#fran-writes
Note
can i request moon boys walking into the room to see reader just zoned out and like. slapping/tapping something repeatedly😭😭i know this sounds really weird but i do it all the time and i wonder how theyd react. i feel like theyd really understand zoning out often while doing some random task
It's not that weird, anon, no worries! I do hope I managed to fit what you imagined and that you like what I came up with 💙
Tapped Out
tags: fluff | domestic situations | established relationship | gn!reader
ships: Moon Knight System/Reader
AO3
Marc
The suit unravels around him as he crawls through the open window into your shared flat. Marc takes a cursory look around until he sees light coming from the bathroom.
Walking over he makes sure to make his footsteps louder than usual so you don't get spooked when he suddenly appears behind you.
As he opens the door to the bathroom further, the sudden light disorientates him for a moment. He blinks and squints his eyes before he sees your silhouette in front of the sink. The mirror in front of you shows your face, toothbrush hanging limp in your mouth as your eyes stare blankly into nothingness. You look kind of adorable like this, like a puppy that forgot where it was going and just looks off into space.
It takes him a moment, distracted by seeing you and realizing how much he missed you even for those few hours, to notice the sound.
Your hand is slapping against the bathroom sink, no rhyme nor reason behind the timing of the hits. Marc cannot discern any pattern behind the slapping. Maybe something you do subconsciously? Well, as long as you didn't hurt yourself he really doesn't mind.
To get your attention he starts rapping his knuckles against the doorway, not too loud, softly starting a rhythm of his own. Slowly your slapping adjusts to his rhythm until the two of you are synchronizing.
It takes a few moments until your hand rests flat on the sink, the sound of your tapping fading out as Marc stops his movements too. He watches how your eyes regain focus in your reflection. You blink a few times before you see Marc behind you through the mirror. Toothbrush still in your mouth you turn around to greet him. As your mouth forms the words to your cheery hello the brush tumbles from between your lips onto the bathroom floor.
Marc chuckles and steps towards you, kneeling down to reach for the toothbrush and hand it to you. "Hey sweetheart," he greets you with a smile, "Sorry for being late. You know you don't have to stay up for me, right?"
You take the brush from him and place it on the sink. "I know, but I like to see you before I go to sleep. Preferably I'd be going to sleep with you in bed with me," you counter and lean down to kiss his cheek sweetly before he gets up from the floor.
"Hmmm, bed sounds good right about now," he murmurs as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. He doesn't mention that you've zoned out, doesn't comment on the toothbrush debacle - that's not important. Important is that he can hold you in his arms.
You wrinkle your nose at him. "Alright, but you're taking a shower first, Mister." You both laugh and Marc nods, "I get your point. Wait for me in bed?"
Steven
Your lips pull into a sly grin. "Who said you're taking that shower alone?"
As he gets home from work, a spring in his step at the thought of coming home to you, Steven is a bit worried when you don't respond to him calling your name.
"Love?" he calls nervously into your shared apartment. As he walks into the living room he sees you staring at a book, your fingers tapping rhythmically against your thigh, the book held tightly in your other hand.
He tilts his head quizzically, watching you in silence for a moment. You looked like you weren't even reading, your eyes just staring blankly at the pages in front of you.
Steven doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to scare you of course but you seem so lost in thought. The dull sound of your fingers tapping against your thigh echoes through the room. He doesn’t even dare breathe, afraid he may spook you with even that.
Very quietly Steven makes his way over to you, the couch leaving enough space for him to fit comfortably beside you.
You feel the weight on the couch shift, the subtle difference slowly pulling you back to reality. Steven freezes as you blink at him owlishly. With an embarrassed smile he waves at you.
"Hiya, love," you watch him lean closer, taking a not so subtle peak at your book, "You ok?"
"Yeah, I just spaced out a little. I didn't even hear you come in," you respond a little embarrassed. Steven just smiles at you kindly. "Ah don't worry, love. Happens to the best of us," he tells you with a wink.
Jake
Carefully you put your book to the side, placing a bookmark where you left off and lean into Steven. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close as you cuddle.
As Jake enters your shared flat, his hat safely placed onto a coat rack, the sounds of something repeatedly hitting the granite counter and of something bubbling echoes from the kitchen. Curious, Jake walks over to investigate the noise and is greeted by the sight of you.
You're standing at the counter, back turned to Jake. Your gaze seems fixated on the bubbling pot in front of you, a delicious scent emanating from it, as your hand repeatedly hits the granite counter next to the stove.
Your hand is inching a little too close to the hot stove for Jake's liking, so without thinking he steps forward and gently grabs your wrist. You flinch, looking at him with wide eyes. "Perdón, mi vida. I didn't mean to startle you," Jake raises your hand up towards him and places a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist, an apologetic smile on his face. Your gaze softens and you lean forward to press your lips to his cheek and return his kiss.
"It's ok. I zoned out a little and didn't notice you." He hums thoughtfully and carefully lets go of your wrist. "I noticed. I was worried you might hurt yourself by accident, mi alma," Jake replies and points at the hot stove that still has a pot bubbling on top of it. You nod in understanding. As you turn back to your cooking, unsure what else to say, you feel Jake wrap his arms around you from behind.
"I know you can't control when you zone out, just as much as we can't control who fronts most of the time just…," he trails off and you can feel the nervous energy practically radiating off of him. You lean into his embrace. "I'll try to be more careful. Please don't worry too much about me, baby."
You can feel him smile against your skin as he kisses your neck softly. "I know you are capable of keeping yourself safe, mi vida. Just let me worry a little."
With a soft laugh you nod, "Just a little."
#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#jake lockley x reader#moon knight#moon knight x reader#marc spector/reader#steven grant/reader#jake lockley/reader#moon knight/reader#marc spector#steven grant#jake lockley#moon knight system#fran-writes
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Fran Lebowitz on writing
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hello ! i know it's been more than a week since wad but i wanted to do a little something for: @danrifics (who started all this !!), @dnphobe @manchesterau @phan-tasia @less-amazing @phulge @hmfakeaccount and @oriharakaoru who bought tickets for 150 people (!!!!) to watch the show + the afterparty !!
as it was probably the case for everyone else that entered the giveaway, it wouldve been hard to buy a ticket myself, living on the other side of the world where the economy is very much fucked up kdhdk so thank you guys so much for this opportunity !! its also the first time i get to see one of these guys' live shows, well, live; and it was very exciting to get to experience it alongside so many people, i had lots of fun !!
anyways, all of you guys are more than welcome to request doodles in my asks/dms, if you so wish😌 could be dnp, could be anything ! (mostly) if not, *pushes this little guy toward you* there ya go. have a lovely day !! 🧡
#theres probably a bunch of typos but im tired kdhdk hope all that made sense#first time writing an ID for my art hhh#got the bestie to beta read for me but any additional tips/corrections are welcome !!#dan howell#dan howell fanart#we're all doomed#omg i guess its#phanart#ph-inally ahaaa (gets slapped)#dnp#dan and phil#ppl usually tag the other even in solo fanarts right..#id in alt text#i was gonna say preshow too cause i was there lmao but then i read something about an actual live pre show w dan and now im confused kdhkdj#nevertheless thanks guys ;;;;#fran-art !! ☆
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Fuck man I knew aai 1-4 had MVK being dismissive and abusive to the siblings but fuck man.
Actively saying that attending his 13 year old daughters courtroom debut isn't a priority for him
Then this exchange which is prompted by nothing beyond Miles asking to do his job even using the Von Karma framing of finding perfection only for Manfred to just completely shut him down and verbally abuse him
Miles then being completely unable to respond in shame. Even though this is God damn Bratworth were talking about and in the last scene he was saying this
And then Fran coming in to desperately try and deflect her father ire to protect him
Then when she finally does convince him to let them investigate he says this
Basically actively admitting to anyone with the context we have now that he's only making Miles a procecutor to sully Gregory's legacy.
Then Miles thanking her because he saw her defelcting Manfreds abuse for him.
Just absolutely heart breaking. It really shows the dynamic at play here perfectly. He doesn't care about Franziska. He is not putting this energy into her career and only putting it into Miles' because he is using it as an avenue to abuse and control him and further enact his revenge on Gregory. And she doesn't understand why. She doesn't get why Miles gets this attention and she doesn't. But she already knows that she has to deflect his attention to protect Miles. And Miles doesn't understand how he's doing everything he can to do the right thing but is still his target. Its such a genuinely interesting dynamic where both of them think the other is the favourite. Miles thinks it Fran because he's not constantly verbally abusing her and Fran thinks it's Miles because he actually bothers to give him the time of day and is properly mentoring him. She's 13 man. She's about to become a prosecutor at 13 and he still doesn't care about her in the slightest.
Ugh Von Karma siblings, my heart
#ace attorney#miles edgeworth#von karma siblings#franziska von karma#bratworth#manfred von karma#tw abuse#ace attorney investigations#i always say i relate a lot to miles with MVK but honestly i had this exact dynamic with that abuser that Fran has#being the better one. working yourself to death to become it and sacrifing so much of your humanity so you can be recognised#even trhough you know the person tou want to recognise you is cruel and vindictive#but not understanding why the other persons gets that praise when you dont even though its coupled with abuse#my heart#i need to read and write so much von karma siblings fic after this omg
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This is when C.C’s heterosexuality started cracking, oh that damn nanny Fine
#might write something based on these#The way she looks at herrrr#cc babcock#femslash#fran fine#francc#the nanny#fran x cc#cc x fran fine#fran fine x cc#headcanon#cc x fran
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probably part 1 of a little series where i rant about ballet and how to accurately write about and draw ballerinas (and probably dance in general)
#dance tedtalks#refs#fran talks#ballet#art reference#writing reference#gwen stacy#cassandra cain#<- because some of you need to see this
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“You know, Jews, when they drop a prayer book are supposed to kiss it. This is what they teach you when you’re very little. It seemed entirely reasonable to me that you would do that. When I was a child I would kiss any book I dropped. When I was a very little child, after I’d read a book I really liked, I’d kiss it. Love is really the word. I think Children’s books are a human emotional experience rather than an intellectual one. You have a human relationship with them. Children have emotional relationships with inanimate objects, which it would be wise to carry on into adulthood. The way a child makes a person out of a doll, which I never did, I made people out of books.”
—Fran Lebowitz to Adam Thometz.
[Follies Of God]
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The Most Dangerous Game - @the-writing-mobster ✨
Frisk 😳!!!
I feel better now when i done 🥹✨
I hope everyone like it ✨
Enjoy ✨
#frans#undertale#sans x frisk#frisk#frisk x sans#sans#sansxfrisk#friskxsans#tmdg#TMDG au#the-writing-mobster
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Happy anniversary wdyw !!
What do you want belongs to the amazing writer and artist @the-writing-mobster
Hope you like it Mob✨❤️✨
Sorry for being late the app crashed 🥲
#wdyw#happy anniversary#the writing mobster#looking for a fic to read?#this one is the best#frans#sans x frisk#frisk x sans#frisk#sans#adult frans#underfell sans x frisk#underfell au#underfell#underfell frisk#underfell sans#hope you like it#shorukarts#❤️✨
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🌙 * ― silly little unique trivia about your otp．❫
who fell first, and who fell harder?
their hypothetical godly parents (or a deity they could embody in a mythological setting).
soldiers, poets, or kings?
the olive theory according to them (and their palate).
who's the ‘good old-fashioned lover boy’, and who's the ‘killer-queen’?
go-to pet names they have for each other, if any.
what are their star signs? (i know nothing about astrology, but it's funky so out with it!)
their sexual orientations and/or gender identities.
soulmates by fate/chance or by choice?
their hypothetical hogwarts houses, either traditionally speaking, so to say, or following the sortinghatchats method. (alternatively, if you'd rather: their alignment by dnd standards).
who's more likely to do stupid, impulsive, or random stuff, and who's there being like, ‘regrettably, that's the love of my life’?
one to three songs that remind you of them.
who's the “tell me i'm pretty” one, and who's the “you're pretty fucking annoying is what you are” in the relationship?
their love languages.
sun, moon, stars, earth, or eclipse?
three to five non-sexual acts of intimacy.
who's the “i could beat the shit out of you” one, and who's the “i know” one?
one to three other ships from other pieces of media that may remind you of them.
who's the dog person, and who's the cat person? (other pets or animals may also apply.)
their absolute favourite thing about each other in the whole wide world.
do they ever match in any way?
their own little way (or ways) to say ‘i love you’.
who's the “i wouldn't marry myself either” one, and who's the “i would marry you with parer rings” one? (alternatively: i'd marry you with paper rings vs. i'm rich. i'll get you a diamond)?
coffee or tea?
one to five tropes they embody or could pull off in an AU.
#hello hi howdy! so today i was... writing away on my thesis and in between breaks i gathered all of THIS#if anyone has any use for it :)#ship meme#ask meme#otp questions#prompts#hc prompts#headcanons#shipping#otp asks#shut up fran.#ciel plots#(and has spent a little too much time editing stuff and on tt in general. can you tell?)
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FRAN IN C.C.'S POV || SHE - Dodie
Am I allowed to look at her like that?
⤷ FRAN X C.C.
there is Something about the way c.c. looks at fran over the course of the show that screams GAY YEARNING so i made a video about it and hurt myself in the process...unrequited francc...ah yes, why do i do this to myself?
disclaimer: i do not own any of the clips or audio used in the video. the video is made for entertainment purposes only, no copyright infringement is intended. all rights belong to the nanny and dodie. :>
#fran x cc#the nanny#cc babcock#fran fine#lauren lane#fran drescher#dodie#she by dodie#GAY YEARNING LVL 9999999#why do i do this#then cc will listen to laufey's let you break my heart again edhkjcsn#time to write some fluff so i don't fall down the sad rabbit hole
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From the prompt list: “Because every time I see you, all I can think about is kissing you and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.” with Steven Grant please.
Since I already did this prompt with Jake I decided to approach this a little differently. And it turned out much longer than I had planned. I still hope you'll like it, anon 💙
Stupid Sexy Steven
tags: friends to lovers | kissing | cursing | Steven being effortlessly adorable and sexy | gn!reader
ships: Steven Grant/Reader
AO3
Edit: added AO3 link
“Because every time I see you, all I can think about is kissing you and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”
You've been avoiding Steven. It's not the bravest thing to do and you're not exactly proud of it but you don't know what else to do.
You need the space to figure out how to deal with your emotions. It's not an everyday thing you realize you're in love with your best friend. So avoiding it is.
You know you'll have to say something at some point, you just didn't know how to say it. It's like your brain just shuts off when you look at him nowadays. He's just so genuinely kind and loving, and that goofy little grin he makes when he gets excited, and the way his brows furrow when he focuses on something-
Focus. Don't get distracted.
So yeah, you get a little silly around him since you figured out that you have a crush on him. It happens. But also you don't want to make a total fool of yourself so some distance was in order.
You just didn't account for Steven to just not let that happen.
It's your day off when the inevitable happens. You were just getting ready to catch up on a TV show you had on your watchlist for a while when your doorbell rings. You get up, confused because you didn't expect any visitor or delivery, and walk over to your door. You open it to find the one man you didn’t plan on seeing.
Steven smiles at you, standing there in your doorway like an excited puppy.
"Hello! I hope I'm not disturbing you but we haven't seen eachother in a while and I wanted to check up on you."
Curse him and his puppy dog eyes. How could you turn him away like this?
You clear your throat awkwardly and step aside to let him in.
"Hi Steven. Yeah it's been a while. I didn't want to worry you."
He steps inside and you lead him into your living room.
"You've been busy then, yeah?", he sits down in front of your TV and you join him, "I mean you didn't answer my calls or texts either so I thought maybe you weren't feeling well."
It's only now that you see the little container he's holding. Your heart squeezes in your chest.
He got you soup because he thought you were sick.
And all the while you had muted him in your contacts so you wouldn't be tempted. You were the worst human being on the planet.
You take the offered soup, thanking him profusely. Quickly you carry it into your kitchen and return with some water for Steven.
"You really didn't have to do this. See, I'm fine."
You smile at him as you place his water on the table. Steven returns your smile before his face turns thoughtful.
Fuck, he looked so pretty even like this. His mouth twists into this little pout and you are once again wondering what it would feel like to press your lips against his, what sounds he would make as you lean in to kiss him, how he-
"-so it was either that or you were avoiding me."
You didn't even notice Steven was talking again. Curse Steven and his stupid, kissable mouth.
"I- well…", you stammer. You couldn't lie to his face, you had to say the truth. "I was kind of avoiding you."
You regret it immediately. Steven looks at you like a kicked puppy. "Why?", he asks and just with that one word your heart breaks for him.
It's too much, the guilt and the still lingering thoughts of Steven's lips on yours destroyed any brain-to-mouth filter you've ever had.
“Because every time I see you, all I can think about is kissing you and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”
You slap your hand over your mouth, a desperate attempt to stop the words that have already left your lips. Steven stares at you, mouth agape and cheeks flushing. He starts stuttering and you can’t really make out what he's saying.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't want to just dump this on you. I swear I had a plan and everything.", you groan, annoyed at yourself and hide your face behind your hands.
Cautiously, softly, Steven asks: "Do you really want to kiss me?"
He sounds like he doesn't believe it, that you couldn't possibly want that. And that could not stand.
You take your hands off of your face and look directly into his eyes.
"Steven Grant, I have been thinking about nothing else for the past weeks than how badly I want to kiss you. So believe me when I say that yes, I really really want to kiss you."
The noise that leaves Steven's mouth is the sweetest sound you've ever heard, something between a whine and a moan. You can't believe that he doesn't know what an effect he has on people. But you're happy to show him.
"Would you- Do you want to- now?", he stumbles over his words, nerves overtaking him as he looks at you with such need in his eyes it almost leaves you breathless.
Not a moment later you are on him, lips locked with his in a desperate first kiss. You swear you can see fireworks behind your eyelids as your lips connect. Steven whimpers into your mouth and his trembling hands hold onto you for support. In your rush you push Steven into the couch, all but laying on top of him as the two of you kiss to your heart's content.
You force yourself to break apart from him with a gasp, forcing as much air into your lungs as possible. Steven looks up at you with dreamy eyes and a far away look, his face even more red than before.
"Could we- Can you do that again?", he all but begs and with a laugh you nod.
"Yes, Steven. As much as you want, whenever you want."
Immediately he pulls you back on top of him and seals your lips together again in another heedy kiss.
#steven grant x reader#steven grant#steven grant/reader#moon knight x reader#moon knight#fran-writes
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“She woke up one day and decided to stop waiting for her life to start and started making things happen” Unknown
#spotify#love#music#couple#poesia#poetry#lovers#música#Fran Chico Ninguém#sad poem#poem#thoughts#my mind#quotes#time#romantic#reflection#romance#relationship#writings
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call off the dogs (and come home to me)
Pairing: John Price x gn!reader
Summary: You've quietly yearned after Captain John Price for a long time now, and known him even longer. With each stolen glance and interrupted moment the tension between you grows, but everything comes to a head when a mission gone wrong forces you to confront feelings that have gone unspoken for the better part of a decade.
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, strong language, alcohol mention, drunk hookup, a little bit of torture + murder, fingering, porn with plot (smut should read gender neutral but let me know if any changes will make it more inclusive!!), mild angst, mutual pining with a happy ending
Word count: 3,940
A/N: My first foray into smut inspired by the incredibly talented @yeyinde!! Expect more Hound/Price content in the future bc I’m obsessed lol
--
“Hound,” a familiar voice startles you from the mountain of paperwork on your desk, “what are you still doing here?”
You raise a challenging brow at your captain. “Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”
This exchange has become familiar in the months you’ve spent grounded. Anyone else would take a bullet to the knee as a chance to slow down - switch careers entirely if they were smart - but you’re stubborn. A dog with a bone. Two surgeries and months of rehab that still aren’t finished, frankly you’re lucky to be walking. Luckier still that they let you stay on with the 141; There was a minute there that Laswell threatened you with an honourable discharge. A timely intervention with the physical therapist got you out of it, the only stipulation being that you remain firmly planted behind a desk until the doctors clear you. Having spent the better part of a lifetime hands-on in the field, it’s been hard not to overextend to prove your worth off of it.
So after-hours paperwork it is. At least the company is good.
“Touché,” Price huffs a laugh through his whiskers. “Fancy a cuppa? Sounds like we’ll both be here a while yet.”
“Have I told you lately you’re my favourite? Two sugars and--”
“--a splash of cream,” he finishes for you. The twinkle in his eye warms you right through, and you smile after him a little bit like an idiot.
It’s been like this ever since the domestic terrorism scare your team was called in on in Belfast what feels like a lifetime ago. He was only a lieutenant then, and you a sergeant. You were assigned to civilian extraction, but took off when you saw one of the primary suspects make a dash for it through side streets. Price saw you go for him and followed, the two of you giving chase on foot for three blocks before you managed to dive-tackle him in a back alley. It was a major success to take him alive, but your captain at the time wanted blood for the abandoned civilians. Price stood up for you in front of the entire regiment.
Took after ‘im like a bloody hellhound! he’d said. That deserves a medal, not disciplinary action.
Just over ten years later you’re still called Hound, and he’s still the subject of your silly, unattainable daydreams. Captain John Price is a name that means something, but to you he will always be the sergeant with fire in his eyes who stood up for you when no one else would. When he asked if you were interested in joining the 141 at its inception you didn’t even hesitate. You’d follow him anywhere.
“One tea, two sugars, splash of cream,” Price announces when he returns from the kitchenette with two steaming mugs to distract you from your thoughts. Yours is placed ceremoniously on an ARW coaster you ‘borrowed’ from your last commanding officer. “Now I believe you owe me something…?”
You grin and pull out your secret stash. The false bottom of the drawer is probably meant for sensitive intel, but you’ve found it’s perfect for biscuits. Three are placed in his outstretched hand, and three next to your mug.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a man on the inside who sends me these,” you scold as he scoffs one down almost immediately.
“Yeah, tell your granddad I said ‘thanks’.”
“I can’t. He’d disown me if he knew I was feeding a Brit.”
That earns you a laugh - a true belly laugh - and you can’t help but feel entirely smug about it.
“Fuckin’ Paddies.”
“Ah, go fuck yourself.”
A companionable silence blankets the room after that, broken only by the sound of shuffled papers and laptop keys. Soft lamplight illuminates your reports so unlike the harsh fluorescents everywhere else on base. You’ve done your best to make the regulation desk homey; bright sticky notes and colored pens and a picture of you and the lads after a successful mission. Occasional hums and huffs and heavy sighs from your captain’s desk across the room breathe life into the space as well. You like to think your incoherent, foul-mouthed muttering does the same for him.
The clock reads 0100 hours when you look up again. The caffeine from the tea wore off over an hour ago and you can feel yourself starting to fade. A quick peek over at Price reveals much the same.
You open your mouth to ask if he’s ready to tuck in when he looks up and steals the breath from your lungs. His short hair is mussed where he’s been running his hands through it, that hint of premature grey turned silver at his temples in the low light. Tired eyes crinkle fondly behind the lenses of reading glasses you haven’t stopped teasing him over but can’t get enough of. It’s achingly domestic. A glimpse into a future you’ll never have - not with anyone, and certainly not with him.
“What are you thinking about over there?” he asks softly.
“Nothing,” you flash a tired and unconvincing smile. “I’m knackered. Shall I close up shop or will you, Cap?”
“I’ve got it, you get some shut-eye.”
Your eyes linger just a bit too long as you bid him goodnight, knowing very well you won’t sleep a wink.
--
This pub is definitely one of the shittier ones, but its location is convenient enough to pretend that the wallpaper isn’t peeling and the live band of part-time musicians and full-time retirees is any good. The handful of covers they play are indistinguishable from originals sprinkled in, all with that same, washed-out sound of empty bottles and stale dreams.
The group of hooligans crowded up at the bar sit in stark contrast of the otherwise dour patrons. Even Ghost, who’s taken the corner seat and keeps a lazy watch over the room, is loose enough to be making those terrible jokes of his. Soap and Gaz lean over one another with goofy grins and half-empty glasses before them. Price, true to form, has taken the end seat to nurse a ‘proper pint’ alongside a lit cigar the bartender can’t dispute after lighting up what looks like at least his tenth cigarette of the night behind the bar.
“If it isn’t the Bionic Hound!” Gaz calls when he spots you across the poorly-lit room, waving you over with a grin.
You shake your head, wondering why you agreed to come out tonight. But the second Gaz had started with the puppy-dog eyes there was no denying him. Drinks before leave are a 141 tradition, he’d insisted.
So here you are.
“You’re lucky it’s a metal knee and not laser eyes or you’d be in yesterday’s papers,” you wag a finger at him as you take your seat amongst them all.
Ghost snorts a laugh at the empty threat.
“Oh, come off it, Hound,” Soap says. “You love us too much.”
Price chuckles. “I wouldn’t count on that.”
You glare and wrinkle your nose at the comment, but he just smiles back at you with that damned twinkle in his eye. Prick. Then he wordlessly slides over your usual and you have to be grateful on top of it all. Double prick. One swift gulp and half of it is gone; you’re too sober for this.
The lads cackle over another awful joke - Soap’s, this time. Price holds his temples.
The drinks go down easy after that.
“Any exciting plans for your leave, Cap?” you ask. It’s almost closing time now. This place is never full, anyway, but there’s enough alcohol in your system that you almost buy into the pretense of hearing him better as you edge further and further into his space.
You’re not sure what you want him to say, exactly. Maybe if he reveals that there’s a cute little family or some stunning girlfriend waiting back home you’ll finally be able to move past the strangled feeling in your throat every time you look at him.
“Hardly,” he says around the cigar. The soft glow of it lights his face, makes him look like some sharp-eyed noir detective shrouded in smoke and mystery. “Might get a bit of fishing in, head into Liverpool and catch a game or two. What about you?”
You wave a dismissive hand. “I make a terrible civilian. After I visit my grandfather and annoy him half to death I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe finally get some use out of those Egyptian cotton sheets I spent a bleedin’ fortune on.”
“Are they nice?” he laughs, leans closer.
You hum an affirmative, dizzy at the little space between you. He smells like tobacco and wood, whiskey and gunpowder.
“Too nice.” You should stop talking now. “End up on the floor half the time, anyway.”
He doesn’t need to know that.
“Sleeping alone, then?”
His breath fans your face. Yours gets quicker, and you swear you’re more drunk off this shared air than any liquor you’ve had tonight.
“Sometimes.” You wet your lips. “Usually.”
Your lashes leave tender butterfly kisses on your cheekbones as you meet his blue-eyed stare that’s gone impossibly dark, dipping down to see where your lips have parted - breathless, waiting. Wanting. His hand reaches out--
“Last call!” the bartender’s shout snaps everything back to reality.
You jump away from one another as though you’ve been burned. It feels a lot like you have.
Price clears his throat, mutters something about getting back. His voice is rougher than usual. Raw. You look everywhere but him as he proceeds to round up the rest of the lads before you all stumble back to base.
Your head pounds the whole way back to Ireland the next morning, marching drums in your mind and sandpaper beneath your eyelids. The flight has never felt lonelier.
--
The man you bring home has blue eyes and brown hair. He’s not tall enough, certainly not broad enough, but he happened to be in the right place at the right time as you drank your sorrows away in some tiny pub up the road from your flat, and you happen to be desperate enough not to care.
At least that’s what you tell yourself as you back him against your bed.
When you kiss him it’s relentless and controlling. Mean. You suck a dark bruise on his neck and climb in his lap before he can think to return the favor.
“Fuck, sweetness,” he groans at the sweet feeling of friction between your bodies. The accent is wrong. So is the endearment.
You clamp a hand over his mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”
It’s a quick and sloppy affair, chasing a half-drunk high like a pair of horny teenagers. When all is said and done, you stare up at the ceiling on too-soft sheets and tell him he can go. He leans over to catch your eye briefly, maybe checking to see if you’re serious. You are. There’s hurt written across his expression - a bit of shock, too - but all you can think about is how his eyes are the wrong shade of blue.
--
The second the doctors clear you for active duty you all but sprint to Price’s desk, demanding he get you back in the field as soon as possible. He smiles up at you in that sharp way that always makes your heart stutter and promises he’s got something small in the works - perfect to shake the rust off.
Of course he’d think of an unsanctioned, off-the-books capture of a Russian mobster as small. You’re the only two who make the trip; your Russian is miles better than anyone else’s, and more bodies will only attract attention.
It’s easy to forget how beautiful Moscow is. You don’t come here often, but the sprawling cityscape and romantic spires speak to your soul, set something singing inside you. You try to hold on to that feeling as you and Price make your way into the chipped paint and piss-stained sector of the city. These winding side streets and twisted back alleys are far more fitting for your line of work.
Your mark, one Mikhail Yanovich, is a low-level enforcer for a high-interest gang that has connections to Makarov. Allegedly. That’s why you’re planning this friendly little chat. Not so much catch-and-release as catch-and-stage-a-believable-accident; if he really is involved, you can’t afford for Makarov to know you’re onto him.
It feels strange to walk around in civvies with only a thin kevlar vest underneath to protect you. Thank goodness for the cold that makes layering less conspicuous. You look every inch the lost, frozen tourist. Price does too. You don’t think the miserable face he’s pulling beneath the beanie is acting, cheeks and nose flushed raw as they are.
“Bloody cold out,” he mutters.
“The fuck did you expect, tropical holidays?”
He glowers, and you shake your head to hide a smile.
Thankfully, kidnapping Yanovich is quick work; two bickering tourists hardly seem like the type who will stick you with a needle on your way to work and drag your unconscious body to a stashed van, driving through bad, then worse neighborhoods to reach a secure location to interrogate you.
He wakes tied to a chair in the basement of an abandoned parking garage you and Price have taken up a temporary residence in. The captain circles him like a vulture, taking in all the details a broad frame and blockish features have to offer. You sit perched on the edge of a shitty folding table set just in the shadows. Patient. Waiting. There’s a case of freshly sharpened knives beside you - the Hound’s fangs, as Ghost likes to call them. So often the glinting threat of harsh light on metal is all it takes to break a man.
“What can you tell us about Makarov?” Price opens.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The blow lands harsh on Yanovich’s cheekbone. Instantly a bruise begins to form, splotchy and plum on pale skin.
“I asked you a bloody question. I promise you’d rather answer me than Hound over there,” Price looms over him, growls in his ear. “Makarov. Tell me everything you know.”
There’s a stubborn set to his jaw when he says, “I know nothing.”
If he really knew nothing he either would have laughed in your face or led with open ignorance. The way he clings to resistance can only mean there’s something to resist telling. As to how much he knows? There’s another echoing crack as Price backhands him.
You’ll soon find out.
“Hound,” your name on your captain’s tongue is as much a command as an invitation.
You lean forward, step into the light. Twirl one of your knives expertly between scarred fingers. Watch it flash in the whites of his eyes.
“I’ll ask you again: Where is Makarov?” Price demands.
“I. Don’t. Know.”
You step between Yanovich’s legs, lean over him and gently trace your blade over his groin with a smile sharper than the knife. He lets out a harsh breath.
“I said I don’t know. Boss tells me nothing - I’m just a guard.”
The knife presses, insistent. Not quite hard enough to draw blood yet. A bead of sweat rolls down Yanovich’s forehead. He’s pressed himself as far back into the chair as his bonds will allow.
“Fine! He comes to club once a month. Speaks to the boss.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know-- I swear!” his accent is thick with unfamiliar syllables and fear.
“When’s he due next?”
“You just missed him. He always comes last day of month.”
“Location?”
“Changes every time,” he says, licks his lips. “I told you all I know - call off your fucking dog!”
You dig your knife in for good measure just to watch the hate and fear in his eyes before backing off at Price’s nod.
Turning to step away and table your knife, you don’t miss the way Yanovich mutters darkly after you, “My zdes strelaem vie brodyachikh sobak, suki. Esli ya uviju tebya snova, the mertview.”
Then a gunshot fires.
You pull your weapon out of its holster and whip around to cover Price, only to find the smoking gun in his hand and Yanovich’s head splattered on the wall behind him. Captain John Price stands over the body, eyes blazing, chest heaving, gun still aimed. Blood and brain matter speckles his face and clothes.
“What the fuck was that?” you demand. “He could have told us more! And what about the cover-up? Blowing his brains six ways to fucking Sunday isn’t exactly a bleedin’ accident!”
You expect some kind of remorse when he turns to face you, but there’s only a grim, deadly acceptance. “He said--"
“I heard what he said, I can speak bloody Russian!” you stalk towards him and jab a finger into his chest. “We were gonna kill the cunt anyway. You should have waited.”
Price snarls, lip curling to bare his teeth. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you.”
Suddenly you’re hyperaware of how close the two of you are standing. “How did he look at me?”
“He wanted to kill you the slowest way he knew how,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin, “and I’d shoot his fucking face a thousand times over to make sure he never looks at you again.”
And just like that anything you were going to say dies in your throat, comes out a pathetic whimper. He grabs a fistful of your shirt and hauls you the rest of the short distance to him.
“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,” he demands. “Tell me to stop.”
His hand burns on your chest, an iron-hot brand of possession.
“John,” you breathe, because you don’t know what else to say. The look in his eyes is magnetic, drawing you in further still with pupils blown wide with want. “Don’t stop.”
He kisses you rough, teeth and tongue and a certain kind of desperation brought on by the still-warm corpse lying just a few feet away. When you break for air he wastes no time kissing down your neck, every inch of exposed skin branded by his lips and the rough scrape of his beard. Yanovich’s blood smears down the column of your throat.
“Fuck, John,” you say, “just like that.”
“Sound so fucking perfect when you say my name,” he growls and bites down on your pulse point, leaving you gasping.
It’s enough to distract you from his true purpose, large hands cupping beneath your ass and scooping you up into his arms. You hold on tight as three purposeful strides take you across the room to the table. One sweep of his arm has everything tumbling off it before he sets you down to stare up at him with wide eyes and a kiss-swollen mouth.
When he captures your lips again it’s searing, molten heat rushing through your veins. It pools in your stomach, that too-hot wanting, and it suddenly hits you how much you do want this. Him. Each kiss tastes like so many years of silent longing, of standing too close and staring too long and wanting too much. All suddenly real and within reach.
You let your hands snake up his shirt, explore the broad plane of his chest and the wiry hair that curls over it. Your fingers run over scars like braille that tell stories of violence and valor. Some of these stories you helped write. There, beneath his ribs, where you had to stitch him up in the field to keep his guts from spilling into the streets of Vienna. The lump where his collarbone never healed right after taking the brunt of a nasty blow meant for you. He shivers under your touch. Then his large, calloused hands cover yours and stop them in their tracks.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, “because I don’t think I can wait any longer than I already have to feel you.” His voice is even lower and rougher than usual, accent thick with arousal. “Do you want that?”
You nod, afraid to speak and break the spell.
“Come on, soldier, use your words.”
“Yes, Captain. Please.”
His grip on your hips tightens and he lets out a growl. “That’s my perfect soldier.”
It’s all the warning you get before he tucks his fingers under the waistband of your trousers and underwear and tugs them down to your thighs, leaving you exposed before him.
“Fuck, just look at you,” he says under his breath, almost like you aren’t meant to hear.
You squirm under the scrutiny. A hot flush creeps up your neck as he stares, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. He looks at you like you’re some kind of revelation, like he’s been denied salvation all his life only to find it at the apex of your thighs.
One, two, then three fingers stretch you open for him quick and dirty. It’s too much too fast but you want it so bad, and the pleasure far outweighs any pain. When he finally unzips his trousers to free his already hard, leaking cock you think you drool a little bit. You knew he’d be big, the way he carries himself, but seeing it is something else. Your insides flutter at the thought of the tight fit. He lines up to your entrance with that same military precision you’ve always admired before pushing in slowly, slowly, slower still. When he bottoms out he does it with a deep groan, your fingernails raking down his back as you keen at the sensation. This small mercy, just a few moments to adjust with his forehead pressed to yours, is all you’re granted before he sets a brutal pace. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoes off cracked concrete. With each thrust he hits someplace deep inside you no one else has managed to find.
Heat coils in your belly, closer and closer to fever pitch with each expert snap of his hips.
“John,” you pant, “m’gonna… gonna cum. Feels so good.”
He says your name like a prayer. “Cum for me, then. Want to see you make a mess of yourself on my cock.”
Like a tidal wave breaking against a dam you cum fast and hard at his words with a broken sob. He fucks you through the high, brushing a tear from the corner of your eye with a rough thumb.
“There you are, so good for me,” he says. “Gonna cum all over your pretty little self, make you mine.”
“I’m yours, John,” you gasp, “all yours.”
His thrusts turn sloppy chasing his own high, and it doesn’t take long before he pulls out and makes good on his words, covering your stomach in spend as he grinds out your name. Bent over your body, he presses a chaste kiss to the juncture of your neck before pulling back to admire his handiwork. In the afterglow you lay spread out on the table with a sheen of sweat, smeared with his cum and another man’s blood. The way his eyes darken rubbing it into your skin, and the way you shiver at the sensation, you think that you both might like it a little too much.
“Laswell’s gonna kill us for this,” he murmurs.
You hum your agreement. “So where shall we hide the body?”
His eyes shine down on you with adoration and crinkle with wicked humor. “I’m sure we’ll think of something, but let’s be quick about it. The sooner we get home the better.”
“Yes,” you hear yourself agreeing, “home.”
For you, it will always be at his side.
#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#fran writes#this fic came over me like a possession i have nothing to say for myself#cod x reader#cod mwii x reader
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Why is everyone blaming Dave for not remembering something that happened over 10 years ago?? Especially something as insignificant as being asked out.. #IStandWithDave Give him a smooch from me, if Ross doesn't want him, I'll gladly take him
I'm happy you feel that way!!!!! Dave will gladly accept your smooch, though I'm afraid you can't have him 😔 (where would my plot go if you took him)
#fran answers#well i'm the one writing this story so of course i feel this way but i swear they all have their reasons haha#be patient with them for a little longer still !!
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maybe if u wanna do this request i was thinking right. high school au with hange where they’re super geeky, and reader is popular but was nice to them and reader wants to ask hange to prom! i was thinking it could be a little angsty because maybe they would think it was a prank but they go together in the end >_<
also if u don’t want it to be a highschool au it could be like a college party maybe! i love ur work btw <33
A/N: First of all, thank you so much, this is such a cute request and because it got so long I didn't even get to the party part, I might have to write a second part for that. Then obviously sorry for taking so long, but I still hope you have a good time reading it! I decided on the Collage AU because where I'm from we don't really have an event that has so much significance like a prom and Collage AUs are just my passion now I guess.
1,3k words | Collage AU | mainly fluff, a little angsty | just two idiots in love
Wait, really?
You stood outside, back against the white concrete wall of the building E where the natural sciences where located. A flyer whose aesthetics screamed graphic design is my passion by the way the green letters for End of Semester Party have been printed onto the orange background, the cheap paper already starting to disintegrate in your grasp. Maybe your hands were sweating because you were nervous, maybe because it was the middle of July and you had been standing in the midday sun for about half an hour by now, contemplating about a matter that had nothing left to be contemplated about.
The decision to ask Hange out had already been made weeks ago and every day you spend an hour over lunch with them and the occasional text had you received when the Marine Biology major had found another paper about some weird species with a long latin name, you scrambled for a good occasion to finally ask them out. The problem was just that all of their interests, as much as you adored them and were fascinated, were way out of your comfort zone and you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself on what could be a first date. But then you didn’t want to pressure them into anything they wouldn’t be comfortable with either. You weren’t exactly in the same social circles after all.
Like, you could just go somewhere and people would know you, there was always someone to talk to and that worked out just well for you but-
“Heyyy! Are you heading to the cafeteria as well? We’ll have to hurry up if we still want to find some good seats.”
As you whipped your head around, Hange was leaning against the wall next to you, wearing a t-shirt with a long fish captioned Wahoo (Acanthocybium solandri). You had no idea what this meant, nor how you did not hear them approach you, nor how the hell you were supposed to ask them now. So you didn’t.
“Sure, I was just waiting for you actually.” Well, that was true at least.
“Let’s hurry, I think they have pizza on the menu today.”
Hange waited for you to join them on the way, all too happy to tell you about their shirt. Wahoo was a real fish apparently that often was confused with mackerels or barracudas, but the name was funny.
Over lunch they asked you about your day, letting your rant about how bad group works were and then told you about that paper on this newly discovered sponge they read the last night, but in terms a normal person could actually understand. And when you asked about the other sponge paper you tried and failed reading after they send it to you, their eyes were just sparkling and they were brimming with excitement and it was just so infectious. You had never seen anyone be so happy about a sponge they wouldn’t ever get to see in real life. Just, how were you not supposed to have at least a crush on them?
Hange with their funny patterned shirts for every occasion, who was so unashamedly themselves and passionate about the things they loved while never hesitating to share this enthusiasm and passion with others.
So on the way back to the train station you finally whipped out the flyer as if it was sword to fight this battle with. Just that a crumpled piece of paper wasn’t exactly sharp enough to stand against the absolute boulder of how badly prepared you felt for this. It wasn’t like you to be that nervous. Although apparently now it was.
“Have you heard of the End of Semester Party? The student councils of the different faculties coordinated it together and every faculty will also have booths and games and stuff. So it’s not just about getting drunk or anything. I thought you’d like that, so I wanted to ask whether you wanted to go there with me?”
You felt like you sounded like an 80s teleshopping segment, all that was missing was a look at the camera and listing of the phone number to call to order the absolutely legit product.
“Wait, you mean like a date? You’re not serious, are you?” Hange laughed nervously, averting their gaze.
They thought you weren’t serious. The realization hit you like a cold bucket of water. Or the boulder, or maybe the bucket had this Wahoo fish in it, whatever nonsensical metaphor would be the most appropriate to describe a verbal slap to the face.
Was it because they wouldn’t consider you as someone to go out with? But then they would have just said no, or something nicer to reject you, they didn’t even have to bring up the date. Did they think it was some kind of prank? The kind of things that were always pulled off in highschool? Maybe Hange had bad experiences with that. People were assholes after all.
But Hange was the last person who deserved to be treated like that. Damn it, they deserved all the love and appreciation and being asked out, even if they would end up turning you down. You would deal with this somehow.
“Yes, I’m serious. A date on that party, you, me. I thought we could participate in those games as a team or so. Of course you don’t have to say yes.” At this point you were flailing around with your hands, or at least it felt like it. It felt awkward to show so much vulnerability first, but then, maybe it was the right thing to do. Hanges eyes widened slightly.
“Wait, does that mean you’re asking me out right now?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.” After this you would be the most confident person in the world, because how the hell would you be able to keep talking now otherwise.
Hange covered their face with their hands. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I screwed this up so bad.”
“What? No no, don’t be. It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” Some beats of silence, or maybe it was your heart not beating, you were unsure. “If you want, you can think about it for a while. Don’t feel pressured or anything, it’s all good. I just hope we can stay friends.”
“Yeah, of course- I mean, we can stay friends. Ah no, I mean- I’d like to go to that party with you. On like the- the date. The date. With you. You and me. On that date. On that party.” Now Hange was flailing.
“Wait really?” You had this whole communication thing down, definitely. But then, being nervous should be okay. Considering Hange was just as much of a mess as you were.
“Yeah, really. I just didn’t think you’d ask me out. I mean I guess I haven’t really been asked out before? And then you’re so popular and I thought you already were in a relationship… seems like I was overthinking again.”
Hange just gave you the sweetest smile in the entire world as their tension eased and even let out this little laugh that you adored so much and if you weren’t smiling like some love struck idiot yourself you would be surprised. They had agreed and the happiness made you feel all fuzzy and happy and it was perfect despite the awkwardness, because it was just you and them.
“Not only you. But at least now we can be overthinking together. And you really need to tell me where you get those shirts from.”
So that’s what it was, a party, a date. Hange and you.
------------------------------------
A/N: Hange's shirt this time was presented by the following meme from my fish meme folder:
#hange zoe#hange zoe x reader#aot fluff#hange x reader#hange fluff#hanji zoe x reader#hanji zoe#requests#fran-fiction writing
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