#pipe threading machine

[aaronaccessories]

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[cerealforkart]

I have the worst taste in hobbies for a person with shaky hands.

Drawing. Baking. Sewing. All with the dexterity of a potted plant in an earthquake

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

II ║ Threads

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part I: Seams | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.

Warnings: Very spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: This crept up on me and happened just as I was finishing up edits. I am so grateful, and I hope Threads is a fitting thank you gift to you all 😘 I’m thinking about doing a sleepover celebration, we shall see!

Joel and Pin are back ❤️ They're back because you guys have been so generous with your love, sending me so many ideas and hyping me up - I can't thank you all enough! This chapter is all thanks to Singer machine anon who bravely (affectionate 😉) shared their story of getting stuck under a sewing machine table. I hope you enjoy this one!

A treadle sewing machine is powered mechanically by a foot pedal that is pushed back and forth by the operator's foot. 

If you're not familiar, here is a classic Singer treadle cabinet, which is no way big enough for the purposes of this story, so please exercise your imagination 😉

Joel hovers outside the Jackson Grocer’s, arms crossed, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible in front of the leafy display of butter lettuce heads.

It’s been a few months since he’s settled in, but sometimes he can’t get over how fucking nuts this place is. Looking at the shelves brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables outside, canned food and home goods inside, he could easily be standing outside the 24/7 mart in his old neighbourhood. There are even shopping baskets, for crying out loud - stacked neatly one on top of the other by the door.

A voice pipes up from his left. ‘Didn’t know you ate greens.’

Joel scowls. ‘I don’t.’

‘Why are you loiterin’, then?’ asks Tommy, picking up a couple of apples and examining them with exaggerated care.

‘I’m not loiterin’,’ he spits out the last word as if he’s above it, turning his gaze to the high street. 

Tommy tosses him a cocky grin, head tilted at a knowing angle. ‘Yeah, you are. And now you’re makin’ eyes at Bob. It’s disturbin’.’

Glancing across the main thoroughfare at the welder’s shop, where the said proprietor is cutting up wooden planks on the porch, Joel grumbles sarcastically, ‘That’s right. Bob is just my type.’

At that very moment, right next to Bob's, the door of Main Street Outfitters creaks open, and Joel recognises Lucy instantly as she sneaks out on tiptoes. She skips down the stairs and wanders up the street in what appears to be another impromptu work break.

Joel’s already taken two steps towards the shop before he remembers that he’s not alone. Braking abruptly and bringing up one hand to scratch the back of his neck, he feels Tommy’s eyes on him.

He half-turns, and snaps, ‘What?’

The younger Miller brother shrugs, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Why are you going to the Outfitters again? Didn’t you just get those new jeans a couple of weeks ago?’

‘Thought I’d get a new shirt for your stupid baby shower.’

‘Joel -’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He throws his hands up in capitulation. ‘Baby showers are not stupid. Especially in the middle of an apocalypse.’

Taking another two steps forward, a thought stops him dead in his tracks again. He can practically feel Tommy smiling smugly at his back.

For fuck’s sake.

He doesn’t turn around this time, jamming his hands into his pockets and asks, ‘Can I bring someone? To the party?’

‘We know Ellie’s comin’.’

Whipping around, he growls, ‘Tommy -’

He laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Joel Miller makin’ friends in town? Maria’s right - you’re fittin’ right in, big brother.’

Rolling his eyes, Joel flips him off and stomps his way across the street.

Tommy calls out at his retreating back. ‘Say hello to Pin and tell her we’d love to have her come over on Sunday!’

When he steps inside, the shop is as empty as it was a fortnight ago. Joel shuts the door firmly, making sure the bell jingles, so his entry doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your voice, though muffled, comes promptly. ‘Lucy! Is that you?’

He heads towards the doorway that leads to the workshop. ‘It’s Joel, actually.’

‘Oh, shit!’

His eyebrows reach for his hairline - you don’t seem to be the type to curse. Concerned, he asks, ‘You alright back there?’

There’s a touch of panic in your reply, ‘Don’t come back here. Did Lucy sneak out again?’

On your instruction, Joel hesitates in the middle of the room, talking to air. ‘Yeah, saw her leave a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Goddamnit, Lucy!’

He shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Uh, you sure you’re ok? Should I come back later?’

There’s a resigned sigh, then a pause. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’

One end of his lips tugs upwards in a smile. ‘Why would I?’

‘Promise.’

At your insistence, he humours you, ‘Alright, I promise, sweetheart.’

‘Come on back.’

When he steps into the workshop, he doesn’t spot you immediately. The space is seemingly empty, everything standing still and in order. He sweeps his eyes across the room, starting with the shelving unit and the desk along the near wall, then trailing over the large timber work table in the middle, where a stack of folded shirts stands neatly.

His throat isn’t the only thing that tightens when he glances at the rug under the skylight -

‘Joel?’

Your voice draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a sewing station is tucked into a little alcove.

Joel doesn’t know much about sewing machines, but he can recognise a vintage Singer anywhere even without the name blazoned across its elegant body. His grandmother had one in her drawing room by a sunny bay window, and he used to watch her work on it when he visited every other weekend. For a disorienting second, he can almost smell homemade cinnamon rolls and black tea.

Little did he know that things were about to get a lot more disorienting than a pleasant childhood memory.

As he steps around the work table, the rest of the sewing station comes into view, fronted by a big window, the light streaming through the glass glancing off the black sewing machine on top of a classic treadle cabinet. What looks like a half-finished dress lies on the wooden work surface, which stands on quintessential wrought metal legs, and between them - his throat constricts with a slow swallow when he realises what - or rather, who - he’s looking at.

The words barely come out, as if his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth, as he makes his presence known. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’

To be fair, you’re not making things easy by any means. All he can see is your backside hovering in mid-air, the rest of you out of sight under the desk. It has built-in cabinets on each end, the right side of it backed up against the far wall, and a chair is pushed to the side.

Joel stops two measured paces away, staring down at the curve of your ass and the way your top rides up, baring the small of your back. His eyes linger on the soft skin between the shirt’s hem and the waistband of your very tight jeans.

Jesus Christ. Do you always have to be on your fucking knees in this workshop?

Your small voice jolts him from his daze. ‘Well, at least you’re not laughing.’

He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing. If only you knew how laughing is the furthest thing on his mind right now. ‘What happened?’

‘A spool rolled off and I went down to get it, but I fell on the treadle accidentally - I think my shirt is snagged in the band wheel. I can’t move at all, and this Singer is an antique - I can't risk breaking it.’

Unfamiliar with what you’re talking about, he probes, ‘And where’s the band wheel?’

‘Under the table, on my right.’

You wriggle your hips, perhaps to help him locate where you’re stuck, unaware that you’re not helping. At all. 

He swallows thickly and implores you, ‘Stay still, sweetheart. I’ll take a look.’

It’s been two whole weeks since Joel Miller came into the shop. You’ve caught glimpses of him in between - Jackson is tiny, after all. He catches your eye as he ambles down the high street with Ellie, his gruff Southern accent carrying even in the mid-afternoon bustle, too preoccupied arguing with the teenager to notice you on the other side of the road. He’s in the cafeteria a couple of times when you arrive for a late dinner, nodding at you from a few tables over, while you work up the nerve to smile back.

Every time, he’s wearing the jeans you handpicked for him, which makes your chest swell and constrict at the same time with something like - pride.

You picked out the pair for him. You assured him that he looks good. And by the way he’s wearing his confidence on his sleeve, he’s certainly taken your words to heart. 

Whenever you see other women eyeing him as he struts about town - which is entirely too often - it awakens an ugly possessiveness in you, one that twists your insides into grotesque balloon animals.

Fourteen damn days. Even in the privacy of your workshop, you can’t escape that man. The simple touch of denim provokes a visceral reaction from you, heat chases beneath your skin every time you pick up the tailor’s scissors. It doesn’t help that most of your daily tasks are not exactly cerebral, which gives this man all the more leeway to lay claim to your subconscious.

If you believed in magic, you would've thought you summoned him with the sheer energy you’ve spent thinking about him. But what kind of witchcraft conjured him up at the precise moment you get trapped like the bumbling idiot that you are?

One minute you’re reaching for the stupid thread, the next thing you know, you’re stuck, unable to move without the mechanisms of the antique Singer groaning ominously at your attempts to free yourself.

But maybe, it’s still better than Lucy finding you. She’d take a hammer to the sewing machine to get you out, no question - patience is not her strong suit - and she’d be laughing at you for days.

You hear the floorboards give behind you as Joel moves into the space, which isn’t much - when you’re sat down at the treadle cabinet, the wall is barely two steps behind.

The wooden table creaks above you as he braces one hand on the surface, and you startle at what sounds like the vicious crack of a vertebra.

‘Um - you okay?’

Joel grunts. ‘I’ll live.’

So you wait, thinking absent-mindedly how your elbows are starting to get numb. There’s a scruff of boots and what sounds like a brief struggle, before Joel sighs. ‘Back’s too stiff ‘mfraid. Gotta get on the floor to see underneath.’

Before you can squeak out a reply, there’s a boney click of what you presume is his knees as he crouches down, and an unexpected brush of denim on your left ankle surprises you. Forgetting where you are, you jump in reflex, hitting the underside of the table so hard that you screech in pain.

‘Shit!’ Joel cusses behind you, one warm hand landing on the side of your hip to steady you. ‘You ok?’

Up until this point, you’ve been too consumed with embarrassment by your predicament to even think about the position Joel found you in. But once the warm imprint of his palm registers through the denim, it hits you like one of those interstate trucks that you used to see out of your window.

You’re leaning on your forearms, ass in the air, and now - he’s behind you, getting onto his knees. You can’t decide if the back of your head or your pussy is throbbing harder as you stutter, ‘I’m fine, just - get me out, please.’

‘Alright, hang on, sweetheart.’

You swallow the childish urge to stamp your foot. He has no right going around dropping sweethearts all over the place.

There’s a throaty exhale as Joel lowers himself onto the floor, his knees bracketing yours to shift closer to you. You know he feels the shudder that chases down your spine when soft flannel grazes your bare back, heat spilling from his solid frame as he looms over you.

‘You say you’re stuck in the band wheel?’

Somehow, you manage to answer, ‘Yeah, to my right.’

He clears his throat. ‘I - uh - I’ll have to lean down pretty close to you to take a look, is that ok?’

You feel all the air leave your body, which is probably why your reply comes out far breathier than you intend it to. ‘Yes, Joel.’

And with those two words, Joel has a problem with his jeans. Again.

They’re too tight. Again.

There’s nothing he can do as his mouth goes dry and his cock hardens with a vengeance, his self-control slipping like sand between his fingers.

He was doing so good - well, he was more or less holding it together, as much as he could be expected to while kneeling behind you. And of course, his damn knees hurt, but so does his bottom lip which is caught in his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing when his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. 

He already has one hand on you, and goddamnit, it’s taking him all he’s got to hold back from gripping you with his other, to grasp the swell of your ass between his palms, to trace your curves up to the dip of your exposed waist, to bow his head and run his tongue along the arc of your spine -

And the jeans you’re wearing - fuck, they’re tight. He wonders idly if you wore them for him. His eyes follow the seam that runs down the cleft of your ass, the way the pockets stretch over your backside has his fingers twitching, thinking about how well you will fill his hands, and how the slow rub of denim will burn his skin.

He wants to hook his thumbs into the belt loops and pull you flush against the zipper of his jeans, where his cock is straining against - rub himself on you, grind on you, his thighs plastered to the back of yours -

‘Joel?’

Fuck.

He sways as he snaps out of his stupor, dangerously close to knocking into you, light-headed from the lack of blood to his brain. He chokes out, ‘Yeah, I got you, sweetheart.’

Get it together, you dirty bastard.

He’s careful to leave a couple of inches between his front and your ass when he bends his elbows and ducks so he can peer beneath the desk. His chest pressed flat against your lower back, he can see the bunched fabric of your shirt where it’s caught.

‘Yup, you’re right, your shirt is snagged tight in there.’

‘Can you untangle it?’

‘Think so, but I’ll need both hands.’ He pauses. ‘I’d better get on my back under you.’

You swear you’re going to black out.

‘Pin?’ he prompts when you’ve been quiet a beat too long.

‘I - um, what do you mean by going under me?’

‘If I’m on my back, I can use both my hands, like a mechanic under a car,’ he explains. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, I can find another way -’

‘No!’ you blurt out, wincing at the desperation in your tone. ‘I mean - whatever is easiest for you. You’re the one doing me a favour here.’

‘Alright,’ he says, placated by your reassurance. ‘On your hands and knees then, sweetheart.’

Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. Oh, come on. Can he hear himself?

Scraping together your last vestiges of control, you push up on your palms to make space underneath you. You have to consciously lock your elbows - your joints suddenly feel like barely set pudding. 

‘Move as far to your right as possible so I can slide in.’

Shuffling on your hands and knees until you’re pressed up against the band wheel, you hear the brush of fabric on wood - must be his back against the floorboards as he slides in. To say it’s a squeeze is an understatement. His broad shoulders brush the front of your thighs as he inches in, and then, his face appears under yours, head between your hands.

His lips quirk. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’

Your breath hitches at his proximity, your wrists brushing the soft red flannel he’s wearing today. ‘Hi.’

‘You ok?’ he asks.

You’re this close to pouting. What does he think? There’s a telltale stickiness between your legs that you’re frantically trying to push to the back of your mind while you mmhmm noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t smell your want in the tiny, claustrophobic space you’re now both caught in.

You can only assume that he’s none the wiser, since the next thing that comes of his mouth is - 

‘Climb on top of me so I can slide in closer to the band wheel.’

Someone might as well say your last rites. This is the end.

You’re taken aback when your limbs start to move on autopilot, because your faculties have well and truly abandoned ship. One trembling leg attempts to swing itself over the solid breadth of his body, but it wobbles like jelly, and your knee ends up connecting firmly with his stomach instead of landing clear on his other side.

At his grunted oomph, you panic and bang your head on the underside of the table again, which sends your whole weight sprawling onto his front with a yelp.

Joel cradles the back of your scalp with one hand. ‘Shit, you ok, sweetheart?’

The seams of your lashes sting, your head smarting with the impact, and you blink drily as your gaze focuses on Joel under you. He’s so close that you can see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, his breath hitting your face in warm puffs. Your glance at his lips, and with that one little motion, all goes quiet.

He watches you back, neither of you breathing, and in the stillness you realise that you’re fully straddling him, your palms pressing into the hard floor on either side of his ears. Your tits are crushed up against his ribs, his soft tummy warmly cushioned under you. Lower still, where your hips are nestled into the spread of his thick thighs, something stiff and long and insistent presses into you -

Your jaw goes slack when it dawns on you. 

Oh god.

He’s hard.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Joel breaks the silence, a pained frown on his brow as he shakes his head. ‘This is embarrassin’. Couldn’t fuckin’ help it, seein’ you in those jeans -’

Tongue-tied, you can only stare at him, wishing you were brave enough to say something. Tell him that you pulled extra shifts to buy this particular pair of jeans, knowing that they flatter your figure. That you’ve worn them almost every day these two weeks, hoping that he’d swing by again. 

But you can’t. 

So you pray that he can see what you can’t say by the way you’re looking at him, by the way your heart races wildly in your ribcage against his chest.

His voice cracks. ‘I understand if you want me to go -’

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cut in, ‘Don’t.’

His warm eyes widen, something like hopefulness in the way he looks up at you. ‘You don’t want me to go?’

You press your body closer into his, filling in the gaps. ‘No. Please don’t, Joel.’

He leans forward, so close that you can feel the phantom burn of his silvered beard, his palms finding the meat of your legs, blunt nails biting into the denim.

He really should be ashamed of himself, at the way his cock pulses unabashedly, nudged right between your thighs as you stare down at him, lips parted. He’s hard enough that he worries if there’s a wet spot of precum on the front of his jeans - he can feel himself leaking through his boxers. 

The wicked tip of your tongue traces a wet trail on your bottom lip, and he almost chokes on a half-buried groan deep in his chest. He knows that you don’t even know you’re doing it - and in turn, what that does to him.

It would be easy to close the two-inch gap between you. To kiss you, taste you, lick into your sweet mouth. All he needs to do is to cup the back of your head and pull you down, or crane his neck and press his lips to yours -

And Joel is someone who always follows the path of least resistance. 

But - he wants to do right by you. He knows you deserve more than a quick fumble under a table.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Joel steels himself and brushes a chaste thumb over your cheekbone. ‘Let’s get you out of here, and then we can talk, ok?’

It’s almost perverse the way his chest warms at the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you give a reluctant nod, ‘Ok. Please be careful, the Singer’s really delicate.’

It’s hard to focus - his attention keeps drifting to how snugly you fit into his chest, between his arms, and it’s not a stretch to imagine a soft mattress underneath his back. It's funny how quickly his body has adjusted to creature comforts after months of sleeping on the cold winter ground.

Joel’s mindful that an antique sewing machine will be a pain in the ass to repair without the requisite parts, so he moves carefully, gently coaxing the band wheel back and forth to see how he can extract you. It doesn’t take long to loosen the grip of the metal teeth on your shirt, but he has to reach up and untangle the threads snagged into the mechanisms one by one.

He muses idly that this is not his method. These hands of his, with crooked knuckles that never healed right, where many a dagger, knife, gun, rifle have found a home - they break things, people.

When was the last time someone asked gentleness of him? 

He wants to scoff. That’s not what he’s good for.

Despite himself, his throat rumbles with a hum of satisfaction when the band wheel finally lets go of your shirt, the Singer whirring to life as it spins freely. He gives you a lopsided smile. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’

You smile, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to move, which pleases him. He likes looking at you from this angle, relishing in your weight on him. He takes his time running his eyes over your face, his palms coming to rest on your knees.

You duck your head prettily. ‘Thank you, Joel.'

He gives you a playful shrug. ‘Well, I owed you one for these jeans.’

You roll your eyes in good humour. ‘Actually, I told you specifically that you didn’t.’

Joel basks in the lighthearted turn in the conversation, egging you on, ‘Well, in that case, you owe me one for this instead.’

‘That’s hardly fair -’ you chide him, punching him in the shoulder in a half-hearted rebuke.

Taking the opportunity, he grabs you by the wrist, the contact prompting a bodily shudder from you that he doesn’t miss. He smirks, ‘M’fraid I don’t play fair, sweetheart.’

You glare at him in mock sternness, bold enough to demand, ‘Fine - what do you want then, Joel Miller?’

For a split second, he hesitates, woefully out of practice at whatever it is that he’s about to do. Swallowing his self-doubt, he asks, ‘Tommy and Maria are throwing a baby shower on Sunday at their house - do you want to come?’

Your shoulders stiffen. Now, that you were not expecting. Your social anxiety bubbles between your ribs and looms over you like a spector. You sputter, ‘Um, I -’

You start when his fingers draw soothing circles on the top of your knees, as if seeing straight through the source of your apprehension. He reassures you, ‘Lucy is welcome to join too. The more the merrier.’

Your eyes soften. ‘Ok. I’d love to.’

The endearing way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles has you swaying towards him, his nose just brushing the side of yours - when the doorbell rings, cutting through the loaded silence. 

In your haste to sit up, you knock your head against the table for a third time. 

‘Ow!’ you cry. Even Joel flinches at the hard hit.

Lucy calls out, sounding dangerously close. ‘Pin? You ok, hon?’

‘Shit!’ You start scrambling backwards, bent over awkwardly, convinced that you’re one more blow away from a concussion. You’ve barely scrambled onto your feet when Lucy steps into the workshop, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as blood rushes to your brain. 

She watches in amusement as Joel drags himself from under the sewing station, head cocked to one side. ‘Hi again, stranger. You really like our shop, don’t you?’

His shirt is rumpled from where you sat on him, bits of his curls sticking up. He rubs the back of his neck, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘I just swung by to, uh, invite you and Pin to the baby shower. Tommy and Maria’s. This Sunday.’

Lucy crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. ‘And it’s a tradition where you’re from to talk about weekend plans under a table?’

You narrow your eyes at her. ‘Luce -’

She winks. ‘You know what? I don’t need to know the gory details - but I’m in. See you Sunday, Miller!’

Joel huffs a chuckle as Lucy disappears into the front of the shop, leaving you two alone. You smile, suddenly shy for no reason, twining your fingers to stop from fidgeting. ‘Thanks again, Joel.’

He shrugs it off, a touch of boldness in the way he stands, hands in pockets, hips cocked. ‘Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.’

Instead of heading in the direction of the door, he takes two long strides towards you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, ‘Wear those jeans for me again on Sunday?’

Stunned, you gape at him as he turns with a crooked grin and walks off, dispatching a two-fingered salute at Lucy as he goes. Pausing by the threshold, Joel gives you one last wink that has your breath stuttering - but you only allow yourself to sag against the wall when the door closes behind him, your knees giving.

Lucy wastes no time skipping back into the workshop, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. ‘Alright, time to raid the party clothes rack, girl!’

You laugh - Sunday can’t come fast enough.

Notes: I had the best time writing this chapter - it was fun to flip the tables on Pin, not that Joel comes out completely unscathed!

I definitely have ✨ideas✨ for these two, but I'm enjoying keeping things loose, so I have no plans to turn this into a full-blown series just yet. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, comments/reblogs/asks are so so appreciated as always ❤️

[purseowner4thequalityanimation]

SMT Boardgame Kickstarter Smells Like Suspicious Fish

There's an SMT boardgame. Curb your enthusiasm, you shouldn't back it. And if you did, lower your pledge to like a buck until they clear things up, because as it stands it seems like an incredibly suspect product.

Checking through the Kickstarter comments and Japanese Tweets about the boardgame makes the entire thing seem poorly planned at best. I'll summarize as best I can;

The designer is incredibly infamous in the boardgame community

Naoki Matsunaga, a self-described "board game sommelier", is the designer. You'll find tweets lamenting that "the board game sommelier is involved". Why is he so hated? This thread goes into detail: co_boze on twitter. Part of it is they bashed Werewolf over one game they saw of it, another is they took on a kind of public-face role for boardgames appearing on late night TV shows to talk about them in ways that annoyed boardgamers. They seem to have designed a boardgame based on "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People" which ripped off Sid Sackson's 'I'm the Boss". But it's what co_boze talks about next that's really bizarre. The game was apparently banned from most board game cafes and playing spaces. Seminars where people could play the game were hosted, but the venues that hosted these seminars all closed down.

If you keep looking through comments, you start finding claims that his company does multi-level marketing (ie pyramid schemes). To be honest, I don't know if this is true. But even if it isn't, it is really not hard to find people who know of this guy and would really really really REALLY prefer he was not involved.

"Oh fuck, it's THIS guy" is not a reaction that inspires confidence

2. Questionable development and presentation issues.

A regular collaborator with Atlus recently tweeted "The use of AI in Atlus works or derivative works is stictly prohibited." He responded to a reply asking if this was about a board game.

The staff running the SMT BG Kickstarter later clarified the actual -game- wouldn't use AI graphics... but from the looks of it, the promotional materials do.

Dig that... generic metal pipe aesthetic. Nothing screams MegaTen like black plumbing to nowhere.

In totally unrelated news, a board game manufacturer recently tweeted that a Kickstarter used their name without permission, and they're not sure why.

Quote tweets on the post would suggest it was the SMT board game. The comment they are loosely referring to is this:

In a follow-up post, they do specify "The product figures will be made of PVC." and "We will be manufacturing the games in partnership with a factory in China that has a proven track record... " "Figure director Kimura Yuzuru has over 10 years of experience..." and other boring development stuff that I have no issue with. What I do have issue with is how they can say things like they're "considering" which manufacturer to use and namedropping other companies that they're unrelated with. (While I was typing this post, they posted an update that clarified the CMON issue and literally nothing else: here.)

The boardgame is being presented with machine translated English printed on the same cards as the Japanese. But the actual game will have a translator check everything.

they hire translators to localize all game content

Additionally, there was a week long radio silence on the Kickstarter. For reference, Kickstarters are normally very active with the project planners dropping updates, responding to feedback and clearing up any concerns.

Some of the concerns were "How does the game actually play?", a question that would be best answered by dropping a rulebook for people to look at, or better yet showing them an entire run of the game. The SMT BG Kickstarter has boldly chosen neither. Devs have commented the game is on Version 11 and plays well, which makes it strange that they can't share any of it with anyone else.

Actually, when you compare this to how most Kickstarters are run, it becomes very clear the SMT BG Kickstarter is, uh, kinda failing in all possible regards. The first Backer Goal is "Jack Frost Dice" at 2000 backers (not funds raised, BACKERS). Despite getting 300%(!!!) of the initial pledge needed, there are no bonuses or unlocks.

Mind, this lack of information comes after they already delayed the start to supposedly improve Backer Goals and other aspects.

There aren't a shortage of issues - it's ICREA's first boardgame (but not their first tango with SMT; they made the SMT30th Logo, for instance.) The timeline seems totally wack. The staff have been incredibly slow to respond. Cards with tiny font and two languages printed on them. Etc, etc. Maybe individually these issues wouldn't be too concerning. But all of them combined make the product seem incompetently run at best, and at worst an actual scam.

I'm hardly a big influencer in the SMT scene (my biggest contribution is when that fucking succubus gif gets 36k likes on Twitter every 5 months) but I haven't seen any English speaking sources discuss this in detail, when there really should be at least some noise about all of this. Still. if just one of you end up saving 600 bucks on what ends up being a trashfire carcrash project because of this post, then that'll have made the past 30 minutes of typing this shit worth it.

[elenilag]

How I Create Pouches for Spells

by repurposing old fabrics.

These DIY pouches are a personal and sustainable way to add an extra touch of intention to your spellwork.

Here are two methods I use: the Circular Pouch and the Sleeve Pouch. Both methods are beginner-friendly and require minimal sewing skills.

Materials Needed:

•Old fabric (such as clothes that no longer fit, sleeves, or scraps)

•Scissors

•Needle and thread (or a sewing machine)

•Cord, ribbon, or a fabric strip for tying the pouch

•Optional: Decorations (I decorate some pouches with embroidery, beads, or charms)

I experiment with different fabrics and colors for unique textures and energy. I prefer black sturdy materials for my protection spells, colorful tulle for beauty spells and blue velvet for good sleep spells.

Method A: Circular Pouch

This method works great for making versatile pouches of any size.

1. I prepare the fabric

I find a piece of fabric I no longer need.

I use scissors to cut the fabric into a circular shape. I sometimes use a plate or lid as a guide to trace the circle.

2. I create the cord

If the fabric doesn’t have a pre-existing cord, I cut a long, thin strip from the fabric itself to use as a cord.

I make sure it’s long enough to tie my pouch securely.

3. I assemble the pouch

I place my spell items in the center of the circle.

I gather the edges of the fabric upward to enclose the items.

I tie the cord around the gathered edges to secure my pouch.

And that’s it! A quick, no-sew pouch that’s perfect for small spells and charms.

Method B: Sleeve Pouch

This method is ideal for repurposing shirt or sweater sleeves and creates a sturdier pouch.

1. I cut the sleeve

I take an old shirt or sweater.

I cut the sleeve horizontally at the desired length to create a short fabric “pipe.” (The longer the piece, the larger your pouch.)

2. I sew the bottom

I turn the fabric inside out so the seams are on the outside.

I sew one of the open ends shut using a needle and thread.

Sometimes I reinforce the seam by stitching twice or using a strong thread.

3. I finish the pouch

I turn the fabric right-side out.

I use the open end as the top of the pouch.

I add my spell ingredients and tie it closed with a cord or ribbon.

[the-kr8tor]

Woven Wheel

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie is taller than the reader, CW food, FLUFF.

My Navigation

Thread the Needle Masterlist

CHAPTER 5 >>> CHAPTER 6

You sit on Hobie's rickety chair, on your lap is his emerald bed sheet, your hands expertly stitch together the large hole on the side of the cloth. Eyes glued to what you're doing, you don't notice Hobie's piercing gaze.

He's crouched over to the other side of the room, fixing the wiring of his answering machine. Hobie watches your cherry earrings sway as you move your head to the side to inspect your handiwork. The bags under your eyes are more prominent than the last time he saw you. He sighs, fingers wrapping around the wiring of his answering machine.

Hobie should've been more persuasive at telling you to stay home and get some much needed rest. But you being you, you won the argument, telling him that it'll be your place too once you graduate so you should come over and help with the cleaning and fixing. With that you already won, but then you added the fact that he already used a ticket from your favour card. Rolling your eyes through the payphone's receiver as if he can see you, you tell him that you always keep to your word. He relents, the only thing he can do now is to make sure you don't get too tired, opting to give you the easiest job, even if he means he has to do more.

So here you are sitting in his sparse living room, mending his bedsheet, watching as James walks over to you. You smile politely to the blonde, making small talk.

"You're gonna burn a hole right through her" Ned appears out of nowhere, whispering right in Hobie's ear.

Hobie pushes him off, Ned cackles at his annoyed reaction. "Fucker"

"You look like a lovesick teen, just go fuckin' tell her, you idiot" Ned sits down to Hobie's level, whispering to him. "Seriously, go do it before someone else does" as Ned says this, you laugh at something James said, the blonde smiles sheepishly at you. "Also I need to see you two finally get together before I leave. I deserve that much after watching you two yearn for each other the entire time I've known you lot"

Hobie frowns at what Ned says, fingers twisting the wiring in his hands faster, he jumps when a sudden jolt of electricity shocks him, the wiring falling from his hand "Fuck!" He yells, holding and shaking his hands.

You perk up, attuned to his scream of pain, stopping mid conversation. "You okay, Hobs?" Handing the linen to James, speed walking the small distance towards Hobie's crouched form. "The hell did you do?" Crouching down, you hold his hands gingerly, massaging his calloused fingers. Probably the opposite of what you should do when somebody gets electrocuted.

"I'm okay, just a shock is all" Hobie stares at your hands gingerly holding his. You nod, still a little concerned.

Ned chuckles, Hobie stares daggers at his friend, shutting him up, a faint smirk staying on his lips. "Maybe you should let Yuri do that, she's good with that kind of stuff" Ned teases Hobie more.

"Let me do what?" Yuri enters the boat, a large box in her hands.

"I have it," Hobie grumbles.

You stand up, dropping Hobie's hands on his side, "oh, let me help you with that"

Ned stops you before you could get your hands over to the box. "Got it, y/n"

"I got it" Yuri lightly shoves Ned away, "I'm not a damsel in distress" she walks towards the pile of boxes on the side of the boat, dropping the large box next to the pile, "see, no sweat"

"When's lunch?" James pipes up, still holding Hobie's bedsheet.

"Mate, you barely did anything" Ned scrunches his nose, "you're right though, when's lunch, Hobie?"

You laugh, Yuri rolls her eyes, a ghost of a smile on her red lips.

"Bunch of leeches, the lot of you" he murmurs. Tapping you on your arm, "what do you want?" Hobie asks you.

"Pizza or fish and chips" Ned says before you could answer, a teasing smile on his lips.

"I asked her not you" Hobie huffs.

"I second that," James agrees, pointing at Ned.

"A coke too," Yuri adds.

"Christ" Hobie places his hands over his hips, "you good with either?" He turns his head towards you.

"A large coke for me, please" you add to the teasing.

"I expected better from you" Hobie narrows his eyes, you giggle at his expression.

—

The chair creaks from under you, finishing the last stitches on the bed sheet, you try to make conversation with Yuri. She sorts through the various boxes for some utensils to eat with. The men left a few minutes ago to buy lunch, leaving you and Yuri inside the Houseboat.

"So what are you gonna study?" You break the silence.

"Getting right to the point, huh?" Yuri teases but you take it too seriously, eyes widening, afraid that you might've offended her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean–"

"I was joking," Yuri stops her perusal of boxes, now looking straight at you with her piercing gaze, "you can ask" she chuckles, "seriously, don't apologize"

"Oh, okay, sorr–" Yuri raises a sharp brow, you backtrack, suddenly nervous from her stare, "right, so um, what are you gonna study?"

Yuri smiles, "Architecture, I know, it's a surprise, huh?" She gestures towards her dark clothes, combat boots and spiked denim jacket.

"Kind of? I mean look at me, do I look like a fashion student?" Gesturing towards your not so plain clothes, but still pretty tame from what you used to wear back in the day. You opted for a pair of bell bottomed jeans instead of your usual straight cut denim, your long sleeved blouse rustles slightly when a draft blows in. The detailed design of hummingbirds stitched on the collar of your shirt practically comes alive every time you turn your head. You're slowly trying to ease back to your usual self, following Danny's advice. And it actually works since you had a major breakthrough with your design a few nights ago. You're keeping it a secret, a little surprise for your model.

"You're a fashion student?!" She feigns surprise.

Chuckling, you see why her and Hobie are friends.

"I joke" Yuri winks, "I stopped tryin' to blend in a looong time ago" she crosses the small threshold, sitting in front of you on an equally rickety chair, "you look different, they stare, you look plain, they whisper. You can't bloody win. Might as well be myself out of spite, right?" she lifts her leg to cross it over the other. "Così va il mondo'' she sighs.

"Such is life" you translate, Yuri smirks, eyes twinkling.

"I see why Hobie likes you so much," she leans on the wooden table, elbows propped up, hand holding her chin. "You're not just pretty, but smart too, huh?"

Smiling genuinely at her, you take note of her freckles, dotting her face like stars, her septum piercing glinting in the low light of the lamp you've placed on the table.

The door to the houseboat swings open, the boys' bickering slices the silence inside the boat.

"Fuckin' told you to hold it on its side!" Hobie argues with James.

"I did! It slid down! I can't control gravity, Hobie!" James retaliates.

Ned enters the space first, he looks so out of it, face frowning, exasperated at his two companions. He holds a liter of coke in his hand, the other a plastic bag of something hot inside.

Yuri side eyes you, shaking her head at the men arguing, you chuckle. She stands up reluctantly, going towards the pile of boxes to take out the utensils.

You follow her lead, walking to meet halfway with the tired Ned. He hands you the bottle of coke.

"I feel like I've aged ten bloody years"

You chuckle, helping Ned place the food on the wobbly table.

"Wait, place it on the floor, that table's not stable enough" Hobie stops you, grabbing the soda bottle from your hands, he juggles it in between the paper bag he's carrying.

"I got it, Hobie" you take the bottle from his hand, " 's not that heavy, you're already carrying too much"

"Where do we eat then, doofus?" Yuri asks the question that's on everyone's mind, she holds plates of various sizes in her hands, mismatched spoons and forks placed on top of the ceramic, in her other hand are mugs, hanging precariously on her ring clad fingers.

"Well, idiot," Hobie retaliates, "the floor is your best friend" He sits down on the newly polished floor, the wood gleaming in all its glory. The paper bag almost spills over when he sits down, grabbing the top of the bag before the contents decorate the clean floors.

"The chips!" James dramatically yells.

"They're fine!" Hobie clicks his tongue, he taps the floor next to him. "Right here, y/n" he softened up when he said your name.

You don't waste a second to cross the space, dropping down next to him. You sit criss crossed, cradling the liter bottle like a baby.

"You need a dining table or at least a settee that doesn't give you tetanus when the spring pokes you" Ned unceremoniously sits down, adjacent to you, he yelps when hot oil singes his finger. "Where else are we gonna sit?" He licks the oil off his red fingertip.

"You gonna buy me one, Neddy?" Hobie gives you a box full of chips, you give him a small 'thank you'.

"I'll buy you one if you actually do what we discussed earlier" Ned replies. Hobie narrows his eyes, non-verbally telling him to shut up.

You look at Ned quizzically, he shrugs, handing everyone their share of fried fish. Your stomach grumbles at the sight. Everyone sits in a circle, the pizza box and soda lays in the middle of the group.

Yuri snorts, knowing what he meant. James opens the pizza box, the savory smell coating the small space. He quickly grabs a slice, gobbling it down.

"Bloody hell, use a plate at least. Were you raised in a barn?" Yuri grimaces, handing James a plate. He nods a thank you, mouth full of dough. "Here you go, love" she hands you a couple of plates and utensils.

"Thanks,Yuri" You hand the spare utensils to Hobie, Leaning forward to grab a slice.

"What's all this? You two best mates now?" Hobie asks, biting off a chip.

"You jealous? We're just lookin' out for each other. Ain't that right, sweets?" Yuri winks at you. You stop chewing for a hot second.

Ned guffaws while James laughs with a mouthful of cheese and sauce. Hobie rolls his eyes, handing you his makeshift glass so you could pour him a drink.

You pour him one while Hobie casually rolls your sleeves up to your elbows so you don't splash soda on it. The fizz rises up towards the edge of the mug. "It's not that cold anymore"

"I'll manage" Hobie thanks you by tapping his mug towards yours, it clinks when they meet.

"Best fish and chips in town, fuck I'm gonna miss this" Ned says.

"They have fish and chips in Richmond," Yuri scoffs, biting into the doughy pizza.

"I know they have fish and chips! But not this fish and chips" he shows his plate like a commercial, hand gesturing around his plate.

"They literally all taste the same" James quips, hand reaching for tissues.

"They would taste the same for you because you don't stop to actually taste it" Ned rebukes.

Their banter fades in the background as Hobie scooches next to you, legs kissing yours, "you want my slice?"

"Hmm? You don't like it?" You lean further into him, "is it the cheese?"

"Nah, I just don't like it" he leans towards you, further closing the already small distance, breath mixing in with yours. "It's too.." he tries to find the right word to describe it, "..gooey for me"

You snort at his choice of word "hehehe say it again"

"What's so funny about 'gooey'?"

"You saying 'gooey', big punk Hobie saying gooey is funny" you take the pizza from his plate, taking a bite from it. "Oh, you're right, it is gooey"

"Doughy, fuck that's the word I was looking for"

You giggle, "I think 'doughy' has the same effect as 'gooey'"

"You're very funny" Hobie stops for a second, unabashedly staring at your lips, he brings his thumb over to it, wiping at the corner of your mouth. You don't have time to react, freezing into place. "Sorry, you got sauce on it" he continues wiping, thumb grazing your lower lip. You stare at him, eyes wide, breath hitching in your throat. "Got it"

You clear your throat, "Thanks"

"Oi lovebirds!" Ned whistles to get your attention, Hobie glares at Ned.

"We're not dogs, what the hell do you want?"

"Pass me the hot sauce" Ned points at the packets near your crossed legs.

Hobie scoffs, tossing Ned the packets. It bounces off Ned's mug, almost falling inside his drink. Ned flips Hobie the bird as a thank you. Hobie lovingly answers the same.

The group munches on their food quietly for a few minutes, you relish in the peace. Until James burps. Yuri scrunches her nose, you hide your giggle with a bite of your lip.

"So, what are you planning on doing after you graduate?" Yuri bravely asks, her utensils clinking on the plate as she finishes eating.

"Getting right to the point, huh?" You tilt your head at Yuri, copying the words she uttered a few minutes ago.

Yuri smiles, "aye, you got me there"

Hobie watches the interaction, glad that you made friends with Yuri.

"Well there's this fashion house where an old friend of mine works at, that would be nice working with him. And it's right here in London so I don't have to go far" you wipe your fingers with a napkin.

"Think big, y/n! What's your ultimate goal?" Yuri pats your knee.

"She's right, go big or go home, eh?" Ned chides in.

"You guys are laying it on me, huh?" You shyly say.

"My da applied to the biggest radio station in London when he was younger, he never thought he'd even get accepted! Now look at him, the most famous radio host in the country!" James adds in the conversation.

"Wait, who's your dad?" Hobie asks.

"JJJ" James answers, huffing his chest in pride.

You all look at him surprised, Hobie slowly turns to look at you, mirroring the same expression.

"What the fuck? You're just gonna drop that insane lore just like that?" Ned looks at James, shocked.

"Yeah, and you know what?" James shifts in his seat, hand curling around his drink. "I'm not even gonna elaborate" he snickers, drinking loudly from his mug.

"I see the resemblance" you lean a bit to look at James closely.

"Yeah, just tape a mustache on him and he's a carbon copy" Hobie agrees.

"Let's shut the fuck up about him, yeah?" Yuri cuts in, James softly mumbles out a 'hey'. "You don't even want to tell us" Yuri points a finger in James' direction. "Let's go back to the topic at hand, y/n, what do you want to do after graduation?"

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," Hobie places his chin on your shoulder, comforting you.

"Aye, you don't have to answer if you don't feel comfortable telling us. I mean I am asking what your hopes and dreams are. It's a tall order." Yuri tells you.

"It's fine, really" you smile bashfully, "I– there's a fashion house in Paris, that I've been dreaming of working at since I was a kid. I guess that's what I want to do after." You fiddle with your thumbs.

Hobie watches the twinkle in your eyes, he smiles sadly at the prospect of you moving so far away from him, but he can't help but feel proud. He sighs, avoiding looking at your face, instead he stares at your discarded plate.

"Now that's the answer I was lookin' for"

"Thought you wanted to model?" James asks, looking confused in your direction. You tilt your head to ask him what he meant. "You two did go to a runway show, I thought it's because you wanted to model or something"

"Oh, that was for research" you answer.

Ned snorts "can't imagine Hobie at a runway show, especially him walking down on it" Ned shields his face with his arms when Hobie throws him another packet of sauce, this time aiming right for his face. It bounces off harmlessly, Ned sticks his tongue out. Hobie mumbles out a 'child', glaring at his friend.

"Mate, show us your runway walk!" James stands up, posing exaggeratedly.

"You first" Hobie lifts his head off your shoulder.

"I asked you first!"

"You asked for jack shit, fuck off" Hobie says flatly. You laugh at them both.

"Yeah, Hobie he did ask you first" Yuri grabs her plate to put in the sink.

"Why don't you do it then?" Hobie raises a pierced brow.

"Sure, If everyone does it" she leans casually on the kitchen island, a towel over her shoulder. "What do you say? You up for a little modeling?" Yuri smirks at you.

"Uh, no thank you" you stand up grabbing yours and Hobie's plates.

"I'll do it, I've got the physic for it" Ned stands up, cleaning up his station. "Let's clean this up, so we have the space"

"Let's goooo!" James grabs his dirty plates, quickly putting it in the sink.

"I've never seen him clean that fast" Hobie whispers to you, taking the plates from your hands. You smile at him, crouching down to take the empty mugs from the floor.

Once the floor gets cleaned (again) James hypes himself up, getting ready to walk. You grab your digital camera from your bag. Maybe if you assign yourself as the photographer they wouldn't notice you not walking with them.

You don't know if it's the sugar high from the soda or James' instigation but whatever it is they all comply. Yuri has a rare grin on her face, Ned punches Hobie's arm while he laughs loudly. James jumps up and down excitedly.

Hobie chuckles when you show him the camera, "go get a good angle of me"

"That's going to be hard" you tease. Hobie elbows your side lightly. Walking to the front of the 'runway', you crouch down for the best angle to take their pictures.

"Alright James! Go" Ned pats James' back.

James walks dramatically, hips swaying from side to side. Once he reaches you, he pouts, exaggerated. Pointing at the camera.

The flash goes off, James nods appreciatively, walking back to the rest of the group. Ned is up next, walking casually. He flips the bird at the camera. You laugh loudly, music to Hobie's ears. He's glad their shenanigans are making you laugh.

Yuri walks like she owns the place, hand on her waist, striking a pose at the end. She pauses for a second so you could take her picture, Yuri throws you a 'rock on sign' with her hand, it shows clearly in the grainy screen. She walks back to the laughing group.

Yuri grabs Hobie's shoulders, shaking him. "Your turn, Hobart!" She chuckles deeply, pushing him towards the starting position, "you better strike a bloody pose or you'll have to do it again!" The other two laugh at Yuri's teasing.

Hobie huffs, walking normally towards you. The instigators yell at him to do it properly.

"Hobie, you fucker! That's not how a proper model walks!" Ned exclaims.

He stops in front of you, the flash goes off, as you laugh at the picture you've taken. Hobie lifts you easily by your arm. You stand up, grinning at him.

"What are you doing?" You say, chuckling.

"You think you could escape? You gotta walk with me" Hobie throws his arm around your shoulder, cackling loudly.

You try to wiggle out of his hold. "Nooo!" Your smile betrays you as you try to hopelessly push him away. Yuri takes the camera from your hand, angling it to take numerous pictures of you two.

You laugh loudly as Hobie imitates (as best as he could) how a model walks, with you in his arms. The flash goes off in tandem with your strides, making it look like you're on an actual runway.

"Love it!" James cheers you on.

"Work it!" Ned adds, clapping his hands.

You stop at the end, grinning from ear to ear. Yuri keeps taking pictures, you're sure it's gonna run out of space soon enough, but it's well worth it. Hobie bends at his waist, grabbing the back of your knees, his other hand slides to your back, looping his arm across it, pulling you to his chest, lifting you off the ground. You yelp, quickly looping your arms to his neck.

"Hobie! What the fu–" click! Yuri captures the moment.

"That one's for the front page!" Yuri laughs, checking the picture on the small screen. James and Ned scooch closer to Yuri, peeking at the pictures. They laugh and smile at the pictures you've taken.

Hobie still holds you up, hands warm against your jeans. "You come here often?" He smiles down at you, eyes twinkling at your flustered face.

"I could strangle you right now" you quip.

"You're not tall enough" Hobie scoffs even though he has a smile on his lips.

"I literally have my arms around your neck"

"Kinky" he narrows his eyes at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

You chuckle nervously, "you can let me go now" you say despite not actually wanting him to let go.

"Nah, you look great in this angle" heat rises in your cheeks when he winks at you.

"Well you don't, you've got a bit of a double chin in this angle" you tease back, almost not getting the sentence out completely because of your laughs.

"I could just drop you, y'know"

"But you won't" you lean up slightly, pinching the back of his neck.

"You sure 'bout that?" He pretends to drop you, you gasp a bit, smacking your palm on his chest. He chuckles at your reaction. "I'm not gonna drop you" he fixes his hold on you.

"Yeah, but I'm getting heavy aren't I?" You grin at how he's trying really hard at carrying you.

"No" he lies, slowly putting you back on the ground.

"Mm-hmm, told you so"

—

You hum as Yuri gives you an unexpected hug goodbye, reciprocating the embrace, you pull away, holding her at arm's length.

"Watch us play at the concert?" Yuri asks you.

"Of course, I'll be there"

"Ohh, we'll definitely win then" Yuri goes in for another hug, squeezing you.

You and Hobie stand on the boat, watching them drive off in Yuri's beetle.

The sun slowly sets in the horizon, bathing the boat in its orange light. A breeze rushes past, hugging your coat tighter around you.

"You want a ride?"

"Ride?" You got distracted by the rays hitting his face just right, accentuating his sculpted face.

"Yeah, ride y'know, vroom vroom?" He acts as if he's revving his motorcycle's engine.

You laugh again, face hurting from all the smiling. "Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

"Never" he holds the crook of your elbow. "You're not too tired?" Concern on his face.

"A bit, but I'm not done yet with your bed sheet" you stand closer to him, the tips of your shoes kissing his. "Why do you have so many holes in them? I think I know what to get you for your birthday"

"I'm genuinely excited for new bed sheets" he rubs your arm, warming you.

"That's a sign you're getting old"

"Fuck off, I'm only a year older than you" he scoffs with no ounce of malice in it.

"Mm-hmm you're a homeowner now, how does it feel Mr. Hobart Brown" you lift an imaginary microphone to him. He finds your playfulness endearing, smiling softly at your good mood.

He plays along, leaning towards the invisible mic. "It'll be better once you've moved in"

You bite your lip, bashfully looking at him through your eyelashes. Moving the mic back to you "You've gone soft, can you tell us about that?"

Hobie sighs loudly, almost blurting out exactly why he's gone soft around the edges. He holds your wrist, pretending to talk into the imaginary mic "Well Ms. L/n, it comes with age" he surrenders just so he can hear you laugh wholeheartedly again.

"Knew it" You poke his chest. "Now, let me help you set up your bed. I can't let you sleep on the floor"

He bites his tongue at the innuendo that appears in his mind, "I'm not gonna sleep on the floor, I have a mattress"

"Yeah, a mattress that's on the floor!" You put your hands on your hips.

Hobie surrenders to you once again, at least he gets to hangout with you more. He's already getting ready for the screaming match when you two get frustrated with building the complicated bed frame.

—

You run from the metro station, legs straining, huffing, trying to regulate your breathing. Maybe it's a mistake to wear your new boots to the show, your heels clack against the hard pavement, increasing your chance of stumbling and breaking your ankle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! You internally curse. You promised the band you'll be there for their final show, I can't believe I overslept! Please tell me they're not on yet! Regretting sleeping late because of your project. You shouldn't have made that complicated embroidery.

You skid to a stop, holding up your ticket to show the security guard. He nods stiffly, you practically run towards the side of the stage, dodging the growing crowd. You quickly gaze over the large stage, finding the staff still setting it all up. Yes! They haven't started yet! Smiling victoriously.

You stop, heels skidding to a halt, smile fading away when you see an unknown woman right next to Hobie, whispering closely to his ear, bare arms around his neck, fingers fiddling with the metal chain he always wears.

Oh

A/N: This chapter made me miss my chaotic OCs 🥺 Thank you for reading! Consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️

(please tell me if I missed any asterisks, they're placeholders for me during drafting. I feel like I missed some lol)

*pictures above are from pinterest*

[miniscule-meow]

Isabell and the Lads (15)

Masterpost Wordcount: ~2.5k First Part | Last Part | Next Part

The quiet morning slipped pleasantly into the afternoon. Zeke brought her pancakes for breakfast, along with water for a hot bath, assuring her that ‘the internet’ said she was allowed to get her stitches wet now.

She’d never had access to that much water, never mind hot water. Going to collect water is enough of a hassle, but having to heat it up too? It’s almost never worth it, especially not for something like a bath. Hygiene is important, absolutely. Staying clean is an important part of staying healthy. But she achieved that through practical means, like with dips in cold puddles after a storm, or with a collection of lukewarm water from a leaking pipe.

Zeke wasn’t stingy when he placed a full bowl of warm water on her shelf, like it was nothing to him.

Her own mind tussled with itself for a moment, warning her that she can’t get used to something like this. Food being brought to her, warm baths being made for her. It feels like a luxury, but she needs to consider the cost. If she stayed like this, she would be no better than a pet. She could survive cold showers if that meant that she had her freedom.

Of course, her worries melt when she submerges herself in the pleasant water. Feeling weightless, the tension unwinds from her shoulders, a sigh escapes her lips. This might be the happiest she’s been in weeks. A human gave her this. It’s still so baffling to her, but she can’t make herself worry about it when everything feels so good right now.

After taking the time to just enjoy the water, she gets to work scrubbing herself clean. She takes extra care around her wounded leg.

Now she’s full, she’s clean, with a fresh bandage on her leg, and she’s just finished combing out her hair.

She feels like a new borrower.

Now comes the matter of getting dressed. Her old clothes are obviously ruined. She washes what she can save, but for the most part her outfit is shredded and stained with blood. So, she turns her attention to the pile of doll clothes Zeke placed in her room. He had taken the Velcro off of them, and upon her stuttered request, he gave her a needle and thread so that she could make her own modifications to the garments.

She sorts through the pile. There are a couple large t-shirts that would be practical enough to wear, but aside from that her options are mostly limited to dresses. She holds one up. It’s…. pretty. And entirely impractical. The powder blue fabric would blend in with nothing. The layers of the skirt only go to her knees, but she can imagine the flowing ruffles getting snagged on everything.

She puts it on anyway.

The halter neckline ties around the back of her neck, then the dress ties together at her low back. This leaves her back entirely exposed. Leaning against her crutch, she turns in the mirror, and frowns. Something like this wasn't made for something like her. Isabell can see the dark edges of bruises blooming across her ribs all across her right side. Over her shoulder there’s an old scar from a run it with a rat. Then of course, there’s the bulky bandage holding her leg together. She’s got more bumps and scrapes than anyone would know what to do with. With her rotten luck, it’s a miracle that she’s still alive.

Despite feeling as though the beauty of the dress is lost on her, she leaves it on. At least for now. It’s soft. And besides, when else would she have an opportunity to wear something so frivolous?

She spends some time sewing, resolving the undergarment situation, and making some shorts to wear under the dress.

Eventually, footsteps approach once more. Her heart stutters, and her wide eyes jump to the curtain. She holds her breath, waiting. But the human doesn’t come over to the shelf at all. She hears the squeak of a chair, then the rhythmic hum of a sewing machine. Zeke. She’s sure that before this month is done, she’ll be able to tell the humans apart by their footsteps alone.

They exist in this space for a while, near each other, yet separate. Zeke sits at his desk, sewing, and Isabell stays on her shelf, doing the same. Honestly, it’s kind of nice. It makes everything seem a little less lonely. There is no pressure to really socialize. There's no having to confront the reality of their vast size difference. It's just nice. After a while, he breaks the comfortable silence between them.

“Hey Isabell,” his chair shifts, but he doesn’t approach just yet. “I can grab that stuff out of your room, if you’re ready.”

“Alright,” she calls out to him, setting aside her project.

He finally comes over, his shadow darkening the curtained wall before his fingers reach in, pulling up the fabric dividing her from the rest of the room. Despite his size, he doesn’t feel imposing. She doesn’t know how he’s managing that. It could just be that she’s more relaxed now. It could be how purposeful his movements are. It could be that she trusts him. Her, trusting a human? Impossible. But she does. At least, she trusts him enough to know that he’s not just going to grab her. It's not much, but it's a start.

When he does reach in, his movements are slow and intentional. She doesn’t even flinch as he clears away the napkin from her breakfast, and the bowl she took a bath in. Once he’s cleared the stuff away, he glances over to find her sitting comfortably on her bed. Her dark hair is down, and mostly dried now. It’s curling in gentle waves over one shoulder. He does a double take when he sees her, and her pulse quickens now that she’s the sole focus of his attention. She hugs her arms to herself, suddenly aware of how bare they are.

“You look nice,” he breathes quietly. Her cheeks flush, his words catching her off guard.

“T-thank you. I, I’m uh, It’s good that I don’t need to go out borrowing like this. I- this isn’t exactly subtle,” she attempts a smile, fluffing out the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t think I’d blend in with anything wearing this.”

“Probably not,” his lips pull into a humored smirk, the look sends a warm flutter through her stomach. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“I, yeah. I feel a lot better.” Honestly, she feels better than she has in months, minus the pain in her leg. But even that has numbed to a bearable thrum now that she’s actually been staying off of it.

“That’s good,” his nods, “I’m going to take a break here in a little bit, for lunch. I can just leave you be and bring it to you when its ready, unless you need anything?”

“I-I’m alright. Thanks.”

He nods, pulling his gaze away from her. He reaches to pull down the curtain wall once more. He’s entirely content to just… leave her alone. It’s such a little thing, but it means a lot to her. All morning, he’s been willing to let her do her own thing. He hasn’t wanted to toy with her, or observe her, or have her entertain him. He’s let her simply exist. He's really unlike any other human she's ever had the misfortune of meeting. She thinks back to the meager trust she's built with him, and before she can overthink it, she speaks up.

“Actually, Zeke?” Her words cause him to pause. “Can, um, I know you’re probably busy, but could I- um, if you don’t mind, a-and I could entertain myself I just… I could be… out there. We could hang out? I mean- I mean I’d let you work, I could just read or something but. O-or I could stay in here, I just. Either way,” she stammers through this, butchering the request entirely. Zeke looks at her for a moment, mentally deciphering what it was that she was asking of him.

“Oh. Yeah, of course you can come out here,” He reaches back in, slowly resting his hand down in front of her. "I'd be happy for the company," he adds gently.

She places herself in the center of his palm, settling in, letting him carry her over to his desk. This whole 'trusting a human' thing is tentative and new for her, but it’s enough that she’s comfortable letting him hold her, at least for such a short trip. She knows he won’t grab her; she knows that he’s careful. This should be fine.

It should be. But once he stands, he doesn’t get further than one step before halting suddenly enough to jostle her. She twists to look at him as he sucks in a sharp breath. His stoic features reveal very little, but something is wrong. Instead of continuing on to his desk, he pulls her up closer to his face, turning his hand to see her back again.

Oh, right.

She didn’t consider that her gnarly bruise would be fully on display for him in this dress. The open back showcases the purples and blues smattered across her entire side, letting him see just enough to know that it’s worse moving under the fabric. Her heart pounds against her chest, her shoulders tense. Isabell twists to look at him again, but he’s observing her so closely, all she’s met with is his furrowed brow, and his giant green eyes filling her entire field of vision.

“Let me see,” he says firmly, twisting his wrist again to position her where he wants her.

Right where he wants her. And what could she possibly do to get in the way of what he wants? He's the human after all. She's the foolish little borrower that thew herself directly into his hands.

Her breathing quickens, growing shallow in her chest. The intensity of his gaze against her exposed back skyrockets her pulse and sends cold sparks down her spine. She feels so bare, so vulnerable, so tiny.

“Is that from me?” He asks, his voice low, dangerous. Every alarm in her head is going off at once.

“It-I- It’s n-no. No,” she barely chokes the words out. “It’s- It- It’s from- um- It’s- uh- from before.” She squeezes her eyes shut, bunching two fistfuls of her skirt in her hands. She tries to remain calm enough to form coherent sentences, but she can’t seem to catch her breath.

“Isabell,” he sounds dead serious.

“Can- can you- can you put me down?” The words spill out of her, her whole body is trembling now. It’s hard for her to breathe, harder for her to focus on anything more than the panic igniting through her veins.

Zeke hesitates, and for one terrible moment she’s certain that he’ll say no. The sprouting blooms of trust have withered inside of her. This was a horrible mistake. She put herself right in this situation, and now she's going to be surprised that this was the outcome? She mentally scolds herself. Of course this would happen. He's a human, she's a borrower. They mix like oil and water. She can only expect that things will just get worse from here.

“Put-put me down,” she insists, growing frantic. She twists to face him again, “Zeke? Please?”

“Okay," he blinks, pulling her away from his face. "Okay, I’m sorry,” He moves her to his desk. As soon as his hand touches down, she scrambles from his palm, taking her crutch with her. Not wanting to keep her back the the human any longer. She whirls around quickly, her skirt twirling around her. Zeke stands over her, retracting his hand slowly. His eyes are glued to her with an intensity that is doing nothing to calm her sporadic heart rate. Is he afraid she'll run? How much running could she possibly do with the state her leg is in. No, she's trapped and he knows it.

Zeke sits in his chair and leans down slowly, putting his massive form on her level. Or at least, making an attempt to do so. His eyes flick across her form, taking her in, assessing the damage.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Your side is… that’s pretty bad, huh?”

“It’s not from you,” she asserts firmly, shaking her head. She focuses on slowing her breathing down before telling Zeke about her failed borrowing mission, and the misfortune she faced even before slicing through her leg and winding up stuck with them. “The guy, like, kicked me across his entire living room,” she finishes. Zeke just looks at her. The way he's chewing his lip piercing and fidgeting with his hands tells her that he is uncomfortable, even though he has yet to say anything. “I think that he thought I was a mouse,” she offers.

“That… doesn’t make any of that any better,” he says numbly.

She doesn’t have a response for that.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?” He asks.

She doesn’t have a response for that either. She opens her mouth, but no real sound comes out. She shrugs, resisting the urge to just curl in on herself.

“If I had known I… I could have been more careful. I mean…” he shakes his head. “Did I hurt you last night?” He asks, leaning in a bit closer to her.

She has an answer for this one, but she would really rather not give it to him. Putting everything in perspective, he didn’t really hurt her. But then, she remembers the panic she felt when he grabbed her, and how she thought she could fight her way out against someone whose hand is larger than her whole body. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The vertigo of being tumbled to his other hand. His thumb pressing firmly into her tender ribs. The air being briefly forced from her lungs as she was shoved against his fingers. She shudders at the memory. Zeke takes her haunted silence as her answer.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again looking away from her.

“It’s… I don’t blame you. If anything, I deserved it—” Zeke doesn’t interrupt her, but from the intensity of his gaze snapping back to her, she knows that she’s said the wrong thing. “I-I just, I mean, I… I bit you.”

“So?” He practically growls the word, “That doesn’t mean I just get to retaliate however I want to. I could have handled that whole situation differently, then you wouldn’t have felt like you needed to defend yourself. I… You can’t seriously believe that you deserved to get hurt.”

“I bit you; you squeezed me. It’s just… It’s a-a natural turn of events. It makes sense. Cause and effect,” she grumbles. “It wouldn’t have been a big deal if my ribs weren’t already messed up.”

“Are you sure it’s just a bruise? Nothing is broken?”

“I don’t think you can do anything for a broken rib. You’re just supposed to deal with it and… avoid breaking anything in the first place,” Zeke responds with a dissatisfied hum.

“You must think we’re monsters,” he sighs after a moment, not looking at her now.

“No,” she says with heavy consideration. “Not you. Not Marcus.”

[malikselfindulgence]

RED SON X READER BLURB ☆ 1K WORDS

Description: How Red Son tends to show his love to his partner :3

Content: RED SON REFERRED TO WITH HE/SHE/THEY PRONOUNS! I personally see her as genderfluid but any hc is cool. Reader is gender neutral

Fic under the cut!

Red Son doesn't really ever say "I love you" 

He might have whispered it once, but you were half-asleep in his lap and the warmth from his hands threading through your hair turned your brain to mush, so you could've been imagining it. Besides that, he's never said the dreaded L-word.

You're not sure why- perhaps an aversion to such disgustingly vulnerable words in general, or his parents hammering lesson after lesson of how displaying emotions so openly is weak. Or maybe it's a lot simpler than that, and the thought had simply never crossed his mind.

Red Son does love you, though. You know this, and they know it too. They tell you they "tolerate your company" and that you're "just adequate enough to be in their presence"- both code words for I like being with you. 

Red Son's love is his driving force- it builds up in his chest and overflows out of him, despite his insistence that his heart is black and cold.

For her family, it's countless nights spent in her lab, working on their next plan to overtake the world, it's trying to live up to her father's legacy, not allowing a single smidge of dishonour to smight her family's name, it's continuing to live in the demon bull fortress, despite the fact that she's over 400 years old now and old enough to live in her own house. 

For his friends, it's reminding them of their self worth when needed- however brash and blunt he may be, it's watching Mei's streams as he works, leaving small comments to show her he's listening, it's helping MK fix up his dreadful noodle-cart while begging him to put it out of its misery and purchase a new one already.

For you, however, it's a bit of a mix of these.

For the first few months of your relationship, it was a lot of trial and error. There was a cultural gap between you and Red Son, demon courting being completely foreign [and frankly concerning] to you. And even if there wasn't, Red Son had no relationship experience. They were still reeling from having friends now, never mind a romantic partner.

Red Son would try to read up on mortal's courting customs [or "dating", as he's come to learn], he'd sit through those crappy rom-com movies and shudder each time they did something over the top, he'd even thought about asking Mei for help, which was just wholly embarrassing, and he totally didn't try to subtly do so only for her to call him out on it and laugh immediately.

It started out with a lot of choppy romantic gestures that just weren't….Red Son, despite how hard he tried to enjoy them, and after a long conversation [or two, or three-], you two eventually found your rhythm, one you both enjoyed and found comfort in.

Red Son built you things- trinkets and machines and the like. If you mention off-handedly that you'd been wanting this thing for ages but just never had the money or time, you best believe they'll be showing up on your doorstep the following morning with a box hidden behind their back. They also fixed things for you- your fridge, your washing machine, your kettle. They grumble the whole time about how out-dated and rusty and repulsive your tech is, but they've never once turned down your requests. They've even offered to upgrade your TV a few times, but you're just too attached to the old thing.

Red Son spends a lot of time with you, even if you two aren't actively engaging in conversation. You'd sit across from each other, or in each other's laps, doing your own separate thing, just in each other's company. Every once in a while you pipe up with a random thought or question, and he shares his own as well before you two fall back into comfortable silence. You like watching him work with his hands, and he likes seeing how passionate you get over your hobbies. He shares parts of his life with you and you do so as well in turn.

Red Son's also shockingly touchy with you. She's not one for grand acts of physical affection- picking you up in public and hand-feeding you syrupy fruits and whatnot, but she will loop her pinky finger around yours when you walk, she'll kiss your forehead just before you head to bed, hug you from behind when she's freshly awake and still sleepily dazed, and once she gathers up the courage to do so, kiss you when her feelings rush through her body and send her hurtling towards you. She always has to be touching you in some way or another.

Most importantly, Red Son tries for you, and for themselves. They still mess up sometimes, they still get scared and terrified and defensive, they're still figuring themselves out, but they try for you. Red Son'll try out a new food just because it's your favorite, or will dabble in new music genres for your sake. Even more than that- Red Son tries to be more open, they try to talk about things they've never spoken aloud before, they try to listen to you- they start taking breaks more often, and eating better, and their self confidence rings a little truer and a little less fake each day. It's more than you could ever ask for. 

So, no, Red Son doesn't really say "I love you", but you don't mind. You hear it in the shared space between the both of you, in the mugs of your favorite drink freshly brewed and handed to you when you're stressed, in the angry notes scolding you for not resting properly, in the brush of his hand against yours. You hear it loud and clear, and you whisper your response into his hair every morning, every evening, every night,

 "I love you, too." 

[monsterfloofs]

You knew when it was officially fall, when he appeared.

This year, it was when you were slogging through the muddy yard. Picking pumpkins in your garden while there was a lull between thunderstorms.

You had brushed off a slug from a particularly squat ribbed pumpkin. You had turned to set it in the cart, just about to find a place for your newest garden find, when he caught your eye. A familiar figure bent forward with his head down and his gloved hands using a shovel to hold his body upright. His clothes were filthy, tattered and streaked with mud, as if he had crawled up from some muddy trench.

You sigh, and tugging along your cart of pumpkins, wade over to him. The ground beneath your boots is squelching and shifting. You unlatch his fingers from the garden tool, and he sags boneless and lifeless in your arms.

He rides atop the wheel barrow, then sits slumped on a metal chair as you decorate your porch with your home harvest. You pull off your gloves, standing with your hands on your hips as you turn to face the slumped figure.

"What am I going to do with you? Your clothes are filthy."

He does not respond, merely sways slightly as thunder rumbles overhead. You heft him over your shoulder and carry him inside.

A fire crackles in the stone hearth as you carefully strip off his clothes, unceremoniously shoving them into a plastic bag and tying it tightly. Then you set about fixing him up. Taking a needle and thread, you carefully sew a gash that had been cut through his arm. Reaching to grab stuffing and help refill out the arm.

"How did you get this?" You tsk in disdain, glancing up at his stitched face and watching his head slump to the side. You take to the small gesture as a noncommittal shrug and squint at him.

"I'm going to start charging you, if you keep coming back looking like you've been a dog's chew toy." You warn, reaching up to pluck the pipe from the stitches in his mouth.

You leave him sitting on the chair by the fire, while you sit yourself down to your sewing machine, turning on the light, and running one last row of stitches. Snipping, turning, carefully inspecting your handiwork before you bundle him into a new set of clothes. You have the pipe inches from his mouth before you jump.

Boneless no more, he picks you up like a sack of potatoes. Swinging you around and around as he whoops and dances.

"Back again! Ain't that just swell!"

You squawk out at being hauled around but he pays little attention in his mirth. Twirling you and dipping you backwards so he can bury his face into the crook of your neck. You feel rough burlap kisses and scratchy thread, laughing as you try to shove him off, grouchiness forgotten.

"Get off, get off I am still mad at you!"

He leans back and pops his pipe into his mouth wiggling it playfully at you.

"You are? Why, I thought you'd miss me!"

you grin, "I did, I don't miss having to resew your clothes every year, you sack of straw! What happened this time? Did you get buried alive?"

"You know how hard it is traveling from one world to another" He huffs indignantly, plopping you down onto a chair, he clambers onto your lap, throwing his long lanky arms around you with an impish grin.

"So I might've pushed my luck trying to get here early"

He gestures with his hand, pinching his thumb and forefinger.

"A teensy, weensy bit."

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek into his tummy.

"I missed you so much,"

[tyrantisterror]

At Sea Without a Map pt. 30

Perhaps in defiance of good reason, you can't help but entertain Dr. Neptune's offer. It's not like you've never idly thought about how your body could be improved, after all. "What did you have in mind, exactly?"

"Why, I think that should be obvious!" laughs Dr. Neptune. "I'm going to inject you with a mutagenic serum, then carve open your skull to release your newly independent brain! From there we'll design you a custom mechanical exoskeleton that's more than capable of getting you to the deepest depths of the Sea of Monsters!"

"...Oh." In hindsight you should have seen this coming. "Um, no thank you, I don't-"

"Now now, don't be hasty! Trust me, this is your best option! Say goodbye to those nasty hunger pangs - they'd torture you forever, you know, this is a world where starving is possible but dying from it isn't. That's one source of endless suffering off the table for you!" The doctor's mechanical hand tightens its grip on your shoulder as he begins to pull you toward the operating table. "Your mechanical body will be stronger, more durable, and far less appetizing to the denizens of this universe than that pathetic husk of meat and bone you've been carrying around! And the core of your being, your consciousness, will never be more secure in one of these transparent aluminum domes!"

"Um, well..."

"Trust me, once we've cut away all the tissue and bone and replace it with cold, hardened steel, you'll be glad I rid you of that pesky meat prison you call a body!"

You try to think up an argument against him, but the doctor just keeps talking and talking, all while pushing you closer and closer to the operating table. "But I kind of like having a body-" you start to say only to be cut off.

"Come on, think of it! No more hunger, no more thirst, no need for sleep or rest. You can be an efficient machine!"

"But-"

"No aches in your joints, no nausea, no pain or discomfort of any kind! Your only senses will be relayed to you in a feed of raw information uploaded directly into your brain in a neutral and unobtrusive manner - no more pesky sensations to trouble your mind!"

You think of it. No arms to hold, no lips to kiss... You look at Calibani and see the panic in your own eyes reflected in hers. "I don't think-" you begin to protest.

"But you haven't even tried a mechanical body! Trust me, you don't know what you're missing out on! You can finally feel strong, complete! Why waste your potential when you can upgrade to a better existence?"

Calibani's voice pipes up from behind the pair of you. "They said they don't want to do it," she interjects. "So knock it off-"

"It's just jitters, that's all!" Dr. Neptune says, waving off Calibani's interruption as he forces you onto the operating table. "Every patient gets them before surgery, it's perfectly normal! But don't worry, I'm going to cut away every weak part of you until you're just like me!"

"I don't-" you protest again, only to be interrupted a third time.

"I know what's best for you," Dr. Neptune insists. "Trust me, I'm a doctor!"

Before either you or the Doctor can take this further, you are both interrupted by the sound of something massive slamming against the floor with enough force to make the ground shake. Looking up from the operating table, you are greeted with a terrifying sight.

A massive, scaly talon has slammed into the floor a few feet away from you, and it's attached to an enormous and twitching arm covered in thick, carp-like scales. You follow the limb to its own and see Calibani at the root of it, her sweater's sleeve utterly shredded from the sudden growth of her arm. As she struggles to stay standing while her body trembles and convulses as the muscle and bone beneath her skin shifts and snaps in new directions, she howls out:

"SAILOR SAID THEY DIDN'T WANT TO DO IT!"

Threads snap and splinter as the rest of Calibani's body begins growing to match her newly monstrous limb, and you notice the doctor back away slightly as he chuckles to himself, "Oh my, a stress-induced rapid onset adaptation! Hahaha, I'm in danger!"

With your body tied to an operating table, a mad scientist panicking at your side, and your sea monster friend really living up to the "sea monster" label for the first time in a while, now feels like a good time to consult your compass.

[saw3amanda]

The thing is, Clark doesn’t even like coffee. Yet there sits a shitty drip coffee maker, glass carafe and everything, on his worn linoleum countertop. The office was throwing it out, as they had recently upgraded to some single-serve machine (pods full of damp coffee grounds soon filled the break room trash can, and Clark has to hold back a gag every time he passes it) and was giving away their old one.

Clark stares at the chipped black paint on the coffee maker from his bed. Gentle morning light filtered through his curtains in his studio apartment, and Clark turned to watch how the glow and shadows played along Bruce’s bare back. HIs hand starts reaching out of its own accord, determined to feel if the sunlight had warmed Bruce’s skin. But millimeters above a scarred, broad expanse, Clark stops and lets his hand hover.

Because him and Bruce? They don’t do that. There’s no loving caresses, no morning kisses with horrible breath. Each touch is purposeful, yanking off shirts and ripping down zippers. There’s slamming against walls and hungry hands, and, if Clark is really lucky, rough kisses and wine-stain marks left on his neck. Bruce is, if nothing else, an efficient man, so Clark knows why they do this. Bruce will come in after patrol, peppered with bruises, and push Clark against the wall. Or Clark will hover over the entrance to the Batcave after flying halfway across the world for a tsunami, screaming of those he could not save ringing through his head, until Bruce will let him in. They aren't gentle, and they aren’t romantic, and Clark has almost gotten used to having this. Tantalus finally gripping onto the fruit to take a bite, and having it yanked away after the first taste.

Because he wants it all. He wants to cook for Bruce in the early hours of the morning after patrol. He wants to wrap gently around him in bed, for no reason other than he wants to be close, and he wants forehead kisses. He wants to soothe Bruce from nightmares and have dinners with Bruce’s kids. He wants Bruce to look at him with a soft smile and gentle eyes.

He wants to make Bruce coffee in the morning. 

And so the coffee maker sits in Clark’s kitchen, glass glinting as if to make sure Clark can’t ignore it. 

Clark sighs and lays back in the bed with a thump. He glances over to Bruce, sheets pushed around his torso and the rise and fall of his hips,  If this is all he gets, he will gorge himself on these small moments. Clark zeroes in on Bruce’s heart rate (something that is halfway to an obsession at this point. He’ll find himself reaching for the steady beating multiple times a day, just to check, he tells himself. Just to check.) and realizes the tempo has increased too much for Bruce to still be asleep.

Clark doesn’t rouse him with doting kisses on his neck, or wrapping his arms around his waist. He doesn’t thread his hand through Bruce’s foppish hair and he certainly doesn’t run his fingers lightly down his back.

So Clark waits. He glances around his room, something to distract him from gazing at Bruce with what he is sure is an entirely too honest face. His eyes catch on the glare of the coffee-machine in the kitchen once again and he feels his heart pick up its pace.

It was an impulse decision to bring it back to his apartment, fueled by some pipe dream that maybe he could be something for Bruce besides a stress-reliever. He regrets it immensely. Every time he saw it, it was a stark reminder of what he couldn’t have and hopes that would never be realized. He should just throw the damn thing away. Clark rubs his hands over his face and sighs heavily, then glaces over to Bruce. Soft grey eyes peer up at him.

“G-goodmorning,” Clark stammers, feeling caught.

“Goodmorning.” Bruce says, low and even. 

Neither of them move, and for a moment the two meet eyes. In moments like these, where Clark is not only looking, but he’s being seen, that he has hope. He feels it flutter in his chest now as he takes in Bruce’s pillow wrinkled face and sleep-laden expression. 

Clark wants to be brave in love. He wants to reach out and try and not be ashamed if he fails. He wants to stand on that precipice and see if he’s caught when he falls. And as Clark stares, he smiles gently, and swears he sees something reflected in Bruce’s eyes. Bruce breaks contact and looks away, and the moment should be gone. The ache in Clark’s chest should dissipate, and yet he can see a light flush in Bruce’s cheeks.

Maybe Clark can be brave. If Bruce doesn’t leave, if he stays in the bed for one more minute, Clark will ask him. 

So Clark waits, counting silently along with the beat of Bruce’s heart. He stares up at the ceiling, the glow of sunlight trapped in his curtains, down at his hands. He avoids and he waits.

Bruce shuffles to sit up in bed around the 45 second mark, and Clark’s heart drops. But Bruce simply props his pillow up and lounges, glancing over.

“Clark,” Bruce clears his throat. 50, 51. “Are you..alright?”

Desperate to not lose count, Clark holds up a finger. 58, 59, 60.

He finally turns and faces Bruce, only to see a softly furrowed brow and concerned eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

His heart drops and Clark wants to be brave. He can feel each word lodged in his throat, ready to be spit out, and distantly he’s aware that he is simply about to ask if Bruce wants coffee, as any mid-westerner raised properly would. But he knows Bruce, despite the distance the vigilante tries to create. He knows what this invitation would mean to both of them.

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, he thinks.

“Bruce, would you like some coffee?”

Bruce schools his expression immediately and Clark feels the wind whipping his clothes as he falls.  Clark glances down at his hands curled in his lap, and he waits and he waits. He hears Bruce clear his throat once, twice.

“I would.”

Clark feels a grin lift his lips, unbidden, and he laughs a gentle huffing thing.

“Yeah?” He looks over at Bruce and sees a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Let me, um, let me get that started then.”

He lifts the sheet and quickly walks over to the nearest pile of clothes (he may have superspeeded a bit) to grab a shirt. He throws it on and walks towards the kitchen, hearing a shout of, “It better not be that awful bottled shit you drink, Kent!”

Clarks laughs again, giddy, and yells back, “Shucks Bruce, I had just picked some up at the gas station for you!”

CLark moves around his kitchen, grabbing a mug and the bag of grounds he had picked up the day prior, before moving over to the coffee machine. His coffee experience is limited to glass bottles of cream and sugar with the barest hint of coffee in only the direst of circumstances (days of no sleep or after battles with kryptonite), so he tries to emulate the movements he’s seen at the office. He dutifully fills the carafe with water and pours it into the machine, then reaches over to grab one of the filters he had stolen from work. After successfully filling the filter with grounds, he reaches over to flip the switch and … nothing. He hears a teasing huff from behind him.

Bruce leans against the counter and Clark marvels at how quietly the man moves. Bruce forwent a shirt, standing only in boxers. Clark stares for a moment, taking in sharp hip bones, a stark v-line, and pale skin before realizing Bruce had spoken.

“I’m sorry?” Clark asks and tears his eyes away back to safety.

Bruce huffs once more.

“I said the machine wasn’t plugged in.”

Clark flushed and quickly went to plug it in, fumbling on the way there. He tried once more to push the button, and lo and behold, the machine started with a small whirr. Coffee collected and dripped into the glass carafe, the sound filling the silence left in the kitchen.

The light had shifted to something brighter, heartier as it fell through Clark’s windows. It hit the side of Bruce’s face and Clark let himself look unabashedly, for once. He felt almost hedonistic, basking in the presence of a sleep-warm Bruce and the morning light.

“So you’re a big coffee drinker, huh?” Bruce said, a smile playing at his lips.

“Rao, no.” Clark protests. “I just thought it might be nice for when I have, uh, guests over.”

Clark can see the ghost of a smirk and has never felt more transparent. He takes the leap.

“You’ve never stayed.” 

“You’ve never asked.” Bruce replies and the two let that hang in the air.

“I wanted you to一 want you to.” Clark breaks the silence with a sheepish smile. “I just never thought you’d want the morning-afters.”

Bruce moves to grab a mug from the counter and starts to fill his cup up. He takes a sip, and Clark knows that the coffee is too damn hot just as he knows Bruce needs a second to process. And he’s more than happy to wait.

“I wasn’t sure of the parameters of … this. So I erred on the side of caution.”

Clark stares at him for a moment, trying to decipher what Bruce meant. Reading Bruce has become a skill (an artform) that he’s honed over years. He tries to rid himself of a hopeful bias as he discerns what Bruce meant, but it almost sounds like一

“I was happy to take what I could get too.” Clark says softly. He can feel every desire he has bubbling in his chest, fueled by hope. He wants to say it all, but he swallows down his words. He couldn’t break this fragile moment. Now was not the time. But there would be a right time, Clark knew now. 

They let the minute stretch quietly, both content. Bruce takes another sip of coffee and grimaces.

“Clark, this is terrible.”

Clark laughs, a bright, surprised thing and looks over at Bruce. Both men are smiling, carrying a lightness that Clark hadn’t seen before. 

You are the ledge I leap off of, and you are the ocean I fall into, but you are the hand I grip as we slip off the edge. Clark thinks.  

[soraviie]

you intimidate them.txt

━ type: bts x f! reader ━ navigation

━ about: fluff?, heavy crack, stupidest thing I've written no it's a lie I did write my university thesis, so the second most stupid thing ━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ previously posted on soraviii

NAMJOON: "Dude, will you stop sweating?" Yoongi asks with a distinct frown and resentment laced in his tone. In his defence, elevators were not known as being the most spacious and well-ventilated places, as well as the fact that by all biological assumptions Namjoon must be sweating spinal fluid. The man was part liquid right now.

"It's not something I can control," he growls back and pounds the handkerchief against his forehead like a machine gun.

"Maybe she's forgotten all about it," Jimin, an ever-helpful angel, pipes up from his corner of the elevator simultaneously trying to maintain as much distance as possible. "It happened a year ago."

"I doubt-" the doors open to your face and Namjoon swears his soul rips through his throat as he sweats in mute stroke-ridden silence. There you stood and from the fiery look in your eyes that promises him nothing but a lifetime of misery and suffering, he knows the small, minuscule tiny incident has not wandered off your mind.

"Hello, Miss ____________," Yoongi bids quietly and politely, brushing past as well as Jimin who offers a cheery wave. Your face lightens momentarily only to drop into a deeper frown once settled upon him. It doesn't help his nerves at all that Jin and Jungkook were in the absolute trenches fighting for their breath on the side, with tears in their eyes, doubled over in laughter.

"Would you like to step outside the elevator?" you ask him coldly and he flinches, shrivelling smaller.

"No," he audibly squeaks and Jungkook is rolling on the floor.

"Please, step outside the elevator so we could get started," you order and he waddles away from the safety of the metal box.

"I'm sure this year will be uh...more peaceful," Hoseok interjects, the mediator of all things.

"You mean, we don't want anyone here managing to break my glasses, burning my hand by dumping hot coffee all over it and then. Losing. My. Passport."

Namjoon now shrunken down to 2cm in size was counting the threads in the carpet. 2803, he counts, 2804.

Hoseok tosses an uneasy side glance to a remaining ectoplasm of his friend spinning somewhere around the globe.

"Yeah."

"Of course," you smile and Namjoon nearly begins to cry from fear. It's so terrifying and murderous that he doesn't even know how to breathe. "That would be greatly preferable. God knows what would someone do," your eyes glint as you nail the final coffin in Namjoon's grave. "If subjected to it again."

YOONGI: The day is busy and your hands are shaking and everything's so hectic that when you bring the many folders of who should be wearing what on which day of the show, they fall from your hands and spill all across the floor page by one page. Which is not that bad but then-

A laugh.

A highly amused laugh.

Sort of noiseless and accompanied by many shoulder wags.

You turn to glance back, counting the years that will be spent in a jail cell, and find Min Yoongi having eyes the size of saucers even though the rest of the face is unreadable.

And instead of apologizing or even helping he, in an oddly pitched tone, only responds with:

"Funny."

Then folds in on himself and mutters something that vaguely sounds like a:

"You fucking idiot."

You can't kill him you think. It'll call for execution at the very least. So you politely and subtly flip him the bird and walk away.

An entire year is lived without this heinous man's presence and now he's in front of you once more and he's laughing. Every time his gaze lands on you he begins to smile.

Because your very existence must be a joke to him so once again you politely flip him the bird and exit the room.

"My dude, stop laughing at the girl you're crushing on!" Hoseok threatens into his ears and while still battling the smile, Yoongi hisses back.

"I'm not laughing at her! I can't stop smiling whenever I see her face. I'm telling you she's a witch."

"The only thing magical is the speed with which you get a boner for her," Namjoon adds to the flame with the most neutral, UN-ready expression faced towards the camera.

"You think she'll ever talk to me?" he asks, wilting in discontent.

"Nah she hates you."

"Spit in your drink is what she'll do."

Hoseok and Namjoon look rather proud of themselves.

It's shortly before going on stage that Yoongi, adrenaline-fueled, bumps you with his hip and says with a wink.

"Wish me luck, our brave stylist."

"Break a leg," monotonously, you reply.

He sweats.

"Like for good luck you mean."

"Yeah," you narrow your eyes. "That's what I mean."

He swallows in fright and scurries away as fast as he's capable.

"I'm telling you she's a witch!" he yells in pain while being carded to an ambulance.

"Yoongi, you slipped because the stage was wet and twisted an ankle," Namjoon reiterates, tired, struggling, contemplating whether or not he should sit himself into this very ambulance.

"No, she definitely cursed me!" he argues.

"Why would you call a girl you like a witch?" Taehyung innocently wonders and Yoongi sighs with all the world's age.

"Isn't all love witchcraft?"

JIN: "I'm not going there alone."

"You're thirty! You're an adult, thirty years old male!"

"So, either you hold my hand as I go or I'm not going there at all."

"You're about to enlist!"

"Trust me, I'd much rather enlist right fucking now than go to," he shudders. "Her."

Namjoon sighs.

"I'm not holding your hand to go to the accounting."

Jin turns, hopeful, but everyone is conveniently averting their eyes. Taehyung has pressed his face against the window. Jimin was staring at the ceiling whilst Jungkook seemed to have resigned from his body entirely.

"Cowards, the lot of you."

Jin knows for 100% that the hallway to Hell itself, as he calls it, is haunted. He can see his breath in the air, and hear the laments of the dead. It's here that all souls come to die.

He chickens out several times but knows this is urgent and so swallowing his own skin, he timidly knocks on the door.

"Come in," comes the omnipresent voice and he shivers.

"Mr Kim Seokjin," you greet him cooly bringing down a stamp like an axe upon a head.

Playing with his fingers, he squeaks:

"Want to hear a joke?"

"No."

He swallows.

"I forgot it anyway."

"How clever of you."

There's a deep, pregnant pause in which he calculates the possibility of jumping out the window and surviving.

0. Chances are 0.

"We uh...need more...money for...the sunglasses...I uh...broke some."

"Is that all?"

"ʸᵉˢ."

"I'll arrange it."

"ᵗʰᵃⁿᵏ ʸᵒᵘ."

"Are you bowing?"

"ᴺᵒ, ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶦˢ ʰᵒʷ ᴵ ʷᵃˡᵏ"

"Just go."

He pushes the door open with his ass and takes off running.

HOSEOK: "It's just one woman. Just go talk to her if you find her interesting."

"She'll eat me!"

"She won't eat you!"

Another man approaches. You assess him like a Black Widow might assess a male too brave.

"Hello, I was admiring you from the distance and may I just say, I'll do anything to buy you a drink."

"Anything?" you ask with a smile and being a sleazy male he falls head first into a trap.

"Yes, anything," he nods, eagerly thinking you were an easy lay.

"Rip your liver out" you order that smile staying intact.

"What?" he blanches, laughing awkwardly.

"You said you'll do anything. So rip your liver out."

"Why would you need my liver?" the man asks, sweat rolling down his neck as he sees your aura of terror grow bolder, enveloping him whole.

"I'll eat it," your smile widens. "Why else?"

The man, just having promised his all, takes over the hills and you tut after him.

"Love is so damn fickle."

Yoongi, dragged along for the emotional support, pulls a breath through his teeth.

"So, she could eat you. Hoseok, how can a scaredy cat such as yourself like such terrifying women?"

"I don't know, just keep covering me! Though there's not a lot of you to cover."

Yoongi grimaces and cruelly leaves his friend to defend himself on his own in the wilderness. As you glance at the sound of someone whimpering you stumble upon a beautiful man whose eyes tell he was definitely shitting himself.

"Hello?" you wave at him and he screeches in fright.

JIMIN: "He's lost his mind," Jin gasps behind the couch.

"He's suicidal," Namjoon assesses also behind the couch.

"He's an idiot," Taehyung, the best friend, concluded calmly whilst scrolling through the phone.

Jimin with the determination of a wide-eyed duckling and romance of a prince, approaches the working, hunched figure, sweating and terrified but otherwise optimistic.

Heavy metal music streams in his direction but he has his eyes set.

He taps on her shoulder, smiles and then -

Deflates.

Says nothing.

Sweats.

In silence.

"There was a sign," you growl at him pointing the paintbrush at the stand nearby.

STAY AWAY! DO NOT COME CLOSER! LEAVE!

Jimin gathering all his wits, replies brightly:

"I can't read!"

"Yeah, I figured."

He swallows. You should not be this scary. But you are.

"I just wanted to ask maybe you need help? You've been working on our MV mural for a long time."

"I don't need your help."

"But do you want it?"

Your eyes narrow.

"Also no. Leave."

Head hung low he toddles away.

It's night already when Jimin leaves the studio and there's only one light streaming in the entire building - the projector illuminating the mural.

"Please, go home, you've been working for like 24 hours," he pipes up gently, partially tucking himself away in the dark.

"I can't," you reply, tired and worn out. "If I don't finish this today, I'll be a disappointment."

That feeling Jimin knew like no one else.

"Your health should be the first priority. Go rest. You won't be a disappointment, I promise."

The paintbrush clatters on the ground. Your hands are too tired to hold it anymore.

"Guess so," resignedly, you sigh. Pulling yourself up with great difficulty, you cast the partially hidden man a harmless glare. "Do you have to be so kind? You make me feel like an asshole."

"You're a bit of an asshole," Jimin agrees, heart beating a thousand beats per nanosecond. "But I think you do it to push people away. And you push people away because you can get hurt easily. And you get hurt easily because you have a big heart. And that's the best quality one can have. So in the end you're a good person."

"Still, you're scared of me," you point out at his hands clutching the door like a lifeline.

"A little bit," he chuckles self-consciously. "But I'll get over it, don't worry."

TAEHYUNG: "Look, __________, there's BT-oh not again!"

You sit stony-faced staring down that annoying, chiselled figure once more.

"This is ridiculous! You can't glare at him every time you meet in these things!"

Sinking your nails into the countertop of the bar shoved to the side, you growl back, doubling down on the ired grimace.

"Fucking watch me! I'm not letting some rich asshole intimidate me!"

"Maybe he just has an RBF? One would think, you'd know, given how you have one as well."

"No, no, he's definitely mocking me. I don't care how handsome he is I'll tear this guy a new one if he even dares-"

"You've got anger issues up the kazoo," your friend sighs, resigned on the matter. "Most girls would be lucky to have Kim Taehyung staring at them."

"The only way to stare at me is in awe! And he's not doing that!"

"Not to mention the ego," your friend rolls her eyes, faintly wondering why the rest of the BTS was so avidly arguing.

"Taehyung! Is your head made of spinach?! She's not going to marry you because you keep staring at her!"

Without changing a single muscle of his expression, he keeps staring, sending you his thoughts across the audience. Your hand grabs the bottle and he can't discern whether you want to drink it or fling it at his head.

"She might," he argues back. "I'm Kim Taehyung. Observe the awe in my face."

The face in question couldn't be more neutral if he was gambling his entire life away in a poker.

"Weren't you afraid of her?" Yoongi inquires conversationally.

"That only makes me horny," he tosses out casually and Namjoon scowls in disgust.

"Jesus, just choke already."

JUNGKOOK: "Stop sitting so menacingly!"

"Straighten your spine!"

"Start smiling! Jesus, could you please smile for once!"

Their hazing makes your expression sour even more and the awkwardly lingering masked guy seems to physically wilt away.

Jin and Namjoon who walk into the gymnasium behind Jungkook watch the situation almost bored.

"Oh, look there's that emo coordinator he's crushing on," Jin points out.

"Yeah, they're cute. If he ever gets the balls to talk to her or at least breathe at her, they can hop around like two crows," Namjoon admits.

"That depends how much play Jungkook can pull off."

"So zero?" Namjoon arches an eyebrow and they leave the youngest one to fend for himself. At last, Jungkook springs when your friends finally leave and he's not stared at by the other four girls like some sort of biological experiment.

He opens his mouth.

"You look like a steamed bun."

Then nods, quickly turns around and walks into a wall.

"Yeah, that ship won't sail anytime soon," Jin laments getting ready for practice.

After several more run-ins and mishaps, everyone is allowed to go home as you leave you cross glances with Jungkook who appears to...vibrate.

"You did well," you praise, tossing a bag over your shoulder and he breathes a near inaudible "thanks". The rest of them observe the interaction with some small amount of pride. Just look at him go!

"She said I did well!" he whispers to Jimin.

"Congratulations. Did you just cream your pants because of fear or joy?" he asks his friend shamelessly but Jungkook is too far out of it to care.

"Dunno. Don't care actually."

© soraviii/soraviie 2022

[deliciousangelfestival]

I miss the baby GF of Steve Rogers. 😂

What if the baby got lost wandering around the Avengers compound? How worried is Steve going to be? What'll he do to find her?

Cute. Here it goes. I hope you like it.

Mischief Giggle || Steve Rogers

In the busy Avengers home, something strange happened. Tony messed with a time machine, and Steve's girlfriend became a baby! They said it would only last a week.

One morning, with Steve temporarily occupied, she spotted a shiny toy just out of her tiny reach. Determined to claim it, the brave little baby decided to embark on a quest. She wobbled through the vast expanse of the Avengers home, following the allure of the gleaming toy.

However, her miniature adventure took an unexpected turn, and she soon found herself a bit lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the Avengers compound.

The surroundings seemed to blend together, causing a moment of uncertainty. It was then that she heard enchanting sounds emanating from a nearby room.

Intrigued, she crawled into the room and discovered the source of the captivating noises – Loki, the mischievous magic wielder. Loki was conjuring colorful shapes and creating illusions that sparked wonder in her baby eyes.

As their magical playdate unfolded, the compound echoed with the sound of Steve's urgent voice, "Has anyone seen her?" His eyes darted around, concern etched on his face.

Natasha, Tony, and Bruce, catching wind of Steve's worry, joined in the search. "What's going on, Cap?" Natasha asked.

"I can't find her," Steve admitted, a hint of panic in his voice. "She was just in the crib, and now she's gone."

Determined to find her, Steve activated the Avengers' security system, accessing surveillance cameras throughout the compound.

The high-tech screens flickered to life, displaying different areas of the vast facility.

Steve's eyes scanned each monitor, hoping to glimpse his little one.

Tony, always one to embrace technology, piped up, "JARVIS, help Cap out. We need to find the baby."

The AI responded promptly, "Scanning all cameras for the missing individual."

As the Avengers worked together, searching every nook and cranny, Tony spotted a flicker of movement on one of the screens. "There! In the common room!"

Steve bolted towards the common room, adrenaline pumping. The sounds of giggles grew louder as he entered, finding the magical playdate in full swing.

"Found her!" Steve announced a mix of relief and gratitude in his voice.

Giggles and baby babble filled the air as she played with Loki, enchanted by the colorful shapes and magical illusions he conjured.

"Hey, sweetheart," Steve approached, a smile tugging at his lips. "It's time to go back."

But as Steve reached down to pick her up, a tiny pair of arms stretched toward Loki, her eyes sparkling with joy. She wasn't ready to leave the magical playdate just yet.

Loki, with a playful grin, added to the moment, "Seems she's quite taken with the magic, Captain."

Steve chuckled, torn between amusement and a desire to have his little one back in his arms. "You've made a new friend, haven't you?"

The baby giggled in response, making grabby hands toward Loki's illusions. It was clear – she wanted to stay and play a little longer.

With a theatrical bow, Loki declared, "Who am I to deny such a charming audience?" He continued his magical performance, earning delighted laughs from the tiny spectator.

Steve, slightly outnumbered by magic and mischief, couldn't help but appreciate the joy in the room. "Alright, just a little longer. But then it's nap time, okay?"

The baby grinned, her attention fully absorbed in the magical wonders before her. Steve exchanged a knowing look with Loki, realizing that even in the chaos of superhero life, these unexpected and heartwarming moments were the threads that wove their extraordinary family together.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #48: Rust

Masterlist

content: bludgeoning, gore, murder

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It was so cold. All over, Jackie felt numb. His head was ringing. It was a high-pitched whine, like the keening of a machine. He was aware, vaguely, of a voice, of rushing water, but it was all so far away. All the world was one step removed. It was a strange dream, but any dream was welcome. Any escape from reality, from concrete walls and floors.

Water splashed over his face. He spluttered and gasped. His eyes snapped open.

White ceramic and the scent of citrus, the light bright enough to make him squint—he recognized this place. It was the inside of Heather’s bathroom. That meant…

I’m out. Out of the basement. He could have wept at that thought. Oh God. Oh my God… 

“Finally. You’re awake. Stop gaping like a fish and look at me.”

And he would recognize that curt, cold tone anywhere. Heather! Although terror ran incessant claws up his insides, he was happy to see her. Unreasonably happy, to the point his chest ached. He could have died at that sight. Perhaps he would. She didn’t seem too pleased.

He looked up at Heather, to where she was standing.

“Sit up,” she said.

With another shiver, he sat up. Water dripped down his sleeves—water? He was in the bathtub. What a strange sort of baptism. He was waist-deep in freezing water. The shower curtain hung down at his left, creased up on the metal rod, the sheets plastic and pale gray. 

 “What—” He shifted, which made the water splash. “Why are we here?”

“You'll see.” She then patted his damp, dripping hair. “Sit tight. Don’t move. Understood?”

He nodded. 

"Good." She walked away, out the bathroom door. It shut behind her. Silence followed.

Jackie took this moment to study his surroundings. The tap was still running. He shut it off, though it took a great deal of effort. By now, the tub was just over half-full. 

Cold water. To wake me up, I guess. Jackie had fainted, hadn’t he? That was the last thing he remembered: his vision going white, and the pale certainty that he would pay for his exhaustion. 

Above him, he saw the shower head. In front of him, to the right, he saw the sink and cabinet-mirror. And so much light. Once, he believed nothing could replace sunshine in his heart, but now he was grateful for any method of sight. It was so dark in the basement. The lights had quickly burnt out. For the first time in weeks, even months, he could see his hands. His palms, his arms. The curls falling over his eyes. The damp gray-white of his shirt. Colors and shapes. 

The door opened with a whine. He lifted his head. 

Before he saw the rusty length of pipe, he heard the sound of grating metal. It dragged against the smooth floor. Scraping against it. He shivered again. 

Heather stood above him, poised with the pipe. “Get ready.”

He could not take his eyes off the rusting metal. His voice was painfully small. “Ready? For what?”

She just reared the pipe back. Up above her head. Aimed at him.

Even in his current state, Jackie knew that it was a lost cause. She had lost it. It, that undefinable variable that kept everyone glued together. His brief defiance had been the last straw—or this was simply an inevitable thing running its course, a spinning spool of thread well on its way to unraveling.

But none of those pretty words would save Jackie now. He stared, past the pipe, at the tiles behind it. There was a design, fleur-de-lis and ferns in a blue accent. He tried to focus on that instead. It would all be over soon. 

She took a step forward.

He held his breath.

“Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. Just focused on his breathing, on the blue design, anything but Heather.

“Look up,” she said. 

And there—just above his head, just barely above him—there was a sharp crack, as the pipe slammed down on the wall. A sound louder than any gun, that split the air in half. 

Jackie flinched. Now his stare was on the pipe. He couldn’t help it. Right above him, copper-red splotches on silver. There was a crack in the wall, a starburst across the ceramic. That could have been his skull. He was shaking badly.

“I should kill you,” Heather said, in between heavy breaths. “I should. I should give you a proper punishment. Something you'll remember."

The pipe lifted, then slammed down, fracturing another tile. The sound of crashing metal was closer than before. A shard of ceramic fell into the water. Jackie shut his eyes and let his nerves wind down, trying to get his heart to stop stuttering, keeping as still as he could. He felt such a wild, sharp fear that it was nearly enough to make him faint again.

"I should do it. Maybe I will. Maybe." There was a long pause. Her breathing slowed, slightly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Right, Jackie? I know you still don't understand what I'm telling you. You never learn."

The pipe didn't land again. Carefully, he opened his eyes, and saw it motionless by Heather's side.

"I'm giving you another chance," she said. "We can move on and pretend none of this ever happened.”

He nodded quickly.

“Fine. That's enough. Now—”

They both looked towards the door. A cane tapped against the tiles.

Even Heather seemed to be caught off-guard.  “Callaghan?”

Yes, it was professor Callaghan—or doctor Callaghan, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate—in the doorway, still professionally dressed. There was an air of remarkable calmness about him. His expression was simply bewildered, nothing more. 

“Miss Rodriguez,” said the professor with pleasant serenity, as if she wasn’t holding a heavy metal pipe. “Are you alright? You haven’t answered my calls—or anyone’s calls, in fact—for several months. It was good that you left that window open. I was starting to think that something unfortunate had happened.”

“N—no, I'm fine, professor." Her expression was blank, however.

Callaghan frowned, this time. “Miss Rodriguez, I must insist you put that…” He glanced at the pipe and finally noticed it was there. “That piece of metal down. There are more dignified methods, I’m sure.”

“Methods? For what?”

He scrutinized Jackie, who stared back. “I assume you wish to dispose of him?”

“Who? Jackie?” Her voice was more than just startled. Urgency was seeping into it. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

“Miss Rodri—”

“Please. Just leave.”

“Heather, it’s alright. I’m here to help you. You’re in ill health. Sit down. And if this is really such a pressing matter, I would recommend using a firearm, if not the anesthetic we discussed. I don’t understand how this is safe or hygienic.”

She raised the pipe once more. “A gun? That’s it?” 

Callaghan nodded.

Jackie tensed. He pulled himself further away, sinking deeper into the water. 

Heather reared her weapon.

Then the pipe swung in the other direction, away from Jackie. The sound of metal against flesh split the air.

Professor Callaghan dropped to the ground. His body thudded against the tiles. It was a low, soft sound, heavy and damp on top of the solidly smooth floor. It was an unnatural sound. It didn’t feel right. Something snapped—he heard it, quietly, like a twig, like cartilage.

They waited. The seconds dragged on. The professor did not move. 

“You killed him,” Jackie whispered.

“Quiet.” She stepped back. “He’s not dead.”

No, he was definitely dead. The professor’s skull was cleaved in two. There was a great crater of split-cherry red in between. The one eye that wasn’t crushed to jelly looked sightlessly to the floor. His jaw hung limp and open. There was blood everywhere. On the ground, on the pipe, splattered on her face, smeared against the tub’s edge. Dripping down from Heather’s hands in thick clumps. 

Jackie whimpered, his stare fixed on the professor, and sank even deeper into the bathtub. 

It happened so quickly. Callaghan’s shoulder was flush to the tub, his mangled head just inches away. There was a wet mass that might have been his brain. Some of it had splattered against the tiles, pink and soft. 

Heather dropped the pipe. It banged on the floor, then rolled under a cabinet, leaving a spotted trail. Although the sound gave Jackie a start, the professor did not react to it. Perhaps Heather was hoping he would.

Still, she waited a few more minutes before turning away from his body, her eyes vacant all the while.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @inkwell-and-dagger

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Prairiewolf -Deep Time

One more plug for Prairiewolf's new album — Deep Time! It's out today on digital, LP and CD (the latter edition with a mystery bonus disc 👻). Very proud of it, though it's really Jeremy and Stefan who make this shit sound so good. Also shout-outs to Matt Loewen for his insanely great clarinet solo on "Revisionist Mystery;" Sean Conrad for his expert mastering; our labels Centripetal Force (North America) and Worried Songs (UK/Euro). And thanks to anyone out there who listens! I'll shut up now, but after the jump, you can read what one of our favorite writers, Brent Sirota, had to say about the album:

Prairiewolf make easy listening music for an age of fracture. They almost do it in spite of themselves. No one can seriously question the head music bona fides of the members of this Colorado-based trio. Guitarist Stefan Beck has already assembled a formidable discography of jewel-toned guitar zone-outs under his Golden Brown moniker. And keyboardist and guitarist Jeremy Erwin and bassist Tyler Wilcox have both made their reputations as chroniclers of the vast world of out music. Erwin helms the indispensable Heat Warps blog, a performance-by-performance archive of Miles Davis’s labyrinthine electric period. And Wilcox has been covering the ragged edges of psychedelia and experimental rock at Aquarium Drunkard and other publications, not to mention his own virtual basement for heads, the great bootleg blog Doom and Gloom from the Tomb. These guys come by it honestly. And yet, given their backgrounds, Prairiewolf’s self-titled debut last spring was remarkably free of face-melters, brown acid blowouts, and ascendant spiritual jazz odysseys. Instead, they dropped a record of beautiful, elegant, low-key cosmic groovers that sounded like the piped-in background music to a resort hotel on Jupiter. It was an unlikely psychedelia, brocaded with mid-twentieth century sonic threading from the hi-fi era: vintage synthesizers, smears of spaghetti western, luxe tropical details, the faint schmaltz of space age pop. Imagine something like a Harmonia residency in the airport lounge. And yet somehow it all worked brilliantly. Prairiewolf became last summer’s cool-down standard.

After a year woodshedding around Colorado’s Front Range region, the Prairiewolf boys have fired up their trusty Korg SR-120 drum machine for another outstanding collection of suborbital exotica. The appropriately titled Deep Time operates in its own chronology, unspooling at its unhurried pace. All its incongruous period and stylistic references—the new age pulses, Hawaiian steel, shaggy hippie rambles, lysergic guitar spirals, and orchestral synthesizer flourishes—float atop the album’s own singular temporality. Deep Time makes its own time. From the moment Beck folds his slide guitar, origami-like, into a sound resembling the call of gulls on the tranquil album opener, “Peach Blossom Paradise,” there is a sense of departure from everyday life. The shimmering “Lighthouse” has a similar sunbaked nonchalance, like an afternoon passed day-drinking in a seaside bar. That they named their lush, kaleidoscopic downtempo track “The Meander” pretty much says it all. The ranging, propulsive “Saying Yes to Everything” seems like a nod in the direction of Rose City Band’s brand of wookie krautrock. And the motorik noir of “Demon Cicadas in the Night” also goes hard. Beck and Erwin’s intertwined guitar jam on the eerie album standout “The Cold Curve” evolves into something that sounds like primitive computer music. A genteel bassline from Wilcox on another album highlight, “Revisionist Mystery,” sets the stage for a loopy space jazz turn from guest clarinetist Matt Loewen of Rayonism. The title of post-rock cowboy tune “Another Tomorrow” might refer to the alternative future that so many critics heard in the music of Prairiewolf’s first album. Or it might simply refer to the persistence of time, however deep.

Either way, I’m thankful for the way Prairiewolf make each of their tunes a little oasis or sanctuary, each subsisting according to its own crystalline little logic for a few minutes. It is no simple task to filter out the omnipresent anger and anxiety of everyday life these days. But Prairiewolf are out here making it seem easy.

Brent S. Sirota