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ashwhowrites · 6 months

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Eddie Munson x cheerleader! Reader, they go to a party, and they're wearing couple costumes (maybe they're vampires or smth like that) but Jason starts to make fun of Eddie and Reader gets angry and punches Jason in the face, and Eddie thinks that hot, and they end up going to Eddie's to have sex

I hope this is what you wanted! And you enjoy it. Thank you so much for requesting<3

Happy October!

Dress up

Halloween landed on a Saturday night, and Chrissy was immediately ready to plan a party. The cheerleading squad got with her to help her plan it all.

Y/N was very good friends with Chrissy, and already planned to attend the party. The hard part was going to try to convince her boyfriend to go.

~~~

"Nope!" Eddie said, shaking his head. His curls bounced as his head shook back and forth. His legs stretched out on the coffee table as he sat on her couch. She sat next to him, holding his hand as she begged him over and over.

"Baby, why would I want to dress up in a ridiculous costume, and hang out with a bunch of assholes? We could have sex, then watch scary movies all night." Eddie argued, his head leaning back and turning to look at her. She rested her head on his shoulder, a pout on her lips.

"How about this? We go to at least say hi, and have a free drink or two. Steal the beer, go home have sex, and then movies!" She offered. She watched Eddie's face, trying to detect his answer.

He still didn't look convinced, before he could speak she spoke first.

"I'll let you pick my costume."

A huge smirk came across his face and she knew she was in for it

~~~

Eddie had his hand on her ass as they walked in, the tiny nurse costume clung to her body and showed off every part of her. She had fake blood dripped down her thighs, her hair was messy, and her dress was ripped. Eddie stood beside her with a smirk, dressed in a surgeon costume, but with makeup to make him look like a zombie. His bloody handprints were all over her skin, her legs, ass, and chest covered in his prints.

"What do we have here?" Chrissy asked, smiling as she took in their costume.

"I'm a nurse, and he is a zombie surgeon. "Y/N sighed, Eddie jumped on his feet, rubbing his hands together.

"And?" Eddie edged on, and Y/N rolled her eyes.

"And he's dead and ate me....literally", so I'm now a dead nurse." She explained, Chrissy laughed when Y/N yanked up her dress, a fake bite mark on her inner thigh. Eddie was proud of his idea and enjoyed the annoyance on his girlfriend's face.

"Clever, Munson," Chrissy smirked, nodding her head as she left to attend other guests.

"Go get your beers, baby," Y/N said, kissing Eddie on his lips. Eddie kissed her back then headed to the kitchen. He grabbed as many cans of beer as he could, stuffing the cans in his pockets.

"Robbing my girlfriend?" Jason snarked out, crossing his arms as he stood behind Eddie.

"Fuck off." Eddie groaned, he cracked a can open, and took a swig of the drink. Eddie turned around and went to walk past Eddie but Jason wouldn't let him.

"Who even invited you here? No one wants the freak here around, who knows what devilish things you have planned tonight." Jason growled, but Eddie just tried to shrug it off. "And dressing up as a doctor? like you'd ever be smart enough for that. Probably a sicko that would steal people's insides and chop them up."

"Leave him alone, asshole" Y/N barked, moving to stand in front of Eddie.

"And his slutty nurse, such a shame you got caught up with him. You could have had a real future for yourself." Jason said, but Y/N knew he was making things up. She loved her life with Eddie and she was excited for their futures.

"Better be careful with him. It's Halloween night, I'm sure his psycho self has a ritual plan and you'll be his sacrifice. He'll tie you down and gut you open like a pig." Jason's smirk didn't last long. It was smacked right off of his face.

Y/N landed a huge right hand smack to his cheek, Jason's head snapping to the side. Eddie felt his jaw hit the floor.

Not only did his girlfriend stand up for him. His girlfriend slapped the shit out of Jason while wearing the sluttiest outfit at the whole party. The momentum of the slap caused her dress to lift, the silk of her red underwear showing. Eddie moved forward to tug it down. His mind focused on her and her body, not hearing the curse words leaving her mouth as she screamed in Jason's face.

"Baby, let's go!" She snapped, grabbing his hand and walking out of the party. Eddie felt like he was in a daze. Mindedly following her as his eyes stayed on her ass. Her heels clicked against the driveway as she marched to the van.

Before she could open the door, Eddie had her slammed against it.

She gasped at the action but melted into him. His right hand was against the van above her head and his left hand was on her hip. His eyes ate her alive as he skimmed up her outfit.

"You are so fucking sexy." He growled, his mouth immediately on hers in a heated kiss.

She clawed him desperately, her hands snaking in his hair. His body pressed against hers and his erection was pressed against her thigh. His hands moved to her thighs, rubbing the skin softly.

"Shall we go home?" She smirked, her hand cupping his cock.

"Mhhm yes."

Maybe the party was a good idea....

Tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @manyfandomsfanvergentreblogs @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson request #eddie munson fluff x reader #eddie munson fluff x female reader #eddie munson halloween blurb #eddie munson x fluff #eddie munson angst x reader #eddie munson angst #ashwhowrites halloween #ashwhowrites

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mortalityplays · 20 days

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Unprintable: Free art drop #1

We've finally launched, with a modest collection of free works but one that hopefully sets the tone for what you can expect going forward. We have...

Prints!

Punk is a Playlist can be as decorative or as paggro as you like, depending where you hang it, while THINK is perfect for distribution at rallies, inside libraries, or slipped inside the free newspaper on the bus. Meanwhile Screamscape Harmonium is a purely silly tribute to extreme video game ads of the 90s (and part of the inspiration for starting this project, after one particular word of copy made it difficult to have professionally printed).

Art and graphics!

Falling Skyline and Alligator Feelings are older digital drawings being offered up for a new life as public domain pieces, while Daffodils by Any Means Necessary is a mixed-media painting created out of packing paper and old dried up art supplies specifically for Unprintable. Monster Backgrounds are a gorgous set of digital patterns designed for use as phone and tablet wallpapers (but don't let that stop you from using them elsewhere!)

Poetry!

An instant zine kit!

To to mark the launch of Unprintable, I wanted to officially invite everyone to the world of zine-making. The instant zine is a double-sided printable document that walks you step by step through writing, illustrating and folding your first attempt. Print it yourself and make a tiny book about something close to your heart, or print 30 and bring them to class! Anyone can give art away for free, it turns out.

#free art #public domain #zine making

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jksprincess10 · 11 months

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Hi! I love your writing and wanted to send in a request. Feel free to make any adjustments and I don’t care about the length. Just had a general idea that I thought would be great to have you bring to life. Thanks.❤️ Hope you’re having a wonderful day!

Female reader is Javi’s new secretary and she knows all about his extracurricular activities with the women of Bogotá. It’s partly why she wanted to take the position. She’s inexperienced and wanted to get a chance to learn from the best. Javi senses what she’s after and avoids her advances for the sake of his job. She does everything she can to tempt him (like bending over, tight clothes, brushing against him, etc.). It all leads up to them staying late one night and she can’t stand it anymore. When he goes to pick them up food she decides to reveal her sexy lingerie set and perch herself on his desk. He comes back to the sight of her and abandons all hope of staying professional. Take all the creative liberties you want with the smut. I’m not picky 😏

HOPE YOU ENJOY BABY!! the man is 100% done with reader

CW: description of reader includes her having thick thighs & she can sit on Javi, dom dynamic, tying up, thigh riding, office sex, lingerie, fingering, rough sex, p in v without protection (do better ESPECIALLY with this man whore)

➳ Masterlist

➳Send me a request

Red lace

Javier Pena was famous. For the right… and the wrong reasons.

His face was all over the papers for contributing to the end of Escobar.

And his body was everywhere in the brothels of Bogotá.

You had seen his pretty face between printed pages. And the ad that said the embassy was looking for new employees. Days later, you had your own office across Javier’s.

He liked your personality and hired you as his personal secretary, for… professional reasons. While you were there simply to get his attention.

So, the game started.

Your fingers lingering for a longer time than necessary on papers laying on his desk.

Your tiny skirts riding up while you bent over in front of him on purpose.

Your lips painted in a provocative red.

Your bodies brushing slightly as you passed him in the halls.

Really, it was a lot for Javi who tried to ignore, to look away. You were attractive, yes, but he couldn’t fuck every new cute employee. So, he looked away when he could.

But one time, you crossed the limit of what he could handle.

It was a late night at the office, so Javier had offered to go grab some food for the two of you – since you were the only two left in the office.

When he came back with the bag of food, he found you spread out on his desk. You had traded your work clothes for lingerie that covered more but was still see through in the right places. The red lace hugged your breasts and stopped high on your hips, making them look fuller.

In helplessness, Javier drank in the view of your body with dark eyes. The bag fell from his hands and landed on the floor. He gave up on resisting you. His big hands grabbed on your spread legs to bring you closer from the edge of the desk. You sighed and brought your hands up to his hair that was messy from his full day of work in the humidity of Columbia.

“You’re gonna put me in such trouble.” He groaned as he discarded his suit jacket.

With a low chuckle, you grabbed his tie to bring him impossibly closer. “I can resign after this, sir.”

“Never.”

Finally, his lips melted on yours, relieving some of the tension. His hands were caressing the soft skin your bare thighs, as his tongue invaded your mouth. He took complete control over you, and you couldn’t help but moan in his mouth. His lips left yours as he untied his tie.

“Turn around for me.” You stepped down and did as he said. His fingers wrapped his tie around your wrists to hold them together. He made sur that it was tight to his linking, then left you to sit on his office chair, thighs spread and showing the hint of an erection in his dark pants.

He motioned at you to come over. “Good girl.” He praised softly. He undid the top buttons of his white shirt, where you could already notice the sweat on his golden skin. Your boss slapped his own thigh. “Sit on me.” He ordered with a sly smile.

Your thick thighs straddled his. “You make yourself cum on my thigh while I sit here and watch. If you do well cariño, I will touch you.”

It was awkward for you, moving with your wrists tied behind your back. He sat back as he watched you almost carelessly while you started moving, the friction sending small waves of pleasure within you. You sighed softly, closing your eyes momentarily.

His large hand grabbed the bottom of your face roughly.

“Look at me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Your eyelids flicked opened. Looking at Javier while you got yourself off on his thigh was intimidating, but you tried to concentrate on the soft parts of him: the curls forming on his forehead, his soft mustache, his plush lips. Your hips moved faster to get more friction, and your movements stuttered when you started to get overwhelmed with the feeling. You moaned, mouth open for him to see as your juices ruined the bottom of your lingerie and painted a dark circle on his clothed thigh.

“Good job cariño.” He left a peck on your lips. “Turn around and put your upper body on the desk for me. Good, perfect.” You heard him push his chair behind you, and you felt his hands explore the meat of your ass. You pushed against his hands, begging for more.

With a low chuckle, he pushed the fabric to the side to have a clear access to your glistening pussy. “So pretty and wet for me.”

His fingers brushed lightly at your wetness, making you squirm. He finally committed, two of his digits entering your wet walls. You let out a little curse under the sudden intrusion, then you greedily moved your ass against him, making his fingers fuck you at a faster pace.

“Goddamn, gonna feel so good around my cock, cariño.”

You moaned loudly at his praise. You felt his fingers curling up deeper, making your legs shake.

“F-Fuck Javi… g-gonna… ah!” Your walls tightened around him and you coated his thick fingers with your juices.

“Good girl.” He held your back down with his hand, while the other one undid his belt to free his cock. You could only hear him; you wish you could see him too. But he was holding you down firmly.

He held the base of his cock as he buried it inside you. He then grabbed on your hip for leverage as he started moving, barely leaving you time to adjust to his size. You were a moaning mess under him, completely at his mercy as you couldn’t even move your arms.

“I was right. Feels fucking amazing, cariño.” He says between his gritted teeth.

It was like this man had infinite stamina. He kept his thrusts hard and rough, seeing how much you enjoyed it.

You were glad the two of you were alone, because you both were so loud. Your moans, and the vulgar slap of skin. Javi was out of breath, but he made sure that you got off on his dick one last time, before he let himself find his relief. You feel his warm spend fill you up as he slows down.

“I just knew you’d be amazing.” You said as he undid your bindings and flipped you over, making you lay on the desk to rest a little. He leaned down and kissed you slowly, a smile against his lips.

“I might have some new tasks to assign you.” Javier whispers with a wink.

#writing requests #javier pena #javier pena smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena narcos #javier pena x you #javier pena x yn #javier pena x y/n #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader

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alwayschoppedtaco · 2 years

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paper rings ll d.r.

pairing: daniel ricciardo x reader, pierre gasly x best friend!reader

warnings: none just fluff, a little bit of pierre teasing the reader

summary: I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings or the four times you surprise him with paper rings and the one time he surprises you

word count: 2.0k

based off of the song paper rings by taylor swift

my masterlist

a/n: ahhhh danny ric really deserves the whole world, i love him so much! and feel free to send in requests and/or anything you want to say, i am always here!

The moon is high Like your friends were the night that we first met Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet Now I've read all of the books beside your bed

Monaco, 2018

You had met Daniel through Pierre originally. Having known Pierre for essentially your entire life, you had joined him for a couple races, and been introduces to many drivers.

You sat with Pierre’s parents, cheering on your best friend, and enjoying the energy of Monaco. You watched at the edge of your seat as Pierre crosses the finish line, finishing seventh. Cheering on his top ten finish with his parents, hugging and hollering for him.

After he got done with post-race dealings, Pierre made his way to you and his parents to properly celebrate his points finish. That night you and Pierre went out to party and really celebrate his finish, joining some of his friends at a club.

The club was packed with sweaty drunk people and loud music, everyone pushing up against each other, grinding on the dance floor.

You were seated at a booth in the back, next to Charles as he wasn’t really in the mood to party. You and Charles were making light conversation, catching up, while you twist the paper from your straw into a ring, taking Charles’ straw to make another. Soon you have all of the straw wrappers at the table turned into rings, sitting in front of you.

Daniel makes his way over to the table you are sat in, deciding to take a break from dancing. You smile up at him as he takes a seat across from you in the booth.

“What are you doing?” He questions, looking at the straw wrappers that litter the space in front of you.

“Making rings.” You state. “You want one?”

“Sure.” He answers. You pass on over to him, smiling as he slips it onto his pointer finger. He gives you one of his signature smiles and a nod before making his way back out to the dancing floor.

The wine is cold Like the shoulder that I gave you in the street Cat and mouse for a month or two or three Now I wake up in the night and watch you breathe

Silverstone, 2019

Once again you are on the paddock with Pierre and his family, this time with Red Bull. Silverstone is alive and buzzing with excitement. Everyone excited for the race to start.

You sit next to Pierre’s mother, watching the cars zooming around the track. Watching Pierre pass Max to finish fourth makes you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, cheering for your friend.

While you are waiting for Pierre to be done with the postrace activities, you fold the pieces of paper in front of you with race details printed on it into origami things. A butterfly with part of the page, a tiny heart with another part, and a paper ring with the scraps.

You hand the butterfly over to Pierre’s mother right before he comes into the room, causing you to make your way over to give him a hug and congratulate him on his finish.

“Let’s go out to dinner to celebrate, yeah?” His father suggests, throwing his arm around his son’s shoulder. You all agree, making your way out of the garage.

You are looking for your phone in your purse when you bump into someone. Quickly mumbling an apology as Pierre laughs at your clumsiness.

A loud laugh resounds from above you as the person you ran into reassures you that it is okay. You look up to find Daniels kind face staring down at you. You take a step back, offering Daniel an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry, I should watch where I am going.” You say, purposefully ignoring Pierre who is behind Daniel wiggling his eyebrows at you and Daniel.

“No, I should be careful to not bump into pretty girls.” Daniel replies, sending you a giant smile. You laugh at his flirty manner, shaking your head.

“Here, take this.” You say, jokingly offering up the ring you had made earlier. “As a sorry for running into you.”

“Okay,” He takes the ring from your outstretched hand. “Can I get your number too? Maybe a date as well?”

You laugh once again, finding it so easy to do in the Australians presence, before stretching out your hand once more and motioning for his phone.

Kiss me once 'cause you know I had a long night (Oh!) Kiss me twice 'cause it's gonna be alright Three times 'cause I've waited my whole life (One, two, one two three four!)

Monza, 2020

You are once again watching the Grand Prix, this time from back home in France and this time as Daniels girlfriend. Watching Pierre cross the finish line first is amazing, and you can’t help but wish that you could be there in Italy to celebrate with both him and Daniel.

You settle for watching him up on the podium and texting him about how proud you are of him. As you sit on the couch in your apartment, watching the post-race interviews, you take a sticky note from the pad sitting on top of your coffee table, needing to have something to occupy your hands.

Before you know it, you have a bunch of origami figures littered on your coffee table. Little hearts and butterflies, swans and tiny frogs, and a handful of rings.

The rings make you smile, reaching for your phone to snap a picture and send it to Daniel.

congrats on a point finish!

You send the message, attaching the image of the paper ring. You set the phone down, going to make dinner, knowing that he will be busy with everything.

After you have eaten your dinner, you go back into the living area, turning the tv to some mindless show so you can scroll through your phone.

You have a few messages. Pierre thanking you for your congratulations, your family group chat trying to plan a get together with all of you, your friends planning a hang out, and a reply from Daniel.

Thank you! I’m going to have to get you a real ring to make up for all the paper ones you are making me.

You blush reading the message, knowing that Daniel being flirty isn’t something that is unusual, but that it will probably always have this effect on you.

Your phone rings all of the sudden, Daniels smiling face showing up on the screen. You answer the facetime, smiling at him through the phone.

“Hello darlin’.” He greets in a fake Texas accent.

“Hello my love.” You answer, laughing at his accent. Your laugh brings a smile to his face, as you begin telling him about your day.

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper ring Uh huh, that's right Darling, you're the one I want, and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this Uh huh, that's right Darling, you're the one I want In paper rings, in picture frames, in dirty dreams Oh, you're the one I want

Monza, 2021

Once again, you are on the paddock, this time in papaya orange. The paddock pass hangs around your neck as you watch the race from the McLaren hospitality.

Your hands are occupied with a piece of paper as you fold it into a ring once again. You are glad that you have something to do with your hands other that anxiously fiddling with them as you watch the race.

All your nerves are gone as you watch Daniel cross the finish line first. Jumping up and cheering with all the others in the hospitality as Lando crosses second to make it a 1-2 finish.

You’re there for Daniel when he makes it back to the garage, getting out of his car and running to the team and you. He crashes into you, hugging you tightly and slightly rocking back and forth with you in his arms.

“I have something for you.” You say in his ear, hoping he can hear you over the cheering of fans.

“And what might that be?” He asks, pulling away from you with a huge smile.

“It’s practically tradition by now.” You laugh, pulling out the ring from your pocket and handing it to him, watching him slide it onto his finger with one of his perfect smiles.

“Tradition for sure.” He smiles at you, giving you another hug before letting you go.

You watch him go off to celebrate with a smile on your face, seeing him smile never failing to put a matching one on your face as well.

I want to drive away with you I want your complications too I want your dreary Mondays Wrap your arms around me, baby boy

France, 2022

The track is buzzing as they wait for the start of the race. You are sat next to Pierre’s parents, waiting for his home race to begin.

As soon as they are off you are sitting at the edge of your seat. It’s an interesting enough race, with Charles crashing, and Daniel and Esteban battling for places.

You are, of course, folding a ring to give to Daniel as the race comes to an end, making your way to congratulate him on the points. He is smiling as soon as he sees you, hugging you and excepting the ring, keeping up tradition.

The team decide to go out to dinner to celebrate points finish and spend time together. You arrive at the restaurant, sitting in a semi-secluded corner, ordering a couple bottles of wine for the table, and settling in for good food and conversation.

By the end of the meal, you are a couple of glasses in, ready to get back to the hotel and celebrate some more, just the two of you. You and Daniel make your way out of the restaurant, waving goodbye to everyone as you go.

The French night scene it beautiful. The city it still buzzing with excitement both from todays race, and from the clubs around the city. You and Daniel make your way along the road, walking to the hotel you are staying at.

He walks by your side, hand interlaced with yours, swinging the interlocked hands back and forth as you walked. He looks good. The city lights reflecting off his face, he looks at peace, calm.

You make light conversation as you walk towards the hotel, talking about anything and everything that your minds can think of. It’s so easy when it comes to Daniel, everything feels so right with him. He continues to lead you down the street, turning into the harbor.

Your slightly confused, assuming that you would be heading back to the hotel, but not upset as you look out onto the ocean, looking at the night sky.

“Look Dan, the Big Dipper.” You exclaim, pointing to the constellation. “And there is Little Dipper, and Orion. The view is so beautiful.”

“It really is.” He says softly, causing you to turn to look at him, seeing him already looking down at you. You blush, looking back up to the stars.

When you turn around to point out another constellation to Daniel you are surprised to see him down on one knee. You gasp, putting your hands over your mouth to contain your smile as he pulls out a velvet box from his pocket.

“Y/N, I have known you for four years now, and I have been in love with you for pretty much all of them.” He gives you a huge smile, flipping open the box to reveal a beautiful ring. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it. You make me smile when I don’t think I can, you make me laugh even when I am sad, and you make the best paper rings on the planet. So here I am offering you that real ring I promised you, Y/N M/N L/N, will you marry me?”

You can barely say anything, but you manage a “yes” through teary eyes, jumping into Daniels arms as soon as he gets back up on his feet.

“I love you, Daniel.” You say, hugging him tightly, happy tears escaping from your eyes as you slide the stunning ring onto your ring finger.

“I love you too.” He replies. “Paper rings and all.”

idk about the end but oh well, there you go.

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no-name-publishing · 6 months

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Tiny Book? Tiny Book. Pt3.

Previously we covered everything from typesetting and printing, to rounding and backing. Let's continue on with step 4, endbands!

Tiny books part 1; Tiny books part 2

Just like with regular ficbinding, there are layers, and they are:

1 - Typesetting and Imposing 2 - Printing 3 - Cutting, Folding, and Sewing 4 - Gluing, Rounding/Backing, Endbands 5 - Building the Case and Casing In 6 - BOOK

In this part we will be focusing on the rest of step 4, and we'll see how far we get before I run out of photo space tbqh. Please feel free to skip to the area you're interested in most.

4, pt2 - Endbands

Endbands--there isn't anything overly exciting to say here, except that sewn endbands on tiny books isn't impossible, just ridiculously fiddly. For a core I recommend going with embroidery floss, stiffened with PVA. It's a nice relatable scale to the tiny book and will be perfectly firm-yet-flexible with the PVA coating. Because of the thickness I do not recommend using more than one strand of embroidery floss, if that's what you are using right now for your regular books. For all of the examples I include below, they've been sewn in a double core french style with a single strand of satin-finish sewing cotton sewing thread. Here are some examples of ones I've done:

Doable, but at what cost? My sanity. If you've got some to spare though, it will be very impressive to other bookbinders lol.

Don't be fooled into thinking tiny sewn endbands will be quicker or easier than their regular sized counterparts. And as a treat, here is how the tiny endband looked in my press while I sewed:

It's just 🧍‍♂️

In a sewn endband's stead I can recommend using prefab endbands, which will just be snipped to size and glued to the spine. Might be hard to do on tiny books with fewer signatures but not impossible, and it will look... as fine as a prefab endband can. Otherwise what I've really liked doing are paper endbands. I make these a bit wider than my textblock, so that I can trim them down later after they've been glued.

These are made from taking a strip of paper, applying glue around 15mm down the length, and laying down a piece of the PVA-coated embroidery floss. After a moment, to let the paper soften from the moisture and the core material stick a bit, you just roll it up a few times. Go slowly, as it can be finicky. Set aside to let it dry completely, then glue to your spine, as with the prefab ones. Let that dry, and trim to size carefully with your scissors.

(Imagine the pad of sticky notes is our tiny book lol, it's what I had on hand) Anywho it's that easy! I find these so preferable in part because the rolled up core sits forward and covers the folds of my signatures, where prefab endbands usually don't. A tip--while you're coating your floss in PVA, you can take advantage of any remaining glueyness to roll it between your fingers, to remove any hard edges or unevenness from the thread before it's totally dry, and won't transfer any lumps or bumps to your finished paper endband. Once you've glued and trimmed the paper endband to size, you can reshape it with your fingers to remove the pinched ends from the scissors. @simply-sithel got me onto this process and it changed the game for me. She's been my tiny-book mentor 🙏

Referencing this image again, the book on the right has the paper endband, compared to the left, which has a sewn endband. On a regular book endbands are protective, decorative, and offer some support; on a tiny book they are purely decorative. I like to use the accent paper of my case as the paper for the endband, to bring everything together.

5 - Building the case and casing in

SO! We've made it this far, to what I believe are the easiest steps of this whole thing, building the case and casing in. As with my regular sized books I do these tiny ones in a square back bradel binding method. This construction uses a piece of connecting paper across the spine stiffener and allows you to tailor the case to your textblock's unique shape, rather than fiddling with it's exact measurements.

Instead of making this a square back bradel binding tutorial, I will refer you to DAS's video where I learned it myself. The case construction begins around the 13 minute mark. There are no notable different between using this method between regular sized books and tiny books.

The first things to note in this step are your hinge measurements. Whereas on regular books they may be 9-12mm, depending, on tiny books anything much wider than 8mm is noticeable and not strictly necessary. The full range of motion gained from the hinge measurement isn't as important with tiny books, so I recommend staying within the 6-7-8mm range for the aesthetics.

My other note is that the 2mm overhang measurement surrounding the textblock is still preferable, even on this tiny size. Something in your heart will try to make it nearer to scale, like .5mm or less, but this will result in a tiny book that looks badly made. My recommendation is not to go any narrower than 1mm in your overhang measurement. But also this is purely for appearances' sake and I'm not your mom, and even if I was you're (hopefully) an adult. Go nuts and find out what works best for your tastes!

In my experience you also have a slight bit more freedom selecting your cover materials. I've never gotten full-paper cases to work where regular sized books are concerned, but it's been my preference for tiny books. I have so much decorative scraps of paper that otherwise wouldn't have a home with regular books. This is also a great place to use offcuts of bookcloth as well. No gods so rules!!

Here are some photos of the process of building my tiny case on a tiny textblock following the square back bradel method:

Now comes casing in. This part also couldn't be easier imo. I almost feel like I don't need to even say anything. I've found straight PVA, while having too short a worktime for full sized books, is perfect for casing in tiny books. You're brushing over like 2 square inches of paper?? You're using virtually no glue AND it takes 15 seconds?? I can only get so hard. As standard you should use some kind of moisture barrier between your endpages and your textblock while it dries in whatever your press situation looks like. For me these are sheets of plastic stolen from some plastic envelopes you use for archival work. These stop the moisture from going into your textblock and warping it. Some people have luck with parchment paper, but I am not one of them.

If you're using plain PVA, these babies will totally dry in maybe like, 3 or 4 hours. Take them out after an initial nipping time of like 20 minutes and let them dry open.

6 - BOOK

You've got a tiny book!!!

If you have any questions on something I've covered or didn't cover, please don't hesitate to ask!

#bookbinding #ficbinding

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sgiandubh · 5 months

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A study in media fabrication: the Metro interview

I was on a late, self-prescribed ☕ break at the office and lo and behold, mindlessly scrolling @bat-cat-reader's page, what do I see? S's last 'interview' to Metro UK. Rarely have I seen such a poorly cobbled fabrication, so I thought I might share a couple of quick thoughts about it.

A word about the newspaper, first. This is not, as you might think, a part of the Swedish-owned and worldwide present Metro conglomerate of free commuter tabloids, that usually end up littering the carriage, by the end of the day. Nope, and I had no idea. Metro UK is owned by DMG Media (The Daily Fail people, in other words) since 1999 and uses a different logo, to avoid being sued on what is, in my opinion a blatant trademark infringement (remember, S was the culprit the EUIPO punished for way less than that!). More interestingly, though, the print and web editions have totally different content, which means that you'd look in vain for the James Bondesque pic while commuting from Wimbledon to London, for example. The relevance of this interview is nearing 0, in my humble opinion: if anything, it just served to check a box of the PR's current media plan and justify the retainers a couple of people cashed in, as a result.

Quotes and references like the one below abound:

Now, if you imagine S talked face to face to Ms. Josie Copson for the sake of this article, you couldn't be more wrong. In fact, I doubt he knows her name or (when questioned) even if he ever gave an interview to Metro.co.uk. In plain English, he didn't "tell" Josie anything: PR probably sent her some formulaic 'answers' by email and let her add some fill-in material, then revised and greenlit the whole for release.

How do I know it? Easy: no photos. No specifics (random example: 'seated at the counter of Soho's BAFTA Bar, in London, SRH' this and that). And the almost scrupulous rehashing of the talking points we have already seen (and it did break my heart to see so many upset people for literally nothing, in here). Give or take some last minute inserts, some of which are quite dubious, to he honest.

This one, for example:

How odd. A Zoom call apparently happened, of which - again- we have no evidence at all. It's not impossible, but it is improbable. What is interesting, though, is the 'related' discreet surfing suggestion at the end of the article, which sheds new light on that Gen Z. joke - which yes, now sorta makes sense:

Why? For more (monetized) clicks and traffic. Remember the tiny detail that Metro's business model is based on a free offer. So, they have to make it viable somehow: in print, it's the ads. Online, it's all about the ads and the clicks.

The only interesting thing I could take out of this would be a very peculiar choice of words:

Being spied on... By all means, please clarify and thank you. I can think of one or two people in this fandom, regularly and almost obsessively dueling for the position of best informed in town. Using very different methods, to be sure, but still qualifying for this spying position, in my book. Both of them completely lack perspective and offer very little context, but that is of no particular import, when it's all about feeding your captive audience with nonsense.

If these two people wanted to come clean, they'd only need to write two very simple phrases:

This is a gossip blog exclusively focused on SRH.

and

This is a social media monitoring blog exclusively focused on SRH.

Not gonna happen anytime soon. Cue in the mystique of 'sources' and repeatedly absurd 'lucky strikes'. It certainly makes things way sexier than they really are. Because when you know things, you don't brag about it. Easy as 1, 2, 3.

Oh, and mark me: it's always been about SRH. No wonder the boundaries feel 'blurred'.

#fandom #shitshow

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aspiring-writer-hidden-voice · 7 days

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📦

Pro Hero and single father Eijiro Kirishima raises a brow when coming to a stop in front of the complex where he lived, tilting his head as he adjusts the hold he has on the groceries he’s carrying. There’s a large moving truck with various workers carefully handling belongings and boxes alike into the building. Fresh from patrol he had civilian clothes of an open button up manly-pink shirt to reveal the tight fitting black undershirt and a pair of stylish black cargo pants and boots with red hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. One of his hands was holding tightly to the little one of a small girl of six who eagerly licked the little peach popsicle she’d begged from her big strong daddy to buy. “Looks like someone new is moving in.”

Curious, Aida raises her rose quartz gaze to meet his carmine, the wind playing with the little sundress covered in tiny prints of unicorns and rainbows she wore as she grins. “Maybe a new friend!”

“Maybe,” he chuckles to himself; she definitely got that smile from him. “Or maybe it’s a monster come to gobble up the sweetest little treat that keeps getting into trouble with her teacher.”

“Monsters don’t exist, daddy! Don’t tease me!”

“What? All I’m saying is if you weren’t such a trouble maker maybe an Angel would move in instead of that nightmarish guy with that barking Rottweiler like last year.” He grumbles the last part to himself with an exasperated expression that earns his daughter’s bubbly laugh.

“Or maybe my new mommy is moving in!”

He chokes audibly on his own spit, making his hand holding the several bags of groceries nearly fall from his grasp. “A-Aida!”

With a laugh, she slips free from his other hand and skips a few steps ahead. Her smile wavers and the popsicle falls from her hand in slow motion as she trips on the curb, eyes widening as she reaches for him in hopes he’ll catch her. Eijiro is just a hint too slow, his red gaze catching sight of a car coming too close taking his full attention as he protectively moves forward—

“Whoa, easy there!”

His hand clasps empty air as a stranger appears from around the moving truck, your arms quickly scooping up the little girl to save her from the tumble. The Pro Hero can only watch in shock and mild amusement when his daughter begins to thank you profusely and even offers you the rest of her popsicle. “Thanks for the save, really, I—“ His words are cutoff when your gazes meet, for the first time in his life he felt as if the sky had swallowed him up when your lips rise into a smile so bright it could rival the sun itself.

“That was a close one!” You coo at Aida softly, brushing your fingers beneath her eyes when they threaten to tear up. “Aww, there, there! It’s alright now! See?” The little girl you held breaks into a fit of giggles when you nuzzle her cheek with your nose as a playful smile raises your lips.

Did his heart just skip a beat?

Did that long forgotten warmth suddenly flood his chest?

Did a blush just enter his cheeks when you shoot him a wink as you continue to play with his daughter?

Those hips…breasts…oh, heavens, those thighs…lean calves and arms…that face…your voice… He very much liked what he saw. “Oh, damn it all to hell…” he whispers to himself as he takes in your outfit and appearance.

“No swearing!”

Now the blush becomes one of embarrassment at his daughter’s scolding. “Hey, little gem, I’m the adult not you. I can say whatever I please!”

A laugh sounds from you that instantly earns his sheepish chuckle. “Your daddy is right, but a manly-man like himself should be a little more careful of that mouth of his when such a cutie is around! Gotta set the best example for the pretty little princess, after all!” The tip of your tongue teasingly appears between your smirking lips as you send him a wink.

Eijiro was never one to believe in that whole “love at first sight” nonsense. Even with his first wife, now deceased, there hadn’t been a connection like this. This felt like a wildfire had woken from deep within his veins.

Oh, shit…

He could barely compose himself when you introduced yourself. And when you said what unit you were moving into, revealing that is was the one directly across from theirs. Meaning if he opened his front door and you opened yours, the two of you would be facing one another.

Oh, shit…

“Daddy?” Seeing Aida become worried about her suddenly unresponsive father, you move closer so that her waving hand is closer to his face. Amusement filled you when the little girl promptly shoved the rest of her popsicle between his partially gaping lips. “Daddy! You’re staring at the nice lady!”

You couldn’t resist leaning closer and dipping your voice slightly. “Earth to Red Riot~, your daughter is calling you…”

Now that blush was all over his face and ears, not to mention his neck, when you whisper his hero name in that tone.

Oh, shit on a shingle in the scorching summer sun on a Sunday…

“Daddy, you look like Uncle Denki when he sees a pretty girl.”

He snaps out of his stupor with a full bodied shake, trying to regain his composure and gives a chuckle while quickly eating the popsicle that had been shoved between his lips. “Yeah, I hear her, and she’s about to get a visit from the tickle monster for saying I look like Kaminari!”

You can’t help but laugh as Aida clings to you for protection while begging to be saved when he wiggles the fingers of his free hand. “Oh, no! I must save the princess! Quick! Let’s run away!”

He almost fell into a fit of laughter when you slip her onto your back and start to run away. Never has he seen his daughter warm up to anyone this quickly! And he can’t help but notice how natural this all feels…you holding her so close to you, the smiles on your and her faces, how Aida even nuzzled into your hair when the wind made it tickle her face.

It was as if this moment was straight out of a movie, like a sappy rom-com his previous wife had loved to watch. The memory was heart aching when recalling how things used to be, how the woman who had birthed Aida all those years ago wasn’t here because of the illness which took her life before the little girl had turned two. The breath in his lungs suddenly catches when for a split second, in a sudden gust of wind that caused several fallen cherry blossom petals to swirl in the air around you and Aida, he swore he saw her form appear while resting a hand upon your heads as you continue to play together.

Was this a sign that it was okay for him to find love again?

The apparition turns her attention to him and smiles before it vanishes.

He nearly jumps when something brushes his cheek, his red gaze shifting down to see it’s your hand that’s carefully wiping away the tear slipping down his cheek that he himself hadn’t been aware of. The touch was so soft, light as a feather, and so warm…

“Daddy? What’s wrong?” Aida asks softly, her little hand meeting his other cheek as another tear falls. “It’s okay, daddy, there, there!”

Sympathy fills you when you see the loss in his gaze despite the smile raising his lips. Without a single word, you place her within his arms and collect the groceries he was still carrying so that the two can have a moment, smiling softly to yourself when the two tightly embrace one another. What a cute father-daughter pair they made. Your gaze shifts from them to the moving crew still at work and with a soft smile while placing the bags beside his feet so as not to disturb them, you turn and walk away to continue moving in.

Maybe coming to this side of town was going to be a good change after all.

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melancholicheart · 9 months

Text

All This Time- Chapter 1

cw: trans male pregnancy (mentioned), angst

“Creepin’ Jesus I wish someone told me how expensive this shit is.” A sigh.

“Stop swearing!” A small voice snipes.

“Sorry, love.”

Johnny isn’t wrong though, if someone had told him how expensive kids stuff was, specifically the school uniform and supplies, he might’ve accepted that offer to move back home.

He turns his nose up at the thought, he’s an independent person and he sure as shit doesn’t need his mother breathing down his neck over his parenting techniques.

“Papa look at the baba!”

Johnny follows his daughters gaze to a tiny child in a pram, the small boy grasping at his feet and pulling his socks off.

Johnny chuckles, “You used to be that little, y’know?”

A scoff, “Nae way Pa’, I big!”

“You are now, yeah, but you used to be so tiny. I still have your newborn outfit, the one I took you home in, I’ll show you when we’re home.”

“Don’t believe ya’ Pops.” She says indignantly.

Johnny chuckles. He’ll sure show her!

He pays for the astonishingly priced clothes and shoes for his girl, holding her hand with one hand and the bag of clothes with the other, heading back to the car to go home.

“I wan’ try!” She shrieks when Johnny goes to buckle her in, him taking a step back to let his daughter attempt it herself before securing her into her car seat.

Johnny gets into the front seat, heading towards home when he flicks a gaze at his daughter. She looks troubled.

“Elizabeth, babe, are you okay?” He asks, turning the radio down so he can hear her.

She nods and toys with her fingers, “Yeah Papa- s’just. School’s soon, yeah?”

“Yes, next month, are you nervous?” He asks.

She shakes her head, “I just- I wanted Daddy to come.”

Johnnys heart breaks. No, it crumples into tiny shreds and leaks out of his chest like blood from a bullet wound, “Oh Lizzie, love, I’m sorry. If he could come, I’m positive he would be here.”

She sniffs, “Wanna meet him.”

“I know, I want you to meet him too. Someday soon, darling, okay?”

Elizabeth nods, toying with the belt around her shoulders and leaving the conversation there.

They arrive home soon after.

Johnny carries his daughter inside, slung over his hip as he drags the worlds most expensive shopping inside in his free hand.

Opening the door is a struggle but soon he is inside their small two bed apartment.

He sends Elizabeth upstairs, asking her to take her new clothes and shoes up to her room.

Johnny sits on the couch with a thud, thoughts of Simon whirring around his mind. He eyes his lacklustre apartment, thinking back to the deal he and Simon had made.

‘You always have a place here, Si’

‘And if you move?’

‘I swear to stay here for at least five years, love, so don’t forget about it.’

He massages tension from behind his eyes, groaning in his own pity. Four years have passed, no word from Simon. No word from anyone. For all he knows, Simon could be- he grimaces.

Never did he imagine his love life being so pitiful that he’d still worry for a man he hasn’t seen for four years whilst raising the daughter he has no idea about.

Another groan.

Johnny grabs the box from beneath his coffee table, containing his photo album and a bunch of loose photos, equipment for tacking the pictures in and expensive pens for writing under the photos. Beneath it are all the letters he sent to Simon, envelopes taped back together with big, red ‘Return to Sender’ print on the front.

He flicks it open and stares at the very first photo, his beautiful daughter, the day she was born.

He laboured alone (for sixteen painful hours) before she was finally born (via an emergency c-section, nonetheless) on October 26th at 9:15AM. One of the wonderful nurses he had took photos of him meeting her for the first time.

Johnny hated seeing himself in some of them, his face red and tears streaming down his cheeks, but it was all worth it just to see her.

Elizabeth Ada MacTavish was a curious baby, staring at her Father intently the second she saw him, and immediately her first came down on his bare chest, holding onto him with her screwed fists.

Johnny smiles at the photo, running his finger over it, before flicking to the next page where there’s a photo of him and Simon.

The only photo, in fact, of him and Simon, and beneath it is written: Made it to The Big City! (Manchester)

Johnny chuckles at Simon’s scribble next to the photo and almost jumps out of his skin when there’s a knock at the door.

Living in an apartment means most deliveries are left in his own mailbox downstairs so it isn’t often that the door sounds.

He jumps to his feet and rushes to the door in case it’s his Landlord or the Receptionist out front (her name is Sarah, both their girls are the same age and she lives in the block too, they are quite good friends at this point).

As he swings it open without a care in the world, his previously liquified heart nearly pours out of his mouth with the guest beyond the door.

“Hi Johnny.” Simon Riley says. Maskless, clad in black, and with a loose bandage around his wrist. He has a slope to his posture, be it shame or hurt, Johnny isn’t sure.

What he is sure of though, is the growing sound of footsteps and the thundering of his daughter racing to find her Papa.

Johnny turns to the side, cutting off Simon who was soon to speak again, in an attempt to stop his daughter.

“Elizabeth, sweetheart, wait a sec!” Johnny shouts, louder than intended when a small body careers into his side, brown curly hair bobbing at her shoulders when she crashes into his leg.

She looks at Simon and Simon looks at her. They both look like they’re figuring something out for just a moment before Elizabeth yells:

“Daddy!”

#call of duty #ghostsoap #mw2 #mw2 2022 #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soap and ghost #trans man #trans mpreg #family

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dansedan · 7 months

Text

PWYW EVERYTHING MUST GO STUDIO SALE BECAUSE I LIVE IN A TINY APT AND I DO NOT HAVE SPACE FOR MY WORK

DETAILS TO KEEP IN MIND:

I am based in the USA and shipping costs are going to be based on that location.

measurements are eyeballed for now, sorry :^( They're packed up very precariously and I don't have the info from before because adhd brain

some pieces are stretched, some are unstretched, some are on paper, some are on panel. If you prefer I flat-ship something to you, or do the inverse and ship a painting currently stretched as a roll, let me know.

You will pay for shipping so feel free to make any specification you want about it within reason. I'm going to default to USPS but if you would genuinely pay art shipping prices I'll do my best to do that!

A low offer that you can pay me is better than no offer, I promise. Just don't be a dick about it if you can in fact afford a little more.

Unstretched canvas, roughly 2x3 feet

Blick brand wooden panel, probably 8x10in

recycled wood so fairly hefty. Something like 3x3ft

paper, something like 40x30in (standard poster board size)

bristol board, a little over standard Letter size (maybe A4?)

paper, a little over poster board size. probably 3x4ft?

flat canvas board. Probably also A4 size

bristol board, ~40x30in again

unstretched canvas, ~4x6ft?

If there's any piece of mine you're interested in that's not on this list...

it might be a piece I still want to exhibit

it might be a piece that lives back in Panama (in which case, DM me about it and I can attempt to sort out the more complicated shipping from there anyhow!)

it might be a print and not a painting-- I am working on getting a permanent shop up and running for my prints !

So, HOW do you get your piece of art???

Just DM me here on tumblr, or through my art instagram @DGatenoArtist with the painting you want and how much you want to offer (+ details about where to ship and how)

I'll figure out a shipping estimate for you and send you an invoice document, if you approve of the total price you send in your payment and then I'll ship it out!

#my art #pro wrestling #contemporary art #contemporary painting #support local artists #support small artists #support small business #art shop #artist support #painting

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feyspeaker · 4 months

Note

Picked up two prints! (And a sticker!)

Just so you know, I would legit pay for, like, a collection of your prints in a size somewhere between the mini and 11x14.

Like, I just want to put a *bunch* of them in a binder and just look at it sometimes lol

thank you so so much!!!! ;A; I have considered other sizes, but I live in a tiny place and my printing room is already full of too many sizes of paper/mailers/tubes/etc for what I do offer. I will keep it in mind but the sizes I have now are probably going to be pretty set for now.

About to go off on a tangent, so apologies for hijacking your sweet ask.

honestly this is still so crazy to me, thank you. I have been illustrating for years and years now, but really only found proper footing this year after taking a huge break from commissions and just hammering in what I really want to do with my life.

I've always preferred rendered painting but I felt like the market was so saturated and that I'd never be able to make a living doing it. Many of my older followers will know that for a couple of years I was really on this digital watercolor kick, doing more stylized work. It was extremely grueling despite being faster, bc I forced myself to work entirely on 1 layer with no eraser. It was faster for me to do and felt more "lucrative" as far as timeliness, but I was not very happy doing it, and did a lot of rendered painting studies in my free time, it was basically my "fun time" where I was doing one style for work and a totally different one for private pieces. Literally, I would be painting realistic block of cheese as my downtime.

I was so convinced that stylized stuff was what people wanted, and I have had boxes and boxes of prints I've bought and thrown away because they didn't sell.

Now that I am doing the kind of art my heart wants to do, I am so much happier and completely overwhelmed by how there are actually people who want to art I make for myself on their walls.

This is probably coming off so random but I've been thinking about it a lot, it really is true that you HAVE to paint what makes you happy. If you try to box yourself in to what seems the more "marketable" I promise you are going to be miserable. (Never stop challenging yourself, though. seriously.)

I have never been happier about the art I have created in the last 6 or so years of doing this professionally than I am now that I just said "fuck it, I am tired of painting anime-ish stylized stuff because that's what's in." It's like I've been forcing myself to jam a square block into a circle shaped hole for years. Not to mention that doing line art on literally over a thousand pieces (yes, I've counted, absolutely insane; comic artists please take care of yourselves) for years has well and truly fucked my hand up permanently, I fear.

Other artists, please listen to that little creature in your brain that's telling you it doesn't like painting anime girls or cats or thick chunky line art because that's what you think is popular. If painting nothing but hyperrealistic swords is where you heart is happiest, just do it and stop forcing yourself because I promise there are thousands of people out there who want to see your swords. Just make sure to throw in some jewels or filigree or whatever every once in a while to keep yourself challenged.

Sorry again for hijacking your message, I just am regularly blown away that somehow people actually like my art now that I like it. (Not that my older pieces are regrets btw, I think every single thing you paint no matter the style is worth its figurative weight in gold)

#ask

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ghostlykeyes · 11 months

Note

Hii!! Can I request Aki, Kishibe, and Angel devil with a heavily modified s/o? I have a feeling these guys wouldn’t be intimidated by someone with a little more metal in their face and ink in their skin! It can be whatever piercings or tattoos you want! Feel free to get wild with it!

heavy mods are best for both video games and hot people, god bless

Really long so much of it is under the cut! 🖤

Aki

When it comes to aftercare, Aki isn't squeamish at all. He's completely willing to help you properly care for your new body modifications. He's ever-so-gentle as he dabs ointment on the new out-of-reach tattoo in the center of your back, light and thorough as he swabs your snake-bite piercing. (Yes, he knows you can probably take care of it yourself. Just hush and let him take the excuse to touch your lips.)

Aki loves to trace the lines of your tattoos while the two of you are cuddled up together. It's a soothing ritual--his fingers follow your warmth across the curves of your skin, and his stress and worry starts to melt away a little bit. Whenever you're snuggling on the couch watching a movie or eating dinner close together at the table, his fingers fall into the well-traced path he's mapped by your tattoos. Tracing your ink is often the last thing he does before the both of you drift off to sleep. He pulls you close as the darkness closes in, ghosting his fingers across your skin until your breath evens out and you settle into your dreams.

Whenever you go to get a new piercing or tattoo, Aki comes with. He stands next to you, clasping your hand comfortingly (if the artist doesn't boot him out of the room, of course). Squish his fingers as hard as you need to, if it helps you push through the pain--Aki never complains.

Even though he rarely buys anything, Aki likes to come along while you're shopping for new facial jewelry. He offers honest answers to all your questions: "I don't think I like that lip ring. The color doesn't look quite right." "You should get that industrial bar. It suits you." If you see a pair of standard lobe earrings you like, he'll buy you both a pair and match jewelry with you. (As long as it's nothing embarrassing. On you, the beetles made from rainbow beads look cute and endearing. If he tried to rock them, he'd feel like a clown.

Aki's favorite tattoos of yours are your floral pieces. He's drawn to their delicate beauty, and he thinks it's interesting to see how the natural world can be artistically preserved and interpreted.

When you suggest giving each other stick-n-pokes, Aki's hesitant. He's content with just his earrings, and he really doesn't want to mess up and leave a permanent horrible scribble stamped on your bicep. But when you tell him that you don't mind if it doesn't look the best, and you just want something to remember him by, he softens. He lets you print your name on the inside of his wrist. It's the only tattoo he ever gets. When he's poking yours, though, he doesn't let you see it until he's done. The two of you sit in companionable, comfortable silence while he quietly works the picture into your wrist. As soon as he's done, he gently, bashfully smiles up at you: "Do you like it?" He's tattooed a tiny cigarette with its smoke curling into a heart shape. Of course, you tell him you love it.

Aki keeps one of your stud piercings in his pocket while he's out on patrol. He wouldn't want to lose some of your favorite jewelry, so he picks out some that you wouldn't miss if it somehow fell out of his pocket. It comforts him to have a small piece of you with him, and he fidgets with it whenever his mind wanders back to you while he's working.

Kishibe

Kishibe completely understands the appeal of body modifications. He wanted to get more, himself, but getting an earring torn out in a devil fight put a damper on that. Regardless, he thinks the ones you have are damn sexy and he always hums in approval when you come home rocking a new piercing or some ink. The more the better!

If you want to annoy Kishibe, steal his earrings off the bedside table and wear them. He'll grumble at you that he needs those, since they're the only ones he has. If you really insist, though, he'll huff and let you wear them. Really, he doesn't mind when you wear his jewelry--he thinks it's kind of cute. But he's got a grumpy-hardass reputation to keep up, and he can't let you get away with everything scot-free. You'd rule his life even more than you already do.

If you ask where he got his piercings done, intending on getting a few piercings done there too, Kishibe just laughs. "Well, the one I woke up with after getting blackout one time, and the others I did myself...probably best to stick with your regular shop." Naturally, you can't ignore the fact that Kishibe just admitted to piercing his own ears. If you beg hard enough and give him those adorable puppy eyes that he tries hard (and fails) to be immune to, he'll begrudgingly agree to pierce something for you. He's most comfortable doing your ears, but if you insist on something like your hips or belly button he'll just shrug and tell you to lie down. He grumbles at you to lie still as he swabs the area with rubbing alcohol, but he pushes the sterilized sewing needle through so quickly and smoothly it's hard to believe he isn't a professional. "Don't forget to keep it clean," he tells you, looking his handiwork over. "I'll feel bad if you get it infected."

Kishibe loves the attention that your body modifications draw in public. He loves being seen with a cute young thing like you, holding your hand and being called your 'dear'. Your heavily-tattooed, pierced-up appearance just means that more people are looking at you two, noticing the grizzled devil hunter and his hot ass partner.

For your birthday, or any other special occasions, Kishibe pays for you to get another tattoo. If you ever protest, citing the cost, he just rolls his eyes. "What else do I spend my money on? Booze? Just go get somethin' that you like."

While he like them all, Kishibe's favorite tattoos of yours are the badass ones. Knives, katanas, skulls--if it's a little edgy (but not pretentious, of course) he loves it. He also has a fondness for traditional Japanese work and pinup girls. If you've got a full back of traditional Japanese tattoos, the kind that gets you mistaken for yakuza and frightens old people, consider Kishibe suitably impressed.

Whenever you're making out, Kishibe's tongue automatically finds tongue stud and lip ring decorating your mouth. He pays the jewelry special attention, pulling lightly on it with his teeth. Not enough to hurt, or dislodge anything--just enough to push a shiver down your spine.

Angel

Angel doesn't necessarily understand the process or reasons behind body modification. In his eyes, the pain doesn't line up with the payoff. Why undergo such a grueling process? That doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate the aesthetics of your body modifications, though. He thinks each piercing and every tattoo has its own charm, and you'll often catch him fixating on one of your shoulder tattoos or nose piercings, his eyes following the swirls of ink or shine of metal.

Whenever you go to get a new tattoo or piercing, Angel comes with. He folds himself up in a chair in the corner, knees tucked comfortably to his chest, and rests his chin on his leg. He's intrigued by the way that touch intermingles with pain, and it fascinates him that humans will trust a complete stranger to hurt them if it means they get a new tattoo. He doesn't speak up from his spot in the corner, offers no words of encouragement or comfort--but his soothing presence helps you through the process anyway. If he notices you wince under the needle he'll tilt his head at you and send a kind look your way. And, of course, after every appointment he insists the two of you go out for ice cream. To aid your recovery, of course.

While the two of you are being lazy together, spending the afternoon with his head in your lap (with a thick blanket between you, of course), Angel loves to hear the stories behind your tattoos and piercings. Tell him all about the semicolon stamped on the inside of your wrist, or the shitty stick-n-poke you did yourself on a hot, bored summer afternoon, or about the orbital piercing you got while shit-faced at a house party. No matter the story, big or small, he loves to hear you talk about your body modifications. Knowing the backstory behind each one feels like something so special, so private, so intimate, like he gets to see the full picture of you while everyone else only sees the surface.

Sometimes, Angel picks up your jewelry and plays with it whenever you take it out. He likes to feel the subtle warmth leftover on the metal, transferring slowly into his palms. He can't feel you skin-to-skin, and this is a tiny way for him to at least feel something. He doesn't explain to you his reasoning, but you let him fidget with the jewelry anyway.

When you get a small pair of angel wings tattooed over your heart, and proudly show Angel, he double checks with you that the protective wrap over it is totally secure--then he reaches out and ghosts a hesitant hand just over the wings, so lightly that your angry nerves barely feel it. "So I remember my guardian angel is always watching over me," you tell him, and he smiles at you tenderly. "I like it," he says. He wishes more than anything that he could just lean in and kiss it.

Angel's favorite tattoos of yours are the cute, silly ones. He loves the spaceships, smiley faces, tiny frogs--anything that's fun and lighthearted. If you'd like another, more subtle tribute to him inked in your skin, a soft serve ice cream cone is the perfect choice! He thinks it's adorable.

#chainsaw man/reader #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man #chainsaw man headcanons #aki hayakawa #aki x reader #aki hayakawa x reader #angel/reader #angel x reader #angel devil #kishibe/reader #kishibe x reader

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write-and-buried · 2 years

Text

Celestial Navigation

Part 2 - Waxing Crescent

Summary; You're not going back there because of him. It was just a good cup of coffee... that's all. Warnings; Explicit m!masturbation, Dieter having a filthy, filthy mind. Some drug use (marijuana) A/N; The sheer volume of love and support people have given me and this fic has been overwhelming and delightful and thank you so so so much for everything <3

[Series Masterlist] // [Main Masterlist] [prev] - [next]

It’s sticky. The mercury rising well past ninety, the humidity hovering nearby. Everything feels thick, the air clouded with the misery of angry hot New Yorkers and blaring horns from cars with air conditioning that smells like onions and pollution.

Everyone’s sticking together. Moving masses of stale sweat that cross streets and hide in weak shadows to get away from the angry sun. The park is a symphony of discomfort, no relief to be found in the shade, everyone trapped in the same loop of complaints about the heat, lethargic silences and fanning themselves before starting the cycle again.

On the street you slip through crowds like scaled fish, slipping between sticky bodies as you duck and weave through traffic. Your feet are carrying you without permission, your mind still catching up. It’s just a good cup of coffee. Its just a quiet corner, somewhere free of people desperate for air conditioning and somewhere to hide from the sun.

It’s just the steam rising from a freshly baked muffin. Its crystallised sugar and fresh blueberries. It’s nothing else. You’ve been telling yourself that for the last ten days. It has nothing to do with cinnamon brown eyes and wide palms and a soft touch. It’s not the voice that warps through sweaty dreams and wakes you confused.

Dieter Bravo.

The name tastes like toffee on your tongue. You’ve rolled it through your teeth in meetings, top button undone as the air conditioning struggles and chokes to keep up. Everyone on edge as the first round of layoffs approaches. You think you’re safe. There’s a list of reasons tucked in your journal, right at the back in tiny print. Enough that it can’t be read over your shoulder.

Matthew bungled the spreadsheet. Eileen couldn’t raise her voice in a meeting. Thomas and Simon blew off a client to play golf. You were safe. Not enough for your name to be called upon, not enough to warrant more than another stack of folders on your shared desk, more data to analyse, more dollars to move from column a to column b. The mathematical alchemy you studied as you switch accounts and make your clients richer, as if they’d notice the extra zeroes from their poolside retreat in the Hamptons.

“I am”

It has nothing to do with the feeling creeping up and down your rib cage, tickling the corners of your lungs, slithering under your skin and making a chill seep in that has nothing to do with the weather. It’s not three days of meetings where every management officer forgot your name. It’s reports rotating through for corrections, lazy slashes that put hours of work through the shredder. It’s not hearing your name only when you give it at Starbucks. It’s not your empty apartment, or your silent phone. It’s just a good cup of coffee.

There are more people in here today. Crowded around rusted tables, animated conversation. The lamps are switched off, the only light filtering in from windows you didn’t notice the last time, giving the room an ethereal glow. You scuff your feet as you look behind the counter.

The same spindly barista as last time, tall and twitching limbs, hair piled high on his head as he focuses intently on the gleaming machine. His skin is glowing with sweat as he is obscured by more steam, arms and fingers moving in tandem as you watch him pour a careful swan into a cup, carrying it to a table with a grin.

A pretty woman with long braids is sitting on the counter, half turned towards the barista as she offers customers a card reader, change she digs from the tray beside her, one foot dangling lazily as she drinks green juice from a chipped beer mug. They laugh, half ignoring the line that creeps steadily, customers handing cups and taking them, pastries put into brown bags. The bell over the door groans every thirty seconds.

You wait in line and force your eyes to stay ahead. You don’t want to look for him, don’t want to catch a hint of the soft curls in this romantic lighting. You’re here for a good cup of coffee. There are half a dozen tables free. The place hums with conversation, bees on spring flowers. The rhythmic thump of the woman’s foot against the concrete. You can relax here, brainstorm ideas for the next steps of your plan, hope the brick building had enough reception to google search when you need it.

You rehearse your order when you’re next in line. Black coffee and a muffin, blueberry if they have it, anything else if they don’t. There’s an armchair in the corner that looks like it’s from the Nixon administration. Mustard yellow with faded flowers, squashy and soft. A small end table is next to it, spindle legged and delicate looking. You keep glancing, hopeful that nobody swipes it while the guy in front of you asks questions to the bored looking woman who answers him with a hum.

“Could I please get a black coffee and a blueberry muffin?”

The barista’s eyes shoot up from the intricate artwork he’s pouring. He spills milk across his thumb with a curse, dropping the cup on the counter as he stares at you. You hand over crumpled bills to the woman with a small thank you, the intensity of his gaze making your teeth itch. You’re shuffled away by a mother trying to order, distracting her toddler with a jangling necklace as she orders a triple espresso.

The barista runs the coffee, his eyes sweeping back over to you as you sink into the worn softness of the armchair. You see him grab his phone, pressing it between his shoulder and ear as he grabs a muffin from under the counter. Its on a plate already. You can see the blueberries from your seat. You pull your journal from the bag tucked at your side. There’s a crisp page waiting for you, thought balloons empty and waiting to be filled.

Dieter never answers his phone. It exists because the world insists it does, sitting good as new in a ceramic bowl he made himself, surrounded by lonely Altoids and paperclips he has no use for. He’s pretty sure Molly charges it for him, entering his apartment when he’s asleep, or too high to notice and plugging it in. He finds it in strange places sometimes.

It rings when it needs to. The emergency numbers people call him on blare like foghorns. Molly, Owen, he’s still the emergency contact for a kindred spirit in California. They swapped names post emancipation, gangly teens with nothing to lose and boxes to fill. He sometimes wonders what constitutes an emergency, because he knows there have been some, splashed in bright colours in the magazines his patrons leave behind.

The waiting is the worst. It’s been ten days since he met you. Ten days without the flashbang of your smile to blind him, your voice to deafen him. Washing the hands that touched you felt like a crime.

Molly kicked him out after the armchair. He dragged it three blocks when he saw it. Squashy mustard yellow with wide armrests. He cleaned it himself, shampooing it in the middle of the morning rush, ignoring anyone who asked him what he was doing. He was imagining you spreading your legs over the arms of the chair, of the way he could fit his shoulders between them, the soft crease of your thigh under his teeth. The sweet little whimpers you’d make as he circled your clit with his tongue, how long you’d let him explore you, how much you’d like his fingers digging into your skin.

He was banished to his apartment at the close of business. Owen promised to call when (if) you reappeared. Of course, you would reappear. The thin thread of fate tied you together. It was just how long those golden threads would take to disentangle, to lead you back to him.

He could chase you of course. Owen had found your Instagram within twenty minutes of you leaving. Dieter had lamented how even New York had lost its anonymity while scrolling through photos of your life. There was a plant in the corner of your apartment that needed attention, its leaves turning downward in the background.

But why run towards you when it would only make you run away? Your palm told the story of someone with a plan. You had steps and goals and lofty ambitions and throwing himself in front of the freight train of your determination would do nothing but flatten him against the tracks. Better to wait at the station, you would arrive exactly when you needed to.

He could already see what you would hate in this apartment. The mismatched cutlery would drive you crazy. The keys he threw at random and could never find, the bedding never made, the corners non-existent. He was looking forward to fighting over the details with you, of making up with chocolate covered strawberries and his tongue buried in your cunt.

It was that argument, imagined in his head that brought him here, standing under the cool spray of the shower in the thick heat, stroking his cock languidly as the water dripped from his nose. He was raw, chafed and close to sore from his own rough handling, the brutal strokes with spit on his couch as he fit an orgasm between puffs on a joint. He was tender, scraped dull by squeezing too hard, sensitive from stretching too much.

His cock feels heavy in his hand, hot and thick under his palm as he bit down on his lip and squeezed a reluctant drop of precum over his knuckles. He was half hard almost constantly, everything a reminder of the sweetness of the almost smile you gave him, the softness of your skin. He thinks you might bruise easily. He could mark you, dig his fingers deep into your thighs and bite the flesh until it mottled, part your lips with his thumb and come on your face, press it into your waiting tongue and kiss you, taste the salt and the sweet.

His cock jerked in his grasp, angry and stinging as he soothed himself with gentle squeezes. He had to be patient, waiting for you. It would take longer for you to kiss him, for the crack to erode into a stream, to trickle down and break the dam and fling your arms around him and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. He could barely breathe already.

It’s sharp, the arousal, like shards of glass under his skin. He can’t wait to peel the clothing from you, to press his mouth against the softness of your belly, to take you hard and frantic and fast the first time, so the second time would be sweeter. He wants to cum inside you, bend you over and press your face to his soft mattress and pull out, watch the fluttering clench of your sweet cunt as he drips down your thighs. He wants to lick it off.

Would you be able to take him whole, the first time? Others had trouble in the past, needed a soft touch and lots of build-up, or just the tip squeezed in while he jerked himself to completion. Would he get to watch your lips try and fit around the head of him, or would you prefer kitten licks and long gazes, your tongue flat along the vein on the underside.

He feels his balls draw tight at the image, of you wide eyed and fucked out, mouth open and waiting for him, his fist squeezing cum onto your tongue as you said his name in that voice he hasn’t been able to capture yet. He cums almost dry over his fist, shaking in the tepid water as his toes curl.

You would come back. You had to come back. He had so many things to tell you. Like how he watched the episode of I Love Lucy with Tallulah Bankhead and saw you in the flirty rise of her eyebrow. How he found interviews with Bette Davis and knew you had a tongue as sharp as hers. How much he loved you, how hard he found it to be so far apart – how absence really did make the heart grow fonder.

Owen called him crazy. Dieter had been called worse.

He’s curling his hand around the font of your voice when it rings again, just picking up a paintbrush and realising this colour isn’t right either, there’s not enough warmth in the grey. The blaring horn that makes him think of air raids, though he’s never been through one. He snaps the paintbrush in frustration, letting it fall onto the antique hardwood, seeping another stain into the dark wood.

He snaps it open and waits. Sometimes Owen or Molly are just checking in on him. 72 hours without a sighting was enough to warrant a phone call. By his count it had only been 49. He breathes heavy down the line as he hears the hiss of a steam wand, the buzzing of conversation in the background, the low hum of a business that paid bills he could already afford.

“She’s here”

The crash stops the bustle in its tracks. Something breaks as you hear a loud swear, the rustle of beads as a figure comes crashing through the curtain. It’s him. He looks wild, damp hair curling in all directions, a t shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. The loudest boardshorts you’ve ever seen and mismatched crocs as he stumbles upright, tilting in an overcorrection as he waves his arms, a magician with a magic trick as conversation resumes.

Your eyes flick to the baristas behind the counter. The man is openly laughing, the woman smothering it into her shoulder. There’s a coffee and a muffin at the end of the bench and Dieter grabs it as he makes a beeline towards you, sidestepping the toddler making patterns in sugar on the floor.

“You came back”

“It’s good coffee…” you trail off, pretending to forget his name, as if you haven’t googled him every day since, finding nothing of interest, a blank Instagram, an empty Facebook, placeholders for a digital life. He exists in front of you, not online.

“I know. That’s Owen. He found me a year after I opened this place and started working here, I let him do whatever he wants – except set up social medias and put a sign on the door. He wants to enter competitions as a barista and he’s really into older men”

He’s talking fast, dragging a chair next to you as he sets the coffee and the muffin on the side table. You can smell him, matches and sandalwood, baked apples and caramel. His hair catches the light, you can see flecks of grey.

“Molly, the girl. She used to be a nanny on the Upper East, but they fired her when she got the nose piercing. She takes it out on me by reminding me to eat breakfast every day and doing my drycleaning. I know you’re going to say it’s pretty sad a grown man can’t do his own laundry, but once you get to know me, you’ll understand why and I think you’ll accept it, if not, I’ll ask Mol to set up a service at our place, so you don’t even notice”

“I told you I don’t believe in soul mates”

“I know.” He says, shrugging as he continues to point out regulars, the ones he knows from years of trickling information, what he likes to paint in his apartment upstairs. You drink the coffee and eat the muffin as he talks, a soft sense of calm rushing through you as he talks, soothing the ache in the back of your brain.

“How was your week?”

“Fine”

“Liar” He grins as he looks at you, a sparkle in the cinnamon brown.

“It was fine, it was…”

“Enough to bring you back to a soul mate you don’t believe in, for a cup of coffee and a muffin?”

“No, that’s not… I” You’re flustered by his honesty, by the lack of judgement in his eyes.

“Are you a lawyer?” he asks.

“No, I work in finance”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s just, right now it’s competitive. I’m working for to be hired at the end of the year for a junior position on the team. There are three spots available and a hundred of us working for it”

“Ah” he says, nodding, waiting for you to continue. You can’t help it, telling him about your week, the meetings, the revisions, the hours of work you put into a proposal that ended up in a pile of a hundred others just like it. The layoffs that you’re sure you’re safe for, but not positive, and how that’s led you to lose some sleep. The ex-boyfriend with Instagram photos in the Bahamas, the manicured hand on his shoulder.

“You want to make him jealous?” he interjects, sitting upright and teetering off his chair.

“No, I don’t care” you say, shaking your head. “It’s just annoying on top of everything else. All my life I was told if I worked hard, I’d make it. And I’ve been working hard my whole life, and I don’t think I’ve made it yet”

The sting behind your eyes is a surprise. A burn that you thought you buried as you force them back, frustrated tears don’t have a box to fit in, they aren’t supposed to exist. You’re waiting for the comfort. For the same platitudes you’ve heard every time you’re three gins deep and voice these fears. That you just have to work a little harder, a little longer, that you’ll make it if you just persevere.

“Sounds fucked up. Quit”

It startles a laugh out of you, whipping to look at his scrunched face as he scratches at his beard.

“What?”

“You ever see WarGames? God that was a great movie, Broderick, before he was Bueller. You ever hear the theory about that movie. Not the one about it all being in Cameron’s head, that one’s old hat, but that it’s another Groundhog Day? That the mechanism of his perfect day off had to have been tried and tested and perfected over a long period, that it’s been multiple years of him reliving this same day so why doesn’t he do whatever he wants, why doesn’t he sing in a parade and kiss the girl and free his friend. Even the fourth wall breaks, he’s recalling a memory. Like he was living in a simulation all along…”

“Dieter?”

“Yeah right, sorry. Anyway. The only winning move is not to play. They keep telling you to work harder and more and I thought the idea was that you did that to work less, but from what you’re telling me that doesn’t seem like the case. So, quit. Do something else”

“I don’t want to do something else. I want to do this.”

“Why?”

“I’m good at it”

“I’m good at lots of things, but they aren’t all I do. I did these tattoos, see how straight the lines are? But I don’t run a tattoo parlour. I can make women squirt all over me, but my face isn’t splashed on Pornhub, I can grow weed, but this isn’t a dispensary, I can paint but its not an art gallery.”

“What’s your point?” you’re trying to ignore the middle comment, despite the tingle in your thighs.

“I bet you’re good at lots of things too.”

He smiles at you again, and it warms your insides.

“Ginger, I’m going to write down my phone number, because this has been a heavy conversation and you’re about to try and figure out how to get out of it, so I’m going to get up and go back behind that beaded curtain because that’s where the stairs to my apartment are. I’m going to go upstairs and watch Top Hat on my projector because this has been a marvellous dance and I want to see another. But you’ll think of something that you’re good at and you’ll call me in no less than… three days I think”

He kisses your knuckles before he goes, whistling to himself as he disappears behind the beaded curtain. The hum of conversation in the café comes back in waves, everything returning to focus when you hadn’t realised it had been so blurry. When you look down at your journal, his number is scribbled under the heading Next Steps.

You swallow the smile as you leave.

Dieter watches the ceiling fan whenever he wakes up. The lazy rotation of the blades, painted marigold yellow, match the sunshine as consciousness comes to him. The heatwave has finally broken, a cool breeze brings the smell of turned earth into his bedroom, the doors and windows wide open as the cacophony of street noise dulls in comparison to the steady whump of his fan.

He could lay here for hours, hypnotising himself as the world turns on its axis outside this little bubble, content in the constant spinning of the blades as he watches, the only witness to its reliability. He teases himself in wondering if it still spins when he leaves the room, if the room exists if he’s not in it, if anything exists but the waiting.

His phone blares from his bedside table. A number he doesn’t recognise as he grabs at it, answering and waiting for another telemarketer to ask him to invest in solar panels, as if he had a roof to install them on.

“I can fold a fitted sheet” your voice is tinny, softer on the phone than in person.

“Now we’re getting somewhere” he replies, falling back on his pillows with a grin.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo / you #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fic #dieter fic

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amplifyme · 1 year

Text

MN 1068 - 06

The X-Files. MSR. Season 5. Rated: Teen and up. WC: 1387. Read on AO3.

Tagging @today-in-fic

He’d said as he dropped a kiss on her brow: “I’m gonna grab a shower. My wallet’s on the coffee table if I’m not out before the food gets here.”

He wasn’t. So she answered the door and paid the kid, tipping him more generously than she knew Mulder would’ve. She gathered forks and paper towels and made it through the doorway into the living room before she lost her grip on his wallet. It fell open at her feet, spilling out the bills she’d haphazardly stuffed back into it. She emptied her hands and squatted to retrieve it.

It was the sharp corner, shoved into the folds of money and poking under her fingernail, that drew her attention. "Ouch!" Without thought she pulled the culprit free and held up a piece of yellow legal pad, a little more than two-thirds the size of a business card, and thickly laminated. She flipped it over and read what was there, scrawled diagonally across the printed lines of the paper in what she recognized was Mulder’s hand.

MN 1068 - 06

She was still frowning at it when he stepped out of the bedroom. He was in his usual post-shower state: almost dry and almost dressed. Loose running shorts, a sleeveless tee, and damp porcupine hair; his normal attire for a night in. He noticed the food first, rubbing his hands together in pleasure.

“Excellent. I’m starving! What’ve you got there, Sc -?” His lips clamped shut when he saw what she held, and his eyes darted to hers.

She experienced the briefest moment of embarrassment. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. Besides, there were far fewer secrets between them these days. And if he trusted her enough with his wallet – which he’d done countless times before – then he also trusted her with whatever it contained.

Scully stood and offered him the stiff scrap of paper. “What’s this?” she chirped.

He had to open his mouth twice before he could get a word out. A tiny alarm chimed quietly in a corner of her brain. “It’s… it’s nothing. A keepsake. Nothing.” He took the preserved scrap of paper and his wallet from her and settled into his corner of the couch. He quickly tucked everything back in and laid it in the center of the coffee table. “Let’s eat.”

He would never be a completely open book. She would never be able to adequately plumb the depths of his unending mysteries. And she kind of liked it that way. But Scully knew avoidance when she saw it. Hunger won out over curiosity, though, and she took the offered food from his hand without saying anything. Soon the living room was scented with Garlic Chicken and Moo Shu pork as they ate in comfortable silence. The tank in the corner gurgled away and Mulder’s thumb pulsed on the remote until he settled on a nature documentary. The volume went up a little. They traded containers for a while and then switched back to their originals.

She waited until the smiling, happy, slightly desperate on-air staff of the local public broadcasting station launched into their spiel for funding before she turned to him.

“You don’t want to tell me?”

He looked over at her, scratching behind his ear with one hand, the other with a fork stuck out like a weapon between his fingers. “I did tell you, it’s nothing.” A smile that verged on bashful crossed his face and then was gone in an instant. “It’s stupid. You’ll laugh at me.”

“Mulder, I do that all the time anyway. Sometimes I think you encourage it. You get off on finding new ways to make me break out in incredulous laughter.”

His head bobbed. “True enough,” he conceded. “You know me well, Scully.”

“Maybe not.”

They traded a long look, and she tried not to seem too nosy. The recent addition of sexual intimacy to their relationship didn’t mean they had to share everything, did it? After all, they were still allowed some privacy.

“It’s gonna make you nuts if I don’t tell you, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all.” She shifted her attention back to the TV. “Okay, yes, it is,” she conceded after a minute, chin lifted proudly in defiance. “But then making me nuts is also something you delight in doing.”

“It’s… stupid,” he repeated after a minute, jamming his fork into the Moo Shu Pork and transferring the contents onto a thin pancake. He folded it closed and shoved most of it in his mouth.

She spent another minute trying to look engrossed in the episode of Masterpiece Theater that’d just started. “It’s fine, Mulder” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He swallowed a bite just in time to bark a laugh and tossed the empty tail end of his pancake into the container of pork. “Of course I do. If I hope to have a moment of peace tonight. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well, I could just go home, if that’s the way you feel about it,” she teased.

Not surprisingly, he chose that moment to tackle her and push her flat on the couch. He loomed over her, wearing the shit-eating grin she treasured but would never dare admit to. He levered down enough to give her a long, hoisin flavored kiss and then tucked his nose into the notch of her jaw. “You promise not to laugh?”

There he was, being bashful again. And it was so not like him. Mulder was brash, confident, practically impossible to embarrass. Hesitant occasionally. Even vulnerable sometimes. But he sounded just like a shy twelve-year-old boy. Remember, she admonished herself, that’s who he is, too. Whatever this was, it mattered to him.

She wove her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I promise.”

“It was on the card I found in the filing system at the DOD.” He lifted his head and looked at her with soft, mossy eyes. “Your card, and it was printed in red in the upper right corner. MN 1068 - 06. It corresponded with the vial I found in the basement of the Pentagon. The one containing the chip that saved your life.”

“Mulder, we don’t know that for a fact.”

“I do. You believe in your brand of miracle, and I’ll believe in mine.” He cocked his head and offered a lop-sided smile. “All that matters is that we got one.”

She sat up, pushing back to gain a little bit of distance so she wouldn’t be distracted and miss the rest of his story. Mulder hovered close, his hand sweeping up and down her arm, cupping the curve of her jaw before sliding away.

“I jotted it down as soon as I got back to the Gunmen’s. I didn’t want to take the chance I’d forget. That ID number? It saved your life. So I carry it with me. As a reminder.” He scrubbed his face with both hands before turning back to her. “I wanted to keep the vial,” he chuckled under his breath. “I was going to do something with it, I don’t know. But I never got it back and didn’t think to ask until it was too late. Too much going on at the time. So… now you know.”

He gave her a long look from the corner of his eye and then slowly sank back against her, like a felled tree. She squirmed and shifted until she was on her back again, and gathered him in her arms, nuzzled him like the overgrown puppy he sometimes resembled.

He said, a few tranquil moments later, “Thanks for not laughing at me, Scully.”

“You’re welcome.” She dropped a kiss on the crown of his head and told him matter-of-factly, “I love you, Mulder.”

He wriggled against her and unhurriedly began rooting at her breasts with his glorious nose. His warm, humid breath played against nipples grown suddenly hard with a rush of anticipation and desire.

“Prove it,” he murmured, and gently closed his teeth on the peak of her left breast, dampening the fabric of her shirt and the bra beneath.

She shoved him away and took to her feet, holding out a hand in invitation. Then she led him to his bed and gave him all the proof he’d ever need.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Notes:

I want more than anything to write something angsty enough to rip your heart out. But the muse is demanding fluff lately, something she used to avoid at all costs. Despite any protests I might make, she usually gets her way.

Until next time…

#x-files fanfic #msr #MN1068-06 #mine #random brain dump

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pennamesmith · 1 year

Text

Entanglement

Hordak’s morning alarm trilled the time. He opened his eyes reluctantly and reached for the datapad in the dark. After a few misaimed swings he managed to hit his target and the ringing quieted.

He groaned and squinted at the screen. It was early. Hordak, when he had his druthers, did not like to wake up early. Sleeping in was a luxury he had embraced wholeheartedly in this new time of peace, and Entrapta’s bed was exceptionally comfortable. Also, it was cold outside.

This morning, however, there was somewhere he needed to be. He’d recently started teaching an engineering class at the local college, and his students would notice if he failed to appear. They actually liked him, for some unfathomable reason. Some of them even brought him small offerings, such as a novelty coffee mug with the words I am an educational instructor, what is your magical princess power? printed on it.

He lay still for a few moments, savoring this place in time for as long as possible. Entrapta slept beside him, nestled against his back with one arm wrapped around his middle. Contented snores floated out from somewhere deep inside a nest of covers, pillows, and hair. Her bare skin pressed against his, and they warmed each other. It was like a tiny sanctuary.

When he’d worked up the courage, Hordak carefully slid one leg outside the heavy duvet. Entrapta immediately cleaved closer to him, but did not wake. Steadying himself against the floor, he awkwardly brought his other leg down and tried to slide sideways out of the bed.

Entrapta’s snores hitched and her grip tightened on his chest. Hordak held the small brown hand in his massive, slate-blue claws and kissed it softly, attempting to slide Entrapta’s arm over his head like a tangled safety belt. She made a little whine of protest and her nose scrunched up in a frown, but her eyes remained closed. Hordak inched down the side of the mattress and wound up on his hands and knees on the floor, one edge of the blanket still draped across his shoulder. He stood up, took one step, and immediately fell over with a quiet thud.

Entrapta kept her hair down while she slept, and it sprawled across the bed like a giant purple octopus. One thick rope of it had curled around Hordak’s ankle and yanked him backward. Her snores continued and she burrowed deeper beneath the comforter. Unconsciously, her hair retracted, and slowly began to tow Hordak back into bed. He clawed frantically at the floor, but more strands simply grabbed his wrists and waist. Struggling, he managed to slip one foot free, only to tumble forward and be caught by the grasping locks. The moment he was able to reach one hand out into the air, the other one would be subsumed. Wriggling feebly, he was inexorably hauled beneath the covers.

Entrapta mumbled something in her sleep and turned over. Her hair formed a tight cocoon around herself and Hordak and squeezed them together. She wiggled her hips a little, getting comfortable in his lap, and laced her fingers into his as she pulled his arm close. He could feel her hot, even breaths on his palm. She hummed in her sleep and snored louder. This was, in fact, an astonishingly pleasant position to be in. Hordak wished he could simply remain there. Of course, he could not. He resumed his attempts to escape with considerable regret.

Straining from the effort, Hordak managed to pull one arm free. It flopped around uselessly above his head, drowning in pillows. With a grunt and a limp heave, he propped himself up at an angle and began unwrapping the cords of hair holding him in place. To keep the strands from snagging him again, he ran his fingers through the silky tresses and laid them around Entrapta’s shoulders, tucking her further into bed.

After a few minutes of this Hordak was able to free his torso. He began pulling himself over the edge of the bed, wiggling his legs to get them loose. He slid to the ground like a poorly-coordinated snake and shakily straightened up, tiptoeing toward the door. This time he made it three whole steps before he was yanked off his feet. He kicked uselessly as Entrapta’s hair dragged him back into the warm embrace of the sheets.

Hordak sighed. He really, really didn’t want to get up. If he couldn’t escape this time, he probably wasn’t going to make it. He would have to employ drastic measures. Entrapta was back to spooning him from behind. Using all his strength, Hordak swept aside the covers and stood up, lifting Entrapta with him like a tightly clinging purple backpack. As soon as her skin touched the chill morning air, she yelped and dived back to the mattress. While her hair was busy rearranging the covers, Hordak finally managed to slip away.

He groaned and grumbled through his morning shower. The hot water soothed his joints, and it felt good to wash the bedhead out of his hair, but knowing he couldn’t simply go back to sleep afterward dampened the experience. He toweled off sullenly and flicked the water from his ears. By the time Hordak returned to the bedroom to get dressed, Entrapta was already up and beginning her day as well. Her work as the princess of Dryl was never-ending, but she was the best in the world at it, and everything she did made the world better. It inspired him.

They each went through the familiar notes of their aubade, brushing the other’s hair or fussing over their outfit. He fixed them breakfast and she made a list of things they needed for dinner. They chatted and joked and dawdled before reluctantly parting with soft words and one last kiss.

They went into the world and did their best. The time passed. The work got done. And when the evening came and they both returned home, they hugged each other and delighted in the joy of reunion, which was not the same as never having left.

Hordak stayed up a little later than usual that night. He was close to finishing a particularly engrossing book, and lost track of the time as he sat by a dwindling fire. When he turned the last page and looked up at the clock, he yawned and stretched languidly before shuffling off to bed.

Entrapta was already there, the comforter rising and falling peacefully over the shape of her body. The moment Hordak lifted the blanket, a web of hair shot out and wrapped around him like a net. This time he submitted blissfully to the embrace, relaxing every muscle as he was pulled deep into warmth and comfort. He could feel his partner’s arms and legs hugging his body. She wanted him to be there with her, close by, together.

This was his favorite part of every day. It meant he had the longest amount of time left to simply rest there, in the best place he could possibly imagine. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to quietly drift. Sleep crept up. He was at peace.

He had everything he wanted.

#spop #she ra #hordak #entrapta #entrapdak #fan fiction #pure fluff #smith stuff

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ernmark · 2 years

Text

I was asked privately about the process of publishing a book, but I thought I'd repeat the answer in public in case it's useful for anyone else.

There are two main routes to publishing fiction. Both require that the manuscript be completely finished and polished to a shine before you do anything else, so I'd recommend getting at least three or four beta editors looking at it and getting it as refined as possible.

Route 1: Traditional publishing:

Once the work itself is completely finished, the first (and most important step) is to get yourself an agent. Precious few publishing houses will accept submissions from an unagented writer.

In order to snag an agent, you have to write (and then refine) a query letter and synopsis of your work, and submit it to an agent. Submitting a query is more or less like submitting an application to a potential place of employment, with the hopes that the person will give you an interview, with the hopes that that person will okay you to get a second interview, with the hopes that that person will actually give you the job. Each step weeds out people who aren't quite the right fit for one reason or another.

You can find lists of agents online, but the websites I used while querying were https://www.agentquery.com, querytracker, and I learned a ton reading through the archives at QueryShark.

When submitting to an agent, read each agent's profile carefully. If you submit a genre or vibe that they don't represent, or you don't address the email as instructed, you're disqualifying yourself out of hand. A very small percentage of agents will actually send rejection emails, an even smaller percentage will request a follow-up (a synopsis, the first couple of chapters of your manuscript, etc). Don't get discouraged if it takes a long time. Some agents will offer feedback on your submission. Often this is good advice, but it isn't always, so read it carefully and think on it before doing anything with it.

This is the only part of the process that's actually in your control. From that point forward, your agent will submit your work to publishing houses and negotiate a contract, and they'll guide you from there.

Route 2: Self Publishing

Some books don't work in a traditional market for one reason or another, or their authors just prefer to have more control over the process. Keep in mind, while the bar to entry for self publishing is very low, doing it well can be significantly more difficult and expensive.

Among the things that a self-published author will need to shell out for that a publisher usually pays for:

Editing. An editor to make sure that the quality of the book is up to par. These can be both for content and for line edits, and it's important to check.

Formatting. This is how the text looks on the page, and it's a lot more complicated than you would assume. I actually recommend using draft2digital to do the formatting for your digital files, because otherwise it is a nightmare. For print files, I'm told Scribus is solid free software, but I haven't yet used it myself. But trust me, a badly formatted file is a quick way to turn off readers.

Cover art. You can search cover artists online, or if you have a story that it works for, you can buy premade cover art at places like The Book Cover Designer and. Pay careful attention to how they look as thumbnails-- keep in mind that ebooks are frequently purchased through a phone or tablet, so the cover has to look good when it's tiny as well as in large scale. Another tip: pay close attention to the fonts, too. If a book cover looks slightly off and you can't quite place why, it's probably the font. You can frequently request that a premade cover change the font for free if you don't like it. A bad book cover is also a quick way to turn off potential readers.

Advertising. Yes, absolutely all the advertising is on your shoulders with this one. It takes a lot to figure out what works for you, your skillset, and your book. For me, I've found that I sell best at nerd-centered events like comic conventions and such, because I sell fantasy books. I don't recommend "all genre book events" unless you're selling cozy mystery or romance.

Printing and distribution. I use Ingram for printing, and I use Amazon and Draft2Digital for my digital sales. Draft2Digital allows you to sell to a variety of online markets, Amazon only allows you to sell to its own, but it's the biggest one out there. The latter two are free, while Ingram requires that you pay per file you upload. Ingram is also less user friendly, but I like the quality better, and it allows the books to be purchased by bookstores if somebody makes the request.

ISBNs. Amazon provides its own for free, but you can only use that in limited markets (namely, theirs and a small number of others). Depending on what platform you use to sell, you'll have to purchase an ISBN. DO NOT DO IT BY YOURSELF IF YOU CAN HELP IT. Because the way it's structured (to advantage Big Publishers and disadvantage self-pubbed writers), a single ISBN costs $125, buying 10 at once costs just under $30 each, and buying 100 costs just under $6 each. Yes, it is bullshit. I joined a writing group in my area, and we pooled our money and bought 100 ISBNs in bulk.

I hope that this is helpful to you, and I wish you luck with your writing!

#writing life #publishing

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