#router table

[premierplasmacnc]

Applications of 3D engraving using CNC router tables

One of the major applications of CNC router tables is 3D engraving. By using CAM and CAD software, the routers generate toolpaths to guide spindles along the three axes. You can create intricate layers on wood, plastics, soft metals, and foam. Visit this link for CNC machine wood: https://premierplasmacnc.com/.

[peeterjoot]

Speaker stands for Sofia's office.

Sofia took down the curtain tie downs on the window casings, which left a small hole in each.  She also had a pair of new speakers that have been taking space on her desk that she thought would go well in exactly those positions, and commissioned me to make her a couple speaker stands.  Looking at them in retrospect, they have a bit of a Star Trek voyager look: Each has a 5.5″ inset circular…

[lychee-milk]

my cat is obsessed with sleeping on my wifi router

[dayurno]

i want to see. kevin day operating adobe illustrator. kevin day trying to figure out adobe creative suite without previous instruction. kevin day installing windows. kevin day trying to use linux

[pirefyrelight]

It only took 4 hours or so but I finally got Ambrosia to recognize that wifi is a thing she can theoretically do, and by all metrics except for actually loading websites it seeps to be working? Console commands return info they weren't before, the icon on the taskbar shows full connection. I got her here by tethering wifi through my phone, (which was honestly way easier than I thought it was going to be, but even then results are spotty there too) and running the built in updater.

Also I'm sure the threat of reinstalling mint by downloading a fresh version to a thumbsstick from my laptop helped. The psychological warfare or whatever.

[d100system]

facebook marketplace is the closest thing we can get to ethical consumerism but also why tf does it have to be through facebook

[antarcticajoy]

!!!!!!!

[krawdad]

Actually I think I trust a power tool to take impacts without slowly breaking itself apart more than a probably overpriced fitness lifestyle type device

The game is, I guess, only doing enough damage to separate scar tissue while not like. Creating more.

[cancocnc]

Edgebanders, Edgebander sales, Edgebander Repairing, Edgebander Maintenance, Sliding Table Saw, Sliding Table Saw Maintenance, Sliding Table Saw Repairing , Sliding Table Saw Service, CNC Router, CNC Router Maintenance.

[premierplasmacnc]

Get router tables & more with Clicklease financing options

For hobbyists and small companies, it can be a bit challenging to get the CNC equipment. The exorbitant pricing of tables and other hardware are the primary reasons. Most of them turn to Premier Plasma CNC for their router table needs. For more details, check this link: https://premierplasmacnc.com/.

[gender-trash]

BABYGIRL you are GLUING END-GRAIN. you have like one square centimeter of end-grain butt jointed onto another piece of wood! with no dowels or joinery or anything! that is NOT GOING TO WORK *returns to knitting in miffed silence*

i have a lot of Dad Hobbies and Behaviors (on account of how i'm basically a smaller and gayer clone of my dad) but potentially one of the Dad-est is the way i physically cant restrain myself from heckling youtubers aloud while i watch them do woodworking

[pomefioredove]

omg i LOVE the concept of cookies as asks so can i have a sugar cookie, #8, with chocolate drizzle and marshmallows thank yeww 🙏

t-t-total idia victory!

order #8, sugar with chocolate drizzle and marshmallows

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ internet connection

tropes: ex (mutuals) to lovers, roommate au characters: idia additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

It was the closest experience to dating Idia had ever gotten, and likely the only experience he'd ever get again.

Three months.

Three perfect, blissful months.

That's 13.0357 weeks, 91.2501 days, 2,190 hours of chats, voice calls, and texts with someone he had almost considered his.

He was raising his confidence stats to ask them out when they sent him a message, which would be their last:

"router busted. sry. will get it fixed soon"

That was weeks ago.

Idia couldn't blame them. They were going to get tired of him eventually, and ghosting him, sucky as it was, was still the easiest way to let him down.

Then, at least, he could pretend that they were telling the truth.

"Come on, Idy! This is your chance! You'll never get over them if you never meet anyone else!"

Ortho's cheery, hopeful words twist Idia's stomach with guilt. He knows that. Of course he knows that.

He buries himself deeper into his blankets. "I don't want anyone else,"

"It's only for a few weeks. Maybe you'll make friends!"

Unlikely. Idia doesn't have the social XP for that. Who would want to be friends with him, anyway?

He can't even keep Magicord mutuals.

Then again, he has no other choice.

The Prefect had asked to stay somewhere with a high-speed internet connection while post-S.T.Y.X. Ramshackle was being repaired, and Ortho had volunteered Idia.

And his room.

Ugh. Why can't anything go right for once?

Idia hides under his covers like a small child, drowning the sound of the door and voices in PreMo.

He honestly doesn't know a lot about you. He doesn't get out much, and even if he did, you've always got those OP normie friends around you.

He knows you don't talk much. He's actually never heard you talk at all.

Whatever.

Idia only emerges from his blankets when his ears are ringing from the music and his body is sore from stillness.

He takes off his headphones and reads the room.

There's Ortho, projecting a beam of light on the wall, and there's Grim, chasing it, and there's you.

You seem a little out of place, awkwardly sitting on the floor when there are chairs and tables, your bags still at your sides, unpacked.

Something about you makes him feel at ease. Weird.

"Oh- Idy!" Ortho chimes. Idia jumps, and then everyone is looking at him. Crap.

"We were wondering when you'd come out! The Prefect has a question for you!"

You give Ortho a panicked look, as if to say you most certainly did not have a question for him. Idia has his own suspicions.

"About the Wi-Fi," Ortho chimes. "They really need to get online."

Idia narrows his eyes. His brother can handle something as simple as that.

"...O-okay," he mumbles. "I guess."

He reluctantly gets out of bed and sits beside you. At least with an objective, he isn't so nervous. You hand him your phone, some sad secondhand thing, and he puts in the password for you.

"Lemme know if it's slow. I've been working on upgrading the router, and it's been a little laggy," he hands your phone to you.

"Shouldn't be a problem, though."

You take it. "I can't complain, I don't have a router at all right now,"

Idia's face turns red.

His eyes go wide.

He can't place it, at first. What's that weird feeling? What is it about you-

You notice his expression. "Uh... did I say something?"

And when you speak again, just like that, Idia jumps to his feet.

"IT-IT'S YOU!"

"You?" Grim asks.

"You?" Ortho echoes.

"Me?"

Idia feels like he's losing his mind, his anxiety cracking and breaking away, shock taking its place.

"Y-yes, you! I know that voice! Don't you- you recognize mine too, don't you?!"

Your eyes widen.

"Oh... no... no way,"

"I-I can't believe this!" he says, suddenly grinning. "You weren't lying about the router, it must've got totally busted when S.T.Y.X- oh, crap. IT'S ALL MY FAULT!"

"Idy..." Ortho warns. "Your heart rate is-"

"I know! I know, I just- I can't believe it- you, of all people,"

He sits again, shaking. It takes you a moment to catch up.

"I... I wasn't lying," you mumble. "I've been trying to get a decent internet connection since we got back, but..."

"This is the guy?" Grim mumbles to you. He is ignored.

Idia feels lightheaded. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This is some weird dream.

He can't seem to stop grinning, anyway.

"Will you go out with me?!" he asks, without thinking at all. But not even the sinking feeling in his stomach is enough to ground him.

You stare back, your own eyes wide.

And then, in your familiar voice, in your familiar easing presence: "I'd like that,"

[nanamiskentos]

going to a cafe with the jujutsu kaisen men a/n: (based on irl experience with a wide variety of subpar men) 😭 gojo's order being my order...aurkay!

gojo — def the type to walk in and push his sunglasses down to check out the place. his order def goes something like a venti caramel macchiato with almond milk, two pumps of vanilla and two pumps of hazelnut, and a little caramel swirl at the top. smiles and is friendly to all the baristas, he's never rude to workers. tells the barista is gojo, with an o. whoever's unfortunate enough to be stuck next to him is doomed to hear him wax poetic about how coffee beans are the soul of the earth, and its 'really deep, you wouldn't get it lol'. if you order a black coffee, he'll ask if everything is okay at home. can't leave the cafe without ordering a $8.00 sweet treat and then wondering why all his purchases are adding up

geto — walks in as if he's a regular and tells the barista that he'll have his 'regular'. the barista has never seen him before. probably orders a flat white, double shot of espresso, no foam. he always says he doesn't have to pretend to like foam because he's chill like that. he'll ask for the wifi password, but only so he can show off how good he is at working in a cafe, but his ass is on coolmathsgames. will nod and pretend to care about whatever you're saying but he's still thinking about coolmathsgames. will also drop random metaphors like 'life is just like coffee. you either take it strong or with sugar.' you tell him to save the bad metaphors for his cult.

nanami — doesn't wander or hesitate when he enters the cafe. checks his watch every five minute. orders a black coffe, medium, and adds one packet of sugar. he's pretty good at ordering what he wants efficiently, and it leaves even the barista worried. he's here to relax so don't ask him any unnecessary question because this man needs a break. actually enjoys eavesdropping on people's conversations, and ends up tilting his angle to snoop on gossip better. avoids small talk like its another curse. you can't really make him react too much in a cafe, unless you spill coffee on his freshly pressed suit. will be passive aggressive and suggest that the cafe chooses better music. likes a good, dependable pastry. apple danishes are a favourite.

sukuna — prefers tea, without debate. but still orders relatively normal things. likes a good latte with chocolate syrup. but the king of curses kinda has to look cool, so he powers his way through a black coffee, with no sugar or milk. you swear his eyes are tearing up as he pretends to like it. after every sip of coffee, he sighs really loudly and it gets a bit annoying. even after you ask what's wrong, he says its nothing and continues to sigh loudly. nanami may be the one who eavesdrops, but sukuna is the one who interferes. will turn around in his chair to give unsolicited advice, but he genuinely thinks he's being helpful by telling schoolgirls to buy cleavers to chop their friends' hands off. is mildly offended when they move tables and give him weird looks. passes loud comments on other people and tells couples when he thinks they will breakup. attempts to connect to the wifi three times before threatening to burn the router.

toji — the barista asks if he wants a pastry with his drink and he asks 'do i look like the type of man to eat a muffin?' but if they're free, he'll take two. sits with his back to the wall like he's in a mob movie. god help anyone who sits too close to him, he really just doesn't trust anyone in his personal space. doesn't even acknowledge the existence of others until he's had at least three sips of his coffee. you could tell him his house is on fire, and he’d just mutter that he can't do anything about it now. types the wifi password on his phone with one finger like a caveman. tells parents to 'control their spawn' but entertains kids with coin tricks when no-one is looking. sometimes struggles to fit the lid on his go-to cup, and refuses to asks for help. wrestles with it for five minutes, getting increasingly annoyed before rushing out the door.

choso (this one is dedicated to pookie @creamflix) — frowns at the menu like it's written in an ancient language, like wtf is affogato. if someone behinds him coughs, he scolds them and says he's going as fast as he cans. spends 10 minutes deciding and then panics at the last second, tells the barista to give him whatever. if the barista asks any follow up questions (like milk preferences) he genuinely short circuits, "what kinds of milk are there?" he's genuinely baffled that there are options beyond 'cow.' he'll point at a pastry and ask what's in it. the barista explains and he replies with 'okay i trust you.' always ends up picking a wobbly table by accident and spends 15 minutes trying to fix it with folded napkins. if someone asks to share his table, he'll look like they just asked for his kidneys. if someone asks for his opinion on his pastry, its always a dumbass cryptic answer like 'its interesting.' uses his phone on full brightness and everyone can see him look up 'how to pronounce cafe au lait.' cleans up after himself because he's nice like that. if the staff get his order wrong, he never says anything even if it tastes like dirt.

[reveriebae]

Chapter 1 - Pick a Card, Any Dare

ICE ON MY TITS SERIES

<<PROLOGUE | NEXT CHAPTER>>

Saturday night. 9:17 PM. Night at Eden Heights. No hoes. Just eight dangerously attractive men and you… in a robe, barefoot, legs crossed on the couch like you didn’t just ruin five minds by walking in.

Someone brought boxed wine. Someone else brought weed. Someone was already shirtless—and you weren’t even drunk yet.

You walked into apartment 204—Yunho’s place—like you weren’t the walking distraction they all pretended not to be obsessed with.

Your robe was short, barely tied. Your tank top wasn’t exactly meant for mixed company. But this floor didn’t count as company, did it?

They were all already there.

Hongjoong on the floor, one arm draped over the armrest like he owned the air.

Seonghwa and Yeosang side-by-side on the couch, legs spread like their manspreading was a threat.

Yunho grinning too wide, motioning for you to sit beside him.

Mingi lounged back with a cup of something too dark to be juice, watching you like a movie.

San was shirtless. Again. You didn’t even blink.

Jongho was in the kitchen, pouring drinks like he wasn’t listening to every word.

And then there was you, sitting cross-legged on the velvet couch like your bare thigh didn’t just brush someone’s knee.

The game of the night? “Cards & Dares”—a chaotic hybrid of Uno, poker, and “how far are you willing to go in front of your neighbors.”

Yunho dealt the cards. San cracked open a seltzer. The rules were simple:

Draw a red card, you answer a question.

Draw a black card, you take a dare.

Draw a joker… and the table chooses your fate.

You pulled first. A black queen.

Hongjoong smirked. “Dare.”

He leaned in, voice low and lazy. “I dare you to sit on the lap of whoever’s making you the horniest right now.”

The room froze.

Mingi nearly choked. Yeosang looked away like he suddenly respected the wall. San grinned like he knew the answer.

You raised a brow. “Just sit?”

Hongjoong’s smile deepened. “Unless you’d like to ride.”

You didn’t say a word.

Just turned on your heel with a swing of your robe that nearly flashed your entire ass—and walked straight to San.

His legs were already spread like he knew. His eyes were locked on you like a wolf watching dinner walk into its own mouth.

You stood between his thighs for one slow second. One heartbeat.

One breath of silence.

Then—

You sat.

Right down on his lap, straddling him like that couch didn’t exist. Like your whole floor didn’t exist.

San’s hands came up instinctively, gripping your hips like he’d done it before—like he should’ve done it before. He blinked, slowly, lips parted in surprise and something darker.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

You just tilted your head and smiled. “Too much?”

San chuckled low, his hands pressing a little firmer into your waist. “Not even close, princess.”

The room was dead silent.

Yunho coughed into his drink.

Hongjoong made a low noise that sounded suspiciously like a whistle.

Yeosang didn’t look up from his cards, but his ears were red.

Mingi’s jaw was on the floor.

Jongho still hadn’t moved from the kitchen.

Seonghwa sipped his wine without breaking eye contact. “I’d give that a nine.”

San’s hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Why not ten?”

“Because she hasn’t started grinding yet.”

You rolled your hips.

Once.

Just enough.

San exhaled like he saw God.

You looked over your shoulder at Hongjoong and smiled. “Happy now?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Ecstatic.”

San’s voice was a rasp against your ear. “You’re evil.”

You leaned forward, your lips barely brushing his. “I’m bored.”

He growled something low and unholy, and you could feel it—thick and dangerous between your thighs. He wasn’t the only one getting hard.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆

Yeosang: “Did that count as an earthquake or do I report it as a stroke?”

Jongho: “I’m unplugging the router. Everyone go home.”

Mingi: “WHY is it always San 😭”

You smirked.

“Next card,” you said again, breathless.

San didn’t let go.

His palms stayed glued to your thighs like your skin was the only thing keeping him grounded. You weren’t moving either—not when his lap was that comfortable. Not when every shift of your hips made him groan like a man on the edge.

You should’ve been nervous.

Instead? You felt dangerous.

You were dangerous.

“Next card,” Hongjoong announced, dragging the deck forward with two fingers and a smirk like he already knew what was coming.

Mingi pulled.

Black.

Oh no.

Jongho barked a laugh. “DARE.”

Hongjoong cracked his knuckles. “I dare you to tell us your favorite porn category. And if you lie—we’ll know.”

Mingi blinked. “That’s it? Easy.”

He leaned back, casual, nonchalant.

“Choking. Tongue play. Face sitting. You know—regular stuff.”

Yeosang choked on his drink.

“Regular?” Yunho laughed.

Mingi just shrugged, eyes flicking to where your hips still rested firmly on San. “Depends on who’s sitting.”

You smirked.

Next card.

Yeosang pulled. Red.

“Truth,” San said, voice still rough behind you. “If you could fuck anyone in this room, who would it be?”

The table froze.

Yeosang didn't flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just met your eyes directly.

“Her.”

Silence.

“On her knees. My mouth on her thighs. Maybe the table shakes a little.”

A pause.

“Maybe a lot.”

Your breath hitched.

San’s hands tightened.

“You’re all so loud,” Seonghwa muttered, reaching lazily for the next card. “It’s a party, not a porn shoot.”

He pulled. JOKER.

A collective gasp.

Yunho whooped. “OHHH, table vote!!”

Jongho returned from the kitchen with snacks, unbothered. “I vote Seonghwa kisses someone.”

“Tongue,” Mingi added.

“Neck,” Yeosang muttered.

You just sat there, smiling with the full audacity of someone who knew everyone in the room wanted to pick you.

But Hongjoong raised a brow. “Let’s make it fair. Seonghwa kisses the person who makes him the hardest.”

San laughed. “That’s evil.”

You felt Seonghwa’s stare before you even turned your head.

Cool. Calm. Calculated.

He stood up, crossed the space between the table and the couch—and stopped right in front of you.

San blinked. “You serious?”

You didn’t even breathe.

Seonghwa leaned down, slow, warm breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered. “I should stay far, far away.”

Then he kissed you.

On the neck.

Open mouth. Slow tongue. Fingers brushing your jaw.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

San didn’t breathe. His hands still on your thighs like restraint was a religion.

Seonghwa pulled back with the softest, filthiest smile.

“Ten,” he whispered, returning to his seat. “That’s a ten.”

You could hear Mingi whisper, “I need to go pray.”

The next card hit the table.

Your skin still burned from Seonghwa’s kiss.

San’s lap was starting to feel less like a seat and more like a warning label.

And then—

The front door slammed open.

“AYYYYYY BITCHESSSSSSS!!!”

Wooyoung.

Tank top soaked in sweat, a half-torn denim jacket sliding off his shoulder, a cigarette between his lips and a bottle of soju in hand.

Drunk. Loud. Already lit.

“Y’ALL STARTED WITHOUT ME?” he barked. “AND THIS BITCH—” (he pointed at you with the cigarette) “—IS ON SAN’S DICK ALREADY?? YOU CHEATING ASSHOLE!”

You blinked. “Cheating?”

“I WANTED HER TO SIT ON ME FIRST!”

He collapsed onto the rug with no grace, spread eagle like the devil’s house pet.

“Where the fuck’s the deck?”

“Over here,” Yunho said, shaking it.

“Hand it over, dickwad.”

Wooyoung pulled his card.

Black.

You didn’t even blink.

“Dare,” you said, lips curved. “Make it nasty.”

Wooyoung licked his lips. “Say less.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a dramatic flair. He inhaled, slow and deep.

“C’mere.”

You arched a brow. “Why?”

“I wanna give you a present,” he smirked. “With my mouth.”

San was suddenly not okay.

Mingi muttered something about God not being real.

Seonghwa actually leaned back and crossed his legs like he was saving himself.

You crawled across the carpet, slow, teasing, until you were kneeling in front of Wooyoung.

“Open,” he whispered.

He took a long drag of the cigarette—smoke curling between his lips—and leaned in close.

So close your noses brushed.

He exhaled the smoke right into your mouth.

Your lips parted. You inhaled.

Then pulled him in and kissed him, filthy and open-mouthed, smoke curling around your tongues.

“FUCK,” San whispered, nearly choking.

“Jesus CHRIST,” Yunho groaned.

Wooyoung pulled back with a messy smirk, the cigarette back between his teeth.

“I’m so fucking hard right now it’s embarrassing.”

Your eyes fluttered. “That the dare?”

“Bitch, that was a gift.”

You flopped back into San’s lap like you lived there.

Mingi fanned himself with his card. “I need an ice bath.”

Jongho was face down on the couch whispering, “She needs to be arrested.”

Yeosang typed something in the group chat.

EDEN HEADS 🍆🌆

Yeosang: “Can we install soundproof walls. For mental health reasons.”

Mingi: “NO. I want to hear it all. Every night. Every moan. Every slap.”

Jongho: “I’m deleting this chat.”

Wooyoung: “I would lick her sweat off the floor.”

San: “Bro.”

Hongjoong: “Focus. Next card.”

You drew.

JOKER.

Everyone froze.

You smirked. “Table vote, huh?”

Yunho sat up straighter. “We can’t let her pick. She’ll break us.”

Mingi clapped. “YES. Break us. Ruin us. I want it.”

Wooyoung screamed, “LET’S GOOOOO!!”

Seonghwa sipped his wine and whispered, “This is a sex cult now.”

Hongjoong licked his lips. “Alright… I vote we dare her to tell us—in detail—the last time she came.”

Everyone went silent.

Then San whispered, “That’s not a dare, that’s psychological warfare.”

You tilted your head.

And smiled.

“Three nights ago,” you said slowly, voice dropping low. “Shower running. Curtain open. One leg up. A finger—no, two. Thinking about…”

You looked around.

Paused.

And pointed.

“…Yunho.”

That man’s soul left his body.

He nearly dropped his cup. “I—I—HUH—”

You kept going.

“Thinking about how big he probably is. How he’d wrap my legs around his shoulders. How he’d beg to finish in my mouth.”

Mingi screamed into a pillow.

Wooyoung was on the floor, pounding it with his fist.

San’s hands were shaking.

And Yunho?

“Bathroom. Now.”

He stood up.

Everyone went feral.

[hy6erion]

reader moves in bbno$ apartment after having trouble paying bills, they get closer and eventually he starts noticing the reader in different ways (romantically & sexually) !

Couch Surfer, Heart Stealer — Alex Gumuchian (bbno$)

synopsis: after struggling to pay rent, you move into your friend alex’s apartment “just for a while.” what starts as a casual, friendly arrangement slowly deepens into something intimate. you fall into a rhythm — shared meals, late-night laughs, movie marathons — and without meaning to, you both start to feel things

cw: fem! reader, suggestive at SOME parts (mainly fluff), accidental arousal / awkward boner panic, jerking off thinking abt you (not described but mentioned)

You didn’t mean to cry on the bus.

But sitting there with your last box crammed between your knees and your whole life packed into a busted duffel bag and an Uber ride you couldn’t afford, the weight of it all finally hit. Rent had skyrocketed. Your part-time jobs weren’t cutting it. And when your roommate ditched you to move in with her boyfriend, she’d taken the furniture, Wi-Fi router, and half the pantry. You were one notice away from living in your car — until Alex had texted you out of nowhere:

“yo i heard u need a place?? my roommate dipped. cheap rent. i got good snacks. pls respond.”

You hadn’t seen him since that music festival last summer — shirtless, high off adrenaline and sun, rapping on top of a folding table and passing out popsicles to strangers. He was wild and weird and strangely sweet, and though you’d only hung out a few times in person, you’d always vibed online. DMs turned into memes, memes turned into midnight Discord calls and somehow, here you were.

Moving into bbno$’s apartment.

The front door swung open just as you lugged your bag up the stairs. Alex stood there barefoot in pajama pants and a “MILF Hunter” shirt, hair sleep-mussed, eyes blinking against the afternoon light.

“You look like a drowned possum. Come in.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Nice to see you too.”

The apartment was…chaotic. Clean, but cluttered. LED lights along the baseboards. Sneakers stacked like Jenga towers. A monitor setup that looked like it belonged in a NASA lab. The couch had seen better days, and there was a half-eaten bag of pizza-flavored Goldfish on the counter.

But it was warm. Lived-in. And best of all — rent was barely a third of what you’d been paying.

“You can take the second bedroom” he said, already dragging your bag inside. “It’s mostly just boxes and one of those weird yoga chairs that’s shaped like a peanut. You’ll love it.”

You didn’t expect to fall asleep that first night curled up on the weird peanut chair — or to wake up with a blanket tossed over your shoulders, the scent of minty shampoo and cologne lingering faintly on it.

⸻

Living with Alex was…a trip.

He was ridiculous — always wandering around half-dressed, singing weird freestyles to the cat, making waffles at 2 a.m. and offering you bites straight off the spatula. But he was also surprisingly chill. Respectful. He never pushed. Never made things weird.

“Bathroom’s all yours@ he’d mumble every morning, toothbrush hanging from his lips. “I left the hot water on like a good lil housewife.”

You fell into an easy rhythm. You cleaned, he cooked. He edited music late at night, you studied on the couch in his oversized hoodies. There were grocery trips, inside jokes, movie nights where he dozed off with his head on your thigh and woke up mumbling about ice cream.

Somewhere between breakfast burritos and shared Spotify playlists, something started to shift.

You caught him watching you longer. Laughing softer. Lingering in doorways after saying goodnight.

And you…you started noticing everything. The way his voice dipped when he was tired. The way he always smelled like cedarwood and cinnamon gum. The way he’d say your name when you made him laugh — like it meant something more than just your name.

You were both pretending not to notice.

But it was there.

Simmering.

⸻

He couldn’t really say when it started.

Maybe it was the night you beat him at Mario Kart for the first time — sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, cheeks flushed with laughter, controller in your lap and a slice of cold pizza balanced on your knee. You’d thrown your arms up in victory, hoodie sleeves slipping down your wrists, hair messy from the fight for first place. He remembered staring at you a beat too long, the curve of your grin, the way you nudged his thigh with yours, like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

Or maybe it was the morning he walked into the kitchen and saw you dancing barefoot to some 2000s pop song — baggy T-shirt, no bra, his damn pajama shorts hanging low on your hips. You hadn’t seen him yet, earbuds in, singing into a spoon while you flipped pancakes. He’d frozen in the hallway, heart skipping, some part of his brain screaming: Don’t be weird. Don’t be that guy. But it was already happening.

He saw the softness in your legs. The curve of your waist. The way you moved when you thought no one was watching. And he wanted to keep watching.

It wasn’t just about sex.

It was how safe you made the place feel. The way your laughter filled the empty spaces. How you folded his laundry when he forgot. How you’d leave little sticky notes on the fridge — “don’t forget to drink water, you‘re REALLY dehydrated” — or how you’d curl next to him on the couch without asking, like your body already knew where it fit.

That was dangerous.

That was the kind of comfort that cracked open a man’s chest.

⸻

The night it really hit him, though — really hit him — was the night you came home from a bad date.

He hadn’t even known you’d gone out until you stormed through the door in a leather jacket and lip gloss half-smudged, looking pissed.

“Hey—?” he started, standing from the couch.

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice tight, fingers fumbling with your keys. “Just—don’t.“

He stood there blinking. You weren’t mad at him. You were mad at someone else. A guy, probably. Some shitty Tinder date who couldn’t keep his hands to himself or made a weird joke or didn’t listen when you said no.

He knew that look on your face. He’d seen it on friends. On relatives. On strangers in club bathrooms clutching each other’s hands.

So he said nothing. Just walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with ice water and handed it to you.

You took it, exhaled like your lungs were collapsing. “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “Want to talk about it?”

“No” you said. Then, softer: “…but also yes.”

You ended up on the couch, legs curled under you, him listening while you vented. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t judge. Just nodded in the right places, muttered “what a fool” at the right time, and let you fall apart in little pieces.

When your voice cracked and your eyes brimmed, he didn’t think — he just reached out and pulled you into a hug.

And you clung to him.

Your face pressed into his chest. Your hands in the back of his hoodie. Your whole body soft and vulnerable and open against his. And he held you like that, steady and warm, his heart hammering so hard he was sure you could feel it.

That was the moment.

Not the dancing, not the hoodie, not the game.

This. You, raw and real in his arms, trusting him with your mess.

His chest tightened. His throat ached.

He wanted to kiss your forehead.

He wanted to carry you to bed and just hold you.

He wanted to undo you, slowly, reverently, like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say out loud.

And then—God help him—he got hard.

Just like that. No warning. No fantasy. Just your body on his, warm and perfect and so close, and something in him snapped. It wasn’t even about sex — it was about need. About you.

He shifted subtly, trying to give you space. Tried to will it down. Tried to think about baseball or taxes or anything that wasn’t your breath on his neck.

But then you looked up — eyes glassy, lashes damp — and whispered, “You’re really good at this. The…comfort thing.”

He wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to say, I’d be good at all of it. Loving you. Touching you. Keeping you safe.

Instead, he laughed. Too loud. Too awkward.

“I’m just a human weighted blanket“ he joked, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.

You smiled. Tucked your head back into his chest.

And he sat there, holding you, rock hard and quietly panicking, falling like a man with no parachute.

⸻

From then on, everything was worse.

Or better. Or both.

You started wearing his hoodies to bed — and he had to stop himself from imagining how warm you’d be underneath. You’d lean into him on the couch, and he’d go still, breathing shallow, pretending your weight didn’t unravel something low in his stomach.

And the little things? Forget about it.

The way you bit your straw when you were thinking. The way you said his name when you were sleepy. The fact that you’d moan — just a little — whenever you took a bite of something really good.

He was going insane.

And the worst part? You had no idea.

You touched him so casually. Laughed with your whole body. Walked around in tiny shorts, hair messy from the shower, face dewy with moisturizer — and he had to pretend he didn’t want to worship you.

He jerked off three times that week.

Once in the shower.

Once after you fell asleep next to him watching Netflix.

And once after you left a bra hanging on the bathroom doorknob and he stood there like a creep for ten whole seconds just staring at the curve of the cup and imagining what you looked like filling it.

He was in trouble.

Because it wasn’t just lust.

It wasn’t just tension.

It was everything.

The comfort. The friendship. The late-night convos and deep-belly laughs. The trust. The domesticity. The way you fit into his world like you’d always belonged.

And now every time he looked at you, every cell in his body screamed:

Touch her.

Kiss her.

Tell her.

Please tell her before it’s too late.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

He just waited. Bit his tongue. Tried not to burn every time you smiled at him like he wasn’t quietly dying inside.

⸻

It all unraveled one Thursday night.

You came home late from a rough shift — soaked from the rain, exhausted, clutching a bag of discounted sushi and half a broken umbrella.

Alex was in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl.

He looked up. “Holy shit. What happened to you?”

“I got in a fight with a cloud” you deadpanned, kicking your shoes off.

“Cloud won” he said softly, stepping closer. “C’mere.”

You expected a towel. Maybe a dumb joke.

Instead, he reached for your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye where a tear had mixed with the rain.

“You’ve been trying so hard“ he murmured. “I’ve seen it.”

You stood there, stunned, heart hammering. He was close. Warm. Smelling like laundry detergent and almond milk.

“Alex…” your voice cracked.

He pulled back, but not far. “I wasn’t gonna say anything. I was trying to be cool, respectful, whatever. But it’s getting kinda hard to pretend I don’t wanna kiss you every time you walk into the room.”

Your breath hitched.

Then, so softly it barely counted as a kiss — you leaned in.

It was slow. Like syrup.

His lips moved gently over yours, one hand cupping your jaw, the other gripping the counter like he needed to keep himself grounded. He tasted like honey and oat milk. He kissed like he cared.

When you pulled back, you were both breathless.

“Are we…?” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Yeah. We are.”

From then on, everything changed and yet nothing did.

He still made weird jokes and sang in the shower. You still wore his hoodies and stole his cereal. But now there were kisses behind closed doors. Sleepy morning cuddles. His hand on your thigh when you watched TV.

Sex came softly, eventually — not rushed, not wild.

Just one night, you were curled against him in bed, half-asleep, and you whispered, “Can I…?”

He turned to you, pupils wide, face open. “Please.”

He made love like he made music — with focus, with fun, with rhythm. Soft moans. Sloppy kisses. Fingers tangled in sheets. Laughter between gasps. Praise whispered against skin.

When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his hands anchoring you down like a lifeline.

After, he kissed your shoulder. Your neck. Your nose.

⸻

Weeks passed. The world spun on. But everything felt brighter.

You woke up to him singing love songs into your hair. You kissed him behind studio doors. He wrote lyrics about the way you laugh when you’re half-asleep, and you danced barefoot in the living room to every new beat.

He told his friends. You told yours. Nobody was surprised.

You were still broke, still figuring things out — but for once, you weren’t alone.

You had him.

You had love.

And every night, when you crawled into bed next to him, he’d pull you close, kiss your cheek, and whisper:

“From roommate to soulmate. Who knew?”

[gaybd1]

Here’s a list of some false anglicisms!

A false anglicism, or pseudo-anglicism is a word in a language that sounds English but doesn’t actually carry the same meaning in English.

Wikipedia has a very very good list of examples; pretty much all of these come from there

In multiple languages:

autostop: hitchhiking (French, Italian, Polish, Serbo-Croatian, Greek, Russian, Spanish, Bulgarian, Hungarian)

basket: basketball (Danish, French, Indonesian, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Greek)

camping: campsite or campground (French, Dutch, Greek, Bulgarian, Russian, Polish, Portuguese, Spanish)

smoking: dinner jacket, tuxedo, or smoking jacket (Danish, French, Portuguese, German, Italian, Dutch, Greek, Russian)

Korean

one shot: bottoms up (원샷)

hand phone: cellphone (핸드폰)

skinship: platonic hand-holding, hugging, etc. (스킨십)

French

baby-foot: table football

baby-parc: playpen

before: drinks before a party/"pregame" (opposite of after)

blind test: music quiz / 'name that tune'

brushing: blow-dry and styling

box: wifi router or parking space

dancing: dance hall

footing: jogging (though the real English word is also used in French with the same meaning)

pressing: dry cleaning shop

recordman/recordmans/recordwoman: record holder, especially in sports (also in Russian)

relooker/relooking: to makeover/a makeover

speaker/speakerine: rradio or television announcer

Italian

autogrill: rest area

beauty farm: spa

jolly: the joker in a pack of cards

pullman: a bus

smart working: remote work

water: toilet

Portuguese

outdoor: billboard

home office: work from home

Danish

butterfly: bow tie

cottoncoat: trench coat

doorstep: a short and informal press conference

monkeyclass: economy class

speedmarker: a felt-tip pen

timemanager – a calendar or notebook in which one writes down appointments

Dutch:

beamer: a video projector (also in German)

box: a playpen or a music speaker

videoclip: a music video

German

Bodybag: a messenger bag

Dressman: a male model

Flipper: a pinball machine

Funsport: a sport played for amusement, such as skateboarding or frisbee

Handy: a mobile phone

Jobticket: a free pass for public transport provided by an employer for employees

mobbing: bullying

Swedish:

after work: a meeting for drinks after the workday is finished

pocket: A paper-back book