#Cheap Custom White Boxes

[bitterrfruit]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls, a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood pulled up. Could only see the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky. Padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unluckily for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brow as you all but tilted your head in nervous confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to well. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your rheumy eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter. Your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the ring that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister — apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked at your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. He had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely aware, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous wife itching to castigate her reckless husband for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, electing to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth. “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agape as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your hind foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

[vervepain]

Supercorp head canon: Lena’s hobby is working on cars. Her penthouse has a special car garage with a lift that can lift an entire car up to the penthouse level of her building. Moreover, the garage opens onto her penthouse’s balcony…because yeah, in the summer Lena mostly just wants to drink tall boys and work in cars in her custom overalls and white tank tops. Which is fair, and private information. Not because she thinks it’s shameful…but who would she tell?

Kara, her girlfriend, maybe but she never gets around to it. Until one day the super lands on the balcony…and the garage door is open, the boom box is on, and wtf. Lena is taking a long drink from a can of cheap beer while wearing what Kara can only term “porn clothes” in her head. Because she has not noticed the vintage Ferrari behind Lena’s sweaty, lean, perfect torso.

When Lena sees Kara she turns bright red, but it’s too late. The blonde is already closing in, asking what she is doing…if she is free to take a break? A break that could involve Kara’s motor, getting it running. Running off a cliff. Kara wants Lena to get her off. In a sexy mechanic way.

Kara:what are you doing?

Lena: Relaxing? It’s Saturday…this is what I do for my three hour block of leisure time per week if I don’t spend it with you.

Kara: Three hour leaisure block comment aside…why are you dressed like…

Lena: Like?

Kara: You know?

Lena: I know…?

Kara: a mechanic from a pornographic film.

Lena: Kara! I’m dressed as a mechanic from the fact I’m working on a car right now.

Kara: yes and pornographic from the sex we are about to have.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[scoutofmymind]

you’re making my dreams come true in ways i can’t even articulate, man i can’t wait

Death Blow — { Hasan x Luigi }

Content: m/m, friends to enemies to whatever this is, forced proximity, general roughness, spit as lube, anal sex, I could go on and on, you’ve been warned though, it does get a lil Tender don’t worry, angst, arguments, kinda-fluff

Wc: 6,311 (I tried to make it short. Wtf)

Notes: When a hotel booking mishap causes former best friends to share a room, they're forced to confront the messy fallout of their friendship-ending disaster from three years ago.

I will state here again, with peace and love, if this doesn’t appeal to you there is no reason to read it.

Now for the divas who are here to get silly, let’s ride.

"There's-“ Luigi stares down at the single hotel room key, watching his knuckles blanch against the glossy plastic as Miami's late afternoon sun streams through the lobby's floor-to-ceiling windows.

Through three months of their mutual friends wedding planning, they'd perfected a delicate choreography of stiff nods and calculated distances — making sure there were always at least two groomsmen between them at fittings, timing their exits with military precision.

Now, that maintained peace treaty was about to splinter under the weight of sharing a cramped hotel room for a week with the man who'd earned himself a permanent spot in Luigi's mental file cabinet under Catastrophic Life Decisions, Exhibit A.

"There's gotta be a mistake. I booked-“

"Yes, Mr. Mangione." The receptionist's bubblegum snaps, a sharp crack that makes him flinch, and her acrylic nails click against the keyboard. "You did book a single room, but so did Mr.—" she squints at the screen, "Piker." Her perfectly manicured brows furrow. "The same one, actually. Both reservations were processed under the wedding block, but somehow..." She trails off, scrolling through the system. "I've never seen this before. It's like both bookings merged into one."

Luigi hears Hasan's jaw clench behind him — that familiar grinding sound that used to echo through their shared dorm room before every championship match in college, back when he knew exactly how many cups of coffee it took to steady Hasan's hands, back before he'd taken years of inside jokes and midnight FIFA tournaments and shattered them beyond repair with one monumentally stupid decision.

Before Luigi had decimated twelve years of friendship for Nina Reeves — seven measly days after she and Hasan had ended things.

The ink had barely dried on their breakup when Luigi had stumbled into the worst decision of his life, drunk on cheap tequila and the way Nina's fingers had traced his collar bones.

He lost everything to three months with a girl who'd ended up leaving them both anyway.

Some days, he still couldn't believe how efficiently he'd managed to detonate the most solid friendship he'd ever had.

"Well, can't you-“ Luigi's voice cracks, and he hates how desperate he sounds, how the Miami heat is already making his collar stick to his neck despite the lobby's aggressive coconut-scented air conditioning.

"We're completely booked for three more days." The receptionist — Maria, according to her gold name tag — swivels the sleek monitor around with practiced efficiency, The screen displaying a dizzying array of color-coded cells, a rainbow of room assignments that might as well be written in ancient Sanskrit for all the sense it makes to him.

Her hot pink nails tap against a particular cluster of boxes.

"But, Mr. Mangione, I can guarantee you a presidential suite on the morning of the twenty-sixth." She offers what's probably meant to be a reassuring smile, all white teeth and customer service training.

Behind him, Hasan's nostrils flare with a sharp huff — a sound of barely contained frustration that hangs in the air between them like a loaded gun, reminding Luigi of every team dinner he'd missed since The Nina Incident, every group chat he'd been quietly removed from, every wedding invitation that ‘got lost in the mail’.

Three years worth of avoidance, now crumbling like a house of cards.

"I booked my room before him."

"Yes, Mr. Piker, but Mr. Mangione paid at full price, whereas you paid with your Amex rewards, so-“ Maria’s fingers flutter nervously between them, her customer service veneer cracking slightly under the weight of their murky shared history she can't possibly understand, but can clearly sense.

Luigi waves his hand, his brows furrowing into deep trenches of both confusion and bitter resignation.

The universe, it seems, has decided to call in all its karmic debts at once, and he finds he can't quite argue with its timing — a part of him has been waiting years for this particular bill to come due.

"You can have the fucking suite," he murmurs, the words tasting like penance as he swipes the key card off the gleaming marble desk. He turns on his heel, his Italian leather loafers squeaking against the polished floor — a pathetic sound that seems to mock the dignity he's trying desperately to maintain as he retreats.

In their mutual, fumbling attempt to not create a spectacle — though the tension radiating between them was already drawing curious glances from the honeymoon couple by the potted palms and waterfall— neither had even considered asking the other groomsmen to swap rooms.

Every suite had been meticulously arranged months ago, a careful puzzle of plus-ones and partners that had probably taken the bride three bottles of rosé and an entire workbook to perfect.

Trading would mean asking someone like Marcus to abandon his room with his very pregnant wife, or convincing Dev to separate from his fiancée who'd flown in from London specifically for this wedding, all because neither of them could swallow their pride, couldn't push past three years of distance and the ghost of Nina Reeves that still haunted every interaction.

The irony wasn't lost on Luigi — how their stubborn silence was about to cost them both a week of comfort, all because admitting they still needed each other felt too much like admitting everything else they'd never said.

Hasan follows down the endless corridor, maintaining a distance that's precisely calibrated to prevent any possibility of small talk — far enough to avoid conversation but close enough to keep Luigi's defeated form in view, whose shoulders have collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, his usually impeccable posture betraying every ounce of resignation as he shoulders through the door with his suitcase scraping against the frame.

"Shit," the whispered curse ricochets off the cream-colored walls, finding Hasan's ears like a warning shot.

He deliberately slows his pace, each footfall against the plush carpet becoming more measured.

"Do I wanna know?" The words slip from Hasan's lips like a prayer to whatever deity might be listening, though he already knows the answer as he finally joins Luigi in the doorway, and the room's ambient lighting does nothing to soften the cruel punchline waiting for them; one singular queen-sized mattress, its pristine white sheets stretched across the space like a surrender flag in a war neither of them wanted to fight.

The last time they'd shared a bed had been during their senior year of college — back when personal space was just a suggestion and friendship meant cold feet pressed against warm calves at 3 AM.

Hasan scrubs his hands over his face, claiming the cushioned chair by the balcony, where Miami's skyline stretches out like a neon fever dream against the darkening sky, the ocean glinting somewhere in the distance, a cruel reminder of how far they are from their old college town, where everything made more sense.

His fingers tap across his phone screen with increasing desperation, dialing every establishment from the five-star resorts on Ocean Drive to the questionable motels tucked behind strip malls, each call ending the same way — a symphony of apologetic voices offering nothing but waitlists and empty promises.

"Who knew so many mother fuckers cared this much about boat shows.” Hasan scoffs, his phone dropping onto the desk with the weight of defeat.

The words catch Luigi off guard — maybe it's the deadpan delivery, or the sheer absurdity of their situation being derailed by yacht enthusiasts, of all things — but something breaks.

A smile cracks through his carefully maintained facade, followed by a chuckle that sounds almost painful, like it's being torn from somewhere deep and forgotten, and then, like a dam finally giving way, Luigi dissolves into full-blown hysterics, the kind of laughter that borders on madness.

It's contagious in its desperation, fueled by three sleepless nights, the constant stream of passive-aggressive texts from his family members, and now this — trapped in a single room with Hasan because apparently half of the world's maritime elite decided Miami was the place to be.

Meanwhile, Hasan attacks the mini-bar like a man on a mission, dropping to his haunches and emerging with a collection of tiny Jack bottles that clink together like wind chimes announcing the death of sobriety.

The silence that eventually settles feels like another presence in the room — awkward and heavy, pressing against their skin like Miami's notorious humidity.

"Here." The word cuts through the thin quiet as Hasan launches a pocket-sized Tito's in a perfect arc onto Luigi's lap, the miniature bottle gleaming accusingly up at him, a tiny glass mediator, until he finally surrenders and sends it burning down his throat.

"We're fucked." Luigi's words land with the finality of a coffin nail, all pretense of civility finally hemorrhaging out between them.

They've run out of space to sidestep the obvious; two men who once shared everything down to the air in their lungs, now forced to share twenty-eight square feet of mattress, whilst whatever they'd been three years ago has calcified into something closer to hatred — or perhaps worse, into that peculiar breed of antipathy reserved for people who've seen all your wounds and know exactly where to press.

The kind of distance that only comes from having once been too close.

Hasan had never received an apology for what happened with Nina, just whispers that slithered through their shared social circle like poison.

He'd responded by vanishing — no calls, no texts, no dramatic confrontations.

Just a clean amputation from everything Luigi.

Sometimes, in the darker hours when sleep wouldn't come, he'd tell himself it was mercy that made him choose silence.

But they both knew better.

The silence was a leash he'd put on himself, because the alternative involved things that good men don't do to their best friends, no matter how thoroughly they've been betrayed; even now, three years later, he can still feel that violence sitting in his chest like a sleeping dog, waiting to be kicked awake.

"Fucked." Hasan echoes, each letter honed to a razor's edge, the word carrying three years' worth of rust and venom. He sits framed by Miami's neon twilight, the city's lights casting him in alternating shades of electric blue and violent pink, creating a tableau that would be breathtaking if it weren't so goddamn brutal.

Somehow, the whole scene only serves to emphasize how thoroughly destroyed he looks.

"We can put pillows between us-“ Luigi starts mapping out desperate solutions like a man searching for exits in a burning room, his eyes darting to every potentially sleepable surface. "I can take the chair." The leather armchair stares back, both of them knowing it's about as comfortable as a medieval torture device. "We can alternate with the floor." His right shoulder lifts in a pathetic half-shrug that dies halfway through, as if even his body can't commit to the suggestion.

"Your back." Hasan's face twists with sodden incredulity, each word dripping with the particular brand of exasperation reserved for someone who still remembers which vertebrae gave Luigi trouble. "You'd fuck your shit up, wouldn't be able to stand for the wedding-“ He pauses, bourbon-warm derision coating his tongue. "Be real."

The command lands like a backhand, heavy with the weight of someone who'd once spent hours working knots out of those same muscles, who still automatically catalogs Luigi's tells when he's hurting despite three years of practiced indifference.

Luigi's hand finds the back of his neck, his eyes climbing the walls to fix on the ceiling as if salvation might be written in the crown molding. "I can go home." The suggestion emerges barely louder than a thought, carrying the weight of surrender.

It's a nuclear option, the idea of facing the disappointment, their friends wedding photos forever marked by his absence.

But standing here, watching Hasan's shoulders carry the tension of a man contemplating murder, it seems like the safer bet; because Luigi remembers the way Hasan's anger works — not in explosive bursts, but in slow, methodical waves that build before they break.

Sharing a bed with someone who has every justified reason to want him dead feels less like an inconvenience and more like testing fate.

But Hasan levels that look at him — the one Luigi hasn't felt against his skin in three years but still recognizes down to his marrow.

A look that could strip paint, that used to precede Hasan systematically dismantling every bad decision Luigi had ever considered making.

A precise architecture of raised eyebrow and flattened mouth communicates exactly how spectacularly stupid Hasan finds the suggestion.

"Oh, what a hero." Hasan's features harden again into something lethal, each line of his face etched in acid. His head tilts back, a predator sizing up prey, and Luigi feels the full weight of that gaze like a hand around his throat. "You'd like to end up the good guy in something so desperately, huh? For once." His eyes tear away as if Luigi isn't even worth the continued consideration, fixing instead on Miami's glittering sprawl below. "The one who made the sacrifice."

It's an elegant evisceration, the kind only someone who knows exactly where to cut could manage.

Someone who remembers every time Luigi chose himself, every selfish decision that led them here, every sacrifice that should have been made, but wasn't.

Luigi’s jaw works against words that feel too big for his mouth, muscles jumping beneath skin. "I'm not who I was three years ago, Hasan." The declaration comes out paper-thin, and he hates how his voice betrays him again — how it folds into something small and desperate, like a bird with broken wings trying to convince the wind it's learned to fly differently.

He can feel Hasan's gaze dissecting him, each sweep of those dark eyes cataloging every minute change and damning similarity.

"New coat," Hasan murmurs, the words rough as ground glass and the seal of another mini Jack breaks with a crack that sounds like bones snapping. He tilts the bottle back before delivering the death blow, “Same wolf."

Luigi's lungs forget how to work for a moment, the accusation settling like ice in his chest.

His fingers twitch at his sides — a tell he thought he'd trained himself out of years ago — and he forces them still, but not before Hasan's eyes catch the movement.

Of course they do.

His mouth opens, closes, opens again, but what defense could he possibly offer?

He'd spent three years reconstructing himself from the ground up; new city, new job, new friends who'd never known him as the person who could hurt someone like that.

But standing here, pinned under Hasan's unflinching assessment, all that renovation feels like nothing more than expensive wallpaper over rotting walls, and the worst part isn't the judgment — it's the certainty, like Hasan had just been waiting all this time for the moment to confirm what he'd always known; that Luigi's transformation was just another performance, a costume change in a play he'd been running his whole life.

"That's-" A muscle jumps in his jaw as he watches Hasan take another deliberate sip, using the bottle like a shield between them. "That's not fair and you know it." The words come out softer than he wants, lacking the defensive heat they might have had three years ago.

Instead, they’re coming from someone who's spent a thousand sleepless nights cataloging his own sins, who's done the brutal work of facing himself in therapy offices and empty bedrooms.

“You don't know what I’ve-“

He catches himself, because that's exactly the kind of self-serving bullshit the old Luigi would have spun.

He draws in a breath that shakes more than he'd like,"Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't deserve the benefit of the doubt. But I'm trying, Hasan. I've been trying."

From across the room, a bark of laughter escapes Hasan, "Trying." He rolls the word around his mouth like a bitter pill, then drains the last of the Jack as if to wash away the taste. "That's rich." His shoulders coil tight beneath his shirt, tension radiating off him in waves. "You want a gold star for basic human decency? For finally doing the work you should've done-“ He cuts himself off, jaw clenching so hard Luigi can practically hear teeth grinding.

When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to something dangerous and quiet.

“You don't get to stand there and expect me to validate your personal growth, Lu. Not when I was the fucking collateral damage you needed to achieve it." He finally turns, fixing Luigi with eyes that hold too many emotions to name, but pain rises to the surface. "This is not your redemption arc. Not your closure.“

Luigi takes a half-step forward before catching himself, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out before dropping uselessly to his side.

There's something about the way Hasan is holding himself, like he's physically trying to keep something contained, that makes Luigi's chest ache in a way he thought he'd forgotten how to feel.

He wants to say he's sorry, wants to explain that losing Hasan's friendship hurt just as badly as a true death would have — that he'd wake up sometimes still reaching for his phone to share some stupid meme or inside joke, only to remember.

But those feel like excuses, and they've both had enough of those.

Instead, he says, voice barely above a whisper, "I know. I know I don't deserve-“ He gestures vaguely at the space between them, at this forced proximity neither of them chose. "Any of this. I just-“ The rest of the sentence dissolves in his throat as Hasan finally meets his eyes again, the contact making him forget what he was trying to say — as if he ever knew.

Hasan's grip on the empty bottle tightens until his knuckles bleach white, and the city lights paint shifting patterns across his face, catching in his eyes in a way that makes Luigi’s chest tighten.

For a heartbeat, they're both twenty again, standing in their mutual friends kitchen at 3 AM, that same charged silence stretching between them like a rubber band seconds from the snap.

"You just what?" Hasan's tone is rougher than before, barely controlled. He sets the bottle down with deliberate care, as if he needs his hands free. "Finish your fucking sentence, Luigi."

The three feet between them feels simultaneously like an ocean and like nothing at all, and Luigi's aware of every detail — the way Hasan's shirt pulls across his shoulders with each careful breath, the familiar scent of his cologne, the freckles over the bridge of his nose, the slight tremble in his own hands that he can't quite hide.

"I just-“ Luigi drags a hand through his hair, his heart hammering so hard against his ribcage he's sure Hasan must be able to hear it. "I miss-“ But that's not right, not enough, not after three years of carefully fortified social distances and practiced indifference. He forces himself to meet Hasan's gaze, even though it feels like looking directly into the sun. "I’ve never stopped thinking about the last time we-“

He cuts himself off, because they've never talked about that night.

The night before everything imploded.

The night they'd both had too much to drink and the lines they'd spent years drawing between friendship and something else had blurred beyond recognition.

Hasan takes a step backward like he's been struck, his back hitting the window with a soft thud. "Don't — you don't get to bring up-“ He breaks off, throat working visibly. "That doesn't exist anymore.”

But his eyes betray him, dropping to Luigi's mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up; the same way they had that night, right before everything and nothing had changed in equal measure.

Luigi can see Hasan's pulse jumping in his throat, can track the rapid rise and fall of his chest, can read every sign of fight-or-flight tension in the rigid line of his shoulders — It's the same way he looked right before Luigi had reached for him in the dark three years ago, right before they'd both pretended the alcohol and blow was to blame for what happened.

"Hasan," Luigi breathes, and watches something crack in the other man's composure at the sound of his name.

"Shut up," Hasan whispers, but it lacks conviction, sounds more like a last line of defense crumbling. “Just— fuckin’ shut the fuck up, Luigi.”

The distance between them has somehow shrunk without either of them consciously moving; Luigi can see the stubble along Hasan's jaw, the slight tremor in his lower lip, the way his pupils have dilated in the dim light.

Every detail he's spent three years trying to forget.

"Make me.” Luigi retorts, so quietly it's almost inaudible, and watches the other man’s careful control splinter at its edges.

Hasan makes a sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a whimper, his hands leaving the window and hovering in the space between them like he's fighting against gravity itself. "I hate you.” he breathes, but his eyes are fixed on Luigi's mouth. “I fucking hate you.”

"Prove it.”

It’s a challenge, a dare, a permission slip all wrapped into one.

The words hang in the air for a fraction of a second before Hasan moves — not with the violence Luigi half-expected, but with something worse; deliberate intent.

His hands find Luigi's face with bruising precision, thumbs pressing into his jawline hard enough to hurt, and Luigi barely has time to register the pressure before Hasan's mouth crashes into his.

It's not a kiss so much as a punishment, teeth catching his lower lip, and Luigi gasps into it, hands scrambling for purchase against Hasan's shirt whilst he walks them backward until Luigi's spine hits the wall, the impact forcing a sound from his throat that makes Hasan's fingers tighten.

There's nothing gentle about it — three years of rage and want concentrated into the press of bodies, the scratch of stubble, the way Hasan's tongue slides against his like he's trying to taste every lie Luigi's ever told.

"Like this?" Hasan pulls back just enough to growl against Luigi's mouth, one hand sliding down to grip his throat with bruising force. "This proof enough for you?" But his voice cracks on the last word, something beneath the fluid anger that makes Luigi's chest ache.

He answers by surging forward, catching Hasan's lower lip between his teeth, swallowing the shocked sound that escapes him and eventually, his hands find Hasan's chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt and pulling until their bodies align like matching pieces.

Hasan retaliates by sliding his hand into Luigi's hair, gripping just this side of too tight, using the leverage to tilt his head back whilst his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath Luigi's jaw — the one he'd discovered that night three years ago — and Luigi's knees nearly buckle at the sensation of teeth against skin.

"I forgot," Luigi gasps, though it's a lie — he hasn't forgotten anything, not the way Hasan's hands feel, not the exact pressure that makes him shake, not a single detail of that night. "Hasan, I-“

"Don't," Hasan warns against his throat, voice wrecked. "Don't you dare try to speak right now." His free hand slides beneath Luigi's shirt, palm burning against bare skin, and Luigi arches into the touch like he's being brought back from the dead. "Not when you're still-“ He cuts himself off by claiming Luigi's mouth again, harder this time, like he's trying to stop whatever truth was about to escape.

The kiss turns desperate, messy, all clashing teeth and shared breaths, Luigi’s hands fumbling with Hasan's shirt buttons, fingers trembling too much to manage them properly until Hasan breaks away with a curse and does it himself, movements sharp with frustrated need.

The sight of skin being revealed makes Luigi's mouth go dry — Hasan's still built like he remembers, maybe even more so.

"Look what you did to me," Hasan says roughly, catching Luigi's wrist when he reaches out to touch. "Three years and I still-“ He drops Luigi's wrist like it burns him, but then his hands are everywhere at once; sliding under Luigi's shirt, mapping ribs and muscle like he's searching for changes, like he's comparing the territory to his memory.

Luigi's head falls back against when Hasan's thumb brushes over his nipple. "Please," he breathes, not even sure what he's begging for. His hips buck forward involuntarily when Hasan's thigh slides between his legs, creating friction that makes both of them groan.

"Still so-“ Hasan bites the words into Luigi's collarbone, marking him. "Still sound exactly the same. Still feel the same.”

Hasan is twisting the knife he'd placed so very lovingly between Luigi's ribs — the knife that says he hasn't changed a bit.

Each rotation strips away the careful layers Luigi has built; the composed smiles at mutual friends' gatherings, the practiced way he says Hasan's name without flinching, the meticulously built walls of a man who's moved on.

According to Hasan, he’s all the same parts, all the same thoughts and feelings; and rendered worthless are all the therapy sessions where he'd learned to breathe through panic attacks, the nights he's cried on his bathroom floor until his throat was raw, his phone ran dry of anyone to rescue him from his own despair.

Different coat, same wolf.

His jaw clenches as he pushes Hasan gently away from him, though it hardly causes him to budge. “I’m not who I was,” his voice is strained, his body desperate with want but his heart telling him to jump ship. “I’m not the same.”

Hasan just drops to his knees in response, rough hands making quick work of Luigi's black belt. He looks at his stiff length once it’s freed with a cruel smirk. "I'm having a hard time seeing any differences." His grip tightens possessively. "Seems like the same cock, too.”

Luigi's head thuds against the wall again, the impact sending starbursts across his vision as the room spins into a dizzying blur as he writhes helplessly where he stands, his cheeks stained a desperate pink that spreads down his neck, with a gentle sheen of sweat that makes his summer-tanned skin glisten in the low light, catching on the hollow of his throat where his pulse races visible and frantic.

"Fuck," he whimpers, the word breaking apart in his mouth as he glances down. His jaw goes slack at the sight — Hasan on his knees, destroying him with the same devastating precision as three years ago — and his heart thunders so violently in his chest he momentarily convinces himself it may very well give out.

Hasan is merciless in how he handles Luigi, wielding twelve years of intimate knowledge like a weapon.

He remembers every spot that makes Luigi whimper, every movement that reduces him to incoherent pleading — the exact pressure of tongue against sensitive flesh, the precise rhythm that makes Luigi's thighs tremble, thumbs pressing deliberately into Luigi's hips, pinning him in place like a shy little butterfly on cork, delicate wings still fluttering in futile resistance. "So fuckin' soft, still, aren't you?" The words vibrate against Luigi's skin, dripping with cruel amusement.

Luigi's hands reach down to thread through Hasan's soft brown waves, tugging with a force that wants to be defiant but comes across desperate instead.

The gesture is meant to prove a point — that he's not the soft, pathetic boy he was three years ago — but his trembling fingers and hitched breathing betray him, transforming what should be dominance into something closer to begging.

"Couldn't get enough of me." Hasan's tongue is devious, wickedly precise as it traces patterns that make Luigi's vision blur. Each movement is warm and wet and methodical, working through a choreography designed to destroy him. "That's what I'd tell myself. Do you know that, Lu?" His brown eyes are dark with satisfaction as they stare up at Luigi's green ones, watching them struggle to focus, to maintain any semblance of control. "Told myself you wanted me so badly, you'd fuck the closest thing to me, to replicate the feeling in your fucked up head."

Luigi's head thumps against the wall again as he whines, the sound raw and unwilling in his throat.

His wrists are caught in Hasan's iron grip, pinned uselessly at his sides, forbidding him even the smallest measure of control anymore — but in a instant, Hasan surges to his feet in one fluid motion, his hand moving from Luigi's wrists to circle his throat once more, thumb pressing against his thundering pulse. "Sound correct?"

It was beyond correct, in fact.

It's the same realization three therapists have come to, each one peeling back his sorry excuses until he'd flee to the next, desperate to outrun the diagnosis.

The cycle repeats.

new office, new couch, new sympathetic face watching him spin elaborate theories about why he'd fucked — and then dated — Hasan's ex-girlfriend of seven days.

Each therapist eventually reaches the same conclusion he's been running from — that it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with tasting Hasan secondhand, with pressing his face into sheets that still held traces of his cologne, with trying to piece together some fractured approximation of the man currently pinning him to this wall.

He'd rather start the cycle again, find therapist number four, than admit he's been hopelessly, pathetically, desperately in love with Hasan for over a decade.

"I-" Luigi's voice catches in his throat, trapped under Hasan's fingers and several years of shame. "I didn't-" But the lie dies on his tongue, because they both know. His eyes flutter shut, unable to meet Hasan's knowing gaze. "She tasted like you," he finally whispers, the confession ripped from somewhere raw and bleeding inside him. "She wore your shirts to bed. I thought-" His voice breaks, and when he opens his eyes again, they're bright with unshed tears of humiliation. "I thought if I couldn't have you, I could at least — I could have that."

For a moment, Hasan's grip falters — a microscopic loosening of fingers against Luigi's throat, a brief flash of something unreadable darkening his eyes.

Then his features twist into something cruel, something satisfied, like a cat that's finally cornered the mouse.

"Look at you," he breathes, pressing closer until Luigi can feel every hard line of him. "Finally telling the truth." His thumb traces Luigi's bottom lip, collecting the trembling words he'd just spilled, tongue licking them right up. “Such a desperate little thing, weren't you? Still are." His other hand tightens at Luigi's throat again, a reminder of control. "Did it help?" He nips at Luigi’s chin, nudging his cheek with his nose. "Did it feel like me when you closed your eyes?"

Luigi tries to turn his face away, shame burning hot across his cheeks, but Hasan's grip keeps him firmly in place. "Stop," he whispers, but it comes out broken, unconvincing. His hands come up to grip Hasan's wrist, not quite pushing away, not quite pulling closer. "You already know. Isn't that enough?"

But Hasan's words have cracked something open inside him, something he's spent three years trying to bury.

"It wasn't-" Luigi’s voice dies again, raw and honest in a way that makes him hate himself. "It wasn't even close. Nothing was." The admission feels like swallowing thorns, but he can't stop now. “No one.”

For a moment, something shifts in Hasan's expression again — a softening around his eyes, a slight tremor in the hand that holds Luigi's jaw.

The cruelty melts just enough to show something underneath, something that might be tenderness.

"Lu," he breathes, his thumb tracing Luigi’s cheekbone with unexpected gentleness, like he's remembering how breakable he can be, how earnest his confessions always were. "You always were too honest for your own good."

But the vulnerability in his voice scares him — Hasan retreats back into familiar cruelty, though it's less sharp now, tempered by something warmer.

His grip remains firm but not bruising as he leans in close, lips ghosting over Luigi's temple. "Still wearing your heart where anyone can see it.“

"Fuck me," Luigi breathes, the words falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse combined. His hands clutch at Hasan's shoulders, caught between pushing away and pulling closer.

Hasan's eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he studies Luigi's face. His grip tightens possessively. "Say it again," he demands, voice rough with something between triumph and tenderness. "Say it like you mean it."

Luigi's head tips back against the wall, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. "Please," he whispers, and it sounds like surrender, like coming home, like everything he's spent three years running from. "Please.” He swallows, his thirst tight and dry. “Fuck me.”

The queen mattress that had loomed like a challenge now cradles them both, springs creaking as Hasan presses Luigi into the sheets. His fingers work deep and demanding, slicked messy with spit, while his other hand spans Luigi's lower belly, pinning him in place. From between Luigi's trembling thighs, Hasan drinks in every desperate sound, every twitch and arch of the body he knows better than his own.

The position feels like worship, like penance, like reclaiming something sacred he'd foolishly let slip away.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and for once there's no mockery in his voice — just raw wonder, a hunger unmatched. "Still open up so fuckin’ pretty for me."

Spluttering, heaving, coming apart at every seam — Luigi writhes beneath his touch, each sound torn from his throat more desperate than the last.

The sight of him like this, the Put-Together Software Engineer Luigi stripped bare of pretense and pride, hits Hasan like a blow to the chest.

Beautiful in his devastation, sacred in his surrender.

Like watching a storm break over parched earth, like the first gasp of air after drowning — devastating and vital all at once.

He's a tangle of desperate hands and raw need, reaching for a tenderness Hasan deliberately withholds.

Each rough thrust feels like retribution, like Hasan's trying to fuck three years of abandonment into his skin. And Luigi — Christ, Luigi takes it like he's been starving for it, like every bruising stroke is filling some endless hollow space inside him.

Because it is.

His body yields and demands all at once, welcoming the punishment even as he arches up seeking more, seeking closer, seeking everything Hasan won't give him yet whilst each impact draws a sound from his throat that's half-sob, half-plea, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against Hasan's shoulders, trying to pull him down into something more intimate than this calculated devastation.

"Could have always been us," Hasan growls against his throat, teeth marking constellations of possession into tanned skin.

Each bruise blooms like a confession, like pages from their shared history written in purple and red. This — this has always been the only violence Hasan would allow himself with Luigi, even at his angriest. "I was yours before you even knew it." The admission tears from him rough and raw, pressed into Luigi's skin like a brand. "All in. Always was. You're the one who ran."

Luigi tries to swallow back what might be a sob, might be a broken laugh, arm thrown across his eyes like he can hide from this moment, from the truth spilling out between them.

"What about now?" He sounds young again, still that same scared boy from three years ago, still trying to shield his heart even as he offers it up. His other hand clutches at Hasan's shoulder, caught between pushing away and pulling closer, trembling with the effort of holding himself together while Hasan takes him apart.

Hasan stills for a moment, his breath hot against Luigi's neck as he reaches up, gently but firmly pulling Luigi's arm away from his eyes. "Look at me," he demands, but his voice has gone soft around the edges. "Now? I'm gonna fuckin’ keep you." His thumb traces Luigi's Cupids bow, an unexpected tenderness in the gesture that makes his next words burn hotter. "And if you run again, I'll find you. I'll always find you." It's both promise and threat, his hips rolling slow and deep as if to punctuate each word.

"Yours," Luigi gasps, the word breaking on a whimper as Hasan's slower pace drags sparks up his spine. Each thrust now is deep and deliberate, making him feel every inch, every moment. His voice has gone high and thin, desperate in a different way now — less frantic, more undone. "Yours, please — I’m yours."

He's babbling now, one hand tangled in Hasan's hair, the other clutching at his back.

The slower rhythm is maddening, too much and not enough, making him feel everything he's been running from.

When Hasan shifts just slightly, hitting that perfect angle, Luigi arches up with a broken cry, and his body goes taut, trembling on the edge for one suspended moment before he comes untouched, Hasan's name falling from his lips like salvation, his belly growing with warmth as Hasan fills him with all the love they’ve kept from each other for three whole years.

Thanks for reading xox

[jay7543]

okay so I absolutely LOVED your king!Konig x reader! I was wondering if you could do a Mechanic Konig and male reader? So reader has absolutely no idea how to fix his car and he goes to Konig’s shop for help, it can be fluffy or smutty

I love your posts and I can’t wait for the next update!!

Your hot new mechanic, könig

M4m

Sfw

Thank you so much! I’m so happy you liked it, I feel like there needs to be more gay/ bi man stuff so I am happy to provide. It’s a bit shorter than my other stuff, but I might make a part 2 that has more spicy stuff, so let me know if you want that too

Feel free to make requests!!! Doesn’t have to be cod

You have had your car for a pretty long time, by all accounts it’s an absolute piece of shit, but you love it. Lately you’ve been having so many problems with it, every fucking light is on and you just don’t know at all how to fix it, and honestly, you don’t care that much either, but your friend told you about a new mechanic nearby, and apparently he’s hot. You decide to call him

Reader-“hello? I’d like to bring my car in”

You say hesitantly, really not wanting to spend the money but also not sure about this supposedly very hot guy

König-“Ja, sure, come in when you can”

He immediately hangs up the phone, not even asking your name, well, if he’s as good as you’ve been told then who cares. You drive to his shop, not far from your house. When you get there he’s already waiting outside wearing partly ripped jeans and a white, sweat soaked t-shirt, almost as if he’s trying to show off, you guess he doesn’t have any other customers. You park near him and get out.

Reader-“hey uh, I talked to you on the phone?”

He looks you up and down, taking in you and your average looking self. You do the same to him, yet he looks a lot better, his hands covered in dried oil, his shirt soaked in sweat, his bright blue eyes staring at you, you can even see his abs through his shirt.

König-“I know, so, what’s wrong with it”

Reader-“uh, well, I don’t know much about cars, every light is on though”

You say with a nervous smile. He keeps his blank look and sticks out his hand, assumably for your keys, you hand them to him. He opens your door and pops your hood, doing…well you have no idea, you assume he’s doing what he’s supposed to, you hear him yell

König-“Was zum Teufel! When was the last time you changed you oil, or changed the damn battery”

You look around, debating whether or not you should talk

Reader-“well…I guess a few years”

He peeks out from the hood and glares at you

Reader-“I can pay whatever you need, i-I just don’t wanna get a new one. I don’t know a lot but I really like this one you know”

You say quietly, getting a bit embarrassed and sentimental about your shit box car. His gaze softens and he nods

König-“well, it won’t be easy, nor cheap, but i understand, and I’ll get it done”

He closes the hood and walks over to you, only a few inches away, you blush a bit as you start to smell whatever cologne he has on mixed with his sweat, it smells oddly good to you.

König-“you know, you’re a very pretty man, I’m not surprised you don’t know much about cars”

He chuckles. You blush even more, he called you pretty!

Reader-“I uh…well I guess you’re right. And thanks for the compliment, you look nice too”

He smiles at your obvious nervousness.

König-“let me go get something for you”

He walks away and comes back a few minutes later, he hands you a set of keys to a nearby car, an average car, nothing special but a car nonetheless.

König-“since you clearly can’t drive yours, use one of mine, I do expect It back however”

Your mouth hangs slightly agape, he’s letting you borrow his car till yours is fixed? This has to mean he likes you.

Reader-“well I-can I get your number? So we can call and text about my car. I don’t wanna have to call your shop”

He smiles and exudes an aura of confidence, as if he was waiting for you to ask. He grabs a piece of paper out of his pocket and a pen he had to write his number. He he takes your hand and places the paper in yours, keeping it held in his

König-“you know, feel free to call me, even if it’s not about your car, I know more than just cars.”

He kisses your hand and leans in to whisper in your ear

König-“I also think I could please you. No?”

He smiles and pulls away, letting go of your hand. You’re so shocked that you can’t even come up with words to respond, you just nod and stumble over to the car he’s letting you borrow. You’re definitely gonna call him

[sketchy-angel]

Custom Hualian dolls

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

I started this project in February 2022. I originally made a Puqi Shrine diorama out of an old cardboard box. I still have it and I'll post it soon after I make some minor alterations. I just really wanted to share these 2 since I spent so much effort on them.

Back then, I purchased 2 Obitsu 11cm dolls. I bought them on Aliexpress but judging by the packaging and the fact they were around $15 each I'm pretty sure they're legit.

In this blog I'll talk a bit about the process for those unfamiliar with doll customizing and everyone else who is interested in the process. I'm a doll collector but my customizing skills are very rudimentary and mostly rely on winging it and hoping for the best.

And my motto during this process was "nobody's gonna see the back."

I made the prototype clothes back in 2022 and the stitching was ass. And it took me until last week to gather enough courage to start working on the wigs. I originally purchased very cheap doll hair but it refused to cooperate and I decided to use felt instead.

. ₊ ⊹ . ₊˖ . ₊ . 𓇢𓆸

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His clothes were already basically done when I started over. I added the red ribbon details, added the flower nail charm, the red string and I made the wig, of course.

These outfits are by no means historically or cannonically accurate. I had to modify them to accommodate the scale and my subpar sewing skills. I've gotten much better at sewing since then so don't look at those shoulder seams...

And I still don't know what's going on with the back of his red robes. I think I ran out of fabric :-|

The braid is made using a string of black yarn. The vambraces are actually fake adjustable ear cuffs.

I'll show the wig making process more in Xie Lian's section since Hua Cheng's was easier to make. I just slapped a bunch of felt pieces on the wigcap with glue and voilà!

And E'Ming was made using pencils and gel polish on a piece of cardboard and Xie Lian's butterfly was made with the help of a nail sticker and magnetic cat eye polish. In the finished photo you can see a red gem sticker on E'Ming's eye. I don't know how I feel about it. Do your prefer the design without it? I can easily take it off.

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･.˚⊹.

𔓘｡˚ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Xie Lian's outfit and hair was a bit of a challenge but it was fun. I was inspired by several designs and decided to just wing it and make my own outfit instead of recreating an existing one in its entirety.

Also, as you can tell, these dolls have many articulation points that allow for so much posability. I sewed the clothes onto them to keep it in place so they have limited range of movement, especially Hua Cheng, but I'm fine with it. They can still pose nicely.

Instead of making inner and outer robes I decided to make one pair of robes and the second pair that's folded over the shoulders stops at the waist and is hidden by the belt/sash(?) idk English forgive me.

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I tried to make the "main robes" fold over at the waist but I misplaced the rest of that white fabric 2 years ago so I just extended the edges on 3 sides with the sheer fabric from an old curtain and hoped for the best.

Oh, and the shoes are also from Aliexpress. I try not to purchase often from them but I could not find any alternatives...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ˚｡𔓘

𔓘｡˚ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The wig making process was... Interesting. I won't show the entire wigcap by itself to spare your eyes so here's balding Xie Lian lol.

The bun was made by rolling felt into a little roll. I then stuck two bigger felt circles onto one side and glued the edges after I cut the outer edges like you would cut a pizza. Does this make sense? Probably not.

Basically, make a rose type thing.

And if you're wondering, the wigs are removable and kind of posable as well.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

And that's basically it <3

I wanted to include better quality pics but it won't allow me to post more than 10 at once so I had to stuff them into collages.

Forgot to mute the video so if you hear my cat wreaking havoc in the background no you didn't.

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I may or may not be working on another project centered around Beefleaf...

When I was a kid, I couldn't afford good quality dolls so I played with small doll-like keychains that had knitted dresses, arms and legs made of string, heads made of painted wooden beads and little beanies on their heads.

I have similar beads laying around so I plan to make similar keychains that look like fem Beefleaf.

Of course, I gotta finish that damn Puqi Shrine and hope my cat doesn't cause it to collapse. Maybe one day I'll make keychain versions of other TGCF characters as well!

ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

[neildylandy]

finally finished, and this one may be my best custom yet: introducing the HG Gundam Zabanya (Last Stand Ver.)!

this one's been a looooong time coming, and what a fun ride it was!! the top shelf of my first gunpla display case has, naturally, always been reserved for 00 kits (and sometimes their build fighters/divers variants—looking at you, cherudim saga and 00 diver arc), and with the current setup i have in there, i knew that i probably only had room for one more gundam, so that gundam damn well better be a good one.

and oh my god was this a good one. full breakdown under the cut.

the build itself, being a high grade from 2010, wasn't really anything special, but who cares about that, i got to try out WEATHERING for the first time! weathering fucking rules. you take your marker ink and the shittiest, stiffest paintbrush you own and you just absolutely go to town. how could i not love that. brilliant exercise, gorgeous final product, this will definitely not be the last time i do this to a kit.

the gold, silver, gunmetal, metallic red, bright metallic green, and some of the white was also handpainted, and the crystal over the forehead sensor was sharpie-dyed with navy blue. this kit comes with a ton of stickers for color accuracy (a common issue with HG 00 kits) but thanks to all this paintwork i ended up barely using any of them.

that snazzy gun comes as a donation from my spare parts box, since i wasn't really a fan of the two rifles that come with the base kit. i honestly have no idea what kit it's originally from (EDIT: i have now been informed that it was MG kyrios's submachine gun), but it was basically one solid hunk of grey plastic with a single green sticker on it before i jazzed it up with all the gunmetal and the weathering.

this kit also served as a trial run for my new DSPIAE gunmetal brush pen, and i'm very pleased with how it looks and how it felt to use! if other DSPIAE markers are as good as this one, consider me sold. prone to scratching, though, so definitely a marker better served for accent pieces or parts you're not expecting to handle very much.

the cloak was just some cheap amazon purchase, i think. smelled awful for whatever reason. works great, though, especially once i roughed it up a bit with scissors. there's a little wire in the collar that keeps it scrunched shut around the head.

the ELS crystallization was done with the same trick i used on my ELS Brave: cut up a couple (in this case, two) spare beam saber blades into a variety of pointy shapes, glue 'em on, paint 'em silver.

i think the lore i was going for with this custom design was that this was from a version of A Wakening of the Trailblazer where the fight(s) with the ELS went on for much longer, thus prompting a more last-ditch, ragged appearance from zabanya (hence the name Last Stand). i'm sure setsuna will take care of things before those ELS crystals spread too much further, though...!

and, finally, since that big cloak and all those ELS crystals do cover up quite a bit, here's some photos i took of just the kit by itself in all its weathered glory.

with this, my MG dynames, and the cherudim saga type.y2k, i've finally built (a version of) all three lockon stratos gundams. here's hoping they make something new and fun for lyle to fly in 2027 (and then a tiny plastic version for me to put in my house!)

[hevexns-realm]

Boys Fashion headcanons in my ✨AU with no name✨

Sonic: Y2K inspired style, may not be exactly how it is back in the day, but it’s pretty damn close! Tank tops, baggy jeans, Air Forces, and sometimes brings a boom box with him. For the more feminine style, arm and leg warmers, multiple belts and jelly bracelets, and yes, a fur hat. However, it’s synthetic and the only one he owns. It’s actually a gift from amy!

Shadow: he’s usually going to be wearing some kind of biker-esque style. Leather boots, slightly baggy Jeans, fluffy leather coat, etc. However, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wear other styles outside of missions. Particularly more gothic attire, and even a few good drag queen looks too! (Headcannon I saw on here and I’m running with it-)

Silver: hm.. I honestly say the soft boy aesthetic from 2020-2021 would suit him when he’s not on missions! Soft sweatshirts, a good pair of white slacks, and maybe some white sneakers too! Add a cute satchel and we’re good to go! ^^

Knuckles: same as sonic, but just the masculine parts. Baggy jeans, tank top or short sleeved shirts, and some of his tribe’s jewelry and other accessories to match with the outfit!

Tails: I’d say the steampunk look would suit him best, after all, he’s a mechanic and an engineer! It makes sense why he’d prefer something like steampunk! (Simplified or not is up to you!)

Mephiles: My personal favorite of these headcanons so far. Anything Princey and gothic? He will give it a try! However, goth academia and goth ouji seem to be his favorites! Lots of intricate and beautiful lace, black slacks, masculine corsets, and a cute black and purple parasol to match! (I’ve had this headcanon for a hot minute!)

Scourge: We all know that he has this punk-like style with the leather jacket and sunglasses, but I wanna add onto it! Baggy jeans with sewn on decals from his adventures, a few tattoos, and usually no shirt, to show off his scar. However, if the place does require a shirt, he just either zips up his jacket or wears a white T-shirt.. he probably won’t be happy about it though! ^^||

Nazo: hm.. this is actually a tough one, as I didn’t really think about his general wardrobe. However, I feel like he’d have something for just about every occasion. Something simple and year-round like button up shirts and slacks or dark jeans. Because you can do a lot of styling with those alone, like add on a waistcoat and a suit jacket over the shoulders, and some simple, yet classy gold jewelry!

Seelkadoom: Now, you think that it’d be easy to give seelkadoom a hybrid style between shadow and sonic! Well, you’re half right. While that’s his base style of leather jackets and boots mixed with some jeans, the man fluctuates his style like his customers do with alcohol at the casino he works at! Not to mention work dress codes as well!

King (my OC): he’s kind of the same as nazo, but instead of more quiet luxury, he’s wearing more brand names. Like gucci T-shirts, Louis Vuitton jackets with their LV logo on it, Nike sweatpants, etc. He also sometimes wear those cheap looking $200+ cosplays you see on the internet. He mainly does this to get girls’ attention, but yeah. He’s basically all about being on trends and finding things to turn into trends, whether the others like it or not.

Girls will be next, sound off your headcanoned styles in the comments/reblogs! 🖤

[n30nallavita]

Context- I had been commissioned for this piece. Being in a financial pickle I picked it up and immediately set to work on it. Since I’m in need of money I put my all into the request to make sure it checked every box they could need. It turned out amazing I think! However I just checked our chat where I put the almost finished piece to find their account deleted. What’s worse is I had given them an update without my signature on it since it was unfinished and all…so if you see it floating around please message me!

Without further adeu~ the piece!

╔══*.·:·✧ ☎️ ✧·:·.*══╗

Information

I was messaged by the user Freaky (later changed to Dust) for the commission of their two Characters Brimstone and Karma. Ecstatic we began consultation!!

They decided on a photo reference from the anime “Soul Eater”. They liked the old anime style and requested their piece would be similar. That meant a full body with simple background but a lot of technique put into the old anime style! Ofc I wouldn’t shy away from the challenge (since my bills won’t shy away from me- the apple did not work on the doctor….no matter how hard I threw it)

Upon requesting their budget they said between 130-200$ which worked fine with me. I always tend to under charge anyhow. Due to my needs this time was no different. I assured they would receive updates to let them know how the piece was going and that I would collect their input on any fixes needed. They agreed and without further wait I began.

『•🪱•✎•🪱•』

[ T o o l s ]

✦ Cheap sketchpad

✦ Mechanical Pencil 7.0 lead

✦ My Phone (to send to the iPad)

✦ Fathers IPad (Im broke don’t judge)

✦ Procreate

✦ Color Pencil procreate brush pack

✦ Lineart procreate brush pack

✦Paint procreate brush pack

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°⁀✎ 🫎 P R O C E S S 🫎 *ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°⁀✎

Once saving the many provided refs I began by creating character reference sheets. Due to the customer not being artistic they provided me with several other commissioned pieces of their characters. Not all…looked the same… so I created these sheets to compile the parts that fit the personalities portrayed. Then I checked in with the user to figure out which features looked most like what they imagined for the characters.

Then I continued with the base sketch of the pose. The original reference for the pose didn’t entirely fit the characters so I chose to tweak it. I think I like the way they interact on the piece. I even made them doing rock paper scissors if you pay close enough attention! Karma lost but well…Brimstone would get what was coming for it later lol.

After all that it was finally digital art time!!! So I put my color references sent to me before adding the anime ref and my character refs. On the iPad I started with adding the details of the characters and sketching the pieces in further.

When that looked good I shifted the background a little to see it all before doing the motorcycle. (This is the first one I’ve ever drawn too- I know it’s funky! Don’t look too close)

Once the sketch was confirmed I began lineart. The title was changed to say Brimstone in big and in Japanese it reads “Freak Karma” the user of the customer and their second character.

Following that was color blocking which absolutely murdered me! I simply started with a big blob and did Alpha lock. Then I continued to block out base colors. Probably the worst experience of my life…goodness..

After I did a big dark brown layer with the opacity lowered for the look of a darker environment. From there I lightly erased the spots for lighting.

Then it was additional coloring and shading to the color block layer followed by additional erasing on the shadow layer. Building it up until I was satisfied.

Finally I did two layers- a layer for specific color lighting such as the flames reflection and the color to their skulls and a layer for the black and white liner.

All that was left was adding noise, Bloom, and a little bit of halftones to achieve the desired look.

With everything done I added my signature into the mirror on the bike!

ALL THIS ON ONLY 4 LAYERS! Due to the sheer size of the canvas (6000 pixels by 5000 pixels (ish)) I was only able to have 4 MAX layers. So pain…

🪳✨ Time ✨🪳

//this is the longest I’ve ever spent on a piece btw! (These are timed and rounded down to the simplest form. So these are all slightly UNDER what I actually did.)

Ref sheets 🎨 45 min

Layout Sketch 🔆 24.3 min

Digital Sketch 🛏️ 1 hour 30 min

Lineart 🍿 8 hours

Color Blocking 🥲 23 hours

Lighting + Final touches 👍 1 hour 25 min

Total- WAY TO FREAKING LONG! This has 26,543 strokes on it!!!!

Anywho! I hope you enjoy the piece as I sure as heck have not due to my suffering and now lack of money that I now have to try and find elsewhere with bills gripping my now every thought.

If you’d like to commission me I’ll have to ask for a base payment upfront now due to this situation. I am unable to spend such time to provide my very best just to be left when I truly need the money.

Thank you for your time!

[saturnine-saturneight]

Here Comes the Sun

Being that I'm now on hiatus from posting Reburial to work on Act 2, it feels weird not to post anything on Sundays at all, so I'm going to try and keep up the posts with behind the scenes and other material that I already have lying around. Hope you all have fun it.

To kick that off, I thought I'd post the very first version of Chapter 5 :) I wrote this 8 years ago now, in 2016. This and the other short drabbles I wrote back then have been the basis for countless drafts and rewrites, but this chapter specifically is close to my heart because it was the very first one. A lot of it is very different, and some things stayed very much the same. I think it's a very fun comparison.

If you'd like to read this, I would suggest you read at least up to Chapter 5 first. Consider this heavy spoilers, it covers the same ground. All content warnings that apply to the most recent version of Reburial apply to this as well.

1.

You spot the first mushroom while washing yourself in the bathroom of a fast food chain—brightly colored plastic chairs, the queen's face plastered everywhere, glory to the Empire—and Ron dashes into the room so fast he almost slips on a puddle of cheap hand soap. 

He asks you why you screamed, your face in both of his hands; so you show him the memento you got from Cherie, a small, bright blue patch on your tan skin right where your first rib starts. The two of you more cling to each other than you hug, and then you both take antifungals at opposite sides of the grody bathroom and try to work out a plan of action.

“I didn’t think this would happen”, you say around the small white pill under your tongue. You want him close again, but you sit on your hands instead. “I never would’ve done this if I knew. You know that, right? That I didn’t know?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah”, he tells you and rubs his hand over his head, “calm the fuck down, I know you didn’t go spore fishing on purpose.” Then he stares at a suspicious puddle on the tiles between you. “Fuck, though." 

"Yeah”, you admit, “Fuck.”

2.

The next one pops up as you’re unloading boxes from a van you stole, trinkets and tidbits and two pounds of liquor, and when you heave the last box up the steps that lead to your customer's house and go to wipe the sweat from your forehead, there’s a bright blue patch on the back of your hand. You scream again until you cry, and don’t stop until Ron soothes you down from it (he never holds your face like that) and you can barely see him through all the tears. He tells you it’s going to be okay, but wears a mask around you from then on. 

He’s scared, you think, but you’re not sure if it’s for you or for himself.

At least it’s quiet for a while after that. The mushrooms don’t go away, but neither do your flowers, and you regularly make sure that they’re still there, push them upright, pick the dirt off them. You have to count your blessings after all.

3, 4, 5.

The third mushroom brings a friend, two cerulean blue fans that bloom up from your torso, right where your binder starts. They itch, but not as much as the fifth one that follows two nights later. It turns out that scratching them off doesn’t do anything.

Your best friend hasn’t touched you since you last shared a bed, almost two weeks that you’re really not trying to count—eleven nights, exactly eleven—when usually, you’re almost always in some kind of contact, feet in his lap or head on your shoulder or wrestling him in the dust. It’s good that he’s staying away. He split the antifungals up for you right before he split up the rest of your belongings, his side and yours, and that’s good too. You can’t actually see his face now, but the crease between his brows reads terror. That’s not so good.

6, 7, 8, 9—

After that, it all comes in waves. First more mushrooms, sprouting up in a big, technicolor patch right under your sternum, one all the way up your arm, a few single ones on your forehead and your cheek (Cherie’s still burns cold against yours), all as blue as the sky on the worst days. They leave your beautiful blossoms wilted and brown and you cry some more. Ron starts chewing his nails again.

Then comes the fever, bright and hot (like the sun? No, like a fire, or—like something that’s hot), and you’re almost grateful because it makes you forget yourself so much that you barely even notice that you can’t bind anymore.  

Next comes the thirst. You don’t have a metaphor for that one, all you know is that you could drink the sea if Ron let you. His face reads something milder now. Worry again, maybe. (He’s not giving up on you, is he?)

End.

What really knocks you out is the hunger, though; two, maybe three nights after the thirst sets in. Your legs go weak under you, your stomach is hollow, even the crusted up red you left in your wake before Ron made you trim your nails is starting to look appetizing, even if you’re vaguely aware of how disgusting that is. He feeds you jerky, beans, and canned fruit, but it’s just not enough.

There’s nothing on his face now, nothing in his body language. You know this boy like the back of your hand—bright blue patches not included—and you can read him like a book. He’s going to leave you. Of course he is, no normal person would ever love a zombie.

So the next time the moons go down, you don’t sleep. It’s not like you would want to miss a single ray of sun anyways, but this time, you won’t lie down in the grass.

He sleeps in the dark in your backup tent, curled around his dog, hood pulled over his eyes. There’s fine, brown fur all over his clothes when you come closer, and when you crouch over him you see that his hair has gotten way too long. 

You’ve barely reached out to brush your fingers through it when something stops you mid-motion—he’s awake. “Nat?” Then, again, “Natalie?!” It’s way too loud for such a beautiful day, such a bright day, such a—you find that your mouth works in vain when you want to express that, so instead, you growl. He calls for you again, turns his head towards your tent—he thinks he’s hallucinating, so, like the good friend that you are, you show him that he’s not.

You aimed for his throat, but caught an arm instead, you discover when your teeth hit his ulna with a satisfyingly wet crunch—or his radial bone? In any case, you get a mouthful of blood. You just want to bite down again to make short shrift of this one when you discover that he has a second arm, the faithless friend, the fucking traitor—the dart in your neck won’t budge. Fuck him for looking so clueless while carrying elephant-grade tranquilizer with him. Fuck him and fuck his crocodile tears. 

Your jaw goes slack almost instantly, but at least you get a second bite in. On a shoulder, you note, hazy but not unhappy, before the world tilts and you go down hard.

Hi Reburial taglist 👋

@tragedycoded @cowboybrunch @fairytaleinagem @marlowethelibrarian @gioiaalbanoart

@davycoquette @cometkov @writingrosesonneptune @innocentlymacabre @noblebs

[immeasurablesaladagere]

sorry to ask for more headcanons but could I have some of little house and his little gear (esp pacifiers) :3 maybe featuring kitty :3

- @tummy-rubs-for-wilson-pup

Yay little gear headcanons! They're so much fun :)

Lots 👏 of 👏 toy 👏 cars 👏. Pesters Wilson to buy one for him every single time they go to a store, even if he’s big at the time. Snack runs to the grocery store will almost always contain a bonus Hot Wheels.

Does children’s math exercise booklets for fun like a little dork.

Kitty is his best friend that goes with him everywhere when he's regressed, including in public, no matter what age he is. A woman gave him a weird look in a coffee shop for it once and he tripped her with his cane on her way out.

He's got a lot of random toys that are small and cheap from those toy gumboil machine things and like dollar store bags of plastic farm animals.

He's got one of those shelves with the drawers and they're just full of stuff. Broken crayons, loose markers, toys from sets that are so scattered they basically aren't sets anymore, lego, coins, rocks, etc. etc. The only thing that's organized about it is the very top drawer where his paci box is.

The paci box is made of wood and engraved! Wilson got it for him from an antique store.

I think House would have three pacis. One for day-to-day use, the second to have if the first one breaks or is being washed, and the third was an impulse buy from a custom store.

His first one ever was plain white because he wasn't quite sure about other options and he only got one. He was very upset when he bit through it out of stress and then didn't have one anymore, god bless Wilson.

After that he got a pair, a black one and a white one.

It's kind of funny because he subconsciously picks one or the other depending on how he's feeling (negative and positive respectively) and it's a tipoff on how much of a trouble-maker he plans on being that day.

He typically uses the white one if he's feeling younger or tired.

The third custom one is black and has an epic flame pattern like his cane.

Wilson made Kitty a little suit to wear. It's a little shabby but House doesn't seem to care and hasn't mentioned it once.

He doesn't like bottles much. He's okay with sippy cups and had a lot of fun finding custom designs he liked. When he agreed to getting them Wilson was expecting something like this but instead he got this and this. He also likes adult water bottles with the straw in them.

Actively turns down open cups that are handed to him.

Has a soft space-blanket that he only pulls out when regressed.

Likes those teethers that you can freeze or the rubber ones because they're tough and he can bite into them hard when he's in pain or stressed out and not break them.

[follow-up-news]

Chinese vendor Yin Xinwei sometimes makes close to $1,400 a day selling low-priced pill boxes, barbecue spits and other items to U.S. online consumers. The future of that business, and the bargain prices enjoyed by his American customers, is now in question amid a looming U.S. regulatory change aimed largely at two Chinese e-commerce platforms he sells on, Temu and Shein. The change, which comes amid rising trade tensions between the world’s two largest economies, is likely to have major consequences for already burdened Chinese sellers such as Yin who rely heavily on overseas markets. “The business model could disappear,” he said in a recent interview at his officein the southern Chinese city of Shenzhen. Both platforms have experienced explosive growth in recent years thanks to a customs exemption that allows packages whose contents are worth less than $800 to enter the United States almost tax-free and with minimal scrutiny. Each year hundreds of millions of packages, mostly from Chinese platforms, are sent directly to American consumers eager to take advantage of rock-bottom prices on clothing, electronics and other products. But this month, the White House said it planned to narrow the loophole, known as the “de minimis” exclusion, to prevent abuse and strengthen protections for American consumers and workers. That could mean painful times ahead for the Chinese sellers that supply the platforms — and higher prices for American consumers.

[digi-tama-in-your-pocket]

YES! My connection finally came! I finally get to run my very first Tamagotchi Connection! Yes...... that's right, the V1 I ordered finally came!

And also some other things....

I know I know.... I said no more v-pets till October aside from the connection remake, But, listen, to be fair, I ordered the connection V1/Plus and the Genjintch long before I said that and they only just got here. The V2 and the Teku Teku Angel were just really cheap. Also Tama lunch box and chop sticks to make shipping more worth it.

So the Connection remake is probably not going to be my first Tamagotchi Connection. I was excited to run it this month, but the fact that it's not going to be here until Monday has made me change my plans.

Here's what i'll do... I want to get a bit of an appreciation for how the connection evolved, so, I'm going to run the V1 until my first Tama dies. Then i'll run the V2 until the end of the month. Then, on the 1st of the month, I'll run the remakes. That should give me more appreciation for the Connection line, at least up to the V3. I'd like to try the others at some point, I just don't know if I should buy vintage ones, or wait and see if Bandai has plans to remake more than just the V3.

The one I got is in pretty good condition, there's some ghosting, but it's barely noticeable, unlike the vintage Gen 2 I bought some time ago where it's distracting. I can see how this started forming ideas of modern tamagotchi, right down to the sound effects being similar to what we've got on the Uni. But the V1 isn't that much different than a gen 1/2, in fact I find myself fighting my impulse to highlight the 2nd icon on the bottom row to look at stats, I'm so used to them putting the stats in an inconvenient place that it's become second nature to me with black and white Tamas, even though Digimon put stats first years ago.

Why Oyajitchi for the charm? Because it's the only device I have where Oyajitchi is raisable, since they cut him out of the english Gen1 in favor of Bill. I might replace it with a different character later if I find one that fits. Someday I'd like to get a Japanese Gen 1/2 just so I can have all the secret characters available, so this is definitely a temporary home for him.

In other v-pet news, I spent a good portion of the day organizing my Digimon and trying to arrange them in a way where I'd have more space, since my Digimon drawers are nearly full. I finally came up with the idea of all of my bricks being in the top drawer arranged in rows ( X3 appears to be missing only because i'm currently running it ) and the same with my Pendulums, there's just enough space for 3 rows of six, so once the 2nd wave of PenC gets here, i'll have two full rows with just enough space for my 20ths, and a few extra devices in case I feel like checking out some vintage releases some day. The bottom drawer will be reserved for my Vital bracelets, digivices, and other miscellaneous releases. Maybe they'll surprise us an make a legitimately new Digimon virtual pet some day. They're running out of things to remake.

I actually did have to take a few v-pets out and I decided to make a container dedicated to extra v-pets and v-pets I keep for spare parts and put it in storage, Because I stupidly bought a bunch of DM20ths and ran almost none of them, part of that was just so I could have all the exclusive eggs ( even though I don't care about any of them that much ) but the other part was for customization reasons. I kept my first DM20th, and my translucent green which I ran the most and completed the library in my drawer.

[anogete]

Book Binding Post

The video above is me walking you through the first bookbinding I did. Since a few people mentioned an interest in the initial cost of bookbinding fanfic, I made a list of what I used to start out. You can find most/all of these things on Amazon. If you'd rather not support Amazon, then Hollander's is a great place to find your necessities. You can also find most of this stuff at any local crafting store. As I am in the US, all prices are in USD.

Printer - It doesn't need to be fancy. Unless you're including fanart, a black-and-white one will do. I'm pretty sure you can get a basic printer for less than $100.

Microsoft Word - I wanted to use Macros built for Word, and those don't work with other text editors like Open Office or Google Docs. Macros are little programs that will do repetitive tasks to format the raw text so it can be converted into a book. If you don't have it, you can pay for a subscription for about $7 per month.

Paper - You could use cheap copy paper, but I bought 24 lb cotton linen paper. 500 sheets were about $25. You'll have 4 pages of your book printed on one sheet (two on the front, two on the back), so a 200,000-word fic that is nearly 500 pages will use about 125 sheets.

Bone Folder - This is just a tool used to neatly crease your signatures. Signatures are sets of 5-10 pages that fold into a booklet and then are sewn together. I was very weirded out by the idea of having an actual bone tool (vegetarian, here) so I found a folder that was plastic. You may have something suitable around your house that would serve this purpose if you don't want to buy one. You don't want to use anything that will scratch/tear your pages, though. Cost is about $5.

Awl and Punch Cradle - An awl is a bit like an ice pick. It is used to punch holes into the creases of your signatures so you can sew them together. These holes need to be evenly spaced, and I do 8 total along the spine. To make this easier for myself, I also bought a punch cradle. This is a little plastic tool your unfolded signature sits in while you lay a guide along the crease and punch through the guide with the awl. My punch cradle came with the awl, thread, and needle. All of it was about $25.

Waxed Linen Thread - If you can't find waxed, then you can get a small cube of beeswax and run your thread along it before you begin sewing. Cost is about $5.

Needle - I prefer a large curved metal needle. Sometimes these will come with a punch cradle or thread. If not, they are fairly inexpensive--maybe a dollar or two.

PVA Adhesive with Applicator - This is the glue you'll need to secure the spine and connect the text block (all the signatures sewn together) with the cover. You want to use something suitable for bookbinding that has a neutral pH. You should also get a brush or silicone applicator. Cost is about $15 for the glue and applicator.

Mull (bookbinding cloth) - This is like a rough cheesecloth used to repair and/or bind books. It's going to help reinforce your spine. A large sheet of this runs about $15 and will last you through many binds.

Headband/Endbands - While I have heard you can make your own, I just bought a box of them with assorted colors. It's fairly inexpensive at $10 and will last for a very long time. These are the little pieces of cloth at the top and bottom of the text block, visible only if you look down at the top of the book.

Cardstock/Endpapers - Endpapers are the thicker pages that connect the cover of the book to the text block. When you open a book, it's the first thing you see and is often decorative. Some bookbinders print their own custom ones using blank cardstock, but I bought an assorted pack of decorative pages for about $15. Each page is a 12-inch square and I used two to bind one book--one for the front and matching one for the back.

Chipboard - This is used for your case or cover. I found a pack of 24 sheets that are 12-inch squares and 2.54 mm thick for $25. One square worked to bind one book.

Book Cloth/Leather - This is what you glue to your chipboard to make the cover of the book. I used book cloth I found online. A 40" x 16" piece was $15 and should be enough to handle three to four books.

Exacto/OLFA Knife - This is a retractable and very sharp blade that will help you cut your endpapers, chipboard, and book cloth. Cost is about $5.

Ruler - You'll be doing quite a bit of measuring once you finish your signature block and begin the steps to connect it with the case. You'll also find it handy to use as a guide when cutting with your knife. Cost is pretty cheap--maybe a couple dollars.

I would consider the things listed above as necessities to make things look good and somewhat professional. You could certainly get by without a couple of them (bone folder, punch cradle, headbands), but it will make the process more difficult.

There are some additional things I bought that have helped me greatly. You don't need these things, but they will make your binding experience more pleasant and much easier.

Book Press - It's two pieces of wood that squish your text block (and eventually book) together during the process of binding. After you've folded your signatures, you're going to be using the book press to squish the signatures together after each step, and then leave it that way until you're ready to work on the book again. You could use two large books or boards lying around your home with some cheap clamps. That would work just as well. If you want a book press, they're about $40, but can go up higher.

Craft Mat - You can find self-healing ones online or in craft stores. This is just a large mat to work on. It will protect your table/floor from the blade you'll be using to cut materials. You could use scrap material you already have, but you want it to be sturdy; corrugated cardboard boxes aren't a good substitute because they are too squishy. Craft mats are about $10.

T Spacers and Corner Mitres - These are very helpful when making your case. They allow you to line up the front and back cover with the spine while leaving appropriate space for the hinge and also cut the corners of the book cloth so you can create clean edges when gluing the cloth to the board. I didn't buy these until after I bound my first book, and I regret not getting them immediately because my case would have looked so much better with them. You can get a set of various sizes for $20.

Cricut or Silhouette Machine - I don't have one of these, but I've been considering it. They can be quite expensive, but many bookbinders use them to create artwork for the covers and spine of their books. An alternative would be a laminated dust jacket or you could stencil/paint the title. These machines cost anywhere between $120 and $800. From my minimal research, I think you'd need to spend about $200-300 to get one that would do what you need for cover art purposes.

Subscriptions for Artwork - Many people use a Canva subscription for all design/artwork. If you want to do custom endpapers and a dust jacket, then this will come in handy. There is a free trial, but the monthly subscription will run you $15.

So, how much are we talking? Tools that you only have to buy once will cost you about $50 (bare minimum) to $120 (if you throw in the extras to make life easier). Of course, that doesn't include printer/ink and the Cricut. The materials will set you back about $125, but you'll get several books out of them. I could bind about 4 books without buying anything else. Then I'd need to spend about $60 on more supplies like paper, glue, and book cloth to make another 4. My best guess is that each book uses about $15-20 worth of supplies. So, if we aren't counting your time, it's about what you'd pay for a hardcover. But we're talking about fanfic that isn't commercially available, so we're gonna say $20 for a one-of-a-kind book that holds a story you love is priceless. Right?

If you want a tutorial to get started, then I highly recommend Haunna's tutorial on TikTok. It is easy to follow and what I used.

[devil-doll13]

Bark At The Moon.

(Prologue)

Cw: Swearing, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Weed and Alcohol

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Mid-way through their first tour of the US, the band find themselves stalled by a busted van. Unbeknownst to them, this would be the start of a catastrophic streak of misfortune.

I have been planning on Max’s backstory fic for a while and here it finally is! Or the beginning of it, at least. Hope you enjoy!

Dividers by silkholland

The sky is painted yellow, and a circling flock of birds is flying so close that he can hit them with his chubby fist. Tall white bars imprison him, but he is softly cushioned by sponge-like pillows. A fuzzy brown bear, lined with stitches, is his sole bedfellow.

“Hey, little man,” booms a tired, hearty voice. Above him, a friendly giant is looming over. His moony face is cracked and dimpled in a grin.

Max flails with joy. To his delight, the giant stretches out his massive hands and lifts him into his arms. He smells familiar… He smells of dirt and sweat and cement. He smells of cheap coffee and even cheaper hot dogs. Maybe that’s what love smells like.

Yes. Sense of smell is the first thing he remembers being aware of. The next is colour; the man’s eyes are cornflower blue, just like Max’s.

“Uhf. You’re getting heavier, kid,” he grunts.

“Daddy, when’s Max gonna be big enough to play with us?” Another, higher-pitched voice pipes up.

Standing in the doorway is a smaller version of the giant, his own blue eyes blown wide and curious.

“He’s just a baby, Roger. It’ll take a bit longer for him to start walking around.” He explains, patting Max’s back as he gently jostles him.

“Oh.” Roger blinks.

“Where do babies come from?” He asks.

The giant’s whisker twitches. Max swats at it.

“Dada!” He squeals, mimicking Roger.

Dad stares at him in shock. His eyes are twinkling. The boy’s mouth forms a circular ‘o’ shape.

“Mommy, Max said ‘Dada!’” He yells.

“Linda, Max is talking to me!” Dad shouts.

There’s a rush of footsteps and the other giant bursts in. Her hair is yellow just like the sky. Max babbles happily as a chorus of voices echo around him. Now he realises he can speak and hear, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.

It strikes him only several months after the fact that this was the first time he’d dreamt of his father; a man he’d only known through mangled second-hand stories and grainy photographs. Maybe it was an omen of some kind, because several months after the fact, Max would be dead.

But not yet. Just asleep. Or, well, he’s awake now.

“Max! Max!” A familiar voice is shouting for him. It’s drowning out his memory, smothering it in thick fog… What was… Who was that…?

But by the time he’s clambering out of the backseat of the Audi, he’s already forgotten. More pressing matters are at hand, like food and stretching; his body aches from the bumpy upholstery, probably only worsened by the fact that he was lying curled up around their merch box.

“What’s going on?” He calls out groggily.

Now the whole band is gathered in a sweaty quartet, with their bassist, Austin, at the outskirts, swatting at flies buzzing around in the Florida humidity. Then, Max notices his friend Dwayne standing with his hands on his hips by the roadside. He looks agitated.

“She’s making a fuss again,” Dwayne tells him.

And Max knows immediately that it’s their van: a black Ford Transit Custom with LOCKJAW splashed onto the side in big, bold letters. A sour, sulfuric stench is curling out of her painted bonnet. Equally as sour is the expression on their lead guitarist Jett’s twisted face. His ever-present red bandana is askew, and he’s pacing like a caged animal, the way he always does when something isn’t going their way.

“I swear to fuck, if this shitty rust bucket kicks it on us this close to Miami, I’m gonna riot,” he’s fuming. “I’m gonna riot, Max, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Jett, don’t blow your gasket just yet, ok?” Comes a softer and more reasonable voice. It’s Cyndi. Her curly brown hair is so permed up today that she looks rather like a fluffy cocker spaniel.

She casts Max a pleading glance.

“Ok. Let me take a look at her,” he says, and twitches his mouth in what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It’s not the first time he’s played handyman.

Max heaves up the van’s hood and immediately recoils away from the awful smell.

“Ugh,” Cyndi gags. “Smells like rotten eggs.”

“Or one of Austin’s socks,” Dwayne agrees.

“Hey!”

Max grins wryly. He leans over to inspect the damage further, but it’s as he suspected:

“Battery’s dead,” he reports, looking over his shoulder warily at Jett. “But, uh, don’t worry. This problem is definitely and easily fixable!”

Jett swears furiously under his breath.

“…How much will it cost us to get it replaced?” Cyndi asks, carefully eyeing their van.

“Well, I don’t have a replacement on hand, so whatever the nearest mechanic charges us.” He scratches his chin nervously, still glancing at Jett.

“Right. Alright. Cyndi, you’ll…” He straightens his crooked bandana. “Sort the funds out?”

“Yeah.”

Max shakes his head and slams the bonnet down, stifling the odour. The truth was, old girl was a retired workhorse pushed too far past her prime; there were only so many times he could smack her rear into action before she fell fatally ill.

But he understands Jett’s concern well enough. She was screaming out in agony under the weight of all their equipment, and probably the worst of it was Max’s drum kit. It wasn’t as if they could lug it around in their rusted up little Audi, though.

“Hey,” he starts. “We’ll take the car over to buy a new one. Maybe some brunch too, yeah? I saw a sign back there, it can’t be far from here.”

“I’ll stay and watch her,” Dwayne says blandly.

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Austin gives Dwayne a toothy grin. He seems to have forgiven the slight from earlier.

“Don’t worry, Big D. We’ll bring you back a big sandwich wrap or something,” he says.

“Yup. Thanks, Austin.”

Jett breathes out a puff of air. There’s still an angry blood vessel pulsating on his forehead, but it seems he’s no longer threatening to explode on them.

“Come on, let’s go,” he orders.

They all bustle into the Audi. Jett sits in the driver’s seat - It’s an unspoken rule that he always takes the wheel in situations like these - with Cyndi riding shotgun and Max once again stuffed into the backseat with the merch box and Austin. He stinks of sweat and weed, the same way Jett always has the thick aroma of hairspray clinging to him. But it’s a familiar stink, like the mucky fur of a childhood dog. Max beams at him.

“Hey, man. D’ya think we’ll get to sell more t-shirts in Miami?” Austin slurs out. He’s squinting at Max like he’s still drunk from last night.

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” he reaches into the box and pulls out a scratchy strip of fabric. Their lupine mascot snarls back at him, jagged maw open wide and dripping thickly with saliva.

“If we get there,” Jett mumbles.

“Dwayne did a bang-on job,” Max continues. “Hopefully the new album art can lure in some buyers too.”

“Yeah. Wolves are cool,” Austin says. “I wonder if he’ll do me a tat for free… Y'know, since we’re buds.”

Max feels old ink itch underneath his shirt, and instinctively airs out the collar. The rottweiler Dwayne did for his birthday hurt, but it turned out gorgeous.

“By the way… My socks don’t smell that bad, do they?” Austin gazes longingly at him. This must’ve been what he wanted to ask all along.

“Uh. Only sometimes,” Max says kindly.

They’re abruptly jostled by a bump in the road. Max presses his face against the window and sees a big red billboard with ‘Spoons’ plastered on it.

“Who the hell names a town after cutlery?” Cyndi wrinkles her nose; a habit Max has always found adorable. “Jett, pull in, I think I see a garage.”

Jett grunts and jerks their car over the sidewalk. Sure enough, there’s an auto repair shop squashed between a block of flats and a donut shop, labelled plainly as ‘Mandy’s Motors.’ Max feels Austin writhe beside him as he unbuckles his seatbelt, and shuffles out the cramped backseat with as much grace as he can manage. The shrill screech of metalwork assaults him the second he’s out, and he winces.

“I’ll go in. You guys clear off,” Jett says curtly.

Max figures he needs a little time away from the rest of the band; or maybe he just wants someone to yell at who won’t cause a fuss on the trip to Miami. Cyndi apparently senses this too, because she swiftly corrals Max and Austin away towards a nearby phone booth. The passing pedestrians are dressed as if they’ve never left the last decade - all headbands and bell-bottoms and florals - and they reel away from Max as if they’re nauseous; a reaction he has gotten quite used to over the years.

Austin pats his shoulder with urgency.

“Hey, man. Look.” He points to a bright, eye-catching diner on the outskirts of town. “Brunchtime.”

And that’s exactly what’s flashing them from across the road in large, curly font. Max glances over to Cyndi in a way he hopes doesn’t seem too desperate.

“You don’t have to look at me anytime you wanna spend money, you know,” she giggles. “Go on, boys. I’m hungry too.”

Max feels a sudden rush of affection for his girlfriend, and he slings an arm around her shoulder to kiss her temple, his nose twitching at the smell of her perfume. She quirks a smile and leans into his touch, not caring how Austin pitches a retch at the sight. The doorbell chimes as they step in, leather boots and high-top sneakers clacking on the shiny tile floor.

“Oh, wow. It smells just like my grandma’s angel cake in here.” Cyndi says, shrugging off a cuddly Max. They all slide neatly into an empty booth.

“I always thought angel cake stank like a wet dog.” Austin offers up unprompted, and Max can’t help but crack a silly grin.

“Austin!” She slaps his arm half-heartedly. “I’ll have you know, our late and great Ellen Richardson would’ve beaten you with a spoon for that!”

“I’d sit up on the countertop while she whipped up the batter…” Her eyes dim like they have shutters on. “Jesus, that was so long ago.”

Cyndi lays back in a daze, as if the memory had threaded a ghostly hand through her hair.

“Not that long ago,” Max comments.

“Well, ok, I guess not. But still, it tasted way better when I was nine,” she says breezily.

“Oh,” Austin smirks. “Y’know, I read in a magazine before that our senses of smell and our memories are like, super connected and stuff.”

“Uh-huh?” Cyndi humours him.

“Yeah. Yeah, so basically it has to do with the brain and… Like, the parts in it.” He fumbles slightly.

“What kinda magazine are you talking about, anyway?” Max asks him, curiosity piqued.

Austin brightens up again.

“Dude, it’s called ‘Strange US.’ I have a subscription, and it’s cheap, too! I’ll lend you a copy. There’s so much that the government is hiding from us, you don’t even know the half of it, man.”

“You mean UFOs? extraterrestrials?” Max quickly starts filling in the blanks.

“Max, don’t you start with the aliens!”

“But there’s gotta be something out there, Cyndi! I mean there’s nothing to disprove it, right?”

“Yeah, sure, but that doesn’t mean…”

Cyndi narrows her eyes dubiously.

“Where did you find out about this, Austin?”

“Guy about a year ago from our old campaign,” he scratches his nose. “Like, tabletop.”

Max nods eagerly. He remembers him, even more so since he was DMing at the time.

“Yeah. His name was Trey, right? He used to go on about how our system wasn’t like ‘real magic…’”

“There’s a whole bunch of these secret organisations, too,” Austin continues. “Working behind the scenes, y’know, making sure we don’t find out…” He waves his hands around, almost bowling over a nearby bottle of ketchup. “Like, men in black, in disguise.”

Max leans forward, lowering his voice:

“Austin, it’s totally a thing… There used to be this super tall bald dude that always hung around our local playground. He’d just sit and watch us.”

“Woah. For real?”

“I never found out what he wanted from us, though. He was creepy, but not in your usual way, more like in a… I don’t know, he was like a hall monitor. I could never make out his face, y’know?”

Then, Austin pales into a papery white.

“Oh. Max… There’s an entry in one of the issues…”

“It’s a load of bologna,” Cyndi interrupts. “Come on, you two don’t really accept this crap, do you?”

But their awkward faces seem to imply that they do.

“Unbelievable…”

“Have ya’ll decided what you want yet?”

Max turns to see a young, blonde-ish waitress who’s chewing bubblegum. He quickly fiddles with a menu, only realising now he’d been too distracted to look.

“Oh. How about… Um, eggs and bacon?”

Cyndi sheepishly blurts out a request for syrupy pancakes and Austin orders a cheeseburger. The waitress jots it all down with a smack of gum and roller-skates away. Max is rendered dully aware of children in other booths craning their heads to stare at their patched jackets and band shirts, tightly-laced parents urging them away with disgust. He guesses their small town world just isn’t ready for this much rock n’ roll yet.

“Hey,” he says, already feeling uncomfortable. “Keep it for me, will ya? I’m gonna go check on Jett.”

“Ok, Max. But don’t take too long.” Cyndi warns him.

The oppressive atmosphere lessens somewhat as he steps outside. Damn, at least city folk are better at hiding their contempt for you... It was a bit stuffy in there, too, all boxed in and clouded heavily with tobacco smoke. He wonders when they’ll ban it.

Max cuts past a throng of people and hurries over the road, hands stuffed casually in his jacket pockets. On an empty block near the outskirts of town, there’s a construction site. It’s developing a mould of apartments that are about half-way formed, manned by sweaty, red-faced workers chewing on sandwiches and leaning idly against the scaffolding. While passing by, Max catches a whiff of cement, and for some reason it smells painfully nostalgic.

Next

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @goldrose-star, @soupbabe, @bluecoolr-main, @flower-crowned-lady, @solmints-messyocdiary, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @probably-a-plant-thing, @myers-meadow)

[maryellencarter]

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who helped me out with August's rent, giving me time to work on this.

Short version: I need to raise several hundred dollars to store my belongings while I work on getting on disability, since I can't afford to keep my apartment any longer. My PayPal is ethanrabbits at gmail and my Ko-fi is here.

Any help is vastly appreciated, including signal boosting.

Longer version: I've come to the conclusion that I'm not... employable right now. I can't stand up or walk for more than five minutes at a time, I don't have the degrees or work experience to get into a sit-down white-collar job, and the only other option is -- well, going back to forty hours a week of being verbally abused by customers and wrung dry by whatever call center company owns my soul. Which I just can't face, it's putting me into a major depressive spiral every time I go through job listings. Five years of that on top of my PTSD from an abusive childhood already broke me.

So I'm pivoting to try to get on disability, get housing assistance, food stamps, that whole... thing. Trouble is, we all know the mills of government grind slowly. Too slowly. There are options where I might not wind up back on the streets, things like mental health facilities with caseworkers to help me navigate the system, but I definitely can't keep my apartment for however many more months that would take.

So I'm fundraising to keep my stuff safe. I already lost everything once, five years ago -- all my books, childhood keepsakes, thirty years of birthday cards. I can't face losing it again.

There's a nearby storage facility that has small units starting at $55-$60 USD a month. I'd like to aim for at least three months of coverage there. I also need to buy a bunch of boxes and mail some valuable / irreplaceable (and rather bulky) things to a friend cross-country for storage. I have no idea how much that'll cost but it probably won't be cheap. I'd like to aim to raise $300-$500 USD total.

Thank you all so much.