#Perforated Knots

[wickedzeevyln]

Free of This Distance

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

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

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

Pairing: Alpha Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha Sam

Word Count: 1261

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

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

*Additional warnings to be added

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

PART I

Five weeks ago 

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

It wasn’t long after another problem arose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Son, don’t.” 

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

Twenty-seven days later

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

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

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

T-Minus forty hours                     

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

 “Dean, go wait by the entrance.” 

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

“No, Sam, you’re staying with me.” 

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

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

Part II

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

Sam/Jared:  @idreamofplaid

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

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

[blue-and-gilt]

17th Century 'Walloon' Sword.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[buckyarchives]

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

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x soulmate!reader

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

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

W.c: 3.7k

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

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | AO3 | playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, Bucky really likes movie nights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“You remind me of Daryl.” you commented. 

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good! Dork!” 

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

“Merry Christmas.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

“Winnie, that's cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It terrified him.

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

-

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

[ormir]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯. // a flashback.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am, and you are.”

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

“Why not? You’d be welcomed.”

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

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

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

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

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

[decaying-words]

Scratch

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

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

Scratch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere, the Scarecrow is hunting.

[beccagetscrafty]

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

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

Storage

Storage: Plano 23700-20 Stowaway with Adjustable Dividers

Floss Drop Bobbins: Ultimate Bobbin Drops by GWStitchinDepot on Etsy

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

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

White Plastic Bobbins

Clear Floss Drops

White Paper DMC Bobbins

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

Labeling

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

DMC Labels

Scissors

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

Fabric Prep

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

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

Gridding

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

Aida

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

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

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

Wax/Thread Conditioner

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beading

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

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

Misc

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

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

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

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

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

[dadvans]

thank you for blessing us with that snippet. the sidnate fans are not ready for this long Fic 😭

thank you for the very kind response!!! i woke up to several messages of encouragement this morning and can't express enough how good and hyped it makes me feel after being in the murky molasses depths of writer's block hell for the past two years.

here is a snippet from the a/b/o heat hotel fic:

Sidney Crosby had put a tentative hold on Nate’s schedule for the second week of July. He requested four days for heat, then checked the box for an additional day of aftercare. He didn’t want restraints, but he did enjoy force if necessary, with a secondary clause from CAA stating no physical evidence of force on arms, neck or face could be apparent when Sid was leaving the heat clinic. His dietary restrictions were an entire fucking page, and they were completely at odds with his personal requests, which included both pizza and three separate types of stir-fry noodles. He preferred knot with condom versus toy, slick-no-lube, and drew a box around his nipples to indicate favorite erogenous zones. He noted both physical touch and words of affirmation as love languages. His safeword was Nike, but he’d also checked the box for Client may not be able to use safeword within 48 hours and may instead tap three times with left hand. He preferred showers to baths, with Alpha versus without, but requested no sheet changes. Under additional requests, he wrote: dirty Alpha shirt. He had sent three evenly cut strips of fabric in return, sweat stained strips of perforated jersey collar that smelled like brown butter and went straight to Nate’s balls. 

Nate freaked out for twenty minutes, reminded himself he was a professional for five, jerked off for another fifteen, and then called the clinic to confirm the hold on his schedule.

[evilasiangenius]

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

“Oh? Did Delphi write back, Alexander?”

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

“What does he want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, mother,” Alexander said, dismayed.

“Did he say if the name mattered?”

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

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

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

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

x

[dragonsarecool]

Whumptober Day 10 - Whipping

Ten: Whipping

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

It seemed as though the pain would never stop.

“YEOWWW! BLISTERING BARNACLES!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And every time, he simply spat in his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“HERE!!”

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

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

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

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

Why are you getting quieter, lad?…

Oh.

Guess I’m going then.

****** Am I dead?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[altrbody]

Coal

by Audre Lorde

I

Is the total black, being spoken

From the earth's inside.

There are many kinds of open.

How a diamond comes into a knot of flame   

How a sound comes into a word, coloured   

By who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open

Like a diamond on glass windows

Singing out within the crash of passing sun

Then there are words like stapled wagers

In a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart—

And come whatever wills all chances

The stub remains

An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.

Some words live in my throat

Breeding like adders. Others know sun

Seeking like gypsies over my tongue

To explode through my lips

Like young sparrows bursting from shell.

Some words

Bedevil me.

Love is a word another kind of open—

As a diamond comes into a knot of flame

I am black because I come from the earth's inside   

Take my word for jewel in your open light.

[hillslicensing-blog]

Feminine Edge: The Best Leather Biker Vest for Women Riders

New Post has been published on https://ashipwreckinthesand.com/feminine-edge-the-best-leather-biker-vest-for-women-riders/

Feminine Edge: The Best Leather Biker Vest for Women Riders

Vests for Women Bikers Combine Fashion and Function

The name “biker chick vest” conjures notions of freedom, revolt, and empowerment in leather or denim. Motorcycle clothing is traditionally practical. Many women motorcyclists wear their clothes as a statement, combining elegance and functionality for protection and style. The female biker vest’s growth shows women’s growing prominence in the motorcycle world and their demand for clothing that meets their needs.

A motorbike vest’s primary purpose is safety. These vests protect riders from the elements with strong leather and reinforced denim. Kevlar-infused fabrics protect against abrasions thanks to material technology. Many modern designs have reflective components to make riders visible to other road users, especially in low light.

More than safety, comfort matters. Vest fit can significantly affect a rider’s experience. Women’s motorbike vests are designed for their curves. This is not just for style but to prevent the vest from hindering extended rides. Ergonomic features like adjustable side laces or elasticized panels reduce fatigue and increase comfort by fitting snugly to the body.

Ventilation is essential, too. Motorcycle riding is strenuous, especially in warm weather. Perforated or zipped vests improve airflow and assist in regulating body temperature. These vents are carefully placed to maximize airflow without compromising clothing protection.

Storage is considered when designing women’s biker vests. Pockets are essential for keeping phones, wallets, and keys. Multiple, accessible pockets keep essentials safe and accessible. Some vests have secret pockets to protect valuables.

Biker chick vests are stylish. Black is the conventional, versatile, and dirt-resistant pick, but a growing palette of colors and designs express wearers’ personality. Riders customize their vests with patches, embroidery, and studs to express their identity.

Adding traditional cultural symbols on women’s motorbike vests has also blended legacy and modernity. It encourages female bikers to embrace and express their cultural heritage in a Western-dominated subculture. Native American beading, Japanese-inspired motifs, and Celtic knots celebrate bike variety.

Sustainability is also a priority in motorcycle vest production. Recycled leather and organic cotton are becoming popular with motorcyclists who care about road safety and the environment. These suitable and functional choices prove that physical fashion can coexist with extreme sports apparel.

The social aspect of motorcycle vests goes beyond individual expression. These vests give many women a sense of belonging in a male-dominated culture. New female motorcycle clubs and groups promote sisterhood and solidarity, reflected in their vests. Women’s vests identify and represent them at rallies and meetups.

Technology has enabled motorcycle vest customization. Digital tools and sites let riders customize vests online before buying. This change saves time and allows women motorcyclists to participate in the creative process, ensuring the perfect end product.

In conclusion, the modern biker chick vest is more than apparel. Its multidimensional design incorporates material science, societal attitudes regarding female riders, and motorcycle community dynamics. As women continue to carve out their position on the roads and in motorcycle culture, their vests will symbolize their independence, style, and energy.

Interviews with Inspirational Female Bikers Who Break Stereotypes and Lead the Pack in Style

The biker chick vest, worn by some of the most daring ladies on two wheels, is a sign of empowerment and rebellion. This classic shirt represents female motorcyclists breaking society’s standards and redefining what it means to be a woman in bicycling. We interview female bikers to create a vivid tapestry of inspiring and empowering stories.

Peers call Mara “The Maverick,” who rides a sleek, black bespoke caf racer. Her patched vest and club insignia tell the narrative of a decade on the road. “The vest isn t just a part of my gear; it’s a part of me, a diary of my travels and triumphs,” she says. Bike riding is a lifestyle for Mara, requiring resilience and respect. This vest has reinforced elbows and shoulders for protection and a unique ventilation system for comfort on long summer rides.

Next is Elisa, who stands out with her flaming red sportbike and intricate biker chick vest. Her lightweight leather vest is a fashion statement and a badge of courage. “It s about visibility, both on the road and as a woman in what many still consider a ‘man’s world,'” she says. Her fitted vest has brilliant fluorescent stripes to be visible at night and flatters while being utilitarian.

Camila, a photographer and explorer, gives her riding gear an artistic touch. Her denim vest is a collage of travels and experiences. Camila: “Each patch is a memory, a story to tell.” Her vest represents her journey as a female rider, breaking obstacles and capturing beauty on country roads and metropolitan streets.

Priya’s vest matches her vintage scrambler with a modern twist. Priya’s vest has bespoke pockets to protect her tools and equipment. As a techie, I wanted a bright vest. “I added GPS tracking to the lining and a small battery pack for my devices,” she says. This tech integration shows that the modern biker girl vest may be traditional and innovative.

Sophie, the creator of an all-female motorcycling club, wears a bright vest. Durable leather and a hydration pack make it ideal for lengthy rides. Our vests represent togetherness and power. We measure them against the notion that biking is primarily for men, “Sophie says. Her club’s logo on her vest’s back inspires riders.

The biker girl vest offers a canvas for self-expression, visibility, storytelling, and protective gear. Each woman’s vest reflects her personality, road past, and future goals. These vests show the struggles and victories over the elements and male-dominated society.

Mara, Elisa, Camila, Priya, and Sophie’s stories depict current female bikers vividly. They lead, innovate, and pioneer in their paths and presentation. Their vests combine fashion and function, with each detail carefully designed for protection, comfort, and individuality.

They urge all women riders to wear their biker chick vests with pride, mark their presence on the road, and push riding community change. These vests protect and declare a bold, free lady who leads her adventure in the whirlwind of engines and wind.

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

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

Word Count: 1143

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

*Additional warnings will be added

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

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

A/N: Each part follows in sequence

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

Part I

Five weeks ago 

Dean Winchester had been arrested.

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

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

It wasn’t long after another problem arose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Dean, go wait by the entrance.” 

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

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

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

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

“I need one under 18.”

Part II

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

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

[violettesiren]

I Is the total black, being spoken From the earth's inside. There are many kinds of open. How a diamond comes into a knot of flame How a sound comes into a word, coloured By who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open Like a diamond on glass windows Singing out within the crash of passing sun Then there are words like stapled wagers In a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart— And come whatever wills all chances The stub remains An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge. Some words live in my throat Breeding like adders. Others know sun Seeking like gypsies over my tongue To explode through my lips Like young sparrows bursting from shell. Some words Bedevil me.

Love is a word another kind of open— As a diamond comes into a knot of flame I am black because I come from the earth's inside Take my word for jewel in your open light.

Coal by Audre Lorde

[silverjetsystm]

"Yellowjacket" - Spiritbox, Sam Carter

"Woke from a vision, the plot is still fleeting I carry you with me, but I know what I saw Hole in my head is in the shape of a man I swear it was an illusion of the retina Already seen, but cannot access my memories With repetition in my temporal lobe Relief is fleeting, I know something is with me Release the pressure, the leviathan flows Soma cell Soma Ross Nothing saved Double knot If I tie up the loose ends into a forceful mechanical movement Hemisphеre intuition, deal with the light if it doеsn't enter Where was the grace when I was asking for it? There is an absence in your phosphenetic Fear, full of hate, perforates me like a yellowjacket Where was the grace when I was begging? I was asking for it"

[hengketextileqxd]

Polyester DTY ZE0006-ZE0668 Silver 121

Drawn Textured Yarn (DTY) yarn is obtained when Polyester POY is simultaneously twisted and drawn. DTY yarn is mainly used as a part of weaving and knitting of fabrics for making garments, home decorations, seat covers, bags and numerous different things. DTY yarn can be in Semi Dull or Bright or Triloble Bright depending upon the kind of areas of filaments.

Technical Properties of DTY yarn can be moulded in a few ways to make the yarn reasonable for its vast uses. Different heating techniques can be used to make the yarn set for particular use – 1 Heater DTY is normally woolly and more stretchable when contrasted with DTY with 2 Heater. Also the DTY yarn can be made with a several combination of Intermingle points – it can be Non-Intermingle (NIM) having 0 – 10 knots/meter or Semi-Intermingle (SIM) having 40 – 50 knots/meter or High-Intermingle (HIM) having 100 – 120 knots/meter. These knots are not actually the knots tied when two threads are broken yet they are the tangle knots created by heating pressure. These Intermingle yarns, also known as Interlaced yarn, are the replacement for lightly twisted yarns. Polyester DTY yarn can likewise be wound to high winds like 1500 TPM or 4000 TPM (twist per meter). Such twisted yarn can also be heat-set set to make the yarn for all time thermo-set the twist. Catonic DTY is another variation of Polyester DTY that is mainly used as a part of blankets. Catonic DTY is produced using Catonic PET Chips.

Polyester DTY yarn can also be obtained in different colors by the dope dyed technology or by traditional dyeing. Dope dyed DTY is generally packed on paper bobbins though Raw White DTY that will be used for dyeing is loosely packed on perforated plastic tube so that all the yarn can be effectively dyed when the bobbin is dipped in color. DTY is mainly produced in huge quantity in China, India, Taiwan, Indonesia and Malaysia and export around the world.