#renting garbage dumpster

[dumpsterking1]

Essential Guide to Dumpster Rental Near Me: Tips and Options

Renting a dumpster can be a crucial decision when tackling projects that generate a significant amount of waste, such as home renovations, landscaping, or major cleanouts. If you're located in Bronx, NY, understanding the ins and outs of dumpster rental is essential to ensure your project runs smoothly and efficiently. This guide covers everything you need to know about dumpster rental in Bronx, NY, along with valuable tips and options to consider.

Why Rent a Dumpster in Bronx, NY?

Renting garbage dumpster in Bronx, NY, offers numerous benefits that can simplify your project and waste management:

Convenience: Having a dumpster on-site provides a centralized location for disposing of all types of debris, saving you time and effort compared to multiple trips to the landfill.

Efficiency: It helps keep your workspace organized and minimizes safety risks associated with debris scattered around.

Cost-Effectiveness: Renting a dumpster can often be more economical than alternative disposal methods, especially for larger volumes of waste.

Key Considerations for Dumpster Rental

When planning to rent a dumpster in Bronx, NY, there are several important factors to consider:

Size of Dumpster: Choosing the right dumpster size is crucial. Common sizes include:

10-Yard Dumpster: Ideal for small projects like garage cleanouts or small-scale renovations.

20-Yard Dumpster: Suitable for larger residential projects or moderate-sized construction jobs.

30-Yard Dumpster: Best for major renovations, large cleanouts, or commercial projects.

Selecting the appropriate size ensures you have enough capacity for your waste without overpaying for unused space.

Local Regulations: Check local regulations in Bronx, NY, regarding dumpster placement, permits, and acceptable materials for disposal. Some areas may require permits if placing a dumpster on public property or streets.

Budget and Pricing: Compare prices from multiple dumpster rental companies in Bronx, NY, to find competitive rates. Be aware of any additional fees for exceeding weight limits, extending rental periods, or special disposal requirements.

Delivery and Pickup: Coordinate delivery and pickup times that align with your project schedule. Ensure the rental company can access the delivery location easily and safely.

Steps to Renting a Dumpster in Bronx, NY

Follow these steps to ensure a smooth dumpster rental experience:

Research Local Providers: Use online resources, reviews, and referrals to identify reputable dumpster rental bronx ny, that offer services matching your project needs.

Request Quotes: Contact several companies to obtain quotes based on the size of dumpster required and the duration of rental. Specify your location as "Bronx, NY" to ensure accurate pricing and availability.

Review Terms and Conditions: Read the rental agreement carefully, including terms of service, pricing details, pickup policies, and any restrictions on acceptable materials.

Prepare for Delivery: Clear the designated area for dumpster placement, ensuring it's free of obstacles and accessible for the delivery truck. If placing the dumpster on public property, secure any necessary permits beforehand.

Fill the Dumpster Efficiently: Load the dumpster evenly and avoid overfilling to prevent safety hazards during pickup. Follow guidelines provided by the rental company regarding weight limits and prohibited items.

Schedule Pickup: Arrange for timely dumpster pickup once your project is complete or when the dumpster reaches capacity. Confirm with the rental company how waste disposal will be handled and any recycling efforts they may undertake.

Tips for Successful Dumpster Rental in Bronx, NY

Plan Ahead: Determine your project timeline and estimate the amount of waste you'll generate to select the appropriate dumpster size.

Follow Regulations: Adhere to local regulations regarding dumpster placement, permits, and waste disposal to avoid fines or delays.

Maximize Efficiency: Dispose of waste efficiently by sorting recyclables and reusable materials separately from general trash.

Safety First: Ensure the area around the dumpster is clear and safe for loading and unloading. Use caution when disposing of heavy or hazardous materials.

Conclusion

Renting a dumpster in Bronx, NY, provides a practical solution for managing waste during various projects, from residential renovations to commercial construction jobs. By understanding your options, planning effectively, and working with a reputable dumpster rental company, you can streamline your project cleanup and disposal process with confidence. Whether you're a homeowner, contractor, or business owner in Bronx, NY, the right dumpster rental service ensures your project stays on track and within budget. Start your search today to find the perfect dumpster rental solution for your next endeavor.

[rent-bin]

Why women love Calgary Airdrie Junk removal

Call 403-680-2457 The ease that junk removal services bring to women’s lives cannot be overstated. In today’s fast-paced world, balancing work, family, and personal responsibilities often leaves little time for additional tasks like decluttering and disposing of unwanted items. Calgary Junk removal services provide an invaluable solution, alleviating the physical and emotional burdens associated…

[brantfordbinrental]

How Garbage Disposal in Brantford Supports Environmental Conservation

Preserving the environment and promoting sustainable practices are essential for the well-being of our communities. In Brantford, the city's commitment to environmental conservation is evident through its effective garbage disposal strategies. By implementing responsible waste management systems, Brantford not only ensures the cleanliness of its surroundings but also supports environmental conservation efforts. In this article, we will delve into how garbage disposal in Brantford plays a pivotal role in supporting environmental conservation. From waste diversion and recycling initiatives to minimising landfill usage and preventing pollution, Brantford's garbage disposal practices contribute to creating a cleaner and greener city.

 1. Waste Diversion and Recycling: Garbage disposal services in Brantford, including the availability of garbage dumpster rental, promote effective waste diversion and recycling practices. By providing designated containers for different waste categories, such as recyclables, organic waste, and non-recyclables, these services encourage responsible waste management. Through proper sorting and recycling processes, materials that can be reused or repurposed are diverted from landfills, reducing the strain on natural resources.

 2. Minimising Landfill Usage: Efficient garbage disposal practices significantly reduce the volume of waste destined for landfills. By offering convenient and appropriate containers for waste disposal, these services effectively minimise landfill usage. This reduction benefits Brantford by preserving natural habitats, minimising environmental pollution, and preventing the release of harmful substances into the ecosystem.

 3. Prevention of Environmental Pollution: Proper garbage disposal in Brantford plays a pivotal role in preventing environmental pollution. By ensuring that waste is contained within designated containers, these services maintain cleanliness and prevent littering and unauthorised dumping. This proactive approach preserves the integrity of public spaces, safeguards waterways from pollution, and upholds the overall environmental quality of Brantford.

 4. Resource Conservation: Garbage disposal practices actively contribute to resource conservation in Brantford. By promoting recycling and responsible waste management, valuable resources such as metals, plastics, and paper can be recovered and reused. This approach reduces the need for raw material extraction, conserves energy, and minimises the overall environmental impact associated with resource consumption.

 5. Fostering Sustainable Behaviour: Garbage disposal services in Brantford play a vital role in fostering sustainable behaviour among residents and businesses. Through educational initiatives and awareness campaigns, these services encourage the community to adopt eco-friendly practices, including waste reduction and recycling. By instilling sustainable habits, garbage disposal services empower individuals to make conscious choices that contribute to the overall conservation of the environment.

 Conclusion: Garbage disposal services in Brantford actively support environmental conservation efforts. Through waste diversion, minimised landfill usage, prevention of environmental pollution, resource conservation, and the promotion of sustainable behaviour, these services significantly contribute to creating a cleaner and greener Brantford. Embracing responsible waste management practices ensures a healthier environment for present and future generations, ultimately fostering the overall well-being and sustainability of the community.

[ecostardisposal]

Rent A Trash Bin in Kitchener

Guide To Choose the Ideal Trash Bin for Your Requirement

Trash bin rentals aren't typically at the top of people's minds when they're organizing a construction, cleaning, or home improvement project. But in the long run, it's a solution that can help you save time, cut costs, and avoid hassle. It may be much easier to cope with a pile of old furniture, construction debris, or even simply ordinary clutter if you have a specific place to put all of that junk. This book will show you why renting a trash bin is the best option for your next big project by going over all the benefits, such as increased efficiency and safety and less environmental effect.

Improved safety

There is a higher chance of accidents and injuries occurring in a workplace that is disorganized. Since trash cans make it much easier to remove rubbish and potentially dangerous things from homes and workplaces, everyone lives in a safer environment when they are easily accessible. Construction and maintenance sites are notoriously dangerous places to work due to the abundance of sharp objects, heavy machinery, and tools.

Presuming responsibility for the environment

You can also help the environment by renting garbage cans. Contacting a waste management company will guarantee that your project's trash is disposed of in an environmentally responsible manner. They will provide choices for material sorting and recycling. Two approaches to waste management that are more sustainable are recycling more and dumping less in landfills.

Observing the regulations

Failure to dispose of garbage in accordance with municipal regulations may result in significant fines. A trustworthy company can provide you with a trash container, and you can rest easy knowing that they will dispose of your waste in accordance with all applicable regulations. To make sure your project complies with all requirements and disposes of stuff correctly, these businesses can help you out because they are well-versed in waste management legislation.

Achieving maximum cost effectiveness

Trash bin rentals may seem like a more expensive option at first, but they often end up being less expensive than doing it yourself. Reduced travel time and fuel costs to disposal locations are two benefits of this solution. Rent A Trash Bin in Kitchener from Ecostar Disposal. It can also help you avoid fines and other penalties that can result from accidents and improper waste disposal. Garbage can rental is a smart and economical choice for project waste management because it is more efficient and less likely to result in costly fines or delays.

Flexibility in dealing with novel situations

The unparalleled versatility of trash can rentals makes them an excellent choice for a wide range of jobs and waste disposal requirements. No matter the size of your trash pile—whether you live in a tiny house or on a massive building site—there is a garbage can to meet your expectations. You may save time and avoid wasting money on inaccurate waste disposal needs estimations thanks to its adaptability, which lets you choose a trash can that is ideal for your project. Rental trash cans from Ecostar Disposal have many uses, one of which is the versatility to accommodate various kinds of waste, such as construction debris, hazardous materials, and normal home garbage.

Last words It goes without saying that there are a lot of benefits to renting a trash bin for your company. Improving on-site safety and productivity, promoting environmental sustainability, and ensuring regulatory compliance are all evident and compelling advantages. Because of its adaptability and reasonable pricing, trash bin rental like Ecostar Disposal is also a practical and attractive solution for the Best 10 Yard Dump in Guelph. Your project will go more easily if you rent a trash bin and show that you care about proper trash management. If you are planning a home renovation, clearing out clutter, or building project, renting a garbage can is an essential first step.

[halton-container]

Dumpster Rental Services in Oakville and Brampton by Halton Container

Halton Container is the go-to choice for dumpster rental in Oakville. Our reliable and efficient service ensures that your waste disposal needs are taken care of promptly and professionally. Whether you're a homeowner renovating your property or a contractor managing a construction project, Halton Container has the right-sized dumpster for you. Trust us to handle your waste removal needs with ease.

[garbuttdisposalon]

Garbutt Disposal

About Us:

The team at Garbutt Disposal has provided a range of effective waste disposal services in Haliburton County since 1970.

Based in Minden, we have 52 years of experience working with residential, commercial and construction projects of all shapes and sizes.

Servicing Minde, Haliburton County, Kawartha Lakes, and surrounding areas.

We work with residential, commercial and construction projects of all shapes and sizes. Our company provides A range of effective waste disposal services in Haliburton County. 52+ years of experience. Latest equipment & tools.

Contact Us:

Phone: (705) 286-1843

Address: 536 Bobcaygeon Rd, Minden, ON K0M 2K0

Website: https://www.garbuttdisposal.ca/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/GarbuttDisposalCa

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/explore/locations/234437743979627/garbutt-disposal/

Business hour: Monday To Friday 8am–5pm, Saturday and Sunday : Closed

Owner Name: Jim Garbutt

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want a Refund || Trey Clover

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

Series Masterlist

You prided yourself on being a normal, decent person. Maybe even a good person, depending on who you asked. Sure, you weren’t out here saving kittens from trees or solving world hunger, but you did your part.

You recycled when you remembered, held the door open for strangers (if they were close enough, you weren’t that kind of hero), and even tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons outside your apartment every now and then. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work.

So, really, what you didn’t expect was to be completely betrayed by the universe. The betrayal began small, like a mosquito buzzing in your ear: the newest novel you’d been anticipating for months was sold out.

“Are you serious?” you grumbled, glaring at the empty display like it had just insulted your mother. A handwritten sign on the shelf read: ‘SOLD OUT! More in stock soon!’ in cheerful cursive, as if mocking you.

What were you supposed to do now? Go home empty-handed? Waste your perfectly good afternoon plans of curling up with a book? Absolutely not. Refusing to admit defeat, you scanned the bookstore until your gaze fell on the “New and Best-Selling” rack.

One book immediately caught your eye. The cover was... well, something. It looked like someone had raided a middle schooler’s stash of Barbie stickers, splattered glitter over the whole thing, and slapped on an aggressively curly gold font that screamed, I’M A ROMANCE NOVEL!

You sighed. “Fine. How bad could it be?”

It could be very, very bad.

The first red flag was the synopsis. It introduced Trey Clover, the Grand Duke, who loved his spouse, the villainess, with a devotion so pure it made you want to gag. But then came the second male lead, the Prince, who confessed his love to Trey and the villainess, because monogamy was too boring for this book.

And then there was the heroine. The synopsis just called her “the Saintess,” because why bother giving her a name when her only personality trait was being the worst human being imaginable? She appeared out of nowhere, became the Saintess overnight (because logic?), and made it her life’s mission to ruin the villainess’s life while somehow convincing everyone she was an angel.

Oh, and the Prince? The book had him slip on a rock and die halfway through the plot, like the author had a word count limit and didn’t know what else to do with him. The villainess ends up dying too, right aftetr asking Trey for a divorce to "protect him." The ending involved Trey marrying the heroine, despite spending the entire book side-eyeing her like she owed him rent.

You closed the book slowly, your soul drained of all joy. “What in the fresh hell did I just read?”

But no, you couldn’t let this stand. You were a taxpayer, a contributing member of society. You did not deserve this literary slap in the face.

With righteous indignation burning in your chest, you marched back to the bookstore. You slapped the book onto the counter with a dramatic flair that deserved a standing ovation.

“Refund,” you declared, glaring at the cashier.

“Uh... we don’t usually do refunds on books you’ve already read...” they began hesitantly.

“I don’t care,” you snapped, pointing at the glittering monstrosity. “This isn’t a book. It’s a hate crime against literature. A refund, please, before I start sobbing in public.”

After a long pause—and possibly fearing a customer service meltdown—they handed you store credit. Satisfied but still simmering with rage, you stomped out of the store, muttering to yourself about bad authors, worse editors, and the existential crisis of knowing someone got paid to write that garbage.

And that’s when karma struck.

A segway—a SEGWAY—came hurtling toward you at Mach speed, piloted by a man dressed in full medieval knight armor.

“MAKE WAY FOR SIR SCOOTINGTON!” he screamed, his voice muffled by his helmet.

You froze. Your brain could not process this level of absurdity in such a short amount of time. Was this a prank? A hallucination? Had the book actually been cursed and now you were living out its bad writing?

The segway didn’t stop. It hit you with a solid THUNK, sending you flying backward into a suspiciously well-placed pile of garbage bags.

As you lay there, buried under the remains of someone’s takeout and a very old banana peel, as your vision started to blur, you stared at the sky and thought:

Dawg, why me??

You woke up to the faint chirping of birds and the kind of silence that only rich people seem to afford. Something felt... off. The sheets were too soft, like they’d been spun from angel whispers and a mid-tier deity’s hair. Your pillow was the perfect combination of fluffy and firm, a far cry from the lumpy second-hand abomination you’d bought on sale three years ago.

Your eyes cracked open, squinting against the sunlight filtering through an elaborate, gold-encrusted chandelier. A chandelier. In a bedroom. You lived in a shoebox apartment; your idea of luxury was a lamp that wasn’t from a clearance bin.

You turned your head slightly, and your soul froze mid-exit.

There was someone next to you.

Your brain screeched to a halt, flashing every warning signal it had. Stranger. Bed. You. No.

The only living thing that should’ve been in your apartment was the stray cat you’d nicknamed Gremlin, and he sure as hell didn’t have human proportions or a steady breathing rhythm.

Slowly—painstakingly—you tilted your head to look at your unwanted companion.

It was a man. A very attractive man, sleeping peacefully on his side, glasses perched askew on the nightstand. His hair was a soft mess, his breathing even, and his entire aura screamed gentle husband vibes.

Then recognition sucker-punched you in the gut.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked. Looked again. Replayed every horrible memory of that atrocious novel you had read, and then read again because you hated yourself.

It was Trey Clover.

Male lead. Gentleman. Human embodiment of a warm cup of tea. The guy who was in love with his villainess spouse (you remembered her being dramatic but competent) before the world went full dumpster fire.

Your breathing hitched. You stared down at your hands, and they stared back—perfectly manicured, dainty, soft hands that had never touched a single dirty dish or over-scrubbed countertop.

The reality hit you like a segway knight at full speed.

You’d been isekai’d.

You fought the urge to scream into the pillow. Was this some karmic punishment for returning that book? Was your snarky review in the Reddit thread too harsh? Because this? This was an unholy level of irony.

Trey stirred beside you, his brow furrowing slightly as his hand lazily reached for his glasses. He slid them on, blinking sleepily as his gaze landed on you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, groggy, and just a little raspy—the kind of voice you’d pay extra to have someone read you bedtime stories with. “You’re staring.”

For a moment, your brain blue-screened. Trey Clover—novel character and now your husband, apparently—was looking at you with concern, and all you could think was: At least he’s hot.

“…Nothing,” you croaked, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. “Just… processing.”

“Processing what?” he asked, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes, his entire demeanor radiating "adoring husband" energy.

You clenched the sheets in your fists, trying to will yourself to wake up from this insane fever dream. Unfortunately, the chandelier wasn’t disappearing, Trey wasn’t fading into mist, and your perfectly moisturized skin wasn’t breaking into your usual crusty dryness.

This was real.

And somehow, you were the villainess in a novel you’d once described as "a literary abomination designed to kill brain cells."

The sound of a soft knock at the bedroom door made you jump, nearly upsetting the tower of books you’d been flipping through in your attempt to figure out where in the dumpster fire of this timeline you were.

“Come in?” you called hesitantly, trying to shove the incriminating evidence of your non-villainess-like behavior—a half-written list titled HOW TO NOT DIE TRAGICALLY—under a pillow.

Trey stepped in, balancing a tray of food like he was auditioning for Husband of the Year. His hair was slightly mussed, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up just enough to show forearms that could inspire sonnets. The man was a walking Pinterest board, and it was unfair.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said with a small smile, setting the tray on the table. “You’ve been skipping meals, and that’s not like you.”

You laughed nervously, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Oh, um, yeah. Upset stomach. You know how it is.”

Trey raised an eyebrow, his smile unwavering but his eyes far too knowing. “Sure. And I’ll be here while you eat, just to make sure you’re feeling better.”

Oh, no.

You stared at the tray like it had betrayed you. Soup, bread, and some suspiciously perfect desserts that looked like they had been made by the hands of an angel. You couldn’t say no without sounding even sketchier.

“Right,” you muttered, picking up the spoon with the grace of someone about to face a firing squad. As you sipped, Trey watched silently, his chin resting on one hand, his soft gaze pinned on you. The air felt so heavy you could’ve cut it with a butter knife.

“Are you going to go through with it?” he asked suddenly.

You froze mid-bite, the words hitting you like a frying pan to the face. “Go through with… what?”

“The divorce,” he said simply.

You choked on your soup. The spoon clattered back into the bowl as you grabbed a napkin, trying to avoid literally dying of shock. Divorce? Divorce?! That wasn’t in the plan! You knew what happened after the divorce—the villainess died, and you weren’t about to let fate steamroll you into an early grave, again.

“What? No! Of course not!” you sputtered, waving your hands in frantic denial. “Why would I want a divorce? You’re, uh, great! Fantastic! A literal dream husband!”

Trey blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before his expression softened into something warmer, almost relieved. “You… want to work things out?”

“Yes!” you blurted, nodding with enough enthusiasm to give yourself whiplash. “Absolutely! Let’s work this out. Together. Like a team.”

His lips curved into a rare, genuine smile that nearly melted you on the spot. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that left your brain doing cartwheels. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that. I’ll be back for dinner, so rest up until then.”

He left the room, and the moment the door clicked shut, you flopped back onto the bed like a deflated balloon. The pillow muffled your scream of embarrassment as you kicked your feet, equal parts flustered and mortified. What was that? Why did he have to be so sweet? How were you supposed to survive this level of tenderness without combusting?

The door creaked open again.

You froze mid-giggle, legs tangled in the sheets like a caught fish. Trey stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised and looking like he was about two seconds away from bursting into laughter. “Forgot my pen,” he said casually, strolling over to grab the item from the bedside table.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Oh. Uh. Right.”

He paused on his way out, leaning down to kiss your cheek with infuriating gentleness. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving you red-faced, flustered, and questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

It had been such a nice meal. The kind where the food was good, the company better, and the wine just strong enough to make you feel warm and floaty but not stupid. Trey was smiling faintly at you over his plate, his rare but deeply satisfying I’m enjoying myself face in full effect, and you dared to think, Hey, maybe I can survive this isekai nonsense after all.

And then the restaurant door swung open, and your fragile peace shattered like a dropped wine glass.

The prince had arrived.

Trey’s face immediately darkened like a thunderstorm on the horizon, and you felt yourself lose a year of your life just from sheer dread. The prince was a walking disaster in human form, and you’d been hoping to avoid him like the plague. But the universe clearly hated you because here he was, sashaying through the restaurant like he owned the place.

“Oh no,” you whispered, gripping your fork like it could somehow protect you.

Trey’s jaw tightened as the prince spotted you both, his grin wide enough to make you wish the floor would open up and swallow you.

“Darlings!” the prince cried, crossing the room with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever off its leash. “Fancy seeing you here!”

You didn’t even get a chance to object before he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around dramatically, and wedged himself between you and Trey, plopping down like he’d been invited. Spoiler alert: he hadn’t.

“Your Highness,” Trey said through clenched teeth, managing to sound both polite and like he was ready to stab someone with a salad fork.

“Oh, come now, Trey,” the prince laughed, waving off the formality. “No need to be so stiff. After all, we’re practically family!”

You didn’t get the chance to ask how that made sense before he grabbed your hand—and Trey’s—planting a wet, sloppy kiss on each. The sound it made was unholy, like a boot pulling free from a swamp. You and Trey simultaneously stiffened, the same thought clearly running through your minds: Don’t cringe, don’t cringe, don’t cringe…

“I simply had to come over when I saw you two!” the prince gushed, oblivious to your visible discomfort. “The saintess—bless her kind, radiant heart—has been dying to see you both!”

You glanced at Trey, who was visibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“She’s throwing a ball this weekend,” the prince continued, clasping his hands together like he was sharing the world’s most exciting news. “And you must come. Truly, it’d be… well, treasonous not to, considering we’re both inviting you!”

Ah, there it was. The veiled threat disguised as politeness. You hated that this guy was smart enough to wield his royal status as a weapon, even if he made everything sound like it came with a complimentary gift basket.

You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace. “We’d be honored, Your Highness.”

Trey shot you a subtle look, one that very clearly said Traitor, but you knew he agreed. Anything to avoid another round of Wet Hand Kisses.

“Wonderful!” the prince declared, clapping his hands together. “I knew you two would understand. You always were the reasonable ones.”

He finally stood up, ruffling Trey’s hair in a way that made his eye twitch before striding off like he hadn’t just hijacked your peaceful dinner.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, you slumped back in your chair, utterly drained. “I feel like I need to bathe in holy water.”

Trey pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve poisoned his dessert last time.”

You stared at him. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up his fork like nothing had happened. “Let’s finish eating.”

You could still feel the ghost of the prince’s wet kiss on your hand, and you shuddered. “Do you think we can fake our deaths before Saturday?”

Trey actually looked like he was considering it.

The ball was, against all odds, actually enjoyable. The lights glittered like fairy dust, the music was just the right level of lively, and the wine was strong enough to turn your earlier dread into a warm, floaty haze. Trey was by your side, charming in his tailored suit, and for once, the prince and saintess were blissfully absent.

"Maybe they got lost," you whispered to Trey, leaning in conspiratorially. "Or better yet, maybe they found a better party and decided to leave us alone."

Trey smirked, sipping his wine. "If only we were that lucky."

Your hopes were dashed, naturally, when the prince appeared out of nowhere like some unholy summon. One second you were lifting a glass to your lips, and the next, your arm was being yanked so hard you almost spilled your drink.

“Come now, my dear!” the prince declared, grinning in a way that felt more like a threat than an invitation. “Dance with me!”

Before you could even process what was happening, you were being twirled onto the dance floor. Across the room, you caught a glimpse of Trey being snatched by the saintess, who looked like she had all the coordination of a baby deer on ice.

The prince pulled you in too close, his breath an unholy concoction of garlic and what might’ve been sour milk. You tried to politely lean back, but he just leaned closer, grinning obliviously.

“You’re stiff, my dear,” he said, his voice low and entirely too sultry for someone who smelled like a kitchen accident. “Loosen up!”

Meanwhile, Trey was enduring his own nightmare. The saintess stepped on his foot with her stiletto for the fourth time, and you could swear you saw him wince in actual pain. She was chattering nonstop about something—maybe puppies, maybe world peace—you couldn’t hear over the sound of her heels clobbering the floor.

When the ordeal finally ended, you staggered back to Trey, feeling like you’d aged ten years. He looked equally frazzled, rubbing his shoulder like it had been yanked out of its socket.

“I’d say that was horrible,” he said under his breath, “but I think ‘horrible’ is too kind.”

Before you could respond, the saintess suddenly tripped. She wasn’t even near you—she was all the way across the room—but she hit the ground with a dramatic thud, and her dress promptly ripped down the side.

You blinked. “Wait, what just—”

“I knew it!” she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at you from the floor. “You sabotaged me!”

The prince, for once, looked baffled. He glanced between her and you like he was trying to solve a complicated riddle. “But… she wasn’t even near you?”

“SABOTAGE!” the saintess shrieked again, her voice cracking.

The original villainess would’ve taken the high road, maybe pretended to be insulted or outraged. You, however, were just drunk enough to find the entire thing hilarious.

You laughed. Loudly.

And to your absolute delight, the crowd followed suit. Quiet snickers turned into outright guffaws as everyone around you dissolved into laughter.

The saintess gawked, looking like a wet cat as she scrambled to her feet. “You’re all… MONSTERS!” she shrieked, before fleeing the room with a level of dramatics that would make even a soap opera jealous.

The prince hesitated, torn between chasing after her or staying to glower at you and Trey. Finally, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like “I hate my life,” he ran after her, disappearing into the night.

“Well,” Trey said, offering his hand with a faint smirk, “that was… something. Care to salvage the evening with a proper dance?”

You took his hand, letting him spin you onto the floor. The music softened, the crowd fading into the background as Trey pulled you close.

“You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as you danced.

The compliment hit you like a sucker punch, leaving you so dazed that, in your flustered state, you impulsively dipped him instead of the other way around.

Trey laughed, eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, cheeks burning as you held the pose.

But to your surprise, he didn’t protest. He let you dip him, even laughing as you pulled him back up. And when the dance ended, he kissed your cheek, sending your heart into a full-on meltdown.

“That,” he said, his voice filled with amusement, “was the most fun I’ve had at a ball in years.”

The tea party was a picturesque affair, all pastel tablecloths, delicate porcelain cups, and the kind of floral arrangements that screamed wealth and good taste. You were seated with Riddle, Cater, and Che’nya at a table tucked under a wisteria-laden gazebo, trying your best to survive the endless parade of gossip and sweets.

The conversation drifted naturally, like it always did, until someone—probably Cater—brought up the topic of Trey.

“Y’know,” Cater began, swirling his tea with exaggerated nonchalance, “Trey’s been looking at you like you personally hung the moon and stars lately. It’s kinda adorable.”

Che’nya leaned over, grinning like the Cheshire Cat he was. “So deep in love, it’s practically a romantic trench. What’s your secret, huh? Love potion? A really good pie?”

You chuckled, brushing off the comment, but then you glanced across the garden—and froze.

There he was, Trey Clover, the ridiculously perfect husband material that fate had handed you in this bizarre isekai life. He was standing a little ways off, chatting with a few nobles, but his gaze was unmistakably fixed on you.

When your eyes met, he smiled. Not just any smile—a warm, genuine, I-would-die-for-you-and-bake-you-cookies-afterwards kind of smile. It hit you like a runaway carriage.

Your chest tightened, your stomach flipped, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to pause.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You were in so deep.

Like, Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg-and-sinking-to-the-ocean-floor deep.

“Uh oh,” Cater sang, leaning closer with a smirk that could only mean trouble. “I know that look. Someone just had their Hallmark movie epiphany.”

You snapped out of it, cheeks burning. “What look? I don’t have a look!”

“Oh, you totally do,” Che’nya chimed in, his grin somehow wider. “It’s all dreamy and starry-eyed, like you’re in a fairy tale. Which, I guess you kinda are?”

Riddle, ever the straight man in these situations, regarded you with a mix of pity and exasperation. “Please tell me you’re not about to let these two meddle in your relationship.”

But before you could defend yourself, Cater was already leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Cay-Cay’s got you covered! Wanna confess? I can totally set the mood—candles, roses, soft music…”

“I—what?” you stammered, still too dazed by your revelation to form a coherent response.

“That’s a yes!” Che’nya declared, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Hot air balloon confession? Dramatic rain scene? Ooh, what about—”

“Absolutely not,” Riddle interrupted, his tone sharp as ever. He turned to you, expression weary. “I’ll make sure they don’t do anything absurd, but honestly, why not just tell Trey yourself? He’s your husband.”

You groaned, sinking into your chair as Cater and Che’nya continued to scheme with increasingly outlandish ideas. Meanwhile, Riddle looked at you like you’d just wired your entire fortune to a scammer and promised to fix it for you later.

Across the garden, Trey caught your gaze again, his brows furrowing slightly in concern at your flustered state. He started to make his way over, and your heart leapt into your throat.

Oh no.

Whatever happened next, you were absolutely not ready.

Riddle had been firm, as always. “A pie,” he said with the kind of authority you’d expect from someone sentencing a man to death. “It’s simple, heartfelt, and Trey would appreciate the effort. Not that I have time to indulge in frivolities like this, but… you’re lucky I know the basics.”

Turns out, Riddle did not know the basics. And neither did you.

What followed could only be described as a culinary catastrophe.

The kitchen looked like it had been struck by a flour tornado, with you and Riddle at its chaotic epicenter. Your attempt at pie dough was a war crime in the making—half stuck to the counter, half to your hands, and none of it remotely edible.

“Why is it stretching?” Riddle hissed, his face as red as his hair, holding one end of the dough while you gripped the other. The elastic monstrosity between you refused to snap, stretching longer and longer like some unholy noodle.

“I don’t know!” you shrieked back, your voice an octave higher than usual. “I followed the instructions! Mostly! Kind of!”

“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough! Put some force into it!”

Riddle tugged one end of the dough like he was in a tug-of-war with a particularly stubborn ghost. You yanked back, and the dough elongated even further, wobbling ominously in the air.

That’s when Trey walked in.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the absolute chaos: the flour-streaked counter, the rolling pin embedded in what used to be a bag of sugar, and you and Riddle holding opposite ends of the world’s saddest dough.

“What… exactly is happening here?” Trey asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You froze, still clutching the dough. Riddle looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“We’re baking,” you managed to squeak out.

Trey blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound warm and rich like honey. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

His laughter didn’t help your embarrassment, but the way he stepped forward, gently taking the dough from you and Riddle like a benevolent baking god, did. “Alright, let’s see if we can salvage this. Flour, water… and patience. You two watch and learn.”

You stood back, flustered and hopelessly smitten as Trey worked his magic. In minutes, he turned your disaster into a perfectly respectable pie crust. He even smiled at you both as if to say nice try, kids, and it made you feel oddly warm inside.

Still too mortified to admit the pie was meant for him, you let him finish it while Riddle quietly excused himself, muttering about overdue paperwork.

You did feel for Riddle, poor guy was stuck babysitting the Prince after all. Maybe the dough was sad because of his stress.

Later, Cater and Che’nya were far too pleased with themselves when they found you.

“So,” Cater said, grinning, “how’s Operation Swoon going?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumbled, remembering the dough debacle.

Che’nya’s grin widened. “Lucky for you, we’ve got Plan B: flowers! Romantic, classic, and impossible to mess up.”

You weren’t sure about that last part, but their enthusiasm was infectious. You ended up at a florist with Cater coaching you through every step, from picking out the blooms to tying a ribbon. By the time you were done, the bouquet looked gorgeous.

When you handed the flowers to Trey later, he looked… stunned. His eyes widened, his cheeks turned faintly pink, and his smile was so soft and genuine that you nearly dropped dead on the spot.

“For me?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

You nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just, uh, wanted to thank you. For everything. You know.”

Trey cradled the bouquet like it was something precious. “Thank you. Really. This means a lot.”

And when he smiled at you again, you realized that maybe, just maybe, Cater and Che’nya’s meddling wasn’t so bad after all.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you entered the restaurant, rare flower in hand. You’d spent far too much money on it, but it was worth it. Trey deserved nothing less. The merchant had waxed poetic about how the flower symbolized eternal devotion, and you figured it was the perfect way to set the stage for your long-overdue confession.

Trey was already seated at the table, his calm demeanor somehow both comforting and devastatingly attractive. When he saw you approach, his eyes softened, and that sweet smile of his—the one that made your knees weak—spread across his face.

You handed him the flower, and his expression lit up as though you’d just handed him the moon.

“For me?” he asked, his voice full of surprise and warmth.

“Of course,” you said, a little shy but mostly proud of yourself. “I thought it suited you.”

His fingers brushed yours as he took the flower, and before you knew it, you were holding hands across the table. The atmosphere felt perfect—soft candlelight, his warm gaze locked on yours, and your heart pounding like it had just discovered cardio.

This was it. The moment to confess that you loved him.

You opened your mouth, ready to pour your heart out—

And then she appeared.

The saintess, an uninvited hurricane in the form of a woman, swept into the room with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. You barely had time to process her arrival before she snatched the flower from Trey’s hand like a seagull stealing a french fry.

“Oh, Trey, you shouldn’t have!” she gushed, clutching the flower to her chest like a deranged soap opera villain. “How thoughtful of you to get this for me!”

Trey’s face froze in what could only be described as polite murder. His jaw tightened, his grip on the table visibly white-knuckled.

You, however, were already halfway to a breakdown. “Excuse me?” you sputtered.

The saintess ignored you entirely.

Enter the prince, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who’d been hit on the head one too many times. He trailed behind her, clearly regretting his existence. For once, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and awkwardly tried to mediate.

“Ah, maybe I should—uh—just give this back,” he mumbled, reaching for the flower.

The saintess responded by shoving him.

The prince, unprepared for even the gentlest resistance, stumbled directly into Trey’s arms.

Trey, now holding a grown man like a bridal bouquet, froze. His eyes darted to you, silently screaming what do I do with this?

Before he could decide, the prince looked up at him, smiled coyly, and winked.

You might’ve laughed if the saintess hadn’t chosen that exact moment to drape herself across you.

“Oh, my dear friend,” she simpered, batting her lashes, “surely you understand Trey’s affection for me. You’ll support us, won’t you?”

You were too stunned to respond, stuck holding the saintess like an overly affectionate sloth. Across the table, Trey looked like he was begging whatever gods existed for an escape route.

Finally, something in Trey snapped. Gently—yet firmly—he set the prince in his seat like a toddler being put in timeout. Then, without a word, he reached across, grabbed the saintess by the arm, and unceremoniously deposited her in her own chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Trey said, his voice smooth but his expression pure I’m done with this nonsense. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the restaurant, not even sparing a glance back.

Oh, and he definitely took the flower back.

In the carriage, Trey was silent, his expression unreadable. You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just… tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of not having moments with you for myself,” he said, his voice soft but full of frustration. “Every time I try to enjoy being with you, someone interrupts. I just… I want you. Just you.”

Your heart practically melted on the spot. Overwhelmed by his honesty, you leaned forward and kissed him—a gentle, tentative gesture that said everything you’d been too nervous to put into words.

Trey froze for a moment, then pulled you closer, kissing you again, this time deeper and with so much emotion that you thought your brain might short-circuit. His hands cradled your face, and the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his smile so radiant it made your heart skip. “I guess this means you’re mine?”

You nodded, breathless.

“And I’m yours,” he murmured, sealing the confession with another kiss that left you thoroughly, blissfully dazed.

It was supposed to be a simple stroll through the common garden—just you and Trey enjoying a rare moment of peace. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and you were basking in the warmth of Trey's smile when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

The prince.

And worse, the pebble.

You recognized it instantly—the cursed rock from the original novel, the one destined to send the prince spiraling into a tragic, fatal end. It glittered ominously on the path, as if taunting fate.

The prince, blissfully unaware, strutted forward like he owned the place. He stepped right onto the pebble, his foot slipping out from under him with comical precision.

In that split second, you knew what you had to do. Annoying as he was, no one deserved to die because of a glorified piece of gravel.

You lunged forward, grabbing the prince by the arm and yanking him upright just before disaster struck.

He looked at you, wide-eyed, for all of two seconds before breaking into a toothy grin. “Ah, so this is love,” he declared, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Fear not, my dear! Your feelings for me are obvious, and I, in my infinite generosity, shall grant you the honor of becoming my bride!”

Trey, who had been watching this unfold with his usual calm, suddenly stiffened. His hand slipped into yours, his grip firm but not unkind as he gently pulled you closer.

“Your Highness,” Trey began, his voice polite but laced with steel, “I think you may have misunderstood something.”

“Oh?” The prince arched a brow, clearly oblivious to the warning signs.

“She's already married,” Trey said, his tone so calm and measured it was borderline terrifying. “To me.”

The prince’s eyes lit up with excitement, not deterred in the slightest. “A rivalry for their love, then? Excellent! Let the best man win!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Riddle—ever the voice of reason (or exhaustion)—strode into the fray like a man who had been dealing with this nonsense for far too long.

“Your Highness,” Riddle snapped, looking entirely done with life. “What in the sevens are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the prince by the collar and dragged him away like a scolding parent hauling a toddler out of the candy aisle.

“You can’t just propose to married people!” Riddle hissed as they disappeared down the path.

Left in their wake, you spotted Cater and Che’nya lounging under a tree, shamelessly munching on popcorn. Cater caught your eye and waved, looking far too entertained by the whole ordeal.

“Did you see Trey’s face?” Che’nya whispered loudly. “I’d give it a solid nine out of ten on the jealousy scale.”

“Totally,” Cater agreed. “Hey, Alfred!” he called to the butler nearby. “Get me a glass of wine; this show’s getting good!”

Before you could decide whether to laugh or cringe, Trey’s hand gently tilted your chin, drawing your attention back to him.

“Focus on me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours.

And oh, jealous Trey was adorable. His usual calm demeanor was tinged with a possessiveness that made your heart skip several beats.

Caught up in the moment, you leaned forward and kissed him, a quick but sweet gesture that left him blinking in surprise before a soft smile spread across his face.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Cater almost spill his wine in excitement, while Che’nya clapped like a seal.

“Now that’s spicy!” Che’nya crowed.

“I need another glass,” Cater sighed dramatically, as if the sheer romance was too much for his delicate heart.

But you didn’t care. Trey’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and for once, the rest of the world faded away.

The war room was dead silent, the kind of silence so heavy you could hear the shuffle of maps and the scratch of quills on parchment. Every important figure of the empire was present—Trey and you, the Emperor and Empress, military generals whose scowls could crack stone, the Pope looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and, shockingly, even the Prince, for once not actively trying to ruin someone’s day.

Strategies were discussed in grim tones. Supply lines, terrain advantages, possible reinforcement numbers—you and Trey were fully immersed in weighing the support your duchy could offer. For once, even the Prince managed to look engaged, though he was suspiciously chewing on the end of his quill like a kid stuck in detention.

Then, like an uninvited storm, the doors slammed open.

“Hellooooooo!”

Every head in the room turned as the Saintess waltzed in, an hour late, as if this were a garden party and not a high-stakes war council. She was dressed in what could only be described as a fever dream of bad taste: a dress so garish and bedazzled it could probably be seen from orbit, complete with absurd feathered accessories sticking out at odd angles like a startled peacock.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she sang, twirling unnecessarily as if this was a runway. “I couldn’t decide which dress to wear. Do you think this one looks good?”

The silence was palpable, charged with a collective secondhand embarrassment that could power an entire city.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering if you could claim an "upset stomach" for the fifth time this month. Then, unable to stop yourself, you deadpanned, “Yes. It’d make a great enemy flag.”

Trey choked on a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. The Pope crossed himself, possibly praying for patience. One of the military generals muttered something under his breath, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. The Prince just buried his face in his hands.

The Saintess, predictably, burst into tears. “You’re so mean! I’m just trying to brighten up this dreary meeting!”

The Emperor looked deeply, soul-crushingly confused, glancing at the generals as if to ask, Does this happen often? Meanwhile, the Empress, seated beside him, was gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

Trey sighed and leaned closer to you. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured, giving you a quick nod before standing.

He approached her like one might approach a wild animal, hands raised in surrender. “Saintess, perhaps we could discuss this outside—”

But no sooner had he stepped within arm’s reach did she trip. On purpose.

In what could only be described as an Olympian-level act of self-preservation, Trey sidestepped so swiftly she ended up flailing through the air like a failed acrobat.

She landed directly on top of the Emperor.

The entire room froze.

The Emperor looked down at the Saintess sprawled across his lap with the bewilderment of someone who just found a raccoon in their bed. The generals were wide-eyed, clearly waiting for his reaction before deciding if they needed to draw their swords. The Pope had started sweating through his robes, clutching his staff like it was his last lifeline.

And then, like an avenging goddess, the Empress rose from her seat.

Without a single word, she grabbed the Saintess by her feathered hairpiece and hauled her up like a disobedient child. The Saintess shrieked, limbs flailing, but the Empress dragged her toward the door with a grim determination.

“OUT.”

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Trey cleared his throat, brushing off his sleeves as if nothing had happened. “Well,” he said, returning to his seat beside you. “That was… eventful.”

“Eventful?” you hissed, elbowing him. “She just dive-bombed the Emperor!”

Trey shrugged, lips twitching. “And yet here we are, still alive. I’d call that a win.”

Across the table, the Emperor straightened his robes, trying to reclaim what little dignity he had left. “Shall we… continue?” he asked, though his tone suggested he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and a nap.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a laugh as the meeting resumed. Somehow, against all odds, you managed to get back to planning strategy. But you knew this story was one for the history books. Or at least for drunken retellings later.

The negotiation room was a grand affair, with gilded walls, an impossibly long table, and an air of tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife.

The opposing kingdom’s crown princess sat across from your delegation, radiating intelligence and poise. Her every word was measured, her presence commanding, and she somehow managed to make a simple quill look like a weapon of mass destruction.

Meanwhile, your prince was... spinning in his chair.

“Wheeeee!”

You felt your soul leave your body.

“Your Highness,” Riddle hissed, his voice laced with the kind of fury only a man on the verge of a migraine could muster. “Compose yourself!”

The prince paused mid-spin, blinking like he’d just remembered where he was. “Right, right. Negotiations. Totally got this.” He picked up a quill and twirled it between his fingers like a toddler pretending to be an adult.

You buried your face in your hands, quietly mourning the future of your kingdom.

Across the table, their saint was the picture of grace, clasping their hands as though ready to bestow divine blessings upon the room. They exuded an aura of peace and righteousness that made you think, Ah, yes, this is what a saint should look like.

And then there was your saintess.

She was currently leaning against the wall, dramatically fanning herself with a peacock-feathered fan that you were pretty sure wasn’t hers. She’d arrived late, claiming she’d been “blessed by the spirits of fashion,” and was wearing a gown so covered in rhinestones that it could probably be seen from space.

You caught Trey’s eye from across the table. He looked entirely too amused, like he was moments away from bursting into laughter. You glared at him, silently begging him to take this seriously.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward as if to say, I’m trying.

Thankfully, the Empress had come along for damage control. She sat at the head of the table, calm and unflappable, effortlessly steering the conversation back on track whenever your prince derailed it with comments like, “So, how do you guys feel about dragons?”

When the opposing kingdom’s crown princess suggested an ambassador exchange as part of the peace treaty, the Empress visibly perked up.

“That’s an excellent idea,” she said smoothly. “In fact, we have the perfect candidate.”

You felt a sliver of hope. Maybe she’d suggest Riddle—he was intelligent, responsible, and would undoubtedly represent your kingdom well. Or Trey, whose calm demeanor and charm could win over anyone. Or—dare you dream—maybe even you, since you were clearly the only one in this circus who had a shred of common sense. And the two of you could move away from this hellhole.

“We’ll send the saintess,” the Empress announced, her voice dripping with what could only be described as malicious glee.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

The crown princess on the other side of the table looked mildly alarmed. “Um,” she began, clearly searching for a polite way to decline.

“She’ll be an excellent cultural ambassador,” the Empress continued, her smile widening. “She’s... unforgettable.”

Riddle’s eye twitched, but he said nothing. Trey looked down at the table, probably to hide his grin.

The saintess, oblivious to the underlying implications, squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, finally! I’ve always wanted to travel!”

The opposing kingdom reluctantly agreed—probably under the assumption that taking her would somehow count as reparations.

When you all finally returned home, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter, as though a glittery, rhinestone-encrusted weight had been lifted off your collective shoulders.

Trey leaned over in the carriage, his voice low and amused. “Well, I’d call that a success.”

“Success?” you laughed. “We basically tricked another kingdom into taking her off our hands.”

Trey’s smile was soft as he reached for your hand. “And we averted a war in the process.”

You sighed, but your heart skipped a beat when his thumb brushed against your knuckles. Maybe you could live with this version of “success.”

Without the saintess egging him on, the prince had downgraded from menace to society to mildly annoying NPC. He still popped up every now and then, offering unsolicited advice on topics he clearly didn’t understand, but Riddle—bless his overworked soul—had finally had enough. As royal advisor, he slapped the prince with permanent probation, effectively keeping him confined to paperwork and far, far away from you and Trey.

Life, for once, was peaceful.

So peaceful, in fact, that you and Trey found yourselves back at that restaurant—the same one that had become the backdrop for two very traumatic encounters. It felt like tempting fate, but Trey, ever the optimist, assured you that lightning wouldn’t strike thrice.

And for once, he was right.

The food was good, the atmosphere was cozy, and not a single insufferable royal barged in to ruin the evening. You both laughed, reminisced, and indulged in desserts that Trey—being the baking connoisseur he was—had plenty of opinions about.

By the time you left the restaurant, the streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The air was crisp but not cold, and everything felt oddly serene, like the universe was apologizing for all the nonsense it had previously thrown your way.

As you walked side by side, Trey suddenly stopped.

You turned to face him, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Trey—”

“Before you say anything,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, “I just want you to know that despite how things started between us... I’ve never regretted a single moment with you.” He looked up at you, his green eyes warm and sincere. “You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be, and if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life making you just as happy.”

He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple, elegant, and undeniably perfect. “So... will you marry me? Again?”

You stared at him, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle. And then you laughed—because how else were you supposed to process the sheer ridiculousness of everything that had led to this moment?

“Yes,” you said, your voice trembling with joy. “Of course, yes.”

He stood, sliding the ring onto your finger with a smile that could have melted glaciers.

And then he kissed you—soft, slow, and so full of love that it felt like the world around you ceased to exist.

Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard a cat knock over a trash can, but nothing could ruin this moment.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Would I be the asshole if I stole some space in my neighbour's trash cans?

Ok important context here. We live in a little culdesac, with our roommate and their parents G&J.

Problem is, G&J are hoarders.

This house is absolutely bursting at the seams with garbage and random crap, and any time we try to throw out/recycle/donate anything, they full on steal it. These people are have dug through our shared trash bins to find things that we've put out. This includes like, torn up old blankets that aren't functional anymore, tins from Pokémon cards that have no use, scraps of cardboard, rotten food, disposable plates and utensils that they expect us to "reuse", old stained and moldy Tupperware, pretty much we can't throw anything out unless we hide it, and it's getting exhausting. They've started going through the individual garbage bags from our rooms to make sure we're not "wasting" anything.

Our trash gets picked up biweekly and I'm considering going out late at night /early morning the day of garbage pickup to try and stuff some trash away before things get picked up. I wouldn't do it mid-week, I don't want to take up room hey might need, but if it's already out and done and they don't have more to add, would it be a dick move?

If the landlords didn't literally dumpster dive, I wouldn't feel the need to resort to this, but they've started blaming us for the house being so full and I don't know how much longer I can deal with being told I'm the hoarder while not being allowed to throw anything out without an interrogation.

(and no, moving isn't an option right now. The only reason we can afford the crappy little bedroom we're renting is because they're roommate's parents. We get $375 a month for rent with our disability assistance and rentals around here cost 2 grand for a one bedroom)

What are these acronyms?

[archangeldyke-all]

hello hello!!! here's the first 2 chapters of my next big fic as a little teaser for what's to come! the entire fic will be posted on the 24th on ao3, but for now-- enjoy this!

men and minors dni

You’re fucking starving. You haven’t eaten in a day and a half. It’s not the longest you’ve gone without food, but that doesn’t make the growling in your stomach any more comfortable. You’ve been collecting glass bottles all day, slowly filling up the potato sack hanging over your shoulder. Each bottle is worth a copper piece at the recycling plant-- but a full sack is worth ten gold. With that kind of money you could rent a room for the night, sleep in a fucking bed for once. 

You sigh as you haul yourself out of the dumpster you were scouring, hitching your half-full potato sack further up on your shoulder. Your stomach growls loudly as you amble your way out of the dingy alleyway and onto the main road. It’s a shockingly pleasant day in the Undercity, a warm breeze tickling your face as you navigate the busy streets. 

People give you a wide berth nowadays-- at least wider than it used to be. You’re not an unusual site in Zaun, though it is strange for a street dweller like yourself to have clear eyes. You haven’t given into the shimmer craze… at least not yet. You aren’t sure if your resolve will hold come winter. Shimmer keeps the body warm. Warm and dazed.

You shake your head to clear the thoughts of the neon substance, determined to ignore its existence until absolutely necessary. You’ve seen too many people get hooked on it. You’ve seen too many people die from it. You won’t let yourself become one of them, things aren’t that bad… yet. 

You turn down an alleyway, trudging toward an overflowing dumpster. Shrouded in shadows, you can barely make out the figure of an old woman slumped against the wall beside the dumpster. She mumbles incoherently at you, her hand littered with purple blisters and scars.

“Evening ma’am,” you say as you launch yourself over the lip of the dumpster. She mumbles back. “I won’t bother you for long. Just looking for glass. You seen any? You know they give you ten gold for a full sack?” You ask as you slice through garbage bags with your pocket knife. The woman slumps to sleep with a grunt. You sigh. “I guess it’s not that interesting is it?” You whisper to yourself as you inspect the contents of the garbage bags. Nothing. Shit. Your stomach growls and you eye a loaf of moldy bread in the corner of the dumpster. 

You really shouldn’t. Last time you ate moldy food you were vomiting and shitting yourself for three days, which is unpleasant to begin with, but even more so when you don’t have access to a bathroom. But you’re fucking starving. 

Your mouth salivates as you pick up the loaf, inspecting it closely. The mold’s grown its own fuzz, little green hairs waving at you as the wind blows. You really shouldn’t. 

You tear the loaf in half. The inside isn’t moldy… yet. Maybe you could pick out the good stuff. You start to rip through the loaf, looking for a salvageable bite. The woman outside the dumpster lets out a snore. Your stomach lets out another growl. You sigh, bringing the bread to your mouth.

“Here goes nothing.” You whisper. 

“Shit!” A high pitched voice rings out. You jump, the bread flying out of your hands as you whip around in the dumpster. Crouching down near the mouth of the alleyway is a little kid with a choppy haircut. She smacks her head repeatedly. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She mutters. You climb out of the dumpster, slowly approaching the kid. 

“Uh.” You say. The girl’s eyes snap up to yours, and she cowers against the wall. “You okay?” You ask. Her eyes are sparkling with tears, snot trailing out of her nose. 

“I fucked up.” She whispers to you. You blink. You don’t think you’ve ever heard a kid this small curse like that. 

“Watch your language?” You say uncertainty. She blinks at you, a tear slowly falling down her cheek. “C’mon it can’t be that bad.” You say. “What’d you do, shoplift?” You ask. You remember being a kid her age and getting chased out of convenience stores with your friends, pockets stuffed with candy, laughing all the way home. The little girl blinks again. “It’s cool, you can just give the shit back. Play up the misguided kid act, give ‘em puppy eyes, they’ll let you off the hook.” You say. She sniffs up at you. 

“I didn’t shoplift. I--”

Across the street, a corner store bursts into flames. You pull the kid in your arms as the shockwave from the explosion knocks you both on your asses. You groan, pulling away from the girl as alarms begin to blare and people begin to panic.

“I did that.” She finishes. You chuckle as you stand up and dust yourself off. 

“Come on, where’re your parents? They’re probably worried about you now.” You offer the kid a hand, and she takes it, shakily standing. 

“You don’t believe me?” She asks, wiping her snotty face with the back of her hand. 

“That you didn’t steal? Nah, I believe you. You just gotta make sure the owner believes you.” You say. “Shit, was that Elijah’s?” You ask, peeking around the wall of the alley to watch as patrons come running out of the front door, smoke billowing out after them. The front window’s been blown out, flames growing inside the tavern. “Always hated that fucker. Serves him right. Wonder who he pissed off this time.” You mumble. 

“Me.” The girl says. You chuckle. 

“Yeah?”

“Well, he wouldn’t give me any fizzy juice and I know he had some. Then he called me a rat and told me to scram. So I snuck in and rigged the joint to blow. Only problem is… I set the timer on the bomb to a minute instead of an hour.” She says with a shrug, scratching her blue hair. You blink. “Plus, the old man I’m living with was talking about Elijah a few weeks ago. Said he was competition or something. So yaknow. Two birds, one bomb.” She rambles. You blink again. Across the street, a man screams as his shirt catches on fire. People swarm him, trying to pat out the flames. You blink for a third time. 

“How old are you?” You choke out, eyes snapping back to the kid in front of you. 

“Nine and three quarters! Almost double digits.” She says with a proud smile. 

“Uhm.” You say, trying to figure out how to handle the situation. God, you haven’t talked to a kid in years. “Aren’t you a little young to be… blowing shit up?” You ask. The girl huffs a put upon sigh. 

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Hey!” An angry voice rings out. Both of your heads snap to the street where Elijah stands, silhouetted by the flames consuming his bar. 

“Shit.” The kid whispers. You gulp. 

“Hey you! Grab that fuckin’ kid!” Elijah says, pointing at you. You freeze. The kid beside you freezes as well. “I’m gonna kill you, you little shit!” He says as he tears across the street toward the two of you. Fuck.

“Fuck!” The girl shrieks, tugging on your hand, trying to get you to run. You blink. Elijah is suddenly towering over you, nostrils flared, brow dirtied with soot. The kid cowers behind you. 

“I recognize you, you filthy bitch. You’re the one always crawling through my dumpsters. Step aside and I won’t kill you too.” He growls. 

“Get fucked.” You say. You try not to laugh at the way his face jumps in surprise. “What, you think a little kid blew up your place?” You ask, pushing the girl behind you. “She can’t even fuckin’ read!” 

“Yes I can.” The girl mumbles under her breath.

“She’s been terrorizing my establishment for months!”

“She’s nine and a half!” You shout, puffing out your chest and standing up straight.

“Nine and three quarters.” She huffs behind you. You elbow her.

“You’re a grown man Elijah, and you wanna beat up a little girl? Go fuck yourself.” You say. Behind your back, you start shooing the kid away with your hand. She tugs on yours but you shake her off, pushing her further down the alley. Elijah’s staring you down, cracking his knuckles and settling into a fighting stance. You gulp. “Matter of fact, what makes you so sure it was her? Half of Zaun hates your guts. It coulda been anyone!” You hear the little footsteps of the kid as she scurries away, and luckily Elijah’s too focused on you to notice. “Coulda been me.” Elijah raises an eyebrow. 

“You?” He scoffs. 

“Yeah, jackass. You really pissed me off when you threw water on me last week. I’m not a fuckin’ animal, you know.” He laughs at this. “Matter of fact, it was me!” You say. You must be hysterical from the starvation, because you can’t seem to keep your mouth shut. “That’s right asshole, bet you didn’t think I knew anything about explosives, did ya?” You taunt. 

“That’s enough outta you. Move.” He says, shoving you. You don’t budge.

“No.” You say. He growls. 

“One more warning, whore.”

“Get. Fucked.”  

The next thing you know, you’re flat on your back in the alleyway, murky water slowly seeping in your clothes as Elijah pummels into you. You take half a dozen punches to your face, your nose crunching, one of your teeth cracking. Then he moves onto stomping your ribs, hard enough for you to lose your breath, your ribs cracking under his boot. You fade in and out of consciousness a few times, but before he can well and truly kill you, he stops. 

“Where the fuck did she go?!” He spits at you. You blink up at him, dazed. “Fuck.” He lands one more solid kick into your ribs before he tears down the alleyway in pursuit of the kid. 

You turn on your side, trying to catch your breath, watching your blood slowly trickle into the puddle below you. You hope the girl got away. Your eyes catch on the woman sleeping beside the dumpster. She’s either dead, or she slept through the explosion and fight. You hope she’s just sleeping. Somewhere in the distance, the fire brigade arrives. The pain in your body flares dramatically and you groan, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. You curl in on yourself as the pain wracks through your body, and you cry yourself to sleep.

“Over here!” 

You blink awake. For a fleeting moment, the only thing you feel is the heaviness of your eyelids and the cool wet concrete beneath you. Your eyes focus on the woman by the dumpster, in the same position she was before you passed out, her skin pale and ghostly. You suck a breath in. She’s dead. You sigh an exhale, and suddenly, the pain in your body comes rushing in. You feel like you’ve been run over by a stampede. 

“Fuck!” You moan, curling in on yourself. You hitch your breath and cry out in pain at the stabbing sensation that flares up in your sides. There’s a pounding in your head, your vision goes blurry and you close your eyes, crying. 

Footsteps approach you. You blink your eyes open, but your vision fuzzes before you can make out more than a pair of boots in front of you. Fuck. You’re gonna throw up. 

“Move.” You warn. It’s the only thing you manage to spit out before you’re spewing bile. The person connected to the boots groans. 

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” A woman’s voice growls out above you.

“Told you to move.” You groan. More footsteps. You try opening your eyes again. Several pairs of feet surround you now. Shit. “I don’t have any money.” You croak. 

“You’re certain this is her?” A man’s voice asks. 

“I’m nobody.” You insist, trying to sit up. The world spins beneath you and you collapse back on the pavement. You whimper. A hand grabs your shoulder. You flinch. “I said I don’t have any money!” You cry out. 

“Shit, calm down.” The woman’s voice speaks again.

“Lemme see her face.” A squeaky voice sounds up. Your eyes snap open in shock. You know that voice. A boot covered in your vomit nudges you, and you flop on your back. Five people peer down at you. “It’s her!” The girl who blew up Elijah’s exclaims. 

“What the fuck?” You say. Above you, a pale person with dramatic slanted bangs chuckles. 

“That’s what I’m saying.” They mutter. The cloaked woman and tattooed wall of a muscular man beside them laugh. 

“That’s enough.” The slender man looming over you snaps. They quiet immediately. He studies you intently. Half of his face is scarred, and his prosthetic black and orange eye bores into you. Beside him, the little girl is holding his hand. “Jinx here tells me you took a beating for her. Is that true?” He asks. Your eyes flick to the little girl. She nods at you, grinning. 

“Um. Yes?” You say. It’s silent for a moment as the skinny man eyes you, then he snaps his fingers. 

“Sevika.” He says, his eyes flickering over to the woman. “Get her.” He commands, turning on his heel, dragging the girl along with him. You blink. The giant tattooed man laughs and pats the woman’s shoulder as she scowls down at you. He and the pale person turn to follow behind the little girl and the skinny scarred man. The only person remaining in your visual field is the woman. She rolls her eyes. 

Suddenly, you’re being lifted into her arms. You groan in pain as the woman jostles you. “Quit squirming.” She grunts as she begins walking behind her entourage. You gasp, her stomping footsteps sending flashes of pain throughout your abdomen. 

“Where-- ow fuck!-- where are y-you taking me?” You ask. The woman glances down at you, but doesn’t say anything. She jostles you in her arms. You cry out, burying your face in her shoulder to muffle your cries.

Somewhere ahead of you, the skinny man’s voice rings out, “Be kind to our guest, Sevika.” The woman carrying you huffs. 

“Fucking barfed on my boots.” She grumbles under her breath. You can only hear it because you’re tucked under her chin. You groan. 

“S-sorry.” You stutter out through the tears. She doesn’t respond. 

You don’t try to fight it. What could you do? You just let the little procession march you through the streets. The woman holding you is warm. You fall in and out of sleep against her. 

One moment you’re outside and in the next you’re blinking awake on a doctor’s table. 

The skinny scarred man is studying you. Beside him is another skinny man, the beginnings of shimmer scars decorating his skin. 

“Put her back to sleep.” The one with the black and orange eye commands. You black out. 

You wake up again in a bed, groggy and warm. You blink up at the ceiling. When was the last time you were this comfortable? You don’t remember. You fall back asleep trying to recall.

The next time you wake up, it’s to someone poking your face repeatedly. You flinch awake. The little girl from the alley is standing beside your bed. “You’re awake!” She says, excited. You blink again.

“I wonder why.” You grumble, smacking her hand away from your face. She giggles guiltily. “Where are we?” You ask her, trying to sit up in bed. One of her little hands shoots out to push your shoulder. 

“Don’t get up.” She says. “‘Parently you broke your ribs.” 

“Fuck.” You huff. She giggles again. You relax against the bed. “Am I on drugs?” You ask. You feel… no pain. And floaty in a nice way. 

“Shimmer.” The little girl says. “And some other stuff.”

“Shit.” You say. There goes your goal to stay off the stuff. You huff out a defeated laugh, but it quickly turns into a happy little giggle. Shit, you really are high. “Shit!” You say again, laughing. The girl laughs with you. 

“You say a lot of bad words.” She says, grinning. You raise a finger up to your lips in a ‘shh’ motion. 

“You didn’t hear ‘em from me.” You say, threateningly. She laughs again. You smile. She’s a cute kid. “Did you really blow up that building?” You ask her. She nods proudly. You snort. “How?!” Her eyes get wide, a grin spreading on her lips as she scrambles to sit on the edge of the bed beside you. With flailing hand gestures, the little girl enthusiastically recounts her process, walking you through the various trials and errors she ran into trying to get inside Elijah’s, the type of explosives she used and how she charged them, and how the stupid kitchen timer betrayed her by the loose time switch downshifting from hours to minutes at the last moment. 

“...and so then I had to run for cover, and you found me.” She finishes. You giggle. 

“Where did you get explosives from?” You ask. She shrugs. 

“Silco keeps ‘em locked up downstairs, just had to snag the key and let myself in.” 

“Who’s Silco?” You ask. 

“That guy I was with when we found you in the alley. He’s like my foster dad or something.” She says, shrugging. 

“You live in a house with explosives in the basement?” 

“No, silly, I live here.” 

“Right…” You say. “And where are we… exactly?” You ask for the second time that night. 

“Silco’s.” She says, squinting at you like you’re stupid. 

“...Right.” You say, nodding like you understand. 

“Wanna see a cool knife trick?” The girl asks, jumping off the bed and reaching in her back pocket. You shrug. 

“Sure.” You say. 

The door suddenly opens, the skinny scarred man standing on the other side. Silco, you guess.

“Jinx. What did I tell you about knives.” He says tiredly, walking in the room and snatching the knife out of her hands. She pouts and stomps her foot. “Go draw. I need to talk to our guest in private.” 

“What? No fair! She’s the coolest person in this stinking place and I’m the one who found her! I should get to play with her all I want!” She demands. You blink, unsure if you should be flattered or worried that the strange kid’s taken a liking to you. 

“She’s not a pet Jinx.” The man says, guiding the girl out of the room. “Go finish your mural in the east hall. I want to see what you end up doing with the green.” 

The girl grumbles, stomping away. The man sighs and clicks the door shut, turning to face you. Suddenly, you’re nervous. You lift your hand. “Uh. Hi.” You say. 

“Hello.” He says. He pulls a chair up to your bedside and sits, crossing one of his legs over the other. He studies you intently. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions, all of which I’ll be happy to answer. But first I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.” 

“Don’t think I got a choice, do I?” You ask with a chuckle. He smiles. 

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

“Shoot.” You say, shrugging. He clears his throat, eyeing your neck. You gulp. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be the niece of Ms. Bonnie May, would you?” He asks. You spring up in bed, the pain that suddenly swells in your sides is nothing compared to the chill of fear that shoots down your spine. 

“How the fuck do you know that name?” You ask Silco rises, reaching out to steady you and help you lie back down.

“Relax. I was friends with Bonnie.” He says as he eases you back onto the pillows. You blink. 

“Work friends?” You ask. He nods, sitting back down. You blink again, understanding slowly dawning upon you. You shake your head and laugh. “What’d she do for you?” You ask. Silco sighs, a reminiscent smile tugging on his lips. 

“Smuggling mostly. She really was the best there was, as I’m sure you know. She saved my life several times in that damn basement of hers.” You snort a laugh. “And of course the odd counterfeited document.” 

“You weren’t a fan of her home brew then?” You ask with a smile. Silco chuckles. 

“Did she really have customers for that shit?” He asks. You giggle. 

“Half a dozen regulars.” You say. Silco shivers. 

“She’d drink it like water! I was always impressed by that.” He says. You laugh. 

“She was a tough old broad.”

“She was.” He says, solemnly. For a moment, it’s silent. You try to swallow back the sudden lump in your throat. “She talked about you all the time.” He says. You scoff.

“How I was eating her out of a house and home?” You guess. Silco smiles. 

“That, and the teenage mood swings.” You grin. 

“She was always talking shit.” 

“She loved you dearly.” He says. The sudden seriousness in his voice catches you off guard. The tears in your eyes quickly begin to well up again. 

“How’d you know I was hers?”

“Your scar.” He says, nodding to the side of your neck. You reach up, gently tracing raised skin beneath your ear. Your aunt was a talented woman with a flair for the dramatic-- her products always had a hidden calling card: a cockroach. Whether printed microscopically in the seal of her counterfeit Piltover cash, etched into the bottom of her bottles, or branded into the skin of her patients, your aunt signed all her work with the indestructible bugs. The message was clear. If it was signed with a roach, Bonnie May did it. “I have one of my own, here.” He says pointing to his stomach. “I was disemboweled. She shoved my guts back in and sewed me up.” He says. “It was a miracle I lived.” You laugh. 

“You know she only ever lost five people?” 

“She was incredible.”

You and Silco are silent for a moment, memories of your aunt flashing though your minds. Finally, you speak. “Uh, if you don’t mind me asking… where are we, exactly?” You ask. Silco perks up in his seat. 

“Oh, yes! Well, you see, Jinx has recently come into my care.” He begins. You nod. “And while we’ve made great progress in these past two years together, she still has a tendency to sneak away and get herself in trouble.” He scratches the back of his head. “She’s a troubled girl…”

“She’s smart.” You say. He grins with pride. 

“She’s a genius. But she doesn’t think things through. I have no doubt in my mind Elijah would’ve killed her if you hadn’t stepped in. I had no idea who you were before we found you, I simply wanted to repay the debt to whoever protected Jinx. But then I saw your neck, and your condition, and well. Your aunt wouldn’t want you on the streets. With all she did for me in her life, and with what you did for Jinx, I thought it best I bring you back here.”

“And… where is ‘here’ exactly?”

“The Last Drop. My headquarters.” 

“That bar downtown?” You ask. 

“The one and only.” 

“What are you… headquartering?” You ask. Silco examines you, then leans forward. 

“Your aunt was a strong soldier in the rebellion. I take it you share the same… political sentiments?” He asks. You snort. 

“I’m not a bootlickin’ narc, if that’s what you’re asking. Bonnie raised me with proper values.” Silco smiles. 

“I figured. I’m the head of a particularly lucrative business operation.” You tick an eyebrow up. 

“Drugs or sex?” 

“Shimmer.” He says. 

“You’re the one who’s been putting that shit on the streets?” You ask. He nods. You grunt. “And what does that have to do with the rebellion?” 

“The money I make goes towards the independence of Zaun.” He says. You laugh. 

“Yeah? Who died and put you in charge?” You ask. Silco scowls at you. “Shit, okay.” You say, raising your hands. “Sorry.” 

“You’ve certainly got your aunt’s mouth.” Silco says. You huff a laugh. That’s true. Bonnie was always getting into trouble for running her mouth. 

“So… why did you bring me to the headquarters of the rebellion?” You ask. Silco hums. 

“I’m hoping maybe your mouth isn’t the only thing you inherited from Bonnie. You could be of great help to us here. I owe you a debt-- I owe your aunt several. I figured I could start my pay back with an offer.” 

“An offer?” You ask. 

“You clearly aren’t in the best situation right now.” Silco says bluntly. “I can give you a room. Here. And a paycheck every week.” He says. You snort. 

“That’s kind of you, sir, but Bonnie never let me near her work. I’d  be useless here.” 

“If I asked you to make me a bottle of moonshine the way Bonnie used to, you’d be able to, yes?” 

“Well, yes, but you just said you didn’t like--”

“And if I asked you what to do if you’re ever being questioned by enforcers?” He asks, cutting you off. 

“Say nothing, request your Undercity-relation representative--”

“You know basic first aid?” He asks. “CPR?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“How about Bonnie’s old mineshaft, with that elevator up top-- you remember where that is? Could you get me there?” 

“Yeah, it’s just north of the--” You’re cut off again.

“And Jinx. You’re good with her.”

“I mean… I’ve spoken to her twi--”

“You were on the streets for how long? More than half a year now? And you’ve avoided shimmer this long. You’re resilient.” He says. 

“I haven’t had to get through winter yet.”

“You took a beating for a girl you’ve never met.” 

“She’s a kid, any decent person would’ve--”

“Your aunt taught you self defense? Basic knife skills?” 

“Sure, but everyone down here--”

“You’re hired.” Silco says. You snap your mouth shut. Tears well in your eyes. 

“You can’t be serious.” You say. 

“Why not?” Silco asks. “You don’t want it?” 

“Of course I want it but--”

“Then you’re hired.”

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[boghermit]

Landlords raise your rent then forget to renew their contract with public sanitation so you've got garbage from one month ago overflowing from the two dumpsters shared between thirty apartments.

[conkreetmonkey]

YouTube woodworking is so funny. Haphazardly arrange some filthy old chunks of dumpster pallet into a shape vaguely resembling a tabletop, encase it in 800 pounds of resin, and bolt it to a black industrial set of steel legs you got off of Etsy. Suddenly it's worth $2500. And somebody is rich enough to buy it with shipping.

What parallel universe are these people from, if I somehow had 2 months of rent to spend on a decorative coffee table I'd get one custom made from solid oak by a master woodworker, not a bunch of garbage encased in clear plastic bolted to a Monster Jam roll cage. Are you insane. Like it looks sort of cool but not for thousands of fucking dollars. I could get something custom tailored to my tastes for that price. It's a table. It's not super advanced.

[nopecho]

Some sheets I prepared for a DOL roleplay I'm organizing with a friend! It's steampunk themed, it's got trauma, it's got drama, I'm working very hard on it :> Can't wait to start writing it with my friend! ANyway, some basic info on the LIs!

Arden- the isolated

Basically my own personal take on Kylar in this universe. However, instead of bein a gross little freak, he actually has some charisma to him. Yes he's a yandere, but not the desperate type. He's more likely to silently plan to kill all his love rivals, rather than kidnap you. he will eventually if pushed over the brink, though. § He has a creepy, yet misterious aura about him. Maybe it's his big, amber eyes that scare people away. He's softspoken, but will infodump you about his passion project. people call his stories creepy. He's into writing and dolls. Will make sure you cum every time you have sex.

Codium- the merman

A merman bound to the sea. In this steampunk universe, industrialization massively impacted the environment, including the sea. it's scattered with oil and garbage. His first encounter is him trying to drown you, thinking you're polluting the waters. Once he realizes his mistake, he'll apologize profusely and be actually rather kind and sweet. If you get in trouble in the sea, with high enough love he'll come rescue you. During sex, he'll note how different you feel from his people. Will praise you endlessly, and try his best to make you cum (may not be very good at it, but he tries.)

Gear- the robot

A mischievious little street rat. He lives off of stealing stuff from the dumpsters, fixing it and selling it at overpriced rates. He's desperate to make money to help his creator, Vicky. she disapproves of his criminal life, but she can't do much about it- they need money. Despite his bratty attitude, he cares deeply for those he considers friends. That's why he isn't afraid to turn to a life of crime. He is a dirty boy, he's into all kinds of nasty shit. Is not afraid to get his hands dirty , in any occasion. He's a horny little freak. he WILL have his sexytimes with you. Even if nonconsensual, he'll always help you cum after sex.

Jamie- the orphan

It ain't a DOL universe without an orphan somewhere. He's an aspiting inventor, and is quite creative. He may need some help to pay off Bailey, he barely manages to make enough money to pay rent every week. he often has to skip lunch to save on money. His favourite inventions are small, yet useful household items. He invented a machine that warms up bread just right. Unfortunately, not many people are interested in these kinds of things. He's sweet and caring, but also naive. Has a secret dirty side to him. loves to be degraded for the useless aborted kid he is, depending on PC to pay off his debt. Doesn't care if you cum or not, if he's done he's done.

Uri Gabriel (or Uriel)- the banished

a fallen angel banished from heaven for loving someone other than God. his greatest sin was to love his partner. He fell from grace because they told on him to repent. Uriel fell, and swore to never fall in love again. He is cold and distant, intentionally pushing you away if you get too close. The only reason he even bothers interacting with you, is because you save him from the church during your first meeting. He's dominating, he's course and rough, swears a lot during sex. You're his cocksleeve, at best. unless he actually starts developing feelings... he will become more sweet once he admits his love for you. doesn't care if you cum during sex. you're his toy, at best. why would he care?

[rent-bin]

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[kabillieu]

I feel like there's so much I want to write about. I'm overwhelmed. Things are moving very fast with our move already, and it's hard to wrap my brain around it.

For various reasons we have a lot of stuff we've been dragging around in bins for years that just needs to be thrown away. And we have a lot of baby things that R has grown out of, but it's gotten hard-to-impossible to donate baby gear. There are still things in this house that past tenants left. We have a bunch of stuff in our backyard that we used during the pandemic to the point where it's just worn slap out. So Dominic rented a dumpster, and the size of it is embarrassing. But also we just put a whole trampoline in it. So we needed a dumpster.

If we were the type of people who didn't get emotionally attached to our things, we wouldn't be in this predicament. But also today I walked down to the dumpster (in our driveway) to throw a bunch of Spanish English dictionaries away, and I saw R's two baby bouncers looking brand new just sitting there on top of garbage, and I immediately burst into tears. We had agreed on throwing them away because of how quickly we're getting rid of things. And you can't donate bouncers to thrift stores, or at least not the ones we use for donations. But I couldn't handle those stupid bouncers being in the garbage, so Dominic took them out and I put them on Facebook marketplace for free, and someone immediately came and picked them up. Maybe to sell on Facebook marketplace (lol), but at least those bouncers aren't in the garbage, and eventually they will hold babies again.

It's difficult to see the amount of garbage we've produced. It's so much. Usually trash goes out in manageable increments weekly with garbage pickup. So to see a big mountain of it you've made over the years, to see your consumerism splayed out like that, how you generate trash that is going to sit in a landfill, and some of it will never break down, and it's all your fault--well, it's a lot to stomach. Some of it is that I'm married to a person who buys something every time he has a big feeling. But a lot of it is that the military hires packers to pack up our shit and move it for us, so it hasn't really penalized us to hold onto the most random assortment of bullshit: bins of 20-year-old clothes and athletic gear, boxes filled with the doo-dads of old hobbies, lots of office supplies (???), all of it stuff that was maybe once useful, that we probably even used a lot. But we don't use these things anymore. So they need to go. Into the trash.

But not the goddamn bouncers.

[ecostardisposal]

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