#someone said it was supply chain issues

[lilbit-of-kizzy]

🚨CHOCOLATE CHIP POP TARTS ARE BACK🚨

THIS IS NOT A DRILL I REPEAT

CHOCOLATE CHIP POP TARTS ARE BACK!!!!!

[dduane]

I just received a copy of a book I've been very much looking forward to by a favorite author, but the quality of the book itself is... not great. Cheap paper, weak binding, even a weird illustration of the main character on the cover that I'm having trouble believing the author approved. Obviously, I don't want to leave a bad review on Amazon or GoodReads or anywhere, as I'm 100% certain the content is as excellent as her other work. But how can I best let the publisher (Baen) know I'm disappointed without threatening to never buy her books again? Because, well, if this is the only option, I'm gonna keep buying them even in my disappointment.

Well, the first thing I thought when I read this was "Wow, I'm really glad I don't have anything in print from Baen at the moment except a couple of anthologized short stories." :)

As for the rest of it, let's take it point by point.

Adding a cut here, because this will run a bit long. Caution: contains auctorial bitching and moaning, painful illustrations of cases in point, and brief advice on how to complain most effectively. (Also links to paintings of cats.)

Cheap paper: This has been an accurate complaint since well before COVID—and it's often been worse since, with supply chain issues also being involved. That said: one way publishers routinely save money on printing books, especially the bigger ones, is by going for thinner/cheaper paper. I remember one of our UK editors going on at great length and with huge annoyance—during one of those late-night convention-bar bitch sessions—over how the only way they could get some really good books published (because Upstairs insisted on reducing the per-copy production costs) was by reducing the paper quality to the point where you could nearly read through it. Sacrificing decent text size(s) also became part of this. Nobody in editorial was happy about the result: but there wasn't much they could do.

Bad bindings: Similar problem. Sewn bindings used to be a thing in paperbacks... but not any more: not for a good while, now. These days, it's all glue. Even hardcovers are showing up glued rather than sewn. Don't get me started. :/ (This is why I so treasure some of the oldest paperbacks I've acquired, which are actually sewn.)

Crap covers: I've had my share of these—though my share of some really good ones, too. And one of the endless frustrations of traditional publishing is that the writer routinely has little or even no influence over what the cover will look like... let alone how much will be spent on it, or (an often-related issue) how good the execution will be.

There are of course exceptions. If you're working at the, well, @neil-gaiman -esque level or similar in publishing, a lot more attention is going to be paid to your thoughts. You may even be able to get "cover veto" written into your contracts, so that if you disapprove, changes will get made. But without actual contractual stipulations, the writer has zero legal recourse or way to withhold approval. (And I bet even Neil has some horror stories.)

The normal workflow looks like this. After a book's purchased, its editor and the art director discuss what it's about and what the cover should look like. The art director then hires an artist and tells them what to do. After that, the artist executes their vision and gets paid. It is incredibly rare for a writer to have any significant input into this process. And as to whether or not they approve of the final result, well... the publisher mostly just shrugs and goes back to eyeing the bottom line, muttering "Who told them they get a vote?"

Now, I've been seriously lucky to occasionally be an exception in this regard. In particular, my editors at Harcourt (when Jane Yolen and Michael Stearns were editing Harcourt's Magic Carpet YA imprint) would ask me what I thought would be a good idea for the next Young Wizards cover, and I'd think about it a bit and send them back a paragraph or so about some core scene. They'd then talk to their art director, and after that send their notes and mine to Cliff Nielsen (who started doing the covers for the hardcover and mass-market paperback editions of the series in the mid-90s) or to Greg Swearingen (who was the artist on the digest-format editions). And the results, by and large, were pretty good. ...I also think affectionately of the UK artist Mick Posen, who insisted on seeing pictures of our cats before painting the covers for the Hodder editions of The Book of Night with Moon and On Her Majesty's Wizardly Service (the UK title for To Visit The Queen).

But this kind of treatment is a courtesy—not even vaguely suggested in the books' contracts, and very much the exception to the rule. And for every writer who's midlist, there are times when the luck runs out. For example: one time I wrote a book that was an AU-Earth-near-future fantasy police procedural, thematically pretty dark—dealing with issues of abuse of megacorporate power, institutionalized bigotry, and (explicitly) attempted genocide. And the cover, done by an artist who's a good friend and some of whose fabulous art hangs in our house, came out looking like this. It was... let's just say "not ideally representative."

So I was glad, when my local workflow allowed it, to recover the current, revised version of the book with something at least a little more apropos. But the original cover's not the artist's fault. He did what the art director told him... as a cover artist must do to get paid, and (ideally) to get hired again. At present, that's how the system works.

...So. You've got a badly-built and -presented book on your hands. How best to make your feelings known in some way that might make a difference down the line? (As you make it plain that you'll keep buying this author's books this way if you must.)

First of all: when (as part of my psych nursing training) we were taught how to complain most effectively, we were told that the first and most basic rule of the art is this:

Only Complain To Someone Who Can Actually Do Something About Your Problem

So I salute your desire not to waste your time taking the issue to the reviews on Amazon, or the pages of Goodreads... because they can't do anything. The odds that anyone from production at Baen is reading the comments there strike me as... well, not infinitesimally small, not being hit-by-a-meteorite-while-in-the-shopping-center-parking-lot small... but really low.

So: write to corporate.

In your place I would go online and rummage around a bit to find out who's on record as the publisher at Baen. I would then write them a letter on paper. And I would lay out the problem pretty much as you laid it out up at the top.

The tone I think I'd choose would be the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger approach. I'd say, "I write to comment about your recently published book by [X Writer], whose work I love. I have to say, though, that I don't think the cover on [X Book] is terribly representative of the quality of the prose inside. And also, the construction and production quality of the book itself was a disappointment to me because [here spell out why].

"I'd really like to see [X. Writer's] books succeed with you, and I'd like to buy more of them without wondering whether I was going to be disappointed again. But if this is typical of how they're being produced, I'd also be concerned that the state of these books is setting up a situation in which the author's sales will be damaged, and you would stop publishing them... which would really be a shame. Whereas on the other hand, better production quality could keep previous purchasers coming back and buying, not only more books by this author, but books by others whom you publish."

This phrasing, as you'll have seen, walks a bit wide around the issue of your further purchases, while directing attention toward the bottom line... which will routinely be what the publisher's looking at from day to day. And—being, one has to hope, in possession of the wider picture as regards what's going on with their production costs—maybe they can actually do something about it.

Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained, yeah? It's worth a try. All you can do is hope for the best.

And finally: please know that I admire your commitment to the author: whoever she is, she's lucky to have you. It's a terrific thing to have readers who'll willing to spend the time to hunt you down, and who're willing not to judge a book by its cover. :)

[tashacee]

If Time used the truth mask-thing would he be able to see Wild as a hylian?

HMMMMM on the one hand i'm not sure it would work on this situation, on the other hand....

have a crack fic. I made myself laugh.

Aspects of Two Idiots

Wild had wandered off.

This was not unusual in and of itself - the guy was forever wandering off and exploring and getting himself into all sorts of trouble. At least, unlike Hyrule, he tended not to get himself hopelessly lost. And no matter how filthy he was when he came back (and oh, did he come back filthy) he always actually cleaned himself off.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was, Wild had wandered off, and the Chain were starting to get hungry. Of course, they were all grown adults - well, most of them, at least, and in theory they could provide for themselves. Hyrule had his dried meats and fruit and they had a supply of bread and cheese. And of course, one of them could always try to actually cook.

It was just that. Well.

The Chain cooking never ended well.

Time had sighed at the latest moan, this time from Sky, who despite his generally sweet disposition could still get grumpy when he was hungry enough. They had all had a long day and desperately needed this break. The woods that they were travelling through were full of glamours and illusions, and it had taken every ounce of magical awareness to get through without falling into any traps.

Wild, he was pretty sure, had just gone down to the nearby stream to wash off after someone had shot a massive chu too close to him and the whole thing had exploded into his fur.

He had been very, very angry after that.

Time could understand him needing a break.

Still, the Chain was hungry, and Time couldn’t be bothered listening to them complain any longer. At least if he went to find their missing brother then he would be doing something, and perhaps he could be of help scrubbing the dried chu jelly from his fur.

Ugh. It had been so gross.

“I’ll go.” Time had said, and strode out of camp without waiting for a response.

It was peaceful enough. In a sudden stroke of inspiration he had slipped on the Mask of Truth and now could easily see through any illusions in the forest long before they became an issue. The mask didn’t do anything for sounds, unfortunately, so he couldn’t hear anything coming, but it was good enough to do.

Time hummed to himself idly as he walked down to the stream, an old, gentle tune. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the water’s edge that he realised something was wrong.

Wild wasn’t where he should have been. In his place was a short, blond man, a boy, really, irritably scrubbing at his long blond hair. From where he stood in the trees, Time could see how scars - horrible, familiar scars - twisted around half of his body. He could see how one arm had been removed and set to the side, out of the way of the water.

What the fuck.

Time blinked, and then slipped the mask down, peering over with his own eyes.

There was Wild, lifting one leg to his shoulder and twisting so that he could clean himself properly.

He put the mask back on. The hero he knew and loved was replaced by this blond stranger.

What in the-

Time shifted his weight, and beneath his feet a stick cracked.

Not-Wild looked around, his eyes wide. He whined in question.

Time slipped the mask off, not wanting to startle his brother.

“It’s me.” he said, coming into the light, looking at Wild and trying to understand what he had just seen.

Wild… for want of a better word, Wild looked terrified. Like he had been caught doing something taboo, something terrible. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a man about to face the chopping block.

“Wild-” Time began to ask, but in an instant his brother was upon him, jamming his arm back in place and pressing his hands to Time’s lips in a silencing gesture, eyes wide as he desperately shook his head. Time wondered at the back of his mind what he would be seeing in the mask - the boy that had been in place of Wild had been so much shorter, would he have to reach to cover Time’s lips?

Clearly Wild knew he had been seen, that Time knew about his secret form. Was this Wild’s real body? The body he had been born into? Had he been changed into the form he had now? Made to change? Chosen to change?

What the hell was going on?

Time pulled away - “Okay, okay, i just - i have some questio-”

Wild yipped in alarm and shook his head frantically. He even tried some of the rudimentary sign he had picked up, Time could just about make out the words ‘secret’ and ‘please’ through his shaking fingers.

Slowly, Time nodded. Whatever this was, whyever Wild looked so different through the Mask, it clearly wasn’t something that was supposed to be shared. It was private, a secret. Time could understand that, he supposed. Plenty of people had pasts they didn’t want others to know about, other forms they would rather keep private. Time himself could think of a number of different forms he had borne that he would rather not share with the group.

He didn’t know why his brother might show as a hylian through whatever glamour he must have been wearing, but if he didn’t want to share, then Time wasn’t going to ask.

“It’s okay.” Time murmured, as reassuring as he could. “I won’t tell anyone, your secret’s safe with me.”

In front of him, Wild nearly melted with relief.

-

Wild had gone down to the river to get some peace. Not because he was mad! Really, Wind couldn’t have known when he shot what must have been the world’s largest chu chu that it was going to explode literally all over Wild. He couldn’t have known that they still would have to fight the rest of the battle in the baking sun and then hike through hours through this terrible cursed forest until they found a safe camp site.

No one could have foreseen that the jelly would solidify into a horrible, sticky gunk that matted through wild’s fur and stank to high heaven. 

It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just sucked.

The longer the jelly stayed on the harder it got, and it tugged and pulled at Wild’s fur as he moved. It was awful. He hated it. He knew that he was in a bad mood because of it. That was way he refused any offers of company to the river as politely as he could and went off on his own. He needed some time to just groom himself in peace.

And so he had. It had been nice, despite the spookiness of the woods. Once he got the jelly wet again it came off fairly easily, so he had been able to relax into his grooming routine. Gently, he brushed through his fur, humming softly to himself, enjoying the feeling of being clean again.

It was a cat thing. He was pretty sure that while he had understood the importance of hygiene and enjoyed the occasional luxurious soak before, it had never been like this. He wondered what else he was missing out on, what other feline habits he should try out while he had the chance. Grooming was so good, after all.

…grooming. Huh.

Didn’t cats groom with their tongues?

Ugh! No! He wasn’t trying that, gross!

Unless…

No!

But maybe…

Wild looked around to make sure he was alone. Nothing stirred in the forest. He looked down at his arm, recently cleaned and neatly brushed. He leaned over and gave it a testing ‘lick’.

Huh. Weird. It… it didn’t feel the most natural in the world, but it also wasn’t terrible. He licked again, more firmly this time. To his surprise, the fur rearranged itself neatly, lying flatter than before.

What the fuck.

He bent over and twisted, lifting his leg to try licking his ankle. Not for any other reason than it was there, and he was doing an experiment.

Huh. No, it didn’t feel right. And besides, it was all very well him saying it wasn’t the worst, but he was freshly clean now. The idea of licking his fur when he was actually dirty was still pretty repulsive.

Welp, there was one cat habit he could safely say he hadn’t absorbed.

Something rustled behind him.

Wild was on his feet in an instant, ready to attack whatever it was but also horrified at the thought that one of his brothers might have seen him.

Time stepped out of the trees. “It’s me.” he said, and he looked more than a little bewildered.

Ah, shit. He’d seen.

Wild whined as his brother said his name, and grabbed his arm from where he had left it by the water’s edge. Jamming it back into place, he rushed up to time and slammed his hands over his mouth, shaking his head viciously.

Don’t say it. Please please please, Old Man, don’t say it out loud. Ah, shit, Wild couldn’t take the embarrassment. This was terrible! Why had he ever thought that he should try licking his fur of all things, he wasn’t actually an animal!

Time pulled away from his grasp, holding out his hands in what was clearly meant to be a pacifying gesture. “Okay, okay, i just - i have some questio-”

NOPE! NO QUESTIONS FOR YOU, OLD MAN.

Wild barely contained his screech of alarm, shaking his head again. He never, ever wanted to talk about this with anyone, ever. He would do anything, give anything. He’d make Time’s favourite food every night for the rest of their adventure, he’d clean his shoes, he’d stop groaning at his terrible old man jokes, anything to avoid the humiliation of this conversation.

Finally, Time sighed and offered him a small smile. “It’s okay.” he said, and Wild had never been more relieved that the Chain just assumed some of his odd habits were normal. With any luck, the old man would just presume that this was something he did in private and that it was inappropriate to talk about in public. Like going to the toilet or something.  “I won’t tell anyone, your secret’s safe with me.”

OH THANK HYLIA.

-

And with that, the misunderstanding went unaddressed. Time knew about Wild’s other form as a hylian and didn’t bring it up because he thought it was a secret. Wild, believing his brother to have seen him grooming with his tongue, made Time’s favourite food every night for a week.

Neither mentioned that evening by the river again.

After all, they were heroes of courage, not wisdom.

[monstersandmaw]

Here's August's offering for you! Hope you enjoy it - I had fun with writing it! We return to Starfall Springs!

Content: seemingly-grumpy, slightly older, scarred, Shire centaur meets peppy human female in a DIY store after his niece spills a lot of pink paint on the floor, and each is instantly attracted to the other. When the reader's truck breaks down a week later, it must be fate when the same centaur comes across her on the side of the road and offers to tow her truck to his mate's garage in Starfall Springs. One thing leads to another, and the two get better acquainted. Mention of alcohol, but no inebriation.

Nsfw: non-penetrative sex, messy intercrural sex, outdoor but not public sex, reader receives oral, cis female terminology used. Both parties also say 'fuck' a lot.

Wordcount: 9453

Preview:

Despite having moved to the foothills of the Glasspeak Mountains almost six months ago, you’d only been into the quaint little town of Starfall Springs a handful of times.

Now that you’d fixed most of the structural issues in your off-grid cabin — at least the estate agent had been very open with you about the modernisation needed on the property — you were turning your hand to making it prettier.

The urgency of the advancing year and the upcoming winter had driven you into a DIY frenzy over the summer months to get the place functional, and now that it was done, you never wanted to feel PTFE tape between your fingers, or see a wrench or a screwdriver again. You’d had drywall dust in places you never wanted drywall dust too. But, while the place was no longer letting water in from places it shouldn’t, or letting water out from places it shouldn’t, it did look very stark and very bare, with raw wooden surfaces and no colours or comforts.

Right on the edge of Starfall Springs was a small industrial park which somehow still managed to look leafy and quaint. The lot was made up of three large warehouses, one a rambling garden centre overflowing with verdant life, another a dealership for all sorts of motor-vehicles, from centaur-accessible vans to naga-accessible motorcycles, and the last was a DIY and home improvement centre, selling everything from plumbing supplies to lumber, and even offering bespoke kitchen and bathroom refurbishments. You’d saved yourself the cost of the latter by doing them yourself, but the staff there knew you like family for how many times you’d been back to ask where to find all the things you needed for the cabin.

You’d supported Dhurak’s small hardware store nearer the centre of Starfall Springs when you’d first moved there, thinking it would be better to support an independent business, but as it turned out, these stores weren’t franchises of larger chains, and were in fact also independent businesses. The parking in the centre of Starfall Springs also wasn’t great, especially since you drove a huge pickup truck, and this place had literally everything you could ever need. It even had a crafts section on the off-chance you decided to take up knitting for the winter months.

So it was that, halfway down the lighting aisle, you heard a high-pitched, whinnying whine coming from the next aisle over, followed by the stamp of small hooves and then a loud clatter. Someone inhaled sharply as if about to curse, and then a deep, resigned voice said in a rather clipped, northern burr, “I told you to let me get it down, Clara. Now we’ll have to pay for that as well.”

“I- I’m…” came a quavering response, and then the sound of a child crying in quick, ugly gulps.

You pushed your laden trolley around the corner and saw a huge, black-coated centaur’s muscular backside as the figure bent one foreleg and ‘bowed’ down at the front. To your surprise, he scooped up a much smaller centaur under her belly, like a fashionable lady grabbing a wayward handbag-dog, and lurched back up onto all four hooves. He stepped easily away from a slowly-spreading mess of spilled pink paint all over the tiled warehouse floor, still with the young centaur tucked under one arm.

Backing up a few paces on hooves that had to be as big as dinner plates, the figure set down the young child and said in a strained voice that was clearly trying very hard to be patient, “I’ll have to go and tell someone we made a mess. You need to stay here while I do that. Do not move, Clara, and do not touch anything else. You understand me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Uncle Jack,” she sniffled as she got a hold of herself again, cuffing at her face with her sleeve.

Unlike him, she was tiny, but like him, her equine coat was jet black, and the skin of her upper, human torso was dark. To keep her equine body warm from the nippy, autumn wind outside, she wore a cosy-looking pink coat like a horse rug, and her human upper body was swathed in a voluminous, pink puffer jacket. Her hair was tied up in two high buns that looked like mouse ears and secured with pink scrunchies. With her dark eyes all watery and her mouth crumpled up into a pout, she looked adorable, and thoroughly miserable.

‘Uncle Jack’ did not look adorable. He looked… intimidating.

If Clara perhaps resembled a shaggy little Shetland pony, her uncle looked like a Shire centaur, with massive muscles in his bare equine body, and a shaggy, dark coat. To your surprise, he had a short and traditionally-docked tail, and his lovely, fluffy, white fetlocks were now spattered with pink paint. The pink didn’t lessen the impact of his presence at all. Your eyes travelled up his torso, swathed in a brown, waxed jacket, up to his weathered face, and you tried not to let your shock show when you found a set of four, huge, scars slashing across his rugged features. He looked like he’d been mauled by a bear at some point in his youth. His textured black hair was long and tied back in soft, fuzzy dreads at the nape of his neck, with flecks of grey streaking through it at the temples. His eyes though, were a startling, sapphire blue.

He turned carefully in the limited space that the aisle afforded him, and caught sight of you. You’d stopped in the dead centre of the aisle, and there was no way he could squeeze past you unless you tucked yourself right up against the side, so you hitched him a shy little smile and nudged your heavy, ungainly shopping cart over to one side so he could pass.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, ducking his head in a tight nod. “I’ll get this mess sorted out.”

“Don’t worry,” you smiled. “You want me to stay with her while you go find someone?”

He eyed you up and down with a frightening scowl on his scarred face, and then he scrubbed one rough-looking hand over his mouth, his short, dark beard rasping against what you could only assume were calluses on his hand to make that kind of noise. “Would you?”

You smiled. “Of course. I’ve had my fair share of paint related disasters in DIY stores, trust me.”

The centaur gave you an odd look at that, but he didn’t pry, and just nodded again and turned to look over his colossal shoulder, where the poor kid was standing and sniffling beside the widening tide of pale pink paint. “Clara, this kind human’s going to stay with you, ok? Don’t give her any trouble.”

Clara shook her head, giving you a wide-eyed look that told you she wasn’t entirely comfortable with being left with a stranger, and then mumbled, “Ok.”

“I’ll be two minutes,” he growled at you, and then stalked off to find a store attendant.

Read the whole 9.8k word story on my Patreon right now, plus gain access to my entire Patreon back catalogue. You'll also get access to any free stories a week early, and you can come hang out in our chilled Discord server too.

[froggywritesstuff]

consequences of being sick | yandere!teddy lobo

ship/pairing: Yandere!Teddy Lobo x g/n!reader

fandom: Renfield

warnings: really ooc, yandere, unhealthy relationships, mentions of vomiting, issues with eating, being chained up, mentions of feeding tubes, threats of force feeding, kissing

word count: 744

A/N: i don't really know what this is, i got the idea last night and the notes i left future me were not at all helpful, hence why this is ass.  i do not in any way support yandere behaviour, please know that this writing is purely fictional, and should not ever be reenacted in real life

You stared at the bowl of cereal on the table, the sight of it making your stomach churn with disgust. The cereal grew mushy and soggy during the time you hadn't been eating, which just made you feel even worse about eating it. Every time you even thought of taking a bite, you felt like bile would rise up in your throat. It was one thing to think about eating when everything about your situation made you sick to your stomach, it was another to attempt to eat with your captor sitting directly across from you, watching your every move.

"We're not leaving this table until you eat."

You kicked your legs awkwardly, feeling chains rattle against them as you did. You looked up at Teddy, shrinking back as you met his eyes, "I'm not hungry."

A frustrated sigh left his lips. You could tell his patience was wearing thin, "You haven't been hungry for the last few days, and if you think I'm gonna let you starve, you're sorely mistaken, Y/N. You need to eat."

"I feel sick." you mumbled, avoiding eye contact with Teddy. He said nothing, nodding to someone behind you, before he stood up from his seat, staring down at you. A man came from behind you and unlocked the chains around your legs.

"Get up." 

You did as he said, and he grabbed you by the hand, pushing you in front of him with his hands on your shoulders, guiding you through a hall. He stopped walking, and you were standing in front of a shut door. 

"Go on, open it." he instructed, the amused tone in his voice making you shiver in fear.

With shaking hands, you opened the door, letting Teddy lead you inside the room. It was an average sized room with light grey walls, the plainness of it definitely didn't match the rest of the mansion. A single bed was placed against the wall, beeping machines and medical supplies surrounding its sides. You looked at Teddy for some kind of explanation. He shifted his grip on you so he stood beside you with an arm around your waist.

"This room is where you can go when you're not gonna eat." he explained, his hand squeezing your waist as he felt your heart rate grow rapidly, "So instead of eating the easy, non painful way, you can be hooked up to these machines and feeding tubes. And of course it’s not just gonna be while you’re eating, you’re gonna need to be here all day for it to properly work so these machines can process how much nutrients you’re getting and shit.” he turned his head to look at you, taking in the uncomfortable look on your face. “So does that sound good, baby?”

You stared blankly at the room in front of you, unable to even process what Teddy was saying anymore. Before you could even register what you were doing, you pushed yourself against him and slipped out of his grip, quickly running out the room. With a sigh, Teddy pulled out his phone and walked out of the room, following the direction he saw you run in, "They tried running again, do you think you can-" he stopped himself when he walked into the dining room and saw you at the table, hastily eating your cereal, "Never mind." he put his phone in his pocket and walked toward you.

"Don't eat too fast," you were startled at his voice, watching fearfully as he sat down beside you, "You'll get indigestion."

You swallowed a spoonful, eyes widened slightly with fear as you felt his gaze on you.

"Look at me," he grabbed your chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting your head to meet his eyes, "I love you so much. I don't like having to scare you with stuff like that, but I have to take care of you, and that includes getting you to eat. So what you need to do is listen to me when I tell you to do something." he paused, his eyes scanning your face, eyes darting down to your lips, "Understand?"

You nodded fearfully, letting him pull your face toward his and kiss your lips, his touch surprisingly gentle, before he pulled away.

"And hey," You went to turn your head away and continue eating, when his grip firmed up, rendering you unable to move, “don’t ever run away from me when I’m talking to you."

[cpunkwitch]

So anyway I'm gonna take a break by making those wrist straps for canes starting with your classic rainbow pride.

Should I make them available to preorder on my store?

If people can start sending in orders for pride wrist straps (or possibly a commission option for custom ones like the custom bracelet) I could put the money from the first few orders towards buying the rest of the supplies and even shipping

I know earlier someone said they had friends who'd be interested and that got me excited

For info:

The straps, like the bracelets listed in my store, are pride themed and made of light weight soft embroidery floss so you won't have to worry too much if having something on your wrist is a sensory issue for you. They're hand woven with multiple strands depending on the flag colours, same thread my mom and I use for small sewing projects really. I'm going to use a bead to tie them off so I might add an option for bead choice. And they'll be attached to the cane with a simple stretchy band and one of those circle key chain things, the last two I can get from Michael's or staples, the beads if I run out I can pick up from the dollar store where I get the threads.

The only thread I really worry about with sensory issues is the metallic threads (gold and silver) which tend to fray at the ends easier than the embroidery floss but since I'm tying it off with a bead the ends will be closed and shouldn't be an issue

Any input is really helpful, if people are interested in ordering early to help pay to get them made and shipped that would be awesome

At the moment I'm trying to save up what I do have for my meds and upcoming appointment. So I don't know if I'll have anything to spend on the supplies I need just yet.

[goqmir]

I really have to say as someone who sells pool stuff professionally. I have greatly enjoyed your blog.

That being said when can I expect blue yoshis to start appearing on my weekly shipments? The people would go crazy for the blue dinosaur

this is one of the coolest asks ive ever gotten i love that im making my mark on the pool accessory sales industry thats like. so awesome i hope you sell so many pooltoys <3 legit that sounds like a really interesting job id love to know more omg

unfortunately right now theres only one single blue yoshi pooltoy!! we'd love to make more but the licensing deal fell through after the prototype was manufactured and started posting on tumblr. supply chain issues and all that. id love to produce thousands of blue dino pooltoys for you to make a hefty commission from though gosh there should be a tgirl yoshi pooltoy for every swimming pool. im glad an expert thinks my design would sell so well to the masses ^w^ ehehehe >w<

[afriendlywizard]

My review of a warehouse I found on Earth's Moon in the video game Starfield

I work at a cidery in the PNW. We have a pretty hefty canning line that can handle what I like to call a Solid Chunk of Volumetric Output. Our fulfillment and warehouse team touches several hundred pallets a day. We handle ingredients that come in drums, plastic IBC totes, 5 gallon buckets, and raw ingredients off the back of people’s Ford Raptors. We have pipes and valves and connectors. We talk about glycol and peracetic acid a lot. We have standard 4 level pallet racks, as well as push-back pallet racking and back-load pallet racking that maintains a First In First Out order.

I manage our Quality Assurance team, which means I spend most of my team at a desk or in a lab. I have driven our forklifts and our scissor lifts. I’ve blended our ingredients into our batching tanks. I verify our sanitation practices, and I help solve problems as needed. I spend a lot of my day staring at stainless steel pipes and mumbling about dissolved oxygen to myself.

That’s all to say, I’m not an expert. I would call myself a warehouse hobbyist and enthusiast. Not out loud to anyone, but when I play a video game that has a warehouse in it, I like to spend my time looking at how the warehouse is put together.

In addition to this, a note on Forklift Certification: It’s largely made up. There are some machines that require special licenses, and OSHA has classes you can take that probably look good on a resume, but if you look at the language that OSHA uses to define who is allowed to drive a forklift it only has two requirements. “Trained operators must know how to do the job properly and do it safely as demonstrated by workplace evaluation.” It’s up to the employer how that’s interpreted. My employer had me watch a forty five minute video and then someone watched as I drove around for thirty minutes saying “oh fuck oh fuck okay okay okay don’t hit anyone.”

I took my character, Dr. FLIPJUMP DARKSWALLOW, to the moon. I brought my companion Sarah with me, she said she wouldn’t mind a detour so that we could finally live out our shared dream of owning a pair of moon boots, so down we went to explore a seemingly abandoned lunar station. It seemed to be some kind of staging facility for receiving shipments, landing dock, staff kitchen and common area, but as far as I could tell there wasn’t anywhere within a kilometer or two to send the shipments once they arrived. Typical supply chain issues, major distro hub with nothing in site to distro to. But it did have a small on-site warehouse so Sarah and I both agreed to put a pause on our moon boots dream and explore.

This is called an IBC tote. You can fill these up through a big screw-top hole on the top, super easy to use, cheap ($275 new), universal. The most common versions I’ve seen have a galvanized steel cage and a galvanized steel pallet attached to the bottom so it can be universally picked up by a forklift. They typically have a 2” drain valve with a butterfly and a camlock. This is a pretty good example of an IBC tote! You can see how the galvanized steel was welded together at each intersection, bent into place and held there. The butterfly at the bottom has a cap in place, it has a pressure valve that’s clearly labeled. This looks pretty good!

This is a pallet jack. On Earth in the present day, you roll it into the slats on a pallet, squeeze on a hand lever in the handle, and pump the handle bar up and down as it lifts. On the Moon in the future, it looks like it’s been upgraded for use in space with what I assume is probably some electric battery type of deal. Otherwise it’s very similar to a normal pallet jack! It even has the double wheels in the front, a detail I was very excited about. There doesn’t seem to be the hand lever though, or any buttons anywhere. I assume that’s because this model has a voice assistant like an Alexa in it.

It has a spring in the back as well, another neat little detail. I’d be curious to see how this works in action, there’s a decent number of mechanical parts on it for how futuristic it looks. There’s also two small… baskets, I guess? For paperwork maybe? On either end of the handle shaft. I made up the term handle shaft.

Here is what I assume is a future-forklift. And Sarah. Please ignore Sarah. I was required to take her on a mission early on, but she keeps saying things like “that’s not yours!” and “we should not break the law,” which has been definitely cramping Dr. DARKSWALLOW’s style. Anyway, this forklift is a far cry from the kinds we have in present day. Barely recognizable.

My best guess is that you stand on this platform to operate it. But there’s no buttons or levers again, no key ignition. Presumably this turns on somehow and that panel is a touchscreen, or maybe it’s another Alexa operated device. This whole thing seems pretty dangerous. There’s no roll cage. I guess maybe there’s no OSHA in the future? Or maybe this thing has a lot of safety tech built into it to protect the operator from making mistakes. Maybe it follows Asimov’s rules of robotics and can’t allow a human to come to harm, through action or inaction. But that seems like a lot of liability to pack into programming, and it seems expensive to attach a positronic brain to a forklift. I don’t know how it would anticipate other drivers doing things badly, knocking over pallets? It seems dicey.

I do like that the cabling looks like it’s painter’s taped onto the frame so it doesn’t get caught anywhere. That’s a great little detail, very much something a maintenance team might do in a pinch. A “short term hold” as they “work with supply chain details to implement a long term repair.”

I climbed up onto a pile of boxes to get this picture. It looks like they redesigned the forks in the future, kind of a high-heeled shoe thing going on at the ends there. And this forklift seems like it has reduced functionality from what forklifts here on Earth can do. Forklifts can usually do three things with the forks: lift up and down, pitch the forks back and forth, and spread the forks wider or narrower. I think this can only lift the forks up and down. There also seems to be a large orange ball on the bottom, but I don’t know what that’s used for. My best guess, given the short cylinder above it, is that the forks can control their yaw and rotate on a horizontal access? But they’re right up against the axle so I’m not sure how that would work. Maybe if you lift the forks up it’s able to rotate? But I don’t see much of an engine to ballast the center of gravity anywhere. Maybe the entire body is made with a very dense metal, it does seem to be pretty flush with the ground.

My biggest complaint is that this forklift doesn’t have any headlights or taillights. It’s important for forklifts to have a horn and bright lights to let other workers know there’s a forklift around, especially reverse lights. These might be taillights, if I’m giving some benefit here, but they’re so low to the ground I’m not sure how other drivers are going to be able to see them. But I’m not an expert in future light bulbs, maybe these work just fine.

These look like future pallets! Pallets come in different materials, with wood or plastic as the most common, but they also come in standard sizes. But these pallets look like they’re way too small for the forklift to pick up. Maybe they’re just for the pallet jack? And big note here: I really hope for the sake of the warehouse manager in this facility that OSHA doesn’t exist, because each one of those pallets standing up on its side is going to be its own fine. Overall these pallets look pretty good, if small. And this disaster of a pile seems pretty true to form with how pallets are stored, no matter how many @everyone pings on Microsoft Teams you see get sent out about stacking pallets correctly.

I suspect everyone in the warehouse crew here hates their coworkers. They have four of these pallets in a square but are stacking things randomly on top of them. None of these things are strapped down, this black cube is on a pallet that’s a different size than the pallets underneath it. Just a bizarre move. I hope everyone’s doing okay.

And then on the other side is this: … Why? Why would anyone do this? You can’t pick those rolls up, the rest will roll right off the pallet. They’re not centered on the pallet so even if you did pick it up, you couldn’t put this onto pallet racking anywhere, it’s hanging off the edge.

This is pallet racking. It seems bolted together for some reason. I haven’t seen that before on this style of racking. It seems counter-intuitive; the whole point of this type is that it’s easy to put together, it’s modular. But if you bolt it together, it’s not modular anymore. Normally you just slot the pieces in, they fall into place and don’t require additional parts. Just welded steel with drop slots.

Oof. A dead body. I’m a little surprised there aren’t more of these here. It does feel a bit dangerous.

Here’s another pallet jack, but they aren’t using it correctly. The pallet goes into the forks, why did they put a pallet on top of the forks? Ridiculous. Now they’re just lifting things for no reason. A forklift put the pallet on, now a forklift has to take the pallet off? Why use the pallet jack at all?

And lastly: a propane cage! There’s no locks on it, the maintenance team is probably screaming at everyone to make sure they Lock Out/Tag Out their equipment, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt and sign off on it because there’s no propane tanks inside the cage so maybe the locks just aren’t necessary. Hopefully it’s just in someone’s pocket while they’re going to refill the tanks.

Overall, this is a pretty dangerous looking facility but probably usable. I’d say they ought to start working towards shoring up some safety gaps here, maybe making more intentional decisions about purchases for a while so they have the equipment they need for their process flow instead of all this equipment that requires rework and multiple touches to get anything done. But a growing business sometimes has to take what’s available! Kudos to them for getting things up and running on the moon, not an easy feat.

[forsetti]

On Bullshit Arguments: Everyone Has Their Own Beliefs/Opinions

The influx of social media has resulted in a lot of horrible consequences. One of the most nefarious is the proliferation and acceptance of “everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a legitimate response to… well, to anything.

Saying, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” is intellectually laziness at its peak. It states an obvious fact. It doesn’t add anything of value to an argument. And, most importantly, it gives cover to beliefs, and opinions, that are just flat-out bullshit.

Whether or not the person using, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” is doing it intentionally to give cover for bullshit, really doesn’t matter. The outcome is the same-the eradication of any semblance of evidence and truth.

“Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” is a “Get Out Of Bullshit Jail Card,” when people don’t want to be honest about what is being said for fear of upsetting someone else or by taking a moral/intellectual stand.

I’ve noticed, that, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” being used much more frequently in the past few years as evidence against the user’s beliefs/opinions has been piling up.

Whenever the data for something starts to amass against someone’s beliefs/claims, they almost always turn to “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a way to deny the data and deflect from the fact their view is nonsense.

I’ve also noticed a subset of, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” users doing so because they are afraid to stand up against family, friends, and colleagues… whenever they spout bullshit. This is understandable on some level but it would be better to shut the fuck up and stay out of the fray rather than add to the dumbing down of America.

In the past few weeks, two members of my own family who I’ve considered smart, reasonable people have used “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a way to rationalize the bullshit others in the family have posted/said.

FACTS FUCKING MATTER! If they don’t, then scientific, intellectual progress made since the dawn of time has been a complete waste of time and humans can’t ultimately know a damn thing.

If you have ever said, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” then you don’t ever get to lecture me about moral relativity because you’ve made truth/evidence/facts, relative to a degree that would make a compulsive liar blush.

Besides wanting to avoid confronting someone on their bullshit, (I know what this is like because I have a sibling who is a compulsive liar who no one, other than me confronted on their lies,) the main reason people use, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” is intellectual laziness.

This intellectual laziness is sometimes driven by personal priorities. If you have a demanding job, a family, kids… staying on top of the most up-to-date articles, research, and information about a topic is virtually impossible. I can forgive this kind of “intellectual laziness,” because first and foremost, I’m pragmatic. How world trade and supply chains impact inflation or how new advances in DNA science impact vaccinations SHOULD take a backseat to figuring out how to pay for your kid’s braces and repair a broken water heater.

However, if you are in a group of people who don’t have the time or resources to properly research and understand certain issues, then you need to STFU about what is/isn’t the truth on those issues. And you certainly shouldn’t be using, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a cover to yourself or anyone else in your position.

As bad as people who don’t have the time/energy to research topics using, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” are, it isn’t nearly as bad as those who do. Knowing the facts and using, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a way to deny or muddy those facts is beyond reprehensible.

If you want an example of this, you have to look no further than any Republican member of Congress who supports or enables the Big Lie that the 2020 Presidential election results were in any way questionable. No, they weren’t. In EVERY SINGLE court case brought by Republicans questioning the 2020 election results at EVERY SINGLE level of government, NOT ONE SINGLE CASE presented A SINGLE PIECE OF EVIDENCE to support their claims. Republicans weren’t 80/20 in winning their cases 50/50 or even 5/95. They were 0 FOR A FUCKING HUNDRED.

Yet, to this day, you can’t swing a dead cat without some Republican Senator, Representative, Governor, Secretary Of State, Drain Commission, Dog Catcher… adamantly claiming the 2020 election was either “stolen,” or the results were “very questionable.”

News media knows the facts and knows these claims about the 2020 election are not true. Still, they all too often give cover to those making these claims with, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” because calling out Republicans for lying would negatively impact ad revenues and that is the greatest sin any “reporter,” can make.

Republicans who know the truth about the election results use, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” as a way to deny the truth and protect themselves from their base who they’ve lied to for years.

“Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” has become such an integral part of Republican talking points, that they’ve weaponized it by adding “deeply-held.”

“Deeply-held beliefs,” have become the go-to move Republicans use whenever they don’t want to abide by a law or common sense. They’ve been successful in getting laws passed based on nothing more than this, “deeply-held beliefs,” bullshit.

Pharmacists don’t have to fill prescriptions for patients if they don’t agree with why the patient needs them. Doctors can deny care to patients if they feel like it. Anyone who works for the public can refuse to help someone if for whatever reason they disagree with that person’s life choices because based on, “deeply-held,’ beliefs.

Denying a woman access to birth control because you have a “deeply-held” belief against contraceptives, is the logical consequence of, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions.”

Refusing to provide medical care for someone who is trans or gay or is HIV positive...is the logical consequence of, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions.”

None of this is new. These types of “arguments” and claims about beliefs/opinions to justify and rationalize bullshit have been around forever.

“Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” was the driving force behind the Failure of Reconstruction. The Confederates who seceded and fought against their own country, in order to maintain the right to enslave black people weren’t “bad people.” They had their own beliefs/opinions, and we have to respect that.

No, we fucking don’t. Yes, the Confederates believed what they did was right. Yes, their beliefs were “deeply held,” that black people were inferior and had no more rights than chattel. However, no matter how strongly or deeply held their beliefs were, they were 100% wrong, 100% immoral, and 100% bullshit. No amount of rationalization or linguistic manipulation changes this.

Whenever someone says, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions,” ask them for clarification. Make them flesh out what they really mean, what they are trying to get at by making this statement. Ask them if they believe that truth is relative and subjective. That the truth of something is dependent on the person claiming it and not something supported by facts and evidence.

My guess is if you do this, they will come back with another level of bullshit about facts and evidence. No matter how many questions you ask for them to explain themselves, they will end up going down a rabbit hole of bullshit explanations and justifications that are as nonsensical as what they claimed in the first place.

The dirty little secret is for a whole lot of people, especially conservatives who have any kind of religious upbringing, “truth,” is something they claim is set in stone but when the rubber hits the road, they really don’t give a fuck about truth or evidence. Truth is whatever the fuck they want it to be because their entire belief systems are constructed with this as a feature. This is because their belief systems cannot stand up to even the most broad definition of “truth.”

The problem when dealing with people who claim to be the purveyors of truths who also decide what counts/doesn’t count as truth is they cannot be argued or reasoned with. NOTHING that doesn’t support their worldview will ever count as truth.

This is why propaganda is so nefarious. It intentionally destroys any notions and any standards of truth. Social media, as useful as it can be, is only as good as the people using it and the ones in charge of monitoring it. The idea that truth can be arrived at through public discourse is a douchebag libertarian’s wet dream that has NEVER FUCKING EVER worked out, even in the vaguest of senses.

The phrase, “Shit in, shit out,” is an apt description of what anyone with two working neurons should expect of allowing anyone’s opinion to count as the same as anyone else’s when it comes to public discourse and social media.

A great example of this just took place in the U.S. House Of Representatives when Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Dumbfuckistan) attacked Dr. Anthony Fauci in a hearing meeting. A person with zero scientific background or experience was telling someone who is one of the most qualified, experienced medical scientists in his field, she knows better than he does about his specialty. On face value, it is easy to look at her attack and write it off as just another dumb fucking wingnut rant. However, there is a significant portion of the country who agree with her and hold the same arrogantly stupid view that they know more about something than people who have spent decades working to understand.

Yet, whenever this is pointed out online, in conversation, in the media… inevitably, someone will circle the idiot wagons and defend the people who are 100% wrong on every level possible, by saying, “Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions.”

Yes, they do. However, that doesn’t make them right.

It reminds me of the quote from, “A Fish Called Wanda”-

OTTO. Apes don't read philosophy.

WANDA. Yes, they do, Otto. They just don't understand it.

“Everyone has their own beliefs/opinions.”

Yes, they do. That just doesn’t make them true.

[storiesbyrhi]

Angel of the First Degree - Chapter 15: Christmas

Eddie Munson x Chubby!Reader 3605 words Series Masterlist

Warnings: Anxiety; fatphobia including internalised; drug use; bullying; body issues; discussion of body function and fluids; period shame/stigma; disclosure of sexual assault (chapter 2); disordered eating and thoughts of food; shitty/abusive/critical parents; porn magazines; smut; reference to suicide (specifically Virginia Woolf’s); no beta; grief/mourning; verbal fighting; meat (turkey)... for the vegans; warnings updated each chapter

Synopsis: When Eddie Munson finds you in the midst of a panic attack, it is the beginning of something. A fic featuring body and sex positivity, Eddie in a dress, soft small moments, scary big truths, and all the usual special feelings you’d expect from one of my stories.

Chapter Summary: It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Author's Note: We also continue with our little peppering of glimpses into Eddie’s masterplan. Bonus: We find out what's in the Garfield mug.

“The roads are awful,” you tried to argue.

It was just under a week until Christmas, and from where you sat on the bed, you could see snow falling outside. Forest Hills had already become a depressing version of a winter wonderland.

“I’m taking Wayne’s truck. He got chains put on.”

Eddie continued to shove things into his duffle bag, not bothering to face you as he spoke.

“Why can’t they at least meet you halfway?”

Eddie held back a smirk. “It’s not the same as me driving over to someone’s house to sell them a few joints. Not your friendly neighbourhood drug dealer. They’re a supplier, you know?”

“Okay but doesn’t that make them dangerous?”

“That’s why you’re not coming,”

“Eddie,” you whined, but the pitch is sad and he heard it.

Eddie stopped packing and sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s one night, angel. I’ll be in and out there. I promise if there was a different way of getting the product, I’d do that. But no Rick means I gotta fend for myself, and I want it done before Christmas, ‘kay?”

He felt like shit for lying to you, but there was no other cover story. Eddie had spent hours thinking about it, but all alternatives made no sense. Driving to Chicago to buy a few months’ worth of drugs got him to the city without you.

Eddie had added flourishes to the story to make it seem more real. People suffered through the holidays; weed was a saving grace he could charge a premium for. People partied through the holidays; coke and party drugs at holiday rates. Supply and demand.

It was hard for you to come up with a valid enough reason for him not to go. The income generated from the product would be supporting you after all. Regardless, you felt sick knowing Eddie would be alone on the icy roads for so long, and you were terrified at the thought of who he’d be meeting in the Windy City.

When Eddie kissed you goodbye, he held your face in his hands and studied it. “I love you,” he said softly while his expression was set in a hard frown.

“I love you too. Be safe.”

Once he was gone, you went back to bed with the hopes of sleeping through the subsequent forty-eight hours.

At the wheel of Wayne’s truck, Eddie had Hawkins in his rearview mirror, and a list of addresses and times riding shotgun.

…

It came as a surprise to you that you had, in fact, not met all the different sides of Eddie. As Christmas Eve Day dawned, your boyfriend was running on adrenaline, black coffee, and a questionable amount of sugar.

You sat at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of milky tea, watching him measure out herbs and spices. At first, he was explaining the recipe to you. Quickly it descended into Eddie muttering something about oven hot spots and internal turkey temperatures. It would have been funny if he didn’t look so unhinged.

When Wayne came home from his night shift, he froze in the doorway at the sight of Eddie in the kitchen.

“Jesus. This shit starts earlier every year,” he said.

“Yeah. Yeah. And every year I get closer to the perfect fuckin’ bird, don’t I? Huh? Yeah?”

“Alright. Calm down. Don’t get your turkey in a twist… If this is happening, I’m taking the bed for a couple’a hours,”

“Yeah, ‘kay. Don’t mind the wet patches,” Eddie replied with a dumbass smile.

You closed your eyes and felt your cheeks heat.

Wayne made a noise of extreme discontent, grabbed the blanket hung over his fold-up bed, and disappeared into the bedroom.

“Why did you have to say that?” you whined.

Eddie cackled and returned to his precious Christmas Eve roast. “After you eat this, you’ll let me say whatever I fucking want.”

When his prized bird was safely on its way to cooked perfection, you joined Eddie to help prepare the sides. Mashed potatoes and peas. Gravy and cranberry sauce. Most of it was store-bought mixes because Eddie had spent so much on the bird. You didn’t care at all. With the trailer smelling of food and pine, and a small collection of gifts under the tree, it was shaping up to be a kind of beautiful Christmas.

When Wayne emerged from the bedroom, it was late afternoon. Dinner was well on its way to being cooked, and Eddie was sitting on the floor in front of the oven. He’d let you bake gingerbread on the condition that he watched the oven to ensure his turkey wasn’t affected.

“If anything, my cookies are gonna smell like it!”

“Lucky them!”

Wayne took his usual position in the single armchair in the corner of the room. He’d put on a record then relaxed in for the night.

“We don’t always get Christmas Eve together,” Eddie explained. “He asked for it off this year,”

“That’s good,”

“For you,” he added. You had joined Eddie on the floor next to the oven, and looked over at him when he said it. “My first Christmas with him was awesome. I mean, all things considered. Reckon he wants yours to be too.”

It felt good in that way that hurts.

When your cookies were out and cooled, you and Eddie sat at the little table against the wall and began to decorate. Your first three were gingerbread replicas of you, Eddie, and Wayne. You glanced over at Eddie’s plate. He had bitten limbs off his men and eaten them happily.

“They fought valiantly,” he told you.

“Who was the war against?”

“Christian fundamentalists,” Eddie replied, not missing a beat.

“Jesus,” you laughed.

“Nah, he’s actually on the other side.”

You watched him for a few more moments, lost in his own little storyline of broken soldiers and religious zealots. Truly, there was nobody else like Eddie.

After gingerbread men and spiked eggnog, the Christmas crackers were brought out. You won against both Eddie and Wayne, wearing a pink and a blue paper hat on your head. Wayne won against Eddie, leaving Eddie to pout and smell the gunpowder sticks left in the halved crackers.

“Like sparklers,” he told you, inhaling dramatically.

Wayne unraveled the tiny piece of paper in his hands and sighed. “Why did Santa’s helper go to the doctor?” You and Eddie shrugged. “Because he had low elf esteem.”

Eddie snorted. “Alright, gimme one?” You handed him one of yours. “Ahhh, ‘kay… What’s the best Christmas present in the world? … A broken drum… You just can’t beat it,”

“We should save that for Gareth. Okay, mine says… What do you get when you cross Santa with a vampire?”

“Frostbite,” Eddie answered immediately.

“Yeah,”

“That’s my favourite Christmas joke,”

“You have a favourite Christmas joke?”

“Yeah. That and: what do you get if you cross a bell with a skunk? Jingle smells,”

“That’s bad,” you said but laughed anyway.

“Wayne has a photographic memory for shitty jokes,” Eddie told you, pointing up at his uncle.

“What did one snowman say to the other snowman? … Can you smell carrot?”

And it went on like that until the oven timer binged and Eddie screamed so loud beside you that it hurt your ears.

“Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck. Yes. Yes, this is it. I’ve done it. I’m a god. I’m a culinary god. The best goddamn chef in all of Indiana.”

You and Wayne stood and watched Eddie pull the turkey out of the oven. He’d done the math and timed all the sides perfectly. He began to mumble to himself (although you were beginning to suspect he was actually talking to the turkey) and put things on serving plates.

“Guess we better set the table,” Wayne said.

The small table against the wall was pulled out and a third folded chair was fetched from somewhere in the trailer. You set out three plates and lots of cutlery. The table wasn’t big enough to put everything on, so Eddie arranged a buffet on the kitchen bench where you each could serve yourself from.

“Looks good, kid,” Wayne offered when you were all at the table.

Eddie took a swig from his can of beer. “Thanks,”

“Really good,” you added. Eddie smiled at you. For a split second, less than even, you saw something in his expression. “What?”

He chewed his lip. “I just… It’s good to see you excited about food,” he said softly. Only months earlier, it would have been a risky thing to say. Not anymore.

You smiled back at him.

“We eating? Or…” Wayne hesitated. “You wanna say grace or something?”

Eddie snorted. “Grace?” They pulled faces at each other, then Eddie conceded. “How ‘bout… Here’s to… graduating, having a hot girlfriend, and a perfectly cooked turkey.”

Wayne shook his head but held his drink up anyway. In unison, the three of you said cheers.

…

Christmas dessert was bags of candy and the final dregs of eggnog. You and Eddie were laying side by side on the floor under the tree, looking up at the twinkling lights.

“What time you start tomorrow?” Eddie asked Wayne.

“Early.”

You hadn’t thought about the fact that so many people work on Christmas Day. You had been living a life of privilege with your parents, one that included holidays off.

“Let’s do presents tonight then,” you suggested.

“Good idea,” Eddie agreed, sitting up and pulling Wayne’s haul out.

A couple of records, novelty socks, and a book of gift vouchers Eddie and you had made that entitled Wayne to things like ‘get out of your turn to vacuum,’ ‘one night alone in the trailer,’ and ‘get out of jail free.’ He laughed at it and Eddie made a comment about how it was probably going to come back and bite you on the asses.

“Your turn, angel,”

“We agreed one thing each,” you whined when Eddie pulled out multiple gifts.

“This one’s from him, so that doesn’t count. And also I was born to break the rules baaaaaa-beeeee,” he replied, his big brown eyes jellifying you. 

Wayne’s present to you was a gift card to Build-A-Bear. “I know it’s a bit of a cop-out, but… you know… you’re always happy when you get back from that place.” The gift card was the type you could only buy in-store. The picture of Wayne Munson in that rainbow vomit of a room was somehow even stranger than Eddie in one. You wondered if Kasey had served him.

Eddie had bought you two books, and much like the one you received for your birthday, one was suspiciously aligned with what you would have had to read if enrolled at college. The other was about how modern sociological ideologies can shape the supposed objective understanding of ancient art and literature, therefore ancient culture. Eddie got the gist of it but winced when he flicked open to a random page and tried to read the academic writing. He knew you’d love it.

After the two books, he handed over a final gift. After all the birthday presents and other things he’d given you, you wondered what there could be left for Eddie to wrap.

“Oh, fuck. Hang on,” Eddie exclaimed, jumping up and running to the bedroom, returning with Hellfire. “You might need him for this.”

Unwrapping the small box, your heart melted and you giggled at the cuteness. It was a small replica of Eddie’s pick necklace obviously meant for Hellfire. When you put it on him, it sat perfectly around the cow’s neck. Eddie had used his miniature figurine equipment to make it for you, pulling apart old jewellery in the process.

“Now he really matches you,” you said holding him up, beaming.

“Actually, he matches you. There’s more in the box.”

With Hellfire next to you, you picked the box up again and moved a piece of tissue paper. You hadn’t noticed when Eddie stopped wearing his necklace. Now, it was in the box, offered to you in an act of devotion. It was a promise that he was yours, completely and entirely. And, you were his, adorned with his trademark.

“Eddie,” you started.

He knew that tone. It was the one that voiced shaky thoughts of inadequacy.

“Before you do the whole routine,” Eddie interrupted, waving an accusing finger at you but still wearing a soft smile. “Don’t be a grinch.”

You breathed out, then nodded. The weight of the chain and pick was nothing, but still, it felt like a grounding force weighted with love.

Honestly, you didn’t know where to go from that, didn’t know how to process what the gift symbolised, so instead you picked up your Christmas present to Eddie.

“Well, I stuck to the one thing rule…” you teased.

There was a strange little store in Hawkins, barely a hole in the wall. It sold candles and incense and glittery rocks. Not long after Eddie had passed ownership of the ruby ring to you, you had seen another like it in the store. It probably wasn’t a real fancy ruby, but the red stone was genuine. The ring was less dainty than yours, but you were drawn to it every time you passed by the store.

The woman who worked there reminded you of Stevie Nicks, always in lace and hand knitted things. She had watched you come and go from her store, always lamenting over the red garnet ring. “What does it mean to you?” she asked one day.

You felt embarrassed to be so seen, but she was kind. When you told her about Eddie and showed her the stolen ruby ring, she smiled, saying, “Red garnets are gemstones full of love.” After she told you about how scientists were making synthetic garnets but without the earth energy or characterising imperfections, you moved aside so she could help a group of teenagers.

The group was vaguely familiar, maybe they had been Juniors that year. On top of the usual anxiety you felt whenever groups of kids were nearby, you sensed something else. The girls in the group were asking lots of questions about things on one side of the store, while the boys huddled together on the other. Doing your best to stay off their radar, you slowly made your way to where you could spy better. They were lining their pockets with small trinkets and crystals.

The woman had been so gentle with you, never making you feel bad for not buying whenever you stopped by. You imagined it was hard to own a business like hers in a town like Hawkins. Besides, you thought, there were rules about shoplifting. Eddie had told you he never used his five-finger discount anywhere where the owner was also the person at the register. Honour among thieves.

The kids in the store didn’t get the memo and it filled you with a dash of bravery. You quickly moved to the closed door and knocked over a stack of books that sat neatly by it. Everyone in the store looked to see what the commotion was.

“Sorry,” you said. “I’ll pick them up. You guys can pay for the stuff you’re getting while I do it. I’ll be quick.”

The boys all looked at each other. “What stuff?” one tried.

You began to slowly rebuild the book tower.

“Guess I should get baskets so customers don’t have to put things in their pockets,” the woman said, leaving the girls to go stand in the boys’ personal space.

They dumped all the things out onto the counter, legging it out the door just as you opened it wide. “Fucking bitches!” and “Freaks!” were thrown in as they left.

“Did they break anything?” you asked, walking over to help the woman put things back in their rightful homes. 

“Thankfully not. I normally just let them leave with it all,”

“Why?”

“Apparently confronting people makes myself a target, according to the Chief. S’not been the same since Hopper died…”

“I’m sorry,”

“Not your bad to apologise for. Anyway, thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

You thought on it… “I did. It was the right thing to do.”

The woman looked at you, almost through you. She had that otherworldliness to her gaze that Eddie sometimes got. People like them saw the universe differently.

When she offered you the ring as a reward for stepping in, you declined. As you did the next time you were there and she offered, and the third. The fourth time you sighed.

“This ring stopped being mine the minute you walked in here,” she said. “I think it’s meant for your boyfriend.”

Sitting on the floor cross-legged, Eddie mirroring your position, you knew that the witchy woman was right all along.

“Just one is one more than I need,” Eddie said, tearing into the small gift. The wrapping paper gave way to the small velvet box. “Oh my gawwwd.” It was a new voice for him. “Baaaaabe. Honey bunny. Cupcake. You shouldn’t have.” He hadn’t even opened the box. “I do. I will be your wife.” But then he opened the box and his impersonation of bouncy fiancé girl dropped. His eyebrows knitted together.

“You don’t like it?” you said more than asked before you could stop yourself.

“No, no, I love it. It’s just too much,”

“Oh. No. It’s not…” You went to say more but didn’t really know how to begin to justify something so small to someone so big.

Thankfully, Eddie shut up and accepted it, putting the ring on and staring at it. You knew him well enough to know he was holding back tears. His eyes glossed over and he scrunched his nose up like a rabbit. When he was ready, he looked back up at you.

“I love you,” he said so seriously. There were so many things going through his mind. A masterplan with so many moving parts he felt tired all the time. It was coming together though, and he was so close to the reveal.

“I love you too,” you replied, voice shaky.

Wayne waited a few moments before breaking up the intense gaze-off you and Eddie were in. He cleared his throat. “I’ll put this here for safe keepin’,” he said, standing and reaching up to a shelf of his mugs to put the book of vouchers in it. As he angled the Garfield mug, he heard a sound. You watched Wayne pull the mug down and peer inside. “What the hell?”

“You would not fucking believe how long I’ve been waiting for you to find that!” Eddie said, loud and proud, shooting up and clapping his hands.

Wayne fished out the object and held it up. It was a human tooth. “Jesus. Is this real?”

“Ah-huh,” Eddie answered, cackling. You and Wayne both waited for him to explain. “You remember when one of my wisdom teeth was coming in?”

“Do I bloody remem- Yes, Eddie, I do. Bitched and moaned about it day and night but wouldn’t go see anybody ‘bout it,”

“Yeah, well, you know Hacksaw Henry? Got him to pull out the back tooth so the new one could just come in. Worked a treat.”

It was hard to tell who was more horrified.

“You did what?” Wayne nearly yelled.

“Hacksaw Henry?” The name told you a lot but you needed to know more.

Eddie laughed again. “That’s been in there for almost two years,”

“Hells bells, you’re going to be the death of me,” Wayne said, flopping back down on his armchair and throwing the tooth across the room to Eddie.

“No, seriously, Hacksaw Henry?”

“He’s from the other side of the park. Watches too much T.V. and reads these weird medical journals. He’s Forest Hill’s resident quote unquote doctor,” Eddie told you while examining his old molar, remembering the day it was pulled from his jaw.

“You let him pull a healthy tooth?”

“Nah; I paid him to pull it. ‘Sides, the tooth wasn’t perfectly healthy. When the wisdom one started to break through, this one started to rot. See?” he explained, handing the tooth down to you.

You could see what he was talking about, but all in all, it still seemed like an insane thing to do.

“Cheaper than an actual dentist. Hurt like a bitch, but heard getting your wisdom teeth out does too. Skulled a six pack before to calm my jangled nerves… And voila…” Eddie added. “Honestly thought you’d find it sooner, old man… Guess Garfield isn’t your favourite?”

“You know those are the special ones,” Wayne said, pointing to that particular shelf of mugs.

“Can I keep this?” you asked, still studying the tooth.

Eddie looked at you and grinned wide. He loved that you wanted it. That you’d asked for it. He would have pulled all his teeth to give you a complete set if you’d use that soft voice again.

“Consider it your final present. Merry Christmas, babe.”

Forest Hills was loud and lit up with Christmas cheer. Once you and Eddie had retired to bed that night, you held each other under the covers.

“It’s weird we both went with jewellery,” he said, finishing the sentence with a kiss on your forehead.

“Great minds?”

“Great minds,” he agreed.

The stretch between Christmas and New Years was a strange liminal time for most people. As you and Eddie drifted to sleep, bruises from his lips leaving a trail from your neck to your underwear, your two great minds thought of that in-between space and what it meant for you both.

Next Chapter: Fireworks

End Note: RIP at Wayne sitting there while you and Eddie get all lovey dovey over a tooth lmaoooo. Also, If you’ve seen the episode of Bob’s Burgers where Bob starts talking to the bird and falling in love and shit, that’s the energy we were channeling here.

Fic Taglist: @ajeff855 @b-barnes04 @eddie-munson-is-a-sweetheart have you changed your URL? @nerd-squad-headquarters @word-wytch @harrys-tittie @munsonsmel0dy @sidthedollface2 @eddiethesexy @bardicfrustration @orpheusredux @munsonsgirl71 @a-time-for-wolvess @eddieswifu @rosaline-black @thegirlwhohides @emotionaldreamer @e0509 @briasnow-blog @kiyastrf94 @erinsingalong @rainylana @thescarletangelsstuff @mrsdollardog @tayhar811 @chickennug90 @b-irock @nana90azevedo @eddiemunson95 @akiratoro420

Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @munsonlives @sweetpeapod @depressooo-expressooo-blog @thorfemmes @hawkins-high @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @mymoonisalways-in-scorpio @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @lacrymosa-24

[shittysawtraps]

Hello.

You were abandoned by your father at a young age and have developed an addiction to marijuana in your later life. While that is certainly a genuine struggle, it is absolutely zero excuse for the horrid behavior you've displayed. You have spent the entire rest of your life justifying your mistreatment of everyone in your life by your father leaving. You downplay others' suffering and actively make things worse for them and insist you are right because they don't have it as bad, either because they still have a dad (with no tact when said dad is abusive) or they aren't a drug addict (regardless of other addictions they may suffer from). You simply refuse to see anything or anyone beyond the scope of your daddy issues and weed addiction.

Before you is a glass of milk, a set of pencils and sharpener, a stack of paper, and a phone. Behind you is a large door. That is where the chain on your ankle leads.

The instructions are simple.

One: drink the milk.

Two: write a sincere, handwritten apology note to everyone you have hurt with the excuse of your trauma. No self-righteousness, no self-deprecation, no guilt-tripping. However many pencils or pieces of paper it takes. More of each can be supplied if needed.

Three: call your fucking mom and have a decent conversation with her for once in your life instead of trying to guilt her constantly like it's HER fault you're a dick when it was a series of your own conscious decisions after your father's abandonment that made you like this.

If you fail at step two or three, the door will open, and you will be dragged into the pit that the door leads to by the ball and chain on your ankle, where you will... die, or something? I dunno, you're like 22 and should know better, you've left literally everyone you've been friends with behind with a ton of trauma I'm just asking you not to be a fucking twat for ten seconds. Are you really not capable of that?

You're seriously not?

Alright, change of plans, someone bring out the reverse bear trap for me.

[persephoneandherhades]

I cant emphasize this enough. IF YOU THINK AT ALL EVER THAT YOU MIGHT MAYBE HAVE SLEEP APNEA, GET TESTED.

I have been dealing with sleep issues for so many years, at least since my early teens. I legitimately thought it was just depression fucking with me. And yeah depression played its part. However as i found out several months ago, it was far from the only reason. I snore, all night and very loudly. Someone told me that if you snore really loudly you might have sleep apnea so i talked to my doctor about it. I wasnt totally convinced so we did a take home pulseox monitor test to see if my readings over night might indicate if it was possible. It was very much possible. I am now convinced so i agree to an overnight sleep study in the hospital. the whole shabang. They put electrodes or whatever all over my body and i slept. I got up, checked out. They said ur doc will be in touch with your results and sent me on my way.

In my personal experience, nothing in the medical world works quickly unless death is on the line and sometimes not even then. So i was more than a little surprised and concerned when i got a call from the sleep doctor's office affiliated with the hospital i was tested at only a few hours later. They scheduled me an appointment to come in and discuss next steps and the appointment was so soon, i knew they squeezed me in because no doctors in my area have availability that quickly. I go to the appointment and im very nervous and this very concerned woman started explaining more about sleep apnea and my results.

The average adult stops breathing 3-5 times a night. I stopped breathing 117 times in 1 HOUR.

Do you know what its like to be told you are basically fighting for your life in your sleep every night? Its TERRIFYING. This poor woman was horrified on my behalf and ordered a cpap machine for me. Unfortunately due to the supply chain issues, cpap machines had months long wait list. So when i was laid off work a month later causing me to loose my health insurance, i wasnt even close to getting a machine. So i get a new job and wait the 3 months to get insurance and start the process of finding doctors that my new insurance will cover. So now 5 months after my sleep study i am sitting in another sleep doctors office. I hand this man the papers detailing my sleep study and watch the blood drain from his face while he reads.

If you have never scared a doctor before I wouldn't recommend it.

This poor man sees that i have been waiting to get a cpap machine for 5 months and puts in the order for one. While he is putting in the order he is trying very hard to be casual while asking me questions that boil down to how the fuck do function normally? How can you drive a car without falling asleep at the wheel? I then have to admit that i have been compensating for extreme exhaustion since i was a teenager so its all very normal for me now. I thank him for his time and go about my day.

This doctor let me know that the wait for a cpap now is about 3 weeks so im already happy, like that is sooo much shorter than it was 5 months ago. He says the home health equipment office will call me when my machine comes in.

I got the call from the home health office that same day. Turns out i horrified that sleep doctor so much that he put a rush on my cpap order so i got bumped to the front of the list. I had my machine 2 days later.

I have had this thing for 3 weeks now and i cant describe how amazing i feel. I am used to waking up at least a dozen times a night, now its only once or twice. Im used to having trouble keeping my eyes open long enough to turn off my alarm clock in the morning and i am used to making myself keep moving so i dont instantly fall back asleep. Now i am awake and alert when my alarm goes off. I dont wake up already exhausted anymore. I learned early in my driving life that i have to listen to audiobooks in the car to keep my mind engaged enough to not start to fall asleep at the wheel. For the first time in years i was able to just listen to music in the car and not start nodding off. I haven't needed to take a nap after work even once.

I have been told that i might not notice changes until after the first month with the machine so i am so excited about what else might change because of this machine. I cried actual tears the other day because of it.

It has already changed my day to day life significantly. The machine is so small for the miracle it has already given me. I cant even hear it when its on. I have a fan on at night and the machine is quieter than my fan.

Getting tested is so so worth it. The benefit to your life could be so significant.

I have other things that i need to take care of for my health but taking care of this one has made it easier to work on the others.

If you think you might have it, get tested.

[upthewitchypunx]

Vended at a Celtic Fantasy Faire (heavy on the fantasy) yesterday in 95F (35C) weatehr. The most amusing thing I saw was a dad carrying out a screaming toddler saying "I know buddy, we'll have to wait to burn down the village until next year" That's some good parenting.

It takes a lot of energy to sort out what kind of magic book someone wants when they don't know themselves, but give me an actual topic and I'll plop 4 books in front of you. Sold a "How to Study Magic Book" to a 14 year old boy, that sounds like a fun journey. His dad seemed like anther good father.

Had a hilarious set of twins stop by. On was trying to decide if they should buy a pendulum board. So they put their keys on a piece of string I gave them and asked the board, the board said yes.

I'm exhausted today and finishing up a rush button order that would not have been a rush order if there still wasn't still a supply chain issue with the parts factory in Wisconsin.

New temporary housemate gets here Tuesday. I got the room painted and new curtains up. S, or friend from Utah, shows up next week to move into the big room and i decided I need to paint that room now too. ugh. I didn't realize how many denizens of that room just put pushpins in the 120 year old window frames to hang things up instead of actually buying a curtain rod. Now I have to put filler in about 100 holes in the walls and window frames before painting and buy curtain rods so other folks don't think that's a good idea.

So, just me making more work for myself and trying to restock for events the next 2 weeks. Some of the books I'm holding back to have at Pagan Pride Day at Oaks Park on September 10th.

Of course 2 weeks out and the forecast predicting rain for PPD, it wouldn't PPD without some rain.

[monoceros-vulpes]

tell me the ginjax lore….

oh em gee i'm so glad you asked. :yippie: cw list in the tagsies

Approx. 3.5 years ago, Tartaglia stayed in Liyue, overseeing affairs for the upcoming seizing of the Geo gnosis. During his stay closely affiliated with the Northland Bank, he caught wind of trade affairs between Port Ormos and Liyue Harbor. Although his orders technically were to stay put and not cause any more problems, well, he couldn't resist.

After his initial investigation, it seemed like some diplomatic issue he shouldn't stick his nose in. A large business deal that got held up quickly led to hostility between the two companies. The deeper he dug into the case, the deeper it seemed to run. Theft, sabotage, fraud, espionage. The works. The more he looked into it, the weirder it only seemed to get.

He left Liyue for a few weeks, camping in the Sumeru forest, seeing what information he could gather. He got in touch with a few different people, who claimed to know about the workings of both companies. The case also seemed to involve an underground network of poachers, supplying a gambling fighting ring in Liyue he knew the Millelith had been trying to shut down for years.

Between the four informants he was talking to, the number of discrepancies between them quickly added up. Someone was lying, and he didn’t know if it was one of the companies, one of his informants, or both.

He met the older woman in a bar. She had briefed on the history of the Liyuean company, and their connections to the animal fighting ring. She told him of an upcoming fight held in two days' time, where it would be held, and what he’d have to do if he wished to see for himself. As she continued to speak, watching the liquid in her glass swirl, Tartaglia frowned. She had said something that caught him— a slip of her tongue, a blunder.

He confronted her, asking her what made her think she could blatantly lie to his face. She dismissed his concerns, this was only what she had heard, after all. He pressed, cornering her, until he heard a scream from outside, followed by a loud crash. He turned to look at the closed blinds of the bar, but when he turned to face the woman again, she was gone. He cursed, shoving himself away from the table and pushing the door open, looking for where the sound had come from. Nothing was out of the ordinary at all. The customers stared in confusion as he quietly went back to his seat.

Left confused by the interaction, he soon returned to his tent. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if he was right when he confronted her over such a small discrepancy, but there was no doubt about her reaction. She was involved, one way or another. Just who was she exactly?

He decided to go to the location with a harebrained idea, hoping his assumptions were right. (if not, he could probably fight his way out of the mess he's gotten himself into.) He knew the risks. The chance he would get ambushed wasn’t zero, and the higher that chance was, the more likely he was on the right path.

He paid the fees at the door, taking the provided and securing it over his eyes before descending the steps into the underground pit. The interior was dark, lit by only lanterns hung around the posts. A wooden fence separated the pit from the audience on three sides alongside a thick chain net, bolted both to the ceiling and the floor. The arena continued to fill.

He kept on guard, both for the ambush and for his former informant, but neither showed face. To his right, the end opposite where he came in, the doors opened to reveal two cages being wheeled in. Both held rishboland tigers— one with a blue collar around its neck and the other, red. The fourth side of the chain net was bolted to the floor. The staff readied themselves with their sedative-tipped darts as the tigers were released, and the fight began.

He notices one of the staff turn to him, aiming their blowgun. Without a moment’s hesitation, he draws his bow, shooting the pipe out of their hands.

Midway through the fight, he’s shot at with a blowgun— simple and effective for neutralising their target. However, this is also No.11 of the Fatui Harbingers, codename Childe (but he also goes by Tartaglia). The bystanders move out of the way, some making for the door as he summons his hydro weaponry.

He defeats them with ease, looking around the arena as his weapons evaporate. Many have left, leaving the building half empty. The bystanders all had their eyes on him, talking amongst themselves. None seemed to pay attention to the sedated tigers, lying in their cages. Tartaglia scans the room, looking for any other potential threat. His eyes catch another’s— golden, almost shining in the dim lighting. It smiles at him, seemingly unbothered by the commotion and the restless crowd, before it disappears into the crowd.

The game of cat and mouse ensues, though Tartaglia isn’t quite sure if he’s playing the cat or the mouse. As soon as he thinks he’s getting close to a break, his lead slips away faster than a baby loach. He’s frustrated, knowing he’s being toyed with. The situation doesn’t seem to improve either. After all these months, he hardly knows more than he did when he first started getting involved. It feels like he’s getting intentionally left out of the loop, and he has no doubt in his mind it had something to do with the person with the golden eyes— his former informant.

Tartaglia was outside his tent, pacing. He was running out of time. He would be needed in Liyue soon, and this whole arrangement would have to be put on hold until the gnosis was seized, and he had to sail back to Snezhnaya to report to the Tsaritsa. That is, if he’s not immediately deployed again.

He heard rustling in the foliage, and a small fox stepped into the clearing, just visible in the firelight. Tartaglia smiled, recognising the animal. He took a portion of meat he sliced off from his own, tossing it at the animal. It flinched, disappearing into the leaves for a moment, but returned shortly, sniffing at the raw meat before taking it in its jaws. Tartaglia watched as it tore apart the scraps, before deciding it was probably about time for him to eat as well.

He met the fox weeks ago, finding it caught in a snare trap. It seemed too injured to move, looking roughed up before it even got caught in the trap. He rinsed its wounds, leaving scraps of raw meat and fish out for it, until it got better again.

Once it finished, it remained lying at the edge of the clearing, opposite the fire from him. It’d never allowed him close enough to check its wounds since it was well enough to evade him, but it seemed to be improving. He spoke to the animal, telling it about how he would have to leave soon, that it would have to hunt for itself again soon, and about his recent run-in with the golden-eyed person. Despite the frustration it caused, he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the chase.

The fox stood, half-limping closer to him, sniffing the ground as it approached him. He didn’t move, not wanting to startle the animal, even when it lay down by his side, curling its tail around itself.

The change of pace from the recent events was nice, welcoming the company of the fox. He glanced over his fur, taking note of how his injuries were healing. He reached a hand out to touch when a branch snapped in the forest surrounding the clearing. The fox tensed, jumping up to crouch at the suspected threat. He nocked an arrow into his bow, aiming it in the direction the sound came from.

“What have you spotted?” he asked the fox, keeping his voice low. The fox growled, its fur standing on end.

Tartaglia scanned the forest, searching the trees for anything. He kept his footsteps light as he moved closer to the edge of the clearing. After a few moments, he spotted a figure beyond the treeline.

“Looks like we’ve got a guest,” he murmured. He heard a rustle and saw that the fox had dashed off back into the underbrush. When he turned back, he drew his bow, holding it to the figure.

“Wait, wait.” He put his hands in the air, revealing himself to the firelight. He didn’t seem scared at all. “That fox you were with. Is it yours?”

He questioned the man, growing irritated at his careless attitude and his insistence on keeping Tartaglia in the dark. The man claimed the fox to be a demon, claiming it to tell lies, that it brought nothing but calamity and ruin. He had been following the fox for the better of two hours, leading to this campsite. And now Tartaglia had been the one to allow it to escape. However, despite his tall tales, it was his own foolishness that led him to land on the other end of his arrow.

He put away his bow and looked around, looking to see if the fox had reappeared. The campsite was empty, though not to his surprise, considering their rude drop-by visitor. He ran a hair through his messy hair.

“And to think I’d get to have a peaceful night. What a fool I am,” he sighed.

He took one last look at the body, seeing the fox sniffing where the arrow had pierced his skull. It didn’t look particularly scared, more curious than anything. He wiped down the arrow before returning it to his quiver. “Sorry, he was getting on my nerves,” he spoke to the fox.

It only ruffled its fur in response, slipping away and reappearing by the fire at the campsite.

“Mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked, taking a seat nearby.

Unsurprisingly, the fox didn’t acknowledge his words, curled up in front of the fire.

“Hey, don’t play coy with me. I asked you a question.” He frowned, leaning closer to the fox. “I know you can hear me.”

“You are quite incessant, are you?” it spoke, not turning to face him. In fact, it flicked its tail to cover its snout as if dismissing the conversation.

Tartaglia’s eyes widened slightly, not expecting it to actually speak. He’s bluffed enough these past months though, it hardly mattered. He smiled, his intrigue outweighing any hesitance.

“So you do understand me after all. Mind explaining why that guy was after you?

“... He’s irritated that I've interfered in his dealings.”

“How exactly have you interfered?”

“Ah, so it’s your turn to play dumb now, isn’t it?” Tartaglia could only roll his eyes, smiling at his reply, equal parts amused and irritated.

“I want to understand your situation.”

The fox lifted its head, its golden eyes meeting Tartaglia’s blue ones.

“You’ve watched it with your very eyes. Your investigation has been a thorn in my side for months.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the fox spoke, watching his movements as he began to put the pieces together. With a flick of its tails, its form shifted to that of an older woman.

“Was this your plan all along?”

He frowned, studying her face, his mind racing.

“So, after all this time… all of the people I was chasing were… you?”

She cracked, laughing.

“What, the fox you’ve been nursing to health? You’re surprised?”

Its form shifted again, taking on the body of a young man— a form he hadn’t seen before. His hair was a vibrant red, more so than in his fox form, and his eyes a gleaming golden hue.

“You… you have been so fascinating to watch. I thought you would’ve given up by now. You enchant me.”

He crawled closer, closing the space between them. An uncomfortable yet familiar feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, watching as he slinked into his lap and looked at him intently.

“Months of careful planning, arranging my pieces just so, and you—” a sound left his throat, what could almost be described as a laugh— “you think you can disassemble everything with your little investigation? You’ve caused quite a mess for me, you know.”

Tartaglia’s breath caught in his throat as the creature moved closer, hovering just above his body. If his thoughts were less a tangled mess, he would probably be more concerned with the flush spreading across his skin. He let out a low scoff, attempting to keep up his usual bravado.

“A mess? Is that so? You haven’t made things easy for either, fox.”

He tilted his head, resting his cheek against Tartaglia’s lap, laying across it like some kind of cat and watching him with a mischievous expression.

“I haven’t made it too difficult for you, have I? You’ve managed to keep up.”

The taller man couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the creature’s display. It was strangely endearing in an odd way, and he found himself running a hand through the creature’s bright red hair. The long strands glided smoothly through his fingers, and he watched as the creature’s eyes closed, content.

“You realise you haven’t made my life very easy either,” he spoke. “Chasing around a fox for months, wasting my time and energy. You’re like a never-ending game. Every time I think I’m getting close, you slip through my fingers like water. I don’t even have your name.”

“Gin.”

He raised his eyebrow, his hand still in his hair.

“Is that your real name… or just another of your many faces?”

“My real name.”

Tartaglia frowned. He never expected to get such a straight answer from the boy who’s been leading him on a wild goose chase for his own entertainment. It didn’t look like he was lying, though.

“And the catch is…?”

“No catch,” he replied simply. “You’ve made this more fun than I anticipated. There’s no need to deceive you further.”

“Fun?” he huffed in mild disbelief. “You’ve made a fool of me, leading me on to chase you. I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

“You don’t seem very mad about it.”

“I should be.” He sighed, continuing to idly thread his fingers through the other’s hair. “As infuriating as you’ve been for me, I’d have to admit there’s a little thrill in this game we’ve been playing. It’s not every day I encounter someone like you.”

The boy’s eyes opened, looking up at him as he spoke, lacking the distinct teasing tone.

“You’ll have to go soon.”

He sighed, looking away from him and into the fire. He had a job to do, a duty to uphold, and yet…

“Don’t remind me.”

“How long do you have?”

“... A few days, at most. I can’t put it off any longer.” He sighed, shaking his head as he looked back down at him. “Why? Miss me already?”

“Will you help me?”

He raised an eyebrow at his question, curiosity piqued. He was almost certain he’d regret asking this, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Help you with what?”

“The trade route. That’s what you wanted, right? To put an end to this?”

Tartaglia’s expression shifted somewhere between surprise and scepticism at his suggestion. The very thing he’d been chasing for months with little progress, and now he’s suggesting to put an end to it in only a few days?

“And how exactly are we doing that? It’s not just a simple problem to solve, you know.” He scoffed.

“They’ve already done the damage to themselves. It’ll just take a little… push, and it’ll come crumbling down.”

He thought it over, weighing the pros and cons. A part of him was still wary of the creature’s plans, but another part of him had its interest thoroughly piqued.

“A spark to ignite the wildfire?” He chuckled slightly, a sly smile spreading across his face. “I can’t say I’m not interested, but… what’s in it for you?”

“A game is best with a satisfying ending, no?” he laughed softly, nothing short of amused at his reply.

“You’re strange, you know that? Sure, I’ll help you. But there’s one condition.”

Curiosity sparkled in Gin’s eye, intrigued by this decision. He expected him to just go along with it, in all honesty.

“Yes?”

Tartaglia leaned down, his face hovering inches from Gin’s.

“When this is all over, I won’t let you slip away again so easily. I’ll find you again, and I’ll catch you.”

“Is that a promise?”

Tartaglia’s smirk widened slightly, something else passing in his eyes for a moment, a silent agreement forming between them. He tucked back a loose strand of hair before leaning back against the tree.

“Alright, what’s your plan?”

Gin explained it all to him— it was almost foolproof on Tartaglia’s end, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment to Gin’s planning or an insult to Tartaglia’s ability to execute orders. Nevertheless, it was certainly… out there, but he supposed everything would soon fall into place.

“You really have a knack for sticking your nose wherever it doesn’t belong, huh?”

“I’m starting to think you like that.”

“What can I say? It’s not every day I get wrapped up in this.” His hand rested on the other’s head, a hint of a fond smile on his face. The boy nuzzled into him, relaxed.

“... You really promise to find me again?” He held up his pinky, and Tartaglia took it after only a moment.

“If you make a promise, you keep it, if you make a mistake, you apologise. And if you give someone a dream, you defend it till the very end.”

Gin held his finger for a few moments longer, staring at where their hands were touching.

“... You have to take off your gloves. It doesn’t count if you don’t.”

Tartaglia rolled his eyes, taking off his glove and linking their pinkies again, feeling the warmth of Gin’s skin on his.

“There. I promise. I’ll find you no matter what— if only to give you hell for running away from me for so long in the first place.”

“Good,” he smiled, shifting back away from him. “Until then.”

And with that, the little red fox disappeared back into the forest.

[skelezomperman]

Flashfic #8: A modern AU with Cedtena

This idea has to be credited to a mutual, borne out of discussions over modern AUs with Jugdral characters. This is a modern AU where the Leonster characters all work at a company owned by the Leonster family (i.e. Quan). Ced's father here is Finn, though honestly it's not super important and it could easily be exchanged for Lewyn. Altena is supposed to be the next heir, and she's acting CEO because Quan was injured in an accident (caused by Travant).

Leif still fondly remembered the time when it was announced that Ced was going to be hired at the company. It was not long after Altena was installed as VP of Supply Chain at Leonster Limited. She had hired him, fresh out of college with his Master’s in Computer Science, to be part of the IT. He quickly rose to the ranks to becoming in charge of their new proprietary planning software, something which they were planning to sell to others…

In truth, Leif had known Ced for a while. He was the son of a longtime friend of his father’s, someone who worked very hard. He had even attended the funeral of Ced’s mother. And it was a joy to work alongside Ced. Nearly everyone liked him, and Asbel especially loved having him as a mentor.

So why is it that he was suddenly transferred to Business Development?

The message had been so sudden, an email that came in at 6 AM from the acting CEO herself, an unusually early time even for her.

Leif’s first stop was the office of Ced, the new Senior Manager of IT of Business Development. His question as to why the latter was moving was greeted by a sheepish grin. “I’m just moving to a new chapter in my life,” Ced replied. “A new chapter with more pay.”

Yes, it was true that Ced’s compensation was close to six figures now…but it’s not as though he couldn’t get a promotion with Supply Chain. But Ced put on a pair of earbuds as he began moving a box. A glint of something caught Leif’s eye, but he couldn’t piece together what it was…

Next was Asbel. Leif’s childhood friend was tight-lipped, though. He seemed to know why it was that Ced moved, or at least that a transfer was imminent given that he wasn’t totally surprised as Leif expected. Asbel pointed out that HR could at least be in the know.

And Nanna, the Head of Human Resources — and Leif’s wife — did confirm that Ced was transferred as a matter of HR policy. “You do know well that I can’t reveal HR issues that do not concern you,” she nagged.

“Pretty please?”

Nanna couldn’t resist Leif’s pleading eyes. (Few people can, in any case.) She leaned in towards him, a mischievous grin on her face, and said: “The acting CEO personally approved of the transfer.”

He practically banged on his sister’s office door. “Altenaaaaa!” he called out.

“Use your manners,” she said in an unamused tone when she opened the door.

“Wow, the Mondays must have finally gotten you.” Leif said this when he saw how unusually disheveled she looked, her hair a bit more frizzy than usual and her eyes bloodshot. He saw a glint of something again, but couldn’t make out what it was.

“It’s not that,” Altena demurred.

“Sister,” Leif asked, “why did Ced get transferred to Business Development? He was working so well with us. I heard that-”

“A husband and wife cannot work in the same department. You know that, Leif,” Altena replied.

Leif’s face turned blank. “What?”

His sister’s expression turned more into a scowl as she said: “Did you seriously not see that Ced proposed to me last night?”

“He did?”

He took out his phone and opened up his InstaFace. He scrolled through the timeline. It said:

Update: 10:37 PM - Ced Brave is now Engaged. Update: 10:26 PM - Altena Claus is now Engaged.

“Ohh,” Leif sighed. “How did I not see that this morning?”

Altena facepalmed so hard that one could hear the sound of her hand meeting her face. “You’re just as much of a dolt as Father…”

[comfy-whumpee]

Spooked

Continuing the ‘mafia has a loyalty issue’ plotline... CN: guns and death threats.

@bloodybrambles​, @wildfaewhump​​, @ishouldblogmore​, @lektric-whump​​, @that-one-thespian​, @raigash​, @suspicious-whumping-egg​​, @eatyourdamnpears​

Joey Hancock had been working for Mr Dechart for almost a year. Before that he’d been a fence, and a decent one, but his eye for quality and detail had been better than required of someone pushing stock on the street. Someone had noticed and passed it up the chain, he’d gone through some extra training, and then came the promotion. Now, he was one of the quality assurance team.

There were lots of stops on a smuggler’s supply chain, and at any step along the way they ran the risk that someone would swap the goods for fakes. Joey’s team made sure they were always paying for the real deal.

There was a place for fakes and forgeries, Mr Dechart believed, and they had those in bulk elsewhere. But the real profit came from the luxury goods shipped tax-free and traceless. From tobacco to exotic meats, jewels to guns, whatever people wanted, they provided. Hell, they’d started the business with silk.

Joey hadn’t worked many places before he got into the mob. He’d done a fast food job, and a paper round. Working for old bitches with too much ego and not enough power had given him nothing to look forward to about work, but Mr Dechart was different. He listened, really listened. He trusted your opinions. At the same time, he was like everyone’s uncle. He told goofy jokes. He had Christmas lights put up and it wasn’t even the end of November. He was feeling out whether people wanted Italian or Chinese for the Christmas party.

Joey figured rich guys could afford to do stuff like Christmas parties, since they didn’t have to worry about making money all the time. For his own part, since moving up to the quality team, he’d bought a flat and upgraded every component of his PC. Even the graphics card.

Helped that those were shipped in, too. “We keep prices down,” the guys would joke. “Supply and demand.”

It was a good deal. Joey was always happy to do what it took to get a good life, the best life. Crime was no different.

Nor was snitching on his boss.

It wasn’t personal. He really did like working for the mafia. But there were some things he couldn’t get here; things money couldn’t buy. Mr Dechart wouldn’t know it was him, with how many people he had working for him. Joey was just some second-string QA guy who kept his ears open.

Of course, rumours started flying. Mr Dechart’s partner had been meeting with some higher-ups. There were loyalty issues somewhere and people wanted them sniffed out. There had been risks to Mr Dechart personally. Joey had heard a little about him being driven off the road one night, on his way to a meeting.

“He got shot at,” Laverne had told him, who knew the person who did Mr Dechart’s dry cleaning. “But he didn’t get hurt. We don’t know who it was, so people are on edge. We didn’t think anyone’d dare go for him like that.”

Joey looked surprised and pensive and didn’t say anything except, “Damn.”

In the weeks that followed, a few people got called away for meetings with Mr Dechart. They always came back and nobody seemed traumatised. Laverne went herself, nervous on the way there, happy on the way back. All fine. But nobody would explain what the meetings were about.

It was a month before Joey had his turn. He was in the warehouse on Southland Port and checking out some designer handbags, comparing them to the images he’d found online, and he got a shoulder tap. One of the personal guards had come for him. “Mr Dechart would like to borrow you,” he said, looking down at Joey on his chair without any visible expression. Pure neutrality.

Joey took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was the same as what had happened for the others. Nobody knew he’d said a few things to someone he shouldn’t have. Nobody knew what he’d bargained for. And they’d all do the same anyway, if they had the option.

He got up, leaving the bag on his desk. He quickly tucked his hands into his pockets, and then took them out again, not wanting to look too casual. He followed the escort to the office, where Mr Dechart had taken over that morning. He’d been waiting to get called in all day, today and all the days before.

Maybe someone pocketed a diamond, Joey thought hopefully. Maybe it’s something completely different.

As he opened the frosted-glass door to the office, Mr Dechart stood and smiled warmly at him. “Joey Hancock, good to see you.” They shook hands, his grip firm and palpably strong. Joey wasn’t short, but he was half the man’s size. “How have you been? I’m glad to see you’ve settled in here. Eduardo says you do good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joey said, trying to clear his throat as his words croaked. “I’m enjoying it.”

“Very good. The team have been performing well recently, though I can’t give sole credit to you. I’ve had only three complaints come back to us this quarter, so almost all the forgeries are being caught. There’s often a couple, or pieces that are just defective, but the more we catch, the better our connections value us.”

Joey nodded along, relieved as the conversation seemed to be on a familiar track.

Mr Dechart was wearing a pure white shirt you could see his muscles through, and he set an arm on his leg, showing an understated gemstone cufflink. Joey couldn’t tell if it was real; he’d never done jewellery, that was left for the real experts. The indication of wealth was subtle and classy, but god, it was scary. No amount of hard work could get Joey up there. This was a man who could buy his whole life from under him.

“Now, in terms of our meeting today, I’m sure you’re aware I’ve been having these one-to-ones with the team.” Mr Dechart smiled easily, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve heard rumours, I bet. I took a couple bullets, we knocked down the Mannington lot, and we had a little manhunt. It’s been a bit dramatic around here.”

Joey swallowed, unsure if he was meant to reply. He settled for a wobbly nod.

“I’ll be frank with you.” Mr Dechart leaned forwards, clasping his hands between his knees. His eyes were dark and magnetic. Joey couldn’t move. “We’re having a loyalty problem.”

His heart was hammering. Would everyone else have felt like this? The boss was terrifying when he wasn’t being a goof. Did Joey look more nervous than other people? Or had he already been found out? How?

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Joey?” Mr Dechart asked gently.

His throat bobbed. His stomach turned, churned and turned again. He shook his head slowly. If he admitted to it, he was dead. He knew he was. Mr Dechart only had three rules.

“I only have three rules.”

He knew the rules. They all knew the rules. But Mr Dechart said them anyway, methodical with each word.

“We don’t hurt children. We don’t keep slaves. And we don’t turn on each other.”

Joey thought he should nod again, but he couldn’t make himself move. Any slight twitch would give him away.

“Breaking the first two rules gets you in trouble. But the last one… That’s the big one. That gets you killed.”

He knew. He knew all of it already. His eyes were watering but he didn’t dare blink.

“Now if you’re innocent,” Mr Dechart continued, his eyes never pulling away, “I’m sure you’ll find that reassuring. You can head back to work feeling fine. There’s no risk to you. We’re just cleaning things up. You’ll keep your eyes and ears open, and pass on anything suspect you see.”

The words slid over him without sticking. He wasn’t innocent. Did they know? Could they tell?

“If you’re guilty…”

He couldn’t feel his hands.

“You should get your affairs in order. Alright?”

His whole body was buzzing.

“I’m expecting a ‘yes, sir’, Joey.”

His voice barely whispered as it left him. “Yes, sir.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Mr Dechart watched him, and Joey wondered if he was about to get a bullet to the head, right now. Was this it? Everything fucked?

When Mr Dechart rose, he flinched. Then he hurriedly stood too, surprised that his legs would hold him. They didn’t feel solid.

“Back to work now,” Mr Dechart told him, smiling that easy half-smile again. “And remember, if you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Joey forced up a strained, desperate smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He felt the eyes follow him out, and tried for all the world to be as carefree as those before him.

 It was three torturous hours later that he finished work for the day. The time had passed in a blur, barely memorable now that it was over. He was pretty sure he’d done his work. He probably hadn’t just stood there the whole time listening to his heart pound in his ears. Someone would have noticed, and he’d been very careful to act normal.

The meetings proved Mr Dechart didn’t know it was him. Unless the meetings with the others had been to corroborate evidence, or warn them not to tell him anything, and maybe they all knew he was getting the chop but they hadn’t told him… But Mr Dechart had let him go. He was on his way home. So maybe it was all a bluff.

Either way, he wanted a backup plan. He wasn’t fucking risking getting shot. Once he was safely clear of work and in his car, he pulled over, and made a call.

“Martin speaking.”

The voice sounded calm. From a whole other world. He needed Martin to give a shit right now. “Martin, it’s Joey Hancock. They’re looking for the mole, they’re putting the screws on everyone. The boss is watching me. I don’t know if he knows. I need some protection.”

“Joey, slow down.” Martin was still calm. “What exactly were you told? Did they name any names or was it empty threats?”

Joey wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. A strange combination of both bubbled out of him. “You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand, man. Mr Dechart doesn’t just sit on stuff like this. He’s going after the traitor ready to skin them. I’ve never seen him like that, he looked like he could kill me as a fucking afterthought.”

“Calm down, Joey—”

“You calm the fuck down! This is my fucking life. I wasn’t supposed to be in danger. I was supposed to do some shit for you and get the rest taken care of. You said, you s-said—”

“I know what I said.” Abruptly, the tone was soothing. Joey hiccupped back a sob. “We aren’t going to abandon you. You’re on your way to being one of us. We look after our own.”

We don’t turn on each other. Shit, he’s heard that before. But this asshole is all he’s got. “Okay. Fine. So what do I do? What do I do now?”

“You keep going.” Still, the soothing voice. Patronising, actually. Dickhead. “They don’t know who it is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. So just act normal and forget about what you did for us. When things have died down, we’ll be in touch.”

“You’re abandoning me, you’re f-fucking leaving me to—”

“This is the safest thing to do. Running will make it obvious you’re guilty.”

“You were meant to make sure I could get away!”

“You will. When the time is right. Good luck, Joey.”

“You can’t—”

The call was ended. Shaking with rage and more besides, Joey thumbed the redial, but there was no response. The pulsing drone of the ring drove into his head until he threw the phone into the footwell and dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting out a shout of wordless frustration.

It was all so fucked. He’d said little things. Harmless things. But it had been shit about the Decharts’ kid. Harmless or not, it had crossed a line and he’d known it.

And he was meant to just keep coming and going at work like he was just a stupid, second-string QA guy.

He sat there wordlessly trying to work out an escape route for long enough that someone knocked on his window.

He looked over, wondering if he looked as shit as he felt. He rolled down the window.

“You okay, mate?”

“Yeah, fine.” Then he squinted at the face, cast in shadow from the sun behind him. “Do I know you?”

“Maybe.” Then there was a gun. “I know you. Put your hands on the wheel.”

Joey swallowed air. His thoughts blanked. That sure was a gun. Pointed right at him.

He put his shaking hands on the wheel. The familiar stranger reached through the window to unlock the doors, and got in the back. Joey glanced into the rear-view mirror, but he couldn’t see much. Half a face. A shoulder. No sign of what part of him was at the barrel.

This was all so very fucked.

“Alright, Joey. Nice and calm. Let’s drive back to the office, shall we?” The voice was almost in his ear. The man, the hand, the gun, were all too close. “Mr Dechart would like to see you.”