#metal roof over shingles

[philbridges]

Cost Of A Metal Roof

Phil explains why he does metal roofs the way he does. The difference between what we charge and the average charge of metal roofs from people complaining how we do it. Our quality is just as good if not better. ⏱️⏱️Chapters⏱️⏱️00:00 Intro00:12 Had some people complain about no slip sheets00:40 We did 3 roofs in Florida 23 years ago, they are fine01:05 What we charge a sq ft for metal roof vs.…

[fairdig]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[pennsylvaniaroofer]

13 COMMON ROOF PROBLEMS & THEIR SOLUTIONS

Explore solutions to 13 common roof problems with our comprehensive guide. From metal roof over shingles issues to roof ridge vent problems, we cover a range of roofing concerns to help you maintain a sturdy and durable roof. Learn about the signs and symptoms of various roof problems and discover effective solutions to address them. Whether you're dealing with leaks, shingle damage, or ventilation issues, our expert advice will help you identify and resolve roofing problems efficiently. Protect your home from costly repairs and ensure the longevity of your roof with our valuable insights. Contact us for professional assistance in addressing your roofing challenges.

[deerynoise]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[daybreakatdawn]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[garciamiah]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[clemeence]

Boston Craftsman Exterior Large arts and crafts brown three-story wood exterior home photo

[omarkeller]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[gpptraining]

Boston Craftsman Exterior

[reasonsforhope]

"Amsterdam’s roofs have just been converted into a giant sponge that will make the city more climate resilient.

The Dutch have always been famous for their ability to control water, born out of the necessity of their homeland, much of which is below sea level.

Now, their expert water management skills are transforming the city skyline in the capital city of Amsterdam from one of terracotta tile, concrete, and shingles into green grass and brown earth.

It’s part of a new climate-resiliency trend in architecture and civic planning known as the ‘sponge city concept,’ in which a garden of water-loving plants, mosses, and soil absorbs excess rainwater before feeding it into the building for use in flushing toilets or watering plants on the ground.

If heavy rains are predicted, a smart valve system empties the stored rainwater into the municipal storm drains and sewers in advance of the weather, allowing the roof to soak up water and reduce flooding in the city.

In this way, the rooftops of buildings can be wrung out and filled up just like a sponge.

In Amsterdam, 45,000 square meters, or 11 acres of flat metropolitan rooftops have already been fitted with these systems, and the contracting firms behind the technology say they make sense in dry climates like Spain just as much as in wet climates like Amsterdam...

A 4-year project of different firms and organizations called Resilio, the resilient network for smart climate adaptive rooftops, rolled out thousands of square meters of sponge city technology into new buildings. As with many climate technologies, the costs are high upfront but tend to result in savings from several expenditures like water utilities and water damage, over a long-enough time horizon...

All together, Amsterdam’s sponge capacity is over 120,000 gallons.

“We think the concept is applicable to many urban areas around the world,” Kasper Spaan from Waternet, Amsterdam’s public water management organization, told Wired Magazine. “In the south of Europe–Italy and Spain–where there are really drought-stressed areas, there’s new attention for rainwater catchment.”

Indeed the sponge city concept comes into a different shade when installed in drought-prone regions. Waters absorbed by rooftops during heavy rains can be used for municipal purposes to reduce pressure on underground aquifers or rivers, or be sweated out under the Sun’s rays which cools the interior of the building naturally.

Additionally, if solar panels were added on top of the rooftop garden, the evaporation would keep the panels cooler, which has been shown in other projects to improve their energy generation.

“Our philosophy in the end is not that on every roof, everything is possible,” says Spaan, “but that on every roof, something is possible.”

Matt Simon, reporting on the Resilio project for Wired, said succinctly that perhaps science fiction authors have missed the mark when it came to envisioning the city of the future, and that rather than being a glittering metropolis of glass, metal, and marble as smooth as a pannacotta, it will look an awful lot more like an enormous sculpture garden."

-via Good News Network, May 15, 2024

[adore-laur]

GET MINE, GET YOURS

— your ex-boyfriend is a mechanic, and you still jump his bones on occasion ❤️‍🔥

——

2004

Heavy raindrops cascade off the roof of the mechanic shop, its metal shingles mottled with splotches of orange rust. The sight forms tight knots in your stomach as dreary storm clouds loom over the town. You stall outside for another minute, soaked pebbles crunching under the soles of your shoes as you pace near your car. 

After exhaling a quelling breath and rolling your shoulders back, you slowly walk toward the half-closed garage. Harry is running the shop all by himself this afternoon, working gruesome nine-to-fives just about every day of the week. You don't know how he does it, so you try to visit and keep him company once in a while.

Today, however, is different. The brakes on your car have been squeaking incessantly, and you know jack squat about anything car-related, so you had no choice but to ask your ex-boyfriend for help. 

Yes, your ex-boyfriend.

You would honestly rather listen to him drone on about all the intricate parts of an automobile than some wise guy who makes you feel stupid when you confusedly nod along and attempt to ask clarifying questions. Harry is much nicer about it. He simplifies terms for you while your mind drifts away to things much more interesting than the anatomy of axels and tires. For example, Harry's pink lips or the beautiful veins protruding from the backs of his hands.

You've gone to him with car problems before, but you mostly visit to hang out with him. It's never awkward since the breakup was mutual, and you are still on good terms. Plus, you find contentment in the routine of bringing him fast food and talking his ear off while he does the strenuous work. 

And so what if you still fuck him on the down-low?

There's nothing wrong with having no strings attached, especially since he gives you heavenly sexual experiences each and every time. It's not like it's a weekly thing, either. It's just that whenever you cross paths with him, it always ends up with his body hovering over yours and his cross necklace dangling above your bare chest. 

Unfortunately, you're not in the mood for that right now. The stress caused by your shitty car and having to probably pay a hefty amount of cash just to be able to safely drive anywhere has quickly turned your day sour. 

As you duck your head to enter the garage, the smell of rubber and oil instantly permeates your senses. The plug-in air freshener on the wall is doing the absolute bare minimum. Soft bass creeps into your eardrums, and a groovy R&B track plays from Harry's boombox sitting beside his reliable red toolbox. You grin and roll your eyes when you recognize the eminent growl of Christina Aguilera coming through the speakers. You're greeted with a song you'd never expect him to listen to whenever you visit. 

Turning your head to the left, you spot Harry working under a beat-up vintage Cadillac. He's lying down on a roller with his knees bent, metal clinking from whatever he's fixing. The black skinny jeans he's wearing are faded, and he's not wearing any shoes for some risky reason; only white socks cover his feet. 

"Hi, baby." Harry's voice rumbles, jolting you. You've told him to stop calling you that, but it falls on deaf ears every time. 

"How'd you know it was me?" you ask, running your fingertips across a stray wrench. 

He laughs huskily. "I can see your dirty ass sneakers from under here."

Before you can defend your mud-stained shoes, his hands grip the bottom edge of the car as he rolls himself out from underneath, revealing his face decorated with smears of grease and his long hair tied into a bun. It's been two weeks since you saw him last, give or take, and you swear he gets more physically buff each time. His biceps are practically bulging as he wipes beading sweat from his forehead, the sheened muscles filling out his grubby uniform deliciously.

You break away from your lustful trance and nod your head toward his boombox. "Stripped on cassette, huh? You keep on surprising me." 

"Is there a problem?" He slings a soiled rag over his shoulder.

"No, not at all," you reply lightheartedly. "It just isn't really a manly record to fix cars to." 

He teasingly sticks his tongue out and saunters over to you, bending down a bit before wrapping one arm around your waist and lifting you in a firm embrace. His mouth breathes warm air against your neck, and you can smell the spearmint gum he's been chewing.

"Came to visit me?" he murmurs as he gently sets you down, keeping a firm grip on your hip and hooking his middle finger through your belt loop. 

You pout and tell him, "My car is broken." 

He mimics your expression. "Yeah? What happened?" 

"I was driving home from the grocery store, and the brakes started squeaking out of nowhere." 

Harry stops smacking his gum and furrows his eyebrows. "And you drove all the way here without calling me?"

You grimace. "Please don't be mad." 

"You're not supposed to keep driving when your brakes are acting up," he says seriously. "You know better." 

"I didn't want to make you leave work," you reply, fidgeting with your hands. 

He softly tuts while flinging the rag somewhere behind him. "I would've come and gotten you if you had asked." 

You just shrug helplessly and look around the garage, admiring Harry's workspace, which completely encapsulates his personality, even though he shares the space with a coworker most days. Various cassettes are stacked haphazardly on a shelf, ranging from girl groups to classic rock to spa music for meditation purposes. He has an opened bag of organic potato chips on his workbench, the brand he always buys from the gas station just down the road. There's also a shallow pottery bowl in the corner where he puts his rings so they don't touch oil. 

He's a moody motherfucker, but you know all of his soft spots. 

"I'm guessing I'll be spending the entirety of my last paycheck on the repair," you mutter while wandering around, picking up random tools. 

Harry leans back against the car he's working on and crosses his arms. "It'll probably cost around two hundred dollars to replace the brake pad," he says. 

"What the hell?" you say incredulously. "You need to talk to your boss about lowering the prices around here." 

"I am the boss."

"Oh, that's right."

He laughs through his nose. "Negotiate with me about it, then. Convince me to lower the price." 

You stop in your tracks and stare at him, unimpressed with the upper hand he tries to have over you. "Nope. I'm not doing that." 

"Why not?" he asks. "C'mon, I'm bored out of my mind." 

You groan and stride over to stand in front of him. He's so hard to resist. "Fine. Will you please give me a discount?" 

Harry drags out a monotonous hum before plainly saying, "No." 

Standing on your tiptoes, you touch your nose to his and whisper, "Pretty please?" 

He narrows his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering against yours. "You're getting warmer." 

"I'll help you fix my car," you plead, willing to do anything to save a little money. "I'm really good at following instructions." 

"You are, sweetheart, but absolutely not." 

You frown and bury your face in his neck. He's sweaty, yet there's a hint of some pine-scented cologne coming through that drives you insane. "If I let you fuck me," you suggest boldly, leaving a slow kiss near his pulse point, "will you give me a discount?" 

Harry moves his head to look at you straight on, smiling smugly and using his teeth to stretch his gum across the tip of his tongue. "That's more like it." 

"But don't you have a car to fix right now?" you ask, feigning innocence to get under his skin. 

"Baby," he murmurs, "you can't come here and expect me to actually get work done. You're too distracting." 

You pinch his thigh through his jeans. "Stop calling me that." 

"No," he says softly. "You're still my baby." 

"Not anymore." 

"Then no discount for you." 

You scoff and step away from him. "Stop being a jerk, Harry." 

"Letting me fuck you just for a discount, hmm? Is that it?" He raises his eyebrows.

"You know I'd let you fuck me anyway," you admit under your breath. 

The muscles in his jaw twitch. "God, you give me whiplash." 

You get up in his face and say, "Yeah, well, you give me a headache."

His hand quickly reaches out to push the back of your head toward him, messily smearing his lips against yours. "I hate when you're like this," he mumbles into your mouth. "My baby's so stubborn when she doesn't get her way, isn't she?" 

You bite his bottom lip and tug on it before releasing it. "Don't want to be your baby." 

His hand gravitates toward the curve of your ass, squeezing just once. "Then tell me what you want."

"I want to be your brat."

Harry's head tilts as he visibly swallows. "Get on the couch," he orders lowly. "Face down, ass up." 

You grin, pleased to the max, and stroll over to the black leather couch in the back while Harry shuts the garage door for privacy. The screech of the lock makes you wince, and the sound of the pelting rain becomes muffled. The continuous drops on the roof match the speed of your racing heart. 

Placing your forearms on the cold, cracked leather, you bend your knees to get into position and tilt your head so your cheek rests on the cushion. Harry swiftly removes his hairband, his curls messily falling past his shoulders. Next, he unbuttons his shirt, revealing his swallow tattoos and chest hair, both slick with sweat. His cross pendant rests perfectly against his skin as he comes up beside you and leisurely trails his fingers down your spine until they reach the waistband of your low-rise bell bottoms. 

Goosebumps erupt across your arms when his other hand goes to unbutton his skinny jeans. You can see his bulge strain against the tight material, and it makes you squirm impatiently. 

"Sit still," Harry says, pulling down his jeans. His black boxers and thigh tattoo are now directly in front of you. 

You pitifully moan when he crouches and grabs your wrists to place them behind your back. "Not fair," you grumble. 

"Oh, really? It's not fair that I'm about to fuck you." 

"You know what I mean." 

Harry tugs down your pants and underwear in one go, the material bunching at the back of your knees. He then takes his boxers off, placing one knee on the cushion and lining himself up as he grips the top of the couch to stay balanced. 

"Still on birth control?" he asks, planting a quick kiss on your shoulder blade. The cold metal of his necklace against your skin sends an avalanche of chills down the length of your spine. 

You nod, and Harry immediately thrusts into you. You gasp as the burning sensation spreads like wildfire all the way to your thighs, your hands clenching into tight fists as he continuously rocks deep strokes in and out. You whimper with each one, and Harry's hand holds your hair back in a makeshift ponytail to watch every pleasurable change of expression on your face. 

"You good?" He pants while slowing down his thrusts, keeping them long and purposeful. 

"I want to touch you."

His hips pound into your backside. "Yeah? Where do you want to touch me?" 

"Anywhere, just please let me." 

"I didn't know brats begged like whores," he says, tugging your hair. 

You wiggle your fingers behind your back, trying to touch his stomach, but it's to no avail. Harry stops thrusting, his hair hanging over his face as he looks down at you. "Want it that bad?" he says in awe.

You muster up fake tears and nod pathetically to get your way. "Please, daddy." 

It always works like a charm. Harry grunts and instantly pulls out, hastily sitting on the couch with his legs spread and grabbing your waist to make you straddle him. 

You kick off your pants and underwear the rest of the way, along with your shoes, then sink down on his cock, slowly grinding on him with your hands in his hair. You want to touch him everywhere, so you rub your palms down his chest and then hold both of his hands as you arch your back and tilt your head up toward the ceiling rafters. The new position tightens your orgasm more quickly, and the way Harry is desperately moaning with his hands clutching your thighs causes heat to prickle all over your body. 

"Such a pretty brat for me, right?" Harry praises you, kissing along your jaw and down your neck. "Getting your way like you always do." 

"Mm-hmm," you hum, every grind making your stomach rub against his, all sweat and smooth skin. "Only for you." 

He nips love bites along your collarbone. "It fuckin' better be. I don't want you doing this with anyone else." 

"And what if I do?" you ask, the slickness of your arousal sticking to the inside of your thighs. 

Harry opens his mouth with a scoffed moan when you circle your hips. "Th-think I'd die from jealousy." 

The fact that you got him to stutter makes you grind faster until his jaw is clenched and he's clawing scratches on your back. "What's there to be jealous about?" 

"That they get to stuff this tight pussy, and I don't." His eyes roll back as he starts to stimulate your clit with his thumb.

Not only is he a moody motherfucker, but he's a filthy one too. 

"You're doing it right now, though," you say, and Harry nods briskly. "Consider yourself lucky." 

"But I want to be the only one." 

"I know." You suddenly choke out a moan when your orgasm approaches. "I'm gonna come, Harry. Oh, God..."

"Me too," he says, his chest heaving. "Give me a good one, baby." 

You hold onto his shoulders and tense your thighs while you release, Harry stilling as well as his hips jerk to meet yours. You feel him fill you up, and after he runs himself dry, you fall against his body from exhaustion, whining into his neck as the pleasure consumes you. His arms wrap around your waist, bringing you in for a lazy hug while his cock slowly softens inside you. 

The rain pours outside, and the ambiance calms you down while your body relaxes. It reminds you of a time when things were easier, a time without complicated feelings or unresolved issues. 

Harry abruptly begins giggling, his chest raising with each breathy laugh. You join in, but you don't necessarily understand what's so funny. You lift your head to see deep dimples carved into his cheeks and the devastatingly gorgeous crinkles near his eyes. 

Once his laughter dies down, he says, "We just orgasmed at the same time to "Beautiful" by Xtina." 

"No way," you reply, breaking into more giggles. 

Harry starts cackling as the dramatic piano ballad plays from the boombox, possibly the worst song to listen to while having sex. It's so ridiculous that tears form in your eyes and your sides start hurting from laughing so hard. 

"We also just fucked with our socks on," Harry adds, resting his covered feet on the couch and wiggling his toes.

"Sexy." 

"Super sexy. And quite comfortable." 

You smile and glance at his lips, feeling an intense urge to kiss them, but you know you shouldn't. As soft as they look, it would only make things more complicated. Well, besides the fact that you still have sex with him. You're okay with the equal exchange of satisfaction, even though the emotional boundaries seem to blur more and more each time. 

"You can kiss me," Harry whispers. 

You swallow and shake your head, playing with the ends of his curls. "That's not what we do anymore. I get mine, and you get yours, remember? That's it." 

"You let me kiss you earlier," he points out. 

"That was a different kind of kiss." 

He just makes a disappointed face and lifts your hips so he can pull out. He then stands still, holding you with one arm, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he walks over to the boombox. 

"What should we listen to next?" he asks in your ear, delicately pressing a button to remove the black and white cassette. 

You tilt your head sideways and read the names on the stack of cassettes. "Hmm... how about Time and Form: Celestial Meditation? Sounds like the perfect soundtrack for aftercare." 

Harry snorts. "Shut up." 

You laugh and dig your heels into his lower back, wanting to be even closer to his bare skin. The full-fledged urge to kiss him returns again, this time with a bizarre wave of sadness. 

You can't. He's your ex. 

It would cross the line that was never really there in the first place, but it's a faint one, and it still matters. To you, to him, and to the stakes of what you are to each other. Yet you spend days and nights lying in bed, wondering if he'll call you on the old wall phone at the shop and ask you to come over just because. Or when he tells you he missed you when you do show up, hugging you tight and thanking you for lunch. Or when he's glum and sulky to everyone else but you, his face immediately lights up when you step into the room. 

It all means something, but you'll never allow it to become more than that. Just fleeting moments make up for the emptiness you felt when you stopped being romantically involved with him. It quells the ache, but only in real-time. Afterward, you go home to the apartment you live in by yourself, wishing he could follow you there and stay with you like he used to. 

You didn't cry when you broke up with him because you knew there would still be some sort of relationship present, even though it wouldn't involve dating. That's when you both agreed to keep having sex without the strings attached; however, the buried feelings you have always seem to burst into uncontrollable flames when he touches you. You'll never admit it, though, because a purely physical relationship with him is better than not having one at all. 

It'd be a shame to lose the fire where the smoke is. 

——

[chronically-ghosted]

my home is you

rating: general

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: you warm frankie up after he stays out in the cold.

warnings: snuggling, neck kisses, absurdly large sweaters, family disagreements, mentions of financial hardships, the weakness of southerners when it comes to the cold, mentions of PTSD and treatment, discussions of a dead relative, but honestly just lots of fluff

a/n: @maggiemayhemnj it's here, thank you for your patience! and thank you to everyone who sent in prompts for my mini-challenge, Merry Thanksgiving Nonsense 2023 -- I had so much fun! this can be take place in the same universe as "in another life", but it doesn't have to!

also shout out to the boy irl who inspires all of this 🤍

There are certain things you pick up about a person after two years of marriage. 

In certain cases, you might learn how they prefer their socks to be folded up, or what brand of detergent they think smells the best. Maybe their eating habits after a bad day, or how quickly they go through shampoo. 

After marrying Frankie and listening to his endless business out and around the house, you can pinpoint his moods with startling accuracy based on what exactly he is working on. If it’s your car or his, he’s worried about something, more precise than any mechanic you could ever afford. If he’s working on rebuilding the engine Benny asked him to check out, then he’s focused, in a good but distant mood (you always get nervous when he hoists five hundred pounds above him with a crank) and you know he needs that time in his head. However - for some reason you may ask him about one day or you might just accept it as one of those things as he is the way that he is - when Frankie’s pissed, he works on the roof. 

Maybe because he gets to beat the shit out of something, but when you come home and he’s up there pounding off some rotten shingles, you know he’s had a very bad day.

Which is what you find after you pull up in the driveway from the grocery store one afternoon. Somehow in the hour and half it took you to get eggnog, butter, and melting chocolate (Santi’s annual Christmas bash only a week away), something had really set your husband off. You’d never seen someone so angrily staple down Plastic Santa and his reindeer before. 

So, you’d gone inside without calling out to him, knowing it was better to simply let him be.

That was over an hour ago. 

That was also when the temperature was in the sixties. The sun long gone, the air rapidly cooling down and with an oncoming and sudden wind, you wonder if it will be you who knocks some sense into him, or the weather. 

As you take your freshly-made eggnog bread out of the oven, you hear the clatter of his metal ladder sliding close. You rush to wash off your heads and clean down the counter as the garage door cranks up, his tool box jingling when it’s returned to the shelf. You hear the back door open and you sprint into the laundry room. He might head directly for a shower, in which case, what you’re doing will be rather irrelevant, but you desperately want that first smile, that thing that’ll make him grin and let the tension loose from his shoulders. On your toes, you move back a few towels and ugly Christmas sweaters you bring out only once a year in search of what you’re looking for that you bring out once in a blue moon. You find it and grin. 

You didn’t miss your chance. Frankie, with his head tipped back on the couch, eyes closed, arms locked over each other, is pink. Pink in the cheeks from exertion. Pink on his nose, ears, and hands from the cold. A true Floridan at heart, his body apparently shut down when exposed to temperatures below what you’d experience in the Caribbean. Couldn’t even make it to the shower to warm up, poor thing.

As quietly as you can, you sneak over to him, unfurling what you have in your hands. The instant before you sit in his lap, you see the tiniest quirk of a smile pluck up his mouth.

You open the triple XL sweater in your hands over his head. It practically falls over his shoulders so, without much difficulty, you curl up under the sweater and join him in the darkness. 

The enclosed space brings his cold nose close to yours and you kiss him gently, right on that pink flush. You rub your hands over his forearms, his skin icy to the touch. You can feel the chill under that ridiculously thin red t-shirt and you shuffle closer, hoping your body heat trapped so close to his will warm him up. In the half-dark, the scent of sticky, masculine sweat permeates the little air you have, dampening the pine smell of the sweater that you never can manage to wash out. 

You wrinkle your nose. “You smell.” 

Silence. And then –

He chuckles. “I know. But you smell like cinnamon.” 

Since you first pulled you both under, he moves. He unlocks his arms and you curl even closer. God, he smells much worse when you tuck your head into his neck, the curls pressed against his skin damp, the pulse in his throat strong, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. With a silent, long inhale, Frankie puts his big palms on your thighs, then your hips, and on an exhale, he pulls you into his chest, the bristles of his graying beard warm and scratching against your forehead. His fingers sit like external ribs – heavy, strong, protecting your heart. 

“Is there a reason you put your granddad’s sweater over us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rich and sweet like caramel. The sweater had been enormous on your granddad when he was alive, but he could never find a reason to get rid of it. You spent many Christmases making cookies or putting up the ornaments on the tree while he wore it and when he died, it was one of the only things you took from his house. 

“You looked cold,” you murmur into his neck. He hums his agreement and you get your wish: beneath your chest, you feel the anger and tension and shitty day he’s had flush out of him with every breath. 

 Your fingers, squeezed between his chest and yours, dig into that damp t-shirt. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

Talking – never was Frankie’s strong suit, before and especially after he joined the military and learned to take everything on the chin. 

But, over the years and by carefully coming together over the landmines of the past, he started talking to you. And then he started talking to a therapist who specializes in PTSD. And then he started talking more and better and quite often with you. 

But it’s not easy. It doesn’t come naturally. He knows he’s safe, he knows you're safe, but there is an active choice made every time he opens his mouth. 

“My mom.” He says quietly. “She doesn’t understand why we aren’t flying up there for Christmas. And she doesn’t understand why I won’t let her pay for our plane tickets.” 

You squeeze your fingers, kiss his neck distractedly. Ever since you bought the house together, money’s been extraordinarily tight. You had suggested neither of you get gifts for each other this year, but Frankie wouldn’t hear of it. 

Frankie also loathes accepting money from anyone.

You inhale and Frankie does too, your minds silently on the same thing, the same anxious weight pulling you together in ways you couldn’t quite put into words. 

In your vows you talked about for better or worse. This is worse. 

Two years later, you redefine what partner means every single day with him. 

“I hope next year it’ll be different,” you say to his chin. You actually really like his mom, his family, and your stomach knots at the thought of them being disappointed in you. 

You’re starting to sweat beneath the sweater, up against the damp heat of your husband.

“It will.” Anger gone, he’s your sweet, committed Frankie again. The man that you put your faith and trust in time and time again, and would do it without question for the rest of your life. His palm rubs warm stripes up and down your back. “I know it will.” 

You sit in the darkness and the silence and the warmth of having a giant sweater tucked up around you and you listen to the beating of his heart. A sound you’ve found you can’t sleep without. 

“Thank you for checking on me.” 

He sounds so genuinely grateful your eyes flush hot for a moment. 

“Of course, baby.” You kiss his cheek, the wiry brush of his beard. “Always.”

He squeezes you extra tight when you make that promise. 

Always. 

Your heart beats, your eyes flutter shut. He breathes like he is at peace, with you wrapped up in his arms. 

Always. 

“I made an extra loaf,” you say after a long, content stretch of silence. You grin, even though he can’t see. 

“Yeah? The eggnog bread?”

“Mhm hmm. But you have to shower first.”

You giggle as Frankie pins your thighs to his hips as he swings onto his feet. The loose sweater finally falls over his head but you can barely fit through the head hole. 

“A shower it is, then.”

He walks on memory as you fight through the rolls of material. Finally and by some miracle, you get the sweater off you both as Frankie makes it into the bedroom. 

His hair is sticking up, sweat dried and statick-y, when he drops you onto the bed.

You didn’t know it is possible to carry the weight of the love you feel for Frankie and not burst into a million pieces.

You giggle as he pats down your own floating strands of hair and then tucks it behind your ears, his eyes finding yours. 

Beneath his gaze, you feel gigantic and small, shy and confident, terrified and pleased – all at once. You can’t possibly be the thing that fills his eyes with so much love.

“I love you,” he says, simply, obviously, so much and so little. 

“I love you too.” 

He tugs you to your feet and kisses you, a welcoming, familiar glide of his lips against yours. He keeps you close when he pulls back.

“I’ve had a very shitty day and you’re the only thing that makes it better. So, you’re going to take a shower with me and then we're going to watch any Christmas movie you want, okay, baby?” 

You swallow the tightness in your throat, the wetness in your eyes. His hands feel so big around your cheeks. 

There is quite literally nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Okay.”  

[gruvu]

Been dragging my feet on this and so here are with the last piece of 2023 that I did. WITH a small intro into the story.

To summarize this stardew valley au, my farmer Beau ends up with a alien child and very much is living a horror film narrative for a hot second. Regardless it's just found family. Now down below is the first chapter, you don't gotta read it but if you do I hope you enjoy.

Warning: Injury detail of burns and mentions of war. Just a heads up if you're uncomfortable.

A full year and yet the sounds of the cabin kept the man awake in his sagging bed. The deep moaning of the structure reminded him constantly how he should have asked Robin for an estimate on updating the supports. He had been so wrapped up in getting this farm together, he hadn’t bothered much in his living space. And now with another winter coming, he became aware how unprepared he had been the first time. 

With a deep sigh he rolls onto his side, pulling the blankets over his head hoping to dampen the noise around him as the night moves on around him. The ticking of his clock began to finally lull him asleep only for the house to rattle then the rafters shook as something plowed through the top of the roof. A scream erupted from him as the sound of splinters erupted and could feel pieces of shingles falling upon him and the floor. Has the war reached the valley? No no, not possible! Regardless he scrambled out of bed, hurrying to his light and flicking it on as he looked up towards the rafters.

In the light dust was still sprinkling down from a circular cut though the top. As if someone had used a cookie cutter through the middle of his shingled roof. Almost perfectly carve out if only the wood hadn’t splintered. He could feel the cool fall breeze drift into his small farm house, making him hurry to grab his robe on the coat rack only to pause as he peers out the window. A soft pulsing blue light came from outside, coming from one of his recently cleared fields… “This is a horrible idea.” Beau mutters to himself, as he shoves his feet into his rubber boots before grabbing the club he had in the umbrella stand and leaving the safety of his home into the cool night full of strange dangers. 

The leaves rustled as he steps down the creaking wooden stairs, the pulsing blue light allowing him to find the disturbed earth as something had slammed and skidded through his field. His mind is going to the worst places, but if he could see it and run really fast maybe he could warn the town if there was any danger. Surely this wouldn’t be like one of those horror movies where the stupid teenager goes towards the danger right? CRUNCH. He yelps looking down as he hops away from the piece of metal, giving off a spark causing the man to hesitate to move forward. Wait.. Maybe it was just a satellite? For tv! Nothing spooky about that. With denial and curiosity at his back, he moves towards the impact site. Finding himself staring into the steam at… “What the..” He murmurs, squinting through the bright glow, his club lowering as the farmer draws closer. Using his hand to wave away the steam he could see what had landed in his field. It was a cylinder in shape, and slightly bigger than the barrels he used to age his cheese in the shed. The capsule of some kind wasn’t glowing itself but what it held inside. A fizzy, bubbling glowing blue liquid that began to dim down revealing something in it. Beau had to move around to get a better view, sliding a bit in his boots nearly colliding with the strange alien object. Now closer, crouching down to see the capsule better he squints into the odd substance. “Huh.. There’s.. There’s something.. In there.” He murmurs, as he moves his hand to touch the glass, at first yanking back thinking it was horribly hot only for him to find it only warm to the touch. There was something fleshy in there bobbing in the liquid, but at this angle it was hard to tell what it was. It seemed all common sense of fear left him as he tossed the club away to move the capsule upright, one of the two green lights on the “lid” of the capsule turned orange, a garbled static voice spoke out and sudden searing pain came from his hand. Panic took over as the farmer tried to pull his hand away only for it to stay attached to the top of the lid.

“H-HELP! HELP! SOMEONE!” He yells trying to pull away, not paying attention to the fluid inside the capsule in his panic. If he had, he would notice drops of what might have been dye were put into the capsule. A small mechanical arm inside with a metal needle poked the strange fleshy object inside, making it twitch in response. Then the orange light turned blue and the farmer tumbled back with a startled yell.

Laying there in the dirt, he held his hand in pain. Unable to see the wound in this light but it felt like a burn or something… He was definitely going to have to talk to the doctor about this. Sitting up now he looks towards the source of his pain, the capsule’s fluid inside a sickly green and bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink. He didn’t know what to do now, no one would be up. He would need to talk to Gunther because this clearly was no missile or any war related object. It was something else entirely and he was deeply afraid.

Staring at it for hours, even as the sun began to rise up over the mountains around the town of Stardew Valley, the farmer watched the capsule. Only when something rubbed against his back did he snap out of his sentry-like state.

“AHH!” He whips around, only to see his large gray and white cat, letting out a chirp in response to his yell.

“I- oh.. It’s you Yogi.” He relaxes, reaching out to touch her only to hiss. Looking now at his hand it was red and… Yeah he needed to go see Harvey.

Moving up to his feet, finding himself stiff only for his back to crack and then his neck. He needed to take care of the animals and-

His dark eyes drift over to the capsule now lit up in the early sunrise, a soft hum over the bubbling noises reminding him of its presence pretty quickly. 

He needed to get that thing somewhere locked up first. Then he could show Gunther, but with his hand. He would NOT be touching that thing again. Not without some kind of protection. The stiff farmer walked back to his cabin, his cat chirping at his heels along the way, cooling off his hand with some water and then wrapping it up in gauze bandage before getting properly dressed. He was trembling all the while, grabbing his large quilt to simply cover the capsule with it and dragging it into his shed and rolling it into a corner where it stayed glowing faintly. Beau tried to remain calm but all the while it stayed in the back of his mind as he fed his beloved barn animals. Thankfully he had to focus as he tried get milk only to struggle with the one hand, the pain did help keep his mind off things but it only made it clear that he had to also go to the doctor. Nine AM could not come fast enough.

~~~~~ “Beau the doctor will see you now.” “Thanks Maru.” He ducks into the back, wishing he could have grabbed some pickles or a cup of coffee for the doctor. Would soften the lecture that could be on his way. He knocks on the door and enters seeing Harvey check some notes only to glance up and smile at the farmer, sending Beau’s stomach into a fluttering of butterflies. “Good morning Beau. Maru tells me you hurt your hand. Why don’t I take a look.” He pats the table for him to sit on, all the while looking over the somewhat disheveled man. A slight frown of concern flickered for a moment before going to unwrap his hand tenderly. “Mmmgh.” He winces, pulling his hand back slightly. The doctor frowns, pausing his attempt. “Do you need me to stop?” “No no. I just.. It hurts.” “Well what did you do?” Harvey showed no judgment or disappointment as he continued to unwrap the hand. Truly expressing concern and worry for the man that had more than once ended up in his office with devastating wounds from the monsters in the mines. “...I burned it. I think?” Beau shrugs as his hand is exposed showing the bright pink skin, the entire flat of his hand was raw with his palm having a large burn in the shape of a neat square. The doctor looks down at it, his dark brows furrowed, having seen plenty of burns over his time here but it was odd. So clean and the area around the nasty burn was more or less fine. “What do you mean you think?” He raises a brow studying the burn. It wasn’t anything horrible but would need to be cleaned properly and ointment would be applied. “I.. I.. Don’t know what I burned it on. I couldn’t really see anything?” “Were you in the dark? Hit it on the stove top?” “I was in the dark.. Outside. There… There was this..” Beau wasn’t sure what to tell him, then again the doctor had treated him for flying lizards. “A thing. Like a mason jar but barrel size and it crashed and I touched it. And this happened.” “...You touched an unknown object that crashed?” “Yes! And it’s in my shed.” “In your shed...When did this happen exactly?” Harvey walks over to the desk door, poking his head out. “Maru, could you please get a bowl of warm saline and soap? Thank you.” He ducks back in to look at the farmer. Seeing his hair a mess, the trembling from the lack of breakfast and wide eyes. He was in distress and he came to the doctor for help. There would be no way Harvey would turn his back on him. “It.. It was early.. Early in the morning? One maybe two AM?”

“Have you been up since then?”

“Harvey I’ve had a consistent sleep schedule, I am not losing it over missing a couple hours.” 

“You would be surprised with little sleep you would do to someone… Why don’t you take me to see this mason jar during my lunch break.”

“Yeah and I can grab Gunther too or maybe Demetris? Someone has got to know what it is…”

“I am sure we can figure this out, but in the meantime I’ll clean up that hand and wrap it in some fresh gauze. Then you can lay down in one of the beds for a bit. Catch up on some sleep.”

“That…That sounds really nice.” Beau smiles a bit, his shoulders relaxing as a weight comes off his shoulders. Maru knocks and comes in, bringing the bowl and soap. Harvey thanks her and gets to work. 

Cleaning the hand with the utmost care and tenderness, being aware of how sensitive the burns were with even unwrapping. Drying the hand and putting ointment over the palm easing down the burns before dressed with dry clean gauze wraps.

“Reminds me of the first summer. When you had to rub aloe all over me.” Beau smiles trying to break the silence after watching Harvey tend to his hand. The doctor’s cheeks turned a soft pink as a smile appeared under the mustache.

“You were as red as a tomato. I told you to make sure you put plenty of sunscreen on.”

“I know I just got caught up with trying to clear out one part of the section.”

“Well we both know you could barely move the next day. I am just glad I had plenty of aloe for you.”

The two chuckle as the doctor finishes wrapping his hand. “Now I’ll get some painkillers and you can rest a bit.” 

The farmer nods, as the doctor pats his shoulder. The two walk back and Harvey gets him to lay down. All the while the humming in the shed grew louder as the color of the boiling fluid turned slowly from green into a more sickly olive. The form inside twitched and grew.

[swaglet]

yap post about architecture and climate. maybe you'll find it interesting

that post about architecture becoming homogenous across the world is true but it doesn't even mention how DANGEROUS something like that can be. like. humans started building permanent settlements depending on wherever their group ended up, and their individual climate determined what materials they built their shelters out of, how high off the ground/how deep they built them, how far from shore they built them, etc..... like. i'm not an architect i know next to nothing about architecture but you know what pisses me off? brick houses with asphalt or clay tile shingle roofs and a basement with solid brick foundation walls are the ultimate superior option where i live for climate control reasons. they are more resilient to tornadoes (especially the debris being flung around by the tornado so they're less likely to collapse from the debris), the inside of your house is kept cool during hot summer temperatures especially if you have trees and plants for shade outside your home above your roof, the inside stays warm when you heat it up and the heat doesn't readily escape through the brick walls or the roof tiles during the cold extended winter months, and you can open up the windows as you please during spring and fall because it's usually room temperature outside for most of those seasons anyway and then you can save on the heating/cooling bill and all that. like literally all year round. especially if you have a fireplace and a little bit of insulation in all your walls and the roof, you literally will have no heat escape and you won't even need to turn your heater on. the clay/asphalt roof tiles with any type of insulation under them make it so that your roof won't collapse if there's a ton of snow sitting on top of it even for weeks on end. both the material of the shingles and the insulation will stop the cold from seeping in and it'll stay warm even though there's like a foot of snow on your roof. we have asphalt tile shingles that have not been replaced or even touched in 20 years since this house was built and there has never been a single leak of water into this house from the ceiling and by god does it rain something fierce here. there have been tree limbs and rocks and shit flung at the roof during small tornadoes and the worst thing that happened was a few tiles got dislodged and we put them back up after the storm was over.

this is an extremely wooded area. pennsylvania is literally means "Penn's forest country" we are THE state for timber and wood and whatnot. if a tree were to fall on your brick house with clay/asphalt shingles after it was blown over or struck by lightning in a storm, it has a lot better of a chance of staying intact than a flimsy wooden beam house with a thin metal sheet for a roof and some more wooden beams underneath it. your plastic siding panels made to look like wood are all going to crack and crumble and like. explode. the moment that tree hits your house. that tree is coming into your living room. if lightning strikes your house, or your porch, or anything near your house like a tree or your garage or anything flammable, your house could be engulfed in flames and you will burn to death. that literally happened here not even a year ago btw. there was a really bad storm and lightning struck a tree in someone's backyard and the tree caught fire and it eventually fell and crashed through their porch and lit their whole house on fire and to add salt to the wound it landed on their power box outside their house so it exploded everything inside so all their wires caught fire as well and everyone except a little girl died because it happened in the middle of the night. brick houses are fire resistant and so are clay&asphalt tiles and that was a freak ass accident and since the flaming tree hit their power box they probably still would have been fucked anyway if they didn't have a cheap ass modern infrastructure fuck ass house but maybe stuff like that would happen less if we paid attention to what our climates are like and what materials are best for our area........... rip to that family i drive past the lot that their house was on almost everyday and think about them

Idk i rant about this shit all the time to my boyfriend like. i wish the housing market (and the market in general) wasn't absolutely diabolical right now because i genuinely want to build a small little cozy house sims-style someday, from scratch, that is entirely based on the climate and weather of where i live and make it as power efficient and safe as possible. Does anyone else ever think about this stuff

Like. Why the hell are all the houses being built nowadays all made with fugly ass metal roofs and shitty ugly fake wooden panel siding on the outside. So inefficient, so useless, so swagless. What is the purpose. We added an extension to our garage recently and metal roofing was the only affordable option and if you step inside that part of the garage it boils you alive in the summer if it's hot out. i CANNOT imagine that shit on top of my real life actual house

[lumiereswig]

plumiere finding each other across lives, stories, and universes

The little tin soldier falls into the flames. Wait! says the paper ballerina, and follows after him. Every story says they melt.

~~~~

"What's your name, mademoiselle?" The boy is young, sixteen, dressed up in cockeyed gold scraps he found at some village fête. She is fifteen and wearing a feather the Queen left in the sewing room.

"Plumette," she says, and stares hard at the sun to hide her grin. He sees her looking and tries to strike a dashing pose.

~~~~

"Tell me a story," she begs, up on the roof long after everyone else is in bed, and they're in their twenties and cross-eyed in love and if they weren't dating other people they'd be in each other's arms this minute. "One with a happy ending."

"Happy endings?" The boy is dramatic and despairing. He would ask Plumette to the ball in a minute if she would just stop seeing that damn Armande from the stables. There are twenty thousand stars in the sky and he can't see the light in one. "There are no happy endings. What's that one I told you before? The brave little tin soldier and the paper princess he loved? I never finished it, did I, the little lovers on the nursery tabletop. They fell into the fireplace; a draft catches her, or gravity propels him. They burn. They're on fire and they burn."

"Oh," says Plumette, thinking this is a gloomy tale, and not watching her hand creep over the shingles to catch his.

~~~~

"Of course it didn't end that way," says Lumiere, a dark night when his candles barely burn. They're glowing, slowly, in the dark. "I would never tell a tale that dark. In this winter? No."

"You did! They burned. Or they melted? I can't remember." Plumette tries hard to remember every minute of when she had hands, when he was a bright gold poppinjay with a blue-eyed face, when his hair was auburn and she was dressed all in white. Now she floats beyond his reach, her feathers slowly falling away.

"Never, never." Lumiere has forgotten the story, watching her. Who cares for a paper princess? Who cares for a fairytale? My god, she's beautiful, and he's alive here to see it. "Come here, mon coeur."

"Lumiere! Your flames!" He's burning too bright. His flames are inches high, throwing their shadows huge on the wall. For half a moment they look human.

"Yes, so there were flames. Who cares? The soldier was made of metal, strong and stern stuff! And the beautiful paper princess—she would be too beautiful to burn. Maybe they were in the fire. The fire didn't touch them."

~~~~

Ten days after the end of the curse, and Plumette isn't over the joys of being herself again. She was looking at the stretch marks on her thighs earlier in the evening, the little wrinkles at the edges of her eyes—dear god, she thinks, I'm beautiful, and pushes the candle closer to the mirror so she can see every little thing. Lumiere, sneaking up behind her, kisses her head and smiles into her neck.

"Lumiere? What happened to the paper princess?" asks Plumette, letting down her hair and dropping her feathers. He's forgotten the tale, but something about it keeps drifting through her mind.

"The what? Oh, the princess." He hasn't a clue what she's talking about but something nudges him—a princess, cut from paper and lace, floating over fire. Did she have feathers? Why not, why not? "Oh, she's dancing still. She floated over the flames and dragged her lover after her. Who can resist a good breeze? Anyone as beautiful as she was, cut from the best paper with her beautiful lace, she could survive anything."

"And her lover?"

"Ah, well, he's susceptible to fire—but she makes him brave. Dance with me, darling. I do not burn you anymore."

~~~~

Melting, dancing, floating, burning—who knows which way the story goes? But in every version the boy follows the girl. And this version is no different.