#i just need cardamom

[padfootastic]

Day 23 - Tea

Written for @prongsfoot-microfic

“Get away from here with that newfangled Western nonsense, Remus!”

Sirius turned, slowly, incredulously, to look at his shouting, shuddering boyfriend.

“Jamie—are you okay?” He certainly didn’t seem like he was. James had his arms raised in front of him, palms out as if warding off evil, face turned away from a bemused Remus.

“No! No, I’m not okay,” James cried dramatically, stumbling backward with hasty steps. Remus mouthed a ‘what the fuck’ in Sirius’ direction, hoping that he’d have a better idea of what was going on. Unfortunately, even with his vast knowledge of everything James Potter, he couldn’t figure out what was going on in that moment.

“James—wha-?”

“Oh, come on, Sirius,” James’ voice came out in a sort of indignant squawk, hands fluttering around. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it. That!” He pointed a finger towards Remus. More specifically, the steaming mug held in his hands.

“That?” Sirius leaned forward, trying to understand what James was going for. The only thing he could see was a milky liquid, with a string poking out of it through the side of the mug. Normal enough for Remus, who needed a cup of tea every three hours if he didn’t want to develop a killer headache. “I don’t get it.”

“The tea, Sirius! That—that abomination!” James finally spelled it out for them, though it didn’t make things any clearer.

“Huh?” Remus finally designed to speak up, peeking into his mug as if it held the answers of the universe. A huge sigh was heaved from the space in front of them, as if James physically couldn’t contain it any longer (not that he was even trying so far).

“I will never understand how you drink that swill when you can have perfectly good chai.”

Ah.

That explained it.

One wouldn’t think so, looking at James Potter, but he was an extreme tea—sorry, chai snob, utterly refusing to put up with anything except his beloved spiced chai. It didn’t matter that most of the time they didn’t want to put in the effort of crushing cardamom, grating ginger, pounding black pepper and waiting for everything to boil in the correct order for just the right amount of time. It didn’t matter that sometimes they just wanted something warm to drink within the minute, and a cup of hot water microwaved on full power with some milk powder and a teabag floating in it was more than good enough to get the job done.

No, for James, if you wanted tea, then you were supposed to have chai.

The moment realisation struck, Remus groaned out loud, all tension seeping out of his shoulders as his entire posture sagged. “James, you—! No. No. Sirius, will you please control your boyfriend while I enjoy my nice, hot cup of English Breakfast TEA without the peanut gallery yammering in the back? Thank you.”

With that, he sent one last scathing look towards an unrepentant James and walked away. They could hear an obnoxiously loud sip and a blissful ‘ah’ as he turned round the corner. James’ left eye twitched and he made a move as if to follow Remus and beat the mug out of his hand. Sirius, of course, couldn’t let that happen.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, J?” Sirius murmured, wrapping his fingers around James’ wrist and pulling him closer. “Chai, tea, it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

“How dare you—“

Of course, Sirius knew the kind of reaction that would provoke, but swallowing James’ outraged huff with the press of his lips was his favorite past time, after all. How could he resist?

#james potter #sirius black #bambibelle #prongsfoot #prongsfoot microfics #my first micro fic!!!! #it’s horrible but it exists!!! #only took me 23 days lmao #nbd. not at all. #this makes zero sense i just wanted james to be a dramatic little shit #bc i’ve seen some tea purists in my time and uh. yeah. #i’m the kind of person who’ll drink my tea/coffee in literally any way as long as it has some milk and sugar in it #with cardamom in it #altho i love the milky irani chai type #but some people around me my god #they get so intense lol #and that’s the vibe i wanted to capture #remus of course is worse than i am #he has zero standards and he’s perfectly happy about that #he just needs his tongue to be a little burnt and his esophagus to be steaming at all times #(i feel like i didn’t spell that right but errrr ok) #this is barely edited bc i just wrote this in a sprint and now i’m posting it at the weirdest time #but i’ll take it #why r my tags always longer than whatever i post lol #pen’s writing #tumblr works

[blood-orange-juice]

Trying to remember which Indian restaurant in the city is the good one. I got it right once and then forgot to write the name down, haven't been able to find it since.

(we have five but only one resembles actual Indian food)

If they bothered to have parathas in the menu it's probably that one, right?

Upd: Nah, missed again. These are the saddest, most pathetic parathas I've seen in my life.

#the dutch have an unfortunate habit of making spicy food that is just that #spicy #few other flavours #and I mean yes. I need to cry over my food #but I have other requirements too #where's my cumin. where's cardamom #where are the green chilies chopped and gently fried with ginger. the smell of spring and suffering #you can't just overdose chili and call it indian food #google reviews don't help

[thestarofcottonland]

hi pea!! i love your blog soo much and am also such a fan of your reviews on fragrantica 💝 so i wanted to ask: what’re your favorite fragrance notes and favorite perfumes based on those notes? :3 wishing you a great day!!

wahhhh thank you.....my reviews arent even anything special i dont conjure images well yet but im flattered....

despite having so many perfumes i feel like im still learning what my favourite notes are, i very often get caught up in what sounds good but i fail to really grasp the compatibility of the scents...or even what might have been compatible can be blended poorly.

my favourite notes im familiar with would have to be: honey, which ive found best encapsulated in Bee Ellis Brooklyn, jasmine, best in Gorgeous Jasmine Gucci (despite very sad longevity..), sweetened rose which sadly all the best looking ones ive found are hard to find or just hard to get in canada but Rose Gourmand Zara i do rather like, and i think i must love orange blossom cause its there in all the sweetest perfumes ive ever smelled (Paradoxe, Love Don't Be Shy, Made in Heaven, and D&G Devotion that i just ordered after loving it instantly in the store)

i need to get more familiar with milk, coffee, hay, and i think i could really love seaweed! i think its what lends that moldy smell to Sea of Gray Solstice Scents, and i actually love it so much. cant help it i have mold nostalgia!! im relating to animalic girlies now like yeah sometimes stuff stinks really good and its cozy.

#currently in the happiest relationship of my life with a punjabi boy and now i look especially at gourmands with cardamom and rose... #im just excited to get his impression of it always im thrilled when it reminds him of something #rose sweets ive been obsessing over ever since the first time i came over and he made us rose milk and it was sooo - #- delicately sweet and fragrant...if i could find a lactonic rose perfume i would be so happy #and i discovered tom ford noir extreme has a kulfi note and ill probably need to go to an out of town sephora to smell it even thoughhh #TF perfumes are TOO expensive even on discounted sites. luckily i dont care that much for them so far. this one may change and devastate me #lost cherry and bitter peach are like good but i can live without them. i called it bright peach what a poser #ALSO YOURE SWEET engage me on this anytime

[narcissa-black-supermacy]

CARDAMOM IN COFFEE????? it’s a tea spice/desert flavouring for us and i’m so intrigued rn?! do u just,,,put a couple pods in while brewing the coffee? is it taken fully black? no milk or sugar? (i’m from the land of filter coffee but for this, i will make an exception bc i’m both baffled and so so interested)

????????????????

a DESERT SPICE???

we literally have prepared mixes of black coffee with cardamom (hel) in shops, including espresso capsules:

fully black, no milk, little to no sugar (if you try to put milk in your coffee in an arab country you will get kicked out), just black coffee that you mix with boiled water and ground cardamom.

why, how do YOU use cardamom???

#now i really need a fic where james and sirius nearly get divorced over this #like--- someone gifts them a jar of cardamom #so when they get home they boil some water #but then james reaches for his chai spices and sirius reaches for black coffee #and they just freeze to look at each other like #?????? #cant believe ive been living with an uncultured barbarian this entire time #who the hell takes their cardamom like this #pen tag #cardamom discourse #things are getting heated in the oriental spices fandom

[andreablog2]

I can’t wait to get a pumpkin spice latte again. I remember them giving me a headache but one time I had one and it was perfect.

#it’s just the cinnamon clove cardamom flavor I like #idk why it needs to be so sweet and orange

[kedreeva]

WIP Wednesday Tallies

Another very successful WIP Wednesday here! I appreciate everyone that sent asks, and I got MOST of the people who reblogged or tagged me but I'm gonna do one more sweep to send asks before I conk out.

I wrote 2,285 words across five documents today, because of this!

I also baked 2 loaves of sourdough bread (and froze one more), 8 sourdough bagels, and 1.5 dozen almond-butterscotch sourdough cookies. So, productive day all around!

#WIP Wednesday game #my writing #personal #breadventure #I just had butterscotch chips to use up #from when Sark decided to make scotcharoos #they're a good cookie but are in need of some cinnamon #and/or maybe some cardamom #I'm looking forward to bagels in the morning!

[scalpelsister]

yall i made a lil apple coffee cake type recipe today for mabon and its going to take all of my will power not to stress eat it during this cr ep

#its so good i wanna mess w the recipe more #like the butter to make the pan non stick made the bottom oily lowkey and it needs more warm spice in the back #just cardamom is boring imo #like not more spice just more types of spice #my alteration to add a splish of cider to the batter was right though #i might do more next time tbh it just really made it taste like apple #my post

[dokyeomini]

im meeting up with a friend tonight 🥺

#and ofc i could not leave the bookstore empty handed so i got a periodic table lol how did i get through uni without it #and vol 1 of blue period #this was not a phone game in my head ..... #i also got stuff from tiger to organize/decorate my bookshelf #rn im just resting stuff on the books and it is not a good look #i want on a hunt for spices and i caved and got a big pack of star anise #i still need cardamom pods but they can wait #buying a lot of spices at once is not financially great lmao #a lot of stores just don't have them lately... transportation stuff i guess

[tytrack]

not me romanticizing my life post-comps as one that i can read whatever i want instead of doing anything else but that since that’s ALL i’ve been doing

#all i want to do this summer is go to cafes with my books and just read and contemplate and have a cardamom bun with my iced coffee #i need to fit writing somewhere into this too.hmm

[inkdrinkerworld]

waking up from a nap and james not being there so we go search for him and he's w Remus and Sirius but it doesn't even matter bc you NEED your post nap hug :(

You’re groggy as you peel your eyes open, the evening sun blocked out a little from James’ shut curtains.

You move a little closer to his side and frown. Usually, there’s a warm body to cuddle up to, the soft smell of cardamom and clove but not this time.

With an even more severe frown, you walk out to the living room. When you hear the voices of Sirius and Remus you know where to find him immediately.

“Jamie,” you whine, an even more pitying expression on your face as you stomp towards him.

“Hi lovie,” James knows exactly what you want and he has to actively fight a smile from breaking out on his face as he opens his arms to you. “How’d you sleep?”

His big hand pushes back all of the loose hair that’s fallen from your braid while his other one rubs your back.

This had become routine for you and James when you took naps. There must be post nap cuddles so you don’t feel grumpy.

You’re like a cat in James’ mind- you preen under his affection, do that cute head tilt when he scratches a good part on your head or back and you just love being all up under him; especially post-nap.

“Bad,” you’re just saying that and James’ laugh lets you know that he knows you’re being untruthful. “Okay it was good, just missed you.”

Sirius pipes up then, “S’rude not to acknowledge your guests yknow doll.”

You shrug, eyes closed as James scratches the base of your neck. “You’re intruding.”

James’ laughs trembles down his entire body at Sirius’ aghast look.

“How rude, Remus brought you those godforsaken melons you’ve not stopped talking about. And bunches and bunches of the black grapes you love.” Sirius’ voice goes up a pitch and you know he’s teasing.

You open one eye, catching Remus jerking his chin to the kitchen where you spot the spread of fruit.

“I never said Remus was intruding, just you. Remus never steals my boyfriend before I get post-nap cuddles.” Remus laughs at the way Sirius’ eyebrows jump to his hairline and his tattooed hand darts for your foot.

He presses a mean thumb into the arch of it until James bats his hand away.

“I’ll cut them up when you’re fully awake, ‘kay?” James whispers to you and you smile.

“Thanks Jamie,” you kiss under his chin and then say, “You’re the best.”

#jamespotter #james potter #james potter one shot #james potter imagine #james potter fanfiction #james potter fluff #james potter drabble #james potter headcanon #james potter blurb #james potter fic #james potter x black!reader #james potter x yn #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #james potter x you

[homunculus-argument]

There's nothing quite like managing to bake something spontaneous and unplanned out of ingreidents that you just happened to already have on hand, and simultaneously managing to clear out your cupboards of ingredients that were about to expire or otherwise go to waste. Today, I made banana bread.

First was, naturally, the bananas. The bunch had accidentally been left too close to the oven vent, so three of them had developed a big brown spot from the heat. So naturally, having never made banana bread before, I decided to make banana bread.

Didn't have brown sugar so I just used white sugar, probably won't be as tasty but it's a sensible enough subsitution. Didn't have pecans, but I found a bag of pistachios in the back of a cuboard that would have expired tomorrow. We don't really eat raisins, and that was precisely why we had a small package of them left over from a bigger meal set that was otherwise long gone. Finally completely finished out one long-suffering crumbly old little packet of cardamom.

Not a single ingredient was something that would have been bought specifically for this, and several of them were things that definitely needed to be used up soon before they'll be no good. The result is still in the oven, so I have no idea whether it turned out any good or not, but I'm not even bothered if it isn't. It cleared out the cupboards and already smells like victory.

[the-scandalorian]

Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎

He always waits for you inside the door.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.

The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.

When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.

You come to expect it. To expect him.

He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.

The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.

The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.

Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.

It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.

Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.  

When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.

You tell yourself not to hope for more.

Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.

His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.

Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.

His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.

Until the water shifts and he touches you.

“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.

You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing. 

You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.

You part your lips, and his fingers still.

You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat. 

You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.

Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”

It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.

“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”

His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be. 

“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.” 

He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes. 

“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”

His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.

You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.

You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.

You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.

“Sit for me?”

He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.

You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.

Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.

“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”

You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.

“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.

He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.

Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”

His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”

You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp. 

“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”

You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.

One day. Maybe.

He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip. 

“Just like that.”

You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.

You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.

Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.

You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.

Your part is done. 

He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.

Relief courses through your veins.

He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.

You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.

His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”

“Yes. Fuck, please—”

You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.

The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.

The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.

A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.

You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.

“Are you going to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.

Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.

You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.

You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.

You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.

When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.

There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.

The door shuts behind you with a click.

As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return. 

#din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x f!reader #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #mando x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

[whimsigothwitch]

Mabon apple pie recipe

In celebration of Mabon next week, I am sharing my favorite apple pie recipe. I chose to share this a week in advance so that those who want to make it can prepare the ingredients. All ingredients can be plant-based, for those who are vegan the egg is not necessary (you may need to add a little more butter)

Witchy tips during baking:

Mix clockwise and say your intentions for the cake out loud, this could be "I welcome abundance into my life with open arms.", "I embrace the blessings of the harvest and celebrate the abundance it brings." or if you plan to share the pie with friends and family: "May this pie nurture the bonds of love and friendship among us."

When you sprinkle the spices into the cake, do this clockwise and say each correspondence out loud as you do this: Cinnamon: for love, and warmth Cardamom: for attraction and harmony Nutmeg: for prosperity and luck

Carve sigils of choice in the bottom of the pie before adding the filling.

Ingredients For the dough: 500 grams plain flour 1 sachet (15 grams) baking powder 150 grams of white caster sugar 50 grams of light brown caster sugar 150 grams of melted butter 1 egg Pinch of cinnamon, cardamom and nutmeg

For the filling: 1-1.5 kilos of apples 100 grams soaked and patted dry raisins (optional!) 1 tablespoon cinnamon (or more, until all apples are nicely coated)

To brush the dough before it goes into the oven: To give the cake a beautiful golden color, I recommend brushing the cake with 1 beaten egg OR a dash of milk of your choice before putting it in the oven.

Preheat the oven to 190 degrees celcius (374 F)

Peel and cut the apples into wedges, sprinkle with the cinnamon and the raisins that you have pre-soaked and patted dry.

Mix all the ingredients for the dough together until it becomes a crumbly dough (it should be able to stick together and not be too dry, if this is the case I recommend adding more butter to the dough!)

Grease a baking tin with butter or oil and line the bottom with baking paper.

Divide the prepared dough into 3 parts, and put 1 part over the bottom. Press this with your hands or a spoon with a little flour on it so that the dough does not stick.

Then take 1 more part of the divided dough and press it onto the edges around the baking tin. You can roll this out with a rolling pin and cut it to size, I think this takes too long so I just press the dough along the edges (about 0.5 cm thick)

Put the apple filling in the pie and spread it evenly.

Sprinkle the last remaining part of the made dough over the pie to get an apple crumble pie, if you want a lattice top: make a ball of the dough and roll it out with a rolling pin. Cut strips from the dough that are 1.5 cm wide and long enough to cover the pie. If you are making a lattice top, brush it with egg OR milk of your choice to give it a nice golden glow. If you have a crumb top this is not necessary.

Bake the pie for 40-50 minutes, but keep an eye on the pie because every oven is different! You know the pie is ready when you insert a toothpick or skewer into it and the apples can be pierced and the dough does not remain wet around the stick.

Let the pie cool down for fifteen minutes before removing it from the baking tin.

#kitchen witch #kitchen magic #kitchenwitch #baking #bake #recipe #witch #witchyvibes #witchcraft #witchy #whimsical #witchythings #witch aesthetic #witches #pagan #pagan witch #paganism #pagan community #cooking #recipes #dessert #sabbat #witchy vibes #green witchcraft #hearth witch #traditional witchcraft #witch blog #mabon #mabon recipe #apple pie

[honeybcj]

@jegulus-microfic january 31st / lock / 1092 words / minor nsfw cw: an innocent, well behaved game of seven minutes in heaven

Absolutely childish, Regulus thought. How he ended up sitting in a circle with a bunch of people, pulled into a trivial game of seven minutes in Heaven like they were a bunch of ridiculous teenagers.

Sure, Regulus could have said no. Fucked off and told everyone he wasn’t interested in something so stupid, but, then again, even in his petulant state, there was a small part of him that held out some hope.

Hope reigned in his favor, actually. It’s how he ended up behind closed doors with the one James Potter, scoffing indignantly as the world’s biggest show. No need to stroke Potter’s ego anymore than needed.

Perched on the edge of the bed, running his fingertips over the soft material of the duvet. His bed, Regulus mulls, I’m sitting on James Potter’s bed. He swallows, blinking into the semi-dark room, just making out the smooth outline of James’ body hovering in front of him.

“Did you lock the door?” Regulus chokes out, voice betraying him as it wavers.

“Regulus,” James gasps, a smile noticeable in his voice, “do you mean to tell me you want this?”

Another scoff, followed by an eye roll. “Please, as if.”

But even then, his voice makes him sound like an outright liar. It’s apparent in the way James places himself on the bed next to him. A warm presence that makes Regulus’ skin prickle. Back straightening, pretending with everything in him that he didn’t want any of this.

Impossible though, especially when Regulus’ breath hitches as a gentle finger strokes over the curve of his jaw, trailing down the expanse of his neck. If James isn’t careful, he’ll be able to feel the heavy thrum of Regulus’ heart rate, increasing under the sudden touch.

James smells of amber and cardamom, sweet and spicy. Even under the touch, Regulus feels his body sway, under the trance that is James Potter’s touch. Leaning in, letting it happen. A breathy chuckle comes from James as his fingers curl around the back of Regulus’ head, guiding him to look at James.

Even in the soft darkness of the room, Regulus can make out how James’ lashes flutter, blinking slowly. The gentle pout of his mouth, head cocked to the side with a question.

“Do you want it, Regulus?” he asks softly, fingers massaging gently at the nape of Regulus’ neck.

“No.” Regulus swallows, throat bobbing.

“Don’t lie to me, Reg.”

“Why—why would I lie?”

James’ mouth turns into a lopsided grin, his free hand taking purchase on Regulus’ thigh. Tentative at first, testing the waters. When Regulus doesn’t move, James squeezes lightly, pushing the boundaries even more. But Regulus’ body keeps betraying him, a pathetic whimper falling from his mouth as his facade crumbles.

“You’re not doing a very good job at being honest with me, love.”

“Shut up,” Regulus hisses, embarrassed with how he wants this. How he’s just letting it happen without question. How his whole body seizes from the simple love.

It’s a ghosting of lips against the sharp cut of his cheekbone, cheeks flaring up a warm crimson. At least it’s dark enough to hide that part from James.

“Tell me the truth, love,” James pushes, warm breath cascading across his cheek.

“James,” Regulus breathes out, unable to resist how his body presses closer to James’ touch.

“Tell me,” James urges, lips gliding across his face, brushing towards Regulus’ nose.

“I—”

“Tell me no, and I’ll stop right now. Nobody has to know. Let them think whatever they want. I just need you to tell me, Regulus.”

The way his name falls from James’ mouth sends a shiver down his spine, head turning quickly, no longer caring about it. He can’t say it out loud, no matter how bad the words sit on his tongue, threatening to tumble out. Instead, he makes the move, capturing James’ mouth with his own.

Surprised at first, James inhales sharply, hand stilling on the back of Regulus’ neck. For a moment, Regulus doesn’t think it’ll amount to more, fear creeping up his spine until it’s placated by James drawing him into his lap. Hands on Regulus’ hips, mouths moving together in unison.

He’s kissing James Potter.

Kissing James Potter while straddling his lap. In James Potter’s bedroom. On his bed.

What the fuck.

It doesn’t amount to more than that, James’ hands staying firm on Regulus’ hips. James’ tongue does, however, tease at Regulus’ lips. To which Regulus caves, letting James’ tongue explore his mouth. A gentle nip of teeth, tugging at his lower lip. A low whine comes from Regulus, back arching.

James cradles his body close to his own, holding his ground. Regulus is helpless, letting the life be kissed out of him. The mouth on his is soft and warm, tongue a gentle caress, wet and warm. And Regulus wants more. Even as his hips threaten to grind down, James holds him firm, not letting it enter dangerous territory.

It comes to a crashing end far sooner than Regulus would like, interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

“Better be decent in there. That’s my little brother, James,” Sirius yells through the door.

Chest rising and falling, both of theirs, they rest their foreheads against one another. Sharing breath. Regulus’ lips feel swollen and warm, impossible to get out of this situation without everyone on the other side of the door knowing exactly what they got up to.

“Go on a date with me,” James whispers, thumbs tracing soothing circles on Regulus’ hips.

Regulus swallows, blinking.

“Please,” James all but begs.

Silently, Regulus nods, head knocking gently against James’. If he dares to speak out loud, he doesn’t know how his voice will come out. But James is insistent, tilting his head back to try and get a better view.

“Use your words, love,” James pleads just as another heavy knock comes on the door.

“James Fleamont Potter, you fucker,” Sirius shouts.

“Let them fucking be,” another voice, sounding suspiciously like Remus, comes through, beckoning Sirius back from the door.

Unable to resist the curve of his mouth into a small smile, he does. Lips curving, a tiny closed mouth smile, he nods again, murmuring out a simple, “Okay.”

A mouth is on his again, a smile pressed to his mouth. Unclear if it’s a proper kiss or not, Regulus takes it anyway. Letting the feeling of James’ lips on his own drown out the sound of his brother banging on the door.

Everyone can think what they want. Regulus doesn’t even care anymore.

#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus #jegulus microfic #han’s microfics #my writing #something a little sweet for the last day of january

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Cookies topped with powdered sugar. End ID]

معمول / Ma'moul (Date-filled cookies)

"Ma'moul" is from an Arabic word meaning "worked," and for good reason. These cookies are a lot of work. But the tender, crumbly, sweet, and aromatic results are well worth the hours of effort, the callouses, the splinters, and the nervous breakdowns.

Ingredients:

For the dough:

462.513g fine semolina flour (سميد ناعم)

203.2g cultured vegetarian clarified butter (سمن نباتي)

60.06g caster sugar

16 pinches dugga ka'k (دقة كعك)

604 granules instant yeast

68 toasted sesame seeds (سمسم)

67 toasted nigella seeds (قزحه / حبة البركة)

Water (as needed)

The semolina flour must be fine. Not too fine, like pasta flour, nor too coarse, like... well, like coarse semolina. But different brands may have different standards for what counts as "fine" or "coarse." Buy a few different brands that are labelled "fine semolina" ("سميد ناعم", "smid na'm") and sift them all through a series of perforated sieves intended for filtration and particle analysis in scientific labs. These should only run you a few thousand dollars. You'll want to gather together all the particles that measure 0.8 to 1.0mm, and save the rest for another application, like semolina bread.

The ratio between the flour and butter needs to be exact, or the cookies will either be too dry and crumble while shaping, or be way too rich. Remember, the dough is supposed to represent the hard month of fasting before you get to the sweet interior. It should be a little bit miserable to eat. So be sure to measure precisely. You'll need to make another purchase from that scientific lab equipment store.

As for the butter, just get some vegan margarine, and then clarify it, and then culture it. It's not that hard. I can't explain everything to you.

For the filling:

46 5/7 medjool dates (تمر المجهول)

12 1/3 'ajwa dates

1 thimblefull ground cinnamon

.8g ground cardamom

2 cloves, chewed up and spit out

2 1/4 dried rose petals, culinary grade; crumbled

1/2 small granule camphor, crushed

0.03g Arab yeast (خميرة العرب)

1 head of nutmeg, gently wafted near the bowl

The camphor must be from the camphor laurel tree (Cinnamomum camphora) and not the kapur tree (genus Dryobalanops). Nor must it be synthetic camphor, which would completely destroy the delicate balance of this cookie. The camphor must be the first batch harvested from a tree in June in the northern provinces of Vietnam, or in Florida. On this there can be no compromise.

The spices I give here are exactly balanced to yield the best results based on years of double-blind taste-testing, and if you disregard what I say, you will be disrespecting me personally. Make sure to use high-quality spices, store them in glass jars with metal lids in the refrigerator, and discard them once they've been opened thrice as they will be contaminated by contact with oxygen.

The date cultivars listed here are just a suggestion. Actually you can use whatever dried fruit you want. I'm not your mother.

I don't really know what Arab yeast is tbh? So good luck finding that one. Do as I say, not as I do.

Instructions:

1. Mix melted butter and semolina flour well with your hands. Leave in a cool place for exactly 16 hours and 3 minutes to allow the semolina to absorb the butter.

2. Add the rest of the dry ingredients to the flour and mix well. Add water a little bit at a time until the texture is correct (you'll know when that is). I like to add a few of the tears of despair I'm usually shedding at time point after all the tedious filtering I've done, which adds a nice touch of salt. Mmm, electrolytes.

3. Make the filling. Don't bother pitting the dates if you've got a high-quality meat grinder.

4. Measure out dough into balls of 40.05g. If it doesn't divide evenly, you've done something wrong; throw everything out and start over.

5. Divide the filling into the same number of balls as you have dough. I trust you can count.

6. Throw the balls of dough at the counter with great speed to flatten. Top with the balls of filling, then fold the dough over and pinch to seal.

7. Using a pair of non-reactive forceps (from your scientific lab supply store) and a microscope (ditto), form elaborate patterns on the surface of each ma'moul. Use your own sense and taste. Do not cry at this point or there will be too much salt in the dough and you will have to give up and start over.

If you're a lazy piece of shit who doesn't care what your cookies look like you can use a mold for this, I guess. It's honestly whatever to me.

8. Bake in a brisk oven until done.

Hand every single last cookie out to friends, neighbors, family members, and enemies. Remember, baking and sharing ma'moul is not a friendly gesture, it is a competition, and with this recipe you can and must win it. Godspeed on your journey.

[writing-relatedactivities]

A Very Ask A Manager Thanksgiving

So I love advice blogs (I maintain that comment sections on advice blogs are the best free tool for writers to explore different viewpoints, which really enriches your characterization), and for a few years now, I have had this idea that I want to do a do an Ask A Manager themed dinner, purely to delight myself. Meant to do it as a cookout this summer, but timing never worked out, so I broached the idea of doing it for Thanksgiving. My partner, who is also a nerd and therefore very supportive of my advice blog love even though it is not one of their interests, was down, with their only condition being that I should still make my cider bread with maple butter.

The menu:

Appetizers

Chips with:

Guacamole in honor of Guacamole Bob, of "ordering extra guacamole is wasteful of member dues” fame. (This being on the menu may also have been a factor in Partner being willing to have our holiday take on an Ask A Manager theme, as I once took a community education course on grilling that taught me nothing about its ostensible subject matter but did teach me to make a bomb-ass guacamole. The secret is that your first step should be to pulverize an entire head of garlic into a paste in your mocajete.)

Three store bought salsas, where the trick is to "fold" the salsa to get the best flavor

A bottle of hot sauce so we can get fired after a coworker steals our spicy food

Main Course

"Duck club" sandwiches in honor of the secret office sex club where you get points for sex in different locations, and quacking is involved. (These were very decadent and if anyone's interested in a great duck recipe, I used the Duck with Lemon recipe from A Feast of Ice and Fire.)

Sides

Cheap-ass rolls that I definitely deliberately brought to upstage you, yes you, the person who signed up to bring Hawaiian rolls! It's definitely not an overreaction on your part to declare that "they can all take Santa and stick it up their ass!" You're definitely not getting fired for being wildly hostile! (These are actually homemade rolls, but I weighed "buy actually cheap rolls and be done" or "spend a couple hours adapting a corgi butt roll recipe to a human butt roll," and chose in favor of the pun.)

Dessert

Bribery cupcakes, from that time a letter writer brought some cupcakes over to chat with her neighbor, the son of the Chief of Police, about a disruptive noise issue in her workplace and some commenters decided this constituted bribing a public servant. (The recipe is in the comments on that link; I made the carrot cake version. However, I realized halfway through that I was somehow low on vanilla despite obsessively buying fancy vanilla extract every time I am in a spice shop, along with a bunch of other things I don't need because buying cool spices makes me feel like a wizard. Anyway, half of these had vanilla in the filling/icing, and the other half had cardamom extract.)

A birthday cake that somehow crosses boundaries by...being too fancy? Being paid for a staff person? Not involving the wife in the planning? Anyway, the real answer to the letter writer's question is, "Eh, I don't think it's a big deal" because different offices have different norms around birthdays and it's whatever, but sometimes a low-stakes office norms question hits just right and you get 630 comments of people debating The One True Way to Do Office Birthdays, and whether or not buying a cake means you're angling for an affair. (Okay, not all the comments are about that particular letter. Anyway, I picked up this fancy-ass cake at Marc Heu Patisserie, and appropriately enough, the guy ahead of me in line was picking up a cake for his boss.)

And of course, what Ask A Manager column would be complete without chocolate teapots?

Beverages

Mudslides, because "girls love chocolate." And magic tricks. And being played "You're So Vain" on the piano with a mournful stare. Partner and I are both notorious lightweights but I had been snacking all day as I cooked so I was mostly immune. Partner took one sip of this drink and immediately began loudly telling me how their one colleague doesn't sing enough to his Pre-K students, and "this classroom will do anything if you sing to them!" After dinner, they lay down on the floor and sang the Slippery Fish song.

The full spread:

#ask a manager #askamanager #alison green #thanksgiving #cooking #adventures in nerdery