#Tape Pattern Rug

[prentissluvr]

motel room, 10:00 p.m. — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, injury mentions, feelings of guilt, pet names (honey), 545 words. requested ! for my 800 followers event [ open ] .

summary : sam feels guilty that he accidentally got you hurt during a hunt.

“it’s not your fault, sam,” you murmur softly. he’s kneeling at your feet, on the ugly patterned motel room rug, and carefully cleaning the gash on your stomach. it stings, and when he can afford to, he holds your hand tenderly. your other hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing when you need to.

your calves rest against the edge of the mattress, and sam’s face is guilty.

“it is, though, honey. and i know that. you know it, too,” he counters, voice revealing how upset he is. it was a choice he made that got you hurt.

“but it’s okay,” you press. “everything’s okay. i’m okay. it happens. we all get hurt sometimes and there’s no way for us to predict everything that will happen. neither of us knew what would happen. and it’s really not that bad.”

he looks up at you with a pained expression and sorry eyes. “i still don’t like it,” he shakes his head. “you still got hurt. that’s not nothing.”

you bring your hand from his shoulder and smooth it gently over the side of his head. “i know it’s not nothing,” you whisper. he feels the way you do when he gets hurt, even just a little, only worse because he’s blaming himself. “but it’s still okay. i know… i know you worry that something… worse might have happened, but it didn’t. i know you’re scared of getting me hurt, but we can’t focus on that, and you know it. we know what we’re doing, but accidents happen. and that’s okay.”

sam sighs heavily, hanging his head for a moment. he presses a light kiss to your left knee. “i know,” he breathes out, not quite wanting to let himself off the hook, but knowing that you dislike when he blames himself for anything. he places gauze over the cut, carefully securing it there with medical tape. his steady hands, gentle touch, and calloused fingertips are always a welcome, familiar sensation as they press into the skin of your torso. 

when he’s done, he doesn’t stand, but takes hold of your hand and places the other over your clothed knee. you don’t move either, just squeeze his hand and make no attempt to pull your shirt back on.

it’s ten p.m. and dark outside. the thick curtains are mostly closed, but leave a small open slit to reveal the night sky and dark parking lot outside. the moon was visible through that opening half an hour ago, but you two were still in the car then. you had watched it through the window, and it followed you to the motel.

“i’m okay,” you murmur again, always for his benefit. “i promise. c’mon.” you slip to the very edge of the bed and tug at his hand lightly.

he stands as you urge him to, keeping your hand in his and shifting the other to firmly hold your hip as a support while he brings you up to stand with him. sam looks at you with soft eyes that silently ask your intentions.

“you go shower and then help me get cleaned up without getting this wet, alright?” you gently instruct, voice hushed. sometimes sam needs quiet and gentle, and you’re the person that gives it to him.

[transform4u]

I’ve always been turned on by cringey str8 gamers. The cockiness, the cringe slang, the doucheiness of their personalities, it’s all so arousing. Think you could make me one of them?

When the unmarked box arrives, you eagerly tear away the wrapping with fervent anticipation. Inside, nestled among the crumpled packaging, is a game that screams ‘90s nostalgia: Maxed Out Mayhem. Your hands instinctively grip the box, feeling the grainy texture of the cardboard and the vibrant colors of the cover art. The sheer sight of it makes a thought burst into your brain with an unapologetic swagger: "Those games look sick, bro." The voice in your head is brash and direct, unmistakably crude, as if it’s been waiting to emerge.

With a determined nod, you slip the game into your Nintendo Switch, which is the only console you have at your disposal. As you power it up, the room is soon bathed in the glow from your TV. The screen flickers to life, its luminescence spreading across the room like a wave of technicolor energy.

Your space, initially a sanctuary of chic and contemporary elegance, begins to transform. The sleek, modern furnishings—bold patterns and luxurious fabrics—are slowly overtaken by the game’s garish, pixelated aesthetics. The gleaming hardwood floors and plush rugs seem to warp and ripple under the onslaught of the neon glow, while the curated art on the walls loses its refined edge, becoming mere backgrounds to the chaotic eruption of game graphics.

The sophisticated ambiance of your room twists and contorts into a mancave of gamer chaos. The walls, once adorned with carefully chosen art, are now plastered with the vibrant, pixelated avatars of the game. Duck-taped posters of scantily clad women and Marvel movies replace the art, and the once pristine furniture now appears to be riddled with a grungy, worn-out charm. The sleek, modern carpet is replaced by a tattered, greasy mess, and the contemporary desk transforms into a cluttered shrine of outdated gaming memorabilia and empty beer cans.

As you watch the transformation unfold, a smile spreads across your face. The 32-bit cartoonish images of typical bro characters leap onto the screen in a flash of vibrant, pixelated action. The game is a classic brawler, reminiscent of Street Fighter, with exaggerated moves and over-the-top animations that celebrate every cliché of the bro gamer persona.

As you delve deeper into Maxed Out Mayhem, it becomes glaringly obvious that the game is all about earning points by embodying the most degenerate, cringey behaviors imaginable. The screen flashes with outrageous animations as your character performs a series of acts that fit the game’s unapologetically sleazy theme.

Each time you hit on a virtual woman, the game rewards you with a barrage of neon-colored points. The animations are deliberately exaggerated: your character’s gestures are over-the-top, replete with smirks and winks that border on the offensive. The barely clothed women on screen react with exaggerated eye rolls and dismissive waves, the game’s point system cheerily tallying up your rewards as you make increasingly intrusive advances.

Grabbing these women, a mechanic that’s celebrated with even more garish animations, results in a jarring display of fireworks and blaring sound effects. The screen erupts in a cacophony of colors, and your point total climbs with each successful grab. Collecting items like Bibles and Mountain Dew is similarly rewarded with loud, flashy effects. Bibles glow with an obnoxious golden hue as your character snatches them, and Mountain Dew cans explode into a blinding green flash, further boosting your score.

The game’s combat sequences, where you face off against "woke hippies," are even more absurd. The hippies are depicted in cartoonish fashion, wearing tie-dye and sporting peace signs. "Get ready for a world of pain, faggots!", you shout to no one in particular.

As you continue to rack up points, you feel a peculiar shift in your own mindset. The game’s influence seeps into your consciousness, and you start to sense a dulling of your usual cognitive sharpness. Your jaw begins to slacken, and a fog of brash, simplified thinking starts to cloud your mind. Each new point seems to erode your previous sense of self, "Suck my virtual dick, losers!"

Your nightly routine morphs into a ritual of high-energy gaming sessions. You gravitate toward titles like Call of Duty, Fortnite, and Apex Legends, relishing the opportunity to flex your virtual muscles and indulge in reckless aggression. Your gameplay is marked by flashy moves and a lack of strategic depth, prioritizing style over substance. The rage that burns within you as you punch out the "woke hippies" on screen translates into a sense of satisfaction and validation, even as your personality increasingly mirrors the cringy, obnoxious gamer bro stereotype.

As you put on your gaming headset, you feel a rush of excitement course through your veins. you're now dropped into an urban environment filled with woke liberals and their allies. Your mission? To beat them up, hard.

You continue by punching some fags who are protesting against traditional values. Their weak attempts at blocking your blows only serve to make you angrier as they crumple under the force of your fists. You move on to bashing feminists who dare challenge masculinity; their screams echo in your ears as they fall unconscious at your feet.

Your muscles tense up from all the action; adrenaline pumping through every fiber of your being. You see a group of SJWs marching towards you, holding signs about "equality" and "diversity." With one swift kick, you send them flying backwards into each other like dominoes falling over one another.

Your body undergoes a dramatic transformation that mirrors the intensity of your gaming experience. At first, your usual nerdy physique feels tight and tense, the strain of gripping the controller making every muscle in your body hum with anticipation. The gaming session soon shifts from a mere pastime to a full-body experience.

With every punch, kick, and combo executed on-screen, you start to feel a noticeable change. The tension in your arms builds, radiating from the controller as if it’s imbuing your very muscles with energy. Your once-slight biceps begin to swell, growing into impressive, bulging forms. The transformation isn't sudden but a gradual, throbbing shift that feels almost like a workout in itself.

“Hey, look at you now, bro! I didn’t think you had it in you to actually get some gains. You’re looking swole, but can you handle the heat?”

As you progress through the game, your shoulders broaden, taking on a commanding presence. The tight, sinewy muscles ripple under your skin, sculpting your torso into a powerful, rock-hard six-pack that seems chiseled from stone. Each movement of your character in the game feels like it’s translating directly into your own body. Your chest expands, growing into a perfectly defined, muscular V-shape that exudes strength and discipline.

“Nice moves, champ! But don’t get too comfortable. I see that six-pack of yours—think it’s enough to handle my skills? Better not let it go to your head dummy!”

"Prepare to be pwned, bitches!" you scream back at them on your headset.

Your once angular, nerdy features sharpen into a strong, square jawline and high cheekbones. A rugged, effortlessly cool look settles on you, complemented by a smirk that hints at your amusement with this transformation. Your eyes grow sharper and more intense, mirroring the sharp, digital action on the screen. The stubble on your face becomes more defined, adding a brooding charm that fits seamlessly with your new physique.

You look down at yourself, seeing your reflection in the TV screen, your body clad in form-fitting, sleeveless gym shirts and workout shorts that accentuate every muscle. The logos on your clothes—branded with high-end athletic and gaming gear—radiate a gym-fueled confidence. Your scent, a potent mix of expensive cologne and the lingering musk of a recent workout, mingles with a hint of sweat, amplifying your dedication to both gaming and fitness.

As the match heats up, your obnoxious personality shines through, matched by your newly sculpted physique. You relish in taunting both opponents and teammates, your voice loud and dripping with superiority:

“Listen up, you pathetic losers! Look at that scoreboard—yeah, it’s me crushing you while you’re all stuck in your little woke bubble, crying about the ‘system.’ I’m out here showing what real skill looks like while you guys keep floundering like amateurs. Quit whining faggots and get used to getting wrecked. If you can’t handle the heat, maybe you should quit and let real gamers take over.You bunch of keyboard warriors. You’re all just a bunch of clowns in my game!”

Your dick starts to harden beneath your pants. You can't help but imagine yourself as the character on screen, beating up all these woke liberals and fucking their women. It's a rush like no other.

You reach the final level - a blonde bitch who thinks she's better than everyone else because of her gender or whatever nonsense she believes in. She taunts you as you approach her, but that only makes you more determined to show her who's boss.

You jump into action, punching and kicking with reckless abandon until she falls to her knees begging for mercy. But there will be no mercy today; instead, you rip off her clothes revealing soft curves underneath before roughly pushing her against a nearby wall and entering her from behind without any foreplay or care for pleasure or comfort on either side.

[intergalacticfop]

Minoan Kilt

The large, structural skirt worn by Minoan women in art is instantly recognizable, and when I made my own I combined current best guesses with my own personal tastes.

My kilt shape follows the hypothesis laid out by Bernice Jones in her book Ariadne's Threads: The Construction and Significance of Clothes in the Aegean Bronze Age. She describes the shape of that of a labrys, a double-headed axe with apparent ceremonial significance in Ancient Minoan culture. This garment may be depicted in Linear-B logogram *166 + we, we-being the backwards-s-shaped squiggle in the center which identifies the piece as a garment.

See pages 336 and 341 in Marie-Louise B. Nosch, The Textile Logograms in the Linear B Tablets

Actual details on construction and materials below the cut:

Construction:

The top and bottom edges of the kilt are concave, so the sides are longer than the middle. This gives the chevron-shape seen on layered kilts in art. In addition, the curved top half makes the skirt flare out, accommodating the hips and giving more freedom of movement to the legs. My kilt measured from my waist to my anklebone at the longest point, and about 1.5 times around my waist.

I chose to make a flounced kilt, with smaller strips of fabric and trim applied to a large base piece, rather than a tiered kilt, in which multiple kilt shapes of varying length are layered one on top of the other, so you end up wrangling 3 layers of fabric around the waist. The flounced kilt saves fabric and gives you a lot more freedom with whatever trim you might want. Jones' diagram for a flounced kilt is seen below:

Unlike the version in the diagram above, I chose not to attach ties to the garment itself both because the linen I used was very heavy and I was concerned about weight, and also because folding the skirt and securing it with a separate tie worked just fine for my tastes. In total I had four flounces: 2 alternating rows each of fabric and fringe.

The vertical edges of most kilts are left plain, probably representing either the selvage or an edge otherwise finished off to prevent fraying. For my kilt, however, I ended up with a couple inches of self-fringe on either side as I adjusted the fabric to the correct width. At least three examples of kilts with fringed vertical edges are known, all three from the so-called "House of the Ladies" in Akrotiri

Photos from Wikimedia Commons. Image 1. Image 2.

The vertical edges of these kilts are reinforced with a colored band or tape, probably to keep the garment from unintentional further fraying. Accordingly, I did the same on my kilt. I also like that it gave a nice vertical diagonal to counterbalance the horizontal ones.

Materials

I tried to use mainly linen and wool, the fibers most available on Ancient Crete, but some of my trim was cotton because sometimes you just have to use what's cheap and available in the today times.

The base of my kilt is a heavy, patterned linen in what's called a diaper weave, meaning that a repeating diamond pattern is woven into the pattern itself. A lot of the Minoan textiles depicted in frescoes are characterized by repeating geometric patterns, likely woven into the fabric itself, and that was something I wanted to capture in my own piece. My linen is woven with both cream and natural colored threads. The heavy weight is important to give structure to the garment--otherwise it would be kind of limp. My linen was from Burnley & Trowbridge (shameless plug), as was the plain cotton twill tape I used to bind the top and bottom edges of the kilt, and the dark red wool twill tape I used along the vertical edges.

I bought my cotton fringe from a rug supply store. I had to search a while to find a fringe that would work for me, and I ultimately chose fringes with a woven header rather than the more common knotted one, so that it would lay flat against the kilt. I hid the woven header under a layer of cotton fringed trim from Michaels (yes, Michaels) with this really great diamond and dots pattern woven in black.

The blue layers are from a bolt of vintage wool Kimono fabric. Blue appears frequently in frescoes, likely achieved with indigo or woad dye, or even murex/mollusk dye. The fabric is printed with an imitation ikat pattern of diamonds and squares that made me think "the vibes seem right!" because quite frankly, you aren't going to get "historically accurate" Minoan textiles (which there probably isn't enough archaeological evidence to definitively describe) without, like, hand-weaving it yourself or paying someone hundreds of dollars to do it for you (and that price is if the weaver really likes you). Neither of which appealed to my desire to just make a fun, low stress project. Good enough is good enough.

The narrow trim on the bottom of the blue flounces is vintage cotton/poly woven trim. This trim, while narrow, was quite thick and stiff, which was great because it added more weight and structure to the end of my flounces since the wool fabric itself was quite thin.

The top layer is a custom tablet-woven wool trim that I commissioned from MAHTAVAhandicraft on Etsy. I imagined this as the "centerpiece" of my kilt, and I'd arrange everything to complement it.

It's a kivrim pattern, which has itself only been traced to 19th-century Anatolia, but I didn't care. The way it looks like waves reminded me of how central the sea was to life in the Ancient Aegean and Mediterranean and it captured the idea and aesthetic I was pursuing. I mean, doesn't it remind you of these dolphins?

(I like the dolphins)

The whole thing was machine sewn with the exception of hemming and adding trim to the blue flounces. If you were to look at it from the back, you'd see lots of zigzag stitches, because i wanted to be fast! and have fun! not chase some unreachable ideal of "accurate."

As for wearing it, I chose to wear it with the top part folded/rolled down over a belt, so I have a thick tube of fabric around my waist. Many images, like the frescoes above of women with fringed kilts, appear to just show the kilt being tied closed. Other images are so fragmented or stylized that it's unclear what kind of skirt closure was used. Sculptures and figurines definitely show some kind of SOMETHING around the waist, whether this is folded fabric or a kind of belt is unclear. Different art could show different things!

I think I see evidence of a continuous line from the skirt to the waist-roll on the figure on the left, found in Troas, which I think indicates some kind of skirt-folding situation. The woman on the right, found in Crete, looks more like she's wearing some kind of long coiled belt, or perhaps snakes. Who knows? I don't! For my own part, I found the combination of rolled waist + tie belt the most secure for doing things like kneeling, stomping around, and wading into rivers to rescue bees. I also liked that it gave me the bulk around the hips that gives Minoan figurines such a powerful silhouette, and proportionally gives more of an hourglass shape. If you wanted to do something more firmly grounded in the sources, stick just with the waist tie or belt, wrapped around a couple times and tied in back. If you want to be like me, just say "well we don't KNOW it didn't happen" and just do whatever you want. Have fun! Whatever happens, it should be fairly easy to move around in the kilt--this is not a restrictive garment, just a heavy one.

[goosefruit]

underneath the christmas tree

vanessa shelly x fem!reader

tw: smut, sub!reader, praise kink, vanessa eats it from the back, fingering, sex toy/vibrator use

a/n: im sorry if this is ass ive had terrible writer's block for like the past two weeks help

Pressing down on the last piece of tape, you let out a little ‘aha!’ as you adjusted the material around your body. You took a long look in the mirror, admiring the result of your work.

Nothing except two pieces of wrapping paper covered your top and bottom halves, patterns of snowflakes on a red background. Of course, you made sure to cut away enough paper to show off your cleavage. A dainty pink bow was glued on the makeshift ‘bra’ to top it all off. 

Everything was held together messily by cheap tape, but that didn’t really matter; the outfit was made to be torn apart anyways. 

You looked like a real present. 

For the past forty-five minutes, you had been working on this bizarre scheme that you had thought to be so hilarious. Vanessa was taking one of her hour-long showers, giving you a perfect period of time to take advantage of. 

You heard the shower turn off and quickly rushed to take your place beneath the Christmas tree. 

Though there were still a couple of days to go until Christmas Day, presents were already stacked in neat piles around the base of the tree. At least a quarter of them were from Vanessa to you, who loved to spoil you with her cop money. 

Vanessa stepped out of the washroom in her bathrobe, damp hair draped across her shoulders.

“Woah! Did Santa come early this year?” A playful grin took over her face as she caught sight of you on your knees under the tree. 

“This exactly what you wished for?” You asked her sweetly, feigning innocence despite being half-naked. 

“Mhm,” she leaned down to kiss you. Fresh out of the shower, you could smell a combination of her shampoo, body wash, and lotion. You moaned softly against her lips and pulled her down so that she was on the ground with you. 

Her hands began to wander on your body, nails lightly scratching your bare back. With that, you felt her tongue enter your mouth, and you knew that she was getting impatient for more. 

“Unwrap me,” your voice was barely a whisper. 

In one effortless motion, Vanessa ripped your top in half, letting it fall to the floor. She did not waste a second before cupping your breasts in her hands, squeezing and massaging them. You sucked on the tip of her tongue to let her know how much you were enjoying it. 

Without breaking the kiss, she scooped you up in her arms and carried you to the rug in front of the fireplace. Here, you didn’t have to worry about knocking anything over. 

Her mouth eventually found itself on your breast, licking a stripe up your cleavage. Squeals and whines spewed out of you as she sucked hickeys into your soft skin. 

“So pretty, my love,” Her breath tickled against your collarbone. “Such perfect tits, and you wrapped them up so well for me.”

Fuck, her praises made you so wet. 

“You sound so adorable too. All I want to do is make you whine and moan all day, touching those beautiful tits however you want me to. Think you can be louder for me?”

You nodded swiftly, meeting her lustful eyes.

“Good girl.”

An embarrassingly loud moan slipped out between your lips. 

“Now, let’s see what else we got here.” She slipped her fingers under the remaining wrapping paper and pulled it off your hips, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it god knows where.

Your pussy practically gleamed in the light, folds slick with arousal. You couldn’t help but thrust your hips up in a desperate need for any kind of friction. 

Vanessa gasped with mock-astonishment. “How did you know that this was at the top of my wishlist?” 

You gave her a light slap on the arm for her sarcasm. 

Now, you were in a position where you laid on your back with her on top of you. Her fingers brushed over the top of your pussy. Your sore, needy pussy. 

“I can’t believe this pretty cunt is all mine. Did me playing with your tits get you this wet?” Her hands wrapped around the back of your calves and placed your legs over her shoulders. You shivered as her damp hair stuck to your sensitive inner thighs. 

“Vanessa, touch me please,” you needed to feel her tongue before you passed out from arousal.

“Oh look sweetie, your pussy’s getting wetter, all for me! It’s practically gushing out of you, my needy girl,” she pressed kisses down your thighs, neglecting the part where you needed her most. “I wanna get a taste of that sweet nectar.”

“Just p-please, I need you. Please, please, please, Vanessa.” 

“However, I do have a better idea. On all fours for me, sweetheart.”

You groaned at your pleasure being delayed for even a second longer, but obliged as you had no other choice. Vanessa went behind you, firmly gripping both of your thighs. “What a perfect view,” she sighed lovingly. Before you had time to process, she buried her face in your soaked heat, nails digging into your skin. She pulled you closer to her by the legs, and you yelped as you felt her tongue on your clit after that agonizing wait. 

“Y-yes baby! Fuck— just like that.” You screamed at the top of your lungs. If losing your voice was what it took for her to keep going, you were gladly ready to make the sacrifice.

Vanessa slipped two fingers inside of you, then adding a third when she decided that you were turned on enough to easily take all three. She curled them rhythmically, alternating with strokes of her tongue against your throbbing clit. It was almost embarrassing how fast your orgasm was building up, but every move your girlfriend made brought you closer to the inevitable.

“Just like that, feels so good. God it feels so good, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You wailed, squeezing your eyes shut. You prayed with all your might that Vanessa was feeling generous enough to let you cum straight away tonight. 

“What a good girl. You taste amazing, I can’t get enough.” She grabbed at your ass, leaving a red imprint. “Cum when you’re ready, m’kay my dear? ‘M not going to be mean tonight, you’ve been such a good girl.”

The “thank you” that you meant to say was lost amongst a long string of moans and profanities as you finally reached your climax. Thrusting your core onto her tongue, arousal gushed out into her mouth and all over her fingers. You didn’t know how long it was until your legs stopped shaking.

“You did such a good job. I’m so proud of you,” Vanessa scooped you up in her arms and held you against her chest, which was rising up and down quickly as she, too, tried to catch her breath.

After a brief moment, she set you down to grab something from the tree.

“Since I got to open an early present today, I thought it would only be fair for you to open one of your own too.” 

She handed you a box, wrapped with blue paper and white ribbon. 

You almost choked when you saw what was inside.

A light pink G-spot vibrator——it seemed rather expensive too, with various different settings built in. 

Vanessa helped you take it out of its packaging, knowing your hands were still shaky from your orgasm. As you examined the toy, she untied her robe and threw it aside, leaving you with a breathtaking view of her naked body. 

“Allow me to give you a demo.”

Taking the toy, she pressed herself against you irresistibly. Her nipples were hard and erect, toned abs flexing as she rolled her hips onto you. The stickiness on her lips tasted of your pleasure.

She lined the silicone up with your entrance, pushing half of it in before turning on the vibrations. You moaned as it found your sweet spot, throwing your head back in ecstasy. 

“Feels good, hmm?” Vanessa hummed, slowly rocking the toy up and down inside of you. “Got some pretty friggin’ great reviews online. Maybe you could leave your own after.” 

Her ability to talk so casually while fucking you never failed to turn you on. Your stomach flipped nonstop, a knot tightening in your core. 

She turned the vibrator up a setting and positioned the handle along her slit.

The noises she let out as she ground her clit against the silicone were sinful, moans and whimpers laced with pure lust. She kept a hand on the toy, now drawing small circles on your g-spot. 

“You gonna cum, baby? Is my princess gonna cum?” Her breathing was harsh and ragged as she began to seek her own high. 

“Ye— turn it up another s-setting, please!” 

She did what you asked, and was rewarded by a huge spurt of squirt splattering all over her thighs. You cried out her name hoarsely as you came, limbs spasming like crazy. 

“You’re so fucking hot, good fucking girl. Squirting all over me like that, gonna make me cum, holy shit.” 

Another roll of her hips, and Vanessa finished with a silent scream. 

It was a rare sight, seeing her lose control like that—back arching, eyebrows knitted, eyes rolling back, and mouth wide open. You loved it.

When she was stable enough to stand, she got up to retrieve her bathrobe and covered the two of you with it. The fireplace softly crackled in the background, radiating heat. 

You laid with your eyes closed as she spooned you from behind, feeling so warm, so loved, and so very grateful.

[vincentbriggs]

questions about your green cotton braided rug project: can you elaborate on what you mean by double folding the cotton strips?

i adore the look of your rug. do you think an amateur (i.e. myself) could create something similar with a sewing machine? i can certainly poke around the internet for patterns/instructions, but im not sure how to judge the difficulty level of your project

Thank you! If you've seen double folded bias tape, the strips are folded just like that. I'm pressing it in half, and then tucking the two edges in, so I've got a tube with the raw edges inside that's 1/4 the width of the strips I tore. I'm also tearing the yardage first and then sewing the strips together by machine, before I fold them.

Yeah, I think you could use a machine, at least for the tubes! A little topstitch along the edges would hold them together, or perhaps a tiny zigzag riiiight along the edge would be more inconspicuous. A zig zag that catches the two folded edges on one side and then doesn't on the other size. Definitely do samples first. Always do samples! I can't test that idea because my machine doesn't do zig zag.

You'll probably still need to whipstitch the braids together from the underside, but that part is much faster than sewing the tubes. And be sure to iron it after adding every round, so the ends don't get dished!

[irish-dress-history]

Making late Medieval Fringe

Fringe was an important part of 16th and 17th century Irish fashion. In this post, I will discuss the historical evidence for its use and my attempt to reconstruct it.

Fringe shows up on Irish garments in several period works of art.

1680 Portrait of Sir Neil O'Neill by John Michael Wright and the 'Civill' Irish Woman from John Speed's 1611 map of Ireland, both shown wearing a fringed brat (Irish mantle).

Detail from 'Drawn after the Quicke', an anonymous 16th c. English print showing Irish men wearing ionair (Irish short coats) embellished with fringe.

Historical Research:

The Irish use of fringe is mentioned by several period writers. In 1548, Paolo Giovio stated that most Irish men wore, "a soldier’s woollen cloak, with a fringed and variegated edge for elegance" (translation from Harris 2007). Similarly, William Good said Irish men and women wore "mantles or shag-rugs [. . .] fring'd round the edges with divers well mixt colours" (1586/1695). 17th century writers Luke Gernon (1620) and John Lynch (1661/1850) both described how the Irish continued to wear fringed mantles in spite of British colonial laws banning them. Gernon stated that the Irish mantle (ie brat) "differs nothing from a long cloke, but in the fringe at the upper end, which in could weather they [the Irish] weare over their heades for warmth," suggesting that this use of fringe was such an important part of Irish fashion that it was a marker of cultural identity.

This fringe appears to have been a separate trim, typically made of wool or silk, that was added to the garments. This is suggested by John Speed's description of Irish mantles as being "purfled with a deepe Fringe of divers colours" (1611). Applied fringe trim can be seen on the brat in Sir Neil O'Neill's portrait. In his poem "A Vision", 16th c. Irish poet Tadhg Dall Ó hUiginn describes a fairy woman wearing, "A purple mantle with satin fringes" (1550-1591/1921). Fringes made of silk and wool are found among recorded imports to Ireland in the late 16th c. (Flavin 2011).

Despite all this period evidence, I sadly do not know of any extant examples of Irish fringe from this period. Since at least some of the fringe used in Ireland was imported, I decided to look at examples from other parts of Europe to determine how Irish fringe might have been made. Looking at 15th-17th c. examples in the V&A, I saw 2 common manufacturing methods: warp-faced plain weave and tablet weave.

I decided to go with tablet weave for this project, because tablet woven bands have been found at earlier Medieval sites in Ireland (Wincott Heckett 2002). Following the historical costuming advice of The Welsh Viking that simple things less likely to be wrong, I used this simple late-15th c. fringe from Sweden as the basis for my pattern. Simple tablet-woven fringes continued to be used into the late 17th or early 18th century.

I used wool yarn for this project, because I wanted something that could have plausibly been made in Ireland and afforded by Irish commoners, instead of a luxury import like silk. Wool also seemed like the best fit for John Lynch's characterization of the fringe on a brat as a practical feature which protected the wearer's neck from the rain (1661/1850). I chose blue based on a combination of the availability of woad in 16th c. Ireland (Flavin 2011), the noted fondness of the Irish for bright colors (McClintock 1943), and personal preference.

My reconstruction:

I used Garnhuset wool weaving yarn I purchased from Vävstuga Weaving School in size 20/2 for the warp and 28/2 for the weft. (Check out this video, if you need an explanation of how tablet weaving works.) I made a box loom out of a cardboard box, although I suspect that any loom type that works for tablet weaving would also work for this.

Also used bamboo chopsticks, tape to cover the rough edges of the cardboard, and a shoelace. Not pretty or historically accurate, but cheap and easy to make.

My tablet weaving pattern uses 6 cards. Cards 1,3,5 are Z threaded. Cards 2,4,6 are S threaded. All 6 cards are turned in the same direction until too much twist is built up on the warp to continue, all 6 cards are then turned in the opposite direction until too much twist is build up to continue. Reverse direction and repeat until you run out of warp.

For the weft, I used 5 strands the of 28/2 yarn run together as if they were a single weft thread. I placed a rectangle of sturdy cardboard against the left side of the warp and looped the weft around it as I wove. I neglected to get a good picture of this on my actual loom, so here is a picture of my test piece setup.

The relevant part here is the light blue and purple threads. Ignore the shuttle of black thread.

As I advanced the warp, I slid the cardboard rectangle forward to continue weaving. After I took the completed fringe off the loom, I took a pair of scissors and cut the bottoms of the weft loops.

If you try this, I strongly recommend covering the long edges of your cardboard rectangle with tape. This will both protect your warp from being chewed up the cardboard and make the cardboard more slippery and easier to to slide forward. Also, make sure you are beating the shed well and pulling your weft tight. Once you cut the loops, the tightness of your weave is the only thing keeping your fringe from pulling out.

Results:

I whipstitched the completed fringe to the edge of my brat. I am extremely happy with how this turned out. I had never done tablet weaving with wool before, so I had no idea what to expect.

This method creates a thick, fluffy fringe which I think does a nice job recreating the look of "Drawn after the Quicke". You do lose quite a bit of length though. The wool yarn is kind of stretchy, and tablet weave is kind of stretchy (similarly to a twill-weave fabric). Between the ends of the warp lost to setting up the loom, and the stretchiness of the finished product, 11 ft (335 cm) of measured warp gave me 92 in (234 cm) of completed fringe. Oh, well. At least my loom can easily accommodate a longer warp, and this piece only used 20% of my 2 skeins of yarn.

I did also make a test piece out of DMC Pearl cotton. The warp is size 8 embroidery thread, and the weft is size 25 embroidery floss with all 6 strands used together. It is slightly easier to work with than the wool, (wool warps do have an annoying tendency to stick to each other), but I don't like the way it looks as much.

Wool fringe above, cotton below. Ignore the purple fringe. It has an extra weft thread that is not part of the fringe, which is why it looks more gappy than the light blue.

The cotton tends to stay in its discrete clumps rather than feathering out to form a nice fluffy, connected whole like the wool does.

I then went to the Ren Fair and located an appropriate sword.

(Yes, that's an English kirtle and smock. I haven't finished making my other Irish garments yet.) Me carrying a sword a la Albrecht Dürer's kern.

I really should have made this fringe longer. It's only 1 in (2.5 cm) long. Looking at the scale of Speed's "Civill" woman, I would estimate that hers is closer to 2 inches long. I may add a longer second layer. John Lynch does say that the brat has a doubled layer of fringe in the neck area (1661/1850). Adding a second color to the weft would probably better match William Good's description of "divers well mixt colours" and Paolo Giovio's "variegated," but I like the way the solid blue looks.

As a bonus, I will say that the wool fringe feels softer and nicer than the cheap coating wool I used to make my brat. I suspect that may be part of the reason the 16th-17th c. Irish were so fond of having thick fringes in the neck area, to protect the skin of their necks from the irritation of a brat made of coarse wool. The léine would have protected most of their body, but it largely left the neck bare.

Irish woman wearing a brat with a deep fringe by Wenceslaus Hollar published 1643

Want to give me a tip? Ko-fi page

Bibliography:

Flavin, Susan (2011). Consumption and Material Culture in Sixteenth-Century Ireland. [Doctoral thesis]. University of Bristol.

Gernon, Luke (1620). A Discourse of Ireland. https://celt.ucc.ie/published/E620001/

Good, William (1695). The Ancient and Modern Customs of the Irish. In W. Camden (ed) Camden's Britannia newly translated into English, with large additions and improvements; publish'd by Edmund Gibson (p. 1042-1048) (Edmund Gibson, Trans.). Edmund Gibson. (Original work published 1586) http://name.umdl.umich.edu/B18452.0001.001

Harris, Jason (2007). Ireland in Europe: Paolo Giovio's "Descriptio" (1548). Irish Historical Studies, 35(139), 265-288.

Lynch, John. (1850). Cambrensis Eversus (Matthew Kelly, Trans.). Dublin: The Celtic society. (Original work published 1660) https://archive.org/details/cambrensisevers04kellgoog/page/200/mode/2up

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

Ó hUiginn, Tadhg Dall (1921). The bardic poems of Tadhg Dall Ó Huiginn (1550–1591) (Eleanor Knott, Trans.). (Original work published 1550-1591) https://celt.ucc.ie/published/T402563/index.html

Speed, John (1611). The Theatre of the Empire of Great Britaine: presenting an exact geography of the kingdomes of England, Scotland, Ireland, and the iles adioyning. William Hall, London.

Wincott Heckett, Elizabeth (2002). Irish Viking Age silks and their place in Hiberno-Norse Society. Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings, 427. https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/tsaconf/427

[shizucheese]

So full disclosure, I actually listened to episode 7 on Saturday, but this episode had so damn much to it and I got a bit side tracked by a theory that I'm still working on but I really want to get this out before episode 8 comes out.

As usual, if you want to see the continuously updated and reblogged version of my red string board, you can find it here.

Today is Tuesday, 2/27/24. Episode 7 came out 5 days ago on 2/22/24.

“Talkers”

Norris (Voice: Martin?/ Alex)

Episode 1: “Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]”. The Stranger? The End? The Dark? The Lonely? The Flesh? Arthur (Nolan?).

Episode 3: "Infection (full body" -/- Arboreal [Journal entry]". The Spiral? (Paranoia? Auditory, visual and olfactory hallucinations) The Lonely? The Corruption. The Flesh? (Callbacks to the Flesh Garden from S5)

Common Themes: Hearing the voice of a dead/ missing loved one?

Chester (Voice: John?/ Jonny)

Episode 1: “Transformation (eyes) -/- Tresspass [chat log]”. Magnus Institute, The Eye. (Involves a forum; the Web?).

Episode 5: "Disappearance (undetermined) -/- Invitation [Internet blog]". The Eye (Movies. Movie name: "Voyeur" "Must be seen to be believed"...). The Web? (Another website?). (Very reminiscent of Mag 110: Creature Feature.) The "poor old guy" at the theater is totally an Eye avatar, right? Kinda gives me "Simon Fairchild when he was first introduced" vibes.

Episode 7: "Agglomeration (miscellany) -/- congregation [email]". The Stranger. The Burried. The Desolation. Possibly all of them if my theory about the items the Volunteers brought in is correct...

Unsure if this is Eye related like the other statements were. This is also the first "Chester" statement where the source material wasn't from a website or blog, which don't have the same expectation of privacy that the sources of the other statements do. Email, though, so still internet related, and this seems to be an open letter rather than personal correspondence, so it still might align with the theme.

Agustus: (rare?)

Episode 4: “Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]” The End. The Lonely? The Slaughter.

Letter writer thinks passing on his violin might allow a part of himself to live on in his nephew. Very Jonah Magnus of him.

Music teacher hears “faraway music”, then goes crazy and throws himself out of the carriage and dies. Reminiscent of Mag7 and the Piper? The merchant’s wares include dice (Mag 29?). Got the violin from him (took his blood?). Effect of the violin reminiscent to Grifter’s Bone (Mag 42).

(Oliver Bardwell lol very funny guys)

Non-Talkers (?)

Episode 2: "Transformation (full) -/- dysmorphic [video call]". The Spiral? The Flesh. The Stranger. Ink 5oul (avatar/ entity?)

Episode 6: "Injury (needles) -/- intimidation [999 call] "Corruption? The Spiral? The Flesh? The End?

"Needles" reminds me of Michael!Distortion.

Notes and Thoughts:

"It's not like we're dealing with Tape Recorders..." I'm side eying you real hard, Celia. And what's with all of the questions? The "looking for patterns" question is 100% fair but those examples are AWEFULLY SPECIFIC. I wasn't entirely sure I bought the idea that Celia was the same Celia from TMA, but no this is totally her for sure. "DO YOU KNOW WHO JOHN" IS EXCUSE ME? WHAT REAL STUFF?

HILLTOP CENTER BRANCH?!!! 0 managerial or other support from HR; very reminiscent of the weird circumstances surrounding the house on Hilltop Road. Bear skin rug very reminiscent of the Gorilla Skin in TMA S3. The Volunteers remind me of the medical students from Mag34. The email is about events from 2015. This was the same year Gertrude died and John became the Head Archivist in TMA. Why am I not seeing anyone else talk about this?

I have a theory that I was originally going to put in this post but detangling that giant ball of red string entirely is taking too long so I'm just going to put the TL'DR here and maybe make a proper list later if I can ever finish pulling the string on that particular red sweater. Between the items the Volunteers bring in, and the events of the incident itself, what if every single Entity is represented? The gunshots that were heard were the Slaughter. The fire was the Desolation. The person who wrote the email being crushed by all of the items was the Buried. There are a number of artifacts that get listed off that could represent at least one if not multiple Entities (which might be their purpose; considering how many times the fact that the categorization was imperfect got brought up in TMA, it's probably more helpful to view them as a spectrum more than anything else), including some that are very reminiscent of things from specific TMA statements (The bear skin rug -> The Gorilla skin, Old medical equipment -> the syringe in mag 45? The telescope -> Maxwell Rayner was originally Edmond Halley, the Astronomer, etc. etc). So...okay, hear me out: what if this was all part of a ritual, and that's what the "good cause" was? A ritual that involved all of the fears being represented? Sound familiar? Except instead of it being a ritual to start an apocalypse or reshape the world in the image of one or more of the fears, what if it was a ritual to summon something that was associated with all of the fears? Or, rather, what if it was a ritual to summon someone who had been touched by all of the fears? And that's also why so many of the items seem to be analogous to things from statements and events from TMA? Like....maybe I'm wrong entirely. Or maybe I'm right about this being about summoning someone, or something, (maybe someone from TMA? Maybe Celia?), but wrong about it being John who was being summoned. But, again, this incident took place in 2015, which was the same year Gertrude died and John became head Archivist, and I feel like this means something.

[narrans]

My Borrowed Son | 9 | ABCs and Wearable Things

Chapter Nine | ABCs and Wearable Things

If Amanda was being honest, this wasn’t the craziest thing she had done. Threading a needle to make her adopted two-inch tall child clothes definitely wasn’t the craziest thing she had done. She bit her lower lip in concentration as the thread slipped through the needle’s eye.

Amanda thought gluing the fabric might be easier, but her trials proved less fruitful than she wanted. The edges tore away too easily and absorbed into the fabric if she didn’t coat a certain amount; and at that point, she might as well glue the whole thing together. So, Amanda thought – knew – he was worth it. He couldn’t wear togas forever.

After hours of scouring the internet, Amanda could find nothing easily accessible too buy to clothe parker. She had found someone on Etsy who would custom make doll clothes for any size, but even he was surprised when Amanda asked for a one inch shirt and one inch pants.

In all reality, this was easier than trying to explain to a stranger the dimensions she needed for Parker’s clothes. Hours of work produced a dozen shirts and about the same amount of pants which Amanda had stitched together.

She found folding the cloth and cutting the pattern was the easiest. Making things a little bigger not only helped make the clothes, but it also made Parker look that much cuter. It also gave her safety pin harness more room when he wanted to explore.

Ever since the park incident, Amanda tried keeping Parker safety pinned when he was just out and about without her watching. It wasn’t all of the time. It was just when they went outside or if Amanda had to step away from the couch or the kitchen counter. He was becoming more adventurous by the day, and Amanda already had a few close calls with him nearly falling off of extremely tall heights that might injure him.

It felt like those parents who put the monkey backpack leash on their kids, which made Amanda feel absolutely sick, but she had few other choices if she wanted to step away and not leave him in his box or unsupervised.

She didn’t use it frequently, but she did use it for safety when she couldn’t always have her eyes on her adopted son. After all, what kind of life would it be if he had to stay in his box for the rest of his life.

His box, at least, was something Amanda was quite proud of now.

Parker’s room, as Amanda was now referring it, had push lights Parker could control as well as a proper bed, comforter, and pillow Amanda sewed. No more washcloth beds for the tiny boy. There was even an old matchbox she used as a bedframe, and she started folding paper clips to hold his clothes up on the string she put in there.

Parker had a bell to signal when he wanted something until Amanda installed a baby monitor so she could hear him. Amanda was enjoying setting up Parker’s room. She even gave him a chance to pick out his own “trim,” which was just colorful duct tape, and the colors of his walls, which he wanted to be a light blue with cloud themed tape.

It was precious and reminded Amanda of Andy’s room from Toy Story. A few toys and even a soft crochet blanket and rug later made Parker’s room actually feel like the room of a little boy.

Seven months and he finally had a proper room.

Seven months and he finally had a relatively decent wardrobe with a change of clothes.

Amanda let her hands rest in her lap as she glanced over into Parker’s box. He was playing with some miniature Tinker Toys Amanda had found online, and he was loving them. Amanda chuckled as she watched him play, amused by his nearly imperceptible babblings.

Had time really gone so fast?

She gazed down at him and noticed how long his hair had gotten and how he seemed just a little bit taller when he stood. His mind absorbed all of the information she gave him, and still he wanted more, which she happily provided.

He was growing up so fast, and everything felt normal. Despite their differences in size, Amanda felt as though there were no true difference between her and Parker. Seven months had taught her that much.

Amanda decided, after another twenty or so minutes, that she should get lunch started. Rather than just pick up Parker in his room and bring him with her, she decided to ask and offer him a choice. He was old enough to make choices after all.

“Parker? I’m sorry to interrupt but are you ready for lunch?” asked Amanda. Parker turned his soft brown eyes toward Amanda and nodded eagerly, the Tinker Toys in his hands as he continued to put the pieces together.

“Yes, momma,” he said as he finished fitting the pieces together and then standing up expectantly, raising his hands for her to pick him up. “Up?” It made Amanda’s heart melt.

“You want to come with me?” she asked. Parker nodded and grabbed with his fingers. “Use your words.”

“Could… yes momma. Could I go… um… go with you to… um… make lunch?” Parker’s adorable little “ums” as he pieces the words together quickly into fully coherent sentences was absolutely astounding. He was learning so fast every single day. She wanted to pat herself on the back for guiding him to use manners and proper words, but that wasn’t what parenting was about.

It was about teaching Parker to be a polite young man. He was her son after all.

“Yes, you may,” said Amanda as she lowered her hand into his room and he stepped on, grabbing one of his toys before he did. The two of them went to the kitchen where Amanda placed Parker on the counter next to the bread box. He knew where he was and was not supposed to go, but Amanda insisted on strapping the safety pin harness to the back of his shirt and pants

“Mom? Momma? Why… why do I need to wear this?” asked Parker. It was a question he had asked a million times as Amanda finished attaching the safety pin.

“Remember Parker?” asked Amanda. “It’s for safety. The countertop is very high, and if you fell you would get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt.” It wasn’t the first time Amanda needed to explain this to Parker. He knew the reason. Still, he always seemed a little anxious when Amanda attached him to the line.

“Oh, okay!” Parker said as he sat down and began singing the alphabet song while Amanda crunched up some chips and made them both sandwiches. He was on his third time through when his little voice piped up. “Momma? Could… um… could we pway the afabet game?”

The alphabet game was something Amanda had seen online for young children. It was when you asked what sounds the letters made or what letter made what sound. The game also proposed, for advanced children, what words had the letter in them.

It wasn’t something that Amanda didn’t think a young child would be particularly interested in, and she only started integrating it to educate Parker; however, the more he learned and the more she read to him, the more he wanted to play the game.

The question made her heart swell with pride.

“Of course, Parker. Are you ready?” asked Amanda.

“Yes, momma,” said Parker. He placed his toy on the ground and looked up at her eagerly.

“Okay, what letter makes the ‘mmm’ sound?” Amanda asked.

“M!” replied the small child without hesitation.

“Good job! What about the ‘p’ sound?” asked Amanda, making it sound like a little puff of air.

“P!”

“Good job, Parker. You’re so smart.”

The two of them continued all the way through the alphabet, pausing only when Parker had trouble with some of the letters that had the same sounding letters like “i” and “e” and “c/k”. Amanda rewarded Parker with a little piece of chocolate and a promise they would continue the game once Parker finished his food and washed his hands.

True to her word, they continued playing when Parker finished his meal and insisted on washing his hands immediately. He asked when they could read and when they could play Sneak and Peak again, to which Amanda promised they would while she did some chores around the house.

At one point, Amanda began asking how to spell different words. They were simple, like door and cat, but he was sharp enough to sound out the letters. They sat and colored and drew out the letters for hours until dinner. It took everything in Amanda to tell him they needed to get ready for bed at the end of the night.

It almost resorted in tears, but Amanda reasoned with Parker that they could keep playing during bathtime and until they fell asleep, to which the toddler agreed.

Never before did Amanda know a toddler who was so adamant about playing learning games. He was hungry for knowledge, and Amanda would not deny him.

As Amanda laid down and drifted off to sleep with Parker learning how to spell “bed,” she knew what she wanted to get him. He needed some little books and pencils to write with as well as some workbooks. It would take some ingenuity, but ideas were forming in Amanda’s head.

She also needed some ideas for his birthday; or, rather, the day she found him. In the blink of an eye, she knew it would be upon her. The mother’s last thought before she drifted off to sleep was how time was moving way too fast and that, very soon, Parker would be five. When was his birthday? And had it really almost been a year?

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

[copperbadge]

[ID: Three images; top left, the entryway to my kitchen, with half-scraped tape on the floor, a paint scraper nearby, and lots of dirt. Polk supervised me but I didn't get to take a picture of her doing it, so top right is an old picture of her in her Supervising Spot, next to her favorite sign that reads CHICKEN WAFFLES. Bottom, the kitchen welcome mat, an orange and black patterned mat, is back in place where the half-scraped tape was previously.]

Today is a good object lesson in why NaClYoHo uses media as timer!

I made a list of things I wanted to do this morning; I save big/gross jobs for the weekend, so today's list was to clean under the kitchen "welcome mat", scrub the kitchen floor, go through the house spackling small holes (picture hanging mistakes, etc), and dust the various blinds in anticipation of (possibly) pulling them up and hanging curtains in their place at a later date.

What I got done: cleaning under the welcome mat.

When I installed my rugs I put down double-sided tape, which proved to be a mistake; it's super difficult to get the tape up once it's down. But once you've pulled a rug off it, it becomes an immediate filth trap, so I had to do it. I sprayed with dilute vinegar, then goo gone, then an initial scrape before pulling the goo gone up with Grease Lightning, then repeat...

The real problem was that it's uncomfortable to kneel on the floor even with a pad, but if I crouch or bend, when I straighten I get a head rush so bad I almost pass out (thanks Adderall). I legit stood up twice and then immediately sat down in case I lost consciousness. So it took me an hour and a half to scrape and clean an area roughly a meter square. I got through an entire hour-long episode of The Worst Idea Of All Time and almost all 24 minutes of The Allusionist episode on Complex PTSD.

Now, if I had spent this whole time going "Oh shit, I've got so much else on the list to do today!" I would have freaked out at both how long it was taking and how much effort it was. But I knew that once I crossed that "the podcast has ended" line, that was all the work I had to do today. The rest of it can be moved to another day. So I did an hour and a half of fairly intensive physical cleaning, and now I'm done until tomorrow. (Even if I did also steam-mop the kitchen, since I had the steamer out anyway, and then took out the kitty litter trash on my way out the door.)

Anyway, the area under the mat is now clean, free of any possible weevils, and lightly sprayed with Super 77 art adhesive to keep the rug in place, and hopefully that will at least be less of an issue to pull up in the future. We'll probably find out when I, like a fool returning to his folly, attempt this again next year.

Disposable nitrile gloves used total: brought it up to four today! (I used three -- one on each hand, and tore the one on my right hand so had to replace it.)

Trips to the hardware store: Holding steady at 2. I will need to make my first run to the Container Store soon however, I think.

[khronysus]

Spiralling Hallway

Item #: SCP-11120

Object Class: Thaumiel(1) Keter

Special Containment Procedures: All methods of communication are to be monitored for any reports of SCP-11120 and related entities. Posts online related to SCP-11120 are to be taken down immediately. Reports to ███ ██████ ██████ describing interactions with SCP-11120 or related entities are to be sent immediately to Site-14 for filing.

If SCP-11120-01 manifests in a Foundation site or area, one (1) class D is to be sent to explore it as soon as possible. The class D will be given the most updated map of SCP-11120 and one (1) handheld ██████ brand magnetic tape recorder.

All instances of SCP-11120-01 outside of Foundation sites are to be monitored for victims, but otherwise left alone and ignored. Survivors of SCP-11120 are to be monitored closely and ██████████.

Description: SCP-11120 is a dimension consisting solely of a recursive hallway. The area is illuminated by electric sconces spread at 10ft (3m) intervals. The walls are covered in a colour-shifting wallpaper with a swirling pattern that seems to create fractals. Its flooring consists of faded carpeting with a thick rug that runs down the middle. The walls, carpet, and rug also change colours. It is impossible to tell what any of their original colours were as all reports vary upon arrival and throughout expeditions. Despite this, it is impossible to record when or how their colours change, as subjects are unable to focus on or notice them changing. Attempts to bring visual recording devices into SCP-11120 have been unsuccessful.

On the walls between every sconce is a framed object. Each frame measures approximately 2ft x 4ft (61cm x 122cm). The object within these frames is one of the following: (1) an illusory oil painting of the wall opposite it, giving a mirror-like effect; (2) a photograph with the same effect; (3) a real mirror, which reflects anything situated before it in the hall and the wall opposite. It is impossible to remove the frames from the walls. Attempts to break the mirrors only result in the surface fracturing.

SCP-11120 can only be accessed through instances of SCP-11120-01, a wooden door that is painted dark yellow with a black handle. Its dimensions, material, and style can vary, often blending in with its environment. SCP-11120-01 can appear on any flat surface, both vertical and horizontal. It can also manifest as a freestanding door at any elevation. The handle of the door will always be to the viewer’s right and open inwards. This includes free standing doors that can be viewed from both sides. Viewers on the opposite side of the door do not see any indication of someone opening the door on the other side and maintain the ability to open the door as well. Participants entering on opposite sides of the door will appear in separate places. It is unknown whether both people are in the same version of SCP-11120 or not.

Addendum ██/██/2012: Following Incident #14-011████ reports from ███ ██████ ██████ have described a humanoid entity resembling Dr. █████ inside SCP-11120. This entity has been tentatively marked SCP-11120-02. Further research to come.

(1) See Proposal [REDACTED] by Dr. Shelley. Denied. A pu eoe qdci gzvsidn cmqjzss txv. - O5-11

[sadhours]

neon lights pt. 5 | b.h & reader

18+ minors dni | prev. chapter

warnings: adult themes, gambling, smut, group sex, degradation kink, slapping, unprotected sex

Matted, sticky patterned carpet under Billy’s feet, the stale cigarette smoke flooding his nose and the triumphant rings of the slots is what home is starting to feel like. It’s shameful, sure but every goddamn other soul in this place feels the same way he does and that’s enough to sweep the guilt under the rug. There’s a song playing, he thinks it might Genesis but it’s muffled by the clicking of buttons, voices murmuring and the shrill tones from the slot machines. He chews on his bottom lip, fingers inching into his left breast pocket so he can light up a Marlboro Red while he anticipates his next move; where will he start first? Sometimes, Billy needs to warm up, sit at the bar and play a couple or ten hands of video poker, deuces wild is his favorite. Other times, he’s straight for the tables. Not as often, he parks his ass at a slot machine. He doesn’t like doing the slots as much because he can get stuck there for hours and that’s dangerous. The cocktail waitresses are oh so sweet and with his mind preoccupied with the flash of colors and the numbers rising or falling, he loses track of just how many times he’s asked for a beer and when he goes to stand finally, he’ll realize he’s absolutely shitfaced and a hundred bucks poorer. He can’t do slots tonight. At least not yet.

This morning, you’d taken the money Chip so graciously gave to you and paid rent, without accepting Billy’s half. So this is just extra money as far as he’s concerned and what better to do with it than bring it to Bally’s and see what he can make of it. Many things, definitely. A whopping $220 burning a hole in his pocket. He could get a haircut, he could buy some new clothes— boots; his boots are fucked and the duct tape isn’t going to hold them together much longer. They’re wildly uncomfortable but Billy’s gotten good at making do with what he has. See, the problem is he’s got this nagging voice in back of his head that tells him he could double or hell, maybe even triple the money. He rarely does, but the voice doesn’t remind him of that.

Billy takes his place at the bar closest to the doors, nods to the bartender he’s gotten to know pretty well and slides a twenty into the machine. He maneuvers the buttons until he’s pulled up Deuces Wild and he’s betting a dollar. If he completely fucks it, that’ll give him twenty hands but that’s unlikely. And that’s why he likes to start with this game. The bartender places the Budweiser and an ashtray in front of him.

“Good day at work?” she grins, Billy doesn’t show up to Bally’s unless he’s got money. When he’s broke, he takes his happy ass to the Coin Castle.

“It’s my day off,” he smirks, sliding a dollar for her tip before reaching for the bottle of beer.

She giggles, flipping her blonde hair back as she grabs the bill, “Lucky you.”

“Let’s hope so,” he mumbles, his fingers pressing against the buttons with ease, holding a queen, a jack and a king, all of the same suit. His heart beats a little faster and the rushing feeling in his stomach picks up. Billy loves that feeling more than anything. It’s better than listening to a great guitar riff. It’s superior to blowing his load. There’s nothing like it.

A ten of clubs and a four of hearts. Fuck. With the flick of his finger, he’s dealt a new hand, the loss forgotten in an instant.

“Ya know…” the bartender hasn’t moved away, she’s twirling her hair between her fingers as she continues, “I’m off in an hour. A couple of us girls are going to go dancing. Maybe you’d like to come.”

You come to Billy’s mind in an instant, he’s got to pick you up from the club at 2 but he does consider it. You were pretty adamant about this not being an exclusive thing. It’s only dancing. Billy likes to dance when he’s drunk enough. It’s not probable that he’ll be drunk in an hour. Plus, he’s just got here.

“Well, sweetheart, come find me in an hour and if I’m not winning, I’ll join ya,” he smiles at her, flicking his ash into the tray before glancing back down to the game. He deals himself another hand and he’s got two deuces wild and a queen of hearts to hold. He’s got a three of a kind guaranteed but the possibilities are endless. He nudges his thumb against the button and is pleased to see a Royal Flush with deuces.

He grins and the bartender sighs, “Looks like we’ll be dancing without you.”

Billy shakes his head but the euphoria spreading through him hopes this doesn’t jinx him, “You know how these things go.”

“Shh,” she winks at him as she saunters over to the other gentleman at the bar.

His next hand is a bust but Billy expects it. He pushes for several hands and then it crawls up slowly, hand after hand he's getting straights and flushes. He gets four deuces after his third beer and he cashes out, tipping the blonde bartender more than he should before he decides to grab himself some chips. Roulette’s been calling his name since he got here.

There’s two tables to choose from. A sad looking one with a couple of dudes, chain smoking while looking glum and another one, with older dudes in suits who have gorgeous girls in tight dresses hanging onto their sides. If Billy went to that table, he’d be the most attractive guy there but the girls wouldn’t flock to him unless he started winning. Then again, he ain’t betting like these nice suit, ugly dudes. Sad table it is.

Billy sits down, grabs a stack of chips and starts slow, bets on black and smiles brightly at the dealer. First round, he wins and because he can’t help himself, he bets more on black. Again, the little ball lands on black and weirdly enough, on the number Billy was debating on picking. Which has his gears turning, he’s gotta bet more, slides a stack of chips over to the first number that calls his name. He doesn’t even get the color right and he grumbles, reaching for his Marlboros. He checks his watch and that’s a bad sign. He orders a shot of Black Velvet and another beer from the cocktail waitress. If he’s gonna dance, he’s gotta be drunk.

Billy’s only lost about a hundred bucks when the blonde pokes his side. He turns to see her and five other girls, bouncing on their toes as they look to him.

“What’s the verdict?” she says and Billy has to look at her name tag, burn her name in his memory. Cynthia.

“Looks like I’m a dancing fool tonight, darling,” he smiles at her but it doesn’t reach his eyes. If they hadn’t come to look for him he would’ve blew through the other five twenty dollar bills in his pocket.

She does a giddy dance and then her face falls, “I mean… I’m sorry you’re losing, but I’m happy you’re coming with us.”

“You and I, both,” he chides, sliding his last chip for the dealer and following the gaggle of girls upstairs. He waits outside of their locker room, smoking down a cigarette while he downs his last beer. The girls are quick, they come out dressed in skimpy outfits that reveal so much, Billy can’t help his eyes scanning between them. He has the crude thought that he could be the pretty, pleased focal point of a fivesome but he tries not to revel in the thought. He can’t jinx himself two times tonight. He pictures your face for a split second but pushes it away quickly. He’ll be there to pick you up at 2, he can’t be held responsible for what happens in between.

“I feel like Hugh Hefner,” he smiles wide, wrapping his arms around however many girls he can manage as they walk down the hall. The comment is met with a commotion of giggles and Billy thinks he could write a fucking letter to playboy if this night goes right.

-

The club is packed. It’s a Friday night so it’s no shock. Eyes turn as Billy walks in with five girls on his arms. The best part is he doesn’t need to pay them. He knows that it would cost him an arm and a leg if he did. Michael Jackson is playing loud, the bass rattles Billy’s chest as he herds the women to the bar. He orders them shots of tequila and whiskey for himself. Cynthia rubs her nose against the base of his neck, rubbing his exposed chest as she whispers a thank you. The six of them cheers before downing the shots and before they disperse, Billy orders a second round. He’s not drunk enough to dance but he’s close.

Once that warm buzzing flows through his veins, he has no complaints being dragged through the crowd. He’s got one girl in front of him, another behind him and the other three in his view. They all grind together. Billy thinks of you again. He thinks of the hundreds of men who would pay for this and how all he has to do is smile pretty at the right girl for this all to happen. He’s got four hours until he needs to pick you up. That’s plenty of time.

Cynthia pulls his face close and whispers in his ear, “If you’re up for it, we’d like to show you a good time tonight.”

Billy’s not one to turn down fun. He’s fueled by promises of fun. He wouldn’t live his life any other way. Being serviced by five women at the same time might be intimidating to most men but not him. Looks like he might be penning that letter to playboy after all.

An hour goes by and then he’s being dragged out the door. His nerves are numb, the alcohol makes him brazen enough to make out with three of the girls at once in the backseat. He can’t be sure whose hands are whose. They’re all over him and the two girls in the front complain they don’t get to touch him. His dicks been excruciatingly hard since he climbed into the backseat. It’s all filth in his mind. Selfishness. Billy’s not worried about performance anxiety. His libido is wildly high. It has been since he first figured out how to jack off. There were days spent where he’d wear himself out. Addiction is a factor maybe. Billy’s not familiar with moderation, if something makes him feel good he indulges until he physically can’t anymore.

They arrive at one of the girls places. It’s a big house, out in the suburbs in a gated place. Billy’s sure whoever lives here is a sugar baby. They’ve all told him their names and he repeats them in his head, trying to picture their faces as recites them internally.

Cynthia: blonde, blue eyes, huge tits. Teresa: brunette, Asian, pretty smile. Julia: brunette, Bambi brown eyes and small chest. Jenna: blonde, bigger tits than Cynthia and a mole on the left side of her upper lip. Raquel: red hair, freckles all over and a big ass.

Billy’s got this. He can handle this. They’re all fucking stunning. Those no way in hell he can’t keep his dick hard. The gaggle of women lead him into a master bedroom. Teresa and Julia run downstairs and return with a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of champagne. Raquel disappears to find cassettes, Billy figures this must be her place but he can’t be sure. When the redhead returns, she’s putting the Warrant album Cherry Pie and your face floods Billy’s mind. He grabs the handle of whiskey and drinks from it in guzzles until he’s being pushed back on the king sized bed. Cynthia is unzipping his boots, tossing them aside and pulls his socks down. She kisses along his bare feet and in most circumstances, Billy wouldn’t be aroused but now, his dick twitches in his pants.

“Condoms?” he chokes out, the worry settling in his chest abruptly. Jenna smiles, biting her lip as she undoes the buttons of Billy’s shirt. Raquel opens the nightstand drawer and grabs a box of Magnums. She dumps it out on his stomach, settling beside his head as she rubs her hands up his chest.

Cynthia licks around his big toe and he lets out a giggle, jerking his foot away from her face. They all giggle but Teresa’s undoing his belt and licking along the corded muscles of his stomach. Billy feels on top of the world. These girls can’t keep their hands off of him. He wonders for a second if his dad would be proud but shoves the thought aside when he realizes his dad might be jealous, wouldn’t admit how cool this is and instead tell Billy how void of morals he is. Any goddamn man would be proud, but more than anything, jealous. Julia’s flicking her tongue against his left nipple and Jenna swallows his moan down, shoving her tongue in his mouth. If Billy had to pick which girls he’s most attracted to, it’d be Raquel. She’s the shyest. They all work at Bally’s but she’s the one who averts eye contact the most. Billy had fantasized about her before. He smoothes his hand down Raquel’s back and squeezes her ass.

The girls collectively undress him before they undress themselves and Billy’s not sure where to look. His eyes dart amongst them, his erection against his stomach is aching and red. He can feel himself leaking. Raquel is kissing against his cheek while Teresa and Jenna simultaneously lick his cock, Cynthia is still focused on his feet and ankles which tickles but he’s distracted enough for it to feel good. There’s so many hands on his body. It’s all so wonderful. Billy turns to capture Raquel’s lips in his own, reaching between her legs to drag his fingers through her folds. She’s soaking wet and it makes him groan into the kiss.

He mumbles against the redheads lips, “Lemme taste your pussy.”

She gives a squeal before she’s straddling his face. He wraps his hand around her thighs, squeezing as he pulls her heat to his lips. She tastes good. Billy loves the taste of pussy. Every girl is distinctly different but there’s a similarity amongst them. Something that gets his body going. He thrusts his hips up at it, the two women below chasing it. He closes his eyes, he’s got to focus on not busting his load too quickly. There’s two tongues dragging against his cock and another pair licking at his balls. The man’s in heaven. Raquel grabs onto his curls, making a slew of whimpers and mewls. He has to open his eyes to look at her. Her face is totally fucked out, her tits bouncing as she rides his face. He growls against her and she looks down, lips parted obscenely as she cries out.

“I’m gonna cum already,” she complains with a whine which has Billy lapping at her cunt that more excitedly.

“No fair,” he hears a voice below.

Raquel comes against his face with a scream, writhing against him before pulling off him as she tries to catch her breath. It’s like a queue after that, each girl straddling his face one after the other to cum. He’s impressed that he’s able to hold off himself while he gets all five girls off with tongue, one right after the other.

Raquel hasn’t had enough, she’s grabbing a condom and ripping the packaging open before slipping it over his aching cock. She slips him inside her with ease and then Jenna’s grabbing a hold of Raquel’s hips, guiding her movements as she licks at the redheads tits. Cynthia and Julia are lapping against each of his nipples and it’s not something Billy had ever considered arousing but fuck does it feel good. Four beautiful faces looking at him and then he feels a tongue against his balls again. Teresa must be down there, she’s the only one not accounted for.

“Let me try,” Jenna begs, eyes flicking up to Raquel’s face. The redhead pouts but pulls off of Billy’s cock and drags the condom off of his length with her nimble fingers. Jenna supplies another, sinking down on Billy’s cock with such ease it makes him grunt. It’s all overwhelming and Billy’s on the fast track to busting, it’s too much at once and Jenna bounces on his cock maybe five times and he’s unloading into the condom, a cry leaving his lips as he thrusts up into it. He knows himself well. He can come one more time before he’s toast and an inkling inside of him wants to save it up for you.

Then Billy’s imagining you in a similar situation. Not you as one of the five girls pleasing him but the opposite. He pictures you with five dudes and within a split second, he’s dick is soft. He feels incredibly embarrassed as it happens but he sits up pushing the girls away from him. He’s… he’s jealous, images of you with five cocks that aren’t his podding and poking you and he’s angry. He gasps, catching his breath while five pairs of doe eyes look up at him.

“Fuck… I have to go,” he scrambles out of the bed, whisking up his clothes as he stands.

“Billy,” Cynthia scoffs, “We just started.”

He jumps into his jeans, “And it was fun… but fuck, I’m sorry. I just… I have a woman.”

“Oh?” Raquel breaths, looking up at him with shame in her eyes.

“Like not, really…” he exhales, pushing curls off of his forehead, “I just realized I’m in love.”

Billy understands that’s not what you should say to five naked girls in a bed but it’s the damn truth. All of them look at him disappointed as he steps into his boots and pulls his shirt over his shoulders. He’s still being bombarded with images of you being fucked by five different dudes and it makes his stomach turn something crazy. He’s angry with you and it’s misplaced anger and he’s totally aware. He’s more mad at himself but there’s an ego not letting it seep in.

“I’ll get a cab. You girls keep having fun,” he says, slipping into his boots. The redhead follows I’m downstairs, grabbing his wrist before he can open the front door.

“You won’t find a cab out there,” she whispers, “Let me call you one.”

Billy sighs, leaning against the door as he looks at her. She’s gorgeous and he could have her. But she isn’t you, and that fact punches him in the face. He’s made a grave mistake.

“She must be real special,” Raquel says as she dials the number, holding the phone to her ear.

“If I gave this up,” he groans, “Then I’ve got to be a fucking idiot. But yeah… she’s special.”

-

Billy’s chain smoking when you make it to the Camaro. The alcohol has seem to worn off. He’s wracked with guilt. You can practically smell it on him when you climb in.

“What the hell did you do?” you ask, snatching the Marlboro from him.

He finds himself honest, for some reason. He sighs, “I was just with five girls. In some fucking mansion…”

“And you gave it up to come pick me up,” you purse your lips.

You’re jealous for sure but he’s not your boyfriend. You set these boundaries for a reason. And you wouldn’t be caught dead going back on your word.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds like he means it.

“You fucked them,” you exhale, tilting your head, “All five? Is your dick still attached?”

“I didn’t… hey, I said I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“By all means, fuck who you want,” you shrug, “You’re not my boyfriend, Billy.”

“I thought of you, getting absolutely trained,” he says with a chuckle, “And my dick went soft.”

“I wasn’t the one having an orgy,” you bite back, “Drop me off. Go back to them.”

Billy shifts the gears, peeling out of the clubs parking lot in seconds.

“Billy… I’m not mad… I mean, I hope you were safe,” you explain, “You haven’t been safe with me and maybe I should’ve like…”

He interrupts you, “You’re literally the only girl I’ve skipped that with.”

You’re a bit stunned. You haven’t slept with anyone besides Billy since you two had sex the first time.

“In your whole life?”

“Yeah,” he seethes, he sounds so angry you’re a little worried. Then he softens, “I like… I don’t know. I wanted to feel you.”

Your heart beats faster. And you are mad. But you’re also flustered. He just had five eager women ready to do whatever he asked and he ended it to come pick your sorry ass up.

“I take it you didn’t win big tonight.”

It’s a low blow but hell, you hate gambling. It tore your family apart and you really don’t see the appeal. But Billy loves it. You’ve seen the way his breath hitches before every hand, before every push at the slot.

“As long as I have you, I’m winning.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

-

“Goodnight,” you tell him as you get into the apartment. You don’t give him a second glance because you are mad. You’re mad he cared enough about you to stop his porno come to life. Boyfriends are bad news and Billy is not your boyfriend. He’s strictly your roommate with gorgeous eyes and a great dick.

“Whatever,” he huffs before stalking off to the bathroom. You hear the shower turn on and you crash onto your bed, peeling your clothes off along the way.

When he’s crawling into your bed an hour later, you stiffen. This isn’t okay. He should go to his own room with his tail between his legs. It’s not even the sex you’re mad about.

You straddle his waist, pushing his shoulders hard against the mattress.

“I’m not your fucking girlfriend, Billy Hargrove,” you spit, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he mumbles beneath you, “Talk dirty to me.”

You slap his face, hard while you peer down at his moonlit face. You hate how fucking gorgeous he is. His eyes look excited and he lets out this breathy gasp that has your pussy aching.

“I mean it. You’re stupid, you had five girls all over you and you think I’m a better lay,” you seethe, grabbing onto his jaw and pushing his head back against your pillows. “Five pussies are better than one.”

Billy lets out this aroused whimper and you slap him again. He’s so foolish. You’ve had men this smitten before. None of them nearly as pretty as him but still. Sometimes your job was scolding men for wanting you. But he’s not paying you. He actually knows you.

“If you think I’m touching your disgusting dick then you are soooo fucking stupid,” you whisper, digging your fingernails into the sides of his puffy cheeks. “You’re fucking pathetic.”

Your words are mean but it’s obvious they turn him on, you can feel it between your legs. Hard against his briefs. You’d be a big fat liar if you insisted you weren’t wet from the interaction. You don’t get it. He had five women, easy. He could have any woman easy but he crawled into your bed.

“Say it,” you press, “Tell me how pathetic you are.”

“Shut up,” he bites back and you slap him again.

“I mean it,” you knit your eyebrows together, “It’s fucking sad. You were just a cock to them and you’re just a cock to me.”

Billy’s throat makes this groveling whine and you can feel his cock twitch against you.

“They were sweet,” you pout, shoving your thumb in his mouth, “they made you feel special. But you’re only ever something to fuck.”

You grind against him, mind reeling at the way he sucks on your thumb. You’ve had power like this during sex, but it’s incredibly intoxicating when it’s over Billy. You ache to hear him begging.

“You want me to fuck you? After that?” you tsk, “As if you’re worthy to be inside me.”

He bites your thumb and you bellow out a laugh, pulling it out so you can smack his face again.

“You’re so goddamn lucky you’re pretty,” you tell him, “If you didn’t make me so wet, I wouldn’t fuck you.”

“Fuck me,” he pants out, desperately.

The desire dripping his voice is decadent. You almost lose focus. He’s so easy. And you’ve had your share of easy men. But none of them were sex wrapped in tan muscles and a sweet face to boot. Damn him for being so sexy. Billy was good too, he knew it didn’t take much for him to flip the roles but he liked this too all to well.

“You think you deserve my pussy?”

“No,” you can hear the smile in his voice, “but I need it.”

“Yeah?” you purr, “You could’ve had five women, easily. Fuck who’s to say you didn’t fuck all of them and now here I am, getting the fucking leftovers.”

“Only two,” he whines and you notice how his fists clench at your sides, he’s fighting himself to give you this control and it almost ends it all. You feel stupid for wanting him so badly. It makes you slap him again, which he preens at, obviously liking the punishment. Goddamn him. If you were in fact his girlfriend, this would be relationship ending news. But Billy… is Billy, and unfortunately he’d need to do a lot worse to put out the fire you have for him.

“You’re so stupid,” you remind him, pulling at his blonde curls, “I should be kicking you out of my bed.”

“But you’re not,” he says, breathlessly.

“Yet,” you threaten as you lower your mouth to his, crashing your lips in a bruising kiss. “You make me so fucking sick.”

It’s true, but he makes you feel more wanted than you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s extremely dangerous.

“I’m sorry,” he blubbers, jerking his hips up to meet yours.

“No, you’re not,” you laugh, “You like being a whore. Huh? Makes you feel like such a hot shot, having all these dumb sluts throw themselves at you?”

Billy grunts, finally moving his hands to grab your jaw and pull your lips against his. You can’t help but melt into it. You’re writhing against him, allowing him a sliver on control because he just feels that amazing and you’d give him anything he asked in a heartbeat.

“Baby,” he whines against your lips, “I need you so bad. I need you. I want you. I don’t care about anyone else…”

“Fuck you,” you fume as you grip his face, it’s all the words you want him to say but you cannot believe. This is just sex. He needs to know that. You can’t afford to have Billy being possessive of you. Everything quite literally banks on you being available, or at least the illusion you are.

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you repeat, “You're nothing to besides a hard cock and a pretty face.”

Billy laughs, it’s soft and sweet which takes you out of this role for a second. You can faintly see his face in the moonlight, the way his eyes crinkle and the pearly white of his teeth as you stare down at him.

“Boyfriend or not,” he sings, “I’m the only one you’ve fucked in months. And hell, darling, that counts for something.”

Your face reddens because he’s caught onto you. The way you’re berating him is because you’re jealous and jealousy is dangerous in your field, granted you don’t actually fuck around with the patrons of the club but you try to make them think you would. It’s the job.

“What made you stop? Really?” you lean over and flick on the lamp on your bedside table. You want to see his face.

“I thought about how I’d feel if you were with five dudes,” he whispers, looking up at you.

“And you felt guilty.”

He nods, trailing his fingers up your arms. He looks ashamed. You can feel it emanating off of him.

“Well don’t,” you try to mean it, “We’re just friends with benefits.”

Billy bites his lower lip and nods, “Why aren’t you sleeping with other people then?”

“I’m busy,” you shrug, which isn’t the truth. You we’re approached the other night but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. The other guy was attractive, but he wasn’t Billy. He didn’t make your stomach fill with butterflies.

“Might be easier for me if you did, though. ‘Cause, darling, I feel like a piece of shit right now,” he drawls as he wraps his fingers around your hips.

“Yet, you’re still hard,” you giggle as you grind against him.

Billy bites his lip as he squeezes your hips, “I have the sexiest chick on top of me, there’d be something seriously wrong if I wasn’t hard. Plus… the way you were talking to me…” his face flushes as he admits, “so fucking hot.”

“Sexist?” you smirk down at him, rolling your hips slowly before leaning down to press your lips against his. You’ve got no clue where his mouth has been tonight but you’re happy to kiss him anyways. He doesn’t taste any different, the smoke from his cigarette present as well as a hint of whiskey. Maybe a bit of mint, he definitely brushed his teeth. His admission to being aroused by your degrading surges a searing desire through you but there’ll be a different time to explore that.

“Mhm,” he mumbles into your mouth before sliding his tongue against yours and jerking his hips up at you. You pull up off him enough to get his briefs down, lowering yourself so you can drag your heat against his shaft. Billy groans, deep and guttural as you coat his cock this your wetness.

“Need to fuck you so bad,” he purrs.

“Then fuck me,” you pant out and in an instant, Billy’s flipping you two over and pinning you against the mattress. You feel his heavy cock against your thigh while he starts sucking on your neck, no doubt leaving marks that you choose not to care about in the moment. He grabs your leg and props your ankle up on his shoulder. It burns but only slightly. He grabs a hold of his dick and slips inside of you, raw. You gasp out, eyes widening as he gives you no time to adjust, slamming all the way inside you. Billy doesn’t go slow either. He hammers away, rocking his hips into you hard and fast.

“Fuck, Billy!” you cry out, your back arching as you clench around his length, “Mmm, oh, god.”

“Take it,” he grunts out, “Take my cock like a good girl.”

Your eyes cross from the sensation, mind going cloudy as the only thing you can focus on is the excruciatingly wonderful drag of him against your walls. Nothing else exists besides you two in this moment. You cling onto his sweaty back, uncontrollable sounds tumbling from your lips as your body jostles from his movements. Whenever Billy gets his cock inside you, you go dumb. He fills you in a way you’ve never felt before and you’re left in this blissful state. Sex had always been about getting off or getting the other person off. With Billy, the whole experience feels amazing. There’s not a time when you’ve wanted him to just hurry up and get it over with. It’s the attention, maybe. Billy manages to make you feel special during this. It’s the eye contact, the noises he makes and the kissing. You’ve had too many experiences where the guys closing his eyes or you are. It’s always felt like one party or the other isn’t totally there. Not with Billy. No, whenever you two have sex, you’re both fully and completely in it.

“You look so pretty stuffed full of my cock,” he coos, pushing your hair off your face. Oh, yeah, the talking. He talks so much. Words of praise, degrading shit, you love it all.

“Feels so good,” you lamely blubber, unable to really think of anything else to say besides his name.

He chuckles, grabbing a hold of the back of your thighs and opening you up even more for him. Your ankle falls off his shoulder at the motion but he doesn’t falter. You whine, knitting your fingers in his dirty blonde curls and tugging on them. He adjusts his position just slightly and the angle of it has the head of his cock rubbing the spongy spot deep inside you expertly. You cry out and then Billy licks his fingers before rubbing them against your clit. You melt, bucking up to meet his thrusts and then your orgasm hits you hard, a throaty moan leaving your lips while you seize against him.

“Fuck…” he whines, collapsing on top of you and pressing his lips hard against yours. The kiss is sloppy, Billy’s licking into your mouth haphazardly as he thrusts into you harder and faster. Your cling onto him, spreading your legs and writhing against his movements.

“Want you to cum inside me,” you admit, without really thinking about it and he inhales sharply.

His moans into your mouth, his hips stilling for a second and you feel his cum coating your walls. He twitches a bit on top of you, breathing heavily as he gives a few softer thrusts.

“Fuck, fuck… fuuuck,” he growls and then pulls out of you.

You feel his cum leaking out of you but then Billy’s fingers collect it and push it up through your folds.

“Oh,” you moan, locking your eyes onto his while he does it.

He kisses you again, more lazy this time and when he lays beside you, you ask him, “Better than your orgy?”

Billy laughs, softly, “So much better.”

-

Billy wakes with a splitting headache and his stomach churning. His entire body is sore, particularly his face. Never in his damn life did he think he’d get off on getting slapped but he reveled in it last night, he wanted you to punish him for the dumb shit he pulled but Billy was a little concerned that you still wanted to sleep with him after he admitted to his tryst with the women.

He rolls over, puts his arm around your waist and tugs you close to him, burying his nose in your neck. You make a sleepy sound that’s got him squeezing you tighter and chuckling against your skin. He smoothes his hand over your back until he meets your bare ass, squeezing the flesh and kissing against your shoulder.

“Billy,” you whine, “What time is it?”

He heaves a sigh before turning over and grabbing his watch off the nightstand. “Three,” he says, “We could get away with another hour of sleep.”

“I need to shower,” you pout, turning to face him.

He remembers coming in your hair the night before and winces, you probably should’ve showered afterwards. He sits and stretches his arms, scolding himself internally for getting so plastered knowing he had to work the next day. But it’s routine for him, he’s hungover at work more often than not.

“Well, come on, princess,” he delivers a soft smack to your ass before climbing out of the comfort of your bed, “Let’s rub a dub.”

“You’re so lame,” you chuckle, propping yourself up on your hands as you watch him walk to the bathroom, eyes following his plump ass the whole way. It’s a view you don’t think you could go without at this point.

The shower is lazy, you lean on Billy the whole time and he carefully washes your hair for you. You’re not sure how long you two stand in there, Billy’s chest pressed to your back while he runs his hands all over you. It’s so comfortable you don’t want to get out, but the water goes cold and Billy’s maneuvering around you to turn off the flow. He kisses your cheek, stepping out and retrieving a towel for you. You dry off and watch as he opens the medicine cabinet and grabs his leave-in conditioner and curl cream.

“You take far better care of your hair than I do,” you inform him which he chuckles in reply. You find yourself entranced in watching his movements, the way he rakes the products through his curls and scrunches the ringlets up. When you realize you’ve been staring and the tightness in your chest, you force yourself to your room to get dressed. Friends with benefits, you repeat the term in your head over and over. Just sex. It can’t be anything more.

Luckily, you both work the same shift tonight. As you’re finishing up your makeup, Billy wanders into your room and knocks against the doorframe.

“I made you some food,” he says and you turn to see he’s dressed in a navy button up and tight Levi’s. His chest is exposed as per usual and his hair has air dried beautifully, the dirty blonde curls surround his head making him look almost ethereal.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you smile as you follow him into the kitchen. He’s already dished you a plate of eggs, bacon and hash browns. Above your plate is a cup full of black coffee, with your creamer and sugar placed next to it.

“I would make your coffee but I didn’t wanna fuck it up,” he admits as he sits down, digging into his own food.

You lift the carton and pour in a little bit, scooping in the sugar and mixing it up. As you bring the cup up to your lips, you grin up at him, “So was it super embarrassing when you stopped your orgy?”

Billy chokes on his coffee, eyes widening as he takes another sip to calm his throat, “You’re a brat. Yes, actually, it was. My dick went soft in like a split second.”

You laugh, reaching for a slice of bacon, “Record time for you, huh? I can’t get that thing to go away.”

“It likes you, a lot,” he smirks, raising an eyebrow as he looks to you.

“Yeah, yeah,” your face flushes, the admittance that you like it at just as much on the tip of your tongue. “What did you tell them?” you settle on instead.

Billy maneuvers in his seat, leaning back so he can crack his shoulders, “That’s even more embarrassing than losing my hard-on.”

You giggle before shoveling more of your breakfast down. Then you’re hit with sudden panic that Billy told them he had a girlfriend or something worse, like maybe he was in love with someone and couldn’t do this anymore. You decide not to push the issue further. After you two have cleaned the kitchen up, Billy ushers you out to the car so you guys can head to work.

-

“Hargrove!” Becky shouts as soon as the two of you walk into the club, “Get your ass back here, I’m drowning.”

Billy leans close to kiss you and quickly catches his mistake, pulling away and scratching the back of his neck, “Uh…”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, pushing through the crowded bar before you’re disappearing into the dressing rooms.

Billy groans softly, quickly walks behind the bar and starts counting his till. It’s not more packed than usual but Billy notices the till is fucked up. There’s bill’s in the wrong places and no one’s or quarters. He exhales sharply, counting out what he needs and shoving the rest in the leather bag before squatting down to the safe and entering in the code. He’s technically not supposed to have the power to do this, but Didi really likes him and he’s the only bartender who knows the code. Billy’s had the temptation to steal money from it but quickly pushed it away because Didi is the type to press charges and it’s just not worth it. He likes working here.

Once his till is in order, he’s pouring two shots of whiskey and handing one to Becky. They down them in quick succession and then he begins taking orders. There’s got to be at least six bachelor parties here tonight. He’s got ten shot glasses lined up and a bottle of Black Velvet in his hand when he hears the emcee announce your first dance. It’s a damn fight to resist the urge to look up and watch you. Somehow, he manages, doing the quick math in his head after he pours the shots to tell the guy his total. The asshole only tips Billy a dollar, grins wide when he tells him to keep the change. Batting his eyelashes and pouting his lips, Billy tells him, “Aw, sweetheart! You’re too kind.”

The chance for aggression is a good distraction from you but the guy just snorts before they take their shots and head towards the stage.

“Guess what I did,” Billy says to Becky once they’ve got the crowd under control.

“Told Ms. Cherry you’re in love with her?” Becky bites back as she nods up to you on stage.

Billy furrows his brows together, “No.” He smirks at her before saying cheekily, “I had a six-some.”

“No, you didn’t,” she says, her face contorting in disgust, “Your dick is gonna shrivel up and fall off. And that’d serve you right, you gross pig.”

Billy laughs, a loud bellow that makes his stomach ache, “Well the little champ was able to go again when I got home.”

“You’re telling me,” she puts down the bottle of tequila and turns to face him, “You stuck your dick in five different women and then went home and gave whatever the hell you caught to Cherry?”

“I’m very safe,” he retorts, putting his hand on his hip, “Besides, she wasn’t even mad at me.”

“Or she pretended she wasn’t mad.”

Billy sighs, eyes averting as he sees a hand flagging him down from the other end of the bar. He doesn’t know why he would tell Becky, he should’ve anticipated her disapproval. He struts to the end of the bar, not sparing a glance at the patron as he asks, “What’re we having, boss?”

“Hargrove? Billy fucking Hargrove?” the familiar voice cuts deep and Billy’s eyes snap up to see big doe eyes all wide with a look of disbelief on his face.

“Harrington? What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, absolutely stunned. He spent his senior year hating this guy only to spark up a pretty abnormal friendship with him for a short couple months before he hightailed it out of Hawkins.

“Me? Oh, Tommy and Carol are getting married, I’m throwing Tommy a bachelor party. What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, eyebrows up so high Billy thinks they might join his hairline. His hair is still huge, and a little longer.

Billy laughs at the news of Tommy and Carol tying the knot, remembering all the times Tommy said he didn’t want to marry her.

“Uh, I live here now,” he explains, playing with the rings on his fingers as anxiety builds up inside him. He isn’t going to admit to Steve how he got stranded here and is probably addicted to gambling. “Why Vegas? Kind of a far trip for a bachelor party.”

“But it’s the best place for it,” Steve grins.

Billy interrupts him when the emcee tells the crowd, “Give it up for Cherry!”

He puts his thumb and forefinger in his mouth to whistle, bellowing a howl after as he claps his hands.

“Sorry,” he brings his eyes back down to Steve, “Well, shit. Small world. Lots of clubs in this town but you ended up here.”

Steve shrugs, “Everyone told us to come here. Said it has the prettiest girls.”

Billy’s eyes follow your ass as you saunter backstage, “It sure does.”

“That your uh, girlfriend?” Steve gestures to the empty stage.

“Cherry? Ah, no. Roommate. Can’t date the girls that work here. Conflict of interest or something,” Billy says with a chuckle, lighting up a cigarette in attempts to calm his nerves.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t sleep with them,” Steve points out and Billy cackles back. Steve wasn’t so bad once he got to know him. They were actually pretty similar dudes.

“So, what’re you drinking, Harrington?”

“Give me five beers, whatever’s cheapest,” he say and when Billy gives him a pointed look he explains, “They’re already shitfaced and I paid for the whole trip.”

Billy shakes his head, but reaches for the five bottles and hands them over to Steve, “$10, amigo.”

Steve slides him a twenty and disappears into the crowd. Billy can’t believe it. It’s been years since he’s seen the guy. What are the odds he’d show up here?

As the night progresses, Billy can’t help but notice that you’ve gravitated to Tommy’s bachelor party. At first he didn’t think much of it but when you gave Steve a lap dance, you grabbed his hands and put them on your hips. That’s definitely not allowed and Billy feels the harsh wave of jealousy rise through him. Becky gives him a couple of looks as she’s working, checking on him and it makes Billy feel worse. He suddenly regrets not getting that redheads number from the night before. He did know where to find her, though.

[rugtopper]

A NEW BEN

by rugtopper

Ben had always been fasinated with hairpieces for as long as he could remember. His earliest recollection of this was when he was five years old. He could remember being in the dentist's chair and looking up to see the underventing of his dentist's toupee. As he got older, Ben never really thought much else about it until he started having strange nightmares in high school. At first, he could not remember the dreams. All he could remember was waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. By the time Ben was in college the dreams were occuring everynight; however, now he could remember them in total detail. In the dream he always saw himself enter a bedroom, cross to a full-length mirror, undress to reveal his boxer shorts, athletic undershirt, thick-n-thin socks, and garters. Afterwards, he would go to the bathroom and brush his teeth. At this point, his dream became like a slow-motioned action sequence. He would slowly move his hand to his forehead and gingerly begin to remove his toupee to reveal his perfectly-shaped MPB ring. This dream was a nightly part of Ben's sleep schedule. Eventually, the dreams stopped, Ben graduated from college, and found a great job as a low-level bookkeeper with a securities firm.

One day at work, Ben had some downtime so he decided to check his personal e-mail, and do a little surfing. About fifteen minutes later, he received an instant message from some guy. They started chatting about various things. The guy, Roger, sent his picture. He was wearing a rug! All of a sudden memories began to flood back that Ben hadn't thought about in nearly five years - the dreams, the dentist, and the guy he saw every morning in the elevator who works in Human Resources.

Roger and Ben continued to chat and exchange e-mails for three months. Ben revealed everything to Roger about his growing fetish. Eventually, Roger convinced Ben that now was the time to do something about his growing need to be a rug-ged man.

Ben did a little sleuthing and found a barber downtown who fitted toupees.  He ordered two toupees on-line and then contacted the barber, Phil. Ben was very nervous about setting up an appointment, but he knew he just had to do this. Phil was very understanding especially when Ben explained that he would have to remove some hair from the top of his head. 

"Just how much hair needs to be removed?" Phil asked.

"Well," Ben stammered, "I..."

"It's okay, we'll figure it out when you get here." Phil responded. Phil knew what Ben meant. He had seen this a few other times.

Ben arrived at the barbershop with his toupees still in the box. Phil was very nice. Ben still had a full head of hair. 

"Well, let's get started,"  Phil said. 

So, Ben sat in the chair as Phil began to transform him into the man he had always wanted to be. Phil got out the clippers and began by shaving the top and part of the sides of Ben's head. "That's the easy part, now comes the time consuming part." Phil got out the gel and the laser and methodically began removing the stubble from Ben's head. Ben's emotions were everywhere at this point. He was scared, nervous, excited, and a little shattered to be losing his hair.  Finally, after a very long time, Phil turned Ben around to look at himself in the mirror for the first time as a 28 year old man with male pattern baldness. Ben nearly started to cry and said, "I'm bald; Oh, God, my hair."  Phil quickly responded, "It's okay, Ben, your hair is right here." With that, Phil took the toupee off of the wig stand and applied tape to the tape tabs and placed it on Ben's head. Then Phil began cutting, shaping and blending the toupee into Ben's own fringe. He got a small handheld steamer to form Ben's new synthetic facsimile into the perfect businessman's style.  Again, after a while, Phil turned Ben around to the mirror to reveal the new Ben. It was perfect.  Well, it was hideous, but in Ben's estimation, it was perfect.  This flat brown piece of Dynel was taped to his denuded scalp.  There was just an eighth of an inch gap at the part to expose the mesh base foundation.  The style was off-the-forehead enough to allow anyone with rudimentary skills of observation to notice that it was not growing out of Ben's scalp.  At first glance, Ben couldn't believe his eyes, but his dick understood what was happening.  He could feel the throbbing down there. Ben didn't know how long he sat there just staring at his new hair, but eventually he did get up, pay Phil, and go home.

When he walked into the house, he immediately went to his bedroom.  He was about to see his dream come true.  Fantasy was finally reality. And it did.  As he stood there in front of his full-length mirror, he undressed to his undergarments.  He now looked like every middle aged man he had ever admired and always wanted to be.  As he slowly removed his toupee for the first time, he quickly grabbed his throbbing cock and proceeded to finish what he wanted to do at the barbershop.

The next morning, Ben got up earlier than normal to give himself some extra time with his new hair.  When he got to his office building, he took the elevator as usual only this time he paid closer attention to the guy from Human Resources.  It turned out to be Roger from the Internet.  Roger and Ben just stared at each other's reflection in the elevator's mirrors until finally Roger told Ben that he was happy that Ben finally got his new hair.  He told him he should be proud of his new hair. Throughout the work day, Ben got quite a few stares, a few giggles, and some double takes.  Ben made it a point to go to lunch with Roger that day.  As Ben had suspected, he and Roger had a wonderful common secret, and possibly even a future.

THE END

[obsidiancreates]

Something Strange Comes To Santa Barbra

(This may be the most Niche thing I've ever posted. @poltertoast this is for you, it's not the previously discussed crossover concepts but I might do those later)

Shawn ducks under the police tape and jogs right up to Lassiter. "This better be good Lassie. Gus and were just about to crush one of those restaurant food challenges down at a dumpling place."

"Just get inside." Lassiter gives Shawn a slight shove, and Gus makes sure to stay out of Lassiter's arm range as he follows.

Shawn's eyes go right to the wall; there's a huge bloodstain, and it's configuration is... strange. It looks more like a movie, or a video game, than a regular splatter pattern. His focus zeros in on one of the two beds next, highlighting an abandoned contraption that looks like an old GameBoy Color altered with all sorts of computer chips and wires and antenna. There's a book laying on the floor, open but page-down to show both the front and back cover in full. The Paranormal Prince: Ghost Hunting With Royal Blood by one Johnny Toast.

Shawn chuckles and nudges Gus. "Dude, read the name on that book."

"What boo- ... Johnny Toast?"

"Johnny Toast," Jules confirms, walking over to them. "Late twenties to early thirties, British, and presumed dead."

"Whoa, whoa. Presumed dead?" Shawn looks at the wall. "Seriously?"

"No body," Jules says with a sigh. "No blood trail indicating how it was moved, no missing sheets, and the owner of the condo says they didn't have any rugs. CSI didn't find any evidence of cleaning supplies, and no reports of gunshots in the area at the suspected time of attack."

"No gunshots?" Shawn looks again at the wall. It's really bothering him, he swears he's seen a pattern like that before but he knows it wasn't in real life.

Jules nods to the wall. "There's some deep gauges out of the plaster, we're thinking knife carvings. Murderer must've hit an artery, which makes the lack of blood anywhere else even stranger."

"No kidding. There's not even any on the floor." Gus keeps his eyes off the blood, and it's almost disturbingly easy to do so. The rest of the room is mostly spotless, save a strange image almost... superimposed onto the wall. A blue square, a red triangle, and a yellow V.

"What about this?" Shawn gestures at it. "Does the condo owner have the worst taste ever, or is this a calling card?"

"We looked into it, apparently it's a popular graffiti symbol in the victim's hometown."

"What town?"

Jules starts to say, and then takes in a deep breath. "Don't laugh," she warns. "Both the vic and the suspect are from a town in North Carolina called... Little Butts."

Shawn and Gus fail to not laugh. Jules looks like she wants to laugh too, but Lassiter walks into the room at that moment.

"You told them where they're from, didn't you?"

"They asked."

"After we agreed not to tell them because laughing at a murder scene is asinine."

"Ass," Shawn mumbles, and he and Gus laugh again.

"Just-! Tell us if you see anything." Lassiter gestures around the room. "Chief just called and she wants this to be top priority, apparently there's a serial killer from that town and she wants to make sure he's not taking a vacation in Santa Barbra."

"Well maybe I'd have a better sense of the case if you told me who the suspect is."

Jules nods while Lassiter scowls. "Johnny Ghost-"

"Johnny Toast and Johnny Ghost? Are they cartoon characters?" Gus whispers to Shawn. Jules ignores it.

"-late twenties, owner said he's short with red-brown hair and brown eyes, always wears a gray hoodie with this logo on it." She shows them a drawing.

Gus scoffs. "They spelled it wrong."

"What?"

"That's the symbol for Pi, Shawn. Three-point-one-four-one-five-nine, and then continues on forever? It's a fundamental of math."

"It's a fundamental of a good diet is what it is."

"It's a pun," Jules says. "They ran a ghost hunting business together, Paranormal Investigators Extraordinaire. At least, that's what the owner said Johnny Ghost screamed at him when they introduced themselves."

Shawn looks back over at the beds. Now the DS makes sense... "So that's why the Chief wants me? See if there's a... spiritual connection? Maybe this Ghost fellow got possessed and offed his partner?"

"And to find the body, and Ghost himself. He was seen leaving the house alone around the time of the attack on some nearby security cameras, and hasn't come back to the house since."

Shawn nods, half-listening as his eyes travel around the room again and he does a slow, lazy-looking turn. He hones in on a business card, the corner just barely visible under the left bed.

"OH!" He dramatically drops to the floor, trying to make it look like he was yanked. "Oh, the spirits are strong here! But they're scared, yes, of the ghost hunters, they weren't ready to contact me before but now!" Shawn drags himself across the floor in one motion and snatches the card, jumping back up. "Now they're screaming! Crying out saying-!"

He discreetly peeks at the card and then holds it up to his forehead, text-side facing out at the 'crowd' that is his friends and fellow investigators. "Santa Barbra School Of Dance!"

Lassiter stalks over and grabs the card, reading it for himself. "Who the hell did the sweep?" he growls. "O'Hara, bag it as evidence!"

As Jules does, Shawn catches sight of a handwritten phone number on the front. Who writes extra notes on the front of a business card?

"Let's bring in the owner of the dance studio and find out what they know." Lassiter looks at Shawn and Gus. "Stay out of my interrogation."

"No problem, Lassie." Shawn puts his hand up in promise. As soon as Jules and Lassiter leave, Shawn drops to the floor again and reaches further under the bed.

"What're you doing?" Gus crouches down. "Did you find more blood?"

"No, Gus, no blood. But I saw this-" Shawn pulls out one of those lockable pencil cases. "-while I was grabbing the card. Here, give me a bobby pin or something."

"Why would I have a bobby pin?"

"I don't know, you're the one who loves cracking safes-es."

"Safes."

"I've heard it both ways."

"This is barely something you can crack anyway, just force it open."

"Force it open? Yeah, right. Do you know how many of these I tried to force open in middle school because someone wouldn't lend a pencil?"

"You lost it every time! My parents were gonna go broke buying that many pencils for me!"

"Just, find something I can jimmy this open with!"

They end up finding the key also under the bed, and popping it open they find... a box of macaroni.

"What the hell?" Gus picks it up and turns it around. "I've never even heard of this brand. Lettuce Squirrel Whiskey and 'Roni?"

"Why is there a dinosaur on the front? Man, that was a total bust, I really thought it'd be important. ... Let's go check out that dance studio."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dude, what kind of dance studio has a teenage mutant ninja turtle as it's mascot?" Shawn turns, keeping his eye on the oddly swaying figure just outside the door until they're fully through. Something about it is bothering him... but he can't quite place his finger on what.

When they push open the door, there's a woman chatting with the receptionist. As soon as the first woman sees them, her face contorts into a nasty scowl. "Oh, no! Get out, you- you spineless rubes!"

Shawn and Gus freeze and put their hands up and take a step back in unison.

"Whoa!"

"Coming on a little strong considering you've never met us," Gus huffs.

"Yes I have," she seethes. "Over the phone, three months ago! I contacted your agency to investigate a haunting for me!"

"A haunting?" Shawn looks at Gus, who shrugs. "Which one of us did you talk to?"

"You." She points at Shawn. Her scowl could rival Lassiter's, maybe even Henry's. "And you told me to seek help!"

"That doesn't sound like me." Shawn casts his memory back. "Wait... were you the one who said that Donatello the turtle was haunting you?"

"All four of them!" she snaps. "And yes! Yes, I did! And you never came by! And it kept happening so I had to hire some out-of-town specialists-"

"Johnny Ghost and Johnny Toast of P.I.E?" Shawn asks, hand by his temple.

She blinks. It seems to shock her out of at least some of her rage. "Yes. Yes, and-and now I have bullet holes all over my studio."

"Bullet holes?!" Gus ducks. "They shot up the place?!"

"They had guns?"

"Yes, and yes! They saw one of the ghosts and-and I don't even know where they pulled the guns from, but it got away and they chased after it!"

"Did you call the police?"

"Not until that damn ghost is- oh, for heaven's sake!" Her eyes focus on something behind them and she storms to the door, flinging it open. "GET OUT OF HERE!"

It dawns on Shawn what disturbed him about the figure outside.

It hadn't been swaying in the wind at all. It had been bobbing like a person waiting.

The figure, Raphael by the mask color, shouts in fear as the woman screams at him-

And then phases through the floor and disappears.

Shawn freezes, the sight so not computing that it breaks him for a second. Gus's eyes go so wide they may try to run away since their owner isn't, and then they roll back up in his head and he collapses.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sit in the Psych office, Gus nervous-eating an entire box of dry cereal while Shawn has his hands pressed together and covering his mouth, eyes trained on the floor.

They haven't spoken since they watched the Ninja Turtle Ghost phase through solid ground.

Their phone rings again. Neither pick it up.

It's silent for another hour until Jules runs by the window, sees them both inside, and runs in.

"We've been trying to reach you guys for hours, we have-! ... What happened?"

Shawn flattens his hands against his face and rubs it. Gus raches into the now-empty cereal bag, pulls out nothing, "eats" the nothing, and then repeats without ever blinking.

"Seriously," Jules sits down on the couch in the nook. "What happened?"

Shawn drags his hands down his face. "Those uh... those ghost hunters were onto something big," he croaks out. "Real... real big."

"How big?" Jules leans in. "Because that might make our findings make a little more sense."

"You uh... you talked to the dance studio owner?"

"Yes, but we didn't get anywhere. She just insisted that she was haunted and we find them so they can finish the job. What we did find out is that Johnny Toast is..." She shakes her head. "I don't even know how this is possible, but he's the grandson of the Queen of England."

"He's what?" It's jarring enough to snap Shawn out of his complete Brain Breakage. "Why's he in America hunting ghosts?"

"No clue. But it means our list of suspects got a whole lot bigger, and Interpol might get involved. This could become a diplomatic incident. You didn't find out anything related to that?"

"Uh, no. No, we... we didn't. Our thing seems stupid now." It doesn't. But how the hell does he explain why he, a supposed psychic, is rattled by a ghost?

Jules shrugs, putting her hands up and then plopping them back in her lap. "I'll take anything you've got."

"... Well, um... I see violence. Yes, great, great violence. They were both very experienced with guns, and had them on their persons during this trip."

"But there were no signs of gunshots at the hotel. ... Which might mean this was pre-meditated! It was done quietly, no witnesses- shoot, it's looking more and more like we'll have to get overseas offices involved." Jules stands up. "Thanks, guys. But answer your phone next time! Lassiter almost got the Chief to kick you off the case for ignoring us."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, what've you got?" Shawn looks up at Gus from across the room.

"Almost nothing." Gus frowns at his laptop as he scrolls. "It's like this 'Little Butts' place barely exists. All I've found is a bunch of sci-fi and fantasy forums where some kid named TheMightySpence with threes instead of E's is complaining about living there."

"Dang it. I'm not getting anything much better. There's a few clips on the internet of these ghost hunting guys, a TV commercial, and some kind of... fan club website for Toast. None of it gives me any motive, in fact, these guys were best friends by the looks of it! There's mentions of them growing up together, Toast lost his mind once because Ghost disappeared according to this clip from some terrible TV show I found, it just... doesn't add up. And all I can find on this 'serial killer' from that town is urban legends."

"This case is beyond us, Shawn. Real ghosts, and now a town that doesn't really exist, and it's an international incident? We're in over our heads!"

"I know!" Shawn shuts his laptop. "But we can't just back out because our entire worldviews were shattered, Gus, because the police think I already believe in ghosts!"

"Tell them that this one is something you've never seen!"

"It is something I've never seen!"

"I know tha-!"

"Excuse me?"

They look up. In the doorway stands a tall, handsome man, with stylish stubble and clothes fit for some type of fancy business party. He has a posh British accent, and...

He's definitely the guy from the book cover.

"Sorry to drop in uninvited, I saw you were closed but the door wasn't unlocked so I ah, let myself in. I was wondering if you'd be available to help me and my partner?"

Gus makes a high-pitched squeal-scream sound from deep in his throat. Shawn stands up, slowly, and goes to swipe his arm through the man's body.

"OW!" The man grabs his arm where Shawn slapped it. "Sir! They're hostile!"

"I'M COMING, JOHHNY!"

A short man in a grey hoodie comes racing in, gun drawn! "BACK UP A SECOND THERE, SNICKERS, OR I'LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE!"

Gus lets the scream out fully and backs up against the wall while Shawn quickly draws away with a scream of his own. Ghost keeps his gun on Shawn as Toast rubs his arm.

After a long moment of Shawn and Gus screaming, Shawn is able to take in a few details. He hones in on the various stains all over Ghost's hoodie, some of which are unmistakably blood, meaning he doesn't wash it. There's dark circles around his eyes, and bags, and his clothes are hanging pretty loosely on him. So he can't take care of himself very well, may even have mental problems.

Toast is very well put together, and completely unphased by the response of a gun to a slap. He called out for Ghost, so he knew this would happen. Despite Ghost being smaller, and Toast being literal royalty, he called Ghost sir, so Ghost is both the wildcard and the one in charge. Given the terrifying glint in Ghost's extremely tired eyes, Shawn thinks that's not the best arrangement they could've come to.

"Alright," Shawn says, breathing heavily from the adrenaline, "Let's all calm down here!"

"Us?! You hurt Johnny!"

"I thought he was a ghost at first!"

"Why would he be a ghost?!"

"Because we're investigating his murder right now, which you are- were- the main suspect of!"

"Oh." Ghost looks at his partner. "Yeah, I killed him last night."

"That doesn't make any sense! He's here, he's real!"

"... Yes?" Ghost sounds genuinely confused. "Because it was last night? Of course he's fine now. After we went to the dance studio and got chased out by those turtle ghosts we got to the condo and the studio left him in a dancing mood, and then I caught him having macaroni! He was so out of it he almost did The British Disco right in front of me, so I killed him before he could!"

"Still sorry about that, sir."

"But how is he here if you killed him?"

"And what the hell does macaroni have to do with this?! And what's The British Disco?!" Gus keeps his distance, though his fear has subsided a bit.

Only a bit.

"We called Billy and everything was fine!" Ghost snaps as if that means anything. "And macaroni is a drug, obviously, and The British Disco is a dance so beautiful that it kills you if you see it and aren't either British or already dead!"

"If you can just come back from the dead-"

"Back from the dead, don't'ca just love bein' back from the dead," Ghost sings suddenly.

"... Right, sure. If you can just come back from the dead, why'd you have to kill him so you wouldn't die?"

"That's a different kind of dying!"

"There's only one kind!"

"Sir," Toast pipes up, "It seems this is one of those places. Where they don't follow the normal rules of reality."

Ghost's scowl disappears. "You're right, Johnny! Oh, I hate these places." The gun suddenly disappears from his hands. "Alright, let's try this all again. Ahem. I am JOHNNY GHOST, PARANORMAL INVESTIGATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE, AND THIS IS MY PARTNER JOHNNY TOAST! Together we are P.I.E!"

Shawn nods, taking another step back. Situation diffused... for now. "Shawn Spencer, psychic detective," he says carefully. "This is my partner Nebulous Nevins."

Gus doesn't wave, but he does stop trying to melt into the wall so hard.

"Well, now that we're all ah, acquainted, could we... ask for your help?" Toast ventures. "See, our coworkers stayed back home and it turns out there's four ghosts at-"

"The Santa Barbra School Of Dance?" Shawn says, putting his hand to his head.

"Yes, exactly. We don't have any guns to spare you at the moment, however-"

"We don't do guns," Gus says quickly. "Not with ghosts."

"Well that's stupid," Ghost scoffs. "What do you do when they attack you?"

"I'm a psychic, not a ghost hunter. The spirits are generally on my side."

"You sound like Spooker. Let's go Johnny, apparently we have to clear up your supposed murder with the police!" Ghost grabs Toast's arm and drags him out.

It takes a full fifteen minutes for Shawn and Gus to relax after the two leave. Gus screams intermittently for five of those minutes. Shawn screams with him.

By the end they're collapsed in their chairs, completely unwound.

"... They're going to get arrested," Shawn says faintly. "If they tell that same story."

"Or put in an institution," Gus agrees.

"... Why do I get the feeling they won't stay in either one of those?"

"There's also still a real ghost in that studio."

"Yeah..." Shawn blinks, and then sits up. "Dude. Toast said coworkers. There's more of them!"

Gus looks horrified. "Who might come here looking for them, or to finish the job at the studio!"

"Close up shop." Shawn pulls the blinds down. "Gus, I can't believe I'm saying this, but we need to keep those two guys out of prison so they can solve that turtle thing and get out of Santa Barbra!"

"How are we supposed to do that?! They're living in a completely different reality, Shawn! One word to Lassie and Jules will be enough!"

"I don't know! I-I'll think of something on the ride, but we are so not dealing with more than two people like that! I feel like my brain is trying to fry itself! Did you see the gun just disappear?!"

"Into thin air! They've gotta be some kind of demons!"

"With the way this case is going, I wouldn't be surprised."

[go-to-the-mirror]

look, hear me out, hot jon ri- [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER]

@a-mag-a-day

One thing you should know about me is that i will defend jonathan sims head archivist of the magnus institute london to my dying bloody breath. Another thing you should know about me is that i can do nuance, i just don't want to a lot of the time.

But. I will, put my... love... for the Jarchivist... to one side. sort of. a little bit. Look, you can't be unbiased, an attempt is all you're gonna get, mate.

But like, let it be known that I have talked extensively about scrutiny on my story, and most of it wasn't "but i love him, so, <3" actually most of it was "headinhands, jon, why"

Like, yk? Why didn't we see this coming, he's an Avatar, he's a monster, it's not making what he's doing better -- obviously -- but like, I feel like it's like... it's like... yk? we knew it in a theoretical way, and then we're like, oh, yeah, he doesn't get protagonist privileges.

I'm just rambling at this point, so, let's get onto the relisten, I guess, and I'll freak out there

ARCHIVIST The tape recorder. [SUDDEN INHALATION FROM BASIRA] BASIRA Get ready. Any idea what’s coming?

i think it's neat that they're realising that tape recorder on = (rqg pessimistic train driver voice) DOOOOOOM!

ARCHIVIST No, I… I think… [Calling out] Excuse me?

Jonathan "I don't think it's me doing it" Sims when he literally calls the guy back, fuck Jon, that's not okay!

SHIPHAND I don’t know you. ARCHIVIST [Archly] But I know you.

[ID: Marina and the Diamonds Smirk Meme /End ID]

look, hear me out-

LIKE OK HRHNR ITS COOL OKAY! IT'S COOL! IT'S AWFUL, BUT IT'S COOL!!

BASIRA Jon, I’m not sure about this. ARCHIVIST I am. Tell me what happened.

(tim voice) don't do it.

like, jon, jon, no, fuck? what the fuck, jon headinhands, headinfuckinghands

this is the theme of this ramble, okay? just headinhands but also his voice tho-

ARCHIVIST Whenever you’re ready.

it's so creepy, he's so creepy! that's just like- "whenever you're ready" SPOOOKY!!!! im kicking my legs i just think it's NEAT oKAY

The thing that was grabbing him, trying to reach down his throat and pull him apart… it was a pattern. Diamonds and swirls and colours that seemed to imprint itself upon his skin even as it pushed itself messily into his nose and mouth.

THAT'S SO COOL! I mean, uh, sucks to be him, but that's hnnrhrhnrnh <3333 it's so spooky and weird and I love it.

I followed slowly, unsteadily, but got there just in time to see Salesa throw both him and what looked like a blank rug over the side and into the ocean.

So, the pattern comes from the rug and then... attaches itself to people and/or things? That's neat!

He was drunk for the next two days, and we kept sailing on towards Cape Town.

:D I was so happy when I heard this on my first listen :3 like yay! South Africa is mentioned :3 I'm South African :3

Come to think of it, Floyd might have an Afrikaans accent. Don't quote me on that, I'm not sure, but I think so.

There was a storm over the island. I don’t know where it came from, it can’t have been more than a minute since I’d last looked at it, an-and the skies were completely clear. But now it was covered in lightning, the rolling clouds above it dark and angry.

So, the camera was keeping the island not sinking.

So I jumped ship the next chance I got. And I have tried ever since then to leave those memories behind me.

Would be lovely if someone *cough cough* Jon *cough cough* would let him. He's going to have nightmares about this till Jon dies. Like, poor him. That sucks, like even with Jess, she was leaving it behind, she was getting better and he took that from her. The bastard, christ Jon, you can't just do this to people, you can't just ruin their bloody lives because you're feeling peckish.

ARCHIVIST [Soothingly] You can go. FLOYD Erm… I, I don’t… ARCHIVIST Thank you Floyd. You’ve been… very helpful. FLOYD C— ARCHIVIST It’s alright, Floyd. You just… need a break.

I just like the way he says it, when Jon's being all monster-y, in this episode, sometimes when he's talking to Helen, I think, in MAG 187, and of course in the Crew Retrospective (speaking of, if you have stuff about the crew retrospective, please tag me, I want to see it), it's so suave, and for what. Charisma of 1, unless he's being... evil. I love him, I love that, it's so bloody suave, and charismatic, and smooth. He knows exactly what he's doing, he's in his element. Oh god, he's in his element.

Look, he may be slightly evil, but he's doing it with style, damn.

Like "It's alright, Floyd. You just... need a break" and it's like!!! HMNnn!!! No, Jon! You shouldn't be doing this to people, but also like hnhrhfhhnh so fucking cool!

ARCHIVIST Yes, Basira, he is. And I am sorry about that. But we needed it. Anyway you’re the one who wants to be like Gertrude. You think she’d give a damn about a few bad dreams? BASIRA No. ARCHIVIST No. She got the job done, and didn’t care about the cost. BASIRA But I thought you did. ARCHIVIST … I had to know, Basira. BASIRA It wasn’t right. ARCHIVIST You could have stopped me.…But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?

Mr. Jarchivist Sims, your flimsy rationalizations are visible from space, you didn't want to be like Gertrude, you don't want to be like Gertrude, good lord, man, just... good lord.

I don't know what to say, I'm shaking this episode vigorously /pos

Ramble over! See y'all tomorrow where I'll be once again setting aside my flimsy belief (not even a belief) that Jonathan Sims did NOTHING WRONG if you ignore everything he did wrong.

End recording.

[lorna-d-m]

Chapter Three: Popcorn Pillows

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!OC (Cecilia Anderson)

Summary: Meet Miguel O'Hara, a rugged bareback rider who could have had it all, and Cici Anderson, the spirited daughter of a stock contractor trapped in a toxic relationship. When fate brings them together for a dance, they see each other again and again.

Word count: 3,578

W: language, light male masturbation

Ao3 link

A/N: Anything that is italicized within the quotation marks is said in Spanish. If you want to be added to the taglist you can comment or fill out the google form here

Shorter this time, but we're building to some good stuff :)

previous chapter

It was easy to fall into patterns. Miguel texted her good morning at 5:00 A.M. before he went to the gym, the pale pink and orange sunrise in his eyes. Cici responded an hour later with her first cup of coffee for the day in hand, her manicured nails wrapped around the sugary sweet cup. At lunch, she’d ask how he was doing, what competitions he had lined up, and how Gabriel was since she had a soft spot for him. 

He would always say alright, never divulging too much, send her screenshots of his schedule, and tell her whatever mischief or dumbass comments Gabriel made. Miguel insisted Gabriel spoke cryptically in memes just to piss him off. Cici laughed and explained what a “gyat” was before her lunch break ended, biting her tongue before she said he should know because he has one. 

In the evening, he sent pictures of the meals he cooked. Fresh, homecooked, made with love. Roasted meat and vegetables from the grill; she pictured him holding a spatula in one hand and a beer in the other, his jeans snug, and an apron tied around his waist. Cici responded positively, putting little hearts on the messages and telling him how jealous she was. Cici texted goodnight from her mountain of satiny pink pillows, glad he finally slept in a bed, too.

If they were in the same town for the weekend, they tried to meet up despite their busy schedules. Miguel brought her coffee every morning, leaving it with her sister or cousin if she was busy. Cici paid for any meals they ate together whether it was lunch from a greasy food truck or dinner at a five-star restaurant.  

Miguel was consistent, and Cici relied on that steadiness. 

***

Before, Cici might’ve missed the bareback events to speak with a sponsor or organizer. Now, she made sure she was seated in the cold metal stands with her notebook ready to keep track of scores before the anthem started. She watched Miguel in the staging area, neon tape on his hand from the physios, and she knew more snaked its way up his arm.

Bareback riding was like riding a jackhammer with one hand. A good ride would leave him sore and bruised, not to mention what a bad one would do. And yet, Miguel would climb back on night after night. He tended to mask his pain around Cici, but she knew from her brother’s glory days how much it hurt. 

He took his place, climbing up on the metal slats of the fence, to watch the opening ceremony. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought he searched the crowd for someone the way his eye roamed the stands.  

So far this season, Miguel was on the up and up. He stayed in the top five despite cutting the number of events he attended. With Gabriel, he limited his schedule, sticking closer to home or booking red-eye flights. Cici wished him good luck every time, whether she caught him before she climbed up the stands or if she sent him a text. Miguel would chuckle darkly and insist he needed more than luck, but he appreciated it all the same.

The cameras panned to Miguel on the broad back of an old mare. She snorted and shook, the dry dirt coming up like powder, but he dug into her neck. Miguel was calm, cool, and collected, his black shirt embroidered with sponsors from Wrangler to dairy companies. He wore his pale leather chaps, the fringes a stark contrast to his dark ensemble, meant to draw spectators' eyes. Cici chuckled, he never wore the flashy reds and golds, but he still stood out in his own way.

Sweat trickled out from underneath his black hat, sticking to his temples and plastering stray strands of hair to his cheek. His face flushed from the late summer heat and the stadium lights. Miguel nodded once, signaling he was ready.

Cici watched Miguel on the big screen. His form needed to be perfect due to his size and stature. Most riders were smaller, more compact, and lighter than Miguel. If his knees or toes were out of place by an inch, the judges would see it and dock his points. But, he needed to take risks, too, and encourage the horse to open up. Announcers praised Miguel for doing both where others failed.

He rode well that sticky, summer night, but his horse did not kick or buck despite his heels in her side and her ornery nature. Cici tried to calculate his score and how far he would drop in the standings when she realized his hand was caught in the rigging. The rodeo clowns swept in from the fences to pick him up, but he couldn’t get free.

Cici’s heart caught in her throat. Miguel repeatedly wrested at his wrist. She couldn’t see the panic in his eyes, but she could feel it pouring from him. The pick-up man’s arms came under his shoulders to grab him. Cici grimaced when they yanked him free, dragging him to the hard ground. Reddish brown dirt clung to his clothes, and he scrambled up, clutching his wrist to his chest. Miguel would hurt later, physically and emotionally, after he saw his score. 

Miguel didn’t want to talk to any camera crews or journalists. The suits would ask him what happened tonight, as if they all didn’t see it, and expect him to say something about trying harder next time, this wasn’t his night, and he looked forward to the next one. 

He slammed his locker shut, pissed off he couldn’t get the bottle of ibuprofen open with one hand, and resigned himself to saying as few words as possible. He’d grunt and grumble for the cameras before skulking off to his dingy motel room to lick his wounds.

His watch buzzed on his way to the press conferences, and he would’ve ignored it if he hadn’t seen Cici’s name pop up on the screen. Miguel never ignored Cici, unlike some people, he thought bitterly.

Cici: You’re probably not in the mood to go out to dinner like we planned, but what about takeout and a movie at my hotel room instead?

Cici: Feels like I’ve barely seen you all weekend, and I want to check on you 🫶No worries if you want to raincheck

Fuck. She still wanted to see him? After that piss-poor performance? Even the buckle bunnies in their Ariat boots and skintight jeans wouldn’t go near him. They’d flock to the high scorer of the night: Kron Stone. He could already see him smiling for the cameras, his artificially whitened teeth blinding them to what an asshole he was. But fuck Kron, and fuck feeling sorry for himself. The princess, Cici Anderson, wanted to see him. 

Miguel: What do you want to eat?

Cici: Whatever you want :) You can pick tonight you earned it

Miguel: There’s a shockingly good little taquería not far from here. Pretty sure they know me now.

Cici: Love it! I’ll see you tonight

She sent her hotel and room number, insisting anytime was fine so long as he sent her a text or a call when he was on his way. His shoulders relaxed, and he unclenched his jaw. He might not fake a smile for the cameras yet, but he wouldn’t scowl either.

***

Miguel knew the Andersons’ were in a different tax bracket, but seeing the hotel they stayed in reaffirmed that. Valet parking, vaulted ceilings with exposed wood beams, and 24/7 concierge in the plush lobby. The valet thought he was an UberEats delivery driver and refused to take his truck keys until he mentioned Cici’s name. 

A pristine elk’s head hung above the stone fireplace in the lobby, and he couldn’t shake the feeling it judged him. His gray sweatpants and hoodie felt out of place amongst the leather and stone. It was a far cry from the faded and worn motels he favored, saving every dollar he earned on the road. Lyla, his financial assistant, promised he could afford this, but he felt it was a silly luxury.

He knocked awkwardly on her door, his good hand holding the takeout bag. He hoped she would come quickly. Miguel felt like the embellished walls were watching him, telling him he didn’t belong here with her. He almost chickened out and ran, looking longingly at the elevator down the hall, when she opened the door.

Miguel drew back. He never saw Cici like this: soft, fluffy white robe, her blonde ringlets drawn back with some flowery product soaking in, and a pale green mud masking her face. His eyes widened, not sure if this surprised him or if he should’ve realized this was how a princess would get ready for bed.

“Am I early? I can wait if you need to finish up.”

“No, no,” Cici insisted, a smile flashed across her lips, “I got distracted. Don’t worry about it.” She stepped aside so he could enter. 

Curiously, his eyes swept the room. It was a sweet suite, with overstuffed seats, ornate curtains, and detailed lighting. He heard the bathroom fan humming in the background, and soft pop music playing from her phone. 

“I have a lap desk around here somewhere we can put the food on.” Cici padded barefoot around the room, looking for it, while Miguel stood to the side out of her way. “Here it is, and then if you want to get comfy and pick something to watch I’ll go rinse all this out,” she gestured to her face and hair.

Although the luxurious bed was king-sized, he hesitated to get in. This night was far more intimate than he thought it would be, and he didn’t want to inadvertently cross that line. She has a boyfriend, he kept reminding himself, even if he was a useless dick.

“Where’s the remote?” He called out. 

The faucet paused, but her music didn’t. Cici sang along under her breath until she poked her head out of the bathroom. “Should be somewhere on the nightstand?” 

No, that was the first place he checked. He looked at the oak side tables, then the counters, and he still didn’t see it. He’d need to be more creative. So, he pulled back the sheets, thinking it might’ve got lost when the maids remade the bed.

Well, well, well… Miguel found the remote, as well as her purple dildo and pink little vibrator. Blood rushed to his face and his dick. Cici said she got distracted, could this be why? He gave himself eight seconds to look at them, imagining her playing with herself in this very bed, before covering them with the 1,000 thread count sheets. Any longer than eight seconds and he wouldn’t be able to hide his boner.

“Did you find it?” 

Miguel’s head snapped up, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Cici glowed in the warm light, soft and hazy. She shed her robe and revealed a lavender sleep set with short shorts and a strappy little tank top. This only made his mental image stronger, thinking how easy it would be to slide the straps off her shoulders and the shorts to the side.

“Yeah,” he stammered, “nightstand, like you said.” He slowly and discretely moved the sheets to cover his lap. She slid into bed beside him, and he resisted the urge to lean in and sniff. Sweet, like sugar and vanilla. His teeth ached; he wanted to take a bite.

“Good! I should chastise you for wearing outside clothes in bed, but I’m too hungry to worry about that. Now show me what you got.”

 He made a mental note if he was ever invited back to bring a separate set of clothes. Miguel could’ve been stewing by himself with a case of beers, or worse, but Cici sought time with him. He needed to do right by her.

“Wouldn’t want you wasting away…”

Miguel took his time showing her all his favorites: a variety of tacos and sopes, empanadas and chimichurri he could never resist, fresh chips, queso, and guacamole he figured she would like, and two slices of tres leches since she insisted he get food that would cheer him up. He brought a feast, figuring he might as well cheat on his diet.

Cici munched on chips while he flicked through the channels. A bead of queso stuck to her lip, and he did his best to ignore what it looked like. He landed on Jurassic Park, still on the opening credits. Miguel knew the movie like the back of his hand, watching it at least a dozen times and reading the original book, and he couldn’t resist nerding out. Cici encouraged him, letting him add the trivia and behind-the-scenes info that anyone else would’ve told him to shut up about. 

Cici moved closer to him, leaning slightly on his shoulder. Grimacing, he pulled back at her touch, and she mistook his withdrawal for physical pain rather than emotional. 

Her eyes trailed from his shoulder down to his hand, black and blue and rubbed raw. She chewed her bottom lip. “Do you want some pain med? I’ve got some Ibuprofen and some Tylenol stashed away.”

His instinct was to brush her off, but she looked so damn concerned. A furrow in her brow, her blue eyes turned glassy, and her hand wavered near his. He relented, seeing how much she wanted to help him, and it did hurt. 

She scurried away for pain medicine, and she returned with an armful of goodies. Miguel arched an eyebrow. “What’s all this?”

“I figured anything I gave Nick after he took a beating you might appreciate, too. I’ve got Tylenol, Ibuprofen, and Advil. This is a heating pad I keep tucked away in my suitcase, and some icy hot if your muscles are sore.”

He whistled appreciatively, eyeing the Ibuprofen. Miguel thought of the bottle stuck in his duffle bag he couldn’t open. Cici caught his eye and asked if he wanted some. Bashful, he nodded his head. 

Cici sat back down in bed beside him, her shoulder pressed to his, and her hair brushing against him. Miguel could still smell her sugary products, and he clenched his jaw. He flexed his hand open and closed, distracting himself from leaning in and sniffing her, or worse, licking along her neck. Miguel wondered if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. 

“Is your hand bothering you? Do you want me to rub it?”

Fuck. Cici didn’t even know what she was saying to him, or at least, how he heard it. “It’s fine,” he insisted, his hand frozen at his side. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said matter-of-factly, “but that doesn’t mean you have to refuse any help.”

Miguel rolled his eyes and held his hand out to her. If Cici wanted to be so persistent, then who was he to stand in her way? She spread some of her lotion on his hand, rich with cinnamon and vanilla, and gingerly pressed against the palm of his hand. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against him. 

Fuck… He bit his tongue, holding back a moan. Cici’s gentle touch both soothed him and riled him up. She was so careful and precise, her fingers moving gently over his hand and wrist. Miguel was grateful her eyes were glued to the screen so she wouldn’t see how his face flushed and his dick twitched. 

She focused on his hand and wrist, soothing the irritated skin and muscles. Miguel couldn’t remember the last time someone cared for him. His last serious relationship was years ago, and his mother was never an affectionate person. Cici made it so damn hard for him not to develop feelings for her, more than friendship feelings, and he cursed himself for letting it go so far.

Within twenty minutes, she was asleep, curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder and her hand tangled in his. Miguel let her stay there until the credits rolled. Why bother her?

“Cici,” Miguel rasped, nudging her side, “it’s over.” 

She blinked slowly, embarrassed she fell asleep. Miguel was the one who took a beating, and here she was nodding off against his shoulder. Cici took a deep breath in, and his cologne overpowered her senses. “Sorry,” sleep slurred her words, “you could’ve woken me up.” 

He shrugged, handing her the remote. “You need your beauty sleep, princess.”

She resisted the urge to smack him with a pillow as he climbed out of bed. But, Cici stayed put, too comfortable to move. “How long are you going to call me princess?”

“Until you stop acting like one,” Miguel smirked as he stepped out of her reach. She watched him crouch down to lace his shoes, and he checked his pockets for his keys and wallet. 

Cici checked the time and her notifications, pausing her scrolling to look back at him. “I know I fell asleep, but I had a nice time. We don’t always have to go out, if you don’t want to.”

His voice softened, and he avoided her eyes. “Me too, anytime.”

“Text me when you get back to your hotel.” She pulled the covers to her chin, colder now without him. “I’d hate to think you hit a deer and were lying in a ditch somewhere.”

Miguel chuckled deeply, his chest rumbling. “I appreciate it. Have a good night, princess.”

Cici needed to think of a good nickname to get back at him, but she was too tired at the moment. She settled with something simple, her usual for him, “Goodnight, Miggy.” 

He left, his gigantic frame blocking the hallway light from spilling in through the door. She curled up against the pillows, absorbing the last of the warmth from where he sat. Cici didn’t realize how cold she was until he left. As much as Miguel teased her, she did need her beauty sleep, and competition weekends were grueling for her, too. She was ready to go back to sleep.

Knocking on the door disturbed her, and she wondered what Miguel could’ve forgotten. She shivered when she stood, wishing she hadn’t left her robe in the bathroom, and crossed to open the door. Instead, she found Nick with a troubled face and a milkshake in his hand.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Cici stepped aside to let him in. She gestured for him to sit in one of the armchairs, but he brushed her off, standing by the door instead. His blue eyes, the same as hers, scanned the room, pausing on the takeout containers. He was making her nervous, and she wanted him to get on with it. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Just,” he sighed, shuffling his booted feet and avoiding her eyes, “be careful with Miguel, okay?”

Cici’s eyebrows furrowed together, and she crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

Exasperated, Nick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Exactly what I said, Cici, be careful.” He dropped his hand and looked at her sympathetically. “He has a reputation, and if you keep hanging out with him, people are going to talk.”

Cici huffed. “We’re friends, nothing more. People can say whatever they want to say. But he and I both know it’s nothing more than friendship, and it never will be.” 

Cici wasn’t stupid. She knew what people thought, and she didn’t care. They were wrong.

He lowered his voice and his eyes flicked toward the door. “Does he know that? Does Josh know that?”

Cici’s blood boiled. How dare he? “I don’t appreciate your tone, Nick, and if that’s all you have to say, I’d like for you to leave my room.” 

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m just looking out for you.” Nick hesitated in the doorway, his heavy hand gripping the frame. “I don’t want to see you get hurt by him or what people say.” 

“Thanks for your concern.” Cici closed and bolted the door, but she could still hear Nick muttering curses under his breath.

Admittedly, Miguel panicked when he saw Nick in the elevator. Nick was returning when Miguel was leaving, and he did the awkward head nod to acknowledge him. Nick reciprocated, and Miguel tapped the close door button as inconspicuously as he could. 

He texted Cici when he parked in the hotel parking lot, as promised. Didn’t see a single deer, just an armadillo that has seen better days. She put a little heart on the message and sent a gif of a sleeping crescent moon. Not that he would be sleeping anytime soon…

Guilt didn’t stop him from jerking off to her. For every “she has a boyfriend” or they’re “just friends”, he imagined her soft, pale thighs spread wide, her brows creased in focus, and the little drop of mouth. He fantasized about the sweet, needy little sounds she would make as she fucked herself silly. He saw her toys, which would only be the warm-up for him, and he thought of her crying out for him.

Miguel wasn’t even fully satisfied, huffing and puffing, one hand pressed against the tile shower wall, and the other wrapped around his cock, cum spilling across his fingers. 

“Fuck…” he moaned, his head hanging and his chest heaving.

Taglist: @tojishugetiddies

[somediyprojects]

DIY Latch Hook Rug

Project by Jessica Marquez:

Latch hooking is something I did when I was young, and just thinking about making this project filled me with nostalgia — joyful, creative play with zero pressure. One thing that I forgot was just how long a project like this can take. Give yourself at least a few weeks to make this, but don’t be discouraged by the time commitment. It’s an incredibly satisfying project to complete. With quick craft projects, you rarely develop the rhythm that comes from a longer craft process, like latch hooking, knitting, or embroidery. It’s physical and meditative. I’ve always loved the process of making as much as — and sometimes even more than — the finished piece itself. Plus, it’s the perfect time of year to get cozy while making a warm rug and binge-watching your favorite shows. (I highly recommend the shows I devoured while making this: Chef’s Table and Master of None). My motivation for this rug was the thought of waking up on a cold morning and having the first thing I touch be a warm, fluffy handmade rug under my feet.

This project is inspired by one of my favorite designers, Beci Orpin, who shared a bold and colorful hook rug project in her book Make & Do. Here I created a unique geometric pattern, reminiscent of mud cloth, with pops of color. I can totally see this looking great as a monochromatic rug, too. I hope you give this a try — I know you’ll enjoy the process and the finished, cozy rug you’ll make. —Jessica

Materials

Printed pattern 20 x 25” piece of latch hook rug canvas Sharpie (Stained Sharpies work well) Tape Cardboard pieces (2) 2 ¼” x 8, (1) 2 x 8” Rubberbands Scissors 2 Skeins of yarn (268 yds each, medium “4” weight) in your main color 1 Skein of blue and white or your preferred colors Latch hook Iron-on Rug Binding

Instructions

1. Print the pattern out using Adobe and select “tile” in the print window. Tape the pattern together. The final size is 15 x 20”. You can also draw out your own pattern using graph paper to map out your design.

2.  Transfer your pattern. Iron the latch hook canvas flat to make it easier to work with, Layer the pattern under the latch hook canvas, lining it up with the grid. Tape in place and trace over the pattern with a sharpie.

3.  Cut your threads. Sandwich the narrowest cardboard piece in between the two wider pieces. Wrap the yarn around the cardboard with consistent tension. You don’t need to wrap tightly. You can slide down and gather the wrapped yarn to fit more onto the cardboard. Once it’s full, cut the tail end, secure the threads with rubber bands and then cut up the length of the cardboard piece on each side. There should be enough space on each side for your scissors to cut between the layers of cardboard. Aim for consistent yarn lengths, about 2 1/4″ long.

4.  Time to latch hook. Color by color, latch hook the rug working side to side, bottom to the middle and then flipping over. One canvas square is one knot or loop of thread(s). Follow the pattern by placing the latch on the top portion of the canvas square. Insert the latch hook into and out of a square, leaving the top of the square under the open latch hook. Slide two pieces of yarn around the latch hook. Pinch the ends of the thread making sure both sides are even. Cross the yarn over into the open latch and pull the hook down through the canvas. Pull the yarn to tighten the loop.

NOTE: When I began the rug, I started out only using one piece of thread per loop, but felt that it wasn’t thick enough for a rug. I decided to double the threads. Different yarn weights might require more or less threads. Different types of yarn will also create different textures.

5.  Bind the edges. First, flip over the canvas to see if you’ve missed any squares and fill them in as needed. Trim the edges to about 1 to 11/2” around. Press the edges of the canvas down. Measure out the length of the binding for each side and cut. Place the waxy side of the binding down halfway over  the canvas edge and press firmly with an iron on the wool setting for about 10 seconds. Lastly, give it a haircut. Trim down any pieces of yarn that are sticking out for an even surface.

Tip: You can add a no-slip backing, which also protects the threads from fraying.