#document laminators

[rosedubh]

I love turning my tumblr into a lil art gallery <3 have pretty stuff to go back and look at and have a list of contemporary artists that I can show my students

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA As di Oggi venerdì, 20 settembre 2024

[justprintoholics]

Bulk Lamination Service | Just Printoholics

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Whether you have a stack of important documents, marketing materials, or promotional posters, opting for bulk lamination ensures cost savings without compromising on the quality of protection. Just Printoholics understands the diverse needs of their clients and has curated a service that addresses these needs efficiently.

Cheap Custom Laminating Service in Delhi

In a city as dynamic as Delhi, where businesses thrive and individuals seek cost-effective solutions, the demand for affordable yet high-quality services is ever-present. Just Printoholics fills this gap with their cheap custom laminating service, making professional document protection accessible to all.

The affordability of Just Printoholics' bulk lamination service does not imply a compromise on quality. On the contrary, their commitment to excellence ensures that each laminated document retains its clarity, color vibrancy, and structural integrity. The cost-effectiveness is achieved through streamlined processes and efficient use of resources, allowing clients to enjoy the benefits of lamination without breaking the bank.

Printing Company in Naraina: Just Printoholics

Nestled in the heart of Naraina, Just Printoholics has earned its reputation as the go-to printing company in the locality. With a diverse range of services, including bulk lamination, they have become a trusted partner for businesses and individuals seeking top-notch printing solutions.

The strategic location of Just Printoholics in Naraina makes it convenient for businesses in the area to access their services promptly. As a local printing company, they understand the unique needs of the community and are committed to delivering services that exceed expectations.

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The bulk lamination service is a testament to this commitment, catering to businesses that require large quantities of documents, certificates, or promotional materials to be laminated efficiently. Just Printoholics' emphasis on quality, coupled with competitive pricing, positions them as a frontrunner in the quest for the best printing services in Delhi.

Exploring the Benefits of Bulk Lamination with Just Printoholics

Just Printoholics stands out not only for its affordability but also for the myriad benefits it offers through its bulk lamination service. The protective layer provided by lamination shields documents from moisture, stains, and physical damage, significantly extending their lifespan.

Moreover, laminated documents are easier to clean and maintain, making them ideal for long-term use. This is especially crucial for businesses that deal with frequently handled materials such as menus, price lists, or instructional guides. Just Printoholics understands the practical implications of lamination and has designed its service to cater to these specific needs.

[gojoest]

you always thought satoru’s most favorite thing in the world — right after you, of course — was sweets.

but you were wrong.

because according to him, it’s your marriage license.

not because he’s sentimental, no — that would be too normal for gojo saroru. it’s because, in his words “it literally says you’re mine. officially. legally. governmentally. cosmically.”

you stare at him from across the couch as he’s holding the document like it’s a national treasure.

“that’s not what it says” you deadpan.

satoru gasps as if you’ve just told him santa isn’t real. “excuse you? learn to read between the lines. use those pretty eyes i fell in love with. it says, and i quote: ‘this absolute angel is now property of one (1) extremely handsome sorcerer, forever and always.’”

“that’s definitely not what it says.”

“well, that’s what it means. same thing, bigger picture” he grins, tapping his temple like he’s unlocking a divine truth. “why else would i get it laminated and sleep with it under my pillow?”

“…you laminated it?”

“of course i did~ it’s my most prized possession. you think i’d risk coffee stains?”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

he pulls you into his arms like he’s claiming a lifetime supply of sugar, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “you may not see it” he whispers smugly “but this paper right here? it’s just the government confirming what i already knew the moment i met you.”

“oh yeah?” you lift an eyebrow. “and what’s that?”

he smirks. “that you’re stuck with me forever, mrs gojo.”

[identity2110]

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[megapteraurelia]

neighbour!kuroo who is sweating, thinking he's being so obvious pointing out all the flaws of the many apartment viewings that were booked for today.

the floorboards? looking moldy. electricity outlet? too badly placed for any proper interior design. no balcony. no door between kitchen and the rest of the flat. nope, no, nothing is good enough.

kuroo tries not to think that you didn't belong anywhere but with him at his place, even though his bathroom didn't have a window. only a vent that starts up way too loudly when he leaves the light on and takes so long to power down again.

neighbour!kuroo who drills the real estate agent like his life was on the line, asking for proof and physical evidence of everything the agent claims to say.

who gives out any bullshit excuse when you turn to him, eyebrow raised at the third agent that flips through his documents, trying to answer kuroo's detailled question about the insulation and the pipe laying.

who tries to hide a scowl when you placate the agent and tell him you don't care much about it, because he knows that he is being a big pain in the ass, but he can't let go of you.

even though you ask for it.

neighbour!kuroo who secretly pumps his fist into the air when the last interview didn't go the way you liked, because now he's secured you in his viccinity for another little while.

who feels guilty that the unconscious pout on your lips makes him happy, that the way you kick rocks away as you made your way down the street only makes him want to offer up his own home even more.

he catches up to you with his hands jammed into his pockets, pretending like he's not so painfully relieved to have you walk beside him again. the kind of relief that feels like coming up for air after holding his breath through every open house, every polite smile you gave to people showing you a future that doesn't include him.

"it's not that bad," he says, casually, like he didn't verbally decimate the poor real estate agent for mentioning laminate floors without acclimating them first.

you send him a glance, half-pout, half-unimpressed; the barest tug at the corner of your mouth, "you told the guy that the walls looked structurally insecure. at best, even."

he shrugs, eyes bright with mischief even though his stomach is knotted, "i'm just trying to save you from becoming one of those little piglets with their house all blown off. from that one story."

a laugh escapes you, and it was short, unexpected, the kind that makes his pulse stutter. the bustling of the streets accompany you down the blocks, knowing full well work is waiting on him to return to, but he kind of really doesn't want to. he wants nothing more than to stay here. in this moment. with you. not in a way that was his, still maybe halfway out the door, but still here.

neighbour!kuroo who can't help but blurt out, "you know you could just crash at mine a little longer, right?" like it hasn't been burning a hole in his throat the whole day. "i mean, until you find something you really like, of course."

despite the city being so very loud, he is met with silence, and his shirt feels a little too warm. he scratches at his collar. weird. he did check the weather report today, and it isn't supposed to be hot enough for him to start sweating like that—

then, with the same lightness he used, "only if you keep buying that cereal brand."

kuroo thinks his heart may grow wings and fly, hopeful and panicked all at once. he wants too much, too soon, maybe always has done so, and he tries to catch all the butterflies escaping, shove them deep down.

neighbour!kuroo who knows it's just temporary, that you still want your own place that's yours, and you're allowed to want that. but something deep inside him is happy that for now, he's able to walk you home.

and for now, that's enough.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5

TAGLIST | @takes1 @origamipivo @sailanne @classicalelephant

[paucubarsisimp]

heyyyyy❤️.

I love your imagines . Can I request a Lamine imagine where you guys are dating and you go to Coachella together and have a good time with the other Barca Boys and y’all are just lovey dovey 🤍.

Thank You

coachella

pairing: lamine yamal x reader

summary: in which you go to coachella with lamine and his friends

warnings: pda - a LOT of pda

you never thought you’d find yourself at coachella with five of barça’s brightest stars—and definitely not with one of them as your boyfriend. but here you were: sun on your skin, glitter in your hair, and lamine’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

the moment you stepped onto the festival grounds, it felt like something out of a movie. giant art sculptures towered over you, music pulsed from every direction, and the air smelled like sunscreen, dust, and something sweet you couldn’t quite place. you could barely take two steps without someone snapping a picture of the boys—though they tried to stay lowkey in hats and sunglasses, it was very hard to hide five gorgeous footballers.

lamine leaned in close. “wanna disappear from everyone for a bit?”

you smiled up at him, heart fluttering at how soft his voice got just for you. “only if you hold my hand the whole time.”

he grinned, that boyish sparkle in his eyes, and laced his fingers with yours.

you snuck off behind one of the main tents for a little quiet, only to be interrupted by pau calling out, “lamine! stop sneaking off for kisses, we see you!”

you giggled and tried to hide your face in lamine’s shoulder, but he didn’t care. he pulled you right in for a kiss anyway—slow and sweet, like the world around you had faded to silence. he rested his forehead against yours after. “they’re just jealous.”

“obviously,” you whispered, making him laugh.

back with the group, fermín had laid out a blanket near the ferris wheel and was attempting to build the world’s most chaotic picnic with random snacks from the vip lounge. “this is dinner,” he declared proudly, holding up a box of churros and an avocado.

pablo rolled his eyes. “that’s a crime against food.”

“i don’t see you doing anything,” fermín shot back.

meanwhile, héctor was on a mission to document every moment—camera in hand, climbing onto things he probably shouldn’t be climbing on for the perfect angles. he caught a candid of you and lamine dancing, and when he showed it to you later, you barely recognized yourself. you looked…happy. glowing. like the main character in a sun-drenched romance movie.

and lamine—he looked at you like he already knew that.

throughout the day, the two of you were basically attached at the hip. he kept stealing kisses when no one was looking—though honestly, sometimes when everyone was looking, too. at one point, he just straight-up pulled you into his lap during a set while pau complained, “can we go five minutes without pda?”

“no,” lamine said simply, and kissed your temple.

you ended up buying matching heart-shaped sunglasses, dancing together barefoot in the sand near one of the smaller stages, and slow-dancing to an acoustic set while the sun dipped low. the boys teased you both mercilessly, but not even pablo’s dramatic gagging noises could ruin the way lamine looked at you under the orange-pink sky.

later that night, when everything had cooled down and the desert air turned chilly, you all curled up on the big blanket again. fermín passed around hoodies (pablo grumbled about lending his to pau, but still did it), and lamine tucked you into his side, your legs tangled with his under the blanket.

“i know this sounds cheesy,” he said softly into your hair, “but this is kind of perfect.”

you tilted your head to look at him. “only kind of?”

“okay, really perfect.” he smiled, and in that moment, the lights of the ferris wheel reflecting in his eyes, he looked like everything good in the world.

you rested your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat mingling with the distant thrum of music and the quiet laughter of your friends. his hand found yours again under the blanket, fingers intertwined.

“i love you, you know?” he said, voice almost a whisper.

you smiled against him, heart full. “i know. i love you more.”

“impossible,” he whispered back.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[softlyfiercely]

my descent into crayon madness

okay so. i just spent the past week of my life doing almost nothing besides making crayons, because when you are making crayons, you cannot do anything else. i wish i had taken actual nice, before-and-after type photos documenting this project, but i didn't. instead my life descended into total chaos for a week while i made almost one thousand recycled crayons. i thought tumblr might enjoy this. under a cut (do you love the color of the crayon)

it started innocently enough. i am a youth and children's minister, and as part of the children's program materials, we have this big bin of crayons that are dull or broken, and as such, the children absolutely refuse to color with them. but it feels wasteful to throw out pounds upon pounds of crayons that would be perfectly usable if not for the fact that the kids broke them and then immediately went 'oh no, not the quencies' (for kids who are so anti-broken-crayon, you'd think they'd be a bit gentler with the unbroken ones. not so)

so i think, wouldn't it be neat if i melted them down and made new crayons with them? and i can give them out as part of the easter gift bags? that way the church spends no money on easter gifts and we deal with this huge bin of otherwise unusable crayons.

can't be too hard, right? a few years ago, we did a similar activity for trinity sunday as an object lesson on the trinity - but i didn't actually have a crayon shaped mold, so we used other silicone mold shapes, and the kid-made crayons came out cute as an illustration of the trinity but not that usable as, you know. crayons

it turns out, that in the wide world of etsy and other online marketplaces, there really aren't that many silicone crayon molds? i could really only find this one that makes chunky triangular crayons. sure. i ordered a set of two. each mold makes six crayons at a time. so i could make twelve crayons at a time.

i would later regret this choice.

so then i got the big bin of broken crayon bits. the first step was of course to peel the paper off. to do this, you soak the crayons in hot water.

did you know that if you take a bin of crayons that has been chillin in a children's program room for fucking decades, and you soak those fuckers in hot water, the water becomes...horrifying?

also, for some reason - any crayola chemists out there, please help me understand - green crayons do NOT like to peel. the paper comes right off the warm colors and the blacks and browns, but green is super resistant to getting naked, and blue and purple are rough too. ran out of green much faster than any other color, and had a bunch of leftover green bits that simply would not give up their paper wrappings.

so then you have a bunch of naked crayons, and a bunch of soggy crayon paper wrappers that you must dispose of. (this is more annoying that it seems.) also, peeling this many crayons with your hands will put crayon gunk residue under your fingernails, and since said gunk is designed to deposit color on things, it will be nearly impossible to get your hands to look remotely clean. i have been self conscious all week about my nails making me look like i haven't bathed in months

next, i decided to sort the crayons by color. if you do this AFTER you peel them, of course, it's hard to tell the blacks from the purples from the blues from the dark greys, so then you get to scribble on a bunch of scratch paper (ignore the scissors and laminating paper, that's from another children's ministry project)

now you have a bunch of sorted crayons. but if you want them to be all nice and swirly and make the most out of this whole recycled crayon deal, you must make them smaller. once a crayon is broken roughly in half, it's really hard to snap them smaller by hand.

enter...the chef's knife. i decided i should chop them up each on their own paper plate, to avoid cross-contamination of colors. but then of course that plate had to be on a cutting board, to avoid destruction of tabletops. i tried using a knife from our church kitchen so i wouldn't trash one of our nice sharp japanese knives from home, but my partner said it's easy enough to clean crayon off a knife and suggested we just use the good knife. here is a photo of him helping me chop crayons.

chopping up crayons with a chef's knife on a paper plate has the unfortunate effect of flinging tiny bits of crayon all over your house and clothes and table and floor. so now there are tiny crayon bits all over my house and clothes and table and floor.

here is a picture of the blues chopped up on a plate. (the stainless steel is from my church kitchen, back when i hilariously thought i could get this work done without letting it infiltrate every waking moment of my life)

and some chopped up red/pink bits in the moulds before going into the oven:

then.................the real trouble starts. you put the crayons in the oven at 270 degrees for 10 minutes. the bits get all melted and swirled up. cool! fun! right????

UNFORTUNATELY, this makes your ENTIRE house smell like melted crayons. this is not that big of a deal - it's not a very offensive smell - but, if you leave the crayons in for any longer than 10 minutes, or if you accidentally turn on the "convection" setting of the oven, YOU WILL FILL THE SPACE WITH CRAYON SCENTED SMOKE so don't do that

throughout this whole project, we had every fan and air purifier in the house running and every window open. my partner has been very patient with me turning our home into a crayon factory. he says hugging me is like opening a brand new box of 64 crayons and taking a whiff. all is crayon. crayon is all.

my whole house looked like this for a week. crayons. crayons everywhere. i was having dreams about crayons.

once the crayons are melted, you have to pull them out of the oven VERY carefully and evenly because sloshing and splashing liquid crayon is unhelpful. also, even if you put down aluminum foil or parchment paper on the baking tray, somehow it still will manage to get crayon wax all over it, so enjoy cleaning that off! (:

here are some melted purples after coming out of the oven. note how much wax has accumulated on the molds. if you think oh no, what if that gets into another color? well, it will. trying to pick or wipe or otherwise clean it off the moulds didn't go well. best bet is to just make the crayons in order of which colors are most likely to get ruined by the spillage or a fleck of another color into it.

sometimes when you pull them out of the oven, weird random chunks of crayon are not melted or sticking up. you can use a toothpick or piece of spaghetti pasta to try and resolve this. half the time this works. the other half it just kinda makes a bigger mess. party time!

now your crayons are out of the oven! yay! EXCEPT that now they need to cool off so you can take them out. you can't put them right into the fridge without splashing wax everywhere, so they need to cool at least enough to move them to the fridge for a few minutes. this takes about 20 minutes.

this became the bane of my existence. because if you want to get this done in any sort of timely fashion - which i did, so i could clean it up and stop living in a crayon factory, and also because these need to get done by easter - then you need to be cycling through batches as fast as you can, so you're on a cycle of 10 minutes in oven, 20 minutes cooling, peel out of the molds, refill the molds, 10 minutes in oven, rinse, repeat.

do you know how much Other Work you can get done in increments of 10 minutes and 20 minutes while keeping an eye on crayons? NOT MUCH. i'm also a writer who was trying to write, but 20 minutes is kind of the minimum length of time to get settled in to do deep work. and that 10 minutes when the crayons are in the oven, you really can't get distracted or into something else, lest you smoke yourself out with the rejected yankee candle fragrances Hideous Nightmares Of Sea Foam Green and Essence Of Tortured Brick Red

i did manage to do things like clear out my inbox, wash some dishes, etc. but mostly i found that while my brain was devoted to Attend To Crayon Cycle Timing, i wasn't getting much else done. i did catch up on some serious law and order back catalog, though.

my partner says this is sort of like when you are coding and your code has to compile, so your 'get work done' mode continues to be interrupted by these intervals of time that are too short to get much else done but not short enough that you can just sit down and grind out continuous work.

once i started to have enough completed crayons, though, i started being able to sort them out into little organza bags (also found in the depths of the children's program room). each bag has a red/pink, yellow/orange, green, blue, purple, brown, and black/grey crayon. that was satisfying, though a bit nerve wracking to figure out how to keep things sorted and stored without risking dropping and breaking any of the crayons.

since i'd decided to do black last and brown second to last due to color contamination concerns, i ended up with a bunch of open bags that had all been pre-filled with the other colors just chilling on my kitchen counter

but finally, after a week of basically just making crayons and killing time in-between crayon making, i had made over 850 crayons, divided up into over 120 individual bags. as we will not have 120 kids in attendance at easter, hopefully these can serve us for years to come, and by the time we one again have another huge bin of broken crayon bits, it will be some other poor sap's problem!

this is a finished set of crayons - ignore the greeny bits in the yellow and orange crayon, this is before i worked out the right order in which to make them, and also, there are just crayon bits everywhere. diversity is our strength

and this is the bin with most of the bags! this bin was previously full to the brim with crayon bits, and now it is full of cool, usable, recycled crayons. and i only lost a little bit of my sanity. whoo!

[vernyhore]

hello there! can I ask for some shen headcanons?

He actually goes to therapy, journals semi-regularly, and uses guided meditation apps (the calming British voice is his favorite). His locker has a laminated grounding exercise taped on the outside, and after some initial teasing, no one makes fun of it anymore — partly because it works, and partly because no one wants to admit they’ve used it after a bad case

His parents gave up a lot to build a life in the US, and he’s always felt the weight of needing to make that sacrifice mean something. He grew up translating everything from tax documents to medical bills as soon as he was old enough to read

He survived a mass shooting when he was in high school. He doesn’t talk about it — only a few people even know — but it shaped him deeply. He wasn’t injured, but he was locked in a classroom for hours, listening. The helplessness stuck with him. Medicine became a way to fight back against that helplessness, to make it so that in some small way, he could always do something.

Shen always has granola bars, ginger chews, and dried fruit slices stashed in his scrub pockets and has a habit of handing them to people who clearly need them. He doesn’t even ask — just walks up, hands one off, and says, “Eat something.” It’s gotten to the point where people joke that if you start spiraling, Shen will materialize out of thin air with a granola bar and all will be well

What started as a one-off bet with Ellis during a slow night shift turned into a full-on scoreboard that’s been taped to the back of the nurses' station whiteboard. Their bets range from “how many minutes until Walsh and Abbot start bickering” to “how many jellybeans fit in a specimen cup.” It's become part of the rhythm of the department. Frank pretends to be annoyed by it, but always ends up as a tiebreaker.

A god-tier Apex player with inhuman reflexes and aim. He once beat Ellis, Abbot, and Frank in a team deathmatch. They haven’t let it go and later discovered that he’s a minor celebrity in the gaming community, with entire Reddit threads dedicated to figuring out who the hell this guy even is.

He can quote entire scenes from The Two Towers and once gave Ellis a 10-minute lecture on Klingon honor codes during a night shift lull. He’s also really into Star Wars, especially the original trilogy, which he insists still holds up better than most modern sci-fi.

Shen is the person who catches the signs others miss. He notices when Ellis hasn’t taken a lunch break, when Abbot’s shoulders are tighter than usual, when Frank’s sarcasm is covering something sharp. He doesn’t confront — he adjusts. Hands off a snack, switches assignments without a word, gently redirects a conversation to take the weight off someone’s chest.

He’s good with kids. Not in a cutesy way, but in a respectful, chill, deeply non-patronizing way. Kids trust him almost instantly. He once sat on the ED floor for 45 minutes with a scared ten-year-old explaining what a CT scanner was by comparing it to the Millennium Falcon. The kid later named their hamster after him.

[cup1drul3z]

★ — stone and steel - ch 1

ᴍᴀꜰɪᴀ ʙᴏꜱꜱ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

CW : mafia, age gap, kiddnaping, drug use, underage drinking, age gap, read is 18, sevika is 38, toxic (?), reader does molly, mel is here

A/N : i orginally abandoned this fic but i decided to push through and finish it

"Come on, Sevika! Just a few drinks?" Jinx whined, practically hanging off Sevika’s shoulders like a restless child.

Sevika grunted, shoving her off with little effort. "I have work," she said flatly, rubbing her temples. "Some smugglers got caught up with Silco last night. Now I have to clean up their mess."

Jinx groaned dramatically, flopping backward against the desk with a huff. "Ugh, fine. But you’re missing out," she sing-songed, twirling a lock of blue hair around her finger. She leaned in with a mischievous smirk. "Invite's open if you change your minddddd—" she dragged out the last word before skipping toward the door. "Don't work yourself to death, grumpy."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Sevika in the dim glow of her desk lamp.

She sighed, rolling her shoulders before reaching for the cigar resting in the ashtray. The flame flickered as she lit it, the first inhale grounding her in a moment of quiet. The weight of responsibility pressed against her chest, but she couldn’t afford to slip—not now.

Her gaze dropped to the folder on her desk. Thick, worn edges from too many times flipping through it. She opened it again anyway.

A set of photos stared back at her. You.

A copy of your birth certificate. Documents detailing your life like an open book—where you lived, habits, routines, places you frequented. She somehow even got her hands on nudes. You weren’t just some random mark. You were his daughter. Silco’s.

Sevika exhaled, smoke curling in the air above her. The Veiled Eye had been a thorn in her side for too long, and this was the key. You were the key.

But as much as she hated to admit it, her interest wasn’t just strategic.

She traced a calloused finger over the corner of one of your photos. You didn’t look exactly like him, but the resemblance was there. Strong features, sharp eyes. Yet there was something else—something that made her hesitate.

Something that made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with business.

Sevika scowled and snapped the folder shut.

Shit.

This was supposed to be about leverage, about power. So why the hell was she so damn drawn to you?

She took another drag of her cigar, exhaling slowly.

Maybe a drink wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

You brought the vape to your lips, inhaling deeply, the burn trailing down your throat before you exhaled a slow cloud of smoke.

"Hey, so like… your dad isn’t gonna kill me for doing this, right?" Mel asked, shimmying into her dress—a white and gold sparkly number that hugged her just right.

You sighed, turning away from your vanity mirror to shoot her a look over your shoulder. "Mel, if you keep asking that, I’m gonna kill myself," you deadpanned, blowing out another stream of vapor as you spoke.

She giggled, rolling her eyes. "Whatever. Do you have the fake IDs?"

Walking over, she leaned down, resting her chin on your shoulder as you reached into the vanity drawer. Underneath a mess of half-used makeup products, you fished out two laminated cards and handed hers over.

"Oh, shit," she snickered, flipping it between her fingers. "I look hot."

You smirked, dabbing contour along the bridge of your nose. "Obviously."

Mel watched you for a second before grabbing a brush and blending the lines with expert precision. "Okay, you need to blend—there, perfect," she said, admiring her work.

You grinned, tilting your head from side to side in the mirror. "Damn, I’m so cute."

Mel huffed a laugh, bumping her hip against yours. "Yeah, yeah. Now let’s go before I start overthinking this whole 'pissing off your crime-lord father' thing again."

Jinx giggled as Ekko’s hands settled at her waist, pulling her closer until her back pressed against his chest. The bass of the music thumped through the club, matching the slow sway of their hips. They needed this—needed to be together, even if it was in the middle of a crowd.

Sevika had been harsher than usual the past week, and it was putting a strain on both of them. A month of no progress on you had made her temper even worse, and she took it out on everyone. The tension had started creeping into their relationship, weighing on them like a storm cloud.

Jinx tilted her head as Ekko buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. Her fingers traced the back of his neck absentmindedly, grounding herself in his touch. The music shifted, the rhythm growing faster, the crowd getting more restless. She turned in his arms, pressing her lips near his ear.

“Let’s go sit at the bar,” she whispered.

Ekko nodded, and without another word, she grabbed his hand, weaving through the mass of bodies until they reached the counter.

She leaned against it, tapping her nails on the surface. “Can I get a margarita?”

The bartender nodded, then glanced at Ekko for his order.

“A Bloody Mary, please.” His hand never left Jinx’s hip, fingers drumming lazily against the fabric of her dress.

Jinx turned toward him, ready to make some snide remark, when a voice cut through the noise—smooth, effortless, and way too familiar.

“Can I have a Mai Tai?”

Jinx froze.

Her body stiffened, fingers tightening around Ekko’s arm as if to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. The voice—your voice—was one she’d heard countless times on recordings. She’d studied it so much she could pick it out in an instant. And now, here it was, right next to her.

Almost comically, Jinx turned her head.

And there you were.

Leaning against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, looking effortlessly stunning in a midnight blue bodycon dress. It clung to you in all the right places, long sleeves adding an elegant touch, while just enough cleavage peeked out to make Jinx’s brain short-circuit.

She must’ve been staring too long because your eyes met hers, curiosity flickering across your face.

“Uh… can I help you?” you asked, raising a brow.

Jinx stammered, forcing a smile. “Sorry—I, uh—I just really love your dress.”

She squeezed Ekko’s bicep—hard. He understood immediately. Without hesitation, he slipped away into the crowd, already pulling out his phone.

You grinned, completely oblivious. “Thanks! I got it at this little boutique downtown. I think it was Audrey’s or something?” You giggled, accepting your drink from the bartender.

Jinx nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah! I’ve been there. Love their shoes.” She was stalling.

Across the club, Ekko was already halfway to the exit, Sevika’s contact pulled up.

The phone barely rang once before she picked up. “What?” Her voice was already irritated.

Ekko didn’t bother with pleasantries. “She’s here.”

A pause. Then, a sharp, “What?”

“That chick you’ve been stalking! She’s here, at the club!” He had to yell over the music.

On the other end, Sevika went silent. Then—“Are you fucking with me?”

Ekko rolled his eyes. “No, dude. Just—just get here. Now. Jinx is stalling her!”

He hung up before she could respond, shoving his phone into his pocket as he made his way back to the bar.

Meanwhile, Jinx was doing everything she could to keep you from leaving.

“Oh, yeah, and they just got this new—uh, limited-edition collection—”

You gave her a polite smile, shifting your weight. “Right, well, it was nice meeting you, but—”

“Jesus Christ, what’s taking so long?”

Mel.

You turned just as your best friend appeared at your side, looking mildly annoyed—until she caught sight of Jinx.

Her expression faltered, eyes flickering with recognition. “Oh.”

Jinx went rigid.

Mel’s fingers wrapped around your wrist. “Okay, lady, we’re gonna go—”

You groaned, laughing as she pulled you away. “Mel! That was so rude!”

Jinx barely heard you. Her heart was still racing.

Ekko reappeared at her side, watching you disappear into the crowd. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“That was Ambessa’s daughter, wasn’t it?” he muttered.

Jinx swallowed hard, still staring after you.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And she had no idea what the hell to do next.

Jinx and Ekko searched the club, pushing past sweaty bodies and scanning every darkened corner, but you were nowhere to be found. By the time Sevika arrived, they had nothing to show for it except frustration.

"You lost her?" Sevika's voice was sharp, barely restrained.

Jinx crossed her arms. "It’s not like she was on a damn leash, Sev," she muttered, avoiding the older woman’s glare.

But before Sevika could tear into them, Ekko hesitantly spoke up. "There's something else."

Sevika turned to him, eyes narrowing. "What?"

Ekko exchanged a glance with Jinx before saying, "Mel Medarda—she was with her."

Sevika stilled, her expression flipping like a switch. Mel. Ambessa Medarda’s daughter.

Jinx watched as realization set in, as frustration twisted into something more calculated. Sevika wasn’t just after you because of Silco—she was trying to dismantle his empire, and if Ambessa's daughter was tangled up in this, that changed things.

The next day, Sevika found herself on a tense phone call with Ambessa Medarda herself.

"Does your daughter know what you really do?" Sevika asked, voice edged with suspicion.

There was silence on the other end at first. Then, Ambessa scoffed, her tone guarded. "Why do you care?"

Sevika leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming on the desk beside your file. "Because if she does, that makes things… complicated."

Another pause. Then, a begrudging admission. "Mel doesn’t know. She stays out of my affairs."

Sevika exhaled slowly. That was something, at least. If Mel was in the dark, that meant Sevika's own organization—the Iron Fangs—was safe from her meddling. And more importantly, it meant you wouldn’t get any inside information to pass back to Silco.

"Good," Sevika muttered before hanging up.

She let the phone drop onto the desk, rubbing her temples. This is getting us nowhere, she thought, frustration mounting. It had been over a month, and they were no closer to using you against Silco.

Before she could spiral further, the door swung open.

Violet and Caitlyn Kiramman stepped inside, followed closely by Jinx and Ekko.

"We couldn’t find her in any of the places you told us," Caitlyn said, her voice cautious.

Sevika’s glare snapped to her. "How do I know you two weren’t off making out instead of doing your damn job?" she asked, her tone laced with poison.

Caitlyn’s face flushed, but before she could respond, Violet stepped forward, jaw tight. "Don’t talk to her like that."

Jinx sighed, already seeing where this was going, and quickly tugged Violet back. "Alright, relax, both of you." She shot Sevika a look before turning to the desk. "We bribed one of her friends, and she mentioned a bunch of their friends were going to the State Festival on Saturday."

Sevika raised an eyebrow. "And you think she’ll be there?"

Jinx shrugged. "It’s a lead, isn’t it?" She pulled a folded flyer from her pocket and slapped it onto Sevika’s desk. The bold, colorful letters read: Annual State Festival – Music, Drinks, & More!

Caitlyn crossed her arms. "We’re going to split up and try to find her."

Sevika didn’t hesitate. "I’m coming with you."

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Violet tensed, already looking like she wanted to argue, but Caitlyn touched her arm, shaking her head. Jinx just smirked.

"Fine by me," she said. "Hope you know how to have fun, Sev."

Sevika scoffed, picking up the flyer and glancing it over.

This is it, she thought. If she shows up, she’s ours.

You lay sprawled out on your back, sinking into the plush comfort of your oversized bed. Your room was nothing short of gorgeous—high ceilings, warm lighting, and every luxury a girl could ask for. A vanity cluttered with makeup sat in the corner, a sleek computer perched on your desk, and to top it off, a fully stocked mini-fridge, currently missing one pint of ice cream.

Mel was draped across your stomach, her head resting just below your ribs as she stared at the ceiling. You absentmindedly scooped another bite of ice cream, the cold sweetness melting on your tongue as she huffed dramatically.

"And she said ‘Mel doesn’t know’ like—what the fuck does that even mean?!" Mel groaned, throwing an arm over her face.

You licked the spoon, barely suppressing a smirk. "Maybe she’s sending you to boarding school," you teased.

Mel lifted her head just enough to glare at you. "That’s not funny."

You giggled, poking her side. "Listen, hotstuff, if you talk about Ambessa one more time, I swear to God, I will light myself on fire."

Mel scoffed, rolling off of you and sitting up. “Dramatic much?”

You grinned but didn’t argue. Instead, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as she got to her feet and wandered over to your vanity. She turned slightly, tilting her head as she checked her reflection, smoothing out the already perfect waves of her hair.

"So," you drawled, taking another bite of ice cream. "Did you decide if you’re going to the festival tonight?"

She met your gaze in the mirror, her lips pursed like she was pretending to contemplate it.

"Mm. Maybe," she said, adjusting the straps of her dress. "Are you going?"

That was the real question.

Because if you were going, Mel definitely was.

"Mom! I'm not coming home until you tell me everything!" Mel shouted into her phone, pacing just outside the parking lot, her free hand clenched into a fist.

A few feet away, you stood in front of a guy draped in baggy clothes, his grin sharp and lazy. Behind him loomed a couple of buffer guys, their faces inked with bold tattoos that twisted under the neon glow of a flickering streetlight.

"Heeeyyy, short stack," the guy drawled, flashing a gold-toothed smirk. "You partying with us tonight?" His excitement seemed genuine, almost affectionate in that detached, dealer-kind-of-way.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "I'll come by if I remember."

He snickered, slapping your palm in a casual handshake before slipping a small baggie into it. Inside, two little pink pills with smiley faces stared back at you. "Have a nice night," he said, giving you a solid fist bump before stepping back into the shadows of the lot.

"Don't be a stranger!" he called as you turned away, his voice echoing in the humid night air.

By the time you reached Mel, she had hung up, shoving her phone deep into the pocket of her low-rise jeans—ripped at the thighs, matching yours almost perfectly.

"What did you get?" she asked, her tone light but eyes flicking toward the tiny bag in your grasp.

You grinned, holding it up between two fingers. "Ecstasy." With a flick, you popped the seal and tipped one of the pills onto your palm. No hesitation. You placed it on your tongue and let it sit there for a second before swallowing.

Mel took the baggie and fished out the other pill, already unscrewing the lid of her water bottle—filled to the brim with vodka. "Wash it down," she offered with a smirk.

You took a swig, grimacing at the harsh burn as it slid down your throat. "Jesus Christ, your mom didn’t notice this much vodka missing?"

Mel just grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. "Not yet… but she will. I cut her bottle with water."

You snorted as she slung an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in close as the two of you made your way toward the fair entrance.

"You better not snitch on me," you muttered, exhaling sharply. "Silco doesn’t even know I’m here."

Mel glanced at you, her amusement dimming just slightly. "He didn’t notice you leaving? I know your house is littered with security cameras." She giggled, but there was curiosity there too.

You rolled your eyes. "He’s been super busy. He doesn’t know, but I went down this rabbit hole on Reddit, and it was… weird."

The fair stretched out in front of you, the air thick with the scent of buttery popcorn and spun sugar. The chaotic hum of the crowd mixed with the distant, shrill screams from the rides, blending into a dizzying buzz of energy.

"There’s this underground mafia that’s super powerful, and I think he’s worried…" you trailed off, your mind still tangled in everything you’d read.

Mel gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Let’s not think about that tonight!" she beamed. "Let the molly kick in, and let’s go on some rides!"

With a squeal, she grabbed your hand and took off, pulling you toward the nearest ride, her laughter getting lost in the neon lights and electric pulse of the fairground.

Mel’s grip on your wrist was firm as she dragged you toward the nearest ride—a towering contraption of spinning swings. The metal structure groaned as it lifted screaming riders high into the air, their legs kicking out wildly as the ride picked up speed.

"C’mon, this one first!" Mel grinned, practically bouncing on her feet as she led the way.

You hesitated for only a second, the molly’s warmth beginning to stir in your chest. Your limbs felt lighter, your skin hyper-aware of the night air kissing against it. The fairground lights stretched into soft, neon halos, like the world had been dipped in something hazy and electric.

You both climbed into your seats, the metal bar locking across your lap with a sharp click. As the ride lurched into motion, you felt the weightlessness take over, the world spinning beneath you. Wind whipped against your skin, the fair becoming a blur of laughter, music, and flashing colors. Mel let out a wild scream, throwing her hands up, and you couldn’t help but do the same, the rush of adrenaline mixing seamlessly with the euphoria creeping into your veins.

By the time you stumbled off, dizzy and breathless, Mel was already pulling you toward the next attraction—a rickety-looking roller coaster that seemed one bolt away from collapsing. The two of you barely managed to shove the safety bar down before it jerked into motion, the rickety track rattling beneath you.

You didn’t even have time to scream before you were thrown into the first drop.

Everything blurred together—the chaotic mix of highs, the rush of the wind, the tight grip of Mel’s hand on yours as you flew through loops and turns. The laughter came easily, the worries you had earlier fading into the pulsating energy of the fair.

Then came the teacups.

By now, the molly was hitting full force. The world around you felt brighter, softer, like everything was breathing with you. The colorful lights of the fair pulsed in time with the distant music, and every little sound—laughter, the whir of the rides, the shuffle of footsteps—felt amplified, woven together in a strange, beautiful harmony.

You and Mel climbed into one of the oversized teacups, the painted ceramic glossy under the neon glow. As the ride started, you both gripped the wheel in the center, spinning it as fast as you could until the world around you became a swirl of colors.

The teacup spun lazily now, the initial rush of dizziness settling into something dreamlike. The fairground lights stretched and blurred at the edges of your vision, glowing softer, warmer, like the whole world had been dipped in neon honey. The music from the rides pulsed faintly in the background, each beat thrumming through your chest like a second heartbeat.

Mel leaned back against the curved wall of the teacup, her pupils wide, lips parted in an easy, dazed smile. "Holy shit," she breathed, stretching her arms over her head. "This feels insane."

You let out a slow laugh, resting your head against the back of the seat. "Yeah. Feels like we’re floating."

For a while, neither of you spoke, letting the high settle, the world spinning in slow motion around you. The fair’s chaotic energy felt distant, like you were sitting in the eye of a storm—untouchable, weightless.

Then Mel sighed, her fingers drumming absently against her knee. "So… about my mom."

Something about her tone made your stomach twist. You blinked sluggishly, turning your head toward her. "What about her?"

Mel hesitated, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. "That mafia you were talking about?" she muttered, voice quieter now. "The one Silco’s worried about?"

The hazy warmth in your chest cooled slightly. A small ripple of unease broke through the molly’s euphoric haze.

"Yeah?" you said slowly.

Mel exhaled through her nose, eyes flicking away as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to see your reaction. "My mom works for them," she admitted. "Like… shes been working for them since before i was born..but she hasnt really been working with them recently, shes getting older and it seems theyve left her alone"

The words felt distant, like they had to fight through the high to reach you. But when they did, they hit hard.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the teacup. "What?"

Mel let out a humorless laugh, rubbing her hands over her face before dropping them back into her lap. "Yeah. I found out on the phone call. She acts all high and mighty, but she’s just another attack dog for some psycho pulling the strings." She looked at you then, something unreadable flickering in her expression. "Guess that explains why she won’t tell me shit. She probably thinks I’ll go running my mouth."

Your thoughts felt sluggish, tangled in the drug’s haze. Silco had been on edge for weeks, digging for information, murmuring about the growing threat looming over the city. And now, Mel—your best friend—was connected to it.

The fair didn’t seem so bright anymore.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. "Does Silco know?"

Mel shook her head. "No. And you can’t tell him." Her voice wavered slightly, just enough for you to notice. "If he finds out… I don’t know what he’d do."

Your pulse thumped in your ears, the warmth of the molly battling with the cold weight settling in your stomach. The teacup continued to spin gently, but suddenly, it felt like the ground wasn’t so steady anymore.

As the two of you stumbled off the teacup ride, the world still swayed beneath your feet, the molly turning everything into a dreamlike haze. You were about to suggest another ride when something caught your eye—a familiar figure weaving through the crowd.

Your vision blurred slightly, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself. "Is that…?" you squinted, trying to focus.

Mel followed your gaze, her eyes narrowing—until they suddenly went wide. "Jayce?!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos of the fair.

Your stomach dropped. No way.

Her ex-boyfriend. The one who had supposedly moved out of state. The one she had spent months cursing, only to pretend he never existed when she was finally over him. And yet, here he was, flesh and blood, standing just a few feet away.

Mel barely hesitated. "I should go say hi."

Your head snapped toward her. "What? No! You can’t just leave me—what if he’s totally over you? That’d be humiliating!"

Your protests fell on deaf ears. She was already pushing through the crowd, her determination outweighing your grip on her wrist.

"Mel, come on—!"

The crowd surged between you like a living thing, bodies pressing in, separating you in an instant. Your fingers slipped from hers, and then—she was gone.

"Mel?!" you shouted, shoving forward, but it was useless. The mass of people closed in, swallowing her whole.

Shit.

The fairgrounds suddenly felt suffocating—the neon lights too bright, the sounds too loud, blending together in an overwhelming blur. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a mix of the drug and panic coursing through you.

Disoriented, you stumbled away from the chaos, slipping between trailers where food stands were set up. The smell of grease and sugar clung to the air, but it did nothing to settle the rising nausea in your stomach. You pressed your back against a rusted wall, sucking in sharp breaths, squeezing your eyes shut.

A small whimper escaped your lips.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was high-pitched, almost familiar. Your eyes fluttered open, vision swimming slightly, and then you saw her.

Bright blue hair, streaked with pink. A mischievous smirk pulling at her lips. You’d seen her before—last weekend, at the bar.

Your heart skipped a beat.

"It’s you…" your voice was barely above a breath. You blinked hard, trying to steady yourself. "Are—are you real?"

The girl tilted her head, amusement flickering in her sharp eyes. "Uh… yeah? Did you take something?"

You hesitated. "…Have you seen my friend? Butterfly braids, gold glittery makeup."

Her smirk widened, like she found your dazed concern entertaining. Before she could reply, hands suddenly grabbed you from behind.

A gloved palm clamped over your mouth.

Your body went rigid. Panic exploded in your chest, but before you could scream, the hand was replaced with something else—cloth, thick and soaked with something sharp-smelling.

Chloroform.

"Shut the fuck up," a voice growled in your ear.

You thrashed, but your limbs were sluggish, uncoordinated. The molly dulled your reflexes, making your attempts at escape pathetic. Darkness crawled at the edges of your vision, your body going limp as exhaustion consumed you.

The last thing you saw was the blue-haired girl watching, head tilted curiously.

"What do you think she took?"

Jinx’s voice sounded distant, muffled, as if you were underwater.

Ekko adjusted your unconscious body in his arms, carrying you with ease. "Probably MDMA or something," he muttered. "We should tell Sevika."

Jinx hummed, tapping her fingers against her hip as she walked beside him. "Yeah… I guess we should."

She glanced down at you, her smirk lingering.

[itwdoris]

nerd!yuuji is going to have so much wet/ruined paperwork /silly

imagine one of his and the reader’s classmates or something asking why they laminate all their homework.

nerd!yuuji and reader: nothing, no reason!!!

although i am loath to leave without keeping my streak of making good suggestions, so i give you:

humping nerd!yuuji’s leg to keep it in in the middle of the library

- 🍓 Anon

if i can go any further n a bit other way ( because i've already received two humping requests.... ) could i say that nerd!yuuji likes to get his stuff wet?

of course he's going to laminate all the important papers and documents, but who's to say that while he's doing that, he's thinking about your bladder gushing and wetting all that.

he can spends hours just looking at his pencil case, imagining how nice it would be if you were there wetting it, pissing on his pencil and hand while he writes in his notebook. how you could make the jet hit his glasses and get him wet, maybe piss for him on his desk on cleaning days.

like the time you two stayed to organize the library and suddenly you were rubbing up against each other between the shelves, him reading aloud from a book while you humped your wet panties against his aching bulge. oh you would have wet him right there, later he was so upset about having to wash the stain on his pants.

sometimes he thinks about how much he wants to see you pissing on everything he owns, without even warning, just having you pissing. he gets so hard imagining you pissing on some of his stuff because you was so desperate you couldn't hold it in, don't need to make sense, stupid, can be a book or even trying to aim the pointer.

he may or may not have spent a few moments imagining a lot, oh nerd!yuuji...

----------

ooh please don't slap me berry anon!! // ...anyway, pisskinker yuuji ( 03:12 im going to sleep lord i swear

[rottenpumpkin13]

What horrors has the Soldier floor's microwave(s) seen?

How many times has it been replaced? Do they keep a tally?

Has anyone bonded to and named one of them (like the saga of Stabby)?

Have the other floors made a betting game out of the Soldier floor microwave(s)?

Anything else you him we might need to know about the microwave(s)?

• Replacement Count: 24 in the past year alone. There's an official spreadsheet, but after microwave #15 they stopped documenting specific causes of death and just write "Zack Fair."

• Notable Incidents:

- Microwave #3: Died when Genesis tried heating up cider in a thin glass, which caused the glass to shatter and the microwave to explode.

- Microwave #7: Sephiroth attempted to heat soup in a metal container. Claimed he "thought the sparks were normal"

- Microwave #12: Zack's attempt to boil eggs in the microwave ended in a small explosion and eggs everywhere.

- Microwave #19: Zack's attempt to dry his wet uniforma also ended with a small explosion.

- Microwave #24: Sephiroth went to make ramen. The microwave was faulty. He punched it and left. Then Lazard came in to heat up some milk for his coffee. Sephiroth's punch angered the microwave, which exploded in Lazard's face.

• Current Microwave: Zack formed an emotional attachment after it survived longer than two weeks. Safety measures include three fire extinguishers within reach, laminated instruction sheet titled "How to Microwave Things" taped to its side.

• List of banned items includes: metal, materia, boots, swords, "anything Genesis owns", Zack Fair, glass, eggs, and marshmallows.

• The current microwave has developed mysterious ability to only work for Angeal. Possibly out of self-preservation.

• The current bets were on Sephiroth being the cause of the current microwave's death. He rarely uses it but catastrophic when he does.

• Many people got rich quick when the microwave burned Sephiroth's ramen and he reacted by impaling it with Masamune.

[commiefarm]

They keep drawing specifically this version on post-it notes and hiding it around their desk

Keep having these recurring dreams where my coworkers (who don’t exist irl) are having this weird feud and one of them just,,,, keeps drawing loss everywhere???? To piss the other one off?? And every time the other coworker just gets filled with seething rage

[identity2110]

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[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

Sam Week Day 1: Fusions: your culture, field of study, science, space, favourite shows/books, interest, etc, & Sam Winchester

I thought how to do a story with Sam and archaeology (my field of study/job), and I felt that having it as an elective at Stanford was the easy way out, so I decided to take a bit of a different route with it that I think is hopefully a more interesting take. I acknowledge that the DK Archaeology book was published a bit late for this to make sense with the age I'm picturing Sam here, but I am taking creative license for the sake of a book I could actually picture the inside of having had a copy myself as a kid lol.

----

Also on Ao3

----

Sam crouched by the payphone, gloved hands clutching at his forearms, crossed tight across his chest, back pressed up against the wall, in the hopes that he could, somehow, absorb some of the dim warmth, last of the day’s sun captured in the rough brick. It was the eighth night. The eighth night of the same routine. Six o’clock, sharp, Dad liked punctuality, made a point of it, (except for himself, a treacherous voice whispered at the back of his mind). Every night, six on the dot, waiting, just waiting for the phone to ring, like Dad promised, like Dean promised.

Sam glanced at his watch, 6:40, he’d give it twenty minutes more; he always did. The cold was really starting to seep in now, fingertips turning numb even through the thick wool. He stood to his feet, stamping them, jumped up and down a couple of times, stopped, cupped his hands and brought them to his lips, blowing a puff of warm air into the pocket created between them, trying to trap it there. It didn’t work, of course. He looked at his watch again. Less than a minute had passed. He swept a glove through his bangs, pushing them back from his face, more habit than anything, a sigh escaping his chest, this time the precious warmth of his breath forming a fog, tiny water droplets twinkling in the glow from the streetlamp overhead. He reached into the worn leather satchel slung over his left shoulder and pulled out a book.

He squatted back down and ran his fingers over the cover, a copy of the Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness Guide to Archaeology, it had been laminated at some point, long enough ago that it was starting to yellow, crack, and peel at the corners. He thumbed it open, skipping guiltily past the rubberstamped library card at the front that gave away its origins. It wasn’t entirely his fault; they’d left in a hurry, in the dead of night, two days before he’d been expecting them to, in the circumstances, perhaps, he could be forgiven. He flicked through to the page that he’d been fixating on lately, a cleverly arrayed and neatly labelled double spread illustrating the tools of the trade. There were things he was all too familiar with, a shovel primarily amongst them, but what fascinated him were all the tiny, delicate little trowels, picks, and brushes. The book said they were used for excavating skeletons. 

Dad had brought him along on a ton of salt and burns in the last year, put Sam to work digging down, down, down, until THUNK the spade hit wood, or metal, depending mostly on the age and status of the person buried down there (something he’d learnt about in another book he didn’t accidentally steal). Once, they’d dug down expecting to find a coffin, but instead of a satisfying thud, there had been a snick, and a POP as the steel edge sliced through a crumbling shroud and struck the skull, the cranium, and punched a hole straight through it.

There was nothing careful or delicate about what they did.

He liked to imagine it, taking your time to reverently sweep away the dirt that had spent so much time accumulating, drawing and documenting, and gradually piecing together the puzzle. That was his favourite bit of researching ghost cases, finding out about the people, their lives, the places they had lived and died in, the things they had held precious, been buried with. It always seemed such a waste, just to burn it.

Dring-dring

Sam lept to his feet, hastily stuffing the book back into the satchel, scrambling desperately for the receiver. He lifted it to his ear, breath held tight in his chest, hoping, just hoping.

“Heya Sammy!”

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed, the air rushing back out of his lungs, his voice pitching higher, more excitable than he might have intended.

“Sorry about the wait.” Dean sounded slightly strained on the other end of the line, but not in pain, not trying to hide some catastrophe from him.

“S’ok” Sam replied softly, fighting to keep his voice steady, to stop the tide of relief and release of pent-up anxiety crashing over him and drowning him under it.

“Dad’s sorry too.” There was a long pause. Sam was sure Dad hadn’t asked Dead to pass on any apologies, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“When will you be back?” Sam asked, he hated asking that, his voice always sounded so small, needy.

“Good couple of days yet, Dad reckons.”

Sam’s heart dropped. He didn’t respond.

“Sam? You still there?” sudden sharp concern.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

He heard a little puh,  Dean letting out a sigh, the air hitting the speaker of the mouthpiece of his payphone receiver. Sam pictured him, probably also fighting off the cold, his fingertips pale blue because he never wore gloves, not even the ones Sam had given him for Christmas, whilst Dad sat in front of the TV in the motel, waiting for him to return. A strange kind of jealousy flared up in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having someone to return to, quickly tempered by the remembrance that the person was Dad in the middle of a hunt.

“Hey, Sammy, guess what?” Dean asked, suddenly animated.

Sam shrugged, and then remembered his brother couldn’t see him, and said “what?”

“There’s a video-store in town and I maaay have swiped something whilst dad was interviewing a witness couple of days back.”

“Dean!” Sam chided.

“Don’t get on your high and mighty, Sam! Anyways, it’s an Indiana Jones flick. Last Crucade, the one we haven’t seen yet!” Sam could feel Deam beaming even without being able to see his face, he smiled softly in response. “You’re still into that archaeology shit, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes affectionately. Dean never missed the opportunity to poke fun at Sam’s propensity to pick up and get absorbed in new interests. “Yeah, I am. You know, Indiana Jones isn’t really anything like what actual archaeologists -”

“Yeah, yeah. But it's got hot chicks, and snake pits, and nazis, and I’ve heard someone FACE gets melted off in this one!” Sam could practically hear Dean bouncing around on his toes at the thought.

“Sounds good.” It was really more Dean’s thing, but it was rare that he made any real effort to join in something Sam was into; this was close enough.

There was a faint noise somewhere on Dean’s end of the call, maybe a door banging shut. “Sorry, Sammy, gotta go.”

“Ok. Dean?”

“Yeah Sammy?”

Sam took in a breath, looked around at the vacant parking lot, leaned forward enough to see through the window of his bleak, empty room. He thought about returning there, to nothing and no one, just the whirring click of a broken heater for company. “Nothing. See you soon Dean.” It was almost like saying “I miss you” as close as he was allowed to get.

“See ya, Sammy.”

There was a click, the line went dead. @seasononesam @suncaptor

[notwhelmedyet]

A Fire Shall Be Woken, by Ealcynn. A pair of bindings using the K118 structure, one as a gift for the author and one to keep.

Chapter page illustrations are by Alphonse Mucha, all other illustrations are hand-drawn.

I hope to make a long post later explaining the process in more depth & another to document all my mistakes, but here's the basics.

New techniques learned: Paper marbling, edge marbling, uncial calligraphy, making paste papers, drawing on bookcloth, making paste-filled cloth, fold-out maps

I began work on this project in early September and am completing the finishing touches this week.

Structures:

Binding: K118 tightback

Endpapers: Simple cloth-joined endpapers

Map fold: Turkish map fold

Materials:

Sewing supports: linen tapes

Thread: 30/3 linen thread

Spine lining: Medium weight kozo tissue bonded to linen fabric

Interior paper: Hammermill Ivory, 11x17, hand-cut to 8.5x11

Endpapers: Blick sulphite paper hand-marbled, with masked stenciled silhouettes created with freezer paper

Adhesives: Jade PVA, wheat starch paste, wheat flour paste

Covers: Davey board, laminated full thickness to half thickness

Cover fabric: Studio E shot cottons in Jungle and Emerald; filled with wheat starch paste

Cover decorations: Speedball india ink and Dr. Ph. Martin's calligraphy ink in Copperplate Gold

Inks for maps and illustrations: Speedball black india ink and a selection of watercolors thickened with gum arabic

Dip pens used for calligraphy: Combination of Brause calligraphy nibs and Leonardt tape nibs

Dip pens used for illustration: Nikko G pointed pen nib

Typesetting:

Typesetting program: Scribus 1.5.5

Body font: Coelacanth in 10 pt caption weight

Headings, titles, chapter titles, drop caps: Hand lettered uncial calligraphy, scanned

Illustrations and References:

Frames on colophon, copyright, author's notes and title page: Hand drawn, with inspiration taken from the vellucent bindings of Cedric Chivers

Frames that illustrate each chapter start: Alphonse Mucha from Cloches de Noël et de Pâques

Cover illustrations: Referenced from a photograph of an European beech tree found on iNaturalist.org

Maps of Imladris: Hand drafted with inspiration from the maps of Barbara Strachey, and Daniel Reeve

Map of Eriador: Traced from a map by Karen Wynn Fonstad, with edits made to coordinate with the geography of the fic

Frames on maps: Referenced from a drawing by Alphonse Mucha that @zhalfirin found for me

Special Thank Yous:

To the tightback council of problem-solvers in the Renegade server: Zhalfirin, Eka, @spockandawe who helped figure out many issues with the structure and technique

To the marbling experts in the Renegade server: Marissa, Aether, AGlance, Jenny, Catz, Badgertide, Rhi, and everyone else who helped me figure out beginnner marbling

To Spock for finding the K118 structure and introducing it to the server!

And to Bruce Levy, who discovered the method and shared his discoveries freely with the bookbinding and conservation world.