#bendy props

[eclipse-studios]

Tutoriel Bendy Props (Part 1)

Hi ! Today there’s a lot to do, because we’re making props ! To appease the gods...

In this first part, I’ll show you how to make the following objects :

Bacon Soup

Vinyl

Film roll of “the End “

Gear

Wrench

Don’t worry, this the same technique for every props, I’ll just guide you through the measuring and painting you’ll have to do for these particular props !

The materials :

EVA Foam, Ultra High Density - 7 mm

Foam Clay

Contact Cement

Hot Glue

Ochre acrylic paint

Black acrylic paint

Cutter

Rotary Tool

Can

The stages of creation :

1. Make a pattern. So this time we don’t have “reel” measures in this game. To solve this problem I used the “Bendy Crack-up Comics Collection” for reference, because “The Illusion of Living” book ( that we’ll make too in one of the following tutorials ! ) is the same size as this cartoon book. For a perfect circle, I often use a bowl or a lid.

Oh, and about the vinyl… It’s a pretty small one you can find in-game, and given the comparaison with the book, it’s a small one so it’s a 45 rpm ( which makes sense since it’s a single ), and for that part it’s important to conserve the standard 17cm diameter. The gear is a 10 toothed one, and i know it’s annoying since it’s hardly symmetrical but hey, cosplay is an exact science !

2. Cut the foam around your pattern : Don’t forget that the props is in 3D so you have to cut 3 layers of foam. For the End Reel, you have to create a box-type pattern because it’s thick. For the bacon soup I just took a can of mushrooms and painted over it for the texture and the metallic feel, but you can cut it in foam too following the same technique as the reel.

3. After everything is cut nicely, you have to glue it with hot glue or contact cement. For perfect seams, I recommend you sand it gently before filling the holes with Foam Clay. For a cleaner texture, you can warm your foam in order to seal it. Sadly, I can’t do that because my heat gun is too… hot and melts away the foam, but a hairdryer could work.

4. Now, it’s time to paint ! So this part, is the longest of this creation. I don’t have real tips for you for this part, apart from looking closely at your reference pictures ( preferably from the game if you’re looking for replicas ).

You start with a coat or two of yellow ochre paint ( yes, like Bob Ross always says ), or the colour you feel is fitting, before adding in the black details ! About the tools you can use, Posca paint pens are the best, but they’re expensive. If you’re patient enough, you can use a thin paintbrush  and go back and forth between coats of black and yellow if you do mistakes ( BUT ALWAYS LET THE PAINT DRY BEFORE ANOTHER COAT, ELSE THEY’LL MERGE AND YOU’LL BE LEFT WITH SAD, DARK BROWN ). It important to have a good painting ocre whit lot of pigments.

Don’t forget, you must have fun so you can add your own references even if they are not canon.

And that’s the look you can achieve in this part ! Congratulations ! Don’t forget to ask me if you need help for your own props, since I keep all my patterns and techniques.

I hope you enjoyed this post format, and I’ll tell you soon about Eclipse Studios !

#biky and orion cosplay #eclipse studios #cosplay #bendy and the ink machine #batim #batim cosplay #bendy #bendy props #cosplay tutorial #props #foarm cosplay #henry stein #sammy lawrence #henry stein cosplay #sammy cosplay

[skxllbxnny]

casually adds keys to my Corner

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #bendy #crafts #props #bendy art #wally's works #wallys warbles

[just-a-space-nugget]

BATIM The End Reel & Fire Axe Prop For Sale

I am selling these hand made one to one scale props I made back in 2020 of The End reel and the fire axe from Bendy and The Ink Machine. I made them with care and great attention to detail.

I am willing to negotiate the prices if needed.

Please share this! I would like for these to go to a good homes.

#Get up to $30 off* when you use my code URKKQZ #nugget rambles #batim #bendy #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #batdr #bendy prop #cosplay #cosplay props #handmade #the meatly

[clonedchaos]

The End Reel Prop

Here’s a little End Reel prop I made a week or so ago! It’s my first time attempting something like this, but it was a lot of fun!!! :D

#bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #The End Reel #Prop #It took HOURS #My art #I am a hazard around hot glue 😭 #art

[carolingarts]

"ᴀʟʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴊᴏᴇʏ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ?"

I won't lie I was *feeling* this. What was supposed to be a few short videos turned into a whole goddamn session. I can't wait to update my William Afton to be like this.

#i was really feeling gender euphoria in this #henry stein #ink bendy #bendy spoilers #batdr spoilers #carolingcosplays #BATIM #fake weapon #prop #cosplay #dad's back #like bob iger coming back to oust Chapek

[cracksh0t]

repainted the axe on my sammy lawrence cosplay recently... need to remake the pants cause they dont fit anymore :(

#crowscawing #crowssillies #batim #bendy and the ink machine #sammy lawrence #batim sammy #batim cosplay #cosplay #cosplay prop #sammy lawrence cosplay

[chibifox2002]

MY TWO FAVORITE ARTISTS MAKING ME CRY OVER BENDY AND THE DARK REVIVAL OVER HERE

LISTEN TO THIS NOW THE LYRICS AND VISUALS ARE ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS

#chibi rambles #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #props to everyone who worked on this srsly

[chronically-ghosted]

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble fanfic #the bubble #pedro pascal #merry thanksgiving nonsense 2023

[mlc-melons]

Mysterious Lotus Casebook appreciation Part 1/x

The more I discover about Mysterious Lotus Casebook, the more I fall in love with the show.

Wang Herun said they used real swords, not prop swords for the fight scenes (I'm assuming blunted for safety). They filmed in summer in 40 degree heat in heavy clothes with heavy weapons and still made it look so beautiful.

She also mentioned that Cheng Yi helped her a lot with the fight scenes and that he's a good person. It's so nice hearing good BTS stories about the cast.

https://x.com/tiff_ilosophy/status/1769402784645013788?t=jug-YYGxfE_edDrvaCFT7A&s=09

From there, my brain happily latched onto the realization that Dao, Shaoshi and Wenjing were real swords. Not just props. The "dao named Dao", "sword with the red ribbon" and "bendy sword" were impactful to me in building these characters and this world in my head so somehow it was important to me that they were real. Thank you CY and XSY for your efforts in making LLH and DFS come to life and giving us these iconic scenes.

#cheng yi #mysterious lotus casebook #li lianhua #xiao shunyao #di feisheng #wang herun #documenting the cultural reset that is mlc #wuxia

[inkabelledesigns]

Belladonna Nightshade - Halloween Dark Fairy

Base Doll: G3 Twyla from Monster High Clothing Pattern: Dollightful's Asymmetrical Dress (read to the end, I have notes about this)

Happy Halloween everyone! Since becoming a doll customizer, my Halloween dolls are usually related to my favorite indie horror game, Bendy and the Ink Machine. However, seeing as I've completed two Bendy dolls already this year, I felt it was time to give myself a break and try something a bit different. My friends over in DollyAnna's Discord server wanted to do a collaboration, so we decided to all make some Dark Fairies for Halloween!

Belladonna Nightshade is a mischievous fae that loves to play tricks and tempt mortals. That said, she's easily bribed with a sweet treat or two, and will usually let you be if you have a little candy or pastry to give her. I haven't decided what I want to do with her yet in terms of a story, but there is a part of me that would love to have her in my Equinox story.

When you consider the fact that most of my other Halloween dolls are black and yellow, it's no surprise she ended up super colorful. XD Would you believe this is my first doll with rainbow hair? Yeah neither did I, but she is! Part of my style is having really colorful and vibrant dolls, it surprises a lot of people that I've never done a rainbow before, but honestly? I'm glad to have finally tackled one! I'm also glad to have worked with another G3. Twyla is very near and dear to my heart, and I was so psyched to work with her mold! You can't see it in any of these photos, but I used glow in the dark varnish on her eyes and neon markings, so that her eyes still glow like the original. I will say, this doll has a lot more acrylic paint than my others, just by the nature of I don't have any pencils in neon colors. It was nice to get the practice in, I feel more confident than I did before in my brush skills. It was also nice to have a doll with dark scleras for a change! I haven't done that since I made Dreamer, it's surprisingly fun to draw on!

I was inspired by a LOT of different things with this one, and I went back and forth on my concepts a lot. Black light skeleton make-up, butterflies, fairies with non-traditional wings, candy, jesters, these were all sources of inspiration, and I think most obviously of all, Dollightful herself. This wasn't intentional, but I ended up using a doll of one of her favorite characters, with a lot of saturated colors which we know she loves, and even her dress pattern! I've been wanting to make this garment for ages, and finally I had a reason to try it!

So those of you who know how this pattern works are probably asking "Kat, how did you make this fit a G3? This dress is supposed to fit a G1 Monster High doll!" Believe it or not, Requiem Arts has a method for easily adjusting G1 patterns to fit G3 bodies. It's as simple as scaling a pattern up to 104% and printing it that way. It's meant for her garments, but I don't see any reason why it wouldn't work for other doll patterns. So I tried it with Katherine's dress, and I'm happy to say it worked out just fine! I think I probably should have adjusted a bit more on the skirt though. This outfit is essentially two pieces, and the skirt with all the ruffles is a little tight around the booty, it could have used a little more sizing up. So if you own this pattern and want to try this yourself, do keep that in mind!

Do let me know what you think! I had so much fun working on Belladonna, she's so vibrant and fun, I wanna try more fairies like her someday. I also need to try using props more. I got these pumpkins and hay bales on sale, and it was fun using them to craft a little temporary set for photos.

#dollblr #doll customization #doll repaint #ooak doll #halloween doll #doll custom #custom doll #monster high g3 #monster high g3 twyla #monster high custom #monster high g3 custom #monster high repaint #doll photos #doll photoshoot #doll photography #ooak #monster high ooak #longpost

[eclipse-studios]

Tutoriel Bendy Props (Part 2 )

Hello and welcome ( back ) onto this ongoing series of BATIM props tutorial. Today, we’ll make the radio ! And a working one.

This time, Orion was a big helper. He deisgned the patterns, took all the measurements and worked out a way for that radio to swing !

This tutorial will only cover the radio because the process is kinda different from the other props ( that you can find here ), we took extra time and care because we DO wanna listen to Sammy Jam on loop. Best OST, can’t change my mind.

So, you’ll need :

EVA Foam, 5, 7 and 10mm ( or you can use cardboard. Like really, don’t feel pressured into buying those pricey materials if it’s JUST for the radio. Go ham on empty amazon packages and have fun. )

Foam Clay & Kwik Seal, those two are to buy only if you’re using EVA foam. They’re meant to seal the irregularities in foam.

Contact Cement & Hot Glue. Same here, Contact Cement is hardcore glue and isn’t that useful for cardboard, so use Hot Glue instead ! If you use extra-strong glue ( the ones in tiny packages ), be really careful not to put any on your skin ( it burns like hell ).

Yellow Ochre & Black acrylic paint

Cutter & Rotary Tool

little pieces of wood ( like lollipop sticks. )

Snap buttons

Strap ( anything from a rigid piece of cloth to leather is good for what we’re doing here. )

Hinge ( take it from a small box you don’t use anymore. oh, and maybe a screwdriver. )

a mini speaker ! the only thing you’re supposed to buy for the craft. Purchase the cheapest speaker you can find, since low quality speakers perfectly replicate the “no bass” feel of old radios. :)

If you’re looking for the cosplay materials we talked about, visit CosplayShop ( especially if you’re from Europe since they’re Belgian ), but don’t forget, you can use cardboard !

Step 1 : The pattern

The first thing to do is figuring out the pattern. If you already have your Bluetooth speaker, take it in account for the overall size of the radio.

You don’t need to understand all that complicated stuff, Orion figured it out for you.

Sorry for the shaky hand, I did it with my PC’s trackpad.

Step 2 : Cut the foam around your pattern.

The face and back sides will be cut in 0,7mm EVA Foam ( High Density ) ; then you cut the grill cloth in thinner foam, or using a real cloth. It’s important that part stays thin, for the sound to come out of it.

Above, you also have the pattern for the relief, that I also cut in 0,5mm Foam. Use a cutter for this !

The buttons are just two cylinders. Since they don’t need to be working, they’re pretty simple to make. Just make sure you don’t use a material that’s too thick, else it’ll be hard to bend.

The depth of the radio is just a 10cm wide piece of material, cut to the right size, that’ll vary with the perimeter of your own radio : don’t bother with the calculus, just test and cut a bit more each time until you got the right size.

After everything is cut nicely, you have to glue it with hot glue or contact cement. For perfect seams, I recommend you sand it gently before filling the holes with Foam Clay or Kwik Seal.

Now that your radio is in 3D, you have to make the base ! Use rigid, thicker foam / cardboard, or double it and stick it together. There should be around a centimetre between the edge of the base and the edge of the radio.

Now, don’t glue it if you wanna have access to the speaker inside. Screw and / or glue the hinge in order to open it. Place the hinge on the back side of the radio.

Now, the inside of the radio ! You gotta put a strap to stitch the speaker in place : we used a piece of leather but anything will do. To make it sit nicely, you can build a base to put it on. We built ours with both small pieces of wood and foam, because foam is easier to glue on foam than wood.

Now, it’s painting time ! This step is explained in the first part of these tutorials, but I’m sure you can figure it out with reference pictures !

Ta-da !

We personally use this radio as a prop when roleplaying to develop our Alternate Universe, Eclipse Studios ! By the way, we’re working on a new comic I think people will love…

Don’t forget to ask me if you need help for your own props, since I keep all my patterns and techniques.

I hope you enjoyed this post and this technic radio, and I’ll tell you soon about Eclipse Studios !

#biky and orion cosplay #eclipse studios #batim #bendy #bendy and the ink machine #sammy lawrence #batim cosplay #bendy props #cosplay #bendy cosplay #Bendy radio #sammy lawrence cosplay #Henry stein #Henry stein cosplay

[skxllbxnny]

ye ask and ye shall recieve

welcome to my virginity special interest corner. dont mind the ink stains

here you will find:

-a projector

-bacon soup cans (theres 20 more in my closet im being deadass)

-gent pipe

-axe

-film reels

-tape recorder

-inkwell (don't drink it, you'll end up like the last guy. yeesh.)

-several handmade posters

-a shelf made of cardboard

-ink monsters (just tell 'em to shoo)

-a soon-to-be-broken-with-an-axe bendy cutout

-and much, much more!

#batim #bendy and the ink machine #bendy #crafts #props #handmade #wally's works #wallys warbles

[mypoisonedvine]

𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 || billy knight x nurse!reader

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || during his time in hospital, billy couldn't help but fancy the sweet but headstrong american nurse taking care of him. it would've been harmless if it weren't for your own growing crush on your patient: the quiet, gentle man with those brown eyes that made your heart flutter when he looked at you like that.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 9.5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || smut (18+ ONLY!!, male masturbation and brief oral m receiving), medical ethics violation so kinda dubious consent but trust me it is very much wanted, fluff, some angst, touchstarved billy, american reader, mentions/discussions of psychosis and other psychotic patients, brief mentions of SA, hopeless romantic billy, yeah just lots of sweetness with some filth in the middle

"It's important that you stay calm."

That was what made him look at you, scared and confused, before he seemed to finally notice the hand you'd laid on his shoulder to try to soothe him: that was always a risk, touching them without permission, but he'd woken up with a start and been so clearly upset and disoriented, you didn't know what else to do.

Thankfully, as he looked at your hand on him, he stilled, hesitantly leaning back onto the propped-up bed.  The doctors thought it would be better for him if the bed was partially upright while he began to exit his coma, preventing too much blood pooling near the wound at his chest.

You took your hand away as he stilled, and he looked around the white-and-beige room.  "Where am I?" he asked.

"Saint Anne's, South London," you answered.  He raised an eyebrow at you and you figured why he asked.

"Did you think you'd somehow woken up in America?  Because of my accent?" you snorted.

He blinked self-consciously; "Err— I guess not."

"You wouldn't be the first," you assured him.

"What's an American nurse doing in London anyway?" he wondered.

"Not much," you shrugged, "just healing the sick, feeding the hungry— generally being a saint."

He smirked a bit, and you smiled at him in return.

“I’ll be your day nurse while you’re here,” you explained, “so if you need something, you can press this button here— and it’ll be me that comes, most of the time, if I’m not too busy and have to send somebody else.  Anything you need, I’ll do my best to help you, alright?”

A moment’s hesitation was followed by a nod, and he seemed too nervous to even look right at you— he would take these little glances over you, then up at your face, then back down to his bed again.  He wiped his fist under his nose quickly.

“William, is it?”

“Erm, Billy,” he corrected.  “Jus’ Billy.”

He cleared his throat dryly as his voice cracked, and you tilted your head.  “Would you like some water?”

He nodded again, and thankfully you already had a cup of chilled water ready for him— the big kind with a handle and straw, and markings on the side so you could monitor how well he was hydrating.  You picked it up and held it for him, guiding the bendy straw to his chapped lips so he could drink.

You knew already what kind of patient he’d be— the kind who didn’t like to ask you for anything, so you had to figure it out on your own.  There were definitely more like that here than back in America where you’d first started nursing; patients in the States seemed to have a much easier time asking for what they needed.  Here, there was usually some rigamarole to get them to admit they needed something— unless what they needed was painkillers, everyone’s pretty vocal about that.

“Is that better?” you asked quietly as you took the cup away, and Billy swallowed as he nodded.  “I’ll set it here where you can reach it, just be careful with that IV,” you explained.  “How’s your pain?  Is your chest hurting you?”

“N-no, it’s fine,” he promised, “can’t feel a thing… I’m guessing that won’t last long, though.”

You nodded in agreement.  “They’ve still got you on the good stuff.  They’ll switch you to Tylenol by the end of the day,” you explained.

“Afraid I’ll become an addict?” he assumed.

“Not quite,” you chuckled, “afraid you’ll get too constipated— side effect of the morphine.”

Billy choked, face turning a little pinker.  “O-oh.”

You only rolled your eyes in amusement as you turned around to fiddle with one of his monitors.  Patients, and Brits, were pretty shy by your standards; you preferred to be brutally honest, because there isn’t much need for prudishness in a mental ward.  “If your heart rate gets too high, or too low, it’ll page me,” you explained.  “Anything else, press this button here and I’ll be on my way— got it?”

“Yeah,” Billy hummed, “thanks.”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” you dismissed, “it’s just my job, and I love it.  I’ll be back to check on you later, but Nurse Tilly’s bringing you lunch at noon.  You’re not vegetarian, are you?”  He shook his head.  “Great!  Do you want the TV on?  Oh, uh, the telly, I mean…”

He shook his head again, and you nodded, leaving the remote on his bedside table in case he changed his mind.  You could feel his eyes on you as you left, somehow, and his image was still in your mind as you shut the door behind you.  Even as you went about the rest of your shift, checking in on your old patients and meeting some new ones, Billy in room 3041 was in your thoughts.

You didn’t know too much about the circumstances that brought him to your hospital— no one did, because he’d refused to tell police or paramedics who stabbed him.  His chart gave a colorful history— psychotic breaks, episodes of delusion and paranoia, on and off medication for years— but his behavior was so… gentle.  And very few of the people you’d encountered in this line of work were dangerous, despite the harmful stereotypes; but Billy was even more delicate than the usual, even more reserved.  Maybe he’d brighten up a bit when he wasn’t freshly awake from surgery.

Shaking the thoughts of him away and trying to focus on work, you figured it was just a little infatuation with a handsome patient— happens to everyone, right?

//

It had taken quite the effort to get the woman to sit down— she’d been pacing and chewing her nails, and you finally convinced her that it would be better if she was sitting, and she did.  After dodging some questions and looking around at the space behind you as if something was there— which, yes, was kind of unsettling but something you got used to— she finally got on with it and told you why she’d come to the hospital.

"They've put wires in me," she whimpered.  

"I've never heard of that happening before," you admitted.  "I wasn't even sure if aliens are real…"

"They are," she insisted.  

"And how do you know there are wires in you?  Did you see them put in?" you asked.  If she said yes, you'd know her hallucinations were severe, but she shook her head; you took a note of that on her chart.

"I can feel them," she replied instead.  "I can feel the electricity.  They're making me like— like an antenna.  For their ships, y'see?  And it hurts."

Your heart twisted.  "That would be terrifying," you agreed, "and painful—"

"Please, someone's got to take their wires out," she begged.

"Hold on," you tried to soothe her, "I'll check for entry wounds first, okay?  To see if I can tell where they've put them in."

She shakily nodded, looking down at the floor where her feet shuffled around on fleck-patterned tile.

You carefully lifted her hands to examine her fingertips and wrists.  "I haven't seen anything yet," you offered her quietly.

"Th-they hide them," she explained, "so the doctors can't see."

"Tricky, those aliens," you frowned as you nodded thoughtfully.  "They don't want you to get any help, do they?"

She shook her head. 

"But we can help you," you promised.  "If we can't find the wires this way, we should do a CAT scan."

"What's tha'?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just a bunch of X-rays taken all at once," you explained.  "If there's anything metal in you, it'll right up.  They are metal wires, right?" 

She nodded, already seeming to soothe a little at the prospect of a surefire way to find the wires she was feeling inside her.  It made you feel better, too, that you could help her somehow just by listening.

"I'll have the doctors give you a thorough scan," you nodded with a smile, "and we can see what we find, okay?"

It seemed like a great idea at the time.  You started to question it now that it was a few hours later and Dr. Humphries was glaring down at you.

"You ordered a CAT scan for a woman with schizophrenic delusions?" he snapped, looking up from the chart and back at you with a red face and flared nostrils.

"Uh, well—" you started to defend yourself.

"She doesn't need an MRI, she needs to be fucking medicated!" the doctor spat at you. 

Straightening your back, you frowned as you took offense to his tone. "You think I don't know that?" you returned with just as much intensity as he'd thrown at you.  "She's not going to take any pills we give her if we don't take her seriously.  A CAT scan will take a half hour and it might give her some peace of mind."

"Believe it or not, nurse, the purpose of that million dollar machine is not 'peace of mind'."

"Don't you mean million pound?" you rolled your eyes.

"No— you're such a dolt, I know if I'd said that you'd've asked how I knew what it weighed," he sneered, all too proud of his wit no matter how minimal it was.

From inside his room, Billy watched the argument unfold; he couldn't hear much, but he could see you crossing your arms and puffing your cheeks and getting right back in the face of the man in the white coat while he barked at you.  Another nurse was tending to his linens, and she caught a judgemental glance of the spat outside before shaking her head.

"Quite American, isn't she?" the nurse scoffed.  "Can't back down from a fight— or keep her mouth shut, ever."

Billy smiled a little.  

"And she's got no clue how to make a cuppa, either," the nurse added, "can't even use a kettle.  Not sure how she plans to find a husband if she can't figure that out!"

Billy felt his chest warm, and not in the painful way he was used to with his healing wound.  He didn't think you'd have much trouble at all.

//

He could tell you were in a worse mood than usual when you came in— even though he could also tell you were trying to hide it.  “How are you feeling today?” you asked him, a little exasperation tinting your tone.

“Better,” he nodded.

“Not too much pain?  Any soreness?” you continued interviewing him, but his chest deflated a bit as he watched you go around the room without ever really looking at him— you were just going through the motions, he was just another patient.

“Are you alright?” he asked you, and it seemed to break you out of your trance.  You looked at him, and you looked tired— not something he’d tell you, because it would sound like he was saying you looked bad, which you didn’t.  You looked a little sad, really, in a breezy sort of way like you were trying to shake it off.

“Oh, I— I’m fine,” you promised.

"Is that doctor giving you trouble again?" he wondered.  The question seemed to catch you off guard, before you glanced down shyly and then over your shoulder at the window into the hall.  

"You saw that, huh?" you noticed.

"He seems like an arse," Billy decided.

"He's not so bad," you sighed, "he's really smart— problem is he knows it, and he thinks it makes him better than everyone.  Thinks us nurses are basically just maids, too, or secretaries.  I swear, if he walks into the break room one more time and asks where his tea is, I'm telling him it's in the fucking harbor."

Billy snorted at your comment, stammering through his next question.  "Don't have anything against Brits, do you?  'Cause you picked a bad place to live."

You sighed, stopping your work for a moment.  "Well… no, I don't.  But I do have a bone to pick, I guess.  I moved here for a guy— this amazing, too good to be true guy.  Thought we were gonna get married and stuff.  I only thought that 'cause he told me so!  But he, uh… he had a few of us going, actually.  I was the only one who moved this far to be with him.  But after I found out, I didn't have anywhere to live, and I can barely make rent as it is so I can't afford a ticket home… so, yeah.  Stranded across the pond.  Because of some fucking guy."

Billy shrunk a bit inside as he looked at you— he could tell you were trying to be casual and silly about it, to hide how much you were still hurting.  "We-we're not all like that," he blurted out, and you looked up.  He felt even more stupid for saying it now that you were looking at him.  "Englishmen," he clarified.

Your lips slowly curled into a smirk.  "Not all juggling a half-dozen girlfriends at once?" 

"Some of us are lucky to just get one!" Billy agreed, and you laughed.  Your laugh was fucking angelic, he thought; it made him want to jump right out of this blasted bed and hug you, as bizarre as that would be.  Ever since he saw you he imagined you'd be nice to hold, but every day it only got worse— and you were so pretty and sweet, you probably had every patient wrapped around your finger.  You probably thought he was another dirty, sick stranger; you probably thought he was work.  And he couldn't even blame you.

"I guess I'll have to give y'all another chance, then," you shrugged.  Y'all.  How quaint.

"You can probably get a lot of guys' attention with that accent," he suggested.  And that arse.  But he didn't say that.  

"I don't really want a lot of guys' attention," you sighed.  "Just the one."

"Which one?"

"The right one."

His heart hurt because he knew the feeling, the one he saw on your face, the one that made your eyes sparkle differently for a second.

"But I don't have much time for that anyways," you shifted topics quickly, "working all the time."

"Must be tough," he nodded.

"I like it, actually," you corrected, "I always keep busy.  And the people here…certainly keep me busy."

He felt a little self-conscious when you said that.  "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No, not you!" you clarified quickly, leaning closer and reaching out apologetically like you might touch him again.  He wanted you to, so badly, but you didn't.  "I mean the staff more than anything.  The patients are what make me want to come back every day, even the tough ones."

"Am I one of those?" he wondered.

"No," you smiled.  "Don't tell, but you're my favorite."

Oh, you shouldn't have said that— it only hurt him more because he wouldn't let himself believe it.  "Bet you see crazies like me all the time," he shrugged dismissively.  

"Crazies? Yeah," you laughed lightly.  "But I've never met anyone like you."

His face flushed briefly and he looked down at his lap under the white woven blanket.

A page startled you out of the moment.  "That's my cue," you hummed.  "Ring if you need me, please."

He nodded and watched you dart away as quickly as you'd arrived, wishing he could keep you here forever but knowing it was better to let you help the others, too.

//

“Knock knock!” you greeted as you leaned into room 3282 to see the patient gathering her things.  It had been a while since you saw her in street clothes— not since you’d admitted her and ordered that infamous CAT scan— and she looked so much better than she had then.  Her hair was brushed and she was smiling at you, visibly less disoriented even when she was just standing beside the bed.  “I’m glad I could catch you before you left— I came as soon as I heard you were discharged.”

“I feel like we’re sort of meeting for the first time, now,” she explained.  “You saw me a few times the past couple days, but I wasn’t really myself…”

You nodded in understanding, and she bit her lip for a second; you could tell she was getting a little self-conscious remembering how dysregulated she was.

“It felt so real,” she breathed shakily.  “I could feel them watching me…”

“I know,” you nodded.  “That’s how powerful our minds are— everything we know comes from that squishy pink brain, so if it gets the wrong idea, it’s gonna convince you to believe just about anything.”

“You must think I’m an idiot,” she decided, “to ever believe that.”

“Not at all!” you promised.  “Listen, Miss Dougherty— it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  You came here for help, that’s what you should be proud of.”

She nodded, but didn’t seem to really believe you, looking down at the floor.

“Honestly, people believe all kinds of ridiculous bullshit,” you announced, and the crude language got her attention if nothing else.  “Far, far too many people think that the Earth is flat, or that the polio vaccine could cause autism, or that immigrants are somehow both lazy and stealing jobs— or that you can look like Kim Kardashian with just some tea from the internet and portion control.”

She laughed a bit, and you laughed too, even though you were perfectly serious.

“At least we can give you medication for believing what you did!  Those people just have to live with it, that’s the really sad thing.  You take one of these with breakfast every day and you can be normal,” you explained as you pointed at the bottle in her hand, “they’re stuck with whatever they’ve got.  You’re the lucky one.”

“Thank you,” she nodded.  “I’ve been to hospitals before— but you really listened, even when I didn’t make any sense.”

“Hey, it made sense to me,” you shrugged, “I’d’ve been scared, too.  Keep up with the prescription, okay?  Don’t wanna have to see you here again— no offense.”

She laughed in agreement; “I will.”

//

He was halfway through watching something terribly mediocre on the telly when you came in; he jumped up to grab his fork and try to pretend that he’d been eating his dinner, but he started to frown shyly as soon as he caught your disapproving look.  “Billy, you’ve barely eaten it,” you noticed; it was obvious, with three quarters of the chicken breast still on the plate and the green beans untouched.  “Didn’t she bring that an hour ago?”

“Erm…”

“Is it the medication?” you asked, quieter, stepping further into the room.  “It can suppress your appetite.”

“D-don’t make me change to something else,” he blurted out, “I like this one.  I can actually think straight.”

You smiled patiently, and he couldn’t even look at you while you did it— you were so fucking pretty when you smiled like that, it hurt to look at it.  “I won’t make you change medications just because you haven’t finished your chicken, Billy.”

“I was worried Dr. Humphries might—” he began, cutting himself off with a hum.  “He said he was worried about me eating enough on this one, and that he’d change it if I lost any weight— b-but I like it…”

“We’ll just tell him you didn’t like the chicken,” you decided.  “If I bring you an extra slice of cake, will you eat that?”

He had to fight his smile from getting too big.  “I can try.”

“Easier to get down than dry chicken, that’s for sure,” you winked, putting the plastic cover back over his plate and grabbing the tray to set aside somewhere else.  “What are you watching?”

“E-erm, some melodrama, I think.  She’s been cheating on her husband with his evil twin,” he explained, just as the advertisement ended and an inquisitive musical sting indicated the show was back on.

“Don’t you hate when that happens, huh?” you offered sarcastically.  Your eyes stayed on the screen as you sat down on the edge of the bed, right by his hip; his heart fluttered with you so close, the warmth of your body just one pesky bedsheet away.  “Mind if I watch it with you for a minute?”

“N-no,” he assured, voice thin and wavering as he tried to act natural.  “Stay as long as you like…”

Unfortunately, you were interrupted almost immediately as a male nurse swung the door open— Billy somehow felt like he’d been caught doing something bad, when he wasn’t really doing anything.  The nurse said your name and you perked up.  “Been looking all over for you,” the nurse said, with a tilted grin that seemed a little flirtatious— maybe any smile would seem flirtatious when you’ve got perfectly white and straight teeth like those, and sparkly blue eyes and perfectly quaffed hair— Jesus, was this guy a model or something?

Billy hated imagining you spending time with this guy, selfishly.  “S-sorry,” you mumbled as you stood up, “I was just taking Mr. Knight’s dinner tray.”

“Tilly can do that,” the other nurse dismissed with a shrug.

“But she’s busy,” you noticed.

“Could you come out here?” the man asked you, and when you turned over your shoulder, Billy gave you a quick wave as his way of approving your departure.  You smiled at him one more time as you followed your coworker into the hall, just outside Billy’s door.

“Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you…” he heard the man’s voice continue, right before the door shut all the way.

Billy furrowed his brow and turned the volume on the telly down, hoping to hear the conversation better.  He could still barely make it out— and he was afraid if he muted the show, you’d notice.

“...since you came here, and actually, I was thinking—” he heard part of a sentence, but it sort of went in and out.  He couldn’t tell anything else for sure until he heard your voice again.

“I prefer to keep my work and personal life separate,” he heard you say, distinctly, and he couldn’t decide how to feel— excited, that you seemed to be turning his guy down for a date?  Or heartbroken that he would never have a shot with you because of this policy you held?

You never had a shot with her anyways, his inner voice told him.  Well, at least Mister Handsome Nurse Man didn’t either.  Misery loves company, or whatever.

//

It had been years since Billy felt something warm.  He was all too familiar with his hand, rough and shaky— all too familiar with using his imagination to get himself off.  Of course, back at his flat he had porn to ease the way, give him something to picture… here all he had was the telly in the corner and the unending thoughts of you you you.

Just the other day you'd leaned over his bed and he could smell your hair.  He wanted to hold your head and bury his nose in it, breathe the sweet scent of you.

Once he caught a quick glimpse down your shirt before he looked away, out of nervousness as much as gentlemanly discretion.  But he wasn't feeling so much a gentleman now, after waking up in the middle of the night from a dream of you in a more compromising position.

He'd never had an orgasm from a dream, only gotten hard and woken up unsatisfied.  There was a monitor clipped to his finger on his hand— so he took it off and moved it to the other, so he wouldn't have to worry about it or the IV while he did this.

He already had to bite his lip just from slipping his hand into the hospital-issue pants, just from wrapping some weak fingers around his aching cock.  He'd made a bad habit of wanking frequently at home— not much else to do when you're trapped and alone, and it was the only thing he liked doing just as much whether he was off his rocker, or semi-stable, or medicated.  Thankfully, he wasn't on the kind of medications that removed his libido: that, or his fancying of you was just that powerful.

The room was incredibly dark with the shades shut, only half the lights in the hallway on, but even then he couldn't make out any light except for the dots where the strings ran through the blinds.  He watched that window when his eyes were open, but sometimes he shut them— it didn't make much difference, either way all he saw was you.

As he jerked faster on his cock, letting his hand tighten occasionally, he pictured you climbing on the bed and straddling him, resting your hands on his chest (even though that would hurt).  Remembering your hand on his shoulder when he first woke up made it easier to imagine, but he couldn't even conjure up how you would feel inside, how your body would take him— he just had to think about how it would look.

He grunted your name to himself, shutting his eyes tight, trying so hard to think of the way you'd moan as your hips rocked above his.  He wanted to watch you as you picked up your pace, so desperate for pleasure that you couldn't slow down.  You'd be such a wild thing, he decided, just as brash and shameless in bed as you are at work— if not more.  

He would give anything to make you say his name in that exact way, that needy hungry way just like he mumbled your name now.  His hips were starting to rock up off the bed, and he imagined his skin clapping with yours as you moaned louder and louder.  As unrealistic as it was, he was imagining you showering him in praises, so good, Billy, you're so good, fuck! but he couldn't always get your accent right in his head. Please don't stop, god, just don't stop, need t'come—

"All yours," he answered you under his breath, "not gonna stop, feels so fucking good…"

And then he couldn't stop himself from imagining you admitting, in bed or otherwise, that you'd wanted this.  That you had thought of him the same way— fuck, what if you touched yourself, too?  That'd be too fucking rich.  Billy wasn't really sure if girls did that— obviously they did in porn, sometimes, but he knew a lot of that wasn't real.  He heard that most won't do anal, either, but that's different; touching yourself is more normal, more natural, and fuck how bloody natural you'd look on your back with your legs spread, rubbing your needy cunt, begging to be touched, desperate for a partner— for him, for Billy who could fill you so nicely and make you sound so pretty.

He was already so close, in part from having taken a few days off from this, mostly because the thought of you was making his cock fucking throb.

As he got closer and closer to the peak, his mind raced with images of you— but not in the poses of the girls in dirty magazines, not how he pictured you naked, no.  It was different.  The way you'd look in normal clothes, or dressed up for a date.  How it would feel to watch you sleep next to him as the sun's coming up through your bedroom window.  Not just his name on your lips in pleasure, but in casual conversation with others— my boyfriend, Billy— or in a cackling yelp as he made some joke you hated to laugh at, maybe while he tickled your ribs to see you smile— Billyyy, stop it!

Holding the back of your head while he kissed you, your little whimper as you tugged him closer because you needed more.  Putting a necklace on for you, hopefully one he'd bought or made for you, and touching the back of your neck.  Kissing you there— and everywhere— and hearing you hum with satisfaction.  Don't do that, we don't have time before— oh god, Billy, we'll be late if you do that… hm, okay, just a quick shag before dinner.  No wait— just a quick fuck before dinner— the American way.

The intimacy, which sex was only one of his favorite parts of, was what he was imagining.  Cuddling up on the sofa, sharing popcorn at the cinema, cooking for you… that's what he was imagining as he realised he was going to come.

He panted and squinted his eyes shut as he fucked his hand faster and faster, heart pumping hard and fast as well, hand shaky but determined as he chased pleasure right around the corner—

The door swung open and you burst in in a flash, running to his bed, but you stopped dead in your tracks as he pulled himself off— well, not in that sense, like he had been a half-second ago— rather, pulled his hand away and pulled the blankets up, scandalised and stammering.

"Oh, fuck m'sorry— I—" he began.

"N-no, I'm sorry," you insisted, looking down awkwardly, "I thought— your monitor, it was— I thought you were having a fucking heart attack."

His baking-hot face turned down sheepishly, and he noticed the thin sheet and blanket did nothing to hide his unsatisfied erection, the fabric clinging to every contour so you could see basically the whole thing.  He coughed and put his hands over himself atop the blankets.

"I should've knocked— but I was worried you needed immediate attention—" you explained hoarsely.

"I didn't know you were on tonight," he mumbled, like that mattered.  Not as if he wanted any other nurse running in on this.  But it was different, more shameful, knowing he'd just been getting off to the thought of you.

"Wasn't supposed to be, but someone asked me to— doesn't matter," you shook your head.  "Sorry to burst in on you…"

"I wasn't…" he began, questioning if he should say it but going on anyways.  "I wasn't doing… what you probably think I was."

"I-it's nothing I haven't seen before, Billy," you promised, seeming a little surprised, if not irritated, by his obvious lie.  "You're a free man, got every right to take care of yourself—"

"Don't—" he pleaded, before he interrupted himself with a mumbled, "Jesus…"

"I'll go," you decided, "and leave you to it—"

"Christ!" Billy added, almost as if he were just now finishing the curse.  "S'not like I could… do that now, is it?"

"Seems you've still got everything you need to do it," you smirked, and he choked.

"God, don't tease me, said m'sorry an' all," he pouted.

"Not teasing," you shrugged.  "It's natural, everybody does it."

Even you?  "Y-yeah, s'pose…"

"Not much else for you to do here anyway, stuck in bed… can't help if you get horny—"

"Not horny, okay?" he spat out suddenly, and defensively.  "M'just— god.  Just lonely."

He wouldn't normally admit something like that, but it was so late and his chest hurt in a sense totally unrelated to his wound.  

When he heard the door shut, he worried you'd just up and left.  How cold that would be, to leave him alone as he said how lonely he was.

He only knew you were still on this side of the door when you stepped up to his bedside again, your shoes clicking on the floor.

"You should go back to sleep," you noticed.  Then why'd you shut the door?

"I— even if I take care of it, I don't think I can," he admitted.  "Sometimes I have—"

"Nightmares," you finished.  "It's in your chart."

"Please stay," he whispered.  "It's easier with you here…"

"Sleeping, or…?"

"Sleeping!  God, sleeping," he coughed.  "I mean, both, but—"

"I can stay," you offered.

"That was the first good dream I've had in months," he told you, easier to confess these things in the dark.  "The one that made me… like that."

"Very good dream," you agreed with a smirk.

His oxygen monitor beeped softly behind it all.  "Y-yeah…" he mumbled.  "It was— well, I bet you know it was you."

"Oh— how would I know that?" you sighed.

"Because you must have been able to tell I'm proper mad about you," he explained, "aside from just mad."

"I… I wondered if you were," you replied, softer.  "I hoped you were."

Billy, unsure what to say, turned to look up at where he was sure your face was in the room— and he could barely see it, his eyes still readjusting from the door being opened.  Your features were softened when they were lit up in light blue by the monitors behind him.

"I came in here to take care of you," you promised with a whisper.  "It's my job.  Just tell me what you need."

"I need— god, I can't say it," he whined. 

"If you can't tell me, then show me."

Your hand rested for a second on his shoulder, and he couldn't stop himself from grabbing it.  After debating it for a moment, he pushed the blanket and sheet down again, and sighed with a wide open mouth as he guided your hand to his throbbing cock.  It bounced up into your fingers before he'd even finished putting it there, so needy for your attention, so greedy to be finished off after being brought up to the edge like that.  Billy had never had the patience or fortitude to tease himself, the closest he'd ever come to edging having been those times he was on a certain type of meds and could jerk off all day and never come. 

He had the exact opposite problem as he hesitantly let go of your hand and watched you do it yourself, slow and gentle brushes over him, almost reverent in the way you touched him where he needed you most.  He almost didn't want to let go of your hand, he wanted to keep holding it just for holding it's sake, but he wanted you to act on your own: to not feel trapped or forced.  You were so delicate about it— he was so worked up you absolutely didn't need to be that gentle, he probably would've still blown his load if you tried to tug the bloody thing off— and he could see in the dark how little sighs fell from your mouth as you stroked him.

"God, I'm not supposed to do this," you breathed.  "S'it sensitive?  Your heart rate's spiked again…"

"V-very," he murmured out.  "God, you're— god."

"Fuck— I'm really not supposed to do this," you repeated again.  "But I— I've been wanting to for a while… no one's gonna come in while I'm in here, but shit, if someone did…"

It would be a huge mess, for sure, but sort of hot.  Even better if it was somehow another patient who thought they were the only one with affections for you.  Even better if it was that nurse who was hitting on you.  "Never— fuck— wanked a patient before, right?"

You laughed.  "No, haven't given a hand job in years, actually— feels a bit high school, doesn't it?"

"Fuck, wouldn't know," he groaned.  He meant it both as in 'you wouldn't know because you're so good at this' and 'I wouldn't know because nobody was wanking me in high school'.  "Your hand f-feels good.  I-I don't deserve this, I definitely don't deserve this— pretty sure I'm dreaming actually—"

"No, it's real," you promised, "I know it's real, 'cause in my dreams I've never got my work uniform on."

"Y-you don't have your work uniform on in my dreams, either," he joked.

How desperately he wanted to reach out and touch you with one of his hands— it didn't even need to be somewhere scandalous, though he wouldn't mind a chance to feel you up under your shirt.  Even just to hold onto your hip, or even to hold your hand, would be so perfect right now.  But he didn't want to take this too far and ruin it.  It was already too good to be true.

"F-fuck," he sighed as your hand twisted gently when it reached the ridge of his head.  He couldn't remember the last time anything felt this good, just being touched by you.

"Like this?" you asked in a meek voice— how precious, you asking him how he wanted you to wank him.  Even just you asking made his toes curl under the blanket.

"Yes," he hissed, "l-like that… little slower, maybe?"

You followed his command, and his chest reverberated a groan.  He liked it best like this, savouring every second— normally he'd just be beating himself off senselessly by now, desperate to come, chasing pleasure with reckless abandon.  But this was so different, and he never wanted it to end, even if his balls were tight and aching with the need to release what he'd been holding in for much too long.

"I… I can't believe this is happening," he blurted out as he watched with better-adjusted eyes your movements in the dark.  Your pretty, tender hand squeezing his swollen tip, giving his whole length nice, long strokes.  

It was incredible enough, then you pulled your hand away— and he was about to whine pathetically, beg you not to stop, he even thrusted his hips up in the air in search of more— and spit in your palm quickly before getting back to it.

"Oh god," Billy moaned, his head falling back on his pillow as your hand smeared your saliva all along his hot skin.  Your strokes were smoother now, and you could grip him tighter without tugging the skin the wrong way— and he couldn't stop fucking moaning, couldn't stop himself from trying to buck his hips up and fuck your hand.  The sensation was incredible, but the raunchiness of it was what really did him in.  Spitting in your hand so you could jerk him off better, really giving him the proper treatment; his whole body was sort of overheated and numb at the idea that you cared so much about doing this right.  With a dry hand it felt more like you were doing him a favor, but after doing that he was sure you wanted this for your own reasons.  He couldn't imagine what those would be, but he dared not question them.

"How's that feel?" you asked, almost clinical in your tone, the same way you'd asked when helping him stand up or after giving a fresh dose of painkillers.  And yes, he had imagined something like this when you asked him that before, so good to know he was on the right track.

It was sort of silly that you asked when he couldn't stop moaning and writhing in the bed, but he nodded as he answered: "R-really fucking good.  You're so good…"

He heard you hum a bit, a tiny pleased laugh, and he whined pathetically.  You seemed to be revelling in how little you could do to him to make him so desperate.

"So good," he said again under his breath, cock pulsing in your grip.  He was so close but he couldn't let it go yet, he couldn't finish now and just have you clean him up and go: he'd fight it off all night if it meant keeping you here, feeling you, being pleasured by you this way.

"I— I'll get fired if they catch me," you reminded him.  "But I just— sorry, I've been wondering about your cock for a while."

Jesus, she keeps saying things like that and I'll lose it in a second.

"And it's bigger than I thought."

Jesus!  He screwed his eyes shut tight in hopes of staving it off further— he didn't want this to end, you'd just barely started.

"I'm so fucked, fuck, might as well— oh god, you know the saying, right?" you prompted.  "In for a penny—"

"In for a p— oh, fuck, fuck!"

You'd bent down and captured him in your mouth, still stroking at the base with your hand but bobbing your head on the rest.

"Baby," he whined, bucking up into that perfect wet heat encompassing him, "baby, I'll come, god, I'm so sorry— I'll fucking come—"

You hummed around him.  You didn't even stop, didn't even flinch, as he began to spray his come on your tongue.  He grabbed your head and tilted his own back with a loud moan— dangerously loud— as his whole body seized up for a second.  Each wave of it seemed to hit harder than the last, especially when you sunk your lips down further and he could feel you swallowing it, god you were so sweet and you acted like a proper slut given the chance.  He couldn't have made you more perfect if he built you himself.

"Oh, fuck," he sobbed, looking down at you in the dark again, petting your hair, keeping you there just a bit longer as he basked in the warmth of your mouth.  Drool was sliding down his cock and balls in droplets, maybe some of it was his come you hadn't gotten down.  "Fucking perfect," he blurted out.

He felt you smile slightly around him, before you carefully slid your mouth off of his cock and popped back upright again.  "There you go," you said chipperly as if you'd just tied his shoes for him or something— not like you'd just given him his first non-self-induced orgasm in years and easily one of the best of his life, with only your hand and a couple seconds of a blow job.

"I— fuck," he choked, "you— thank you, I— oh my god… I'm sorry, I—"

"Sorry?" you repeated.  "What for?"

"Just— dunno, m'sorry, if I made you think you had to do that…"

"Well I had to do something to get you back to sleep," you joked, making his face heat up even more.  "Of course I didn't have to— actually, I think it might be, um, illegal, so… don't tell, I guess."

As if he could even imagine doing anything that would interfere with the chance it could happen again.  He had no idea if it would happen again either way— but he didn't care, he was still riding the high from it happening at all.  "I— I tried not to come that fast, but your mouth—" he began awkwardly.

"It's sexy," you promised.  "It's cute."

He blinked bashfully, as if he had any right to be bashful now.  "You're sexy," he returned, "really, really sexy, god.  You know how many guys' fantasies you just fulfilled?"

"Not interested in many guys' fantasies," you quipped.  "Just the one."

He beamed.  "Which one?"

"C'mon, Billy, I just swallowed your jizz, don't be coy with me," you frowned.

"S-sorry…"

You leaned down and gave him a gentle peck on the cheek.  "I've gotta get back to work—"

He grabbed your head and forced a kiss on your mouth, hungrily slipping his tongue between your lips and groaning as you relaxed your jaw to let him in.  

He hadn't kissed like this in ages, either, and the last girl he'd managed to go home with after some pub crawling hadn't even kissed him at all; he groaned against your mouth as he moved his hands from your face to your neck, your waist, your back… anywhere he could reach, he wanted to touch you.

He got lost in it instantly, you had to push pretty hard on his shoulders to peel him off, and he cleared his throat nervously.  "S-sorry," he said again, "I— I just had to kiss you, sorry."

"Even after that?" you chuckled.

"Especially after that."

"Even with the, you know, taste?"

"Oh," Billy smiled, "so that's what that funny flavour is…"

"You never tasted it before?" you realised.

"No," he frowned, "why would I?"

"I dunno— I've tasted mine," you shrugged.

"Oh— Christ," Billy choked.  He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to stop imagining you pulling two fingers out of your cunt after using them to make yourself come, bringing them to your slack lips and kitten-licking the cream off your hand…

"Really gotta get back to work now," you insisted, "try to get some rest—"

"Wait," he begged as he grabbed your wrist.  "Stay a little longer— we can just talk, if you want— I should return the favour though, shouldn't I?  Are you, erm… are you turned on at all after that?  If you stay I can help you, too— you can get in the bed with me and I'll make love to you—"

You snorted out a laugh.  "We don't have time for that, Billy, I've already been in here too long, there are other patients—"

"Don't go yet," he insisted again, squeezing your hand in his.

"What more do you need?" you asked, and the question made his heart jump.

"Just some time with you," he explained.  "Just— was that— are we—?"

He stopped as you leaned in and kissed his face again— the side of his nose specifically— gently.  "I'll check on you again in the morning before I go, okay?"

He pouted a little, reaching up to hold your shoulders for a second, before nodding and relaxing back into his bed.

You tucked him in carefully and encouraged him once more to get some rest.  "I'll be back just before shift change at seven," you assured.

He fell asleep so quickly, so exhausted even when his mind was wired, that it only felt like a few moments before he woke up again with a jump as the door opened.  He expected to see you come in, but he frowned at the back of Nurse Tilly, bringing the breakfast cart.  "Good morning, Mister Knight!" she greeted, and he sighed as he glanced up at the clock: 8:30.  He'd slept right through shift change.

"Morning," he greeted her flatly.

//

"I've got good news," the doctor smiled at Billy, tilting his head; somehow it almost seemed condescending.  "You're cleared for discharge.  You’ve healed well and you’re responding just how I’d hoped to the new medication.”

“But…” Billy started to protest.

“What’s the matter?” Dr. Humphries wondered.  

“Could I stay longer?”

“Erm, well… it’s a hospital, not a hotel, Mister Knight,” he frowned.  “What makes you want to stay?”

“I just— is my nurse here?” Billy asked instead.

“Which one?” the doctor asked before seeming to realise something.  “The American?!”

“Err…”

Dr. Humphries scoffed quickly.  “She’s just had a twenty four hour shift, she won’t be back until Thursday.  You certainly can’t be here another two nights with no medical need for hospitalisation.  I’m guessing you’d hoped to say goodbye?”

“Yeah,” Billy nodded.

“And you were hoping to ask her on a date as well, I presume?”

Billy choked, glancing self-consciously at the other nurses present— one of which was the handsome male one from before.  That face had a sort of sneer on it— subtle, but noticeable— as if to say yeah, good luck with that, mate.  “I— I just wanted to thank her,” Billy lied.  He honestly hadn’t been sure if he’d ever get the courage to ask you out, but now he’d never know.

“I’ll pass along the message for you,” the doctor offered, though he didn’t sound too enthused about it.

//

Google, delete history, chew nails, repeat.  illegal for a nurse to have sex with patient, can you lose your nursing licence for sexual contact at work, is masturbating a mental patient crime UK...

The search results were a mix of inconclusive and unencouraging.  They kept talking about why you shouldn’t have sex with patients— as if you didn’t know— but rarely clarified the exact consequences of your exact situation.  You didn’t know if the hand job counted as sex, anyways, or if it really mattered since you were both consenting adults of sound mind (well, some not quite as sound as others, but still), or if this rule really only applied to doctors who had a genuine power over patients in a way nurses didn’t exactly— they just gave more and more scoldings to anyone considering ‘beginning a relationship’ with a patient.  They gave examples that were obviously violations— like a doctor who was tried for sexual assault after convincing a patient that an invasive physical exam was necessary when it was actually elective and not related to their condition, or a nurse who was fired after touching an unconscious patient, stuff like that.  Billy had wanted you to touch him, that much you knew, he put your hand there himself; god, just the memory made you shiver, and you shook your head as you cleared your history again.  There was no real chance anyone would see what you’d been searching up, but the shame that burned in your gut every time you saw your own history was worth avoiding.

The really concerning thing was how little, after all that Googling, you actually regretted it.  Yes, you were fully aware at the time how risky it was, why it was a bad idea, what would happen if you were caught.  But for all this searching up about nurses and patients, it didn’t feel like that at all… it just felt like two people with a basic human instinct surrounded by insanely complicated circumstances.  

It wasn’t like you at all, either, and not just because you’d never made an advance on a patient before: that was obvious.  You usually didn’t do that much even with your actual dates, even with guys you’d met under exactly the right conditions.  Usually, a hand on yours guiding you there would make you shudder and jump away; usually, you wouldn’t even think to touch somebody like that on the first date.  You hadn’t even gone on one date with Billy, though the amount of time you spent imagining it was almost like you were trying to delude yourself into thinking you had.

You’d been daydreaming more and more since you met him about that sort of thing, about what it would be like if you met in some random way after he was discharged from some other hospital, one of those cute ways like in the movies where he helps you get something from the top shelf at the grocery store or you find his lost dog or he just sees you on the street and has to tell you that he thinks you’re beautiful—

Groaning, you shut your laptop and stood up; you were gonna be late for work if you kept torturing yourself with these fantasies.  

// 

Oh god, I’m actually mental— more than usual, he realised as he stood there, holding the pathetic arrangement of cheap daisies; the plastic around them crinkled as he relaxed his grip slightly from the sadness sinking in his gut.  She does me a favour, takes care of me for nearly a week and wanks me off once and I start stalking her— she’ll think I’m a creep.

He’d been waiting all morning by one of the entrances to the ward, hoping to catch you as you walked back in to work on Thursday, but as the hours passed he became more aware of how disturbing his behaviour really was.  You probably knew you wouldn’t see him again when you did that, that was probably why you did it— so you wouldn’t have to worry about exactly this happening, about him wanting more from you.  Hadn’t he taken enough?

Slumping his shoulders, he stood up from the bench and contemplated what to do with the flowers.  He was about to toss them away when he saw someone exit the building, an older woman, crying into a handkerchief as she talked on the phone.  “He’s gone,” she informed whoever was on the other end of the line.  “They just told me— he went this morning.”  

“Ma’am?” he asked her, not quite getting her attention at first.  He stuck the flowers out towards her and she looked at him with a hint of confusion.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“O-oh… thank you…” she breathed, and he nodded at her as he turned and stuffed his hands in his pockets on his way towards the car park.  “Y-yes, sorry, someone just gave me flowers…” she continued as she talked on the phone, harder to hear as he walked away, “no, I don’t know him— some man outside the hospital— they’re daisies…”

He smiled a little to himself as he hopped across the street, jaywalking in a break between cars zipping by.  He’d nearly turned the corner when he heard your voice.

“Billy?” you noticed him, smiling wide as he turned to look at you, standing on the street— walking to work, apparently.  You were wearing your uniform already, and he’d almost missed it, even with how much he’d been dreaming about seeing you any other way.

“O-oh, erm, hi,” he stammered, wondering if he should pretend it was a coincidence he ran into you.

“You’re… you’ve got jeans on!” you noticed, and he looked down at his outfit— just the aforementioned jeans and an old t-shirt, with his hoodie on top for the chilly weather.

“Not much of an improvement from what you’re used to,” he mumbled nervously, rocking back on his heels.

“No, you look good,” you insisted.  “H-healthy, I mean— maybe I shouldn’t have said that, it could sound… forward.”

“Forward?” he repeated.

“Well, I was hoping to talk to you today,” you admitted, chewing the inside of your cheek.  Oh god, I’ve heard this talk before— ‘I like to keep my work and personal life separate’.  “I wanted to apologize.”

“Eh?”

“I shouldn’t— we can’t— I’m sorry,” you started over a few times, “if I exploited any… dynamic, that we had.  I don’t want you to think that because I’m your nurse, you couldn’t say— that you can’t say ‘no’ to me.”

“You’re not my nurse anymore,” he noticed, “I’m not a patient— I’m…”

He wanted to say it quickly, before he lost the courage, but with you staring at him expectantly he couldn’t keep his thoughts in order and he sort of just spit it out all at once.

“I’mjustsomeblokewhocan’tstopthinkingaboutyou,” he rushed.

“Huh?” you frowned, understandably unable to parse what he’d said.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned, “doesn’t matter— y’don’t need to apologise, i-if anything I was gonna thank you again.”

“Well, you don’t need to do that, either,” you mumbled quietly, a shy smile crossing your face.  “We’ll call it even.  You got a happy ending and I get to keep my job.”

“Not quite even,” he recalled, face getting warm as he pictured exactly what he’d have to do to make what happened that night completely fair.  “I want something else.”

“Oh…?” you wondered, tilting your head.

“Your number, maybe?” he finally asked, heart pumping dangerously fast, and you smiled.

“Okay,” you agreed.

“A-and I could call you sometime.”

“Okay,” you repeated.

“And ask you to dinner.”

You smiled wider.  “Okay.”

“O-or I could just ask you now…”

“Okay,” you laughed.

“But maybe I should wait!” he decided suddenly.  “Maybe it’s better to do it later— I don’t know, I don’t do this very often…”

“I noticed,” you smirked, and he blinked at you shyly.

“I-I’m not totally helpless, y’know, I got you flowers,” he informed you proudly.

“You did?  Where are they?” you asked.

“E-erm, over there,” he pointed across the street, and you raised an eyebrow in confusion.  “I’ll get you different ones, better ones—”

“I don’t want flowers, Billy,” you replied, “I just want you to come pick me up when I get off today— my shift’s over at—”

“I know,” he interrupted with a beaming smile, “I’ll meet you by that door and we can go somewhere nice.”

“How about your flat?” you recommended.

“W-well… it’s not very nice…” he admitted, biting his lip as you stepped closer.

“I bet I’ll like it,” you purred, and he couldn’t resist the urge again— he grabbed your face and kissed you, way too needy and passionate for the seemingly-mundane situation here on the street by the hospital. But you hummed into it and kissed him back; he knew he couldn’t blame that first kiss on it being the middle of the night anymore, being all sleep-deprived and desperate, because he felt the exact same way at eight in the morning on a Thursday in the middle of the pavement.

Again, you had to push him back gently to cue him to stop, and he looked at you as your eyes fluttered open and your bitten lips smiled at him. 

“Not gonna run me late to work, are you?” you challenged.

“No,” he promised, “I-I really want to, but no.”

“That’s a shame,” you jokingly pouted as you lowered yourself from your tiptoes and started to cross the street.  “See you tonight!” you called as you went on your way, and he wanted to say something back— something smooth, but anything would do, really— but he just got mesmerised watching you go, knowing the next time he saw you would be for a date. 

He could hardly believe it was real, that he’d gotten this lucky, but he decided not to question that anymore and just accept whatever gift from the universe this was supposed to be.  He was almost tempted to just stand outside and wait for you for your entire shift, but he decided instead that he could at least go and pick out some new flowers for you, despite what you’d said about not wanting them… better safe than sorry.

#billy knight x reader #joseph quinn x reader #billy knight smut #billy knight strike

[authoralexharvey]

INTERVIEW WITH A WRITEBLR — @albatris

Who You Are:

Logan || It/its

Hello! I'm a queer horror novelist and friend to cats from South Australia! I spend my time making art of all sorts, especially relating to my experiences of queerness and psychosis.

What You Write:

What genres do you write in? What age ranges do you write for?

Comedy, fantasy, horror, and sci-fi. Young adult and adult.

What genre would you write in for the rest of your life, if you could? What about that genre appeals to you?

Horror! There's such rich ground to explore in stories of horror and psychosis when you're not an ableist prick about it! There are unique and valuable stories to be told in the overlap here and I'm having a wonderful time weaving my own experiences of schizotypal personality disorder into my horror writing. It's the closest I've come to being able to share my inner world with others :)

What genre/s will you not write unless you HAVE to? What about that genre turns you off?

Historial fiction! I don't have anything against the genre, but it's just not my cup of tea. I'd never feel like I'm nailing the time period due to the sheer amount of nuance and detail that I'd need to have on hand… major props to historical fiction writers, you are stronger and more organised writers than I

Who is your target audience? Do you think anyone outside of that would get anything out of your works?

My target audience ranged from YA to adult, depending on the work in question. I want to speak to primarily people who are feeling disconnected and alone… I guess you could say my target audience is just myself of the past? I'm writing the stuff I needed to read, the stuff that would have made me feel seen and loved and understood. Anyone else is welcome along for the ride though ^.^ I hope others who don't see themselves in my work would catch a glimpse of a different way of understanding the world and be able to empathise and understand, and maybe have a lot of fun with it, too!

What kind of themes do you tend to focus on? What kinds of tropes? What about them appeals to you?

I love all that cheesy goodness about the power of friendship and the human capacity for kindness and connection! My stories, however otherwise horrifying or heavy, tend to come back to these at their core. My works all focus heavily on mental illness, neurodivergence and disability. I also have a soft spot for bendy realities, body horror, paranoia and hiveminds.

What themes or tropes can you not stand? What about them turn you off?

I cannot stand "the whole thing was just a delusion all along! none of it was ever real!" or "ooh they thought it was psychosis but it turns out it was ~magic~! see, our protagonist isn't CRAZY like those actually crazy people!" style plot twists. They're lazy and ableist! In general, I have zero tolerance for anything that demonises psychosis or uses psychosis only as an edgy plot twist.

What are you currently working on? How long have you been working on it?

I have two main projects, "All the Doors are Open", a YA fantasy/horror about the collapse of reality, and "A Rental Car Takes a Left Down Rake Street and Disappears" a paranormal horror about a vampire hivemind. I've been working on some variation of ATDAO for eight years, and Rental Car is a baby by comparison, and was only created last year.

Why do you write? What keeps you writing?

I write for fun! As much as I love to connect with others and allow them a glimpse into my understanding of the world, I primarily write because I just like to have a good time hahaha. It's something I love to dabble in and explore, something I love to wander through, something I keep coming back to over and over. I just feel a pull to it :D

How long have you been writing? What do you think first drew you to it?

I've been writing since I was around six years old! Growing up as a kid with undiagnosed psychosis and delusions, I had a lot of funky weird ideas about reality. I quickly found my reality didn't match with those around me and often turned to fiction writing as a means to express myself in a way others found more "palatable". It's a way for me to open the door to communication!

Where do you get your inspiration from? Is that how you got your inspiration for your current project? If not, where did the inspiration come from?

All kinds of places! Songs, dreams, daydreams, personal experience, conversations… I have a very chaotic brain, I take in a lot of odd information and it all lays the foundation for odd ideas to grow!

What work of yours are you most proud of? Why?

I'm most proud of Rental Car at the moment! It was my first foray into proper full-on horror and my first time writing a specifically schizotypal protagonist like myself, and people have responded with enthusiasm to both! It's become a passion project I really adore and I'm proud of myself for taking the plunge and starting it :D

Have you published anything? Do you want to?

I'd love to publish in the future!

What part of the publishing process most appeals to you? What part least appeals to you?

I'm not sure what appeals to me the most, but marketing appeald to me least hahaha. I'm not really a big presence on social media and I hate promoting myself. I just want to be a hermit. I'm not cut out for marketing myself :P

What part of the writing process most appeals to you? What part is least appealing?

I love editing! I love revision! I love wandering through this little garden I've written and pruning and polishing it. It's my favourite part of the process :D I don't have a least favourite part, at least not off the top of my head.

Do you have a writing process? Do you have an ideal setup? Do you write in pure chaos? Talk about your process a bit.

I have no setup! No schedule! I write when I feel like it and stop the moment I'm not having fun anymore. This has increased my productivity and enjoyment tenfold, as well as improve the quality of my work!

Your Thoughts on Writeblr:

How long have you been a writeblr? What inspired you to join the community?

Around 8 years! I don't remember what initially inspired me to join.

Shout out some of your favorite writeblrs. How did you find them and what made you want to follow them?

@tracle0, a friend and pal, who has some of my favourite worldbuilding of all time and such incredible characters! I've been following them for a long time now and love hearing their thoughts :D

What is your favorite part about writeblr?

I love the creativity and enthusiasm! People have such wonderful brains and I love being able to hear people talk about their work with such passion and adoration!

What do you think writeblr could improve on? How do you think we can go about doing so?

I think… remembering that writeblr itself is not a hivemind! I see a lot of folks lamenting that they feel ignored by "the community" or that the community is dying, and I think a lot of people see writeblr as a huge monolith. It's not! People gotta focus more on finding a few good friends and a handful of works to be genuinely invested in, rather than trying to interact with the whole of the (ginormous!) community, and expecting the whole community to interact with them. Writeblr is a description of a type of blog, and it's incredibly diverse and complicated and broad! You won't vibe with everyone and it's not so much like an official club you join but a shared experience.

How do you contribute to the writeblr community? Do you think you could be doing more?

Man, I'm just vibing. I'm invested in a collection of works I try to keep up with, and I try to keep up with the little circle of writeblrs I'm involved with! Reblogging and getting excited. I'm also often that person who gets bored and goes "heyyyy I'm bored, does anyone have an oc I can draw"… I love doing art for people! Could I be doing more? Probably! But also, I'm not meant to be everything to everyone.

What kinds of posts do you most like to interact with?

I don't have a preference!

What kind of posts do you most like to make?

Rambles, excerpts and art!

Finally, anywhere else online we may be able to find you?

I'm just here, babey! And albatris on NaNoWriMo, too. And I guess if you like you can hit me up for my discord, I help run a small writing server!

#iwaw #writeblr #writeblr celebration #writeblr event #writing community

[perplexingluciddreams]

I wish I have a place to sit that actually supports my hypotonic body properly. Every place I sit hurts my body and makes additional pain and damage.

My muscles get so fatigued, especially on the left side. And it makes such a deep hot ache in the muscles.

The best option I have is bed, sitting very reclined (closer to lying down than sitting) with pillows behind. I still slide down and have bad posture and it exacerbates pain.

I have a specialised chair downstairs, which my OT got for me. Unfortunately, it still doesn't work for me despite adjusting every possible thing on it several times. In fact, I can't even sit in it because it makes me so sore. I hoped for so long that I would get something like this to help me, and it still doesn't work at all. I know I am fortunate to even get this option, but it is really upsetting and disappointing that it doesn't help me. Not to mention how much of a struggle it is to get downstairs in the first place (not only because of this issue, but many compounded issues).

I have trouble holding my head up for a long time, so I put it back a lot which means I struggle even more to make my eyes look at computer screen (because have motor control issue with make eye gaze go to where I want and focus on the right thing).

I also can't lift my arms to use them, even for only a wee bit more than a handful of seconds at a time, without many days of pain. I rest my phone on my chest or stomach and prop it up with my left hand (causing left arm pain), using my right hand to tap the screen or type with swipe-to-type.

I rest my arms as best as I possibly can, but that involves using other muscle groups as substitutes (arching my back to raise my chest, taking deep breaths and holding it to again raise my chest/stomach, etc.), so I get sore and fatigued in my entire torso from the simple task of using my phone.

Any other place I sit during the day (toilet/toilet seat, bath lift, bath, stair lift, downstairs chair) is even MORE work for my already weak and deconditioned and fatigued muscles, so it causes more fatigue and pain. I am too weak and have too low muscle tone to support my own body weight.

I don't have words to emphasise how limiting it is to not be able to support your own body properly. I struggle even to sit in a chair - that most people would consider highly supportive and comfortable - for 20 minutes. And then I spend days recovering from that.

I know I post several positive things about physio achievements recently, which is all still true! But walking is such a different thing, because active movement is aided by momentum (and AFO braces to support my wobbly ankles and bendy knees). Being still is an entirely different thing, because gravtivy fully takes over and pulls my floppy body down with its own weight.

I would have so much more energy and ability to do things if I didn't need to spend so much precious effort on simply keeping my body as well supported as possible, to prevent present and future pain (and recover from past pain).

I just want to be comfortable.

#from the chaos of my mind #autism #autistic #physical disability #physically disabled #hypotonia #low muscle tone #mecfs #cfsme #me/cfs #cfs/me #myalgic encephalomyelitis #chronic fatigue syndrome #chronic pain

[paperclipninja]

Time and memory

This is more a pondering out loud than any theory or idea I necessarily subscribe to at this point, but there's something about time and memory and the wackiness of both through season 2 that has me thinking and full disclosure: This is not a complete thought.

I have had this post sitting in my drafts for about a month because there's some connection my brain is almost making, but can't quite. And during that time a whole lot of ppl have delved further into the time and set/prop inconsistencies, so this post is a little bit sharing a whole lot of the metas I've had the pleasure of reading, and also an attempt to share my own thoughts on it all.

There are amazing posts delving into the time inconsistencies already (like The ineffable discontinuity of time in ALL of Good Omens season 2? and the other work @embracing-the-ineffable has linked in their pinned post that explores this and @indigovigilance's look at Continuity errors is another one).

Then @cobragardens points out these extremely sus time-related situations in 5 Good Omens Timefucks that Haunt me

Then others have pointed out inconsistencies in prop placement, costuming etc, such as They are out of order by @maufungi and @purplewillowchicken's observations about Crowley's chair in the bookshop

But then, THEN, Neil answered an ask about Crowley's knowledge that hand washing would become all the rage during the Edinburgh flashback and his response here (incl. the excerpt "Either [Crowley] has an understanding of science and the world, or he has visions of the future. Or he read up on the ineffable planning a long time ago. Your call") could indeed be very Gaiman-esque teasing or it perhaps a little bit of a hint.

When you take in how many time discrepancies or inconsistencies (whether this is prop or costume inconsistency/changes or timeline ones) there are throughout season 2 and consider that this is a show that is deliberate and fastidious in it's inclusion/exclusion of any details, it has to make you wonder.

Also, in the book of Good Omens, Crowley's watch shows the time for Another place as, "it's always too late" and it's stuck on one time. But in the series, we've never had reference to his watch in this way and the line, "It's always too late" said by Crowley in season 2, is, to me at least, quite ominous, almost defeated, like it's something he contends with often.

There is something about the way he says that line that struck me on first viewing and continues to on every subsequent watch. It's not just that the meaning is a little ambiguous; too late because Aziraphale is already in danger? Too late because they've always been in danger and they're simply staying one step ahead? Too late because no matter what Crowley and Aziraphale do, they're part of a bigger plan that they have no control over or ability to slow down? All of the above?

The way Crowley says, "it's always too late" comes across as quite personal to me. Like he feels responsible. Or, if we're going to go with some timey-wimey bendy-wendy stuff, it's like he keeps falling short of preventing or achieving something he's being trying to achieve for a long time. He sounds deflated.

And yes, it could be the constant looking over his shoulder and never finding peace, absolutely. As I said right off the bat, I don't necessarily believe what I'm writing is true, but more of a fun little "what if?"

There have been theories about time loops and the idea that Crowley (or everyone) is stuck in a loop, and I could see how memory could come into that. I don't necessarily think Crowley's memory has been tampered with by Heaven or Hell, but the idea that being in a loop impacts memory, and that each time he goes around it shifts or alters memories depending on what has been changed etc, totally tracks.

Part of me thinks that playing around with time loops etc is a bit out of GO universe, but then I remember that Crowley stops time and that is pretty darn significant, so anything's possible?

So what I'm throwing into the mix is this - what if time and memory, specifically Crowley's, are somehow connected? More specifically, his involvement in the creation of nebulae aka space, sort of attached him to different timelines? Or allowed him to travel through time in different ways?

Yes, this is whackadoo, but he can stop time, possibly manipulate it, what if he can jump around in it too? What if, just like Adam resetting the Earth, essentially setting it on a new trajectory and timeline, Crowley finds himself in different timelines at different times, trying to get to the one where Earth is safe, he and Aziraphale are safe, where it's not too late?

And what if he's either not aware of it or doesn't know which timeline he's ever in until it is too late? And that's why he doesn't recognise Saraqael and Furfur. Or, what if he has indeed seen the future and is desperately trying to alter the past to avert whatever he's seen? But in doing so, any changes mean that present Crowley doesn't remember these angels and demons he doesn't recognise, because they are a result of trying to alter the outcomes of the future?

I think this is all far too sci-fi and quite unlikely but, if I was going to humour myself a little more, the comment Crowley makes to Maggie and Nina, that he and Aziraphale have been talking for "millions of years" - I always took it at him just exaggerating the time they've known one another to make a point (which, honestly, I still think is the case). But if I wanted to support my own out there idea, arguably, if Crowley was travelling back and forth through time, trying to do whatever he's trying to do, then perhaps he really does have millions of years of conversations with Aziraphale under his belt?

And that's why sometimes props are different or in different places - something's been altered in the timeline and it flows into the present. Then of course there's the idea that the Metatron or God or some entity is manipulating time and messing with everything, again, maybe *insert shrug emoji here*?

Though I do keep coming back to Neil's comment about Crowley having visions of the future. Perhaps it's not so much travelling through time, as being able to see through time? I mean, there's the whole scene that never happened with the dream of the bookshop standing alone amidst destruction and while it's never been said whose dream it was, if I was a betting person, my money would be on Crowley. Ya know, the one who has visions of the future. Because Earth destroyed while the bookshop still stands would certainly explain the "it's always too late" comment too.

So that's the end of my half formed not-really thought. It seems ridiculous to write such a long post about something I'm not particularly convinced about, but I certainly agree there's something funky going on with time and the memory thing bugs me because it's not consistent enough to be a memory wipe situation (I don't think), but it's been made obvious enough we're meant to notice. Either that, or Crowley is just being a smartass which, honestly, is far more likely.

#good omens meta #good omens #crowley #this is a rambly ramble that sort of says nothing in the end tbh #because I cannot for the life of me quite land this thought #al I know is that something is up with time #and my brain wants to know what it means