#except vanilla extract

[goopylittleghosty]

what the actual fuck

[lexalovesbooks]

Man I love how “I’m bald” is starting to become the “other” answer on polls it’s so funny and indecipherable to outsiders

[tomurkle]

gonna quickly expose myself here as a weirdo that prefers the middle seat,, usually unless its me n only one other in the back bc then it feels too crowded...

[icyfox62]

This is animal, dinosaur, fairy, and mermaid erasure.

“You never pretended to be a bride when you were a little girl?” No???? Like literally never?

[dear-ao3]

so. as you may know it’s christmas eve. as you probably don’t know i am eastern european. and probably the only real tradition anyone holds onto is christmas eve. normally my great aunt does all the food and very begrudgingly sometimes lets everyone help make like. one thing.

well.

this year. the year of our lord two thousand and twenty four. she decided she was done cooking and it was up to everyone else.

so i got a phone call from my mom a few weeks ago being like hey so. you’re making the cake. got it? good.

the cake in question is a walnut cake. i was entrusted with my great aunts recipe about seven years ago. i’ve made it twice. the first time i fucked up the frosting quantity. the second time i fucked up the eggs. both times were passable at best and notably! my great aunt did not taste either of them.

and i have to make this cake. on christmas eve. it is dessert. for everyone. my extended family will all be eating the cake. the walnut cake. on christmas eve. even my great aunt.

so yesterday, december 23 if you are counting, i went on the annual Last Minute Christmas Food Shopping Trip with my father, watched him climb into the case to get his half and half like he does every year, and stressed about my cake as i made sure i had all of the ingredients.

then. we went to my great aunts house. where i was met with Trial Number 1: The Cognac

this cake has cognac in the frosting. not a big deal really. except for the fact that my mom hates that there is cognac in the frosting. (my mom is hell bent on making christmas eve dinner vaguely healthier. no one else agrees.) and i was to be making the cake in my moms house.

also important to note: we (as in my parents) do not own cognac. mostly because none of us drink.

so my great aunt is like oh i have to give you the cognac. cause she knows. i am baking the cake. the walnut cake. (my dad told her. he is a traitor). and i say okay. sure. this won’t be a problem at all.

so she gives me. a shot of cognac. and when i say a shot. i mean an Entirely Full Shot Glass of Three Hundred Dollar Cognac. in a jar. for the cake. the walnut cake. that i have to make.

upon bringing the cognac home my mom says no we’re not putting that in. the cognac sits on the counter in its jar. no one touches it.

then i was met with Trial Number 2: The Frosting.

this recipe requires a pound of chopped walnuts. first. i couldn’t even find the walnuts. my sister and i searched high and low and in every cabinet we could find but no nuts. i called my mom. and said mom where are the walnuts? and she said. “they’re in the nut bag behind the basement door.”

oh of course. how could i have missed the nut bag? a holiday bag full of bags of nuts that was half hidden by wrapping paper and also behind a door?

in any case. could i have used a food processor? absolutely. did i? no. half because i forgot and half because i didn’t want to accidentally grind the walnuts into a paste. so i enlisted the help of my younger sister to chop the walnuts By Hand while i embarked on the real devil: the frosting.

which remember. is supposed to have cognac.

so i cream my butter. i add my sugar. i’m careful not to over sugar. i taste it a million times. i add my coffee and my vanilla extract (instead of cognac. which is still sitting on the counter) and it was all going so well until. the butter rebelled.

now remember. one time when i made this. seven years ago. i made too little frosting. so i made more this time. and i thought i had all my conversions right but evidently i did not because suddenly there was too much liquid in my frosting and it split.

the frosting for the walnut cake that everyone was going to eat. on christmas eve. the very next day.

i felt like a contestant on great british bake-off getting smited by the tent.

so i did the logical thing and shoved the whole mess into the fridge hoping that it would sort itself out overnight.

then it was time to face Trial Number Three: The Cake Itself.

as i have said this cake is a walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake that has been at christmas eve longer than i have been alive. and it requires no less than ten egg whites. which i whipped and i added to my walnuts and shoved the whole thing into the oven in my two baking dishes.

only to discover no less than 40 minutes later that the batter in the pans was Not Even (despite my best efforts). so i cooked one longer than the other and hoped that i hadn’t monumentally fucked up the walnut cake. like i had the frosting. which was in the fridge. and i was ignoring.

which leads to Trial Number Four: The Egg Yolk Cake

see i had ten egg yolks. i didn’t know what to do with them. my mom said flush them. my dad said make a custard. i proposed making egg nog. my mom said she didn’t want it in the house cause it was too fattening (a blatantly incorrect statement. please, if you are reading this, go drink a glass of eggnog. or some other fun festive drink. food is for the soul.) so i produced a recipe for an egg yolk pound cake. i made it. i still don’t know if it came out good cause i haven’t tasted it. i hope it did. but that was not the point. the point is the walnut cake. the christmas eve walnut cake.

and the following morning i was met with Trial Number Five: The Frosting Part 2

first i threw my failed frosting back in the mixer and it immediately secreted a brackish combination of vanilla extract and coffee so i did the only thing i could. facetimed my dad and said “father there are problems abound.” and he gave me the fatherly advice of “make it again.”

and so i did.

with more correct measurements. still scared it would split at any second.

though it didn’t.

and i didn’t add the cognac.

maybe no one will be able to tell???

my mom said that if anyone asks the first batch of frosting failed and i had to toss it. this is technically true.

but i had frosting. i had two uneven cakes. and it was time for Trial Number Six: Decorating

decorating cakes is easily in my top ten least favorite activities. decorating the christmas eve walnut cake is easily in my top three least favorite activities. because i am terrible at decorating cakes. and also because it has a filling.

the filling is jam. and i once again made the wrong choice because i put the jam on first before the frosting. which to be fair is what the directions say. but as everyone knows, the directions in recipes you get from your eastern european great aunt are not the real directions. so now i had to smear butter cream. on top of jam. for the filling of the walnut cake. for christmas eve. that we would be eating in a few hours.

and we didn’t have a cake plate. we had a large dish.

i had to use my fingers. i had to use three spatulas. i got jam everywhere. but i did it. and as soon as i set the top cake on top of the filling i realized my monumental mistake: i was supposed to trim down the cakes.

so now they were uneven. and lopsided. and there was nothing i, a mere mortal tasked with the impossible task of making christmas eve walnut cake, could do about it.

so i continued to spread my frosting. which i had enough of. and tried and failed to not get jam everywhere.

in the end it was almost presentable. not great. slightly lopsided. and definitely not as nice as any of my great aunts cakes.

which left me with Trial Number 7: Chilling It

our fridge was being taken up by other important christmas eve things (though not as important as my cake. the walnut cake) so i had to put it in the car. which was fine because there is snow on the ground.

i covered my cake. the walnut cake. in tin foil and hoped i wouldn’t accidentally squish it. and then i went outside. i tried to steal my moms shoes to walk outside. she was not impressed.

“you know, saph,” she said. “some of the time you’re pretty great. the other half of the time you’re really weird.”

i could not agree more.

i put my cake on the trunk. prayed to the cake gods and went inside.

on the one hand if the cake is good, i will be stuck making walnut cake for christmas eve for the rest of my life. on the other hand, if it sucks i will never have to make another one.

Trial Number Eight: The Tasting still waits.

[moxie-girl]

Star Wars clone wars-era tumblr dashboard simulator! this meme format is so old sorryyyy

🌳 treehuggr Follow

hate hate HAAATE that holoblr is so core-centric and you’re expected to post in basic or people just comment asking you to translate. I should be able to post in shryiiwook.

⬜️ senatesux-deactivated00192…

Hey, your choice of Shyriiwook as an “exotic” language to post in ties inherently into old colonialist views on Wookies and I need you to be aware of that, if it wasn’t intentional. Many people on the holonet these days…

Read More

🌳 treehuggr Follow

hi! op here. I’m a wookie.

🪐 outer-rim-4lyfe Follow

HELPPPPPP

#core holoblr users stop assuming everyone is human challenge

36,923 notes

🛸 fuckthatoldman Follow

ok but whys grandmaster yoda kinda… 🥵🥵

🧑🏾‍🚀 sora-the-explora Follow

Everybody on here claiming to be attracted to GILFs is lying except for this guy

#everyone unfollow me i wanna be alone with them

6,969 notes

5️⃣ 55555555 Follow

some of the ppl posting on here against clone rights are so funny like do you have any idea how many clones are on holoblr?? have fun losing like all ur followers lmao

#what do u think we’re doing between deployments??? just standing around waiting to fight????? #clone rights #cloneblr

84,255 notes

🌃 coru-ssant Follow

I sure hope my pet piece of flimsi is doing well! good thing I left my apartment window open so he could get some fresh air while I was at work :)

🌃 coru-ssant Follow

by the stars this can’t be happening

3,206 notes

🧋 bubble-tea-bounty Follow

⚒ keldabekisses Follow

#anyways vote vanilla extract for mand’alor it’s what jaster would’ve wanted #mandalore #mando discourse #<- for those of u who have it filtered

17,384 notes

🦾 hero-with-many-fears Follow

anakin skywalker is 22??? he should be at da club….

2,836 notes

🌌 posts-from-a-darker-galaxy Follow

so was anyone gonna tell me they found out the chancellor is a sith or was I supposed to learn it from a CNL skit???

🌝 pizzathehutt Follow

posts that make you read op’s url

🚀 hyperdriven Follow

#op if you go asking at enough temples eventually a sith might answer

157,239 notes

[ekjohnston]

There was a poll going around a couple days ago about your "automatic no"s for fanfic, and along with the things I expected (formatting, grammar, POV, etc), quite a few people listed short fics as reasons not to click. I'm not judging (I used to be that person, but with AO3's tags there are better ways for me to filter), but as someone who specializes in short fic, it did make me think.

(These definitions are by no means official, except the drabble of course, so ymmv, but I had to call them SOMEthing.)

Please reblog this, i am legit curious about the answer and will have a follow up question when the poll is closed.

[batsintheshadows]

i want everyone to know that when a poll slinks its way across my dashboard i shut my eyes and click randomly until i actually manage to hit a result. your data is Nothing to me

[gorysims]

ৎ୭ synopsis - house husband Nanami, whose favorite hobby is baking, wants you, his pretty little wife, to taste his new custard cream pie filling.

ৎ୭ wrd count - 721

ৎ୭ house husband series

House husband! nanami who loves his pretty little wife just as much as he loves baking, isn't particularly open about his love for baking like he is for his wife; he enjoys it enough to consider it a hobby.

House husband! Nanami, who's recently been studying a new pie recipe for you to try, and he's almost perfected it, except for the cream filling. For the past week and a half, he's been struggling to find the perfect filling, and as of lately, it's really been annoying him.

House husband! Nanami ears perked up the second he hears the locks on the front door unlocking and soon enough he’s wiping his flour covered hands on his ‘kiss the cook’ apron before heading towards the front door to greet you his lovely wife.

House husband! Nanami who greets you with a look of content as he steps forward to grab your purse with one hand and paper bag filled with groceries in his other hand before setting them down on the console table near the front door.

House husband! Nanami who then helps you take of your coat before tilting his head down slightly and pecking a kiss onto your lips, “how was your day?” he’s asking as he hangs your coat up on the coat rack while you hum thinking about how to answer his question and slipping off your sling back stiletto kitten heels and stepping into your house shoes.

“It was good Ken, Oh! and I just remembered—it's Higuruma's birthday! Make sure to give him a call so he knows you haven't forgotten.” you say as nanami nods his head in remembrance before grabbing the bag of groceries and heading off to the kitchen.

House husband! Nanami not typically one for talking, quickly apologies for the mess he made…The sink holding a small stack of dishes, while flour dusted the dark oak hardwood floors. and bowls of different fruit flavored custard cream fillings just sitting there lined up on the granite island counter top.

“baby you don’t need to apologize, i know how hard you’ve been working lately” you comment softly while sneakily dipping your finger into one of the fillings while his back is turned, you knew your husband could be quite the neat freak so you never minded when nanami made small messes because you know he’d clean up after himself either way.

House husband! Nanami whose ears flushed pink after hearing you call him baby, even though you’ve been married for years he still never got used the the pet names you’d call him…thankfully he was turned around so you wouldn’t be able to how flushed his face was.

“this one needs some vanilla extract” you say after licking the lemon-flavored cream off your finger, the taste was somewhat sour and with the little knowledge of baking you had, you knew adding vanilla would balance the flavor. Honestly, you were surprised that Nanami hadn’t thought of it already.

House husband! Nanami whose left eye twitches slightly after hearing your words, how could he not think to add vanilla of all things.

and now here House husband! Nanami was letting out gruntled groans as he sank himself into the warmth of your cunt, your body was pushed against the granite counter top, black pencil skirt somehow pushed up your to your waist while the sheer stockings your wore were now ripped open with your panties pushed to the side.

needy moans leave your lips as you clench around your husband’s girth, nanami, whose grip on your hair never falters while muttering the nastiest of praises into your ears. You’re practically hanging on by a thread—Nanami stretching out your walls with each thrust and muttering how much he adores and appreciates you and your pussy.

his apron long gone and forgotten to the side, same with the grocery, “kennnnn” you moan out dragging out the n in the little nickname, your so close to reaching your orgasm and nanami knows it, he’s studied everything about you, from how pretty you look cumming on his dick to how your eyes get droopy and your pupils would dilate.

nanami leaned forward feeling himself working through his own and letting his grip on your hair go, another round of gruntled groans leave his mouth as his hot sticky cum shoots into you.

guess you could say your husband’s pie wasn’t the only thing getting filled. <3

@gorysims — this is my first time writing on tumblr so I’m very new to shit like this so constructive criticism is very much welcomed and appreciated.

all work belongs to me @gorysims, do not try to copy or revise my work without asking me cause I’ll shut that shit down real fast.

[littlegrapejuice]

Too Vanilla | FC43

Pairing: Franco Colapinto x Reader

Summary: Franco is very open about his past sex life - maybe a bit too much for you, which eventually makes you insecure.

Author's Note: this is super short but i got the inspo after seeing a small extract of franco on the nude project (i then proceeded to watch the entire thing even tho i barely speak spanish lol) and yeah, I'll say more in the end notes lol but iykyk😭

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

“You’re quiet tonight”, Franco pointed out. “More than usual.”

Shit, was the only word now echoing in your mind. You didn’t think you had been that quiet. Franco and you were having a peaceful night in, cuddling in bed while watching some stupid show whose laughing track was way funnier than the actual jokes.

“Just enjoying the time with you, that’s all.”

Franco knew better. He knew from the way his arms were around you, your hands on your lap and not holding his like you usually did. He knew from the way your body wasn’t entirely relaxed against his.

He just knew you.

“I kinda wanna call bullshit on that, I know you’re lying. Or at least hiding something,” he clarified.

“And what would I be hiding?”

“I don’t know”, he admitted.

And that was it. You both stayed silent for several minutes after the exchange. But now that it was out there, you could feel Franco’s eyes on you. And with the way that he was now holding one of your hands in his, his thumb gently stroking your skin? It was just a matter of time before you were spilling whatever secret you were hiding. Which you did, when you felt him hugging you a bit tighter from where he was sitting behind you.

“It’s about the videos”, you eventually blurted out.

“The videos?” Franco repeated.

“That one video where you did the put a finger down thing”, you explained. “And the most recent podcast.”

“What about those?” He asked, slightly straightening up, before muting the TV.

“Well, you talked about having had sex in a car before, and the podcast…”

“Did I say something wrong in the podcast?”

“It’s not something you said, it’s just how I felt about it.”

“Okay.” Franco nodded, still a bit confused. “Please communicate with me, how did that make you feel?”

“You were talking about pre-race sex somehow helping with your performance, because it was like– relaxing. You also mentioned that having sex on the first date was more than fine for you... And then, I got insecure about it.”

“You got insecure because I’ve been whoring around?” There were certainly better ways to form the question, but at least Franco was trying his best. “You know it all happened before we got together, yeah? I haven’t done that in a while.”

“And that’s the issue!” You exclaimed as you shifted a bit away from him, your side profile now facing him.

“What? You’re saying you’d want me to do those things again?” Safe to say, he was lost. “I'm not sure I get it, what’s the real issue regarding us?”

“The sex, Franco!” You had raised your voice a bit, immediately regretting it. You moved again to sit cross-legged, now actually facing him. “Or more like the lack of it.”

“And that’s the issue because…?” He encouraged you to keep going, still not getting your point.

“Because I’m not having sex with you?” You tried to make him understand. “Because I will probably never have sex with you? Because everything between us is just too vanilla – even more than a middle schoolers’ relationship?”

You expected any reaction from Franco, literally anything. Except him laughing. But that’s what he was doing right now. He had just bursted out laughing.

But you weren’t laughing, far from it. You were just looking at him, widened eyes at his reaction.

“Oh my… oh God…” Franco did his best to calm down, slowly breathing in and out to stop laughing. “Since when is the lack of sex in our relationship an issue? You never brought this up before.”

“I mean, we did talk about it when we got together.”

“But still, I thought we were on the same wavelength? Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”

“It’s not like– important…”

“Kinda seems like it is”, Franco interrupted.

“Okay, maybe it is. But it’s just that– like– yes, we had agreed that it wasn’t necessary between us… but just watching the podcast and seeing you talk about it, seeing people comment on it–”

“Fuck the comments.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t be paying attention to them…” You admitted. “But I just got in my head, and then I started overthinking…”

“And you thought that us not having sex had become a problem for me? Without asking me what my actual opinion was?”

“Bingo,” you confirmed with a dry laugh.

The silence settled once again between the two of you, but it wasn’t as heavy as earlier. Franco took your hands in his, squeezing them in reassurance.

“How much of the podcast did you watch?” He eventually asked.

“The segment of you talking about pre-race sex, obviously.” You rolled your eyes at him as your voice was full of sarcasm. "And the sex-on-the-first-date moment.

“But did you watch what I said after?”

“Yeah, a bit.” You tried to recall how long the extract had been. “The whole thing wasn’t entirely subbed so I didn’t actually watch everything but–”

“So you remember what I talked about after that?” Franco waited for you to nod before he continued. “About the difficulty of creating real bonds with people, finding a connection, something that matters… That’s you”, he claimed. “You’re the person with who I share an actual bond. The person who I know is here for me, who loves me, and who I love back. What’s between us is precious, something I wanna cherish and care for until you’ll stop having me.”

“I’ll never stop, though.” You tried to avoid Franco’s gaze, ashamed of having doubted his feelings.

“Well, I hope so.” Franco squeezed your hands once again, before he let go of them to cup your face and wipe your cheeks. “You shouldn’t be crying because of me.”

“Bro”, you said with a deadpan tone. “You’re out there declaring your love for me and I’m not supposed to cry?”

“When you say it like that…”

He laughed. But this time, you enjoyed hearing it. And it made you laugh too.

The situation shouldn’t have been a laughing matter – not for most people – but still, you were laughing together. Then, Franco leaned in, his hands still on your cheeks. You leaned towards him as well, and he closed the space between you to kiss you.

For every insecurity you would ever have, Franco would be there to appease them. And for every dumb insecurity like this one, Franco would just have to remind you that the ‘vanilla’ relationship between the two of you was worth so much more than any pre-race sex he could ever have. And maybe he would also remind you that despite not having sex, the make out sessions between you two were sometimes far from being vanilla.

..........

Ok so this one's a bit more personal than others (not counting that one logan fic in which i poured my heart lol)

Ik there's this franco persona we all see as being the epitome of no pr training bc bro is sharing loads of private stuff - and it ain't even that deep tbh like he's just a guy🎀 (btw i did watch the entire pod which was super interesting bc i didn't know that much ab franco before f2 so i recommend!!)

But yeah, this one's for my ace girlies out there who, like me, might think that it's impossible to find love bc most people will expect sex in a relationship💜

This was just a short n' sweet fic that i thought went well w franco (who's the green flag we all need in our lives) - mostly written for my own mental health bc i needed some self love & reassurance🤍

Thanks for reading<3 I'll see you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

[izzih22]

paige and azzi baking fic!!!!!!!!

Whisked Away

Note: hope you like it!!

The idea had started off cute.

Azzi, freshly inspired by a cooking video that autoplayed after one of Paige’s highlight reels on YouTube, had turned to her girlfriend with big eyes and said, “Let’s bake cookies together.”

Paige, who was lying with her head on Azzi’s lap and had no resistance to her girlfriend’s soft voice or pretty face, just blinked up and grinned. “I mean, how hard can it be?”

Famous last words.

⸻

It started off fine. For about five minutes.

They had a recipe pulled up on Azzi’s phone and all the ingredients lined up neatly across the kitchen counter in Paige’s apartment: flour, sugar, butter, chocolate chips, baking soda, vanilla extract. Simple enough.

Except Paige insisted on doing everything “freestyle,” while Azzi insisted they follow the exact directions. They were five minutes in and already bumping hips in a passive-aggressive battle over the measuring cups.

“Babe, you do not just eyeball baking soda,” Azzi said, snatching the tiny spoon from Paige’s hand.

“Why not?” Paige argued, grabbing it back. “That’s what chefs do on TikTok. A pinch here, a dash there—vibes!”

“This isn’t a vibe, it’s— chemistry!” Azzi protested.

Paige paused. “Since when do you know chemistry?”

Azzi blinked. “Since I passed it.”

Paige raised a brow. “Barely.”

Azzi smacked her arm with a dish towel.

⸻

Somehow, they made it past the dry ingredients. Sort of.

Half the flour had dusted onto Paige’s hoodie (and her eyelashes), and there was a weird crunch when Azzi stepped on something that may have once been a sugar cube. The butter, meant to be softened, had been melted completely because Paige “didn’t have time for the waiting game.”

“What do you mean you nuked the butter?” Azzi asked, staring at the bubbling liquid in the measuring cup.

“I was just helping things along,” Paige said with a proud little shrug.

“Paige. You helped it straight into a lava pool.”

“I’m innovating.”

“You’re ruining.”

“I’m ruining with love, though.”

Azzi looked up at her. Paige was grinning that dorky, crooked grin the one that made her heart soften no matter how chaotic the kitchen was getting. With a reluctant sigh, Azzi leaned over and kissed her quickly on the lips.

“Fine. But you’re stirring.”

⸻

Ten minutes later, Paige was wrist-deep in cookie dough, refusing to use a spoon “because that’s not how Grandma Bueckers did it,” and Azzi was just trying to figure out how her girlfriend had turned a bowl of cookie batter into a full-body workout.

“You’re not kneading bread, babe,” Azzi said, ducking as a chunk of dough flung off Paige’s hand and hit the backsplash.

“Just putting my whole Bueckussy into it,” Paige replied casually.

Azzi choked on air.

“Excuse me?!”

Paige just gave her a wink and a dough-covered finger-gun.

Azzi shook her head and laughed, cheeks flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

⸻

It only got worse when it came time to scoop the dough.

Paige insisted on making “monster cookies” which apparently meant oversized blobs that practically devoured the baking tray.

Azzi tried to fix them, but they’d already started melting into each other before they even made it into the oven. She held the tray up with a skeptical look. “Why do they look like continents?”

“Because love isn’t about shapes,” Paige said, turning the oven on and bumping Azzi with her hip again. “It’s about feeling.”

Azzi looked at the tray. Then looked at Paige.

“Okay Picasso.”

⸻

While the cookies baked, they attempted to clean the kitchen.

Which mostly meant Paige using the spray bottle to squirt water at Azzi “accidentally,” and Azzi getting her revenge by smearing a little flour on Paige’s cheek only for Paige to respond by grabbing a fistful of it and dumping it over Azzi’s head.

Azzi squealed, eyes wide, mouth open in betrayed shock.

“You’re done.”

She lunged at Paige, who took off running around the kitchen island like a menace.

“I regret nothing!” Paige yelled, giggling.

“I hope your cookies burn!”

“You take that back!”

They eventually collapsed onto the couch, covered in flour, giggles, and cookie dough, as the sweet smell of not-quite-right cookies wafted from the oven.

⸻

When the timer went off, Azzi grabbed a mitt and pulled the tray out with one brow raised.

They weren’t so much cookies as they were one giant cookie. A massive, golden-brown blob that had fused together in the middle like some kind of dessert tectonic plate.

Azzi set it on the counter and stared at it in silence.

“…We baked a pancake.”

“I told you they were monster cookies,” Paige said proudly.

Azzi sighed. “They smell okay though.”

They sat on the counter, eating pieces straight from the edges with spoons.

“Okay maybe they’re not that bad,” Azzi admitted after her third bite.

“Told you.” Paige bumped her shoulder gently, watching her with a soft little smile. “You gotta trust my vision more.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but leaned in, letting her head rest on Paige’s shoulder.

“Next time, we’re buying pre-made dough.”

“Deal,” Paige said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “But only if you still let me mess it up on purpose so we end up covered in flour again.”

Azzi laughed. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me anyway.”

Azzi kissed her cheek. “Unfortunately.”

[vibewithma]

Holy Competition

Sinners Modern Au!

Preacher boy/Sammie x Black Church Girl!reader

A/N: I wrote this with “Man of God” but decided to separate it so it won’t be that long. Here y’all go 🫶🏾

Saturday - 2:00 AM

The whole house was quiet. Not peaceful. Just on pause. That deep silence before the storm hits the kitchen.

And then BAM BAM BAM.

“Let’s go, saints! The Lord is risen and so is my alarm clock!”

Doris’s voice rang down the hallway like the opening notes of a gospel solo. You already knew what time it was, literally. You’d been sitting up in bed for ten minutes, teeth clenched, robe tied, eyes wide open in dread. If there’s anything worse than waking up early, it’s being woken up early by your grandma talking in parables.

From your bedroom, you heard the first victim: Pops.

“Time to rise and pray, husband!” Doris sang, barging into their room. “You gon’ cover this house in the spirit or you gon’ cover it in snorin’?”

You heard a groan. Then the creak of the old floorboards as Pops shuffled out of bed.

“Lord,” he mumbled, voice still gravelly from sleep. “Watch over my girls. Keep our mouths from gossip, our hearts from envy and our chicken from burnin’.”

“Amen,” Doris whispered.

Then she was on the move again.

Next victim: Gloria.

Doris cracked open your mom’s door like a soldier on a mission. “Up and at ‘em, woman of God. Fish ain’t gon’ fry itself.”

You heard Gloria sigh, already halfway awake. “Yes ma’am…”

Then came the most vicious attack of the morning: Dawn.

“WAKE IT UP, MISSY.” Doris threw open her door like she was summoning spirits, flipped the light switch and snatched the covers clean off.

“GRANNY!” Dawn yelped, flailing like a fish outta water. “It’s not even daylight!”

“And still later than I wanted you up,” Doris snapped. “You got potato salad duty and if I see one box of them pre cubed potatoes, I’m callin’ your mama from heaven.”

Dawn groaned into her pillow like she was bein’ punished by the Lord himself.

Doris opened your door and paused.

You were already sitting on the edge of your bed, hoodie on, bonnet secured, face blank like a soldier on the front line.

Doris raised a brow. “Well look at you.”

“I hate being woken up,” you said flatly.

Doris smirked. “Now that’s my girl.”

She backed out, arms crossed, proud as ever. You followed her down the hall and by the time you reached the living room, everybody else was dragging their feet in behind you like sleepy little disciples.

Except Pops, who was already curled back on the recliner with a blanket over his knees, talkin’ ‘bout, “I did my part. I’m restin’ in the Lord now.”

Doris clapped her hands once loud enough to shake the ancestors.

“Alright! We got a mission and we not gon’ fail. Y’all know who you are and what you were born to do.”

She started pointing like she was handing out divine assignments:

“Mac and cheese? That’s me. I already pre-grated the good cheese. Don’t nobody bring up that Kraft mess.”

“Catfish? Gloria. Clean, season, and bless ‘em before the grease even pops.”

“Fried chicken? Gloria again. Don’t double-batter unless you got the Holy Spirit.”

“Pork chops? Me. I got the hand for it.”

“Dressin’? Also me. Ain’t no shortcuts and don’t ask if it’s Stove Top.”

“Potato salad? Dawn. You mess it up, you walk to church.”

“Red velvet cake? Y/N, you know you got the anointing for that. Use that good vanilla extract I keep hidden behind the communion cups.”

You gave her a lazy salute and headed to the kitchen, already smelling like butter, flour and early morning judgment.

Pops snored softly in the recliner, totally unbothered now that his five minute prayer shift was done.

The house hummed with quiet chaos, hands moving, dishes clattering, the air thick with flour and tension. Gospel music floated in low from somebody’s speaker. Gloria started humming along. Dawn was peeling potatoes with the fury of someone who would absolutely talk about you behind your back at the repass.

And Doris? Doris tied on her apron “Doris Made It” stitched in gold and stood at the stove like a general ready for battle.

Tomorrow was the church dinner. The showdown.

And y’all were cookin’ like the soul of the family

was on the line.

The house smelled like heaven, your feet were swollen, your back was talking crazy and your eyes were threatening to quit but y’all did it. Every aluminum tray gleamed under the plastic wrap, each one labeled and boxed, ready to feed the congregation and their cousins.

Doris leaned back in her recliner like a war general post battle, apron stained and eyes half-closed. “That’s what victory smell like,” she said, fanning herself with a church program. “Go ‘head and call Elias.”

You picked up her phone, pick out his name and gave the phone to your Grandma.

“Elias?” Doris said as soon as he answered. “Be a sweetheart and come by in the morning to pick up some food. And tell that brother of yours to behave.”

Sunday Morning – 6:45 AM

Dawn was on fire. Hairbrush in one hand, edge control in the other. She already had your mama lookin’ like she stepped out of a ‘Just for me’ commercial top slick, curls bouncing like they had a testimony.

Granny was next.

The moment Dawn finished that wig install, Doris checked herself in the mirror and gasped. “Whew, Lord. I look like the Proverbs 31 woman and the prize.”

“Granny, stop,” you laughed.

“I’m serious. That wig sittin’ like it just got saved at the altar!”

When it was your turn, Dawn went all out defined your curls, gave them bounce and shine, even fluffed the roots like she was blessing your scalp with holy oil. You glanced in the mirror and had to admit, you were lookin’ good.

Dawn stepped back, eyes twinkling. “Mmm… might have to kiss you.”

“Girl—”

She leaned in, but you dodged and pointed at her forehead. “Get that temptation spirit up off you, we goin’ to church.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, flustered, but still grinning. Her own install a sleek straight wig with a middle part was holding up like it had security clearance.

Everybody had on white, per Doris’s decree: “It’s the color of victory. Purity. The lamb of God. And I look phenomenal in it.”

Even Lenny was suited up in white linen with matching loafers, his car keys twirling on his finger. “Y’all ready to stunt on the saints or what?”

The door rings.

Dawn opened the door and there he was.

Stack and Smoke.

White tee, gold chain, that knowing grin and sleepy eyes that still managed to look fine at sunrise.

“Hey,” Dawn breathed, momentarily forgetting how to function.

Before she could even think to move, Doris popped around the corner, wig bouncing like it had choreography. “Mornin’, sweethearts!”

He blinked. “Well, good mornin’ Miss Doris. You look beautiful today.”

Doris grinned, leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”

Dawn was frozen like she just saw Jesus walk on water.

Smoke looked at the kitchen, then back at Doris. “Y’all really came through. Whole house smell like the gates of glory.”

Dawn finally spoke up. “I—I helped with the wig. I, uh… did the design.”

Doris raised a brow. “She helped a little.”

From the kitchen, Stack called, “We takin’ the food now before we get too distracted by beauty.”

Stack and Smoke gathered the trays like men on a mission, tossing compliments and thank yous around before they dipped out.

You and Dawn rode together in your car Dawn fixing your edges at every stoplight like y’all were goin’ to the BET Awards instead of church.

Lenny drove your mom and Pops, Doris riding shotgun like she was headlining the pulpit herself.

As you pulled into the church parking lot, the sun hit y’all just right. Doris’s wig bounced. Gloria’s curls gleamed. Your red velvet cake sat like a throne offering in the backseat. The food battle was on. The choir was warming up. The gossip was already brewing.

The sanctuary was filled with people being exiting just like y’all were glowing like the second coming was due before 1 PM. You walked down the side aisle, heels clicking against the church tiles, curls bouncing, voice humming as you found your seat.

Youth Choir pew.

Third row from the pulpit.

Right next to him.

Sammie.

He was already seated at the edge, long fingers resting on his lap, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbow like temptation in cotton. His piano notes from rehearsal still echoed in your ears.

“You came lookin’ like a blessing and a distraction,” he said the moment you sat.

“You look like somebody’s unfinished testimony,” you whispered back, giving him a raised brow.

He chuckled low. “Then come finish me, church girl.”

You blinked. “Sammie—”

But before you could finish Brittnay stood and gave the nod as the choir director.

🎶 “Amazing Grace”

The piano began his hands guiding every key like scripture. His foot pressed the pedal smooth as his smile and the chords filled the room like a river of light.

You sang.

Your voice clear, your heart steady. Sammie played like he was backing you up in more ways than one. When you held that long note, he looked up from the keys right at you. His smile was small, proud, and full of mischief.

When y’all sat down, he leaned over and whispered, “That wasn’t just grace. That was divine.”

“You flirtin’ in the house of the Lord?” you whispered, faking a gasp.

“I’m testifying, baby.”

The church choir had finished and Pastor Jedidiah stepped to the pulpit, Bible open, voice strong.

“Today,” he began, Bible in hand, “we talkin’ ‘bout something the Lord been placing heavy on my heart… how to be a Godly husband and how to recognize one when the Lord sends him.”

The church hummed in agreement.

“You don’t go lookin’ for him, Proverbs 31 women. He finds you.” He continued, eyes sweeping the women, “stop stressin’ tryna find one. ‘Cause Proverbs say he that findeth a wife finds a good thing.”

The sanctuary went wild.

“HALLELUJAH!”

“Say that!”

“Amen!”

“Say it again, Pastor!”

“He sure do!”

“C’mon Pastor!”

Sammie leaned in again, close enough you could smell his cologne fresh linen and something dark and soft underneath.

“A man finds a wife,” he murmured. “And I been lookin’. Real close.”

You blinked at him, cheeks warm. “You sure you not just lookin’ for dessert?”

He smirked. “That too. But I’d say red velvet and Ruth are both worth pursuin’.”

“Now fellas,” Pastor Monroe called, “a Godly man is honest. He’s patient. He works with his hands, leads with his heart. And he honors the women in his life.”

Sammie tapped your hand lightly, playful. “Check, check, check…”

You bit your lip. “You missin’ one.”

“What’s that?”

You turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Godly men don’t flirt this much on church property.”

He grinned, teeth catching light. “Baby, I’m not flirtin’. I’m plantin’ seeds.”

As Pastor Jedidiah launched into the story of Boaz, you and Sammie sat shoulder to shoulder, hearts beatin’ just a bit louder than the organ.

And when the congregation stood for prayer, Sammie’s hand brushed yours subtle, light, just enough to remind you.

He might play piano for the choir…

But he was makin’ you his favorite key.

Taglist:

@cosmicautomatonshark @fanfictiononly4 @pinkpantheris @andthatsonmaryhadalillamb @sweetalittleselfish-honey @bleufu1 @fruitypatooties-blog

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

cake recipe but i've never read a cake recipe or baked one

In the spirit of hashtag cottagecore and all that, I shall impart knowledge to you, my maggots, on how to bake a cake. Except I've never baked a cake (just licked the bowl or stirred it maybe 12 years ago) or read a recipe for one. BUT HOW HARD CAN IT BE?

Ahem.

Ingredients

1 cup of sugar

2 cups of wheat (flour?)

1 slab of butter

2 eggs

1 cup of baking soda

Uhhh what else could you possible need OH RIGHT

3 tablespoons vanilla extract

I guess this is vanilla cake now idk

1 tablespoon salt

Water? Maybe? Water. Water is essential for life, life is essential for cake, therefore water is essential for cake. Boom. Logic.

1 teaspoon milk.

Instructions

Pour the wheat into a big bowl and grind it with a pestle or your fists

Add water if you can't grind it, you useless thing

Add the slab of butter to make it smooth as waxed loins

Keep grinding (#hustleculture)

Add a tablespoon of salt for Flavour and one cup of sugar (powder it or whatever) and fold it in (I learned that phrase from Schitt's Creek)

Pour 3 tablespoons of vanilla extract and the milk.

In a separate cup crack the eggs and whisk them into a semen adjacent fluid

Fold it into the big bowl. Add water for texture.

Mix it all together. Pour the baking soda in.

Swirl the bowl so it gets nice and bubbly

Put the entire thing into an oven and set it at medium heat (whatever that may be) for 2 hours.

VOILA! Garnish with frosting. Idk mix more sugar and milk together for the frosting. Add sprinkles for gay.

AND YOU HAVE A CAKE!!!!! You're welcome. If you try this, I'd love to see it. If you don't, well, COWARDS.

[fuckingrecipes]

hey there! came here from your crockpot post, and have been having a great time browsing your blog. it’s so cool :D

kind of random, but i have a question about said post, if it’s okay to ask it here? i’m muslim, so i can’t drink/cook with alcohol (there are some kind of exceptions like vanilla extract, but generally it’s a no), so i was wondering — if you have any ideas, what do you suggest i could replace with the red wine from your post for a similar, as close ish as possible effect? genuinely just wondering — i love cooking, but whenever i see stuff like deglaze your pan with wine or add wine as a flavour enhancer i’m always like that sounds so cool, but lol i can’t use grape juice here or can i, and it’s a whole thing lol. any advice would b super appreciated:D

The BEST thing to use in place of red wine, for a similar taste and texture WHEN YOU ARE DEGLAZING A PAN, without the alcohol is Verjus.

It's a highly acidic juice made by pressing unripe grapes, crab-apples, or other very sour fruit. It is nothing more than sour, acidic fruit juice. However, it can be a bit difficult to find.

The next-best is unsweetened Pomegranate juice.

In third place is a 1:1 mixture of meat stock (like chicken or beef stock) with Vinegar. <-- I worry a little about suggesting Red Wine Vinegar, because it does still have a small amount of alcohol in it, though it is the best one to use here)

Theoretically, you could just use water, cream, straight meat broth, or any vinegar, but it'll change the flavor and texture.

But that's specifically for Deglazing - adding liquid to a hot pan to remove the brown flavorful bits stuck to the bottom.

--

When you are trying to use alcohol as a flavor enhancer.... unfortunately, no, there is no substitute.

You can get rich flavors by adding vinegar, but the reason alcohol is used is because there are flavor compounds that are ONLY accessible when alcohol attaches to them.

For example; many spices and herbs are Fat Soluble. Toasting seed spices in a dry pan will likely mellow or the flavor, while frying briefly in oil will release and extract a ton of flavor. The fat-solubility of those flavor chemicals means you NEED to cook it in fat, in order for that flavor to suffuse the dish.

Some flavors - especially ones in tomatoes - are soluble in alcohol, but less so in fat or water.

Penne al Vodka uses a touch of flavorless alcohol to make the whole dish taste more explosively & richly like tomatoes. The alcohol pulls compounds from the tomatoes and makes them vibrant and in-your-face. The difference between Penne al Vodka WITH vs WITHOUT the vodka is fascinating.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

❤︎ Ben x Saturn ❤︎

Warnings: language, kissing, blood (kinda? You'll see), I think that's all for now.

Word Count: 1,437

Ben was pissed off and half-bleeding to death when he saw you for the first time.

Rain came down in sheets, washing the grit and gunpowder off his face, but not the fury. He was limping—ribs probably cracked, shoulder socket threatening to pop out again, blood soaking through what was left of his flak jacket. The op had gone sideways. Real fucking sideways. And now he was walking six damn miles back to the safehouse because Butcher’s genius plan didn’t account for extraction. Typical.

His boots slapped against puddled concrete, each step a quiet fuck you to the world. Thunder cracked overhead. He didn’t flinch.

Then he saw the warehouse.

Old, rust-bitten, left to rot. A place no one sane would hang around in this part of the city—especially not in weather like this.

Except… someone was up there.

Perched on the edge of the roof like it was nothing. Legs dangling over three stories of nothing but gravity. Backlit by lightning. Still as a painting. Eyes tilted toward the sky like she was trying to memorise the shape of the storm.

You.

Ben squinted. Thought maybe the blood loss was fucking with him. You didn’t look real—some soaked-through fever dream dressed in black and indigo. Hood down. Boots scuffed. Face lifted to the clouds like you weren’t afraid of getting struck.

He almost kept walking. Almost. But then you turned your head. Looked down at him like you already knew his name. Like you were expecting him.

And you smiled.

“Hey,” you said, voice barely carrying over the rain. “You’re leaking all over my view.”

Ben blinked. Actually blinked. For a second, the rage stopped humming in his teeth. Then he laughed, quiet and to himself. You tossed something down. It hit the pavement with a soft thud. A half-empty bag of blue M&M’s.

What the fuck?

He stared at it, then back up at you.

“Is this some kinda trap?” He growled, hand twitching near the knife strapped under his jacket. “’Cause I’ve had a long fuckin' night and I’m not in the goddamn mood.”

You just laughed. Soft. Strange. Like thunder in velvet.

“No trap,” you said, stretching your arms above your head like a cat in the rain. “Just figured you looked like you could use a sugar rush and a place to bleed that doesn’t smell like piss.”

Ben paused. War still buzzing under his skin. But something about you—it wasn’t softness. It wasn’t sympathy. It was indifference. Or maybe something holier than that.

You didn’t care who he was. What he’d done. What kind of monster limped out of the dark. You just turned and disappeared over the rooftop’s edge.

He hesitated. Then scoffed to himself. “Fuckin' Christ on a cross.”

And followed.

The warehouse groaned under his weight. Rotting beams, metal staircases that hadn’t seen care since before Vought was a fucking thought. The inside stank of wet rust and dust and the kind of silence that got under your skin.

He moved slow, heavy boots echoing off the walls. Every muscle was screaming, but he’d long since stopped listening.

When he reached the top floor, he saw it.

Your little world.

Blue and indigo candles flickered in glass jars and broken mugs, scattered like stars across the concrete floor. Their flames danced against water-stained walls, casting soft shadows across a makeshift mattress, threadbare pillows, a thick blanket that had definitely seen better days. A stack of old cassettes sat next to a battered player, the kind with a cracked speaker and paint-chipped buttons.

It smelled like wax, leather, and something warmer underneath—vanilla and cedar smoke.

Ben stood there, dripping blood and rain onto your floor, and you didn’t look up.

You were crouched beside a crate, digging in a metal tin. Calm. Like this happened every day. Like strange bleeding men just wandered in during thunderstorms to sit in your candlelit shrine of fuck-you serenity.

“Sit down,” you said, not even glancing at him.

He stared. Scoffed.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, limping over. “This is a cult lair. You one of those weird witch girls?”

You looked up at that—eyes catching the candlelight just right, gleaming like a galaxy cracked wide open.

“No,” you said. “I’m worse.”

He snorted. Dropped down onto your mattress with a hiss, blood smearing across his ribs. “Figures.”

You grabbed a needle, black thread, and a rag soaked in rubbing alcohol. Popped a cassette into the player. A low crackle gave way to some gritty, reverb-heavy punk—female vocals and crashing drums.

Ben watched you move. Controlled. Precise. Unbothered.

When you leaned over him to start stitching, he didn’t miss the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder, revealing the glint of a knife strap against your skin. Your fingers were cold and steady, blood-slicked and sure.

“You do this often?” He muttered, voice low.

“Only for the bleeding disasters who show up looking like thunder had a fistfight with their face.”

“Cute.”

You smirked, threading the needle like it was second nature.

“The moon’s in Scorpio,” you added casually, like it explained everything.

Ben blinked. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Means you’re feeling impulsive. Self-destructive. Violent.”

“I’m always violent.”

“I'm sure.”

He didn’t know what to do with that. So he just watched you—watched the way your lip tucked between your teeth in concentration, the flick of your eyes, the way your fingers pressed into his ribs like you didn’t mind the mess of him.

God, you were fucking gorgeous up close.

Rain tapped at the broken windows, the music snarled through the speaker, and he found himself wondering what your lip tasted like.

“You got good hands,” he said gruffly. “For someone who looks like she writes poetry in graveyards.”

You didn’t look up. “Who says I don’t?”

He huffed a laugh.

“Alright, mystery girl.” He tilted his head as you wiped the blood near his temple. “The hell you doin' here?”

You finally glanced at him. “Wandering.”

“Alone? In the ass-end of nowhere? Durin' a fuckin' monsoon?”

“I like storms,” you said, casually climbing into his lap like it meant nothing. Like straddling a stranger you’d just sewn up wasn’t a fucking thing.

You took a rag and dabbed gently at the cut near his hairline. Your fingers were cold. Your thighs were warm. His hands itched at his sides.

“You’re fuckin' crazy,” he muttered, looking up at you through the rain in his lashes.

You leaned back just a little. Smirked. “You’re worse.”

Then you tilted your head, studying him like you were cataloging every scar, every ugly piece. Something shimmered in your expression—curious, unafraid, like you wanted to know what would happen if you struck the match.

You leaned in.

Ben didn’t hesitate. His hands snapped up to your waist, dragging you down hard against him as his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow. It was a goddamn detonation.

You kissed him back like you’d been waiting for this storm to hit all your life.

It turned mean in seconds. Teeth, breath, heat—your fingers curled in his soaked jacket like you meant to peel him open. Ben didn’t waste time. He never did. One moment you were in his lap, straddling him like you belonged there, and the next—

He flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress with a wet thud, the ruined fabric sucking in rainwater from his clothes, blood smearing across the faded blanket like war paint. Candles guttered. The music snarled through a static-drowned chorus. Thunder cracked above like the fucking sky was watching.

And you laughed. Not a sweet sound. Not polite. It was low and amused and blasphemous—like you liked that he’d snapped. Like you wanted to be thrown down.

Ben hovered over you, eyes dark, jaw clenched, his breath coming hard. Water dripped from his hair onto your cheek. You didn’t flinch.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, kissing you again—harder, deeper, like he could find answers in your mouth. “You’re outta your goddamn fuckin’ mind.”

You smirked against him, eyes lit up like lightning. “Told you. You’re worse.”

And maybe that was true. Maybe you were both fucked six ways from Sunday—born from broken things and bred for chaos. But in that moment, soaked and bloodied and half-wild on a mattress ruined by rain and rage, something clicked.

You weren’t peace. You weren’t salvation. You were the fucking storm.

And so was he.

Two disasters, finally colliding. No survivors. Just thunder and flame and the taste of something inevitable.

His voice was rough, low, dragging over the wreckage between you like gravel. “Fuckin’ pathetic, lettin’ me put my hands on you like this—and I don’t even know your goddamn name.”

You didn’t flinch. Just grinned, sharp and shit-eating, and smacked the side of his head—not hard, just enough to sting. He blinked, caught off guard, before your fingers slid into his damp hair, tugging.

“Saturn,” you murmured, lips brushing his like a secret. “Try not to forget it, Soldier Boy.”

Then you pulled him back down, mouth on his, thunder in your ribs, and he let himself drown in it.

A/N: HERE SHE IS. Our little thunderstorm. I love her so much. I feel like I'm going a little crazy putting kissing in during their first interaction, but that's what I get for taking on a project that doesn't involve smut (yet, because trust me, there's plenty of that a'coming) but I just feel like she's that feral, mystery girl who would kiss you and then dip out without a sound, leaving you wondering who the hell she was. I hope you guys are enjoying this series as much as I am. All the love.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids <3

[lazyjellyfish300]

12 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 ~ 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓

Synopsis: Christmas Eve baking turns smutty with Coach!Miguel 🍪🎄Words 1.2k

CW: MINORS DNI, X FEM!READER, LIGHT ANGST, DIVORCE, FLUFF, SMUT(P IN V, BREAST/NIPPLE PLAY, FINGERING, CUM)

a/n: was supposed to be written for a dear moot 😭💕 ILY Vicky wherever you are. 😭🎄🎁

12 days of smutmas masterlist 🎁🎄

dividers by @/saradika-graphics,pics from Pinterest

"And now we need to add three cups of flour...haah, Miguel, are you paying attention...?"

You slowly breathed out as you felt a faint tickle at the nape of your neck. A fanning breath from your tall husband at your back. 

Miguel's eyes, coarse and rich like the chocolate chips he loved to steal out of the bag(and denied doing so), hang heavy with the irresistible sight in front of him, large hands gliding sensually over the soft shape of your bare body underneath your snowman apron that thinly shrouded his most favorite parts of you that would soon be unraveled at his unhurried leisure. 

Baking naked together had been your idea, but soon you discovered this little plan of yours may have entailed more than you bargained for when the added element of being snowed in and deprived of one another for weeks came with a heavy dose of raw desire fueled by the tranquil atmosphere. 

It was Christmas Eve. All light in the apartment was non-existent except for the residual glow of multi-colored lights and fireplace that carried from the adjacent living room, bathing the air in a way that was subdued and balmy.

Little Gabriella's jovial cries that once graced the halls were at her mother, Dana's, and Miguel had awaited this night with dread knowing this would be the first year he'd be forced to go without hearing them after the foundation of his home had been shaken.

Enter you, and, for the first in a long while, the feelings of loneliness were kept at bay long enough that he started to believe that Christmas could feel whole once again from having the assurance and warmth of another person by his side. 

Now, it was here, in the intimate solitude on the dawn of the holiday, that the festive backdrop of Nat King Cole on casual repeat only further endeared you to this gorgeous man that awakened the parts of you that you thought were asleep. 

"Miguel..." 

"I'm listening..." He mumbled worshipfully as his hands couldn't help but portray the opposite, skimming lowly along the raised surface of goosebumps that pebbled all over your naked back. 

He hums as a rough palm skids past the pale blue canvas that hugged your bare breasts, in search of the perky nipples that were hardening underneath his lingering touch. "Three cups of flour, and then..." 

He pauses as his knuckles brushed what hair concealed the smooth skin of your neck away from him, leaving a prolonged kiss in his wake.

"And then..." You let out a haggard breath as the recipe book you were holding clattered to the floor, bracing both hands in a death grip on the flour dusted countertop. "Goddamn it, Miguel..." 

You sighed and parted your thighs, making way for Miguel's thick finger that made tantalizing work of slow circles along the pearly slick that had begun to build steadily and drip ever since the winter sun  had dipped below the horizon. 

"I think it was vanilla extract..." He purred as his solid muscle bestowed you warmth more potent than the mild cackles of the fireplace that hummed against your ear. 

He squeezed your left breast in his free hand while his finger rubbed along the wet puffy lips of your cunt, just ghosting past your velvety clit that pulsed more steadily with each passing movement. "Did it come before, or after the eggs...?" 

"Miguel..." You huffed as you bit back a smile with lustful frustration when he buried his face in your neck. "Don't play with my pussy and expect me to give you coherent answers." 

"I'm not the one who insisted on baking with no clothes on." 

"Well, what about the fundraiser...?" You asked in a honey ladden tone as you turned around and coyly cocked your head to allow him more access. 

"Grocery store's open after Christmas..." He smiled against your neck before sinking to his knees and disappearing underneath your apron, feeling the brush of his wavy umber locks as those plump lips teased along your left inner thigh, followed by the right. 

"Fuck the fundraiser. Miguel, don't stop..."

You sighed as the ingredients were haphazardly pushed to the side in the heat of blinding passion, going back to those breathy pleas when your bare back met the coolness of the granite countertop, calves resting on his shoulders as Miguel began to slowly lap at the warm, glistening feast in front of him. 

Perhaps the divorce did shift things, yes, but something long lasting was being forged in flour dusted cheeks and too much tea. 

You reflected as the inner corners of your eyes began to wet with fuzzy pleasure when his slick coated jaw underneath those mesmerizing brown eyes came up to gaze at you as one long finger gently pushed past your dribbling entrance, followed by a second. 

He watched, entranced as he wetly squelched and massaged each one of his fingers in and out of you until it coated his wedding ring. 

It was cemented in the kind of laughter that aches your belly and the ember your lover ignites with a look from across the room that comes from months of inhabiting the other's space. The knowing that comes from loving. You and him. 

Now, your apron was discarded somewhere along the fervid trail that departed the kitchen, and your back was arched beautifully against the plushy cushions of the couch. You raised your chin, your pretty lips parting as the soft bottoms of your feet gently grazed the subtle pudge of fat that sat just above his grey flecked, darkened bush. Every sculpted detail about Miguel that embodied his strength was illuminated in the orangey glow of the burning fire behind him. 

You wondered if in a past life your deeds were so benevolent that they had to be rewarded in the present with the tender love of this man who found you when you were not looking. 

This same man who was now steadily fucking his thick, veiny cock into you by the expiring fire with the passion of a million unspoken words. 

A waffle making technique that became perfected because of a pair of glittering eyes with a shiver of sleep in them one autumn morning said she preferred them over pancakes. 

He leaned on his forearms as he cradled the halo along your jawline which was brought out by the shadow of his form swallowing yours, using the position to sink his cock more deeply into the wealth of silky wetness between your thighs that dripped and massaged each groove of his cock. 

Your legs squeezed him like the ice that frosted the streets and quiet rooftop that hung over you both in this heated fest of steamy lovemaking. Miguel panted as his cock strained and his balls drew impossibly tighter with each soft bounce of your breasts with every deliberate thrust of himself into you. 

Syrupy, milky white soon leaked all over your soft mound, coating both forests of your pubes in a sinful gloss. 

The fire wasn't so quickly extinguished, however, as he slowly traced the fat tip around your weeping hole, using the mixture to allow himself to quickly slip inside you deeply again with another groan, nails digging in his back as you prepared for another round of many that would surely last until the snowflakes no longer clung to the fresh blankets of  Christmas snow. 

---