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nsharks · 1 year

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I BEG OF YOU MORE READER WITH SOAP (with months old baby because she gave birth already) , i feel like they would be besties, like ghost is at the back looking like a literal bodyguard while reader and soap are gossiping and cooing at the baby

"uncle johnny"

aka soap and ghost stay at your home for the night. previous dad!ghost here and here

Soap never imagined he’d see the inside of your home again.

Since the incident at the base, Ghost had begrudgingly offered little pieces of information whenever Soap or Gaz pried about it. (Secret’s out of the bag, Soap thought. Might as well.)

You’d had a baby girl.

Your son was off to preschool now.

That’s all Soap knew.

Until a mission nearby at a cargo facility ends with them spotted by cartel (fuck knows how). A barrage of gunfire. A shot tire. They don’t make it very far in the Humvee until they’re debating their options, knowing full well that the base was 40 fucking kilometers away—

“Wait,” Soap pauses, a glint in his eyes. “Don’ you live around here, Lt?”

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It would be silly of Soap to assume your pretty face would be greeting them at the door.

The lights are off, the entire Riley family fast asleep as Ghost finds the hidden spare key to let them in.

“Take your boots off before you’re in,” Ghost whispers harshly, already kicking off his own. He doesn’t seem all too pleased with this idea nor the fact that neither of them had a better one. “Don’t wake them up.”

They line their boots at the door, next to a pair of little purple ones that seem made for a doll in comparison. They shuck off their vests, the gear, all the ammo; carefully set those things in a haphazard pile. Ghost grabs his own gun and then flickers his eyes to Soap.

“Give me it,” he mutters.

While Ghost pads off to some other room, a closet to hide the guns in perhaps, Soap is left standing by the door. In his socks. In the dark of your home.

Noticing the toys and playmat on the floor, he’s wondering about how you manage with two by yourself when the silence is suddenly broken.

Splintered by crying.

Loud enough to carry from your daughter’s nursery.

He closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe it’ll stop before—

Ghost’s heavy footsteps return and he’s glowering at him as if he’s spoiled a mission, gotten someone killed even. In a snarling, hushed voice, “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap. Do you know how to be quiet?”

“Me? You’re the one stompin’ around—“

There’s a flicker of light now from down the hall. Shuffling around in one of the rooms. It causes Ghost to hiss out some more swears and then the rest plays out as a blur in Soap’s eyes. Ghost tries to clemently approach the bedroom, so as to not frighten you, but what he doesn’t know yet is you’ve already grabbed something from under your pillow. You’ve slipped out of the room and the shadow of you raises a defensive arm. Hand tightened around—Soap squints— a bloody knife, is it?

But, then, “Christ, love. It’s just me.”

A wave of relief. Your hand drops.

“Oh my god… Simon.” With a hard swallow, your moment of panic fades and you lurch into Ghost. Can’t help it, really. Even now, with your daughter crying and his bulky uniform smelling like sulfur and kerosene, you embrace him.

Soap tries not to watch from down the hall.

Breathing hard into his chest, “You scared me. Why are you here?”

“Needed a place for the night,” is the explanation he gives. A gloved hand settles just above your bum: bloodied, skeletal digits against a silk nightdress. The other hand— gently taking away that knife of yours. “Didn’t mean to wake you both. It was Johnny’s fault.”

And you’re pulling away from his chest only to furrow your brows. “Johnny?” Glancing around the hall, you finally catch sight of the other uniform-clad intruder in your home.

He gives a small wave

Your tired eyes light up. “Johnny! Oh… forgive me for being rude. I didn’t even see you there.”

“Sorry for wakin’ you,” Soap rubs the back of his neck. (Though, he knows for sure it was Ghost’s fault.)

Soap can’t say he is too sorry you’re awake because you are by far a kinder host than your husband. Even in your groggy state, you usher Soap to clean up in the bathroom with the promise of a comfy bed when he’s done. Then, you’re off to finally comfort the baby. Bouncing her against your chest as you direct your husband on how to fix up the guest room for Soap because you rarely have guests over and—

“Simon, give him some of your clothes to sleep in.”

To Soap’s amusement, Ghost follows your orders without hesitation (though, slips a few incoherent mumbles under his breath).

And although he sees your daughter in your arms, has heard her cries, Soap doesn't truly witness the tenderness of your little family until the morning.

The morning— stretched out on purpose.

Because, as Soap hears Ghost murmur to you, they don't really need to leave right away.

It's a domestic glimpse into the Lieutenant's other life that Soap witnesses. Ghost is already awake when he groggily slips out of the guest room that morning, having just had the best sleep in weeks and dressed in his teammate's clothes that are, perhaps, a little too big for him. He pads down the hallway. There are little coos and small footsteps and Soap realizes it's not just Ghost in the kitchen, but the whole family.

All four of you.

A toddler padding around in a onesie covered in trains (his current fascination).

Your daughter bright-eyed and calm against her unmasked father's chest. Snug in a carrier and visibly content with being attached to him as he makes breakfast.

And then you, given a break for this rare moment, hands slipped around a mug of coffee.

Soap thinks this is the strangest safe house he's woken up in.

Strange, but equally pleasant. Your son is the first one to spot the Sergeant, waddling over to him and tugging on the pair of sweats he's borrowed from your husband. And then you’re the second one, immediately slipping into nurturing hospitality as you usher him to sit down for breakfast.

Any prickliness in his Lieutenant is gone whenever he's interacting with his family. He dotes on you, just like Soap has witnessed before. But for this morning, he also witnesses how he dotes on your children. Offering them patience that Soap is rarely on the receiving end of. He cups your daughter's little head and periodically drops kisses on the top of her hair as he weaves around the kitchen. He merely tuts at your son when he tries bouncing a ball against the cabinets— take that to the living room, kid.

It's such a nice change from their usual blood-soaked routine that even Soap feels the pain of leaving it behind.

But breakfast can only draw out for so long, and soon Ghost is handing the baby back to you.

A quiet, "Do you have to?"

Though, you know that not even nuzzling your face to his neck will change the answer.

The two of them slip into the uniforms they came in. Shuck on the gear, the ammo, their boots (for your husband, a skull mask). You linger around with just your morning robe on, chewing at your lip and cradling your baby tightly as if her little hugs and kisses will be enough to supplement the impending absence of Simon's.

"It was nice to see you again," you're telling Soap when Ghost stalks off to get their guns. Voice soft but with a detectable sorrow in it.

Soap offers you a smile. "Thank you for havin' me in your home." And then, he coos at the baby, "Beautiful lass, you've got. Ghost is a lucky man."

"Would you like to hold her?" Your eyes are beaming at him now, and you shift the infant in your arms and utter to her, "Come on, sweet pea. Say goodbye to Uncle Johnny."

And Soap can't say no to that. Flushing, he takes the little girl from you and holds her, carefully, working around all his gear. He's got nephews and nieces but never has he melted quite like this, staring at an infant who's got the eyes of his Lieutenant and a soft romper on. She feels so delicate in his arms.

This is how Ghost finds you two.

By the front door, Soap holding his daughter and exchanging little murmurs with you.

"I hope Simon isn't mean to you. I know he can be a bit grumpy."

"Eh, he's all bark, no bite. Bit of a softie really, isn't he?"

"He tells me about you more than the others."

"Does he, now?"

A hulking man carrying two rifles stands there, just listening for a moment until you notice him. Irritated, maybe, but it washes away once you are giving him a final hug and peppering sweet kisses over the hard shell of his mask.

Then, a hug to his son (be good to your mum, bug). A nuzzle to his daughter, who Soap carefully hands to him.

"Guess I'm Uncle Johnny now,” the Sergeant comments cheekily after they've left and begun their journey back to base.

But the doting version of his Lieutenant is gone and all he earns is a grunt in response.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost #fanfiction #fluff #dad ghost #fem!reader #afab reader

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sarcasticbeanie · 1 year

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it’s time for a life-changing roadtrip i guess

[ID: A full body drawing of Jason Todd and Roy Harper from DC Comics. They are sitting on the top of a red van, talking to each other. Jason has dark hair with white stripes at the front, and is wearing a grey T-shirt saying “I’m a Jersey Girl. 1. Dirty mind, 2. Caring friend, 3. Potty mouth, 4. Good heart, 5. Smart ass, 6. Kind soul, 7. Sinner, 8. Thick thighs. I never said I was perfect”. He’s also wearing black pants, and brown combat boots. He has scars on his face, neck and arms. He’s wearing black nail polish and simple black bracelets. He has a hearing aid in his right ear. He is gesturing at Roy with one hand, and holding a Sprite can in the other. There’s an open book on his lap. He looks like he’s complaining. Roy has ginger hair, and is wearing a green trucker hat backwards on his head. He’s wearing a white tank top with a yellow arrow pointing up on it, blue jeans, and black and white sneakers. He has brown archer gloves on both hands, and has a grey prosthetic right arm. He's holding a coke can in one hand, and pointing a finger gun at Jason with his left. He's sitting on a green pillow. He’s smiling. The van they’re on has blue curtains at it’s windows, and has its door open. In the van there’s a table with a map, an arrow, some tools and a few screws on it. Under the table, there’s a box with soft drinks and snacks. There’s a sofa on each side of the table. The red hood helmet is on the left sofa, and there’s a purple blanket with the spoiler symbol and a yellow pillow with the signal symbol on the right sofa. On the wall of the van, a brown jacket and a black trucker hat is hanging on the left side. There are pictures hanging on the right side, depicting Roy’s daughter Lian, and members of the batfamily in a simplistic style. A sunset over the sea can be seen through the side window of the van. End ID.]

#beanie art #dc #jason todd #roy harper #royjay #jayroy #r they romantic? besties? qpr? i literally don’t know.#the id makes the drawing seem a lot more detailed than it is. screams #Jason is demi and/or aroace. to me.#I hope the ID is sufficient!!!!!! i don’t quite know how to do one so thank all of y’all who taught me #also I want to see a red-arse roadtrip so so bad. it would be fun I think.#red hood #arsenal #lian harper #batfamily

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lethalchiralium · 30 days

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High Water | Happiness Series

a/n: okay guys, I have ONE MONTH left of school for the semester, THEN I WILL HAVE TIME FOR THIS I PROMISE. a lot has happened since I last updated, this was all written over a six month period and of course finished three weeks after my major breakup w my bestie of 7 years LOL ENJOY

a/n 2: and thank you always to @as-is-above-so-below for not killing me over taking forever to update and for letting me fall down her stairs and (separate incident) get a splinter from her floor LOL

warnings: military talk. TW: TORTURE

summary: Price has to make a difficult decision.

PREVIOUS << | >> NEXT | SERIES MASTERLIST

Night vision, gloved finger tensed on the trigger of his rifle. The back alley was secured, Soap kept two feet behind him at all times as Price unlocked the side door of the “abandoned” factory warehouse.

Four pairs of boots were muted against the cracked concrete, rifles pointed upwards and watching for any hostiles in their way. The mission was to collect intel and neutralize any threats - hopefully this would deliver them to the target. A man who was a ghost just like Simon Riley, but just… tied up in debts that span decades. Expendable men were set in the center of the warehouse, a table set up with chairs, chips and cards strewn about the wooden surface. Silence was a friend to the Russian men’s killers, but not to them. A small radio lowly played some sot of music, it was melancholy and heavy on the sax. Blues, Simon reflected, fitting.

One Russian - wearing a white shirt and black pants, a deep purple bruise on his fair face - pulled a chair from the table, setting down a laptop on a handful of worn cards.

“Boss has two targets with him, they’re to be sold by the end of the week.”

The man with a green jacket shrugged, as he sat down too; kicking his feet onto the table. “Not sure if there’s a big enough market for screaming babies, друг.”

“We’ll be getting a big payout if we get them to auction before their family finds out.”

Simon’s stomach clenched, he almost shot them both right there if it wasn’t for Gaz grabbing his arm and squeezing it. He couldn’t imagine it being you and the girls, it wouldn’t be anyway. Calm down. He focused on slinging his rifle silently over his shoulder, taking hold of the corner of sturdy boxes, wrapped up in plastic film. He hauled himself up, keeping his balance and grip focused on climbing up since the crate was the height of his shoulders. He placed his right foot on the top, pushing himself up before repeating the action with the next and final crate. It was routine the way he retrieved his rifle from his back, laying prone on the hefty crate with his finger parallel to the trigger and his eye in the scope. He was swift, it was second nature; his breath didn’t falter when Gaz settled on his torso beside him with his tact scope in his grasp.

“Bravo 0-7, do you have sight on the target?”

Ghost’s eye closed, the other focusing through the scope of his rifle.

“Affirmative.”

There was a loud screech of the door Gaz was watching, Ghost’s chest clenched with anticipation as he watched the intel walk in - wearing joggers and a long sleeve shirt, talking loudly on his phone in Russian.

“Soap, detain the target as soon as he is within range. Gaz, Ghost, drop ‘em as soon as Soap is clear.”

There wasn’t a beat of silence after that, as everyone launched into action. Johnny was quick to tackle the man, the other two dropped dead within milliseconds. His gloved hand seemed to cover the man’s whole jaw, fingertips pressed uncomfortably into the man’s skin. Ghost had dropped from his position in seconds and across the room in a few strides.

“Where is yer boss?”

Gaz slid a chair behind the man, Soap shoved him into it. Struggling hands were strapped to it, the man with dark blond hair and joggers spat out vicious words towards the skull balaclava. He barely caught Price snatching the open laptop from the table before he looked back to Soap and the hostage, the Sergeant dug his nails into the Russian’s face. The Lieutenant pulled a rag from his vest, watching them intently. The 141 was a well oiled machine, oiled with the saccharine taste of blood.

“Where the fuck is yer boss?”

“You’ll never find him-“ Ghost shoved the cloth into the man’s mouth before in a flash, his knife found its new home in the hostage’s knee. The screams muffled, he leaned closer. The words spoken were low, but enough to elicit a snarl from the hostage before another scream.

Price only gazed at Ghost for a moment before looking back at the laptop, checking through folders for measly information. Gaz was stood by the door, watching for any intruders - hand on his rifle, ignoring the muffled screams of the last threat alive in the room. But he wouldn’t be alive much longer with Ghost’s knives sticking out of his body like decorations. Don’t ask for mercy, my hounds won’t give you any, he remarked.

He looked down at the dashboard, seeing a browser left open. He clicked on it, seeing an encrypted chat log with the target and his right hand man - the man screaming for his life in the chair.

Don’t be late

The damn baby is losing it

If I have to hear another word from this girl I’m going to kill her

Price is a stoic man, one hardened by war - barely scared of anything; yet, Price wasn’t prepared when he scrolled up. His heart shot straight into his throat, eyes widened by a fraction, his hand gripping the table could’ve broken it in half. He blindly grabbed his phone, taking a picture of the screen before slamming the laptop closed. It was secured between his arm and chest in three seconds, tapping a number on the screen of his phone before he walked past Gaz and out of the room. The building was secured, he knew that - yet, he felt the fear that he may be watched. The secure line droned on for only a moment before there was an answer.

“John?”

“Laswell. What the fuck happened?”

There’s crying in the background, he could recognize Winnie’s voice anywhere. They’ve been gone for three days. Nothing was supposed to get to Simon’s second chance, John thought he was sure of it. No, he was sure of it. He cased the house himself, did all the work to make sure one of their strongest and toughest allies would stay and protect them. What the fuck happened?

There’s a breath. “König’s been shot. Someone took Mellie and Y/N.”

“And the other one?”

John’s stomach settled like concrete, weighing him down and making him sick.

“She’s okay. She’s with us at the hospital. We took her to the park like her mother asked and when we came back, the door was kicked in, König was unconscious and bleeding out, and Mellie and Y/N weren’t there.” There was a pause. “There was a fight down here. König killed seven of them before going down.”

Okay. At least they could ID the bodies, link them to the mob - or at least, former associates of the mob. Any lead he could get.

If he could run his hand through his beard, he would’ve. It was a comfort, especially now that he has never felt this stressed in his life. Simon cannot know. Simon will destroy everything we’ve worked for to save them.

“It has to do with the target.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Their intel is here. I am holding their intel.”

“John, these men are Russian. They are escaped convicts in the mob, known associates of the target.” There’s a pause, a short yell from Winnie, and Laswell sighing. “König left one unconscious. Roach is interrogating him now on base.”

“How long ago were they attacked?”

“Yesterday.” Another pause, soft words from Laswell to who he assumed was Winnie. “Listen, I’m working on this, but I need you. We need Ghost to run the rest of the operation, and we can’t do that if you tell him about this.”

There’s shouting behind the door, screaming from the victim that Ghost was torturing. John looked down the empty corridor, knowing he has to go to keep his friend safe.

“Because if they came after the girls, that means they’re coming after him. And they need him alive.”

His hand could have snapped that laptop in half. “He needs them alive.”

“I know, John.”

There’s more shouting in Russian, a loud thud and more incessant screaming.

“Keep this on the down low. I only need you. Make sure Ghost knows how to proceed.”

“With caution and safety off.” John murmured, muscles clenching in his chest. This is not going to end well.

“Get back to Manchester immediately. I’ll call if we’ve found something.” The line goes dead, Captain Price slipped the phone into his pocket before taking a deep breath.

He opened the door back to the room, being submersed in the victim’s screaming as Ghost’s black blade dragged into the muscles of his leg. Price shut the door, standing tall with worry on his mind. Gaz nodded to him, hands out for the laptop - John shook his head.

“Lieutenant.”

The skull mask didn’t look away from his target, the one screaming Russian that he didn’t know anything, stop, you’re hurting me, go to fucking Hell- Soap took the man by his throat, forcing his head back before spitting some choice words at his face. Eyebrows furrowed, Price tried again.

“Mactavish, take over for the Lieutenant.”

The Scot nodded, hand ripping Ghost’s knife out of the man’s thigh - all that filled the room were screams. Ghost finally looked to Price, an enraged look in his eye as he stood and walked towards him.

“What the fuck-”

“I’ve been reassigned.” The Captain spoke with an even tone. Nothing is wrong. Believe me, Simon, believe me. “You will be running this operation until I get this assignment under control.”

It seemed that anger swelled throughout the Lieutenant like a poison, invading every space of the menacing man. “What the fuck did you get reassigned for?”

“Diplomat’s wife and daughter have been kidnapped.” The lie slid off of the tongue like butter, smooth as easy to go down for some people. For others… it’s unsettling. Price was a good liar, it came easy, but his lieutenant was always able to tell. Not always immediately, but he will know sooner or later. “I have to run this. Are you okay doing this assignment-“

Ghost patted his Captain’s shoulder. “Got it under control.”

Price smiled, strained. “Knew I could count on you.” He glanced to the man in the chair; blood poured down his face. He then looked back to his Lieutenant, his right hand man with as straight of face he could muster. “We need to hurry this up. Only 10 minutes remaining.”

“Rog.”

•••

The front door was covered in a tarp, the front porch light on and curtains drawn. John Price felt the cold sickle of Death slide down his spine as he could see blood splatter on a home he once considered sacred. Simon’s home, your home, was under red tape, unknown to anyone the military who wasn’t close to Ghost. Simon created a home from nothing for his child, then opened it for you, then his new little one - God, was John proud of him. Creating a life more than worth living, in a quaint house that should have never been found - even when it was hidden in plain sight. Even the most holy grounds have had blood shed upon them.

Kate knew he was walking up the steps, she always knew, so she opened the door enough for him to slip through. Instantly, he’s met with the remnants of the carnage of your entrance way. Bullet holes and stains of blood decorated the walls and floors, even when they had been mopped and wiped clean. Dents in the walls, the floor - John imagined the beast that was König wrestling some of those fucks to the ground, snapping their necks with the twitch of his wrist. He couldn’t imagine your screams, couldn’t think of little Mellie wailing in terror.

Did you scream? Did they drug you? Hurt you? Did they dare to touch the baby? God, Simon is going to burn the world.

He looked to Kate, there’s a hardened glint in her eye. He handed her the laptop, which hadn’t been scanned yet - it would take too much time, they both knew that. She took it without a word, turning back into the front room. John strode forwards, stepping over the baby gate that was recently put there. He assumed it was to keep Winnie out of the carnage that was the front entrance, he continued on to the living room where he could see Alex sitting on the couch. A little head peered over the side of the couch and as soon as her eyes saw John, she stood at full height with tears instantly pouring down her face.

“Unc’John!”

His heart felt bruised then, the beat of it aching with every stride he took to her. He instantly plucked her from the couch, holding her to his chest as she loudly cried. “Winnie, sweetheart, it’s alright.”

“Where-Where’s Mummy and Mellie?”

John could only bear to mutter a soft, “We’re finding them, sweetheart.” He couldn’t bring himself to say that the bad guys got them, that her daddy couldn’t be the hero she knows she wants him to be because of John’s decision. He was quick to bring her to the kitchen - which seemed untouched compared to the adjacent entryway - and settled her on the countertop, right beside the sink. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet to the right, filling it with water before handing it to Winnie. The five year old took greedy sips, breathing through her nose as tears raced down her face. “Put the water down, love, you need to take some deep breaths.”

He took the glass back, only for her to reach for his hand - he took it, giving it a small squeeze. God, he can’t even remember the last time he had seen his niece cry, let alone sob. Had it been that long since she had gone without you?

“Are you hungry? Tired?” He set the glass on the counter, seeing her hiccup as she tried to catch her breath. He squeezed her hand again, all Winnie could do was let more tears fall down her face.

“Where’s Mummy?” She begged, John’s tongue felt dry. He hated lying to her, he hated not knowing anything, he hated seeing her bawl her eyes out. She didn’t witness anything, thank God, but going without you after not having to for years is terrifying to a little girl. “N’Daddy? Why-Why isn’t Daddy home?” Her hand squeezed back, much harder than she did before. “M’scared.”

“I know, Winnie.” His throat began to itch, he wanted to desperately tell her that everything would be alright - that today was just a bad dream she’ll wake up from tomorrow, that her parents will be here in the morning with her baby sister. He also wanted to scream at God and tell him that it was fucked forcing him into sacrificing Simon’s family for a stupid fucking lead, even if it did lead back to you and Mellie. He didn’t want to have the possibility of telling his niece that neither of her parents were coming home, instead of the off chance of one; he hated delivering condolences, but he wasn’t sure he could do it to a five year old girl who he has watched grow up. “I think we need to go sit down again.” A little nod and she was scooped up into his arms again, held tight as he walked back into the couch; Alex nowhere to be seen, which was fine with John. He took his normal seat at the end of the couch, resting little Winnie on his chest and pulling the blanket from the back of the couch to lay on her. He tucked it in around her stomach, making sure to cover her socked feet before gently petting her hair.

His eyes wandered to the TV, to the stupid blue dog show that she seemed to love - yet she held no interest right now. His eyes darted across the floor, seeing little firetrucks and airplanes and dolls scattered across the floor; then to the little mesh play pen that sat underneath the window, the blinds pulled up enough to where Mellie couldn’t reach, the strings tied up even higher. Soft toys and colorful blocks scattered inside of it, not to mention a few blankets and a pillow or two. Winnie’s been sleeping down here. She’s petrified.

His gaze moved to the ceiling, hand gently patting her head with a calm rhythm. He’d lay here all night, way past when his back would get sore, way past when his legs would cramp, just to give Winnie some sort of stability. He refused to think about the possibility that he may have to follow through with his promise of being her godfather - he just never imagined that it might possibly be just Winnie, not Winnie and Mellie. The thought stirred nausea in his stomach, more than any whiplash, concussion, or shitty helicopter ride could give him. He had already made the silent promise to find you and Mellie, but just for tonight, his whole goal was to make sure Winnie isn’t more scared out of her mind than she already is.

“Unc’John.”

He hummed at that, looking back down her. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Her little chin swiveled to rest on his chest to look up at him, her sweet brown eyes full of tears as she whispered, “I don’t wanna visit my Mummy at-at the cemetery like Mum G-Grace.”

I don’t want to visit my Mummy at the cemetery like Mum Grace.

The words that leave his mouth are soft, spoken like a twisted prayer. “This isn’t like your Mum Grace.” His eyebrows furrowed, petting her hair back with a gentle touch. “I swear it.”

The five year old’s lip quivered, “Promise?”

John doesn’t promise anything, he never makes a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep. He never dared enter the realm of uncertainty, knowing he could fail and hurt someone he cared about. Hell, he rarely makes promises on equipment orders for his men. He doesn’t even promise his mother anything, not since he promised he wouldn’t go into the military and did it anyway. But as he watched his friend’s daughter, his niece and goddaughter, sob quietly on his chest, he felt he had no choice but to nod. “Promise.”

At that, Winnie’s head finally fell to rest on John’s chest, he watched her eyes close as it was evident she had only held out to hear his promise. She had stayed awake to see and hear someone she trusted and knew well, she waited to close her eyes until she knew he would find you, even if she didn’t directly ask him to.

John felt obligated to keep Simon’s family alive since he knew just how much the deaths of his mother, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew nearly killed him, how the death of Grace and embracing fatherhood almost drowned him, and just how much his daughters and wife saved him from saying “Fuck it.” and stepping into enemy fire. Not only that, he felt obligated to you - to find you and Mellie, bring you home, keep Winnie safe too. You had many years left with Simon, John could see it. You couldn’t possibly leave Simon now, not when he needs you the most.

John’s eyes blinked slowly, looking down to the dozing Winnie on his chest and holding her closer, reminiscent of when she was a small toddler sleeping on his chest when he babysat. Fatigue was catching up to him, the hours in the early morning were spent combing through data for the prisoner the 141 now in had in possession, and now - your kidnapping. Simon is a dear friend, John knew him too well to say otherwise. And he also knew that you, Winnie, and Mellie were his whole world - the monster Simon was, the one John had nurtured and cared for to create a weapon, was sitting dormant in the man’s ribcage because of the unconditional love he had received. John could never argue that Simon had “gone soft” because of it, Simon had weeping and infected wounds healed by the soft touch of his wife. The Captain’s previously abused and petrified weapon was now perfect, he was the epitome of the perfect soldier. But with the knowledge of his wife and child’s safety at risk, John knew what the military didn’t.

“Captain.”

There’s a reason your husband wasn’t alerted of your abduction. John Price knew the second he said that you and Melody were missing, Simon would rip his ribcage from his chest with the force of a thousand men to expose the monster underneath. The one you only hear about in movies, the one that is passed down through tongues to generations, the one you fear will come from the shadows to eat you alive. Simon Riley is what the Captain likes to call, the Monster Under Your Bed.

“Captain.”

He grunted a little, looking over his shoulder to a stoic Alex Keller. “She’s almost asleep, Alex-“

“We might have a location.”

taglist: @idkwtftitbh @blingblong55 @local-spidey @sanfransolomitatm @frazie99 @Awilan @cosmoscoffeee @khadeejarh @babygirl-riley @emi-flaces @marini03 @jeannieboys @koshehehe @tutuwuworld @froggy-anon @cxltblood @egdeverauxx @freyjasfenrir @lexi-zsy09 @Hosshihusshi @Isopaine @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @domaniquessidehoe2 @iaur @starsinyoureyes @graciereads @urfavoritepookie @ghost-with-a-teacup @moris666 @ghostwifeyy @ziggy0stardust @live-love-be-unique @magoopi @coririley @lunyyx @sterlizx

#lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium #happiness series #happiness #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x wife!reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x wife!reader #simon riley x f!reader

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dragonnarrative-writes · 1 month

Text

Forming the Pack - Part 1

Autumn Embers Master List

Pheromones aren’t everything, of course, but you’ll get more cohesive group dynamics if everyone has scents that go together. Scent blockers and diffusers are everywhere in common spaces, so it’s not like people who’s scents don’t mesh can’t be around each other. Lots of people with subtler or hard to pin down scents only go au naturel on special occasions with family and their special someone.

Of course, the military is a whole other beast.

Almost every person serving active duty is an alpha, which lends itself to clashes. And alphas, who already tend to have stronger scents, put out even more aggressive pheromones in close proximity with one another. Industrial strength scent diffusers can only do so much. It results in proximity packs forming, alphas who are scent compatible spending more time with each other.

The 141 doesn’t form because of scent compatibility. When Price finds Simon and forms the task force, he doesn’t much care about what they each smell like. Their scents being on wildly different parts of the spectrum is better than if they were too close, Price reasons. His gear smells a bit spicy, Simon’s always has an earthy undertone. It’s easy to avoid squabbling, and only made easier by the way Simon readily assumes his position as John’s second. No muss, no fuss.

The first year passes. It’s hard work, but Simon makes it undeniably simpler. The Ghost has a presence that demands deference from the temporary members of the task force. And because Ghost follows his captain, that deference extends to Price. The two times someone had tried to upset the balance, Simon had reacted with such swift ferocity that Price hadn’t known there was a problem before it was resolved with a neck under a boot.

“Stand down, Ghost,” Price says around his cigar, the third time.

“'S soon as he acknowledges his superiors, Skipper,” Ghost rumbles, staring down at the sergeant who’s face is going an interesting shade of purple with shame and a lack of oxygen. “Yield, corporal.” The sergeant frantically taps Ghost’s boot. Ghost gives him just enough room to heave a breath, and snarls down, “Yield to the Captain.”

“Captain, I yield,” the young man gasps.

“You ever flout orders again, I’ll kill you myself,” Ghost growls.

After that, the mission had gone smoothly.

Days later, it’s just the two of them again, walking home from the pub. It’s a nice enough night for it, and they’re both too jumpy to call a car. Simon follows without comment, just lights a cigarette and falls into John’s wake, like always.

Four blocks from the base, Simon says, “Gotta piss.”

John snorts. “What, you didn’t go before we left? Hold it.”

“Alright,” Simon drawls. Without breaking stride, he lights another cigarette.

Of course, within another block, John becomes too aware of his own bladder. If Simon hadn’t said anything, he could probably have made it. Annoyed, he steps into an alley and behind a dumpster. His nose does not appreciate the assault on his senses, but he’s a soldier, he’s smelled worse. Simon stands guard at mouth of the alley as he does his business.

When he emerges, he tips his head. “Goin’?”

Simon quirks an eyebrow and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Am I?”

Price hums, takes in Simon’s relaxed posture. Without the skull covered balaclava, he’s softer. Not civilian soft - he’s still almost 2 meters of alpha, hardened by military training and torture. But where most military As balk at taking orders when they’re not in the field, Simon looks for ways to let Price lead.

Simon will do what ever John tells him. It’s a realization that probably shouldn’t thrill him the way it does.

John waves him into the alley. “Be quick about it.”

Without comment, Simon hands his half-finished cigarette over and steps into the alley. John contemplates it as Simon does his business. He prefers cigars, but he takes a drag and tells himself it’s just to keep it lit.

But when Simon re-emerges, John doesn’t hand it back. And Simon doesn’t ask.

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #poly 141 #omegaverse #autumn embers verse #simon ghost riley #captain john price #manic pixie dream ghost #price is right #(in my heart) simon likes a hierarchy #but he never wants to be at the very top of it #(this was part of a larger document that has been sitting in my files for some time)#(posting to remind myself that I don't have to be perfect)#(i'm allowed to put my own stuff on my blog even if it's not finished)

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solarmorrigan · 5 months

Note

May I request a thrupple for the angst quote prompt?

“Please I just… really need space right now.”

With ChissyxStevexEddie. If not the thrupple then a pair of your choice from those three characters.

Hello! I'm sorry, I didn't quite manage to work Chrissy into this one. Honestly, this particular fill argued with me so much I'm kind of glad I even got Eddie and Steve in there. I hope this is okay, anyway!

[post-S3 Steddie AU; CW: Deals with the aftermath of torture, heavily discusses non-consensual touching (not inherently sexual, not between Eddie and Steve), contains the theme of trying to help someone through trauma. This is very soft, though, I promise]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

The Steve Harrington who comes home to Eddie from the hospital on the fifth of July is not the same one who had kissed him goodbye before his shift at that shitty ice cream parlor two days prior.

He’s still Eddie’s Steve, of course he is, but he’s also – he’s withdrawn, and he’s jumpy, and he’s so, so hurt.

Eddie had seen the aftermath of that fight with Hargrove (who hadn’t? Though Eddie had even had the privilege of watching the last of the bruises fade from up close as he and Steve became friends), but this is worse. Eddie can’t articulate how at first, but it is.

At least back in November, Steve had been able to talk about how he’d gotten his injuries; this time, he has to hide behind some fucked up cover story – because bull-fucking-shit had he gotten hurt by falling debris in a freak mall fire.

Debris hadn’t left marks like fucking boot prints on Steve’s back and chest. It hadn’t bruised and rubbed his wrists red and raw. It hadn’t left the distinct shape of fingers in purple and blue, wrapped around his arms on both sides.

Eddie had tried exactly once to address this, when he’d first seen the extent of the damage hidden under Steve’s shirt. He’d tried to demand answers, tried to get out of Steve who had laid their fucking hands on him, but Steve had gone grey under his bruises and shook his head.

“It was a fire, Eddie. Nothing else. I need you to understand that,” Steve had said, more serious than Eddie had ever heard him, his one good eye wide with urgent anxiety – with something almost like fear. “It was just a fire.”

Eddie hasn’t brought it up again.

It makes him burn to know that someone had done this to Steve and that he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. It makes him want to scream, it makes him want to find whoever had been responsible and make them hurt, but more than anything–

More than anything, it terrifies him.

Because this Steve is different – his Steve is different now, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

It scares him to see Steve slinking around the trailer like it isn’t his home (more of a home than his parents’ house has ever been). It scares him when he forgets that Steve’s left is his bad side and that if he comes up on him too fast, he’ll startle the shit out of him. It scares him that Steve has a bad side. It scares him when he reaches for him, unthinkingly going for the contact that Steve has always been so hungry for, has been so comforted by in the past, and instead Steve flinches away.

Eddie has never really had to take care of someone else, and he feels like he’s fucking it up at every turn. He feels like he’s hurting Steve even more, that he’s no better than whoever did this to him, no better than Billy fucking Hargrove, no better than Steve’s parents; he’s afraid he’s going to ruin things, break Steve beyond repair, because he doesn’t know how to care for this new version of him.

The only thing that gives him hope that he isn’t doing too badly is the fact that Steve is staying. He still wants to be in Eddie’s company, still reaches out sometimes and tentatively slides his hand over Eddie’s while they’re watching TV together, still shares Eddie’s bed at night. He’s been stubbornly insisting that he’s fine, he’s fine, he just needs time to heal, but beyond a refusal to admit that anything is wrong, he still trusts Eddie to help when he’s not at his best.

Of course, no matter what he says, Steve isn’t actually fine, and even if that weren’t made apparent just by looking at him, it becomes abundantly clear when the lights go out and they lie down to sleep – when the nightmares hit.

Sometimes, they’re small things: quickened breath and inaudible murmuring, furrowed brows that eventually smooth out as Steve is released back into deeper, more peaceful sleep.

Sometimes, though, they’re loud and sharp and violent.

Sometimes, like tonight.

Steve is half twisted in the sheets, struggling in a way his broken ribs really can’t afford, arms flailing and jerking as he tries to fight something off, as he mutters no and stop and please. Eddie sort of wants to cry, thinking about what could be making Steve beg, but more than anything he wants to wake Steve up.

He shakes him by the shoulder, dodging the jerk of his arm, and hopes he can call louder than whatever’s going on in Steve’s head.

“Steve. Steve, c’mon, wake up,” Eddie shakes Steve again and Steve jerks away with a wounded noise. “It’s just a nightmare, baby, come on. Steve!”

Steve’s eyes snap open with a sharp gasp, like he’s been holding his breath, but his gaze is still hazy. He’s awake, but he isn’t present, and he immediately starts shoving at Eddie’s hands, trying to scoot away on the bed.

“No, no, get off– get off me!” he shouts, managing to make it as far as the edge of the bed before the tangle of the sheets holds him in place.

“Steve it’s– it’s just me, it’s Eddie, it was a nightmare, you’re–” as reassuring as Eddie is trying to be, he can’t help the distressed crack in his voice. “Baby, you’re safe, I fucking swear.”

Finally, Steve stops struggling. He lies against the mattress for a moment, breathing heavily, before he ventures a small, “Eddie?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m right here,” Eddie promises.

He shuffles closer on his knees, reaching out for Steve, hoping to comfort or soothe or ground or something, but Steve flinches away, tossing up an arm to halt Eddie in his tracks with a quickly barked, “No.”

“Steve,” Eddie breathes out, and he doesn’t mean to sound so fucking broken, but he should be the one person Steve is never afraid of, and he’s fucking that up.

“I… Please, I just…” Steve stutters out, still catching his breath, trying to sit himself up against the wall that the head of the bed is pressed to, “…really need space right now. Just– just leave me alone for a while.”

And all at once, even if Eddie knows nothing else, he knows that isn’t right.

“I don’t think you should be alone right now, sweetheart.”

Steve, now propped up against the wall, lets his head hang with a heavy sigh. “Eddie…”

“No, look, I’m not–” Eddie scrambles off the bed and moves across the small room, until he’s got his back to the opposite wall. “I’m not gonna touch you, I’ll stay over here, you don’t even have to look at me, but I’m not going to leave you by yourself.”

Steve had never wanted to be left alone when things were bad before. When he was alone, his anxiety would consume him; without the anchor of another person, it would carry him away, and Eddie is certain the same thing will happen now if he leaves Steve to deal with the aftermath of his nightmare in solitude.

For a long moment, Steve stares at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears in the low light of the bedroom, but he eventually looks away again. He says nothing, just curling in on himself in a way that must be hell on his ribs as he leans back against the wall, and Eddie takes that as the best permission he’s going to get.

He slides down the wall and sits on the floor, his knees pulled up in front of him in a loose mirror of Steve’s position. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, but he’s there, and he has to believe that’s worth something.

It startles him when, some thirty minutes in (probably the longest Eddie’s ever been able to sit in silence without something to occupy him), Steve speaks.

“I can still feel their hands on me.”

His voice is a quiet rasp, but the words hit Eddie like hailstones. He wants to ask who, he wants to demand what, but he knows if he says anything now, Steve will clam up, so Eddie keeps his mouth shut, and he waits.

“Even before they– before they started hitting me.” Steve isn’t looking at Eddie, instead addressing the wall, gaze distant and unblinking. “They grabbed me and… searched me, cuffed me, they kept – putting their hands on my face, grabbing my hair, and I couldn’t…”

Couldn’t stop them.

Eddie feels a little sick.

Steve is quiet for so long after that that Eddie begins to wonder if he should say something, but Steve breaks the silence before he has to figure out what.

“Out of everything, I don’t know why that… why that left the biggest impression, but I–” he breaks off, turning and finally looking at Eddie. “I want to feel you again, but any time someone touches me, I can only see them.”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s going to survive this. His heart is going to fucking break.

He needs to do something, he needs to help, and maybe he has no clue what he’s doing, but this is his Steve, and he has to try.

Slowly, Eddie levers himself up off the floor and moves towards the door, where he hits the switch for the overhead lights, making the entire room go bright.

Steve winces at the sudden change, turning a wary look on Eddie as he approaches the bed.

“Eddie, what…”

“Just– just trust me. Let me try,” Eddie says, soft and earnest, holding Steve’s gaze as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Please?”

It takes a long moment, but Steve gives a hesitant nod, and Eddie scoots closer. He leaves space between them, still, but he gets close enough that he could reach out and take Steve’s hands – which is exactly what he intends to do.

“Look at me,” Eddie says, quiet and firm. “Just look at me, nowhere else.”

Steve does as he’s told, and Eddie manages a smirk.

“Just pretend I’m the most interesting thing in the room,” he tries to tease. “Like there’s nothing else you’d ever wanna look at.”

“Don’t have to pretend,” Steve murmurs, eyes locked on Eddie’s face, and Eddie’s smile melts into something more genuine.

“There you are,” he says softly.

He reaches for Steve’s hands, and slowly, Steve unwraps them from where he’s been clutching firm around his legs, and lets Eddie touch him.

His hands are cold in spite of the summer heat that invades the trailer no matter how hard their crappy little air conditioner works, and they’re trembling slightly, but Steve doesn’t pull back. He stares right at Eddie and holds on.

Eddie brings one hand up, cradled in his own, and presses a gentle kiss to the knuckles. The bruises there have already faded (their presence had been the least distressing out of all the damage; Eddie likes knowing that Steve had at least gotten a few hits in), but he attends carefully to each knuckle, anyway. He kisses the back of Steve’s hand, feeling a little like a courtly lord from one of his own campaigns. Steve is starting to look at him like he might be one.

The bruises around Steve’s wrists are taking longer to heal; the damage is deeper, and the colors still paint livid rainbow circles on his skin (his face is going to take longer, still; Steve says the doctor told him he’d lucked out with a minor fracture to his orbital bone that will heal on its own with time. Eddie looks at the discoloration there and feels like he has some choice words for the doctor). Eddie moves his attention up, brushing his lips featherlight across the top of Steve’s wrist before turning his hand over and paying the same devotion to the underside.

“Eddie…” Steve breathes, and Eddie presses one last kiss to the palm of Steve’s hand.

“It’s me,” Eddie promises, bringing Steve’s other hand up now. “Watch me, sweetheart, it’s just me.”

He keeps eye contact as he lavishes Steve’s left hand with the same attention he’d given the right, and it occurs to him that he’s been inside the boy in front of him, but this is somehow the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

Eddie doesn’t move beyond Steve’s wrists, doesn’t push any more than he already has, and Steve’s eyes are still on him by the time he finishes, wide and soft and glassy.

“Okay?” Eddie asks softly, dropping his hands to hold both of Steve’s in his lap.

Slowly, Steve nods. He looks away at last, turning his eyes to their joined hands, and tightens his fingers until he’s holding onto Eddie properly.

They sit like that for a long time, quiet and close, until Eddie can feel himself flagging and he can see Steve’s eyelids drooping.

“Let’s try to get some more sleep,” Eddie says around a stifled yawn. “You do need your beauty rest, after all.”

Steve laughs, a little huff of a thing, and casts a quick glance up at Eddie. “Can– can we leave the light on?” He rushes the words out, like he hates to even ask, but Eddie only nods.

“Whatever you need, Steve,” he promises – and he means it.

Maybe he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he’s not going anywhere until he figures it out.

And when Steve settles down beside him in bed, and scooches just close enough that their arms are pressed together, Eddie figures maybe he’s not doing too badly, after all.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #eddiesteve #stranger things #solar wrote #answers from solar #anonymous

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eco-lite · 6 months

Text

Finally making more progress on the pile of ST books I own but have yet to read. Here’s some good stuff from The Vulcan Academy Murders by Jean Lorrah.

[Image ID: The cover of the book The Vulcan Academy Murders. The background has lots of dark purple tones. In the foreground, Spock stands with a phaser pointed at a Vulcan creature with green skin, a cat-like face, a fin down its back, sharp claws, and a long tail. The creature is hissing down at Spock from a rock. End ID]

First of all, what is going on with this cover? Nothing like this happens in the book.

[Text ID: “Kirk recalled that all male Vulcans were married—had to be—and glanced at Spock. His First Officer, however, was very busy inspecting the almost un-touched wine in his glass.” End ID]

Interesting interesting. 👀

[Text ID: “Kirk had been given Spock’s room (underlined red by me) and McCoy the guest room in Sarek’s house—a house far from anything Kirk would ever have imagined as the home Spock had grown up in. He had envisioned either a sterile, unadorned ‘environment,’ or a castlelike ancestral residence. Instead, the house on the outskirts of ShiKahr was a simple single-family dwelling.” End ID]

This book is way too casual about Kirk sleeping in Spock’s childhood bedroom. Also, there’s no mention of where Spock is sleeping while they’re there???

[Text ID: “He remembered forcing Spock to control his emotions when he was five, and his schoolfellows taunted him for being ‘different.’ Under his father’s tutelage, Spock had refused to cry when the others shut him out of their games, calling him ‘Earther’ and ‘half-breed.’ Amanda had hidden her tears from their son, and Sarek had hidden his anger. Or had he? Perhaps I directed it at my son instead, he realized. He had intended to prepare Spock for whatever lack of acceptance he would face in life. And the message Spock received was that his own father did not accept him as he was, had to mold him into something he deemed acceptable.” End ID]

We love reflecting on our past mistakes. 👏🏼 We love character growth. 👏🏼

[Text ID: “’A computer cannot lie,’ said Spock. ‘Nevertheless, this one is giving false information.’ ‘Why don’t you try playing chess with it?’ came a voice from the doorway. Sarek turned to find Leonard McCoy, bouncing on his toes and grinning.” End ID]

I love them. I can picture this so perfectly.

[Text ID: “’What dost thou know of Surak?’ she asked finally—but her voice spoke more of perplexity than challenge. ‘What everyone knows: he was the founder of Vulcan philosophy. I know he is a personal hero to my friend Spock, the way Abraham Lincoln, from human history, is to me.’” End ID]

Kirk will bring up Abe Lincoln whenever he has a chance. That’s canon now.

[Text ID: “’You are not only anything, Spock. You are more, not less, because of your dual heritage. It is fruitless to wish now that I had made that clearer to you when you were a child.’ ‘You wanted me to be Vulcan.’ ‘That is true,’ Sarek agreed. ‘And you are Vulcan, representative of IDIC in its fullest sense.’ Spock studied his father. ‘You never put it to me that way. The last time you and I spoke as father and son, before I went to Starfleet Academy, you reminded me of how important it was that I think of myself as Vulcan. Do you remember your words, father?’ Sarek remembered. ‘I am Vulcan by birth. Your mother is Vulcan by choice. You are Vulcan by both birth and choice.’ ‘And then I disappointed you by making a different choice.’ Sarek searched his memory, trying to recover the logical reason for what now seemed completely irrational. Finally, he said simply, ‘I was wrong.’” End ID]

Yes! Let’s talk about our feelings! Let’s resolve those daddy issues!

[Text ID: “He went back to his room—Spock’s room, really. Kirk had brought with him a sturdy suit and boots, for Spock had suggested they might go camping in the mountains after the summer heat abated. (Last sentence underlined in red by me.) He put on the boots and the trousers to the suit, but decided the heavy shirt would be far too hot—" End ID]

Spock wanted to take them camping. 🥹

[Text ID: “‘He will recover, though?’ asked Spock. ‘Yeah—you can see him later, Spock,’ said the doctor. ‘He’s gonna be in considerable pain—you’re probably the only person he’ll be able to stand. Your son would’ve made a good doctor,’ he added to Sarek. ‘I don’t know how he does it, but he’s really good with people in pain.’ Spock’s eyebrows shot up at the unexpected compliment from the man Sarek usually saw him trade barbs with. Then Leonard left them to go back to his patient, and Spock turned to Sarek. ‘May I ask you something, Father?’ ‘What is it, Spock?’ ‘When Mother became conscious, you called her…?’ ‘Beloved.’” End ID]

Spock being very concerned about Kirk’s injuries. Bones saying Spock is the only person Kirk would tolerate while in pain. Spock asking his father about expressing love for an outworlder. It’s a lot.

#the vulcan academy murders #jean lorrah #star trek #star trek novels #star trek tos #star trek books #spirk

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mascindulgence · 2 years

Photo

toxic fugitive roadtrip rubyklaasje tweet has never left my mindscape

image description under read more:

[Image description.The first image depicts Klaasje and Ruby from video game disco elysium standing next to each other with disgruntled expressions. Klaasje has choppy hair that is blonde at the tips and brown at the roots. She has bangs covering one eye and hair tucked behind one ear. She is sporting dark brown combat boots, faded blue jeans, a stained white t-shirt and a brown flannel shirt that is hanging off one shoulder. There is text around her with arrows reading: “badly cut”, “outgrown roots” and “Ruby’s old clothes”. Ruby stands next to her. Her hairstyle is reminiscent from the game but her hair is blonde at the roots with splashes of pink, light blue and purple. She has a blue headset hanging around her neck, a dark grey tank top that is slightly cropped, black fingerless gloves, dark green dungarees with the straps hanging down the sides of her legs and brown hiking boots. Her arms are covered in geometric tattoos and light body hair. She is holding onto the shoulder straps of a backpack. There is text around her with an arrow pointing to her hair reading “badly bleached”. There is text between the two that is pointing with two arrows to the both of them reading: “mutual hatred”. The second image is a screenshot of a tweet from user “yimmygee” with the display name “they got hoes in yharnam?” the tweet reads: “my dream for a disco elysium sequel/epilogue is klaasje and ruby running into each other as fugitives and having the worst sex together in ruby’s hotwired lorry covered in pinup film posters that klaasje keeps slyly mocking while they’re on the most resentful road trip imaginable”. End ID.]

#ruby the instigator #klaasje amandou #disco elysium #rubyklaasje #ruby disco elysium #klaasje disco elysium #miss oranje disco dancer #this tweet has been vibrating inside my head for 4 months i love it so #also an excuse for me to draw gnc klaasje with her fresh new haircut (bad) and fresh new style (out of convenience)#art #my art #nsft

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itsabouttimex2 · 25 days

Text

Yandere Alphabet: Red Son

Authority: Do they see themselves as above their obsession?

Yes, yes, and yes. A thousand times over. Red Son’s pride is unmitigatable, an ever-searing pillar of his person. Y/N is viewed as a silly mortal pet, with a collar to boot. Though his opinion of you might eventually improve to seeing you as something of a friend, it still wouldn’t be great.

Bread: Can they cook or bake? Is their obsession responsible for their own food?

So long as they don’t injure themselves further than a mild burn or cut, Y/N is allowed free roam in the kitchen, allowed to make themselves what they please. Good behavior earns them a little fridge all to themselves, stocked with healthy snacks and ingredients they enjoy- Red Son can be generous, when he wants to be.

Not that he won’t steal from your plate if the things you cook look good enough. In a way, it elevates your status with him, sharing food with you as family would.

If you do get hurt too bad, Red revokes your access to the stove, oven, and knives. He’ll starts to make your meals for you, with the addendum that you help with the non-dangerous stages of food prep. Of course, what’s actually happening is that he’s making extra portions of what he likes, then giving it to you. Let’s hope you like spicy food.

Cruentus- How do they respond to Y/N being hurt, both slightly and severely?

Immediate scorching of whoever dared to lay their hands on property of the Demon Bull Family ensues, and then continues until their flesh has carbonized. Red Son will clean and bind your wounds with a firm hand, viciously scolding you for daring to put yourself in a position where you might be harmed in the first place. “My family has a reputation to maintain, you numbskull! If anyone sees you damaged, what will they think of us?!”

This lecture will occur even if the perpetrator broke into the Demon Bull fortress and smashed down the door of your room to get to you. After some time has passed, he’ll feel slightly bad for blaming you, and bring you something sugary to drink.

If the wound is minor, like a cut or scratch, Red Son will scoff at the weakness of your skin and ignore it, mocking you as ‘whiny’ and ‘pathetic’. If the issue persists, he’ll steal a few high quality first aid kits from a hospital and throw them onto your shelf.

Disengage- What’s their response to being ignored?

Laughter. Mocking, howling laughter. And then an immediate removal of privileges and freedom until they ‘grow up’, in Red’s own words.

Enclosure: Where do they keep Y/N? Do they have a place for them at all?

In the Demon Bull Family’s Fortress. Y/N has a section in Red Son’s room all to themselves, with a little mattress and small shelf to fit several personal possessions. During the beginning of their captivity, Y/N will be shown a length of chain bolted to the wall with a shackle on one end- a warning that freedom is now a privilege, not a right. You’ll have to wear it all through the night for many months on end if you make any escape attempts.

Facade: Are they good at hiding their true intentions?

No. But that’s only because doesn’t even try. The most he’ll do is lie to his parents about the depth of his obsession- and they’re willing to believe (for a time) that he merely wanted an amusing little pet to keep him company.

Garment: Do they take control of Y/N’s clothes?

Yes, to a stifling extreme. Red Son will torch the entirety of your wardrobe in order to replace it with something more suited to him and the tastes of his family- expect lots of red and purple. Secretly, Red enjoys matching with you. He might spare a few pieces of your clothing from his fire if you argue to their sentimental value. Also, he’ll do your hair, likely in a way that resembles his mother’s style. He might even force you to grow it out so that he can pin it up in twin ‘bull horns’.

Again, he forces you to wear a collar stamped with the family insignia (pictured here twice, the Chinese word for ‘bull’, written in bone script), but good behavior will have him upgrade you to a large pendant instead.

Also, you’re getting a bindi/tattoo like his- but only after he’s shifted you from ‘pet’ to ‘sibling’.

Handicap: How do they handle Y/N being or becoming disabled?

Unfortunately, a disabled Y/N in the clutches of Red Son is very likely to be the victim of humiliation and dehumanization- for a time. As his affection and care for you grows, the blade of his pendulum swings. He switches quickly from constant mockery and boundary stomping to stifling care and strict restriction. One day he’ll be kicking your crutch or hiding your anxiety meds while you panic, the next he’s demanding you to relegate yourself to the constant use of a wheelchair and punishing you for not taking your medicine where he can see it.

Intertwine- How physical are they? Do they enjoy skinship and touch?

Red Son is pretty reserved in terms of touch- he’ll accept minor displays of physical affection, but rarely initiates. When he does, you can expect condescending headpats and lots of hair brushing. If you’re feeling particularly down, he’ll muster up a half-hearted hug, awkwardly thumping your back.

Jaunt: Are they willing to take Y/N out in public? Where do they go?

No. Not unless they’re willing to be led around by the aforementioned shackle, the chains rattling with each step taken. However, Red Son might teleport them to somewhere isolated and empty for a few minutes, allowing them a little bit of fresh air as a quick reward for compliance and obedience.

Kindness: What brings out the best in this yandere?

The Crystal Heir AU leaves him extremely protective towards Y/N, acknowledging their trauma and suffering- and he works to be a better person for them.

Alternatively, when you get very sick- Red Son will stay beside you all the while, stuffing you with water, medicine, and hand-made soup. Having you completely vulnerable only serves to make him softer, given that you can’t fight or sass him- he might even cuddle you once or twice, letting you rest against his ever-warm body.

Limitation: What holds them back? Work? Family obligations? Physical weakness?

His family’s goals and ambitions are always at the fore of Red’s mind, a perpetual desire to please them. Given the time he has to spend planning or tinkering, Y/N does have time to themselves- enough to plan or attempt an escape, if they can muster the courage.

Morals: What lines are they not willing to cross?

Any form of ‘rigorous’ discipline or outright abuse. Red Son doesn’t want to waste his time doing something like caning your thighs or whipping you hands, and wouldn’t ever beat you outright. You might get slapped on the back of the head or receive a sharp swat on your nose- but he wouldn’t really go any further. Also, no deliberately putting Y/N in danger. He’s just not risking it.

Nausea: Can they tend to an illness, or would they rely on a doctor?

He handles it himself. As mentioned before, Red Son plies you with water, soup, and medicine. He’ll restrict you to his own bed, sleeping in the guest room as you recover- and he’ll sneak in during the night to wipe the sweat from your brow and refill your glass.

Obcordate: What reminds them of Y/N?

Food and drink with warming (but not spicy) spices, like cookies with a dash of ginger and cinnamon. Stray dogs that would be better off taken in hand and brought somewhere safe. Any little flower that’s blooming all alone.

Pacify: How do they comfort Y/N? Do they even bother trying?

Jokes aside, he’s not too great- but there’ll be some mild, concerned effort. Maybe just lay your head in his lap and let him play with your hair- it’s more comfortable for him trying to give you a hug or pep talk.

Queue: Do they have something of equal or greater importance to Y/N?

His family. Red’s obsession with Y/N will never come before his love for his parents, even after they find themselves forcibly ‘adopted’.

Redemption: Could they grow out of their obsession and make amends with Y/N?

Unlikely, but not impossible. After several months/years spent spent with them, Red Son will grow more protective and less cruel, but his obsession never really fades.

Sobriquet- What nicknames do for they have for their obsession?

Many mocking and insulting epithets are bestowed upon Y/N, the most frequent being, you guessed it- peasant. If Red Son grows particularly angry, he’ll get more threatening with his wording, referring to you as ‘kindling’ or ‘firewood’.

After a few months spent in captivity, he might refer to you as little sister (妹妹) or little brother (弟弟). These moments are fleeting, but impossibly soft and genuine- and after a few months or even years spent acclimating to your new life, you might see fit to call him older brother (哥哥).

Troop: How many people do they obsess over? Is that obsession spread equally?

Just one- Y/N.

Underdog: Who‘s on the yandere’s side? Would they help out?

His parents are massive enablers, unfortunately. So what if their son has a little mortal pet? They want to take over the world- Red Son taking one of the mortals that they wish to subjugate as a slave/pet/companion does not bother them at all.

Though they do find you to be very cute- especially when Red Son forces you to dress and style yourself like a member of their family.

Vocalize: How do they justify their actions?

Red doesn’t bother- he doesn’t need justification. He wanted Y/N, so he took them. The end, with no regret.

White Whale: Why do they pursue Y/N? What caused this obsessive love?

Probably they do one or two nice things for him and he snatches them up, not unlike a human adopting a cute and friendly stray. The bulk of his obsession comes later, after he’s spent enough time to start caring about you.

Xanthous: What do they really want?

Approval, attention, and affection. Red Son switches from desperately seeking his father’s pride and love to demanding to have yours, finding it a much easier goal to achieve.

Youth: How old is Y/N in comparison to them? Younger, same age, or older?

Given that they’re almost invariably a mortal he finds amusing, Y/N is much younger.

Zealous: Do they pursue Y/N doggedly, or are they more laidback and casual with their approach?

Red Son is extremely casual the majority of the time- he’s entitled and prideful to the point that he sees nothing wrong with what he’s doing. Why would he be anything but relaxed?

Author’s Choice 1: What do Princess Iron Fan and Demon Bull King think of Y/N?

Iron Fan thinks of you as adorable when Red Son styles your hair like hers, and might even throw some of her old clothes your way- they’re abraded to softness and cozy to sleep in, offering some comfort during long nights. She’s not too opposed to having you as part of the family, even if she has to help her son “train” you into obedience and politeness.

The Demon Bull King uses you as practice for his future rule over mortals, making demands of you. He chuckles as you scurry about to fulfill them, trying hard to avoid his ire. Occasionally he’ll lift you by the scruff of your shirt, examining you closely. It’s fun to watch you yelp and kick, fearful that he’ll drop or crush you- he won’t actually do either, to his credit. It’s just funny to him that you think he might.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Red Son #Red Son #Yandere Alphabet

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devilheartsblog · 27 days

Text

Black Circle Musa AU (design & concept art)

The AU is in the name: Musa joins the Black Circle and becomes a Dark Fairy. Unlike Bloom she isn’t under a spell and joined them for her own reasons.

There she is!

I wanted Musa in this AU to be a mix of the Black Circle and a Dark Fairy. She’s an equal in the AU so I wanted her to have the same vibe as them. I had a hard time putting in red so when looking at the dark fairy references they leaned into purples, pinks and blues, which ended up making Musa’s look much better.

I wanted the wings to be smaller and there’s actually a reason behind it. Since she has dark magic it grants her the power to fly, hence why witches and wizards can fly without wings. But she’s also a fairy so she needs the wings for momentum. I love the purple wings sark fairies have so I kept it that way. Made the wings look like smaller versions of her Enchantix wings shape-wise.

First Concept:

This was the first design I came up with. Now usually I like the first design but I was struggling with her bangs and the outfit was too simple both in terms of the wizards and the Winx character design since general (I know about the later seasons’ dresses and yes I think they’re hella basic)

The wings and back are the things that stayed consistent.

Hair changes + Weapon

This one is less of design concept and more like light adjustments. I ended up keeping her regular straight bangs instead of the side-swept ones. I really wanted her hair to look like her season 3 cut because I miss it so much. Plus it could be her going back to being more tomboyish and hard on the outside rather than the softer version we got in season 4.

I feel like since she’s part of the Black Circle she needs her own specialty so she can summon a microphone as either sing into it for sound waves or swing it around for some gnarly damage

I also changed her top to have a zipper thing and become shorter.

Colors and cape (+ tiny Gantlos)

Aw look tiny Gantlos!

Anyway I decided to combine the zipper and the triangle cutout (don’t ask me how the zipper works, maybe it’s now a line) and I like it quite a bit. Her back is still exposed for her wings.

This is the point where I started messing with the colors as well. It was pretty hard combining red and purple without her looking a bit odd. I mostly envisioned her with Blue and purple gloves but I wanted red to be her main color.

And the bottom right is my favorite drawing. I like the pose and she’s showing off one of her powers. I was scrolling through some bocaloid shorts and it inspired me to give her fishnets. I also drew her boots and the design came together (except the colors whoch I figured out later)

That’s it for now, I’ll talk about the lore later. Thanks for reading!

#art #digital art #illustration #fanart #winx club #winx au #winx club musa #wizards of the black circle #here’s an AU I need to write about #i just really want a goth Musa man #she would rock the fairy hunter’s aesthetic ok?

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

Note

Hiii can you write anything where like the reader is Aemond’s older sister, she’s kinda a bitch to him (in the way older sisters always are, not like vile just rude and sometimes mean but like in a “only I can make fun of him” way), but they’re betrothed and it’s their wedding night and she’s nervous

Lmfao I love Aemond and characterizing his persona of I Am The Toughest Targ Ever But I Am Socially Awkward. Thanks for the request, hope you enjoy xoxo

Get a load of this guy!

Rating: Explicit at the end. Other than that SFW

Tags: Teasing, Incest, Frottage, pnv!sex, Aemond’s religious issues, Aemond’s social issues, targaryen!Sister, background sibling stuff aka Aegon is still an idiot, she’s mean but loves him

You poked him in the shoulder in court. More of a jab really. Aemond’s sulky purple eyes glared at you. He mouthed, “What?” You smirked and leaned down, as he hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet and whispered, “Bow a bit harder to father and you might lick his boots next time.”

Aegon dissolved into a fit of snickers, hiding his smile behind a ringed hand. Helaena held hands with mother, staring off into the distance. Aemond grimaced and hissed, “Very funny. At least I show some decency.” He held his pointed chin up high, but you could see the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

You grinned and shoved him, earning a sharp look from mother.

You sat with your father and Lord Strong, watching Aemond twirl his sword around. You had to admit he had…grown into a handsome young man. He was your betrothed. At some point it might’ve been Jacaerys, but that ended long ago with the loss of your brother’s eye. Seeing your nephew gawk at the much more skilled, handsome, and elegant Aemond made you not question the betrothal one bit.

“Nephews? Have you come to train,” he called with that dead serious look he always held.

The boys looked apt to soil their breeches. You would too, especially if you were little Luke. They stared in shock. You smirked and leaned over the stone, shouting, “Better run lads! Aemond here is of the touchy sort!” That got a smile on their face but a sword pointed up at you.

Your brother frowned deeply, brow furrowed. He sourly replied, “You’re a very becoming jester sister!” You shrugged and laughed, Viserys’ own laughing dissolving into a haggard cough. Aemond snapped back around to get settled by Ser Criston. He was so easy to rile up, regardless of how Aemond tried to act calm and collected.

Still, he was doing better than drunkard Aegon. Drunkard Aegon was entertaining in his own ways, but no fit for a king. Everyone knew that. You hoped Rhaenyra could take the throne and that was that. Emphasis on hoped.

Your mother had informed you that the wedding was to be rushed forward. She claimed both you and your brother were past age to procreate, since Hel and Aegon had already pushed out three. You raised a brow, wondering if Alicent considered she was 19 when she had Aegon. Aemond was eighteen and you twenty. Plenty of time.

“No more questions my child,” Alicent said.

You nodded, flexing your fingers to stare at your nails. It was something to focus on. Viserys’ ill health was the real reason. You opened your mouth to speak, earning a smack to the hand.

Still you uttered.

“Aemond know?”

“Yes.”

Fuck.

Aegon was plastered. Again. But that was perfect for you to get any information on your soon-to-be forever twerp’s sexual history. He lazed on a bench in Maegor’s Holdfast, stinking of the streets and sex. You wrinkled your nose and kicked him in the thigh.

He spluttered and hazy violet eyes stared up at you. Aegon sleepily slurred, “Whahyowan?” Rolling your eyes you sat down and tucked your legs to the side. You probably smelt of dragon, hopefully the dullard wouldn’t puke. Petting back his wild locks you said, “You took Aemond to a brothel, yes?”

His pouty lips curled into a tipsy grin, manic laugh bubbling out into the high ceiling. Aegon mused, “Yea! Like a’lil maid’n!” You moved your gloved hand in jerks to get him to keep talking. Aegon sat up a little and hummed, “Ya’ scared Aem’s gonna be impotent?” He shrugged, “Refused ta’ go back w’me but he can get the job done, dear sis!”

You flatly stared while the prince giggled and slapped his knee in hysteria.

“Ha-ha very funny Aegon. Good news he’ll be able to get it up,” you poked him, “Unlike someone I know!” Aegon gaped for a moment before laughing harder, clutching his stomach. You couldn’t help but join in with him, he had always kept you laughing.

A couple days before the wedding you approached Aemond in the library. He was pouring over scrolls per usual, one eye intense and rapidly moving across the words. He stiffened and sat up, primly addressing you, “Princess.”

You hopped onto the wooden table, placing your hand over his readings. Aemond huffed, crossing his arms and pursing fine lips. In an exasperated tone he asked, “Will you drop the terrorizing older sibling act when we are to be wed?” You almost laughed in his face before registering the tone of uncertainty, the dead honesty in his eye.

Slowly, softly, and quite nervously you placed your hand over his much bigger one. Aemond inhaled sharply, tilting his blonde head away. You sighed, “You know I mean nothing by teasing you right? It’s just fun to see the golden child get flustered.”

Aemond narrowed his one eye, lovely hair swaying as he snapped his head up, but didn’t move his hand away. He stated, “Golden child. Hm.” His jaw ticked as the second son thought over your words. You leaned in with a secretive smile, whispering, “Well obviously Aegon’s not fit and Hel is taking care of his kids, playing with bugs.”

Aemond scoffed at your dismissal of Helaena. He filled in, cocking his head, “What does that make you then? The troublesome elder sister who should’ve had offspring by now?” You smacked his shoulder lightly in dismay.

“Easy now Aemond,” you teased. His lips quirked slightly, that cute blush from embarrassment rearing it’s head. He stared at you quietly, cheeks pinkened. You raised a brow, nervously joking, “What? Why are you looking like that?”

The chair scraped back with a jolt, you yelped and jumped in surprise. Aemond’s big hands covered your shoulders as hard lips pressed to your own. He softened slightly, you moving your lips against his own. Your hand came up to tilt his head so his nose would stop mashing against yours. Little fool.

The kiss grew heated, Aemond’s hands squeezing softly. He tentatively lapped against your tongue, you gasping in excitement. The pair of you lazily moved together, pressing closer and closer. Your brother made a soft sigh, twirling his tongue against your own. You spread your legs to let him closer. He grunted and gripped harder, growing desperate. When you reached down to palm his hard length Aemond pulled back with a sharp gasp, readjusting himself.

You gasped in shock, biting out, “The hells Aem? Something wrong with you?”

He heaved, composing himself back to that cold demeanor. Aemond declared snootily, “We must wait until our wedding. As the gods intended.” A purple eye flicked down while he continued, “I think it’s best if you go for now.”

You were annoyed now. The bastard got you riled up and your cunt wet. What did it matter if the wedding was days away? You snapped, “Others take you! Do you always have to be so damn proper? Imp.”

Indignantly hopping down the table you couldn’t help but feel scorned, tugging your stays into place. Aemond stood stiff as a board, like his obviously interested cock in his trousers. He avoided your angry glare. You scoffed and stomped off. Atleast you knew he was hung.

You were properly wed now. Also very clothed with your nuisance of a brother pacing around— clothed too. He had forbidden the usual bawdy act of the bedding ceremony. Aegon had loudly complained the entire time, damn pervert. Nerves shook your body. Aemond muttered to himself, “Okay. Duty. I will fulfill my duty.”

You began to take off your beautiful dress, a bit dejected at his utilitarian approach to this. You had hoped the passion he had in the kiss earlier this week would come back.

Once your second stocking was off Aemond stopped pacing and gawked at you. He deadpanned, “What are you doing?” You spat, “Undressing myself so you can ‘fulfill your duty’ husband!” He looked upset, lips pursing in distaste. Aemond said almost imperceptibly, “Wait.”

You stopped and raised a brow. He came closer, now much larger frame crowding your own. He murmured, “That’s my job to undress my wife.” Your gaze softened, a hand reaching blindly for Aemond’s calloused one. You squeezed his hand gently.

As if struck by a force Aemond lifted and pushed you onto the bed. He yanked off his boots frantically, calling, “One second, okay? Stay still.” You couldn’t help but laugh, some of the nerves dissipating at the rigid brother hopping around stripping like a madman. Your laugh stopped as his hardened body was revealed to your eyes.

Fuck. He was handsome. That cock was terrifying to think about fitting inside of you. He stilled and asked, “I know I’m all scarred-,” you interrupted and hissed, “Take off the damn patch and undress me like you promised.”

He did so and busied himself ridding your dress and underclothes with steady hands. You complimented, “I love the sapphire, dolt.” He smacked your bare ass, yanking off your chemise. You moaned at the sharp pain, cunt beginning to ache.

Aemond flipped you over and crawled onto the bed, his sureness melting away. Like your own as the gravity of the situation hit you. Man and wife, naked as the day they were born, about to consummate their union. You shook with anxiety, panting under his strong body.

Aemond blinked slowly before saying, “It’s just your ‘imp’ of a brother, relax.” You closed the gap between your faces, closing into his lips like before. Aemond settled between your thighs, hard cock slotting against your bare cunt. Both of you gasped into the kiss, hands running wild across pale bodies. You deepened the kiss, licking inside Aemond’s warm mouth.

He responded with a low noise and a rut against your slick entrance. The tip of his cock drug against your bundle of nerves, drawing a surprised whine out of you. Aemond seemed to smile against your mouth, doing it again, even grabbing your hips to get a better angle.

You wrapped your thighs around his slim waist, moaning softly. Everything felt so nice. You nipped Aemond’s lip and begged, “Aem, Aem, ah- kiss my neck?” He hummed and lowered his mouth down your jaw and to the sensitive thin skin of your throat.

You threw your head back and let out a long whine, rutting back against him roughly. Your belly was tightening like it did when you pleasured yourself late, late at night. Aemond groaned quietly, sucking a mark onto your collarbone, one of his hands curiously groping your breast.

Your clit was growing more sensitive from the friction, gasping out, “Fuck! Aemond you better not stop!” He laughed breathily, “I won’t dear sister.” He snapped his hips a couple more times before you cried out and locked your thighs tight around him. Your cunt pulsed and wetted further along his cock.

Aemond groaned, “Gods, fucking hells. I need to fuck you.”

You nodded in a heated daze, begging, “Yes, yes, fuck me brother.”

He reached down to ease himself in, breathing going stuttered and harsh. You whined at the pinch, clinging to his wide shoulders, grabbing onto long blonde hair. He slid in until fully seated as best as he could in your tight pussy, desperately panting and kissing.

“Oh my,” was all he could utter.

The pair of you kissed until Aemond began to stroke into your now relaxed body. The pain had subsided, your slick easing the way. He gritted out against you, “Not- fuck- going to last my lady.” You babbled, “Don’t care, go wild you idiot.” He growled and wetly slapped harder into you, balls hitting your ass. You smiled— still so easy to piss off that one.

Aemond roughly fucked you, focusing all his energy like in the training yard. You yanked at his silky strands, moaning with abandon, crying his name with delight.

“That’s it! Fuck! Yes brother!”

Aem slapped your ass again, biting your lip until it bled. He groaned, “Yeah? Good?” You nodded with an echo, “Yes, s’good!” Aemond’s eye seemed to roll up as he fucked deeper, face falling to the sweaty crook of your neck. He grabbed so hard at your waist it would bruise later, snapping his hips with feral grunts.

You praised him along, the twitching of his cock growing more frequent. Aemond panted, “Close.” Squeezing around his length, you kissed at the tender scar around the bad eye. Your younger brother slammed into you a final time, filling you with his hot seed. The blonde rasped your name in a low timbre, mumbling nonsense as he shook.

He relaxed and slumped onto you, petting your hair in a haze. You’d never seen your brother so worn out, pliant. He sucked in breath, palms soothing the skin where he was practically tearing at your waist. You sighed at the feeling of completeness. It was done, and quite fantastic at that.

You couldn’t help but pinch Aemond’s sharp cheek and tease, “If only you fucked as well as you interact with others.” His annoyed grumble lit up your heart. So, so easy.

#asks answered #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #hotd imagine #hotd smut #hotd fic #aemond targaryen x reader #targaryen!reader

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shortnotsweet · 6 months

Text

growing pains

It’s only been nine years. They’re not in their thirties yet—and won’t be for a while—but it’s worth noting that things are different. Maybe it’s them, maybe it’s the boardwalk, or maybe—well. Logan is a different person than when he was a high schooler. He’s less assured than he was. That could be it. Louise is almost certainly different than she was then, but even now she still hates his guts. Maybe some things don’t change after all.

Notes Transcription

Main Episode Outfit Variations

Louise would be into layering, I think. She’s multifaceted, practical, and resourceful. Harsh structure in conjunction with more layered pieces; tendency towards color blocking, but she keeps it sharp. She’d be into casual, pragmatic clothes. If not very structured, she has loose-fitting, draped fabrics like sweatshirts or heavy pants (cargo material, corduroy, denim?)—draped and bulked, but not baggy. Something easy to run and move in; sneakers or combat boots.

Not opposed to dresses. Keeps it compact, simple lines. No frills but does lean into triangle shapes or rectangular blocks. Color blocking => neutrals will take up negative space, highlight colors are accented.

Sticks to main colors (green and pink) for consistency, but relies on neutrals like beige, black, and brown. Less cool-toned than Tina, either spring or autumn coloring. Bright colors are muted with exception of a highlight, usually pink (hat or laces). Green varies from lime to olive to sage to forest, etc. whichever tone is appropriate.

Occasional purple or blue in reference to the snowball fight/sled episode with Logan (he was in blue, Louise was in purple). Louise could lean into purple (imposing, mysterious, feminine but still intimidating) for off-episodes. Not frequent, though; too similar to Tina’s color palette.

Hairstyle options include braids, pigtails, or just loose. I’m growing partial to braids; they feel utilitarian, almost boyish, useful. Could emulate the bunny ears under the cap.

Beanie vs. Baseball Cap. I like the beanie, but to me it lends to this aspect of laziness? Not the worst, but i like the structure and sharpness of the baseball cap. Also obscures the eyes occasionally, or could be worn backwards.

Timeline + Basis

Loosely, 9 years post-canon timeline (ambiguous). Louise is 18, Logan is 25. The age gap is too big for them to feasibly be in high school together, so the second storyboard shot by the lockers is him visiting the high school for some errand (maybe Cynthia needs him to deliver something, maybe he’s got a younger sibling by now?), Louise passes by him in the hallway and doesn’t move to accommodate him (almost slams into his shoulder) and he almost looks back at her but continues on. He recognizes her when he visits the diner, which he later frequents because it’s one of the closest places in town that has good food that’s affordable and keeps him out of the house.

That’s one of the reasons, anyway. He isn’t conscious of it, although Gene picks up on it early on an often gloats to either Louise or Logan, both of whom are baffled or irritated at first. Linda is overly supportive of the idea to the point of humiliation, Bob doesn’t want to think about it and refuses to see it, and Tina writes extremely detailed romance novel drafts about it.

Logan becomes ‘aware’ in the following year, then feels really gross about it and avoids the diner for months until confronted (member of the family is up for debate). Realistically, nothing ‘tangible’ happens between them for three years (kiss? Weird face touch? Jealous outburst? Freudian slip? Something fun, idk [Louise: 22, Logan 29]).

I think Louise regresses at this point, and tries to distance herself like that episode of iCarly when Sam realizes she’s in love with Freddy and literally institutionalizes herself in a mental ward. Very much LALALALALALALALALA I can’t hear you, that didn’t happen. Logan is not feeling great at this point. Heart-to-heart with Bob snaps her out of it.

One more year of slow burn, actual relationship starts (Louise: 23, Logan 30).

Logan gets married, eventually, in his early thirties. Gene is an unintentional omnipresent narrator.

Additional Notes

Keep Logan in primary colors (mostly red or blue), but keep him out of dark neutrals/monotones (no black or charcoal gray), because it’s too heavy of a countermeasure against Louise’s color blocking—too unbalanced.

Decent height difference, although it varies depending on Louise’s shoes (sneakers or platform boots, she’s usually in sneakers in the restaurant). She’s right over his shoulder (?)

Concept comparison of them both around the ages 14-16 are for comparison only. Their ages do not coincide.

Occasional pet names, always mockingly derogatory.

Montage shots of her leaning over the counter while they talk. He used to sit in the booth seats but eventually began sitting at the counter instead. No reason. It means he can talk to her more easily and bother her with less effort.

They’re the kind of couple who publicly argues over the pronunciation of ‘egg’ type beat. Bickering keeps it exciting for them, but they make it a point to apologize in any serious disagreements, usually by the end of the episode. Similar difficulty in admitting when they’re wrong, often attempt to compromise by sharing/taking on blame in some equal capacity. Sometimes this is healthy, sometimes it’s more de-facto.

Mother-in-law beef goes crazy

#louigan #bobs burgers #louise belcher #louise x logan #logan bush #basically logan visits hometown after living some life and getting his education. it’s a little under a decade later and he likes to think #he’s changed for the better #but seeing his childhood home has changed so much unsettles him somehow. at least his archnemesis still hates his guts #for now anyway. gene hasn’t forgotten about his reduction from he was eleven. sure the timings off #but Logan and Louise are going to reconnect and then get married. they’re just a little ahead of a schedule it looks like #my art

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fadingdaggerr · 1 year

Text

heaven’s gate

pairing: larissa weems x gn!reader (r is only ever referred to as queer, no other specifics)

summary: locking eyes with a woman at a bar and finding purpose in her kiss

warnings (in order): alcohol consumption, making out, smut (thigh riding, fingering, eating out, heavy praise), r is a simp the whole time, so much side character use bc i like making up lil stories about the little people in my head, pretty dialogue heavy in some parts

note: sorry i’ve been gone, i’ve had severe writers block and my birthday was this past weekend so i was out and about. never written smut before so this is different from my usual comfort zone, let me know what y’all think <3 i also tried to keep r neutral as possible to accommodate all presentations and identities :)

the wind whipped against your face as you steadily continued along the sidewalk, numbing your cheeks. the honking of cars and chatter around becoming white noise as you were dead set on your destination, only need at this point to get out of the wind tunnels. an arm looked through yours suddenly, breaking your pace slightly.

“babe, you have got to slow down. these boots are not meant for walking, they’re for attracting,” parker says as he clings to you for warmth, even with his long emerald green jacket on.

you laugh a little, “i’m not freezing my ass off because you chose heeled shoes when you knew damn well we’re in the old district. that means cobblestone streets. i thought you had a college degree?” he shoves you with a laugh, there’s no point in arguing with the truth. he complains the rest of the way, and you just ignore him until he finally stops when the club comes into view.

the vibration of the music could be felt in the floors, on the chairs, at the bar. everything hummed together, music and voices. you took it all in until a rum and coke slid right next to your hand. you nod at the bartender in thanks, turning to take in the club, smiling at the group taking a photo in from of the lavender’s orbit sign with giant smiles and little pride flags in hand. your eyes continue to scan as you bring your glass to your mouth, then double back when a set of eyes connects with yours.

resting against a tall stool, martini in hand, was the most enchanting being you’d ever seen. lips curved into a smirk at your staring, but it didn’t stop you. you allow your eyes to travel down, taking in her short, white dress and her long legs, watching as blue and purple lights sway and highlight her body. your eyes snap back go to hers, returning her smirk before continuing your look around.

you find parker by the pool tables, cheering on the group playing there, not so subtle in his hands caressing one of their arms. you shake your head with a laugh, he was on a mission, just as he had said before you’d left. parker sees you and waves your over excitedly.

“okay, okay so will you play pool with me? and like, help me get them to like me?” he says pointing at the person in bleach-dyed overalls, only a red binder underneath.

“one game,” you say holding up one finger, “i’m not playing matchmaker all night, there’s someone i think i need to talk to by the bar.”

he jumps a little, hugging you, “okay perfect, one game is all i need. then i can help you get some.”

you grab a cue stick, applying chalk as you speak, “i don’t need help. and i think you’ll be a little to preoccupied to help me anyways.”

the object of parker’s affection, max, and their friend arlo, let you break the set. a singular solid ball fell in, putting you into a head start. as the game continued, you told parker what to do so that you could both win and help him with max, which didn’t seem to be an issue. the eight ball was your last in, as you aimed, you could feel eyes on you, burning into your back. turning, you see the woman from earlier watching, new drink, same look in her eyes. you nod towards her then shoot, the eight ball drops into the cup.

parker grabs you, jumping as he holds you, mostly just shaking you like a rag doll. max and arlo shake your hand. deepening their voices to sound all gruff and puffing their chests as they both say “good game, good game,” before breaking and laughing at themselves.

the three step away to get more drinks, and you turn back to where the woman in white had been, but instead she was walking back from the bar, two drinks in hand. she approaches you, setting one drink in your hand. a rum and coke.

“larissa,” she says, “that was quite the game.”

you accept the drink with a smile, introducing yourself, “the game? i don’t recall your eyes being on the cues.”

“perhaps not, but how could they look at anything else?” her words send a shiver down your spine, “let’s go sit, darling.”

you begin moving to find a place to sit down and talk with her. her hand rests on your hip as you walk to keep close to you and not get separated. her touch was electrifying, even through your shirt. you let her sit first, then place yourself next to her, close enough that your legs touch and her perfume fills your nose.

“what do you do for work, larissa?” you ask, eyes looking into hers. you couldn’t see how blue they were before, cursing the dim lighting around you for not gifting you this privilege earlier.

“i’m an english teacher at nevermore, it’s a private academy up in jericho,” she says proudly.

you nod excitedly, “i’ve heard of it! my friend jaya went there in high school since she lived closer to there than byron’s home in rochester.”

her eyes widen, voice nervous, “you know about outcasts?”

you grab her hand, “i am an outcast, i went to byron’s. maybe you know her, jaya o’leary? gorgon, perfect eyebrows despite not getting them done ever in her life?”

larissa laughs, “yes! we had a couple classes together during third year, that’s quite the coincidence.”

“all roads lead back,” you say, mostly to yourself. larissa’s lips form into a soft smile, the hand that’s still in yours tightening.

“what do you do?” she asks.

“i’m a counselor. i run support groups and one-on-ones for anyone in need, we have varying specialists and everything,” you say before you take a sip of your drink.

larissa leans closer, “what do you specialize in?” there’s genuine interest in her voice, and it makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

“queer adolescence and trauma. there’s a lot of kids that need a place to just exist as they are, and home is a confinement cell,” you say looking down into your lap, then back to larissa. she smiles at you, thumb running across yours.

“that’s an admirable profession, you should be incredibly proud of yourself,” her words are so heartfelt that you feel your chest bloom.

“thank you. and for the record, teaching is equally important. it’s a multi-faceted role, you should be proud too,” your eyes are locked with hers, trying to convey that your words are true.

just as she’s about to reply, a scream of your name catches both your attentions. parker’s freckles face popping into view as you watch him bob and weave through the crowd quickly until he stands before you with a giant smile. he almost speaks, but his eyes move to larissa then back to you with a playful smile.

“first of all, nice. second, wow. third, i am going to disappear for a little bit, are you okay here? i can stay if you need me too,” his words are hopeful, but you know his promise of staying is just as true, he’d never leave you if you said no.

“i’m okay, go have your fun and text me. for the love of god, wear a condom. and for the love of your best friend, do not give me extreme details about this later or i will vomit in your shoes,” you say as you shoo him away. he grabs your face and presses a fat kisses to your cheek with an i love you, i love you, i love you, before running off to max.

you groan and wipe your cheek, where did the gloss come from? larissa giggles next to you at the interaction, hand over her mouth. “nice and wow? he’s sweet,” she laughs.

your head hangs low, “that would be parker, the bane of my existence and my assigned ward at this point.” this makes her laugh again, and you almost think you heard angels singing.

“would that be the reason you didn’t come up to me sooner?” larissa prods.

you laugh a bit, looking at her through your lashes, “unfortunately, yes. he needed me to help him win the game so that he could look good.”

her tongue goes across her teeth, “i think it worked better for you, at least in my opinion.”

it’s your turn to lean a little closer now, “well i almost lost because someone, not going to name names, was quite distracting during the final round.”

her hand leaves yours, much to your dismay, but quickly finds its way to your thigh, “oh, i’m sorry. how could i ever make it up to you, almost-loser?” her tone and fake pout nearly kill you on the spot, her touch was making the fire within you burn hotter and hotter.

your hand rises to her neck, caressing her jaw with your thumb. she was so beautiful it was making you dizzy, but you spoke regardless, “i think you’ve already made it up to me just being right here,” you feel her cheek warm under your hand, “maybe i should be thanking you, you might have been my good luck charm instead.”

her lips are only centimeters from yours as she says, “maybe you can repay me then somehow.”

—

her lips were soft, but her kiss was not. her teeth nipped at your bottom lips as she pulled away to breathe, only to pull you back in. one hand gripped her waist, the other against the brick wall behind her to hold you up. her own held you face, keeping you as close as possible. the breathy moans she let out through the kiss made your grip on her tighten, then slide down more, just over the curve of her ass. you pull her hips into you, making another noise leave her.

her lips detach detach from yours, angling her head down, she begins to nip at your neck. you could’ve sworn she was a drug, your own personal aphrodisiac. your hand slides down more, catching her thigh and bringing it to your hip, pressing your hips into hers to give some friction. a noise escapes her at this action, something that makes you need to kiss her again, truly kiss her.

you lean away, ducking your head to catch her lips once again, kissing her with less lust and more intimacy. you savor the way she shivers as your fingers draw little patterns on her thigh as you kiss her, pouring everything into it. she pulls away, panting lightly. your lips migrate to her neck, gentle kisses and nips as you both catch your breath.

through heavy breaths larissa says, “my hotel is only six blocks away.”

your head leaves her neck, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, “my apartment is four.”

your eyes stay locked together, both of you grinning like teenagers. you whip your phone out of your back pocket, opening parker’s contact.

to: park nasty going back to my place. do NOT come back unannounced i was serious about the shoe thing. be safe ily

you shove your phone back in your pocket, hand now extended to larissa. she immediately takes it, weaving her fingers with yours and wrapping the other arm around yours, holding you to her. you’re about to speak to her again when you phone chimes.

from: park nasty ily babe go get some!! and a little more!!!! lord knows i’m about to go back for thirds

larissa reads the message from beside you, laughing at the outlandish text. you groan at it before typing your own quickly

to: park nasty damn give the poor thing a little recovery time u absolute creature. i’m not gonna feel bad for u tomorrow when u complain

you chuckle and put your phone back in your pocket. you look at larissa before you both burst out laughing. she didn’t even know parker but she basically got the full extent of him within one text and watching the two of you interact while playing pool and when he came to you both.

“i see what you mean by the assigned ward thing now,” she says through a chuckle.

you guide her to your street, “he’s a menace, but he’s the best friend anyone could ask for. the descriptive details of his sex life are the price i pay for friendship.”

she just has to ask, “park nasty?”

you cackle, “he decided on day one of us meeting at byron’s that that would be his name in my phone. he thought it would stick, like everyone would call him that or something.”

she laughs with you, “and did they?”

“no!” you laugh loudly, “who’s gonna call a fourteen year old boy that?” she giggles at the story, “but i never changed it because i thought it was so stupid that it was hilarious.”

larissa clings to you and rests her head against yours as you unlock the gate in front of the door, then enter the code to get into the building. you have her step ahead of you, guiding her to your door with a gentle hand on her lower back. she’s back against you as you unlock your door and let yourselves in. you grab her purse and place it on the bench behind the door, then take her coat hanging it on the hooks, along with your own.

just as you look back at her, her lips crash into yours. you immediately kiss her back, hands flying to her hips and holding her tight. hers found their way to hold the back of your neck, blunt nails digging into your skin. you began walking her backwards to your room, staying against the door for a minute as you savor each others touch. you fumble for the knob, backing her in once the door is closed. you’re completely overtaken by her, her lips, her touch, the way she’s holding you like you’ll disappear.

larissa’s knees hit the bed, and she pulls you to her lap as she sits down. you push her back more, laying her on the bed. you lips migrate from hers to her neck, creating more marks to go with the ones from before. working your way down, you press kisses to the expanse of her chest, pale skin just begging to be painted in your affection.

larissa’s legs shift and you suddenly find yourself under her, her dress riding up and exposing more of her thighs. her lips go back to assaulting yours, her hands sliding underneath your shirt to trace the skin of your abdomen. only breaking away to gently ask, “is this okay?”

you smile at her, leaning up to kiss her cheek, “more than okay, i promise.”

her lips are back on yours, your hands are back on the creamy skin of her thighs. she was your new drug of choice, you couldn’t stop the venturing of your hands on her body as her lips and tongue pulled soft moans from you. you need more of her, as much as she’ll allow you.

you shift your hips, raising your right leg to press you thigh to her center, making her lips stutter as she moaned against your chest. her hips instinctually buck against your thigh again, and you hear her breath hitch.

“are you okay? we can stop,” you ask gently, gently stroking the skin of her thigh to assure her.

“don’t,” she rushes out, “i want this, i want you.”

there’s nothing to do except kiss her, kiss her so that it feel like a promise. your hands slide from her thighs to her hips, slowly guiding her against you. she moans into your mouth and your hands move her hips faster, her pleasure was all you could think about.

her moans grew whinier as she desperately moved against you. her forehead pressed into yours as her release grew closer and closer.

“you’re so beautiful,” you mutter, pressing your lips to hers, sitting up so she was now on your lap. the new angle and your words forced a filthy moan from her lips, “and you sound so beautiful. god, how do i deserve this?”

larissa could only kiss you harder, stealing the breath from your lungs. her hips wild against your thigh, the feeling of your hands gripping her hips, it was all too much. your lips found their way to her chest again, you nudge fabric out of the way to kiss along her breasts, gentle love bites that were soothed by your tongue.

larissa’s hips began to falter, moans becoming louder and longer. you flex your thigh more, kissing her as you move her hips faster. her hands grip at you shoulders, eyes screwed tight with pleasure. she was so close.

“open your eyes, baby. i wanna see you, can i see your beautiful eyes?” you ask as you kiss her neck and jaw, biting the skin every now and then, “please?”

larissa’s eyes flutter open, lust-drunk eyes looking into yours. you quickly reward her by pushing her further down on your thigh, making a sweet moan come from her as she looks into your eyes.

“fuck, you’re so beautiful,” a kiss to her chest, “you’re doing so well,” a kiss to her neck, “you can let go whenever you’re ready,” a kiss to her jaw, “i can’t wait to see you fall apart just for me,” a final kiss to her lips.

your words seem to be the undoing of larissa weems. she moans loudly against your lips, hips quickening then stuttering. blue eyes find yours as a long and beautiful song escapes her, thighs shaking. you’re in awe, entirely captivated by her. you can already tell that you’re not going to be able to let her go, your mind had been screaming to keep her close since you saw her. this sight was the only thing that mattered now, pleasing larissa was your life mission.

her forehead drops to yours, eyes shut, breath heavy. you stay there for a moment, unmoving, allowing her to come down peacefully. your raise your arm slowly, gently brushing hair from her face before cupping her cheek. her cheek presses into your palm, and you just have to kiss her. it’s soft and sweet, just a reminder that she’s cared for. she pulls back, eyes opening slowly. all you can do is smile at her, and she returns it gently. your lips find her cheek, pressing a few kisses to her skin.

“where the hell have you been?” she says with a breathy laugh.

you smile harder at her words, “i’ve been right here. guess you’ll have to come to the city more often.”

“or you’ll just have to come to jericho,” she says playfully.

you kiss her softly before speaking, “i have a good reason to it seems. a very beautiful reason at that.”

she pushes you back, leaning over you to press her lips against yours. the dance is slow, meaningful. her tongue grazes your lips for entry, and she’s given it without second thoughts. she kisses with full passion, telling you everything with every movement. she sucks on your bottom lip, making you groan and pull her face closer. all you want, need is her. you whine as she pulls back, and she gives you a quick kiss to appease you.

her fingers begin to lift your shirt up slowly, eyes searching for permission. you grab one of her hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. you grab her other hand and guide them both under your shirt, letting her know you’re okay. she strips you of your shirt, and kissing down your chest and belly. her hands find your belt buckle, undoing it quickly while you lift your hips help her remove it. she climbs back up, kissing a trail from waist to your lips. your hands fall to her back, finding the zipper of her dress as she lazily kissed you.

she sits up and her dress falls down, revealing a lack of bra, leaving her in ruined panties. you sit up and your lips immediately find her chest, wrapping around one nipple as your hands traced her body. your tongue swirls around her, leaving her skin with with a gentle kiss before moving to the other.

“god, you feel so good,” she lets out breathily, whimpering at your touch. after a bit she forces your head away from her chest, pushing you back down to remove your pants and her dress, evening the amount of clothing you both wore.

the view of her above you was breathtaking, you couldn’t take your eyes off of her. her hair was messy, lipstick smudged around her face, bruises and bites across her neck and chest. she was a goddess in your presence.

“what are you staring at me for?” she whispers, insecurity well hidden.

“you’re… you’re just so god damn gorgeous larissa,” you pull her down and roll so that you’re on top of her, “i can hardly believe you’re here, that you’re even real,” you kiss her softly. your lips trail down her neck, to her chest, down to her stomach, “and i get to see you like this.”

she pulls you up to her again, kissing you soundly, “it’s hard to believe you’re real yourself. never has anyone spoke to me like this, even made me feel like this.”

you frown at her words, mad at her past lovers for not appreciating her enough. “can i show you how beautiful you are?” you ask gently, nuzzling your nose against her cheek before continuing, “can i taste you?”

she groans at your words, turning her face to kiss you hard, “please.”

you kiss her again, trailing back down her body. reaching her center, you place a light kiss to her thigh, biting the plush surface then soothing it with your tongue. your fingers lightly trace up her legs to hook in her panties and pull them down. you bite your tongue, nearly moan at the sight.

you kiss along her thighs some more, slowly moving closer to where she needed you. you look up at her, “do you want me to continue?”

her hand reaches down for one of yours, and you are quick to follow, tangling your fingers together. she squeezes your hand, “yes.”

you kiss her mound gently, then move to her clit. wrapping your tongue around her, her hand grips yours. your tongue swirls her clit some more before going to taste her fully. your tongue gathers her wetness, you moan into her at the taste. the vibration alone makes larissa choke out a strangled moan. you continue to lap at her, slow, long strokes against her, savoring every second.

a long lick up back to her clit, sucking it gently, working larissa up. your hand that was wrapped around her thigh came to her entrance, slowly pressing your middle finger into her. she moans softly at the touch, squeezing your hand as you pumped your finger slowly.

“more,” she whines, “please.”

you follow command, adding your ring finger when you push back into her again while your tongue plays with her clit. a deep moan leaves her, only egging you on. quickening the pace of both your tongue and your fingers, you feel her legs wrap around you.

you pull back from he clit, pressing a kiss to it when she whimpers. “do you want more, baby?” your only response is a nod and a moan of your name.

your mouth is back on her, only to pull away again to watch her take a third finger. when your forefinger enters her as well, her moans echo off the walls. she pulls the hand she’s holding, wanting for your lips. you keep your fingers in her, letting her adjust as you climb up to kiss her. her arms wrap around your shoulders while her hips chase your fingers, moaning into your mouth. your thumb finds her clit, toying it in circles at the same pace as your fingers fuck into her faster.

you shove your face into her neck, sucking the skin and licking it and she grinds harder against you. she grows frantic in her movements as she gets closer, her walls hugging your fingers.

you move back down, replacing your thumb with your mouth. her moans become more whispers, her breathing shallow. “you can cum, baby. let me taste you,” you whisper.

your tongue and fingers move together at a fast pace, willing larissa to cum. the tight curl your fingers inside her makes her cry your name out as she climaxes. you remove one finger at a time as you slowly fuck her through her orgasm, bringing your fingers to your mouth to clean them. her eyes bore into you as she watches, you watch her in return. you keep your eyes on her as you clean her folds with her tongue, greedily taking every last drop of her.

“you taste like heaven,” you say as you kiss up her body, finding purchase in her neck. you press a kiss to her skin before asking, “you alright?”

she grazes her finger up and down your spine, “more than alright.”

you pull away from her, shuffling off the bed to stand up. she watches as you grab a t-shirt from the top of your dresser and throw it on, admiring you from the bed. “i’ll be right back,” you press a kiss to her cheek before turning to leave the room.

true to your word, you return within a minute, two bottles of water and a wet washcloth in hand. you prop the bottles on the nightstand closest to larissa and move between her legs to clean her up. she winces slightly, still sensitive, but you make it up to her with kisses on her thighs and hips. you drop the washcloth in the hamper, grabbing a shirt for her from your dresser. you lay down next to her, just watching her as she puts your shirt on and lays down facing you.

“you’re welcome to stay, if you’d like. if not, i can walk you back to your hotel,” you say quietly.

“do you want me to go?” she asks at the same volume.

you shake your head against the pillow, “not at all. i’ll even buy you breakfast in the morning, anywhere you want.”

larissa looks at the clock, 3:36 looks back at her, “i think it’s going to be lunch by the time we wake up.”

“ever heard of a diner, gorgeous? they have breakfast all day. you can get…” you look in her eyes, pupils dilating for a moment, “crepes with berries and honey, and a hot chocolate with cinnamon on top whenever you please.”

she stares at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, “how the hell did you know that?”

you laugh, realizing you’d only told her you were an outcast and not what kind, “i’m a telepath, baby.”

she blinks a couple times, “you’ve been reading my mind the whole time?”

you grab her hand, playing with her fingers, “no, i choose when i want to listen in, took a while to figure it out though. i just wanted to know your favorite breakfast, so i just looked for that.”

she pulls you into her, laying on her back to have your weight on top of her, “you are utterly delightful.”

you prop your chin on her chest, “may i ask what kind of outcast you are?”

she takes a deep breath, this was always a dreaded question, but she found herself trusting you with her secrets. she exhales slowly, “i’m a shapeshifter.”

“that’s so cool, i know a couple shifters. parker’s a shifter, but he can only shift to this big ass dog. but not like a werewolf, it’s voluntary,” you say as you glide your fingers up her arm.

“explains the amount of energy he has,” she responds with a huffed laugh.

you giggle at her comment, “i would’ve guessed you were a siren, just from looking at you.”

she smiles, “why’s that?”

“because you’re fucking outrageously gorgeous, larissa. bewitching, truly,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you stretch across her to turn the light off before nuzzling into her. you fall asleep to her steady breathing and calm heartbeat, larissa’s arms wrapped securely around you.

—

you wake up in the morning with your face shoved in your pillow, a weight across your back. you crack an eye open, looking down to see a pale hand next to yours. memories of the night before flood your mind, lips growing into a smile. grabbing her hand, you bring it to your lips, gently kissing her fingers. lifting her arm just a tad, you turn and bury yourself in her chest, wrapping your arm around her as well. her arms wrap tighter around you, a yawn passing her lips. you kiss the skin against her neck closest to your lips, mumbling a morning, baby.

she hums in return, snuggling into you as she wakes up. you run your hands along her side, gently coaxing her into the waking world as you press soft kisses to her skin. finally moves by rolling over, trapping you below her, stealing a kiss from your lips. “good morning, lovely,” she whispers.

your peace is interrupted by your phone ringing from the nightstand. she reaches for your phone and and hands it to you, you kiss her hand in thanks. park nasty is calling appears on your screen, you mumble curses as you go to answer.

“what?” you ask.

“good morning sweetheart, it’s lovely to hear from you too,” parker says sarcastically into the phone.

“whatever, i’m putting you on speaker. behave yourself, larissa’s here,” you demand.

“oooo, is that the sexy blonde from last night?”

“yes, now behave yourself,” you repeat before pressing the speaker icon.

“hello miss larissa!” larissa says ‘hello’ back through a little laugh, “anyways, you aren’t going to fucking believe my night. please tell me you’re free for lunch, i’ll be a normal amount of gross i promise,” parker speaks quickly and excitedly into the phone.

you look at larissa as you speak, “well, we were going to go get breakfast- don’t even fucking start,” you can already hear him an snickering on the other line, “maybe you and i can do dinner or something?”

parker suppresses his giggles, “oh, please let me come to breakfast! i need to properly meet this larissa, i wanna hear all about last night’s desser-”

“parker, i will call abuela so fucking help me,” you threaten, and he knows you would.

“okay, okay! but please, let me join!” he drags out the last word, “larissa! please, tell this meanie i can come to breakfast. i’ll be good, scout’s honor.”

larissa chuckles, “yes, you should most definitely join us.”

“larissa please, he wasn’t a boy scout. abuela thought it was american propaganda,” you plead.

“too late! text me where you cuties are going, love you both. bye!” parker hangs up immediately, not allowing room for discussion.

“i’m going to need to stop by my hotel before breakfast, i have nothing to wear.”

you nod in agreement, “i’d offer you something of mine, but it doesn’t really seem to be your style.”

getting up from the bed, you extend your hand to her, “shower before we leave?”

she takes your hand, following you to your bathroom. you grab the hem of the shirt she’s wearing, lifting it up to expose her love-stained chest. she returned the favor, removing your own, as well as your own underwear. she pulls you in for a short kiss, just loving the intimacy of the moment. you both shower quickly, not wanting to leave parker waiting too long, but savor in the closeness and quiet

once you dry off, you hand her her dress from last night, then walk to your closet to pull out a light blue sweatshirt and a sweater. you place the crew neck next to her while you tread to your dresser. pulling cargo jeans out, you slide them on, and your t-shirt is quickly replaced by the thick black sweater. larissa never takes her eyes off of you, shamelessly watching you change, admiring her handiwork across your neck and chest. you catch her staring, and she’s quick to grab the sweatshirt, throwing it on as a means to hide for just a moment.

—

the drive to her hotel was nice, you spent the short journey asking random questions, some pointless and minor, some more thoughtful. favorite colors, worst fears, best birthday present, embarrassing childhood moments, you loved learning about her. you wished you could slow time, freeze and rewind the last fifteen hours over and over again.

she pulls you to her hotel room with your hands interlocked. you gladly watch her go through her outfits with a soft smile on your face, seeing how she pieces together what to wear in her mind. you want to read her, but you won’t unless she allows you to, and even then you’ll likely never ask.

“which do you think?” she holds up a white satin blouse and a white cotton one, and all you can do is blink.

“i think you look best in nothing,” she throws the satin shirt at you, “jeez, woman! i say…” you lean over her bag, spotting a pair of straight-legged black pants, “these, and keep my sweatshirt on. you look good in my clothes,” you smile. she only kissed you in response, before disrobing to get changed for the day as you text parker.

“i can’t be bothered with makeup today,” she grumbles as she laces up a pair of white boots.

you walk around to kneel down to tie the other shoe for her. “you don’t need it anyways,” you squeeze her thighs as you stand back up. “all set, gorgeous?” she nods, grabbing your hand.

—

larissa ends up applying mascara and tinted lip balm in the car while you head to the diner. parking across the street in the pharmacy lot, you jump out to open the door for her, bowing and extending your arm in jest. she smacks your arm playfully before wrapping her own around it.

sitting at table, your let you fingers dance along larissa’s thigh, both talking about random things while you wait for parker. neither of you noticed when he walked in until he slid into the and smacked his hands on the table. “good morning darling, meanie,” he nods to larissa and you respectively.

“so thirds went well i presume?” you say with a laugh.

he nods excitedly, “fourths and dessert too.”

you shake your head as the waiter puts menus down and asks what drinks you’d all like. latte, coffee, hot chocolate with cinnamon, you already knew. you stare at the menu while parker explains the beginning of the whole thing with max.

you turn to the breakfast page, pointing to the crepes for larissa. she smiles excitedly, mumbling to ask you if they have honey, “of course they do,” you say to her with a little smile.

“and so they had me like over the count- you’re not even listening. neither of you, i can’t believe this,” parker goes to smack you with his spoon when you bat him with the menu.

the waiter comes back, and takes your orders, taking a little to much care on larissa’s order. she pays him no mind, leaning on you while she orders, looking at you when you do. he seems to take the hint and quickly walks away, parker’s laugh taking place in his stead.

“doesn’t the fool know a basket of fruits when he sees one?” parker asks making larissa laugh, her hand flying to her mouth. her laugh makes you smile, eyes resting on her face.

“can i ask now?” parker asks, looking at you.

“three questions,” you say with a sigh.

“each?” he says with a sly smile.

“three total,” you say sternly making larissa chuckle again.

“where, how many times each, and are you u-hauling yet?”

your head smacks against the table before coming back up, “i hate you. my place, two and one, and watch your mouth.”

larissa’s head whips to you, eyes bulging out of her head. parker seems to put the pieces together first, because there’s a beat, then a crack of his laughter. he’s nearly struggling to breathe, then cries out when you kick him under the table. he resorts to holding back laughs, wiping tears from his eyes.

“had that much fun, huh?” he looks at larissa, his face turning red from laughter, “oh my god, larissa doesn’t get it. oh my god, please let me stay while you explain this.” you’re want to drown in your coffee cup, you have to explain this with parker across from you while in a public setting.

you duck your lips to her ear and whisper, “i told you that you tasted like heaven, didn’t i? brought me there with just the taste of you.”

you pullback and look at her face, her cheeks go fully red, eyes fluttering. parker is silent screaming at her reaction, you hold your head in your hands. you’re definitely snitching to abuela about his nosiness.

the waiter brings the food, crepes with berries and honey for larissa, eggs with toast and pan fries for you, and waffles with an absurd amount chocolate chips on top for parker. larissa immediately passes hot sauce to you, remembering your comment about loving tabasco sauce. you thank her with a smile, then glare at your friend when he does a little aaaawe.

“are you going to see max again?” larissa asks parker as he shoves half a waffle into his mouth.

he takes a sip of his coffee, “oh for sure. they’re too good not to, super sweet too. they would’ve come along but they had plans at their babcia’s place for lunch.”

you smile at him, “that’s awesome buddy.” you pick up a piece of cantaloupe from your fruit salad and pass it to him to take, he loves it while you loathe it. it just works.

he takes the melon from your fork, speaking while he chews, “what about you two? gonna keep up?”

you and larissa look at each other. you hadn’t even thought about it much, nothing past post-orgasm conversation. you want to say yes, but you don’t want to put pressure on her. she takes your hand under the table and speaks first, “definitely.”

you look at her, “yeah, vermont sounds pretty cool. i could spend some time there,” you turn to parker, “she teaches at nevermore.”

he perks up immediately, “you’re one of us?”

larissa smiles, “yes, i’m a shapeshifter. but i try to keep that a little quiet.”

parker’s grin is huge, dimples showing off, “totally get it. i’m a shifter too, people get a little freaked out by dogs that are five feet tall on all fours.”

larissa’s eyes widen as she looks at you, “you didn’t say he was five feet tall in that form.”

you shrug, “i told you he was a big ass dog.”

parker chuckles, “she was probably picturing a great dane, you moron,” he looks at larissa, “think the grim the harry potter, but lighter fur and better groomed.”

you laugh at his comparison, “sirius black was in prison for twelve years. did you want him to be all fresh and clean?”

larissa just laughs and watches in amusement as the two of you argue over the mauraders, her head on your shoulder, your arm around hers.

—

the rest of the time larissa is in the city, she’s with you. the next three days were spent touring around the city, going to shops and cafes, always ending in either your bed or her hotel’s, depending on which was closer. her departure time was steadily approaching, making you both a bit upset.

she lays her head on your chest, legs tangled with yours, sweat across both your bodies. you take the time to map her body with your fingers, needing to remember every inch of her. she was worth a six hour drive, hell she was worth a six century walk.

“what’s going on in your head?” she asks gently, “i can’t see into your mind, you know.”

you chuckle, kissing her forehead and hugging her close, “i’m just wondering how i can change my powers from telepathy to teleportation. would be so much easier.” she cuddles into you more, hugging you tight.

the next morning is slow, her alarm going off around six, even though she didn’t really need fo be up until seven. she just wanted more time with you. you spend part of your morning just holding each other, soft kisses holding promises. more kisses and hands between each others thighs in the shower, your name spelled on her clit with your tongue, her name falling from your lips as she brings you closer and closer.

you’re enjoying hot chocolate together in the lobby when her phone chimes, the nevermore car was only five minutes away. she looks at you with watery eyes, you bring your hands up to cup her face.

“it’s a six hour drive, whenever you want me there, i’ll be there. i know it’s harder for you to leave, i can organize and do meetings virtually time to time,” you kiss her cheek.

she shakes her head, “you’re job is too important, i can’t ask you to do that. that would just be selfish of me, they need you.”

“baby, i’m only working in person half the week with clients, the other half is all online. i’m a phone call away from any of them, you won’t be stealing me from anyone,” you assure her.

“you have to promise me you won’t sacrifice your job for me,” larissa demands.

you draw an x over your chest, “cross my heart. i’m not sacrificing my job, but i also don’t want to sacrifice you. i’m willing to make this work if you are.”

she kisses you hard, “i’m more than willing.”

you walk her to the car, putting her bags in for her. shooing away the driver, you open the door for her and guide her in. you lean your head into the car, “call me when you get home, okay?”

she holds the collar of your shirt to keep you close, “i’ll probably call you before i even get there.”

you smile and press a sweet kiss to her cheek, “please do, i’m gonna miss your voice.” you clear your throat, “i’ll see you soon, larissa.”

you start to back out of the car when she pulls your collar, pulling you into a long kiss, “better be soon.” she presses one last kiss to your lips before releasing your shirt, letting you back away and shut the door.

the car pulls off, and you watch until she’s gone from your sight. you make your way to your car, exhaling deeply before starting the engine and backing out of the lot.

you’re sitting on parker’s couch, legs draped across max’s lap while you both wait for parker to come back from the kitchen with snacks. community plays on the tv, one of the paintball wars playing quietly while the three of you were talking. your phone ringing breaks the silence, larissa <3 is calling.

“i gotta take this. i’ll be in parker’s room if you need me,” you say quickly to max and you scramble down the hallway.

you click the green answer button, “hey there, beautiful.”

you hear her laugh lightly, “i wanted to call you sooner, but there was horrible service. i’m almost to jericho now.”

“i’m glad you’re safe,” you say through a smile, giddy from her voice, “i’m at parker’s with max, i’m outnumbered here.”

larissa laughs again, making your heart swell, “i’m sorry, lovely. once you come to visit it’ll just be you and me, no being outnumbered or interrupted.”

“don’t threaten me with a good time,” you say, “fuck, is it embarrassing that i miss you already?”

“only if it’s embarrassing that i miss you quite a bit already as well,” she plays.

the bedroom door swings open, parker’s head popping in and pointing at the phone. the second you mouth larissa he grabs the phone and starts talking to her. you wrestle the phone out of his hand, shoving him out the door. “i’m telling abuela!” you yell down the hall, you can’t just hog your girlfriend is screamed back before bringing the phone back to your ear.

“sorry about that,” you say with a huff.

“it’s cute, the two of you fighting over me,” she jokes.

you laugh at her, “pray tell, who has won your affections?”

“park nasty,” larissa deadpans.

“oh my god, i’m hanging up,” you say as you don’t even move to do so.

“no, no, no, no, no. you win, of course you win,” she yells into the phone, “you win over everyone, i swear.”

“everyone? even sarah jessica parker?” you joke, referencing back to her confession of her childhood crush.

she laughs, “yes, even sarah jessica parker.”

banging in the door pulls you from the conversation, max and parker both beating on the door and calling fo you. gimme a second! is screamed at them.

“baby, i gotta go, homosexuals are beating down the door,” she laughs over the line, “let me know when you get to nevermore, okay?”

“i promise. and i’ll see you soon. goodbye, darling.

“bye, gorgeous. i’ll see you soon,” the line beeps as the call comes to an end.

feedback appreciated as always, love you a bushel and a peck <3

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems fanfic #larissa weems #wednesday netflix #gwendoline christie #brienne of tarth

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muzzlemouths · 1 year

Note

"Squeeze my hand." from the prompt list? - @clxckwork-sun-n-moon

Moon centric // Wordcount: 4245

You do your best not to wake him.

Getting two hundred pounds of deadweight metal off the ground and into a cart was already hard enough on its own, and doing so without becoming entangled in the mess of exposed wiring was another challenge all together, but you had somehow pulled it off without so much as a twitch from his end. It had been concerning, at first - the thought that Moon wasn’t just out for the count but well and truly broken - and you won’t lie, that had scared you.

But a rude awakening from his emergency startup protocol had told you he was okay - functioning, at least - bleak consciousness that lasted long enough to send him forward a few ‘steps’ before his eyes darkened and gravity dragged him back to the floor. A deep purple was already blossoming where he fell against you.

Not wanting to repeat the process, you quickly got him onto wheels so you could reach Parts and Services while you still had some time left to your shift. You’re painfully careful about it, fast and quiet, you take every shortcut downstairs. If he woke now, you’d never reach within an inch of the place without a fight. And Moon’s fight meant more than accidental bruises.

Ironically, it’s your haste that inevitably wakes him. An unpatched crack in the flooring jolts the entire cart as it’s run over and rocks his body from side to side. It results in another attempt at booting up, this one more successful, because in the next moment he’s sitting up and looking around - albeit not without some trouble. You don’t stop the cart. If you can get there before he realizes where you’re going, you might still have a chance.

He rests his forehead against one hand and curls the other over the edge of the cart for stability, bent forward at the waist, his joints creak with the effort. “What happened?” He groans - then, looking up from his palm to face his surroundings - “Where are we?”

You reach the elevator just in time.

“Morning, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?” You make a point of avoiding his questions. He’ll figure it out himself soon enough. It’s better for both your health and his own if you just keep moving. “You’re a little out of sorts, took a bit of an impromptu nap for a while.” The elevator takes you down, down, down, and right as it opens again, Moon realizes.

He moves fast to get out of there - or tries to, anyway. A failed attempt at leaping from the cart has him giving his body a second glance, only now seeing the way his waist has twisted, the metal there grossly dented and his legs contorted backwards. A position that is perfectly normal for him on a good day. But this isn’t a good day. The angle of his limbs is wrong, and his wires have paid the price. You’re sure he figures out the rest immediately after; that they’re as numb as gears can be. That he can’t move from the waist down.

Moon swivels as best he can, hoisting himself into the air with the help of one arm while the other reaches behind him and clasps around a wheel, just barely reaching - the whole cart swivels and then jerks to a stop.

“Dude!” You struggle to keep yourself from faceplanting against it and falling right in with him, “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” He repeats, meeting you with a look of steel.

Your fingers tighten on the cart handle. “Moon,” a sigh escapes, your frustration settling into defeat, you try not to make a big deal out of it in hopes that he won’t, either, “you know where.”

He doesn’t immediately answer you. His expression changes like rapid fire; confusion, fear, if you reached, and then anger. “No,” he spits, “Take me back to the Daycare. I’ll fix it myself.”

You try not to laugh, but a snort escapes you anyway. The cart doesn’t budge when you try again. “Not this time, buddy,” you tell him, “this isn’t something you can just wrench together with your own hands. You need real help. The kind you can only get downstairs.”

“Get me the tools then,” Moon argues, hand glued to the wheel, “You can go and bring them back up, can’t you?”

“Moon,” you try to make your voice stern, but you know your own resolve pales in comparison to his determination to not get any closer to that dreaded metal chair, “I’m not changing my mind. Either you let me take you down to P&S or I’m bringing out the big guns.”

His eyes narrow. “Which is?”

“I turn on the lights.”

Stiffening, now, his expression turns dangerous, “You wouldn’t dare,” he growls, “Sun can’t handle that place any better.”

“It’s not up to me. The Daycare opens in six hours and they’re expecting an attendant who can manage the job, much less use their legs. If you don’t go in, he’ll have to, and it won’t be me carting him down there.” You hated utilizing such a cruel tactic, but your words are honest. They needed fixing and, one way or another, management would ensure it happened - likely with a staff member much less kind or patient than yourself. Moon was often selfish to a fault but, when it came down to it, he prioritized Sun’s safety over his own. Always had. The rest of your night hinged on that remaining true. “So, what’ll it be?”

He simmers something fierce, fitting you with a look that might scare you a hell of a lot more if his legs were in proper working order. As it stands, you would at least have a running start were things to go sour.

But his temper visibly fizzles out into nothing more than an angry bite, shoulders slumping with defeat, and a moment later he releases the wheel.

“Thank you.” You breathe a sigh of relief as he slumps back against the cart, “I promise I’ll get you fixed up as fast as I’m able. It should just be a simple tune-up and a chest piece transplant, maybe some rewiring. You’re in and out within two hours, tops.”

“Mhm.” Is all he has to say in return. You don’t push him for more than that.

The remaining walk to Parts and Services is entirely uneventful. The halls are empty and pin-drop silent, save for the creak and heave of the wheels as they turn several corners. You pause at the entrance to the big bad room itself and ensure it’s as dimly lit as it can be while not hindering your ability to work, then you drag the cart in the rest of the way and stop it just outside of the repair cell.

Moon doesn’t look up from his disfigured lap until you come to pause beside him with arms extended. He squints, attempting to figure out what it is you want from him now, and when he does he responds by hunkering down further inside the cart. “Not helping,” he grunts, “I refuse to be cradled into that chair.”

Your arms fall dejectedly to your sides, groaning, you again roll your eyes at him, “Come on, don’t make me do all the work here. The faster your ass is in that chair, the faster you’ll be done. Don’t you think it would be easier that way - for both of us? Just wrap your arms around my shoulders–”

“No.” his arms cross over his chest, face turning away from you. You have to wonder how much of his refusal stems from stubbornness, and how much of it is just plain embarrassment.

Either way, it’s wasting your time.

“It’ll only be for a second!”

“Not. Happening.”

You inhale sharply, frustrated, balling your hands into fists, you exhale hot air and come to a resolve. “Fine. If you don’t want to help, I’ll do things my way.” You round the corner right as his chin lifts to face you again, a question stirring in his voice box, but before any proper words get out you’re already behind him and reaching in for the hook on his back.

“Wait–”

Your fingers curl around metal and give it a firm tug upward. His limbs move accordingly - going limp like a cat that’s been scruffed - an effect that lasts only long enough to get his upper half out of the cart. His joints move awkwardly as control slowly returns and your hand releases the grip, arms hugging around his waist, instead, successfully hoisting him over the edge from there.

It takes the last of your strength to keep him upright and not simply drop him to the floor once the entirety of his weight is in your arms, but you manage, and half-carry, half-drag him into the cell before haphazardly releasing him onto the chair. He lands with a grunt and a look that could kill.

“Who told you?” Moon hisses.

“No one,” you practically sneer back, “You pick up on a few things when you’ve worked here as long as I have. Sun went stiff last time I accidentally grabbed it, and your body sags for a quick second whenever you use the cord. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.” You leave out the part where Sun had let the information slip. It’ll save you from having to negotiate another argument later on. Luckily, Moon seems to buy your excuse. He doesn’t like the answer either way.

You leave him to his grumbling and find a seat beside the repair monitor. There’s plenty to do and not a lot of time to do it. You can’t waste any more of your shift humoring the little pity party he’s hosting, so instead you get right to work imputing all the necessary information into the system so it’ll register what all needs done. A small machine like a projector lowers as you do so, making him freeze up entirely, and scans him from top to bottom. He is rigid from the very start up until the machine blinks and folds back into the ceiling. He doesn’t ease up any when it’s over.

The results are as you expected; a chest piece transfer - easy enough, if you let the service machine do any necessary welding for you - a manual realignment of his limbs, and finally, rewiring of whatever had become tangled and unplugged that is causing the loss of movement. That would be the hardest part by far. You were a jack of all trades kind of employee, an amateur technician, not a professional by any means. One wrong wire input and it would cost you your life or, at the very least, your job.

Not that you had a handful of options at your disposal. If it took this much convincing for Moon to let you play doctor, you doubted he would allow an actual mechanic anywhere near him. It was you or nothing.

“Hey,” Moon’s voice breaks you from your thoughts, forcing you to look past the monitor where he sits with a body still coiled tight, knees tucked up to his chest. “You never answered my question,” he says, not bothering to look up at you.

“What question?” You stand from the chair and begin to head for the tool cabinet.

He’s fiddling with the dents in his stomach, thumbing at the upturned metal there, “What happened?” His nail scrapes against a particularly gnarly piece, “I didn’t look like this a few hours ago.”

You keep your back turned to him. “Don’t know for sure. You were already out of commission by the time I entered the Daycare. The wire snapped, from what I gathered, and you fell from pretty high up. Landed wrong.” You try not to shudder, brought back to the moment where you found him lifeless in the dark, his wires exposed and splayed out like entrails, “I’m not sure how long you were like that before I found you.”

From the corner of your eye you see him grimace.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” you’re quick to reassure, “I’ll get you back in working order before my shift is over,” squinting into the cabinet, you brush some tools aside with a frown,“…as soon as I find what I need.”

“Off to a great start,” he grunts, “Remind me to get severely wounded with someone more proficient on the clock next time.”

“I can easily find someone else to poke and prod at your body, if you’d prefer.” Silence returns. You take his immediate lack of an answer as you having won that argument. “Oh, here it is!” Your hand grasps around the handle of a specific screwdriver. One that will get you inside his chestplate and on to business. You turn with it in hand and avoid the look in his eyes as you near him with it - if robots could go pale, he would be.

Fortunately for him, it isn’t yet time to put the tool to use. You set it on a small rolling table beside the chair and reach for his legs with your newly freed hands, lifting your chin to meet his gaze, “I’ll need your help with this part. Do you think you can lift your waist for me?” Your expression softens in response to his immediate hesitation to do so, “Please? I need to get you facing the right direction again.”

He isn’t so easily persuaded. It takes you attempting to do it singlehandedly, first, for him to realize you aren’t going to back down. Only then does he rest his palms on either side and lift himself into the air so you can properly get his waist to turn. It does so with an audible screech of metal on metal that makes both of you flinch.

“That’ll be fixed when we replace your chest piece,” you promise. He doesn’t look convinced.

Next came the worst part. You expect him to fight you tooth and nail when you reach for the screwdriver again and angle it against his torso, but instead he reacts in the opposite direction; with listless apathy. His fingernails dig into the seat beside himself with a strength that leaves dents and stands as the only thing giving away how he’s really feeling about this whole situation, beyond that he says nothing - does nothing - and makes no attempts to stop you. The screws fall away one by one.

Soon, the metal plating over his stomach comes undone beneath your fingertips and you pull it away entirely, setting it on the table beside you. The mess it was hiding is ugly and grotesque; wires strewn in every direction, tangled around each other, some knotted, others unplugged entirely, and some, still, that are severed and beyond repair. “Shit, dude,” you cringe outwardly, “it looks like a warzone in here. I’m not even sure where to start–” your hand dips, but pauses just within reach of him.

“Go on,” Moon senses your uncertainty like a bloodhound and suddenly remembers his attitude, and his smirk, “stick your hand in there. I want to see what happens.”

You have half a mind to grab a fistful of wires and give them a hearty tug just to wipe the shit eating grin off his face. You don’t, though. That would spell bad news for both of you. “Don’t be so cheeky,” you warn, “and hold still. I’m not looking to get my hand tangled in all of this.” You stand, again, leaving him propped open while you hunt out a pair of safety gloves. He makes a dissatisfied tsk but remains in place. Thankfully. Returning to your chair, you roll your sleeves up to your elbows and reach above your head for a light, dragging its metal neck down to your level so you can better see the disarray you’re being forced to work with, and look up at him. “Ready?”

Eventually, he goes still, nodding, and you convince yourself to start with the sections that are the least tangled and only need rearranging. Your hand carefully tucks into his wiring with stilted breath and you separate what you can, successfully managing to sort a handful before your knuckles brush against an exposed wire. Even through the gloves you can feel the zap of electricity shoot through your skin. Your hand pulls back as though it were bitten. His head tilts to the side inquisitively, smirk fading.

“What’s wrong?”

“The gloves aren’t enough,” you grimace, “your wires are shorting all over the place. It’s a death trap in there.”

“Get better gloves.” He says.

“Moon,” you pause, looking up at him, “I - I’m going to have to shut you down for this.”

His expression falls entirely. Not a frown, but a gape, this time you don’t have to look far to see the fear. “I can retrieve them myself,” he tells you, “and then you don’t have to–”

“I don’t know what those wires do, or how they could effect you if they’re torn out while you’re still awake.” You stand, and again head for the cabinet, “I’m sorry, there’s no way around it. You’ll be fine, though, I promise. It’ll be like taking a nap.”

“No!” His waist jolts and the metal twists, signs of him willing his legs to work and failing painfully, he sits upright to the point of nearly doubling over, “I won’t do it. The ones that are chopped up just go to my legs, right? They’ll be fine if I pull them out!” and he reaches to, immediately, hand diving in with blind ambition–

“Hey–Hey!” You swivel on your heel and take hold of his wrist just as his fingers wrap around a pair of red and blue wires, one shorted, and the other going strong, “fuck, Moon, what’s gotten into you?”

His chest moves on its own; mechanical breaths that stir with quick movements, up-down, up-down, up-down, eyes blown wide like a wild animal. He doesn’t attempt to pull away from your grip, but he doesn’t loosen his own, either, forcing you into a stalemate. “Let go,” his voice dips with venom, but it’s fickle, shaking, “I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Your hand relaxes, slightly, but doesn’t release entirely. Your other hand raises to his faceplate, slow and careful, and you watch him flinch, “Tell me what’s going on,” you try to keep your voice soft, try to keep it from bottoming into pity, “why won’t you let me do this? Is it the thought of going under?”

You can understand that much, at least. It isn’t a nap at all, more like a medically induced coma, but that’s still better than sure death, isn’t it? “It’ll be quick, I promise.” Your thumb gently caresses the line up his cheek, hoping to bring him some kind of comfort, “I’ll power you down nice and easy, get the bad wires out, put some new wires in, and then wake you back up as soon as it’s done.”

“What if you don’t?”

You blink, stunned. Your hand goes still. “What?”

His eyes raise to meet you fully. “I’m not afraid of powering down. I don’t feel anything. I don’t dream. It doesn’t matter. But–” He pauses, and suddenly he doesn’t trust you with his gaze, and it slips just past you, instead, then falls to his lap. He goes silent.

“You’re…afraid I won’t power you on again?” He doesn’t answer. Your hand cradles again at his cheek, forcing him to look at you, “Moon, why wouldn’t I?”

His breath quickens, again. The hand in his stomach loosens, then goes vice, then loosens, the cords straining against their plugs. He holds them hostage like a gun to his head. “It’s stupid,” his voice is barely audible, a whisper so quiet, at first, you aren’t sure it’s there at all, “never mind,” it becomes a whine, like a low whirring fan inside his throat, “never mind, never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, it isn’t stupid. I want to hear it,” you encourage, “you’re safe with me, you know that. You can talk to me.” Then, after a beat, “I promise not to tell anyone. Not even management.”

Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes find you. His fingers sag around the wires.

“There you go,” you further ease your own grip as a show of peace. Your thumb pads along his face and dips beneath the hat, worrying over the crease there, easing away the soreness. “Moon,” you try again, “Why wouldn’t I wake you up?”

He hesitates. Then, slowly but surely, he releases the hold on his wires. You let go of his wrist in turn, and both hands fall into his lap. “It would be easiest that way,” he mumbles, “Wouldn’t it?”

“What would?”

“Getting rid of me.” Moon answers.

Your stomach drops, lungs seizing, the room sways as you try to digest his words. You make a noise in your throat, something guttural and hopeless, lips moving, but no words come out. You make a second attempt at saying something - anything - but Moon is faster.

“I’ve thought it over a thousand times. How easy it would be.” His voice is bitter, but the poison in his words is turned in on itself, fatefully resigned, “Take care of the problem while the problem can’t fight back, you know?” He clears his throat, fingers intertwining in his lap, it strains like an old record.

“Stop that,” your hands find his and separate them, pressing your own palms against them instead, “You know that won’t happen–”

“I wouldn’t know the difference,” he continues, a dry laugh escaping his voice box, “It’s just a nap, after all. That’s what they’d tell me.”

Your breath catches in your chest. You aren’t sure what to say - what can be said to that. How are you meant to reassure someone when you’re just as powerless yourself? If it’s what management wanted, they would make it happen. It’s nothing you could prevent.

But damn it if you wouldn’t at least try.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Moon,” you bring his hands into your own lap and hold them there, hoping he hears you, hoping he takes your words for all their worth, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. That’s a promise.”

His eyes flicker upward for a brief moment, and he almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You can tell he doesn’t believe you. Maybe he wants to - maybe he’s desperate to. But it’s not enough.

“Wait,” you pull one hand away from your lap and use it to bring the table closer, ensuring it had everything on it that you would need, “I have an idea. A way for you to know for sure that I won’t leave you behind.” You pull only one glove away and reach for him again, fingers wrapping fully between his own, intertwining them. “You can lock your joints, right?”

Moon looks at you uncertainly. “I can.”

Your smile is hopeful and genuine, “Squeeze my hand,” you tell him, “Squeeze it and don’t let go.”

He looks at you with a blank expression. His fingers twitch, like he starts to agree, but then he stops. “Won’t that make it hard for you to work?”

“I have one free hand left,” you wave it, flexing your fingers, “I can work just fine with that.”

“But–”

“I won’t be able to pull my hand away from yours while you’re powered down,” you continue, “you can let it go when I wake you back up. But not until then.”

He’s quiet. You can’t read his expression, and he doesn’t give you anything to go off of that might tell you whether or not he thinks your plan is too silly to pursue. A stupid thought. A bad idea. Then, suddenly, you feel his hand squeeze back. “I’d like that,” he croaks, “I’d like that a lot.”

Relief floods your lungs. “I really will be as quick as I can,” you promise him.

He nods. “I trust you,” he mumbles, then, “Let’s do it.”

Your free hand reaches up and past his faceplate, fingers drawing for the latch beneath the hat and behind his head. The panel there pops open once you find it. Carefully, you move, locating the small and innocent button to the bottom left of his panel that will power him down. You feel the bump and pause afterward, finger hovering just above it. “Ready?” You ask him.

You feel his knuckles go rigid, the fingers stilling in place. A short and unsuccessful flex of your own hand proves that it isn’t going anywhere. You smile, and for once, he smiles back.

“Ready.”

His chest continues its rhythm; up-down, up-down, up-down, then it goes still. The light behind his eye fades as your finger comes back from the button, and his hand remains firmly in place.

You get right to work.

The process is harder this way. It takes twice as long, and you’re nearly breaching overtime by the time his wires are properly back in working order, but you don’t mind any of it. Your hand fell asleep an hour ago, but you don’t mind that, either.

When he wakes, it’ll be to new wires, functioning legs, and the promised face of someone who refuses to let him do this alone.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

#drabbles #fnaf moon #moondrop #moon x reader #moondrop x reader #hurt/comfort #bro this is. so much longer than intended #hoooooo boy #also i'm stating here and now. if anyone makes a wirepl*y joke i'm coming for you fucking ankles. do you hear me #now is NOT THE TIME #they are having a MOMENT alright

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