#setting up a workshop in a shed

[healthhubforyou]

How To Setup Your Workshop In A Small Space Under Budget!

[hauntedbyjoel]

Stay A While (Part 2)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: eventual smut | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | mutual longing | pining | slow burn | causal intimacy | soft but charged tension | no outbreak word count - 11.4k summary - You rent a guesthouse by the beach, needing space to figure things out. He lives in the main house—quiet, distant, and kind in ways that surprise you. Slowly, something shifts.

part one part three

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The house feels quieter the next day.

You wake up later than usual, the kind of sleep that leaves you disoriented and still, unsure if you dreamed the moment in Joel’s workshop. If maybe the lightbulb excuse hadn’t been enough. If maybe you imagined the way he watched you when you walked away.

It’s sunny. Warm. One of those lazy coastal mornings where the sky feels too big and the breeze too soft to do anything urgent.

You don’t see him.

You sit on the porch with a mug of something lukewarm, stare across the yard at the workshop. The doors are shut. It’s nothing. That’s what you tell yourself. Maybe he’s out. Maybe he’s just working inside with the fans going and doesn’t need light.

Still. You keep looking.

Later, you walk into town. The path is familiar now, the sidewalk cracks and wildflowers, the corner where the bakery smells like sugar and warm flour. It should feel like a reset—like routine. But the music in your earbuds doesn’t land right. You skip three songs before you finally just pull them out.

There’s a farmer’s stand on the corner. You buy a peach and eat it standing by the bike rack, juice sticky on your wrist. You think about what Joel said in the workshop. About building things to last. About still liking the work.

You wonder what else he likes.

You hate that you’re wondering.

Back at the guesthouse, you clean for a while. Not because it’s dirty—because you can’t sit still. You sweep the floor twice. Wipe the kitchen counter even though you haven’t used it. Reorganize a drawer you swore you’d never fill.

It’s a distraction. You know that.

Late afternoon, you settle into the hammock again. Book open, just like before. But you don’t turn the page. You barely even read the sentence you’re staring at. You’re not thinking about the plot. You’re thinking about the way he said your name. The way he had to tilt the chair slightly to show it to you—like it mattered that you saw it properly. Like he wanted you to know how much went into it.

You close the book. Let it rest against your chest.

Across the yard, the shed is still quiet.

But the lights are on now, a faint glow beneath the door, soft and steady in the growing dusk.

You don’t get up. But you don’t go inside either.

You just sit with it—the warmth of the porch beneath you, the muted flick of candlelight through the open window, the distant hum of cicadas.

The sound of summer, stretching long and wide.

The sound of something waiting to change.

And then— the sky shifts. Not all at once. Just enough to catch you off guard. A deepening of color, a slow tilt into gray, like the sun dipped too fast behind something thick.

You glance up. Clouds now—low, bloated, almost green at the edges.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Inside, you try to shake it off. You open your laptop, check the emails you’ve been ignoring, scroll past them. Open a browser tab you don’t need. Then another. You click on a pair of boots. A set of ceramic bowls. A video that buffers for too long before you close it.

It doesn’t help.

The wind’s picked up—gentle at first, now sharper. You can hear it pulling at the porch screen, whistling faintly through the trees. You light a candle anyway, out of habit or instinct or maybe both, and place it on the table beside you. It wavers, just barely.

Outside, the sky’s gone yellow. Not bright. Not warm. A sick kind of light that casts everything in shadow.

Then the first drop hits.

It’s just a tap, at first. A small thing. Then another, faster. Then all at once, the rain comes heavy, slanting hard across the yard and pooling fast along the porch edge.

You stand up slowly, walk to the window. Watch the workshop disappear behind the streaks on the glass.

No movement.

No sign of him.

Just the storm and your own breath fogging the pane.

The power flickers—once. Then again. Then everything cuts out with a soft mechanical sigh.

You light another candle. Pull your sweatshirt tighter. The guesthouse feels smaller in the dark. Not unsafe. Just… alone.

Thunder growls, distant but definite.

You step toward the door, not sure why. Maybe just to listen better. Maybe because the quiet is louder now than it was a moment ago.

You place your palm against the wood. Feel the vibration of the next thunderclap through your fingertips.

And then—three knocks.

Firm. Close. Not rushed.

You blink, like you misheard it. Like maybe the wind shifted something on the porch. But then it comes again—just once this time, heavier.

You’re already moving before you think to stop yourself.

Not because you expect anything.

Just because something in you responds.

You open the door slowly, hand tightening on the knob, and the moment the gap widens, you see him.

Joel.

Soaked through, hair dripping, a streak of water sliding down the side of his neck. He’s holding a flashlight in one hand and a spare lantern in the other. There’s rain on his lashes, his jaw, the line of his throat. His shirt’s plastered to him in a way that draws your eyes before you can stop them.

“Power’s out,” he says, like it isn’t obvious.

You nod, stepping aside so he can enter, and the porch light—off now—casts no glow behind him as he ducks beneath the doorframe. He smells like wet cedar and heat. Like rain and something human.

“Figured I’d bring this by,” he adds, holding up the lantern.

You glance at it, then him. “Thanks.”

You’re barefoot. You’re in a too-soft sweatshirt. You’re suddenly aware of both.

He doesn’t linger near the door. Just sets the lantern gently on the table, flips the switch, and the warm glow spills out slowly, washing the space in gold.

You close the door behind him.

There’s a beat. Not awkward, exactly. Just quiet. Intimate in a way neither of you asked for.

“I’m good with storms,” you say, out of nowhere. “Just don’t like not knowing if I’m about to lose the roof.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, like he gets it. “You’re fine here. Place is built solid.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tries to shake off the rain, but it only makes it worse. Droplets scatter across the floor. You look at his sleeves, the way they cling to the shape of his arms.

You’re not proud of where your eyes go.

“Hang on,” you say, turning before your brain catches up. You grab a towel from the cabinet near the sink—one of the clean ones, barely used—and walk it back to him. “Here.”

His hand brushes yours as he takes it.

“Appreciate it.”

Your fingers curl instinctively at your side, like they remember the heat.

He wipes the back of his neck first, then presses the towel to his hair, giving it one good, rough rub before slinging it over his shoulder. A faint damp spot darkens the floor beneath him, but he doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

You’re not in a hurry to make him.

The silence settles again, deeper this time. Softer.

The storm moves through the trees outside, dragging its weight across the yard. You can hear it—wind groaning low, the rain coming down in thick, steady sheets. The candle flickers on the table beside the lantern. It smells like clean linen, even though the air feels anything but.

Joel’s eyes flick around the room, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging details. Like he didn’t expect to step inside and now isn’t sure how to stand in it.

“You alright?” he asks finally, voice low. Not casual, but not concerned either. Just something in between.

You nod, pulling your sleeves down over your hands. “Yeah. Just… got quiet in here.”

His gaze settles on yours.

“Storms never bothered me,” you add, maybe to fill the space. “But the quiet after the power cuts out? That’s worse.”

He nods like he knows exactly what you mean. “Grew up with ‘em. Kinda learned to stop flinchin’. But the dark… yeah. It gets weird.”

You smile faintly, and then, before you think better of it—“Used to crawl under the dining table when I was little. When the thunder got real loud. Thought it’d fall on me.”

Joel huffs another laugh, softer this time. His mouth twitches, and the glow from the lantern catches the edge of it. “And now?”

You shrug. “Now I just keep candles and pretend I’m fine.”

There’s a pause.

Then a loud, sudden crack outside—thunder, sharp and immediate, so close it makes you jump.

You flinch, breath catching in your throat. And in the same second, you feel him step forward.

Not far. Just enough that his hand grazes your forearm. Just enough that it feels like something.

“You okay?” he asks this time—quieter now, almost under his breath.

Your eyes meet his.

The light is soft between you. The distance is nothing.

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He doesn’t pull away right away.

His hand hovers there. Not gripping. Just steady. Just warm. Like maybe it meant to land elsewhere and settled there instead.

“I’m good,” you add. And then, because you feel like you have to say something: “Thanks for checking.”

Joel gives a slight nod, jaw tight. He glances toward the door like he’s about to say something—then doesn’t.

You step back half a beat. The air changes.

“Do you want to sit?” you ask, a little too fast. “I mean—just until it lets up. Or dries out a little.”

Joel watches you for a moment, and you can’t read what’s behind his eyes. Then he nods, once. “Yeah. That’d be alright.”

You gesture to the couch, and he follows.

When he sits, the cushion shifts like it knows you’re going to follow. And you do. Not close. But not far.

A quiet stretch settles between you. Not stiff. Just… unspoken. Like neither of you is quite sure what this is yet.

Outside, the storm presses on. Inside, there’s just the low flick of candlelight and the faint tap of rain on the windowpane.

You glance over, then down. Then finally, you say, “So. The chair.”

Joel breathes a soft laugh through his nose. “Yeah.”

“You always make stuff like that?”

“Been at it a while. Started small—repair jobs. Cabinets, frames. Moved into custom stuff once people figured out I wasn’t just some guy with a hammer.”

You smile. “So you’re not just some guy with a hammer?”

He lifts a brow, mouth twitching. “Don’t quote me on that.”

You look at him sideways. “It’s beautiful, though. The chair. The way the joints fit? I kept looking at it, like… how the hell does someone make something that smooth.”

There’s a pause.

Then Joel says, quieter, “Not many people notice that part.”

He doesn’t sound surprised. Just… pleased.

“I notice,” you say.

And he doesn’t respond to that, not with words—but the quiet that follows feels different. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just closer. Like something in the air warmed a little, thickened in the space between you.

Another low roll of thunder stretches across the roof. You glance toward the window, and when your eyes drift back, Joel’s watching you.

Not staring.

Not expectant.

Just… there. Like he sees you. Like he’s still deciding what that means.

“It’s quiet over here,” you murmur, not looking at him this time. “I figured maybe it was just you.”

You nod once, like that fits. “No girlfriend?”

He shifts slightly. “Not for a long time.”

He doesn’t offer more. And you don’t push.

You offer a half-smile, a little crooked. “Same here. No husband. No boyfriend. Just me and a few too many boxes I probably should’ve left behind.”

Joel lets out a soft chuckle. “Could be worse.”

You glance at him. “You think?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “You made a change. Most people don’t.”

You look at him. Really look. Something about the way he says it—simple, unforced—settles under your skin.

The thunder is quieter now, but the wind still brushes the windows. Somewhere across the yard, a branch creaks. You shift slightly, pulling your leg tighter beneath you, and your knee bumps his.

It’s not a jolt.

Not a spark.

Just a press of warmth. A point of contact. A reminder.

Joel doesn’t pull away.

You don’t either.

For a moment, you both just… sit. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be this close in a dim room, wrapped in rain and quiet and not-quite-silence.

Then, without looking at you, he says, “Storm’s lettin’ up.”

You follow his gaze out the window. The wind’s still pushing at the glass, but the thunder’s faded to a distant murmur. The worst of it has passed.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Figures.”

His mouth twitches. “You wanted more rain?”

“No,” you say, too fast. Then you smile, softer. “I just—wasn’t ready for the quiet to be over.”

That makes him look at you.

Really look.

And this time, it’s different. Not just steady or casual or unreadable. It’s… aware. Like he’s just now letting himself take you in. The shape of you in his space. The sound of your voice when it’s not guarded. The way you said quiet, like maybe it meant something more.

Your stomach flips.

You glance toward the window, voice a little quieter now. “I don’t usually talk that much.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours. “Didn’t seem like too much.”

You smile, just a little. “It was nice.”

Joel leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah. It was.”

And there’s a pause — not tense, not hesitant. Just long enough to feel like a decision gets made inside of it.

“You ever worked with wood before?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward the front room. “The chair. You said you were curious. Thought maybe you’d want to see how it comes together.”

“Oh.” You sit up straighter. “Yeah. That’d be… actually, that’d be cool.”

His smile is small, just the corner of his mouth. “Alright.”

A beat.

Then, like he needs to say it plain: “Only if you want.”

“I do,” you say. And it comes out too fast again. Too sure.

Joel’s gaze lifts.

That look is still there. That same weight. That same quiet hum beneath his skin, behind his voice, under the floorboards of everything he does.

He nods once, then glances toward the window. The thunder’s faded. The wind, quieter. It’s just rain now—soft and tired, clinging to the corners of the night.

He stands.

You do too, a little slower. The moment doesn’t shift so much as exhale—like neither of you wants to puncture it, but you both know it can’t hold forever.

You walk him to the door.

He steps into the frame, shoulder brushing yours. The porch is dark and quiet. Mist curls in the grass, the moon blotted out behind a stretch of heavy cloud.

“Thanks for stopping by,” you murmur.

Joel nods once. His hand brushes the edge of the door as he steps out. “Anytime.”

You stay in the doorway for a moment, watching him cross the yard.

And when you finally turn back inside, you can still feel it— his gaze, steady and low, lingering somewhere behind you.

You wash your mug. Turn off the lights. Lock the door.

The house is still, but something in it feels shifted. Like you moved the furniture and forgot to write it down.

You sleep fine. But not quite the same.

And in the morning, it lingers.

Not in your body — not tight or heavy — but somewhere else. A hum beneath the skin. A pulse you didn’t notice before.

The rain’s stopped. The sky is washed out and blue. You linger in bed a few minutes longer than usual, the edge of the porch visible through the curtain.

No sign of him.

You get up anyway.

You make coffee. Eat breakfast by the window.

The air smells like wet earth, and the grass looks greener than it did yesterday. But the yard’s empty. No truck. No low murmur of his voice. No sawdust in the breeze.

You tell yourself he’s busy.

The next day, same thing.

You spot the truck in the distance once, parked along the far edge of the property. But the shed door stays shut. You don’t hear him out there. Not even a drill, not even the occasional thump of something heavy being shifted around.

You go about your work. Answer emails. Take walks. Try not to notice how often you glance toward the yard.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

But by the third day, you’re starting to feel it. That edge of something you can’t quite name. Not rejection. Not exactly. Just uncertainty.

Did you say too much? Did he regret staying?

You replay the scene more times than you’ll admit — trying to hear something in your voice, something in his.

You come up empty.

Still, you keep looking. Every time you pass a window or step out onto the porch, some part of you listens for him — the low whine of a drill, the rhythmic scrape of sanding, the dull slam of a shed door. Even silence starts to sound like something when you want it bad enough.

But it’s just air and birdsong. No sign of him.

Until the fourth morning.

You’re halfway through your usual routine — kettle on, slippers dragged halfway up your heels — when you open the door and see it. A small wooden block — narrow, hand-sanded, smoothed at the corners. A candleholder, you realize. The hole carved neat and centered. A single tea light already nestled inside, untouched.

There’s a slip of paper resting beneath it, folded once.

You crouch, reaching for it slowly, like touching it too fast might scare the moment off.

His handwriting is familiar now. The same narrow lines, the same steady hand. He doesn’t write like someone who second-guesses himself.

Saw the one you had the other night. Been on my bench a few days. Kept thinking you should have it. – Joel

Your breath slips out without you meaning it to.

You read it again. And again.

It’s not just a gift. It’s not just a note. It’s him — plainspoken, warm-handed, quiet in all the ways that matter. And it feels like the kind of thing you’re not supposed to keep, but know you will anyway.

You take it inside like it belongs.

Because maybe, in some way, it already does.

You don’t do anything right away.

You stand there in the kitchen with the note resting on the counter, the candleholder beside it, and your tea gone cold in your hand. You read the words again — been on my bench a few days — and wonder how long he’s been thinking about you.

Or if that’s even what it means.

You tell yourself not to read into it. That Joel’s just nice. That maybe he gives candleholders to every tenant who lights a candle once during a thunderstorm. Maybe this is nothing.

Except you know it isn’t.

It’s not like you haven’t noticed him before — the way he carries himself, the low rasp of his voice, the way his hands move with quiet purpose. You’ve caught yourself watching, more than once. Let yourself wonder, just a little.

But this… this is different.

It’s not neighborly. It’s not practical. It’s not the kind of thing a man makes for someone he barely knows — unless he wants to.

You spend the next hour cleaning the house like you’re expecting company, even though you’re not. You change your shirt twice. You try to write something, but the page stays blank. You try to read, but every sentence slips through your brain like water.

Eventually, you stop pretending.

You light the candle. Set it in the holder. Watch the flame flicker against the wood, watch how steady it burns.

And when the sun starts to dip low, casting long lines across the floorboards, you find yourself standing by the window again. Looking across the yard.

You don’t plan it. Don’t rehearse anything.

You just know you’re going.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You wait until the light shifts — that in-between stretch of late afternoon fading into evening. When the sky turns soft and amber and the breeze picks up just enough to rattle the porch rail.

You don’t bring anything with you. No excuse, no clever reason. Just a loose sweater over your tank top and bare feet in sandals. It’s warm enough. Familiar enough now that you don’t need a performance.

The candleholder is still on the table when you leave, flame steady in its center.

You cross the yard slowly, pulse quick in your neck. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s polite to say thank you. That you’d do the same if anyone else had made you something.

But there’s something different about the way your hand lifts when you knock. Something quieter, softer, more uncertain.

The front door’s open, screen pulled shut. You hear him before you see him — the low scrape of a chair, the creak of old floorboards.

Then he’s standing in the doorway, easy and solid. His hair’s damp at the edges, like he showered not long ago. Like this is him, fresh and warm and real in his own space.

“Hey,” you say, already regretting how breathless it sounds.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hey.”

You glance down. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not.”

“I just—” Your fingers flex at your sides. “That candleholder. I wanted to say thanks.”

Joel’s quiet for a moment, like he’s reading more in your words than you meant to give away. Then he nods once.

“You’re welcome.”

You nod back, then hesitate. You’re already here. Might as well be honest.

“I liked it. A lot.”

A beat. Then: “Good.”

Something flickers behind his expression. Barely there, but you catch it. A shift in the way he’s standing. Something a little softer.

“You eat yet?” he asks, voice even.

You blink. “No, not yet.”

“Just made some dinner,” he says, voice low and casual. “You’re welcome to come in.”

Your stomach flips.

It’s not flirtation. Not obvious. Just an open door, a quiet offer — one you know he doesn’t extend lightly.

You nod before you can think too hard about it. “Okay.”

And when he steps aside to let you pass, your arm brushes his. Warm. Solid.

Neither of you says anything about it.

The screen door creaks shut behind you, and the quiet clicks into place — thicker somehow in here, like the walls hold the hush in their seams.

Joel’s house smells faintly like cedar and something warm — maybe soap, maybe dinner — and something just slightly metallic beneath it all, like the tang of old tools or wood shavings that never really go away.

It’s clean, but not polished. Not designed. The kind of space that’s been lived in for a long time without ever being decorated for anyone but himself.

The floors are hardwood, worn and uneven in places. A long runner stretches through the hallway — frayed at the corners, edges curled. You catch sight of a pair of boots neatly placed by the door, laces looped loosely like he always means to get to them.

The kitchen is straight ahead, open to the rest of the living space. Cabinets painted a deep, faded green. Countertops nicked and well-used. One of them holds a cast-iron skillet still cooling from the stove, the smell of garlic and something hearty still hanging in the air.

The table is old — heavy, maybe handmade — with mismatched chairs tucked in like he never planned on company but kept them just in case. There’s a bowl in the center filled with limes. Not because it looks good, you’re sure, but because he probably needed one once and forgot to stop buying them.

His tools are here, too. Tucked neatly against the far wall — a workbench half-filled with clamps and chisels and sandpaper scraps. Like he doesn’t quite separate the work from the rest of his life. You spot another half-finished project on the edge of the bench — a box maybe, or a frame — left there like he just walked away from it.

And books. A few scattered on the side table. One open-faced on the arm of the couch, spine cracked. The bookmark is a piece of paper with handwriting on it.

You try not to read it.

The whole place feels… private. Unpolished but intentional. Like it wasn’t built to impress anyone — just to be functional, familiar, his.

Joel steps past you, toward the kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Hope you’re okay with pasta,” he says. “Didn’t figure you were picky.”

You don’t answer right away.

You’re too busy looking around. Trying to absorb it all. Trying not to feel like you’ve been invited into something much more intimate than just dinner.

You drift further inside while he moves through the kitchen — calm, deliberate. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. Every motion is practiced: a ladle against cast iron, a hand on the cabinet handle, the faint clink of dishes coming down one by one.

There’s a rhythm to him. Unhurried. Confident in a way that feels earned.

You find yourself watching from the edge of the room — hands loosely clasped, fingers twitching like you should be offering to help.

Joel glances back, catches your eye. “Go ahead and sit, if you want.”

The chair you pull out scrapes gently against the floor. He doesn’t flinch at the sound.

You sit at the table while he moves through the kitchen like it’s muscle memory. There’s no recipe, no measuring — just instinct. A couple of pots. The scrape of a wooden spoon. A little steam rising off the stovetop.

You catch yourself watching him — not just out of curiosity, but something else. The way he moves. The way this all feels.

He glances over once. “Didn’t expect company.”

You smile. “Didn’t plan on being company.”

Joel huffs a low breath — not quite a laugh, but close. “Well. Glad you’re here.”

He plates everything without much fanfare and sets a dish in front of you, still warm in his hands. Pasta — wide ribbons tangled in something buttery, peppery, rich.

You blink down at it, surprised by how good it smells.

He takes the seat across from you, calm and unreadable.

You twirl a forkful, take your first bite — and blink again.

“Oh my god.”

Joel lifts an eyebrow. “That bad?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. It’s—ridiculously good.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you catch it — that faint twitch of his mouth, the way he looks down like maybe he’s a little pleased.

“You cook like this every night?”

“Depends who’s askin’.”

You smile at that, slow. “Well—thank you. Really. I wasn’t expecting…”

You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding like you needed this more than you want to admit.

Joel looks at you for a beat longer than necessary. “S’nothing.”

“It’s not, though. Not to me.”

Your voice is quieter now. Realer. And when your eyes meet again, you swear something shifts — just slightly, just enough.

Joel stands after a few more bites, moving without a word.

You watch him head for a cabinet near the fridge, crouch down, and pull out a bottle. Dark glass. No label.

“What’s that?” you ask, wiping your mouth lightly on a napkin.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Thought it might go nice with dinner.”

You raise a brow. “You keep unlabeled wine around just in case?”

He gives a faint shrug. “Maybe I got a system.”

He grabs two mismatched glasses from the shelf — one short and wide, the other taller with a faint chip at the rim — and sets them down like it’s nothing. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t make a big deal. Just pours.

When he hands you yours, your fingers brush his — again, barely. But this time it lingers just a second longer. Enough that you both notice.

You murmur a quiet thanks and take a sip.

It’s… not bad. Warm, deep, the kind of red that softens behind your teeth.

Joel settles back into his chair, slower now. Watching you over the rim of his glass.

You smile around the wine. “So this is what you do? Cook, drink wine, make furniture?”

He shrugs again, faintly amused. “That’s the gist.”

You watch him for a moment, then set your glass down, fingers trailing the rim. “Not a bad life.”

Joel holds your gaze a little longer than necessary. Then—

“Could be worse.”

And just like that, the silence shifts again. Still comfortable — but quieter. Closer. Like the room’s holding its breath.

You sip again, slower this time. Let the warmth settle at the base of your throat. There’s a silence between you now, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just full — like neither of you is quite ready to move on from this moment.

“So,” you say, voice lighter, testing. “You ever make anything… weird? Like furniture-wise?”

Joel lifts an eyebrow. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like, a chair that’s also a bookshelf. Or a table with secret compartments.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Made a drawer once with a false bottom. For a guy who swore his ex was tryin’ to steal his coin collection.”

You snort. “Did it work?”

Joel smirks. “No idea. He paid in cash and disappeared.”

You both laugh, and it feels easy. Familiar. Like the kind of story you’d trade with someone over a second bottle of wine. You watch the way his shoulders relax when he’s talking, the way the lines near his eyes soften when he smiles — not often, but when it happens, it’s real.

A beat passes.

He shifts in his chair, fingers still wrapped around his glass. “What about you?”

You blink. “What about me?”

“What’d you do? Before all this?”

You look down for a second. Roll the stem of your glass between your fingers. “Marketing. Corporate. Big office. Terrible lighting. You know the type.”

Joel watches you. Says nothing, just lets you talk.

“I was good at it. Or, I was good at pretending to care about it.” You shrug. “Didn’t really realize how much I hated it until I left.”

“Why’d you leave?”

You pause. Think about how many versions of that answer you’ve given. How many of them were lies, even when you didn’t mean them to be.

You meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to wake up one day and still be there.”

Joel nods slowly. “Fair enough.”

It’s quiet after that, but not cold. Just thoughtful. Grounded in something you both understand.

You both go quiet for a while. But it’s not stiff. If anything, it feels easier now — like something’s shifted in the room. Loosened.

You eat. He does, too.

The food’s still warm. The kind that gets better as it cools — sauce thickening slightly, flavors settling in. You drag a last bite of pasta through what’s left in your bowl and glance up to find him watching you. Not staring. Just… looking.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

He shakes his head once. “Nothin’.”

But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth like maybe it’s not nothing.

You sip your wine, softer now, slower — letting the weight of it settle warm in your chest. The glass isn’t cold anymore. Just room temperature and faintly sweet, coating your tongue in a way that makes you want another.

Joel leans back a little, arm stretched along the back of his chair.

“How’s the guesthouse treatin’ you?” he asks.

You hum, thinking. “Quiet. In a good way, mostly.”

“Not too quiet?”

You smile. “Only sometimes. But the hammock helps.”

He chuckles — just a small one. “That thing’s older than most of the furniture I’ve made.”

“I like it.” You glance at him. “I think I do my best thinking out there.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flicker slightly. Something thoughtful. Something unreadable.

The conversation drifts from there — light, but not meaningless. You ask about the first thing he ever built (“a wonky bookshelf,” he admits), and he tells you about it with half a smile, arms moving instinctively as he describes it. You mention the candle he complimented the other night — he remembers the smell, cedar and something sweeter — and says maybe he’s getting soft.

You roll your eyes. “You made me a candleholder. I think you’re already there.”

It’s meant as a joke, but it hangs between you in a way you weren’t expecting. Joel looks down briefly, then finishes what’s left in his glass.

You both finish eating around the same time, forks settling on empty plates with a quiet clink.

Joel starts to stand, reaching for your dish, but you move quicker.

“I’ve got it,” you say, stacking the plates before he can protest.

He pauses, one brow lifted. “You’re a guest.”

You shrug. “I’m already here. Least I can do.”

He watches you for a second. Not annoyed. Not even surprised. Just… taking you in.

Then he leans back slightly, letting it happen.

You carry the dishes into the kitchen and run water into the sink. He joins you a second later, standing close — not crowding, but present. You can feel the warmth of him at your side.

He hands you the sponge, casual. “You wash, I’ll dry?”

You glance over. “Is that how you usually do it?”

Joel grunts. “No. Usually I let ‘em sit overnight and deal with it in the morning.”

You laugh. “That’s honest.”

The water runs warm over your hands. You scrub slowly, aware of every inch — the quiet splash, the clink of glass, the faint brush of Joel’s shoulder when he turns to grab a towel.

He dries methodically, barely making a sound. But every now and then you feel his eyes flick toward you. Like he’s checking. Or maybe just looking.

You don’t mention it.

Instead, you rinse another plate, pass it into his waiting hands.

“This is surprisingly domestic,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Another glass. Another shared glance.

There’s no music playing. No background noise. Just the rhythm of water and towel and breath — and something unspoken building in the quiet.

By the time the last dish is drying in his hands, your sleeves are damp and your pulse is somewhere higher than it should be.

You reach to turn off the tap. Joel hangs the towel neatly over the oven door. A moment passes. Neither of you moves.

You’re still standing side by side in the kitchen. And suddenly, the question that’s been simmering all night rises again — heavier now.

Do you want me to stay?

You don’t ask it out loud. But it’s there.

Just hanging until Joel breaks the silence.

“You always this helpful?” he asks, voice low.

You glance over. “Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

That gets a quiet chuckle out of him. He drops the towel onto the counter and pushes a hand through his hair.

“You have.”

The words come easy. Simple. But they land with weight.

You blink, and for a second, it feels like everything in the room slows.

“Oh,” you say. Not because you’re surprised — not really. But because you feel it now. The shift. The line you’re both standing on, waiting for someone to cross.

He doesn’t move. But he’s watching you closely. Carefully. Like he’s trying to decide how much is too much.

You breathe in. Try to fill the space between you.

“I like it here,” you say. Softer now. “Your place. It feels… I don’t know. Easy.”

Joel nods, once. Still watching you.

You look down at your hands, then back at him. “I haven’t felt like that in a while.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he nods again — slower this time — and murmurs, “You don’t have to go just yet.”

And even though you weren’t planning on leaving, something about hearing it out loud makes your chest go warm.

Your voice is quieter when it comes. “I don’t really want to.”

Joel shifts beside you, slow and subtle. You feel the motion before you see it.

Then, after a beat—

“You wanna sit for a bit?”

It’s quiet. Not casual, exactly — but careful. Measured.

Like he’s offering more than just the couch.

You nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

He leads the way, and you follow — through the archway and into the main room. The living room. It’s dim in here, lit only by a lamp near the corner and whatever soft spill of kitchen light follows behind.

There’s a couch. Worn but clean. A coffee table with a stack of magazines and a coaster already waiting.

He sets the glasses down and gestures for you to sit, then drops into the other end of the couch — not close, not far. Just… parallel. Facing ahead, but every now and then glancing your way like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You are.

The couch cushions shift slightly when you move.

Joel reaches for his glass. You follow.

For a minute, neither of you speaks. You both sip. You both listen — to the hum of the air conditioner, the distant rustle of the trees outside, the way your breathing feels louder now that you’re side by side.

And then—

“I used to think I couldn't sit in silence,” you say. “Podcasts. TV. People talking. Just… something to fill the space.”

Joel glances at you, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “Not anymore?”

You shake your head. “No. Not lately.”

He nods, like he understands exactly what you mean.

“Still miss it sometimes,” you admit.

“The noise?”

You shrug. “Maybe not the noise. Just… feeling like someone’s in the room with you.”

That hangs there for a second. Soft and real.

Joel looks down into his glass, then back at you.

“Well,” he says quietly, “I’m here.”

And just like that — the room gets smaller.

You nod, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know.”

It comes out quieter than you expect.

You swirl what’s left in your glass, searching for something else to say. Something that won’t make the air feel tighter than it already is.

“I think I forgot what that feels like,” you admit. “Just… not being alone.”

Joel shifts. Not much. Just enough to let the silence deepen.

“It’s a good kind of quiet here,” you say. “Feels like something could happen, but not in a scary way.”

You catch his eye then. Just for a second.

He doesn’t look away.

“Still could,” he says.

And that’s it. No elaboration. No teasing. Just those two words, like a truth he didn’t mean to say out loud.

Your stomach flips. Heat climbs up the back of your neck.

You glance down again, throat dry.

But you’re smiling.

Joel shifts again, just enough to clear his throat. He lifts his glass, fingers brushing the smooth stem, then tilts it toward you in a loose, unspoken cheers.

“I used to sleep with recordings of thunderstorms,” he says, voice low in the hush. “Felt like someone was there, even when no one was.”

You laugh, soft enough that it almost sounds like part of the silence. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

He shrugs, settling back so his shoulder presses against the couch’s armrest. “Weird comforts are still comforts.”

Your knee drifts forward—innocent, accidental—until it brushes his. You both hold still for a beat, the contact small but undeniable.

“I get that,” you murmur, trailing your thumb around the rim of your glass. “I used to need noise, too. Now I’m not sure I do.”

He watches you, gaze steady. When he speaks, it’s almost a whisper: “Maybe you just need the right someone in the room.”

Your breath catches. You tilt your head, looking down at your hands, then back at him. The distance between you is gone before you realize it—you’re side by side, sharing his quiet living room, the lamplight pooling around you.

Joel’s voice is softer still. “If you’re not ready to go, you don’t have to.”

You set your glass on the coffee table, stilling the faint clink. The offer hangs in the air—no pressure, only promise.

“I don’t want this to end,” you admit.

He gives you a small, crooked smile that warms the shadows on his face. “Then don’t let it.”

You lean in, closing the last inch between you, until there’s only warmth and the soft glow of his house around you—and neither of you is alone anymore.

Joel’s breath hitches, just once, and then he closes the gap.

Your heart thunders as his hand lifts to the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in one slow, certain stroke. You lean into it, eyes fluttering shut, the world narrowing to the curve of his mouth and the warmth of his skin.

His lips meet yours softly at first—gentle, questioning—before pressing a little deeper, more insistently. Your hand finds its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt, as the other slides up to cradle the back of his neck.

Everything feels magnified—the faint scent of cedar in the air, the rough grain of the couch beneath you, the steady pulse at his throat under your palm. You taste the wine still on his lips, something sweet and dark that makes your head spin.

He sighs into the kiss, and you respond, letting the moment unfold without thinking. There’s no rush, no scramble—just two people finally acknowledging what’s been there all along.

When you part, it’s only for a heartbeat. His forehead rests against yours, warm and steady, and you both catch your breath in the same unhurried rhythm.

His voice is low, almost breathless. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted that.”

You press your lips to his again, smile trembling on your mouth. “Me too.”

Behind you, the lamplight dances across his features—soft eyes, a slow smile, the promise of everything that’s coming next.

And in the hush that follows, you know this is exactly where you belong.

After that kiss, everything shifts. You stay pressed together on the couch for a long moment, just breathing in each other’s presence.

Slowly, Joel’s hand slides from the back of your neck down to your waist, grounding you both. You pull back just enough to look at him—his hair messy, eyes bright and soft in the lamplight.

“I—” he starts, voice small and rough. Then he swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your pulse shudders at how vulnerable he sounds. You lift a finger to his chin and gently tilt his face back until his eyes meet yours. “You’re not,” you whisper.

He presses his lips together, nods once. He shifts on the couch, fingers brushing yours, as if afraid to let go. The room is quiet but full—full of everything neither of you have said.

Finally, he exhales, long and soft. “I’d like you to stay.”

You breathe in, heart racing—and before words can form, you lean forward and press your lips to his.

His glass slips from his hand, forgotten on the coffee table, as he catches you around the waist and deepens the kiss. It’s soft at first—uncertain—but the moment your fingers thread into the back of his shirt, everything shifts. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and the couch cushions sigh beneath your weight.

When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing too hard. You feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He smiles, low and relieved, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Good,” he murmurs.

He pauses, breath warm against your skin, and pulls back just enough to catch both your eyes in the lamp glow.

“I want to take my time with you,” he murmurs, voice husky and earnest. “I don’t want to rush this—if anything feels off, you tell me, okay?”

You blink, heart pounding, and reach up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “I will,” you whisper.

He smiles—gentle, relieved—and cups your face in his hand. “I like you. I like you as a person, not just… this.” His thumb traces your jaw. “I don’t want this to be a one night thing.”

You press your lips to his again, soft and grateful, and he leans in with the same careful intention.

His hands slide to the small of your back, fingertips lingering. You lift your own to his chest, feeling his pulse beneath your palm.

“One step at a time,” he breathes. “Just tell me what you need.”

You nod against his mouth. “I just need you.”

He smiles against you, then kisses you slowly—deliberate, tender, each brush of lips an affirmation, each heartbeat echoing his promise to hold this moment close and unhurried.

You stay on the couch a while longer, pressed close, still catching your breath between quiet kisses. His hand rests on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes. Every now and then, his lips find yours again—soft, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

It’s comfortable. Natural. Like something you’ve done a hundred times before, even if this is the first.

But then he shifts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His voice is low, almost cautious.

“You wanna… head back?”

You blink. “Back?”

He nods toward the hallway. “My room’s warmer. And the bed’s bigger.”

There’s no pressure in his tone, just quiet suggestion. A choice. An open door.

You pause. Not because you’re unsure—but because the weight of the moment hits you. Because this feels like crossing into something else entirely.

You nod once. “Yeah. Okay.”

Joel stands first, then offers you a hand. You take it, and he doesn’t let go—not as you rise, not as he leads you down the short hallway, not even when you step into the low-lit bedroom and the door clicks shut behind you.

When you step into his bedroom, it’s exactly what you expected and nothing like it at all.

Neat, but lived in. Dark sheets, soft lamp light. A book half-open on the nightstand.

Joel pauses near the bed, giving you space. “You okay?” he asks, voice a little rougher now, like he’s holding something back.

You step closer, fingers brushing his. “I’m okay.”

He reaches for you again, pulling you in with quiet certainty.

His hands settle at your hips, thumbs grazing the fabric as he kisses you—unhurried, deep. One of your hands slips beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin and the slow rise and fall of his chest. He exhales against your mouth, like he wasn’t expecting you to touch him back like that. Like it’s undoing him.

Your back finds the edge of the bed, and he follows you down with the same easy control—pressing a kiss to your jaw, then lower, slow and purposeful.

You ease back onto the pillows, the mattress dipping beneath both your weight and the weight of everything that’s been building between you. Joel’s hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide at your waist, grounding you.

There’s no question in it. No hesitation.

Just the way his mouth moves over yours, steady and warm. The scrape of his stubble at your throat. The way his hand slips beneath the hem of your shorts like he’s already memorized every inch of you—without needing to ask.

Like he knows you’re here because you want to be.

“Let me take care of you.”

His voice is quiet but steady—like a promise.

Then his mouth is back on yours, deeper now. More sure.

He helps you out of your shirt slowly, his fingers warm and careful as they slide the fabric over your head. His eyes flick down just for a second, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to react too much—trying to keep it together. You feel your skin heat beneath his gaze, but there’s nothing lewd in it. Just awe.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and it sounds almost involuntary.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms to help, tossing it somewhere on the floor. You let your hands roam, over the soft hair on his chest, the broad lines of muscle, the scar near his collarbone that you hadn’t noticed before. He shivers slightly under your touch, and the reaction sends a thrill straight through you.

Joel leans in again, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth—like he’s making up for lost time. You arch up instinctively as he lowers you into the mattress, his hands following every curve like he’s tracing them to keep.

You feel him smile against your neck when your breath catches. “Just relax, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I got you.”

And you believe him.

His hands trail down your sides, slow and exploratory. Not rushed. Not greedy. Like he’s unwrapping something fragile. He presses open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, across your chest, pausing just to look at you—really look—before continuing.

You close your eyes, breath hitching as his mouth finds the soft skin beneath your ribs, the slope of your waist, the dip of your hipbone. His palms are firm against your thighs, grounding, spreading you gently as he settles between your legs.

“You tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice low and rough now. “But I want to make you feel good. Been thinkin’ about it—more than I probably should.”

Your breath leaves you in a shaky laugh, part disbelief, part want.

He looks up from between your legs, eyes dark and soft. “Still good?”

You nod, already breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

Joel smiles, slow and sure, and leans in—hands tightening at your thighs as his mouth finally meets you with the same careful attention he’s shown in every other part of you.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow—so slow it almost feels like a tease. Your hips twitch, breath catching in your throat, and his grip tightens just a little to keep you in place.

You’re not sure what you expected—roughness, maybe, or something rushed—but not this. Not the patience. Not the way he groans softly when he feels you respond, like this is for him, too.

He takes his time, mapping you out with practiced care. Alternating pressure. Angle. Rhythm. Like he’s chasing every sound you make and learning them by heart. Your hands find his hair, fingers curling tightly, not to guide him—he doesn’t need it—but to hold on to something.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut. “Joel—”

He hums against you, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates through you, and your thighs press in closer around his shoulders. He lets you—doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch—just holds you tighter and keeps going, pushing you closer with every pass of his tongue.

When you start to unravel, it’s fast and hot and overwhelming, your body arching off the bed as his mouth pushes you over the edge. He doesn’t stop. Just slows, lets you ride it out, his hands holding you steady while your breath stutters and your legs shake.

You can feel the smile against your thigh when you finally slump back against the mattress, boneless and stunned.

Joel kisses the inside of your knee, your hip, your stomach on the way back up. He hovers over you again, eyes warm and satisfied, beard damp with you.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod, dazed. “Barely.”

He grins, and leans down to kiss you—slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It makes your stomach flip, your whole body humming under the weight of him.

Your hands roam over him again—bolder this time—tugging at the waistband of his pants. He groans into your mouth and pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”

The way he says it—like it costs him something. Like it’s a truth he didn’t mean to say out loud.

Your breath catches. The air shifts.

Your hand slides down again, tugging at his waistband with more urgency. His jaw tightens as he watches you, body coiled like a wire pulled taut.

“I want more,” you whisper, fingers curling into the fabric. “Please.”

His response is a sound in the back of his throat—guttural and rough—and then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time. His hands are clumsy on his belt, breath ragged as he grinds into you, hips moving like he’s trying not to lose control.

Then he pauses—just enough to meet your eyes. “Hang on” he says, voice low, rough.

You blink up at him, lips parted.

“Top drawer.”

He reaches past you to the nightstand, fingers brushing yours as he grabs a single foil packet. You catch the flicker of something in his expression—soft, unsure—as he sees your smile.

“Didn’t think I’d need it again,” he murmurs. “Guess I’m glad I kept one.”

Your heart does something stupid and warm. You reach for his wrist, give it a light squeeze.

“I am too.”

Joel stills, eyes locked on yours. Something shifts again—not lust, not urgency, but something deeper. More sure.

And when he moves this time, it’s different.

His hand slides down your thigh, fingers curling behind your knee as he gently pushes your leg up and out, pressing you into the bed like you belong there. His mouth brushes yours, not kissing—just close. His other hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, grounding you.

“You sure?” he murmurs, voice steady now.

You nod, breath catching. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

His lips crash into yours—deeper, rougher, his hand sliding down between your legs. You’re soaked, and the moment his fingers find you he groans against your mouth, pressing his hips down like it physically hurts him to wait.

The foil packet crinkles in your palm before he takes it—tossing it gently aside for just a moment so he can press you further into the mattress, pinning you with his weight. Not heavy. Just there. Anchoring.

His tongue slips between your lips, and you gasp, your hips tilting up. His fingers trail through your slick, teasing your entrance, before sliding back up to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

Your legs spread wider without thinking. Your nails dig into his back.

“You’ve been wanting this too, huh?” he mutters, lips dragging along your neck.

You nod, barely coherent.

He pulls back, just enough to grab the condom. He tears it open, rolls it on with practiced ease, but there’s nothing cocky in the movement—just focus. Just want.

Then he’s back between your legs, the tip of him pressing against you as his eyes flick up to meet yours one last time.

“Wanna take you slow,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint, “but I’m not sure I’ll last.”

Your breath catches. There’s something about the way he says it—honest and aching—that makes your whole body tighten.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, drawing your hand along his back. “I don’t need slow. Just need you.”

Joel groans softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he finally presses into you—inch by inch, the stretch deep and steady, his breath stuttering as he sinks in fully. You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sensation overwhelming in the best possible way.

His forehead drops to yours as he stills inside you, chest heaving. “Jesus,” he mutters, “you feel—fuck, you feel perfect.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, needing him closer, needing all of him. “Joel…”

He kisses you again—messy and deep, like he’s trying to lose himself in it. His hips rock forward in a slow, grounding rhythm, each thrust dragging a quiet moan from your lips. He swallows them greedily, hand curling around yours where it’s still pressed to the bed.

Neither of you speaks for a while. It’s all movement, breath, the sharp slide of skin against skin. The room feels impossibly warm, filled with soft sounds—gasps, sighs, the creak of the bed beneath you.

Joel’s mouth drops to your throat, lips dragging over your skin like he can’t get enough. “You sound so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your pulse. “Could listen to you like this all night.”

Your breath stutters. His voice—low and raw like that—sinks straight into you. Every word a spark.

You tighten around him in response, and he groans deep in his chest, hips grinding a little rougher. “Shit. There you go, baby. Just like that.”

Your hands clutch at his back, nails raking lightly down, and that earns you another moan—this one a little sharper, like he likes the way you pull at him.

His hand snakes between your bodies, fingers brushing down until they find you again—slick and swollen. “Still so wet for me,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ dripping, sweetheart.”

You whimper, arching up into him, and he slows just a bit—rolling his hips in a way that makes your eyes roll back.

“I can feel it,” he breathes. “Every time I push in—you clamp down like you don’t wanna let me go.”

His mouth captures yours again, tongue claiming and slow, and when he pulls back—eyes dark, voice wrecked—he grins.

“You gonna let me make you feel good?”

You nod, dazed and breathless, and that’s all he needs.

He shifts, grabs your thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, thrusts deeper now—hitting something that makes you cry out. His grin fades into a groan.

“Shit—there it is,” he mutters. “You feel that, baby?”

You can barely speak—just nod, whimpering his name, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t stop. Keeps murmuring in your ear, filthy and soft.

Your whole body shudders.

“Joel,” you gasp, barely able to get the words out, “I’m—I’m so close—”

His mouth brushes your ear. “Then give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on me.”

You whimper—so close it hurts—but your hands clutch his shoulders and your voice comes out shaky: “Don’t stop talking.”

Joel freezes for half a second, eyes darkening like that did something to him, and then he groans—low and wrecked, head dropping to your neck.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “You like that? Like me talkin’ you through it?”

You nod, desperate, hips moving with his now, chasing the high.

“Jesus,” he mutters, pace faltering for a second like he’s trying to hold it together. “You want it that bad, huh? Want me tellin’ you how perfect you feel?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nails digging into his back. “Please.”

He grits his teeth, thrusts deeper

“Go on,” he urges, voice a low rasp against your throat. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

It crashes through you like a wave, hips bucking up into his, thighs trembling as your climax spills out with a breathless moan—his name tangled in it like a prayer. He groans deep, fingers digging into your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

“There it is,” he grits, almost panting. “That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re still shaking when he slows down, grinding into you as he chases his own release. His face presses to your shoulder, and you feel his breath stutter.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You feel so good, baby, I—I’m not gonna last.”

Joel groans, low and ragged against your ear. “Let me see that pretty back of yours. Gotta feel you deeper.”

The way he says it makes you clench around him, a fluttering ache rising in your belly.

You nod, breath hitching as you roll onto your stomach, shifting your hips back until you feel him settle behind you. His hand drags slowly down your spine, a pause at the base of your back before his palm splays wide over your hip.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at you.”

You arch under his touch, cheek pressed to the pillow, and glance back at him.

“You okay?” he murmurs again.

You nod, flushed and breathless. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, voice lower now. “’Cause I’ve been dying to see you like this.”

He slides back in slowly, and this angle—this pace—it feels like something he’s savoring. Like every movement is about you. His hand trails up to cradle your ribs, then slides down between your legs again, fingers rubbing gentle circles where you’re already pulsing for him.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You moan, back arching into him, and his pace falters just for a second—like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Joel,” you gasp.

He groans low in his throat, pace stuttering for just a second. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand tightens at your waist, anchoring you as he buries himself deeper—slow and aching, like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory. You reach back blindly, fingers finding his thigh, his hip—needing some part of him to hold onto.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “Not letting go.”

His hips stutter, rhythm slipping.

“Shit,” he pants, one hand braced beside your head, the other still holding your waist like you might disappear. “Can’t—baby, I can’t—”

You press your mouth to his neck, your breath hot against his skin. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Come for me.”

That does it.

He sinks in deep, a broken sound caught in his throat as he buries his face in your shoulder. His whole body tightens, fingers digging into your side as he comes—hard and long, pulse stuttering inside you. The quiet explodes with breath and movement and the kind of groan that leaves his mouth like he’s been holding it back too long.

You hold him through it, legs trembling, hand sliding through his hair as he pants against your skin.

“Fuck,” he finally mutters, voice wrecked. “Jesus.”

You smile softly, still catching your breath. “That good, huh?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, nuzzling your neck, lips brushing your collarbone. “You have no idea.”

He stays pressed to you for a moment longer, breath heavy against your skin. Then he shifts, slow and careful, pressing a kiss to your jaw before pulling out with a quiet groan.

You feel the warmth of his hands on your thighs as he adjusts the blanket over you again, grounding, like he doesn’t want to let you get cold. He glances down at you, then reaches for the towel draped over the chair, wiping you off with a tenderness that makes your throat ache.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks quietly.

You nod, too soft to speak. He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your temple, then nudges his nose against yours.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s clean up.”

He takes your hand, helps you sit up, and doesn’t let go as he leads you through the hallway and into the bathroom. The tile’s cool beneath your feet, the lights low and warm. You watch as he reaches into the shower, turns the water on, tests the temperature with his palm.

When the steam starts to rise, he pulls you close again—one hand on the small of your back, the other brushing hair from your face.

“You first,” he says.

You step in. The heat hits you instantly, muscle-melting, and you sigh. A moment later, he’s behind you, arms wrapping around your waist under the stream.

Neither of you speaks. Not at first.

He reaches for the shampoo, lathers it in his hands. “Turn around,” he murmurs.

You do.

And then—he’s washing your hair.

Carefully. Gently. Fingers massaging your scalp, working through every knot like it’s something sacred. You close your eyes and let him, let the steam and the closeness dissolve whatever was left of the nerves in your chest.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, barely louder than the spray. “Letting someone take care of me.”

His hands still for just a second—then pick up again, gentler somehow.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself.

He rinses the soap from your hair with cupped hands, careful not to let it sting your eyes. And when it’s gone, he stays close. No rush, no tension. Just his arms sliding around you again, chest to your back, your bodies soaking in the warmth together.

After the shower, you towel off side by side—his hands quick to wrap you in warmth, yours lingering a little longer as you pat him down with a softness he doesn’t expect.

He laughs under his breath when you swipe a drop of water from his nose. “You tryna baby me now?”

You shrug, eyes glinting. “Maybe.”

He pulls you in again after that—no more teasing, no words—just the hush of skin against skin as you climb into his bed together.

Under the covers, everything slows. His arm curls beneath your head, his chest steady against your back, your leg tangled with his. And when sleep finally comes, it comes easy.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Morning breaks soft and quiet.

Sunlight filters in through linen curtains, golden on your bare shoulder. You stir when Joel shifts behind you, his palm brushing your hip as he stretches.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

You hum. “Good morning, Joel”

In the kitchen, he brews coffee while you stand barefoot at the counter in one of his old t-shirts. He makes eggs and toast. You set the table. It’s domestic in a way that should feel strange, but doesn’t.

There’s not much talking. Just clinking dishes, the low murmur of the radio, and the occasional brush of fingers when you pass him something.

After breakfast, the two of you stand by the sink, sharing the last sips of coffee from mismatched mugs.

Joel glances at you, then out the window, then back again.

“So,” he says, one brow ticking up. “Now what?”

You look at him over the rim of your mug. There’s a flicker of something in your chest—uncertainty, maybe, but not fear.

You step closer. “Guess we figure that out.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then he kisses your forehead.

And that’s how it ends for now—not with a plan or a promise, but with a quiet understanding that something’s started. Something real.

And it’s just getting good.

[clockwayswrites]

Cozytober Day 3: Hot Chocolate

masterpost

“You just had to make a mess on your way, didn’t you?” Jason asked as he stepped over Danny’s shed clothing.

“Yes,” Danny said, just to be cheeky.

He could be cheeky with Jason. Jason might huff and puff or snark back, but it was always in good fun with each other. Somethings were off limits, but they’d both made a deal to be honest about what those were. So far it had worked out.

Jason sighed. “Leave me to clean up your mess after you, carry you around, make you hot chocolate…”

“Hot chocolate?” Danny asked, sitting up in Jason’s arms. Jason’s hot chocolate was a thing of the divine.

“Mhum,” Jason agreed with a hum as he dropped Danny carefully onto the couch.

Danny let himself lay there like a dead fish as he tried to give Jason his best puppy dog eyes.

“Put those eyes away,” Jason said with a chuckle. He leaned down and pressed a kiss right between Danny’s eyes. “I already said I’d make it. Do you want the works?”

“Yes,” Danny said. He shifted a little on the couch so that he could still watch Jason as he moved over to the kitchen area of the open plan space. “Your day?”

“Oh. It was okay,” Jason said as he gathered what he needed and put a pot on the stove. “I think that we’re finally making some real progress on the plans for the affordable housing. There’s a place in German that does a lot of what we want and need in their prefab walls. Obviously shipping that far would make it cost prohibitive, but they seem interested in maybe setting up a workshop here as long as Gotham helps with the initial costs. It might be a good deal in the end for both them and the city.”

“That’s great!” Danny knew how hard Jason had been working at this project, and how many times there had been insurmountable seeming roadblocks.

“It really is. And a new industry means new jobs. We might be able to tie it in with the workforce alternative we’ve got started with the court system too. I might also be counting my chickens before they hatch but…”

“Hope.”

“Yeah, but hope,” Jason agreed softly.

“Proud of you,” Danny said.

He could see Jason’s ears flush all he way from the couch. Danny tried to tell Jason he was as proud of him as often a he could, both because of the cute response but because Danny didn’t think Jason knew how good he was.

“Nothings don’t yet,” Jason said.

“Proud. Of. You,” Danny said with pointed enunciation.

Jason muttered an adorable grumble as he fussed with breaking up the real chocolate bar that he used in the hot chocolate. Danny closed his eyes and just listened to Jason moving around, out of words the moment. One of the reasons he liked being at Jason’s more than his tiny shoe box was the noise of someone else moving around him.

“Up we go, boo,” Jason urged softly some time later.

Danny cracked a wide yawn and used the moment of swinging his legs off the couch to get himself somewhat sitting up. Jason slotted into place beside Danny and helped prop him up before he tipped back over again. Danny happily burrowed in against Jason’s broad shoulder.

“Eyes open,” Jason said.

Resisting a grumble, Danny opened his eyes and took the large mug in front of his face. He cradled it for a moment, just enjoying the warmth, before he took a long, slow sip. The richness of chocolate and warmth of spice bloomed over his tongue. Danny let out a happy sigh.

“The best.”

Jason chuckled. “You just like me for my hot chocolate.”

“Lies. Also have a very nice co—”

“Danny!” Jason admonished between a bout of startled laughter.

Danny grinned to himself, proud as always to make Jason laugh like that, free and bright. He rewarded himself with another sip of his drink.

[inkskinned]

for the longest time my family used to host one of the biggest haunted houses on my block: elaborate, themed amateur haunts that pearled out along our lawn for one-night-only. spinning circus wheel-of-terrors and walkthrough alien crash-landings and spiders that arched over our driveway, leaking venom onto your feet.

we didn't have a lot of money; and honestly i don't know how we afforded what we did have. there were not going to be pneumatics or projectors or any supply over 20 dollars - and even 20 was a stretch. we were lucky, and we lived in a town that had a "swap shed", where people would drop off any banged-up-but-usable items that they wanted to get rid of. the whole year, my family would pick over someone else's discarded fans and lights and weird decorations, asking each other - what do you think? for halloween?

we would strip the motors out of rusted fans and spraypaint vases and saw broom handles in half and apply a very thick coat of cardboard and duct tape to everything. for our pirate year, i made the mistake of individually drawing woodgrain onto each strip of cardboard that made up the ship. i then gently painted and distressed the "boards" so they'd each have lichen and cracks and unusual patterns. i hid eyes in the knots and shaped skulls. you couldn't see any of it in the dark, even under our "spotlight" (someone's target-branded workshop flashlight).

i have a lot of very strange skills as a result. i know how to make a flying ghost appear both physically and in the mirror. i know how to make a witch's brew that stirs itself. i know how to burn and cut and paint until there is an iron throne you can sit on, or an alien brushing your ankles, or a hearse trundling along. i can't say we ever made it beyond our local newspapers, but we tried so hard that the town would regularly shut down our street.

i can't put any of these skills on a resume, and i haven't been able to put them to use for a while. i live in an apartment, there's no lawn for me to decorate. for years i've wanted to do an alice in wonderland theme, and have been collecting ideas like coins in a fountain. at other houses, i am transfixed by 12 foot skeletons and paper mache spooky lanterns; easily wooed by the knowledge of how much time people put in.

someone asked me once - so what was the point? and why didn't you guys charge anything to show up?

in truth, we probably needed the money. for years there, we were a 1-meal-a-day kind of a family. i was being polite earlier up in this essay: we furnished both our house and our halloweens using things left a recycling center. we live in new england and still didn't turn on the heat until the end of november, no matter how low the temperature.

every year we would collect donations for unicef and other charities. on an average year, we would collect enough to pay for our food for weeks. every year, without fail: we donated every penny.

this endeavor took months to plan and design and execute. we had to organize any volunteers and check safety and hope-for-the-best. it took at least 24 hours to set up, a week to take down. the motors and fans and lights all had to be packed tight. the cardboard would scatter, pangea in the rain and sleet. i remember picking up a plank from that pirate ship, the paint blown clear off, all my hard work completely erased. a new kind of driftwood.

if this was a poem, and not a memory, i could wrap this up prettily. i could say that these skills landed me a cool job in the haunting industry or that it taught me the value of friendship and responsibility. but i actually think it's something better, something very pretty: there wasn't ever a moral to it.

the night was a long one. yes, there were assholes, people who broke stuff. but mostly it was just kids like us in cardboard costumes, dressed as an incredibly niche kind of truck. good parents who were friendly and laughing. teenagers who slunk in at late hours, wide-eyed and secretly delighted; who asked us can i help next year? like, do y'all take volunteers, or whatever? every year more people came, and told their friends, and offered to pay. and every year we said maybe next year and meant absolutely never.

we did it because it was enough to love something, and to make that love visible. we did it because there is very rarely an excuse to have fun. i think maybe especially, for me - we did it because every year, there was one first "customer" somewhere around 3-4PM, while we were still putting on the final touches. the sun would still be up, and we were frazzled and always-running-late, and these kids saw our vision unfinished in the bright light of day.

something about their parents murmuring say thank you and telling my mom this setup is so sweet while this little kid would grin up at us, dazzled by our artistic mediocrity. the fall air and the chill and their coat-over-a-panda-princess-costume. that first phrase of the night awkwardly managed over a pair of overly-large vampire teeth: a beautiful and excited trick or treat!

[jim-the-simpleton]

Fallout 4.

There is a settlement in Fallout 4 called Spectacle Island. It's situated off the coast of the southern half of the map, and is one of the largest settlements you can acquire in the base game.

Fallout 4's settlement system allows you to set up supply lines between settlements, which allows them to share basic resources like food and water, as well as component items you need for crafting. This will also set up a settler on that supply line who can be encountered in the world moving between the two settlements, which can create some interesting encounters.

You can set up supply lines to and from Spectacle Island, but the game doesn't have any functioning boats and NPCs aren't supposed to swim, so the settlers will just kinda hang out on the coast with a brahmin. Fallout 4.

Functionally, the supply line still works and the settlement will share resources with wherever you set it up, but cosmetically it isn't a great look to have someone longingly look out to the coast with a pack brahmin.

However, if the settler is wearing power armor, they can just walk along the bottom of the ocean between Spectacle Island and your other settlement just fine. Fallout 4.

The problem is, you can't assign settlers to power armor. Fallout 4.

Well, I know for a fact that settlers CAN get into power armor, as it's happened to me and several other people in the past. If the settler is engaged in combat and if they have a fusion core, they will- sometimes - enter an empty suit for the fight.

However, they have to be close to the power armor (which, I mean, yeah), and Spectacle Island is one of the largest settlements in the game, so the chances of a settler being close to the power armor while they're in combat is low. Thankfully, in workshop mode, you can tell settlers to go to a certain location. Less thankfully, they will walk as slowly as possible to where you need them to go, and they tend to get distracted on the way by anything and everything, requiring constant guidance the entire path. On top of that, as soon as they reach the requested destination, they will wait there for all of two seconds before getting bored and going back to wandering aimlessly. Fallout 4.

Well, I put a fusion core in the settler's inventory and hold their hand as they walk to the shed where I'm keeping the power armor. There are ways of bringing enemies directly to a settlement thanks to a DLC I have installed, but it's a long and slow process that I really didn't want to have to deal with, so I used console commands to spawn in a Deathclaw Matriarch, a high-level enemy. However, at my high level and with the defenses I have set up, the deathclaw takes about all of thirty seconds to take down, which isn't enough time for my settler to decide to get in the power armor. Fallout 4.

After this, I start spawning Deathclaw Matriarchs in 2-4 at a time. My settler keeps running out of the shed to fight the deathclaws with a base-level pipe pistol and getting knocked down instantly, which prevents him from entering the power armor. I decide to use the power armor to trap the settler inside the shed, so that the only way to leave us to enter the power armor. The deathclaws are still dying too fast, and I still have to spawn them in multiples to keep combat going as long as possible. The settler simply won't get in the power armor. He's clipping through and getting stuck on the power armor, but not entering it. Fallout 4.

Miraculously, after about 12 Deathclaw Matriarchs had their lives taken as unceremoniously as they were given, my settler finally decided that now was the time to enter my power armor. I could now safely assign him to a supply line. I usually liked to give my supply line settlers higher-level weapons since they tend to encounter enemies pretty frequently. Plus, basic pipe weapons look really small and awkward when paired with a beefy suit of power armor, and this entire endeavor has been for cosmetics' sake, so I walk up to my settler and press the talk key. Instead of hearing my character ask to trade a few things, I instead hear:

"I need you to get out of your power armor."

My settler agreed and was more than eager to hop out of a top-of-the-line suit of T-45d Power Armor. Fallout 4.

I gave him the weapon I wanted him to have equipped and started the entire endeavor over, with another dozen Deathclaw Matriarchs dying for the express purpose of forcing a settler into a suit of power armor. But, well, it worked again, and he had the Assault Rifle I wanted him to be using. I hit the quicksave key as fast as I could because if Fallout 4 knows you've done a lot of things since you last saved, it will crash just to make you do it all again, because Fallout 4 is a vindictive and spiteful force of evil.

All of this so I could see my settler do this:

Fallout 4.

[angegiarratanawriter]

TNTL Horny Addition

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 3371

Summary: During an episode of Try Not To Laugh, you break Angela in an unconventional way

Being on the Try Not To Laugh stage has always been surreal for you. Having grown up watching the original episodes that were posted few and far between, it’s been so cool getting to see the show grow and gain its own cult following. It’s honestly one of the reasons that you had decided to audition for Smosh in the first place, and now, getting to be on that stage is one of the coolest things in the world.

This week on TNTL, you’re getting to work with Chanse, Amanda, Courtney, Tommy, and Angela. It’s a great line up, one that you know is going to be a hit once it goes up, if only because the chemistry between Angela and Chanse always makes for a killer video. It also helps that this episode is Simon Says, a clear fan favorite.

As the crew gets everything set up on stage, you pull out your phone and go into your notes app, pulling up the list of bits that you’ve jotted down over the past couple of months. As you’re scrolling, you find one that you’ve been workshopping for Angela. It’s a little bit hardcore, but you think that at this point your relationship is secure enough where you won’t get into too much trouble if you do it. You just hope you get the chance.

Emily calls the cast together to start shooting the intro, so you slip your phone into your pocket with a little smirk. You walk over and take your spot beside Angela, who immediately notices the smile tugging at your lips. She quirks an eyebrow at you in question, but you just shake your head and mouth ‘you’ll see’. Before she can say anything in protest, Courtney starts the into.

“Hey, everyone! Welcome back to another episode of Try Not To Laugh. This week we’re doing Simon Says, so the person in the chair gets to choose a theme or prop that everyone has to use. You know the rest of the drill, try to make each other laugh, spit out the water, blah blah blah. So, who wants to go first?”

“Ooh, I will!” Amanda says eagerly. “I want all of your bits to be set in a Western.”

“Nice,” Chanse says, doing a little fist pump.

While Amanda takes her seat in the stool, everybody heads to the prop area to start prepping their bits. Tommy and Chanse go out first and do their “Gay Cowboys” bit, which looks suspiciously like a recreated scene from Brokeback Mountain. Courtney goes next, wearing a tiny cowboy hat that immediately gets the laugh. As everyone takes their turn, you figure out what you want to do.

“Hey Ange, can I borrow your shirt?” you ask.

“Sure.”

Angela shucks off the white button down that she has on, leaving her in a form fitting black tank top. You take a minute to appreciate her arms before remembering that you have a job to do. You shed your own shirt and put hers on, only doing up the bottom two buttons so that your torso is left completely exposed. You then grab the fluffy pink cowboy hat off of the shelf and grab Courtney to help you.

As soon as you walk on stage, Amanda’s eyes go wide as she looks at your outfit. She pauses slightly on your torso, and you can’t tell if it’s because she recognizes Angela’s shirt or because she’s staring at your stomach. You take a quick glance back over your shoulder, before turning back to Courtney and starting your bit.

“Well, that was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” you say with a fake southern accent.

“I’ll say,” Courtney agrees, matching your tone. “I just don’t understand one thing-”

“It’s better you don’t try to. Things like this are better left to rest.”

“But-”

“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”

Amanda smacks her hand on her thigh at the reference and turns to the side, spitting the water out before breaking out into legitimate laughter. You’re honestly surprised that this bit was such a success, as it honestly wasn’t your strongest idea out of the gate. Shrugging, you start to walk back towards the prop area but Amanda’s voice stops you.

“Wait, I wanna know what happened!”

“Uh…strippers in a motel?”

“What?” Amanda says, still laughing. “That has nothing to do with the movie.”

“I know,” you say, winking.

Without explaining any further, you turn around and walk back stage, letting Chanse take the floor. You walk slowly over to the monitor, taking the cowboy hat off and placing it back on the shelf on the way by as you watch his bit. As you pull off the button down shirt that you’d borrowed, you feel eyes on boring into your back.

You look over your shoulder to find Angela staring at you, her eyes dark and her lips slightly parted. A little smirk tugs at your lips, and it takes every ounce of self control that you have to refrain from teasing her. Under normal circumstances, you would, but nobody actually knows that you’re dating and there’s a camera on the prop area. Instead you settle for shooting her a wink that won’t be caught before grabbing your own shirt and pulling it on.

“Here,” you say softly, handing over the button down.

“Thanks,” she says, swallowing hard.

“No problem.”

When Amanda’s turn in the chair is done, Chanse takes her place and chooses to make everyone use the little toy chainsaw. Courtney ends up going classic with a Boneless bit, Tommy pretends to cut down a tree that falls on you, Angela chases Amanda around with it, and then they reverse for Amanda’s turn. When it gets to be your turn, you go out with no plan, and end up doing a hilariously bad monologue. It doesn’t get the laugh, but Chanse gives you a nod on your way off the stage.

Courtney’s turn is all about things going wrong on planes, so you trail out an allergic reaction bit where you use a massive sword as an epi pen. Tommy does a safety monologue while mimicking turbulence, Chanse and Angela do a two part bit that is similar to the flight simulator video that they did a while ago, and Amanda puts on a terrible wig and pretends to be the worst flight attendant ever.

Once Courtney’s turn is done, it’s Angela’s turn to take the stool. This is what you’ve been waiting for, and you can only hope that she ends up choosing something that will work with what you have planned. It takes her a minute to finally come up with a rule, but when she does, you do a little silent celebration with yourself.

“Alright, it’s opposite day, folks,” Angela says. “Do with that what you want.”

Smirking to yourself, you walk back to the prop area to get ready for your bit. You spend a minute reversing some things in your head before you get the go ahead from Emily. As you step out onto the stage, Angela looks up, and surprise colors her features. You can only assume it’s because you didn’t bring any props with you, but you know you won’t need any. A sly smirk tugs at your mouth as you stop behind her, leaning in so that your lips almost brush her ear.

“I know that you’re used to being the top in this relationship, but there are a few things that I want to do to you when we get home,” you whisper, your voice low enough that it won’t be picked up by the mics. “First, I’m going to fuck you against our front door, and then, after you’ve come at least twice, I’m going to carry you to our bedroom and handcuff you to the bed posts. From there, you have two options. I can go down on you until my jaw is sore or I can put the strap on and fuck you until you can’t feel your legs.”

The whole time you’ve been whispering in Angela’s ear, you’ve watched a deep blush start to creep up the back of her neck. You can tell she’s trying so hard to hold it together, but as you give her the options, she chokes on the water in her mouth and ends up coughing it out. Her head whips around to look at you, her dark eyes trailing a path down your body before coming back up and locking you into a staring match.

“Remember,” you say, a little bit louder so that the mics can catch it. “It’s opposite day.”

With a little wink, you turn around and walk back to the prop area, letting Amanda take your place on the stage. Throughout the rest of her time in the stool, Angela looks incredibly distracted. She hardly laughs at anyone else’s bit, only coming close when Chanse comes out in almost full drag.

“Girl, what did you say to her?” Amanda asks as she adjusts her wig.

“Something that’s probably going to get me in huge trouble,” you murmur.

As Angela’s turn ends, you head back out to get the rule for Tommy’s turn. He ends up choosing ‘the worst pick up lines’. Chanse rolls out the classic Tennessee one, while Amanda says something about eating dessert before dinner. Courtney goes insane with a line about looking for a third, while Angela goes so dirty that you’re sure that her entire line is going to end up getting bleeped. As you step out onto the stage for your turn, you decide to go classic as well.

“Roses are red, violets are blue,” you say, stopping center stage and batting your eyelashes at Tommy. “I really, really wanna fuck you.”

“Oh shit,” Chanse says from the back, cackling at the wide eyed look on Tommy’s face. “Do another, do another.”

“Violets are blue, roses are thorny, you make me very, very horny.”

That does it, and Tommy spits out the water he’d been holding in his mouth before starting to laugh so hard that he almost falls out of his chair. The crew is cracking up too, and you can see Emily exchanging a look with Shayne off camera. You think you hear something about Courtney having used that line on him when they first started dating, but before you can address it, you’re being ushered to sit in the stool.

“Okay, uhm, I’m gonna go with ‘weirdest things you can get delivered’.”

Amanda ends up going first, getting you with her classic PUS uniform and a tiny toilet that makes a flushing noise. Tommy goes next, coming in with Chanse dressed in a tiger suit and on a leash. Courtney brings out a box of vaguely phallic items, and then Tommy brings in the ripped scroll pretending that its the Declaration of Independence. Finally, it’s Angela’s turn, and you’re honestly a little nervous. She struts out in an FBI jacket and a pair of sunglasses, a pair of handcuffs in her hand.

“You’re under arrest for stealing hearts,” Angela declares.

“Awww, that’s adorable,” Courtney coos from backstage.

“No, it’s not. She’s literally stealing hearts and selling them on the black market. It’s about time that justice is delivered.”

The tiniest little inhale is all it takes to make your life a living hell, as you feel water get pulled down into your lungs. A cough threatens to burst from your throat, but you manage to force your mouth to stay closed, and no water comes out. When you regain control, you stand up and turn around, presenting your hands behind your back. Angela takes them and slaps the cuffs on with practiced ease before leaning in to whisper in your ear.

“You like this, don’t you? Well don’t you worry, you’re gonna get everything that you asked for.”

—

True to her word, the first thing that Angela does when you walk through the front door is pin you against it. A harsh moan slips from your mouth as she pushes a leg in between yours, but it’s swallowed when she connects your lips in a heated kiss. You feel hands move up to your hips, and your breath stutters out when they force you down onto a hard thigh. The movement creates delicious friction, and you suddenly find yourself in the middle of a chase.

As Angela works your hips in a steady rhythm, she starts to kiss down your jaw. As she gets to your neck, you feel her suck gently, hard enough that you can feel it but soft enough that it won’t leave a hickey. Your hips jerk at the sensation, and you suddenly feel an overwhelming need to have her mark you anywhere, everywhere, so you grab the back of her head and pull her in closer.

“Fuck, harder,” you stutter out.

“Is that permission?” Angela asks.

“God yes.”

You feel Angela smirk against your neck before she sucks a patch of your skin into her mouth and lavishes it with her tongue. A harsh moan falls from your lips as she pulls your hips down harder against her leg, and you start to feel the tell tale signs of your high. A rush of warmth spirals down your spine, and your lower stomach starts winding tighter and tighter until it finally snaps.

“Fuck!” you moan, tossing your head back against the door.

The white behind your eyelids blinds you, and you find yourself reaching out for something to hold you steady. Through it all, you feel Angela pressing soft kisses into your neck as she slowly starts to bring you back down. When you’re finally able to open your eyes, you find her already looking at you with an adoring expression on her face.

“So pretty,” Angela murmurs, tracing a finger down your cheek. “I can’t wait to fucking ruin you.”

“Then don’t,” you pant out.

Angela doesn’t waste a second, shifting her hands down your body and positioning them on the backs of your legs before scooping you up. It takes longer than it should to reach the bedroom, with both of you getting distracted by the smallest kiss or touch. When you finally make it, she places you gently down onto the edge of the bed and takes a step back, looking at you with hungry eyes.

“Get undressed,” Angela orders. “Now.”

You immediately scramble into a sitting position, pulling your shirt above your head before unclipping your bra and tossing them both to the side. As you work on getting your sneakers off, you watch Angela start to get undressed too. It takes her less time, and soon she’s walking over to her side table butt naked while you work overtime to get your skinny jeans down your legs.

By the time you manage to pull your panties off, Angela has already gotten everything prepped. There’s a pair of handcuffs threaded through the bars of the headboard, and she’s wearing your favorite strap. You can tell by the way that it’s glistening that she’s already put some lube on it, and that’s confirmed when you look up to see her wiping the stickiness from her hands with a tissue.

“Get up here,” Angela orders, nodding to the head of the bed. “On your back, legs spread, hands above your head.”

Not wanting to waste a second, you crawl up the bed and lay back against the pillows. It takes you a minute to get comfortable, but when you do, you obey the rest of Angela’s orders and put your hands above your head while parting your legs for her. Once you’re in position, she climbs on top of you and reaches up, snapping the cuffs tightly around your wrists.

“Pull,” Angela orders, so you do. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Good. If you want to stop at any time-”

“Just tell you. I know, baby.”

“Okay,” Angela says softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Are you ready?”

“So ready.”

With a nod, Angela turns her attention downwards and brushes the strap over your clit a few times. The action sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can feel yourself clenching around nothing. She looks up at you one last time, and when you nod, she lines up with your entrance and starts to push in slowly. As she bottoms out, you’re taken a bit by surprise as a wave of heat rolls down your spine.

“Fuck, this isn’t gonna take long,” you mutter, blushing.

“Already, baby?” Angela teases.

Instead of dignifying her with an answer, you grit your teeth and and curl your fingers around the headboard, getting ready to hang on for dear life. You give a brief little nod, and then Angela is moving, setting a slow and steady pace that feels so fucking good but leaves you aching for more. Still, you had been close when you started and that hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s worse now, with Angela looking down at you, her lips parted, and the strap hitting just the right spot.

“Fuck,” you moan, your hands pulling at the cuffs. “Fuck, baby, I-”

“I know,” Angela says softly, her hips speeding up. “Take what you need.”

The pleasure spills over, and you feel yourself being thrown in to a mind blowing orgasm. Your entire body shudders as shock waves roll through you, bringing you up as high as you’ve ever been. As the pleasure starts to fade back to baseline, you tilt your head back against the pillows to try to force some air into your lungs. This opens up an opportunity for Angela to attach her lips to your neck again, and she takes it.

As your girlfriend sucks another mark into your collarbone, she starts to speed her hips up. The tip of the strap is hitting your g-spot on every stroke, and you can tell that it won’t be long until you reach another high. Not long ends up being sooner than expected, and your orgasm surprises you when Angela bites down hard on your neck. The comedown is a little bit rough this time, and you can feel the oversensitivity start to set in.

“Baby, I need you to come,” you say, your breath stuttering. “I don’t think I can take much more.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Angela asks, looking up in concern.

“God no. But I only have one more left in me.”

“I can work with that.”

Angela speeds up her hips until she’s practically slamming into you, the force of her thrusts causing the headboard to smack against the wall. The sound is obnoxious and sure to piss off your neighbors, but you can’t bring yourself to care when your girlfriend is making you feel this good. You feel her hips start to stutter, and you know that she’s close, so you do everything you can to help her along, rutting your hips up into her to increase the friction.

“Fuck, I’m there,” Angela moans. “Come with me.”

Never one to disobey an order, you feel your stomach tighten before a spark of pleasure steamrolls through your body. You gasp for air, trying and failing to get any in. It takes you a long time to come down, long enough that Angela is looking at you with a cute little pout on her face when you do finally open your eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you says, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your girlfriend’s lips. “Just a little over stimmed.”

“Do you want me to pull out?”

“Please.”

With an adorable little nod, Angela carefully separates your bodies. Once she’s pulled completely put of you, she grabs the keys to the handcuffs and unlocks them before getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. She returns a minute later with a warm wash cloth and no strap in sight. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as she starts to wipe the wetness from your thighs, and you sigh softly.

“I love you,” you murmur.

“And I love you,” Angela replies, looking up with a smile. “Now get up and go pee, you don’t want to get a UTI.”

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hi!

I have a question if i may?

What are some kinks that seem harmless but aren't?

Because a while back I heard that there is the potential to royally screw up if you pull someones hair and i absolutely did not expect that. So now i am curious if there are more kinks like this.

Thx in advance!

hi anon,

god I was so afraid that this was going to be a question asking me to name which kinks are actually morally wrong and inexcusable and if that was the case I was going to have to eat your head off your body, so I'm really glad that this is just a solid good question instead!

the short answer: potentially any of them.

the longer answer: potentially any of them. even the most vanilla sexual practices have the capacity for someone to get hurt if participants aren't careful; please consider all of the "broken hymens" that are actually just vaginal tearing as a result of people with no prior experience not using enough lubricant to have sex comfortably.

once you start adding more complicated actions and accessories into the mix, obviously the potential for injury increases exponentially. hair pulling, biting, scratching, slapping and other forms of impact play, bondage, breath play, primal play, anything involving bodily fluids, playing with fire or electricity or knives - all of that stuff can get you hurt, no matter how knowledgeable and careful you and your partner(s) are. even activities that might take place mostly with words and the imagination, like roleplay and denigration, can cause emotional harm if people's wires get crossed.

this is one of the big reasons why many folks involved in kink have shed the classic SSC (safe, sane, and consensual) in favor of risk aware consensual kink, or rack. the inclusion of the word "safe" may be setting some misleading expectations, so that's been cycled in in favor of "risk aware," meaning participants are expected to be made fully aware of everything that could potentially go wrong so that they can give the most informed consent possible and, hopefully, make plans with their partner(s) for what to do if the worst does come. (many sex educators have pivoted from talking about "safe sex" to "safer" or "protected" sex for similar reasons, as a reminder that things can always go wrong and few forms of protection are guaranteed to work perfectly every time.)

the inherent risk is one of the biggest reasons why it's so important that the kink community has flourishing spaces to meet up, attend workshops and demos, and otherwise learn from more experienced folks who can teach interested newbies the rope (as it were) and help them play as safely as possible.

[dark-frosted-heart]

Gilbert’s secrets from his takeover

I tried to get them all but I don’t know how many there are in total

Spoilers and rough translations below

He took over a country that produced honey because the kid he picked up loved it, and stimulated the economy

Supposedly improved the taste of those terrible army rations and the soldiers shed tears of gratitude

He developed a new form of medicine on the spot when his fiancée caught a fever. Walter: You advanced technology by another 100 years

With the rumors of how much he adores his fiancée, Obsidian merchants have started importing goods from Rhodolite

He's working on some sort of cryopreservation to keep his fiancee's sweets as long as possible

Roderich's weapon was made by Gilbert. It's so important to him that he never lets it go, even holding it in his sleep.

As a child, a friend from Rhodolite taught him how to use a sword. Said friend then beat him so brutally which made Gilbert avoid using swords

Recently set up a workshop dedicated to producing handmade clothes and jewelry for his fiancee.

Recently, a new part of his nightly routine is asking his fiancée to remove his eyepatch for him.

Back when he was a kid, his mother used to read him a lot of fairy tales about a prince dancing with his beloved, so he learned to dance for when that day came

[tinyraptorhands]

The Situation

((TW: childbirth))

"I am going to die."

Logan cocked his head, looking up from cleaning his gun. He smirked. "Rest never killed anyone, sweetheart." He looked over at you, sitting on the small cushioned outdoor swing. He sat on the porch, cleaning his shotgun. You watched him, bored out of your skull.

You sighed, your head hitting the back of the cushioned swing. "This is awfuuuulllll." You droned. You looked over at your workshop, the shed closed shut. "...Can't I at least-"

"No. We've been over this. Until our kid comes out and you are *fully* recovered-and I mean FULLY, you ain't doing a dang thing." He said sternly. You huffed, trying to fold your arms over your chest.

If the nine month pregnancy belly would let you. "I feel like I'm gonna burst." You bemoaned, poking your stomach. "This kid was supposed to be out by now..."

Logan sighed. "Yeah...can't blame ya there. Dr. Fang said you're due any day now." He set his pistol aside, and grabbed a clean cloth. He wiped his hands carefully of the cleaning residue and dirt, tossing it to the side once he deemed his hands clean. "Wei and Mi-An told me to tell you that commissions have been slow, so you don't gotta worry about that."

"Doesn't mean I don't wanna build something. I feel useless right now." You muttered, sipping on the lemonade you had made.

At least he let you do simple things like that.

"Well. You're not useless, I can tell ya that. You're creatin' a life." He said, chuckling fondly. "Pretty sure that's about as important as it gets."

You sighed. "Still. All I feel right now is sweaty, sticky and huge. Oh, and did I mention bored?" You drawled the last word, and slumped further into the swing seat.

"Your back's gonna hurt if you keep that posture up, hon."

"Shut it, you sexy yakboy, you." You grumped, and he barked out a laugh.

"Alright, alright. Let's get you inside, under the fan-"

"Logan!!" Justice ran up to the wooden gate of their home, out of breath. Unsuur followed closely behind. Logan stood up, sensing their distress.

"Whats goin' on, you two?" He asked, and you started to sit up straighter.

"Theres a buncha wild alpha yakmels over in the tunnel to Portia-and since it's mating season, they're all in a tizzy! The bus can't pass through!" Justice said.

"Plus. One also tried to mount one of the buses. I don't think that's good for sandrock tourism. I think." Unsuur added calmly.

"Ooh, some action!" You went to get up only to get a pointed stare from Logan.

"Absolutely NOT." He huffed.

"Uh, yeah. We uh...weren't planning to ask you this time 'round, builder." Justice said, scratching the back of his neck. You deflated.

"I can't even watch?" You pouted, sinking back into the swing.

"No. You're sitting here, and enjoying the day by relaxing." Logan said. "Besides. Andy is gonna come home from school any minute. Someone's gotta be here to greet 'em."

"And also, it's probably gonna be too action-packed and stuff." Unsuur added.

"Not helping, bud." Justice whispered to the granite loving man.

"Oh. Sorry."

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Justice, you're with me. Unsuur, go get Elsie."

Unsuur nodded. "Got it." He ran back into the town.

You whined. "You're bringing the whole *crew*?? It's like you want me to miss all the fun..." you grumbled. Logan looked at you, and sighed.

"Darlin'. Its a bunch of wild and angry yakmel. You seen one, you've seen them all. And I know you've taken down a bunch."

"Yeah, but I'm-"

"Bored. Yeah. I got it the first several times." He grabbed his pistol, quickly putting his bullets in. "Let me go grab a few things, Justice. I'll be just a bit." He walked back into the house. You sulked. Justice stood awkwardly for a few moments, then said;

"So...hows...baby stuff goin'?"

You shot him a look that could kill.

Justice winced. "Right. Shuttin' up."

Hours. It had been hours since Logan left. You helped Andy with his homework, then begged to go out to Auntie Vivian's place to play with Jasmine. Being the 'cool' adoptive mom you were (sometimes, that is.), you let him go play. If he slept over, which he sometimes did-especially recently, that was fine, too.

You realized you were alone.

Which meant no one to tell you you couldn't do anything deemed 'dangerous' or 'hazardous'.

Like banging out some *comissions*...

You went to the workshop on your property, feeling like you could take on the world.

But man, Logan was right. You must've sat too long, because your back felt like it was aching. Big time. You brushed it off, since you were carrying the equivalent of a large pumpkin in your womb.

And since the baby in your womb seemed to be asleep, you figured the time was too good to pass up.

And so, you rolled up your sleeves.

Time to get to wor-

The feeling of water trickling down your jeans made you pause. You looked down, noticing a dark trail running down your pant leg. "...Did I just pee myself?" You frowned.

Something in your gut was telling you no, this was not pee. You took a step forward, and then felt a small gush in your pants.

This was not pee.

"This is not pee." You echoed in disbelief.

There you were. In your yard, your monster-hunting husband was out at the Portia tunnel, wrangling a bunch of horny yakmel. You turned to Mel, the goat Haru gifted you before he left for Altara University.

"Mel." You addressed the goat numbly. "I think I'm in labor."

The goat bleeted.

You were desperate. You didn't know when Logan was coming back, but you knew you needed to get to the clinic. ASAP.

From what Dr. Fang had given you in the baby book, water breaking meant you were on a timer.

And then you realized that back pain? It wasn't from sitting wrong. It was coming in waves, along with the urge to push. "M-maybe I just have to go to the bathroom!?" You said to yourself as you saddled up Mel. The goat continued to chew on some hay, unbothered by her mistress' pain.

It was probably a bad idea, to try to ride her. But you were desperate. You tried to get up on her, but a sudden burst of pain made you scream and stumble back into the stable, startling Mel. "Mel, no-" she reared back, just in time for your reflexes to kick in as you rolled out of the way. You cried out in more pain as she ran out of the stable. "Dammit!" You cursed, trying to breathe through the contraction.

You had to *move*. You had to do something. You slowly got up. "...One...step at a time." You told yourself through gritted teeth. If you could make it at least to Cooper and Mabel's ranch, they could get the doctor and find Logan.

Logan.

Shoot.

You knew he was going to absolutely kick himself for this one. But you also knew you couldn't afford to think about him right now, as much as you needed him.

You grabbed the gate, swinging it open violently. Stumbling out, you panted. Each time you walked, you felt a throb of pain in your back, shooting down into your pelvis. "Back labor. Gotta be...back labor.." you grunted, and almost sobbed as you walked. You saw Mabel outside in her rocking chair, knitting some potholders.

Thank Peach!

"Mabel!!" You cried out hoarsely. She looked up, and dropped her knitting.

"Oh my stars! Sweetheart, what-Oh my-" she went over to you, as you fell onto all fours. "COOP! GET OUT HERE!!" She cried out, shouting in the direction of the barn.

Cooper, bless his soul, came out with a shotgun.

"Is it the Duvos soldiers again!? I came prepared this time!! Or is it finally those wolf-alien men that I-"

"COOPER!" You both cried out at the same time, yours punctuated with a groan.

"...What? Builder, what are you doin' on the ground? You lost something? And why's you leakin' outta you-" he stopped, suddenly realizing. "HOLY PEACH YER CALFIN' ON MY PROPERTY!?"

"COOPER NOT NOW!" Mabel cried out. "Go get Dr. Fang! And...Oh dear, Elsie isn't here!! Oh!!" She frowned. "Someone needs to get Lo-"

"Maaaabel!" Andy and Jasmine ran up to her. "We need a bunch of milk and-Oh!" Jasmine stopped, and Andy cried out.

"MA! YER-"

"Andy!! Go get help! Find Logan! Both of you!!" You cried out, the two kids running into the town. Cooper stood for a moment.

"...So should I-"

"GO GET DR. FANG!" Mabel yelled at him, and Cooper set off.

"Dangit woman don't yell, Peach's sake!" He muttered, running into town.

Mabel soothed you as she brought you into their home, sitting you down on their couch. "Just hold on, honey. Hold on." She helped you undo your jeans, "I've helped Dan Bi and Trudy birth their kids, I'm gonna take a look and see where you're at, is that alright, sweetheart?"

You nodded, feeling the jeans come off in a wet 'plap'. She pulled your underwear with it, and had you spread your legs.

You could see her head peek down between your legs, and she frowned. "I'd say your almost 8 centimeters! You must've been in labor all day without knowing it." She said softly. "Alright. Don't push yet! I know it seems like you need to, but breathe through it!" She rushed to the adjoining kitchen. "I'm gonna boil some water and get some towels ready!"

You moaned. "Logan....hes...I need him, Mabel..." You felt fat tears running down your cheeks.

"I know it, sweetheart, I know it. And he'll be here!" Mabel bit the inside of her cheek as she brought a pot to boil. She didn't add what she was thinking, 'I just hope soon...'

"GET ER' DONE!" Elsie cried out victoriously as Logan wrangled up the last Apha Yakmel.

Dirt kicked up as he grunted, Rambo bleeting as Logan tightened the rope around the wayward yakmel's horn. "Justice! Shoot the tranq!" He called out. Normally, he'd just put the beasts down, but Elsie wasn't having it. She had plans to move them to the other side of the Eufala, already calling in a few contacts to do so. Justice quickly shot the tranquilizer right into the beast's haunches. It slowed down, and then flopped over with a great sigh.

"Whoo! That's the last of 'em!" Elsie grinned, hopping off her horse. Logan tossed the rope to the side, and hopped off Rambo. He gave a pat to the goat's snout. "Alright. Now we wait for those contacts of your-"

"LOGAAAN!!"

The group turned to see the least likely person out in the eufala, Burgess. He was clumsily riding a horse.

"What in Peach's name is he doin' out here this late?" Justice huffed.

"Maybe he's going to council the yakmel?" Unsuur said. They looked at him. "...What? Sometimes a good scolding works wonders." Justice shook his head as Elsie face-palmed. Logan chuckled, but turned to the portly young man.

"Logan! Oh thank Peach. Y-you have to come back to town! Now!" He sounded panicked. Logan went to him, gesturing him to calm down.

"Burgess, bud. Calm yourself. Whats goin-"

"Yourwifeisinlaborandshesatcooper'sranchandshesinalotofpainandyouneedto-"

Logan immediately was on his saddle, taking off towards the town at break neck speed.

As the dust settled, everyone gaped at his retreating form. Burgess looked back, and then said, "I-I gotta go follow him! I'll see you all back at the town! Conserve water!" He said, carried. As he clumsily rode off, the three still looked at the settling dust kicked up by the steeds.

"...Did you all get that?" Justice asked.

"Apparently the builder's in labor." Unsuur said calmly.

"You would get all that, wouldn't you?" Elsie huffed. "Now we're down a helper."

"Elsie, aren't you a bit worried about her?" Justice asked, hand on his hip.

"Nah. She's tough, remember? Took on a buncha old world tech, monsters, geeglers, duvos soldiers *and* Matilda's crazy robot suit! She's probably handling this like a champ!"

"I CAN'T DO THIS! I WANNA GO HOME!! DAMMIT LOGAAAAN!!" You screeched, face red as you held Mabel's and Andy's hand.

"AAAAAH! THAT HURTS!!" Andy cried, grabbing his wrist of the hand you were squeezing.

"You *can* do this, sweet girl! You got this!" Mabel said, holding onto your other hand.

"Keep...pushing. You'll...be okay." Dr. Fang said in a calm voice, steadying your legs.

"Keep pushing! Keep pushing, CRAW!" X cried happily, sitting on the headrest of an armchair.

"AAASSSHUTUPX!!" You screamed through a contraction, and sobbed. "I...I'm dying. I'm dying!" You panted, tears and sweat ran down your flushed face. Mabel ran a cloth over your forehead, mopping up the sweat.

"I know, honey. I know." Mabel cooed lovingly.

"My hand..." Andy groaned. "S'gonna fall off..."

Suddenly, the doors slammed open, startling everyone. Logan came in, panting like a dog. "W-where's-!?" His eyes landed on you, and you cried out as another contraction took its hold.

Andy and Mabel moved away, as Logan ran over to you.

"Oh, oh darlin'. Oh darlin'. I'm here. I gotcha-"

"You took forever!!" You whined, "I-AAAUGH!" A large contraction had you bearing down.

Dr. Fang began to move quickly with his instruments. "X, get a towel."

"Caw!" The bird moved to the kitchen, grabbing a towel from the pot of boiled water.

Dr. Fang looked at Logan. "Grab her leg." He turned to Mabel. "You...grab her other leg." He looked at you as they did. "I see the head."

You sobbed in relief, knowing you were in the home stretch.

"The next...4 contractions. Push with all your....might." the doctor said, looking down. You looked at Logan.

He looked at you. You both nodded, and he kissed your forehead. He smelled like sweat and dirt, but you probably smelled worse.

"You got this, darlin'."

"I know..." you huffed. "I-I got this! I GOT THIS!"

It was something of a fever dream for you. You pushed, exactly four times. Logan was looking determined, and you could hear Andy in the background wrenching, with Mabel telling the boy not to look.

And then came the cry.

A tiny, shrill cry.

"Its a boy." Dr. Fang said, quickly placing the squirming newborn on your chest. The babe was a mess of vernix and blood, but you spotted the silver hair of your husband on his little head. And you sobbed.

"You're here...." you said quietly.

Logan's tears were silent, and he held you gently.

Suddenly, you felt a huge contraction again. You almost cried out, not making out what Dr. Fang said. "W-what??" You felt Mabel gently take the baby from your arms.

"You need to push again." He said again, his usually calm face now concerned. Logan paled, and so did you.

"W-why-"

"Theres another baby."

Before you could get over your shock, you felt a contraction. Logan took your leg, helping you push. You felt Dr. Fang's hands begin to work, reaching in.

"The baby...is positioned wrong. I need to maneuver them." He said.

"Is...is the kid gonna be okay!?" Logan asked, suddenly panicking. His head whipped to you. "What about-"

"Please. Let me work. Builder. Do. Not. Push."

Your body felt like it was being held in a pressure grip. You could feel Dr. Fang work, and Logan whispering words of encouragement and love. You gritted your teeth, fighting the urge to push.

Mabel held your baby, cleaned and now swaddled in a towel. She looked on quietly her face a mixture of concern and determination.

"Is...is everythin' gonna be okay?" Andy asked, tugging on Mabel's sleeve. She looked down.

"Yes, hon. It'll be fine. Your momma and Dr. Fang are amazing people. You'll see." She said, resting a hand over his blonde head.

After what seemed like forever, Dr. Fang suddenly said, "Push!"

You didn't need to be told twice.

In an instant, you heard another cry. You looked up, a baby placed on your chest. "A girl." Dr. Fang said, rubbing a towel over the smaller infant. You trembled, sniffling and crying as you held her. She cried, and so did Logan.

"Twins, darlin'! Y'gave me a boy and a girl! Twins!!" Logan cried softly, as Mabel handed him his son. You let Mabel clean your baby girl. You smiled.

"No wonder you were so fat." Andy commented happily. In a rare show of emotion, Dr. Fang bopped Andy on the head. "Oi! Jus' sayin'!!"

You laughed weakly.

Logan smiled at you.

You were amazing. You were a master builder. A hero of sandrock. His beautiful, strong wife, who loved him regardless of his past. You took Andy as your own, when he didn't even ask.

And now...You were a mother of three. Andy, and your newborn twins.

As Mabel handed you the baby girl, you noticed she had your hair. You smiled softly. Her little eyes opened, revealing steel blues. Logan's eyes. "Shes got your eyes." You said softly.

"He has yours." Logan leaned down to show you your son's eyes. Sure enough, he had your eyes.

As Dr. Fang finished cleaning and taking care of you, he nodded. "Congratulations." He said, bowing his head a little.

"Thanks, Dr. Fang." You said softly, voice hoarse.

"Yeah, thank you. You're a lifesaver." Logan added, coming up to him and patting his back. It made the doctor stumble a little, and he grunted.

"Yes. Well. I'll be back tomorrow. To get...the babies and your wife's vitals..." he said, and grabbed his bag. X trailed behind dutifully, crowing about needing crackers.

"Well. I'll take Andy and send him off to Viv's." Mabel said, and the boy frowned.

"Wait, I wanna stay!" He whined. Mabel tutted him, pushing him out the door. She turned to the two. "You both get some rest, I'll get Coop to help you get home in a few hours."

You both nodded. "Thank you, Mabel..." you murmured. She smiled at the two of you. Logan smiled back.

"Looks like we got alot of people to thank, huh darlin'?" He turned to you.

"Mm." You nodded.

"So...names?" He asked.

"Oh gosh. Uhm..." you sighed. "Actually...let's think about that in a little bit. I'm...really tired."

He smiled. "As you should be." He brushed a few hairs off your face. You leaned into his touch.

"I love you." You murmured.

"Love you too, my amazing wife." He kissed you softly, and you melted.

Life was pretty great.

"So...how many more you thinkin'?"

You smacked his arm. He laughed.

((Yeeehaw. Based this off my own labor. I didnt have twins though. Just back labor wheee.))

((Also Mel is fine.))

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Do you like plaid, tartans, buffalo check, gingham, quilts, & the color red? If you answered yes to any of these choices, then you will really like this little 1901 bungalow in Waupaca, WI. 1bd, 1ba, $164,900.

Lovely front porch.

Enter the kitchen, which is quite large.

It's basically one room, like a studio apt. on the first floor.

They have it set up, nicely, though. They put a cozy living room area in this corner.

A bed is in the other corner.

Next to the kitchen sink area there're a few stairs.

They go down to a home office and laundry room. There're lots of closets.

The bath is down here and it's so cute.

I think that this is actually the bedroom upstairs, but they're using it as a closet.

A nice workshop in the basement.

Cute yard.

There's another large workshop building.

It's large enough for the owner to rebuild a small plane.

There's also an adorable little shed.

Fenced play area for the dog,

And a cute little shed that looks like an outhouse.

What a delightful property.

It's a 2.43 acre lot.

There's a lot of room for development.

This is a nice area.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/E688-State-Highway-54-Waupaca-WI-54981/351641857_zpid/?

[nightunite]

I know we’re not there yet, but I was struck with the idea of Konig having this secret project that he won’t tell reader about once he’s proposed, and reader is starting to get anxious again because maybe she likes Konig just a little. But anyways. The surprise? Is a nursery Konig was putting together because he knew the wedding planning stuff was stressing reader out.

Listen I love this version of Konig the honorable good he is.

🕵️‍♀️

He truly is a good man isn't he? This took me a while to come up with, and my search results look weird now (we love getting ads that don't apply to us), but I'm hoping this turns out good! @beloveds-embrace COME GET YA FOOD

Konig spent a lot of time outdoors recently. She knows this is common, that between hunting season and visiting his lumber yards and his general avoidance of people, he spends more time camped under the stars than his own roof. It's why his return to the barony had stirred up the townsfolk in the first place, carrying rumors of a potential job on the breeze. His staying inside was unusual, owing to the winter being wetter than expected, freezing anything edible in the earth. However, she notes with a bit of guilt as she bites her lip, if anything that would free him to spend more time away from the town as a whole. He should have left to visit the various woods he lay claim to, overseeing and inspecting the lumberyards to ensure there was no decrease in quality as harvesting ramped up with trees long since dormant. No, he stuck around because a doe had wandered in from those very woods, carrying a fawn he intended to claim as his own. Since that night in the cellar roughly two months ago, Konig (Xander, she reminded herself, he will be your husband, call him by his first name) remained firmly at her side, only parting when necessary or to retire to their rooms for the evening, a gentle kiss pressed to her forehead before they both retreat red-faced. Thankfully he took to doing it only when no one else was present, lest one of the others playfully leer and tease them. The first time that happened Xander had pivoted on his heel so quickly he'd collided with a short table, knocking it and the vase atop it to the floor. She couldn't help her giggle at the sight of him, nervously fidgeting as he righted the table and had the workers clean up the shards of porcelain. Such a large man being so cute truly was a sight to see. Yet in the past fortnight, after Duke MacTavish's unexpected visit, he spent copious amounts of time in his workshop, a large shed of sorts set apart from the rest of the home. The sounds of machinery could be heard buzzing to life at the strangest of hours, dim light aglow from one of the windows in the dark of night. He snuck off to it during the day when she was resting or busy finalizing plans for the wedding as well, citing that he had no preferences one way or another for flowers or food, that it was her day. When she voiced her concerns of how the other nobility would critique her choices, he shrugged. "As I said before, mein ricke, let them talk. They have no say in our home, and if they come to our door I will send them away much like Duke MacTavish." Thankfully the ladies of the house had strong opinions on things, from who would walk her down the aisle (Felix would be honored to), to the type of bouquet (Edelweiss, Magnolia, Queen Anne's Lace, an all-white bouquet), to the desserts served (Kennedy would be handling those, already having her taste test during lunches; she was partial to chocolate, though that could be the baby's preference). It helped, having companions who could help her wade through the choice fatigue. Though, it would be nice if Xander showed some preferences of his own, a sign that he wasn't getting cold feet over this union. Can you get cold feet when you never had fiery passion to start? "Madame? The Baron requests your presence in the nursery." She jolts from her thoughts, sitting up from where she lounges on her bed. She follows dutifully after the young man, one of the gardeners, as he leads her up the stairs and to where her fiancé awaits.

Something else that keeps them preoccupied, preparing the nursery for the new arrival. Word had spread beyond the barony of the heir to arrive in the cradle of summer, the shocking news of the wedding rippling through the community only a week prior. While she focuses on the upcoming ceremony, he and Felix took to the renovations of a spare storage room. Xander requested her not to set foot in the nursery the past week for hers and the baby’s safety, fresh coats of paint applied and needing to properly air out. Stepping inside she sees him first, silhouetted by the evening sun streaming in from the wide bay windows, soft cream curtains pulled aside. The golden light wrapping around him a contrast to the gentle periwinkle walls, painting him like a heroic figure from one of those romance novels Emily giggles about. Her heart squeezes a little; he remembered her favorite color, despite her only mentioning it in passing once on a stroll through the garden. Yet what brings tears to her eyes, mouth covered by a shaking hand, is the sight of the furniture in the room.

They hadn’t yet picked any out, choosing to wait until the walls and flooring were finished before heading into town to browse and possibly commission some pieces. They discussed it frequently though when they were together, Xander gently massaging whatever part of her ached as they spoke in low tones. What color should the wood be for the crib, how high the changing station should stand, what type of chairs and how many. Xander walked her through her opinions on all of it, and she thought it was simply to have some idea of what to look for when they finally made their way to buy furniture.

Instead, every bit of what she told him had been carefully incorporated in the furniture already in the room. The two chairs with cushioned seats like those in his study, a dark-stained changing station set at perfect height so she wouldn’t be forced to bend down, thick circular rug under her feet to keep back the chill of the winter through the hardwood. But the masterpiece was by far the crib and she can’t resist stepping closer and stroking a hand along the top of it.

Perfectly crafted from birch wood, edges sanded down into gentle curves and sealed so as to prevent splinters. She traces along the curves, admiring the carpentry on the ornate designs, edelweiss and magnolia blossoms lining the headboard, amaryllis and sunflowers at the baseboard. No awkward edges, every piece seamlessly connected, as though simply carved as a single piece from a birch log. Hanging from it is a small wooden mobile, charms of various animals dangling below, gently spinning when she rotates it with her hand.

“I-“ She turns to look at Xander, finding him standing beside her, rubbing at his fingers.

“This is beautiful. All of it. Where did you-“ She cuts herself off, connecting the dots.

Birch wood, his main export from the lumberyards.

The questions about every possible detail, as though he were trying to pluck her idea and bring it to life.

The late nights in the shed, machinery whirring, creating all the artistry on display before her now.

“You cradle them for so long. I thought I should do the same.” He’s bashful, scratching at his neck and nipping his lip, ears aflame even in the evening glow. Saying it so simply, as though he hadn’t poured hours of time and years of experience into this. As though he hadn’t spent what little free time he had between the suit fittings and wedding invitations and still running a barony working his hands through splinters and cramping to ensure it was finished well before the baby was due. It's worth it though, for how she stares up at him, teary eyed and grateful, sniffling as she thanks him.

It's when he hunches over that she catches sight of something set atop the table. She steps around him, reaching down to poke at the little figures and almost immediately bursts into tears again. There, carefully set on a round crochet cloth, were the wooden figures of three animals. A stag with mighty antlers gently pressing his nose to a doe, with a little spotted fawn curled up beside her, a replica of their little family made by Xander’s own hands. She picks up the fawn, thumb sliding over the smooth wood, the little white spots a stark contrast to the rich brown of the wood.

“Do you like it?” He asks her, hovering once more. He worried over whether it was too much, too presumptuous of him to make them, crossing an unspoken boundary like when he implored she call him by his first name.

She gently sets the fawn down, turning to him and swiftly tugging his head down. He lets out a small noise when their lips connect before he gently cradles the side of her face, stepping as closely as her bump will allow. Her own hands settle on his chest, the rabbit-fast beating of his heart echoing in her own. All things considered, it’s a chaste kiss, no more than a few seconds, yet when she pulls back she’s slightly dazed, lips tingling and eyes opening despite her not recalling closing them. It takes a moment for her to realize what she’s done but it sets her nerves alight when it clicks.

“I’m so sorry Xander, I just-this was all so sweet and I wasn’t-“ She’s cut off when he gently runs a thumb over her bottom lip, tilting her head up from where she’d ducked down in embarrassment. There’s a simmering sensation in her stomach when she stares into his eyes, half lidded and pupils wider, the usual icy blue darkened as though melting under the heat. She can’t help but look at his mouth, think of how it felt against her own.

“You worry too much.” He tells her, settling his free hand on her hip.

“May I kiss you again?” He’s leaning in again, eyes on her mouth, wanting to see how red he can paint it with his own.

“Please” She whispers against his mouth.

So he does.

Over, and over, and over.

[cyberpunkonline]

THE AESTHETICS OF ABANDONWARE: WHY DEAD SOFTWARE FEELS HOLY

By R A Z, Queen of Glitches, Rat Prophet of the Post-Crash Pixel-Chapel

INTRO: Oi, you ever boot up a DOSBox emulator and feel your soul whisper "Amen"? No? Then saddle up, you absolute fetus, 'cause we’re going full pilgrimage through the haunted cathedrals of dead code, cursed shareware, and disc rot salvation. This is for the ones who dream in .BMPs, weep in MIDI, and hit “Yes to All” when copying cracked ZIPs from forgotten FTPs at 3AM. Abandonware ain’t just nostalgia—it’s digital necromancy. And some of us are bloody good at it.

DEAD SOFTWARE = HOLY SHRINE

Let’s be clear: abandonware is software that’s been, well, abandoned. The devs moved on. The publisher collapsed in a puff of VC smoke. The website's now a spammy shell selling beard oil or crack cocaine. The software? Unupdated. Unsupported. Gloriously obsolete.

So why does launching Hover! or Starship Titanic in 2025 feel like entering a chapel with weird lighting and a dial-up modem choir?

Because it’s sacred, mate.

We’re not talking about the games themselves being perfect. A lot of them were janky as hell. We’re talking vibe. These programs exist outside capitalism now. They’re post-market. Post-hype. They don’t want your money, your updates, your logins. They just want your attention—pure and simple. You’re not a user anymore. You’re a curator. A digital monk brushing dust off EXEs and praying to the Gods of IRQ Conflicts and SoundBlaster settings.

WHY IT HITS DIFFERENT

Dead software doesn’t update. It doesn’t push patches or ads. It won’t ask you to connect your Google account to play Math Blaster. It’s a sealed time capsule. Booting it up is like receiving an artifact from a parallel dimension where the internet still had webrings and every kid thought Quake mods would lead to a dream job at ID Software.

But it also represents a lost sincerity. These weren’t games made to hook you for eternity with algorithms. These were games made by six dudes in a shed with a caffeine problem and one working CD burner. And their README files were poetry. Half of them end with “Contact us on AOL or send a floppy to our PO Box.” What do you mean you don’t know what a PO Box is?

FOR THE ZOOMIES: YOU JUST MISSED THE GOLDEN ROT

Listen up, juniors. If you were born after 2005, you missed the age when the internet was held together with chewing gum, JPEG artifacts, and unspoken respect.

Back then, finding a rare game was an adventure. Not an algorithm. You didn’t scroll TikTok and get spoon-fed vibes. You climbed through broken Geocities links and begged on IRC channels. You learned to read. You learned to search. You learned that “No-CD crack” doesn’t mean what your mum thinks it means.

So here’s your initiation: go download something weird from a forgotten archive. No guides. No Discord server. Just the raw, terrifying joy of not knowing if you’ve just installed Robot Workshop Deluxe or a Russian trojan. Welcome to the cult.

THE TWO-YEAR RULE

Online communities? They’re mayflies with usernames. Peak lifespan? Two years.

Here’s the cycle:

A niche game/tool/art style gets revived.

People form a forum/Reddit/Discord.

A zine or remix scene emerges.

Drama. Mods quit. Someone forks the project.

Everyone vanishes.

This cycle has always existed. The only difference now is that it’s faster. But dead software bypasses this. It’s post-community. You don’t have to join a scene. You are the scene. Every time you open it up, you’re plugging into a ghost socket. You’re chatting with echoes. It’s beautiful.

CONCLUSION: THIS IS A RELIGION NOW. PRACTICE IT.

Abandonware isn’t about gaming. It’s about reclaiming reverence. About saying “This mattered” even if no one else remembers it did. It’s about surfing the ruins, not for loot, but for meaning. There’s holiness in opening a program that hasn’t been touched in decades and seeing it still works. Still waits for you. Still loads that same intro MIDI with the confidence of a god.

So light a candle. Install a CRT filter. Screenshot that low-res menu and print it on a t-shirt. You’re not just playing with the past. You’re preserving the bones of the digital age.

See you in the BIOS, kids.

—

RAZ out.

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 14 - Screech

Before Sodor:

When he came out of the works, James was a very different engine to the one who went in. The regular, boring, utilitarian Class 28 who had been pushed in was gone, and out came a prototype. Hughes classified James as a ‘Class 29’.

“You’re a very special engine,” Mr Hughes said, watching on as James was fired for the first time. “I’m hoping your rebuild will bring all the successes I am hoping for.” That made James feel very special. He’d been plucked at random from his shed for the overhaul, chosen from in amongst a group of twelve of his class, as well as another six Class 27s who’d been doing their absolute best to be picked. But it had been James; of all the engines on the entire railway, it had been James.

“I’ll do you proud, sir!” chirped James excitedly. Mr Hughes smiled gently, and stepped to one side to continue to watch the proceedings. James was carefully steamed up, his slightly larger boiler warming quickly. Every part of him felt new and precision machined. His firebox was large and his cylinders strong; his superheater warmed him right through and left James practically bursting with the need to get out of the workshop and prove himself. His fire burned brightly, his steam pressure shot up. The men grinned as James easily passed all their tests, the foreman marking off boxes on his list with the smallest hint of a smile.

James felt his brakes being taken off, and then his regulator being very slowly opened, prompting him to hiss steam as he inched forwards. But as the brakes were put back on with an odd screeching noise. James frowned.

“Something feels a bit off, sir,” he said slowly. “What brakes was I fitted with?” The foreman winced out of James’ view, and went to speak only for Mr Hughes to place a firm hand on his shoulder. The Chief Mechanical Engineer shook his head slowly, a dark look in his eyes.

“It’s a new design!” Mr Hughes called out. “We want to test these before we give them to other engines, and considering how much stronger we hope you’ll be, you seemed like the best engine to trial them on. They do screech a bit though, but don’t be alarmed.” James beamed!

“Oh sir! I knew I was going to be special. Look at me – don’t I look smart!” “You look very nice in our livery,” agreed Mr Hughes politely. “Now we need to start running tests. Your crew and the inspector will take it from here.” With one final meaningful look at the foreman, Mr Hughes placed his hat atop his head and strode away.

James didn’t watch him go, his eyes instead set on the trucks and coaches that littered the yard. “I can’t wait!” grinned James, feeling his driver open his regulator once more after taking off his special brakes. They started him off on some light shunting duties, testing out his response to the controls. In the distance, a foreign whistle blasted through the works as another freight train blasted through at speed. James raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “We don’t usually get outsiders here.” “The railway is trialling a foreign engine to see how they could adapt it,” the inspector replied clinically. James hummed, considering the new information before continuing his shunting. Every time he braked, his brakes screeched, and he slid just a little more than usual.

“Inspector,” James began slowly after the ninth time, “these brakes seem a bit weak. Why don’t they stop me sooner?” The three men in James’ cab shared looks out of his line of sight. They seemed to have a silent conversation in the span of several seconds, before the inspector finally responded.

“They’re a dynamic brake,” he said carefully. “They’re a little slower to apply, but they are made of an extremely strong material that won’t wear out as much.”

James felt better after that. Had he been even a little older, he wouldn’t have accepted the reply as easily – after a certain period of time, most engines grew a sort of sixth sense around their motion. They could detect if something was wrong easily, and work to fix it. James had barely seen his second year in service when he was unceremoniously picked to be rebuilt; his youth had made him a prime choice. The older engines whispered about unification and grouping in the back of the sheds, thinking their shed masters were unaware that they knew of what was brewing. In return, their shed masters did their best to hide the full extent of the truth and quash the rumours.

James was ignorant to it all as he was rigorously tested. He worked hard at everything: he banked trains some days, hauled freight on others, and even pulled a couple of fast passenger trains! Each day brought another checkmark on the inspector’s form, and each night brought a new shed with unfamiliar faces. James never slept at the same shed two nights in a row. He went all over the network, seeing all the sights and meeting many engines.

None of them said much to him.

“Good evening!” James would try, only to get a lot of side-eye and subtle glances. James thought they were too impressed with him to speak! Or at least, he did at first. As the days stretched out into months and nothing changed, James began to feel the looks more acutely. The other engines weren’t impressed. They weren’t jealous of his potentially revolutionary design or the way that Mr Hughes sometimes came specifically to see him. They weren’t envious of how James got a special number and they weren’t in awe of how smart he looked.

They just didn’t like him. They thought him an imposter, an oddity. A weird Frankenstein’s engine made of a unique boiler, an unusual pony truck and unconventional brakes that just wouldn’t stop screeching whenever James tried to stop. James figured the screeching had to be from the metal brakes clamping against his steel wheels.

The screeching came from his wheels sliding along the rails.  

Seasons changed. James wasn’t invited into sheds as often anymore, sitting out in dirty old sidings in between the endless trials. They hadn’t ended, though James wondered if that was because he was succeeding and they wanted data in the wet and cold and maybe even the snow if it dragged on long enough… or if he was failing.

The foreign engine was still around somewhere too. James never saw it, but he heard it. When down south, he’d discovered that the whistle belonged to the Great Western Railway, which ran along the distant south-west coast of England. The few engines of that railway that he managed to see looked very smart, with dark green paint and great brass safety valve bonnets that shone like spun gold in the sun. They all looked very sleek and impressive – James felt gangly next to them. But when he asked about the foreign engine, he was always redirected away from an answer.

Winter came, and with it the rumour mill grew louder. Finally, James learnt an uncomfortable truth: the railways were being grouped together into four. When he heard, he asked Mr Hughes what it would mean – Mr Hughes didn’t reply, and instead booked James in for a general service.

The foreign engine left before the year was out, but James spent Christmas in the works sleeping to stave off the cold while the men switched out his brakes. Apparently, they weren’t working as well as hoped, but the trials were being extended to get an idea on what that meant.

The inspector no longer went everywhere with James. Instead, he turned up once a week and asked James weird vague and cagey questions before leaving again. Sometimes it was even a different inspector, especially as James was shuffled around again, heading further inland and into the territory of their rival—no, former rivals. James wasn’t part of a company that rivalled the old Midland Railway anymore. He was part of a company with them.

The Midland passenger engines had very shiny paint. They didn’t have the same gorgeous brass that the Great Western engines had, but instead they had the most eye-catching red paint James had ever seen! It was glorious – it sparkled in the sun and was vibrant even in the pouring rain.

James remained in black. His lining was neglected, and it slowly faded away. James wondered when he’d get a repaint. He had been hurried rebranded as being part of the new ‘LMS’ with an equally new number, but that had been done in under a day by a trio of bored-looking men. The new number sat stark on James’ tender, and he instantly hated it.

James only pulled trucks and shunted now. He didn’t get to pull fast trains or passengers or go lots of different places now. Instead, he was assigned to a shed in the middle of nowhere along a busy line, sleeping in a dirty berth on a dirty siding in between unimportant mineral trains from one junction to another. Monotony crept in slowly, James completely forgetting about his abnormal brakes and becoming immune to the screech they made when he stopped. Every day was the same, every journey the same. The Midland engines didn’t speak to the L&YR reject, steering well clear even as they slowly opened up to their old rivals.

And then one day, a new engine arrived at James’ shed. It was a design he’d seen dotted about, and it looked like a stronger version of his old class.

“I’m here to take over,” the engine grunted. James balked. “But what am I to do?” he spluttered. “I don’t know mate,” sneered the engine. “Maybe you’re time’s up. There’s rumblings in the factory that they finally finished the mogul design.” The engine looked James over, and snorted. “Oh, you’re the rejected design they built. Poor thing, there’s not much left for you now Hughes is retiring.”

James was rendered speechless for just long enough for the new engine to shunt some of the trucks into a line.

“I’m not a reject!” he exclaimed. “I’m the prototype! The class is based on me you nitwit – my design’s the future of this company.” The engine just chuckled, looking James over once more, before his eyes darted to James’ brakes.

“Oh yes, very revolutionary indeed,” he snorted, and puffed away. James was coupled up to some vans needing repairs, and dragged away from the shed he’d been forced to come to know as his home. He went far further than ever before, making his way well over halfway across the country. He was stopped in an unfamiliar workshop that bustled with hundreds of men and machines to have his LMS number unceremoniously scraped off, before being sent on again the next day. This time, he had a short train of trucks behind him. It grew steadily as he went, as did James’ temper.

“Get in line you stupid things!” he snapped, bumping the trucks harshly as he clattered along what felt like a double-tracked branchline to James. All the engines along the line were being withdrawn and replaced with yet more of the same smug class of tender engine that had stolen James’ job and home. James wondered if he was being drawn towards a scrapyard, tucked away at the end of this line.

Then he passed by an immense empty iron train, and realisation struck. He was in Cumbria. This had to be the famed Furness Railway that he’d heard of one night while in being trialled up in the north. Despite being such a small line, it’s massive industrial traffic kept it independent from the giants baying at its doors.

And look how well that worked out.

James arrived at Barrow-in-Furness with a long line of trucks, a screech of his brakes and a furious temper. His crew stepped down. “Sorry old boy,” sighed his driver, “but this is us. Your new crew will take you from here.” James stared at his driver like he’d lost his mind.

“What new crew? What is happening, driver?! I just lost my shed, I’ve been dragged halfway across the country and I'm surrounded by these smug Midlanders! Tell me what is going on!” James’ driver sighed, taking his cloth cap in his hands and squeezing it.

“Mr Hughes is being replaced soon,” his driver admitted quietly. “He’s decided to leave the company. Mr Fowler is taking over, and he’s agreed with the directors to sell you to the North Western Railway as part of a special agreement they’re making.” James blinked, stunned.

“The What Railway?” he asked slowly. “Wait… the No-Where Railway?! They’re… they’re… they’re getting rid of me?! But I’m meant to be the prototype! What, so they’re just going to use some other mogul design?!” His driver winced. A little shunting engine nearby looked over, perplexed.

“Didn’t your lot decide to base it off a Caley design that was influenced by those Westerners? The 4300 lot.” James went silent, unable to think of anything to say. He was stunned.

A new crew clambered into James’ cab and set off. James was silent as he crossed over the points and onto his new railway. He’d been sold off. He’d been sold off because he was a failure. His brakes screeched as his crew braked to slow at a signal. The trucks bumped and clattered behind him, hissing and grumbling.

“What’s that noise?” quizzed James’ new driver. James sighed.

“Those’re my brakes. They’re made of some special metal Mr Hughes wanted to test. They didn’t end up working as well, but I’ve still got them.” The crew shared a confused look inside James’ cab, but pressed on.

At Vicarstown, an old ‘American’ design from the Furness Railway was shunting in the yard as James rumbled in and began shunting trucks on and off of his slow goods train. The old engine winced at the screech James’ brakes made, then looked up and smiled warmly.

“Hullo! I’m Edward, who’re you?” “12620,” came the bitter reply. ‘Edward’ chuckled softly, rolling over to help with the shunting. “Not your number, your name,” Edward said. “I’m James,” said James quietly. “But only I call myself that.” “Well I’ll call you that too,” promised Edward firmly. James’ crew were quick to agree with the bright blue engine. James didn’t like the colour – it was too similar to Caledonian blue. The same Caledonian that stole his classes’ future with their mogul design.

The pair talked for a little, Edward warning James about the steeper gradients beyond Kellsthorpe Road as he helped the former LMS engine reshunt his slow goods to be easier to separate as the various stations along the NWR. James bumped his trucks roughly as he prepared to set off again. Edward heard the screech of James’ brakes again, and looked down. His eyes practically bulged out of his smokebox in shock.

“James, why’ve you got wooden brakes?!” exclaimed Edward. James snorted. “They’re not wood, they’re a special metal,” he replied harshly. Edward was about to say more when the signal dropped. James snorted away, continuing down the surprisingly steep mainline towards Crovan’s Gate. And Edward had called this the ‘gentle’ part of the mainline!

Crovan’s Gate was their works station. It also had a tiny little railway on a ledge above the mainline which skuttled about its own yard before vanishing off under a bridge. A tiny little engine with a nameplate declaring him to be ‘Rheneas’ was dozing in the sun beside the line. James screeched to a stop beside the little engine with trucks to be unloaded for the little railway. Rheneas jumped!

“You sound like you need your brakes checked,” Rheneas said. His accent was thicker than anything James had ever heard – it sounded faintly Welsh, but with Manx and maybe Scots in it? James wasn’t sure what to call it. “They’re a special metal,” James replied darkly. “You all keep asking me like my designer wouldn’t give me the strongest brakes he had.” Rheneas looked confused, but said nothing until James was back at the head of his train. Then, he spotted James’ brakes.

“But… those are wood,” he said carefully. James let off steam furiously. “THEY ARE NOT WOODEN!” he roared. Birds scattered from their trees. “I am sick of hearing that! Leave me alone!” bellowed James, storming off with screeching trucks in tow. The trucks were aggravated, annoyed, tired and then James had insulted Rheneas, one of the nicest engines on the island.

They had seen James’ brakes; they knew the truth. And they knew exactly what to do to prove it to James too…

Back to the Master Post

[jedipoodoo]

OMGG I LOVE BABY OMEGA STORIES!! Could it be possible for one with Hunter? Like reader is taking care of bebo Omega snuggling with her, doing her hair, feeding her and stuff. And Hunter is all 😍 about reader and omega together.

I would die because I saw a fan art of Hunter kissing a baby omegas cheek and I’ve fallen in love😭

I KNOW THE FANART YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!!!! CUTE CHUBBY BEBO OMEGA WHO IS ALWAYS SMILING AND LAUGHING AND GETTING INTO TROUBLE AND STEALING ALL OUR HEARTS AHHH

if anyone is unaware, this is the fanart they're talking about

"The Sweetest Sound" (Sergeant Hunter x Fem!Reader)

Notes: no warnings, just fluff, babies, gendered terms for reader. Divider by @stars-n-spice (click here for more)

Hunter was in the shed, working on a set of shelves one of their neighbors had commissioned. With the door open, he had a perfect view of you and Omega, seated on a blanket on the patio. Omega took one of her wooden blocks from you and started to gnaw on it. You laughed and took it from her, pointing to the letter Hunter had carefully carved in the side.

"This is the letter 'M'," You told her, "It goes mmmmuh. Can you say mmmmuh?"

"Mmm!" Omega nodded, reaching for the block.

"That's right, 'M', as in mmmonky, mmmango, and mmmmilk."

Omega squinted at you, as if that would make the letter on the block more legible. "Muh... muh... muh.... Mama."

Hunter stopped in the middle of sawing. Had he really just heard that? His keen hearing was seldom wrong, and from the way you were looking at Omega with tears beading in your eyes, you'd heard it too.

Omega took the block from your hand, and started smacking it against the block with the letter 'Q'.

"Omega?" you asked, imploring her to repeat herself. Omega carefully balanced the blocks on top of each other, creating a little tower.

Hunter set his tools aside and closed the door to his workshop, just in case Omega got too curious and crawled inside again.

He crouched down next to you and the baby, trying the catch Omega's attention by playing with her bangs.

"Omega, what did you say?"

Her brown eyes twinkled in the sunlight as she beamed up at him, letting out a string of babbling babyspeak.

"No, no, say it again. Mmmm, mmmmama. Can you say Mama?"

"Mmm!" Omega sang, clapping a hand against her block.

"Good job, say it again," Hunter tucked Omega in his arm and turned her to face you, "Who's that, Omega? Is that Mama?"

"Mah!" Omega said, reaching out both arms to you. You let her grasp your fingers and leaned in closer.

"Hi sweet girl," You laughed softly, your eyes shining.

Omega slapped the palms of her hands against your cheeks, "Mama."

Hunter gave a whoop of joy that startled Omega, and she wriggled in his arms, trying to get down and back to her blocks. Hunter set her back on the blanket and turned to you, beaming brighter than you'd ever seen him.

"That was her first word," He told you.

You turned red, "Well, statistically speaking, that's one of the first sounds most babies can make, so it make sense that they'd repeat it and make the word that we associate with 'mother', but-"

"Oh hush, you sound like Tech," Hunter said. He pulled you to your feet so that you could keep a better eye on Omega as she crawled around on the patio. "She called you 'Mama'. That's huge!"

You still couldn't look at him, though the swelling feeling in your chest could only be described as joy. You'd only known the Batch for a short while, but you loved spending time with them, especially with Hunter and Omega.

"I'm sorry she said Mama first. I know you how much you want her to call you Papa."

"Are you kidding? I'm thrilled that she calls you Mama! It's amazing!" Hunter placed both hands on your waist and spun you up in the air. When you came back down, he pulled you close and pressed his forehead to yours. "Do you know how amazing it is that my kid loves you and trusts you enough to call you Mama? I might be the luckiest man in the galaxy."

You giggled softly, "Well, I'm honored."

Hunter kissed your forehead, "You might want to hold off on telling everyone else, though, I think Cross was banking on her first word being a swear word."

"Heaven forbid," You smirked. You rested your head on Hunter's chest as you both turned to look at Omega

Omega had crawled over to the wall of the yard, using the stones to pull herself up with one hand, holding the block with the letter 'P' in the other. When she saw the two of you looking at her, she grinned, and held out the block to Hunter.

"Pah!"

"That's right, kid, Puh, puh, Papa. C'mon, say 'Papa'." Hunter walked over to her and crouched down, pointing at the letter on the block.

"Puh!" Omega said.

"C'mon, I know you can do it," He insisted.

At that moment, Wrecker made it up the hill to the house, his catch of the day slung across his shoulder.

"Hey y'all! How're we doing?" He asked.

Omega squealed in delight, and pointed her block at Wrecker,

"PAPA!"

Hunter's face fell, and Wrecker was caught by surprise for a moment before he dropped his fish on the ground and ran over to Omega, swinging her up into the air.

"That's our girl!" He laughed, swinging her around in the air.

Hunter tried not to be bitter for Wrecker's sake, but as he folded his arms you could see his shoulders tense. You walked over and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Don't worry. She'll call you Papa too soon enough."

[heiresstothenest]

The presence of neglect in Very Little Nightmares

To celebrate the sixth anniversary of my nearly-favorite game, I’ve decided to analyze the motif of neglect that VLN carries. While its main theme is debatable, and there is a good amount of evidence that supports other ideas, I’m fully set on the belief that VLN focuses on the concept of neglect, mainly.

Starting with the most obvious, the Pretender is a child that has been driven into this narcissistic state of mind by both the absence of her parents, forcing the need for a sort of coping mechanism and the excessive praise she receives from her caretakers. While I don’t believe that her “parents” placed next to her in the family portrait are her biological parents, they definitely could have acted as parents for her, at least initially. With her mother absent for unknown reasons and her father dead, her life lacks the most important thing a child needs to develop emotionally, likely the exact same thing that had happened to her in the waking world. Those parental figures might even be the thing that caused her to accept the Ferryman’s offer to join the Nowhere. She has clearly not even sufficiently interacted with other children either, despite all the dolls she surrounds herself with. She needs to be superior to everything and everyone, they shouldn’t be able to move or talk back – and so the Craftsman rips their lives (and their organs) out and makes them into dolls, and any doll that the mistress isn’t happy with goes into a pile hidden under the rocks. 

Next up is the Nest itself, specifically the building. Anywhere that the mistress does not step is in decay, full of cobwebs, dilapidated. There is nobody to clean the place up there, since as from what we’ve seen the Butler never goes that high up into the building. From its exterior view, the place looks like it’s about to fall over, the precarious cliff beneath even more dangerous in appearance. As we go further into the Nest’s gardens, the delicate potted plants and shrubberies become heaps of brambles and thorns. No matter where you are in the Nest, the further you go, the more deteriorated it will become. The Nest is the product of the negligence that was put upon the Pretender, desperately trying to be refined and showy but revealing its true side once you go too far.

The Residents of VLN are a little tough to tackle since we have so little information on them, but I’ve done what I can. The Craftsman, despite his extremely crooked posture and lack of care for himself, keeps on working in his workshop, skinning children, removing their organs, and making them into dolls – all without a proper mask or even gloves on his hands. At least he washes the skins. Meanwhile, the Butler’s freedom is completely neglected. Whoever put that lock over his hands, whether it was the Pretender or one of her parents, clearly disregarded any semblance of hope that he could have, keeping the key stowed away deep in a crevice on the cliffside. I see this as some sort of punishment put into order on him, constantly forcing him to keep his head bowed to the mistress.

The girl in the yellow raincoat was initially eager to help other children, but by the time she enters the Butler’s domain she is fairly careless when it comes to others. The scarf kid taught her that what comes first is yourself, even if it costs the safety of the people around you. This idea is surprisingly common for children in Little Nightmares. She might not even care for the boy anymore, as she expresses no emotion upon the realization that he is the Nest’s newest victim, leaving him there on the floor. After Six and the raincoat girl collaborate to escape the Butler one last time, the same exact thing happens to the poor thing – her fellow escapee leaving her behind after they make their way out of their situation. I think that at this point she lost her faith in helping others, not even considering the safety of Six as she runs into the shed at the end of the garden, shutting the door in her face. Though, even in her final moments when she is saved by the companion that she failed to protect, the ultimate embodiment of neglect in the Nest, the Pretender, wakes back up and brings the girl down with her.

And uh yea!! Happy anniversary, Very Little Nightmares

[sailtomarina]

A Mother Always Knows

🌟 Fred/Hermione | Rated T | Fluff and humor | WC 1956

The owl arrived that morning while they took their breakfast. Fred watched as delight stole over his mum’s entire body–face lifting and stretching into a grin, back visibly straightening, and hands trembling with excitement.

“What is it, Mum?”

There was nobody else in the kitchen to witness the scene, another boon in his favour. George still hadn’t returned from Angie’s, both of them taking their time enjoying time off from the joke shop. Fred would have been with Hermione, too, were she not called off on one of her work emergencies. Dad was outside in the garden.

“Andromeda and the girls want to try on the new spring selection at Madam Maulkins! There’s also apparently a beauty demonstration at Perfectly Pansy. They’re even offering in-person makeovers.”

This was it. The chance he’d been waiting for.

“You should probably get ready. I’ll let Dad know where you’ve gone. When do you think you’ll be back?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“I dare say I’ll be out for most of the day. The girls always want to grab a bite at the end.”

He had to suppress a giggle at the observation that, while accurate, was especially true given that Fred had requested they take as much of his mother’s time as possible.

“Give them my love, would you?”

“You are such a darling! Of course.” Pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, she rushed off.

Fred waited for the woosh of the Floo–nursing the last bit of tea, then washing up–before heading outside to find his dad.

He’d never met anyone more passionate, aside from Neville, about the Burrow’s gardens and orchards. Together with Mum, they ensured that the family never went hungry, no matter how tight the purse strings became. That was in the past, though. Ever since the change within the Ministry, his dad had received one promotion after another, all of his diligence finally recognised.

“Dad!” he called.

Silence.

The garden shed came into sight as he walked around the corner. Not the workshop, which was once a garden shed and had long ago been converted into his dad’s personal space for tinkering on his many projects, but the actual garden shed that housed supplies, tools, and seedlings. 

Based on the wheel barrow parked just outside the door, from which a warning sign hung, Fred made sure to snag a set of earmuffs sitting on the window sill before entering.

His dad stood at the centre table surrounded by pots of all sizes, elbow deep in one as he transferred a juvenile Mandrake that was clearly screaming at the top of its lungs.

Ugly buggers. Fred grinned, remembering how he and George had tested Bubotuber paste on the pimpled plants. They’d been assigned detention with Hagrid for a month when Sprout had found out.

Reformed in his adulthood, he jumped in to help his dad transfer the rest of the Mandrakes into larger containers.

“Thanks, son.”

“Welcome, Dad.”

But, Arthur Weasley knew better than to expect assistance from his most mischievous son for nothing. “Did you need something?”

Feeling sheepish, Fred nonetheless set his plan into motion. “Mum’s out for the day to shop with her girlfriends, and I was hoping you’d have time to take a trip to Gringotts.”

His dad’s eyebrows jumped, his curiosity obviously peaked. Fred hurried on to explain.

“You know how Mum is about secrets; she can’t keep one if it has anything to do with...” He paused, struggling to word things better so he didn’t sound like such an ungrateful son.

“Go on.” Humor twinkled in Dad’s eyes, and Fred remembered that this was a man who’d known Molly Weasley for more years than any of had and his siblings had been alive.

“I’m ready to take the next step with Hermione.”

There. He’d said it.

It felt like there was something stuck in his throat, and he swallowed in an attempt to rid himself of the uncomfortable sensation. When that didn’t help, he tugged at his collar, wishing he’d chosen to have this conversation outside where it was a bit cooler.

He needn’t have worried.

His entire body jolted forward at the force of his father’s slap to his back. The man wore a smile wide enough to nearly split his face in half.

“Congratulations, son. Let me get changed, and we’ll head out.”

The entire affair was more straightforward than Fred could have hoped for.

He wasn’t a stranger to the wizarding bank, dealing with the goblins regularly enough both for his personal account and Wizard Wheezes, but somehow Fred was still surprised at how quickly they arrived at the Weasley vault.

His father knew exactly where to go, leading them over to a wooden cabinet along the back wall.

“Take your time. Let me know if you have any questions.” He squeezed Fred’s shoulder, then wandered off towards a filing cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

Holding his breath, he hooked his thumbs beneath the lid to pull it open. This wasn’t Fred’s first time to look in at their family heirlooms, but now that he did so with intention, he saw everything in a new light.

A decent selection of jewelry met his eyes, the cumulation of generations of Weasleys. A snort escaped him as he noted the prominence of rubies over any other gem. Their family name went hand-in-hand with red, but it felt too obvious, and that was even before considering Hermione’s own inescapable association with her Hogwarts house years after graduation.

No rubies. No diamonds, either. She’d made clear her distaste for the gemstone, and he’d noted it along with every other detail about her.

Then, his eyes snagged on a stone the colour of a clear summer sky. Fred was drawn to it like a Seeker to a Snitch, or, in his case, a lovesick wizard to the woman who filled his every dream and thought day in and day out. 

“Is that the one, then?”

He jumped at his dad’s voice, hand hanging mid-air above the delicate silver bracelet upon which were strung five small stones.

“It is.”

The other man waited until Fred had plucked up the piece before continuing.

“That belonged to my great, great, grandmother. It’s part of a set.”

“A set?” he repeated.

“Here, allow me–” Fred stepped aside to give his dad room to open the lower drawers. “–ah, yes. Here we are.”

Just as described, a matching necklace, drop earrings, and, most importantly, ring, lay in a row, waiting for their time. For Hermione.

It wasn’t until the following day that Fred saw his mother. He hadn’t planned on visiting home again so soon, but her owl made it clear in no uncertain terms that she needed his help. For what, exactly, she didn’t say.

He’d no sooner taken two steps from the Floo before she pounced.

“Frederic Gideon Weasley!” she squealed, surrounding him in a painfully tight hug.

“Mum! I can’t breathe!”

“Oh, tosh. You complained just now, didn’t you?” Nevertheless, she pulled back, eyes crinkled at the corners and smiling in a way that had him terrified.

“What’s going on? I thought you needed help with something.”

“I do, I do!” 

She ushered him towards the stairs, giving no hints as to what the fuss was about. He wasn’t sure what he could do that Dad couldn’t. Maybe it was a surprise for the old man, or something else along those lines.

It wasn’t until they drew up to a familiar door that he noticed the change.

There was the door bathroom across his childhood bedroom, one he’d shared with George for as long as he could remember. And, there was Ginny’s room next to the bathroom. His parents claimed the room closest to the stairs, Bill and Charlie on the opposite end, while Ron’s sat directly below the ghoul’s attic.

There was an extra door.

“Mum, what’s this?” He stared at the two doors facing the bathroom where there used to only be one.

“This, my dear, is a change that’s been long-overdue.”

Having said that, she entered the closer door ahead of him, Fred close behind.

For years, they’d begged her for another room–not because they wanted to sleep separately, but because of the amount of space their projects took up on the floor, every table surface, and even the window sill! She’d finally done just that, the reason for doing so immediately clear.

A double bed sat where there used to be two twins, and the walls that had once been a cheery yellow had been repainted a calming sage green.

“Wh-What in the–”

“I’ll have to check with Hermione, of course, to see if she likes the colour or would prefer something else, but now you lovebirds have a room of your own whenever you visit! I’ve set up the other similarly for George and Angie, once they’re properly courting, of course, so–”

He didn’t hear much after that, the first phrase ringing in his ears.

She knew.

Wholly unapologetic and a tad indignant, he interrupted her mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, but how did you know?”

“Oh, darling,” she warbled, hand fluttering at her bosom and not even attempting to suppress her amusement, “if you had wanted to keep this a secret, you wouldn’t have enlisted your father. Plus, your little prank to get me out of the house was not as well planned as you might have thought.”

Fred’s mind reeled at that–Dad, he could forgive, being as the man buckled at the slightest pressure from his wife like Fang at the sight of a harmless Faerie–but Fred’s own planning being anything less than genius was a reality he could not fathom.

“What do you mean ‘not well planned’?” he squawked, thankful that Hermione wasn’t there to hear him just then.

“Please.” This woman, his mum, rolled her eyes at him as if he were some Firstie. “Andromeda isn’t the sort of witch to chase fashion trends, preferring more timeless pieces. That was my first hint that someone had convinced her into leaving her grandson for the day.”

He could feel heat prickling along his neck. A slightly uncomfortable perspiration began to build at his pits.

“The second hint was how long Miss Parkinson spent on our makeovers. Everyone else was in and out in no time at all. I would have thought she’d want to usher us out of there as soon as possible given her ‘secret’ relationship with Ronald–” How does she know about Ron and Pansy? “–but she took every possible opportunity to prolong our time there. She even went so far as to help get us reservations at that popular new restaurant–”

“Zabini’s?” he asked incredulously. He’d been trying to get in there for months!

“Yes, that’s the one. Lovely establishment. The young man himself came out to chat with us during dinner.” Her gaze turned calculating, then. “Do you think he might be Ginvera’s type?”

“Mum!”

“What? He’s fit!” She pulled her head back, surprised at his outburst.

“So, you had a perfect day that somehow convinced you that I’m courting Hermione for marriage.” He said it more as a statement, certain of her answer and choosing to ignore her question about Ginny. The last thing he needed were two Weasley women on his case.

“Well, I’m sure you aren’t quite yet, but that young woman loves you too much to say no.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Now I know where Gin gets it from.”

His mother beamed at him, drawing close to wrap him up in the sort of hug that suffocated as much as it nourished. Then, she relaxed enough to catch his eye with a smile of encouragement.

“Now, tell me everything.”

So, he did.

Written for Lauren’s Kitchen’s Wheel of Chaos with the following prompts: prank gone right, Gringotts Wizarding bank, Arthur Weasley, and Mandrake

I like to think I can work with random prompts from the chaos wheel as well as anyone, but this definitely put me back on my heels. 

Cross-posted on Tumblr, IG, & AO3 (eventually)