#inventory balance sheet

[petpooja]

Bar Inventory Reports That Help Control Your Liquor Costs

An ideal practice in bar stock management is to maintain inventory reports. These reports include your overall food costs, liquor cost, wastage percentage, & even your item-wise reports. The blog discusses why bars should manage their inventory reports and different types of bar inventory reports - inventory consumption reports, variance reports, wastage reports, end-of-day summary reports, discounted reports, item-wise tax reports, recipe costing cards, and perpetual inventory forms.

Click here for more : http://bit.ly/3Z4WJSL

[maturemindz]

Inventory Management & Account Software Free

[dailyadventureprompts]

The Mechanics of Baldur's Gate 3

As someone who's constantly tinkering with the mechanics of my favourite RPG, I LOVE a lot of what Larian has done with D&D; not only accurately translating the base system but improving upon in ways I never thought of.

Playing BG3 feels good, and I want to see how much of their work I can adapt for my own table. As such, here's a breakdown of a bunch of little tweaks they've made to 5e (taken from the bg3 wiki) and whether or not I think they're a good fit for regular pencil and paper d&d.

Shove is not a part of the attack action. It is a bonus action available to all characters. Shove only pushes the target back an amount that depends on the shover's strength and the target's weight. It normally does not knock them prone unless they are shoved off a high ledge.

This might be THE best design Larian implemented and is instantly going in my games. Bonus action shoving is such a natural addition to combat, gives so many more tactical options. My one protest is that I am NOT calculating the weight of every creature and object ( mainly because I'm terrible at guessing weights for things) so I'd go with the distance calculation based on the creature's size and con score.

Gaining inspiration based on backgrounds

Gee, a mechanical reward for roleplaying your character, one that's way more straight forward than the DM arbitrated "ideals, bonds, flaws," system. From now on I'm going to give each of my players an upfront " You gain inspiration when you ______" note on their character sheet based on their backgrounds.

The party is limited to two short rests per long rest. Short rests restore each ally's hit points by an amount equal to half their maximum HP (rounded down). There is no hit die rolling. Long rests require camp supplies, which are food items that must be looted or purchased. In towns you will be able to rest at an inn.

This is a mixed bag for me only because I like hitdie as a mechanical abstract and I don't want to see them removed. Tbh I wish more mechanics interacted with them and they were called something abstract like "stamina" or something. That said I ADORE the camp supplies idea because it not only gives you something minor to reward exploration with besides GP. On the otherhand tracking all those supplies without the game's inventory management would be tedious as hell so it'd need to be highly simplified.

I especially like the idea of limited short rests/supplies in larger survival based adventures where time isn't at a premium like it is inside a dungeon.

If you hide while not in a creature's sight cone, you automatically succeed. If you try to hide while in a creature's sight cone, you automatically fail. If you are hidden and enter a creature's sight cone, you must roll stealth against the creature's passive perception. This may be a straight roll, advantage, or disadvantage, based on the creature's senses and the level of lighting. Some creatures with different senses such as blindsight may follow different rules

Congrats on fixing stealth rolls Larian. No notes.

LOTS more opinions under the cut.

When a creature is at least 10 ft above their target and makes a ranged attack, they receive a +2 bonus to the attack roll due to high ground. When a creature is at least 10 ft below their target and makes a ranged attack, they receive a -2 penalty to the attack roll due to low ground.

This is fine, and quite inline with a lot of fixes I've seen for flanking rules. I'm fine with a little extra battlefield math in order to make moments of advantage (spending inspiration, reckless attacking etc) shine.

The game does not stop a character from casting a leveled spell with both an action and a bonus action

Mixed on this, on one hand I've played enough clerics to know how much it sucks to have to use your bonus action to do a necessary spell and then be stuck with a so-so cantrip or melee attack for standard. On the other hand there's some design balance issues at play here.

Help is an Action. This ability allows characters to aid an ally in combat and remove negative Conditions. Using the help action on a downed ally brings them back to 1 hit point and leaves them prone.

Love the idea of help doing multiple things AND being a solution to minor status conditions. and giving everyone the ability to help means I can be a lot more aggressive when it comes to knocking character to 0. if I had to further patch this, I'd say that this also allows for a medicine check to allow a creature to spend a hitdie when they're downed, or allows the helping character to make a "SNAP OUT OF IT, WE'RE YOUR FRIENDS" charisma roll for charmed allies.

Jumping is a bonus action which consumes 10 ft of movement speed. With a Strength score of 10 or below, a creature can jump 15 ft, and this increases by 5 ft for every two points in strength above 10. At 20 Str a creature may spend 10 ft of movement speed and a bonus action to jump, and can travel 35 ft effectively increasing the creature's movement speed by up to 25 feet.

This, combined with the prone rules (see below) is JUICY, as it allows for risk-reward battlefield mobility . That said I'd add some caveats/clarifications: The jump always succeeds in moving you, but if you're taking damage, jumping up or down more than 10ft, or into rough terrain you need to make an acrobatics check not to beef it and fall prone (ending your turn). Your jump is likewise a buffer for how far you can willingly fall before taking damage, but if you fall after your jump, you always land prone.

Weapon actions, 'nough said.

It's more complexity than I'd give to first time players but HOT DAMN if it isn't a great idea to give the martial characters some options instead of just making the same attacks over and over again. I've actually been sockpiling 3rd party versions of this for a while now and I can't wait to add them in.

All The conditions are great:

Blinded: In addition to the other effects, ranged attacks are limited to 15 ft range. Blinded creatures can also make opportunity attacks.

Frightened: Creatures which are frightened are unable to move at all (rather than being unable to move toward the source of their fear), unless the effect instead makes them "fearful" which gives them the frightened effect as well as making them flee.

Prone: Being prone gives disadvantage on Strength and Dexteritysaving throws, attacks against a prone creature have advantage out to a range of 10 ft rather than 5 ft, and ranged attacks against a prone creature do not have disadvantage. Your character cannot do anything while prone. Starting the turn while prone will cause you to automatically use half your movement to stand up. Becoming prone during your turn automatically ends your turn.

Wet: This is a new condition that prevents the character from burning (e.g. from Searing Smite) and grants resistance to fire damage, but also makes the creature vulnerable to lightning and cold damage

[imsobadatnicknames2]

What's OSR? I've seen you mention it several times in your RPG posts. Is it like a genre of rpg or...?

Hey, sorry I took so long to reply to this lol you probably already just googled it by now.

But like. Anyway.

OSR (Old-School Revival, Old-School Renaissance, and more uncommonly Old-School Rules or Old-School Revolution, no one can really agree on what the R means) is less like a genre and more like a movement or a loosely connected community that seeks to capture the tone, feel and/or playstyle of 70's and 80's fantasy roleplaying games (with a particular emphasis on old-school editions of Dungeons and Dragons, particularly the Basic D&D line but pretty much anything before 3e falls under this umbrella), or at least an idealized version of what people remember those games felt like to play.

There isn't exactly a consensus on what makes a game OSR but here's my personal list of things that I find to be common motifs in OSR game design and GM philosophy. Not every game in the movement features all of these things, but must certainly feature a few of them.

Rulings over rules: most OSR games lack mechanically codified rules for a lot of the actions that in modern D&D (and games influenced by it) would be covered by a skill system. Rather that try to have rules applicable for every situation, these games often have somewhat barebones rules, with the expectation that when a player tries to do something not covered by them the GM will have to make a ruling about it or negotiate a dice roll that feels fair (a common resolution system for this type of situation is d20 roll-under vs a stat that feels relevant, a d6 roll with x-in-6 chance to succeed, or just adjudicating the outcome based on how the player describes their actions)

"The solution is not on your character sheet": Related to the point above, the lack of character skills means that very few problems can be solved by saying "I roll [skill]". E.g. Looking for traps in an OSR game will look less like "I rolled 18 on my perception check" and more like "I poke the flagstones ahead with a stick to check if they're pressure plates" with maybe the GM asking for a roll or a saving throw if you do end up triggering a trap.

High lethality: Characters are squishy, and generally die much more easily. But conversely, character creation is often very quick, so if your character dies you can usually be playing again in minutes as long as there's a decent chance to integrate your new PC into the game.

Lack of emphasis on encounter balance: It's not uncommon for the PCs to find themselves way out of their depth, with encounters where they're almost guaranteed to lose unless they run away or find a creative way to stack the deck in their favor.

Combat as a failure state: Due to the two points above, not every encounter is meant to be fought, as doing so is generally not worth the risk and likely to end up badly. Players a generally better off finding ways to circumvent encounters through sneaking around them, outsmarting them, or out-maneauvering them, fighting only when there's no other option or when they've taken steps to make sure the battle is fought on their terms (e.g. luring enemies into traps or environmental hazards, stuff like that)

Emphasis on inventory and items: As skills, class features and character builds are less significant than in modern D&D (or sometimes outright nonexistent), a large part of the way the players engage with the world instead revolves around what they carry and how they use it. A lot of these games have you randomly roll your starting inventory, and often this will become as much a significant part of your character as your class is, even with seemingly useless clutter items. E.g. a hand mirror can become an invaluable tool for peeping around corners and doorways. This kind of gameplay techncially possible on modern D&D but in OSR games it's often vital.

Gold for XP: somewhat related to the above, in many of these games your XP will be determined by how much treasure you gather, casting players in the role and mindset of trasure hutners, grave robbers, etc.

Situations, not plots: This is more of a GM culture thing than an intrinsic feature of the games, but OSR campaigns will often eschew the long-form GM-authored Epic narrative that has become the norm since the late AD&D 2e era, in favor of a more sandbox-y "here's an initial situation, it's up to you what you do with it" style. This means that you probably won't be getting elaborate scenes plotted out sessions in advance to tie into your backstory and character arc, but it also means increased player agency, casting the GM in the role of less of a plot writer or narrator and more of a referee.

Like I said, these are not universal, and a lot of games that fall under the OSR umbrella will eschew some or most of these (it's very common for a lot of games to drop the gold-for-xp thing in favor of a different reawrd structure), but IMO they're a good baseline for understanding common features of the movement as a whole.

Of course, the OSR movement covers A LOT of different games, which I'd classify in the following categories by how much they deviate from their source of inspiration:

Retroclones are basically recreations of the ruleset of older D&D editions but without the D&D trademark, sometimes with a new coat of paint. E.g. OSRIC and For Gold and Glory are clones of AD&D (1e and 2e respectively); Whitebox and Fantastic Medieval Campaigns are recreations of the original 1974 white box D&D release; Old School Essentials, Basic Fantasy and Labyrinth Lord are clones of the 1981 B/X D&D set. Some of these recreate the original rules as-is, editing the text or reorganizing the information to be clearer but otherwise leaving the meachnics unchanged, while others will make slight rules changes to remove quirks that have come to be considered annoying in hindsight, some of them might mix and match features from different editions, but otherwise they're mostly straight up recreations of old-school D&D releases.

There are games that I would call "old-school compatible", that feature significant enough mechanical changes from old-school D&D to be considered a different game, but try to maintain mechanical compatibility with materials made for it. Games like The Black Hack, Knave, Macchiato Monsters, Dungeon Reavers, Whitehack, etc. play very differently from old-school D&D, and from each other, but you generally can grab any module made for any pre-3e D&D edition and run it with any of them with very little to no effort needed in conversion.

There's a third category that I wouldn't know how to call. Some people call then Nu-OSR or NSR (short for New School revolution) while a small minority of people argue that they aren't really part of the OSR movement but instead their own thing. I've personally taken to calling them "Old School Baroque". These are games that try to replicate different aspects of the tone and feel of old-school fantasy roleplaying games while borrowing few to none mechanics from them and not making any particular attempts to be mechanically compatible. Games like Into the Odd, Mörk Borg, Troika!, a dungeon game, FLEE, DURF, Songbirds, Mausritter, bastards, Cairn, Sledgehammer, and too many more to name. In my opinion this subsection of the OSR space is where it gets interesting, as there's so many different ways people try to recreate that old-school flavor with different mechanics.

(Of course, not everything fits neatly into these, e.g. I would consider stuff like Dungeon Crawl Classics to be somewhere inbetween category 1 and 2, and stuff like GloG or RELIC to be somewhere imbetween categories 2 and 3)

The OSR movement does have its ugly side, as it's to be expected by the fact that a huge part of the driving force behind it is nostalgia. Some people might be in it because it harkens back to a spirit of DIY and player agency that has been lost in traditional fantasy roleplaying games, but it's udneniable that some people are also in it because for them it harkens back to a time before "D&D went woke" when tabletop roleplaying was considered a hobby primarily for and by white men. That being said... generally those types of guys keep to themselves in their own little circlejerk, and it's pretty easy to find OSR spaces that are progressive and have a sinificant number of queer, POC, and marginalized creators.

[oftenwantedafton]

Hush - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Word Count - 4k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission from Alex_zlo on X and Instagram

It’s one of those rare evenings in Hurricane where it’s actually raining.

Not just raining, either; this was a torrential downpour. Sheets of water spilling off of buildings, pummeling cars and unfortunate pedestrians, soaking earth and pavement. It’s a terrible night to be out, but you don’t want to be alone right now, the last words you’d heard you boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend—speak still ringing in your ears. We can still be friends. As if he’s doing you a favor, as if throwing away two years isn’t a big deal, all so he can shack up with someone else from work. Caught and not the least bit guilty. Acting entitled. As if it’s your fault he got bored and wanted something new. Someone other than you.

You’ve never sat at a bar alone before.

You curse the walk to the front of the building, the nearly full parking lot in the rear revealing that other patrons had all shared the same idea of going out for drinks. You’re instantly drenched, still wearing your work clothes, the office attire plastered to your skin as you duck inside the establishment and grab the first empty spot you see. You want to be numb, and you want it to happen fast. Vodka will do the trick nicely, tempered with a little club soda and syrup and lemon juice to balance out the bitterness.

You’re in the processing of securing some damp strands of hair back into some semblance of tidiness and order when you notice the man, just that slight dip of your head affording you a glance down the row of seats, a mixture of occupied and the occasional empty. Everything about him is lean and long —arms, legs, torso, everything a significant stretch. One foot is hooked on a rung of the barstool, the other easily touching the floor. He’s got some amber colored drink in front of him, the glass rotating over the beverage napkin on the counter with the aid of fingers that are also lengthy, clutching the mouth of the cup, turning it this way and that, staring contemplatively into those golden brown depths.

You’ve forgotten the fingers still resting in your damp tresses, the task already obliterated from your mind when the man’s eyes lift and find yours. Perhaps he’d felt your eyes lingering, studying you as the bartender places your order down in front of you. Beneath that thatch of dark hair—dry, you note absently, he hadn’t been caught in the rain unprepared like yourself—is a pair of the most intense eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. Gunmetal gray irises framed in lids with lashes you’re envious of, visible even at this distance, the shadowed bottom lids likely smudged from exhaustion looking like some sort of smoky eyeliner. You take inventory of his other features quickly—high cheekbones, full lips that are oddly pale, sharp nose and jaw—but it’s the eyes your focus keeps coming back to, demanding your attention in a gaze that could be anything from placid curiosity to a stern reprimand to a means of stealing your soul. Judging eyes, haunted orbs that have seen things, shaded windows that are temptation and danger all rolled into one.

He returns his attention to his drink and you feel as if you’re bursting through the surface of deep water, gasping for air, clumsily nudging your own alcoholic beverage and spilling a few drops before you can grasp it properly and take a deep swallow. A tartness fills your mouth, the level of sweet not what you’d been expecting. Heavy on the booze, though, which you appreciate as you mull things over, reflecting on what had gone so wrong with your ex.

Things had been going south for awhile in your now previous relationship, if you’re being honest. He’d never been overly concerned about getting you off, but at least he’d attempted at the outset. He’d used to suggest date ideas. Bring home flowers or chocolate. Surprise you with a bubble bath when you got home from work. There had been something there, right? You hadn’t imagined it. It was good before. Making it easier to be blinded and forgiving when it stopped being that good. Perhaps it’s like they say and hindsight is 20/20. Either way it still hurts and you don’t want to feel it. You finish the rest of the Vodka Collins and request another.

The dark haired stranger is looking at you again.

You can feel the weight of it dragging on your body. Too harsh to be considered a caress, but maybe you like the roughness of it all the same. You allow yourself to look in his direction again, appraising his features, always coming back to those eyes. What would it be like looking into those when you were fucking him?

The thought makes you set the glass firmly back on its makeshift coaster, jostling the ice cubes inside. What has gotten into you? Lusting after some guy you didn’t know, had never even spoken to, less than an hour after breaking up? On the rebound for sure. A good way to get yourself hurt even worse than you already were feeling.

The door to the entrance of the bar opens and a group of three men enter, all around your age, the cold air—it was late autumn, making the inclement weather even more unpleasant—immediately making you shiver in your damp clothes. There are more empty seats where you are, so close to the door, and it seems as good an excuse as any to move, offering up your spot, walking down the narrow aisle between the counter and the beginning of the booths and tables until you reach your goal, boosting yourself up onto the stool, your emptying drink less than a foot from the man’s on the polished surface.

It’s difficult to tell how old he is. Up close you can see the smooth skin is unblemished, largely free of any lines or creases. Still older than yourself, certainly, but maybe not by much, and even if he is, you don’t mind. You’ve never been with someone older. It’s a little intimidating. You’re usually accustomed to the consequence of being shy. But here you are. Making the first move. Being bold enough to sit beside this gentleman. No. Not the way to think of him. Some instinct tells you there’s nothing tame about this one. He’d be aggressive. Passionate. You bet he wouldn’t stop at making you explode once. A matter of pride with him. A generous lover.

You’re on you’re third drink and he’s on whatever number he’s on when your eyes meet again. He’s so pale. Even his mouth. Plush lips you want to taste.

They part but before he has a chance to speak you’re interrupted. The group of young men you’d vacated your spot for have made their way to you. What must be the leader, the more outspoken party member leans too close, his breath already smelling of booze.

“Why’d you run away? My friends and I here would like to buy you a drink.” The bearded man grins.

You shake your head, murmuring a polite decline for his offer. “No, thank you.”

“Come on. Let us help you out.” The smile widens. You find yourself unconsciously leaning closer to the suited man seated beside you.

“No, that’s nice of you, but I’m all set. Enjoy your night.” You turn away.

A hand closes over your shoulder but is instantly removed, the man with the intense eyes reacting swiftly. “She’s with me.”

His voice, the first time you’ve heard it, is low but still audible in the crowded room filled with talk and laughter, the television broadcast above the bar failing to compete with that declaration.

“Since when? You weren’t sitting anywhere near each other before.”

He clearly doesn’t hear the warning in the seated man’s tone. Trying to save face in front of his companions. You watch the long fingers dig in further, blanching the skin, his wrist twisting past a comfortable, natural angle and the youth gasps and tugs his arm away. No emotion on the dark haired stranger’s face at all during the entire exchange. Calm. His arm settling against the edge of the counter. Just looking, now. Waiting to see if he’ll be challenged again.

“Whatever. Let’s go get a table.”

The trio disappears and you realize you’ve been holding your breath for the last few moments, releasing it now with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know they were going to cause trouble.”

The man shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“I can move if you want…”

“No need.” He sets his drink back down.

You sigh internally. He wasn’t giving you much to work with conversation-wise. “You’re lucky, it looks like you managed to escape the rain.”

“I believe in being prepared. Even for things that seem unlikely. Unfortunately, it seems I didn’t think quite enough steps ahead.” He points and you follow the direction indicated, seeing a wastebin just visible across from where you’re seated, where a sad looking specimen of umbrella is poking out of, one of the metal braces bent at an awkward angle. “Gust of wind caught me unaware.”

“So now you’re going to carry two umbrellas, in case the second driest state in the country has another monsoon like this one?”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Maybe.”

You signal for another drink. There’s a pleasant buzz thrumming through you now. A nice warmth in your face, a different kind of heat somewhere lower, deeper.

“So what brings you here on a night like this?” It sounds like a corny pickup line, but it’s the only thing you can come up with.

“The same reason most people are here, I expect. Distraction from unpleasant thoughts.”

“My boyfriend and I broke up today,” you volunteer a little breathlessly, pushing the words out. The first time you’ve acknowledged the split out loud.

“Condolences.” The next batch of whiskey he doesn’t swallow right away. You can see his jaw working, rolling the liquor over his tongue.

“I thought…I thought being numb would make it easier to get over.”

“So did I,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just can relate to that feeling. Something…happened at work today. I wasn’t even working. Wasn’t supposed to be there. It just…happened.”

The explanation sounds very vague, but you appreciate his attempt to commiserate. “So you want to forget, too.”

“Yes.” His eyes link with yours again. “But maybe there are better ways to cope.”

“Better than getting hammered and feeling numb?” He nods. “Like what?”

“The polar opposite. An over abundance of feeling. A tidal wave surge of it that drowns out everything else.”

Wait. Was he suggesting…?

The folded leg straightens and he slides smoothly off the bar stool, reaching into his pants pocket for his wallet. He withdraws a bill and tucks it beneath the glass he’s been drinking from. Eyes back on you. Waiting.

“It’s still pouring out.” You glance back towards the glass front entrance, where the deluge continues to pound the pavement.

“Yes, it is. No telling when it will end, either. Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Something in that query drags right across the place between your thighs as you face him again. “No.”

“Coming with me?”

Again. Another flare. You’d never anticipated this happening. You’d only intended on getting intoxicated. Just a brief stop before you went home to cry your eyes out.

But this, what the stranger was offering, sounded so much better. No commitment. No obligation. Just acting on instinct and mutual attraction.

You nod, digging cash out of your wallet to settle the bill before you ease off the stool, a little less gracefully than your companion had managed. He gestures for you to lead the way. You hesitate by the door. Bracing yourself for the deluge you’re about to experience.

Then you’re no longer just looking at it or thinking about it. You’re in it. A sobering flood. The man slips a hand in one of yours. The rain is cold, the droplets finding every exposed inch, seeking those that aren’t. Creeping down your neck. Inside the front of your blouse. You’re tugged along at a brisk pace. Your new acquaintance takes long strides. It’s difficult to keep up, especially wearing a narrow skirt and heels, but you’re anxious to be away from this and into some kind of shelter.

You’re led to a sedan, some older titanic model of a car from the previous decade, long like its owner who swiftly unlocks the passenger door for you. A beat of hesitation before you enter, one last unheeded caution about what you’re actually doing, and then your damp hand is squeaking on the vinyl seat as you settle inside, surrendering to your lowered inhibitions.

The door creaks as it swings shut. You wipe at your damp face, a little breathless as you watch the man run around to the driver’s side. You lean over and pull the lock up and he yanks the door open, hurriedly shutting it behind him.

A hand rakes through his saturated hair. There are water droplets clinging to those long lashes of his. He slots the key in the ignition. There are a lot of others on that keyring you note as he starts the engine. The opposite hand rests on the steering wheel. A wedding band is visible on the fourth finger.

The windshield wipers strain to keep up with clearing the window as he exits the parking lot, thumping loudly. A echo of your own pounding heart. There’s a vacant lot behind the bar’s, a relic from a strip mall that’s been abandoned for several years. He parks in the shadows, avoiding the direct glow of the street lamp that struggles to ward off the darkness. The brief burst of warm air from the vents departs as he shuts the car off, the green lighting on the dashboard extinguished. The defroster hadn’t properly gotten a chance to manage clearing the glass obscured with condensation. It feels private enough, you suppose.

You haven’t made out in a car since you were a teenager.

Funny how that all changes once you’re an adult. You get an apartment and you can fool around whenever you want. No longer having to worry about a patrol officer shining a light in a car window or a parent lecturing you about curfew and birth control.

Yet here you are. Two fugitives from the storm. A chance meeting leading to this. Whatever this was.

You’re still wearing the blazer of your suit. He’s neglected to bring a proper jacket, the suit one already removed, resting on the back seat. You struggle to shrug out of yours, finally shedding the damp coat and tossing it over his. The silence lengthens. “You’re married,” you say, cursing yourself as soon as you do. Nothing like stating the obvious. A good way to kill the mood, too.

“Yes.” He rolls the band with his thumb, the dim light from outside glinting on the gold. It’s loose. He’s lost weight since he’d first acquired it, you think.

“You ever do this before?”

“No.” Another clipped answer. The confidence he’d exuded inside the bar seems to have evaporated a bit. Maybe he was having second thoughts.

“Do you still want to do this?”

The rejection would sting, but it’s hardly the worst slight you’ve endured today. You’re a big girl. You’ll manage.

“Yes.” His eyes are still intense even in this wan illumination.

You reach for his hand. The one with the jewelry on it. Bringing his fingers to your lips. His skin is damp, cool. Your lips part to take the fourth finger inside your mouth. Teeth hooking around the metal. The flavor of it heavy on your tongue as you drag your teeth against it, easily shifting the ring up, up, up until its clutched between your lips, his finger now bare.

You remove the wedding band and set it on the dashboard, atop a thin layer of dust. The older man leans towards you and kisses your mouth. You no longer hear the rain pelting the alloy you’re encased in. You pry his lips open with your tongue. He’s a good kisser, not that you’re surprised. Those cushioned lips soft. He tastes like the rain. Like the whiskey he’d consumed earlier. His tongue strokes yours and your stomach somersaults. There’s a hand touching your cheek, your jaw. You reach for him, for the sooty hair and stiff work shirt collar and the expanse of one polyester clad thigh. Whatever you can rake your nails against, whatever flesh you can knead through the clothing. He’s got a handful of one breast, the other cupping the back of your neck. Mouth sucking and mashing along your jaw. You’ve finished the journey along his lower extremity, sliding along his crotch. Hard. Large. He huffs a small sound of pleasure, frustration, trying to get inside of your skirt until you abandon his pants just long enough to dig for the hidden zipper in the side seam, lifting your hips up so the loosened material has room to shift out of the way. There is still the barrier of your stockings and panties but that first feel of his hand between your thighs is bliss. You need him, need that dizzying oblivion that scatters your thoughts once he’s wedged inside, stroking your clit.

“Lever…side…” It’s all he spares for direction but you understand, reaching blindly on the side of the seat. It rocks backward faster than you’d expected it would. Further, too. Maybe there was something to be said for these older model cars. Certainly more space than what you had in your newer one.

You can’t imagine it’s comfortable leaning over the center console like he is, but if it bothers him he doesn’t reveal it. His mouth is back at yours, his hand working impatiently in the narrow confines, the clinging nylons restricting movement. You hastily aid him again, shoving at the offending layers concealing your sex, eagerly dragging the panties and stockings down to your ankles, letting your feet finish the job of removing them from your body.

Oh, this was infinitely better. Now the man can properly access your pussy, one thumb working in circles over your bud, his middle finger dipping inside of you. Your body’s already inviting him inside, arousal slickly guiding that violation. It’s the perfect touch, the perfect pressure. Only minutes of being intimate and this man understood your body better than your ex ever had.

“What’s your name?” This gasped beside his neck. He draws back to look at you, that solemn face hovering above yours. “Just your first name, just so I know…oh God, you’re so good at…what to say when I…”

“William.”

“Hi, William.” It suited him. You wonder what he preferred for a nickname. “It’s nice to meet you…fuck.”

“Likewise.” He’s added another finger to the repertoire of invaders, his thumb flicking and grinding your clit.

Your pelvis arches, seeking him even deeper. You’re on fire. Soaked, and not just from the outdoors. Your tongue is sloppy against his. You’re losing some finesse, lost to the pleasure he’s gifting you. The fingers inside you curl and touch that hidden space and you moan, clutching at his shirt.

“William….you're going to make me…”

Pressure. You feel ready to burst. The last thing tethering you to reality is that hand working inside of you, against you.

He kisses you. His face above yours again. Watching you. You’re lost in those eyes. Shaking violently. He’s got you there.

“William…I’m cumming…oh my God, I’m…”

Your pearl throbs and tingles, the muscles inside your canal spasming around his fingers as the back of your skull digs into the cradle of the headrest, your thighs tremoring, hips squirming restlessly against the seat. You’ve shattered, you’re broken, built up again piece by piece with gentle kisses, his hand leaving your sex, allowing you to recover.

“That was…” You don’t even have words.

“Good?” He supplies, eyebrows arching.

“No, beyond that. Amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you, William.”

“You’re most welcome.”

He climbs over you, the languid kisses and caresses growing more heated, driven, needy. His cock presses into you, stretching you back open. There is no longer the taste of rain or whiskey. Now he tastes like you, from the fingers he’d just sucked clean. The vinyl cushioned chair beneath you groans in protest at the weight being forced upon it. You’ve got a hand braced against the roof to shield his head from colliding with it. There’s just so much of him, that tall figure filling the space of the vehicle, the space inside of you. You keep coming back to his throat, to explore the taste of his skin there, easier now that you’ve loosened the collar and tie. Hints of aftershave from that morning, so many hours ago. The slight scrape of facial hair just starting to reclaim its territory rough against your tongue. Tracing the prominent arch of his Adam’s apple. You want to bite and suck his skin but you know you can’t mark a married man.

Your knee is wedged against the door. The other crushed between the console and somewhere near your new lover’s ribs. The steady, relaxed pace has quickened. Breath panted. It’s hitting deep and it’s good, like everything else with him. The way fucking was meant to be done. “William,” you gasp, and it is the first word spoken in a long time. His mouth hushes you, tongue insistent between your lips, nuzzling that wet muscle, his hips snapping against yours with more frenzy. You wish it was just a little more brightly lit, just enough to really see his eyes when he comes apart against you in a flurry of groaned motions, shaking as he fills you, flooding your insides with his seed.

His head drops between your breasts as he withdraws, his body resting on yours. It’s not the ideal place for any sort of post coital cuddling but you like it, like it when he’s back at your mouth again after he’s returned to his own seat, clothing somewhat returned to where it’s supposed to be, still leaning over and kissing you, like he can’t quite get enough of it, like he doesn’t want the intimate moment to end.

Maybe that’s it. The real reason for procrastinating. Because after this, it’s back to the real world. Sliding that ill fitting band back on his ring finger. Returning to face whatever had happened at his job while you continued to process the fact that you’ve been lied to and cheated on. Now you’ve aided and abetted this man, helping him commit the same sin. Even worse, because he was married.

You don’t regret it, though. You simply won’t allow yourself to. You enjoyed it. You needed it. Selfish, maybe, to use someone that way. Except it doesn’t feel like that either. You don’t know how to classify it, your mind still a little addled from the alcohol, from the chemicals still surging through your system. An alibi of impaired judgment is available if you need it, but you don’t think you will.

He drives you back to your car and you push the door open, the encroaching assault of damp and cold instantly reminding you that you’re going to get another shower as soon as you exit the vehicle. You’re not sure if you should thank him again. You’re not sure if you should say anything at all.

You can see his face properly, now that you’re in the bar’s parking lot, the newer bulb of this streetlamp bathing his features in artificial yellowish light, those remarkable eyes that pierce and captivate you sparkling. It’s so difficult to leave them. Your force yourself to step back outside, hurriedly shoving your car key in the lock, eager for shelter. You hear a now familiar creak of a door opening behind you. He’s left the car, coming towards you. Ignoring the downpour.

“William…”

His mouth on yours. Rainwater. The taste of someone new.

[comatosebunny09]

deep breaths, darling | r. kyojuro

Genre: Smut, Modern AU

Warnings: Established Relationship, Female Reader, P in V Intercourse, Cervix F*cking, Light Choking, Fondling, Spoon Position, Unprotected Sex, Bodily Fluids, Explicit Language

Request for @sirenascales.

I changed what I originally wrote for you…a lot. But I hope this helps lighten your mood, even just a little. And I hope it somewhat meets your expectations. ☺️❤️ Thank you for your lovely request, darling!

You’d asked for a simple massage to ease your strained muscles and lay to rest your mind’s dissonance.

Your work week was hectic. Inventories that required heavy lifting under the sun’s unforgiving rays. Hunting down some equipment you hadn’t seen since taking the helm as supervisor. Balancing the needs of your subordinates alongside your company’s objective, ignoring your own needs. It was all so very taxing. And you never knew how to put yourself first. So, forgive you for wanting a little reprieve. 

You also knew better than to ask your husband for something so mundane. This was Kyojuro you were speaking of. Your deceptively innocent husband who couldn’t keep his enormous, mischievous mitts to himself. You should’ve been wise to his antics when he so giddily accepted your request. His incandescent eyes shone like candlelight, flaxen locks puffed up like clouds, and his unbridled smile swam with something sinister. You were too exhausted to contest him. Maybe he would be good this time; stay on track and do what you actually wanted.

Yeah.

Right.

“Kyojuro,” you whine amid a myriad of open-mouthed kisses blistering your neck. One of his diabolical palms cups your ass, squeezing, kneading, lifting. The other hand busies itself beneath your thin t-shirt, toying with your puckered nipples and fondling your breasts, waves of euphoria lapping at your tummy. Your silken sheets crumple beneath your fingers, and you bite your lip, trying vainly to maintain your air of frustration. Though, with his digits doing terribly distracting things between your legs, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to focus.

You didn’t initially oppose the contact. Kyojuro had done as you asked, working through the thick knots between your shoulder blades. Rubbed you down with skillful hands saturated with oil, laboring through solid cords of muscle. Yet, your husband had divested you of your basketball shorts and panties somewhere along the line. Rid himself of his sweats as well. And as he laid down on your plush mattress behind you, drawing your curled-up body into his radiating, virile one, it became pressingly laborious to ignore the torrid length pulsating against your tailbone.

“Darling?” Kyojuro coos in response, lightly nibbling the shell of your ear. You can practically taste the subtle smugness rumbling in his voice, much like a thunderstorm brewing on the horizon. Your eyes slide shut, a defeated sigh ejected from your lips.

“This isn’t the massage I asked for.”

Kyojuro hums thoughtfully, his lips curving into a wolfish smile against the junction of your shoulder. A gasp suddenly escapes you when his hand at your bottom pushes your knee towards your stomach, crisp air kissing your heated, exposed folds. You swallow a moan as electricity courses through your center whilst Kyojuro slothfully grinds his cock against your sex. Spreads your labia further apart with each delicious roll of his hips, grunting softly into your tresses.

“Technically, it is,” Kyojuro rasps, specks of amusement in his timbre. “You did not specify where you wanted a massage, my love.”

Damn your husband and his technicalities.

You resign to your fate, falling prey to the rapture taking hold of your innards. Kyojuro twines his powerful arm around your neck, holding your shoulder to keep you melded to him. He writes obscenities into your pulse point whilst his bucking grows choppier, your pussy glazing his veiny shaft with the arousal you so desperately tried to mask.

“You've been so tense as of late,” Kyojuro breathes hotly, his fingernails burrowing into the underside of your generous thigh as his grip tightens. You angle your head back, a pitiful sound leaving you at such delightful ministrations. “Allow me to be your stress relief.”

And relieve he does.

You moan in tandem when the swollen crest of his cock creeps in, splitting you open with a salacious squelch. Kyojuro stills thereafter, all his limbs straining in his battle to maintain control. You can tell how badly he wishes to fuck you based on how his chokehold strengthens the slightest around your neck. You fight within yourself not to pitch your hips back to nestle him further into your opulent cunt. But Kyojuro’s always been the biggest tease, giving you just the tip until you beg him to fuck you.

Your pussy flutters around him, exhilaration tearing through your veins, searing you like magma from the inside out. Kyojuro growls in reply at your cheekiness. Your eyes involuntarily roll into your skull, lips parted, when he draws his pelvis backward, completely unsheathing from the bewitching suction of your cunt, exhaling soundly.

When you’ve started to adjust to the loss of his impressive girth, Kyojuro pistons back into you, his cockhead licking the responsive nerve endings at the perimeter of your opening. You spasm at such incredible friction. If he continues like this, you might cum from his teasing alone.

Kyojuro builds an infuriating rhythm, inching himself further and further into you with each repetition until you’ve swallowed him whole with a greedy suckling noise, the crown of his erection brushing your lush cervix.

Your husband rarely curses. Vocabulary too refined for vulgarities, but “fuck,” the blond breathes, his forehead pushed between your shoulder blades as he ravenously sucks in air. You smirk despite your pleasure possessing your body, like a devious feline that has caught the canary. You wiggle your hips in a get-going gesture, further spurring your husband’s ire. He needs no more indication to reduce you to a muddled mess.

No matter how often you’ve made love, it always feels like the first.

His dick is addicting like caffeine, working a steady cadence inside you, pulling you closer and closer to orgasm with each snap of his pelvis. He fucks you thoroughly and hard, just the way you like it. Acquaints himself with every luscious ridge and bump snuggled deep between your walls. His rhythm matches the desperate tempo of his fingers stroking your clit, pushing you further into oblivion.

“You feel so fucking wonderful, darling,” Kyojuro husks, notching his hips to yours until the violent clop of skin saturates the air. “I will never get enough of this beautiful pussy of yours. Won’t you cum for me, my gorgeous princess?” He knows that his voice does things to you. How it stirs your ecstasy when he coddles you like you are the most precious thing, every nerve in your body trained on this moment.

You know he won’t be too far behind you in gratification by the sound of his labored breaths. You cling to his arm for dear life, nails imprinting pretty waning moons into his skin, hot saliva coasting down the side of your face. Your throat is raw from overuse, you having screamed his name to the heavens whilst he fucks you towards the edge of the bed.

Your tummy boils with an unmistakable pressure that drags itself skyward. Breath hitches as your peak sneaks up on you, a kaleidoscope of colors entrapping your vision, a muted tingling sensation prickling your petrified limbs, climbing from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. Your pussy clamps down like a fist around him. And with a definitive, stuttering drag backward of his hips, companied by a shaky sigh of your name, Kyojuro swiftly extracts his dick from your spasming warmth, painting your thigh with scorching spurts of cum.

You catch him with open arms as he floats down to earth like a feather, nestling his cheek into your saturated bosom and forcing you deeper into the mattress with his full weight atop you.

“Thank you,” you exhale once your heart has slowed to a bearable rate. Gentle fingers rake through your husband’s feathery locks, a doting cant to your swollen lips. Kyojuro hums drowsily in reply, his voice rattling your bones. Your heart swells with affection at the sight of his disheveled mane. How hard he had worked to put you at ease. You stroke his scalp until his breaths transition to soft snoring, your husband curling up against you like a satisfied cat.            

Masterlist

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hey, I've been thinking of maybe getting into TTRPGs, but I don't really have any friends in person that are into that sort of stuff (I do have online friends who are into it, though). Do you have any recommendations for a/some good "solo" ttrpg for beginners.

THEME: Free Solo Games for First-Timers.

Hello friend! I managed to find a whole cluster of free roleplaying games, so I hope you find something here that tickles your fancy! There’s some story games, some survival games, and some that are in between.

Lycans & Lawyers, by GorgonHead.

You are one of Capitol's top lawyers. You also turn into a werewolf at night.

Welcome to Moondale, one of Capitol's nicer districts! Your law firm is based here, and most of your clients come from here. It is you job to keep them from getting convicted, even if they are guilty. 

And they are. You must employ your best skills, both as a lawyer and as a lycan, to keep them safe from the Union's law long hands. To manage this, you'll have to do some shady things. But it's all for the good of the client!

This is a simple, one page game with a lot to play with. It has a few paragraphs of lore, a map to help you visualize your neighbourhood, and two moon tracks to follow. You’ll have two different sets of stats depending on whether you are in your werewolf mode or your lawyer mode, as well as a series of roll tables to set the scene. If you like a concrete goal but also some flexibility in the details that you get to contribute to the story, you might like this game.

Strandead, by chuymarin.

Awakening amidst the boundless stretch of the open ocean, the unsettling sensation of isolation grips your soul. What lies ahead in this abyss, lurking within the depths of the ominous waters? The weight of impending threats gnaws at your very core. 

A solo hexcrawl for the survivalist at heart. Travel across an ocean and roll for encounters, fish, and random items as you try to survive for X number of days out on the open seas. With two difficulty modes and an optional QR-linked random generator of rumours, you’ll have an excellent combination of randomness and strategy to keep you invested. Perfect for folks who prefer balancing numbers and don’t want to fill in a narrative from prompts.

Fortress in the Frozen Wastes, by August Wigg.

Set in the post-apocalyptical land of the Frozen Wastes, a young Ranger must journey to an outlaw fortress to rescue their captured mentor and a group of settlers. Customize your Ranger to be proficient in different skills and choose different paths as you attempt to save the prisoners of the Fortress in the Frozen Wastes.

This is a combination of a traditional roleplaying adventure and a choose-your own adventure story. You’ll create a character sheet with stats, character abilities and inventory slots, and success and failure depend on a d10 roll. Your character dies if their endurance ever gets to 0, so you’ll do your best to navigate each new situation you encounter and make choices that keep your ranger alive long enough to fulfill their quest.

5 Min Knight, by enui.

5-Min-Knight is small one-player RPG about being a Knight of the round table. It takes 5 minutes to play.

This is basically a writing challenge, with a number of d6 tables that you’ll use for writing prompts. You are meant to roll and write as much as you can in 5 minutes - when the timer is up, you roll again to see what called you away. This is a great exercise if you’re looking for a way to practise your creativity, or if you don’t have that much time in a day to play.

If you’re more interested in solving mysteries, you can also try 5 Min Maven, by the same creator, inspired by Brindlewood Bay!

Curiosity Killed?, by Zole Tsoi.

Playing as a cat wandering the streets of a futuristic city, you are tasked with helping ghosts of the underworld who have unfinished business.

This is a one page game that uses a d4 for pretty much everything. You’ll want to keep an eye on your three stats, because if they get too high or too low, your cat is forced to end their mission early or gets stuck. Get your Stress down to 1 or your Morality up to 5 to win the game!

Homunculus, by DOMINO CLUB

Alchemy is a dirty, tiring, thankless job. I’ve let this absorb my whole life, and I’ve now gotten to the point where I’m ready to move on.

In this game, you play as an homunculus, newly created by an alchemist to explore the world .

Homunculus is a game that starts you off with quite a bit of guidance, easing you into play by setting you up with prompts connected to cards you draw from the deck. Card suits are connected to four stats in this game, which you will attempt to increase equally in order to gain the best possible ending. This game allows for a few replays if you are interested in getting different endings, but it also relies on interpreting prompts as drawn by the cards. If you like a game where you’re reaching a specific target, you might like Homunculus.

The Dukes Aid, by g0ri.

On the frontiers of space, an interstellar empire exists in a perilous balance. As a close aide of a Duke and his house, your job is to navigate safely through the coming intrigues.

Observe the plans within plans within plans as your House takes over the production of the Empire’s most important resource.….

The Duke's Aide is a solo roleplaying game requiring at least half an hour, a set of roleplaying dice, a deck of cards and something to write with and on. This is a proper journaling game, using a deck of cards to supply prompts, jokers included to help pace the game out for you. You’ll choose a character class, which also determines the dice you roll, which you’ll need every time your character tries something risky. This is a great introduction to a journaling game that still gives you a lot to work with if you don’t feel super comfortable extrapolating from prompts.

Games I've Recommended in the Past

The Wandering Library, by AP.

[apparitionism]

Bonus

Happy particular Monday! Here’s a story for it, which came about mostly because I wanted to put a couple of people into a clichéd situation, and then I had to do leadup and aftermath... anyway, it’s intended to be a two-parter (yes, I know; aspirations) set in a not-entirely-canonical season 4, in which the Warehouse did get brought back and Helena did leave without explanation, BUT Artie doesn’t go full Father Data and Leena doesn’t suffer the consequences—mostly because Mrs. Frederic has sensed some badness to come and thus sent Artie and Leena away. Because why not? Also I have Claudia jumping into Caretakering, and even a bit of Artieing, with some enthusiasm.

P.S. I know I haven’t yet finished last year’s Christmas story—that’s a pain point—but I genuinely am working to get back on various horses, including that one. Weather (in all senses) permitting.

Bonus

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

****

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER...

Myka’s reasonably pleasant thought, burring along as background to her monotonous tasks, is I don’t mind this. She and Steve are in the Warehouse office early in the morning, doing file inventory, and it’s true: she doesn’t mind it. It’s a little lacking as a holiday activity, but with Artie, Leena, and Pete all away, “lacking” is pretty much the flavor of the moment.

Claudia pokes her head in and says, “Ping.” She’s unenthusiastic, speaking of lacking. Where’s the usual revving about what it might be this time? “At some midwestern accounting firm, because it’s important to have a boring Christmas.”

Ah. “An accounting artifact?” Myka asks. Speaking further of lacking: here, it’s artifacty zing. Then again, artifacty zing got Myka trapped in Alice’s mirror, among other catastrophes, so maybe boring isn’t so bad. “Balance sheets?” she ventures. “Pluses and minuses?”

“Some people at this pingy company just got extremely large Christmas bonuses,” Claudia says, “and some got their pay extremely docked. So yeah, ‘balance sheets, pluses and minuses’ just about covers it. Probably. I mean, I might be trying to manage expectations here.”

Claudia’s certainly right, in that getting one’s hopes up—about anything (or anyone)—is a fool’s game.

But still, there’s something to be said for boring-but-remunerative, even if only for some people... what a nice idea. “I’d like a Christmas bonus someday,” Myka says, “instead of a Christmas penalty. Which I think pretty accurately describes the Pete-plus-artifacts situation.”

“It’s two days before Christmas, and he hasn’t done anything yet,” Claudia says. “That you know of,” she amends.

“Because he’s been with his family in Ohio for the past week,” Myka points out, and she’s gratified when Claudia rolls her eyes. It’s practically a concession.

Steve says, “It’s inappropriate to say ‘Christmas’ bonus these days. It’s ‘end-of-year.’” The contribution suggests he’s listening with only one ear.

“I wish appropriateness mattered here,” Myka says, not really to him but in general. Who knows how a Warehouse HR department would make heads or tails of the application of employment laws—much less employment niceties? “Not that it makes a difference. Christmas, end-of-year... call it Fred, and we still wouldn’t get one.”

“If I ever do get a bonus, I’m absolutely naming it Fred,” Claudia declares.

Myka shakes her head. “Poor Fred. Doomed to be injected right back into the discretionary economy.”

“Inject-o-what are you even talking about?”

“Just a guess, but: you’d spend it on things you don’t need.”

Claudia harrumphs. “Thanks for lumping me in with the avocado-toast-and-Starbucks crowd. My fiscaling is way more responsible.”

“Really? What would you use Fred for?”

“Asus VG278HE gaming monitor. Plus a graphics card, maybe the Nvidia GTX 690, depending on how hefty Fred is.” At Myka’s snort, Claudia challenges, “Fine, where would you inject it?”

“My Roth IRA,” Myka says immediately. She’s not sure what assets her evil, crazy, or dead self will need in retirement, but given the many and varied forms each of those, or combinations thereof, could take, it seems like a good idea to have a financial plan in place. That’s another thing a Warehouse HR department might be useful for...

“You’re the actual human manifestation of an accounting artifact,” Claudia accuses. “Speaking of which, here’s the deal. I gotta stay here—some Mrs.-F homeworky stuff—and Steve’s busy reassuring all the misfit toys in the building that Leena hasn’t deserted them forever. And I’d say ignore the ping entirely, but your never know what’ll go viral, and I bet Artie’d say the last thing we need is another financial crisis. Or maybe you’d say it. Anyway, you’re it. And for your backup, when you get to Cleveland—”

Myka groans. “Cleveland? Seriously? Pete’s going to be so mad about you pulling him away from the family.”

“I’m not pulling him away,” Claudia says, blinking like she’s some innocent little lamb.

Myka groans again. “You’re making me do it?”

Claudia shrugs. “Sure. Why not. You’re partners, right? But here’s some advice: wait till you get there to call him. You know, put off the misery, if that’s what it is, as long as possible. Besides—more advice—I really think you should spend your travel time thinking about bonuses. Who gets ’em and why. Because what’s a bonus, really?”

“An economic stimulus whose nametag reads ‘Fred,’ if I’m understanding things correctly.”

“We’ll see what you think about that when you get to Cleveland.”

“On the day before Christmas eve,” Myka grouses. “By the way, that’s a whole lot of ‘advice,’ coming from somebody who’s over a decade younger than I am and not technically my boss.”

“By the way,” Claudia mimics, archly mocking, “we’ll see what you think about that too.”

“When I get to Cleveland?”

“When you get to Cleveland. On the day before Christmas eve.”

“Sounds like the title of a lesser Christmas carol,” Steve says—he’s tuned back in to the conversation. He then says, with his grin that curves so impish, “Think we could get Mariah Carey to sing it? It’s a hit if we get her, right, no matter how lesser?”

“‘When You Get to Cleveland on the Day Before Christmas Eve?’” Claudia skeptics. “Hit-wise, that’s gonna need a lot more power: Mariah dueting with Darlene Love at the very least. Plus we’ll need a Destiny’s Child reunion for at least one chorus.”

“Thanks for reinforcing my sense of how awful this is likely to be,” Myka tells them both, and Steve’s grin turns apologetic.

Claudia, however, shrugs. “Maybe you’ll sing it different.”

Myka is now the one to roll her eyes. “I won’t sing it at all.”

Surprisingly, Claudia doesn’t go with another eyeroll. “We’ll see,” she says, and Myka is struck by the Mrs.-Frederic resonance in her words. Does the homework include practicing the enigmatic tone?

Steve looks up and catches Myka’s eye. He winks. Myka would wink back, but he would probably interpret that as her saying she understands what’s happening. And that would be a lie: serious enough, probably, to make him wince and massage his temples.

So Myka just blinks—not Morse or any other code, just basic eye-moistening blinks. Then she goes upstairs to collect her always-packed travel bag for her trip to Cleveland.

****

Her flight departs late, of course; it’s December in South Dakota. But that’s this-time fine, because it allows Myka a necessary excess of opportunity to prep her Pete-placation. Under her breath, she practices the delivery of such words as “shorthanded” and “necessary,” aiming for maximum sincerity.

When she at last emerges from her Cleveland Hopkins jetway, that extensive prep deserts her entirely, for what awaits her is the manifestation of a Christmas wish she has worked overtime to convince herself would not, could not possibly be granted:

Helena.

Whose arms are crossed, and whose posture betrays that her foot might recently have been tapping out impatience with the plane’s tardy arrival. The attitude is so normal, so entirely of-the-world (rather than of-its-imminent-end), that Myka wants to reverse course, get back on the plane and redisembark, just so she might meet it again, meet it and refeel this wash of absolute relief at seeing Helena impatient in an airport.

Devious, Claudia, Myka thinks. Outstandingly devious. “Hello, Fred,” she murmurs, then tries, in the ten seconds she has before she and Helena are in proximity to speak, to engage in a far more consequential prep.

For Helena has been gone—has been, as Myka put it to Steve not so long ago, “god knows where”—since shortly after the Warehouse did not explode. She was there, in the Warehouse, but then she was gone, and Myka was told only that Helena had “matters to attend to.” God presumably also knew what those matters were, but Myka hadn’t, in the wake of that first moment of absence, and hasn’t since, been able to pry any information about matters or their whereabouts out of anyone, divine or otherwise.

And through the seemingly endless wondering, Myka’s mind and heart have gnawed themselves ragged.

Until this moment, when the wondering and gnawing end: now her blood speeds, coursing with urgency even as everything else seems to slow.... her movements, her reactions, her thinking, all are sluggish, unresponsive; only her blood matters. This blood knowledge. For all her wondering, she’s been avoiding gnawing her way to that answer.

“Claudia said you needed backup” are Helena’s words when they meet.

Myka’s attempt at prep has fallen grievously short—not that she could have risen to such an occasion, not when hearing that voice for the first time in some time, and certainly not when faced with what her blood’s embarrassing insistence has forced her to confront anew. “I... assumed I’d be calling Pete,” she says, to at least go with truth.

“Interesting assumption. Perhaps necessary, if you believe I’ll be insufficient.”

Myka’s impulse is to reassure: “More than sufficient—you’re necessary,” she would shout, or better yet, whisper. Instead, because Helena’s tone is neutral—is she in actuality indifferent?—she falls into a defensive, businesslike crouch, offering only implicit denial of the premise of Helena’s statement. “Let’s head for the accounting firm,” she says, internally cursing herself.

Cursing, but also justifying: Helena is here as backup, thanks to Claudia’s cleverness, and Myka should not assume (speaking of assumptions) that she even wants to be here. All focus should be on retrieving the artifact. Certainly on that and not on Myka’s (honestly) predictably overexcited blood.

She tries to concentrate on Claudia’s advice (while at the same time trying not to resent her success at being cryptic about it): what’s a bonus, really? Helena’s presence, the sight of her, the apprehending of her impatience, the experience of blood: whatever else may happen, these have been—must be—are!—the bonus.

****

The cab ride is quiet. Myka’s resolve to think only of backup and bonus is dissolving by the second, and she lets words reach her tongue that might start a conversation with Helena about things... but those words don’t escape her lips, for a strand of formality seems to be stiffening Helena’s spine. Does she know how Myka cherished her impatience? Is she attempting to discourage such adoration?

Myka, in regret and relief, follows that more-strict lead.

That’s a bonus too, though, for it turns the ride into unpressured, liminal time, perfect for simply basking in presence. It’s best, Myka is now thinking, to treat this reunion as something that was of course going to have happened. For backup or other professional purposes. Despite the fact that it’s the thank-god fulfillment of recurring, desperate dreams.

However: at one point in the traffic-backed silence, Helena, completely unprompted, turns and smiles at Myka.

Myka smiles back.

It’s a previously missing puzzle-piece slotting into place... yet in its aftermath, Myka finds herself having to push with force against a will to worry over other missing pieces; in particular, she must fight the fret-intensive futility of trying to count them.

****

They find the accounting firm’s lobby spacious but quiet—holiday-low staffing, presumably. Myka asks the receptionist, “Is there someone we can talk to about end-of-year bonuses? Also penalties?”

“I’m a temp,” says the young man. His tone suggests it’s his answer to every query... but then he adds, very quietly, “Unofficially, there’s this one guy...”

That has the ring of “artifact,” so Myka nods, encouraging him.

“Super-vocal about his paycheck the other day. How tiny it was. I mean, he’s the kind of guy you might have theories about what else is tiny, but I—”

“Who was that?” Myka interrupts, even as she feels Helena’s readiness to laugh. Mr. Super-vocal is thus probably not a wielder of an artifact; more likely, one of that wielder’s... victims?

“Bob,” the temp says. “I’m sure he’s got a last name, and I’m sure he thinks everybody should call him ‘Mr. Lastname,’ but my care level? Anyway he’s down the hall—one of the only ones in the farm today. Spite-working. Maybe on his anti-everything manifesto.”

“Down the hall” turns out to be a vast expanse of cubicles: definitely a farm.

Myka says to Helena, “Follow my lead?”

“Always,” Helena says.

It’s a tonally sincere utterance—and in that, admirable—but it’s also manifestly untrue; nevertheless, Myka’s blood decides to believe it, to recognize it as another puzzle-piece. I really need to function, Myka tries to explain to her interior. So if we could climb down just a couple rungs. Like to the cab-ride level, maybe?

Her body refuses the agreement.

Of course.

The occupant of the first inhabited cubicle they find is an over-coiffed middle-aged man who clearly spends far too much time in tanning booths. He’s typing aggressively, as if the force of his keystrokes will power his message. His manifesto?

“Are you Bob?” Myka asks him.

“You better be here about my money,” obviously-Bob says, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Myka finds his demand incongruous—his job has to do with other people’s money, and Myka and Helena are manifestly other people. Who could have money. Fred or otherwise.

“In a way,” she says. She follows up with “We’re from the IRS,” and it’s never not funny for that to be useful. Bob winces, as if she's about to strike him. Also never not funny. “We’ve noted some suspicious discrepancies in end-of-year reporting.”

“You have?” Bob asks. Now he’s avid rather than confrontational.

“Looks like some overreporting. Also underreporting. So you see our concern, particularly about effects on withholding.” She is making this up, as she generally does whenever she has to go actual IRS on someone. Read up on tax law, she reminds herself, as she generally does every time. Not that she’ll ever have the leisure to do that... “What we need to find out is whether it was in error, or if it warrants a full investigation.”

“Nancy Sullivan,” he says, with contempt, the name itself a curse. “She’s the one you should investigate, and then send straight to jail. She’s always been a witch about year-end, but now?  On steroids. Talking about making her list, threatening to mark down people she doesn’t like, including yours truly, as naughty... and then we got our paychecks, and somehow she did it! No idea how she managed to push that garbage through, but I swear you better get her up on some kind of charges!”

He rises abruptly, clutching a slip of paper; his chair topples over behind him. He shoves the paper in Myka’s direction, his knuckles nearing her astonished nose—but in the instant before contact, Helena intervenes, her arm blocking his, stopping his forward motion.

Backup.

Helena plucks the paper from his pushy hand. “And what’s this?” she asks.

A pretty minimal manifesto, Myka thinks initially. But then she replays his screed in her head, and his babbling about Nancy Sullivan resolves into meaningful references; struck by the realization, she very nearly misses his next statement: “My pay stub. She can’t just do this.”

Helena says, “Of course not.” She’s soothing him, her voice a faux-caress. It’s enough to tempt Myka to act out, just to hear it directed her way, even as Helena continues, “But we understand some of your colleagues, to the contrary, received large bonuses.”

His “tanned” skin darkens further. “Guess she thought they were nice. To her. Suck-ups.”

Mya looks a Find out anything else that’s relevant at Helena, who nods. Retreating back to the pre-cubicle hallway—relieved that her nose is intact—she Farnsworths Claudia. She skips the pleasantries, starting with, “A very disgruntled employee says the woman who signs off on bonuses was making a list.”

Claudia chortles. “You’re hilarious. Was she checking it twice?”

“This is my point. We don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, not yet, but I bet that’s the crux.”

“I should’ve known you weren’t aiming for hilarity. So you really think this is some Santa thing?”

“No. I’m saying words about lists because I think it’s a grocery thing.” Myka wants to shake her fist at the heavens and every deity who occupies it. Occupies them. All the heavens. “Of course I think it’s a Santa thing! I also think it’s Pete’s fault somehow.”

“Just because it’s Christmas? C’mon.”

“Christmas and Ohio?” Myka snorts. “You c’mon. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Maybe you should though. For peace of mind?”

“That’s another thing I don’t believe in. Just see if you can find anything about a Santa’s-list artifact, would you?”

“Roger. By the way, how do you like your backup?” She chortles again and disconnects.

“I like my backup like I like the sunrise,” Myka tells the blank Farnsworth screen.

“What about the sunrise?” Helena asks from directly behind her.

Myka wishes the sound of her voice were either more or less startling. She wishes also that she knew exactly how much overhearing had occurred.

“It’s inevitable,” she sighs.

In response, Helena blinks.

They take the elevator to Nancy Sullivan’s office.

In that elevator, which is aggressively mirrored, Myka can’t help but glance repeatedly at herself. So many reflections. You called this into being, thinking about Alice’s mirror before, she accuses. She tries not to focus on how her hair could really stand to be more controlled... she’d focus on Helena instead, but who knows how that would be received? Instead she allows herself one glance, then looks down.

She likes being on the elevator with Helena, though; it’s a space of relative privacy, like the cab. Have they ever before been on an elevator together? Alone or otherwise? She runs through their interactions, fast-forwarding from the Wells house to D.C., Tamalpais to Moscow, Yellowstone, Colorado Springs, Ohio (here Myka trips over the fact that Helena’ s now been to Ohio twice, if only once in physical form), Pittsburgh, Hong Kong...

The review—the speed with which she can conduct it—reminds her of how limited that time has been, so: an elevator ride. Yet another bonus.

“That fellow,” Helena remarks, and Myka looks up again; their eyes meet in the mirror of the elevator’s doors. It’s uncanny, as if they’re both holograms, so Myka turns her body toward Helena, who meets Myka’s actual eyes and continues, “He attempted to make a lewd joke about his willingness and ability to be naughty when it’s called for. I pretended not to understand.”

Myka can’t help it: she snorts. “I bet he didn’t buy that for a second.”

“I have the ability to perform ‘prim’ when it’s called for,” Helena says, and Myka has to acknowledge that statement as good evidence of itself. Then Helena’s face reshapes into a devilish grin as she says, “In a slightly different vein, his quailing at those three letters with which you assailed him? Hilarious.”

“Letters?” A little perverse-quirk makes Myka want to hear Helena say them, though she’s probably not pulling off “disingenuous” in making the request.

Helena seems fine with the perversity, for she obliges: “I,” she begins, then draws out “Aaaaare.” Then, after a beat: “Esssss.”

Myka now herself feels assailed—by how right Helena’s reading her. She tries to step it down with, “I wasn’t aiming for hilarity. I never do. Claudia can vouch.” But she does spend a little moment thinking about the context of that previous assailing: we’re from the IRS. We are here, together, from an agency. We, together, represent. It isn’t by any means everything Myka would have wanted... but it’s something: part of this bonus. “Fred,” she says, sotto voce.

The office they’re seeking is on the building’s highest floor, suggestive of Nancy Sullivan’s bonus-approving rank; it features several large windows, one of which affords the office a view of the hallway, and vice versa. Through it, Myka and Helena watch a woman, presumably that powerful Nancy Sullivan, writing with a quill-esque pen.

“It’s the pen,” Myka says, because it has to be. “It’s always the stupid pen.”

“Always?” That’s unusually tentative, like Helena’s trying not to step.

“Okay, once,” Myka concedes. “My dad and Poe and a pen, and as a result I’ve developed a severe aversion to those quill things.”

Helena takes a beat. Then: “I never liked feather pens.”

“Are you just saying that,” Myka says, because she might be, and she might admit it, and that might be good or bad or something else Myka has no way of evaluating. Why does Helena say words like this? And for that matter, why does Myka keep spending her limited time on this planet trying to parse them?

“Yes? In that I’ve... said it?”

That really didn’t help with any of the whys. “I mean, just to make me feel better?”

Helena shrugs. “The fact is, today’s ballpoints et cetera are far more reliable. Does that make you feel better?”

She’s playing at being obtuse—surely that’s for a reason? But Myka has no time to wonder further, for Helena is knocking on the office door and opening it without waiting for an invitation, and the real retrieval is underway.

Myka flashes her badge. “I’m Agent Myka Bering, and this is Helena Wells. We’re from the IRS.” She glances at Helena—all these glances!—and gets a small smirk in response.

Rather than introducing herself, the woman says, “Really? I bet that’s not true.”

“Why?” Myka asks. Have she and Helena, over the course of the elevator ride, lost their ability to perform “official” correctly?

“I have a feeling you’re here for this,” Nancy Sullivan says, and she lofts the pen, waving it like a wand. “Mostly because I also have a feeling that I want to close my fist around it, punch my way past both of you, and make my escape.”

Well. “That’s self-aware,” Myka says. “Unusually so.”

“Thank you? Although it’s less self-awareness than kind of a... sixth sense.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “Sixth sense aside, we appreciate your good sense to refrain from attempting to punch your way past us. That would have ended poorly.”

“I wish I’d had the good sense not to use this pen,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“Is there a reason for your wish?” Helena asks. She sounds, to Myka’s ears at least, like a recently summoned, slightly flummoxed genie.

“Because of how much I liked using it—particularly when I realized nobody was going to question anything. I signed off on all these orders, and it was like...” she trails off. Then she concludes, “Magic.”

To keep her talking, Myka prompts, “Was it?”

“Having the power to reward good people has been fantastic,” Nancy Sullivan continues, “but penalizing the awful ones? I mean I’ve sort of resented feeling compelled to use the word ‘naughty’ about them, because that’s way out of character for me. But other than that? Utterly spectacular.”

“Bob,” Helena suggests.

“Oh, god, you met him?”

Helena offers a dry “Alas.”

Nancy Sullivan’s smile is as dry as Helena’s tone, astringently vindictive. “I could not have been more thrilled to hit him and everybody like him where it hurt... I admit I’ve always been kind of judgmental, but wielding this pen? Intensified. Like, the hates are more. In particular, the hates are more. I’m not saying the Bobs of this company didn’t deserve what I did, but I feel it more. Punishment. It’s satisfying, but also weirdly costly. Grinch-in-reverse costly.”

That’s a little on the nose. Myka glances at Helena again, because the satisfactions of punishment, of judgment, even of hate, are among the things they will need to talk about. Maybe. Someday. If they are to have a someday that is theirs... if that is even possible after so much time and tribulation... Myka lets the glance grow into a gaze, a resting regard, and it stays that way until Helena, too, glances, with the result then that their eyes meet and lock... such a clasp, Myka feels, could ground that potential, and potentially necessary, talk of things, if only they were not in the middle of a retrieval...

...which makes Myka think. Why are they in the middle of a retrieval?

“I wish I didn’t feel like I need to articulate this, but where did you get the pen?” she asks. Because she has a niggling sense of something larger happening, something beyond her grasp. Nevertheless, it is not—repeat, not—a vibe.

Fine. It might be a vibe.

“My cousin gave it to me,” says Nancy Sullivan.

“Your cousin,” Myka says. “Whose name is?” Now she’s knows what’s coming, and that has nothing to do with a vibe: no, it is entirely deduction based on experience.

“Pete Lattimer.”

TBC

[nicnacsnonsense]

“And if it [the sunlight spell for Buffy] doesn’t work, Giles never even needs to know about it.”

Yes, he does; it’s his shop, Willow! If you take his inventory and don’t pay for it, that’s going to show up on the balance sheet. And they could have just had her using a nonperishable item that she could put back after. Like if instead of taking the herbs from the shop, she had borrowed the mortar and pestle she was using. Because then it would still make sense for Anya to be upset, like this is a shop not a library and what if a customer comes in that would have bought that but can’t because you’re using it, but we can also sympathize with Willow thinking Giles wouldn’t mind she can clean it off and put it back in a couple minutes.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober Day 19: Feet

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 4965

Warnings: one instance of gendered language, the rest is gender neutral, foot fetish, foot job, toe licking, some angst for spice, reader is implied to have had a bad/abusive past but nothing is specifically mentioned in that regard

A/N: sorry I got so sidetracked for a minute there efvkefkeke but I'm back to finish these Kinktober prompts at last lol

⭐

You’re halfway through the door, tray of tea and afternoon snacks in hand, when you come to an abrupt, china rattling halt just over the threshold. That you very nearly send scalding hot liquid splashing across the floor doesn’t even seem to register in that moment as you incredulously widen your eyes at the back of Baizhu’s head. You’d expected to find the chair in front of his desk empty and the bed soundly occupied but — a quick, surreptitious glance at the neatly straightened sheets assures you you’re not imagining things, and you had in fact walked in on the exact opposite. 

What was he thinking?

“Doctor?” You call over, soft and politely tentative. 

He doesn’t even have the grace to act surprised at being caught, nor does he turn to look at you, and just keeps writing in the heavy ledger spread open before him without pause. 

“Ah, is it that time already?” He says over his shoulder in that always pleasant tone. “I thought I still had a chance to get a bit more work done before you came back and shackled me to my bed again.” 

“That’s not funny.” You sigh in defeat and shuffle further inside to come up alongside him at the desk. 

Standing there for a moment, you just watch him scribble away, dip his brush in the ink and carefully touch it to paper again before continuing on with nary a sign of interruption in the flowing script. You couldn’t quite make out what it said though — not because his penmanship was bad or anything. It was all clean and precise, and nearly perfectly balanced across the sheet but you didn’t know how to read half of the complicated characters, having never been taught more than a few of them. Baizhu was actively trying to rectify that but, well. You hadn’t quite made it that far yet. 

At last, you draw a pointed breath when he still won’t stop long enough to look up and actually acknowledge you. “What are you doing, doctor? You should be resting. You know that.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware you’re concerned about me overexerting myself and I do appreciate the care.” He chuckles softly, pausing to dip the long handled brush into the inkwell again. “But a tiny bit of inventory isn’t going to kill me, dear. I promise.” 

“Inventory?” You echo him in confusion. “How are you able to do that without looking in the storeroom or what’s stocked in the pharmacy?” 

Finally bringing his head up to offer you a small, gentle smile, Baizhu gestures somewhat vaguely at the room at large. “This is both my home and my livelihood, isn’t it? One would find me quite lacking if I wasn’t even aware of what inventory moves quickly and what lingers for a while. It’s not too difficult to estimate the daily needs of the pharmacy based on my years of previous experience keeping everything running as it should.” 

You were undoubtedly impressed by that, your brows lifting in surprise and something not unlike awe, and yet you still find yourself saying, “But what if something has suddenly changed and your estimates aren’t correct?”

Noising a brief sound of consideration, Baizhu lifts his unoccupied hand to thoughtfully touch the backs of his knuckles to his chin. “Hm, changed in what way? If there was a sudden influx of sick people all suffering from the same symptoms and, therefore, requiring the same kind of medicine, I certainly would have heard about it and could easily make the proper adjustments.” 

“But … I don’t know, what if someone was stealing from you?”

He blinks at that as he slowly glances up at you again. The tiny little smile that pulls at his mouth promptly makes you flush under his ever watchful eye. “Oh? And have you been helping yourself to my herbs, dear girl?” 

“N - no, of course not! I wouldn’t even think to do something like that!”

Chuckling, he serenely turns back to the ledger again. “I know you wouldn’t. I was only teasing you a little bit.” 

Trying not to pout and failing rather miserably at it, you turn your head away from him only to spot Changsheng curled up in a tight coil on the far windowsill, sunning herself in the mid morning sun. Well, at least that explained her suspicious lack of commentary thus far. Stamping down the urge to heave yet another sigh, you shuffle forward to place the tray on the corner of the desk. There wasn’t any use in trying to argue the matter further. Baizhu always had a ready answer on hand no matter what you questioned him about, and his need for bedrest was no different from the inventory in that regard.

“Would you care to sit with me for a while?” 

Your head comes up halfway through the motion of turning to leave, but his attention remains focused on what he’s writing. Perhaps you would have found it a bit off putting if only you were not quite so familiar with the doctor's usual habits and peculiarities. If he was asking you a question like that then it probably meant he was keen on having the company … or perhaps he just missed having Changsheng hanging off his neck. Not that you could exactly crawl on top of him and take her spot or anything but the sentiment was still a nice one, wasn’t it? 

“You wouldn’t find it too distracting to have me hovering around you, doctor?”

“Of course not, dear. Having you around is always such a pleasure.” 

Even the teasing tone in his voice is not enough to keep the smile off your face. Your initial misgivings are long forgotten now as you step behind his chair over to the other side of the desk where you eagerly hop up to perch on the ledge. Laughing under his breath, Baizhu reaches over to briefly dip the brush in ink yet again and then continues on with his work. Content just to be sharing his space with him like this, you watch on for what feels like a lifetime. It was always like that, though. You could have sat with him in complete silence all day and never gotten bored of looking at him. 

But it doesn’t last forever, and your skin tingles warmly when he eventually slides his free hand over to lightly touch yours where it’s braced atop the desk. It’s an idle gesture, one that he doesn’t seem to give much thought considering the way his brush just keeps flicking over the blocky characters without even a moment's pause. If you didn’t know any better you would have almost thought it a subconscious action. Something his fingers felt compelled to do for no other reason than the close proximity of another person. 

You were just as familiar with this part of him as his stubborn refusal to heed the warnings of others, however, so you allow your fingertips to brush over his palm. It was nice being able to share such quiet amity with him, and you suspected he felt much the same way as you did. A simple comfort. 

“There,” He finally sets the brush aside some minutes later with a satisfied exhale. “That should just about do it, I believe. I’ll just have to double check everything is as it should be once I’m allowed back into the pharmacy again.” 

“Doctor Baizhu,” You can’t quite keep the soft inflection out of your voice now. “I already told you those jokes aren’t funny. We’re not holding you hostage or anything like that …” 

His elegant shoulders softly shake as he turns that fond look on you again. “I know you’re not, dear. But the way you and Gui act it’s like you think I’m going to shatter at the first upset though. You know I’m more resilient than that, don’t you?” 

Frowning, you shift your attention down to your lap. Sometimes you weren’t so sure about that … but before you can figure out how to articulate that in a way that wouldn’t make you sound like an anxious mother hen (an ironic role reversal if there ever was one) Baizhu brings his hand up to rest across your knee. He gives it a brief squeeze that makes your pulse quicken, and you find yourself slowly glancing up from under the fall of your lashes. 

“Your heart is very much in the right place and I do appreciate it.” He tells you with perfect sincerity now. “I have no intention of admitting defeat so easily though. There are still many things I need to see to in this world before I can even think about crossing over to the next … teaching you how to read and write is right at the top of that list, for starters.” 

Your cheeks burn in shame and deep felt mortification alike. Baizhu had taken you in off the streets even when every shred of common sense should have dictated that it wasn’t a good idea to do so. Even Changsheng’s initial sass and uncertainty hadn’t been enough to dissuade him from it though, so you knew he wasn’t saying such things from a place of malice or discontent. He seemed to genuinely want the best for you — and that’s why you don’t protest when he runs his hand lower to comfortingly caress over your calf. 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He assures you with a gentle pat. “You’ve already made commendable progress in just the short amount of time we’ve been working on it. I’m very proud of you, you know.” 

You squirm, growing increasingly more flustered the more he not only talks but also touches you with that gentle familiarity. “Thank you, doctor. But … I'm just not sure how I can repay you for everything.” 

That wasn’t entirely true. You did have one idea. 

But you were always hesitant to instigate these sorts of encounters with him, mainly because regardless of how many times you went through the motions together Baizhu never sought you out himself. It was always you doing the pursuing, coming on to him and offering up thanks the only way you really knew how. He seemed perfectly willing once things got started so you didn’t necessarily think it was a matter of him not wanting to share the intimacy of a lover with you, but it did make you doubt yourself just a little bit. 

Even now the brush of his fingers on your leg remains innocent and unassuming as if the thought of where else this might otherwise lead had never even crossed his mind and he was perfectly content with simply appreciating the warmth of your skin against his. You weren’t sure if it was a result of him being so used to Changsheng’s near constant presence around his neck that made him this comfortable with casual touching or if he was just like this naturally, but he seemed not to want for anything more than that. Were you possibly overstepping some unspoken boundary when you laid yourself bare at his feet? Was he perhaps too polite and kind to tell you ‘no’ even if he really didn’t want it? 

You truly had no idea. Baizhu was so unlike anyone else you’d ever met that you really couldn’t make sense of him sometimes. The inventory, the way he refused to take care of himself amidst taking care of everyone else, the touching, his insistence that you should know how to read and write … he truly was an enigma. 

“You needn’t worry yourself about unnecessary things like that.” He tells you, and the affectionately gentle tone in his lilting voice just further throws you into turmoil. “I didn’t invite you into my home with the expectation of receiving anything in return so no thanks are necessary. Just keep doing your best every day and I’ll be perfectly content with that.” 

And isn’t that precisely why he deserved to be on the receiving end of such favors? 

Stealing another quick look at the far windowsill, you confirm that Changsheng is still softly snoozing away before shifting on top of the desk to fully face him. Baizhu tips his head in question, looking totally unawares, and it almost gives you pause. It’s a little hard to shake the feeling that perhaps you were the bad guy here, like maybe you were the one taking advantage of him, but … surely that wasn’t the case, right? If he didn’t want it he would have said so, wouldn’t he? 

You feel uncharacteristically shy, almost sheepish as you curl your leg up and brush the ankle against his thigh in clear suggestion. His expression promptly settles into a neutral look of understanding. He doesn’t show any signs of being pleased or excited by it, but he also doesn’t look repulsed by your advances either. Just accepting. Of you, of this — archons, even when he wasn’t teasing you he was still the most difficult and confusing man you’d ever known. 

“This isn’t something you need to do for me. You must know by now that I’ll be perfectly fine without it.” 

Face warming with what you think is probably shame, you nod in understanding. “I do, but … I’d like to make you feel good, if that’s okay.” 

Drawing a stitled breath that makes his narrow shoulders rise and then fall when he lets it out on a slow exhale, Baizhu loosely curls his fingers around your calf. Drags them lower to give your ankle a reassuring squeeze and then further down to nudge off your slipper. It hits the floor with a near silent flop against the hardwood, and then he’s cupping the heel of your foot in his palm. Gently lifting it to chest level, he bends to press a chaste kiss to your toes. 

“You’re very kind to me, dear, but I hope you don’t think I expect such favors from you just for providing you with a roof over your head.” He murmurs, and you give your head a shake this time. 

“That’s not it. I know you don’t. I just want to be able to do something for you in return …” And this was the only thing you knew how to do with any amount of skill. You were neither a scholar nor talented in any trade. You couldn’t read or write. Some days it felt like you struggled just to serve the tea properly. 

But this was something you had plenty of experience in and you liked to think you did it well. That doesn’t exactly disperse the niggling thought in the back of your mind that tells you you’re somehow forcing yourself on the doctor, that you were coercing or forcing him to give in. There’s a certain amount of guilt that comes with this, on your part at least, but you can’t quite seem to find the resolve to stop doing it. 

And Baizhu does give in, though not without an almost sad, barely noticeable softening of his strange burnished gold eyes. Still cradling your foot in his hand, he presses his mouth to the sensitive pad this time to make your toes flex at the ticklish feeling before lowering your leg. You watch him carefully direct it to his lap and a dull thrill races through you when the weight of him through his pants meets the arch. Using both hands now, he takes a moment to just fondle over the extremity and massage his fingers into your skin. An unexpected shudder dances up your spine when he locates a particularly tender spot that seems to bleed some of the tension from your body when he presses on it. 

Of all the things you’d expected to have to do for him this one had been relatively low on your list. Liking feet did not appear to be so strange or unheard of in the grander scheme, but you can’t quite decide how you actually felt about him using only this part of you to get off. Certainly other areas would make him feel even better — your mouth, at least, but he always kept his attention on your feet instead. That embarrasses you a bit too, if you were being honest, but the way he softly sighs in budding arousal stops you from pressing the matter. 

If this was what made him feel good then you would happily give that to him. 

“Your skin has gotten even softer since the last time,” He murmurs, clearly pleased by that. “Those herb scrubs are doing wonders to reverse the damage done before you came here. It really is a shame you had to struggle so much just to survive.” 

“It’s okay, since I don’t have to do those things anymore.” And you intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost or what it took. Baizhu had given you a new life, a new purpose for existing, so of course you would want to repay him. It was only natural, right? 

When he smiles it picks up the edge of sadness you can just make out in his eyes, but his voice remains soft and even toned. “Are you certain about this? I know you always seem eager to please but …” 

“I’m sure. You enjoy it, don’t you?” Pointedly curling your toes to nudge them against the faint bulge under your foot, you keenly observe the way his dark lashes give a slight flutter in response. He stirs underneath you, becoming more pronounced. A little thicker. But still, he doesn’t immediately jump at the chance. 

“I do. More than I’d like to admit, if I’m being honest.” His fingers tracing over the jut of your ankle bone, Baizhu regards you in quiet contemplation for a long moment before drawing a careful breath. “Thank you for having me in this way, dear. I don’t exactly have the time to cultivate many relationships, and taking on a lover seems … ill advised, given my condition. As long as you understand that there is a limit to what I can give you in return, I have no qualms about it.” 

Your stomach sinks. So that was it then, wasn’t it? His hesitancy didn’t stem from a lack of wanting but wary caution when his own mortality always at the forefront of his mind, dictating all of his decisions. What he could do, what he would allow himself to do, how much he would comfortably let another person in. That was the crux. 

Perhaps you should have felt bad about chipping away at his self erected defenses to end up at this point where he was openly admitting it to you, but somehow you just really don’t. 

You feel emboldened, in fact, and you gently rub the pad of your foot over him with a fresh spike of courage searing your veins. Baizhu hums a low sound in response and lets his eyes slip shut for a moment, just basking in the sensation. It was vindicating, in a way. Knowing it wasn’t a problem with you or the burden you’d been carrying when you came to him. The fact he’d held out this long — no doubt wanting to avoid any further exploitation — was a testament to his strength of will, but he was still human. He was still a man with all the hardwired urges and impulses of any other. 

Just as you’d thought, then. You really were the only one who could take care of him in this way. 

Directing your foot a little lower down, you take a moment to gently nudge at and tease the weight of his ballsack between his legs. You can see the growing tent in his pants now, straining up just above your toes. He looses a shuddering breath and slowly rolls his hips forward to grind himself on you. A sense of reluctance still remains, you can see it in the tense set of his shoulders, but that doesn’t quite stop him from acting on it. 

“You’ve already done so much for me, doctor Baizhu.” You whisper into the suddenly static air. “Let me do something for you now.” 

Hissing a low sound of wanting, he tips his face down to watch your foot slide up the now rigid length of his cock. A glossy strand of hair slips forward to hang over his shoulder, matching the crystal bauble that dangles off his glasses. It swings softly at the motion, drawing your attention to it for a brief stretch, but his attention remains locked on what you’re doing in his lap. You can tell he wants to, so you reach up a little higher to toe at the sash around his waist. 

“Untie this for me?” 

Baizhu hesitates only for as long as it takes you to blink, and then he’s stiffly bringing his hands up to tug at the knot. It comes loose with a near silent slither, not unlike one that Changsheng would make, and you dart your eyes up to make sure she was still where you’d last seen her. It didn’t look like she’d so much as moved since you’d entered the room some time ago though. Hopefully she really was fast asleep over there in the warm sun or she at least had the sense to keep pretending to be. The doctor wasn’t afforded many opportunities like this, and you knew he’d put an end to it immediately if she alerted him. 

But for now at least, he makes quick work of getting his soft pants pushed down enough to allow his cock to spring up between the two of you. A hot pulse of wanting spears through you at the sight, your desire to do more with it than simply rub your feet on it almost overpowering your higher functioning mind. But you pointedly stay on track, and lift your leg to press that stiff length against his flat stomach. Using this to brace against, you start to rub the pad of your foot up and down, up and down the silky underside of him. 

Moaning very softly, Baizhu leans back in his chair to watch as if in transfixed silence. The light blanket he had resting over his shoulders fans out slightly with the shift, and you dare to scoot a little further over on the desk so that you’re sitting almost directly in front of him now. The soft rustle of movement settles back into silence again, interspersed only by the occasional chirp of a bird outside the window or the distant sounds of city life beyond. Lifting your eyes, you look Baizhu in the face. 

To your surprise, he’s looking back at you. 

“Thank you.” Is all he says, and the hushed tone of arousal in those two simple words makes your blood boil. Oh, how you wanted him to be yours so badly. 

“You needn’t thank me, doctor.” You murmur as you fan your toes out over the head of his cock and knead them down into the glans. It makes his chest hitch, his golden gaze taking on a far away, almost dreamy quality. 

Quickly, you bring your other foot up and snatch the slipper off that one too. You don’t even register the sound of it hitting the floor as you press in on the base to massage both ends of him at the same time. A faltering groan slips out of delicately parted lips, and he tips his head back to sigh up at the ceiling in appreciation. 

It’s a bit awkward like this, but you soon find a steady rhythm that has your feet moving over him in tandem while he sedately rolls his hips forward to fuck himself on the pads, arches and toes. Just as every other time it’s escalated to this, Baizhu shows no visible signs of uncertainty now and, in fact, he’s actually quite open about how much he’s enjoying it. You can see the deep rise and fall of his chest gradually become more pronounced, the muscles in his stomach flexing tight with each slow motion grind against your feet. He’s beautiful like this. Even more so than he usually is, and you idly wonder if he would allow himself to express his pleasure more vocally if it was just the two of you. No employees or snakes, or zombie children to potentially alert and interrupt the moment. 

Maybe if you did well enough he would let you find out some day. 

“Are you sure this is enough?” You finally venture to ask when his straining cock pulses eagerly under your toes. It was no exaggeration to say that you would have given him anything he wanted, no matter how strange or demeaning it may have been, but he only gives his head a distracted shake. 

“Yes, dear, just like this is fine. More than fine, actually.” Drawing a shuddering breath, Baizhu brings his attention back down as he lifts a hand up to grasp your topmost foot. He takes a moment to covetously squeeze it, feeling along the skin before carefully guiding it towards his chest once again. “I don’t think I’m in any position to ask for more anyway, but this is plenty. I’m afraid I can’t seem to get enough of these cute toes of yours as it is.” 

Your heart stutters a beat when he bends his head over your captured limb and instead of leaving it at just the kiss he reverently presses into the toes, he opens his mouth to lick over the thin layer of skin as well. The sensation makes you jolt, especially when he drags his tongue between the first two digits to attack the sensitive webbing inside. You seethe and try very hard not to yank your foot away when it tickles almost enough to make you squeal. Baizhu doesn’t appear all that concerned about it though, and he merely peers up at you from over the rim of his glasses. Watching your reaction, or perhaps gauging how much you could take before you couldn’t reasonably keep your voice in check any longer. Either way, he’d never taken it quite this far before and you had no idea what to make of it. 

Not the fact he was doing it at all or the startling revelation that comes with it. You hadn’t expected the space between your toes to be this sensitive, and you shudder despite yourself. 

“D - doctor …!” 

He lets out a low sound of pleasure, warm breath puffing against damp skin as he reaches over with the opposite hand to grasp the foot still keeping his cock pinned. Fondling over it, he maintains his eye contact with you when he swipes his tongue between your toes a second time, and you really do almost recoil. You’d never felt anything quite like it before. Soft and warm, and squishy, and you really weren’t sure how you felt about it wriggling over your toes like that. 

Pulling in a quiet gasp, you clutch the edge of the desk in a death grip while he grinds his throbbing cock against one foot and licks at the other. His breathing was quickly turning ragged, his cheeks a little flushed. It makes your head spin to see him like that, but somehow the borderline ticklish sensation of his tongue almost manages to distract you from it. 

If he ever put his mouth on the spot between your legs like that … 

“Ohh, goodness,” Panting, Baizhu hunches forward over your legs with a full bodied shudder. The motion of his hips falters for a split second and then morphs into something a bit more urgent. More needy. His cock stiffly works back and forth, back and forth across the soft arch of your foot, along the pad and up to nudge your toes before dragging back down again. 

It’s not hard to imagine him rutting inside your body this way, and it pulls a low moan from the back of your throat. The sound seems to tip him over the edge and, brows knitting in deeply felt pleasure, he presses his mouth firm against the bottom of the foot he’s still clasping, hissing against the skin. His sputtering length gives a muted twitch. You can feel the dull, subsequent contractions that follow as it pumps out a thin jet of creamy fluid to coat your extremity, and then another. He goes still with one final spurt, issuing a frazzled, sensitive moan that quietly trails off into nothing. 

The resounding silence is almost too much for you to bear. 

“I’m sorry,” He wheezes at length, once he’s calmed his breathing down some. “I seem to have made quite a mess.”

“It’s alright.” Trying to keep your voice pleasantly even, you curl your toes down into the softening cock to lightly massage it. “As long as you feel good that’s all that matters. I’m just glad I can do something for you …” 

Releasing a stilted exhale, he gingerly straightens up in his chair. You don’t miss the vague grimace that crosses his lovely face when he sees the sticky evidence of your illicit activities, and Baizhu softly tuts as he reaches into a pocket to withdraw a dainty handkerchief. He uses it to wipe up the clumpy mess with another soft word of apology, his hands gentle where they touch. Looking at him like that, bent over your feet and sincerely apologizing for something you’d talked him into doing, you once again find yourself being hit with a strange sense of guilt. It was only natural to want to thank him with such favors … wasn’t it? 

So then why did you feel like you’d done something wrong?

⭐

Crossposted: here

[fangbangerghoul]

Since Friday I have been nonstop deep cleaning. It was started due to the fact that I had a Graduation BBQ scheduled for Saturday. The celebration was for the associate's degree in psych I received back in the fall. I am now at another university working towards my Bachelor's in polysci prelaw It has been a lot on me. So, I am putting down everything I have done the past 4 days so I can see the actual amount of labor I have put in and get some things off my chest. I will put it all under a cut because I know occasionally coming across long posts can be irritating.

Friday:

deep cleaned the living room

organized my kiddo's toy by size and function

moved smaller toys and less used toys upstairs

rearranged the living room

so, my room was then a mess, and this took me several hours (8am-3pm)

Saturday:

had to finish the living room and also tackle the kitchen

dusted the living room

swept and mopped the floors and walls

had to organize a semesters worth of paper from kiddos school along with loose bills and other papers that have piled up

cleaned all the counters

cleaned the accumulation of dishes

had party

had to clean up after the party but thankfully I did not have to cook

Sunday:

had to fix my room, it was driving me insane that things were everywhere

separated kiddos toys even further

organized toys into proper placements

rearranged my own items on desk, near bed

tried to fix my bed more (sheets, make sure nothing was piled around it)

this was the easiest day because I was beyond sore from the previous two days

Monday:

I had to finally do the clothes

tore out all of the clothes from the closest

separated them from my own and kiddos

separated them from summer and winter

hung up all my clothes within my closest

organized all of kiddo's clothes into two small dressers

tore out the remaining items out of the closet

rearranged organization and put things in keep and throw away piles

vacuum the carpet and gather all the loose paper and garage

put everything back in the closet

ive done this from 1030a - 430pm

This probably wouldn't have been so bad if I was able to do a little bit of this over time. However, I live with my intermediate family (There are 4 adults including me and my child) and they never deep clean. This past semester I had to dedicate all of the free time I had (so time where I didn't have to be in mom mode) to schoolwork. Which did pay off because I ended both classes with an A+ and a B+ and my GPA is 3.65 but the house had a special layer of yuck.

So, cleaning dust, cleaning walls, moving things to sweep under, organizing cabinets, etc. They just don't do it. That means it always falls on me because I am the only one who seems to see these things and think hmm that really needs to be done. The most they do is dishes, take garbage, occasionally a bathroom. I wouldn't mind doing the brunt of the housework if in exchange I was compensated for the extra amount of work I do. Because I also am the main one that cooks, prepares meals, and keeps inventory of the house. (I also do not work but even when I did, I still had to do these things. And I am not going to stand here and mother the house when 1. I have my own child to mother 2. they have all been on this earth long enough to know these things and 3. I don't have it in me to provide that extra emotional labor)

Doing all of these tasks have wrecked me, the spoons are gone, my body aches all over and the fatigue has doubled over. BUT the majority of what needs to be done is finished and I am hoping I can keep up with the organization now that kiddo and I do not have rigid schedules due to school. Sad part is I am not sure if I have the energy to do the things that bring me joy to recoup.

Also, if I never had gotten to the downstairs shared spaces, I would have never been able to tackle my own space. It is always a shitty balance of I either focus on my own area or I help the household.

Don't get me wrong I am well aware of the privilege I have to live with family to complete my degrees while I raise my child. But my entire life with my family I have had to choose between financial security or my mental and emotional wellbeing. I always pay more than what is received.

[ask-winston-zeddemore]

Mr. Zeddemore, why was the last inventory you did a year ago?

You know that as soon as the next annual balance sheet is due we need one??? I'll be looking through the last recorded inventory to determine which pack is missing since otherwise we would have more difficulties.

-Cas (@ask-cas-hoppe)

What? I thought I had someone on inventory already. That's strange, could you please run inventory while you're there, and I'll get someone on that asap.

[specialagentlokitty]

Mr Evershed x Student!reader - your role model

Hello, I have another idea for a EvershedStudent! Reader. Could you please write about a Student, who works after school in the restaurant until late in the evening, thats why Reader is usually tired at school? Evershed meets Reader in the restaurant because Reader is serving him. He sees the pressure Reader is under (strict boss) and how Reader tries to balance school and work. However, the Student needs the work because he/she is an orphan and the foster Family doesn't care what happens to Reader. Reader is trying to not spend time at the forster home, saving money from working to have a better life and Evershed takes care of the student. Key word: father figure. - Anon 💜

Sitting at the desk, you had your head resting on your hand as you looked at the computer before looking back at the sheet of paper next to you.

“(Y/N) you’re on close tonight.”

You turned to your boss.

“What? I’ve been here since 4, in supposed to finish at 7.” You said.

“And, bar manager called in sick, Terry needs to cover bar, you’re going to here until close. Before you ask you’re not getting overtime and I need you to run point on the delivery that’s just come in, then do the health and safety checks for the stage for tomorrow.”

You sighed a little and nodded your head, knowing it was best not to argue with your manager.

You weren’t to bothered, the restaurant itself closed at 10, so it was only a few extra hours, and you weren’t allowed to work in the bar so you could go straight away.

“Peter, I’m doing the stock take and I notice the inventory isn’t matching up.” You said.

He looked over your shoulder and looked at the paper.

“Count it again, I’m going home. Let bar management when know when you’re done.”

With that he grabbed his jacket and left and you sighed as you picked up the paper, slipping it into the pocket of your apron you left the office.

Terry waved you over and you padded behind the bar, and he leant back on the counter as he looked at you.

“Overtime?”

“Yup, but whatever I don’t really care. There’s a discrepancy in the stock, can you help me check it after I’ve done delivery?”

“Yeah, you’re not waiting today?”

“Short staffed so guess who’s got to do all the managers duties because he wants to go home.” You scoffed.

“Jeez kid, you’re not even getting supposed to be doing it.”

You shrugged a little and picked up the clipboard and a pen.

“More experience at least. I’m leaving as soon as I can anyways.”

You walked away, tucking the clipboard under your arm as you walked through the restaurant to the back to sort the delivery and you stopped when you didn’t see it.

“Gemma where’s the delivery?” You called.

The waitress turned around and shrugged.

“I think it’s outside waiting for someone to handle it, the driver doesn’t know where to take it!” She called.

You groaned and made your way back through the restaurant, pushing the door opened you smiled at the driver and apologised.

“Just take it through the back, I’ll sort it there.” You smiled.

“You sure? I can put them where you need them, it’s my last delivery anyway.”

“Nah it’s cool, you gotta get home.”

You filled in some paperwork and walked back into the restaurant, watching as he brought the things through for you.

While you were stood there you saw some people out the corner of your eye come in and look around.

“Katie can you seat those customers please?”

“No problem.” She smiled.

She showed them to their seats which just happened to be in front of where you stood and you carried on watching the delivery man and when he was done he passed you some more paperwork and left.

“(Y/N)?”

You flicked your eyes up and looked back down before you stopped what you were doing and lowered the clipboard.

There sat your teacher with what you could only assume was his family.

“Evening sir, how are you?” You smiled.

“I’m good thanks. How are you?”

You heard your name being called and you smiled at him.

“I’m good I’m sorry I’ve got to go but come find me if you need anything.”

Padding over to the kitchen assistant who was calling you, you helped him with his issue and made your way back over to the bar staff who were with the delivery.

“Do we have an inventory list for this lot or has Terry lost it again?”

“No, no, I’ve got it.” You laughed.

You handed her the list and crouched down, marking of the number of boxes that you had sitting there and you pulled a marker out of your pocket.

Marking a few of them you stood up.

“These ones need to go straight to the bar, just leave everything else in the back for now it’s going to be a busy night don’t stress about those ones.”

You heard your phone ringing and you set your clipboard down, pulling your phone out you saw it was the manager of the restaurant.

Answering it, you had a brief phone call before sighing and hanging up, walking over to Katie who was talking to Mr Evershed.

“Sorry to intrude, we’ll just be a second.”

You pulled her away and pinched the bridge of your nose.

“So Peter has approved of Megan’s, Ryan’s and Reece’s holidays. You’re going to be three people down tonight, bar staff don’t need to be covering the bar until 9, can you manager that?”

“Yeah that’s fine, don’t worry we’ll manage.” She smiled.

You nodded and let her carry on and Mr Evershed watched as you rushed away.

The entire time he was there he would see you walking to and from somewhere, filling in papers or carrying boxes.

“Martin it’s just her job.” His wife whispered.

“I know, I know. But she’s so young, she shouldn’t be doing half of this.”

His wife gave him a look and he dropped it, not wanting to push it anymore.

Things were already tense since he had become acting head teacher of the school. He wanted to work on his marriage and make it work, but part of him couldn’t help but worry about you.

He was halfway through his meal when he heard your name being called from the door and a lot of people look up and so did you.

“You changed the rota?!” Peter snapped.

“What choice did I have? Katie needs more people for her team, a few people agreed to come in.” You said.

Peter stormed over and pulled you into the far corner of the restaurant.

“So you changed the rota?! You’re not a manager!”

“We’re understaffed sir! I don’t have much choice here with it being delivery, the bar is about to be flooded by football lovers, Katie needs people for the last two hours.”

Peter looked at you furiously and pointed a finger.

“They’re overtime is coming out of your pay!” He snapped.

He stormed into the office and slammed the door and you just sighed, going back to what you were doing.

The following day you weren’t at school, you had called in sick, unable to tell the school you were working.

It was a Friday so you weren’t too fussed, but over the entire weekend all you did was work, you had no time for your homework.

A few weeks passed, and Mr Evershed had forgotten about what happened at the restaurant but when he was covering a class and he saw you falling asleep he remembered it again.

It was last class of the day, so he didn’t say anything, but when the bell went you snapped to attention and quickly started packing everything away.

“(Y/N) could we have a word?”

Looking up at him you shook your head and checked your watch.

“Sorry sir, I can’t. Can we talk tomorrow or something?”

With that, you grabbed your keys from the table and rushed away.

He was dragged to the bar that night by a few other teachers, and again he spotted you running through the doors.

“You’re late.” Peter snapped.

“Sorry! Im sorry!” You gasped out.

Mr Evershed frowned from where he was stood at the bar.

“Isn’t that (Y/N)?” Mr Hussain whispered.

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

Both teachers watched the scene play out.

“There’s absolutely no excuse for it! You’re on thin ice already (L/N) I will fire you right here!”

You went to reply but when you felt a hand on your shoulder you looked up at Mr Hussein.

Mr Evershed stepped up as well.

“Im sorry she was late, we were trying to get her to join football club. We didn’t know she was already committed to other things.” Mr Evershed smiled.

“Yeah bro, completely our fault.” The other teacher nodded.

Peter looked at you then the two teachers before sighing.

“Whatever as long as it don’t happen again.”

Your manager left and you turned to the teachers.

“Thanks, sorry I’ve got to get to work now.”

You rushed away and they went back to the bar to carry on talking and enjoying a few drinks.

That’s when Mr Evershed noticed the sharp drop in not just your grades but your attendance as well.

He was incredibly worried, he tried to find some sort of contact details for a parent or guardian but there was none.

“Loraine!” He called.

She came walking in.

“Why’s there no contact details for (Y/N)s parents?”

“She’s never given us any. They’ve never turned up to any meetings or anything, I have an address and a phone number for (Y/N) that’s it.”

Mr Evershed nodded and asked for them both.

He tried calling but it went to voicemail, so he left a message and waited another day, but there was no response and he finally gave in.

He needed to check up on you, so, knowing he shouldn’t, he went to your address and found himself in a very dodgy part of Ackley, and the building looked like it was falling apart as he walked in.

He found your flat number and lightly knocked on the door.

There was a bit of grumbling on the other side and the door opened.

“Mr Evershed?”

“I came to check on you, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry I’ve been busy. You can come in if you want, or if not we can go for a walk or something?”

“How about a walk?” He smiled.

You nodded, asking him to wait a few minutes and you came back to the door, locking it behind him you left the building and began to walk.

“You’ve not been at school, your grades are dropping and last time you were in you were falling asleep. Is everything okay (Y/N)?”

You sighed and sat on a bench at a small empty park, so he sat down with you.

“I’m sorry sir, I’ve been really stressed out with work.”

“You know you don’t need to work yet, right? You’ve still got time.”

You shook your head.

“I need to work.. if I don’t I’ll loose my flat…” you mumbled.

Mr Evershed frowned a little and looked at you. He could see you were exhausted.

“Do you live alone…?” He asked softly.

You nodded your head, refusing to look up at him and he found himself speechless.

You were so young, and you were working, just trying to do anything to keep a roof over your own head.

“I’ve been living alone since last year… my parents passed away when I was younger, and my foster family didn’t care about me, so I moved out. It’s not the best flat, but it’s my home you know?”

“You know the school can help you with this right?”

You shook your head.

“I don’t want your handouts sir, I’ve worked hard for what I have. I don’t want to take what someone else might need.”

Mr Evershed looked at you.

“And what about what you need?”

“I have everything I need, I have a roof over my head, a job that pays the bills, and my neighbors give me extra shopping they don’t want.”

“You can’t shop?”

“I usually eat at work or school.”

Mr Evershed shook his head and stood up, putting his hands in his pockets.

“I can’t let this carry on, come on.”

You looked up frantically.

“You can’t take my flat away from me!”

“I’m not, we’re just going to buy you some shopping.”

“It’s okay, I have some stuff.”

“Uh huh? What do you have?”

You gave him a short list and he shook his head, crouching down to look up at you with a soft smile on his face.

“I don’t mind it (Y/N), I’ve got more than enough at Home. How about we just get you some basic things?”

“Don’t know what I need…” you mumbled.

He chuckled a little and stood up, holding his hand out.

“Let’s go write a list then, I’m not letting you carry on this way. Okay? You can quit your job, the school can get you set up on benefits for your rent and other bills.”

You looked up at him.

“I’m not quitting, but I guess I can lower my hours a bit…”

“That’s a start.”

You let him pull you up and you took him back so he could help you write a shopping list and he took you to get everything that you needed.

Mr Evershed helped bring it back and he helped you out it all away.

He found a way to get you benefits that would cover your living costs, and he arranged after school classes to help you catch up on everything.

It became routine for him to bring you shopping once every two weeks, and he would leave you some money just in case you needed it.

He saw a huge change, you weren’t as stressed anymore and the half term came around.

Mr Evershed came to drop of some shopping and saw you standing in front of your sink with things all over the place.

“(Y/N)?”

“I think I broke my sink?”

Setting the bags down, Mr Evershed crouched down and you showed him the problem.

“Maybe we should call a plumber?” He asked.

“Oh you can do that?”

Mr Evershed smiled and nodded and quickly called for someone before coming back over and watching you sit down as you unpacked shopping.

“You got me this?”

You held up a tub of sweets.

“It’s your favourite, of course. You’ve got to have snacks too.”

You grinned and passed him things to put away and then asked him to help you with your homework.

Mr Evershed had basically become your dad, he was a role model for you, someone to look up to and ask for help or advice with.

He had basically adopted you, he attended parents evening on your behalf, made note of what you liked and didn’t like, but made sure to keep it fair with school work and grades.

At the end of the day he was the headteacher, he had a duty of care to his students, but felt like he had some extra responsibility for you and he had to look after you.

Because you didn’t have anyone else, and he couldn’t let that happen

[mysticdreamwalker]

21+

### Character Sheet: Julia

//Mun is 26!//

#### Basic Information

- **Name:** Julia

- **Age:** 26

- **Gender:** Female

- **Species:** Human

- **Occupation:** Works at a record shop

- **Residence:** Lives alone with two cats

- **Personality Traits:** Introverted, imaginative, perceptive, introspective, loyal

- **Appearance:** 5'8, Hazel eyes, orange dyed hair which she frequently changes.

#### Background

- **History:**

- Julia grew up in a quiet suburb, always feeling a bit out of place and drawn to the world of dreams and stories.

- She moved to the city for more independence and to escape the mundane life she felt trapped in.

- Working at a record shop, she surrounds herself with music and stories, seeking solace in them.

- She has a strong bond with her two cats, who provide her with companionship.

- **Family:** She doesn't speak to her parents anymore but has a sister she still speaks too back home.

- **Hobbies:** Reading, listening to music, collecting rare vinyl records, and exploring the city at night.

#### Abilities

- **Entering the Dreaming:** Julia has the unique ability to enter the Dreaming, a realm of dreams and nightmares governed by Morpheus (Dream of the Endless).

- **Trigger:** Often triggered by intense emotions or when she falls into a deep sleep while listening to music.

- **Control:** She is still learning to control her entry and navigation within the Dreaming.

- **Dream Manipulation (Developing):** With practice, Julia may develop the ability to manipulate aspects of the Dreaming, shaping her surroundings and interacting with dream entities.

#### Relationships

- **Dream of the Endless:** As Julia spends more time in the Dreaming, she may encounter Dream and form a connection with him.

- **Cats:** Her two cats, Luna and Sol, are her closest companions. In the Dreaming, they might take on more significant or symbolic roles.

- **Coworkers:** She has a few acquaintances at the record shop but hasn't formed deep friendships.

#### Equipment and Inventory

- **Personal Items:**

- A journal where she records her dreams and experiences in the Dreaming.

- A locket with a picture of her late grandmother, who used to tell her fantastical stories.

- Her favorite pair of headphones, which she uses to listen to music that often influences her journeys into the Dreaming.

- **Dreaming Tools:** (Potential items she might acquire as her abilities grow)

- A charm or talisman given by a denizen of the Dreaming to help her navigate.

- A special song that, when played, facilitates her entry into the Dreaming.

#### Skills and Attributes

- **Skills:**

- **Music Knowledge:** Extensive knowledge of music and records, which helps her connect with the Dreaming.

- **Observation:** Highly perceptive, able to notice subtle details both in the waking world and the Dreaming.

- **Writing:** Good at documenting her dreams and experiences, which helps her understand and navigate the Dreaming better.

- **Attributes:**

- **Intellect:** High, due to her curiosity and love for learning.

- **Willpower:** Strong, which aids in resisting nightmares and negative influences in the Dreaming.

- **Empathy:** Moderate, she cares deeply but finds it hard to connect with people in the waking world.

### Potential Story Arcs

1. **Discovery of Powers:** Julia's journey to understand and control her ability to enter the Dreaming.

2. **Connection with Dream:** Developing a relationship with Dream and understanding her role within the Dreaming.

3. **Facing Nightmares:** Confronting personal fears and traumas within the Dreaming, and how they reflect her waking life.

4. **Balancing Worlds:** Struggling to balance her waking life and responsibilities with her adventures in the Dreaming.

### Notes

- Julia's character can evolve as she faces different challenges in both the waking world and the Dreaming.

- Her interactions with characters from the Sandman universe can provide growth and deeper understanding of her abilities and purpose.

[mary-maud]

This is your life. This is yours. You can establish an exact inventory of your meagre fortune, the precise balance sheet of your first quarter-century. You are twenty-five years old, you have twenty-nine teeth, three shirts and eight socks, a few books you no longer read, a few records you no longer play. You do not want to remember anything else, be it your family or your studies, your friends and lovers, or your holidays and plans. You travelled and you brought nothing back from your travels. Here you sit, and you want only to wait, just to wait until there is nothing left to wait for: for night to fall and the passing hours to chime, for the days to slip away and the memories to fade.

Georges Perec - Un homme qui dort

[cannabisbusinessloans]

A Comprehensive Guide to Cannabis Business Loans

The burgeoning cannabis industry presents a plethora of opportunities for entrepreneurs. However, navigating the financial landscape can be challenging. This guide aims to answer your pressing questions about cannabis business loans, from eligibility to alternative financing options, ensuring you are well-equipped to make informed decisions.

1. What are the Requirements for Cannabis Business Loans?

Navigating the requirements for cannabis business loans can be intricate, but a clear understanding of eligibility, qualifications, and loan criteria is pivotal. Lenders typically scrutinize several key factors.

Credit Score: A solid credit score is often a primary requirement. It reflects your creditworthiness and ability to repay the loan. Higher scores can lead to favorable loan terms and lower interest rates.

Business Plan: A comprehensive and well-articulated business plan is essential. It should outline your business model, market analysis, revenue projections, and operational strategy, demonstrating the viability and profitability of your venture.

Financial Statements: Lenders will assess your financial health through statements like balance sheets, income statements, and cash flow projections. These documents provide insights into your business’s profitability, liquidity, and overall financial stability.

Collateral: Securing the loan with assets can enhance your eligibility. Collateral can include real estate, equipment, or inventory, providing the lender with security and potentially lowering the interest rate.

Licensing and Compliance: Given the nature of the cannabis industry, ensuring that your business adheres to state and local regulations is crucial. Proper licensing and compliance documentation will be necessary.

Understanding and meeting these requirements can significantly streamline the application process and improve your chances of securing a cannabis business loan.

2. Which Banks Offer Loans to Cannabis Businesses?

Finding cannabis-friendly banks and financial institutions can be a challenge due to the industry’s unique regulatory landscape. While many traditional banks are cautious about engaging with cannabis businesses due to federal restrictions, several specialized lenders and credit unions have emerged to fill the gap.

Specialized Cannabis Banks: Some banks specialize in serving the cannabis industry, understanding its nuances and offering tailored financing options. These banks are typically more familiar with state regulations and industry-specific risks.

Credit Unions: Several credit unions have embraced the cannabis industry, providing a range of financial services and loans. They often have a community focus and may be more flexible in their lending criteria.

Alternative Lenders: Beyond banks and credit unions, alternative lenders can offer a variety of financing options. These lenders might be more willing to take on the perceived risks associated with the cannabis industry and offer more flexible terms.

State-Based Financial Institutions: In states where cannabis is legal, some local banks and financial institutions are more open to providing loans to cannabis businesses, as they are more attuned to state regulations and the local market.

Researching and building relationships with these institutions can help you identify the most suitable financing options for your cannabis business.

3. What are the Interest Rates on Cannabis Business Loans?

Interest rates on cannabis business loans can vary widely, depending on factors such as the lender, loan type, creditworthiness, and whether collateral is provided. Here’s what you need to know:

Variability: Given the perceived risk associated with the cannabis industry, interest rates can be higher compared to other industries. Rates can vary from single digits to upwards of 20%, depending on the specific circumstances of the loan.

Loan Type: Different types of loans come with different rates. For instance, equipment financing might have different rates compared to working capital loans or real estate loans. Understanding the cost associated with each loan type is essential.

Credit Score: Your credit score plays a significant role in determining the interest rate. Higher credit scores generally lead to lower interest rates, while lower scores may result in higher rates and more stringent terms.

Collateral: Secured loans, where collateral is provided, often have lower interest rates compared to unsecured loans. The value and type of collateral can also influence the rate.

Market Conditions: Economic conditions and market trends can also impact interest rates. Staying informed about the current economic climate can help you anticipate potential rate fluctuations.

Applying for a cannabis business loan involves several steps, and being well-prepared can significantly streamline the process. Here’s a step-by-step guide to help you navigate the application process:

Research Lenders: Start by researching and identifying potential lenders that specialize in cannabis business loans. Consider banks, credit unions, alternative lenders, and state-based financial institutions that are familiar with the cannabis industry.

Prepare Documentation: Gather all necessary documentation, including your business plan, financial statements, licensing and compliance documents, and any collateral information. Ensuring that your documents are accurate and up-to-date will facilitate a smoother application review.

Online Application: Most lenders offer an online application form for convenience. Fill out the form meticulously, providing all requested information. Double-check your entries for accuracy before submission.

Initial Review: After submission, the lender will conduct an initial review of your application and documentation. They may request additional information or clarification on certain aspects of your application.

Credit Check: A credit check will likely be performed to assess your creditworthiness. This will help the lender determine the risk associated with your loan and influence the terms and interest rate offered.

Loan Offer: If your application is successful, the lender will present a loan offer outlining the terms, interest rate, repayment schedule, and any conditions or covenants. Review this offer carefully and consider seeking legal or financial advice before acceptance.

Finalize Agreement: Once you agree to the terms, you’ll finalize the loan agreement. Ensure that you understand all the conditions and obligations before signing.

Funds Disbursement: After the agreement is finalized, the lender will disburse the funds according to the agreed terms. Use the funds responsibly and in accordance with the loan purpose.

Being diligent, organized, and proactive throughout the application process can enhance your chances of securing a cannabis business loan that aligns with your business needs.

5. Are There Any Government Grants or Programs for Cannabis Businesses?

While the cannabis industry faces challenges in accessing federal assistance due to its classification under federal law, there are still avenues to explore for government grants and programs:

State Programs: Some states where cannabis is legal offer programs and grants specifically designed to support cannabis businesses. These programs may provide financial assistance, training, and resources to help cannabis entrepreneurs succeed.

SBA Loans: While the Small Business Administration (SBA) generally does not provide loans to cannabis businesses directly, some ancillary businesses that do not handle the plant directly may be eligible for SBA loans.

Economic Development Programs: Local economic development programs may offer support to businesses contributing to job creation and economic growth, including those in the cannabis industry.

Agricultural Grants: Cannabis cultivators may explore agricultural grants available at the state or local level. These grants can support agricultural innovation, sustainability, and development.

Minority and Social Equity Programs: Some states and cities have introduced social equity programs aimed at supporting minority entrepreneurs and those affected by the war on drugs in entering the cannabis industry.

Researching available options, staying informed about legislative changes, and networking with industry groups can help uncover potential government grants or programs for your cannabis business.

6. What Types of Loans are Available for Cannabis Businesses?

Cannabis businesses have access to a variety of loan types, each designed to meet specific financial needs. Understanding the different options available can help you select the most suitable solution:

Working Capital Loans: These loans are designed to finance everyday business operations, such as purchasing inventory, covering payroll, or managing cash flow gaps. They are typically short-term and can be secured or unsecured.

Equipment Financing: Equipment financing is tailored for businesses looking to purchase or lease equipment. The equipment itself often serves as collateral, potentially leading to favorable terms and interest rates.

Real Estate Loans: Real estate loans assist businesses in purchasing, refinancing, or developing commercial properties. These loans usually have longer repayment terms and may offer competitive interest rates.

Line of Credit: A business line of credit provides flexible access to funds up to a certain limit. You only pay interest on the amount used, making it a versatile option for managing cash flow and unexpected expenses.

Dispensary Financing: Dispensary financing is specialized for cannabis retailers, addressing the unique needs of dispensaries, such as inventory purchase, store renovation, or expansion.

Vendor Financing: Vendor financing allows businesses to purchase goods or services on credit from suppliers, facilitating smoother operations and fostering strong vendor relationships.

7. How Long Does it Take to Get Approved for a Cannabis Business Loan?

Approval time varies, but being prepared with all necessary information can expedite the loan processing time. Patience and diligence during the application review are key.

8. Can Startups Get Loans for Cannabis Businesses?

Yes, startups have access to various financing options, including venture capital, seed funding, and angel investors. Exploring these avenues can provide the necessary capital to kickstart your venture.

9. What are the Challenges of Getting a Loan for a Cannabis Business?

Legal issues, federal regulations, and risk assessment are significant barriers. Understanding these challenges and addressing them proactively is crucial for securing financing.

10. Are There Any Alternatives to Traditional Bank Loans for Cannabis Businesses?

Alternative financing options such as private lenders, crowdfunding, investor funding, and peer-to-peer lending are available, offering flexibility and tailored solutions.

11. How Can I Improve My Chances of Getting a Cannabis Business Loan?

Improving credit, crafting a robust business plan, and providing collateral can enhance your loan approval chances. A guarantor can also be beneficial in some cases.

12. What is the Repayment Term for Cannabis Business Loans?

Repayment terms vary, so understanding the loan duration, monthly payments, and amortization schedule is essential to manage your finances effectively.

13. Can I Get a Cannabis Business Loan with Bad Credit?

While challenging, some lenders specialize in subprime lending. Researching credit score requirements and exploring various options is crucial.

14. Are There Any Restrictions on How I Can Use the Funds from a Cannabis Business Loan?

Understanding loan usage, fund allocation, restrictions, and terms and conditions is vital to ensure compliance and successful loan management.

15. Is it Legal to Get a Loan for a Cannabis Business?

Yes, but it’s essential to understand the interplay between federal and state law, cannabis regulations, and ensure compliance with all legal requirements.

Securing cannabis business loans can be a complex journey, but with the right knowledge and preparation, it’s possible to navigate the financial landscape successfully. By understanding the various aspects of cannabis financing, you can unlock the potential of your cannabis business and reach new heights.