#so much faster with automation

[bastart13]

sending you strength and good vibes as you work through s3 of l&l. re: your post i think one of the strengths/weaknesses of the whole lovestruck series is how isolated the routes were in terms of character development (which was great for the writers having to make these- maybe not great for everyone reading more than one route). i've noticed it gets pretty wacky!

I think on the whole the routes in any given story are pretty consistent, but it's also a coin-flip if a character you like is sent in a completely different direction. Sometimes the narrative they're given makes a weird choice that throws it off, sometimes the writing just focuses on a different aspect of their character than you expected

[cubbihue]

Question ...if fairies rely on desire to feed,would Dev be a GOOD food source or a terrible food source? Does desire come from wishing or wanting more, essentially. Because dev like.. Has all he can want except his dad's approval ,so how does that work?

Fairies' food comes from the innate emotion a person has while Wishes are just the only way Fairies can pull the emotions (food) out!!!

The more the desire is out of reach, the more delicious it is, and the longer the fairy can go without needing another meal. It's simply easier to harvest from children because they have big emotions, and weak minds and impulses. A child can say "I wish" more openly than an adult does, making it easier for Fairies to cultivate.

Dev's one of the best food sources there is. In fact, he's able to feed a family of 5 for at least 8 months! However, he's also one of the worse sources to collect from because his desire is noncollectable by magic.

Which means you'll need an expert high-class, high-ranking Fairy Godparent who can siphon out his Desires into smaller parts via multiple smaller wishes!

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

[jugglingjujube]

a problem with AI is that it's not a human. it's a computer. so it functions very differently than a human.

when tools are optimized for AI and computers, human user experience suffers.

[smellsniffer]

had the idea to try microsoft power automate to get rid of some of the repetitive clicking and such from my job and wow this sucks. "low to no code solution" it would be better if there was some code to be honest.

[reasonsforhope]

"When bloodstream infections set in, fast treatment is crucial — but it can take several days to identify the bacteria responsible. A new, rapid-diagnosis sepsis test could cut down on the wait, reducing testing time from as much as a few days to about 13 hours by cutting out a lengthy blood culturing step, researchers report July 24 [2024] in Nature.

“They are pushing the limits of rapid diagnostics for bloodstream infections,” says Pak Kin Wong, a biomedical engineer at Penn State who was not involved in the research. “They are driving toward a direction that will dramatically improve the clinical management of bloodstream infections and sepsis.”

Sepsis — an immune system overreaction to an infection — is a life-threatening condition that strikes nearly 2 million people per year in the United States, killing more than 250,000 (SN: 5/18/08). The condition can also progress to septic shock, a steep drop in blood pressure that damages the kidneys, lungs, liver and other organs. It can be caused by a broad range of different bacteria, making species identification key for personalized treatment of each patient.

In conventional sepsis testing, the blood collected from the patient must first go through a daylong blood culturing step to grow more bacteria for detection. The sample then goes through a second culture for purification before undergoing testing to find the best treatment. During the two to three days required for testing, patients are placed on broad-spectrum antibiotics — a blunt tool designed to stave off a mystery infection that’s better treated by targeted antibiotics after figuring out the specific bacteria causing the infection.

Nanoengineer Tae Hyun Kim and colleagues found a way around the initial 24-hour blood culture.

The workaround starts by injecting a blood sample with nanoparticles decorated with a peptide designed to bind to a wide range of blood-borne pathogens. Magnets then pull out the nanoparticles, and the bound pathogens come with them. Those bacteria are sent directly to the pure culture. Thanks to this binding and sorting process, the bacteria can grow faster without extraneous components in the sample, like blood cells and the previously given broad-spectrum antibiotics, says Kim, of Seoul National University in South Korea.

Cutting out the initial blood culturing step also relies on a new imaging algorithm, Kim says. To test bacteria’s susceptibility to antibiotics, both are placed in the same environment, and scientists observe if and how the antibiotics stunt the bacteria’s growth or kill them. The team’s image detection algorithm can detect subtler changes than the human eye can. So it can identify the species and antibiotic susceptibility with far fewer bacteria cells than the conventional method, thereby reducing the need for long culture times to produce larger colonies.

Though the new method shows promise, Wong says, any new test carries a risk of false negatives, missing bacteria that are actually present in the bloodstream. That in turn can lead to not treating an active infection, and “undertreatment of bloodstream infection can be fatal,” he says. “While the classical blood culture technique is extremely slow, it is very effective in avoiding false negatives.”

Following their laboratory-based experiments, Kim and colleagues tested their new method clinically, running it in parallel with conventional sepsis testing on 190 hospital patients with suspected infections. The testing obtained a 100 percent match on correct bacterial species identification, the team reports. Though more clinical tests are needed, these accuracy results are encouraging so far, Kim says.

The team is continuing to refine their design in hopes of developing a fully automated sepsis blood test that can quickly produce results, even when hospital laboratories are closed overnight. “We really wanted to commercialize this and really make it happen so that we could make impacts to the patients,” Kim says."

-via Science News, July 24, 2024

[logansdoe]

imagine hannibal comforting a reader who'm accidentally killed someone.

I'm all for the dramatic hysterical so imagine reader crying non stop, coming to Hannibal's office with her clothes stained in blood, crying because she doesn't know what to do and the guilt is like consuming her from the inside

Hannibal can see that she's guilty, but like instead he assures reader that she did nothing wrong and that she only did all of it to protect herself.

Idk what else to say or how to continue this is pretty cringe aaaaa😵😵😵

guilty.

You could see everything. The blood, wounds, his horrified expressions before his eyes rolled back.

You did it. you. . did it?

Panic settled in your core. Chest heavy, making it unbearable to breath. All you could see was black spots in your vision. The smell of copper and the sight made your stomach churn.

Your tears started to cloud your vision. Taking a few steps back as you watched horrified. Horrified of the lifeless man. Horrified of the blood that coated your hands. Horrified that you did not hate it.

Steps led you to your car. The low hum of the engine started as you sat in the car. Trying to get your mind to work but nothing came up. Only one name was etched into your mind. Like it was whispering in your ear.

Not thinking twice as you start to pull out of your driveway. Your brain not working as your hands drive the route likes it's been automated to do.

Hastily parking. Thankful to the empty streets. The snow was a mocking white compared to your bloody hands. You could hardly walk. Every step felt ten times heavier than the last.

Stumbling infront of Hannibals doors as you ring the bell. Hoping— no, praying he was home. You did not care for the time. The muffled footsteps could be heard. A second later, the soft click of the door unlocking as it revealed him.

As if a wave of relief washed over you. Your knees almost pleading to fall against the cold stone but you stayed upright. His lips part to speak but his eyes were faster to look over your state.

"H—Hannibal. . .", voice quiet. Almost afraid he would shut the door in your face. Maybe he didn't wanna be involved in your messy matters. And this was, specially, messy.

He didn't acknowledge it. Nor did he say anything. One hand, firm, held your forearm as he pulled you inside. His arm wrapping around to keep you close. The half dried blood getting on his silk robe that he did not care about at the moment.

Letting go of your arm as he closed the door. Bringing it closer to you after to brush it against your hair, "shh—", holding you close as he swayed slightly. His hand brushing softly at the back of your head.

Tears prickled your eyes as the situation dawned on you. Realization settling in. You killed someone. You actually did. The words leaving your lips, "I— I don't know, I didn't. . didn't mean to. It was a mistake—", words broken with sobs.

His hold remained the same. His breathing soft and like a whisper. The soft murmur of the classical tunes he often showed you played in the far room. "He c—came to me and tr—tried to hit me and I couldn't— I couldn't help myself", you cried. The dark stains on his robe stained from your tears and blood.

He listened. "Calm down, darling", he could hear your breathing get heavier. Sobs choking you. If he let go, he was certain you would fall to the floor. Like crumbling pieces. He sighed.

He loosened his grip on you but you held tighter, "don't—", it wasn't a warning. It was a plea. Hannibal felt sympathetic. You looked pathetic, much more to him. He didn't take his hand away. Walking you towards his bedroom, opening the bathroom door.

You seemed so pilant. Anything he would tell you to do, you would. Without a thought. His hands slowly pried your hands away from him with gentle words. Slipping your jacket off. Blood staining the fabric.

Dropping it in the basket, his hands traced the small skin showing under your tshirt before his hands delved inside pulling the shirt off. You looked up at him. His actions, his grip, his eyes. None were lustful. They were gentle. Tears still fell down your cheek.

His thumb occasionally coming up to collect them and dry your skin until it became wet again. Slipping you out of your clothes as he made you stand in the shower, him close by. The water warm, like his touch. Washing the redness off.

You closed your eyes, did not want to see it. You didn't want to remember it. The floor splayed with pink liquid. His touch, so gentle and lovely.

His hands helping you slip into his clothes. A glass handed by his with a smile. You drink it. It tastes good. You did not realize how parched you were, until the liquid hit your throat. Soothing the soreness.

He laid you down. Hand in his, his free hand brushing some of the damp hair away as he kept close. "I'm here. Rest" , he whispered. And as he assured, rest started to consume you. "It was. . a mistake", you whispered.

"you didn't do anything wrong, love. Rest, now", his rough hands brushing your cheek. And those were the last words you heard.

Seeing your sleeping figure, pained Hannibal. He may have planned this sooner than you were prepared for but it was needed. He needed to have you. Close and trusting.

His hand slipped from yours as he walked towards his closet. Opening it to rummage through his clothes. It was time to take care of the remaining mess. Just so, you stay. Close and trusting.

a/n: this took longer than necessary. 😞

[holybibly]

The unholy hour of the day, my sugar bunnies: Weirdo nerd Seonghwa has had a fondness for you for a long time, perhaps too much to be normal. So when he sees you on a crowded subway carriage, he takes the opportunity to pay his respects to you.

Warnings: Pervert nerd! Seonghwa, sub!reader, non-consensual groping, dubious consent, obsessive crush, light yandere, forced masturbation, light dub con

'Please be careful; the doors are closing'. The monotonous, mechanical voice of the underground's automated announcement system echoes through the carriage, almost completely lost in the noise of the crowd. The tube is packed, but at this time of day, that's to be expected. You hated taking the train at rush hour, but unfortunately your classes always ended at that time, and you had no choice but to use the Tube to get home, even though it felt like hell at that time, rather than a comfortable and fast ride. 

You always travelled the same way. Day after day, month after month, and in all this time nothing has changed about your trip. Firstly, the subway was always crowded, and having lived in Seoul for the last two years, you'd already gotten used to that. Secondly, there are never any seats when you get on, so you always have to stand. You even somehow managed to put up with the fact that you were always being pushed or squeezed into a corner, which you managed to squeeze into despite the carriage being almost full.

Today was no different at all. You let out a heavy sigh and made your way to the nearest available handrail in the far corner as you were pushed for what seemed like the hundredth time when the carriage doors hissed open and a new stream of passengers poured in. You grabbed hold of the cold metal handrail, trying to take up as little space as possible, while other passengers squeezed past you or kept changing their position in an attempt to get the most convenient and comfortable seat. Someone's elbow is resting on your rib, and you frown, trying to move as far away as possible, which only makes you squeeze harder into the corner. But there's not enough room, and you shriek slightly as the pressure on your ribs increases. The girl next to you bows her head, apologising as she hears this, and moves away from you, finally allowing you to breathe normally. You let out another sigh, clutching your bag tightly to your chest and gripping the handrail even tighter as the train continues to rush forward.

Just a little longer, you say to yourself, eight more stops to go and you'll finally be able to get out of here. 

Once again you hear the mechanical hissing of the doors and the automated voice warning the passengers to be more careful, and it seems to you that the carriage has become even more cramped, but it still does not prevent you from trying to adapt in some way. Dozens of people get on and off at each stop, and you're pushed again, but this time relatively gently. It doesn't matter anyway, you're used to it and ready to just brush it off, but someone's broad, cold hand rests on your bare thigh, just where the edge of your pleated skirt ends. For a second, you feel the stranger's fingers slide over your soft skin under your short skirt, and your breath catches in your throat, your heart beginning to beat faster with each passing moment. This can't be happening, can it? Maybe you're just imagining it? The stranger's cold touch on your thighs fades away as suddenly as it came, but it's enough to make you feel the cold lingering on your skin for a long time afterwards.

"You're so beautiful." A soft, velvety voice whispers from behind you, and you almost jump at the sound. 'So beautiful…' The carriage you're in is packed to the point that you can barely turn your head back to look at whoever that voice belongs to, which one makes goosebumps crawl across your skin. Your eyes widen as you see behind you none other than university oddish nerd Park Seonghwa, who is literally trapping you in a crowded subway car. He's too close to you. Close enough to be intimate. 

Not that you had a bad opinion of Seonghwa; no, he was a relatively nice and harmless guy, but there was still something about him that made people stay away from him. Maybe it was the too intense and focused look in his dark cat eyes, or maybe it was his slightly odd behaviour that was hard to explain; either way, Park Seonghwa was not popular, even though he was pretty, and not just pretty, but really handsome, as if sculpted by the hand of a great master. Another thing that put people off him was that he was a real nerd and had an obsession with Lego and Animal Crossing. You didn't see much of him in your classes, even though you were in the same study group as him; from what you heard, he was in an advanced class and was more likely to jerk off to textbooks than girls. In general, you didn't know much about him other than the gossip you heard from your friends. 

''S-Seonghwa, let me go, please…'' Your voice trembles slightly as you turn to him. There is a strange expression frozen on his handsome face, one that you are unable to decipher. He looks drunk—his big eyes are blurry and unfocused, his mouth is open from heavy breathing, his cheeks are flushed, and there is a bead of sweat on his forehead. There is obviously something wrong with him, but Seonghwa is a good guy, isn't he? He wouldn't do anything to hurt you, or at least you wanted to believe that. 

You don't hear him answer as the train makes a sharp turn and Seonghwa pushes you against the wall of the carriage, his body pressed tightly against yours. You freeze, like a mouse caught in the claws of a cat, as you feel his cold hands squeeze your soft, plump thighs, right under your buttocks. You tug at the hem of your skirt in an attempt to push Seonghwa's hands away from you, but he doesn't let you go; instead, his fingers dig harder into your flesh even more, and you're sure you'll be bruised afterwards. You feel the fast, erratic beating of his heart against your back as he leans into you, as if he's trying to melt into you, to become one with your body.

"I'm sorry…' He whispers to you again, his hot breath brushing your ear and his sensual, full lips touching your soft, thin skin with each letter. You've always admired his lips—so full and kissable—and you've even wondered what they would feel like when he kissed you, but right now you wish you could erase that touch from your skin forever. Something hard and intimidatingly large presses against your lower back as he grips your hips tighter, literally piling on top of you. The sickly sweet smell of strawberries and cream invades all of your senses, and you find yourself trapped between the dirty wall of the subway car and the hard, hot body of Seonghwa. You've never noticed how tall he is compared to you—you're invisible behind him; nobody can see what he's doing to you. "I'm so sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it… You're too beautiful… too beautiful for me to control myself. I'm so sorry…' He lowers his head onto your shoulder, his long black hair tickling the skin on your neck as you stare unblinkingly into the dirty wall, terror running through you to the bone, rendering you completely immobile as Seonghwa pushes his hips into you, fucking your arse on the crowded train like a dog in heat.

Your lips begin to tremble, hot tears gathering in your eyes, threatening to spill out and run down your cheeks, smearing your make-up, as Seonghwa's one hand slides up the curve of your hip and higher up your waist, your ribs, over the thin lace of your bra to cradle your right tit. 

'Oh fuck...' Seonghwa hisses as he squeezes the soft flesh of your breast in the palm of his hand. His fingers pull the cup of your bra down so that your tit is completely exposed. "Exactly as I thought... your tits are so big and soft. I want to fuck them so badly. I want to come on your tits; cover them with my sperm. I want to suck on your fucking tits while you are riding on me, angel." He continues to rub his cock against your plump buttocks, whimpering into your skin. 

'N-no, please don't, Seonghwa. Please stop it...' You sob, hoping that your pathetic pleas will bring him to his senses. But it seems to have the exact opposite effect, making him even more aroused. You tremble at his touch as Seonghwa continues fucking you, his rough hand caressing your naked breasts, his hard cock sliding between your buttocks through his jeans and skirt. 

"Please move away from the doors." The train stops, the mechanical hiss of the doors hissing through the crowd. You pray that Hwa will let you go, but he doesn't. For a moment, he stops pushing into you and keeps you pressed up against the wall. His breath is unpleasantly warm against your ear, making you shiver.

'Seonghwa...' You try once more. "Seonghwa, please let me go. I won't tell anyone... I promise. Please leave me alone..." The tears begin to flow freely down your face as you continue to beg him to let you go. But Seonghwa is completely unresponsive; instead, he starts to leave wet, smeared kisses on your neck. His lips are soft, too soft, like down pillows, unpleasantly slippery and wet from copious amounts of saliva mixed with lip balm as cloying strawberry as he is. From the outside, you probably look like a couple deeply in love. Seonghwa is protective, wrapped around you like a snake, and to everyone else, he looks like a caring guy. If only they knew...

The thought of screaming crosses your mind, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared when the train starts moving again and Hwa slips his other hand under your shirt and wraps it around your left breast. His hand greedily squeezes the soft flesh over the thin lace of your bra before he pulls it down as well, exposing your tits to the full extent. You hate yourself for the fact that his touch is causing your nipples to begin to tense and your pussy to clench around nothing. You've always been hypersensitive, and that's generally nothing unusual, but this situation...

You shouldn't react like this; you don't want Seonghwa to touch you; you don't want to feel his hands on your body, but then why are you biting your lip and trying your best to suppress the obscene sounds that are coming out of your mouth right now? 

"That's it, Angel. I'll make you feel good. I'll be worshipping you, pretty girl, the way I've always wanted to be. And you can't blame me for that; you've got everything to blame yourself for. You're too beautiful, too beautiful for me to let you go..." Seonghwa's hands, gently rocking your breasts as if he could feel the weight of them, his fingers running over your aureoles, stimulating you while avoiding your swollen nipples.

You sob loudly as you feel your pussy getting wetter by the second. You don't want to give in to the pleasure that is growing deep inside you, especially not in the presence of so many people and even less so in Seonghwa's hands, but there is nothing you can do about it. He gives you a sharp pinch on your nipples as the mechanical voice announces the name of the next stop, and it covers up the moan that escapes from your lips. 

"You feel so good, angel." He whispers to you in a velvety voice.  "Your little nipples are so hard and tender. I want to take them into my mouth and suck them until you come. I'm sure I can make you come just from that." Seonghwa's voice is full of dark promise, and it makes more and more moisture pour out of your hole. Shame washes over you like a wave, and you cover your eyes, trying to come to terms with the unwanted pleasure that is growing inside of you. You clench your hands tighter around your bag as Hwa continues to play with your breasts. Squeezing and massages them, rubbing and pinching your nipples, at the same time leaving hot, painful hickeys on your neck. "You were made for me, my angel. I always knew it. I knew it the moment I saw you." One of his hands releases your breasts and slides down your body. Your eyes go wide in horror as you realise where Seonghwa's hand is going, but it's too late because... He slides his hand easily between your thighs, wrapping your pussy, over the lace of the thong, whose fabric is soaked with your slime. 

"Look at you; you're all wet for me."

'I-I'm not, please, just stop...' For the first time since Seonghwa cornered you, you try to resist him. Your hand trembles as you try to pull his hand off your cunt, but Hwa just pushes it away. Then you start to wriggle in his grip, trying to push him away from you, but it doesn't help. Seonghwa is bigger and stronger than you, and all your movements instead make you rub your wet pussy harder against his palm between your thighs.

"Don't be embarrassed about it, angel. You just have to admit that you want it just as much as I do."

The train stops again, and Seonghwa takes the opportunity to pull the wet lace of your thong aside, exposing your smooth, plump pussy to his touch. You can't hold back a moan as his fingers outline a figure of eight around your clit. 

"Please... Seonghwa... you don't have to do this." You sob, lowering your head to somehow hide the way your cheeks are flushed from everything he's doing to you. 

'But how can I, angel? You're so ready for me...' He pulls his hand away from your pussy for a second and brings them up to your face. You watch in horror as he spreads his fingers, pulling strands of your arousal between them before they break apart, coating his long appendages with your stickiness. "You see that? Your slutty pussy is all wet and sticky; how can I ignore it?" You barely manage to hold back a loud moan as Seonghwa slides his hand down and, without any preamble, pushes two fingers into your wet cunt. The stretching stings, but with it comes pleasure. It's clouds your mind and overshadows any sense of decency or shame. Seonghwa begins to fuck you, twisting his fingers inside you and stroking your slippery, trembling walls with slightly calloused fingertips. Over the din of the other passengers' voices, you can almost hear the squelching of your unacceptably wet pussy.

"You are so tight, my angel. I should stretch your cunt before you take my cock. I'll do my best; we don't want your sweet pussy to be in pain, do we?" With these words, Seonghwa inserts another finger into you.

Everything in you shrinks in shame as the pleasure becomes too much to ignore—your legs spread so Hwa can fuck you harder and deeper, his finger pads pressed against your sweet spot, and your eyes roll back at the sharp pleasure coursing through your body.

It's disgusting, no, it's more than disgusting, and deep inside you despise yourself for giving yourself up to him so easily, for not putting up any resistance at all to Seonghwa, for letting him fuck you so expertly with his long fingers. 

[koaflower]

isagi yoichi !

jerking off to your 18+ stream ⋆｡°✩

includes. EXPLICIT smut. aged-up isagi yoichi. afab!reader. masturbation, streaming, use of dildo/toy, semi-slursagi appearance.

a/n. mind you, i wrote this AT the beach beside my parents. also special thank you to @thetwinkims for always supporting and reblogging all my posts 🥹 i giggle whenever i see your username. i love you twin.

word count. 627

isagi has never been that kind of person. sure, he indulged every now and then, but that was only human, wasn't it?

he didn’t mean to linger longer than he should have, honest. your streaming service just happened to pop up as an advertisement, and he found himself unable to exit the tab. soft body, sweet expressions, a pretty face—you were just his type. It didn’t take long for him to become a regular viewer.

best.1striker sent a $25 tip !

best.1striker: 10

the machinery whirred to life at his command, your fingers tearing into the mattress for dear life as the rubber toy increased its speed.

“fuck… s’pretty.” breathy groans escaped his lips as he fumbled for the waistband of his sweats, sliding it down past his thighs. he was already hard and leaking, cock springing out of his pants and slapping against his lower abdomen with fervor. too much. you had given him too much power.

isagi doesn’t know how much he’s donated to you in the past 15 minutes, doesn’t want to know in fear his account had entered the negatives. he was drunk off control, slumped back against his headboard that was now creaking as he stroked himself up and down to your wanton cries.

the chat flew by in a flurry of numbers and donations, but he remains focused on you—on the way your face scrunches in pleasure and the toy rams into your drooling cunt. “mhm..! s’good… all so good to me.” he’s aware you’re addressing your viewers as a whole, but he’s convinced you were talking to him. him and only him.

more. fuck, he needs more. it’s not fast enough. you’re not wrecked enough.

best.1striker sent a $50 tip !

best.1striker: 11

he’s almost certain the chat is outraged now—half horny and half spewing profanities at him for stealing the spotlight. but how could he stop when you’re crying like that? when the machine whirs even faster and it’s his name that you moan?

best.1striker sent a $10 tip !

best.1striker: say my name when u cum whore

he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, how aggressive he’s being. his fingers are flying across the keyboard, headphones slipping from his face as he ruts his hips into his fist. he waits for the automated voice to finally read out his message, eyes pinpointed on your reaction. “m-m’kay..! i will,” you reply between staggered whimpers, your obedience making his dick twitch in his firm grip. your hands fly up to grab at the pillow under your head as the dildo slams into you repeatedly.

you’re so close, he can tell. he’s watched you enough to recognize all the telltale signs. “ah..! hnn… s-s’fast, please,” you whine out, voice bumped up an octave as the speed steadily increases.

“shit,” he murmurs, tempted to cum right then and there to the sound of your voice and the glistening tears sliding down your face. fuck, he needs you. needs your pretty pussy to milk him dry and gush on his tongue like the good little whore you are. he’d spend all his money, empty out all his savings if it meant you’d keep your attention on him and him only. you’re terrible for him—a malignant cancer that’s destroying his heart from the inside out.

but he didn’t mind when it felt this good.

“hnghh..! coming… ‘m coming! isa—gi!”

his hips jerk forward, body hunching over as he cums all over the screen, coating it in messy strokes of white with a low groan. he falls back, eyes glued to your convulsing body as you topple towards your own orgasm. he leans forward again with heavy breaths, a smile spreading over his lips.

best.1striker sent a $10 tip !

best.1striker: same time tmr?

[bloodbrown]

Low-Humanity P x Reader Headcanons

• When you first met him, the puppet boy's elegant movement, round features and glassy eyes enamored you completely. He was a refreshing change to the gloomy atmosphere of the Hotel, with both his looks and his crushing strength. He was twitchy, oblivious and clumsy with his hands. But his curiosity and gentle nature charmed you.

• Not to mention his beauty- his smooth skin was dabbed with freckles and his hair was flawlessly styled, with not a strand out of place. The puppet was expertly molded into the perfect image of a human, as much as he didn't act like one.

• You were bothered by the puppet's lack of name, but he didn't care himself. "You can call me any name you'd like." Is what he told you. So, you called him P. P... for "puppet", the automated kind, or for "Pinocchio", the famous story of that wooden puppet everyone knows. P could also stand for "pretty", too.

• P took an interest to you after you assigned a name to him. Everyone else has only ever called him Geppetto's Puppet, but you wanted to call him something else. Why? He was curious about you. P thought that, if puppets can really "like" things, maybe he liked you.

• At times, P would bring you things from outside the Hotel that he thought you'll like or have use for. Sometimes he'd bring you fruit or sweets he found around Krat. "Human food," he'd offer quietly, holding out his gift in his palm.

• Returning the favor to him made the puppet's heart tick faster. He couldn't indulge in human enjoyments like food or drink, but he appreciated small trinkets or things to decorate himself with, like a hair clip or ribbon. He kept these things close, usually tucked into a pocket or fastened in his hair.

• P developed a desire to protect you. It's different from how he felt with the other Hotel residents- he didn't just want to keep you safe from the puppet threat outside the Hotel walls. He wanted to keep you close and comforted inside of them, too.

• P, wishing to be ever closer to you, would happily sit with you while you sleep or when you're occupied with something. As long as you wanted him to, of course.

• While the puppet boy never slept, he could enter a resting state to conserve his energy if he so chose. He was most comfortable resting upright in a firm chair, since it reminded him of how he woke up for the very first time. He let you gaze at him and touch him in this state- he knew that being close to him satisfied you, and he himself enjoyed being fussed over.

• After feeling your hands on his own when you spend time together, P started to seek out more physical contact with you. Your soft touch fascinated him, compared to his cold synthetic exterior. He wanted to be enveloped by your warm humanity. You'd hear his gears grind noisily in his chest when you snuggled, but the sound of the puppet's mechanisms were like a lullaby to you.

• When you'd sit or lay together, the stone-cold feel of the puppet's body would concern you, even if he didn't appear to be bothered. As a puppet, P never lied to you or deceived you. So, when he told you he felt much better after you draped a warm blanket over him, it wasn't technically a lie. He did quite enjoy the cozy sensation of your skin against his own.

• P's expressions and gaze never quite changed, even as he grew fond of you. He always stared. He wasn't sure if you could sense the care and devotion behind his eyes- after all, he was a puppet. His eyes, like the rest of him, were synthetic constructs, unfit to reveal his rudimentary feelings. His eyebrows and lips too never betrayed the slightest hint of emotion.

• P never told you that he loved you. In theory, he had the words for it, to be sure. Often, he spoke in quiet, disjointed breaths, as if the very gears in his head were turning as he considered the best way to convey his thoughts. You both felt the affection between you even if P didn't know how to put words to it. It's possible he might've said it, in time, if only he had been given longer to grow and change.

• The last time you ever hugged P was 4 weeks to the day since you first met. He was to rescue Geppetto from the kidnappers, as were his orders. You hugged him as usual before he left, which he returned quickly and rigidly. A soft, cold kiss was planted firmly to your temple by the gentle puppet boy, as if to reassure your nerves. You never saw P again.

• There was no doubt that your P was dead. You never found out, but he gave himself up for Geppetto to rip his heart out. Your puppet love, in his ambition to earn his father's approval, certainly couldn't bring himself to refuse. P was formidable and steel-tough... Of course the only way for him to die would've been for him to do it willingly.

• He was yours, for that short time. Your friend, and your blossoming love. He was a puppet given the free will to do anything he wanted- to lie, to disobey. He never did, but he used his autonomy during his short existence to make 1 choice: to be with you.

[zaruba-needslove]

Opening a new AO3 Account

Because I often see people saying how hard it is to open an AO3 account when actually... it's not THAT complicated.

Like yes, when you first entered the site you'll be greeted with this.

If you wanna create a new account, you'd think that the only way to do it is by clicking that [Get invited!] button... right?

Thus, you'll end up with this page ^.

But yanno, since this invite request system is AUTOMATED, it will take some time for your invite code to be sent to you. I mean, just take a look and that last line on the above picture! And frankly, 4500 codes every 12 hours was not that bad really... if you compare it to when Ao3 has just started.

Even then...

DO YOU KNOW THAT THERE'S EVEN FASTER WAY TO GET AN AO3 INVITATION CODE? *

HOW, you ask?

Well, you can just ask ANY existing AO3 users if they have any extra invitation codes and have them give it to you. And it's not a very complicated process.

If you already became an AO3 user (and have some extra invitation code) but don't know how to give out the codes to friends who wanted it as well, then follow these steps.

Open your profile page, and look at your profile name.

There should be some buttons under your profile name, one of it would be the [Invitations] button. Click that to see the codes,

You'll be seeing a list of codes that you should automatically receive from AO3. If not, you could always request for it.

Like yes, if you need more codes, you can just click on the [Request Invitation] button. And if you want to send someone an invite code, you just enter the email address of the person you want to give the code to... and click Send, as the green arrow indicates.

Alternatively, you can just manually send the invite codes. Just go to [Manage Invitations]

Copy the link marked as [Copy and Use] and give the link to the person you want to give the code to. Important note tho, you HAVE to copy the actual link and not JUST the random bunch of numbers.

Because the link you've copied should lead you to THIS page.

Once you reach this page, you can just start opening your brand new AO3 account.

Likewise, if you've sent the codes thru the email, ask the person you've sent the codes to to check their inbox for the new mail containing the code. And then just click on the link provided.

*I said that this was 'much' faster since some people claimed that they didn't get the codes 'fast' enough, despite how nowadays the amount the server gives out the codes was a lot more compared to back then (which was like a few hundreds per day). So, I offered another option.

Cos yes, I shouldn't be the only one who still has a lot of codes leftover.

[anachronisims]

How to EFFECTIVELY Use Empty Standby List to Reduce Flashing and Crashing

This tutorial is for TS2. Obviously. This is virtually the last "chapter" of advice for the Pink Flashing Survey Report (still forthcoming as a single readable thing but posted in bits and pieces over the last six months). PS it's a lonnnnnnng post. Ctrl+F "tldr" for the very short version once you open the cut.

"Part 1" of the Empty Standby List ("ESL") tutorial was already written comprehensively with screenshots by Digi at her wordpress. Following Digi's tutorial will get you set up with ESL as a routine automated background task your computer runs, typically every five minutes.

@gayars set up two instances of the routine, each running every five minutes, staggered two/three minutes apart. In other words, task 1 runs at 12:00, task 2 runs at 12:03, task 1 runs at 12:05, task 2 runs at 12:08, etc. However, I found that this negatively impacted the graphical performance of my game, notably by having the ESL task window flash over the game window, which I had never seen before, nor since reverting back to a single 5-minute task routine.

Anyway. Go do Digi's tutorial if you haven't already; I'll wait.

Background on Why this Matters

So, now your computer will be wiping the standby memory every five minutes. The thing is, this won't be able to have much impact on your game unless you wait to let it wipe before you do a major loading action.

Major loading actions are, in general order of strain (most to least strenuous):

Loading a full neighborhood.

Loading a large (3x4 or bigger) populated lot.

Loading a large unpopulated lot.

Loading actual CAS, if you have a lot of non-defaulted CC.

Loading a medium (3x3) populated lot.

Loading a medium unpopulated lot.

Loading a small (2x3 or smaller) populated lot.

Loading a small unpopulated lot.

Loading CAS catalogs from within a lot (e.g. using FFS clothing tool, "Change Appearance" on the mirror, shopping for clothes/trying on clothes on a community lot).

Turning up your lot view settings (generating other lots' lot imposters within your current lot)/panning the camera around.

You should already be doing at least all medium- and large-lot loading with the Lot View Settings Juggling Method, and “uint LotSkirtIncrease” removed from your userstartup.cheat - otherwise whenever you load a lot you are compounding the strain by also having the neighborhood load at the same time.

Using Resource Monitor Effectively

If you watched the Jessa Channel tutorial on flashing, she recommended downloading a third-party RAM usage monitoring software. This is unnecessary. For purposes of reducing your crashing, all you need is the native Windows program "Resource Monitor" that she also recommends.

To open it:

Click the Windows symbol/start menu.

Begin typing "Resource Monitor."

Click Resource Monitor when it shows up.

Once it is open, get to the useful information:

Click the "Memory" tab.

Make sure the "Processes" and "Physical Memory" subs are fully open, as above.

Sort by "Commit (KB)."

Each time you reopen Resource Monitor, it should restore your last view settings, so you won't have to repeat these steps.

While Resource Monitor is still open, "Pin" it to the taskbar so it will always be readily accessible.

Right-click the icon on the taskbar.

Click "Pin to taskbar."

If it says "Unpin from taskbar" you have already done this step :)

Now comes the monitoring part. You will focus on the dark-blue "Standby" block of the bar graph on Physical Memory.

Every fifth minute, when the ESL task runs, this will flash down to 0 and then pop up to about 30-75, depending on what you are doing. It will go higher faster if you are doing stuff, obviously, and hover pretty low if your computer is just sitting still. TLDR the remainder of this tutorial: only take stress actions when Standby is below 100.

As we all know too well, TS2 has a 4gb RAM limit. The problem is, TS2 seems to count the memory that is in standby, too, not just the committed/working set. Thus, before you take a major loading action (that is going to push up to 1.5gb into Standby), you need to wait for Standby to wipe so the game doesn't accidentally think it's using more memory than it is. Got it?

This is how much RAM my game is using when my neighborhood opens, pretty closely zoomed in on any particular lot. If it is zoomed out further - like a whole city block - both committed and working set are easily over 2.2gb. When I pan around the neighborhood, it continues going up. Portions of the hood that go back out of view seem to get relegated to standby, but yes, my game has crashed just from looking too much at my neighborhood from too wide an angle. Unless I slow down and let ESL run before moving on to the next section.

Six months of diligent Resource Manager monitoring has resulted in substantial reductions of crashing and flashing on my first hood view load and first lot view load. It is not 100% guaranteed, but it cuts it back to Very Playable Levels. And when I have tested the theory by purposefully not letting ESL run before a stress point, it always flashes and/or crashes within the next couple minutes.

SO! Here's what I do when I'm launching my game.

Because of overheating concerns, I always fully shut down my computer when I'm not using it for more than an hour. If I have been playing and experience a flash or crash, I will restart before trying again. @infinitesimblr, a survey Respondent who reported virtually no flashing or crashing despite a vast CC catalog, also recommends restarting between using Bodyshop or SimPE and the full game. I have found it may make a difference with Bodyshop (which I use too rarely to make a pseudoscientific claim) but that I have found basically no impact going from SimPE to the game. YMMV.

Immediately after Windows is done loading, I open Resource Monitor and wait a few minutes. Often background updates begin running and the Standby bar goes crazy - sometimes filling up the entire available RAM - and I just let it sit and do its thing. (Usually I start the computer right before my kid's bedtime so I am not actively waiting on it or anything. Go take a shower or make a sandwich or drink some water, like you did in the old days when the game itself took 20 minutes to load.)

Once the standby bar levels out and is consistently peaking no higher than about 250mb between ESL wipes, after the next ESL wipe, I will launch the game. (Usually between logging into Windowsat the beginning of storytime and checking Resource Monitor before we go do tuck-in, it is reliably hanging out below 100 unless a big TS4 or Windows update was downloading.)

Reminder: do not delete thumbnails anymore prior to launching the game. I also have turned off RPC's clear caches option and have observed faster loading times with minimal increases in crashing.

After the neighborhood selection screen comes up, wait for ESL to run again before opening your neighborhood.

If you have continue to have more than VERY sporadic hood load flashing after taking these steps, you should try launching into a subhood if you have one, then pivoting to the main hood if that's where you're playing that session after yet another ESL wipe. If that doesn't help you simply need to thin out your hood or accept the flashing. (I ended up deleting about 25% of my deco trees and 10-15 outer-lying lots that will be re-placed in a subhood.)

After the hood is loaded, navigate to the lot you want, but DO NOT actually load that lot until ESL runs yet again. Ditto for CAS - Do not select "Create New Family" until ESL has run again.

Play should be proceed as normal at this point. You probably don't need to alt-tab back to Resource Monitor again unless your sims are going traveling or you are changing play lots.

BONUS TIP #1: You can put a shortcut to the ESL routine on your desktop and push it manually (just double click the icon) if you don't feel like waiting once the game is loaded. I have had imperfect results with this vs. just waiting the five minutes, though, because the game wants to run through some stuff and flush it. But it's an option for you to experiment with.

BONUS TIP #2: If you have a really deep clothing/hair CC catalog, try to avoid using the FFS clothing tool option where you select every outfit for the sim, and their hair and makeup, at the same time. Instead, choose individual outfits by type and use the regular mirror option to change appearance (or SimBlender has it, I think, so they can do it where they already are).

[ariaxco]

emergency funds: your financial safety net explained ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･💰

you think emergency funds are for "other people" who have money problems. you think nothing bad will happen to you. you think you can just use credit cards if something goes wrong.

then your car breaks down, you get sick, or you lose your job, and suddenly you're drowning in debt because you had no financial cushion.

what an emergency fund actually is ⭑𓂃

it's 3-6 months of your essential expenses sitting in a savings account, waiting for life to punch you in the face. rent, groceries, utilities, minimum debt payments, insurance - the stuff you absolutely have to pay to survive.

not 3-6 months of your current lifestyle. not vacation money. not "i want new shoes" money. emergency money for actual emergencies.

why you actually need this ʚɞ

80% of people live paycheck to paycheck. when unexpected expenses hit, they go into debt, borrow from family, or make desperate financial decisions that mess up their future.

your car will break down. you will get sick. economic downturns happen. having an emergency fund means you handle these situations with money instead of panic.

what counts as an emergency ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡

job loss, medical emergencies, major car repairs, urgent home repairs, family emergencies that require travel. things that are unexpected, necessary, and urgent.

not sales, not wanting something, not regular expenses you forgot to budget for. if you can wait a month to handle it, it's not an emergency.

how much you actually need ⭑𓂃

start with $1,000 as your mini emergency fund. this covers most small emergencies and gives you breathing room while you build the full fund.

then work toward 3-6 months of essential expenses. if you have stable employment, 3 months is fine. if your income is irregular or you have dependents, aim for 6 months.

where to keep emergency money ʚɞ

high-yield savings account that you can access quickly but isn't connected to your daily spending accounts. you want it liquid but not so convenient that you spend it on non-emergencies.

not investments, not CDs, not under your mattress. somewhere safe that earns interest but stays accessible when you need it.

how to build it without going broke ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡

automate small amounts - even $25 per week builds $1,300 per year. use windfalls like tax refunds, birthday money, or work bonuses to boost it faster.

start with the mini fund, then build slowly. $1,000 emergency fund is infinitely better than $0 emergency fund.

common mistakes people make ⭑𓂃

keeping it in checking where they accidentally spend it. making it too big and missing out on investment growth. making it too small and going into debt anyway when real emergencies hit.

using it for things that aren't emergencies, then not replenishing it before the next actual emergency happens.

the peace of mind is priceless ʚɞ

when you have an emergency fund, you sleep better. unexpected expenses become inconveniences instead of catastrophes. you make better decisions because you're not desperate.

you stop living in financial fear because you know you can handle whatever life throws at you.

having an emergency fund is the difference between surviving emergencies and drowning in them.

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 4: Threads of Connection

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan Warning: none. Just fluff, but the slow burn is starting to burn a little faster.

Word count: 6.4k

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

The following days settled into an uneasy rhythm. Evelyn threw herself into her crocheting, the repetitive motion of her hands calming the constant churn of her thoughts. She was determined to keep herself busy, to avoid thinking too much about the whispers in town or the way Logan’s absence made her cottage feel just a little emptier.

She hadn’t seen him since that evening when he’d helped her unload the truck. He’d left with the scarf folded neatly under his arm, his expression as reserved as ever. She wondered if he’d worn it, but the thought made her feel foolish. It was just a scarf—a small thank-you for everything he’d done. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything more.

And yet, she found herself glancing toward the driveway more often than she cared to admit, listening for the rumble of his truck.

One brisk morning, as she worked on a new shawl by the fire, the sharp ring of the landline broke the quiet. Startled, Evelyn set down her work and crossed the room, the cold wooden floorboards creaking underfoot.

“Hello?” she said, tucking the receiver against her ear.

“Evelyn, it’s Nancy,” came the familiar voice of the general store clerk. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m good,” she replied, though the slight hesitation in her voice betrayed her surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Nancy began, her tone warm but laced with curiosity. “I just wanted to let you know we’re hosting a little community potluck this weekend. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s a good way to meet more folks around town.”

Evelyn hesitated, her fingers curling around the phone cord. “That sounds nice, but I’m not sure...”

“Oh, nonsense!” Nancy interrupted. “You’re practically one of us now. Besides, everyone’s dying to see more of those beautiful crochet pieces of yours. You could set up a little table if you’d like.”

The offer was tempting, but the thought of stepping further into the spotlight made her stomach twist. Still, she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

“Good! Let me know if you need help with anything,” Nancy said brightly before hanging up.

The idea of the potluck lingered with her all day. Part of her wanted to decline, to keep her head down and focus on her quiet life at the cottage. But another part—the part that had started to feel restless—urged her to go.

The decision was made for her when Logan showed up later that afternoon, the scarf she’d given him looped loosely around his neck.

“Roof’s holding up,” he said, nodding toward the cottage as he stepped out of his truck.

“That’s good to hear,” she replied, surprised to see him. “What brings you by?”

“Figured you might need more firewood,” he said simply, gesturing to the pile in his truck bed.

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as a small smile tugged at her lips. “You really like playing the role of the mysterious handyman, don’t you?”

Logan huffed softly, the sound almost like a laugh. “Guess I do.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, stepping down from the porch and brushing her hands against her jeans. “It’s not fair that you’re doing this for free. I should be buying firewood from the logging company anyway.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he leaned against the truck bed. “You think I’m charging you for this?”

She shrugged, her tone light but insistent. “Well, you should be. It’s your time, your effort—”

“Save your money,” Logan cut in, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve got enough to deal with fixing up that place. Firewood’s covered.”

As he unloaded the firewood, she found herself studying him—his steady movements, the quiet focus in his expression.

“Have you heard about the potluck this weekend?” she asked, leaning against the porch railing.

He glanced at her briefly. “Yeah. Town does it every year.”

“You going?”

“Not my thing,” he replied, stacking the last piece of wood neatly by the side of the porch.

“I figured,” she said, her lips quirking into a small smile. “I might go. Nancy invited me.”

Logan straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You should. Good way to meet people.”

She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him. “You don’t seem like the type who enjoys meeting people.”

“Don’t need to,” he said simply. “I’ve got enough to keep me busy.”

Her smile softened. “Well, thanks for the firewood. And for the advice.”

He nodded, tugging the scarf a little tighter around his neck as he turned toward the truck.

“Logan,” she called after him.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Have you been wearing that scarf?”

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk breaking through his usual stoicism. “Keeps the cold out,” he said before climbing into the truck.

As he drove away, Evelyn couldn’t help but feel that Logan’s quiet presence had settled into her life in a way she hadn’t expected.

By the time Saturday evening arrived, the small church hall was brimming with life. Warm light spilled through the frosted windows, illuminating rows of folding tables laden with dishes of every kind—casseroles, pies, salads, and baskets of fresh rolls. The air was filled with laughter, the clink of serving spoons, and the faint hum of holiday tunes playing from an old radio in the corner.

Evelyn stepped through the double doors, clutching a tin of cookies she’d baked earlier that day, along with a neatly folded bundle of her crochet pieces. She had debated leaving the scarves and shawls at home, but Nancy had been insistent about showcasing her work.

The room buzzed with energy, and though she’d prepared herself for the crowds, the sight of so many familiar faces still made her hesitate. She stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the warmth of the gathering wash over her before stepping inside.

“Evelyn!” Nancy’s cheerful voice rang out, cutting through her uncertainty. The older woman bustled over, her apron slightly askew but her smile as welcoming as ever. “You made it!”

“I did,” Evelyn replied with a small smile, holding up the tin. “And I brought these.”

Nancy peeked under the lid and let out an approving hum. “Chocolate chip. You’re going to fit in just fine here, dear.” She patted Evelyn on the arm and then noticed the bundle tucked under her other arm. “And what’s this?”

“Just a few scarves, shawls,” Evelyn said, almost apologetically. “I wasn’t sure—”

“They’re beautiful!” Nancy interrupted, already unfolding a scarf to admire the intricate stitching. “Come, let’s put these on display.”

Before Evelyn could protest, Nancy had whisked her toward a table near the corner, where a few other crafts were already on display—knitted mittens, jars of homemade jam, and intricately carved wooden figurines.

“You’ll have to tell me how you do this,” Nancy said as she spread the scarves and shawls out carefully. “You’ve got such a delicate touch.”

Pastor Edwards appeared by their side, his broad smile and kindly demeanor putting Evelyn at ease. “Miss Evelyn, it’s good to see you here tonight,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard nothing but praise about your work. You’re quite the talent.”

Evelyn flushed under the compliment. “That’s kind of you to say, Pastor. I’m just happy to contribute.”

“Contribute, indeed,” he said, picking up a soft blue scarf. “This is exquisite. If my wife sees it, I imagine I’ll be making a purchase before the evening’s through.”

Before Evelyn could respond, a familiar voice chimed in behind her. “Oh, Evelyn’s quite the artist, isn’t she?” Clara’s smile was all charm, but her tone carried an edge that Evelyn didn’t miss. “You’ve certainly been keeping busy. Crocheting and baking… and I’m sure there are other things taking up your time.”

Evelyn turned to face Clara, her expression neutral but her eyes steady. “I try to stay productive. And it’s nice to see the community appreciates the effort.” Her tone was light but unmistakably pointed, earning a small, approving glance from Nancy.

“Well,” Clara said, her smile tightening, “it’s good you’re settling in.”

Evelyn offered her a faint smile in return. “Thanks. I’ve been very lucky to have supportive people around me.”

Clara opened her mouth to reply, but Pastor Edwards intervened, his jovial voice cutting through any tension. “Now, Clara, if you’re here to chat, you’ll have to wait your turn. Evelyn’s become quite popular, and I imagine half the room will want one of these scarves before the night is out.”

Clara’s smile faltered, though she quickly recovered. “Well, they’re lovely. You’ve certainly made quite the impression around here. People have been talking about you nonstop.”

Evelyn tilted her head slightly, her expression remaining polite. “ I’ve noticed people talk about a lot of things around here.” She paused, letting the words linger. “Some things just don’t stick.”

Before Clara could respond, Nancy broke in with a cheerful laugh. “Well, I think it’s clear Evelyn is going to stick—and I, for one, am thrilled about it. Now, Clara, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some cookies to set out.”

As Nancy steered Evelyn toward the dessert table, Evelyn caught a glimpse of Clara’s tight-lipped smile and couldn’t help the quiet satisfaction blooming in her chest.

“You handled that well,” Nancy murmured with a conspiratorial wink.

“I’m learning,” Evelyn replied softly, her gaze sweeping the hall. She wasn’t sure she’d ever feel completely at ease in the town, but moments like these felt like progress.

As the evening wore on, Evelyn began to relax. The warmth of the gathering, coupled with the genuine interest people showed in her work, made it easier to forget her nerves. Several women approached her table, admiring the scarves and shawls.

“These are beautiful,” one woman said, running her fingers over a soft, pale-blue scarf. “Do you take commissions?”

Evelyn blinked in surprise. “I haven’t, but... I guess I could.”

“You should,” the woman insisted with a warm smile. “It’s clear you’ve got a gift.”

The compliments buoyed her spirits, and for the first time since arriving in Clearwater, she felt like she was truly beginning to belong.

It was later in the evening, as the crowd began to thin, that she spotted him.

Logan stood near the entrance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark wahs jeans, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He looked out of place, like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see, but he didn’t move to leave.

Their eyes met briefly, and she gave him a small wave. To her surprise, he nodded and began making his way over.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said as he reached her table.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he replied, his voice low. “But I figured someone had to make sure you didn’t scare the locals.”

She snorted softly, shaking her head. “Very funny. What brought you out, really?”

Logan shrugged, glancing around the room. “Nancy wouldn’t stop bugging me.”

“Sounds about right,” she replied with a grin. “Well, you’re just in time to try my cookies. I expect glowing reviews.”

He raised an eyebrow but reached for one, taking a bite without much ceremony.

“They’re good,” he said after a moment, his tone almost begrudging.

“High praise coming from you,” she teased, her smile widening.

Logan huffed softly, his version of a laugh, and leaned against the table.

Their conversation was interrupted by a group of men from the logging company, who called Logan over with hearty waves and loud voices. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Evelyn briefly, before muttering, “I’ll be back.”

As he joined the group, Evelyn watched him with growing curiosity. There was something about the way he carried himself—reserved, almost guarded—that made her wonder what had shaped him into the man he was.

The men greeted him with playful jabs and laughter. “Didn’t think we’d see you here, Howlett,” one of them said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Guess miracles do happen,” another quipped, earning a round of chuckles.

Logan shrugged off their comments, his expression remaining stoic. “You girls done gossiping, or you need more time?”

The men roared with laughter, one of them shaking his head. “Alright, alright. We’ll leave you to it.”

Nancy appeared , her smile knowing. “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

“What is?” Evelyn asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, nothing,” Nancy said airily. “Just that he has never come to one of  these things. And yet, here he is.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, leaving Evelyn to mull over her words.

When the evening wound down and the tables were being cleared, Logan reappeared at her side.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, his tone casual.

“You offering me a ride?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Truck’s warm, and it’s a cold night,” he replied simply.

She smiled, grabbing her tin of cookies and scarf. “Alright. Let me grab my coat.”

The drive back to the cottage was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between them.

“Thanks for coming,” she said after a while, her voice soft. “Even if Nancy twisted your arm.”

Logan glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t need much twisting.”

Her heart gave a small, unexpected flutter at his words, but she pushed the feeling aside.

When they reached the cottage, she hesitated before opening the door. “You want to come in for a cup of tea? There are still cookies left.”

Logan studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”

Inside, the fire crackled softly as they sat at the small kitchen table, steaming mugs of tea in hand. Logan didn’t say much, but his presence filled the room in a way that felt strangely comforting.

“This place suits you,” he said finally, his voice low.

Evelyn glanced around the cozy, imperfect kitchen and smiled. “It’s starting to feel like home.”

Logan nodded, his gaze steady. “That’s good.”

The tea had long gone cold in their cups, but neither of them seemed to notice. Logan leaned back slightly in his chair, his arms resting on the sides, his gaze fixed somewhere between her and the crackling fire.

“It’s quiet out here,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice low, almost contemplative.

“That’s why I picked it,” she replied, brushing her fingers along the rim of her mug. “I needed quiet. Too much noise back… before.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to her, the unspoken weight of her words hanging in the air. He didn’t press, but there was a softness in his expression, a quiet patience that made her want to say more.

“I guess I was running,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure what from.”

Logan nodded slowly, as if he understood, though he didn’t offer any platitudes. He rarely did. That was one of the things she appreciated about him—he listened without feeling the need to fill the spaces between words.

The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face and the warmth in his otherwise stoic eyes. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

And maybe it was the intimacy of the moment, or the fact that the world outside the cottage felt so far away, but when he leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest of moments, she didn’t pull away.

Until she did.

“Logan,” she said softly, her voice trembling as she pressed her hands to the edge of the table. “I can’t.”

He froze, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. Then, he leaned back, his movements deliberate and measured. “Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to his mug.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said quickly, her chest tightening. “It’s not… it’s not you. I just—” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “I can’t.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once, his face unreadable once more. “I get it,” he said simply, though his tone carried an edge of something she couldn’t quite place—hurt? Frustration?

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension in the room palpable. Evelyn felt a pang of regret, not for stopping him, but for the way she’d stumbled over her own emotions.

“It’s late,” he said finally, standing and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should go.”

“Logan—” she started, but he cut her off with a small shake of his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice steady, though he didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, he was gone, the sound of his truck rumbling down the driveway leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She sat there for a long time after he left, staring into the dying embers of the fire. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she couldn’t ignore the fear that had flared in her chest at the thought of letting someone get too close again.

Not yet.

The warmth of the fire had long faded, leaving the room in a quiet chill that mirrored the hollow ache in her chest. She sat unmoving, staring at the door as though expecting Logan to walk back through it. He wouldn’t, of course. Not tonight. Maybe not for a while.

Her hands clutched the cold mug of tea as if it could somehow tether her to the present, but her mind kept spiraling backward. To the way he’d leaned forward, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as his hand hesitated just inches from hers. And then, to the look on his face when she pulled away—the quiet resignation in his nod, the way he’d left with barely a word.

Why had she stopped him?

The answer rose immediately, unbidden: Because you’re terrified.

The words echoed in her mind, harsher than she’d meant them to be. She hadn’t lied, though. She couldn’t—not yet.

The thought sent a pang of guilt through her chest. Logan didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her fears. He’d done nothing but offer her kindness and quiet support, showing up time and again without asking for anything in return. And yet, when the moment came, she’d pulled back.

The embers in the hearth cracked softly, breaking the stillness. She stared into the glowing coals, her thoughts swirling. Maybe she should’ve said more, explained herself better. But how could she, when she wasn’t sure she fully understood her own hesitation?

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. She wasn’t that broken girl anymore—the one who’d been left behind, who’d questioned her worth because someone else had decided she wasn’t enough. She was stronger now, wasn’t she?

And yet, as the hours stretched on, the emptiness in the cottage seemed to grow. The walls she’d once found solace in now felt suffocating, pressing in on all sides.

For the first time in weeks, Evelyn found herself questioning whether she truly belonged here.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, his knuckles standing out stark against the calloused skin of his hands. The truck rumbled down the narrow road, the headlights slicing through the darkness, but his mind was miles away—still back in her kitchen, caught in the flicker of firelight and the sound of her voice trembling with hesitation.

He let out a low growl, more at himself than anything else. He should’ve seen it coming—the hesitation in her eyes, the way her shoulders had tensed as he leaned in. She wasn’t ready, and he’d known that. Hell, he’d known it from the start.

But still, he’d pushed.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, shifting gears with a sharp motion.

Logan exhaled sharply, rolling the window down just enough to let the cold night air sting his face. He needed the sharpness, the bite, to cut through the frustration boiling in his chest. Not at her—never at her—but at himself.

She’d pulled back. And why wouldn’t she? She didn’t owe him anything, least of all her trust. Hell, he was the one who’d crossed the line, who’d let himself get too comfortable in the space she’d carved out of her pain.

But still…

The memory of her expression lingered, the way her lips parted slightly as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her voice, trembling with apology, had cut deeper than she probably realized.

“Logan, I can’t.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. The words shouldn’t have hurt as much as they did. He knew she didn’t mean them as a rejection—not entirely. But they still lodged themselves in his chest, heavy and unyielding.

But the truth clawed at him, raw and undeniable. He didn’t want to walk away. Not from her. Not from the moments of quiet connection that seemed to bloom between them, unspoken but palpable.

The truck hit a bump in the road, jolting him back to the present. He slowed down, the soft crunch of gravel under the tires filling the silence.

What the hell was he thinking? He was no good at this—not at getting close, not at navigating the messiness of human connection. It was safer to stay on the periphery, to keep people at arm’s length.

And yet, when he thought of her, sitting alone in that drafty little cottage, her hands twisting together as she struggled to find the right words...

He shook his head, pulling the truck to a stop at the edge of the woods. The engine idled softly as he leaned back against the seat, staring into the darkness.

Maybe he’d screwed things up. Maybe it was too late. But for the first time in years, the thought of walking away felt wrong—like turning his back on something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for all along.

If she needed time, he’d give it to her. If she needed space, he’d take a step back. But he wasn’t walking away—not yet.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. She tossed and turned, her thoughts refusing to settle, until finally, as dawn broke, she gave up entirely.

The cold of the morning didn’t ease the knot in her chest. It stayed there, heavy and unwelcome, as she moved through the motions of her day. Even crocheting, her usual refuge, didn’t bring the same comfort it usually did.

By mid-afternoon, the cottage felt suffocating, the silence pressing down on her. The new landline sat on the counter, its presence a reminder that she wasn’t as cut off from the world as she sometimes wanted to believe. Her fingers hovered over the receiver, debating.

She hadn’t called her best friend in weeks—not since the move. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because explaining everything felt like dredging up a wound she was trying to let scar over. But now, with the weight of her encounter with Logan still fresh, she needed someone to talk to.

Finally, she dialed.

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice picked up.

“Evie!” Martha’s voice burst through the receiver, warm and animated. “I was starting to think you’d gone off the grid for good.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her grip tightening on the phone. “Hey. Sorry for disappearing. It’s been… a lot.”

“Of course it has,” her friend replied, her tone softening. “How’s the new place? Are you settling in?”

“It’s… okay,” Evelyn said carefully, turning to look out the window. “The town’s small, the cottage is old, but it’s quiet. Peaceful, mostly.”

Her friend hummed thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement. What’s going on?”

Evelyn hesitated, chewing on her lip. She didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to put words to the tangled mess in her chest. But she’d called for a reason.

“There’s someone here,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been helping me with repairs around the cottage. He’s… nice. Quiet. A little rough around the edges.”

“And?” her friend prompted, sensing there was more.

“And last night… something almost happened.”

The line went quiet for a moment before Martha spoke again. “Define ‘something.’”

“He tried to kiss me,” Evelyn admitted, her voice trembling. “And I—I pulled away. I told him I couldn’t.”

“Oh, hon,” her friend said, her voice filled with understanding. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I feel awful. He looked so hurt, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it. I thought I was ready to move on, but when it came down to it…”

“It’s okay,” her friend said gently. “You’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to rush into anything you’re not ready for.”

“But what if I hurt him?” Evelyn asked, her voice breaking. “He’s done so much for me, and the last thing I want is to make him feel like he’s not enough. He is. It’s me. I’m the one who’s not ready.”

“Then you need to be honest with him,” her friend said firmly. “You don’t owe anyone your heart if you’re not ready to give it, but you do owe them honesty. If he’s as kind as you say he is, he’ll understand.”

Evelyn nodded, even though her friend couldn’t see her. “I don’t know if I can explain it to him without messing it up even more.”

“You can,” her friend assured her. “And if he’s worth it—and it sounds like he is—he’ll wait. But you have to let yourself believe you’re worth it, too.”

The words hit her like a jolt, her chest tightening with emotion. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her grip on the phone loosening. “I mean it.”

“Anytime,” Martha replied. “And hey—don’t be a stranger, okay? Call me when you need to talk. Even if it’s just to complain about the weather.”

Evelyn laughed weakly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I will. I promise.”

When the call ended, the cottage felt a little less oppressive. She sat by the window for a while, staring out at the forest and letting her friend’s words settle in.

Honesty.

It wasn’t easy, but it was a start.

The tension between her and Logan lingered like an unfinished conversation, heavy and unspoken. Her best friend’s words played on a loop in her mind: Be honest. If he’s worth it, he’ll understand.

Honesty. It seemed so simple in theory, but the thought of baring her tangled emotions to Logan made her palms sweat. Still, she couldn’t shake the image of his hurt expression as he’d walked out of her cottage. She owed him more than that.

Determined to make things right, Evelyn bundled up against the crisp morning air and made her way to his cabin. The drive was short, the road flanked by tall evergreens that whispered in the wind. When she arrived, she hesitated at his door, her heart thudding in her chest as she raised her hand to knock.

No answer.

She frowned, glancing around. His truck wasn’t in the driveway, and the quiet that surrounded the cabin felt almost eerie. With a sigh, she stepped back and considered her options.

If he wasn’t home, maybe he was at work.

The idea of going to the logging company made her stomach twist, but she couldn’t just leave things unresolved. Squaring her shoulders, she got back into her truck and headed toward town.

The logging company was a modest operation, its main office a squat building with peeling paint and a few trucks parked out front. The hum of chainsaws and the distant crash of falling trees echoed from the forest behind it, a reminder of the hard, unrelenting labor that sustained the town.

Evelyn parked and stepped out, her breath visible in the chilly air. As she approached the office, a group of men lingered near the door, laughing and chatting as they smoked their lunch break cigarettes.

When they noticed her, the conversation stopped.

“You’re looking for Logan, aren’t you?” a man called out, his voice tinged with amusement but not unkind.

Evelyn hesitated. “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

Another man nearby chuckled, tipping his hat. “Down in the forest, working on that west patch. Lunch break came and went, but he didn’t stick around.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing toward the trail they pointed out.

As she turned to leave, one of them called after her, “Don’t let him scare you off, miss. He means well.”

She smiled faintly, their words settling uneasily in her chest. Did they all know how much Logan kept to himself? Did they see through the walls he put up as easily as she did?

The forest was quieter here, the roar of machinery fading into the background as Evelyn followed the trail. Her boots crunched over fallen leaves, and her breath puffed out in small clouds as she walked deeper into the woods.

She found him near the edge of a clearing, his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows despite the cold. He stood by a felled tree, his hands gripping the handle of an ax. His movements were methodical, each swing splitting the wood with a resounding crack that echoed through the trees.

For a moment, she hesitated, watching him from a distance. There was something raw about the way he worked, as if he were trying to exorcise something he couldn’t put into words.

Finally, she stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “Logan.”

He froze mid-swing, the ax hovering above the log for a heartbeat before he brought it down with one last, decisive crack. Turning, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze sharp as it landed on her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone more curious than curt.

She took a deep breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jacket. “I wanted to talk to you. About the other night.”

Logan’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the ax tightened. “Nothing to talk about,” he said, turning back to the woodpile.

“Yes, there is,” she insisted, stepping closer. “I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, his voice low as he picked up another log.

Evelyn shook her head. “I do. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Logan, and I just… I feel like I let you down.

He paused, his shoulders stiffening as he slowly set the log down. When he turned to face her again, there was something guarded in his eyes, like he was bracing himself for a blow.

He crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “You didn’t let me down. I pushed too hard. That’s on me.”

“It’s not just about that,” she said quickly. “It’s about me, and the way I’ve been holding back. You’ve given me so much patience, so much understanding, and I’ve been too scared to give anything back.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t interrupt her.

She took a shaky breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’m not ready, Logan. Not yet. But I don’t want you to think that what happened—or didn’t happen—was because of you. It’s not. You’re—” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “You’re more than I know how to handle right now.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “You don’t need to say anything you’re not ready for.”

“But I do,” she insisted. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m running away from you. I’m not.”

Logan let out a slow breath, his arms dropping to his sides. “I don’t want to push you, Evelyn. But I’m not going to pretend it’s easy to see you pulling away.”

Her chest tightened, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through her defenses.

“I’m not pulling away,” she said softly. “I’m trying to move closer—I just don’t know how yet.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Then, slowly, Logan stepped closer, closing the distance between them.

“When you figure it out,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle, “I’ll be here.”

Evelyn felt the weight in her chest begin to lift, just slightly. She nodded, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on hers for a moment before he reached down to pick up the ax. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the forest. “I’ll walk you back.”

They fell into step together, the quiet of the forest wrapping around them like a protective shield. The earlier tension between them still lingered, but now it felt lighter, easier.

As they reached the edge of the lot, Evelyn’s truck came into view. He opened the door for her, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Thanks for walking me back,” she said, her voice softer now.

He nodded, leaning against the truck for a moment. “Anytime.”

Her hesitation was barely noticeable, but he caught it as she turned slightly toward him. “Logan,” she began, her tone unsure.

He straightened, his gaze steady on hers.

“Would you—” She cleared her throat, mustering her nerve. “Would you want to have dinner at my place later this week? As a thank-you for... everything.”

Logan raised a brow, his expression unreadable for a beat. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, feeling the words spill out. “Just food. You’ve done a lot for me, and I’d like to repay you.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Alright. What day?”

“Friday?” she offered, a little too quickly.

He gave a short nod. “That works.”

With that, he stepped back, watching as she climbed into the truck. Once she was gone, the vehicle rumbling down the dirt road, Logan exhaled deeply and turned back toward the group.

The crew had been waiting, their expressions ripe with mischief.

“Well, well,well, look at you, playing the gentleman.”, said Rick.

Logan shot him a warning look, but Rick just smirked, undeterred. “We’re just saying, Logan—if this keeps up, don’t forget to send us invites to the wedding.”

“I don’t want to hear a single comment,” Logan muttered, his voice low but edged.

Pete smirked. “Sure thing. But, uh, you might want to remind us if it’s going to be a spring or summer wedding. Just so we can plan accordingly.”

Logan ran a hand over his face, clearly done with their antics. “You’re all idiots,” he muttered, heading toward the stack of logs waiting for him.

“Hey, just saying, she seems nice,” Rick added, chuckling as Logan passed. “Hope you don’t mess it up.”

Logan ignored the laughter trailing behind him, focusing on the rhythm of his boots crunching over the gravel. His crew meant well—hell, he knew they did—but the teasing felt sharper than usual. Maybe because a small part of him wondered if they were right to joke. What if he did mess it up?

Reaching the worksite, he gripped the handle of the ax tighter than necessary and brought it down against the first log with a force that sent splinters flying. The physicality of the work grounded him, drowning out the echo of her voice from earlier: Would you want to have dinner at my place later this week?

For a man like Logan, used to solitude and simplicity, her tentative offer shouldn’t have stirred much. But it did. The vulnerability in her tone lingered, wrapping itself around him like a thread he didn’t know how to untangle.

Friday. Dinner.

It wasn’t a date. Not really. At least, that’s what he told himself. But the thought of sitting across from her in that warm, firelit cottage made something in his chest tighten.

Meanwhile, back at the cottage, Evelyn stood by her kitchen window, staring out at the fading light. The quiet wasn’t as oppressive as it had been before, but tonight, it carried a new kind of weight.

She ran a hand over the edge of the counter, her thoughts flickering back to the way Logan had looked at her. There was something steady about him, something grounding, but it was also unsettling. She’d built walls to keep herself safe, yet somehow, he was finding ways through without even trying.

Her fingers traced a threadbare potholder hanging near the stove. She caught her reflection in the window—flushed cheeks, slightly furrowed brow—and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Friday. Dinner.

She wanted it to be simple, to be just a thank-you for everything Logan had done. But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

Turning from the window, she glanced at the half-finished crochet project on the armchair by the fire. Her hands itched to pick it up, to lose herself in the comfort of routine, but her thoughts stayed stubbornly on Logan. On the way his gaze softened, just slightly, whenever he spoke to her. On the quiet strength he carried, like it cost him nothing to give.

The fire crackled softly, and she found herself whispering to the empty room, “Don’t screw this up.”

By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, the worksite had quieted. Logan leaned against the bed of his truck, watching the forest line shift into darker shades of green. His crew had called it a day, leaving him with his thoughts and the steady ache in his arms from hours of splitting wood.

He glanced at the scarf looped loosely around his neck, its soft wool a stark contrast to the roughness of his flannel jacket. It wasn’t something he would’ve picked for himself, but he hadn’t taken it off since she’d given it to him.

Shaking his head, he climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. As he turned onto the road leading away from the site, the same thought circled back in his mind:

Don’t mess it up.

Chapter 3

_______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

@coocoocachewgotscrewed @latinapiscess @littlebunnybigheartfics @themareverine @pandapetals @logansbaby @the-quick-red-fox @throwmethroughawindow @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @galacticglitterglue @whos-nin1

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© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[mysticgalsworld]

swept away pt.2

a/n: thank you all so much for your support on pt 1 !! i’m so happy to continue this story for all you lovely ppl.. also just a reminder i take requests !! (special shoutout to angelikaschischi for requesting this specifically 😋) anyways pls enjoy lovelies 💕

pairing: hugh jackman x cleaning lady f! reader

summary: after getting a job at a cleaning company as a maid, you’re surprised to find out that the house you’re cleaning for belongs to the Hugh Jackman..

content warnings: fluff, angst, f! reader, maternal role, cursing, hospital, mental illness, power imbalance, slow burn?, not spellchecked

parts: 1, 2

The car ride to the small headquarters of Pristine Cleaning Co. was long. Your knuckles grip the steering wheel tensely, white emerging from the force of your grip.

“I don’t want to accuse you, but what am I suppose to think?” His vicious words cut back into your memory and your foot presses on the gas to go faster.

The squeak of a giggle behind you rings in your ears as you look behind you. The small toddler grabs her own foot in the carrier. Looking at her, you sigh, allowing the tension from your body to exit.

The roundness of her cheeks distract you from your memories and force you to look at her from the rear view mirror. Her finger comes out suddenly with a small whine as she points to the busted radio.

“The radio?” you ask her, not expecting an understandable response. You press the knob, waiting a bit before a slight sound comes out. It’s scratchy and distorted, but after harshly smacking the top of the dashboard, it clears up.

Alicia Keys’ voice comes out slightly muffled, but to the gummy grin of the toddler behind you, she doesn’t seem to mind.

You closed the banged up door of the old sedan before opening the back and grabbing the baby carrier. Slamming the door, you make your way into the modern building of the Pristine Cleaning Co.

Even though you would rather chop your head off than take another step, you continue. Adjusting your attire, you knock on the small office door and wait. The silence on the other side is as unnerving as the first time you did your interview, but you stand taller.

“Come in.” a smooth voice answers from the other side. Picking up the carrier from the floor, you push open the door slowly before putting on a trepidatious smile on your face.

The woman’s eyes flicker up to you from her paper calendar. She adjusts her framed black glasses before looking down at the carrier and back to your face. “Y/N. Have a seat.”

With her tone, you have to force the saliva to not gulp down your throat as you sit. Thankfully the toddler is too entranced with grasping at the bows in her hair to make any noise.

The room is almost completely silent, saving for the heavy breathing from the child, the automated air conditioning blowing softly into the office, and the heavy sound of keys clicking as she continues to type.

To save you both from the awkwardness of the half-silent room, you speak. “Miss Wong. I was wondering if you have considered finding a replacement for Mr. Jackman’s house?”

She starts, pausing to look thoughtfully at you, resting her manicured fingers on the desk in front of her.

“Mr. Jackman?” Her voice is boarder line sharp as she asks the question. Shit. You were supposed to be “silent, thorough, and unnoticeable” not aware of the residents who lived there.

You swallow softly before meeting her eyes. “I saw a picture on the dresser. So I assumed..” Her eyebrows raise before she sighs, a sound so strangely unlike her you almost shiver.

“Your job is to clean, not to assume. But we have attempted to find a replacement cleaner for his house, yes.”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, hands making slight fists under the table as you process her vague sentence. You nervously glance up at her, urging your voice to exude professionalism.

“Attempted? After my last cleaning I had hoped to switch his house for the one near Rosemount Grove..”

Miss Wong nods, acknowledging your words. Her gaze remains fixated on you, expression unreadable. The silence stretches on for a few more seconds before she finally responds.

“Yes, attempted. Unfortunately, we have been unsuccessful in finding a replacement cleaner. All our other cleaners at this moment have their hands full with their assigned clients.”

She leans back in her chair, her manicured fingers drumming lightly on the stack of papers in her desk.

“I’m afraid I can’t reassign you, Y/N. It’s either this house or nothing.”

Your hands begin to sweat against your pants as you look at the toddler, now completely passed out. Your voice comes out soft as your gaze is stuck to the sleeping toddler.

“I suppose you’ll call him?” With a wavering voice you think of how much this job means. Without it, you don’t know where you would be.

Pushing up her thick framed glasses, Miss Wong continues to type. She watches silently as you look down at the sleeping toddler, a flicker of understanding passing through her usually stoic expression. She nods slightly, acknowledging your statement and the implications it holds.

“I’ll call him,” she confirms, her voice as poised as ever. “But Y/N?”

Your eyes flash to her, searching for a hint of her next words, but her gaze is already back to the computer screen. Professionalism oozing from her tone, she tries to hide her concern. “The kid won’t be a problem, will it?”

Rapidly shaking your head, you wonder if she even sees it from her typing. “No, Valerie stays with my parents during the cleanings. Not an issue at all..”

She nods imperceptibly, her head barely moving. You move to stand, grabbing carrier from beside you. “Thanks Miss Wong, have a nice day.” She glances at you once more, her eyes drifting back down to the carrier before you exit, but saying nothing.

Once in your car, you try to start it. The engine stalls slightly but you try again, making a mental note to get it checked out. The car starts with a low stammer and you finally leave.

When you enter the familiar open house, your breath catches in your throat. Opening the door with your key, you beg to some higher power that he sent the company the correct days he wouldn’t be here.

Wiping your sweaty hand on the thighs of your worn jeans, you start. As it was before, you start with the kitchen. Then you go to the living room, basking in the peaceful silence surrounding the house.

The creak of the front door knocks you out from your trance while dusting. Heavy steps enter the home and as you turn to look, you see the man you were hoping to avoid.

Hugh Jackman’s tall, muscular figure steps through the front door, filling up the space with his mere presence. His eyes scan the living room, taking in your figure as you stand frozen in the middle of dusting.

At first, his expression is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and slight regret. But then it softens slightly as his gaze roams over you, noticing how skittish you seem at his unexpected entrance.

“Oh, hello...” His voice is gravelly, and his steps slower as he moves further into the room.

You nod in response to his greeting, you face no longer cracking professional smiles when you see him.

To you, his face is a reminder of those fucking words. “I don’t want to accuse you, but what am I suppose to think?” Because that’s all he thought you were. A thief. A criminal.

The words replay in your brain. They taunt you. In the morning, in the silence of a car ride, in your nightmares.

Turning away, you continue to dust. Hoping that your brushing him off would’ve given him the hint, you are surprised to hear his weight shift as he continues to stand in front of the door.

Now you drop the duster, going to pick up the vacuum. In your peripheral you can see his mouth open to speak, regret so clear on his face. But instead of listening, you crank the vacuum to the highest setting and hope he gets the hint.

He pauses for a moment, watching your dismissive behavior with a mixture of guilt and frustration on his face. Realizing you were purposefully avoiding his attempts to talk, his brow furrows and his tone sharpens slightly.

“Y/N. I need to talk to you.” His tone seems regretful as he slightly raises his voice to talk over the vacuum. You see him out of your peripheral, hands on his hips as he stands there in his sweaty workout clothes.

Instead of acknowledging him, you turn with the vacuum, pretending to not have heard him.

Seeing you ignore him makes him breathe out a heavy sigh before placing a hand over his face in frustration. “Y/N, please! I need to apologize…”

Lowering the vacuum, you turn to him absentmindedly. “I’m not supposed to talk to you…” you respond, devoid of any warmth.

His frown deepens at your words, his shoulders sagging slightly in disappointment. “I know that. But I need to talk to you…”

Turning off the vacuum abruptly, a sudden silence engulfs the room. You turn to him with your arms crossed. You raise your eyebrows with calm anger, hoping to urge him on.

He swallows, his accent sounding gravelly with his low tone. “I’m sorry.”

Raising your eyebrows in surprise, you almost laugh. The two words you dreamed about hearing finally coming out of his mouth and they don’t feel like enough.

Instead of responding you grab a cloth, starting to wipe down the coffee table. Behind you, he clears his throat. “Y/N.”

You turn to him, the dirty cloth still in your hand. With a tone oozing professional indifference, you start. “I have nothing to say sir. Please let me finish my job and I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“I can’t. I need you to know how sorry I am. I really messed up and I apologize.” He starts to pace slowly, the scene strangely mirroring the situation he was apologizing for.

He continues, his voice rising slightly in regret. “I mean—the second you found the watch behind the dresser I felt like an fucking idiot.”

You giggle slightly at he starts to ramble out his apology. Suddenly your old phone starts to ring. Shit. You keep it on silent and only emergency calls actually ring.

You mumble a quick sorry to him before picking up. Glancing down rapidly at your phone, you answer. Hugh sees this and stops, wondering why you looked stressed as you answer the phone.

Your brows furrow as the person on the phone speaks. “What? Is she okay?” Breathing more heavily, you listen to the other side. “The hospital!” Your voice raises before you mumble a quiet “fuck” under your breath.

Ending the call with a “I’ll be right there,” you rush to pack up your things, leaving a very confused Hugh.

When you say “the hospital” Hugh’s heart drops for you. A sense of dread fills him when he sees you pack your things with panicked movements.

“What’s going on?” His voice exudes authority as he commands an explanation. Your head already feels like it’s about to explode and trying to explain the situation to him may make your head literally melt off. With a rushed sigh, you brush your messy hair off of your forehead. “I’m sorry sir, I have to go to the hospital. So I can’t finish the cleaning today.”

Hugh watches your stressed mannerisms, his mind racing with unanswered questions. He feels a pang of concern, and his brows furrow as he looks at you.

"Ok that’s completely fine.” With that, you nod and head towards the front door with a jog. Once outside you run to your old, beat-up car. Unbeknownst to you, Hugh stands in the front doorway, watching as you rush to leave.

Turning the key, you pray to any higher power that your car starts. It spudders with a low dying sound and you could almost laugh. Of course this happens at the worst possible fucking time. You try again, getting the same result and sighing.

In frustration, you bang your head against the steering wheel, tears fighting to fall. A hard knock against the window startles you as you look up. Hugh stares with furrowed brows as you open the car door. “Need a ride?” His smooth voice almost acts like a buey in this moment.

“Please…” You hurriedly follow him to his silver Audi Q7. Not used to the luxury car, you hesitate but think back to why you need to ride with him in the first place. His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Which hospital?” Your breath catches as you think, “Uh—Rosemount Community Hospital.” With a nod he drives, a solemn expression on his face.

The drive was silent. As soon as the car came to a stop, you hopped out. Rushing through the glass doors of the community hospital, you ask the lady at the front desk for the room number.

Hugh follows, not wanting to leave you here at the hospital alone. He knows he hates the smell of hospitals, the place where death and life meet, and wonders what you think. Do you like hospitals? Do you find them comforting? Or a bad omen?

Following you to the room, he can’t hide his surprise when you open the door to a small toddler sitting with an older woman.

“Valerie…” Your voice whispers softly and you go to cradle the toddler who now has a bright green cast on her tiny leg. You turn to the older woman, your expression becoming venomous as you grit out,“What happened?”

The older woman splutters in surprise at your tone before crossing her arms. “I was making lunch. She wanted to sit on the counter so I let her, but she started to climb. I turned around for one second—once second and she fell…”

Your face reddens as you breathe deeply. Your normal calm anger transpiring into a red-hot fit of rage. Hugh, still stuck in a state of confusion and shock from seeing the toddler, glances curiously at your expression. “Mom, you can’t do that. She’s a baby, she can’t even walk yet… She shouldn’t even be on the counter in the first place.” With a sigh, you put a hard on your tired face while picking up the giggly toddler.

“Just—can you get the doctor please, Mom?” You sit with Valerie in your arms, watching as your mom leaves the room. Almost disassociating, you stare at the stark white tile before Hugh speaks up.

“Is that your daughter?” His voice seems curious and a little shaken. You aren’t really old, maybe mid 20s. Clearing your throat slightly, you still hold your gaze to the tile. “No.. she’s my little sister. My mom has early onset Alzheimer’s and usually my dad is there to help take care of her.”

Hugh feels his heart drop slightly at your response, a pang of sympathy filling him as he to you. His eyes flicker to the little girl sitting snugly on your lap, who is still giggling obliviously.

Nodding slowly, he takes in the weight of your words before speaking quietly. “I'm sorry about your mom—that’s horrible. And your dad?"

You shrug your shoulders casually, your expression blank and disappointed. Valerie brings you out of your the thoughts, her small hand getting stuck in the bottom of your hair. With a smile, you glance to her face. Chubby cheeks, stubby baby teeth, and the soft tufts of her hair remind you of who you’re doing this for.

Clearing your throat, you look to Hugh, who’s now standing in the corner. “Thank you…” Your voice comes out in a whisper, almost as if you are afraid to say them louder.

His eyes widen for a moment, his heart clenching at the almost timid tone in your voice. He swallows deeply, feeling his throat grow dry as he responds.

"Don't mention it..."

You laugh softly as you think of your piece of crap car sitting dead in the front of his nice house. With a small sigh, you realize having to get it fixed will eat into your already minimal savings.

Pulling out your phone, you call a tow truck company to pick up the car and take it to the shop. Hugh just watches as you do this, a little confused because he was more than willing to do it for you. While you’re on the phone, your mom comes back with the doctor in tow.

Immediately, you end the call and give your attention to the doctor as he explains that Valerie’s leg is broken, but will heal nicely after a couple months. You breathe out a sigh you didn’t even know you were holding and thank the doctor for his time.

Turning to Hugh, your voice comes out strong. “Thank you, Mr. Jackman. For everything… I’ll see you next week.” You almost miss the slight frown at your professional use of his name, but you don’t. Turning to walk out of the room with Valerie in your arms and your mom on your heels, you give him one last smile as you go.

The next week goes smoothly. Continuing your routine, you start with the kitchen. As you start to organize the refrigerator, you hear the heavy steps of Hugh entering. Instead of his normal sweaty workout clothes, you’re almost surprised to see him in comfy clothes.

He gives you a smile before continuing to the coffee machine. Without turning around, his voice rings out above the soft hum of your music. “Coffee?”

Instead of answering, you walk to the cupboard and pull out two mugs. He watches as you place them next to the machine, a small smile on your face. The hint of domesticity from making coffee shocks both of you, so you retreat back to the fridge.

He pours the coffee and approaches you at the fridge with both cups in his hands. Your pinky brushes against his as you grasp the ceramic mug. A buzz of electricity shoots through your arm as you revel in the warmth of it. In a daze, you whisper a thank you before picking out the creamer and offering it to him. He takes it with a smile, happy that you are no longer ignoring him.

Taking a sip, you bask in the rich taste before Hugh’s voice pulls you out of your focus. “How’s Valerie?” Almost completely forgetting that he was at the hospital with you, you clear your throat surprised. You don’t know what surprises you more, the fact that he remembers her name or actually cares about how she’s doing.

“She’s fine—finally getting use to the cast.” I take another sip of my coffee, choosing to keep my gaze on the island between us. He nods in my peripheral, his voice coming out to give a small “That’s good.”

The silence is somewhat awkward and somewhat comfortable, but he decides to break it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve never accused you.”

Nodding, you take in his words. You focus on the deep rumble of regret in his voice, the emotion of it making his accent come out stronger. “I’m not a thief. I just—I can’t lose this job.” Your voice comes out almost desperate. You could curse at the small wobble that comes out as you bite through the words. Afraid to look him in the eye after your words, you set the mug down and go back to reorganizing the fridge.

You can feel his eyes stuck on you, the feeling of it curious and prodding. You continue, picking up the condiments and reorganizing them.

“My father gave me that watch.” The words are so sudden and soft, it shocks you. Your shoulders deflate as you unravel the tension from your earlier words. You turn slowly, mouth open to say something but he stops you. “—That’s why I was so upset… He passed a couple years ago and I wear that watch to—uh remember him, I guess.”

The soft and somewhat solemn expression on his face takes you off guard. Even though he is looking down at the counter in remembrance, you almost feel like the atmosphere is staring down into your soul.

“Mr. Jackman…” you start. He interrupts, holding up a hand, “—Hugh, please.” Nodding, you play with the handle of your mug as you watch him. “Hugh, I’m so sorry.. I shouldn’t have been so defensive and—”

Your mouth opens to explain more, your fear and hatred of people not treating you as a human with thoughts, maybe even your fear of losing this job, but he stops you. He stops you from your unnecessary groveling. “None of it was your fault. I was just stressed and upset and I took it out on you… I’m the one who’s sorry…”

With a nod and a small smile, you listen. Really listen—to everything; his voice, his words, and the soft gravel of his accent. “It’s okay…” With a nod and soft smile, toeing the boarder of friendship, you turn and go back to the fridge.

The following week, the smiles only grow. Instead of telling your company the dates he won’t be there, it seems that every time you come to clean he “accidentally” keeps running into you. When you are cleaning the kitchen, he decides that is the perfect time to have his midafternoon cup of coffee. Or when you’re cleaning his bedroom, he needs to grab things that he coincidentally forgets to bring downstairs.

And the notes reappear too. Silly doodles with swirls and faces conjoined with encouraging notes of admiration. And every time, they make your day. Even when your morning has taken a turn for the worse.

Like this morning Valerie decided now was the time to try to take her cast off by herself. You sigh exhausted as you remember the wails and cries of pain from the itching she had under the cast this morning.

Even with your face and body exhausted, the neon brightness of a colored note sticking to the TV screen brings a soft smile to your face. You pull it softly off the dark screen and pull it closer to your tired eyes to read.

“Coffee?” It’s covered in zigzags, smiley faces, and a badly-drawn cup of coffee, but yet you still feel your feet pulling to the kitchen.

Moving to the kitchen, you are shocked to see Hugh sitting at the countertop with a puzzle, a steaming cup of coffee in his own hand and another in the seat beside him. With a tired smile you greet him, a casual “Hey Hugh” coming from your lips.

He glances up from the puzzle, a pair of reading glasses and a concentrated smile on his face. For a second you glance down to his lips, drawn in a concentrated pout from the puzzle. But still he greets you warmly, the pout disappearing in an instant, replaced with a warm smile.

You take the counter seat next to him, sipping your coffee and watching as he continues his puzzle. Small conversation flows easily, you focused on the coffee and him on the puzzle.

His eyebrows furrow slightly as he focuses on his next question. “And Valerie? How’s her leg?” Your shoulders sag as you sigh with exhaustion. “She wasn’t doing too well this morning, her leg itches a lot but she can’t verbalize it yet so I basically just have to guess.”

Hugh nods, his lips pursing together as he thinks. “God, that sounds tiring. I know when my kids were younger it helped if I distracted them with things they liked.” He shrugs casually as he suggests for you to try it. You nod, taking in the information before taking another sip of your coffee.

Raising the mug to your lips, a piece of the puzzle stands out to you from your peripheral vision. Timidly, you slide the piece over to him, noticing it’s the one he’s missing. The appreciative smile he gives you could light up a room as he slides the puzzle to fit in between you both.

Knowing that you company wouldn’t approve, you have so many things that need to be done, and are a complete hot mess, you work on the puzzle with him.

You find it peaceful. Another taste of the domesticity you could have if you just let yourself be swept away.

a/n: hey lovelies !! as always, let me know what you think and whether or not you want me to continue with a part three.. i’m hoping to update a least once a week, but sometimes it may be more or it may be less (also pls lmk if you have any requests) anyways, love you guys 💕

[samueldays]

Sam Reviews: Factorio

Factorio is a good game.

Factorio is well advertised. When I look at Factorio in the Steam Store with example screenshots, I think: Mm, yeah, it's pretty much like that. There's several screenshots of varying organization and complexity and scale.

Factorio is a logistics, automation and construction simulator game for people who like those things. It delivers what it promises. It's Factorio. If you are even vaguely in the Factorio demographic, you have probably heard about it already, it's hard for me to say anything new about its features.

So I'm going to talk about what I call "unfeatures" instead, the absence of specific failure modes that I've seen many times elsewhere.

1: Factorio does not routinely lie to the player.

There's a lot of video games where the game shows e.g. [80% chance to hit] but the actual chance is closer to 90%. Sometimes because it rolls twice and takes the better result, sometimes because it secretly adds a flat 10% player favoritism bonus against the AI. In the short run, I suppose this keeps players happy by feeling lucky and not frustrated by miss streaks. In the long run, I find it offensive because not only did the game lie to me, the game polluted a playerbase by spreading a false understanding of how much "80%" is, and this will make a lot of people unhappy later when they run into real 80% and it feels too low.

There's a few games which can pull off a clever Interface Screw, where the game temporarily lies a little or hides information for diegetic reasons (visor damage, invisibility spells) where someone is lying to the character, but games that lie to the player are almost always bad. This should be a very low bar to clear, and yet, game devs keep thinking they're clever and transgressive for deliberately crashing into it.

Moving from lying to merely non-informing:

2: Factorio does not expect me to keep my own database.

Again, this is not an absolute rule. There's a few games which can pull off out-of-game note-taking well, such as detective games where working out contradictions and inferences is part of the fun. But even those are usually friendly enough to keep an in-game list of clues found for the player to re-examine at leisure.

For most games, once you've discovered e.g. a potion recipe, then the potion recipe should stay discovered and be listed in-game, in a character knowledge section. Quest Logs should be a standard feature of RPGs, so the player can step away for a week and the character has the information freshly available, avoiding "WTF was I doing" problems.

Factorio is very forthcoming about providing information to the player, both general function and specific numbers. Some games might say Assembler 2 is "slightly faster" or "much faster" than Assembler 1, but Factorio tells me that the the Assembler 2 has a speed of 0.75 while Assembler 1 runs at speed 0.5 (the baseline of 1 is the player character's own production speed).

With quality of life improvements, Factorio will even auto-calculate and display how relative speed interacts with processes having different base times, so a smelting furnace might say something like [Takes input of 1.2 copper ore per second, outputs 1.2 copper plate per second] in the mouseover tooltip. Except with icons rather than text, so it's shorter.

Plus, there's good "Ctrl-F" functionality to help me find where something is.

Some enemies in Factorio are immune to fire. These enemies will immediately be listed as having 100% fire resistance when you mouse over them. You don't need to catalogue enemy resistances by exhaustively shooting each enemy with each weapon. You don't need to remember the resistances, the game will track and display those for you.

3: Factorio lets me play the game, not play the wiki.

When I say "play the wiki", I don't simply mean looking things up, I look things up in Factorio too. I am gesturing at a game design failure pattern where the game expects a player to know/learn something and is very bad at providing ways for the player to learn it.

e.g. if I loot [Silver Key] from some house, I can reasonably expect it'll be useful, and I'll discover it in the natural course of play when I find a door with a silver lock. Maybe I even found it earlier and can backtrack now that I've found the key.

but, if I loot [Silver Crystal] [Red Crystal] [Pale Crystal] [Purple Crystal] from some house, but only one of them opens a door, and the other three are worthless filler, this is the "playing the wiki" failure mode. There's no good way of learning that 3 of 4 crystals do nothing, so I end up going to the wiki if I don't want to be carrying around worthless trash in my inventory - especially if I have a limited inventory and/or there's more red herring objects elsewhere.

Many games are self-sabotaging this way! Players checking the wiki are players browsing the internet, not playing the game!

As mentioned above, Factorio provides a lot of information up front, in game, so I never need to look up on the wiki how fast the new assembler is, or what the plastic crafting recipe is, or how much health an enemy has.

"Where do I go to get more iron ore?" Wiki can't tell me that, Factorio has random map generation, I have to explore. Strong randomization is another method of avoiding the wiki problem.

"How do I fight this enemy?" Wiki can't tell me that either, Factorio gives me a toolbox of guns and grenades and mines and poison and tanks and artillery, but there's never any kind of necessary special secret that's troublesome to discover. Big enemies can be killed with tactical nuclear strikes, or with weight of fire from lots of small guns. Wiki might have advice, but not a walkthrough to the 'correct' way of doing it.

4: Factorio does not steal control with frequent, repeated, unskippable animations.

Some games insist on making you watch the Movement Animation every time you give a unit order, some games insist on making you watch the Transition Cinematic each time you move to a different area, some games have text that gradually loads into a dialog box and won't even present your dialog options until the Text Scroll has finished unrolling. Et cetera.

Factorio respects that I'm here for a game, not a movie, and definitely not a movie that I've seen a dozen times before. This is partly about respect for the player's time, and it's also about flow and interruption. Even a sub-second animation can be very jarring when it blocks interaction. A sub-second animation can be especially annoying if it's in a frequently-accessed part of the interface that could itself be sub-second to use, and the animation makes it take 2-3x longer to use every time.

By contrast, a dishonorable mention goes to Citizen Sleeper, which a friend recommended to me recently. You can watch a speedrun of the game here. It's ten minutes and a lot of that is spent on enforced waiting for animations to play: zoom into location, zoom out of location, fade to black, unfade from black, and even a loading bar animation for buying an item. Very artistic, I'm sure. Infuriating when I am accustomed to Factorio's responsiveness.

[katblu42]

Two

Cheeky fic reblog because the Tracy boys and Kayo love their 'birds . . . but maybe their birds love them back.

Read on AO3 here Original post here

The sudden opening of my overhead hatch by remote access wakes me from my slumber. He’s coming. My pilot. There must be a situation. If it were anything else the hatch would have been opened manually, and if it were any other pilot it would be the lower hatch, not the one above my cockpit. He swings down from the end of his chute, his boots hit the checker plate of my cockpit floor and he reaches up to close the hatch. There is an automated close control, so he doesn’t have to do it by hand, but it is quicker and much more satisfying when he does. The solid thunk as it shuts both feels and sounds more secure, more reassuring than the slow, quiet, automatic closure. And it signals the unofficial beginning of our next adventure together. He smiles every time he pulls the hatch closed – there is a certain excitement in the urgency of a launch. Someone needs us, and we have to fly.

My pilot is unique. No one else treats me the way he does, or understands me like he does. He knows me better than any other human, more intimately than even the creator himself. The creator is the one responsible for my original design and build, but I suspect my pilot may have had a little input. He has certainly had a creative hand in upgrades and repairs, and prefers to do as much hands on maintenance work as he can, often working alongside the creator and his robotic assistant when he can’t complete the work on his own. The creator may well know every nut and bolt and wiring loom, every function and capability to the letter of the specifications, but my pilot knows I am more than a marvellous piece of engineering.

He knows me in the air – how I will respond to any weather conditions, any sudden changes, and every little twitch of my controls. My pilot knows my limits in practice, not just on paper and by the numbers. He will push me when it’s needed and knows when I have given all I can. We have nursed each other home battle-scarred and wounded on many an occasion. He will apologise whenever my abilities are stretched beyond capacity, whenever there is damage, and every time he needs to pull me apart for repairs. I don’t need the apologies. He takes care of me, and I will do my best to take care of him.

My pilot feels affection for me. He shows it in so many little ways, like the absent minded way he’ll trail his hand along the surface of my hull as he passes, or contentedly hum along with the rumble of my engines. It’s evident in the way he speaks to me. Barely audible whispers of greeting, or thanks for a job well done. Impassioned pleas to give just a little more in desperate times, often followed by relieved words of thanks accompanied by a loving rub of my dash, or forehead resting against a bulkhead with a relieved sigh once the crisis is over. He speaks to me in words of encouragement and praise. He believes in me and relies on me, and in return I will give him everything he asks of me. For him I will push my limits to do what he needs me to do, to get us all home safe.

He calls me beautiful. I know that I am not, but it is good to hear him say it. Strong and dependable I may be, but not beautiful – except perhaps in his eyes. I am not sleek and shiny like my sister ‘birds One and Three. Nor am I built for speed like them, but I am proud of my capabilities. Still one of the fastest machines in the air despite my grand size and considerable weight, I am versatile and able to carry just about any cargo imaginable. Sometimes I wish I could be faster, but I know that some things are more important. Without me it would be impossible to get specialised heavy equipment to where it is needed, my medical bay is the best equipped and largest in International Rescue’s fleet, and I am capable of carrying a large number of people to safety. If I were to fail in my duties it would make the job of my pilot and his colleagues immeasurably difficult. So, I must not fail.

He sings to me. When he’s working on repairs or maintenance, when he’s tidying the cockpit or restocking the medical supplies, or sometimes, when we’re flying alone. His voice resonates through my systems and reflects off my surfaces and harmonises with my own sounds. I like when he sings. He seems to do it when he’s happy, comfortable – content. None of the others ever sing to me. The Co-pilot – the one who belongs to Four – he sings sometimes, but it’s not the same. He seems to sing as a distraction, to change the prevailing mood in the cockpit, or just for his own entertainment. His singing is loud and raucous, but not necessarily bad.

Others have flown me when my pilot has been unable to. It is never the same. The Commander, One’s pilot, is always trying to rush me, wanting me to be something I am not. He is impatient with me and grumbles that I am not fast enough. He gets frustrated if I do not respond immediately to the slightest adjustment of my controls, and yet he will often take an extra fraction of a second to find the switch or lever he needs because he is used to flying a different ‘bird. I understand his sense of urgency, but flying for him is sometimes hard work, as though he is fighting me instead of working with me.

The Co-pilot, Four’s pilot is better. Four and I are like the closest of sisters in many ways. We are often called to work together as I am able to carry her to locations she cannot reach fast enough alone. As a result her pilot and mine work together often, and he gets to see first hand how my pilot handles my controls. When he is required to take over piloting duties he emulates what he has seen my pilot do, right down to voicing encouraging words when needed. He is a good pilot, but he lacks a little confidence in himself, as though he is afraid of doing something wrong and causing damage to another’s ‘bird. He means well and he is trying to connect with me on some level, but it is not the same as the partnership I have with my pilot.

The little one, Three’s pilot is somewhere in between those two. He has that nervousness about him, the fear of making a mistake flying a ‘bird that’s not his, and he seems to have a desire to prove himself so he’ll try and do things his way instead of feeling and listening to what I need. At the same time he is inclined to want to rush and expect me to respond more like One or Three instead of doing things my way, but he seems more comfortable adjusting his piloting style than the Commander is.

The other – the Voice from the stars – only really flies me remotely. I have no tangible connection with him. Remote piloting is clinical, calculated, precise and impersonal. He does not communicate directly with me through voice or touch, only electronics. He relies on numbers and sensor readings rather than human senses like my pilot does. I know it is necessary at times for this intangible Voice to take control this way, but it is a lonely way to fly.

My pilot’s strong hands are gentle, nimble and sure in their movements across my controls as he completes pre-flight procedures. The module we need for the job has been selected, loaded and secured into place – part of me, but not. The modules, the pods, the machines and equipment I carry are perhaps like accessories or clothing for a human – it is possible to fly without them, but they are still a part of my complete work-ready attire.

The hangar door is opening and we are rolling. My pilot gently caresses a hand across my dash and quietly utters “Here we go, girl.” The launch pad tilts and the countdown begins. I am a Thunderbird, and my engines rumble into a roar. I bring the thunder, and with my pilot, together we ride the lightning.

“Thunderbird Two is go!”