#rolled in cornmeal

[hauntinghope]

SPELT AND CORNMEAL ROLLS

[saudad3]

Daddy was a rolling stone

Smoke x Reader Word Count: 1,908 Summary: Baby Daddy! Smoke returns to the Mississippi Delta with two things hot on his mind -- his woman and his baby. Let's just say, all he was met with was a purse to the face. Genre: two parts angst, one part fluff!! enjoy

Part. II

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

“I hope you rot in hell, Elijah Moore,” you spat in the man’s direction before turning on your heels and beelining it out of the bustling grocery store. Your face was hot with embarrassment as you made an honest attempt to compose yourself, smoothing over your white church dress and gripping your purse in front of your thighs. 

Here you were, thinking that after listening to your daddy’s sermon at church this morning, you’d simply stop in town to pick up some additional ingredients for Sunday dinner – red snapper for daddy, some collard greens for you, and cornmeal for your mama’s famous cornbread. 

Sunday was your favorite day of the week. The house was filled with the busy chatter of aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins playing in the yard, and your mama yelling at them to “quit that rough playin’!” through the kitchen window. On these occasions, you could be seen in the living room with your sisters and girl cousins gushing and cooing over your one-year-old baby girl, Elisabeth. 

Unbeknownst to you, you would be thrown off course when met face to face with the father of your baby girl, whom you had presumed dead sixteen months ago – Elijah “Smoke” Moore. 

Ever unchanging, Smoke’s serious aura and towering figure announced himself to the market before his low, southern drawl could. Everywhere Smoke walked, he turned heads in fear. Murmurs of infamous heists and crimes follow closely behind. 

You turned your head with everybody, face heating up as your eyes met his. 

You’re supposed to be dead.  You thought, head whirring with a myriad of thoughts, none of them particularly kind to you. Then, came the fury.

Screw Sunday dinner. 

You quickly placed the products you had stored in your basket back on the shelves before scanning the grocery store for an exit. All the while, Smoke makes his way through the crowd to you. You sped towards the glass door separating you from the outside world before stopping in your tracks at the call of your name. 

“Stop runnin’ away from me.” Smoke called out to you, earning some more disapproving stares from the aunties looking over produce.

You didn’t feel bad for damning Smoke to hell. Gosh, he deserved it. 

Smoke disappeared without a word two months before your pregnancy due date, making you give birth alone. You had been raising your baby girl with only the help of your family, which you were so thankful for. But nothing could cure the sting of being scorned by your former lover, who, by the looks of it, believed he could just come waltzing back into your life, demanding to play father and husband. 

You think the fuck not!

--

When you told Smoke that you missed your menstrual for the fifth week in a row, you expected the notorious gangster to be pissed. You mustered up the courage you could to include him in your pregnancy, telling him you were gonna keep this baby regardless of whether he was in your life or not. Instead of the expected rejection, the goofiest smile you’d ever seen plastered across Smoke’s face, and he dropped to his knees, peppering the smallest kisses onto your belly. 

That night, he promised you he’d be the father to his baby that his father never could be to the twins. He professed his love to you in confidence, declaring you his woman between the plush sheets of your bed.

His future wife. 

And for eight months, he kept this act up. He delegated most of the dangerous, dirty work of the Smokestack twins to his baby brother Stack, freed up his schedule to wait on you hand and foot, and even asked your father for permission to propose. 

Your sister giggled like a schoolgirl as she watched from between the stair bannisters. Smoke in his Sunday’s best, sat across the stern gaze of your father, adjusting his blue tie ever so often, and sweating in the cool air of the winter from nervousness. When your sister burst into your room, her infectious giggle let you know that Smoke was able to seal the deal with your father, and you two would soon be officially engaged. 

Two weeks later, he was gone.

He’d booked it up to Chicago with Stack, following promises of big money and “good work.” What followed for you was a maddening silence. 

Not a single letter or a telephone call throughout his absence made you convince yourself that he was dead. Maybe, he'd been caught up in the wrath of an Italian mobster from the dirty slums of Chicago. You mourned Smoke and his brother, Stack, whom you learned to love as your own. You halted your life for months, barely going outside, consumed by grief and the care of your new baby. During the nights, while your sister nursed and cared for baby Elisabeth, your mother soothed you from nightmarish visions of Smoke’s stiff body, bloody and bruised, drifting down the river. 

And now, sixteen months later, he’s returned to the Mississippi Delta – alive and well. In a perfectly tailored, expensive tweed suit that fit his strong figure, and chasing you out of the market and into the hot summer sun. 

“You needa stop followin’ me if you know what’s good for you Smoke.” 

No one dared talk to the Smokestack twins in such a brazen manner, but you were feeling mighty bold today. Anger rumbled in your chest as you took long, brisk steps out of the town square and onto the back road that led to your family’s plot of land. Trees stretched down the sides of the dirt road for what seemed like miles before you.

“You needa stop walkin away and tell me why you runnin’ from me,” Smoke addressed you seriously, grabbing your hand and forcing you to turn his way. His face was hardened with frustration, his nostrils flared with each breath.

Before your mouth could react, your body did, and before you knew it, your white handbag connected with the side of Smoke’s temple. 

“Who are you to touch me?” you shouted, landing a few more blows to Smoke's shoulder and torso. Your knuckles turned pale from how strongly you gripped your purse.

“What the fuck-” Smoke attempted to grab your hand and block you from attempting another swing, forcing you to looking up into his cold, chocolate eyes. You immediately softened and whipped your arm away from his large, calloused hands

No one attempted to harm the Smokestack brothers and got away scot free.

You licked your lips, suddenly feeling a bit bashful under the hardened gaze of your former lover, averting your eyes to anything but him.

“What are you doin’ here anyway?” you mustered out, suddenly more interested in weed across the way than the vision of your handsome ex-fiance. 

“I came to see you,” He took a slow step in your direction, keeping his hands at his sides. “I’ve come home.”

“You lost your damn mind if you think you gotta home here,” you chuckled dryly, looked at him in disbelief, before attempting to move past him.  

You ignored the way his familiar southern drawl ignited a certain fire within your stomach, one that ain't been tended to in months. You had to keep strong. Your baby was being raised without a loving father in her life, and you wasn’t gonna let him walk in and out of your life when he was chasing a thrill of looking for a quick fuck. 

“I want to see my baby girl,” Smoke started, stopping you in your tracks once again. 

“How you know she's a girl?” You whipped around, face morphed in pure confusion.

The corner of Smoke’s mouth tugged into a small smile, the glint of his gold fangs sparking in the sun. “I figured I’d pay the Rev a visit this mornin'. Had some sins I needed forgiven and whatnot.” 

You cursed your father for being the pushover he was, always giving words of god to those who you don't believe deserve it. You rolled your eyes before Smoke started again. 

“He told me how much I hurt you, darlin’. How you been taking care of our baby girl by yourself while I been away.”  Smoke’s eyes filled with sorrow as he pulled your smaller frame into his. He breathed in your scent as if it were the only source of air for his lungs and he hugged you so tightly, you threatened to pop. You bit your lip to stop hot tears from falling from your eyes, but did not hug back. “I missed you so damn much, baby.”

Smoke was alright with that. Just as long as he had his woman in his arms again.

– 

You allowed Smoke to walk you home just before the afternoon sun scorched you both. You allowed him to hold you for a few more minutes on the front porch before you invited him in. You allowed him to sit stiffly in the living room of your home, blazing under the unapproving gaze of your youngest siblings, before dismissing them to their rooms. 

“Do you wanna meet her?” You asked meekly, standing at the foot of your stairs. He nodded eagerly at the question, almost stumbling to his feet. He wiped his hand on his suit pants before rushing to the stairs, careful not to ambush you.

In your bedroom, on a small cot next to your bed, lay Elisabeth, sleeping peacefully, with a blue rabbit snuggled up to her slowly rising chest. She still had on her frilly white dress from church this morning and dark, soft curls brushing over her chubby cheeks. She was a splitting image of her father in looks, but you were thankful she at least had your lips and nose. 

You watched as Smoke entered the room carefully, trying his best not the make a noise or disturb the child's sleep. You bit back a laugh as he looked at you awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. This image of him was a sight to behold. Rarely was Smoke ever unsure of himself.

‘Elisabeth,” you cooed the child awake, earning a small huff from the child and her turning her back from you.

That attitude must have been from Stack. 

“Elisabeth, you have a special visitor,” You laughed at your baby girl, who wiped her tired eyes and immediately attempted to bury herself in your arms, arms wrapping around your neck. “C’mon Elisabth, that’s not polite.”

Smoke stood in the entryway of the room, brimming with pride. He let you take the reins of the interaction, but you could tell he wanted so badly to hold his baby girl. You motioned him to come closer before passing Elisabeth into his arms. 

God, he couldn’t contain his joy. Elisabeth practically melted into her father’s arms, letting out a small yawn. He scanned her beautiful features, imprinting them into his mind for all of eternity. 

Little did you know, he had been looking forward to this day for sixteen months. 487 days passed without being able to contact his woman on account of the dangerous jobs he was taking with the Irish mob.

487 days passed with nothing to think about but what you were doing, how you felt, who you could take comfort in while he was away. 

487 days passed without being able to touch and feel his beautiful baby girl and his precious wife. 

“Papa’s here,” Smoke whispered into your daughter’s ear. “Don't worry. Papa’s here.” 

You felt a beat in your chest of satisfaction, maybe something a bit sweeter than that. You touched your cheeks as hot, slow tears escaped the corners of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks.

You allowed Smoke to stay for dinner that night, allowing him to hold her baby girl for hours without end. Maybe, after the sun went down, he would have the chance to hold you as well.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

Hello guys! Had this idea all weekend and wrote some paragraphs down whilst I was on a weekend trip. Saw sinners again, and gosh, do I love the twins. Anywhosits, this was supposed to be a drabble, but ended up almost 2000 words, so hope you enjoy! Also, if you have any fic ideas or wanna talk about sinners, my inbox is open bbies.

[bi-writes]

thinking about mob baking simon a cake for his birthday (without his prior knowledge) mm good soup

mail-order bride

"you think he likes chocolate, baby?" you ask the cats. they sit side-by-side at the breakfast counter, being good girls as they sit on their chairs and watch you mix batter. "he totally likes chocolate. big boys like daddy love chocolate, don't they, girls?"

you grease two circular pans, pouring the chocolate cake batter into them. you set them in the oven before getting to work on your chocolate buttercream. you're using the new mixer simon bought you--it's beautiful, stainless steel, heavy. when you saw in the store a few weeks ago, you gushed at it, telling simon you saw someone make cinnamon rolls, bread, cakes, all in this mixer, but when your eyes skimmed over the price, you said nothing more, just smiled up at simon and let him lead you over to where the cast iron pans were (you wanted a real one).

a few weeks later, you noticed it on the kitchen counter. sparkling silver, right there, with the whisk attachment on it just waiting for you. and in the cupboard, ingredients--bread flour, powdered sugar, cornmeal, corn starch, dutch process, baking chocolate, whole wheat flour--all for you to play with. and when you baked him the most decadent triple chocolate coffee cake he had ever had, he bent you over the same table his empty plate sat and ate your cunt out with your apron still on. when you kissed him afterwards, he still tasted like chocolate.

you turn off the mixer, reaching in with a spoon to lick the buttercream off of it. you hum with delight, setting it aside, and when the oven timer dings, you pull the cakes out to let them cool.

you wrap simon's present as everything settles. special order, a favor you called into johnny. it's in a nice wooden box, and you tie a big red bow on it, and when you go back into the kitchen, you level and stack the two pieces of cake between buttercream and use a spoon to make a fancy decoration over the top of it.

the front door sounds as you're putting the finishing touches on the cake. you can hear him coming closer, and you gasp.

"no, no, no, don't come in the kitchen yet!"

"wot?"

"just--wait a little bit in the living room, okay?"

"for wot?"

"simon--" you groan. "please? for me?"

you don't hear anything after that except for the tv turning on. when you finish putting the last candles on the cake, you light them, picking up the plate and coming into the living room.

simon looks surprised. he was concentrating hard on the tv, watching the game, but his face relaxes when he sees you holding the cake. the cats perk up from where they're laid down beside him, and their ears flit as you start to sing happy birthday.

his whole face twitches. he stiffens, his palms flat on his thighs as he grips them tight. you set down the cake on the coffee table in front of him, candles glowing as you take a seat next to him. he's still staring at the cake as you finish the song.

"happy birthday, dear simon...happy birthday to you."

you smile at him, wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it gently. you kiss his shoulder before motioning to the cake.

"you can blow them out now, simon," you say softly. "make a wish."

he doesn't move. he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixated on the flickering candles. you reach down and take his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers and hugging his arm. you sit with him quietly, looking at the cake with him, and after a minute or so, you turn back at him.

"simon?" you whisper.

he's crying. you put a hand on the back of his head, scratching his short hair, and you cup his face gently as you wipe his tears. he's silent. the tears come, but he still doesn't move, still won't meet your eyes. you smile, going over to pick up the cake, and you hold it in front of him.

"here...make a wish, simon," you say softly. he picks up his sleeve and wipes his face, leaning over to blow out the candles. you put down the cake, standing up to go get his gift sitting on the kitchen table. when you sit down next to him again, he's still staring at the cake, still trying to pretend his face isn't wet with tears, but he stops wiping them when you place the box in his lap.

he unravels the bow. when he opens the case, he lets out a little chuckle, smoothing his hand over the foam inside.

there are an array of throwing knives laid before him. perfectly crafted, in different shapes and sizes, and when he picks one up and twirls it around between his fingers, the weight of them and the ease at which they move tells him you only picked out the finest quality. they're beautiful, and it's a thoughtful gift, and when he closes the lid on the box, he still can't meet your eyes.

"i'll cut us some cake," you say softly. you busy yourself getting plates and a cake knife from the kitchen, cutting generous slices before handing him one of the plates. he picks up the fork, and when you notice his hand shakes, you take the plate back from him gently and scoop a bite onto the fork for him. you don't say anything, just hold it up to his mouth, and once he takes a bite, you set the plate down and watch as he chews.

when he swallows, you sit again in silence. you reach over and take simon's hands in your own, squeezing them gently before bringing them up to your mouth to kiss softly. when he finally looks at you, all you do is smile.

he hadn't even remembered it was birthday. he never told you when it was, but he supposes you must have been curious enough to look for yourself. he can't remember the last time someone made him cake. he can't remember when he last received a gift, especially one like this. he doesn't know when he last thought himself happy enough to celebrate anything at all, but there is no other way he would've wanted today to go.

joy. you bring uninhibited, unfiltered, all-consuming joy. the way you're smiling at him--he can already see you in the kitchen in that apron, baking this cake, talking to no one but the cats as you carefully decorate it. the way you're looking at him--he knows you dreamed about this all week, scheduling the day so you could have the cake done as soon as he got home.

and chocolate. his favorite. decadent, sweet chocolate--it's still under his tongue, and he wants another bite already, he cannot wait to devour the slice that waits for him on the table.

"happy birthday, simon," you whisper, and when you lean in to hug him, he cradles the back of your head, tangling a hand into your hair as he presses you to his chest. "i love you."

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck--

"love you, too, baby."

"what did you wish for?" you mumble into his shoulder. simon snorts a little, shaking his head.

"if i tell ya, it won't come true."

"oh, yeah," you giggle. "keep your secrets then."

he doesn't want more; the only thing he wishes for is more time. more time with you. as much as he can get. to live long enough that he gets to see your face for as long as possible.

that whatever he sees for the last time will be you and you only.

[teamd85]

Recipe for Hot Water Cornmeal Bread If you like to bake in bulk, this recipe is for you. A small amount of cornmeal soaked in hot water turns to mush, which is incorporated with molasses and standard yeast bread ingredients to make several loaves of bread and quite a few dinner rolls.

[punnyartist]

Pizza dust art

I work part time at Dominos and during my weekend shifts, I sometimes have long periods where no one orders anything. Usually during these times if I’m not told to do something else, I get bored and start making pim or sometimes charlie out of the cornmeal dust we roll the dough in

I made these probably a month ago at this point. Pim turned out weirdly good here (he took probably around 20-30 ish minutes, charlie took 5 only bc an order finally came)

[sammyquarius]

The JukeJoint

Note: This is part 2 of Beneath the Mississippi. Enjoy

Part 1:

Clarksdale, Mississippi – That Night

The juke joint pulsed with life.

It was loud, packed, and hazy with the sweat of laughter, fried food, and cheap perfume. The sound of blues guitar slid through the air like smoke low, slow, aching. Folks crowded into the small wooden building, their bodies swaying to the music like the whole place was holding its breath and remembering how to breathe all at once.

In the back kitchen, Annie moved like she never left.

Her hands seasoned meat like a memory. Cornmeal battered catfish cracked in hot oil. Steam rose from pots and pans like the past boiling over, and every now and then, she’d glance through the small order window and see Smoke moving through the crowd like a shadow with too much weight on his shoulders.

He hadn’t said much since she agreed to cook. Just gave her that same quiet look, like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

But Annie was real—and so was the attention she drew.

Out in the joint, a tall, caramel-skinned man in suspenders leaned on the bar beside her serving window, watching her with a little too much interest and an easy smile.

“Girl, if I’d known heaven was back in town, I would’ve set up a welcome parade,” he said loud enough for Smoke to hear.

Annie rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding the smirk. “Get outta here, Leon,” she called, her tone dry.

“I’m just sayin’, if you cook like that and look like that, Smoke better watch his step.”

Smoke stiffened across the room, glass halfway to his lips. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack the glass if he wasn't careful. Stack saw it right away.

“Oh hell,” Stack muttered, grinning behind his cigarette. “Here come the thunder.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He just kept watching, eyes locked on Annie and the man grinning at her like he had a shot in hell.

Stack nudged his girl Mary beside him. “Better go keep my fool brother from blowing a gasket. You know how he gets.”

Mary arched one perfectly plucked brow, her pink lips twitching with amusement. “He better not say a damn word unless he wants her to walk out again.”

Stack smirked. “I’m just here for the drama. And the hushpuppies.”

Mary smacked his chest and moved toward Annie.

Back in the kitchen, Annie felt the shift before she saw him. Smoke stepped through the swinging door like a storm rolling in off the delta.

“You enjoying the attention?” he asked low, trying like hell to sound casual and failing miserably.

Annie didn’t turn around. “I’m cooking, Smoke. Not auditioning for a man.”

“You didn’t shut it down either.”

That got her to spin around, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

Smoke took a step closer. “He was flirting.”

“And?”

“I don’t like it.”

Annie laughed. It wasn’t kind. “You don’t get to like or not like anything, Smoke. You gave that up when you walked away.”

He winced like she’d hit him. Maybe she had.

Before things could go further, Mary stepped in, cool and collected, like she’d been watching from the shadows. “Okay, y’all need to cool it before somebody gets burned,” she said, slipping off her gloves and tying on an apron. “I came to help. Lord knows Stack ain’t doing nothin’ but talking loud and looking pretty.”

Annie’s lips twitched. “You sure you want to be back here with us broken folk?”

Mary shrugged, eyes soft but tired. “Stack and I fight more than we don’t some days. He says he’s tryin’ to protect me, but half the time it just feels like he’s pushin’ me away. Like lovin’ me out loud is something he’s afraid of.” She glanced at Annie, her voice steady. “But I stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when he makes me question if I should.”

Annie blinked, surprised by the rawness in her words.

“We all got our fights,” Mary said gently. “Yours just came back wearing boots and regrets.”

She glanced at Smoke, then gave Annie a quiet nod of sisterhood. “Don’t let the past boss your present. You want to cuss him out, do it. You want to feed him? Do that too. But make sure it’s what you want.”

Smoke stood there, silent, watching the two women find something he couldn’t touch. Something he didn’t have anymore. Not yet.

Stack poked his head in, grinning. “Y’all done? Or should I send for the church elders?”

“Boy, get outta here,” Mary snapped.

“Just making sure nobody’s bleeding.”

Smoke turned to leave, the scent of fried catfish and hard truths thick in the air.

Annie watched him go, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Hell, she didn’t know what would happen in the next five minutes. But she had her apron on, her hands full, and Mary beside her.

And for now, that was enough.

Gonna start working on part 3!

Note: For more content follow me on https://www.tumblr.com/sammyquarius

[luveline]

if you're still taking them I would love to make a request for Eddie and Roan! do you know how sometimes little kids will call their parents workplace just to talk about the most random things or just ask some totally super important question? I feel like roan would do that with the reader and Eddie

thank you for your request!! eddie and roan —roan learns how to use the phone, 1.3k

Eddie used to feel nervous when the phone rang for him at work. "Call for baby Munson!" shouted across the shop while Eddie was usually flat on his back under a truck or elbow deep in a scooter engine, he'd get this pit in his stomach thinking something was wrong. 

It was usually daycare. Roan's sick, Roan's wet herself and her spare clothes aren't here, is Roan allergic to veggie sticks? Because she's saying she is. 

But nowadays, a phone rings for him and it's almost always you with something nice to say. You miss him. You've been thinking about him. All manner of gooey soft confession that has him clutching the phone like a loser, desperate for your voice. 

He springs away from his lunch when he's called. Darwin gives Eddie a funny look as he passes the phone. 

Eddie shrugs it off. "Hello?" he asks. "Y/N?"

"It's me!" 

Eddie feels his eyebrows leap up. "Hi, me." Roan hadn't ever used the phone unassisted, to his memory. "Where's mom?" 

"She's trying to fix your hair dryer." 

Eddie hears it, then, the roaring blow in the background. "Why does it sound like that?" 

"She dropped it. I think she's sad." 

"Ro, I fixed it!" you shout, followed by an even louder howling of air, and a heavy silence. "Okay, I didn't." 

"Is that why you called me?" Eddie asks, bemused.

"No, I called you because I want to know how they make corndogs. How do they get the hot dog inside of the corn, dad?" 

Eddie puts his hand on the wall to steady himself as he laughs. "You wanna know how they make corndogs? Are you gonna make some?" 

"I could if I knew how!" she stresses. "I'd ask mom, but she's pre-oc-u-pied."

"That's a big word, babe, where'd you learn that one?" Eddie asks, impressed. 

"Dad, corndogs!" 

"Right, right. Okay, well. They put the hot dog on the stick first, and then the corn part is actually batter. They roll the hotdog around in the batter and cook them together in the fryer. So it isn't the hotdog going into the corn, it's actually corn going on the hotdog." 

"Batter like for cakes?"

"No," he laughs fondly. "And it's not sweet corn, babe, it's something called cornmeal. Maybe we can make some this week, wouldn't that be fun? Then you can see how they make them for real. I think that would be super fun."

His bubbly tone attracts the attention and subsequent laughter of his colleague. He throws them all the bird, totally content and more than happy with his life and his curious girl. 

"Yes," Roan cheers, dragging the 's' syllable until she's out of breath, "oh my god that would be so fun!" 

"Okay, then that's what we'll do. Are you being good for mom?" 

"I'm being awesome." There's a weird crunching noise. "Did you hear that? I think she put the screwdriver in the hairdryer again." 

"Again?" Eddie asks worriedly. 

Roan must put the phone down. Eddie genuinely can't hear a thing, until you pick up the receiver and say, "Hallo?" 

"You blowing up the house?" 

You make a pleased noise that has his heart doubling in size. "Hi, Eddie. I'm having a technological mishap, but rest assured, we are in no danger of explosion. Anymore. What did you call for? It's lunch, isn't it?" 

"Actually, Roan called me. She wanted to know how to make corndogs." 

"You do know everything," you say. "Go and eat your lunch, baby. We'll still be here when you get home, yeah? I love you. Roan, come and tell daddy you love him before we hang up." 

A small silence. "Dad?" Roan asks. 

"Yep, still here." 

"I love you, okie dokie? Please come home in an hour."

Eddie laughs warmly. It's more like four hours, but whatever she wants to think is what he'll tell her. "I love you. Tell Y/N I love her, too, will you? Thank you." 

"Yes!" Her voice comes quieter, "I love you," Roan says to you. 

"I love you, too. Let's make dinner." 

You must think he's said goodbye, because the phone gets a knock and the dial tone sounds. 

—

You're sitting at your desk shovelling pretzels into your mouth while you click around your emails when the phone rings. You slide it between your ear and shoulder, pausing your frankly messy chewing. "Hello and good afternoon, Y/N L/N speaking, how can I help?" 

"Y/N?" Roan says worriedly.

"Roan? What's the matter?" 

"Oh, it is you! It didn't sounded like you at first, that's weird." 

"Sorry, gorgeous, I was using my voice for fancy grown ups."

She giggles like this is the funniest thing you've ever said to her, "You're being funny," she praises. 

You're secretly incredibly pleased. Making your six year old laugh never gets old. "So nothing is wrong, then? You know, those numbers on the fridge are for emergencies." 

"This is an emergency." 

"Yeah, I bet. What's going on? Where's dad?" 

"He's making toffee cake for you. I was helping him do the buttercream but my arms got tired from whisking." 

"Is that why you're calling me?" 

"Yeah." 

You dig for a saltier pretzel and chew thoughtfully. "What's the tiredest part? Your shoulders?" 

"And my fingers." 

"Asked daddy to kiss 'em better?" 

"I would but he's trying to be perfect about the cake. It looks yummy." 

"Did you get to lick the bowl?" 

"Yeah, and dad let me eat a spoon of the melted chocolate. It was pretty great." 

You grin into the receiver. "I bet it was amazing. Maybe you can try and rest your poor arms. Make daddy pour you a big glass of cranberry juice with the heart shaped ice cubes and watch TV until I come home, okay? That's an order."

"Okay," she laughs. "When are you coming home?" 

"I can leave in about twenty minutes, and the drive home takes another twenty, so…" You check the time on your computer. "I think by five." 

"Ugh, that's forever away." 

"I know. Do what I said, okay? Sit down on the couch. I can have a little look at your arms when I come home, maybe we can have a pamper night tonight. We can use some of my fancy lotion and rub it in like a massage," you say. 

"That sounds nice," she hums. 

"Alright, sweetheart. Listen, can I talk to dad before I go back to work?" 

"Yep, yep." You know what's coming as soon as she inhales. "Daddy!" she bellows at the top of her lungs, "Y/N's on the phone!" 

It's flattering how swiftly he gets there. "Hey?" he asks. 

"Hi, do we need anything for me to grab on the way home? I know you ran out of deodorant, was there anything else?" 

"Nothing I can think of. You okay?" 

"I'm awesome. I told Ro you'd make her a big cup of juice for her sore arms." 

"She told you about those, huh?" He kisses her audibly. "She's the best mixer ever. I was thinking we'd change her name to kitchen aid." 

You choke on a pretzel. Coughing, you laugh through a chastisement. "You leave her name alone. Roan is a nice name all by itself." 

"If you insist," he says grandly. "See you in an hour? I've got a surprise for you." 

"I can't wait," you say. You'll pretend to be totally surprised at his cake, no problem. Anything to make him smile. "Love you both. See you soon." 

"Love you. Say love you," Eddie prompts. 

"I love you!" Roan yells. "I'll make dad put your blanket in the dryer!" 

You put down the phone with a small smile, wondering if you can weasel your way past your eagle-eyed coworkers for an early finish. 

[ginnysgraffiti]

fingering and cunt licking at the cinema/public place, 18+

&. TIMOTHÉE x yn.

you always kind of wondered what dirty things would cross your boyfriend's mind at times, but you never expected it to go that far.

the salt of the popcorn on his fingertips was fastly mixing with your warm juices and his wrist kept working his way between your legs, his fingers digging into your pussy, his hoarse voice whispering to keep quiet inside your ear.

you were glad it was an action movie and the volume was so loud that sometimes your moans would not be heard, but you couldn't count on it for another good half an hour.

timothée had been silent for most of the night, and your suspicions only increased when he told you you would have to sit on the last row.

why on heart should you sit on the last row when free seats were even in the middle one?

you didn't question it at first, but now you had your answer without asking.

you tried so hard to keep your eyes on the screen or anything better than his hand, but you could only handle so much before your head fell back against your seat, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

his bony hand was pushing your plush thighs open, exposing yourself even more to him. if you dared try to shut your thighs even a tad they’d be pushed right back open.

"a-ah!! tim-" your back suddenly arched off the seat as timothée wasted no time spitting on your clit before wrapping his lips around it now that he had kneeled in front of your open legs, between your seat and the one behind his back.

the position would have felt comfortable if you just weren't inside the cinema and you had to bite your lips to shut up. his tongue immediately caressed your sensitive nub, and it was extremely salty from the popcorn bucket that you found it surprisingly hot. salt, cornmeal and butter.

you noticed he couldn’t decide between roughly sucking on it or moving his tongue side to side so he settled on both. timothée hollowed his cheeks, holding your clit in place while his tongue continued moving with vigor.

at times, it was slowly moving up and down, like he was trying to savor the taste of your essence -not too hard or too fast- just sensual. then, his tongue would again settle on quick, harsh licks.

"keep quiet baby." timothée slurred into your pussy, now sloppily kissing his way down to your dripping hole.

you were pulling his curls so hard that you knew it hurt, but your boyfriend didn’t even bother complaining, his attention focused solely on your soaked center. his long fingers ran slowly up and down your petal soft slit, occasionally applying light pressure to your clit. without warning he plunged two fingers in with a lewd squelching sound following that you only could hear.

on the screen, even if your vision was pretty blurry and not recommendable at the moment, you could tell an action fight was going on.

the volume was at its loudest and you caught the occasion to let your desperate moans out, your chest rising up and down to catch breath and your hips moving against him.

it took a little time to get you used to the stretch of his fingers inside your tight little pussy, because you had never been so tense and nervous before in its process, and you knew it was because it was a damn public place.

"fuck- fuck..." your mouth dropped as he began to move his fingers at a semi-fast pace, digits bumping against that special spot that had your toes curling.

"feel so good, beautiful-" he moaned against your core, and you found yourself smiling a bit.

your hips felt so fucking desperate that you pulled his curls even tighter, not able to keep your hands still for half a second.

the volume was loud again and the cinema sits were basically shaking, and that didn't help at all as your groans and moans came out. they sounded like a plea, and you almost felt like crying.

you weren’t able to give him a verbal warning of the intense orgasm, the only signal being being the clear stream of cum shooting from your pussy each time timothée pulled his fingers out.

"you did so good baby..." he kissed your inner tights, even if the stream of cum had made a mess on both your legs and his fingers.

"you gotta admit that was better than the movie." a mischievous grin ran over his face and you just thanked god no person caught you two.

[dreamingwaif]

STAPLE RECIPES FOR EVERY TRADHOME~

I used to be a nanny and I'd gotten a NYT recipe subscription for kid friendly recipes! Here are my most used recipes ☀️

1. Pie/Tart Hazelnut crust

INGREDIENTS

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

FOR THE HAZELNUT CRUST:

1¼ cups/ 180 grams raw hazelnuts

1 cup/125 grams rice flour

¼ teaspoon salt

½ cup/112 grams sugar

6 tablespoons/ 100 grams softened butter, more as necessary

Step 1

Make the crust: Heat oven to 325 degrees.

Put hazelnuts on a baking sheet and roast for 10 to 15 minutes, until skins darken and crack. Put roasted nuts in a clean towel and rub off skins. Discard skins and let nuts cool.

Step 2

In a food processor, grind nuts with half the rice flour until mixture resembles coarse cornmeal. Add remaining rice flour and salt and pulse briefly.

Step 3

Cream sugar and butter in a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon for a minute or two until pale and thick. Add nut mixture and combine until dough comes together. If it seems crumbly, add 1 to 2 tablespoons softened butter or a little cold water.

Step 4

Press dough evenly into a 10-inch tart pan; use half the dough for the sides and half for the bottom. Prick bottom with a fork and freeze for 30 minutes (or several days if desired).

Step 5

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Bake chilled tart shell about 15 minutes until lightly brown.

Cool.

Smoother and much richer taste for all your desserts rather than crackers 🤤

2. Strawberry shortcake

INGREDIENTS

Yield: 4 generous servings

2 pints ripe, well-rinsed strawberries

½ cup sugar, or more to taste

4 cups flour

3 tablespoons sugar

¼ teaspoon salt

5 teaspoons baking powder

1¼ cups butter

3 cups whipping cream

¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

Step 1

Pick over and hull strawberries. Cut in half or slice, depending on size. Gently crush about a quarter of the berries with a fork to release their juices. Mix with remaining berries and the ½ cup of sugar, adding more sugar if necessary. Set aside, covered, for about half an hour to develop flavor.

Step 2

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Step 3

Into a large mixing bowl, sift together flour, 3 tablespoons sugar, salt and baking powder.

Add ¾ cup of softened butter, and rub into dry ingredients as for pastry. Add 1¼ cups cream, and mix to a soft dough. Knead the dough for one minute on a lightly floured pastry board, then roll it out to about ½-inch thickness. Using a 3-inch biscuit cutter, cut an even number of rounds - 2 rounds per serving.

Step 4

Use a little of the butter to grease a baking sheet. Place half the rounds on it. Melt remaining butter and brush a little on the rounds; place remaining rounds on top. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown.

Step 5

Remove from the oven, and pull shortcakes apart. Brush the insides with some of the remaining melted butter.

Step 6

Beat remaining cream until it thickens. Add vanilla. Beat again just until thick.

Step 7

Place a bottom half of a shortcake on each plate. Top with a generous spoonful of cream and berries. Cover with a top half, add a few more berries, and top with whipped cream.

Serve immediately.

(4 servings)

3. Blueberry-Lemon Almond Loaf

INGREDIENTS

Yield: 8 servings

½ cup (1 stick) plus 3 tablespoons/150 grams unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus extra for greasing the pan

1 scant cup/ 190 grams granulated or superfine sugar (caster sugar)

1 teaspoon lemon zest, plus 1 tablespoon lemon juice (or more juice as needed)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract (vanilla essence)

3 large eggs, beaten

⅔ cup/90 grams all-purpose flour (plain flour), sifted

1¼ teaspoons baking powder

⅛ teaspoon salt

1 cup/110 grams almond flour (ground almonds)

1½ cups/ 200 grams fresh blueberries

**⅔ cup/70 grams confectioners’ sugar (icing sugar)**

PREPARATION

Step 1

Heat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit/200 degrees Celsius. Grease a 9- or 8-inch/21-centimeter loaf pan with butter, line it with a parchment paper sling and butter the paper.

Set the pan aside.

Step 2

Place butter, sugar, lemon zest and vanilla extract in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Beat on high speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until light, then lower speed to medium. Add eggs in three additions, scraping down the sides of the bowl a few times as necessary. The mix may split a little but don't worry: It'll come back together once you add the dry ingredients.

Step 3

In a separate bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, salt and almond flour. With the stand mixer on low, add the dry ingredients in three additions, mixing just until no white specks remain. Fold in about ¾ of the blueberries by hand, then scoop batter into the prepared loaf pan.

Step 4

Bake for 15 minutes, then sprinkle the remaining blueberries over the top of the cake. Return to the oven for another 15 to 20 minutes, until cake is golden brown but still uncooked. Cover loosely with foil and continue to cook for another 25 to 30 minutes (less for a 9-inch pan, more for an 8-inch pan), or until risen and cooked, and a knife inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean. Remove from oven and set aside in its pan to cool for 10 minutes before removing cake from pan and placing on a wire rack to cool completely.

Step 5

When cake is cool, make the icing: Add lemon juice and icing sugar to a bowl and whisk together until smooth, adding a bit more juice if necessary, just until the icing moves when you tilt the bowl. Pour over the cake and gently spread out. The blueberries on the top of the cake may bleed into the icing a little, but this will add to the look. Let icing set (about 30 minutes), slice and serve.

4. Honey Garlic Shrimp

INGREDIENTS

Yield: 4 servings

1 pound extra-large or jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined (tails on or off)

⅓ cup honey

3 tablespoons soy sauce

1 tablespoon minced garlic (from 2

large cloves)

½ teaspoon grated fresh ginger

⅛ teaspoon crushed red pepper, plus more to taste

¼ teaspoon cornstarch

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil or vegetable oil

Thinly sliced scallions, for serving

PREPARATION

Step 1

Place the shrimp in a large bowl.

Step 2

In a small bowl, combine the honey, soy sauce, garlic, ginger and crushed red pepper; whisk until smooth. Pour 3 tablespoons of the marinade over the shrimp and toss to coat. Marinate for at least 15 minutes at room temperature, or up to 1 hour in the fridge.

Step 3

While the shrimp marinate, combine the cornstarch with the remaining marinade and set aside.

Step 4

Lift the shrimp from the marinade to paper towels and pat dry; discard any marinade remaining in the bowl.

Step 5

Heat a large (12-inch) skillet over medium-high. (A cast-iron skillet will help the shrimp brown more deeply than a nonstick skillet.)

Add the oil, swirling to coat the pan, then arrange the shrimp in the skillet in one layer.

Cook for 2 minutes, until lightly browned on the bottom, then flip the shrimp and cook for 1 more minute.

Step 6

Add the reserved marinade to the skillet and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until the pan sauce thickens. (If your shrimp are on the smaller side and already cooked through before it's time to add the sauce, transfer them to the serving dish and reduce the sauce on its own. Pour the sauce over the cooked shrimp.)

Step 7

Transfer the shrimp and sauce to a serving dish, sprinkle with scallions and serve with sides of choice!

Lmk if you guys try these or would like more recipes! When I have more time later I plan to do a list mostly dinner options!

[petermorwood]

As mentioned more than once, @dduane's Middle Kingdoms don't have potatoes. A frequent alternative is parsnips, and the fried cakes in that photo are the result of an experiment done earlier this week to see if parsnips can substitute for potatoes in our always-reliable potato cake recipe.

Yes, they can!

*****

Here's @dduane's recipe.

First peel three regular-sized parsnips. then top and tail them.

Chop them into chunks and boil them in about 2 pints (1 litre) of water.

Drain them and return to the pan: let them steam dry. Then, while still hot, mash them well with a hand masher and allow to cool completely.

As mentioned further down, parsnips retain more water than potatoes even after steam-drying, so DON'T use a food processor or other power appliance for mashing or the result will be parsnip wallpaper paste. However, a processor is ideal for the rest of the recipe.

Put 2 cups (500g) all-purpose flour and ½ tsp salt into the processor bowl, blip the pulse switch to combine them then add 1½ tsp baking powder and blip again.

Now add 3 tablespoons butter and blip the pulse switch until the butter is completely worked in and the whole mixture has a cornmeal-y texture.

Now add the cooled mashed parsnips.

Process with the flour mixture, pulsing at first, then continuously, until the mixture comes together in a dough.

(If yours behaves the way our recipe did, no additional liquid should need to be added. The parsnips hold onto a surprising amount of water even after being steamed dry.)

Flour a work surface, roll the dough out about 1/3 inch (1 cm) thick, and use a sharp biscuit cutter to cut out into rounds. Then heat cooking oil in a frying pan to medium heat and put five or six of the cakes into the hot oil.

Fry until the cakes begin to rise a little (usually 4-5 minutes) and are going golden brown Turn and fry the cakes on their other sides for another 4-5 minutes. Test one for doneness: if necessary, turn the cakes once more and give them another 5 minutes or so.

Then cook the rest of the cakes in the same way. When they're done cooking, drain on paper towels until they're cool. Eat fresh or, to keep them, put them in a biscuit tin or other airtight container.

They'll keep for a few days. The parsnip flavor mellows somewhat the day after you bake them.

Like their potato-cake cousins, they're very good split, toasted, buttered and topped with a slice of cheese or (and) salami. They also shine as an accompaniment to bacon or sausages; give the parsnip cakes a brief re-fry in the fat left from frying these, then serve alongside the fried meats, dressed with a splash of Worcester or HP sauce and maybe a dotting of Tabasco or similar.

Our next experiment will be to make this recipe with the addition of some crumbled crispy bacon, grated cheese, grated onion or a combination of same.

The experiment after that will be to see if this can become parsnip bread in the same way as Irish potato farls. I think it will... :->

[doctordeathawaits]

Transromani tips please? :3

Trans Romani

Fun Fact , i recently figured out im trans-romani <3

I recomend this website , its very informative and you should definetly show some love to it !!

First things that are ESSENTIAL. - Learn about Porajmos (the Romani Holocaust) and the resilience of Romani communities. - Read books like Bury Me Standing by Isabel Fonseca (about Romani culture and history). - Follow Romani activists to support and learn from the modern community !

Language - this is a little harder since romani is very diverse based on which parts of the world one lives , but learning some vocab from Omniglot , the Romani Project , or having some youtubers speak their dialects can help !!! Here are some basics !! : Sastipe ! – Hello ! Sar san ? – How are you ? Nais tuke ! – Thank you !

Romani culture is deeply rooted in tradition , family, and spirituality ! Bringing these elements into your daily life can help !! Many Romani traditions are tied to nature , so walking in the woods , gathering flowers , or sitting around a fire ! Carry small protective charms , like a red thread , coins, or a small bell . Many Romani believe in warding off bad luck ( bibaxt ) ! Explore Romani folk beliefs — such as cleansing rituals , dream interpretations , and protective blessings ! ( learning marime , uzo , etc )

Food is a core part of Romani life , try making traditional Romani dishes like this !! Sarmale – Cabbage rolls stuffed with meat and rice. Mamaliga – Cornmeal porridge (similar to polenta). Gulyás – A hearty paprika-spiced stew. Puri – Fried bread, often eaten with stews. Bakhtale – A sweet dessert made with nuts and honey ! Try eating in a communally , sharing food with loved ones is deeply important in Romani culture !

Music is everything in Romani culture , it’s a deep expression of life, struggle, and joy ! Some things to listen to is : Traditional Roma folk songs (flamenco, violin-heavy ballads, or Balkan-style beats). Esma Redžepova – The "Queen of Romani Music" ! Taraf de Haïdouks – A famous Romani band with traditional instruments ! Balkan brass bands – Like Fanfare Ciocărlia !

Romani Good Luck Practices to follow everyday !! : Never put a hat on the bed — it brings bad luck ! Spitting over your shoulder wards off evil ! Always give something in return if someone gifts you money (even a small coin) ! Carry a small pouch with salt for protection ! If a cat sneezes near you , it’s good luck !

Stay safe, and remember : Baxt tuke !

[rustedleopard]

Had this goofy headcanon for the longest that the Feisty Slider's "ambitious flavor" comes from each of the Five contributing a topping to the burger as they were sorting out the menu, and after chatting w/ friends about it over discord, I finally figured them out!

Starlo: You might be thinking "Well, he grew up on a corn farm so he'd contribute a corn-based topping" but remember that this guy was trying to distance himself from his family up until the end of the Pacifist Route*. Plus, Starlo has an ego. He is ABSOLUTELY the sort to want Main Character status; he's not gonna let himself be some measly topping that can be picked off. His contribution would be the meat patty but cut into a star-shape. Because you can't have a burger without the meat.

Ed: Pepper jack cheese. Cheese and burgers pair well together; he's Starlo's right-hand man. Cheese helps hold everything together; Ed gives me the vibes that he's the one who holds things together/serves as the leader in Starlo's stead. Pepper jack cheese has a strong taste and a bit of a kick to it. He makes jokes that are sometimes a bit mean and has some anger that he's working on. He may be helping to hold everything together but that doesn't mean that he's gonna let himself fade into the background.

Moray: Seaweed (sea lettuce? nori?). Because they're a fish. I can't come up with much of an explanation here besides "Waterfall has a lot of seaweed, and even though they aren't from Waterfall, Waterfall is the wet location in the Underground and they're a fish so it fits. It would be a fun and weird topping and is also kinda trendy and out there yeah I know Ace is the more fashionable one but doesn't mean that Moray can't be a bit out there as well. They're Y for Youthfulness: when you're young, you're more aware of trends. Plus the slider needs to be a bit weird."

Ace: Purple cabbage. It fits his color scheme, it's a bit of an eccentric topping but still within the realm of a normal addition to a burger. I can see Ace rolling his eye at Moray's and Mooch's additions because at least his contribution is a normal(ish) topping for a burger (though IDK if he would want it as raw shredded cabbage or a slaw. On the one hand, a slaw is a bit more normal than just cabbage as is. But on the other hand, this is Mr. "A rooster and a crow can't get together like that." He's kinda stupid, maybe it wouldn't occur to him that he should process it instead of just eating cabbage raw. Probably. I'm rolling with raw cabbage for now).

Mooch: Peanut butter. Because she's a squirrel. But also, if you've ever had peanut butter on a burger before, it's not as overwhelming as you think. Sorta adds a richness to the protein taste of the burger and isn't overwhelming. Fits her sneakiness.

(*I can see him, Post-Pacifist, having the burger buns have cornmeal incorporated into them to show that he's reconnecting with his family.)

And there we have it. My take on this goofy little headcanon I got from one little throwaway bit of flavor text. A very... ambitious.... burger indeed.

[sterifels-blog]

Ornithomancy

part 2 of sheriff!john price x widowed!reader (fem)

🔗 masterlist

ornithomancy – the practice of interpreting the actions of birds to predict the future

────────────────────────────────────

The sound of hooves scrapes against the earth, slow and deliberate, an omen dressed in the patient cadence of a coming storm. The rhythm is dull, a percussive thud against the hollowed ribs of the land, each impingement like the second hand of some great and terrible clock ticking down. You don’t look up. Not yet.

Your hands are elbow-deep in the grain barrel, cold kernels rolling against your skin like loose teeth in an open mouth. The hens have gone still at the contravention. A moment ago, they were frantic, greedy things, scrabbling at the dirt with their sharp, scythe-claw toes, but now they linger near your skirts, eyes turned toward the road, bodies stiff with the scent of something unfamiliar.

They know before you do. The little ladies.

Your stomach knots, an ugly, instinctive thing, not quite fear—no, not yet. Just a premonition, a whisper in the quintessence, something pulling its nails down the length of your spine. A slow, measured unease curling like an asp beneath your ribs, waiting to sink its fangs in.

The air is thick. Fat with the scent of damp wood and the copper-tanged breath of dying leaves. The land is waiting, holding itself in the quiet suspension of something unspoken.

The wind shifts. And it is only then that you feel him. A presence. Not emphatic, not looming, but something heavier than flesh, something that takes up space without ever needing to move. A disturbance in the quiet, an oil-slick ripple against the surface of the world— stone, crashing into water only to beat on the bottom.

A shape against the low, grey sky, taller than the brush, dark against the bone-white horizon. The crows rise in a slow exodus behind him, great oil-feathered beasts, their bodies dragging the weight of the clouds with them, their black silhouettes written against the sky like crude scripture. The horse exhales a cloud of mist into the cold morning air, its bridle jingling with the movement, though it does not fidget.

The animal is still. The man atop it is still.

Stillness like a blade resting against the pulse of the world’s throat. And yet, you don’t move.

You wipe your hands against your apron, slow, deliberate, grinding the dust of cornmeal into the creases of your palms until your fingers look bleached, brittle, like sun-worn bone left too long in the field. Your breath is measured, pressed behind the cage of your ribs like a bird too stubborn to flee.

Only then do you turn.

He is carved from something older than time, something that has been left in the sun and the wind to be sculpted by the elements, shaped by the brunt of a world that does not grant softness to men like him. His horse stands as steady as he does, hooves buried in the cold earth, a statue of sinew and patience, exhaling mist from its nostrils in slow, rhythmic bursts. Sheriff.

The word does not fit him. It sits in your mind like a jagged rock in the belly of a beast, foreign, unnatural. There is nothing clean about him, nothing white-hat, nothing orderly. He does not wear the badge so much as suffer it, tolerate it, let it exist upon his chest like a bullet lodged too deep to dig out.

He does not reach for his reins, does not shift in the saddle. He watches you from beneath the brim of his hat, gaze unreadable, cast in the shadow of the early morning light. The hollows of his face are sharp in the cold, mouth set in something neither soft nor cruel, just patient. And you?

You meet his gaze without flinching.

You have seen men like John before. Men with patience worn into their bones like the grooves of a well-handled revolver. Men with iron in their spines and dust in their lungs. Men who do not ask questions because they already know the answers.

The silence stretches.

The wind has the good sense to hold its breath. His mouth parts slightly, a slow inhale, the kind that speaks to deliberation, to thought, to the weight of something that doesn’t want to be said- but must be.

And you already know what it is.

"I heard." — Heard what?

That your husband was buried in the summer earth with nothing but a whisper of a funeral, that your hands were clean of tears, that you have been surviving in the hollow carcass of your home with nothing but the animals and the wind for company? That you walk alone. That you do not speak. That you carry the absence of something that should have been grief, but instead feels like breath after nearly drowning.

That they are coming back. That they never left.

Your jaw tightens. Your fingers curl in the fabric at your waist, knuckles paling, breath still pressed firm behind your ribs.

“I don’t need help.”

Your voice is flint against stone, sparking dry in the cold. A thing too sharp, too brittle. It does not waver. It does not fold. It is a declaration carved into the bones of the land, spat out between clenched molars— pearly whites shading at the innards with the beginning of bitter plaque.

A long, slow exhale.

His head tilts. Not much. Just a fraction. Just enough that his hat shifts, just enough that the light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dull weight of something knowing in his expression. Price is the kind of man who does not move unless he intends to. He carries himself like a landslide, slow and inevitable, a force that does not rush but always, always arrives. His presence is the kind that does not demand attention— it claims it, rests its hands on it, curls its fingers around it like a thing already owned.

His thumb grazes the saddle horn. Not a fidget. Just a movement. Just the slow shift of a man who is neither impatient nor hurried, who has all the time in the world. He does not look away from you.

“I know,” he says, voice low, unhurried. A word spoken with the weight of something that has already been decided.

And then, after a beat— “They don’t care.”

The words settle like a stone in a still pond, rippling out, pressing against the inside of your skull with explosive shrapnel behind your eyes. Your pulse stirs, something tight and slow in your throat. He does not press the silence. He does not speak again.

He only moves once—only enough to tip his hat back with the flat of his fingers, just enough to let you see the full weight of him, the shape of his gaze, the quiet patience in the set of his mouth, the lambchops that frame his face, and the sluggishly trimmed beard that was too scuffed to seem tamed, but was somehow cleaner than any man's you'd seen in years. Intentional, like the notches in his eyebrows. In his revolver.

And you wish he hadn’t. Because there is no pity in him. No sympathy. Just understanding.

Understanding in the way a man does not have to ask why a house stands empty, why a woman does not go to market anymore — why the edges of the world have been worn smooth around her like a sentinel eroded soft.

Because this is not the first time he has seen this.

Not the first time a woman has stood in the yard of a house gone to ruin, staring at the road like it might still offer her freedom.

Not the first time she has been wrong.

A long moment passes. The wind shifts. Somewhere, a crow caws. He exhales– a slow, steady roll of breath, low in his chest.

And then, finally, he speaks again, voice rough and familiar as storm-worn stone. “Gotta fix that fence,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the perimeter of your land. “Wind’s got it leanin'.”

You say nothing. Your fingers curl against your chalkboard palms. John doesn’t wait for permission. He nudges his horse forward, slow, that same unhurried grace, moving toward the house with the staunchness of a man who already knows.

And you stand there, pulse thrumming, a bitter taste thick on your tongue— Because you already know, too. He’s not leaving.

────────────────────────────────────

Price is a presence.

That’s the only way to describe him— less a man, more a thing that exists; weighty and unmoving, fixed in the framework of the world like a load-bearing beam. You don’t remember the hour he truly arrived, only that he's been here. His saddle is slung over the railing of the porch, his horse tied at the barn, and the cut of his shadow cast is long against the dirt.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t have to. You have already seen what happens when a man like him makes up his mind. And it’s not like you can stop him.

He starts with the fence.

It had leaned for years, slouched under the weight of time and weather, the posts sagging in their graves of soft, wet earth. You had meant to fix it—meant to learn how, meant to take a hammer in your own hands and make something of this place. But meaning doesn’t drive nails. Meaning doesn’t pull the splinters from your fingers when the boards crack under the weight of failure.

John doesn’t ask for tools.

Doesn’t ask where you keep the nails, where the woodpile is, where the rope is stored. He just finds them. Lifts them. Uses them. The work moves slow, not because he struggles, but because he doesn’t.

He is not hurried. He does not rush.

The muscle of him coils and flexes beneath the strain, arms bared to the elbow, sleeves pushed up with the lazy, absentminded ease of a man too used to labor to bother with ceremony. The grip of his hands is certain—calloused and solid, pressing wood to wood, twisting iron into place, driving steel deep into the stubborn earth— into the limbs of dismembered trees.

He fixes things the way a wolf might strip meat from the bone—patient, practiced, thorough.

The hens hate him.

They squawk and flap every time he gets near, their small, button eyes darting from his boots to his hands, quick, jittery, full of accusation. You’ve never seen them turn on a man before, never seen their distrust run so deep, so instinctive, as if they sense what he is. Not a predator, not quite— but something close.

Price is indifferent to their discontent. He moves around them, through them, not sparing them more than a glance or a chuckle, brushing the loose dust from his knuckles before taking another nail between his teeth. And you? You watch.

From the porch, from the window, from the steps, quiet as the breeze slipping through the brittle grass. You watch the way he is, the way he exists in the space you had carved out as your own, the way he seems to fold himself into it as if he had always belonged here.

There hasn’t been a man in your home for two years. Not since they put your husband in the dirt.

And yet now there is him—this man who does not belong to you, who does not belong to this place, yet moves through it as if it has been waiting for him. It unsettles something inside of you. Not fear. Not unease. Something deeper. Something you do not have a name for.

By the time the sun begins to die, the fence stands tall again. Straight. Solid. Secure.

It is finished; not just patched, not just held together the way you had done, binding it with twine and scraps and whispered prayers to things that had long since stopped listening.

You don’t thank him. Not because you aren’t grateful. Because you know he didn’t do it for you.

You make dinner. It’s not much.

Scraps of whatever harvest you managed to pull from the stubborn belly of the land, thick broth, the last of the bird you had killed days ago. You had gutted it yourself, split it open with careful hands, read its entrails in the cold light of morning, searching for signs of something you didn’t even know how to name.

Ornithomancy.

You had heard the word before. Had read it somewhere, once. The divination of birds. The reading of wings, of bones, of the way a creature moved against the sky.

It had been a cruel thing to do, perhaps. To kill and then to ask—to carve into its flesh and demand to know if this was your last winter, if the earth would take you too, if the winds would change.

You had found no answers in its hollow body. Only meat. And now, you put that meat into the pot, hands moving without thought, without effort, without care, because it is something to do. Because it is yours to do.

The sheriff does not ask what you are making. Does not ask if you are making it for him. He simply waits.

Leaning against the porch railing— arm slung over the wood, boots pressed solid into the dirt. John's hat is gone, tossed aside near his saddle, and for the first time, you see him clearly—his hair streaked with the first ghosts of silver, his mouth set in something firm but not unkind.

He is a hawk.

Not in the way men like to fashion themselves, not in the way your husband used to say, slurring over whiskey, laughing about how he 'could spot a liar from a mile away, darlin’, sharp as a blade, keen as a bird o’ prey—' No. Not like that.

Price is a hawk in the way they wait. The way they watch. The way they do not speak unless they must. The way they know.

His eyes flick toward the stew when you bring it out, nothing more than a glance, nothing more than a slight shift of his head. And for the second time since he set foot on your land, you speak first.

“It's not much,” you murmur, setting the bowls down between you. He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t tell you it’s enough. But he eats. Slow. Deliberate. Silent. And you do, too. Careful bites, unwilling to feast on more than you can bear.

You can feel the bones. Sharp, jagged between your teeth. Tiny toothpicks of cartilage, featless against the press of your back teeth. They aren't there, but you can feel them. Ground meat.

It is a disturbing thought; and maybe it is punishment for your demand of the future as he sets the empty bowl aside. His gaze shifts to you, dark, steady, something unreadable buried deep beneath the surface. His fingers press lightly against the rim of the bowl, thoughtful, before he exhales through his nose, slow, almost amused.

“Should eat more yourself,” he mutters, not looking at you, but the words are heavy in the air between you.

You stiffen. It’s not a suggestion. It’s not a kindness. It’s an observation.

His hand settles against his knee, rough fingers flexing against the worn fabric. Then, low and absent, like it’s nothing at all— “Good stew, hen.” You blink.

The hens in their coop rustle, uneasy, as if the name itself has unsettled them. You can hear them shift, feathers flaring, claws scratching against the wood.

You stare at him. Price doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t explain himself. He just leans back against the railing again, boots scraping against the dirt, posture loose, comfortable, as if he has already decided— not just on the fence, not just on the work, but on you.

And suddenly, you understand something. The hens might not like him.

They might ruffle and scatter every time he moves too close, might watch him with their dark, skittish eyes, might flap their pathetically useless wings and make themselves look bigger than they are.

But they still move when he moves. They still hide when the hawk is in the sky.

[marykk1990]

My next post in support of Ukraine is:

Next site, due to a late start, is some more Ukrainian foods. 1, Banush (Бануш), a cornmeal porridge. 2, Deruny (Деруни), a potato pancake similar to latkes. 3, Holubtsi (Голубці), stuffed cabbage rolls. 4, Varenyky (Вареники), my fav Ukrainian food that I've had.

#StandWithUkraine

#СлаваУкраїні 🇺🇦🌻

[punkbakerchristine]

english muffins 🇬🇧

300g/10½ oz strong white bread flour/all-purpose flour, plus extra for flouring

6g yeast

6g salt

15g/½oz granulated sugar

15g/½oz softened butter, cut into small pieces

1 egg, lightly beaten

170ml/6fl oz milk (though you can add up to about 30ml extra if needed)

oil, for greasing 

15g/½oz semolina or polenta or cornmeal, plus extra for dusting

Tip the flour into a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle the yeast on one side of the flour and the salt into the other side of the flour. Add the sugar, butter, egg and milk, then mix all the ingredients together to form a soft dough.

Turn the mixture out of the bowl onto a lightly floured surface and knead for 10 minutes, or until soft, smooth and stretchy.

Lightly grease a large bowl with oil. Place the dough in the oiled bowl, cover and leave to prove for about one hour, or until doubled in size.

Dust the work surface with a mixture of the semolina/polenta and flour. Tip the dough out onto the work surface and roll out to about 2.5cm thick. 

Lightly dust a baking tray with half of the semolina or polenta. 

Using a 9cm/3.5 inch straight-sided cutter, cut out eight muffins. Place the muffins evenly spaced apart on the dusted baking tray. Dust the remaining semolina or polenta over the top of the muffins: I got to make 10 of them.

Leave to prove for another 30 minutes.

Preheat the hot plate or a heavy-based frying pan on the hob to a very low heat. Griddle the muffins for approximately 5-6 minutes, 2-3 minutes for each side.

one of the easiest breads to make; once you start making them yourself, you’ll never go back to the storebought ones!