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fabricated-misslieness · 9 days

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ellie williams x male reader (platonic) jesse x male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ellie comes back to town for resupply and catches up with an old friend

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 781

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, angst, post character death, post Seattle, awkward, very awkward, angst with a hopeful ending, ellie's pov, somewhat vague as to whether it's post santa barbara

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: inspo. don't ask me why both tlou fics have ellie pov

☾⋆☆⋆☽

There he is. Jesse's boyfriend.

It's rude to think of him as just Jesse's boyfriend. He was his own person, after all; but Ellie has reason. She knew Jesse better than him, after all. Jesse was one of her best friends, despite being the main reason she couldn't act on her long-time crush for a good while.

He was admirable, a young patrol-leader, courageous and smart. Most of all, he was loyal. He even followed her to Seattle.

Oh, fucking Seattle.

He looks like him, in a way. Ellie doesn't want to be rude, but their hair...it's the same. It's coarse and greasy, but so is everyone else's. Commercial shampoo isn't a thing twenty years after the collapse of the world and "major capitalism" anyway, but that's not the point.

He does look different. His eyes, his nose, his face is different, his own. But his hair.

It's shorter down the sides, obviously to keep it out of the way, and yet pieces still remain in front, perhaps a fashion statement, a rare sight when survival calls for practicality; perhaps, instead, a simple inevitability. The back remains long, down, unlike Jesse's, past his shoulders, Ellie recalls he used to wear it up more often than down. Before he and Jesse got together, he wore it in neat braids. Afterward, they got messy—maybe tugging from heated sessions, maybe, more probably, Jesse tried braiding it for him.

"Your hair." Ellie finds herself saying, interrupting your words. She wasn't paying attention, it was rude of her, but she can't see anything else.

"My hair?" You look confused, taking a piece in your hand, but then, oh, your hair. "I haven't had time, since..."

Since Seattle, Ellie thinks, but Seattle isn't Seattle to you, it's Jesse's death.

"Right." Ellie leans back, to stand on her heels. Right.

"I've had to, you know, take over patrol organization a bit, plus, um, new duties, yeah?"

"Yeah." She says, again another short response.

Yeah. Jesse handled a lot of patrol organization, alongside Mary, who now has to help Tommy around because of his knee and all, meaning she needs more people to help her; and also Tommy's knee means he can't go on patrol anymore and...it's just such a mess. And since Ellie left too? And Dina's busy with JJ? Three—four people that can't patrol anymore.

I'm sorry, she thinks to say, but she can't.

"You put it up for patrols?" She asks. It's a stupid question, the answer is an obvious yes.

"Yea–" It's a short response, too, awkward. "I meant, I, uh, don't have the time to braid."

She knows it's not true. She knows you at least have time in the mornings, but then maybe you just don't because it reminds you of him. The way his hands felt in your hair, clumsy, sometimes the braids are too tight and awfully angled, or sometimes they're too loose, but it's Jesse, so who cares?

I'm sorry, is yet again on her tongue, but she can't.

"How's–" What was she going to say? What were you saying, before she'd mentioned your hair? Fuck, she doesn't know.

You speak up abruptly, eyes flitting down, then up, "It looks like his, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." She agrees. Just that. What else is there to say? Well, there is... "I'm sorry."

"I know, Ellie." You say. It's simple.

She said it to you once, at the funeral; again, at the wake. A third time last time she came by, a fourth the time after. This might be the fifth, but she can't account for times she's been drunk, or whatever the fuck she was dealing with fresh off the horse from Seattle.

"I–" She wishes to say it again, anyway. She wishes to say more. Jesse loved you. Jesse wouldn't want you to be sad. Jesse...

"I know." You know, of course, she's already told you all of that, you don't even need her to speak her mind to know it. "Listen, I have to..." You gesture vaguely that-a-way.

"Right. Yeah." Ellie nods her head, bounces back on the balls of her feet and backs off.

"I'll see you next time?" You offer, your hands meeting together, intertwining, fingers breaking then holding again; a teeter, a restless thing. Nervous, no, awkward.

"Yeah." Ellie nods her head.

You're off.

But she speaks again, stopping you. "Hey, um!" She clears her throat, her sudden impulsive thought catching up to her, but you've already turned around, and she must finish. "I'll braid your hair? Next time?"

You smile, huff out a breath through your nose, maybe it's amusement, pity towards Ellie's attempt at what, making up? Or maybe it's appreciation. "Yeah. Yeah, sure."

#jesse x reader #jesse x male reader #ellie williams x reader #tlou x reader #tlou x male reader #last of us x reader #last of us x male reader #💞 // darlings #🤬 // swearshirt #🌂 // failure #🎟 // tlou #🎟 // the last of us #🎫 // jesse

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fabricated-misslieness · 17 days

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: johnny silverhand x gn V

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: johnny shouldn't love them the way he does

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 553

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, perhaps poor characterization i don't know

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: inspo Can be read as platonic or romantic

Johnny Silverhand, a world of ice.

He had passion, great passion for what he fought for. He had great passion for women, for the groupies and girls who loved to have his arm slung around their shoulders. He had great passion for his music and his guitars, a great passion for his gun. He had a great passion for his hate of corpos, his hate of Arasaka.

A world of ice.

But what he didn't have passion for, he was nothing to, he was icy cold. Kerry, often in his old age, pushing 100, likes to speak about what a cold asshole he is, no compassion for the shit he hated. His only passion was the hate, a sailor's tongue, he had, spitting his insults.

A world of ice.

It's blue. The holo-TV above him jitters with different ads—he'd have to crane his head to look at it. That's good, he would think. He would, because he's not bored like he always is, buried in consciousness of his Samurai.

A world of ice.

He's strumming the chords of a guitar sprouted from his Samurai's memories, or were they his? The line between the two bled nowadays.

A world of ice.

It's a new thing, that he's strumming, wasn't around in the 2020's. An Us Cracks song he might've picked up during the whole Kerry fiasco, something the almost-centenarian would hate him for. And yet he's playing it like he's played it a million times.

A world of ice.

He's not sitting straight, his leg's on the table, and if he could feel his body and the world around him–the projection of him–he'd feel the ache in his back, and the sticky leather of the couch.

A world of ice.

He, him and his Samurai, is bathed in blue light. LED's are behind him, a bright thing. The holo-TV and the coffee table he's got his boot on and the neon arrow sign by the door, all blue, just like ice, with the exception of the circling red of the donut, or life-saver floaty, beside him. That red light shines on his Samurai.

A world of ice.

He's special. Trillions of people in the world, and Johnny's half sure most of them would've gone crazy with the rockerboy in their head, and entirely sure that none of them would've convinced the rockerboy to take a backseat role; none of them except V.

A world of ice.

He should've hated him. Kerry knows he would've. And yet there's this passion—it burns in his chest, just the same way as sickness does, it makes him feel weak.

A world of ice.

It did make him sick, at first. This warmth, what was it, care? Fuck, he hates it.

A world of ice.

It's really hard to admit.

A world in ice age, the sun shines bright, shining down harshly on tousled dirt; the trees have long since lost their leaves, they cannot cast a shadow on the ground anymore, protect the earth from the harshness of sun.

But ice cracks, and snow eventually thaws, and here's his Samurai, standing in front of it all, the only living thing that has survived the passion of Johnny's hate, and he looks like a God.

A world of cracking ice.

He loves his Samurai, he really does.

#johnny silverhand x v #cyberpunk 2077 fanfiction #what the fuck do i tag #🌸 // success!#💞 // darlings #🎫 // johnny silverhand #🎫 // v #🎫 // johnny #🎟 // cyberpunk 2077 #🤬 // swearshirt

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fabricated-misslieness · 18 days

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: joel miller x male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: how a crush looks like when it's mutual between two old men

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1234 (𓁹󠁘◡𓁹)

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: middle school crush type cliche's, suggested makeout session

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: reader and joel are around the same age, and reader has a collection of records, he also has a beard. written from Ellie's pov. (its unsettling to see pics of joel smiling bc HES NEVER FCKN HAPPY)

☾⋆☆⋆☽

It's silly to see old men acting nervous, especially with Joel around. He's never really nervous, or at least he doesn't show it. What was it, something about life lessons?

Being as old as they are, knees givin' way, calloused hands, joints ain't like they used to be; you've experienced it all. You've experienced that shame of not knowing the answer in math class, tripping over your own feet or misjudging just how slippery freshly mopped floor is; missing a shot, getting nailed in the face by the stock of your own gun, and getting ambushed by a group of clickers. Most of all, you've experienced many rejections.

And yet...it still seems like you're afraid?

That's what Ellie sees, anyway, with the way you look at each other. You're both smiling, it's sweet, sickeningly so, because you're looking down at your own feet and not even seeing those smiles you're sending each other.

"I, uh, 'ppreciate it. Truly." Joel speaks up first, his eyes flitting up from the fresh cup of warm coffee in his hand to your face. Those eyes stay, with courage, on your face, and maybe he doesn't notice that you're not looking up at him because he's admiring you.

"It's, um," Your smile widens, you shake your head, shrug your shoulders lightly like, "it's nothing."

"No, really." Joel puts the cup down. It makes a loud sound in the cricket-silence, thick awkwardness in the room, and it finally brings your eyes up to his. "This-this stuff is real hard to get your hands on 'round here, 'cuz..." He pauses, suddenly self aware of his ramblin'. "well, I'm sure you know why."

You open your mouth, gape for a moment as the words just on your tongue are suddenly replaced by a conscious mind, "Yeah, I know."

Joel picks his cup back up, but he doesn't take a sip. Instead he takes it in both hands, inducing more sweat to slick up his hand for more than one reason now, "How-how'd you get this stuff, anyway?"

"Traded it."

Obviously. Ellie rolls her eyes, How else does one get stuff around here? It dawns on her the second after that killing is the other way.

"What for?" Joel follows up, thumbing at the top edge of the cup, dangerously close to slipping his finger into the dark, scaldingly hot liquid.

There's humor, finally, from your end that eases a bit of the tension. "You do not wanna know."

"I do!" Joel's quick to object, he stands up a little straighter, his smile widens a little more, "I want to know what I owe you." He says it in a way that enunciates each word correctly, like he was serious, and yet the smile on his face is clearly turning his tone rather playful.

"I, well..." You scratch the hairs of your beard, looking away from his eyes nervously, out the kitchen doorway, out the window to the snowing outside. It's clear your intensions teeter on a yes or a no, to tell him or to not, but you stand on what you've previously said, so as to not cause you the trouble of admitting the truth.

Joel places his coffee down again, except it doesn't bring your eyes to his. He scoffs and crosses his arms, shifting his stance in a way that brings him a tiny bit closer to you, and yet he still looks like the standoffish asshole Ellie likes to joke he is. "It can't be that bad."

"It, it is, that bad." You admit on an impulsive thought, which only further feeds his curiosity.

Joel tries at a guess. "What, a gun?"

"Worse."

"Two guns?" He tries again, although on the same object, because to this old man, Ellie thinks, nothing is worse than the slight increase of the possibility that his world's in danger.

"I–" You're teetering, there, again, and Ellie makes a game of guessing what you'll decide. It's a yes this time 'round, she can see it in the way you're beginning to close your eyes, to wince, to prepare for his disappointment. "A record."

"What?!" Joel explodes, almost immediately, because he knows you love those things, that you collect them. You'd give up such a priceless piece of your collection just to give him something he'll consume, something so momentary that it's almost entirely—no, it is not worth it.

"It's–" You open your eyes again, to look at him, moving your hands frantically to ease him. "It's fine, really, a small thing, I barely listen to it."

"You have your records on a cycle, damnit! You put them on a cycle so that you can listen to all of them an equal amount, so nothing goes unappreciated!" It's something so particular, so unnoticeable, that even Ellie didn't know that.

"Joel–"

It's petty, frustratingly so to the spectator, Ellie. It's just a record, and coffee is just coffee; but she's barely sixteen, and she doesn't know the emotional attachments to these things the two of you do.

She doesn't know the bliss Joel finds in coffee, but you do; and she doesn't know the escape that those damn music records are to you, but Joel does.

"I'm sorry." Joel opens his eyes, stops pinching the bridge of his nose. It's an immediate deflation of emotions that Ellie would've liked to laugh at. "That's, a record. It's a lot to you."

"It is," You agree, not downplaying it anymore. Or, well, "it's just–" some low quality band, he stops you with a pointed look.

You look at him, eyes at full attention, accepting defeat and yet the way your eyes...Ellie can see admiration. "You do." And when you say it, it's not in a self-righteous way, but a simple fact.

"I owe you." He says, with finality; he won't take no for an answer.

You stare at each other, just a couple of seconds, no words, nothing about the fact you're starin' at each other, just unspoken, yet still visible appreciation in the look you share.

You two were and are just so caught up with each other that you'd forgotten she was even there at all. She must admit, it's very sweet, but she likes her foods more savory.

"You guys are pathetic." Ellie finally speaks up, a look of evident. played disgust on her face.

There's a snap and a jump and now you're about two feet away from each other again. You're looking away from each other, Joel's eyes are on the floor, yours are to the roof, and it's just so hilarious; and finally, finally, Ellie gets to laugh.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Joel and him are talking again. It's too sweet, the way they avoid looking at each other, well, actually, they can actually keep eye contact now. At least for a couple minutes, anyway. He touches his beard when Joel makes him nervous, and Joel fingers at his jacket like he's pulling a trigger. What are these two, twelve?

—

Maybe they're not just talking now. I saw Joel checking him out, totally indecent behavior you definitely do not want to see from your so-called father figure.

—

I think they just came back from making out. OK. Yeah. They did. It looks like his beard has lost a patch. Figuratively speaking, of course. Joel's hair is messy and his jacket's buttons are all wrong. Gross.

—

Maybe I've warmed up to sweets.

#🤬 // swearshirt #joel miller x reader #joel miller x male reader #joel x male reader #joel x reader #last of us x reader #last of us x male reader #🌸 // success!#💞 // darlings

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fabricated-misslieness · 1 month

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: wriothesley x gn reader

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, death of cockroach

part 1

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: also based off a true story

☾⋆☆⋆☽

The ONE time you decide to kill a cockroach yourself, you miss, and guess what?

IT COMES FLYING AT YOU.

You've never screamed like this before, you think, as you hurriedly swat at it with the shoe you were holding, just narrowly avoiding its flying path. It vanishes behind the bed, and you're out the door within the minute.

Within the same minute, or perhaps the next, you find your boyfriend. "Wrio, there's a cockroach behind the bed."

"What do you want me to do about it?" What a bitch.

Some other time you might've replied sarcastically, 'maybe kill it?' but you're too traumatized by your recent brush with death that you respond quickly, "Kill it."

He sighs.

You catch up with your pet as Wriothesley makes his way to the bedroom, petting it to calm yourself and asking, "Do you wanna hunt a cockroach? Yes you do~"

When you go back to the bedroom again, he's already there, and he's moved the bed. "Can't see it."

Fuck.

"Turn on your phone light, help me out." And so you do.

And then what? He can't find it. He shakes the curtains, it's not there. He's shining the light over the floor, toeing dangerously at piles of built up, ignored dust, and he can't find it.

But you can, and it's on your fucking sheets. "There." You point, frozen in place.

You think to offer him a shoe, but no, he reaches for it with his bare hands, and he grabs it, like it's nothing.

The next moment, he stumbles, accidentally letting it go. The cockroach lands on the floor, quickly trying to scurry away, but Wriothesley is faster. He smacks it, bare hand unleashing a fuck ton of force against the roach and the floor, and it dies just like that.

He doesn't even grab a paper this time; he takes it by the antenna and disappears into a toilet.

As you fix the bed back in place, chanting la Ave Maria under your breath, you hear the toilet flush. Phew.

Wriothesley's leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, his hands are wet, clean.

His stare is nothing but slightly disappointed as you prance on over. "It flew at me."

He says nothing for a second, though his face does change. "Damn."

Some years ago you did a biology bug collection project, cockroaches allowed, and you had your father catch one for you, while you watched (a valiant man, bare-handed as well). You'd pinned it in place at school, but you were wearing gloves then, and it was dead.

A shudder goes down your spine.

"C'mere." Wriothesley says, and you oblige. There is nothing better in the world than a hug from your valiant boyfriend. "Feelin' better now?"

Muffled into his sweater and spoken with shame, you say, "Yeah..."

#Wriothesley x gn reader #Wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x gn reader #🌸 // success!#🎟 // genshin impact #🎫 // wriothesley

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

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𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚖 𝚡 𝙺𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚡 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 ૮ ˶′ﻌ ‵˶ ა

𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍…? 𝙰𝚜 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘, 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 (´ω｀*)

Interesting prompt, but we'll see once I actually finish the series

#🧵// threading #literaturedog

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

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communicating in a shared google docs with like 2 sec delay will never not be fun

#🧶 // yarn scraps

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: alhaitham x gn reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: alhaitham answers a seamingly meaningless question while cuddling with you

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 562

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: that this is the second time the reader is akin to a cat in an alhaitham fic is pure coincidence I swear. No beef vs dogs

"What animal would you be?"

Kaveh had asked this on a stray night, a couple drinks in, buzzed and free but not sobbing-drunk as he always is. He had meant it as an innocent question, a fun fact, and said that he would love to be a lion, coincidentally his Darshan's insignia, because they looked cool—well, he listed a lot more reasons, but that's what it boiled down to.

Alhaitham that same night said it was meaningless to answer. It's not like one would be able to achieve such a thing–morphing into an animal–anyway. Thus, he did not answer, and neither had you at the time, since conversation had moved on quickly after Alhaitham had shut his former roommate down.

However, despite his claims of it being meaningless, it seems to have stuck to his mind. He finds himself pondering the question whenever his mind drifts off work, which is a rare occurrence in itself, since he is a very focused individual.

Would he be a dog? Absolutely not. A crow? No, he didn't much care for shiny things. On the broader spectrum, a solitary animal? No, he had you.

The question, after everything, proved to be quite challenging.

The answer finally comes to him on an empty weekend afternoon which he's got no choice but to fill with physical contact from his undoubted "love of my life"—he says it that way, but he's got plenty choice and he chooses without hesitation.

Alhaitham's holding you, and you are merely enjoying your time together, when he says, "I think I'd be a cat."

Quickly recalling the conversation, you perk up to follow up, "Yeah? How so?"

"They're solitary beings, to a point, both enjoying alone time and company." He nods to himself, "They have fine taste, unlike dogs, they groom themselves and display a sense of discipline regarding so. Plus, if I really was a cat, I would have nothing to do around the house except lounge around. I wouldn't have any work to do, which is always a plus."

"To be fair, Haitham," You snicker in return, "if you were any animal, you wouldn't have to work."

"I meant that as a cat, you don't even have the burden of "tricks" automatically placed on you." Of course he thought it through.

"Guess you're right." You snuggle closer to his chest, and he thinks that's that.

But then you're perking up again, pulling away from his tight embrace, turning it loose as you meet his eyes. "I think I would be a cat too."

"Oh, yeah?" He shifts too, interestedly.

"I'd get to show you my love that way." You grin up at him, and he can't help but to smile back, despite the lack of elaboration so far. "Cats kiss each other by licking, I think, and they cuddle all the time. Could you imagine laying under a stray ray of sun, together?"

Strangely enough, he can.

There's the warmth of the summer, or of heat in the winter, on his fur, hot but pleasant, and he's got yet another source of heat between his paws, so to speak. He can also imagine himself with a nice black coat, and you with an orange one. It's a nice thought, oddly domestic.

"Yeah." He hugs you closer, the thought freshly laid to rest behind his closed eyelids, and you can tell he's satisfied.

Finally, that's that.

#alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #🎟 // genshin impact #🎫 // alhaitham #🌸 // success!#genshin impact x gn reader #alhaitham x gn reader

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: aymeric cassel x gn reader (Cyberpunk 2077)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: thanks to modern live translation, international couples can thrive.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.05k

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: google-translated german and french

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: reader speaks german, but isn't strictly german nor swiss. why german? i'm learning it (i dont have a picture yet again c'est la vie)

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Switzerland is not like he'd imagined. What did he know about it? By comparison, most things are expensive, but compensated by jobs' higher pay; the usual crime gangs are almost nonexistent, not many skyscrapers, just as many homeless, the flag is square.

Eh, well, the people were nice enough. No chit chat, thank God, they tended to be more kept to themselves; he could fit in here.

Oh, but it's all terribly dull–Aurore would say it even worse–and it's all because she is now wanted by a crime syndicate in their own homeland that they are laying low in Switzerland. Agh, at least he speaks one of the languages, he blends in.

But his host, offering to hide him and his twin? The host is good, has been great, will continue to be wonderful, and he is so grateful.

Aymeric's never imagined this, falling in love.

He hasn't imagined finding someone to fall in love with at all, the decade of 2070 isn't exactly filled with the best people, him and his sister included. Plus, he's always been too busy to even think about it, unlike his rambunctious sister. There's always been a current job and another one on the horizon, but now he's got nothing to stress over.

He hasn't imagined the feeling of falling in love either. The sweat, the color on his face, the heat of his cheeks, the yearning in his chest, the warmth of you.

"Comment s'est passée ta journée?"

"Gut, aber...landweilig."

Modern technology, live translation and subtitles, made it easier for international partners to exist together, to love each other.

Aymeric smiles, sitting down on the couch right next to your tired form, handing you a coffee. You take a sip, it's just the way you like it; funny, considering he doesn't drink coffee himself.

"And you?" You ask, leaning against the arm he wraps around the back of the couch, around you. (Und du?)

"Boring too, yeah." He sighs, looking away for a moment. "You are what illuminates my day, after all." (Ennuyeux aussi, ouais. Tu es ce qui illumine ma journée, après tout.)

"What's with the flattery today?" You chuckle, putting your coffee down on the table. You don't need all of it, he's there to wake you. (Was hat es mit der Schmeichelei heute auf sich?)

"Can't I be nice to you?" Aymeric's expression is always quite passive, so the narrowing of his eyes with very clear sass is welcomed with a laugh. (Je ne peux pas être gentil avec toi?)

You shake your head at him, then let it settle against his arm, "No, you're right. Do be nice to me more often, though?" (Nein, du hast recht. Sei aber öfter nett zu mir?)

He rolls his eyes at that, "Oh, shut up." (Oh, ferme la.)

You give him a pointed look, in turn, "Where is being nice now?" (Wo ist jetzt nett zu sein?)

The two of you settle down for some nice relaxation, your head against his arm, your sides pressed against each other, his hand on yours, and watch the TV. Local news, never exciting, the odd traffic accident or two, or something about the government. Much like the time you've spent apart today, it's dull.

"I have an idea." You perk up suddenly, raising your head from his arm. (Ich habe eine Idee.)

"That so?" He sits up a little to better look at you, turning the TV volume down without tearing his eyes away from yours. "What is it?" (C'est vrai? Qu'est-ce que c'est?)

"Let's turn off our translators." (Schalten wir unsere Übersetzer aus.)

"What?" He asks, a sharp quoi? you recognize. It's a silly idea, you know it, he does too. Why would he willingly decide to stop understanding you?

"I wanna see just how much German you've picked up from me." You defend, shooting him a cheeky smile he can't shoot down. (Ich möchte sehen, wie viel Deutsch du von mir gelernt hast.)

He has to tear his eyes away from your smile to consider it in his own terms. "That's..." It wasn't so much a bad idea, actually. It might just be fun. What else has he got to do with his time, anyway? "alright, maybe it does sound fun." (C'est…ok, peut-être que ça a l'air amusant.)

"Sehen? OK." (See?)

You turn off your translator, as does he, washing a momentary blue sheen over both your irises to signal the quick action.

You begin first, tentatively, "Um, also, Aymeric?" (so, Aymeric?)

"Ce n'est pas exactement un mot allemand." He says, in French, and you definitely have no idea what he's saying, or well, you've got a hint: allemand meaning "German", and "Ce n'est pas" being quite a basic French thing: it is not. (That's not exactly a German word.)

You laugh, piecing context together, "Du hast recht, das ist es nicht." (You're right, it isn't.)

His eyes flash for a moment, not blue, but inquisitively. "J'ai raison?"

Raison? Reason? That's kind of English. You've only got the basics from high school you learned what feels like long ago, but you know what reason means. "Oui, du hast...raison." (Yes, you have...reason.)

Oui, he likes the way you say oui, it's cute, especially because you imitate his accent. He thinks back on what he's heard you say, "Kaffee, mit Milch, zwei Würfelzucker." (Coffee, with milk, two sugar cubes.)

You laugh, and though maybe it should make him a little embarrassed, he only thinks about how he likes the sound. He didn't quite nail the "ü" but you understood. "Vous ne buvez café." (You don't drink coffee.)

You had missed some things, mainly "pas de" after "buvez", but he understood. "Du hast recht, ich ne trinke pas kaffee." (You're right, I don't drink coffee.)

And he used French negation instead of German. "Okay, genug davon." You shake your head, "Ich habe tatsächlich etwas zu sagen." (Alright, enough of that. I actually have something to say.)

Aymeric has no idea what you've just said, but knows that perhaps you want to change topics by the way you shake your head. He's still confused, anyhow, but that feeling fades away when he feels your hand reach past his face and touch the cool chrome at the back of his head, one of his most vulnerable points, the netrunner connection. He can't help but gasp, and his eyes follow your arm until he can't see it anymore, past his head; and yet, he doesn't pull your hand away, nor his head away, because he knows he's safe with you.

"Aymeric." You say, catching his attention, calling his eyes back to yours. "Je t'aime." (I love you.)

"Ich liebe dich auch." He returns. His eyes swirl, again, not blue, but with adoration. (I love you too.)

You continue to hold him with a hand of his chrome, while he reaches to hold you, his fingers tracing over the shard port behind your ear. His lips near yours and you kiss, holding each other.

Maybe you will never learn each other's languages, but you will continue to understand each other beyond that.

#cyberpunk 2077 x reader #cyberpunk 2077 x gn reader #cyberpunk 2077 fanfiction #💞 // darlings #🎟️ // cyberpunk 2077 #🌸 // success #🎫 // aymeric cassel #aymeric cassel x gn reader #aymeric cassel x reader

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: dante caruso x gn reader (Cyberpunk 2077)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: beneath dante's tough disposition, there is a man.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 870

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: mentions of blood, death, and murder, half-naked man, not sexual just romantic, hint at friends w/ benefits

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: i don't have a picture cuz i actually killed him but TRUST this man is fine as hell in red lighting; video for ref

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Militech, even though a corp, does indeed handle some of their employees well, especially those who do their covert stuff; it is preferable, after all, that they do not spill.

Dante counts himself lucky to be an undercover agent of theirs, taking shelter in one of their safehouses, though it seems he's not the only one.

You're there.

Dante believes in coincidences, would rather not believe in fate, but this has to be ordained by whoever put him in Night City.

He's tough, cool, calm and collected. He knows how to speak according to the circumstance, and he'd just spoken straightforwardly according to the situation; he escaped with his life and the goal accomplished, and now he's collecting himself, perhaps staying for the night.

He's tough, cool, calm and collected...and yet his voice breaks as he speaks your name, "(y/n)."

"Dante." You're just about...what are you doing? He's an undercover agent, he should be able to assess the situation, but he can't, not now. Why?

You're just colleagues, have been for the majority of the decade, he trusts you. You've done plenty of jobs together, see each other often at HQ or whatever. Where's the "calm and collected" aspect that's in his resume? "What," He clears his throat, shifts his stance onto one foot, "are you doing here?"

He isn't nervous. He's...what is he?

"Laying low, after that job by the grand mall, you know." He did know, yeah, you told him that. His breaths shorten, and perhaps you can tell, as you begin walking a bit closer to him, concerned? "Something wrong?"

"I..." He just took a life, Bree, he knew her. She deserved it, she was going to leak the corporation's secrets, if he hadn't killed her the corp would've been done for; but no, she didn't deserve it, she was just seeking to publish the truth. No, er, yes, something's wrong. "yea."

His voice is small, he looks defeated, his gaze falls to his shoes. He doesn't handle death as well as you do, and in your books, that's fine. You've held him through this a thousand times before.

"C'mere, cowboy." You wrap your arms around him, let his head fall to your shoulder, let his weight fall on yours.

There are no tears to shed, he's not sad, he's just...he's never had a name for it. Contemplative? He took another life. He knows there isn't fate in the universe, because why would fate have him killing folks?

"It was necessary."

"I know." But he needed you to tell him that anyway.

Beneath Dante's tough disposition, there is a man. The agent knows the work must be done, but the man mourns for the soul that has now left the world, and for the body that will never find the columbarium.

You reach a hand between you two, undoing his bolo tie with experienced fingers, and gathering his necklaces in your hand. He parts his head from your shoulder–doesn't need a command for it anymore–so you may slip the heavy metals off his neck to wherever else, so that he carries one less burden.

His head fall back onto your shoulder while you continue to release him from another burden, his tight black vest. Unbuttoning it comes easy to you. You slip your hands beneath the leather, your hands feeling warmer against his stomach and then his chest with just that one layer less, and slip it off.

When you reach for his belt, he finds the will to raise his head and press his nose against yours gratefully.

You're just coworkers.

"Dante..." Now's not the time. The words in your mind dissipate into nothingness when he kisses you.

Dante kisses you, slow and sweet, and it feels like warm honey. "I know." He replies, pressing another smaller kiss to your jaw, perhaps he missed, but he's satisfied with it as he buries his face, now, against your neck.

"You got blood on your sleeves." It's minimal, won't be noticeable for the trek back home, but it looks like a stain upon the man you know is good.

"It's fine." He declares. He's not got the will to care for it right now.

"You're sweaty."

"That too."

The belt comes off next, with a heavy metallic clack. Then there's the shirt, which you unbutton just as well as the vest. Finally, the pants, with little resistance. You'll let him take off his underwear himself in the bathroom.

You guide him there yourself, unfortunately making him part from your embrace, but he's comforted by the fact that you'll hold him to sleep later, like you always do.

You leave him by the shower–but don't turn it on for him, he's not that helpless–and turn to leave, but he stops you with his voice before you're out the doorway.

"Shower with me?" His face is hopeful, but there's a hint of a smile on his face. He knows you won't say no.

"Yeah, 'course."

He's a corpo hitman, should be used to this, and yet he's not. It's due to the fact you are always there to break the fall, validating his feelings, not letting him deal with it himself; but he wouldn't have it any other way.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: writing for hot as hell side characters of course, the cassel twins too but i aint kidnapped them yet dont talk to me

#dante caruso x gn reader #dante caruso x reader #cyberpunk 2077 x reader #cyberpunk 2077 x gn reader #cyberpunk 2077 fanfiction #💞 // darlings #🎫 // dante caruso #🎟️ // cyberpunk 2077 #🌸 // success

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 months

Text

just so happens to be alhaitham's birthday today and i am currently writing about his birthday in the royal au

#🧶 // yarn scraps

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fabricated-misslieness · 3 months

Text

ooh that alhaitham fic was my 2500th post

#🧶 // yarn scraps

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fabricated-misslieness · 3 months

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ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: prince alhaitham x knight male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: after spending some time with you, the prince finds himself wishing for things

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.65k ~ PT.1 ~ PT.2

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sword training, classism, mention of war

☾⋆☆⋆☽

This is a horrible place, Alhaitham thinks, but instead he says: "This is, well..." and it's not that much of an improvement.

The Crown Prince has never been to the servants' quarters, nor the kitchen, nor the knights' quarters or the troops' training grounds. He has never seen the thorough use of space, and has not experienced the smell of two dozen worked men sleeping in the same room.

Your old pallet-based bed has already been claimed by another soldier, but you know the position well and the new tenant doesn't have many memorabilia to show for his use of the space.

It is lucky that you have visited in the middle of the day while the knights are training, otherwise the Prince would've been nothing but drowned in the crowd of soldiers and their odor; odor so musky it still lingers.

He is vaguely aware of the wing reserved for war generals in the palace and wonders why you do not have one. "Should you not have had your own room?"

"They told me it was all occupied." You reply, to hide from him the truth. You know, from your sparse time in the castle as a war general and your now abundant time as the Prince's knight, that the castle has so many rooms, many are left unused.

Although of course, as the Prince, he knows this too. "Speak freely."

You answer immediately, "I am of low blood."

The Prince nods his head. This, he had expected. Among the many variables he had not, such as the foul odor of the room, something he was correct about pleases him. But, despite the burn in his nose, the rarity of being wrong and what's to come still excites him.

"I used to make polishing oil for my own armor, as well as my sword, and my own whetstone." You said, your hand gesturing to the small shelf above the head of the pallet. "But now the servants, and I suppose the King or Queen, supply me with those."

"Did you read about how to make one?" The Prince asked. It was as much a theory as a question.

"No." Is all you say. You can't just tell him you've never read a book in its entirety before, being read to not withstanding. "I have simply found walnuts work well, actually."

His eyebrows raise, "With trial and error?"

"Precisely." You smile.

He has tried, ever since the first day he had sat down to listen to you speak, to not let his judge of your character to fall into the stereotypes deeply ingrained in him.

That stereotype being that knights were nothing but brawn and battle prowess. They were not taught the word misslieness, for it was hardly necessary, but were taught the word hubris in order to not fall into it themselves. The same stereotype dictates that knights did not seek to expand their wisdom to tidbits of knowledge they did not require, much like nobles did not need to know what commoners did.

Trial and error for measly armor polish one could buy from the market on even a low blood knight's salary was certainly one of those tidbits of knowledge he thought you wouldn't care for.

He shakes the feeling off and listens to the rest of your words, choosing to focus on your explanations of how life was...and the finer smell of your plain armor polish, as opposed to the other odor he could smell.

The very same odor you either ignore or have grown used to. "The other boys snore," You smile fondly, "it is nothing like the sound of swords striking metal in aspects of harmony, but it is just as loud. The palace has been...respite, but hearing my old mate Rohan snoring is something I miss."

"And the bed?" He asks.

Respectful of the new tenant's space, you place your hand on the thin mattress and press down with minimal force. It creaks. "No."

He nods his head, a smile on his lips, despite the misery of smell. "Yes, I imagine a bed in the palace is a lot better."

Glee crinkles the corners of your eyes when you smile at him, "It is."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Alhaitham is very happy to leave that dastardly room when you're done talking about how it used to be in there. You had talked so fondly about it: about how, even with the lack of space, you treated everyone in that room asa brother. The Prince had heard about it once before, from the less authoritarian, more cocky Knights of Favonius, that they were a brotherhood. He had hardly pictured it from the Sumeru knights who all behaved stiff as twigs around him.

The next stop is the troops' training grounds. On the way there, you explained some things to him. As a war general, you were also in charge of training your men. When your duty became to protect the Prince, the task was awarded to some of the lesser yet competent captains the other war generals often deferred to.

He's beginning to regret asking to follow your old routine, slightly, as one revolting place is replaced with another. He can hardly hear himself think when you step out into the field, beyond the sound of blades parrying other blades and men's shouts and groans.

As you maneuver through the crowd of sparring soldiers, they don't even realize that the Crown Prince is among their ranks.

They notice you first, the captains. "General!"

Their shouts of your name die out in the chaos blasting in his ears, but he stays his ground as he reaches the end of the worst of the men and watches as you continue forward to greet them.

You really are like brothers, bantering, fluffing up their hair and knocking on their speckled armor.

He knows war generals don't speak this way with their subordinates. He knows war generals don't even build bonds with them. He knows that, to them, it is all business: listen to me, plan this strategy with/for me, fight for me.

What is it that's–

"Your highness!" One captain shrieks, and suddenly swords clang and fall to the ground, either on their blunt side or tip first, digging up the Earth. Many men fall to their knees in an instant, more join them in the other.

There is a whole field of men kneeling to him, and Alhaitham turns up his nose with a snarl. "Stand." He says, his voice loud and stern. He cherished the silence leftover in the absence of metal, but he wishes even more for the attention to be off of him. "I thank you for your respect. Return to your duties."

The soldiers eventually stand, and after a reluctance quickly stepped over, they return to their training.

The three devoted generals remain on their knees as Alhaitham strides up to stand by your side, not in front.

"I said stand." Alhaitham repeats, his voice emotionless yet interpreted as angry by the generals.

The first that stands stiffens up like a thin tree in the wind, nervous. "Your highness," His head is bowed, "what do we–"

"Look at me when you speak, Captain."

The captain yelps. He yelps, unbecoming of a man of his stature, build, and rank. "Y-Yes." He says, his voice a pitch higher. When their eyes meet, he knows that the mere act of eye contact makes his pitch even higher when he speaks again, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence today, my prince?"

He dislikes the way he calls him his. "I only wish to observe. Carry on as usual. Do not work harder on my behalf."

Alhaitham begins to walk further towards the sidelines, somewhere he can spectate without obstacle as well as listen to his mind.

However, when you call out to him, he stops the both of you. "My prince–"

He does not stop you because you call him yours, but because he wishes for the company of his own solitude and a view of the soldiers as seen by a bystander. "Command them as you would have."

"Yes, your highness." You nod your head dutifully and turn back to your former men.

After the quick talk of "yes, I'm back" and ordering them to train their stances, standing in line and slicing the air almost mechanically, you're back to talking with your captains.

The slicing of the air is a lot more quiet than the clanging of swords, an acceptable replacement he will thank you for later, so now he can actually hear himself think; and also accidentally eavesdrop. The way he does not try to shift his focus away from your conversation waves off the "accidental" notion.

You don't notice him anyway; you are much more preoccupied with catching up with your captains. They are busier now, without a war general to guide them, and you have not seen them since you were appointed the Prince's protector.

"How is the life?" One captain asks you, a bright glint to his worn smile.

Boring, is what he expects you to say. "It's interesting."

"Just interesting?" Another gawks, jaw slack, and Alhaitham can't help but mirror the question in his head. "Tell us all about it! It cannot just be interesting."

"It is gilded, and gaudy. Do you recall General Ipsit's golden armor? It is like that, an unnecessary show of wealth; but all the luxury is actually welcome. The floors are carpeted when wood is just fine, and even the tiles have a design. I can see my reflection on them."

All three of them laugh, as if such an idea is absurd. The third captain, which seems to be quite young yet clearly strong, asks the next question, "Well, how's the food?"

"Like heaven." You chuckle, "The puddings are as fluffy as clouds and the breads crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. The meats are spiced; dried or smoked or grilled, all so divine it is like eating wealth."

He's never heard you speak in such a way.

"How about your quarters?"

You sigh, eyes closed as though collapsed over your mattress that very instant. "The head of the bed is colored with gold, and the sheets are even lilac." A diluted purple, but the color of royalty and wealth nonetheless. "The mattress is soft, and it molds to my very body."

And by this way, it was with descriptors for such worthless things. When you speak to him, you are always objective. This marble reminds me of magma, this green is very bright, its whistle is not as sharp. This is all in benefit, of course, to him, and it is always the way servants speak to their masters.

"Man. How come you get this treatment?" The youngest captain speaks up again, clearly jealous.

"Oh, dear Nayak," You laugh. It sounds so lively. "you are not the one who slayed a dragon."

And he has never heard you speak so jokingly before.

Perhaps he is not deserving of this, he thinks as you continue to joke with your fellows. He does not deserve to have your humor nor your emotion, only your solemnity. In fact, it is not that he does not deserve it, but that it is the only way you should address him—the only way a knight should address his prince, with objectivity. It is an irrational...fear? Thought–just a thought, nothing more–and it should not be occupying his mind, much the same way that you are treating him as you should.

And yet...there is a yearning. No one has talked to him like this, not his peers at the Akademiya, not the scholars, not his servants, not the knights, not his lesser brothers.

That is why he wishes for this...inessential way of speech. Because it is new.

That is what he's been prodding for these days, he realizes. Not just your friendship, but the unceremonious exchanges as well. He doesn't want you to report to him, he wants you to speak to him.

Nobody's ever spoken to him. There is his father scolding, his mother doting, the servants reporting, scholars exchanging, guards courteously greeting, peasants showing their respect, and you answering his questions.

How does one fix this?

Fix? What is he thinking? This is exactly the way you should be speaking to him. But, oh, he wishes for casualty. Yes, that's it. Companionship, from the man who saved his life, it is only natural.

Now, how to do it?

☾⋆☆⋆☽

When the both of you are back at Alhaitham's personal library, where he spends his time of leisure, the Prince thinks he should collapse into a heap and hide himself. He had thought about the dilemma, and with increasing effort came increasing thoughts—overthinking. He takes you out for an outing, no, you'd be too guilty and grateful to be honest, same thing if he gave you a gift. Having friends, no, making a friend is hard.

And then the blistering heat of the midday sun ruptured his thoughts, and the clanging of swords took over his senses, and then the heat came to rupture that too.

He does collapse in a heap on the couch, albeit more gracefully than in the hypothetical scenario.

Perhaps still affected by the joy of nostalgia and seeing your old brotherhood again, you spark a conversation yourself, despite him not declaring open discussion. "What did you think?"

Alhaitham is glad he didn't have to declare it. "It was horrible." He admits, wiping his sweaty, warm forehead with his damp handkerchief. He grimaces.

You laugh; it sounds nice, better than swords, at least, "I too would think it a horrible place if I had an upbringing such as yours."

You mean it as sympathy, but it only makes the Prince feel privileged and lucky. "Yes...quite."

You sense it yourself, a moment later, of course you do. You're way better at intimately social matters and empathy than he is.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way." You bow your head, already back to the Knight Protector of the Crown Prince.

"It's quite alright." He places his hand over yours, the joints of the iron glove dig slightly into his skin, but he doesn't care for it.

You turn your hand, letting his hand rest over your smoother palm. It feels like turning a new leaf, physically.

"So, it was horrible," you look down, and he tracks your gaze down to your hands, "and..what else was it?"

He wracks his head, thinks about it. Normally he doesn't have to think for such a thing, but he is considering something else now: your feelings. "...admirable."

You burst out laughing at his timidness, and if it were anyone else, he would be offended.

Alhaitham scrambles for something to say, "I mean it!" His face is red, he's sure, "I can't believe you can live under such conditions–without something as necessary as privacy–and fight for our lands and protect our people."

"The knighthood takes recruits before they even reach the cusp of manhood, my prince." You explain to him, and he is grateful for it, "We grow used to it."

"It is not a good thing to grow accustomed to." He says, his voice quiet, small. He is not the Crown Prince here, he is just Haitham.

You speak up again, to ease his worries, "We bear it for the people, as you do, and will." He is so grateful for you.

He grasps your fingers with his own, and has half the mind to intertwine them. He does not. "Thank you, (y/n)."

"There is nothing to thank me for."

There is a lot to thank you for. He doesn't mention it, because you would only shut him down. So he sings your praises, instead, in his mind; and he speaks his wishes there too.

His mind has never been quiet, but for a moment, there is only you.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: im sorry folks i am a terribly busy man

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x male reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x male reader #🎟 // genshin impact #🎫 // alhaitham #🌸 // success!

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