#hello world angular

[customsoftwarephilippines]

Easy "Hello World" Introduction to Angular Framework

Creating a “Hello World” application in Angular is a great way to get started with this popular JavaScript framework. Here’s a step-by-step tutorial to help you build your first Angular app: Prerequisites:Before you begin, make sure you have Node.js and npm (Node Package Manager) installed on your system. You can download and install them from the official website: https://nodejs.org/ Step 1:…

[tokkiwrites]

Hi happy holidays! Can you please do a Sergei kravinoff smut x innocent female virgin reader “babe in the woods” trope. Sergei is immediately fixated on reader and wants her to be his grude & mother of his children. He immediately marries and later takes her virginity. He hopes to impregnate her from their first time together. Ty!

thank you for this request, anon! and sorry it took so long to post. I've had it written, but it just took a while for me to get the smut part going. i hope you like it!

Sergei Kravinoff × F!Reader ♰ themes of stalking, obsessive Sergei, kidnapping, Kraven is a weirdo and needs to be locked up, i would say innocent reader but more so an unbothered reader kind of, she is just confused, forced marriage, themes of Stockholm syndrome, loss of virginity, fingering (reader receiving), afab reader, unprotected p in v, Sergei wants to get the reader pregnant.

The woods were quiet, save for the whisper of wind threading through the branches above. You loved this time of day when the sun filtered gold and green through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the earth. It was your sanctuary, far from the clamor of town and the heavy, watchful eyes of others. Here, no one could accuse you of being strange, or sheltered, or too naive. You simply were.

The faint crack of a branch made you stop mid-step, your basket of wildflowers swinging lightly at your hip. “Hello?” You called, voice soft, hesitant. The forest had always been safe— or so it felt. until now, you had never had the need to question it.

He emerged from the shadows, and your breath caught. The man was massive. A towering figure, his broad shoulders draped in animal pelts and his chest bare save for the crisscrossing scars that marked him as something primal, dangerous. His face was angular, carved from stone, with piercing eyes that pinned you where you stood.

Sergei Kravinoff. The name would mean nothing to you, but to others, it struck fear—a hunter of men and beasts, a predator who bent the wilderness to his will. He did not speak at first. He only looked at you, as if you were some rare, delicate creature he had stumbled upon. The longer his eyes lingered, the hotter your cheeks burned.

“Who are you?” you asked, clutching the basket to your chest. His lips curved into a smile, though there was nothing warm in it. “I am Sergei,” he said, his voice low, thick with an accent you couldn’t place. “And you" he paused for a bit. " Should not wander alone in places like this. The world is not kind to lambs.” You blinked at him, confused. “Lambs?”

“You,” he clarified, taking a step closer. His sheer presence seemed to draw the air from your lungs. “Soft. Untouched. So trusting.” You took an instinctive step back, and his smile widened, as if he enjoyed your unease. “I—I’ve never seen you here before. Are you lost?”

“No,” he said simply, his eyes roaming over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “But perhaps I have found something worth staying for.”

It reeked of dangerㅡ death. yet you still came back.

Over the next week, you saw him again and again. Always in the woods, always watching. At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence. this strange man simply shared your love for the forest. But his presence became impossible to ignore. He never tried to speak much, yet his eyes seemed to devour you every time, as though he were committing every detail of your face to memory. You should have been afraid. You should have stopped going to the woods entirely. But something about him fascinated you. He was so unlike the boys in town, who stammered and avoided your gaze, intimidated by your quietness. Sergei was bold, unflinching. He seemed to look right through you, to the parts of yourself you didn’t even understand.

you little lamb.

“Why do you keep following me?” He tilted his head, his gaze softening though not entirely. “Because you are mine.” The bluntness of his words made your breath hitch. “I don’t even know you.”

“You will,” he said, stepping closer. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and though you should have flinched away, you didn’t. His touch was surprisingly gentle, reverent even, even if his rough fingers scratched your skin. “I have decided. You will be my bride.”

“Bride?” You echoed the word foreign and strange on your tongue. “But we’ve only just—” you laughed. surely it must be a joke. “You are meant for me, little lamb” he interrupted, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “I have hunted all my life, little one. I know when I have found my prize.” Suddenly, the world went dark.

maybe it was all just a bad and confusing dream. though his touch still lingered.

You woke in the morning to find yourself not in your small, familiar room. outside the window that overlooked the bed you were in, the forest. The air smelled of pine and smoke, and outside, the trees loomed tall and unyielding. Panic gripped you as you sat up, heart racing. “Where—” The door creaked open, and there he was, filling the frame with his imposing presence. “You are awake,” Sergei said, his tone calm, almost pleasedㅡ excited. He carried a tray with food: fresh berries, bread, and cheese. “Eat. Now."

“Where am I?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Why did you—” He set the tray down, cutting you off with a look. “You are safe. That is all you need to know.”

“I am not! This isn’t right,” you said, tears pricking at your eyes. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said sharply, though his expression softened as he stepped closer. “I have waited long enough. You do not understand, but you will. I will take care of you. Protect you. You will want for nothing, my little one.”

You shook your head, backing away from him, but he caught your wrist with startling ease. His touch was firm, yet not cruel. “Do not fear me,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost tender. “I would never hurt you. You are too precious.”

Sergei did not wait long to make you his.

The days in the cabin blurred together, each one steeped in an odd rhythm. Sergei’s presence was constant, protective, and overwhelming. He would watch you eat, his sharp eyes softening whenever you complied. He brought you small gifts: wildflowers, trinkets carved from wood, pelts to keep you warm. He never let you wander far, always ensuring you were within sight. And though he never forced his touch upon you, you could feel the tension thrumming beneath the surface, like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.

In the evening, as the fire crackled and cast flickering shadows on the walls, Sergei sat across from you. He leaned forward, large hands resting on his knees. “It is time,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding. “Time?” you echoed, your throat dry. “For us to marry.” You stared at him, heart pounding. “I… I can’t. I don’t even know what you want from me. I—I never— You kidnapped me!”

“You were made for this,” he said, cutting you off. his eyes were setting you a-light, it made your skin prickle. “You think I do not see it? Your purity. Your innocence. You were meant to be a wife. My wife.” Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them away. “But I’m not— I need to marry someone I love!"

“You are ready,” he insisted, his tone softening only slightly. “I have waited long enough. It will be done."

And it was.

The ceremony was simple, ritualistic. Sergei had prepared everything. rings made from woven silver, a bearskin cloak to drape over your shoulders as a symbol of protection. There was no priest, no people, only the two of you and the forest as your witness. He spoke vows in a language you did not understand, his voice deep and reverent, as though he were offering you up to some ancient force. When it was your turn, your voice faltered, but under his watchful gaze, you repeated the words he taught you.

“You are mine,” he said at the end, taking your face in his hands. His eyes burned with possessive fire. “And I am yours.”

but every wolf gets hungry eventually.

When night fell, you found yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, your hands clutching the thick wool blanket. Sergei entered the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He had shed his usual pelts, his bare chest glowing in the firelight.

“You are trembling,” he said, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. He knelt in front of you, his massive frame now not so intimidating. “Are you afraid of me?” You couldn’t meet his eyes. "I don’t know... what you expect from me? What you w-want...”

“I expect you to trust me,” he said simply, his hand brushing against your cheek. “You are my wife now. It is my duty to show you what that means.” Your breath stopped as he leaned closer, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “I will not hurt you,” he murmured, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “But you are mine, little lamb. Every part of you.”

His lips met yours— soft at first, testing, as though he feared you might shatter like porcelain. But when you didn’t pull away, his kiss deepened, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His hands cradled your face, his touch reverent, almost worshipful.

“I have waited for this,” he said against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “Waited to claim what is mine.” You didn’t resist as he laid you down, his hands tracing over your trembling form. He was patient, guiding you gently, his touch surprisingly tender for someone so fierce. But his intent was clear.

oh, little lamb.

rugged hands make their way up and around your hips as his bearded face stays flush against your tender neck. he was ready to devour you. Sergei looked up into your eyes and for the first time you've seen him smile. and as if all of the things you felt caused you fears melted away, so did you into his embrace.

his lips meet yours, and it all finally made sense. you could feel the hunger, the will in him to give his all right here, right now. you wrapped around him like vines on a tree, his low growl of approval making you clench around nothing. it all felt so new, yet familiar, as if somehow, this wasn't the first time. the forest outside sung as your quiet moans filled the cabin. Sergei discards all of your clothes with ease, leaving you in nothing as you stayed splayed on the bed. the fur coverings under, pooled around your body, the moonlight dripped on you like dew in spring and you looked like a precious painting.

with no time to wait, sergei quickly gets naked. it wasn't the first time you saw him like this, but it was the first time you saw it. to say all that fear bubbled up into your stomach was an understatement. you gulped down as your glossy eyes looked at him up and down. "Spread your legs for me." it wasn’t a request, it was an order. and you obey. spreading your legs you give him a full view of you dripping cunt, and sergei throws his head back with a low groan. you finally speak up. "IㅡI am a...a virgin." it all seemed so silly to say now. "I know." he smiles in the corner of his mouth. "Smelled it on you the first time we met." and you whimper. "I will get you ready now." somehow, you knew what it meant. He kneels in front of you on the bed, pulling you so that you thighs are right over his, your puffy lips on full display. two of his digits make their way up to your mouth. "Suck." you comply.

after that was done, his calloused fingers make their way between your folds, gathering up the juices you've been dripping. You whimpered softly and Sergei shushed you, rubbing small circles on your plushy thigh with his other hand. He pushes one of his fingers inside, and you can feel it. It didn’t hurt, not yet, it was just strange and new. the second finger comes quick after and he starts pumping them, swirling them around as his lips made contact with your swollen bud. Your eyes jot open as this feeling washes over you, and you can't help but let your legs shake uncontrollably. The fire wave envelopes you whole before it comes to an agonizing stop. You open your eyes again and above you is Sergei, his shaft in his hand as he aligns it with your asking entrance. "If it hurts...yell. Scream as much as you want. Hurt me back. I am here to teach you."

and teach you he does. he pushes in slowly and the stretch is agonizing, the pain making all of your muscles tense. "It's alright, I'm here, little girl." you let out a sigh, the tears slipping past your lids when you open your eyes. the moon engulfed Sergei in It's beautiful light, his silhouette looking as if it was carved out perfectly. a couple of inches, then some more, and some moreㅡ until he is fully inside. you bite down on your tongue, but Sergei preps soft kisses along your jaw and you seem to forget about the pain. "You're doing so, so good. So good for me." he hums, taking in a big breath of your smell before he snaps his hips slowly. In a few seconds, the burn turned into a delicious feeling you couldn’t quite describe. And though it felt so new, your body fell in place right into Sergei’s touch, as if it were meant to be.

When he finally started to move faster, his groan was one of triumph, a sound that you know will echo in your ears long after. “You will give me childrenㅡ" he said, voice low and ragged as he moved inside of you. “Strong sons and daughters. Our legacy will begin tonight.”

your legs quiver around him, but he leaves no room for mercy. Above you, he looked just as a predator ready to swallow his pray whole. you weren't one to fight back, and you really didn't want to. you back stayed arched against the coverings of the bed, fingers clawing at his broad shoulders as he pumped into you. your tummy was churning, and your head was dizzyㅡ you were far gone, too drunk on the way he perfectly hit that spot with each thrust. "You were made for me, made to take meㅡ fuck, you are so beautiful." you whimper, feeling that fire wave starting to take over again. your velvet walls squeeze around him, causing him to growl. Sergei leans forward, propping one of your legs above his shoulder, the angle making you gasp for air. you look up at him, eyes glossy with tears. An animal. His eyes grew darker, lips crooked in a smile before he delivered his final blow.

you come undone right under his fingertips, writhing and shaking as small pleads fall from your lips. You can feel his seed deep within you, threatening to slip out around his cock that was still inside of you, pulsing. "Good girl."

he prays it sticks.

Sergei’s obsession with you only deepened—he barely let you out of his sight, his touch lingering whenever he could. Yet there was a softness in him, a desire to make you happy, even as he bent you to his will.

He began teaching you small things. how to tend the fire, how to skin an animal, how to defend yourself should a predator come. But you were never allowed to go far. “Why can’t I leave?” you asked one afternoon, your frustration bubbling over. Sergei turned to you, his eyes darkening. “Because the world is cruel, little one. It will devour you. You are too soft, too trusting. Here, you are safe.”

“Safe,” you repeated bitterly. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out. But instead, he cupped your face in his hands, his gaze softening. “I would rather you hate me than lose you.” you were beginning to see the truth of it. his love for you was consumin and obsessive, but it was real. He worshipped you, protected you, but at the cost of your freedom. And yet, part of you began to adapt. To find comfort in his arms, in the way he looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered.

Perhaps you were.

[writingwithcolor]

The protagonist of my story is pressured into killing, should I refrain from making her Jewish to avoid stereotyping?

@run-remi-run asks:

Hello, I'm developing a teen character living in Michigan and have been considering making her/her family Jewish; however I'm worried they'll fall into the evil Jewish person stereotype. The teen is the protagonist of her story, but she is pressured into killing at least one person. I understand that villains in media being portrayed as Jewish or with Jewish features has furthered antisemitism, and I understand my character isn't exempt from this just because I see her in a positive light. Should I refrain from making her Jewish?

This doesn't fit the stereotype

If the whole idea is that she’s pressured into doing bad things, that doesn’t fit the stereotype or trope at all because the trope has us as evil masterminds but in your scenario she’s the one being manipulated. The negative trope isn’t just “Jewish person does something bad” it’s a lot more specific than that. -Shira

Any Michigan influences?

Commenting strictly as a Michigan resident: is there any reason why you included the character’s Michigander origins in your question? Is there something about Michigan that’s influencing how you think a Jewish character might be depicted or viewed by others in your story? I’m asking not to be interrogatory, but out of curiosity and need for clarification.

–Jess

Evil Jewish person stereotype

Shira’s answer speaks directly to this and a lot more concisely, but I wanted to take a minute and go deeper into the phrase “Evil Jewish person stereotype,” for the sake of helping break down what’s actually happening and why it works the ways that it does.

There are two forces at work here, not unrelated to each other but not identical either. One is the portrayal of evil characters using tropes that suggest Jewish coding, and the other is a cultural suspicion of Jewish people’s motives and actions. They’re two sides of the same coin, perhaps, but I’d like to look at them separately, since the difference--that one refers to fictional characters and the other to actual people--matters in the context of reading and writing fiction.

Jewish coding in Villain characters

There are aspects of a character’s physical appearance that can suggest Jewishness even as we acknowledge that Jewish individuals don’t necessarily match those looks. Those might include a hooked nose, hair that is curly or red, a sallow complexion, an angular face. These attributes are not inherently bad: a text portraying them is antisemitic when these attributes are a visual signal of bad motives or are only present in bad characters and not good ones. Although not at issue here, it’s worth noting that these attributes can also raise questions in settings where all Jewish characters have them, because the flip side of these attributes being used to denote Jewishness is the erasure of Jewish people who don’t have these looks. 

 There are also aspects of a character’s personality that are repetitions of historical accusations against Jews, justifications for violence or persecution rather than reflections of genuine events. These might include greed, arrogance, bloodthirstiness, and a willingness to hurt or kill children for personal gain. These tropes have accrued over centuries in spite of the fact that every single one of them runs counter to any genuine Jewish values because ultimately, they’re not based on real-world actions by real-life Jewish people, but a product of leader after leader over time riling up their followers into dehumanizing a minority population, for the usual reasons people have for dehumanizing minority populations. 

Jewish coding in villain characters is not necessarily the same as stereotyping Jewish people as being evil. It does however support and maintain unconscious antisemitic biases. That is to say, when you meet someone who is Jewish, you’re not necessarily thinking “Mother Gothel was coded with Jewish tropes so this Jewish person probably is evil,” but if someone shows you a picture of a person with a hooked nose and curly hair and says “this person is greedy and hurts children,” exposure to Mother Gothel and other fictional villains on the same model might make you less likely to say “That doesn’t sound right.” 

Meanwhile, back in Michigan

Like Shira said, your character is not the mastermind of the murder she’s being forced into. Rather, she’s a victim of whatever character or circumstance is forcing her into it. As long as that’s apparent in your narrative, you’re not supporting an existing harmful trope or stereotype. I would treat the concept differently if this were, for instance, a dark narrative of a remorseless killer. In the current climate I would also advise against any imagery of a Jewish person of any age or agency killing a child or person of color of any kind, as that is the latest iteration of the medieval blood libel in modern times.  I would even have pause in this situation, where she’s not the author of her own act but does commit it, if she does not experience remorse or if she enjoys doing it. What matters here is her motive. 

If this character is Jewish, then that’s going to affect her approach to the incident in certain ways. While Christian and Christian-influenced secular culture regard “good” and “bad” as the ultimate thing to worry about, even at the cost of martyrdom or murder, Judaism places life as the highest value. There are very few of the laws and customs of Jewish life that one is not expected to break in order to avoid death, but one of those is murder. Now, Jewish characters make choices that aren’t perfectly consistent with Jewish law all the time, so what I’m asking is not to not write this, but to write it on purpose.

What does it do to your character?

Who is she before and after?

How many of us could truly choose to die rather than kill in her situation?

Does she own perhaps a necklace or decor item with the word “חי” on it?

What does seeing it do to her?

In what other ways does her Jewishness make her interesting and relevant as a character?

If it’s just curly hair and matzah ball soup on an otherwise Christian character, why bother. But if you’re willing to put in the time to research Jewish attitudes toward life and death and how they differ--even and especially in a teenager’s schema--from the Christian and Christian-influenced majority conception, then there’s room for an interesting narrative here. 

-Meir 

[thecuriousbeauty]

Under His Watch-Part 1 (Harry Styles x reader)

Series synopsis: Y/N, an ambitious FBI intern, joins the homicide department, where she catches the eye of the brooding head detective, Harry Styles. As they tackle high-stakes cases together, Y/N uncovers a side of Harry no one else sees. Are they just boss and intern, or something more?

Word count: 9.1k

A/N:- Hello everyone, so sorry for being gone for a while, but I'm back with something new that I hope you guys will love! This is going to be a short, two part series so like it up and reblog so I can get the second part out soon!

Warnings: Talks of murder, drug dealings, killings, crime scenes, violence, usage of gun. No smut in this part, but definitely in the next;)

____________________________________________

The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a soft, golden light through the open window. The air feels fresh, but with a touch of warmth that hints at the summer heat to come. Birds chirp in the distance, their songs a gentle reminder of the new day. A light breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the scent of flowers blooming outside.

In a small, cozy bedroom, y/n stands before her mirror. She fidgets with her clothes, unsure whether the outfit is too formal or too casual for her first day at work. She has seen agents usually wear suits, but she opted for a dark blue buttoned shirt and pants, because she was just starting as an intern. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adjusts her hair, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling inside her. Her heart races, each beat echoing the uncertainty of what’s to come.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. The thought of the day ahead makes her stomach flutter—so many unknowns, so many new faces, and yet, the possibility of something great. She smiles at her reflection, trying to reassure herself. Beneath the jitters, there’s a spark—an energy that comes from stepping into something new, a sense of potential.

She checks the time and realizes she’s running a little late.The world outside is already awake, and so is she, ready to take on whatever her first day at work will bring.

Y/N doesn’t know when she decided to pursue a career as a detective. Maybe it was all the detective shows she used to watch with her father as a kid, or maybe it was the numerous novels she’d read. She loves the suspense, the mystery, and figuring out all the little clues. She loves the thrill of it. And now, as a result of her hard work and dedication, she has gotten into the FBI’s internship program.

The actual, Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

The FBI building looms like a fortress in the heart of the city, its imposing, angular structure made of dark granite and steel. The air is thick with history and authority, as if the walls themselves hold the secrets of countless investigations. As she takes her detective steps through the sliding glass doors, the buzz of activity inside is palpable. Agents in suits walk briskly through the sleek, modern lobby, while the hum of conversation fills the space with a sense of purpose.

The hallways are lined with framed photos of notable cases and agents, a constant reminder of the legacy the building holds. The lighting is stark, the floors polished to a mirror shine, and the walls adorned with maps and classified files that hint at the work being done behind closed doors. It’s both overwhelming and exhilarating—this is where the nation’s most pressing cases unfold.

“Oh, Miss y/l/n, right on time!”,  she hears before she sees none other than one of her superiors, part of the homicide department, Agent Eliza Carter. She had taken her interview. The woman held two coffees, and gave her the same kind smile she had given her that day.

“Good morning, Agent Carter!”

“Morning to you too. Sorry, I forgot to mention, you’ll be with homicide this month, probably another department for the next, and so on. Boss man’s just about to start the meeting, so come on quick!”

“Right. Do you know anything about the case?”

Her heels click behind her as she follows the agent, her eyes continuing to look around, absorbing everything around her. 

“Oh yeah, this is actually an old case. A really annoying one, you’ll see. Harry will brief us anyway.”

Harry. Detective Agent Harry Styles. 

Head of the homicide department, and one of the most renowned and respected figures in the field. His reputation precedes him: sharp, methodical, and almost legendary in his ability to solve cases that others can’t even begin to crack. She had heard stories about his brilliant mind, how he could piece together the smallest details that everyone else overlooked. The thought of getting to learn directly from him sends a rush of nervous energy through her veins.

“Can you get the door please?”, Eliza asks, and y/n quickly swings the glass door open for her, and then steps in herself, into the big room where there were around seven people gathered. All of them in matching suits, discussing amongst each other as they stared at the boards pinned with information about their cases. 

“Everyone, this is y/n y/l/n, our new intern, she’s gonna be with us for this month!”, Eliza introduces, handing one of the coffees to a man, who also gives y/n a smile. “Hello, I’m Ethan Grant.” 

The others also started introducing themselves, most of them friendly and smiling, two of them only giving her a nod, to which Eliza rolled her eyes. 

“Styles running late?”, Agent Cole Matthews asks as he looks at his watch. 

“I saw him getting a call, he had that face on.”, Nora says. She had short silver hair, and dark blue eyes, that looked like she would kill you if you pissed her off.

“Oh no, that can’t be good.”, Eliza shook her head.

“Face?”, y/n asks the girls who just smile at each other, Nora gives her a wink. “You’ll see.”

The door swings open with a quiet click, and Detective Harry Styles steps into the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. Tall and impeccably dressed in a dark suit that fits just right, he exudes a quiet authority. His broad shoulders and confident stride catch the eye, but it’s his sharp jawline and the faint stubble along his chin that hint at a more rugged edge beneath his polished exterior.

His eyes—piercing, yet thoughtful—scan the room as he steps forward, his gaze pausing just long enough to meet each of their eyes, an unspoken understanding passing through the group. The way he moves is purposeful, the air around him almost charged with intensity, as if every step he takes is measured, calculated.

Then his eyes meet hers, eyebrows raising up in question. “New intern, boss.”, Ethan says. 

She acts quickly to introduce herself, “I’m y/n, it’s such a pleasure to-”

“We’re still talking interns?”, he rudely cuts her off, and her lips seal shut at his tone. 

“Yes we’re doing rotations this year, Harry, they must have given you a form to sign.”, Eliza said, and Harry let out a sigh, not even batting a single eye in y/n’s direction, turning around to the projector. 

“Whatever. Let’s get to work, we have a busy day ahead of us.”

Y/N’s heart sinks. She’d imagined this moment so differently—she thought he’d at least say something encouraging, maybe give her a quick nod of acknowledgment. But instead, there’s only the cold, impersonal air of the office, and his complete disregard.

“We’re dealing with a 30-year-old man named Charles Russo. He's been on our radar before but slipped through the cracks. He’s involved in drug trafficking, but this isn’t just about drugs—it’s about control. He’s a key figure in a network that stretches across the city, and he’s responsible for at least three recent murders tied to his operations.”

A photograph of Russo appears on the projector screen—a mugshot from a previous arrest, his face hard and defiant, his eyes cold. Styles gestures to the image.

“This is our suspect. Russo has managed to stay under the radar for months, but he’s back in the game. We have intel from one of his associates that he’s been laying low, but now we’ve gotten wind of him resurfacing. We know he’s been making contact with his former contacts in the drug trade, and his movements have been tracked to the outskirts of the city.”

He pauses, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. The team leans forward, eyes narrowing as they take in every word.

“We can’t afford to let him slip away again,” Harry continues. “He’s ruthless. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in his way. The last time he disappeared, it took months for us to get any leads. We’re not going to make that mistake again.”

“So what’s the plan?”, Nora asks.

Harry points to a map on the wall. The area surrounding an old industrial district near the city’s border is highlighted in red.

“We’ve got a lead. A tip from an anonymous source says Russo is meeting with one of his suppliers here,” Harry explains, tapping the map. “We’ll be setting up surveillance teams around this location. We’re going to hit him where we know he feels comfortable. His old contacts will be there, and that’s our chance to bring him in.”

He looks at his team, making sure they understand the stakes. "This won't be easy. Russo knows how to cover his tracks, and he won't hesitate to go violent if he thinks he's cornered. I want everyone to stay sharp, no mistakes. We’ll have undercover agents in place, and our best tech team will be monitoring the area for any sign of movement.”

He glances at y/n, the intern who’s been quietly taking notes in the back. His voice softens just slightly, but still firm.

“You’re going to work with Carter and Grant to run background checks on Russo’s known associates. I want every detail—every business transaction, every phone call, every scrap of information you can dig up. It could be the key to finding him faster. Can you do that?”

“Yes sir.” She nods quickly, her mind racing. This is her chance to contribute, to prove herself, and she’s not about to let it slip away.

“Once we have enough intel, we move in. Fast, clean, and without hesitation. Our goal is to catch him off guard,” Harry finishes, his gaze sweeping over his team. “I expect everyone to be in sync. This guy has evaded us long enough. Let’s make sure it ends tonight.”

The room falls into a focused silence as everyone gets to work. The plan is set, and the wheels are already in motion. 

Eliza shows y/n her desk, and Ethan quickly shows her all the technology, y/n didn’t need much explaining, she was familiar with it all. She had even taken up courses in coding and hacking. 

Finally, it’s time to attack. Officers bustle around, adjusting their gear, making final checks on equipment, and running through last-minute details. The hum of radios, the clinking of handcuffs, and the soft rustling of jackets fill the air as the room feels like it’s on the verge of something big. y/n stands off to the side, a little on edge as she watches Harry gather the team for their final briefing. His green eyes scan the room with that characteristic sharpness, giving quick instructions to the officers heading to different positions. 

With a deep breath, she approaches Harry as he finishes talking to Detective Logan Pierce. Her pulse quickens, and she straightens her shoulders. This is it.

“Detective Styles,” she begins, trying to keep her voice steady, “I was wondering if—if I could come along. I know I’m new, but I’ve been following everything closely, and I’m ready. I can help in any way I can.”

Harry looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. There’s a brief silence before he responds, his voice calm but firm. “You’re not ready for this kind of field work. This operation is too high-risk, and it’s not something you should be thrown into on your first day. I need you back here, where you can handle communication, and make sure we stay on track. You’ll be a key part of this, just not in the way you expect.”

She feels a small pang of disappointment, but it’s quickly replaced by a sense of clarity. He’s right. She’s still learning the ropes. The reality of the danger in the field is something she can’t ignore. But at the same time, the disappointment doesn’t sting as much as she thought it would. She’s still going to play a crucial role.

“Understood,” she says, nodding as she pushes her feelings aside. She can feel a sense of purpose rising in her chest. “I’ll stay in touch with the agents, make sure everything runs smoothly. I’ll be ready to react if anything goes wrong.”

A flicker of approval crosses Harry’s face, though he doesn't show it fully. “Good luck!”, she can’t help but call out as Harry reaches for his own bullet proof suit and a hint of a smirk crosses his lips. 

It was so brief, that she wondered if she had really seen it, or if she had imagined it.

The night is thick with tension as the operation unfolds, the air heavy with the weight of what’s at stake. Outside the industrial district, the team is in position, each agent hidden in shadows, waiting for the signal to move. Inside the precinct, y/n is stationed at her desk, headphones on, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she tracks the operation. Her eyes are focused on the live feeds from the surveillance cameras set up around the district, her mind sharp and alert.

The plan is simple—surround Russo and catch him in the act. The agents are ready, but they need to stay in constant contact. That’s where she comes in. She’s the lifeline,watching the feeds, listening to their transmissions, and keeping them updated. She had earpieces connected to Harry and Cole, who had teams on both doors of the warehouse.

Through the earpiece, the voice of Agent Logan Pierce crackles to life. “y/l/n,we’re about to move in on Russo. He’s on the move—heading toward the south side of the warehouse. We need a visual confirmation. Is he coming into our range?”

Y/N’s heart pounds in her chest, but she keeps her voice steady. “Got him. He’s moving east toward the rear entrance. You’ve got about thirty seconds before he reaches the blind spot. You need to move fast.”

“Copy that,” Pierce responds. “We’re moving in now.”

y/n watches the screen, heart racing as she tracks Russo’s every step, eyes darting between the surveillance feeds and the map on her screen. Every second feels like an eternity. She checks her watch, counts the seconds in her head. Then, suddenly, he disappeared.

“Shit.”, she says, trying to figure out where the piece of shit is headed now.

“I hope I didn’t just hear you say shit while monitoring one of the most important cases, newbie.”, she hears Agent Styles, and her cheeks redden a little bit, but she focuses on the task.

“Sorry, you need to wait, Agent Pierce, I’ve lost him.”

“You’ve lost him? What do you mean? He’s right here-”

“-No, I think..I think he’s coming around from the other door. Agent Styles?”

He answers immediately while y/n works on a way to monitor Russo again, “Yes, are you sure it’s not a connectivity problem or-.”

“I think he’s on your side.”

“Oh yeah? That mother fucker. Guys, close in.”

“Wait, y/n, are you sure? Cause this might be the last chance we have to get him and one mistake-”, Cole begins, a little unsure.

The image on the monitor shifts—Russo steps into the frame. 

“Agent Styles, he’s about to break through—wait for it—now!”

The moment she speaks, Harry and the rest of the team spring into action. They converge on Russo in a synchronized move, cutting off his escape route before he can even react. There’s a flurry of movement, the sound of boots pounding on the ground, and then, within seconds, Russo is tackled to the ground, handcuffed and subdued.

A burst of static fills her earpiece, followed by Harry’s voice. “We got him. He’s down. Nice work, y/n. You nailed it.”

He called her by her name for the first time and the compliment made her heart race in a way she hadn’t expected. She blinks, her breath catching in her throat. Styles—the man she had been eager to impress—had just complimented her, and it felt like everything she’d hoped for.

“Thanks,” she replies, trying to keep her composure. “I just did what I could.”

“Well you’re the first newbie to actually not piss me off on their first day. You can go home, y/n, enough for the day. We’ll bring him in.”

Y/N exhales slowly, a rush of adrenaline flooding her veins. Her hands shake just a little as she removes her headset, a smile creeping up her face. They did it. They caught Russo, and she was the one who helped make it happen. For the first time since walking into this precinct, she feels like she truly belongs.

___________________________________________________

Over the next few days, she really fit in with the team members. She especially loved talking with the girls, Nora and Eliza. They’re laughing about the latest office drama—how Agent Matthews accidentally spilled coffee all over Harry’s favorite jacket this morning.

“I swear, it’s like he doesn’t even notice how clumsy he is,” Nora says, shaking her head with a grin. “But Styles—he’s always so cool, never says a word. You’d think he’d be fuming after that.”

y/n chuckles, feeling more at ease in their company. "I bet he was just silently judging him in that typical Styles way. You know the look I'm talking about, right?"

Eliza laughs, leaning in. “Oh, absolutely. The silent judgment is his trademark. But I’m surprised he didn’t rip Pierce a new one.”

y/n finds herself grinning at the camaraderie, feeling like she’s starting to fit into the team’s dynamic. It’s easy, the way they talk, tease, and laugh together. 

She decides to stay back a little longer that day, her eyes skim through the pages—cold cases from years ago, some unsolved, others with only the vaguest of leads. She’s been digging into them to understand the bigger picture of how the team operates, trying to learn from the cases they’ve solved, and the ones they’ve left behind.

Her focus is interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps approaching. She looks up to see Harry, his coat over his arm and his briefcase in hand. He stops a few steps away, his gaze lingering on the pile of files she’s working through.

Her gaze lingered on his arm, his sleeve rolled up enough for the ink on his forearm to peek through. She could see the dark outline of a tattoo—a design she’d never noticed before—curving around his wrist and disappearing beneath the cuff of his shirt. The way the ink curled around his skin made her wonder how many more he had hidden beneath his clothes.

She couldn’t help but admire the way his sleeves clung to his muscular arms, the sharp lines of his body defining his form. His green eyes were a striking contrast to his skin, deep and captivating. They always seemed to hold a quiet storm, a vulnerability masked behind his professional exterior. The way his curls fell around his forehead, slightly unruly, added a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise polished look.

There was something magnetic about his distinct features, something that caught her attention all the time.

“You’re still here?” he asks, voice quiet, as if genuinely surprised she hasn’t already left for the day. There’s something in his tone that feels different, not judgmental, but more... curious. Maybe even a little approving.

y/n clears her throat, trying not to seem too caught up in the files. “Yeah. Just trying to catch up on some of the old cases. Figured it’s a good way to learn how you all approach things.”

Harry studies her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before setting his briefcase down and taking a few steps closer. “You’ve got the right idea. We learn a lot from the cases we didn’t solve. The ones that slip through our fingers.”

She nods, feeling the weight of the truth in his words. “I’ve noticed that. Some of these cases... they’re so close to being solved, but there’s always one missing piece.” She pauses, flipping to a specific file that’s particularly puzzling. “What do you think about this one? A string of disappearances in a small town, no evidence left behind. It’s like they just vanished.”

Harry glances down at the file she’s holding, leaning over slightly, his voice low and contemplative. “Sometimes it’s not the evidence you’re looking for, but the pattern behind it. Whoever did this knew how to cover their tracks. But if you look at the people involved—especially the families, the connections between them—you might find something that doesn’t belong.”

“Thanks for that,” she says, her voice more sincere than usual. “I wasn’t sure if I was overthinking it.”

Harry gives a small, almost imperceptible smile, his usual stoic demeanor softening just a little. “You’re thinking in the right direction. Just keep pushing yourself. That’s how we get better at this job.”

She smiles in return, feeling a little more confident in her approach. Harry glances at his watch, then looks back at her. “Well, if you’re going to keep at it, you’ll need a little company. I was planning to head out, but it’s quieter here than usual.”

y/n looks up in surprise. ���You’re staying?” she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Not really,” he says, his tone dry, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “Just thought I’d walk you out. It’s late. Wouldn’t want you to be walking to your car alone.”

Her surprise morphs into a small, grateful smile. “That’s... considerate of you. Thanks.”

He offers a slight nod, then gestures toward the door. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”

The two of them walk out together, the quiet hum of the office behind them. Outside, the evening air is crisp, the sky darkening as they make their way across the parking lot.

As they approach their cars, y/n hesitates for a moment, then turns to him. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, huh? The whole... detective thing. How do you keep from getting burned out?”

Harry pauses, his hand resting on the door handle of his car. He looks at her, his expression momentarily distant, as if reflecting on the years of work behind him.

“It’s not about not getting burned out,” he says quietly, “It’s about finding what keeps you going. Whether it’s the people you work with or the cases that pull you in, you have to find something that reminds you why you do it.”

y/n nods, absorbing his words as they linger in the cool air between them.

With that, he starts his engine and pulls away, leaving y/n standing in the quiet parking lot for a moment. She watches his car disappear down the road, wondering what led him into pursuing this career.

___________________________________________

The next day, the guys are gathered around a table near the bullpen, eyes glued to a sports game playing on the office TV. The game is close, Ethan and Cole are already arguing over who’s going to win the match.

“Come on, you’re seriously betting on them?” Ethan snorts, shaking his head. “They’ve been playing like amateurs.”

y/n can’t help but overhear, the playful banter catching her attention. She’s not usually one for sports, but she’s been learning the ropes from her fellow agents. She knows enough to get by, and today, something about the challenge calls to her.

“Alright, alright, I’ll bite,” she says, walking over with a raised eyebrow. “How much are we betting here?”

Ethan looks up, surprised, then grins. “Didn’t think you’d be interested, y/n. You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

She smirks, her confidence growing. “I’m a quick learner. I’ll take your bet. I’m putting my money on the underdogs.”

Cole raises an eyebrow. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. This’ll be fun.”

As the game continues, the guys teasingly rib her for her risky bet, but y/n holds her ground, getting increasingly into the match. When the underdogs actually pull off the win, she’s the first one to stand up, pumping her fist in victory.

“Told you,” she says, beaming with pride as the guys groan good-naturedly. “Pay up, gentlemen.”

“Yes, we’ll be there soon, got it.” They all look up at the sound of their boss, who comes into the room, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Murder scene in Oak Drive, let’s go.”, Harry tells them, and everyone gets onto their feet, getting ready to go.

y/n goes to her desk as usual, knowing she’ll be given the duty of doing the background checks.

“Who’re you riding with Styles?”, Logan asks him.

Harry straps on his gun, and looks at y/n. “Can you drive?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Come on, then, newbie, let’s go to your first murder scene.”

y/n almost squealed with joy, jumping up in excitement, but then toned it down as Harry raised his eyebrows, waiting for her answer.

“Yes sir, right away.”

The car ride is quiet, with a subtle tension between them, an unspoken understanding, a quiet connection that neither has acknowledged. y/n's fingers tighten around the steering wheel as they approach the crime scene. He can’t help but steal a glance at y/n—she’s focused, eyes sharp, her thoughts clearly already at the scene ahead.

“You aren’t gonna faint, are you?”, Harry asks, breaking the silence. “Cause one of the interns did, seeing all the blood.”

She laughed lightly. “Nope, I’m excited, and I’m good with blood.”

“Good.”, Harry lets a small smile escape, and she pulls over to the crime scene. The other agents have already reached and are doing their allotted work. 

"Alright, you’ll handle the photos for now. We’ll take care of the rest."

Y/N nods, grabbing her camera from the seat beside her, trying to steady her nerves. She’s been given more responsibility lately, and with Harry’s subtle support, she’s been slowly gaining confidence.

 "Got it. I'll make sure to get everything."

As she moves closer to the crime scene, Y/N kneels by the body, snapping photos of the surroundings. Her heart beats a little faster as she works, but the adrenaline feels good. And while the scene before her is dark, there’s something about Harry’s quiet faith in her that makes her feel capable. She captures the details—each angle, each small clue—as if she’s been doing this for years. She steals a glance back at Harry, catching him watching her from a distance. For a moment, she wonders if he sees something more than just a hard-working intern.

As the team works around her, Harry steps away briefly to speak with the others, but his eyes flick back to her every so often. Y/N can feel it—his attention on her, the weight of it—but for now, she’s focused on her task. Still, there’s a strange pull between them, unspoken, but undeniable, lingering in the air like the tension of the scene itself.

Harry wants to leave soon, to talk to someone and take y/n with him, this time, he drives. As they pull away from the crime scene, Harry’s eyes are focused on the road, but his mind is already on the next step. Y/N’s still processing everything they’ve seen.

“So, what’s your take on this case so far?"

Y/N pauses, glancing up at him. She can tell he’s genuinely interested in her opinion.

“I think the victim knew the killer. Too many personal details for it to be random, but the motive’s still unclear."

Harry nods thoughtfully. "I agree. That’s why I’m going to talk to the first suspect now. Stay sharp—this could get tricky."

Y/N feels a small thrill at his trust in her judgment. It’s not just about the case anymore; it’s the way he values her input. As they drive toward the suspect’s location, she wonders if he’s giving her more responsibility on purpose, or if it’s just part of the job. Either way, it feels like a step forward.

After questioning the suspect, Harry and Y/N head back to the office, the car cutting through the quiet streets. Y/N’s mind is still on the conversation with the suspect, but then..her stomach growls loudly.

Harry glances over at her, his eyes sharp but gentle.

"Did you eat anything this morning?"

Y/N flushes slightly, trying to keep her cool, but the guilt is written all over her face.

"Yeah, I—"

"You didn’t eat, did you?"

Y/N shifts uncomfortably.

"I’m fine, really."

Harry sighs, shaking his head with a small smile."We’re making a stop. You’re getting something to eat. I know a good taco place.”

He turns the car off the main road, pulling into a small taco place. The smell of sizzling meat and fresh tortillas drifts through the air as they step out, and Harry opens the door for her, his usual professionalism replaced with a kind of care.

As they sit at a small booth, Y/N digs into her food, finally letting herself relax. Harry watches her for a moment, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes. After a few bites, she glances up at him.

"So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you always so grumpy? You’re like... a walking storm cloud sometimes."

Harry chokes on his drink a little, caught off guard by her boldness. He laughs—genuinely, with a surprised smile that softens his usually serious face.

He chuckles and wipes his mouth. "Grumpy? I’m not grumpy. I’m just... focused."

Y/N raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Focused, huh? Is that what you’re calling it?"

Harry shrugs, his smirk turning wry, clearly amused by her bluntness."Okay, maybe I’m a little grumpy. But someone’s gotta keep this place in line. You can’t just go around smiling all the time like everything’s sunshine and rainbows."

Y/N laughs, and for a second, their eyes meet. There’s an ease between them now, something playful, yet still with an undercurrent of something deeper. Harry’s usual walls are lower, and Y/N’s teasing is making him more human in her eyes.

"I don’t know, sometimes I think it wouldn’t hurt to see you smile a little more. Just... not at the crime scene, please."

Harry chuckles again, and it’s the kind of laugh that feels lighter than usual—almost as if he doesn’t mind sharing this side of himself with her.

"I’ll try. But no promises.", he says with a soft smirk.Y/N found herself grinning as she saw his dimples poke out. She hadn’t realized how much she loved seeing that little dimple until now, how it made him look so much more... approachable.

After a few more bites, she glances up at him. "Why did you want to be a detective, Agent Styles?"

The question lingers in the air. Harry’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and for a moment, there’s a heaviness between them. "Because I lost someone who mattered. My sister... she was murdered by some people when we were younger. I couldn’t sit by, not after that."

Y/N’s breath catches, and she sees the pain flicker in his eyes—his calm demeanor betraying a history of loss that runs deep. It’s the first time she’s seen him so vulnerable, so open.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t know.", she says quietly.

Harry shrugs, with a distant look in his eyes,"It’s alright. It’s been a long time... but it’s why I do this. It’s why I never give up on a case. To make sure no one else has to go through that."

There’s a pause, and Y/N feels the weight of his words sink in. She reaches out, placing her hand gently on his. The warmth of the moment takes them both by surprise. He appreciates the gesture, thumb ever so softly stroking a line on the back of her hand.

“You can call me Harry by the way, when we’re not at work.”, he says to lighten the air, and she smiles, drawing her hand back. “Okay.”

Little did she know that Harry had told her something that no one else knew about him. 

________________________________________________________

The precinct is buzzing with its usual morning chaos, the air thick with the noise of phones ringing, officers discussing cases, and the sound of feet shuffling across the floors. y/n is at her desk, flipping through some case files, trying to focus. She’s about to make another note, when she hears the unmistakable sound of Ethan and Eliza approaching her desk, their voices carrying through the room in a familiar, teasing tone.

“Well, well, y/n, looks like you’ve caught Styles’ attention,” Ethan says with a playful grin, sliding into the seat across from her. He leans back, crossing his arms, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

y/n looks up, feigning confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Eliza raises an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh, come on. We’ve all seen it. Harry doesn’t usually make time for anyone. But you—" she motions between the two of them, “—you got breakfast with him this morning. He doesn’t do that unless he’s got a soft spot.”

Eliza’s cheeks flush slightly. She opens her mouth to protest, but Ethan cuts her off.

“We’re just saying, Harry’s usually all business, right? But with you—” he gestures with a wink, “he’s practically a different guy. You must be special.”

y/n can’t help but laugh awkwardly, trying to brush it off. Yes, they had eaten breakfast together that morning, because both of them happened to arrive early to the office. “You guys are ridiculous. We just had breakfast. He saw me sitting alone and he was just being... well, Harry.”

But they aren’t buying it. Eliza smirks, leaning forward. “Right, Harry just casually opens up to you about his deepest, darkest secrets over a bagel. We’re all jealous, you know.”

y/n shakes her head, a little embarrassed, but also secretly amused. “Okay, okay, I get it. He’s not a softie, I swear.”

Ethan grins, clearly enjoying teasing her. “Sure, sure. But just wait until the next big case. When he pulls you aside to give you a ‘confidential’ briefing, we’ll be here, dying of curiosity.”

y/n sighs, trying not to laugh as she adjusts the papers in front of her. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I’m still the intern, remember?”

Eliza raises her hands in mock surrender. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what we’re talking about. We all saw the way Harry looked at you when he was complimenting you yesterday. Like... he actually noticed your contribution for once.”

At that, y/n’s face goes a little redder, but she can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face. “He just—well, he just doesn’t say much. When he does, it’s kind of a big deal.”

Ethan chuckles, leaning in closer. “Yeah, we’ve noticed. Harry doesn’t exactly dish out compliments like candy. And if he says you’re doing good work? That’s... noteworthy.”

y/n laughs nervously, feeling a little overwhelmed by their teasing, but she’s also secretly flattered. She’s always admired Harry—his skill, his mind, the way he commands respect from everyone around him—and to hear that they’ve noticed the shift in his behavior, even in the smallest ways, makes her feel like she’s on the right track.

“Alright, alright, enough. You’ve got me all figured out,” y/n says, trying to play it off cool. “But don’t go getting any ideas. He’s still Harry Styles.”

“Sure, sure,” Eliza says, winking. “But we’ll be keeping an eye on you two.”

As they walk away, leaving her to her work, y/n smiles to herself, a warm feeling spreading in her chest. She wasn’t sure if Harry really had a soft spot for her, but just knowing that she’d earned a little of his respect—enough for the team to notice—felt like a win. Maybe she wasn’t just the intern anymore. Maybe, just maybe, she was starting to become something more.

______________________________________________

y/n has been busy lately. She passed her detective training exam but the theory exam wasn’t over yet, so she was preparing for that, along with managing the work she had been assigned at the FBI. It’s nearly midnight when Harry walks into the office, his eyes scanning the darkened room before landing on Y/N. He spots her hunched over her desk, staring at the screen, her tired eyes squinting in the dim light. By now he knows she’s a hard worker, but what really hits him is how late it’s gotten—and how she hasn’t stopped working.

Harry’s voice is tight with concern, trying to mask his frustration."Y/N, what the hell are you still doing here?"

Y/N looks up, startled, her fingers still hovering over the keyboard as she blinks at him, trying to hide the exhaustion on her face.

 "Just finishing up some things... It’s not that late."

He sternly walks closer. "It’s midnight. You should be home, resting. This can wait until tomorrow."

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, but the look on his face stops her. She’s used to his seriousness, but there’s something more here—something that’s not just about the case.

His voice softens, but still firm."You’re not invincible, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself."

Y/N sighs, glancing back at the stack of files on her desk, torn between wanting to finish everything and knowing she’s pushing herself too hard.

 "I’m fine, Harry. Really. I just want to get this done."

Harry’s frustration slips through as he says, "No, you’re not fine. You’ve been at this for hours, and you’re running on empty. I’m not leaving until you get some rest."

Y/N meets his eyes, seeing the genuine concern there, but also the subtle edge of worry in his features. She opens her mouth to protest again, but Harry doesn’t give her the chance.

Harry grabs her bag from the desk. "Come on. You’re getting in the car, and I’m taking you home."

She hesitates for a moment, but Harry’s serious enough that she knows there’s no point in arguing.

She grabs her things and follows him out of the office. The rain is coming down hard now, the city streets glistening under the dim streetlights. Harry opens the door for her, holding out an umbrella as they step out into the downpour.

They don’t speak at first, the quiet of the night surrounding them, just the soft patter of rain as they walk to his car. Once inside, the silence between them feels comfortable, but Harry keeps glancing at her, concern still etched on his face.

Harry breaks the silence."You sure you’re okay? You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately."

“I’m fine, my detective exam is soon, I just really wanna make it.”

“You will, you’ve already passed the physical. Trust me, you don’t have to worry about making it, the exam’s gonna be very easy for you.”

She lets out a soft exhale, those words making her feel a little better. After all, he had gone through all of this. “Are you gonna apply to work here?”

“Yes, I think this is where I wanna work. Not sure about the department though, I still have other rotations. I’m going to be with foreign affairs next week.”

Harry gasps in hurt, glancing over at her. “You don’t wanna be in homicide? Is it because I’m grumpy?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s not you, Harry.. And I love homicide, the thrill is amazing! It’s just that I still have other departments to experience, you know, that’s what an internship is for.”

“Believe me, you aren’t gonna find any other department as interesting as this. But yes, you’re right. You have time to decide.”

The rest of the drive is mostly quiet, just the sound of the rain tapping on the windshield. When they finally reach her flat, Harry pulls up to the curb, parking the car in front of the building. He looks over at her, his voice quiet, with that same concern in it.

"You sure you’ll be okay getting inside? It’s late, and it’s still raining pretty bad."

Y/N nods, though she can’t hide the weariness in her eyes."Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride, Harry."

He doesn’t move, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to say something more, but instead, he opens his door and steps out, walking around the car to open hers.

He holds the umbrella over her as they step out into the rain, his arm wrapping around her back and her arm as he keeps her close and they walk side by side toward her building. The air is cool, and the rain falls steadily, but there’s something about the closeness of the moment that makes it feel almost intimate.

When they reach her door, Harry stops, looking at her with that same quiet intensity. "You’re getting some sleep tonight. No excuses."

Y/N can’t help but smile at his persistence, the kind of care that’s always just under the surface of his gruff exterior."I promise. I’ll get some rest."

Harry doesn’t move immediately, his gaze lingering on her face. There’s an almost unspoken weight in the air now, a subtle shift between them. Without thinking, Y/N reaches out and touches his arm, her fingers brushing against his sleeve.

“Thanks for everything, Harry. Really."

His eyes flicker down to where her hand rests on his arm, and for a moment, the world seems to pause. Slowly, he lifts his free hand, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. His touch lingers for a second longer than necessary, and Y/N feels her heart race at the intimacy of it.

His voice is low, and a bit hoarse."Anytime. You don’t have to thank me."

The tension between them lingers in the rain-soaked air. Harry steps back, holding the umbrella just a little closer to her to shield her from the downpour. Then he whispers softly, "Sleep well, Y/N."

He gives her a soft smile before turning to leave. Y/N watches him walk away, her heart still fluttering from the small but meaningful moments they’ve shared. The rain still falls, but in that quiet moment, everything feels a little different—like they’ve crossed a line, even if just for a moment.

As she walks into her apartment, she can’t help but replay his words and the feeling of his touch, knowing that whatever happens next, something between them has changed.

_____________________________________________

Y/N enters the quarters, the soft click of the door barely audible as she steps inside. The usual hum of chatter and playful teasing is absent, replaced by an air of tension that hangs thick in the room. Her eyes quickly scan the group of agents—none of them in their usual good-natured moods, all absorbed in their own thoughts. Something’s off.

Her gaze lands on Harry, talking quietly with someone behind his glass office door. He looks serious, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed as if he’s deep in conversation about something important. Y/N walks to Nora who’s sitting at her desk, the usual casual grin replaced by a solemn expression.

"Hey, what’s going on? Why’s everyone so serious today?"

The agent looks up. "We got a lead on the Rotherl case. Word is, he has a fourth hostage with him. Cole and Eliza managed to track down where he should be right now and we’re just waiting on Harry’s word to go.”

“A fourth hostage?”, she gasps. She wasn’t part of the team during the investigation of the Rothel murders but she had read up all about it. He was one of the most wanted men, who kidnapped his victims before killing them. He had already killed three innocent people, leaving no traces behind him. If they had a lead on him, that was amazing.

She glances toward Harry’s office, where he’s still deep in conversation, his jaw clenched. Before she can ask more, the door opens, and Harry steps out, his sharp gaze scanning the room. “Let’s go, everyone. I’ve called for backup. Matthews, Carter, good job. Now let’s wrap this up.”

“This mother fucker has had enough of a run.”, Eliza mutters, strapping on her bullet proof west and tossing the other to her partner. 

Y/N’s been with the team for weeks now, and in that time, Harry’s allowed her to tag along when things got tense, letting her learn the ropes. She can’t imagine being left behind on something so big, not now.

She grabs her things, ready to move with the team, but Harry catches her before she gets too far, his lean fingers wrapping around her wrist.

"Not this time, Y/N.", he says, his voice firm, with no room for negotiation.

Y/N freezes, her heart sinking at his words. She’s about to protest, but she catches the look in his eyes—a mix of concern and something else she can’t quite place. She takes a breath, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Come on, Harry. I’ve been with you through worse. You know I can handle it."

“It’s not about how much you can handle, y/n. This is a mad man, and you don’t even have a gun to defend yourself.”

“But I’m trained to fight, and I can use a gun if someone throws it to me-”

“-y/l/n.”, Harry cuts her off with his classic stern face. She hasn’t gotten her gun license yet, she’ll get that only after she becomes an agent after her exams, but she’s already done with all her training. He’s trying to protect her, she realizes. Still, she won’t back down so easily.

"You can’t keep me in the dark. I want to be there with you guys.”, she says firmly.

Harry stares at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers as if weighing the risk. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

He reluctantly agrees. "Fine. You can come. But you stay in the car. Understood?"

Y/N’s heart skips, but she hides her smile, knowing she’s won this small battle. She nods, her voice determined.

 "Understood.”

Harry studies her for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge if she’s really going to stick to her word. When he finally nods, there’s something like relief in his eyes, mixed with the ever-present worry that seems to linger with him.

"Good. But if you step one foot out of that car, I swear I’ll drag your ass back inside myself.”

Y/N chuckles lightly, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of something unspoken. “Got it, sir.”

As Harry turns to lead the team out, Y/N follows behind, a mixture of excitement and nerves swirling inside her. This was more than just another case. It was a dangerous one, and she was in it, even if only on the sidelines. 

“Here, y/n, put this on.”, Ethan comes to her with a bullet proof vest just like everyone else’s. She didn’t think she’d need one sitting in the car, but she put it on, not wanting to start another argument with an agent.

They pile into the cars, the tension in the air thick as they head toward the high-risk location. Y/N’s fingers tap nervously on her lap as she watches Harry in the rearview mirror, his eyes already set on the mission ahead, and she can’t help but feel, even in the midst of everything, that tonight could change something between them.

The car rolled to a stop a few blocks from the dilapidated building. The air outside felt damp from the rain that had just stopped falling, but the tension was thick, and the city streets seemed unusually silent, despite the flashing lights of squad cars surrounding the area.

Y/N leaned forward in the passenger seat, her eyes glued to the building in front of them. The usual lighthearted banter between the team was gone.She could see Harry’s figure through the windshield as he stepped out of the car, his dark coat flaring behind him like a shadow as he walked toward the rest of the team.

She saw the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his body was braced for the weight of what they were about to face. His focus was sharper tonight, sharper than usual. He was already in the thick of it, mentally preparing for what could be a deadly confrontation.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the seat, but she stayed silent. Harry moved with precision, the rest of the team falling in behind him as they gathered around him. The air between them was charged, the kind of energy that only came when everything was on the line.

She heard Harry’s calm voice through his earpiece, “Position yourselves around the building. No one moves unless I give the word.”

Y/N nodded along with the rest of the team, even though Harry couldn’t see it. Her heart hammered in her chest as her gaze shifted from Harry to the building—dark and looming against the city skyline. She could barely make out the figure standing in the doorway.

It was Rothel. The man who had committed violent crimes. And now, he was holding someone else hostage.

Y/N exhaled slowly, gripping the seat tighter. The girl in the doorway, only a teenager by the looks of it, was standing frozen in place, her face pale with fear. Rothel had a gun to her forehead, and she heard him yell out something, but couldn’t make out what it was. Harry raised a hand to the rest of the team, signalling them to hold off.

She could hear Harry. “Rothel, listen to me. Let her go. We don’t need any more bloodshed. Just put the gun down.”

She couldn’t see Harry’s face from the car, but Y/N knew how carefully he must have been approaching the situation. His voice never cracked, but there was an undercurrent of urgency there—just enough to show he was trying to negotiate without pushing Rothel over the edge.

The earpiece crackled with static, and then Rothel’s voice, sharp and filled with fury, came through.

Rothel growled. “I don’t want to hear your deals. If you don’t back the fuck off, I’ll shoot her right here.”

Y/N’s hands went ice-cold. The air in the car felt thick, suffocating. She swallowed hard, wishing there was something she could do, some way she could help, but all she could do was watch—wait—and pray that Harry could talk him down.

Harry’s voice came again, steady and unwavering.

“You don’t want to do this, Rothel. Let her go. We can work something out. Just... put the gun down. It’s not too late.”

Y/N’s eyes were fixed on the building as the tension in the air grew heavier. There was a shift, a subtle movement at one of the upper windows. She squinted, her heart dropping as she realized the figure there wasn’t just an observer—he was armed, and his sights were set on Harry.

Her breath caught in her throat. Panic surged through her as she saw the man preparing to act. Without thinking twice, Y/N grabbed her earpiece, trying to warn the others, but there was no time for that. The danger was too immediate.

She threw open the car door, barely pausing before sprinting toward the building. Every step was fueled by a sense of urgency, her mind racing. She couldn’t let him hurt Harry.

Y/N reached the back of the building and found a staircase leading up. She didn’t hesitate as she ascended quickly, her heart thumping in her chest. At the top, she paused, ears straining for any sound—anything that would give away the shooter’s position.

There, at the far end of the hallway, the man stood, oblivious to Y/N’s approach. She didn’t think, she just moved. Silent and quick, she rushed toward him, tackling him off balance. They hit the ground, but the struggle wasn’t over.

“Move out of my way unless you want me to kill you, bitch.”, he growled.

“Oh you can try.”, she growled back.

The man pushed back, trying to regain his footing, but Y/N used every ounce of her strength to keep him down. He fought back, his hands grabbing at her, but she was faster—more determined.

In the chaos, she was struck hard, sending her crashing into the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the growing pain. She couldn’t let him get to Harry. He needed to save that girl.

She heard gun shots from below and something that sounded like a cry of relief from the hostage, then she heard Harry’s voice through her fallen earpiece. “He’s down, great job team.” She made the mistake of letting her guard down for one second, in relief, and that’s when the man managed to rise to his feet and point the gun at her.

She heard Harry’s voice again, through her earpiece, now panicked. “Y/N, where are you? Answer me.”

Her vision swam from the dizziness, but she forced herself to focus. The man looked down and groaned in frustration. y/n laughed. “Guess your little plan didn’t work out, huh?”

“It was a good plan, now it’s all ruined because of you. Did you think I was joking when I said I’d kill you?”

“Y/N?”, she heard footsteps and Harry’s voice. 

“Harry!”, she called back, panic starting to rise in her chest. The gun was pointed at her, so she couldn’t risk moving. 

Harry points his own gun at the man. “Put it down right now, you sick bastard.”

y/n closed her eyes as she heard two shots fire at the same time. Then she heard a big thud. Suddenly, there was pain shooting through her body. The pain was overwhelming, but there was something else—disbelief, confusion, and the shock of what had just happened.

She had been shot.

She was brought back from her dazed state by Harry’s panicked, almost broken, voice, “Y/N, it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay..don’t worry, o-okay?”

She could hear the crack in his voice, the fear that only came when someone was truly scared of losing someone they cared about. Her heart fluttered weakly in her chest at the realization. Her thoughts weren’t on the blood soaking her arm or the pain threatening to consume her. They were on Harry. He was here. He was with her. And as she fought to keep her eyes open, the last thing she heard was him calling her name, desperately holding onto her in the chaos of it all.

____________________________________________

Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove @mayalove014 @vikiii07

[babzz6]

Tomorrow's promise. - Caitlyn Kiramman x reader

Tw: slight angst, slight abuse, grief, sadness, fluff.

Song recommendation:

Say Yes To Heaven - Lana Del Rey

You were caught harshly by your hair, eyes flying wide open and on instinct, your hands flew out to try and pry the strong fist from pulling the strands out of your scalp. But every attempt is futile, you whine and whimper as the grip on you only tightens, slowly lifting you so your on your very tippy toes. But you're still trying to make sense of the situation feeling a bit dizzy and wobbly when a hand strikes your cheek harshly, your whole body convulsing and mouth suddenly tasting coppery, definitely awake now you sob, cupping your cheek as you meet his gaze.

"Wake up hellcat, you have a visitor." he spat, dropping you on the ground, knees thumping against the hard concrete, something definitely cracking.

"Was that really necessary?" a soft voice filled with authority whispered, carrying an accent only rich snobs on Piltover have. Her voice echoing though the empty corridor.

Massaging your scalp, you lift yourself from the ground despite the agonizing pain on your joints, plopping on an uncomfortable chair on the corner of your cell, staring at the woman who was having a conversation with one of your oppressors.

Observing her closely you watch the navy blue hair that cascaded from her roots all the way down to her collarbones. Tight posture that probably resulted from many high-class lessons and comfortable ergonomic chairs that only important houses of Piltover's château received. Thigh high boots that had matching accesories to her navy blue dress, decorated in gold finery. Her gaze intense and firm matching her features, sharp angular face adorned with slender upturned blue eyes, a pointed defined nose and pale thin downward-turned lips. She was attractive you'll give her that.

She cleared her throat and your attention was pulled back to present.

"Hello." she murmered, "Hello?" you said warily, spittting on the ground a glob of spit and blood.

"I'm terribly sorry about that, I didn't mean to cause a disturbance-"

"Well ya did lady, okay? So stop yapping and get to your point." you said, annoyance filtering every aspect of your voice. She nodded curtly, straightening her clothes and standing straight, more than she already was.

"I need your help."

"What for?"

"I need to locate someone."

"Oh fuck off lady, really-"

"Look I know! But if you just-"

"No no no!"

You said getting up from your chair turning around to lay back down before she shouted something that caught your attention.

"It's Powder!"

You turned around and she noticed your wide eyes and uncomfortable posture. "You know her right? She used to be someone you knew-" and then you approached her, angry and stood right infront of her face.

"Look lady, I don't know who the fuck you are and honestly, I don't give a shit. But don't you dare mention her around me." You spat angrily at her and she saw right through you,

an old wound that never healed properly.

Your eyes stared down at the floor overtaken by emotion and before you could stop them thick tears streamed down your cheeks, grief taking you all at once tearing you apart just as quickly as it built you up. Hands gentle and smooth like honey on velvety clouds brushed against your face, cupping it gently, as if scared that she might accidentally hurt you. She raised your face by your chin until her gaze met yours, you looked so weak and broken from an unforgiving world that only left wounds without soothing balms in their wake.

And surprisingly, you stayed like that for a moment, letting her hands soothe your soul like the water to the shoreline after a storm. You kissed her hands gently as she stroked your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in her wake and for a moment you felt safe, like nothing else mattered, just you and her.

But the moment ended soon enough, you pulled away feeling embarrassment creep up your spine and settle on the far corner of your mind and her hands stood there for a moment missing already the feel of your skin against them. Yet she said nothing, pulling them away reluctantly and straightening up.

"I can get you out of here, I just ask for a bit of cooperation." and you pretend to dwell on it, but you had already made up your mind from the moment you let her hands roam your face. Nodding faintly she smiled that's when you noticed her gap and for a moment you couldn't help but swoon.

"Let's get you out of here." she said, the keys jingling in her hand.

The ride back to her state was a blur, you were too paranoid to relax the only way you did was when her hand took ahold of yours, her look gentle, affirming that while she was there nothing could ever harm you. It was comforting and instantly you found yourself drifting away, eyes closing, exhaustion taking over.

You woke up in haze, eyes darting around not recognizing where you were, breathing uneven and ragged, <<this is what I get for trusting a pretty enforcer.>> you thought. Just when you were about to jump out of the bed to find a way to escape, a hand grabbed your bicep,

"I'm right here pretty girl." she mumbled and watched as you slowly loosened up and looked at her shepishly, slowly crawling back in bed, she drapped the covers over you and you felt cared for, for once never having to care for yourself, instead someone did. So you let her, let her cocoon you and brush your hair out of your face and push it behind your ear. Let her hand caress the scars on your face and the ones of your shoulders and arms. Watched her silently ask for permission before nestling closer to you, her warmth radiating off of her in waves, slowly melting the walls of ice you'd built around your heart.

"You're beautiful." she hummed, staring into your eyes as her finger twirled a strand of your hair and your eyes glazed over as you tried to look away, look somewhere where her strong gaze couldn't follow and see right through you, reading your soul as if it were a book.

She gently craddled your chin moving your face gently until it met her stare, she watched a singled tear escape your eye and God, she wanted to kiss it away.

So she did.

Leaning forward, kissing the place where the tear had ran its course, then making her way up until her lips meet your eyelid, giving it a languid kiss and pulling back. She watched your resolutions and walls crumble, watched how your lip trembled and how you chased her lips when she pulled away. Watched as you inched closer until your head nuzzled into the crook of her neck and kissed the skin there softly,

"Promise you'll take care of my heart, please." Your voice cracked and her heart broke in a million pieces, nodding and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

How could a fragile thing like you end in a place like that?

But right now she wouldn't push it, wouldn't ask anything, just pull you in impossibly closer and embrace you tightly as she thought of tomorrow's promise.

[brights-place]

So twst x murder drones

A cyn yuu that mellowed down yet is Still a goofball but when a overbolt happened they go feral on it a few zombie and disassembly drones here and there. 

[TWST] TWST x Cyn!Reader Warnings: Fluff, Fights, Swearing, Gore

Pt. 1 (Here) , Pt. 2 A/N: I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THSI CAUSE ITS MY FIRST TWST REQUETS OMG OMG!! anyways I LOVED THE IDEA OF CYN! YUU SO MUCHHHHH anyways this will be placed in Book 6 and again I was kind of struggling since I haven't watched murder drones in awhile which sucksss plus I've been struggling with writing fight scenes so I hope this was alright in some sorts..?

Summary: Cyn! Yuu was something there was no acutal way if everybody knew her real personality and actual mannerisms, as little is known of her from before her disposal, and after rebooting she has no control over herself due to the Solver possessing her. So when given the chance to be in a different world she used it to her advantaged yet she would do these things that others couldn't question but the moment it came when Idia overblotted and Taking Grim. They all couldn't help but witness the more... destructive side of her

Footsteps echoed as each and every group finally ended up in their final destination. Your eyes staring ahead as you already were the first one there your hands were close to your chest head lodged to the side. Your digital pupils staring at the group that came down from different parts of stairs and back to the figure hovering over them from afar Idia’s overblotted form hovering body is dominated by black and glowing blue tones. Blue flames crown his head and twist around his figure. His sleek angular armor is adorned with glowing blue accents and a central heart-like emblem on his chest. His lower body dissolves into flowing, tattered flames, giving him a ghostly, unbound appearance. A jagged-toothed mask obscures his face, while his glowing mismatched eyes. One burning intensely with blue fire reflect his despair and rage. A overblotted monster behind him hovering roaring as your eyes darted around as you scanned Idia and the overblot monster. You smiled trudging forward to the others "Hello everybody" "Hi Epel" you smiled waving as Epel waved back witha soft smile before you were standing with everybody snapping your head over back to Idia while others were belittling him and talking/shouting at him while the firey blue haired male was monologuing you couldn't help but be bored. Raising one of your hands to lift up your head while your shoes started dragging on the floor before stopping as you scanned Idia and the blot creature from behind him Leon couldn't help but stare at you when you were moving and stating your next action "Lick" your metallic tongue sticking out licking one of your digital eyes that were glitching slightly. "(Your Name) What are you doing?" Epel shouted as he noticed you were walking closer to Idia who stared down at you with eyebrows furrowed blue smoke coming from his mask "What are you-" "Giggle" Leona eyes widened as he stepped back smelling something coming from you not the usual one of a robot like Ortho but of something coming from a rotting corpse while Epel went to go towards you he reached his hand out towards the lavendar haired male grabbing him back instantly handing him off to Vil "GET DOWN" That one singular word had everybody quickly move away as you snapped your head up to Idia "Oh Y-Yes" voice glitching "Get snuck upon" everybody froze seeing how your digital pupils turned into yellow X's giving a fangy grin darting forward to Idia. The males eyes widened when you vanished from infront of him before snapping his head to the side when you past him landing back onto the floor below grinning while the others saw your change of appearance that changed instantly that resembles a rotting human-child corpse wearing black heels and a black tattered dress.

The way you moved on all fours with eyes sockets staring right at Idia that were dark showing signs they were ripped open with your X-shapes glowing a neon yellow-orange color that darted around each time deflecting Idia is throws and magic with the overblot monster. "Stab" You stated while fleshy like large tendrils came out poking out on your back, three intestine like tentacles protrude out of this form of yours is back as you used it to climb around walls and digging into the floor when skidding back neck snapping to the side as you stared at Idia who was heaving heavily as another spare of black tendrils shot out. Epel was frozen seeing how you were laughing and throwing Idia around as you continued to play around with him before Vil was shouting at you to get the overblot monster before you appeared behind Vil a large tendril appeared from you shooting out to stab Vil who was grabbed away by Rook "Angry." you said grinning while your X eyes staring at them. You were mentally cussing every human in here they were getting annoying to deal with these humans in this other world but you needed them for now and you wanted this done with as long as Grim didn't see this you were fine. It was annoying you on how when they tried to shoot magic at Idia they were close to hurting you in the trial so it made your job extra hard. Vil though being held by Rook before placing down was staring at your body and at a ripped part of your corpse like body reveals a drone identification number on her chest to be 1001 wearing a yellow "MARKED FOR DISASSEMBLY" armband wrapped around your left shoulder. Snapping your head back over to the overblot monster you grinned sprouting wings from your back that was slightly ripped on the bottom with camera-eyes appearing staring and zooming into Idia who's eyes widened when you lunged forward at him once again fangs showing with your smile, voice glitching "Let's eat." Riddle was petrified by how you were standing there unhinged and giggling how your body shifted into something else how you made the blot monster become into nothing toying with Idia. He wondered in his overblot form if you did anything like that but he didn't hear anything from any heartslabyul members so this situation with you was something he wouldn't have expect. Leona could smell the oil from your body the way your body and joints were snapping. The group even though trying to help you fight kept getting in your way especially when you in moments slammed them away to continue to torment Idia. Even though Idia deserved it he noticed how your mouth was drooling a black substance of oil. Azul was beside Riddle jaw slacking at how you laughed showing off numerous jagged sharp teeth with a dark gray metallic tongue that made him feel as if you were on par with the leech twins... He may or may not be considering on hiring you with how he saw you were handling the situation against Idia. Jamil felt useless in this entire situation not only with the time with Leona he was struggling with keeping up with you. Trying to shoot out large sums of magic but when he noticed how one of your tendrils shot out to him throwing him to the side he skidded to a stop.

Vil was beside Epel, and Rook staring at the scene. Epel looking horrified to see his so called friend having spike like tendrils throwing idia and impaling the overblot monster seeing you actually laughing without saying the word giggle or a word to describe your actions like usual. Rook though he would be complimenting your beauty or whatever someone was doing was holding a serious expression beside Vil nodding to eachother.

The after math with Vil saving Idia, Ortho also with Vil becoming old and everything though you were staring down at Idia who blinked letting out an 'eep' when you made a chomping motion to him "Bite" the moment you stepped on the ship with Grim going on first the air was tense the group staring at you while you used one of your hands to hold your head up properly "Blink" You continued to head over to a seat on the ship sitting down finally.

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ ©brights-place 2023 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact!

[study-diaries]

Introduction To HTML

[Note: You need a text editor to do this. You can use Notepad or Text Edit. But it's so much better to download VS Code / Visual Studio Code. Save it with an extension of .html]

HTML stands for Hyper Text Markup Language

It is used to create webpages/websites.

It has a bunch of tags within angular brackets <....>

There are opening and closing tags for every element.

Opening tags look like this <......>

Closing tags look like this

The HTML code is within HTML tags. ( // code)

Here's the basic HTML code:

<!DOCTYPE html> <html> <head> <title> My First Webpage </title> </head> <body> <h1> Hello World </h1> <p> Sometimes even I have no idea <br> what in the world I am doing </p> </body> </html>

Line By Line Explanation :

<!DOCTYPE html> : Tells the browser it's an HTML document.

<html> </html> : All code resides inside these brackets.

<head> </head> : The tags within these don't appear on the webpage. It provides the information about the webpage.

<title> </title> : The title of webpage (It's not seen on the webpage. It will be seen on the address bar)

<body> </body> : Everything that appears on the webpage lies within these tags.

<h1> </h1> : It's basically a heading tag. It's the biggest heading.

Heading Tags are from <h1> to <h6>. H1 are the biggest. H6 are the smallest.

<p> </p> : This is the paragraph tag and everything that you want to write goes between this.

<br> : This is used for line breaks. There is no closing tag for this.

-------

Now, we'll cover some <Meta> tags.

Meta tags = Notes to the browser and search engines.

They don’t appear on the page.

They reside within the head tag

<head> <meta charset="UTF-8"> <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> <meta name="description" content="Website Description"> <meta name="Author" content="Your Name"> <meta name="keywords" content="Websites Keywords"> </head>

Line By Line Explanation:

<meta charset="UTF-8"> : Makes sure all letters, symbols, and emojis show correctly.

<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> : Makes your site look good on phones and tablets.

<meta name="description" content="Website Description"> : Describes your page to Google and helps people find it.

<meta name="author" content="Your Name"> : Says who created the page.

<meta name="keywords" content="Website's Keywords"> : Adds a few words to help search engines understand your topic.

_____

This is my first post in this topic. I'll be focusing on the practical side more than the actual theory, really. You will just have some short bullet points for most of these posts. The first 10 posts would be fully HTML. I'll continue with CSS later. And by 20th post, we'll build the first website. So, I hope it will be helpful :)

If I keep a coding post spree for like 2 weeks, would anyone be interested? o-o

[multifamdomfan]

When Fire Met Fables

---

Crowley hated kids.

That’s what he told everyone. With sunglasses perched on his nose even indoors, sleeves rolled up like he was ready to fight the nearest copier machine, and a permanent scowl etched into his angular face, he made it his brand.

“Sticky little goblins,” he muttered as a four-year-old named Max glued macaroni to his own eyebrows with the artistic fervor of Picasso on a sugar high. “I specifically told them not to eat the paste. And what do they do? They bathe in it. Of course.”

But what Crowley didn’t mention was that he always carried an extra pack of crayons in his coat pocket (the glittery kind that made the kids squeal with joy), or that he memorized which student liked dinosaurs and which one needed quiet time after lunch. He’d even mastered the art of tying tiny shoes in less than five seconds.

He just… didn’t want people to know. That would ruin the entire “grumpy cryptid with a heart of coal” thing he had going.

So when the school announced a joint PTA and Faculty Weekend Retreat, Crowley groaned like he was being sentenced to three days in a bouncy castle.

“Mandatory attendance,” the email read. “Come meet the other educators and engage in joyful community bonding!”

“Joyful,” he spat. “Sounds like torture with name tags.”

---

Aziraphale loved people.

He loved his students, his books, his colleagues (even the insufferably modern tech bros in the business department), and he especially loved faculty events.

A professor of philosophy and literature at the nearby university, Aziraphale had a tendency to ramble about Camus and Keats in the same breath. His office was a cozy labyrinth of antique volumes, lace doilies, and always—always—smelled faintly of lemon tea and old parchment.

He volunteered to give a presentation on “Narrative Morality in Early Childhood Education” at the retreat and brought a slideshow. With transitions.

So when he spotted a tall, lanky man in black leaning against the snack table like it owed him money—sunglasses on indoors, arms crossed—he was intrigued.

“Hello!” Aziraphale chirped. “Are you one of the kindergarten teachers?”

The man groaned, clearly regretting every decision that led him to this moment. “That obvious?”

“Only from the glitter on your left shoe,” Aziraphale said cheerfully.

Crowley looked down. “Bloody—damn it, Max.” He made a mental note to incinerate all glitter-based crafts on Monday.

“I’m Aziraphale,” the sunshine man continued, offering his hand. “Philosophy and literature.”

“…Crowley. I teach the ankle-biters how to share and not stab each other with safety scissors.”

Aziraphale laughed. Not a condescending laugh, or a nervous one—just… happy. Like meeting Crowley had made his day a little brighter.

“You don’t seem like you hate it as much as you claim,” he said slyly.

“I do. Detest it. Every minute,” Crowley lied.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said with a knowing smile. “So that’s why you’ve got a caterpillar sticker on your arm?”

Crowley looked down. “…Max again.”

---

Over the weekend, Crowley found himself partnered with Aziraphale during a "team-building scavenger hunt," which was exactly as awful as it sounded, except… less awful when Aziraphale tripped on a root and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Less awful when they argued about the philosophical implications of Goodnight Moon.

(“It's about existential dread, Crowley!”

“It’s a rabbit saying goodnight to furniture, angel!”

“Oh, you do think I’m an angel then?”

“…No comment.”)

By the final day, Crowley had started to wonder if he could live with being called “Mr. Crowley” in a slightly flirtatious tone for the rest of his life.

And when Aziraphale invited him for tea—“Not coffee, I’m afraid, but I do make a delightful scone”—Crowley didn’t even pretend to scowl.

“Well,” he said, pushing his sunglasses up. “Only if you promise not to mention the glitter.”

Aziraphale’s smile could’ve powered a small country.

“Not a word,” he promised, linking his arm with Crowley’s.

---

Bonus Scene:

Back at school on Monday, little Max squinted up at Crowley.

“Mr. C, why are you smiling?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re definitely smiling.”

“Lies and slander.”

“…Is it ‘cause of that nice man with the scarf who brought you cookies?”

“…Shut up and draw your feelings, Max.”

(Max drew a stick figure of Crowley with hearts above his head. Crowley kept it in his desk drawer.)

[stnkiconverse]

Hello! I would appreciate it if you wrote Toby's reaction upon seeing his partner (dead for whatever reason you choose) come back from the dead as a ghost after months, without remembering anything. It's something I like to roleplay with on C.AI.

Thank you

Gone.

Ticci Toby x Dead!Partner!Reader

Warnings: Death, Angst???

Toby didn't think something was wrong when he came home. Just another mission, another night of blood, exhaustion, and trying to not worry too much about how numb he felt.

But then he opened your and his shared room door and the air didn't feel right. Too still. Too silent. Like there was something missing.

And thenhe saw you.

Your body wasn't hot when he brushed against it.

It wasn't cold, either.

Just—empty.

Like everything that made you had already left.

No blood, no violent scene, just you, dead, unmoving.

He dropped to his knees next to you, fingers hovering but not touching.

He couldn't.

If he touched you, it would be real.

His breath halted. His fingers convulsed uncontrollably. His tics struck him full-blown, angular, jerky snapping of his shoulders and neck, his throat made a choked sound as he fought to keep up with what he was seeing. What he wasn't seeing.

This didn't happen. This couldn't happen.

He let out a hollow, strangled laugh, gripping his hair. “Hah— okay, okay, real funny, you can stop now—”

But you didn't so much as stir. Breathe.

The world went fuzzy, but he had no idea if it was from the way his head spun or if he was actually crying. He didn't know until he felt the wetness in his palms. He shook you more forcefully once, twice.

"Wake up."

Again. Again.

"Wake the fuck up!"

Nothing. Nothing.

Toby couldn't remember how long he sat there, how long he stared at you, waiting for something, anything to change. It never changed.

Your body wasn't your body anymore. It was a body.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he felt more alone than ever.

Toby barely left his room.

People noticed, sure, but no one really bothered him about it. He was a loner to begin with, but now? Now, he was silent. Withdrawn in a way that wasn't just him not liking crowds— it was like he didn't even exist.

The sketch pad he never left behind, the pages previously covered in doodles and sketches and little comments in the margins about you were blank. He hadn't even opened it since you died.

He talked to you too, sometimes. At night, when he was alone, lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling like if he stared hard enough, he'd see you again. He said things under his breath into the void, voice cracked and rough.

"I dunno what the fuck I'm gonna do now."

"This is fucking bullshit, y'know. I didn't even get to say anything."

“You should be here. You‘re supposed to be here.”

Sleep refused to arrive.

It never would, but whenever he closed his eyes, he saw only you.

The second he realized you were dead. The discovery of your body.

The failure to say goodbye. His own voice crying out your name, over and over, as though perhaps doing so could retract something.

On certain evenings,he was sure he felt you there.

Swore he heard the sound of footsteps when nobody else was there. But each time he turned, you weren't present.

Because you were gone.

It happened on one of those nights—one where he was too exhausted to sleep, too alert to rest, too weary to go on but couldn't stop going on either.

He sat outside, hood pulled up around his face, sitting on the porch steps, simply existing.

And then he felt it.

That feeling. The one he'd experience when he turned around, knowing that he'd find you smiling at him.

His breath caught in his throat. He slowly rolled his head to the side, hesitantly, as though if he turned too fast, it would shatter whatever moment this was.

And then, he saw you.

Standing there, looking at him like he was just some other stranger.

For an instant, his mind didn't work. It wouldn't. His body moved ahead of him, standing up on shaking legs. You were there. You were- you were-

But something was wrong.

You seemed the same, yet not the same. Ghostly translucent. Glittering with a supernatural light. Your face was blank, curious, but hollow. No recognition. No welcome.

"Y/N…?" His voice was gruff, cracking, hardly above a whisper. As if saying your name too loudly would make you disappear.

You blinked. Tilted your head to the side. "Who's that?"

His stomach dropped.

Everything inside him stopped.

The seconds dragged on too long, too heavy, too suffocating. His mind was racing, trying to catch up, trying to piece it together, trying to make it make sense.

And then, you spoke again, voice soft, distant. "Do I…know you?"

Something in him broke.

There was a choked, snickering laugh. His fingers quivered, coiling into fists on either side of him. "Oh—oh, that's rich- that's really fucking funny—"

You simply stood there. Confused. Like you didn't know him anymore.

Like you'd never even met him.

The weight of it hit all at once. You were here—but not really. You weren’t you. Not his you.

Something in his chest contorted so fiercely it was as if he couldn't breathe. His throat burned. His eyes stung. His tics struck him full-force, cruel jerks of his head, his fingers convulsing against the fabric of his hoodie.

You were right here. And he'd lost you all over again.

I surprisingly rlly like this :D!!

I hope you like it as much as I do!!!

[belit0]

Hello, I've come across your work, and I love your writings! Could you do Tobi (Obito) x reader where she fell in love with the akatsuki guy? And if possible, will he figure that out?

Thank you!!

The rain was unrelenting. A steady, whispering downpour that veiled the world in silver, making the firelight in their small hideout flicker like a ghost’s breath. (Y/N) sat across from him—Tobi, the enigma, the fool, the ever-dancing shadow of the Akatsuki.

-You’re staring again, (Y/N)-chan!- he sang, tilting his masked head to the side.

(Y/N) blinked, caught, but she did not look away.

Tobi was a mystery. An absurd, impossible one. He was loud, ridiculous, infuriatingly unpredictable—but she had come to love him anyway.

Not despite it. Because of it.

Because beneath the playful skips and exaggerated gestures, she had glimpsed something else. Something deeper.

The way he moved in battle, swift and calculated. The way he spoke when he thought no one was listening, voice lower, almost knowing. The way he, despite everything, never truly let anyone in.

She had fallen for the illusion.

But she was not blind.

-Tobi.- Her voice was softer this time, careful. -Who are you, really?-

The moment stretched, tight as a wire.

Then—he laughed.

-Eh? What do you mean, (Y/N)-chan? Tobi is Tobi! The bestest, funniest, most amazing partner ever!- He stood up, spun in place, arms flailing, voice as high and ridiculous as ever.

But she saw it.

The slight pause before he spoke.

The way his fingers twitched at his sides.

The way, for a fraction of a second, he stood too still.

(Y/N)’s heart pounded.

-You’re lying.

Silence.

The room felt smaller. The fire crackled, and for once, Tobi did not respond.

Then, slowly—so slowly—he turned his head toward her.

When he spoke again, his voice was not high. Not playful.

-And if I am?

A chill ran down her spine.

She had never heard him speak like that.

(Y/N) swallowed, throat dry. This was it. The moment that would change everything.

But she did not run.

She had fallen for Tobi, the fool, the impossible.

But she had always known, deep down—

The man behind the mask was someone else entirely.

The air was too thick—too heavy with something unseen.

(Y/N) sat frozen.

Not from fear. Not from uncertainty.

From the sheer weight of what was happening.

Tobi—her Tobi, the one who always laughed, always danced away from anything real—stood rigid before her, fingers curling into fists at his sides. His posture wasn’t playful, wasn’t loose with the usual exaggerated movements.

It was tense.

Trapped.

-What if I truly am?-

His voice was low—too low. Not the bright, chirping tone she had grown used to. This one was raw, serious, as if he had never spoken with honesty before.

And maybe he hadn’t.

(Y/N) let the silence stretch, feeling her own heartbeat quicken. He wasn’t joking.

He wasn’t trying to escape.

He was waiting.

Waiting for her to reject him.

Waiting for her to flinch.

Waiting for the inevitable moment when she realized she had never really known him.

-Then tell me.- Her voice was softer now, the sharp edges of her earlier demand smoothing into something deeper, something more careful. -Tell me who you are.-

A flicker of something crossed the single eye she could see through the mask.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Desperation.

His fingers lifted to his face, slow and deliberate, as if every inch closer to the mask was a battle in itself. They curled at the edges of the orange spiral, hesitated—

And then he pulled it off.

The firelight revealed a face she had never seen, but one that felt… inevitable.

Wild black hair. Scars. A sharp, angular jawline carved by time and hardship. A single, dark eye staring into hers, searching.

The other—red.

The Sharingan burned at her like a warning, a ghost of a past he had never spoken of.

He was not who she thought he was.

And yet—

(Y/N) inhaled, long and steady.

Her fingers twitched. She didn’t know what to do with them, didn’t know if she should reach out or pull away. But something in her chest clenched at the sight of him—of Tobi—standing before her as someone else.

The silence pressed down, heavier than before.

Then, his voice, quiet, stripped of everything but truth:

-Obito.

It was almost painful, the way he said it. Like he had not spoken that name in years—like it was something forbidden, something buried so deep that bringing it to the surface hurt.

Obito.

Her lips parted slightly, tasting the weight of it before she even spoke.

He watched her, waiting for the reaction he feared most.

Waiting for her to push him away.

Waiting for rejection.

Instead, (Y/N) stepped closer.

Obito stiffened, as if he wasn’t sure whether to brace for an attack or something worse.

But she didn’t strike him.

Didn’t question him.

Didn’t run.

Instead, she reached out, fingers ghosting along the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the face she had never seen but somehow always known was there.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

-How long have you been hiding?

His throat bobbed, his breath shuddering as if the weight of her question had cracked something open.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

But then...

-Too long.

It wasn’t just a response.

It was a confession.

And one that neither of them could ever take back.

[thedwarrowscholar]

Hello! For scholars/scribes or everyday use, which writing system would be used, Cirth or Tengwar? The Dwarves adopt Cirth for their stone carving, but I would imagine that writing exclusively in cirth would put a lot of strain on writing instruments and, well, wrists because of how stiff and angular it is. IRL, cursive scripts are developed to write faster. In the film, the book of Mazarbul starts off in cirth but the last line is a messy cursive (poor Ori...). Do you have any thoughts?

Well met!

A question that touches not only on Tolkien’s linguistic worldbuilding but also on the real-world evolution of writing systems. You're absolutely right to point out the physical practicality of cursive scripts—and how that likely applied even in Middle-earth.

🪓 Cirth: A Script Born of Stone

The Cirth (runes) were initially devised by the Elves—most notably Daeron of Doriath—but the Dwarves adopted and refined them into Angerthas Moria, and later Angerthas Erebor, adapting the system for their own use.

Cirth was ideally suited for engraving in stone, wood, and metal. Its angular and straight-lined forms made it easy to carve with chisels—much like early real-world runes such as Futhark. And indeed, this seems to have been its primary intended function, at least originally.

But when applied to ink and parchment, Cirth presents obvious limitations:

Angularity = slower strokes

Frequent pen lifts = reduced efficiency

Hard on wrists during long writing sessions

✍️ Why Cursive Scripts Exist (Even in Middle-earth)

Historically, cursive scripts developed because they’re faster and more efficient to write. The word cursive itself comes from Medieval Latin cursivus, meaning “running”—derived from currere (“to run, hasten”). These scripts allow the writing tool to stay in contact with the surface, reducing effort and increasing speed.

Tolkien’s world, while fantastical, remains grounded in practical realities. The Dwarves were master craftsmen, engineers, merchants, and, at times, scholars. We know that they did not limit themselves to a chisel-optimised script for all writing contexts—especially not for ink.

📚 The Book of Mazarbul: A Key Piece of Evidence

Your mention of the Book of Mazarbul is absolutely on point—and yes, it offers a direct answer.

This chronicle, written by Balin’s folk in Khazad-dûm, includes multiple scripts:

Cirth of Moria and Cirth of Dale

Tengwar of the later Westron mode (which uses full vowel signs)

Gandalf identifies one page as being written in a “large bold hand using an Elvish script,” and Gimli confirms it as Ori’s. Most of the final page is in runes, but the very last line—“they are coming”—is scrawled in Tengwar.

Facsimile of page II

What does this show?

Dwarves—at least those literate and especially the scholarly, like Ori—did use Tengwar, especially when writing quickly or when Cirth became impractical.

This was likely not an isolated case. It reflects a layered literacy among Dwarves, especially those in leadership, scribal, or administrative roles.

🔤 Tengwar vs. Cirth: Cultural Identity vs. Practicality

Tengwar was an Elvish invention, and the Dwarves never adopted it culturally (unlike Cirth that suited engraving better). But that doesn’t mean they rejected it entirely. Much like a medieval monk might write in Latin while speaking another tongue at home, Dwarves used Tengwar functionally—when the moment demanded it.

So what likely happened was this:

Cirth remained the culturally Dwarven script (with the Moria variant used when writing Khuzdul)—employed in inscriptions, tombs, weapon etchings, and formal records.

Tengwar, particularly the Westron mode, was known to educated Dwarves and used for efficiency, likely especially in:

Letters

Journals

Merchant ledgers

Emergency or field writing

Facsimile of page III

🧾 Was There a Dwarven Cursive?

Tolkien never describes a “Dwarven cursive” variant of Cirth—but based on real-world linguistics and in-world logic, it’s possible one existed.

At the very least, a more fluid, ink-friendly variant of Cirth may have been used for day-to-day notes. But even so, the fact remains: Ori chooses Tengwar in a pinch, not cursive Cirth. That tells us that, if a Dwarven cursive did exist, it wasn't the go-to form—at least not when time was short and clarity was vital.

In short: the Dwarves were too practical not to use—or even develop—more efficient ways to write. Whether they did so by streamlining Cirth, or by using Tengwar when needed, they had options—and likely used them all.

🧠 Final Thoughts

Cirth was their script of identity—literally engraved into the stone, wood and iron that surrounded them.

Tengwar was a tool of practicality—adopted when writing had to move as fast as the moment demanded.

Tolkien shows us just enough (especially through Ori and the Book of Mazarbul) to draw this conclusion with confidence.

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

[anonymousmink]

Osha and Qimir (I loved your last one!!!)

Prompt... How about... soulmate mark on your soulmates body. Could be first words, matching mark, soulmates injury on ur soulmates body for example. What kinda soulmark au dealers choice 😅

I'm having flashbacks to ur amazing soul mate fic for reylo Skymarked Souls, so would loooove too see ur take on a soulmate mark with oshamir x

Omg okay this is 100% cheating because I wrote this when the show was airing and never posted it - and also I apologise because it’s based on the exact same scene as my last post - BUT have some first word Soulmate AU! ALSO - thank you for your kind message Anon, I can’t believe anyone remembers those old fics! It really made my day!💜

Ship: Oshamir || Rating: T || Words: 2100ish

Osha’s entire life has been defined by one word.

One incredibly, overwhelmingly, ordinary word.

Hello.

The small greeting, written in a messy, angular hand over the left side of her ribs has changed everything.

At first it’s a blessing, tangible proof that - no matter how much she loves her sister - she’s not Mae. She’s different, they’re different. She may be one of two but they’re not identical in every way, the word is hers and hers alone. It doesn’t matter how mad Mae gets, or how worried her mothers seem, it’s something just for her and she holds onto it - no matter how selfish it sometimes feels.

Then her world burns, she meets the Jedi, and the word becomes a curse.

The day Sol finds out is the third worst in her memory. Sol’s disappointment is seared into her brain, another Padawan tattling on her after they’d shared the showers after a training session. When he’d pulled her aside his expression had been so final - like a failure, another death.

Still, he’d softened the blow - explaining in his softest, most careful voice that the word was the mark of a soul mate bond, a perfect prophecy of her future partner's first interaction with her. It could happen to anyone, Sol told her, force sensitive or not. Her soul was meant to meet with another, to intertwine in a dance older and vaster than the galaxy.

“Why?” she’d whispered around the knife suddenly lodged in her chest.

“People are flawed,” he’d answered so, so patiently, “we don’t always recognise our match - we can be pushed, persuaded, blinded by our own prejudice… the words ensure we do not miss our moment.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted, or the question she was asking. When she asked ‘why’ she hadn’t meant ‘why do they exist?��� but rather ‘why me? Why now? Why has the universe forsaken me again?”

It felt like a cruel trick, the council always said she couldn’t let go of her attachments and this just proved it.

It wasn’t fair. She’d wanted so much to be her own person, to forge her own path, but it had been snatched away from her again - set fire to by her own skin this time.

Sol had tried to console her, telling her that it wasn’t impossible for her to be a Jedi, that there were others with marks - they were rare but they existed. It just meant she had to work harder.

And she did.

She worked harder, and harder and harder and so damn hard, and it didn’t change a thing.

Here she stands with the fruits of her labor, an out of work Meknek chasing her dead sister through a strange world on the orders of people she’ll never be good enough for.

Osha doesn’t flinch as she walks the streets of Olega through a hail of ‘hello’s, two dozen greetings in a half dozen languages as the street hawkers try and draw her attention towards their goods.

Hellos are a prophecy she no longer believes in, not after she’s heard so many of them. Yord. Jecki. Padawans and masters and mechanics and absolute strangers. She’s drowned in hellos over the years and none of them have changed a goddamn thing, they haven’t kept anyone from leaving.

Her soulmate, whoever the hell they are, has never bothered to show up and she’s long since stopped looking.

Swallowing down her feelings, Osha forces herself to focus through her discontentment, she sees a woman selling scarves at the side of the street and remembers her mission. Mae is alive, the focus of so much of her rage and hatred and love, Mae is alive and Osha has to stop her.

Fumbling with her credits, Osha swaps a handful for a length of dark wool, looping it around her neck in the way her sister has been seen wearing. She straightens her back beneath it, trying to carry herself like she imagines Mae would as she eyes up her destination.

She can do this, even if she’s not a Jedi anymore she can still do her best to save them. For Sol and his endless hope, for Kelnecca and his kindness to her, for Indara and Torbin who saved her even though she couldn’t save them.

Squeezing her hands tightly at her sides she strides towards the apothecary, the noise of the street fading as she ducks between the blast doors.

The shop is small, cluttered, the air heavy with a mix of herbs and extracts, sweet and earthy and almost nostalgic. The man she’s here to interrogate is slumped against the wall behind the counter, he’s youngish and scruffy looking with magnifying lenses covering half his face and a pale bloom cupped in his hand.

Clearing her throat she begins her ruse, “Hello?”

The stranger glances up with a smile and a wave, a brief noise of surprise followed by a cheery, “Hello..”

His voice is pleasant if unremarkable, and the fact he’s just repeated her word only makes her heart jump for a single beat, and only because she was just thinking about it. If anything it reminds her just how stupid the Force was to give her ‘Hello’ in the first place, the words are supposed to ensure she doesn’t miss her fated match and yet, for all the dozens upon dozens of times she’s been given that first hello, nothing ever changes.

He glances back at the plant again and she determines this particular stranger isn’t any different, the disappointment now a mild throb rather than the aching pain it had been a few years ago. He isn’t a good candidate anyway, not if he’s supplying poison to her murderous sister.

“Hi,” she says after an awkward pause where she tries to find her footing, the mission had sounded so simple when Jecki suggested it but now she’s here, sweating under the coarse wool of her new cloak, she can’t seem to wrap her tongue around the right words.

How does one successfully pretend to be the Jedi-killing assassin twin they’ve believed to be dead for 16 years?

“Hi?” he repeats, almost a question as his attention fixes on the flower again for a long moment before, with a blink and a shake of his head, he perks up, “hi!”

Kicking away from the wall he pulls the goggles off, casting the plant aside as he fixes her properly with his attention at last.

—-

The word has been there as long as he remembers, too long perhaps, a simple thing in a delicate, sloping hand. It is his only constant, the only thing that remains even as he changes names and identities like other people change clothes. It is his secret, his comfort, a tether to the world when all else fails and the universe threatens to crush in on him completely.

Hello.

A greeting, a start, a reminder that - no matter how long it feels like he’s waited - it won’t be forever. His match is promised, destined, waiting for him somewhere out there in the reaches of space and time. It doesn’t matter how many would-be pupils fail him, he knows she won’t.

His perfect partner.

His soul mate.

Her.

“Hello.”

It takes all his years of training to keep his eyes on the bud in his hands and his body where it stands, going through the motions of the charade even as something inside of him swells. Hundreds of people have said it to him before, maybe thousands in his too-long life, but not like this, not like she does.

The woman’s voice forms the slants and shapes of the handwriting over his heart perfectly, her presence filling his head like the smell of ozone after the rain. And, when he finally allows himself to look at her properly, fully, he finds it impossible to look away.

She’s magnificent.

She looks like Mae, structurally at least, but she’s not her, there could never be any mistaking that. She wears her face in a completely different way, all wide eyes and expressive lips, and the Force… it moves around her like nothing he’s ever seen before. It’s like a shoal of fish, a mass of living, breathing energy that twists and turns and follows her every breath. It’s as drawn to her as he is.

“You alright?” He makes himself ask, placing the goggles aside with a silly flourish and a distracted fumble, his hands are unforgivably clumsy, suddenly out of sync with the rest of him as he rounds the counter, “you’re back so early?”

Not-Mae’s throat moves as she swallows. Osha, his mind supplies to him as he follows the movement, this is Osha, the dead twin… only, not so dead it seems. Very much alive in fact. Thank the stars.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, her chin held up imperiously even as something in her eyes wavers.

I wanted to see you too, he thinks with a pang of yearning so deep it makes his bones ache, for so very very long…

Outwardly however he only allows a fraction of his surprise to register on his face, pointing to himself in confusion, “see me? Oh…”

His eyes dance over her again, thinking how easy it would be to snatch her away right here and now. A twist of his powers, a few shortcuts, and they could be out of the city before anyone even realized, somewhere far away where they can do this properly. Like they were supposed to.

He doesn’t of course, not just because she doesn’t seem to have realized the importance of their meeting yet, but also because there is the looming presence of the Jedi she’s brought with her waiting in the wings. They’re somewhere just beyond the perimeter of the shop and, he’s pretty sure, they’re listening. Which is really very annoying.

Still, eons have passed in the time he’s waited to meet her, he’s confident he can keep himself together for a little longer. Just a little though. Just long enough to play this game out to its conclusion then… well, then the galaxy is their oyster.

“Uh Mae…” the name sounds wrong as he says it but he reads the flicker of pride in her eyes just the same, so pleased with herself for her little deception, “are you ok? Did the poison work? Wait…”

He tilts his head, tasting his teeth with his tongue as he approaches again, voice dropping as he feels her excitement warring with her anxiety. Such a beautiful contradiction, “you killed Torbin without the poison… he will be so pleased.”

And he is pleased. So very pleased. He’s so close to her now they’re sharing oxygen, his eyes flickering over her again without his permission - wondering where beneath her layers his handwriting sits, is it over her heart? Her arms? Her stomach? Her thighs? His fingers flex, palms itching with the urge to touch her, to search it out himself right here and now.

Patience, he snaps at himself as he finds her eyes again, deep, true brown and fixed on him,

where they belong. Where she belongs.

“No, I used it,” she says, her outward confidence barely masking the waver in her emotions, how uncertain she’s become as he prowls towards her, crowding her space, “I just… wanted to thank you.”

He has to stop himself from imaging all the ways she might choose to thank him, she’s still pretending after all. Pretending in a way that makes it clear she hasn’t seen her sister in a very long time, Mae is many things - stubborn, stoic, fierce, strong, fickle - but grateful is not one of them. Desirable isn’t either, at least not to him, Osha however…

He bites his lip, moving closer before he can stop himself as he draws the charade to an end at last.

“You look exactly like her,” it’s almost a lie, for all their cosmetic similarities Osha is a different creature entirely, his eyes feasting on her without restraint as he presses into her space.

For a moment she lets him, lets him crowd her, lets him breathe her, her eyes wide as he considers if she’ll let him kiss her too, let him…

She jerks back, breaking the spell as she raises her blaster towards him and the Jedi flood in, leaving him to fall back into his bumbling persona. He raises his hands, all clumsy innocence as he picks up the game again, plays his moves like he had always planned, but his eyes never leave her - not for long anyway.

Everything has changed now.

[steviebbboi]

Napoleon solo cream pie professor trope please thanks

Hello again nonnie! Hope you enjoy the second drabble for our lovely Napoleon <3 Thank you again for participating in my 200 Follower Writing Challenge it means the world! Now, on to the show 'class'!

Pairing: FakeProfessor!Napoleon Solo x Student!Reader

W/C: 1.9k

Prompt(s): Professor AU, creampie

*Napoleon is undercover! Peep the alias name 👀

*also included/TW: MINORS DNI; THIS IS 18+, p in v sex, assumed foreplay, forbidden aspect to relationship, inappropriate relationship between professor/student, reader is in her early 20's, napoleon is undercover/fake identity.

This took a different, and more romantic, turn than I thought that it would lol. Some intense/serious fluff goin' on btwn these two, and tbh, I'm kinda here for it.

One Foot Forward

A muted voice could be heard as you crept closer to Professor Walker’s office. You frowned as the voice became louder in tone, it sounded like he was scolding someone.

“Listen, Peril. It’s not long now that I’ll have what we came for. I’d appreciate a little faith if you could find that in you somewhere in that body of yours.” 

“Peril? Who could that be?” You thought with a frown. You couldn’t hear the response of the person on the other line but you figured they must be a real heap for the professor to respond in such a way.

Instantly feeling guilty, you straightened up and knocked on the door twice and called out, “Professor Walker? Are you busy?”

You heard him hastily rush a goodbye and heard a casual “come in.” Hearing the permission, you entered the room and immediately flushed at the first sight of him sitting at his desk.

Professor August Walker. He’s a real looker for a college professor. When you decided to take Linguistics 101, you definitely didn’t expect for the Professor to be such a distraction. Once news got around campus about the new hot professor who spoke different tongues of what appeals to a woman’s heart, it seemed like only female students came to take the course. 

You really tried to not embarrass yourself like the other girls were (you could hear half of them giggle and swoon in every class), but he was just so handsome. A strong chin defined his angular face, his features cunningly charming enough where a small smirk looked like his natural resting expression. The man didn’t have a fleck nor did he have a blemish on his smooth and cut jawline. A true tall, dark and handsome kinda guy. 

You never questioned his teaching methods, nor did you question his style (even if he would wink at some of the swooning girls or when he would be naturally flirty with some of them if they asked a question). Was it inappropriate? Absolutely. But instead of feeling indignant about it actually happening, you were more upset with the fact that he gave you a D- on the last quiz. 

You were just slightly bitter that his attention was on the other students. They were throwing themselves onto him, sure, but you? You never dared to cross that line, even if he went there first (whether it was a wink or a cunning smile that would make the other girls become frantic). Every flirty attempt, you flushed and brushed it off because you were trying to be a good student. 

You were majoring in linguistics to travel abroad and took him, and his class seriously – overlooked all of these immature discrepancies. So, here you were, actually trying, and he gave you a D-?! 

That’s why you decided to go to his office hours to seriously ask him what he was thinking with this grade. Looking the test over, you could see that the answers that were marked incorrectly were actually right. Unsure of his intentions surrounding the marking of his grades, you decided to find out exactly what his problem was. 

You explained your plight to the professor now as you sat across his desk. You tried to gauge the facial expressions that he was giving you, an eyebrow quirk here, a twitch of a smirk there. Confusion bloomed as a headache as you watched his reactive ‘non-reactions’.

After he lets out a lasting hum of what sounded like curiosity, you couldn’t hold back your scoff. 

Now, that, he had an actual reaction towards.

“Is there another problem, Miss…?” Professor Walker pondered with his perfectly plucked eyebrow raised again.

A pause filled the space for a brief moment as you realized that he forgot your name. You exclaimed your name at him with wide eyes filled with an outraged disbelief. You couldn’t hold back the following words, “What kind of a professor are you?! First, you marked my correct answers wrongfully. Second, you forget one of your students’ names! I understand that you may be taken aback that you have a student who finally doesn’t swoon over your every breath, but that doesn’t mean that you get to treat me this unfairly!” 

You sat back in your chair in a huff as you tried to desperately catch your breath. His silence was palpable as he just sat there with his hands crossed on the desk. As the wind in your breath came back to you, you felt yourself flush again but this time, in embarrassment and shame. 

You just yelled at your professor– you definitely were going to fail the class now. 

Your eyes gravitated towards the cracked tile on the floor as you panicked on what to say, how to apologize for your outburst. But then he said your name so softly that it made you raise your head with regret.

“You’re right. I did mark your answers incorrectly and I do notice that you don’t swoon over me like the other students in class. I have treated you unfairly, and I’m sorry.” He said, his tone casually filled with a mystery of elusiveness despite the explicitness of his words.

“But I didn’t, in fact, forget your name.” 

You squinted over at him suspiciously, any traces of shame or guilt gone from your chest. “Then, what happened just now?”

He cleared his throat as he looked down at his paper covered wooden desk before getting up from his desk chair to straighten his pristine and pressed suit. His veiny hands, that looked uncharacteristically calloused for a professor, were tucked into his trousers in a way that made him look even more charmingly intimidating. He leaned on the desk in front of you now, the proximity of his position allowed you to inhale the intoxicating scent of his cologne. 

“I attempted to cover up my ridiculous cover since I know that I’d never be able to see you again after this.” He responded derisively, almost to himself.

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you tried to dissect the meaning behind his words, only coming up empty handed. Your breath stilted suddenly and the confusion melted into a shy desire as he reached out to tuck a wayward hair behind your ear.

“Tried to make it seem like I didn’t know you, to tempt me less,” he continued as he caressed your cheek. He abruptly chuckled, “but you scolding me, losing your temper, that lovely flush on that radiant complexion drives me crazy.” 

His gaze and touch titled down your neck sensually. In an unconscious daze just at his touch, your head moved with his touch to give him access to your supple and exposed skin. It was only a hint of skin showing between the strap of your dress and your cardigan, but as he stroked it, it felt so forbidden and daring. 

Before you realized, his face was leaning into yours. Any thoughts about what was happening completely escaped you as his lips touched yours. All you could think was that his lips were so soft. You whimpered into his mouth as his tongue expertly caressed yours languidly. 

Next thing you knew, he was carrying you over to the loveseat by the window and you were moaning on top of him with him already inside you. His lips were kissing and sucking along the same spots that his fingers innocently traced earlier in a manner that was far from innocent, but still so devoting. 

Napoleon Solo was a doting lover. Your pleasure was his pleasure. Usually, he’d take his time. But with you, he was more feral. Greedy. Because he knew that if he couldn’t have you, then he’d ruin you.

Your moans started to echo in the small office space as he started grinding into you as you bounced on his cock, which prompted Napoleon to brush a rough hand over your swollen lips to reluctantly muffle your sounds of pleasure. 

“Shhh, be good for me, my little secret.” He muttered into your ear with his own strained groans escaping his lips. His eyes rolled back as he allowed you to grind down on him even deeper as he relaxed his body on the back of the couch. Taking control was his usual forte, naturally. Even sometimes, a role. But with you, in this moment, he didn’t have to be. 

He would allow himself this one luxury of authenticity as everything else in his life was a well-told lie. 

“Professor, please.” You whined against his palm and licked it in wanton desperation. You clenched tighter around his girthy cock and he grunted into your neck as the sensation. 

“Fuck, gripping me so tight. You’re my good little student, aren’t you?” He moaned against your ear once more as he nipped at your earlobe seductively. The hand that wasn’t groping at your curvaceous hips stroked along your skin and in between your tightly-pressed bodies to circle your swollen clit.

“Yes, I’ll be a good student for you, Professor! Please let me cum, please!” You gasped into his mouth as he pulled you in for another forbidden kiss. He started to thrust into you wildly at hearing the eagerness in your voice, his caresses on your bundle of nerves rubbing faster.

You cried out your ecstasy as you felt that knot in your tummy unravel so deliciously. The combination of his grunts in your ear, your clit being stimulated as he drove his fat cock into your wet pussy was just too much to comprehend at once. You couldn’t believe a man as beautiful as he would even want you, would desire you. The way that you were the one to unravel him beyond what others perceived. It was the danger of getting caught that finally drove you to the edge.

Cumming around his cock that was still driving into you deep and slow, your whole body intensely shook as your orgasm seemed to last long enough for Napoleon to loudly groan out his own release against your open lips. 

The feeling of your Professor’s cock throbbing out his spend inside of you felt oddly filling, you bit your lip at the pleasure-filled sensation. Napoleon felt your pussy clench around him one more time and he captured your bottom lip into his own nip as he licked into your panting mouth. The taste of you was too intoxicating, and he wanted this moment to last. 

You left his office with a kiss filled with longing and a promise to see him at the next class. But he didn’t show up for the next class. He was out sick, the office reported. You waited anxiously, no other way to contact him. By the following week though, they replaced him with a new professor. 

You had no idea that that would be the last of your romance with the spy. Never found out the reasons behind his words or his sudden departure. You ended up graduating with your degree and traveling the world. 

The spy never forgot about you though as he fulfilled his mission. Never forgot how captivated he was by you. He glanced over his newspaper at you as you sat at the little cafe overlooking the Seine. Seeing you so confident and flitting about Paris filled him with an unconscious delight. 

The passion filled experience in his fake office shined over his mind once more as he placed one foot forward towards you.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading this weird-subtle angst Napoleon. I know his character in the movie is depicted to be quite mischievous and daring, but I thought it would be a cool spin to the inner conflicts that a spy would probs feel under the mask.

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[the-virgoperspective]

Part 1

Hello all! I just wanted to share what I have been learning while reading up on composite charts. The composite chart is a very interesting and helpful tool to show one what a relationship looks like with themselves and another person. The composite chart is casted by using the midpoint of each planet from each individual natal chart and creating a completely new chart for the individuals as one. This method can apply for just two people or multiple people. For a better understanding of midpoints in astrology, please click here.

In this post, I will be using the writings of Robert Hand, from his novel “Planets in Composite: Analyzing Human Relations” to explain the meaning and significance of each house in the composite chart. Please always keep in mind that this is only one vital step to reading an entire composite chart and should not be seriously considered without viewing everything as a whole. This is just one piece. Enjoy!

The Composite 1H

The first house of the composite chart is one of the angular houses, which gives greater significance to any planet that is in it. Beyond that, however, the first house is the persona of a relationship and indicates the kind of impression it will make on its surroundings and how it will be viewed by others. It tells to what extent a couple will be regarded as a unit in their own right rather than as two separate individuals. The first house resembles the tenth somewhat, but there is an important difference, in that the tenth represents the reality of what the relationship is to the outer world. The first house describes the impression the relationship gives rather than what it really is. A strong first house can be an indication of a relationship that is all show and no substance. The tenth more clearly indicates substance, at least from the standpoint of social significance. Nevertheless, a strong first house is usually a sign of a significant relationship that will have a great impact on the lives of those involved.

The Composite 2H

The second house of the composite chart refers to values-what the two people value, and their relationship to what is valued. This can operate on two different planes. The second house can indicate the role that value-systems play in forming the relationship, that is, to what extent people come together because they value similar things or ideas. If the second house contains difficult aspects, particularly ones involving Pluto and Mars, disagreements over values may be a major source of conflict within the relationship. Similarly, positive aspects indicate that the couple has compatible values, which helps to bind the relationship together.

On another plane, clearly related to the first, the composite second house refers to whatever finances and property there may be in the relationship.

The Composite 3H

The composite third house has essentially the same meanings as the third house in a conventional birth chart: communication, mind, routine day-to-day environment, and relatives. In the composite chart the communications aspect is especially important. If the people in a relationship cannot communicate, they are in real trouble. Very often in a close personal relationship, each partner expects the other to understand them on some deep, intuitive level that does not involve words. When the couple discovers that this deep understanding does not exist, they are most upset and hurt. An afflicted third house usually indicates lack of communication in some way. This should be watched for.

A relationship with a strong third house usually comes about because of mental affinity. The two people are fond of talking with each other and exchanging ideas. Their only real problem arises in a close personal relationship, for mental exchange may become a substitute for a much-needed deep emotional exchange. Otherwise, a third-house relationship is perfectly fine.

The Composite 4H

The fourth house represents more than the home, especially in the composite chart. Many relationships have nothing that could be called a home, and yet the fourth house remains important.

First of all, it is one of the angular houses, which gives it added significance. But more fundamentally, the fourth house indicates the basic roots of a relationship-both literally, in geographic terms, and figuratively, in terms of mental and emotional background. The fourth house signifies the innermost depths of a relationship, which may be so far within as to be invisible at the surface.

The fourth house should be checked to see if there is an underlying compatibility between two people. Do they have compatible backgrounds in the senses just described, and are their basic emotional and psychological characteristics compatible?

A composite chart with a strong fourth house usually indicates that the two people share their innermost lives and that they probably share their actual place of residence.

The Composite 5H

The fifth house in the composite chart has many of the same meanings that it has in a conventional chart-love affairs, children (where this is appropriate), creativity, self-expression, and so forth. The interpretation of self-expression, however, is especially critical in a composite chart.

The composite fifth house represents, first of all, to what extent the relationship provides a setting for the individuals to be themselves in the most genuine and honest way possible. The fifth house signifies the ability of the individuals to be real in each other’s presence, which is not always easy. And being real should not be an effort. An ideal relationship allows each person to be real and to feel that it is easy to do so. When the fifth house operates smoothly, it is easy to enjoy oneself with the other without feeling that something unnatural is expected. A badly aspected fifth house, on the other hand, indicates the opposite.

In a fifth house relationship a couple is not together to form a team or partnership, but because they enjoy being themselves in each other’s company and because they enjoy each other. For this reason, this is the house of love affairs and of friendships (which are also ruled by the eleventh house). The staying power needed for a marriage or other long-term partnership may not be provided by a purely fifth-house relationship.

The Composite 6H

The composite sixth house can signify real obstacles to a satisfactory personal relationship. Somewhat like the sixth house of a conventional horoscope, it refers to the duties and responsibilities that the relationship must fulfill. Of course, all relationships have obligations, and in most cases they are not likely to be harmful. Duties become a problem only when they are the major element of a relationship, with no room for necessary self-expression as ruled by the fifth house. In a business relationship this is not a great problem; there are tasks to be done and obligations to be met. Only if the circumstances call for work to be done does a strong sixth house become an advantage. To make good use of these energies requires that the two people approach even a personal relationship from a strong sense of personal duty.

Health, the other traditional meaning of the sixth house, seems to have little relevance to a composite chart, except as it may indicate a business or professional relationship relating to health.

part 2

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[just-some-random-blogger]

So I have a request for our dream lord Morpheus. What if he couldn’t just travel so easily to hell, he had to find a way in and thankfully there was an Egyptian goddess, Sekhmet (reader) who had knowledge of every passage way into hell, heaven, Olympus, you name it because of her powers. Her connections and ties to other worlds made her well known to the endless family. Though morpheus had heard of her he never met her. I’m hoping he gets a shock from meeting her for the first time only to find she is EXTREMELY flirty and up front. Maybe (if ur compfortable) make this a smut where she demands sensual compensation in exchange for his journey?👀👀

Gorgon

Dream of the Endless x Goddess!Reader

Summary: In which Dream has to make your ex jealous in return for being his chaperone to hell.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: fem!reader, she is refered to as sekhmet a few times, spicy!reader, dream sweatin, typos, etc.

A/N: HELLO MY LOVE T_T this is such a long time coming, but i find myself unable to write T_T I changed a lot with your request, cos it kind of spiraled out of control, IDEK WHY I WANTED TO ADD MEDUSA SO BADLY BUT I DID AND 🧍‍♀️i cant remember why. but yn is still very much flirty hope you like it and that it was worth the wait RIP. also are you aware that there is a similar goddess bast x dream is canon !?! or i guess canon enough LOL never know with that dude Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9

"It's simple really," I look at my gold painted, pointed nails, "I get to hold you, touch you, and kiss you as I see fit upon meeting her. And if she asks questions, then I will answer accordingly to my intentions."

I watch as the Endless before me stares at me blankly. His angular face barely contorts as he speaks, "and you would deceive the gorgon using me?"

I shrug from the cushion I was sprawled on eating grapes, "am I the goddess of honesty?"

Lord Morpheus sighs, finding it would be pointless to respond to that.

I sigh and stand from my spot, walking over to the dark figure, reaching out for his cheeks. I speak in an ancient tongue, long since dead and forgotten, "would you rather pay a hefty tribute to Charon or risk trespassing in the Lighbringer's domain?"

The Dream King looks at me, eyes sparkling through its pitch black, "I feel that this entire predicament is a ploy."

I shrug, "well, it is."

"One of my sibling, Desire," he clarifies.

I get to my tiptoes, bringing my face closer to his, "wanting to kiss you has nothing to do with any of your siblings."

He places his hand on mine, "but it has something to do with your former lover." He pushes me away, making me huff and cross my arms. Dream paces about for a while.

I raise my brows as I watch him, "well?"

He releases a breath, "very well, Sekhmet. I will play your game."

I grin and jump towards him, throwing my arms over his shoulders, "a wise choice, dearest Dream."

And so it was. I would take him to hell and he would accompany me to a feast held by the spirits of the forest that still honored gods and goddesses. My former lover was there to pay homage to her patron and I rolled my eyes at the sight of her.

I knew I should have waited for Dream to arrive, but I could not help myself. I go to the banquet table, near proximity to the being I meant to ire.

I take an olive and eat it, eyeing the serpentine woman speaking to Athena. I watch her for a few moments, finding even the smallest things about her irritating. I end up rolling my eyes and deciding to go off and dance.

"Sekhmet."

I still, unsure of whether I should turn or not. I find I do not have to decide as she comes in front of me. She was as beautiful as she was before. I raise my brow, "gorgon."

She lets out a dry chuckle, crossing her arms as she did so, "will you no longer even address me by name?"

I hold back an eye roll and hiss, "Medusa."

She places a hand on her chest, "goddess of war."

I scoff and eye Athena, who was speaking to her brother, "you cannot pay homage to me and her."

"I am merely paying my respects," says Medusa, "I wish there to be no ill will between us."

"I assure you, that is impossible for I do not even think of you, old flame," I retort as-a-matter-of-factly, "and besides. I have since replaced you with another beauty."

Medusa falters for a second, but then scoffs, "oh, I pity the mortal that has to worship your feet."

I laugh, "mortality has proven dull to me. I have met someone who can match the adoration I require."

Her face contorts. She tightens her arms around her when she realizes what I mean. Clearly, she is in disbelief. She is tempted to say it will not last because gods and gods always end up fighting for tributes. She does not however.

"Oh, look," I grin, "there he is now."

Medusa and I turn to the incoming darkness-clad figure. He is dressed in a toga of deep blues and violets. The sun makes his ivory skin glisten. Dream of the Endless nods in regard to both of us, "Sekhmet. Medusa."

"My love!" I croon as I reach to him. I lean into his chest, wrapping my arms around him, "I have missed you so."

Dream turns to me. He takes a moment to respond, "I have thought about you much since you have left me."

I nearly laugh at his response, a pretty good job at avoiding lying whilst still keeping up appearances.

My palm rubs across his chest, "good to know."

I feel Dream tense.

Medusa cuts through the building tension, "Lord Morpheus," she bows, "I am honored by your presence."

Dream turns to her, "I hope I am not intr-" his words go silent as my hand slips under his clothes. He blinks as he looks down upon me. He speaks lowly, "I... do not think this appropriate..."

I make a face and shrug, "she's seen me do worse."

Medusa clears her throat, "I shall take my le-"

"Nonsense," I turn to her, resting my head on Dream's chest, "we have much to speak about."

She scoffs at this, brows raising, "we do?"

I hum and smile, "yes."

She crosses her arms, "like what?"

"Well," I nod, "would you like for me to return all the statues you made for me, or shall have Dream destroy them?" I grin as I turn back to the said being, "I need all the space for the stars he wishes to give me."

I nearly burst in excitement when I hear Medusa stifle a sound.

I brush Dream's cheek with my thumb, "did she say something, dearest?"

Dream's face is hard but I feel it grow warm against my touch, "... I do not think so."

I sigh through my mouth as my eyes dart from his glimmering eyes to his pouty lips, "you're so beautiful. Truly Dream incarnate."

I feel him breathe out slowly. The hot air from his lungs that hits my face make my belly swirl. I add, "it is no wonder many come to your realm oft. I would go to a great length for but a second's glance of your face."

"I-"

"Of course you would be much more beautiful if I had you bound and bruised beneath me. -"

The sound of shuffling cuts me off. I watch as Medusa slithers away. My grin magnifies. I pull away from Dream and reach out to her, "oh, give me another moment. I haven't asked about the snak-"

I am unable to chase after her as my arm is snatched. I turn back and look at Lord Morpheus. His face is stoic, his grip is firm.

"I have her wrapped around my finger," I mutter, "I really-"

"You would bind and bruise me?" he rebuffs.

I take a moment to respond. I suppress the mischievous expression that wants to spread across my features. I hum and step closer to him. I rake my nails up his neck and hum in agreement, "hmm, and make you beg."

"I do not-"

His words are stifled when I lean into him and brush my nose against his neck. I continue for him, "don't like that?"

Dream does not respond.

"I could make you like it," I whisper hotly and swipe my tongue on his skin.

He shudders before he steps back with a clenched jaw. I smirk back at him, but morph into a pout, "was that too much, my dear?"

"I-" he starts but then corrects himself, "-the gorgon is no longer pres-"

His words go dry when I lessen the space between us again. I feign innocence, "so what?"

Dream pulls his head back, "I-" he clears his throat, "I do not think this appropriate."

I chuckle and place my hands behind my back, "I think you might find it fun though."

I lick my lips as I give him a look.

I watch him gulp.

"After all, you stopped me from following after Medusa," I fiddle with his collar, "it's the least you could do for me."

[awingedinsect]

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 7

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Strong allusions to/descriptions of to Self h@rm. bl00d, swearing, general 18+ content but nothing way too explicit this chapter. Some slightly fluffy vibes as a break from all the shit because my boy has been through it.

“Have you forgotten, my Vessel?”

“No.”

“Does it tempt you? The light?”

“Not as such. The light hurts my eyes, and there is no music in it. I cannot be somewhere where music is not.”

“You do well. Stay in the dark, my pretty voice. And wait for my words.”

“Yes…”

It’s not a dream. But at the same time, he’s not awake. He’s locked in the space between his mind and his eyelids; a dark place where he can’t move or think beyond the words coming out of his mouth, words that don’t even feel like his own. And yet here there’s a strange sort of peace here; a foreign, fearless, silence of his thoughts. He knows his purpose when he’s here.

“Yes…” his lips form the word over and over. He’s glad he’s finally found the point of having his mouth; to create the word and know that in this void, he is approved of because of it.

Suddenly there’s eyes in the dark. They’re blue as glaciers and round as planets and for a second he feels his Eden being invaded. Then the vision suddenly vanishes, and in its place is sunlight.

And a headache.

A splitting, horrible headache.

He blinks a few times to get the world into focus, and suddenly realizes that someone is standing directly over him. He barely has a second to process the enormous blue eyes blinking down at him before the person turns their head and yells out of the room, “guys! He’s wakin’ up, guys!”

It’s the drunk drummer he met at the bar.

Vessel tenses, fingers clawing the blanket now half on the floor and pulling it up over his bandaged chest. He’s still blinking, trying to figure out if last night's events were real and, if so, where the hell he is, when a second person comes into the room. He looks more put together than anyone he’s seen so far, leaning against the doorframe with a calmly curious look on his face. He eyes Vessel slowly, smiling politely when their eyes meet.

“Goodmorning.” He says.

Vessel is starting to feel enormous sympathy for every bug he’s ever uncovered and examined when flipping over garden stones.

There’s dusty sunlight pouring in through the window frames, bathing both him and the tiny living room/music room/three men live here and it shows room. And the big blue eyes of the drummer are still on him, hovering about two feet away and waiting patiently for him to do something.

“Hello.” Is what he manages.

“Damn, you’re a bit busted huh mate?” The drummer says, eyes sympathetic now as he swipes his unruly hair. “Not great.”

“No, not great.” Vessel has to agree. He still hasn’t moved. “Um, II, right?”

The drummer smiles. “Nice memory! Good on you, man. IV, come introduce yourself.”

the guitarist shrugs off of the doorframe, wandering over casually and nodding down at the man on the couch.

“IV.” He says.

Vessel nods awkwardly, trying not to stare at the very noticeable sling around his shoulder. But the guitarist obviously notices his inner turmoil, because he instantly waves him off. “aye, I’ve got a break from practice for a few weeks, I’m grateful. If III tries to blame you though tell him he’s crazy, it was my clumsy ass.”

Before Vessel can reply, another voice fills the room.

“Don’t try and make him feel better.”

All eyes suddenly turn to the doorway, where a now familiar figure is standing, messy hair pulled back in a knot and an enormous steaming mug in his hand. His robe hangs loose off his angular frame.

He just hovers there, eyeing the space between II and Vessel like at any moment the caffeine might kick in and he’ll jump for it; ready to tear the half-living singer a new one if given any reason. Vessel takes the warning and doesn’t so much as breathe too deeply.

Meanwhile, II sits down beside him without a fear in the world.

“Sorry you had to put up with III as a nurse.” He laughs, folding his hands in his lap. “One time I tripped on the step and sprained my damn ankle, and he had to carry me bridal-style back inside. Grumbled the whole way, then just fucking dumped me here too.” He gestures at the sofa and the man currently trying to shrink himself on it, a laugh still on his lips. He glanced back at III. “didn’t even make me soup.”

“I can’t fucking make soup.” The bassist says, gripping his mug with ring-decorated fingers- a few of the stones Vessel recognizes, some of the fatter rocks and symbols he doesn’t- and taking a long swig. “And if you didn’t get soup, there’s no way he is. We’ll probably have the cops beating down the door any fucking second looking for his busted ass.” He glares at Vessel, making eye contact sharp enough to cut new stripes into his skin. “Time to head out, bruv.”

A sudden flush of embarrassment climbs up Vessel’s chest, turning his bloodless cheeks pink as he blinks back. He feels practically naked right now; wearing his emotions on his face and a pair of baggy black sweatpants low on his hips. And the increasing certainly that he’s incapable of walking doesn’t exactly make him feel safe right now, either. Who are these people? Why are they held up in a cabin in the woods, and how much goddam witchcraft have they been doing up here? For all he knows, they could be in league with Venus. Is the voice in his head something they conjured up?

Silence!

The command rips through his brains like a bullet. He winces, scrunching his eyes as a gasp leaves his mouth. A gentle hand grabs his shoulder.

“Hey, you alright mate?” II asks, eyes searching his miserable face.

“He’s not going anywhere.” IV says, blinking down at the sight. He turns back to III, who himself even looks a little concerned at the way Vessel is shaking.

“He’s got no strength in him, man. I’m gonna make some fuckin breakfast, then we can talk.”

The guitarist walks past his friend in the doorway, sliding into what must be the kitchen.

“Fine.” III says, passing his mug between his two hands and tapping painted nails on the porcelain. “But if the cops show, one of you two is answering the fuckin door.”

And just like that he leaves, turning back down the hallway and closing himself up in the same bedroom he’d got the sweatpants from.

“Don’t worry about it, man.” II says, trying to look understanding as the trembles in Vessel’s shoulders settle and he gathers his breath, blinking his eyes back open to the world. “Whatever happened to you, you can tell us or not. ‘Matters is, you’re fine now, eh? IVy’s gonna cook something up, then you can just hang around long as you need. Make some music.”

The idea of singing feels like it hasn’t crossed his mind in millennia, much less doing it for them. But there’s a strange comfort in the way the drummer looks at him with those big, soft blue eyes.

He manages a grin, and nods.

Meanwhile pots are starting to clang in the next room, the smell of eggs wafting into the dusty parlor like a sign from god.

• • •

He remembers the feel of the carpet beneath his feet. The way his shoulder collapsed against the wall, rattling the picture frames smiling down at him.

“…m,mom?”

He remembers clutching his wrist, seeing double as something seeped dark and thick from between his fingers. He didn’t mean for there to be that much.

“M…mom!”

Her silhouette filled the end of the hallway, casting a shadow down to him. Her face went white as a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” She demanded, hurrying to him. She wrenched his arm off of his chest, a horrified gasp leaving her lips.

“Jesus Christ, how did that happen? Did you do this on purpose?!”

“It was an accident.”

“You’re fucking thirteen. You know not to play with knives, fucking hell…”

“I’m sorry.” He sobbed. His heart was gonna beat out of his chest. He was dying.

Her hands felt cold on him, prying at his fingers around the warm blood to get a better look.

“Get into the bathroom right now.” She ordered. She sounded like she might cry too, but not now- she always did her crying later.

“And stop crying.” She said, ushering him down the hallway. “You’re gonna wake up your sister.”

“I’ll do it.” II says, reaching an arm across Vessel. IV takes the salt shaker from his friend's hand and nods his thanks.

Vessel shakes from the daydream, shoving his arms underneath the table. The sleeves of II’s hoodie barely go past his wrists.

“Huh?”

“That bandage coming loose on your head?” III asks, picking at his steaming pile of eggs and toast. “IV was talking to ya.”

“Sorry.” He says, reaching for his own fork. The sleeve slides up his arm again and he tugs it back down with an age-old instinct, trying to politely search for a bite.

“What was that?”

“Just asking for the salt.” IV says, trying to smile at him. Though the thing comes out looking pretty full of pity. “Hey, how’re you feeling now, mate?”

Truthfully, he feels like he might throw up any minute. But at least the imminent threat of passing out seems gone.

“I could use a cup of tea.”

III’s face seems fixed in a permanent look of distaste, but he doesn’t say anything as II jumps up from the little round table and heads to the counter, filling the kettle from the tap. “Oh, fucking me too!” he says, bringing that same endearing enthusiasm into every word he says. Vessel’s heart flutters a bit at the man’s eagerness; when was the last time someone made him tea?

“Pick your poison, Vess.” He says, turning on the stove and reaching for a little decorated box beside the sink. “We’ve got Earl Grey, English Breakfast… and this funky Jasmine Rose one III got. Tastes a bit ass, honestly. Not good with milk and sugar.”

III shoves a forkful of eggs into his face and rolls his eyes. “Anyone who needs milk and sugar to enjoy tea doesn’t get a damn opinion.” He’s very blatantly avoiding Vessel’s face now, just glances at IV as II chuckles and pulls out two bags of English breakfast. “IV, you like it don’t you?”

The guitarist just smirks, taking a slow sip of his creamy coffee. His eyelashes flick down to Vessel, who’s currently fumbling with only his third bite of food. “No comment.”

“What?! I thought you liked it, I fully got another fucking box in my bag, man! You were slurping it down the other morning during practice.”

IV shrugs, seemingly content when a fourth bite passes Vessel’s lips. “Felt good on my throat… Still tastes shit.”

“You sing?” Vessel suddenly asks, surprised to hear his own voice. He sits up straighter, casting his eyes to the man beside him.

Suddenly II starts laughing behind III, clinking a lid down on a pretty brown teapot. “not like you, he doesn’t.” He says, eyes twinkling in the steam. “He screams. I swear to god, if we had neighbors they’d be scared shitless. At least the squirrels don’t seem to mind.” He pulls two mugs from the cupboard and sets them down. “I think they’ve made him their banshee leader.”

IV’s laugh is deep and soft, filling the little kitchen with even more warmth than the sunlight streaming in. “I can sing normal, too.” He swipes his hair out of his eyes, taking another sip of his drink. “ jus’ not as fun.”

“Aye, not so loud.” III says. And now his eyes dart to Vessel’s, gluing him down. “We’ve got a soft tenor in the room.”

Vessel’s eyes go a shade darker. He doesn’t peel them off of the bassist across from him.

“I can scream.” He says.

IV seems intrigued, though both he and II seemed fixed on the tension between the singer and bassist. “Oh? You like to fry?”

Vessel swallows. “Sometimes.” He says, breaking eye contact only long enough to take the mug II offers him. He mumbles a thank you.

“But I like it deeper, goes better with my songs.”

“You’ve gotta sing for us at some point, mate.” IV says. “That performance you gave at the bar was something else, but if you’re serious about it, you can’t hold out on us. We could harmonize.”

“Maybe.” Vessel’s eyes go a little wide as II tips a jug of milk into his tea, stirring a mound of white sugar into the mix like a true Englishman.

“Maybe later.” The tea scalds down his throat, but the taste is a comfort all the same. His tongue darts out across his lips and he rolls them awkwardly, uncertain how much longer he can take the eyes of the bassist on him. He forces a chuckle. “Not sure if III would uh, like that.”

“You kidding?” II says, smiling contentedly after a long sip of his nearly completely white tea. “III loved your singing, said it was the best voice he’d ever heard! Your pitch could go so well in a heavier mix, and he was about ready to play a riff for you right then and there when I found him before our show.” He doesn’t seem to notice how red III’s face is turning, instead smiling over at IV, who seems more than amused. “If shit hadn’t gone down on our set, I think III woulda hauled you up on the stage with him in a heartbeat.”

Vessel is speechless. There’s no way III actually liked his voice. Although, there was the healthy gap between his performance and the black eye he received for the man to have had second thoughts on the scrawny kid and his fucked up keyboard. Vessel’s wide eyes go straight to his lap, any and all words escaping him as III turns progressively redder across from him.

“Isn’t that right, III?” The drummer asks, now potentially aware of the effect his words have. He’s grinning too big. “Didn’t you say you wanted to hear him sing with some bass?”

“Bass can level up any performance.” III says, planting his elbows on the table. His hair falls into his face as he looks down to pick at his chipped nail polish. “But it’d be better with an actually good scream.”

“Don’t worry.” Vessel says, something brave stirring in his chest now that he’s got a sudden vantage on the man who’s been pushing him around like a trolly ever since they’ve met.

“I can scream loud enough, for you.”

The imminent silence is interrupted as II chokes violently on his tea.