#black engineered quartz

[shesarmed]

Home Bar Single Wall

Wet bar - mid-sized country single-wall medium tone wood floor and brown floor wet bar idea with an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, quartz countertops, white backsplash, ceramic backsplash and black countertops

[loolay]

Farmhouse Home Bar in Cleveland a wet bar with an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, quartz countertops, white backsplash, ceramic backsplash, and a black countertop in a medium-sized cottage single-wall setting.

[youngromancemusic]

Laundry Room - Transitional Laundry Room Dedicated laundry room - mid-sized transitional galley porcelain tile and beige floor dedicated laundry room idea with an undermount sink, recessed-panel cabinets, white cabinets, quartzite countertops, beige walls, a side-by-side washer/dryer and white countertops

[girls-idols]

San Francisco Kitchen Inspiration for a large modern l-shaped light wood floor and beige floor open concept kitchen remodel with a farmhouse sink, flat-panel cabinets, medium tone wood cabinets, quartz countertops, white backsplash, ceramic backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island and white countertops

[glitter-studs]

Powder Room - Bathroom A mid-sized minimalist powder room with flat-panel cabinets, white walls, a drop-in sink, quartz countertops, and black cabinets can be seen in the photo.

[scherzyhamilton]

Kitchen Great Room

[yaguniversity]

Farmhouse Home Bar in Cleveland

[charleytakeabow]

San Francisco Home Bar Wet Bar

[mambalae-s]

wc: 7.8k words

cw: milf! reader; reader is described as a plus sized black woman; masturbation (m); public masturbation (m); no penetrative sex; fantasizing — throat fucking; one (1) mention of a daddy kink; one sided sexual tension; wakatoshi is a simp; he’s down bad; let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

notes from author: so, i’d wound myself up for an entire month working on this and i still had so much i wanted to write for it despite it already being nearly 8,000 words long…! i’ll certainly try my best to make a second part for this, one i’ll want to write from our reader’s experience too! this, truthfully, wasn’t the first idea for my milf reader idea, but i think it’s so much better, and i’m happy with the plot i settled with! i hope that, at least even a little bit, it’ll be satisfying for you to read, too!

it’s amidst a blistering summer’s day when you move into the house next to his.

there’s blood pumping beneath ushijima wakatoshi’s skin and boiling beneath each heavy breath that wafts from his swollen lips. his feet pound against the paved roads as he jogs at a steady pace, and he feels his fibers tinge with a static as they blaze beneath the sweltering noon’s heat, a familiar ache ebbing deep within his muscles and crawling through his veins. the sweat clinging to his brow burns like a toxin that pours out through every cell, his heart beating with the drums that pound through his airpods and teach him a dance he’d learned many times before. iwaizumi had told him once that running could be as addictive as any drug, and here, beneath clear blue skies and through heavy draws of air, wakatoshi considers that maybe he was right.

he takes a deep breath as he mounds the slight hill that leads to his house, and abruptly, his pace halts, chest heaving still as his eyes take to the moving truck parked out in front of the house next to his; a house that had, for a while, remained empty, certainly gathering dust and stale air after the elderly couple had moved away nearly a month long past. it had been easy for him to forget all about the vacant space, what with him dedicating his days to training and months of traveling for practice and tournaments, and it seems that, within that time, someone’s finally purchased it and were moving in today.

he’d been gone long enough for the hard working men to have finished their work, wakatoshi muses, as he watches them pack away their trollies and begin making to either door of their truck. though, as he stands there, he feels puzzled, confused and seeking reason to something he can’t find. there’s nothing spectacular about seeing these two men readying to go about their day, nothing that should keep wakatoshi’s feet planted and his laboured breaths stilling beneath the wind, yet he finds himself waiting, lulled into a curiosity that he can’t explain as he watches the break lights glow red and listens to the engine roaring to life.

and then, he sees you.

you, who wears a gorgeous sundress, deep purple fabric woven like a tapestry of flowers that blossom over a body of voluptuous curves. he finds himself enraptured by your brown skin that shines beneath the scorching sun like smoky quartz, by the sweat that lines your brow as he likens the glistening sight of it to beautiful jewels that shine around your smile and set you alight with the luster of ten thousand diamonds. the strands of your black hair, they sheen on the painting of the midnight sky; dark and elegantly falling around your round face and pouring like a river of obsidian and black tourmaline across your busty chest.

“thank you so much once again,” your voice comes through with fluency in his mother tongue, the japanese you speak perhaps a little regional… osaka, he considers, or kyoto? your voice sings on the breathlessness of intense labour, and wakatoshi deludes himself into thinking that the exhaustion on your sultry voice mirrors the intensely beating heart that stirs in his chest with a restlessness that he doesn’t attribute to his run. “seriously, you two… i can’t tell you how much i appreciate coming all this way!”

the older men you speak to are friendly in their departure, cheering with bright smiles that resemble yours in their warmth and openness as they drive down the deep slope, passing him by the side and far from his mind as he loses his focus on you. suddenly, the fog that clouds his mind doesn’t come from a sweltering summer’s day, but instead from the picture of you, hot and bothered and eyes squeezed shut as you try to wave cool air over your wet skin. the daze that locks around his tongue is the one of your sheen-covered lips as they part and let pass the heavy breaths that sit on your chest, of the rise and fall of your large breasts and the bit of tummy that he can see atop your curves. that daze that consumes wakatoshi, he tells it to lust — a venom that crawls through his bloodstream and tinges his tongue with desire unchecked, so that he becomes consumed by you and the deceptively innocent visage that burns itself into his skin. and suddenly, wakatoshi feels too damn hot, his heart beats so hard he fears it’ll leap right from his throat, and his pants are too damn tight.

oh. fuck… how embarrassing could it be to get a hard on in front of your new neighbour? he didn’t think he’d ever have to ponder such a specific scenario, and he certainly isn’t happy to have a taste of it first hand. even worse, what is he supposed to do when the very same neighbour turns her eyes to him and catches him staring like some demented creep? wakatoshi’s face burns with a heat that far precedes the blazing sun and he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole as his mouth starts to taste of sand and parchment paper. really, he shames himself, how appallingly embarrassing!

just like a guilty child, he averts his eyes as his blood boils across his neck. his feet act on their own, guided by the desire to disappear as quickly as he can with hurried steps and trembling hands that are more than eager to open his front door and seal him behind their sanctuary, and he feels even more guilt for awkwardly avoiding the kind yet confused smile you’d sent his way as you watched the large man scurry up his front steps. the protruding bulge that pokes out from his trousers is so painfully obvious, almost aching behind its confines as he prays that you hadn’t had enough time to notice it. and even then, behind his barrier of safety, he’s left with a problem — a very big one that powders his nose red and takes his breath on laboured climbs.

huffing, wakatoshi trudges to the kitchen, desperately searching his refrigerator for the coldest bottle of water he can find and starts chugging right away. arctic drops spill between his lips and down his throat, though the chill does nothing to dissipate the heat coursing beneath his skin and inside his pants. he doesn’t intend to slam the now half empty bottle down on his counter the way he does, but he loses control and water spills over, and his olive eyes only glare at the puddle that drips over on his marbled floor with something of disdain and increasing frustration.

for all that was holy, he can’t stop thinking of you. even now, with cold water sticking to his skin and poured over his bare feet, wakatoshi cannot get this image of you out of his mind and is rendered powerless to the aching boner that refuses to go away. within just one moment, you’ve seeped into his mind like a parasite that morphs and festers on sin and fornication, plaguing him with your large breasts and plump thighs that sheened with sweat and poured out from beneath your sundress. it’s a hard battle he faces with himself, feeling morally disgusted by the thoughts he finds himself with, and all about a stranger, no less. there’s no way he could be acting so depraved, right? is he a man so starved that the mere sight of an admittedly attractive woman could send him reeling like a damn teenage boy?

once more, wakatoshi heaves a heavy sigh, slouching for a moment with hands clenching the edge of his black stone counter before he rises to his full height. it’ll do him good to at least clean up this spill, and perhaps, he thinks, he aught to keep himself busy — surely then, he’ll forget all about you, and this glaring problem beneath his trousers will forget you too.

thankfully, it’s easier than he’d had hoped to fill the hours of his day. after taking care of his spill, wakatoshi takes to his home gym and continues working out till the late evening, when he showers and prepares himself to settle in with a cup of white wine and a book that he’d bought himself a while back, though only just recently had the time to begin. it’s only so rare for him to be able to enjoy slow days like this between training and volleyball tournaments, and he finds himself at peace with this lull in his schedule. finally, he feels relaxed and at ease, and his stressful situation from the afternoon earlier is far from his mind, until there’s a knock at his front door, and his heart lurches in his chest.

apprehensive, he turns his jade coloured eyes to the smoky glass panels by his entrance, and he feels his tongue turn heavy when he sees you waiting. for a moment, he hopes that you’ll give up if he doesn’t answer, though he immediately feels a bit guilty for thinking that. you’re only wanting to greet your new neighbour and make a good first impression, he considers, and it certainly isn’t any fault of yours the situation he’d found himself in earlier that day. you’re entirely blameless, and it’s really him who apparently needs to mature and grow a bit more than he’d thought. taking a long sip from his glass of chardonnay, wakatoshi builds himself on liquid courage and meets you by his doorway — though there’s no amount of wine that could’ve possibly prepared him for the sight that greets him once he opens the door.

you’re here, but you hadn’t come alone. hiding behind each leg are a young boy and girl who look about the same age and share striking resemblance to your own soft features. heads topped by black, wavy curls, with her tied in pigtails and his cut to his shoulders, there’s curiosity in their dark brown eyes as they appraise him, and he feels almost as if they’re judging him with something that he can’t identify. and you, you smile sweetly at him, your lips painted with a clear gloss that shines golden beneath the lights of his entryway’s chandelier.

“i’m sorry for disturbing you so late in the night, mister,” you offer your apology, and wakatoshi can hear more clearly the distinction in your accent that he’d only briefly heard before. now, as he listens attentively, unconsciously taking in the sultriness of your voice as your words flow from your two-toned lips, he’s certain that it really is a kansai dialect. “i’d just wanted to introduce ourselves since we’d just moved into the neighbourhood.” you lift your hands, that he now notices are not empty, to present a beautifully packaged basket with a little pink bow tying it closed. “and we also brought you these as a gift — a thank you gift, kind of! for having us here with you!”

wakatoshi accepts the gift basket from your hands, trying his best not to focus on the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and beam brightly up at him. standing so close, he’s able to notice new things about you that he wishes he didn’t feel so curious about; like the way you style yourself elegantly, your straight black hair parted to the side, curling the smaller hairs surrounding your forehead so that they lay neatly and perfectly brushed to frame your round face, or the fact that you stand several inches shorter than him, perhaps only barely reaching his chest. he wishes he doesn’t take in the clothes you wear and how they fit your beautiful figure, how your white cardigan hangs elegantly over a beige tank top and khaki coloured pants that accentuate your mature body. he tries, not to notice these many things about you, and so hopelessly fails, as he clears his throat and tries to offer you a polite smile that he hopes doesn’t come off as a grimace.

“thank you for being so thoughtful,” he says, and your smile widens, your eyes creasing around your expression as you respectfully bow.

“it’s my pleasure! i really should be thanking you for welcoming us this late!” theres a timidness to your grin as you lift yourself to full standing once more and you bashfully laugh. “it took us a little longer than we thought to prepare all our gift baskets — oh, right!” your eyes widen on a realization, “my name’s (l/n) (f/n), and these two here,” gesturing to the two children behind you, you bend down a bit to rest a hand on either of their backs. “this here is asahi, and this is makoto.”

the two young children, with your encouragement, bow their heads in greeting to him, with the boy — asahi — quickly returning to hide behind your leg, while makoto continues to stare at him, now with her curiosity unbridled and what looks like an eagerness that roars beneath her brown eyes.

he looks back up at you and offers a bow of his own, ducking his head with the basket clutched to his chest. “my name’s ushijima wakatoshi,” he says his name, and immediately, he hears two simultaneous gasps from the children by your feet. though, at least in this moment, he decides not to ponder too much on the expression. “thank you for introducing yourselves and for bringing a gift.”

you wave your hand in a ‘shoo shoo’ motion and shake your head. “no need for thanks, ushijima-san,” you hum, “really, it’s nothing much, but i hope you’ll be able to find good use for them— ”

“are you a volleyball player?”

suddenly, the little girl, makoto, blurts out a question that causes your eyes to widen and catches him off guard as you both turn your attention to her. she continues to stare up at him, as if awaiting his answer despite you reaching for her hand to gently pull her back. “makoto!” you exhale, a bit surprised, it seemed, as if you hadn’t expected her to ask something like that. though wakatoshi, he doesn’t take any issue at all with her question, and he simply nods his head, once more offering the most polite of smiles he can muster.

“that’s right. i play volleyball.”

you seem to recognize something within the awe-filled gazes of the two children that he doesn’t, because before either of them can get a word out, you’re hurriedly reaching for their hands and making your way down the stairs. “thanks so much again, mr. ushijima!” you call back to him with one free hand, leaving the man standing stunned inside his doorway as you walk away from him. “let’s get along well from now on!” when you think you’re far enough, he thinks he hears your voice taking to astonishment as the little girl whines a complaint — “but mom, we saw him on tv! it’s really him!” and your response heavily pouring with your dialect as you lightly scold her for blurting out so suddenly.

he’s left here, basket in his hand as he hears several gears creaking to their abrupt stops and clanking as they fall apart in his mind. mom? she’d said mom, hadn’t she? with ghostly steps that are far too quiet for a man of his stature, wakatoshi shuffles to his expansive living room where he sets your gift atop his clear glass coffee table, right next to his glass of wine and his book, and collapses into the black suede sofa behind him. you’re a mother? the guilt that consumes him tastes bitter and threatens to crawl up his throat. he sits, hands folded above his lips as his elbows dig into his thighs, and he stays this way for one minute, then two, constantly replaying the sound of your daughter calling you mom. your daughter, your daughter and son, you have a daughter and a son who both call you mom—

wearily, wakatoshi’s eyes glaze over your cutely packaged gift and straight to the glass of wine that sits like a pretty temptation, and cruelly, he thinks of how you are just the same. a beautiful and painfully enticing temptation that will surely render him helpless if he gets any more involved with you. he groans, hissing under his breath as he reaches for the glass and stands up. it’ll serve him better to retire for the night, he concedes, a hand nursing the growing migraine that sits on either side of his head. he’ll finish his glass and read his book peacefully in bed, and for the second time this day, wakatoshi will forget all about you.

except, he doesn’t.

amidst his waking dreams and long night, forgetting you is impossible. how can he, when you come to him here in his bed, the straps of your purple dress falling from your brown shoulders and your breasts pouring out from the thin material? how is wakatoshi supposed to forget you when in his dreams, you tease him with the likeness of a vixen, when you lift the edges of your skirt to show him just how plump and fleshy your thighs and ass are, whispering “do you wish to touch me, mr. ushijima?” in that sultry, silk-like voice of yours. he dreams of the way your eyes would roll back into your skull if he brushes his fingers over that sweet spot between your legs, if his tongue traces lines over your panties until your knees buck and you fall right on top of him. in his dreams, he wants you so much that it’s an ache he needs to fill, until he’s unconsciously fucking his mattress and squeezing his pillows with a vice. his breathing is laboured and tasting of honey as he begs you yes, yes, please, i need you… need you so bad, please i need to touch you—

his climax rocks his body like an earthquake and tears him away from sleep with a jolt, his chest heaving as sweat clings to his skin and his eyes, disoriented, search his dark room for your image before they fall to the soiled mess leaking through his boxers and between his thighs. his damn cock is twitching, still painfully sensitive, and wakatoshi stutters through a gasp as his hips buck uncontrollably, as if chasing some phantom feeling, cum still continuing to spurt from the angry red tip. he reels from pure shock and a bit of morbid amazement as he reflects on his dream, and as he recalls those dirty visuals his mind managed to conjure, he lets out a loud, frustrated cry and falls flat against his mattress. really, is this the man he is? a perverted fool who has inappropriate thoughts and dreams about another man’s wife?

he curses himself, and curses his mind too, as he begrudgingly swings his legs over the edge of his california king and. sleep evades him now, he certainly fears reliving that dream that felt far too realistic, your touches, the taste of you — all far too real that it leaves him shaken. one hand lifts to brush his sweat-matted hair away from his forehead as his eyes disdainfully behold the mess he’s left all over his dark sheets, where his semen sits in a large puddle while there are still drops running down his thighs, and he unwillingly thinks about you once more. those sounds that your voice made in his dream, all those dirty songs and cries of his name that you’d uttered, the way your skin felt so supple and soft beneath his hands as he felt you up and spread your legs apart—

a surprised moan causes wakatoshi to slap a hand around his mouth as his cock twitches in his soiled boxers, still very hard and leaking through the now cold material. no, he decides, he really won’t be able to fall asleep again — not like this, at least. but wakatoshi has practice in the morning, and within all his years of playing volleyball, he’d never gone a night without proper sleep. for the umpteenth time, he groans helplessly, flopping back down on the edge of his bed. he glares at his boner, wishing it would just peacefully deflate and that, really this time, he could forget you and just go back to bed; and again, once again, he sighs, and submits himself to a decision he’s certain that he’ll immediately curse himself for as he pulls out his cock and wraps his fist around it.

he hates himself for it, but it’s so easy for him to build a perfect fantasy of you. one where you’re sitting prettily on your knees and batting those doe-brown eyes up at him through your lashes. his hand squeezes softly around his erection and at first, he moves slowly, choking back each heavy breath of air that threatens to burst through tightly pursed lips. but god, he thinks of the way you’d tease him, slowly tracing your mouth over the tip and leaving a trail of saliva and strawberry flavoured lip-gloss while your manicured nails would trace tantalizingly lines down his thighs. his hips buck impatiently into his own fist and his chest heaves with soft grunts that become more uninhibited as he imagines you finally slipping him into your warm mouth and his very spirit crumbles on the lust that consumes him.

“does that feel good, mr. ushijima?” you’d beseech him, so eager to please as you’d trace your tongue across his leaking slit, collecting the drops of precum that poured out and smear it around your lips. and he’d be just as breathless as he feels in his fantasy, trying and failing to conceal each gasp that evades him as he nods, “yes.. yes, your mouth feels so fucking good.” he’d force you to swallow him whole, pushing your head down to the base until you’d choke and your eyes would water as he’d throw his head back — without his will, his hand moves faster around his cock and fills his dark bedroom with filthy, sloppy noises. “take every inch, don’t you fucking dare spit it out. that’s it, shit…just like that. swallow it all the way down.”

he thinks of how fleshy and warm the back of your throat would feel as you’d gag around him and dig your nails into his thigh, struggling to take even a single breath through your nostrils as he’d mercilessly fuck your face. he’d drag you off him suddenly and slap his cock against those messy lips, and he’d get to admire the way you’d fall apart as your mouth lolls open as if begging him to put it back in. “ohh, such a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” he’d taunt, and a particularly loud, wanton moan rises from his chest as he imagines the way you’d use your hands all while staring up at him. you’d be the very picture of salaciousnes as your hands wrap around his smeared length, teasing the underside of him with your tongue and groaning through your own arousal. he imagines how he’d wrap his hand around your throat as he’d tower over you; he’d have your face pressed right up to his stomach while he’d reach down and grab a handful of your breasts, reeling at how soft and squishy they’d feel pouring between his already large hands before he’d twist your nipples, and you’d whine like a helpless nymph from how sensitive your body would become. “go on, then.” he’d hum, and he wouldn’t give you even a second to prepare before he’d have you choking around his length, groaning as spit would bubble around his erection and pour from your nostrils. “use those pretty little lips of yours. mhm, let daddy feel your tongue on his dick while he fucks your throat.”

and its as he pictures the way your eyes would roll into the back of your head, cheeks puffed and stuffed full as you whine around him that, for the second time that night, wakatoshi cums into his fist. pleasure sears through his teeth and down his spine as spurts of semen explode from his slit and he forgets himself on the suddenness of his orgasm. “shit… ahh— aahhhh, shit!” the spots in his vision and the heat that consumes him from his bone and to his skin, it all coalescences on a pleasure he’d never once felt in his thirty-three years of living. his entire body trembles and his cock twitches against his abs, cum splashing against his sweat-sheened skin and dripping over his skin like hot, molten lava. the afterglow of pleasure is forsaken for the adrenaline that courses through his blood and turns the taste of his tongue to metals untold.

through his bliss, wakatoshi reaches clarity, and is overwhelmed by an intense wave of disgust and repulsion as he glares at his cock so feebly slapping against his stomach; it’s still hard, the damn thing, and every cell in his body craves ravenously for more, more, more…but he refuses. absolutely refuses to repeat what he’d just done. for christ’s sake, you are a mother — a wife to someone who you return to each night, who gets to hold you and touch you, to whom you may give your heart and gentle affections to. tonight had been a mistake, he tells himself; an irrational lapse in judgement, and come morning — he means it this time, really! truthfully! — he’ll forget all about this sin, and forget about you. you’ll be nothing more than a new neighbour who moved in with your family, and your interactions will be few and far between, enough that he’ll be forgiven for the immorality that he’d let himself fall to.

but the devil, oh, the devil, bless his soul, he has his tricks, and he loves to play.

wakatoshi hasn’t at all forgotten about the previous night, but he pretends that he has. on the cusp of dawn, when the rising sun sinks her warm fingers through his tousled hair, he focuses on his beating heart and his laboured breath as he jogs through the park and back through his gated community. he pretends that he didn’t jerk off to his new neighbour and envision her doing the dirtiest things to him, and he almost succeeds.

almost.

he nearly swears when he walks out of his front door the next morning and bumps into you at the earliest hours of dawn. there you are, where you shouldn’t be — not this early in the morning before the sun had risen, when he’d made sure to leave early enough that he would’ve avoided this situation exactly. it’s summer, isn’t it? why, wakatoshi wonders, had you woken up so early? could he really be do unlucky? he sees you and your two children, and he’s now certain that they must be twins, and you’re too busy fixing their backpacks on their backs and fussing over their hair and faces to even notice him awkwardly frozen by his doorstep.

“you both have everything you need, right?” your voice reaches him on tones of faint worry and anxiousness as you lean down over your children, unwittingly showing off your rack for him to see between the button up blouse you wear. even from where he stands, it’s such a clear picture that he feels his head spin as his eyes remain glued there. “you’ve got your toothbrushes and toothpaste? lotion? shampoo and conditioner?”

your son, asahi, tries to escape your busy hands, though it doesn’t dissuade you very much it seems. “mama, we already have everything!” he grumbles with a slight pout, “we’ll be alright.”

a quiet sigh falls from your lips as, finally, you relent, kneeling down to hug your two children. “i know you will be, asahi,” you whisper softly before pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “promise me you’ll both be good and have lots of fun, alright? can you send me a text when you get there safely?” both the twins nod their head yes before placing a kiss on either of your cheeks, and wakatoshi finds the sight endearing as he sees your smile brighten on tenderness and motherly affection. a part of him feels as if he’s intruding on what should be a family’s private and treasured moment, something precious that should only be seen by your husband and not the creepy neighbour next door. his stomach turns in on itself and, like a demon he can’t escape, guilt and shame crawl over his neck.

“bye mama!” makoto is the first one to hop on to her bike, waving her hand excitedly and full of energy despite the early morning, while her twin follows in a far less eager manner as he waves at you too. “i love you!”

“i love you mama..!”

“i love you both, you two!” now standing at full height, you wave both your hands as both asahi and makoto start to pedal away. “make sure to have lots of fun!”

before long, both your children have gone down the hill and you’re left alone with a wistful smile, and wakatoshi finds himself desperate to go before you have the chance to notice him standing. his normally sure feet fail him on a moment as he stumbles in his hurriedness, and in his attempt to steady himself, his hands fall slack and drop the very large, very metal he’d bottle been carrying with a loud clang! that causes your head to whip around. he meets your gaze, shame bubbling in his gut and he wishes that lightning would just fall from the sky and take him from his misery. what happened to avoiding you as best as he could? he wonders, what happened to leaving at the crack of dawn and being on his way before he’d need to lay eyes on you again so soon after last night?

wakatoshi is so embarrassed that he could die.

“ah! good morning, mr. ushijima.” you, oblivious to his plight, greet him politely, bowing your head. he notices the way you absentmindedly pull your cardigan over your sheer night dress, the chill from the morning mist having caused you to shiver a little. your nipples have turned hard and poke through the thin white material, and are very, very visible without him needing to try and see them. he purses his lips, sighs through his nostrils and averts his gaze, focusing instead on retrieving his traitorous waterbottle and praying that his grey slacks do well to hide the problem that now begins to grow beneath them.

“good morning, mrs. (l/n.)”

he tries to focus on his feet as he descends down his front steps, ensuring that he doesn’t lose his footing once more rather than looking at you. and yet, he can’t help the awkwardness that he feels as every muscle in his body seems to have tensed up despite him having gone jogging to warm himself up. you remain none the wiser, something he’s thankful for, as he hopes and prays that he can get past you and on his way before you notice his strange demeanour.

“do you normally get up this early?” you ask in a polite attempt at making small talk, to which wakatoshi offers you a slight nod as he gives you just enough of his attention.

“yes,” and, admittedly, he’s also curious, and he returns a question against his better judgement. “do you?”

laughter bubbles up from your lips as you shake your head. “goodness, no!” you chime playfully, lifting your watch to see the hour; 5:39. “it’s too early for me, but asahi and makoto are about to start summer camp for their club — i’d only been seeing them off today.”

he offers an understanding nod, similarly recalling the days of his youth where he’d also attended summer camps during elementary through high school. right now, he considers would be a perfect time to end this conversation and see himself away now that he’s heard what he wanted from you, but something in him urges him to stay, to talk to you more and spend some time with you. he knows he’s not the best at small talk, is all too aware that his social skills are terrible, at their worst, incredibly abysmal, but he wants to try — against his better moment, and he’s reminding himself all the while that you’re a mother and a married woman, but despite that, he wants to talk more with you. perhaps, and it’s a delusion that he forces himself to believe, he’d want to be friendly with you. it’ll certainly be easier than perpetually avoiding you when you’d done nothing wrong to him, after all.

“are you—” fuck, his voice sounds scratchy as he clears his throat, blush creeping over his cheeks. “are you um… headed back to bed then?”

as you ponder his question, he gets to take in your morning appearance. your hair’s been brushed and tied back with a little white bow, and your lips look air brushed and as soft as rose petals. hugging your sides beneath your cardigan, you shiver, and wakatoshi notices the way you slightly lean back and forth on your heels. “i guess it’d be a waste to try and sleep again now,” you hum with your gaze turned towards the horizon, where the sun begins to peak over the far off mountain on soft blue touched by golden hues. “i’ll need to be ready for work in a few hours.” you turn your gaze to him with a cheekish grin, and his heart skips a beat. “why not start my morning now, right?”

oh. oh, this is bad. for the second time, waktoshi tries to clear his throat with a hand covering his mouth and averts his eyes from your beaming face. “i’ll let you get to it then,” he says, his voice sounding so small and timid to him that he feels his mind reeling and his tongue turning heavy. “enjoy the rest of your morning, ms. (l/n).”

“thank you, ushijima-san! you do the same, okay?” for a second, he lets his eyes find yours, and they dazzle him within just that moment that he has to look away. he leaves as you re-enter your home, and it’s the only thing he can do to squeeze the straps of his bag to rid himself of the jittery feeling racking through his spine. his heart beats too loudly and he feels dazed, as if he walks on clouds and forgets how to even breathe.

he doesn’t— no, he can’t be; his feet break from the slow pace as he breaks into a jog, each muscle within him burning cold and begging for release from the thoughts in his mind. there’s no way… he doesn’t like you, does he? why else would he have dreamt of you the way he had? why else would he feel so nervous and timid when you stand face to face? the morning dew tastes like liquid mercury and sets through his veins on a violent rush as he runs, as far away from you as he can get, hoping to immediately expel you from his thoughts, to escape this hold that you seem to have locked around him.

he laughs at himself, helpless and bewildered; is he really nothing more than a foolish boy? at thirty-something years old, ushijima wakatoshi is developing a crush on his married neighbour — even the mere notion to him is so adamantly ridiculous that he could throw himself off a bridge. he feels embarrassed, utterly and completely mortified, and it’s for his sake that he tries to push the notion far, far away, so that, at least for the day, he wouldn’t have to think about it. he suppresses these budding epiphanies in the face of his teammates, who tease him for being seven minutes later than he usually is and tries to ignore the fact that it’s all because he’d stayed and talked with you. he tries to forget about you through the drills and practice rounds, lets the heavy beating of his heart turn its turmoil into adrenaline and sweat that seeps through his thin shirt. wakatoshi falls into routine and this time, certainly, this time, he’s moved on. the feelings that soaked through his core on the early morning’s dawn have disappeared and melted away on summer’s blistering heat, and he thinks that finally, he can let go of that ghost that’s haunted him from the night until morn.

but noon, as it always does, succeeds the dawn, and there you are.

the burn in his muscles turns to a seething fire that he fears will consume him right where he stands, amidst the people around him going about their days while he remains glued in place. his heart, oh the poor thing, it beats on the fallings of a thousand horses and threatens to rip right from between his rips and spill itself out on the pavement. wakatoshi wants to run, he wants to take flight and escape into the burning sun, but his feet fail him on the jolts that run through his aching muscles when your eyes, oh, he imagines he sees the world in them, find his amidst the sea that threatens to swallow him whole.

“ah? mr. ushjimima!” your voice calls out to him a surprise he thinks he feels on tenfold as you approach the man. god, how many hours has it been, even? he’d only just seen you this morning, isn’t it too soon for him to be put through this never-ending crisis? he doesn’t feel as if he’s ready, as if he can look you in the eyes while trying to force away the memories of last night, or the turbulent mess that dances and ties red knots around his throbbing heart. “i didn’t expect to see you here too.”

neither did i, he thinks helplessly, though he offers a single words that sounds choked up in his throat, “practice.”

“oh!” you chime, your eyes gazing behind him to where the large sports gym stays only so many paces behind — if he really wants, wakatoshi could easily pretend that he has to return if only to escape from you, but he doesn’t — for some incomprehensible reason, his tongue betrays him with the phantom taste of you.

“well,” you smile, and laughter spills from your lips as you tuck your hair behind your ear and meet his eyes from behind your lashes. “i didn’t think i’d see you again so soon — and at my place of work, no less.”

i didn’t think i would, either, wakatoshi thinks to himself, and then your words rewind in his mind and everything halts. your place of work? the question spills from his lips before he can even think to stop it. “you work here?”

you nod with a hum, gesturing with your palm to the academic buildings that span the expansive lot. “i teach vocal composition and contemporary piano courses here.”

“ah.” of course. wakatoshi is bewildered; how unlucky could he be? for the married woman he fantasized about to be working at the very same university that his team frequents for volleyball practice? he takes a moment to curse the heavens and the cruel gods within them because certainly, they must find humour in his agony.

like lasers, wakatoshi’s eyes become too hyperfocused on you all at once. there’s sweat gleaming down your neck and dipping between your breasts and trailing wet marks down your v-line as you, absentmindedly, fan at yourself. he takes in the way your eyes scrunch together and your lips part with a heavy breath, a sigh that, to his ears, sounds lewd and filthy, and on that single breath, his world runs like a viscous furnace. he’s like a moth drawn to each and every detail about you that swells on the summer’s heat and as he stands here, everything consumes him — the slight pout of your full, puffy lips, the display of your breasts that look so big that they could pop out of your low button up dress at any second, those big, doe-like eyes of yours that are so close to rolling back beneath the agonizing heat — every bit of you accords into a vision of immeasurable pleasure and lust, and then you look at him, head tilted back and panting ever so slightly, and it’s enough and too much all at the same time.

“it’s awfully hot today, isn’t it, mr. ushijima?”

wakatoshi thinks he’ll lose his mind.

something breaks like a faucet and pours scalding water all over himself as he feels his grey sweats becoming too tight, too confining, just like the situation he finds himself in and he decides that now would be the perfect time to leave. “i have to head back.” he nearly stutters over his abrupt sentence, and he sees the slightly startled look that comes over your sun kissed face. again, he feels guilty for fooling you, for lying straight to those innocently pure eyes that are none the wiser of the effects you have on him. in a pathetic attempt that he doubts you’ll even believe, he tries to dissuade you with a simple, yet suffocated, “practice is gonna start soon.”

“oh, of course!” his lie seems to work, and wakatoshi hopes that the relief that locks inside his throat isn’t too obvious as you turn your feet to the opposite direction. “i didn’t mean to hold you up, i’m so sorry!”

“no, it’s alright.” it’s not, but what is he supposed to say? “i’m sure you’ll need to prepare for your next class soon.”

you giggle, hiding your smile behind your hand, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. “you’re right. it was a very nice surprise to see you again, mr. ushijima!”

as he makes his pathetic escape, wakatoshi prays that you don’t find him weird after this, but perhaps if you’d have any inclination of what he’d done, what he’s about to do, would you look at him in disgust? of course you would — he asks himself, how could you not? his feet can’t take him to the secluded gym fast enough as he forsakes everything about himself, purely fueled now by this burning desire that’s carnal in its awakening. the bathroom door locks and the bolt slams with a loud click, the ac languidly blowing through this confined area not nearly enough to quell the fire blazing across his skin. it’s immoral and utterly deprived what he considers doing, and the shame he feels is bound to be an eternal scar. yet in this moment, with his cock so painfully hard and pressing uncomfortably against his thigh, leaking so much precum that it stains through the thick material of his shorts, wakatoshi doesn’t care — not for the ungodliness of the act he’ll commit, nor for the consequences that could follow him. not now, at least. as he releases his throbbing member from its binds and wraps his fists around it, it’s the farthest thing from his mind as he thinks about you. again, it’s you.

the wind in his lungs is knocked out from his mouth as he rapidly pumps his dick. in an instant, the empty bathroom is filled with the squelching noises that bounce and echo off the tiled walls, only contested by his laboured breaths and groans. his knees threaten to lose their ground, and he desperately clutches the cold edge of the sink, the chill consuming his palm almost jarring to the aggressive heat that pours all through him. the image of you with your head tilted towards the sky, of your lips hanging open on salacious cries of his name as he envisions you on top of him, it all drives him to the brink of insanity.

wakatoshi thinks of your body in that tight button up dress blue dress. he thinks of how elegant and put together you looked, the picture perfect woman, and how he wants to tear apart only the top pins open and let your breasts fall out so that he could take them between his lips. how would you sound, he wondered, if he rolled your nipples between his teeth, sucked on them with his tongue until they’d turn hard and perky? would you cry out his name just like you always do? would that sweet voice of yours sing out on torrential pleasure as you’d call out to him, your thighs squeezing around his waist while your hips buck and wriggle over his cock? that innocent façade you wear, how quickly could he make you abandon all reason for desire, until you begged him with your words of honey for him to destroy you?

his fantasy falls apart and rips through him like a comet as cum explodes from his throbbing member and spills through his fingers, ever so narrowly missing his pants and spurting out on the tiled floors. it’s non-stop, this horrible, horrible mess that keeps on growing, his body jolting and knees feeling weak and he struggles to hold himself up because he can’t stop coming, so consumed in his fantasy that the moans he fought so hard to contain now ring freely inside the empty bathroom as his hand continues to milk every drop that jolts out of him. you’re the only thing in his mind, consuming him with hellfire as pleasure winds him up and tears him apart over and over again, and he knows he needs to stop, he’s being too loud, too careless, he could get caught, but god, does this taboo feel so good that he loses control. his depraved mind wonders on you catching him, cumming all over his hands like a depraved beast, all because of you?

there’s a daze that overcomes wakatoshi, heat fading to a warmth that fights for some kind of structure to hold on to as he, breathlessly, leans over the sink. his eyes look down between his legs, the length of his cock still twitching in his palm and cum smeared around it and webbing along his fingers. it doesn’t yet come to him, the reality of what he’s done, and its awakening is slow and steady, until it crashes all around him with the last wisps of adrenaline trickling out of his system. for a long time, he stares at his hands, at the mess smeared in his palm and all over his pants, and he meets his stare in his reflection. he stares, but doesn’t comprehend as a minute becomes two, and then five, and when it’s been far beyond ten, his body flushes over with red-hot embarrassment as he clenches his teeth and drops his head.

wakatoshi, filled with shame, wishes he could throw himself into the sun.

© mambalae-s - rb's+feedback are greatly appreciated!!

[crimsonsongbird]

KARLACH

Correspondences: Fire, Passion, Love, Willpower, Strength, Anger, Healing, Journey, Travel, Freedom, Longing, Lies, Entrapment, Courage, Kindness, Acceptance, Vulnerability, Transformation, Hope, Goals, Betrayal, Life, History, War, Fighting, Death, Escape, Resistance, Confidence, Protection, Machines, Metal, Engines, Honesty, Empathy, & Home

Herbs/Plants: Fire Lily, Nettle, Rose, Cinnamon, Birch, & Ash

Crystals: Fire Quartz, Red Agate, Carnelian, Garnet, Citrine, & Hematite

Elements: Fire & Air

Celestial Body/Planet: Mars

Numbers: 1, 2, & 7

Scents: Oil, Fire, & Metallic

Candles: Red, Black, & Grey

Magic Types: Fire, Protection, Shielding, Overcoming, Hex Breaking, Curse Lifting, Banishing, Self-love, Cord Cutting, Courage, Acceptance, Transformation, Healing, Mechanical, Metal, Confidence, Travel, Goals, Hexing, Cursing, Return to Sender, Honesty, Empathy, & Passion    

[maninthemiroh]

About my Criminal Minds DR

Full name: Gagak (Yes, that's it. I was born in Java, Indonesia, in this DR)

My nicknames: Corvid/ae/ (most of the team), Raden Mas (most of the world), Bird boy (Luke), The Crow (film fans)

My faceclaim: LØREN

Gender identity: Cis-male

Orientation: Demi-romantic/sexual

Age upon first shift: 20

More about me and changes I made below the cut <3

My style:

I wasn't going to have this kind of style, as evidenced by my previous post about this DR, but I read through one (1!) fanfiction series about cowboy!reader x Criminal Minds yesterday and… Also, for some reason, black, red, and white were thee colors when I was making the wardrobe section on this Pinterest board? I blame my top #6 video game characters: Ash (King of Fighters), Iori (KOF), Rock (also, KOF), Shadow (Sonic), Skarlet (MK), and Vice (KOF, again). Ahaha, guess what my favorite video game is 🤔 Anyway, RDR2 outfit pic creds to user @/kaddishaun on Pinterest!

Fun facts about me and my life:

Youngest FBI informant a month after moving to the US (subsequently also a month after I turned 10), I'm sort of replacing White Boy Rick in a sense, but without the bad ending and horrible father figure.

Officially joined the FBI at age 11 once I got dual citizenship for the US and Indonesia (yes, I know that's not possible in this reality).

IQ of 304 because I'm an attention whore 😀.

Tallest person ever, as per usual, "only" 9'3 this time, though.

Youngest person to graduate high school, age five at SMA Taruna Nusantara

Youngest person to ever graduate college, age six, via an accelerated course thanks to a 127-page dissertation on serial killers that earned me my first PhD, one in Criminal Justice, at the University of Indonesia.

Besides my first PhD, I have twelve others, one in Chemistry, another in Computer and Information Sciences, then Cybersecurity, Engineering, Mathematics, Pharmacology, Philosophy, Physics, Political Science, Psychology, Public Administration, and Statistics.

Took the CTY entry exam, after it was mailed to me, and aced it, but they originally said I would have to move to Maryland, which I simply refused to do, so I almost turned it down before my parents mailed them a letter back asking if I could do dual enrollment and they'd, as rich people, pay for the transport of my schoolwork to and from our estate in Java, and it was not a surprise when the school board agreed.

When I first opened my eyes in the emergency room, my dad was holding me, and he was wearing a jade necklace, one long enough for me to reach out and grab—I did so, though, my grip wasn't very strong. As such, my mother suggested I be named after the jewel, but my grandfather, who recently visited Banggai, suggested the name Gagak, meaning crow, and my parents liked that better.

I spoke for the first time at 4 weeks and four days, simply said the word "shiny," and grabbed at my great aunt's pearl earring. This further reinforced for my family that my name was meant to be.

It's rude to call an Indonesian person by their full first name, so most have nicknames, and, my first name being what it is, my nickname wasn't hard for Spencer the team to think up.

Unit chief of the BAU since Hotch and Jack went into Witness Protection

I can speak, write, and comprehend all 700+ languages used in Indonesia.

I can read 30,000 words per minute and write 15,000.

Autodidact with an eidetic memory.

I played Eric Draven in the 1994 action fantasy film, The Crow (I will go on to play the same role in the 2024 remake)

From ages 14-19, I was the lead singer and backup guitarist in a faceless V-Kei trio called Birds Dig Us under the stage name, Rook, and we were actually the number one boy band at the time 😭. We haven't released music since 2001, but we didn't break up either [Insider info: things are cooking].

My other bandmates were Miyavi (Dué le Quartz, Skin, The Last Rockstars) on guitar and backup vocals, stage name Tsubasa, and Kai (the GazettE) on drums, stage name Torrio, by the way.

Also, Birds Dig Us made all the songs for The Crow's soundtrack.

I have a southern accent because, after moving to the US and before joining the BAU, I lived in Texas.

Reid's autism and mine feed off of one another, if you couldn't tell…

Some other things I changed:

I scripted that Austin the Bartender, Beth Clemmons, Elle Greenaway, Jason Gideon, Jordan Todd, Kevin Lynch, Maeve Donovan, Maxine Brenner, Stephen Walker, and Tyler Green don't exist, as well as that Aaron Hotchner, Alex Blake, Derek Morgan, and Kate Callahan never leave the BAU (for good, at least).

After Scratch dies, Hotch comes back to the BAU, but I keep my new position as unit chief, and Hotch just becomes a regular member of the team.

Reid and I both get actual diagnoses 😓

It takes longer for the team to go through the motions of Rossi's past because it felt far too quickly done in canon for me. Rearranged a bunch of episodes in the timeline for this and other reasons.

Morgan has lessened trust issues.

JJ didn't emotionally cheat on Will, her fucking baby daddy, because what the fuck was that??

Also, Haley and Hotch were less toxic because WOAH and Strauss and Rossi aren't hunching.

To sum things up: As of now, the BAU consists of its legal expert and former Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner; Alex Blake, a linguist who assists with nuances in communication; David Rossi, one of the first BAU agents and a specialist in hostage negotiation; Derek Morgan, an ex-Chicago policeman with proficiency in obsessional crimes and explosives; Emily Prentiss, a master at child advocacy and counter-terrorism; Jennifer Jareau, the communications liaison and a standard profiler; John Blackwolf, a standard profiler; Kate Callahan, an experienced undercover agent; Luke Alvez, an adept fugitive tracker; Matt Simmons, a skilled profiler from the FBI International Response Team; Penelope Garcia, the technical analyst; Spencer Reid, an elite geographic profiler and chirography analyst; Tara Lewis, a forensic psychologist; and myself, the squad's current Unit Chief and sex crime expert.

PS: My voice claim is Corpse Husband because when given the choice to become my ideal self, why wouldn't I? Before anyone comes at me, I did use to have GERD! I didn't script myself having any disorders I don't or didn't have in this reality.

Taglist: @amiivrse @the-badass-penguin

Divider credits: @/i-mmaculatus and @/v6quE

[girderednerve]

i have once more Read a Book !

the book was jim morris' cancer factory: industrial chemicals, corporate deception, & the hidden deaths of american workers. this book! is very good! it is primarily about the bladder cancer outbreak associated with the goodyear plant in niagara falls, new york, & which was caused by a chemical called orthotoluedine. goodyear itself is shielded by new york's workers' comp law from any real liability for these exposures & occupational illnesses; instead, a lot of the information that morris relies on comes from suits against dupont, which manufactured the orthotoluedine that goodyear used, & despite clear internal awareness of its carcinogenicity, did not inform its clients, who then failed to protect their workers. fuck dupont! morris also points out that goodyear manufactured polyvinyl chloride (PVC) at that plant, and, along with other PVC manufacturers, colluded to hide the cancer-causing effects of vinyl chloride, a primary ingredient in PVC & the chemical spilled in east palestine, ohio in 2023. the book also discusses other chemical threats to american workers, including, and this was exciting for me personally, silica; it mentions the hawks nest tunnel disaster (widely forgotten now despite being influential in the 30s, and, by some measures, the deadliest industrial disaster in US history) & spends some time on the outbreak of severe silicosis among southern california countertop fabricators, associated with high-silica 'engineered stone' or 'quartz' countertops. i shrieked about that, the coverage is really good although the treatment of hawks nest was very brief & neglected the racial dynamic at play (the workers exposed to silica at hawks nest were primarily migrant black workers from the deep south).

cancer factory spends a lot of time on the regulatory apparatus in place to respond to chemical threats in the workplace, & thoroughly lays out how inadequate they are. OSHA is responsible for setting exposure standards for workplace chemicals, but they have standards for only a tiny fraction—less than one percent!—of chemicals used in american industry, and issue standards extremely slowly. the two major issues it faces, outside of its pathetically tiny budget, are 1) the standard for demonstrating harm for workers is higher than it is for the general public, a problem substantially worsened during the reagan administration but not created by it, and 2) OSHA is obliged to regulate each individual chemical separately, rather than by functional groups, which, if you know anything at all about organic chemistry, is nonsensical on its face. morris spends a good amount of time on the tenure of eula bingham as the head of OSHA during the carter administration; she was the first woman to head the organization & made a lot of reasonable reforms (a cotton dust standard for textile workers!), but could not get a general chemical standard, allowing OSHA to regulate chemicals in blocks instead of individually, through, & then of course much of her good work was undone by reagan appointees.

the part of the book that made me most uncomfortable was morris' attempt to include birth defects in his analysis. i don't especially love the term 'birth defect'—it feels cruel & seems to me to openly devalue disabled people's lives, no?—but i did appreciate attention to women's experiences in the workplace, and i think workplace chemical exposure is an underdiscussed part of reproductive justice. cancer factory mentions women lead workers who were forced to undergo tubal ligations to retain their employment, supposedly because lead is a teratogen. morris points at workers in silicon valley's electronics industry; workers, most of them women, who made those early transistors were exposed to horrifying amounts of lead, benzene, and dangerous solvents, often with disabling effects for their children.

morris points out again & again that we only know that there was an outbreak of bladder cancer & that it should be associated with o-toluedine because the goodyear plant workers were organized with the oil, chemical, & atomic workers (OCAW; now part of united steelworkers), and the union pursued NIOSH investigation and advocated for improved safety and monitoring for employees, present & former. even so, 78 workers got bladder cancer, 3 died of angiosarcoma, and goodyear workers' families experienced bladder cancer and miscarriage as a result of secondary exposure. i kept thinking about unorganized workers in the deep south, cancer alley in louisiana, miners & refinery workers; we don't have meaningful safety enforcement or monitoring for many of these workers. we simply do not know how many of them have been sickened & killed by their employers. there is no political will among people with power to count & prevent these deaths. labor protections for workers are better under the biden administration than the trump administration, but biden's last proposed budget leaves OSHA with a functional budget cut after inflation, and there is no federal heat safety standard for indoor workers. the best we get is marginal improvement, & workers die. i know you know! but it's too big to hold all the same.

anyway it's a good book, it's wide-ranging & interested in a lot of experiences of work in america, & morris presents an intimate (sometimes painfully so!) portrait of workers who were harmed by goodyear & dupont. would recommend

[n0t-1nt3r3st1ng]

Vulture!Wednesday AU Part - 6

Wednesday's initial ignorance of the Vermont Railway had been a costly oversight, but she had swiftly adapted and gathered vital information to make up for it. The short list of the railway's services, rail network, locomotives, and rolling stock now lay safely recorded in her notebook, a testament to her resourcefulness and determination.

Having shed her original outfit for something more practical, Wednesday moved stealthily in her black turtleneck, cardigan, pants, boots, and a puffy black vest adorned with her trusty tools. To stay alert and prepared, she wore a paracord bracelet on one wrist and kept the quartz crystal, connected to its delicate silver chain, ready in her other hand.

The engine of her Jaguar hummed to life, and she drove towards the rail yard with caution, mindful of not drawing any suspicion. A light drizzle fell on her windshield as she maneuvered through the dark streets. By the time she reached her destination, the drizzle had intensified into a downpour. Parked a few blocks away to avoid attention, Wednesday continued her journey on foot, embracing the relentless rain that enveloped the world in darkness.

Approaching the edge of the railyard, she moved with calculated steps, staying close to the shadows, and her visible breath testified to the chilling night air. Before delving deeper, she took a moment to orient herself amidst the labyrinth of train tracks and parked locomotives. The symphony of rain on metal surfaces masked her movements, shrouding her in a cloak of invisibility.

Feeling uncertain of her path, she relied on the quartz crystal to guide her. Though the trains had already completed their cargo deliveries, Wednesday knew she could still glean valuable information by placing a tracing rune in them to reveal their final destinations. The crystal glowed faintly as she let it hang, its magical essence still present. Reciting the spell with precision, she directed the weakened magic towards the remnants of energy, guiding the quartz like a bloodhound on a leash to its target.

Navigating through puddles and mud with care, she sought refuge behind parked freight cars whenever a passing security light threatened to betray her presence. The imposing perimeter fence, crowned with coiled barbed wire, was no match for her lockpicking skills, and she swiftly bypassed the padlock securing a side gate, slipping inside the railyard's confines.

The echoes of distant footsteps reverberated through the yard, and Wednesday instinctively pressed herself against the cold metal, barely daring to breathe until the sounds faded away. Feeling more confident within the belly of the railyard, she used the freight cars as cover, moving steadily towards her intended targets – a diverse set of boxcars with varying styles and designation numbers.

With a keen eye, she double-checked her choices, ensuring no car was overlooked. Once satisfied, she took the quartz in hand, carefully running it across the inner face of each  boxcars without making contact but coming close enough for her magic to take effect. As she completed each marking, a brief glowing purple circle shone before vanishing, confirming the successful placement of the tracing rune.

Her mission accomplished, Wednesday retraced her steps back to her Jaguar, her mind buzzing with the thrill of discovery and triumph. The rain had subsided, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and the promise of more mysteries yet to unravel.

For the rest of the weekend, Wednesday diligently tracked the boxcars. To her frustration, they all remained stationary at the station.

When Monday morning arrived, she found herself attending class. Despite her extensive knowledge, she had to force herself to pretend to pay attention to the teacher's lectures. In truth, she could have taught some of the classes herself. Nevertheless, she played the part, answering questions when asked and maintaining the facade.

Eugene was thrilled to see her back in good health and eagerly showed her the equipment. He insisted on explaining how everything worked, and although hesitant, she reluctantly accepted his guidance.

"Would you mind if I ask you a favor?" Wednesday inquired after he finished his explanation.

"Sure," Eugene replied.

"While I'm quite confident in my abilities, I'm not yet familiar with these machines and their particularities. Would you mind staying with me for a few more minutes after tending to the hives, in case something goes wrong?" she asked. She believed that showing some vulnerability would help strengthen their camaraderie. Eugene held a position of authority among the members, and there was nothing to lose by earning his favor.

Moreover, she was scheduled to work her first shift with Xavier Thorpe and Beany Boy, and she needed someone to distract her, especially when it came to dealing with the annoying boy.

Unfortunately, Eugene was absent for most of the first part of her shift, leaving her with no choice but to engage in conversation with Xavier.

"You know, I've been meaning to talk to you," Xavier said.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Wednesday deadpanned.

Xavier chuckled. "You really don't remember me?" There was a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"Should I?" she replied.

"Last time we met, I was about two feet shorter and forty pounds heavier," Xavier explained, gesturing to indicate his former stature.

"That doesn't ring a bell," Wednesday replied, her curiosity piqued. "What happened?"

"Puberty, I guess," Xavier shrugged.

"I meant what happened the last time we met," Wednesday replied, slightly irritated.

"Oh, yeah, it was my godmother's funeral," Xavier said. "Apparently, they were friends with your grandmother and spent their twenties in Europe swindling the rich and notorious. We were ten and bored, so we decided to play hide and seek and had the brilliant idea of hiding in her casket."

Wednesday's lips curved into a small smile. "Yes, I remember hearing your muffled screams. I thought your grandmother had somehow cheated death and clawed her way out."

"Either way, you hit the big red button and stopped me from being burned alive," Xavier said. "You left before I could thank you."

"Your thanks are appreciated but unnecessary. Like I said, I thought you were your godmother," Wednesday replied.

Xavier's disappointment was understandable, but Wednesday hoped it would finally put an end to his persistent attempts to engage with her. However, she could still see desire in his eyes and the glances he gave her during the brief pauses of his broadcast. Eugene acted as a barrier after that, preventing any more unwanted conversations.

During the second shift, Wednesday found herself alone with Bianca and Kent. Unlike the previous shift, Bianca had decided not to speak to Wednesday at all, which Wednesday appreciated. She also noticed the stark difference in the music each DJ played. Beany Boy played a mixture of Grunge, Alternative Rock, Emo, and Indie, while Kent leaned towards Electronic/Pop, Hip-Hop/Rap, and current trending music. Although Wednesday valiantly endured the music, she knew her greatest challenge would be the third and final shift with Enid Sinclair and Yoko Tanaka, who adored all things Pop.

"So, how are you feeling after the first day?" Enid asked Wednesday while she gathered her stuff. Enid seemed excited, as if she were the new one.

"I was able to get by; Eugene was a good teacher," Wednesday replied.

"Yeah, he's good at figuring out all the tech stuff. So..." Enid hesitated, seemingly gathering courage to ask something.

"So?" Wednesday prompted.

"Puppy wants to know if you can set up the whole thing to transmit online and help us out on the last Saturday of the month." Yoko interjected, hanging an arm around Enid's shoulders.

"I know it's a bit sudden, but Weathervane is going out of business, and they ask for all the help they can get. I think if we run a show from there, it might get them customers, but when I asked..." Enid explained.

"Rowan had another of his meltdowns?" Wednesday feigned surprise. "Where is he, by the way?"

"No idea," Yoko replied. "He kinda disappeared, which is worrying because of the killer."

"A killer?" Wednesday asked, not up-to-date with the city's affairs.

"Yeah, five or six Normies died already. They think it might be one of us," Enid replied, her voice saddened.

"And what is this Weathervane?" Wednesday asked, quickly changing the subject.

"Oh, it's the oldest cafe and bakery in town," Enid became excited again. Wednesday had to admit, this version of Enid was much more tolerable. "Have you never been there?"

Obviously not, Wednesday wanted to reply. Instead, she tried a more civil approach. "I don't believe I had the pleasure, no."

"You've got to come with us then!" Enid all but shouted. "They have these homemade donuts that are to die for, and the cafe is really good."

"It may or may not be her favorite place," Yoko added.

"I'm currently waiting for a... package," Wednesday hesitated. She needed to foster a good relationship with other students, and Enid provided the best chance. "But if it's short, there's no reason I cannot set up a stream."

"Oh, you won't regret it!" Enid squealed and took a step towards Wednesday with her arms outstretched. Wednesday quickly took a step back. "Right, colors, sorry," Enid said sheepishly.

Wednesday gave her a relaxed look, and the group began the long trip downstairs.

"Hey, where are you living anyway?" Yoko asked.

"I live in the outskirts of the city, by the ocean. For all its advantages, I sometimes find the city overwhelming," Wednesday replied, having practiced the excuse enough times to sound sincere.

"Tell me about it, there are days it seems everyone is just looking for an excuse to go at each other's throats," Enid replied.

"Still, kind of a shame," Yoko said.

"How so?" Wednesday asked, intrigued.

"Puppy here still doesn't have a roommate," Yoko pointed at Enid with her thumb. "She's all alone in that tower. You two could've been the odd couple, can you imagine?"

"It might be for the best. I've been told I can be a handful," Wednesday replied. "May I ask you something?"

"Shoot," Yoko replied.

"Why do you call Enid 'Puppy'?" Wednesday's question seemed to hit a nerve with Yoko and Enid. They both stopped in their tracks, and Wednesday stared at them from the bottom of the stairs. "I'm sorry if you don't want to talk about it."

"Ehm, well, I'm a werewolf," Enid replied, hesitantly. Wednesday was confused. Werewolves weren't rare, so why the... she wanted to say shame?

"She's just a bit of a late bloomer," Yoko added, playfully rubbing her friend's arm.

"I haven't changed yet. All I got is this," Enid's nails extended into multi-colored claws.

"Impressive," Wednesday said.

"Thanks," Enid replied. "My family enrolled me here; they think being around other werewolves might help me ease out and shift."

"It's kind of a big deal for a werewolf," Yoko informed Wednesday.

"I'm sure you'll be nothing short of glorious," Wednesday replied.

The pair accompanied Wednesday to her car. Yoko whistled as she examined the Jaguar.

"It looks fast," Enid noted.

"Its performance has yet to let me down," Wednesday replied. If she had a garage back at the house, she could work on its engine, but for the moment, it was more than adequate. "Do you drive?"

"I don't have my license yet," Enid replied.

"If you ever want to practice, I'll be happy to lend it to you," Wednesday offered.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Enid declined.

"I insist. If not to replace the introduction to your favorite spot," Wednesday replied.

"Hey, can I drive this beauty someday?" Yoko asked.

For some reason, a red alert sounded in the back of Wednesday's head.

"If you promise to be careful," Wednesday replied.

"On my life," Yoko mockingly placed a hand over her heart.

She said her goodbyes to the pair and headed back home. It was only her first day, and she was exhausted. So much so that she nearly forgot about her writing hour, had Thing not reminded her.

Still, all first steps in a plan were like this. She just needed to grow accustomed to the rhythm. Spending a few hours in a cafe wouldn't be much of a problem, not if she left the spells running under Thing's supervision. It might not be perfect, but things were going just as planned.

[universitypenguin]

Hey Alice :) this is prob a weird question but what kind of car do you think Lloyd drives? We know he’s luxurious so I can see him in something sleek and sporty like an Audi or another European make car

Also how do you envision Lloyd’s house? Is he particular about his decor? Is he the type to be in to antiques or more modern pieces of furniture

I think Lloyd would drive something expensive, but also nondescript. I’m picturing a Mercedes-Benz sedan. It would probably be gray or black. I can see him in a few different models. If he was being conservative, he’d have bought a mid-priced model like a C 300. If he was in a spending mood when he bought the car, he’d have gone for the pricier S 580 4MATIC.

He likes the performance of German engineering and the powerful throttle of the motor. It’s an added bonus that in the D.C. metro, the car blends into the sea of other luxury vehicles. The reason he’d never consider a smaller, sporty model, like an Audi R8 or a BMW M4, is simple. You can’t fit a dead body in the trunk. He’s not planning to commit a crime, but proper preparation prevents poor performance. And when you need to move a dead body there’s no room for error.

Lloyd sticks with a roomy sedan that has plenty of space in the trunk. He keeps it stocked with a shovel and a large box of kitty litter. In the Virginia climate, those items don’t attract much notice. They’re snow storm essentials and he keeps them next to the emergency kit with blankets, water, jumper cables, and a tow chain. But a shovel and kitty litter is good for more than just getting traction in an ice storm, you know? 🫣

For his house, Lloyd lives across the Potomac from D.C. in Old Town Alexandria. He chose the house because it’s less than 30 minutes from the office and the charm of the cobblestone streets appeals to him.

The neighborhood he picks has a brick wall and wrought iron gate facing the street. To get to his house, you have to park in a lot down the street, and then walk down the block to the courtyard gate. The gate isn’t locked but it’s another layer of security - something that would slow down an attacker. Inside the gate is a cobblestone courtyard with Beech trees in the middle. There are five townhouses in the courtyard neighborhood, two on the right and two on the left, with another at the back.

Lloyd owns the inner property on the left side. He likes the location because he’s insulated from every possible angle. The gate protects the front and the courtyard access gives him a view of anyone approaching. Both sides are covered by the other row houses and the brick wall hiding the common area means no one can see much beyond the small gate. The large trees prevents overhead photos and the lack of a garage door further secures the location.

For decor, he paid a decorator to fix the place up. She went for a mix of antiques with modern touches, with a subtle nod towards costal styles in the color palette. The walls are a neutral white, to better showcase the eclectic artwork she chose for his home. She went with the traditional set of wingback chairs, a structured sectional sofa to anchor the room, and a jute rug in the living area. His coffee table is a simple design made of reclaimed elm wood and the end tables are mismatched. One table is made out of distressed gray wood and the other is polished brass.

The decorator gave him plants to tie it all together. He has a fig tree, a Japanese maple, and a ficus. There are potted plants in every room, and he loves how they liven up the place. Looking at them makes him feel like he’s at home. That’s in addition to the herb garden with mint, basil, chives, and tarragon, that she installed in his kitchen window. He has to admit, the herb garden is one of his favorite touches. He uses it almost every day.

The kitchen is thoroughly modern. It has a wide island down the middle and cabinets on both walls. The quartz countertops are durable and crafted to look like marble. Having lived in flats with marble counters in the past, Lloyd has no interest in getting the real thing. They’re too easily scarred. He has a farmhouse sink, with plenty of elbow room to peel potatoes and stack up dishes. On the end of the kitchen is his formal dining room with a table that, when extended, seats fifteen.

His bedroom has one of the best antique pieces in the house. The Italian Renaissance walnut headboard has hand carved Foliate Scrolls and a matching footboard. He has it restored and styles it with a green jacquard bedspread. The decorator finishes the look with antique tea tables for the nightstands, and places an overstuffed chair and a reading lamp in the corner. She installs a wall of floor-to-ceiling black out curtains to prevent the east facing windows from waking him up at dawn. On the windows themselves she adds bamboo shades to bring another texture to the space.

And despite his protests, the decorator puts more plants in the bedroom. Lloyd can’t help but leave them there even after she’s gone. They just… work. He’d never have put them there on his own but the morning sunshine makes the Christmas cactus bloom every three months and turns the climbing vine thing into the picture of health within days.

A year later, when it’s time to decorate the guest room and the sun porch, he re-hires the same woman. This time, he hands over his credit card and tells her to follow the same process she did the first time.

[unboundtravels]

SHORT TRIPS; UNBOUNDNOVEMBER 20/23: SUNRISE

A post regenerated (Looney) Doctor enters The TARDIS after a trying ordeal. Inside, he attempts to situate himself after the change concludes.

She stands there on the corner of an empty street. The sunlight bakes her wood, causing her to have an aged, rustic look. Her blue has faded into a darker color. She's decided she wants to wear an aged, faded look. Her windows were a pale yellow, her text and lamp scratched and worn. Despite her rustic appearance, she's still the most beautiful thing he's ever laid his eyes on. 

He's still wearing another man's clothes. Now he's maybe a few inches shorter, though. He's holding a thick cotton black coat, wearing a baggy faded sweatshirt and loose trousers. He'd already kicked the boots off a while ago. His skin was lit with a blush, his cheeks dotted with the odd freckle here and there. His eyes were bright and brow and his hair was long, wavy, and brown. He hadn't had the time to change because he'd been forced to wake up prematurely and attend to some planet-saving business. That was done now.

"I like your new look, old girl." He compliments, before fishing out the key and pushing the door open. Once inside, he was bathed in a warm, aquamarine glow. His eyes take in the circular shape of the new console room. "Oh," He cooed, "I really like your new look." He moved to step up the raised platform, hands tracing the rusted railing before he stepped up onto the first of two raised platforms leading to the console. He's impressed by the organic pillars and the wall-mounted platform. The TARDIS felt very mechanical in this form, with a splash of patchwork to make her feel more handbuilt. That made the connection between himself and her more intimate in that regard, he thought. It felt like she wanted to feel pride in him. Switches felt placed in familiar positions that made it feel like he himself had constructed the craft.

The rotor was pretty. The crown jewel of the console room. Steeped in a blue glow that gave it a beautiful contrast with the amber walls. The loose cables were a lovely touch, while also feeling needed. More powerlines indicated increased power. He draped the coat of his previous incarnation over the hydraulic raised car seat near the back of the console. He stepped toward the console, his hands clicking and twisting various switches that seemed to prime the engines and the console. He exhaled, "Ohoho... I know I hear ya, I hear ya." He replies to the purr of the TARDIS engines. She's ready to take off. Before he can even begin priming the engines for take-off fully— he moves to step away from the raised platform, down through a small hatch-like door leading into the corridors.

The Wardrobe was a multiple floors, with a rotational staircase leading up to the rest of the floors. He climbed up it immediately, heading toward the top floor. He intended to work his way down, and on his way up he began removing the rest of his previous selves clothes. On the top floor, he started with pants. He grabbed a tight pair of black jeans and socks. On his way down he grabbed a black T-shirt and a pair of sneakers, high tops. Near the final floor, he grabbed a green cargo jacket and a messenger bag. By the time he reached a mirror, he was more confident in his appearance. His hands were in his jacket, but the messenger bag helped his look appear firmer, tighter.

With his new look, he moved to click various switches that warmed up the engine. A buzzing on the console attracted his attention. The console deposited a Sonic Screwdriver, the latest model. Retrofitted with all the current upgrades and a little extra. The Doctor squealed excitedly, "Oh! A new one~" He grinned delightfully, like an excited, manic puppy. It was copper, with bits of silver. It's bulb was green. Holding it by the quartz handle, The Doctor aimed it. The button was housed in a black leather midsection. The bulb glowed an emerald green. He tossed the Sonic Screwdriver, letting it spin before he caught it again and slid it inside his inner breast pocket. "Thank you, sexy~" He winked at the console before standing away.

"We've got so many places to go... So many stars to see." He grinned brightly, that light in his eyes seemed restored. A light that had once been gone seemed rejuvenated, restored. He was eager, ready. He waited though, at the front doors. He leaned against it, the console. Perpetually caught in silence as he waited for his friend. Despite it all... 

He'd still rather head off with someone, than no one. And she'd endured so much.

She deserved a few more trips.

[acannibalisticswordfish]

my two cents in Piglin lore other than land and stuff

General stuff: Piglins are some of the most intelligent being in the nether. Second to only the enderman, they have social hierarchies depending on the biome they reside in. Due to the mass of warm light, during night, their eyes will glow a deep red (the beast is an exception to this, as they stay white). Otherwise, it will stay a semi translucent light. Their organs and skin resemble pork, but with a bit more human tones to it. Such as smaller intestines and a larger heart. Each clan has domesticated a part of the family that hoglins reside in (I haven’t come up with a name for that)

Horde of the hunt: In the westward crimson forests, a clan of megalomaniac hunters chase ancient hogs and lava launchers (both a war boar on a larger scale). From the bright conditions so close to lava, they tend to have darker skin based on the range from the ancestors hunting ranges. Strangely, they don’t wear gold. They will wear the hollowed out bones of their greatest catch, if it’s not too heavy. Their leader, The Beast, rides one of these ancient hogs. He uses a Bone Cuglel to hunt anything, which includes humans and game animals.

on that note, rather than just being the same thing; Lava launchers and Warboars are in the same family. Warboars are a Pygmy variant of the Lava Launcher, which is loosely related to elephants.

Horde of the spore: In the most northern warped forest, a group of rotund piglins serve their leader. Often called “Biglins”, these heavyweight pigs often search for things to feed The Devourer. The Devourer is very..heavy to say the least. He weighs about four tons, which is growing more and more day by day. He sits in a hollowed out hill, marinating in a sickly green broth of mushrooms and pus. His back has three large fungus boils, filled with blood and pus. It has this awful scent of unwashed skin. Rather than killing enderman, they sent the residents into the southern and eastern warped forests

Horde of the bastion: This horse resides in the bastion remnants that are left from ancient builders. The Unbreakable has a monopoly over the supply and distribution of black stone, as most bastions use black stone as a primary material. Interestingly, the Unbreakable’s arm is missing and composed of gold and gallons of lava (around 156 [btw I have no sense of weight and all]). This will harden and jam from time to time, therefore there is an addition role in the civilization. Those who change out the gears and lava risk their life daily, but nobody cares. Other than portal guards, who are adorning a modified arm blade and mace. The piglins in this horde often adorn excessive gold jewelry, with accents of quartz

The Great hog is one of the few piglins that doesn’t necessarily require a dynasty to succeed. The most recent ruler had been killed by an engineer and succeeded. How do they get the mass? The staff or spear they wield often gives them more muscle mass. They usually have a Seer, a piglin who studies enchantments, infuse the staff with magic properties. Said properties include necromancy or spontaneous generation. Not a lot is known about the seer, other than it’s about six feet tall.