#my fucking arms look like pincushions

[wtfuckevenknows]

Getting poked again…

[autumnalhalcyon]

I don't want to see another phlebotomy needle anywhere near me for as long as i can get away with.

[ashlynnlylim]

do you have any piercings or tattoos

I have my earlobes pierced but that's it 🥲 When I was younger I really fucked with piercings and wanted my face to look like grandma's pincushion, but not anymore. I have a box full of earrings though (so girlypop). I kinda want to get a few more piercings but only on my ears, but it already hurt like hell the first time. I got it done at a jewellery shop by the street with a piercing gun and the back of the earring came loose for some reason so the lady had to forcefully press it back in place on my bloody ear. And these two standard ass little sissy studs took about half a year to fully heal. They kept bleeding randomly and crusting over and that actually hurt a lot too. Idk maybe my body's just weird. They're fine now though, but they still get irritated if I change the jewellery or poke at them too much 💀

As for tattoos, none so far. I've also been quite interested in tattoos since forever. I hope to get some when I'm in university. I wanna get the King Crimson Discipline logo on my arm sooooo bad.

I also just wanna get some random little tattoos here and there, like quotes and my own doodles. I hope my dad can sponsor my impulsiveness ✌🏼

[aria-ashryver]

It's a totally random ask, I just checked the time and thought you're probably in the hospital rn, and then I realised it's been a while since you updated us on pretty nurses situation 💅🏼

(anyone cuter than Vidya perhaps? 👀)

🩺Aria's Top Ten Nurses 🏥

because sitting in the hospital for hours on end is boring so we make dumb little lists to pass the time which you absolutely do not have to read lol

(cw: theres a photo of an IV line in my arm under the cut)

#10 - Gary (vascular access technician)

ultimate gruff old dad. excellent banter. always tells me to keep out of trouble when he's done setting my lines. finger guns for days. he's only coming in 10th bc he tried to convince me to get a permanent line fitted and the concept of that terrifies me (hence why i have instead opted for over a hundred individual injections to date)

#9 - Cincy (chemo ward nurse)

incredibly soft spoken. shy to the point of painful. apologises for everything. she was there on the day of the pincushion tally high score, and even though my veins have recovered a lot since then, she always has a look of fear in her eyes when she goes to set my lines. I'm sorry Cincy, please stop being so scared of me.

#8 - Olivia (chemo ward nurse)

peak tsundere ice queen. super pretty. magically long black hair. has never smiled in her life. pretty sure she secretly enjoys inflicting pain on people, because she always sets the cannula in my cephalic vein (beneath the thumb on the side of the wrist) to "give my dorsal arch veins some time to recover" and HOLY FUCK THEY HURT. one time she laughed* at one of my jokes and it was the best day of my life.

*it was a begrudging huff of air through her nose and then she rolled her eyes, but it counts dammit.

#7 - Claire (clinic nurse)

tiny Irish lady. always got too much on her plate. why does she run everywhere. always makes me giggle when she does my obs and pre-checks bc my meds sound funny when you say them with an Irish accent. Claire please sit down for like 10 minutes, i beg, you're making me tired.

#6 - Kelly (chemo ward nurse)

only been my nurse once or twice, but i do remember that one time she laughed so hard at one of my jokes that she started choking and had to excuse herself, and the resultant ego boost has shot her up to place #6 on this list

#5 - Warren (vascular access technician)

OMFG Warren you pretty motherfucker. why are so many of these nurses in their late twenties/early thirties and ludicrously hot? this guy looked at me with his big brown eyes and soothing voice, held my hand while he applied some anaesthetic and told me "that's it, good, you're doing so well love". Warren how do you expect me not to fall in love with you??? that is EXACTLY how Vidya got me

#4 - Jax (chemo ward nurse)

i met them on their first day in the chemo ward. they were just supposed to be observing that day -- unfortunately what they observed was the pincushion tally high score. Sorry Jax.

(i.e. they witnessed Cincy and Farah puncturing the ever loving fuck out of my every available vein, failing to set line after line, apologising to me profusely over the course of like half an hour, and then the vascular access team coming in to rescue us all and set my line via ultrasound instead.)

that was a fun one lol.

#3 - Vidya (chemo ward nurse)

the one, the only, my actual wife!!!! 💖🌈 im half convinced she was the product of a fever dream, because one: how is this woman both fucking gorgeous and SO sweet and caring? and two: her shifts have changed and i barely see her these days. Come back Vidya i miss you 😭😭😭

#2 - Farah (chemo ward nurse)

another super pretty nurse! was delighted when i told her tumblr was still a thing. unironically says "slay" and "omg yass!". compliments my outfits without fail every time i go in for treatments. got extremely excited the first time she set a canula in one go after the pincushion tally high score debacle, and then told me "damn girl, you traumatised me that day" lol. Sorry Farah

#1 - Tori (chemo ward nurse)

Tori is my BRO. our banter game is excellent. (she's also super pretty lol). always tells me when there is good shit in the fridge. been my nurse so often that she just feels like a pal. sneaks into the admin office to make sure my appointments are at lunchtime or later (instead of like 8am) whenever she can. once told me it was her opinion as a medical professional that i should treat myself to bubble tea and ice cream.

Congrats Tori, you win the nurse rankings and my entire heart forever!! 💖💖💖

(but so does Vidya bc I am a fucking simp for that woman lbr)

[ricard-blythe-ffxiv]

What could possibly go wrong?

“You know this is a bad idea, yeah?”

Ricard barely glanced up from the plans littering his desk, names of locations, routes, his men, possible scouting locales, rotations, local business where they could insert themselves, along with notes he’d taken during his meeting days before with Cordelia Gray. Instead he reached for his nearby glass with an irritated sigh. “I’m well aware of the potential issues, Baines. Weren’t you just complaining that I wasn’t giving you enough to do?” 

It was now that he looked up, taking a long sip of his drink as he straightened before moving to collect the half empty bottle from nearby. 

The Highlander man seated across from him rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched Ricard turn to refill his glass. “Thought we’d be talking about going out on assignment somewhere, chattin’ some people up, more the usual. Not spyin’ on some little lordling over some family spat - not usually your style.”

“I was bored.”

“Bored, Ricard?”

“Yes, Delwyn. Bored. I have been playing the good little financial advisor for months. You know what happens when I get bored.” 

“Aye, you make stupid decisions, but usually not this stupid. What happens if you find out something about the little lordling that puts little lady Cress in a bad spot, hm? You don’t like the other one because she turned you into a pincushion..”

Ricard’s head turned on a swivel as the bottle was set down none too gently, his drink dangerously close to spilling. “I believe you might have some harsh feelings towards an ex-lover who stabbed you and left you bleeding out in the middle of a foyer too, Baines.”

“Touchy touchy. Anyway - the other one…”

“Valeria. She has a name. As does the one who 'turned me into a pincushion' - Vahalia.”

“Eh. Twins right?”

“…fraternal.”

“Details.”

“We work in details, Delwyn. They’re rather important.”

“Right, well, the stabby one and the not stabby one works well enough for me. So tell me, all mighty information broker. How are you going to handle it if we find out something about your newest client’s nosy baby brother in law that negatively impacts the not stabby Cress? Gonna go talk to the stabby Cress and end up with another extra hole that has to be patched up? Because you kinda lucked out that someone found you last time if memory serves. Or are you gonna tell your client and hope that she tells the stabby Cress, because how likely is that?” 

Ricard fought the urge to roll his eyes. “The client has a name as well, Delwyn - Cordelia Gray, might do you well to remember that. Look...Valeria Cress is a friend, if something comes up that concerns her then I'll manage it. Other than that, I manage and report information, that's what we do...”

“Nuh uh, don’t get to pull that. You have a responsibility. Didn’t think this one through before you accepted the job, did you Ricky?”

Ricard sighed heavily, downing half the contents of his glass as he sat down before running a hand over his face. 

“Fuck.”

“That’s what you need to do, relieve some damn stress.”

“Fuck off, Delwyn.”

“I’m just calling it like I see it, Ricard - you’re wound tighter than a fucking antique clock.”

“My sex life…”

“…or lack thereof…” Delwyn managed to dodge as a pen was thrown at his head.

“Is none of your concern.”

“It is if you’re making decisions that get the rest of us into shitty situations.”

Ricard again narrowed his gaze towards the other man before glancing down at the plans. “It’s a little different from what we typically do, it doesn’t mean it’s a ‘shitty’ situation. We do surveillance regularly. This is just more of a constant operation. And we’ll be getting paid better for it.”

“And if we find out something certain stabby people might be interested in?”

Ricard opened a nearby box, pulling out two cigars, cutting off the tips before offering one to the other man and then gathering up his lighter. 

“Then I’ll handle it. But don’t forget Baines - Lady Gray is our client first and foremost. The information she needs is primary. Everything else is extra.” 

“Uh huh…whatever you say boss…”

What could possibly go wrong.

[edoro]

recently i’ve ended up in the ER twice about a week apart (one time for “left side chest pain for hours”, one time for “inexplicably can’t breathe and my inhaler isn’t helping”) and since nothing was observably wrong with me either time i can only assume that i’m suffering under a witch’s curse or possibly experiencing physical stress illness due to the general state of my life

these events HAVE however given me the chance to practice one of my superpowers, which is Being Really Chill When People Stick Needles In Me, Especially If They Fuck It Up

(Talking About Needles And Stuff below the cut)

i’m generally an easy stick, because i have good, very visible veins and am not remotely bothered by needles (in fact i often watch them stick me AND watch the blood come out because i think it’s cool)

however, these last two times i’ve ended up with a graduate intern and a med school student respectively being the ones to place my IV and try to draw my blood, and Boy Have They Needed The Practice

between the diabetes and the hormones, i’ve gotten blood drawn 2-4 times per year for the last three years, not counting supplemental testing for things like my eventual fibro diagnosis or “hey, why is my hair falling out?”, and i used to donate plasma as many times a week as they’d late me for a solid few months, so i’m used to it being a quick and painless process that leaves me with nothing worse than a little scab and occasionally slight bruising right around the entry wound

this has not been the case these last few times! they have Butchered Me! the intern blew the first vein she tried, so i expected that bruise

(it was v funny, because i watched her put the needle in, then kinda pull it out and wiggle it around to reposition, and she got one vial of blood before it just stopped as the skin in the crook of my elbow right above the needle slowly swelled up into a taut, shiny balloon

at which point she went, “heyyyy, Maritza, can you come here a second?” like yeah i think we need some help in here, Maritza

i was not emotionally distressed by this but it made me get very hot and sweaty because my body was just going “now son this just isn’t right, this isn’t right at all, something is happening that should not be”)

but the draw sites on my other arm that didn’t have any apparent issues have also developed enormous bruises, and last night the poor med student had to get me three times (blowing a vein in the process as well), and then resorted to trying to suck the blood out of the IV in the back of my hand through a syringe because it just was not coming out

eventually he just gave up and sent a phlebotomist to get the rest of it, which was thankfully a painless and fairly quick process, but now THAT draw site in the back of my OTHER hand is bruised to hell as well, and i feel a little bit like a pincushion

so i’ve decided that i’m simply not allowed to have any more actual or possible medical problems for at least the next couple of weeks until the bruising fades, because they are simply Running Out Of Veins and i’m about to be going around looking like someone slammed my arms in a door or something

[borom1r]

The OG post seems dead but the full meme is in dm because Link so uhhh for both brothers ig?? Hope things get less shitty soon friend 😭🤞🏽🫂

THANK UUUUU there has been so much personal stuff going on that im not gonna get into on Tumblr Dot Com but im ready for it all to be done + today is gonna be. HRM. interesting at best

edit: forgot to link the fuckin meme like a gremlin. anyways, link

Boromir time 🩵🤍

🏳️‍🌈lgbt+ headcanon

gay gay homosexual gay

💌fluffy headcanon

THAT MAN GIVES THE BEST HUGS IN THE WORLD. back-cracking fuckin hugs. not afraid to show his love thru physical touch either. picks Faramir up + spins him around in a hug whenever he gets the chance. either of them might die any fucking day so goddamn it he's going to hug his little brother like crazy

💔angsty headcanon

emotionally stunted king. raised w/ the knowledge he would die for Gondor. as a soldier or as steward, he's dying for this fucking country. so his own wants? his desires? emotions? needs? those don't matter :) haha what do you mean they uh. they should matter? what??? nahhh....

🧸 hurt/comfort headcanon

Boromir Lives i do think he loses significant feeling/range of motion in his arm after gettin turned into a fuckin Gondorian pincushion. thankfully Aragorn's hands are the hands of a healer + he's happy to help massage away any aches/tightness

🪀silly headcanon

Théodred is endlessly frustrated that Boromir's hair is not long enough to braid properly. Boromir refuses to grow his hair any longer. this is a constant (joking) argument between them <3 (Théodred fully "your hair is literally the only way anyone would know you're not a true Rohir. grow it out!!" + Boromir "mm.. tempting")

💤sleep headcanon

used to sleeping lightly + functioning on the bare minimum as a soldier but in a Boromir Lives scenario i do think he sleeps like a fucking LOG when he finally adjusts to not being in constant danger lol

✨a ship i like with this character

Aragorn/Boromir for Painfully Obvious Reasons, methinks. also partial to Boromir/Théodred

🔪a ship i Don't like with this character

look, man. the amount of Boromir/Faramir fics I’ve seen. that’s his whole ass entire biological brother. 😒

🎃something i think they're afraid of

i mean painfully obvious but the loss of all the loves to the forces of Mordor

📦overall feelings about them

BITING HIM BITING HIM BITING HIM BITES HIM BITES HIM BITES HIM CHOMPS HIM SHAKING HIM AROUND I LOVE HIM SO MUCH HES MY GUY THATS MY GUY FUCKING BITES HIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

📢favorite thing about them in canon

HES SO. LOVING. i have waxed poetic abt Boromir + how deeply he loves + cares for things i don’t have it in me to do it again rn but that man is 90% love and i love him for it

🧨least favorite thing about them in canon

NONE? that’s my Special Guy? like yeah ig i cld be like ‘ooooouuuu his fall to the ring’ but that’s stupid bullshit and completely ignores the point that no one is above the temptation of the ring < which is why i prefer movie!Faramir + his temptation. stupid that he wasn’t tempted in the books like ily Fara but that’s bullshit

💬favorite line they've said

HRM well “have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets” ofc. my url for my Aragorn blog is “clear ringing” in Sindarin :3 (nellad ‘laen)

🔔unpopular opinion

do i have any unpopular boromir opinions??!? i think if u think he’s a villain ur wrong + will ignore any further takes. maybe “Boromir Is good” is unpopular in the broader fandom but I just don’t go there. I do not see it

🔊a song that reminds me of them

OAGH. asking me to pick just one. foolish. i have a ton of music in my tag for him on @nelladlaen so here r a choice few:

Magnolia — Baroness (heavy weight, one more soul / leaving flaming arrows / hold on, eyes open wide / it’s the curtain falling)

When Will The Wounds Ever Heal — Crom (my shoulders ache from the burden of the past / I thought that I could bear, yes I swear / it’s so hard to find the path that leads me through / the darkness that you left behind)

Shock Me — Baroness (this is an Aramir song to me. “in a dream / a great calamity / to stone my heart and firm resolve / and render nerves to steel” “a deep well of despair I found / the day my dreams came true” Aramir song.)

Eventide — Kamelot (we did not go quietly into the night / old friend, now it’s time for you and I / to wave our goodbye / I will be there waiting with a smile / when you arrive)

also does it fit his vibe specifically? no. but do I think a man groomed from youth to essentially sacrifice himself on the battlefield for his people, to be a Figurehead on a pedestal rather than a whole person with his own desires, deserves to listen to angry thrash metal way too loud for catharsis? Yes. so Hanged Man’s Revenge by Spirit Adrift

📝misc thoughts/headcanons (you can specify something not on this list or i can say whatever comes to mind first!)

i do need him carnally. me every time i think too hard abt Boromir son of Denethor, Steward-Prince + Captain of the Tower Guard

Faramir time!! 🪶🌲

🏳️‍🌈lgbt+ headcanon

gay trans man ^_^

💌fluffy headcanon

cat-bonks his forehead against Boromir when he's happy but nonverbal. autistic ass man to me

💔angsty headcanon

the man was covered in fuel and engulfed in flames he fully has burns at BARE minimum on his limbs/extremities…

🧸 hurt/comfort headcanon

look man i used to make back-alley top surgery jokes before i had my surgery + was gettin sick n fuckin tired with dysphoria. Faramir has absolutely made some miserable joke abt Boromir taking him out back + just lopping them off w/ a sword.

Boromir at least ran with it until he got Faramir actually laughing + distracted from the fuckin Horrors

🪀silly headcanon

he + Aragorn feed into each other's echolalia. its so bad. one of them picks up a phrase/noise + its never long before the other picks it up too

💤sleep headcanon

sleeps EXTREMELY lightly + wakes with the first light. even in times of peace, never gets out of this rhythm

✨a ship i like with this character

veryvery partial to Éomer/Faramir

🔪a ship i Don't like with this character

same answer as Boromir

🎃something i think they're afraid of

ahh.. thats an interesting question actually. i think there's a lot of sadness abt Faramir but not necessarily.. fear. perhaps losing Boromir? whatever he fears, he does not show it < he's already a better leader than his father lmao.

I do think he has nightmares about the pyre after. all of that.

📦overall feelings about them

honeg!!!!!!!! that’s my little brother!!!!!! < Aragorn kinnie voice

📢favorite thing about them in canon

HES SO DEEPLY GENTLE AND KIND WHEN OF ANYONE HE HAS THE MOST RIGHT TO BE BITTER AND COLD. HE IS A WISE MAN AND A STRONG LEADER AND MOST OF ALL HE CARES!!!!

🧨least favorite thing about them in canon

book!Faramir my worstie. u and ur middlemen shtick and the whole I’m Above The Ring beloved u are an entire Man don’t give me that BS. also unpack ur biases towards other races of men the Rohirrim don’t deserve this. least of all if ur gonna marry one 🙄

💬favorite line they've said

movie!Fara quotes bc i do love movie!Fara he's a special lil guy. two bc i can't rlly choose between them

His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is... where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home. If he would not rather have stayed there... in peace. War will make corpses of us all. — i feel like i love this quote for obvious reasons. ik this was expanded from Sam's internal monologue in the books but i do like Faramir having this line instead, showing again his compassion even in the face of such violence

Where does my allegiance lie if not here? This is the city of the men of Númenor. I would gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory… her wisdom… — this is my 2nd choice bc its such a like. such a good parallel of Boromir. or maybe not a parallel, but it ties so nicely into the idea that Faramir is trying to be Boromir for his father. so of course he'd give his life for Minas Tirith, because wouldn't Boromir do the same?

🔔unpopular opinion

again do I have one??? idk??? maybe that movie!Faramir is better than book!Faramir, that feels blasphemous lol

🔊a song that reminds me of them

Living Pyre — Khemmis (look is it ultimately a depressing song? yes. but it is a Faramir song to me.)

also Blacksmith and Ride On by Cruachan bc I think he’d genuinely enjoy Cruachan

📝misc thoughts/headcanons (you can specify something not on this list or i can say whatever comes to mind first!)

AUTISM CREATURE. WE ARE AUTISM CREATURES TOGETHER

autism2autism communication we r both staring into the distnce over each other's shoulders so we dont have to actually make eye contact

[beehindblueeyes]

hey i have a question about the kids deaths and i wonder if you have any ideas on how each kid dies! i think Paperboy and Griffin are the most obvious i think vances were because of the two slashes on his sides hitting arteries and i think robins was caused by the stab wounds on his chest. but bruces confuses me because they dont look deep or look very deadly.

!! I made a few posts on this before but I’d be glad to go threw it again (no one should have to scroll through my inane rambles to find the right one lmao).

And don’t even get me started on Bruce because his injuries change like eight times in all the behind the scenes photos we have and I just- Hhh.

Griffin-

As you said his are pretty self explainatory. There’s a bit of head trauma and a few slashes on his arms but it’s very clearly having his throat slit (you can see arteries and quite possibly his fucking windpipe) and some people added he may have sorta been laid out hunting style. To drain blood/keep it clean :(

Billy-

Also several  miscellaneous slashes. All the boys do and it’s concerning how even if their random they’re all deep. But his is , definitely the stab to the bronco’s logo.

Vance-

Also visible head trauma and likely had his heat beat against the wall or a much more physical fight. His nose is busted and bleeding but I think it’s the two twin gashes in his abdomen.

Bruce-

I’m planning on making a injury post later on like I did with griffin, as his sort of confuse me. They also change a lot in bts photos. I don’t think it’s the slash on his face- likely same as Vance the slash in his side. It’s deep enough to bleed heavily, but I doubt it would’ve been quick.

Robin-

I used to be confused by his too but then I noticed he’s pincushioned. A lot of stab wounds on his chest/shoulder on front and back. Blood loss.

[philtstone]

Your choice of FATWS characters, “feeling their temperature”

They're in Bucharest again, which would've been bad enough on its own. Sam figures if Bucky can manage to not bleed out within the hour, then they'll all get out of this one alive.

He mostly has faith in his partner. The mostly is there because Sam remains nothing if not a resolute pragmatist where neo-HYDRA ambushes and large explosions are concerned. On the other hand, the alternative is straight up unthinkable; Sam's operating on adrenaline alone, and he needs Bucky's help figuring out how to un-fuck this mess, thank you very much. 

Bucky bleeding out is not at all conducive to that need being fulfilled.

"Shit, shit, shit," Sam chants, mostly just for something to do, as he and Torres shoulder their way in through the peeling safehouse door. Joaquin is carrying the prototype metal briefcase they managed to abscond with, which is in turn carrying half a wall's worth of blown up, sharded glass and aluminum in its outer casing. Sam isn't quite carrying Bucky, but it's a near thing. Bucky's carrying the other half of that wall.

"Joaquin."

"Yeah!"

"Medical kit's in the bathroom, under my civvies --"

"Got it!"

Bucky groans a bit as Sam eases them onto the threadbare couch and assesses the damage. 

Bad. Like, objectively, bad.

But all the pieces seem to be fairly big -- or at least, they are from what Sam can tell. Bucky's shirt was dark already, and is darker now, pretty much all over.

"Don't tell me those old bones are actin' up now, old man," Sam says, pulling his gloves off with his teeth. He shucks his grimy jacket, washes his hands in the sad kitchenette sink, and drops to his knees. He doesn’t have a whole lot of close-up experience with serum-enhanced healing, but he can tell the blood’s been doing its damnest to congeal around the bits of shrapnel that are using Bucky’s upper right torso as a pincushion.

Sam, unsuited because of the covert nature of the op, would have been torn to shreds. Bucky had been halfway on the other side of the room as him. 

He does not think about this. They need good disinfectant . Meds will be useless. Does he still have his goddamn tweezers in his kit?

"Very funny, Sam," Bucky says, belatedly, and it is concerning only because the words are no longer coming out through harshly gritted teeth. Sam jerks his head to look back at him midway through digging through their lame supply of antiseptics. Buck’s started drooping -- wilting, or whatever. Sam can see his chin dipping into his chest and his eyelids fluttering.

It took them over two hours to get to someplace with cover. Sometimes these things cannot be helped. Sometimes it is nobody's fault but the bad guys'.

Doesn't mean Sam has to like it.

"Okay," Sam says, "time to take your shirt off."

"Doesn' ev'n buy me dinner first," Bucky mumbles, as though that's not the most cliched joke in the book. Joaquin skids back into the room with the med kit and Sam gets to work, familiar motions embedded in memory that's both muscle and personal. He focuses on the feel of the sheers Joaquin hands over against his palm, the tensile pressure of slowly-darkening gauze against Bucky’s twitching muscles. The cutters aren’t sharp enough to go through the sodden t-shirt, so Sam abandons them, and fumbles around beneath them before tugging out the switchblade he knew was there from the inseam of Bucky's left boot.  

He doesn’t really carry guns anymore, but that knife is always there. It tears in a clean line down the front. The rip is satisfying.

"You know anything I cook'll be better than a restaurant," Sam says, as he begins mopping up some of the blood for better visibility. 

"D'batable," Bucky slurs.

His breathing isn't properly shallow yet, but getting there. This is not doing anything to help Sam's mood. He uses gentle movements to lift Buck's right arm and get the last of the shirt of.

"Sam, scanner says we've got less than an hour to get out of here before we have company."

Sam puts pressure on the first entry point, gauze in hand, antiseptic burning his nose. Bucky's skin is warm under his hands. He starts on the smallest piece.

"You got any ideas? I'm all ears."

"Military," says Bucky. His eyes are still open, which is good, Sam thinks.

"What's that?"

"They were military," Bucky repeats. His head's fallen back against the couch now; his left hand is gripping the edge of the seat, hard enough that Sam can hear the springs bending and creaking beneath the stained taupe upholstery. He's breathing harshly through his nose.

Joaquin has scrambled back towards the window and is keeping an eye on the street below. He says,

"He's right -- they had insignias, those two weirdos who greeted you guys at the door, remember?"

"Yeah? You catch a rank and status?"

"Rank ..." The words peter out; Sam pulls the second piece out, drops it with a tinny clunk into the plastic cup Joaquin found in the motel room's kitchenette. He lines up the tape, lays down the gauze. Bucky inhales, sharply.

Sam starts again.

"Bucky."

"Nuh huh. Rank -- 'm, fuck."

Why are Sam's hands so warm?

"Torres," Sam says, "I need you to check him for fever. C'mon, Buck, talk me through this."

"Thought tha's what you were -- fuck --" Sam bites down hard on his cheek and twists his surgical pliers -- "doin' for me."

Bucky’s expression flickers into something resembling a grimace when Torres's dry hand presses lightly against his forehead -- of course they don't have a goddamn thermometer in this place, Sam thinks -- but he doesn't seem to be cognizant enough to react when Joaquin makes a small noise of dismay and turns down to Sam, wide-eyed.

"He’s burning up, Cap."

"Shit," mutters Sam. Of course; even with super serum, the human body's natural reaction to unattended, unwanted intrusions is to overheat. He’s never had reason to worry about how Bucky handles fevers before this. Sam, personally, handles fevers poorly. The extended logic is unwanted and frightening, so Sam refuses to acknowledge it. "Uh huh," says Sam, to Bucky, counting himself through the motions. His watch, close to his ears as works around a particularly finnicky bit of glass, ticks steadily. Clunk. "Keep going, man, we need ideas here."

But there's an indelible reality to the fact that his partner’s lucidity is doing its damndest to jump out the window. Uncoordinated breathing, eyes slipping from Sam to Torres to the ceiling to back again, and a slow-building, jittery twitch to his knee that Sam feels is racing him and the clock at once -- it’s useless, to try to figure out if it’s the temperature or the bloodloss or the fact that for the last twenty minutes, Sam’s had pokey metal things digging around Bucky’s chest.

The one and only time he pushed Bucky about going to a hospital, the guy didn't speak to him for almost three days. Sam doesn't want to think about it.

"Bucky, I need you to focus."

"Un huh."

Sam's hands work in fast, assured movements.

"Focus. C'mon, baby, eyes on me. What was their rank?"

"Higher up. Lady with ..." A loud breath -- "with th' hair..."

"Yeah," says Sam. He shakes his shoulders out, cranes his neck back and forth. Got almost got all the shit out -- there's maybe one or two pieces left, one large and angry, the other a smaller shard just barely clinging to the surface of Bucky's collarbone. "They could just be independents," Sam coaxes. "Probably just a handful of crazies."

Inhale, pressure, dig the tool in ...

Bucky's fully hyperventilating now.

"Sam --" This is Torres, from the window, eyes wide.

"Fuck," says Sam. "Bucky? Hey. Look at me.”

The reality of being the person in charge creeps up on Sam sometimes, out of the blue, breaking his heart. They need to get out of here, and fast. He doesn’t know where they’ll go -- how they’ll get there. His head is ringing from the explosion, and there was a part of him, larger than he’d come to anticipate, that Sam realizes was fully expecting the easy support of Bucky’s presence at his side: not taking charge, no, but backing him up -- hearing him out. 

He’s known, intellectually, that he will have to call the shots without that sometimes. It’s harder to contend with that fact when his t-shirt’s staining red and he can’t get Bucky to meet his eye.

“Hurts,” Bucky mumbles. His head has lolled over, cheek pressed into the gross couch, sweat lining his brow.

“Torres,” Sam says quietly, hands working faster, “I need to you start tryin’ to chart our exit.”

“But --”

“I know we don’t have a lot of options.” Bucky makes a small, inarticulate noise, as Sam dabs alcohol on the small cut on his collarbone -- “Start with what we know. There’s a shipyard two clicks away from us. That could serve as cover while we figure out the next step.”

“Okay. Okay, okay, yeah.”

Sam moves the pliers around the last, largest piece and nearly bites down on his tongue; Bucky’s left hand has jerked up to wrap around his wrist, stopping him, chest heaving enough that Sam can see with a wince one of his smaller bandages rip open. A couple bones shift in his wrist. Sam ignores this.

“Look at me,” he says, in a clear voice he doesn’t feel. “It’s Sam. You know Sam.” Bucky’s eyes are wide. Sarah joked once they were Bambi eyes, couldn’t figure out how someone supposedly so dangerous could’ve gotten away with being intimidating if he went around looking like that. Something about the memory breaks the intensity of the moment, grounding him, muting the knee-jerk urge to pull his hand away. He sets the pliers down, breath overloud in his own ears, and slowly brings his free hand to cover Bucky’s wrist. He squeezes twice. 

“You’re okay,” Sam says loudly. “I need to get this out and then your fever’ll go down. You gotta breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Bucky stares at him. Tick, tick, tick. The bones in Sam’s wrist groan, just a little. They breathe.

“Sam?” he chokes out.

“You back with me?” Sam says. It comes out more gentle than he means it to.

Maybe there is a mutual fear, there, he thinks -- of needing and not having. But then, has anyone ever gotten through this world all on their own?

He watches Bucky breathe again, on his own this time, shaky, one inhale and one exhale.

“Back,” he slurs. “Take it out.”

“It’ll hurt like a bitch,” Sam apologizes.

“Trust you,” Bucky says, and it comes out almost like an echo. Sam gets back to work.

[morallygreyprompts]

Bad Things Happen Bingo 3.0 #7

Breaking A Promise

Characters: Hero’s Sidekick, Villain, Henchman, (Hero mentioned)

Warnings: Creepy/intimate whumper, brief strangulation, threats, implied torture to occur

I'll be there. Those words rang in Sidekick's ears. Promise.

But the longer Hero's Sidekick sat in the waiting, the more henchmen appeared in the warehouse. They knew that unless Hero showed up soon, they were going to have to walk away from this. They weren’t going to get involved in a fight this big on their own.

Sidekick soon realised that there were too many there for them to even escape. Creeping to an escape was rapidly becoming an impossibility. They could not afford to get in a fight with this many. They swallowed back their panic. Where the hell was [Hero]?

Sidekick grimaced and reluctantly crawled into a small hiding space, hoping they wouldn’t get spotted here. They stayed still and couldn’t help but think of how much trouble Hero was going to be in when they got their hands on them. They couldn’t believe it! Hero had broken their promise and was risking Sidekick’s safety.

“Get those crates, quickly now, before we end up with company,” Villain ordered. Sidekick had no idea what crates they meant, and honestly, they didn’t want to try to look. They just wanted to get out of here in one piece.

Then the crate they were leaning on fell away, and they landed on their back with a yelp, followed by the sound of a dozen people drawing their weapons. Sidekick closed their eyes and sighed. “Fuck.”

Sidekick opened their eyes again and moved their head back so they could see Villain approaching them, although upside down. “I’m not going to try anything,” Sidekick said. “Can I sit up without becoming a human pincushion please?” “You may… this is quite the unexpected meeting, [Sidekick], at least in these circumstances. I’m sure you understand that I have to take advantage of them?”

Sidekick gulped and reached for their weapon, only to see a gun come into their peripheral vision. They gritted their teeth and raised their hands. “Alright, I get it, no fighting for my life, blah, blah, blah, just get this fucking over with.”

Villain chuckled. “You seem sour, what’s wrong, little hero?” “[Hero] is an ass. Unless you’re the reason they aren’t here, you’re welcome to punch them next time you see them and tell them it was from me- make it a good one.” Villain crouched down fearlessly in front of Sidekick and took them by the chin, raising their head. Sidekick grimaced as Villain moved it uncomfortably high. They knew Villain was taking their weapon while they were doing it. “I’m not going to kill you. You deserve to at least go down in a blaze of glory. No, you’re coming with me. I like you… I think you’ll make great company.”

Sidekick struggled not to panic when Villain’s grip changed, sliding down to their throat and squeezing. Sidekick tried to get their grip off, only for the henchmen to pull their arms away.

Villain chuckled and suddenly lifted them to their feet by their throat, making them scramble to get up. “Yes, you can most definitely come with me. You can tell me all about your troubles, and I’ll give you something to take your mind off it.”

Sidekick could barely bite back a whimper. The fear burned in their chest but the betrayal they felt hurt so much more. Hero had broken their promise, and had as good as left them for dead if Villain had their way.

I’ll be there. Promise.

They were never going to forgive Hero for this.

Like my stuff and want to support what I do? Then maybe consider buying me a Kofi? Ko-fi.com/morallygrey

[dancingbabya-notes]

Dialogue prompts prt. 2

Prt 1

Let’s go let’s go, not gonna lie I was really reaching when I started writing day 4 I had to create a whole list of characters I wanted write for and divide it among the prompts. But that’s enough of my complaints you’re here for the prompts.

This is a mixed bag not just bnha, also sorry if they don’t make sense, maybe I can elaborate on some of them later. I also tried to make it as neutral as I could without putting certain things in so if I messed up let me know.

4: “You look cold.”

(Mina)

“Why don’t you just come with me.”

You kept your mouth shut, everyone told you never to respond when someone tried to drag you along. It was late, the frigid air was making any breath leaving your body come out in clouds. So the person pestering you to follow them back to a bar or worse was making things worse.

“Come on, you look lonely maybe I can keep you company.” His arms wraps around your waist.

Just before you can shout at them to let you go. Another arm grabs your hand.

“R/N! I’ve been looking all over for you,” black and gold eyes stare into yours and the look of ‘I’m here to help’ made your insides melt.

“Really, I got turned around.”

Her hand shot up to your cheek. “You look cold! Come on, the other are… Do you know him?”

You shake your head.

“I was just…”

“Well, sorry. I have to take her off we’ve been planning this meet up for months now,” she smiles and you grab her hand tighter.

“Right, thank you for the offer but I need to go.” You manage getting free of the creep.

You weren’t sure how far you two got but eventually she led you to a restaurant. “I wasn’t lying about you looking cold. Let me treat you to a meal. My friends won’t mind another guest.”

“Thank you. Really.” You smile. Pink hair with short yellow horns poking out and you recognized who she was.

“Call me Mina, what’s your name?”

“Y/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

5: “What are you looking at?!”

(Inuyasha) (modern AU)

“Put the fucking camera down!” You heard shouting from the costuming room that your class had set up for the winter event. Frowning you bite the pin currently stuck between your teeth before walking over.

Standing, no. More like cowering at the top of the shelves like a cat that didn’t know how to get down was Inuyasha. His white hair had been pulled back and you frown as the other club members try to coax him down. Before his eyes lock on your figure.

“What are you looking at?” He growls.

You gently take the pins from your mouth pricking the pincushion on your wrist. “I’m looking at someone that’s gonna bust his ass and get us all in trouble. Your big brothers money can only go so far, and even if he can pay this off I’m sure you’re on thin ice.”

He clicks his tongue at you before jumping down and onto the desk close to you. “I’m not gonna.”

“Get off the desk, dumbass.” You snarl. “I’ve had it up to here with your temper tantrums. Stand still for this last fitting and you won’t get pricked again. The camera is mandatory or the student counsel is gonna cut the production again.”

He glares but slides off the desk into his full height looming over you like a monster. No more arguments and you stand in his place for the pictures, the costume was obviously not made for your smaller frame and you hated being on camera.

“There done. You better have your likes practiced or I’m gonna tell your big sister,” you huff.

“Leave my sister in law alone, I’m working as much as you tell me to,” he scoffs before leaving.

“I’m counting on you.”

6: “Ho ho ho”

(Bakugo)

Looking at the Santa costume you felt confused. There were two. A simple floor length dress that was sure to keep you warm, and a shorter cuter dress that only resembled a Santa dress. The problem was you weren’t even sure they would fit you.

“Stupid office party bullshit.” Your agency wanted to have a hero company Christmas party. The lucky individual that picked being Santa was you and another person.

“Do they fit?” You hear.

“I haven’t checked. Give me a second.” You pick up the longer dress, it’ll save you some embarrassment considering you barely showed your face in the field.

Undoing the lacing and trying to slide it on over you frown. Nope. Your upper body was too wide for it. Taking it off you threw the dress over the door to the other individual.

“I’m so sorry,” they apologize.

“Don’t worry, I’ll castrate anyone who says anything,” you grumble before getting into the decorative dress.

Red and short were the main things about the dress, no bending over, no running, and putting that smile on. Once you were ready you stepped out.

“Does it look bad?”

“Bitch, respectfully, I look so plain in comparison.” The other person pouts.

“Give me the capelet and it should tone mine down a bit and be fine,” you stick out your tongue before grabbing the lacing of the dress. “Let me do you the dress for you.”

On the floor of the gathering area you stand next to the large pile of presents for everyone in the company. The smile plastered on your face as you made sure everyone got one.

With your back turned you grab one of the top presents and hear. “Ho ho ho.”

The voice could not be mistaken for anyone else’s. Turning to the offender you bit your tongue as not to pull the water from the air and hit the arrogant blond.

“Wanna run that by me again?” You ask lowly.

“You heard what I said. Ho ho ho.” Usually someone, anyone would have jumped in the middle to defuse the situation or he would have actually known to react. But this was not the moment.

The water gripped his legs and slammed him to the ground as you placed your foot just between his knees. “Looks like someone’s gotten on the Naughty list. Too bad, you get a lump of coal for that.”

Maybe it was the quickness of the action or the bewilderment of being on the ground but Dynamight or Bakugo when out of uniform, did not more or react until you threw back a cheekily little smile. Though his reaction wasn’t of anger, that expression quickly disappeared.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah yeah, a week in the office I know.” You wave your hand dismissively.

7: “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

(Itadori)

You pressed your hands into the sticky dough making sure that you got the consistency right. It was still too sticky to be rolled out and cut into cookies.

“Y/N.”

Looking away for a second you squeak. As a hand reaches for you.

“No, no it’s my turn in the kitchen. I can’t make cookies if your leaning over my shoulder like that Itadori,” you frown pushing him away gently.

He only smiled.

“Come on I need space to…you can’t eat it until I cook it,” you scold. “No using Sakuna to sneak any either. Nobara!”

“Just let him watch. It’s not that bad to have someone else while you cook,” someone calls.

You grumble. “If I don’t let you guys watch me what makes you think I’ll let someone else watch?”

Itadori pouts. “Can’t I just stay in the room?”

Looking at the dough you sigh.

“Fine! Just shuffle the Christmas playlist on my phone.”

As the music started you continued your task and soon the dough was ready to be rolled out. You could feel him behind you as you rolled out the dough and suddenly he was too close to your ear.

“Baby it’s cold outside.”

You had half a mind to flip out and hit him with the roller but this took way too long to get done just for some stupid international relations.

“If you don’t—“ you turn quickly with a hiss. But he hadn’t moved away.

Now you two were face to face. What is that sound? Is that you’re heart? You damn near collapsed into a ball hiding your face. What were you gonna do when your class went back to America at the end of January?

8: “Is that Mistletoe?”

(Richard Grayson)

In the Wayne Manor everyone was constantly on alert. Guests were no exception, especially when it was the hero verity.

“H/N, what are you doing?” The chipper voice of Nightwing made you stop.

“Alfred told me to decorate the edge of the ballroom, thought I could participate some how,” often times you wondered if everyone who lived into the manor had a knack for picking up strays. Batman mostly, but everyone else had their quirks as well not wanting certain individuals to feel excluded.

“Why don’t you change out of your work clothes then?”

You frown. “No, donning my human guise isn’t comfortable.”

“That’s not what I—“

“Stop flirting with any alien that comes into the house!” Someone else shouts.

Suddenly before you could react something was over your head. Looking at it you hear him say.

“Is that mistletoe?”

A kiss was planted on your cheek as confusion settled on your features. You didn’t have a chance to react before the acrobat disappeared.

9: “All I want for Christmas is you.”

(Diluc) (semi-Modern AU)

The Angel share was bustling with activity as usual, but even more so with the winter holiday approaching. Diluc didn’t often want to leave from behind the bar early, in such a deep relationship with his work that others often joked that he’d marry it if he could. But watching the patrons of his bar stumble about and prattle on about matters he kept a tabs on something told him to leave the bartending to Charles.

“I’ll be at the Dawn Winery,” Diluc waves before jumping over the counter and dusting off his clothes.

“Tell the Missus that I said hello.” Charles jokes.

Diluc almost said something snarky but a playful smirk played on his lips as the image of you filled his head. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the greeting.”

The tall red haired man left the building as less intoxicated patrons and the staff turned to probe for answers. Only to receive the closing for the front door to the Angel share. It was a bit of a hike from the main city of Mondstadt back to the location of the Dawn Winery if you weren’t well versed in the shortcuts.

So as Diluc got to the resident area where he and you lived, he wasn’t expecting to hear you singing. Your voice was like a wonderful melody to his ears even thought you claimed not to have a musical bone in your body. He walked into the kitchen where you were most likely stress baking to find you belting out a particular song that had been plucking his nerves.

The exact moment he walked in you faced him and sang. “All I want for Christmas is you!”

Upon making eye contact though you felt all the blood drain from your face as it quickly rushed up and you cover your face in embarrassment.

“Oh dear archon, how much did you see?” You weren’t sure if you should be more upset at your husbands lack of announcement upon entry or angry.

“Only the last bit, I’m sure you’d slay my on the spot had I walked in sooner. Whether the weapon be your sword or the spoon,” he laughs. It wasn’t a mocking laugh it was one of pure joy. The time spent with you gave him a moment to relax showing you a smile that was only reserved for you.

You cross your arms the batter dripping from your spoon as you pout. “But it’s true… All I want for Christmas is you.”

10: “Here, take my coat.”

(Tetsutetsu)

December was cold. Not cold in the sense of temperature though that was part of it. No it was cold in the sense you hadn’t received your cold weather hero costume. Very clearly everyone knew that you couldn’t stand the cold yet somehow your costume wouldn’t be ready for a few more days.

“H/N, are you okay?” “Woah is she not cold? I’d be freezing.” “H/N you got this.”

As you returned to the agency you grumble a string of curses as you try to acclimate to the extremely warm building.

“I wanna go home.” You whine.

“Want me to walk you back?” Tetsutetsu smiles as he reaches down for your freezing hand.

You give a weak nod. “Please.”

Both of you go the respective lockers and Chang back into your civilian clothes. You didn’t even want to bother with the reports for the day cause every last one was going to be punctuated with fact that you still did not have your cold weather uniform. But where you drew the line was tampering with your clothes.

That was it. With a sigh you pull your back pack off the hook and throw what was left of your coat into the trash. Carefully you walked out into lobby and grabbed your personal items off the area that had been yours.

“This was fun while it lasted, fuck this.” You mutter to yourself as you take out the resignation letter you prepared.

Taping the letter to the desk you waited for Tetsutetsu. He was just walking out of the locker room.

“Y/N, you’re gonna freeze like that. Here, take my coat.” Before you can refuse his warm jacket is on your shoulders.

“Thank you Tetsu, let’s go home. I have a lot of work to do.” You smile.

[alexseanchai]

👀

codename "the one like the SPN djinn episode", started after Gang of Secrets and Guiltrip aired and not expanded upon any since then (and no, I don't know why there's so many double spaces):

.

"You could still live at home," Papa reminds her, wrapping her desktop monitor in shirts and skirts to cushion its journey. "You'll always have a place here."

"I know, Papa." Marinette unplugs her sewing machine and looks around for what she meant to pack it in; the case she made for it a couple years ago won't work, she's using it to carry something far more important. She stares down at the case in question, remembering gluing down the carnation-pink contact paper in both white polka-dot and plain, taping down the stencils to apply white and black spray paint for her signature plum blossoms and initial M. "I want to make it on my own, that's all."

This was her brand. Is her brand. Will still be her brand when Marinette is a name as known as Versace and Dior. It's just going to be her brand in ESMOD student housing first.

169, 107, 144, 367, Marinette thinks. All Pantone numbers matching colors of sewing thread that opening the black-polka-dotted lid proves she keeps in this case, next to fabric scissors and both hand and machine needles and a measuring tape and a thoroughly stabbed tomato pincushion, above the empty space reserved for her sewing machine. What she might want to make with these specific shades of melon, yellow, orange, and light green, she doesn't know. She'll ask

when she's alone.

.

The house is overflowing with the delicious aromas of baked Camembert and baked salmon; Adrien can tell already that Simeon has outdone himself. There's time for at least one more piece before dinner, though, and he's pretty proud of this one, and despite the shouting about shipping delays Adrien heard from the atelier earlier, Father's in a good mood. It's worth a try.

"This was originally written for an orchestra by contemporary composer Uematsu Nobuo," he tells his audience, none of whom he expects to recognize the name. Nino would, of course, and probably Max and Adrien's other gamer friends, and of course

encouraged Adrien wholeheartedly, but the adults of the Agreste household? No way.

He braces himself, just in case. "Arranged for solo piano by Adrien Agreste, this is 'Waltz of the Moon'."

Barely three measures in, Father rises from the sofa and bows to Maman. She smiles, stands, and takes his hand, swirling into a stately dance as though Adrien's bedroom still is the ballroom it once was. He's smiling too, and she's moving and breathing with ease, light catching on her earrings and his glasses and their wedding rings in turn, and they're both happy. Nathalie is too dignified to dance, or indeed to do anything but stand a few paces back, but she's tapping one hand on the other in the one-two-three rhythm Adrien's playing.

Simeon slips in midway through the piece, and nods approvingly when Adrien finishes, then gestures downstairs; dinner must be ready. "It smells marvelous," Adrien tells him. Nathalie and Adrien's parents precede Adrien out; Adrien glances around for someone who isn't there, habitually sliding one bare hand into his empty pocket to click his ring against the four-luck-clover bead.

.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," Alya chants, giving absolutely zero fucks about her livestream. "Sitting fucking ducks—"

Ladybug is floating supine in some pink glittery substance, eyes closed, head tilted back and arms and legs drifting down. Chat Noir is now much the same, only prone and Alya can't see his face, and enclosed in a different transparent purple spiky membrane. Kim's already tried rushing the thing, only to find out the hard way that the spikes have a paralyzing effect.

Whatever else Eukaryote might be doing, this sentimonster has taken the heroes out of the game.

Protist is a different sort of problem. Ivan swiped a chair from the nearest restaurant's outdoor seating and tried to crack one copy of the akuma over the head, or what passes for a head when they're red seaweed with a face, only for them to absorb him and promptly undergo cytokinesis. Minion-creating akumas are always the most fun. Fun is definitely the right word. (Alya's bet is somebody tried to unionize their biology class.) There's twenty of Protist easily. One's paralyzed, because Papillombre played himself, but—

One of the Protisters looks up from someone's phone and points straight at Alya and Nino.

"Nino, I need you to trust me and cover me," Alya says, quiet in his ear. He nods; she hands him her phone. "Hey, Paris, you know what we need?" Alya shouts to her viewers. "A counter-Protist!"

"Don't die," Nino adds, solemn, and hefts the restaurant's nearest empty table as a shield.

.

"Glycolysis takes place in the cytoplasm, creating the fuel for the Krebs cycle in the mitochondria," Adrien recites without looking up. "That in turn fuels the electron transport chain."

"Very good," says Mme Bustier. "Alya—"

Adrien tunes right back out. He still can't tell if she sounds faintly disapproving; he got it word-perfect, he's certain, and he will know it when he needs to do something with it, but he is also very much focused on the bracelet he's designing right now, and there is no concealing that. Or, well, he supposes he could try—a drawing app on his tablet might be a good start—but the scratching of colored pencil on paper right behind him is too familiar a sound to be absent.

There's two pink beads. He's almost certain of that. Red cord, and a red bead, and a black bead? Black and red should look really good together, actually, and now that Adrien's thought of it, he's surprised hardly anyone uses that color scheme. (He won't suggest it to Father, though. Life is too good right now to gamble like that.) He puts down the pink pencil and picks up the black one, darkening five dots in the quincunx pattern of a die face, then sketching in the rest of the cube and filling in the spots on adjacent faces before shading the entire cube red. This drawing joins six more dice drawn mid-throw; déjà vu is weirdly kaleidoscopic, he thinks, picking up the green pencil to draw a fourth large flat bead with a four-leaf clover.

"—Alix and Adrien," he hears Mme Bustier say. "Juleka and Lila. Max and Rose."

Chloé groans dramatically. "Kim, switch partners with me," she commands. "I'm sure you'd so much rather work with Nathaniel than Sabrina."

Adrien's pencil tip snaps. "Better either of them than me," mutters Nino, abandoning Adrien for Ivan. Adrien turns to ask to borrow a sharpener from Alya's seatmate; Mylène scoots into the seat Alix left and beckons Alya across the aisle, leaving the table behind Adrien's empty.

.

The assignment to put a personal twist on the classic little black dress is straightforward enough, Marinette supposes, outlining a sweetheart neckline in black shower crayon—no, that's too cleavage, make it semi-sweetheart. She drops the shower crayon back in the caddy with the rest and goes for the face soap while she considers the problems, careful to scrub behind her ears and beneath her earrings and in the little crevices between nostril and cheek where there always seem to be a pimple or two in the making.

The problem is, she wants to design this for someone. Not just herself. But she doesn't have a someone.

This dress can't be so form-fitting Marinette has trouble moving in it. Given that, her body shape, and her personal preference, A-line silhouette it is. Fabric—silk if layered right has historically made pretty good armor, she knows, even if textile engineering for military purposes has long since made that obsolete, but if she wants armor that doesn't look like armor, she wants leather.

Also (she thinks, rinsing off), this is a strapless below-the-knee cocktail dress, unless she adds leggings, in which case the skirt hem can hit mid-thigh. Why would she be thinking about armor?

Marinette's design will be the best in her class, if she just turns it in. (Assuming none of her classmates have a miraculous spark of genius; having met them all ever, she thinks this is unlikely.) Which means—she shuts off the water and reaches for her towels, careful when she dries her hair not to snag the fabric—which means she needs to actually draw something that isn't in shower crayon to turn in. She won't deserve to be the crème de la crème if she doesn't prove she's the best, if she doesn't keep getting better.

Ugh, okay, so, leaving the dorm, maybe heading to the Trocadéro or somewhere for inspiration? Marinette picks her outfit on autopilot, confident in her previous designs and her closet organization to make sure this combination works, and lingers over her jewelry box: all her earrings are clip-ons, of course, but maybe this will be the week she works up the nerve to get pierced ears.

[magalidragon]

So this is in response to a prompt ask I got awhile back from @freesoulladyaic— they requested beauty underneath and I am not sure exactly what but I think there was a mixup for which prompt list and number was requested so I went with the one I thought made most sense I hope you don’t mind and so sorry it has been so long! Enjoy!

Prompt: “I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too.”

"Fuck!"

"Language."

Jon looked up from where he'd stabbed his thumb with a pin, a series of them stuck between his lips.  He made a face at his wife, who was on the other side of the room, working on another dress form.  He lifted up the yards of shades of red soft organza and tulle, which he'd been alternating in a macrame styling on the bodice of the gown.  He'd been pinning them to the waist, already marked on the form.  It was giving it a very ethereal look, but with the deep colors, indicative of the Targaryen crest, the overlay looked equal parts ash and fire.

He finished off the bodice, taking the remaining pins from his mouth, and turned the form, frowning at the back, where he wanted to make the two straps criss-crossing from shoulder to waist thicker, both in black.  The red was just the detailing.  He pursed his lips, contemplating how best to achieve this, and felt eyes on him.  He lifted his, meeting Dany's gaze across the studio.  He smirked.  "What?"

"You're so focused, so intense."  She licked her lips, arching her brow teasingly. She purred, "You know what that does to me."

"Keep it in your pants, we've got dresses to finish."

"Hmm, the auteur himself, Jon Snow, working on his creation."  She sauntered over, in her long black housecoat, which she wore when working, her feet bare on the hardwood and jeans rolled at the cuffs.  Her hair was bound up in a scarf, kept from her eyes while she worked.  It was a decidedly unsexy look, measuring tape over her shoulder, pincushion strapped to her wrist and her pockets heavy with thread and a little set of scissors tucked into a brace on her other wrist, like she was some sort of sewing superhero.

He smirked up at her, the stool he was on swiveling over to her.  "Well I promised the client that I would have my best men on it."  He puffed his chest.  "And that happens to be me."

"Funny, I thought I was the client."

"You are, what do you think so far?"  He chewed his bottom lip, studying her face as she perused the fabric draped and pinned to the form.  He pretended like her opinion meant nothing to him, but in reality it was the only one that mattered.  If there was even a hint of dislike, he'd destroy the entire thing and start again.  It worked both ways.

She trailed a finger along the macrame detailing, the straps across the back, and lifted up the tulle strewn along the floor.  On the table he had sketches of the design, fabric samples pinned to a board on an easel, and at least one of the leather leggings he'd been sewing to go underneath.  While she studied everything, he got up, too nervous to watch her, and went into the adjoining office, picking up his vape.

Clamping his lips around it, he puffed, holding it in his mouth like a 'binkie' as Dany teased him, and picked up some sales reports, flicking through the assessments from their CFO.  They'd poached Willas Tyrell from his grandmother, mostly because he was bored with the steadiness of the established company and wanted something new.  He was brilliant, had taken their sales higher than even Jon had imagined-- and that was pretty far.

Dragonwolf had become the most sought after couture house in Westeros, while he transitioned L.Stark into an upscale ready-to-wear line, headed by Sansa.  Dany still maintained her CEO position over Dracarys, but Missandei had taken over as creative director.  It afforded him more time, he'd discovered, to do the things he really enjoyed doing.

Hanging out with Ghost, coming up with new creations, and Dany, not necessarily in that order.

He sucked down the fake smoke from the vape, tricking his brain it was actually a real cigarette, the action habitual and relaxing his nerves.  He sank into his chair, glancing at the photo of his mother he kept on the edge of the desk, smiling briefly at the image of her laughing, arms around him as he was wrapped up in fabric from playing in her studio.  His gaze darted to the image right beside it, of Dany in the same pose, hugging him after she had wrapped him up in fabric too.  It was in the same place, the same location he'd just come from, their private studio in the old townhome in Winterfell.

The vape still between his lips, he moved to the window, cranking it open and blowing smoke into the nighttime air, glancing towards the castle up on the hill.  The dresses were for the annual Winter's Eve Gala event, something of a who's who in the zoo of the Westerosi peerage and entertainment industry.  It was a chance for the Starks to show off the castle, everyone to arrive dripping in icy couture and jewels, and pretend like they gave a shit about the lesser people among them. There would be a famous silent auction, fundraising for the Lyanna Stark Memorial Fund-- which was incredibly important to his heart-- along with an award that would honor someone who had contributed significantly to Lyanna's chosen cause-- orphaned children.

But the thing people seemed to care most about was what everyone would be wearing.

He was making Dany's dress and she was making a dress for a new young actress as well as the young cousin of her friend Ser Jorah Mormont.  Lyanna Mormont was a Lady, technically, but you wouldn't know it.  She was a pistol.  This would be her first big event after her first movie had hit the scene, garnering her immediate raves and attention.  It was a big deal for her to be getting a chance to wear a Dracarys creation, especially handmade by Dany herself, but it was the least Dany said she could do for the young girl who made her smile and laugh every single time she encountered her.

Jon finished his vape, returning to the studio, and found Dany back to work on Lyanna's dress.  There were no notes left for him, so he continued to work, both of them silent.  He kept at it, accepting her kiss and murmured "don't stay up too late" with a distracted nod, remaining at his station into the night.  He pinned and draped and sewed, every stitch even, like his mother taught him.

Around two in the morning, his eyes burned, but he leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk, and Ghost under his legs, fast asleep.  He was working on the leggings, finding hand-sewing leather to actually be a relaxing task.  It was soft in his hands, buttery almost, and he likened it to his mother, watching her work on making her own riding clothes.  He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, and pulled on thread, slipping it in and out, until his eyes drooped further and further, until he was fast asleep.

--

The suit he'd chosen to wear was one of Dany's. The irony of L.Stark by Jon Snow, award winning and bestselling couture men's designer wearing a suit from anyone but his own line, especially Dracarys.  It was something he never would have thought possible two years ago when they were at the height of their hatred for each other.  Nay, he corrected himself, it wasn't hating, it was unresolved tension, best resolved by the explosion most everyone witnessed at the MET gala.

He adjusted his tie in the mirror, smoothing the velvet brocade over his chest, eyeing Ghost, who looked like he wanted to run up to him.  He pointed his finger, warning.  "No way. This is black velvet.  I'll never get your fur out."

Ghost wagged his tail, thankfully staying put on the bed.

Indeed, it was an incredibly comfortable and finely detailed suit, black silk tie with matching black velvet brocade along it-- if you got close enough you could see it was wolves and dragons running and tangling throughout, swirls of flames and snow following them.  That was a hallmark of Dany-- her ability to tell stories with her designs and the intricacies of her attention to detail.

He left their room, knowing she was elsewhere in the suite at Winterfell, where they'd deigned to stay that evening to prepare for the event.  He thought it a little silly; they would have to pretend to "leave" just to "arrive" at the same location and walk up the icy blue carpet with photographers.

Price they paid, he supposed, for business.

He left the suite, taking his time down the set of stone stairs spiraling down from their sitting and bedroom areas, into a receiving hall.  Davos was already waiting, their constant taskmaster, and he had Satin floating about somewhere.  "Where's Arya?" he asked.

"I believe she said and I quote 'fuck this shit, I'm not going.'"

He snorted, fixing his cufflinks.  "Sounds about right."

Davos checked his watch.  "I'll go check on the car."

"Stupid Davos, this is stupid."

"It's just a whip around the block."  Davos nodded, signing, resigned.  "Although aye, it is stupid."

"What's stupid?"

Jon heard Dany's voice before he saw her, and turned, looking up the stairs to where she was at the top, waiting for him.  He gaped, mute, and jaw dropping the moment his eyes rested on her form.  It took his brain a second to catch up with his body, which was already responding in kind, and another second for his voice to return.

He choked, watching her smirk at him, knowing exactly how she appeared and what she was doing.  Especially with the slow descent she took, every step tiny, allowing the full effect of her appearance to settle.  He could not believe it.

It was one thing to see a dress on paper, another in progress, and even the final version on the form or on a model down the runway.

It was another when it was on the person who inspired it, who it was meant for, from the first sketch to the final stitch.

Dany floated down the stairs, the dress whispering around her, the crimson and black rippling through the soft tulle.  It gave her a fairy-like appearance, but it was the black macrame, the black strappy heels on her feet, and her black fingernails, leather leggings, and crimson lips that warned eveyrone she was no simpering little thing.  She would burn you alive.

The skirt floated about her and she had topped it off with the see-through tulle gloves he'd made at the last minute.  Her silver tresses were spun in a complicated braided style, mountains of them criss-crossing and tangling in a crown about her head.

Someone asked her once why she always wore her hair in such intricate braids-- it had become her trademark.  "When I was growing up I learned a lot about the Dothraki tradition of a braid for a victory," she explained.  She had smirked.  "I grew up with the Dothraki.  They were my family.  I have never been defeated.  The braids show that."

Jon couldn't believe how gorgeous she was.

Or how lucky he happened to be.

He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, found his voice.  "You know, I prefer you naked but that dress looks really good on you too."

Dany beamed, her smile beatific.  She offered her elbow to him, to take and lead her away to their car, but instead he lifted her hand delicately, even though that had was stronger than anyone would have thought at first look.  Eyes on hers, unblinking, he dragged his fingertips up the tulle, delighting in her breathy hiss.

He dipped under the top of the glove, above her elbow, and began to peel it down, agonizingly slow.  Her pupils dilated and mouth fell, her tongue darting out to nervously wet her lips.  He plucked at fingers, removing the glove.  With her skin bared, he stroked her forearm and then lifted her knuckles to his lips, brushing over them.

"Jon," she gasped, brows arching.  "We're going to be late."

"Do you think I care?"

"It took forever to get into this dress and look like this."

He spun her into his arms, tossing the glove down, and nosed at her neck, whispering along her racing pulse.  "I made the dress, I'll be careful."

"Not a word in your vocabulary."

He didn't acknowledge that, because he was kissing her.  After a moment, he lifted her under her knees, hurrying her back towards the stairs, to her delighted giggles.

Occupational hazard, he thought, later when they were late, racing down the carpet instead of allowing photos taken.  He made her the dresses, even though honestly, she looked good in anything.  Or nothing, as the case may be.

"Dany, who are you wearing?" someone called out.

Dany shouted back.  "Who do you think?"

He laughed, racing after her and not even bothering to answer the same question directed at him.

[scars-of-the-hart]

Tempest on the Shore: Shakarian angst on the Citadel

Her legs had finally stopped trembling. Shit. Shepard tried to hold onto the last tendrils of the woozy, tingling, mind-wiping high.  But it was like trying to hold water in cupped hands, it slipped away through the cracks no matter how tightly she tried to hold it, leaving emptiness behind. And the emptiness was loud. She let out a frustrated sigh and rolled over shifting to the edge of the bed, remembering exactly where she had dropped her pants and tank top. She hadn’t bothered with underwear for this in ages. 

“Um...excuse me?” Demanded the salarian in the bed pressing himself up onto his elbows.

Shepard gave him a puzzled frown.

The salarian (he had a name but she’d intentionally failed to commit it to memory) imperiously raised a scaled brow at her. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“That noise you made.”

“What noise?”

“You sighed.”

“Oh...um did I?”

The salarian scowled at her. “Yes, you did. Look honey, I don’t know what your problem is but two hours with me will not result in the most quad-rung overstimulated krogan feeling dissatisfied so you better get that little viscous crack looked at.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and cast a disgusted look between her legs. “Because it is the problem. Not. Me.”

Shepard just stared at him. She was tempted to pay him double because she was close to laughing, which was more of a service than anything he’d done in this bed. But the spark went out as quickly as it had come. 

She shook her head as she tucked a hand between her legs. Not too wet. Manageable for the walk back to the Normandy. That was the handy thing about salarians. The females created enough moisture of their own that the blokes were pretty dry in the bed. As she pulled her pants on she gave the salarain a hard look. “I appreciate that you take so much pride in your work, but you're worrying your giant head over nothing. You were great. Thanks.” He still looked pissed as hell. She vaguely tried to care, but just couldn’t.  “Keep to working with people's bodies, you’ve got no natural ability with their heads.”  She pulled her tank on, bound her tangled mane of red hair in a messy bun on top of her head, crossed to the door and waved her omnitool across the payment console. It registered her transfer of credits and the door clicked as it unlocked and hissed open. She gave the salarian a mocking salute as she left.

“See you in two weeks, freak.” He called after her, his voice full of venom.

She tried to ignore it. She wouldn't be back, she lied to herself as she made her way along the wards. The streets were wet from the rain that had been falling before she started her session with the salarian. The layer of moisture almost made this part of the Citadel beautiful. There was something about the extended blur of the neon lights that made them romantic, instead of just... seedy.  

 A human who passed her made the mistake of eyeing the motion of her breasts under her tank and she gave him a look that told him exactly what kind of retribution that attention merited. He turned instantly pale and hastily turned down a different street. She should care-about the way he had looked, or his reaction or...or anything.  She pushed away that thought as she tried to push away every other, shifting her focus to the way walking made her recently stimulated vagina feel. She shifted her stride, trying to stir any lingering feelings of pleasure, to tease out a last rush of dopamine, but it wasn’t working. Between the bitchy salarian, and the oggloing tool...or maybe it was just her. Just the empty, broken, piece of shit she was.   She glanced at the time on her omnitool. She had half an hour before the end of their shore leave. Fuck. She could be fast but that wasn’t going to give her enough time for a session with anything if she wanted to avoid judgmental looks from Miranda and the Cerberus goons for coming back late when she was the one who had threatened to depart without any stragglers. 

You know what, fuck it. I didn’t ask to come back from the dead. 

She pulled up the booking page that had become the top listing for her “frequently used” extranet sites, and started typing in her preferences. Doesn’t matter if I pay for a full session and only use a few minutes. What am I gonna do with credits when the Reapers get here? Try to pay them off?  She filled out the request sheet as she walked: either gender, cunnelingus.  There literally wasn’t time to fuck around with penetration. Species. The form asked. Shepard grunted impatiently, didn’t really matter, she just needed something waiting for her when she got to the back rooms of Chora’s Den.  She selected turian by accident, and then physically collided with one. 

Shepard rubbed her forehead where it had collided with the offending turian’s armor as pain lanced through her head. Ok, any lingering effects of the salarian generated dopamine were definitely gone now. She glowered up at the mandabled idiot she had run into, preparing a curt, ufelt apology, and fell silent as she caught sight of the glow of a blue visor. 

SHIT

“Commander…” Garrus’ browplates furrowed as he stared at her in surprise. Shepherd’s mind went completely blank as she just stared at him. His crystalline eyes widened in concern and more than a little shock. A steadying hand went to her arm and his rough tipped fingers round her brow, testing gently.  “Are you...I’m sorry I should have-”

Shepherd’s gut clenched and she quickly brushed away his hands. “Been watching where the fuck you were going. Yeah. Work on that.” His head cocked ever so slightly at her harsh tone, his eyes narrowing a fraction.  

“I’m sorry, Shepard.” His mandibles flared in irritation. “I was endeavoring to make it back to the Normandy as you-”

“-yeah, well if you're that careless while carrying out an order you're not gonna last two minutes against the Collectors.” She snapped.  His eyes narrowed further, every calculating thought clear in those eyes. Fucker. Shepard though. Her stomach clenched. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have the energy or the...anything, for this. “ I’ll have to put what’s left of your cold ass carapace in a box.”

And then she saw his chin set: slightly raised, head tilted ever so slightly to the right. His pissed off defensive posture. She was too tired and empty and furious and stressed and scared and- 

Shepard turned on her heel and started stomping towards the nearest tram station that would lead her to the Citadel docks.

“Yeah,” Garrus called after her, “if you can still afford a box and you haven’t spent every last Cerberus credit at Chora’s.”

Ice shot down her spine. She stopped, turned slowly and stared at the turian.  “Excuse me, Vakarian?”

His chin was still set. “I’m sorry, is there something inaccurate in my assessment?” He drawled.

She hadn’t ever been followed...not that she cared if she had, you just didn’t survive the shit she did and remain capable of not checking for tails and hostels and whatever.  She didn’t care. She shouldn’t care. Why would she care if he knew? Especially if it was Garrus. Garrus who had gotten his whole crew killed. Garrus who’s medical chart after taking a rocket to the face had shown just what crap the turian had been pouring into his body (well...Moria wasn’t going to point fingers there..unless certain taloned fingers were already pointing at her), but that wasn’t the point why should she care? Except he shouldn’t know.

She gritted her teeth. “I would say there is as I have no idea what you are talking about.”

His eyes were cold as they narrowed. He casually lifted the hand that had, only minutes ago, brushed tenderly against her forehead, and sniffed it. His nostrils flared. “Salarian. Human sweat, yours, by the way, we’ve spared enough for me to recognize it. “

“Oh, fuck you, Vakarian.” She spat. “I probably smell like you, dipshit, after running into you. Who the fuck do you think you are throwing accuzations at your commanding officer?”

“You do smell like me.” Garrus snarled, “but it's different, and there's also a little krogan, asari and batarian-” she opened her mouth to snarl at him but he spoke over her “-not that those are from today, or you, not quite in the same way as the salarian. My guess is those scents are left over from whoever else was in the room before you.”

Rage washed through ther. “If you want to get back on my ship you’ll shut that pincushion of a mouth right now.”

Garrus’ nostrils flared, and she didn't think it had anything to do with him smelling her this time. “You asked me to come aboard!”

“Yeah,” Shepard snarled, “and I remember someone saying that he couldn’t exactly doubt my judgement.”

“That was before you were fucking everything and anything on the wards.”

It was like the world bottomed out around her. Nothing existed but his eyes and those words. She saw fear flash through them for a second, before being replaced by that same rage as before. 

“And what the hell makes you think what I fuck is any of your goddamn business?”

There was some hurt in the rage. “Because I’m your friend Shepard.”

“Yeah. Friend. And crew. Neither of which has anything to do with the personal choices I make.”

“Look,” he said, “taking on the Collectors, everything with the Council, coming back from the dead I get that its a lot to deal with-”

Heat rushed through her cheeks. “And I'm dealing with it so back the hell off.” 

“You’re being reckless there’s-”

Why was this happening? Why was she having this conversation? Why did it matter- she shoved the thoughts a way and glared at him. “Don’t talk to me about “being reckless” Archangel.”

It was a direct hit. Garrus blinked, a different type of pain in his expression. Shepherd’s gut twisted. It was a low blow. A fucking dirty low blow. 

He looked away from her, staring out at the skycars soaring past the walkway, then gave her a long look out of the corner of his eye.  “You are reckless in the field. You are tense on the ship. Its behavior I recognize. I was there recently, as you have so kindly reminded me.”

She wanted to say something. But she didn’t. She just held his gaze.

He slowly closed the difference between them, staring down at her. She refused to give ground: she didn’t move her chin an inch, and continued to glare up at him. He tilted his head so that he could meet her gaze and said slowly. “I don’t care who you fuck.” They were inches apart. “I care why you make bad calls when you know there are better ones.” She couldn’t breathe. His long slow breaths tickled her nose. “You asked for my help.” The challenge in his eyes made her blood sing. “So I’m going to call you on your bullshit, Shepard.” 

He’d been the one to support her after Eden Prime. Someone who had seen through Saren’s lies on his own. The one she wanted on her side on every mission. The only one who hadn’t questioned her using Cerberus…An feelings the salarian had left in her body were gone, the vague numb bliss replaced with the electric currents those eyes sent racing through her. She was rooted to the spot and ready to rush him all at once. She wanted her hands on him, to tear, to push against that immovable impossible weight and solidness of him. That was what she wanted. She wanted something real, something strong, something constant, something she could unleash herself against without fear. Her lips parted as a breath escaped them, crashing against his like a wave. 

But something broke the spell between them and Garrus pulled back. “No one on that ship is in their right mind.” He said quietly. “I have a feeling we’re all going to have to grapple with spirits that haunt us if we want a shot at taking the fight to the Collectors and coming back in one piece.”  He gave her a last long slow look. “But I think you need to figure out what the hell you're actually fighting for.” And with that he turned away, walking towards the docs without so much of a backwards glance. His crest cast a long shadow on the ground in the slowly dimming lights of the Citadel promenade, and Shepard felt herself fall into darkness as it slipped away.

[anna-the-undertaker]

La Volpe

Ex criminal/thief MC

Mitsuhide x  MC

Reader insert

At Azuchi…

The Warlords sat in the audience chamber, all wearing grim expressions, each with differing severity.

“Lord Nobunaga,” Hideyoshi began. “What do you plan to do?”

His face was a mixture of worry and anger, but Nobunaga just smiled cockily even though everyone present could tell that he was enraged himself.

“We will do nothing,” his grin widened.

Mitsunari’s concerned voice flitted through the room, “They likely knew that we don’t currently have the resources or numbers to take Kasugayama with kennyo’s threat pressing against us.”

Masamune punched the tatami mat as hard as he could, “I’m going to kill them,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Send me to get her back and I’ll bring back the heads of all of them.”

Ieyasu scoffed, “That’s suicide. What good are you dead? All we can do for now is hope she can hold out until we have a plan.”

There was worry written in the blonds eyes, along with an ever present fury.

“Mitsuhide,” Nobunaga called.

“Yes, my lord?” Mitsuhide smiled, keeping his calm facade even though he was seething on the inside.

“Find out what's happening in Kasugayama and if our Fireball is still alive.”

The Kitsune’s smile widened, a gleam in his eyes, “As you command, my lord.”

Mitsuhide’s eyes hardened as soon as he was out of the room. If anything had happened to (y/n)… The Kitsune would stop at nothing to bring Kasugayama to its knees. Come Hell or high water, he would find a way to get his Little Mouse back. 

_____________________

A week later…

There was a commotion at the front gate. Vassal’s were scrambling as a single horse and rider came bursting through the courtyard wearing a suit of Uesugi armor. 

Coming to a sudden halt, the rider fell from the saddle, hitting the ground hard. They pushed themself up, sitting back on their knees, a growl of pain gritting through clenched teeth. Soldiers surrounded them as they removed their helmet, letting hair come falling down their back and revealing their face. 

“It’s the Princess!” One of the vassals shouted as they rushed to pull you up and bring you inside. “Someone go alert the lords! And bring Lord Ieyasu quickly! She’s injured!”

The castle was now buzzing as vassals and servants alike rushed about to have everything prepared as the Warlords arrived just in time to see the state you were in and their eyes widened.

 An arrow protruded from your shoulder and thigh, a ripped piece of fabric tied hastily above the leg wound to slow the blood flow. Sweat doused your skin along with dirt and grime that covered you from head to toe. Blood had soaked into the pale blue armor turning it purple, almost black. There were bags under your eyes so deep it looked like you hadn’t eaten or slept in days and a cut that ran across your cheek and lip. 

The Vassals ushered you into your room with Ieyasu hot on their hills, supplies piled in his arms before pushing them out and slamming the door shut.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded as he sat you down as gently as he could and began pulling the armor off, cutting the fabric without agitating your wounds. 

Your pain and exhaustion took away all your inhibitions and made your tongue sharper than before, “Isn’t it fucking obvious? I escaped. I thought you were smarter than this.”

Normally he would retort but at the moment he just let it go. His panicked mind held back any and all words other than asking how.

“That can be explained later,” you spat. “For now, just get these damn arrows out!”

He removed the last bit of clothing leaving you in the fabric you had used to bind your breasts and trousers after cutting an opening to expose the arrow in your leg.

His eyes widened at the sight before him. Elbow to neck was covered in colorful designs that flowed towards the chest. Your entire back was covered as well, depicting a red fox along with other designs surrounding it. 

He was brought out of his stupor by the shivering that began racking your body. Placing a hand on your shoulder to hold you steady, he began feeling around the wounds. They had become feverish, hot to the touch and swollen, red streaks flowing over the affected areas. All he could think was that you were lucky that infection had not set in yet as he set to work. A mumbled apology fell from his lips as he pulled the arrow free and a scream tore from your throat.

He finally emerged some hours later, a tired sigh escaping his lips. The other Warlords were there waiting for him as he instructed some of the maids to have some light food prepared for when you woke up.

“What is her condition, Ieyasu?”

The blond’s green eyes locked onto Nobunaga’s carnelian ones, “See for yourself,” he huffed. “She’s asleep for now but she is going to need to be on bed rest for her wounds to heal. (Y/n) claims that she escaped though I can’t hazard a guess as to how.”

Mitsuhide rounded the corner with his customary grin, “The intelligence I’ve gathered can confirm that. All of Kasugayama is in chaos thanks to our little Chatelaine. However, the only way we will know what she did is when she tells us.”

Nobunaga came forward with the others close behind to peek into the room. You were rolled over onto your side, your kimono hanging half off showing off the wrapping around your shoulder and exposing part of your back piece. Their reactions were similar to Ieyasu’s when he first saw it with only Nobunaga and Mitsuhide keeping a straight face. They closed the door now that their concerns were put at ease and left you to rest.

____________________________

A few days passed before you were able to move around but when you were finally well enough a banquet was held to celebrate your return. Masamune had made all of your favorite dishes and everyone seemed to be in high spirits.

Nobunaga sat upon his dais watching you with a large grin, “Fireball, I order you to tell me what those colored markings on your skin mean.”

A sad smile graced your lips from behind your sake cup, “They are called tattoos, ink pushed under the skin with needles and are a symbol of what I once was and that I have paid off my debt.”

Many brows raised in response before Mitsunari spoke up, “What do you mean?”

You downed the rest of your sake in one go and sat the cup down, “We all have parts of our pasts that we have left behind, but if you must know, I was a street rat. I had to steal food in order to eat and I had no home until a group of criminals took me in. In return for saving me from starvation the leader had me work for them. They taught me how to steal and with every completed job they added more ink to my skin until I was finally allowed to leave.”

Ieyasu laughed, “You’ve never struck me as a professional criminal.”

“That’s what made me so good at it. I looked unassuming and could blend in with the crowds with ease. Distract some guards while the others grabbed the goods or I would scope out our target. Eventually I was best among them and they were sending me out on my own. They called me La Volpe,” you poured yourself another cup. “That means ‘the fox’. I guess Mitsuhide and I share a nickname. What do you have to say about that, Kitsune?”

The look of pure surprise on the man's face was priceless, sending you, Masamune, and Nobunaga himself into a fit of laughter. 

He quickly fixed his expression with a smirk, “And you were never caught?”

“No. It isn’t difficult to change your appearance so that no one recognizes you. Cutting your hair and changing clothes are often enough, and hiding a feminine physique is easy with the right bindings.”

“Is that how you escaped Kasugayama?” Hideyoshi questioned.

You chuckled wryly, “Partly.”

“Explain,” Nobunaga commanded.

After taking another sip of your drink you sat up straight, “I used the first two days to memorize the guard shifts and took note of the one that was closest to my size, then waited till both kenshin and Shingen were out of the castle.”

“What does that have to do with how you escaped?” Ieyasu grumbled.

 “With both of them in the castle, it would have been next to impossible for me to escape alive. The Uesugi-Takeda are under the impression that I am Nobunaga’s concubine so I used it to my advantage,” you rolled your eyes and laughed. “I’ll make this simple for all of you, all men are willing to believe two things about a woman: One, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. Naturally, I played the terrified girl and lured the guard into my cell before knocking him out and stealing his armor then locked him inside after tying him up and gagging him. I was already at the stables by the time they realized what had happened and they gave chase. Which is why I ended up as a pincushion.”

“Damn lass,” Masamune was laughing hard. “Who knew you were such a badass!”

 “Honestly, if it weren’t for the horse riding lessons from you and Mitsuhide, I wouldn’t have made it back here alive. So thank you.”

“Maybe we should have you working for Mitsuhide instead of acting as our Chatelaine.”

You waved him off and smirked, “No, that part of my life is over. I’m fine with where I am. However, I’d be happy to teach some of the vassals what I know.”

Conversation flowed smoothly after that. You were glad to just sit back and watch as everyone smiled amongst each another. Happiness surrounded you as your eyes softened.

“Well, well, Little Mouse, you look splendidly content. Or should I call you Little Fox now?” Mitsuhide teased as he took a seat next to you.

You chuckled, “You may call me whatever you like, Kitsune.” 

You both fell into a comfortable silence and you started to doze off. Your head began to fall forward when Mitsuhide pulled you closer and laid your head in his lap. His fingers ran through your hair, a softness he only showed to you covered his features as he gazed down at your sleeping form. He still had plans to cause more chaos for the Uesugi-Takeda, but for now he settled for watching over you. 

His gaze lifted back up to the others when he caught sight of Nobunaga smirking at him knowingly. The Devil King lifted his cup, his voice echoing over the chatter. 

“A toast to our Chatelaine, our resident Red Fox.”

They all raised their cups quietly having noticed you were now fast asleep. The kitsune smiled as he lifted you up and left the room, making his way to yours. He placed a kiss on your brow, “Welcome home, (y/n).”

[mrsarnasdelicious]

Napoleon Solo - Needles

Napoleon sits down beside you. He looks on for a moment while you do your needlepoint. You gives your working hands a pondering look. 

“There must be something better to do with those infernally boring needles.” He says. You fluster instantly. It is as though Napoleon can guess your fantasies. “L-leon.” You stammer. “Yes, my love.” He smirks. He can see right into your brain.  You lay down your needlework. “Can I ask you something crazy?” You ask him, your voice quivering. “Of course you can.” Your fiance purrs. You take a deep breath in and put down your pincushion.  “Would you please use a needle on my skin?” You ask. You are too shy to look up at him.  You startle a little when you feel him grasp your chin. He makes you look at him. “Use the needles, how?” He asks softly. You feel your heart speed up. “Any way.” You mutter. 

“Stand up, doll.” Napoleon tells you. You oblige, getting up from the sofa. “Now how about you undress for me?” Napoleon suggests. You slowly undress, putting up a show for Napoleon. “Very good.” He purrs. He is all too happy to watch you undress.

“Now come here.” Napoleon pats his huge thigh. You quickly straddle his leg. “Very good indeed.” He breathes huskily. He cups your ass and greedily kneads your flesh. You moan wantonly and grind down on Napoleon’s thigh. “Hmm, yes.” Napoleon groans.  He surges upwards to kiss you, hard. You eagerly kiss back. Your tongues do battle and you moan into each other’s mouth. 

Slowly you start to fiddle with Napoleon’s clothes, but he nudges your hands away. “No no, this is all about you.” He murrs.

He pulls a needle from the pincushion. “Are you ready?” He asks. You swallow thickly. “Y-yes.” You affirm. Napoleon smirks. “Wonderful.” He purrs.  Slowly Napoleon begins by dragging the needle over your arms. You whimper and shudder. But it is by far not enough. “M-more.” You whine. Napoleon brings the needle to your lips. Your core clenches in wanton anticipation. Carefully Napoleon runs the needle over your lips. You moan loudly. “Oh god.” Napoleon grunts. He gingerly pricks your upper lip. “Fuck!” You cry out. Napoleon repeats the ministration. 

You grow wet. You feel how greedy you vore his for his cock. You want to be fucked so badly.

Napoleon writes his name across your collarbone with the needle.You whimper and grins down on his thigh.  He trails the needle lower, scratching it ever so carefully over the flesh of tour breasts. Gently Napoleon stings your nipples with the point of the needle. “Oh!” you gasp loudly. Your core gives a firm clench.  You grind down on Napoleon more firmly. “Shall I do that again?” He asks. You nod feebly. Napoleon chuckles softly and stings your other nipple. “Oh fuck.” You moan.  Napoleon bites his lip. “Damn, you love this, don’t you?” He cooes. “Y-yeah.” You mutter. “Good, I do too.” He grins. 

He stings your nipples, left and right. Not once, not twice, but many times. You moan and grind down on his thighs. This is so intensely good!

“Leon, I need your cock inside me.” You whisper. You fiddle with the fly of his slacks. Gently, Napoleon catches your wrists. “Not yet.” He says softly. “You are not worked up enough yet.” He smirks.  “You are cruel, Napoleon Solo.” You accuse him with a pout. Napoleon smiles his most charming smile. He sting your bottom lip ever so carefully. “I know.” He replies. 

“You should feel how wet I am.” You murmur. “Should I?” Napoleon tilts his head. 

His free hand slips to your thighs. “Tilt your pelvis.” He orders. “Yes, sir.” You whisper, obeying. “Good girl.” Napoleon purrs.  Rather than testing your wetness, Napoleon carefully exposes your clit. Your moan as his touch softly brushes the sensitive nerves. 

And then, Napoleon ever so gingerly pricks your clit. “Oh fuck!” You cry out. “Yes, you like that, don’t you?’ Napoleon whispers. You feebly nod. Napoleon licks his lips and pricks your clit again. You core clamps down on nothing and you whimper loudly. “Please, please fuck me.” You whine. Napoleon makes a thoughtful little noise. “Hmm... I just might.” He purrs. 

He undoes his belt and fly. You fish him from his boxers. “Good girl.” He says. 

Slowly you sink down on him. Napoleon groans hotly. You moan back at him, it is so good to have him finally inside you. Napoleon sting your clit again and moans loudly when your core tightens around him.  “I am going to fuck you so hard.” He grunts. 

Word he, of course, keeps.