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hyenahunt · 3 months

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[TRANSLATION] Chocolat ◆ An Exceptional Rouge and Ruby - Masterlist

ES will be holding its own Chocolat Fes from this year onwards. Wanting to show off Eden's authority, Ibara announces that they will also be performing on stage as Adam & Eve.

✦ Season: Winter ✦ Writer: Umeda Chitose ✦ Release Date: 15th February 2023 ✦ Characters: Ibara, Jun, Hiyori & Nagisa ✦ Proofreading: royalquintet (JP) & Skyress (ENG) ✦ Translation: Mirei (Adam) & hyenahunt (Eve)

Prologue: ✦

February's Situation:

✦1 ✦2 ✦3 ✦4 ✦5 ✦6

Youth's Depression:

✦1 ✦2

Warmth & Compassion:

✦1 ✦2 ✦3 ✦4

Eventual Affection:

✦1 ✦2 ✦3 ✦4

Epilogue:

✦1 ✦2

✦✦✦✦✦

Mirei's comment:

it's an event that means a lot for Ibara because he learned that the underlying attachment he has on Eden grows big enough to make him feel unconsciously complicated sacrificing "his work" for the higher up's need. So I wish everyone get to pay attention to the very different yet warm way of each Eden member's support for Ibara in this event to reach the goal he wish to bring for Eden itself!

Jay's comment:

Jun has anxiety and Ibara learns about love. Also there is a lot of chocolate and Nagisa is happy to eat it. And Hiyori larps shoujo manga. Eden's V-day event story from 2023 and yet another collab with Mirei, finally up on the day of its anniversary!! Thanks so much to Mirei and the team for all their patience with me... and of course to everyone reading as well It's pretty much the spiritual sequel to Solid Stage and refers back to it, so definitely check that out before reading!

#ensemble stars #enstars #enstars translation #hyenahunttl #s: rouge and ruby #type: event #type: masterlist

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bebemoon · 1 month

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"persephone returns (spring)", requested by anonymous .

jacquemus sheer mini dress in olive green, s/s 2o18

ann demeulemeester "satu" satin draped tied sleeves in burgundy

valentino garavani rosebud ankle-wrap heeled sandals

byredo "rouge chaotique" extrait de parfum

zeyzey jewelry handmade gold-plated and ruby-encrusted pomegranate earrings + wendy nichols "the triple pearl" chain drop stud earring

208 notes · View notes

heich0e · 7 months

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begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea.

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel.

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either.

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.”

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh.

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink.

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!”

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns.

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much.

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight.

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.”

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour.

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours.

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first.

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed.

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock.

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn.

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly.

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this.

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill.

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one.

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet.

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out.

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly.

This man keeps apologizing to you.

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful.

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway.

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?”

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all.

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy.

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?”

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest.

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question.

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.”

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet.

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it’s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.”

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish.

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door.

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.”

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click.

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

#nicholas wolfwood x reader #wolfwood x reader #poly vashwood #trigun writing #trigun fic #writing

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messy-gemini1 · 2 years

Text

His No Life Queen

Alucard x reader

I'm bored and been back on my hellsing shit :)

In every life he's ever lived, she was there. When he was the count; she was his countess, regal and full of life.

When he turned and slaughtered his army, he thought he had lost her for good. He had assumed she would turn and run for the hills, but she had only cupped his jaw and smiled at him.

"you've soiled your clothing my love" she had spoken to him with full devotion. He realized then that she would be his no life queen, that she would stand by his side throughout time without a second thought.

When he turned her, he hated the whimpering cries as the curse took effect on her body. When she finally awoke. ruby eyes staring into his own. He never fell harder for her, letting her drink from his own nectar.

He made love to her that night, their immortal growls howling through the ruins of their kingdom.

When he was captured by the hellsing organization, he forced her to flee and to never look back. In his dudgeon he slept, his mind was plagued with the thought of her, her beauty, her integrity and her devotion to a godless man such as himself.

When he was freed from his slumber by Sir Integra, he wanted nothing more than to search the globe for his missing queen. It would be years before he found her.

He found her when searching for a rouge vampire, only to find it had been slaughtered by his own queen. The grin never left his face even when she didn't recognize him at first, glowing amber eyes glaring into his form before his scent hit her and her guard was lowered/

He wrapped his arms around her form, spinning her around in the night sky, her laugh filtering the night like a never-ending party.

his hands never left her body, even when introducing her to his master. Intergra was very surprised by the Vampirine. His queen was respectable bowing to the human master and laying her hands out, to be bound to his own master just to be closer to him.

Alucard made love to her once more in the deep dungeon, where their growls and screams could not be heard, and they could let their desires run free.

Even in the darkness she shined like the moonlight, (s/c) skin shining in the candlelight. He worshipped her like a goddess and worshipped the ground she walked on.

When he found and turned Young Seras his queen was jealous at first before becoming like a mother to the young half-ling. Alucard watched as she babied Seras and often berated him for being so harsh on her. Integra enjoying the banter between them.

When she killed, she was like an animal; and Alucard reveled in it. he loved the way her skin smelled of blood and death after a mission or how she would smell his clothes that reeked of gunpowder residue.

When the war on London happened and he was stuck on the boat, he could feel her fury as she slaughtered those who dared attack the hellsing manor.

He regretted allowing her to see him vanish, tears streaming down her face as she begged him to stay, begged him not to leave her once more. He smiled, just as the sun began to rise and case a grey glow to the destruction across the country.

He apologized and pulled her into one last kiss, begging for forgiveness as he faded away, letting her drop to her knees and scream into the empty space, punching the concrete until her knuckles bled.

30 years later; when he returned to his master and mate, he hadn't expected her to forgive him. He watched as she cried once more, hitting his chest with all her might only making him grin.

"Tu conta prost! (You stupid count!)" She screamed at him, even with tears streaming down her cheeks and anger in her eyes she still looked so beautiful and so full of life, even without a heartbeat.

Alucard allowed her to pull him into their shared room in the basement where he worshipped her once again, showing her how sorry he was for the last 30 years and how he would make it up to her, never allowing her to rest until he felt he should be forgiven, even when she begged for him to stop, over stimulation and sobs racking through her form he continued his movements.

He praised her once he was done, their wounds healing on their own as they laid in the makeshift nest she had created, their coffins leaning against the wall just a few feet away.

She forgave him, stroking his hair and pulling him into a kiss. "My bwautiful no life king" she spoke, a small grin appearing on her face as he kissed along her neck, marking her once more.

"My no life queen" he purred, allowing her to pull him into her bosom for rest as morning came, lulling them into slumber

#hellsing #hellsing x reader #Alucard x reader #Hellsing Alucard #hellsing ultimate

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megalony · 2 years

Text

An eventful night

I haven’t done a Sonny Carisi imagine for a while now but I’ve gotten back into my SVU writing. I hope you all will like this one, feedback is always lovely.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez-blog @jonesyaddiction @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @hellsdragon @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ceres27 @avyannadawn @dreaming-about-fanfictions

Masterlist

Summary: Sonny agrees to go undercover with (Y/n) in a sex trafficking ring, but he can’t stop her getting hurt.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"(Y/n)? Would you infiltrate, he knows Amanda but he hasn't seen you yet."

"I'll go with her, he hasn't seen me either and it'll be safer."

Why did she agree to this? The mere thought of going undercover in a sex trafficking ring at a pimping party set her skin on edge and made her stomach churn horribly. She could get hurt, someone could try get handsy with her and she would break her cover fighting them off. What if she got cornered and hurt or assaulted?

Her nerves were barely controlled on the job, how would she be going under cover like this?

But Sonny was going with her. He wasn't about to let her go into a room full of pimps without at least one person in there with her that she knew and could trust. And who better to go in there with her than her own boyfriend. He could have her on his arm, wrap himself around her like a vine as he always does and get snarky with anyone trying to touch her and they wouldn't wonder why because she would be his girl.

A tingle ran down (Y/n)'s spine when her eyes cast down to look at what she was wearing for what felt like the hundredth time in a minute.

She had on a tight-fitting bright crimson dress with ruffles along the waist and spaghetti straps on the arms. The dress appraised her curves and figure lovely but the problem was that the hem barely covered her bum and sat on the very tops of her thighs. If she moved in the wrong way it would become a long shirt rather than a dress and her matching red lace underwear would be on show for everyone to leer at.

Her hands moved to pull down the dress again, wanting it at least another two inches down her thighs just to feel safe and protected but it slowly ruffled its way back up her legs again.

Her lips were smeared a darker shade of red and her hair was pinned up in a sultry style that always had Sonny on edge.

When her eyes landed on Sonny, her stomach tensed but for a different reason this time. His hair was slicked back into a curly wave as usual, but he was wearing black, high waisted trousers that clung to and showed off his hips. Tucked into the waistband of the trousers was the white dress shirt he wore which he had rolled up at the sleeves and the first two buttons undone. He was a sight for lustering eyes but when his own eyes found (Y/n), they seemed to widen like dark pools filling with desire.

"Wow... you look stunning, doll."

Sonny advanced over to (Y/n) and wrapped an arm around her lower waist before he pressed his lips to her temple, not wanting to smudge the rouge on her lips just yet.

"Careful Mr Carisi, you're on camera." A smirk pulled at (Y/n)'s lips when her eyes cast down to her cleavage and her finger tapped at the ruby hanging on a chain around her neck. It looked simple enough, the people they were investigating would know anyone in their group couldn't afford a real gem. But it would be impossible for any of them to realise that it was really a secret hidden camera to record the nights events.

"I'll have to bear that in mind, you ready?"

(Y/n) took a deep breath and tried one last failed attempt to pull down her dress before she nodded and walked ahead towards the lift.

"Sonny!" His name came out in a gasp when (Y/n) felt his hand come down and land a loud smack to her ass.

"What, I'm just getting into character." He shrugged his shoulders with a smirk that could kill, knowing that his girl was blushing because they were still in the precinct and eyes were now burning holes into them.

It was going to be an eventful night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Casting his eyes to the right, Sonny watched (Y/n) accept a glass of wine with a sultry smile, noticing her lipstick smearing around the rim of the glass with wine as red as her dress. He watched her hips sway and bounce from side to side as she slowly passed between the people dotted around the room. Her head dipping down as a silent hello, batting her lashes at a few people to try and make herself fit in.

He didn't like the way people were looking at her.

Granted, Sonny knew they were looking at her in a hungry, devouring way because they expected every girl here to be limitless and available to them and their looks meant that (Y/n) was blending in just fine. But he still didn't like it. Their eyes were looking far too long at his girl, the one he was here to protect and keep a watchful eye on.

If he lost sight of her for even a minute, someone could try and whisk her away to a secluded room and that was not going to happen.

Moving around, Sonny sat himself down on the end seat of the sofa to his left and took a swig of the beer in his hand. He had to at least look like he was meant to be here and enjoying himself somewhat.

"Hmm, fancy coming with me to the back for some... fun?"

A shudder ran down the base of (Y/n)'s spine at the crude tone of voice coming from a rather sleezy looking man. His grin showed crooked, discoloured teeth and his breath reeked of alcohol, more prominently, of gin. (Y/n) could practically feel the grease dripping off him and when he slid up close to her side she had to stop herself from gagging and try to look a little swayed. She was meant to be a sex worker, a girl who was hurt into submission, told that no was not something she could say.

She was supposed to pretend to be easy-going, up for anything and anyone because that was how every other girl and woman was at this party and she couldn't stick out like a sore thumb.

"Ha, you'd have to ask the boss about that." (Y/n) darted her tongue over her lips before pressing them together and tilting her head down, smiling devilishly at the revolting man. She curled a strand of hair around her finger before consciously biting her finger to try and put on a seductive show.

Her head turned in Sonny's direction but it seemed that he had heard the conversation so a desperate look wasn't needed to get him to help her out.

His arm swooped out in one swift motion and curled around her waist like a hook that reeled her in. His fingers sank softly into her hip but with a firmness that showed the protectiveness inside him was growing. Sonny effortlessly pulled (Y/n) down to sit on his lap, his heart jumping at the sound of her surprised giggle before she made herself comfy against him.

"My girl here is off limits 'til tonight, right sweetheart?" Sonny locked eyes with the drunk pimp whilst he pressed his lips to (Y/n)'s neck, biting the sweet spot beneath her jaw just to feel her tremble against him like jelly.

(Y/n) could only find it in herself to nod along with his words, unable to speak while his lips were at work against her neck.

Her head tipped back against Sonny's shoulder and she placed light kisses against his neck, feeling a groan grumbling against his Adam's apple at the touch causing his arm to tighten around her waist. At least this way they could stay close and be comfortable with each other without worrying that they were going to draw the wrong kind of attention to themselves tonight.

It felt like hours had passed as more people buzzed into the house, grabbing drinks, spilling drinks, exchanging intimate kisses and touches and drunk girls giggling. (Y/n) had seen a few girls clock out of the room and disappear upstairs before coming back down trying to rearrange their hair and clothes, a few of them with saddened eyes and shaking limbs.

Downing the wine remaining in her glass, (Y/n) tipped her head further back against Sonny's shoulder and the back of the sofa, wishing they were at home instead of this pimp house that reeked of alcohol and drugs.

(Y/n) had shimmied from side to side, turning to make sure the camera in her necklace got a good view of everyone here and all the girls so they could find out who they were and make sure when they raided this place, everyone was accounted for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sonny couldn't keep a close eye on (Y/n) when the raid started.

He had tried to push her behind him the moment the others burst through the door and announced the house was under arrest. He knew that (Y/n) didn't have her gun with her, she managed to tuck her badge into her tights just near her underwear since it was the only concealed place she had on her. But she didn't have anywhere to stash her gun, the dress would outline the bulky weapon too easily and it couldn't exactly stay down her cleavage with the dress being low cut and people constantly leering at her.

But somewhere along the line she had moved from behind him to tackle a pimp trying to run through the kitchen to make a break for his escape and Sonny was too preoccupied on pinning and cuffing the man he had tackled to the floor.

"What are you doing, come on we need to get out!" a girl in a skimpy leaf green dress grabbed (Y/n)'s hand and tried to pull her up the stairs, hoping no officers were there so she could climb out a window and make a break for the streets. All the girls had their own safe places to go and meeting points to get back to their pimps or other working girls.

"The officers will keep you safe, they're not here to hurt you." (Y/n) held the girl's hand, smiling gently to try encourage her down to Olivia.

"I don't know who your fancy man is, but mine won't bail me out if I get caught. W-what are you doing?"

A spark of fear tremored in the girl's stomach when (Y/n) shook her head and reached under her dress to grab her badge.

"If he loved you, he wouldn't sell you for two crumpled notes. Why live like this when you can take a hand and get proper help?" (Y/n) didn't exactly wait for an answer, she used the girl's stunned silence to shock her and drag her down the stairs towards Olivia. The girl was going to protest, it was clear as day in her eyes but (Y/n) didn't have time to debate with her whether she thought she deserved any better than this life.

Bypassing Olivia very swiftly, the girl dodged past Amanda and Sonny and ran through the kitchen, only turning her head when she heard (Y/n)'s voice behind her and saw one of the men beckoning her to hurry and follow him to escape.

Sonny's head snapped to the left when a gunshot rang through the air making them all stop, wondering who started firing again.

A gut-wrenching sound left his lips when he watched (Y/n)'s head snap back towards her back and her body tumbled backwards as if someone had given her a shove off the edge of a cliff. The way she crumbled to the tiled floor made bile jump up Sonny's throat as tears fell from his eyes.

She was shot.

Silent prayers rattled round his head as he skidded and stumbled on the polished floor, discarding his gun before he headed towards his girl. He could see the blood trickling down the side of her head and starting to drip onto the floor like a leaky tap.

"Baby? Oh Doll can you hear me? Baby... baby!"

Sonny's voice trembled but got louder and louder with each syllable until he was almost screaming the words at her begging for her to open her eyes and look at him or wake up or move a finger, just do something. His hands shook as he cupped her face in his palms, trying to see where she had been shot.

Moving his fingers, Sonny dabbed his fingertip against the left side of (Y/n)'s temple, parting her hair so he could see the damage. She was breathing, he could hear the soft scraping noise of air leaving her nostrils but when she fell, he could have sworn the bullet had gone to her head and no one could survive that, surely.

Her hair was soaking with blood, each strand was turning dark rouge, sticking to his fingers like smudged ink or jam and making it harder for him to part her hair to see her scalp and assess the damage. Sonny growled before letting go of (Y/n)'s face and using both hands to part her hair, seeing there was a long gash on the side of her head an inch above her ear. She hadn't been shot like he thought, the bullet had scraped deeply against her head but it wasn't lodged into her skull or skin.

The breath of utter relief that Sonny let out came as a choked cry before he went back to cradling (Y/n)'s face in his hands, smoothing his bloodied thumbs over her skin.

"I need a bus!" He snapped his jaw like a crocodile before his tone changed and he looked back to (Y/n). "Baby... wake up doll, come back round to me."

Scanning his eyes around him, Sonny sat back on his heels and ripped the bottom of his shirt, scrunching it up before he pressed it to the side of (Y/n)'s temple. He had to keep the blood flow at a minimum until she got to the hospital and got the care she needed. He brushed the hair from her face, holding back from shaking her shoulder in a desperate attempt to wake her.

A breathless noise left Sonny's lips when (Y/n)'s eyes slowly started to flutter like the wings of a butterfly. He could see she couldn't get her vision in focus but her lips parted and a dry, croaky gurgle vibrated against her throat and a dribble of blood trickled down her lips.

"Baby, I've got you it's all gonna be okay... baby?"

Sonny couldn't quite work out the look on (Y/n)'s face, her eyes were half lidded, her lips were spitting blood and groaning but it was the way her muscles pinched at the cheeks and her lips moved into a wobbling shape like she was made of wax and starting to melt. He could see (Y/n)'s hand trying to move but she couldn't find the ability or energy to move it properly, only shake it an inch from the ground, her fingers curled at odd angles, shuffling and seeming to indicate to her head.

"You're hurt Doll but I'm gonna take care of you, shh doll don't- what?" Sonny gently took hold of her hand and lowered it back to her side, he didn't know what she was trying to point at or do but she didn't need to burn energy trying to move. She had to stay still in case she had any nerve damage to her head or neck.

Such a noise like a mewling kitten trying to scream left her lips and her face contorted into one of agony making Sonny's heart break deep in his chest.

She couldn't hear him.

(Y/n) was trying to scream, to talk, to make any noise she could but she couldn't hear herself or anything around her. His words weren't comforting because they weren't reaching her ears.

"Okay Doll, let's get you help."

He had to get her outside and see if any medics were about to help, he had to find someone to help her, she'd been shot for God's sake.

Taking extreme car when moving his hands behind (Y/n)'s head and neck, he slowly shifted her head so it was leaning against his shoulder, the rag of shirt pressing to her wound now trapped between her head and his shoulder to keep stemming the blood flow. He could feel her chest vibrating, trying to make some noise and show she was awake and in immense pain but her voice was too quiet for him to make out what she was trying to say.

Sonny slowly slipped an arm under her knees, his other arm protectively and strongly around her upper back before he cradled her to his chest like he was protecting an endangered child.

"I need a medic here! Don't worry Doll, you'll be okay."

#sonny carisi #sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi imagine #imagine #dominic x reader #dominic carisi imagine #dominic carisi #Olivia Benson #Amanda Rollins #law and order #law and order svu

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valkyrietookme · 1 year

Text

"Chocolat ◆ A special drop Rouge & Ruby" event announcement translation

Summary: "Chocolat Fes" is once again hosted by ES this year. Ibara, who wants to prove 「Eden」's authority, announces that 「Adam」 and 「Eve」 will participate with different stages.

Ibara: "...... Aah, shit. What the hell am I doing..."

Jun: "...... Aa, like that saying? If you keep sighing happiness will run away?"

Nagisa: "...... Putting forward both your true feelings and what everyone expects. Ibara, you must be quite restless"

Hiyori: "It's sad to know you're trying to keep things from us you know......!"

#enstars #enstars translations #ensemble stars #ibara saegusa #jun sazanami #nagisa ran #hiyori tomoe #es eden #es adam #es eve #event adjacent translations #my attempts at translation

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a-weird-writer · 1 year

Note

not a request, but hear me out… Guy Crimson’s s/o, who is thoroughly covered in his scent, leaves on a journey that lasts weeks, if not months. Once returning, they don’t smell the same, they smell… like all sorts of different majin that aren’t him. His s/o even has the scent of another daemon on them from their visit to Tempest and their time spent around Rimuru and his secretaries. (Honestly, it can be assumed that Diablo/Black spent much time around s/o intentionally, knowing, and finding it amusing how much it would irritate Rouge, the Red Primordial to have his mate returning with the scent of another primordial.) While there was not a chance in hell that s/o would ever betray Guy, it’s inevitable that the scent of others would rub off on them. I wonder if Guy would appear needy, desperate to rescent and reclaim his lover.

I know that the Red Primordial has existed from the dawn of time, but boy would it be a joy to see him desperate.

This red motherfucker acts so fucking unaffected by it.

Wearing that classic Cheshire cat grin, damn "happiest" Guy has ever been so it seems. Clean cut in the visible light of your eyes, so undeniably unnatural to the human eye. And it may very well blow over an ignorant fool's head.

But you know Guy, his one and only; how he plays across the midnight air free as bird. And you, of all the people in his long, long eternity, are likely to notice that strange smile, that joyous uppercut of his lip doesn't feel the way it normally does. Forced. Far from smooth. It's cracked right into place, edges of a sword, stabbing every truth to rip it apart further. Not that he doesn't trust you. Oh no, Guy does trust you, but a lion doesn't attack another lion wandering its territory for the gazelle's sake.

Guy's thin-laced smirk rubs alcohol onto a wound that shouldn't even be there, a pricking sense of dread and despair.

But it is,

said wound is a reminder. One for you.

Any shift in Guy Crimson's mood tips at the drop of a hat, and those notable shifts happen simultaneously hand in hand with foreign encounters.

The ancients-who don't see eye to eye with him, do understand Guy Crimson, in defining remembrance of his 'happy-go-lucky" demeanor-scolds; a somber, quiet weight for those unfortunate enough to summon him, what truly lies beneath the twinkling stars of his bloody façade, no one can really pin it in place.

Any face of Guy is skillfully crafted; Sinister smile-too straight not to be fake, seething his cheekbones, thinning out the handsome layers of his face in the smoothest slit of the mouth. No wrinkles, flaws, or mild stumble of the brow; a wild brush, crinkled black. A hollow shadow upon his closed, ruby-laced lids; children cry at the sight of such an abominable facet.

Guy Crimson is a fairly reasonable dude, no admirable primordial like him can avoid treading the soils. Dirt will get on your shoes; nature is an inevitable thing to allow. Something was going to rub off eventually. If it was Diablo that "accidently" rubbed off on you, Guy knows better than to fall for the trap that devilish little sea urchin set up, especially when Guy has better things to think about.

But Guy doesn't have to like it, nonetheless, no matter the intention. That scent-something not his-itches the back of his head. Countless bugs crawling, stubby legs creeping up his throat. That specific irritation peaks every time you enter the same room, although it isn't obvious for the unknowing ones-it isn't mild in the slightest and will worsen the longer the smell lingers. God help you if it ever gets stronger.

He won't take the sudden change of scent as a threat, heavens no. Guy Crimson is more than a little self-aware of the disastrous threat proposed in his footsteps, his very name was inspired by the fearful screams of his victims. The people effected by him-especially under, know how far they can truly throw their rocks across the lines of his tolerance. Which is fairly high, you must admit for someone of his intimidating stature.

Mentioned many times before, while Guy isn't exactly emotive, he is possessive to a demonic degree with no issue showing it. Guy isn't blind to human moral logic, but it won't apply to himself in general sense. It's his nature; to frown upon anyone who intrudes upon a claim walking on his land, rightfully his by law alone.

Under the sheets of bed, the star-littered cover of night-Guy won't exactly turn this situation into a problem, not technically, but that doesn't mean he won't eventually do the inevitable and pout.

He turns an entire fucking wheel and crashes himself into a pole while he's at it; Silently scuffing each time he smells anything remotely like somebody else, cheeks huffing and puffing like a child. Sharp pins, annoying fingers, poke and pry away pinches at your flushed plums.

Rest assured, the moment a chance seizes to wipe off the intrusive smell, the pitiful intruder on your flesh,

Guy will erase it.

#ask #ailulu #i could make a whole request sized essay on guy crimson and scenting #along with the other demon lords lmaoooo #dont get me fucking started on #fucking MILIM or Carrion #dagruel is also pretty particular about scenting but it depending wholly on his current mood #guy crimson #rouge

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landofzero-archive · 10 months

Text

Rouge&Ruby - The Circumstances of the Second Month 2

(Location: TV station lounge)

(After an Eden music program recording session)

Hiyori: Ah, that was fun! Talking and singing together is the best after all!

There’s a unique sense of fulfillment that only comes from working together as Eden……♪

Jun: I think the recording turned out good too. You're super energized aren't you, Ohiisan?

Hiyori: Of course, after all the four of us working together is just delightful, right?

That’s why there’s so many things I want to do. Since the New Year, Adam and Eve have been taking way too many separate jobs.

Jun: I also agree with you on that. Tomorrow and the day after that, I’ll be on location with you.

Hiyori: What? Are you saying you’re unsatisfied with being on location with me?

Jun: No no, I’m talking about the workflow of the units.

I’m just feeling a bit stressed so can you not hit me please~?

Hiyori: Hmph. I don’t like how Ibara is scheduling our work without any kind of explanation either!

I’m sure you have an idea behind it but couldn’t you at least explain it? What foul weather!

Nagisa: …… Fufu. Hiyori-kun, you’re talking like me.

Hiyori: Eh?

Nagisa: …… I asked Ibara what he was thinking in the car on the way to the TV station.

Hiyori: Oh, is that so? Fufu, Nagisa-kun and I are inseparable even when we’re apart……♪

Nagisa: …… Yes, we have a telepathic connection.

Hiyori and Nagisa: ………☆ (High five)

Jun: (Whispering) Wait a sec. The seniors are getting all buddy buddy. But you, why are you being so quiet?

Ibara: (Whispering) It’s not like that. I’m simply watching them get along with a smile……♪

Jun: Liar~…… If you started talking at the wrong time, you’d get caught up in their talk so I guess you’re just watching and waiting.

Ibara: If I were to insert myself into a conversation between His Highness and Jun, or His Highness and His Excellency- I feel like such an action would be tasteless.

I was not directly asked to explain, so I don’t think I need to interrupt them.

Hiyori: Don’t you forget that!

The reason I didn’t ask was because I assumed there was something going on so I did my absolute best to put up with it. I wanted so badly to say “Explain this right now!”

Ibara: …… I don’t think I want to hear that while you’re high fiving and holding hands. But thank you for your consideration.

For the time being, until a request for it comes in…… or something like that, I thought I’d explain after I’d laid a certain amount of groundwork.

If it’s something only I know about then I can move it along at my own pace. Additionally, it was also more convenient to just stay silent.

Nagisa: …… In the car, you said you’d explain when Eden is gathered. Is now not a good time?

Hiyori: Is that what he said? Then why don’t we hurry along and get to it, all four of us are here so it’s perfect timing.

Ibara: The time isn’t bad, but this isn’t the right place to talk about it.

I can’t show any materials here, and most importantly we can’t occupy this changing room forever. We haven’t even changed out of our costumes yet.

Nagisa: …… Right. We should have changed out of our costumes first, Hiyori-kun.

Hiyori: Yes, that’s true. I just got excited, but changing clothes is the priority.

Jun: (While starting to change) …… Actually, I have an idea of what Ibara wants to talk about.

Ibara: You do?

Jun: Yeah. Something to do with Chocolat Fes. You said you’d give more details later back at New Year’s.

Hiyori: ?

Ibara: …… Ah, when we spoke on New Year’s? Now that I’m thinking about it, I do remember something like that.

Nagisa: ?

Hiyori: What are you two talking about?! Before I knew it, you two were keeping secrets from us?

I can’t believe Jun and Ibara left us out of it. This is a big deal, Nagisa-kun. It’s depressing to have secrets kept from me……!

Nagisa: …… I don’t think they were trying to leave us out, but if Hiyori-kun is sad then I am too.

…… Ibara, could you clarify?

Ibara: (Whispering) …… It’s Jun’s fault. I was procrastinating on telling you all so I could continue moving at my own pace a little while longer.

Jun: (Whispering) You threw the subject back to me, didn’t you? Can you not blame just me for once?

Ibara: …… Even if you ask me to explain, as I said before, this is not the best place to do so.

I’ll arrange a time for us to properly meet at the office at a later date.

Nagisa: …… I’ll be fine as long as Ibara tells me the time and date. What I want to know is what happened on New Year’s.

Jun: It’s not like it was a special event or anything.

I was going for a run on New Year’s and noticed the ES building lights were lit on the 18th floor.

I was curious and went to check it out and it turns out Ibara was working. So we just chatted for a bit.

Hiyori: You were training the day after SS, weren’t you Jun-kun? And Ibara, even though it was New Year’s you were working as usual!

Nagisa: …… I know you two were training, but I’d like it if you both took a break.

Ibara: Don’t concern yourself with it, Your Excellency. I was advised to rest at an appropriate time.

Jun: And after telling him that, this guy started hitting his keyboard with shocking speed.

…… Ah, could it be…

Had you been preparing for that COMP shoot a while ago since the beginning of the year?

Hiyori: Ah… It was a sudden shoot, it had me wondering when it was even prepared. While the world was busy celebrating New Year’s, Ibara was busy laying groundwork wasn’t he?

Jun: He was saying it was a rough plan or something like that. If it’s to refine that, I guess he’s willing to give up his day off and work.

Nagisa: …… Ibara’s been moving around a lot. But, this has something to do with Chocolat Fes, right?

…… Does this mean the preparations Ibara’s been progressing through has something to do with our activities?

Ibara: Aah well, you have too many questions! I don’t particularly care at the moment so interpret it as you like.

Or rather, I said I would explain it another day, didn’t I? So no more questions! Denied!

Come on, let’s hurry up and get dressed! I’m arranging for a car to pick us up so no slacking!

Previous | Directory | Next

#ensemble stars #enstars #enstars translation #ibara saegusa #nagisa ran #hiyori tomoe #jun sazanami #type: event #era: !!

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enteringdullsville · 1 year

Text

Rudy Razbry, the Red Drewman

Be Awesome

Rank: A+ (Main Protagonist)

Aesthetic: Pretty

Visual Inspirations

Other Character Bases

The Rouge Rogue Riot

Rudy’s short, baby faced, and looks (and acts) like he wandered off the set of a shonen manga. He’s hyperactive, exuberant, and friendly. He’s the only person who takes Violet’s ideas completely seriously, is his brother J.’s main protector, and is just an all around sweetheart.

Unless he’s not.

As easy as Rudy is to get along with, he’s just as easy to piss off. The little guy’s sporting a literal hair-trigger temper, and just because he’s short doesn’t mean he can’t or won’t tear you to ribbons if you cross him. He’s deceptively smart, too, and a crack shot. Ever been stabbed by a stray anime hair? Luckily, his keyboard of berserk buttons are easily avoided. Honestly, you’d have to be actively trying to set him off at this point, but you wouldn’t do that, right?

But turning trees to wood chips isn’t the only thing that mane of his is good for. Rudy takes exceptionally great pride in his appearance. Something of a dandy, he spends hours at a time maintaining his looks. After all, a cartoon’s always being watched. Why not look your best?

Fun Facts

Rudy’s name is a portmanteau of “red”, “ruby”, and “ruddy”.

Rudy’s surname “Razbry” is derived from “raspberry”, fitting his and J.’s color schemes.

Rudy, as seen above, differs the least in his first prototype design of the Primary Characters, and his personality is largely unchanged, aside from being more childish. His earliest designs after the one pictured gave him pinkish skin and eyes that didn’t protrude from his face. His second design was straight-up bubblegum pink, even though his clothes were still red.

Rudy is the unofficial mascot of It’s Color Theory, befitting of the red guy.

Rudy’s tooth gap and freckles appear in every prototype of his design.

Rudy, despite not being the shortest person in Dullsville, ICT, or even the Primary Characters (Olaf the mouse, Sylvester the alien, and Chloe respectively), is often singled out for his short height.

Rudy and Peony (formerly Rosie) were initially envisioned as twins. J. effectively took her place.

Rudy is the older Razbry brother.

Rudy has no relation to Ruby, the guitarist of the Gem Tones, aside from them both being red, spiky, cute, and angry. Many a dyslexic mailperson has made this mistake.

Rudy is the only Primary Character to use the default sphere eyes. Angie has orange sclerae and only partial outlines. Gordon has black bead eyes. Chloe has square pupils. J’s eyes, on the rare occasions they are visible, are solid white. Violet’s pupils are vertical.

Rudy is the only male red type Drewman of Season One, the other three being Peony, Geneva, and Crimson.

Rudy is very affectionate and touchy-feely, and despite his usual indignation towards being patronized for his stature, he appreciates being patted on the head. Unfortunately, he really doesn’t appreciate his hair being messed up. You see his dilemma?

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hyenahunt · 3 months

Text

Rouge & Ruby: Prologue

Writer: Umeda Chitose

Season: Winter

Characters: Jun, Ibara

Proofreading: royalquintet (JP) & Skyress (ENG)

Translation: Mirei (Adam) & hyenahunt (Eve)

Jun: Hey, it's thanks to me doing said running that I got to catch a certain someone flouting the law just to work his ass off, though?

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Time: New Year's Day, after the end of SS

Location: Outside ES

Jun: Pant, pant...

(I thought I could at least take a break for New Year's... but in the end I really just can't skip my daily training~ )

(That said, I'm still kinda worn out from SS, so I guess I'll keep it light.)

(I'll go one more loop around ES before heading back to Starmony Dorm and... hm?)

Jun: Why are there lights on in the ES building on New Year's break? And on top of that, the lights seem to be coming from —

The 18th floor? Isn't that CosPro's floor?

Hmm…

Now that I've seen it, I can't just ignore it, huh. I'll check out just why they're still on at this time~

Location: Cosmic Production Office

Ibara: …

Jun: Oh, so it's just you, Ibara.

Ibara: ? That voice… is that you, Jun?

Why are you here this late? If anything, I'm sure you don't have anything to do in the agency on a day like this. Then why did you come here?

Jun: That's what I should be asking you. From the looks of it, you seem to be busy working as usual, but...

Isn't there a labour law about how no one's allowed to work over New Year's break or something?

Ibara: Ahahaha! You would think, wouldn't you? Such laws do not apply to one in my position..

Jun: That's kinda not something to brag about... Besides, you know we only just finished up with SS, right?

It's the start of the new year — most folks usually take this time to rest up.

Ibara: I’d rather not hear a sermon about resting my body from a certain someone who’s already out to do his running routine so early in this new year, though.

Jun: Hey, it's thanks to me doing said running that I got to catch a certain someone flouting the law just to work his ass off, though?

Ibara & Jun: …

Ibara: … [sigh] You see, it’s exactly because SS is over that I’m focusing on work now. So would you kindly leave me alone?

Jun: Exactly because of that, you say... The concept of the first and last work days of the year doesn't exist to you, huh?

You were going ham on that keyboard, too. Is there really that much work to do this early in the year?

Ibara: If you're looking forward, the "work to do" is, in fact, limitless. Besides —

You heard what I said back then, did you not? I wanted a fair, head-on competition in SS.

If I let myself drown in the aftermath of it, the feeling of regret will take me over. I would even think like: Argh, I could even have an outburst in frustration.

But you see, if I focus on my work, I won't have to waste my time drowning in such sentiment. If anything, I can even turn that into my motivation.

Jun: Sounds more to me like you're taking out your frustrations on your work but … well, fair enough.

I mean, I'm all too aware that you're a workaholic, Ibara. You're the only one who understands the frustrations you're dealing with, so I'll leave you to it.

Ibara: … You said you’d leave me alone, but I see you've planted yourself firmly on a chair…

Jun: Haha. Well, I didn't say I'll go home, did I~?

I'm curious 'bout what you're working on, anyway. I bet it's got something to do with us, right?

Ibara: You're right. There are things we need to prepare for going forward. But there are also things that require urgent attention…

This year too, Eden members will make the best use of their abilities as idols at work.

Jun: Ooh… The more you say, the more curious I get. So, when you say "going forward", you mean…

Ibara: When it comes to the large-scale events that involve the whole ES, next month's Valentine's event — Chocolat Fes — is one that can't be missed.

Jun: Chocolat Fes, huh… Um, lessee... Is it that one event usually held simultaneously in idol schools all over the country?

Ibara: Yes. It's an event that has been held simultaneously nationwide in idol schools, and from this year onwards, it has been decided that ES will also take part in it.

Jun: It's supposed to be nationwide, but we don't have it in Reimei or even Shuuetsu, so I don't really know much 'bout it~...

On that note, why aren't the idol schools affiliated with CosPro taking part in it?

Ibara: To be frank, it was simply not much of a big deal.

Despite that, it's not like we didn't participate at all. There was indeed a time where I made a very small number of Special students do a similar event.

Jun: Huh, first I've heard about that…. So you oversee stuff to that extent, Ibara?

Ibara: Well, I'm on the management team for CosPro affiliated schools after all.

Jun: Rather than just being management, it's more like you're calling all the shots…

But anyway, ES's participation in it means that we'll also be taking part in it as Eden from this year onwards, right?

Ibara: Of course. Since it’ll be the first time that ES participates, it will be an event that attracts a great deal of interest and attention from the public eye.

Moreover, most units belonging to ES will likely join the event. There is no reason that we, Eden, should not also make our presence known.

Carefully, and meticulously, I’m formulating a plan of attack.

I'll share the detailed plan later. So please patiently wait for now.

Jun: Alrighty. Beats me what you might have in mind, but I'm looking forward to hearing all about it ~♪

… So anyway, when are you going home?

Ibara: Pardon?

Jun: Just look at the clock, dude.

I get that you're all fired up, but on top of working all through New Year's break, you should at least hold off from doing overtime, alright~?

Ibara: … I’ll leave in a reasonable amount of time, so there is no need for concern.

Jun: I said that 'cause I'm pretty sure you didn't have any plan of doing that in the slightest. Well then, how 'bout we run back together?

Ibara: There’s no way we can do that. You are ready with an outfit suitable for exercise, but I'm only in plain clothes

Jun: Ahaha. Well, you're right about that.

Either way, just wrap it up somewhere so you can head back soon, okay~? If you're late, I'll come all the way back to check on you, got it?

Ibara: Why are you mothering me? I'll leave once I'm at a good stopping point. So please, don't worry.

Jun: Alright, alright… Just make sure to actually do that, 'kay?

[ ☆ ]

✦✦✦✦✦

✦ all ✦ next →

#ensemble stars #enstars #enstars translation #hyenahunttl #s: rouge and ruby #jun sazanami #ibara saegusa

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rwac96 · 1 month

Text

My Mood

Original AU: Fantasy AU: Overlord AU, Medieval AU: Royal AU-Tyrant AU, Fantasy AU: Barbarian AU, Villainous AU, Clone AU, Horror AU: Zombie AU, Horror AU: Vampire AU, Yandere AU, Monstergirl AU

Alpha Stud AU: Prison AU: Prisoner/Guard/Warden, Slavery AU: Breeding Slave, Free Use AU, Law & Crime AU: Criminal/Fugitive, Farmer AU, Clone AU, Barbarian AU

General Mood(s): Sexual Slavery, GIF Meme, Shipping, Romance, Maledom/Femsub, Malesub/Femdom, Dramedy

Main Muses: Android #18/Lazuli, Shadow The Hedgehog, Supergirl/Kara Zor-El, Blake Belladonna, Ruby Rose, Yoko Littner, She-Hulk/Jennifer Walters, Vegeta, Son Goku, Bulma Briefs, Chi-Chi, Android #21/Vomi, Juri Han, Rouge The Bat, Lie Ren, Nora Valkyrie, Troia/Donna Troy, Mai Natsume, Samus Aran, Kagura Mutski, Power Girl/Karen Starr, Izuku Midoriya/Deku, Mina Ashido/Pinky, Nightwing/Dick Grayson, Momo Yaoyorozu/Creati, Cloud Strife, Aerith Gainsborough, Broly (Z/Super)

Male Muse List: Character/Muse List

Female Muse List: Character/Muse List

Meme(s): Normal Date vs. Horny Date, Love Ephiphany (Dark Love/Pure Love Ephiphany), NTR Difference, Transactional Sex, Exhibiting Excitement, Sexual Emblem, Hate Fuck Meme, Willing Pet, Eugenics Breeding Test

#rwac96 #moods #my moods #writblr

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zombiestims · 2 years

Text

I saw some of these for other characters so: Reasons why I head cannon Texas as autistic

The traits are explained under the cut because I’d never pass up a chance to psychoanalyze Texas :)

Side note: A lot of the traits can be seen as just “haha Texas is dumb” jokes, but this is obviously my interpretation of the character and I prefer to view him as autistic

Gifs 1 and 9, troubles with social situations: through out the show Texas has constant miscommunications with characters, from jokes and sarcasm to simple instructions. In the gifs presented he is being scolded by Julie for grossing out Claire (gif 1) and being berated by the larpers for interrupting their game. Now Texas isn’t malicious, he can be an asshole sometimes but his main goals are to be liked and useful (I am working on an essay that will further explain this). In the first gif (Julie and the Amazons) Texas explains his reasoning for breathing in Claire’s face as trying to make her feel included in the group, as we’re to assume that this is what the guys were doing earlier with “… cause Chuck thinks it reshroot but I haven’t eaten any of those since tuesday”. Was it gross and a terrible way to include someone in on the fun, yea, it really was, but the intention behind the action was good, Texas genuinely thought he was being in friendly and inviting and is genuinely upset when he finds out he messed up. In the 9th gif Texas grabs the rouge’s sword to prevent him from “slaying” Ruby, which is logical in most scenarios. Either because it 's saving his teammate or prioritizing the task at hand, getting information to find the missing kids, but in this case it messes up their game/larp which aggravates them and makes the Rouge much less agreeable. I personally don't understand this scenario once the Rouge found out it was important you'd think they would help(I genuinely don't know if this was a neurotypical thing or just the writers wanting to show off Julie's acting/ negotiating skills) and it appears that Texas felt the same way too.

Gif 2, Hypo sensitivity to smell: People with autism tend to have hyper and/or hypo sensitivities to certain senses. Most commonly hyper sensitivity to sound or light, in the show there are a few scenes we see where see Texas not being able to smell or identify “foul smells”. The gif or main evidence I used is the scene in “Robo-Round up” where the Burners invade the Mama’s boy’s arena through the sewers. The rest of the burners all cringe at the smell where as Texas has no reaction to it and continues talking as if nothing is wrong, he has a similar reaction (or lack of) in “Power Trip” when he opens up his muscle mulch for a mid mission snack to the disgust of Dutch and Julie (his muscle mulch could also be a same/safe food for him as we see it in a few other episodes and it’s one of the only consistent foods we see any of the characters eat other than pizza)

Gifs 3 and 7, Stimming: I feel like this one is self explanatory but throughout the show we constantly see Texas moving around: waving his arms around when talking, demonstrations of his sick kicks and punches every 5 minutes, karate chops in the air, and even stuff like thumping his fingers on the table in the 3rd gif. Very often these movements are on display during emotional times such as when feeling excitement (gif 7) or worry (gif 3, both gifs are from robo-round up). Not to mention his constant Kachaws and other sound effects which are vocal stims.

Gif 4, literal: There are multiple cases where Texas either takes instructions given to him literally or where it takes him a few minutes to process what someone means. In the evidence given/4th gif Chuck instructs Texas to repeat everything they say over the com, so he does and starts repeating the argument Chuck and Dutch are having over the coms during "Julie and the Amazons". Another example of him misunderstanding verbal cues is when Mike is talking to Julie in “off the rack” Mike makes a comment about wishing he knew someone who could gather Intel from Kane for him, heavily insinuating that he wants Julie to do so, but at this comment Texas looks puzzled and grabs his chin as if in deep thought at who could perform such a task.

Gif 6, special interest: it's pretty apparent in Motorcity that Texas deeply loves action movies and martial arts. Many of his stims are related to said interests. He can also be seen watching action films in “The Duke of Detroit Presents” even when in public with his friends.

Gif 8, face blindness: Although face blindness isn’t a trait of autism it isn’t uncommon for an autistic person to develop it because of limited eye contact. Throughout the show we see Texas forget people’s names specifically Julie’s but also Claire’s, and R.O.T.H’s. Another thing is how often he uses nicknames for his friends: you can’t mix up your friends if you call all of them a “nerd”. He also uses nicknames that describe people’s body type (tiny) or he’ll have more specific nicknames if he knows who he’s talking to ex. Basket case when sitting right next to Dutch or Miss Deluxe when upset with Julie and talking directly to or about her. This particular piece of evidence is much more of a stretch than others.

#motorcity #texas motorcity #texas yang #autistic headcanon #stim #probably autistic #He is so relatable/srs #I was skipping around trying to avoid the burp and just get the dialogue but I ended up landing right on it :(#major L for me #worst joke in the show /srs

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sheepwithspecs · 1 year

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March CarvRhos Ficlet: Blind Date

|| FFXIV || Rated G || (3/??) ||

Prompt List Here!

Today is technically day four, but I wanted to use this day to catch up and write the idea I had for day two.

Gerald and A’brohka found dead in Limsa Lominsa, cause unknown.

Never in her life has she felt so godsdamned foolish.

The table is beautiful, all things considered. White linen tablecloth, crystal wineglasses, a decanter of Lohmani red. Silver cloches cover the dishes, and a basket of freshly baked bread is seated to the right of an elegant floral centerpiece. Candles flicker in their sconces—beeswax, not tallow—and in the corner the orchestrion is playing a soft concerto. It’s the sort of luxury that she’d once had to convince herself she would hate, in those long-ago days when such things were so far out of reach as to belong in the realm of imagination.

If nothing else, the lavish setting makes her feel more confident in her decision to dress up for the occasion. After all, it wasn’t every day that she was propositioned for a blind date, courtesy of A’brohka. She’d been reluctant to accept at first, unwilling to even humor such a ridiculous request, but the other Sirens had managed to wear her down. The girls had been delighted to “assist” her with her wardrobe, treating their surly captain as though she were a child’s paper lady. They’d taken great pains in lining her eyes, softening her features and talking her into a dab of rouge on her cheekbones. She was even wearing jewelry to mark the occasion: a pair of ruby earrings, gifted by the previous captain on the day of her succession.

What a shame. Sighing inwardly, she glares at her so-called date from across the table. Carvallain returns the expression tenfold, mouth pursed in disapproval at his current circumstances. The only thing worse than seeing him at the table was his clear shock in seeing her upon entering the private dining room. She was accused of entrapment, he of libel; insults were hurled and fingers pointed on both sides.

Eventually they’d calmed down enough to work out the truth: they’d been double-crossed by a pair of traitorous first mates. Funnily enough, both Gerald and A’brohka had been suspiciously absent during the day’s preparations, with neither crew being able to pinpoint their exact whereabouts. Clearly the two had foreseen their captains’ anger and made good their escape.

“Damn that conspiring little—” Carvallain had bitten off his insult, jaw clenched and fingers tapping a furious rhythm on the table. He’d cleaned up as well, with neatly trimmed hair tucked behind his long ears and his silk shirt traded for a waistcoat of shimmering blue brocade. Despite her hatred of the man, the idea that he’d also wasted his time preparing for a date made her feel only marginally better.

Now they both found themselves stuck in limbo, unable to salvage the remains of the night and yet unwilling to leave. A damn shame, she repeats to herself, n’ a waste o’ good food. She grabs a piece of sourdough from the breadbasket, crunching down on its thick crust and chewing morosely. What am I even doing here? she wonders, staring blankly at the covered dishes. What did I possibly think would happen?

The answer is glaringly obvious, whether or not she wants to admit it. She would rather die than face that sort of embarrassment, even in introspection. I ain’t lonely, she argues with the sardonic little voice in her head, finishing off the sourdough and reaching blindly for another piece. I’m just….

The heat rises to her cheeks as she remembers the way A’brohka regaled them all with fanciful descriptions of the gentleman who’d all but begged on bended knee for a private audience with the Siren captain. Tall, handsome, fashionable, but clearly not afraid to get his hands dirty when the need arose. Piercing eyes and a lithe frame, a sailor’s body with a nobleman’s heart. A well-traveled man with a love of the sea. I’m such a fool; I should’ve known. Who else in Limsa would fit such a description? She wants to bury her face in her hands, crawl to the nearest ledge, and roll into the ocean. Perhaps the Navigator would show more mercy than her own thrice-damned crew.

She glances at him infrequently from beneath her painted lashes, wondering what stories the Krakens must have fed him in order for him to agree to this. Had they been forced to lie outright, or had they simply embellished the truth the same way as A’brohka? Deep down, she hopes it’s the latter. That something in the way they described her piqued his interest, at least enough to—

Foolish.

Once again she reaches for the basket, only to find her fingers brushing against something warm and solid and soft, but definitely not bread. Startled, she looks up in time to see him quickly choose a piece of rye, fingers clumsily grabbing for his napkin. Their eyes meet and it is he who looks away first, clearing his throat with an awkward cough.

“It would be a shame to let the meal to go to waste,” he states, directing his words to the wall sconce.

“My thoughts exactly.” She takes the cloche from her still-warm plate, breathing in the heavenly scent of minced garlic and herbs, tender meat and roasted popotoes in their skins.

“Reservations at the Bismarck are hard to come by, after all, and there’s no real reason to give up the table now—that is, we might as well—it’s not as though you… what I mean to say is….” He lapses into uncomfortable silence, knotting the napkin in his long fingers. She stares at them, her own hands tingling with the thought of touching them again, this time on purpose.

Why did ye come? Four simple words, and yet for once she can’t bring herself to open her big mouth. Why do ye stay? Somehow, the lack of a proper answer would be far worse than the never-knowing. Besides, it’s easy enough to guess.

“Oi.” She waits to catch his eye again, offering a crooked smirk that’s more genuine than any look she’s given him so far tonight.

“Shut up n’ eat.”

#ffxiv #Final Fantasy 14 #Final Fantasy XIV #CarvRhos #my writing #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Rhoswen Leach #spiderman pointing meme but this time they though they'd been tricked for the bit #I just really love the idea that they both dressed up for it too like... secretly they're both kind of Yearning for something #their first mates are /showleft /showright at their captains and it's not working they don't see it their glasses are off

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colleenmurphy · 8 months

Text

"Mary Colleen Concepta Murphy!"

A flurry of long dark hair and limbs were all Minnie Sheehan and James Murphy saw as they managed to finally open the door to their teenage daughter's bedroom. Them calling her full government name was all she heard. She stopped to blow a kiss to her very best friend in the whole world and she was off like a rocket down Cotter Street and away from everything she'd ever known. Somewhere behind her and to her right she heard Jimmy fire up the ancient station wagon and back out of the driveway. She continued to run out onto Smith street Jimmy following pushing her to double down and book it harder. The Reynolds' dog ran out in front of her causing her to twirl around it light on her feet, the station wagon inching towards her causing her heart to hammer harder. Out of the alley leading from the Tin Loon Chinese restaurant and the Speedy Cleaners she heard a familiar rumble the shot coated Ford that was driven by her

She had withdrawn all of her savings in her account and cashed out the CD Nana Murphy had gifted her. The love she felt for her family had been overshadowed by meeting her soulmate. Yes, she was well aware that they were young and the world was cruel but Jasper Emmett Kennedy felt like the safest place in the world. He was home. Wherever he went she vowed and wanted to follow. She had left a note explaining exactly why they had to leave. They had to take life by the horns and just go. As if merely the thought of him summoned him like angel from above, his grey shot coated Ford with flames on the hood pulled up further ahead. She had a promising future in track and field until she'd found out she'd been waitlisted by damn near every college she'd applied to. Why wait for a future that wasn't set in stone? Yes, she had loved running and was damn good at it but there was so much more to life than competing in sport and getting degrees. The fact that her guidance counselor thought she was a lost cause from an 'economically challenged' home didn't help her cause and her transcripts now sat in some filing cabinet in Charles S. Buckman High school collecting dust and showing in bold type that she had been an honors students all throughout her schooling. Life was more than scraping by and hoping that you were happy like Jimmy and Minnie ended up having to do. They had been the ones to tell her to follow her heart and follow her dreams and that there wasn't anything that she couldn't accomplish if she set her mind to it. So here she was, savings in a bank envelope, traveling light with the clothes she packed, her toothbrush and her stuffed tiger, Striper wrapped carefully in her baby blanket Minnie had made her. Her important papers were held in a ziplock to keep water out just in case Jasper's soft top leaked somewhere along the line.

"COLLY WAIT!"

Brakes squealed as Jimmy stopped the Murphy Mobile as Col called it, to a dead stop in the middle of the street. It was at the moment that Minnie's head popped out of the passenger side window.

"I love you both."

She blew them a kiss and took off down the street to where the Ford sat idling and all but leaped over the door to get into the passenger seat. Back home in what was once her bedroom with it's white wicker furniture and ballet slipper pink walls was a message written in Ruby Rouge lipstick were the words she had felt for a very long time.

"We were not born to drown."

She leaned over and kissed Jasper so hard she felt a squeak as lips crushed together in a frantic exchange of souls and breath.

"Call us if you need anything! We love you both!"

Was what passersby heard Minnie shout as Jimmy wrapped an arm around his wife's slight form as she waved teary eyed.

"You take care of our girl, Kennedy! Love you more...Love you more..."

For the first time since his daughter had come into the world James Patrick Murphy cried as he watched her spread her wings with a man that he knew was going to be rock solid...even if he was still a kid himself.

#@aristobun #@vegalores #Jasper Emmett Kennedy x Mary Colleen Murphy #Into The Mystic verse

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salsedine · 10 months

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Grazie @mafaldinablabla per il tag! Era tipo dal 2016 che non scrivevo così tanto in italiano su tumblr, è stata una piacevole novità :P

1. Are you named after anyone?

Come mai solo questa domanda è in inglese? Comunque "Greta" è solo Greta, mentre "Stella" era anche il nome della mia bisnonnna materna.

2. Quando è stata l'ultima volta che hai pianto?

A mia discolpa- sono pesci. Quindi probabilmente 24 ore fa ma me lo sono già dimenticato. I veri piantoni catartici sono molto più rari però.

3. Hai figli?

No, non sono interessata.

4. Fai largo uso del sarcasmo?

Dipende dal contesto - se è appropriato anche sì, ma se una persona sta confidando qualcosa di personale non mi pare il caso ecco lol.

5. Quali sport pratichi o hai praticato?

7 anni di danza jazz-contemporanea in maniera discontinua. Un paio di anni di tennis a scrocco perchè mio papà era socio grazie al lavoro in cantiere. Qualche workshop di tiro con l'arco + atletica leggera con la scuola, nonchè l'unica ragazza nella squadra di calcio delle medie. Dovevo capirlo prima che sono lesbica, tsk.

6. Qual è la prima cosa che noti in una persona?

Viso, mani, occhi, capelli e "vibe" in generale.

7. Qual è il colore dei tuoi occhi?

Grigio-verde? Alas, il piercing non c'è più. E non ho più 16/17 anni, ma quello non è sicuramente un 'alas'.

8. Scary movies o happy endings?

Una cosa non esclude l'altra, ma in genere happy endings, grazie!

(uno dei miei film preferiti ha un finale bittersweet ma ehyyy, dettagli)

9. Qualche talento particolare?

Sono discretamente flessibile, galleggio sempre, le persone in genere si sentono a proprio agio con me (riporto il feedback), sono brava a trovare i collegamenti (più o meno astrusi) tra le cose, ho un'ottima memoria ed adoro fare regali.

10. Dove sei nat*?

11. Quali sono i tuoi hobby?

In ordine sparso: nuotare o comunque stare in prossimità dell'acqua, camminate/passeggiate tranquille, leggere, disegnare/dipingere, musei e gallerie d'arte varie, yoga e danza. Special mention al prendere cibo da asporto + guardare film con gli amici e commentare. Direi anche scrivere, ma implica troppa vulnerabilità quindi NOPE malgrado mi piaccia.

12. Hai animali domestici?

Nope! Un mix di "sono in affitto e non credo che la padrona di casa apprezzerebbe se arrivassi con un gatto" e "non escludo di spostarmi per lavoro e/o motivi sentimentali e mi dispiacerebbe sballottare il gatto da una parte all'altra".

13. Quanto sei alta?

1.68cm - 1.70cm; le impiegate del comune che mi hanno fatto la carta di identità hanno opinioni discordanti in merito.

14. Materia preferita a scuola?

Storia, storia dell'arte, filosofia (che in realtà era storia della filosofia ma ok facciamo finta), biologia, disegno dal vero. Non mi dispiaceva ginnastica quando si faceva atletica, calcio o sport sperimentali (flag football), ma odiavo con tutto il cuore giocare a pallavolo.

15. Dream job(s)?

Operatrice museale e/o bibliotecaria, occuparmi di didattica e divulgazione oppure di digitalizzazione di materali storici ed artistici (che btw serve alla divulgazione ed anche ai musei, quindi è tutto un fil rouge collegato), insegnare, qualcosa di artistico/creativo che però non mi succhi l'anima. Things like that. In generale sono una persona che tiene molto alla propria realizzazione attraverso il lavoro, il che in Italia è un affarone con l'ambito umanistico - infatti attualmente mi occupo di controllo progetti in contabilità analitica, btw.

Non taggo nessuno perchè 1. stanchezza 2. taggo sempre le solite persone ed in italiano è più difficile e sono abbastanza sicura che romperei le balle. MA se il lettore/la lettrice random vuole fare il test (?) lo rubi pure :*

#comunque tutte le risposte suonano fredde/sarcastiche ed un po' scazzate ma NOOO #semplicemente dal portatile non ho le 238472 emoticon carine che aiutano ad esprimere le emozioni #resting bitch face emotiva?#:((#things i've been tagged on

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