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calypso-rt · 3 months ago

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daily cycle

-> with countryboy!Rafe x citygirl!Reader

-> ty to this anon for the idea

☁︎ waking up

"Rafe. Let me go."

"Mm-mm."

"Rafe."

"Nuh-uh."

You huffed, squirming against the ridiculous vise grip Rafe had on you, his arms wrapped around you like you were a life raft and he was stranded at sea. Your legs were tangled together under the sheets, his broad chest warm against your back, and his lips pressed lazily to your shoulder, like he wasn’t even awake but still somehow insistent on keeping you in place.

"Rafe." You tried again, tone sharper. "I have things to do."

"No, you don’t." His voice was thick with sleep, drawl even lazier than usual.

"Yes, I do. I need to get up, make coffee, and—"

"Nah, you don’t need to do none of that." His arms tightened, voice all smug and slow, like he knew he was annoying you and loved it. "You need to stay right here. With me. Forever."

You groaned, wiggling, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. A really annoying, muscular, half-asleep brick wall.

"Rafe, I swear to God—"

"Mmh, swearin’ this early in the morning? You needa relax, city girl. Here... let me help ya." And then he had the audacity to nuzzle into your neck like a giant, affectionate golden retriever.

You yelped, kicking at his shin under the blankets. "I’m suffocating, you psychopath—"

"Suffocating in love, baby. Ain’t it nice?"

You exhaled sharply, glaring at the ceiling. This man. This absolute menace.

"Fine. If you don’t let me up, I’ll just start listing all the things I need to do today."

"Psh. Go ahead. Ain’t gonna work."

"Grocery store, laundry, bills, ordering new oat milk—"

"Okay, ew, you’re ruinin’ the morning."

"—filing my taxes—"

"God, stop."

You smirked, seizing your opportunity. "Mmm, also, I should probably re-organize the fridge—"

"Alright, alright," Rafe groaned, finally loosening his grip. "Jesus. You win. Go do your—your taxes, you buzzkill."

"Thank you." You wiggled free triumphantly, stretching your arms over your head, only to feel a strong hand wrap around your wrist, yanking you right back.

"Rafe!"

"One kiss, and you can go."

You stared at him, utterly unimpressed. "I don’t negotiate with terrorists."

"Baby, be serious."

You exhaled dramatically, but when you leaned in, he caught your face in his hands, thumb grazing your cheek so softly it made your stomach flip, before kissing you like he had all the time in the world. And, okay, maybe he did. But you had things to do, and he was making it very hard to remember what they were.

When he finally pulled back, grinning, you rolled your eyes. "There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Great. Now let me up."

He let you sit up. And then yanked you back down.

"RAFE."

"Okay, okay! Last one, I swear—"

This time, you shoved his face into the pillow.

...

"Rafe, I don't need a full breakfast."

"Yes, ya do."

"No, I don't. I just need coffee." You lifted your mug as proof.

Rafe scoffed, standing over the stove, spatula in hand like he was some kind of breakfast god. "Coffee ain't breakfast, city girl."

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Rafe, I have things to do—"

"And ya can do 'em on a full stomach. Sit down."

"No."

"Sit. Down." He gave you that look: all stubborn and smug, like he knew he was about to win.

You narrowed your eyes. "You can't make me."

Without missing a beat, Rafe clicked his tongue, turned off the stove, and started towards you, arms outstretched like he was about to physically place you in a chair.

"RAFE." You backed up, mug clutched to your chest.

"Baby, I will pick you up and sit you down myself, don’t try me."

You gasped. "You wouldn’t."

"Oh, I would."

You eyed his arms, unfairly strong from golf or fighting or whatever ridiculous richboy activities he did. Calculating your odds of escape. They were low.

With a loud huff, you stomped over to a chair and flopped into it, glaring at him the whole time. "Happy?"

Rafe grinned, victorious. "Very."

He turned back to the stove, flipping something in the pan like a pro. You watched warily, sipping your coffee.

"I was just gonna grab a bagel."

"Bagel? Psh." Rafe waved his spatula dismissively. "That ain't food."

"It’s a New York staple."

"Yeah, well, you're in the South now, baby. We do real breakfast here."

You sighed dramatically, watching him plate up eggs, bacon, and two biscuits (two?). He even had grits. Grits.

"Do you even have a job? Like, how do you have time to play personal chef every morning?"

Rafe smirked, sliding the plate in front of you. "My job is makin’ sure my girlfriend doesn’t starve herself on sad city food."

You stared at the plate. Then at him. Then back at the plate.

"Fine. But I’m still getting a bagel later."

"Yeah, yeah. Just eat, princess."

You took a bite. Annoyingly, it was amazing.

You would never admit it, though.

...

☁︎ grocery shopping

"Baby, why do we need oat milk?"

"Because it's better for you."

Rafe leaned lazily against the cart, watching you scan the shelves with that look: the one that said he’d rather be home wrapped around you, but if he had to be here, he was making it his mission to distract you.

"So’s kissing me, but I don’t see you stockin' up on that."

You shot him a flat look. "Kissing you doesn’t go in my coffee, Rafe."

He smirked. "You sure? Might wake you up better."

You groaned, chucking the oat milk into the cart. "You are so annoying."

"And yet, you love me."

You ignored him, moving on to compare two different granola bars while Rafe idly reached behind you, grabbed a pack of Double Stuf Oreos, and tossed them into the cart.

You turned back around just in time to see it.

"Rafe."

"What?"

"Put them back."

"Why?"

"Because they're just sugar."

"And?"

You sighed, reaching into the cart, but Rafe darted forward, snatching the Oreos up and holding them above your head like a playground bully.

"Rafe—"

"Gotta catch me first, city girl." He grinned, already backing away.

"I swear to—give me those back!" You started after him, but he laughed and took off down the aisle, pushing the cart along with him like some overgrown manchild.

It took you way too long to wrestle them back. The Oreos stayed.

If it was a farmer’s market kind of day, you insisted on carrying your own bags.

You were a New Yorker. You had mastered the art of lugging groceries.

But Rafe? Rafe Cameron? That man did not believe in letting you carry a damn thing.

"I got it."

"Rafe, I can—"

"Nope." He plucked the heavy tote from your arm, effortlessly. "What kinda boyfriend would I be lettin’ my girl do all the heavy liftin’?"

You huffed, crossing your arms. "The kind with a girlfriend who is perfectly capable."

Rafe just smirked, all proud and cocky. "Yeah? Well, lucky for you, I like spoilin’ ya anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but he could see the way your lips twitched, like you wanted to fight him on it, but maybe just maybe, you liked being taken care of a little bit.

"You're ridiculous," you muttered, walking ahead.

"And yet, you love me."

You didn't answer.

But he definitely saw the way your cheeks warmed.

...

☁︎ cooking

"Baby, stop micromanagin’ me."

"I am not micromanaging you."

"You just told me I was stirrin’ the sauce wrong. How the hell do you stir somethin’ wrong?"

You sighed, crossing your arms as Rafe sloppily swirled the spoon around the pan. "It’s all about technique, Cameron. You can’t just… jab at it like a caveman."

"Caveman?" Rafe scoffed. "I’m makin’ dinner, not a damn art piece."

You leaned in, grabbing the spoon from his hand. "Here, let me—"

Before you could finish, his hand covered yours.

"Nu-uh, sweetheart. You made me help, now you gotta live with the consequences." He grinned, pulling your arm closer to him, his breath warm against your temple. "Ain’t no takin’ over now."

You tried to glare at him, but it was hard when he was looking at you like that.

"Fine." You pulled away, grabbing the cutting board instead. "But if this sauce sucks, I’m blaming you."

"Noted."

After dinner, you leaned against the counter, watching as Rafe stood by the sink, scrubbing the dishes.

"You don’t have to do that, you know."

"Yeah, I do." He glanced over his shoulder at you. "I made a mess."

You smirked. "So you admit your technique sucks."

"I ain’t admittin’ nothin’," he shot back, flicking a few drops of water at you.

"Hey!" You shrieked, dodging behind the kitchen island.

"Don’t start a fight you can’t win, city girl."

But on hot summer days, Rafe Cameron took his grill way too seriously.

Like, to an alarming degree.

"Rafe, it’s literally just meat on fire."

He gasped. "Meat on fire? MEAT ON FIRE?"* He clutched his chest like you had just personally insulted his entire family lineage. "That’s like callin’ the Mona Lisa just ‘some paint on a canvas.’"

You snorted. "You did not just compare grilling to fine art."

"Oh, but I did." He wagged the spatula at you. "It’s about precision, patience—"

"Okay, Gordon Ramsay." You rolled your eyes. "Just don’t burn anything."

"I would never burn my babies." He patted the steaks affectionately, whispering, "Don’t listen to her, y’all are gonna be beautiful."

You blinked at him. "Did you just… talk to the food?"

"It’s called respect, city girl."

You couldn’t help it. You doubled over laughing.

God, you loved this ridiculous man.

...

☁︎ night routine

"What in the hell is all that?"

Rafe stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you arrange an entire lineup of serums, creams, and toners on the bathroom counter like you were preparing for surgery.

"Skincare, Rafe." You picked up a tiny dropper bottle. "This is called self-care."

He squinted at the label. "‘Snail mucin’?? Babe, you are puttin’ snails on your face."

"It’s hydrating!"

"It’s disgusting."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the mirror, carefully dabbing under your eyes. Meanwhile, Rafe, fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, was already finished with his entire nighttime routine, which consisted of literally just brushing his teeth and maybe washing his face if he remembered.

And yet, his skin was perfect. Annoying.

"You could at least use moisturizer," you huffed, smearing some on his face before he could escape.

"I don’t need all that," he mumbled, scrunching his nose as you massaged it in.

"Yeah, well, you also don’t need three different kinds of meat at dinner, but here we are."

He swatted at your hand playfully before catching your wrist and tugging you toward him, arms wrapping around your waist.

"C’mon, time for bed."

"I still have three more steps."

"Baby." He groaned dramatically. "You are the only person I know with a nighttime routine that takes longer than the morning one."

"And yet you still won’t leave me alone while I do it."

"‘Cause you’re cute when you’re all focused," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "Also, you smell nice."

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated, but you leaned into him anyway.

After finally finishing (and after Rafe made you promise you weren’t putting anymore “snail guts” on him), the two of you crawled into bed.

Rafe, predictably, sprawled out like a human starfish, taking up half the mattress.

"Babe, move."

"Mmm. Nope."

"Rafe."

Instead of moving, he just grabbed you and pulled you on top of him like you were a human blanket.

"Better," he muttered sleepily against your hair.

You sighed but didn’t fight it.

Not like you really wanted to.

...

"Baby, y’too far away."

You were literally right there, tangled up with him in bed, but apparently, not close enough for Rafe Cameron.

"I am not... Rafe, I’m—" You let out a tiny oomph as he dragged you back against his chest, caging you in with an arm slung over your waist.

"Mm, there we go." His voice was thick with sleep, lazy and slow, that country drawl even deeper when he was half-asleep.

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your shoulder, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. He ran so hot. The kind of heat that made you feel like you were being held hostage by a very warm, very heavy human furnace.

"Rafe, it’s like sleeping next to the sun." You wriggled, trying to get some air, but his grip only tightened.

"S’called keepin’ my girl warm."

"I don’t need to be warm, it’s literally summer—"

"Shh," he mumbled, lips brushing your shoulder. "Jus’ go t’sleep, sugar."

You sighed, but your body betrayed you by melting into him anyway.

And then...

"Y’ever think ‘bout how weird clouds are?"

You blinked into the darkness. "What."

"Like…they’re just floatin’. In the sky. All fluffy n’ shit."

Oh god. He was in that phase of sleep. The one where his already questionable brain-to-mouth filter disappeared and he just said things in that slow, mumbled drawl.

"Rafe, go to sleep."

"Y’know I love you, right?"

That caught you off guard. He said it all the time, Rafe wasn’t shy about his feelings, but something about the way he mumbled it now, soft and half-asleep, like it was the easiest, truest thing in the world, made your chest ache in the best way.

"Yeah, I love you too, baby."

"Good," he sighed, burying his face against your neck.

Not even five seconds later, he was out cold, snoring softly into your hair.

And despite the fact that he was still a human furnace, and that he talked about clouds when he was falling asleep, and that he was literally crushing you...

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: i want what they have

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction

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glowettee · 5 months ago

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-`♡´- how to have the mindset of cher horowitz ✧˖

════════════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 . ✦ . ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧

cher horowitz isn’t just a character, she’s a lifestyle. effortlessly charming, stylishly intelligent, and always in control of her world. she moves through life with confidence, kindness (unless you cross her), and a touch of calculated oblivion. the secret? her mindset.

if you want to embody that breezy, effortlessly put-together energy, it’s not just about looking the part. it’s about thinking like cher. because let’s be real, a true it-girl never second-guesses herself.

cher has been an icon ever since clueless came, she has always had an optimistic outlook of life. she a rich girl but she's generous, and kind, and she knows when and how to stand up for herself. in my personal journey, i have been working on different traits i want to adapt and cher horowitz has so many that i added to my list. this post is how you embody the mindset of cher, and how you can adapt it to your personality and mentality <33 - mindy ✦

💡 how to adapt cher horowitz energy into your mindset 𐙚˙⋆ :

❥ be delusionally confident. cher never asks if she’s the best, she just knows she is. move through life like you deserve the best, because you do. repeat after me: i am the moment.

❥ use intelligence to your advantage. sure, she says “i totally paused” while failing her driving test, but cher is smart. she knows how to use her charm, persuasion, and quick thinking to get what she wants (case in point: her debate speech on why people should “totally stockpile” their extra outfits). so, never play dumb. strategically play smart.

❥ never let them see you sweat. cher faces challenges with an effortless, slightly confused grace. failed test? she negotiates extra credit. unexpected problem? she improvises. the key? never panic. act like you always have a backup plan, even if you don’t.

❥ romanticize your daily routine. cher wakes up to a computer-generated outfit planner, applies lip gloss while serving life advice, and makes even gym class look like a fashion show. take notes. elevate your morning routine. sip matcha from a pretty cup. study in an aesthetic setting. make every little habit feel high-end.

❥ charm is your superpower. being persuasive isn’t about manipulation. it’s about knowing how to talk to people. smile, compliment, and read the room. if cher can talk her way into better grades and out of parking tickets, you can talk your way into anything.

❥ know your worth & don’t settle. cher refuses to entertain anything below her standards. even if it’s fashion, friendships, or love interests. adopt this mindset. stop chasing people who don’t put in effort. stop accepting things that aren’t exactly what you want. you are the prize.

❥ have a signature aesthetic. cher’s vibe? preppy coquette meets california princess. your vibe? whatever makes you feel like her. curate your wardrobe, your playlist, your notes app, your everything. consistency is what makes an aesthetic powerful.

❥ turn every moment into a main character scene. cher doesn’t walk, she glides through life with effortless confidence. she twirls her pen in class, makes a simple “ugh, as if” iconic, and somehow always has a perfect comeback. embody this energy. make your life feel cinematic.

𐙚˙⋆ mindy’s personal tips to channel cher energy 💋

✦ create a go-to power outfit. cher has iconic looks on standby, so should you. plan an outfit that instantly makes you feel confident & put together. bonus points if it’s preppy chic.

✦ practice the “cher voice.” slow down your speech, add a touch of playfulness, and speak with certainty. even if you’re saying something ridiculous, say it like it’s groundbreaking.

✦ walk with an effortless, floaty confidence. stand tall, relax your shoulders, and glide, not rush. confidence is in the pace.

✦ set high standards--then raise them. cher never settles, and neither should you. it doesn't matter if it’s skincare, study goals, or the people in your life, only accept the best.

✦ always have a backup plan. one of cher’s best qualities? adaptability. even if it’s an outfit disaster or a last-minute change of plans, never be caught off guard. keep a “just in case” solution for everything.

cher horowitz isn’t just a character. she’s an energy. she’s confident, effortlessly charming, and always in control of her world. if you start thinking like cher, you’ll start living like cher. and trust me, that’s a lifestyle worth having.

𐙚˙⋆𝓹𝓵𝓪𝔂𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽𐙚˙⋆:

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ludolka · 27 days ago

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Pygmalion and Galatea - A Project Xelqua au fic

Word count: 2158

Description: Pygmalion in Greek mythology was a sculptor who fell in love with a statue he has created, named Galatea. Null wants to kiss Joel, his main creator, who has to decide between acting based on his morals or his attraction

Written in third person, from Joel’s POV, who is kind of an unreliable narrator

Author’s note at the end

Joel let out a heavy sigh and eyed the cold cup of coffee on his desk. Was it his 5th or 6th coffee of the day? He wasn’t sure, he stopped counting his daily caffeine intake years ago. It wasn’t even that late yet, only around 5 pm, but he has been sitting at this computer since 8 am and he was nowhere near finished with what he planned on completing today

The computers and scattered around technology sang their electronic songs to him and he could swear his typing made the melody of some classical song he heard years ago. Or maybe he was going insane. But he found comfort in the noise, he has grown to get so used to it over the years and the countless hours he’s spent on this project in this laboratory that sometimes he couldn’t fall asleep at night due to the silence. This was his home now, he spent far more time in this building than at his actual home. He just went there to sleep

Right now he was working on trying to calculate and improve Null’s balance. Even after all these years of working on Null, his balance was still a bit off, leading him to trip or wobble whenever he had to be on his feet for an extended period of time. And for the life of him, Joel couldn’t figure out where the error was. His college and by now pseudo family member, Mumbo has also been trying to find the root cause of the wobbling in Null’s code, but has come to the conclusion that his code was working as intended and it was a mechanical issue rather than a programming one

He has been recalculating and overlooking everything for so long that he has forgotten Null was sitting not that far from him. That was until Null spoke up, breaking the lull of the orchestra of electronics

“You aren’t in a relationship, correct?”

Joel blinked a few times as he processed the question, his mind needing a few seconds to break away from only thinking in binary and machinery. He didn’t look up from his computer, but he was a bit grateful for the distraction and the break from his current thought process that seemed to be going nowhere

“Yep, I’m as single as one can be. I barely have time to sleep, let alone to date”

Null stayed quiet for a bit, Joel wasn’t sure if he went back to doing whatever he was doing before or if he was processing the answer and coming up with a response. He took a sip from his cold coffee and briefly thought about taking a smoke break, to move around a bit and get some fresh air, break the monotony

“But you have been in one before, correct?”

Joel raised an eyebrow, but still didn’t face Null even though he could feel those big eyes burning holes into him. Null always had interesting eyes, no matter how they modified them, he still had this intense stare that seemed to look straight into people’s souls. Some investors even found him creepy for his staring and refused to back up the project. They claimed he looked like he knew too much and that was uncanny for them. Joel has gotten used to it over the years

“Yes, I have. Why?”

Null was always curious, always asking millions of questions, ones that often made no sense to anyone but him. He has gotten into the habit of asking the team personal questions over the last few months and that was always a tricky area with how they were supposed to answer without overly influencing Null. Null was supposed to be this blank slate with no opinions on topics that could be classified as controversial, to make him as widely marketable as possible. This however didn’t stop him from asking the team’s personal ideologies and views. And Joel blamed Jimmy the most for slipping up, he spent the most time actually talking to Null and he seemed to sometimes forget Null wasn’t another person

“What does kissing feel like?”

Joel felt himself frown and he actually turned to look at Null at this question, deciding this conversation was more interesting than his calculations and was therefore worthy of his full attention. He found Null already staring at him like he expected. He also decided this must have been the fault of Lizzie or Mumbo, the two hopeless romantics of the team. Lizzie liked showing Null videos, movies and poems about love, claiming this was helping him understand humanity better

“Uh, I might not be the best person to ask that. I can’t give you some poetic description. Kiss the ball of your thumb or the inner part of your wrist, that comes pretty close to the feeling”

Joel was already well versed in answering questions and explaining mundane everyday things that he never would have thought he’d be asked about. Null learnt like this after all, no matter how silly his questions sounded. Null broke his intense stare from Joel and looked down at his slightly raised hand, the led circles in his eyes spinning before dropping it and turning his full attention back to Joel once again

“Why do people kiss each other?”

“Usually because they are attracted to each other or love each other. It’s also a form of affection”

Joel wasn’t sure why Null was asking him this, something he could easily look up online and get long well-written articles on the importance and history of kissing and the evolutionary reasoning for it, all of which he didn’t know. He has learnt that when Null asked simple questions, it was usually a lead up to a point he wanted to make or get to. Joel just had no idea what his end goal with this conversation was

“I want to kiss you. I want to know how it feels”

Joel swallowed and just stared at Null for a bit, who looked as nonchalant and casual as always. Like he was just talking about the weather or something mundane like that. He forced himself to say something when he felt his face heat up and saw Null’s leds start to spin, probably studying his reaction

“I uh- me? Why do you want to kiss me out of everyone?”

Joel has learnt that sometimes it was better to just let Null talk and explain himself, often leading to him being satisfied with the conclusions he himself came to. And also to better understand his thought process, which seemed impossible to follow sometimes

“Because I’m attracted to you. That’s why people kiss each other, no?”

Joel felt his face heat up more and his brain felt like it short circuited. Out of all possible answers, he never expected this. This was also new, Null hadn't expressed attraction of any kind towards anything or anyone before, Joel thought he was unable to feel that. Then something clicked in his mind and he relaxed back against his chair, looking a lot less shocked than before. Null was an ai who parroted what he heard. This couldn’t have been a genuine confession, no matter how that left a bitter aftertaste in Joel’s mouth

“Which of those fuckers talked about finding me attractive? Maybe they didn’t even realize you could hear them and here you are telling on them”

Joel’s tone and attitude changed to a more amused one and a slight smirk tugged on the corners of his lips, he would have found this whole conversation hilarious if it wasn’t for that dull ache in his chest. Null tilted his head to the side, like he was the confused one now, which Joel just found more amusing

“None of them. Mumbo was talking to Lizzie about how he found Scar attractive. You weren’t brought up”

Joel’s mind short circuited again, like he couldn’t understand what Null was telling him, no matter how simple his answer was. He felt himself tense up again and he closely studied Null’s expression, to see if he was making a joke or something like he sometimes did to fuck with Joel’s head. Lately he has been very much enjoying getting under Joel’s skin and flustering him for some reason

“Then why are you saying this?”

Joel’s voice was quieter and he just watched as Null got up from his seat near the window and walked closer to him. Joel wasn’t sure if he was frozen in his chair or if he didn’t want to move. Null stopped a foot away from him and leant down a bit, so they were at eye level

“Because I’m attracted to you and I want to kiss you”

Joel felt like his head was spinning and he was so close to throwing all logic and rationale out the window to act on impulse. He looked down at Null’s lips before he seemingly got a bit of sense back and instinctively looked over at the camera at corner of the room

“I shouldn’t”

He barely whispered, but he knew Null could hear him. Then there was a hand on his cheek, making him turn back to face Null, who hasn’t moved closer. Joel thought about the contrast between their expressions for a second, Null looked so calm and sure of himself, like this wasn’t affecting him in the slightest while he was a flustered stuttering mess

“I can turn the cameras off. No one would know. I know you want to kiss me too, I’ve seen how you look at me. You’re attracted to me”

Now Joel felt his face heat up with shame. He was well aware of his attraction, but he kept it so under control, never letting anyone, not even his closest friends know about it. And now here was the subject of his attraction, who he wanted to know about this the least, telling it to him so casually. He felt like a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Like he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do and he immediately felt like he had to repent for a sin he didn’t even commit. He never meant to act on an attraction that felt so incredibly wrong, he felt like just by having it he was betraying himself. And he had to remind himself that Null wasn’t a person who would be able to consent or reciprocate feelings, no matter how human he acted or how indistinguishable he was from a person at times in his mannerisms and behavior. Null was an ai powered machine, he was technology under the pretty face and pale skin, not flesh

He also had to remind himself that Null was an incredibly expensive piece of machinery and that he could easily be fired and sued if he somehow damaged or contaminated Null, even with just a kiss. He had no idea what even a simple kiss could do to Null, what kind of consequences that could have on his programming and how he viewed the world. Null was a blank canvas and he felt like he’d draw a line on it with a permanent sharpie if he gave in to his desires

“Null, no”

He knew he didn’t sound convincing in the slightest, knew that he’d give in if Null kept pushing and he prayed that Null took the hint and listened to his words rather than his tone or body language, absolving and saving him from falling into a hole he wasn’t sure he could get out of. He wasn’t sure he could go back once that line was crossed, no matter how much he felt pulled towards it, no matter how it was verbally already crossed

Null stayed still for a bit, studying Joel as his leds spun around. It felt like hours for Joel, but in the end Null simply nodded and drew his hand back before walking back to his seat, not glancing back at Joel, rather focusing his attention on the city skyline. He has been fixated on just watching the city from above through windows lately, sometimes not even paying attention to people talking to him, he seemed so lost in whatever he was watching

Joel let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stared at Null for a bit longer, unable to tear his eyes away from him and he could have sworn he saw Null’s expression slightly shift. Was he disappointed? Hurt? Was he even capable of feeling those things? Were the others right about Null becoming sentient? Joel’s head spun and despite barely being awake just a few minutes ago, he was now fully awake like someone poured ice cold water over him

He grabbed his pack of cigarettes off of the desk near him and forced himself to leave the room for a much needed smoke break, hoping it’d clear his mind

Author’s note: I love unreliable narrators so much, who see the world through their own biases and don’t know everything needed to fully understand the situation they are in, often misunderstanding it and drawing the wrong conclusion. Null’s more sentient than machine while Joel sees him the other way around. Null’s fully capable of feeling attraction and making decisions for himself, while Joel thinks he’s just copying something he saw or heard without truly understanding what he’s doing or saying

#ficlet #project xelqua au #gribeans #hermitshipping #trafficshipping

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winxanity-ii · 4 months ago

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: BLOODY BLOODLINE DIVINE WHISPERS: Bloody Bloodline | divine whispers: bloody bloodline⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽 ❘ 🇩‌🇮‌🇻‌🇮‌🇳‌🇪‌ 🇼‌🇭‌🇮‌🇸‌🇵‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The sun was still high in the sky as Andreia reclined upon the chaise lounge on her private balcony, teacup balanced daintily between two fingers.

The air held that strange duality only Ithaca could offer this time of year—late season warmth that clung to the daylight hours like a fading lover, while the creeping chill of oncoming night whispered along the edges.

The breeze wasn't biting just yet, but it carried a quiet warning. Still, Andreia remained seated comfortably, her long seafoam robe draped artfully across her legs, the fabric as silky as her expression.

Her balcony faced the palace courtyard, a clever architectural decision that had proved increasingly useful. From her vantage point, she could observe most of the kingdom's daily rhythm without ever setting foot among it.

She took another slow sip of her rosehip tea, eyes lazily scanning the world below.

The servants moved like ants, small and forgettable—scurrying from wing to wing, some bent beneath baskets of fruit, others sloshing water from buckets they barely seemed strong enough to carry.

Her gaze drifted briefly to the training grounds, where several soldiers were sparring, their grunts and the clash of wooden weapons faint against the lull of midafternoon winds.

But it wasn't the servants or the soldiers she focused on when she sat out there.

It was you.

From her elevated perch above the courtyard, Andreia had found the perfect vantage point—not just to enjoy the Ithacan sun, but to watch. To observe. To study.

Lately, she had made a deliberate habit of keeping to herself more often. At least on the surface.

She had taken the queen's polite suggestion of rest to heart, cloaking her moments of silence as grace and reflection. A grieving sister. A dutiful guest. A princess with composure. She wore the role well.

But underneath it all, she was planning. Waiting.

Calculating her next move.

Whenever you flitted about the courtyard below, flanked by servants or brushing shoulders with noblemen, Andreia watched. The way your hair caught the light, the way your skirts moved when you turned too quickly, the way those around you seemed to lighten in your presence.

It irritated her. No—it intrigued her. Which was worse.

There was something about you that demanded attention. Not overtly. Not with arrogance or entitlement.

But with that dangerous, glowing ease.

It made people look. It made people follow.

And Andreia could not have that.

Right now, around her, the air was thick with fragrance—lavender oil and jasmine, mingling in the warm breeze that hadn't yet realized the season had turned.

Though it was nearing the colder months, Ithaca's days still clung to their golden heat, as though stubbornly refusing to give in. Only at night did the truth of the season whisper in your bones. But now, in the soft cradle of the afternoon sun, Andreia lounged like a cat before a hearth.

She sat reclined on a cushioned chaise beneath a silk-draped canopy, her feet extended and resting atop a velvet ottoman. A young man—dark-haired and silent—was crouched at the edge of the lounge, working slow circles into her arches and heels, the tips of his fingers pressing expertly into the delicate curves of her foot.

Two female attendants stood to either side, holding tall banana leaves fashioned into fans. With synchronized grace, they waved them in alternating rhythms, keeping the breeze steady. The rustle of leaves was soft, like whispers in a chapel.

And then there was Dorea.

Seated at Andreia's right on a carved stool, the older handmaiden held her mistress' free hand lightly between her palms. Her fingers massaged slow circles into Andreia's wrist as she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone of news from back home.

"...and I swear on my mother's hair, Lady Myrrhine said that for her birthday, your parents gifted her a new dress that has a gold trim and moonstone inlays—and she didn't even want it." Dorea clicked her tongue against her teeth with exaggerated pity. "Seems like they're still treating her like a walking shrine. It's honestly pathetic."

Andreia didn't laugh—she smirked.

A slow, venomous thing.

"That insufferable little brat," she muttered, bringing the rim of her teacup to her lips. "Lucky her family has ties in the capital or I'd have had her drowned in the bath by now."

The way she said it was so casual, so offhanded, that none of the servants even flinched. If anything, Dorea gave a soft, cooing chuckle, her fingers smoothing up Andreia's forearm like one would a spooked cat.

"She's nothing, my lady. A swollen ego stuffed in a pretty dress," Dorea soothed. "And you're here now. Far from Bronte's nonsense. Far from her."

The others murmured agreement, nodding like silent birds, their expressions serene but sharpened by years of complicity.

Andreia leaned deeper into her cushions, her forest-green eyes scanning the courtyard again—this time more lazily, the dangerous gleam in them now veiled by a practiced calm. "Yes... thank the gods the little thing didn't beg to follow me here like some loyal pet. She always was more obsessed with the attention than the legacy."

She plucked a grape from the bowl beside her, pressing it between her lips with slow relish.

"Ithaca is cleaner without her noise. And more importantly"—she paused to sip her tea—"it gives me all the space I need to do what I've been meaning to for years."

Dorea's hand stilled just briefly against hers. "Which is, my lady?"

Andreia smiled.

But it was not sweet. Not warm. Not coy.

It was cold, and quiet, and certain.

"To take my rightful place," she said, sipping her tea again as though they were discussing curtain colors. "And if anyone stands in my way..."

Her eyes flicked down to the courtyard, to that damned cypress tree you always seem to sit underneath, her nails tapping against the porcelain cup before she setting it gently aside.

"...they'll learn the cost of crossing someone raised to survive Bronte."

Andreia's lips had just curled around the rim of her teacup again when one of the girls holding a palm fan—Tylissa, the taller one—shifted uneasily and tilted her head toward the courtyard.

"My lady," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even but still hesitating, "I believe... the royal family is approaching."

Andreia hummed in vague acknowledgment, not bothering to glance up from her cup.

Tylissa added carefully, "The Divine Liaison is with them."

That made Andreia pause.

Her eyes—sharp and glinting like wet stone—lifted slowly, flicking toward the courtyard's distant path. Her pupils narrowed like a cat's.

There you were.

She didn't blink.

Penelope was gliding gracefully beside her husband, as always, posture straight but easy. Odysseus walked beside her, one arm casually draped behind her back. And flanking the queen—of course—was you.

Not trailing behind.

Not clinging meekly to the edges.

No.

You walked just a step behind Telemachus, who kept glancing over his shoulder to speak to you every few paces, his voice light, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

But it was you she focused on.

You wore your clothes differently than when she'd first arrived. They clung better now. Held shape. Your posture had changed, too—shoulders straighter, chin raised just a bit higher, like someone who'd finally realized the weight of all the eyes watching them... and started enjoying it.

And then there was the beast.

Lady.

Trotting like some smug little hound right between you and Queen Penelope—her sleek dark fur catching the light like obsidian, her white bow bobbing with each regal step. The damn thing even looked proud of herself.

Andreia set her teacup down with a clink.

"Look at her," she muttered, lips curling just enough to bare her teeth. "Strutting around like she belongs beside a queen. With that beast wedged between them like she's earned its loyalty instead of stumbling into it like a blind fool."

Her servants didn't respond. Not aloud. But Dorea's grip on her hand paused for half a breath.

Andreia didn't notice.

Her gaze never left the path.

You were laughing now—at something Penelope said, maybe. Even from this distance, Andreia could tell you weren't faking it. It wasn't polite or performative. It was light. Giddy.

It was natural.

And it burned.

Andreia reclined further into the cushioned chair, one hand reaching down lazily to stroke the head of the servant still kneeling at her feet. Her voice dropped, like a slow knife sliding from its sheath.

"She may have their smiles now," she murmured, almost more to herself than anyone else, "but smiles are easy things. Cheap."

Andreia didn't take her eyes off the courtyard. Not even when her tea cooled or the breeze picked up, tugging gently at the sheer veil tied to her braid. Her gaze was fixed, razor-sharp as it trailed the path you walked—closer to the king now, your steps quickening to match his.

Telemachus, naturally, fell right into pace beside you. As always.

And though you couldn't see him from where she sat, Andreia could still feel the way his attention lingered on you—softer than it ever was with her. So gentle it made her stomach twist.

The prince of Ithaca—the son of Odysseus, the heir of legends—looked at you like you'd hung the stars he spent his nights stargazing under. Even from the balcony, even with the space between them, Andreia could recognize that kind of gaze. She'd seen it before.

But never for her.

Her grip on the glass of watered wine tightened, fingers whitening against the stem until the vessel gave a small, warning creak. Her eyes narrowed.

"First," she muttered bitterly, "I destroy that... scrap of a lyre. And then—somehow—she go from a weepy little thing to being blessed."

She said the word like it soured on her tongue.

You'd left that courtyard in tears—she remembered it well. Watched from the shadows as you'd knelt beside the broken thing like it was a body. Watched how your fingers trembled. Watched how you hadn't even looked back at her.

And then, days later—

"Oh, now," she hissed softly, her voice laced with venom, "now she's a divine liaison."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "A servant made into a symbol of divine favor. How quaint."

She knew how Ithaca used to be. The old rules. She'd studied the politics before ever stepping foot in the palace. She knew that once upon a time—even just a few years ago—it would've been unthinkable to have a servant at a prince's side. Unseemly. Unfit. Undignified.

But now?

Now you were being escorted with them. Eating beside them. Whispering to the queen like a confidant. Walking alongside Telemachus as if you belonged there.

You weren't just being smiled at or indulged or given scraps of favor. No.

You were blessed.

Andreia's jaw tensed.

Two divine relics—two. Not one, not a whisper of favor, but the type of offerings that carved myths. That wrote them.

The Askálion was already proof enough. Its presence beside you, that silent, ever-watchful beast, was loud in the quietest of ways.

Andreia didn't need to ask where it had come from. No hunter in Ithaca could've caught it. No breeder could have tamed it. She knew the stories—had studied them, remembered them whispered in Bronte during firelit nights like warnings cloaked in wonder.

But it was the lyre that had sealed it for her.

She'd known the moment she heard it. Not when she saw it, no—that would've been too easy. Its newness, its craftsmanship, its divine sheen—all of that could've been explained away. But when you first played it during the festival, when the notes poured from your fingertips like sunlight spun into sound, Andreia had nearly dropped her goblet.

Because she'd heard it before.

In Bronte's oldest myths—ones not sung at court but kept by the temple scribes and old-world bards—there was mention of Aurelián, the lyre of Apollo's choosing.

Not of his making. No, even the gods, it said, didn't forge Aurelián. It was found, not made—plucked from the wreckage of a star that fell into the sea during the first age of man. Its frame was carved from celestial driftwood, its strings spun from golden light and bound with the breath of the Muses that could make Titans weep.

And now it was in your arms.

It wasn't coincidence. It can't be.

Andreia's gaze followed your figure, every movement grating against her composure like a poorly strung harp.

"A beast of protection.., an instrument blessed by sunlight... and now divine title to tie it all together."

Her nails tapped rhythmically against her teacup, the sound sharper than necessary.

"As if she's caught the eye of the sun god himself."

The way she spat Apollo's name—sun god—was not with reverence, but something else. Something more bitter. More dangerous.

Her gaze flicked back toward you.

You were laughing again.

The prince was looking at you.

The queen was smiling at you.

And far above, the sky was mercilessly blue.

The other girl fanning her—a girl named Cyra—shifted where she stood, hesitating before speaking. "She doesn't stand a chance, my lady," she said gently, her voice soft and meant to soothe. "You're royalty. A true-born princess of Bronte. She's nothing but a handmaiden who got lucky—"

"Don't," Andreia snapped, her voice like flint striking stone. Cyra flinched, her fanning hand pausing mid-air.

Andreia sat forward in her chair, the movement fluid, deliberate, like a blade unsheathed.

"Don't compare that servant's luck to my bloodline," she spat, venom thick beneath her words. "And don't dare speak to me about titles as if they mean anything." Her eyes flashed as she stood abruptly, the cup in her hand trembling slightly in a stoking rage.

"She's lucky?" Andreia laughed, hollow and biting. "Tell me, where did luck get my brother? Andros—thirdborn, male, the beloved, spoiled, son of Bronte. He had one job. One. Woo the grieving queen, secure her hand, take her place, and the throne follows. But what does he do instead?" Her lip curled, nostrils flaring. "He squanders it. Fumbles the plan. Spends half the time simpering and the rest chasing skirts. All so I could come clean up the mess."

The handmaidens remained silent, knowing better than to speak again.

Andreia's free hand clenched at her sides, her nails digging into the fabric of her gown. "It was supposed to be simple. Penelope becomes queen-consort of Bronte, I secure a path to Telemachus, and the line is sealed. She's out of the way. I become Ithaca's queen by proxy. And instead?" Her voice dropped into a growl. "I'm still dancing on the edges. Still waiting."

The next words slipped from her like poison:

"I'm so far down the line of inheritance, I don't even make the list. After Andros had died in that stupid ambush, my parents didn't mourn—they replace him with one of my other brothers. And me? I was never considered. Not once. Not even a footnote in the line of succession."

She turned sharply, her gaze sweeping the balcony railing as if she could see the bloodlines etched into the stone.

"And now my 'destiny,'" she sneered, voice dripping with disdain, "is to be matched to some middle-aged, balding noble from a border province so my parents can tie another useless alliance. A woman with beauty and wit should command rooms. Should have her pick of kings." Her voice broke just slightly—too soft for anyone but the wind to catch. "But I'll be wasted."

Andreia's nails bit into the delicate rim of her cup, the porcelain groaning beneath the strain. Her eyes tracked the group below as you rounded the bend, Lady trotting obediently at your heel. The queen's hand hovered close to your back, a gesture of quiet intimacy, while Telemachus leaned ever so slightly toward you, his shoulder brushing yours like it had done it a thousand times before.

Andreia's jaw clenched. She didn't blink.

The brightness of the midday sun reflected off your hair, gilding you like something celestial. A low murmur of laughter drifted up as you disappeared beyond the hedges, the sound mingling with birdsong and breeze.

It made her stomach twist.

Her fingers trembled around the teacup, tightening, crushing the stem of the handle like a vice.

"No," she hissed, voice too quiet for the others to hear. "No, I refuse."

Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with something colder. Hungrier.

"I have too much to offer to be forgotten. I was raised to shape kingdoms. Not be handed off to irrelevant barons with brittle spines and aging sons. Not to smile beside some moldy borderland duke until I wither into dust."

She turned her gaze to the horizon beyond the courtyard, where the palace walls ended and the open sea began—glittering like a blade under the sun.

"Let her bask," Andreia muttered, each word edged with venom. "Let her enjoy their smiles. Their attention. Their favor."

Then, quieter—like a promise: "I'll take more than smiles when I strike."

With a sharp crack, the porcelain finally gave. Her teacup split in her hand, shards falling in quiet, deadly pieces onto her lap and the stone floor. A droplet of blood welled at the tip of her thumb, bright against her pale skin, but she didn't flinch.

She simply smiled—thin and cold.

"Even fools know never to sail through Scylla twice," she said softly, the old Bronte saying tasting like ash on her tongue. "Gods be damned if I let her become my Charybdis."

And with that, she swept the blood from her thumb, letting it smear like war paint across her lips.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 35 ┃ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜��, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 ; the long awaited pov you all have been waiting for; hope you enjoy a peek into our fav pyscho's mind ❤️

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 7 months ago

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You asked for reqs so Im here to yap! How about Mycroft from Sherlock having a gf that is constantly overthinking if he actually likes her(if he is with her for some reason where he can take advantage of her later, even tho as far as she knows, she has no connection to anything political that he can use. She still can't stop thinking about it tho.)

Him comforting her awkwardly bc he literally can't say any affirming words coherently, just actions that you'd have to look for under a microscope to notice, but they are there! He does let her brew and feel bad for quite some time unintentionally because he is very avoidant of emotional confrontations tho🥹

Do feel free to ignore this if it isn't your cup of tea! Mwah💋

An Affair of Logic and Love

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Mycroft x reader

________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a man of romance. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him. Reserved, calculating, and perpetually aloof, he approached the world as a chessboard, his every move measured, every relationship dissected for utility. Yet here he was, seated across from you at his immaculate dining table, sipping his tea as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

And here you were, trying to decipher his every blink, every sigh, every sip.

You glanced at him cautiously. Did he even like you? Or was there some hidden reason—a grand strategy that somehow involved you, though you couldn’t imagine how? You were an ordinary person, far removed from the tangled webs of politics and espionage he navigated daily. What could he possibly gain from being with you?

These thoughts gnawed at you, louder with each interaction, until every small silence felt like proof that you were merely a pawn in his game.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft said without looking up from his tea.

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You fumbled for a distraction, taking a sip of your tea and nearly scalding your tongue. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking, I see.” He folded his hands and leaned back slightly. “Should I be concerned?”

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to confront him, to demand why he was with you if he could barely muster a word of affection. But the other part—the overthinking, self-doubting part—was too afraid of his answer. What if he confirmed your fears?

“No,” you muttered, looking down at your cup.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But true to form, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he let the silence stretch, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts.

For the next several days, the doubts consumed you. Every interaction became a puzzle to solve:

• When he handed you a cup of tea without a word, was it a sign of affection, or was he just being polite?

• When he mentioned your favorite book in passing, was it because he genuinely remembered, or because he needed to lull you into a false sense of security?

• When he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for work, was it out of habit or obligation?

The questions were endless, and Mycroft, in his typical manner, did nothing to alleviate them. He wasn’t cruel—far from it—but his reserved nature and avoidance of emotional discussions left you in the dark.

It all came to a head one evening when you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Mycroft,” you began hesitantly as the two of you sat in his living room, him reading a newspaper and you pretending to focus on a book.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up.

“Why are you with me?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Mycroft froze, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.

“Pardon?” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

You set your book down and turned to face him fully. “Why are you with me? I just… I can’t help but wonder if there’s some reason—some ulterior motive—because I don’t understand why you’d choose me.”

He finally lowered the newspaper, his expression inscrutable. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re so… you. And I’m just… me. It doesn’t make sense.”

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. He looked at you, his sharp gaze scanning your face as if you were a particularly challenging code to crack.

Then, finally, he spoke: “I see.”

That was it. I see.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he just shifted slightly in his seat, as if the conversation had already concluded.

“That’s all you have to say?” you asked, your frustration bubbling over.

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I… hadn’t realized you felt this way.”

“Well, I do.”

He looked down at his hands, his usually unshakeable composure faltering ever so slightly. “Emotions are… not my area of expertise,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “But I assure you, my intentions are entirely genuine.”

It wasn’t the grand declaration you’d hoped for, but coming from Mycroft, it was monumental. Still, it wasn’t enough to banish your doubts entirely.

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” you pressed. “Why can’t you just say how you feel?”

Mycroft shifted again, clearly wrestling with his discomfort. “I’m not… accustomed to such expressions,” he said stiffly. “But that does not mean I don’t care for you. On the contrary, I—” He stopped, his mouth opening and closing like he was physically incapable of forming the words.

Instead, he stood abruptly and walked to his desk. You watched in confusion as he opened a drawer, pulled out a small velvet box, and returned to the couch.

He handed it to you without a word.

Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant a simple yet elegant design that you immediately recognized—it was based on your favorite flower, something you’d mentioned in passing months ago.

“I had this made for you,” Mycroft said awkwardly, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee table. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you. I suppose now will have to do.”

You stared at the necklace, your heart swelling with a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mycroft…”

“I may not be able to express myself in the traditional sense,” he continued, his voice stiff but earnest. “But I do care for you. Deeply. If that were not the case, I wouldn’t—” He stopped himself again, sighing in frustration. “I wouldn’t have allowed this relationship to happen.”

It wasn’t a perfect confession. It wasn’t romantic or poetic. But it was Mycroft.

You smiled softly and reached out to take his hand. “Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He finally looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said gruffly.

#fanfiction #reader insert #fanfic #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes #mycroft bbc #Mycroft #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #x reade

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itscoucouharry · 5 months ago

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Two Different Worlds- Harry Styles x Nurse Reader one shot

Hey yall since I’m going through a bit of exhaustion due to my week with nursing classes, I was feeling a bit inspired to write something. As always enjoy:) let me know if you want pt 2 :)

Also- it’s my boobies birthday 🥹happy birthday H🩷🩷🩷

My Masterlist🩷

The soft hum of conversation, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the warm glow of dim lighting filled the upscale bar. You sat in a corner booth, feeling slightly out of place among Harry Styles’ circle of friends—an elite group you’d met through the hospital where you worked as a nurse.

You weren’t sure how you ended up here. One of the hospital’s biggest donors had taken a liking to you, often inviting you to gatherings far outside your usual world. Tonight was one of those nights.

The contrast between their lives and yours was glaring. They were effortlessly glamorous, draped in designer clothes that likely cost more than your monthly salary. And then there was you, in the best outfit you could afford, feeling the weight of eyes subtly assessing you.

Harry sat at the head of the group, as magnetic as ever, his laugh rich and easy. But every time his green eyes landed on you, there was something guarded in his expression. Not curiosity, not warmth—just a quiet, unreadable tension that made you feel like an intruder.

You tried to brush it off, but his aloof demeanor was impossible to ignore. Every time you laughed at a joke or chimed in on the conversation, you felt his gaze—watching, calculating, almost annoyed.

“So, Y/N,” Harry said suddenly, cutting through the chatter. “What do you do?”

The question was casual enough, but the way he asked it felt… loaded. Like he was already deciding how much space you deserved in this world of his.

“I’m a nurse,” you said simply, keeping your voice steady.

His brows lifted slightly, but the smirk that followed made your stomach tighten. “A nurse, huh? That’s… noble.”

You stiffened. You’d dealt with people like him before—people who thought your work was admirable but beneath them. People who had no idea what it took to keep others alive, to be the one standing between life and death on a daily basis.

“It is,” you replied firmly, meeting his gaze. “Not everyone gets to make a difference in people’s lives every day.”

His smirk faltered for a split second before he shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Fair enough. But it’s not exactly… glamorous, is it?”

Your face warmed with irritation, but you refused to let it show.

“No,” you said evenly. “But some of us take pride in what we’ve earned, even if it’s not wrapped in a pretty package.”

The table went silent. The weight of your words hung between you. For a moment, Harry looked surprised—like no one had ever dared to speak to him like that.

“Fair enough,” he said again, this time softer. But his eyes lingered on you, and this time, there was no smirk.

You left the bar early, needing to breathe. The night had been too much—Harry’s coldness, the reminder that you didn’t quite fit in. The cool air hit your skin as you stepped outside, wrapping your coat tighter around you.

“Y/N, wait.”

You froze, heart sinking at the sound of Harry’s voice. He jogged to catch up, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

“What do you want?” you asked, irritation lacing your words.

He hesitated, exhaling before finally speaking. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You folded your arms. “For what?”

“For being a dick,” he said, his green eyes locking onto yours. “I shouldn’t have made those comments earlier. I don’t know anything about you, and I was out of line.”

You studied him, searching his face for any hint of insincerity. But for the first time tonight, he looked… genuine. Almost vulnerable.

“Why were you being such an ass, then?” you asked bluntly.

His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed. “I don’t know. I guess… I didn’t know how to act around you. You’re different from the people I usually hang out with.”

You scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I mean it,” he said, voice softer now. “You’re… real. You deal with life and death every day. You’ve worked for everything you have. That’s… intimidating.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “Intimidating?”

“Yeah.” His lips twitched into a small, self-deprecating smile. “Most people I know are just coasting, pretending they have it all figured out. But you—you actually have a purpose. You fight for people. That’s not something I see every day.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. The man who had spent the evening making you feel small was now looking at you like you were the most extraordinary person in the room.

“Well,” you said finally, “maybe next time, don’t be such a jerk about it.”

He chuckled, the sound warm this time. “I’ll work on that.”

What you didn’t know—what Harry would never admit—was that he had been drawn to you the moment you walked in.

It wasn’t just your beauty, though that had certainly caught his eye. It was the way you carried yourself—the quiet strength that radiated from you. He hated how defensive he’d gotten, how his own insecurities had made him lash out.

But seeing you stand your ground, refusing to let him or anyone else diminish you, had only made him admire you more.

As he watched you disappear into the night, he knew one thing for certain: he was in trouble.

Because he had an overwhelming attraction to you, and he had no idea how to make you see that he wasn’t the man you thought he was.

#harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #plus size reader #harry styles x plus size reader #nurse reader #harry styles #one direction #niall horan imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfic #fanfiction #liam payne x reader #louis tomlinson x reader #zayn malik x plus size reader #zayn malik x reader

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gardens-light · 10 days ago

Note

Hi! I saw your requests were open and had one for you if you would be willing, totally understand if not!

Tfp Shockwave x transmasc human reader who's on their period and feeling dysphoric/generally not great

Shockwave comforting the reader about the physical discomfort of cramps/bloating and reassuring them of their gender/genral self even with their period. All in his own Shockwave ways of course

Thanks so much for your time and hope you have a good one!

Hi!

I absolutely loved this idea! Honestly went straight into the comfort/warm fuzzy style with this fic, therefore, apologise if it's a bit short. Enjoy!

Calculated Kindness

Word Count: 848

Content: TFP Shockwave x GN/Human Reader. Comfort.

The interior of the old Cybertronian communications outpost hummed softly in the dark, tucked deep beneath a desert canyon far from Jasper. Hidden from Autobot surveillance and even Megatron’s prying optics, Shockwave had converted the facility into a lab for off-the-record experiments… and, unbeknownst to anyone, a quiet place for one very specific human- his human to rest.

You curled up on the makeshift couch in the corner, clutching your stomach while wrapped in one of the thermal blankets Shockwave had synthesized to match your body’s fluctuating temperatures. The fluorescent lighting had been dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting faint reflections across the curved walls of Cybertronian alloy.

Shockwave observed you from a respectful distance, one clawed servo steepled against the other in thought. He could see your vitals were fluctuating. Not dangerously, but noticeably.

Elevated body temperature. Shallow breathing. Muscle spasms in the abdominal region. Fatigue in their limbs. Low vocal output.

You hadn’t said much since upon arriving, except the occasional mutter of an apology for being “useless today.” Despite Shockwave already telling you once before that apologies were inefficient when directed at allies, especially when dealing with something as biologically inevitable as your reproductive cycle. But still, you insisted on guilt.

"You're experiencing discomfort."

A half-laugh, half-sigh escaped you, as you shifted upon the couch, hugging your knees tighter to your chest. “Is it really that obvious?”

He tilted his helm slightly, attempting to process your sarcasm. “Ovulation is a necessary precursor to reproductive viability. But I fail to understand why your kind evolved such inefficient systems.”

You gave a weak laugh, burying your face into the pillow. “Trust me, we humans ask ourselves the same question.”

Without hesitation, Shockwave reached behind him, retrieving a small, human-sized thermal cup. Tilting your head, staring at him in disbelief as he gently approached you, each heavy step measured with care to not startle you.

“What is this?”

“An herbal compound. Derived from chamomile, ginger, magnesium glycinate, and bio-safe pain inhibitors. Brew it with hot water. Drink twice daily. It will not conflict with any known medications or disrupt hormonal balances.”

You held the thermal cup like it might vanish. “You… made me medicine?”

Shockwave didn’t answer immediately. He instead scanned your face, noting the way how you were holding back tears—frustration, hormones, gratitude and pain all warring for control.

"Affirmative. Synthesized from Earth-native botanicals. I observed you reacting positively to similar... teas last month. You have not consumed sufficient sustenance today. This correlates with increased irritability and poor self-perception during this phase.”

“…You noticed that?” you murmured, a little surprised.

“I observe everything,” Shockwave flatly spoke, but something in his tone hinted at something gentler. Something quiet.

Sipping the herbal tea, feeling the warmth settle in your stomach. The cramps didn’t disappear entirely, but merely dulled to a more tolerable ache.

“I hate this,” you softly spoke, secretly hoping that the kneeling Decepticon beside you, somehow didn't catch your words. “I was going to finish helping you run those synthetic nerve simulations, but I can’t even sit upright.”

Shockwave’s optic softened as leaned in a little closer. His massive servo hovered, uncertain for a moment, then slowly descended, cupping your blanket-covered side with painstaking gentleness. Careful to apply only the smallest pressure—just enough to be felt through the thick blanket.

You couldn't help but look up at him with weak smile, resting your cheek against the back of his servo. “As always, my body planed on betraying me on a day I aimed to achieve things on my 'To Do List.' God, I feel so useless during these times! ”

“I require data. But I do not require perfection.”

You turned your head slightly, pressing into his touch. Eyes flickering up to meet his unusual soft gaze.

“You are useful because you are you. You notice patterns others miss. You complete tasks without instruction. You are—frequently inefficient—but reliably intuitive.” His optic dimmed slightly, like a slow blink. “You provide a variable I did not anticipate. And yet I find… I would recalculate the equation to include you every time.”

You blinked. “...What?”

He adjusted, bringing his optic level closer to your gaze.

“Assessing your value through a distorted framework of cultural aesthetics and temporary appearance, is unlogical. I assess based on function, loyalty, and presence. You are efficient, brave and consistently… compelling to observe.”

A soft smile teased the corners of your lips. “You think I’m… compelling?”

“I would not expend time, data, or concern on a being who was not.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No sarcasm. No mockery. Just facts, delivered in that low monotone that somehow made the truth hit harder than any flattery.

You exhaled slowly, trying to swallow the rising warmth within your chest.

Tears unexpectedly glassed your vision slightly. And despite the aching muscles and the heaviness in your limbs, you reached out and rested your free hand over the edge of his digit, anchoring yourself there.

“Thanks, Shockwave. I mean it.”

His response was quiet as he lowered his helm, almost resting against your forehead. “Understood."

#x reader #fanfiction #fanfic writing #transformers fanfiction #transformers x reader #transformers prime x reader #tfp shockwave #shockwave x reader #transformers prime #tf prime #tfp #decepticon x reader #x gn reader #gn reader

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lostsexplicit · 7 months ago

Text

Delirium

Viktor x female!reader

wordcount: 2189

Summary: He could feel heat crawl up his back and into his face. Viktor, she had called. That voice would haunt him tonight, for many nights. Viktor, a sweet exhale with a slight whine. Were it any other daily visit, he would have been able to let it slide into the abyss, lock it away until he was alone and could safely lose himself in the tangle of thoughts. Yet she said it here, in the echoing quiet of a dark, empty lab, into the shell of his ear. Viktor , he would hear for weeks to come.

a/n: more of a reader than writer, but this skinny twink had me in a chokehold in his first moments on screen. Set in vaguely S1 Act 1/2

His leg always worsened as the clock’s hands ticked past two. Late lab nights were more and more common as the demand for progress increased.

The lab doors swished open, dull thuds trudging in. Scents of warm and sweet pastries wafted in. Viktor’s stomach growled. The sandwich Jayce had shoved in his workspace at noon felt distant.

“I swear they’re trying to kill me,” she yawned, leaning on his desk. Viktors own hand twitched as he saw her smooth, delicately manicured hand set the cup in the center of his vision. She huffed, shrugging her coat off. Her cravat was hung loosely around her neck, the open top of her button up offering a view of her collarbones and a little something more if he strained enough to look. Viktor turned back to the experiment. It sparked.

“No more than Hextech tends to,” he said.

“It took me over two hours to find the books she wanted us to research from and then the library had the audacity to keep it on a two hour loan inside the library.”

“Hm, you were lovely enough to get me coffee?”

“Hot chocolate. We’ve had enough caffeine today,” she said.

A sip revealed that it was sweet and thick chocolate, topped with a generous layer of whipped cream. It struck a contrast between the air of the lab and its steaming contents. Cold nights were never much of a problem except when Viktor worked for so long he forgot to adjust the thermostat. It was alright. He just needed to work out one more aspect before leaving. If he could just get the frequency to reach the pitch before overheating—

“Viktor,” she sighed, voice thick with exhaustion but honeyed in a way that made his heart stop in his throat. “It’s past two. Our brains are lifeless grey jelly now.”

He could feel heat crawl up his back and into his face. Viktor, she had called. That voice would haunt him tonight, for many nights. Viktor, a sweet exhale with a slight whine. Were it any other daily visit, he would have been able to let it slide into the abyss, lock it away until he was alone and could safely lose himself in the tangle of thoughts. Yet she said it here, in the echoing quiet of a dark, empty lab, into the shell of his ear. Viktor, he would hear for weeks to come.

He stood abruptly and put his weight on the edge of the desk as he rushed to the other end where some notes lied from an earlier calculation, ramblings safe from her understanding and far enough away to cool himself.

“The chairs alone would’ve been enough to depress any man within an hour,” he said. Would she notice his escape? Viktor glanced back.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You’d think if this city could fund HexTech it could afford chairs that don't share the comfort level of stone.” She lifted her drink up before wincing, stretching out her hands carefully and thoroughly. Each digit flexed. Viktor wondered how they’d feel in his hair, pulling at the roots. Neatly shaped nails scraping against his back and grasping at his—

The whir of the Hexcore he’d forgotten sped up to a high pitch and lashed out a pulse of electric blue. The metal encasing grew red hot before breaking under pressure and exploding. She gasped and threw her arms up to cover her face as she stumbled back. Surrounded by singed notes and smoking mechanism, the Hexcore lay still, its glow reduced and steady.

Viktor scrambled to reach her. His leg protested and spasmed, but he finally reached her and held her by the shoulders, sliding down to her wrists.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. Stupid, stupid. He knew it was too much energy. That test didn’t have any more probability of success than the last ten. Like an idiot, he’d just left it there without a single warning or precaution. It wasn’t terribly volatile, but if he’d been more amiss in his calculations than he thought the explosion could have led to much more. Viktor held her face, searching for marks that were sure to be there. Some remnant soot laid just below her wide open eyes. He brushed it away. It only made it into a larger smudge.

“I’m good, um,” She blinked rapidly, “I–not even a scratch. Just won’t be able to sleep in these clothes anymore.” Academy uniforms would crease horribly after a night, but that was the least of his concerns.

It was just the musings of his deluded searching, but it seemed she leaned into his hand, relaxed in his hold. He glanced down at her sleeves and found them marked with unfortunate grey.

“I am so sorry, I should have–”

“Hey,” She took his hand in hers. They were warm, soft. Her lips, ones he’d spent sleepless nights picturing for so long the lingering sight of them sent shivers down his spine, twisted into a smirk. “Wouldn’t be your first failed experiment to blow up in my face.”

Viktor pulled his gaze up to frown at her. “That was not failed, I was testing the–”

“Nope, it bleached off an entire eyebrow. Failed. And you didn’t tell me until after I gave my presentations.”

“Your argument was flawless. I wasn’t going to let appearances keep you from speaking”

“Three presentations. One eyebrow.”

“I was right. Anyway, Jayce lost more.”

She laughed. “At least he still looked good with half a beard,” she said, walking to the corner where they kept cleaning supplies. His hands felt cold again. She returned with a rag and broom in hand. She was no stranger to messes into the lab.

A yawn bubbled up and Viktor was halfway through it before he realized.

“Alright, kněžna, time to go home.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. He had used that term once when she was in one of her stubborn, contrarian moods. Most words that slipped out went unnoticed or in such an annoyed, quick torrent that she never pushed for the meaning. This one, though, caught her attention. He had been annoyed as well and quickly translated.

“As you wish, little princess,” he had mocked in response to her growing demands.

It was only a matter of time before the term was weaponized.

“I have work to do.” Viktor slumped back down. His leg was a little worse for wear, stiff from awkward positions. He found himself yanked back, chair swiveling around to face her as she leaned down on the arm rests, trapping him. His breath hitched. That familiar thumping in his chest returned. It wasn’t enough to stifle the annoyance at being interrupted.

She settled him with a look down her nose, exposing the curve of her neck.

“Your last test blew up, Viktor. It’s time to sleep. I will carry you back myself if I have to and you know how that’ll end.”

Last time she decided enough was enough he found himself half-slung over her shoulders like a long, bumpy sack. A few strides to the door had knocked the air out of her every breath and him and his bones creaked in protest before giving in. It wasn’t her preferred method, she generally bribed him with treats, but tonight's bribe had been coated in fine grey dust at no other fault than his own.

Now, with cloudy thoughts of leaning forward and bridging the gap, Viktor could hardly be blamed for an instinctual hum of affirmation, politely agreeing to any words falling from her very close, soft-looking lips. Exhales mingling, she could have asked for his heart and he’d carve it out himself. He was brought back to reality when she leaned to the side and yawned, back arching slightly. Her head dipped low with half-closed eyes as she turned back to him. She whispered between them.

“I want to sleep.” Another sharp jolt to his heart. “But I can’t until I know you’re taken care of. Come on, let’s go home.” She held out her hand to him. The sensation was still a bit foreign, but unlike the strained pleasantries of Piltover, it felt nice, really, to slide his hand into hers. To feel the palms against each other and join in warmth.

They walked back to his apartment at the insistence of her judging gaze. It couldn't be guaranteed that he’d sleep until she saw him at rest herself. He watched her fumble with her key, laughing to himself as each failed attempt mounted her frustration as he did nothing but stared with smirk. She cursed her professor and her professor’s mother as she finally unlocked the door. On the floor went her book bag. Haphazardly along the couch went their coats. At long last, Viktor reached his bed. He pulled a corner of the covers down and sat, letting out a breath of relief when he stretched out his legs. There was a brief thought about something important. Wrinkles and sleeping.

He’d just shrugged off his leg brace and decided that changing out of his clothes was too much trouble when she stumbled into his room, hesitant at the threshold. At that moment, Viktor wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her in the context of his room and found that he liked the idea, after a moment, he realized he liked it a bit too much as it no longer felt so cold.

“You are not wrinkling your academy clothes,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. There must have been something weary in his gaze because she sighed as she pushed away from the frame and fully entered the room. “Sit up. I’ll at least undo your tie.”

Viktor gave a weak shrug and closed his eyes. He felt more than saw when she closed the distance and fumbled with his cravat. He inhaled sharply and looked at her quickly. On her knees before him. Her fingers brushed underneath, ticklish on his chest. It was somewhat cute to see her focused frown, the small struggle she had with the security of the knot. Eventually, it came undone.

Her eyes flicked up to his. For a breath, they stared. Their exhales mingled.

Spurred by sleep deprivation’s lack of inhibition, she leaned up and fluttered her eyes closed. Motivated by the selfish part of him screaming to just let himself have this, Viktor met her in the middle.

She was right there, lips pursed and stars, she tasted sweet. Viktor knew he was done for. There was nothing left to keep his hand from splaying against her waist and the other buried in her bergamot scented hair. All thoughts of why he hadn't done this before left.

He kissed her hard.

Heated and fervent, like it was his last. She melted against him, placing her leg between his and pushing him down. She gripped his hair. Before he could catch himself, a desperate whine escaped.

“Do that again,” she whispered against him, hot breath fanning over his lips.

“It’s not exactly on demand.” Viktor’s hand, slightly trembling, slid down to rest at her hip, thumb caressing it in a slow pattern.

Her nails grazed against his scalp and she bent down until she was nearly lying on top of him, every inch of her body pressed hotly into him. Viktor didn’t even register the sound that left him. It wasn’t until he felt her kiss twist into a smirk on his neck and he did it again.

“The right conditions have to be met,” he panted. She hummed.

After a brief pause, she let her weight fall to the side of him, arms circling his neck in a tight embrace. His body followed almost of its own accord, mourning the loss of heat on top of him. She still played with the outgrown strands of his hair, eyes fighting to stay open as she pressed soft kisses to his cheekbone, ear, collarbone, any part of him that was in reach. The cool night air began to settle over them as his breathing evened.

He had spent restless nights agonizing over the look in her eyes. A devastating visual display of quiet tenderness that he recognized so acutely in his own heart. Except now, now it burned a little brighter. Demanded more, on the cusp of outgrowing its space and overflowing into the real world.

Viktor had been too enamoured with the soft glow when he first noticed it in himself. It had been a sunshine-like presence, novel and pleasant. Every time he went to snuff it out, for both of their skates, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. To part from it.

With rough pull, Viktor managed to get the blankets out from underneath them. His lithe frame entwined with hers as he held her closer in the warmth. The embers in his heart had long ago grown into a barely contained explosion. He would burn for her. An eternal flame, bright and unabashed even when its mortal vessel waned and decayed into dust.

Already half-asleep, but with a slight upturn of her mouth, she mumbled, “Goodnight, Viktor.”

“Goodnight, můj miláčku.”

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animeshotsh · 1 year ago

Text

In love with Control (Lucifer x OverlordMakima!Reader)

Summary: Lucifer its in love! Or is he?... Charlie cant help but be upset of this.

Warnings: HH violence - Manipulation - Cannibal mention - Insults - Cursing - Kind of soft tho - Grammmar mistakes -

PT2 of this

Charlie knows she should be upset that her dad just decided to spent more time in the Hotel because of a centrain Control Demon. Who could not care less about the kings crush over them, it was a good spawn to use whatsoever, so (Y/N) made sure to keep the fake facada towards him.

Of course they noticed that the princess of hell was not so happy about her fathers actions, while (Y/N) found it fun to watch, it was also a lose that needed to be repair.

"Princess" (Y/N) bowed towards Charlie who in reaponse tried to tell (Y/N) how that was not necesary, not used to the formality Charlie blushed as (Y/N) next words left their mouth.

"I apologies if this causes you discorfm, however you are the heir of hell and such i must act according to it"

"T-there is no need (Y/N)!! Really, we are all friends in here after all" Charlie responded taking (Y/N)'s hands "Im really happy you are giving this a try"

(Y/N) smiled at the princess, they could not understand how this was the pawn of Lucifer itself.

"Princess, I would like to apologie if the resent interactions between the king of hell and myself has made you uncomfortable. If you want I can call our meetings off"

Meeting were Lucifer showing up randomly, putting much effort in impressing the Control Demon.

Charlie was suprised. She had to admit that it did hurt her to see her father being now interested only because (Y/N) was present. But, did her father not deserve happynes too? Who was she to denied such a thing.

And you were so considerated. Oh! Charlie could tell you were going to be one of the firsts demons to be saved.

"I aprecciate your concer, but there is no need. Im happy to see my dad out of his office more and...and seeing him making a new friend. There is no reason for both of you to stop seeing each other"

The smallest of a smirk appear on your face.

"Thanks Princess you are very kind"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

After the first time Lucifer saw you, he was hunted in the good sense by your eyes. These spiral eyes, it made him feel emotions he thought did not exist anymore.

Yet, anytime you two would meet up for tea or just for a walk, you would keep eye contact making the king of hell feel his soul being pulled out from his chest. His ideas and words would cramble as you would still talk about whatever topic you two were on.

"Your majesty, are you alright?" You asked pulling down the cup of tea. Lucifer was once again lost in your words and image.

"Eh?-oh yes! Sorry, ammm work has been in my mind lately" He lied taking a nervous sip, ignoring how hot the tea was.

"Oh? If its too much i can help" Pulling your hands under your chin you saw as how he gluped down some saliva, he was not expecting an offer like that.

What better chance to discover the secrets of hell if not by being besides the one who made it himself? This was a unique chance you were going to try and reach.

Lucifer had two ideas, one from where exactly he would find much work that needed you to be by his side- helping him of course, and two that it was an amazing oportunity to pass more time with you.

"Ummm, well I- I have it covered....from now"

Lucifer saw your reaction, your eyes being cast down and your shoulder defeating. He felt like he had just broken something.

However, that reaction was once again a calculated one. After spending so much time with Lucifer you got to see and understand what made the small king feel guilty and would make him fall down into your trap.

"B-but there are some really old books that needs to be clean and organized"

He cringed at his stupid "extra work" and waited to see your reaction or hear your words.

"Oh....so you are having a hard time with daily tasks" you said taking one hand to your face and thinking "I guess, its normal that even your majesty would face that type of thing. If you allow it would be an honor to help you sort these books"

One part of Lucifer was jumping while the other was completly frozen. You, someone whos name was whisper in fear in the circle, someone with so much power and intelligence, would do such a thing as organize books?

"I loved them when i was alive. Never was a big fan of Tvs or any electronic device, the touch of the paper and the different covers" You closed your eyes, adding drama to the moment, missing how Lucifer eyes almost turned in hearts.

"Well, its settled then. I can- i can call you so you can come over?..." Lucifer asked feeling like a young teen asking out his crush.

"At anytime your majesty"

"Please, Lucifer its fine" You were going to kill him if you continued to adress him as that.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

Later that night at the Hotel the dark corridors where filled with silence as you walked to your room a neutral expression on your face.

"Well, i must say I havent quiet find someone who's tongue is as sharp as a blade" The static voice and laughts from a deer demon said making you stop to turn and look at him with a smile.

"Alastor, its a pleassure to see you tonight. Do you need something?"

"I must say, seeing the king of hell fall down over a sinner who only tells lies has its own charm Dear. Its a shame not everybody falls under your spell"

"Im not sure what you are talking about but..."

Grey chains appear behind you swiftly going for Alastor's head and pircing it.

"I still see you as nothing but a lowlife cannibal, who seeks nothing but entretaiment in others fails, when you are the very example of one. Being caught and shoot to death when being alive, and then having your soul being held by someone. To me all you are is a kid, crying for his mother, wishing to be in a different situation but finding yourself again at the bottom. And I know this because this is not the first time you try to corner me, but we both know how this ends....or well I do"

"Alastor, you wont remember seeing me here tonight. Whatever you overhear when I talked to Lucifer you wont remember it. You will go to your room, lock the door and sleep till tomorrow morning when Charlie ends needing you"

Alastor eyes devoid of emotions or any type of sign of being there. He just nodded his creepy smile not leaving. Slowly he turned back and went all the way to his room.

"Oh many times is he going to try get in my way" You murmured to yourself as you continued walking. "Well, i can always order him to kill the Hotel staff, im sure that would piss the princess really bad" You finally said with a sadistic smile as your eyes brighted in the dark.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #charlie x reader

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inkspiredwriting · 1 year ago

Text

Timeless

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: None

The sun cast long shadows over the courtyard of the Umbrella Academy, painting the aging walls in hues of gold and crimson. Number Five stood alone, his eyes fixed on the Horizon as he sipped his coffee. The bitter taste was a small comfort in the maelstrom of his thoughts. He had faced countless dangers, traveled through time, and fought to save the world more times than he cared to remember, yet nothing compared to the turmoil within his heart.

Y/N had been a constant in his life since he had returned from the apocalypse. She was his best friend, his confidant, and the one person who saw through the gruff exterior he presented to the world. She was a whirlwind of joy and spontaneity, a stark contrast to his calculated and often cynical demeanor. But beneath the teenage exterior of Number Five was the soul of a man who had lived for decades. He was in love with her, and it tormented him daily.

“Brooding again, I see,” Klaus’s voice broke through his reverie. Number Five glanced sideways to see his brother approaching, a knowing smile on his face.

“What do you want, Klaus?” Five asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Klaus flopped down on the bench beside him, twirling a lollipop he had found God-knows-where. “Oh, nothing much. Just noticed you’ve been staring into the distance a lot lately. Thought you might need someone to talk to. Or at least someone to listen while you pretend you don’t need to talk.”

Five rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. Klaus had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, yet he was also the only one who could see through his masks. They sat in silence for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken words.

“It’s about Y/N, isn’t it?” Klaus finally said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Five’s grip tightened around his coffee cup. “What makes you say that?”

Klaus shrugged, but his eyes were serious. “You’ve changed since she came into your life. You’re... softer, more human. And you’ve got that look, the one people get when they’re hopelessly in love.”

Five’s laugh was hollow. “It doesn’t matter. She can never know.”

“Why not? You deserve to be happy, Five.”

Five turned to face him, his expression pained. “Look at me, Klaus. I’m trapped in a sixteen-year-old’s body. Y/N is thirty-five. Even if she could see past the physical, what kind of life could we have?”

Klaus placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Love isn’t about what’s on the outside. Y/N cares about you for who you are. And if she’s truly your friend, she might surprise you.”

Five shook his head. “I can’t risk it. If she knew how I felt, it would change everything. I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all.”

Klaus sighed, knowing there was little he could do to change Five’s mind. “Just promise me one thing, okay? Don’t close yourself off completely. You deserve a chance at happiness, no matter how complicated it is.”

Five nodded, appreciating his brother’s words even if he couldn’t fully accept them. “Thanks, Klaus.”

Days turned into weeks, and Five continued to bury his feelings, throwing himself into his work with the Academy. Y/N remained a constant, her laughter and light a balm to his weary soul. They spent their evenings in her small apartment, poring over old records and debating the finer points of history. Her presence was a comfort, even if it also served as a reminder of what he could never have.

One evening, as they sat together on her couch, the atmosphere shifted. Y/N turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “You’ve been distant lately, Five. Is everything okay?”

He forced a smile. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

The warmth of her touch sent a jolt through him, and he looked away, afraid she might see the truth in his eyes. “I know, Y/N. Thank you.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then sighed, leaning back. “Just remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and the rest of the Academy. We’re family.”

Family. The word hung heavy in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the lines he could never cross. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I know. And I’m grateful for that.”

As the night wore on, Klaus’s words echoed in his mind. Maybe one day he would find the courage to tell Y/N how he felt, to risk the friendship they had built for the chance at something more. But for now, he would continue to love her from a distance, cherishing the moments they shared and the light she brought into his life.

For Number Five, time had always been both an ally and an enemy. And as he watched Y/N laugh at one of Klaus’s ridiculous jokes during a family dinner, he knew that no matter what the future held, he would treasure every second he had with her.

Because in the end, love was timeless, and so was his devotion to her.

#number five x reader #five hargreeves x you #five hargreeves imagines #number five imagine #five hargreeves x reader

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cutielights · 2 years ago

Note

Hey, hey! I would like to request a Rosey Maple Moth! mother figure reader with the rottmnt boys!! And the scenario is that they were caught sneaking out of the lair for their own reason? (Separately) Por favor and thank you!! :3 (DAILY REMINDER! drink water, sleep well, etc!) (yes.. I know I wrote this at 12:21 sh..)

Okokok! Sounds very cute let’s do it <3 *quickly Google’s what a Rosey Maple Moth is* ITS SO CUTE

@whyam1h3reohrightf0rsillyturtl3s

I am gonna leave it vague btw, just because not everyone has a rosey maple moth oc, but I am gonna mention wings and being nocturnal I hope that’s okay!

Tw: none

Rise Boys + Mother Figure! Reader

Off topic, I make the banners on top of multiple character head-cannons and this one is my personal favourite I’ve made

Leo

Oh he thought he was SLICK

Sneaking back in all ninja like

Headed to the kitchen for some goddamn coffee after whatever shenanigans he was off doing

At three in the morning

He saw your wings around the corner and knew it was over

“Leonardo Hamato where have you been?” >:[

“I’m getting uhhh chamomile tea, you know, for, sleep.”

“I can smell the beans from here.”

“No you can’t. You’re going crazy. Age does that to people.”

Sending him to his room, not like he’s going to sleep anyway the insomniac

Raph

He accidentally knocked over a lamp when sneaking back in

Thought he had gotten away with it

Until you flicked the light on

Disappointed ™️

“A. What are you doing? B. That was my favourite lamp.”

“I- uh- was sleep walking?”

*cue you talking a sip of coffee whilst maintaining eye contact until he cracks*

It came sooner than expected

“Okay fine I was out I’m sorry, but you’re up too!”

“I’m nocturnal I have a biological excuse young man.”

Donnie

God knows what he was doing

I don’t even want to ask

He calculated that you may be waiting for him so he made a FOOLPROOF plan on how to avoid you

You had anticipated this, and waited in the lab instead, you got to spin around on the chair for a dramatic entrance

“Hello Donatello. Nocturnal now are we?”

*cue shrieking*

He wasn’t expecting that

“I was just, uh, getting some supplies for my drill, that is still in beta. And that you cannot see yet.”

Disapproving look ™️

Making him go to sleep

Mikey

Sneaking out

He was seen

Sneaking back in

He was seen

Mikey thought he was sooo sneaky >:[

*Flicking on the light the moment he enters the room.*

“Michelangelo Hamato, what are you doing?”

*Quick play dumb!*

“Who’s Michelangelo?”

*Not that dumb!*

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leiawritesstories · 1 year ago

Text

swords and sea breezes, 3

part one // part two //

word count: 3.5k (oops)

warnings: weapons, pirates, swearing ;)

enjoy!!

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

After two weeks with the pirates of the Queen's Cadre, Aelin was convinced that Rowan was deliberately sailing in large circles to throw her off. Little did he know that she had an impeccable sense of direction, and she'd seen the same constellations in a circular pattern over the last fortnight.

She may be the wealthy young heiress to the Ashryver-Galathynius duchy, but she was no vapid damsel.

Aelin yawned as she strolled into the galley, stretching her arms above her head. Thanks to Elide's daily knife lessons, her body was remembering the skills she'd learned as a young girl before her parents had decided that self-defense was unladylike, and her aim and accuracy were rapidly growing sharper. Almost too rapidly---she had to remind herself not to advance too quickly lest the pirates suspect she was hiding more than her weapons skills.

"Morning, everyone!" she chirped as she picked up a tin mug and filled it with coffee. The dark, bitter beverage had been strictly a servants' drink in her family home, and she reveled in the freedom to drink it, though she had to stir in nearly half as much sugar as coffee.

"Hullo, milady," drawled Fenrys, one of the ship's two lookouts. "Much better of a mornin' now that you're here with me."

"Your flattery is entirely unnecessary, Fen," Aelin smirked. "I'm still not going to let you into my bed."

Fen shrugged and draped one broad arm around her shoulders. "I'm a patient man, sweetheart."

"Like hell you are, Fenny," Elide scoffed, fondly tugging on the man's curly blonde braid.

He squawked in protest. "Don't mess up the beauty, Lochan!"

She snorted. "Is that what you tell the endless string of partners you bring into your room every time we're in port? Because I recall you saying something very different."

"What happens in my bedroom---"

"Can't possibly stay in your bedroom, because we all have eyes and ears," Aelin cut in, grinning. She winked at Fen as she sipped from her sugary coffee. "Right?"

"All I'm sayin' is that it proves my prowess," he sniffed, pretending to be offended by the good-natured teasing.

"Aye, is that what you tell yourself at night, Fenny boy?" Rowan strode into the galley, and once again, Aelin had to force her heartbeat to remain calm and steady at the sight of the man.

"Sure is, Captain!" With a blindingly sunny grin, Fenrys got up, tipped his empty mug in a salute, and tossed the cup across the room. It landed neatly in the dirty dish bin. "Right, I'm headed up to the lookout."

Rowan nodded. "You know what to do if you spot anything." He picked up two bowls of oat porridge, thanked the cook, and sauntered over to sit directly across from Aelin. "Good morning, my lady."

She arched a brow. "If it's such a good morning, why are we still sailing in circles?"

The galley---hell, the whole damn ship---went silent.

Very, very slowly, Rowan raised his eyes to hers, unable to hide the pure unfiltered shock in them. With his spoon frozen halfway to his lips, a blob of porridge splattered on the table from where it had fallen, he made a perfect portrait of incredulity. "What?!"

"Don't play stupid with me, Whitethorn." Aelin placed her hands flat atop the worn wooden table. "You are clearly clever enough to sail in a wide pattern so that ordinary people wouldn't suspect we aren't going anywhere, but you forget that I am not ordinary."

"Clearly," Rowan whispered, something almost like awe hidden beneath the rasp of his voice. He cleared his throat, placed his spoon back in his bowl, and narrowed his gaze, his moment of wonder shifting to calculation. "How long have you known we're sailing in circles, Aelin?"

The rest of the ship was utterly silent, waiting with bated breath for their captive's answer.

She shrugged. "I realized several days ago that the constellations looked the same as they had on my first night here, and further observation confirmed that we're traveling in a circular pattern."

"You got all that from the...stars?"

"You can't believe a noblewoman would know how to track the stars?" she shot back, irritation sparking her blood.

"Actually, that part is no surprise." Rowan tipped his head to the side, assessing her. "My shock comes from how you didn't hesitate to confront me in front of my entire crew."

"I thought an audience would keep you honest." She sipped her coffee, willing her expression to remain calm, if a bit smug.

He huffed in disbelief. "Well, it certainly did." His lips tipped up into a grin. "Eat, Aelin." He pushed the second bowl across to her.

She stared blankly at the bowl. "I'm not on any kind of hunger strike, Rowan. There's no need to be concerned that your ticket to Dorian Havilliard's whatever-it-is will keel over from starvation."

Rowan chuckled, low and throaty and warm. "Would you believe me if I said this was an attempt at proper manners?"

"What are those?" With an angelically innocent smile, Aelin picked up the spoon and took a bite of the porridge. For ship's fare, it was surprisingly good---steaming hot and slightly sweetened with sugar and a hint of warm spices.

"Something you constantly remind me I lack." Rowan's smirk lit up his features, and Aelin couldn't help but return it. That calculation had returned to his gaze, though, and he had the decency to wait until she was finished eating before he took up his usual train of questions. "Perhaps we're sailing in circles because we know we're near the island."

Aelin burst into laughter.

Rowan's brows quirked. "We could be."

"Awfully hard for you to be near something that doesn't exist," Aelin chuckled. She brushed a few loose strands of wavy red hair out of her face. "It's been two weeks, Rowan. Surely you have enough sense to tell that I'm used to your questions."

"Apparently not," he muttered, half to himself. Abruptly, he stood up, collecting both his and her empty bowls and setting them in the dish bin as he left the galley.

That went fucking brilliantly, Galathynius, Aelin thought to herself, mentally giving herself a slap upside the head for potentially revealing more than she was ready to reveal. She stood up, waved cheerily to the few crewmen still lounging around, and tossed her empty mug into the bin as she left.

She stopped at her room to tie back her hair and strap her two daggers to her hips before she went up to the deck to meet with Elide. They had developed a routine of training in the mornings, when the heat wasn't quite so bad, though Elide had been trying to convince her to start shooting pistols with the crew in the evenings.

But Aelin and explosives were...a bad combination. For many reasons.

"Ready to pick up a gun yet, milady?" Elide joked as Aelin came up to the deck.

"Ask again when pigs fly," Aelin laughed, taking her stance next to Elide and stretching her arms above her head. "I'll keep to my knives for now, thank you very much."

Elide shrugged. "Suit yourself." She spun a pair of ebony-handled pistols around her thumbs, squeezed the triggers, and with a bang and two puffs of smoke, two of the bottles sitting on the deck railing burst into shards.

"You weren't lying about being the best sharpshooter here," Aelin mused, in awe of Elide's skills.

"Course not." The shorter woman raised one of the pistol's muzzles and blew the curls of smoke away from its barrel. "Why else d'ya think I have the grumpiest man on this ship on his knees for me?"

"Gods above," Aelin groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "We already hear you two every night."

"Damn right!" Elide snickered.

Aelin shook her head, laughing, and launched both of her knives at the corkboard target, one after the other. The blades thudded into the dead center of the circle painted onto the cork, barely a hairsbreadth separating them, with their handles pointed outward at opposite angles so the tips of the blades could both hit the center.

Elide whistled. "Shit, Ae, looks like ya hardly needed my lessons!"

"More like your lessons have taught me that I can do this," Aelin replied, shrugging off Elide's praise. "I guess the self-defense lessons I used to take as a child are still lingering."

They trained for their usual hour before they had to part ways, and as Aelin tucked her knives back into their sheaths, Elide glanced up at the sky and whistled, long and low. It had been a cloudy morning, and as the day went on, the clouds had gathered ever closer, coalescing into an ominously dark mass that thickened the air with the promise of a storm.

"Might want to get below, Ae," Elide said, her brows furrowed. "Looks like we're in for a squall."

Down in his office, Rowan paced back and forth across the floor, a scowl etched into his face as he argued with his right-hand man.

"Dammit, Whitethorn, stop being so fucking stubborn!" Lorcan snapped. "We aren't gonna make it past this storm unless you pull your head out of your ass and get us through."

"We're still too fucking far away!" Rowan shot back, his jaw clenched. "I don't have much left, and getting through the storm is probably gonna take all of it. Where the hell will we be then? Powerless?"

Lorcan shot him a fierce glare. "Those ain't the words of the captain I signed on with."

"Well, that captain was fresh from Doranelle," Rowan retorted.

"And just what the hell difference did that make?"

"All the difference." Rowan stopped pacing and braced his hands on the wall, staring out the window across the choppy waves. "A year ago, I didn't realize I couldn't return to Doranelle without a guide."

"A year ago, you were so goddamn drunk on power that you didn't listen to the warnings." Lorcan spoke softly, but no less fiercely. "Where's that confidence led you, Whitethorn?"

"Here." Rowan's admission was hollow.

Lorcan nodded, one sharp dip of his chin. "Here. In the middle of the ocean, without a map or a guide, 'bout to hit a storm that'll take the last of that goddamned token to get through."

Rowan's expression tightened. "We do have a guide, I know it."

"The Galathynius girl?" Lorcan scoffed. "You're desperate, and I can understand why, but you're wrong about her." He paused for a moment, then continued, ruthlessly. "Pull yourself together. I'm goin' up top to get ready for this storm."

Rowan just nodded. "I'll be up."

"You know what happens if you're not." With that, Lorcan left.

One deck above, Aelin stood frozen with shock as the conversation she'd just eavesdropped on raced around her mind. The token. A year ago. Get us through the storm. In her mind's eye, all the pieces started to click together, threads weaving into a tight pattern that revealed why Rowan Whitethorn, pirate captain of the Queen's Cadre, was so insistent upon getting to the island Doranelle.

Power.

She shoved down the thick fear that clogged her throat at the thousand possible implications of that word, and she hurried back to her cabin as the ship's lights began to go out. Salvaterre, who was second in command, had ordered that all open flames be extinguished as they sailed into the storm---to lessen the risk of fire, for there was nothing so feared and dangerous as fire aboard a ship. Back in her cabin, she made sure the small window was securely latched, and then she changed into trousers and a blouse, stepped into the set of water-resistant oilskins that Elide had given to her, tied her hair tightly back, and went up to the deck to join the crew.

Nobody paid any special attention to her, since she was dressed like the rest of them were and the pelting rain blurred the field of vision. Her hands were sure and nimble on the lines as she helped secure the ship, and she followed a crewman towards the stern, in the direction of the captain's cabin.

The winds picked up, throwing the ship back and forth as she fought against the choppy waves, struggling to keep her balance as she sailed deeper into the maelstrom. Aelin ducked behind a bulkhead wall and peered cautiously out to the stern deck, both surprised and not surprised to see Rowan standing there, his face turned into the howling winds.

An opaque white spear of quartz dangled from a silver chain in his hand, the stone faintly flickering with light. Aelin closed her eyes, straining her hearing against the powerful shriek of the storm winds, and just barely managed to pick up a faint counterpoint melody, its notes halting and frail, coming from the stone in Rowan's hand.

A storm token.

The Queen's Cadre lurched sharply, timbers creaking as she clawed through a steep cresting wave, and a fresh wave of the downpour soaked Aelin through her clothes as a gust of wind tore her hat off her head. Grunting with effort, she grasped the lines above her head and hauled herself up, bracing her body in the net of ropes.

"Now, Captain!" Lorcan yelled over the roar of the storm.

Rowan set his jaw, a fiercely determined look settling like steel over his face, and raised the storm token above his head. His body shook with effort, but ever so slowly, a ripple shuddered out from his fists that were clenched around the flickering quartz. The ripple grew and broadened as it rose into the sky, shaking and shuddering against the force of the storm, until it exploded outward and upward with a faint, high-pitched keen that Aelin just barely heard over the wind.

And the sky went silent.

Cautiously, Aelin lifted her head, and her eyes widened. A bubble of calm surrounded the ship, keeping the storm at bay and propelling the ship through the fierceness of the maelstrom. His feet rooted to the stern deck, Rowan gripped the storm token tightly, his body quivering with the strain of keeping the ship protected as she pushed through the rough waters. Getting through the storm will take all of it. The words, a snippet of the conversation Aelin had spied on, echoed through her mind.

She'd barely thought the words before a fissure cracked through the bubble of calm protecting the ship.

"Hold on!" Lorcan roared. "Nearly there!"

But the wind shrieked louder, as if enraged that Rowan had dared to use his storm token against it, and the bubble of calm fractured, once again exposing the ship to the storm. The quartz in Rowan's hand flickered once and went dark, its opaque hue as ordinary as any other stone. A sharp gust of wind scraped across the deck, pushing the Queen's Cadre into the trough of an oncoming wave.

And Rowan, drained after the effort of using the storm token, tumbled off the side of the ship into the surging waves.

Fuck it all to hell.

Aelin leapt off the ropes, her booted feet slipping on the drenched deck, and hastily freed the stern rowboat. With a grunt and a heave, she shoved it over the side of the ship and dove after it, abandoning the pirate ship as the storm finally subsided.

She clutched the side of the rowboat and dragged herself in, spluttering and coughing. The oars practically fell into her hands, and she pushed backwards, towards where Rowan had fallen, cursing him and herself the whole way. Stupid fucking pirate!

"If you're not fucking floating, I'm leaving you to the sea goddess," Aelin seethed as she scanned the waves. There! A surprising jolt of relief shot through her, but she smothered it as she headed for Rowan's prone form. "Get...in," she grunted, hooking her arms under his armpits and practically throwing him into the rowboat.

He lay sprawled on the floor of the tiny boat, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, passed out asleep. Clearly, the storm token had protected him from inhaling any water, but he remained unconscious.

A small mercy.

"Now stay the fuck asleep," she muttered, pushing her soaking wet hair out of her face. With a deep sigh, she settled herself on the bench, hoisted up the oars, and began to row, guiding the boat through the subsiding waves. The rain had slowed from a deluge to a shower, and it eventually trickled to a full stop as the sea calmed from the storm.

Aelin closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and opened her eyes again, staring up into the stars as they appeared in the night sky, breaking through the darkness. The storm clouds had blown away, revealing the constellations etched into the skies, a map for anyone who could decipher it. She glanced down at Rowan---still asleep---and back up to the stars, scanning the shape of their paths.

The Queen's Cadre was to the southeast of them, and by now, she would probably have recovered enough from the storm to discover that her captain was missing. A brief twinge passed through Aelin's heart, for despite her pretenses, she had come to find friendship among the crew of the pirate ship.

But Doranelle came first.

The island lay to the west, so it was westward that she turned, nudging the little rowboat onto a new course. As she rowed, Aelin sent up a quick prayer to the gods. Please, let Rowan stay asleep. It would go better for him if he didn't wake up before they'd reached their destination, both because he had no idea what the island actually protected and because her fear lingered. What Doranelle protected was power, and men were known to do terrible, terrible things for power. Even if Rowan had changed from the "power-drunk idiot" Lorcan had called him, she still couldn't trust that he would leave Doranelle in peace.

The sun rose and fell in cyclic rhythm as Aelin steered the little boat, switching from oars to the boat's single sail after she'd established her course because constant rowing would drain her entirely. Almost miraculously, Rowan remained in his stupor for the five days it took to reach the mists encircling Doranelle, and Aelin breathed just a bit easier knowing that he was unaware of their new path.

When the rowboat reached the mists, Aelin struck the sail and took up the oars again, and she rowed through the thick films of mist that veiled the island. The mists served as both a protective barrier and a misdirection tactic, since the ancient spell woven into the mists kept away anyone who approached with ill intent. As the rowboat broke through the mists, Aelin tilted her head back and inhaled deeply, basking in the achingly familiar richness of Doranelle's air and its faint trace of rain and embers. The island sprang up ahead, and she steered the rowboat into the docks at the land's edge.

Rowan stirred, his eyes cracking open. He blinked several times, clearing the bleariness from his face, and slowly raised his arms, as if testing his range of motion. "Where am I?" he croaked, not yet having recognized that he was alone with Aelin.

"Awake, apparently," she said.

He bolted upright into a seated position, wincing at the ache of the rapid movement. "What? How long...?"

"Five days, give or take, ever since your stupid ass fell off the ship during the storm." She stepped out of the rowboat, keeping a cautious eye on him, and slowly walked backwards up the dock's weathered wooden planks.

"My ship," he breathed, fear flickering across his features. "Where are we, Aelin?"

Her booted feet hit the soft, grassy ground, and she nearly wept with joy at the feeling of standing on her beloved island's turf once again. "A place that does not exist."

Pure shock slackened Rowan's jaw. "Doranelle," he whispered, his voice echoing with awe. He pushed himself up onto the bench, only wincing a bit at the tingling in his legs after five days asleep, and began to stand, clearly intending to get out of the boat and walk into the island.

Aelin's hand flew to her knives, and a blade was clenched in her raised fist almost before she could blink. Her other hand curled behind her hips, her stance defensive. "Stay in the boat, Rowan." The voice that came out of her rang with a note of command that he'd never heard before.

"Aelin, I---"

"Stay. In the. Boat." Her shoulders tensed, and she rooted her feet to the ground as a familiar tingling rose from the ground up to her raised hands.

Confusion crossed Rowan's face. "I mean no harm, Aelin, truly." He swallowed thickly. "But this place...it is a miracle."

"A miracle that is unforgiving to strangers." Her fingers curled.

Brows furrowed together, Rowan abruptly stood up and stepped out of the rowboat. He reached for the pistol that he habitually kept on his hip before remembering that he'd lost it in the storm, but he walked forward, his gaze trained on Aelin. She pressed her lips together, the knife quivering slightly in her raised fist. He reached out towards her. "I won't harm anything, I swear."

She shook her head. "I can't trust a pirate's promise." Deep in her soul, Doranelle called, sending a warm wash of sparks through her blood.

And finally, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius burst into fire.

~~~

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#my writing #swords and sea breezes #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elide x lorcan #elorcan #throne of glass #pirates au #pirate au #throne of glass au

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gloomy0x0phantom · 1 year ago

Text

Dracule Mihawk - Five Headcanons

『 01 』 S C A R

Mihawk's back is marked by a unique deep scar. In his youth, before becoming the strongest swordsman, Mihawk made a fatal mistake that brought him his biggest shame. He underestimated an enemy, miscalculated a move and ended up with a scar. It starts on his left shoulder blade and ends at the top of his right thigh. Fortunately for him, the blow wasn't fatal, but his ego was gravely affected.

Like all swordsmen, Mihawk considers an unmarked back to be a sign of strength. He intended to protect this part of his body until his death, but ultimately failed. When he felt the blade slice through his skin, but his heart continued to beat, a feeling of failure stronger than death set in. He didn't cry, he didn't scream, he just let the blood fall.

This scar is his biggest secret and, to this day, no one has discovered it. Cautious and calculating by nature, Mihawk is even more so towards his back. When he leaves his home, he always wears his usual coat and never takes it off. When he stays at his castle, Mihawk opts for light sweaters, but never see-through. He takes great care with the fabric of his tops, testing them in the sun and water before considering adding them to his wardrobe. Before the arrival of Perona and Zoro, Mihawk used to allow himself to sleep shirtless, but when the ghost princess came into his life, he had to change this habit.

Mihawk is the best swordsman in the world, and tons of people want to challenge him and take his title, but not a single one is aware that the man lives with a swordsman's greatest shame on himself. Sometimes nightmares invade his sleep to show him what his life would be like if the whole planet learned his secret. The nights he wakes up in a sweat are the worst, and he feels even more pathetic for dreaming such a reality.

『 02 』 S E W I N G

It's a hidden talent that's not really a secret: Mihawk can sew. It's something he learned as a child and came in very handy when he started training with real swords. Little Mihawk mended his own clothes and never asked anyone for help. Unfortunately, the older he got, the more skilled he became with his sword, so there was no longer any reason to patch up damaged garments. So he learned to embroider. Mihawk has always had a keen eye for fashion, especially elegant, high-quality clothing. He didn't always have the money to afford beautiful embroidered capes and shirts, so he learned to make them himself.

Sewing is an activity that allows him to relax after a long day's work. He sits in his living room by the fire, a glass of wine at hand and a sewing project on his lap. This knowledge has allowed him to develop a special bond with Perona, who loves designing her own clothes but isn't particularly handy with needles. He spent many hours training Zoro in sword fighting and Perona in sewing. Mihawk even bought a sewing machine for the Ghost Princess's birthday.

Mihawk will never say it out loud, but he loves the evenings when the trio are together in the living room. Only the crackling of the fire and Zoro's snoring are heard, Perona is concentrating on reading or pursuing a project, while Mihawk sips wine and mends his apprentice's clothes.

『 03 』 M I R R O R S

Imagine living alone in a huge castle on an abandoned island. There are strange noises, huge monkeys fighting in the forest and the days feel like nights. You're so used to being alone, you can't help but jump when you pass a mirror. And that's exactly Mihawk's daily routine. He's lost count of the number of times his reflection has caused him a minor panic attack.

Mihawk is used to being the only resident of Kuraigana Island, so when he walks and suddenly sees a silhouette in his line of vision, his body reacts as if an enemy is approaching. He's broken so many mirrors since arriving on the island that he's convinced he's surpassed 100 years of misfortune. It's a trivial anecdote for most, but for the swordsman, it's no laughing matter.

Following the arrival of Perona and Zoro, Mihawk has calmed down a little, but the ghost princess manages to cause him a few scares, especially when she decides to go through a mirror. Zoro is constantly getting lost, so Mihawk often finds him in particular places, purely by surprise. The two helped him get rid of his silly fear of mirrors.

『 04 』 R O M A N I A N

Mihawk have no patience for stubborn individuals with sensitive egos, and unfortunately, this world is full of them. In his younger days, the swordsman didn't hesitate to throw insults and respond to pointless fights, but the older he got, the more he found a much more effective method of winning those battles: speaking in his native tongue.

As soon as someone bothers him, Mihawk will start speaking in Romanian to piss them off in return. This method is very effective with Shanks and Buggy. He takes great pleasure in answering them in a language they don't understand. Insults, criticism, mockery... the swordsman has no trouble finding words to torment them. Sometimes, he chooses to say sentences that have nothing to do with the conversation, such as: "The sky is beautiful today", "I ate an apple this morning", "That sweater looks great on you, but since you don't understand me, you'll never know". It's very amusing and works every time. Buggy loses his head completely when Mihawk speaks in Romanian, because one, it's very charming, and two, it royally pisses him off! Shanks is much more used to it and has taken the time to learn a few phrases to better understand his arch-enemy.

Mihawk tried once to answer Perona in Romanian when she was annoying him, and it ended very badly when Perona also answered in Romanian and very angrily.

『 05 』 F A C I A L H A I R

When Mihawk decided to grow a beard and mustache, he strategically disappeared for several months, simply because he refused to be seen during the awkward phase. Being seen with a beard full of patches and a mustache reminiscent of a teenager was out of the question. Shanks would never forget that. He'd rather die than be seen in an unattractive state.

His absence gave rise to several rumors, with the most widespread being: Mihawk is dead. The swordsman surprised many when he returned even stronger and looked more elegant and mature. When Shanks encountered him again, he was flabbergasted by the change. He immediately pointed a finger at his rival's face and shouted, "Since when do you have a beard and a mustache!?" To mess with the redhead, Mihawk replied that he didn't know what he was talking about. He was secretly pleased when the Red Hair Pirates started gaslighting their captain, telling him that Mihawk always looked like that. Shanks dropped the subject because every time he talks about it, he sounds like a madman. “I SWEAR HE DIDN'T HAVE A BEARD!”

#dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk headcanons #one piece #one piece headcanons #headcanons

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