#there was another room of quilts from his collection

[sleepnoises]

some quilts by Jonathan Shannon (1938–2016) photographed at the San Jose Museum of Quilts and Textiles

Canciones de Mi Padre, 1989

From My Garden of Earthly Delights, 1992

Amigos Muertos, 1994. Rejected from the American Quilter's Society show due to the inclusion of Shannon's red AIDS ribbon (left skeleton). Shannon had won Best in Show the year before. Shannon organized protest letters as a result and made some impact on the issue of censorship in quilting.

Shadows: Gay Men's Chorus, 1995

[heirofnight]

it's the shadows

pairing: azriel x reader (heavily), cassian x reader, rhysand x reader

word count: 1.2k (i intended for this to be a drabble but i can't ever shut the hell up)

summary: reader is close friends with az, cass, and rhys, but is very obviously pining for azriel. the four of you are drunk and cassian just has to know which one of them would be the best in bed. sexual tension ensues. duh.

while this entire debate was absolutely ridiculous - one may argue even downright childish - you couldn't stop the grin that was spreading across your cheeks.

you couldn't remember the last time you'd laughed this hard. your stomach was aching, cheeks sore. dried tears were collecting at the corners of your eyes. there'd be a lull in the conversation, a period of time that allowed all of you to calm down and collect yourselves, before you'd inevitably meet one of their mischievous gazes and fits of laughter would begin all over again.

"seriously, y/n?," cassian inquired, voice booming. you snorted at his dumbfounded expression, at the fact that the four of you had finally calmed down, just for cass to loop back to the topic that had you all howling in laughter in the first place.

"azriel?," he continued, pointer finger gesturing towards the male sitting opposite from you in the sitting room. cassian had a half-full wine glass in his large hand, the liquid sloshing around precariously as he motioned in the shadowsinger's direction. "the motherfucker doesn't even speak!," he finished, causing you to erupt in another alcohol-induced fit of giggles.

azriel smiled warmly at the sight, shaking his head in mock exasperation at his brother's disbelief. az took a sip from the glass of wine he'd been nursing at a much slower pace compared to the rest of you.

rhys chuckled now, sitting alongside cassian on the plush sofa. he shoved the war general on his broad shoulder playfully, gesturing towards azriel himself, "he doesn't need to speak in this particular scenario, brother," he purred, his own wine sloshing within his grip.

azriel's cheeks tinted red at the implication, shifting his gaze down to his lap to hide a dimpled smirk.

"and see, that's what i'm saying," you added, throwing your hands up in agreement. you sat on the floor, upon the cushioned carpet that spread throughout the sitting room. you glanced up at azriel, a fond smile playing across your lips as you met his bashful gaze.

"he doesn't need to use words, cassian. i stand by my original statement: azriel is absolutely the most capable male in bed out of the three of you," you couldn't even finish the sentence without giggling, awestruck at cassian's ability to always turn the conversation back to this topic in particular.

you'd been close to all three of them for so long, and cassian - with his overly-competitive nature - just had to know, from a female's perspective, which male you thought would be the best in the bedroom. even though your answer was always the same: azriel.

was it because you may have been harboring feelings for the aforementioned male? perhaps. however, you didn't need to be pining after him to come to that conclusion; it felt like the obvious choice, regardless.

azriel glanced over at you with silent pride flooding his gaze, and you winked at him playfully in response. "i've got your back, az," you slurred, alcohol heavy in your veins. you reached over to poke him in the kneecap gently, and he huffed out a laugh.

"thank you, sweet," he spoke, tone gravelly, and you felt your chest grow fuzzy at the nickname he reserved just for you.

"oh, come ON," cassian scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. rhys barked out a laugh, tossing his head back against the headrest of the quilted couch.

you laughed along with rhys, sitting closer to azriel's legs now. az reached down, smoothing a section of your hair that had grown disheveled during your laughing fits throughout the evening. you were hyper-aware of his touch, and currants of electricity shot down your spine as the contact mixed with the wine in your system.

"i'm going to go out on a limb here," cassian started, pausing to take a sip from his glass. you rolled your eyes, bracing yourself for the familiar statement preparing to spill from his lips. "and i'm going to say that your opinion on this particular topic is heavily biased," he finished, knowing hazel eyes glancing from you, up to azriel, and back down to you.

you groaned in mock annoyance, flipping your hand in a dismissive gesture.

"yeah, yeah, cass, i know," you huffed out a breath, narrowing your eyes, "you're so convinced that i want to be in azriel's bed," you finished, pausing for dramatic effect before speaking further. cassian scoffed, his eyes widening slightly as if to say duh.

the alcohol was making you feel bolder than normal, and honestly, it's not like you were completely shy about your attraction towards azriel. it was a commonly known fact, one that all of you tended to play into from time to time - an inside joke, a bit.

however, while the attraction was known, you'd never confessed to any of them your very real feelings for azriel. that aspect wasn't a joke to you in the slightest.

"it's the shadows," you deadpanned, shrugging your shoulders sloppily.

cassian and rhys paused for a moment, absorbing your statement. then, they both erupted into howling laughter, and you weren't far behind them. you heard azriel's low chuckle from where he sat behind you, and he sent one of those mentioned shadows from within his twining orbit to twirl through your hair playfully.

cassian collected himself, shaking his head as he wiped his eyes.

"what kind of shit are you into, y/n?," cass wheezed out, and rhys laughed harder at his follow-up question.

you sniffled, wiping your own eyes before responding, "i mean, you really cannot blame me," you mused, gesturing towards azriel once more, "have you really not stopped to consider this at all?," you widened your eyes, stunned.

as if to prove a point, you turned your head towards azriel, locking your curious eyes with his amused ones.

"azriel, have you or have you not used your shadows on someone during sex?," you asked, extremely forward.

he almost choked at the question, cheeks turning crimson. cassian and rhys resumed their howling, but you peered at him expectantly.

he couldn't deny you an answer, not when you looked at him like that - innocent-looking wide eyes, cheeks pink from the wine. and was there a large, screaming part of him that wanted to entice you with his bedroom habits?

perhaps.

he nodded once, a dimpled smirk appearing across his pink cheeks.

"i have," he spoke, deep voice cutting through the laughter.

everyone paused at his words - you'd all half-expected him to evade the question altogether. but here he was, divulging life-altering, world-ending information that had your brain short-circuiting in one fatal blow.

the silence was deafeningly loud, and your expression shifted in a way that had azriel knowing exactly what you were thinking. your eyes had widened and glossed over, your mouth was agape. his smirk grew, forming into something more playful.

and to prove his point, he sent one more shadow your way to lightly twirl through your fingers and caress up your arm, looping around your neck gently.

cass sent a low whistle into the dead silence of the room, croaking out a laugh. "well, fuck, az," he chuckled, downing the rest of his drink.

"you win," cassian added, awestruck - shaking his head in defeat.

you didn't even hear what was happening around you, too focused on azriel - his darkened gaze as he peered down at you, and the feeling of that tendril of shadow tightening around your throat in silent challenge.

a/n: i'm so sorry. i'm spamming u with all of these ideas but hear me out, i have to get them out immediately. pls don't hate me. but this one had me sweating lmfao. sucker for sexual tension as always!!!

[psychoticallykind]

Maybe

"Early" - Jegulus Microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 778 words

--------------------------------------------------------------

Regulus knocked before he could talk himself out of it.

The door opened a few seconds later, revealing a slightly surprised James Potter. "Regulus? Hey, come on in." He stepped back, giving Regulus a warm smile.

"Hi," Regulus managed, trying not to seem awkward. "Sirius invited me. To the party for Remus?"

"Yeah, of course," James replied, grinning. "You're a little early, so no one's here - Sirius is out with Remus, because he gets anxious before parties and it's best to tell him with as little notice as possible."

"Isn't - I thought it started at eleven?" Regulus checked, suddenly aware that he was possibly very early to a party he'd thought he was late to.

"It starts at one," James informed him. "But everything is set up - do you want something to drink? I can make tea."

"You don't have to." Regulus needed to check that text - Barty was the one who'd gotten the time, but Regulus was sure it had said eleven. "I - I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be so early."

He was going to kill Barty. Violently and slowly. The only reason Regulus was here was because Sirius had invited him - and all of his friends - and because they were actually trying to have a good relationship. But Regulus had planned to come late, say hi, and leave. That was all.

He couldn't be early. He couldn't - there were going to be people here. Lots of people he didn't know and couldn't talk to and didn't want to socialize with, and now he was not only early, but first.

He was going to be sick. Maybe he could leave now - only James had seen him, he could lie and say he felt poorly - it wasn't even completely a lie, really, because now he was anxious enough that he might throw up and surely that counted as feeling unwell, didn't it?

"Regulus?" James pulled his attention. "Hey. Can I show you something?"

Right. He was still here. In his brothers apartment. Early to a party he shouldn't have come to.

Regulus managed to nod. "Okay."

"Great." James grinned, holding out his hand. Regulus hesitated for a second before taking it and letting James lead him through the apartment.

James passed the first and second door, stopping at the end of the hall. "This is my room," he informed Regulus, opening the door. "I'd bring you to Sirius's, but it's a mess right now."

Regulus nodded, stepping inside and almost immediately feeling calmer. He couldn't help it - James's room was so calm.

Translucent gold curtains were pulled over an open window, tinting all of the natural light and giving the whole room a warm glow. There was a lamp next to the bed, but it wasn't on. The floor had a soft black rug, and there was an intricate quilt with mostly deep red and gold shades over the bed. A desk was in one corner, bookshelves in another. It was light and comfortable and organized, and Regulus felt so safe.

"I know that parties aren't usually your thing," James spoke up from behind him, still by the door. "So I wanted to let you know you could come and hide in here if you wanted. It'll be empty, and it's actually pretty well sound-proofed, so it should be a good place to relax and breathe if you need one."

Regulus couldn't look at him. He didn't know how to contend with this - what was this? Compassion? Kindness?

Whatever it was, it was making Regulus feel weird. He nodded to the large dreamcatcher above the bed. "That's pretty."

"The dreamcatcher?" James asked. "Thanks. My mom made it last year. She loves them."

Regulus nodded, staring at it. What was he supposed to say? Thank you for caring? How did you notice? Why are you letting me in here?

"It'll be a while before anyone else is here," James spoke up again. "Do you want to watch a film? Or we can just talk for a while, or you can borrow a book - if I don't have anything you like, you can raid Remus's collection, he has like a million in Sirius's room."

"A film would be okay," Regulus turns to look at James, smiling a little when James brightens.

"Great! Come on, I'll show you what we have." James leads him back to the living room, and Regulus follows, no longer tense.

He's way too early, and maybe he shouldn't be here at all.

But James is smiling at him, and Regulus feels so safe here, and maybe it was good that he got here early.

Maybe he should come here a little more often.

Maybe.

[fanaticsnail]

Lathered Up

Masterlist here

Word count: 1,600+

Synopsis: After spending far too long at sea in the Polar Tang, all you wanted was a shower. Your two lovers join you in ridding their bodies of grime while enjoying ridding you of your stress.

Warnings: smut, Mdni, 18+, throuple dynamic, Shachi x afab!reader x Penguin, shower sex, oral - afab!receiving, soap, water sex, Shachi is a Fishman, Penguin is a soft-dom, semi-sub!reader, established relationship, Premature ejaculations, untouched ejaculations, watersports.

Notes: taking a leaf out of @bby-deerling's book and had a few drinks, here is some throuple smut for two of the Heart-Pirates that @feral-artistry asked for in passing. I blame Aperol Prosecco spritz. Art link.

Tag list: @feral-artistry @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @carrotsunshine @vespidphoenix @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @mfreedomstuff

Suds of frothy soap sloshed at your chest, drops of cooling lather clashing with the scorching liquid plummeting harshly on your shoulders. Your head hung limp, hair falling and sticking to your forehead beneath the fresh, warm water.

The day had been exhausting, your body encumbered by the difficulties faced while traveling at sea in the Polar Tang. You loved your crewmates, you loved your job, you loved the sea; but sometimes, all you wanted to love was the hot ripples of pummeling beads between your shoulder blades. As you docked at port, you immediately sprung at the opportunity of taking a lengthy shower.

All of your thoughts were eclipsed by ‘shower.’ The grime sticking to your skin plagued you more so than keening at the prospect of sleeping in a cozy bed, up to your neck in weighted quilts and within the perfect cool temperature of a welcoming room. Sleep? Shower. Food? Shower. Alcohol? Shower.

The one and only thing stronger than your incessant need to rid yourself of traveling grime were the two strong arms lathering your breasts in silken suds. Fingers tweaking your peaked nipples, you lulled your head back to lay atop Penguin’s stooped shoulder within the large shower bay. His toothy grin was occupied by pressing loose kisses against your neck, tongue swirling over your damp flesh.

His dark hair stuck to his forehead beneath the rapid water, his eyes half-lidded and consumed with lust. He was just as far gone as you were, pent up with frustration at traveling without respite for so long.

Although you all traveled together, there was truly little to no time you got to spend within the arms of one another. Your work overtook your duties as a partner, the captainship of Trafalgar Law held higher than your need to give in to your carnal desires.

“Feel good?” he cooed at you, his elbows caging you in a slippery embrace, “You want some more pressure?”

You whined against the circling of his skilled digits against your peaked buds, your body fighting the urge to turn away to press your lips against his. Should you turn your body to face his smiling lips, you would inadvertently be breaking away from the kneeling figure of the redheaded Shachi, skillfully lapping at your glistening cunt. His tongue slid against your pearly clit, sliding down to your slit to collect more of your arousal to spread against your needy pussy.

Shachi moaned against your core, his mouth drooling as he eagerly nodded his face against your quivering clit. Penguin continued to tweak your nipples, only halting to gather more of the frothy bubbles and spread it over your chest.

“Lean into me,” Penguin ordered, hooking his left arm over your torso and supporting your weight, “We've got you.”

“Just relax into it,” Shachi’s muffled voice called to you, lifting your legs over his shoulders and swallowing a gulp of bathwater, “We’ll take care of the rest.”

All you could do was let out a whining hum of affirmation, allowing your two crewmen to manhandle you to gain the best advantage to please you. Shachi continued lapping greedily against your weeping cunt, whispering praises into your core each time he bobbed his face against you.

“There you go,” Penguin’s voice cooed in your ear, flicking his tongue out to tease your lobe, “Ease into us. Good job, let us do the work.”

“W-What ‘bout you?” you huffed. Shachi’s deviant tongue flicking skillfull circles against your clit, his lips hovering over the bud before diving in completely caused you to arch your back and cry out.

“We'll get to us later,” Penguin laughed against your cheek, his right hand tracing over your jaw to turn your head, “Don't worry about it right now. Let us please you.”

“You've been working harder than the both of us combined,” Shachi’s slurred voice muffled between your folds, “More than me, especially. Wanna get you off on my face before we go to bed.”

Shachi’s lips dove against your clit, circling it with his lips, and flicking with his flattened tongue. Penguin drew your face closer to him, taking your full weight against his glistening chest. Collecting your lips against his, water flooded you both over his shoulder. The showerhead continued to pummel it's beaded droplets against you, adding to the moisture and steam between the three of you.

You whined into Penguin's mouth, sucking in a heavy breath through your nose as he flicked his tongue out to meet yours. He pried open your lips, consuming your cries with a ravishing intensity.

Right hand hooking behind his neck, you pulled Penguin in deeper and nudged his jaw with your chin to deepen the kiss. Your left hand balled Shachi’s damp, red locks against the scruff of his neck and held him tightly as he continued to suck your clit.

The familiar coax of your impending unravel stampeded towards you with lightning intensity. Shachi hummed into you, his tongue flicking and lapping at your cunt in a similar motion that Penguin was conducting against your lips. Your brows peaked in the centre, feeling the prod of Shachi’s fingers against your neglected slit.

Just as Shachi intended to add his fingers into you, you were shocked when he circled the weighty girth of Penguin’s aching cock and lined it up with your core. Penguin’s breath hitched, his voice whimpering against your lips as Shachi coaxed his throbbing cock into your slickened walls.

“No, Shach,” Penguin whimpered, “It's been w-way too long,” he grit his teeth when Shachi began pumping his cock while fucking your slit onto Penguin's cock.

“You need it,” Shachi commented, tearing his face away from your core to focus on Penguin’s needy cock, “You both do. So take it.” Shachi guided Penguin's cock to sheathe itself within you, Penguin whimpering a strangled whine as your arousal eased him down to the hilt in a single thrust.

“I-I'm gonna cum quick,” Penguin cried, “I haven't had the time to touch myself in weeks,” his confession had Shachi chuckle, focussing on taking your weight into his shoulders so Penguin could focus on his needy thrusting. 

“S’okay, Pen,” you managed to cry, Shachi’s lips finding your clit once more and romancing it with open-mouth kisses, “M’not gonna last long either.”

“F-Fuck,” Penguin cried, his hips slapping with large gushes of water flicking between your bodies. Shachi licked, sucked, mouthed, and romanced your clit while Penguin railed you from behind.

Penguin's hands hastily anchored his left hand at your right hip, and his right hand needily clutched at your left breast. He rut into you like an animal in heat, greedily chasing his high within your body.

“I-I'm gonna cum?!” Penguin's confusion at the hasty climax had yours begin to unravel, your walls immediately contracting with the white-hot bliss of your eruption.

“C-Cum in me, Pen,” you whined, Shachi's tongue greedily lapping at you while he moaned against your stiffened pearl, “Use me. Take me. Fuck me, Pen-.”

“-Oh fuck, I'm cumming,” Penguin cried, immediately sinking his teeth into your right shoulder as he rammed his girthy cock into your eager cunt, “I'm cumming. I'm cumming s-so fucking hard. Fuck, I'm filling you up. F-Fuck.”

Ribbons of his translucent bliss splashed within your greedy cunt, ushering you closer to your ecstasy. His rhythmless aftershocks of his orgasm shepherded you ever closer to encountering your own.

Growing over confident, Shachi latched fully against your clit and immediately shot an intentional stream of water from his mouth against you. His natural abilities as a Fishman granted him this unusual and unique sensation. Shooting water from his mouth in a rapid-fire jet, you immediately screamed with your orgasm.

Unhooking your arm from Penguins neck, both hands shot out to firmly sink into Shachi’s head; the largest orgasm of your life erupting in gushing streams of release against his face.

“Sh-Shachi, t-too much!” you cried, grinding down against his head as he mouthed at you through your orgasm, “F-Fuck Penguin, don't stop. F-Fuck I'm cumming! Sh-Shit-... nmmghm-... So good.”

Shachi’s eyes rolled into his head, empathetically succumbing to the bliss his two partners were experiencing. His beaded precum glistened amongst the shower water, his cock twitching out an unintentional stream of sticky cum as soon as you gushed against his face. His shock flew from his lips as he cried through his untouched orgasm.

You rode his face through the unravel of your bliss, Penguin's cock sleeved to the hilt within you as he cried out both yours and Shachi’s names. Your lips were agape, wordlessly naming your two lovers as you all rode through your highs.

Shachi’s shock only unravelled the moment he released your clit with a crude ‘pop.’ He never came untouched, always the one that took the longest to reach his peak. He chalked it up to the pent up frustration at sea, and the fact that when he looked up, he saw nothing but eternal bliss depicted on his lovers’ faces.

Upon coming down through your highs, three sets of roaming hands scrubbed at each other's bodies. Ridding yourselves of your prior releases, you shared kisses and intimate touches between you that felt sacred and holy.

No further words were spoken between you, your emotions all depicted in your unconcealed and unshrouded eyes.

After drying off in fluffy towels, you all plopped into the giant mattress and immediately became an amassment of tangled limbs. Legs, arms, torsos and lips all greeted each other in blissful tranquility.

No blessings of ‘sweet dreams,’ nor peaceful promises of ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ were uttered. All of your emotions and feelings were laid out between sweet kisses and gentle embraces, all tucked beneath the weighty duvet you shared between the three of you.

[joelmillerisapunk]

Howdy Honey II. Beautiful Mess

Series Masterlist * Masterlist * Wordcount 6.6K

Summary: Joel grapples with his frustration and fear after you push him away

Warnings: the fluff before the smut! Some angst and mentions of loss

Notes: Thank you for the long wait for this chapter. Getting back into it with these two has been so much fun! I am very excited for the next chapter heheh. I can foresee three more chapters, which I will hopefully have out at a decent pace. Ty @evolnoomym for reading this over ♏️🌙

You

The first rays of morning light filter through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room. The ranch outside is waking up, the sounds of hooves and rustling hay mingling with the birds' early songs, but inside, there is a stillness. The air is cool, soft, and peaceful before the day fully begins. You lay on the couch, the blanket Joel brought you tucked snugly beneath your chin, feeling the comforting weight of it. The soft fabric smells faintly like him—like the dust and leather of the ranch, with a hint of something deeper you can't quite place. Your body aches from the injury, a constant reminder of your fragility, but the blanket is a small luxury, an oasis of warmth amid the discomfort.

The potted plant in the corner catches your eye as its leaves flutter in the breeze coming through the open window. The subtle movement is a welcome distraction, drawing your focus away from the twinges of pain in your side, from the dull ache that’s become your constant companion. It's not the worst pain you’ve felt in your life, but right now, in the stillness of the room, it feels like the only thing that matters. You wish you were in your own bed, in the comfort of your familiar space. You can almost picture it—your room upstairs, the soft quilts, the shelves filled with books you've collected over the years. But the reality of your situation makes that impossible. The mere thought of climbing the stairs sends another sharp wave of pain through your body, reminding you that independence is a luxury right now, not a reality. You’ve always been fiercely independent—too proud, maybe, to admit when you need help. The idea of relying on Joel, especially now, when every moment around him seems to stir something inside you, feels almost too much to bear. When you were healthy, those stairs were nothing. You could run up them without thinking twice, bounding up two steps at a time. Now, the idea of even attempting it is enough to make your chest tighten, a reminder that things have changed. You can’t ignore it.

Joel has offered more than once to carry you up to your room, insisting that you’d be more comfortable in your own bed. But each time, you've turned him down. It’s not because you don’t trust him. You know he’s kind, that he genuinely wants to help, but the thought of him lifting you, of feeling his strong arms around you... it stirs something in you—something complicated. It's not just physical pain you need to recover from. There’s a tangle of emotions you can't unravel yet, especially not with Joel so close. Instead, you remain on the couch in the living room, finding comfort in its familiar layout. The space is small, but it feels like everything you need is within reach. The kitchen is just a few steps away, and the thought of being able to grab something to eat or drink without too much effort is a small but significant source of relief. You don't have to ask anyone for help every time you need something. The books and movies you've scattered around the room are close enough that you can slip into another world with little more than a turn of your hand. There’s something reassuring about having everything within arm's reach, a reminder that you still have some control, some autonomy, even if your body doesn’t quite feel like your own right now.

But perhaps the most comforting part of this setup is Joel—always nearby. You know he’s there, moving around the ranch just out of sight, yet still within earshot. You can hear the faint sounds of him tending to the animals, the creak of the barn doors, the rustle of hay and boots on the dirt. It's not quite company, but it's enough. If something were to go wrong—if the pain in your side flared up again or you needed assistance in a way you couldn’t manage—Joel would be there in an instant. The thought of him close by, ready to step in, is both a comfort and a quiet reminder of how much you rely on him these days. You tell yourself that you don’t need him, but there's an undeniable warmth that settles in your chest knowing he’s just a room away. Still, the idea of needing help from him, especially in such a vulnerable state, stirs something deeper in you. Something that makes your heart flutter unexpectedly, a feeling that you can’t quite define. It’s easier this way—on the couch, within your little bubble of semi-independence, where your emotions can stay tucked away, just like the soft blanket Joel brought you.

You glance over at the cover of one of his daughter’s western novels, the title catching your eye. There's something about it that piques your curiosity, stirring questions you hadn’t meant to ask. Who is she, this daughter of his? Was she older? And then, the question that sits uncomfortably in your mind: Is Joel married—or was he? You’ve never seen a wedding band on his finger, never heard him speak about a wife. The mystery about him lingers, unresolved. You know you should be resting, but your mind refuses to settle. You shift slightly, adjusting the blanket as you try to distract yourself. Your eyes drift back to the book on the table—a well-worn copy of Lonesome Dove, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared. Something about the worn edges calls to you. It's a link to the world you grew up in, a reminder of the ranch life, of the toughness and independence that runs through your veins. You never could quite leave the ranch, even when you tried. You reach for the book, your fingers brushing against the paper's texture, the act of holding it feeling almost like coming home. You open the cover to the first page, the familiar scent of ink and aged paper filling your senses. As you dive into the world of Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call, the stories of cowboys and cattle drives pull you in. You’re captivated by Gus and Woodrow—two men bound by their pasts but so different in their approach to life.

As you read, you find yourself identifying with Lorena Wood, Gus's girlfriend. Her fight for her place in the world, her refusal to let others define her, resonates with you deeply. The scene where she insists on joining the cattle drive despite the objections of the men speaks to something inside you. The words, “I ain’t afraid of a little hard work,” echo in your mind, a mantra of defiance that you wish you could adopt fully. You can’t be weak. You won’t be.

"Dreamin’ is free, Lorena," Gus says to her, his voice a mix of wisdom and weariness. "It don’t cost nothin' extra to dream good dreams."

The words settle over you, and for a moment, you close your eyes. You think of Joel—his gruffness, his strength, the way he moves through the ranch with a quiet intensity. He’s always there, a steady presence in your life. You can’t help but wonder what kind of man he was before, what dreams he once had, what kind of life he led. Your thoughts drift, pulled back into the story before you can get too lost in them. The sun climbs higher in the sky, its light streaming through the windows, warm now, settling into the room. You glance at the book beside you and set it aside with a small sense of pride. You've made it through several chapters without letting your mind wander too much.

Your side aches more now from sitting too long, and you know it’s time to try standing. It’s been too long since you felt any sense of control over your own body. You push the blanket back, and slowly, you swing your legs over the side of the couch. The room tilts slightly as you plant your feet on the floor, and you take a steadying breath, trying to ignore the sharp twinge in your side. You hate this. Hate feeling weak. Hate needing help. But you can’t let that stop you. You refuse to let it define you. You're determined to regain some independence, to show Joel that you're not just some fragile thing that needs constant watching over.

You push yourself up, wincing as another wave of pain stabs through your ribs. The movement is slow, deliberate. Each step feels like an accomplishment, even as the pain pulses beneath the surface. You make it to the kitchen, though you're panting by the time you reach the counter. You grip it for support, feeling the cool edge beneath your fingertips. The simple act of pouring yourself a glass of water feels like a triumph.

Then you hear the creak of the front door. You don’t have to look to know it’s Joel. The sound of his boots on the floor, the low murmur of his voice as he moves about the ranch—it's all so familiar now. You hear him pause, then step into the kitchen. His eyes widen when he sees you standing there, gripping the counter like it’s your lifeline.

"Well, look at you," he says, a note of surprise and admiration in his voice. "You're up and about."

You offer him a small, self-conscious smile, glad he’s not rushing to fuss over you. "I thought it was time," you say softly, setting the glass of water down with careful movements. "I can't just lie on the couch all day."

Joel chuckles, his gaze sweeping over you with that same intensity that sends a warm flutter through your chest. He steps closer, cautious. "Reckon not," he agrees, voice low. His eyes linger on you, and you can't tell if it's concern or something else. "But don’t go pushin’ yourself too hard now."

"I’m fine," you insist, a little too quickly. "But you look like you’ve been at it all morning. Would you like something to drink?" You try to sound casual, but the offer feels like an excuse to keep him there, a way to ease the tension building between you.

"S’alright, I can get it," he says, but his voice is strained, tired. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, a visible sign of the work he's been doing.

Before he can protest, you start toward the fridge. "Shut up," you say with a teasing smile. "I got it. Iced tea, right?"

He chuckles softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "That’d be perfect, darlin’."

The fridge door opens with a soft creak, and you pour the tea, the cool liquid filling the glass with a satisfying sound. The simple act requires more focus than it should, but you take your time, savoring the moment of normalcy. You hand him the glass, your fingers brushing his ever so briefly. The touch is light, fleeting, but it sends an unexpected jolt through you, a spark that neither of you can ignore. For a moment, you both stand there, neither of you speaking, as if waiting for something to break the silence. His gaze flickers to the floor, then back to you, and he clears his throat, taking a small step back.

"Thanks," he says, his voice steady but low, and his eyes meet yours briefly before he raises the glass in a small salute. He drinks deeply, closing his eyes as the cool tea washes over him.

"You're welcome," you reply, your voice quieter than usual. You busy yourself with straightening up the kitchen, your hands shaking slightly as you try to ground yourself in the mundane. But even in the simple act of tidying, you can feel his gaze on you, the weight of it making you feel exposed in a way you can't quite understand.

"You’ve found some use for the blanket and books, I see," Joel says, his voice soft, but you catch the hint of something more in it, something like pride.

"They've been a good distraction," you answer, a little more casually than you feel. "I'm curious about your daughter’s books. She’s got good taste."

At the mention of his daughter, Joel’s face softens, a wistful look crossing his features. "She always did love a good story," he says, his voice quiet, distant. "Used to read to her every night when she was little. We'd get lost in all sorts of adventures together.”

The conversation takes a quiet but significant turn, pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. You sense it the moment Joel’s expression softens at your question, his guarded demeanor cracking just enough to let a sliver of vulnerability through. It feels fragile, like holding a bird in your hands, its rapid heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingers. You tread carefully, hoping not to press too hard but unwilling to let the moment pass unacknowledged. "What’s her name?" you ask gently, your voice soft but steady. You’re careful, wanting to open the door without forcing him through it.

He hesitates for just a breath before answering, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sarah," he says, his voice tinged with warmth and something deeper—something bittersweet. "Named after my grandmother. She is—" His voice catches, the present tense faltering mid-sentence like a misstep on uneven ground. "She was a special kid."

The weight of that single word, was, hangs in the air between you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of meaning outward. It cuts through the small warmth his smile brought, replacing it with a heaviness that settles deep in your chest. Your heart clenches, the realization landing like a blow. You try to keep your voice steady, though your stomach twists. "Was?" you venture cautiously, the single syllable feeling heavier than it should.

Joel’s expression shifts immediately—his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if bracing for an impact. You see the pain flash through him, raw and unguarded, before he wrestles it back under control. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, that he’ll shut you out completely. But then he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and steady, though it trembles at the edges. "Sarah passed away a few years back." The words are spoken simply, but their weight is unmistakable, each syllable heavy with grief he’s learned to carry in silence.

The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thinner. You struggle to find something to say, some way to acknowledge the enormity of what he’s shared without reducing it to a hollow platitude. "Joel, I’m so sorry," you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper. The sincerity in your words is palpable, your own troubles momentarily forgotten in the face of his loss.

Joel nods, his gaze distant, focused on something you can’t see. He doesn’t brush off your condolences or wave them away as you might have expected. Instead, he accepts them with a quiet grace that’s heartbreaking in its simplicity. "S’been tough," he admits, his voice low, almost a murmur. "But you find a way to keep goin’. Life doesn’t stop, even when you wish it would."

His words linger in the air, stark and unvarnished, and you feel the ache in them like a bruise pressed too hard. There’s no bitterness in his tone, no anger—just a quiet resignation, a weariness that feels like it’s etched into his very being. You wonder how often he’s spoken these words, if at all, or if he’s kept them locked away until now. Your gaze drifts to his hands—strong, calloused, and steady even now, despite the weight he carries. You reach out before you can think better of it, your fingers brushing against his forearm in a gesture that feels both small and monumental. "I can’t imagine," you say softly, your words feeling inadequate but heartfelt. "I’m sorry you had to go through that."

Joel looks down at your hand, his gaze lingering there for a moment before he lifts his eyes to meet yours. There’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch—a flicker of gratitude, of recognition, and something else you can’t quite name. "Thank you," he says simply, his voice rough but sincere. He shifts slightly, covering your hand with his own. The warmth of his touch is startling, grounding, and you’re acutely aware of how solid he feels, how present. "For listening," he continues, his voice softening. "I don’t... I don’t talk about Sarah much. It’s hard, you know?" His eyes hold yours, and you see the weight of the years he’s carried this pain, the quiet strength it’s taken to keep moving forward.

You nod, unable to look away. "I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for," you say quietly, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. "Just... holding onto her memory like that. Letting her still be a part of you."

His brow furrows slightly, his gaze searching yours as if he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words. "Don’t feel strong most days," he admits after a pause, his voice so low you almost miss it. "Just feel tired."

The honesty in his words makes your chest tighten, and you press your hand against his arm just a little more firmly, as if to anchor him. "Maybe that’s what strength is," you offer, your voice soft but unwavering. "Getting up every day, even when it feels impossible. Carrying her with you, even when it hurts."

Joel doesn’t respond immediately, but you see something shift in his expression—something almost imperceptible but deeply significant. He exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before. "Maybe," he murmurs, the word more of a concession than a conviction.For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with the weight of everything left unsaid. You let it linger, sensing that Joel needs this space, this moment of quiet connection. When he finally releases your hand, moving his arm slightly,  the warmth of his skin lingers, a quiet reminder of the moment you’ve shared. "Thank you darlin’," he says again, his voice steady but soft. There’s something in his eyes now—something lighter, as if the act of sharing, of being heard, has eased the weight he carries, if only a little. "Means more than you know."

—-------

As you prepare to settle onto the couch for the night, the creak of the wooden floor under Joel’s boots pulls your attention. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s beside you, scooping you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his hands against you and the solid strength of his hold leave you momentarily breathless.

"What are you doing?" you protest weakly, though your body betrays you by instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders for balance.

He doesn’t stop moving, his tone gruff but resolute. "Takin’ you to your room. You’ll be more comfortable there, and it’s about time you used it again." You start to protest again, murmuring something about being too heavy, but he only huffs. "You think this is the first time I’ve carried someone? You’re fine. Quit fussin’."

Before you know it, he’s carrying you up the stairs, each step steady and sure despite the burden you’re sure you must be. The faint scent of leather and woodsmoke clings to him, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he reaches the top, the hallway stretches ahead, dimly lit and quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots.

Your bedroom door creaks as he nudges it open with his foot. The room feels foreign, almost untouched since your injuries—a time capsule of your life before everything fell apart. Joel sets you down on the bed with a gentleness that belies his rough exterior, his hands lingering briefly to ensure you’re steady before he pulls away.

"There," he says, adjusting the covers around you with meticulous care that makes your chest ache. "Now you get some rest. I’ll be right downstairs if you need anything."

You watch him turn, the broad slope of his shoulders framed by the faint hallway light. A sudden unease wells up in your chest, irrational and overwhelming. The thought of being alone in this room, in this moment, feels unbearable. The words leave your lips before you can stop them.

"Joel, wait."

He stops in the doorway, his silhouette pausing against the light. "What is it, darlin’?" His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it.

Your fingers grip the edge of the blanket as you force yourself to speak. "Could you... stay? Just for a little while. Until I fall asleep."

For a moment, he’s quiet, the furrow of his brow barely visible in the shadows. He looks at you like he’s weighing something heavy, something he’s not sure he can carry. But then he nods, his voice softer when he speaks. "Yeah. I can do that."

He grabs a chair from the corner of the room, pulling it close to the bed and settling into it with a quiet sigh. The room feels smaller now, his presence filling the space in a way that should be comforting, and yet... you feel the weight of it pressing against you.

Joel sits silently, his hands resting on his knees, the flickering light from the bedside lamp casting deep shadows across his face. His gaze flicks toward you occasionally, careful and guarded, as if afraid to linger too long. You watch him through half-closed eyes, noting the subtle lines etched into his features—lines of exhaustion, loss, and something else you can’t quite place. There’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restraint that makes your chest tighten.

"Joel," you say softly, the quiet sound of his name pulling his gaze to yours. He raises an eyebrow, waiting, but the words you wanted to say catch in your throat. What could you even say? Thank him for his kindness? For caring when you’d tried so hard to convince yourself you didn’t need it. Instead, you settle on something you instantly regret. "You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be fine."

His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so slightly. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, but when he does, his voice is quieter, almost unreadable. "If that’s what you want."

You open your mouth to correct yourself, to say something that might soften the blow, but the words don’t come. Joel stands, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

"Goodnight, then," he says, his tone even, though there’s a weight behind the words that you can’t ignore. Joel stands, the chair groaning slightly as he pushes it back. He doesn’t move hurriedly, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your chest tighten. The air between you feels heavier, laced with something unspoken, something you’re not ready to name. And then he’s gone. You stare at the ceiling, your heart heavy with regret, the words you wish you’d said echoing in your mind.

"Stay. Please stay."

But you didn’t. Instead, you let him walk away, the distance between you growing not just physically but emotionally. The warmth of his presence lingers faintly, like the scent of his leather and woodsmoke, but it isn’t enough to fill the void. The ache in your ribs pales in comparison to the one in your chest. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, what was this feeling that had taken root inside you? It wasn’t just gratitude anymore—it was something else, something harder to define. You’d always prided yourself on not needing anyone, but Joel had a way of making that wall crumble, brick by brick. It was confusing. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Or maybe... maybe you were just afraid to hope again. But the way he’d left, the quiet disappointment in his eyes—it made you feel small, stupid even. What were you so afraid of? You hated yourself for pushing him away when all he’d ever done was try to be there for you. But it was too late now. The door was closed, and so, it seemed, was he.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the moonlight spilling in through the curtains. You hadn’t noticed Joel still standing there, silent as a shadow. He lingers by the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He’s watching you, his brow furrowed, torn between staying and leaving.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You turn your head slightly, startled. You thought he'd left. His gaze meets yours for a moment, but the weight of it is too much to hold. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m fine,” you say, your voice tight and unconvincing.

Joel lets out a low scoff, shaking his head. “Fine,” he repeats bitterly. “That your favorite word or somethin’?” His boots barely make a sound as he crosses the room, sitting back down on the chair beside your bed. His presence is overwhelming, filling the small space like a storm cloud about to break. You feel the heat of him, as you try to keep your breathing steady. “I know what you're doin',” he says quietly, his tone softer now. “Pushin' me away. But you don’t have to.”

You close your eyes, willing the tears to stay put. His words are gentle, but they cut deep, peeling back the layers you worked so hard to hide behind. You struggle for words, your breath uneven. "I... I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Letting someone—letting you—"  

 "You don’t have to know," he says quietly. "You just gotta let me in."  

His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, like he's fighting against his own limits, his patience fraying. You want to reach for him, to let yourself lean into him, but the weight of your own walls is too heavy. You want to let go, but something inside you holds you back, paralyzes you with fear. Fear of what letting him in might mean. Your throat tightens as you try to form the words, but nothing comes. His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t push you—he waits. The tension hangs thick in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts. But the longer he waits, the more it seems like he’s losing the battle inside himself.

You finally meet his eyes again, but it’s like something’s shifted. There’s still care there, but it’s mixed with frustration, something raw and real. He stands, his movements slow but resolute. "You can’t keep doing this," he says, his voice low but intense. "I can’t keep doing this. You want me to stay, and then... then you push me away.”

His words strike you like a physical blow, the sting of truth cutting through the silence. You don’t know what to say, your heart pounding in your chest, but nothing feels right. The space between you is growing, and you’re helpless to stop it.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he moves it back, the sound harsh in the heavy silence. His words strike you like a physical blow, the sting of truth cutting through the silence. You don’t know what to say, your heart pounding in your chest, but nothing feels right. The space between you is growing, and you’re helpless to stop it. 

He moves toward the door, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and you want to scream—to tell him to stay, to tell him you’re not fine, but the words are lodged in your throat, like you’re choking on your own fear.

You sit up in bed, your breath shallow, but you don’t call out. You don’t stop him.

Joel pauses at the doorway, his back to you. For a long moment, it seems like he might turn around, like he might say something else, something to bridge the gap between you. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, his shoulders stiff, his head slightly bowed as though he’s already made his peace with walking away.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence. "You need anything, you holler. I’ll hear ya."

And then the door clicks softly shut behind him.

You sit there, staring at the empty space where he was, the weight of his words still pressing down on you. Your fingers curl around the blanket, but it offers no comfort. Your mind races, a mess of emotions, regret, and frustration. You want to call him back, but it feels like it’s too late.

The room is silent once more, and the emptiness is suffocating. You close your eyes, your chest aching, and for the first time in a long while, you realize how alone you truly are..

Joel

The soft glow of the kitchen light spills across the empty room as Joel leans against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee he doesn’t really want or need at this hour. He stares into the dark liquid, his thoughts elsewhere, running over the events of the evening like a song stuck on repeat.

He shouldn’t feel disappointed. You’d made it clear you didn’t want him there, and he respected that. Hell, he’d been in your shoes before—pushing people away because it felt safer. He couldn’t blame you for it. But that didn’t make the sting of it any easier to shake.

Joel sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d seen the hesitation in your eyes, the conflict. He’d wanted to tell you it was okay, that he’d wait as long as you needed. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure how long he could wait. Every moment he spent with you, every quiet exchange and fleeting touch—it all felt like it was building toward something he wasn’t sure either of you were ready for. "Should’ve known better," he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. But even as he says it, he knows he’d do it all over again—because for you, he would wait.

The coffee in Joel’s mug has gone cold by the time he finally pushes himself off the counter and trudges to the living room. He sits heavily on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the darkened television screen. Sleep isn’t coming—not after the way the evening ended.

He rubs a hand down his face, trying to shake off the frustration welling in his chest. It wasn’t your fault, not really. Joel knows that better than anyone. But the way you’d looked at him, the way you’d pulled back, it felt like a door slamming shut in his face. Like he was stupid for even hoping.

“Should’ve just stayed downstairs, fuck sakes,” he mutters to himself. He knows better than to get too close, to expect anything. It’s not fair to you, not when you’ve got enough to deal with. And yet, here he is, hoping like a damn fool.

The faint creak of the floor above reminds him you’re still there, probably lying awake just like he is. Joel shakes his head, dragging a heavy quilt over himself as he stretches out on the couch. Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll keep his distance. Let you come to him if you want.

But the hollow ache in his chest says that might never happen.

—

The next morning the shutting of the door pulls Joel from a restless sleep. He stretches, his back protesting the hours spent on the couch, and grumbles as he sits up. The smell of coffee drifts through the house, but it’s faint—like someone turned the pot off before it finished brewing. Joel frowns. He knows you’re still stiff from your injuries, and the thought of you moving around too much sets him on edge. He stands, rubbing a hand over his face, and heads toward the kitchen.

The sight of the empty space only deepens his unease. The coffee pot is half-full, a mug sitting beside it untouched. He glances out the window, his gut twisting when he spots you trudging toward the barn, determination in every step.

“What the hell are you doin’ now?” he mutters, already grabbing his jacket as he steps outside.

The morning air bites at his skin, but Joel barely notices as he closes the distance to the barn. By the time he reaches the open doors, you’re already climbing onto the tractor, one hand on the seat and the other gripping the wheel.

“Hey!” Joel’s voice echoes sharply in the quiet.

You freeze, your head whipping around to face him. “What?” you ask, your voice defensive, though there’s a flicker of guilt in your eyes.

Joel’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t let it show. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Your brow furrows, and you straighten your shoulders, your stubbornness flaring to life. “I’m trying to help. You’ve been doing everything, and I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” His tone is sharper than he intends, but the sight of you on the tractor—the very image of Sarah in her last moments—sends a cold wave of fear crashing over him.

You bristle at his words, swinging your legs over the side of the tractor to face him fully. “Excuse me? I’m not a kid, Joel. I can handle this.”

“No, you can’t,” he snaps, his voice louder now. “You don’t even know how to work that damn thing, and you’re in no shape to be tryin’!”

Your eyes narrow, hurt flashing across your face before you mask it with anger. “I’m just trying to pull my weight, Joel. I’m not some burden you have to carry! And yes I can fucking drive the tractor.”

Joel steps closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is about you bein’ a burden? Dammit, I don’t care about that! I care about you not gettin’ yourself killed because you’re too damn stubborn to listen!”

The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. Joel’s breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling as he fights to keep the memories at bay. Sarah’s laughter, the hum of the tractor’s engine, the sickening sound of it tipping over—it’s all there, clawing at the edges of his mind.

But he doesn’t tell you. He can’t.

Instead, he swallows hard and steps back, his jaw tightening. “Just… don’t do this,” he says, his voice quieter but no less firm.

You stare at him, confusion and hurt written all over your face. “Why are you acting like this?” you ask, your tone softer now, but Joel shakes his head.

Joel’s chest tightens, and the fight in his voice only deepens. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, but you’re not about to let him brush this off.

“Why the hell not?” You step off the tractor, your foot hitting the ground with a thud, your breath a sharp inhale from the pain and ragged in the cold air. “You’re acting like I’m a damn liability—like I can’t handle myself. You think I want to sit around doing nothing while you work yourself to the bone?”

Joel shakes his head, his eyes dark with frustration. “That ain’t it, and you know it. You think I want to be overprotective? You think I don’t see you fightin’ through every goddamn thing just to prove you’re not weak? I get it, alright? But this—this isn’t the way to do it.”

“You don’t get it,” you snap back, your voice growing more desperate. “I don’t need your pity, Joel. I don’t need you to hold my hand or protect me like I’m some fragile thing you have to save. I’m fine. I can do this.”

“You’re not fine!” Joel’s voice cracks, his patience running thin, and the raw emotion behind it makes you pause, your anger faltering for just a second. He steps closer to you, his face inches away. “You’re not fine, and I’m not gonna sit here and watch you hurt yourself just because you’re too damn proud to accept help.”

Your ribs ache as you take a step back, your hands trembling at your sides. His words, his proximity—they feel like they’re suffocating you, pulling you into a place you don’t want to go. But you can’t stop yourself. “I don’t need help,” you mutter, though the words come out unconvincing, jagged.

Joel’s gaze softens, and for a brief moment, it’s like you’re both standing in some kind of fragile truce. But it doesn’t last. The distance between you, emotional and physical, feels too heavy to bear, and Joel moves in again. His voice is quieter now, but there’s a deep, aching sincerity in it. “I don’t want you to need help. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with something you don’t know how to name. It’s the space between your stubbornness and his care, the tension of wanting to push him away but knowing deep down that you can’t. You want to break, to let go, but you won’t—can’t—show him how much you’re falling apart.

You both stand there in the cold, the world around you feeling distant, like it’s no longer real. And then, before you can stop yourself, you say something that takes both of you by surprise. “Why do you care so damn much?” Your voice cracks as you finally let the wall down, the question raw and vulnerable.

Joel’s eyes darken, his breath catching at the depth of the question. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s a long silence that stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken. Then, his lips curl slightly, the ghost of a sad smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’ve been where you are,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve lost too much. And I’m not gonna lose anyone else... not like this.”

You don’t know what to say to that. For a moment, your anger falters, replaced with something deeper, something you can’t hide anymore.

Before you realize what’s happening, you’re the one reaching for him, your good hand finding his shirt, pulling him toward you. He hesitates for a second—his body tense, unsure—but then he moves, just like you knew he would. The kiss is sudden, urgent, and the world tilts with it. Your ribs protest, but you don’t care. His hands cradle your face, his lips pressing against yours, rough but soft, like he’s trying to steady himself just as much as you are.

Your heart races in your chest, the ache in your ribs fading as the heat of him seeps into your skin. For a brief, fleeting moment, everything else stops. The fight, the stubbornness, the fear—it all disappears in the space between your mouths. It’s like he’s holding you together, like you’re finally letting him do the one thing he’s been begging you for - to let him in.

When you break away, it’s slow, your breath ragged, but neither of you moves far. You’re still close—too close—and yet, somehow, it feels right. Joel’s forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, just keeps you there, close enough to feel the weight of his every breath. Finally, he whispers, his voice hoarse. “You’re not alone, you know that?”

You nod, the words too hard to say, but the truth of them sits heavy between you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe it.

Taglist @akah565 @anoverwhelmingdin @brittmb115 @hannah9921 @maried01

@mermaidgirl30 @red-red-rogue @wintersquirrel

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XV)

Chapter 15: ‘He’s bored- I see it. Don’t I lick his bribes, set his bouquets in water?’

Hi! Here is new chapter! New Year’s Eve is upon us… let’s see what happens!! ;)

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3646

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

The Edge

Time and again, time and again I tie My heart to that headboard While my quilted cries Harden against his hand. He’s bored- I see it. Don’t I lick his bribes, set his bouquets In water? Over Mother’s lace I watch his drive into the gored Roasts, deal slivers in his mercy… I can feel his thighs Against me for the children’s sakes. Reward? Mornings, crippled with this house, I see him toast his toast and test His coffee, hedgingly. The waste’s my breakfast.

Louise Glück, The First Five Books of Poems

The plan was simple.

Or rather… it wasn’t simple, per say, but it was feasible. Which, considering that you were attempting to make your ex fall in love with you again after he dumped you to get engaged to another woman… was already quite an achievement.

You looked at Andrew as he stood next to you. He had arrived late, had apologised profusely. You were annoyed, but you reckoned that you would have to grow used to this detail about him. He simply was always late to everything, it seemed.

He was wearing contacts today, instead of his glasses. You had noticed that he did whenever he would see Sam, probably because she preferred him without his dark brown spectacles. And he did look handsome tonight, dressed in all black, from suit to shirt and leathered shoes, with his hair tied in a bun, but still… you missed the softness that came with seeing him in glasses. You didn’t know why you felt like that. Perhaps it was because you were so used by now to see him almost every day wearing them, may it be at work or when you planned actions related to your exes, or when you simply spent time together. Maybe it was the familiarity that had grown with this sight that you missed now. Perhaps you just found him even more handsome with glasses…

You pushed the thought away, looked for Frank through the crowd. Frank and Sam were hosting, in the flat they had moved into about a month before. And it ached to see pictures of the two of them sprayed on the fridge in the kitchen. Your collection of books was gone, leaving shelves empty in the living room but for pieces of decoration and more pictures of the happy couple that tore your heart apart. There was music playing, some playlist found on Spotify, without a doubt, music you would find in a club, a music meant to party. You saw Andrew staring at the empty shelves as well, at the absence of records too; you saw his small frown as he spotted the laptop that was the source of the music. You guessed he thought the quality was terrible, but then again, you guessed he didn’t like the music in itself very much either. You imagined Frank sitting in a room to listen to old jazz records, the way you knew Andrew did sometimes, he had told you so much himself. You couldn’t picture it…

But then you looked at the pictures more carefully, and couldn’t imagine yourself in them either. They seemed to have been everywhere together. Rafting, climbing, swimming, jumping, sky-diving even… there was no museum, no cityscape, no quiet woods, no sunset over a beach. There was adventure, and thrill, more so than you could ever handle.

Was that what Frank wanted? What you couldn’t offer? Did you need to become adventurous to keep him?

Would you ever be happy if you became an explorer instead of an academic?

Were you not an explorer already anyway? You had travelled to other cities, to other countries, had moved to places where you knew no one to settle and work. You learned every day, you grew, you tried to keep your head above the water. And you went on walks in nature, you swam into the sea, you made friends and lost some along the way. Was it not enough? Did it not take enough courage already to simply live your life?

“Are you ready?”

You turned to Andrew, your partner in crime for the night. You had to move the bottles of champagne around so Andrew could find them and save the day. And then he would shine by remembering Sam didn’t like champagne…

You nodded, moving towards the kitchen.

“How do we get everybody out?”

“I can handle that,” you assured him with a mischievous wink and smile.

Indeed, there were only men in the kitchen at that moment, gathering ammunition in the form of drinks and shots for the night.

Easy peasy…

“I mean… I do believe the dress is a little much,” you told Andrew loudly enough for all four men present in the kitchen to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation.

Andrew blinked, but played along the best he could, although you noticed the way he was shying away as a couple of men turned to the two of you without trying to be discreet. He blushed, bent his shoulders to seem smaller than he truly was.

“Really?”

“I mean… Andy… you can see her full tits at this point…”

You saw the four men exchanging glances, and hurrying outside the kitchen.

Andrew raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Was that really that easy?” he asked out loud.

“Men…” was your only response, along with a roll of your eyes.

Andrew chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Are we truly that shallow?”

“Most of the time!”

You hurried to close the door, and you and Andrew hid the bottles in a cupboard, getting them out of the fridge. You were so scared of being caught that you were going too fast, almost dropping a bottle, but catching it right before it would hit the ground.

“Calm down, we’re good,” Andrew spoke in a whisper, although he kept on glancing towards the door.

“There’s no lock on that door! Anyone can come in at any moment!”

“We won’t get caught.”

“And if we are?”

“Then we’ll say it was a joke.”

“It will be so bad…”

“We won’t get caught.”

But then there were footsteps in the hallway. Two bottles left in the fridge. Andrew and you exchanged a terrified glance.

“Shit!” you both cursed at the same time, grabbing the bottles in a hurry, pushing them in the cupboard and slamming the door.

The handle moved…

Your reflex was to get closer to Andrew, to grab his hand and hold tight. He didn’t push you away, merely gasped, although you weren’t sure whether it was because of the door now beginning to open or because you were now so close to him you were basically pressed to his chest…

“Why the fuck is this door clos…”

Some people you didn’t know opened the door then, stared at you and Andrew first in surprise, and then they refrained a laugh…

You looked up at Andrew, who was staring with wide eyes at the door. You seemed only then to notice your proximity, the way you literally held onto him.

You gasped, took a couple of steps back, until your back bumped into the fridge. A hand appeared out of nowhere to slip between your head and the piece of furniture.

“You’re alright?” Andrew asked in a weak voice, clearly embarrassed by the whole thing and still high on adrenaline from your stupid plan. You nodded, moved away from him, from his palm that still cradled the back of your head…

“Fine, fine… we should…”

You hurried out of the room, away from Andrew and the brown that stained the green of his eyes, and the specks of red in his beard, and the angle of his jaw, and the softness of his touch against your hair and…

You were interrupted in your busy thoughts by Frank’s voice coming from behind you.

“Y/N! Andrew! I’m so glad you could both come!”

You spun around, noticing only then that you were back in the living room, Andrew following suit.

“Thanks for inviting us! Great party!” you complimented.

It was hard at first to regulate your breathing, to hide that your heart was beating at a thousand miles a minute. After all, you had almost been caught, and then… these people would think that you and Andrew had locked yourselves in the kitchen to… Oh, God… if Sam and Frank learned about this, all your efforts would go to waste…

“Argh! Thanks! Trying my best as a host!”

“Well, you’re doing a great job so far. I think it’s better to have this party here, rather than in a club.”

You regretted your words as soon as they passed your lips, knew you had made a mistake.

“We couldn’t book the place we wanted, had to settle on doing this at home instead,” Frank answered with disappointment apparent in his eyes and tone.

“It’s still very nice,” Andrew politely smiled.

“Well, I should get the champagne ready, it’ll soon be midnight!”

You and Andrew exchanged a look as your ex moved away from the crowd again, aiming his steps towards the kitchen.

“Phase one…” Andrew gave you a wink; you chose to ignore your heart’s response to his gesture.

“Time to save this party, Andy,” you teased, and he gave you a thumbs up that was so adorable, you had to blink.

Perfect plan.

Indeed, the look on Frank’s face when he discovered that the bottles had been misplaced was priceless. He called Sam for help, they looked for the bottles, didn’t find even a trace of them.

Andrew opened the right cupboard, the one where you had placed the bottles earlier, and called for Sam to show that the champagne was there.

“Oh! God! Thank you, Andy!”

He was granted a warm hug, one that made him close his eyes for a second, you noticed the relief that was written all over his features at the physical contact. He blushed as she kissed his cheek, and he was beaming when she pulled away. He gave her his bottle of prosecco, instead of waiting for midnight as it was planned, he simply couldn’t wait. She blinked up at him, gave him a warm, grateful smile.

“You always remember that,” she whispered under her breath, but you heard her words still. Frank heard them too, and you saw him glaring at Andrew.

It was working. Your crazy plan was working. Sam was still gravitating around Andrew, they were smiling. There was a pinching feeling tugging at your heart, and you ignored it. Jealousy was such an ugly feeling. And anyway, you couldn’t be jealous over Andrew effectively getting closer to Sam again, his success would be shared soon, as you hoped your plan would work for Frank and you as well. It would. You would have success, just like Andrew… that was why you were a little jealous, surely, after all…

Only, it didn’t work. It didn’t work, because instead of you pouring your glass over Sam, Sam accidentally poured her glass onto you.

You weren’t sure how it all happened. You were looking away from Andrew and Sam, staring at Frank who was laughing and joking with a friend nearby, being a perfect host. And all of a sudden, you felt something cool sipping under the fabric of your dress, turned to see Sam apologising.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so clumsy, I… I didn’t you see you there…”

You looked down at the damage, she offered to lend you some clothes immediately. You noticed how Frank’s gaze softened at her words. And you hated it. You hated her. You hated him. You hated this party and the coming of a new year and the beginnings it announced. You didn’t need a new beginning, you needed the continuation of what you used to have. And this party, this awful party where you barely knew anyone, and you weren’t having fun at all, and…

“No, don’t worry. I’m fine. I… Actually, I don’t feel very well, I think I’m gonna go home.”

You saw Andrew’s frown, the one that formed at your words.

“Already? I’m sure we can fix this!” Frank argued, and you almost yielded.

“I’m not sure we’re the same size…” Sam mumbled.

When you looked into her eyes, you knew she had done it on purpose. You knew she had poured her drink over you deliberately, perhaps because of the way you looked at Frank, or perhaps because you had come with Andrew. You didn’t know why. What was for certain was that she had ruined your dress to make you go home, and you weren’t stupid, you knew what it meant, and you weren’t up for a fight, not when Frank looked at her like that, with love…

“You could still try some of Sam’s clothes on! I’m sure we can find something,” Frank argued, trying to hold you back.

You slowly shook your head.

“I have some clothes in my car, you could change,” Andrew offered, his gaze pleading now.

You noticed how he flinched when your eyes met his.

“It’s okay. I feel a little sick anyway. I think I’ll go home.”

Frank grabbed your arm as you took a step towards the door.

“Stay at least till midnight! There’s less than an hour left! You can leave after we’ve opened the champagne, yeah?”

You wished you could have said no. But Frank’s eyes in that moment…

“Okay, I’ll stay,” you yielded, making him grin.

“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you.”

There was such gratefulness in his gaze, something tender, almost pleading, and you fell for it, you couldn’t help it. You had fallen a thousand times over for it.

You heard Andrew heaving a sigh behind you.

You opened your mouth to speak again, but Frank was swiped away by a guest, one of your former ‘friends’, and you were left staring at the blank space he had left behind.

He was moving away, leaving you behind…

Andrew and Sam were talking, you stared as she clung onto him for a rather long time. Andrew kept on nodding, let her do most of the talking. You didn’t notice the glances he threw your way, you were too busy looking for Frank again.

You checked the time after a long while spent doing meaningless chit-chat with strangers and people you had met a couple of times before. Ten minutes to midnight.

You looked around at the loud room. Conversations, exclamations, laughter, loud music that banged in your head, hitting your skull with the heavy kick of drums. Light, glitter, colours, beautiful dresses. Frank talking with some of his colleagues he had invited, paying no attention to you. Andrew talking with Sam and smiling sweetly at her.

You looked down at your glass, a drink half-empty already, studied the stain that spread across the fabric of your dress. You had felt beautiful while getting ready. You didn’t anymore…

You could have been with your real friends, with your family… what were you doing here, during those last minutes of a dying year?

You didn’t say a word to anyone as you put your glass down on the nearest table, made your way through the crowd, grabbed your coat in the closet by the door. No one noticed you leaving anyway. Frank didn’t spare you a glance. You were leaving, and no one noticed, because no one fucking cared…

“Y/N?”

You froze, a few steps away from the elevator, your hand already rising towards the button to call for an escape.

Slowly, you turned around.

Andrew was standing in front of the door to Frank’s and Sam’s apartment. On the threshold, standing still, he was staring at you with a questioning stare.

“Where are you going? You’re alright?”

You were too stunned to answer, remained frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, your finger still erect towards the elevator…

No one had noticed you leaving, no one…

Someone did…

“Y/N? You’re okay? Are you really sick?”

“No,” you shook your head. “No, I’m just… I just want to go home. I just… I need some fresh air.”

“What’s wrong?”

You shrugged, did a terrible job at hiding your tears.

He held a finger up.

“Give me a minute. Just one minute. Don’t leave without me!”

“Andy…”

“One minute!”

He looked at you with something expectant in his eyes, almost begging…

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

He grinned, the brightest smile you had seen on his features throughout the entire night.

He disappeared into the flat again, you waited for him for a minute, and then another, hoping he would come back, hoping he wouldn’t leave you behind, hoping Andy wouldn’t leave…

But then the door was opening again, he was stepping outside while putting on his coat. He had a couple of plastic cups in his hand along with a half-full bottle of champagne.

“You should stay,” you told him, speaking in a jolt, making Andrew freeze before he would reach you.

He blinked, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You… you don’t want to talk to me?” he asked, looking down at his feet before you could answer. “I can just listen… I can be quiet if I’m boring…”

You frowned at him, taken aback by his answer.

“What are you talking about? You’re never boring, what…?”

He looked up at you again, blinking, trying to gauge your reaction.

You heaved a tired sigh.

“I just meant… that Sam was spending quality time with you, you… it was working for you tonight. You should stay, use that chance to talk to her and make her see the truth. Besides, it’s…” you looked down at your watch. “Two minutes to midnight. Don’t you want to be with the people you love most for the final countdown? Don’t you want to enter the new year with Sam?”

You saw Andrew blinking, but couldn’t read through his expression. It wasn’t blank, nor emotionless, but it remained unreadable.

Slowly, he walked over to you. He raised his hand, called for the lift without saying a word.

You stared at him with tears in your eyes.

The doors opened with a ding, you didn’t move, didn’t even flinch at the sound. Andrew stepped inside, caught your soul as he looked into your eyes when he turned to you.

“Aren’t you coming?”

You followed him.

Not a word was spoken as the doors closed, as the cabin went down the shaft, as it stopped with a gentle shaking of its cables. You stepped onto the freezing street in silence, looked at Dublin empty in this quiet neighbourhood. There were lights at every window though, some of them were open on laughter and joy and loud shouts and music that flooded into the quiet night. Far away, you could hear the whisper of traffic and honking cars, making noise while awaiting a beginning.

Andrew poured you a drink while the seconds ticked away, fluttering and fainting into the past. A past that lingered in your present still. Would it always be there, haunting the seconds to come, and the minutes they would build, and the hours, and the days, and the years?

Andrew handed you a glass, put down the bottle by his feet. You were standing under a tall oak tree, planted there in the middle of the city, a square of fertile soil in the void of manmade roads. Andrew stared at a flower that grew there, at the foot of a lamppost, just a weed growing despite the concrete.

He looked up with a tender smile on his face, raised his glass.

“Sláinte,” his voice rose above the first number of the countdown.

“Sláinte,” you answered with a smile of your own, a gesture that started shy but that grew stronger the longer you looked up at him, at the brown that stained the green of his eyes, and the specks of red in his beard, and the angle of his jaw, and the softness of his touch as his palm rose to cradle your face.

Five!

The shouts echoed from everywhere around you, deafening even if they were quietened by windowpanes. You heard the quiet gasp Andrew took before downing his whole glass, and you did the same. Your gaze met the stars that hung up there, on the firmament, for a moment, while your head was tilted back to drink the last bit of the cold buzz in your cup, to gather the tingling of bubbles on your tongue. They looked distant and cold, reassuring somehow. They were always there, always shining, even after they had died. The image you saw was millions, maybe billions of years old. The past was even up there, in the sky. And yet the moon shone for a new night.

Four!

You giggled as you swallowed, looking at Andrew again. And he did too, his cheeks flushed by alcohol, by the cold too. The tip of his nose had reddened as well. The lamplight was golden on his eyelashes.

Three!

“Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?” you asked out of the blue, blaming the liquor you had been steadily drinking throughout the evening for the incoherence of your words. “I thought you liked them better than contacts.”

Two!

“Sam prefers when I wear contacts.”

You reached up to touch his cheekbones, to let your fingertips graze over the soft skin, along the sharpness left by the bone under it. He closed his eyes, gasped when you brushed his eyelids and lashes.

One!

“I think you should wear whatever you like. Although… I love your eyes. And you look soft with your glasses on. It makes me feel safe.”

He opened his eyes again, stared at you as your hands moved down to rest on the edge of his jaw, pinkie fingers barely skimming over his neck.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Andrew leaned down to press his lips to your forehead. You closed your eyes under the warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips, the roughness of his beard…

You felt dizzy as he kissed you, staying against your skin for too long, pulling away too slowly. You wished he hadn’t stopped…

He gave you a tender smile as he looked into your eyes again.

“Happy New Year, Y/N.”

You smiled, grinned even. You reached up, going on your tiptoes to drop a long, tender kiss on his cheek. It landed by the corner of his mouth.

“Happy New Year, Andy.”

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

part 1

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

summary: the year is 1312, and your fathers knight follows you to the wood.

The great hills surrounding the castle are a patchwork of green and yellows, as they always are during the summer months. Gray skies up ahead do nothing to dampen the mood of the castle; everyone is bustling about, preparing for the feast marking the new battalions arrival, as if their presence signifies something happier than impending war. 

She can see them, now, where she is perched atop the highest wall-practiced, without fear- in a way her old governesses would have certainly called unbecoming of a lady. But did not the bible speak of the virtues of a young lady- justice, fortitude, among them?

(It takes great fortitude to learn the secrets she has learned, to climb over steep walls like they were bales of hay, to listen to words she would have heard anyway, had she been born a man. Listening from the eaves and skulking about is an act of justice, not a sin.) 

The men, traversing down the trail, look like ants, she thinks- where she sits high above them, balancing on the stone, they look like children's toys. Tiny wooden figures, a small boy's idea of heroes, lined up on the yellow-green patchwork quilt. 

When they finally ride over the moat and into the stronghold, they look like any other collection knights she has seen- some cloaked, some helmetless, all shining in the half clouded, setting sun. 

That night is boisterous and rowdy, like any other feast. The courtyard is crowded with people- servants, villagers, everyone coming together to eat and drink and be merry. The tables are laden with the finest of foods. The smell of roast goose and heron, wine, and vomit hangs in the night air with the shouts and bawdy songs. The new knights drink and eat and throw things, singing their songs with everyone else.  The castle hums with life, every voice and every soul another cell in one great organism. 

(The whole time, she sits quietly as a lady should, but listens as a lady shouldn’t. No one notices, and why would they notice the Lord’s waif of a girl, silently eating at his right hand? The servants, the townspeople, even her father speak of her when they think she isn’t listening- she is, to them, as unnaturally quiet as a changeling and as likely to smile as a mourner. Such a shame, my lord, that  her birth took your wife, god rest her soul. And for the child to not even be a boy…)

The stories that feast are rambling and, wine drunk, but the message is clear- they are hired soldiers with no Christian names, under orders from the king to protect the stronghold that is her home.

But one stands out. The only one still wearing his painted  helmet, and as such doesn’t eat or drink with his companions. Instead, he sits on her fathers left side, speaking in low and gruff tones only when spoken to. 

She picks at her food as her ears pick up words like more men and allies and a thousand dead, all spoken in an accent she thinks more suited to a farmer than a soldier.

As the feast begins to die down, dancers lying about drunk, he walks with her Lord father, presumably to show him a weak point in the castle walls.

She follows along, unseen, silent footsteps trailing behind them in the shadows. The knight with the painted helmet is tall and broad when he waves a hand at a wall that, upon closer inspection, does seem weaker than the rest. A chink in the castle’s armor, he says. 

The fire dies out, people lay around in drunken heaps, and rats are scurrying for food in corners of the room by the time she retires for the night. Her maid is nowhere to be found- based on the way the Scotsman and her were wrapped around eachother earlier, it is likely best not to go looking for her- so she wanders alone to her quarters, a candle in one hand and a half eaten honey cake in the other. 

The halls are dimly lit labrynths, and every footstep she takes makes a wet scuff along the perpetually damp straw covering the chilled stone floors. She does not believe in sneaking about when not needed, and enjoys a reprieve from constant surveillance as she licks honey carelessly from her fingers, focusing more on the sweetness of the honey cake than her surroundings.

And just as she turns the corner to the starcase, a hand shoots out from a shadow  and grabs her arm. 

Her gasp is muffled by a large hand, gloved. His other hand plucks the candle from her grasp, rests it on the narrow windowsill behind him. She scrapes and thrashes at the silver of his forearm, scrambling to reach for the knife at his side before he speaks. 

“Pray, be silent, Lady- I know you are able.”

In response, she bites down on the gloved hand, hard. The man hisses but doesn’t let go, only roughly spins her to face him; and this is when she realizes it is the helmeted knight, eyes and armor shiny in the candlelight. 

She shoves at his arms, and he concedes, letting her retreat three steps up the stairs before he takes her by the hand again. 

“Release me, sir, or you will not enjoy the consequences,” She hisses. Something furious inside her is growing like a wildfire. 

“I meant no offense, but only to warn you, fair lady,” he says, seemingly contrite, but with mirth in his voice. Is he smiling, behind that hideous helmet? 

“Warn me?” She rips her hand from his. “Of what? Churlish knights, skulking behind corners?” She turns to go. 

“You are one to scold on skulking behind corners, Lady. ” Her feet freeze where they are on the steps. 

 “Yes.” His voice is rough. “You are not as invisible as you may think- not to those trained to see, Lady.  You should exercise more caution, when listenin’ from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.” He tilts his head, eyes trained on her, like a cat looking at a tree it’d like to climb. Or a bird it’d like to claw.

“I have been told you have a lovely mind. It would be a waste to see it dashed on a tower’s stony base.” 

For the first time in ages, she forces her eyes to meet anothers. His are dark, redless, with what looks like coal smudged on his eyelids and undereyes. His eyes never falter from her stare, as would be proper. His pale lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

She turns and continues walking upstairs- but before she rounds the corner, she looks behind and down to where he stands, at the base of the stairs, licking remnants of honey off his glove. 

[practicalsolarpunk]

Hi, I've only just got into solarpunk and find it really cool.

I was wondering, what sort of simple lifestyle changes would you suggest to start with when trying to live in a more solarpunk/sustainable way?

Hi! So glad you're getting into solarpunk! We think it's pretty cool, too, and we're happy you're looking for ways to integrate it into your life. Since you haven't included anything specific about your situation or what you're interested in, this list is pretty general - if you want more specific ideas, feel free to send in another ask!

In the meantime, here are a few recommendations for getting started:

Grow something. Depending on your situation, you may not be able to put in a huge outdoor garden. But there are many plants that will be perfectly happy in a pot on a windowsill, and still others that are happy to grow in low-light situations. Find something that works for your space and get some hands-on experience with growing things. (If you have a window, I highly recommend herbs - many of them are happy in pots and there's something incredibly satisfying about eating things you've grown.)

Compost. Unless your space is extremely tiny, you probably have room for a small composting system. Some can even go under a sink or in a closet. See this post for a general discussion, this post for vermicomposting ideas, and this one for info on bokashi composting. Also check out our #compost tag.

Mending. Mending is a great skill to have. The life of most clothing (and a lot of non-clothing fabric items) can be extended dramatically with some basic sewing skills. I've made entire dresses and quilts and I still find most of my sewing is repairing and mending other stuff. We have a mending tag, but I also love YouTube for this. Searching "how to mend X" (e.g. "how to mend hole in crotch of jeans") gives you a bunch of awesome tutorials. You can get even more use out of things if you're willing to embrace visible mending.

Reduce energy use. Try to use natural light where you can. Set your thermostat high in summer and low in winter and use the principle "heat/cool the person, not the space." Flush the toliet with graywater by removing the p-trap from your sink and dumping the collected wash water into your toilet tank (or directly into the bowl if you have an American-style greedy cup siphon toilet). Experiment with solar energy. What you can do depends on your situation, but see what kind of options you have.

Integrate the 7 R's: There are more R's to sustainable living than just "Reduce Reuse Recycle". See this post for a primer.

Build community: One of the foundations of solarpunk is that it's about community. Even if you start out doing it by yourself, eventually you need a community to do bigger things. My favorite way to start is by meeting the neighbors. Taking over some food (cookies are great) and introducing yourself is a great way to open a relationship. We also have a community building tag for more ideas.

You can find even more ideas in these tags, depending on what you specifically want to do:

#apartment solarpunk

#dorms and small spaces

#community building

#activism

#fiber crafts

#diy

There's also some additional tips in this post and this post, which are earlier responses to similar asks.

I hope this helps! Followers, feel free to chime in with your best tips!

- Mod J

[ghostaholics]

Re: Price letting her rent the spare room you just know he mentions that he travels a lot for work and often for stretches at a time so really she’d be doing HIM a favor by having someone around while he’s gone u.u

𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒚!𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 || 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

Tells you to make the common spaces yours as well because you live here now too, and one of your first measures is to set out a vase on the kitchen counter, regularly fill it up with fresh flowers until you start getting so swamped with your studies that you accidentally let them wilt for days at a time; Price eyes them for a while, wonders if you're going to replace the bouquet yourself until taking matters into his own hands and then deciding to go out of his way to pick up something nice-looking (he doesn’t really care much for flowers, but you seem to take an interest so he tries his best) from Petals at Bibendum on Fulham Road. The ladies swoon when he drops by every two to three weeks only for them to find out that he's literally doing this for his roommate to which they start rooting for him, unbeknownst to you, and he sets up a delivery service for when he's off on deployment or he'll literally show up home after a mission still in his military garb with a bouquet of flowers in the doorway like it’s not something a boyfriend or husband would do.

When you fall asleep on the couch watching the telly and he wants to carry you to your room but out of respect, he instead opts for layers, slips your quilt from the arm of the sofa – another lovely addition of yours that makes this a home and not just a place that he occasionally stays in when he's on leave – and tucks you in so you at least don't get too cold in the middle of the night.

Lets you know when he's coming back from deployment (out of courtesy) but discovers that you've thrown together a small, home-cooked meal for him if he gets in early enough for dinner or have his favorite take-out from one of the restaurants that still happen to be open late at night (it's the least you can do, isn't it?). In your other flat, you'd use candles a lot because your lights always had issues that the landlord would never fix, and that's a habit that you've carried on over to Price's place. So all of the food, the entire spread, is laid out on the dining table and it's dim aside from the fact that this is basically a candlelit dinner. And you don't even realize the romantic atmosphere, because for all intents and purposes, this is merely a friendly homecoming surprise and the candles are day-to-day. But he notices. It's strangely domestic. He never had that before you started living there, but he knows that he doesn't ever want to go back.

He occasionally has nightmares and since your room is right next door, you can hear when he’s in the middle of it; you just pad out to the kitchen, get the kettle ready for camomile (over his usual earl grey or lapsang souchong) to put him at ease since there’s no caffeine in it; you grab some first-edition book he has from his personal collection, have it open to the beginning and his mug steaming on the coffee table in the living room – he finds you waiting, snuggled under blankets and not needing an explanation, just ready to comfort him as you make room for him on the couch and begin to read aloud. He never pays attention to what you’re saying, only spends the entire time staring at you and debating whether or not he'd lose you if he professed his love for you this early.

[hellinistical]

☕Fem. reader x Xavier. College! au. angst. fake dating. awkward. comfort. addiction. harassment. sa. slow burn. masturbation. miscommunication.

synopsis: After swearing you wouldn’t let winter break drag you into a slump, you decide to treat yourself to some coffee—a little pick-me-up to break the monotony. But the new barista clearly isn’t great at his job; your order always comes out bitter, no matter how simple it is. Frustrated, you finally ask why he’s even working at a coffee shop when he so obviously has no passion for it. He shrugs, his expression unreadable: “My friend’s too busy.” And before you know it, you’re proposing an absolutely ridiculous idea: fake dating. He hesitates at first, but when you outline the benefits—his nosy family finally gets off his back, and you get someone to stave off the holiday loneliness—it starts to make a strange kind of sense. What could go wrong? Besides everything, of course.

chocolate divider by @kodaswrld

masterlist | playlist | taglist |next.

wc: 1510.

one: pity party

The air smells faintly of cinnamon and wood smoke, courtesy of a flickering candle set in an ornate holder on the dresser. A plush area rug sprawls across the wooden floor, its intricate patterns partially hidden beneath the legs of a bed that looks almost too inviting. The bed itself is a fortress of comfort, layered with mismatched quilts, oversized pillows, and a soft faux-fur throw casually draped at the foot.

Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the headboard add a whimsical touch, their soft twinkle mimicking distant stars. On the windowsill, a small collection of succulents and winter flowers struggle to soak up what little light remains, while frost edges the glass, muffling the noise of honking cars and hurried footsteps.

The room wasn’t quite the haven it aspired to be. Sure, it tried—a valiant effort, really—but the cracks in its attempt at cozy perfection were painfully obvious. The throw blanket on the bed was more threadbare than plush, its corners fraying where they had snagged too many times on the unforgiving springs of the mattress beneath. The fairy lights dangling along the headboard were half burnt out, leaving odd pockets of shadow in their wake.

Your vanity was a cluttered mess, its surface drowning under half-empty mugs, dried-out makeup wipes, and an alarming number of hair ties that seemed to multiply overnight. The candles scattered around the room were decorative at best; you hadn’t lit one in months, and a faint layer of dust dulled their once-vivid colors.

The heater in the corner made its presence known with a relentless clank every fifteen minutes, as though it were a poorly rehearsed percussionist trying to join in with the muffled sounds of honking and distant sirens from the street below. The burgundy curtains, a noble attempt at warmth, were slightly too short, exposing the cold, scuffed baseboards below the windowsill.

You scoffed, tugging off your scarf and tossing it onto the back of your vanity chair, where it joined your jacket in a heap. The chair wobbled slightly under the weight, its legs uneven from years of service. The dim bulb in the lamp cast a yellowish tint over everything, exaggerating the flaws, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You flopped onto the bed, ignoring the sharp creak of protest it gave.

Your eyes drift to the flowers on the windowsill, their once-vibrant petals now muted and drooping. Half-dead and pitiful, they leaned haphazardly in their ceramic pot, their stems buckling under the weight of bulbs that seemed too stubborn to wither completely.

You’d meant to dry them weeks ago—an ambitious little project, another “someday” task added to the pile of half-finished intentions. But life got in the way, as it always did, and the flowers had been left to fend for themselves. Now, they existed in a strange limbo: too lifeless to revive but not quite brittle enough to crumble into dust.

The soil was cracked and dry, pulling away from the edges of the pot in jagged lines, a quiet testament to neglect. A stray petal clung to the rim like it was trying to escape, while the others that had managed to fall lay in a faint trail leading toward the radiator.

You sighed, tilting your head. At least they hadn’t completely keeled over, sprawling on the floor like forgotten confetti. That was something, wasn’t it? You reached out absently, brushing a droopy leaf with your finger. It shuddered at your touch, as if even that was too much effort.

“I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” you muttered under your breath, fully aware you’d said the same thing yesterday—and probably the day before that.

God. Being single sucked.

Not that you had a boyfriend or anything—let's be real, the only thing worse than this boredom was the idea of trying to maintain something like that. But damn, was this exhausting.

You let out a dramatic sigh, grabbing your phone for the 20th time in the last hour. The whole “you-text-your-friend-they-don’t-answer-for-weeks” game was a special kind of aggravating. Like, what was the point? She’d swear up and down that she didn’t mean to ignore you, promised she’d “do better,” but deep down, you knew she wouldn’t.

Not that you were any better. When she had unadded you on 360 and Insta, you didn’t even notice. Not for a solid two weeks. And when you did, the weird part wasn’t the unadding itself—it was the fact that it didn’t even bother you. Shouldn’t that have been the moment? The glaring neon sign telling you to let it die, to let the whole friendship fizzle out gracefully?

But you didn’t.

No, you’d doubled down like an idiot, liking her posts, leaving comments, checking her stories just to remind her you existed. And for what? A halfhearted “sorry, I’ve been so busy” when she finally texted back two weeks later? You scoffed, tossing your phone onto the bed next to you.

“God, I need better hobbies,” you muttered to the empty room. Because clearly, this wasn’t cutting it.

Well… that, and the fact that you’d let her borrow your shirt for her date night. Lord, what an idiot you were.

It wasn’t even a casual, “sure, take whatever” situation. No, you’d gone out of your way to dig through your closet, pull out the shirt—your favorite one, the one that made you feel like you actually had your life together—and handed it over like some kind of saint.

“For good luck,” you’d joked, masking the pang of reluctance with a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

And what did you get for your troubles? Weeks of radio silence. No texts. No calls. Not even a blurry mirror selfie with your shirt captioned “thanks, bestie <3.” Nope, just a whole lot of nothing. The shirt hadn’t made its way back to you either, which honestly stung more than it should have.

You sighed, staring at your phone again. The temptation to send a passive-aggressive “hey, hope your date was worth my shirt” text was real, but you knew it wouldn’t get you anywhere.

“Next time, I’m lending out something ugly,” you muttered, as if that would make any difference.

You clicked your tongue, shaking off the sour thoughts. This was no time to be bitter. It was far too easy to slide into a depressive slump, especially with winter break stretching out ahead of you like an endless gray horizon. Nothing to do, no classes until the next semester, and plenty of time to overthink.

Broke, jobless, car-less. What a loser.

Okay, maybe not on the car part. That wasn’t entirely fair. You’d gotten into a wreck back in September, and, well, life had a funny way of spiraling out of control after that. Between dealing with insurance, trying to juggle your classes, and just existing as a college student, replacing the car had fallen lower and lower on your list of priorities.

And it wasn’t like you could magically pull money out of thin air. College students didn’t just have the money lying around for major expenses like that. Not when rent, tuition, and overpriced textbooks already felt like a slow, constant bleed on your wallet.

You flopped back onto your bed with a groan, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t even that you wanted to go anywhere right now. But there was something maddening about the idea of being stuck, of knowing that even if you did want to escape for a bit, you couldn’t.

“Whatever,” you muttered to the ceiling. Tomorrow you’d figure something out. Maybe apply for a few jobs. Maybe clean your room. Maybe… anything that didn’t involve wallowing.

But for now? Wallowing it was.

You paused mid-sigh, the melancholic hum of Laufey filtering through your headphones like a bittersweet soundtrack to your wallowing.

Well, no wonder you felt like shit.

Her voice, all soft and aching, wrapped around your already fragile mood and dragged it deeper into the pit of self-pity. It was like pouring salt into a wound—but, you had to admit, it was a beautiful kind of salt. Still, it wasn’t helping.

You yanked the headphones off with a huff, tossing them to the side. The quiet rush of the outside world filtered in through the thick walls of your building: the distant wail of a siren, the faint hum of a neighbor's television, and somewhere far below, the unmistakable honking of rush-hour traffic.

“Okay,” you said to no one in particular, “we’re not doing this.”

No more sad-girl anthems. No more moody staring contests with the ceiling. You had two choices: keep spiraling or force yourself into some kind of productivity. Maybe not major productivity, but something small. A start.

With a deep breath, you sat up and looked around the room. It was a disaster zone, sure, but even tidying up a single corner might help. Or maybe you’d brew a cup of tea and pretend for five minutes that you were the kind of person who had it all together.

Anything to not fall into that kind of slump.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

No ghostface. Mindy invites reader and the whole group to spend the weekend at their family’s cabin in the woods. No mansion cabin, something small. That means your ex, Chad, is also going to be there. Him and Tara spend a lot of time together so you assume they’re a thing and Chad knows that you have a new boyfriend, but you broke up with him a few days before the trip (said another girl’s name in bed or something equally shitty) and Mindy insisted you come so you wouldn’t be sad in your dorm

Request: all weekend. You can’t sleep on the first night so you get up and end up alone with Chad in the kitchen and…things happen

Two longer requests in the same week? Am I back? (I'm trying to get through the requests I got in January first, be patient with me!)

Warnings: 18+, mention of cheating, p + v, public sex (kinda but not really)

—

‘’Out of the way! I really need to pee!’’ Mindy shouted, keys in hands and making a run for the door. 

You chuckled at her antics. A part of you was questioning if she actually had to pee or if it was a trick to get away from unloading the car.

Chad unlocked the trunk and you ducked under his arm to grab your bags. 

The cabin was nothing fancy like you see in movies. Just a regular family cabin — small and cozy. Mindy said their grandpa built it in the 70s, which explained the retro ambiance. Everything was mismatched, yet went perfectly together. 

To avoid any bickering, the sleeping arrangements had been settled before arriving. The cabin had two bedrooms — one of them had two single beds — and a pull-out couch. Mindy and Anika were taking the master bedroom, you and Tara the twins' old bedroom, and Chad got the short stick and had to share the pull-out with Ethan. They were roommates, so it wasn’t weird. 

It was already late afternoon when you got to the cabin, so you didn’t have much time for anything other than unpacking before getting started on dinner. 

‘’Where’s Chad?’’ Ethan asked, not seeing him in the kitchen. 

Mindy, who was chopping potatoes, rolled her eyes. ‘’Probably hiding to get away from helping make dinner. He always does it at home. He mysteriously disappears, then ‘surprise’ he’s back when all the chores are finished.’’ 

‘’You’re wrong, babe,’’ Anika chimed in, correcting her girlfriend. ‘’He left to get some wood with Tara.’’ 

Of course he went with Tara. 

After dinner, you went to your room to change into pajamas. While looking through your bags, you realized that Jason’s bracelet broke and had fallen from your wrist, mirroring the state of your relationship. In a few weeks, you would have found it funny, but for now it only brought tears to your eyes. 

Fuck. You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry on this trip.

As if she knew, Mindy popped in the doorway. ‘’What’s taking you so long, we’re— Are you crying?’’

You wiped your face, erasing all traces of incriminating tears. ‘’No.’’ 

‘’Liar.’’ She sat beside you on the bed and pulled you in a hug, knowing all about Jason. ‘’Stop thinking about him and come watch a movie with us. Uncle Randy had the best collection of VHS tapes,’’ Mindy said, trying to get your mind off him. ‘’I’m sure we can find one where the cheating asshole gets his head chopped.’’ 

A small smile drew on your lips. You couldn’t ask for a better best friend. 

*

You turned over and tried to fall asleep for the fifth time, but it was pointless. All you could think about was Jason and that girl from Phi Iota Mu. Pushing the quilt to the end of the bed, you got up and walked as quietly as you could into the kitchen, trying to not wake anyone.

‘’Can’t sleep either?’’ someone whispered. 

Startled, you cursed under your breath. ‘’Are you trying to kill me?’’

Chad laughed. ‘’Can’t handle a little jumpscare?’’ He was leaning against the counter and snacking on the home-made cookies Anika had brought. ‘’Want one?’’ 

You accepted the cookie, breaking off a piece but not eating it yet. ‘’Why are you awake?’’ 

‘’Ethan moves a lot when he sleeps,’’ Chad explained, scrunching his face in annoyance. ‘’He kicked my back three times with his knee and elbowed me in the face. I don’t know how I’m gonna put up with him all weekend.’’

You glanced at the couch where Ethan shifted underneath the blanket like a sleeping restless child. ‘’Why didn’t you ask to share with Tara?’’

A frown creased your midnight partner’s face. ‘’Why would I want to share a bed with Tara?’’ 

You shrugged, avoiding eye contact as you continued to eat your cookie. ‘’I don’t know. You’ve been spending a lot of time with her. I assumed that—’’ 

Chad sighed, interrupting and correcting. ‘’There’s nothing between me and Tara,’’ he said, his eyes on you like he was making a promise. ‘’It’s not like that. We’ve been friends since we were kids — she’s like family.’’ 

You nodded, continuing eating your cookie in silence in the dim light of the overhead stove light. 

Minutes passed, neither you or Chad talking. Surprisingly, your mind didn’t drift where it shouldn’t. It was peaceful. 

Until the silence was broken.

‘’I didn’t want to ask while the others were there, but I know something is clouding your mind. We’ve dated long enough for me to know your body language. I’m probably not the person you’d choose to confide in, but if you want to talk, I’m here.’’ Chad’s gaze softened as he looked at you, making sure you knew that he meant it. 

When you think of a person to pour your heart to, your ex boyfriend is not the first one in line, but the ache within pushed the words past your lips. ‘’You were right about Jason.’’ 

Then, tears started flowing.

It didn't take long for Chad to understand. 

Without saying a word, he stepped in and pulled you into a hug. It’s been months since he held you like that, yet your bodies still molded perfectly together. You rested your head on his chest, letting the tears flow freely as they wetted his shirt. 

‘’I should have listened to you,’’ you cried into his chest, guilt and regret filling you although you weren’t the one who cheated.

You thought Chad’s warning about his teammate’s antics was him being jealous, that he had said this so you wouldn't get with someone else. Maybe a part was, but Jason had a reputation for cheating on his girlfriends. He bragged about his hookups in the locker rooms and at practice all the time.  

Chad loosened his hold and lifted your chin, using his thumb to wipe your tears. ‘’Next time I see him, I’ll—’’

‘’Please don’t,’’ you said, teary eyes looking up at him. ‘’It’s gonna draw attention to the situation and I don’t want to become a campus gossip. I just…want to forget him.’’ 

Although he really wanted to punch right now, he respected your wish. Nothing was said about not giving him a nasty glare at practice on Monday, though. 

‘’I can help you with that.’’ Seconds after the words were out, Chad’s eyes widened when he realized how it sounded. ‘’Shit, not— I mean watching movies or going for a walk, not…sex.’’ 

You could see the embarrassment on his face, truly not meaning to say that. 

What if you were interested in this method? What is it that they say again? The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. 

You wouldn’t get with a stranger — Tinder hookups were always disastrous. But Chad didn't sound like a bad idea. He was caring and generous in bed, you always loved how tall he was and how he would manhandle you. He also had a very nice body. 

‘’What if that’s what I want?’’ You moved your hand up his chest, your eyes catching Chad’s. 

‘’A-are you sure?’’ he asked. He would never take advantage of your vulnerability to satisfy his dick. 

You nodded, reached the back of his neck to pull him down to your level. ‘’I’ve never been more sure of something.’’ You ended your sentence with his kiss, bringing his lips over yours.

The next minutes were a mess of kissing and fumbling with clothes while trying to be as quiet as possible. It wasn’t easy when Chad’s thick fingers were pushing in and out of you at a toe-curling pace, but the walls of the cabin were thin and Ethan was still sleeping on the pull-out couch…literally a few feet away. 

He bit back a groan when you squeezed his fingers, your arousal covering them as you gripped and mouthed at his shoulder, trying to muffle any sounds. Being quiet during sex was never something you mastered. 

‘’I almost forgot how tight you feel,’’ Chad hissed, replacing his fingers with his cock and slowly filling you up.

You crushed your lips together again, your hands exploring his arms, his neck, his back, his shoulders as he began to move his hips, drawing gradually out of you and inching smoothly back in over and again. It was a frustrating pace — and felt more like making love than casual sex —, but fuck it felt good. 

Chad truly was a good lay. 

Soon enough your legs began to ache from the height difference, but he gripped your thighs to hoist you up. You wrapped them around his waist and the slight change caused Chad’s cock to hit deeper, eliciting a moan from you which you prayed no one heard. 

Once Chad came with a choked noise of pleasure, he set you down on the counter and you stood there for a moment, catching your breaths. 

‘’What’s the asshole’s name again?’’ 

You giggled against Chad’s chest, feeling your mixed cum leak from your pussy and onto the counter. ‘’I don’t know… Felix?’’ you said, mistaking Jason’s name on purpose. 

—

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[kolechiart]

Do you have any strange hill high headcanons with the main trio

* sure! i got a couple under my belt at this point but to preface one of the main headcanons i have is that the magical oddities of the school carry over and infect the students as much as it does the teachers, giving each of them a unique curse of sorts that fades away once they leave school grounds - this concept dictates the rest of this post!

templeton 🧪💡

curse turns into him into a wooden puppet - though one that is old and dull in colour. human enough sure, his sweater does most of the heavy lifting noticeably off not helped by worn paint and chipped, dented wood. he looks more like a test dummy than a children's toy-

the meaning here is obvious enough, to highlight his gullible, easily swayed nature, but one that'd still be lost in him anyway as most things are. looking deeper brings to light a more charitable reading of him being naturally curious and easily adaptable to any situation.

most noticeable feature is that he glasses are his eyes and he is still able to see out of them when they're no longer attached to his face. they aren't hiding anything however and if removed will only reveal a hallow, blank face that's prone to being vandalised with red marker-

it's hard to tell if he's really…alive in this form and he doesn't need much of anything at all. sleep? water? food? all concepts that feel strangely unfamiliar all of a sudden and the fact he's prone to going in a lifeless, ragdoll like trance whenever he stressed does little to help.

becky 🐭🧶

curse turns her into a stuffed toy mouse - one that is been well used and therefore she's stitched together like patchwork quilt a mixture of soft felt, torn cardboard and floral patterns. she feels as if she has crawled out of a grandmas sewing tin but can't say that she minds.

what she does mind is that how this is clearly mocking her for being meek and anxious, quick to bolt and otherwise be scatteredbrained under pressure. as true as that may be it also hints at her softer, kind nature and how that her impulsive can be just as much as a blessing.

tends to undo at the seams when anxious, causing her to fall apart in a more literal fashion. she insists that the only painful thing about it is the sheer inconvenience of it all but upon discovering she's still has full control of her body when it's in pieces maybe it has more uses-

very creative and artistically gifted, another's trash is her treasure! or even maybe a new coat or earrings. big into upcycling and is fond of making personalised trinkets for her friends but tends to have a hard time letting go of clutter. you never know when it'll be useful, mitch!

favoured pass time is exploiting templeton and using him as a blank canvas for him to paint or otherwise experiment on with her more out there crafting. after all he is built like a mannequin, it's only fair.

mitchell 🐺🚀

curse turns him into a werewolf - though one made from hardened, worn plastic instead of plush soft fur and that combined with his segmented, ball jointed limbs gives him the appearance of an action figure! maybe one that has been collecting dust on a collectors shelf

he's disgruntled by this, viewing it as backhanded way to poke fun at his lack of attention span and given the nature of the curses he isn't exactly wrong in thinking that. however it's also in reference to his unwavering, doglike loyalty and general easy going, playful nature.

he was more enthusiastic upon discovering that body modification was something that came almost natural. from extending his arm to flick becky's ear from the other side of the room to swapping out his hand to a nerf gun pranking just became his main line of defence.

naturally he brute forced himself to become an makeshift engineer and with the help of becky's scrape collection alongside templeton's brainstorming he's able to craft up all sorts of makeshift tools and devices for every niche, hyper specific situation imaginable!

the only thing stopping him from terrorising everyone around him is his lack of foresight and how many of his ideas do not pan through because are you sure physics is an actual, tangible concept and not something made up so that they can bore you to tears in class-

[justiceforanders]

Jewel of Rivain

Part of the "Wings and Blades" Lucanis x Rook Stories

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook (she/her)

Rating: M

Words: 1.3k

Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61149457

Summary: Lucanis and Rook go visit Rook's mother in Rivain. They get distracted when she shows him her childhood bedroom.

Jewel of Rivain is a story written for @nerdee-blondee, as part of my "Wings and Blades" series exploring the romance between Lucanis and different Rooks.

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, mingling with the perfume of wildflowers as Valeria Laidir led Lucanis Dellamorte up the cobbled path to her childhood home. Nestled between lush Rivaini palms and perched on the docks, the little shop was an unassuming gem. Its faded blue shutters and curved terracotta roof tiles hinted at age, but the carefully swept porch and sparkling window displays told the story of its owner’s pride.

“This is it,” Valeria said, turning to Lucanis with a grin. She spread her arms as though unveiling a treasure. “The House of Laidir Jewels, purveyor of all things shiny and expensive. Try not to faint from awe.”

Lucanis tilted his head, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “Impressive. And you’re telling me you chose piracy over this illustrious career?”

Valeria laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic. “What can I say? I’ve got a taste for adventure. Besides…” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You wouldn’t believe how boring jewelry-making can be after a while. You spend all day hunched over, picking at tiny stones with tinier tools.”

“Ah, so piracy was the practical choice,” Lucanis deadpanned, but his dark eyes were glinting with amusement.

“Obviously.” Valeria winked before gesturing toward the shop’s wide window. The glass caught the afternoon sun, reflecting flashes of silver and gold from the display of intricate necklaces, earrings, and rings within. “My mother’s handiwork. She’s the best jeweler in Rivain – though I may be slightly biased.”

Lucanis peered through the window, his gaze lingering on a necklace with a deep purple amethyst at its center. “Beautiful work,” he murmured, his tone turning thoughtful. Then, with a sly grin, he glanced back at Valeria. “Tell me, pirata, are any of these stones... Let’s say… Liberated from less fortunate individuals?”

Valeria raised an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on her lips. “What kind of question is that?”

“A legitimate one.” He crossed his arms, clearly enjoying himself. “Surely a pirate couldn’t resist slipping her best finds into her mother’s collection.”

“I’ll have you know,” Valeria replied, hands on her hips, “that I am an honest – well, mostly honest – pirate. But…” She trailed off, her smirk growing wicked. “I’m not saying none of the jewels in this shop have... Interesting backstories.”

Lucanis chuckled, the low sound sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Mierda, you’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you!” she said in a sing-song voice, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

-----

The shop’s interior smelled of lavender and beeswax, the scent of polished wood mingling with that of the ocean outside. Sunlight filtered through the shutters, casting dappled patterns on the rows of jewelry cases. Valeria led Lucanis past the main display, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of a glass case as she moved.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder, a playful lilt in her voice. “I’ll show you the upstairs. That’s where the real treasure is.”

When they reached the second floor, Valeria pushed open a door to reveal a small but cozy room. The walls were painted a soft yellow, adorned with faded posters of Rivaini ships and maps of distant lands. A sturdy wooden bed with a simple quilt sat in one corner, and a desk covered in old books and trinkets occupied another.

“Well,” Lucanis said, stepping inside and surveying the room, “this explains so much. Look at all these maps! You’ve been planning your piracy career since you were, what, ten?”

“Eight, actually,” Valeria corrected, closing the door behind them. “I’ve always been ambitious.”

Lucanis chuckled and wandered over to the desk, picking up a small, intricately carved wooden ship. “Did you make this?”

“I did,” Valeria admitted, leaning against the doorframe. “My mother taught me how to carve when I was little. Said it was important to know how to make something with my hands. Wanted me to know some trades, find a way to free myself if she couldn’t buy our freedom.”

He turned the ship over in his hands, his expression softening. “She seems like a good woman.”

“The best,” Valeria said quietly, her usual bravado dimming for a moment.

Lucanis placed the ship back on the desk and turned to her, his teasing smirk returning. “Still, it’s hard to believe someone as loud and feisty as you came from such a quaint little shop.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Valeria said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “I may be loud and fiesty, but I can be quiet when I want to be.”

“Is that so?” His voice was low now, the teasing edge giving way to something warmer, deeper.

“Mhmm.” She stepped even closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing. “But only in private.”

Lucanis’ gaze flicked to her lips, his expression softening in a way that made her heart skip a beat. “Good to know.”

The tension between them was thick, the air heavy. Valeria reached up, brushing her fingers along the edge of his jaw, up to the scars on his lips, and Lucanis’ breath hitched.

“Valeria,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of warning and longing.

“Lucanis,” she replied, her tone light.

She smiled, tilting her head slightly as she reached down and ran her fingers along the collar of his shirt, smoothing the fabric. “You know, you seem awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

“Do I?” he murmured, his voice even lower now, huskier.

“You do,” she teased, leaning in just enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. “Don’t tell me a pirate is making you nervous.”

Lucanis let out a breath of laughter, but it hitched when Valeria slipped a hand behind his neck, her fingers tangling in his long hair. “I don’t get nervous,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.

“No?” Valeria’s smile turned wicked as she gently tugged him closer, her other hand resting lightly on his jaw. “Good. Then you won’t mind if I do this.”

She kissed him, slow and deliberate, savouring the way his tension melted away and the way he leaned into her. His hands found her waist, and she pressed closer, the heat of him intoxicating. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, his warmth seeping into her as their kiss deepened.

Her lips trailed along his jaw, tingling pleasantly with the brush of his beard. “Still not nervous?” she whispered.

“Not even a little,” Lucanis replied, his hands tightening on her waist.

“Good.” She grinned as she pressed her lips against his neck, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before pulling him back into another kiss. This one was fiercer, hungrier, and she felt him respond in kind, his hands sliding up her back and pulling her flush against him.

The room felt smaller, the air thicker, and Valeria was keenly aware of every point where their bodies touched. She guided him backward until the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees, and…

“Valeria?”

They sprang apart, breathless and flushed, the sound of her mother’s voice echoing through the shop.

“Andraste’s tits,” Valeria swore.

Lucanis, to his credit, looked unbothered, winking as he adjusted the collar of his shirt.

“Shut up,” Valeria hissed, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied with a chuckle.

Valeria rolled her eyes, annoyed – but amused. She glanced into a small looking glass to smooth her hair as the voice called again, closer this time.

“Valeria, are you here?”

“Yes, Mama!” Valeria called back, her voice steady despite the blush still heating her cheeks. She shot Lucanis a warning look, but he only grinned wider.

“Not a word,” she mouthed before heading for the door.

Lucanis followed after her, his smirk unapologetic. “As you wish, pirata.”

[acourtofidiots]

Kinktober Day 1: Breeding & Creampie [Rhysand]

DAY ONE LETS GO!!!! Honestly, I've been super super behind on writing for Kinktober and this is probably going to be the longest piece I'm going to write. Between work, and my ADHD meds on backorder, my attention has been GONE every time I try and sit down to write, so hopefully I can at least get a few things going on my days off so I don't have to scramble together and fall behind on prompts.

warnings: breeding kink, creampie, dirty talk, inappropriate use of daemati powers (idk the word for this lol)

Kinktober masterlist | askbox | main masterlist

18+ ONLY

“Cauldron, you looked absolutely ravishing tonight, my love,” Rhysand purrs, teasing the tip of his cock along your drenched folds. You whined, wiggling your hips back to get some friction, but your mate tuts, holding you still with a hand on your hip. 

“Patience, my dear Y/N.” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, the damn male knowing how weak his teasing made you.

“Rhys,” you whined, voice catching in your throat when he started to tap his cock against your clit. “Please!”

“Please, what?” Your mind was spinning, and it took your energy to respond to him. 

“P-please, I need your cock so badly. ‘M so empty it hurts!” And with that, he slides into you, one glorious inch at a time, moaning at your slick walls clenching. 

The world is holding its breath, anxiously awaiting for the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court to make their move, show Pyrthian the power they have over their court. Your hands clench at the quilt, nails digging in to restrain yourself from wiggling your hips. 

“Oh, my darling,” Rhysand breathes as he places feather-light kisses up your spine before gently biting the crook where your neck and shoulder meet. “I cannot wait to fuck a child into you, have you practically dripping at the end of the night with my seed.” 

You clenched at his filthy words and could feel his claws tap at your mental shield. You let it down briefly, only to be shown what he was thinking: You, your arms holding a small bundle of joy as Rhysand chases another child around the House of Wind. Your heart swelled at the sight of your mate scooping the child up with a laugh and placing a kiss on their head. The two turn towards you, and Rhysand takes your child’s small hand in your direction. 

You groan at the sight as your mate retreats from your mind, hips slowly thrusting in and out of you. “Rhysie, please. I need your cum. I need to cum on your cock.” You could practically feel yourself start to shake the longer he kept his leisurely pace. It would be a matter of moments before you grew frustrated and would take matters into your own hands. 

Teeth grazed your neck, the dragging of his cock against your sensitive walls was driving you more and more out of your mind, and you didn’t know how much longer you could take. “Hold on tight, darling.” 

You practically exploded when his pace increased tenfold, the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and groans filled the air, and you were thankful to have a place of your own. You wouldn’t hear the last of Cassian’s teasing if he walked in. 

You could feel the telltale signs of your orgasm, your hands digging into the blankets beneath you, walls clenching around your mate’s cock that was hitting the right spot over and over again. But it all came crashing down the moment you felt Rhysand bring his fingers down to swipe over your clit once before rubbing it in harsh circles. 

“Come, Y/N. I want you to come for me. Let me fill you up,” Rhys groans, and you let out a particularly loud moan at his words. “Let me put a baby in you.” The world comes crashing down around you, waves of pleasure flying through your veins as you come undone. Your mind was racing, unable to comprehend your mate reaching his own peak and shooting his load deep inside you. 

The room was silent for a moment. Only your collective pants filled the air as you both took time to come down from your highs. Placing a kiss on your bare shoulder, your mate pulls back, and you whimper as his cock slips from your sore pussy. 

“Shh, it’s ok, my darling.” You hear him coo behind you before you feel calloused hands grip your cheeks and pull them apart, watching a mixture of your releases slowly drip down your thighs. He sucks in a breath before slowly inserting two fingers back into you, making sure to press as deep as he could. 

“Can’t let anything escape,” Rhys purrs, and you shiver. 

[bloodmoonmuses]

stereo 127 | johnny suh

(for @lovesuhng !!! I hope you like it!!!)

genre: johnny suh x reader, college au, teacher's assistant! johnny, friends to lovers

warnings: none!

summary: johnny is your campus crush. he also happens to be the teaching assistant in your music history class. when you (innocently) ask for help on a project, you end up learning about more than just music.

You’re a bit obsessed with this guy who skates around campus- or the concept of him, more accurately. You don’t even know his name. All you know is that last semester, you (accidentally) memorized his schedule, resulting in you walking to certain classes a few minutes earlier than necessary to catch a glimpse of him. These glimpses were merely a blur, whipping past you like an apparition. He was a ghost to you, and you enjoyed being haunted by him. 

Your friends made fun of you for having a campus crush, arguing that it’s not real since you don’t actually know him. However, you honestly preferred the distance. Then, you could fill in the gaps in your knowledge with your own imagination. Admiring him from afar worked for a while- that is, until the start of Spring semester. 

When you saunter into your music history class, a random elective you took for fun, you’re met with the elusive Skater Boy. You knew he was tall, but he’s even taller than you’d imagined in your daydreams. You glance at him briefly, before going to take a seat at a desk near the back. 

Skater Boy chats with a few of his friends at the front of the classroom, then sits next to the teacher’s desk when the professor enters. You infer that he must be the teacher’s assistant. 

This was a big problem. Surely, you’ll fail this class now. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to focus. The breathy laughs that escape him are already distracting you to the point of being almost unbearable. His smile is so breezy, like a wave catching the wind. He looks just as cool here in the classroom as he does on his skateboard.

The underlying crush that lay dormant in you begins to boil, and you know it will soon bubble over, scalding everything in its wake. You couldn’t wait for the burn. In fact, you aimed to spur it on sooner. 

You make a concerted effort to pay attention to the professor’s spiel, pulling out your notebook to take notes. It's syllabus day, sure, but you want to look studious. The first assignment of the semester is to research the history of your favorite music genre. 

Despite your efforts to focus, your eyes drift to the stickers that adorn Skater Boy’s laptop: Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, an Arctic Monkeys logo and a cartoon surfboard. You want to know everything he likes and commit the list to memory. You want to sew his idiosyncrasies into a quilt and blanket him with your loving knowledge of them.

The professor introduces him as Johnny Suh- a third year music composition major. Now the ghost has a name.

—

You look at the office hours on the bottom of your syllabus. Johnny would be in office in lieu of your professor for the majority of the semester. Would it be so bad to pop in and ask him for help on the first assignment? 

While you admittedly feel silly, walking to the Arts and Humanities building looking a bit too gussied up, you swallow the nervousness. You stand in front of the room, reading the placard:

Professor: Dr. Moon

TA: Johnny Suh 

You knock on the office door. On the third knock Johnny says, “Come on in!”

Meekly, you enter. He’s too real, too tangible, in this small space. You’ve never been within touching distance of him. The prospect makes your fingers tingle. Professor Moon has an insane book collection, two bookcases spanning the walls opposite one another. The rest of the office is cluttered with a slew of instruments.

Johnny is wearing a backwards hat and quarter sleeve sweater. Your eyes graze the expanse of his forearms, then drift upwards. There’s a pen clipped to his collar and another in between his lips. It’s the most tantalizing pen you’ve ever seen. Finally, you make eye contact. 

Introducing yourself, you say, “Hi, my name is _____. I’m in the music history course.”

“Nice to meet you.!” He takes the pen out of his mouth, and your eyes follow it forlornly. That could’ve stayed. “How can I help?” 

Johnny gathers some papers, places them in a neat stack at the center of the desk, then sits on the edge of it.

“Um, I’m a non-major. So, I’m struggling a bit with the first assignment.”

Johnny nods understandingly. “Ah, the dreaded favorite genre assignment. What’d you pick?”

“Pop punk,” you say.

“Fascinating. You don’t strike me as a punk person.”

You shrug. “Grew up on it.”

“Have you been to the record store near campus?”  

You shake your head.

“It’s called Stereo 127. I think it would be cool to listen to some records and base your research on specific albums. Then you’ll have a clearer framework for when it’s time to write the paper.”

“Thanks. Um,” you clear your throat, “Would you mind… showing me?”

“The record store? Yeah, sure. No problem. Does this weekend work for you?” Johnny asks.

“Sounds good!”

—

Stereo 127 is densely packed with all sorts of records, mimicking the state of Dr. Moon’s office. There’s a classmate of yours named Jaehyun who’s keeping watch of the store. He walks around the shop, reorganizing things as he sees fit. As you peruse the albums, you’re peeking at Johnny over the records, trying to catch his eye. Unlike you, Johnny is actually scanning the selection, genuinely trying to help you.

“Let’s get the obvious ones out the way,” he says, holding a Blink-182 record. He’s somehow managed to track down a copy of their debut album, Cheshire Cat.  

“If Cheshire Cat is an ‘obvious’ pick to you, then I’m way out of my depth,” you confess.

“A little pretentiousness never hurt anyone,” Johnny replies. 

So far, you have a copy of Green Day’s Nimrod (which you’re quite excited about) and Paramore’s newest album. As the minutes pass, you get gradually more enraptured by the thicket of albums. Before you know it, you’ve accumulated quite a few records. After a bit, you sidle up to Johnny, peering over his shoulder to check out his picks. You spot a Yellowcard compilation record.

“This is more fun than I thought it’d be,” you pipe, turning to face Johnny. His face floods with fondness when he sees the stack of albums in your arms, caramel eyes warming you from the inside out. 

“Yeah, you have a good eye,” he retorts. “I’ve been meaning to check out a few other shops around town. Y’know. To compare selections.” He’s sputtering now, having fallen into a cough fit.

“You okay buddy?” you say, chuckling. You gingerly pat his back, holding back a full blown laugh as Johnny continues to cough.

He waves you off, but you pat his back once more for good measure.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Johnny says. When he regains his composure, he continues. “I was just wondering… Are you busy on the 27th?”

—

You’re sprinting across campus, eager to meet Johnny outside of the boys’ dorm. It’s been two weeks since you’ve last seen him. He’s leaning against the building as he waits for you, clad in a page boy cap (which he’s wearing backwards again) and tank top. You allow yourself a quick glance at his arms, immediately regretting it as your face heats up. When he spots you, Johnny waves excitedly, the width of his smile making your own double in size.

After your first excursion, Johnny had asked for your number (“in case you have questions on the assignment!” he had said). Since then, the two of you have texted occasionally, mostly about school.

The record store he takes you to this time is called The Boot. It’s less trendy than Stereo 127 and less organized as well. Most of the vinyls are in bins, withering at the edges and clearly sundamaged. Johnny says he comes here to find obscure records to spin during his DJ sets, not to necessarily hunt for additions to his collection. 

“So, you’re a music composition major?” you ask as you crouch down to sift through a box.

Johnny nods. “With a minor in photography.”

“Favorite camera brand?”

“Nikon for sure, but I mostly shoot 33mm film.”

“How pretentious,” you say.

“Oh, you love it.” This is true, you do love it. 

Johnny continues. “I found another record store for us to try out after this one.”

“Yeah, just text me whenever.”

—

You had finished your paper days ago, so the subsequent record store outing was completely unnecessary to a certain extent. Johnny had no choice but to admit that he simply wanted to hang out with you- though, he’s not complaining. 

The final record store you visit with Johnny is called WAYVE. This time, he picks you up in his car to take you there- a dinky pick up truck with a shitty paint job.

“Before we head out- “ Johnny reaches over, opening the glove department in front of you. His hand brushes your leg briefly.. He pulls out a CD case and places it in your lap.

“I made a playlist for you.” He can’t look you in the eyes properly. You’ve never seen him look this sheepish.

Johnny continues. “Not vinyl, I know, but I wanted to decorate the cover.” Taped to the front of the jewel case is a polaroid of you perusing records. In the photo, your brows are furrowed in concentration.

“When did you even take this, you weirdo?”

“A few weeks ago at The Boot. The lighting was nice.”

You’re practically buzzing with excitement when you get home, racing to put the CD in your busted boombox. The first song on the playlist is Going Away to College by Blink-182.

“I haven't been this scared in a long time

And I'm so unprepared, so here's your valentine

Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody

This world's an ugly place, but you're so beautiful to me.”

—

You got a B minus on the paper, which is better than you would've done without Johnny’s help. However, the project is the furthest thing from your mind. 

All you can think about is the lyrics of Going Away to College. You’re trying not to read into things, but Johnny wasn’t the most subtle. 

Maybe you should make a playlist for him. Or buy him a record. According to him, Johnny’s not a true collector- that was reserved for cameras. Maybe he’d appreciate it.

Johnny spots you walking to class (though he’s sure your next one isn’t for another half hour). He skates over to you, stopping right at your feet. You shriek, almost stumbling backwards.

“What the hell, Johnny?”

He dismounts his skateboard, holding it under his arm nonchalantly.  “Do you wanna hang out somewhere other than a record store?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

—

The skatepark is overstimulating in the best way. After trying (and failing) to teach you how to do an ollie for an hour, the two of you set up a picnic off to the side of the halfpipe. You eat kimbap off Johnny’s skateboard, using it as a little table.

“Sorry you got a B on your paper, by the way. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t grade it.” 

“It’s okay. I’d rather earn a B from Professor Moon than have your biased ass give me a higher grade than I deserve.”

Johnny places a hand on his chest, gasping dramatically.

“Um, what about academic integrity? I would do nothing of the sort!” he insists.

“Oh come on, you’re obsessed with me,” you say, half-joking. To your surprise, Johnny nods to himself, agreeing with you.

“Only a healthy amount though.”

When you and Johnny finish the kimbap, he scooches next to you. The sun is setting, oranges slowly darkening into a wash of deep indigo. You shiver as the sun dips beneath the horizon. Johnny places his jacket across your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you say.

“No problem.”

You place your head on Johnny’s shoulder.

“Um, and thanks for the playlist too. It’s really good.”

“Yeah?”

“It sorta had… a theme to it.”

Johnny suddenly pulls out from under you, leaving you to stumble around for a bit as you catch yourself. When he turns to you, he stares, caramel eyes pouring into your own. You feel warm in spite of the chilly breeze.

“I’ve never really been good with words,” Johnny confesses. “I figured I’d let the music do the talking.”

With that, he takes your face into his hands. He traces your features with the pads of his fingers- running them over your eyebrows, the lids of your closed eyes, your nose and, finally, your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he places a faint kiss upon your lips. 

He pulls back, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m so glad my pretentious bullshit doesn’t give you the ick,” Johnny says.

“Only a healthy amount,” you say through a smile. 

Suddenly, you initiate another kiss, your lips crashing into his fervently. When Johnny recovers from the initial shock, you deepen the kiss further. He’s a patient kisser, never demanding too much or taking more than he’s given. This only heightens your hunger for him, throwing your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. When the two of you come up for air, you linger with Johnny still in your embrace, his eyes crinkling at the edges with pure joy.

a/n: currently unedited + feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading!

[arahusk]

Of Bleach Dreams and Roach Crowns Characters: Niffty, Alastor, Husk Words: 4,013 Rating: M Ao3: [here] Another fic for @radiotrioweek for Day 2: On the Job / Downtime. I couldn't pick just one prompt for this day. Anyway, a Niffty-centric fic because she deserves it.

-

The one thing about Hell that Niffty fervently loved; there was always something to clean.

Even before the hotel, she never had a day where such things to pick up or to scrub until they shone were lacking. And the Pride Ring, especially, is where any semblance of decorum and hygiene went to die a pitiful death. Trash littered the sidewalks, complete with wrappers and syringes, with torn-off body parts, and all other unmentionables that would perhaps turn away a lady of good standing if she ever saw such a sight her way.

Luckily, Niffty never had good standing when she was alive, so she fit right in. 

Also, in her earlier days before she was claimed by the Radio Demon, or ever had a kitty cat for her best friend, she had been quite the collector! Not only of prickly little dead bugs which she’d make into an assortment of necklaces and crowns, but of the different types of syringes, their contents glowing so prettily against Hell’s strange moonlight, and of the discarded knives and other weaponry, their rust only attracting the eye. She also liked to carry around a little purse of acquired hair from all the bad boys she’d met, some of them arranged into braids or ribbons, and she could only hope such a collection would just continued to grow.

So when she moved into the hotel, she had a lot to bring in with her.

“Oh my! I see you haven't given up your charming little hoarding tendencies!”

Alastor manifested inside Niffty’s room, for he was always welcome wherever she was. She had been busy setting up her assortments of syringe collectibles, arranged by size and color. She had also just finished ironing out all the wrappers she had found, and had them sewn together to make a little wrapper quilt for herself, food oil stains and all. While her chosen space was filled with many things, it was all organized in ways that only her mind could truly understand.

“Greetings, Sir!” Niffty welcomed. “You’re just in time!”

She was just in the middle of pinning a large locust into the wall, each wing suspended by a needle. Too big to be used as part of her bug jewelry, but she so loved the way the light was caught in those beautiful, transparent wings. The urge to rip those wings apart was intoxicating, but Alastor had taught her the art of appreciation, so she would keep that bug on display for now. Eventually, her little tendencies would win out.

“It looks like you cleaned up half the town! Good job!” Alastor made sure to give the girl a pat on the head. “I look forward to your work on this hotel.”

“Ooo, thank you.” Niffty gave a little curtsy, giggling from his praise. But she didn’t forget her manners! With a quick dash, she pulled out a nondescript black trash bag from the corner. It left a small streak of blood as she dragged it, but she would mop that floor up no problem!

“I made sure to get you some food while I was out!”

A dismembered hand nearly fell out of the bag opening, which she pushed back in with her foot.

“Ah, fabulous! Waste not, want not!” Alastor said with genuine gratitude, taking the bag with a shadowy tendril, which made Niffty giggle even more. “You’ve always been a real go-getter!”

She grinned, soaking up his praise. She would be sure to work twice as hard now!

--

Niffty leapt onto her new job with all the fervor of a bloodthirsty hyena, finding all the places where even the most innocuous of dust bunnies couldn’t escape her overexcited clutches. It was a simple place to clean, the hotel being so empty, but it was also a challenge, the hotel seemingly having been constructed with chewed up gum and dreams. It would explain how often the floorboards fell apart, or why the plumbing was in complete and utter shambles.

She loved it, because just like Hell itself, there was always something to clean.

But what made it even better? She got to go into her new job with her best friend by her side!

It was on one of those nights when Husk was late coming back to his room, so it gave her room to work. Her energy was the most frenetic once the late hour turned, hearing the little skitters behind the walls, knowing that it was only a matter of time before she’d eviscerate every little bug that dared leave its home. But she kept focus now, for she had a job to do after all!

The door slammed open, the doorknob hitting the wall so hard and cracking open the drywall. Husk groaned, waving away the bit of room damage, which was only another dent in the hotel’s makeup. 

But he stilled once he saw Niffty in his room. His eyes swiveled to a bag she held in one tiny hand and a broom in another. After all, the room had been so, so filthy before!

He asked her blankly, “What are you doing in here?”

She lifted up one trash bag, where the beautiful, vicious sound of broken glass echoed from. She had to make sure to not look into the bag too much, because the dazzling colors of each colored glass always made wonderful patterns in its chaos. “You’re welcome!”

“My drinks?!” Husk rushed towards the side of his room, opening the drawers of his bedside table, then checking underneath his pillows and blankets. None of those bottles that had frankly been all over the place, with no rhyme or reason, were left! But she made sure to put something else there for him to find!

“Ugh! What are these fucking—?!” Husk leaped back, his wings fanning out, as he dropped a delicately-made collar stringed from roaches to the ground. It was probably not in his size! “Niff! The hell is all this? And why did you take my drinks!?”

“Silly billie!” Niffty said, wagging her finger at him. “It’s my job! Gotta keep this hotel spic-and-span!”

“Those weren’t even empty yet!” Husk’s fur stood on end, taking deep breaths as a growl vibrated from his throat. It was so cute, it sounded so much like a purr! It eventually lessened, Husk lowering his wings to the ground, his voice decidedly deeper. “Weren’t you just cleaning up the lobby five minutes ago?”

“Yeah! But I have to beat my record time!” Niffty clutched her boom so tightly, splinters began erupting from between her fingers. “And then it’s time for the attic’s hourly cleaning! And the food stockage. And the dusting. Oh, so, so much dusting!”

At that, Husk blinked, his previous rage having been replaced with one of worry and concern. “Have you even slept at all?”

“Not for the past two weeks!” Niffty smiled, her body standing up as straight as an arrow. She swung the bag of broken glass over her shoulder, which was a feat when the bag looked to be about several times her width. “You should also take a shower. I can help with that once I’m done with the attic!”

“What? No, I can do that myself! And you need to fucking slow down or you’re gonna hurt yourself!”

Husk tried to get in her way—he wanted a hug! It almost made Niffty so weepy from his affection—but she had to get to work, so she dodged right past his claws. But she made sure to sprinkle in a few bug wings against his back, as thanks for him being her best friend!

“I’ll see ya later, Husk! Get the soap ready!”

“What did you just put on me!?” she heard Husk yell from his room, but that was the fun of surprises! She would make sure she wouldn’t ruin it for him.

--

There was never any lack of cleaning needed. From the fridge which kept getting filled with rotten food after all of her shopping (with only a few actual guests to eat it, food tended to spoil fast!) to the carpets that kept getting odd stains from bug guts, from the blood of Alastor’s purchases from Cannibal Town, and the drinks a drunk Husk would keep spilling over his bar. But it gave her so much to work with. She was never out of things to do! Never bored!

Niffty hadn’t slept for five weeks now. Maybe, with time, she’d finally catch up to Alastor and his own insomniac streak.

But it was on one of her mopping trips down one of the hallways, all while keeping an eye out for any little multi-eyed pests to get in her way, that she found herself eavesdropping. Not that she meant to! It wasn’t proper for a little lady such as herself, but she had also never been very proper to begin with.

The door to Alastor’s room was fully closed, and it was about that time that her Sir would be having his breakfast to start the day. There were times she’d join him, but certainly not now! For she still had to clean and mop and dust and fix up all the little holes that littered the floor and walls. And it was one of those holes, which happened to be right in the middle of Alastor’s door, which also happened to be at eye-level for her, that she saw her favorite boss and her best friend have a little chat.

“Boss, the girl needs a break,” spoke Husk, his face turned in a grimace. Oh, that must mean he got to see what Alastor was feasting on today! “She’s been running herself ragged for weeks.”

“Oh, she’s just fine.” Alastor pointed at Husk with his fork, which held a bit of his breakfast. “She loves it!”

“Don’t fucking get that thing near me. And yeah, I know. Girl loves anything that’s just on the cusp of actual torture. But she’s gonna get herself cut into pieces if she keeps this up. She nearly fell into the garbage disposal somehow!”

“Ah yes,” Alastor nodded. “She’s very talented.”

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

“All I’m hearing is that you could learn a thing or two from her! Perhaps she could start a class for deadbeats. It would be all the rage, I’m sure!”

Then, while he continued to lecture Husk who was hissing between his teeth, Niffty saw the bit of food latched onto Alastor’s fork begin to fall off. Slowly, almost painfully, and then it plopped right onto the carpet. Her boss hadn’t even noticed!

But she’ll clean that right up!

“Don’t worry, Sir!” Niffty said as she kicked open the door. She may have forgotten to actually turn open the doorknob, but Alastor never minded her inviting herself in. “I’ll get that for you!”

Before Husk or Alastor could even react—Husk backed up against the fireplace at her sudden arrival, and Alastor still seated at his dining table, one knife placed inside the rotting deer on his plate—Niffty set herself to work! First, mop the floor! That dropped food would attract bugs! But then, of course, if she attracted bugs, she could kill them all in one go!

The idea formed in her head as she mopped the carpet so hard that holes began tearing into it, not that the carpet lacked any tears. She would sew that up later! But the food plan! She had to get on it!

With that, her brain leapt onto the next course of action: She stuffed all silverware and deer carcass in another of her bags that she had on her tiny person. A deer leg was sticking out, along with an antler that tore through the bag’s side. “You could drop it!” she told him. “But I’ll get those bugs, Sir!”

Alastor stayed in his seat, still holding onto the fork in one hand, looking down at his now empty dining table with his eternal smile.

“Hey, uh,” Husk started to say from behind her. “Not that I’m not grateful for you getting rid of that shit, but, you doing alright?”

“No time! I gotta get started on my bug extermination plan!” Niffty lifted up the bag over her head, vibrating with glee. The bag was heavier than expected, which caused her back to sprain a bit from its weight, enough that she felt the little crack echo in her ears. “Oooo, that felt so good! ”

Husk flattened his ears against his head at the sound. “The fuck are you—?”

“Later, boys!” And with that she dashed right out of the room, giggling like mad as she set herself onto a new chore. After all, there was always something to do at this hotel!

She was certain Alastor would be so proud!

--

It was just a short while later that one of her most sought after dreams had finally come true for her. It was almost hard to believe that her life would be led up to this moment.

She realized it when she had been scrubbing the kitchen tiles with a dirty rag, the bleach fumes making her eye water, when a hand clamped over her mouth. It was then shortly followed by a bag thrown over her head, blocking away all sight and sound.

Oh! She was being kidnapped! She really was the luckiest girl in Hell. 

“Yay! Where are you taking me?” She asked in glee, feeling herself getting manhandled, which consisted of being thrown over someone’s shoulder. Her feet kicked back and forth happily. “Are you going to force me to do bad things? I like that.”

“Jesus, can you stop being weird for five seconds?!” A gravelly voice said to her, sounding muffled against the bag. “This is the only way you’d come along. Not exactly my first choice.”

“Oh wow, such a bad boy! Can I bring my whip? I left it upstairs!”

“Not listening to ya!” 

There were so many strange and interesting sounds once one was blindfolded like this! The little creaks of the stairs underneath her kidnapper’s feet, the sound of the cars honking in the distance once they went outside followed by a multitude of gunshots (it must be rush hour!), and even the wind howling so eerily. Or, that could have been just the actual hellhounds howling nearby.

A lot of those sounds were juxtaposed with her kidnapper’s grumbling, which she was slowly realizing was actually Husk, muttering underneath his breath like he usually did. She heard him curse heavily when he knocked his shin against something in the street, then back to grouchy grumbling again. He was just so funny! And who knew that it would be Husk to kidnap her? She really underestimated him!

But after a short while, the bag was suddenly pulled from her head, granting her sight once again. She blinked, looking up, greeting the smile that always set her very soul at ease. “Alastor! Are you kidnapping me too?”

“Ha! That would be quite a story!” With both hands behind his back, he gave her a small nod while walking past her and Husk to take the lead. “And you certainly took your time, Husker! Now let’s get to stretching those legs! You could certainly use it!”

“You really can’t go one day without insulting me.” 

But through his grumbles, Husk just shifted Niffty more squarely over his shoulder before following their boss through what she now realized was a much more rural part of their home. She gazed at what looked to be wilderness all around them. Strange, crooked red-fir trees, with the occasional devil-snake that Alastor would quickly swat away with his cane as they went up a soft incline. Niffty recognized this spot, it had been a favorite among some criminals to hide away bodies…

Oh! Maybe this meant she was going to be the body this time! Although, if that were the case, she was sure Alastor would tell her. He could never keep good news to himself for long!

Husk tapped his claws against her back, where he still held her. “Hey. I feel you wriggling around. Don’t get any messed up ideas in your head.”

“Ooo, but I wanna know!” Niffty was ready to give Husk a tiny nibble to make him let go. (Had she collected his fur yet? Maybe she should take a quick sample in case). “Are we doing a job? Stalking someone? Getting revenge on an old crony?”

“Even better!” Alastor announced, bringing up the mic cane to his face. “We’re taking the day off!”

Not too far ahead was a picnic blanket, laid out on the rocky ground, with an assortment of sandwiches and wine bottles. The spot was at the top of a cliff, which overlooked the five-pointed expanse that was Pentagram City. The sight of it was so grand that it even quieted down Niffty, her mouth hanging open in awe.

She was also looking at it upside down, hanging so low from Husk’s grip, who had let her slip so far that he was now just holding onto one of her ankles.

“Er, right. Surprise and whatever,” said Husk as he finally let Niffty down, or more precisely dropped, then placed both hands against his back to crack it. “Ergh, god that hurt.” He made sure to give Alastor another deep frown. “Could have just teleported us, like you usually do. Thought you were leading us to some creepy cabin to chop us up or something.”

“Oho, not today, my friend.” Alastor pinched Husk’s cheek who quickly swatted away his hand. “The hike up the mountain is certainly breathtaking this time of year. Just look up at that sky!”

Both Husk and Niffty craned their heads, and found the exact same red tint that was present at all angles and altitudes of the Pride Ring. Niffty really liked that color!

“Yeah, it’s a real majesty,” Husk muttered.

“It’s wonderful!” Niffty said, clapping her little hands once she readjusted herself. “So does this mountain need some sweeping? I’ll get to sweeping!”

Alastor patted her head, which made her feel all warm and squishy inside, like a happy puppy. Then he led her by the hand to seat herself on the blanket. “No work today, my dear! As I said before, it’s our day off! We could use the refresher!”

“Oh! But what about the hotel?”

Husk popped open one whiskey flash that he had kept tucked in a pants pocket, seating himself next to her. “They’re gonna have to handle the show without us.”

“Indeed! Charlie could use a little more experience in hotel facilitating! I’m sure she’ll do just fine with the flooding that’s occurring on the fourth floor right about now.”

“Maybe if I gnaw off the faucets, it’ll fix it!” She was about ready to rush back down the mountain or, even better, jump off that cliff to get right back to work. But Husk had made sure to plop a sandwich right across her knees, which effectively took up half of her body, and even weighed her down slightly.

“Boss’s orders. Now hurry up and relax already. It’s downtime.”

--

There were few times Niffty could really think of herself sitting in one place, at least if she wasn’t shaking her legs, or feeling herself tense to get ready to spring into action.

Husk was always in one place, seated behind his bar as he went through his stock, one bottle at a time. And even when her boss was on the move, he did so with practiced ease, keeping in the giddiness Niffty knew he experienced whenever he saw a dismembered corpse, or a really nice tea set that was on sale at a nearby shop.

She ate her fill of the sandwich, (a Reuben sandwich! And it was made of meat that wasn’t human, surprisingly) and drank her fill of the wine Alastor brought from his own personal cabinet, which tasted very grape-y. She even looked above and stargazed, as much as she could with the thick smog that coated Hell’s skies.

This was downtime, as Husk said. And that’s what Sir wanted! And yet, still, she was antsy.

Because in Hell, there was always, always something to clean. And what would it mean if she wasn’t there to clean it up?

Niffty twiddled her thumbs. She felt the need to always flutter to and fro. It was almost odd to just sit here, looking up at the sky and taking in the sights of the city below. Her hands wanted to grab onto something, so she grabbed the first thing she saw.

“Ow! Let go of my tail!”

Now, Niffty didn’t exactly do that, already using the bright red fur to sweep up the crumbs left by their lunch. But then Alastor, who had been on his fifth sandwich that hour (the demon didn’t look like it, but he was always so hungry and ate ten times his weight) leaned near Niffty to hand her a gift.

“For you, my darling. I figured you would want to indulge in your little hobby.” He finalized it as he deposited a woven wicker basket next to her. Already, she knew what it was.

When Niffty opened the basket, she gasped in glee, while Husk reeled back in disgust as he made the mistake of peeking over her shoulder.

“Oh come on, you brought that? I’m trying to fucking eat here!”

“Now, now. This was arranged for Niffty’s reprieve! And she makes the most wonderful accessories!”

“I hate that you actually believe that.”

“My bug collection!!” Niffty dug her hands through the basket, the roaches, crickets, spiders, grasshoppers, and other multi-legged critters falling from her hands as she arranged them meticulously over the picnic blanket. Husk shifted away immediately. “How did you find it?”

“Ha! I certainly did a lot of snooping!”

She had to thank him, feeling all her energy finally directed to something that would grant her frenetic mind some focus. It wasn’t as intense as cleaning, or sweeping, or scrubbing the stains until the floor broke beneath her, but Alastor had always supported her creativity.

After some quick crafting, she made her matching roach crowns for all three of them! But of course, she made sure Alastor got the giant ones, for he had a big heart! And not just the ones he kept in jars for pickling!

“For you, Sir! My dear King Roach!” she said with a grin, which Alastor accepted gracefully with a bow of his head. Niffty then turned to Husk, holding out the second roach-stringed crown. “And you! You can be co-King Roach!”

Husk flinched, eyeing the roach crown with such incredible emotion. “I ain’t—”

Static suddenly enveloped the area, darkening the trees, darkening even the sky. The static grew louder and louder, until it was like pleasant fuzziness nestling inside Niffty’s brain. So cozy.

Husk looked past her with wide eyes, then sighed. “Oh fuck it, just put it on me.”

“Okay!”

If Husk shivered, it was with extreme happiness at her gift of course. And then, just as she was admiring her handiwork, she took the last crown to put over her hair. She may have indulged, giving her crown a few brightly-colored locusts to really catch the light. “Queen Roach here! With my favorite boys!”

“Oh, darling Niffty.” Alastor twirled his cane, and applause streamed from the tinny speaker. “You truly are one of a kind.”

“Please let me take this off,” Husk was muttering, eyes widening as he stared up at the roach crown circling his hat. “I think one of these things is still alive.”

The skies were swimming with barely-seen stars, all in a sea of red, a sight that made Niffty giggle as she laid back against the picnic blanket. And if she finally felt relaxed enough to close her eye and take a quick power nap, she wouldn’t let it ruin her cleaning streak later. She’ll get right back to it! After all, she’d always been a go-getter.