#sauce is from local italian restaurant

[levynite]

11am: I want pizza

2pm: mmmmmmm

[lord-radish]

More food from over the years

[spacelazarwolf]

shakshuka - maghrebi

cookbook: jewish flavors of italy

total time from start to finish: 50 minutes

rating system

difficulty: 2 this recipe required chopped veggies and some sautéing, and it does require a couple of different timed steps (like watching the eggs to make sure they don’t overcook... oops...), but overall it wasn't difficult to make. the recipe did call for harissa, which i found (hechschered) at my local international market, or felfel u ciuma. you can make the harissa yourself, it just takes some extra time. i don't know if you can find the felfel u ciuma in any international markets.

rating: 5 absolutely fucking delicious. 100/10.

this particular recipe comes from the libyan jews of rome. there is a substantial population of libyan jews in rome because of the increasing levels of persecution faced by the jewish community in libya in the 20th century, culminating in violence and pogroms during and after the six day war, until around 6000 libyan jews were airlifted out of libya to rome by the italian navy in 1967. the refugees were forced to leave their homes, their businesses, and most of their possessions behind, but despite these hardships, libyan jews have become an integral part of the roman jewish community.

and i can’t mention libyan jews without mentioning david gerbi, a libyan jew who has spent years trying to restore synagogues and cemeteries in libya and hopes to eventually make libya safe enough for libyan jews to return. so far his attempts have been met with a lot of violent pushback, but b”h someday they will get their home back.

recipe:

shakshuka:

preparation: 15 minutes cooking: 50-55 minutes serves 2-4

ingredients:

3-4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

3-4 garlic cloves, crushed

2 tsp ground cumin or caraway (i used cumin, which is most commonly used, but the author of the cookbook likes to use caraway)

1 tsp paprika

1 tsp felfel u ciuma or harissa

3 red, yellow, or orange peppers; stems, seeds, and white membranes removed, and flesh cut into 5mm (1/4 in)-thick strips

2 ripe vine tomatoes, diced, or 10 cherry tomatoes, halved (optional) (i used 2 cans of diced tomatoes)

500g (1lb 2oz/generous 2 cups) passata (an italian tomato puree, you can use pureed tomatoes but passata is a bit thicker)

1 tbsp finely chopped fresh italian parsley

4 eggs

sea salt and black pepper to taste

bread to serve

many middle eastern cuisines claim this dish as their own. libyan jews are no exception, and those who migrated to italy took it with them. shakshuka has become popular all around the world and today, many of rome's kosher restaurants have it on their menus, reflecting not just the city's large libyan jewish population but also the food of israel, where shakshuka is very well known.

put the oil, garlic, 1 tsp of cumin or caraway, paprika, and felfel u ciuma or harissa (i used harissa and added an extra tsp) in a large, non-stick frying pan, stir and cook over a low heat for 5 minutes. (before this, i sautéed some yellow onions)

add the peppers to the pan, stir, add a pinch each of salt and pepper and cook, covered, over a low to medium heat for about 15 minutes until the peppers start to soften.

add the tomatoes (if using) and toss for 5 minutes, then add the passata with a pinch each of salt and pepper and cook for another 20-25 minutes, covered, and stirring occasionally. remove the lid, add half the parsley, and the second tsp of cumin or caraway, stir and taste for seasoning. you can cook the eggs in the mixture straight away, or make the recipe up to this point and keep the sauce ready in the fridge for up to 3 days.

when you're ready to cook the eggs, make four dips in the sauce (reheating the sauce if you've made it ahead of time) with the back of a spoon and gently break an egg into each one. cover and simmer over a low to medium heat for 6-8 minutes until the egg whites are just set but the yolks are still runny (oops...)

sprinkle with the remaining parsley and, if you like, a little more cumin or caraway. serve hot, ideally with bread.

harissa (from saffron shores):

4 large red bell peppers or pimientos, seeded, deribbed, and cut into pieces

3 large cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp ground coriander

1 tbsp caraway seeds, toasted and ground

1.5 to 2 tsp cayenne pepper

1 tsp salt

extra virgin olive oil as needed

in a meat grinder, food processor, or blender (you could probably also use mortar and pestle, it would just take longer), grind or puree the bell peppers or pimientos. strain, pressing on the solids with the back of a large spoon. you should have about 3/4 cup puree. stir in the garlic, spices, and salt. add oil for spoonability.

alternate harissa (also from saffron shores):

3 dried ancho chili peppers, soaked in hot water for 1 hour

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 tsp cumin seeds, toasted and ground

1 tsp caraway seeds, toasted and ground (optional)

1 tsp salt

cayenne pepper to taste

extra virgin olive oil for filming

drain the peppers. in a blender, combine the peppers, garlic, and seasonings, puree to a paste (could probably do in a mortar and pestle). pack in a hot sterilized jar and film the top with olive oil. seal and refrigerate for up to 6 weeks.

felfel u ciuma (from jewish flavors of italy):

6 garlic cloves, crushed

1/2 tsp chilli powder

1 tbsp paprika

1/2 tsp sea salt

juice of 1/2 lemon

1/2 tsp ground caraway (optional)

2 tbsp water

simply combine all ingredients in a small bowl and stir well to create a paste.

[j23r23]

Unfinished Business

Tangerine x Reader

The moon hung low over Rome, casting a silver glow on the ancient streets. The air was thick with the aroma of Italian cuisine wafting from nearby restaurants. It was a beautiful night, but for me, it was just another job.

Or so I thought.

I made my way through the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Trastevere, one of Rome's oldest and most charming neighborhoods. The pastel-colored buildings, adorned with ivy were illuminated by warm, golden streetlights and created a scene that felt almost timeless. The murmur of conversations in Italian floated through the air, interspersed with the occasional clink of glasses and bursts of laughter from the outdoor trattorias.

I was dressed in a beige canvas jacket over a loose white shirt, paired with dark jeans and my trusty Doc. Martens. A thin golden necklace adorned my neck, its sun pendant glinting in the moonlight. My dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and a pair of small, discreet earrings completed the look.

As I walked, I blended in seamlessly with the crowd of locals and tourists. Aware of my surroundings, I take in every detail. I checked my reflection in the glass of a nearby shop window. My eyes scanned the people behind me, looking out for anything unusual. I adjusted my jacket, feeling the comforting weight of my guns hidden underneath it.

Walking again I turn onto Via della Lungaretta, I could see the bell tower of the Basilica di Santa Maria in the distance. The basilica's facade, stood out even in the light of the evening. I had a rendezvous at a small café just a few steps away from the church.

The café, tucked in a quiet corner, was almost hidden from view by a canopy of wisteria. Its outdoor seating area was filled with round, wrought-iron tables, each adorned with a single candle flickering gently in the night breeze. I slipped into a seat at the far end, my back to the wall, giving me a clear view of the entrance and the street beyond.

I ordered an espresso the bitter aroma mingling with the smell of freshly baked bread and simmering tomato sauce. It was almost enough to make me forget why I was here.

Almost.

As I waited, I couldn't shake the feeling that this night, this job, was going to be different from any other.

I had been summoned last minute for an assignment, an urgent backup situation. The briefing was vague, a hurried phone call from a handler I hadn't heard from in years. The pay was enough to make me pack my gear without asking too many questions.

Little did I know, this job would take me down memory lane. The very streets I walked; were the same ones I had left behind years ago. Memories began to surface—another time, another life. A mission that ended sour, and bonds broken. The weight of those memories loomed over me as I glanced around the café.

Just as I was lost in my thoughts, my phone buzzed softly in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw a message from an unknown number. The screen illuminated with a new set of coordinates and a brief message: "Location changed."

The abandoned warehouse was a cavernous space, its corners swallowed by shadows. I stepped cautiously inside, the light filtering through cracked windows casting eerie shapes on the concrete floor. The sound of my boots echoing in the vast emptiness.

"Looks like our backup has arrived," Lemon's voice cut through the silence, tinged with his usual dry humor.

"About time," Tangerine muttered, his tone gruff and annoyed.

The moment I heard Tangerine's voice, my heart skipped a beat. Memories of our teenage years flashed before my eyes—times filled with reckless adventures, stolen goods, and countless nights in jail cells. We had been inseparable, the three of us, until everything fell apart.

We were in a seedy motel room, we had just returned from a grueling mission, one that pushed us to our limits and tested our resolve. But instead of celebrating our success, the atmosphere crackled with frustration and anger. Lemon had left to procure some essentials—food, clean clothes, and the like—leaving Tangerine and me alone, a situation that had become increasingly uncomfortable over the past few months.

I stood by the window, staring out at the neon-lit streets below, trying to gather my thoughts. Tangerine paced the room, his movements agitated, his jaw clenched in a way that signaled trouble brewing.

"You can't keep doing this," I finally spoke up, my voice low but edged with frustration.

"Doing what?" Tangerine snapped, stopping in his tracks to glare at me. "Trying to keep you alive? Making sure you don't get yourself killed because you're too damn reckless?"

His words hit like a slap across the face, igniting a fire within me. "I'm not a child, Tangerine! I can take care of myself. I don't need you constantly hovering over me, questioning every move I make!"

"You call this taking care of yourself?" Tangerine shot back, his voice rising. "You nearly got us both killed back there! If it weren't for Lemon and me cleaning up your mess—"

"You don't get to decide what risks I take," I shot back, my temper flaring. "We're supposed to be partners!"

His jaw tightened even more, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Partners? A partner thinks about the consequences!"

"Oh, and you do?" I interrupted, standing up to face him squarely. "You act like you're the only one who cares about the consequences. Well, newsflash, Tangerine, I've had enough of your lectures!"

He took a step towards me, his voice low and dangerous. "Maybe if you listened to me once in a while, we wouldn't be in this mess every damn time!"

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief.

The room seemed to shrink around us. We had faced danger together countless times, but this argument cut deeper than any knife or bullet.

"You're not the same person I used to know," Tangerine said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "You've changed, and not for the better."

His words struck a nerve. "I've changed? You just think of me as an annoyance," I said bitterly. "And the one that has changed is you! You've become controlling, possessive..."

"I'm trying to protect you!" he exploded, his fists clenching at his sides. "Don’t you get it?"

"You're smothering me," I replied, my voice raw with emotion. "I can't breathe with you watching my every move."

Tangerine looked away, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered finally, the admission hanging between us like a death sentence.

Tangerine's gaze snapped back to mine, disbelief and hurt warring in his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can't do this anymore," I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'm done, Tangerine. I can't, I..."

The silence that followed was deafening. Tangerine stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, conflicting emotions flickering over his face—anger, hurt.

"Fine," he said ultimately, his voice clipped and cold. "Go then!"

I took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows. "What the hell are you doing here?" Tangerine's voice was sharp, filled with disbelief and anger.

I turned to face him, my eyes locking with his. "Got a call. Backup needed. Guess they didn't mention who it was."

Tangerine's jaw tightened. "We don't need you."

Before I could respond, Lemon stepped between us. "Oh, for crying out loud, can we save the drama for after the job? We're on the clock here."

I ignored Tangerine's sour demeanor and turned to Lemon, a genuine smile spreading across my face despite the tension. "Lemon!" I said, pulling him into a hug.

Lemon chuckled, returning the embrace, almost breaking my bones. "Hey darling. How are you doing?"

"Better, knowing I’m working with you." I admitted, glancing briefly at Tangerine, who was busy checking his weapon with a scowl.

Lemon sighed, shaking his head. "You two need to work this shit out after this."

Tangerine shot Lemon a glare, but I could sense his frustration. Lemon had always been perceptive, the one who could see through our tough exteriors to the complicated feelings underneath.

As we geared up for the mission, the tension between Tangerine and me simmered just beneath the surface. We moved with practiced efficiency, that came from years of working together, each of us slipping into our roles seamlessly. Despite our issues.

Between gearing up and going over procedures, Lemon found a chance to pull me aside. "You know, Tangerine hasn't been the same since you left," he said quietly, his voice tinged with concern.

I nodded, my gaze drifting towards where Tangerine was meticulously checking his equipment.

"He's not good at expressing it, but he missed you," Lemon continued, his tone earnest. "We both did."

Lemon placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Before I could respond, Tangerine called out, snapping at me. "How many times have you gotten yourself into trouble since you left us?"

"Not as much as you two, I bet," I shot back, unable to resist the jab.

Lemon chuckled, the sound echoing in the warehouse. "Touché."

"Speak for yourself," Tangerine muttered under his breath, though loud enough for all of us to hear.

Lemon laid out the blueprints of the building we were about to infiltrate, his finger tracing the paths we would take. While I was listening Lemon explain the plan, I checked my weapons, my movements precise and controlled.

"You still using that old piece?" Tangerine teased, nodding towards my gun.

"It gets the job done," I replied curtly, my focus unwavering. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

Lemon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You two are unbelievable," he muttered, though there was a fondness in his voice that we couldn't miss.

As we finalized our plan, the tension in the warehouse shifted. This job was risky, the stakes high. The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, retrieve, and eliminate if necessary. But the emotional undercurrent between Tangerine and me was palpable, a distraction we couldn't afford.

"Alright, let's do this," Lemon said finally, his voice cutting through the quiet that settled over us.

With a nod, Tangerine took point, leading us towards the back entrance of the building. The night air turned darker as we moved, shadows melding with shadows, our steps silent.

I couldn't help but feel his scrutiny as we moved through the shadows. "You still relying on brute force for everything?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the comms.

I shot him a sideways glance, irritation creeping into my tone. "At least I don't shadow your every damn move like you do mine," I retorted, adjusting my gear with unnecessary force.

Lemon, sensing the escalating tension, sighed audibly. "Focus, both of you."

Tangerine rolled his eyes, but I could see annoyance in his expression. "You’re still as thickheaded as always," he jabbed, his voice laced with frustration.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to snap back. "And you waste too much time analyzing my every move."

Lemon glanced between us. "You two are like an old married couple," he muttered under his breath, though his words were loud enough for us to hear.

Tangerine and I shot Lemon a glare. "Shut up!" We both hiss.

With a reluctant nod from Tangerine, we pressed forward. The night air grew colder as we approached a courtyard, each step bringing us closer to the heart of the operation. Despite our differences, our training took over, and we moved with practiced efficiency.

As we reached the back entrance, Tangerine signaled for us to halt. He checked his watch, then glanced around the corner cautiously. "Two guards up ahead," he whispered, his tone sharp.

I nodded, my annoyance with him momentarily overshadowed by the need for precision. "I'll take the one on the left," I replied, already moving into position.

Tangerine shot me a skeptical look but didn't argue. "Fine. Just don't screw it up," he muttered.

I smirked, unable to resist the urge to tease him. "Careful, Tangerine. You don't want me to accidentally shoot you in the foot" I quipped, before focusing back on the task at hand.

Tangerine just glared at me with annoyance.

With a silent countdown from Lemon, he and I sprang into action. The guards were swiftly neutralized, our movements synchronized despite our bickering.

We moved as a unit, knowing each other's moves without needing to speak. The emotional walls we had built seemed to soften, if only for the duration of the operation.

As we breached the targeted room, the unexpected happened—a flurry of gunfire erupted from all sides. The air filled with the sharp cracks of bullets ricocheting off metal, and the acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy.

All three of us instinctively took cover. It was chaos, the plan unraveling. We moved swiftly, communicating in terse commands and covering each other's positions as we fought our way through the ambush.

"Cover me!" Tangerine shouted over the din of gunfire, his voice cutting through the chaos.

I nodded, providing suppressing fire as he maneuvered to flank the attackers. Bullets whizzed dangerously close, the adrenaline pumping through my veins heightening my senses. In the midst of the firefight, Tangerine and I found ourselves back-to-back, a position from countless missions past.

"On your left!" I shouted, spotting an approaching enemy.

Tangerine spun, his movements fluid and precise. With a series of controlled shots, he neutralized the threat without hesitation.

"Thanks," he muttered, the words barely audible over the continuing gunfire.

While Lemon retrieved the crucial files we needed from the secure server, Tangerine and I methodically cleared the warehouse floor by floor.

As we regrouped outside the warehouse, the agitation between us returned, like a storm cloud on the horizon. Our previous exchange of curt commands and coordinated movements had been efficient, but now we were back to our old ways.

"You were reckless," Tangerine yelled, stepping closer, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Reckless? I was doing my job," I countered, meeting his gaze defiantly. "I was covering your ass! If it wasn't for me, you'd be Swiss cheese by now," I retorted sharply, pushing my index finger against his chest.

Lemon, sensing the rising tension, attempted to intervene. "Hey, let's all take a breather here," he interjected calmly, trying to diffuse the escalating confrontation.

But Tangerine wasn't backing down. "Your "job" almost got us pinned down there," he insisted, his voice rising with each word.

I felt a surge of indignation. "And what would you have done differently, huh?" I shot back, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

"I would've followed the plan!" Tangerine snapped, his frustration palpable.

"The plan went out the window the moment we were ambushed!" I argued, my voice rising to match his intensity.

Tangerine turned away abruptly, pacing a few steps as he tried to rein in his temper. "You’re still the same!" he protested, his voice strained.

I took a deep breath, attempting to steady my own emotions. "But we made it out, didn't we?" I said, trying to reason with him.

Lemon's pointed look spoke volumes, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration. "You two need to sort this out. Now!"

Tangerine and I stood in the cool night air, as he finally broke the silence. "Why did you leave?"

I took a deep breath, the words heavy on my tongue. "Because you were driving me crazy. You wouldn't stop criticizing me, watching my every move."

He looked away, the pain in his eyes mirroring my own. "I was trying to protect you."

"From what?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "We were partners. I didn't need protecting. I needed you to trust me."

He met my gaze, his blue eyes filled with an intensity that took my breath away. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Because I—" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

Lemon's voice cut through the tension. "For the love of God, just say it already. You love her. It's been obvious for years."

Tangerine froze, his gaze locked on mine.

The world seemed to stand still in that moment. My heart raced, emotions swirling in a tumultuous whirlwind. A statement I had never expected, hung now between us.

"Lemon..." Tangerine started, his voice thick with emotion.

Lemon stepped forward, a knowing smile on his face. "I've known for years, Tangerine. You're not exactly subtle."

Tangerine shot him a glare, but there was gratitude in his eyes. "And you never said anything?"

Lemon shrugged. "It wasn't my place. But it's about time you two figured it out."

I turned back to Tangerine, my heart pounding. "I... I thought..." I stood there, comprehending what is happening.

Tangerine took a step closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper. "I do love you. More than I can put into words."

Relief washed over me, mingled with a surge of emotions I had kept buried for so long. "Then why..."

Tangerine reached out, gently cupping my face in his hands. "I was scared," he confessed, his voice raw with vulnerability. "Scared that if I admitted how I felt, it would jeopardize everything. Our partnership, our friendship..."

"Our sanity," Lemon chimed in, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Tangerine ignored him, his focus solely on me. "But tonight, seeing you again, after so long. I can't deny it anymore. I need you, not just as a partner, but as..."

"As something more," I finished for him, my voice trembling with emotion.

He nodded, his thumbs brushing lightly against my cheeks. "Yes. As something more."

Lemon cleared his throat, breaking the intimate moment with a smug grin on his face. "Well, now that we've got that settled, can we please get out of here before the authorities decide to crash your little make-up session?"

We chuckled softly, the air around us at ease now. Together, we made our way through the deserted streets of Rome.

As we walked, Tangerine reached out and intertwined his fingers with mine. It was a simple gesture. I reciprocated the act, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into my skin.

Lemon walked a few steps ahead, occasionally glancing back with a satisfied expression. "You know," he said, breaking the comfortable silence, "I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. It's about time you two got your act together."

Tangerine rolled his eyes but didn't let go of my hand. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the nudge, Lemon."

Lemon grinned. "Anytime. But seriously, keep it together, I can’t handle more drama."

Something i put together on a whim...

[crazyintheeast]

Mother Superion : Welcome back Ava . As we thought you were dead we built this statue to honour you . It’s made from the most expensive Italian marble and 24k gold

Ava: Wow thanks . That’s really nice . Did Beatrice design it ?

Camila: No she thought you wouldn’t be into something like this so she had the local restaurant name a sandwich after you .

Ava : I HAVE A SANDWICH NAMED AFTER ME!?!? Oh my god what is it ?!!! What is it ?!!!

Camila: Turkey and Gouda cheese with cucumbers and mayo and a dash of habanero sauce

Ava: That sounds … epic . I want to eat myself so bad. Yes I would like an Ava please . Make it a double ! Oh can we go can we go please ?

Mother Superion: … I can’t believe I wasted half a million dollars . I could have bought a boat . I could have been relaxing on the waves right now

[a-very-tired-jew]

Alright, in the spirit of causing psychic damage to me and other Philly folk I have an ask for the rest of you.

What is the cheesesteak like where you live? Obviously they call it a Philly cheesesteak or even just a “Philly”.

They likely put bell peppers on it which we don’t do and insist on using a cheese sauce (Geno’s and Pat’s tourist traps are exactly that and we don’t eat their gross whizz covered monstrosities unless out of town family insists).

In fact every restaurant I have ever been to that insists they make a “traditional Philly” outside of eastern PA and Jersey put bell peppers on their shit. That’s literally an Italian beef and it’s Pittsburgh’s fault that this is the norm tbh.

But I’ve also seen queso dropped on a “Philly” and called authentic. I’ve seen havarti used instead of provolone or American cheese (Swiss is acceptable if you’re doing SW Philly style).

I’ve only had a legit cheesesteak in a few places from small sandwich shops run by Philly expats or ones who went up and learned how to make them.

So I ask, what’s your local “authentic” cheesesteak look like?

[sidhewrites]

If your characters were dishes at a restaurant, what kind of restaurant would they be served at and what kind of dishes would they be?

Thank you for the ask!

As always, these characters are from I met a Girl in the Graveyard

Kaz is a 5'2 gym bro who loves halloween and landscaping. She dyes her hair pink, drinks too much coffee, and spoils her geriatric cat Renfield (so named because he used to like eating bugs). All this leads to the obvious: She is a sugar-filled chocolate frappe with a heap of whipped cream and chocolate syrup drizzled on top, specifically purchased from a locally-owned cafe that overcharges on this specific drink because it's a headache to make, but it's still popular.

Josie is much more level-headed but still undeniably approachable -- a squid-ink fettucini cooked al dente with alfredo sauce, with the perfect amount of seasoning and butter. She's a pushover and a people pleaser who struggles to speak up when her boundaries are crossed, but she's also incredibly passionate and intelligent. She'd be at a mid-tier Italian restaurant where you can expect each plate to be approx $20-30, but the bread they serve you before the meal is to die for.

(The squid ink pasta specifically is because she's spooky and wouldn't accept being just any color pasta)

Lucy is (a ghost) a deceptively sweet, incredibly intelligent woman who has a not-so-secret mischievous side. She would likely be a unique, surprisingly alcoholic drink at a trendy bar that you wouldn't expect to find anywhere else. I'm thinking it would be something really fun like an alcoholic dark chocolate-lavender ice cream float, with black edible glitter mixed in (because she's extra). It would be mildly sweet, but not too sweet that you couldn't taste the alcohol. I unfortunately know next to nothing about alcohol types so I'm just sort of gesturing vaguely at whatever that one is.

Bonus: Renfield is a tuna salad sandwich from Subway. It probably won't make you sick, but do you really want to risk it?

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Crossover Angst

Find previous rizzles/bones crossover work here.

—

When Booth hops out of the Sequioia and opens Brennan’s door, it’s already kinda late. He’s an in-bed-early, wake-up-even-earlier sort of guy, and this Boston team… They burn the candle at both ends. All ends. Hell, they even strike a match under the middle. He’s tired, and he’s hungry, and he needs a couple hours away from the mania to talk things over with his partner. 

Who just so happens to be the woman he’s madly in love with. Christ.

“What is this place?” Brennan asks, rousing him out of his exhausted musing. They amble toward a little storefront on Prince Street, which has seen its tourists exit for the day, leaving locals to patronize the restaurants, the butcher shops, the bakeries, during their last few hours of operation. Angelina’s. 

“Little Italian joint, Bones,” says Booth, pulling open the door. The heavy, wooden frame squeals as it swings out, and he licks his lips in some relief. “Hear that? Means the food’s gonna be good.”

Brennan is only inches ahead of him, and she turns with a little disbelief. “The squeaky door?” she chuckles, “how could that possibly relate to the quality of food?”

“Don’t know how to explain it; don’t need to,” he tells her. “There’s mostly Sicilian fare but apparently they’ve got a puttanesca that rivals your own.”

“Your favorite,” Brennan chides. “The whore sauce.”

“The whore sauce,” Booth affirms. “But it comes from my neck of the woods, from Rome. So hey, can’t go wrong, right? Anyway, Rizzoli said they had some good vegetarian options.”

“Ah, Jane recommended it,” Brennan draws out. She takes off her trench coat and hangs it over the back of an old wooden chair when the waiter pointed them toward a table toward the windowfront. “That’s why we’re here.”

Booth knots his eyebrows together. He’s good at reading Brennan, probably better than anyone else, but he’s stumped here. That jumble of words usually signals jealousy, especially in girls - women - but Bones looks pleased. Humored. “That a problem?” he asks, searching for more. He needs more.

“Not at all,” Brennan answers. She does this thing where she shrugs and scoots her chair in at the same time, but the movements are fluid. There is no waste, no excess in the motion of her body. This enthralls him; it always had, though he hadn’t realized it until his love for her crashed down on him in a particularly painful, sweet revelation. Smitten had felt like an apt descriptor, but when Jane told him about the Sicilian thunderbolt, that punch of lightning, that felt perfect. And painful. It’s painful to watch her move, but also exhilarating, like he’s just stuck a fork in a socket. “You respect her.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. She’s good people,” Booth says. He takes the menu given to him by the waiter, and nods toward the middle of the page, where all the red wines are named. “Give us a bottle of the Sangiovese, huh? You’re gonna love this one,” he tells Brennan when the waiter nods and turns their wine glasses right side up before going back for the wine. “It’s bold. Real hearty, velvety Italian flavor.”

“Sounds like we’re still talking about Jane,” Brennan teases. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him, and she offers him one of her signature, garish winks. 

Booth turns dour. He crosses his arms, his crisp white shirt rolled up just under his elbows on either side. “What?” he demands.

Brennan registers the change in mood, and he thinks about lightening up because he can tell she doesn’t know what she’s said, what she’s done, but dammit if he isn’t tired of the games. “Well, I… I wasn’t being very serious, Booth.”

“You weren’t, huh?” He prods.

“No, but, what would be the issue if I were? She’s attractive, you’re attractive, and you’re both single. You seem to suit each other. At least, superficially,” Brennan reasons aloud. She leans forward, puts her elbows on the tablecloth. She believes she’s making sense.

And maybe, in any other world, she would be. Maybe, in another world where she and Booth are just partners, just coworkers who collaborate to bring murderers to justice, just colleagues who sometimes grab after-work drinks, this argument would make sense. Rizzoli is… well, Rizzoli looks like a supermodel and she drinks some of his old army buddies under the table. She’s loud and to the point and kind of grumpy, but he can be, too. He thinks back to that early morning last week, when they’d held hands in mass while the priest ushered them through Eucharistic prayer. After all night at the scene of the first fresh crime they’d encountered in their time together, blood and brain matter and torn flesh seared in their consciousness, they’d agreed together that only the blood of Christ would wash it all away. So they’d dropped their scientists at their respective abodes and trudged into St. Joseph’s just after sunrise. And they’d touched because they needed the intimacy, the spirituality, without all the goddamn battle. 

Rizzoli’s perfect on paper. 

There’s just, y’know, the problem of both of them being in love with someone else. That thought, of yet another opportunity crushed under the weight of Bones’ magnetism, under the way she expands so as to push anything else out of the room, leaving nothing but the two of them and his annoying heart, angers Booth. He turns his eyes toward the flow of wine out of the bottle and into their glasses. He concentrates only on that so that he can speak without raising his voice. “Why you gotta do that? Why- why you gotta try to hook me up with people?”

“Booth, I was just-”

“No! No,” He shudders when he hears his volume the first time, like he’s gunshy of himself. He quiets down, a fist going into his hand when he props his elbows up on the table like she had. “You… I laid my heart out for ya, Bones. I told you I was in love with you. And god help me, I think you feel the same way. But for whatever reason, you didn’t… you can’t go there with me. And I’m tryin’ to be respectful of that. But this? Tryin’ to get me to go out with other people when you know I’m not even thinkin’ about anyone else right now is…”

“Alright, alright,” Brennan puts up her hand just so he’ll stop. “I… I won’t. I won’t anymore. I just… I care about you, Booth,” she confesses, her blue eyes screwed up and watery like she’s in pain, like she has any right to be in pain when she’s done all the pushing. “You deserve to be happy.”

“That doesn’t sound like you stoppin’,” he grumbles.

“I can’t give you what you want. I… don’t know how to be what you need,” Brennan whispers. She cries openly now, and Booth waves the waiter away as a kindness. 

But he still seethes. “Easy, Bones. Just be you,” he says, low and full of spite. 

“But it’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy. I’ve been me with you for years now and I still… I’m still…”

“Afraid?” He mocks, and when she nods because it doesn’t register with her, because she doesn't see the way he has intended to hurt her. “I just… I don’t get it. Help me understand, here, Bones, because you don’t seem to have trouble bein’ what other guys need. Jerks like Stires, Wexler, oh and god, Mark. Remember Mark?”

“I don’t appreciate-” Brennan’s face drops, she sniffles, and her brow furrows, but Booth pushes right through.

“So it’s me, right? Because you have no problem giving them the time of day, and I’m right here. I’m right here and I’m better. So it must just be that I don’t do it for you. I’m not enough of an asshole,” He is quiet and severe, leaning in to make his point.

She looks toward her glass of wine, thinks about throwing it in his face. And Booth knows he’d deserve it. But the bell over the door rings, and whatever, whoever Brennan sees, makes her put her hand down. “I’m leaving. This isn’t the time, or the place. If you want to have a discussion about this like an adult, give me a call.” She rises, snatches her coat from her chair, and glares at him for good measure.

“Oh? And where’re you goin’, huh?” Booth demands.

She aims to hurt him because she puts her face in his. She only does that when she spits fire. “I’m going to Jane’s. She invited me over to watch the game.”

“Oh yeah? Do you even know which game?!” Booth calls when she starts to walk away. He guesses that Jane’s invite was probably for the C’s game, which is currently just underway, and he guesses that Bones had originally turned it down. 

“Doesn’t matter!” She shouts back. She’s right. Really doesn’t matter.

___

“Hmm,” Maura holds Jane’s face as they kiss, soft and sweet in the low candlelight illuminating Jane’s small bedroom. Jane is on top of her, they’re under the covers naked, and god it feels good. Like eating cake with your hands or pouring a second glass of rosé when you said you’d just have one. “Hey.”

Jane groans because talking breaks the kiss open. She writhes closer, deepens the post-coital, sweaty embrace between them in hopes that she can erase all language. 

Maura must deny her. She offers Jane one last kiss, but then she tilts her head so Jane’s lips shift to her chin, across her jaw, down her neck. “Hey, hey…” she tries again. “I saw you stuffing down that Powerbar on the way back from Amherst this morning. Was that the last thing you ate?”

At the mention of the Powerbar, Jane’s stomach grumbles on Maura’s own. “What’s it to you?” Jane snarks. There is no bite in it, or rather, no power, because Jane currently bites on the mark she’s already left on Maura’s collarbone. 

Maura hates that she doesn’t hate it. That she won’t hate walking in public with it on, she won’t hate people seeing it and wondering. Or knowing that it was Jane. “That was almost twelve hours ago. Let me feed you.”

“You already did,” Jane snarks, teeth still out and nipping.

“Jane,” Maura warns. “I’ll go to Angelina’s. Pick something up and bring it back. Eat with me?”

“Angelina’s, huh?” asks Jane, rolling over onto her back so that her shoulder touches Maura’s. Maura kisses it. “Sounds good. I told Booth about it a few days ago. Thought it might be a good place for him to take Doctor B.”

Maura stops mid-smooch, lips pursed and frozen against Jane’s still-warm skin. “And how are things between you and Doctor Brennan?” she finally asks when she regains her thoughts. 

“Uh, normal? Things have been a lot less heated,” Jane says. “Uh, well, maybe that’s not the right word. Things are a lot less acrimonious.”

“But still heated?” Maura prods.

Jane chuckles. “Hey, don’t put words in my mouth when I specifically took ‘em out. But I mean, I’m tryin’, honey. I really am. I invited her over to watch the Celtics and Lakers tonight. Teach her the rules of basketball so she, I dunno, can make it a whole game without embarrassing Booth.”

“And she said no?” Maura turns her head at the exact moment Jane turns hers, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. Jane won’t be able to turn away. 

“She said no,” Jane affirmed. “But at least she knows I am attempting friendliness after last week.”

Maura pauses for a long time. Then she inches forward to kiss Jane. She injects it with lust, with luscious and wet intent as she rows their swollen, dusky lips together. “Jane?”

“Yeah?” Jane sighs.

“Don’t fuck that woman,” Maura threatens.

Jane smirks, and immediately Maura knows she’s shown Jane a weakness. But there’s no way she can take it back. She hardly cares about her exposed desperation. “Which one?” asks Jane. “Abby in payroll? She’s been wanting me to ask her out for years,” she teases. And god, she’s right. Abby wants Jane, pines for Jane even now. Even if Jane is full of shit. Maura frowns. Jane laughs, then quiets. “Or the Chief Medical Examiner? I heard she’s a real ice queen but I think she likes me.”

Maura softens at that, and shakes her head. This time, it’s her teeth that sink into Jane. Both soft and hard, and into Jane’s shoulder. “Don’t. Fuck. Her.” she reiterates.

There is no room for discussion.

“You got it,” Jane kisses Maura’s forehead with kindness when Maura latches onto her with possession. “You really gonna go get food? Because I could go for that Brasat’.”

“Beef, hmm? You’re quite hungry,” Maura muses, but she does sit up and look for the jeans she put on to come here.

“I just burned an NBA game’s worth of calories!” Jane answers back, But she blushes when Maura looks back from over her shoulder and smirks. They lock eyes, and certainly, the same scene, where Jane grips the corner of the bed while she drives into Maura from on top, crying out when Maura scratches long red lines down her back, runs through both their minds. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I am going to get food, yes. I’ll even get an appetizer for us to share. But you have to get up now,” Maura orders. She stands, her pants on, and she shuffles around until she finds her bra. After that’s on, she shrugs her blouse over her shoulders. Jane continues to lay, and her eyes flutter shut. “I mean it, Jane. I’m not ordering all that food just for you to be too sleepy to eat. Get up. Get dressed. Turn on the game - find a way to stay awake.” Maura says. Then she throws a decorative pillow in Jane’s face.

“Ouch, fuck! Alright, alright, I’m gettin’ up,” grouses Jane.

She does indeed sit, and Maura rewards her with a kiss to the lips. “Good. I’ll be back. Set the table.”

“Yup,” says Jane.

Maura slips on her sandals, and lingers in the bedroom doorway. She doesn’t say anything, but catches Jane’s eye one more time and nods. Then she leaves.

Her car is close; Jane had given up her parking spot for Maura and put the unmarked around the corner. Maura had hidden the giddy, bubbly smile the gesture inspired and opened her legs instead. 

She really, really needs to stop doing that. At least, long enough to give her some time to think. Cases like this were always hard, and up until now, Maura had medicated by sliding Jane into place on top of her and blanching her brain. Well, now appears to be more of the same, but then, they’d been married, and it had been… allowed.

She trots down the stairs and out the side exit of the building, straight into the parking area. She gets in her car, turns on the engine, and sighs. They’re grown adults. They can sleep with whomever they please, including each other. But something about all of this feels forbidden, and Maura wonders if that’s why she likes it. That’s the part that she needs to slow down on. The part she needs to figure out. The part that feels like using, as she’d confessed to Jane some nights ago. 

Angelina’s is not far from Jane’s place, maybe a ten, fifteen minute drive, so Maura calls in her order before she pulls out of her spot. Maura also contemplates all these things as she maneuvers there, and mourns the Maura who had put down some of the best boundaries of her life at the start of her divorce. Where is that Maura? When she pulls up to the neighborhood, Jane’s old neighborhood, she finds a spot on Hanover Street and makes the short trek over to the storefront, resolving to worry about boundaries after she gets food into Jane’s belly. 

When she pulls open the old wooden door and steps inside the entryway, her sandals scrape against the mosaic-style tile until she stops where she stands. “D… Doctor Brennan?” she sputters when the woman herself stands up from her table. Brennan says something to Booth, Maura can tell him by his shoulders, hulking and sad. And then, Brennan makes her way to the door. Toward Maura. 

She’s angry. Maura reads the microexpressions and stands aside, while offering a half-smile and a look in that direction. No eye contact, that would make the both of them too uncomfortable. “Doctor Isles,” Brennan says, just before she pushes toward the door. “Have a great night.”

“Are you-? Where-?” Maura is still shocked to see the both of them here, she feels as though she should say more, that they should have a perfunctory conversation at least; her Brahmin upbringing vibrates within her. But Brennan is already gone. 

The door swings and rattles in its frame and there are a few head turns from other patrons, but that settles quickly enough as Brennan’s form retreats into the North End evening. Maura walks up to the counter, hands over her card, and in less than a minute or two, both it and her boxes of food are brought out to her, tied up nicely in a plastic bag. 

She is about to leave, to abandon the awkward situation she just messily dove into, until she turns and sees Booth’s face - well, she should revise. She doesn’t see his face, because it’s in his large hands, the heels of which press into his cheeks. She shakes her head, and then she crosses the few short feet to get to him. “Sangiovese is one of my favorites,” Maura tells him. He jolts, just a bit, and squints when he looks at her. 

“Doctor Isles, hey, how are ya,” He says. There is no conviction in it. 

“I’m just fine,” she starts. Then, she puts her bag of food on the table. “I’m picking up dinner for my ex-wife when I know I should not be. I’m very confused. All the time.”

He chuckles once, bitterly. “Yeah? Me too. Join the party,” he says. Then, he shrugs, like the assholishness is something he can remove like a coat. “I’m sorry, y’know. That you and Rizzoli are such a mess.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through your own mess,” Maura nods toward the door. “Is she alright?”

Booth sighs, and leans back into his chair, his glossy eyes toward the ceiling. “I don’t think so. I think I made the mess. And right now she’s, agh. Well, apparently she’s over to your guys’ place to catch…” he slides his watch around, “well, I’m assuming Celtics/Lakers.”

“She’s… she’s going to Jane’s?” Maura asks. Her head pounds, and she squeezes her hands together. She sucks her teeth.

And Booth, of course he reads that. He quirks a brow. “You didn’t know?”

“I thought she said no,” Maura’s acrimony leaks through the veneer, but she pulls it back as soon as it trickles forward. “You didn’t even get to eat?”

Booth chuckles. “No, no we didn’t.”

Maura pats the top of her bag. “Well, let’s eat this, shall we? It’s warm. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

Booth leans forward, rubs his hands together. “What about Jane?”

“She ate,” Maura snaps, pink suffusing her cheeks. Vengeance is a dish best not served at all. Her own words ring hollow and mocking in her head - do not fuck that woman. “And if she gets hungry enough she can have some cereal. We’re here, we should enjoy the cuisine while it’s fresh.”

“You know what I really wanna do?” says Booth. He downs the rest of the glass of wine in front of him. “I wanna go over to that bar next door. Screw the food.”

Maura hangs her head and she laughs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Booth. Now that he thinks about it, he’s sure of it. He drops enough cash on the table to cover the bottle of wine and then some, and then he stands up and shrugs his blazer on. “They’re havin’ their fun, why don’t we?”

“Ok,” replies Maura. She stands, too, and smirks when she sees her package on the table. “Screw the food. They have a scrumptious Amarone that I think you’ll like.”

“I will, huh?” asks Booth, holding open the door as they step into the cool spring air. He holds out his elbow and she takes it, even though the walk isn’t long.

“If you’re like me and the Sangiovese is also one of your favorites, yes,” Maura tells him. She gets the door of the next establishment, and she ushers him in with a hand to the small of his back, like Jane is moving through her. 

He is surprised by it, but his smile is warm. Not bitter like it had been when she first saw him in Angelina’s. “Well you got me there, it is.”

They take their place at the bar, just a few other drinkers along its edge, and Booth insists that Maura order for them. She does, and he compliments her taste in reds. The dance floor is old, the lights swooping over it reminiscent of a high school dance, but he wags his brows when the music shifts. “Ole Blue Eyes,” he says when Frank Sinatra begins to croon. “My favorite.”

Maura sips the exceptional drink in her glass before setting it down. She pulls her lips back and stares at the napkin under her fingers. “Jane is partial to Dean Martin.”

“Well, can’t go wrong with the Rat Pack,” Booth says. “Hey, did you uh, did you tell her where you were? Tell her you weren’t comin’ back with her food?”

Maura’s face crumples when she shakes her head. She hides from him, and then she lifts her face up so that her tears don’t ruin what little makeup she has on.

Booth shuffles on his feet. Shit. “Uh, hey, Maura, hey. C’mon. You, you wanna go dance? No talkin’. We can just move a little.”

She looks up, and he looks down, and she can tell he has surprised the both of them with his offer. But, what the hell. She takes her drink, then he takes his, and she leads them over to the floor. They are by far the youngest couple currently dancing, the rest of the people their age at various tables, and they aren’t even a couple. They shouldn’t dance.

But Booth stands there, wide angles, gallant masculinity, open arms, and Maura folds into him. She puts her head on his shoulder and the hand he’s not using to hold his wine at his side goes between her own shoulder blades. Nice. Easy. Safe. He sways her, and she is content to be swayed by him - no expectations or rules.

It is the most comfortable she’s felt with a man wrapped around her - when he is devastated by his love for someone else. When her love for someone else keeps her heart far away from his. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. 

“Hey no,” he assures her. “Tell me what you’re thinkin’.” Frankie sings and he holds her close, and fuck. This may be the saddest he’s ever been. He prays she doesn’t ask him the same question.

“I’m thinking that I’m here with the wrong Italian, Seeley,” Maura whispers, turning so that it bounces on the cavern of his chest. “You are so unbelievably kind. But wrong. But I can’t stop hurting her.”

“You know, I was just thinkin’ the same thing,” he says. She’s unburdened him with that confession. So hell, maybe, even though it feels like digging a hot poker into his belly, he should just confess, too. “I was thinkin’ that I’m here with the wrong scientist. But she, oh god,” he inhales without exhaling, a ragged breath that cuts into the air around them. He catches her tears like a virus, but his don’t fall. “She can’t stop hurting me. What a pair, huh?”

Maura wraps her arms around his waist despite her drink, as though she’s forgotten it and knows only the shape of the glass in her hand. She squeezes him because he is warm and if she closes her eyes he feels like Jane. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I feel like I’m looking at myself from the outside, unable to get her to stop.”

Maura doesn’t feel like Bones at all. But Maura needs him. Needs him to lie, needs him to hold her, needs him to ride out this slow dance and maybe a few more glasses of wine. “Things are… things are gonna be just fine, Maura. They’re gonna be just fine.”

She doesn’t say it back to him.

[caffeineinfusedpettyprincess]

Bloodlines of Fire

An Evening of Enchantment

Pairing : Shanks x Emma

Summary: Following on from the Vortex nightclub, Emma decides to take Shanks on a dinner date.

Word Count: 1795

Triggers: Flirting, talk of underwear and succubus activities.

Tag list: @short-honey-badger @hope31185 (Request to be added in comments or messages)

Arriving at the restaurant, Luna Rossa a quaint and enchanting Italian restaurant. As they stepped through its ornate wrought-iron doors, they are immediately greeted by the inviting aroma of freshly baked bread mingling with the tantalizing scent of simmering marinara sauce. The interior exudes an ambiance of old-world charm, with walls adorned in rustic Tuscan hues and adorned with vintage photographs of Italy's picturesque landscapes. Serenaded by the soft strains of live acoustic guitar, adding to the romantic atmosphere. Each table adorned with a single red rose. Which doesn’t go unnoticed by Shanks.

Emma moved to grab his hand as they were shown to a table, forgetting that one didn't exist and turned her head to him as she felt the fabric of his coat in her hand. Shanks looked down at her holding his coat sleeve and laughed lightly. “Lead the way….” She blushed and grinned, walking through the restaurant to their table. “Nice place…” He was not dressed for the occasion nor the location, but he didn’t care. "Yeah, my family comes here all the time." She glanced back over her shoulder at him as they were shown to a cozy corner table. Shanks held her chair out for her; a gesture that didn't go unnoticed. She smiled appreciatively as she took her seat, feeling a warmth spread through her at his thoughtfulness. As they settled into their seats, the ambiance of the restaurant enveloped them in a comfortable cocoon of intimacy. Soft candlelight flickered on the table, casting gentle shadows around them. The aroma of delicious food wafted through the air, teasing their senses, and whetting their appetites. Shanks couldn't help but admire her as she sat across from him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and her smile radiant. Despite his unconventional appearance, she treated him with warmth and acceptance, which meant more to him than he could express. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by laughter. Shanks found himself captivated by her charm and wit, feeling a connection that went beyond mere physical presence.

“So, what do you and your family do for business to afford such places?” He took the menu that was handed to him and skimmed over the options. The menu at La Luna Rossa is a culinary journey through the regions of Italy, curated with love and expertise by the chef-owner, Giovanni. From handmade pasta dishes bursting with rich flavours to succulent seafood specialties and tender cuts of meat, every dish is a masterpiece crafted with the finest ingredients imported from Italy and sourced locally. "He's had many businesses over the years, currently I think it's finance or some kind of stocks. Mom is a lingerie designer."

"Quite the intriguing combination," Shanks remarked, his gaze flickering from the menu to his companion. "Mom's a former succubus," she explained with a sly grin. "So naturally, she had a knack for provocative attire." Shanks arched an eyebrow. "A succubus? Care to enlighten me? And you'd have to show me this attire sometime." His grin widened, and he peeked over the menu at her. "A succubus," She began, "Is a demon that thrives on feeding off people through... intimate encounters." Meeting his gaze squarely, she countered with a smirk, "If only you had X-ray vision, you could see for yourself right now without anyone here knowing."

"And your mother indulged in such activities?" Shanks inquired, setting the menu down and gave her body a quick glance before settling back on her eyes. "Are you teasing me now?" He grinned, his tone light. Emma looked over at him, her eyes shining in the candlelight held an air of seduction, she chuckled and lightly shrugged. "Perhaps and no, well, not anymore." Their banter paused momentarily as the waiter approached, placing a complimentary breadbasket on the table and poured some water into the large glasses already on the table. She glanced up at him, ordering confidently, "I'll take a glass of red wine and the surf and turf." Shanks handing the waiter the menu while keeping his eyes fixed on her, gave his order.  "Make mine the biggest steak you've got, medium, and I'll also have a glass of wine."

Shanks chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, and continued as the waiter left. "Well, that's certainly not a typical family history." She grinned, taking a sip of water as she leaned back in her chair. "No, it's not. But it does make for some interesting family gatherings." The waiter returned with their drinks, setting down the glasses of wine before them. "Your orders will be out shortly." He said with a smile before walking away. Shanks raised his glass, gesturing towards her. "To interesting family backgrounds." She clinked her glass against his, the sound ringing out lightly. "To never having a dull moment." As they took their first sips of wine, Shanks couldn't help but ask, "So, how does one go from being a succubus to... well, a regular mom?" She chuckled, swirling the wine in her glass thoughtfully. "It's a long story. Let's just say she found love in unexpected places." Shanks nodded, intrigued. "Sounds like a story worth hearing." She smirked, leaning in closer. "Maybe I'll tell you sometime. But for now, let's just enjoy our dinner." And with that, they settled into their meal, conversation flowing easily between them once again as they shared stories and laughter, all while the mysteries of her mother's past lingered in the air, waiting to be unravelled another day.

During their meal, conversation shifted back to the topic of lingerie. "Red... the colour, lace for the material, and the rest, well, I'll leave that to your imagination, whether it's a two-piece or a full set with stockings." His gaze lingered over her body for a moment, a grin creeping across his face. "Honestly, it's been quite some time since I've encountered a woman of such class as yourself." Leaning back in his seat, he observed her closely. She chuckled softly. "I may not always fit the mould of a traditional lady, but I do strive for a certain level of refinement. To me, it's simply about good manners." Shanks shook his head in disagreement. "Not at all. You're stunning and truly exceptional. A rare find with a heart of gold. A genuine treasure." Pausing as she reached for a bread roll, she gazed at him. "Well, that's a new one." She remarked with a smile, before taking the roll and settling back into her seat. "You forgot to mention dangerous, unpredictable, and too trusting, especially if he happens to be a charming gentleman." She added playfully. A grin spread across his face as he lifted his glass to his lips, pausing briefly before responding. "Perhaps, and likely more. Hopefully, I'll uncover all of that in due time." She casually nibbled on a piece of bread, watching him intently. "You really aren't fazed by anything, are you?”

"Life's too short to..." He maintained his unwavering gaze on her and Emma smiled in agreement. "Absolutely, it’s admirable." Shanks raised his wine glass in a toast towards her. She reciprocated with a gentle clink of glasses before taking a sip. He followed suit, taking a generous gulp before setting the glass down and meeting her eyes. She returned his gaze, curious. "Where are you staying?" His gaze moved from her eyes to her lips as she licked the remanence of the wine from them then back to her eyes as he replied. "Where you found us a few weeks back, but Beck has now secured us a spot in the harbour where we can begin rebuilding our ship." He explained, a hint of confusion flexed across her expression. "And you'll be staying where you're constructing?" She inquired, watching him polish off the last of his steak. "Indeed, why not?" His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "We're accustomed to rough sleeping arrangements; my favourite spot is on the deck of my ship." He flashed her a broad grin, eliciting a chuckle from her. "How was your steak?" She asked, gesturing towards his cleaned plate. "Delicious." He affirmed, leaning back, and patting his satisfied stomach. "Cooked to perfection." She grinned. "This place does serve the best steak." Finishing her own plate and wine, she remarked. "I can see why." He agreed as he drank down his wine. "Would you like dessert? They have a fantastic chocolate cake here."

"Sure, I'd love to try that," he agreed with a nod. She smiled and signalled for a waiter, ordering two slices of chocolate cake. Shanks maintained a warm smile, admiring his new friend. She was beautiful and refreshingly direct, qualities he appreciated. Catching him staring, she chuckled. "Planning to stare at me all night?"

"Quite possibly. I find you quite beautiful," he replied cheekily, grinning at her. She smiled softly. "I suppose I'll allow it." The waiter placed two slices of cake in front of them. "I feel so lucky," he teased. She giggled and took a forkful of cake. He followed suit, savouring the taste. "This is divine," he remarked. She nodded. "Told you, best in the city."

"Probably the second-best dessert in the city." He joked, wiggling his eyebrows. She raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "You'll have to be the judge of that."

"I hope to." He said, taking a sip of his wine and peering at her over the rim. "Well, perhaps we could get out of here and head to my apartment?" Shanks gave her a nod, a smirk pulled at his lips. “I’d like that very much.”

"Alright, I'll arrange for a car to pick us up." She said, pulling out her phone to message her father's private car service. He chuckled. "I almost got hit by one of those cars earlier." She looked up at him. "Yeah, the key is to stick to the sidewalks and always check before crossing." Chuckling, she put her phone away. "The car should be here in 15 minutes."

"They were lucky I was feeling generous." He chuckled, rubbing his leg where he'd been bruised. She teased. "Would you have put your sword through the engine?" Paying for the meal, she got her purse out. "Or maybe kicked it across the bridge." He laughed lightly. "Do you have that kind of strength?" She asked, leaving a generous tip, and getting up. He nodded, finishing his drink, and standing up too. "Yes."

"Impressive," she remarked, taking his hand as they headed outside to where a black stretch car was waiting for them. "Miss Holst, where can I take you and your friend tonight?" The driver asked, opening the car door. "Home, please, Pete. And let's keep this from my father." She said, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill. "Yes, ma'am." The driver replied, tipping his hat as they got into the car.

[deanwax]

Find the Vibe: But I don't want to

cheers for the tag, @ntzsche9

Post a snippet that matches the vibe. No-pressure tagging @dyrewrites @athenswrites @ashwithapen @cee-grice and @wardenwyrd

i found another typo when I was looking up this chapter, lol. fixed.

tw: food issues

Other skills are much harder to develop, and the hurdles far more punishing.

I have come to loathe mealtimes.

Not all of them, of course; the routine where I prepare a small serving of our simple, high protein diets is most agreeable. However, as of late, there are occasions where I am not instructed to cook. On these days, Rigo will arrive with a paper bag printed with the emblem of a local restaurant. 

Tonight, the bag says ‘Russo’s’ in red ink. An American-Italian restaurant, I believe. I recall the sign from the vicinity of the Michaels clubhouse. Seated at the kitchen table, I interlock my fingers and watch as Rigo unpackages several containers from the bag and begins to serve their contents into bowls. Our silence allows me to hear the entire process in great details, and the wet squelch of the serving spoon has me squirming in my seat. 

My worst suspicions are confirmed when he sets the bowl in front of me.

“What is this?” I ask, aghast.

“Fettucine alfredo,” Rigo informs me.

“It’s congealed.” I grimace, offended.

“It is not. It’s the chef’s special.”

Cream. The sauce is made from cream, I’m sure of it. Cream, garlic, and something that gives off a pungent scent of mould. “I can’t eat this,” I declare, looking up at Rigo with a stricken expression. “I’ll be sick.”

“You will eat it,” Rigo counters, unaffected by my display of emotion. “You are required to exhibit normal behaviour in a restaurant, and that includes eating.”

“Would I eat shellfish, just to save face?” I challenge him.

“Yes,” Rigo tells me sternly. “You have an epipen.”

It is an epinephrine autoinjector, a device about the size of a pen but three times as thick. It’s not pleasant to administer (I conducted two test trials with the aid of some oysters; one through clothing and one directly on skin) but it will treat anaphylaxis. When I leave the house, I keep two upon my person in the same way I keep a 9mm semi-automatic pistol in my holster, and a house key on a chain around my neck.

I look back down to the bowl before me. Vomit. It looks like vomit. Truly, I curse the man who discovered early agriculture, who rendered cow’s milk down into cream. Disgusting. The first bite turns the corners of my mouth down and I struggle to swallow.

“That was awful.” The words come from Rigo’s lips, not mine. He frowns, pausing in twirling pasta onto his own fork. “To act like that in a restaurant would disturb the entire table. Try again.”

“I hate it,” I whisper, stalling for time as I twirl another noodle around my fork. 

“Then imagine that you don’t,” Rigo instructs me, taking his seat on the opposite side of the table. “Compartmentalise.”

I am familiar with the term, but it makes my nose wrinkle. “I don’t think I can,” I murmur, the fork hovering before my lips. “Not with this.”

“Then you must improve your acting,” Rigo tells me unsympathetically, picking up his own fork. “I won’t coddle you any more in this regard. Eat.”

Coddle. The word stings. I look down at the pasta with trepidation. I flinch as I imagine it in my stomach. Looking back to Rigo, I feel a helpless sort of jealousy as he begins to eat without issue.

“How do you do it?” I ask him with a furrow in my brow. 

Rigo chews, swallows, and sighs, before he answers. “We were not raised using the same methods,” he says. “I have no aversion to dairy products.”

“Then what do you have an aversion to?” I ask, still searching for answers. “How do you do something you despise without reacting?” 

My questions feel like all I have, in this moment. All I need is one example: no matter how abstract, I’ll adapt the solution to help me tackle the eating. If Rigo can do it, I’m sure I can, too. 

He stares at me for a moment before setting down his fork and dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “I have to make a phone call,” he announces, getting up from the table. He pauses at the door.

“Aure,” he tells me over his shoulder. I freeze in my seat, feeling caught red-handed with my thoughts. “This is not an exercise in subterfuge.”

I would have returned half of the bowl to the original restaurant container, it’s true. I was already planning it the moment he set down his fork. Not the garbage; too obvious, and not all of it; too obvious, again. Half, back in the container from whence it came, hidden in plain sight. How does he always know what I am thinking?!

“If I return and find you have disposed of any portion of your meal without eating it,” Rigo carries on, “I will force feed you a double serving.”

I nod curtly, not even turning around to see if he is watching me. He leaves the room and my stomach turns, staring down at the pasta dish before me. I can imagine, most vividly, one hand pinching my nose shut and the other forcing the rotten stuff into my mouth, manipulating my jaw to masticate. The fear of the mental image spurs me to take up my fork, using the side of the instrument to scrape the creamy sauce off of a lone piece of pasta. It’s… less horrible, that way, but I can already foresee the dilemma I am creating for myself: less sauce on the fettucine I eat just leaves more of it in the bowl. My mind jumps to the conclusion of a bowl full of nothing but the stinking cream and my stomach heaves. Clapping a hand over my mouth to suppress the urge, I resign myself to my fate and return to twirling pasta normally.

I chew and swallow as fast as I can, scraping my tongue on the sides of my teeth. It helps to speed my progress with the meal but it does nothing for my composure: by the third bite, I am still shaking.

Rigo returns without speaking, casting a careful eye over my bowl as he resumes his seat. 

I nearly bite my tongue with the speed of my chewing, causing Rigo to scowl. “Slowly,” he tells me. “Bad manners attracts attention.”

The meals drags on. The chair feels particularly hard and unforgiving under my buttocks in a way that brings back uncomfortable memories. It feels as though my mouth is not my own; my stomach, host to some foul being. It is almost as though I can feel it moving inside me. When my fork clears the last piece of the pasta from the bowl, I cannot say how much time has passed. 

Rigo, having finished long before me, had sat back to watch me. “You have succeeded in swallowing the food,” he tells me dryly. “But nothing else.”

I close my eyes and shudder. I hear Rigo sigh and rise from his seat, moving to the kitchen counter. After a few moments, the crisp sound of a page being torn from a notepad.

“Here,” he says, and I open my eyes to receive the list and the hundred dollar bill he’s holding out for me. “Fetch the groceries.”

I’m almost grateful for the task, until I see an unusual addition at the end of the list. Cream. 

“Go,” Rigo tells me.

[jaune-chat]

What are your feelings on desserts? Like, what is, in your opinion, the OPTIMAL dessert?

Asking to name a favorite dessert is like asking to name a favorite movie or song or story, I like certain ones on certain occasions! I have a few in the top tier though:

1. Key Lime Pie - a local Italian restaurant chain used to do this key lime pie with a white chocolate biscotti crust and a raspberry sauce. And they used a really fantastic lime juice. We nicknamed it "a key lime kick in the face" because the lime flavor was so delightfully tart.

2. Chocolate Raspberry Cake - a good chocolate cake is always a delight, but there are a number I've had in the past that sat in the stomach like a lead bowling ball. But a good one, light and moist, well-frosted, with a layer or two of raspberry jam? Delicious! I like this so much I learned to make it myself.

3. A Sundae - There's a local restaurant in the town where I went to college who are known for their barbecue, but the placemats they give you have their extensive menu of unique and elaborate sundaes. They are amazing and delightful and you can always find one to fit your cravings. One I particularly recall was the Chocolate Mint Marvel, which has chocolate ice cream on one end, covered in creme de menth sauce, and next to it was a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream with chocolate sauce. Yum!

4. A Warm Cookie - a homemade cookie, not long out of the oven. Oatmeal, walnuts, and chocolate chips, lots of butter, a fragrance of vanilla, a hint of salt to keep it from being cloying. Truly a homey comfort for the soul.

[quillyfied]

what are ur fav foods or restaurants that are gluten free?

Aha! A tricky one! I will endeavor to provide a good answer!

So, disclaimer: I also have IBS, which complicates the tummy question, and I also have severe anxiety, so I’ve refused to go to or eat at many restaurants with my family since being diagnosed. This will be a short list, but I highly encourage you to do some research in your own areas and to either get comfortable asking people working in restaurants questions or have someone do it for you. YOU MUST LET THE RESTAURANTS KNOW YOUR CONDITION IF YOU HAVE CELIAC OR ARE GLUTEN SENSITIVE. And realize that most people still don’t understand what you mean when you say you have celiac disease or even a gluten intolerance. But they will understand wheat allergy, especially if you start listing common examples (buns, breading, gravy, etc). Don’t rely on “oh but it’s fruit, why would fruit be a problem?” Because sometimes you find yourself in a Cracker Barrel asking a waitress who has to go ask her manager and the manager will frankly tell you that there’s so much flour flying around back there that if you have any kind of gluten problem, this place is not safe for you. Incidentally, Cracker Barrel is not on my list of safe restaurants, but it is on my list of places to play a fun peg jump game.

Sit-down restaurants, I very much enjoy Cheesecake Factory’s mashed potatoes, and some of their burgers come with a gluten free bun that’s pretty good. Olive Garden has gluten free pasta and tomato sauce, but if tomatoes aren’t your thing, they will absolutely just coat them in butter (and add grilled chicken if you want, and they do scrape and clean the grills). There’s also quite a few local sit down places that I’ve had success with, so, again: research what is in your area! There’s actually a whole gluten free bakery and bistro in my area that isn’t exactly easy for everyday eating but great for a sometimes treat. And I just found a local Italian place that does a delicious chicken Alfredo that didn’t make me sick! Local restaurants can be such treasures, friends.

Quick service joints, by far my favorite is Five Guys Burgers and Fries. They already cook their burgers and buns on separate grills; all you need to do is tell them about your allergy, and they’ll flag it for their people to change gloves when handling your food. Freddy’s Frozen Custard and Steakburgers has a grilling process where they flip their burgers onto a separate grill to cook the second side where the buns also go, but if you tell them, they will keep it on the meat-only grill; their fries are made in the same fryer as onion rings and therefore not safe. Chicken Salad Chick is a pretty good one so long as you pay attention to the chicken salad ingredients and ask for the Quick Chicks, which are individually packed. LawLer’s BBQ is really good; my sister in law gets the loaded baked potato without cheese, but I think I’ve gotten it before with cheese since I got sick and been fine? I don’t remember, but be safe and maybe skip the cheese, since anti-caking agents in shredded cheese is a sneaky place for gluten to hide and few restaurant workers will even know to check that.

Fast food, there are so few options for actual meals. Wendy’s Frosty is good, but not a complete dinner; I think their baked potatoes and chili might also be safe but I’m not a fan. Some salads are okay (check the dressing always), and many fries are okay (NOT MCDONALDS, THEIR FRIES ARE NOT GLUTEN FREE THANKS TO GLUTEN IN THE BEEF FLAVORING THEY ADD AND ALSO NOT DEDICATED FRYERS), but in my area, the safest place to get a fast, tasty meal is Chick-fil-A. They have dedicated fryers for their fries, and dedicated grills for their grilled nuggets, and they have managers and in some locations allergy specialists on site to make sure your food is made and handled carefully. I’ve never gotten sick from eating it. The moral implications are less than stellar, but. It is what it is. They’re the only place I can eat. And sometimes, I don’t have the time to run home and cook myself a meal before keeping other plans.

I can’t cite my sources here; I spend a lot of time googling and looking up menus and asking questions. Please do your own research and figure out for yourself what is near you that you can have and what you like. It’s a hard thing to live with. Good luck, friend!

[kisshuggay]

Listen Mystic messenger has fundamentally changed my life since I started playing it several years ago. Mostly in just the way that I expect more from mobile games even if they're not otome. a

Every once in awhile want to experience these stories all over again I go back and I replay the same route over and over again mostly 707 and Ray routes but there's one that affected me in real life. So I'm going to share that embarrassing information with you now.

This right here changed my life this conversation there's a local Italian restaurant in my area and because I'm autistic I don't like trying new foods very often but the moment I saw chicken parmigana listed as a menu option even though I've never had it before (and I normally hate red sauce on anything) I had to order it and now every single time I go there that is my order because of how much this man in this route had a choke hold on me the first time I ever played it.

[shillelagh]

Top 5 favourite meals

this is such a good one. "meals" not "food" makes me think of specific meals and not just the food itself. no particular order.

1. Pork belly bolognese from this one little Italian restaurant. I went with my mom after a dentist appointment the day before the first day of school... either 8th or 9th grade? Maybe 10th? The pasta came with a poached egg on top, and our waitress told us that when we pierced the egg, the yolk would run down like snow down a mountain. And it fucking did. Amazing meal.

2. Normal sandwiches with coldcuts. My uncle and late aunt's house in the country is where my cousin and I spent a lot of time in the summer, and we'd help with work on their large property. Every day at noon was lunch, and lunch was almost always toasted bread, usually chicken or roast beef, colby jack cheese, and this delightful honey mustard. It was so so unbearably simple but it still stands out in my memory, gathered around their rickety kitchen table. Not really a specific meal, but it is a bygone era.

3. Meals at a local tavern with Addison. My dad and I used to go to this tavern nearly every single sunday for many years, as my mom and I moved out of his house when I was 12. However with the advent of covid, my dad descended into insane Qanon garbage and has become intolerable. I've seen him maybe 4 or 5 times in the last calendar year, only once so far in 2023. Addison and I have gone to the tavern quite a few times, and it always feels really great to enjoy good food and reclaim a space that felt very connected to my father.

4. Lovely lunch sandwich. At the end of February this year, I was horribly sick and could barely even stand to drink water because of how sore my throat was. When I was feeling better, I played opera music and spun around my kitchen, making a sandwich on homemade sourdough with turkey, spinach, and lots of pickles red onions. I also poured strawberry lemonade into a wine glass. It wasn't my best work, but to so freely and joyously eat after having not consumed much of anything the past week, it was beautiful.

5. Squid ink spaghetti. Perhaps anticlimactic for the last on the list, but a lovely meal regardless. I vacationed in Chicago in 2019, and ended up going to an Italian restaurant called Volare two nights in a row. The more lovely meal there was their squid ink spaghetti, I believe it had seafood involved. It was served with a brownish orange sauce that was unappealing to look at, but very lovely to taste. I don't remember what dessert lined up with which night, but they had an exceptional tiramisu as well.

This was an interesting list to come up with. Honestly I find myself enjoying food all the time so it's hard to narrow it down. Just yesterday I ate leftovers of a club sandwich and cold, shitty fries and thought myself very lucky.

[terraterrarestaurant]

What Makes The Best Authentic Italian Cuisine?

Authentic Italian cuisine is renowned worldwide for its simplicity, fresh ingredients, and rich flavors. It is a culinary tradition deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of Italy and has been perfected over centuries. Several factors contribute to what makes the best authentic Italian cuisine.

First and foremost, the quality of ingredients plays a pivotal role. Italian cuisine relies heavily on locally sourced, seasonal produce. Fresh vegetables, herbs, and fruits are at the core of many Italian dishes. Tomatoes, basil, garlic, olive oil, and Parmesan cheese are staple ingredients that are used abundantly. The Italians believe in letting the natural flavors shine, and this emphasis on fresh, high-quality ingredients distinguishes authentic Italian cuisine.

Another key element is simplicity. Italian dishes are often characterized by their minimalist approach, with few ingredients combined in harmonious ways. Rather than overwhelming the palate with complex flavors, Italians celebrate the natural taste of the ingredients. For example, a classic Margherita pizza showcases the combination of fresh tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, basil, and olive oil on a thin, crispy crust.

Best Italian restaurants in London are also heavily influenced by regional variations. Italy is divided into twenty diverse regions, each with its culinary traditions and specialties. From the hearty pasta dishes of the north to the seafood-rich cuisine of the south, each region offers unique flavors and techniques. The best Italian cuisine embraces and honors these regional variations, ensuring that the dishes reflect the local traditions and ingredients.

Furthermore, the art of cooking in Italy involves technique and skill. From handmade pasta to slow-cooked sauces, Italian cuisine demands attention to detail and patience. Whether it's shaping delicate tortellini or simmering a ragù for hours, the dedication to craftsmanship is evident in every dish. This commitment to traditional methods is what sets authentic Italian cuisine apart.

The concept of food as a shared experience is deeply ingrained in Italian culture. Italians view meals as a time for connection and celebration, and this philosophy translates into their cuisine. The best Italian restaurant in the UK offers meals that are often enjoyed with family and friends, accompanied by lively conversations and laughter. The convivial atmosphere adds an extra layer of richness to the dining experience, making it truly authentic.

Lastly, respect for tradition and heritage is a defining characteristic of Mediterranean restaurants. Recipes are passed down from generation to generation, preserving the authenticity and integrity of the dishes. Italian chefs and home cooks take pride in upholding these traditions and keeping the flavors alive.

In conclusion, the best Italian restaurants in London are a combination of high-quality ingredients, simplicity, regional variations, technique, shared experiences, and respect for tradition. It is a culinary journey that embraces the essence of Italy's diverse regions and celebrates the natural flavors of the ingredients. Whether it's a plate of spaghetti al pomodoro or a slice of creamy tiramisu, authentic Italian cuisine is a testament to the rich culinary heritage of Italy.

[missanthropicprinciple]

The garlic allergy story that no one asked for.

Feel free to keep on scrolling. (CW: pain, blood mention)

I didn’t know that a person could develop an allergy until I was 21 and suddenly couldn’t eat garlic anymore. I’m a human dumpster with a cast iron stomach. I can even eat alliums like onions and garlic and leeks and then my colon says NOPE! Not being able to eat leeks in white sauce is very sad. I miss garlic bread. I miss deep dish pizza. I love Italian and Mexican food but can’t eat any of that cuisine if I didn’t make it myself from scratch. What’s worse is that I can no longer go to a restaurant and NOT have a five minute conversation with the wait staff and the chef and sometimes the manager about what options I have because every dish served at restaurants in America is laced with garlic. There’s a cute little restaurant that I can literally walk to and I kid you not literally everything on the menu has garlic in it. I know, because I telephoned first. At another overpriced restaurant down the road from me I can only eat two things on the entire menu. I dread people asking me out to dinner. I have limited take-out options, usually just Jimmy Johns, Five Guys, only two pizza places in the whole state, and limited selections from my favorite local Chinese restaurant. Luckily I’m a good cook and I do most of my own cooking anyhow otherwise I don’t even know what I would do.

The worst reaction I had to garlic was in 2018. I was visiting one of my friends when she used to live in a gorgeous little 1920s apartment in West Hollywood. We’d gone out for burgers at Umami. This idiot here — *points at self* — didn’t ask the wait staff if the burger contained garlic in the meat mixture. My friend and I had a great night, we watched a movie, everything was awesome. I wake up at 3am with horrendous bowel pain, 10 times worse than menstrual cramps. I get up to use the bathroom. I know it’s my garlic allergy. I try and mostly fail to take care of the situation (you know what I mean) and feel only slightly better.

I head back down the tiny narrow hallway and think to myself, “gee, I’m tired, I think I’ll lie down right here.” Which I did. But not so much lie down and rest as lose consciousness and collide head-first with the wall. Next thing I know, my friend is standing over me saying “OH MY GOD!” Apparently I said help. I do not remember saying help. Turns out I can only ask for assistance when I am literally unconscious. My friend says not to move. I’m actually feeling better at this point. Cure for bowel pain is severe head trauma, I guess. She asks me how many fingers she’s holding up. Three. I am correct. I turn over a bit and wonder why my head is all warm and wet. My entire forehead is covered with blood and it’s running into my hair. She go grabs a massive wad of toilet paper and I staunch the split right over my left eyebrow. Not sure if my head ricocheted or not but on the right side of my head that is a massive goose-egg. Despite this, I’m quite chipper. She comes back with an ice pack in a Hanukkah sock. She offers to take me to the ER and I say, “nah it’s fine.” In hindsight, this was not a good idea.

My friend and I stay up for an hour so she can make sure I’m ok. I bandage my head with a regular bandage and go to sleep. She wakes me up every hour to make sure I’m not slipping into a coma and the next day we go out for butterfly bandages. So there I am, exhausted, wearing bike shorts and a neon crop top and the purple lipstick I bought the day before, I’ve got a giant goose-egg on one side of my head and two butterfly bandages on the other, and I look at myself in the bathroom mirror of a WeHo sex toy shop and I just have to take a picture.