#Perforated Knots

[wickedzeevyln]

Free of This Distance

My heart is calling out yours. One can hope never to reach the bottom of the cup filled with steaming coffee, lost in trance, luxuriating in a conversation wrapped in ribbons of evoking thoughts and decadent flavors. One second after another, the veil is peeled, unmasking secrets until they are naked and the heat floods the senses, charcoal eyes running against the seconds and face tightening…

[shekeepswriting]

A Little More Heart (3)

[Syverson x Reader]

Word Count: 5310 (Someone got carried away. Me. It was me.)

Summary: Sy answers your grandmother's summons for dinner.

Warnings: None

A/N: I'm back from the dead hellooooo! Grad school has truly been kicking my ass. I hope this is a fun surprise for everyone

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Sy was standing three inches from an industrial box fan, sweating his ass off and  questioning every last one of his life decisions when he heard his brother shouting for him from across the garage. 

Easily as tall as Sy but two years younger and with a little less mass, Aaron was the second of three Syverson boys. Unlike Sy, he preferred his hair long and took great pride in caring for it, an abundant mass of dark curls that usually reached his shoulders. But at work, and during most of the summer, he kept it tied in a messy knot on the top of his head. 

“Sy! Phone!”

Aaron moved fast across the floor, hand clamped around the bottom of a cordless landline to block the sound, two cheap blue popsicles still in their conjoined plastic tubes clenched between his teeth. 

“By name?” Sy asked with a sigh as he approached.

Aaron shifted his grip on the phone to take the popsicles out of his mouth.

“Yep. It’s Ms. Bea. We expecting her in for something soon?”

“No, but I drove her granddaughter home last night, so - ”

Aaron’s eyes widened, and he frantically mashed at the button to put Ms. Bea on hold.

“You did what?” he asked, an obnoxious grin taking over his face. 

“Settle down,” Sy mumbled, turning back towards the fan. 

“My permanently single, grumpy-ass older brother drove a girl home last night. I’m not settling down.”

“Not a girl. She’s a woman.” 

Aaron let out a wordless shout, jostling Sy’s shoulder and plopping down on the table beside the fan, grinning even wider than before.

“Oh, there’s no way in hell I’m letting this shit go now. A woman, you say.”

Sy rolled his eyes.

“You gonna give me one of those?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the slowly melting popsicles. 

“Only as a bribe,” Aaron answered, ripping the perforated wrappers apart and holding one out tauntingly. 

“For what?”

“Information, dumbass.”

Sy snatched the popsicle  out of his hand, holding it behind his back when Aaron swatted at it. 

“Saw her walking home in the dark. Stopped to drive her home. Simple as that.” 

“Uh huh. And what earned her the distinction of ‘woman,’ I wonder.”

“She’s a grown-ass woman, that’s what,” Sy said bluntly, stepping out of Aaron’s reach to rip open the top of the popsicle wrapper. 

“Noticed her ass, did ya?”

Sy shot him an unimpressed look, breaking the top inch of frozen blue sugar into his mouth with a harsh bite and holding his hand out.

“Just give me the fuckin phone.”

“Five questions first,” Aaron argued.

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Go.” 

Aaron clapped in delight, taking a moment to think before launching into his limited interrogation.

“Did you smile?”

“Yep.”

“Did she make you laugh?”

“Yep.” 

Aaron smiled again, but this time there was no mischief tied up in it. He looked uncharacteristically sincere.

“Did you get her number?”

“Yes. Last one.”

He squinted thoughtfully.

“Butterflies?”

“Fuck off, Aaron.” 

“Oh, shit, that’s a yes!” But still he wasn’t teasing. His eyes were wide with surprise, his smile still genuine, not mocking.

“Phone.” 

“You could barely grow facial hair the last time you had butterflies! The good butterflies, anyway. Shit, I have so many more questions now.”

“I gave you four, and you asked four. Now, gimme the phone.”

Aaron slapped the phone into Sy’s open palm but kept a hold of the bottom.

“We’re talking about this later.”

“Fine. Don’t tell mom.”

“Fine.” And there was that familiar smile again, the one that rarely ended well for anyone. The little shit. 

Sy retreated to his office in the back of the garage, phone and popsicle in hand, before taking Ms. Bea off of hold. There was little to no chance she’d be able to hear him out on the floor.

“Hello.”

“Hi! Busy day today? Staying cool out there, I hope.”

“Doing my best, Ms. Bea. How are ya? That car of yours still treatin you right?”

“Oh, I’m alright. I haven’t driven in a few days, but as far as I know, it’s just fine.”

“If that changes, you let me know, okay?”

“I will!” There was a brief pause. “So listen! I hear you’re the one to thank for seeing my grandbaby home safe last night.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I didn’t get this far in life leaving my debts unpaid. So you just come on down to the house when you’re through with work, and we’ll treat you to a nice dinner. How does that sound?”

“That’s a very generous offer, but you don’t owe me a thing, Ms. Bea. I didn’t know who she was when I stopped. I would’ve done the same for anyone walking that road at night.”

“Oh, I trust you would have, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve some gratitude, now does it?”

Sy shook his head. If he didn’t make an appearance tonight, Ms. Bea would only show up tomorrow with the promised dinner wrapped up in foil and glass containers. He knew better than to expect this to go away on its own. And honestly, if it afforded him the possibility of seeing you again, he may not want it to. 

“Well - ”

“Pardon me, dear. My phone is being stolen.”

Sy raised an eyebrow. There was a shuffling sound, a sigh, the closing of a door. Your voice came through, flustered and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to talk her out of it, but the woman will not be denied.”

He smiled a little, imagining the look on your face.  

“That’s alright. I had a feelin’ something like this would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just what happens around here. You do someone a favor, they find a way to thank you for it.”

“Oh… I did say thank you though, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he said through another smile. “That’s not what I meant though.”

“So you’re saying it really should be me offering you dinner?” you asked. “Did I accidentally cause a blood feud by not knowing that?”

“Just a short one. Couple decades, tops.” 

Your laugh sounded muffled, like you’d moved the phone down to your chest in an attempt to hide it. 

“So do I have your permission to come see you and Ms. Bea this evening?”

“Depends. Will there be a torch and pitchfork involved?”

“Nah. Lost ‘em both in a poker game.”

“What a shame.”

“That mean I’m in the clear?”

“Yeah, I guess you’d better come around. Especially considering I was sent on a separate grocery run specifically for this dinner.”

“I’d ask you not to go to too much trouble, but I have a feeling it’s not really up to you.”

“Rude but accurate. There’s a whole raw chicken out there. I’m mildly terrified.”

Just as he was opening his mouth to answer, the office door creaked open, letting in a flood of sound and one very stressed woman. 

“Sy!”

“Hold on one sec,” he said to you quickly before lowering the phone to his chest and raising his eyebrows in question.

“Someone up front wants to talk to you.”

Sy grimaced.

“Me specifically or a manager?”

“Manager.”

He gestured her out of the office then followed, eyes sweeping over the collection of cars and people. 

“Aaron!”

“Yeah?” he yelled from under a car Sy had been working on earlier. 

Sy crossed the garage impatiently, reaching down to drag him out from under the car by the ankle. 

“Pretty face up front.”

Aaron groaned.

“I was the pretty face last time!” he complained. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Never been pretty a day in my life.”

“Fuck you. You know there’s no good comeback for that.” 

“And I’m on the phone still. Get.”

“God damn it.” But he was already reaching up for Sy’s hand to haul him up to his feet. 

“Have fun,” Sy called after him before lifting the phone back to his ear. “Sorry about that.”

“No, that’s okay! I should probably let you go. You seem busy.”

“You got me out of talking to a customer. Far as I’m concerned, we can stay on the phone all damn day.” 

You laughed again, but this time you let him hear it.

“Does that mean you owe me a dinner now too?”

“We can talk about it,” Sy said with a smile, turning his back when one of his mechanics looked up curiously at his tone. 

“Either way, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I bring anything?”

“Better not. We’ll be stuck in the thank you cycle forever.” 

That really didn’t sound like the worst thing, but he didn’t want to push you farther than he already was with this dinner tonight.

“Alright. I’ll uh… I’ll text you when I’m on my way then.”

“You mean to tell me you have my number?” you gasped. “How did that happen?”

“Some troublemaker gave it to me at the bar last night.”

“Interesting.” 

“I thought so. Haven’t had time to use it yet, but I was planning on it.”

“Very interesting… Well, I’ll let you go now. See you at dinner.”

“Lookin forward to it.” 

Sy tried to keep himself occupied all day, tried not to leave his mind free to dwell on you or try to predict how this dinner would go. Tried not to let himself be cornered by Aaron. Again. 

He took off a little early, running home for a shower and a change into something nicer than a stained t-shirt before heading your way. Though his warning text had prompted you to share your grandmother’s address, Sy didn’t need it. The town was small enough, and he’d been down to the house before, a couple of times, to drive Ms. Bea to church when her car had been out of commission. But he’d never been inside before, or even past the gate. 

By the time Sy’s shoes hit the driveway pavement, you were rounding the corner of the house in a pale green sundress and a clunky pair of slippers several sizes too big for your feet. Confident, as you had every right to be despite the footwear, but maybe a little flustered too. 

“Well, hello,” he said with a small smile. He let himself look you over, let you see him look you over, but only for a second. Before he could pay you an appropriately polite compliment, you blurted out,

“I didn’t wear this for you. Just so you know.”

Sy’s eyebrows rose along with his hands. It had honestly never occurred to him that you might have worn it for him. But three times was enough to pick up the pattern. Walls up at first greeting. He had to earn your ease again.

“I know you didn’t,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Known Ms. Bea long enough that I’d call her an ambulance if I ever saw her in a pair of jeans.” 

The corner of your mouth twitched up for a second, and you took a breath, rolled your shoulders. 

“Yeah… Sorry, I just…”

“You’re not used to this,” Sy offered with an easy shrug, lowering his hands again.

“I’m not,” you agreed. “I don’t introduce people to my grandmother. Ever. And definitely not…” You glanced over your shoulder towards the windows, lowering your voice slightly. “Definitely not a man I was flirting with the night before.”

“Did you flirt with me? Can’t recall. Where was I when all that was going on?

You rolled your eyes, more tension leaving your shoulders.

“You know I did.”

“Now, let’s see…” Sy said, running a hand over his beard in a way that earned him a real smile this time. “I remember you making fun of my handwriting. Making fun of my pickup lines. Threatening me with a knife.”

“I didn’t threaten you with a knife,” you laughed. 

Sy smiled at the sound. Now he was getting somewhere.

“No? So that was you flirtin’ then?”

“Must have been. Couldn’t be when I asked for your number.”

“Nah, I asked first.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“In my own way.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile was still there. Like you knew what he was doing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed by it. 

“Well, anyway,” Sy continued. “You’re not introducing me because I already know your grandma. And I’m well aware that I’m here on her invitation, not yours. So when I tell you that you look nice, it’s just an observation. No motive behind it beyond the fact that I think you ought to hear it.”

A couple of rapid blinks in surprise, a deep breath, a slow nod.

“Well… Thank you.”

Sy nodded back, and then you were turning in a pretty flutter of skirts, heading back towards the gate with a call for him to follow. 

“Rules of the house. No cursing. No wandering unsupervised. And dinner guests don’t enter the kitchen for any reason ever,” you listed, closing the gate behind him.

“Got it.”

“One more thing. Nana takes hosting extremely seriously and therefore takes my hosting extremely seriously. A lot of pageantry went into this evening. But despite all of that, rest assured you are not being husband hunted.”

“Should’ve left the ring at home then, huh?” 

“Don’t even let her hear that,” you warned with a grimace.

“Wouldn’t let me leave?”

“On the contrary. She’d light the house on fire just to get you out of it.” 

“Well now you’re just hurtin my feelings.” 

You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.

“Don’t go feeling special. She’d do that to anyone she thought was proposing to me.” 

You spun around again, as graceful as you could manage to be in oversized slippers on pebbledash, and Sy smiled at the extra, intentional swish in your skirt as you led him to the back door.

“Ready?” you asked, hand pausing on the handle.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the dogs,” you said breezily as you opened the screen door. 

You were ambushed the second you walked through the door. There was a small black terrier, hopping around on two feet, desperate for your attention, and following behind at a slower pace was the largest boxer that Sy had ever seen.

“Hi, Bertie. Go make a friend,” you said softly, ruffling the small dog’s ears and shooing her gently away from you as you stepped to the side to intercept the dog that was staring down Sy with laser focus. 

Bertie came hopping up to Sy, bright pink tongue lolling out from her underbite as she braced her front feet on his shin. 

“Pleased to meet ya, little miss,” he said with a smile, crouching slowly to give her the attention she was seeking. She was a sweet one, falling all over herself to love on him.

A sharp whistle drew both Sy and Bertie’s attention, but you remained focused on the boxer, who had been leaning around you to take a peek at him.

“Brass,” you said firmly when the dog’s attention was back on you. “He’s okay.” 

Brass let out an unconvinced grumble, going back to monitor Sy until you snapped your fingers. 

“Hey. Look at me,” you said firmly. “He’s okay. Be nice. And I promise you can help me run him off if he misbehaves.” 

You held out your hand, and Brass sat just long enough to offer you her large paw. You shook it gently, laughing at the baleful eyes she was still giving you.

“Can she perform a routine inspection?” you asked over your shoulder. 

“Of course,” Sy said, sitting all the way down on the kitchen floor. 

“Be nice,” you reminded Brass as you stepped aside to let her pass. 

Sy kept still, leaving his hands open and palm up as Brass made a slow circuit around him, sniffing diligently. Up close, she was even more impressive, one of the most solid and imposing dogs he’d ever seen, not yet softening with the age that had a few greys growing around her mouth and eyes. Brass completed her loop quickly, stopping in front of him to stare at him just a little longer.

“Ma’am,” he greeted quietly, and he saw you smiling as you called her back over to you. 

“Got yourself a real guard dog, don’t you?” Sy asked, watching as Brass bumped your hand with her nose before retreating to lay in the archway between the kitchen and living room. 

“Oh yes. The General takes her job very seriously. And she’s not a fan of men. Try not to take it personally.” 

“Ms. Bea named her General Brass?” he asked with a smile. “Or do you just want a dog to outrank me to prove a point?”

“How dare you,” you gasped. “I’ll have you know we named her General Brass Knuckles together.” 

“Well, now I know you’re lyin,” he laughed.

“I would never - Nana!” you called as your grandmother finally entered the kitchen. “Tell Sy what Brass’s full name is.” 

“General Brass Knuckles. Why?” she said, holding a hand out to Sy as she approached with a welcoming smile. 

“Your granddaughter likes to tease me,” he said, squeezing her hand gently in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Ms. Bea.” 

“She’ll do that. But I happen to think it’s a wonderful name. Suits her. She’s tough like me and like my granddaughter.” Ms. Bea squeezed his hand back. “Did you come hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Good! Go on and sit. Table’s already set.” 

Set very nicely too. Cloth napkins and the fancy salt and pepper shakers. Matching serving dishes. Ms. Bea didn’t do anything by half measures. 

Sy took the seat you gestured to, hesitating just long enough for you and your grandmother to sit before he did. 

The way you’d spoken on the phone made it sound like this was an unfamiliar process to you, but it didn’t show. You began serving and passing food smoothly, your expression pleasant but neutral as Ms. Bea took the lead on conversation.

“How’s your family? We’re getting lots of sun this summer. Your mama’s garden must be a vision.”

“She sends me pictures every day,” Sy said with a polite smile. “And she’s been doing her research, trying to figure out what to put in the greenhouse now it’s finished.”

“I think that woman could plant just about anything and make it grow. She has a real gift.”

“That was the plan. As long as she gets some use out of it, I’ll be happy.”

“Wait, did you build a greenhouse?” you cut in curiously, pausing with a forkful of roasted potatoes halfway to your mouth. 

“Not as hard as it sounds,” Sy said, chancing a wink when you squinted skeptically at him. 

“I doubt that very much,” Ms. Bea said mildly, making you laugh. “And your grandmother? She still living out there in the country on her own?”

“Nana, this is out there in the country.” 

“Alright, city girl,” she said, patting your cheek as your mouth dropped open in surprise.

“You were literally born in Brooklyn.”

“Were you really?” Sy asked, surprised. She sure didn’t sound like it, never had to his memory. Her accent was soft, but it was there, syrupy and southern like every other elderly woman in town. 

“A lifetime ago,” Ms. Bea said with a secretive little smile. “Wouldn’t recognize it now.” 

“With how many pictures I sent you last month?” you challenged with a fond smile. “You know, you could come with me next time I go.” 

“You don’t need an old lady slowing you down.” The look she gave you put an end to that conversation, and you raised your hands slightly in surrender. “Now, you still owe me news of my old friend.”

Sy nodded as her attention turned back on him.

“She’s doing alright. Gonna head up that way tomorrow to fix her air conditioner.”

“Okay, seriously? You can build a greenhouse and fix an air conditioner?” 

You almost sounded irritated, and Sy tried not to smile.

“Oh this man can fix just about everything,” Ms. Bea said.

“Wow,” you said mildly, smiling around a sip of water. “Take that compliment and run. I’ve never heard her speak so highly of a man in my life.”

“Oh, hush. Yes, you have,” your grandmother said in a no-nonsense tone.

Hush, Sy mouthed at you with mock sternness when you glanced his way. Your eyes narrowed playfully, and you kicked at his shin under the table. 

“How are those brothers of yours?”

“Oooo brothers. Now that’s interesting.” And that grin you were wearing was specifically designed to get a rise out of him. Sy eyed you, watching that smile widen just a touch before he turned his attention back to Ms. Bea. 

“They’re doing good. Jimmy’s teaching summer school. Aaron’s just the same as always. But he has been eating instant potatoes for lunch every day if you want to have a word with him about it.”

Ms. Bea gave him a knowing look, her pursed lips relaxed into a smile that verged on mischievous.

“I certainly will. That boy get a haircut yet?”

“No, ma’am. Past his shoulders now when it’s not tied up.”

You hummed with interest.

“Did he steal all of yours?”

Ms. Bea let out half a surprised laugh before she pressed a napkin to her lips demurely, regaining her composure. You were staring at him, eyes bright with amusement and challenge as he shook his head slowly at you, huffing a laugh through his nose. 

“Now don’t go giving him too hard a time,” Ms. Bea said before Sy could respond. “He did you a good turn last night.”

“He did,” you agreed.

“You should have seen it before he started cutting it all off. Just as soft and curly as anything.”

“Like a poodle,” you supplied, looking him over with a poorly-suppressed grin, as if trying to imagine it.

“You wicked thing,” Ms. Bea said with a little grin, nudging you with her elbow. “He looked just exactly like a porcelain doll when he was younger.”

Sy took a breath, wishing Ms. Bea would kindly stop digging his grave as your smile grew.

“Oh, really? Do you have any pictures?”

“I’m sure I do. Somewhere.” She squinted thoughtfully towards the living room. “In the old Christmas cards if nowhere else.”

“You’re really not giving up on that, are you?” he sighed.

“Absolutely not,” you answered. “I might have before, but a porcelain doll? Come on, now. I’m not walking away from that.”

Ms. Bea shot you a curious look but didn’t comment, guiding the three of you to a different subject with the confident ease of someone who had been navigating the passive aggressive waters of southern social life for decades. 

Things carried on that way for quite a while: Ms. Bea asking polite questions and you finding ways to subtly or not-so-subtly tease him. 

The plates had long been clear when Brass interrupted the conversation with a single, sharp warning bark, rising from her position in the doorway to bully her way behind the blinds on the nearest kitchen window. Sy heard it a few seconds later: a car making the turn onto the long driveway.

“Were you expecting anyone else?” you asked, glancing to your grandmother with a frown.

When Ms. Bea shook her head, Sy leaned back in his chair, moving his head to the side until he caught a glimpse through the window over the sink.

“Little blue Toyota, looks like.” 

Ms. Bea rose quickly, her lips pursed to the point of disappearing.

“Darling, would you take our guest out to the pool house so he can pick a drink for the road? I’d like a private word with your cousin.” 

Your eyebrows raised, but you nodded wordlessly, grabbing at Sy’s arm as you stood from the table. He followed your lead, letting you tug him along out the back door.

“Poor Kat,” you said once the door closed behind you. 

“Well, she did leave you stranded,” Sy said quietly. 

“Turned out okay,” you said with a shrug, dropping your hand back to your side when you caught his eyes. 

Sy held your gaze with an easy nod, not pulling back or looking away until you took a flustered breath and tilted your head to the side.

“Let’s get out of here before the fireworks start, huh?”

You hopped off the porch steps, following the end of the driveway to a small carport that backed into an even smaller outbuilding. A later addition, it looked like. Several decades newer than the house. 

“You gonna tell me why we’re calling this a pool house? Not seeing a pool anywhere.”

“Patience,” you huffed, skirting around the two cars that were squeezed together beneath the carport. 

You paused at the door, bouncing lightly on your feet as if to gather some nerve.

“Alright, full disclosure, sometimes a lizard or a snake gets in here. And if I open this door and see a snake, I will either fully abandon you to deal with that shit by yourself or climb you like a tree.”

And there were all sorts of things he could say to that, but he chose to keep his damn mouth shut and nod instead. 

You led the way into the tiny building, wading through air that somehow felt even hotter than it had outside. After a second of endearingly impatient flailing, you caught hold of the thin chain hanging from the light on the ceiling, turning it on with a swift tug. 

It didn’t do much for the space, which remained dim and dusty. There was very little room to walk, a thin avenue of clear concrete circled a large tarped object in the center of the room. Boxes, folding chairs and tables, and a long abandoned workbench lined the back wall. To the left, nearly overlapping the door, was a refrigerator and large separate freezer.  

“Pool table,” you said, lifting up a corner of the tarp to reveal a glossy wood corner. 

Sy smiled a little. 

“Pool house. Cute.” 

“We’re unbearably adorable. We can’t help it,” you said breezily, turning away from him to open the refrigerator door. “Adorable and overstocked with beverages.” 

Every Coke product known to man filled the fridge, accented by bottles of peach tea and cans of lemonade. And…

“Are those Capri-Suns?”

Your eyes widened when you followed his gaze to the three shiny pouches tucked away on the bottom shelf. 

“Huh…” you said softly, turning one over in your hand to check the expiration date. “Why does she even have these?”

“Gotta have all the bases covered, I guess.” 

You hummed, turning your head to look up at him. For half a second, you seemed a little startled at his proximity, blinking rapidly and taking a sharp breath. Sy was doing his best not to crowd you, but there honestly wasn’t enough room for personal space. When he tried to back off a little, all he really managed to do was hip check the pool table and throw off his balance, shrinking the distance even more when you grabbed a handful of his shirt in a quick attempt to steady him. 

There was a pause, neither of you daring to take a breath. The hot, still air of the tiny outbuilding seemed to draw in a little closer, barely cut by the draft from the open refrigerator. 

“Um…” You blinked hard, pulling your hand away like he’d burned you, shuffling to the side to earn a few precious inches of space. 

“Sorry,” he said softly, belatedly. 

“S’okay…” You shook your head a little. “Uh, do you want…?” 

You lifted the little juice pouch still in your hand.

“Sure.” 

It took further rearranging to get the refrigerator door closed again, and Sy tried not to feel too bad at the speed with which you rushed from the building. 

The open air seemed to soothe you a little, the sight of you rolling your shoulders with a deep breath greeting Sy when his eyes readjusted to the bright sunlight. 

That playful confidence crept back over you, a little more tentative but still a sight to see. 

“Are you qualified to open one of these?” you asked, tossing Sy his juice. “Don’t know how much experience you’ve got.”

“Plenty,” Sy said, arching a brow at the smirk that set across your face. “Said what I said.” 

You laughed, reaching to pull the plastic-wrapped straw from the back of the pouch. 

“You sure? You can’t brute force it, ya know. You’ll just stab through both sides and end up with a mess. It takes finesse.”

“I can do finesse.”

He took the straw back from you, making smooth and efficient work of pushing it through the clear plastic circle at the top of the pouch. He took a smug sip, earning a grin from you as you raised your hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine. You have the dexterity of an eight year old. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

“No winning with you, is there?”

“No, sir!” you said proudly, glancing quickly towards the back door at the sound of raised voices, your smile fading slightly. “Guess I should escort you to safety.”

You plucked lightly at his sleeve as you headed back towards the gate where his truck was parked. He followed, falling into step beside you.

“Sure you don’t need backup?” 

Through a gap in the curtain, Sy caught sight of Kat, her face pinched, arms crossed. 

“Oh, I’m not going back in there,” you scoffed. “I’ll walk a lap of the neighborhood or something. Go sit by the pond for a bit, maybe.”

Sy hesitated, his steps slowing.

“I could - We could go somewhere, if you want. Give them time to cool off a little.”

You glanced at him curiously.

“Go where?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Wherever. Get a drink or something.”

“Two nights in a row? The town would implode.”

He smiled a little, leaned against the door of his truck. 

“That’s not a no.”

You shot him a look, mouth twisted up in something that looked very promisingly like indecision.

“Should be a no. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“What’s the wrong idea?”

You let out a slow breath.

“You know I’m only going to be around a couple weeks.”

He hummed, standing up straight again.

“Doesn’t have to be a drink. Could just go for a drive. No getting any wrong ideas about a drive.”

“No wrong ideas about sunset on a backroad?”

Sy cleared his throat.

“No ma’am. We’re in for a platonic sunset tonight. It told me so.”

You laughed, but there was something a little sad in it. 

“Drink your juice and get outta here before I do something stupid, please.”

Sy knew better than to push, but damn if he didn’t like the sound of that. 

“Yeah, alright.” 

You made no attempt to mask the once-over you gave him as he got into the driver’s seat. He risked holding out his hand one last time, rolling down the window before closing the door. 

“Mind if I use that number you gave me? Sometime.”

“I think you’d better.”

He smiled at that, let it be a full one, earned himself a smile back. 

“I’ll do that then. Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sy lingered a moment longer, taking in the sight of you barefoot on the driveway, a late summer breeze making the hem of your dress dance lazily around your legs. 

You shook your head at him, shooing him away with a smile.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he could see you still standing at the gate, watching him until the truck tail lights were out of sight.

*****

A/N: Thank you for reading! I've really missed this story. Would love, love, LOVE to hear what you think.

Tags: @firstcashheroathlete @melissareadsstuff @juliaorpll78 @mrsevans90 @kajjaka @kebabgirl67 @foxyjwls007 @luckydiorxoxo @just-chirpin @deandoesthingstome @mindingmyownbusiness @summersong69 @endofalldays01 @happydistraction @identity2212 @henryownsme @mysweetlittledesire @islacharlotte @cynic-spirit @mollymal @emily-roberts @mrs-degenerate @sweetandgentlecreature @paintlavillered @geralts-yenn @enchantedbytomandhenry @sillyrabbit81

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Pairing: Alpha Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha Sam

Word Count: 1261

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter

Warnings: A/B/O, non/con elements , dub/con elements, enslavement, pandemic, non/con drug use, collaring/leashing, forced mating, forced breeding, BDSM elements, show-level violence

*Additional warnings to be added

*Square filled: @spnabobingo -Rut Suppressant @spnaubingo -Sub!Dean @anyfandomdarkbingo - Voyeurism

A/N: * UPDATED 3/24 They say the third time is the charm, this will be the last rework of the Prologue.

A/N II: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

PART I

Five weeks ago 

John had grown tired of Sam’s constant complaining about finishing his sophomore year in one place, so he found a case out west and left his sons in this backwater town. The little money he’d left was running out, and when Dean couldn’t hustle anymore, he took a job at a local garage. 

It wasn’t long after another problem arose.

Dean ran out of suppressants in one of the few states requiring a doctor's prescription. He was unsuccessful in obtaining them through less-than-legal channels. Out of options, Dean made sure his brother had everything needed for a few days before taking off to find someone to sink his knot into. He was chatting up a pretty brunette Beta in one of the low-end bars when their irate Alpha showed, and a rut-induced fight ensued. 

When the local sheriff showed up at the ER, a doctor informed him the Alpha had died from exsanguination by canine perforation of the carotid artery. Dean, because he was now in full rut, was on IV sedatives, and the sheriff ordered him handcuffed to the hospital bed and posted a twenty-four-hour guard so he couldn’t escape. When Sam could not reach their dad, he called Bobby Singer, even though they were forbidden to contact the Beta after their Alpha fell out with the grumpy hunter. 

The young Alphas' words spilled out in a jumble of profuse apologies and explanations, making Bobby’s temper flare. He always considered the brothers to be his kids, and upon hearing Dean’s going to jail and Sam was in North Dakota’s CYF custody, he wanted another shot at the elder Winchester with something more potent than rock salt. Reassuring Sam he’d be there by nightfall, Bobby pulled out his hunter contacts and started dialing, asking everyone in the vicinity to track John down ASAP.

When hitting town, Bobby’s first stop was the CYF holding facility. He presented the fake documentation verifying he was the brother's blood uncle and allowed temporary custody of Sam. Then, to find out what was happening with Dean, they headed to the police station, where Bobby flashed his FBI credentials to the officer in charge, whose response was that information would only be released when his Alpha arrived. He wasn’t allowed visitors except the public defender assigned to the case but slipped them a paper saying that Dean was charged with voluntary manslaughter. 

Unable to do anything else and unwilling to sit around the rental while waiting for their pack Alpha, Sam went to the local library to research the state’s laws on his brother's case. At the same time, Bobby interviewed the witnesses from the bar that night, ensuring no unnatural forces seeking revenge against John had a hand in Dean's predicament. 

Several days later, John rolled into town and went directly to the police station, where they informed him of the situation and then allowed a brief visit with his eldest. His fuming turned into a boiling rage as he walked towards the interrogation room. Out of all the shit Dean had done over the years, this proved what John always considered his subordinate offspring to be, a worthless fuck-up who was only good at taking orders, and John no longer wanted to deal with him. 

Entering the interrogation room, he sees Dean seated at the table, tethered to it by his shackled ankles. The ruddy cast in John’s eyes that'd begun when Caleb found him envelopes his irises, and Dean suddenly found himself airborne, legs flailing as far as the chain aloud, kicks over the chair, then is slammed onto the table, the back of his head impacts the table with a sicking crack, trapped under the weight of his Alpha, his dad, whose hands that used to carry him as a young pup now are wrapped around his throat strangulating him.

Dean flashed back to the night his dad laid baby Sammy in his arms and ordered take your brother outside as fast as you can! And not look back! Over the next sixteen years, John’s mantra, watch out for Sammy, was burned into his psyche, but before he’d even been born, Dean already knew Sam was his in every sense of the word. He was about to lose consciousness when the door burst open, and three deputies barreled and tasered John, shocking the raging Alpha into unconsciousness.

Sam maneuvers around the chaos, drops to his knees next to Dean on the floor and rolls him onto his back, helplessly watches him gasping for air between bluish lips. Sam can sense that dark, angry thing that’s always there, slithering through his veins at the finger-shaped bruising developing around his brother’s neck makes his canines elongate and releases a bloodcurdling wrawl. 

Silence fills the air except for Dean’s rasping breath as he watches his brother slowly stand up, appearing confused as to why everything is tinted a strange color. Sam, scanning the room with his glowing, extraordinary shade of red eyes, finally landed on John, feeling the deep-seat anger that while Dean’s lower status didn’t interfere with hunting, it’d never allow him to stand up to their Alpha about to explode.

 “Son, don’t.” 

Sam finds Bobby’s voice absurdly loud and agitating but heeds the Beta’s advice as the deputies drag the eldest Winchester out of the room.

Twenty-seven days later

At Dean Winchester's arraignment, the assistant DA said that due to the extenuating circumstances, him being on the cusp of a rut, and the Beta’s signed confession of deception in retribution for their deceased Alpha purchasing a House O, their office was willing to offer a plea deal. The Public Defender asked for a brief recess to discuss the terms when John stood up and said, “Your honor, there’s no need for a recess. I accept the deal.”

 The court clerk read the agreement out loud for the record.

 “Alpha John Winchester agrees to procure an Omega for the defendant, Subordinate Alpha Dean Winchester, within ten days from this date and time, and will present them before this court with the proper documentation. If he fails, the defendant will serve the mandatory five-year imprisonment per the state law of North Dakota. At that time, Alpha Winchester must also surrender custody of his other minor Alpha son, Samuel Winchester, who will be taken to foster care and placed in a court-sanctioned home until he is of age.” 

T-Minus forty hours                     

Shouting and loud banging at the far end of the warehouse drew the attention of several patrons and suddenly stopped just as it started.

 “Dean, go wait by the entrance.” 

“What?” Dean snapped without thinking, and John grabbed his leather jacket collar, “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy,” he snarled in a low voice. “I’m having to clean up your fucking mess so your brother doesn’t end up in the system.”  Dean submissively replied, ”Yes, sir,” and walked away with Sam automatically following.

“No, Sam, you’re staying with me.” 

Dean felt terrible for getting his brother mixed up in his mistake, noticing after they’d entered the warehouse, Sam kept trying to hide his natural, recently presented Alpha reaction to the scent of the O’s under his too-short hoodie, now forced by their Alpha to stay in the thick of it, so to speak. He watched Sam reluctantly fell behind his elder. “Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?” The dealer gestures around. “Is there a specific type your son prefers?”

“Dean's preference of type doesn’t matter, but I want one under eighteen.”

Part II

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva   @lassie-bird @nancymcl  @spnbaby-67  @leigh70

Sam/Jared:  @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen:  @thoughts-and-funnies  @stoneyggirl2  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl 

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm

[blue-and-gilt]

17th Century 'Walloon' Sword.

While I've shown this sword before, I've held back from making a dedicated post while I attempted to researched it further. Unfortunately, there just isn't enough information available to come to any definitive conclusions and we are left to speculate based on snippets of information and clues we find in the objects themselves.

This style of sword is typically described and the 'Amsterdam town guard sword.' And is a sub-class of the broader 'Walloon' sword. Calling these 'Walloon swords' is another modern collectors' practice of convenience which is believed to have originated with the French cavalry sword; 'Epee Wallone' which was in service from the late 17th to the middle of the 18th Century.

Walloon swords are believed to have originated in the German states of the Holy Roman Empire during the time of the Thirty Years War. They are identified by the asymmetrical disk shaped guards, solid knuckle guard with two of more side branches. The guards can be solid and decorated with grotesque faces, animals or plant motifs, or they can be perforated. Typically they will have a thumb-ring attached on the left underside of the guard. Blades can be either double or single edged.

The 'Amsterdam' Walloon sword, named because of the Amsterdam Coat of Arms invariably found stamped into the ricasso, is a very distinct sub-type that features a perforated asymmetrical disk guard decorated with pierced suns surrounded by moons. It is finished by a short upturned rear quillon. They have a single knuckle bow which is fixed to the ball pommel by a screw and a thumb-ring on the left side that extends out to the edge of the guard. The grip is wrapped with wire and finished at both ends with a 'Turks head' knot. The blades are long, double edged with a single fuller at the base. They are invariably stamped with triple Xs under a crown Coat of Arms for Amsterdam. The surviving examples are very uniform for this period in time, making it is possible that this was the first European pattern sword produced.

While the link to Amsterdam is clear in the markings, it is unlikely that this type of sword was issued to the cities guard or militia. The number of surviving examples indicate that these were made in too large quantities to have been issued to a small localised force.

During the 17th Century, The Netherlands was a republic of seven provinces. And rather than a standing national army, each province would have supplied and maintained their own levies in times of war. One possibility is that these swords were supplied to the cavalry of the Province of Holland, of which Amsterdam was the economic capital.

Another theory is that the French experience of 'Walloon' swords, encountered during their war with the Dutch in 1672 to 1673. Dissatisfied with their current cavalry swords, French King Louis XIV ordered that his cavalry be equipped with a new sword of the 'Walloon' type. This is discussed in an article in the French magazine Gazette des Armes. However that doesn't explain the presence of the Amsterdam Coat of Arms on these swords. Then again, Amsterdam was a major mercantile center for Europe, and it is possible that the French order was brokered by Dutch merchants who placed their mark on the blades when they arrived from Solingen.

It should also be noted that the Amsterdam mark is often accompanied by the Solingen blade smiths' own mark. On this sword the makers mark is mostly obscured by the guard, but you can just make out the top of a crown at the ricasso (the horizontal stamp is another verson of the Dutch markings).

In the hand, this is a beast of a sword, the grip and guard are large to accommodate gloves and the blade is very long, suitable for fighting from horseback. But despite its' proportions, it is not a heavy or unwieldy sword.

Stats: Overall Length - 1,080 mm Blade Length - 920 mm Point of Balance - 120 mm Grip Length - 145 mm Inside Grip Length - 120 mm Weight - 990 grams

[buckyarchives]

The Domestic Life of Living with a Runaway Assassin [CHP. Three]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x soulmate!reader

Summary: You hate many things in life. You hate soulmates. You hate the avengers. You hate guns, louder snorers, and complicated relationships.

Bucky Barnes is associated with all of those things, yet you can't find yourself hating him.

W.c: 3.7k

Author note: no one: …. The reader: okay but what if I domesticated him? Thank you to @i-l-y-3000 for beta reading this :)

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | playlist

Bucky Barnes' new favorite day of the week is Friday. Fridays were the day you would come home from work, tired legs and bags of snacks from the convenience store a block down from your apartment. And soon enough Bucky learned you were a movie freak, and a music freak. 

Doesn’t matter, it helped Bucky get adjusted with the time and also a great excuse to get close to you. You’d excitedly introduce a new revolutionary and iconic (your words, not his) movie or show. Going on a ramble of the plot and meaning before even pressing play, barely avoiding spoilers with how you ranted.

Though, he didn’t care much for the movie part - at least not as much as you.

“I don’t get it,” Bucky said, Eyebrows knotted as he watched Frank-n-Further chase around Eddie.

“He’s jealous, obviously.” You groaned. Head resting on Bucky's thigh and feet hanging over the edge of your couch. The soldier fought back a blush and more on movie nights, Bucky never understood if it was the movie ambiance or that you used this as an excuse, but you were always so much more comfortable with touch then. He wasn’t complaining.

Last week you had fallen asleep on his chest halfway through tangled, Bucky woke up first that time and tried not to explode from the closeness. Even when you’re starting to get tired, dropping your head onto his shoulder gently, it causes a weird feeling in his stomach that made him feel a little more alive. More human, like he was worthy of these soft and gentle touches. Filled with only innocence instead of malice. It was liberating.

“I really think killing him is a little over dramatic.” Bucky deadpanned. You laughed, it sounded so sweet. Bucky fought back a smile.

You tap at his knee to the song's melody, drawing shapes on his leg while you rest your head on his lap. “That’s Frank’s entire character, Buck.”

Yeah, Bucky really likes movie nights.

Though he was never sure if the tug and intense burn in his body when you touched him was because of the universe or his true feelings. He was struggling with his feelings, his trust towards you since staying. Hell, he was still trying to find his own mind, find himself. Maybe he was too blinded by the mere concept of a soulmate, meeting you was an entirely new things. A good thing at least, especially for the time in which he met you. Many, many things could have gone wrong when you met. This was the best thing to happen to Bucky since before the war. 

Bucky wasn’t sure how long I’d last, if you wanted this to be permanent, I’d be hard. They’d come for him eventually, or he’d have to leave. Something would go wrong, it always did. So Bucky forced himself to live in this moment, don’t forget - don’t you ever forget the way her skin feels grazing across yours, he would tell himself. 

You raised your head, cold enveloped Bucky and his gaze flicked to you. You sat on your knees and shooed him, “move over, my legs are going numb hanging off the side.”

Bucky nodded, though unsure of what you meant by ‘move’. He was already at the edge of the couch and there was no way you’d fit —

Your knees caged his right leg, one hand on his chest and the other drifting to the side of his waist and at the edge of the couch. Dear gods, this is what dying must feel like. Your head laid on his chest and Bucky was praying you didn’t feel how fast his heart was beating for you. The new position, the closeness - it didn’t seem to affect you. You paid no mind as you watch the television, watching them perform ‘I can make you a man’, a small smile on your face. Bucky knew it was the movie, but he wondered if it could be because of him.

As the movie went on, and Janet snuck into Rocky’s bed, Bucky grew flustered. The weird feeling that often lingered in his stomach traveled lower and lower until he was met with a feeling he hasn’t felt since before his time as the winter soldier. Panic rose to his head fast, eyes darting towards you, checking if you noticed the dent in his pants. Where you were laying. 

Bucky was quite convinced he was incapable of getting hard after so much time in the freezer. Guess not, he watched Rocky’s hands travel over Janet’s body, her waist and breast. Bucky thought of you. Was that wrong? To think of you in such a way, despite the way you felt towards him and putting aside the soul mark. Bucky wasn’t sure, he just knew he was incredibly hard and aching. Hoping you didn’t notice. 

Whatever gods must have answered his prayers, because as the ending credit rolled. You fell asleep. Bucky felt the nudge of your nose into his neck, he could smell your shampoo, lavender - like your tea. He grew accustomed to the smell by now, he would understand that it was you from anywhere. you melted closer into Bucky and if he were any other man, his heart would have stopped. 

-

Next Friday came, and Bucky kept his distance more than last week. Your head still ended up on his shoulder and eventually on his chest, you stayed off of him though and did end up going to your respective rooms later that night. You moved on from movies and clicked on Netflix, squealing about a new season of the walking dead, yet you still started from the beginning for bucky. Through the tough and sarcastic exterior, you were crazy considerate and Bucky forgot what being on the other end of that felt like.

The television flashes and the light hits your features in a way that makes you look sculpted and beautiful. You are beautiful. His eyes flicked back to the screen, you moved farther into Bucky and he carefully put his arm over your shoulder and around the back of the couch. It was so easy to forget who he was, his history, and why he was here.

“You remind me of Daryl.” you commented. 

Bucky's face dropped, as the next scene showed the man pointing a gun in the face of another man, a cold and hard look in his eyes. Is that what you thought of him? If he were still the asset, is that what Bucky would be to you? 

“Oh.”

You already sensed him tense up, the quietness in his voice. “Because you’re all quiet and reserved, sneaky. His protectiveness reminds me of you. He's smart and caring under all the leather and frowns.”

“Is that what it is?” Bucky teases, feeling a little lighter in his chest.

“And the long hair.” you comment, tugging at the overground strands that grazed against your face when you nuzzled into him close enough. “I'm gonna buy you some nice shampoo. Deep condition this shit.”

A deep chuckle left his lips, you felt the vibration from his chest and a sweet laugh left your lips. Bucky's eyes flickered to you again, it doesn't matter if you never came along to the soul mark, as long as you'll have him anyway. He’ll be happy. No matter your feelings.

-

The next day Bucky found a few bottles of olaplex in the bathroom, a note for Bucky that gave extra instructions on how to use it.

Steam left the bathroom door as he opened it and instantly found you with an excited grin, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. A sheepish grin grew on Bucky's face as he leaned down to let you inspect his head of hair. Rustling it and noticing the small natural blonde highlights that even Bucky didn't remember having. 

You were looking at him as if he was everything, and for a moment, he felt it. Bucky couldn't stop smiling and he wondered if this is what love feels like.

-

You sat on the window sill, watching the snow fall with a peaceful face and peaceful mind. You'd been a little busy at work, the ER was always busy during the holidays, and never for good reasons. Too many sledding accidents and family fights after people who should not be around each other are suddenly forced to, especially with the pressure to be happy. 

This is the exact reason why you were spending your Christmas Eve morning watching the snow fall, waiting for Bucky to get up and anxiously looking at the two large boxes shoved in the corner. They started collecting dust in your closet. You didn't care much for seeing your family, you made sure to call your favorite cousins and grandpa, send a nice text and money to your mother and father. Not like they should be together for the holidays. Your family wasn’t… great, by any means. You only ever saw the holiday as a way for everyone to be forced together, only ending in arguments, kids crying after being put in the middle of adult feuds and people leaving early or hitting up their old childhood friends for a place to stay until they could get out of dodge. 

Once you got old enough to realize you didn't need to force yourself through that, the holidays felt a lot better. Less burden on your shoulder when you saw the days counting down to the 25th. Though, you didn't expect to be spending your days with a runaway assassin of a soulmate, whom you're not even sure you have real feelings toward yet. But life is weird like that, right?

You heard the faint sound of shuffling from the hallway, in came walking a sleepy Bucky with a major case of bedhead. What a sight, huh? His eyes were still squinted as he adjusted to the light, sleep was a good look on him. You were beyond proud he was actually getting it, those 100mg melatonin pills you snatched from the hospital have been doing wonders, even if it only works for a couple of hours. You'd still hear him gasp awake with heavy pants at night, you started to leave alpine in his room at night. That seemed to help more often than not. 

Sometimes you think about slipping into bed with him, just to hold him and brush the hair away from his face, lull him to sleep, and reassure him that nobody is going to come after him. The bad guys were gone and he just had you and a fluffy snow-white cat to worry about it. You never mustered up the courage to do so, maybe someday, if he will let you.

“Coffees in the pot.” you hummed, watching him nod and continue shuffling into the kitchen. A small smile graces your lips and you turn back to the window, mumbling under your lips, “what a big dork.” 

You forget supersoldier hearing sometimes, a small and moody grunt came from Bucky as he poured his coffee. “I heard that.”

“Good! Dork!” 

Bucky came shuffling back in, the blue pajama pants you bought him, a size too big as they dragged at his heel. A black v-neck shirt, the metal of his arm showed at the hem and shined from the sun. He sipped his coffee and plopped down onto the couch, “Merry Christmas eve.”

“Merry Christmas.” 

It goes silent for a moment, like most mornings. But the look on Bucky's face showed something else than just not speaking because of drowsiness. His eyebrows knotted, in deep thought, or emotional turmoil. Bucky did this thing when stuff got awkward, or when he had too many emotions and nothing to do with it. He pursed his lips quickly and dramatically, breathed in deep, and slightly flared his nostrils. He was doing it right now, staring off into the distance.

“What's going on in your cyborg brain?”

His eyes stayed unfocused and on the wall in front of him, “it's computing.”

“And what's it saying.” you asked innocently, stepping down from the window sill and taking your place next to him. Pressing your cheek to his forearm as you leaned into Bucky. 

“It’s saying this is my first Christmas since… since I was, well, myself.” Bucky stuttered out like he was still trying to find the correct words. Bucky's eye flick to the window, and the snow as it fell onto the balcony. And then you, who was already looking up him  with so much care in your eyes.

“Well, Merry first Christmas in 70 years.” you smiled at him, “speaking of!” you shot up, shuffling to your corner and picking up the two surprisingly heavy boxes and setting them in front of the supersoldier.  “My wrapping job is pretty bad, but I got you something.”

Bucky stared in awe at the boxes, his eyes going between you and the bright green wrapping paper. “W- what?”

“Merry Christmas, here is your present.” you said plainly, gesturing to him and back to the boxes. “Open it before I give it away.”

Hesitantly, Bucky pulled it onto his lap, surprised by the weight of it. Wondering what the hell you could even get for a 100-year-old ex-brainwashed assassin. He didn't have many interests or hobbies, not that he can remember, or ones you'd know of. Bucky’s fingers carefully unwrapped the paper, pulling back to see a cardboard box. Tearing back the tape, inside was a good stack of records. All were a little frayed and dusty, some of the corners torn and a few had some water damage from old age. 

“You mentioned dancing a few times, so I assume you liked music back then.” You watched his fingers trace over each record, reading familiar names like Benny Goodman, Harry James, and Glenn Miller. “There was a lady on eBay selling a huge box of 40s music, I haven't gone through them so tell me if some of them are from different eras but –”

“Thank you.” Bucky turned to you, tears welling in his waterline. “Thank you, so much.”

You didn't know what to do, he was just staring at you with shaky hands as he grasped at the record. You smiled, nodding, “you’re welcome, but you're not done.”

Bucky turned back, choking down any tears and brushing them away. Feeling the other box, which was even heavier, mumbling under his breath about how this was too much and he wasn’t worth it. You chose to ignore the comments, and let him be in his own world as he tore back the wrapping once again, running his finger over the much nicer cardboard box. The words sony are written on the side in white letters.

“Got to have something to listen to your songs on.” you teased, helping him take the record player from the box. Along with it a few other stray records, one he didn’t recognize. Showing them to you with a curious smile. “And my music. You're gonna listen to Lana del Ray and Florence + the Machine if you like it or not.”

Bucky chuckled, setting the records aside and beginning to take the player out of the box. A dopey grin on his face and warmth in his chest. 

-

That's how you spent your Christmas morning. Bucky had not smiled this much in decades, you cleared off a tray coffee table and dedicated it to the player, a small area to store the records. Bucky went through the music, nostalgia heavy on his mind as new memories were brought back at every song. Girls in long skirts and red lips, soda, and fries in busy diners, attempting to drag a young Steve Rogers onto dance floors despite having two left feet. It didn't hurt as much as Bucky expected it to when he thought about the glory days, before the war – before HYDRA. How could he wish to go back when you were standing in front of him?

You had put on home alone, another iconic movie he needed to be knowledgeable on. You switched between Frank Sinatra and Faye Webster, a mix of both. You were humming to my funny valentine, whispering the lyrics under your breath as you made your second cup of coffee. 

“I'm going to be working tomorrow night, so you're stuck spending Christmas day with Alpine.” you mention, pouring your creamer into the mug. 

Buckys tilted his head in confusion, “not going to see your family?”

You almost winced at the mere question of it, staring down into your coffee for a few seconds too long. You nervously nipped at your lips, Bucky almost reached out to stop you but you began to speak. “My family is a little dysfunctional, to put it lightly,” you exhaled a heavy breath. “Every Christmas ends in some large argument, I'd rather spare myself from it and stay home.”

“Are your parents still together?” Bucky asked. You never talked about your family, always avoiding it like the plague. You mention your cousins on a few occasions, always short and sweet. “I don't want to push–”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you reassure him. “they are, but they shouldn't.”

“What do you mean?”

You chewed on your cheek, and shook your head, “Another time.” you waved off Bucky's concerns, and he didn't push it any further and followed close behind you into the living room again.

“What about your parents, what were they like?” you asked, gaze on the screen for a moment before landing on bucks. 

“My mom’s name was Winifred, everyone called her Winnie.'' Bucky smiled, eyes twinkling and proud of himself for even being able to remember.

“Winnie, that's cute.”

Bucky nodded, “She would have liked you, she was strong.” Bucky continued, tapping his fingers on his knees, missing your touch already. “When I was young, my dad got into an accident in basic training at camp Lehigh. Probably was why my mother was so petrified when I got the draft letter." Bucky breathed out, wracking his brain for his own memories. The 40s jazz in the background was doing tremendous help. Thanks to you. “I had a young sister, Becca, she was amazing. She would have loved you, I used to be so paranoid that I couldn’t protect her from the boys when I left for the Army.”

Your head fell onto his shoulder like it always seems to do, a sadness cast over your face, one Bucky didn't recognize for a moment. “I’m sorry you had to miss out on that, I feel shitty for complaining about my parents now.” 

“Don’t be, it’s okay, doll.” the nickname left his lips like it was meant for you, maybe it was. The whole universe thing, right? His hand brushed at a few flyaways on your head, his features were soft. “Now, what's the next Christmas movie on the list?”

You smiled so brightly, “thought you'd never ask.”

Midday came and went, and Christmas Eve was spent under blankets and holding hot mugs. You and Bucky went through the home alone movies, a Christmas story, and a few very shitty Netflix originals. It was still snowing out as the day started to darken. 

The credits to love, actually rolled and you dropped your head by the back of the couch, a loud sigh leaving your chest. “Best. Christmas. Movie. Ever.”

Bucky hums in agreement, his eyes flickering to the mountain of dishes building from your constant snacking all day. Alpine's tail grazed his ankle as she trotted along, Bucky smiled softly for some reason. No reason, does there have to be a reason anymore? He rose to his feet, “it’s my day to do the dishes.” 

You hummed in acknowledgment as Bucky started the facet, hot water running across the metal and flesh and Bucky once again reminded of the machine on his body. A sharp pain in his chest as his jaw clenches, he gulped down the bad thoughts and grabs a sponge.

Bucky zoned out for a while, on autopilot as he drys the ceramic plates. Missed the rustle of paper and your feet, the sound of the needle skipping on the record before ‘you made me love you’ echoes through your apartment. Bucky blinks and suddenly you're humming and swaying your shoulders and hips to Harry James as you put away the mugs. He smiles again.

“You made me happy sometimes, you made me glad, but there were times you made me feel so bad…” you whisper the lyrics under your breath, Bucky mesmerized. You’re so beautiful. He wonders for a moment if you see that too, do you look in the mirror and see your beauty the same way he did? Do you appreciate the curve of your lip as he does? Or see the kindness in your eyes. Do you hear the soft melody of your voice when you speak? Can you feel the way Bucky started to grow more and more fond of you over the months? 

“You know you’ve got the brand of kisses that I’d die for,” you hum under your breath as you continue your chores, moving seamlessly around Bucky as if you were made to be beside him his entire life. Paying no mind to his affectionate stares. If he kissed you, would you find the songs come true? That the words you sing would become thoughts and you’d ache for him. 

The record skips and you stop singing, a frown falls on your face and disappointment paints your features. “Shit, I’m sorry. She said some of them might be a little scratched.” 

Bucky’s back on earth and you’re shuffling back to the record player, “you mind if I play Lana? I think you’d like Brooklyn baby.” You laugh to yourself, Bucky finds it quite endearing when a feminine voice starts to play and you're dancing and singing. And Bucky is just smiling like a doofus, a rag over his shoulder and still wet hands.

“Come one, sarge. Sway those hips.” You laugh, he’s standing there awkwardly for a moment with no idea what to do. You pull his left arm towards you, Bucky still flinches when you touch the weapon of a limb like it was a normal thing to have, like the thing attached to him that’s killed so many was just normal. The way you acted around him like he was normal. 

You accepted him as he was and Bucky could not grasp it, how you put everything to the side. He was a dangerous man. Fear never filled your eyes when you looked at him, or disgust and shame. 

It terrified him.

Maybe that’s why the universe put you two together.

-

tag list; @i-l-y-3000 @ivywasmaroon @waywardcrow @alana4610 @ozwriterchick @slytherinambitious @wintermischief @tarotwhitchy-main @silelda @isasalom @zizzlekwum @iv3t @raevyng

[ormir]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯. // a flashback.

Featuring: Prince Orhan Gökhan. Location: The plains of Astoria, some twenty years ago. Trigger warnings: Gay yearning, suggestive themes.

"Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now I was housed by your warmth Thus transformed By your grounding and giving And darkening scorn"

The canvas tarp breathed in deep, languid pulls with the warm night breeze. Light danced at the end of a candle, giving the illusion that the red and gold tarp walls moved organically, reactively, like the cavern of some great organ. A silent womb. Only the sound of cloth and buckles disrupted it. Ormir was lifted from quiet sleep by the kiss of the light against his eyelids. A silhouette passed, obscuring the source, just as he realized how cold and spacious the cot felt around him. The world was still and black beyond the tent’s walls. Awake already? The Raven-Feeder’s naked chest arched on a full breath, and the deep stretch cured all his ails. The bloom of pollen had set off like a bomb after weeks of steady rain on the Astorian plains, and the Iskarans were only just recovering. Adding wet vision and congestion to the mucky pit fight that had been made of the battlefield resulted in quite the miserable cocktail. A few days of sun and silence had been bliss.

Lately the prince had been distant, absorbed in thought. Ormir had tried not to internalize the neglect he felt, nor to be disused as the sounding board he’d offered to be. He tasted how his obstination had soured into regret as he slept. When their antlers locked in a difference of opinion, as was inevitable, the natural progression was for the two men to plant themselves equally firm in their beliefs, stoking their own flames higher and hotter in contest, until the passion morphed into the harmonious, desperate roll of bodies that brought a little death to the argument. It was unlikely that they’d touch the subject again until Orhan broached it in daylight.

Ormir watched the backlit shape of him now, as he laced his trousers by candlelight. The gold cast distinguished the weight of his body through the sheer drape of his tunic, defining how his muscled form moved like sculpture. In his trance, Ormir was torn between inking the image into memory and disrupting it, to call Orhan back to him and illustrate an apology. But the conviction in the Prince’s movements told him that he’d already made up his mind.

“They won’t be expecting you until dawn, you know.” Ormir perforated the silence, the rasp of sleep and sex grating in his voice. Some water would soothe it, but he let it be.

“Yes.” Orhan’s silhouette responded without a hitch. He must have sensed his company waking, and must have already braced for questioning.

“And you’re aware that they still fully intend on undermining your plans?” The soldier retrod the ground they’d pulverized in argument the night before.

“Yes, I know.” Defeat rang in the noble’s words. Orhan sat and gathered his long, dark hair with a comb of his hands to pin it in a high knot. The practiced motion was fluid, and called attention to the thread of silver that was coming in at his temples.

The younger man groaned softly in protest, lifting onto his elbows so that the lithe lines of his body were visible. His eyes strained to find focus in the dim light. “So you’re comfortable with losing sleep to them?”

“I need my rationale to be perfect,” Orhan said matter-of-factly, as he was arranging parchments in order on the table’s surface. “If only so that I can put it to rest gracefully.”

Or you could just have them choke on it, Ormir bottled the thought, once again annoyed by the grace his counterpart commanded. He rose slowly, found his long, moth-eaten tunic among the scattered clothes and slipped it on. He poured water from Orhan’s carafe and drank it. Old sweat and grime was dried on his skin, and Ormir yearned for a bath. There was a standing offer for one, if he chose. The luxuries of the Prince’s life had largely been extended to him. Something always stopped him short of opting in, though. Unworthiness? Guilt? Jealousy? Or would it just make what they had together too real? It probably wouldn’t help to unearth it. Against his intentions, Ormir found that he’d gravitated to where Orhan sat, massaging the meat of his shoulder while the Prince laced his boots.

This life, his reputation, his choice of companion, would have been bile-inducing to the back-alley tradesman he was a year ago. He’d come from nothing, he’d rescued himself from the feral Skjaldwoods, bought his own blades for vanity’s sake and was catalyzed into a butcher and the prince’s personal lap dog. Perhaps he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

“You should come.” Orhan spoke suddenly, in the cadence of an epiphany. 

Ormir’s expression tightened. “I’m sorry?” The first instinct was to laugh, because he must’ve misheard.

“You should come, Ormir.” The Prince repeated. The words commanded from the diaphragm, in the confident, regal timbre Orhan used in reserve. The Raven-Feeder would be flustered by it if he hadn’t been so shocked. “Listen in, watch the moves in play. Deliver your stratagem straight from your mouth – you know I always botch the details anyway.” The prince’s voice softened, as did his eyes. “Sit at the table, beside me.” Squared, calloused fingertips brushed over the delicate skin of Ormir’s wrist, hot as a brand. “Or just stand in the corner as a fly on the wall if that’s too demanding for you.”

Breath was slippery and hard to hold in constant rhythm. The weight of expectancy was suddenly crushing with Orhan’s deep, trusting gaze trained on him, and Ormir was squirming to find a way out of it. 

“You’re not thinking clearly,” He stammered, convincing his hand to pull from the caress. The Prince’s added diversions would not work on him, as he’d recently allowed them to. “I’m a conscript, I’m no strategist.”

“I am, and you are.”

“I can’t sit on your council.” He insisted. The power was attractive, of course it was. Rumors and embellished fantasies of the blademaster and The Raven-Feeder were already making the rounds through Iskaran campfires, and a wealth of penetrating glances lanced in him each time he’d leave the Prince’s tent. To feel the condensed heat of judgment within the closed circle of Orhan’s advisory, though, would be too much to bear.

“Why not? You’d be welcomed.”

“No, I’d be pitied.” Ormir’s voice raised and shook on the edge. “I have no more merit to weigh my opinions into Iskalrdik’s future than any other mongrel in this camp who can smell a storm approaching.”

A moment passed without words, just the steady exchange of wounded stares. Ormir pulled out of it first, casting his eyes into unfocused space above the Prince’s shoulder. He knew looking down meant seeing the crimson drip of Orhan’s trust coating his hands, wrung out by his cowardice.

“Do you think so little of me?” Orhan asked, decoding the subtle shifts in Ormir’s face. The Raven-Feeder was naked before him, a vivisected spread of wounds and resentments exposed to the open air. “I extend the offer as your liege, and a solid judge of talent where I see it. I would not make the mistake of inviting any ponce who warms by bed to pillow-talk about Iskaldrik’s war strategy, so you can rid yourself of that delusion. You would do good here.”

When he was met with silence, Orhan stood and gathered his materials from the table. Anger didn’t announce itself in his manner. That was saved for the cathartic surge of battle, or for their rituals at night. Ormir rode the wave of discomfort until Orhan closed the distance and kissed him, softly, in parting. The gesture burned with sincerity, and it took everything in Ormir not to be consumed by love for him. Even then, The Raven-Feeder knew he’d feel the man’s ghost for the rest of his life.

“Think about it.” The words breathed into his mouth. Then the warmth was gone, and the canvas door flapped shut and left him alone.

[decaying-words]

Scratch

Jonathan Crane • 18+ Explicit • 1k words TW & tags: Masturbation, masochism, autoerotic asphyxiation, filth AO3 • All my stories

"Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth."

Scratch

Broken moans like death rattle in a dry throat fill the cold and dark room. The smell of the basement, acrid and humid, sticks to Jonathan’s skinny body like a putrid veil, caressing his wrinkled flesh. The place stinks of mold, humidity, sweat and a faint odor of piss from the last victim he kept here. Fear, it reeks of fear.

A fatigued and bony hand is tightly grasped around his turgid member like a claw, and pumps unceremoniously. Each thrust is followed by a hideous and almost otherworldly moan. His voice is unharmonious; strained, suddenly skipping several octaves lower or higher, spewing profanities from his wretched mouth through the bloodied threads sewn into the dry flesh of his lips. Pathetic encouragements, but they are futile; his skinny hand painfully grips his modest cock, but the sensations are not nearly enough to satisfy his obscene needs. 

His free hand crawls awkwardly over his body. His fingertips caress timidly the outlines of his chest over the grotesque fabric of his scarecrow costume, before reaching the burlap sack covering his sweaty face. His fingers tug at the stitches here and there, following their sinuous pattern as if they were dark veins. Jonathan shivers. 

Dirty nails scratch and tease the thin threads piercing his lips; the sensation is uncomfortable, unpleasant and slightly painful. Jonathan moans loudly, his warm breath coating his fingertips as they penetrate the small empty spaces between two threads like one would spread the delicate lips of a cunt. He caresses the wet outline of his perforated flesh before entering his oral cavity further.

His fingers spread inside his mouth, stretching his flesh around the unforgiving thread; some crimson pearls of blood run over his chin. Jonathan trembles, a warm liquid pooling inside his stomach, his member twitching viciously in agreement. He delicately caresses his dry teeth, his warm gums and his wet tongue. He explores his most intimate anatomy, tastes the dirt and copper under his fingernails, dreaming of his entrails. Low moans and obscene noises fill the room.

The scarlet appendage feels viscous with a velvety note around his fingers, it reminds him of a small animal held captive inside of him. His lips wrap around his digits, and his wretched mouth starts sucking. High pitched sobs and slow hums vibrate in his dry and delicate throat.

The hand assaulting his angry cock is slippery and warm, but the sensation alone is not enough stimulation for the depraved man. His choked moans are pathetic and needy, as his legs shake and tremble against the dirty floor, begging for more. He squirms, his back rubbing against the decrepit wall, his mind playing all sorts of bizarre and dreadful scenes in a vain attempt to heighten his pleasure.

In a frustrated grunt, Jonathan retrieves his fingers from his bloodied mouth, lips slightly swollen from the painful strings, and reaches for the noose around his neck. The frail fingers play with the raw material of the rope, caressing each bump like they are another erogenous part of him —and they might very well be, as he hisses through his teeth, his fist closing more tightly around his begging sex, leaking profusely in his palm.

His emaciated hand and impossibly long fingers wrap around the two ropes at the end of the noose. He teasingly tugs once, testing the knot around his throat, a pleasing discomfort tightening around his windpipes. Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth.

Holding the rope firmly, his hand snakes above his shoulder, and in a sudden movement lifts his arm, effectively tightening the noose viciously around his raw throat. He chokes once, a strangled, loud and low moan echoing in the filthy cell. His tongue lolls uncomfortably out of his stitched mouth, coughing reflexively while a cold wave of intense pleasure and pain crashes over his body at the sudden lack of oxygen.

Jonathan’s sensations are progressively heightened; he suddenly becomes hyper aware of his frantic heartbeat, the delicious tightness around his throat, the burning sensation in his lungs, and how hard his cock is. The hand holding the rope is trembling, pulling harder at times, while the other, disgustingly wrapped around his angry member, now drenched in precum and the sweat of his own palm, pumps aggressively. His flesh feels raw, painful even. Which makes everything even better.

There is a burning pressure on his chest, and a light sensation of panic pooling in his stomach. Coupled with the exhilarating feeling of this masochistic pleasure, Jonathan’s eyes roll inside his skull. Strangled whimpers die on his scorched lips, as he suffocates violently, his legs twitching vigorously, his balls tightening. The dread is delicious, the untold promise of a violent terror makes his cock leak profusely.

When his vision turns blurry, and his throat burns beyond what is humanly reasonable, fear welcomes him, swallows him. His arm is fatigued, but he fights valiantly, choking for hair while mercilessly jerking off in the near obscurity of the damp cell. His legs shake uncontrollably, and his hips jerk in an upwards motion, fucking himself in his fist frantically, like a deranged animal, satisfying his most primal need.

Jonathan squeals as the pleasure takes over the burning pain in his chest. His vision turns white, his senses getting cloudy, a putrid sensation of dizziness consuming him, while a quasi electric feeling ruins his lower half, his stomach, his cock. He silently screams, suffocating, as he spills his mediocre semen on his hand and his soiled clothes. Soon after, he lets go of the rope, an immediate rush of oxygen filling his neglected lungs. He coughs and grunts like a beast regaining consciousness, before collapsing against the floor, weakly shaking and trembling from his orgasm.

Aside from his labored breath slowly calming down, the cell is otherwise quiet. The atmosphere is thick, caked in a disgusting miasma of humidity, cum, sweat and other various body odors. The stench sticks to Jonathan’s tired body, and as he closes his eyes, he mumbles incoherent thoughts. 

Fear. He needs more. He needs to feel it. Needs to witness it. 

Somewhere, the Scarecrow is hunting.

[turbinewreath]

The Knocking Tree

I was walking in the woods,

And when passing a tree

I heard knocking

The tree was like any ordinary tree.

It bubbled from diseases,

And in parts the bark had been stripped away by deer.

The knocking was a sporadic and unfocused thing,

Lacking in rhythm and melody.

I am a man of logic.

I knew that the knocking was the wind,

Or that it was a bird, pecking at the tree.

So I returned home.

I was once again walking,

When I heard it a second time.

A rapping on a tree.

The tree was like any other tree.

It reached toward the sky,

And its branches lacked leaves.

The knocking was a loud and powerful thing,

Loud enough to be heard for miles, yet it only sounded when I drew near.

I am a man of reason.

There must be an explanation for why this knocking came when I neared.

I must be disturbing some thing of nature.

So I yet again returned home, quickly this time.

I walked my usual path,

And like the other times

I heard a knocking.

The tree seemed average.

It had lichen dotting its skin,

And knots perforating its flesh

The knocking was a dark and purposeful thing,

It had a harmful intent with each knock on the wood, as if to lure me with curiosity.

I am a man of feeling.

A stirring came within me of great discomfort,

Despite how the tree tried to dissuade my notions.

So, I ran back home.

I was walking to the tree

When I heard for what I searched,

An unmelodious, strong, intentful knocking.

The tree was not normal.

It had hung itself and left a bounty to eat.

To eat within its womb.

The knocking was how it had always been,

Beautiful like a mothball mother’s enchanting hymn.

I am a man who knocks.

Upon a tree.

Upon a tree.

[lasplaga]

011 … barbed wire.

𓆙      —    𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄 & 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒--- Accepting! 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐖: 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 / 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐘 & 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐍 [ 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 ]

There was irony to be found in the son deemed 'incorruptible', falling to the same illness which plagued this decaying village. Though pure of mind by the Superior strain ( relatively ) --- that did not stop The Prophet from proselytizing the word of God ; Lord Saddler did not falter in showing Leon 'the true path'.

That the human form COULD BE elevated beyond most designs of injury, & that releasing oneself from fear was the way to exuberance. Treading the world with reckless abandon, as if you were an angel of death beyond harm, was an element to their twisted philosophy. Being unafraid of dying in battle, & finding torment in war glorious ABOVE ALL THINGS, was paramount.

A smile, most kind & genuine, flashed as Osmund presented the rusted wire. Fingers, cold & lifeless, bled as it was grasped in his hands --- but there was no acknowledgment of discomfort as the spikes began to cut.

" ℑ𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔰 𝔡𝔢 𝔓𝔞𝔰𝔦𝔬́𝔫. 𝔄𝔤𝔢𝔰 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱, 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔶𝔯𝔰' 𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔰𝔢-𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰. 𝔑𝔬𝔴, 𝔴𝔢 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔭𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔴𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔭𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪. "

One might expect for the unholy priest to wrap these wires upon The Agent as a blasphemous crown of thorns, but no! Lessons of divine suffering must first be taught by DEMONSTRATION.

" 𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔰 ℑ 𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣, 𝔱𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔫. ℑ 𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔩 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔓𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫. " Without hesitation, as if binding his forearms in bandage, the wire began to encircle & dig into his own flesh. It was pulled as to constrict, offering the illusion they pierced his very bones, IF HE HAD ANY. The image as the spikes crawled close to his elbows --- did these savage militants harm themselves in the same way, expressing permanent scars whereas their Master did not? Purely to find delight in discomfort, or a voicing of their reverence to Las Plagas? " 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬𝔬, 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔢𝔰𝔦́', 𝔰𝔦́? 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔰, 𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔡 ℑ. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔰, 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔰. "

As a Dominant organism, vastly augmented by prior rituals, his body tirelessly worked to heal against the metal which perforated in a cluster of holes. Though his forearms dripped, dripped, dripped, blood soon came to a halt as the instrument became imbedded, enshrouded by his regeneration. The only course of action was to FORCIBLY strip away the weapon, layers of skin flaying & peeling, coming with it. Despite the gruesome & horrific scene, The Priest remained cheerful as balls of flailing worms knotted the host back together, until he was miraculously mended whole. The wire, with hooked shreds of meat bubbling & corroding on the cellular level, was then offered freely :

" ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔧𝔬𝔶𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔞𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰. "

[beccagetscrafty]

Below the cut are links to some of my favorite cross stitch supplies.

I'm not getting kick backs or anything for the links below, I just wanted to share what I use with everyone.

Storage

Storage: Plano 23700-20 Stowaway with Adjustable Dividers

Floss Drop Bobbins: Ultimate Bobbin Drops by GWStitchinDepot on Etsy

Floss Reel by CreativeKeepsStudio on Etsy - used to cut precut my floss in equal lengths to use with my floss drops.

My fav bobbins (above) are on the expensive side, but I do have some cheaper ones I use as well.

White Plastic Bobbins

Clear Floss Drops

White Paper DMC Bobbins

For projects, I also have colorful floss organizers so I don't have to have a bunch of bobbins out.

Labeling

I'm a label nerd so I've made all my own labels and printed them on Vinyl sticker paper, but there are ready made labels you can find.

DMC Labels

Scissors

Embroidery scissors - I highly recommend buying a pair meant for embroidery because they tend to have a sharper, thinner tip. You can use a seam ripper to undo errant stitches, but I find embroidery scissors work better for that. You can get these anywhere, I got my latest pair through amazon.

Fabric Prep

Zig Zag Craft scissors - they say that cutting aid with a pair of zig zag scissors keeps it from unraveling... and I have experienced that, however, I also find that it still sheds, just teeny, tiny pieces. I got mine through amazon.

Nylon Upholstery Thread - this is my preferred thread for whip stitching the edge of my aida. I fold the edge of my fabric in two or three rows and then use the whip stitch to go around the edge of the whole project to keep the edges from fraying. I currently use navy blue because that's what I have, but there are multiple colors to choose from.

Gridding

Sulky Metallic Thread - the thread I use to do the gridding on my projects. You can find it on Amazon, but their website allows you to use Amazon Pay and you get a wider selection and better pricing ordering through them directly.

Aida

Plain white Aida - Walmart usually has the best price, but be aware that sometimes that comes with a cost in the form of rectangles instead of squares

Amazon - they have some WILD multicolored Aida for reasonable prices.

Mill Hill - they have a perforated PAPER for cross stitching and I was skeptical at first… but after using it… I love it! And it doesn’t hurt my hands like the plastic Aida I used to use. You can get this product on Amazon and on Everything Cross Stitch.

Wax/Thread Conditioner

Premade Beeswax Rounds in Plastic Containers - I used to use these all the time because it helped with knotting and my thread fraying... but they kept getting soooo expensive.

Now I just buy beeswax. Originally, I bought bars but I found them too hard to cut.

So I melted them down and make my own cubes that I can remelt, remove any thread bits and reuse.

Beeswax - the bars I bought are no longer available, but you can really use anything.

Square molds - I ended up cutting mine into smaller sections because it was easier to handle.

Silicone Measuring Cup - the first time I did this, I melted the wax in a candle making container... but now I just melt them in this on a cheap candle warmer and it works perfectly.

Beading

Bead Storage - this has become more important with me doing Mill Hill designs.

Bead trays - these are meant for diamond painting, but they work great for beads.

Misc

Stitch Starter by Blue Ribbon Designs on Etsy - 3” square ruler to help you find the perfect place for your first stitch

Cross Stitch Gauge by SnugglyMonkey on Etsy - basically a ruler to help you with determine which size Aida you are working on

DMC Thread Color Card - you can get this as multiple places. Most have the printed version, but if you can get (or make) the one that has the actual thread samples… I highly recommend.

Telescoping Magnet - a must for finding needles that fall on the floor. It will happen. Protect your feet.

Silicone Finger Protector - I originally got these for using hot glue, but I found that I use them more for cross stitching. I did end up cutting one so it just covers the my finger to the first knuckle, otherwise I find my fingers get too sweaty.

[evilasiangenius]

“Mother, I have something for you from the oracle.”

“Oh? Did Delphi write back, Alexander?”

“No, not that one, uh. The local one, Nectanebo.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t want anything, but he wanted me to bring you this…” And carefully, Alexander reached up to his left shoulder. Before he could try to coax Crawly out, the serpent slipped the tight grip of the fibula and into the boy’s hands.

“Alexander! Drop that, vipers are dangerous!” Olympias said sharply.

“No, it’s all right, mother. Really, it’s safe. This is a sacred snake from Egypt that shouldn’t be seen by anyone other than the two of us. That’s what Nectanebo said. It won’t harm us, he promised.”

Crawly nodded in agreement, curling up into a cosy little knot, trying to show how safe and completely not dangerous this deadly venomous, demonous serpent was.

“Oh…” Olympias’ mouth closed in a tight line and though she still watched Crawly with suspicion, she made no movement at all, holding very still. “Alexander, please put it in the jar over here, a snake won’t be happy if it’s not warm.”

“Yes, mother.” And Crawly was suddenly surrounded by the high sides of a ceramic vessel, warm from where it sat on the floor. The thick ceramic radiated warmth, and Crawly wondered what it was, before remembering that this room must have been above the oven of a kitchen downstairs.

“Why did he send me something like this?” Skeptical, the queen looked at the golden-eyed serpent who stared back with unblinking eyes, coiling and uncoiling, settling into a comfortable position. The inside of the deep pot was slick with a smooth ceramic slip, and the pleasant warmth and coziness of the heated vessel made Crawly drowsy. The snake yawned, settling down, listening to the humans talk.

“I don’t know, but Nectanebo said it was a gift, and that it would help ward off bad dreams.”

“I see. I wonder what he wants. I suppose I should thank him for the thoughtfulness, though I should think that he should have sent his own servant with this and not made you into some sort of messenger boy. If it wasn’t a sacred snake not meant for the eyes of others, I would say that he had insulted us. Make sure not to touch the snake. We shall leave it in the jar.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Promise me, Alexander. You’re to leave this snake alone, do you understand? It might be a tame snake but it’s still a viper, and we don’t know how dangerous it might be.”

“Yes, mother.” Alexander pouted, but acquiesced.

“Tell me, did Nectanebo say if it had a name? I think magic serpents are supposed to have names, in order to better command them.”

“He said the name, but I didn’t hear him clearly,” Alexander sounded dismayed.

“Be more attentive in the future,” Olympias said sternly.

“Yes, mother,” Alexander said, dismayed.

“Did he say if the name mattered?”

“He said the name doesn’t matter. He said that whoever had it could name it whatever they wanted.”

“I see. Then you and I have something in common, snake,” Olympias said to Crawly, as she put a perforated lid over the jar.

Sudden darkness, pierced by the faint stars of light seeping through the perforations. The humans continued their conversation, but it was hard to hear through the vessel and the warmth was very pleasant and it was very nice to not worry about things for the time being and just exist, thinking snakey thoughts, though Crawly noticed that the jar was too tall to slither out of and the walls were too steep and slippery to climb up.

“Mussst be some clever way of keeping snakessss in one place,” Crawly yawned, hissing quietly. “Very clever indeed, humansss. That’ssss going to be a problem, but a problem for Future Crawly…”

x

[dragonsarecool]

Whumptober Day 10 - Whipping

Ten: Whipping

A/N: A darker version of this scene from ‘The Crab with the Golden Claws’

It seemed as though the pain would never stop.

“YEOWWW! BLISTERING BARNACLES!!”

Haddock felt his body slump as he gasped for air. He wondered for a brief moment if something in his back had broken. “JELLYFISH!…P-PARASITES!”

The wind was forced out of his lungs, his back spasming in agony. His head fell so far forward that he felt the bristles on his chin brush against his chest. Stinging continued to reverberate down his back, spreading into every square inch of skin. Whatever was left of his sweater hung in tatters down his back; he could feel the trails of blood snaking along the crevices in his skin, the warm sensation a sharp contrast to the chill spreading across the rest of his body. Whatever pain he’d originally experienced from tugging on his bonds had disappeared long ago.

How long had it been? Ten minutes? An hour? He’d lost his watch some time ago, which he now realised was ironic. But time had no meaning when you were being beaten within an inch of your life.

They had started with a thick piece of wood, which hadn’t been so bad at first. 

Even when the splinters had started appearing, it wasn’t as painful as he’d expected.

But then Allan motioned to one of his henchmen, who had left the room to fetch his new weapon of choice.

He’d never used a whip before, let alone been assaulted with one. He’d only ever seen riding crops, and his father had used the paddle on him and his brothers when they were children. Upon first seeing it, he’d assumed Allan had stolen it from a museum, for it looked too old and weather-beaten to be of any use. The cat o’ nine tails that dangled from the handle reminded him of the types of medieval torture he once heard about as a boy, and instantly found himself panicking. 

The first strike landed haphazardly across his shoulders, with the tails wrapping around his chest and smacking into his collarbone. A raw scream erupted from his very soul as it drowned out Allan’s curses at the incompetence of his henchman.

After a few ‘practice tests’, the chosen henchman settled into a pattern very rapidly. They would strike his back three times; the first across his shoulder blades, the second halfway down his spine, and the third at his coccyx. With each strike the knots would fly around to his chest, gradually wearing holes through the front of his sweater. After each round Allan would take a long draw from his cigar, and ask him of Tintin’s whereabouts.

And every time, he simply spat in his face.

The pain was indescribable. It was as though his entire body had been set alight, with the flames of agony rippling down his spine, and every strike only added fuel to the fire. The blood that dripped from his wounds did little to soothe the blaze radiating across his back, with some of his blood pooling in collections as each blow deepened the perforations.

And despite the torment and suffering, he continually found he could only think of one thing: Where the bloody hell is Tintin? 

Even though he’d only known the boy for a few days, he felt as though he’d known him for years. The way he carried himself, and how he displayed maturity that was far beyond his years. The youthful enthusiasm and kindness he displayed in his interactions; it was hard to believe he was so young, and here he was, begging for this teenager to save him. Tintin, lad, please.

Even though his throat was raw from screaming, Haddock couldn’t help but throw out another slew of insults. “BANDITS!! BRUTES!!”

“Yell as loud as you like, Captain,” Allan smirked proudly. Hands clasped behind his back, he puffed on his cigar as he circled his captive. “No one can hear you.”

It took Haddock a moment to find his breath. “…Well I’ll make sure you can!! You ECTOPLASMS! GANGSTERS!! HOOLIGANS!!” 

“That’s enough!” Allan grabbed him by the collar, yanking him upright. He gritted his teeth and bared them at Haddock, a malicious light sparkling in his eyes. “Now why don’t you be sensible?”

Pieces of tobacco fell from Allan’s cigar onto the Captain’s skin, with some nestling themselves in his wounds. Hissing in pain, Haddock cleared his throat. “Fat chance.”

He was surprised he could still feel anything down his back; he thought for sure that they had cut through every layer of skin by now. Yet when they struck him for the fiftieth time, it generated as much pain as the very first strike.

Haddock didn’t trust his voice, so he settled for a glare that he hoped pierced through Alan’s soul.

“I grow tired of asking this, old man. For the last time,” Alan’s voice growled in his ear, as if it were travelling into his very soul, “WHERE is Tintin?!”

“HERE!!”

Although he lacked the strength to raise his head any higher than his shoulders, Haddock’s eyes widened and his body relaxed at the sound of his rescuer. Tintin!

He didn’t remember losing consciousness, but was startled to find his head being lifted upright. Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he realised Tintin was holding his cheek, his eyes flickering across the injured man. “Oh, merde! Captain, are you with me? Captain?!” 

Haddock’s mouth felt dry, his vocal cords ragged. He fought to stop his eyes from fluttering closed. “…Tin..tin…” Why are you wearing a blue bedsheet, lad?

“It’s me, Captain, it’s Tintin. I’ve come to get you out of here, okay?” Tintin’s voice sounded hazy in his ears. “…ptain?…ain?…”

Why are you getting quieter, lad?…

Oh.

Guess I’m going then.

****** Am I dead?

It took an enormous amount of effort, but he opened his eyes wearily, only to be surprised with a sterile, white room. Did I die? Is this the afterlife?

It took his brain a minute to process what his eyes were seeing; that he was alive, with no missing limbs, and safely tucked up in a hospital bed. Beams of sunlight poured through the curtains, bouncing off of the stethoscope perched on his bedside table. He lifted his hands, observing the thick gauze that was secured around each wrist. Didn’t realise I’d caused that much damage to myself.

A faint snuffling noise caught his attention. Suppressing the urge to fall asleep once more, Haddock stiffly turned his neck, and smiled. Tintin…

The faithful young man had seemingly startled awake, for his eyelids fluttered briefly as he returned to consciousness. He pulled himself off of his chair and pulled himself closer to Haddock’s bed, an exhausted grin stretching across his face. “Captain…”

“…Good to see ya, lad,” Haddock whispered. He extended his arm as far as the intravenous line would allow, clasping Tintin’s hand in his own. “…What-“

“Not now, Captain. You lost a large amount of blood, and probably won’t remember much for a few days,” Tintin interrupted. He inhaled deeply, an uncontrollable shudder rippling through his body. “The amount of stitches they had to put in your back…t-there’s be some scarring, I’m sorry…I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

Haddock shook his head slowly. He squeezed the young man’s hand as he gave him a grateful smile, noticing how heavy the burden of rescuing him was resting on Tintin’s shoulders. “…You saved me…Tintin…” And I’m grateful to be alive. We’ll have to have a drink to celebrate.

“Allan’s been arrested as well. The police…they were right behind me,” Tintin spoke quietly. He stared off next to the Captain, his eyes betraying his demeanour as he was obviously remembering what had happened. He sat silently for a minute before returning his gaze to Haddock, straightening his shoulders. “But, the main thing is that you’re safe, and you’re going to follow all of the doctor’s orders, okay?”

Haddock gave a weak smile, nodding his head gently. He had barely opened his mouth before Tintin interrupted again: “And that means no alcohol!”

[rebeleden]

Usher Says Wedding After Super Bowl Was a ‘Last Minute’ Decision

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 1143

Warnings: A/B/O, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, leering, mention of collaring/leashed, rut/heat, physical altercation, murder conviction, parental dominance

*Additional warnings will be added

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

*Square filled: @spnabobingo -Rut Suppressant @spnaubingo -Sub!Dean @anyfandomdarkbingo - Voyeurism

A/N: Each part follows in sequence

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

Part I

Five weeks ago 

Dean Winchester had been arrested.

Their dad grew tired of Sam’s constant complaining about finishing up his junior year in one place and had left his sons in this backwater town.

Several more weeks passed and it was obvious their dad wasn’t coming back anytime soon, the little money they had began to run out and when he couldn’t hustle pool anymore, Dean took a job at a local garage. 

It wasn’t long after another problem arose.

Dean ran out of rut suppressants and was stuck in one of the few states that required a prescription. He tried obtaining them through less than-legal channels but began feeling the restlessness simmering underneath his skin; it was too late.

Out of options he made sure his brother had everything required for a few days, went looking for something to sink his knot into, and found himself chatting up a Beta at the only local bar until their irate Alpha came looking for them. 

By night's end, Dean found himself with an IV in one arm and the other handcuffed to a bed in the hospital after a rut-induced fight with their Alpha.

When the local sheriff showed the ER doctor told him the Alpha was DOA and the cause of death was exsanguination from canine perforation of the carotid artery.

Sam was unable to reach their dad, and in a panic called Bobby Singer. They’d been forbidden to make contact after his sires fell out with the grumpy hunter the young Alphas' words spilled out a jumble of profuse apologies and explanations.

Bobby felt his temper flare, he’d always considered the brothers like his own kids, and hearing Dean was headed for jail and Sam in CPS custody wanted another shot at the elder Winchester with something stronger than rock salt. Reassuring Sam he’d be there by nightfall pulled out his hunters' contacts and started dialing, putting out John's last known location.

Bobby’s first stop was at CPS. He presented the faked documentation verifying he was their blood uncle then took him to the police station to find out what was happening with Dean. 

At the station Bobby flashed his law enforcement credentials to the officer in charge whose response was information would be only released when his Alpha arrived, wasn’t allowed any visitors except the public defender assigned but slipped that Dean what he was being charged with.

Unable to do anything else and unwilling to sit around the rental where the brothers were staying to wait for the Alpha, Sam had Bobby take him to the local library to research the state’s laws pertaining to his brother's case.

Two days later John rolled into town and went directly to the station where he was informed of the situation and then allowed a brief visit with his son.

John entered the interrogation room and saw Dean seated wrists and ankles shackled and tethered to the table, the reddish cast in his eyes that'd begun when Caleb found him, fully turning his irises red.

Out of all the shit he’d done over the years this proved what he always thought; Dean was a worthless fuck-up and offspring or not, he no longer wanted to deal with.

Dean suddenly found himself airborne, legs flailing, and kicked over the chair he’d been sitting in before being slammed face-first on the table, trapped, at the mercy of his sire who he knew was going to kill him. 

His final thoughts were only about one person, flashing back to the night baby Sammy was placed in his arms and his dad ordered; take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back he was Dean's responsibility to protect and care for. As he lost consciousness the door burst open and three deputies drew their tasers shocking the incensed Alpha. 

Sam maneuvered around the chaos and sank to his knees next to Dean lying on the floor, gasping air between his bluish lips and a thick band of purplish discoloration around his neck felt the dark and angry thing that lived under his skin flare up, slithering through his veins felt his canines elongating releases a bloodcurdling wrawl. 

Silence filled the air except for Dean’s raspy breath as Sam slowly stood up scanning the room, unsure why everything was tinted a strange color when his eyes landed on his dad, angered that while his brother's lower status didn’t interfere with hunting, it’d never allow him to stand up to their dad.

“Son, don’t,” Bobby’s voice was absurdly loud, agitating, like nails on a chalkboard but his gaze never left John as the deputies dragged him out.

At the arraignment hearing they found out Dean was being charged with voluntary manslaughter. 

The district attorney said due to the extenuating circumstances; an Alpha on the cusp of their rut and the Betas signed a confession of intentionally seeking out another for infidelity as retribution because their Alpha recently purchased a House Omega against their wishes they were willing to accept a plea deal.

“As stipulated by state law, Alpha John Winchester will have ten days to procure an Omega for  his pack's lower-ranked Alpha, Dean Winchester, and present them in court with the proper documentation or the defendant will be reprimanded into custody to serve the mandatory five-year imprisonment.” 

The DA paused and glances towards the gallery, “the Alpha will also be required to surrender custody of Samuel Winchester, his other minor Alpha son, to be placed in a state-sanctioned home.” The defense attorney asked for a brief recess to discuss the terms when John stood up.

“Your honor, there’s no need for a recess, I accept the deal.”

Shouting and loud banging at the far end of the showroom drew the attention of several patrons then stopped just as suddenly as it started.

 “Dean, go wait by the entrance.” 

“What?” Dean disbelievingly barked and John grabbed his leather jacket collar, “don’t you take that tone with me boy,” he snarled in a low voice. “I’m having to clean up your fucking mess so your brother doesn’t end up in the system.”

 ”Yes sir,” Dean replies chastised, turning towards the warehouse's entrance with his brother naturally following hearing their dad say, “no Sam, you’re with me,” peeks back to see his brothers' cheeks flushed in embarrassment, trying to not gawk at the naked Omegas as he reluctantly falls in behind them.

Their dad had raised them to not only hunt evil but protect the innocent and this situation went against everything ingrained in them, knowing these O’s were destined for servitude or used as breeding stock and couldn’t help them. 

“Let's get down to brass tacks shall we,” the dealer gestures around. “As you can see, our stock has a diverse selection, is there a particular type you’re interested in purchasing?”

“I need one under 18.”

Part II

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva  @b3autyfuldisast3r @lassie-bird @nancymcl @spnbaby-67  @leigh70

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

[ensenadamassage5]

Deep Tissue Massage Techniques for Pain Relief and Recovery

Understanding Deep Tissue Massage

A Deep Tissue Massage focuses on manipulating the deeper layers of muscle and connective tissue. Unlike gentle Swedish massages, deep tissue massages involve more intense pressure, slow strokes, and targeted techniques to address specific areas of tension and pain. The primary goal is to break down adhesions (bands of painful, rigid tissue) that can form in muscles and tendons due to injury, overuse, or chronic tension. By doing so, deep tissue massage improves circulation, reduces inflammation, and promotes faster recovery.

Key Techniques in Deep Tissue Massage

Stripping Stripping involves using slow, deep strokes along the length of the muscle fibers. The massage therapist uses their fingers, knuckles, or elbows to apply intense pressure, working from the top of the muscle to the attachment point. This technique is especially effective for muscles that have been overworked or are chronically tight, as it helps release knots and improve flexibility.

Friction Friction involves applying deep, circular movements to specific areas where adhesions have formed. This technique breaks up scar tissue, improves circulation, and enhances muscle elasticity. Friction is often used around joints and areas prone to injury, such as the shoulders, knees, and lower back.

Cross-Fiber Strokes Cross-fiber strokes involve applying pressure perpendicular to the direction of the muscle fibers. This technique helps break down muscle adhesions and promotes healing by increasing blood flow to the affected area. It is particularly useful for treating chronic conditions such as tendinitis, plantar fasciitis, and muscle strains.

Trigger Point Therapy Trigger points, or muscle knots, are tight areas within the muscle tissue that cause pain in other parts of the body. Trigger point therapy focuses on identifying these points and applying direct pressure to release tension and alleviate referred pain. A massage therapist may use their fingers, knuckles, or elbows to apply sustained pressure on these points, providing significant pain relief and improved muscle function.

Stretching and Joint Mobilization Incorporating stretching and joint mobilization techniques into a Deep Tissue Massage session can enhance the overall benefits. Gentle stretching helps lengthen tight muscles, improve flexibility, and restore range of motion. Joint mobilization involves moving the joints within their natural range to reduce stiffness and promote relaxation.

Finding a Spa Near Me for Deep Tissue Massage

If you’re interested in experiencing the benefits of a deep tissue massage, finding the right spa near me is crucial. Many local spas offer a range of massage therapies, including deep tissue massage. Look for spas that specialize in therapeutic treatments and employ licensed massage therapists who are experienced in deep tissue techniques. Reading reviews and checking credentials can help you find a reputable spa that meets your needs.

Incorporating Massage into Your Spa Day

The Benefits of Mobile Massage Therapists

If you prefer the convenience of receiving a Deep Tissue Massage at home, consider hiring mobile massage therapists. These professionals bring the spa experience directly to your doorstep, allowing you to enjoy a therapeutic massage in the comfort of your own space. Mobile massage services are ideal for those with busy schedules or limited mobility. They offer the flexibility to choose a time and location that suits you best, whether it’s at your home, office, or even at a spa party with friends.

Planning a Spa Party with Deep Tissue Massage

Hosting a spa party is a great way to combine relaxation and socializing. Whether it’s a birthday, bridal shower, or just a get-together with friends, incorporating deep tissue massages into your spa party can make the event truly special. Many mobile massage therapists offer group packages, providing multiple therapists who can perform treatments simultaneously. You can create a relaxing atmosphere with soft music, candles, and aromatherapy, allowing your guests to enjoy the benefits of deep tissue massage while celebrating together.

Choosing the Right Massage Therapist

When seeking a massage therapist for deep tissue massage, it’s important to consider their experience and qualifications. Look for therapists who have specialized training in deep tissue techniques and a proven track record of successfully treating clients with similar needs. A skilled therapist will be able to assess your specific pain points, customize the treatment to suit your needs, and provide advice on aftercare to maximize the benefits of the massage.

Tips for Enhancing Your Deep Tissue Massage Experience

Communicate with Your Therapist: Let your therapist know about any specific areas of pain or discomfort so they can adjust the pressure and focus of the massage accordingly.

Stay Hydrated: Drink plenty of water before and after your massage to help flush out toxins released during the treatment.

Breathe Deeply: Practice deep breathing throughout the massage to help relax your muscles and enhance the effectiveness of the treatment.

Plan for Rest: Allow yourself time to rest after your massage. Avoid strenuous activities for at least 24 hours to give your muscles time to recover.

Conclusion

FAQs

1. What is a Deep Tissue Massage? A deep tissue massage is a type of massage therapy that focuses on manipulating the deeper layers of muscles and connective tissue. It uses firm pressure and slow strokes to reach deep layers of muscle and fascia, aiming to release chronic tension, alleviate pain, and improve overall mobility.

2. What are the benefits of a Deep Tissue Massage? Deep tissue massage offers several benefits, including pain relief, improved circulation, reduced muscle tension, and faster recovery from injuries. It can also help break down scar tissue, improve flexibility, and enhance overall well-being.

3. How is Deep Tissue Massage different from other types of massages? Unlike gentler massages, such as Swedish massage, deep tissue massage applies more intense pressure and targets the deeper muscle layers. It is specifically designed to relieve chronic pain, muscle knots, and tension, making it ideal for those seeking targeted therapeutic relief.

4. Can I include a Deep Tissue Massage in my Spa Day? Yes, you can easily incorporate a deep tissue massage into your spa day. Many spas offer customizable packages that include a deep tissue massage along with other treatments, such as facials, body scrubs, and hydrotherapy, to create a comprehensive relaxation and recovery experience.

5. What should I look for when choosing a Spa Near Me for a Deep Tissue Massage? When searching for a spa near me, look for establishments that specialize in therapeutic treatments and employ licensed massage therapists experienced in deep tissue techniques. Reading reviews, checking credentials, and asking for recommendations can help you find a reputable spa.

[outlawqueen2016]

Impact of Perversions on Healthcare, Part II

An Expansion: Needle Fetish

One of the most common escalations of a needle fetish is the needle torture of the abdomen. That is to say, an assailant will use a needle: to untie the tendons in the skin and create loose baggy abdomens; this torture escalated to the loosening of the abdominal wall muscles, which impedes digestive function; finally, the needle can be used to tie knots in the lower digestive tract.

The aforementioned knots in the digestive track are known, medically, as diverticulitis. That is to say, there are pouches in the intestines which may be filled with fluid or fecal matter, which may or may not belong to the assailant. There is no known cure for diverticulitis; only a mild painkiller prescription and instruction to stay hydrated and eat a balanced diet. Extreme cases may be diagnosed as colon cancer.

When the polyps are filled with a sedative they are called venom sacks by the progressive minded democrat, and poison packs by the revolutionary Republican. When the polyps are filled with foreign fecal matter, the progressive minded democrat knows one of theirs indulged in a fecal matter transplant.

A needle fetish, designed originally to keep women thin, is now being used to keep hostages of human trafficking too weak to escape. The progressive minded democrat oft jokes about their opponents “losing their lunch”; essentially, a syringe is filled with the victim’s stomach contents via needle, then the needle is used to create lines of knots in the stomach wall, which causes the capacity of the stomach to shrink to next to nothing. This can be misdiagnosed as anorexia.

Another common needle fetish is the harvesting of human organs from hostages on the abuse human trafficking circuit. Human organs, like: collagen, breast tissue, lip collagen, hair, blood, etc. fetch coveted prices on the cosmetic surgery supply market. The harvesting of blood contributes to the growth of cults obsessed with magic revolving around blood of unwilling victims. The harvesting of vocal chords has given rise to hundreds of one hit wonder artists in the past fifty years.

A driving force in the decision making process of a progressive minded democrat is the emotion of jealousy, mainly, jealousy of another’s facial structure. This led to the cosmetic enhancement circuit, in which, progressive minded democrats terraformed their own faces in order to be beautiful. This tactic is used by espionage agents and wanted terrorists to alter their facial appearance and avoid apprehension for their crimes.

This fetish manifests on the abuse human trafficking circuit when a progressive minded democrat smashes the face of a beautiful female hostage with a wooden bat, then uses the needle tip to knot the damage done to the victim’s facial structure in place. Also on this circuit is the pancake fetish, in which, a morbidly obese progressive minded democrat falls from their thin, stalking victim’s ceiling, crushing their body cavity beneath the weight of their substantial figure, then using a needle to knot the tendons in the rib cage and impact the rib cage, constricting the lungs, making the ability to take a full breath impossible. This condition is diagnosed as asthma, medically; however, extensive knots in the breast tissue may be diagnosed as breast cancer.

A form of punishment, doled out by the progressive minded democrat, is to use a needle to perforate as a form of torture. The perforations in the lungs cause shortness of breath, wheezing, and when filled with fluid, pneumonia like symptoms. In extreme cases, the quantity of needle punctures in the lungs leads to suffocation as cause of death. Perforations in the ear, lead to sudden deafness and vertigo.

The needle fetish of injecting air into the bloodstream of a victim leads to heart attacks as the air bubble enters the carotid artery. The heart attacks are caused by what is essentially a misfire in the heart, leading to temporary, if not fatal, heart failure. When a progressive minded democrat performs the same torture on the same victim over time; this is diagnosed as heart disease.

The needle fetish involving eyes is traumatizing. The progressive minded assailant utilizes a needle to weaken the tendons in the eyeball responsible for contraction. In extreme cases, the victim goes blind.

The most heinous of the needle fetish is the torture of the brain and the skull on the abuse human trafficking circuit; no longer reserved for the political enemies of the New World Order. The damage done to the brain has been studied extensively as: Alzheimer’s Disease; Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis; Friedreich’s Ataxia; Huntington’s Disease; Spinal Muscular Atrophy.