whatever reason; remember that frozen banana is stickier than fresh banana! You may want to add more milk to balance this.

I'm sure a lot of people will disagree with me about some of this. That's fine! You're wrong, but you're allowed to be wrong (as long as you don't try to make your Smoothie Abominations near me, or feed them to me). I hope that someone at least finds this half as entertaining as it was to write!

[tiffyfoundsomething]

And now for something completely different!

A while back I thrifted a bright yellow, nearly complete box of musty Betty Crocker recipe cards (one was missing and whomever owned it wrote the missing recipe on a blank card), and my S.O. asked me to make the Connecticut Beef Supper. We were curious.

I need to preface this with:  I loathe cooking. I do. I hate it. I hate cooking so much.

It’s “Budget Casseroles” #12 and cost $30 to make. Just the meat was $20.

I want you to look at the product they’re holding in that spoon and keep that in mind for later.

Here’s the recipe. You can easily find it and variants online.

Now, if you cook often, and you look at this recipe, you’ll see some issues with it.

No draining when cooking the meat and onions + 1 cup of water + 1.25 cups of milk into a 13x9x2 casserole dish, and 1 WHOLE TEASPOON of salt in addition to the salt in cheddar cheese and canned cream soup, only seasonings being a little salt and pepper...

I’m not convinced housewives in the 70′s weren’t deliberately trying to kill their families with the help of Hitman Crocker.

We did have to make some substitutions. S.O. won’t eat mushrooms so we subbed in cream of potato soup. We don’t generally eat shortening so I used butter. None of us loves sharp cheese so instead of straight cheddar, we used Walmart brand “fiesta blend” which Walmart says is “Monterey Jack, cheddar, queso quesadilla, and asadero cheeses”. The store didn’t even have a shelf tag for Wheaties and S.O. chose Wheat Chex in their place. I would have gone with corn flakes or bread crumbs, myself.

I hate cooking.

This recipe wasn’t difficult, at least. It’s pretty easy to put together.

There’s a lot of hands-off time like the 50 minutes simmering on the stove (great time to wash up the dishes you’ve dirtied at this point, prep the potatoes, and crush the cereal), and 1.5 hours in the oven (more dishes...).

The biggest problems I ran into were my large skillet was over-full and difficult to brown the meat because there wasn’t room to turn it, and the casserole dish was full to the rim and heavy. Thankfully I was smart enough to put a baking sheet in the oven to catch drips. It did boil over.

Following the instructions as given, with substitutions (and 5x more black pepper), we got this:

Looks nothing like the picture on the card. Doesn’t look even vaguely appealing.

It was very wet. So very wet. The cheese and cream soups curdled and separated in the excessive amount of water. That yellow in the corner is oil that was sitting on top...

Disgusting.

It tasted fine...

the meat was great other than the pieces that I didn’t get browned all around that lost their juices in the rest of the process

the potatoes turned out just right

the sauce was just water with curdles of dairy

the cheese and cereal crust was too dense

My whole family felt like hot garbage once the salt hit, though.

I have hypertension and was vibrating. S.O. usually can eat a lot of salt no problem and he said he had “the salt tingles”. My son was just generally miserable.

I went to bed with swollen gums and legs.

So.

Changes I’d make if I were to make this in the future:

And I might! It was easy to make and tasted good enough.

brown the meat first just so there’s room to do so properly, then add the onions

omit the tsp of salt outright

either drain the meat and onions or omit the milk (likely omit the milk since the water that the meat and onions were simmered in carries a lot of flavor and milk does not)

MORE pepper and add some other seasonings

less cereal, like maybe 1/2c all together sprinkled lightly across the top

[abigailmoment]

The above picture is an effective content warning for the below story.

Staeve and Jaessica belong to @velnna

-

----1627 DR----

Astarion was in the upstairs study, going through correspondence.

There was the usual flurry of frantically phrased quest petitions, most of them entirely uninteresting. There was an invitation to speak at the Ravenguard memorial. There was a letter written on birch bark, detailing a study finding that wild Deep Rothe populations were returning to sustainable levels in the Underdark for the first time since seven thousand starving vampires arrived there. Wasn't that nice. He knew a couple of druids and rangers who would be happy about that.

Someone knocked at the study door. He looked up.

The person in the doorway looked like a child, but was not. She was, in fact, considerably more tolerable than most people who looked like adults. She wore a loose green dress. She had mousy brown hair and gleaming red eyes.

"He's waking up," she said.

"Thank you Jaessica," said Astarion.

Astarion stood and went downstairs. Jaessica followed him to the kitchen. She watched him ignite the stove using the only cantrip he knew, get a pot from the rack on the wall, and fetch out some onions.

Jaessica perched herself on a stool and stayed for some of the process. There was a sort of alien interest to it. A sequence of events that was so entirely disconnected from either of them, but still made relevant by circumstance.

"I'm going to the Eastway docks today," she said, after a while.

"That's nice," said Astarion distractedly. He was cutting onions and muscle memory kept telling him he should be stabbing them.

"I'm going to play 'Dead Kidnapper'," she added. This was a popular game with her, whose goal was to manifest the title into existence.

"That's nice," Astarion said again, then engaging slightly more: "Who is going with you?"

Because one of the very few rules in the house that was actually a rule and not just a vague guideline was that rogues did not go adventuring alone.

"Aldric," Jaessica said.

Astarion made a disgusted noise. If she had said Dalyria or Hannah or someone pleasant, Astarion would've suggested that Jaessica bring them back afterwards for dinner. But Aldric was insufferable.

He didn't actually say as much, because Jaessica was in a phase where she interpreted disapproval as encouragement. She had been in this phase for two decades now. Astarion was extremely ready for the next phase.

"Do you have enough knives?" he asked instead.

"I have a knife," she said, evasively.

"You should have more than one," he told her as he finished with the onion.

"If I'm covered in knives I'll look like an adventurer and no one's going to try to kidnap me," Jaessica said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "If I lose the knife I'll just use my teeth."

Astarion made another disgusted noise. "You really want to put your mouth all over strange dockworkers?"

"Wow," said Jaessica. "Those are words that you just said."

She jumped down off the stool.

"I'm going now," she said, disappearing out the side door into the front hall.

"There are daggers in the shoe rack," Astarion called after her. But not with much force. The knife thing wasn't a rule like the rogue thing was. And she was over a century old. She could make her own decisions.

Astarion put the onions and other necessary things into the pot. He had a container of spices that had been mixed by someone who had any idea how they tasted. He measured out a spoonful of it and sprinkled it over.

The shape of that action made him think suddenly and very intensely of Gale. And then, as the pot began to simmer, he needed to take a moment to compose himself.

He kept having to do that. That wasn't like him. How strange. How time changed things. When it was actually permitted to move forward.

He fetched out some strips of willow bark and shaved a generous portion of them into the developing soup. That reminded him of Halsin, which was considerably safer. Thank everything for Halsin.

Astarion measured whether the soup was done by the structural integrity of the onions. Then he ladled it into a mug. Bowls and spoons had recently followed lockpicks into retirement.

Astarion took the mug into the bedroom across the hall. The room was small, because that was convenient. There was a table and a window--curtained, shuttered and locked as all windows were in the house. There was a bed, and there was a half-elf in the bed. He had been drowsing, but woke entirely as soon as Astarion entered.

"Hey, it's Magistrate Ancunin," the half-elf said, which was a little less of a joke than it used to be. "What's a fancy guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Slumming," said Astarion.

Astarion walked over and put his hand on the side of Staeve's face. Staeve turned into his palm. As if Astarion were warm. As if he were made of sunlight--something a person would instinctively turn towards.

"Where would you like to go today?" Astarion asked.

"Amn," Staeve said.

"Try again," Astarion said. Correct answers included nearby parks and entertainment buildings that were open at night.

"Sharess' Caress," said Staeve.

"Let's start with the window," Astarion said dryly. "And see where that leads."

Astarion helped Staeve to the table by the window. Staeve didn't lean on him quite as heavily as he had yesterday, but he seemed very stiff and when he sat Astarion pushed the mug of soup and willow bark into his hands. As Staeve drank, Astarion drew back the curtains, unlocked and unbolted the shutters, and opened them.

Staeve had been having fun lately with running jokes about how everyone in the house had a liquid diet now-a-nights. But he didn't continue on that theme right now. He drank his soup and looked out the window at the street outside. It was brightly lit by streetlamps and the moon.

"Remember when we saved the city?" Staeve said.

"I do, in fact," Astarion said.

"Wild shit," Staeve said.

"Yes," Astarion agreed.

Staeve took another drink of soup, then asked: "Where's Jaessica?"

"Murdering villains near Heapside," said Astarion.

"Aw," said Staeve. "What a sweet kid."

When Staeve was done with his soup, Astarion combed and braided his hair. Shadowheart had taught him how to do this. Shadowheart was older than Staeve, but she had not spent her life throwing her body violently into danger. So. Some things were different.

Staeve made the process difficult. He kept turning his head when Astarion was in the middle of a braid to press his cheek into Astarion's fingers. Or reaching up to take his hand. And then Astarion had to stop and let that happen, lose the braid, and start again.

The fifth time he was interrupted Astarion couldn't take it anymore. He stopped Staeve, catching the wrist of his interruptive hand, leaned down, and kissed him. On the temple, just above his left eye.

Staeve closed his eyes and smiled. As if he'd just gotten away with something. As if he'd just managed to steal something, despite it being freely given. As if he were exactly where he wanted to be.

Then he turned away and looked out the window again.

"I think Astarion has a crush on me," he told the city, as if it were a person. "How embarrassing."

And Astarion might have said something clever or cutting in response. But he couldn't, because just then he had to take a moment to compose himself.

He kept having to do that. That wasn't like him. How strange.

-

Samaritan Reference

Evening Reference

Other BG3 stories.

our endings bound

[terr4ance]

how to make pizza at home (that doesn't suck)

it was my little brother's 17th birthday yesterday and he wanted to order pizza, but we don't have much money so I said I'd make it instead. it's incredibly simple, and just requires a bit of prep to make it work.

dough

the dough is one of the easiest things about this whole recipe - you need a ratio of five parts bread/strong/00 flour to three parts lukewarm water. I used 1kg of bread flour and 600g (600ml) water, which was enough for eight pizzas.

weigh out your flour into a mixing bowl.

to one side of the bowl, add a teaspoon of sugar and a sachet of dried yeast (7g). on the opposite side, add a teaspoon of salt. [note: it's one teaspoon of sugar/salt per ~500g, so you may need to scale up/down]

add the lukewarm water to the bowl, either by weight or volume.

mix with a butter knife or spoon until it's reasonably well-combined, then mix with your hands until it leaves the bowl clean. you may need to add more flour or water if the dough is still too sticky or dry.

once the dough is fully combined, you have a choice: to knead or not to knead, that is the question.

a no-knead dough has more developed and nuanced flavours, and requires less effort, but it needs time. leave the dough, covered, in the fridge overnight (around eighteen hours). this arguably makes a better dough.

if you need your dough in a pinch, though, kneading speeds up the process. turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead for ten minutes. roll the dough into a ball and return to the bowl to prove (rise) for at least an hour. this is the method I used.

once the dough has risen, it can be portioned into balls (around a handful) for use in pizza.

tomato sauce

the sauce is one of the most important components of a pizza, and it is also very simple.

find the most expensive can of whole, peeled tomatoes you can. the quality of tomato is incredibly important here.

pick the tomatoes out with a fork (o.e.) and place them in a bowl. save the excess liquid in the can - you may need some to thin the sauce, or it can be used for soup.

use the fork to gently mash the tomatoes. they should be in small pieces with a saucy consistency.

you can leave it here and it will be delicious with good quality tomatoes, but you can also add a number of other ingredients to compliment the tomato flavour. it is very important not to overpower the tomato though - I slightly over-salted mine and I added less than a teaspoon of salt... some ingredients include finely chopped fresh basil or oregano, sugar, and salt.

assembly and cooking

it is safe to assume that most home-cooks do not own a wood-fired pizza oven. luckily, this is not an issue. in fact, you don't need any specialist equipment to cook a good quality pizza at home - a grill and a frying pan will suffice (though a crepe pan would be preferable!)

before cooking, ensure you have all of your toppings prepared and pre-cut, otherwise you could end up with a burnt bottom on your pizza!

preheat a grill on its maximum setting.

take a portion of your dough (again, about a handful) and make it into a pizza shape. you can either use a rolling pin, or use your fingers: first, flatten the ball into a disc with your palm, then pinch the dough between your thumb and index/middle fingers to stretch it out. rotate the dough slightly and do the same again. keep repeating until you have a vaguely-circular disc of dough.

preheat a frying pan (or flat crepe pan if you have it) till it is searing hot. if you're not using non-stick, you can add a thin coating of olive oil too.

once the pan is hot, carefully transfer the dough into the pan, laying it flat. give the pan a shake to make sure it doesn't stick.

now, work quickly but carefully to add your toppings. your toppings should be things which are pre-cooked (eg. ham, fried peppers) or will cook very quickly (eg. thinly sliced onions, cherry tomatoes).

once you see the bottom of the edges start to brown, turn off the heat and stick the pan under the grill for around five minutes, or until the crust starts to brown.

once browned, transfer the pizza to a chopping board to slice, then plate up.

when reading the recipe, you may have thought it strange to put the pizza in a pan, but this is actually vital to the method's success; oven-baked pizzas often have a soggy or soft bottom which doesn't crisp up like it should. a pizza stone or steel can remedy this to some extent, but most home ovens simply do not get hot enough to work well with pizza. the pan emulates the searing hot base of the pizza oven, crisping the bottom, while the grill emulates the hot air which cooks the top.

leftovers?

if you have leftover pizza, that can keep in the fridge for a day or two as you would a normal pizza.

if you have leftover dough, you can also keep that in the fridge for up to three days, and use it to make pizzas later in the week, or make a garlic pizza bread or sweet pizza bread (I'll let you experiment with those yourself as this post is already too long...)

if you have leftover dough and toppings, you can freeze a full uncooked pizza for later. here's how:

roll out your dough as described in step two above, then place it on a plate.

add all your toppings as normal.

put the plate on a level surface in the freezer for a couple of hours to firm everything up.

take it off the plate and wrap in cling-film to prevent freezer burn and maintain freshness.

this will last around a month in the freezer. when you're ready to cook, fully defrost it and use the pan/grill method as described above.

========

I hope this recipe is of use to someone, because it does make delicious pizza. the dough recipe and pan/grill combo is an idea I got from watching a SortedFood video a few years ago - it has served me well since. I made the tomato sauce recipe by combining a few reddit posts and comments into something I thought would taste nice (and it did!)

and finally, an interesting aside: I bought a lot of toppings for the pizzas, so my fridge was very full. this meant that one of the packs of mozzarella was touching the back of the fridge, which froze the brine it was in. it was quite amusing when I tried to get it out of the packet to use it...

[peachblossom-odyssey]

I love the idea of Din being the most gentle and calm Mand’alor the galaxy can remember. The New Republic politicians and royalty reluctantly invite the new Mand’alor to big events and they expect a blustering meathead or a stoic dickhead but instead they get this soft-spoken man with an alien baby in his arms and the most overprotective guards ever. Everyone introduces themselves and Din takes off his helmet to properly greet these important people and they don’t know what they expected but it certainly wasn’t expressive brown eyes and curly brown hair and a permanent expression of vague confusion on a calming face.

He unwittingly charms everyone in the room within weeks and becomes the talk of the galaxy, although he doesn’t pay attention enough to know that. He’s a personal friend to Princess Leia. He has influence over Boba Freakin’ Fett. Luke Skywalker himself is teaching his child. He clearly isn’t used to controlling his expressions and his face is always charmingly open. He’s kind and patient and doesn’t mind when people’s children bother him. He’ll sit still and let the children of visiting diplomats climb all over him without a word of complaint, even giving presentations while the children tug at his cape and pull at his hands. He’s beaten all of his guards in spars and then beat everyone else’s just to prove a point to those who thought his lack of diplomatic experience made him weak. Sometimes he brings his little jedi child, and when he does everyone knows not to bother discussing anything important because the Mand’alor will not be paying attention to anything but the child.

One time during an event he laughed brightly at something someone said and then got nervous when he realized everyone was staring. One time a senator accidentally sneezed on him and got bumrushed by his entire mandalorian guard while the Mand’alor stood there baffled. One time Prince Consort Solo spilled soup in the Mand’alor’s lap and the Mand’alor apologized. One time Senator Xiono’s kid stole the Mand’alor’s helmet and the Mand’alor let him play with it for the entire day, chuckling at Senator Xiono’s clear despair. One time he scolded Luke Freaking Skywalker over a teaching disagreement and Luke Skywalker apologized and called him sir.

Suddenly Din is getting marriage proposals all over the place. Mandalore is thriving with all the generous help and donations galactic bigwigs suddenly seem eager to shove into Din’s hands. People fall all over themselves to offer their assistance if Din (and by extension Mandalore) even looks like he might need help, cooing at how he never asks for help. Suddenly Mandalore is a place you absolutely Do Not Mess With unless you want half the galaxy jumping down your throat. Din gets all these admirers and new friends and support and has absolutely no idea what he could have done to prompt it. The galaxy loves him. Mandalore loves him. Ben Solo gets an actual role model. Bo-Katan is fuming.

[sif-the-tsunami]

What about Geralt getting "cursed" by some witch that took offence to him not accepting her advances so she makes him get a boner for the next person that talks to him and only that person can alleviate it. Such as the unfortunate new bar maid at the tavern that he visits for a quick bite of dinner. 😏

Have fun! 😘

-🍑

I'm so excited for this! You come up with some really fantastic ideas! I hope you love this one as much as I do, I wanted it to be extra special just for you.

Warnings: Smutty McSmut Smut, vaginal and oral. Male masturbation. There will be some sassing and in Witcher canon, Geralt is nearly assaulted by women who view Witchers as sexual novelties. In the show, Geralt is fetishized. So I want to play off of that. If this triggers you, I don’t want to ruin your day with a short story, so please take care of yourself and I will definitely post more Geralt fluff another day. I’m sorry, and I do care about your wellbeing. 

Geralt caught himself muttering under his breath. He was miserable after fulfilling yet another contract. While there were always someone who needed something from him, the wild witches were always the worst. The Witcher only wanted to be paid in gold coins or valuable goods. Sex was not an acceptable form of currency. And while Geralt generally enjoys the company of women, even paid for the pleasure of some women’s company, he doesn’t enjoy when things are demanded of him. The witch of the woods, instead of paying him with ingredients or coinage, placed a lust enchantment on the White Wolf when he declined her initial offer of the use of her body. He was polite about it as possible, but being told no made her sneer at him with malice. 

While the Wolf wasn’t entirely sure about what the parameters of the enchantment entailed, he could feel a dull, gradually increasing ache that was going to become unbearable. Geralt hadn’t caught the entire spell she cast, or he would be able to address the nature of the hex before it became too inconvenient for him. He was entirely grumpy by the time he made it to his rented room at the tavern.

Geralt was beginning to feel feral. An unnatural urge was beginning to take over him, he kicked his boots off and pealed off his skin tight britches. In one of the pouches in his packs, he carried with him a small vial of oil that smelled vaguely of herbs and musk. He applied a decent amount onto his palm, then started to massage and manhandle himself. He coaxed an orgasm out of himself quickly, like one is apt to do by themselves. The peace that it brought was short-lived unfortunately. A few moments after he cleaned himself up, he observed his growing discomfort. With another application of the oil, Geralt laid back on the bed and thought of Yennifer.

However this time took considerably longer. He was not thrilled by how long he was laid up, but the pleasure took him and made him comfortably numb for a few moments. He remained in his bed feeling vaguely lonely. He got himself dressed and walked down to the tavern. He was becoming irate and thought that some ale might give him a different kind of relief. He was thankful for the fullness of his cloak that evening, he kept himself covered awkwardly.

Once he arrived at the bar to order his drink, perhaps some dinner, he met a sweet young woman who smiled at him. It was rare for people to treat him like he was anything other than a freak or a novelty. His soul yearned for someone who wanted to be around him because they simply enjoyed his company. Jaskier, gods love him, sometimes seemed to want to be around Geralt for the songs he could write, like he had monetized their friendship. But the woman who brought him his beverage didn’t ooh and ahh at his profession, she didn’t gape at him or even complain that he smells like monster blood. She was friendly to him in a way he wasn’t prepared for, she made him feel like he was welcome and wanted there. 

She brought him a soup with beef and leeks, and loaf of dark brown bread with some fresh butter. She smiled at him, and Geralt felt himself blush a little. The White Wolf watched her interactions with other patrons. It was interesting to him see that she wasn’t as warm with some of them. After having interacted with her more than once, he felt a inkling that perhaps her kindness was more than just regular hospitality. 

She stopped by his perch a few more times and offered to bring him more bread to finish mopping up the broth. Some of the men in the tavern would get a little handsy or snarky with the woman, she seemed to be able to blow off whatever kind of attitude that was thrown her way effortlessly. It was amusing to watch her. the action of the tavern slowly brought itself to a close and the patrons left to their homes. Before long the distant rumble of thunder and the down pour of rain came in though the windows.

Geralt watched the young woman sigh deeply. “My lady, you seem to be distressed.”

“It will just be a long, cold, walk to my cottage. I don’t look forward to making the trek.”

“I could walk with you, or let you ride on my horse if you would prefer not to get muddy.” The witcher offered.

“That is very kind of you, but I don’t want to be a burden on you. Besides, I know the inn keeper, I can take a quiet corner to sleep in here.”

“I have a room here, it would be warmer and considerably more comfortable than a corner. I promise that I will be nothing but respectful, I can sleep on the floor myself. I’m used to sleeping in places far less luxurious.”

The two talked while she cleaned up. Geralt kept his cloak covering himself as the woman grabbed a bottle and two small cups. All it took was half a bottle for the young woman to end up sitting in the Witcher’s lap. By the time it was empty, she was kissing the white haired man aggressively. 

Geralt worried about what would happen if he told her about the curse he was under, but the man needed with his whole body to feel her against him. There was nothing else on the Continent that he wanted more was the girl sitting on his lap, damn near grinding against him. The woman pulled her skirts up around her hips and was practically whimpering for him to return her advances. At first he slid a hand between her legs to help her get ready for what they both wanted.

Without too much exertion, Geralt lifted the barmaid up with him and set her on the bed in his room. Kneeling between her thighs, putting one of her legs over his shoulder to get deeper, he dove head first into her secret garden. The woman in his bed moaned and gasped his name as he brought waves of pleasure. Geralt watched as her body writhed.

“Are you ready? Are you ready for me, sweetness?” The Witcher asked raising himself up, sliding his pants down his hips.

The beautiful woman in his bed nodded, gasping. The White Wolf slid himself into her, sensually. He pumped himself into his willing conquest. She ripped at his shirt and clawed at him like a wild animal. Soon their bodies peaked in pleasure, he yelled as he emptied himself inside of her. They lay together on the bed, tangled in her skirts and each other’s limbs. 

“You should teach lessons, Geralt. Charge a gold coin for every student.” The barmaid said, causing the large man to chuckle. Getting a laugh out of the Wolf was never an easy feat, however, he found that joy seemed to radiate from his bedmate. Being relaxed with her was as easy as breathing, but he knew this would not and could not last. She deserved a man who would be content with hunting game for her table, collecting wood for her fire, and not feel the constrictions of domesticity. While Geralt dreamed of being able to have that kind of life one day, he knew that he was too damaged inside to give it to her. He had been too lonely for too long.

“I don’t think most men have a Witcher’s stamina, although, I would feel bad for most women if they did. The men in most places don’t know there own ass from a hole in the ground.”

“Here, help me out of this dress, lets get comfortable.”

The two of them reveled in their passions a few more times that night. While she wasn't exactly insatiable, he felt like she was easily out pace him. One of the benefits of youth, he mused. When he woke up the next morning, the young woman was singing as she brushed her hair out. 

“Cast not your eyes upon him, lest he kiss you with his sword Lay not your heart against him or your lips to ease his roar For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone”

It was gently and soft. Just to amuse herself more than him. But her voice was clear like a bell. “I’m sorry Witcher, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just had it stuck in my head this morning when the sun came through the window. I had wanted to be out of your hair before you had woken up. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“I wouldn’t have kicked you out either way. But I am familiar with what happens to the women who have been found sneaking out of my room in the morning.”

“Were this a perfect world, I would make you a breakfast with honey cakes, sausage, maybe hot chocolate. You deserve someone who would take care of you, Geralt,” she said, coming up to him and touching his face. She placed a kiss on his forehead, tenderly. “You are a good man, rest while you can. You have monsters you still have to slay.”

Geralt drifted back to sleep for a while, unaware that her earnest desire for him to be happy broke the enchantment that had been plaguing him from the day before. Some times, all it takes is a simple kiss to lift a curse.

[expectingtofly]

finally free, they drive

2k

day 1 of @thiscastielhasflown and i's follower celebration

prompt: diners/roadtrip

Twenty-four years ago in Mankato, Minnesota, Dean killed a wendigo with a bottle of Jack and a lighter. He told Cas this, how the flames lit the inside of the cave and his dad had to drag him out because he suddenly couldn’t move, how he stayed silent for a week even though his dad begged him to speak.

Seventeen years ago, in Monte Vista, Colorado, Dean burned the bones of a malevolent spirit that sliced a gash through his chest before he could swing an iron crowbar through her foggy figure. As he and Cas passed by the cemetery where he and his dad had dug up her remains, he could almost picture himself standing between the tombstones, his dad tossing him the lighter. Do the honors.

In Evanston, Wyoming, he and Cas stopped to eat at a diner that looked vaguely familiar. As they sat down at a booth in the back, waitress handing them their menus, it hit him.

“Pretty sure Sam and I went through here before.” He couldn’t remember what they'd been hunting. “Years ago. After dad. You know. Passed.”

And Cas was silent a moment before replying, "I wish I’d known you then."

Then he declared he wanted the French onion soup from the specials of the day, like he hadn’t just spoken Dean's thoughts aloud in his uncanny way of knowing exactly what Dean wished for before Dean knew it himself.

Sometimes, while passing semi-trailer trucks on the freeway, when the setting sun glinted off the metal partition between west and east-headed traffic, he wondered what life would’ve been like if he knew Cas when he was twenty-six. When he was so lonely, his chest felt like a vise at night, and he slipped out of mildewed motel rooms to gasp in chilly night air. When he sought out crowded bars because accidental nudges and jostles were substitutes for caresses.

What might’ve changed if he'd known Cas when he was twenty-two, when Sam left for college and Dad left with a cutting, Don't look for me. If, confronted with an angel then, he would’ve been able to believe in good things, if he would've kissed him to not feel so alone.

The radio played Dolly Parton at a diner in Des Moines, a young couple sat at the counter, Cas stacked small containers of strawberry jelly and orange marmalade into a tower, and Dean imagined sitting across from him when he was nineteen. But then Cas looked up at him triumphantly over perfectly balanced preserves, and the what-if's dissolved in a growing warmth in his chest. Cas had been right after all. Good things did happen.

They drove without a destination now that they didn’t need one, changing course frequently, turning off exits to follow signs for roadside attractions, homestyle meals, and scenic overlooks.

Prairie and forest, coast and desert. He'd traveled these roads before, but he was paying attention now. Everything looked different with Cas sitting by his side, when every glance to his right revealed Cas already looking at him.

Re-heated diner leftovers and slices of pie for breakfast, crumbs on the bed, brown bags in the backseat, lunch breaks at rest stops, sitting on the hood to unwrap grease-stained burger wrappers, kept warm from the sun coming through the car’s windows.

Baby had been his home for years. He'd learned her nooks, her curves, how best to settle on the benchseat and tuck his jacket against the door to wake without a crick in his neck.

Moving into the bunker, he'd claimed a room, made a space for every item he owned: a hook for every weapon, a box for every photo, a hanger for every jacket. The concrete walls and sterile bathrooms meant order, control.

He used to be afraid that if he let one item fall out of place, he'd lose his grip on the delicate thread which held him together.

Crackling radio in Omaha, searching for a station. Cassette-tapes pulled out of a box that he hadn’t rifled through since a time when angels were still a myth, god didn’t exist, and death was always close, but not someone they knew by name. Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica. Then, out of Cas' pocket, his own “Top 13 Zepp Traxxs,” which he was surprised to learn Cas still kept, the words on the label faded.

“It was a gift,” Cas said, tucking the cassette into the deck and turning up the volume.

Busy diners where their food took ages to come to their table and Dean doodled on napkins to pass the time. Stuffed them into his pocket and forgot until he pulled them out while looking for change to pay for gas. A tiny Impala, a sun with dashes for rays, sigils, tiny flowers which Cas had added to the corners.

An argument on I-70 and sixty-two miles of tense silence. "If you don't speak to me, I can't understand," Cas said, voice quiet under the whir of tires on the road.

Dean changed lanes, watched a tarp flap over the bed of a pick-up truck. "I don't know how," he admitted.

Cas let out a breath that sounded like relief. "We'll learn."

He learned Cas liked brightly colored shirts labeled with the names of locations they visited, oversized because tight sleeves made him itch. He learned that the strangely named items on diner menus had backstories that owners behind counters were all too eager to share when Cas prompted them. He learned Cas hovered in doorways as if he was waiting to be invited inside, learned Cas knew every upbeat song playing over the radio in gas stations, had nightmares too, could stay silent for seventy miles then speak a thought aloud that left Dean stunned for seventy more.

He taught Cas how to pass the time on roads that stretched to the horizon. Name a movie for every letter of the alphabet. Name three items you'd take to a deserted island. Name everyone we've lost along the way—he didn't mean to begin talking about them, but they seemed closer than ever before on the open road, under a vast, cloudless sky. The wind whisked their names from their mouths, and Dean liked the idea of them still existing, here, around them.

A map open on his lap, Cas circled every town they stopped at, traced their route with a red pen. Folded and unfolded the page until the creases made the snaking lines nearly illegible. "I want to remember," he told Dean, and Dean traced the creases to feel their route under his finger. The steering wheel was warm under his palms, the diner floors sticky under his boots, the motel sheets stiff when he pulled them back from the headboard, and he told Cas, "Pinch me," in the dark of an eighty-dollar-a-night room. Cas touched his face and kissed him instead.

The rocky coast off of Oregon delighted Cas. He rolled up his pant legs, clutched Dean's hand as they walked unsteadily over the slippery rocks to step into the Pacific Ocean. The wind whipped his hair over his face and he pushed back the strands, grinning back at Dean. Sometimes at night, when Cas slept curled into him, Dean looked at the photo he'd taken of him and wished he had a place of their own to frame it.

Long phone calls to family and friends who told them to take their time, do not disturb signs hung on motel doorknobs, winding backroads and detours. He grew out his hair and told Cas he needed a cut. Cas twisted his fingers through the strands, and mused, "I like it." Dean kept it and noticed the strands curled at the ends.

A sign on the highway in Ohio read, "Hell is Real." He still had nightmares. As cornfields passed, Cas recounted seeing his soul for the first time, and sometimes Dean imagined he remembered the safety of Cas' wings as he pulled him out of the depths of Hades.

Cas got sick in Idaho, complained, voice echoing in the toilet bowl, "I told you that diner was not sanitary." Dean rubbed his back and told him he'd write a scathing review. In West Virginia, over a pile of spilled salt and stale fries that were probably nuked behind the counter, Cas told him he loved him. It wasn't for the first time, but his breath still caught in his throat.

They ate fried okra in Oklahoma City, beignets in New Orleans, and Dean requested Earth Angel on a jukebox in a vinyl and chrome diner in Wisconsin. Slid into the booth to press against Cas' side and watch him fill out postcards. Did you know dinosaurs once roamed where the Rockies now stand? Don't know when we'll be back. We bought new cassettes to add to the collection and I convinced Dean to let me choose the music. Still so much we haven't seen.

The magic fingers bed at the King's Court Motel cost four quarters for fifteen minutes—three more than when he was younger, he griped to Cas. The vibrating massage didn't seem quite as relaxing as he remembered, but maybe he was just used to more magical fingers—this he accompanied with an exaggerated wink which made Cas roll his eyes.

The Impala broke down on Route 66, and the asphalt radiated heat as he ducked under the hood. Cas hovered at his side and he realized he didn't have the tools to fix her.

They ate lunch at a mom-and-pop’s restaurant as they waited for the mechanic to finish, and Cas gave him the pickle from his sandwich. "I'm sorry I never asked you to stay," Dean told him and wished he'd said it earlier. "I never wanted you to leave."

Cas gave him a sad smile. "It's in the past." He tapped his foot against Dean's under the table, and Dean hooked his ankle with his foot.

Cas parted the curtains in every motel they slept in, tilted his face to the sun beaming through the windshield, urged Dean to stop for a cardboard sign reading Fresh Strawberries $2. Reruns of The Three Stooges made Dean laugh until he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, had to catch his breath. This happiness didn't seem so fragile, this time. When they turned on the TV tomorrow night three hundred miles away, The Three Stooges would play into the morning, and when he told Cas he loved him, Cas would say it back.

Crossing over rippling water or curving through wooded land, he and Cas spoke a cabin in the woods, a house on the coast, a home. Dean's head filled with the future instead of the past. Every mile that passed under their tires brought them closer to this dream—or so he thought, until he stopped at a red light, and Cas took his hand, and he realized home sat beside him now.

In a diner in Arkansas, Cas read from a menu, plastic corners curling, and commented, "No matter where we go, every place serves an iceberg wedge salad."

Dean replied, "I think I'm ready to stop driving."

He didn't know where they'd park the Impala for good, but he pictured somewhere with windows, patches of sunlight on the floor. The details didn't matter so much, though, not so long as he had Cas.

"For you to me are the only one," he sang over Robert Plant, glancing at Cas as he turned up the radio, wind whistling through the open windows, road humming under their feet. Happiness, no more be sad, happiness, I'm glad.

[tonypinkgrave]

ride the lightning ⊹ ·˚

❥ summary : Nero thinks Dante should treat Cavaliere better— and by that, he means let him fuck Dante's brains out on that thunderous beast of a motorcycle.

3.5k words

post-DMC5

Top!Nero / Bottom!Dante

includes anal sex on a motorcycle, creampies, playful banter, & pet names

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

“Agh, damn.”

Nero shakes his head and throws down the magazine he was perusing. That old man had been working in Nero’s garage for hours, tinkering with god-knows-what and constantly knocking things over if the loud sounds were anything to go by. Nero begrudgingly left Dante alone to do his things, and he’s surely regretting it.

The garage was already a mess, but he doesn’t want the devil hunter screwing it up any more than it needs to be.

Nero leaves the comfort of his lazy boy and heads to the garage. As he steps in, swinging the heavy door out and quickly shutting it behind him, he avoids looking at the dark brown stain on the floor— a reminder of a tragedy long ago.

No, that’s the past. This is the present, a present where he can walk in and tease his uncle over fucking up his tools

Nero saunters toward Dante, drinking in the sight of nuts and bolts, dirty rags, oil, screwdrivers, and his signature red coat strewn about. Cavaliere, Dante's new form of transportation, sits in the middle of the garage. He knows Dante knows he’s there, but his uncle doesn’t glance at him, too busy assessing the large shotgun in his hands.

“You havin’ fun?” Nero starts, leaning on the wooden workbench.

Dante hums, “Sure.”

He says nothing else, causing Nero to bite his lip. He gives it another go, “Don’t you think that bad boy is modded enough?”

Dante then sends him a smirk. “Ironic coming from you.” He laughs, holding up his prized Coyote-A. “Nah, I was only giving it a bigger barrel. These new pests coming through lately have been more durable than ever. I guess it’s that whole, uhh,” Dante vaguely gestures, “evolution stuff.”

Nero knows the demons appearing haven’t been an issue for Dante, but the hunter is giving an old boy of his a chance to stay in the game. It’s rather sentimental, he thinks.

“With the right modifications, that thing could blow a hole through concrete,” Nero adds.

Dante snickers. “Oh, I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of a souped-up Pedersoli before. Those can turn you into ground beef real quick.”

Nero’s eyebrows reach his hairline. “What? When?”

“Looong ago.”

“Wow.” Nero crosses his arms and faces him fully. “That must’ve been tough; fighting off crazy modified shotguns, and competing with T-rexes for your food. Hard times back then, I bet.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Dante enunciates in a snarky manner. “It was pretty funny though! Once watched your father square up against a velociraptor.”

Nero snorts at the absurdity of it all. He’s never forgotten Dante’s wit and his ability to roll with the punches. Every conversation they have, barring anything that delves too deeply into their respective issues, is chill. It’s .. nice. He wishes Dante visited more often and didn’t seem to think Nero and his home had human cooties.

He could say that, right now. He could let Dante know he appreciates him, respects him, loves him for his one-of-a-kind personality. Instead, Nero notices how much his lovely, odd uncle has let Cavaliere go.

“What the hell, old man?” Nero taps Cavaliere’s gunked-up exhaust pipes with his boot. “Why are you letting her go like this? She looks like shit.”

Dante sharply swivels. “Hey, gimme a break, kid. I can only do so much around here.”

click here to read more ♡

[clatterbane]

Tonight's delight: the best meal I've managed to throw together in quite a while! Vaguely pseudo-Greek style.

And all for myself, since Mr. C took off to see some friends this weekend. Especially with the post-viral BS, I haven't been great at turning out anything but pretty low spoons options for a while, and food is always way harder when I am the only one around needing it. But, I really needed some half-decent Real Food with vegetables and all, and made sure I got some. With plenty of leftovers for tomorrow. 😊

To go with the tomatoey green beans I was craving? (A smaller batch, made with frozen green beans without the potatoes.) I decided to go with some "oat rice" that I hadn't tried yet, and a little pork tenderloin out of the freezer with a quick marinade.

That's just simple pilaf style, sauteed with some onion and garlic then cooked in some veggie bouillon. I was interested in trying that more because I just like oats and some type of variety in my diet, but the "extra nutritious and environmently friendly" part is also a bonus!

Next time, I think I will use a little less liquid, but the oats turned out delicious. Reminds me of a fairly chewy cross between barley and brown rice, and I bet those would make a great GF barley substitute in soups, etc.

The tenderloin just spent a while marinating in a baggie with some chopped garlic, bottled lemon juice and dried oregano (plus some salt and pepper). One of my favorite fallback options for basically any kind of meat, really. A quick pan sear and you're set! I managed not to overcook it this time, and it turned out super tender and juicy. 😋

Everybody here has such awesome executive function that I had started trying to cook before I remembered that we were totally out of olive oil. So, I had to use sunflower for everything instead. Not the same flavor, but thankfully everything tasted great to me anyway!

Oh yes, we should also get more of this excellent totally-not-feta type cheese, since it's just a few little chunks floating around in the big can of brine now. Yay, local Turkish-run supermarket! 😁

Great finishing touch, crumbled on top of the green beans. Glad I finally remembered to pull it out of the fridge.

[the-demelza-robins]

never understood you before (but i do now) part vi

guess who’s back!! and with the final chapter!! sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!

you can also read this on ao3

THANKSGIVING BREAK PASSES in a flurry of turkey, potatoes, and disapproving glances (courtesy of Petunia). When it finally comes to an end, standing next to her parents and waving halfheartedly at Vernon’s car as it backs out of the driveway, all Lily feels is relief.

The moment is short lived. “Lily, dishes,” Laurel says, more of a statement than a question. Lily sighs and walks back into the kitchen. She’s about ten minutes into the seemingly endless pile of plates and tupperware before her mother joins her.

“What did you think of Vernon?” Laurel asks, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Lily pauses, faucet still running. She calculates. Honesty is not the solution here, but neither is an outright lie.

She settles on saying “I think they’re a good match” while sponging the pan she’s washing a little too aggressively.

Laurel hums. “Petunia’s always been more — conscientious of the future. It’s one of my favorite things about her. She plans and she plans and she plans.”

She’s planning with Vernon, Lily translates. Her future is safe with Vernon.

“I think there are some things you can’t plan,” Laurel continues, smiling slightly. “Your father and I… never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted marrying him. I just — I just worry for Petunia, that she won’t be able to experience that.”

Silence, except for the faucet.

Lily clears her throat. She wishes she could respond I worry for Petunia, too, but the fact is that she and Petunia have never been close, not since they were children, not since — well, not since Severus. In the dim recesses of her mind, Lily can scrounge up some happy memories of her sister — shared Halloween costumes, Petunia’s protective stance on the playground — but they’re both rare and fleeting. Petunia is Petunia, and Lily is Lily, and the former will forever disapprove of the latter in the way that only sisters can. She can’t vocalize this truth, though — even if her mother already knows. Instead: “I think Petunia doesn’t want anything to be unpredictable. I think she’d hate falling in love with someone unexpected.”

Laurel nods, standing up a little straighter. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’ve been branching out this year. I know you don’t tell me everything, but the Parents’ Association moms are very chatty. I never would have imagined you with Roger Davies, that’s all. I was surprised.”

Lily knows that she’s started to blush, but she can’t stop. She and her mother never talk about these things. “I really don’t think I’m in love with Roger, if that’s what you’re getting at, Mom,” she says, thinking of the last time she really spoke with him. The last yearbook meeting, maybe? Anything they’d had had fizzled out after that first date, after she’d somewhat clumsily executed a slow fade. “I haven’t even spoken to him recently.”

“Well, I guess I’m behind the times. Want to catch me up? Anything going on lately?”

“No,” she says, more forcefully. “Nothing.” Inexplicably, Lily pictures James, sitting on the kitchen counter just days ago. She pushes the thought down — she must have had too much wine at dinner, to be randomly thinking about him like this.

“Just checking,” Laurel says, a glint in her eye that Lily can’t interpret and feels vaguely threatened by. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Love you,” Lily calls automatically, already back to the soapy water, her mother’s words echoing in her head. You’ve been branching out lately. Had she, really? Yes, she’d spoken to Roger. Become friends with James. She supposed she had more people to say hello to in the halls now, but that was really just because of her position as head of the yearbook. The fact was, she still felt like the same old Lily, truly open to only a few people, closed off to the rest of the world behind a veil of awkwardness and, at times, imposter syndrome. Her thoughts pull towards James again: how comfortable she feels in his presence, how easy it is to do away with the layers of caution that seem to smother her other social interactions. She shakes her head, turns the water off, examines the now clean kitchen. No more thinking of James Potter, she tells herself firmly. The thought echoes through her head as she gets ready for bed, self defeating by nature.

***   Marlene comes back from Thanksgiving break with a new friendship. She and Remus, she explains, had been volunteering at the same soup kitchen over break. Long hours ladling soup and tearing off bread had created (by Marlene’s telling) an unbreakable bond. “All of this is to say,” she says now as she swerves past a mailbox, Lily hanging on for dear life in the passenger seat of her friend’s car, “that Remus invited me over to watch a movie at James’s on Friday. It’s so funny how they — all four of them, you know — just invite people over to each other’s houses. Squad goals? Anyway, he said the invite was for me, you, whoever else. Dorcas has those damned violin recitals, but hopefully we’ll be able to spring her free — watch it! —” (a pigeon had dared hop into the road, and flew away hastily) “— and Alice and James and Sirius and Peter too.”

“Oh,” Lily says.

Marlene shoots her a look. “I thought it was a wonderful idea, seeing as you've started to become completely platonic, innocent friends with James Potter —”

“— every day, I regret telling you about Halloween more and more —”

“— and there’s nothing like a movie on a Friday night to solidify a friendship, is there, Lily?” Marlene smirks, and Lily can do nothing but silently fume as they pull into the high school parking lot. “Come on. You know it’ll be a good time.”

“I do, and I hate you for it,” Lily grumbles, getting out of the car. “And, for the last time, there’s nothing going on with James. Stop smirking.”

“Speak of the devil,” her friend says in lieu of a response, motioning to where James is approaching them from across the parking lot. For a second, all Lily can do is stare. He looks tanner, she thinks, briefly, before dismissing the thought; he didn’t even travel over the break. She must be seeing things.

He stops in front of them, holding onto his backpack straps and squinting against the sun. “Just the girls I was hoping to run into.”

“Oh?” Lily asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder and glancing up at him before she loses the nerve. Just James. Just a slightly tanner James. Nothing you haven’t seen before.

“For the movie on Friday: Peter and I want to watch Jaws and Sirius and Remus want to watch Love, Actually. Thoughts?”

Lily finds herself sputtering, “But — I barely just agreed to go, how did you —”

Marlene’s dangerously close to smirking again. “I may or may not have told James you’d be a sure thing,” she says, not noticing (or not caring) about James’s hair, or his tan, or the way his biceps flexed slightly when he ran a hand through his hair. How could someone not care about those things? “Have a nice break, Potter?”

“Perfectly fine. Did you like the flowers, Lily?”

Marlene shoots her an incredulous look, and Lily doesn’t know who she wants to murder first. “My mom really appreciated them. Tell your mom she said thanks.”

He pouts. It makes his mouth look — good. Shut up. She knows what it’s like to kiss him. Shut up. To feel his lips on her skin, on her neck, against her pulse point. Shut up.

“— game on Friday,” James is saying, and Lily’s not listening, but it doesn’t matter, because now he’s talking to Marlene. Lily trails behind them, watching as her fellow students move aside to let him pass through the parking lot, through the school entrance, through locker-lined hallways.

“— coming, Evans?” he asks, snapping her out of her stupor. They’re standing outside what she belatedly recognizes to be the math classroom, Marlene long gone.

She blinks once, twice. He raps her temple gently, that teasing glint in his eye again. “Lily?”

She’s so stunned by the fact that he’s touching her — granted, his knuckles are touching the side of her head, not a particularly romantic gesture — that for a second, she can only stand there, scrambling for some excuse, something to fill the suddenly heavy air between them.

Before she can come up with a suitable response, Gretchen Prewett shoulders between them to step into the classroom, breaking their contact and bumping into Lily a harder than strictly necessary. And that’s when Lily remembers — James and Gretchen. Gretchen and James. Gretchen with her curly blonde hair, her brown eyes, and her kindness, her infallible goodness, ever since kindergarten when she offered Lily a turn on the swings — Gretchen ensconced in James’s embrace after the soccer game, Gretchen whispering in his ear at the Halloween party, Gretchen with her arms around his waist at that one house party at the start of the year….

“Lily?” James repeats, this time with more concern. “You okay?”

She blinks again, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Um, yeah.”

“Thought I lost you for a second there,” he says. “Shall we?”

He steps through the classroom door, and all Lily can do is follow.

***

That night, Lily sits on her bed, calculus notes spread around her, and texts the group chat.

i don’t think i can do this movie night thing on Friday

She exhales, the lie settling in her brain. She adds: something came up

Marlene responds almost immediately.

Marlene: was that something the realization that ur so desperately attracted to james samuel potter, you can’t be in the same room without wanting a repeat performance of halloween night?

Dorcas: i don’t think james’s middle name is samuel

Marlene: semantics

Dorcas: you don’t have to go lily

Marlene: oh yes you do

Lily: his middle name is Fleamont after his dad

Marlene: …

Marlene: why would you ever know that if you didn’t want to submit to the sexual tension that seems to follow you both EVERYWHERE

Lily: i’m a normal person who pays attention to things, that’s how i know his middle name!!!

Lily: and we do NOT have sexual tension

Marlene: pish

Marlene: i saw the way you were looking at him in the parking lot today

Marlene: you were feasting ur eyes

Alice: i wasn’t there but i believe marlene

Marlene: it’s okay tho because he was checking you out too

Lily’s blushing uncontrollably now. She’s always loved Marlene’s relentless determination, her stubbornness; however, it’s almost never been turned on her. What makes her friend’s insistence all the more infuriating is the fact that she’s right. Lily is plagued by flashbacks to Halloween night whenever she’s close to James. She can’t help, really, but admire how smooth his jawline is, or the shape of his collarbone, or the curve of his biceps, which sometimes show, depending on what shirt he’s wearing —

Even his once-annoying habit of constantly messing with his hair has grown on her, if only because she knows what it feels like to run her fingers through it, and wants desperately to repeat the experience.

Lily: okay even if i were a smidgen attracted to him it doesn’t matter because i completely forgot that he had a thing with gretchen

Alice: omg gretchen

Marlene: i thought they were just hooking up???

Lily: idk but she was really aggressive to me today right after i spoke to him

Marlene: huh i didn’t think she had it in her

Alice: go gretchen honestly

Alice: it’s about time she developed some backbone

Dorcas: yeah not with lily tho???

Lily: i don’t want to be a homewrecker

Marlene: you are literally so dramatic

Marlene: just ask James where he’s at with Gretchen

Marlene: on Friday.

Marlene: when you’ll be at the movie night, because you’re coming with us, because i’m picking you up at seven

Marlene: :)

***

At 7:05 on Friday night, Marlene pulls into Lily’s driveway.

“Surprisingly punctual,” Lily comments as she slides into the passenger’s seat, the familiar hum of the engine calming her nerves slightly. There’s a bitter chill to the air, to be expected in early December, and she wraps her coat around herself more tightly.

Marlene shrugs. “I do what I can.”

Then she floors it. All too soon, Lily finds herself standing in front of James’s door, hand hovering over the doorbell. “Is this really —”

Marlene rolls her eyes and jams her finger against the bell. “Yes. It’s really necessary. Talk to him and then ride off into the sunset together.”

Just then, the door swings open, and there he is: hair wet from a post-game shower, wearing a shirt that brings out the green in his eyes — eyes that flick up and down, taking her in, so quickly she almost could’ve missed it.

“Lily, you look great,” he says, then clears his throat. “Um, we’re downstairs. Movie’s about to start.” For the first time, he seems to notice the girl standing beside her. “Hi, Marlene.”

Marlene whistles lowly as they head downstairs, and Lily prods her with her elbow, cognizant of the fact that her cheeks are turning more and more red. She tries to take her mind off of James by focusing on her surroundings; she hasn’t been in his house since elementary school, when it was common procedure to invite the whole class to every birthday party. It’s nice — that’s no surprise, considering his family’s considerable wealth — and looks fairly lived in. As she and Marlene step into the basement, fully finished with a giant television and an assortment of comfy chairs and couches, Lily begins to regain her composure.

Sirius and Remus are cuddled up on one end of the couch, with Alice and Dorcas sitting on the floor in front of them, flipping back and forth between Jaws and Love, Actually. Marlene immediately walks over to Remus, and Lily trails behind, dismayed to hear that the two have already begun talking about a class that she doesn’t share. She turns towards Alice and Dorcas, but is stopped by the prickle at the edge of her vision — some subconscious mechanism alerting her to the fact that she’s being watched. Sure enough, Sirius Black is staring at her, eyebrows raised. The almost challenging expression is new to Lily; the Sirius she’s always known has been laid back, easygoing.

That is, before she accused him of trying to take advantage of her best friend on Halloween night. She cringes internally at the memory; she won’t apologize for worrying about her friend, but perhaps she had jumped to conclusions a bit too quickly. She clears her throat and veers towards him, steeling herself.

“Lily.” Sirius inclines his head ever so slightly, watching as she perches awkwardly on the couch’s arm.

“Sirius. I, um, probably should apologize for Halloween night.”

“What part?” he says, and something’s wrong, here, she thinks. “The part when you accused me of taking advantage of Marlene, or the part when you stuck your tongue down my best friend’s throat, then abandoned him?”

She’s so floored she almost falls off the couch. He’s speaking quietly, tone monotone, and if she hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought he was bored by the whole thing. But his gaze hasn’t moved from her face, and she realizes for the first time that Sirius Black, while angry, is worthy of fear.

“I — well — I’m sorry for assuming your intentions with Marlene. I didn’t know you —” she looks towards Remus, still chatting away obliviously with her friend “— I didn’t know you were in a relationship, and I overreacted. As for the James stuff, I — I really don’t know what to say. I thought he just wanted to be friends.”

“Yes, when Remus kissed me for the first time, my first thought was, ‘Oh, I bet he just wants to be friends,’” Sirius mutters acridly, but his expression has softened slightly, and Lily allows herself to relax, just a little bit. “Jesus Christ. This is worse than I thought.” “What is worse?” Lily asks, feeling strangely defensive. “James and I —”

“James has had a crush on you since seventh grade, Lily,” Sirius all but hisses. “It’s so incredibly obvious, I never even considered you didn’t know. I thought you were —”

“Some manipulative bitch stringing him along?” Lily finishes, arching an eyebrow at him, hoping she can disguise the shock reverberating through her. Since seventh grade.

“You’re kind of scary, Lily Evans,” Sirius says drily. “And sharp. Emotionally aware or some shit. It’s intimidating. The poor fool was just happy to have time with you, even if you thought that him fucking kissing you was an expression of platonic friendship — ”

“That’s not — I’m not — I — he was with Gretchen!”

Sirius scoffs. “I can’t explain all his choices. But they were never together, never officially. Gretchen was hooking up with Michael Goldstein at the same time. She can get kind of territorial. I told him not to get mixed up in it, but he was so hung up on — well.” He pauses. “I’ve said too much.” His tone is not apologetic or regretful in the slightest; in fact, Lily can see the beginnings of a smirk on his face. She doesn’t focus on it for too long, though; there’s too much to process. For the first time, the possibility of James — of really being with him, of holding his hand, of FaceTiming with him late into the night, of walking down the hallways together — cements in her head. Her head swims, imagining the potential of it all. “Where’s James?”

“Getting drinks upstairs,” Sirius says, eying her with suspicion. “Why?” “I think he and I need to have a talk.”

***

Lily finds James in the kitchen on the main floor, trying and failing to carry seven beer cans at the same time. When he sees her, they come crashing to the floor, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s helping him pick them up, avoiding eye contact.

“What are you doing up here? Is something wrong?” James asks once the cans have been dealt with.

She leans against the kitchen island, wiping her palms on the sides of her jeans. His gaze follows the motion before he blinks and makes eye contact again, clearing his throat. Waiting for her to speak.

So she does: “Nothing’s wrong. I just — I wanted to ask you about someone.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Who? Sorry. Whom.”

Lily can’t help but roll her eyes, his impeccable grammar relaxing her nerves. “Whom? Really, James?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, but there’s no real heat to it. “Only the best for my yearbook editor.” He’s leaning against the wall opposite her, hands in his pockets. When he looks back at her, the air feels like honey: thick and slow-moving, sweet. She’s never had someone look at her like that before. Her heart speeds up. Get back on track, Lily.

“Right. Uh, anyway. I was thinking about Halloween —”

There it is, again. That look. Followed by a brief glance at her mouth — he’s quick, but she’s attuned to his every movement, now — before his eyes flick back up to her face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I realized that I completely forgot about Gretchen.”

James breaks eye contact. “What about her?”

One deep breath, then two. “Well. Were you seeing her? Was I — helping you cheat, or —”

“God, no,” he says. “Lily, I would never — we weren’t exclusive, or together, and she was mostly using me to make Michael Goldstein jealous, anyway.”

“Oh.”

He clears his throat again, runs a hand through his hair. It’s dry, now, and looks impossibly soft. Lily’s fingers clench automatically.

“Well,” she says, heart pounding. She senses she’s very close to something, something big; it’s like she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, crystal-clear water below, and she’s terrified of how deep she might fall. No matter that jumping off that cliff is what she’s been wanting to do for months now. No matter that jumping off that cliff might simply mean closing the two feet of separation between her and the boy she so desperately wants. “See you downstairs, then.”

***

Lily bolts.

There’s no other word for it; she walks out of the kitchen as fast as she can, pretending not to hear James calling her name. She knows she’s a coward. She knows that if she’d crossed that final threshold, if she’d turned back around, if she’d stayed, her life might look very different. But she can’t do it.

The fact of the matter is, Lily Evans has been Lily Evans, undesirable, longer than she has been Lily Evans, as-crushed-on-by-James-Potter-since-the-fucking-seventh-grade. She needs to let the notion sink under her skin. She’s out of first moves; she’s out of soul-searing confidence. She asked about Gretchen. It was a baby step. Now she can go downstairs and watch the fucking movie, and bear the brunt of Marlene’s disappointment, and fall asleep fantasizing about James’s lips and hands and body instead of experiencing the real thing. It’s fine. It’s what she’s used to doing, and so far, she’s done perfectly well.

It’s not that she doesn’t like James; no, the opposite holds true. She very much likes James, to an extent that is unfamiliar and sticky and all too attainable. James Potter — the disco ball that’s sharp around the edges, except lately it seems as if they’ve both been childproofing the jagged parts, making them soft and round and welcoming. She doesn’t know how this works, how to navigate a minefield that’s been disarmed and paved over.

Besides, she thinks as she begins to walk down the stairs to the basement, how is she supposed to hold up to the idealized version of herself that must have been growing, festering, in James’s head for the past five years? Lily, who’s only kissed three people, and never done more; Lily, who doesn’t know how to be in a relationship, especially one with one of the school’s most visible students; Lily, who, despite all her newfound confidence, still can’t wrap her head around the idea that James would like her. Would want her. Would —

“Lily?”

Instinctively, her head snaps towards the voice’s source. It’s James, of course it is. He stands at the top of the stairs, the soft glow of the overhead light making him look practically angelic. She nods at him.

“Can I join you?”

“Yes.”

He walks until he’s standing on a step two feet away from her. The trek down to the basement involves two flights of stairs, with a landing in between; on the first staircase, therefore, she and James are hidden from the basement’s occupants, from outside influence, from the world.

“What is it?” she asks, going for unbothered and confident and failing miserably. She can’t meet his eyes.

“I was just wondering — now that we’ve, um, cleared up the Gretchen thing — well, the thing is,” he says, running a hand through his hair and smiling apologetically, “I’m, um, rambling. Sorry. Um, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve really enjoyed being your friend over the past few months. But — and it’s only fair you should know — I’ve really, really liked you for the past few years. God, that makes me sound creepy. It’s not that, I swear. I just — you’re so — so poised and kind and sharp. I always, well, I always thought you were too mature for me, too smart. You — you really don’t suffer fools, Lily, and I am one, but, well, in spite of that — in spite of everything — will you go out with me?”

She looks up at him, eyes wide, heart beating wildly. “You are a fool, James,” she whispers, words almost catching in her throat, because there it is. He’s just given the final confirmation, the truth: that he, James Potter, likes her. Wants her. Wants to be with her. She can’t stop — fuck, she keeps remembering Halloween. His hands on her skin. “I — you’re a complete fool, and you’re also ridiculously charming and intelligent and social in a way I can’t fathom, and I respect you. I really do.”

James’s face falls. “Right. Well, I’m glad you respect me, and I’ll just — I’ll just go now, I guess —”

“I don’t want you to go,” she bursts out. This conversation is getting out of her control (when had it ever been in her control?), the words slipping away from her. You can’t do first moves, grand proclamations, the voice in her head whispers snidely, but she ignores it. “I want you to stay. I respect you, and I like you, and I want to be with you. See?”

It’s his turn to look gobsmacked. “Oh. As friends, or —”

She pounces on him. There’s no other word for it, not really; she reaches the staircase step below his, and then she guides his mouth down to hers, hands around the back of his neck, back arching under his. If she stands on her tiptoes she can make the angle better, and… there. Something like a sigh falls from James’s mouth. His hands wind through her hair, glasses bumping slightly against her forehead. It’s not a perfect kiss. But it does accomplish the most important thing, for James Potter, jagged around the edges, and Lily Evans, sharp to the touch, have changed.

Both are now soft, malleable, in each others’ arms.

[brownandblackpearls]

📜 🖋 𝒞ourting with 𝒟r. 𝒟evorak (Julian x BlackReader) Pt.1

PART 1 SUMMARY:

You are a reputable, young beauty of means in Vesuvia, enjoying the winter courting season. An odd letter from an odd doctor finds its way to your door. You decide to respond.

─── Julian x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── regency/historical/fantasy, courtship rituals, wealthy! MC, love letters, drama, handsome redheads

☾ next.

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

“Letters for you, Miss!” The scullery maid calls through the door.

You pause your writing, hesitating over your final line before turning to answer the call.

“Come in!”

The maid strides in with your daily mail on a silver platter. As expected, there is a heap of them from various suiters, all interested in seeking your hand. 

Some young, some old, some men, some women, some wealthy, and some positively blue-blooded, they are all voracious. Usually, your interest tends to wane after weeks and weeks of these greetings each season. The feeling especially set in after getting the particular suspicion that the lords, duchesses and dukes reaching out to you were having their own maids and butlers pen these letters, a copy of an inquiry to every potential young beauty in the region.

Consequently, many of the letters did not seem to genuine, remaining vague and distanced. Polite. 

Today, however, you find your lessons to be going slow. You decide to take a break and browse through the inquiries.

“Read through them for me, Delilah?” You call out the request as you lower your pen and clean your fingers in a warm, sudsy bowl of water on your desk. Drying your hands, you apply a spot of scented lotion on your fingers before smoothing it in and sliding your delicate gloves back on.

Delilah clears her throat, interested in the letters herself. 

You had no doubt the contents of the proposals would make waves throughout the household by sunset, but all of your staff were well-meaning. Just bored during these slow winter months. Honestly, you didn’t blame them for indulging in your courting dramas.

“Well,” Delilah begins, “Here is a letter from a Clarence Dunford Winthrop, hailing from Bremens County! He greets you and wishes you a very warm winter. ‘I am most pleased to write to you, Miss ------. I possess a healthy 34 years in me, and I seek the opportunity to meet and possibly enter the idea of courtship with you. Are the tales true that you are quite fine and b-buxom…? Goodness, how forward!”

You bite back a chuckle, allowing Delilah her scandalized looks and comments. After she’s thoroughly read Winthrop’s letter, she moves on to the next.

“This one,” she exclaims, “is from a young, Fiorentina Agosti, hailing from the Suthlands. She greets you amicably and wishes you a cozy winter. ‘Dear Miss ------, I am most delighted to write to you. I am a young woman of etiquette and good breeding. I am 23 years old, and yet for one so young, I am more certain of my passions and ambition than most grown adults. I seek the window of opportunity to introduce myself and my estate to you, as I am seeking to build my relationships with the nearby families of standing. I favor women only, as I’ll need a good, feminine eye to steer my estate towards a glorious future…what a boastful girl! I hear she is very attractive, though…”

Delilah goes on, examining letter after letter, reading aloud excitedly. Finally, she lands on a slightly ragged one, with a wax seal bearing no crest. Only a simple plant pattern with dried flowers and ferns trapped to the note.

“My,” Delilah wonders, flipping the envelope, “what a...humble introduction. Let’s hope that the contents are more splendid than the package they came in!”

Delilah adjusts the paper before her and begins.

“This one,” she explains, “is from a young…doctor…in the capital, near the palace. Oh, I think I recall this one? He is of great renown, but markedly odd. Hmm…He greets you fondly and asks if…if you have ‘seasonal allergies’...? He is more than happy to forward any herbs or teas that can help soothe inflammation…as a ‘show of good faith and possible friendship’—yes, very odd...He would like to know if you would be interested in accompanying him as an honored guest to his annual medical tools gala. There will be anatomical displays as well as guest surgeon speakers. Afterwards, he would like to take you to attend the opening night of a Vesuvian theatre drama, and then dinner. I—that sounds more exhausting than eventful. Goodness….“

Despite Delilah’s somewhat opinionated concerns, your interest perks at the oddness of the inquiry and the oddness of the planned date. You’re not so sure a medical gala will be of interest to you, as you’ve never attended one before, but you would like to try.  

“Delilah, please. No more commentary. What does the rest say...?”

Delilah harrumphs, moving on. “Well, he seems certain that you will find the engagement eventful and enlightening on his personage and he hopes to show you how good of a ‘provider he can be for a woman of your means’. He has ‘no grand heritage or acreages’, but he does have one of the ‘best practices in Vesuvia’ sporting several underling surgeons and plenty of business. New blood, instead of blue blood from the looks of it, if you ask me.”

You pause, thinking it over. 

The letter all sounded personally tailored and individualized for your reception, and clearly not something that was drafted up in the monotonous manner of house staff doing as ordered. 

The doctor seems very keen in meeting you... 

...You can’t help but feel the same.

“What is his name?”

Delilah levels you an uncertain look, noticing your choice, before sharing.

“The suitor signed off as a Dr. Julian Devorak.”

“Devorak,” you try out, rolling the name around in your mouth. 

It feels good.

“Thank you Delilah. You may place the letters in my box, save for the doctor’s. Please bring his to me, as well as my pen and good ink. I’ll also need the courting stationery.”

Delilah sours slightly before perking back up and doing as ordered quickly. She clearly does not approve of the choice but remembers her place, and knows that you are not one to be bossed. 

You wait until she delivers the stationery and retreats from your room before turning to your pen and paper, glancing at the letter from the doctor.

You perfume the parchment slightly, and use a fine, shimmering ink to dot the thick, French paper. You being to write, peering at your refined, swirling letters.

“Dear Sir…I take the first opportunity to acknowledge the flattering letter with which you have favored me…your discernment is of my deep interest, as well as your detailed plans for our hopeful outing. I consent to the date and time, and I look forward to your academic gala, as well as the theater and subsequent dinner. I implore that you arrive to chaperone me long before the sun is high in the sky, as we may need much time together that I am wont to spend with you. I will admit, I find you very curious and am interested to learn more of you. Warm Regards, ------.”

You finalize the paper with a neat calligraphy of your signature, before cleanly folding and pressing the letter. You choose a lovely envelope and seal it with wax before stamping and sending it off with Delilah to be mailed. 

“Hmm. Odd man,” you murmur to yourself, before moving on to send responses to the other requests of interest. 

The days pass by, eventful.

You go on several dates, some of note and some not so much. 

A few remain in your mind of potential. There was a beautiful countess seeking companionship after a split from her count…Nadia. Buxom and svelte, she was also the epitome of regality, and a brown-skinned beauty like yourself. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. 

There was also Asra, a mischievous but enchanting merchant king. You suspected a penchant for the occult on his end, but his beautiful face was too good of a distraction to focus on what may hide behind it. 

Then there was Muriel, a mysterious man with one of the largest claims of land in Vesuvia. He was fidgety and reserved, but you sensed a deep soul in him. 

Portia, the jeweler of the aristocracy, and her passionate stares paired with her down-to-earth jokes were enough to make you lower your guards and raise your spirits. 

Lastly,  Lucio. Oddly enough, he turned out to be the count that split with Nadia. You found his countenance alarming at first, only to later find a subtle charm in his passion for life, luxury and you.

All of them were far more interesting than the duds you’d went on dates with the past few weeks. 

Valdemar, the ambassador, had spilled soup all over your dress during a brunch while he spoke wildly about some conquest of his past. Then there’d been Volta, an odd little thing that insisted on trying all these unappealing, exotic dishes. There’d been Vlastomil, a weevil of a person who seemed more eager to gossip cruelly than to learn of you. And lastly...most memorably...there was Valdemar…you weren’t too sure what Valdemar did, but you were certain whatever it was, you wanted absolutely no part in it.

Weary from all the courting, you put your best face forward and hoped this day ended up being a delight instead of another disaster.

Foregoing flat-ironing, blowouts, presses, braids and twists this time, you decide to arrange for your servants to outfit you in lovely, long locs for the evening. You line them with fine silver trinkets, baubles, and rings before arranging your makeup to perfection and dressing in your finest, warm regards from the tailor.

Today was the day with the doctor, and you wanted to see exactly what kind of man he was. 

You donned a beautiful gown beneath your long, furred coat and lined your neck with a shining collar of diamonds. The winter snow would reflect stunningly off of them, as well as you.

Perfumed, plucked, and preened, you stand, assessing yourself in the mirror.

Vesuvia’s treasure.

You laugh, satisfied with the show stopping look, before leaving your room. You almost bump into a servant, rushing in to announce to you that the doctor has arrived with a carriage for you both.

“Let him in,” you say kindly, glancing out the window. Sure enough, a large, black carriage awaits. You lift your chest, square your shoulders, and raise your chin, allowing your lashes to lower and your aura to project.

You descend the stairs of your home into the grand hall, your eyes pinning the man that entered and awaited below, greeted politely by your staff.

‘Oh,’ you realize.

He’s gorgeous.

Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. Tall, tousled, and terribly attractive, Julian Devorak watched you, open-mouthed, as if you are some sort of ethereal being that decided to grace his mortal existence. Descending the marble stairs, you feel him watch every step you take until you finally reach the landing.

You decide to close the distance and break the ice when he makes no move, still in awe of you. No need for those stars in his eyes, you think. You want him dazzled, not anxious or elevating you to something or someone that is inaccessible.

He is here in your home, after all. If you were inaccessible to him, he wouldn’t be.

“Hello Dr. Devorak,” you grace easily, smiling. “I’m ------. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“J-Julian, please, no need for extraneous titles,” he insists in a light stammer. “The pleasure is all mine, I can assure you.”

‘Aaw,’ you think to yourself, looking fondly at him. You’ve heard the line so many times before, but somehow, the words sound so genuine coming off of his tongue. You also like the sound of his voice very much. He sounds like how he looks, you realize.

Julian mistakes your silence for something bad, and rushes to fill it.

“I-I can’t tell you how…how long I’ve anticipated today.”

“Oh?” You ask, tilting your head in wonder. 

Were you the only one he was querying? That wasn’t possible. There had to be others. You respond pleasantly.

“I’m honored...’Julian’. But I’m sure an interesting man such as yourself is entertaining many acquaintances and possess many options.”

Julian blushes, surprising you. He shakes his head, fingers fidgeting at his sides.

“Not exactly,” he offers, leaving it there.

Your brow lifts in wonder. 

“Really...? But I loved your letter. I’ve reread it several times and am not afraid to say so. I find you quite striking.”

If possible, Julian blushes even harder at that, daring to hold your gaze. You see an odd sort of mask arise on him then, a false yet endearing bravado. You don’t call it out and simply watch as he does his best to disguise his rampant shyness.

“Ah...thank you madam! But not nearly so striking as one such as yourself! Why, I remember the feeling of when I first laid eyes on you. It was as if  lightning had struck me.”

Your eyes widen in pleasure, curious. 

“Such flattery! Where did this occur?”

Julian smiles triumphantly, happy to visibly pique your interest.

“The theater! I noticed you in your private box and it was then I decided that I must inquire to learn more about you.”

Your smile broadens, and you can’t help but step closer. Julian feels very comfortable and warm, even with the pomp.

“So that’s how you knew I’d enjoy the theater!” You exclaim. You had wondered about it since his letter first arrived. He could’ve invited you to any event, any activity, and yet he knew the theater was the right choice...

Julian tenses as you near, unsure of where to look. You can’t tell if he wants you closer or farther away. You decide to hold firm and give him time to sort it out for himself.

“I-uh…yes.” He swallows thickly. “Allow me to enlighten you of the day’s activities in the carriage…?”

You nod, realizing that your questioning is holding the both of you up from your date. You step back, cowed.

“Of course! My apologies.”

Julian swiftly holds out a broad, gloved hand for you to take. The gentleman’s escorting hold.

“No need to apologize,” Julian insists, guiding your offered palm gently, “I...I actually should be the one to apologize.” He bites his lip, thinking of some unknown err. 

You glance at him as the two of you step out the front door together, waved off by your staff.

“Whatever for…?”

Julian looks sheepish, rounding you both to the carriage door and opening it for you.

“I....well!”  He pauses, the words sticking in his mouth. “I was...told by a confidant very recently that the medical gala may have some things that are not...er, conducive for a romantic atmosphere. So I must ask...you’re not squeamish of leeches, are you?”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

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