#copper and iron fic

[ryuzatodraws-backup]

Cowboys are secretly really gay

Coppers and Iron is out with a new chapter

[ryuzatodraws-archive]

Copper and Iron fic inflicted some damage to me good lord

[ashpkat]

do u guys remember alma... i sure as hell didnt till i reread one of my chapters of sons of darkness and stars. anyway. my fav psychic lady (in the au)

[moronic-validity]

Dungeon

Okay, I've been really good about posting 2 a day, so here's a little somethin somethin I didn't bother editing or having anyone else look at because it's like 1k of the worst side of Winter.

This is a stand-alone fic inspired by the art of the incredible @numericturtle

Anyway, 18+ because this is literally just Winter hurting Simon.

Simon had no idea how long he had been in the dungeon. It could have been hours, it could have been days; time lost all meaning down here.

He didn’t know what he did to anger Winter this time, but it landed him here. 

He had been stripped, then told to sit down against the wall while Winter shackled his arms above his head, they both knew he’d have to dislocate his shoulder out if he wanted to get up without permission.

Winter walked into the larger room and stared at him through the bars of his cell. He looked pathetic.

Old and pathetic.

Just how he wanted him.

“Are you enjoying your new home?” He taunted from outside the cell.

Simon looked over at him and frowned.

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Winter’s answer was flat.

Simon hung his head. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” 

Winter smiled.

“That is a very good question my dear Simon,” Winter pretended to ponder the answer before gasping, “Oh that’s right! You were planning to leave!” 

Simon looked over to him, puzzled.

“Winter, I never planned to leave you, I don’t know wha-”

He was cut off by a Winter slamming his hand against the bars.

“I know you were planning to leave. Everyone leaves.” 

The entire dungeon grew colder and Simon shivered. 

Winter opened the cell and stepped in, not bothering to close it behind him.

“But this way, you can’t leave.” He crouched on the ground next to Simon. 

It felt like the only light in the room was coming from him. 

“You’ll never be able to leave.”

It was another two days, by Simon’s count, before Winter came back to see him. 

People came and went, he was given food and water, but it didn’t change the fact he hadn’t moved his arms in multiple days. 

Then he came back, smiling and whistling this time.

“Oh Simon, I think I finally figured out how I can get you out!” He sounded so cheery, like he wasn’t the one to put him there in the first place.

Simon didn’t bother responding, just continued staring forward.

Winter tutted before letting himself into the cell yet again. 

“Don’t you want to hear how I found a way?” He sounded almost sad to not be able to share such joyous news.

Simon looked up at him and shivered, not because of the cold, but because of the look in Winter’s eyes.

“How can I get out Winter?” He sounded tired. He was tired. His hands had gone numb after the first few hours, his joints following suit a day later.

Winter clapped and did a little spin. 

“I’m so glad you asked!” He showed Simon what he had originally thought to be a cane, it had an intricately created copper snowflake at the end. Simon looked back into the smiling face of his captor. “I’m going to brand you!” 

Simon pressed himself tighter against the freezing wall.

“I’ll get the copper so cold it’ll burn. It’ll hurt, but only for a moment!” Winter reassured, giddy with excitement, “And then everyone will know who you belong to, where you belong! Isn’t that fantastic!”

Winter was too busy putting together his plan to register the terror Simon was experiencing, or maybe at this point, he didn’t care.

Winter grabbed the chain connected to the shackles around Simon’s wrists and began walking forward, tugging at it to get him to follow. 

His legs had fallen asleep days ago and he struggled to stand, but Winter’s pace didn’t leave room for him to refamiliarise himself with standing. He did his best to stumble to where Winter was leading him.

It was the center of the room.

“I won’t lie to you, this might hurt just a bit.” Winter warned before bringing the chain to the ceiling. 

Simon felt his shoulders slide out of place and he was sure he would be in pain if it wasn’t for the fear. He could only barely touch the ground if he extended his foot, and even then it was only his big toe that made contact. 

Winter circled him, slowly. It was reminiscent of a big cat stalking their prey.

Simon could feel the air get colder behind him, though he couldn’t see what was happening. He could only close his eyes and hope it would be over quickly. 

Winter had the metal hissing from the cold. He couldn’t help but grin, it was going to work better than he had imagined.

Once he was happy with how cold it had gotten, he placed a hand on Simon’s left hip to steady him, then pressed the branding iron firmly against Simon’s right hip.

His screams of agony filled the small room and echoed. It was music to Winter’s ears.

Did he know the agony he had caused him? Did he care? Winter couldn’t help but wonder if Simon knew how it felt to give your heart to someone, only for them to plan to leave you. In the middle of the night no less! It felt like his heart had been torn from his chest and stomped on. 

This was better. 

He could keep Simon like this.

His property, with a permanent reminder of who he belongs to and what happens when his master was tested. 

Winter pulled the copper brand off Simon’s skin and marveled at his handiwork. It was beautiful. His skin was covered in blisters where the design had made contact, with red around the edges, working almost as an outline. It was a sight to behold. 

It was perfect.

Simon hung limply and cried.

The pain in his hip was so intense and there was nothing he could do to ease it. 

Then he fell. 

The chain holding him up had been dissolved and all he could do was lay there, crumpled on the ground. 

Winter scooped him up, careful to not touch the brand and mess up his hard work. 

“What would you do without me…” Winter mused softly before kissing the top of Simon’s head.

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[tinydefector]

Cybertronian Drinks and Food

So wanted to try and make a little interactive thing for y'all to send in as request. I'm sure you guys have seen this piece I've made for some of the Energon and Minerals the Transformers consume. Send in to my ask box

So I'm giving you guys the power to send in different things from this list to be made into energon drink art. Or edibles of a sort.

Energon and Fuels

Dark Energon

Synthetic Energon

Tox-En

Red Energon

engex

High grade

Energon wine

Energon Z

Natural Energon

Pure energon

Biofuel

super energon

Energon rod

EnerGULP

Diesel

unleaded petrol

95-octane

E10

E85 - flex-fuel

Jet A and Jet A1 Jet B

JET-A, JP5, JP8

LH2/LOX

RP-1/LOX

kerosene

LSFO

Oil

Minerals, Crystal's and Chemicals    

Petroleum

Hydrogen

Copper

Aluminium

Titanium

Lead

Tin

Nickel

Gold

Zinc

Magnesium

Cobalt

Tungsten

Platinum

Chromium

Silver

Manganese

Sodium

Beryllium

Vanadium

Molybdenum

Palladium

Uranium

Zirconium

Bismuth

Cadmium

Mercury

Hafnium

Lanthanum

Niobium

Rhodium

Scandium

Tantalum

Yttrium

Cerium

Plutonium

Lithium

Neptunium

Meitnerium

Seaborgium

Dubnium

Francium

Gallium

Indium

Potassium

Rubidium

Strontium

Thallium

Barium

Calcium

Cesium

Calcite

Pyrite

Copper

Quartz

Benitoite

Diamond

Fluorite

Galena

Garnet

Gold

Oxide

Sulfides

Gypsum

Halite

Phosphates

Sulfates

Carbonates

Iron

__________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

@angelxcvxc

@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

@buddee

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@chaihena

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@pupap123

@dannyaleksis

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@wosemoose1

[finalfrontierpublishing]

So it's been a while since i posted any books - mostly because i've been hiding my progress like a little sneak.

I just finished this bind last night of The Desert Storm by @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, or really it's volume 1 out of like ??? 15, maybe. Please take whatever i say with a pinch of salt (I have had 0 sleep for more than 24 hours, and that tends to make me a little very sleep-deprivation drunk a.k.a. unhinged). Okay, on to thoughts! The Desert Storm was foisted onto me by @celestial-sphere-press who told me under no uncertain terms that I WOULD FUCKING LOVE THIS SHIT. Well, I did. This more than 1 million word epic about Ben Fuckin' Kenobi is pretty much god-tier fanfiction. It reads like a goddamn novel. I can never think of canon again without thinking that this good shit should be canon. I read it and then consumed half of it within a week, and I have zero regrets. @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, i absolutely love you and love your writing. It is the best thing since sliced bread. It is better than sliced bread.

I also had the benefit of @celestial-sphere-press saying, hey would you want to use the typeset? MY GOD, i am grateful. I love this fic, i would have typeset it if it hadn't been typeset but Des did such a beautiful job that i am absolutely in awe and thankful that she and the author allowed others to use it. Look at it - it's so beautiful. I only had to think hey, i just gotta design the cover and et cetera and so the book happened.

Please also check out @celestial-sphere-press 's amazing post here and here, who is the only person i know who's started and is almost complete in fanbinding this epic, and is also making an author a copy of the entire series.

Some stats, if you will.

96215 words || 380 pages

Title font: Ghaomiec

I took some inspiration from starblight bindery's lovely desert scape as well as this amazing cover of Dune which i own. I love that the landscape emanates Dune vibes while being oh so Tattooine - just sand and heat, relentless loneliness and melancholy. This fic centres around Obi-Wan Infinite Sadness Kenobi so it needed SAD VIBES TM, which i tried to deliver in desolate landscape form.

Also thank the heavens for Renegade members, who in a masterful stroke of Group Buy Saves Money, managed to source extra-out-of-production colours of Colibri and help a fair number of us get really cool limited edition versions of bookcloth. I am now a proud owner of a lorge stash of Duo and Colibri of which i am now sitting on like a shifty dragon with a hoarding problem. Good luck getting your bookcloth now, Folio Society, ha ha (gloating)! This particular bookcloth is Colibri Copper which has been wholly stashed for The Desert Storm series. I am leaning on transitioning to Malachite for Rise and Fall when I get to it.

The front cover design was done with a stock image and converted to a PNG, which i then fiddled with and did some HTV magic with. It was remarkably easier to weed than expected. I tried something new and ironed the design on the naked bookcloth first before gluing it to the boards, which was a new challenge in making sure everything was aligned.

Endpapers are marbled endpapers (Renato Crepaldi) which I got from Hollanders, which perfectly fit the colour scheme of the bind. The only hiccup was as I was cutting, I realized the sheet was running in the opposite direction of his usual papers and half the size, and only yielded 3 A5 size endpapers and so my heart went noooooooooo. oh well. i guess i will use it for quartos.

Endbands are my favourite - silk in 3 colours in the french doublecore style (as i was binding this i did not have the mental capacity to handle the difficulty of 4 strands). the truth is i usually only can do 4 when I have higher brain function and am willing to spend 80% of my time unraveling it from getting tangled.

I also forgot to mention I had mild fuck-ups, I got glue on the front endpaper which I had to hastily remove with wet cloth, and the back square is preposterously bad but I'm ignoring it for now.

Anyway, i've actually managed to complete a few other binds which have not been mentioned here as they've all been gifts/ surprises or event books in some form. I am SO EXCITED, also because I am travelling in the latter half of July to San Diego and L.A. and I get to meet some bookbinding friends in the flesh. Renegade is fucking amazing y'all. I am ready to embrace these crazy lads who have enabled me for the last 1 year, even when i'm the solitary (1) weirdo from my country of origin in the server. Also... potentially bookbinding trip early next year??? I am enthused.

[leighsartworks216]

Could I request 56 and 28 kisses? I've been binge reading your Astarion fics....

I started seeing edits on tiktok, and it led to a new obsession, lmao

56 - Angry kisses; 28 - Hard kisses

Ascended!Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I was having a hard time trying to think of situations for this with Spawn Astarion, but this idea came really easily with Ascended on the brain lol

Very short and not proofread

Warnings: blood, choking, biting, spicy, (unhealthy) power dynamics

Word Count: 343

Kiss Prompts

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“What did I tell you?” Astarion growled, fangs bared like a feral animal. His hands gripped harsh at your wrists, holding your hands firmly over your head. His crimson eyes burned like hellfire as he stared you down.

You smirked despite his rage. “To wait here for you to come back.”

He snarled as he leaned in further, nose almost brushing yours. “And why didn’t you, pet?”

“I couldn’t.” You run your foot up his calf, pressing your knee between his legs to press at his crotch. “I couldn’t wait for you.”

He grabs your neck, long nails digging into your skin as he tightens his hold, cutting off air you no longer need. The fire in his eyes, once only comprised of wrath, now intermingles with desire. Lust.

“And why should I please you now?” He tilts his head. “You disobeyed me, pet.”

He can feel the muscles in your throat working against his grasp to speak. He doesn’t let up even as you gasp out, “Then punish me.”

He growls again, deep and animalistic. “You insolent little brat.”

He drags you forward by your throat and crashes his mouth against yours. It’s not soft - it never is. His fangs bite and nearly tear at your lips and tongue, lips forcing your mouth open so he can press his tongue inside and claim you. Teeth knock into each other, fangs poke and draw blood. He bites hard at your lip and you instinctively try pulling away, but he keeps you in place. When he pulls away, his mouth is bloody. You can taste the copper and iron dripping from your own mouth, stolen from some poor sap your lover had fed you several hours prior. The sight drives him mad.

He pulls you roughly from the wall and shoves you to the bed. He uses his thumb to guide your blood to his mouth, licking the pad of his finger with a roguish smirk. “Oh, little love,” he purrs, dark desires dripping from each syllable. “How shall I punish you this time?”

---

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @sylverqueencosplay @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @rosxtinted @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @the-lake-is-calling @nyxmainex @squid-killer @godoffuckedupcats @dontneedbiologytoadopt @dark-angel-is-back @gaymistakeboi

[yeyinde]

I saw ur reply to doll maker ghost and now im giggling and kicking my feet, getting noticed by your favorite author gives you such a high lollll

And im also going crazy that you are going to write it omg can't wait to read the horrifying story you will create i love u

I'm a big fan of morute so had to find a way to combine both of my interests. I just imagine that everything Ghost creates in his shop are a reflection of his soul therefore they are disturbing and ugly but not you, because you were created by the image of someone he loved. And this love obviously was a sick obsession.

Anyway i love you and your writing!!!

someone replied with Galatea and Pygmalion and now i'm 2k into this fic already lmao but thank you!!! i'm glad you're excited for it because i'm having a tonne of fun writing it.

here's the lastest little snippet for ya:

“That's it,” he says, words drawing over your shoulder in a breath as he watches your hand explore the new parts of yourself that he made.

Carved hollow spaces in the gaps between your ribs wide enough for his desire to fit. Pretty face hewn together from redwood, ebony, encased in satin. Velvet to the touch. Copper sutures keeping you whole. Handmade wonder in spun silk.

(Plaything. Make-believe lover. Her likeness rots in you.)

The most notable of these changes is the softness at the apex of your thighs that throbs, empty, just for him. “Go on, pet. Touch yourself."

He seems content today to be the spectator. To watch you fumble with the newness of your body; this prison of flesh that makes you long for your old heart of leaves and twigs stuffed inside the chiselled oak of your bones. But trepidation thickens in your throat.

You've never done this before. You don't know where, or how, or what to touch. It's all so—

Foreign. Vulnerable. Fragile.

(soft. wet. tensile.

you fear you'll break if you touch yourself too roughly. a worry he put to rest last night—)

The heart that thuds, wetly, in your chest. In your ears. Your throat. The uncomfortable fill of your lungs inflating with the stale air of his shop, pressing taut to your bones. The hunger in your belly. The wetness in your eyes. Silken flesh folded over iron bone.

“Simon—” you start, but he huffs in irritation, buries his teeth into the tender meat of your shoulder, biting hard into supple veal.

It hurts. The pain a lick of something you haven't felt since he laid you down on the table in the lab, parted your thighs, and rutted between them like beast. A pinching sort of pain. Deep and vicious. One that hurts the most when he pries himself out of you, unhinging his jaw until his teeth are unglued to the torn flesh, dragging against the jagged wound. 

In response, you whimper, fingers curling into tight knots on your lap. It was better, you think, when you were soldered copper between oak and ivory.

“I don't know how—”

He shushes you, dragging his clothed nose over puncture wounds. “Jus’ like you used to, pet.”

Your throat closes up. He speaks of this person, this you, with such devotion that sometimes it frightens you. Scares you down to your very core—an irony, you're sure, since it was made by his hands. 

And you feel the brag of it deep in your chest. A thrum that reverberate through the old bones you were cobbled together with: an atavistic fear. Deep, unending disgust.

You swallow down the bile that rises in your throat, and wonder what he'd do if he knew the person he's so obsessed with didn't seem to like him very much—

[analogwriting]

Fic Masterlist

It Comes in Waves - Law x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Deep Water Waves, Tsunami, Capillary, Surging, Plunging, Surging, Tidal, Breaking, Internal, Seiche, Spilling, Refracted, Progressive, Kelvin, Corduroy Swell, Neap Tide, Shoaling, Diffraction, Fetch, Grinding, Trough, Whitewater, Peak, Crumbly, Wind Chop, Leftover, Amplitude, Bathymetry, Closeout

Childhood Crush - Killer x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Mo Laochain, Tungsten, Steel, Carbon, Copper, Brass, Alloy, Wrought Iron, Cast Iron, Nickel, Tin, Zinc, Stainless, Cobalt, Magnesium, Bronze, Titanium, Silicon, Praseodymium, Vanadium, Adamantium, Lithium, Bismuth, Gold. Smutilogue (afab, amab)

Star-Crossed - Corazon x gn!reader (Finished)

∞ Zemra, Cridhe, Serce, Calon, Bihotza, Cuore, Sydän, Cœur, Hart, Cor, Süda, Szív, Sartse, širdies, Coração, Sŭrtse, Harts, Sydän, Core, Sirds, Kardiá, Corazón, Smutilogue (afab, amab)

The Other Side of Paradise - Killer x gn!reader (Ongoing)

∞ Youth, Poplar St, Hot Sugar, Tangerine, Take A Slice, Helium, Season 2 Episode 3, It's All So Incredibly Loud

Smut Pieces

∞ Not So Childhood Crush (Killer) (afab, amab) ∞ Favorite View (Killer) - afab, amab ∞ Beer Pong (Killer) ∞ Recovery (Cora) - afab, amab ∞ The Walk-in (Killer) - afab, amab ∞ Heat Waves - afab, amab

[ryuzatodraws-backup]

I’m clashing two au’s here..

In the jazz au, instead of Copia being a singer. How would Terzo feel if he saw Copia entering his jazz lounge, but it’s Copia from the copper and iron fic? Sooo basically cowboy Copia?

LIKE HOW WOULD TERZO BE IF HE SAW COWBOY COPIA?! I KNOW ITS AN ODD MASHUP BUT IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT😭😭😭

god I would nutt so hard

he'll probably approach Copia going all ''seems like you're lost in the wrong time, cowboy''

and copia would say ''eh...i guess youre right. what year is this?''

[ryuzatodraws-archive]

Based on a chapter

[ashpkat]

“i was wrong about you call,” aaron said flatly, “you’re not working for the enemy. you are the enemy.”

—i’ll never/always be with you chap. 10

[sits-bound]

Bound: A Fair Return by thingswithwings

I wanted to bind a fic for a friend, and I decided on this iconic Schitt's Creek fic that was the first podfic they recorded. It is also my longest bind so far, and maybe as long as I'd put in one volume? I don't think it's too unwieldy, though.

Everything was going smoothly - almost too smoothly - when I got impatient and ironed on the vinyl before the glue was completely dry. I suspect that's why the original cover (in "Patrick Brewer button up shirt blue", thank you very much) got all splotchy. Or maybe the fabric was too thin. I dunno.

So I decided to remake the cover in "Patrick Brewer's tight jeans denim" instead. And I think it all worked out for the best. I adore how it looks.

And the holographic HTV? I love how it changes color depending on the light and it behaved quite nicely for me. (Again, patience is key with HTV.)

Gold? Blue? Copper? Depends on the light!

The text block didn't give me nearly as many problems. It all went together smoothly, whew! And my new sewing frame did help when it came to stitching this behemoth together.

Fonts used: Body: Vendetta OT Chapter headings: Didot LT Pro (IYKYK) Title: Gazzetta

Final details... (endpapers came from the Craft Consortium Ink Drops-Ocean pad.)

Incidentally, this is the third gift bind I've made, but due to various factors, sometimes involving the USPS and keeping a package in Miami for TWO WEEKS, this is the first one to make it to its recipient. I am so excited to share the other two!

[simp2537]

John Wick Fic??

Anyone want a platonic! John wick fix x fem! Reader. Reader is a child assassin gifted to John by the high table before he retired. Any takers?

Here’s a sneak peek 👀

𝙿𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚜

The scent of iron and copper stained the area around him as he lay in the ground. His dark irises looked up at the barrel of the gun in front of his head. Corpses laid around his as he breathed softly.

With every dawn a pupillus is brought home

The girl that stood before him was dressed in an all black suit, perfectly tailored to her. Her hair sleeked back in a ponytail and braided. Her eyes cold and hard, like a killers should be. She couldn’t have been older than ten.

Her face still held that childlike glow that most kids her age had. Her Glock was firmly between his eyes. The man she’d shot before, laid dead at her feet.

“Ты Баба Яга?” The girl asked, her voice that of a pure innocent child. (Are you Baba Yaga?)

With every dusk a pupillus is dead. 

John stared at her and he slowly stood up. Her gun trailed him as he towered over her.

“Yeah.” The girl hummed softly. In a swift movement her gun was in a holster at her side. She let out a small sigh.

“Good, I’m your pupillus.” John froze. A pupillus? A child bought, taken, given and molded into a killer. Only the High Table could grant a person an pupillus. Never in all his life would he think that the High Table would gift him one.

With every star a pupillus conquerors

John nodded softly as he moved a corpse out of her way. She moved next to him in a flash, almost inhumanly fast.

“You got a name kid?” John pondered softly as he began to walk away from the bloody scene. The girl trailed behind him, he couldn’t even hear her steps.

“No.”

John rubbed his face as he opened the door to his car for her. She slide into the car quickly and sat quietly. As John shut the car door he groaned softly. He didn’t ask for this, he didn’t want to have to take care of a kid. But the High Table saw him fit he supposed.

“I like Y/n, think it’s pretty.” John mumbled as they drove towards the Continental. The girl didn’t answer, only furrowed her brow.

“Yes it is pretty.” The girl agreed monotoned. As John drove he would glance at her. She stared out at the city with a small spark in her eyes, liked she’d never seen so many lights before. The girl didn’t speak, she didn’t move, to John it didn’t even look like she was breathing.

She looked almost alien to him. Not that she looked strange but she acted strange. She wasn’t like any child John had ever know, and he supposed she wasn’t. Pupillus were meant to hide in plain sight, she certainly looked like a child….. just not her eyes.

With every comet a pupillus falls

John didn’t know it then but this girl would change his entire life. He would name her, he would love her, he would care for her, and she in turn…. Would destroy for him.

These are the vows of a pupillus

To serve, to die, to kill for our masters for we are pupillus

[akonos]

yeehawgust day 1: Gather the Posse

a little cowboy piece for the beloved @copiasass for their amazing fic Copper & Iron