I really love to dance. I love when you dance in a basement, and the walls are so sweaty and your feet stick to the floor and you throw your arms around - you just feel so free.
I always like to be the center of attention.
Larissa Weems x Reader Fluff (mostly, teeny-tiny mention of smut but not really)
A/N: I have a lot of thoughts on hands, thats it, thats the fic. Link to Ao3 or read it here under the cut.
Hands were tools, used everyday to carry groceries, hold books or open doors, to wash dishes or clothes or to use other tools in turn.
Yet hers, hers were so much more than mere tools to do her bidding - hers were an art piece, a performance of elegance you could watch endlessly, dreaming the day away, too lost in the way she delicately held a pen or gripped onto the armrests of her chair when agitated about work.
How sometimes she would get lost in her thoughts and trace mindless patterns into the dark wood of her desk, the flames of the fireplace in her office casting her long fingers in a warm light, accentuating her knuckles and bringing the gold on her ring finger to a warm glow.
Sometimes you could see the fine bones and tendons of her hands stand out as she gripped tightly on the fine silk sheets of the bed, her red nails nearly ripping apart the soft bedding as she frantically whispered your name as if it were a mantra she was reciting, too lost in her body and mind to comprehend much of her surroundings except you and your own hands.
Your own hands, which were a mere tool, in no way comparable to the beauty of hers, tasked with the sole purpose of bringing her to a blinding peak in those moments. Capable of soft caresses and stinging slaps, rough pinches yet sweet petting. Afterwards, she would gaze at you with such warmth and joy, take your hands in hers and kiss them with such reverence, it made you forget for a moment that yours were but a tool. To see her cherish you so, look at you so lovingly, it was as if just for that minute you could believe your own hands being beautiful, being more than just a tool, but a piece of art in their own right.
Feeling her delicate touch in your hair, gently petting and combing through it, you sometimes felt as if you were levitating above your body and watching it happen from outside, imagining her long fingers carding through your hair, gently scratching at your scalp with her painted nails, softly grazing the tips of your ears as she told you of her day and you listened and hummed in pure content.
Lost in your thoughts and memories you didn't notice her trying to get your attention, not until you felt her warm touch on your cheek. She had taken off one of her gloves, her cup left aside as she looked slightly concerned at you, brows furrowed and red lips pursed.
The noise and chatter of the little Café returned to you, the tinkering of the barista and and frantic typing of the student in the booth behind you grounding you in the moment.
Looking up into her worried eyes you let out a small sigh, relishing her touch on your cheek, cupping her hand with one of your own and letting a small smile shine through before gently nodding your head. You were perfectly alright, more than alright even, sometimes you just got lost in the little details that made up her. You felt the ring against your cheek as she, now assured that you were fine, slowly let her hand slip down, grazing your jaw before coming to rest on the table between you both, your hands now entwined. As you began absent-mindedly playing with her hand she gently smiled, endeared by the unabashed affection in your eyes as you recounted the book you last read to her.
You were perfectly alright, more than alright even, sometimes you just got lost in the little details that made up her, but who could fault you for that.
I’ve posted this on Ao3 already, but I wanted to archive it on here as well. Just a small little thing I wrote thinking soft thoughts.
Link to Ao3
Or read it here under the cut.
A/N: First time ever writing anything, but this scene just came up and wouldn't leave me alone. :)
Waking up in a bed that is not your own is usually not a very comforting experience. All the more were you surprised when you woke up and realized you felt at peace, content even, for the first time in a while.
The restlessness of the past weeks had left you exhausted and in its wake now only calm and comfort remained.
Feeling the sun on your skin you turned your head towards its direction, breathing in deeply, relishing in your newfound state of quiet serenity.
"Don't move."
She sat facing you, her back to the large windows through which the warm light of the sun fell, in her hands a well worn leather sketchbook and the ink-pen you had thought lost - you would have to ask her later how exactly she got hold of it.
You heard the scratch of a pen, then a light rustle and the sheets laying on top of you moved just slightly.
Smiling, you opened one of your eyes just slightly.
You could just make out her concentrated brow against the light, eyes focused on the book in her hands, long fingers gripping the leather delicately. Hair still slightly unkempt, so different from its usual pristine updo, a blue silk robe only very loosely hanging onto her pale shoulders.
Angling her head just slightly on her next stroke you could make out the little soft hairs across her cheek and jaw - she must have woken up just shortly before you, her clear face and sleepy gaze gave off a domestisticity that you did not realize you craved so much, the view causing a warmth to spread through your chest.
Suddenly she made a low sound in her throat, more felt than heard, the sensation of her voice dripping warmly down your spine, and looked up into your eyes.
Her warm, calculating gaze lingered on you for a few moments before she raised the hand in which she held the pen towards you.
You closed your eyes slightly and felt two of her fingers on your face in the next moment. Slowly they traversed across your brow, down your cheek, stopping shortly at your lips, finally landing on your chin. She raised your face just so, before removing her hand again, a satisfied sound eminating from deep within her chest.
You released the air you hadnt noticed you were holding.
Keeping your eyes closed you listened to her calm breathing. By the time she spoke once more you were almost asleep again, the warmth of the sun, the smell of her perfume and her that marked the bed as hers lulling you back into the dark arms of sleep.
"Open your eyes."
Her quiet request brought you back and you hazily opened both eyes, seeing her now sitting beside you on the bed. She was holding up the sketchbook you gifted her on a whim weeks ago, showing you what she had been doing this whole time.
In the top left corner stood "Good Morning" in her neat handwriting. It was you. In sleek black lines she had drawn a scene of pure tranquility. Your hair falling in lazy waves, the sheets not fully drawn up, the contours of your legs and hip visible. Your arm in front of your chest, just so conceiling and teasing with the nudity beneath. A small satisfied smile on your face - you hadn't even noticed that you were smiling the whole time.
Raising your eyes from the page you met her curious gaze, already waiting for your response.
Why was it so hard to find words at this moment? You wanted to thank her, yell at her really, your gratitude for... everything, the evening, her cooking, this morning, the drawing and above all her. All you mustered was a quivering smile with tearful eyes, not quite knowing what to say really, just hoping that she would understand you like she did so many times before.
Her face broke into a gentle smile, her eyes almost glowing in the morning light.
"As Saburo Arasaka's Bodyguard, Takemura wore only the very best Cyberwear and beneath it an Exoskeleton, that reinforced his neck and spine.
After his fall he had to get rid of all Cyberware or deactivate those parts with which Arasaka could've tracked him - a dramatic loss of his abilities that felt like a sudden paralysis.
But even in his current state and in a civilian attire, you cannot take his soldier gaze and stoic calmness away from him."
so my mom and I were looking at baby clothes for my friend and I found a little onesie with cute little sheep on it and it was precious and pastel and adorable and I feel kind of bad because the first thing that I thought of when I saw it was Hannibal Lecter up at two am holding his newborn child and crying “CLARICE WHEN WILL THE LAMB STOP SCREAMING”
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