#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

[themslash]

working my way through literally all the documents in the house systematically, putting important things in a big binder with sticky notes on each with basic info and dates so i can more quickly go through all the paperwork at a glance. plus this way i can throw away like... expired warranty papers and stuff. while it is really daunting to go through everything and makes my brain want to jump out of my skull and run far away really fast but at the end of the day i was made to categorize stuff, put it in chronological order and annotate it with little colorful sticky notes.

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA As di Oggi venerdì, 20 settembre 2024

[justprintoholics]

Bulk Lamination Service | Just Printoholics

In the realm of printing and document protection, Just Printoholics has emerged as a trailblazer, offering a Bulk Lamination Service that combines cost-effectiveness with uncompromised quality. This blog post will delve into the world of laminating services, explore the unique offerings of Just Printoholics, and shed light on why they are recognized as the best printing company in Naraina.

Understanding Bulk Lamination Service

Lamination is a process that involves applying a protective layer to printed materials, typically in the form of a thin plastic film. This layer not only enhances the appearance of the prints but also provides durability and resistance to wear and tear. Bulk lamination services, as offered by Just Printoholics, cater to businesses and individuals with large-scale lamination needs.

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.

Best Printing in Delhi: Just Printoholics' Holistic Approach

Just Printoholics' commitment to being the best printing company in Delhi goes beyond just providing printing and lamination services. Their holistic approach encompasses understanding the needs of their clients, offering a wide array of services, and ensuring that each client receives personalized attention.

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.

[identity2110]

Tent Cards are a versatile marketing tool that can be used both, commercially as a card-body and personally. These ingenious creative tent cards can be used to uniquely endorse products, offers, and services, or even showcase simple information.

WhatsApp Us = 91 8920 951 048, +91 9873 455 131 Email Us = identity2110@gmail.com Address = D-21, 3rd Floor, Sector 10, Noida 201301 (U.P.) For More Info Vist Us = Tent Card Designs And Printing

[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.

[solarenchanting]

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 ── .✦ gojō satoru x fem!reader

should you call him on his birthday?

note: inspired by the song, “birthday” by disclosure, syd, and kehlani; notably the first verse and chorus sparked the inspiration of this fic + specific items are indicated to be meaningful to fem!reader + use of 24-hour time.

part two: birthday wish

the dim, yellow light of your desk lamp glowed in your home office. its warm glare illuminated your surroundings, the familiar decor accompanied by its shadows. the bookshelf filled with your favourite books, various framed portraits of your favourite artworks on the wall, the sheen glint of the laminate floor.

sandalwood lingered in the air, the thick bamboo stick burned slowly into ash. the remnants of gray dropped onto the wooden boat burner. with a turn of your shoulder, you’d see it perched on the windowsill.

the ticking sound of the pendulum clock, its silver swinging weight swaying side to side, fell in rhythm with the soothing pitter-patter of the rain tapping against the window.

to anyone else, this would be heaven.

to have the exquisite blend of sandalwood—woody, creamy, ambery, and slightly sweet scent—creating a mellow and calming ambience, paired with the warmth of the desk lamp and the steady rhythm encouraging you to relax?

definitely heaven.

however, in reality?

you were in hell.

a plethora of paperwork — forms, rosters, letters, reports — and files lay on your mahogany study desk, barely allowing the dark reddish-brown surface to show. your laptop was on, the brightness on the lowest level, with an email that did not find you well. your notebook was open, a black ballpoint pen in hand, sliding rapidly across each page you wrote, each document you signed.

your tired eyes darted around, solely focused on the work in front of you. whether it was scanning the content of whatever document you came across, watching the movement of your hand as you wrote, or glancing between the keyboard and the laptop screen—your eyes roamed everywhere.

everywhere except the bookshelf filled with your favourite books that you couldn’t afford at one point.

everywhere except the various framed portraits of your favourite artworks that you never thought you would own.

everywhere except the wooden boat burner that held the sandalwood incense, bought as a replacement for your old incense holder.

everywhere except the pendulum clock that hung on the wall, the one that caught your eye when you were window shopping that one time.

everywhere except those gifts that were from—

your hand froze—along with your body—stopping at a random syllable of a word you were writing, the grip on your ballpoint pen loosening as it fell from your hand, landing with a soft thud onto your notebook.

your eyes widened, a shock passing by, before you closed them. an exasperated sigh escaped from your lips, your hand moving to hold your forehead as you propped an elbow onto the desk, leaning forward.

you were doing it again.

your mind was wandering off to him.

him with hair as white as the late december snow that fell in tokyo.

him with those beautiful, soul-piercing, blue eyes that were reminiscent of a clear sky on a summer’s day in august.

him with that damned blindfold, which he always took off in your presence because he knew how much you loved his eyes.

him and that—

no. stop it, [name].

he’s nothing but an old flame.

well, at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past year and four months—not like anyone’s counting—since you left him behind.

ever since december began, he’s been on your mind. he’d randomly pop up at the most inconvenient moments. you’d see his favourite bakery, walk past his favourite stores in the mall, or spot something you knew he’d like.

opening your eyes, you lifted your head from your hand. you leaned against the backrest of your chair, arms lazily placed on the armrests with your hands resting downwards, and your head tilted upwards the dim-lit ceiling.

there was only one reason behind this.

your hand found its way to the pocket of your sweatpants, pulling out your phone, and bringing it up to your face. your thumb pressed the power button for a second, the blue light of your phone emitting onto your face.

and there it was—the reason you’ve been behaving the way you have for the past six days—plain as day.

00:57

Saturday, 7 December

Calendar・my love ♡

instantly, you pushed yourself forward once more, dropping your phone onto the desk amidst the scattered paperwork. you fell back into your previous position, elbow propped on the desk, hand pressed against your forehead. your free arm lay flat on the desk, fingertips tapping rhythmically on the wooden surface.

the home screen of your phone staring at you with that fucking notification glaring at you.

if it had been anyone else you cut ties with, and if you’d forgotten to erase traces of them on your phone, you would've swiped left—out of sight, out of mind. hell, you would’ve deleted it the moment it came across your screen.

if it had been any other day—and not the fucking 7th of december—you wouldn’t have cared. there wouldn’t have been a second thought. not even a last thought, as that would mean it’s still a thought.

you wouldn’t be sitting here, staring at your phone, wondering what he’d say to you, wondering if it would be a huge mistake if you…

should you…?

should you call him on his birthday?

you bit your lip, furrowing your eyebrows, and stopped tapping your fingers. once again, you leaned back into your chair, your phone in your hand this time with your thumb hovering over the screen.

you could call him, just to make sure he’s okay.

or would he prefer that you didn’t—prefer that you simply let him go?

before you could consider anything, you sat up straight, your thumb swiped across the screen. your thumb swiped across the screen, and with swift movements, you entered your pin and clicked on contacts, scrolling down until you found it.

gojō satoru ・090-xxxx-xxxx

his old number.

but is it even working?

a/n: happy birthday to gojō satoru !! <33 happy gojō satoru day, everyone !! especially to the gojō satoru lovers <33

iʼd say this is my contribution but itʼs a sad fic (?) (also the mentioned song helped me write this, of course).

regardless, i hope this is enjoyable to whoever comes across it !! :)

much love from me to you ♡

[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.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

Pinned FAQ

How do I request a card?

You can request up to 3 cards for free during openaskbox events! During those, the /ask inbox opens up for a few hours, during which I try to write as many as I can live on twitch and post them on tumblr.

After the event is over and I close that inbox, there are still a BUNCH of leftover requests. This is how I fill the daily content queue, I use those up til it's empty again and then run another openaskbox.

On Sundays at 3pm EST I write all 28 cards due to go up for the week from that pool of leftover asks live on twitch and then queue them to go up after stream

What if I don't wanna wait?

If you'd like to throw a bit of cash around instead of waiting, you can buy via the etsy listing or you can tune in to those^ Saturday livestreams, there's a variety of ways to donate to get cards written for you on the spot

How do I buy the card I've requested?

The etsy listing is available here! Please remember to include in the notes of the purchase which card(s) you want to buy. If you'd like me to bundle together all the cards you've requested over a period of a few years, dm me here on the blog and I can quote you on a cheaper bundle price

Why did you answer all those asks, it messed up my dash?

Sorry about that! So to keep all of that ^ organized, at the end of the month, I answer about 112-140 leftover asks in order to record them to a proper "to-write document"

It helps me keep organized, it allows me to easily search for spelling issues, and it gets a few eyeballs on the request in case someone tries to slip an obscure slur into their request that I'm not cool with writing (it has happened)

Lots of the regulars are used to this dash nonsense, but there are folks who want to avoid it entirely. If you're on mobile I'd just recommend unfollowing for a while, but if you're on desktop, you can blacklist the tag "added to notepad" and go to xkit to tick the "fully hide blocked tags" option so it clears up your dash

Wait I thought requests were closed, why can I still send things?

That's because requests use /ask, but /submit is always open because it's for YOUR calligraphy, pet photos, fanart of man... etc. Requests are NOT open when it's not openaskbox day but feel free to send me cool shit YOU made anytime

Wait you have a twitch, do you do anything other than calligraphy?

I try! my schedule at work (restaurant) varies week to week so I try my best to stream whenever I've got free time to, nothing's really planned out though

What are your regular writing tools and paper?

I mainly just use speedball nibs, specifically the c-series (c-0 through c-4) because they're angled flat nibs that let me do most blackletter hands I write. I have a supply of leonardt thin tips for detailing and illustrating

As for paper, the cards you see on the daily are on plain index cue cards I buy from staples. When commissioned/doing larger pieces, I work with a variety of paper, including a 32 lb xerox paper that has juuuust a perfect amount of lamination that avoids ink feathering, black paper that I bought a hundred sheets of in 2019 and I no longer remember the label, and a BOATLOAD of southworth's ivory parchment paper at both 32 and 64 lb weights.

[delicatebarness]

good graces: a cry baby story | chapter one

Summary: Delving into the shadowy world of a notorious biker gang, you begin navigating the tension between their duties and the gang's influence.

Warning: Corruption and Unethical Behavior. Criminal Activity and Violence. Suspense and Intimidation. Implied Threats. Emotional Tension.

Word Count: 1646

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: It's weird not writing as Cry Baby. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Cry Baby: @buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree | @randomawesomeperson102 | @whoreforbarnes | @thejutvtsupport | @somnorvos | @cjand10 | @plasticbottleholder | @birdenthusiastez | @am-3-thyst

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @mrsnikstan

You sat at your new desk, in your new office– the laminate chipped and worn from the years of service. It mirrored the experiences of the precinct itself. Casting a harsh, cold glow, the fluorescent lights made everything seem more stark and unforgiving. You were currently in your first week taking over from Fury, a man whose retirement still left a sour taste in your mouth. He left a murky legacy behind, filled with unspoken truths and shadows that clung to the corners of the station like cobwebs. 

The paper was rough under your fingertips as you sifted through a pile of old case files. The scent of ink and aged paper filled your nostrils. One file stood out among the usual fare of petty theft, domestic disputes, and minor assaults. The file was thick, bursting at the seams, as though it had been fed a diet of steady statements, reports, and evidence over the years. The label read: “The Avengers.” 

Intrigued, you began to read the bulky file. The Avengers’ dossier is a detailed chronicle, each page a testament to their cunning audacity. Countless reports, dozens of names and dates, each one hinted at crimes far more severe than the paperwork let on. Yet, despite the mountain of documentation against each member, there hadn’t been a single arrest, and not one charge had ever stuck. And, the deeper you dived, the more glaring the gaps became. 

It was clear now, that the corruption ran deep. You marveled at the arrogance of it all. The notes from your predecessor, Fury, peppered throughout the files, they were vague and non-committal. They often led investigations into dead ends– he was their shield, their unseen ally. 

Pushing away from your desk, you made your way to the station’s bullpen. The usual chatter, ringing phones, and officers exchanging the latest gossip buzzed in the air. You caught the eye of your new partner, Officier Maria Hill, who raised her eyebrow at the file in your hand. 

“Rogers?” she asked, her voice low, almost whispered as it carried a mix of curiosity and caution. 

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steady. “Look at this, something's off.” Handing her the file, you watched her eyes widen with each passing page. 

“I always knew Fury was dirty, but this…” Hill trailed off, shaking her head. “Rogers’ and his gang have a lot of power and friends in low places… I’d tread carefully if I were you.” 

You nodded. “I’ll play this one smart. No tipping my hand until I have something solid.” 

~

One evening, as you poured yourself into the files yet again, you noticed a pattern emerging. A name that keeps appearing, seemingly insignificant at first but, you grew more suspicious with each mention. It was the seemingly younger member of the gang. Unlike the others, her involvement was minimal, almost as if she had been deliberately kept in the background. Your mind formed a hunch, a gut feeling boiled– she might be the key to unraveling their web of deceit. 

The next morning, you stake out the art gallery that she works at. The gallery seemed like a stark contrast to the gritty world of the Avengers. It was bright with an airy interior, filled with natural light that danced off the polished floors. Colorful paintings and sketches adorned the white walls. You blended in with a small crowd of art enthusiasts, watching the younger girl move gracefully through the space. She wore a quiet confidence as she interacted with the visitors.

She seemed genuinely passionate about her work as you noted her routine. Observing how she spoke to patrons and carefully arranged the pieces on displays. Her world seemed different from the criminal world her brother and friends inhabited. 

Finally, as the gallery began to empty, you saw your chance. Approaching her, your heart pounded with the weight of the task ahead. “These pieces are incredible,” you say, stopping in front of one of her sketches. “Do you have any favorites?” 

She smiled, her demeanor warm and welcoming. “Thank you. It’s hard to pick a favorite, but this one,” she gestured to a sketch of a man, he seemed familiar to you but you couldn’t quite place his face. “This one is definitely special to me.” 

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, nodding appreciatively. “It seems like you put a lot of yourself into your work.” 

Her eyes sparkled with genuine pride as she nodded. “Art is my escape. I express things I can’t always put into words.” 

“It’s nice to have an escape,” you paused, taking a deep breath before deciding to ease into the topic. “I’ve heard your brother runs the tattoo studio downtown too, it seems like the art runs in your family.”

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, yet she recovered quickly. Her eyes never lost their warmth. “Yeah, Steve is quite the artist himself. He’s very talented.” 

“It’s impressive,” you continued, trying to keep your tone casual. “I’ve um, I’ve seen some of his designs… and he’s got quite the reputation.” 

Glancing around the gallery, she chuckled softly. “Steve’s work is… intense. He puts as much passion into his tattoos as I do into my sketches, if not more.” 

You nodded, feeling the sense of opportunity to learn more. “It must be challenging, balancing such different worlds. Your art here and his studio, not to mention his, um, other activities.” 

Her expression tightened slightly, but she maintained her composite. “Our paths are very different, but we have always been close. He does what he thinks is right, and I focus on my art. We support each other.” 

The answer was careful and measured. So, you tried another angle. “It must be difficult though, with everything that’s been going on lately. The Avengers have been getting a lot of attention.” 

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at you sharply before she forced a smile. “I try not to get involved in that side of things. I keep my head down and focus on my work and my relationship.” 

You felt the resistance and did not want to push too hard. Nodding, you sent her a genuine smile. “That’s probably for the best. You have a lot of talent and a bright future ahead. Your brother must be very proud.” 

For a moment, the tension eased and a genuine smile touched her lips. “He is. Ever since we were children, he has told me to follow my dreams, no matter what.” 

Sensing the conversation had reached its limit, you couldn’t help but ask one more question. “Out of curiosity, do you get visitors from his world here? People who come to see your work?” 

Laughing softly, she shook her head. “Unless you count my boyfriend, the gallery isn’t exactly their scene. They know about my art, and usually come to my opening nights but other than that, they keep their distance.” 

Appreciating her openness, you smiled, even if she was guarded. “Well, I’m glad I stopped by. Your art is truly… something special.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, another genuine smile gracing her face. “I appreciate you taking the time to look.” 

As you left the gallery, you replayed the conversation in your mind. The younger Rogers had been careful, but her responses confirm what you already suspected. She knew more than she let on and was deeply intertwined with her brother’s world. She might have been different from the rest of the Avengers, with her sweet demeanor and unproblematic passion, but she was still a part of their story.

~

After a few days stuck in your office after visiting the art gallery, you decided to try a more direct approach. The next destination you wanted to try was the bar where the Avengers were regulars. 

After entering the bar, you ordered a drink and took a seat, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Long shadows were cast in the dim light, making it easier to observe without drawing attention. Sitting in a corner booth, the Avengers gathered. Steve Rogers’ presence was commanding, and he seemed to exude an air of calculated vigilance. 

Sipping your drink, you engaged in idle conversation with the bartender, casually observing Steve and the gang. Then, despite your attempts to stay low-key, you could feel Steve’s eyes on you, sharp and calculating. A steady gaze, as if he was trying to read you and figure out what you’re up to. 

As the evening progressed, two more gang members joined the booth, and you recognized one of them as his sister, from the art gallery. It became clear that Steve’s attention on you had caused tension within the group, as they all began watching you. You decided it was time to leave before things escalated. After finishing your drink, you nod a polite goodbye to the bartender and make your way out of the bar.

As you walk back to your car, the cool night air hits you and the city’s distant noises create a backdrop of uneasy tranquility. Mentally, you review the encounter, noting Steve’s wariness and the tension from their booth. You headed back to your office, with a feeling of relief and anticipation. 

You looked forward to officially reviewing the evening’s findings and plotting your next steps when you reached the station. But yet, as you unlocked the door to your office, you stopped dead in your tracks. 

Casually sitting at your desk, leaning back in the chair was Steve Rogers– dressed in his signature leather jacket, looking every bit the part of the imposing figure you had been watching. His eyes locked onto yours as you entered, and a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. 

“So,” he began, calm and steady, but it carried an unmistakable edge, “you’re Fury’s replacement?” The question was straightforward, but he made it clear he’d already made up his mind about you.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[love-archer]

More to love. . .

♡ pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 (You're here!) ♡

♡.Obey me!

♡♡.TW? SFW! Pregnancy, Fem!reader, Implied couple

♡♡♡. Two years brewing in my drafts 😵‍💫

. . . A S M O D E U S !

♡ Asmodeus, the Avatar of Lust and embodiment of beauty, isn't typically associated with family life. Your fingers trace the lab report nervously. A baby. Your baby. His baby.

♡ That’s what’s whirling in your head as you stare at the lab report in the waiting room, fingers trace the laminated papers  nervously

♡ Would he accept this slowly or would he freak out? Wait, how can you tell him? Text? Drop it in a conversation randomly? Do those cute pregnancy reveal on Deviltube?

♡ The moment you decide to tell him is during a rare quiet evening in the Devildom. Asmodeus is meticulously applying his nightly skincare routine when you enter the bathroom, lab report clutched behind your back. "Darling?" His perfectly arched eyebrow raises, sensing something different in your demeanor. You slide the report onto his marble vanity, next to bottles of expensive serums and perfumes. His eyes widen, scanning the document. Silence. Then

♡ "PREGNANT?" His shriek could shatter glass. Dramatic reaction confirmed: tears sparkling like his favorite glitter eyeshadow  he launches himself into your arms. "A BABY? MY BABY? OH MY HELL!"

♡ His brothers will definitely hear this announcement. Lucifer will probably pinch the bridge of his nose. Satan would smack his door down, "Quiet down!". Mammon will immediately start calculating potential 'baby sponsorship' schemes with his modeling sessions. ♡ Asmodeus's excitement rapidly transforms into hyper-planning mode. ♡ Within days, he's calling every demon realm's top pediatric specialist. The pediatric specialists he consults aren't just doctors - they're the crème de la crème of the Devildom medical world. He has Solomon double-check their credentials and even gets Barbatos to recommend time-tested professionals who've dealt with human-demon pregnancies. ♡ He's ordering custom designer maternity wear for you (in matching sets, naturally). The maternity wardrobe he designs is EXTENSIVE. We're talking: silk robes with delicate demon realm embroidery, stretchy but luxurious dresses that "showcase your divine glow", custom pajama sets with his sigil subtly woven into the fabric, special occasion outfits for each milestone of pregnancy, even the undergarments are designer, because "comfort and style should never be compromised!"

♡ He's set into drafting elaborate nursery designs with themes ranging to "Royal Demon": Rich crimsons and blacks, with plush velvet and his signature roses to "Paradise Garden": Soft pastels with ethereal touches, butterfly motifs, and enchanted flowers that never wilt or to "Modern Devildom": Sleek lines with pops of neon, metallic accents ♡ Speaking of the nursery, with his never-ending favors to call in, he'd corner Leviathan or rather pester...

♡ "Leviiiii~ Don't you want to be the coolest uncle?" ♡ Finally, Leviathan would agree to use his brains and the cluttering materials in the ever-dim room to make a baby mobile. He'd throw ideas like Crystal flowers that catch and reflect light like anime sparkles or Something engraved with Asmodeus' mark in hot pink or one with a mirror....perhaps? ♡ From the moment pregnancy becomes real, Asmodeus persuades yoga into your monthly schedule after days with his sweet voice tugging you off the couch to pin you in his bed, cuddling and his hands rubbing your hips, his fleeting kisses on your cheek, "My darling.......Tension isn't good for either of you. Let me take care of those muscles."

♡ His idea of prenatal yoga is pure luxury - transforms his room into a private studio with scented candles, silk cushions, and ambient lighting. "Ambiance is essential for both beauty AND wellness, darling~"

♡ Always positions himself behind you during poses, hands carefully supporting your waist. "Just like that, love. Let me guide you..." His touch is surprisingly gentle, more caring than flirtatious.

♡ Gets absolutely delighted when the baby moves during sessions. "Oh! They're already developing my sense of rhythm!" He'll pause everything just to feel the movement, pressing soft kisses to your belly.

♡ Creates a special pre-natal skincare routine for you, researching safe ingredients for hours. His bathroom counter becomes divided between his products and yours, all labeled with cute heart stickers.

♡ Insists on documenting everything. Weekly photoshoots of your growing bump, decorated with flowers and silk ribbons. Has Solomon enchant a special album that captures magical 3D memories.

♡ The first time he holds the baby, his usual perfect composure completely dissolves. Tears pool at his eyes, but for once, he doesn't care. Keeps whispering "perfect, perfect, perfect" while counting those tiny fingers and toes.

❦ © love-archer 2024, all rights reserved ❦

[not-thenauts]

Has anyone considered that Shellington could be walking around with stone paper notebooks and astronomer pens?

The books that he reads could also be stone paper, laminated, or synthetic papers. I think stone paper sounds more in character for him since he is an otter, and the idea that they use space pens (which you can use underwater) is icing on the cake. Because they’re like Astronauts but for the ocean. All this I found in a quick google search, but I don’t see anyone posting anything about this. 😔 I’m sure Shellington would be proud of me.

I think he uses a pencil in all instances of writing or documenting though, probably not as reliant as it’s barely readable. 😂

I had to edit this twice because of my brain malfunction

[porcelainseashore]

Into the Ether (2)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, alcohol, drug references, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Taglist: @admirxation @angelstargel ❤️‍🔥

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: Dead City Blues

Eight years ago…

Claire rapped loudly on an inconspicuous black steel door, one among many within a dreary, gray slab building. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, but there was no answer.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, checking the address written down in marker on the palm of her hand again. Yeah, this was the place, alright.

Banging on the door a second time for good measure, she whipped her head from side to side, skittishly surveying her surroundings while she tapped her foot on the ground impatiently. After what had recently happened, she was on edge, wanting to make sure she hadn’t been followed. Unfortunately, she was met with nothing but silence.

Where the hell was this guy? Trying the door handle, she rattled it and it clicked open, unlocked. Gingerly, she took a step inside, closing the door behind her. Well, she didn’t come all the way here for nothing. Might as well snoop around and see what she could find.

On the other end of the room stood a work desk overflowing with papers, some neatly stacked in piles, others scattered across its surface which was haphazardly littered with sticky notes. The desk lamp shone brightly, illuminating the dust motes circling lazily in the air, and a laptop lay open beneath it, the text cursor blinking on a blank document, seemingly mocking her. Next to the desk were a bunch of filing cabinets with some of its drawers open, as if someone had been rummaging through them but had left in a hurry. There was a worn leather couch to the side, along with a large potted plant and a couple of cushioned chairs. For clients, she presumed.

The laminated wooden floors creaked underfoot as she moved forwards cautiously. She sensed that she wasn’t alone, but wherever she looked, there was not a single soul in sight. Everything was completely still. Too still, she thought, playing with the rings on her fingers nervously. This wasn’t her territory. She was risking her undead skin, but there was no other choice.

“You have some balls, showing your face here,” a voice from the shadows taunted.

With a jerk, Claire pivoted sharply to confront the source of the disturbance, leaping backwards as she bared her fangs and hissed aggressively.

The voice tutted, “Defiant brat.” A man with dirty blonde hair and icy blue eyes appeared from the corner of the room. “You Anarchs really live up to your name.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Leon Kennedy?” she questioned, the name spilling out from her mouth like a foreign object. However, she regained her composure, relaxing her stance as she smirked, unable to resist another one of her sassy comebacks that often got her into trouble. “Tell me, Camarilla pretty boy, how’s it like being the Prince’s lapdog?”

With blinding speed, Leon raced in front of her, holding her neck in a vice-like grip as her feet lifted off the ground. “You have ten seconds to explain before I rip your fucking throat out!” he snarled, while she choked and sputtered, struggling to break free from his grasp.

Summoning her strength, she tucked her chin, raising her arms up before using the momentum to swing her hips to one side, while simultaneously slamming her elbows into his forearm. A deep growl escaped his lips as he let her drop to the ground. “I need… your help,” she coughed violently. “My brother…”

He squatted down beside her, eyeing her with barely masked contempt. “And why should I help a filthy lick like you?”

“Please,” she begged, even though groveling in this manner made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “They said you were one of the best. That you’d know how to find even those who don’t want to be found.” Tears lined her lashes as she looked away in humiliation, willing them not to fall.

His features softened in reflex action, as he saw brief vignettes of the past flash before his eyes of people coming to him for help, and the despair seeping through their pores. Their silhouettes morphed with Claire’s, blurring reality with fiction. It was inherent in him to help others. He hadn’t forgotten it, even though he was no longer human. 

“Fine,” he managed to make out through gritted teeth. “I only take payment upfront though.” Reaching his hand out towards her, he helped her to her feet, as she dusted off her red leather jacket.

“Yeah, about that…” she scratched the back of her head sheepishly.

“Let me guess, you’re not exactly rolling in riches, are you?” he sighed, his expression drooping suddenly in weariness.

Claire bit her tongue, trying to hold back on making another snarky remark about the elitist Camarilla sect and its bullshit Ivory Tower. Leon cocked his head, staring at her curiously, unveiling his fangs deliberately like a shark. Shit, maybe he was one of those Kindred who could read minds.

“Look, wait—” she raised her hands in front of him as though placating a raging bull. “If you find him, Chris…” There was a long, pregnant pause, as she shuffled her feet anxiously. “I’ll owe you a life boon,” she breathed, sealing her fate.

A life boon. She must be completely desperate, he thought. He’d never been owed one before, seeing as how he was just another mundane neonate in the underworld of upper class Kindred, which meant that he’d graduated from being a fledgling under the wing of his sire without fucking up. He was good enough to be considered a cog in the machine for his elders to use like a pawn in their silly games. But for the past 15 years, give and take, of his unlife, he always played by the rules, or around them, never going beyond the point of no return.

Life boons were rare in these nights and he wasn’t about to say no, but at the same time there was that nagging conscience within him that wondered if he was taking advantage of her. No, the Kindred world worked differently from the Kine’s… well, actually they were pretty similar, but— he shook his head to snap out of it before he could sink deeper into the rabbit hole.

Clearing his throat, he extended his hand again, offering it to her. “You got yourself a deal then, uh, miss…?”

“Claire.” She grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, nodding tersely at him. “Claire Redfield.”

“Right, Claire, tell me everything you know so far.” He gestured towards a pair of seats near his desk.

After he had gathered all the information he needed, he sent her off to the door like the gentleman he had been raised to be. Before heading out, she turned around, unclasping the silvery chain that hung around her neck. Attached to it was a matching pewter feather and a robin’s egg blue gemstone set within it. 

“Take this.” She released it in his hand. “Show it to Chris and he’ll know I sent you.”

With that, she disappeared into the cool, dead of night.

The next time they saw each other was a week later, inside an abandoned motel. There was trash strewn across the entire floor and an overhead light buzzed and flickered.The plaster had been torn apart from the ceiling board and loose cables hung from its opening.

A gruff, bulky man leaned against Leon’s shoulder which acted like a makeshift crutch, as Leon steadied him with a firm grip, half-carrying and half-guiding him to a soiled mattress in the middle of a room. The man patted Leon’s arm, indicating that he wanted to take a break. He slid down against the wall, resting in a sitting position on the mattress. His clothes were caked with mud and half of his face had been severely burnt, as charred black flesh curled at its edges. There was a gaping bullet hole in his thigh, and rusty colored blood soaked through his tactical pants.

Apart from the scratching and scampering of rodents, the place was silent. Though the uncanny peace was disrupted just a split second later, when a screech could be heard from the other end of the room. “Chris!”

In a blink of an eye, Claire dashed forward and knelt in front of her brother, grasping both of his shoulders as tears streamed down her face.

“Some FIRSTLIGHT agents got him real bad, but he managed to get out of the thick of it,” Leon explained. “They were searching for him, so he was stuck there for a while.”

Chris brushed his sooty fingers against his sister’s cheek, leaving charcoal marks in their wake. “Don’t worry, we got them back,” he rasped, shifting his gaze between Leon and him, as he grimaced through the pain.

“Shhh, don’t speak.” She brought a finger to his lips, trying to hush him. “Fucking SI bastards,” she seethed.

The Second Inquisition. The bane of every Kindred’s existence. They targeted everyone indiscriminately, regardless of sect, and had been around in one form or another since the beginning of time. Today, they were a conglomeration of intelligence agencies who made it their life mission to eradicate the undead. Apparently, even the Vatican was involved, Leon scoffed at his internal monologue, before directing his attention back at Claire. “Your brother’s had a blood bag, he’ll need—”

“Shit’s fucking disgusting, 10 out of 10 would not recommend,” Chris warned hoarsely, before erupting into a coughing fit.

Claire groaned, shaking her head in exasperation. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall with this one.”

Leon peered around the room, double-checking to ensure that no one else was there. He shouldn’t stay any longer than necessary. “Since my job here is done, I’ll take my leave,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as he turned towards the exit sign.

“Leon?” Claire called out and he looked back at her in puzzlement. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He shrugged, flipping his bangs away from his face.

“I owe you,” she declared, her serious demeanor reflecting the sincerity of her words.

Chris glanced between the two of them. “We owe you,” he chimed in.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Present day…

Jasmine incense and fruity puffs of shisha smoke wafted throughout the room he had just entered. Translucent red silk sheets draped around the ceiling and the side walls, giving off the illusion of being in the hull of a ship, as well as a false sense of security. The beaded curtain he passed through made a tinkling sound as the pearls clacked lightly together, alerting others to his presence. This was a place where gossip was woven, secrets were spilled and deals were made. Leon knew this all too well, especially since he had his share of many such dealings with his sire in the past.

He was in luck today. Apart from her, there were only ghouls here, ordinary humans whom she recruited into her service and imbued with her strength. One of them nodded at him in acknowledgment, offering him a cordial glass filled with claret liquid. “Our finest.”

Clearly, they had anticipated his arrival. How nice of his sire to inform them, he ruminated sarcastically. Taking the glass from her, he swirled it, noting how smoothly it strained down the sides before sniffing the rim faintly.

“We also have live vessels, if you prefer,” she suggested.

He frowned slightly, signaling with a subtle hand wave to decline her proposal as he drank from his glass. She backed off, allowing him to walk past towards a majestic set of marble doors, lavishly decorated with ornaments and intricate figures carved into them. Tracing an outline of a distorted face of a child with his finger, he recalled how in his early years, he’d been so enraptured by everything in this godforsaken place, and most of all, her. He lifted the aged bronze knocker, tapping it twice before pushing open the double doors.

And there he saw her, in all her terrible glory, basking like a queen in an elegant kimono robe on her opulent, plush bed, adorned with a velvet headboard and its frame crafted from the finest woods. Every inch of it was covered in luxurious fabrics, from the embroidered duvet to the pile of sumptuously soft pillows. Kneeling beside her on the ground was a half naked ghoul, lapping hungrily at the crimson fluid flowing from her wrist. A blood-stained dagger lay on the bedside table.

Ada caught Leon’s gaze and smirked at him.

“That’s enough for now,” she commanded, and immediately, the ghoul straightened himself, averting his eyes as he retreated from the pair of them.

The gash on her wrist closed up on its own. “Just the monthly top up.”

Leon made a face at her elaboration; the betrayal and hurt were still raw in his memory, as if they had only occurred yesterday.

“Oh, don’t be so sour, Leon,” she laughed. “You can’t possibly be still hung up about that?”

“You used me, Ada,” he simmered. Despite the infrequency of their meetings in the recent years spent apart, she knew how to push his buttons. “So, I’m sorry if it’s a little hard for me to act like nothing ever happened between us.”

She let out an irritated sigh. “You sound like a child throwing a tantrum right now,” she retorted, picking at her nails in growing boredom. “And tell me, which sire doesn’t use their own progeny?”

He clenched his fists in anger but held his tongue. This wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on. He reminded himself of the purpose of his visit and chose not to let her snide comments ruffle him.

“Good boy,” she cooed approvingly. “I see you haven’t lost all of your manners. Blood bond, or no blood bond.”

He winced at the term, as a sudden wave of nostalgia, combined with ensuing nausea, hit him. The visions were so vivid:

“Do you love me?” She stroked the side of his cheek tenderly as he lay naked and panting on top of her pale breasts. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he fawned.

“Prove it.”

Cradling her hand, he brought the underside of her wrist to his lips. “I’ll do anything! Say the word and I’ll die for you, a thousand times over.”

“Then drink, my love.” Her eyes glowed violet as her mouth shaped into a cruel, yet alluring smile.

And he sank his teeth into her, like a good little boy.

Back then, she only needed to say “Jump,” and he would ask, “How high?” without realizing that drinking from her so often would result in a nearly unbreakable blood bond. He committed despicable acts in her name, things he would rather scrub from his mind and forget about, but they continued to haunt him.

When he lost his shine and the appeal of being something new, she discarded him like yesterday's newspaper, chasing after the next high she could find. The problem with the bond was that he was obsessed with her, often breaking out into insanely jealous fits that tormented him for days when she took on a new lover. He had almost killed one of them, which, in turn, could have resulted in his Final Death at the hands of the Prince, had he been successful. Time away from her was all it took for the bond to wear off, though it was not without its difficulties. He whined like a lovesick puppy during the moments he was alone, rotting like waste on the stone cold floor. His vulnerability was like a disease; he hated every bit of it and swore never to descend to such a state.

When he returned to the Court like a new man after an agonizing period of being weaned off the bond, he suddenly found himself no longer in vogue and stumbling his way through the dark, seeing as how it was always his sire who called the shots around town. In a twisted turn of events, he ironically ended up falling back on the career he had originally given up to be with her, in order to be of use to the Camarilla, or polite vampire society, if you will. 

And then, there was the vessel business. To keep up with the expectations and obligations impressed upon him due to their formal relationship as sire and childe, he continued to bring her the vessels she requested. The only requirement was for them to be of ‘exquisite taste’ and he obliged whenever he could, though this time, he put in just the bare minimum to get by. Yet, some part of him still cared for her, in spite of what she had done, even if he would never let himself admit that.

Coming back to his senses, his eyes adjusted to the scene before him. Leaning back on her bed and propped up by the pillows, Ada patted the empty side next to her, inviting him to take a seat, and he followed her lead.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Negotiating was never one of his strong suits, especially not with Ada, but he had to try. He gulped the rest of the liquid down, fiddling with the glass in his hand. “Ada, since I joined you, you know I’ve never asked you for anything…”

She cast him a prolonged sideways glance. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Go on.”

“I want to Embrace one of my own.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. Better to get it done and over with.

“You? Becoming a sire?” she snorted in disbelief before bursting into giggles. “I mean, you’ve always been a bit of a mommy’s boy, haven’t you?”

“I can handle it,” he responded curtly with a cold and unbroken stare.

“Hmph.” Pulling herself into a seated position against the headrest, she folded her arms and turned to face him. “I have to say though, this is even more interesting than when you joined the Anarchs.”

A disgruntled noise escaped his throat. “I didn’t join the Anarchs—”

“No matter.” She raised a hand to silence him. “Wesker seems to think it useful of you to be our unofficial emissary. And what the Prince says, goes, after all.” A sly grin spread across her cheeks, barely concealing her fangs.

Clearing her throat, she continued her line of questioning. “So, who is this prospective childe?”

“One of the owners of Café Noir on Blake Street, just east of Circular River,” he mentioned, racking his brains for any viable excuse to make you sound like the best possible candidate for the Clan of the Rose, the Toreador. His and Ada’s clan. Like sire, like childe.

There were some who thought of them as divas and perverts, but these Kindred were wrong — they were so much more than that. Passion and obsession were their greatest strengths. They could make or break minds with it, crushing you until you were nothing but a tiny speck on the Earth, to be shunned and forgotten. Everyone had something to bring to the table, and let’s just say what counts as an art has always been a purely subjective matter.

“I was tipped off that the Anarchs are looking for ways to claim the area as their domain,” he explained further. “She’ll give us the edge we need to prevent that.”

“Anything else?” she probed.

“She’s young, idealistic—”

“A lot like yourself, back in the day.” A rueful laugh escaped her lips.

Leon continued forward without missing a beat, he needed to convince her without letting her statement get to him. “Hot-blooded, but not to the extreme like those Brujahs, just the right amount of fight in her. I’m sure you’ve heard of the events they’ve hosted over there—”

“Ah, yes,” she nodded. “Very underground and avant-garde.” There was a twinge of dismissiveness in the way she said it.

“Yet pandering to the people,” he added quickly, attempting to cram in even more noteworthy achievements he had recognized in you. “Well, you can’t deny that she can stir quite a crowd—”

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Ada interrupted him for the third time in a row, and he was struggling to maintain his composure in response to her accusation. “How predictable.”

“That’s besides the point,” he snapped, turning away from her to avoid her mocking scrutiny.

She tutted, stretching herself out leisurely like a cat who had a mouse trapped between its claws. “The real question is, why don’t you ask the Prince yourself?”

“You know why,” he muttered, still unable to look her in the eyes.

“Say it.”

Swallowing his pride, he pursed his lips before speaking. “I’m just a simple whelp. But you, as an esteemed Harpy, know how to please him.”

“Very good.” She reached out and ran her lithe fingers through his silken locks of hair as he shuddered at her touch. “Just like I taught you.”

Curling her fingers under his chin, she turned his face back towards her. “You know this won’t come for free…”

“I am well aware.”

The look of determination in his eyes nearly startled her. She hadn’t seen that fire in him for a while. “Sometimes, you surprise me,” she admitted. “No wonder I keep you around.”

“Do we have a deal?” he pressed, trying to keep the conversation on track.

“If I were you, I’d be careful what I wished for.” She trailed one of her taloned nails along his bottom lip. “In any case, I’m counting this as a major boon, so you better be ready to pull your weight when the time comes.”

She was always playing games. With him. With everyone. It was what she thrived on. But his choices were limited. “Have I ever failed you?”

“Don’t make it the first,” she warned, a gleam of danger flashing across her eyes. “Well, come then, kiss me.”

Suppressing his reluctance, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers as she asked, submitting to her entirely as the deal was sealed.

━━━━━━━━━━━

“Leon?” he heard you call out from behind the bar the minute he’d stepped through the entrance. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

It had been a while since he had returned, but there were other more urgent matters he had to attend to in the meantime. Did you miss him? Was this what it was all about? He strolled over, watching you chew your lip apprehensively.

He tried to place his hand on your shoulder in concern, but you shrank away from him like a wilted flower. There was a pang in his chest. He didn’t know how you had the power to unintentionally hurt him in this way. “Is something wrong?”

You were trembling so badly, the cup you were holding rattled noisily against its saucer. “What did you do to me back then?”

A pained realization swept across his face. You had remembered the last words he had said this time, waking up confused to find yourself unsullied, not a hair out of place, wondering what on earth he meant by his remark. God, he wanted to hold you now and beg for your forgiveness, but it was too late.

“You know, I liked you…” Your mouth had contorted in anguish. “If you wanted something, you could’ve just asked.”

“Please, I can explain,” he pleaded, finding himself on the opposite end of the table for once. “I swear, I won’t do anything to harm you. I just need you to trust me, please.”

Your forehead creased as you pondered your next move, eyeing the man in front of you with suspicion. He seemed so earnest and had treated you with nothing but kindness before. Yet, beneath the surface, there lurked a predatory nature intrinsic to him. Although it scared you, you found this side to him fascinating, and it drew you in at the same time.

Finally, you came to a decision. “Patrick?” you motioned towards your curly-haired brunette colleague while not once shifting your gaze from Leon. “I’m gonna take the night off and spend some time with this gentleman here.”

Sliding Leon’s business card along the counter towards him, you made sure to talk loud enough for the blonde man to hear it. “If you don’t see me in the next day or two, you know what to do.”

You tried to laugh it off as a half-serious joke, just so they wouldn’t worry… too much. And with that, you grabbed your jacket and headed off into the night with him.

[identity2110]

Print Your Own Catalog, Magazines, or Booklets By Doing A Few Clicks And Get Them Delivered Door-Step. We Are Expert At Branding And Printing Related Services.

WhatsApp Us = 91 8920 951 048, +91 9873 455 131 Email Us = identity2110@gmail.com Address = D-21, 3rd Floor, Sector 10, Noida 201301 (U.P.) For More Info Vist Us = Cheap Printing Online

[fuck-customers]

we do printing, copying, laminating, and one or two other things. we do NOT provide photoshop or other design services. but if one of us has free time (which isvery rare) and sees you having trouble we MIGHT help. i did it once when i saw two poor 90 year old ladies who barely new how to use text boxes or center things on a document. but the fact that you will never see charges for this on your bill hould make it pretty obvious that we're doing this to be nice. idk maybe it's not obvious but whatev.

woman comes in FIVE MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING. and says she wants something photoshopped and printed. so like even if we did offer that service you're fr coming in five minutes before we close????? anyone since like i said we dont have photoshop services no one over there is required to know how to use photoshop and the guy who was there didnt know how to use photoshop.

"but james did it for me last time i was here!" cool. james was being nice, james isnt here, and the dude currently here literally does not know HOW to use photoshop. it's like thirty past closing and this point and the manager says "ma'am we are way passed closing and you have to leave." "no i refuse to leave until you photoshop and print what i need."

employees on duty weren't able to leave until an hour and a half after closing coz of this bitch.

gm told am that if there's a customer like that again to tell them that he'll call the cops if they don't leave

Posted by admin Rodney.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Special Treatment

Or: John Halo vs Space Tricare

Thanks to @bloodgulchblog for encouraging me to follow this idea. It's a critical piece based and could have been a lot longer to be honest. Here's 2.1k words of John trying to navigate the average military clinic, many liberties taken, many details experienced.

-

The stilted conversations of the waiting room quiet at the first sign of potential movement. Mothers quietly clutching their crying babies or holding hands of children with ear aches and runny noses look up with tempered hope and frazzled nerves. Toddlers fascinated by the brightly colored show on the room’s single silent screen blink at the new person in the doorway. An elderly person with a cane and a fistful of paper documents frowns and shifts in preparation to stand. John’s own eyes scan the room in periphery, noting the changing body language and access to the exits. Hope was a fickle thing in a clinic. It’d been 15 minutes since the last person had been ushered back down the hall.

His appointment was scheduled for 20 minutes ago. He’d arrived 50 minutes ago. His doctored paperwork claiming his status and identity had been submitted 45 minutes ago. 45 minutes since his approach had been met with shocked stares and scrutiny before being dismissed back to the waiting room with its plastic and metal chairs with fading teal patterns and water-stained tile ceilings.

Somewhere Kelly was laughing at him. He could have sought medical help on board the UNSC Infinity. But the way people outside his team treated him rankled his sense of what he really deserved. He only did his duty-he didn’t want special treatment. But John was learning what planet-side military healthcare was really like - the hard way.

"Smith, John."

A nurse in plain blue scrubs holding a clipboard calls from right outside the front desk. The other nurse and tired looking security officer don't look up from behind the plexiglass as she blearily scans the room.

John stands before she calls his name again. He tries for a slow measured pace, but her eyes widen as he approaches. She recovers quickly and holds out her hand, "ID?"

He hands her his military ID, freshly made and slightly warped from its time in his pocket. An awkward photo and the issue date marked as the same day did him no favors. The cheap laminate flashing the holographic symbols of the UNSC over the fine black print. It had his real birthday on it, and he’d already memorized his benefits and DoD ID number. Part of him thought that it would help, but the other part of him wondered if it made him even more suspicious.

"Uh huh." She nods and looks him over. He knows he hasn't done anything wrong, but this is new territory for him. By seeking to avoid special treatment, John has stumbled into a world of suspicious admin and medical professionals. His own last name is classified, and though he might look like a walking cadaver he was thankful the ID office agreed on John Smith rather than John Doe.

The tired nurse turns and walks away, only looking back in frustration and waving for him to follow. He maintains a polite distance, but nothing seems to help her mood. Thankfully, it's not a long walk. Down the crowded hall past the clinic's tiny lab and waiting area to another gray and white room with an examination table. She tells him to sit and that someone will be by. The paper crinkles beneath him, but he bears it. There's more than a little doubt in his mind that the metal and plastic seat in the corner would support his weight. There’s barely anything else in the room; another uncomfortable chair, a stool near the logged out computer, a biohazard bin and some out of date infographic posters warning about common illnesses and a bizarrely detailed model of the inner ear.

There aren’t any signs of information for the usual suspects that John’s seen in the Infinity’s medical wing the few times he’s allowed himself to be wrestled there. Her crew having more civilians in the mix meant that the infirmary was different than he was used to. John looks and wonders where the vaccine information was or the signs of getting someone help. All he’s left with in this clinic are the signs of mesothelioma symptoms and law offices.

He sits and he waits and he wheezes slightly. The mask he’s wearing both for his own health and comfort and for others is a flimsy barrier compared to what he’s used to, but it’ll do for now.

The nurse didn't lie. Someone does come by, eventually. There's no clock on the wall, but without looking at his datapad John estimates that at least 30 minutes have gone by.

Another person in scrubs comes in, takes his vitals, and makes awkward small talk. He's a corpsman, Jones, and he tries to hide his reaction upon seeing John. Blue overalls and Navy are familiar enough he should put John at ease, but Jones is between him and the door.

John’s been on enough campaigns where waiting took the majority of his time. He’d been at the mercy of the decisions of others his whole life. But something about this clinic, lacking even the facade of care and bogged down in the bureaucracy of out-of-date admin set his teeth on edge. These people weren’t his enemy, but he could not count them as allies. He felt more secure in the waiting room with the blinds blocking the midday sun and the coughing child holding a Spartan action figure in their tiny fist.

The others must have talked because he enters the room with a polite knock and a burning curiosity in his eyes. John's not the Master Chief right now, for which he's grateful, but he misses the armor. There's no buffer between him and humanity.

Jones asks him the same questions he was asked by the nurse at the counter, and the nurse on the phone, and the administrator at the ID office, and Kelly when she found out he was going planet-side for treatment. Why?

At this point, John regrets trying to follow his new instinct to not let things get so bad he ends up in the infirmary. It’s not like he hasn’t toughed out illnesses before. But being sick and miserable amongst his team, and his crew felt worse. Master Chief couldn’t have a cold or be lain low by a respiratory infection. He had a job to do.

But that didn’t mean it was easy. Jones mangles his arm trying to find a vein to draw blood. Even after commenting on John’s paleness helping him locate some good ones. He palpates him and tries and misses. John bears it, and wonders distantly if he’ll get comments on this too from teammates and overbearing techs.

Jones leaves with two vials and an apologetic smile that is soured by some joke John forgets five minutes later. It’s not until another 15 have passed that someone in a lab coat flutters in, introduces himself, chides John to take better care of himself, makes an assumption about the illness and gives him a prescription. He’s halfway out the door before telling John where the pharmacy is.

Another body enters his space and he sidesteps out of habit. Smaller people seem to think Spartans are less like people and more like features in a room to work around. The nurse eyes him and goes back to his job of restocking the room and ripping off the paper where John had sat for most of the last hour.

“Did you need anything else?” He says more than asks.

John shakes his head and leaves, back down the gray and white hallway, past the lab where his blood is being tested. Jones told him to check his patient portal in the next week or so. Might be longer.

He makes it to the pharmacy unscathed, save for his arm, and sits down with a clear view of the exits.

A few rows over he overhears a whispered conversation between an adolescent and their guardian. He doesn’t mean to listen in but John’s never been big on reacting before understanding. He understands his world, but this was new and all the other patients weren’t giving him much to go on. Surely this wasn’t an acceptable level of care for the family, dependents and service members of UNSC? This facility alone was overcrowded, out-of-date, understaffed, and rundown to such a degree that John’s anxiety spiked when he arrived. But the same could be said for the base housing he passed, and the ID office, and the shipyard itself. The entire base was made to function a certain way for a certain amount of time, and it was obviously past that.

The adolescent complains to their guardian, hands fisted in some over sized jacket. “But the doctor didn’t even figure it out?”

The guardian looks stricken but rallies quickly.“The steroids are to help you recover and your body fight whatever caused the reaction. The doctor didn’t think the allergic reaction was severe enough for testing. It’ll be okay.” They try to comfort the child.

John’s perfect posture deflates a millimeter. It goes unnoticed by everyone around him, and for the first time that day, he’s glad his team isn’t here. To see him worn down so quickly, or to see the state of the people they are trying to protect.

"Now serving - at window number 2." A woman's synthetic voice rings out over the muted din of the clinic's waiting room. Tile floor that once might have been white and gray squeaks under the shoes of the next person in line.

John sits and stares at his datapad and the newly downloaded app that bears his own number. The lone screen displaying the number being served ticks upward and the woman speaks again. "Now serving - at window number 4." Another body shuffles out of the sea of people sitting under the baleful fluorescents.

He finds it strange that the Dumb AI doesn't actually announce the number, and that she's only saying the phrase in English. After 45 minutes waiting and watching, John doubts she's even an Dumb AI. This place doesn't seem to have the resources to justify one. Just a synthetic recording playing over and over, cool and impersonal, over the dull roar of illness. Sniffles and coughs and John’s own tired wheezing behind his mask.

He fidgets, on purpose of course, since they trained the fidget out of him. That and Mjolnir doesn't take kindly to twitchy Spartans. John was finding that civilians were intimidated by tall men in masks and sunglasses that sat still as statues. He was a polite statue, but that didn't help with the staring.

More time passes. It feels like he arrived at the clinic yesterday and five minutes ago. Windowless walls and water-stained ceilings close in with a sense of a stagnant forever-present. Never moving forward, never being helped, just shuffled around and waiting somewhere else. Buzzing fluorescents and strained breathing complement the clacking of analog keyboards and soft rough voices of pharmacists and techs working in their own hives located behind plexiglass and locked doors.

Another hour passes and the rhythmless dance of synthetic announcements, pharmacy techs, and doctor’s notes trickling through the computer system lands on John. His number is called and he shuffles to the window.

Name, ID, Birthday-here’s the meds, take twice a day with food. Instructions on the bottle. The rustle of a brown paper bag to hide the results of half a day.

And then he’s shooed away.

The dull red exit sigh points back the way he came all that time ago, past the security checkpoint and front desk, past the coughs and wheezes and crying babes of the waiting room, and out the shuddering, squeaking automatic doors and back into the sunlight.

Cars honk in nearby traffic. A single sickly tree provides some shade in the patchy yellow grass nearby.

Mission accomplished.

John heads back, feeling heavier than he did that morning when he woke with full sinuses and a productive cough. The pills in the bag rattle. 10 days of a treatment, refills as needed. He won’t be back. John has that choice, has more access to care, and for that he is both grateful and concerned. It wasn’t often he got to see what he was protecting, what he was a symbol of. A great machine slowly turning good people into good soldiers, but also a slow wave of ineptitude unable to help the ones keeping it running. Something like that would surely die a slow death.

But John doesn’t think about that. He can’t. That would require a more critical awareness of his role in this great dying thing that consumes all in its path. Cortana would have helped. She would have hacked the computers and fixed everything, but that was a fantasy.