#jeneve

[spooksverse-asks]

Finally got another Pride ship done! Did not mean to take so long on this one, but it's finally here! I have one more ship to do after this one then the series will be done, but I do have a few ships I still want to do that I'll probably do in a sketch dump sometime later.

Anyway, here we have Jenny and Eve! :3 These two have always been an established/end-game ship in Spooksverse, but unlike the other two main ships, they are not currently together in the main timeline. I always saw their relationship as starting sometime after they graduate high school, but they are currently crushing on each other(though neither is super aware of the other's feelings at the moment). Also, since Jenny is demiromantic I put that flag on her side, but both her and Eve are lesbians so that flag is in the middle of them.

I hope you enjoy! 💚🖤

[phthalology]

(Ikora Week Day 6: Favorite Ship [Ikora/Guardian])

Jenev couldn’t get Ikora to stop thinking. She had to accept that, in order to calm Ikora such as she could.

Jenev had made herself beautiful on the couch in Ikora’s office, so that when the Vanguard entered tired and dusty Ikora could sink easily against Jenev’s clean skin.

At last Ikora opened her mind and let Jenev hear the mutterings there, the fears and terrible waiting. Through this sharing, Ikora’s body at last relaxed. Jenev, burdened as she was by the strange Warlock murmur like lips right against the gray matter of her brain, busied herself. She tipped her face to Ikora’s lips. Ikora’s gaze softened on the Awoken light slipping in and out of Jenev’s mouth. Ikora’s eyes mismatched her face, sometimes: a youthful vulnerability there belied her ancient age, her muscled body.

Jenev took Ikora’s hand and stroked. The tiny webs of skin between Ikora’s fingers were dry. Up Ikora’s wrist Jenev traced a vein raised against muscle.

Ikora let Jenev lead, simply falling limp against her in unusual surrender. Jenev toyed with the Vanguard’s hands, tracing the mysterious spirals and circles that were Ikora’s stock in trade. The mental mutterings slowed down, differentiated into vulnerable little phrases: the enemy is too strong. zavala cannot help us. was I ever really chosen by the traveler?

Finally, after too much of that, Jenev eased her lips against Ikora’s. Limp as she was Ikora’s mouth parted for her effortlessly, barely a return kiss but an easy openness. smooth. hot like summer sun. she tastes like honey and egregore.

Better. The lips against Jenev’s brain matter pressed a strange kiss there too.

[milktrician]

happy pride month! you and your sibling are both trans

events on the second page tied to the timeline ive written up

[fictionalred-photos]

Some pics that don't particularly fit in any set

[fictionalred]

met an @kleefkruid in 3D today :))

[synnthamonsugar]

AND/OR Jenev/Ikora + sedentary ty :3

Jenev fanned herself limply, the weak swish of hot, stuffy air barely worth the energy expended. A few feet away rested Ikora Rey, tinkering with some instruments meant to detect paracausal signatures. Warlock stuff, maybe built on Awoken tech, nothing she could hazard a guess at understanding.

Even with its honcho dead and buried the hunter had avoided the Throne World. Too many agents crawling all over it, finding or making trouble . . . and a breed of Lightbearer more quarrelsome and impulse-driven than the Guardians back home. She'd wanted no part of it, until blustery winter weather and the promise of personal — non-Hidden, non-official, off-the-books — work suckered her in. She'd hastily packed a swimsuit in her rucksack, the mental image of sunning herself on warm beaches motivating her through the dreary predawn chill of the Tower, all the way to Ikora's idling jumpship.

She'd gone from the freezer and directly into the fire, like one of her less fortunate instant meals. She bristled at her own hubris.

"If you're that warm, get closer," Ikora said without taking her hands or eyes off the device.

It took Jenev longer than she liked to register her companion's words. "So we can bake?"

Ikora threw a sidelong glance, Jenev's cheeks prickling when warm eyes, crinkled ever so slightly at the corners, met her own. "I'm pooling void energy to cool myself . . . I can pass some onto you. Better yet, show you how to do it yourself."

Jenev was annoyed that Hunter void training had consisted mostly of invisibility and cool-looking knives that caused more problems than they solved, never self-air conditioning. She scooted close enough that it was impossible not to rest on the tails of Ikora's robes. Felt her light react to the Warlock's, cooling her from the the inside out as though she'd just gulped down the most refreshing drink of her life. Ikora remained focused on her work throughout, as though instructing her light had taken no conscious effort. Maybe it hadn't. Jenev sat in quiet awe over the feat.

She sat there with Ikora for a long while, any regrets gone, more invigorated than she'd have been in any cool waters.

[jaarijani]

this was the longest post in existence so apologies for taking away the reblogs 🫢 but thank you for the tag!!!! <3

Ben 32 jaar en trillend op m'n benen

Als het zonlicht is gekomen, dan ben ik allang verdwenen

Ben bezeten, net als een stoel

Ik zie ons zitten als je 'grijpt wat ik bedoel

Ome Robert - Joost Klein

no pressure tags: @the-converse-high-top @lintubintu @katinkulta @teal-skull <3

reblog w the song lyrics in your head NOW. either stuck in yr head or what yr listening to

[podcastgemist]

#253.4 - JACK&JOZEF - Jenever 'stoken'?

Met het vriesvak?

[sapores]

Martini three ways

I have been on a bit of a gin history trip lately, getting interested in Old Tom gins, and (for various reasons) going to the Portobello Road Distillery Ginstitute, where a lecture and a tasting is followed by a blending session where you design your own London dry gin.

So tonight I decided to do a comparative tasting: the same martini recipe, made with a London dry, an Old Tom, and a genever.

Recipe

1 oz gin

½ oz Lillet Blanc

Gin

Ketel One Jenever. Seems to be a fairly mainstream palate designed liquor.

Boatyard Old Tom. From Ireland, a classic Old Tom (pot still, malted base, post rectification sweetened), aged in Pedro Ximenez casks and sweetened with Pedro Ximenez. Deep, complex, probably my favorite gin right now

Ginstitute "Afternoon Tea" London Dry. This is the composition I put together at the Ginstitute. 14 botanicals, with tea (Yorkshire gold and Lapsang Souchong) and Sevilla orange as the emphasized flavors - evoking tea and marmalade.

I mixed the liquors in glasses with a single ice cube, and tasted as the ice melted.

London Dry

Early on, the vermouth rather emphasized the bitter and citrus notes of the gin, making it almost get medicinal notes. Not the best martini I've had.

Once the ice was fully melted, the flavor mellowed and produced that fresh mountain stream clarity and freshness that I associate with really good martini versions. The orange was still there, but not as overwhelming.

Old Tom

Probably my favorite among the three. Early flavors showed the complexity and depth of flavors I knew from the pure gin without the jarring imbalance I saw in the London Dry (which admittedly was designed for intensity of flavor).

Once the ice was fully melted, it displayed that same characteristic clear mountain stream sensation, but fuller, deeper.

Jenever

The Ketel One, much as expected, never really presented a deep and complex flavor profile. I know the brand from good and very clean vodka expressions - this is a similarly clean, thin flavor expression. The juniper is there, as expected, but I cannot call it a particularly complex liquor.

In early expression it was possibly the most drinkable of the three. In combination with Lillet Blanc it was almost as if the Jenever emphasized the vermouth rather than the other way around.

Late, with the ice melted, the same clear and fresh tones, more purely expressed than in the other versions I'd like to claim.

Conclusion

If there's anything I'm taking from this experiment, it's that I'd like to try a really ambitious Jenever at some point. The London Dry was designed for punchy and loud flavors, the Old Tom was a deeply nerdy product from an enthusiastic producer. I am interested in seeing what that kind of enthusiasm might bring to the Jenever side of things.

I'm also more and more enjoying and leaning towards Old Tom rather than London Dry for cocktail making. Probably connected to my overall sweet tooth, but it seems to settle nicely where used.

[fvbeers]

Fijnproever by Frans van Beers Via Flickr: Fijnproever - connoisseur: glas in lood - stained glass in het Jenevermuseum in Schiedam 

[reddirttown]

Language of Flowers: Juniper

In the language of flowers, each day of the year has its flower. Today, October 2, that flower is Juniper, which signifies protection. (Image below from Wikipedia.) Juniper was a symbol of the Canaanites’ fertility goddess Ashera or Astarte in Syria. (Image below from Wikipedia.) In the Bible’s Old Testament, a Juniper with an angelic presence sheltered the prophet Elijah from Queen Jezebel’s…

[ceevee5]

How do people like gin? Even if you mix it with something friendly like cranberry juice, it’s so harsh. Dutch gin/jenever, fine, smoother. I can’t understand Winston Smith at all.

[phthalology]

also let me press X to hug Ikora

[torpublishinggroup]

This advertisement is for Swordcrossed by Freya Marske.

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Mattinesh Jay is the chronically responsible eldest son and dutiful heir striving to keep his family’s business running. Luca Piere is a menace of a con artist desperately trying to escape his past by taking up the blade. When the pair meet, swords clash, and sparks fly. Soon, they’re entangled in a conspiracy that may bring Matti’s house to ruin if they don’t work together.

Want to see if it’s to your liking? We’ve included an excerpt from chapter one below.

Chapter 1 Matti laid his fingers on the polished edge of the bar’s wooden surface and forced himself to stop counting sheep. And yards of twill. And looms in need of repair, and outstanding debts.

Instead, he counted today’s collection of ink smudges, bruise-black on the brown skin of his hands: six. He counted the number of blue dyes that would have been used in the fabric of the bartender’s layered skirt: four, possibly five if the palest shade was true dimflower and not just the result of fading.

The tense throb of pain like a fist clenched in his hair eased, grudgingly, to a quiet ache. Bearable. Normal.

It was busy in the drinking house, the post-dinner hour that usually found Matti heading back to his study to finish the paperwork that a member of his family had tugged him away from in order to eat. Matti counted the number of flavoured jenever bottles on the shelf behind the bar—fifteen—in the time it took Audry to finish serving her current customer and sweep her sky-coloured skirts to stand in front of Matti. “And here’s a face we haven’t seen in a while! Something tells me you’re here for a celebration, Mr. Jay.”

Matti hoped the smile he’d pulled onto his face wasn’t the wrong size, or the wrong shade of abashed. “News travels fast.”

“Mattinesh Jay and Sofia Cooper. A match surprising exactly no one.”

Matti kept the smile going. There was a silence in which Audry politely didn’t say, Pity she’s in love with someone else, and so Matti didn’t have to say, Yes, isn’t it?Audry said, “Wait here a moment. I’ve got something in the back that I think will do nicely.”

Matti cast a glance over the room as Audry disappeared. His cousin Roland made an extravagant sighing motion and pretended to check his watch when Matti’s eyes landed on their table. A burst of laughter came from a dark-skinned woman nearby; she was wearing a dress that rode high at the knee to reveal a fall of lace like frothing water, a northern style of garment that Matti’s own northerner mother seldom wore these days.

At the closest table the Mason Guildmaster, Lysbette Martens, was deep in conversation with a senior member of the Guild of Engineers. Martens met Matti’s gaze with her own and nodded brief acknowledgement. He was sure she was weighing his presence as consciously as he was weighing hers. This was a place to be seen, after all.

“Here you are. Red wine for young lovers.”

Matti turned around again. Audry named the price for the bottle as she uncorked it and set it on the bar. Matti paid her, ignoring the lurch like a fishhook in his stomach at the amount on the credit notes he was so casually handing over. Mattinesh Jay, firstborn of his distinguished House, had no reason not to indulge in one of the finest bottles of wine that money could buy.

No reason that anyone here would know about, anyway.

Matti took the bottle in one hand and hooked three glasses with the other. Making his way over to the table, his mind circled back to dwell on the wrong sort of numbers. The money in Matti’s purse was painstakingly calculated: enough for the first round of engagement drinks, and enough for him to hire a top-of-the-range duellist who would step forward in the awkwardly likely event of someone challenging for Sofia’s hand at the wedding itself.

Matti’s skin prickled cold at the very thought of what might happen if Adrean Vane challenged against Matti’s marriage to Sofia and won. His family’s last hope would be gone. Matti would have failed them in this, the most useful thing he could do for them.

He was so caught up in this uneasy imagining as he wove through the room that he collided, hard, with another person’s shoulder. Matti was both tall and broad, not easily unbalanced; the unfortunate other member of the collision made a grab for Matti’s coat, couldn’t get a good grip, and tripped to the ground with a caught-back “Fu—”

Matti tried to step backwards. They were crammed into a small space between tables and there were people moving around them. His first panicked instinct had been to keep the wine bottle upright and the glasses safe, so he didn’t have a hand free to steady himself on a chair.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, except that he ended up wobbling and stepping forward instead, and he felt his boot come down on something that was not the floorboards. A small, pathetic, grinding mechanical sound crawled up Matti’s nerves, heel to head, and reached his ears even amidst the noise of the busy room.

“Sorry!” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Was that—Oh, Huna’s teeth.”

The man on the floor jerked his head up, staring at Matti, and Matti stared back.

For a moment all that Matti could see was the wide, straight line of the man’s mouth, set beneath an equally straight nose, and the frame that set off the whole: the dark, luminous copper-red hair that seemed to be trying to grow in about ten different directions.

The man’s tongue darted out in a nervous mannerism, wetting his lower lip. Something in Matti’s own mouth tried to happen in a yearning echo.

“Would you please lift,” the man said precisely, “your godsdamned foot?” Heat flooded Matti’s face. He snatched his foot backwards with enough force that his heel collided with a chair leg.

The redheaded man stood, his fingers closed convulsively tight around a small velvet bag. His brown coat was shabby and made of a coarsely woven fabric, though his shirt was good and his trousers had probably been equally so before they’d been overwashed into a patchy shine.

“Fuck fuck shitting—fuck,” the man said in tones of despair, with a lilt to his accent that placed him at least one city-state farther east: Cienne, or possibly Sanoy. He shook the contents of the bag into his palm and ventured into new realms of inappropriate language as he did so.

Enough people had witnessed their collision, or had their heads turned by the stream of expletives, that there were a fair few necks craning to see what was in the man’s hand. Matti, at whom the shaking fingers of this hand were pointed most directly, couldn’t help seeing for himself the ragged, glinting pile of cogs and jewels and glass. Only the intact cover—monogrammed in a swirling, engraved H—spoke of this pile’s previous existence as a pocket watch. A very expensive pocket watch, by the look of it.

The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “Guildmaster Havelot is going to use my arm bones as a fucking lathe. He only had it made to order, and he only trusted me to pick it up, didn’t he? Two hundred gold. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Matti said again. He recognised the name: Havelot was the Woodworker Guildmaster in Cienne. “Truly. I can—” He stopped. The abrupt lack of his words created a silence that seemed to suck noise into itself, as conversations died to murmurs and the onlookers sensed something interesting.

The man looked straight at Matti with a stubborn lift of his chin. His brows, the same absurd colour as the rest of his hair, had sprung up into the beginnings of hope; as Matti’s silence grew longer, they lowered again. And then lowered farther. He swept a look down and then slowly up Matti’s own outfit, and now pride warred with scorn in the way those maddening lips pressed together.

Matti felt sick. His own coat was made of the finest wool, a midnight blue cut perfectly to his figure, and the rest of his clothes were of the same quality. He was holding a bottle of extremely good wine. Anybody looking at him would make immediate assumptions about the amount of ready money that Matti might have, and the ease with which he would be able to reimburse a poor clerk, if he’d just ruined a pricey piece of artificer’s skill that the man’s employer had trusted him to travel all the way to Glassport to collect.

Of course they would make these assumptions. That was the point.

Matti swallowed and felt the burning heaviness of his purse redouble. He’d be left with enough to a hire a duellist, yes, but not one of the highest skill. It wouldn’t buy himself and his family the absolute security they needed.

His friends were looking at him. It seemed like every pair of eyes in the drinking house was looking, and in another moment the murmurs of curiosity would turn to murmurs of disapprobation. I thought Matti Jay had more honour than that, they would say. What’s two hundred gold to someone like him?

Besides, the plain fact of the matter was that Matti had broken the watch. And he couldn’t pretend that he and this man with his proud mouth and poor coat, patched at one elbow, were on an equal footing. Even if he were left without a bronze, Matti would still have influence, connections, the weight of his family’s name. That was still worth something. For now.

So that was that.

“I—I really am sorry.” Matti set the wine and glasses down on the corner of the nearest table and pulled his purse from inside his coat. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, on a pair of eyes that were either grey or brown—impossible to tell from this angle—and urgently willed them not to look away. To a degree that seemed irrational, he wanted to banish the judgemental expression from the man’s face. “Of course I’ll cover the cost. Two hundred gold. Who did the work?”

The man glanced down at the metal scraps in his hand, as though the answer might be hidden in the pile. “Speck,” he said at last. “Frans Speck, in Amber Lane.”

“He’s a fair man. Tell him what happened and he’ll rush through the repair job,” Matti said. He held out the century notes.

The man tipped the wreckage of the watch back into the bag and closed his hand around the money, slow and wary. His fingertips had rough patches that scraped against Matti’s own, sending a tingle up Matti’s arm.

“I appreciate it,” the man said. He looked less cold now, though still nowhere near warm. “You’ve saved my life. Really.”

Matti forced himself to smile. Forced himself to say, “It’s nothing,” as though it really were nothing.

The man nodded awkwardly at Matti and tucked both money and bag into a pocket. Then he turned and was gone, headed for the door.

Matti somehow made his way to his table and sat down. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, and he wanted to shout at his own blood to be quiet and let him think. He needed to be alone in his study. He needed to contemplate his options, and make lists, and pore over the accounts for the thousandth time, in case they transmuted themselves into a picture of prosperity instead of the ugly, desperate reality that nobody outside of Matti’s immediate family knew about.

“Two hundred gold,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Two hundred.”

“We saw. Hard luck,” his cousin Roland said, making a face.

Perhaps it was stretching the term to call Roland and Wynn his friends, but they were the closest thing Matti had to members of that category, and the only people he’d been able to think of to form his wedding party. At least the three of them never found it too hard to pick up their acquaintanceship again, even if it had been months since their last conversation.

Wynn turned the bottle of wine to inspect the yellow butterfly on the label. “How appropriate that we’re drinking wine from your betrothed’s own winery.”

“Audry’s idea of a joke, I think,” Matti said. The word betrothed had landed in his ears like a piece of music played in an unfamiliar key; his mind was still turning it over, trying to decide how it felt about the melody. His hand was shaking as he poured the first glass, sending the stream of dark wine shivering and slipping. He’d steadied it by the time he poured the second.

“Huna smile,” he said, opening the toasts by lifting his own glass. “Thanks for agreeing to stand up with me, you two.”

“Drown your sorrows in this one, and by the time we hit the next bottle you’ll remember that you’re here to celebrate. And that once you’re married to Sofia Cooper,” Roland went on, lowering his voice sympathetically, “Jay House will be rolling in enough money to replace a hundred watches.”

Except that Matti had to get himself successfully married in the first place. And he’d just lost his best guarantee of doing so.

He let the old, gorgeous wine flood down his throat until a good third of his glass had vanished. He felt lightheaded; it had to be panic, because the wine couldn’t be working that fast. Panic and a sense of becoming unmoored. And the image of the man’s face, pale and sharply beautiful, gazing up from where he was kneeling at Matti’s feet.

“A fair effort,” Wynn said, when Matti put the glass down. “But I’ll show you children of Huna how it’s done.” He raised his own glass. “Agar fill your plates and cups.”

Matti smiled and drank again, accepting the toast. Maybe the wine was working after all. He could still feel his panic, the wound-up watch of his worry, but he shoved it away into a recess of his mind: its own small, dark velvet bag. It would be safe enough there. It would last until tomorrow. Matti’s ability to worry was shatterproof.

For now, he was going to drink.

[yandereunsolved]

࣪𖤐 ⁞ Yandere Dutch (RDR2) ⁞ ࣪𖤐

If peace was a commodity, then you'd be a poor man. Forced to be an object of desire for a man you can never escape. Like a panther, he prowls around camp for you, always feeling the need to make a flirtatious comment or assault you with his hungry looks. You are unable to defend yourself from the judgments of the others, especially Molly, as if you somehow seduced the mighty Dutch van der Linde within a few weeks time.

The beast stalks up to you once again. He leaves enough space to be considered polite—platonic. Yet the yearning in those sinful brown eyes of his is clear as a sky without clouds. Nearly all the other gang members have laid for the night, yet he still exercises caution. These illusions of his—his intricate web of lies. You'd do damn near anything, fuck Colm if you had to, just to unstick yourself from them.

"I don't trust you," you murmur, too worn down by the day's work to be entirely intimidated by his presence.

"Hmm. Why is that, my dear?" His tone, strong and smooth, like jenever. Knowing as well, always knowing. As if he can read you like one of his favorite pieces of literature.

"Honeyed words off a silver tongue are more often poison than not."

A genuine chuckle from him. It sounds like a hyena's howl.

"Sounds like we fancy the same writers," a purr in the back of his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he enunciates it.

"And it's clear you chose to be the snake, instead of being the one avoiding its bite."

"Does that make you the apple? If it does—then call me Eve. I'll make sure I get to take the first bite out of you." The last words are mere whispers settling in your ears. An intimate promise shared under the privacy of the stars.

"In your dreams," you spit back.

"Not quite," haughty, so sure. "It's all laid out in my plans."

"Your fuckin' 'plans', eh?" You respond with irritation. Your heart pounding, but not quite out of fear.

Faux hurt in his body language, as if you stabbed him in the back.

"What happened to that sweet tongue of yours?"

A single step forward into your space. It's calculated. The hair on your arms stands at attention, goosebumps line your figure. You recoil like a foreign animal has invaded your territory. Your sleepiness replaced with vigilance.

You try to counter his zeal.

"It dissolved in your acidic lies."

Hiss. An odd stinging sensation envelops part of your jaw. One of his hands constricting your skin, tilting your head to meet his eyes in an unceasing stare. His rings burning an unforgettable memory into the grooves of your skin.

"Call me that again. Please, I insist."

You hear the familiar, haunting sound of a trigger pulling back before you realize there's a Schofield revolver against the temple of your head.

You let out an undignified whimper.

There's insanity in his eyes. Outrage.

As much as you have heard of this side of him, you never wanted to be the one to witness it.

"It wasn't any 'lies' of mine that soured your attitude. It's your small mind. You simply can't comprehend what I have planned for us."

A heartbeat, then two, he releases you and steps away. He holsters his revolver with seemingly natural ease.

"Distrust is a dangerous thing. Just remember, I'm the one who saved your life. It'd be unfortunate if I had to be the one to take it." His tone is the same one he uses to string his webs—to threaten his enemies and win over allies.

He doesn't meet your eyes with his words, already turned around, heading back to his tent.

You don't sleep that night. Your body tense, ready for an invisible happening. But your encounter with Dutch wasn't the only reason for your lack of sleep. It was partially the fault of Molly's raucous moans. Courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw, placing your tent next to Dutch's.

You can only hope the morrow is easier, but knowing Dutch and these displays of his tonight, you'll be met with a cocky Molly and an insufferable leader.

[enoughyi]

#34: Counting Days - 5

Ship: Imelda x Julia x Poppy

Rating: M

Three days before Julia's birthday.

Imelda struggled to remember an event, a night, any thing that could be special enough. Twenty seven years placed quite a high bar for the gift expectation, but what could Julia potentially want or mark as a special kept eluding Imelda.

Two days before birthday.

Julia didn't like beast-gifting unless a graphorn would flood a beach with small barnacles with round golden horns. She wouldn't accept fabrics unless Imelda was ready to spend everything she could on Julia's favourite italians half of whom were aware of Imelda's family remaining business; not a problem at all, except Julia always insisted on keeping any connections as far from their life, the private bedroom life, as was possible. Any things as in, material goods, were only as good as they could give—even magical ones.

Last year Imelda gifted her a free broom riding season in Kent. They rode in Dorset this year. That could be arranged, and Imelda did—to have an emergency back-up although Julia wouldn't think it's merely enough.

Each year rose thr bar.

Each year Imelda would reach it.

Each year Poppy managed to seemingly outrun her from the start line in a second.

Imelda would've loved to understand, how.

One day before birthday.

Tongue sat deep within Julia's clenching pussy while she moaned and shifted her back as Poppy was kissing her relentlessly and played with her upper body.

Could she want a set of new ropes? A spellbook of binding spells, any pleasure spells, or maybe a collection of snarky and salacious articles about unluckky wizards and witches burnt to charcoal in their bedrooms after an attempt to play with fire or ice? Julia was morbidly curious and she did enjoy being flatted on the bed only to be helpless and immobilised as her desire would be taken care of—but not on the pace she'd liked or preferred.

Yet, when Imelda did gift her a book like this, it was opened and read months after Julia's twenty fourth birthday.

Maybe she didn't like her wicked fantasies as much as she let out.

Poppy brushed her clit with a thumb. Its slick was stuck to Imelda's nose. Poppy couldn't remove it without smearing it around. She apologised and continued her little tease.

Julia was far from being close. Aroused, engorged and besoften, deliciously wet and warm, but only enjoying her tied-up debauchery. She knew her struggles were a delight to feel and see. Anyway.

A good birthday sex was the perfect gift years ago. She'd be happy kept on edge for a day the next day, besides she felt dreamy about a thing she called a happy-knot, but she had recently started falling asleep mid-sex. She'd not endure anything too intense or long unprompted which would be… It was too late to say to her she's not leaving the bed tomorrow, literally.

Birthday.

An invite to Kent's races. An enchanted painting of baby graphorns and kelpies from a local Orkney artist. Salacious books already hidden in her study. Few ropes, of cotton, in case she'd like to try something disposably new or use them whichever way she'd like. Aside from lisping after yesterday, Imda was ready to pleasure her again. In the kitchen, abuzz with talks since morning as abuela and another old lady were there and arguing about vegetables, Imelda stores another set of little gifts: sterling measuring spoons, potions glasses, seeds. Tiny little things a potions master would appreciate.

If Sharp said as much, then it was true.

He also mentioned he had no idea what to give her since she already had robbed him off his own library, notes, had access to the Office's old records, Hogwarts Library pass, friends made in the field—so he hoped she'd appreciate a few scrolls of Daily Prophet and Potions To Date columns bound into a continious text of a lengthy potions's related discussions. He'd also gift her a bottle of jenever if only he didn't know she wasn't keen on drinking.

His uncertainty felt awfully familiar.

Their conversation was stuck to Imelda's ears.

"That what was I thinking so—"

"You didn't have to, you're aware of that."

"Gift-giving is a custom."

"Remaining alive and well is quite enough for me."

It must had been a talk she wasn't supposed to hear. But she caught herself thinking she'd not know how to react either.

She hoped Julia will accept everything and a delivery paper for her new set of fabrics to play with. Apparently, abuela had a chance to meet her italian ladies because of that proposal. Ultimately, a win-win, no?

Upon seeing the gifts, Julia said nothing.

Crushed in her arms, yelped vulpinely, tickled the neck with her little nuzzle, dry-kissed it shortly after, and refused to explain what was so funny, cute or which one she liked most—or was it all because the bar had been reached?

Poppy noted, "And I though I killed her with a letter from the glass factory in Venice. What did you gift?"

"Uhhh. Everyfing at onfe? She'f ekftatic."

Julia said, she was just happy that Imelda didn't place the books anywhere where the guests could notice them. They were muggle erotica after all.

"And?" Imelda asked. Poppy was as eager to hear anything in return, too.

"What did I give to deserve life-keepers like you two, neither of you had to!"

"Whats tho you mean?"

"Just finding time to announce you're still around is fine by me. You're all living. We're all quite happy. Isn't that a gift of its own?"

Bitch.

Poppy teared up and crushed in tp their embrace to mesh their bones, no less.