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airmidcelt
I realllllly want to try making bread, do you have a yeast bread recipe rec for a beginner? I have a stand mixer that I want to use.
I have many recipes! I’m throwing a handful behind the cut. I’m including Beer Bread, Hokkaido “Milk” Bread, and King Arthur Bagels.
I will say that I’ve yet to have a bad recipe from the King Arthur website, so if you’re looking for bread recipes that’s a great resource, and any recipe that asks you to knead bread for any length of time will work in a stand mixer -- generally, you should stir the ingredients by hand until reasonably incorporated, then attach the dough hook and knead.
A note -- using bread flour instead of all-purpose really does make a difference in the quality of the bread. All-purpose is fine, but you’ll get a better and more consistent product with bread flour. I also add King Arthur’s “Bread and Cake Improver” to make for a fluffier crumb and softer crust.
Beer Bread
adapted from https://www.agardenforthehouse.com/rustic-beer-bread-hand-kneaded/
4 cups (555 grams) bread flour
2 teaspoons (7 grams) instant yeast
2 teaspoons (12 grams) salt
12 ounces (341 ml) beer of your choice at room temperature (uh maybe stay away from pale ales, they get real skunky)
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
Now, I was baking with Off-Colour’s beer, which comes in 16oz cans, so if you have a 16oz can of beer, the amounts are:
694g Bread Flour
2 1/2 tsp yeast
2 1/2 tsp (16g) salt
16oz beer
1 1/4 tbsp olive oil
If you do this larger recipe, it’s best to make two loaves, or one loaf and one batch of rolls.
Stir together the flour, yeast, and salt in the mixer’s bowl and make a well in the middle. Add the beer and olive oil, and stir until a stiff, shaggy dough develops. Knead for 10 minutes (I use a dough hook in the stand mixer on low to medium speed, works fine).
Transfer the dough to a large greased bowl, flip to grease its other side, and then cover the bowl with clingfilm or a damp towel. Let the dough rise in a warm location until doubled in volume -- 90 minutes to 2 hours.
When the dough has doubled in volume, punch it down, pat it out, and form it into a tight ball. Pinch the seam to seal it. Then place the ball seam side down in a greased bowl. Cover and let rise in a warm spot until doubled in volume -- usually 30 to 45 minutes.
While the dough is rising, place a heavy, oven-proof pot (covered with its lid) on the lower-third level of the oven. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Generally people will use cast-iron dutch ovens for this, but I’ve also used an aluminum dutch oven, which is quite light and doesn’t hold as much heat; it still works fine. This dough is very versatile and will also do fine in a loaf pan without a cover, just keep an eye on the browning.
When the dough is ready, remove the pot from the oven. Flip the dough into the pot, its seam side now facing up. Cover the pot with its lid, and return it to the oven.
Bake for 30 minutes. Uncover the pot, lower the oven temperature to 400°F, and bake until the crust browns -- 10-15 minutes. Transfer the bread to a wire rack. Cool completely before slicing.
Hokkaido Milk (Tangzhong) Bread
This is a softer, fluffier bread, more like store-bought. It has one or two extra steps but is still a pretty versatile, low-skill dough.
Tang:
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup milk
3 tbsp flour
1 large egg, room temp
1/2 cup cold milk
Dough:
2 2/3 cups flour (390g)
1/4 cup sugar (35g)
2 tbsp dry milk powder, optional (15g)
1 tsp salt
2 1/4 tsp yeast
4 tbsp unsalted butter, softened
In a small saucepan off heat, whisk together the first three Tang ingredients. Heat over medium heat, whisking constantly, until mixture thickens and streaks from the whisk do not disappear. Remove from heat and pour in the remaining cold milk. Whisk to combine. Add the egg and whisk to combine.
Mix together all of the dry ingredients (all “dough” ingredients except butter) in a stand mixer bowl. Make a well in the center and pour in the tang, then stir until combined. Attach dough hook and continue to knead with dough hook on low speed.
After 5 minutes on low speed, the dough will be very sticky, sticking to the sides of the bowl. This means the gluten has started to develop. Add the softened butter in 3 additions, allowing to incorporate fully. Between additions, scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula if needed. The butter will look like it's not being absorbed by the dough but be patient, it will.
Once all the butter is incorporated into the dough, increase the speed to medium (4 or 5) and let dough knead for 6-8 minutes, scraping down the bowl occasionally. The dough is done when it no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl. It will be smooth and should very easily come off from the sides of the bowl.
Remove dough from mixing bowl and shape into a ball. Return to mixing bowl and cover with cling film/tea towel and let rise until doubled in size (either at room temperature for ~2 hours or overnight ~12-14 hours in fridge).
After dough has proofed, remove covering and gently deflate the dough by scraping down the sides with a spatula. Remove from bowl. You can bake this as a loaf, just shape and put in a greased loaf pan, or divide into 14-16 portions depending on size and shape into balls with floured hands, then place in a greased dish. I use a cast-iron skillet but a casserole dish will work too, or even a cookie sheet.
Cover with greased clingfilm or foil and let dough rise at room temperature until doubled in size (~up to 2 hours).
Preheat oven to 350F. Brush the top of the bread with egg wash if desired. Bake for 20-30 minutes. If the bread starts to brown too quickly, cover the top with foil paper to prevent bread from burning. Remove from oven and let cool.
And finally for something a little more complicated, the King Arthur “sandwich” bagel recipe: There are more thorough instructions at the KA website.
King Arthur Bagels
Starter:
1 cup (120g) King Arthur Unbleached Bread Flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/16 teaspoon instant yeast
1/3 cup (75g) water, cool
Dough:
3/4 cup (170g) water, room temperature
2 teaspoons (14g) barley malt syrup or 1 tablespoon (13g) dark brown sugar, packed
3/4 teaspoon instant yeast
1 1/4 teaspoons salt
2 1/2 cups (300g) King Arthur Unbleached Bread Flour
Water bath:
8 cups (1808g) water (I just fill the pan I’m using half-full and don’t bother measuring this)
2 tablespoons (42g) barley malt syrup or honey (I use brown sugar, works fine)
Knead together starter ingredients until thoroughly combined in a stiff dough (you can use the dough hook but it doesn’t work super well, I usually just stir it until it’s stiff). Cover and rest at room temperature for 4 to 14 hours; it should expand. I do this in the bowl of the stand mixer because why not?
Add remaining dough ingredients in the order listed, on top of the starter. Knead the stiff dough until it’s supple and elastic, 8-10 minutes with a mixer. Rest, covered, 2 hours.
Divide into eight equal pieces (80g to 85g each; I prefer mini bagels of roughly 40g each). Shape each piece by forming it into a ball, then rolling on an unfloured surface to tighten. Cover the pre-shaped dough and allow it to rest for 10 to 15 minutes.
Line a baking sheet with parchment and lightly grease, or sprinkle the parchment with cornmeal. To shape dough, poke a hole through the center and rotate to expand the hole, forming a ring shape. Place the shaped bagel onto the prepared baking sheet. Cover and let them rest until they feel slightly puffy to the touch, about 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 450°F. Combine the water and barley malt syrup or honey in a wide, shallow pot; the water should be at least 1 1/4" deep. Bring the mixture to a boil. Boil the bagels for 60 seconds, then use a dough whisk or slotted spoon to turn the bagels over (I often use chopsticks for this). Boil for another 60 seconds before removing from the water and placing back on the prepared pan. Bake until golden brown, 18 to 22 minutes.
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Freak [ Pt. 1 ]
Genres: Smut, Modern AU
Warnings: Female Reader, Female Anatomy, Reader Has Box Braids, Explicit Language, Dry Humping, Biting, Light Spanking, Naughty Things Done Outdoors, Blue Balls, OOC Kyojuro, MDNI!
Musical Inspiration: This entire playlist.
Tag! You're it! @asirensrage @nanaoise08squad @potofstewie @cherryblossomsenpai @yeahitzally @superluckystar @goatman-againstgod
Thank you so much for reading! ❤️
It would be on the hood of his convertible, the aluminum still warm beneath the fat of your ass.
The residual heat pales in comparison to that of the massive hands kneading, pinching, and lifting your bum off his Challenger in his haste to feel every inch of you.
Nonetheless, the warmth is a pleasant contrast to the chill of the night air tossing your hair and ruffling the polyester of your dress. The arctic wind shaking your little neighborhood on its axis does nothing to deter the Adonis nestled between your legs. He’s on a mission to brand you in every way, shape, and form, your neighbors be damned.
“K-Kyo,” you keen, light and breathless, his teeth embedding themselves into the column of your throat.
On instinct, you crane your head back, the coarseness of your braids tickling your exposed shoulder blades. There’s a smile curving your painted lips. Carbon-black lashes fluttering, his name surfing on your tongue in a quiet hymnal.
Your fingers sift through the delicate hairs of his nape, urging him closer. Though your jean jacket, hooked around your elbows—he’d yanked it southward in his eagerness to taste you—sadly inhibits your movements.
“A little busy here, darling,” he huffs, blazing a trail down the curve of your shoulder with his mouth.
His kisses are wet, chaste, and open-mouthed whilst his hands embark on a journey to the swell of your hips. He sinks his canines into your collarbone, the prickle of them tearing a quivering sigh from your lips. Your hands thunk against the bonnet of his car behind you to keep you upright whilst he moves to pay homage to the other side of your neck.
The blond rubs languid circles into the bones of your hips, calloused palms continuing their excursion to your full, bared thighs as if unearthing treasure. Kyojuro hooks his hands into the bends of your knees, suddenly tugging you forward until your nether regions collide, ripping a gasp from your lungs. He cups your thighs in his hands. Isn’t at all subtle as he grinds against you, his weighted girth stroking your clothed cunt to life.
He mouths your jugular. Suckles on the meat of your shoulder, breathing the most sinister words into your flesh. How desperately he wants to fuck you. How devastatingly sexy you are, saying his name like that.
The car rocks as he pistons his hips against you, sweat beading on his temple whilst he buries his face into the junction of your shoulder, panting wetly.
“F-fu-huck, Kyo,” you moan, your arms coming up to encircle his neck, nails rooting into the blades of his shoulders, clinging to him for dear life.
He holds your thighs spread eagle, fingers cratering the undersides—you’re sure blue-violet petals will bloom in their wake come morning. His breaths are choppy whilst he continues his onslaught of thrusts, his pelvis seemingly moving of its own volition.
You’ve missed him dearly. His profession often drags him to remote parts of the world, far from the safety of your arms, into the dangerous world of demon slaying. You’ve had nothing but the company of cold sheets and an empty, king-sized bed this past month. So, of course, you aren’t initially opposed to the attention.
Outside. Unfettered. Raw.
That is until the wind picks up its tempo, and the telltale slamming of a screen door nearby brings you hurtling back to the present.
“Kyo, baby,” you plead, clawing at the lapels of his shirt.
It’s hard to keep afloat, your cunt twitching, nipples tightening beneath the soft lace of your bra. If your lover forges on, you might just cum from the friction and heat alone.
Kyojuro hums in response, his voice like sandpaper, the undulations of his hips never faltering.
“As much as I would love to continue,” a heave of breath, “would you mind if we took this party—hah—inside?”
You tug on his shirt to bring him to a standstill when your words don’t seem to faze him. He fitfully pulls away, hair tussled and irises gleaming like dual flames in the sepia glow of your porch light. You have to bite your lip at the sight, your boyfriend resembling a beast disturbed in the midst of its meal. When your eyes lock, your gaze flits over his shoulder, catching your nosy, elderly neighbor scuttling onto her porch, a grimace taking residence on her face.
Kyojuro searches your eyes. Needs no more indication, releasing you with a weighted sigh. Your legs slack against the bumper, the strain of your muscles ebbing into a dull throb. Your jacket pools around your wrists, and the flap of your dress falls back between your legs. Your baby hairs stick to your forehead, exhaustion taking possession of your features. With a brawny arm wound around the small of your back, he shepherds you the rest of the way down, your slick skin squeaking against the polymer.
Your chuckle stains the atmosphere whilst he pulls you into his arms. Peppers your mouth with kisses, promising the best of things into the swell of your lips. He swats your ass playfully when you maneuver past, ushering you beneath the awning of your carport into the sanctity of your home.
—
It creeps beneath the surface of your skin like a snake sidewinding through the sand, anticipation pooling in the chasm of your belly, sending little thrills careening into your center.
You’ve barely made it through the foyer, your home warm and dark save for the subtle glow of the entryway and stove lights illuminating your path. You feel them when you bend over to undo the straps of your sandals. Polychrome eyes boring into the arc of your ass with an intensity that makes your legs tremble.
You spin around to face him, your jacket falling into a serpentine pile at your feet, throat dry with sand at the visage that greets you. He’s a few paces off. A hulking mass of muscle, sex, and mahogany prowling towards you like a panther, loafers haphazardly kicked off by the door.
There’s a thick finger hooked into the collar of his button-down, skillfully undoing each knob without relinquishing eye contact. He cants his head to the side, gaze half-slit, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. You could swear that you hear a growl rumbling like thunder through the base of his throat.
He sizes you up as if he intends to devour you, his shirt splayed open, bronze skin peeking out, stretched taut over pectorals and abs. Your stare wanders to the coarse, flaxen trail leading to the rim of his pants. Your eyes conclude their journey at the bulk of him throbbing between his legs.
It takes every ounce of you not to moan. Not to chew your lip. Not to throw yourself into Kyojuro’s arms, winding your legs around his hips, begging him to fuck you senseless.
You were raring to go earlier, murmuring obscenities into his neck over dinner, his palm wide and possessive, stroking along the meat of your thigh. But now, there is this fluttering sensation taking hold of your gut. Nervousness, excitement, eagerness, glee. You can’t quite place the feeling. Although, it has been some time since you’ve last felt him.
You stave off the moment, feigning nonchalance with a shrug of your shoulders despite the insistent pounding between your thighs.
“Thirsty?” you offer, taking a cautious step back.
He matches you with a long stride forward. A predator homing in on its prey. And you are the lamb laid to slaughter. “No.”
That previous feeling grows tenfold, your blood pumping ferociously in your throat and ears. Your voice grows shrill. Thin and light against the distant hum of the air conditioner.
“H-hungry?” Another step back until your back thumps against the glacial, textured wall by your kitchen. You’re clawing at it for leverage, your head spinning, spinning.
Two more steps forward, sinewy arms reaching out to cage you in. Kyojuro spills over you like liquid fire, blotting out everything but him.
“Not at all.”
Your breaths intermingle whilst he leans in, painting a hazy triangle between your eyes and mouth. Hair grazes your shoulder when he ducks beside your jaw, his lips red-hot as he huffs into your ear.
“Is there anything my darling needs before we retire to the bedroom?”
You shake your head numbly in reply, rooted to this spot, your voice and legs refusing to work.
“Good,” Kyojuro drawls, bending his elbows to bring himself closer, surprise purling through you like waves upon the shore.
He blisters the juncture of your shoulder with lazy kisses. And you nearly sink to the floor, the pheromones charging the air loosening your joints and making your pussy hiccup. He hooks his hands beneath the folds of your knees, effortlessly twining your thighs around his hips. You scramble for purchase of his shoulders, eyes swimming whilst the hard press of his dick finds the apex of your hips.
“Because when I’m inside you…unnff.” His tone is strained. Abrasive. Crackling like a fire burning through the underbrush. His forehead dips into your shoulder, his thick groan vibrating your skin. Open-mouthed against your flesh, “When I’m inside this pretty little pussy of yours, I am never coming out.”
#rengoku x reader#kyojuro x reader#rengoku kyojuro x reader#kyojuro rengoku x reader#rengoku kyojuro smut#rengoku smut#kyojuro smut#kyojuro x black reader#rengoku x black reader#rengoku kyojuro x black reader#rengoku kyojuro x you#rengoku kyojuro x y/n#rengoku kyojuro#kny x reader#kny x y/n#demon slayer fic
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These chocolate toffee thumbprints with a creamy chocolate filling are rich, delicious, and perfect for any occasion! Recipe below!
Dough:
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- ½ cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
- ½ teaspoon salt
- 1 (8-ounce) bag of milk chocolate-covered coffee bits
- 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 1 cup granulated sugar
- 1 large egg
- 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
Filling:
- 4 ounces (about ¾ cup) semisweet chocolate chips
- 1 ½ tablespoons butter, softened
- ⅓ cup heavy cream
- ½ cup powdered sugar, sifted
1. Dough: Stir together the flour, cocoa, and salt in a medium bowl. Add 1 cup of the toffee chips and toss with the mixture.
2. In a separate big bowl, beat the butter and granulated sugar together on medium speed until fluffy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat until combined.
3. Add the flour mixture and stir with a spoon. Make sure the toffee pieces are evenly dispersed.
4. Roll the dough into 1 ½-inch balls and place on parchment-lined baking sheets. Use your thumb or a spoon to press a well into the center of each one. Refrigerate the cookies for at least 45 minutes.
5. Preheat the oven to 350°. Make sure the cookies are about an inch apart. Return any remaining cookies to the refrigerator until ready to bake.
6. Bake for 8-10 minutes. Cool completely on the baking sheet and then transfer to a cooling rack. Repeat until all the cookies are baked.
7. Filling: Place the chocolate chips and butter in a small, heat-proof bowl.
8. Heat the heavy cream in a small saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring often, until it comes to a boil.
9. Pour the cream over the chocolate chips and cover the bowl tightly with aluminum foil. Let it sit for 5-6 minutes, then whisk until the chocolate is completely melted and smooth. Add the sugar and whisk until smooth and creamy.
10. Spoon the filling into the indentations on the cookies and sprinkle with the remaining toffee chips. Let set for about an hour.
#cookies#baking#food pics#food porn#food photography#food#recipes#chocolate#toffee bits#chocolate cookies#sweets#dessert#emmysbakingadventures
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Designated Person | Chapter 2
Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader
Chapter 2: Shopping List
Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?
Rating: Explicit (18+ only)
Word Count: 9.2k+
Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, alcoholism / alcohol dependence, parole/pre-trial release, infant / toddler, past romantic & sexual relationship implied, smut, AA meeting, flashbacks, our boy is a liar liar pants on fire, awkward conversations
Notes: So, about how long this is... WOOFTA. I couldn't cut anything, though, so whatever. Let me know what ya think! Thank you for reading!!
[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]
It was an unseasonably hot and miserable day. The morning air was already acting like adhesive on Frankie’s legs, sticking them to the varnished dining room chair. He raised a spoon to his mouth, admiring the perfect ratio of sugar-sweetened milk and Froot Loops he was able to collect. When he engulfed the spoon and squee-geed its contents into his mouth, he swung his short, skinny legs back and forth with glee. The menagerie of artificial fruit-like flavors melded with the creamy whole milk in a softened crunch.
It was his favorite breakfast.
His dad sat at the dining room table next to him, trying to lift the spoon to his lips. The utensil vibrated in his grip. Each time he tried to raise a bite out of the white ceramic bowl, the spoon started vibrating and thwarted his efforts. Frankie watched his father with curiosity.
“What’s wrong with your spoon?” Frankie asked through a mouthful of cereal.
“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” was the response that came. His dad then dropped the spoon onto the tabletop with a clatter, splashing droplets of red-tinted milk. He pushed his chair out hard and stood up. The loud scratching noise it made on their tiled kitchen floor buzzed inside Frankie’s head and made him wince.
He watched his dad’s broad shoulders as he loafed over to the refrigerator and retrieved a silver can from the door. It hissed and opened with a metallic crack.
Frankie returned his gaze to the offending spoon, squinting to see if there was some kind of kryptonian green glow to the object. There wasn’t. Like he often did, Frankie mentally reviewed the evidence he collected that supported his working theory.
The dark, loosely curled hair. Squared jaw. Broad shoulders atop his tall, muscular frame. Disappearing for hours at a time, only to return either jubilant or so exhausted he stumbled around the house until he fell asleep. Frankie always secretly knew it was because he was out trying to save the world.
Sure, his dad wasn’t white, or a journalist, but certainly the people at DC Comics had to conceal some parts of his father’s identity. They couldn’t name him Jose Rolando Morales outright. That would be dangerous.
The spoon had to be contaminated by kryptonite. And those shiny silver cans held the antidote. Frankie noted that his dad brought at least one anywhere he went. Between them in their beat-up car’s cup holder armrest, lining the refrigerator door like an aluminum forcefield, in a cooler by his feet at Frankie’s softball games.
Frankie determined that the world was lousy with kryptonite radiation, so his dad had to be vigilant.
Now, as Frankie swings his legs out of the queen-sized bed that’s temporarily his, he stares down at his own shaking hands. A burning in his chest urges him to take the antidote. To return the equilibrium within his body, consequences be damned.
The digital clock on the desk by the foot of his bed reads 6:30 AM. The house is completely silent, just like it was when he finally fell asleep only 3 hours ago. He balls his hands into tight fists and squeezes. The tremors ripple through the clenched muscles of his forearms.
Frustration twists through his veins as he stares down at them. He gets to his feet and takes two strides across the cramped room to the dresser, where he fishes out a clean pair of boxers. The floor tracks his footsteps with groans and squeaks as he makes his way to the bathroom.
He flips the shower on HOT and steps into the water. The pin-sized streams pelt him and roll down his body in sheets. His palms press against the wall and he leans over into the scalding onslaught. He savors the way it stings his skin, leaving him red and buzzing.
The water swirling down the drain entrances him. Drowns out the roar of his mind and body begging him for a drink. Temporarily stuns the overwhelming need that burns through him hotter than the steaming water.
A knock at the door snaps him out of the hypnosis. He shakes his head and picks up the bar of soap, “One sec.”
When he emerges, wearing only the clean pair of boxers he brought with him, a cloud of heat and condensation follows him into the hallway. You’re leaning against the wall, crossing your legs, wiggling in place to keep from pissing your pants.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing up at your face just in time to catch your eyes wandering down the length of his body. Your cheeks start to flush when your gaze catches his. You push past him and slam the door behind you.
It reminds him of the way you looked at him when you met. Then, too, your gaze lingered long enough for him to catch you. You introduced yourself, all tongue-tied and flustered, desire written across your face in bold type.
He had to remind himself to behave. To ignore the tingle of temptation settling at the base of his spine. That’s never really changed when it comes to you, though, has it?
A smirk tips up the corner of his mouth as he pads through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into his bedroom. He gets dressed and returns to the kitchen, where he finds you pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs. You take one and breeze past him into the living room. The one you leave behind is obviously for him. It’s black and you leave ample space for his jittery hands to slosh coffee around without spilling over the sides.
Although, he can’t prove that this is why you started leaving a large gap of space when you pour his coffee. You’ve never talked to each other about the shakes, you’ve never asked if it’s easier for him that way, or anything. One day he was struggling to perform this usually mindless task without spilling hot coffee all over himself, and the next you started leaving space in his mug.
It could just be a coincidence. But he doubts it.
Like you do every morning, you set the steaming mug down on your cheap, black coffee table and sink into your hand-me-down couch, all scrunched up in a ball with your ankles crossed and thighs close to your chest. You pull out a notebook and pen and start making lists. Your plans for the day. He settles at the opposite end of the couch and scrolls through the news on his phone.
Neither of you say anything until you finish your second cup of coffee. This is usually when it’s safe to start speaking.
“What’s in the books for today?” he asks.
“Well,” you start, tapping your pen against the notebook, “It’s the, um, family dinner tonight. So I was thinking of getting stuff to make lasagna.”
A smile stretches across his face. He raises his eyebrows, “Lasagna? You know it’s just the two of us, right?”
You tilt your head and glare at him, “So?”
“That’s an insane thing to make for two people,” Frankie snorts.
“Ok, well,” you roll your eyes, but he sees the beginnings of a grin on your lips, “I happen to know that you love lasagna,” your eyes flick to his for an electric jolt of a moment, and your face deepens a shade. You drop your gaze to the notebook with a shrug, “And we’ll have hella leftovers.”
A warmth radiates across his chest. It spreads to his face in a smile as he nods, “Need help with anything?”
“No, that’s ok,” you assure him, shaking your head.
“You sure? I have nothing else to do today,” he offers.
Your eyebrow quirks and you tilt your head to the side, “No other options, might as well hang out with me?”
Frankie frowns, “Whadda you mean?”
You just chuckle and shake your head, glancing away, “Nothing, it was a joke.”
His eyes follow you as you stand up and tiptoe through the kitchen to refill your coffee mug. When you return, you fold your legs up in front of your chest and balance your steaming coffee cup on your knee. Something about your “joke” feels like a rock in his shoe.
“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks directly, tapping his fingers to the tops of his thighs.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes,” he states. This leaves no room for speculation or insinuations on your part.
“Alright,” you shrug. A satisfied smirk plays on your lips, “Lemme finish this cup of coffee then we can go to the store.”
Frankie trails behind you, leaning onto the shiny plastic handles of the shopping cart in aisle 5. Its wheels squeak across the low rise carpet defiantly. Holding your grocery list scrawled on a frayed notebook paper in one hand, studying a can of tomatoes in the other, you don’t notice his eyes drifting up and down your body with admiration.
It’s been difficult to resist this temptation. Old habits die hard and all that. He finds his gaze lingering on you frequently, unable to stop his mind from getting swept up in a tidal wave of memories. It doesn’t help that the two of you have walked these same grocery store aisles dozens of times.
The first time feels like a lifetime ago. You were poking around the kitchen, going from the fridge to the cupboards, then from the cupboards to the fridge, sighing quietly to yourself. He watched you out of the corner of his eye as he fed Sarah a bottle, amused at how you hovered around the doorway between your respective rooms, seemingly trying to decide whether or not to approach him.
When Sarah slurped down the last of her formula, he stood up to burp her over his shoulder, giving her soft, encouraging pats on the back. You were still standing in the middle of the kitchen, scrunching your face up at the recipe on your phone like it was a puzzle.
“Need help finding anything?” Frankie stepped onto the fake oak wood linoleum of the kitchen.
Your eyes flicked to his, face flushed hot like he pantsed you instead of asked you a question. He couldn’t help but notice the way your gaze dropped to his mouth, or how your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you responded, “Um, yeah, sorry. The recipe calls for milk, I used the last of it earlier today. I was looking for a substitute, but, um, I don’t think there’s anything else I can use.”
“Ok,” he nodded, “Did you want to make something else?”
Your teeth caught your bottom lip and worried away at it. You pressed your eyebrows together, inquiring, “Would Mrs. Morales be upset if I made something different?”
Frankie frowned as he thought about this, considering how fickle his wife can be. Case in point, she insisted that you stay and make dinner while Frankie watched Sarah instead of delegating both tasks to him. This resulted in them paying you to be there for two hours longer than he thought was necessary every day.
“Or we could go to the store? ” he proposed.
“Oh, you don’t have to pack Sarah up, I can just go-”
“Let’s all go,” he suggested, switching Sarah to his other shoulder, “I have to get some formula and a few other things anyway.”
“I could, um, stay here with her, too,” you covered your mouth as a nervous chuckle escaped it, “You don’t have to-”
Sarah released a loud belch and spit up onto Frankie’s shoulder. He groaned, then grimaced at the sour scent that wafted into his nose.
You burst out laughing. The sound was melodic and bright, and he’s pretty sure you snorted a little. A genuine smile broke out on his face as he handed his daughter off to you and went to change his shirt.
By the time he returned, you were crouched in front of the car seat, buckling the five-point harness over Sarah’s small body, cooing and babbling back and forth with her. From his vantage point, he could see the white lace of your underwear peeking out over the top of your jeans.
He let his eyes linger on them, imagining how you would look wearing that pair of panties alone. He wondered what they smelled like. What they tasted like.
All the blood in his body rushed to his dick. You leaned over further to tighten the straps, exposing more of the white lace. His tongue ran along the seam of his lips.
How damp could he make them before peeling them off your body? Judging by how starry-eyed you got around him, it wouldn’t take much for you to saturate the delicate fabric.
“Ready?” you stood up and swung Sarah’s diaper bag over your shoulder.
He shook the filthy thoughts from his head and rubbed his hands together, “Rock ‘n’ roll.”
You picked at your fingernail polish the entire drive. Avoided looking anywhere but out the passenger’s side window. He snuck glances at you, despite the sirens going off in his head, warning him to keep his distance.
When he parked the car and went to get Sarah’s car seat out of its base, you came around to the door and pulled a tangle of thick navy blue fabric out of the diaper bag.
“I can wear her so we don’t have to lug around her car seat,” you mumbled.
He furrowed his brow, “Wear her…? What is that?”
“It’s a babybjörn! You haven’t used this yet?”
“I have no idea what that means,” he chuckled, shaking his head from side to side.
“It’s, um… it’s like a kangaroo pouch,” you held the strappy contraption up for him to see, “You wear it and then put her in it and you can carry her around hands free. She loves it.”
He nodded, “Oh. That’s pretty neat.”
“Do you wanna try?”
You held it out to him, and he accepted it, only to inspect it at arm’s length like the foreign object it was.
“Here,” you laughed and took it back, rearranging it until there were two definable holes to slide his arms through, which he did.
“Um, ok, turn around.”
He spun and faced the opposite direction, letting you fasten the device from behind.
“How the fuck do you do this alone?” Frankie muttered, holding his arms out to the side as he turned around and inspected the completed product.
You didn’t answer him, just retrieved Sarah from her car seat and helped get her situated in the baby carrier. Once she was nestled into it, and he was tummy-to-tummy with her, she looked up at Frankie with her big, dark eyes and smiled wide, showing off a single pearly white tooth.
“See? Look at how happy this sweet lil baby is,” you cooed, booping Sarah’s nose with your index finger. Inadvertently, you laid your head against his arm when you did this. Frankie felt his lungs expand and his skin tingle. Those sirens started going off again.
Sarah blew a raspberry in response and squealed in delight.
He pushed around a shopping cart behind you, tossing things in as he went along. Sarah cooed happily and watched the world around her with amazement.
Every once and a while, his eyes caught yours and held your gaze just long enough to make his heart skip a beat. Each time, you got flustered and looked away. He always thought you were attractive and found it cute how obvious your crush on him was. It was flattering.
But that trip to the store was the first time he knew he fucking wanted you.
Is that why you insisted on coming to this store today? Going out of your way just to plague him with the reminders of how things were? To show him how your relationship has weaved into so many fucked up directions, neither of you know where you are on the map?
“Daddy!”
The sound of Sarah’s voice yanks him from his thoughts. His gaze flicks to you just in time to see your eyes widen in panic at what’s behind him. You step towards the cart and toss in the can of tomatoes.
Frankie turns around and sees Angelica, shoulders squared and expression steel as she approaches. His face breaks out into a wide smile as his eyes land on Sarah, who has no idea what “dynamics” or “tension” mean or how they could possibly make a difference between her and her daddy. Her dimpled smile when he makes eye contact with her is quite possibly the only thing that has given him hope in the past week.
“Mi princesa!” he exclaims, abandoning the shopping cart, gravitating towards his family. Sarah claps her hands together and extends her arms to Frankie. He plucks her from the cart and holds her on his hip.
“What’re you doing here?” Angie spits. His eyes flick to hers and he shivers at how cold the glare is. It always amazes him how she can make her golden brown eyes somehow seem icy.
“Just getting some groceries,” he shrugs, then looks at Sarah, “How are you, sweetheart? I miss you.”
“Frankie, put her back,” Angie demands.
Her voice is low and serious, but when he meets his daughter’s ecstatic gaze, he shakes his head. He tears his eyes away to level them at his wife, “I’ve been trying to set something up so I can see you two. Have you seen my texts?”
“Yep,” Angie responds.
Frankie stares at her expectantly.
She stares back, unflinching as she states, “I don’t want Sarah to be around her .”
“She doesn’t-“ he takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes, “I can go wherever you want. She doesn’t have to go there.”
Angie purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything.
Frankie clenches his jaw, then sighs, “We’re not seeing each other, Ang. I swear. She’s my roommate. That’s all. Things have been over with us for a year. I’m still in this with you.”
She scoffs and folds her arms across her chest, “Who says that I’m in this with you? ”
“N-nobody,” he stammers, “I just- I don’t know, is that what you really want? To just throw this all away?”
She’s silent as she contemplates this. Her stance and features soften.
“I love you, Ang. I love our life together. And,” he presses his eyebrows together and takes a step towards her, “Listen, I- I know I fucked up. But this living situation is a means to an end. Honest. I still wanna be with you.”
She studies her husband and their child, then sighs, arms going slack at her sides, “Are you doing anything tonight?”
He turns this question over in his mind a few times. Yes, he does. The first of Ralph’s prescribed “family dinner” with you. The phrase feels like a betrayal to his wife and daughter. Isn’t it just as important, if not more important, that he try to put his life back together with his family?
“I have a Sunday night meeting,” is what he tells her, glancing behind his shoulder instinctively to see if you’re within earshot. The aisle is vacant, so he turns back to Angie and shrugs, “But I can see if I’m able to skip it.”
“Ok,” Angie allows one corner of her lips to flick up into a smile, “Come over for dinner.”
“Yeah?” he grins, looking over to Sarah, “Want me to come and have dinner with you, Princess?”
She just giggles in response, her deep brown eyes meeting his with glee.
“What time?” he asks Angie.
“5:00,” she smirks, “Does that work?”
“It’s a date,” Frankie beams in response.
“So, just to be clear,” you itch your eyebrow and sigh, “You’re blatantly disobeying Ralph’s request for us to have family dinner-“
“But for dinner with my actual family,” Frankie interrupts as he leans the passenger’s seat back a bit, crossing his ankle over his knee. He presses his fingers to his lips and looks out the window.
“So I just got all this shit for nothing?”
“I don’t want to fuck this up with her,” he tells you, casting a hopeful glance your way.
It meets your eyes, but you look back to the road and shake your head slightly.
“What?” he asks defensively.
You scoff and shake your head harder now, then roll your eyes, “I just…”
He waits for you to continue, but your teeth catch your bottom lip and your face softens into a sadness that feels like a punch in his gut.
“Nevermind,” you mumble under your breath.
The rest of the drive home is quiet and awkward. After you pull into the garage, you kill the engine and practically sprint into the house. He grabs all the flimsy plastic bags from the trunk of your car and brings them inside the house, dropping them in front of the fridge before knocking on your closed bedroom door.
“What?”
Your voice wavers, regardless of how abrasive you try to make it sound.
“Can I come in?” he requests. His hand rests on the doorknob, waiting for your permission.
From behind the door, he hears you sniffling, but you don’t answer him. Stomach acid starts to bubble up inside his throat. When he knocks on the door again, and you spit, “Oh my god, what? ”
“Do you want me to see if Ang will do dinner a different day?”
“I don’t give a shit what you do, Francisco.”
His eyebrows raise and he blinks at the door, knowing damn well that phrase means exactly the opposite of what you’re asserting. With a small sigh, he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Angie, explaining that his PSO told him the meeting was mandatory, then asks to reschedule.
“Ok, well,” he hollers towards your door from the kitchen, as he unpacks the groceries you just bought, “I’m gonna start making this, then.”
You don’t respond, so he eggs you on further, “Do I defrost some hamburger for the sauce?”
Silence. He grabs a 1-pound chub of ground beef from the freezer and sets it down on the stovetop with a clunk .
“Oh, and for the sauce, do I just add Italian seasoning to the tomatoes and cook it?”
He casts a glance to your closed door. Nothing.
“You put the noodles in uncooked, right? I don’t need to boil them?”
A moment later, the door swings open and you come into the kitchen shaking your head, “I swear to god, Frankie-“
His face breaks out into a satisfied grin and you meet his eyes. Yours are swollen and wet. You fold your arms across your chest.
“I rescheduled with Ang,” he explains, “We’re gonna get together on a different day.”
You nod solemnly, then avert your gaze to the stove and sigh, “You can’t just set frozen meat on there to defrost, it’s gonna bleed all over the place.”
He frowns and shrugs.
“And I got Italian sausage, it’s way better than hamburger in lasagna,” you smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, unfolding your arms to put the frozen chunk of meat back inside the freezer, “Get the saucepan, I’ll show you how to make it.”
“Saucepan?” his forehead wrinkles in confusion.
You snort and shake your head, “Absolutely hopeless.”
“Holy shit,” Frankie groans. The dining room chair squeaks as he stretches out, “That was so good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you flash him a close-lipped smile and push the remaining lasagna around your plate.
Both of you have avoided the open and honest communication Ralph had assigned for as long as possible. Now it’s the only thing left on the agenda. Frankie’s chest tightens as he tries to think of what to say to you. The scrape of your fork against the dinner plate is sandpaper on his spine. It makes his ears itch.
You clear your throat and set your fork down, then turn to him. Your eyes are dull and overcast, lips all puffy and full of color as a result of your anxious biting. He resists the urge to brush his thumb against your cheek and feel your warmth.
A deep breath expands your lungs, then you croak, “I hate that I’m always your backup plan.”
The words hang in the air as they seep into the folds of his brain.
Frankie shifts in his chair. Its squeak breaks the uncomfortable silence in a way that somehow only makes it more unbearable. He was expecting your anger. Bracing for it, really. But this? This vulnerability you volleyed into his court?
It makes his heart pound heavy in his chest. Wriggles between every vertebrae down his spine. Settles in his stomach like lead.
He shakes his head in protest, unable to stop the lie from crossing his lips, “You are not always my backup plan.”
The statement coats his mouth with a slimy residue.
Your shoulders slump as you deflate, eyes glazing over with disappointment. You drop your gaze to study the plate in front of you, chewing on your bottom lip. Then you take another deep breath and push your chair out behind you. You stomp off to your bedroom and slam the door.
He sits for a while in silence, waiting for you to return. When it’s obvious you’re committing to your bedroom isolation, he clears the table and washes the dishes.
While drying his hands on the dish rag over his shoulder, he walks back to your bedroom and holds his ear to the closed door. Sniffling and sobbing cuts through the quiet periodically. His jaw gnashes back and forth as he stands with one knuckle cocked against the door, contemplating whether or not to knock on the door and apologize.
“My name is Frankie and I’m an alcoholic,” Frankie drones. The metal folding chair squeaks as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
The chant echos around the church basement from the circle of his fellow miserable fucks: Hi, Frankie.
“I’m, uh, I’m not sure what to-” he presses his mouth into a flat line and looks to the ringleader, David, for assistance.
Frankie surmises that David could be a middle school principal if he isn’t already. He looks like he once had a full head of short brown hair, but his hairline is now receding and peppered with grays. He’s clean shaven, wearing a white long-sleeved dress shirt, yellow tie, and khaki slacks. His cadence is diplomatic and metered with a southern coastal drawl.
David frowns and crosses his long legs while responding, “You can talk about how long it’s been since you drank, what brings you today, where you’re at in recovery. Whatever you want to get off your chest.”
Frankie raises an eyebrow and rubs a hand over his face, then brings his palms to his thighs where his fingertips thrum nervously, “Ok. Um, well, I haven’t drank in a week and a half. But I want to. It’s all I wanna do, if I’m being honest. Everything is such a shit show right now. I don’t even know where to start. My wife threw me out last week after I was arrested,” he pauses and thinks about that assessment, then tilts his head to the side, “Well, I guess, it’s not really the arrest. The person that I’m staying with, we have a history, and, my wife-” he clamps his mouth shut in frustration. Why can’t he explain this?
“It’s… complicated. Anyway, Two weeks ago, everything was fine, now it’s like my whole world is flipped upside down. I’m out on bail, can’t drink, facing a felony, living with my ex, and my wife is probably filing for divorce. I fucking-” he stops and looks at David, “Sorry, can- can I swear?”
David shrugs, “Go ahead, bud.”
“I fucking hate it. And I have to go to these meetings three times a week, call my PSO every day, always talking about what’s going on in my life and what I’m feeling. Everyone always asking what I’m fucking feeling . And I have no goddamn idea how to answer. I’ve never had to fucking do this before. I fucking hate it, it’s bullshit,” he finishes, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his mouth before one more, “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Thank you for sharing,” David nods with a calming smile that surprises Frankie, then looks around the circle, “Who else would like to share?”
While waiting at a bus stop, Frankie stares at the bar across the street. He tries to calculate the odds of him getting drug tested within the next few days.Fuck, it would be good to get lost in a whiskey haze. A small vacation from his mind.
Maybe just one.
The bus roars down the street, right on time, pulling him from the temptation of those neon lights. He stands up off the bench to meet it.
After scanning his bus pass, he searches for a place to plant his ass, settling on a window seat he doesn’t have to share with another person. A lanky, pale twenty-something man sitting in front of him starts digging through a crinkly McDonald’s bag. The deep fat fried scent of french fries wafts back into his face and his stomach growls in protest.
While the city of Kissimmee passes by his window, Frankie wonders what you made for dinner. Whatever it is is probably better than McDonald’s french fries. Even if it’s just leftovers from last night. The past week has reminded him of what a good cook you are.
And, god, he misses his daughter. His house. His truck. His bed. His wife. But to be spending time with you again, shooting the shit while you occupied your hands preparing dinner… It was good. Reminded him of those first few months, after you came out of your shell around him, before he kissed you for the first time.
You hadn’t yet found out that he’s a fuckup. He would talk you into having a beer with him while you cooked. The timid exterior would melt away into the smartass he came to know and love.
Maybe he should have just left you alone. Let you do your job. You would’ve never set up a prepaid calling account so you could accept collect calls from county. He would have never broken your heart.
His stop comes up, so Frankie pulls the cord and gets to his feet. Before he hops off and starts towards your place, he thanks the bus driver. The evening air is soupy hot and he regrets not asking you to just pick him up from the meeting. Although, he never gathered the courage to console you last night, so you probably don’t want to do him any favors.
He walks a few blocks, until the little tangerine orange house comes into view. The weight in his chest settles down further with each step. He wants a drink. He wants to go home. Not this one, though, the real one.
This is fucking bullshit.
Frankie opens the front door to find you curled against the couch, swiping through tinder on your phone as Friends plays idly on the TV. A nonsensical pang of jealousy stabs through his guts when you swipe right on Rory, 32, who’s posing shirtless next to a surfboard. What the fuck kind of a name is Rory, anyway?
“Hey,” he calls to you as he kicks his heavy work boots off onto the shoe tray.
“Hey,” you glance at him through your tortoiseshell glasses, then up at the TV, clicking the phone screen off as you tuck it away under your leg. You’re wearing a pair of floral cotton pajama shorts that have to have just a 1-inch inseam. The swell of your ass peaks out the bottom. Your hard nipples are outlined against your tight gray tank top.
He remembers how soft and warm your skin was against his. The quiet little moans you made when he kissed your neck. The things you would whimper against his mouth you were alone behind locked doors.
“I heated up some lasagna for dinner,” you inform him without looking up.
Frankie glances from the kitchen, to you. He thinks about the way the two of you left off last night, then plops down on the couch, “Listen, um, I wanted to tell you...”
You slide your eyes from the TV to his face, then tilt your head in question.
“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” he looks down at his hands as they wring together, “And everything that you’ve done for me in the past. You’ve always been just… fuck, so great,” he taps his fingers to his lips and shrugs, “I don’t deserve you.”
The corners of your mouth upturn into a peace treaty, “I appreciate you pulling glass out of my foot.”
“Anytime,” he thrums his fingers against the top of his legs, then turns to you, “I’m getting you LED bulbs, though. Can’t believe you’re still using incandescent. That was your first mistake.”
“Wow, that is the most dad thing you could possibly bitch at me about,” you deadpan, then snort as you turn your attention back to the TV.
“How is it healing up?” he asks, ignoring your comment as he tilts his head at your feet.
“Fine,” you assure him, lifting your foot to show proof.
“Let me see” he hums, wrapping his hand around your foot and pulling it closer for inspection. The gasp of air you intake when he touches you is almost undetectable, but he notes it. Arousal pricks his skin when he realizes he should stop. Those old, familiar sirens start going off in his head again, warning him to proceed with caution.
But you’re sitting there looking absolutely fucking irresistible. It’s killing him. The subtle rumblings of lust in his belly, and in your quiet little gasp, stick to his insides and prod him on further.
“Oh yeah,” he mumbles, running his thumb over the elevated patch of skin that’s now sealed, “Looks way better.”
You start to giggle and pull your foot back. His eyebrows raise and he seizes it, a wide smile transforming his eyes to crescents, “Oh, are you ticklish?”
The pads of his fingers trail up the sole of your foot and you start laughing this fucking champagne laugh, all sparkling and effervescent. You writhe and scoot closer. Your hands fly to his wrist as you whine through your rosy-cheeked laughter, “You know that I am, Frankie!”
And your body is wiggling closer still, and you’re smiling and laughing, squealing breathlessly, “Stop- please stop-”
It’s almost the same cadence as the breathy moans you’ve huffed against his lips countless times, “don’t- don’t stop- ”
You go on the offensive, releasing his wrist so your fingertips can graze against his rib cage. God damn you, the tickle creeps across his ribcage, making him giggle, quickly escalating to a howling laughter when you continue. He lets go of your foot and grabs your hands, pulling them away from his sides, but the onslaught continues when you swing your leg over his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips when you wriggle one hand away and go back for more.
Fingertips in his armpit, sending shockwaves of laughter through his body until he throws his head back and his hat falls off. He opens his eyes and you’re straddling him and smiling and laughing, and your gaze catches on his.
Chests heaving, tears of laughter streaming down your cheeks, hips pressed together so close that there’s no way you don’t feel how fucking hard he is right now. The urge lingers for just one second before he acts, pressing his lips to yours.
Your sweet, soft lips respond, kissing back with urgency. He abandons his attempts to pull your hands away from his body. Instead, his grasp drops to your waist, pulling you closer. You bring your fingertips to his scalp and rake them through his hair. A shudder rolls down his spine. His hips jerk against yours.
His lips part and your tongue rolls against his, hands cradling his head, pulling his hair into your fists. The power in your kiss tugs at the edges of him. He bites back a moan and tightens his grip on your waist. His hands slide up the shirt clinging to your chest, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling soft across the hard buds. You gasp in response, but don’t stop kissing him, even when your breath becomes labored and sweet little whimpers bubble from your lips onto his.
You start to grind against him, a sliding scale of pressure along the length of his cock, sending his heart racing and body tingling. You part the kiss to throw your head back and face the ceiling, panting and whining as you rub yourself against the zipper of his jeans. The loss of your lips sends him reeling. He wants to taste you, and brings his mouth to your nipple to fulfill the need.
You moan when his tongue draws wet circles on the hardened bud, and look down to meet his eyes with a smoldering gaze, lips puckered, dragging your fingernails through his hair, nodding down at him enthusiastically, never ceasing the steady rhythm of dry humping. He switches sides to tease the neglected breast, and he can feel your body shudder at the stimulation. Your hand tugs on his, guiding it to your mouth. Soft, humming lips wrap around two thick digits. You rut them in and out of your mouth, dragging moisture out with each thrust, soaking his fingers with your saliva.
He throws his head back against the couch, groaning through gritted teeth as the desire stoked in his abdomen becomes unbearably tedious, “I wanna fuck you, baby, please.”
You take fingers from your mouth, then bring those puffy, swollen lips to his ear and purr, “Then fuck me, Francisco.”
His breath hitches as the command slithers around inside him, sticking to the most primal of instincts and dragging them out to play. He buries his hand in your hair and grabs a fistful, pulling your head back to expose the column of your neck. He drags his tongue up your neck, relishing the salty bite of your sweat, then husks, “Take off your clothes, sweetheart.”
You stand on shaky legs. Both of you pull your clothes off, piling them on the living room floor. Then you climb back onto his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips.
He drinks in your form, eyes drifting up your skin until he meets your gaze. Your lips press against his for a languid kiss as you lower yourself down, tip of his cock dipping into your hot, tight cunt. His head rolls back against the couch, sensitive nerve endings along his length firing on all cylinders you work yourself open, engulfing him inch by inch, breathy moans falling from your lips.
His hands find the soft skin of your hips and he spurs you on, guiding you to roll your hips on his, setting a steady, luscious pace, filling his center with ecstasy with each gentle thrust. He groans, “You’re so fucking tight , holy fuck- Look so fucking good riding me, baby.”
Your eyebrows draw together and you moan at the praise, bpm of your hips increasing just enough to stoke the fire inside and break him out in a sweat. You lean forward to take his lips in a kiss, running your tongue against his, passing whimpers back and forth between your mouths, reveling in the blissful ache of your bodies sliding together.
He runs a hand down between your pumping thighs and starts drawing easy, slick circles around your swollen clit. You respond with a guttural moan, arching your back towards him, hands pressing against his thighs for support as you rut up and down his slippery cock.
“That’s right, sweetheart- Jesus Christ - you feel so fucking good,” Frankie babbles.
Your eyebrows crease together and you look down at him, nodding with your lips pouting into an O as you whimper breathlessly, “So fucking big, you stretch me- can’t take it all- ”
He nods with a moan and undulates his fingers faster now, “You can take it baby, I know you can. You can do it.”
You bite your lip and bury him to the hilt, pulling a choked sob from both of your throats. Ecstasy fills his vision with stars as you find a rhythm sliding your cunt down his shaft until he disappears inside you. He grits his teeth, “Fuck yes- take that cock, baby, just like that-“
Your body starts to quiver and your moans grow more frantic. You fold over and press your lips to his, sloppy and dazed, whimpering, “Fuck me, Frankie, please- give it to me-“
“You want me to give it to you, hmm?” he pants and brings his hands to your hips, digging into the soft skin so hard his knuckles tinge white.
You nod, grabbing onto his shoulders with the same ferocity, then growl, “Fucking give it to me.”
Holding your hips down, thrusting into you deep and hungry, ripping a moan from the back of your throat, he grunts, “Is that what you need, baby?”
An airy whine escapes you and your face contorts with pleasure, “Yes- yes, fuck yes-”
“Sweet girl wants to get fucked hard, is that what you need?” His words surface from the most depraved part of his brain as he sets a brutal pace.
Your beautiful face gets hot and flushed, breath coming in frantic gasps against his mouth, “Fuck yes- fucked hard- you fuck me so good-”
“Are you gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Hmm?” he pants, then groans into a kiss on your lips, wet and heavy, vibrating against him as your body bounces in time with his thrusts.
You nod frantically and your fingers dig into his shoulders deeper. His muscles start to tense as your sounds and movements seem to disappear, just a shattered inhale with your face all twisted up with pleasure. Then your body seizes, quivering and shaking as you release a strangled moan, convulsing around him.
“That’s it, baby, cum for me,” he rasps, not letting up in his tempo as he works you through the orgasm. The tingling spreads at his core, overtaking his body, pushing him over the edge. His hips snap up into you, painting your walls with his cum.
You climb off of him and lay back on the couch, ragged breath and limp noodle body. His head rolls back and his body sinks into the couch as the feel-good chemicals make their way through his system. His heaving chest settles, madness draining from his psyche, replaced by a calmness. When he looks over at you, you meet his dazed smile with pained eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his smile falling into a frown.
You sit up and grab your shorts, shoving your trembling legs in, one after the other, muttering to yourself, “Exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t fucking do.”
“Hey- it’s ok-” he sits up and places a hand on your forearm, which you rip away immediately.
“Don’t- ok? It’s not ok,” you snap, pulling your shirt on. You sniffle and hide your face behind your hair as you frantically search for your phone.
“I won’t tell Ralph-”
“It’s not about that and you fucking know it,” you grind out, then growl, “Where is my fucking phone?!”
He shakes his head as he slides his boxers back on, standing to pull them over his hips, “It’s really not a big deal, sweetheart.”
You throw your hands up in frustration, then stand on your toes, pointing an accusing finger at his face as you yell, “It’s not a big deal to you! That’s exactly what the fucking problem is! You-” your face crumbles and tears well in your eyes. Your shoulders slump and your bottom lip quivers, but you meet his eyes and sob, “You know how I fucking feel, Frankie. And you’ve made it clear that you don’t feel the same way. And I just keep- fuck ,” you lower your face to your hands, drawing shattered breathes.
His chest aches like it’s raw. When he swallows, the muscles in his throat feel swollen and thick. He wants to wrap his arms around you and kiss your tears away. He wants to take back all the times he told you no.
No, I can’t be with you. Not like that.
No, I won’t leave her.
No, I don’t love you. Not like that.
But he’s not going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. What he told you was the truth. He can’t do anything about that now.
“Just, forget it. It won’t happen again,” you exhale a shaky sigh and run your hands through your hair, then finally spot your phone under his pants crumpled on the floor.
He says nothing as you snatch it up and walk back to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you.
“How did your first meeting go?” Ralph asks.
Through the phone line, Frankie can hear him clicking his black pen, and imagines he’s sitting in his tiny white-washed office within the Osceola County Corrections Department, hovering over a notebook with the corded phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.
“I don’t know,” Frankie answers truthfully, “I don’t think I’m like those guys. I really don’t think I have a problem.”
Ralph’s sigh crackles in his ear. The pen clicks again. Frankie thinks then that it’s not a notebook that Ralph is hovering over. It’s a worksheet. A pre-printed worksheet he keeps for every call with his parolees, with little blank spaces typed at the top for Ralph to fill in the name and date. He’ll file this one away in the folder titled Francisco Morales, saving it as proof for how much progress he has or has not made when his court date comes.
“Mr. Morales, do you know what I’m looking at right now?”
Frankie leans back in his office chair and crosses his ankle over his knee, then thrums his fingers against the armrest, “A worksheet?”
Ralph laughs heartily at this, “I do have a worksheet. What else?”
Oh, for fucks sake, what is this?
Frankie’s turn to sigh now, “I don’t know, what?”
“Let me give you a hint: 2015, public intoxication. 2018, felony drug possession and trafficking. 2019, DUI. 2020, public intoxication and assault. 2021, public intoxication and assault-”
Frankie gnashes his jaws together and sits up, then cuts Ralph off, “My record, I get it.”
“How many times a week would you say you use alcohol to alleviate your PTSD symptoms?”
“None, now,” Frank grumbles, tapping his index finger on the desktop.
“Before your arrest, smartass,” Ralph retorts.
“I don’t know, I had a few beers when I got home from work-“
The pen clicks.
“How many beers? Be honest with me.”
“Six or seven, maybe more.”
“And on the weekend?”
“I’d go to the bar and have a few drinks.”
“How-“
“I don’t know, Ralph, enough to have a good time. Eight, maybe? It depends.”
“Would you drive home?”
“Not every time. A friend or my wife would bring me home sometimes. Sometimes I’d walk.”
“Uh huh. And your friend, would that happen to be the woman you’re currently living with?”
“Not… always,” Frankie lied. He remembers all the times he texted you when Angie wouldn’t pick up, when he knew the streets were ripe with police and he couldn’t risk driving home.
“How are things going with her? Did you talk to her about how things left off on Sunday?”
Frankie is silent as he tries to compile the right answer to this question.
“Honestly,” Ralph tacks on to his question.
“I think if I’m honest with you, you’re going to put a stop to all this and send me back to jail,” Frankie admits.
“Are you drinking or using drugs?”
“No.”
“Any other crimes?”
“No.”
“Then try me.”
Frankie gulps and stands up, moving to the corner of the small, empty office he shares with two other aircraft maintenance technicians. He speaks in a hushed tone, “We had sex last night. She said it was… a mistake. And it won't happen again.”
“Uh huh,” Ralph clicks his pen, “And what do you think about it?”
Frankie exhales all the air from his lungs, deflating his shoulders as he shrugs weakly, “I think it was impulsive. I had such a fucking bad day. I wanted to feel good.”
“And did you achieve that by having sex with her?”
“No,” Frankie chuckles to himself, “No, I feel much worse now. I’m a piece of shit.”
“Do you wanna know what I think?”
Click.
Frankie groans, “I don’t know, do I?”
“Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Ralph declares, clears this throat, then continues, “I think you’re in a hole. But you don’t wanna do anything about it. You don’t acknowledge it, try to get out, or nothing. You want everything to fix itself. Well, guess what, buckeroo? You gotta get out of the damn hole somehow!”
Frankie closes his eyes and his head falls back in exhaustion, “It’s such a fucking mess, though, Ralph.”
“You’re goddamn right it is. But, the good news is, you have help. You have the AA meetings three times a week. And I know you don’t think you have a problem, but just humor me and go along with it. Do the steps. Participate,” his pen clicks once, twice, “You have a friend that has been willing to post bail for you, house you, quit drinking with you, and support you in this journey-”
“And I fucked it up-”
“And you need to start treating her like a person , not a doormat you can stick your dick into. Make it right. You hear me?” Ralph orders.
“Yes, sir.”
Click.
“And, then of course, you get to talk to me every day. And we love our talks, don’t we, Mr. Morales?” Ralph laughs. Frankie grins, but doesn’t respond. Ralph continues, “Next item on the agenda: Wife and daughter- any luck with them?”
“Angie said I could come visit them on Saturday,” Frankie says with a tone of optimism.
“That’s good news! When you see her, see if you can work out a consistent schedule.”
He sighs in response, “I’ll try.”
“Hang in there, kid. It’ll get better. Trust the process.”
When Frankie gets home from work, you’re in the small galley kitchen, hovering above a scratched-up white plastic cutting board as you dice an onion. You hum along to the music playing over your headphones, bobbing your head from side-to-side in time with the rhythm. Blue flames lick the bottom of a stainless steel pan on the gas stovetop.
Swallowing hard, he approaches you and shoves his hands into his front pockets. You don’t see him. His teeth catch the smooth inside of his cheek and bite down. He casts a contemplative glance to the front door, then back to you, before his shoulders slump and he sighs.
Frankie clears his throat as he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, “Hey.”
“Jesus Christ -” your body jolts upright, hand darting from the onion to clutch at your heart. You pull the headphones down around your neck and gasp, “You scared the shit out of me!”
Your eyes only meet his for a moment before you blink and drop your gaze to the onion.
“Sorry,” he mutters, then straightens his spine. His eyes wander to the front door again, Adam’s apple bobbing thick in his throat.
You say nothing, just cut the white bulb down the middle, then start to dice the two halves. The sharp chopping sound pulls his attention back to you.
“What’re you making?” he asks, peering down at the saucepan that’s heating a shiny, slick pool of greenish-yellow olive oil.
“Spaghetti.”
He nods in acknowledgement and scratches the stubble on his neck. His mouth flattens into a straight line and he looks down to his feet, “Do… you need help?”
“Is there something you want from me, Frankie?” you snip, shooting a glare at him before you turn your attention back to the onion.
The words he wants to say sit at the end of his tongue but they won’t leave his mouth. His jaw clenches, as if he’s subconsciously holding them prisoner.
You lift the cutting board and hold it above the shiny hollow of the pan. The paring knife scrapes against the rough plastic and pushes the diced onion into the oil. Steam hisses from the pan up into your face. You turn around, take two steps towards the kitchen sink, then toss the cutting board and knife into the basin.
Its clatter ricochets off the walls and makes him wince.
You spin around to face him with your arms crossed, eyebrows arched in annoyance, “Fine. Get the hamburger out of the fridge.”
The onions sizzle and pop from inside the pan. Without hesitation, he nods and pushes himself off the counter, then retrieves the meat from the refrigerator, unrolling it from the butcher’s paper. He plops it in the middle of the saucepan, earning a loud hiss from the oil.
You return with a pot of salted water and start the burner beneath it. Your arm brushes up against his and you both recoil at the contact like as if touched by a livewire. You take a sideways step, increasing the proximity between your bodies.
Tension hangs in the air like a noxious gas. Frankie’s skin feels exposed and raw in its presence. He peaks over at you and mutters, “I’m sorry for last night.”
You don't respond. You don't move. For a brief moment, he thinks maybe you’re not even breathing.
Frankie shifts his weight to one leg and pushes the ground beef around the pan, then clears his throat and sighs, “We shouldn’t have, um… I mean, I shouldn’t have, y’know…”
You blink and cross your arms in front of your chest, “Are you done?”
A red, hot wave of frustration creeps up his spine and starts to boil in his chest. His jaw cocks to one side and his eyes flick to yours, “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Like you don’t care.”
“Maybe I don’t,” you shrug and avert your gaze to the linoleum tile.
“Yeah, ok,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.
You huff and throw your hands in the air, “So I’m supposed to have feelings but you don’t have to?”
“I don’t not have feelings for you,” he states. His stomach flips as the admission comes out in the open.
Your brow furrows and you tilt your head, then look up at him, searching his face.
“But… I don’t know, I don’t think we can be… more than this. Roommates. At least not right now,” he admits. Your gaze drops to the floor again.
You’re silent for a moment, then nod, “I think you’re right.”
Bubbles start to rise to the surface of the salted water. Frankie stirs the ground beef around the pan, flipping it to reveal gray-brown crumbles.
The two of you sit there for a beat, both contemplating whether or not to explain your reasoning. Both of you wonder the reasoning behind the other’s conclusion.
“You want me to season this?” Frankie asks eventually.
You nod, “Yes, please.”
[ Next Chapter ]
#frankie morales#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales fic#frankie catfish morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales angst#francisco morales#francisco catfish morales#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier fic#triple frontier fanfic#francisco morales fanfiction#frankie morales fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fandom#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal character fanfiction#designated person
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Low-Spoons Bread Recipe
Hallo friends! Yesterday I was singing the praises of bread-baking, which I know is something a lot of people find scary and intimidating. But fear not! I promise it’s easier than you think, and with this Bread Lore you too can bake delicious loaves whenever you want! If you are confused or have questions, please let me know and I will try to help!
I love this recipe/method, which comes from the book “Artisan Bread In Five Minutes A Day” by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois. Does it sound kind of gimmicky? Yes! Does it work? Friend, this recipe is a solid 30% of how I fed myself during grad school. It’s also one of the few things I can consistently make since I got cursed with ME/CFS in February. If I can stagger into the kitchen and use a measuring cup, I can make bread.
This is a no-knead dough that keeps in the fridge for up to a week. Over the course of the week, whenever you want bread you can tear off a hunk of dough and bake it! I find this recipe makes approximately two big loaves, a cookie sheet’s worth of focaccia, four personal pizzas, or eight dinner rolls.
You Will Need:
Flour (all-purpose)
Active Dry Yeast (available in jars and packets in the baking aisle)
Salt (table salt is fine)
Water
Measuring cups & spoons
A big mixing bowl
A lid for the mixing bowl, or some aluminum foil to cover it
To Make The Dough
Get out your big mixing bowl.
Add 3 cups of lukewarm water. It should feel warm, not hot, if you put a drop on the inside of your wrist. If you use very hot water, you could kill the yeast. If you use cold/cool water, the recipe will work but it will take longer to rise.
Stir in 1 tablespoon of table salt OR 1 1/2 tablespoons of sea or kosher salt. Table salt has much finer grains, so you get a lot more salt per spoon than you do with coarse-grained salts.
Stir in 1 1/2 tablespoons (2 packets) of yeast.
Now add 6 1/2 cups of flour. To measure the flour, use a big spoon to scoop in into the cup and then level off the top with the flat side of a bread knife. This keeps the flour from being too tightly packed, which will throw off your measurements.
Mix it all up with a wooden spoon until all the flour is incorporated.
Congrats! You have made dough!
Now cover the bowl with its lid or with a lid of aluminum foil. At this point, you can put it in the fridge until you’re ready to bake! If you want to bake imminently, you can also let it rise at room temperature for two hours (though it is easier to work with if it’s cold).
(Instructions for turning this dough into various Breads under the cut!)
To Bake a Focaccia (easiest & extremely delicious)
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees
Use olive oil to grease a cookie sheet or a large cast-iron skillet
Oil your hands. Tear off a chunk of dough. About 1/3 of the recipe will fill a 12-inch skillet; when making it on a cookie sheet I usually use about half the dough, though you can use the whole thing if you’re baking for a crowd.
(This will make the bread Prettier but tbh it’s fine if you don’t do it) Fold the dough in on itself and stroke the surface like you are petting a small animal until it forms a smooth ball.
Press the dough into a sheet of relatively even thickness in your pan.
Let the dough rise for about 20 minutes while you wait for the oven to finish preheating.
When the oven is hot, poke the dough all over with clean fingers to make little dimpled hollows. Drizzle it with olive oil and sprinkle on some coarse salt, black pepper, and any herbs you want (I love rosemary and oregano!)
Bake for 20-30 minutes until golden brown
To Bake A Pizza
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees
Oil your hands. Tear off a chunk of dough (about 1/4 of the dough is a good size for a personal pizza).
Put the dough on an oiled countertop and use a rolling pin or empty bottle to roll it out as thinly as you can. If you feel like the dough is fighting you, let it relax for five minutes and then try again.
Transfer the round of dough to an oiled cookie sheet (you can use your hands to help stretch it out more thinly when you pick it up if you want)
Add your toppings of choice
Once the oven is hot, bake for 15-25 minutes until the crust is golden brown and cooked through and the toppings are bubbly
To Bake A Big Beautiful Boule (with steam!)
Note: For various Science Reasons, bread cooks much better when there is steam in the oven. A lot of recipes encourage you to bake inside a closed Dutch oven, but I find it difficult & scary to get the dough in there since you have to preheat the Dutch Oven as well. Another method (described here) is to have a roasting pan or skillet in the bottom of the oven and throw ice cubes (probably safest) or water (what I do) in there right as you put the bread in the oven. If you don’t do this your bread will still be fine! But you won’t get as nice a crust and your loaf may not expand as well. It’s up to you. Follow your heart.
Place a roasting pan, cookie sheet, or cast-iron skillet on the bottom rack of the oven. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.
Dust your hands with flour. Tear off a chunk of dough (whatever size you want; I usually go with about half the recipe)
(This will make the bread Prettier but don’t stress about it) Continuing to dust with flour if things get sticky, fold the dough in on itself and stroke the surface like you are petting a small animal until it forms a smooth ball.
Place your Dough Orb onto a cookie sheet dusted with flour or cornmeal. Let it rise for 45 minutes.
When the oven is hot, dust your orb with more flour. Then use a bread knife to cut several deep slashes through the loaf. This will help it expand as it cooks! Plus it looks beautiful.
To use steam: Get about half a dozen ice cubes and put them in a measuring cup. Put your bread in the oven, then immediately pour the ice cubes onto the roasting pan you put on the lowest rack and shut the door. Don’t peek at the bread until at least 15 minutes have passed to keep the steam inside the oven.
Bake for about 30-40 minutes, until the crust is nice and dark and the loaf sounds hollow if you rap on the bottom
To Bake Dinner Rolls
Place a roasting pan, cookie sheet, or cast-iron skillet on the bottom rack of the oven. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.
Dust your hands with flour. Divide the dough into eight equal portions.
For each portion of dough: Continuing to dust with flour if things get sticky, fold the dough in on itself and stroke the surface like you are petting a small animal until if forms a smooth ball. Place the roll onto a cookie sheet dusted with flour or cornmeal.
Let them rise for about 30 minutes.
When the oven is hot, dust your rolls with more flour. Then use a bread knife to make a deep slash through each roll.
To use steam: Get about half a dozen ice cubes and put them in a measuring cup. Put your bread in the oven, then immediately pour the ice cubes onto the roasting pan you put on the lowest rack and shut the door. Don’t peek at the bread until at least 15 minutes have passed to keep the steam inside the oven.
Bake for about 20 minutes, until the crust is nice and dark and a roll sounds hollow if you rap on the bottom
For extra deliciousness, brush the rolls with melted butter as soon as you take them out of the oven.
More Ideas
Try adding a handful of fresh or dried herbs when making the dough
Roll out small amounts of dough very thin and cook them in a hot skillet on the stovetop to make pitas
Make a filled bread by rolling dough out into a sheet and adding cheese, pesto, or another filling of your choice, then rolling the dough up in a spiral
Knead cheese, olives, or diced ham into the dough before shaping
Once you have a recipe that you’re comfortable with, bread is infinitely adaptable!
Happy baking!
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Eyes Open - Chapter 5
Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Amy Oliver (ofc)
Summary: Marcus takes a shot in the dark.
WC: 2.1K
Warnings: 18+ MDNI Canon-typical violence, talk of police work, slow burn, yearning, idiots friends to lovers, financial stressors, second chance romance, workplace romance (sort of), older love interest, single parents, DID I MENTION THE YEARNING?
Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist II Marcus Moreno Masterlist
Cross-Posted to AO3
Part 4 >>> Part 6
For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.
----
It is the most unproductive morning Marcus has had since perhaps the days leading up to Missy’s birth. It’s a similar feeling, that low thrum of anxiety as he waited for the inevitable call that would change his life forever. Granted, this is on a much much smaller scale but the fact remains. How could he possibly focus on anything while he waits for his phone to ring?
He’s a ball of nerves, pacing to and fro across his office floor, the pattern practically worn into the hardwood beneath his feet. With each pass by his desk, he sips from his fourth cup of coffee, lukewarm at best, the caffeine doing little for his nerves or his fatigue.
He and Miracle Guy had watched through narrowed eyes and muffled breaths until, finally, their suspicions were confirmed. Miracle had made one final play to convince Marcus to let him fly down there and take care of the situation himself, but he held firm, sticking to his guns and calling in the tip to the station.
“We need these men to give up the guy in charge. The threat of them speaking up could be enough to lure their boss out of wherever it is they’re hiding.”
In the end, Miracle Guy agreed, but not before he took a few shots at the failure of police work and overcrowded prison systems. Marcus was usually the first to wield that particular battle cry, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t use a broken system to his advantage every now and again. They stuck around just long enough to watch Chief Baldwin shove each suspect into the back of a squad car before finally parting ways with a slap on the back and a tired smile passed between the two heroes.
Marcus had gone home just long enough to catch a few hours of stolen sleep in a bed that after so many years alone was just now starting to feel too big. When his alarm went off he groaned loud and long before dragging himself into a scalding hot shower, letting the steady beat of the water pressure pound into his lower back. Hot coffee and a silent drive to the office did little to quiet his anxieties, and he knew he’d be on edge until he heard from Amy.
And it was only partly to do with local police work.
He’s considering his fifth cup of coffee when his phone rings, the sound sharp where it buzzes across his desk. He doesn’t bother crossing the room, instead calling the tiny piece of aluminum to him with the raise of his hand, relief like butterflies fluttering alongside the beat of his heart when he sees AMY flashing across the screen. He answers with shaky hands, his voice catching at the base of his throat, a smile carving out a home on his lips.
“Hey, Ames.”
“Hey! I’m so sorry I didn’t call until now. It’s been a zoo over here. Some big arrests were made late last night.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” he hums, noting the pitch to her voice is genuinely higher, but between her lines he can read the truth.
“Yeah. Apparently, a tip was called in about a moving van in a suspicious part of town late last night.”
In the background, Marcus can hear the distinct flurry of a busy precinct. The shout of officers, the ringing of telephones, someone calling Amy’s name again and again. He swallows around the lump in his throat as the guilt starts to creep up the back of his neck.
“Shit. Are you…are you too busy to talk?”
“Well, there’s a ton of evidence to categorize so that’s been keeping me busy. Plus two of the three arrests have priors big enough that they’re being moved upstate. The other made bail.”
Marcus doesn’t say a word, but fear creeps in to join his guilt.
“Yeah, it’s all pretty boring stuff. I’m so busy with all this paperwork. I probably won’t be done processing the three of them until around 12. If…if you still wanted to talk, that is?”
“Yes! Yes, of course,” he answers quickly, refusing to be bothered by how desperate it sounds to his own ears. “…But before that?” Marcus asks, testing out the waters of what she’s trying to convey.
“Just a lot of paperwork and rubber stamping shit while those guys sit in empty interrogation rooms. Derek isn’t even here to help. Off getting ready for a press conference.”
“Well, what if I brought you some coffee? Real coffee,” he offers, his smile hopeful despite the charade.
He swears when she answers back he can hear the same shade of hope.
“I’d like that.”
——
Amy was only half exaggerating for Marcus’s benefit. The arrests made in the middle of the night had consumed her day, most of which was spent chasing down arrest records and recording each piece of evidence. That’s where she was supposed to be now, sifting through the heavy boxes dumped unceremoniously in the evidence locker.
Part of her was looking forward to the distraction from the nervous flutter in her heart.
That same part that was anxiously watching the door for the familiar sight of broad shoulders and an easy smile.
Marcus’s texts from the night prior had become a matter of contention. She read them through once, twice, then a third time, the butterflies rising and sinking with each pass. Finally, when it was apparent nothing new could be gleaned from the two simple messages, she gave up, turning off the last of the lights and falling into the twin bed tucked into the corner alcove of her living room.
It was the ring of her cell phone and not her alarm that woke her the next day, Derek’s voice tired but thrumming, a disarming energy he only seemed to have when something big was going down. When she walked into the precinct an hour earlier than usual, a report was thrust into her hands and she spotted one detail almost immediately. A tip that snowballed the three arrests called in late last night.
Right around when Marcus had texted her about giving him a call.
The pieces were starting to click into place after that, the text messages that had her heart flipping took on a new context. She barely had time to laugh at herself before she dove headfirst into her work, the stack of papers on her desk rivaled only by the number of times her name was called. By 9 she was nearly cross-eyed, going in for her third cup of coffee, the taste all together too bitter but still delicious. She took a moment to drink it, willing her heartbeat to slow to something manageable before picking up her phone and cradling it between her ear and shoulder, dialing Marcus’s number with practiced ease.
He had been anxious on the phone, his voice nearly an octave higher, and Amy swore she could hear the smile in his voice when he suggested bringing her coffee. It’s not an offer Marcus makes regularly, the two of them always content to drink from the pot that sits just behind her desk, no matter the number of faces he pulls after every sip. Still, she hates how she wonders if his offer, in all its kind sincerity, was still part of their lie.
There isn’t much time to dwell on any of it. She spots the broad shape of Marcus Moreno’s shoulders pushing through double doors at the front of the building and breaking her train of thought. Amy curses again, this time out loud, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him, her defenses falling by the wayside when she sees his smile.
They lock eyes briefly and she smiles, ducking her head to scribble across a post-it note. The message is vague at best, but she’s confident Marcus will understand, and with one more smile sent in his direction she turns away.
——
There are exactly three coffee shops between Heroics headquarters and the 98th precinct. Two chains that serve fine if not overpriced coffee, the menu always reflecting some sort of fad– cold foam, olive oil espresso, pistachio sugar. Things Marcus had no desire to try let alone figure out how to order.
The third option was small, tucked between a used bookstore and a pawn shop. No sign on the door except for the little plastic one reading OPEN, the rest of the window filled with art; large paintings in bright vibrant colors, smaller self-portraits done in shades of gray, pieces of metal and glass fused together and catching in the sunlight. He had found it by accident one day, stepping inside the doorway to take a phone call and catching the scent of freshly baked pastries.
He had immediately brought Amy a cup, and the two of them had quickly decided the coffee (and the muffin he had brought for them to split) were perfect. It never grew past that, the two of them falling back to Amy’s truly horrendous brew the very next time Marcus stopped by. And even through his grimace, he somehow found himself preferring it.
But he remembered clearly how her eyes had slipped shut, a soft hum, almost like a purr, parting her lips and a deep sort of contentment filling out her features. It would be impossible to forget.
He has that exact order in his hands now, and after catching Amy’s eye, he makes his way to her empty desk, keeping note of the direction she’s moving in, out of the corner of his eye. Waiting for him amongst her clutter is a Post-it note, a number scribbled in the bottom left corner in black pen.
3
And just below that, easily mistaken for a forgotten doodle – a small heart.
Heat blooms in his cheeks, matching the affection pooling in his heart. He exchanges the coffee cups and paper bag for the Post-It, tucking it into his pocket before turning and following in the direction Amy had headed. She’s waiting for him down on the third floor, the low-lit basement enough to conceal the smiles they trade.
“Hey,” she breathes, and Marcus is quick to match it, his own greeting falling out of him in a hush. He doesn’t hesitate, stepping into her space, close enough to smell her perfume, clean and sweet and mixing perfectly with the notes of coffee on her breath.
She tilts her chin, just enough to look him in the eye, searching for the answer to a question she hasn’t asked. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching up as if to smooth her bite away. He’s hopeless, wondering what it would feel like to let the pad of his thumb drag slowly across the plush pink of her lip. They stay that way for a beat longer, a far more awkward version of their almost kiss, before finally they’re both laughing, bodies falling forward to muffle the sound.
It feels like enough for them to find their footing, the ground of their friendship solid again beneath their feet. She feels familiar and settled, a comfort in his arms that reminds Marcus that whatever this couldn’t possibly be a mistake. Not as long as Amy kept laughing just like this.
“Okay,” she starts, her cheeks red and her smile wide, fingers finding the bend of his elbow. “I’ve been dragging my feet on processing these guys. Derek’s already had his go at them and he should be out until this afternoon.”
“How much time can you buy me?”
“The two that are going upstate won’t be moved until 4 at the earliest, but there’s no telling with the one who made bail. Someone claiming to be his girlfriend has been blowing up our phone lines.”
“You think she’s lying about who she is?”
“I don’t think he’s the one she’s worried about.”
Amy squeezes his arm again, the palm of her hand dragging down to hold his. She shakes her head, as if to push one singular thought away, worry creasing across her brow. Marcus nods and then, taking a cue from her own gentle touch, he squeezes at her hip, just once, before stepping away.
“I’ll start with him then.”
“Last room on the left. The door is locked.”
She doesn’t offer him a key. She knows he won’t need it.
“I’ll be up at my desk waiting for you to get back from the bathroom?”
“You’d think I’d remember to go before heading over here by now,” he jokes, delighting at the way she mockingly rolls her eyes. She turns away but Marcus can’t help himself, stopping her just as she’s about to press her foot into the bottom step, calling her name out into the dark.
“Hey, Amy?”
“Yeah?”
“What are your plans for tonight?”
——
A/N: This story continues to just be so much fun to write. I hope all of you who are reading are having just as much fun as I am. Thank you, endlessly, for reading!
#marcus moreno#marcus moreno fic#marcus moreno x ofc#marcus moreno fanfic#we can be heroes fic#we can be heroes
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Fade
Part Three: Heart Light
Story Content and Summary - 8,014 words. The connection between Deirdre and Archer builds until a freak accident threatens to expose Deirdre and tear them apart forever. Explicit sex, drowning, blood and vomit, magical first aid, artificial respiration. ♂️
Part One Part Two
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“Let me do the dishes.” Deirdre stood in the kitchen beside him, refusing to relinquish her grip on her plate. Archer peered down at her, grinning as he released his own grip on the plate and touched her arm instead. Dressed in royal blue leggings and a long gray sweater that felt buttery soft under his fingers, Deirdre looked both cozy and desirable. Archer leaned in and kissed her; a firm, lingering kiss he regretted ending.
“No,” he refused, holding out his hand for the plate. “I am doing for you, including cooking, cleanup, and chauffeuring you to Asa’s new house. I want to. Please. I know you aren’t taking payment for your consultation with Asa today.”
“I rarely charge for consultations, though I’m not usually on site for them, either.” Deirdre slowly released the plate to him. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where Fae was poking at Deirdre’s bare feet. “Thank you for letting me bring Fae to your place.”
Archer put Deirdre’s plate in the sink and picked up a small piece of aluminum foil from the counter. He wadded it into a ball and tossed it on the floor, smiling as the kitten immediately pounced on it. “I wanted to see her. And I thought it was probably too soon for you to leave her alone overnight. Speaking of which… I’m glad you agreed to stay over.”
Deirdre looked up at him, her eyes warm. Then she stepped close, one hand gently gripping his arm and the other skimming up his side. Her proximity and her touch alone were enough to send a blush of heat roaring over his body. Archer put his hand on her hip and pulled her closer, stroking the soft weave of her sweater.
“You showed me to the guest bedroom when I arrived,” she murmured.
His thumb traced an unseen pattern on her abdomen as his own clenched. “I did. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” His other hand smoothed her hair, then cupped her cheek.
“I would prefer to sleep with you,” she said bluntly. “If you’re open to—”
Archer dipped his head and kissed her. There was that inhalation again; the sharp sound of a match dropped in a pool of accelerant. Her mouth opened to his, and he drank her in, a low moan sounding in the back of his throat. She’d come up onto her toes, her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. Archer eased her back against the cabinets, then scooped her up, depositing her gently on the countertop. Her legs parted, and he stepped in between them, his hands stroking her thighs through the fabric of her leggings. They came up for air and Archer ran his hands up beneath her sweater, fingertips searching for the hem of the tank top underneath. Deirdre kissed the corner of his mouth, then along his jaw. Her lips were soft, and he felt the ghost of her tongue on his skin.
Archer slipped his hands underneath her top and curled his fingers around her waist, stroking the soft skin he found there. Deirdre sought his mouth again, her hands in his hair as her legs wrapped around his middle. His hands searched higher, and he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra, his thumbs skimming along the smooth underside of her breasts. He’d grown hard, and his hips moved slowly against her, his body caught in a rhythm he had no memory of starting.
His mouth broke from hers and he kissed down the side of her neck, then back up to the hollow beneath her ear.
“You can touch me,” Deirdre gasped, sounding almost drugged. She used her legs to grind herself against him, and he heard her gasps edge into a moan. “Archer, you can—”
He ran his thumbs up and found her nipples already erect. Archer drew lazy circles around them both, even as he murmured: “We’ll be late… I don’t want to rush this…” Despite his words, he peeled her sweater off, then her tank top, tucking them both on top of the cookbooks behind her. Then he leaned back, panting as he took in the sight of her breasts sitting high on her chest, dark nipples already erect.
The watch on his wrist buzzed, and she was the one who looked down, grasping his arm and blurting out: “Asa had a patient emergency. Wait for his call…” Then she was raising the hem of his shirt and he reached back to claw it over his head.
Archer tossed his shirt to the side and gathered Deirdre close, wanting to feel her naked breasts pressed to his chest. So soft against him, so— “Is this okay? Is it okay that it’s like this?” he groaned.
“I want you…” Her hands ran down his back, and she rolled her hips, grinding her pelvis against him.
“God… Deirdre. Not in here. Not our first time. Hold on to me!” Her arms and legs tightened around him and he slid his hands under her ass, pulling her against him and lifting her off the counter. His bedroom was just down the hall and he walked as quickly as he dared, careful not to step on Fae or to bump Deirdre against the walls or doorframes. When his legs bumped against the bed, he slid one arm up to her back, cradling her body as he climbed onto the mattress and laid her down.
***
Deirdre welcomed his weight as he laid on top of her, one arm holding himself up while the other roved across her chest, kneading her breasts. She opened her mouth to his deep kiss and ground herself up against the ridge of his erection. Self-satisfaction rose hot and wanton inside her when he groaned in response. His hand lifted from her breast and plunged into her hair. Archer rose above her and she reached between them, grappling with his belt and then cupping him through his jeans. He grunted into her mouth and thrust against her hand.
Then he straightened, releasing her long enough to unfasten his jeans. She raised her arms, sliding them under her head as she watched him back off the bed and strip off them off. He was long and lean, his legs hairy. He climbed back on to the bed, still in his boxer briefs, but Dierdre held up a hand. “Take off your underwear. I want to look at you.” She sat up, noting the slight flush to his cheeks as he pushed his briefs past his hips and over his erection.
Her eyes lingered there, on the hardness she’d inspired, then shot to his face. He looked serious for a few seconds before his mouth pulled into a lazy, almost bashful smile. Deirdre reached for the waistband of her leggings and he joined her, helping her peel them off her legs and then running his hands up and down her skin.
“Lay back,” Archer whispered, his voice hoarse and his hands gently pressing her down to the mattress. He just looked at her for a moment, his eyes raking over her before he raised them and met her gaze. “You’re so beautiful.”
He climbed back onto the bed, his thigh slipping between her legs and his erection rubbing against her stomach. He curled over and kissed the hollow between her collarbones.
“Archer,” she whispered, reaching down to touch him, her hand curling around his length. “Archer, Archer…”
He groaned, his head lifting and his eyes squeezing shut. She ran her hand up to the head, her thumb catching the moisture at the tip before she stroked her hand back down the length of his shaft. He was warm and firm and smooth against her palm, his hips pumping slowly into her fist. She felt one of his hands grip her leg, then move between her thighs. His long fingers swept through her wetness, massaged gently on either side of her slit.
His eyes opened again, seeking hers out as he slid a finger inside of her. She heard herself make a mewling cry, her knees drawing up and her toes curling.
They writhed together, muscles gripping and pulsing, drinking each other’s moans, until Archer withdrew his finger and gently pulled her hand free from his cock. He leaned far to the side, and she heard him open a drawer in the nightstand, rustling around for a few seconds until he was back with her. His head dipped, and she felt his lips on her breast, kissing downward until he encountered her nipple and drew it into his mouth. He reached between her thighs again, this time slipping two of his long fingers into her wetness. His palm curved over her and ground at her apex. Deirdre’s back arched and her hands curled into the bedspread.
Wet kisses trailed up from her breast to her ear, where he whispered: “Are you okay? Is this safe for you?”
“I’m safe,” she managed, her body moving restlessly beneath him. She ran her hands up his back and into his hair, tugging at his roots. He smelled of cypress, sage, and sweat. “Don’t stop, Archer…”
His lips pressed briefly to the pulse in her throat. Then he crawled down her body, kissed her navel, and nuzzled the neatly trimmed curls between her thighs. His tongue there made her cry out and curl up toward him, her hands threading into his hair. She gasped and fell back, heard and felt him chuckle. The tip of his tongue ran the length of her slit before flicking over her clitoris. Her legs moved restlessly, first pressing her thighs against either side of his head, then falling wide, toes curled. He kept his mouth on her, his tongue sweeping flat at the top of her sex before he pursed his lips there, suckling. She heard the tear of a foul packet, and a moment later his hands were back on her.
Archer stroked her thighs, then slid one hand up her body to cover her breast, a nipple caught between two of his fingers. He rose over her, two fingers of his other hand easing inside of her. She presented her mouth to him, her chin lifted and her eyes meeting his. His mouth met hers, tongue thrusting deep as his fingers moved within her. Deirdre reached for him, hard and thick as she guided him between her thighs. His fingers left her, replaced by a plunging thrust.
“Archer!” Her body bowed, breasts grazing his chest, arms coming around him. Her legs bent close to either side of him, her pelvis rocking up to meet his thrusts.
Archer kissed beneath her jaw, his breath coming hard and fast. He groaned into her ear. “Deirdre… You’re perfect, this is perfect, God…”
Her skin was on fire, but instead of immolating, she came to life. Archer slowed, grasping her hands and pulling them above her head. He stroked slow and deep, and Dierdre arched against him, a moan tearing free from her lips.
“Good,” he panted. “I want to hear you—”
“Archer!” The heat coiled low, tension building. Deirdre drew one of her legs around him, using it as leverage. He kissed along her hairline, then released one of her hands, twining his fingers with the one he kept. His free hand slipped between her ass and the bedspread, cupping her and shifting the angle of their joining. She heard herself keen, then heard his answering groan. She reached up, pressed her hand to the side of his face, traced his bottom lip with her thumb. His body slid against every sensitive part of her. Her limbs tingled, and she felt her heart lurch, but she didn’t care. “Ohhh… Right there, right—”
She came with an unintelligible cry, her body bowing, pulsating around him. His eyes squeezed shut as he thrust deep within her, carrying her through her orgasm. Panting and lightheaded, Deirdre gazed up at him, caressing his face and murmuring endearments she knew he didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Archer turned his face into her hand, kissed her palm, and then she felt him thrust deep and hold, his body above her going stiff. She watched him as his pleasure rolled over his face and he pumped into her irregularly. Her heart lurched, and she realized with sluggish surprise that she was releasing ánh, the blue glow of her heart magic. The light hovered between them, nearly an orb, casting a cool glow on Archer’s skin.
Archer’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see the light as it pulsated once and sank into him, fading into nothing. Deirdre drew in a shuddering breath and clung to his shoulders. He gasped out a low moan and sagged, bracing himself on his forearm and letting his forehead rest against hers.
They stayed like that for a long moment, Archer’s heaving breath slowing and Deirdre’s pulse evening out. He opened his eyes and reached down, withdrawing carefully before he rolled off of her and pulled her with him to lie against his side. He looked sated, if astounded, the corner of his mouth curling up.
“What is it?” she murmured, breathless.
“I saw stars, I think.” He chuckled, but a second later, his face was serious. He trailed his fingertips down the side of her face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” she reassured him. His eyes were achingly warm, their closeness a promise. “More than okay.”
He searched her face, then slipped his fingertips under her jaw, gently tipping her face up. He kissed her, soft and loving. “I suspected there would be fireworks…”
Deirdre curled into him, barely stopping herself from speaking the fae words that would come too soon for human ears.
***
A buzz at his wrist pulled Archer out of a restful sleep. He lifted his arm from Deirdre, murmuring endearments into her hair when she stirred. Deirdre lay facing away from him, naked beneath the covers, soft and warm against his chest. Squinting at his watch, he read: I can meet you at three. Please apologize to Deirdre for me.
The text timed out and his watch read several minutes past one.
Mew! Fae’s tiny cry drew his attention, and he heard scrabbling from the other side of the bed. Her head popped up, her little body struggling to climb over the side of the mattress using her weak kitten claws. She pulled herself over the side, shook herself, and then scampered over, mewling up at Archer. He reached across Deirdre to pet the kitten, smiling when he heard her faint purr. She bumped his fingers, then tucked herself up against Deirdre’s chest.
Archer rolled onto his back, glancing to the side at the window, where a faded, dry donkey’s tail and a half-shriveled moon cactus sat. He was constantly forgetting to water them, which would normally be good for succulents and cacti, except one was definitely supposed to water them more than once every three months. He’d intended to put them away, embarrassed that Deirdre might see them. But he forgot both about these two plants and the weedy basil in the kitchen.
To his surprise, however, both of them looked fat and green, with the moon cactus’ orange head tipped toward the sun. Archer sat up slowly, not wishing to wake Deirdre. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, his brain flicking through memories of looking at those plants recently, shriveled and sad, as he tried to remember the last time he watered them.
“Archer?” Movement on the bed behind him, then Deirdre’s hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Archer covered her hand with his. “Yeah… Just looking at my plants. They’re looking surprisingly healthy.”
She pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. He turned toward her. Hair adorably mussed, and unabashedly naked, Deirdre kneeled with Fae in one hand, tucked up close to her chin. He took a deep breath and made his eyes lift from her breasts to her face. She smiled at him, and he leaned close to kiss her.
When he pulled back, her cheeks flush pink. “You’re an excellent lover, Archer,” she murmured.
He cupped her cheek, tenderly tracing the bone, then dropped his hand to scratch behind one of Fae’s ears. “We haven’t known each other very long, but I feel…” He searched for the words. Love came to mind, but it couldn’t be that, not so soon.
“We don’t have to define it yet,” she said, her voice soft. Her expression was gentle, and she reached out and touched his cheek. “But I look forward to being with you long enough to define it.”
He cupped the back of her head and drew her closer so he could press a kiss to her forehead. “I want that, too.”
His watch buzzed, drawing their attention away from each other.
“Asa?”
“Yeah.” He grinned at her sheepishly. “I think he’s been trying to get hold of me. Wants us to meet at three?”
“That’s perfect. I’d like to freshen up a bit, but there’s plenty of time.”
Archer offered her his hand to help her out of bed. “I’m just gonna put my clothes back on and go wash the dishes. Actually… let me get your bag out of the other room. And your shirts out of the kitchen.” Then, unable to stop himself, he bent for another kiss, his hand at her waist.
“I can get my bag,” she protested once her mouth was free. “And my clothes.”
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, already headed out of the bedroom.
“I am enjoying the view,” he heard her say from behind him. Archer laughed as he made his way back to the kitchen.
A forty minutes later, Archer placed the last pot in the dish drainer and wiped down the counter. Fae played at his feet, batting the ball of aluminum foil from one side of the kitchen to the other. He grinned down at her, knowing that shortly she’d tuck herself away somewhere, sleeping off playtime.
Archer dried his hands and walked back down the hall toward his bedroom, where he’d left Deirdre to freshen up. It was getting close to the time they needed to head for the car, and—
Archer stepped into his bedroom and his joints seized up, nearly sending him to the floor. Deirdre lay on the floor, sprawled on her back, eyes closed. Still.
With a groan, Archer lurched forward. He heard himself call out in a ragged voice. “Oh, my God! Deirdre! Deirdre…”
Before he reached her, she opened her eyes and pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her eyes were large with startlement, but she met his gaze easily and her cheeks and lips were pink. Archer dropped to his knees beside her, confusion and relief slowly replacing his panic. “Are you okay? What—”
“I’m so sorry!” Her eyes went huge, darting across his face as she sat upright and reached for him. “I did some yoga, and then I was only meditating, Archer! I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Damn…” Archer let out air he didn’t realize he was holding and drew her into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Damn. Thank God. No, love. I’m sorry. I saw you on the floor and assumed you’d collapsed. I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off and his body trembled.
Shocked by the strength of his reaction, he held her tight. Deirdre stroked his back, murmuring something he didn’t catch under her breath. Archer closed his eyes, grounding himself. He felt the hard wood under his knees; the sweat pricking his scalp; and the small, soft, warm body in his arms.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said finally, exasperation leaking into his voice. “I don’t normally lose it like this. If you had been having an actual medical emergency, panicking wouldn’t help.”
“You have done nothing wrong, Archer.” His shirt muffled Deirdre’s voice. He could smell her toothpaste alongside her usual herbal scents. “I frightened you. Now, your body is reacting to all of that excess adrenaline.”
A part of him knew she was right, but when he took too long to respond, she wriggled in his arms. He relaxed his hold, opened his eyes. Deirdre leaned back, peering at his face. She brought her hand up and traced her fingers along his cheek. “You sweet, sweet man.”
Archer dipped his head and kissed her. Their embrace now was gentle, his heart rate evening out, and he savored her for a moment before he pulled back and let himself smile. “Do you feel properly meditative now? After I shouted at you?”
“I am relaxed, Archer. Don’t worry.” Deirdre gestured at his watch. “Do we need to leave to meet your brother now?”
“Yeah.” Archer gave her a squeeze and then released her. “Do you mind if I drive?”
“You’re the one who knows where we’re going,” Deirdre said, beating him to her feet and offering him her hand.
Archer laughed and grasped her small hand in his.
***
“Your brother must be very successful,” Deirdre murmured, eyeing the hulk of Asa’s new house as Archer turned into the drive. She could see the lake behind it; this was obviously prime real estate.
“I don’t think the house was especially expensive, considering the location,” Archer said, slightly distracted as he steered. “It’s the renovations that will eat up the budget.”
“It’s been sitting vacant a while,” Deirdre stated. Everything about the house, aside from the recently trimmed lawn, looked abandoned, from the patchy roof to the broken front gate.
“I’m not sure why it wasn’t condemned. Or why he doesn’t just knock it down and start over.” Archer pulled in behind Asa’s Tesla and stopped the car. He opened his door, then turned back to look at her. “Okay, I actually do know. He thinks this house is beautiful.”
Deirdre paused mid-reach for her seatbelt. Leaning back in her seat, she pondered the house. Her eyes followed the bones of the structure, omitting a few more recent additions and adding in some landscaping.
“It could be,” she said. “I’ll help him make it beautiful.”
Archer reached across and squeezed her hand. “I’ll take your word for it, love.”
Deirdre’s face warmed pleasantly at the endearment. She had one for him as well, though she’d yet to speak it out loud. Rhen. Mate. Looking up at his smiling face, she tipped hers up in an invitation. “One more kiss before we get down to business?” He bent to her, and she reached up to curl her fingers around his nape.
Every kiss with him now shot straight to her groin. She made an involuntary noise in the back of her throat and felt the hum of his repressed groan. Her thumb stroked the soft spot beneath his ear.
“Please don’t make out in my driveway.” Asa’s voice cut through both the haze of her desire, his tone dry and amused. Her eyes flew open. It took Archer a few more seconds to release her. She could see Asa through the windshield, grimacing, his face flushed. She opened her mouth to apologize, and was relieved when he winked.
“How’s your patient?” Archer asked, climbing out of the SUV.
Deirdre listened to them speak as she retrieved her backpack from the backseat. Archer walked around to meet her, closing the doors for her.
“Stable,” Asa said. “Much improved. My apologies for the delay.”
“Not a problem at all,” Archer said, with such gusto that Deirdre blushed.
When she came around the front of the SUV, Asa met her, his arms opening. “A hug for my brother’s savior.” She let him hug her, patting his back as her cheeks flushed yet again.
“I didn’t do much,” she protested. “And then I fainted. Not very heroic of me.”
Asa gave her a squeeze and then released her, a grin that reminded her of Archer stretched across his face. “And now you are going to save my house.”
“If by save you mean I’m going to set you in the right direction, then yes.” Diana peered up at the home behind Asa. It had been beautiful once, before neglect and poor decision-making brought it to its current state. “It does appear to be in rough condition, currently.”
“I bought it at a state auction,” Asa explained.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Archer cut in, his eyebrows high as he took in the home.
“It means he got it for a steal,” Deirdre supplied, shaking her head. “And it means Asa knows good bones when he sees them.”
Archer turned to look at her. “Asa is a cardiologist, not an orthopedist.” He couldn’t stop himself from laughing at his own joke, drawing a laugh from both Deirdre and Asa as the latter escorted them into the house.
Deirdre left her backpack just inside the front door after retrieving her pencil, tape measure, and notebook. The tape measure she clipped to the top of her leggings. Her attention was drawn to a wall cutting close to the doorway and slicing through the living space.
“I’m getting rid of that,” Asa said, following her eyes. “It’s not load bearing.”
She walked to one of two gaps in the wall, the first revealing a kitchen. “Why on earth did they build this? That’s a rhetorical question. I fully support removing this wall. Asa…”
Asa pointed out a feature of the vaulted ceiling to Archer, then turned to her. “Yes?”
“Tell me about your vision for your home. General ideas, or if you have specifics, those.” She leaned back against the superfluous wall, pencil at the ready.
“Open. Not entirely minimalist, but I don’t want it to be cluttered. Lots of storage. An office, rooms for guests. I want to have parties here. I want the colors to reflect our surroundings. The lake, specifically.” He wandered over to the sliding glass doors, peering out onto the first level of the back deck, which Deirdre was looking forward to examining. It was three stories high, cantilevered out in different directions to allow for sunlight to reach a portion of each level. “And I’d like to replace some of the foliage outside. There aren’t many trees; I would like to plant some. Inside, I like wood, and cool tones.”
Deirdre smiled at the mention of planting trees. “Do I need to measure everything, or do you have plans with the measurements?”
“I have the plans, including the renovations.” He led them through the second gap in the wall, down a hallway. “Would you like to see the upstairs?”
Archer took her hand when they climbed the steps. Asa actually led them all the way to the third story, stating they could see the second on the way back down.
“The view from up here is something else,” Asa called down, having already sprinted up to the top in his excitement.
“I like watching you work,” Archer murmured. He squeezed her hand. “You enjoy designing spaces for people, I can tell.”
“First room at the top!” Asa called.
When they reached the landing, Archer released her hand, gesturing for her to go ahead of him. She heard him head for the French doors, but she took a moment to stick her head in the bathroom.
“Did they paint it black?” Deirdre gasped, staring at the inky walls in the musty space.
Asa joined her. “I’ve looked at it enough times that I’ve decided it’s a very, very dark blue.”
“Obviously, that’s—”
“You’re not kidding about the view!” Archer’s voice carried inside from the deck, along with a heavy wooden groaning sound. Deirdre turned to see him standing by the rail, the French doors open wide. “Deck’s a little spongy, though.”
“Was that the deck that made that noise?” Asa asked, pushing away from the doorframe.
“Archer.” Deirdre started forward. “Maybe—”
A rending shriek, and Archer dropped a foot and staggered back against the rail. A railing which opened up against his weight, pitching a wide-eyed Archer into the sky.
***
“ARCHER!” Asa watched in shock as his brother disappeared from view. He couldn’t seem to make himself move, even as the first level of decking continued to sag and shudder, even without Archer’s weight.
Deirdre moved instead, running forward, her pale hand outstretched as though she could pull Archer back. Headed for the open French doors, she reached for the hem of her sweater. Her voice sounded ragged as she called back to him. ��Call for help! Call 9-1-1!”
“What are you doing?!” Asa made himself move, staggering after her. She peeled her sweater off and tossed it to the side. “Deirdre—”
“STAY BACK!” The petite woman’s usual mellifluous tones cracked and wrapped around him, as though the room were equipped with surround sound speakers. She stood in the exterior doorway, the muscles of her back flexing powerfully. Asa reached her, grabbing for her shoulder. Deirdre turned and planted her palms on his chest, shoving him hard enough to throw him off-balance and send him down to one knee. Then she was gone.
Asa stared at the quiet space where Deirdre had been standing. Then he scrambled to his feet, reaching for his back pocket as he hit the stairs running.
He’d reached the second floor when something made him turn into the room that connected to the second level of decking. It was possible one or both of them had landed on the second level. He tried to remember if he’d heard a thud. He ran to the doors there, wrestling with the lock before yanking one open. He had his cell phone in hand, ready to dial emergency services.
Instead, the man whose career depended on him staying calm and not freezing up found himself locked into place for the second time in less than five minutes.
She… floated.
Deirdre. No, she was sinking. Slowly, an ethereal glow extending from her right hand. He couldn’t see her face; she had her back to him. Those muscles he’d noticed moments before flexed rhythmically, moving the translucent set of wings that sprouted from her back. They shimmered like the wings of an insect, though the texture recalled a bird’s feathers. He could see light through them, though they weren’t entirely clear. Colors shimmered along the lengths, reminding him of an oil slick.
Asa staggered back, his breath coming hard and fast. He felt lightheaded as his heart rate escalated.
Slow your breath.
I am awake.
I am lucid.
This is happening.
Deirdre’s eyes snapped, and she flitted to the side before diving.
Asa dialed 9-1-1, put the phone on speaker, and ran for the stairs.
***
Whereas some would have dived into the water and tried from there to locate Archer, Deirdre sent orbs of light into the lake until she found the still silhouette, caught up in the section of decking that broke off with him.
Only then did she dive, inhaling deeply, her wings flattening to her back and her arms coming over her head. She entered the water with barely a splash, sinking fast and then curving back up toward Archer. Face down in the water and weighted by rotten wood, he floated silently, his long limbs still. Deirdre swam hard, crashing into him underwater, one arm going around his torso and the other reaching up to shove at the wood.
To her relief, he wasn’t caught so much as simply beneath it, and she kicked them free, her lungs burning as she swam them to the surface. Their heads broke the lake and Deirdre took a gasping breath, aware as she did so that Archer did not. She called his name anyway. “Archer!”
She thought first to get him out, but her wings were sodden, and she couldn’t heave her back out of the water long enough to dry them off. Time ticked inexorably past her; he was running out of it.
Floating Archer onto his back, Deirdre supported his neck and kicked madly beneath the surface. She saw the wound then, a bloody and swollen gash along his hairline. She worked fast, knowing she didn’t have the strength or stamina to keep them both afloat for long. She wrapped her hand around so that her fingers sank into his wet hair, searching out his scalp.
“Naneun a ánh njikọ mit rhen!” Deirdre cried out her intentions to the ether. She sought a heart light bond with her mate, one that would enable her to sense his vitals. There were those of her species who could do this with any living creature with a simple touch; natural healers, of which Deirdre was not. Light swelled from her chest and ran down her arm, flowing from her fingers into his head before running down his length.
Even as her mind filled with his frantic, irregular heartbeats, she wrenched her swimming arm free from the lake and pressed it to his abdomen, another pulse of light escaping her as she ran her palm hard from his navel toward his throat. His wet shirt bunched up beneath his chin. Archer convulsed in the water, his throat bulging just before water spilled from his nose and mouth. Dierdre dipped inadvertently beneath the cold surface. Bubbles escaped her, filling the water with the sound of danger. She kicked herself back into the air, her own gasps competing in her head with the sound of Archer’s oxygen-starved heart.
Deirdre shivered and splashed desperately with her free arm, trying to stay afloat as she hunched over his face. Flailing, she switched arms, swimming with her left while the right came around so she could clamp his mouth closed with her hand. She pulled him to her and sealed her lips over his aquiline nose, exhaling into his nostrils. The bond told her when the air hit his lungs. She broke the seal, gasped in a second breath, and gave it to him. Her own heart palpitated as she kicked desperately to stay above the surface.
She let him exhale, dragged in a third breath, and breathed into him. This time, the breath caught, his body struggling and splashing. She turned him in the water, pulling him back against her so that his head tipped back onto her shoulder as he coughed and gagged.
“Archer!” Deirdre sputtered, her eyes beginning to dart around to look for the nearest shoreline. He didn’t seem to be entirely conscious yet, but he was in danger of drowning her as his back arched and sent her beneath the surface. Deirdre released her grip on him, shoving up against his shoulder to keep him above the surface. Bubbles frothed from her nose, and her wings threatened to wrap around her in a fatal embrace.
She broke the surface again, coughing and fighting to keep hold of him.
“I’ve got him!” Asa shouted. Water splashed the side of her face as he grasped the back of Archer’s shirt. “Can you get yourself out?”
“Yes!” Deirdre gasped, treading water, though she wasn’t sure if she’d told the truth. Asa nodded and swam for the shore, towing Archer behind him. The bond she’d erected told her Archer would wake soon, knowledge that helped ease some of her panic. Still, Deirdre felt cold and exhausted and was having trouble catching her breath. The cool breeze skating over the lake made her scalp tingle as her skin shrank back. She rolled forward in the water, her nose skimming the surface as she heaved her upper back above it. Her wings hung heavy and sluggish to respond, but after a moment of awkward flexing, she got them to unfurl in the air, water sluicing off as she fluttered them.
She didn’t need them to be dry; it would have been a mistake of nature to create winged beings that couldn’t fly in the rain. She just needed some of the weight off. As soon as that happened, she lifted herself out of the lake and flitted toward the shoreline.
Or tried to. The distance wasn’t far at all, but her vision sent up sparks and dimmed down to near darkness. The palpitations in her chest edged into painful. Deirdre released her bond with Archer, trying to conserve her strength as she listed to the side.
So close.
She felt herself falling, and then everything went black.
***
“Hold still, Arch! I’m getting you out!” Breathing hard, Asa dragged his brother from the lake and laid him out on the shore. Archer coughed and muttered but didn’t open his eyes, stirring the relief and worry and shock Asa felt into chaos. Blood seeped down the younger man’s face, and Asa reached for the jacket he’d stripped off prior to jumping in to relieve Deirdre of Archer.
Deirdre. She was another matter altogether. Asa pressed the jacket to Archer’s head, glancing about for the phone he’d dropped when he realized Deirdre had found Archer, but was struggling to keep him.
Movement over the lake caught Asa’s attention, and he wrenched his head in that direction. The woman, flying again. He felt dizzy, watching her do something that should have been impossible. She appeared fearsome. Awesome. Pearlescent wings pumped the air, glimmering in the sunlight. Her hair hung in wet ropes. Even at this distance, he could see the determined glare of her light eyes and the desperate extension of her hands. Asa had never been particularly religious, but he needed something to lean on, something to make sense of what his eyes were showing him. An angel? Archer’s latest project came to mind. It was about fairies—
The creature—his brother’s girlfriend, he reminded himself sternly—wavered, caught by the wind as she drifted off course. He watched her dip, rally, then crash into the water several yards short of the shore.
“Fuck!” Asa rarely swore, but this seemed like a good time for it. He looked down at Archer, who was breathing, shivering and showing the occasional sign of coming to. Unaware, apparently, of anything happening around him. Asa nodded, his decision made. Quickly, he manipulated Archer’s limbs and rolled him onto his left side. Then he draped his bloody jacket over Archer’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back!”
Asa hopped up and sprinted into the lake, splashing through the shallows as he rushed for the woman floating on the surface of the water.
Deirdre drifted face down, her wings extending out from her body and her hair floating around her. Asa hesitated only a second before he grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her over. Her hair covered her face like a curtain, and he quickly swept it away, eyeing her pale visage. Then he scooped her up, gathering her close to his body and wincing as her body crushed her wings against his arm. “Deirdre!” Asa pitched his voice loud, leaning down to her ear. Then he concentrated on wading back to the shore, though his stomach was sinking as she remained senseless.
His brother’s girlfriend felt tiny in his arms, as Asa pushed back thoughts of what he would tell Archer if she didn’t make it.
Asa laid her down beside his brother, hoping that it was okay to lay her on top of her wings. He kneeled awkwardly beside her, trying to avoid kneeling on the soaking gossamer. Deirdre’s head lolled, and he briefly took in the lavender hue of her eyelids and her white lips before he tipped open her airway and crouched over her, his ear close to her mouth. His eyes fell on Archer, still unconscious but visibly breathing.
Which is something Deirdre wasn’t doing, and whatever else was different about her, he knew she needed oxygen. Asa drew a deep breath, pinched her nose closed, and sealed his mouth over hers. He’d never actually performed bare mouth-to-mouth on a person. The times he’d performed CPR, there were always barriers available, usually bag-valve masks connected to oxygen. It was never as intimate as this, with his skin pressed to another person’s, forcing air down drowned lungs. Her lips were cold.
Asa cast his gaze down her body and watched her chest rise. When he broke the seal, their skin made an airy pop, followed by the deflation of her chest. He gave her another breath, and then he pressed his fingertips into both her carotid and radial arteries, his eyes closing as he waited.
Thank God, he allowed himself, feeling her pulse beat rapidly beneath his fingers. He realized he’d expected otherwise. Still, even without looking at a timepiece, he was concerned by the rate. Asa bent over her again, giving her a third breath. He needed to keep her alive until the ambulance got there, and then he’d get her on a mon—
What would EMS make of wings that were most decidedly part of her body?
“Breathe, dammit,” he again allowed himself to mutter between breaths. Then he heard movement and coughing, and his eyes lifted to Archer even as he filled Deirdre’s lungs with air.
“Deirdre?!” Archer’s eyes were finally open, clouded with panic and confusion. His voice cracked, and he coughed and spat.
“Don’t move! I’ve got—” Another breath, and another check of her pulse. “I’ve got her!”
Archer ignored him, shoving himself up onto his elbow. Immediately, he hunched over clutching at his head. “Wh-what… What happened?” Then he heaved himself up onto his hands and knees, coming dangerously close to grinding his right knee into one of her wings.
“Careful! Those are attached!” Asa provided Deirdre another respiration, waving Archer off with his free hand.
“Att-ttached?” Archer stammered, his voice hoarse. He reached out for Deirdre’s hand, and a bright light exploded, blinding the both of them.
***
Archer came to with regret.
His lungs burned, and his head felt as though it were actively splitting open. He hated to use clichés, but the sensation called to mind an overripe melon laying in the sun.
Except, he wasn’t actually all that warm. Shaking with cold and in a blinding amount of pain, Archer considered drifting back to the murky nothingness from which he’d just come.
“Breathe, dammit!” Asa, though the words were harsh and spoken under his breath.
Archer opened his eyes, intending to tell Asa that he was breathing. His vision blurred, and he blinked and wiped at them until he saw his brother, bent over Deirdre’s prone form. They were both drenched. Asa leaned down and covered her mouth with his, blowing a breath into her that rounded out her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, the sockets lavender.
Archer sucked in a shocked breath, which started a coughing fit. Asa’s eyes lifted to meet his, and then he was giving Deirdre another rescue breath. The pain in his head faded and reemerged somewhere in the area of his heart.
“Deirdre?!” Archer croaked, forcing himself up onto his elbow. His head shattered, forcing him to curl over toward the ground, a groan tearing from his lips. Asa said something to him, but he didn’t catch it. He dragged himself onto his hands and knees, eyes screwed tightly shut, as his lunch threatened to come back up. “Wh-what… What happened?”
“Careful! Those are attached!”
That gave him pause. “Att-ttached?” Archer reached for her hand, pale and slightly curled on the dead grass. The second he touched her, a bright light exploded in his vision. Archer cried out, his other hand coming up to shield his eyes. His hand tingled, and he felt a strange pulling sensation up his arm and into his chest. The feeling left him drained and he swayed, nearly falling out of his crouch.
As his vision cleared, he saw Asa stare down at Deirdre for several long seconds before his brother reached down and pressed his fingers into the pulse point in her throat.
As he touched her, her mouth opened, and Archer heard her take a shallow breath. That little gasp was followed by a deeper one and a round of coughing that brought up water. Only then, as Archer was about to move closer, did he realize what Asa was trying to tell him.
Deirdre laid on a pile of something translucent blue and purple. The gossamer material moved when she did, as Asa heaved her up into a seated position, supporting her as she coughed and retched. Archer still had her hand, her cold fingers gripped tightly in his, as she gasped and spat and shook. Her shoulders shrugged, and the iridescent wings sprouting from her back trembled, then fluttered.
“Wings,” Archer said, his mind blank. But he held firm to her hand, gripping her a little too tight, his other hand coming down to stroke her forearm.
“You didn’t know, I gather,” Asa said in a strange voice.
“Didn’t… tell…” Deirdre gasped. “Would… have… s-s—”
Asa and Archer spoke at once.
“Don’t try to speak—”
“Shh, love…”
Deirdre ignored both of them, though she leaned heavily against Asa as she looked up at Archer’s head wound. “You’re… okay?”
“I’ll do,” he muttered, unable to stop himself from shaking with cold and shock. “I still don’t… What h-happened? Are you okay? You… you weren’t b—”
“Deirdre,” Asa cut in. His face looked tense, but in that underneath-the-sirface way most people couldn’t detect. “Normally I would not ask a patient to exert themselves so soon after… drowning… But there will be an ambulance here any minute, and—”
“Wings,” she finished for him, coughing hard as soon as she finished speaking.
“I just don’t know how to explain those to an ambulance crew.” His tone was wry. “Can you put them away, or should I help you inside?”
“I c-can—”
Sirens cut through the air. Archer clung to Deirdre’s hand, his eyes locked on the appendages his girlfriend had sprouted while he was unconscious. Appendages. A terrible word for something so beautiful. Deep down, past the pain and worry, he felt a swell of something like memory and joy.
Deirdre’s back flexed, and her wings extended, fluttering and flinging off water droplets. She hunched over and they folded against her back, then folded again and a third time before they seemed to blend in with her back and disappear.
“Where do they go?” Archer exclaimed. Almost immediately, his face flushed hot, realizing he’d just asked her the kind of question a child might ask. “That sounds like a rude question. Forgive me, love. I’m not feeling well.”
“You should lay down,” Asa and Deirdre said at once.
“As should you,” Asa said, eyeing Deirdre. “I would like to take your pulse again.”
“You understand I cannot go to the hospital as a patient.” Deirdre’s hoarse words were for Asa, though her eyes locked on Archer. She seemed uneasy.
“I…” Asa’s brow furrowed. “Damn. Yes. But I don’t like it.”
“Archer is going to the hospital.” The ambulance pulled down Asa’s driveway, drawing her attention. She stifled a cough.“We’re going to visit him. You can keep an eye on me.”
Asa nodded. “I will, but are you sure—”
“I will be fine.” Deirdre turned back to Archer, her face drawn. She cupped his cheek, her pale blue eyes trying to read his face. “We will talk when you’re out of the hospital. But for now, I just want to be grateful that you’re alive. Try not to be shocked. It isn’t good for you after what just happened. Can you do that?”
Archer reached up, covering her hand with his, trying to warm her cold fingers somehow with his own freezing hand. “I’m not shocked, love. I’m… astonished. And my head hurts. But Deirdre. Deirdre. Whatever you are, you’re you, and you’re wonderful. You’re m-magic.”
A bit of color flooded back into her cheeks, and her eyes gathered the sheen of tears. He could hear the rasp of her breathing, not much different from his own. He worried about her, about being the only one who would receive proper medical care. He was about to say something to that effect when her lips parted, and she whispered: “I knew I would be safe with you.”
--
Part Four coming soon!
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Tommykaira R-z brochure translation.
The wonders of Tommykaira Magic that you can experience while driving. R
Total balance with a high degree of perfection commensurate with 530ps.
The displacement has been increased to 2700cc, achieving a maximum output of 530 horsepower and a maximum torque of 54.52kgm. To achieve this, various types of tuning have been applied. For example, the crankshaft, which is the most important element for bringing out the best performance of the engine, is an original crankshaft manufactured by Fandon in the UK. Highly rigid full counter type provides excellent balance performance. Furthermore, the R-z uses an H-section connecting rod and forged aluminum piston, making it both highly rigid and lightweight. What's more, it achieves well-balanced tuning. In addition, the R-z uses metal head gaskets, high-lift camshafts, valve springs, and racing plugs to bring out the best in the pistons, connecting rods, and crankshafts that are the main moving parts. Composite Radiator Improves cooling effect by using NI water pump.
I got it.
Changes to the intake and exhaust system have resulted in a significant increase in efficiency through the use of a stainless steel exhaust system with suction from the front pipe and a racing type intercooler. By increasing the size of the fuel system parts and strengthening the drive system, you can enjoy ample torque even when driving at low rpm around town. What's more, the sense of power, extension, and revving at high rpm will captivate anyone sitting in the driver's seat.
suspension tuning is
"High ride comfort and handling"
Balance in Dimensions.” During normal driving
Passenger-friendly ride
While realizing the taste, wine day
It is sharp and has excellent turning performance when turning.
Tomita has achieved this goal and has received rave reviews from many quarters.
It's a magic called Kaira Magic.
The front brake has been strengthened to control the 530 horsepower. Uses AP 6-pot calipers, AP brake rotors, and PFC brake pads. This is a highly reliable braking system that responds precisely to the driver's wishes.
[mechanism]
engine body
・Cylinder head/port polishing
・Cylinder block/boring, internal polishing
・Original crankshaft made in UK Fandon
・Special H section connecting rod
・Special forged piston
・Titanium coated piston ring
・Metal head gasket
・High lift camshaft
・Reinforced valve spring, valve guide
・Racing plug
computer unit
・R-z dedicated computer unit
cooling system
・Large capacity water-cooled oil cooler
Water pump for high speed N1
Intake and exhaust system
・All exhaust system
・Large capacity intercooler
・Special turbine
fuel system
Large capacity air flow meter
large capacity injector
・Large capacity fuel pump
drive system
・Twin plate clutch
Reinforcement parts
・Strut tower bar (with master cylinder stopper)
・Reinforced engine mount
・Enhanced mission mount
[Suspension]
Brake system
・AP 6-pot caliper & rotor (F)
・PFC brake pad
suspension
・Bilstein original shock absorber
・Original spring (F)
Original double spring (R)
tires/wheels
・Forged magnesium cut wheel “PRO R” 9.5×19+22
・DUNLOP FORMULA FM901 275/30ZR19
Reinforcement parts
・Stainless mesh brake hose
・Front tension rod (pillow ball)
* [Exterior] and [Interior] are the same specifications as R-s.
Tommykaira R-Z SPECIFICATION
PRICE ¥10,500,000-
PERFORMANCE
Max Output 530ps/7300rpm
Max Torque 54.52kgm/6000rpm
ENGINE
RB26DETT STRAIGHT-6 DOHC Turbo with multi-cup Intercooler
Piston Displacement: 2700cc
Bore x Stroke: 87.0mm x 75.7mm
BODY
Length: 4620mm
Width: 1785mm
Height: 1335mm
Wheelbase: 2665mm
Tread: Front 1496mm
Rear 1496mm
LAYOUT
4 Wheels Drive
Transmission: 6MT
Brakes:(F) 6 Piston Opposed Type Caliper + Ventilated Disc
Brakes:(R) 2 Piston Opposed Type Caliper + Ventilated Disc
Wheels: 9.5JJX 19 (Front&Rear)
Tire: 275/30ZR19 (Front&Rear)
Suspension : Original Shock absorber + Original Coil Spring
Steering: Rack & Pinion < SUPER HICAS >
*Price is vehicle price delivered at Kyoto store, registration fees and consumption tax not included US specifications, data, etc. are subject to change without notice. *Detailed options, equipment, body color, etc. are based on genuine Nissan. Catalog photos may look different from the actual products as they are printed materials. For inquiries and requests..
TOMITA
dream factory
http://www.tommykaira.com
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National Corn on the Cob Day
Nothing says summer quite like a perfectly grilled (or boiled) corn on the cob, doused with butter, salt, pepper, or perhaps a more creative seasoning profile.
In the height of summer, under a cornflower blue sky filled with cotton-ball clouds, the smell of grilled meat fills the air. Children are laughing and playing in the creek, and the adults are setting up the picnic tables with checkered table cloths, red solo cups and paper plates.
In the middle of the table sits a giant bowl covered with a layer of aluminum foil, with steam gently escaping from around the edges, rich with the smell of fabulous, buttery corn on the cob.
Corn on the Cob Day celebrates events like these, whether held outdoors or indoors. It reminisces about the gathering of family around one of the sweetest healthy cookout treats that is available throughout the summer.
It’s Corn on the Cob Day!
History of Corn On The Cob Day
The history of Corn On The Cob Day goes back to a time even before European settlers actually first came to the Americas. Corn is a new world plant, native to the American lands, that was originally enjoyed by the Native Americans who were there before the westerners “discovered” the land.
Since then, corn has made various appearances in dishes all over the world, and the by-products of this plant have been used in quite literally millions of different products. For instance, in the United States, high fructose corn syrup is found in almost every candy, and certainly, in almost every carbonated beverage that can be found. Other corn products that are used en masse include oil, cereals, snacks, breads and even fuel.
Corn on the cob comes in more varieties than a person might think! Sure there’s the traditional yellow corn, but there are also white and mixed colored corn that can be eaten on the cob.
In any case, almost every type of corn can be prepared into corn on the cob through various methods of preparation, and each brings its own combination of tastes and flavors. There is no limit to the delicious meals and fantastic flavors when a little corn on the cob is added to the table.
Corn On The Cob Day is the opportunity to try different flavors, grab the butter, and enjoy delicious corn on the cob!
How To Celebrate Corn On The Cob Day
Celebrating Corn On The Cob Day is simple and fun! Try these ideas for celebrating or create new ideas:
Try Different Ways of Cooking Corn on the Cob
Start by cooking up some corn on the cob in the traditional way–boiling. It only takes a few minutes in the water (don’t salt it first!). Then enjoy eating it with a generous heap of butter and salt!
Now that opens the doorway to a whole variety of options to be considered. Another way to prepare the dish is to wrap corn on the cob in aluminum foil and let it roast in the coals of a campfire (or in the same way on a gas or charcoal barbecue grill) until it’s positively bursting with deliciousness.
Explore Seasoning Options
Anyone knows that corn on the cob needs butter and can be delicious just on its own. But don’t stop there because other options are worth a try as well! Start by adding butter as a base, and then dust the corn on the cob with a choice of seasonings. Simple salt can work just fine, or get more creative with seasoning salt, pepper, or any of a variety of spices that suit your palette.
Try these varieties:
Cajun Corn on the Cob. Mix garlic powder, onion powder, red pepper, paprika and oregano, then sprinkle lightly.
Corn on the Cob Citrus Seasoned Salt. Add sea salt, hot smoked paprika, black pepper, smoked salt, and finely grated orange zest, then rub on (while cooking on the grill, if preferred).
Italian Corn on the Cob. Go Italian by sprinkling buttered corn on the cob with parmesan cheese, powdered garlic and italian seasonings (basil, oregano, rosemary, thyme and marjoram).
Learn More About Corn
While it is in most people’s kitchens at one time or another, many people don’t know some of these fun facts about corn. For instance, although the most common corn color is yellow, it can also be cultivated to be purple, green, blue-gray, red, white and even black. Here are some other fun facts about corn:
The word ‘maiz’ or ‘maize’ has Native American/Spanish language origins and that is what this grain is called in many languages.
Most cobs of corn have an average of 800 kernels, arranged in 16 rows around the cob.
Corn is produced on all of the inhabited continents on the planet (but it cannot grow in Antarctica).
The United States is the largest single producer of corn on the planet, providing at least 40% of the world’s corn harvest.
Celebrate Corn on the Cob All Summer Long
While corn on the cob day comes at the beginning of June, anyone from the corn growing belt in the US knows that the best time to get fresh corn on the cob is at the end of the summer. The great news is that it isn’t necessary to choose between the two–just go ahead and celebrate at both times. In fact, corn on the cob can be celebrated all throughout the summer!
Source
#Baby Back Ribs#toast#fries#bbq#summer 2022#2009#2013#2014#New York City#original photography#travel#vacation#street food#USA#restaurant#pulled pork#Mac 'n' Cheese#corn bread#National Corn on the Cob Day#11 June#NationalCornontheCobDay#national day#eating#tourist attraction#landmark#Manhattan
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Delzoun "Tide-Me-Overs"
“While these are customary consumables at Hornmoot, the traditional human-dwarven trading festival that marks the dawn of Spring, there isn’t a holiday on the eventful dwarven calendar that doesn’t feature these scrumptious meats on the menu.” - Heroes’ Feast, p. 90
Personally, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more dwarven food than the good old-fashioned meatball.
Heroes’ Feast’s Delzoun “Tide-Me-Overs” bring dwarven kitchens to life with these extremely tasty and juicy meatballs! Leagues better than anything you’d buy at the grocery store, I would absolutely suggest making these yourself.
This recipe is also ridiculously forgiving. Once, I doubled nearly all the ingredients by accident, aside from the meat, and they still came out amazing!
If you don’t eat pork, no worries! They’re just as tasty using only beef!
Check out below for tips and tricks when making this yourself! Get Heroes’ Feast here: https://dnd.wizards.com/heroes-feast
Prep: 15 mins Cook: 1h 30 mins Total: 1h 45 mins
Ingredients:
¼ cup (60 ml) heavy cream*
1 egg
2 slices dark bread (such as rye), crusts discharged, remainder torn into pieces**
3 tbsp. (43 g) unsalted butter
1 small onion, finely chopped
Kosher salt
¼ tsp. (2 g) ground allspice
8 oz (225 g) ground pork
8 oz (225 g) lean ground beef
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp. (8 g) all-purpose flour
1 ½ cups (350 ml) low-sodium chicken broth
1 tsp. (4 g) light brown sugar
1 ½ tsp. (7 ml) soy sauce
½ tsp. (2 ml) fresh lemon juice
3 tbsp. (12 g) finely chopped fresh dill or parsley
* I’ve used both heavy cream and half-and-half with no issues.
** I used Vienna-style Pumpernickel Bread, cut into standard ½ -inch sandwich slices at the thickest part of the loaf.
In a large bowl, whisk together the cream and egg (top-left).
Add the bread, mix well, and set aside, stirring occasionally, until the bread is softened, about 20 minutes (top-right).
Using a fork or sturdy spoon, mash the bread into a paste and set aside (bottom).
NOTE: Apparently, the bread is not what binds the meat/other ingredients together, but works with the milk to give the meatballs moisture and texture! The eggs are the only binding ingredient.
In hindsight, this makes sense, since in baking eggs are a binder…
Meanwhile, in a skillet over medium heat, melt 1 tbsp. (14 g) of the butter. Add the onion and ½ tsp. (3 g) salt and cook, stirring, until softened, about 4 minutes (left).
Add the allspice and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 40 seconds (right).
Remove from heat and let them cool to room temperature. Laying mine in a single layer in the skillet, it took about 10 minutes.
TIP: Don’t be afraid to eat some of the onions to see if they’ve softened enough.
TIP: Cooling my onions in a single layer in the skillet took about 10 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 475℉ (245℃) with a wire rack in the middle of the oven. Coat a large wire rack with nonstick cooking spray and set it in a large, rimmed baking sheet.
Add the cooled onion mixture, pork, ground beef, baking powder, 1 tsp. (5 g) salt and ½ tsp. (1 g) pepper to the bread paste and, using a large spoon or your hands, mix until well combined and uniform.
TIP: To save yourself time when doing the dishes, line the baking sheet with aluminum foil so you don’t need to scrape any burned bits off.
NOTE: Personally, I didn’t run into this problem while making mine, but it’s important to only mix the meat mixture until everything is just combined. Overmixing will result in stiffer, tougher meatballs.
With moistened hands, form the mixture into generous 1-tablespoon-sized balls (left).
Arrange the meatballs on the rack in the baking sheet and bake until lightly browned, about 20 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through (right).
NOTE: I had to make double the amount of pork/beef meatballs since 8 oz packages of each ground meat were not available. Expect about half the amount of meatballs that you see here if making this yourself.
NOTE: The meatballs will sag through the wire rack a little bit when placed, this is fine!
NOTE: The ones shown above are the size Heroes’ Feast recommends. I wanted them to be a little bit larger the second time I made them, so I went for golf-ball sized. The cooking time stayed the same, but I found the weight of them might have been a bit too much and they lost way more structure than the smaller ones.
However, that was also the time I accidentally doubled all the ingredients aside from the meat, so I’m sure there was more at play there. Just something to keep in mind. They still came out great though! In fact, they’re the ones shown in the final picture.
Wipe out the skillet used for the onions to remove any stray onion bits, set it over medium heat, and melt the remaining 2 tbsp. (28 g) butter. Stirring constantly, cook until fragrant and a shade darker, 1 to 2 minutes.
Add flour and cook, stirring constantly, until golden, 2 to 3 minutes (top-left).
Switch to a whisk and, whisking constantly, gradually add the broth. Continuing to whisk often, cook for about 2 minutes (top-right).
Add the brown sugar, soy sauce, lemon juice, and ¼ tsp. (0.5 g) pepper and continue to whisk and cook until thickened, about 2 more minutes (bottom).
NOTE: The Heroes’ Feast “cook’s notes” mentions that the sauce will thicken quickly as it cools, and to add extra chicken broth to loosen the consistency.
They’re absolutely right! It’s more obvious in the next pictures but the sauce thickens a lot. It’s also a lot darker than what’s shown in the preview image in the book, so I’m not sure how much extra broth they had to add, but it seems like quite a bit.
Add meatballs to the sauce and simmer, stirring occasionally, until heated through, about 4 minutes (left).
Stir in most of the dill or parsley and taste and adjust the seasoning with additional salt and pepper, if necessary (right).
Transfer to a serving dish, sprinkle with remaining dill or parsley, and serve hot.
Overall, I would give this recipe a 5/5. It was a little daunting since the ingredients list was so long, but once I got started making the meatballs it was actually remarkably simple! They’re really juicy, have great texture, and the allspice-seasoned onions are so tasty!
The sauce is a little awkward to make, but it does add amazing flavour. But, again, the meatballs retained so much moisture you don’t really need a sauce to enjoy them!
Honestly, if you have the time and are sick of store-bought meatballs, definitely give these a try.
Finally, as I mentioned earlier, you can totally make these with only beef (shown in the final picture above)! They’ll still retain quite a bit of moisture and be super delicious.
#these are also S-tier eaten cold#heroes' feast#heroes feast#dwarven cuisine#delzoun tide-me-overs#heroes feasting#dnd#dungeons and dragons#dnd cookbook#dnd cooking#heroes feast cookbook#fantasy#homecook#homecooking#cooking#dinner#lunch#food#recipes#foodblr
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Stewart the Tuxedo Cat
Today was like any other for Stewart. He was curled into a ball on his luxurious and soft cat bed, which had been large enough to fit a Labrador. He did not have to worry, as there was no competition for him. His owner, Margo Ruman, a sweet old 79-year-old grandma, always spoiled him rotten. Stewart was no ordinary cat, as he had intelligence onpar with humans.
Since it was around noon, he decided it was time for mayhem, which might or might not cause collateral damage.
Stretching his front and hind legs, he stood up, giving his fur a few licks with his sandpaper tongue to ensure he was presentable before trotting out of the living room and into the kitchen, starting with small damage first.
Hopping onto the granite counter, he strutted along like a model on a runaway, swatting at each kitchen utensil, which all met their demise by clattering or shattering on the tile floor. From the salt shaker to the napkin holder, nothing was safe from Stewart and his need for mayhem.
The open bag of flour was another perfect target, pawing at it and causing a dust cloud to fill the air, Stewart repeatedly sneezing for a few seconds before knocking the large four pound bag over. Curious about the soft texture, Stewart rolled around in it like a pig to mud, coating his black and white fur in white clumps of flour, his vibrant green eyes piercing through the white cloud. Shaking off what flour he could, he sneezed a few more times before exiting the kitchen, leaping onto the windowsill and using his paw to unlock the latch, opening the window and allowing him access to the outside world.
Margo was still busy with her daily crossword puzzles, so this was the optimal time for some fun.
Once Stewart was outside, he trotted along the slanted roof, scooping a few leaves out of the gutter to reach his prized possession, the holy grail—Mr. Squeakers. The sneaky cat had hidden a vibrant rubber ducky inside the gutter, where it would be stuck and hidden from the leaves, muck, and other residue that it collected. It was his good luck charm ever since he was a little kitten, and he wasn't about to stop using it now, even if it was for utter chaos.
Shaking more flour off his fur, Stewart hops down from the roof to the roof of the car before landing on the pavement of the driveway. It was sunny out, the sun beating down and quickly warming up his body. Thankfully, he had a short coat, so he didn't sweat all that much, continuing his journey down the driveway and into the neighborhood.
It was mostly quiet, with a few neighbors up and about. Some were at work, while others at home or doing other human activities. Stewart never understood why humans went so far to treat cats like him as their own child, but he also never questioned it much, as being pampered 24/7 wasn't something he was going to complain about. He knew that his brethren weren't as lucky as he was, but one day, he'd rule the world and declare humans treat felines as royalty. That's for another day, however.
Once Stewart reached the main road, cars zoomed by, stirring up the leaves and other debris humans often left behind, mainly plastic cups or emplty aluminum soda cans. Ditches were filled with muddy water, palmetto bugs floating around, some clinging onto leaves like a lifeboat. He avoided the puddles, trotting along the dry and smooth sidewalk, as the last thing he needed was to get dirty.
Stewart hated cockaroachs, wishing they had died out with the dinosaurs. He read that in a book at a library once that birds are dinosaurs. If he ever invents a time machine, he would like to prove the human scientists wrong, and then he'd be awarded hundreds of rubber duckies. It sounded a bit farfetched, but Stewart was not one to deny a challenge or give up easily, for the tuxedo cat would find a way to achieve his goals.
Upon making an unwanted detour due to the humans causing another traffic accident, Stewart has found himself deep within the depths of uncharted territory. Gigantic oak trees, brush, and other small critters inhabitated this forest. The housecat didn't know what it was, but a strange hum filled the air, a small and subtle vibration that made his ears flick in response. He swatted at the random knats and other pests that flew nearby, taking a chomp out of them and slowly reducing their numbers faster than pest control, surprisingly enough.
It began to rain, which was a good thing, as Stewart loved the rain.
The soft grass was now damp, the light drizzle overhead not being a deterent for Stewart, for he saw a clearing up ahead. A ginormous steel gray building sat in the open field, with large barbed wire fences and unmarked vehicles coming in and out through the electronically controlled front gate. It was unlike anything the tuxedo cat had seen before, and he couldn't help but wonder what was inside. His mind ran through the countless possibilities, each one better than the last.
He'd be really lucky if he found a rubber ducky.
Sprinting over, he stopped near the side gate on the east side, gnawing at the metal chain links and managing to tear through them, creating a small opening that he squeezed through. It was a tight fit, as some of the sharp ends of the link scraped against his fur, but the wounds ultimately were only superficial.
Stewart was a very sneaky cat, slinking around in the shadows and avoiding what appeared to be security guards doing their daily patrol. It would be fun to mess with them, but Stewart is a cat on a mission, and his search for the ultimate treasures overrides his wants to stir up chaos outside. The guards probably were dumb, considering they weren't paying attention to him grabbing the keycard from one of the guards pocket.
Once secured, he used it to get inside, crawling through the vent, which was a bit stuffy and cramped. It wasn't the worst condition Stewart had to suffer, but it certainly was uncomfortable, as he was a bit on the chunky side. Margo had gotten scolded from the vet before for overfeeding me with treats and food, but the old lady brushed it off since he managed to regain a healthy weight before the next visit.
Stopping at an intersection, he chose to go left since right is wrong and left is obviously always right. Stewart quickly found himself at a dead-end, with nothing but a sealed grate, which he used his heavy weight and force to break, plummeting to the ground and landing on something solid and warm.
"Ow! What the—" A short-haired blonde man squeaked, his blazing blue eyes piercing through his black round shaped glasses, gazing down at Stewart with confusion and a hint of anxiety. This was awkward and definitely not a part of the mischievous cat's plan.
After moments of silence, the man cautiously reached forward as if to pet Stewart, and the cat was not one to deny pets.
Once the man scooped him up, he cradled Stewart like a baby, much like his owner, Margo did, giving him chin scratches and stroking his soft furred head. "Hey there, little guy." The man spoke gently, smiling softly at him.
Stewart meowed loudly in response, reading the man's keycard, which read 'Dr. Simon Glass', and some other unimportant information beside the tan man being a psychologist.
'This is a trap', Stewart thought, narrowing his eyes at Dr. Glass suspiciously, which surprised the psychologist, who probably hadn't expected to be so greatly judged by a cat today. Without wasting another second, Stewart made his grand escape by pawing at Glass's face, knocking his glasses off before wiggling like a worm, weaseling out and dashing away faster than a cheetah.
He was too agile for the doctor, sprinting down the hallway at lightening speed and making a sharp right into a seemingly empty office.
Oh, how wrong he was.
There sat a short and pudgy tan man at the desk, his messy uncut blonde hair covered by a dark brown wide brimmed hat as he lazily strummed a ukulele. The small room smelled of expired maple syrup and gunpowder, causing Stewart to sneeze once before the man had swiftly grabbed him.
Despite his squirming and hissing, this man was undetered, plopping Stewart in his lap before beginning to stroke the cat's back.
"Damn, you're chunky." He grunts, a grin creeping up onto his lips as the tuxedo cat began to quietly purr, rumbling like a car engine. "That's okay, join the crowd, fella." The man's sharp teeth came into view, though it didn't scare Stewart, for he sensed this man loved chaos just as much as he did.
Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.
After ten more minutes of attention, Stewart decided it was time to leave again, though this time it didn't require as much effort, as the chubby man gently set him down without complaint, letting the chunky cat trot happily out of his office with his tail held high.
Luckily enough, Stewart hadn't run into any other humans. They carried all sorts of nasty germs, and he already had enough from being a housecat. You could say he was a germaphobe, which would be partially accurate, as on his own accord, he'd roll around in mud or flour. He was messier than a toddler at times, and while Margo was always annoyed by it, Mia never seemed to mind.
Mia was Margo's granddaughter. She was a janitor currently employed at an elementary school and made a fairly decent pay for her occupation. Whenever Margo had a dialysis for her type two diabetes, Mia watched over Stewart over at her apartment.
It wasn't until he came across an older man, his fair skin contrasting his deeply sunken black eyes. Stewart let out a loud meow to catch his attention, but the man simply walked by without so much as casting him a glance.
Stewart would not stand for this blatant disrespect.
And so, he had the bright idea to hook his claws on the man's pant leg, being dragged along like a corpse for a few minutes before the older man had picked up Stewart by the scruff, examining him with a blank expression.
"Very fluffy." He says monotonously before setting Stewart down and walking away without another word.
Stewart decided it was time to head home, swiftly exiting the facility and taking the same route back to Margo's house, managing to make it through the window right before six o'clock.
It had been an eventual day for the housecat, meeting all sorts of people and discovering a secret facility. Margo was currently in the kitchen making fresh penne rigatoni, the aroma of freshly baked bread and tomato sauce filling the air, creating a homey feel.
"Ah, Stewart! There you are!" Margo chuckles softly, gently patting the cats head. "I thought my granddaughter took ya. The Wilder name certainly fits you, rascal." She coos affectionately before going back into the kitchen, humming Italian tunes to herself.
Curling up onto his luxurious cat bed, he couldn't help but wonder what else resided in that facility. He'd save that for another day, of course.
Closing his eyes, he mewed softly, dreaming of chaos, which he'd do all again starting tomorrow morning.
Photo reference for Stewart:
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A Day Off
Hallelujah! What a perfect day. I worked until six o'clock on Wednesday and practically danced out of the library. I have been rotating between the information desk and the circulation desk and the good citizens of this county have worn me out. The last several days have been a bit wonky. There were ten thousand calls asking if we have free eclipse glasses -we didn't, but could direct you to a place that does and/or provide instructions for making your own viewer out of a cereal box and aluminum foil. There was an event giving away free laptops to qualifying residents that was like the last flight out of Saigon. In the words of an unflappable coworker, "There was chaos in every corner of the building." Don't even get me started about Mercury being in retrograde. Like I said, wonky.
Saturday was actually quite nice because it was opening day for Little League and there was a parade down Market Street with plenty of cute kids. When I arrived home on Saturday the Edgewater gang showed up and we celebrated Mr. Pullen's birthday. Jamie and I convinced the fellas to accompany us to a greenhouse to hunt for some plants, a greenhouse that the grandgirl said was "in the middle of nowhere". She wasn't wrong. We came home with lots of lovelies for the gardens, a successful trip!
This is my favorite picture snapped over the weekend. Tyler and Jamie in a chess battle on the front porch. Never say it's not exciting around here.
I was back to work on Monday (eclipse day) for three busy days, and now I'm free! We delayed our trip to Lancaster for a day to let the bad weather blow through, so we'll leave in the morning, stay over Friday night, and come home later on Saturday. I'm anticipating some fun.
Speaking of fun, here's another photo I loved. I'm pretty sure that I'm allowed to post this because she's masked. No one could ever identify her from this photo (and I've been good for six years). I'll delete if they ask. Anyway, this is our little miss on Monday. Isn't it cute pic?
Fast forward to today and I've shed all of the work nonsense and I'm feeling quite content. I spent the entire morning weeding and preparing flower beds, then planting some of the pretties that I picked up at Ball Greenhouses last week. I know I'm early, but these are hardy girls. If Mother Nature turns fickle I'll just be the crazy lady running around tossing sheets over gardens. Wouldn't be the first time. It's a small price to pay for the happiness of today. Working the dirt and dreaming of the blooms to come was good for my soul. I needed this day.
Another little something that has recently delighted me is this stuff.
Because I'm at work for nine hours, I have recently become addicted to sugary, fattening, fancy coffee drinks. I'd zip through Starbucks on my lunch break and pick up an iced caramel macchiato , then I started buying the bottles at the grocery store and filling my big sippy cup (that I normally use for water) in the mornings. I was adding way too many calories to my day. So, I searched for a healthier replacement drink that would still give me the boost - and I found it! I'm not on Atkins or Keto or any of those diets, but I definitely appreciate the low sugar/carb count. This protein shake has the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee, with added protein and fiber. It's a win! I can have this for breakfast and feel no guilt. Getcha' some!
This post is sort of all over the place, sorry about that. I don't have a lot to say and I didn't sit down with a plan. I just opened my laptop and wanted to say hi. I do miss having more time to spend being silly here. The older I get the less I care about being silly. Look at these cool sunglasses I bought in a little shop in Chestertown. Silly for a woman my age? Yes. Do I care? Absolutely not.
I just notice that my name tag for work is all jacked up by my seatbelt. Hope I straightened that out once I got there, but I don't remember doing it. Oops.
Several of you have asked about whether or not I'm enjoying my job. It's complicated. I've mentioned my lovely coworkers, I've mentioned that I'm having fun doing the displays, there are plenty of positives. I'm trying to focus on what I have gained and not what I have lost. I do miss having time for hobbies, doing more than work, eat, sleep, repeat. Of course, as I type this I'm looking ahead to three days off - wonderful! The 16th will mark three months in my position, so I do feel I've given it a fair shake...and I just don't know. I'm really pouring a lot of energy, creativity, and effort into this job and I do feel that it's appreciated. They are very nice to me and pay me adequately. I'm just undecided if it's a fair trade for my freedom. I mostly talk about the fun parts, the nice parts, but there are also the not-so-fun parts. A surprising number of books are returned with bed bugs. We have two large "stink boxes" that are usually full of books returned that reek of everything from cigarette smoke, pot, or just general funk. They sit in there with charcoal rocks until they're bearable. Lots of people are rude, really rude. I got used to that when I was in the airline industry, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant. I could go on, couldn't we all? No job is ever perfect, and in the past I tolerated the unpleasant aspects because I had no choice. I don't have to do that anymore. I've been asked to take on some summer programming work - fun activities with kids, outreach booths at festivals, that sort of thing. I'm looking forward to that, and it's been a while since I've had things to look forward to. Well, that's not true. I've had loads of fun family stuff that happened and even a trip to Ireland in the last year, but as far as having something that gives me a chance to actually use my brain and any meager talents I have - this is the first chance since we left Tennessee. I just wish it wasn't so exhausting. Is that just me being sixty? It's kind of funny that I'm twenty to thirty years older than nearly everyone I work with, but they're all so tired. I don't want to scare them about getting older, but I feel like I should drop hints like, "I hope you like ibuprofen..." or "Enjoy those cute shoes while you can..." Honestly, I work circles around most of them, and I shouldn't. Where is their energy? I have to admit that when I'm shelving, and for some reason all of our shelves have books at floor level (why??), it is not fun getting up and down. I actually love shelving because the more books I touch the more familiar I am with the collection, but that bottom shelf will be the death of me.
I snapped this picture last week when I was processing books. Some were going out to other libraries, some had been requested locally and were going on our hold shelf, some were being checked in and returned to our shelves.
That back wall is my work area. To the left you can see some of the 50+ craft bags that I assembled to go home with our little visitors. I love those. They have all of the supplies and instructions needed to complete a small craft. To the right of the craft bags are a couple of shelves of books pulled for mending or labeling. Under the desk are the infamous stink boxes. I wish they'd let me decorate this work room. It needs color and art. It should be pretty. Pretty isn't very important around here. That's definitely something I miss about the south.
I put a little bit of the south into one of my small displays. We have a good collection of cookbooks here, so I grabbed a tablecloth and sign from our house, and voila!
This hardly counts as a display - just two pieces of decor and some books, but it's working - people are checking out cookbooks! I swap them out every couple of days to keep it interesting.
Here's another little bit of nothing - just pillow stuffing glued to cardstock for clouds, the raindrops are cardstock and string. Rainy Day Reads!
See what I mean? None of it is great (I have no budget!) but it's the fun part. So much of the rest is exhausting. They're advertising for a couple of new positions, so maybe if they find the right people I could work fewer hours. If that were the case I could do this for a long time. I'm already cooking up some fun ideas for May. I have my book lists ready and one display will definitely be "Once Upon a Crime..." complete with crime scene tape and a chalk body outline on the floor (actually white painters tape). I may do a Sci-Fi display with an alien saying, "Take me to your reader." We have a huge biography section though, so I probably should use those instead. I could make a giant name tag, like the ol' "Hello, my name is______" that we've all had to wear at some point. I could put up a sign that says Meet someone new, try a biography and put out a variety of interesting people - founding fathers to modern musicians, CoCo Chanel to Sally Ride. Anywho, just letting those ideas rattle around in my brain. I'll figure it out.
Wow, I've rambled far too long and it's all disjointed and kooky. I guess I was overdue for a visit here. I'm happy today because I'm home. I hope that you're happy too, or at least on your way to being happy. I suppose we all have to figure out what that means for us, and where it is for us. I know it's not on that damn bottom shelf at the library.
The mister is turning off lights and heading for bed, so I guess that's my cue. We'll run off to Lancaster in the morning so I'll be back on Sunday to share a bit of that with you. It may be nothing but Amish buggies in the rain, but I have a feeling we'll find some fun.
If you've made it all the way to the end of this snoozefest of a post, give yourself a cookie. You deserve it. Consider yourself hugged.
Stay tuned for the Griswolds' adventures in Pennsylvania Dutch country! Until then, stay safe, stay well, and know how very much I've missed you.
XOXO,
Nancy
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Footyworkfusion is finally here!
Unlocking Your Soccer Potential: A Holistic Approach by Samuel Maraver
“Dallas Cup Final in Dallas, Texas”
A passion for soccer
Soccer is more than a sport; it is a part of who I am in this world. I started my journey in the beautiful streets of Caracas, Venezuela when I was only three years old. Since then, I've navigated through diverse tiers of competition, from grassroots club skirmishes to prestigious international tournaments in Spain. Today, I stand poised to unravel the intricacies of success in the captivating world of soccer.
Emboldened by my own odyssey, I am fervently convinced that soccer transcends mere athletic pursuit—it serves as a conduit for personal and professional growth. The program that I offer covers all the possible areas that a real athlete needs to fulfill to become a true professional. Join me and together we will embrace this beautiful hardworking journey that will make your dreams a reality in a matter of time.
Cultivating Excellence from passion
Coming from Venezuela, a country in which we share an unconditional passion and joy for soccer. I had the privilege to form part of this beautiful sport at a very young age. Every water bottle, aluminum paper and wooden sticks represented an opportunity to turn it into a soccer ball with a goal. I was born with that passion for the game and a few years later at the age of eleven I moved with my family to the United States which allowed me to flourish my passion along with great opportunities playing at different levels along the soccer pyramid. I was able to master my left foot abilities along with my versatility playing as a left back on the field.
My journey has shaped my passion and allowed me to share that passion through this program. My program is a living representation of my experiences, tricks, and small details that differentiate amateur players from high quality professional footballers. This will not only form players in the field but also well-rounded individuals outside of the field.
“U-19 Category Division de Honor Tarragona, Spain”
Beyond the Field, Towards Life’s Triumphs
Beyond my record of wins and defeats, this sport brough me so many life lessons that have stuck with me forever. From helping teammates in need with equipment, to being the bigger person and helping the captain from my rival team with a cramp. These experiences that come from being part of this sport have shaped my character and my unique way of navigating through life like no other.
In my program, players will not only become better at different aspects of the game, but they will have an immense growth with cultural values and virtues that will help them in their daily lives.
Greatness in the making
My program offers players the ability to detect problems and ways to overcome them with a professional attitude. There are numerous factors that contribute to the overall making of a professional and mentality plays the most important part in it all. I emphasize a lot in this sector because if you have talent and discipline, but your mentality is in the wrong place you can be affected and fall short. Reaching the professional world of soccer takes a lot of risk and uncertainty but with my program you will have my guidance which will give you a significant advantage from average players that do not have a high-quality mentor.
The importance of unbreakable discipline
The greatest footballers in the world have one thing in common and that is that on their minds they are the best even when they really were not the best. Our daily lives have different challenges and difficulties that we must go through in order to be successful but when you are talking about the beautiful game you get mentally challenged every second of the match. Maintaining a positive, cold and clear mind will help you evolve in the game in a short amount of time.
Discipline is not just a good quality in a player, it is the pilar of success in this sport. My program emphasizes every single area that targets the fortification of the mind. This goes from overcoming a set back to being the main character and stepping up in a hard game.
A lot of people believe that soccer is a lot about who is the biggest and most physical player on the pitch, but they are wrong. This sport requires a mental aspect that a lot of people underestimate. Lionel Messi is the best example since he is the best player in the world not because he is big and strong but because he is quick, smart and he can make something from nothing.
My program meticulously addresses every facet aimed at fortifying the mind, from resilience in the face of setbacks to assuming leadership roles in challenging situations. Dispelling the notion that physical prowess reigns supreme on the soccer pitch, my program accentuates the significance of mental acuity.
Drawing inspiration from luminaries like Lionel Messi, it underscores the transformative power of mental agility in shaping one's soccer journey. Central to my program is the innovative practice of visualization, proven to enhance confidence and performance by envisioning success before it unfolds.
Building your path
If your inspiration is to become a professional footballer then you need to have a plan, a goal and a vision. These three components are key when working towards a big goal in your life. When you have your mind, body and soul compromised towards a goal you just focus on the steps necessary that will take you there while putting the distractions aside.
“MLS Next All-Star game Indio, California”
Mastering the Art of Soccer
Becoming the best version of yourself as a footballer includes having an exquisite technical aspect to the ball. Being able to read the game and adapt to it no matter what the field, the crowd and the weather is telling you. The more technical you are the less time you will spend on the ball, meaning that you will never be physically affected when the rivals come get the ball away from you. My program reflects and projects the most intricate technical drills that will help you play at the next level.
Our Vision and ultimate goal with the amazing program that we offer is for our clients to reach their full potential on and off the field. We want them all to reach their aspirations in the world of soccer along with making everyone the best versions of themselves along with a professional aspect to it.
My experiences along the way have taught me a lot about this beautiful sport, and it took me from the streets of Caracas to the international ground to learn all the information and material that I am sharing with you. The most personal tips along with world class drills that took me from a normal level all the way to the top. My mission is to take you to places above your imagination and my program is the right place to make it happen.
I want to talk about what my program means to me as we come to an end. It seems like a portion of my heart is being put into the game I love; it's not just a series of workouts or drills. My way of sharing what I've learned—sweat, tears, and moments of unadulterated joy—on the field is through this program. It's about character development, lifelong friendships, and creating memories—it's about more than just playing soccer. I want to be more than simply a coach via this program; I want to be a friend, a mentor, and someone who will always believe in you, even if you don't believe in yourself. So, let's put on our boots and take the world by storm, one kick at a time.
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find a word game!
eeee this game looks fun yay i'll play :) tysm for the tag @pancakehouse ! <3<3
the rules are simple - find the word (or something close enough) in a fic (WIP, published, whatever) and share the excerpt it’s in.
words I was given: cherry, sofa, blink, kiss
your words: fire, night, soft, drown
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cherry // from poppies in october (r/s)
He remembers visiting Remus the summer after sixth year, mid-July, when this thing of theirs felt so achingly palpable, yet fragile, too—a spun-glass bauble snatching and refracting the clean light between them. A flurry of question marks catching in their fringe like fresh flakes of snow. Ripe, unbitten cherries under each of their tongues.
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sofa // from white sheets, in the closet (r/s)
Remus’s mother has bridge on Thursdays, and his father ministers to the sick, so the two of them have run of the Lupin household well into the evening before Sirius has to skedaddle. It’s a cramped little house in a modest part of town, bauble-bright aluminum Christmas tree standing sentinel in one corner of the living room, a worn-out old Gibson upright occupying another corner near the shabby floral sofa. Decent enough, all told, but you don’t look around and get the impression that Pastor Lupin’s been skimming the collections basket.
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blink // also from white sheets ^^
His fist collides like a brick with Sirius’s face. Sirius’s vision blurs and he tastes slick hot tin in his mouth. Someone—Remus—grabs him by the arm. He blinks, steadies himself, balls his right fist and gets ready to blindly swing while the world swims in and out of focus—
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kiss // oooh please like imma have a fic without this word !! from poppies in october ^^
They sleep together in the bed, because Sirius insists and in the absolute best way possible Remus hasn’t an ounce of fight left in him to argue, and the next morning Sirius cooks them omelets while Remus pours them tea and then pulls a face when Sirius dumps, like, four fucking tablespoons of sugar into his cup. But when Sirius kisses him over the table, mouth hot and slow and four-tablespoons sweet, Remus honestly doesn’t mind.
man i was so close to being a tease & posting the one and only snippet i could find where i used "kiss" like ...... metaphorically or whatever ...... but alas. actual kissing no teasing okurr !!!
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ummm yeah so like i think my a lotta my beloved mutuals maybe already got tagged ?? so just like ignore this if i'm double tagging you @squidgilator @broomsticks @heart-axe @shipsnsails @mkaugust <3
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THINGS YOUR MOTHER SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU
1. Take your bananas apart when you get home from the store. If you leave them connected at the stem, they ripen faster.
2. Store your opened chunks of cheese in aluminum foil. It will stay fresh much longer and not mold!
3. Peppers with 3 bumps on the bottom are sweeter and better for eating. Peppers with 4 bumps on the bottom are firmer and better for cooking.
4. Add a teaspoon of water when frying ground beef. It will help pull the grease away from the meat while cooking.
5. To really make scrambled eggs or omelets rich add a couple of spoonfuls of sour cream, cream cheese, or heavy cream in and then beat them up.
6. For a cool brownie treat, make brownies as directed. Melt Andes mints in double broiler and pour over warm brownies. Let set for a wonderful minty frosting.
7. Add garlic immediately to a recipe if you want a light taste of garlic and at the end of the recipe if your want a stronger taste of garlic
8. Leftover snickers bars from Halloween make a delicious dessert. Simply chop them up with the food chopper. Peel, core and slice a few apples. Place them in a baking dish and sprinkle the chopped candy bars over the apples. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes!!! Serve alone or with vanilla ice cream. Yummm!
9. Reheat Pizza Heat up leftover pizza in a nonstick skillet on top of the stove, set heat to med-low and heat till warm. This keeps the crust crispy. No soggy micro pizza. I saw this on the cooking channel and it really works.
10. Easy Deviled Eggs Put cooked egg yolks in a zip lock bag. Seal, mash till they are all broken up. Add remainder of ingredients, reseal, keep mashing it up mixing thoroughly, cut the tip of the baggy, squeeze mixture into egg. Just throw bag away when done easy clean up.
11. Expanding Frosting When you buy a container of cake frosting from the store, whip it with your mixer for a few minutes. You can double it in size. You get to frost more cake/cupcakes with the same amount. You also eat less sugar and calories per serving.
12. Reheating refrigerated bread To warm biscuits, pancakes, or muffins that were refrigerated, place them in a microwave with a cup of water. The increased moisture will keep the food moist and help it reheat faster.
13. Newspaper weeds away Start putting in your plants, work the nutrients in your soil. Wet newspapers, put layers around the plants overlapping as you go. Cover with mulch and forget about weeds. Weeds will get through some gardening plastic they will not get through wet newspapers.
14. Broken Glass Use a wet cotton ball or Q-tip to pick up the small shards of glass you can't see easily. (NOTE - That’s what Wonder Bread is great for!)
15. No More Mosquitoes Place a dryer sheet in your pocket. It will keep the mosquitoes away.
16. Squirrel Away!
To keep squirrels from eating your plants, sprinkle your plants with cayenne pepper. The cayenne pepper doesn't hurt the plant and the squirrels won't come near it.
17. Flexible vacuum To get something out of a heat register or under the fridge add an empty paper towel roll or empty gift wrap roll to your vacuum. It can be bent or flattened to get in narrow openings.
18. Reducing Static Cling Pin a small safety pin to the seam of your slip and you will not have a clingy skirt or dress. Same thing works with slacks that cling when wearing panty hose. Place pin in seam of slacks and ... guess what! ... static is gone.
19. Measuring Cups Before you pour sticky substances into a measuring cup, fill with hot water. Dump out the hot water, but don't dry cup. Next, add your ingredient, such as peanut butter, and watch how easily it comes right out. (Or spray the measuring cup or spoon with Pam before using)
20. Foggy Windshield? Hate foggy windshields? Buy a chalkboard eraser and keep it in the glove box of your car When the windows fog, rub with the eraser! Works better than a cloth!
21. Re-opening envelopesIf you seal an envelope and then realize you forgot to include something inside, just place your sealed envelope in the freezer for an hour or two. Viola! It unseals easily.
22. Conditioner Use your hair conditioner to shave your legs. It's cheaper than shaving cream and leaves your legs really smooth. It's also a great way to use up the conditioner you bought but didn't like when you tried it in your hair.
23. Goodbye Fruit Flies To get rid of pesky fruit flies, take a small glass, fill it 1/2' with Apple Cider Vinegar and 2 drops of dish washing liquid; mix well. You will find those flies drawn to the cup and gone forever!
24. Get Rid of Ants Put small piles of cornmeal where you see ants. They eat it, take it 'home,' can't digest it so it kills them. It may take a week or so, especially if it rains, but it works and you don't have the worry about pets or small children being harmed!
25. Dryer Filter Even if you are very diligent about cleaning the lint filter in your dryer it still may be causing you a problem. If you use dryer sheets a waxy build up could be accumulating on the filter causing your dryer to over heat. The solution to this is to clean your filter with with a toothbrush and hot soapy water every 6 months.☆
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ooooh what are your cookie recipes?
.... So, typing all of my recipes would take several days even if I wasn't recovering from hand surgery at the moment, so I'm gonna hit you with my top 3 most beloved/requested cookie recipes- all are pretty simple and you don't have to be an expert anything to do a halfway decent job!
So, in order from simplest to most involved:
Cake mix cookies:
1 box cake mix (any kind but angel food- I like Duncan Hines best)
2 eggs
⅓c veg oil
(1 bag chocolate chips if desired- obviously they're always desired, duh)
Mix together, form into balls, put on lined baking pan about 1½ inches apart, and bake at 350 for 10 minutes in a conventional oven (even convection ovens have a conventional option!)
Coconut macaroons:
5 ½c Flaked coconut
14 oz Sweetened condensed milk
⅔c AP flour
Pinch salt
Splash vanilla (original recipe calls for 2 tsp, I generally use 1 Tbsp)
Sprinkle of cinnamon
Mix dry ingredients together with hand mixer or wisk
Add wet ingredients and mix together with either a hand mixer or your hands! A wisk for this part is just gonna cause problems, trust.
Form into balls (this is easiest if your hands are wet with water, as it prevents the dough from sticking to you) and place on parchment lined baking sheet (DO NOT use wax paper for stuff that goes in the oven, learned that when I was 12)
Smoosh balls slightly if desired (they don't spread at all, so you can put a ton right up on each other on the same sheet and they will stay the exact shape you put them in!)
Bake at 350 in conventional oven until nice and golden (if you can't smell or see the golden toasted coconut, they’re not done)
((If you want, you can drizzle some caramel or a little if the Ghirardelli meltable wafers on them for a little extra oomph, but honestly, they're really good even without!))
And finally, my magnum opus, a recipe that I've been tweaking since I royally fucked them up at age 13
No-Bakes:
3 cups quick oats (the old fashioned ones *can* work, but they don't expand quickly enough and the texture and taste suffer for it imo)
½c milk
1 ½c granulated sugar
½c dark brown sugar (you can also do all granulated sugar, but I like the depth the molases brings to the flavor)
1Tbsp vanilla extract (preferably the good shit from Mexico)
1 MASSIVE scoop creamy pb (measure it with your heart, but also I want you to question if it's too much- the answer is no)
½ cup dark cocoa powder (again you can use regular cocoa powder and it'll be fine!)
2Tbsp butter, cold
Sprinkle of cinnamon
Put milk, sugars, butter, and cocoa powder into a saucepan over medium/medium-low heat (works best with a thick-bottomed pan). Stir constantly until butter is completely melted
Add vanilla and pb, stir together until pb melts (note: you don't want it to be bubbling a lot, or else it'll be more bitter from burnt cocoa. Also, it should look glossy when the pb is melted!)
Add the oats, remove from heat, stir together until completely combined, and let remain in pan 2 mins to allow oats to cook (that's what makes the no bakes stick together)
Use a scoop or a spoon and plop them onto aluminum foil or parchment
Let cool for like.... 30ish minutes, then eat!
#ask me stuff!!#food asks#i love food asks- thank you to this anon in particular#(my favorite of the three is cake mix cookies- it was my grandpa's recipe and a lot of my best memories of him involve a warm cookie)#no i will not put this into grams i'm sorry#i may have gone to pastry school but i goddamn hate math
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