Lin What Have You Done To Me?

Blackgate’s reputation for being the most easily escapable high-security prison makes more sense to you now than ever before. All it had taken was a few connections, some greased palms, and voila! Until now, it had only begged the question as to why Roman hadn’t bribed his way out already, but as the Curly, the guard you’d paid off, smuggles you through the winding halls of the “extreme incarceration” section of the penitentiary, the answer becomes clear. Roman is in solitary confinement, presumably a repercussion of attempting to blow up the entire building via its generators.

It’s hard to buy your way out when you’re cut off from anybody and anything, let alone the people who might be bought off.

In the short time you’d been there, the sights and sounds that surround you are overwhelming at best. Everything is drab and rundown, nothing but concrete walls and heavy metal doors that do little to stifle the cries of the prisoners behind them. The hallway is lined with a myriad of unexplained stains, broken gurneys, and rusted medical tools you couldn’t begin to name.

Nobody wants to be contained at the best of times, but this is inhumane.

Nevertheless, you keep moving. You’re not here for the scenery; you’re here for the man you love. You’re under no illusion. You know you’re not Roman’s only girlfriend. You’re not even his favourite. That has always been Tiffany, and after her murder, you never will be. She’ll always hold a special place in his heart, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. If anybody loved Tiffany Ambrose more than Roman, it was you; she was your best friend, had been since the day you arrived in Gotham, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sure, you couldn’t boast a revenge plot in her name that involved blowing up a prison, taking out The Joker, and Batman, among countless others, sinners and innocents alike, but then again, neither could Roman. In the long run, you're glad his plan hadn’t gone according to plan, but you couldn’t fault him for his dramatic and romantic sense of justice.

Despite what you’d seen, you’d expected to feel lighter in some way once you’d arrived at his cell. It’s a big, clunky, steel door, as filthy as the rest of them, with a closed hatch, presumably for food trays to be delivered, and a small white wipe board bearing his name scrawled across it in red pen. The eerie silence that emanates from it does nothing to ease your nerves, however. Roman is not a quiet man.

“You’ve got an hour max, I’ll come grab you earlier if I get word on the boss man coming in early. I can’t unlock the door until it’s time to go. You sure you wanna do this?” Curly tells you. While his words could be construed as caring, the look on his face is anything but. He probably wouldn’t care if you lived or died, so long as he didn’t have to deal with the clean-up.

“I’m sure.” No force on earth was going to keep you from him when you’d started this mission, and nothing had changed now. “Open it.”

Curly shrugs at you, rolling his eyes as he begins the three-stage process of unlocking the cell. As you wait, you anxiously tap your fingers against your thigh, preparing yourself to greet your jailbird.

The door lets out a jarring buzz, and a heavy squeak as it finally unlocks, the door creaking open just an inch. You’d half expected Roman to be there waiting, to start trying to force his way out. You wait, holding your breath in anticipation, but nothing comes. The cell remains quiet as Curly pushes the door further open for you. You’re barely two steps inside before the door is slammed and locked behind you.

It's still and quiet. Dark as all hell. You can barely make anything out. There’s no bed, just a flimsy mattress on the floor beside a single photo of Tiffany, a stainless-steel toilet and sink in one corner, a pile of rotting food at your feet, and more unseemly marks on the walls. For a moment, you think it must be the wrong room. This one is empty. Devoid of life. But before long, you spot him, a shadow in the corner of the room with his back to you.

He’s painfully thin, his olive skin pale and sickly. Battered and bruised. In all the time you’d known him, he’s never sported clean, porcelain skin. His sallow complexion has always been littered with scars: bullet holes, knife wounds, surgery scars, but you can barely make them out beneath a mass of bruises and open wounds.

He’d always stood tall, proud through and through, even in his worst moments, but now he’s hunched over, curled in on himself, wearing nothing but a pair of tarnished boxers. A husk of the man he once was. 

“Roma-

“Get out.” The seething tone of his voice is unrecognisably his, and while it hurts to be scolded by him instead of the welcome you’d been hoping for, a part of you is at least somewhat relieved that there is still an inkling of his former self somewhere inside of him.

“I can’t leave, Roman.” You explain, tentatively stepping closer. “No until the guar-“

“Leave.” It’s an order, and even if you could follow it, you don’t want to.

“Roman please, I came all this way because I wanted to see you. I want to help. With you and Tif- her gone I- I need to be with you.” Grief is a strange thing. They say wounds like that heal with time, but the longer you’ve been alone, the worse you feel. A part of you is seeking him out because, despite his hard edges and blackened soul, he is a light in your life. The other part feels as though you owe it to Tiffany, to make sure her man, your man, is looked after. The cruellest part of it all being that any time spent together will likely serve as a bitter reminder of the gaping hole you both have in your hearts. “Please don’t push me away. Let me help you.”

An agonising silence fills the room once more. Twice as tense and uncomfortable as the first one. You wait for his reply, but it never comes. You take another step closer, your heart breaking when he seems to twitch, pushing himself, face first, further into the wall.

“What happened to you?”

It’s hard to tell exactly what triggers his next reaction; the question, the proximity, the way he instinctively reacted to it, but all of a sudden, his already tenuous temper boils over. His gravelly voice hitting new high notes as he starts to pound his fists into the walls, while never leaving his spot. “Get out. Get out. Get the fuck out.”

“R-”

“I’m the King of Gotham, you fucking hear me?! I’m the boss, you do what I say an’ I’m telling you to get the fuck away from me.”

Per his instructions, you do just that, backing away until you feel coarse concrete hit your back.

“Okay, okay, stop!” You plead when there’s a lull in his tantrum. The last thing you want is to cause him more pain, mental or physical. “Please stop hitting the wall. I can’t leave, but I can wait here quietly until the guard comes back for me. Is that okay?”

Verbal confirmation doesn’t come, but it must be a satisfactory resolution because he lowers his bloodied hands back to his sides and allows the quiet to flood back into the room.

There’s something deeply wrong with him. Something more than the paranoia and dissociation he’s always had. It’s a painful realisation, and the longer you stand there watching, unable to act, the worse it hurts you. All you want is to hold him for a moment, to tell him everything will be okay, but you fear what he’ll do, not to you, but himself if you dared cross the boundary he’d set. It’s like watching a disaster happen right before your very eyes and being completely unable to do anything about it. The thought of what will happen once you leave fills you with a helpless sort of dread.

Fortunately, he throws himself a lifeline.

“Bolton.” He whispers it so quietly, you almost don’t catch it.

For a moment, you hesitate to reply. Thinking back to all the times he’d test you before. Giving you instructions and tempting you to break them, punishing you when you fall for it, but the potential to help him outweighs any chastising he might offer. “Bolton? What’s that?”

“Lyle Bolton.” The words are louder, clearer this time, and entirely seething with below-the-surface rage. “Lyle Bolton happened.”

“Who is that? He did this to you?” Everything in your body surges to get closer to him, to try to ease his suffering, but you know this is a tricky, fragile situation, one that could crumble before your eyes with one wrong move, so you remain still, waiting for Roman to extend the olive branch further. 

“Son of bitch knows I’d have his head on a fucking platter anywhere else. I’d be slow too, make sure he fucking felt it. I’d strip him to his fucking boxers and parade him on a damn leash around… around the whole city, I’d humiliate him.”

Jesus Christ. “Is that what he did to you?”

“Obviously.” He chides. “Keep up.”

It’s your turn not to reply; you don’t have anything to add that he wants to hear, and you fear trying to coax more information from him will only cause him to shut you out again. So, you wait, letting him mull until hopefully he has something more to say.

And eventually he does. “I deserve.”

The words are laced with dejection, and once more, you fight the impulse to run to him, to wrap your arms around him and hold him close. He’d never admit it, but he likes to be the little spoon more than he lets on. Instead, you just ask, “Why?”

“I killed Tiffany.”

“What? No, you didn’t” The notion is so far-fetched a laugh bubbles up your throat. You bite it back before more escape you. There’s no way Roman killed your best friend. Sure, he could be rough with his girls, but he’d never go so far as to murder one unprovoked. Especially not Tiffany. He loved her. “Everyone knows Joker did it.”

“I killed Tiffany.” He repeats forcefully. “Joker forced my hand. I killed the woman I loved most and now I’m paying for it. Lyle makes sure I don’t forget about it, every single day.”

“By beating you? By humiliating you? Does he do it in front of other people?”

“Sometimes. Ever since I tried to blow up the prison, since they moved me here, I’ve been his personal fucking punching bag. Me. Roman. Fucking. Sionis. He does it to all of us, but… I’m his favourite.” Somehow, despite his obvious appalment, the knife to his pride, he seems to have accepted it, and that’s what bothers you the most.

Already your head is racing with how you could possibly fix this. Would complaining to Blackgate get rid of Bolton, or would it only make Roman’s plight worse? No. You’re going to have to play dirtier than that. Most of the False Facers had disbanded without their leader gone, but you weren’t the only loyalist left. There were people you could call.

But first, and more pressingly, you had to help Roman.

“Whatever you’ve done, Roman, you don’t deserve this. Nobody does.” Tearing at your shirt, you cross the room to the sink, wetting the scraps of fabric you’d pulled loose before tentatively turning your attention back to your lover. “You can’t blame yourself; Joker made you do it.”

“I shouldn’t have let him get the upper hand. I should have killed the clown a long time ago.” It’s painful to listen to the grief in his voice. He’s always been an irate man; sadness doesn’t suit him. 

“But you will.” You’d expected him to recoil, to shrink in more on himself when you start to dab at the blood on his back. It’s hard to say if it’s your soft touch or encouraging words that do it, but his muscles start to relax as you gently clean him up, careful not to press too hard on his lacerations as you force your voice to stay even and calm. “You’ll be out of here in no time. You’ll squash Joker, and you’ll take back your city. It needs you… I need you. I love you.”

For the longest time he doesn’t answer. He simply stands there, letting you dab at him, no doubt a million thoughts on his mind. On closer inspection, you start to see the parts of his body you remember, the things that make him, him—the freckle on his shoulder, the temptingly thick and dark hairs that line his arms, the dimples on his lower back that have always captivated you.

“Let me get your knuckles.” You ask, hoping to catch the fresh blood before it starts to dry and cake.

It takes him a moment to respond, but after a moment and a deep breath, he turns around to face you. “Do you love me now?”

Upon eye contact, your heart catches in your throat, and you unconsciously lean away from him. The face that stares back at you is familiar, but it isn’t Roman. It’s not the mask. It’s his newest one. Or rather, parts of it. Sections of the high-gloss fibres have been worn down, jutting from his face unnaturally. Painful-looking sores and scars surround its edges, as though consuming it. His high cheekbones are lost, his lips replaced with the hard, jagged teeth of the mask. Scratch marks mar his throat and hairline, telltales that he’s tried and failed to peel and pull and force it off. Even his once beautiful hair is limp and dull, clumps are missing. What’s left of his hairline hangs over his forehead in curls he normally keeps sharply slicked back.

Beneath it all, though, are those eyes. The dark, dark brown eyes. They’re not warm or rich. They’re so inky sometimes they don’t even look human, but they’re Roman through and through. So undeniably his that they pacify your instinct to recoil. They subdue the horrors of this place and what it's done to him. The shell that stands before you might have had its lustre dulled, its fire tamed, but he’s still in there somewhere, simmering deep down in his wicked soul, and whether he finds himself again or not, you’re going to love him unconditionally, and without reserve. It’s what Tiffany would have wanted. It’s what you want.

“Of course, I still love you.” Before you wipe the blood from his hands, you bring them to your face. Carefully pressing your lips to each knuckle, blood or no blood.  One of the very first things Tiffany taught you about showing him respect. You can’t tell his expression, the new permanent fixture of his mask blocking your access, but there’s a glint of contentment in his eye that proves you’re doing something right by him. Even after all this time, there are still ring lines from where his bands used to sit, reminders of his status outside of these god forsaken walls.

“Now tell me…” You continue once you've dragged the wet cloth against his scrapes. You locate the scar on his chest, still deep pink and sunken, that resides over his heart. “How’s your pacemaker doing?”

It’s still ticking, beating under your palm at an even pace. That fact brings you no end of peace.

“It’s fine.” He speaks dryly, but he rests a hand atop yours, savouring your gentle touch. “I’m not well, doll, but I’m standing. I won’t go down easy.”

Self-serving, maybe, but the use of his pet name for you, for all his girls, itches your brain in a way you’ve missed. A shadow of his former self-peeking out.

You can’t dwell on it for too long before he moves the conversation along. “How are the dogs?”

Prospero, Fawkes, and Maschera, a pack of Belgian Malinois are the closest thing Roman might ever have to children. You’ve been caring for them since his arrest, had to use your spare key to retrieve them from Tiffany’s home; they’re the closest thing you have to the both of them, funny how that works. “They’re good, they’re good. Masch still keeps eating all the plants, and the mailman won’t deliver anything anymore because he’s so scared of Prospero, but they’re good. They miss you. They keep trying to steal your clothes from the walk-in.”

“They’re good.” As he repeats your words, he nods his head approvingly.

“They’re really good.”

“Good.”

As the conversation continues, you keep at your uneducated medical examination. Careful not to push too hard on the swollen and bruised parts of his body. Enjoying the warmth he has always manages to emit even in the coldest of temperatures. He’s leaner now, almost stringy, but it’s still his body beneath the changes. The thicket of dark and dense hair still adorns his chest, trailing over his flush stomach.

You come to a standstill as you reach the elastic of his sodden boxers, unsure how to proceed. You’re scared of what you might find, but you’d been hoping to show him just how much your body has longed for him in his absence. Most of all, you’re worried he might not want you in that way, not anymore, not in this state. He’s never been one to turn you down before, but the kind of maltreatment he’s been facing can change people. What if this is another spark that’s been taken from him?

Your fears are unfounded; however, the moment you look up to him for approval, he takes your hands. He’s gentler than usual, his head likely filled with as many doubts as your own as he urges you to cross that line, guiding you beneath the fabric. Eager to please, you take things further, dropping to your knees and bringing his boxers to the floor with you.

He’s already half-hard. It takes little time and a few soft strokes to bring him to full glory. The sight of his cock, which seems somehow bigger and girthier than you’d remembered, already has you lightheaded.

There can’t be much time left, you should hurry things along, but you take a moment to relish it, gently running your tongue along the base, intoxicated by its bitter taste. Who knows when Roman last showered? Who cares?

“Don’t tease.” It’s not a plea, but an order. It seems Roman is already finding his spirit.

Before you can argue, his hand cups the back of your head, tight and desperate. You don’t fight him; you abide by his wishes. Letting him shallowly thrust into your open mouth, each motion pushing his crown deeper and deeper until you can feel it at the back of your throat, paced just well enough that you’re able to readjust to the sheer size of it with coughing and sputtering.

“Atta girl.” He praises when you find your bearings, matching each plunge, speeding up as you fumble with your trousers, desperate to feel some friction been your own legs. “Oh, I missed this. Oh, that’s it. Fuck, yeah.”

He’s not looking at you, his head thrown back in pleasure, but that’s okay. It feels so right to make him feel like this, to offer him respite for even a moment. Once you squeeze your hand into your panties, rubbing your clit with your thenar and dipping your fingers into your core, it all feels like it’s coming together, like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

The moment doesn’t last long, however, the next time you come up for air, Roman surprises you by dropping to his knees.

“You’re so good to me. Coming here, taking care of me.” The hard plastic of his new mouth pushes against yours in a kiss that is both tender and feverish. Already, his hands are pulling at your clothes, his kisses only break long enough to pull your shirt above your head. Your bra is discarded so quickly, you’re sure the clasp must be broken, as is your skin; the teeth of his mask bite into it with every kiss, causing the skin of your lips to split and well.

“Of course, Roman. I’d do anything for you.”

He works his way down, grazing the sensitive parts of your body; your throat, your collar, your breasts as his tongue roams. It feels as though he’s sinking real teeth into you as he sucks on your nipples. It feels good, so painfully good you can’t help but wrap your hands up in his hair. Pants escape your mouth until you can’t take much more of his oral abuse. He grunts as you pull him back by his roots, but you leave him no time to complain before you’re climbing onto his lap, bombarding him with affection of your own, kissing along his marred skin as though your affections will make them better.

Roman, for once in his life, concedes to you, lying back on the hard floor and enjoying the way you run your lips along each bruise and graze, but as soon as he gets a good grip on your open trousers, pulling them down your legs, he’s ready for the next stop, as is evident by the firm way he grabs at your ass, driving you down until your pussy is grinding on his waiting cock.

There isn’t time now to stop and stretch yourself out, to prep you for the amount of girth that’s going to drive into your plush walls. You wouldn’t want to wait anyway; it’s been too long.

“That’s it. That’s it, take that dick, Babygirl.” Roman hisses as you sink down onto him, his hips bucking up, splitting you open more and more as you try to lower yourself evenly. He’s having none of your slow and steady shit. You’re not even halfway down when he grabs your hips and pulls you onto him completely.

 It’s aches and stings, and a cry rips from your throat, but fuck, does it feel good. “Rommmmmaaannn~”

You grip his shoulder so tight it makes your nailbeds hurt, the pressure not decreasing even as your dripping pussy relaxes and stretches.

“Fuck. Yeah.” His raspy voice is punctuated with grunts and moans of pleasure, completely unbothered by the nips of your nails in his already maimed shoulders. His grip on you is equally unrelenting. No doubt creating bruises of his own as he bounced your body on his cock over and over, using it like a fleshlight, the same way he’d done a thousand times before. He’s always loved to leave his mark. It’s comforting to see these sides of him again. “Take it. Take it, baby, take it.” 

“Look at me, Roman, please look.” After all this time, it’s a wonder you kept from cumming with his cock in your mouth, let alone rutting into your cunt at such a fast, brutal pace, but your restraint doesn’t last long. Releasing one shoulder, you cup his face. The skin is warm and soft, prickly from his unshaved state, contrasting with the hard, cold plastic. He does as you ask, loudly whimpering as his eyes lock onto yours. “I’m gonna cum.”

Your words make him laugh, but not for long; your confession equally drives him to his own climax, as made evident by the way he starts to twitch and wheeze. “Together then, cum with me.”

He’s losing his rhythm. It’s not helped by the way he releases your waist, leaving you to keep tempo on your own, your knees scraping the concrete as he grabs you by the throat. He doesn’t squeeze harshly; he only uses the leverage to bring your face to his, silently pleading for you to kiss him again.

So, you do. You crush your soft face against his ridged one. Sloppy and erratic. It only grows more uneven as white-hot pleasure pulses through your body. His tongue pokes out, probing your mouth, and you do your best to suck on it through uncontrolled whimpers. Of all the times you’ve cum on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth, it’s never felt more intense, more intimate than this moment.

The feeling must be mutual. Before you can move away from him, he locks you in an embrace. His cock softening as it sits inside of you, his cum leaking out, pooling on his pelvis, his chest raggedly rising and falling against your own.

Silence falls upon you, but this time it's comfortable. You feel safe as he strokes his fingers lightly up and down your spine, grounding himself, reminding himself that you’re still there.

The moment is shattered when that nauseating buzz sounds out from the other side of the door. Still naked, you make to stand, to dress yourself, but Roman holds you tighter.

“Don’t leave.” You’ve never heard him sound so dejected before, so despairing. His brown eyes plead as you keep trying to pull back. “I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

You’d steeled yourself to the likelihood that Roman wouldn’t use the L word with you after everything that had happened. You weren’t prepared for the opposite to happen, or the emotional floodgates it would open. With stinging eyes that you force to remain dry, and an ache in your heart, you start to peel yourself out of his grasp. “Ro-”

“Jesus!” Curly calls out. You turn to him, body flush with embarrassment, but he’s already closed his eyes, stepping back out of the room. “You didn’t pay me enough to have to see that, lady.”

“Roman, please. You have to let me go, but I’ll be back.” He doesn’t seem convinced by your promise. His fingers still dragging and clinging to you, even as he lessens his grip to let you go. “I’m going to get you out of here, I swear it.”

Of all the sights you’ve seen today, this is the one you’ll remember most. Roman on his knees, hugging your legs as you try to hurriedly redress yourself. A tear rolling down the black cheek of his new face, as he chokes on his own words. “Just hold on a little longer, I love you. Goodbye.”

Your own personal grief and loneliness had brought you there. But it’s that sight; the visual of Roman’s anguish and isolation, that will keep you motivated to fulfil your promise.

As you straddled Roman’s lap you had to remind yourself to take it slow, since that’s what he had requested. A difficult task, given how desperate you were for him, but you enjoyed a challenge.

“How much more d’you think you can take, doll?”

Roman’s hands smoothed over the sides of your body, fingers pressing into the rolls created by the miniscule amount of clothing you wore as he traced over them. It wasn’t entirely unusual for him to be this gentle, but even so, this was like experiencing him in a completely different light. He was romantic, affectionate, but right now he was adoring.

“I don’t want this to be a bad memory… it’s gotta be good, y’know?”

Nodding, understanding his desire to make sure this was as pleasant as possible, you eased your body down, lowering yourself onto his cock, taking more of him inside of you. He watched carefully, eyes wide, pupils blown, as another inch disappeared within you, stretching you, caressed by your clenching walls.

“Fuck… fuck fuck fuck… takin’ it well, as always.”

He winked, his smile wide, a familiar cruelty behind it, the way he looked when he got his way, which was always. But you watched it open wide into a gasp as you took him in completely, letting him fill you with his thick, stiff cock as he groaned in relief.

As you began to roll your hips forward, desperate to feel him throbbing against your insides, he grabbed your waist. There was a stern look on his face, not quite the aggressive glare that his enemies were on the receiving end of, but one that told you he was serious in the gesture.

“Sit still, doll. I want to remember this… how it feels to have you wrapped around me, tight and warm… I just wanna be inside you, ‘kay?”

You did as you were asked, but you could feel yourself clenching, body twitching as it tried to find some pleasure in the motions, to experience Roman’s impressive girth battering against you like usual. There was satisfaction in this though, in ways you hadn’t expected from him. His eyes looking at only you, taking you in completely, no distractions, no closing his eyes in feral lust. They were wide, appreciative, as he memorised how you looked on top of him. How your body felt, so warm and sot and plush.

“Only you could have me losin’ my god damn fuckin’ mind just by letting me wet my dick, ‘know that?”

With your hands on his chest, the smooth texture of his silk, white shirt on your palms, you giggled, skin prickling as you felt his appreciative growl rumble through his body.

“Just knowing what I’m about to do to you… it’s got me close to the edge.”

“Tell me… tell me what you’re going to do to me, daddy.”

The emphasis you put on the word had him tensing up under you, his cock twitching unmistakably inside your dripping cunt. You were riling him up, giving him exactly what he wanted.

“I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Paint your fuckin’ walls with my seed, let it get in there deep…”

One hand moved to your cheek, caressing it softly as he continued.

“I’m gonna make you mine… breed you, mark my territory, make sure everyone knows who your daddy is.”

Your muscles tightened, stomach clenching as you felt your body flushing, heart pounding at the notion of being Roman’s so publicly and undeniably.

“You wanna be a part of something bigger, don’t you doll? Wanna continue the Sionis line with me?”

All you could manage was a nod, biting your lip to stifle any begging and pleading and whining, worried you might put him off if you were anything but perfect for him in that moment.

“Let me cum in you then, let me stamp my fuckin name all over that beautiful body. You ready?”

You weren’t sure what words finally came out, but they were loud, keening, and completely unnoticed by Roman who yelled over them himself, a slurred ambush of expletives and compliments intertwined as he came hard and fast and long, body trembling beneath you as the final waves of his orgasm shuddered over him.

And then his hands were back around your waist, holding you there in position as he offered you another wink.

My friend likes owls, pomegranates, blurple, and starlight. Hopefully this mashup harmonizes nicely. I worked almost entirely from scraps already in my stash.

I self drafted the pattern, but it's approximated from this write up and Sheila Marshall's book "Elizabethan Needlework Accessories". My library didn't have the book, so I relied on Google images.

This little owl friend is a needle minder by greennerddesigns on Etsy. I chopped up a pin and stuck a magnet on there.

The lucette braided cord nearly thwarted me, but we got there in the end. I opted for fancy silk ribbon for the inner pouch instead. I swear lucette gave me arthritis.

I'm still pretty new to embroidery, so this was a real level up project for me. I used wool felt for the leaves and pomegranates to give them a little dimensionality (and to better hide any satin stitch sins) TIL, embroidering velveteen sucks.

The pomegranates are so crunchy! I fondled them frequently throughout the making of this. But the lattice stitch with tiny gold details is my favorite part.

The laurels are a symbol of the award she's receiving. I don't love how they turned out, but they hold up okay from a distance.

Blue beads are from my local embroidery shop, Country Crafts. Silver loops came from my stash. Owl scissors from onethriftystitcher on Etsy. Wool pieces are from my local wool store Black Sheep Wool.

Overall, I have some improvements to make if I ever do another one, but after some 100 hours of work poured into this little guy, I couldn't be more proud of myself. I hope she loves it and uses it until it falls apart.