tender rose

thewesternredcedar  asked:

A birthday that doesn't go as expected

Thanks for the prompt, my dear!  Here you go, @thewesternredcedar.  I hope you like this bit of nonsense.  xo

Summary:  It’s Jack’s surprise 30th birthday party, and the suit on his bed isn’t the only one everyone is going to see him wearing that day.  Also on AO3

Crisse de calice!” Jack yelled as Bitty ran behind him and begged him to stop.

“Happy birthday!” the crowd screamed when Jack entered the living room, and then immediately the cries died as everyone got one giant eyeful of Jack Laurent Zimmermann, naked as the day he was born.

That… was not how Jack expected his birthday to go that morning when he woke up.

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How They Kiss (Tara’s Romanced BioWare Companions Edition)

Alistair’s kisses are infused with wonder and gratitude and, under it all, the promise of heat, like a banked fire that only needs tinder to flare up into an enthusiastic bonfire. His lips are tender, soft as rose petals against the corner of a mouth, an eyelid, the curve of a brow. Capturing lips is a promise, a certainty, and with that certainty comes strength. His arms are strong and his heart open, a gift freely offered.

When Fenris kisses, it’s because he chooses it. He gives because he can; his mouth is his, his life is his. His kisses are heady, full of coiled strength, and yet there’s vulnerability in them, too, like a touch of honey in a fine wine; a gift of unexpected sweetness. Sometimes he smiles–that small smile, that Fenris smile, the smile like he has a secret he wants to share–as he curves his mouth against his lover’s and thinks I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours without having the words tainted by the memory of servitude. What freedom, what freedom there is in that.

Sometimes Sebastian kisses gently, tenderly, prayerfully–the kiss of a priest, the kiss of a penitent. Other times, his kisses are deep, wild, filled with passion and yearning. Mostly, though, his wild kisses are tempered with devotion, with love, with the certainty that sharing is more satisfying than taking (all his kisses used to take without giving, but that was a different time and he a different man). He kisses like a man who’s lost families, whose faith has wavered, but who still seeks salvation, and who knows home is found in his lover’s arms.

Isabela kisses like she drinks, with gusto and enthusiasm. Her mouth is vibrant, talented; it is easy to drown against Isabela’s lips, easy to drink of her and feel tipsy with need. Her mouth never lingers overlong. Later, though, curled against a lover she thinks is sleeping, her full lips find the nape of a neck, a bare shoulder and these are softer kisses, tenderer ones, the kind of kisses she cannot yet give on waking. Someday, perhaps. Someday.

Cullen’s kisses are prayers, sometimes grateful, sometimes pleading, sometimes reverent. He transports and is transported, and once he begins he does not hold back. He does not kiss without using his hands–as lips find lips, his hands cup a face, trail down a back, curve around a waist. His hands tell him this is real, is not a dream, that the mouth curving against his mouth will not vanish if he opens his eyes. He is himself when he kisses, not the collection of roles and titles and pieces of armor he has amassed. He is Cullen, hope and faith and fresh air rippling a secluded lake and the gift of a lover’s hand enfolded so gently in his own.

Garrus may not have pliable human lips, but he kisses in a hundred thousand other ways that can never be mistaken for anything but what they are. The brush of his hand against the small of a back, the linger of fingers as he hands over a cleaned weapon, the butt of one companionable shoulder against another, the exchange of banter. His kisses are the brief flutter of mandible against cheek, or the more lingering press of brow to brow. His turian mouth may not purse the way his lover’s does, but that does not stop him from trying. No one, no one kissed by Garrus Vakarian, could ever find that mouth lacking.

Damen is like… 2 seconds away from getting punched in the face.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST AU BECAUSE IT’S PERFECT. Except I guess Damen is more like Gaston rather than Belle lmao. Shows up to a the castle to slay the beast, but didn’t expect the beast to start talking (or be wearing clothes tbh). Meanwhile, Nicaise and Co. (who have been turned into various furniture/objects) are like LAURENT THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO BREAK THE CURSE GO WOO THIS MAN.

I was gonna write fic of this, but I am le laze.


Inamorata by Tanja Moss

Peach Galette with Honey Vanilla Pistachio Brittle & Cardamom Rose Whipped Cream.

Last summer, when peaches were at their peak, I decided to dive headfirst into the sweetest flavors I knew: Peach with rose, cardamom, honey, vanilla, and pistachio. I played with texture and scent: The heady aphrodisiac of vanilla bean, spicy cardamom, tender rose, and mellow, grounded pistachio. This galette is my dream playground of flavor and edible perfume.

I couldn’t resist sharing it again this year—the perfect jumping off point for all your stone-fruit galettes, flavored whipped creams, and nutty brittles. Remember, too, that your farmers market is the perfect place to bond with your local fruit farmer. Not only will they help acquaint you with the stunning varietals of stone fruits now in season, they also often sell “pie bags” or fruit that’s slightly bruised and best for baking. To me this is basically mecca. I love loading up on pie bags—either for baking or jamming—throughout the season.

Get the recipe and awaken your inner summer fruit synesthete right here.