#but like when you knit you want to stick the needle through the hole the other needle is in

[tactical-jellyfish]

Tf 141 with an s/o who loves fiber arts!

Word count= roughly 1,750

Warnings: No! Just fluff with the lads :) Enjoy (but inly if you wanna)!!!

Kyle, who really never thought that knitting would be this hard, considering how much you raved about it keeping you both calm and properly stimulated. Now, he sits by your side on the living room floor, shakily holding two bamboo needles in his hands and trying to hold the "working yarn" (the yarn attached to the ball, apparently) the right way as you tenderly lecture him for being a dunce. "No, baby, you need to get through the stitch first before you yarn over-" Your voice is so pretty like that, trying to steer him from making another weird-looking hole for no real reason, but Kyle just whines again as you take the swatch into your own hands, finish off the whole row like some magic creature of the yarn and thread.

"You said that this was supposed to be easy, luvie." He whines into the crook of your neck, having loosely wound himself around your side as you showed him exactly what to do for the fourth time this hour. Some part of him loves the unfailing tenderness, the softness of your voice and the way you poorly hide the fact that you're laughing at him under your breath. "Sorry, i just thought-" There's a snort from your lips as giggles envelop you, your smile turns wide. Kyle's heart melts a little in his chest "I just thought you'd be better at this-"

Kyle gasps in mock offense, before pushing the needles to the floor, already planning his revenge for that little slight. "Say that one more time, and I'll give yer little magic sticks to my nieces and tell 'em they're swords." He revels in the shocked gasp you give, and grins as you bat him upside the head. "Hah, funny man. Try." Your voice is quieter, a little bit more dangerous, just daring him to do that very thing. Kyle saves his own ass by pecking your cheek, gently taking your hands into his own. "I wouldn't, babes, you know I wouldn't." There's not a modicum of lie in that statement. Kyle knows that the sweetest ones are the most terrifying, and his mum would never let him hear the end of it if he lost you. "Yeah, I do know you wouldn't, jus' wanted to mess with you." It's Kyle's turn to gasp now, but he smiles when you kiss his cheek in return, leans into you like a lapdog despite himself. Tonight's going to be good, and he knows it.

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Johnny, who remarkably managed very, very well with embroidery. You had been so happy to see him, posted on the couch next to you, working away at the hoop, having only very few questions on how he should hold the thing, if the tension you kept talking about was a little bit off. For an hour, maybe two, it was lovely. Simple silence as you leaned up on his shoulder, working a larger project as the Scot figured out exactly what he was doing on his own. Deft hands, you watched him pick apart the small knots in the thread without issue. It flooded your heart with pride. "Are you finally going to let me see the thing, Johnny?" You questioned playfully, trying to straighten your spine to get a peek before there's a big hand shoved over your eyes, and a thick accent chiding you for your gall. "No!" He squawks, you just know that he relishes in not letting you see, riling you up through your own curiosity, because Johnny is, at his core, a cheeky little shit. "Ye gotta wait, mo leannan, ye cannae jus' peek like that!" It draws a grumble from your lips, but you close your eyes, gently take hold of his wrist in your hand and nod, giving a softer affirmation before he coos at you. "Don' worry, it's almost done anyway." He soothes you with a soft peck to your temple, and just like that, you're calm again, all heart-eyed and dumb with love, relaxed. It's another thirty minutes before the finished product is tenderly set into your lap, and you gasp in surprise before seeing it. It's... stupid. An old sketch of his that really had amused him all too much, one of you from a picture at a night out (you had tripped on a root and he managed to get a picture of your face mid-fall) that he had always seemed too damn enamored with. "Oh my god." You press your hand to your face in shame, already feeling ridiculous before Johnny laughs brightly, pressed a firm, wet kiss to your cheek. "You look lovely! Don't ye? I think you look lovely." It's a sweet sentiment, enough to endear you to the terrible, terrible thing that your fiancé has chosen to immortalize and drive a too-fond sigh from your lips. "You're lucky that I love you." You grumble, giving Johnny a half-hearted glare before he swoops in to sweetly kiss your lips, because he really does know you too well. "Aye, I really am" He doesn't miss a beat, still grinning like an idiot. It makes your chest soften, your guts go mushy and fluttery. "Don't be coy, MacTavish." You reprimand. He grins, and kisses you again for good measure.

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Simon, who really didn't think this would be necessary, but here he is, sitting next to you cross-legged on the floor with the hook in hand. "Like this, right?" He speaks gruffly, and loosens his posture for you to peek over his shoulder. He feels the ghost (pun intended) of a smile pulling up at his lips when he hears your affirmative hum. "Yeah. You're doing real good, honey," Your voice wafts into his ear so nicely, floods his mind so deliciously, the only person that Simon knew he would always listen to, his angel right here on Earth. "Out of curiosity, have you ever done this before?" When you finish your question, Simon does let that smile grow on his face, lets the warmth flood into the cavity of his chest, seep into the crevices of his soul, heal the damage bit by bit. Simon leans his head on yours, and takes in a breath. The truth was, he had. One night, after a particular date when you had entirely infodumped a current project to him, he had done a little research. Then, promptly after, learned to crochet, even if it was only the basics. It paid off now, with you on his arm and impressed with his skill. "Nah. Maybe I'm just good at this, hm?" He denies that, shuffles his cheek closer into yours, soaking up the warmth that you radiate, relishes in the soft chuckle that you give. "Mmh, maybe you're gonna be even better than me, is that your plan?" Your teasing is soft, given out of affection. It makes Simon smile, makes him relieved that he's once again managed to make sure that a date went well. "No. Just pick things up fast." The mood really is dead in the water, but Simon really loves that you seem to thrive in that, that you still peck his cheek anyway despite him practically having negative game. "Smartass." You chirp at him, setting down your own piece on the floor before wholesale resting your head on Simon's shoulder. He fights a chuckle. "Better than being a dumbass, isn't it?" The joke wasn't his (he stole it from Johnny), but when you laughed, Simon knew it was well worth it anyway.

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John, who was more than content to help you work on another big project of yours. He was endlessly proud of you, how wonderfully you worked on those commissions and how perfect they always looked when you finally shipped them off. But disaster always strikes at one time or another, and the cat is often the cause of that. After maybe an hour of soothing his panicking partner, John had you wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of your own office, gently taking the needle into his own hands to sew the small tear in the fabric back together as you sniffled a little bit. Were you more than skilled enough to fix this issue yourself? Yes. But John felt particularly loving lately, wanted to make sure that his lovely, hyper-competent partner knew that they could rely on him. Because they always could. When he speaks, its gently, glancing up from the fabric in his hands to look into your eyes, still a little bit bloodshot from the tears. "Don't worry yourself, sweetheart. My mother didn't raise a man who doesn't know how to do repairs." The comfort was genuine, both an assurance of his skill and a statement that you could just lay back, let him take the reins for once and allow you to calm down a little bit. "But-" you sniffle, wipe at your nose with a tissue, and John doesn't allow you to question this. "Nope. None of that self-doubt, yer therapist already said that's bad, didn't she?" You nod, John watches your cheeks flush a bit simply because he remembered, that he cared enough to stow that away in the back corners of his brain. Oh, if only you knew how much he adores you, your little heart would blow up. "I can't just let you do my work for me, John, that's not right." The small rebuttal makes him pause in the middle of a stitch, gently set the needle down. His darling had the morals of a saint, why was he surprised by that? "Who said that I was doing your work? Maybe I'm just your guest of honor, sweetness." John speaks softly, shoots you a cocky grin that finally brings a smile back onto your face. "Yeah, yeah, alright," He smiles as you stand, wraps a strong arm around your midsection as you tuck yourself into his side, calming all of the way back down, turning back into the wonderful, sweet, bordering perfect partner returning to form once more. "That means that you have to sign it, too, you know." You tease in return as John nervously swallows, knowing damn well he is hopeless to ever replicate the pure beauty that is your signature on professional pieces. "Well, I'm not so sure about that-" He uselessly stutters to the joke, feeling his own cheeks heat up more than a little bit at the invitation. "Oh, don't be like that, I could teach you." Now that makes Price melt.

[aparticularbandit]

Being reminded why actually I hate the sparkle yarn.

Alas.

[moongothic]

Made a crochet lace-top! Wheee

Okay so for a little while now I had been thinking about what a cute outfit it'd be to have like a nice button-up/t-shirt with a mesh top underneath it, so you could see the mesh on the arms and the neck etc etc. And yeah, I could buy a mesh top from some alternative fashion brand (Restyle comes to mind), however most if not all of those are made of plastic and are like, full upperbody suits. Also they would be expensive. And no matter how I thought about it I could not come up with an excuse or a justification to buy a piece of clothing that expensive that 70% nobody will ever see because it'd be underneath other clothes, when all I really need is like a crop top (also it'd be just a little bit too expensive for me to feel good about DIY'ing it and cutting it into a crop top). And the plastic too, my Eternal Hangup.

So, I did what you always do. I decided to just make it myself.

Yup, it's a crop top. Not much to note there, I just looked up some lace crochet stitches until I found one I liked to make the top in and just bullshitted one together. I did struggle figuring out how to make the collar part because I did want the neck to be fitted, but also my head had to like, fit through the hole so I could actually wear it. So what I ended up having to do was leaving a slit in the back that I have to lace up and tie together with some ribbon. Not a big deal by any means, but yeah the way I did it looks a bit messy and rough (but it's in the back so it's fiiiiiiine) Also I made armpit holes lmao. No need to get the alpaca yarn sweaty and stinky

So the yarn I used is Katia's Alpaca Lace, which is 70% viscose and 30% alpaca (color 89 (black)). I hadn't actually gone and bought this yarn for this project in particular. When I was preparing to start the bleeding heart sweater I realized I didn't have the right size knitting needles for it, which meant doing some shopping. And while I was at it I just needed a little bit more shit in my shopping cart to get the free shipping (you know how it is), and when browsing for something to add I came across this yarn and absolutely fell in love with it, so I ended up grabbing some. The yarn is absolutely stunning, it is so soft, the viscose tube is like this beautiful white/silverly color with black alpaca fibers blown into it, it is GORGEOUS and so shiny. But also.

The structure of the yarn also made it an absolute NIGHTMARE to work with. You know how people warn others about working with mohair because the loosey-goosey fibers will stick to each other and make unravelling/frogging a project a gigantic pain in the ass to do? Yeah, I haven't worked with mohair, but based on the experience I had with this I'm pretty sure I never want to try mohair now lmao

Now to be fair, the main issue was that I was bullshitting this crop top together all willy nilly. Which meant that I had to undo and redo almost every section of it anywhere at least once, if not multiple times, because that's how I was figuring out how to make the top fit the way I wanted it to. Hell, on my first attempt I started by crocheting a whole sleeve and the neck piece, only to decide I wasn't happy with how I was making it, so I restarted completely (this time doing the torso of the top first, bottom-to-top). And I am not joking when I tell you that frogging the first sleeve and neck piece took me literal days to do. I had to use a freaking seam ripper to get the job done, it was that hard (like it was the only way to help the alpaca fibers get untangled, though I still had to be extremely careful so I didn't damage or rip the viscose tube) So had I known what I was doing from the begining, I would've had a much, MUCH easier time with this project. The yarn itself is wonderful to crochet with, frogging it was horrible.

And so I do want to give out a warning to anybody reading this; if you wanna bullshit a lace crop top together, go for it, just use a yarn that's easy to unravel. You ARE going to make mistakes and using smoother yarn will make your life easier and the project go by much, MUCH faster

But, I'm glad I stuck to it and didn't give up, because I am absolutely over the moon with how this top turned out. It's so comfy, shockingly warm actually, and it looks so cute. I'm so delighted with it

My only regret is that because the yarn has this gun-metal sheen to it, I don't think I'd wear with anything BUT all-black clothes. I had been hoping to wear it with a button-up shirt, but I can't 'cause the shade and color absolutely does not match the one and only button-up in my closet right now (the Mollymauk/CritRole one, which is a statement piece on its own. As you can see they absolutely clash and do not go together at all lmao)

So I do wanna make another one, next time in a plain black yarn so I can wear it with other colors maybe perhaps (/I just need a plain black button-up) (A white one could be really cool too....... And a red...)

Not much else to add here. The construction of the top was simple once I figured it out. I just made a band that goes around my torso, made it long enough to cover most of my chest, then separately crochet'd the front and the back of the top that I then attached at the top. Then I crochet'd the neck piece directly onto it (instead of making it separately), followed by the shoulder pieces that turn into proper sleeves after getting far away enough from the armpits. The lace pattern itself can't be adjusted much/at all, so to keep the top fitted (especially in the sleeves) I occasionally had to do these little decorative rows where I would cut down the stitch count, before going back to the lace stitch with fever repeats. Like I said, took some mathing and figuring out to get the fit right, but it worked out in the end!

[artmiscarchive]

@spocksautismdiagnosis ahhhh thank you so much for the kind words!! (also what a stellar url omg💕)

these were by hand (though im quite honored that they look neat enough to maybe even be machined 🥺💕), mostly it just takes a lot of wrangling, patience, and practice! my first few were not anywhere near this level of neatness lmaoo. you can even see in the top pic how the border around the silver is much more uniform and bold than the one around the gold, there were quite a few patches made in between those two

and disclaimer also that at the time it was literally the main thing i was doing all day for months (shoutout to the person i was doing all the embroidery with 🔥) so hyperfixating on learning it really helped, we were both so deep in the sauce and basically embroidered while watching shows for agesss. audiobooks or youtube videos also work great for me for this

its the perfect kind of craft for if you just Gotta do something with your hands but dont have the space to start knitting projects, and its pretty cheap to get into! if youre not sure on what kind of thread to buy, the dmc brand ones youll find sold by the mini skein at most US craft stores are totally worth it. you can get kits online too, and while pretty much any thread works great, the dmc stuff is silkier and palpably a higher quality while still being affordable, and also much better texture-wise

in terms of specific techniques, id recommend using denim for sure. its stiffer and easier to work with while freehanding than classic embroidery fabric you might put in a hoop. you can also still see the grain of the fabric clearly, similar to hoop fabric, but also then the patch comes out a lot thicker since the body of the patch isnt all just embroidery thread!

when using denim, youll get that fray around the edges as you work, though, so id also recommend doing the border in bits of maybe an inch at a time, snipping juuust before you start to work on that section. id also definitely fill in the center and do the edges last, that way you have a feel for how the patch will most smoothly close up

practicing works best on long straight stretches or on larger circles, since then you arent having to wrangle the corners while youre just starting out. a circle patch about the size of your palm would make a great first few patches, since just going in a straight line wouldnt really let you make anything enclosed. seriously corners are a bitch, dont start with a trek delta! the three standalone deltas were all for a giveaway and after about two years of consistent work, the shiny one enclosed in the circle was one i made earlier on (though disclaimer the metallic thread was a lot thicker and more difficult to work with)

for stitchwork it helps if you do each one in a row as closely together as you can, but you can always go back over it later too. if you get any flyaway denim bits sneaking out you can lightly pull them or snip them too without too much problem. (i also found that doing white borders, like in my umbrella academy one, is a great hack to make them automatically look neater since then it blends in.)

this might be overly obvious but i literally took so long to process it was allowed to embroidery without tying it onto the needle, as long as you fold it back with about two spare inches itll mostly stay put. i spent three months desperately trying to work the tied thread through the fabric, it hurt my fingers and it punched too-big holes in spots constantly

lastly, if you ever decide doing the borders isnt for you - screw it! embroider gorgeous art or fun fan stuff and stick it right on the denim jacket, you can always do a little fabric paint to color match, or use fabric glue to seal or fold the edges behind so it doesnt fray! ive seen a lot of cool patches on jackets like that, it comes out looking very punk and absolutely rules!

happy embroidering and hmu anytime if you have questions or want to chat!! <3 <3 my trek main is @loudfederationscreeching and thats where i follow from <3

embroidery backlog, post 1/5

the ncc-1031 placard, rainbow tos delta, bajoran symbol (red/blue), wrath of khan era captains rank pip (purple), ds9/voy era delta, were all gifted!

the two call number placards use fabric paint with the embroidery, the rest are fully embroidery, all on denim

[muffindaddystyles]

Harry Styles x Barista!Reader.

Smut, pain kink and over-stimulation.

Mentions of past trauma and healing!

MASTERLIST, LETS TALK LOVIES!

Author's note: Your reblogs and appreciations means alot to me, token me a smile with your love.

His breath smells of strawberries and coffee, plushie lips dangerously close to her's making her half voracious gaze flicker between his lips and up at Tofu, kiss him kiss him you bloody fool, reeled in her head, "here lemme . . ." He notices her jitteriness fetching the birdy for her. She hiccups with a suck of breath when his knuckles brushed the inside of her palms while giving Tofu to her.

"Oi, Harry budge over you bugger!!" She hisses with sleepy voice but in return he squishes her more.

OR

Y/N has a phobia for needles and Harry's her damsel in distress.

//

Something about bungalows not having stairs makes Y/N's cheeks puffs out in disappointing amazement. The fact she couldn't even climb at the rooftop when the summer sky's ornamented with cosmic stars twinkling with the each buzz of music from inside. She hiccups a giggle when the cool zephyr blew her frock away giving out a glimpse of her itty-bitties, glad no-one's in the diameter to have a show. The discernment falls to nothingness when she hears distinct rustle of someone behind the fat‐very-rooty-tree, it widens her eyes into saucers as she blinks comically.

It's not a squirrel she could tell. Couldn't be Ronny who went to take a wee cause all the darn washrooms inside were occupied and his bladder being the weakest, he went for a bush.

But, that bush's behind her and for a moment she forgot her friend even existed since she muted out his piss taking whistle a while ago.

All her frenzied assumptions fails when two figures camouflaged in the darkness tumbles from behind the tree. Her cheeks splashes with burning crimson when they separate with a loud, wet kissing noise and the two men doesn't seem any shy about it unlike Y/N who's foozling the frill of her dress as if she got caught in the middle of a fuck in public loo. Not that, it everrr happened with her, still she has an example set for such incidents.

"Oh, hi." The warble of unprevious voice wins in gaining her attention and she tries to squint through the pocosin of his eyes which glimmers under moonlight if she glances away too quick, she startles in her spot when a gruff voice speaks over them, "Ronny couldn't even occupy a shot of vodka in his bladder." She couldn't seem to flit her gaze away from his cherry of lips glistening from whatever activities they were having before (the only features she could see in such illumination) as the other guy and Ronny bantered off passing a cig in between them.

"Oi, shut up will ya." Ronny locks his arm with Y/N and she flinches that he hasn't even washed them yet, "c'mon truffles we don't wanna be here." He announces dragging her away and the humid air around them bubbled with chuckles.

"Huh." She quips all lost between the interaction and accidentally bumping into two beautiful men kissing eachother, she's totally jealous! Poor thing tries to jerk the mud from her toes and to have a last glimpse of the man with marble irirses.

"D'ya think I've a chance with that daddy-long- legs-one? Dunno, but he intimidates me so bad." Ronny whispers to her and she frowns sniffing with her already runny nose from being a bit tipsy, it's making her bouncy little by little and she knows the bevvys she had will have a full swing within the night, "why? He seems nice."

"His hotness truffles, it intimidates me." He scrapes his already chipped nail polish after washing his hands from the basin throwing towel at her face, she just sighs putting it back in the rack.

"How about you talk to him first." Parties has teeny perks of them and gigantic disadvantages 1) Ronny gets a school crush at every boy he looks at. 2) They get more sweaty, stinky, gluey and more wilder till the clock hits 4 am. Honestly, even if it wasn't for the free bevys she would have never stepped in.

"That's the hard part." They push people aside like stuffies getting cursed and groped in return.

"He's not gonna know himself, Ron, you dump-stick." Good she doesn't need to yell like before as the music has dimmed to a hum possibly about to shut down within minutes. Halting, beside some people crowded alongside the couch some sitting on it and their confused heads shots up at first at the sound of familiar vibrations.

The worst scenarios of someone having a bullet up in their hole and peeps around having a show passes for a mere sec in their heads, together, that's why they're friends since the first semester of UNI.

But, upon seeing what's the ruckus about Ronny shakes his head in utmost panic, "oh no . ." He tries to escape from her grip but she tugs him from collar, "Please Ronny, swear 'm ready to over come my fear! Nothing's gonna happen to me." They stand beside the guy sheepishly (like two elementary kids deciding who'll step inside the staff room first) a gun perched in his hand and Y/N realizes that he indeed's the same guy she met outside, this time she could see him properly and those hickorey of curls brushing the eternity of his popping clavicles.

His back to them but she could see the flex of his muscles from under the sheer black of his shirt with the each movement he does with his gun, she admits that he got prettier back than her.

"Ey Harry this's my friend Y/N and she wanna overcome her phobia of needles, be a damsel in distress pal." So, they know eachother. The whizz of gun stops midway and he dismisses the drunk dude under him tilting his chin to meet her eyes, and it was worth it as it took tiny gasp from her.

He's way beautiful than he was in the darkness.

Ronny was right. It daunts her a bit. The name Harry itself is some kind of royalty.

"Oh, hi there, again." He greets her with a warm smile and it glitter-glittery her insides, will you please not she scolds herself. It's probably the alchol her subconscious assures her but her nervousness from the idea of really doing this says otherwise.

"Have a seat, love." Oh holy goodness. He's as sober as judge and she at whole is miffed.

//

Harry isn't a popular senior. No. His charm's something that woos everyone and his name's always on the top list of invites, he avoids them though unless it's his closest friend. Him remaining to himself has casted a spell on everyone that his personality's intimidating and he's this sex god who has an only concern with fucking people.

He could be called a nerd from his grades everytime being higher than last semester but his attire and being a shining star of the Christmas tree gives it away.

Everyone likes him, ah-ah no everyone absolutely loves him. The thing's he has never felt the same in his twenty-one years of life and that's a fat bummer.

He just gives that "please stay away from me" aura, brows always sewn together and bottom lip jutted makes him appear rather passive aggressive to strangers (well the people who knows him loves him for being the most chill person walking around them).

Right now, he got a tat gun in his hand and everyone's getting a drunk tattoo for the remembrance of this stupid party or just that they've a kink for pain, possibly for humiliation too because what could a tattoo gotten in an unconscious state could bring you?

"Y'alright there?" He asks her and she bobs her head clamping her hands shut in her lap. The rainbow broch on his loafers intrigues her about his fashion senses, it makes her jealous she can't afford to have her own style, "Yeah!" She avoids to even give a spare glance to the gun in his hand because she knows the moment she'd, it will make her dizzy.

She feels bad for cliff hanging him to herself only but he doesn't seem to mind at all. Waits patiently for her to guard herself as Ronny pats her back like she's about to summo wrestle.

"Want me to start it?" He knows how bad it's for some people. Many times he had an encounter with weak hearted persons who got dragged into his parlour by their friends and ended up running away, "Can you give me a moment?" She lifts her head towards him and it makes his forehead knit into concerned lines.

The poor bug's giving a purple face as if she's about to throw up and her ears pink.

"Take all y'want, darlin'." His gentleness flows over her head, she thinks that the music has died or she has gone deaf, can't be neither, cause no-way that such a sweet call wouldn't make her toes all gooey.

"'M ready!" She puffs out a huge exhale moving her shaking wrist nearer to his grasp and he gives her a comforting look before wrapping his fingers one by one around her delicate wrist, skidding the stool he's been sitting on closer to her, "al'ight truffles 'ere we go — wouldn't hurt promise." He decides to stick with truffles since Ronny calls her with the nickname everytime he's at Harry's. Thought his blabbers of his friend were exaggerated coating of sugar but when she's sitting infront of him with those glinting eyes and soft flesh in which his lanky fingers seems to turn pudgy, he gets it why he calls her that.

He keeps on glancing up at her to see if she's okay — she has her hand placed atop Ronny's thigh while he distracts her with his "let's throw shade at mean bitches together" game and Harry just hovered the nib of it over her skin when she passed out but Ronny quickly placed his palm against her cheek to pull her back towards his shoulder.

"'M good . ." She comes back from it with a weak whsiper-y voice trying to straighten up but the instant her already blurry vision falls at the needle again making a line so small it isn't even visible she passes out again and this time Ronny seems unfazed talking to a girl beside him (trust the lad they've done it multiple times but the pain and fear of needles never let her have a single tattoo inked on her skin), leaving Harry to sweat over her.

Sighing he shuts down the machine putting it aside and presses the back of his hand against her forehead --- to be more appropriate, and when she remains as if in the land of nod completely knackered out and woolly in Ronny's arms he realizes that she has passed out for real.

"Truffles?" He doesn't get a response from her.

//

She puffers out her lips blowing raspberries gazing at the sunny sky from the clear glazed window of the shop, chin resting in the softness of her palm as the cosy hall of it emptied from the rush the time it striked noon. The start of her shift's always effete and warm with honey-bees buzzing over the pots of pastel flowers outside, but the evenings are most tiresome and she has to do the closing in a grumpy mood.

"Can you pass me the icing tube, forgot it under the counter shelf 'cos of that pain in ass customer." He's their regular. Has constant complaints that their tarts are too sugary and they need to thicken the formula for their lattes, Y/N just bobs her head at his tantrums finding a way to shoo him away with a promise of next time, "yeah uhh — " Gripping the edge of marble counter she squats down and giggles at herself as she looks funny with her knees making a tent of her ruffle frock.

The door-bell chimes indicating the presence of someone but she goes for her rampage knowing Cora's there to attend them and she was about to pull her head back when she hit it quite painfully against the upper shelf, "Ow!!" She squeaks rubbing the sore spot stabling herself while Cora chuckled taking the tube from her hand to go inside.

She never expected someone to occur at this hour, moreso, she never expected someone like him to pop out of nowhere at their shop. He just doesn't seem like a person to have a merry making at little cosy cafés all to himself, it's been driving her crazy, she cringes at herself everytime when the humiliation of passing out infront of him invades her thoughts.

Half of her heart wanted to see him again and other half was glad she never bumped in him — but seems like nature was evily against her.

"Oops hi!" When she couldn't fiddle with anything she adjusts her frilly apron and with her wrist brushes her loose tresses away which her bow failed to keep. He blinks for several times sipping in the consequence, though it gives her time to take in his appearance.

He's yet again, wearing a sheer shirt with white flower buds spiraling from his abs towards the broad of his chest displaying his inked skin underneath beautifully — it shimmers every time he shifts on his feet letting the sunlight fall on him. His curls tamed and silkier than before, he groomed himself too good it puts Y/N to shame for being a girl, a careless one.

"You work here?" He asks with a drawl as if he has a all the time to dedicate to her, "nope just broke in to do a fat robbery — wanna join?" He cackles, hard it quelled his tummy and it also made her smile blushy-ly that he didn't find her humour boring.

"Okie . . S' what you'll have?" Brassing the belly of his nose he clears his throat roaming his eyes to catch a perfect spot, "'s okay if'll be waitin' fo' someone there?" He points at the nook aligned with the fuchsia coloured book shelves, wooden pots hanging and embroidered throw pillows piled and some overflowing from the love seats.

"Totally!!" She chirps. The thought of him waiting for a date sinks summat a tiny globe of mud in her stomach and dunno why — She wishes she could've things that other people have without burning themselves in effort unlike her.

She watches him getting comfortable, scrutinising around with curious and adorable big peepers. He'd give her a shy smile everytime he'd catch her staring and she'd just shake her head treating her back to track, that he's on a date, but not with you.

She didn't forgot to ask him if he needs anything putting a glass of water at his coffee table without him requesting, it's perpetually hot and even her throat'd get dry after some minutes. He's been here for two hours and even though the weather cooled down spotting pearly drops of rain, perspiration still beaded at his forehead.

The bustle of on goers kept on dying and she feels bad for him, knowing the end of it, she's been there before many times. Even visualised it at this same shop far more she should thinking the world's kind enough to even let their date know with q single message.

Sensing his timorousness she paddles towards him getting a coconut cookie from the jar, onto the plate and sliding it in his line of vision. He seems flustered — everytime they've interacted she's the one to be not in one place and now he's ripping the threads of his tattered skinny jeans.

"You can munch on this cookie, if you want to!" He looks back and forth between the cookie and her, fuziness spreading in his chest glad at her kindness and enough trust in him to not to kick him out, "Thank you." He grabs it taking a bite and she giggles when in the single one he left no crumbs behind, his mouth's big, shut it already! and so pink so pulpy, oh my goodness I hate youuu!!

"'M sure your friend's on way, it's rainy, might —" He cuts her off with a dissapointed spurt of breath, "dunno." He sulks into sofa folding the corner of book's page.

"You still've an hour till the cáfe closes, don't loose hope!" She pats his shoulder and he gives her a weak smile doing that bunny scrunch of his nose, combing his already wrecked hair and thanks her for the next thousand time.

//

Harry had worst dates. This seems to top them. To be honest because of Y/N being here. What will she think? What if she thinks it's his fault? That he's a broken dummy who nobody wants to date? He wants to grumble and call his date to end things but he waits patiently as the sky turned lilacs of night.

Y/N feels remorseful and angry at the person who stood him up this pathetically. With a sad sigh she turns the closed sign to display outward silently looking at him while he's in his own trance, she disappears into the kitchen and Cora gives her a knowing eye.

"Not believing in love's my greatest descion up till far. It's impossibly hard out there." She retorts. Placing a hot chicken steak atop the alfredo pasta and sprinkles parsiman making it appetizing, "Tell him to better end things with a pig like them." She says in all seriousness handing the tray to Y/N.

He's there. Gazing outside with lips pressed into a thin line and he seems down with his loose errand of curls tucked into a man bun now, a perfect hairdo outta frustration "Harry." She keeps her voice low not to startle him gaining his attention.

"You didn't have to." He shakes his head and she made a noise un-recognized by him putting the tray on the table and moves the ottoman with her feet closer to him sitting on it, "let's be eachother's date for a day." She hands him a fork and he accepts gladly. His sulkiness wooshing away when she digs in taking a bite and smearing the sauce all over her lips.

"If you don't mind me asking, is it the same behind-the-tree guy?" He nods. She frowns spitting grumpily, "what a prat." With the help of knife she tears the steak equally sliding it to his side and he smiles boyishly sucking the corner of his lip inside.

"'M sorry, Harry." She squeezes his knee and it bundles up the air in his lungs, "'s okay truffles — glad you were there fo' a rescue."

"Y/N." She tells him forwarding her hand to shake and he slips his calloused ones to envelop her warmth. His cheeks turns pink when his stomach made noises of starvation, "you need to eat c'mon!" She nudges his elbow and he obliges.

After, filling their tummies satisfied and full she hands him a cuppa of latte with a foamy sleeping kitty floating over it she even made two eyes and the uwu kitty smile with the cocoa powder, "pardon me if it seems like I murdered the poor thing . . . 'm still learning from Cora." His giggles were absolutely amazed and gleeful.

"It looks so good, I don't feel like stirin' it." He pats the bum of steamed floffy kitty with the curve of his tea spoon and it makes her giggle some. Relishing onto strawberry pastries and crumpets oozed into butter, sipping onto their lattes, watching the sky turning dark with the rain while Cora left them hours ago to themselves.

She puts a velvet cloak around herself after closing the shop and Harry waits for her as she takes her bicycle, "Thank ye' Y/N. 'S kind of you." He stirs his gaze from his shoes to her face smiling brightly at her and she waves him off with blushy cheeks, they walk along under the shelters of sideways shops avoiding to get soaked while she holds the steering of her bicycle.

"You can lounge at my place, till the rain stops." When he shakes his head she quips turning into the street, "I insist." They stop infront of the old white sculptured building having two floors in total.

The first thing she does entering into her flat's greet Tofu (it's a Bush-tit a white furball with two curious tich button eyes) leaving Harry to get out of his shoes and slip into her house ones (they barely fits him -- making him chuckle at the size difference).

His eyes giving a beautiful glimmer under the glow of the yellow light as he looks around the space, it's simple, with a bedding on wooden floor, a circle shelf against the window lined up with green plants, a desk opposite to it and a golden standing cage of her pet bird.

"Hi bubba missed me much?" She opens the cage to let it out and the chonky white bird sits on her fingers happily, "Harry meet Tofu." His lips curve upward at the lil thing as he caress it's fluffy head.

"Tofu looks like a snowball." He muses with bambi eyes and she agrees with excitement, "Sometimes I wanna squish him, cause he's just too cute." His eyes widens comically laughing softly at her statement.

"Evil thought said out aloud with cuteness still remains evil, love." Tofu hoped over Harry's finger and he takes him towards his shoulder making it sit there but he has another plans, to rest his furry bum over Harry's head making both of them giggle, "c'mon now birdy time to fill your tummy." She tip-toes to catch him in her palms and knocks her nose with Harry's in the way.

His breath smells of strawberries and coffee, plushie lips dangerously close to her's making her half voracious gaze flicker between his lips and up at Tofu, kiss him kiss him you bloody fool, reeled in her head, "here lemme . . ." He notices her jitteriness fetching the birdy for her. She hiccups with a suck of breath when his knuckles brushed the inside of her palms while giving Tofu to her.

"Make yourself home!" She announces going to feed her pet and Harry flops onto her bed quite comfortably with his sweny legs stretched wide over the floor. They watched episodes of 'Bridgeton' wounded under her blankets and she almost fell asleep when he offered her genuinely.

"I'll help ye' have a tattoo, tiny atleast."

"Means alot to me." She yawns pondering with lug brain whether to snuggle into him or not, she did anyways. In the morning she was woken up by cold sheets and beeps of messages from Harry that made her feel she endured wings of fairy and she's bathing in the glitter of happiness.

//

She stares at the shop infront of her in amazement. It's friday night. She winded up all her assignments and came to this place exactly how it was mentioned in the address, when she enters inside spare teens and a bulky man was waiting outside the office thing-y . . .? Y/N presumes — an assistant chewing loudly on her gum talking onto phone with someone in hushed bratty tone and when Y/N knocks at the counter her piercing stare startles her a bit.

"Yes?" How rude! Y/N thinks with a pouty lip at her striking tone and she clears her throat, "'m here to meet . . . Harry." The snarky assistant rolls her eyes dismissing Y/N quickly to move back to her lazying, "He's busy." Y/N picks her finger to interject murmuring something under her breath and strolls back to wait with everyone.

Sun sets outside shimmering evening pink inside the lobby and the door atlast opens making her head perk up, "pet?" He looks sternly to his assistant but she doesn't seem fazed.

"Harry." Y/N grins, "Fo' how long you've been here?" She feels good someone's caring for her even though it's just for the fact she waited some hours for him, "doesn't matter can 've a tour?" He nods and the bratty assistant eyes him furiously taking Y/N's hand to lead her.

Harry watches her with dimply smile when she babbles at the details of his working station, "do I sit here?" She asks excitedly and he shakes his head, "yes, you may." They scrutinise through his sketches of designs together and she squeezes his wrist.

"Harry you're so talented! Look at 'em." He never felt this flustered with the compliments before button nose scrunching adorably. She chooses a a small plain jamsine flower nothing more, nothing less watching collect things for the process, "it's one of me mama's favourite." He exclaims rather proud snapping the latex gloves round his wrist.

"Where d'ya want it?"

"Where it hurts less." She replies wiping the sweat away with her frock, "it's outer shoulder, yer arm, calves and arse — " His mischievous grin awfully stretchy and she she slaps his bicep playfully.

"Outer shoulder?" She tells him confused to herself. He agrees strolling his stool near to her as she turns her back to him; his fingertips twitches when he pushes her hair to the side.

"Can you uh . . mm." She groans trying to reach for the zipper of her frock and he smoothes down his erratic heartbeat muttering, "yeah sure." She digs her nails into the delicate flesh of her palms when his calloused cold knuckles brushed deliberately against her skin while skimming the zip down slowly. Her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings when he slides her sleeve down her arm revealing her shoulder and it's so supple that Harry had to come back from his reverie; lick his lips to moisture.

He applies the numbing cream and she hisses softly the leather of seat sticking to her calves, her nerves jumbles and body startles when Harry starts the gun without warning her.

He loops his arm around her waist atop her thigh massaging it assuringly — sure it did nothing but to make her core throb insatiably as his rasp melted in her ears, "you're okay puppy." She gulps saying no word feeling her body getting hot at the each stroke of his thumb over her waist line.

"Ah -- Harry." She gasps out of air grasping his hand tightly at the sting of pain. She's baffled at the reactions of her body, her panties getting wet and the displeasing constant pricking of needle quenching out noises she never thought she was able to give out. When she whines and squirms Harry presses her down with force shushing her, "bug just a mo' it's smaller and would be done in seconds." She kisses her teeth bobbing her head vigorously and Harry chuckles at her effort remaining polite.

"Done!" He announces pulling away to admire it and when he hears the lil sniffles he quickly leaves everything sitting infront of her on the seat, "darlin' don't like it when ye' cry." He wipes her tears away not even glancing at her exposed collarbones and the plump flesh of her tits barely covered with her arm.

Soft and squishy, soft and squishy, soft and squishyyyyy.

His mind screams but her whimpery voice distracts him, "'m just gleeful that I've a tattoo because of you." He wraps it up expertly and zips her dress back with ever gentleness, "happy tears then?" She giggles with a grateful nod.

"Want a hug?" He thinks she deserves one for being brave and nice against her fear, "cuddle me up." She murmurs with swollen eyes and peachy cheeks. Uff — it stirs his cock in his jeans arousing the need to be with her everytime.

He rests his chin mushily into the crook of her neck swarming his arms around her waist to squeeze her warmly and she snuggles against his throat, damp lips puckering against his adam apple making it bob.

He feels jammy to be able to have a moment like this with her.

"Chinese takeout?" He collects his sketch journals, his phone, fedora apparently, keys of his motorbike and a spare helmet for her, "Yes please!"

//

They ate the take out perched against his bike with the meadow vast laying feet aways from them, under the breezy sky they conversed and Harry already got a tender spot for her in his heart. He never reaches to a stage where he could get to know someone with this passion and Y/N isn't from someone who'd guard herself from him just because his father was in the bad business.

As the evening brisked with cool dew of summer grass Harry leaned into her more and more.

He finds her little things infatuating, her bonding with Tofu and her dire wish to make good bum steamed kitties on the lattes, she has an irrefutable love for floral dresses and her homely habbit is doing ribbon work.

She got to know that Harry owns the tattoo shop, teaches few blokes the skill of it in free hours. He'ad attended lots of parties raving ones and the boring ones of higher socials, never lets any stranger step inside his loft which's situated upstairs of his shop. His father does all the criminaly things, he's this master mind in doing the evil things for people from getting money out of their enemies yada yada and Harry despises him for it, moreso, that he left them. He doesn't want to be associated with him in any case — he's none like him, he's kind and soft-hearted like his mother.

Y/N loves his goofy side. The one that cracks jokes and puns -- makes her fall in love with him without her even trying.

Last and foremost he has the render love for sheer shirts — told her he has shimmery ones for the fancying off.

"S'm no stranger then." She quips beside his shoulder as Harry unlocked his home's door. He glances her timidly amicably hovering over her lips, "absolutely not, yeh me bezzy." He raises his fist and she bumps it giggling.

//

Y/N that night sleeping on his bed dreamt of them laying together into the pillows of growing daffodils of meadow, lining up the stars in the sky and tell each other what they made ----- galloping rabbit, a slipping cake and she'd laugh with ugly snorts when Harry tells her that he sees a massive dick.

His grin proud and mellow to make his bezzy laugh. She squeaks when he pulls her onto him but soon her dreamboat sinks as she stirs at the warmth swallowing her whole.

She startes from her blurrines at something trapping her down till she recognizes the familiarity of two mascular arms sewn around her waist and what the fuck?

Harry made a makeshift pallet on the floor and right now she's all over him, pressed tightly against his chest — her cheeks turns red with embarrassment from being this clumsy and falling over him in her sleep.

"Oi, Harry budge over you bugger!!" She hisses with sleepy voice but in return he squishes her more.

Taking her face out of his neck she admires the softness of his features when he's asleep and the dotting of beautiful moles, sighing a huge relaxed puff of breath and canoodles into him like an affection starved kitty.

//

It's another cool rainy day and Y/N keeps on swabbing the droplets of water off from her eyes with her elbow trying to paddle her bicycle. She was on her way to Harry's when the skies betrayed her. Standing on his doormat she soaks it completely waiting for him to answer the door, sad, that her gift was ruined too.

"Lovin' ye'll catch a cold – shit come inside." Concerned he ushers her inside his loft, halts in his tracks when she remains behind adoring a gruffy pout, "what is it?" He asks walking to her and cups her cheeks the instant.

"Embroidered ye' a shirt 's destroyed now." She raises it to show him and he stares it for good seconds before swiping her off the floor – hugging her to radiate the sentiment of endearment he carries for her in his heart. It bloats her cheeks pressed against his clavicles and her feet dangles as he sways them with a happy noise of favourite melody she's unfamiliar with, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." He kisses her temple and it lingers at the tip of his tongue.

I could kiss you right fuckin' now, pet.

"Harry you got wet too, dummy!!"

"Oops, guess we both have to change now."

Harry already set mixers for her on the luke points so that she wouldn't have to pull out her hair just to take a shower (his shower's quite complicated) leaves his shirt and boxers for her on his bedside, putting the lilac sheer shirt she embroidered for him in the dryer.

When she comes outside with trippy hair he already has two glasses of wine filled and windows closed to keep her warm.

She isn't a wine person. She was never able to afford it and it never settled with her tummy (she shares too much and feels bubbly with the rose coloured bevvy). Harry's gaze rakes from floor to her ankles snapping directly to her face and it's just snoggles his heart with fondness, seeing her drooled in one of his shirts.

"Need ya not to worry ye'r gift is good as before." He assures her and she flops onto the sofa beside him, "Thank you Y/N." He says genuinely and she waves him with small smile, "hush you."

They drink in silence, then soon it rośed their cheeks and noses making them giggly and floaty. A bottle gone in just a span of a time. She rumbles her lips stretching out, the twinkle of her belly showing and he does the same, eyeing him she slides down on the floor perching her elbow over the coffee table and YET AGAIN HE FOLLLOWS HER ACTIONS.

"Are you mimicking me?" She squints at him and he squints back, "are ye' mimickin' meh?" She smacks his bicep playfully and when he does the same though the force of it lighter than her's adoring mischievous grin making her squeal with chuckles, "Harry!"

He quips back in equal girlish pitch, "Harry!" blinking peepers up at her softly — to test her fates, the recipe of her drunken state and her heart bursting with affection for him she jests at him.

"I like you and might be falling in love with you." She says without holding back a breath and his eyes widen in an animated way chin slipping from his palm, "You what?" He's in utter shock. He has never come across the words she just said with so much delicacy and sincerity — it boggles him to an extent his tongue got tied.

"Say it back now, huh?" She smirks at him shaking from inside counting on to get rejected and ridiculed. Upset at herself more than him at his lack of response, clearing her throat she whispers.

"So — " But, her apology strucks in her throat when he pulls her to himslef with a gentle grip to her elbow. Grabs her jaw tenderly and with the ardent boldness smushes his lips against her's to seal his affinity for her in a kiss that's so soft it melts her inside. His hands brews at her sides and glides up to their destination, to cup her cheeks and deepen the kiss while billowing her in his lap comfortably. He devours the plumness of her lips, tracing the curve of her bottom one with his warm tongue and kisses the corner of her lips again and again making her puff out air from her nostrils.

He has kissed people and it was always to lead something to satisfy the cavity of loneliness, but this, this already feels like home sitting infront of the Autunm fire eating cookies and drinking milk. She feels like the mold he's meant to melt into and explore every ridge of it.

She doesn't not know what's filthier the string of spit that's connecting them or his raspberry lips that she could kiss and kiss for forever, he doesn't stop there pecks her several times with lil smooches, "You're really good at it." She winds her arms tight around the nape of his neck murmuring against him (she wants to make him feel appreciated), his cock chubbing up in his trousers and it lulls her head against his cheek upon feeling it. The thought of having him hard for her boasts the genitilty in herself and she kisses his smiling mouth.

"Wanna make ye' feel good." He presses his lips back against her's with more passion than before and tips her chin with his thumb to stamp lil pecks down her throat feeling his lips tingling to kiss her again, it's way better than he envisioned. Her softness could swallow him and the thought makes his hips stutter imagining his hard prick sucked inside her swelled up walls. His large calloused hands meander down her bottom taking the ripeness of it in a bunch of squeeze.

"On the bed." He pats her bum pinching it playfully and she squeaks obliging him giggles when she bounces over the bed. Him crawling behind her as lion ready to feast over a hare.

Leaning against the head of the bed he lays her between his wide spread legs, her back against his chest and their fronts facing the tall framed mirror infront of them.

"Comfy?" She bobs her head gulping cause no one has ever cared what'll be consuming for her and what not, "I want ye' to look in the mirror sweet girl, at us." He rasps in her ear stroking the hilt of her jaw in continuous circles and when she hums fluttering her eyelids, arching her back at the throb of her pussy and his dirtiness making her slick down to her bum he glides his thumb inside her mouth telling her to, "get 'em proper wet for me." She does coating his thumb with her saliva and flicking her tongue over it many time while he glazes his palms over her ribs, under the crescent of her tits shirt pulled to her collarbones.

She gags around his digit when he took her perky nipple in between his middle and index pulling it then kneads it with a kiss to her earlobe getting her out of his boxers telling her, "enough, pet." When she doesn't listen to him and kept on sucking thinking of his cock in her mouth he gruffs splitting her thighs apart and pressing the soles of her feet tightly against the mattress with his own ankles, "I said enough." Shushing her hungry kitten whimpers he trails his wet thumb down her fallen lip and chin, popping her shirt open and rims it around her areola, "s' soft wanna rub me cock between 'em tits." The shiver that hits her makes her squirm and Harry gives a chaste kiss to her open mouth putting his thumb at her entrance ready to play with her cunt.

"Your eyes open 'em fo' me, puppy." He ducks down to kiss her not letting her turn around himself so that her neck doesn't strain while caressing his fingers up and down in her slickness making soapy noises on purpose, when she finally looks in the mirror locking eyes with him as if he's holding the most precious gem in his arms — the sight turned her spine into a sharp arrow, "c - ca-can I've more?" She gasps squeezing his bicep pussy lips fluttering and her hole palpitates aching for him.

"My polite girl." He smiles awfully fonded at her and she nods licking her lips to speak, "'m good, good always." He pushes his two fingers inside her cunt and she moans with her whole will trying to sink herself to his knuckles nails digging into his shoulders, "I know ye'r." He assures her sliding them out and teasing her little pink asshole turning her into a whining mess.

She twitches around his fingers when he pumps them back along with her sticky wetness and fucks her with them, flickering her clit with his other hand and kneads the inside of her fleshy thigh. She gives out a gaspy moan of unbearable pleasure when his cock's stiffeness rubs between her asscheeks, "ye' feel it? S' fo' you, gonna stuff yeh full of me cock, fuck you nice n' warm and cum all over yer pussy. How you deserved to be fucked, is that okay?" She never expected him this much of a lewd talker — hell she didn't even expected him to step out of his conserved, rather shy demeanour, "yes, yes, yes." She visioned him as a curt dom, who's more into BDSM but he's warm and caring with her. Just in few second of them doing it he proved it how much he's loving to please her.

"Ah! 'm gonna cum . . . gonna —" His sweet vulgar words combined with him toying, rubbing and fingereing her already swollen pussy tips her to the edge she was desiring to get from him, "cum all over me fingers. Want it s' bad from ye darlin', to see you." He says in a tone that's on the verge of pleading but holds a commanding hint under it and with her bones all stiffing, her skin burning and heart buzzing she snaps into her own dreamy world gushing over his fingers with her juices.

"Oh . . Harry." She loudly mewls thrashing in his arms from the intensity of her orgasm and he holds her tight with his arms wrapped around her torso, kisses to the curve of her neck and exposed collarbones. He notices her stiring away from his hand due to sensitivity and takes out his fingers with a squelching popping noise that made her blink from her semblance. Her chest heaves as she watches him in the mirror licking her cum off his wrists with the tip of his pink tongue, "mhm tastes s' sweet." One by one he sucks his finger humming around them seductively spiking her insides yearing to be fucked by him, "just like you sweet puppy."

Gently laying her down he knees infront of her getting out of his flimsy shirt and Y/N admires the flounce of tattoos trailing from his pecks down his adorable love handles. Her gaze stops at the his happy trail leading down to where he's swelled up against his zipper and she hasn't seen someone so beautiful in her entire life, he shimmies his joggers down teasingly with a smirk and she whines hiccuping when his cock slaps against his lower abdomen making her eyes go wide.

"Oh my . . " She gasps at the gorgeous sight of his rock-hard cock between his supple thighs. He's beautifully big, satiny and a dot of shade lighter than his lips making his prick so kissable, would it even fit?? She could already imagine it stretching her out gracefully and stimulating her in ways her fingers could never, "you're so gorgeous button."

The shiny swollen tip, and the dollop of pre-come weeping down his slit alluring her to have him in her mouth but he strokes it not to waste it.

"What's the pout fo' darlin'?" He asks as she stares it making him all shy but he overcomes it persistent to make her feel good (she shared with him that she never knew what being cared feels like) he wanna gives her all lovin' as she did to him the day in cafe. Cups the nape of her neck to bring her for another kiss splitting his thumb into her hair and the moment is so vulnerable and saccharine as he snogs her to floatiness, "will make sure it fits — make you cum many times, baby." He flips her gently.

"On ye tummy fo' me, like an atta pup ye're." It knots her stomach into ropes and she jolts squealing softly into pillows when he smacked her peach watching it jiggle while tugging at his prick to coat it with his thick wetness.

He moans biting his lower lip lulling his head over his shoulders stroking the head of his cock between her asscheeks and round her entrance not pushing at once torching both of them, "you're so delicate wanna be slow with you." He whispers to her pressing his front against her shoulders while wrapping his hand around his shaft to push inside her.

"It's okay!" Her tiny squeaks rolls into a moan when the head of his cock settles inside her and when she twitches around it he cruffs a groan coaxing her sides, "shhh baby 's okay relax fo'me." Taking his hand away from around himself he places it atop her ass withdrawing and looking down to see her cunt glistening with his and her's wetness — then bottoming out deep inside her till his balls are snug against her bum. His stomach twists with pleasure at the warmth that blankets his cock completely making him hunch but he recoups with his arms pressed beside her temple.

The stretch that burns through her core's so pleasing and fulfilling. It hurts in a good way. She knows how patient and composed he's being for her, from the way he fattens tucked inside her walls and he slides his hand between her front and the sheets to caress her soft breasts moving with rough pace.

"Don't stop, please." She recites the mantra almost crushing his fingers with her grip around, it's alot, the constant rub of sheet against her clit and him driving inside her from behind with moans sexier than in erotic audio books. He draws loose circles over her mound making her thighs spread wider with the inability to hold them as he pinched her clit coercion her sensitive button, "oh my god . ." With the whimpers of his name she squirts around his cock and it makes her throw her hips at him.

When he pulls out to turn her on back she whines with a frown, heaving chest and coral cheeks looking totally fucked already, "wanna see ye'r face when you come . . . s' beautiful." He hisses hauling her legs around his waist lowering himself down to enter her with lil smooches to her cheeks, "cum again fo' me baby — yeah just like that squeeze on meh." He pounds her over and over grinding his pelvis against her's to stimulate her in every way.

Feeling the heat crackling in her bones and tummy she takes him by shoulders to cuddle him closer to her chest raising her hips to meet his's, a crying mess, with glossiness twinkling at the corners of her eyes as she comes with euphoria dawning upon her and Harry works her up again.

"Once more, love, i know you've one more fo' me." He gives out a purry groan biting her throat and the valley of her chest, snuggling against it with kisses — when she shakes her head through around him he lines up his nose against her nose petal–ling his lips over her's, "yes you could puppy my sweet — " His eyelids bolting shut at the built of up of his own release and the moment she cums with his cock now he shoots his thick spurt deep inside her.

"This's what it only took fo' you? Callin' ye mere sweet names." He fucks her through it and Y/N admits that he went with his promise --- fucked her like she had never before, they remain like that for some time catching their breaths and then he pulls out of her gently and pumps himself to empty his load shooting it over her pussy and abdomen, "you came so much." She says completely baffled and he steals a chaste kiss from her looking at the white ribbons sticking to her skin.

"Just for you, babyhun."

He tells her not to move and whisks away coming back with a pack of baby wipes. Her hearts swirls with so much fondness for him when he pats the wipes between his palms to get them less cold and shushes her with pecks when she hisses with sensitivity.

They take another shower, this time together and it's not sexual at all though alot of tired poofy kisses and cute yawns were included as they gave eachother shampoo massages and she'd cooe everytime untangling his long hickorey curl.

They changed the sheets (unapologetically very clumsily) and he fetches a glass of water for her making it drink her.

When they were cuddled awfully good he lifts his head up from it was nuzzled between her titties. His accent drawly and slippery from tiredness, "Y/N." He checks if she's asleep and she hums in response starting to play with his hair lazily.

"That day when me date didn't show up?" Witha half heart she hums again, she doesn't like to talk bout that day, because the hopelessness that conquered him that evening still makes her sad.

"I was glad ye' were there 'n 'm so so so thankful that he didn't show up. Else we wouldn't be here in eachother's embrace 'n me heart still'd been mournful to sleep in cold sheets waiting fo' me person." It's the most he has talked in his soberness. It wells up tears in both of their eyes.

"You're my person." She cradles his face hating it that he was kept so love starved his entire life and she gazes him dearly, sweetly, affectionately all the words that could describe love for someone spilling out of the chambers of heart.

"I want to love you so much, pet, make you me most treasured human hershey."

"I'm in, cuddle me up." He grins smauching a loud kiss to her lips and cosying back to his previous spot purring like a kitten thrown into heaps of fluffy blankets.

[aggressive-positivity-network]

Hello! I was wondering if I could get some childhood headcanons for the mercs, thank you!

I’m taking a break from the longer headcanons - I’m finishing all my existing requests before opening up my headcanons back up - so I’ll do this one to get the gears turning. There are two here, but I will do more if prompted:

TF2 Merc Childhood Headcanons

Spy:

Spy was a shy child. Painfully shy.

His family was poor, so he had to steal most necessities. By the time he was twelve, he could hop or climb over most fences and hide in most buildings.

The entire reason he became a spy was seeing poorly translated VHS tapes of American espionage films. Spy was frustrated that he never looked the part - he had no suit, no cigarette, no girls.

But, not to worry, he would get all of those things when he went to Britain for schooling.

As a child, though, all he could do was pretend.

He had a “gun” made out of sticks and rope, mimed having a tie, hat, and overcoat, and drew a few shaky feminine features onto a pillow (whom he dubbed Mademoiselle Coussin).

This change in play actually helped him socially: whenever he felt nervous, he would just pretend he was a spy instead of a petite, messy-haired boy with freckles. This caused his popularity among the street boys to spike, and they were soon at his beck and call.

However, despite his fulfilling life as a street rat, he turned back into that timid mouse of a boy whenever he was home. He never dared use his charm on his parents. He already caught a flogging when he tried slicking his hair back.

This led to an odd, one-sided relationship with life where he put on two different masks for two different places, but could only be his true self when he was alone.

He learned to stifle and release emotions at will (keeping himself from crying when he was hit and then letting the tears flow when he was fooling unsuspecting tourists), and was cynical about any relationship that didn’t benefit him immediately or at all.

Except for one.

Every Christmas, a specific fruit vendor, an elderly man named Lucas, came to town. He would give one piece of fruit, usually an apple or peach, to every child that came to his stand. They never had to pay - they only had to say Merry Christmas.

Spy only hung around the stand for the first few years - his house was so far away that by the time he got there, most of the fruit was gone - but one Christmas, Lucas beckoned him over.

The vendor reached beneath his cart and pulled out a single orange, which happened to be Spy’s favorite.

“Joyeux Noël.”

“J-joyeux Noël, monsieur.”

Lucas held out the orange, which Spy accepted gratefully and held in two tight hands.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur! Merci, merci!”

Lucas only smiled and waved his hand.

This became a tradition for many more years.

Spy would come to the cart, wish Lucas a warm holiday, and would receive an orange that had been saved for him.

But, one Christmas, Lucas didn’t come. Nor the next one. Or the one after that.

Even though Spy knew he was never going to get an orange from that cart again, he still went to that street every Christmas until he left France.

Now, whenever Spy receives an orange, either as a mandated vitamin supplement or if he happens to steal one from a witness’s house, he puts it in his suit, only eating it in his smoke room.

And if he is feeling particularly nostalgic, he’ll, just like he did when he was a child, eat the peel.

Heavy:

Heavy had a wonderful childhood compared to most of mercs.

His father was only vaguely present - and later absent - but his mother was a huge force in his life.

Though Heavy was never bullied exactly, since he was big even as a child, he was ostracized for his size and general clumsiness.

He often broke things, hurt other kids and even staff, and put holes in the wall simply because he was a pre-schooler in an elementary schooler sized body.

But, no matter how many calls she got from the school, Heavy’s mom knew that he wasn’t violent - all she asked was for him to try and fix what he had broken and apologize to the people he had hurt.

“My child, a bear may be big, but they are strong and beautiful. So are you.”

One day, after a particularly rough week of shattered vases and bruised classmates, Heavy ran from school into a random building, blinded by tears and shame. He ended up ticketless in a large theater, but he was only a child, so no one noticed. They assumed he was just someone’s kid.

He ended up on the roof, breathless and gasping between sobs.

Suddenly, he heard an orchestra beginning to play. He looked through a glass pane built into the roof and gazed at the stage below.

He saw one petite ballerina making her way across the stage, doing a few twirls as she went. Then, a much bigger man, who was almost as big as Heavy’s father was, came from stage right and joined in the dance.

Throughout their performance, Heavy kept wincing, expecting the enormous man to crush the small woman. But he never did. The performer moved with grace and a quickness that the boy didn’t expect.

Something awakened in him - a realization that he too could be nimble, despite his size. As the performance ended, Heavy went back down the stairs, his confidence renewed.

He became fascinated with ballet, and watched tapes of shows over and over again until he knew all the steps by heart. At first, he only moved his feet so his arms wouldn’t break anything. Then, as he grew more controlled, he learned how to dance and step around things.

His mother got less calls home, more and more kids began to trust and like him.

He still wasn’t popular by any means, but at least he could play soccer without breaking someone’s arm.

With that success came interests in all things quick, dainty, and detailed. Heavy learned how to knit, paint, and play a bit of piano. He was never very skilled at any of them except for knitting, he enjoyed practicing his coordination and mitigating his clumsiness.

But, one day, Heavy made the mistake of bringing his knitting to school. It was around Christmas, and he had to finish his sister’s sweater so he could wrap it.

The boys, who now knew that Heavy wouldn’t hurt a fly, started teasing him mercilessly, calling him a sow (female pig), a bitch, an old crone, and all sorts of other nasty names.

Heavy, with growing frustration, said something along the lines of, “Will it be your dead mother, then, who will mend your shirt when you are old? Or will you willingly catch your death?”

What Heavy didn’t know was that one particular child’s mother died a few months ago.

The boy went into a rage, giving Heavy a black eye and a bleeding nose before he finally took him by the underarms and held him away from him like a rabid chihuahua. Finally, the boy tired himself out. The other kids had since run away, not wanting to get in trouble or get beat up by Heavy.

The bully, after finding that he was helpless to the situation, began to cry, letting out all the emotions he had been shoving down in order to save face in front of his abusive father.

Heavy went straight into protective mode, having dealt with his younger sisters and their own grievances. After the bully calmed down a bit, he admitted his feelings, and how awful his circumstances were.

Heavy didn’t say anything much, but just handed him a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn. The boy learned to knit that day, and after Christmas, many other abused boys came seeking the same kind of closure and validation.

He made many friends this way, and it pretty much eradicated his bullying problem - so much so that he was pretty much untouchable to anyone looking to make trouble.

Though violence is how Heavy makes his money now, the merc learned from the very beginning that the best way through life is a gentle touch.

[malcohen]

The anger in her voice was palpable, and furthermore, it was something that he resonated with once upon a time. Going to prison, being forced to get sober – none of it was his choice, and all of it had been so incredibly overwhelming and soul-sucking that most of the time he couldn’t fathom the point of any of it. Which, in turn, infuriated him. There was no way in hell Alina had made peace with getting sober whether or not she was at this point, and while Malcolm knew more than anyone that goading her into it would have the opposite effect, he still wanted to help. “Who told you that you were a burden?” he asked, turning even more so that he was facing her more. “Seriously, I’m not tryin’ to fuck with you or nothing. Who told you they didn’t want to listen to what you had to say?” 

A snort fell from his lips, shaking his head. “Must’ve missed that one. I think I went to the one where Sleeping Beauty pricks her finger on an H needle.” It was a morbid thing to joke about, but considering what he and most of the other group members had been through it was sort of par for the course. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t strike me as the Disney princess type,” he exhaled another plume of smoke. 

Brows knit together as she spoke, allowing her to say her peace without offering interruption. He’d learned early on – from personal experience and otherwise – that the worst way to convince an addict was by invalidating them. “A scam, huh? Someone collecting money from you at the door or somethin’?” Mal smirked, tapping the ash off of the end of his cigarette as his eyes met Alina’s once more. “With that logic, couldn’t you say we’re setting ourselves up for failure in everything we do? Why eat healthy if we’re gonna pig out on the weekends? Why brush our teeth if we drink coffee five minutes later?” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, a humorous snort falling from his lips. “I get it – believe me, I do. We’re all gonna die anyway so what’s the point? I guess I just – at one point you decide you don’t want to be fucking miserable anymore. You don’t want to make the people you care about miserable anymore.” And if you were lucky, they’d stick around and you wouldn’t be past the point of no return. “Everyone deserves a second chance, A. No one is too far gone.” Mal knew that from experience. 

He couldn’t help how his gaze broke from hers, concentrating instead on the amber-red flame at the end of his cigarette as he attempted to conceal any pain that might otherwise be readable on his face. It surprisingly wasn’t as easy sober, concealing how you felt. “Not quite,” a sad chuckle left his lips, trying to maintain a light air before continuing. “I, uh, had these pills that I didn’t know were laced. My sister took ‘em ‘cause she thought they’d help her study for school…” he trailed off, leaving out the part where he deliberately gave them to her. “Anyway, I got a couple years in the hole on a manslaughter charge. Wised up, got sober, got out, got a dog, got the fuck out of Boston.” 

He pondered Alina’s question for a moment. “I guess what I’d say to that is, having some hope is better than having none at all. And people are more likely to leave you when you’re not doin’ jack shit about your issues.” And, in some cases, they were more likely to fucking die. A short laugh fell from his lips at Alina’s demand, digging in his pocket for his pack of Marlboros. “Making you? Last time I checked you had no problem blabberin’ at the mouth all on your own.” He joked, lightly tossing the pack her way.

Slip through the cracks. It was what Alina did best - slipping through the unwanted cracks of the cement that felt destined to seek her out. It was easy for Alina to get sucked into every darkness, every crevice that seemed to call her out and push her back into old, old habits that never could die hard. She looked up at Malcolm, taking a drag of her cigarette and smirked, shaking her head. "Slipping through the cracks, Mal, is what I do fucking best. It's just no one else wants to fucking hear that shit. They all got enough on their plates - you got enough on your plate and you want to hear about my depressing bullshit? I don't fucking think so. I'm a burden everywhere else - I don't have to be one here." She concluded, raspy voice taking another drag as she smirked.

"Oh, you never saw the uncut version of Snow White where she snorted herself into a coma? That's the best part. Really related to it on a spiritual level." Alina laughed, shaking her head. "Disney wasn't really my thing growing up - wasn't allowed to much watch that shit. Grew up watching action movies that my dad liked, all men, all fierce, all muscle and cursing like sailors. Explains a lot, doesn't it?" She smirked up at him, dark eyes still on his blue.

"Scammed by you? No, I don't think I'm getting scammed by you personally, Mal. If I were, you'd be getting a punch in the face." She giggled, joking. "It's just the whole NA and AA shit - it's all a fucking scam, don't you think? Sitting there and talking about how the one thing in your life that makes sense ruins you whole - applauding other people and yourself for not doing it when we all know the success rate?" Alina shook her head, swallowing hard. "We're setting ourselves up for failure, aren't we? Maybe some of us are better with it than without it - and maybe some of us don't deserve a second chance or a pat on the back." Her dark eyes spoke of the truth behind her words: she didn't deserve a second chance.

"Prison? Wow. Did you shoot a guy in Reno while on coke or something?" She joked again, a playful smile on her lips. She looked down, shaking her head again softly, hair falling into her eye for a moment as she looked back up at Malcolm. "Why not give it a chance? Because I'm not interested in letting down the very few people I even have left. Why get their hopes up when all I'm good for is letting them down again?" Out of cigarettes, she looked to him, a bit of a playful look on her face. "Gimme one of your cigs, least you could do for making me talk." Not that she wouldn't admit that she liked it.

[joinmeinjoy]

Jaskier sews and Geralt crochets. I don't make the rules that's just how it is :/

But think about it- baby Jaskier, still wet behind the ears, arriving at Oxenfurt with nothing but the clothes on his back, a small sack of belongings, and an acceptance letter he reads every night. Maybe he had to persuade his parents to let him go, maybe they begrudgingly wrote his enrolment letter with mumbles about him throwing his life away, shaming him with this phase he was going through. Or maybe they didn't know at all; maybe Jaskier had stolen some of his father's thick letter paper and smooth ink, had penned his own enrolment, mimicking the short blunt writing of his dad. Maybe he scanned each and every letter when they arrived, snagging the one that proudly read ‘OXENFURT ACADEMY’ before anyone else could see it or grab it. Maybe that night he grabbed all he could carry, letter tight in his grip, and left with naught but the scrape of boots on a stone window sill.

He has to learn to sew because he can’t afford to pay someone else for it. He cant make a shirt for shit, or cut some fancy pants out of fabric he doesn’t have, but he can hem. He can take his pants up when it’s in fashion, or add more inches to the legs in scrap fabric and say its a trend from somewhere far in the south. Of course the contrasting colours and textures were intentional, its fashion darling. It’s all the craze.

Jaskier can patch his shirts, his underclothes, can take them in and out. He saves his money to buy more clothes, but in the meantime he teaches himself the basics of using a needle and thread. Eventually, when he’s won various prizes in competitions, he can afford to buy a few new shirts and can sometimes even afford to get them properly fixed...but he does it himself more often than not. He’s been doing it for years now- it may not be done by a professional, but its a near thing. What once were uneven and uncertain stitches, made by hesitant and learning hands, have now become smooth patterns on the inside of his clothes, over holes and tears and ripped seams. Pushing a needle though fabric feels as natural as holding a lute- his hands are steadier now, certain and strong.

He still pricks himself with the needle, gets frustrated when what hes sewing doesn’t work out...but he always picks the needle back up after putting it down. His little box of sewing things never gathers dust.

And when he starts travelling with Geralt, he’s suddenly very grateful for all the years hes spent patching his own clothes. It worked as good practice for fixing the much larger, much harder tears and holes Geralt acquires on his hunts. Its a challenge sometimes, and more often than not Jaskier scraps shirts and pants entirely because honestly Geralt its ripped to ribbons, how can you still call that a shirt? the poor thing....look what you’ve done to it. But he uses those scraps patching other things, so they don’t go entirely to waste.

And Geralt...it’s not like he had much free time in the keep, when he was growing up. But the time he did have was mostly spent alone in a room reading books, sparring with the other boys, or doing (possibly mischievous) things with Eskel. In fact Eskel was the one who taught him how to crochet- the other boy didn’t remember much about his mother or his home, but he was old enough to remember some of the things he had been taught. They unravelled an old pair of knitted jumpers and used the yarn from that- its not like witchers kept balls of yarn lying around the keep, and neither boy wanted to risk the ridicule of asking for some. So they pulled the shirts apart and Eskel whittled two little crochet hooks from some sticks they’d found.

Eskel had sat for hours trying to let his muscle memory take over, trying to remember how to do the stitches properly, before showing Geralt how to do it. He couldn’t remember how to do all the stitches- he knew what they looked like, but he couldn’t remember how to recreate them. That was ok, Geralt had thought, because he was thrilled to be doing even this- making terrible little...he didn’t even know what they were meant to be, they were just squares made with a stitch Eskel called the ‘Granny Stripe’.

They sat crocheting squares for as long as they could, before unravelling them and doing it all over again.

As they grew they discovered more ways to make new stitches, how to make small items, and they shared everything they discovered. Geralt took these skills with him on the path- he bought yarn where he could find it and made his own socks, his own gloves, because sometimes it was cheaper than buying them from people who spat at him. He got a notebook eventually and started writing instructions for himself on how to make things- how many chains to make, where to double crochet and where to treble crochet. He started small and made gloves, socks, even some leg warmers for roach. A scarf or two. Then he made a cardigan over winter, and proudly showed it off. Lambert gave him shit for it but asked when Geralt was going to make one for him because sharing is caring, dumbass. Eskel demanded to know how Geralt made it. Geralt copied the notes for him later.

When Jaskier starts travelling with him he doesn’t pick up his crochet hook for a while. He’s too busy trying to lose this new human to crochet, and he doesn’t have any yarn, and its not like he needs to make anything so-

He carefully pulls out the new yarn he had secretly bought and his trusty metal hook, shiftily eyeing Jaskier across the campsite. The bard seems wrapped up in his own world, staring into the fire, so quietly Geralt starts the chain for his new creation. It isn’t until 20 minutes later that he feels Jaskier watching him. He tenses, expecting a comment about it (because when he’s in town the only people crocheting are old women and he knows that he’s nearly as old as them but that doesn’t matter-), but he continues looping the yarn over the hook and pulling it through spaces, repeating the process stitch after stitch. Jaskier says nothing, just watches in fascination.

Maybe its something they bond over- what they do is different, of course, but its also so similar. Jaskier expands into making actual clothes alongside patching and hemming, he starts making shirts and pants for himself and Geralt. One spring when he meets up with Geralt again, he hands him a parcel and says its for roach. The bard had made a new saddle blanket for roach, had hand-sewn a diamond pattern onto it and made it out of the softest, most durable fabric he could find. It was thick but soft, and Geralt knew each stitch was made with care. It’s one of the first times Geralt actually begins to see Jaskier for the person he’s become, rather than the boy he was.

That year, Geralt spends the month leading up to winter making Jaskier a long, colourful cardigan. He gives it to him right before they part ways, so he doesn’t have to explain himself or the cardigan beyond a gruff “Here. For you.”.

It’s Jaskiers most prized possession- tied only with his lute.

...I will end it here but i haven’t even gotten STARTED on what they make for Ciri......

[malghra]

tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks (1/3)

Darklina Week, Day 7: Soulmates

AO3 link

Soulmates aren’t the ones who make you happiest, no. They’re instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Old pangs, captivation, and beauty. Strain and shadows and worry and yearning. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike surrender. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope. ― Victoria Erickson

"I thought I had raised you to be smarter than this," she told him. "It does not do to fill your head with dreams and fairytales, boy. Love is a weakness the likes of us cannot afford."

Ana Kuya's knitting needles stopped clicking and she laughed softly, shaking her head. "It was just a story, Alinochka. Now, go to sleep." 

.

Aleksander believes his name was Anton, when he first heard about soulmates, or perhaps it had been Leonid, or Vasya. The names and cover stories have all blurred together into an endless succession of lies, he barely recalls them. He does remember the names from the story. Galina and her Igor.

His mother had been serving at some fat nobleman's estate at the time, and Aleksander had snuck out of his room to find a mirror in one of the many chambers in the main house and search his body for a mark. Because of what they were, he had never belonged anywhere, had never known a place he could call home, and probably never would, but belonging to another person sounded almost as good as having a home.

His mother had been the one to find him. He feared she would be cross with him for sneaking into the house, but she only sighed and shook her head. 

"I thought I had raised you to be smarter than this," she told him. "It does not do to fill your head with dreams and fairytales, boy. Love is a weakness the likes of us cannot afford."

Ana Kuya didn't use to tell many stories, and when she did, there was usually some lesson or warning in her tale. But when Alina was seven, Ana Kuya told the orphans at Keramzin a story that had her listening with bated breath.

Alina had always been prone to daydreaming, and over the next few weeks, she often caught herself thinking about Igor and his Galina, while she was doing her chores or picking flowers in the meadows beyond the walls of the estate. Alina had always been alone. She could barely remember anything from before. Someone to belong with, just one person to call her own in this world, it was everything she had ever wanted. 

Alina couldn't wait until she would meet her soulmate and leave the orphanage.

"When will I get my soulmark?" A fever-plagued Alina asked Ana Kuya one night, when the older woman had decided to stay by her bedside to watch her.

Ana Kuya's knitting needles stopped clicking and she laughed softly, shaking her head. "It was just a story, Alinochka. Now, go to sleep."

"I wish we could stay here forever" Luda sighed as she put her head on Aleksander's chest. She looked softer like this, and this fierce woman's tenderness almost surprised him.

"Perhaps we should." Perhaps they should forget about everyone and everything out there, stay in this hut, where it was just them, and kings and allegiances and wars didn't matter. He didn't know if he loved Luda, but he thought he could, and perhaps this would be the only way they could defy the rest of the world.

He'd searched his body earlier, in the light of the candles. No mark had appeared on his skin since he'd met Luda. He wasn't sure he had been expecting to find one, whether he even wanted to find one, but he had still felt disappointed.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" he asked her.

She twisted her neck, bracing herself on her elbow to look at his face. "Why, would you like to see your name on my ass, Aleksander?" she drawled at him with a smirk. The sound of his name on her lips stirred things in him. His mother would call him a fool who never learned if she heard it. 

"What? No," he muttered. "I meant..."

She giggled, nuzzling at his chest before meeting his gaze again, arching an eyebrow.

"You don't have a soulmark," he observed.

"You had yourself a good look then, did you?"

"I had more than just a look," he reminded her, grabbing her by the waist to pull her on top of him. 

"No," she told him as she inclined her head to kiss him. "I don't have a soulmark."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, Aleksander" she moaned as she rubbed herself on his hardening length. "It doesn't. I won’t let the saints decide my fate. I make my own choices."

He groaned even as her words brought a smile to his face. She was right. He decided in that moment that he did love her, even if he shouldn’t, and apparently that was all his own doing, not some mysterious plan made up by the saints.

Alina was used to having nightmares about the raid on her village, which often left her sweaty and panting, but although the images in her dreams had been much the same, today was different. Her hair and nightgown were sticking to her damp skin as usual, and the dull headache was not unfamiliar either, but the pain in her lower back was, and so was the stickiness on the insides of her thighs.

When she sat up, she felt a gush of warm liquid. She threw back the covers and rucked up her nightgown, discovering bright red splotches on her skin and a darker stain on the bedclothes. She squirmed away, kicking at the covers, almost falling headfirst to the ground as she struggled to get out of the bed. She ended up on her hands and knees, half slouched against the side of the bed, heart hammering in her chest.

"Saints!" she hissed. Ana Kuya was going to kill her for staining the sheets.

To Alina's surprise, the older woman was surprisingly gentle with her as she gave her a bundle of rags and instructed her on her entrance into womanhood. She even allowed her to indulge in a cake and released her of her chores that morning. 

Hours later, she noticed the itch on the skin of her left breast. She rubbed at it lightly through the fabric of her tunic, mentally hearing Ana Kuya's voice chiding her, for it was unseemly for a girl to scratch herself, but the itch wouldn't stop.

When she unlaced her tunic to look at the itchy red blotch, it started burning. She he ran to her water basin, hoping cool water might ease the sting. She dabbed at the wound with a rag, and when it stopped burning, she uncovered it to see two words written an inch above her nipple.

A story long forgotten returned to her, and she clasped a hand over her mouth as the realization hit her. She snuck out of her room and tiptoed through the hallway down the stairs to slip into Ana Kuya's bedroom, where she kept a mirror on her dressing table. 

Shifting between twisting her neck and squinting at the letters curling on her breast in the looking glass, Alina deciphered the name written on her skin. Aleksander Morozova. She had no idea who that was. Her heart sank into her stomach, and she realized she'd been hoping for a different name.

Luda died. Aleksander had always known she would. His mother had warned him often enough. It still happened too soon, it was too brutal, too callous, and it hurt so much he could barely breathe. 

Afterwards, he had finally come to accept his mother's lesson that love was a weakness he couldn't afford, but he had still defied her by using merzost in his grief and his rage. Creating the Fold had changed him. He had become a dark god of death and destruction. Even if the small, lonely boy inside of him still craved it, he knew he couldn't risk getting attached to mortals again. 

Hundreds of years later, he decided it was for the best he had never received a mark. Watching every single person he ever met die was bad enough as it was, and he'd learned to shield himself from the grief. But he had also witnessed the heartbreak, the devastating and soul-crushing pain, the sharp-edged, gaping hole tearing a person apart after they had lost their soulmate. He was not arrogant enough to think he might survive that. 

He took lovers over the years. He was still a man after all, and he'd learned that nothing could replace the feeling of skin on skin and human warmth exchanged in the meeting of two, or more bodies. He tried to avoid other Grisha though, at least until after he'd built the Little Palace and he could be sure he had enough power to protect himself from their greed. He had not forgotten Annika. 

There was a Shu princess once, who would become a saint later. She believed in destiny, and though she knew what he was from the moment she first touched him, she wanted more from him than killing him and wearing his bones. Aleksander was sure that she loved him, but he had become incapable of returning those feelings.

He still remembers her eyes searching his body in the soft glow of the firelight after he had bedded her for the first time. He knew her name would not appear on his body, and that suited him just fine. 

Her own mark had been burned off on orders of the King, a king she would bring to his knees years later. She would take his throne and his country, and rule it wisely. He could have stayed by her side for that, but soon enough, he would sneak off in the dead of night, leaving her with a broken heart to protect his own. 

He took lovers, and he enjoyed his time with them, but he made sure to armour his heart, and he never looked for a soulmark again. 

Alina was only days away from her sixteenth birthday when Mal became the first person to see her soulmark. She'd come to accept that he was not her soulmate, but she still hadn't figured out who Aleksander Morozova was, so she told herself there was no harm in letting Mal kiss her in the meadow or behind the stables. 

And that was how she had ended up in the pantry with him. He had removed his shirt and kicked off his boots, unfastening and shoving his trousers down.

Alina was down to her tunic, her own leggings lost somewhere in a corner. She moved to close the distance between them. She pushed herself up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him.

He splayed his hands on her back and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. She rubbed her thighs together as she could feel his hardening length against her belly.

He fisted his hands into the fabric of her tunic and started bunching it up. She froze in his embrace.

"What's wrong?" he asked her. 

Alina hesitated, but she had known for a while that she couldn't hide this from him forever. "Promise you won't hate me?"

He frowned, but nodded.

She reached for the hem of her tunic and pulled it over her head, resisting the urge to cover her breasts with her arms.

Alina spotted the moment the desire in his eyes shifted to revulsion, or fear perhaps, she couldn't be sure. There was definitely pain, she decided, as she tried to grab his arm.

He flinched and danced away from her touch, not meeting her eyes in the faint light. 

Hesitantly, she reached for him again. "I’m sorry," she whispered, but he was already collecting his clothes and heading for the door.

When Alina wakes up after her first night at the Little Palace, she tries to insist that she is perfectly capable of washing herself, but the army of maids that has suddenly infiltrated her rooms just won't listen to her. They have her out of her clothes and in the bathtub in a matter of moments, and Alina can only sit back and stare at them with her mouth hanging open. 

She doesn't want any of them to see her naked. Mal had been the first, and for now, she wants him to be the last. She even kept her tunic on when she bedded Yuri in the cartographers tent, pretending to be too shy to take it off. 

She can see it happening, and she tries to stop it, but before she can do so, the girl closest to her brushes her hair back and bares her chest. She gasps and whispers, "Madam Safin!", clasping a hand over her mouth.

The tailor who has introduced herself as Genya approaches them and takes one look at Alina's mark, before clapping her hands once and ordering all of the maids out of the room. 

"I'm so sorry," she tells Alina with a sad smile on her face. "I can't fix that."

"I've had it for five years," she says dumbly, not understanding why Genya is apologizing to her. She crosses her arms over her chest and keeps her head down. 

"Ah," the beautiful redhead remembers. "You wouldn't know, of course."

"Know what?" Alina wonders, head snapping back up to look at Genya. 

She kneels next to the bathtub. "Do you know the story of Sankt Ilya?"

Alina nods. Ana Kuya had told all of the saints' stories countless times to the orphans of Keramzin.

"Grisha know him as Ilya Morozova, the Bone Smith," she continues, resting her arms on the edge of the tub. "You've heard the tale of his martyrdom?"

"Yes," she answers, though she remembers there were several versions. There was always a child, though.

"Ilya had two children. We don't know their names, but perhaps one of them was your Aleksander," she mumbles. "Ilya Morozova's children died with him, and their deaths ended the Morozova line."

She shakes her head. "What does that mean?"

Genya sighs, her big blue eyes filled with pity when she looks at Alina. "I think it means you are both blessed and cursed."

When General Kirigan leads Alina into his council room on the night of the winter fete, she hasn't thought about Aleksander Morozova in weeks. And when his lips meet hers she almost forgets her own name.

Alina has been kissed before, drunken endeavours, awkward fumblings, most of them mistakes, often either too tentative or too bold, but this, this is different. Kirigan's mouth and hands are sure, moving and touching with purpose. His body is hard and insistent against hers, but never crossing that line of suffocating aggression, even if part of her wouldn't mind it.

He kisses her like a starved man, desperate and craving whatever it is he may think she can offer him, and Alina feels like she is drowning. Her head is spinning, she feels weightless and too heavy all at once. It's too much, so overwhelming part of her wants to push him away so she doesn't lose herself in the feeling of kissing him and being kissed by him, but she's too hungry for it.

Instead, she grabs the lapels of his kefta, bunching the fabric in her rabid fist and cards the fingers of her other hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling on the strands to ground herself. She's losing herself, but she's never been less afraid in her life. It's not truly loss, it's transcendence, a promise of something far greater, a concord of beauty and terror that has her straining to reach it. 

He groans into her mouth, and she swallows that groan greedily. His lips leave hers to nip at her jaw and suck on her pulse point, drawing a mewl from her throat. His hands are  still everywhere, roaming, exploring, holding, caressing, as are hers. 

She doesn't register the first knock on the door, but the second one makes her gasp, makes her reach for him with greedy fingers as soon as she feels him starting to pull back.

"Don't." She's not begging him, it's a feral growl rising from her chest.

He rests his forehead against hers and chuckles, stealing another kiss that has her craning her neck when he steps out of her embrace. Her heavy eyes flutter open, finding the black pools that are his and she feels liquid warmth swirling in her core. 

"Don't," she repeats, and this time it does sound like a plea, but she knows it's no use. Just a moment ago, he was in as deep as she was, but now he's striding for the door. 

He comes back for her, if only for a moment, but he returns to kiss her, only to leave again. It's a continuation of their game, this push and pull, but somehow there is no doubt in Alina's mind that he will be back. And she'll be here waiting for him.

She still feels dazed, and giddy, caught up in a warm, golden haze, when a creak behind her snaps her slow mind out of it and forces her to whirl around and call the light. 

A panel in the wall closest to her had swung open and Baghra was standing in the doorway it had been hiding. 

"Come, child, come quickly!" she whispers, and despite herself, Alina obeys the urgency in her voice.

"What's wrong?" she manages to ask before Baghra coaxes her into the tunnel behind her and starts walking, Alina following along.

Baghra tells her about the Fold and the Black Heretic, and she warns Alina that she's in danger. She claims that Kirigan is the danger. 

Alina objects. She keeps mouthing, "No!" her voice growing stronger until Baghra's stern look forces her to say, "I don't understand."

"Child," Baghra intones, grabbing her by the wrist. "Aleksander is the Black Heretic."

"What?" she blurts out. She should tell Baghra that she's not making any sense, that what she is telling her is impossible, completely ridiculous even, but she can't focus on any of that. Her hand flies up to cover the top of her left breast. 

"What did you call him?" 

Baghra huffs. "Did you think Kirigan was his real name? It's Aleksander Morozova."

Baghra tells her more, so much more. She summons shadows and shows her a painting, but Alina barely registers any of it. She keeps seeing his face. She hears his name inside her head, over and over again. Aleksander Morozova. Baghra leaves her, orders her to keep walking and to turn right at the fork. Her accomplices will be waiting for Alina there. 

Alina doesn't turn right at the fork. She's not ready to trust whatever Baghra has planned for her. She could wait and return to the Little Palace, follow the tunnel all the way back to Kirigan's—no, Aleksander's chambers, talk to him, tell him everything and demand an explanation.

Alina doesn't go back. She turns left at the fork and keeps walking, speeding up to a jog. Too much has happened tonight, and it's overwhelming her. She needs to get away from all of it. So she runs. 

[spooky-boys]

Apologies if this is too long, but in my opinion, I think Thread and Yarn's names should have been Thim and Cush.

Thim originates from "Thimble". The name is pronounced "Tim", meaning the H is silent.

Cush originates from "Pin Cushion". Cushion-cidentally, Pump's head resembles one!

If you still want the name Thread though, you could stick with Thed. Another silent H, making the name be pronounced "Ted". This could also coincide with the teddy bear toy.

And then I start making jokes about Eyes of the Universe being associated with the eye of a needle.

And then I start calling the Hatzgang the Hemzgang and each of the members Stitch, Seam and Snap.

Hemzgang comes from "Hem", which is the edge of a piece of cloth turned under and sewn.

Stitch is pretty obvious. It's a word that means to sew fabric together.

Seam comes from the eponymous word, which is a line where two pieces of fabric are sewn together.

Snap comes from "Snap Button", a type of button used in sewing.

I think Lila's name would be Darnella, as in the "Darning stitch", a type of sewing stitch for repairing worn areas or holes in fabric or knitting.

Lila is also an architect, but even though architects also repair things (as in the design layouts), her new occupation could be a plush toy template artist.

So basically she makes patterns for different parts of plush toys to be sewn together, and her motherly attitude and Skid's "Thed" name fits perfectly with it too!

Susie's name would be Corrie, a fun reference to the eponymous protagonist of Coraline (it's a book and a movie). It has a lot of sewing-related themes in it.

Kevin's name would probably either be Bob (as in Bobbin, another type of spool of thread) or Ferrule (a typically-metal cap or ring that is worn on the finger as protection when pushing a needle through the material while sewing).

Ferrule could be pronounced "fer-OO-lay" to make it sound like "Felipé", the Spanish variant of the name Phillip.

Moloch is named Satin, which is a type of fabric and sounds like "Satan". Quite fitting.

The Stranger would have the nickname of "The Tailor", which comes from the eponymous term for a clothing maker.

Frank would be George, based on the Georgette fabric.

The Candy Dealer goes by "The Path Crosser", based on cross-stitching.

The Happy Fella is named "The Button Buddy" and is redesigned to slightly resemble a voodoo doll with, you guessed it, button eyes. He is not actually a voodoo doll (unless he is grievously harmed), but he vaguely looks like one.

And burning him would make others scream, not him...

Yeah this was a VERY long ask, I'm sorry.

And did I say eponymous too much?

Good names !

Lila in my au is like a kinda paranormal investigator of sorts ? Since thread n yarn are a actual skeleton and pumpkin

[starryseung]

lee minho + smut

☾

request; Could ye do Minho, Ferris wheel, blowjob and fingering,☺️ word count; 1.5k words warnings; blowjob, fingering

High Up

“Hey Min, look! Can we please go on the wheel?~” you tug at Minho’s arm, making him look up from his food to your dazed heart eyes on the massive Ferris Wheel in the center of the summer fair in your town.

You always loved rides like these, and this one in particular was your favorite. You had a soft spot for the alluring view of the night sky, how romantic and warm it felt to be up there with no one other than your significant other.

But as for Minho, just the thought of actually being up there made the color drain from his face. He despised such rides, heights in general. And now looking at you with the cute expression adorning your face as you beg to go up on the ride, he believes he’s going to either let you go on the ride alone, or, not go up there altogether.

Nevertheless, he’s not a bad person, and so he decides to push away the edgy feeling in his entire being, focusing on the delicious cheese corn dog in his hands as he gives you a tight nod. You squeal in happiness, finishing up your fries before throwing away the paper plate, walking towards the ride controller with a slightly shivering Minho.

“Two tickets for two rounds please,” you smile, hands clasped around Minho’s. It was more like his hand clasped around yours, as he occasionally glanced up at how high the wheel would go. You were too busy containing your excitement to notice; just the fact that you were going up on your favorite ride in the world making adrenaline rush through your blood.

“How long are we gonna have to stay in there?” Minho queries, soft worried eyes looking at the dangling carriages high up.

“One rotation is around twenty minutes?...” you notice how his eyebrows furrowed together in anxiety of hanging up in the air for twenty whole minutes.

“...Or maybe two hours if the ride gets stuck, I’ve heard so many cases about things like that...” you trail off, chuckling as you leave the rest to his imagination. He wants to grab any opportunity to just leave, but the non-refundable money that already left his pocket was enough for him to suffer for twenty minutes... or two hours.

“Please keep your belongings down there on the shelves. The ride will start shortly.” a young volunteer smiles and motions the first few people in the line towards a corner. You walk there and place your bag and jacket on the shelf, Minho following your actions.

You walk up to a cabin and feel Minho stiffen behind you, almost tripping at his sudden stop. He takes baby steps to the gate, before you hurriedly pull him in. The volunteer chuckles and closes the door shut, before yelling out to start the wheel.

Minho has his eyes shut, lips mumbling small incoherencies and hands holding yours tightly. You laugh and peck his cheek, warm on his cold skin. He lets out a shaky sigh, scooting closer to you. Around five minutes into the ride, you feel Minho relax next to you, his frame almost sticking to you.

“You doing good there?” you ask, stifling a laughter as he cocks an eyebrow at you, almost immediately closing his eyes after and lying his head on your shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess. I feel like I’m flying but also suffocating,” he mutters, pouting and refusing to look at the beautiful city lights down the window with you. You peck his lips, hugging him close and safe before signing at him to look out the window.

“Look straight ahead, not down. Look at the streetlights there!” you point at a distance, and he pokes open an eye to look at whatever you were pointing at.

“Woah, that’s nice” he compliments meaninglessly, shutting his eyes back and moving back to the previous position. You laugh, morphing into a whine at his stubborn self. You had to distract him if you wanted him to stop clinging on to you like this (not that you hated it) for the next forty minutes.

“Hey, look up.” you tug his chin up to make him face you. At this point you were almost at the top.

He faces you, and before he gets the chance to dig back into your shoulder, you kiss him. He hesitates for a moment, the fear still lingering at the back of his head; but when you graze your tongue against his bottom lip, he feels himself getting relaxed, bold. His hand drops down to your waist, grip tensing as you kiss him deeper.

You feel your plan working as he pulls you up to his lap, holding you flush against him. You knew he was slowly losing his resolve by the way he grew harder under your thigh. You shuffle down between his legs, and he gets the signal before spreading them out, licking his lips as he looks down at you.

Palming at the tent growing in his pants, you smirk as he whines under you, urging you to go faster. You unzip his jeans, pulling them low enough to tug down his boxers and run your fingers up his erection, his head tossed backwards.

You slowly apply pressure to his tip, drawing out a long curse from him. He grips the seat tightly as your movements spark electricity throughout his body. Bringing your hand up and down his length, you increase your pace gradually, pumping his swollen length.

Heating things up, you lick his cock from base up and he shudders slightly at the sensation. Focusing on the protruding vein across his length, you lick across it, sucking spots on him. You lick his tip a couple times, kissing it softly before taking his length in your mouth.

You lie your tongue flat across his length, and he all but moans aloud. You bob your head on his length, sucking in your cheeks to create further pressure against his red cock in your mouth. His whines and moans start getting longer and louder, making heat pool between your legs. He was being all vocal as he neared his orgasm, and you were loving it.

"Fuck, I'm so close," he sighs, thrusting up in your mouth. You gag around him, the feeling making him lose his resolve completely as hot spurts shoot down your throat and you swallow his cum instantly, feeling him relax under you.

"Seems like you've got a problem too," Minho calls out, looking down at how your hand was subconsciously pressed against your heat. Minho quickly swats your hand away, holding you up by your arms. You instinctively look out behind Minho, noting how you were almost about to finish the first rotation.

He sits you down next to where he was previously seated, fixing his clothes before kneeling down in front of you.

"Don't touch what's mine, hmm?" he orders innocently, fingers contradicting his speech. He pulled down your shorts swiftly, toying with your panties. You feel him push your panties aside, smirking at your hole clenching around nothing; before collecting your leaking arousal with his fingers and pushing them inside your tight hole immediately.

Your back arches away from the seat as two fingers thrust into your hole, rubbing against your walls swiftly. He scissors and rubs the pads of his fingers against your sweet spot, thumb rubbing at your clit. You were already worked up, and he had barely started.

He licks his lips and looks up at you, adding a third finger to look at your scrunched face and knit eyebrows. You clenched around his fingers with each thrust, and he only grunts into response. He latches his soft, warm lips against your clit, sucking at the nerves as his fingers continue working at your cunt.

Withdrawing his fingers, Minho brings his head up before diving lower, plunging his tongue deep into your heat. You moan aloud as his muscle thrusts in and out of you, pressing against your clit occasionally. It overwhelmed you, as if he was a needle poking your bubble of comfort.

The knot tightens in you, and just when he brings back his fingers to your hole, you feel your orgasm crashing onto you, and Minho laps it up, leaving nothing wasted. The overstimulation has you cringing and moving away from the buzz pain spreading from your chest, and Minho moves away to let you fix your clothes.

He gulps down chugs of water before handing you the bottle, pushing his hair back. You don't know why, but it's too late to stop the laugh bubbling up when Minho yelps suddenly in the quiet atmosphere.

"When is this shit going to end?!" he cries, moving towards the center of the cabin and holding up his palms over his eyes. He was being dramatic now, considering that the ride was almost over.

His voice drowns under the beep of the intercom, followed by someone speaking on the line.

"Thank you for enjoying the ride with us! Hope you had a memorable experience with us!", the voice ends with a beep once again, and the door opens up for you to get down.

"Yeah right, so memorable," Minho scoffs, winking at you.

—

a/n; YEHET i’m done with my requests >:D thank you guys so much for all the love and support :’)

[thewildomega]

Star in the Sand Ch.9

THUMP!

Snapping your eyes open you looked in front of you and saw the wood siding of the boat. Blinking a few times you forced your tired body up into a sitting position, wincing a little at the soreness of your body. It was still dark out but you could make out the light from the coming sunrise. Looking around you saw nothing but the endless sea until you looked behind you and saw what your little boat had bumped into. Swallowing even though there was little to no moisture in your mouth you looked at the lone man with yellow eyes. "Hello." you said in a soft voice, hoarse from having nothing to drink for the past day and a half. When he said nothing you looked down to see your boat still touching his slightly bigger one. "I'm sorry." you mumbled. Grabbing the little oar you went to row away from him.

"Not very wise for you to be out here on your own with no provisions." Mihawk said in a plain voice. When her eyes stayed down he looked her over. She was already showing signs of dehydration, she wouldn't last another day out here. "Where are you headed?" he asked the woman.

Looking back up at the warlord you took a small breath. "Anywhere I suppose."

Humming he reached beside him and grabbed one of his many flasks of water before holding it out for her.

Looking down at the flask you furrowed your brows and looked back up at him. "I don't have anything to give you in return." you said, shaking your head.

"Your name will do."

Seeing he was serious you licked your lips, "Y/n."

"Well then Miss y/n, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Dracula Mihawk." he said with a bow of his head.

Forcing yourself to grin you bowed your head back and took the water when he pushed it towards you, "Thank you." you said before taking a long sip, feeling it burn your dry throat slightly. Sighing you looked down at your lap, taking another sip before putting the cork back in the top and handing it back to him.

"No you keep it, you will need it. he told her.

"Thank you."

Humming he nodded and then looked to the left. "If you keep heading that way you will reach an island by the end of the day. It isn't the best place but it's somewhere." he told her.

Nodding you looked to where he was looking and then back to him just in time to see him toss you an apple. Catching it you looked back up to him and saw him give you a blank look. "Thank you." With a nod the man was gone. Biting down on the apple you chewed it slowly, you should be relishing the first food you had had in days but it was tasteless in your mouth. Letting out a sigh you looked towards the direction Mihawk had told you an island was in. You knew from the manga that Grand line formidable place, in actuality you were lucky to still be alive right as it is. Last night had been a rough night, a thunderstorm had struck suddenly and you had curled up in the bottom of the boat to shield yourself from the needle like rain and the sharp lightning. At one point you had been sure your small boat would flip over and dump you to the sea kings but you had managed to stay afloat. Finishing you apple you bit your lip and unzipped your bag to pull out your sketchbook. Ripping a page out you placed the seeds in the middle before folding it up and pouring a small amount of water on it to dampen it. Placing it one of the smaller pockets in your bag you put your sketch book back up and grabbed the oar. You didn't really know what you were going to do but you knew you needed to get to land soon.

................................

It was late when you got to the island and the sun was going down. Your arms were sore and you were extremely tired. Forcing yourself to pull the boat onto the sandy shore you breathed heavily and finally dropped back to sit in the sand. Leaning against the boat you stayed there for a moment and let your eyes slip closed. You were close to drifting off when you felt the patter of rain start hitting your back and shoulders. Blinking your eyes open you looked up at the sky and saw a flash of lightning. Standing up and grabbing the boat again you tugged it further up onto shore almost to the rocks and then struggled to flip it over. Dropping to your knees you started digging away the sand and dirt to make a tunnel big enough for you to crawl under it. Wiggling your way under the boat you felt around for a few big rocks and placed them over the 'door' till only a small air hole was left. Grabbing your bag you moved it to the front and laid down, placing your head on it and curling up on the cold ground. The rain was now beating against the boat so loud it sounded like hail and you bit your lip as the lightning and thunder boomed outside. A rumble of the earth and a close strike made you whimper and tense more if it were possible. Feeling a tear roll over the bridge of your nose you closed your eyes and tried to imagine you were at home, in your own bed. Not even that seemed comforting anymore through. You didn't want to go back to your empty house with only memories to keep you company. You knew what you wanted but it would never be a reality. With a broken heart you finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

.................................

Waking up the next day you stared at the tiny bit of sunlight coming in from the little hole you had left. You were still tired, your body running on fumes. The clenching of your empty stomach told you you needed food even though you didn't particularly care to eat. Sighing you dug the hole back out and pushed out your bag before crawling out yourself. Blinking as your eyes adjusted to the light you looked around at the island you had washed up on and saw it was a very rocky landscape. There were trees and grass as well but a lot of rocks. Glancing back down to your boat you decided to leave it there, might need to use it as shelter again tonight. Attempting to stretch out the stiffness in your body you let out a heavy breath and grabbed your bag. Unzipping it you took the water out and finished the last sip off. That was definitely your first thing to do. Tossing the empty flask back in your bag you zipped it up and put it on your back.

Exploring the island you were able to find a source of freshwater and drunk a fair amount before filling up your flask and putting it in your bag for later. Unfortunately you weren't able to find any food, not even any berries or fruit but lucky for you you had watched tons of survival documentaries. Grabbing stuff to make a fire you took it back to where your boat was, dragging the boat all the way up to the rocks to set up your camp. Sitting down on the ground you grabbed your pocket knife and the long stick you had found to make a spear out of. Sharpening the tip and cutting small notches in the first foot of it you nodded, "Thank you Les Stroud." you mumbled before taking off your jacket, shirt, shoes and socks. Rolling up your pants legs you grabbed your stick and walked out to the water. Jumping across the rocks you looked down and saw a few fish swimming around in the water below. Taking a deep breath you aimed the spear before stabbing it into the water.

So catching a fish is a whole lot harder than it looks. After three hours you hand managed to catch one lousy fish that was only the size of your hand, but it was something. Cooking it over the small fire you made you looked out over the sea and felt a clenching in your heart. You wondered if he missed you. No he didn't want you there to begin with. Swallowing hard you dropped your eyes down, taking the last bite of the fish. Looking down your shirt you saw your locket laying over top of your birthmark and lifted it in your hand before opening it. Looking over the picture of the man and woman you felt tears brim your eyes. Reading the words you licked your lips, "My heart will guide me huh? To what?" you asked the air. Watching the arrow spin around before finally pointing out in front of you you huffed and snapped it shut. "Yeah that's what I thought."

By the end of the day you had a nice fire going and had bathed to the best of your ability. You had seen a small village on the other side of the island but it looked very rundown and sketchy so you decided to possibly check it out tomorrow when there was more light. Yawning you crawled under the boat to sleep, having dug a nice tunnel earlier. Curling up you breathed out deeply and closed your eyes.

................................

People were starring at you. This place didn't feel safe. You didn't see any children running around, there was no laughter or smiles. Glancing up out of the corner of your eye you saw as a group of people looked at you with knitted brows, they were whispering. Swallowing you dipped your head and adjusted your bag before going up to the only stand. "Um excuse me..."

"What is it?" the woman snapped.

Flinching a bit you furrowed your brows and licked your lips, "Well I was wondering if there was anything I coudl do to possibly pay for some food..."

"Unless you have money or something valuable to trade get lost. I don't give hand outs."

Looking down you nodded and mumbled a thank you before walking away. Making your way through the forest and rocks you again tried looking for some sort of food. Looking up to one of the tree tops you tilted your head. Were those coconuts? Dropping your bag you removed your shoes and socks. Grabbing hold of the tree you started to climb. Gritting yoru teeth as you slipped back down again you dug your foot into the bark, holding onto the tree as tight as you could. Slowly but surly you managed to climb your way up to the top of the tree. Hugging it with your legs and one arm you reached out with the other to try and knock down one of the coconuts. Swatting a few times, your fingers just did brush it. Wiggling up more you hit the fruit one last time and let out a small cheer as it fell to the ground. Slidding back down carefully you walked over to lift the fruit when a boot clad foot smacked down on top of it. Looking up the brown pants leg and then torso you saw one of the men from the village standing there looking down at you with a grin. "Excuse me..." you said, trying to pull the coconut out from under his shoe.

"Now what you doing stealing our coconuts girly?"

Furrowing your brows you shook your head. "I.. I'm not stealing... I dind't know the trees belonged to anyone.."

"Well they do. This here is our island which makes the trees and all else here ours as well." he told the woman, bending down to pick up the coconut and toss it behind him.

Following the coconut as he threw it back to one of his three friends to catch you felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Straightening back up you looked back to what you guessed was the leader. "I'm sorry for taking the coconut, I was just looking for some food but I am just going to go now." you said, turning around to grab your bag and shoes.

Smiling he grabbed the woman's bag before she could. "Now sweetheart if you got something to trade then maybe we'll just let you have that coconut."

Shaking your head you reached for your bag and tried pulling it out of hsi grasp. "I don't so you can just keep it." you told him.

Humming he held tight to the bag and grinned at her, "Well maybe there is something else you can give me."

Understanding what he meant you grit your teeth, "Not a chance in hell." Snatching your bag back you put it on your back and turned to walk away again.

Growling he grabbed her wrist to stop her, pinning her to a tree. "Now don't be so rude girl. You see I was just trying to be a gentleman and ask is all. Don't have to though, I meant what I said, everything on this island is ours... that means you as well."

Gasping a bit you felt fear fill you and quickly brought up knee. As soon as he was doubled over in pain you ran for it. You could hear him cursing and yelling behind you but you didn't stop. You had to get off this island. Running towards your boat you were suddenly knocked backwards as something hit your chest. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry and you gasped for air. It felt like you couldn't breath. Rolling to your side you managed to suck in some air and opened your eyes when you heard the sound of sticks breaking. Looking up you saw a man standing there with a club looking thing, smiling.

"Got er' boss." he said.

Blinking you heard boots on the rocks and turned your head a small amount to see the man from earlier standing over you.

"You are going to regret not taking my offer girl." he huffed.

Seeing his foot come towards your face you felt a pain on your cheek before everything went fuzzy.

"Grab her."

You could feel rough hands lifting you up from the ground and huffed out as you were flung over someone's shoulder. Not being able to fight back you felt your bag get ripped from your arms. Blinking slowly you watched the trees and rocks move by in a blur. It felt like you couldn't get enough air still and your head was throbbing. They were saying something but you didn't catch any of it. When you were finally tossed down you whimpered and looked around to see you were in some sort of room. There was a fire going and you could hear muffled voices. Seeing a window on the far wall you tried to plan out your escape.

"Now let's see what we have here."

Seeing them unzip your bag and dump out your few things you knit your brows.

Looking down at the hygiene products, flask and sketchbook he felt his lip lift into a snarl.

"That's it?"

"Where's the money?"

"Where's the treasure?"

"I told you I didn't have anything!" you scoffed, trying to sit up.

Picking up the sketchpad he flipped through it, hoping some hidden money would fall out but there was nothing. Growling he stomped over to the woman and grabbed a fistful of her hair. "That can't be all you got? Where's the money?"

Wincing as his hand in your hair tightened you looked up into his brown eyes. "I don't have any you piece of shit!"

Clenching his teeth he slapped her before he moved to start patting her down. Tossing down the knife in her back pocket.

When his hand felt around your chest and over your locket you tensed."NO! Let me go!" you yelled, wiggling about. Punching at him you managed to get one good hit in before he slammed you back down on the ground and straddled your middle.

"Give me some rope!" Being handed the thin rope he held her hands in one of his while he wrapped it tightly around her thin wrists, pulling it tight and tying it off. Holding her hands down above her head he grinned down at her as she still fought against him. "You sure are a feisty one ain't you." he chuckled.

Glaring up at him you spit in his face. Seeing him still and watching the smirk fall from his face you knew you had made a horrible mistake.

Standing above her he wiped the spit from his eye and glared down at her. "I am going to enjoy breaking you in." he snarled, snatching his belt from the loops and folding it in half.

Seeing the man grab the leather belt in one hand and raise it over his head you started to tremble, your past coming back to haunt you, a cry leaving your lips as it stung your side and back.

.......................

Flinching as a glass bottle was thrown into the wall beside you you opened your eyes and looked to the group of people currently drinking and talking away by the fire. Blinking your eyes you looked back to the window and saw the sky was now dark, the moon and stars out. How long had you been here? Feeling eyes on you you looked back to the leader to see him looking towards you with a smirk, your locket hanging around his neck.

"Ya'll go get us some more booze, I'ma go tend to our pet." he said.

Stiffening you watched them all glance to you as they stood, some of them laughing as they walked out, smacking the leader on the back.

"Don't ruin her boss."

Swallowing hard you watched them all leave you alone with the man and saw him continue looking at you for a time, the both of you just sitting in silence as he drank his bottle of rum. When he stood and started walking over to you you tensed up and again tried pulling at the ropes around your wrist, feeling them rub your skin raw even more.

Sitting down beside her he let his eyes rake over her body. Looking to her lips he rose his brow and moved the bottle to them. "Drink."

Keeping your lips pinched together you tried turning your face away from him but he quickly grabbed your jaw and squeezed, forcing your mouth open enough to pour in the strong alcohol. Coughing you felt it spill down the side of your face, burning the cuts and scrapes that were there.

Chuckling he sat the bottle down to move his hands down her neck. Gripping the neckline of her shirt he tugged hard, ripping the material almost in half.

You wanted to cry. Trying to curl up he held you down and you felt his hand move to your breast, groping your mound painfully.  

"Huh...interesting soulmate mark you got there? Is he some kind of clock maker?" he chuckled.

Not understanding what he was talking about you tried pushing his hand away with your bound ones. When he took out a knife and started running it along your chest and over the mark between your breasts you felt the tears roll down your temples and closed your eyes tight.

"Aww don't cry yet beautiful, we're just getting started." he chuckled, dragging the blade over her skin to leave a trail of blood.

When he leaned down to pushing his lips to yours you felt something wet proud at your lips your eyes went wide as it pushed it's way inside, his hand attempting to push into your pants. This was your chance. Biting down on his tongue you heard him scream but you only bit harder. A sharp pain to your chest made you release him.

Falling to his back he covered his mouth with his hand, blood pouring down his chin. "YOU FUCKING BITCH!" he yelled.

Pushing your self up you stumbled on your feet, running towards the window and feeling the broken glass get embedded in your feet. Jumping through the window you rolled to the ground, your adrenaline making you able to forget about the pain radiating through your body. Running towards the trees you heard him yelling behind you and then the sound of a gun filled the air and you fell to the ground. Screaming at the burning pain in your shoulder you panted and rolled down the rocks. Once you stopped you looked up at the sky for a few seconds. You could hear yelling, they were coming. Shaking you stood and pushed yourself forward, knowing you wouldn't get another chance if they found you. You fell and tripped on the rocks and roots, your battered body feeling like it was ready to give out any second. As the voices drew closer you looked around frantically. Seeing a dark hole in the rocks you moved towards it and dropped to your knees before squeezing inside. Going in as deep as you could you curled up and held your breath when the voices and heavy footfalls ran by. Watching their shadows run by you felt tears roll down your cheeks.

Sliding down the wall of your little crave you curled up and started to shake as your adrenaline started to fade. Laying your head down on the ground you bit your lip to muffle your sobs. Everything hurt, your whole body was throbbing and you could feel blood soaking into your clothes. What were you going to do now? Were you going to die? Wouldn't surprise you if this was how it ended. Your life had been nothing but shit up to this point anyway. The only good thing you had happen to you was Crocodile and even that had ended in heartbreak. In all honesty if this was it you wouldn't really care. There was nothing else for you to live for. You had no home, no family, no friends. None would miss you, no one would even notice you were gone. Hell if word somehow got to Crocodile he would probably be happy, he'd probably laugh. Feeling a clenching in your heart you closed your eyes and brought your bound hands to your chest. "p..please just l..let it be quick.."you whispered as you started to loose consciousness, hoping whatever higher power there was would have mercy on you, just this once.

..................................

He had already searched two islands now and she wasn't on either. The dark thought that she had fallen victim to the sea crossed his mind occasionally but he quickly tossed it out. No she was not dead, she was alive, he could feel it. He refused to believe she was gone. But there was something in his chest, some heavy pressure making him feel like something was wrong. Arriving on the run down island he stepped off the boat and looked down the rocky shore. It was just past dusk and he could see lights from the small run down village. Narrowing his eyes he looked to his men and nodded. They knew the drill, search for any signs of his missing soulmate. Puffing on his cigar he started walking towards the village, looking over the people he saw them all looking at him warily. Going up to a woman at the only stall he could see he took out y/n's phone and showed her the picture of the two of them she had taken, ignoring the woman's confused look at the device. "Have you seen this woman?" he asked.

"No." the woman said, barely glancing at the picture.

She was lying. Narrowing his eyes he went to go say something when Dori came hurrying over to him.

"We found the boat Captain." the young man said.

Looking down at him he raised his brow, "Where?"

"South side of the island sir, looks lik..."

"What exactly you lot here for?"

Turning at the sound of another man he looked to see a brown haired man looking up at him with his arms crossed over his chest. Opening his mouth to speak his eyes caught sought of something gold around the man's neck and felt his temper flare, his teeth biting down on his cigar. In an instant he had his hand wrapped around the man's throat.

"What the fuck man!"

Ignoring him he lifted the necklace with the curve of his hook, not caring when it cut open the his chest. Lifting it up he saw it was y/n's locket and felt his lip lift into a snarl, his brows dropping to glare at the man. Now looking him over he saw blood on his shirt collar and bruises along his jaw. "Where is she?" he growled.

"I don't know who the hell you are..."

"I am not a man you want to test. Now where is she?!" Seeing the man stay silent he dug the tip of his hook into the man's shoulder, watching him scream.

"CAPTAIN!"

Snapping his eyes up he saw Hex standing in the doorway of a run down looking barn. Tossing the man to Bonez he walked towards the doorway and looked inside. Not much filled the space, a few chairs around a fire pit and old, broken bottle of what looked like sake. None of that caught his attention, his eyes fell to the black bag laying on the floor and it's contents stowed about. A small pocket knife he knew was hers, the one Vick had given her. Her sketchbook was laying on the dirty floor, some of the pages torn out. Walking over to one he bent down and lifted it up to see a drawing of him. He was lounged back in the small canoe of hers, a butterfly on his hook. He had knew she was drawing when they had went out that day but he didn't know she had drawn him. He looked relaxed with the cigar in his mouth and his eyes closed. There was even the small amount of scruff on his jaw from where he hadn't shaved. Swallowing hard at the amount of detail she had put int he picture he then felt his blood boil. Turning back he held out the drawing to Maverick as the man went about picking up her things, placing them back in her bag. Walking over to the man he looked him in the eye. "Where. Is. She?"

"The bitch ain't here! She took off!" he said defensively before he let out a choked gasp, looking down to see the man's hook disappear into his gut.

Pulling his hook up slowly he heard the man scream and narrowed his eyes before he pulled it out. Looking to Bonez he took a breath, "Keep him alive. Take whatever you find." was all he said and saw his second nod. Glancing to the broken glass on the floor he noticed small bloody footprints leading to a broken window and pushed his way past to the door. Walking around to the side of the barn he looked down and broken glass in the grass. Looking up to the forest and rocks he felt his heart beat rise and his feet move for him. He could hear the sounds of his crew pillaging the village but it was simply music to his ears. Walking through the trees and tall grass he noticed blood along the rocks. A small stream ran along the rocky ground and on the other side the blood trail disappeared. Snapping his eyes around he looked down a small cliff hill and saw a little hole of sorts. It was small but so was she. Climbing down he got down on his knees and looked into the cave. It was dark so he couldn't see much and grit his teeth before he remembered the flashlight y/n had shown him her phone had. Fishing the thing out of his pocket he turned the light on and then bent over to shine it into the hole and what he saw made his blood run cold.

His cigar fell from his mouth in a gasp. "Y/n." he called but she didn't move. Se was facing away from him, her small body curled up in the back of the cave with her blood puddled on the rocky floor. "Y/n!" He called again, his voice coming out louder and deeper. Attempting to reach her his fingers just barely brushed her back. Growling out in frustration he used his devil powers to push sand under her slowly and then move her towards him enough so he could reach in and pull her out. When he finally had her out he looked down at her and felt a knot form in his throat. Brushing her blood matted hair our of her face he saw the dark bruises and gash on her cheek. They had beat her, badly. His breathing was erratic as he gently moved the curve of his hook to her chest, flipping back her ripped shirt and looking down at her blood spattered skin and seeing the dark soulmate mark directly over her breastbone just like the witch had said. Although it looked like someone had cut her over it he saw it looked like a sand glass. Licking his lips he lifted his eyes up her body, looking over her collarbone and then throat. Bending down over her he listened to her shallow breathing and felt a flood of relief wash over him, she was alive...for now. That could easily change though, she had lost a lot of blood. She need held and she need it now. Laying her over his lap long enough for him to shrug his coat from his shoulders he wrapped her in it to the best of his ability and then carefully moved his hook under her upper back and his hand under her knees. Lifting her easily into his arms he stood and held her tightly to his chest before walking to the village.

Getting on board his ship he carried her straight to his room, laying her on his bed and not caring at all for the blood seeping into his bedding, he could feel it on his clothes. He wanted to massacre the whole village, he wanted to make that piece of shit pay for what he had done to her but he couldn't bare to leave her side again. Ripping her mother's locket from his neck he looked him dead in the eyes as he told Bonez to take care of it, walking away and adding the command for him to drag it out. He had yet to acquire a doctor on his crew and he was quickly regretting that decision. He knew a basic amount of medical skills but nothing compared to what she needed. Having the lights from his oil lamps and candles he could see just how bad her injuries were, not even mentioning what her bloody clothes were hiding. She hadn't made a sound the whole time and the feel of her clammy skin made him uneasy. As soon as the crew was back and had loaded all they had acquired he left Daz in charge of commanding the deck. Hearing a knock at the door he growled. "WHAT?!" Looking up he saw Maverick there and knit his brows.

"I ain't no doctor but my father was, I may be able ta elp' the lass." he said.

Nodding stiffly he saw the man walk in, towels and a few bottles of alcohol in his hands. Looking back down to her he felt a painful clenching in his heart, "Don't give up on me darling." he said in his head.

[heli0s-writes]

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Summary: Bucky (sort of) agrees to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, but what he ends up wearing is much worse. This is for @holy-captain‘s 1.2k writing challenge! Congratulations, Liv and thank you for hosting! I’m so sorry it’s late!! 

Pairing: Exasperated!Bucky x ChaoticDumbass!Reader

Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 1.8k

It’s supposed to be a fun and light-hearted thing—a season full of shiny-glowing-fantastic-twinkling excitement and ruddy red noses and misty breath in the chilled air. A season of joy and celebration, of spiked eggnog, fuzzy striped socks, and sliding down the compound hillsides on Steve’s shield.

And he’s screwed it all up.

It sinks in like the swollen marshmallows in his now cold cocoa, drooping to the bottom where the rest of the sediments lie. Outside, snowflakes gust and whip, blanketing the pine trees and skeletons of shrubbery in white flurries. Red holly berries peek out where they can and glare at him with their crimson eyes.

His phone lights up with picture messages of Steve and Sam, hurriedly trying on a cluster of sweaters in preparation. Horrid renderings of cats on ornaments. Oversized slouchy sleeves flecked with tinsel. Santa’s dreadful ass-crack peeking out of a chimney.

Bucky grumbles and turns his phone face-down, leaning back in his chair to stare at the Christmas tree in the corner. He wants to scream and put his leg through the damn thing.

Soft footsteps draw his attention to the hallway when you emerge, blinking slowly as you stifle a yawn from behind your hand until you see him. Then, you scoff and disappear back down the hall.

“Wait!” Bucky calls, leaping from his seat and nearly knocking the tepid mug from the table, “Damn it, wait!”

You’re gone. Stomped back to your room and even if he starts running now, he wouldn’t be quick enough—only getting the slamming door on his nose. He’ll try anyway.

Bucky slumps against the panel, pushing his chest against the cold metal of it and his cheek until his words come out smushed into his teeth.

“C’mon!” A pathetic whine of your name before he sticks his fingers underneath the slit of the door like a cat, wiggling the bent tip back and forth. Incredible. The Winter Soldier sprawled out all over a corridor, begging for forgiveness over this.

Only silence replies; you’re probably on the bed, thinking about scratching his eyes out. He can practically see you flicking him off with both hands. You’ve never been this upset before, and it deeply troubles him considering the dynamic of your very friendship spun on the axis of one single truth: Bucky’s the annoyed one. You’re the fuck up.

And now he has no idea what to do.

One week of it and he’s completely lost; the start of it all—December 1st when Tony announced: Ugly. Christmas. Sweater. Party.

Two days before Christmas, the team will be gathering in the common area for a white elephant gift exchange, and sweaters will be judged based on ugliness. What a stupid idea.

The winner will be awarded with “no team meetings for a month” and Tony’s personal stash of bourbon as long as no one touches his whiskey.

Upon the proclamation, you had clapped your hands together and grinned, “We’re gonna win this damn thing.”

And Bucky, being regular Bucky who ignores your half-witted ideas and short-sighted fixations, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to thinking normal-person thoughts.

For the next several weeks, you dove into your knitting, the needles clicking together faster than he’s ever seen, weaving sparkling black and bright cherry red. The rows were tightly bound, looped and coiled expertly until he could finally make out the shape on the front of it.

He really did love your sick sense of humor—although he’d never admit it—funny, twisted, always brought him a bit of joy.

“Fuck no,” he had laughed at the image of a mutilated deer, antlers dangling silver ornaments showcasing his sigil. “I am not fuckin’ puttin’ that on. It looks like hell.”

“You agreed!” And then the needles and yarn hit him right in the nose.

On your way out, a low chuckle came from the corner of the living room where Steve sat sipping a cup of steaming chai. “You know Christmas is her favorite holiday?”

A snorting laugh bubbled the surface of Steve’s tea, “Good goin’, Buck.”

-

“Last Christmas” is on, blaring synth beats through the halls. George Michael croons sweetly, longingly, grieving an unrequited love before jingle bells ring in the scattered percussion.

Bucky hears your voice as you carol along to possibly the cheesiest song of all time—infuriated and baffled that you won’t speak more than two words to him but will sing your heart out to this crap. George Michael, Wham! and all of England can eat his whole ass.

He trudges from his room and into the den where the lights are dimmed and the table is set with snacks and a crock pot of hot chocolate. A dish of pine cones sits in the middle, flanked by a merry snowy village filled with little ceramic teddy bears and reindeer. On the edge is a deflated Santa Hat filled with paper scraps and pens for the voting process at the end of the night.

It is seven-thirty and you are standing next to Sam with bent elbows, wiggling your hips to the chorus, sliding back and forth on the polished floor in fuzzy socks. The two of you are facing the window, pointing at the flurry and a mountain of sludge that was previously a horrid misshapen lump of Snowman Steve.

Bucky squints a little, alert when he sees two matching sweaters—black on the back. Hell no, he thinks.

Sam turns around and Bucky’s worst holiday fears are confirmed. One innocuous “Oh hey, man,” and all the warmth drains from him.

On Wilson’s chest is that terrible disfigured deer you constructed, its antlers spearing out from its head to reach all the way up to his shoulders.

Bucky flies across the room and before either you or Sam can do anything about it, he’s peeling the hem of it over Sam’s head, kneeing him in the groin, and taking him down onto the floor. “What the hell!” Sam yells, struggling to get out of his grasp. “Shit—get off—Barnes!”

“A red star isn’t even your fucking symbol!” His hair is in his eyes along with Sam’s elbow, their limbs and joints knocking into each other in the wrestling bout. The sleeves and front are being stretched terribly, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Hey,” Your calm voice calls from above them—falling on four deaf ears. “Hey,” You try again, and when it doesn’t seem like two grown men can stop aggressively fondling each other over a damn pullover, you raise your hand and decisively land it across the back of Bucky’s head in a deafening crack.

A swell of multiple shocked gasps rises from behind you and when Sam and Bucky freeze, they see the rest of the compound’s inhabitants staring at the scene like a disfigured Nativity display. They also see your palm, at the end of your motion, resting next to your shoulder.

Bucky gingerly rubs his wound. “Ow,” He grumbles.

“Room… now.” You command, pointing your finger down the hall. Wilted, he shuffles away dutifully, saying nothing to the others as he passes. When he’s gone, you look scornfully at Sam and your beloved jersey, loosely hanging at the edge of his torso, pulled nearly apart.

“Voting starts in twenty, kid,” Tony mentions breezily.

“Yeah,” You reply through gritted teeth, “Don’t worry, we’ll be there.”

-

Steve coughs behind his hand awkwardly when Bucky steps back out, the once snugly-fitting sweater around Sam hanging collapsed and loose on Bucky’s right side. You’re close behind, bouncing on your heels and smiling as if nothing had gone wrong. Steve’s not sure which is worse: your wrath or glee.

“You, uh, you alright?” He calls quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Right, Buck?”

Bucky swallows, “Uh. Yeah.”

He has no fucking idea; when you shut the door behind him, the sweater in your hand was calmly unfolded and held up to his shoulders, damage assessed by a calculating mind. Bucky still has no clue what possessed you not to scratch his eyes out that very second.

Then, you looked him up and down and said, “Put it on, Barnes. Show’s about to start.”

And if he was a weaker man, he’d be shaking in his goddamn boots at how calm you are.

The team gathers around the tree, various colored pens and torn scraps in hand as they evaluate each other’s attire. Natasha is boldly displaying a patchwork kind of cardigan with what looks like the Michelin man ominously hovering behind a tree. Tony, of course, has custom-ordered a perfectly sized wreath knitted around his arc reactor heart. Steve has completely missed the Christmas memo (or is perhaps the politest Grinch on Earth) wears blue, the tiniest hint of gold tinsel woven through.

And Sam -- stupid, stupid Sam-- who didn’t plan on being robbed of a perfectly knitted sweater five minutes before the voting process, is out of the game.

Bucky is about to write your name down, because a medium part of him feels guilty for hurting your feelings while a much larger part of him feels apprehension about what exactly might happen if you lose, but you suddenly dig your hand into his pocket.

All five fingers shove deep until your fist is gripping tight and your knuckles stab his thigh.

“Hey! No hanky-panky during voting!” Tony is scandalized.

A vicious snap of his pocketknife swings open and before he knows it, your left hand is fisting the yarn on his chest and your right is ripping it straight through. The room falls silent when you do it a second time and Bucky’s at a loss for words until the breeze hits.

Chills.

A tendril of AC sneaks through the two open holes you’ve carved and goosebumps bloom all over his chest. Dread settles in his tummy.

His nipples are pebbled and exposed for everyone to see and with a quiet click of the blade retracting, you tuck it back into his pocket. 

“Let the voting begin.”

No one moves. No one makes a single sound and the whole place is quieter than a crypt until a shrill wheeze squeaks out of Sam’s nostrils. Through the choked snickering and the slowly building crescendo of everyone else’s laughter, Wilson admits, “They’re browner than I thought they’d be.”

There’d be no need for a voting process, Bucky knows. You’ve stolen the show – or rather, his nipples have stolen the show, and the once-worthy prize is now his Sisyphean burden to bear. He closes his eyes and counts to a million.

Screw exemptions from team meetings, Bucky thinks, praying desperately that when the bourbon is bestowed to him, by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, he’d be able to get shitfaced again.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes​ @crist1216​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) - Part 13

Summary: Sam inherits Steve Roger's crime empire after a handful of his men betray and kill him. The rest of the crime world, sensing an opening, go after Sam and the territories he's inherited from Steve. Thankfully, Steve left him a number, someone to call if he ever needs help. Someone, Steve claimed, he can trust. But can Sam really trust a mercenary with that much blood on his name? And that many knives in his pockets.

WARNINGS: (there will eventually be all of these things) blood, violence, murder, shooting, stabbing, sex, blood play , food related things: malnutrition, feeding, blow jobs, bathing/washing, chronic pain. Limb loss and regrowth. Bullet wounds. Gore.

18+ Content: Make Good Choices Kids <3

Ao3

P.s. ~ This chapter is way longer than the other's i think... but it's also my favorite one so far!!! Thanks for sticking with me for this story guys! Love and appreciate you all!!!!

Sam blinked at the black screen in front of them, Torres had jumped when the first camera went out, gasping a little as they watched Bucky take out the three other cameras. Sam took a deep breath and let himself fall back in his chair. Torres took the few steps back around the desk and fell into one of the chairs there, both of them sitting in silence.

"Was that good or bad?" Torres asks, leaning forward a bit, his elbows resting on his knees. Sam let out a deep breath and straightened himself in his chair.

"Which part?" He asks, moving his hand over his mouth slowly as he stared at the black screen in front of him.

"I- the last part, specifically. Him shooting our cameras. Was that... I mean was that a message to us or was he just being dramatic?" Torres asks, and Sam can see it. The kid's nervous. And he should be. Despite the shine Bucky has seemed to take to him, Torres was still afraid of him. At least a little. Sam sighed again, digging his palms into his eyes with a groan.

"Let's hope he's just being dramatic." He moved his hands down his face in time to see Torres nod, he lowered his head then, but Sam saw him pull his lip between his teeth nervously.

Sam furrowed his brow, he didn't think Bucky would hurt Torres. That was the main reason he'd given for not taking him in the first place. He didn't want the kid getting hurt. Sam leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk before he folded his arms over each other.

At least they'd learned who is his "friend" was. Sam was a little shocked when he'd seen the other mercenary walk through the door. He'd heard stories. Heard stories about them both. Even heard stories about them both together. But he hadn't expected anything like that.

The way they moved together. Nearly in synch, even when they were on opposite sides of a wearhouse. It was hypnotic, watching them work. The way Bucky pulled knives from his pockets as he moved. Like every movement of his body was so intentional that they moved his hands to his knives without him having to think about it. And the guns. Bucky used guns so... flippantly. Picking them up, pointing them, and letting them go. Grabbing them and using them and discarding them like they were toys, not dangerous weapons.

The way he'd shot that last one. He hadn't even looked at him. Hadn't needed too. Sam shivered at the thought, ignoring the way goosebumps bloomed over his back.

He'd been shot. Bucky. Right at the beginning. And it was like he hadn't even felt it. The way he'd moved, you'd never know he'd just been shot. Sam took a deep breath, feeling a bit sorry that they'd both been wounded. Hell one of them was missing a fucking arm. But neither of them had seemed too worried about that, so maybe he shouldn't feel guilty. He'd heard the stories, he'd be fine.

"Sam?" He moved his eyes off the desk, back to Torres. And he could tell that wasn't the first time he'd said his name.

"Sorry. What?" Sam ask, rubbing at his temple.

"Was that-" Torres still looked nervous, maybe more nervous. Sam furrowed his brow and waited for him to continue.

"Was that Deadpool? That he was with? His... friend?" The kid asked, his brow furrowed now as he looked at Sam. Sam took another deep breath, letting himself fall back into the chair again as he nodded slowly.

"Yes. Yes it was." He said, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"Okay." Torres said. Sam watched him, he looked like he wanted to say more.

"Go ahead." Sam said, letting his eyes fall closed, he needed to think. Or sleep. Probably both.

"And how do we feel about that?" Torres asked, Sam opened one eye, looking at the kid, he was staring into his lap, eyebrows knit together like someone was yanking on a string there.

"How do we feel about what?" Sam asks, sitting forward again, both eyes open now. Torres grimaces and looks up at him.

"About him being friends with Deadpool. And ... I don't know? Bringing Deadpool into our business. How do we- do we feel a certain way about that? Or is it okay?" Torres asked, his hands twitching nevously on his thighs. Sam looked at him, cocked his head to the side.

"Do you, feel a certain way about it?" Sam asked, licking his lips as he pressed his palm flat against the desk. He knew Joaquín had some bad things in his past, but he didn't think he'd missed something that big. He watched as Torres began shaking his head slowly.

"No. I don't think so. I just- I've heard stories ya know?" Torres asked, an open look on his face. Sam sighed and gave him a small smile. He'd taken his time, the kid, to think it over. To make sure the answer he gave Sam was true.

"We've all got stories." Sam said, his eyebrows rising on his head. Torres smiled then.

"Yeah." He sighed,

"I guess that's true. The one's I've heard about Deadpool are just, a little crazier than most is all, I think." He was still smiling, and Sam was greatful for it. Torres was the only person around here who'd been smiling lately. Since well before Steve's passing. This life was hard. It wore you down. But Torres was young. The only other smile that had graced this building was Bucky's. And Sam wasn't fond of his shit eating grins.

"There are some crazy one's out ther-" Sam cut off as one of the alarms behind him beeped. He spun in his chair, hitting the button under the desk to illuminate the security screens as he did. There was no one on them. Everything looked normal, peaceful even. And the alarm for the front door had stopped beeping. But Sam still saw nothing. He hit the button again, the screens faded back into the bookshelves as Sam rose to his feet.

He gave Torres a nod, both of them pulling out their guns as Sam opened the door and walked out into the hallway, slowly, his gun held tightly in front of him. He could feel Torres behind him, on his heel, staying close. They made their way down the stairs and were greeted by two of the guards, both holding their hands up as Sam and Torres came toward them. Sam lowered his gun, slid it back into place, and watched Torres do the same as he stepped up beside him. The guards walking closer, dropping their hands as they stopped in front of Sam.

"It's Mr. Barnes sir. He's in the bar. And he's-" the guard speaking cut off, glancing at the man beside him.

"He's what?" Sam sighed, not sure he wanted to know what Barnes was getting up to now, at 2 in the fucking morning, in his bar.

"He's bleeding." The other man said, filling in the blank silence stretching between them. Sam's jaw clenched, he'd almost forgotten.

"Is he alright?" Sam asked, taking a slow step toward the bar doors, immediately seeing a small puddle of blood on the floor. From where Bucky had stood talking to these two no doubt, before he'd gone in. Sam gulped, how bad was he hurt?

"Not sure sir. He didn't really say much." The first guard said. The other man snorted.

"I believe his exact words were, 'I'm fuckin fine'. But they seemed a bit slurred." The second man said, amusement fading to what Sam thought might be concern. He nodded once.

"Go get Helen. Now." He said to the pair, watching them both jog down the hall before turning back to the door, Torres at his side. It takes him longer than it should to notice the music. There's a beat pulsing behind the doors. Sam glances at Torres and pulls the doors open. He heard Torres clear his throat at the sight in front of them.

Bucky was sitting on one of the bar tables, his standard hoodie and henley combo discarded on the floor, the only thing covering his torso were some dog tags dangling on his chest, and Sam used the word "covering" lightly. His pants were pulled down, shoved completely off of one foot, black boxer briefs looking dark agaisnt his pale thighs, a combat boot discarded near the chair his feet were resting on. His leg was covered in blood. As was his arm. Sam could see a bullet hole glistening on his thigh, dark and angry against the white skin there. Apparently he'd been shot twice.

He was turned away from them, his metal arm moving at an odd angle as he examined his shoulder, Sam heard a pained grunt over the music filling the air and realized what he was doing. Torres must have realized at the same moment, Sam heard a small whine leave his lips. Bucky was digging around in his bullet wounds.

Sam's brow knit together as he watched Bucky's metal arm bob in front of him. Noticing too late that Bucky had his belt shoved in his mouth, his teeth too bright against it. He made another pained grunt and then turned toward them, Sam almost gagged when he saw the pliers in his hand. Bucky dropped a small peice of metal into a bowl on the table, his eyes finally finding the men standing in the doorway looking at him. Sam watched him drop his mouth open, the belt falling from his mouth into his lap.

"Evening fellas." Is all he says, resting his metal arm, still holding the needle nose pliers, on his thigh, the bullet wound there oozing blood from the pressure. Sam sees Torres turn away and nods at Bucky. He stares for a long time. Not sure what to say. He just watches Bucky looking at him.

"Are you listening to K.Flay?" He finally asks, the only thing his brain supplies him. He watched Bucky move his eyes to the ceiling, squinting as he listens, before dropping his head again and looking back to Sam.

"Yes. But if you wanna get technical. Joaquín is listening to K.Flay, it's his playlist." Bucky says, pointing the bloody pliers at the kid before grabbing at his belt again, folding it a few times between his fingers. Sam looks to his side and sees Torres turn back around, his eyes wide as he looks at Bucky.

"Why do you have my playlist?" He asks, his eyes locked forcefully on Bucky's face, like he's trying not to see what's happening in front of them. Bucky looks back at him.

"I hacked your phone." Completely straight faced, no remorse.

"I was gonna use mine. But the bullet that went through it kinda fucked that plan a little." He pointed the bloody pliers at table top this time. Sam saw what was left of his phone sitting there, a whole in the center. Sam swallows and feels someone walk up on his other side.

"You needed me? Oh for heaven's sake." Helen asks and then sighs when her eyes fall on Bucky. He gives her a small pained smile and shoves his belt back into his mouth, turning away from them again as he resumes digging in his arm for stray metal. Sam feels Torres shake his entire body next to him, and looks down at Helen.

"Can you help him? He's making a mess." Sam says, the thing about the mess an after thought really. Just something to say. She looks at Bucky for a little longer before looking up at Sam.

"If he'll let me." She says quietly, some knowing look in her eyes that Sam can't read. Sam nods and watches her walk toward him. His eyes focus on Bucky's foot. The black sock he's wearing is shining, and it shouldn't be shining, cotton doesn't shine. Bucky moves his foot, his entire leg really, turning his body to get a better angle on his arm, and Sam sees the puddle of blood on the chair. He moves forward then, leaving Torres back by the door, hiding from the blood. Sam shakes his head as Helen breaks his veiw of the bloody sock and puddle.

He watches her look at him. Sees Bucky freeze, his eyes going to hers as she walks around him. Her eyes trained on him, hands held out in front of her.

"Bucky." She says, softly, like she's talking to a rabid dog, trying to keep it calm long enough to get away. Sam watches him open his mouth, the belt falling to the floor this time.

"I'm fine Helen." He says, his jaw tight. Sam takes another step, he can smell the blood on him now, his stomach turning.

"Bucky. Please." Helen says, moving her hand to his shoulder. Her fingertips touch his skin and his whole body jerks, pliers slamming onto the table as he grips the edge. Helen's hands are in front of her again.

"Sorry I just-" Bucky says, taking a deep breath, locking his eyes on hers.

"I got it. I'm good." He says, pointed, his voice deep. Sam ignores the shiver it sends down his spine. She nods once at him. Doesn't try to touch him again.

"I'm gonna go get you some bandages at least. And something better to dig with." She says, taking a step away.

"I won't need the bandages." Bucky says, his head hanging againt his chest, metal fingers uncurling from where they'd dug into the table. Helen stops, frowns at him, crosses her arms.

"I'm gonna bring you bandages. And you're going to use them." She says, her voice stern. Bucky looks up at her, they stare at each other for a long moment before Bucky's lips curl softly.

"Yes ma'am." He says with a nod. Sam watches her nod back, her sleep ruffled hair a mess on her head, and march away. Sam takes another step and then freezes when Bucky's eyes lock onto him. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't know what too say. Sorry you got shot and your friend lost his arm? Doing dirty work for me so I don't get murdered on the street? Not really good choices.

"Where's your friend?" Is what finally comes out. His mouth feels like it's full of sand as Bucky stares at him, his skin, more of his skin than Sam's ever seen, pale and shining with blood and sweat. Bucky keeps staring, for just a moment longer, and then drops his gaze, lets his chin fall to his chest with a sigh.

"He went home. To regrow his arm." Bucky rolls his head onto his metal shoulder, looking at Sam again.

"He didn't think it would be polite to meet you without it." Bucky says, smiling, his eyes drooping and snapping back open. Sam watched him shake himself, his metal hand falling back to the table, holding him up.

"That's... weird." Sam breathes, his words failing him as his eyes land on the hole in Bucky's thigh again.

"Yeah well, he's a weird guy." Bucky snorts, his eyes staying closed now as he waits for Helen to return. Sam stares at him. Moving his eyes from Bucky's leg to his face. His hair has fallen in his face, strands sticking to his sweating skin. Sam clenches his fist, fighting an urge to reach out and push the hair away. His eyes move down, Bucky's mouth is open just so, slow heavy breathing shaking a strand of hair that lies across his lips.

Sam's eyes move lower, past Bucky's protruding colar bones to the place where flesh meets metal. Sam takes another step forward, without thinking, his eyes glued to the jagged red line on Bucky's skin. His own breathing is heavy now, and all he can smell is blood, and maybe a hint of gunpowder, from Bucky's discarded clothes he's sure. He licks his lips, teeth digging into the skin there as he tilts his head, not able to look away.

"It's not nice to stare ya know?" Bucky's voice startles him. He blinks rapidly and moves his eyes to the floor before looking back up. Bucky isn't even looking at him. His eyes are still closed, his head resting on his shoulder, just as he had been before. Sam frowns, had he imagined him saying that?

And then Bucky's lips curl, one eye opening as he looks at Sam, smirking. Sam's frown deepens and he rolls his eyes, looking over Bucky's shoulder to see Helen coming back.

She has an armful of bandages and a few silver instruments in her hand. Sam walks away from Bucky, going to stand behind the bar, putting space between himself and what he knows is about to happen. He glances to his left to see Torres sitting in a chair near the door, his head between knees, Maria is at his side, rubbing his back. Helen leaving their room must have woken her. She nods at Sam, winking before moving her attention back to Torres. Sam looks back to Bucky as Helen sits every thing she brought him on the table.

"These should help." She says, handing him one of the silver instruments. Bucky takes it gently from her, if Sam didn't know any better he'd say he was trying not to get blood on her.

"Ooh!" Bucky exclaims, looking at what she'd given him.

"You have all the best toys. That's why I come here." He says, pointing the, Sam thinks they might be surgical pliers, at her playfully.

"Rubber handles too. Fuckin great." He sighs, turning his attention to his shoulder again.

"Yeah. I had those dipped for you special, actually. After the last time." She says, looking at him pointedly over her crossed arms. Sam watches him turn back to her.

"And that's why you're my favorite." He says, slowly, his head tilting. Sam can't see his face but he knows there's a mischievous glint in his eyes. Helen narrows her eyes at him before softening.

"Seriously. Thanks Doc." Bucky says, giving her a nod. She gives him a wink and pats his knee as she walks past him.

"I'll be tending to Torres, if you need me." She calls quietly over her shoulder. Sam watches her move across the room to settle in next to Maria. She's sitting on the floor now, he her head on Torres's knee, her eyes closed. Sam watches her smile sleepily when Helen sits down on Joaquín's other side. His head is resting in his hands now. Helen asks him something and Sam sees him nod.

"Gonna have to get that kid some Dramamine." Bucky's voice pulls Sam back. He looks over and realizes he's made a mistake. He can see Bucky's shoulder from this angle, it's peppered with holes, the arm below it wet, and red, and shining. Sam watches Bucky snarl as he digs the curved pliers into one of the holes, the muscles in his arm twitching, his nose scrunches as he bares his teeth. Sam watches him pull a peice of metal out and drop it into the bowl with the others. Bucky looks at him.

"For the nausea." He says, like Sam can actually pay attention to a conversation with him doing that.

"Right. Yeah." Sam says, absently. Bucky smirks at him and starts digging again.

"Would that actually help?" Sam asks. Bucky's eyebrow jumps as he glances at Sam.

"If the nauseas from blood I mean? Isn't that shit for like, motion sickeness?" Sam asks, and grabs a bottle of whiskey, pouring a large glass and taking a swig. Bucky drops another peice of metal into the bowl and looks at Sam, sighing as he rests for a moment.

"Honestly I don't know man. I've never really had an issue with blood." Bucky says, giving Sam an awkward smile, his lips pressed together tightly before he moves his attention back to his shoulder.

"I can see that." Sam says, grimacing and half looking away as Bucky growls, shoving the pliers deep into his skin. He takes another gulp of the whiskey as he watches him pull out another chunk of metal. His chest tightens as a gush of blood runs down Bucky's arm. He frowns, thinking being around Bucky is probably gonna give him a permanent one, and then notices Bucky's eyes on him. Sam swallows hard, licking his lips and tasting whiskey.

"I'm sorry you got hurt. Both of you. That's not-" Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't even know if should be apologizing. He doesn't remember Steve ever apologizing to anyone. Bucky's eyes are still on him, Sam sees the muscles in his bleeding arm flex, blood dripping from the scattered wounds. He can't read this guy at all. Has no fucking clue what's going on behind those bright blue eyes.

"I know Sam. I know you didn't send us there to die." Bucky says, his eyes staying on Sam a little longer before dropping to his shoulder again.

"Shit happens Sam. Even when you're good at your job." He shoves the pliers back in and looks up at Sam again.

"Even the best of us get shot sometimes. Job hazzards, ya know?" He says, not looking away from Sam as he snarls this time, yanking a long peice of metal from his arm, Sam drops his eyes to the bar as Bucky holds the thin peice of metal in front of his face.

"Well that's definitely not buckshot." Sam hears him say, then hears him drop the metal into the bowl.

"What the fuck did he shoot me with?" Sam hears him mumble and looks up to see him frowning down at his shoulder.

"Still." Sam says, drawing Bucky attention.

"I'm sorry it played out that way." Sam says, nodding at Bucky. Bucky stares at him for a long time before nodding back. That ends it. Sam doesn't say anything else about it. And doesn't plan to in the future. He watches Bucky stare down at his shoulder, the muscles across his back ripple as he takes a deep breath, Sam can see his ribs, more clearly than he expected, and turns to where Helen had gone.

"I think I need help." He sighs. Sam watches with a small smile as Helen gets up immediately, brushing her hands on her pajama pants as she moves around behind Bucky, examining his shoulder.

"What do you want?" She asks, kindly, asking for permission, asking what he's okay with. Bucky doesn't look at her, just drops his chin to his chest and sighs.

"Just touch it. See if there's anything else in there." Sam can tell his jaw is clenched, his words forced out.

"You sure?" She asks, her hands already hovering over his wounds.

"No." Bucky huffs, Helen laughs and moves her hands onto him slowly. His body jerks again when they make contact. She moves fast, her fingers gently proding at his shoulder. Sam watched the muscles in his back ripple again, his whole body tense, his metal fingers digging into his thigh as Helen's hands move over him. To Sam, he looks like an animal on an examination table, trying to squirm away from the hands touching him, Sam can see him fighting it.

"All done." Helen says, curtly, as she lifts her hands away from him. Sam watches Bucky droop on the table, his muscles going lax.

"You got it all. You're good." Helen says, walking around the table to look at him.

"Bucky." She says quietly. He moves his head slowly, shaking the hair out of his face.

"You want me to clean and wrap your shoulder for you?" She asks, her eyes wide. Sam watches him tense again, and he can almost hear Bucky's thoughts racing as he stares at Helen in front of him. Bucky sighs, stretching his back, popping it twice, before nodding at her.

"Say it." She says, looking at him. He huffs again, and Sam almost smiles. Almost.

"Yes. You can clean it." He says, his voice tight still.

"Grumpy. But okay." Helen says, smiling softly at him before moving back behind him. Sam watches her clean the wound, watches Bucky tense and flinch at her touches, and takes another long drink. When she's done wrapping him up, she cleans the blood off his arm the best she can. She nods at him and takes a step back. Sam watches him grab her wrist, holding her there gently.

"Thank you." He says, and Sam has never heard his voice so soft, so sincere. He feels that pressure in his chest and shoves it down again.

"Don't forget your leg." Helen says, patting his non wounded one and walking back to Maria, pulling the half asleep woman off the floor and pulling her close as they head back to bed. Torres is still sitting by the door, but he has some of his color back now. Sam is vaguely aware there's still music playing but he has no clue what it is. He refills his glass, whiskey glimmering dark in the low light of the bar, and walks back out toward Bucky.

Sam waits until he has his leg wrapped before he sets the glass down on the table next him. Bucky's eyes fall to it, lingering before he reaches for it. He downs half of it in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at Sam.

"Thanks." He says, quiet still. Sam nods as Bucky hands the glass back to him. Sam frowns. Bucky smiles.

"I can't actually get drunk. But the gesture is appreciated." Bucky shrugs, kicking the chair he'd had his feet on away from the table. He stands, sways on his feet for a moment and then steadies himself. Sam fights the urge to reach out and grab him. And then fights the urge to drag his eyes down Bucky's barely clothed body. He clears his throat and takes another drink.

"Might take some water if you've got it though." Bucky says, swaying again, his eyes going wide as he holds onto the table to stay upright. Sam nods and walks back behind the bar.

Sam looks to the door. And sees Torres, his cheeks pink, as he stares at Bucky, watching him pull his pants gingerly back up his legs. Sam almost snorts a laugh but holds it in, the whiskey in his veiws making him feel warm. He grabs a water bottle and walks it back to Bucky, handing it to him and shivering when Bucky's blood stained fingers brush agaisnt his. Bucky nods, takes a long drink and then bends down with a groan, grabbing his shirt and hoodie, he pulls the shirt over his head with a growl, Sam watches him look at his hoodie and wrinkle his nose, keeping it in his hand. He shoved his foot into his boot, and winced, pain presumably shooting up his leg.

Sam hears the chair by the door clatter and sees Torres rushing forward. The kid stops in front of Bucky, looking at him with wide eyes. Bucky looks back, an intrigued look on his face. Sam holds back a cough as he watches Torres drop to his knees, helping Bucky into his boot. Sam shoves the thoughts trying to occupy his brain away. He watches Torres tie the boot and then fall back, his butt dropping onto his heels, looking up at Bucky. Sam watches, his eyes wide, as Bucky smiles down at the kid, his hand, dried blood coloring it rusty, reaching out to pat Torres's cheek.

"Awful quick to get on your knees for me kid." Bucky says, soft smile twisting into a wicked smirk as Torres goes pink down his neck and scurries to stand. Bucky laughs, pats his shoulder, and takes a few steps away. Sam ignores the heat that rushes through him at Bucky's words. Watches the man look slowly around the bar, at the blood he's left behind.

"Sorry about the mess." He says, looking at Sam now.

"Sorry about the bullet wounds." Sam says smoothly. Bucky smiles, lifts his finger to his temple and gives Sam a little salute. He limps to the double doors and then turns back, he looks at Sam, says nothing.

"You forget something?" Sam asks, not sure what he wants Bucky to say. Sam watches as his lips curl again, and he reaches into his pocket.

"No. You did." He looks at Sam, smile fading, as he pulls his hand out of his pocket, uncurling his fingers and letting something fall to the floor, a few little somethings. He tilts his head, staring at Sam, not moving. And then he's gone. The doorway an empty square in the wall. Sam walks over slowly, carefully, like he's afraid what Bucky left might expode. He looks down at the floor, his his heart pounding when he realizes what Bucky has left behind.

Four broken cameras.

His broken cameras.

All of them shattered by a bullet, shot dead center through the lens.

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Knitting

Summary: Ford finally musters up the courage to ask Mabel to teach him something he desperately wants to learn.

Requested by both @starpossum and @3hobbitsinatrenchcoat. Thank you both so much, and I hope you like it!

~~~~~~~~~~

Ford had no reason to be so nervous as he stood as stiff as a board and tried to steady his racing heart, but he was. Maybe not as nervous as he was to walk into the principal’s office alone or when he was about to present his project to the college representatives, but a bit nervous. About what? Judgement? Rejection? But that was ridiculous! She was one of the most caring, open-minded, loving people Ford had ever met in his sixty years of living, in any dimension he had come across. Surely he was about to enter a safe domain. Taking advantage of his sudden flock of courage, Ford pushed open the screen door and let it creak to warn his grandniece of his upcoming presence.

Mabel was sitting on the couch as the early-morning sun shined through the trees, just recently risen. Ford smiled at seeing the thirteen-year-old girl knitting quietly with Waddles asleep by her side, a perfect way to start the day. Mabel looked up and instantly made a huge grin at her grunkle; this wasn’t the first time the two early birds had graced each other with their presence and she hoped it wouldn't be the last. “Hi, Grunkle Ford!”

“Good morning, Mabel.” Ford sat by her side on the couch and looked down at her work. Like every morning, she was knitting a sweater. While most of the time she knitted for herself, occasionally she would knit for someone else. “What are you working on today?”

Mabel held up her half finished sweater, which was black with a skull on it, a bit edger than her usual taste and it certainly caught Ford by surprise. “I’m working on my Summerween daytime sweater. And I can wear this at the vampire concert I’m going to this Saturday.”

“Oh,” Ford said and shrugged with a smile. “Well, be sure to eat something with lots of garlic before you go.”

“Don’t worry, Grunkle Stan already promised that he’ll make spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner that night.”

Ford chuckled lightly, “That should keep you safe,” and ruffled her hair gently. Silence fell between them comfortably as Mabel worked blindly, her eyes admiring nature at it’s finest, and Ford did the same, though his mind was elsewhere.

This was stupid. This was preposterous. This was ridiculous. This was ludicrous. This was absurd. Suddenly he was almost too apprehensive to talk to his own family, but why? Surely it wasn’t due to a lack of bravery; he had faced thousands of monsters and even an all-knowing braid demon. No, the fact was that Ford was far more afraid of the smallest possibility that Mabel would turn him down or laugh or deny his request than he was afraid of anything in the Multiverse. But really, the possibility that Mabel would say no was laughable, so he steadied himself with a quiet intake of breath and said quietly to have her attention, “Mabel?”

“Uh, huh.” She said and looked up at him and even paused her knitting to give him her undivided attention. Ford somewhat wished she hadn’t.

He cleared his throat and tugged at his turtleneck a little to try to make it easier to breathe. “Would it be… erm, I mean, I understand you’re a very busy young lady, but… I-I-I would be honored if you would find… um, I mean, if you would take the time to walk me through the details on how to create sweaters by hand.”

Mabel’s eyes widened. Ford misread her facial expression and quickly looked away. He could feel heat rising in his face uncomfortably. “You… want me to teach you how to knit?”

“Of course, I understand if you don’t want to, I fully anticipated that you would much rather…”

“GRUNKLE FORD, I WOULD LOVE TO!” Mabel threw herself into Ford, catching him by surprise, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face into his shoulder. “I’ve been waiting almost a year for this moment! I’m so happy you wanna learn how to knit! What made you wanna learn?!”

“Oh,” Ford was still slightly too flustered to communicate properly, but he tried. “I… I suppose you inspired me t-to give it a try, y-y-you know?”

Mabel squeezed him and then let go to grin at him “Well then you came to the right gal! Give me a second, I’ll be right back with everything!” And very soon she was gone.

Ford smiled at himself, feeling a bit stupid. Of course Mabel would be delighted in teaching a loved one how to perform a task she had mastered. But still, he had been waiting to ask her for so long now and had built up the moment in his head that of course his insecurities would ram their ugly head.

Mabel came back with a suitcase filled to the brim and a messenger bag over her shoulder that was decorated with buttons. Ford raised an eyebrow as Mabel let the suitcase sit on the floor and she zipped it open. He was amazing to find dozens of balls of yarn arranged in rainbow order in the suitcase.

“Okay! It’s very important when you knit to work with colors you like.” Mabel instructed as she sat next to him on the couch. “You’re going to be looking at your yarn for a long time, you don’t wanna pick a color you’re gonna get sick of, so pick any color you want!”

“That makes sense.” Ford complimented and held his cleft chin in thought. There were so many colors it was like he was at a craft store. One caught his eye and he happily picked up a blue ball of yarn with white freckles in it. “I think I’ll use this one.”

“Oo! That’s pretty! Okay,” Mabel picked up a dark-green ball of yarn and rested it in her lap. She rummaged through her messenger bag, which from the soundso fi t was full of knitting needles, and she pulled out a pair of orange average-sized needles. “There’s different sizes of needles for what you wanna make, but this is a good beginner’s set. You can keep them if you want.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Ford said, quite excited now that he had the materials he needed to work. “So how do we make a sweater?”

Mabel giggled innocently and elbowed the sleeping pig. “Waddles, you hear that, Grunkle Ford is so cute.” She stopped her laughing to gently guide her student. “Sweaters are really hard, you have to master knitting first before you do something that complicated. The best thing to knit first is a scarf or maybe a hat if you’d rather make a hat.”

“Oh.” Ford did feel a little foolish to think one could go from not knowing how to knit to making sweaters, but he smiled was was excited to learn how to make several articles of clothing. “Very well, I think a scarf would be perfect!”

“Great!” Mabel picked up her ball of yarn and said, “First, you wanna find the tail, it’s usually tucked inside… right there, perfect! Now unwind some, you’ll need a few feet to get started. That’s good, perfect! Now, I’ll go ahead and warn you, getting started is harder than the actual knitting, so if you can get the ball rolling you’ll be gold!”

“Okay, so…”

“Right. First, you wanna make a rainbow… yes! Now cross the ends over like this… good! Then, you see this part of the string? Pinch your fingers, poke them through, grab that part, and pull it through. That’s it, you’re got it! That’s the main hoop, you put it through your needle and pull it tight, like this.”

Together the pair hooked on their first hoop and Mabel smiled proudly. “Good, now grab the long part of the yarn, not the tail, that’s the one! Now what you wanna do is twist it around your fingers, like this.” And Mabel demonstrated it on her hand. Thankfully it mostly consisted of her thumb and pointer finger, so Ford was able to copy it exactly. “Yes, good, now do you see this little hole? Just gently poke your needle through, and pull it off. Watch.” Mabel showed Ford what to do and Ford carefully copied her. He was delighted to see he successfully made another loop, and so he did it again and again.

“Wow, you’re a fast learner!”

“Well I had an amazing teacher.” Ford complimented.

Mabel blushed and said, “Okay, so these loops are how wide the scarf will be, see? So the more loops you make, the thicker it’ll be, so when it’s thick enough you stop. Don’t forget, yarn is fluffy, so it’ll be thicker than this first row.”

Ford nodded to show his understanding and thought of how thick he wanted the scarf. He made about twenty or so loops and then said, “I think that’s good?” He gave her a look that matched his questionable tone perfectly.

Mabel looked down at his work and grinned and nodded. “That looks great! Your scarf is gonna look so cute! Right, now to learn how to knit! This is a pretty basic stitch, but it’s a universal… nevermind, it’s an interdimensional stitch.” She joked. “Once you learn this you know the basics on how to make a bunch of stuff.”

“Okay, got it.” Ford held his opposite needle, excited to learn how Mabel can make clothes like magic by simply hitting two sticks together.

“Now, you see that big hole? The one the loop made?” Mabel asked, and when Ford nodded, she instructed, “Put your needle through that, just a little. Good, now loop the yarn around the new needle. Perfect! Now watch, this is the tricky part. There’s a second, smaller hole you need to pull your new needle through to make the knot. It’s right between the needle and the new loop. You poke it through, and pull. Watch me a few times, okay? You poke, loop, poke, and pull. Poke, loop, poke, and pull.”

“Hm,” Ford watched Mabel make a few stitches and tried to understand the smaller hole she was talking about. He gave it a try and thought he found the hole, but it was too tight and he couldn’t move his needle. He tried it again and found a looser hole he could work it, and when he pulled it made a stitch just like Mabel’s. Ford grinned and tried it again and was delighted to find it could do it successfully more than once. “I think I’ve got it…”

“You do!” Mabel watched him knit a few stitches and hugged him around the neck again. “I’m so proud of you, wow! Look at you go! Now just be careful not to split the yarn, like that. See, it’s okay, just unhook it, there you go. Now you just gotta do that over and over again. It’s kinda like typing, it’s easier the more you do it. Pretty soon you’ll be able to knit without looking!”

“Wow, this is incredible.” Ford marveled as he finished his first line and ran a finger over the stitches; it looked and felt like something Mabel would have made. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome!” Mabel said as she knitted. “I’m just so happy you wanted to learn. Gotta be honest, I thought you’d never wanna knit.”

“Why is that?” He asked, generally curious as to why she would assume that. Had he accidentally given the wrong impression on the activity?

“Dipper tried it once and hated it.” Mabel giggled, but then looked kinda sad at the memory. “I tried to teach him, but he didn’t like the way he had to hold the needles and he couldn’t find the holes and eventually he got frustrated and quit. We hadn’t even finished the first lesson and he decided it wasn’t a Dipper-thing.”

Ford smiled sympathetically and guessed, “And so you predicted that it wouldn’t be a Ford-thing?”

Mabel shrugged apologetically and smiled sheepishly at him. “You and Dipper do like a lot of the same stuff.”

“It’s true that we’re very similar,” Ford admitted. “But we’re not complete copies of each other. I’m just grateful that one bad experience with a student hadn’t caused you to turn down another.” He smiled at her kindly and Mabel giggled and shook her head.

“Never ever. I’m glad you wanted to learn. I just hope you didn’t only wanna learn to spend time with me or cuz you thought I’d want you to. Not that I don’t wanna spend time with you! I do, but I want you to do stuff cuz you think it’s fun, you know?”

“No no, I understand.” Ford nodded. “I truly did want to try to make sweaters and scarfs and hats. It’s true that you inspired me, but I generally was intrigued by the activity and wanted to give it a try.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” Mabel said matter-of-factly and gently stopped Ford when he made an incorrect knot and helped him fix it.

As the morning waned on and the day dragged on, despite Mabel leaving to do other things, Ford stayed on that couch knitting. He was very slow and constantly made mistakes, but he felt like he was getting the hang of it and he was having so much fun and was determined to finish what he had in mind. While all he had said to Mabel was true, there was another reason why he had wanted to learn how to knit so badly.

Mabel let his uncle enjoy the new hobby and occasionally praised him and reminded him that if he needed help all he had to do was ask. She said goodnight to him as he continually knitted on that couch and she requested that he not pull an all-nighter. Ford promised he wouldn’t, so Mabel went into her shared bedroom with Dipper for the evening.

The next morning Mabel was yawning into her hand as she cheerfully walked to the kitchen for some orange juice. She was surprised and disappointed to find her Grunkle Ford sipping coffee at the table. Just by looking at his eyes and the way he was sitting and inhaling the coffee Mabel could tell that Ford did not get a full-night’s rest.

“Grunkle Ford, you promised me you wouldn’t pull an all-nighter.” She scolded.

“I didn’t. I just woke up from a nap.” Grunkle Ford said cheerfully. “And good morning to you, as well.”

Mabel rolled her eyes at his cheekiness and she asked, “And how long was your nap?”

“Half an hour.”

“Grunkle Ford!” Mabel whined.

“I’m sorry, Mabel,” Ford chuckled amusingly. “But I was working on something very important.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” She asked as she opened the fridge.

“How about a gift for my favorite niece?”

Mabel turned around with the carton of juice in her hand and stared as Ford pulled a wrapped present up from his lap and onto the table.

Mabel had a tradition of making sweaters for Ford and wrapping them and placing them on his couch-made-bed. She would use tons of glitter and a big bow and would sometimes cut the wrapping paper too short and have to cut a second piece to tape over the hole. When Stan and Ford were out sailing and Mabel had to mail them the blankets and sweaters and hats and scarves and gloves and socks she had made them, she filled each and every box with glitter and included handmade cards and drawings and she always put everything she got into her gifts. As you can imagine, when Mabel caught wind that they were sailing in the Arctic Ocean, she was terrified of her favorite old people in the world getting cold and she made it her life;s mission to keep them warm even if she couldn’t hug them.

Ford desperately wanted to do the same for her. In his mind it was so unfair that she had never experienced the overwhelming joy of having someone make something so beautiful just for you. Ford wanted to make something for her he knew she loved and to take the time to wrap it and make it nice for her and to give it to her, not for a holiday or celebration, but just because she deserved it and Ford wanted to do something nice for her.

Mabel put the orange juice on the counter and slowly walked to the table. The present was wrapped in holiday wrapping paper that had reindeer and pine trees all over it. Ford’s math skills really came in handy, seeing how the present was beautifully wrapped, but it had a huge red bow on it and Ford used his really pretty cursive handwriting to spell out on a tag, “For my beautiful Mabel.” Mabel almost felt as if the gift was too pretty to unwrap. Almost. With trembling hands she quietly tore the paper for the gift while Ford rested his cheek on his knuckles and soaked in that star-struck look on Mabel’s face. Totally worth it.

Ford felt a small twinge of worry that she wouldn’t like the gift, but he quickly shoved that away. He wasn’t going to let his insecurities ruin this for himself. Mabel gasped and covered her mouth with shiny brown eyes as she stared at the gift. Really, compared to what Mabel could have done, it was half-decent at best. But it was still a nice scarf. Sure, there is an imperfection here and there, and the ends of the clothing material were bland with no fancy tassel or anything. It was clearly homemade, but the blue yarn was still pretty and the stitches were well made. Not bad for a first attempt, really not bad at all.

However, for Mabel, that scarf was the best gift she had ever received. Ford was startled to see her crying, legitimately crying with sobs behind her hand and tears rolling down her face. “Oh no, Mabel, my dear, don’t cry. It’s alright.”

“It’s so… so beautiful.” Mabel croaked and let Ford scoop her up into his arms. His warm chuckle rumbled against her chest as Ford rubbed circles into her back and she held him tightly. It was stupid to be crying over a scarf, but Mabel knew she wasn’t just crying over the scarf. She sniffed and wiped her tears on Ford’s red sweater and huffed, “Y-You did such a g-g-good job. It’s s-s-so… so pretty.”

Ford’s face felt like it was on fire. He did rinse off when he had finished shaving with fire, right? “Well, credit should be given where credit is due. I learned that all from you, sweetheart.”

Mabel hiccuped a giggle through her tears. It took a moment or two for her to calm down, overwhelmed with gratitude and love, and eventually she wiped her face dry with a tissue Ford had given her and she gently scooped up the blue scarf with white freckles and wrapped it around her neck proudly. “I-I-Is this how I make you guys feel?” She asked.

Ford chuckled and shrugged. “As a matter-of-fact, yes.”

Mabel hugged her scarf and giggled, “Then maybe I should stop.”

Despite the fact that it was obviously a joke, Ford grabbed her by the arms and begged very seriously, “Please don’t ever stop.”

From that day forward Mabel didn’t take off the scarf. Ever. Ford was a little embarrassed when she wore it to bed and wore it with her sweaters and skirts, but he was mostly very thankful she loved it so much. If it was too hot she would rather take off her sweater and wrap it around her waist than take off her gift, and once when she was having a bad day Dipper caught her in Scarfville instead of Sweatertown. When the summer ended Dipper sent the grunkles the new high-schoolers’ first day of school picture and Mabel proudly wore her grunkle’s scarf with her legging, skirt, and t-shirt.

Ford continually worked to improve his knitting and by the time summer came to a close Mabel was able to teach him how to knit a sweater. It took a lot of practice to get it right, but he was immensely proud when he could finally mail her a beautiful sweater that had a Milky Way galaxy on it. Ford was delighted when she texted a picture of her wearing it with a wet smile on her face and the fluffy gifts between the two just kept coming.

[aquadrazi]

Find Someone to Carry You

Chapter 38

………The Conversation Room………

********Last chance to go pet some bunnies instead***************

It took what seemed like forever for Lan Zhan to get to 1,825 strokes.  He had to wait for Xue Yang to stop screaming after each stroke to choke out a number.  He needed to take a break, and dinner had been brought in at some point, so he walked back over to the instrument wall.  He picked out the wooden pyramid block.  He set it on the floor, in front of the post that Xue Yang was initially tied to.

“Put him on it.”  He said to the guards.  They quickly went to untying Xue Yang and dragging his now limp body off the table.  They pried his battered ass cheeks apart and slid him down onto the pyramid.  Xue Yang cried out as it stabbed up into him, stretching him wider the further he slid down.  The guards quickly tied him to the post so he couldn’t stand back up again.

“Don’t go down too far, or you’ll start ripping your tender hole apart.”  Nie Huaisang warned from the table.  Already they could see trickles of blood running down the wooden pyramid.  They left him like that as the finished their meal, and through tea afterwards.

“Back up on the table, like before.”  Lan Zhan ordered.  The guards yanked Xue Yang off of the pyramid, causing him to scream.  As they were positioning him on the table, Lan Zhan went back to the instrument wall.  This time he picked out a box of needles, and a paddle.

He walked back over to Xue Yang and took a minute to look at his previous work.  While the skin was definitely abused, he had managed to avoid breaking it, there were just angry welts forming along his ass, thighs, and balls.  The only blood he saw was leaking from his hole, which was due to his own lack of ability to hold himself up.

Lan Zhan opened the box of needles and selected one.  Without warning, he slowly pressed one into one of the abused balls, down about halfway.  Xue Yank shrieked and bucked and shook.  Lan Zhan let him go through all of the experience, and come to some sort of new calm, before inserting another needle.  By the time he got to the fourth needle, Xue Yang was finally begging him for mercy.

“Did you show Wei Ying or Mo Xuanyu any mercy?”  Lan Zhan asked without emotion, then he inserted another needle.

Lan Zhan continued until all 30 of the needles that were in the box were inserted into Xue Yang’s balls.  Lan Zhan remembered people telling stories about how Wei Ying was tortured with needles under his fingernails.  How his abusers would flick them to get him to scream for them.  He ran a finger gently over the needles sticking out of Xue Yang’s balls.  The shrieking was so loud that Nie Huaisang had gone over and gotten a gag that was a large ball shape, and shoved it in Xue Yang’s mouth to block some of the noise.

Lan Zhan was fascinated by the needles.  He would flick random ones, at random intervals, or drag his finger along them, drawing out characters.  He wrote Wei Ying’s name over and over, as if he was claiming those screams for his husband.

He picked up the paddle and started to lightly tap the heads of the needles at a steady rhythm, Xue Yang screaming into the gag with every tap.

How many times did he make Wei Ying beg for this torture?

To break him so he begged for unimaginable pain.

I should have made him beg me to do this to him.

Lan Zhan started to hit the needles harder, driving them further in with every stroke.  Slowly, he pounded them all the way through the balls, and they started to hit against the wood of the humbler.  That brought out an even more interesting noise from Xue Yang.

Is this what he meant by intoxicating screams?

Did he make Wei Ying make these noises?

Lan Zhan continued until Nie Huaisang, who had been paying attention to Xue Yang’s face, signaled him to stop.

“You don’t want to let him to get lost in his mind.” Nie Huaisang warned, as Lan Zhan sat back down at the table.

“Mn”

“Dump a bucket of water on him.” Nie Huaisang ordered.  Once it was done, he drew up a talisman, and Xue Yang began to shiver uncontrollably.  “Putting him on ice for a bit.”

“It isn’t that I’m not enjoying the show, but are you planning on killing him?”  Nie Huaisang asked.

“Haven’t decided how yet.”  Lan Zhan replied.

Nie Huaisang waved his hand, removing the talisman from Xue Yang.  “Looks like he’s ready to continue. Dump two buckets of boiling water on him to help warm him up.”  He ordered the guards.

The sizzling sound of the water hitting his skin was quickly drowned out by Xue Yang’s screaming.  Lan Zhan untied Xue Yang and repositioned him, threading the rope through the ring in his shoulder, and the rope attached to his other wrist through an eye hook in the ceiling.  He pulled them through until Xue Yang’s upper body was off the table, then he tied them off.  He wrapped another rope around Xue Yang’s ankles and threaded it through the same eye hook.  He pulled the rope through until the only part of Xue Yang’s body still on the table was his ass and his trapped balls.

Xue Yang let out little whimpers as he rocked back and forth on the needles in his balls.  Lan Zhan wrapped a second rope around Xue Yang’s ankles and tied both ends to the table legs, holding his feet steady.  He then used twine to tie the big toes together.

He walked back over to the instrument wall.  He picked up various canes and whips and paddles, then returned to Xue Yang.  He started with the whip he had started with earlier, the one with the straight leather strips.  He beat Xue Yang’s soles mercilessly, drunk on the cries of pain from both the whip and the force of the blows causing him to rock back and forth on his balls, agitating the needles.

Once Lan Zhan was satisfied that Xue Yang had gotten used to the pain, he stopped, and switched to the whip with the braids and knots.  It didn’t take long for Xue Yang’s cries to turn to sobs and Lan Zhan rained down brutal hits to the soles of his feet.

Lan Zhan felt himself tiring.  So he stopped and handed the first whip to a guard.  “Beat his cock.”  He ordered, as he went to go sit with Nie Huaisang again and watch.  Xue Yang wailed and screamed as the guard rained down hits to his cock, which was trapped between his legs and laying exposed on his stomach.  He writhed from side to side, trying to avoid the blows, which resulted in shrieks of pain as he was rolling on the needles in his balls.

The first guard began to tire, so Lan Zhan ordered another guard to take over, this time with the second whip.  A servant arrived with snacks, which Lan Zhan was grateful for.  Nie Huaisang motioned for the guards that were not currently administering Xue Yang’s punishment to join them for refreshments.

Once the second guard tired, Lan Zhan motioned for him to join the others at the table.  He walked over to Xue Yang and ran his hand over the abused soles, causing Xue Yang to whimper and squirm to get away.  Lan Zhan picked up a paddle.  It was curved, and had wooden blunt spikes.  He gave a sharp smack to the soles.  He was rewarded with a loud shriek from Xue Yang.  He picked up a flat paddle with his other hand, and laid it on top of Xue Yang’s cock.  He began alternating hits between the two, one to the feet, then one to the cock.

Once Lan Zhan was satisfied that Xue Yang had grown used to the abuse, he stopped and lightly ran his fingers over the souls, causing Xue Yang to squeal and buck.  He picked up a knobby cane and began to rain down hard hits against the souls.

He’d stopped hearing the screams at some point, they were still being drawn out, he just wasn’t registering them anymore.  He was focused on watching the skin indent as he hit it with the cane, the blow causing Xue Yang’s whole body to rock, absorbing the shock, and then the mark left behind turning from white to an angry red.  Over and over.

Once he was satisfied, he had the guards move Xue Yang over to the cross and tie him with his back exposed.  Lan Zhan sat back at the table and wrote out a note and handed it to the guard.  “Please bring this to the blacksmith.”  He then went over to the instrument wall and picked out the discipline whip.

“Lets see how many hits it takes to kill you.”  He said emotionless.

It took 23 strikes before Lan Zhan decided that he should stop and knit the skin back together on Xue Yang’s back.  Lan Zhan let Xue Yang rest a bit before going for another round.  This time he made it for 25 strikes.  He repeated the process until his arm started to tire.

*************Seriously gross incoming*****************

The guard returned with a large looking spit.  “Set it up over the coals.”  Lan Zhan ordered.  Once it was done, Lan Zhan got up to inspect. He nodded, “Good, now tie him to the pole.”

Xue Yang shrieked and struggled as the guards dragged him over to the spit, and tied his arms and legs to it, like they would a roast.  He didn’t stay on his back for long, because the pole wasn’t very wide, he ended up rolling over so he was staring at the glowing coals.

Lan Zhan moved back to the table and sat down.  Since there were no flames, just coals, this was going to take a while.  He watched with an impassive face as Xue Yang screamed and struggled to free himself.  As the skin of his chest began to turn red, then darken further.  He was being roasted alive.  By the time the skin of his stomach cracked open he was wailing in pain. When the fat that was underneath the skin began to melt and fall into the coals, flames flared up, scorching his cock and face, which were dangling down towards the coals.

Lan Zhan and Nie Huaisang sat and watched as Xue Yang shrieked and wailed, slowly being cooked to death.  The guards even turned away towards the end, one retching at the smell of cooking meat that was filling the room.  Once Xue Yang stopped making noise Lan Zhan got up to leave.  “When he’s completely melted off the spit, scrape him into a barrel and feed him to the pigs.”