dynamicblueprint

[bimbloop]

Infected 1/2  

 [musical background for the vibe Utopia Overture (Subotage (Red Is the New Yellow)(Remix)  hehe] 

Part 1 (HERE) 

Part 2

[little-pup-pip]

Cosy day in!!

[esperastra]

random avalance gifs [20|∞]

[freckleslikestars]

Honey, you should see me in a crown

Claudia Black as Vala Mal Doran in STARGATE SG-1 9.02 | Avalon pt. 2

[avianii]

oh? what's this?? fanart for my other fandoms???? the infidelity!!!

anyways @calkale I'm also just now realizing this is 75% stuff you indoctrinated me into liking so congrats, it worked :)

[set-phasers-to-whump]

decisions

prompt: forced choice

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi this one got a bit longer than intended but such is. it's pre-ship and features a bit of whump for napoleon as well. hope you like!

Napoleon wakes up and before he so much as opens his eyes he ascertains that he’s tied up, quite severely, to a chair which is bolted to the floor. His bindings are rope, scratchy and thick. At least his shoes are still on and there is no water surrounding his feet. Small victories. 

He opens his eyes and discovers that he’s not alone. 

Illya’s sitting across from him, similarly tied up. He’s sweaty from effort, but his bonds appear unaffected, and it is at this point that Napoleon realizes that they’re not going to be getting out of this easily. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Illya nods. 

“You?”

He nods as well. Wonders what fate holds for them, knows it can hardly be pleasant. 

The man who enters the room just then is not someone Napoleon knows. Nor Illya, from the looks of it. He smiles, quite friendly, and Napoleon is put deeply on edge. 

The man stands directly in front of him. “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Solo,” he says smoothly, which is another bad sign. 

“Now. Let’s get straight into it. Left or right?”

“What?” This is decidedly not the sort of question he’d been expecting, and he can’t make heads or tails of it. The man’s hands are loose, so he’s hardly hiding any kind of nasty surprise, and there’s nothing in the room that makes this question make sense. 

“You heard me. Left or right?”

“In regards to what, exactly?”

The man grins again. “Just choose.”

Napoleon shrugs as much as the bindings will allow. “Left, I suppose.”

The man whistles sharply, and a door at the back of the room opens. Another man enters, looking considerably more physically imposing. So he’s got minions, Napoleon thinks. Great. 

“He wants the left,” reports the man in charge. His goon nods, slipping a length of metal pipe from out of his sleeve. Shit, Napoleon thinks, and braces himself for a hit. 

Except it never comes. The minion, as Napoleon has already begun calling him, approaches Illya, and so suddenly that Napoleon cannot so much as cry out, he swings the pipe directly into Illya’s left ankle. 

There’s an audible crunching sound, and Illya lets out a sharp breath. Napoleon just stares at him, shocked. 

“What the hell?”

“Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” says the man in charge. His voice is flippant and yet belies an enormous amount of power. 

Napoleon shuts up. 

“Now then. Let’s let the real fun begin, shall we, Mr. Solo?”

“What do you want?”

Another unnervingly placid smile. “Only to hurt you.”

“Funny way of doing that, hitting him instead of me.”

The smile widens. “Oh, trust me. You’ll hurt plenty.”

Napoleon elects to ignore him, for the time being. He focuses instead on Illya, who is breathing heavily in the way he does when he’s trying to control a rather immense amount of pain. I’m sorry, Napoleon thinks, as if Illya will hear. I didn’t know that would happen. 

“My next question, Mr. Solo, is this: waterboarding, or whipping?”

Napoleon blinks. Doesn’t answer. What the hell?

“I won’t repeat myself next time, and he’ll just end up getting both. Choose, for his sake.”

“You’re not—why not me?”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out. Now choose.”

Napoleon locks eyes with Illya, who looks back, unflinching. He blinks once, very deliberately, and Napoleon speaks before he can question it. 

“Waterboarding.”

He knows Illya’s trained for this. They both have, in their time. This does absolutely nothing now. Napoleon’s heart beats wildly in his chest and there’s a sense of rage threatening to consume him as the minion approaches Illya with a towel and a bucket. 

Watching his partner be waterboarded is one of the most painful things that Napoleon has ever experienced. The way he fights, absolutely futilely, as the towel is placed over his face, as the water is poured over. The way his body thrashes against the restraints. The way he coughs and gasps when the towel is pulled away, only to be replaced mere seconds later. 

Waterboarding is supposed to make the victim want to speak, to share every secret they’ve got, but at the moment Illya isn’t so much as making a peep, while Napoleon feels like he’d spill everything he knows if they’d only stop. 

“Stop!” he shouts, though he knows that they won’t listen.

“Shut up. Every time you speak without me telling you to, I’ll hurt him just that little bit more.”

To prove his point, the towel is replaced once more. Illya gasps for breath and it turns into a horrible coughing and spluttering as the water—the last of it, it looks like—is once again poured over his face. 

When the towel is removed this time, it’s placed neatly onto a table, and the bucket is set onto the floor. Napoleon observes these things out of the corner of his eye, the bulk of his attention focused on Illya's coughing, shivering body across from him. 

When the coughing at last subsides, the man approaches Napoleon again. He is so angry he can barely hear the words spoken to him over the pounding of blood in his head. 

“Hammer or pliers?”

“Leave him. The fuck. Alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’d like to see you suffer a bit more, first.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Bigger men than you have tried. Choose, or shall I remind you of the rules again?”

Brief eye contact with Illya, another single blink. Napoleon hopes to god he’s reading this right, that Illya isn’t simply doing this coincidentally, that he’s at least allowing his partner the freedom to choose. 

Choose. Right. He feels sick. Wishes, above all else, that it was him in Illya’s position, making decisions about his own fate. 

“Hammer,” he says, and his voice sounds alien to his ears. 

“I do hate to repeat a question, but needs must. Left or right?”

Another single blink. 

“Left.”

He doesn’t want to watch. But he has to. 

The hammer comes crashing down onto Illya’s left hand and there’s a sickening cracking noise and Illya makes this completely involuntary sound of pain and shock and Napoleon feels like his entire being is getting ripped in two. 

“Stomach or chest?”

The single blink again. Napoleon cannot wrench his attention away from the tear that travels its way down Illya’s cheek. 

That metal pipe makes a reappearance, slams into Illya’s stomach. There’s a loud exhale as the air is forced out of Illya’s lungs, and he gags harshly. 

God, Napoleon is going to be sick. He’s sitting here watching and making decisions and Illya is getting tortured and he can’t do fucking anything about it. 

He can feel blood trickling down his wrists from where he’s been straining against the ropes with every action taken against his partner. He focuses his attention on this infinitesimally small pain, hates himself for losing focus on Illya for even a second, but—

He wants nothing more than to break free of these restraints and kill this guy. Brutally, if necessary. 

“Fingers or toes?”

He forces his attention back to Illya. Two blinks. 

“Toes.”

The minion places his entire weight onto Illya’s left foot, the same one he’d previously smashed with the pipe, and Illya groans. Napoleon struggles harder against the ropes, without making it obvious what he’s doing. 

When the minion at last steps off of Illya’s foot, his partner is crying. It’s involuntary, a pain response, and Napoleon knows this, and god, he understands. What the man had meant earlier, when he’d asked, why not me?

This is more painful than anything else they could do to him, by far. 

“What you want?” Illya asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken and his voice is wrecked, all small and shaky and wrong. 

The minion steps back and to the left, faces Illya, and the man in charge gets up into his space. They’re not looking, and Napoleon fights frantically against the ropes in this window of opportunity. 

“Don’t speak.” There’s the sound of a slap, but Napoleon isn’t paying attention. He’s got the ropes off his wrists, and he’s untying the ones around his ankles as quickly as he can. 

“Or else what?” Illya asks, and Napoleon knows he’s seen him, knows he’s doing what he needs to do so that they can get out of this. 

There’s a dull thud and a wince. 

“I suggest you don’t try to find out.”

He’s done it. The ropes are gone. He just has to get up, while their backs are still turned—

They’re turning back around. Fuck!

There’s no time to do anything, but then Illya says, “fuck you,” which takes Napoleon completely by surprise—he can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Illya curse in English—and it takes the other men by surprise, too, because they both turn back around just before their eyes would’ve landed on Napoleon. 

The hammer is picked back up and just as it’s being brought down onto Illya’s already destroyed hand, Napoleon flings himself out of the chair. 

He tackles the minion first, not quite stopping the hammer but at least preventing it from doing maximum damage. He wrests the implement from its wielder’s grasp, smashes it into the man’s head. He goes limp immediately.

One down. 

The other man, the mastermind of this horrific torture scheme, is standing above him with the metal pipe in his hands. He swings it down, and Napoleon just barely rolls out of the way. The pipe hits the body of the minion instead, adding insult to injury. 

Napoleon leaps to his feet. The fight is harder than he would’ve expected, given the relatively small size of his opponent and his apparent unwillingness to do any of the truly nasty work. 

Still, he gets there in the end. He sacrifices himself to a couple strong hits from the pipe, but then the hammer connects with the man’s skull and this wave of pure anger and adrenaline overtakes him. 

He loses himself for a second. And then Illya’s saying, “it’s enough, Cowboy, stop,” and he opens his eyes and finds himself straddling a body which is only vaguely recognizable as Illya’s torturer. 

He drops the hammer to the ground with a deafening clatter and then gets to his feet. His hands are covered in blood and he can taste it in his mouth. 

He’s gone, is the first thing Napoleon thinks, untying Illya with trembling hands. He can’t hurt him anymore. Illya’s safe. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, as he unties the ropes around Illya’s ankles. “God, Illya, I’m so sorry.”

“You did not hurt me,” Illya responds, wincing as Napoleon inadvertently brushes a hand against his injured ankle. “No reason to apologize.”

“He hurt you because of me.”

“No, he did this because of him. Come, we should leave.”

Napoleon wants to argue. Wants to apologize for the rest of his life, wants Illya to yell at him and tell him to go to hell, wants—

He wants to hold onto Illya forever and protect him, even though he knows Illya’s more than capable of protecting himself. He wants to be around Illya always, to threaten those that would come near him, try and harm him like they had today. 

He doesn’t know what he wants, in short, and his heart is still pounding and he feels dizzy with relief and guilt and about a million other things he can only guess at. 

Their getaway is slow-going. Illya can barely walk on his destroyed ankle, although he does his best. They limp out of the building, Napoleon with the hammer in hand lest anyone else should come crawling out of the woodwork.

But they meet no one. The path to their car is mercifully short, and Napoleon drives them back to their safehouse with his hands clenched firmly around the wheel so that they’ll stop shaking. 

“It’s okay,” Illya says, quiet and sudden, when they’re about a mile away from their destination. “I know…I know you will blame yourself about this. But you did not do anything. It is not your fault.”

Napoleon suddenly finds himself blinking back tears. Get it together, he tells himself. It’s not you who was just tortured. At least not physically. 

“I just sat there,” he all but whispers, after a beat. “They were torturing you, and I just sat there and gave them directions.”

“They made this decision. And you told them to do what I chose.”

“He said—he said he was hurting you to hurt me.”

“And?”

“That makes it my fault, Illya,” Napoleon says, and he can’t quite stop his voice from breaking.

“It is his fault,” Illya says, and there’s the familiar sureness in his voice that has heretofore been missing. “He wanted to hurt us. You did not make this decision.”

“But—”

“No. Not your fault. I do not blame you, you cannot blame you.”

Napoleon does not know how to argue against this. Even though the guilt feels like it is going to eat him alive. 

They arrive back at the safehouse, and he helps Illya through the door. There’s about a million things that they need to do. Tend to Illya’s injuries. Contact Waverly. Pack and prepare for an evac. 

Illya collapses immediately onto the couch. He’s damp with water and sweat and blood, his hand is swelling something awful, and his ankle must be faring similarly. He looks absolutely exhausted and pained, and Napoleon is about to start bustling around, gathering ice and bandages and alcohol and cotton balls, but then Illya lightly taps the space beside him. 

“Sit with me?” he asks, and Napoleon thinks he’d do absolutely anything Illya asked of him right now. 

He sits, looks at his partner. Illya is looking back at him, terribly vulnerable beneath the tiredness and hurt, and Napoleon feels himself begin to properly cry. 

He shouldn’t be crying. He’s not even hurt, besides the scrapes around his wrists and the bruises from the pipe. But there’s nothing for it and no way of stopping now that he’s started. 

“Napoleon,” Illya begins, but Napoleon cuts him off. 

“Just—I don’t want to hurt you any more, but can I—can I touch you?”

It sounds pathetic and stupid but he just wants a physical reassurance that Illya’s here, still alive despite the torture and not even upset with him, after everything. That protective feeling is back, hot in his chest. 

“Okay.”

He carefully pulls Illya towards him, gentle as he can be, attentive to any indication of discomfort. 

He doesn’t get any. Quite the opposite, actually. Illya leans into him, warm and still trembling a bit, and Napoleon wraps an arm around him and just holds on. 

thanks for reading! hope you liked <3

[ishikawayukis]

they must do a little silly skit before the song otherwise they'll die

[the-gene-mile]

screenshot redraw for tonight's episode bc no original idea could ever top whatever the fuck is happening here

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

sometimes getting to the end of a fic is like making it to the top of the mountain where you see the sky inching closer and closer and at the end you stand there at the top and take it all in but then sometimes it's like getting to the end of a bus ride when you've been zoning out and then you glance at the sign like oh shit that's my stop

[coconut530]

Bump in the Night & Sleeptober & Nevertober Day 1: Too Many Eyes & Angels & Trapped

Vessel reference bc my drawing doesn’t capture the awe (tm):

@whitejawz for Sleeptober

[shuruzy]

you know I never actually thought about what adventurer 03 would look like without the fishnet shirt. I do prefer the shirt, but

[potential-fate]

“Hey, what’s up?” Ashe picked up his phone immediately when Roman’s name had flashed across the screen. He glanced around the room. Roman hadn’t been gone that long. But he didn’t see anything of Roman’s lying around that he’d forgotten. 

Instead, when he finished greeting Roman, he got a string of almost incoherent and panicked cursing.

“Woah, slow down Ro….” Ashe tried, “Okay, okay… Hey, where are you?” 

It would be easier to just meet the other man, than try to translate through whatever Roman was freaking out about. After repeating the question, Roman managed to tell him he was on his own front porch because he needed fresh air. It didn’t seem to have worked, though Ashe supposed it was possible that he could have been worse before calling.  

“Okay. Come over here? okay? I’ll meet you outside.”  

He hung up, searching quickly for his keys, before he slipped on his boots.

[leslieseveride]

in terms of edible treats to snack on during bridgerton s3 i really came unprepared lol 😅

tell me friends, what are ya'll gonna munch on during the show??? i might just get a sandwich from the local coffee shop, and maybe one of those charcuterie packs from the grocery store, but what other bridgerton-esque goodies should i add to the list????

[marchtooctober]

Macaroni Soup

Dedicated to @shiro-s2e2-erukinzu and @tare-chan because they're so adorbs

"See y'all tomorrow!"

"Bye!"

I bid my coworkers goodbye before taking the turn at the corner of the street. I had a half-day at city hall today. My next assasin gig won't be given until the weekend so luckily I can rest for the rest of the day!

Or maybe I should practice cooking or sewing? I haven't thoroughly read the homemaking magazine I bought last week. I have to work hard. I need to be more useful or else Loid will end up collapsing from taking care most of the chores...

"Oh! You're already back, Mrs. Forger!" The old lady neighbor greeted me as I ascended the stairs.

"Yes. The city hall was only open half-day for today. But everything will be back on regular schedule tomorrow."

"Is that so? Then have rest and relax yourself, dear."

"Thank you, I will."

I'm becoming more and more comfortable talking to our neighbors. I feel like I'm improving. I feel like I'm getting good at acting normal!

I can't erase the smile that's on my face even when I'm already at the door. Now I need to work hard and learn more about homemaking. Loid will be delighted once I get better!

"Okay! I should try harder! Let's practice sewi-"

I stepped on something as I walked through. Down on the floor I saw Loid lying.

"Loid!"

I kneeled beside him and shook him.

"Loid what are you doing here? What happened to you?"

He's hot. He has fever!

It's my fault... I couldn't do other chores and Loid kept on doing them for me.

I immediately hoisted him up. He gained consciousness and looked at me in confusion.

"Yor? Why are you..." He spoke hoarsely.

"You have a fever! Let's get you over to your room so you can rest!"

"No, Yor. I can..."

I put his arm over my shoulder and grabbed him by the waist. I assisted him as he walked but instead of heading to his room, he pointed to the couch instead.

"You want to rest here?"

He nodded weakly in response.

I helped him sit down then gave him a glass of water. I sat beside him and waited for him to finish drinking. I took the glass away and placed it on the table. He's pale and could barely open his eyes.

"How about work?" He asked, finally sounding better after drinking water.

"Today's a half-day. Stay right there. I'll get you a pillow and blanket."

I got up to fetch them but was stopped by Loid.

"You don't have to-"

"I'm sorry, Loid. If only I knew how to sew and iron clothes... I should've went to the supermarket and returned back Anya's books to the library instead of leaving them to you. No wonder you ended up sick because you're tired of doing everything by yourself."

"N-No, Yor! I di-"

"I'll get your pillow and blanket."

Then his hand let go of mine. I only realized that he grabbed my hand after letting go.

I brought back a pillow and blanket with me. To my surprise, he's trying to get up. I dropped the pillow and blanket and immediately rushed to him.

"No, Loid! You're sick! You and Yuri... Why are you both stubborn when you're sick? Remember, what a sick person only needs to do is to get well!"

"I have... to go..."

This is no time for Loid to think about work? Is his fever so bad that he became delirious?! Should I knock him unconscious by force?!

No no, Yor! You can't do that to a sick person! It won't do anything goo-

"Hm..."

Loid's sudden weight on me cut off my thoughts. His head landed on my shoulder and he struggled to make himself upright again. Instead of being able to do so, he ended up snuggling his head to my neck.

"H-Huh?!"

"Hm..."

Then I felt his breath tickle me. It was hot.

"Eeek!"

In shock, I pushed him away and causing him to drop and bump the edge of the couch. I earned a wince from him.

"Loid! I-I'm sorry! Did it hurt?!"

What did I do? I must have put too much force! Yor! You should be taking care of him instead of hurting him!

I kneeled to check on him. He passed out but his breathing is not too heavy.

"I'm so sorry, Loid." I muttered as I put up his legs on the other end of the couch.

I put the pillow under his head and covered him with the blanket.

What should I do?! What should I do?

"Remember what you heard from Sharon the other day, Yor! Remember what to do just like whenever Yuri gets sick! You can do this."

Should I make honeyed water? But there are no beehives around! How about the herbs? Where should I get them? No-no, no! Don't be silly! Honey can be bought from the supermarket.

"Bond! Can you watch ove-"

I fell silent upon remembering that Franky took Bond out this morning and he said that they might take a longer walk than usual. Anya is still at school so no one is around.

I have no choice but to leave Loid for a moment.

I covered Loid with blanket and put a cold towel on his forehead.

Then I made a quick run to the supermarket. I bought honey and fruits and different kinds of medicine. I dashed back as soon as I have paid. When I went back, Loid is still sound asleep.

I knelt down and took his hand.

He must be very tired. He collapsed and it's my fault for being so incapable...

I held his hand with both of my hands. Maybe if I hold it long enough, I can take away his fever.

I thought I can finally be at ease but I suddenly thought that he might not have eaten anything since he didn't leave the house at all.

It's already past noon! Loid might be starving now! I probably should cook porridge. Come to think of it, Loid cooked something like that before and it was really delicious. But how do I make it?! I don't know how to cook it. I'll have to ask for Camilla's help...

I called Camilla to ask for her help over the phone. Then I asked her if she can teach me how to cook rice porridge. I got an earful at first but I'm always thankful that she's helping me in the end. She said she's not familiar with the kind of porridge I'm talking about so she asked me what I have and gave me a recipe that will let me make something easy. I wrote down her instructions and thanked her again.

I started making Camilla's chicken macaroni soup right away. I did my best to follow her instructions correctly. I diced the carrots just as big as my pinky and boiled the pasta shells on exact time. But despite my efforts, i still managed to deform most of the pasta and shred the chicken into very thin strands. I did not put too much salt because I was told that it's easier for sick people to eat bland foods.

"Phew!"

I carefully poured some into a bowl.

Just in time, Loid woke up. He weakly sit himself up and looked around. When his eyes met mine, I was suddenly reminded of what happened.

Does he know what he did just a while ago?

I held my breath for a moment before breaking off the silence.

"How are you feeling, Loid?" I asked, taking the towel from hIm.

"I... My head hurts... Were you cooking?"

"Yes. I'm making macaroni soup if that's fine with you."

"I'm sorry, Yor. I've troubled you. Don't you have work? I'll be fine here. You should head back to work." He said.

"We have a half day, remember? I told you earlier."

"Sorry... My mind is hazy..."

"How about resting in your room instead?"

He glanced towards his room then turned to me. His eyes reflected something I couldn't fathom.

"No. I... feel better in this open space than in my confined room."

"If you insist..."

I brought over the soup to the low table and sat on the other chair.

"You're probably hungry. Here's the macaroni soup. I asked for my coworker's help over the phone and she taught me this recipe. I'm still bad at cooking but I did my best to follow her instructions."

He stared at the bowl then glanced at me.

"Thanks, Yor. I appreciate it." He said with a soft smile.

That smile of his gave a tug to my chest and warmed me up inside. I found myself smiling back.

"I've already eaten lunch with my coworkers so don't mind me. Do you think you can eat on your own? Or should I feed you?"

Loid suddenly turned to me with a surprised look. It took me a moment to realize what I just said.

"N-Never mind! L-Let me get you a spoon!"

I waited for him to taste it.

"H-How was it? I didn't put too much salt so it must be too bland to your taste..."

"I can't really taste much right now but it's appetizing. It's easy to eat and comforting."

"Really?!

"Yes." He replied.

"I'm relieved to hear that..."

Loid scooped up some more. I'm glad that I was able to cook another decent dish aside from stew.

"I'm very sorry, Loid. You got sick because you kept doing most of the chores. If only I was good with other things..."

"You don't have to apologize, Yor. It's not your fault that I caught a cold. Remember when it rained last time? I was drenched when I came home from work and now I caught the cold."

"But..."

Wait, "last time"? When? Did it really rain?

I was about to ask about it but Loid spoke again.

"By the way, you used milk? I can faintly taste it."

"H-Huh? Oh! I did!" I said.

"And there's carrots. Anya doesn't like carrots but I think she'll like this nonetheless."

"D-Do you think so?" I asked.

He stopped eating and faced me.

"Of course. Have more confidence, Yor. There's no need for you to force yourself. You're already doing you're best as it is so you'll definitely improve soon. Not only in cooking but also with other things. I would like it if you'd stay comfortable here as part of the Forger Family without being hard on yourself."

His words warmed my heart. I can't help but smile.

"Okay... Ah! Let me get you water."

Then Loid held out the bowl.

"Is there still more? I want to ask for another serving. I guess I need to eat more so I can get well right away." He said with a smile.

"Of course!"

I willingly did as he requested and gave him seconds.

"Yor."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for everything and..."

"And?" I let him continue.

"If... Anya or I get sick, can you cook this soup again?"

My eyes grew wide in surprise and I beamed up with a smile.

He's encouraging me this much so it's only right for me to do my best.

"Of course! I'll definitely cook some for you!"

[byanyan]

catch me sobbing bc I'm about to have a desk of my own for the first time since I was like 17 😭

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <33