#They keep delaying the delivery it's been almost a month! >:(

[thedragenda]

Finally made Blink a proper ref in preparation for ArtFight :D My sorclock DnD character Dont Blink that would be terrifying if he didn't have the personality of a whimpering doormat. He's trying his best to save the world okay! It's kinda hard!

[unsuperingyournatural]

building something together

Joel Miller x Jackson Leader!Reader

The morning briefing was already underway by the time Joel arrived, his boots caked with mud and his expression unreadable. You didn’t look up right away. The council had been debating food preservation methods for the past fifteen minutes, and you had little patience left. You rubbed at your temple with the edge of a knuckle, letting your councilmates finish their point before offering a calm, decisive response. Your mind was already on the growing supply delays and the fragility of ration stock.

When Joel finally slipped in beside Tommy and leaned against the wall, arms crossed and silent, you acknowledged him with a glance. Just long enough to send a message. He was late. Again. And he knew it.

He didn’t apologize. He rarely did. He just waited until the discussion shifted and you mentioned rerouting lumber deliveries to the west side of town. That was when he finally spoke, his voice low, even, but with that unmistakable edge.

“You really think movin’ all that out there’s smart? It’ll slow the foundation builds.”

You met his eyes directly, your spine straight, tone steady. “We’ve got a dozen homes almost framed. The west block has nothing but a few empty lots and people crammed into shared housing. If we don’t start there before the next freeze, it’ll set us back months.”

Joel’s jaw worked for a second like he might argue again. But then he just breathed through his nose, nodded once, and stayed quiet.

The rest of the meeting went long. You felt every minute of it dragging across your nerves like a slow burn. When it finally wrapped, Joel didn’t say a word to you. Just walked out with Tommy, leaving the council to clear out in pairs and small groups. You lingered, tidying the table, reviewing your notes again even though you already knew what needed to happen.

Afterward, you didn’t see Joel for most of the day. The hours blurred together in the way they always did lately. You logged inventory, helped settle a dispute about missing fuel rations, and dealt with a malfunctioning radio that left one patrol unreachable for two hours. You patched things up. You gave orders. You smiled when needed and stood firm when pressed. When your head finally lifted from the paperwork, it was late afternoon, and the sun had already begun to shift west.

You walked to the construction site without thinking too hard about why. The air was cold but clean, and the scent of fresh-cut timber reached you before you even saw the outline of the half-finished house.

Joel stood in the skeletal frame of a home, barking instructions to a pair of younger men who clearly respected him but hadn’t yet learned to keep up with his pace. His flannel sleeves were rolled up, his forearms streaked with dust and sweat, and the set of his shoulders told you how tired he was even before he turned around. There was a tension in his posture, something tight across his back and neck, the kind that didn’t come just from lifting beams or leveling floors.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until your voice broke across the hammering. “Looks sturdy.”

Joel turned. Surprise flickered over his face, real and unguarded for just a second, before it softened into something else, something quieter. He grabbed a water bottle from a crate and crossed to you, handing it over with a quiet murmur.

“Drink. You’ve been at it all day.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and something small but warm passed between you. A current that wasn’t new, but still made you pause.

“You checkin’ up on me?” he asked, voice lighter than before, a hint of a smile trying to push through the fatigue.

“Maybe.” You took a slow sip from the bottle, then lowered it, meeting his eyes. “Or maybe I just wanted to see how things are really going.”

Joel looked at you for a long second, unreadable again. “They’re goin’. Just slow.”

You nodded, but didn’t say anything else. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, only full of the things you didn’t have time to say with others around. You lingered a little longer before heading off, both of you returning to your respective tasks for the rest of the afternoon. By the time the sky began to dim, casting long shadows across the frozen ground, the day had taken its toll.

Dinner that night was at Maria and Tommy’s place, something Maria had insisted on keeping regular despite everyone’s growing responsibilities. It was her way of ensuring none of you lost track of each other in the chaos. The table was already set when you arrived, the scent of roasted root vegetables and fresh bread filling the room with a comfort that almost made you feel normal.

You ended up seated next to Joel, him subtly pulling the chair out for you. His knee pressed lightly against yours under the table. You didn’t move. His hand found yours more than once, accidentally at first, but then not so much. He brushed his fingers along yours when he passed the bread. Rested his palm on your thigh for just a moment after you made a sharp point about crop rotation that made even Tommy blink.

The conversation hummed around you, but Joel’s presence pulled your focus. He didn’t speak much, but he listened. Eyes tracking every voice, especially yours. You caught him watching you more than once, that steady intensity never wavering.

When Maria brought up a recent council argument that ended in raised voices, Joel leaned in close enough that his beard tickled your ear.

“You gotta stop terrifyin’ the new folks.”

You turned just enough to shoot him a wry look. “They should do their jobs.”

He chuckled under his breath, barely audible. “Remind me not to cross you.”

Later, when the dishes had been cleared and Tommy was pouring Maria a final glass of wine, you and Joel slipped out into the cold without needing to say anything. The sky had deepened into a shade of navy that made the stars look sharper, more present. You walked side by side through the quiet streets of Jackson, your boots scuffing softly against the snow-dusted path.

Snowflakes danced in the air, clinging to your lashes and hair. Joel shrugged out of his coat without hesitation and settled it around your shoulders. The inside was still warm. You didn’t give it back.

For a while, the walk was quiet. Not strained. Just thoughtful. You both carried too much these days, and it was rare to walk without the weight of the town pressing down on your backs.

“About this morning,” Joel said eventually, his voice low and rough from the cold.

You looked up at him. “You don’t have to explain.”

He nodded slowly, then sighed. “Yeah, I do.” He paused for a few steps, his boots crunching softly on the snow-packed path. “It’s just... sometimes I still get caught in thinkin’ the worst’ll happen. Always have.”

You nodded once, your hands tucked deep into the coat. “So do I.”

Joel glanced over, his voice softer now. “But I ain’t tryin’ to fight you. I trust you. I hope you know that.”

You stopped walking, turned to face him in the glow of a nearby porch light.

“I need to feel like we’re on the same team.”

His eyes held yours. “We are,” he said. “Even when I’m slow to act right. We are. Always.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you just let the words settle between you, their meaning soft and solid like freshly packed snow. Joel gave a small nod, as if sealing a promise without needing to say more. The two of you resumed walking, slower now, your steps falling in rhythm again. The weight of the conversation lingered, but something had eased between you.

By the time you reached the porch, the quiet had become companionable. There was no big gesture, no dramatic pause. Just Joel slipping his arm around your waist. Just the slow exhale he gave when your head rested lightly on his shoulder. The scent of sawdust, earth, and cold clung to him, grounding you.

Inside, the house was still. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floorboards. You kicked your boots off slowly, carefully, like if you moved too fast the moment might break. Joel latched the door behind you, and the silence settled in.

Joel moved to the hearth and crouched in front of the fireplace, stacking dry kindling with care before striking a match and holding it to the base. He shielded the flame with his hand until it caught, then added a log, coaxing the fire to life with practiced ease. The room began to glow again, warmer now, softer. You drifted over to the couch and sank into the cushions, pulling one of the old knit blankets across your lap. When Joel joined you, he didn’t say anything, just eased beside you and let his arm settle around your shoulders. You leaned into him without hesitation, your head finding the crook of his neck, your hand resting lightly on his chest.

The heat of the fire, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the familiar scent of him—it all worked its way into your bones, steadying you. And when his hand shifted, when his fingers trailed down and came to rest over your stomach, it wasn’t sudden or uncertain. It was natural. Like it belonged there. 

No one else knew yet. Not even Tommy.

When you first told Joel, he hadn’t said anything at first. Just stared down at the floor, his hands braced on his knees. You waited, gave him time. You knew what it brought up for him. The weight of Sarah. The pain of almost losing Ellie. The fear that history would repeat itself, again and again.

But then he looked up. And slowly, quietly, honestly, he said he wanted this. That he was scared, but not enough to turn away. Not enough to give up.

Now, in the stillness of your home, with the fire flickering low and his hand resting over the new life growing inside you, you ask him the question anyway.

“You still sure?” The words come out soft, but not uncertain.

Joel doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He just nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m sure.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses to yours, warm and solid. His hand stays right where it is, grounding both of you.

“We’ll figure the rest out,” he says, voice calm and steady, “together.”

And you hold on to that, not because you need reassurance, but because you believe it. Because he means it. Because this time, you both are here, and even though this wasn't planned, you’re ready. Ready to build something lasting in a world that rarely allows for permanence. Ready to move forward, together, not in spite of the past, but with it. Even with the risk, even with the scars, you're choosing this. You're choosing each other. And even in the moments when doubt lingers, that choice feels like steady earth beneath your feet, a foundation strong enough to hold the weight of what you've both carried—and everything you're going to build.

[friendlyneighborhoodforestwitch]

It's been a hot second but I'm back with my most detailed model yet! 🥳 I was correct that I messed up the scheduling of Combat Patrol and only just received my next set of issues yesterday, but it gave me time to work on this Canoness and gives me the space to talk about my next endeavor: I joined a local escalation league! 😁 I'll tell you more about that under the cut – for now, here's the glamour shots of my fancy-pants leader lady.

Except for NMM, this model is the culmination of everything I've learned so far, plus some embellishments to push it just a little further. There is so much free-handing with this one. 😄 On top of the white and red piping on her robes (because I'm an idiot and a crazy person who just had to pick the Order with the hardest scheme 😅) we've also got my first attempt at rendering an image from scratch and my first attempt at readable script. Why would I put such glorious work on the back side of the eviscerator? Because I fucked up but couldn't bring myself to paint over it and try again on the correct side. 😅 Eventually I settled on slapping down some script transfers and called it good. All-in-all, I'm quite proud of what I've managed to accomplish. 😁💜

Now, for those of you still with me: escalation league. 😁 Last week, I stumbled on a social media post advertising a league at one of my local shops. For the next three months, I'll be playing a series of games with gradually growing lists – starting at 500 points in April and increasing by 500 each month until July. Having never actually built a full list nor played any games, this seems like the sort of incremental approach that I need to overcome the overwhelm and finally break into competitive 40k. Also, having never actually built nor played, I have no idea if my list is any good, so here it is for your amusement. 😅 (Also, this is an open request for feedback: If I've fucked something up, please tell me. And include your reasoning – my brain doesn't accept "because someone said so" as reasoning to do one thing over another.) I've got the Immolator left to build and the Dialogus I ordered from the website got her delivery delayed, but otherwise I am ready to start playing. 😁 At least once a month for the duration of the league, I'll take a break from Combat Patrol and do a write-up of my experience with the league and, more generally, my experience as an up-and-coming competitor in my local scene. If I can get my Immolator and Dialogus built in time, keep an eye out for my first one tomorrow. (And if not, then next week.) 💜

Almost forgot to mention: gonna split the BSS, multi-melta goes in the Immolator with the Dialogus, storm bolter and simulacrum imperialis hang back to generate miracle dice and provide cover; Canoness can be attached to Zeph if they’re needed for fighting, separate if they’re needed for missions/board control.

[daryaplesen11]

Where can I read about your oc?! I need more... I need a sequel to this story

This is a snippet from a roleplaying scenario, or rather, a character's diary entry. I haven't posted it anywhere, as I'm not an experienced roleplayer or writer.

Briefly, about the character:

Name: Hilda Kane Gender: Female Age: 28 Occupation: Lighthouse keeper (Assistant to her uncle from age 16 to 20; sole keeper since then)

My artwork with Hilda and a timeline of the character's changes after the events described in the diary and arrival on the mainland:

Here are all of Hilda's diary entries for this episode. Read at your own risk. I am not a writer and English is not my first language.

TW: Alcohol, starvation, isolation, mention of cannibalism for survival, mental illness, unreliable narrator.

***

The winter is particularly cold this year; it seems to be the coldest I've experienced here, maybe even in my whole life.

The delivery is two months delayed. The reason is unknown, and there's been no communication. I'm beginning to think we've been forgotten or abandoned.

So far, I have enough canned meat to feed Brownie (dog’s name). I feel almost no hunger myself; I have to literally force down a couple of spoonfuls of oatmeal porridge, which is more like kissel. Or maybe I'm convincing myself I'm not hungry.

***

I woke up to a strange noise from the backyard. It was hard to identify the source, but it sounded unusual—definitely not "just a gust of wind." I quickly got out of bed and grabbed the shotgun I keep nearby in case of emergency.

The house was dark, and there was no point in lighting the kerosene lamp. It wouldn't help much in this weather anyway.

When I reached the back door, I heard the noise more clearly: footsteps, the crunch of snow under heavy feet.  Pushing open the door, I stepped outside.

The wind whipped my face, and the snow blinded me. I tried to see through the whiteout, but I couldn't make anything out. I took a few steps forward when I suddenly noticed a dark figure approaching.

I raised my shotgun and pointed it at the silhouette. It stopped. It looked like a bear.  I should have remembered then...

there are no bears on this island.

As I fired, I braced myself for the deafening roar of a wounded animal or, if I missed, to accept death. But what I certainly wasn't prepared for was a human scream.

***

The shot took him in the neck, grazing the carotid artery.

I don't know how long I spent trying to shove his soul back into his body through the wound. I should have eased his suffering, let him die peacefully.

***

I wanted to believe it was a dream, but the man's body and the smell of blood quickly brought me back to reality.

***

It's a good thing I won't have to live with the guilt of killing a man for long. I'd hoped the night visitor would be a jackal, at the very least, a bear at most.

Yes, predator meat is risky to eat, but it's still meat.  And that's at least another week to wait for rescue.

***

Butchering the meat took far longer than usual. Besides the physical exhaustion, I had to take breaks, drowning my conscience in alcohol to steady my trembling hands. 

I'm doing this to survive. But I'm not sure I want to live after this

***

Today, I finished dismembering the body. It's unrecognizable now – just bones, a bucket of liver, and a freezer full of meat. The severed head is in the freezer as well, in a black bag. I lack the strength to even look at that man's face.

***

The stomach aches have subsided, but I still can't sleep. Every time I drift off, I hear screaming.  Every night, I hear curses directed at me, screams seemingly emanating from the freezer.

***

I can't remember the last time I slept for an hour. Five or six days ago?  I can't ignore the screams of the man I killed any longer. I guess I'll have to confront him and hear what he thinks about me…

***

Howard is incredibly unstable. He'll try to calm me down, saying it wasn't my fault and I did the right thing. Then he'll scream and curse, calling me a "monster" and a "disgusting creature."  If he had the use of his limbs, I think he would have hit, maybe even killed me.

***

Howard started yelling hysterically and cursing again. When he calmed down, he said something utterly insane:

"I want to see if you have a heart.

I want to see your conscience consume you.

I want to see you destroy your life.

I want to see you rot from the inside out.

I want to witness it with my own eyes.

I want my eyes to be with you always."

***

I've heard about the Mongolian national dish, supposedly "boiled lamb's eyes."

It sounds like a strange, ancient tradition, and certainly "exotic" for tourists.  But I've never had any desire to try it.  Much less swallow human eyes. Raw.  Howard, however, promised that if I did, he would leave me alone.  He wanted to watch from the inside as time and disease destroyed my body, to see and revel in my suffering.

***

Chewing on an eye is impossible. It simply slips down your throat like a slug or a jellyfish—a jellyfish with the smell and taste of rotting flesh and blood.

I wanted to spit it out, but the eye had already slid down my esophagus and into my stomach. I deeply regretted listening to Howard. It was unbearable. I was ready to rip my belly open to get it out.  Bending over the sink, I tried to vomit, but the strain caused my esophagus to spasm, and the eye became lodged in my throat. After several attempts to cough it up, I felt like I was suffocating.  Praying for a quick death, I continued to cough and writhe in pain, no longer hoping for, or wanting, survival.

But God, it seems, was not merciful. I managed to dislodge the rotting flesh from my esophagus and breathe again.

When I regained consciousness, I saw the eye on the floor, seemingly looking around the room fearfully, then at me, its pupil narrowed to a tiny dot.

I don't remember the events that followed.  Suffocation or sleep deprivation likely caused me to pass out.

***

A couple of days ago, they brought in supplies. Thank goodness those idiots from the mainland brought a paramedic.  However, they apparently only thought they'd need him for a death certificate.

Fortunately, the paramedic had sedatives and painkillers.

All that remained of "Howard" were a few frozen pieces of meat in the freezer and cremated remains. I'll bury him in the spring, under a flowering tree. I wish I knew his real name.

[ayukaze]

LET'S MAKE THIS MOMENT LAST ∞

xxxxxPIECES OF YOU AND ME (FFN)

SNIPPET FROM LATEST UPDATES BELOW, PS: BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY @deathberi 💚💙

There was still one thing that she needed to do, Mimi reminded herself of it almost every day, but she also hoped that she wouldn't have to be the one to take the first step.

During lunch with her mother in her office one day, however, her mother was quick to reprimand her for putting off thanking someone who'd taken care of her in a difficult situation. And that's how Mimi was forced to pick up her phone to send a message to Yamato, almost a month since he'd made her crash at his place unknowingly, under the watchful gaze of her mother.

Sent, 13:01: Hey, sorry I didn't reach out earlier. Thank you for looking out for me that day!

It was hard for her to control the heat that flooded her cheeks when her phone buzzed back with a response before she could set it aside. Her mother raised an amused eyebrow but did not comment, turning her attention to the food on the table, giving Mimi the space to respond at her pace.

Received, 13:01: Don't worry about it. How are you holding up?

Sent, 13:04: I'm persisting.

She contemplated her response for a few minutes before deciding that staying true and simple to her feelings was the best way to go. Yamato had been in her position too, so any lie she made up about how well she was coping with the situation would not only be unfair to him but also easily caught.

Received, 13:05: You always do. Remember to take it easy.

His quick reply made her face warm again but this time she took a deep breath and kept her phone aside, returning her focus towards the salad in front of her. She didn’t want to read into his words, he was probably taken aback by how she reacted that day and wanted some closure on whether she was okay. Mimi predicted that they would go back to their rare, once in a blue moon interactions after this, and there probably won’t be a second time for her to receive a reply from him without delay.

"You know, the real surprise is you buying something from my website," Mimi said, resting her chin in her palm, now brimming with the confidence to meet Yamato's gaze.

"Well, had I known that I was eligible for such a special delivery, I would've placed an order much sooner." He didn't hold back his smirk this time, as he reached forward for his glass and took another small sip.

Do not let him get to you, do not let him get to you.

Mimi repeated the words in her head like a mantra, keeping her confident demeanour intact through pursed lips. It was pretty normal for them to fall into a pattern of taunting each other, challenging each other for fun to see how far the other could go. This was perhaps one of the reasons Mimi was worried about meeting him like this, with no buffer between them she dreaded if she'd even get the chance to share her appreciation before their conversation ended in an argument.

"It's not a big deal, I do it for Hikari chan all the time." She responded, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear just so her hand wouldn't be tempted to reach for the wine glass and finish whatever remained of the drink.

"I see."

[post dividers by @/cafekitsune]

[captainsparklefingers]

AND ANOTHER THING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT REAL QUICK (I am so sorry to like the 5 people who come here for like meaningful content of any kind, it's just one of those days).

So as mentioned I've got a cold. It sucks. It's not super serious and it's not COVID or the flu but it still makes me feel like hot garbage. I don't want to go out. I don't want to do much beyond sleep, tbh. I need to eat something, but because I'm bad at food my grocery options in house are iffy and limited, and the whole 'feeling like hot garbage' is not conductive to cooking. I want soup. I do not have soup.

There is a ramen place in town that delivers and also uses Uber eats. Ramen would be good. It has soup AND noodles, so best of both worlds! But ordering food is expensive. Ordering delivery even more so. And did I impulsively buy a few things off Etsy earlier today (specifically two silicone molds for resin projects that I can't use because I don't have a pressure pot and it's almost winter and an expensive yet very pretty enamel pin of vex and vax for my pin board), even though I told myself I was gonna be really good and do very little fun spending this month, so impulsively getting delivery ramen would be a stupid idea.

I could make pasta. I have pasta! Pasta is good. But what nutritional value does it give me when sick beyond 'delicious carbs'? Not much. And did I eat some cake earlier that I absolutely should not have? You bet I did! I make great life choices, folks!

I have yogurt....I can probably just have that, yogurt is fine and good. And it's also not what I want.

Am I gonna just delay making any sort of decision? Probably. Is there a good chance that, out of laziness, I may just eat nothing or just have like some toast? Yes. Is any of this healthy? Nope, but here we are.

This has been 'stupid meaningless first world problems' with me, Sarah, who is using her Tumblr to basically rant into an empty void because it's better to do that than to keep all the thoughts in my head.

[jennyblogss]

Why Your Restaurant Needs to Join a Multi-Restaurant Delivery Platform

I still remember the first time I saw one of my favorite local restaurants pop up on a food delivery app. I wasn’t just excited—I was relieved. It meant no more driving, no more waiting in lines, and definitely no more missing out on my go-to dish when I was too swamped to go out. If you're running a restaurant today, I can't stress this enough: being part of a Multi Restaurant Online Food Delivery App is no longer optional—it's essential.

Let me break it down for you.

1. Tap Into a Wider Customer Base Instantly

One of the main reasons I encourage restaurants to join a Multi Restaurant Aggregator App is the visibility. These platforms already have an active user base that’s hungry—literally—for options. By signing up, you place your menu in front of thousands of potential new customers who might never have discovered you otherwise.

2. No Need to Build Tech From Scratch

I get it—building your own app sounds intimidating (and expensive). The beauty of joining a multi vendor food ordering system is that you don’t have to reinvent the wheel. These platforms handle the heavy lifting—app maintenance, updates, user experience—so you can focus on what you do best: making delicious food.

3. Faster Setup Means Faster Orders

If I were starting a new restaurant today, I’d join a Multi Restaurant Food Delivery Solution from day one. Why? Because these systems are designed for speed. You can get listed quickly, start taking orders almost immediately, and begin growing your delivery revenue without months of delay.

4. Marketing Without the High Costs

Let’s be honest: running a marketing campaign isn’t cheap. But when you're part of a Multi Restaurant Online Food Delivery App, you're plugged into promotions, offers, and push notifications that reach more users than you could on your own. That’s a big win for visibility.

5. Customer Insights You Can Use

One thing I really love about these platforms is the data. You can learn which dishes are top performers, what time customers are ordering most, and even which offers are converting. A smart Multi Restaurant Food Delivery Solution gives you the insights to adapt and thrive.

6. You Stay Competitive

The food delivery market is booming—and fiercely competitive. If you’re not where your customers are (aka their phones), you’re missing out. Being on a Multi Restaurant Aggregator App keeps your restaurant relevant and accessible in a digital-first world.

Final Thoughts

If you've been sitting on the fence about joining a multi vendor food ordering system, I totally get the hesitation. But the truth is, digital dining is here to stay. And with the right platform, joining the food delivery revolution is not just doable—it’s profitable.

Trust me, your future customers are already scrolling. Make sure your restaurant is one they can tap on.

[thenightlymirror]

Where to begin?

I’m totally fucked.

Of the 14 big monuments we had sitting in the back, some since 2021, we got three done by a local contractor I emailed personally. Then I went into Beast Mode and tried to get the grounds crew to get ready for 5 monuments when the granite company came next. Then, end of day before the delivery, I see that the foundation for the guy who’s been coming in every week, who’s father died two years ago, comes in saying “Listen I don’t want to cause a problem. I would take him to another cemetery if I could, but I can’t. Just please install his tombstone that’s already here.” I have personally issued the paperwork three times, with many pleas. And it’s not done.

I’m furious. I come in the next day, bring it to the GM, the superintendent, who has one of his main guys suspended for the week. My boss stops by and says “Oh, one of the grounds guys walked off today.” Later, in my office, she’s like, “It’s such a shame Bryan isn’t here this week, when we need him the most.” Like she didn’t piss him off and nearly get him to quit and then had to suspend him. Psycho shit. I’m running around like crazy, I find two markers that were never actually ordered because the rubbings were never submitted. I’m in the dirt, in a caved in grave, trying to do a rubbing on a caved in headstone in a caved in grave, of a young daughter’s little bunny rabbits to match for her sister’s tombstone. I get called back because they need the golf cart to cheer up some friends of a cop that got killed. I understand, but I’m just beat red, soaked in sweat, so pissed.

By the end of the day, the foundation is in. I ask the GM about the giant bench that needs to be installed. I haven’t checked that the foundation was installed with my own eyes, because I told the GM that it wasn’t done last week, and then she personally insisted they finished it after. I ask her again if it is done. I realize I don’t believe a word she says. I check. It’s not in. What the holy fuck. I cannot trust a single fucking person at this place.

The delivery never comes.

The next day I come down with some stomach illness and feel like I’ve been hit with a truck. They let me go, my trainer stays. She proceeded to have a horrible fucking day. We have a huge stack of shit to do that has been delayed because we are trying to get all these monuments and other random headstones and bronzes that have been piling behind the garage out. She gets nothing done because she keeps having new pissed off customers yelling at her at the front desk. The delivery truck arrives, insisted the foundation for that bench is there because the GM STILL INSISTS that is that case, treats her like an idiot.

The vendor got 7 monuments in. Not 5, not 4. Seven.

The trainer texts me crying on the way home. I left work at 11am. Hit the bed and slept until 4pm. She texts. I fall back asleep until 1am. I watch 30 minutes of Best in Show, sleep until 6:30.

Back behind the garage, there’s more progress than ever. You can almost see the ground. By deus ex machina, we are doing better than we ever imagined we’d be. I work slowly through the day taking stock. Drive by and sit with the coyote for a while. (I told Buck the coyote was named Junebug, after a friend of mine). I leave at 3:00 because I’m still tired. Wake up at 4am totally refreshed, finally realizing how sick I must have been.

Work through Memorial Day weekend. Only four days off this month.

Today, my trainer is finally back. It’s nice to see her. We plan to see a family in the afternoon who has the stone monument in stock, is still trying to make changes to the design, and also wanted it completed in 3 week. No. They try to cancel but realize they have no where to go, so we’re going to help them design it.

We go out to lunch. I bring my tarot cards. Her reading says that she has a precocious student who is going to inspire her toward a happily ever after. Whatever that means. Mine says that I am dreaming of escaping, either like a thief in the night, or sad, exhausted, and defeated, but in the end I stay, just barely ahead of the pack. She gets a phone call.

She’s gone for a long time on this call. I do another reading for myself, which this time is a lot more optimistic. The King of Pentacles.

She comes back to the table, her face is bright red, covered in tears. “Are you ready to go?”

“Are you okay?”

She can’t tell me what’s wrong. I ask “Did you get promoted?” She laughs. No. She says, “You can’t tell Carlene.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. It occurs to me that maybe they’re moving Carlene somewhere else to attack her boss. No. I tell her, “You know, this job. If you’re this miserable, maybe you should do something else. These days, they all add up.” They’re pulling my trainer out at the end of the week to work on something else. I’ll never be trained. Not really. We just sort of solved their emergency, and now I’m going to be one more memorialist at this location who has no idea what they’re doing.

She feels bad because I’m totally fucked. Her whole job is to coordinate and make us the best there is, and the company just doesn’t give a fuck. They just want to save money. I’m just trying to be like “No, it’s ok. You’ll be gone for a while. I’ll still call. I have Sandra. I’ll be fine.”

I give her 15 minutes in the car to just cry.

I’m getting the room ready to meet this family. She comes in. She says she can’t look at my face without crying. She leaves. The mother comes in, I’m alone, but I talk to her for a while and try to guide her through some process that I barely understand myself. The husband comes in. When the trainer comes in, it’s so obvious she’s fucking devastated. There’s two parents of a dead boy here, and she’s so fucked up.

I take the family outside to look at other monuments and explain the different engraving techniques to them. She gets a call, disappears for a long time. I come back in with the family once we decide on a few things and send her a text that we’re back in the arrangement room.

It goes well. We come up with a proof. I hand her a pillow from the couch and tell her to take off her glasses. I hit her a few times and she hits me back. Back in my office, I ask her if she needs a hug. She says no. She says she just needs to not be a baby. I have five files slapped on my desk at the end of the day for burials that need to be finalized. She’s trying to act happy when she goes, even though she’s still a wreck, which is all the more heartbreaking.

At one point, I am trying to pull up my bank account on my computer to see if I have enough money to walk out on my job, but I pause, and slow down, and get back to work.

[mariacallous]

Over the past 16 months, perhaps the most discussed aspect of Washington’s policy toward Ukraine has been whether or not the U.S. Congress will continue providing Kyiv with weapons. The question has dominated the news and opinion pages for good reason: There is a loud but vocal minority, particularly among Republicans, that has promised either to increase scrutiny of Ukraine aid or to cut it off entirely. After this month’s deal on the debt limit, these calls have only intensified. The threat of an end to aid has raised the stakes for Ukraine’s nascent counteroffensive, too. Given that the United States is far and away the largest and most important military donor to Ukraine, any move to curtail military supplies would have profound consequences for the war.

And yet, the intense focus on the congressional political dimension overshadows several other, arguably more important aspects of Washington’s Ukraine strategy. As any war college student can rattle off, good strategy comes down to the alignment of ends, ways, and means. Put another way, good strategy involves clearly defining your objectives (ends), developing practical methods to accomplish them (ways), and then allocating sufficient resources (means) to turn these objectives and methods into reality. The debate over congressional support for Ukraine aid largely revolves around means. But what of the other two legs of the strategic triad?

Almost a year and a half into the war, the United States’ objectives—its ends—in Ukraine remain nebulous. While President Joe Biden is fond of saying that the United States will back Ukraine “as long as it takes,” he and his administration have been notably mute on defining what, exactly, “it” is. Instead, Biden has framed the outcome only in the negative: “Ukraine will never be a victory for Russia.” More often, the United States publicly defers to Ukraine about its ultimate goals in its war. As Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin said, “In terms of the goals and objectives of Ukraine’s campaign, we’ll let the Ukrainians decide … what that will be.”

While this deference is understandable, perhaps even admirable—the Ukrainians, after all, are the ones dying, and should therefore set the terms for peace—the lack of the full-throated commitment to an outright Ukrainian victory over Russia has led to a tepid and, at times, even counterproductive approach to the second element of a sound strategy: the ways for reaching the ultimate objective. Whenever Ukraine asks for a weapons system, for example, a similar narrative has played out, time and time again. At first, the United States refuses, citing a mixture of operational and escalation concerns. Then, public pressure builds. Eventually, the United States changes course, but only after much delay. The most recent example was whether or not to supply Ukraine with F-16 fighter aircraft, but the decisions about everything from M1 Abrams tanks to Patriot missile defense systems have followed a similar pattern.

Some degree of U.S. foot-dragging during the first few weeks of the war was, perhaps, understandable—back then, policymakers were still figuring out how the Ukrainians would fight. But slow-rolling deliveries has become less defensible the longer the conflict has gone on. Many of the initial, operational reasons for withholding certain weapons—like the idea that Ukrainian forces couldn’t be trained quickly enough on those systems—have been repeatedly disproved. Ukraine has shown that it can both rapidly master complex systems, like Patriot missiles, and also use them to great effect.

The preoccupation with escalation—another common line deployed when refusing weapons—is even more flawed. For starters, the idea that withholding weapons will somehow limit escalation and keep the war more contained and less deadly is questionable. True, Russia has not used nuclear weapons, but there are plenty of reasons Russia would not want to resort to them. And Western restraint has produced little Russian response in kind. Russia still tried to freeze, and then flood, Ukrainian civilians into submission; it has also engaged in widespread torture and shown no willingness to negotiate about anything other than Ukraine’s capitulation.

At the same time, when, after much hemming and hawing, the United States did provide Patriot missiles, M1 Abrams tanks, and now F-16 training to the Ukrainians, such actions did not spark the uncontrollable escalation cycle some had feared. As one might expect, Russia targeted these systems, like it would any valuable piece of military hardware, but so far its targeting has been unsuccessful. For the most part, the war has continued much the same as before—as a grinding war of attrition.

What’s more, the strategy of doling out weapons systems one at a time and with much delay has never made logical sense. If the idea was to prevent Ukraine from attacking Russia itself, Ukraine has never needed sophisticated Western equipment to do that. Ukraine has already, allegedly, conducted strikes inside Russia with old Soviet helicopters, non-U.S. drones, and cross-border raids. And why should the United States and its Western allies be so concerned about Ukraine attacking in Russia, anyhow? Russia may indeed retaliate. But the costs of any such retaliation would likely be borne by Ukraine—not by the United States and its allies. And it’s noteworthy that countries far closer to Russia and more vulnerable to Russian retaliation—such as Poland, Finland, or the Baltics—are all doubling down on their military commitments to Ukraine.

Moreover, if Washington wants to put Ukraine in the “best possible position” to negotiate an end to the war, then there is a need to reestablish deterrence. Russia must be convinced not only that further aggression is futile, but that continuing aggression would come at a cost. In political science jargon, this means establishing both deterrence by denial, which prevents an adversary from successfully accomplishing its war aims, and deterrence by punishment, which credibly threatens further costs should aggression continue.

In both respects, more powerful weapons help. The better equipped Ukrainian forces are, the more likely they are to blunt further Russian aggression and prevent Russia from achieving its war aims. Longer-range weapons—be they aircraft like F-16s, which several European allies have agreed to supply, or Army Tactical Missile System (ATACM) missiles in the future—allow Ukraine to strike at Russian targets behind the lines. These systems, in particular, can hit Russian positions in their supply lines all the way down into the Crimean Peninsula, a crucial aspect to the Ukrainian offensive.

Equally important, though, is the fact that the better equipped the Ukrainians are, the more they can impose costs on Russia and the more Russia will need to weigh the benefits of future aggression. As Nobel Prize-winning economist Thomas Schelling once noted, deterrence is also predicated on the “power to hurt.” Giving Ukraine the power to hurt Russia may be an escalation risk, but it is also a necessary precondition to restoring mutual deterrence at the border. In other words, the United States’ cautious approach may be having precisely the opposite effect of what it intended to achieve: a longer, bloodier, costlier conflict.

Stepping back, then, the United States’ strategy in the war in Ukraine so far is a case in which the whole is less than the sum of its parts. Viewed individually, most decisions the United States has made in the war make sense. It is logical for the Biden administration to be opaque about its goals in the conflict and hesitant about providing high-end weaponry to a country engaged in an indirect conflict with a nuclear-armed major power. Similarly, it is understandable for Congress to want accountability for how Americans’ taxes are being spent.

Judged collectively, however, these decisions add up to a suboptimal, messy U.S. strategy for supporting a war. The vagueness of the ends, the indecisiveness of the ways, and the uncertainty in the means have produced a U.S. effort that is not as robust, quick, or forward-looking as it could or should be. This lack of strategic optimization has delayed needed support to Ukraine, and it may have even prolonged the conflict.

The challenge was foreseeable a year or more ago: Ukraine will survive as an independent state, continue to face a long-term threat from Russia, and run out of Soviet-era equipment—be it air defenses, tanks, or planes. Had the West acted more decisively and strategically, Ukraine would not only be in a better shape to undertake the counteroffensive it recently launched in southern and eastern Ukraine, but also be better-positioned for a more durable postwar settlement.

Thankfully, Ukrainian bravery and Russian missteps mean that the war remains winnable for Kyiv. The United States just needs the will and strategy to embrace that victory.

[itsdanii]

Plant Reunion (Literally)

genre: slight crack, slight fluff

warnings: nothing, just ushijima being weak for his daughters

ft. timeskip! ushijima wakatoshi

You never expected to come home to your husband wearing a giant eggplant costume

$299 had been deducted from your account

You stared at your phone with wide eyes, the wheels inside your head turning as you think back to all the stuff you bought for the last two weeks.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Ushijima?"

You turned your gaze to your driver and smiled a little. "Of course. It's just.." You paused for a moment and massaged your temples, a new headache now starting to form. "Have I bought something expensive for the past few weeks? A bag? Jewelry?"

Your driver looked at you through the rear mirror before answering. "None that I can think of unless it's something you had delivered straight to your house. Even so, the guards will inspect the delivery men beforehand for security purposes."

You nodded slowly. "Right... Then was I scammed?" you whispered out of worry.

You squinted your eyes at your driver when you noticed how he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and as if sensing your stare, he cleared his throat and focused his eyes on the road.

"Aki, what do you know?" you asked in a serious tone, almost making him flinch.

"I.."

"Speak now if you want to keep your job," you threatened.

Instead of saying anything, Aki sighed and handed you his phone, your husband's contact name present on the screen along with their exchange of messages.

Mr. Ushijima: Aki, delay my wife's arrival as much as you can

Aki: I'm afraid I can't do that unless I know the reason, sir

Mr. Ushijima: Just do as I say. The house is too messy right now and I gave the maids a vacation leave

"Oh god..." you whispered to yourself as you kept on scrolling

Mr. Ushijima: I'll increase your salary for this month

Aki: Noted, sir

"Turn around," you instructed as you gave his phone back.

Panic made its way to your driver's face upon hearing those words. "B-but ma'am, Mr. Ushijima said-"

"Thrice. I'll increase your salary thrice the price. Just turn around and drive as fast as you can back to the house."

"But your meeting..."

"Aki, turn around. Now." You crossed your arms over your chest and rose an eyebrow at him until he gave up.

Doing a U-turn, Aki changed the navigation back to your household with a nervous look.

-

"I can explain," was the first thing your husband said as soon as you stepped inside the house.

Your eyes scanned the whole living room in silence, your eyes going over the mess before you focused on your husband and the rest of the former Shiratorizawa team who are all dressed in their vegetable costumes.

Toys were littered on the floor along with several empty wrappers of candies and chocolates.

Moreover, there sitting on the floor are your two daughters together with Satori and Semi, big smiles visible on their faces with something which looks like nutella smeared on each other's cheeks.

"Room," you simply stated to your husband before making your way upstairs with him following you like a lost puppy.

"My love-"

"Not a word, Wakatoshi."

Your husband could only gulp before looking downstairs, only to see the rest of the team giving him a sympathetic smile.

The moment you both reached your shared bedroom, you locked the door and faced him with your arms crossed over chest.

"Ushijima Wakatoshi, care to explain why I received an email stating that $299 had been deducted from my account, why you tried to delay my arrival, almost bribed Aki and gave all the maids a vacation break? On top of that, the first thing I saw when I came home are you, my daughters and the rest of the team all dressed in giant vegetable costumes?!"

You stared at your husband as he tried forming the right words, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"You're even dressed like an eggplant," you muttered as you sat yourself on your bed out of stress.

"My two princess were crying when you left and I found out that the team was planning to give us a visit so I gave Satori your card to buy some vegetable costumes," Wakatoshi explained in a tiny voice and walked over to your figure.

He rested his head on your shoulder, burrying his face to the side of your neck like a puppy. "Sorry, my love."

You sighed and placed a hand on the back of his head to run your fingers gently through his hair. "You could've just bought them a new doll house or something. Why did you have to waste such amount of money just for that ugly vegetable costume?"

"Mirei wanted a life sized eggplant and Nanami wanted a giant tomato." Ushijima lifted his head to look at you with a pleading expression. "I just wanted our princesses to be happy."

"Alright, but promise me that next time, you'll consult me first. 'Toshi, I know that you have more than enough money but $299 dollars just for vegetable costumes? And Satori doesn't even look like a tomato."

Ushijima nodded, taking your hand in his to place a kiss on your palm. "I promise. I'm forgiven, right?"

"Yes, you are. You're lucky I love you."

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated ♥️

an: im halfway done with the part 4 of rejecting you and regretting it when this idea came to mind 😭

[firefly-in-darkness]

Worst Idea Ever [Part Three]

Characters → Y/N & Bucky Barnes, Other Marvel Characters.

Series Summary → Wedding Season is brutal as it is but throw in two friends that decide to be each other’s plus ones and a mixed bag of feelings, what’s the worst that could happen?

Part Two Summary → Y/N makes a confession that lands her in an very embarrassing situation at the rehearsal dinner. Bucky doesn’t like how he feels and seeks the wrong things to deal with it.

Word Count → 3.9k 

Part Two Warnings → 18+, smut / sexy things. self-pleasure. Angst.

Beta → @princessmisery666 & @fandomfic-galore // all mistakes are my own.

Series Taglist  → Open, just drop me an ask!

A/N → Sorry that this is EXTREMELY late. I have this series planned out, I just have to flesh it out and my brain was not cooperating at all - it wanted me to write and scenes for latter parts [very irritating!] but here we are and I hope you enjoy it!

Series List // Marvel List // Masterlist

Previously in Part Two: Bucky watched her expression drop and the guilt seeped into his chest, jumping out of his seat, he offered his hand, nodding towards the dance floor. The way her face lit up and how her warm hand grabbed his metal one without hesitation had his heart skipping a beat.

His composure faltered slightly but as they began to dance to the beat, he pushed his reaction to the back of his mind and continued to enjoy the time with Y/N. His friend.

Laughter filled Y/N’s apartment. Wanda divulged the details of her latest date with Victor and how he’d asked her to be his plus one to Peter and Gwen’s wedding. Y/N couldn’t contain her excitement to meet him and from the way Wanda looked wistfully as she spoke, she was clearly smitten. 

It made Y/N’s heart ache for something she’d lost. Not necessarily Tyler, but the closeness of someone, the intimate and carefree moments. To enjoy someone’s company, even in the silence. To have someone that you could count on in the crazy and dreadful times and be there for when they had their ups and downs. Not that Tyler had lived up to that very often. 

Now that she thought about it, the last time she felt like that she had that closeness was with Bucky a few weeks ago, when she told him about the breakup. Y/N contemplated how Bucky had immediately cared for her when she was too drunk to walk, how he took her into his apartment and made sure she was safe, how he had agreed to her ridiculous idea of being each other’s plus ones.

“So, what about you, pumpkin? Anyone getting the delicious goods?” Natasha pulled Y/N out of her thoughts, popped a pretzel on her tongue, and smirked at her daydreaming friend. “Someone on your mind?”

“God no!” Y/N exclaimed, “that’s definitely not on my list of priorities right now. I have too much going on with work and I’ve only just split up with Ty.”

Nat rolled her eyes and Wanda frowned, both looking as if Y/N had grown a second head. Y/N knew it was an ambush the moment the two of them had suggested a last minute get together. There was no need to put it off any longer, defeated she gestured for them to speak their mind. 

“What about Bucky? You have this ‘fake’ dating thing going on, so why not get something out of it?” Nat stared at Y/N intently, voice devoid of any emotion.

Y/N knew Nat’s thoughts on her arrangement with Bucky; she had made them very clear when she checked in on her after the breakup announcement - ‘Why can’t you just be friends? What’s with the charade? - Y/N didn’t have an answer, it was something they had both slipped into so easily and Bucky hadn’t questioned it either.

“That’s not what we are doing, and you know it.” Y/N drained the last of her drink, glaring at her friend, “We like each other’s company, there’s nothing more to it than that.”

“You could always join a couple of those dating apps, they’re free,” Wanda suggested, while she filled her glass with her famous homemade cocktail. “Plus, you don’t actually have to meet up with them. Just see what’s out there.”

Nat apparently wasn’t finished with her part of the conversation and spoke before Y/N could respond. “Get yourself out of the rut of not being in a relationship and start being single. Have some one night stands or whatever.”

“It’s just - well - it’s been a while since...” Y/N’s eyes widened, the embarrassment tingling her cheeks. It had been too long since she had been sexually active, and she knew the conversation would inevitably lead there.

“Oh honey, when was the last time you and Tyler did it?” Nat’s voice was laced with concern for her sexual vitality, or lack thereof. 

“Well, maybe a few months.” Y/N shrugged, fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

“You only broke up a few months ago so that’s fine.” Wanda smiled.

“No, I mean, before we broke up.” 

The silence in the room was deafening as Y/N and her friends processed her confession.

“Over six months? Really?” Nat gasped, “and what about by yourself?”

Y/N’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. She masturbated but it wasn’t something she did regularly. From Nat’s reaction, she could tell that this was not going to end well and offered her friends a small smile. Wanda continued to pour the drinks while Nat tapped away on her phone, determination etched on her face.

“Ordered! Next day delivery too.” Nat declared and pointed at Y/N, “you don’t need to thank me.”

The conversation moved onto the potential suitors that Nat had lined up from her own online dating profile. The drinks flowed until they were all too giggly to speak coherently. It was just what Y/N needed; her friends, a little heart to heart and lots of fun.

 Peter & Gwen’s Rehearsal Dinner

The box containing Nat’s gift sat on the kitchen counter, unopened and almost forgotten about until Y/N walked into the room and saw it taunting her. She had been itching, for the last week, to open it but had remained sceptical of the devices her friend had ordered. 

Curiosity gnawed at her thoughts while she sat on the couch, waiting for Bucky’s, he was running unusually late and hadn’t left his apartment yet. She glanced at her notification-free phone, back to the box, she had at least ten minutes before Bucky would arrive and that would only be on a light traffic day. 

These days weren’t often enough to warrant her to keep the items sealed any longer. With a couple of tugs and rips, the first items were revealed; a bright pink g-spot vibrator and some novelty penis shaped pasta. She scoffed at the silliness, but it brought a smile to her face.

The final item was some panties with a built in vibrator and a small remote; this piqued Y/N’s interest - it was subtle, and she could just put them on and enjoy it as she pleased. Another look at the time and she knew she’d be able to give them a try before Bucky arrived. 

Y/N made quick work of removing her underwear, flinging them across the living room as she ripped open the box and pulled on the new panties. While adjusting them and fixing the skirt of her dress the doorbell rang. 

Alarm ran through Y/N’s bones, the embarrassment heating her cheeks as she thought of Bucky waiting behind the front door. She stuffed the box behind a pillow and shoved the remote into her purse. She yanked the door open to see him standing there in his blue velvet suit, jangling his keys and hair looking a little dishevelled, not even glancing at her as he turned to walk down the path.

“You’re early,” Y/N squeaked, body frozen to the spot as she felt the ridges of the vibrating device against her core.

“I’m late, come on.” Bucky reached his car that had been haphazardly parked. “Move it, woman.”

Unable to change, Y/N left the apartment and attempted to forget what she was wearing underneath her dress while catching up with Bucky. 

Luckily, the traffic lights were on their side and they pulled up outside the Italian restaurant with minutes to spare. Bucky opened the car door for Y/N in a flash, and she took his hand and climbed out of the car just as he began to drag her towards the entrance, needing to skip and jog a little to keep up. 

She was so confused by his eagerness to get her through the door but let it subside with his hand clasped around hers tightly, not dropping it even as he walked towards his destination, the bar.

 Bucky wasn’t sure why he was late; he was ready before he was due to leave. But nerves got the better of him; Y/N was important to him and the people she would be meeting were his colleagues. Of course, she already knew Sam and Wanda, but she was going to meet his boss and other people. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why this feeling of uncertainty washed over him.

“Pull yourself together Buck,” He chastised, running his hand through his hair while he text Y/N to warn her of his delay.

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, the tension reeling from him and he doubted that it would be gone by the time he reached Y/N’s block. He turned up the music, hoping to drown out his thoughts and gain some composure.

It didn’t work. His mind flitted between Y/N and his colleagues, a particular one in his thoughts, Jackie. She was one of Tony Stark’s entourage. He didn’t know it at the time and the casual relationship was something that worked for the both of them over the last few years. But now, it was a completely different story. He was bringing Y/N as his date, fake date, to an occasion that an old flame would be in attendance. His mind spiralled into a stream of all the what if’s that could happen if his lover and friend met and talked to one another.

As the car pulled up to the curb, it dawned on Bucky the tension that he was feeling was embarrassment for his flings, he’d never considered how the future might look for him in terms of a relationship, but this was new, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of a potential future with Y/N.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, you’ve been to one wedding together and it wasn’t even a real date. She’s only a friend. 

Bucky didn’t even look at Y/N when she opened the door, but he did listen to her talk about her day while he navigated the back roads to the restaurant. His arm warmed under the slightest feel of her touch, the excitement in her voice and the way her laughter echoed around the car seeped into his very being.

They made it to the restaurant in time to get to the bar and drink before the meals arrived. She’s only a friend, he reminded himself as he downed the amber liquid, relishing in the burn gliding down his throat.

The approach of Sam was a blessing; it gave Bucky the chance to escape from his thoughts and not be obliged to make small talk with Y/N. He knew that she wouldn’t push him into a conversation, they’d been friends for a decade, and she knew him. 

Bucky felt a twinge in his chest, a tightening of his rib cage, as he watched Sam and Y/N greet each other in a loving hug. He realised he hadn’t even said hello to Y/N, he turned for his next order of whiskey and once he collected it, turned to find they had left him to take their seats. 

“...and if it wasn’t for me, taking on two interns for the September Foundation, these kids would never have met.” Tony Stark waved the champagne flute, pointing between Peter and Gwen, laughter followed as the couple shook their heads and rolled their eyes. “Now, for once, enough about me. Please raise your glasses to the happy couple.”

Y/N was in awe of the man addressing the room, with such poise and humour, he knew how to handle a speech and she couldn’t help the enthusiasm of her claps and the beaming smile she sent to Bucky as Tony settled back in his seat opposite her on the round table.

The room settled down with soft melodies filling the space while guests began to mingle once more. Small talk and hushed conversations about the happy couple, the delicious meal they’d had and the excitement for the wedding ceremony tomorrow.

Bucky didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk much, Y/N put it down to whatever had him running late and put it to the back of her mind to ask him as they drove home. She was used to his quiet ways and the large number of people in such a small space, could make anyone feel claustrophobic. 

Under the table, she squeezed his knee in reassurance and focused on getting to know his boss and Aunt of the Groom, May Parker. In that half an hour, she’d learnt about the vision of the Stark Relief Foundation and how incredibly proud May was of her team in Sam, Bucky and Wanda. Light blushes filled the cheeks of the latter two, whereas Sam took it in his stride and gave a cheeky grin.

With most of the glasses empty, Bucky immediately offered to go to the bar and order another round for the table. Y/N excused herself after a moment and followed, once she’d turn toward the bar, she saw him embrace a woman. It didn’t bother her until the touch seemed more intimate, she froze, her eyes trained on the unknown woman’s fingers lingering on Bucky’s forearms and his hands resting on her waist. It wasn’t the way colleagues greeted one another. 

A pang of jealousy surged through her and she tried to shake it away, returning to her seat and attention to Wanda and Victor on how they’d begun to incorporate Victor’s previous projects in the recently absorbed Californian company, AccuTech, to grow Stark Industries.

The conversation did nothing to numb the ache in Y/N’s chest, her eyes flicking back to Bucky who was still preoccupied at the bar. She had enough of waiting for him to return with her drink, so she turned in her seat, accidentally kicking her bag to the side. 

A subtle cough behind Y/N turned her head where she was met with a light smile and a flute of champagne extended by the hand of the one and only, Tony Stark. Her brain shutdown, unable to form a sentence as she accepted the drink and thanked the billionaire before he returned to his seat.

In embarrassment, she downed the rest of the champagne, twisted in her seat and that’s when she felt a soft hum against her core. She shook her head and joined May’s conversation with Wanda and Victor once more. Then another hum, but longer. Her eyes widened at what was happening. 

The underwear was releasing a soft vibration every few seconds. Y/N scrambled to her feet to get her bag from underneath the table. She felt the colour drain from her face as it dawned on her that the remote was missing. Another wave of vibrations rocked against her. The delicious sensation caused her to clench her thighs together and return to her seat, eyeing the floor for the remote without being too obvious.

“Yeah, after I left the army, Bucky and I went to college which is where we met Y/N,” Sam explained to Tony and Pepper.

Y/N’s ears pricked up at the mention of her name and attempted to join in as the vibrations hit her at an increased tapping motion before stopping and starting again, “Yeah, he was very good. God, he was good - at being my study buddy.”

Sam looked at her with a frown, “Bucky was the bad influence on her, I guess.”

Another course of vibrations rippled from the underwear, causing Y/N’s eyes to widen and grit her teeth in hope that she didn’t let out another comment or moan. She could feel her body slowly heating up and she was almost gasping for air when Bucky returned to the table with the woman he’d met at the bar.

Y/N shuddered in pleasure at the sight of him but then jealousy returned as she spotted Bucky’s arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers clutching and stroking at her hip. She knew the smile she offered them was more of a grimace, but she couldn’t help it. 

“I’ll get some more drinks.” Pepper eyed Tony, it didn’t go amiss from Y/N as she tried to focus on anything but the issue under her dress.

Bucky took his seat beside Y/N and the woman took the one now vacated by Pepper. Y/N didn’t look at him once, instead returning to Victor and Wanda. Secretly hoping that her underwear would stop vibrating and she’d not embarrass herself in front of Bucky or the woman he’d brought to the table.

“So, Victor, whoa-what have you been working on lately?” Y/N whimpered.

The tension was building in her leg muscles and she wasn’t sure she could hold it for much longer. As Y/N swapped her legs over, crossing them tightly, she felt her slick trailing from her apex, unleashing a soft moan from her lips.

Victor continued to explain his latest project with the help of Wanda finishing his sentences. It would have been adorable if Y/N didn’t feel like she was about to burst at the seams.

“Oh, oh- I, I need to use the bathroom.” Y/N attempted to cover the small outburst and began to stand when Victor interrupted.

“I’m almost finished.” Victor smiled, “So as I was saying, the combination of…”

A round of vibrations echoed in the silent lull between the songs playing over the speakers and everyone began to check their pockets and phones for the source. In that moment, her eyes locked with Tony and he smirked.

He couldn’t know, surely?! Y/N bit her bottom lip and her fears came out in a whimper. Tony ushered the woman and Bucky along the table so that he could take the seat beside her. Even though her heart was pounding in her chest, Y/N tried to remain calm and concentrate on the billionaire while trying to ignore her core tightening in pleasure.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to do as Tony talked to Y/N, he could see the fear in her eyes as the lead of Stark Industries joined her and began a quiet conversation. He couldn’t hear what was being said but from Y/N’s appearance, she looked as if she was in pain.

Jackie stroked the inside of his thigh, his attention back on her. He didn’t know how it happened; one minute he was getting drinks and the next she had wrapped herself around him and walked over to the table. He did see the confusion etched on Y/N’s face, but he brushed it aside; that was what they were doing this for - being a plus one for each other and helping with hook ups.

The commotion from Tony and Pepper caught his attention as they tried to subtly look around the table and even underneath it. What on earth is going on? Bucky wondered before his eyes focused on Y/N, the way she squirmed in her seat, holding her legs crossed together. If she needs to use the bathroom, why doesn’t she?

He stood up, ready to take her away from the awkwardness occurring at the table that he didn’t understand in the slightest. As he neared, the sound of vibrations and Y/N’s attempt at soft moans made him realise what was going on. 

I really hope that’s not what I think it is. Bucky’s uncertainty was answered with the grimace Y/N directed at Pepper. This could only happen to her, he chuckled internally and glanced around the room to find whatever device was causing the untimely situation.

Bucky spotted a kid with a remote shaped device, waving it around and pretending it to be a lightsabre. As he wandered up to him, he heard Y/N scream and turned back to see her standing with hands white knuckling the back of the chair.

“Yes, yes, yes! That’s great. Tony!” She shivered and began to compose herself.

“Got to love her enthusiasm!” Tony chuckled and raised his glass to the guests now looking in her direction before they returned to their own companions.

Bucky immediately snatched up the device, “Sorry kid, that’s my toy.”

Y/N returned from the bathroom, heat still radiating from her cheeks as she wandered over to the cloakroom. She didn’t want to be there anymore, already feigning a headache to escape. Of all the people to come to her aide, Pepper Potts, and Tony Stark! 

Ugh, why are you so embarrassing Y/N?! She scolded herself as she collected her coat.

Tony Stark appeared beside her, handing over the tab to the attendant. She tried to ignore him but was unable to when he tapped her on the shoulder, “So how does a woman like you, end up going on a date with a man like Barnes and be completely accepting of him in the arms of another woman?” 

“We aren’t together.” Y/N confessed. She wasn’t sure why she was being so open and honest with a man she hadn’t met until a few hours ago. Maybe it was the fact that him and his wife had just witnessed her having an orgasm in the middle of a restaurant. “We’re just fake dating our way through wedding season so that we don’t have to bring any awkward dates or end up on the singles table.”

“We all do stupid things,” Tony remarked while he held her coat and she put her arms through the sleeves.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Shock coursed through her veins; her cheeks tingled even more at the thought of her feelings being so obviously on display for even a stranger to see them. 

“You’re not fooling anyone with those longing gazes.” Tony smirked.

Y/N glanced back to the stumbling pair of Bucky and his new companion. 

“Don’t worry about Jackie, that’s just a casual thing.” Tony gave her a sullen smile, “He’ll work out what he’s missing out on one day. Hopefully before it’s too late.”

Bucky handed the keys to Y/N, completely oblivious to what was going on around him other than Jackie. Anger seeped into Y/N’s skin as their hands trailed over one another’s bodies, lips finding one another in their drunken mess.

She would get them back to Bucky’s and leave them to each other for the night. She needed to get home, to get out of the stupid vibrating panties and sleep away the emotional rollercoaster that had been Peter and Gwen’s rehearsal dinner.

Bucky woke to his alarm blaring through the haze of his hangover. He attempted to sit up but felt the weight of an arm draped across his stomach and a leg curled around him. He shoved Jackie’s naked form away from him and sat up to turn off the horrific noise. He spotted the notifications lighting up his phone and read the messages.

The first was from Tony; I like Y/N. Can you extend an invite to mine and Pepper’s wedding vow renewal at the end of the year? Don’t mess this up Barnes.

He flicked his phone to the second text; it was from Y/N. I drove you and Jackie home. I’ve got your car, so I’ll pick you up at 11. The third text was also from her; Thank you for finding the remote.

He sunk back into the pillow, his hand dragging down his face. Bucky wasn’t sure what the billionaire genius was referring to, but he felt guilty for whatever Y/N had to witness of him and Jackie. He thought going home with someone else would help quash his feelings but now that he was sober, he knew that it was a stupid idea. He only felt guilt and remorse for what had happened the previous night.

Hooking up with a woman in front of Y/N was the worst idea ever.

Continue Here...

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[suddencolds]

Bad Timing | Genshin Impact

During Windblume festival, Diluc ends up hosting in an event in a venue that’s suitably decorated. Unfortunately, he just happens to be allergic to the flowers.

(This might be the most self-indulgent allergy fic I’ve ever written, haha. DIluc snzfic + pollen allergies + company from someone... unexpected.)

—

It starts as a miscommunication.

It’s harmless enough. Donna, whom Diluc vaguely remembers seeing outside of the flower shop just adjacent to Angels Share, makes an arrangement with Charles to decorate the Dawn Winery. An act of gratitude, or something along those lines—just in time for Windblume Festival.

At least, that’s how Charles tells him about it, just as Diluc is about to leave from his shift the night before the party.

“Decorations?” he asks. “I see. I will have to give her my thanks. Did she speak to Adelinde about it?”

Charles ponders this, taking his place behind the counter. “I’m not sure,” he says. “She says she hopes it’s to your liking, though.”

It’s all Diluc can do to nod. Decorations for Windblume usually mean one thing, but there’s a reason why the tavern is scarcely decorated, and it’s not that he doesn’t have the means to decorate. The tavern’s current undecorated state—with the exception of pressed-dry flowers or flowerless vines strung around the second floor railings—is meant to accommodate… well.

He doubt Donna knows, because he’s never had a reason to bring it up in conversation. As far as truths go, it’s somewhat embarrassing. For now, he can only hope that her act of kindness isn’t as extensive as he thinks.

— 

It’s an oversight, for sure, but it’s not until he steps foot into the main hall of the winery, two hours before the event’s inception that he realizes the extent of it.

The winery is crowded with flowers. There are snapdragons and cecilias strung up around the balconies, windwheel asters in neatly arranged bouquets on every available table, dandelions and wolfhooks cresting the fireplace. Vines of ivy and windwheel aster blossoms are woven around the staircase railings.

Instinctively, he raises a hand to cover his nose and mouth, as if to shield himself from it all. There’s a telltale itch already settling in his nose.

It’s a beautiful sight. But Diluc is very, very allergic.

He flings every window open—surely the air from outside must be an improvement—and bolts out of the building as soon as he can. Just from a few minutes of occupying the winery, he’s already congested, and his eyes are brimming with allergic tears.

The event—a celebration of the anniversary of the Dawn Winery’s founding, that happens to align closely with Windblume every year—is going to last for five hours. Moreover, there will be esteemed guests present, with which he’ll have to discuss business matters, which means that he has to be present.

Diluc shuts his eyes. Seasonal allergies are not anything that will cause him lasting harm, he’s sure… except, perhaps, to his professionalism. The winery has been in a financially good place these past few years, which means there’s barely any pressure on him to prove his own competence. His presence is more for show than for anything else. This should be fine. A five hour celebration, and then he’ll be out of here. He can ask the maids to deal with taking down the decorations later.

—

He arrives early, stands as far from the floral decorations as he can—it’s difficult; they’re everywhere—to make sure everything is in place. Despite his efforts, the winery is practically a flower garden, thanks to Donna’s well-intentioned arrangements. It’s not long before he’s sniffling again.

His eyes are starting to water, too. He wipes them gingerly on the cuff of his sleeve, sniffles, and nods his acknowledgement to the guests that are starting to file in.

“Sir Ragnvindr,” someone he recognizes as a business associate says to him, holding a flute of champagne. “How are you on this fine evening?”

How does he look? Diluc sniffles again. “I’m well,” he says, rather curtly.

“Mondstadt’s Windblume Festival is certainly a sight,” the associate is saying. “I’m glad I stopped by town at such an opportune moment.”

Diluc can’t think of anything he’d want to do less, right now, than entertain someone’s small talk. “It is one of Mondstadt’s most… hiIh!— most esteemed annual traditions… hiih-!” Damn it. Not now.

The itch in his nose is back. Luckily, the associate either doesn’t notice his predicament or doesn’t find it worth commenting on.

“Is that so? Tell me more about it.”

Diluc sniffles again. Anything to keep his nose from openly running. “I’m... sure… hiIIH-!” Barbatos, he needs to sneeze. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. “...There are many people here more qualified to recount Mondstadt’s hiIhh-!… history… snf!… than I am.”

The associate raises an eyebrow, cocking his head. “Have you not lived here all your life? The previous owner of the Winery was Crepus Ragnvindr. I was under the impression that he was—”

“My father,” Diluc confirms, before he’s ducking away to stifle a sneeze, almost perfectly contained, into his wrist.

“hiIH’NGxt!” He gasps, sniffling, and presses his wrist closer to his face for the second. “hh…. hiiIH’NDGxt!”

It’s two sneezes, but they’re barely relieving. He raises his head, blinking. “Excuse me. Your assumptions are correct, though I…” he makes the mistake of rubbing his nose—something about the gesture just makes him need to sneeze. “hiIH… it’s been awhile since I’ve, snf, had the chance to properly celebrate, and longer still since… hIIh-!... since I’ve heard the history.”

“That’s strange,” the associate says. “You have lived in Mondstadt your whole life, yet you don’t know it’s history? Then again, I heard that you left for a few years, so maybe you feel no attachment to it.” It’s a thinly-veiled insult, but Diluc is too distracted to address it. He wants nothing more than to sneeze freely, but he’s sure that it would be loud, and it’d draw more attention than he wants right now. For now, he settles for raising a hand to—

“hiIH’DGXxt!” God, his eyes are watering, and the sneeze—though stifled—is forceful enough to jerk him forward, his shoulders shuddering.

The associate cringes. “It is a shame that you are spending the festival unwell.”

“I’m fine,” Diluc says, “Just… snf, just… hih!… HIih’GGKXt-shiu! ngh...” He needs to get out of here. Stifling offers virtually no relief at all, and he’s not going to stop sneezing anytime soon, from the looks of it.

He sighs, rubs his nose on the back of his hand, tells himself he can handle a few extra decorations. “Sorry. Did you, snf, have business matters to discuss?”

The associate’s expression hardens. “As you know, we have been ordering from the winery for a couple months now. I regret to inform you that there have been a few—”

Diluc blinks quickly. He can already feel his breath wavering—the start of another long, embarrassingly desperate buildup, probably.

“—troublesome incidents, specifically regarding the delivery of the wine. The delivery vehicles have been delayed on a handful of occasions—”

“hiIH! snf… hIIiih…”

His nose is tickling with such ferocity it’s almost torturous. He needs to get outside. His allergies are tolerable out in town in the open air, as long as he walks quickly enough and avoids all of the more festive installments. But here, in an enclosed space so thoroughly decorated, in a living room with mediocre circulation at best, surrounded by more flowers than he’s ever seen in his life…

“—just last week, the delivery cart was stopped by an assembly of hilichurl archers that destroyed nearly half the stock. Three weeks before that, the carriage caught the notice of one of Liyue’s Ruin Guards. I expect you are aware of these incidents?”

Diluc clears his throat. “I am. An excess of wine was sent back—hiiH! … in both cases, snf!- as soon as word of these setbacks… hIIH... reached the winery, snf.” The congestion is starting to settle in his voice, dulling his consonants. “You yourself… HIIh-! verified that the shipments m-made… hIIH-! it back to you… HIIIh!”

Sevens above. He doesn’t want to sneeze again, in front of someone who’s looking at him with a combination of disgust and condescension. But he knows, by now, that the most he can do is delay the inevitable.

“Ah,” the man waves a hand dismissively. “We did get the wine eventually. But it was still delayed, you see. Quite—”

—Diluc gasps sharply. “HIIIih-!”

“—an unprofessional experience, to say the least.”

His shoulders tense, as he jerks forward again, catching a barely restrained sneeze between the pinch of his fingers. “hihH'GXNt...! snf, hIIH… HIIH’NGDTtsh!” His body shudders with the release; he can feel the pressure of the sneeze settle behind his eyes, along with a dull ache—he’s going to give himself a headache if he keeps this up. “hiih-!... hiihHH…” This would be less humiliating if he could just sneeze and be done with it. Instead he finds himself caught in buildups that go nowhere, with a tickle in his nose that refuses to abate. “HIIIH… hIH’GZSchhh! snf… hhH-!”

Barely a breath in, his breath is already hitching again. He ducks into his sleeve, cringing, just in time for—

“hh… hiiH!... hh... HIIH’GXnT—shEw!!” The failed attempt at stifling is strangely relieving, all things considered, and he exhales shakily, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Sir Ragnvindr,” The associate says pointedly. “I’m sure you can see where the problem lies. Delays are not exactly conducive to business.”

Diluc bites back an irritated retort. Delivery to Liyue from Mondstadt is bound to have its complications, given the concentration of enemies outside of the two cities; he’s sure this associate is aware of that, too. He has no control over whether the deliveries get interrupted, and he’s pretty sure it’s the associate’s fault for not putting the orders in in advance.

“What… snf… would you suggest, then?”

The associate smiles. “Given our longstanding role as customers, I believe monetary compensation would only be fair.”

Diluc sighs, scrubs at his eyes with one hand. “You can bring it up with Elzer. He is usually the one to handle these sorts of things,” Diluc says. “In the future, though, to save both of us the trouble, it would be best if you would... snf!... take care to place your orders in advance.”

The man stares back at him, his lip curling. “I beg your pardon?”

“The roads between here and Liyue are dangerous. I cannot always guarantee a safe delivery,” The tickle in his nose is back, relentless. If he’s going to sneeze again, the last thing he wants is to do it in front of this associate. Instead, he turns on his heels, sniffling. “Excuse me.”

He just about bolts from the room, past the floral decorations and up the staircase. The second floor is darker, lit only by the ceiling chandelier. He all but slumps against the wall. His nose is still itching, and he raises a gloved hand as his vision goes watery and indistinct—

“hiIIH’IISCH’iiuu! Hh… hDDt’TTZCSh’u!”

He doesn’t have time to wonder if anyone’s heard. Suddenly he’s gasping again, fumbling for a handkerchief, pulling up one sleeve so he can wipe his nose on the back of his wrist when he doesn’t find one. “Hiih… hiIIIH… snf-!”

The tickle falters just as suddenly, leaving him on the precipice of a sneeze, suspended in ticklish wait. He rubs his nose again, in hopes that the pressure on the bridge of his nose will be just irritating enough to coax out a sneeze, but...

It leaves him panting, his eyes still shut as he stands there, his breath still shaky with anticipation.

“hiIIH…! snf…” Nothing, still. “HIIIh...”

He rubs his nose again, hard, on the back of his wrist. Maybe if he could just sneeze—give his body relief in the fit it so clearly wants—it will solve his predicament for the next fifteen minutes, at least.

He just has to find somewhere quiet.

He rounds the corner on the second floor, stumbles through the door at the end of the hall out onto the balcony. The fresh air is immediately relieving, and he sucks in a long breath, leaning forward on the balcony railing. With the exception of some of the Dawn Winery staff, no one’s outside, and he doubts any of the guests will have reasons to spend enough time on the second floor to find the door that leads here. He figures it’s as good a place as he’ll find, for the time being.

The itch in his nose still burns, almost intense enough to make him shiver. Cecilias are wound around one of the balcony’s wooden rungs—he wonders, momentarily, if it’d be worth it to—

The door behind him swings open. He startles.

“Oh,” someone says from behind him. “...sir Diluc.”

It’s Rosaria, from the church. He doesn’t know much about her—he can probably count the number of words they’ve exchanged on one hand. She’s at the Angel’s Share every Thursday with Kaeya, downing drinks faster he thinks could possibly be healthy—though she must know her limits, given that she never seems to get as drunk as some of the knights do. Now, she eyes him warily.

There’s a windwheel aster clipped to the lapel of her shirt.

“Didn’t expect you to see you here,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, the most important person here?”

“Something like that,” he says.

“Then I suspect there’s a reason why you’re hiding out here.”

He doesn’t answer. How can he? “Ah, well, it’s fine,” she says, sounding unbothered. “Whatever reason you have, it doesn’t really matter to me. Hope you don’t mind if I smoke.”

He sniffles, turning away to wipe his nose on his wrist. “I… don’t.”

“Okay. I figured you’d be happier if I did it outside, anyways.” She steps into place next to him, digs through her pockets for a cigarette. “Think you could light it?”

He lowers his hand and turns to face her. Before he has a chance to light it, though, something about the proximity of the flower on her shirt is just enough to set him off — the next breath he takes leaves him gasping, his eyes watering immediately as he ducks violently into his elbow.

“hiIH… nGKTt!”

He’s not even close to done. “hiIH… hiiihH…. HH-!! snf-! hHiih’NDGXtT!”

“Bless you,” she says. “Are you sick?”

“Your… shirt…” is all he manages to gasp out, before he’s pressing his elbow tighter to his face, muffling another sneeze into the fabric of his sleeve—

“hiIH’IIIGXTtt… HIIiH-! Hiih… HIIH’IISsch’iu! Excuse me... HIih’GGKXt!!...”

“Oh,” she says, sounding like he’s just let him in on a secret. “You’re allergic.”

“Unfortunately,” he admits, feeling his face grow hot.

“You should’ve said.” She unclips the windwheel aster from her shirt, gives it half a look, and flicks it over the edge of the balcony.

“Wait,” Diluc says, his eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t mean to… hiIIh-! snf... imply you should get rid of it.”

Rosaria smiles unreadably. “I wasn’t wearing it by choice. A friend coerced me to. Is it just windwheel asters that set you off?”

“It’s… hiiiiH… it’s just about everything… hiIH’ITTSChh! hiIH… NGKTT-shiiu!” It’s getting harder and harder to stifle, but it’s already embarrassing enough to sneeze in front of her in the first place.

“Everything, huh? Sounds awfully inconvenient.”

He lights her cigarette with his vision. “Thanks,” she says, and immediately pulls it in to take an appreciative drag. “Kind of suffocating to be inside with so many businessmen for so long, if you ask me.”

He sniffles harder, rubbing his nose on the cup of his sleeve.“I… snf…! I’m not going to be stopping anytime soon. You should probably… hiih... find somewhere else to smoke… hiiH... hiih’GKTT-!”  

“You know,” Rosaria says, after a beat. “You’d be done sneezing sooner if you didn’t hold them back like that.”

If Diluc wasn’t blushing before, he’s sure he must be blushing now. It’s embarrassing to hear her address his sneezing in such a straightforward manner—he’s starting to see why she gets on so well with Kaeya.

“I’m fine, thanks… hiih… hiiH’NGXT’Sshh! HIIH’GKTT-! ugh...” Maybe she has a point—the stifling is starting to make his head hurt, and he hunches forward, still sniffling, to lean more heavily on the railing.

She shrugs. “Okay. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t mind. Why’d you decorate the winery like that, anyway? It seems awfully… masochistic.”

“A misunderstanding. Donna’s doing, though… hiiiH!... it would have been ungrateful if I had taken the decorations down... hiiih... hiIH’GkkT!!” — caught neatly in the palm of his hand. “hIih… hiIIH… nGSSCHh! snf…”

“Sevens, Diluc. Drop the formalities and let yourself sneeze. I’m getting a headache just listening to you.”

He frowns, lifts his hand from his face, only to clamp it back on when he realizes what a mess he’s made out of himself, his skin prickling with embarrassment. “If you’re certain...”

She scoffs, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Trust me. I couldn’t care less.” Usually, smoke doesn’t bother him—his pyro vision would be significantly more inconvenient if it did—but now, with his nose so sensitive, it’s exactly the last push he needs to send him over the edge.

“hIIH.. HIIH…” He blinks through teary eyes, his grip tightening against the railing. “HiiH… iHH'GZCHh-iiu! Hihh… hhD’TTschH’iu! snf.. hiIH... HIHH'iischHiew!”

The relief from letting himself sneeze is immediate and almost dizzying. He gasps again, taking a step back from the balcony. The next sneeze snaps him forward at the waist.

“hiIH’ISCHhiuu! hiIih… GKKTT-’SHiuu!” Rosaria disappears back into the manor, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her leave, but he’s too out of it to properly react. “Hiih… hiIh… HIIH’ISCCHh’yuu!” He sniffles against his wrist, his shoulders just about slumping with the relief, before they’re tensing again just a few seconds later. “hiih… hiiih.. hiiIH’NGTTT-SHIu! Hiih… HiiH’IIIISCCHh’iuu!”

He groans, sniffling, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands—it seems like an appealing enough option, if not for the fact that he’s been covering with one of them. The door behind him opens again.

“Thought you might need this,” Rosaria says, and hands him a handkerchief. He takes it gratefully. It’s only after he’s blown his nose into it—quietly—that he trusts himself to speak.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll find a time to give it back when it’s clean... snf.”

She blinks at him, her eyebrows furrowing as she looks him over. “Geez, you look awful. I’ll ask Kaeya to stop by later so he and I can take down the decorations for you.”

It’s surprisingly sweet. “You don’t have to,” Diluc says, wincing at the congestion in his voice. “I can get it... dealt with… hiih’IISSSH’iuu!”

“Your maids can, you mean. Still, it will be faster if we help out... your bedroom’s on the second floor, isn’t it?”

When he nods, she shrugs, leaning back casually against the doorframe. “Even more reason to get it cleaned up faster, then. Would it kill you to accept some help for once in your life?”

Diluc sniffles, folding the handkerchief neatly. “I suppose not. I... appreciate it, then.”

She smiles at him. “It’s the least I can do. I’ve been leeching off your free alcohol this whole afternoon, so we can call it even.”

[jimhines]

2021 Writing Income

Welcome to my 14th annual blog post about writing income. I've been doing this partly to dispel the myth that writers are swimming in cash like Scrooge McDuck in his money bin, and partly as a data point to help newer writers get a slightly more realistic (I hope) idea what they might be in for.

Keep in mind that I'm just one data point, and no writer's career is exactly the same as any other's. But one datum is better than none, right?

Prior Years: Here are the annual write-ups going back to 2007: 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020.

In 2016, instead of a personal income write-up, I did a survey of almost 400 novelists about their income.

My Background: I’m a primarily “traditionally published,” U.S.-based SF/F author with 14 books in print from major New York publishers. The first of those books came out from DAW in 2006, and I've averaged more or less a book a year since then. (The past few years are an exception. I'll talk about that later.) I have an agent, and have been with them since about 2004.

I've self-published a middle grade fantasy and a few short collections. I’ve also sold about 50 short stories to different magazines and anthologies.

I’ve never hit the NYT or USA Today bestseller lists, but my last five books have been lead titles for my publisher.

I'm currently a solo parent of a teenager (at home) and a 21-year-old (away at college). I work a half-time day job, partly for the paycheck, but mostly for the benefits. I would love to say I write every single day, but sometimes life has other plans.

2021 in Summary: I'm going to focus on the writing here, because otherwise I'll spend the next 5000 words griping. I mean, come on -- we didn't even get Betty White celebrating her 100th birthday? F***ing 2021.

Okay, writing stuff. Right...

This was another slow year in terms of publication. Terminal Peace had been delayed already because of my family's medical crisis throughout 2019. I got the book turned in back in September of 2020, but thanks to COVID and some business issues my publisher was dealing with, it won't be published until August 2022. I think the only publication I had last year was a reprint of "Gift of the Kites" in Arcana.

I did, however, write a new middle grade novel my agent is shopping around, and I got about 90% of another book rewritten. That will hopefully be ready to go on submission within another month or two.

We also sold Russian rights to Tamora Carter: Goblin Queen, which was a lovely surprise.

So while I produced almost two books, 2021 was a year with no original Jim C. Hines publications, which is a bit frustrating and discouraging. It also makes the income numbers more interesting, at least to me.

2021 Income: The biggest check came from the Delivery/Acceptance payment for Terminal Peace. While I delivered that manuscript in September 2020, the payment didn't make its way through the system and get to me until 2021. I'm kind of glad, because otherwise this year's numbers would be a lot more depressing.

Royalties from my audio publishers and my U.S. publisher made up the next most significant chunk.

In total, before taxes, I brought in $24,243.50 in writing income. That's down more than $7000 from last year, which isn't terribly surprising. It's still better than I did in 2019, aka The Year From Hell.

Continued at https://www.jimchines.com/2022/01/2021-writing-income/

[peralta-guaranteed]

Hey I absolutely love your account and if it’s not much of a bother can you write hcs or a fic where Amy was in Rosa’s place in the active shooter situation of season 5 episode 20 and how would Jake react and deal wit it. Thank you <3

Oh dang, that's such an interesting prompt and I'd love to write an actual fic about it at a later point, when I get a good coherent idea for it. That said my first ever B99 Fic kinda deals with a similar situation where Jake has to handle Amy being taken hostage while he's off duty... including my very first baby Mac writing (here it is)

Headcanon-wise this already got long:

- she only wanted to make a quick detour before their shift for some errands and to get a package he'd ordered and forgotten about, that had been sent to a pick-up place instead of their apartment, so they'd agreed to split up - she takes the car and comes in a bit later, Jake gets to work on the subway and comes in early because he has a big case waiting for him

- he actually gets stuck on the subway for about 30 minutes because of some delay and silently curses the fact that the one time in months where his girlfriend doesn't drive with him to work, he'll be late again and will never hear the end of it from anyone

- but once he does get in there's definitely no teasing as they're all already set around the radio, listening to the active shooter situation that he realises was the reason for his subway delay (he'll later scold himself for not getting out and checking what the situation was, because then he would've been there with her)

- he also realises, after Holt gives him some info, that the situation is right down the block from the pick-up place - seconds before the radio crackles on with Amy's voice, giving her last name and badge number

- he's pretty sure he can feel every single set of eyes in the precinct zoom in on him in that moment, not that it matters because he doesn't notice anything anymore except for the ice-cold rush down his back and his heart racing and yeah that's probably a small panic attack

- Rosa is surprisingly the one who gets him away from it all and into the breakroom, pushing him into the sofa and breathing with him until he can actually get air on his own, and telling him that things will be okay and that Amy can handle herself and would never do anything too rash, but he knows her 'comforting lie' voice after all their years working together

- he obviously immediately makes plans to go downtown and help her, and unlike with Rosa's situation a stern talking-to from Holt is not enough to stop him. Terry has to physically lift him and carry him back to the breakroom twice as he tries to go for the gun storage / supply room / idk what it's called basically where he wants to stock up before heading out

- they all split their time between listening to the radio updates and checking in on him / sitting with him to keep him calm, trying to distract him with other topics but barely any of it works (Holt comes closest simply by the fact that he doesn't try to divert his attention, but rather acknowledges his fears and talks him through it with the direct, almost brash way he has)

- but then the radio reports shots fired and several officers down/injured and Terry has to lift him away a third time and needs to hold him for quite a while until he stops trying to wiggle free

- Amy comes in about half an hour later, her arm bandaged up - she didn't get shot but injured herself in a fall while trying to help carry out a wounded officer

- not that she can really explain because she's caught in a deathgrip-hug by Jake as soon as she steps out of the elevator and while everyone else definitely wants to swarm on her as well, they respectfully keep their distance as Jake shivers in her arms

- after making sure she's absolutely okay and letting everyone hug her once, Holt sends them both home for the day (and strongly considers asking Rosa or Terry to drive them but Amy assures him she can do it)

- they kind of act like nothing big has happened once they're home, mostly started by Amy who is busy getting her purse in order and walking to the kitchen for the delivery menus and chatting and trying to forget what happened or could have happened, but Jake is back to koala-hugging her as soon as she stands still enough

- "Sorry I couldn't get your package" she tries to joke and that's weirdly when the dam breaks and they both start crying from the tension and fear and built-up emotions while hugging each other

- the rest of the day is spent on the couch / in bed, switching between holding each other close to their chest and talking it through, with an extra big order from the Polish place and lots of soft kisses and whispered reassurances

[cafedanslanuit]

day three   —   death

pairing: jumin x mc

words: 1.1k

a/n: i may or may have not cried while writing this. i think most people don’t understand how serious and traumatizing it can be grieving for a pet, especially when you considered them family. but somehow i think jumin could understand. and i try to explore that in here.

in loving memory of camila (2014-2017)

You’ve never seen him so broken.

He hasn’t shed a tear since you left the vet’s office, carrying the white little body wrapped in a blanket -her favourite blanket- to the way to the car. Your whole body trembles as you cry and he puts an arm around your shoulders, trying to comfort you. Somehow, it makes you feel worse. You should be the one comforting him. After all, she was the closest thing to a child he’s ever had and now all that’s left is a limp body of what used to be Elizabeth the 3rd.

None of you say anything until you reach the penthouse. You mention about burying her in the rooftop garden and Jumin nods silently, reaching out to take his phone out of his pocket. You stop him in his tracks and shake your head, explaining you have you do this. Together. He just looks at you, eyes empty of emotion and nods once more.

Jumin keeps finding white hairs all over the apartment. You call the cleaning service and cancel it for the rest of the week. The next few days, Jumin and you start collecting all of the fur Elizabeth left behind and put them in a small wooden box. You notice him burying his fingers in the box, feeling the texture between his digits with a dazed look.

He thinks that if he gathers enough white hairs he can build the cat back.

A part of you thinks so too.

You make sure Elizabeth’s new home always has fresh flowers. Every time you go to the rooftop, you ask Jumin if he wants to go with you. He refuses, claiming he has work to do. His tone is soft, caring, almost as if nothing is bothering him. As if he isn’t hurting. As if his grief wasn’t as big as yours. After a small smile, he turns his eyes to the paperwork in front of him again. You wait a moment for him to change his mind but he doesn't. You ask if he needs more time but he keeps working, as if he hadn't listened to you. It doesn't take long for you leave.

Jumin turns into a ghost. The man you loved and married isn't there anymore. The void in his eyes never fully goes away, not even when he shares dinner with you. He nods in the right moments and never interrupts your story, but you notice he isn’t really there.

He hasn’t been for a while.

You see him burying himself in work again.

One afternoon, you receive a worried phone call from Jaehee, about Jumin raising his voice to one of the employees. In all the years she had worked under him, she had never seen him lose composure, but now there was a secretary silently sobbing on her desk. You thank her for the call and promise to talk to him. You end up breaking your promise, after falling asleep when it was one in the morning and Jumin still isn’t home. When you wake up, there’s a lingering warmth on his side of the bed, but your husband has left the penthouse once more.

One night, you mention him about doing a free vaccination campaign for cats in a poor neighbourhood. You tell him the campaign can have Elizabeth’s name and that you’ve spent the last week working on the project proposal and maybe he should take a good. It would be a good way to honor her memory, you say. He nods mind-absently and asks you to put it on the kitchen counter so he can have a look later.

Two weeks later, you clean the fine dust layer on the folder and decide to bring it up on another occasion. 

Jaehee looks at you worriedly as you stir the coffee in front of you. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ you tell her, a knot forming in your throat. ‘I don’t know how to help him’. Your friend looks at you and squeezes your hand in comfort. She knows there isn’t a lot she can say and so do you. You take another sip of your drink and ask her about Zen’s play again.

It’s been months since you’ve seen Jumin sitting in the living room when you get home. He’s usually still at the company or locked down in his home office but now he’s looking at the night’s sky, his back to you in profound silence. You close the door behind you softly and take off your high heels, walking to your husband slowly. Just when you’re about to reach him, you see his shoulder shaking, his head looking down and the unmistakable sound of a sob. You lighten your steps and kneel on the sofa next to him, your hand on his back while asking him what’s wrong.

You look down and see a tiny pink collar on his hands, the ripped bag lying on the floor. A delayed delivery.

“She’s gone,” he whimpers, his face flushed and filled with tears. There’s so much strain in his features, his veins a little more visible and his eyes red, letting you know how long he had been crying. Matching tears fall silently across your cheeks, and you gently turn him your way, embracing him with a hug. It takes him a couple of seconds, but then he circles your waist with his arms tightly, crying on your chest loudly.

You stroke his back with soothing motions with one hand, while the other caresses his dark locks. And even though he’s breaking, your heart finds peace in the midst of your husband’s grief: he’s finally back.

 “When does it stop hurting?” he asks hours later, his voice hoarse and broken.

“It doesn’t,” you reply softly. He looks up to you confused and you take the chance to wipe the tears off his face. “But we learn to live with it until one day her memory brings us a smile rather than tears.”

Jumin nods and buries his face on your chest again. He doesn’t cry again but he doesn’t let you go either. You keep on caressing his back and hair in silence.

 Later that night, he finally follows you to the rooftop and sits down in front of Elizabeth’s grave as you change the flowers. You tell him a sweet story about her and he replies with another one. In between tears and weak laughs, stories come and go until the sun starts rising again. He makes sure to let Jaehee know he’s not coming to the office today before he crawls into bed with you. You receive him with open arms and he falls asleep almost immediately after he rests his head on your chest.

Jumin comes back the night he realizes she’s not coming back.

But it was also the night she was born again in his memory.

[janetbrown711]

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," wakko?

Wakko never thought of himself as a worrier. He always held out hope that somehow, someway everything would work out- that Good would prevail and Evil would fall. He believed with all his heart it was his and his sibling’s destiny to defeat Salazar. He knew Dot was going to get better, and that Yakko would finally be able to relax for more than just five minutes. 

However... being on his own for the first time challenged that. 

He had taken the baker’s advice and went straight to the apprenticeship with the blacksmith. It had been excruciatingly difficult, and Wakko put a lot of blood sweat, and tears into the work he did. He had been revolted to find out that he was only paid a ha’penny a week. Sending letters had cost at least three ha’pennies so by the end of week one, he had had to get crafty. 

He ‘borrowed’ paper from the blacksmith and wrote as neat and concise as he could manage before putting in the one ha’penny and the letter in an envelope (also ‘borrowed’ from the blacksmith) and snuck it into the mailman’s bag when he wasn’t looking. As for how he got food, he would take a piece of fruit or bread from the man when he wasn’t looking. 

It wasn’t easy to do though, the blacksmith was a good person; he was stoic and old, hardly ever talked, except the occasional warning to Wakko that he shouldn’t touch or eat something, despite how delicious it looked. He was patient, though at the same time very distant. It was hard for Wakko to read him. 

However, Wakko had gotten too comfortable too fast, as he had gotten caught stealing the blacksmith’s food and he fired him, said it was “a betrayal of his trust”. His words had stung Wakko, and he left without fighting, but not without taking a few pieces of paper and envelopes- Yakko and Dot would kill him if he didn’t write. 

The letters. 

Wakko thought he would love writing them, but it got harder and harder the more time passed. Wakko embellished how he was doing a lot, but he could tell Yakko wasn’t being entirely honest either. His words were fancy and he tended to dance around questions Wakko had asked. Wakko wished he had the energy and paper to argue with him, but he didn’t. He hated being lied to, but they quite literally couldn’t afford to bring it up. 

After he got fired, he wandered and worked as an errand boy for a senile, but wealthy woman. He didn’t like it though- she was rude and she constantly spat on him, or hit him with her cane, which left him with nasty bruises. 

He was almost thankful when she dropped dead one day. 

He stole as much silverware, stamps, papers, and envelopes as he could fit into his hat before he alerted anyone of what had happened. 

Still- seeing a corpse hadn’t been... pleasant. 

It reminded him that, yes, death was a thing and was inescapable and could happen to his little sister at any moment while he was gone. 

Needless to say, he did his best not to dwell on that, and sold all of the silverware as soon as possible and gave almost all the money to Yakko in the letter he wrote. 

That should help delay Death for a while... hopefully, Yakko could buy her a new blanket, or a shawl. She always got so cold in the winter with just her skirt. 

Wakko then went to work as a berry picker at the farm of an old cat couple with a few other children his age, though none of them liked talking. However, he only worked there for the month of May because he had gotten fired once they found out he had been eating more berries than he turned in. Wakko was hungry, and the farmers didn’t pay him enough for him to afford enough food anyway, Wakko thought that was bull. 

However, he quickly regretted that decision when he had gotten a letter from Yakko that admitted that Dot was going through another rough patch. His brother wrote that he and Dot missed him a whole awful lot, but that they weren’t giving up yet. At least that was nice... 

Still, Wakko couldn’t help but feel guilty. His selfishness had gotten him fired from two jobs, and because of that, his siblings were suffering. Sometimes he wished he could just magically fix everything with the snap of his fingers, but he knew that wasn't how it worked. If it was, he would’ve done it already. 

After that, he was determined to find a job that would stick. Unfortunately, that was only getting more difficult, as the town that had once been not quite prospering still functioning well enough was starting to fall apart due to the King’s taxes only rising. The only good thing that came out of that was that prices were starting to lower which meant that if he could find a spare coin on the ground, he could probably actually afford something. However, that also meant jobs were going down, and so it was damned near impossible to find something to do. 

Wakko had spent a whole month without a job. He lived on the street and picked up fallen coins and didn’t write- couldn’t write- a single letter. The last one he had sent had been about the farm, and he had lied and told Yakko it had burned down so he couldn't write to there anymore. Wakko could imagine how worried Dot and Yakko must’ve been. The thought of their worry kept him up at night. 

Still. 

A little voice in his head told him not to give up, that he come to far to call it quits now. He promised he’d return in a year, and that’s what he’d do. 

“Bravery is not the absence of fear, it’s doing something in spite of it.” 

Wakko had a vague memory of someone telling him that a very long time ago, but he couldn’t recall who.

During the late summer, he had worked different jobs every day. Some days, he’d deliver packages for a fraction of what the king’s mail delivery costed, others he’d return library books, and on some, he’d shine shoes. It was exhausting to run around for days on an empty stomach, but somehow he managed to scrape on by with just enough money to send to Yakko and Dot and survive. 

Despite the feeling that summer would last forever, autumn arrived and it was the harvesting season. Wakko had heard that farms were in need of help, and he went off to go work at the pumpkin farm that was just a few miles out from town. Wakko had been delighted when he heard about the opportunity and had run seven miles to get there before anyone else. The farmer, a middle-aged Rabbit, had been pleased with his enthusiasm but warned him that he couldn’t pay much and that most of his payment would be in food and shelter, but Wakko didn’t care. He hated sleeping in alleys with a passion and swore never to do that again. Plus, he knew Yakko and Dot were probably pissed at him for not writing for several months, not giving him an address to write to, or anything. Plus, Wakko was not going to pass up on an opportunity for someone else to pay for his food. 

However, he had thought working on a farm during the spring was hard, autumn was much, much harder. The town where he worked somehow managed to get more snow than Acme Falls, and earlier, so he often had to wake up before the sun rose and attempt to “fight off the freeze” as the farmer called it. Wakko didn’t care what it was called, it was agonizing. He ended up with blisters and sore arms and had even cut himself on the ax he used to chop branches quite a few times. 

However, none of that mattered when he read the letters Yakko and Dot sent.  Wakko hadn’t realized just how much he had missed them until he saw their handwriting on the paper in his hand. 

Dot had apparently gone through another rough patch during the time Wakko couldn’t write but had gotten much better, even being able to go out of the ‘house’ and take walks by the river. Yakko wrote that Dot still missed him terribly, and was really mad that he hadn’t written in forever. Yakko then went on a tangent about how much it had worried him, but that he was still relieved and happy that Wakko was safe and okay.

Wakko’s reply had been full of apologies and embellished about his current situation (saying things like ‘i have an actual bed and it’s really comfortable’ and ‘the food is amazing’ and ‘i barely have to work at all’ and ‘I haven’t even hurt myself once!’). He didn’t want to worry Yakko any more than he already had. 

In truth, the farmer wasn’t a very nice person, though he was nice enough to provide shelter and food for Wakko and the few others that worked alongside him. However, he did get annoyed when Wakko injured himself, and didn’t provide bandages, so Wakko would have to make do by tearing up pieces of his pillowcase. Soon enough, he tore it all up and there was no more pillow, which hadn’t been fun for sleeping. He also shouted and swore a lot, but Wakko mostly tuned it out, having had good practice after the senile dead lady. 

Still, a job was a job, and Wakko wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world. He was able to keep up his promise with one ha’penny being sent home every two weeks, which Yakko noted was becoming “more and more useful in Acme Falls, as the economy was clearly in shambles”, whatever that meant.

Unfortunately, the harvest came to an end sooner than Wakko had hoped and he was back on the streets in the blink of an eye. He had a few survival strategies he had picked up from observing his older brother over the years, but surviving on the streets in the snow was a lot, a lot harder than surviving on the streets, not during the snow. 

And even more unfortunately, there were little to no jobs available anymore. The only ones that were available required him to walk far distances in the snow even during snowstorms. Of course, he took them, but they were grueling and made every muscle in his body ache. 

And so he resorted to his least favorite solution: stealing. 

Whenever he’d walk past the market, he’d snatch an apple or a loaf of bread if he could manage and hide it in his package until it was safe and he could eat it. He stole matches so he could start fires in the garbage. He stole books that belonged to the library for kindling for said fires. He felt insanely guilty every time, but no matter what way he looked at it, there was no other option. 

His main motivator had been survival. He knew he needed enough money for a ticket home in December, but knew that that’d be near impossible if he attempted to pay for his own things- especially with the taxes taking nearly all of the money he had earned with doing the jobs- and god only knew how guilty he had felt that he hadn’t been able to send any money home for Dot. Still... he figured coming home would be an at least okay replacement. 

He hoped. 

He wrote letters but didn’t give return addresses, fearing what Yakko would say again. He knew he must’ve been outraged that Wakko hadn’t written or sent money in awhile, and he prayed Dot was doing okay and that they didn’t need the money he wasn’t able to get. 

He didn’t have the heart to write about his worries about not being able to come home after all...

Wakko shivered as he thought of that, before snapping back into reality realizing where he was. He had an awful tendency of getting distracted while he was doing errands, it was a problem. 

Especially if he was trying to focus on nabbing some food. If he didn’t focus, he was likely to get caught. 

Shaking his head to get back to the present, he looked around and saw an empty stall selling some type of fruit he hadn’t seen before, but figured it’d be enough. He casually sauntered on over there, and began to walk past before snatching one with his tail and quickly putting it into the box of books he was returning to the library for an old dog man. 

“Hey! Kid!” Wakko froze when he heard a voice behind him. He peeked over his shoulder and saw it was the man who owned the booth. 

“Stop right there!” He shouted. Wakko bolted. 

He ran through the crowded market, but unfortunately for him, he slipped on some ice on the path and came crashing to the ground, books going flying everywhere, and his fruit was squashed to a pulp. 

“Hey-! Kid- are you alright?” The man’s anger faded into concern and Wakko muttered to himself and trying to gather his stuff, ignoring the throbbing in his head, and stinging in his-likely scraped- knee. Eventually, he heard the man approach him, but to his surprise, he started helping Wakko put the books back into the box. Wakko didn’t look at him much, but could feel the man giving him pitiful looks. 

“Look- I know what you’re gonna say and you’re wrong. I-i... I swear that I’m a good kid, okay?” Wakko sniffled as he put a blue-colored book down.

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” the man replied, handing Wakko a green book. Wakko took it hesitantly, still not willing to look him in the eyes. 

“I was going to offer you some more of that fruit you took, but you ran in such a hurry, I couldn’t get my words out,” He said. Wakko didn’t know if he believed that.  

“I-i just need enough money for my sister and a train ticket...” Wakko mumbled. The man nodded. 

“You got family?” He asked. Wakko nodded. 

“Sister and brother in Acme Falls,” he said. 

“That’s quite a ways away. I suppose you came here for work but that ain’t working out well, is it?” He asked. Wakko frowned and didn’t answer. He wasn’t liking his tone...

“Here, I’ll give you a bag of clementines if you’ll let me. I can even help you with those books if you need,” The man said, standing. 

“I can take care of myself,” Wakko scowled, but realized that was probably a really stupid thing to say. He was starving...

“B-but I’ll take the clementines...” Wakko added. The man nodded, and stood up, and headed back to his booth. Wakko did his best to ignore the looks the crowd was giving him as he followed. 

“Here you go, sixteen clementines. That should do you good for quite some time. Oh- and here,” The man dug under his booth and Wakko stood awkwardly with his tongue sticking out. 

“This should get you a train ticket, and hopefully enough left over for those siblings of yours,” he said, handing Wakko a little brown sack. Wakko gawked at it. 

“I-i can’t accept all this. I’m sure you need it,” Wakko refused. 

“Nonsense. I got all the clementines I could want. And besides, I don’t need to ride on a train to return to my family any time soon,” He waved it off. 

“B-but the king’s taxes-” 

“I know how to make due. I know you need the money, and if you know what’s good for you you’ll accept,” He pointed at Wakko, and Wakko realized he wasn’t wrong. He just wished he could do something for the man in return, but knew he couldn’t. 

“Th-thanks mister... it’s been a really long time since someone’s been this nice to me,” he looked at the ground. 

“No problem kiddo. Stay safe out there, winter is a dangerous time. Might want to bandage that knee of yours,” He pointed to Wakko’s bleeding knee. Wakko nodded. 

“Thanks, will do, mister,” he said, grabbing the sack of clementines, putting it in the box with the books, and put the little brown bag of money in his hat. He then waved goodbye and headed on to finish his task, get paid, them immediately lose said payment to taxes, but smiled internally. The tax collector didn’t know about the money in his hat, so he didn’t collect it.

It looked like Wakko was going to be able to come home after all. 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11