coffee and chicory

Bioware Men - The Kissing Edition (updated) (Long)

(Author’s Note: I know I haven’t gotten ALL the Bioware men, but I’m working on it! (I’m missing Sebastian, but only because I really need to go mom up and take the kids to the library.) The Men of the Inquisition will end up here eventually. Er, once I actually finish the game.

As always, major props to my betas, Galleywinter and Zeroredemption!)

Kaidan is intense; lips, hands, every sense trained on you as if memorizing you through osmosis. His hunger is leashed, contained with the ruthless control that saw him through his first tour on the Normandy. He can’t contain it for long, though - not anymore, not after all this time, and all that formidable focus is entirely tactile, entirely on the task at hand, which is making you pant and writhe and scream until he can finally let himself trust that you’re real.

* * *

Alistair is reverent, worshipful; with him, a kiss is a paean to the Maker, a thing out of time and space. Delicate, as if he’s not sure quite what to do, or if you’ll disappear if he’s too quick, too harsh, or if his hands stray. But the strong, sword-calloused hands that won’t go below your waist are trembling, and his reverent mouth quickly heats to almost clumsy hunger, as if he wants to absorb you into himself where he can safeguard you from everything that’s coming.

* * *

Carth is rusty, as if he hasn’t kissed anyone in years and isn’t too sure he should be doing it now. His kiss is angry and hard, but he’s hungry, too…. so hungry for you. His hands bite into your shoulders, and he’s trembling; you’re honestly not sure if it’s from grief or rage or desire. Maybe he doesn’t know either. His Force presence is a whirl of so many things, but it’s your name on his lips as they follow the line of your jaw, your name he groans when your hips meet and rock together.

* * *

Zevran kisses like he kills; with skill, flair, and a certain amount of showmanship. He smiles against your throat, catlike and smug, whispers charming obscenities and flatteries in that exotic Antivan accent of his, until you’re drunk on him, everything about him. But when you kiss him back, that’s when that practiced smile starts to slide off his face. That’s when his golden eyes heat, when the lean muscles under your hands tense, when you can taste honesty mingled with desire on his tongue.

*  *  *

James is tequila-flavored adrenaline when he finally lets go and just takes your mouth like he takes every other military objective, all power and purpose and driving need. His big body is hot against yours, all muscle and undeniable strength; you knew he wanted you like hell burning even before he pulls you tight into him, lean hips surging into the cradle of yours as if he’s already inside you. His kiss might everything you expected, but you never dreamed how soft his lips were, or how the velvet brush of his shorn hair against your fingers made want pool inside you, hot and liquid and quivering.

* * *

Joker Moreau is stunningly physically restrained when he kisses. But where he’s physically cautious, his mouth is anything, anything but. The things he whispers against your neck, the low, hot whispers of a lover about your skin, your scent, the feel of you, what he’s imagining doing to you, how long he’s watched you, wanting you… His commentary is all spiced with a generous helping of his trademark snark and punctuated by the kisses of a man who is truly gifted. Joker can turn a simple kiss into an act of blazing eroticism - precise, probing, mimicking everything he wants to do to you, with you, in you with just his tongue, until you’re shuddering against him, locking your fingers into the back of his pilot’s chair and moaning into his mouth in helpless surrender.

* * *

Garrus doesn’t kiss, not like a human does, but there’s something stunningly, suggestively erotic in the way his eyes hold yours as he leans down and presses his forehead to yours. He’s humming - a low, subvocal intonation that gets into the marrow of your bones and liquifies it, until his hands, his arms, the look in his unfairly blue eyes are the only things holding you up… until they’re not, and you discover that Garrus is very, very good at calibrating things other than firing algorithms.

*  *  *

Everything about Zaeed is hard lines and gravel - he’s the first to tell you his good looks were lost long ago, and he has the voice of a seasoned soldier, rough from too much battlefield smoke and way too many nights in a cigar-fumed nightclub. So it’s a complete surprise that he touches you with such care, tracing the curve of your skull, tangling your hair in his fingers as if he’s savoring the texture, leaning close to sample the scent at the hollow of your throat. The way he kisses is a surprise, too, all delicacy and finesse, and very, very thorough, until you feel like he’s mapped every nerve ending you have and is taking his sweet time about lighting them all on fire, one after another, with a lazy mastery that’s as arousing as it is irritating.

* * *

Fenris is equal parts desperation and fear. His kisses almost snarl with impatience, as if he’s been waiting years to let loose, let go. To have you. To have something in his life that’s just for him, and from the way his hands are moving over you, mapping you, that’s just what he’s thinking. Where his mouth is clumsy, his hands, all clever fingers and sharp gauntlets, are not, daring to claim every inch of you, daring you to claim him back. When you do, he growls low in his throat, and he snarls something in Arcanum that could be a curse or a prayer or a threat to the Maker not to take you away from him before he can steep himself in you, sate himself on you, bury himself so deeply in you that nothing in Thedas can untangle what the two of you have become.

* * *

Thane is decadence; leashed, lethal, and elegant, and that’s the way he kisses, too, as if a single, simple kiss is the equivalent of a hundred acts of simple carnality. His mouth, so delicately scaled and lush, is your lodestone. Your world spins around his axis as he kisses you with exquisite eroticism, committing you to memory with lips and tongue. You’re hazily aware that he could break you in a dozen ways and you’d never feel it, but you’re even more aware that he could make you erupt in a dozen more, and you’d never forget it. And neither would he.

* * *

Steve Cortez is precision, soft-spoken but devastatingly thorough in his exploration of your mouth, your jawline, your neck as you let your head fall back against the cool metal exterior of the shuttle. You can’t get your breath, you just can’t, but when you do, the air tastes like him. Like chicory coffee and determination, like love. Like home. And you can’t help it, can’t help but respond, hands streaking paths of want up his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he shudders, leans into you. You get a little equilibrium back by the time you’re cupping the back of his head, the lean planes of his cheeks, and you meet his precision with your fire. You kiss him back, letting him know with tongue and teeth and muted moans that you refuse to lose him every bit as much as he refuses to lose you.

* * *

Jacob is honesty; there’s honest admiration in his eyes as he looks at you, honest desire in the strong hands that slide from yours up to your shoulders, pulling you into a lazy, seductive dance around the cabin. Honest desire on his tongue when he finally kisses you, managing to tease, to seduce, to woo you for only a moment before honesty takes him, too, and you’re both trembling, both seeking out skin hidden by clothing, seeking to share vulnerabilities. And then it’s honesty of a different sort when you tumble to the bed, wrapped around each other as if you can each shield the other from everything outside this room.

* * *

Anders is hunger and loneliness and longing all wrapped up in a kiss that tastes faintly of lyrium and a faint, exotic tingle that can only be Fade energy. He crowds you against the wall, lean body hard against yours, trembling hands framing your face, fingers tangling in your hair as if he needs to have all of you, right here, right now, as if you’re going to be ripped away from him at any second. When you wrap your arms around him to soothe, he shudders, and his kiss changes to something dangerously erotic, all hot lips and bold tongue and aching hunger, as if this is it, this is the act entire, and he can bring you both to completion with just this….

* * *

Nathaniel is hard - hard lines, hard, sinewy muscle, hard, calloused hands on your skin, hard lips against the back of your neck, hard flesh against the curve of your backside as he presses against you. His voice is hard, too; aristocratic accent wrapping easily around base words as he whispers what he wants to do with you, wants you to feel when he does them. But for all his hard edges, he’s soft, too, and it shows in the brush of his hair against your throat as he bends to taste your collarbone, in the stroke of his tongue, warm and wet on your shoulder. His archer’s precision shows when he moves to map your spine from bottom to top with a chain of tiny kisses that leave no skin unworshipped, when his hands slide between your legs, pressing where you burn hottest for him. Your head falls back against his shoulder, and when you shudder,  so does he, and you know then what his restraint is costing him.

chiliadicorum  asked:

caranthir + waking up

I would put forwards that, given Being A Morning Person was remarkable enough that Celegorm was named for it, all of his brothers are grumpy, monosyllabic horrors until they’ve had a cup of coffee. Now, this wasn’t such a problem in Valinor, where every plant ever grows freely, but when they got to Beleriand there was something of a….rude awakening ahaha. 

This lack of caffeine hit Caranthir - whose fathername was derived from his penchant for black coffee - especially hard. Chicory and acorns really don’t cut it and 90% of the reason he threw a horrendous shitfit at that council re. Thingol’s letter was because it was 8am and what the fuck are they doing up so early, why is everything so bright, the world is pain. 

I don’t know much about the climate of Thargelion but I will bet dollars to doughnuts it was the area best suited to coffee plantations where Caranthir desperately attempted to culture something that would make getting up earlier than noon slightly tolerable. 

A Dandelion study: Though slightly bitter, these sunny flowers are friendly to the liver and grow like weeds! Also, roasting the root can be used as an alternative to coffee, mixed with a little chicory.. a good break from the caffeine roller coaster.

Beignet is the French term for a deep-fried choux pastry. They’re a common breakfast and Mardi Gras food in New Orleans, Louisiana, USA, served with powdered sugar on top and are traditionally prepared right before consumption to be eaten fresh and hot. Variations of fried dough can be found worldwide - the origin of the term Beignet is French. In the USA, they have been popular within New Orleans Creole cuisine. They were brought to New Orleans in the 18th century by French colonists, and became a part of home-style Creole cooking. Variations include banana or plantain. Café du Monde is a popular New Orleans destination specializing in Beignets with powdered sugar, coffee with chicory, and café au lait. The tradition of deep-frying fruits dates to the time of Ancient Rome, while the tradition of Beignets in Europe is speculated to have originated with a heavy influence of Islamic culinary tradition. Beignets can also be made with yeast, they’re called Boules de Berlin in French, referring to German Berliner donuts filled with fruit jam. On the French island of Corsica, Beignets made with chestnut flour are known as Fritelli.

zombeikid  asked:

Have you had a muffaletta yet?

Yeah, I had one of those the first day!

Noooot a huge olive fan, unfortunately. I tried it with the olive salad and then after giving it an honest try and realizing that no, i still hate olives, I scraped off the olive salad and then ate it that way and it was really good.

the list of things I ate that are regional specialties:
A muffaletta
Fried clam po’boy
Alligator sausage sandwich (maybe also a po’boy? I’m not sure if a po’boy is classified by bread or by what’s on it)
White chocolate bread pudding (damn that was good)
Bananas foster (also pretty good)
Chicory coffee (didn’t eat that, drank it)
A small, responsible glass of watered/sugared absinthe (I don’t drink these days but I do love me some absinthe)

Keto Tiramisu Popsicles

Ingredients (makes 8 servings):Popsicles:

  • 2 cups mascarpone or creamed coconut milk (500 g / 17.6 oz)
  • ½ cup coconut milk, BPA-free or heavy whipping cream (120 ml / 4 fl oz)
  • ½ cup strong brewed coffee, chilled or caffeine-free chicory coffee (120 ml / 4 fl oz)
  • ½ cup Erythritol or Swerve, powdered or other healthy low-carb sweetener from this list (80 g / 2.8 oz)
  • 15-20 drops liquid Stevia extract (Clear or Chocolate)
  • 1 tsp rum extract or 2-4 tbsp dark rum


  • ⅓ cup coconut oil, melted (73 g / 2.6 oz)
  • ⅓ cup cacao powder, unsweetened (28 g / 1 oz)
  • ¼ cup Erythritol, powdered (40 g / 1.4 oz)
  • Optional: stevia to taste

Note: This recipe makes 8 popsicles - one popsicle is about ½ cup of the mixture. You can usealmond milk instead of coconut milk but the result won’t be as creamy and will contain less fat.


  1. Place the mascarpone, coconut milk and Erythritol into a mixing bowl. Add the chilled coffee.
    Instead of regular coffee, you can use this natural caffeine-free instant coffee made from roasted chicory - it’s the best coffee alternative I’ve tried.
  2. Add the rum extract and stevia.
  3. Using a hand blender, pulse until smooth. Scoop the mixture into popsicle molds and add popsicle sticks. Place in the freezer for 3-4 hours.
    Each popsicle I made is about ½ cup. I used both large popsicle molds (½ cup) and small popsicle molds (¼ cup) and made 12 servings. Nutrition facts are calculated based on 8 large popsicle molds.
  4. Prepare the chocolate coating. Add the cacao powder and powdered Erythritol to the bowl with melted coconut oil. Mix until well combined. Make sure the coating is at room temperature before you coat the popsicles with it.
  5. After 3-4 hours, remove from the freezer and pop the popsicles out of the molds. To prevent the popsicles from melting, I prefer to place them back in the freezer and cover them in chocolate in batches.
  6. Using a spoon, cover with the melted coconut chocolate mixture. Place back in the freezer or…… enjoy immediately!

Stay warm with a delicious and hot drink this winter. Some ideas of what you may want to try are:

❄Yujacha or citron tea
❄Ginger and lemon tea
❄Tulsi turmeric and ginger tea
❄Darjeeling tea
❄Strawberry and vanilla flavored black tea
❄Chai tea
❄Thai milk tea
❄Roobios tea
❄Oolong tea
❄Peppermint tea
❄Matcha green tea
❄Apple cider
❄Hot chocolate
❄Hot vanilla and honey milk (use any milk substitute if needed, almond milk is my favorite substitute)
❄Coffee or Chicory
❄Homemade instant Russian tea
▫It’s easy to put together. All you need is:

1 jar of orange Tang drink mix
1 ½ c. sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
½ c. lemonade drink mix
½ c. instant tea mix
1 tsp. ground cloves

Mix all these dry ingredients together and store in a glass jar. To serve, pour 2-3 teaspoons into a mug of hot water and stir.

And then the morning comes

@precise-desolation {Continued from here XX}

Time meant nothing to her as she held it in her teeth, hands wrapped around its throat. 

But sunlight pried at her eyes and slipped between her fingers proving itself stronger than the pull of sleep, evident that it had been a decent amount of hours, more than she was used to getting, at any rate. And in that state, where the world was muzzy, more shadow than wakeful thought, she snuggled a little further down into the blankets, savouring the warmth.

She started to stretch an arm and connected with a solid back, one lacking a scar she knew like she knew her own soul. The previous twenty four hours came flooding back to her in a rush, and very carefully, she pulled herself upright, pushing the tangle of hair from her face. And though they were both fully dressed, she still brought one sheet up in an antiquated sense of modesty as she looked down at her companion. 

Bucky was still asleep, as far as she could tell, and some of the bruises under his eyes from lack of rest seemed to have faded. He looked more than vulnerable then, and impossibly young. But at least he was still alive, and still there, things she feared when she finally fell asleep the night before, her mind heavy with all the things they’d talked of.

She resisted the urge to stroke his hair away from his face, resisted pulling the covers up over his shoulder and tucking him in, out of a very real sense of fear that doing so would wake him. And if there was anyone who deserved the peaceful oblivion of peace more than she wanted it, it was him.

With agonizing slowness, she slipped out of bed, feel soundless on the cold floor, though she couldn’t help make a face at the first chilly feel of it. At the door, she took one last look and then made her way out.

Within the hour, she had showered, dressed, started a fire and was just starting on the coffee.

Outside, the world seemed strangely unconcerned about their goings-on. Birdsong trilled outside the window, clouds amassed on the horizon for a late spring storm, which wouldn’t arrive for hours yet. She leaned against the counter and enjoyed the stillness, a quiet moment as her kitchen filled with the smell of coffee ~faint traces of chicory hinting a sweet smokiness to the smell~ and muffins baking in the oven.

She would eventually have to go for supplies, but they had a couple days yet. And with any luck, he’d be okay enough for her to do that.

anonymous asked:

Person A has given up on love. Nope. Love is not for them. Forget that…. And then they meet person B and think; “Annnd this is the asshole who will ruin everything.”

It is a bright, sparkling sunshine day in the life of Steven Grant Rogers. He woke-up feeling refreshed, had a lovely cup of chicory coffee, and got to work in plenty of time. He’s on his way to a promotion, and he knows it, and he sits at his desk with a hot mug of tea, knowing that he’s about to put in a good day’s work. Before pulling up his reports, he takes a brief scroll through Facebook.

Cute picture of Jessica and Luke on their honeymoon?


Post about Clint’s new job working with the US Olympic archery team?


Photo of Brock flexing his muscles in front of—

Steve scrolls past as fast he can.

It’s been a while since he and Brock broke up, and Steve’s totally and completely 100% over it, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of Brock, per se. He’s at ease with being single — he has been for a while. It’s simpler to go through this phase of life without someone else by his side or in his bed.

“Hey Steve,” Natasha says, walking over to his cubicle. “Have you met Bucky?”

Steve looks up and sees the guy he’s going to marry.


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bayobayo  asked:

*throws flowers**gives the bearest bear hug* CONGRATULATIONS ON 500 AAAAAAAAAAAAA

Aaaahhhhh thank you boo!! 。・゚・゚ʕ゚>ᴥ<ʔ・゚・。

[Currently taking one-word prompts for ficlets and headcanons]

Sidebar: I grew up on the Gulf Coast, so this is a topic near to my heart <3

Several years into their life together after the fall, Will takes Hannibal on vacation in New Orleans:

  • Hannibal is completely enamored, of course, with seeing the place where Will spent his formative years. One night, they get a little tipsy on milk punch on the balcony of a hotel bar, and he begins drawing long and increasingly absurd comparisons between his youth in Florence and Will’s youth here, where all the cultures and ghosts of the Americas meld. Will tunes him out after several minutes, but enjoys watching the sensual glow of the streetlights on his lips as they form around the words.
  • Hannibal takes to Sazeracs, ordering one at the beginning of every meal, and insisting that Will select the bourbon for him. He loves encouraging his boy’s palate, experiencing what Will would choose for himself, tasting Will through the bitter anise and tart lemon. Will enjoys pulling him to the men’s room hallway between courses and getting his own taste.
  • They sit on the sidewalks of the French Quarter, listening to makeshift jazz bands in the street, collectives of strangers who come together to create a unified melody. Will explains the history of music in this part of the world, and Hannibal is rapt with attention, studying their faces, their fingers, their mouths, his mind ticking away creating spaces for all this new knowledge.
  • Will drives them out of the city and into the bayous, where they buy a small old motorboat with an envelope of cash. He takes Hannibal up the winding waterways and into the Atchafalaya, skimming through the towering bald cypress trees. They park for a while in the basin, absorbing the ghostly silence, pierced by bird calls and the occasional faraway splash. Will points out a floating alligator, its single open eye the only thing distinguishing it from a log. This sets Hannibal off on a tangent about predators and prey, at which point Will decides they’ve had enough nature for one day and turns the boat back around.
  • On the way back to the dock, they stop at a small shack at a makeshift pier for lunch. The handpainted sign outside reads CATFISH - GULF SHRIMP - GATOR. Will speaks to the woman behind the counter in fluent Cajun, both of them laughing at the face Hannibal makes as he tries to understand the broken French. When Will comes to the table, he has a large mixed basket for them to share, full of freshly caught seafood fried in cornmeal, with hush puppies and red beans on the side. It’s greasy and wonderful, and Will decides he’s never seen anything better than Hannibal eating with his hands and wiping them off with paper napkins.
  • In the mornings, Will takes Hannibal to the French Quarter for chicory coffee and fresh, hot beignets. Hannibal never fails to end up with powdered sugar all over his nose, and Will never fails to laugh at him for it before kissing it off.
  • They go on long walks through the above-ground cemeteries, reading the names and final wishes of people long gone. Hannibal stops often to touch and admire the statuaries, and to wonder aloud about the lives of the people who chose them. Will jokes that he’d shudder to think what Hannibal would choose for their joint gravesite, and Hannibal gets an odd, far-away look in his eyes before dragging him close and kissing him in a way that’s much too obscene for a churchyard.
Herb of the Week-Chicory

Common names

Blue Dandelion
Garden Chicory
Wild Chicory
Wild Succory

The plant known as the chicory, or the succory, is a member of the daisy family of plants - Asteraceae. The botanical name or the plant is Cichorium intybus L., this is a perennial herb. Chicory is native to Europe and originally grew only there, however, it has been transplanted to other places and is now found growing in wild on the side of roads as well as in fields in North America and other temperate regions of the world. The chicory herb can reach from three to more than five feet when fully grown. The plant is a very conspicuous plant because of the attractive azure blue flowers it bears in season. Roasted chicory root is used as an additive in coffee, and the plant has been cultivated in large commercial plantations in Europe for many years to meet the demands of the beverage industry. The roasted chicory root is sometimes used as a coffee substitute as well aside from its use as an additive in coffee. The leaves of the chicory plant are also in demand in markets around the world; the leaves are used in the preparation of salads and eaten raw as greens. One result of active cultivation of the chicory is the existence of many cultivated varieties of the plant. These different varieties of the chicory differ from one another mainly in the size and the texture of the leaves and the roots.

The root of the chicory is utilized in traditional European folk medicine; the root is mainly used in the role of a mild and non irritating general herbal tonic. The root was also employed as a general herbal diuretic remedy and particularly valued for its laxative effect. Traditionally, the chicory is stated to benefit the liver by protecting it from the effects of excess coffee, the chicory is also said to be a counter stimulant alleviating the deleterious effects of drinking excessive amounts of coffee. In present day Egypt, the root of the chicory is still valued as a traditional folk remedy for treating tachycardia - rapid heartbeats in a person. Chicory leaves, which have been bruised are seen as a good poultice for external complaints on the skin, and bruised chicory leaves are often applied to bring relief from local swellings and inflammation of the skin. The leaves of the chicory are additionally valued as a leafy green vegetable being relished as a vegetable dish.

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ww1tch-deactivating-deactivated  asked:

Hello again! When I asked for my dirty talk Sam/Benny thing, I hadn't realized you only (kinda) shipped it romantically! Do you think you could change it to sam/benny and flirting? I want you to be comfortable!

Alright…. for this, I’m going to go with an AU that Benny let Sam take him out of purgatory in the end of Taxi Driver and he’s been staying at the bunker because he just doesn’t fit in anywhere else.

Also, it’s kinda one sided flirting and fluff because I like seeing Sam all flustered.


“You’re outta food. I’m gonna go makin’ groceries.” Benny said after giving a light knock and leaning in the doorway to Sam’s bedroom. 

“Making… you’re what?” Sam put his book down, looking at Benny with confusion.

“Groceries… food. You needin’ anything specific?”

Sam shook his head and laughed slightly. Benny’s cajun phrasing sometimes caught him off guard.

“Um no… not really. Benny, you don’t eat.”

“But you do. You can either tell me what you want or you can bring your sweet sugar britches with and get down at the store with me.” Benny laughed roughly, his voice low and sandpapery.

Sam didn’t know if the the use of ‘sugar britches’ was another part of Benny’s mannerisms or if it was meant for Sam, but it made his face burn anyway.

“Um… yeah. Just let me get my jacket.” Sam fumbled awkwardly, cursing under his breath when he stubbed a toe on the corner of his bed on the way out of the room.


Sam could smell something good. Something sweet. It was coming from the kitchen, but Dean was sitting right next to him at the table in the war room.

“What is that?” Sam sniffed the air. Dean looked up from the map he was staring at, his pencil stopping in mid tap. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Beignets.” Benny entered the room with a plate in each hand and a bounce to his step. He set a plate full of powder covered square doughnuts in front of Dean and circled around the table to Sam.

“And for you, lagniappe.” He set the plate down. Sam had doughnuts and a little mug of creamy looking coffee on the plate.

“Hey, I didn’t get any coffee…” Dean frowned.

“You ain’t as pretty.”

Sam coughed and tried to hide the blush on his cheeks by sipping at the coffee which had a faint chicory flavor.


“You know I’ve takin’ a shine to you, right?” Benny was standing over the stove top. His back was to Sam, but he’d heard him enter the kitchen and he’d known Sam was standing there watching him for about five minutes now. People often forget he can hear that blood pumping.

“I…” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Benny grinned as he heard the increased pulse rate. He loved being the one that could fluster the boy all up.

“What are you making?” Sam settled on asking as he approached the large vampire and leaned over to smell the food.

“Shrimp etouffee and maque chou.”

“Dean’s nesting tendencies have nothing on you.”

“Coo-wee! Lil’ Cher finally givin’ up something nice for the old vampire,” Benny chuckled.

“Yeah well…” Whatever else Sam might have said was gone as he lost himself under Benny’s adoring and amused gaze again.


“Lil’ Cher!” Sam looked up, having now gotten used to Benny’s nickname for him. “Your brother’s goin’ outta town tonight. Somethin’ about yoga and a girl named Nancy.”

“Oh…” Sam closed his eyes and shook his head to get rid of the mental pictures that popped up. When he opened them again, he gasped lightly to see Benny standing mere inches from him.

“And…. Lil’ Cher…. I think tonight I’ll take care of you… if you’ll let me.” A large hand tucked a lock of Sam’s hair back behind his ear. He swallowed and looked down, hiding his eyes as the hair fell forward again.

A moment passed in silence, save for the beating of Sam’s heart. Then he looked up at Benny with a grin and, surprising the vampire, pulled him in for a kiss before he spoke.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler." 


duotoned answered: tony’s in love with steve but doesn’t tell him he just anonymously does nice things for steve bc he deserves to be happy, steve finds out

Nice things don’t happen to Steve.

It’s not something he’s got a lot of feelings about, it’s just a fact, like the sky is blue and the Cubs are lousy at baseball. His dad died when he was a kid and his mom when he was a teenager, plus he was sick on the regular. He was poor and scrawny and got beat up a lot (though that was kinda his fault). Pretty much the best things that ever happened to him were Bucky and Peggy and they’re both dead now, too. He’s just used to it is all.

So when nice stuff starts happening, he notices.

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Hannibal “I have no knowledge or ability to deal with this thing as a rational emotional adult that doesn’t involve mind fuckery and coercion” Lecter not knowing what to do whenever Will falls into a black mood after he and Will have finally settled into as close to something like an actual marriage.

With Mischa he used to sing her favorite song and play her favorite games. For Abigail they marathoned k-pop dramadies. For Chiyoh they’d just stay in mutual repressed silence until it passed. Will is…..different. Will requires more effort. Hannibal doesn’t know what he’s supposed TO DO.

So he cooks. Not the usual fair. Nothing avant grade, or baroque and ridiculous macabre. He makes humming bird cake, and sweet tea. Fries okra, and mixes andouille sausage from scratch. Stocks up on Tony Chacher’s and the GOOD Tabasco sauce from a special grocer in town. Fixes up mason jars of banana pudding with real nilla wafers that’s always somehow just the way Will Sr. used to make when ever Will was sad as a kid. Cooks dirty rice and grilled sweet corn succotash while Will grills blackened fish in the backyard. Uses the good southern bourbon for banana fosters and starts brewing chicory coffee for Will’s thermos to go with his beignets. Packs muffuletta sandwiches for his lunch, with freshed squeezed lemonade and fixes chicken fried steak for dinner.

Because Hannibal can’t do emotions -not the good anyway- but he can do food, damnit. And Hanni’s got a hell of a lot of cooking to do to make up for the bullshit he’s pulled….

A Kiss to Build A Dream On (prequel)

“Open the door,” Steve demanded, laughing into Bucky’s neck.

“You got a key, too,” Bucky reminded him, fumbling in his pocket.

“I’m drunk,” Steve said, clinging to Bucky with both spindly arms. “I’m drunk off my skinny ass.”

“You’re not that drunk,” Bucky said, obligingly holding him up with the hand not fishing for his keys. “You had what- two scotch n’ sodas?”

“Ain’t eaten all day,” Steve said. “Damn, open the goddamn door, Barnes, Jesus.”

“S'matter with you?” Bucky said, laughing as he finally got the keys out and switched the fumbling to the lock.

“I gotta piss,” Steve said, detangling himself and heading for the shared bathroom at the end of the hall. He stumbled a step before giggling and catching himself against the wall to stay upright. “Damn it, everything’s spinning.”

“Go take your leak before you get it on your shoes,” Bucky chided. “Jesus, I’ve never seen you drunk and still laughing.”

“You’re a funny man,” Steve observed, stumbling again but managing not to hit the floor. “Fix me a sandwich so I don’t get sick, okay?”

“Now who’s the wife around here?” Bucky muttered, hovering in the doorway as he watched Steve haul himself into the water closet. For once, the crack didn’t get him a middle finger, so he smiled, and when the light came on and the bathroom door clicked shut, he went inside the apartment.

He put on the coffee pot and took out the bread and the last of the smoked ham, shuffling the fixings together. He’d have to hit the store the next day so he could have a sandwich for his own lunch the coming Monday, but seeing Steve eat a whole sandwich would be worth it. The coffee pot was already percolating by the time Steve got back from the bathroom and wiped his damp hands on the towel hanging by the door.

“Best housewife ever,” Steve teased, and Bucky laughed at him, even as he angled his cheek upward and filled it full of air, laughing again when Steve hit it with a sloppy, off-center kiss before he crashed into his chair at the table.

“You’d lay me out on the floor,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “What’s got into you?”

“I don’t know,” Steve sighed. “Mm, making coffee?”

“Gotta get us both hydrated,” Bucky said, leaning back in his own chair. “Or come morning, we’ll both still be too hung over for Mass.”

“Can’t disappoint your ma,” Steve agreed.

The silence between them had always been comfortable, and Bucky took in the way Steve was running both hands through his hair, how the pomade in it was leaving it all fucked up, and how the grin on his face was somehow a fixture. Usually, drinking made Steve mean, hurt his stomach and sure as shit didn’t help his attitude, but tonight’s combo of the Dodgers winning in extra innings, a week behind and a week to go of guaranteed work, and enough cash to spare for groceries and baseball tickets and a night on the town with just the two of them, well. Steve was in a damn good mood, and that smile always made Bucky’s own light up like a Christmas tree.

Bucky leaned back from the table and flicked on the radio as Steve eyeballed his sandwich before starting to eat.

“Oh, hey,” Bucky said, glancing at the radio. “That’s that Rogers n’ Hammerstein thing, ain’t it? They still ain’t found anybody who can sing it worth a damn.”

“Mm,” Steve grunted, smiling around the sandwich as the coffee pot finally burbled to the point where Bucky got out of his chair again. “You should sing it.”

“Yeah right,” Bucky said, shoulders shaking with a laugh. “Punk.”

“You sing all right,” Steve assured him, taking another bite out of his sandwich.

“Now I know you’re drunk,” Bucky accused. “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, you said.”

“M'a liar,” Steve said, swallowing. “You makin’ coffee or decoratin’ the place?”

“Nag, nag, nag, ever since the baby came,” Bucky muttered, pushing his chair back and shoving at Steve’s head as he moved toward the kitchenette. “You sing prettier than I do, leastwise in the choir.”

“Do not,” Steve grunted, digging back into his sandwich.

“Do most things prettier than me,” Bucky taunted. “Except eat. You eat like a horse.”

Steve swallowed long enough to poke his tongue out and roll his eyes.

Bucky made the two cups of sludgy chicory coffee and put Steve’s down by his elbow before draping himself over Steve’s back. “Your stomach all right?” he asked, soft and low.

Steve made a low, pleasant noise, leaning his head back against Bucky’s shoulder. He smelled like sweat and outside, the ball park, the train, laundry soap. Bucky knew the smell of Steve at least as well as the smell of Becky, Ricky, Jack. Himself.

“Don’t eat too fast,” he admonished, hugging him lightly, and was set to pull away when Steve swallowed again and spoke.

“You’re awful handsy when you’re drinking, Barnes,” Steve noted, turning and giving his cheek a dry kiss. “Give a fella ideas.”

Bucky blushed. “M'fond of you, a'right? Let a fella be fond of you. Punk.”

Steve moved quick, real quick, a lot quicker than he had on the landing, and both his arms were around Bucky’s waist about as soon as the two of them were upright. “Fond of me, huh?”

“Steve,” Bucky said, looking into those bright, mischievous blue eyes. “How drunk are you?”

“Not that drunk,” Steve assured him, and his eyes looked focused. He wasn’t stumbling, anymore, either, just pressed right up against him, one slim hand fisted in the back of Bucky’s shirt. “How drunk are you?”

“Just enough to be happy,” Bucky murmured, trying to pull his eyes off Steve’s mouth and failing. “What’re you doing, Rogers?”

“Hell if I know,” Steve returned, pressing up on his toes. “Come on down here.”

It was sloppy and warm, chicory coffee and the barest hint of ham on rye, and if it wasn’t the first time they’d kissed each other, it was the first time they’d done it as grown adults. Steve’s tongue was just as wicked in Bucky’s mouth as in a street fight, and by the time he’d figured out how his hands were moving, one was on Steve’s ass and the other was in his hair. Steve had him by the necktie and the back of his belt, and was pinning him to the partial wall that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the studio.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered.

“Nah,” Steve retorted, smirking. “Ain’t that drunk.”

“Ass,” Bucky accused, his own mouth starting to curve in a smile.

“S'where your hand is,” Steve confirmed. “You’re real eloquent, Irish.”

“Oh my Christ,” Bucky laughed. “Shut up.”

Laughing, Steve pushed back up on his toes, and this time there was tongue, and Bucky felt like everything was on fire and burning down. He hit the lightswitch and the lock without letting Steve’s tongue leave his mouth, and they sank to the floor in a tangle of limbs and roaming hands.

“You’re too damn tall,” Steve muttered. “Gotta climb you like a tree.”

“Do it,” Bucky urged. “Wrap your legs ‘round me n’shimmy, you think I’m gonna complain?”

“Jerk,” Steve accused, pulling Bucky into a hunch by his suspenders and thrusting his tongue into his mouth.

Bucky vaguely thought Steve had gotten better at kissing since the last time they’d tried it, and the idea of him practicing with anybody else made an irrational coil of jealousy spring up in his belly. He listened to it, though, and that was the only explanation he had for how they both ended up shirtless and straining against each other on the floor at the foot of his bed, across the whole apartment from where they started.

It was Steve, Bucky remembered, Steve and not him, who went for their belts first. Steve whose deft fingers made short work of the leather at Bucky’s waist, whipped it loose from Bucky’s trousers and dumped it with a quiet clatter on the floor. Steve’s fingers pulled the button free, Steve’s fingers yanked his pants down over his hips, Steve’s fingers curled around Bucky’s cock through his boxers and stroked it, nimble and steady and sure.

“Mother of God,” Bucky moaned into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve headbutted Bucky’s.

“Hush,” he warned. “You wanna get us both arrested?”

“Steve,” Bucky hissed. “Steve, Steve, Steve-”

He meant to say something else, he meant to be sweet, but he was too busy being surprised and the admission that he’d wanted this since he’d known what wanting was warred with his usual need to talk himself through a fuck and cut off his eloquence somewhere low in his throat.

“Steve,” he whispered, trying not to whine as Steve’s tongue lathed his Adam’s apple and Steve’s fingers pumped his cock better than he knew how to do it himself. “Steve, goddamn it-”

“Shut up,” Steve told him, and cemented it by slamming his mouth over Bucky’s so hard Bucky’s head made contact with the wall under the window sill, and Bucky laughed into the kiss, which made Steve laugh, even as he squeezed Bucky’s cock.

“Where’s the fire?” Bucky asked against Steve’s mouth, and smirked himself when he managed to get his own hand on Steve’s cock through his trousers. “Come on, let me.”

“Jerk,” Steve muttered, his face flushed, eyes rolling back in his head, and Bucky fought Steve’s hand off his dick before he pulled Steve into his lap. He had his tongue in Steve’s mouth before he had a hand in his pants, and Steve moaned so soft and pretty it made Bucky’s whole body tingle.

He’d tried it, sure, once or twice when he was short of cash, of course he had, didn’t want to think how many times Steve had done it, not right now when he was feeling real romantic and wanted shit to be special. Special, because Steve was special, because Steve deserved to be special. Bucky only paused in kissing him long enough to lick his palm damp, which Steve watched with bleary eyes, and then he was stroking Steve off in his lap, kissing his mouth and his neck, watching his face as it went pink all the way down to his nipples. Steve was so pretty, even his dick was pretty, warm and smooth in Bucky’s hand, and Steve’s ass tightened on Bucky’s thigh when he started thrusting into it, his hand grabbing a handful of Bucky’s hair right at the base of his neck.

“Bucky,” Steve panted, eyes open, and Bucky smiled at that. “Bucky. Buck.

“Just me,” Bucky confirmed, teasing Steve’s foreskin with the pad of his thumb. “Come on, thatta boy. Didn’t think I was just gonna let you get me and not get you back, did you?”

Steve rolled his eyes, mouth open and gasping, and Bucky measured his breaths, measured the motions of his hips, the way his eyes stayed rolled and his tongue pulsed until it nearly hung out of his mouth, and he’d seen Steve sick, beat up, bleeding, vomiting and, once or twice, even crying, but he’d always looked like he was holding back, just a little bit.

Steve coming, though. Steve coming was Steve gone. Out of his damned mind, and wasn’t that pretty?

Bucky said so.

“You go right on and lose it,” he purred. “Lose your goddamn head, I got you. Come on, Rogers, let go, I’ve got you. Damn, that looks nice. You look so good. You’re so pretty when you come, goddamn, never seen nothin’ so pretty.”

“Bucky,” Steve whimpered. “Oh, Jesus, Buck-”

Warm, Buck thought. Warm, wet and messy, dribbling over his fingers and Steve’s kisses turned bitey and vicious.

“You jerk,” Steve growled, shoving at Bucky’s hand as soon as his cock had stopped twitching. “Pretty? I’ll pretty your damn face, you-”

Bucky pushed Steve back with one hand, then casually licked Steve’s come off the back of the other, effectively silencing him. Steve stared, his eyes wide, cheeks pink, as Bucky looked him dead in the eye and finished cleaning up with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

“You were sayin’?” Bucky drawled, licking his lips.

Steve swallowed thickly, and Bucky felt kind of cocky for a minute. It didn’t last. Steve was quicker than a rattlesnake, and his own dick was practically screaming for how hard it was, so the kiss over Bucky’s heart and the next to the middle of his stomach wasn’t nearly warning enough before Steve’s smart mouth engulfed it to the base.

“Christ!” Bucky yelped.

Starving wasn’t the right word. Like it was his job didn’t cover the amount of enthusiasm. Steve was ravenous. It wasn’t artful or sweet or subtle, it was just Steve’s hot, wet, voracious mouth, all undulating tongue and seamlessly open throat, with low, insistent noises vibrating all along his length and Steve’s soft, messy hair brushing against his stomach.

“Goddamn, baby,” Bucky panted. “Goddamn. Holy- Holy goddamn, ease up, ease up, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“You’re a jerk,” Steve hissed, digging his fingertips into Bucky’s thighs. “You’re a goddamn jerk. I wanted you so bad and-”

“And you’ve got me,” Bucky answered, running his fingers through Steve’s hair. “You got me, so slow down before you swallow it, damn. M'kinda attached.”

Steve drew in a deep breath as Bucky’s fingers kneaded at his scalp. He nuzzled into it. Bucky squirmed down from where he was sitting to give Steve room to work, to get his belly out of the way, and Steve pulled Bucky’s pants down a little farther and let those perfect fingers cup and stroke and caress his balls as he took him in again, slower this time, slower and sweeter, and Bucky watched him as he moved in the low light as it streamed in past the curtains.

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, watching those cheeks hollow out, the thick lashes come to rest on those perfect, high cheekbones. “Oh, Steve. Damn, that’s-”

Pretty, oh baby, you’re so pretty, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, oh, Steve, Stevie-

“That’s good, that’s so good, that’s real nice, mm.”

Bucky’s brows knit together and he smiled as he closed his eyes, ticking his hips upward when Steve pulled on them. He wasn’t even surprised when Steve adjusted his petting fingers into a fist at the back of his head.

“Move your hips,” Steve told him, speaking against the head of his dick, full lips rubbing against it, against his retracted foreskin, fingers cupping his balls, kneading his thighs. “Move your hips, Buck, put it in my throat.”

“Okay,” Bucky murmured dreamily. “Okay, Steve. Whatever you want.”

From the hum and the way he smirked, Bucky could tell Steve liked that. His tongue was flat and warm and wet and perfect as it dragged all the way across the head of Bucky’s dick, the tongue stopping to flicker against his frenulum before Steve swallowed him again.

“Goddamn, Steve,” Bucky sighed.. “Oh, Mary n'Joseph, you’re amazing. You’re so goddamn good. Never in my life, goddamn.”

He thought Steve was gagging, and started to slow down, but got his hip smacked and realized that no, he wasn’t gagging, he was gulping, swallowing everything that didn’t fit, pumping his tongue against the bottom of Bucky’s dick and rippling his throat open and closed around the head, and some vague idea for a joke about how his other medium besides illustration was obviously fellatio crossed his mind but no, no, he wasn’t going to make jokes right this minute, he had to know his audience and right now Steve was not amused, he was focused, he was intent, and that was flattering as all Hell.

“You want it?” Bucky asked, and Steve hummed emphatically. “You want it? 'Cause m'close, Steve, m'so close, I’m gonna-”

“Gimme,” Steve commanded, before taking him all the way down again, and Bucky could still hear the rasping command in his ears when he came a minute later.

Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Bucky whined, dragging Steve up and kissing him, tasting himself in Steve’s mouth. “How are you so good? You ain’t fair.”

Steve, dizzy and looking more drunk than before, stared at him, his lips swollen, eyes bleary. “The Hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Goddamn it, Rogers,” Bucky huffed, kissing him again, and again, until Steve’s brow unfurrowed and he was laughing. “M'tired now. You fuckin' vampire.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve retorted weakly, ducking toward his shoulder when Bucky pulled him up as he got to his feet, then carried him to his own bed and dropped him on the springless mattress.

“Shove over,” Bucky ordered. Steve did, ducking his head and smiling still, especially when Bucky flung an arm around his waist. “You’re such a goddamn brat.”

“Me?” Steve shoved at his shoulder. “Me. I’m a brat.”

“You’re a goddamned menace, is what you are,” Bucky said, kissing his temple. “Mouth like that and all you use it for is startin’ fights. I can’t believe you.”

Steve laughed in surprise, falling quiet when Bucky pulled his face into his neck. “You sleepin’ with me?”

“Damn right I am,” Bucky said, his own arms around Steve’s waist, nose in his hair. “Deal with it.”

“All right,” Steve murmured softly, arms folded over his own chest. “All right, Buck.”

“Mother of God,” Bucky yawned. “You’re something else. Goodnight.”