#mm... wax paper...?

[birdmenmanga]

dude there is so much plastic waste at cons though... like a lot of the postcards I buy have a plastic sleeve around them... I know that being transparent is good so you can see through it but it just feels like. not eco you know...

[celestial-sphere-press]

Book Decoration: AKA All The Ways I Don't Use a Cricut

(this post is for people who don't want to buy an expensive cutting tool, or for those that do have an expensive cutting tool that would like to mix things up a little)

1. Print That Shit

If you're already printing your own textblocks, an easy step for titles is to print them. Above is a title printed onto an "obi" of decorative paper. I measured out where I wanted things on the finished book and laid it out in Affinity, then printed it on a full sheet & trimmed it down to wrap around the book. A more simple method is to print & glue on the label into a slight indent in the cover (to protect it). A third option is to do the spine in bookcloth, while you print on paper for the cover and then glue that paper onto the boards (this usually looks even better when it is a three-piece bradel bind).

2. Foil Quill / Heat Pens

The heat pen is one of my go-to tools, but it can be a bit touchy about materials. The most popular version is the We R Memory Keepers' Foil Quill (which is one of the most ergonomic), but other pens exist that can get you to a higher heat temp, finer lines, or more consistent foil. For example, I have a pen created by a local Japanese bookbinding studio that fares way better on leathers than the WRMK quill & with a finer tip, but it's hell to control. Best results in general are on paper or smooth bookcloth (starched linen, arrestox, colibri - even duo will work but its less solid). The fuzzier a bookcloth is, the less your foil quill wants to deal with it. This means the heat n bond method of making bookcloth does not play nice with a heat pen usually, but there are two solutions: 1) use this tutorial on paste + acrylic medium coated bookcloth instead that will get you a perfect surface for the heat pen, or 2) use the pen on paper & then glue onto the cloth. I did a video tutorial for both foil quill use and this type of homemade bookcloth for @renegadeguild Binderary in 2023.

You get the most consistent results by tracing through a printed template that is taped in place, as I do in the video above.

3. Paint That Shit

Acrylic paints will do you fine! The above is free-handed with a circle template, because I wanted that vibe. If you need straight lines that won't seep, lay them down with tape first & then paint over it first with a clear Acrylic medium, then your color. Same goes for stencils. Two more examples of painted bookcloth:

4. IT'S GOT LAYERS

By using layers of thinner boards, you can create interesting depths & contrasts on your cover. You can also make cutouts that peep through to the decorative paper behind. The most important part to this technique is the order in which each edge is wrapped. To get a good wrapped inside edge, you will split the turn in into tabs to get them to conform to a curve. You can also layer multiple colors of bookcloth without multiple layers of board, as seen below left, so long as you mind your cut edges for fraying.

5. Inlaid... anything

Mirrors! Marbled paper! I saw someone do a pretty metal bookmark once! The key is creating a little home for it to live in, which is pretty similar to the above layering method. On one layer you cut the shape, & glue that layer onto the bottom solid board before covering. You can do the top layer as an entire 1 mm board (like I did for the mirrors) or a sheet of cardstock, like I would use for inlaid paper.

6. Decorative Paper

Decorative paper is always helpful & adds to the paper hoard... & its effects can be layers with other techniques, as below. Marbles, chiyogami, momi, or prints & maps of all kinds can be great additions. Some papers may need a protective coating (such as wax or a sealer).

7. Stamps (with optional linocut)

While I've not used many more regular rubber stamps, I do know some who have, successfully! And I've used one once or twice with embossing powder (see photo 3 up, the gold anchor on the little pamphlet bind). What also works is to carve your own linocut or stamp, & then use block printing ink to ink it onto your fabric (as i did above). A bit time intensive, but it was nice how easily reproducible it was, and I liked the effect I got for this particular bind.

These methods are not exhaustive, just ones I've used, and there are of course many others. I haven't gone too into detail on any of these for the sake of length (& post photo limits) but feel free to ask about more specifics. Usually I'm using them in combination with other options.

[lascvitae]

TICK-TACK ✵ SOPHIA LAFORTEZA.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. MM, THE MORE I GET TO KNOW YOU

THE MORE I LIKE YOU .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ the last thing you expect is for sophia to come to your family’s surf shop. she can’t surf. she won’t listen. you’re just trying to do your job, but she clearly has other plans.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. richgirl!sophia x surf instructor!reader (no gendered terms) ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff (suggestive if you squint) ᝰ.ᐟ warning(s). none 🙂‍↔️

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 700

ᝰ.ᐟ katty had to give yall smth cute bc i have so many smut requests

masterlist.

THE SUN'S JUST STRETCHING OVER the horizon when you slide the storage shed open, sand already warm beneath your feet. early mornings are your favorite. it’s before the tourists clog the water and you’re alone with peace and quiet. just you, the salt breeze, and the steady rhythm of waves crashing in the distance.

you wax your board with muscle memory, watching the shoreline roll in and out. you’ve got a full schedule today — mostly beginners, mostly foreigners who think they’ll master surfing in one lesson because they did yoga twice. you’ve got patience, though.

you’re flipping through the day’s roster when you hear it. laughter, loud and glittery, cutting through the morning silence. then, the unmistakable click of designer sandals on wooden planks.

you look over.

she’s got long legs and longer hair, dark and somehow untouched by the wind. she’s in a bikini that probably cost more than your entire paycheck for this week, designer sunglasses, and a cover up that flows like she’s modeling for a victoria's secret ad.

you glance back down at your clipboard and one name stands out.

sophia.

no last name. no equipment rented. notes: “never surfed, very excited.”

“hi. i’m here for my surf lesson?” she says with effortless charm.

you nod once, pen tapping the paper. “never surfed before?”

“not even once. but i’ve been told i have incredible balance. pilates, y’know?” she beams.

you don’t, actually. but you gesture to the board propped nearby anyway. “grab that one. we’ll start on the sand.”

she eyes it like it might bite her. “that one?”

“that one.”

you don’t offer to carry it and she doesn’t ask. she manages, barely, dragging it over with a slight pout and some quiet struggles. you wait.

“okay. we’re gonna start with the basics.” you say once she’s kneeling beside it awkwardly.

“i love basics.” she says, flashing you a smile that’s probably made hundreds of people fold.

you kneel beside her and demonstrate hand placement, how to pop up, foot position. she nods slow and serious like she’s listening. she isn’t.

when you ask her to try, she steps onto the board and sticks her ass up like she’s arching her back for someone. you squint at her.

“that’s not what i showed you.”

“it’s what you should’ve shown me. ten times more flattering.” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

you don’t smile, but your eyes linger a little longer than they should before you stand.

“let’s get in the water.”

the ocean is calm which is perfect for beginners. still, she eats it on the first wave. and the second. and the third. she’s not even trying to stand by the fourth, just floating there, kicking lazily like she’s tanning.

you paddle over.

“you’re not standing.”

she tilts her head, looking at you through her wet lashes. “maybe i like the view better down here.”

you raise an eyebrow. “what, the seaweed?”

“no. you.” she says, flashing that smug little grin.

you pause.

then you shift your stance slightly, water coming up at your waist as you lean one forearm onto her board. not flustered, but close enough that her teasing falters for half a second.

“you know, most people at least pretend they want to learn before trying to flirt with their instructor.” you murmur dryly.

her smile widens. “but you’re smiling.”

“am i?”

“mhm. right there. barely. but it’s cute.” she pokes your shoulder.

you hum under your breath and shift back to steady her board.

“alright, flirt later. try to stand now.”

she lets out a dramatic sigh. “fine. but only because you asked nicely.”

“i didn’t.” you deadpan.

she smiles again and props herself up like she’s about to finally try — before looking back at you with a wink. “don’t forget to hold my waist.”

you do.

only to adjust her form.

mostly.

and when she falls again, splashing and laughing, you’re the one who reaches out, palm steady under her elbow.

you realize as she flops dramatically back onto her board that this girl is either going to quit in thirty minutes… or book another lesson just to keep flirting with you.

you’re betting on the latter.

taglist — @saysirhc @m00nqvv @yuyuy90

[auragasmics]

LICK ME LIKE A LOLLIPOP!

𐐪𐑂 ♡ 𐐪𐑂 cw: 1.8k, drabble format, teasing, cunnilingus

Guilty…oh it’s so guilty but you can’t help it.

It’s your favorite movie on the living room television but you really can’t help it.

There, in the corner of your eye is a scene so innocent but a sight so sinful of Toji eating a lollipop. He’s so mindless with it, it’s almost so cute. But what wrings that adorable sense of joy into a dry, thirsty reality is the way his lips lock around the pink bulb, focusing all his attention down to a point.

Or maybe it’s the way your ear tunes into the delightful hums he sings whenever his mouth fills with the sweet confections, all to be washed away by a single ‘gulp’.

Your thighs have never been folded so tightly and your hands have never braced the black decorative pillow until tonight—a movie night at home, per Toji’s suggestion.

How could he sit there—a man such as he suckling on that confections knob of sugar without a care.

“Um…Toji, I thought you didn’t like sugary candy?”

Before paying you a glance, he pried the pink lollipop from his jaw, leaving nothing but the glimmering wisps of spit to drip from his lips.

“I grabbed it from the bank today and forgot it was in my pocket. Used to love them when I was younger. Why…you want some?”

“No, I don’t think sharing lollipops are—”

“Aww, why not? You can just pretend it’s my d—”

“Okay! T-Thank you, Toji. I’ll have a taste then,” you sigh, leaning towards his beckoning side.

His chiseled arm laced around your shoulder, his hand bracing along its curve. The tips of his fingers softly traced along your pried jaw. His own sights bounced between the unfolding scene of your big, fluttering doe eyes calling out to meet his gaze and the sinking of the sweetened orb finally resting along the flat of your tongue.

A wicked grin cracked along Toji’s lips, hiding his pleased whims against the curve of your ear.

“That’s my good girl. You look so pretty using your tongue fr’ me.”

“Toji!” The squealing shout bringing his grin to a full-hearted smile. Toji could simply react, his arms encircling you in an embrace and his cheek smothered against your own.

“Oh I’m sorry Princess, just got a flashback in my head. I’ll behave like I promised.”

Shamefully, you nodded to his words as you gave into his warmth.

“Mm…my turn!” Toji chimed as he pinched the lollipop stick between two fingers.

Your eyes watched as he tugged the candy from your lips and back into his own, the tip of his tongue swirling about the polished sweet.

Seconds turned into minutes and those very minutes turned into the passing scenes of the movie on the screen. Toji earned your attention far quicker than the film, a fact that he could no longer ignore.

“Alright, you’ve been watching me more than the movie—and it’s your favorite…what’s up, Dollface?” Toji finally interjected. Toji’s full attention was placed onto you, that damned lollipop standing within his thick digits.

Widened eyes and a parting gap filled your lips as you stumbled upon some words to fill the silence.

“I…don’t know…what to say…I just…want some.”

“If you wanted some more, you could’ve asked. Here—”

You caught Toji’s wrist as he returned the lollipop to your lips, the sticky bulb pecking against your lips.

“I don’t want that right now. I just…since when did you eat candy like that?”

The arch in his brow spoke more for Toji than what his fumbling words could. He returned the lollipop back into the wrapper sitting on the glass coffee table, folding what’s left between the colorful wax paper. With his attention clear, Toji brought his full visage to you with a newly placed smirk.

“Huh? I’m just…I see what’s goin’ on here.”

“Hm? What’s going on—”

Before you could even finish your words, Toji was already ways ahead of you. With just a blink of an eye, he had your back pressed and arching against the arm of his couch and your chest smothered along the thick hull of his own.

It was one thing to be beneath Toji at his own whim, but bearing the heft of the accompanying stare was nothing short of stupefying. It comes without a call for regard, but yet you can’t help but forfeit your attention to him and him alone.

All his fascinations about you—the wants and desires crowd about the darkening blue hues of his eyes and consume his whole being. He’s even eager enough to close the distance that much more, pitting the very thumps of his heart to fade along your enveloped chest.

All that stains the thick air is the staggering breaths clogging the lungs of you and Toji alike, growing until his confidence reaches the peak to finally speak.

“You don’t have a problem with me eating this candy—hell, you don’t even care about any of that. You’ve got that look in your eye that I love.”

“And what look might that be?”

And of course, you didn’t need Toji to tell you—you already knew. It’s that look when stubbornness and determination form the thinnest of silver lines, careful not to cross each other’s boundaries. When your eyes peer up to meet his own, your pupils grow to encapsulate to contain all that tension down to a single point.

The look of desire.

And of course Toji knows that look all too well—he fell for it the very night you met and put a ring on your finger under a year later. It’s because the second you pass those eyes his way, he can’t help but give in to you.

“The look of you wanting something. Y’know what I like to say—Whatever my pretty girl wants, she gets. So…what do you want, Princess?”

The weathered palm of his hands brace at your waist, the pads rubbing at the supple skin as he makes a path to slot himself between your thighs.

Toji’s glare flickered, the tips of his fingers drifting along the lacy triangle front of your panties as your voice lovely warbles out some facade.

“Hm? You know I hate mumbling, Sweetheart. But I think I heard you want some attention, right?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Toji shot a stifling glare back towards you, “So then what did you say?”

A silence fell over you as you searched for the unnecessary words. Nothing more had to be said at this point, except for the couch’s springs aching out as it bared the shifting weight of your lifted hips for Toji’s subtle tug at your intertwined pair of black shorts and blush pink panties. Your eyes followed his movements, the slow pull of clothing down your legs and to being tossed out into the dark oblivion of the living room.

Toji’s cheek sank along your thigh as he waited for a response, his hands taking hold of the supple plush to trap you in his hold. “Exactly, you don’t need to say or think of anything, Princess. Just let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

The soft curve of Toji’s pout is the gentlest of sensations to pool at your navel and pull the mellowest of gasps from your lips. Just a kiss, a luscious one that’s carefully met by the timid bud of your clit.

But he’s only this kind with you for a single minute. And in that single minute, he’s peppering those sweet kisses everywhere as nothing as a courtesy—an introduction, really. The moment sixty seconds pass, his courteous nature sheds away.

Why, once Toji makes the mistake of absorbing the poor, pink bulb between his lips…he’s a man lost to lust. He can’t help but to induce a suckling tug along your clit, relishing the swelling throbs to strum within his mouth. Just to spite you, Toji lets the bundle of nerves greet the frigid air for a second as he takes a moment to observe the mess he’s made of you.

The tips of his fingers wander from the crease of your thigh to graze at the sopping slit of your pussy, begging for attention.

“Mm, n-no hands, Toji. Just keep doin that, please?” You broke out carefully.

He shot you a glare, a particular one at that—a leering gaze, one riddle with spite.

“I gotcha, no hands tonight.”

His words didn’t settle the worry brewing at your core. He’s agreed but knowing Toji, your terms would work out in his favor.

Yet, your thoughts ran dry the moment Toji pressed his cheek back along your inner thigh. Just by the swirl of his tongue, he’s pulled you back down into ecstasy with a breathy moan.

His tongue’s been waiting all the same to taste you, making no haste to delve between your folds at last. As eager as Toji is, he’s sure to catch every drop of your essence, allowing your honeyed pussy to meld into his senses.

When he’s ready to start all over, he lets his jaw come to a slow close as he drags the flat of his tongue from your hole back up to the puffy hood. He’s even keeping his eyes glued above, ensuring that you’re watching just how lazily he reels your twitching clit back into his care.

“Fuck…I wanna touch you s’ bad,” Toji whimpers out as he pulls away for a breath. The pads of his thumb drag along the puffy lips of your pussy, his touching lingering just beside the glossy bulb. “But if my lady says no hands…”

“N-No, you can use your hands now, Toji…please,” you whine, flashing a weak yet coaxing smile towards him.

Yet your pleas fall on deaf ears as Toji returns to his ministrations. He really had no intention of touching you—just like you instructed. It didn’t help that his eyes remained pinned with yours, those blue hues mocking your growing misery. But you truly couldn’t take it, that knot in your belly reaching desperate heights.

In the corner of his eye, Toji’s catching the rarest of phenomenons: your legs trembling in his care. It’s something he knows you try to control out of some temperance, but tonight must be his lucky night.

“If you keep moving like that, I can’t focus on you, Pretty,” he hums, pulling away from your folds with a lewd ‘pop’.

“Then I guess you’ll have to touch me, right?”

“But it’s more fun if I don’t. I mean, this is what you wanted. Got all jealous ‘nd needy over a piece of candy and now you can’t take it…tsk-tsk-tsk, that’s not like you, Baby,” his words marked by a greedy grin.

All that could chime from your blubbering lips were whimpers, the ones that made Toji smile the most. Your hands came to brace the fabric of the couch’s armrest as Toji drove back between your legs, his grip on your thighs stilling your restlessness.

And that’s all Toji did, just lick you like a lollipop.

[plor-bindery]

Bound: Long Haul by @wolfpants

As a writer, I often am fondest of my shorter stories, but these fics are not the obvious choice for binding because they're so little. I actually started setting this story a while ago but put the typeset aside when I realized it was going to be such a low page count.

But more recently, I have been experimenting with a pamphlet bind to see if short stories and/or text blocks can be bound to my satisfaction, and yep! They can!

I love this short story by wolfpants and I have read it often enough that it deserved to be bound and put in my library. The story contains lovely delicious smut and (as you'd expect from wolf) excellent character-building, dialogue, and just exactly the right amount of realism. Wolf writes true adult characters and I adore this about their writing.

More about process and materials under the cut!

Materials: This is a quarto letter pamphlet bind using letter-sized 24# paper. The end papers are chiyogami acquired in Montreal. Book boards are actually cut from matte board that came in some packet of supplies or another, about 1 mm thickness and quite a bit bendier than my usual 2 mm book board, but worked nicely and feels appropriate for this little baby.

Book cloth is wooqu off Amazon as per. I sewed the pamphlet using three strands of waxed embroidery floss. Spine is strengthened with mull and a little strip of the same paper as the text block. Cover decoration is HTV vinyl. A few titles are foiled with toner-activated foil and a laminator. (Big shout-out to @sits-bound for technical assistance with figuring out that process!)

Process: This is a sewn 64-page/16 sheet quarto. I followed DAS Bookbinding's YouTube video here pretty closely except (as you can see) I went for a full cloth bind. I also added the paper layer on the spine before wrapping in cloth. I did this because I found mull alone — at least my cheap-ass mull — was not making for a smooth spine. The paper was a huge help on this front.

This is actually my third attempt at this style of binding (not counting the versions I did in class under adult supervision) so please do not be too impressed, lol.

The whole thing is held together by 50/50 corn starch/PVA mix (as well as the thread.)

I trimmed the tail twice by accident so then I had to trim the head twice too, and so that's why my margins are slender. :D

The HTV decoration was designed by yours truly (if you look at it for very long you'll be like "oh yeah I can see that" ahahaha) but I was really pleased with how it came out. I think I'm FINALLY finding my successful approaches for applying HTV. And yes, it was a monumental pain in my ass to weed. Worth it!

Peep the grease mark on the front title page. Sexy. No idea where it's from but yowza.

Bind short fic! Short fic also deserves binding! *steps off soapbox*

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Redwood Psychiatric Institute - Part 6

MASTERLIST - PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4 - PART 5

CWs: THIS IS A HEAVY ONE PLEASE READ THESE AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION - medical gaslighting, ECT mentions, disordered eating, forced NG tube (nasogastric) intubation, description of forced intubation, IV cannula, forced drugging

"I know you're lying to me." James ground out.

"James, you are ill. You are schizophrenic, and you have trouble telling reality from hallucination. I am your doctor, and I know what is best for you. And right now, what's best is for you to continue your treatments here."

"No, no, none of this is can be real, I'm - my name isn't James, it's- it's-" James stuttered. His hand trembled in the straight jacket he had been restrained in. "Why, why can't I remember?" His unruly dark hair obscured his wide eyes, pupils dilated from the medications.

"You're making things worse for yourself, James. Take a deep breath, and take some more medications. It'll make you feel much better." Doctor Wilson held out a wax paper cup filled with pills.

James shook his head as he backed into the padded wall of his room. "No, get them away from me. AWAY!" He began to scream, and realising he was trapped there rendered his flight instinct inert, he began to rock back and forth on his heels in a desperate attempt to soothe himself.

"James. Calm down. You are being dramatic. You need to take a deep breath."

James began to attempt to tear himself free from the straight jacket to no avail, letting out a frustrated animalistic cry.

"Why-"

"You can take a nice long nap and calm down." Doctor Wilson put the cup down, realising James wasn't going to let himself be soothed easily. The doctor instead pulled a hypodermic syringe out, and the boy began to scream.

"Can I have some assistance?" He called to the orderlies standing outside the cell. They rushed in, effortlessly pinning James to the floor. The orderlies pulled James' pants down to allow the Doctor access to his patient's bottom. Doctor Wilson swiftly jabbed the hypodermic into the muscle, earning him an indignant cry.

"No.. no.." James stuttered, as they pulled away from him. He attempted to pull himself to his feet, but tripped over himself, the drug already leaving him unsteady and out of it.

"Sh, my boy." Doctor Wilson soothed, helping his patient onto the bed. "You can rest now."

James eyelids, with his pupils blown wide, slowly drifted shut as he slumped over on the bed.

----

When James awoke, he decided to make a plan. He didn't trust Doctor Wilson anymore. There were gaps in his memory, and things that just didn't make sense.

And he was sure that his name wasn't really James - but what was it then?

He started by figuring out how to stop his meds. The nurses would check that he had taken them. He started crushing one or two in the side of his jaw, and swallowing the rest. The crushed pills were small enough that they weren't super noticeable, and as long as the nurses didn't see whole pills leftover. Once they left, he'd spit out the crushed tablets. Eliminating one or two of the medications certainly help to clear up his fatigue and drowsiness, but he had other symptoms instead - headaches, fevers, sore eyes. He just had to deal with it. He needed to stop the medication more.

Then, he stopped eating. Just in case the food was also drugged. But he also did it as a protest. He wanted to show Doctor Wilson that he was still in control. It started with a sausage here, some oatmeal there. He would just cut down gradually, and one one would notice until it was too late.

----

"For the last time James, eat up." The orderly, Dan, sighed as the boy pushed his tray away from him.

"'Mm not hungry." James muttered.

"You're being stubborn. You haven't eaten in 4 days. Eat up, or I'll have no choice but to call Doctor Wilson."

James didn't look up. "Don't care."

"Fine. I give up." The orderly picked up the walkie talkie hanging from his white scrubs. "Doctor Wilson, James is refusing to eat again and he's refusing meds."

"Take him to Treatment Room 2. I'll meet you there." The Doctor commanded.

The burly orderly bent down and scooped up James in one arm.

"Dan, please, please don't do this!" James began to sob.

He screamed and kicked, but he was a fairly scrawny young man, and with the lack of food, he was no match for the orderly, who dragged him down the hall with ease.

"Here." The orderly tapped his keycard on the door reader, and pushed the door open, revealing an exam table reminiscent of a dentist's chair. He place James onto the table, and began to strap him using the standard medical restraints, straps at his forehead, wrists, chest, hips, legs and ankles.

"Let me go!!" James screamed, fighting against the restraints with all the strength he had left. "You can't do this!!"

"I'm sorry buddy. It's for your own good." The orderly patted his forehead.

Doctor Wilson stepped into the room and locked eyes with James. Dan immediately backed away, planting himself in the corner of the room.

To the doctor, Jamess looked absolutely feral, his eyes red raw from crying and sleep deprivation, his hair greasy and unkempt, and his frame thin and wiry.

"Oh James, I was so hoping it wouldn't come to this." Doctor Wilson tutted, as he walked up the exam chair. He tilted James' chin, examining the boy's face closer. "You're sneaking off your meds, too." He said - a statement, not a question. "You had been doing so well.. All that progress we've achieved. Gone."

Doctor Wilson sighed, then nodded to the orderly, who began to set up a cart with medical tools and devices. Both men snapped on nitrile gloves and then pulled on medical masks.

"What are you doing?" James asked in a high-pitched tone, clearly frightened.

"Getting you back to health, my boy." Doctor Wilson smiled sadly behind the mask. "Clearly you can't be trusted to do the right thing for yourself."

Dan unpackaged a sterile butterfly needle, which he passed to the Doctor. The orderly wiped down James' elbow with an alcohol wipe, then tied a rubber band above the area. Doctor Wilson brought the needle to James' vein, and the boy whimpered.

"Relax James, you're in good hands." Doctor Wilson hushed, before sliding the needle into the vein.

It smarted, and James winced, looking away as a drop of blood bubbled up from the wound. The Doctor removed the needle and replaced it with tubing, setting up an IV which he hooked to a bag of solution on a stand. James looked to the bag as the solution began to drip through the tubing into his vein.

"What's in there?" He asked weakly.

The Doctor ignored him, and instead began to pull more tubing out from packaging. He held it up and measured it in front of James' face, who squirmed uncomfortably against the strap across his forehead. The Doctor then covered the tip in some kind of gel, held the tube under James' left nostril, and before he could react, the tube was being shoved up his nostril.

Shocked, James began to try to wrest his head away, but the restraints held tight, even as the tube slid further and further up his nose, down the back of his throat, and further, further down. James couldn't help but cough and gag on the tubing, the foreign sensation awfully unwelcome in his system. Even when he thought it couldn't possibly go any further, it did. Finally, finally, it was over. He drew in choked, panicked breaths through his mouth as his body was wracked with silent gasping sobs.

"All done." Doctor Wilson said, his voice void of any care or emotion for his patient. The orderly stepped up and helped the doctor tape the other end of the tube against James' cheek, then attached the tubing to a container sitting on the IV pole, which was filled with an odd liquid. Before long, the liquid began to trickle through the tube and down his nostril. He shuddered at the horrible sensation of the cold liquid sliding down the tube, straight into his stomach.

Doctor Wilson then adjusted the settings on the IV. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."

The Doctor left. Dan stayed for a moment, making sure the Doctor was out of sight before he bent down to whisper in James' ear. "I'm sorry it had to come to that. But you left me with no choice.." He wiped a tear from James' cheek. "Get your rest while you can."

Dan stood, and with a sad sigh, shut the door behind him as he left the room.

----

James was left in silence. He stared up at the cieling, the odd tear slipping down his cheek, James felt his head becoming cloudy. His limbs felt light, as though they weren't tethered to his body anymore. He was floating. His eyelids however, were heavy as lead. The longer he stared, the harder it was to stay awake, and before long, his consciousness faded and he slipped into darkness.

"How are you feeling, James?"Doctor Wilson greeted as he stepped into the room.

James lifted his head slowly to look up. His limbs felt less sluggish than they had several days ago, but the feeding tube had begun to disperse the liquid down his throat and his stomach churned at the uncomfortable sensation. James mumbled incoherently, a single tear slid down his cheek.

Doctor Wilson ran a hand through James's hair, sighing softly. "Oh, James. This is what happens when you don't behave. We are doing what is best for you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be for you."

----

James sat in Doctor Wilson's office, his eyes spaced out and staring distantly into the wall.

"James." Everything was fuzzy, blurry. His head pounded. And something was slipping down his chin. Was that-

"Wipe that off his face, please."

An orderly bent into his face, and wiped his chin, then stood up. James didn't even twitch.

"James. Are you with us?"

"Huh?" James finally responded, though there was no physical response.

"You're feeling better, aren't you? No delusions?" Doctor Wilson asked.

Taglist:

"Iambetter..." James slurred.

"Good."

------

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[the-kr8tor]

Where the River Flows

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 7.4k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW food mentions, TW Blood and violence, TW death, CW injury, CW guns, CW alcohol. Old west AU, cowboy AU

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 4 >>> CHAPTER 5

You haven't slept this well in years, the last time you had was back when you've last slept next to him on the same lumpy mattress of his flat that you've once called home. Your eyes blink awake, cheek pressed against a pillow, it's soft, so soft that for a second you thought it was Hobie's arm. You stare at the ceiling, a carved magnolia tree stares back. Its branches are full of blossoms, perfectly carved just like the illustrations in your books. It's so vivid that you could practically see its pinkish hue. It's weird, you think, the carving, when the rest of the room is sparsely decorated; filled with drab oak, and cheap lamps. The room smells old, lived in by hundreds of travelers before you.

A creak echoes out at the far end of the bed, prompting you to look upon Hobie's bareback. Healed bullet wounds litter all over his flesh that you once held on. Raised scars dotted along his lower back like stars, stars that were once drenched in ruby. You wonder if it still hurts, the stars, like how the hole he left in your heart five years ago. You hope it doesn't hurt as much for him, you'll never wish agony upon him; even if a part of you thinks he deserves it.

Maybe you should tell him, tell him what agony has befallen you since he left. The pile of letters sewn into your skirt remains to be read by his viridescent eyes; its wax seal remains closed, the words of longing and hate are still scribbled upon the yellowed paper.

Your eyes dart along the expanse of his skin, frown getting deeper and deeper with every new scar you find. Hobie puts on his shirt, buttoning each one, the cloth hiding his own misfortune from your weary eyes.

“You talk in your sleep.” He finally breaks his silence. Looking over his shoulder, he regrets it immediately. The simple sight of your bed head and puffy eyes brings back memories of when you'd wake up next to him.

“I know,” I've been told. You grunt as you lift yourself off the pillow, elbow propping you whilst you watch him put on his cowboy boots and clinking spurs.

He blinks, hand pausing along the buckles. “It's new, you've never done that before.”

“Just like you said, a lot of things can change in five years.” Sitting up, you place your chin atop your knees, legs tucked under the covers, arms holding your legs in place. “What was I saying? In my sleep, I mean.”

“You were mumbling…” my name, he sighs at the thought of telling you the truth. “Someone's name I think, and egg soup for some reason.”

“I'm hungry.” You ignore whose name you might've been saying in your sleep. And you think it's not his.

“We need new clothes first, people must've gotten our descriptions by now. So we need to change.” Hobie puts on his leather vest, the metals of it clinking against one another. Then the hat comes after, he stands up, walking towards his gun belt.

“Okay, breakfast after?” You fight a yawn, palms rubbing harshly on your eyelids.

“Yes, breakfast after.” He secures his belt on his hip, silver guns shining in the early morning sun. “I don't think they have egg soup though.”

You crack a small smile. “It doesn't matter, anything will do.”

“The saloon has pumpkin soup I think, does that sound good?” Hobie has no idea why he's prolonging the conversation about soup out of all the things he could discuss with you.

You nod, staring at him through fond eyes. “Mm-hmm, sounds good.”

“Good, we need something warm to eat.” He realizes that he's been standing awkwardly at the doorway. Clearing his throat, you fight a smile. “Get dressed.” With the door shutting close behind him, he slaps his cheeks to wake himself. He needs coffee, or something stronger for that matter.

Meanwhile, you watch the space he just left with hope in your heart.

—

The dress shop smells nicer than the inn, it's elegant, looking like it doesn't belong in the middle of the dingy town. Every pile of clothing is neatly folded over the other, different outfits are displayed over the windows and display cases. Both leather and cotton are the most prominent ones, but there are a few chiffon dresses, lace and silks placed alongside the rougher fabrics. They're all wonderfully made, each having their own brand of beauty in every stitch.

You watch yourself in the floor length mirror. Dark trousers instead of a skirt hangs around your waist. A nice crisp white dress shirt on your torso fits perfectly on you thanks to the friendly tailor.

“You need a vest, or you'll get cold during your travels.” She taps your shoulder, genuinely smiling at you through the mirror. “Are you sure you don't want to wear a corset and skirt? You'd look just as marvellous.” Her eyes shine just like the dainty rings around her fingers.

“I'm sure, skirts and corsets are an inconvenience.”

“Well, you've given me a proper challenge then. But is it a challenge if everything looks good on you?” Her long dark hair sways behind her as she peruses her own shop, dozens of embroidered cloth folded neatly on tables.

“You're good,” you watch her sashay along her shop, colourful vests piled on her arm. “Just as good as the tailors back at home.”

Yuri, you learned her name just a few minutes ago, returns to you with her arm full of vests. “‘Just as good?’ oh sweetheart, I'm better.” She grins mischievously at you, red lips curled into a smug smile. Yuri would be friends with Hobie, you think, maybe in another life. “Arms up, my darling.” She holds up numerous different vests upon your body until she settles for a royal blue leather vest that has hydrangeas embroidered on it. “This is it!” Gasping excitedly, you let her help put the vest on. “Fucking beautiful! If I was your husband I'd be jumping your bones.” Grasping your shoulders, she places her chin atop it, smiling at you.

Your heart thumps loudly at the word ‘husband.’ “Thank you, Yuri.” You fiddle with the empty gun belt around your hips.

“Now for a coat or a jacket befitting a glorious woman like yourself.” She winks, twisting around in search of another dozen or so outerwear in her stock.

“Oh I think this is enough.” You don't want to use up all of Hobie's money, especially when he's still in the dressing room, none the wiser.

Yuri turns towards you abruptly, hand on her chest, feigning hurt. “Enough? Do you like prancing around town in your birthday suit?”

“No—”

“Then you shall have a jacket. The best one I've got.”

You bite your lip, a nervous tick of yours that Hobie once pointed out after kissing it off you. “I just don't want to spend too much.”

“You mean you don't want him to spend too much?” Yuri saunters over to you, boots clacking on the worn out floorboards. “What are husbands good for if not for spending their money for your own gain, hmm?” There it is again, your heart thundering loudly inside your chest. “Besides, you'd look marvelous in this coat. I'll give you a discount because you're the nicest customer I've had in years.” She leans closer to you, draping the leather coat on your shoulders for you to see. You beam at her, thankful. “It's similar to the one I gave to him, you'd be matching. Well, except this one is in a lighter shade.”

The coat reaches down to your knees, cream coloured with little fringes up front right where the front pockets are. It's beautiful with its white threads weaving around its seams. If you look closer at the bottom, you see that it gets darker as it gets closer to the hem. An almost brown shade that reminds you of the oak tree back home.

You inhale, staring at your reflection that you barely recognize in the new clothes. “Do you think it suits me?” Your voice is small, Yuri watches your expression, understanding what you truly meant.

Her playful voice lowers to a softer one, hands rubbing along your arms comfortably. “Of course, sweetheart. You're more than ready for the badlands.” You smile at her, nodding along to her encouraging words.

She twirls you around to face her, you chuckle at the sudden good hearted movement. “Now, my favourite part, the boots!”

—

You pick lint off the armchair while you wait for him to exit out of the dressing room. You're comfortable in your new clothes, it snuggles you cozily, you've never felt like this in any clothing at all; whether it be silk or velvet, all the dresses back home don't compare to what you have on. You look at your dark cowboy boots once again with a faint smile, its gorgeous spider web-like design has your heart bouncing in glee. It's a stark contrast to the threadbare shoes you had on. You make the shiny spurs clink on the floor, chuckling to yourself.

“Careful, don't scruff my floors.” Yuri appears next to you, handing you a small messenger bag.

“What's this?”

“A bag, every woman needs one to store her belongings.” She gestures towards the worn out skirt on your lap. “Especially the important ones.”

“I—”

“It's on the house, just this one though.” She chuckles before handing it to you.

“Thank you, Yuri. That's awfully kind of you.” The leather is rough against your bare hands.

“No worries, darling.” She shrugs, “after all the things you've bought it's only normal that I'd give you a little freebie.”

A door suddenly creaks open, and out comes Hobie in his new outfit. A light airy dress shirt fits perfectly on his torso, the same black bandana still hangs around his neck, hiding the large scar. He fixes the fit of his dark blue vest even though it clearly doesn't need fixing. It has a typical western embroidery on it, saved for the almost invisible peonies dotted along the buttons. His gloves are the same, lighter around the palms where friction is usually present. You flick your eyes over to his coat, Yuri's right, it's almost the same as yours. The length is shorter to accommodate for the warmer weather coming in. The shade is in this mahogany brown, warm in the eyes, a hue lighter around the hem, almost as light as your own coat. Frills are lined around the arms, the silver spikes placed atop the shoulders makes it more unique. His belt buckle this time is different, a spider trapped in amber in place of the deadly scorpion. It's cradled in silver, laurels weaving around the corpse of the spider like an elegant coffin.

Your eyes shine at his handsome appearance. “My, don't you look dapper.” You drink him up, every new thing satisfying your need. Roaming your eyes downward, you tilt your head at the odd material on his legs. His boots are the same, even the spurs, but you can't quite place the new fangled blue thing around his legs. “What's that?”

Both Yuri and Hobie follow your gaze. But Yuri seems to be the only one who could form a coherent sentence. “They're blue jeans, or work pants. Much more comfortable than the old pants. Looks nicer on the behind, eh?” She nudges you, winking at your flustered expression. “Or enhances what's lacking.” Her last comment trails off as you unabashedly ogle him.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie finally speaks, his eyes avoid your form. Especially the vest that cinches you right where it matters. “Why do you have a bag?”

You stand up, slinging the bag over your shoulder. Yuri watches the whole thing with amused eyes. “For my things.”

He furrows his brows, “you don't have things, Y/N.”

Eyeing the riding gloves on the table, you cross the small distance, taking it, but before you place it inside the bag, you spot a pretty pink lace ribbon next to it. You also take it for good measure and to annoy him further. Putting it inside your bag, you teasingly smile at him. “Now I've got things.”

Yuri gives you a nod and a thumbs up whilst Hobie takes out bills to pay for everything.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” She victoriously smiles, counting the money.

“Not a pleasure on my part.” Hobie grumbles, you clamp your mouth shut to prevent a laugh from coming out.

—

The saloon is bustling with people even though it's still early in the morning. Some drink their fill next to you at the bar, some are just like you, looking for something warm to fill their bellies with to survive the rest of the day. The whole place smells of hard liquor and broken dreams. You have no idea which smells worse, the sticky floors or the lavatory at the far end of the place. The wide windows help brighten up the place at least, sunlight streaming into the carved establishment. Animal heads stare down at you, an elk’s and a buffalo's empty beady eyes look over yonder the drunkard's solace.

A piano sits just behind you, its stool is currently empty, maybe you should put all the lessons drilled into you to good use. It's better to wait for your meal there than sit right next to a stranger who looks like he's about to expel his breakfast onto your new clothes. Besides, some good music could tamp down all the drunken mumbling and the annoying scrapping of plates.

Hobie notices your heavy look, abandoning his coffee, he taps your shoulder and you almost jump in your skin.

“You still play?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the old piano.

“I dabble, but I'm a bit rusty. I prefer gardening nowadays.” You lock eyes with him, “and shooting.”

Hobie chuckles in his seat, eyes avoiding your own smile. “You should play, I'll call you when our food is ‘ere.”

“Are you sure?” A soft smile spreads across your lips.

“I’ll watch your back, don't worry.”

Hope weighs you down again. You leave the bar stool, walking the distance towards the familiar black and white keys. Sitting down, you wrack your brain for the notes you've made a long time ago. A song that you've written yourself for the man who watches your back.

Hobie watches you intently, ears perking up at the unfamiliar music. Your hands move precisely, fingers pressing quickly as the song quickens. He smiles, glass now lay forgotten on the bar to watch you play your music. The rest of the bar quiets down a smidge, even the drunkards pause their lips at the mouth of their glass to listen to you play. The song crescendos, from a fast happy beat to a tone that is slower, a forlorn one. All in all, you play it with grace, and weaved with so much emotion.

Hobie scoffs, yet the fond smile stays. “Rusty my arse.”

The bartender appears behind him, plates in hand. “Your girl plays well.” The man places your meals on the bar, pumpkin soup sloshing on the sides of the bowl. Hobie turns towards him, not fully so he could still see you in his peripheral vision. “Is she for hire? Our player retired a few weeks ago, the saloon has never been this drab.”

“No, we're just passin’ by.”

The bartender leaves with a nod. “Too bad.”

Hobie takes his sandwich, twisting around to continue watching you. His eyes zeroes in on the sudden presence next to you. The brim of the stranger's hat hides his face, yet, Hobie knows exactly who he is based on his confident stance. Or who he was before Hobie single handedly destroyed his gang.

You finish the song with a flair, chest heaving, grinning from ear to ear.

“Bravo!” The man leaning towards the piano claps, then a chorus of scattered applause follows right after. “Amazing, sweetheart! Where'd ya learn how to play?”

“A tutor.” You smile shyly.

“Ah, what's the song called? I don't think I've heard of it before.” His long beard moves while he makes casual conversation.

“I-I made it actually.”

“Oh? I didn't know we had a composer in our humble establishment.” He taps the old piano with his gloved hand, his other hand rests on his gun belt, golden pistol shining in the sun. “What's the story behind it, eh? My ears picked up some sad depressing story through the notes.”

“I'm not a composer, a-and yeah, I made it for somebody.”

“Well, I—”

“Culver!” Hobie's booming voice echoes out in the entire saloon, everyone stops what they're doing. “You want to talk to me? Come over ‘ere instead of pestering her.” He has had enough of the conversation, and the danger that you've unknowingly put yourself into.

“Mr. Brown.” Culver says through gritted teeth, standing up straight, flicking the brim of his hat to reveal his face. “Fancy seein’ you here. You're in my territory, spider.”

You notice every single patrons’ faces turning into something akin to a person seeing a ghost, or the reaper itself. Slyly, you move your eyes over to the man, Culver, his name is familiar, you're sure you've heard of it before. Inhaling, you look back at Hobie, whose hand is placed on his gun belt, ready to whip it out if needed. He silently communicates with you, run, his eyes says, but you're paralyzed by fear when you finally remember where you heard the name Culver. It was what that old man Arthur said back then, he's the man whose men were killed by Hobie in a single night.

Heaviness hangs in the air, tension so thick that you can't even poke a hole right through it with a bullet.

“Is she someone precious to ya?” Culver says, suddenly gripping you by the scruff of your blouse, your back hitting the piano keys harshly. You yelp, and Hobie abruptly stands up, eyes aflame. The bearded man smiles, blackened teeth in full display. “She is, isn't she?” He wiggles your head in his hand. You sit there frozen, unable to even breathe. “What if I do the exact thing you did to my men, eh?” You hear chairs scraping against hardwood floors and boots frantically running towards the back exit. It's just you three in the saloon. He taps his finger in between your eyes, flaking leather on your soft skin. “A bullet in between her eyes would look lovely on her, don't you agree?”

“Your quarrel is with me. Let's take this outside, shall we?” Like a strike of lightning, Hobie cracks his bullwhip towards Culver. Dust in your eyes, the high pitched sound ringing in your ears. You then see Culver getting dragged away from you by his arm. The whip wraps around his flesh, threatening to skin him from the force Hobie pulls him towards the swinging doors of the saloon.

You inhale the gunpowder like scent it left, standing up, you quickly follow Hobie out into the sun. As the light hits your eyes, you watch Hobie cracks his bullwhip again. Culver yells in pain as Hobie releases him in the whip's clutches before placing it neatly back on his belt. He stands ways away from him, just across the screaming Culver.

“Painful, innit? This is what you did to two of my mates.” You walk to Hobie's side, he spares you a glance, roaming his jade eyes over you to check for injuries. Satisfied, he then returns his attention towards his target. “Remember that fuckin' pain, because my bullet hitting your heart would hurt much more than this.”

Culver holds his aching arm, kneeling on the muddy ground, hat fallen next to him, revealing a shiny head. “You lettin’ me go?” He cackles, you don't hide behind Hobie. “Just like that? Oh that woman has softened you up, Mr. Brown.”

“D’you want to keep talking or do you want to fuckin' start?”

You knit your eyebrows, fear encompasses you. “W-what’s about to start?” Your hand finds his bicep, holding on to him tightly like he's about to leave you. Again.

“A showdown, go to the side, love, I don't want you ‘ere when the bullets start flyin’” He watches Culver slowly stand up in the corner of his eyes.

“A fucking duel? Are you crazy?” You grip tighter.

Hobie gives you a smile, the same smile he lets you see every night before you head home. It's a boyish smile, innocence hidden behind it. “Go, I'll be fine.”

“And if not? He looks like he's a gunslinger. What if he wins and you die?”

“Then I can't burden you anymore.” He whispers, green eyes glimmering in the sunlight.

“Burden—? What are you talking about?”

“Go, I'll win, don't worry about it.”

“Hobie—!”

“Go, Y/N!”

You move without question after he yells at you. Your hands trembles, knees going weak, tears brimming in your eyes, and he can't even look at you.

As the two men move further away without turning their backs towards each other, you hold onto the saloon's pillar lest you crumble from fear of losing him. Again.

Bystanders look on, watching the spectacle unfold right in front of their eyes. Some hide behind windows, children hide behind their mother's skirts. While you have nowhere to hide. Your nails dig into the wood, Hobie squares his shoulders, fingers brushing along his holster. You spare a look towards his target, his hand already resting next to his yellow-gold gun.

Silence hangs in the air. Death waits for the loser.

Hobie squints his eyes, attention fully on the man before him. He leans back slightly, right foot stepped forward, silver gun shining in the sun; you can even see your reflection on it.

With a single breath, it's all over.

Culver was too slow to quickdraw, probably from his still aching arm. He drops his gun before he could fully draw it out. Hobie's bullet has left a sizable hole in his dominant palm, a gaping, bleeding wound that you can see through if you stare long enough.

Culver screams, a gutteral shriek that worms into your mind. He drops to his knees, eyes wide in panic and shock, trousers drenched in his own blood. Gunpowder still lingers in the air when you run towards Hobie's side. Your hands grip his shoulders, breath stuck in your throat, as you check for any bullet wounds.

“Are you hurt?!” You scream, ears ringing from the loud shot.

“‘m fine,” your wandering hands find reprieve on his jaw. “Love, ‘m fine.”

He sees fear in your eyes like never before, not even when you get punished, cheeks stained with tears from whatever they've thrown at you. You've never looked like this terrified. Scared like a starving doe caught in a bear trap.

“Remember what I told you?” You can't speak or even think. “Breathe, Y/N.” Hobie takes your hand off his skin, there's a reluctance that you're not privy to. “Just breathe, inhale and exhale.” He holds your hand, squeezing once before leaving your side. “I need to finish the job.”

You exhale and he's gone, the golden gun kicked far away, aiming the still warm barrel against Culver's head. “No…” Running after Hobie, you refuse to see another dead man. “Stop! Please.” Gripping his gun once again, you plead with him. “Don't kill him.”

“Step aside, Y/N. If I don't—” he can't fathom what Culver would do to him, to *you if he doesn't end it right there and then. The cycle must stop, he can't accomplish it if you're standing in between his gun and Culver's soft head. “Don't get involved.”

“Please.” You breathe out, warm hands placed around his shooting hand. “Take him to the sheriff, let justice take its course. He's backing down, I don't want to see you kill another one.”

“The sheriff won't do shit. Just like now,” he nudges his head towards the man amidst the crowd. “Let me do this, or he'll follow us and hunt us down.”

“I won't!” Culver suddenly yells, even louder than his painful screams. “I won't follow! I'm tired, Mr. Brown. I don't want to do this no more.” He looks up at the two of you, remourse evident on his face. “I'm sorry about your friends, I really am! But we're already even, you've taken mine too. Every single one I've got.”

“Promise to never exact revenge,” you tell the groveling man as you watch his salty tears mix in with the warm crimson.

“I promise,” Culver cries. “I promise, miss.”

You look back at Hobie, your eyes meet his own. Anger subsides in those emerald eyes, face turning soft. “He promises, Hobie.”

“An outlaw's promise doesn't mean shit—”

“You’ll have to shoot through me to get to him.” You point the barrel right on top of your chest, its warmth seeps through you.

“He wanted to hurt you.” Hobie softly says, fingers wrapping around your own.

“I’m not hurt. It takes more than threats to hurt me, Hobs.” You both stare at each other, hearts beating together. “Can you holster your gun please?”

Together, you help him lower his gun. Together, you let Culver go.

—

You need to leave town immediately. Strawberry's sheriff might've been easily placated with a good duel, but other lawmen pursuing Hobie might not be. Bucky neighs loudly at the sight of you, moreso when he sees your intertwined hands.

“Hi, Bucky.” You start to place your foot on the stirrups but Hobie stops you halfway.

“You need a horse. Might as well put your new gloves to good use, hmm?” You smile as Hobie whistles for the stable hand for help. A teenage boy with worn out blue jeans appears. “She needs a horse. Anythin' fast, or hell, anythin' you have available. What do you have?”

Their conversation drifts into the background. Your attention and breath is taken away by the gorgeous mare that stands behind a stable door. Her shining blue eyes watch you as you approach, hair as white as snow, the same hue as her body, she glimmers in the sunlight that filters through the wooden cracks. She huffs, head leaning away when you hold out your hand. You could only wait for her to make the move, watching you with peculiar eyes like she's sizing you up.

The stable boy does a double take, “wait, ma'am, that's not—!” When he says it, the white mare leanes closer to your touch. “Well I'll be. She never lets anyone touch her except my boss. She's as fine as cream gravy that one is.”

“I think she likes me.” You tilt your head as she sniffs your hand.

“That's a fuckin' arabian, love.” Hobie says breathlessly, watching you and the hot tempered horse interact like you've been her rider for years. “Can't you pick another horse that doesn't cost three horses combined?”

You laugh, feeding the mare hay. “I could, but I really think she's the one for me.” Hobie scratches the back of his neck. “I can choose another one, Hobie.” As if understanding your words, the mare nudges your shoulder. Hobie feels like he's being robbed in broad daylight. But he'll spend a million for you if you ask.

The stable boy pipes up from the side. “You can't actually, ma'am, I was just tellin’ your husband here that we only have her available. The rest already have owners you see. She was abandoned six months ago.”

“How could anyone abandon you?” You whisper towards the horse, petting her head as she welcomes your touch.

“I think her last owner died, and no one has since picked her up, or bought her. My boss is more than willing to get rid of her now to make space.”

“We'll take her, on a discounted fee of course, since she's second hand. And a saddle too.” You grin at Hobie's words.

The stable hand sighs. “At half price too I bet?”

“Now you're speakin’ my language.” Hobie pats the boy's shoulder as he negotiates prices. The mare huffs again, asking for more hay while you are distracted by Hobie's wink thrown your way.

—

“She still doesn't have a name.” Hobie finally breaks his silence, he rides alongside your horse, making sure that your ill tempered mare doesn't buck you off. His hands guide Buckeye, but his eyes are completely on your form.

The road is long and empty, save for a herd of bison roaming just below the mountain you're both trudging. There are small graves littered around the road, worn out crosses, wood eaten by termites. Etched names forgotten, lives scattered in the wind amidst the dirt and blazing sun. You wonder how they died without getting to their final destination. The sun has completely risen, humidity making your lips dry, heat stuck in between your skin and the leather of your gloves. The canopy shields you from the rays, luscious greenery everywhere, trees and grass littered all over the mountain side. You can hear wild horses neighing far away from where you are, their hooves thumping freely on the soil.

You pause from braiding your horse's hair, securing the braid with the pink lace ribbon. Your eyes meet with familiar emerald eyes. “I've been thinking about it actually.”

“Well? What are your options?”

Your lips curl into a mischievous smile. “‘Blue jeans’”

“Oh fuck off.” He rides ahead to hide his growing smile.

You quickly follow, pulling the reins, clicking your tongue to make your horse trot alongside Hobie. “Why not? I like it, I think it fits her.”

“No it does not. You're fucking with me, lovie, and my blue jeans.”

You like him like this, bathed in the sun, in warmth as he smiles back at you; just like the days when you were still just friends, friends with lingering feelings that you're both too afraid to confess. If he doesn't love you back just as before, you'd settle for this, just friends who laugh and talk, and tease each other. It's better this way because friendship means that he still cares for you, that there's still a space for you in his heart no matter how small it is, that you're not forgotten.

“Oh you and your precious blue jeans!” Your laughter echoes around.

“Will you be like this the entire time?” You both turn a corner, where no trees shield you from the sun. He notices you narrow your eyes, palm above your eyes to see him better. “‘ere.”

“W-what?” There's suddenly a hat atop your head, his hat. “Oh!” You run your fingers along the brim that shields you from the light. The leather is soft, a few bumps here and there but you can feel that it's been taken care of. Hobie clears his throat, and your cheeks run warmer than the summer sun. “T-thank you.” You're not an idiot, you've been here for weeks so of course you've heard of the ‘hat rule’ in passing. But you don't know what to do, or what he wants to do when it's in reverse.

“No problem, you've already taken my money, might as well hand you my hat, eh?” Hobie inhales, the mere sight of you wearing his beloved hat sends his heart into overdrive. Maybe he shouldn't have given it to you.

“You make it sound like I'm robbing you blind. I was alright with my old clothes.”

Hobie has the opportunity to say either of the two things that popped up in his mind. One, tell you that you've only robbed him of his heart. And two, make a joke about how much Bucky disdained carrying you with your musty clothes. So he does neither.

“We had to, or we'll be recognized faster than a mother recognizes her child.” You both finally reach the foot of the mountain, successfully surviving without anyone shooting at you, kidnapping you; or hell, getting eaten by a bear. With both of your luck, it's possible.

“Weird analogy but okay.” Your stomach grumbles when you two come to a stop at a fork in the road. One goes to the right, the other on the left. There's nothing else distinguishable on either one of them. The signage is long gone, taken by strong winds, or just time itself. You wince, hoping that he didn't hear the sound your stomach made.

He raises a brow, chuckling deeply at the sight of you hiding your face with the brim of his hat. “I forgot we didn't get to eat. That sandwich smelt really fuckin' good.”

“I really want that pumpkin soup now.” You groan, leaning forward to rest your head on top of your horse who barely notices your movement.

“C’mon, I know a place.” He taps your boot with his own.

“Where?”

“On the left, it's not that far but it'll delay us on our journey.” It's not a bad deal, he thinks to himself.

You suddenly perk up, this is what you were asking for back in that cave, the road less traveled, the road where you get to just spend more time with him. And postpone your homecoming.

“What are we waiting for then, cowboy?” With a kick, and a laugh in your throat, you bolt over to the direction he pointed out.

“‘Cowboy?’ bloody hell.” He really regrets giving you his hat because now he doesn't have anything to hide his flustered face anymore.

—

“You said it was a restaurant,” you huff at the wide river before you, hands on your hips, stomach growling. “Not that we have to catch our own meal!”

Hobie can't help but laugh, a hearty, genuine one that also has you smiling. This suits him, just happy and without a gun in his hand. You like him in every conceivable way possible, even if you're still getting used to his new self. “I just said, ‘I know a place.’ I ain't no liar. Did you expect a café in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yes! And no— I'm hungry now, Hobs!” Your horse agrees, hoof digging into the dirt. Buckeye stands hitched next to her, eyes glued on her white mane. Weird, you thought. “Look, even blue jeans agree!”

“Instant gratification,” Hobie pulls his jacket off and places it on the saddle; he then takes out a folding fishing rod from Bucky's saddle bag. “You should work on that because it's not gonna work well ‘ere, love.” He walks towards the river bank, toeing off his boots, folding up the same trousers you love to see him in. And also folding the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his toned arms. “And her name can't be ‘blue jeans!’” Yelling back, he trudges the rushing cool water that goes up to just below his knees.

“Okay, fine!” You start to strip, taking off your coat and his hat— folding your trousers and sleeves, you follow him to the rocky river bank. “How about ‘trout’ then.”

He hears your voice closer, he laughs at you when you almost slip on a rock. “Careful, it's slippery. You can't name her ‘trout,’ she's too pretty for that.”

“Now you tell me,” you roll your eyes at him as he casts the line. The bait and hook plops in the deeper water, now the waiting game begins. “‘Too pretty?’ you once nicknamed me beetle just because it bit me once!” Warmth spreads across your chest at his laugh. You feel at home in that cold river.

“And? You callin' yourself pretty?” His smirk takes you back at that oak tree.

You have an urge to kiss it off him. You don't, it's not the time yet, or you may ruin everything. “Yeah, you did, I remember you calling me pretty…” you lean closer, face dangerously close to his own. Breaths mixing in together, but you still give him enough space to move away. He doesn't. You don't mention it. He thinks about your lips upon his. “And gorgeous, and then absolutely stunnin’!” You copy his drawl, but before he could even laugh at your teasing, the fishing rod starts to move, yanking him forward.

“Oh fuck!” Hobie reels it in, and you gasp in disbelief at the sheer strength the fish has. “Help me or we'll starve!”

“You don't have to tell me twice!” You embrace him from the back, arms squeezing him, face smothered by his shoulder. He feels warm, he still feels the same. You dig your heels in while he fights with lunch. “Come on, cowboy!”

He almost let go of the rod. “Shit!” You laugh into his shirt and he almost falters once again. “Come on you little—!” With one hard yank, he finally sees the fish fly up, the sun hits its scales, body frantically flopping around. But he pulled too hard, and down he goes on the river bank, with you catching him. “Fuck—!” With a splash, you get a face full of river water.

Hobie immediately jumps to the side to not squash you and drown you in two feet of water. His eyes are full of worry when you emerge coughing. He almost lets go of the rod to tend to you, but your smile and guffaw has relief flowing through him.

“How big is it?!” You ask, entirely drenched.

He gently wipes your face, calloused palms over your soft skin, fingers carefully wiping away a piece of grass stuck on your cheek. You close your eyes, letting him hold you.

Hobie inhales and drinks you in— he still loves you. It's always been there, his love for you, but he refuses to acknowledge it with what he knows just before he left, with what *he said before he took a slice at his neck. Hobie still dreams of you, still dreams of saying those three words again, he's a fool to bury the feeling, especially when you're in front of him again— close to him again, loving him again.

He has no idea what to do now, other than to stand up and give you a helping hand.

—

Hobie's been silent and you have no idea why. You warm yourself on the fire he built, the fish you both caught is now cooking wonderfully on the open fire. The river's currents are a lot stronger now, so it's a lot harder to catch anything without getting carried by it. Your clothes are slowly drying as you wring your sleeves free of water.

“Cherry.” You suddenly break the silence. “I think I'll name her cherry.”

Hobie sits across you again, gazing at you through warmer eyes. “Why cherry?”

“Because horses love fruit, and cherry is a fruit.”

“Brilliant thinkin’ love, horses definitely eat cherries.” He says in a sarcastic tone.

You furrow your brows, “wait, they don't?”

He blinks, “Huh, ‘m actually not sure. Maybe if you take out the pits and cut it in half?”

“That’s…that's plausible, they contain cyanide though.”

“Maybe we should ask them?”

“What?” You chortle, and Hobie cups his hands to yell at the horses.

“Oi! D’you lot eat cherries?” They only stare at him. “Guess not.” You laugh, he finds it infectious so he also does.

“Horses can't talk, Hobs.” You say in between giggles.

“You never know, I might be a horse whisperer.” His smile falters, and you frown at the sudden shift. “‘m sorry for yellin’ at you.” His voice is soft under the cackle of the fire. “I shouldn't have yelled.”

“Apology accepted.” Your nerves calm down, beaming at him, scooching closer to him until your knees grazes his own. He doesn't move away, even nudging your shoulder with a faint smile. “I'm sorry for making you spend so much. But thank you for the nice clothes, and being— just…kind.”

Hobie reaches for your hand slowly, your breath is in your throat, freezing you un place. His pinky brushes along your palm when a twig snaps Hobie quickdraws his gun.

“Who's there?! Show yourself or I'll fuckin' shoot.” Standing up, he hides you with his own body.

You also stand up, hand wrapping around the barrel of the rifle that was leaning next to you. Both yours and Hobie's hearts thump loudly with trepidation. The bush moves and out comes two men brandishing their own weapons. They dress like gentlemen, but their sneers say they are not.

“We came out to piss and we find the spider of the west, guess we're just lucky.” The one with a scar across his nose says, voice scratchy, nudging his companion. “And would you look at that?”

“You’ve found yourself a pretty companion, Hobart, one that has a very high bounty on her head.” The other finishes his partner's sentence. His mustache is all twirly at the end, golden tooth shining in the sun. “Y’know, sweetheart, the whole country's after ya.” You don't falter in your stance.

“With both of your bounties combined, we're aimin’ at ten thousand dollars right now.” The scarred man chuckles.

“Ten thousand?” Hobie whistles, “Can we bring ourselves in instead?” You snort, still aiming at the man's head.

“If only that was possible, Hobart.” The man gives you a twisted smile.

“Are you lawmen?” You ask, “Or pinkertons? You two don't look like either of them.”

“What do we look like then, sweetheart?” The mustachioed man taunts with a toothy smile. “A couple of handsome cowboys?”

“A bunch of dead men.” You push Hobie away, kicking hot coals in their faces, embers flying, smoke filling their lungs. While they're both distracted and yelling at the searing heat— Hobie fans the hammer of his gun, shooting all six bullets into each man's bodies until their lifeless corpses fall atop each other.

“I've seen better.” You stand next to Hobie as he checks for something in their pockets. Their blood slowly spread to the tips of his boots. “What are you doing?”

Hobie rubs a hand across his face, “Lawmen,” he raises the identification papers he found. “We need to go. Pack the fish.”

“But they're dead?” You ask but you still do what you're told.

“Lawmen are like rats, if there's two ‘ere, there's a dozen more near us, hidden under the crevices.” He walks near the banks, head downturned, eyes scanning the plants. “And they've got their noses on us now.”

“Where are you going?” You stand, wrapped fish in your arms. “Hobie!” You start to yell when he has walked a few ways away from you.

Hobie crouches down, hunting knife digging into the soil. You watch him take a bushel of grass, he walks back and now you get a closer look at what he's carrying. You thought your eyes are deceiving you, instead of the familiar green hue, the plant is pink, a very bright shade. There's still dirt clinging to the stems when Hobie carefully covers it with a handkerchief.

“That's oleander, Hobie.” You stare at him, concerned. “And that many could kill a fucking elephant.”

“I know, you taught me, remember?” You nod as shoves it inside your messenger bag. He pauses at the sight of the bundle of letters, then he dismisses them, closing the bag. “It might come in handy.”

“What's your plan?” You're terrified.

“We head to a train station.” He sighs, completely winded, and worried for your safety. “Bounty hunters and outlaws I can manage, but them?” He points at the two bodies. “They've got more resources than either group, and more people in their pocket.”

“Wouldn't that be obvious? Riding the train? We can handle them, just like we always have—”

“They hate my guts more than anyone, Y/N, and they don't fear me as much as bounty hunters or outlaws.”

“But a train…” you shudder. “We'll be in the south in a few days instead of weeks— that's quick, too quick…I don't—” I don't want to leave. “I can't.”

“You wanted the scenic route, right?” He starts to unhitch the horses. “It's the last place they'll look for thinking that we'll be traveling by our lonesome out on the backroads.”

“Yes, but—”

“Nothing’s more scenic than a train ride. C’mon, love, get on Cherry. Before more come out of hidin’”

You nod, tears threatening to spill out. Walking around the corpses, you get on Cherry with a far away look in your eyes. “To the train station then.”

[takami-takami]

Like Idiots.

includes— hawks x reader. fluff. minors dni.

warnings— gn!reader. pining like idiots. keigo is a pain in the ass. the reader is worse. i had fun with this. <3

There is zero need for Keigo to make a confession when it comes to his crush. It would be entirely redundant to confess. 

Your sigh at the thought is palpable. It really is quite a shame.

Part of you yearns for that passionate drama of an ending, where in some novela-inspired twist of fate, your adoring knight is forced to spill his love at your feet. In your daydreams— the ones dreadfully reminiscent of some lovelorn teenager's— a faceless villain from fuck-all-nowhere nearly ends the life of his beloved hero partner.

And the words spill from his throat like his lovesick sobs, clutching you close to his chest while you do your best to pretend you're not biting back a smile at the attention. 

"I love you! I've always loved you," he'd cry. 

Or something like that. 

And you'd kiss, and sparks would fly, or whatever. 

End scene. 

You're not getting that confession, though. 

It figures your love life would turn out to be a comedy. Par for the course of your life, you suppose. 

Instead of a scrawled letter sealed with wax or a poem whispered under the imposing moonlight, your confession is written all over Keigo's face— well, not all over, exactly. Every centimeter of his face conceals his emotions meticulously, flawlessly.

Every portion of his face is perfectly practiced and impeccably controlled; except for two measly little points. 

You prod at your food again with your fork in hand, all frowns as you sit across from your work partner in a booth at the diner he likes to drag you to on your lunch breaks. 

And you stare uncomfortably into the most cartoonishly blown pupils you've ever seen.

"Um. Hawks?" 

"Yeah? What's up, chickadee," he asks sincerely before chomping down messily on a battered chicken drum, moaning and letting his eyes fall shut as he does with every meal— typically an obstacle for your focus, this accidentally whorish display is actually a welcome reprieve from your racing thoughts.

When his eyes flutter open once more, you're faced once again with black saucers and the sound of reckless chewing. His pupils are still dilated like a cat tripping balls on the dealer's finest catnip.

"Hawks, I really think I should tell you that—"

Your intervention is rudely interrupted by a waitress in a 50's style apron and folded paper hat combo, likely rushing over notepad in hand to get first dibs on serving a celebrity. 

You would prefer to be unfair. It'd be easier to displace your frustration for your lot in life onto this poor woman, to tell her that her hat looks stupid and pink isn't her color, that she should really just stop trying. 

You decide to be an adult. 

Keigo, on the other hand, does not. Like a child given free reign to order for himself at a restaurant for the first time, he explains that she should really heap on the sugar for his coffee.

"No, no, no. More than that. Like syrup. I want it to taste like it's gonna put me in an early grave and— wait, where are you going?"

The debacle brings to attention another phenomenon that you've grown accustomed to seeing:

The second his gaze meets her's, Keigo's pupils shrink to points once more, constricting to tight dots before bouncing back to their natural size. And predictably, once again, they expand like blown glass when you catch his attention.

"Hawks!"

"Yeah, what?"

His chewing ceases obnoxiously, chicken drum in his right hand and half-chewed remains in his left cheek.

You might as well rip it off like a bandaid. You let out a puff of air.

"Your eyes," you attempt to gently point out. 

"Mm?" Keigo's head tilts to the side, pondering your observation for a moment.

"My eyes? Ohh," he drags his words as if in realization, treating himself to another chomp into the drumstick. "You gettin' lost in them, huh? Happens, dove. You can stare, I don't mind."

"No!" You squeak out your denial before smoothing down your shirt and tipping your chin high. 

You have the upper hand here. Remember that.

"I mean," you correct your course, staring down and poking at your plate while a smile creeps up your lips. "It's kinda hard not to when your pupils look like they're gonna swallow your goddamn irises."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Kei'?" You flick your gaze up toward him, worried now.

Under normal circumstances, it's an established habit for Keigo to slot one palm over his mouth when called out. 

But this time, that hand bypasses his lips, crawling upward to reach his visor and wordlessly drag it down over the source of his shame.

A stronger person than you would hold back their laughter. They would take pity on the flush rising over his cheeks and neck like sunsets. Perhaps they would coo praises to soothe him, or even take it all back to ease the shame and discomfort that makes him feel utterly naked. 

They would take pity on the man who, under the fluorescent high beams bolted to the diner's ceiling, looks just like a clown tripping on stage with the spotlight shined on his face.

You are not a strong person. 

In your hysterics, you reach over to pry the barrier off his eyes, climbing into his lap and over him like tussling teenagers. 

"Keigo, I didn't say it was a bad thing—"

"You're laughing," he laments like a kicked puppy, prying your face an arm's length from his with a single palm. 

It's over. This is it for him. His life is over, he's going to have to change his identity. 

He can start fresh with a new hero name, one not centered around red-tailed hawks— he'll need to rebrand as another bird, most likely. Preferably one with the same signature red feathers so as not to make a fuss for the merch department.

Maybe a parrot. 

Winged-Hero Parrots.

"You're laughing at me!" 

"I'm not laughing at—" another uncontrollable wheeze. His wings flap in indignance once, slamming against the cushions of the pink diner seat before drooping down like a dog's tail between its legs. You pluck the visor and raise it above your head out of arm's reach, one hand planted against his chest for stability.

"Not laughing at you! Baby, I promise—" 

"Baby?" He repeats.

The silence is worse the second time around— but luckily for you, Keigo is a stronger person than you are. No laughter erupts from his chest, no smirk settles on his face. 

If anything, your slip up seems to elevate his heart rate more than yours.

"We really should—"

"I think we need to—"

Both sentences collide in the small space between you, his lips completely still and mere inches away from yours. 

You're reminded of the feeling of your fingertips about to touch metal after being charged with static, the skin crackling with the air's tension as you contemplate whether to just get it over with and touch.

And slowly, as if suddenly cognizant of your bodies and environment, you both crawl off each other and scoot toward the furthest edges of the booth seat.

Your knees make their way toward your chest for comfort, while Keigo's wings drape over his shoulders like a cocoon. 

"We should talk."

[comradeghosty]

Letting You Off Easy (NSFW)

NSFW Sabo x reader fic

Summary: Sabo promised you that he would come to bed, but he got caught up reading again. He makes it up to you.

Tags: nsfw, established relationship, soft dom Sabo, bdsm themes, vaginal sex, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, humiliation, edging

!!! 18+ !!!

I also posted it on AO3

Sabo was supposed to have met you in bed by now. He promised, I’ll be there before 10 tonight, but as usual, he was caught up in whatever book he was reading. As you lay there in the bed, you stared up at the ceiling. You considered waiting, maybe going to sleep till he got there, but you were impatient and Sabo had promised.

Throwing the sheets off, you got out of bed and crept down the hallway to Sabo’s study. This was his room, the one place in the house that was off limits to you. When he was in there, he was working and required no distractions. Fingers tapped your chin as you weighed the risks. On one hand, if you interrupted his work, he would probably be upset with you. An upset Sabo hurt your heart; when his sweet smile disappeared from his face, it made you ache. However, you needed to go to bed, and he had promised. He couldn’t be too upset if he had promised, right? 

Slowly, your hand reached towards the doorknob as you made your decision. The glass knob was heavy in your hand as you turned it, and you briefly wondered if you had made a mistake as you pushed the door open.

Inside the room was a candlelit masterpiece. For some reason, Sabo loved feeling archaic as he worked, seeing his work by fire in the evenings and at night. Many times you had complained to him that he would hurt his vision, but he reassured you that it was fine. The room was well furnished, dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with books both old and new. A large globe adorned one corner of the room and the walls not occupied by bookshelves were filled with maps and art. His desk sat against a wall, covered in papers that he had yet to grade and lit candles that had wax which dripped down the stem of their holders. In the opposite corner of the room sat a small, dark loveseat that Sabo liked to sit on when he read. This is where he currently resided, a book propped in his hand. 

Sabo looked at you with an unreadable expression. His dark eyes pierced through you, sending a shiver down your spine. This is the second time you wondered if this intrusion was a mistake. He leaned the book down on his lap, which you eyed with a small blush. He was still in his work clothes, a cream colored button down that was rolled up to the elbows and dark linen pants.

You were snapped out of your thoughts as the blonde cleared his throat. Anxiety panged through your stomach. He sat his book on the table next to him. A blush dusted your cheeks as you watched his hand come up to take the thin rimmed glasses from his face. He folded those and placed them on top of the book.

“Come sit,” he said, simply patting his lap. You shivered at the evenness in his voice. Nothing good ever comes after Sabo uses that tone.

Slowly, you walked over, like a dog who knew it did something bad, hesitating in order to delay whatever punishment awaited you. For a moment, you just stood there in front of him until he patted his lap again. Reluctantly, you sat down sideways on his lap. Sabo put one arm around your waist, anchoring you to him, and you swallowed thickly. 

“Am I in trouble?” you asked. Your voice was quiet and shaking a bit when you spoke. It embarrassed you, and you could feel yourself redden. Sabo’s eyes softened a bit, which set off alarm bells in your head. God, you fucked up by coming in here.

Sabo doesn’t answer and just chuckles darkly. “Trouble? Mm, did you break a rule?”

Of course, he wanted you to acknowledge that you knew you were doing something you weren't supposed to. “I… came into your study, sir. I’m sorry,” you muttered. The words came easy to you, casually slipping into a state of mind that only Sabo could pull from your bones. So easily did he comfort you, his kind face and soft smile easing your mind and relaxing your boundaries. 

“That’s it, I was worried that you had forgotten. That doesn’t seem to be the case, though. You just wanted to be disobedient.” Sabo tutted at you, mumbling out, “just what am I going to do with you?” He went quiet for a moment, thinking.

Suddenly, he turned you in his lap so you faced away from him, your knees falling over his legs. A large hand gently placed itself on your throat, not squeezing but making you aware of its presence, and another found its place on your waist. Sabo spread his knees apart, widening your thighs. You felt exposed as he held you to his chest, your nightgown slipping down your thighs to bunch around your hips. A shiver wracked your body as the cool air danced across the skin of your thighs.

“So needy, my dear. Couldn't wait for me in bed like a good girl? Do you need me to teach you some patience, sweetheart?” he crooned, his tone patronizing. There was something in the way he talked down to you that made you whine. 

His hand moved across your throat, gripping the nape of your neck and gently tugging at the hair, turning you to crane your neck towards him. “Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

You pouted at him, your lips pursed in a small frown. He knew you didn’t say anything. When you spoke, your voice came out mumbly and grouchy. “You promised you’d be in bed and then you didn’t come,” you whined, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Promise? Oh, I did promise. I’m sorry, sunshine,” he stroked your hair gently, brushing it out of your face as he looked at you. You couldn’t be too mad at him, after all you knew how engrossed he became while reading. His onyx eyes were sincere and a small pout graced his lips briefly before turning into a gentle smile. “In that case, let me make it up to you. You still entered my study without permission, so you have to be punished, but I promise to make you feel good afterward.” A large hand cupped your jaw firmly, thumb brushing over your lips. Sabo leaned forward and kissed your cheek gently.

Slowly, you felt his hands sliding down your sides, briefly resting on your hips before traveling to your thighs. The soft palms skated along the outside of your thighs, all the way to your knees before slowly moving to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Sabo started gently, caressing your legs before pinching roughly. A whine escaped your lips at the sudden rough sensation, your head lolling back against his broad chest. He took his time, pinching and squeezing his way to the apex of your thighs. You knew it would leave marks, Sabo always made sure to leave marks. His large hands skirted around your panties, not quite touching but making sure you knew he was right there. 

“You want me to touch you, angel? C’mon, you can tell me. Don't be shy,” he cooed lowly in your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, straight to your cunt. Your body relaxed at his voice, and Sabo was quick to notice. You missed the devious smile that graced his face, right before his hand came down in a harsh slap against your inner thigh. 

A cry left your lips at the impact, and you felt your arousal build. “I said, open your mouth and beg for my touch,” Sabo growled into your ear. He wasn’t playing around anymore, and you knew it.

“Ah, I’m sorry, sir. Please touch me, please let me feel you,” your eyes squeezed closed as you begged him, your hands clenching at your sides. 

Fingers slowly edged around your panties as he complied with your pleas, his tongue darting out to lick the spot where your neck met your shoulder. “You sound so pretty when you beg,” he breathed. There were suddenly too many sensations as you felt Sabo’s wet tongue on your neck, his fingers prodding at your clothed cunt, and his other hand coming back to rest on your throat, holding you against his chest.

Whimpering out, your hands came up to hold his arm where it rested across your chest. “S- Sabo… please…”

“Please what, angel? Say what you want.” 

Your face burned, embarrassment shooting through your core as you realized he was going to make you say it.

 “P- please touch me… under… ah… my panties…” God, it was so humiliating. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as he put his hand under the cloth and just… held it there, unmoving. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, frustration tight in your body.

“Like that? Doesn’t seem very exciting to me,” Sabo chuckled. “You’re usually so mouthy… why so quiet, dirty girl?”

You squirmed on his lap, trying to get friction while avoiding saying anything else. His hand left your panties and another harsh slap landed on your thigh, making you jump. The hand around your throat tightened slightly. “Stop being so greedy and use that mouth. I won’t ask again,” he scolded. Sabo could be so intimidating when he wanted to be. 

“Ah, please! Please put your fingers in my pussy, sir,” you begged, shame burning your face. A tear slid down your cheek as Sabo’s hand reentered your panties, sliding through your wetness. You felt immediate relief at his touch, sighing and leaning back into him. Fingers lazily dragged through your slit as he touched you, and you moaned when his thumb dragged against your clit. Sabo leaned against your neck as he touched you, smirking as you moaned and sighed from his touch.

Briefly, he pinched your clit between his thumb and knuckle, making you cry out in surprise before sinking two fingers into your hole. The stretch was so good, your body willfully accommodating him. “Oh god, Sabo… ‘s so good,” you slurred out.

“Look at you, sucking me in. So greedy, all for me,” he purred. You could feel him sucking dark marks into your neck, letting his possessive nature through. His long fingers pumped in and out of you, your thighs trembling as Sabo kept them spread apart. He moved his hand, his thumb rubbing circles against your clit as his fingers massaged your cunt.

You were a mess, shaking and moaning and whining against him. “S- Sabo… sir… ‘m close…” Breathy pants left your lips as you felt your abdomen coil in pleasure. “P- pleasee, oh god…” And right as that coil was about to snap, you were left empty. Sabo pulled his fingers out of your cunt, and your brows furrowed. You opened your mouth, turning to him to say something before his fingers were shoved roughly into your mouth, tasting of you. His dark eyes looked at you sternly, narrowing slightly.

“Now now… you know you had to be punished, my dear.” His fingers pressed down against your tongue. “Don’t be a brat. I’m letting you off easy since I did break my promise. Say thank you.”

Sabo didn’t move his fingers, and your face burned. This was humiliating, and you attempted to avert your eyes. His thumb pressed up on the soft part of your chin as his fingers pushed down, silently demanding eye contact. You spoke around his fingers, drool dripping down your chin from the corners of your mouth. “Haa, ‘ank ‘oo,” you mumbled around his fingers.

A smile softened his features as he praised you. “That’s my girl. Are you ready for me to make it up to you?”

You nodded your head as much as you could with his fingers still in your mouth, and he kissed your cheek.

“Stand up for me, sweet girl,” he requested, removing his hand. You stood up, standing in front of him, feeling vulnerable. “Take your clothes off, I want to see you.” Slowly, you pulled your nightgown over your head, feeling Sabo’s dark eyes roving over your body. He watched as you exposed yourself, drinking in your body like it was the finest wine. You could see his need, one of his hands palming the bulge in his pants. It made you blush, the ludeness of watching Sabo touch himself as you stripped. The nightgown dropped in a puddle on the floor, your panties joining it shortly after.

Sabo stood up, stepping over to you. His hands ghosted your sides, guiding you to sit on the loveseat where he previously sat. The man slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pants, tossing them aside as you watched. He never broke eye contact with you. You trembled, his dark eyes looking hungrily down at you while he knelt on the hardwood in front of you. His hands rested on each of your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the seat. Soft kisses peppered the inside of your legs, which draped over Sabo’s shoulders. He licked and sucked kisses into your sensitive skin as he moved his way closer to your cunt.

“So good, so sweet. You took your punishment so well, sweetheart,” he mumbled out between kisses. “Let me take care of you now.” 

Sighing, you reclined back as Sabo worshiped your thighs. His gentle kisses and gasps made you shake as he pressed his face against you, breathing you in with a quiet “fuck.” You felt yourself clench around nothing.

You let out a loud moan as Sabo licked a long stripe up your cunt. Like a man starved, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you tightly against his mouth. Your head flew back, eyes squeezed shut as the blonde feasted on you. His tongue lapped against you, tapping quickly against your clit. “Oh fuck, fuck please,” you whined. Both of your hands moved to tangle in his curls, holding him as you gently rutted against his face.

Soft and needy gasps and moans came from between your thighs, and all it did was push you closer to the edge. Sabo was a vocal lover, letting you know that he was enjoying giving as much as you enjoyed receiving. You looked down, just to see his dark eyes on you. The blonde loved watching the way your face contorted with pleasure. Your thighs tightened around his head as you got closer, already sensitive and close from being edged. “Please, please don’t stop,” you begged. All you wanted was for him to keep going, the pressure on your clit perfectly matched with his long and firm licks.

Sabo hummed against your cunt and you snapped, cumming hard with a soft cry of his name. The man didn’t stop, but he slowed a bit to help you ride your way through your orgasm without overstimulating you. He was such a considerate lover. 

“You taste so good,” he mumbled against you, giving you one last lick before kissing his way up your body. Sabo wrapped his hands around your waist, picking you up and swapping positions so you sat on his lap, facing him this time. He kissed you greedily, and you moaned against his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. The feeling of your skin on his skin was electric, and you rubbed your exposed cunt against his length. 

The kiss broke when he moaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so beautiful when you cum,” he whispered into your skin, rocking his hips against yours. “I wanna see that again.” 

One of his hands came down between you two, thumb brushing rhythmically against your clit as you rocked against him. “God, Sabo. Please, please fuck me,” you begged. You never needed anything more than you needed his cock inside you at this moment.

“Such a good girl, so good for me. Whatever you want, angel,” he crooned, running his hands through your hair and tucking it behind your ears. The way he looked into your eyes made your heart clench. His hands readjusted you on his lap as he used one hand to position himself at your entrance. “Keep your eyes on me, I wanna see your face.”

Your face flushed, but you never broke eye contact with him. As you sank down on him, your eyes widened and your mouth dropped slightly with a gasp. “S- Sabo…” He was big, and he let you pause to adjust before settling all the way inside you. You were full, so full that your head clouded. Both of you held eye contact, as if that’s all you could do. His face was so soft, so kind. Your hands came up and cradled his cheeks, thumb brushing over his scar. Both of his arms wrapped around you, holding you against his chest. His hands pressed into your back, his long fingers spreading over your skin.

Sabo leaned forward and kissed you, gently and sweetly, as if you were providing the oxygen he needed to live. He rocked his hips, his cock pressing so deliciously into you. Your nipples rubbed against his chest as you both moved together, wrapped up in each other. The blonde kissed your cheek, moving down to your jaw and your neck. He sucked love bites into your skin, marking you. “You feel so good, so tight. You’re made for me, my love. So perfect,” he praised you so well, mumbling a nonstop stream of compliments into your skin. One of his hands snaked between you, finding your clit and rubbing circles into it. “That’s it, beautiful. Let yourself feel good.”

You watched as he concentrated, feeling his shallow thrusts and the orgasm building back up in your abdomen. “Aah, ‘m so full, Sabo. P- please.” As your eyes met again, your mouths met with some desperate hunger, teeth crashing together. The feelings were so intense, and you felt yourself being slightly lifted by one of Sabo’s arms before he started to thrust up into you in earnest. Gasps and moans escaped your lips, the combination of the quick and full thrusts with the thumb on your clit was too much. You stared into Sabo’s dark eyes as you came harshly and quickly, a smile forming across his face as he watched your climax. He kept fucking you, maintaining his quick pace. Your cunt spasmed around him, coaxing his orgasm from him as well as he spilled into you, pressing his cock as deep into you as it would fit.

Limply, you leaned against Sabo as he shallowly fucked himself through his orgasm, holding himself in you as he recovered. He pressed slow, lazy kisses against your shoulder and neck as you tried to regain your strength. “I love you’s” were mumbled into your skin, peppered there with the kisses. 

You sat there for a while, both of you pressed together. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get cleaned up and go to bed,” Sabo mumbled. He pressed a kiss to your temple, scooping you up in his arms. You pressed yourself against his chest, closing your eyes, and feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

[salternateunreality2]

👀 😶‍🌫️ 🥷

…..

I know you already have a fantastic post about AGSZC + cereals, but I’m curious on further character studies. What do you suppose are the unhealthiest and/or guilty pleasure breakfasts of champions SOLDIER? (+Turks, if the muse strikes!)

💖😊🛏️🍽️❤️

– 🪷

Angeal would NEVER! How will he pursue his dreams with honor if he were to have ANY guilty pleasures, especially related to food?! Nonsense! Poppycock! He understands the value of food and nutrition, and knows how very important it is to have balanced, healthy oatmeal with fruit and egg whites for staying power. That is luxury already! He would know!

Genesis is snickering in the background, tapping through a slideshow of photos:

* Angeal scarfing down a hot dog with a stripe of whipped cream.

* Angeal shoveling giant spoonfuls of Lucky Charms down his gullet.

* Angeal stealing apples.

* Angeal guzzling Just Honey straight from the bottle.

Genesis (disrespectfully) looks over the hot gentlemen nearest him and says "Mm, I don't feel particularly guilty about my pleasures...though some may call them ~sinful~". He waggles his eyebrows and licks his lips.

Behind him, Sephiroth is solemnly playing a slideshow.

* Genesis crying over apple pancakes, drizzling them in apple syrup, dressed in red silk pajamas.

* Genesis sobbing, shoveling apple pancakes into his face, trying to recite Loveless and sip from a mug of apple syrup, wearing a very plush (and now sticky) red dressing gown.

* Genesis, drunk off his gourd, wearing nothing but apple pancakes and giggling while trying to eat the ones on his chest by popping his pecs to slide them to his mouth. He is also covered in syrup.

Sephiroth says "Pumpkin soup."

Zack looks at him funny.

"Seph, buddy, that's not a breakfast food. Or unhealthy. Or really something to feel guilty about???"

"It is what I dreamt my mother would feed me, and That Man has always criticized me for thinking of Mother, saying she abandoned me by her pathetic death and that she was a weak-minded, feeble-bodied vessel. Sometimes I wonder in my irrational mind that if she ate pumpkin soup, perhaps that led to her demise. I strive not to feel guilty, but small comforts such as warm, non-optimized soups were not introduced to my diet until I required training for the public eye, so I find the task difficult."

"Buddy..."

Zack says "I don't feel guilty at all! Food is fuel!!!"

Cloud says "You should," and plays a slideshow...

* Zack pouring a bag of salt water taffy into his mouth. No, he did not take the wax paper wrappers off first.

* Zack buried face-first in a bag of marshmallows, seconds before accidentally suctioning the bag to his face and requiring help to escape suffocation.

* Angeal performing the Heimlich maneuver to eject the absolutely massive candy cane he was trying to swallow whole.

* Zack pouring syrup on spaghetti noodles.

* Zack posing with a peace sign and his tongue out with the caption "gonna get some MEAT!" in front of a literal 10 gallon (clean) trash can full of bacon.

* Zack groaning on the floor next to the empty trash can, clutching his stomach.

Angeal: "You really should."

Genesis: "Puppy, you need Help."

Sephiroth: "Please share next time, that looks delicious."

Cloud doesn't say anything. It's his business, not yours.

Angeal sobs over a slideshow in the background:

* Cloud powering through choking down cafeteria slop.

* Cloud eating a single piece of jerky and calling that "breakfast".

* Cloud drinking straight from a jug of expired milk and calling that "breakfast". He is lactose intolerant.

* Cloud passed out during training because he forgot to eat and/or is having bowel issues.

The Turks all look at each other with wiggly eyebrows and winky faces.

Reno: "I don't feel guilty about slurping down Rude's d-"

Tseng places a laptop on the desk and starts his slideshow.

* Reno eating strawberries and cream in the most suggestive way possible (don't ask).

* Rude, across the table from Reno, making eye contact and eating a banana in the most suggestive way possible (don't ask, it is worse than you think).

* Cissnei suggestively drinking syrup straight from the bottle (ask at your own peril, she is armed)

* Knives suggestively burying their face in a crepe (they want you to ask, it's safer not to).

* Elena eating a disgusting, giant stack of pancakes absolutely covered in whipped cream/chocolate sauce/fruit/sprinkles/candy/ice cream?!/cheese/jam/macarons/etc. There is absolutely nothing suggestive, alluring, or appealing about the way she's eating.

Vincent appears out of nowhere and holds up a picture so only Tseng and Rufus can see it. Rufus turns the color of a tomato for a split second and Tseng gulps nervously and closes his slideshow. Vincent disappears.

Vincent: "I accidentally ate a spider once. Sigh. It is what I deserve for my sins. Sigh."

[averixus]

I made shoes!

I started with soles from sneakerkit (they're not paying me). They come with stitch holes pre-marked, and the website has downloadable patterns/templates for the uppers with the stitch holes marked which makes all the assembly easy.

I wanted converse clones so I started with the "classic 3 in 1" design and adjusted it a bit. I made the ankles a bit higher (although not higher enough, in retrospect). And made the tongue piece extend further along the foot so that it overlaps the side piece without risk of gaps.

The examples on their website are all with single-layer leather, but I used two layers of canvas for each piece. Sew right sides together, grade seams, flip, and topstitch to secure.

Followed by a frankly unnecessary amount of extra top stitching.

I used Prym vario pliers to punch the holes and add the eyelets. It was physically quite hard work, but not complicated (and very satisfying).

I'm pleased with myself for remembering to wash the chalk marks off before I started assembling them with the soles.

I poked holes through the stitch marks on my paper pattern pieces, then used them as a template to mark pen dots on the fabric. I did the same on both sides so that I could easily see what I was stitching from both directions, but because the fabric pieces had strayed a bit from the pattern shape during assembly the dots ended up a few mm misaligned in some places. It seemed to work out fine though.

Assembly was a simple running stitch going all the way around the sole, and then back again to complete the stitch, using thick waxed cotton thread and a giant needle. The hardest parts were sewing through the tongue and side pieces together where they overlapped, and getting the needle through from the inside at the very end of the toe.

I was too scared to burn the ends of the thread even though that's apparently the proper way, so I just tied them off and tucked the ends back through a stitch.

Just add laces!

The stitching and raw edges are exposed on the inside with no lining, but the insoles pretty much cover up the actual raw edges so hopefully that will stop too much fraying. I could have turned in the bottom edges and topstitched them down to make it more secure but I didn't want it to be too lumpy inside the shoe.

Some more close-ups:

It was so scary trying them on, because they're such a complicated 3D shape there is absolutely no possible way to tell whether they'll fit until they're 100% assembled. But they do!

There's a couple of tweaks I'd make for next time though. Although I brought the ankle up a bit higher, it still wasn't as high as I like it. And I didn't bring the tongue up enough so the laces knot sits right at the top edge of the tongue instead of comfortable in front of it.

I also don't like how many eyelets there are. I just went with the sneakerkit template and used eight, but I realised afterwards that converse high tops only have seven, and the ankle goes up higher. They just seem unnecessarily closely packed to me.

Plus, the heel shape is a bit off. The sneakerkit recommended pattern has the pieces joined along the top of the heel, and then notched at the bottom to allow them to splay out, with the notch hidden under the tab sticking up from the back of the sole. But it was hard to get the angle of the pieces just right along the join, and the heel has ended up with too sharp an inward angle which doesn't feel quite right. Next time I'll try the converse construction style, with the sides as two separate pieces, and a strip down the back covering the seam.

If these end up too uncomfortable I might just cut a slit down the back, let it out, and cover it with a strip. Or disassemble them completely and try again with the two-piece construction method - because even though all the top stitching was laborious, they use such a tiny amount of fabric that I have loads leftover.

This is the closest I've ever come to Just Following A Pattern - because it was the only way to get the stitch template that matched the sole. And basically I've learned that I was right all along to mistrust patterns and I will always end up with something I like more if I draft it from scratch. Good to know for sure!

[slippinmickeys]

Familiar (31/?)

Dana sat cross-legged in the ruined farmstead, the book open in her lap. Morning light filtered over the tumbledown walls, turning the worn pages gold. Her breath clouded in the cool air. Though she had wrapped herself in her cloak, the chill still clung to her limbs.

She turned to the page again.

A Spell to Heal Your Familiar.

The letters shimmered faintly, as though they were carved from something living. Beneath them, the instructions were written clearly—ingredients, actions, incantation. Simple. Straightforward.

But it wasn’t, was it? She scanned the list of herbs, noting that they needed to be dried. She’d have to hope the apothecary in town carried them. Her gaze lingered on the final instructions: a drop of your blood. The spoken words.

She frowned. Do I say the words as I drop the blood in? Or after? The spellbook didn’t explain. It wasn’t a teacher—it didn’t offer guidance or reassurance. It simply showed her what could be done. The rest was up to her.

With a sigh, she closed the book and slid it into her satchel. She needed the herbs.

***

The apothecary shop sat at the edge of the village, tucked behind the tavern like an afterthought. Its faded sign swung on rusted hooks, creaking softly in a breeze that followed her through the door. The scent that wafted upon her was unmistakable—clove and thyme, sage and lavender, dried orange peel and bitter bark. The fragrance curled around her, so bright and sharp she wanted to sneeze.

Inside, the shop was narrow and dim, lit by a single high window and the glow of banked coals in the hearth. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with glass bottles and clay jars, paper-wrapped bundles, and little sachets tied with twine. Bundles of herbs hung from cords strung across the upper beams, their crisp, brittle leaves hanging silent and still. The air shimmered faintly with suspended dust motes and the scent of a dozen conflicting remedies.

Behind the worn wooden counter, an older man looked up from sorting dried roots into a brass scale. His face was lined but not unkind, framed by graying hair tied at the nape. His eyes, rheumy as a silty puddle, followed her as she stepped inside, as she rove her gaze over the wondrous space. She had never seen anything like it.

"Help you?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Dana had to pull her attention forward. She’d memorized the ingredients from the spell book, and spoke them aloud as if conjuring them from the air herself. 

He listened, squinting at her careful list. "Unusual blend. Are you a healer?"

She hesitated. Her mouth went dry. "Something like that."

He looked up, intrigued. "You’re not from here."

"Just passing through."

"Mm. Most who pass through only want willow bark and bitters. You’ve got half a hedgewitch’s pantry here."

Dana gave a small, tight smile. "It’s for someone else. He’s—injured."

The man nodded slowly, eyes scanning her face with more interest than suspicion. "They’ll need to be dried, I take it?"

"Yes. And ground, if that’s possible. I don’t have a mortar and pestle."

"I can do that. Do you have a vessel for mixing?”

She hadn’t considered this. She hadn’t considered a lot.

He gave her a sympathetic look.

"There’s a woodcarver down the lane," he said. "You can get something from him."

She nodded and the man set to work. She watched him move through the rows of jars with methodical ease, selecting each herb, measuring and placing them into a shallow clay dish. When everything had been weighed and dried, he wrapped the components in waxed parchment and tied them with twine.

***

Dana found a bowl—a small thing, well-sanded and rubbed with tallow—at the woodworkers stall. It fit neatly into the palms of her hands. She paid for it, shoved it into her satchel next to the herbs and hurried back to the ruins of the old barn, looking behind her to see if she’d been followed. There wasn’t a soul wandering about. 

The wind had picked up. She retrieved the bow and set it down with care, then unwrapped her parcels, and placed the spellbook beside them. They looked paltry sitting there on the weedy floor of the ruined barn. There was nothing magical about them. What sat before her was simple and homey. Dull. Ordinary.

How was she meant do this? she wondered. Did you need an altar? Were candles to be lit? 

She imagined an old crone in a hovel with a dank mushroom cap for a roof, a steaming cauldron, a bubbling green mass. Noxious fumes, incantations in a foreign tongue.

She began to question what she was even doing. She felt foolish. Clumsy as a newborn fawn. She wasn’t a witch. She was an orphan, a goat’s milkmaid, a young woman with no family and no home. 

The thick page of the open spell book fluttered in the breeze that swirled through the crumbling walls. The script on the page before her faded for a moment, reverting back to a hand drawn picture of nightshade. 

She froze, her stomach dropping low in her belly. An image flashed before her eyes of Fox lying prone on a clump of cold earth, a wizened man with a staff in one hand, a raven perched on his shoulder. A black viper was wending its way toward Fox’s leg–the same leg he clutched, white-knuckled, in pain. 

If she failed him, if she failed at this, she could lose him. The only person she had left in the world. The only person she—

She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened them, the spell shimmered back on the page, though the ink looked as though it had faded. 

It was time to begin. Before it was too late. 

She took a handful of healing herbs—yarrow, comfrey, mallow root—and crushed them together with her fingers, murmuring what she knew of their uses. She remembered what Mildred taught her: what soothes pain, what knits bone. The spell at least made sense from an alchemical standpoint.

She scattered them in the bowl, raised her fingers to her nose and inhaled the sharp scent, letting the smell ground her. Then she pulled a strand of Fox’s hair–wiry and short–from the wool blanket he’d liberated from the monastery. Next, she pricked her fingertip with the tip of Bite’s blade and let a single drop of blood fall onto the crushed herbs.

Licking her lips, she read the incantation:

From root to vein, from sky to stone,By blood and bond, not flesh alone,Mend what’s torn, restore what’s true,My will, my heart—I give to you.

The first time, the herbs scattered on a gust of wind, the piece of Fox’s hair threatening to lift away as well. The words, whispered, tumbled out of her mouth in a litany, as if she were a nervous priest giving his first sermon, rattling it off without breath. She pricked her finger and added the drop of blood, but felt nothing.

And nothing was what happened. 

She sighed, and tried again.

This time, her voice faltered midway through the incantation. Her thoughts wandered. Her finger stung from being pricked again.

A third time. Still no warmth. No shift. No sense that anything was reaching across the bond between her and Fox. Her frustration flared. Her eyes burned.

It won’t work if you don’t believe.

The words were not hers. Not even written in the book—yet she felt them, as though the book itself had whispered.

She stilled.

Fox. She thought of his face, drawn in pain. His body curled somewhere far away, fighting. She thought of the way he’d looked at her from across a fire, across a pillow, across the rushing river as it pulled him away. She thought of the way he fought to stay at her side. The way she knew—just knew—that he was still holding on.

Dana closed her eyes. She was almost out of the herbs she’d bought from the apothecary, her finger burned, reticent to yield more of her lifesblood. If she was going to succeed, if she was going to heal him, she had one last chance. And she needed to do it now. 

She gathered the last of the herbs. 

One last drop of blood. Heard Fox’s voice: “Some truths don’t need memory. They come through the blood.” Heat flared in her chest. The bowl was steady in her hands. She muttered the words—not just speaking them, but meaning them.

Her fingertips tingled and a flash of something zipped through her veins. Light—not from the sun, but from within—rose behind her eyes.

The spell took. A blazing zing across the bond, her power flowed from her and through to him, connecting them in a way that she could feel deep in her chest. She could feel it, knew it the way she knew her own heartbeat.

And somewhere far away, Fox would feel it too.

Dana sank back on her heels. The bowl before her was empty. The light within her had faded. But her magic had answered. However briefly.

She sat for a long moment, breath shallow, heart still racing. She felt as though she’d unlocked the door to Paradise and had been allowed a single moment to look through the crack before the door slammed shut. 

She looked down.

Bite lay beside her, its steel catching the afternoon light. The rune etched into the blade still shimmered faintly—North.

Her fingers reached out, brushing the hilt. She turned the blade slowly in her hands, needing to feel the grounding presence of something solid. 

But on the other side, something had changed.

Not carved. Not etched.

Unveiled.

A single word, drawn from the runes and rendered into meaning. 

Look.

Dana exhaled slowly.

Not a direction. A command. 

Look.

[runa-falls]

Hi Em😌❤️

for your celebration: Miguel+ "Ten? I only need five."

and congrats on all the milestones you've achieved so far😌❤️❤️❤️

HI BABY!!! thanks for joining in on the celebration!

context: ceo!miguel x assistant!reader before an important meeting

cw: making out, suggestive

---

the closet is cramped, made only for a couple of brooms, a shelf of cleaning products, and a tiny desk, but some how you both fit.

you don't even know how you got here.

just a second ago, you were walking to the main conference room on the top floor, following just a few feet behind mr. o'hara.

per usual, you were going over the main points of his presentation and the people that will be attending so he could get a good idea of the investors he'll be persuading for money.

you were yanked to the side before you could reach the elevator and pulled into a dark closet. your papers went everywhere, scattering across the waxed marble floors of the office. what a mess.

and you were forced to leave it out there because as soon as you were snatched away, you were trapped inside the tiny room. you could barely even let out a yelp before a soft pair of lips covered yours.

spiced cologne fills your space as he pushes closer, pinning you to the door. you try to push him away, your small hand against his broad chest.

his suit is going to wrinkle, you think. and my lipstick, he'll be wearing it soon.

"sir--" his hands squeeze at your waist.

"mm...i love it when you call me that"

your voice remains low but it's urgent, "please!"

"don't worry baby, we'll get there."

"no, that's not--you have to present soon," you struggle to pull your hand up with the little space he's allowing, but you manage and check your watch, "we only have ten minutes!"

“ten?" he buries his face into the crook of your neck, biting teasingly at the sensitive skin, "i only need five.”

[nobody-nexus]

Even More TADC Incorrect Quotes

(Will Contain Buttonblossom and Abstrabbit)

Caine: Aren’t you going to say “have a nice day?” Kaufmo: I don’t care if you have a pulse, much less a nice day.

===

Queenie: It’s Pride Month, you know what that means! Pomni: I get to eat as many Skittles as I want? Queenie: What? No! What has Jax been telling you? Jax, pouring Skittles into his mouth: Taste the rainbow, bitch

===

Ragatha: The odds of this happening by coincidence are vanishingly small Gangle: I would say infinitesimally Caine: And I'd say teeny-weeny! We all know words!

===

Ragatha: So, you lied to me? Jax: That depends on how you define lying Ragatha: Well, I define it as not telling the truth. How do you define it? Jax: Um, reclining your body in a horizontal position?

===

Ragatha: You are an absolute dork Pomni, singing: Yeah, but I'm your dork! Ragatha: sighs Yeah, you're my dork

===

Kinger, on the phone: I better go…kay, call me later… byeeee! Queenie: Friend of yours? Kinger: Nope, wrong number Queenie: ???

===

Jax: A fistfight CAN be romantic

===

Caine, dramatically: They called me a fool! Pomni, sick of Caine's shit: They weren’t wrong.

===

Jax: Remember that time you dared me to lick a swingset? Zooble: No, I said "Jax, don't lick that swingset" and you said "Don't tell me what to do" and licked the swingset

===

Kaufmo: Pomni, you were so wasted last night Pomni: I wasn't that drunk! Kaufmo: …You called a taxi home Pomni: Yeah! It's called being responsible! Kaufmo: The party was at your house Pomni: ...SHIT

===

Ragatha: You were stabbed. Do you remember anything? Kinger: Only the ambulance ride to the hospital Ragatha: That wasn't an ambulance, I drove you Kinger: But I heard a siren Zooble: That was Pomni Pomni: Sorry, I got nervous

===

Gangle: I’m terrible at expressing myself Caine: Don’t worry, actions speak louder than words! Gangle: Yes, but my actions are also bad

===

Gangle: I'm going to ask you to be respectful Zooble: I will "politely" decline

===

Queenie: Do you guys hear something? Kaufmo: I hear the sound of you shutting the fuck up

===

Jax: If I was married to you, I would put poison in your coffee Zooble: If I was married to you, I’d drink it They kiss afterwards

===

Kinger: finds half a watermelon at Whole Foods Kinger, holding it up for everyone to see: LIES!

===

Zooble: Thanks for opening my message and not responding Caine: All good Zooble, any time! Zooble: Fuck you.

===

Jax: I’m 80% awesome 20% water and 100% handsome Queenie: That’s 200%. Jax: I’m twice the person anyone’ll ever be

===

Ragatha: Pomni… you've been cuddling with me for over and hour now Pomni: muffled mm hmmm :) Ragatha: ......I should be annoyed but you're adorable

===

Jax: My head hurts Ragatha: That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity

===

Pomni: If I were a drink, I'd be Cherry Vanilla Coke. If you were a drink, what would you be? Jax, being a lil shit: Bleach Zooble, genuinely: Sewage Pomni: …Please calm down, edgelords

===

Pomni: That’s illegal, right? Queenie: Why do you care? Are you a fucking cop? Pomni: No- Queenie: Then shut the fuck up.

===

Kaufmo, to Zooble: You drink too much, swear too much, and your morals are highly questionable. Zooble: … Kaufmo: You are everything I’ve ever wanted in a best friend

===

Kinger, texting Caine: Caine! Help I'm being kidnapped! Caine: Where are you? Kinger: I'm with some strange person. In a car. Help. Caine: I'll call Ragatha! Ragatha, answering their cell: Y'ello? Caine: Where's Kinger? They texted me that they were being kidnapped! Ragatha: Ragatha? Whaddya mean, they're right next to me- Ragatha: Ragatha: I'll call you back. Hangs up Ragatha: MY NEW HAIRCUT LOOKS FINE! Kinger: WHO ARE YOU!?

===

Gangle: Guess who just found out the difference between wax paper and parchment paper the hard way? Ragatha: Wait, what’s the difference? Gangle: One you can use in the oven safely, and the other you can also use in the oven… if the thing you are trying to make happens to be fire.

===

Pomni to Bubble: Me? I'm the bee knees, but, you? You're just… Kaufmo: Cockroach ankles! Pomni: Ye- uh, what?

===

Gangle: The saying “it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission” no longer applies to Jax

===

Kinger: It’s time to turn this into a real business Ragatha: What do you mean? Like, carry a briefcase, and wear a tie, and pay taxes? Zooble: Wait, have you not been paying your taxes? Pomni: I handle our accounting

===

At a bank teller window Queenie, in a bad Italian accent: I'd like-a to make-a da deposit! Caine: HEY BUDDY, WAIT, I REMEMBER YOU! Queenie: Frantically pours marinara sauce into the vacuum tube Caine: GODDAMMIT, IT'S THEM AGAIN!

===

Jax: What does “take out” mean? Bubble: Food. Kinger: Dating. Queenie: Murder. Pomni: It can be all three if you’re not a fucking coward

===

Gangle: Ragatha! I thought you were dead! Ragatha: No, just in deep cover Gangle: …But it was an open casket Ragatha: It was very deep

===

Ragatha: Synonyms are weird because if you invite someone to your cottage in the forest, that just sounds nice and cozy. But if I invite you to my cabin in the woods you’re going to die Gangle: My favorite is explaining the difference between a butt dial and a booty call Pomni: It’s called connotations Jax: Try this one on for size, “Forgive me, Father, I have sinned” vs “Sorry, Daddy, I’ve been naughty" Caine: Great news! Language is now banned!

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Bubble: Kill him. Kaufmo: This is the kind of quality advice I look for

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Jax: The only thing keeping me from running away and hiding from society for the rest of my life is spite. I could disappear forever, but there are some bitches whose downfalls I have yet to witness, and I wanna be around when that happens

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Caine: That sounds super! Doesn’t that sound super, Pomni? Pomni: No Caine: I think I speak for Pomni when I say it sounds really super

[underthetree845]

Underneath the tree (You're all that I need)

Armin/gn! Reader (drabble/oneshot)

Cws: gn! reader, established relationship, christmas tradition, decorating the tree, childhood memories, implied modern au, tender moments, fluff

About 1.1k words

Summary: Just a sweet drabble of Armin and Reader decorating the tree for Christmas together <3 Armin being a really sweet boyfriend.

A/n: I hope all you lovlies can have a good holiday/winter season! And here is @/estrelinha-s requested credit for the second set of Christmas dividers ^^

The faint crackling of a woodwick candle on the coffee table. Wax a deep maroon, scented cinnamon, the faint glow of the flame matching those of lights wrapped around the tree. Each little bulb twinkling as if to the rhythm of a heart, not so different from the stars outside that hang lithely above a blanket of fresh snow. Tilting your head, you slipped the ribbon of another ornament onto another branch, jumping slightly when a pair of warm arms encircled you from behind. You immediately relaxed, that familiar warmth creeping into your chest, similar to the one enveloping the room with a gentle glow. 

“I made us some tea, Angel,” the blonde boy mumbled, resting his chin on the crook of your neck with a dreamy pair of eyes. “Thank you Armin,” you cooed in response, shifting to place your hand on his cheek and plant your lips on the other, lingering for a moment before moving over to approach the two steaming mugs on the coffee table. Armin smiled softly and knelt down to pick up his cup again, blowing on it with care. “Careful to not burn yourself,” he told you with a light breath as you picked up the tea, “I just made it, so it’s kind of hot.” You nodded slightly, allowing your breath to pass over the drink for a moment before sipping the warm liquid down your throat. It formed a comforting heat in the pit of your stomach. “Mm, Love, did you make my favorite?” you hummed softly, noting the way a small grin tugged on Armin’s lips. “Maybe,” he replied, lowering the mug from his face, “Do you like it? I tried to make it the way you prefer.” “I don’t like it,” you started, noticing the beginning of a pout on your boyfriend’s lips, “I love it.” Your smile was warm, the soft lights from the tree illuminating you so perfectly; Armin couldn’t help but blush. 

“How far did you get with the ornaments while I was gone?” he asked, glancing over at the tree. “I’m almost done, I’ve just got one box left,” you replied, standing up again and pulling Armin along with you by the hand. “Which box?” he inquired as you turned to grab it from the floor. Taking it from you curiously, he opened the lid and you saw a million different emotions flash through his eyes. “Oh,” Armin breathed, “this box.” 

The first ornament was one made from a pinecone. Two clay arms jutted out unevenly from either side, a pair of googly eyes hot glued to the front. A red scarf (a few pieces of yarn) ran around the neck, and a bent paperclip had been forced through one of the seed pods on the top to function as a hook. Armin ran his thumb over the toy ornament fondly. “God I remember this,” the boy didn’t trust his voice any louder than a whisper. The corners of his lips crinkled into a smile. A tender one, the one he always made before he was about to cry. “Oh Sweetheart, come here,” you beckoned him softly. Armin barely took a step forward before being swallowed in your embrace; his chest rising and falling shakily. Your fingertips dragged up and down his spine, soon his breathing turned steady and he pulled back from the hug, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye. 

Armin held the memory of his parent’s last Christmas with him delicately as he hung it from a branch of evergreen near the top of the tree. 

A few childhood ornaments and paper snowflakes later, you came across a memory that made you giggle.

A distorted snowman-shaped ornament, its coat of paint shiny under the lights of the tree. Cracks in the white glass that had long since been mended by a bottle of super glue and two tiny pairs of hands. You still remember what the ornament sounded like when it shattered. The way you and Eren scrambled to pick up the pieces and carry them upstairs.  Thankfully there weren’t many, the snowman had broken into five main chunks. The frantic whispers and hushed panic when glue stuck to your hands. 

Your mother hadn’t noticed the newly odd shape of the ornament until January when the time came to pack everything away. Her eyes studied yours and Eren’s with suspicion, and it wasn’t until the following year when decorating the tree again that the two of you took responsibility for your mishap. By then it was a laughing matter, and a light scolding on how it’s better to tell the truth upfront to avoid further conflict. You settled the ornament deep inside a hollow in the tree branches, a place that ensured it would not fall again. The chair was held steady with a firm grip as you teetered on the edge to wiggle the star into its proper place. Twisted flakes of metal and glitter to reflect the lights; it was the housewarming gift Armin’s grandfather had crafted when he heard you and his grandson were moving in together. He even built the wire frame himself. Craftiness really did run in the family. There were five points; two slightly lopsided and one a little too short, but it was perfect in your eyes. The star smiled down at you and Armin as you admired the tree with a soft grin on each of your faces. 

You let out a sigh and fell back into the couch, half draping a red and white blanket over your body and beckoning the blonde boy closer. You tilted your head when he sprinted off to your shared bedroom and raised your eyebrows when he came back carrying a small box, neatly wrapped in your favorite color and bearing a pretty bow on top.  “You’ll get to open it soon enough, don’t worry,” he gave a small smile as he slid the gift beneath the branches and came to join you on the couch. He pulled the candy cane blanket over himself and snuggled his body close to yours, allowing his head to rest on your collarbone. You draped your arm over his shoulder and tangled your hand in his blonde locks. He listened serenely to the constant beating of your heart; a sound that had lulled him to sleep on more than one occasion. “You know, you still haven’t given me any clue as to what you want for Christmas,” you pointed out. Armin hummed as you began to run your fingers through his hair. “But I told you, I don’t really need anything,” he replied, and you sighed through your nose. “Yes I know,” he could hear the pout on your lips, “but I want to get you something. You’re special to me, you know that.” Armin shifted his head up to meet your eyes, the lights of the tree reflecting brilliantly in his blue irises. “Angel, you’re all that I need,” his voice was soft as he hugged you just a little bit tighter, “Promise.” 

A/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you sleep well tonight and can bundle up nice and cozy.

[plor-bindery]

And it’s done! Resources, lessons I learned, and me pointing out all my errors under the cut.

The boring bookbinding details:

Materials:

Text block is just folded long-grain 24 lb letter. I know, I know, grain direction. But short grain and ledger paper are both almost impossible to source in Canada. Ugh.

Sewed text block with three strands of cotton embroidery floss, waxed by moi. It’s blue! I thought that would be fun as a little Easter egg in the middle of each signature.

Bookcloth is wooqu off Amazon. Machine-made endbands.

Cover paper and end papers both nabbed at Paper Source when I was in DC earlier this month. The boob paper is too thin to work well as evidenced by the wrinkles over the mull. But it was cute and I think a fun/ny moment of surprise on opening the book.

Gold foil HTV covered up to protect friend’s ID. But it’s her monogram. Simple.

Process:

I made the typeset myself — 5 mm dot grid, no page numbers. There’s a customized name page at front and back too.

Used French link for the first time, and it was fine. I don’t think there’s a major structural difference between linen tapes and French link for a 240 page book; it feels roughly the same as any other text block on tapes I’ve made. It’s faster and less fiddly, though, so I might do it more.

I had some struggles with my guillotine, which I usually do. Still figuring it out; my cuts are often a little angled, particularly on the fore edge. (I welcome tips!!!)

My hinge gaps are 7 mm and functional but I should have cut the cover boards a little wider — the fore edge square is too small.

This is my second bind using 50/50 PVA and corn starch paste mix for most steps and I’m a convert. It’s just way less finicky than straight PVA and it’s easy AF to make. I only use straight PVA on the spine glueing now. Thanks, bookbinding course!

Half-binding is a whole thing. I like using decorative paper on a cover for a blank book, but I find it hard to do nice/neat transitions between cloth and paper. You can zoom in on the cover to enjoy those issues in detail.

This is a gift for a friend who’s agreed to be a guinea pig as I learn so she will be fine with the many imperfections. Even though this isn’t fanbinding, it has brought me a number of lessons I’ll use for that process!

ETA: one more change I forgot! I used 24-page/6-sheet signatures for this text block which — combined with the floss for sewing — was great for eliminating spine swell. I think I need to fatten up my signatures in general.

ETA2: Woke up in the middle of the night thinking “I wonder if the endpapers were the wrong grain” and yep, they sure are. What psychopath prints art paper long grain??? Anyway I couldn’t have avoided that because it would look ridiculous with the boobs going laterally but I do think the grain direction contributed to the issues casing in, as the paper stretched in the head to tail direction. Covers (which had the right grain direction!) also bowed head to tail slightly so that was another clue something was off.