moody booze

currently writing for fandoms: idk man find me on ao3 @moodybooze

[moodyboozewriting]

masterlist~

hello all, here is my masterlist <3 enjoy

jojo's bizarre adventure

fugo x reader: remembrance abbacchio x reader: red eyes and mornings after narancia x reader: citrusy

baldur's gate 3

rolan x reader: grove magic

resident evil

leon x reader: artist drabble

call of duty: modern warfare

ghost x soap: red flags and long nights

ghost NSFW drabbles

metalocalypse

pickles the drummer x reader: beer bottles

requests

skwisgaar skwigelf x reader: enemies to lovers

[moodyboozewriting]

Can you do Skwisgaar x Reader enemies to lovers style?

Skwisaar Skwigelf x Reader : Enemies to Lovers

a/n at the end! no warnings, just alcohol consumption. no use of y/n gender neutral (reader is a guitar player !)

“Seriously?!” you exclaim, nearly jumping up from your seat.

“That’s correct,” your stoic-expressioned band manager responds. “You’ll open for Dethklok on a tour spanning 6 months and travelling across the globe. I’m sure I don’t have to explain how important this will be for the band, and your individual careers.”

You’re nearly giddy at the prospects. With the fame and fortune amassed by Dethklok, such an opportunity is nearly a godsend for your prospects. Your band had a decent following, but had recently hit a plateau in gaining traction in the music industry. You could finally see a light: the opportunity for a big break had fallen neatly into your lap, the label on the package reading ‘Dethklok’.

As your band’s manager further explains the details, you fall into your own flurry of thoughts and further away from the discussion being had by the rest of the band. You’d heard plenty of stories about the members of the infamous band. While you admired their musicianship, you couldn’t help but wrinkle your nose at their more… distasteful behaviours. Public stunts, drunken or drug-fueled bender antics, unrest, violence and chaos. All of which was neatly squared away behind their wall of fame and a mass hoard of wealth. Not to mention the sexual deviance, groupies entering and exiting Mordhaus in droves and typically at the behest of one man. The idea disgusted you: the famed guitarist using his power to compel the hearts and bodies of thousands, who are quickly discarded afterwards. You feel a disdain for Skwisgaar Skwigelf as a guitarist yourself. Can a person be so skilled at the instrument to have people collapsing at his feet at all hours? Is he even so great at all?

In what feels like a blink of time, you’re boarding a tour bus with Dethklok, having spoken with them only in pleasantries thus far. Skwisgaar had taken your hand, bowing and kissing your ring finger with a smirk. You withdrew quickly with a scowl, but he didn’t even look at you: instead opting to gloat in the direction of his bandmates.

You settle your things in an open bed space, silently cursing your manager’s ‘draw straws’ method of deciding who will bunk with whom. The Swedish guitarist you had the misfortune of being paired with lies languidly on the couch, fingers flying over the strings of his custom Explorer. He stops playing, setting the guitar down beside him and propping himself up on his elbow.

“Why ares you alls the ways over theres?” he asks teasingly, and you tense. “Comes heres,” he inquires again, his voice deep and breathy.

“No,” you respond defiantly after a moment, crossing your arms and turning to face him fully.

“No?” he repeats, dumbfounded.

“No. I’m not some plaything for you to mess around with. I’m a musician too, a guitarist at that. Also, we’ll be working together. I suggest you treat me with a little more dignity than one of your damn groupies,” you growl, shoving your headphones on and climbing into bed, slamming the curtain rod shut in one clean motion. You don’t see the Swede clench his fist, gritting his teeth in seething anger and humiliation at being rejected.

Over the next few weeks, you come to realize something. Skwisgaar is petty. Extremely petty. Every communication, even when essential, is met with some trivial insult besides a vague acknowledgement. He interrupted and spoke over you at meetings, and smugly reveled in any downfall of yours, no matter how inconsequential. You aren’t proud to admit it, but you quickly began to return in kind, wanting to stand up for yourself. You don’t even bother to stick around for Dethklok’s performances after yours, instead heading straight back to the bus or to a bar to get some time to yourself. If he’s going to behave so immaturely, he doesn’t deserve your acknowledgment of his guitar skills.

When you finally do listen to their playing, it isn’t all that willingly. One of your bandmates had absolutely insisted, claiming they’d ‘never heard live music so compelling’. You figured since Skwisgaar isn’t the only member of the band, and he’d never know if you stuck around backstage or not if you were quick about it, you may as well. As you step off the stage and walk back to the dressing room, Dethklok passes you. Skwisgaar looks down his nose at you with a smirk. Instead of challenging or antagonizing him like you usually do, you simply avert your eyes and keep walking. Today’s performance was harsh on you, with technology malfunctions and on-stage miscommunication. You’d nearly tripped over the bass player’s wire, and were just about ready to pack it in for the week. By the time you stepped off stage, your exhaustion had carried you back to the closest rest area: the dressing room. Flopping onto the couch (after having swept off a slew of beer cans and bottles), you switch on the main stage monitor. You barely have the energy to groan at the camera’s immediate focus on the blonde guitarist, but bear it anyway. Your breath truly leaves you, however, when he starts playing. The intro to the song is slow at first, quickly ramping up to highlight Skwisgaar’s spirited guitar playing. You watch the screen in amazement as his fingers glide effortlessly over the neck and down the body of the guitar. Throughout their performance, you see none of the bravado you’d grown so accustomed to. His typical smirk is gone, replaced with a solemn expression of focus. You’re almost impressed by his dedication to the guitar, completely ignoring groupies taking their tops off and throwing things at the stage. None of it seems to faze the blonde, and he continues to play with ease.

You jump up as their last song ends, not wanting to be seen by the guitarist. You’re stopped short by your bandmate, who begs you to join them and Dethklok for a leisurely night of drinks and merriment.

You’d been hoping that the alcohol would give you the courage to be honest with Skwisgaar about what you thought of his performance, but you’re three drinks in and still can’t look him in the eye. The members of Dethklok have already drunk a lot: Toki and Murderface in a heated debate about something inconsequential, and Nathan and Pickles having a lively drinking contest with a few of your bandmates. You sit in awkward silence next to Skwisgaar, staring into your drink and wishing it’d magically give you the right words to say to the guitarist. From the corner of your eye, you see him sip his with a placid disinterest. Something in the scene compels you to remain quiet.

It’s been a while since everyone but you and Skwisgaar dispersed. Moving off and splitting into one group or another, musicians were set sprawling across hotel rooms and parking lots. You and Skwisgaar sit in the same spots you started out in, silently sipping respective beers. Your head is almost spinning, but you’re not quite there yet. Luckily, though, you think it just might be enough.

“You played well,” you say, not very loudly but loud enough to be audible to him.

He stays quiet for a moment, taking another sip. 

“Thank yous,” he responds in kind, before taking a breath. “Yous too.”

You’re stunned for a brief moment before the alcohol takes over your tongue. 

“You listened?”

“Everys nights,” he responds in thick Swedish timbre. 

Your brain can’t quite catch up to your mouth as you speak.

“Why?” He stalls temporarily, his expression puzzled. 

“Yous ams a good player. Whys would I not?” 

You could laugh. Instead, you take another swig.

“You think so?”

You turn to him, and the halfhearted smirk dies on your lips when you look into his wintery eyes. His features are still and solemn. Cliché as it is, you lose yourself in his eyes, examining every speck and transition of color. He stares at you just as intently. You don’t realize how close the two of you are until his breath dusts your warming cheeks. He glances down, his eyes slipping closed. You feel your eyelids get heavier, and your lips touch his. They’re soft and much gentler than you expected based on what you’d heard about the guitarist. He takes his time finishing the kiss, giving you a soft smile you’d never have expected from the Swede. He stands, taking your hand gently to guide you out of the cramped room and back to your tour bus. You can’t help but feel giddy, knowing you’ll be spending the next 5 months together with Skwisgaar.

A/N: Thanks for your request, it's my first! Enemies to lovers is something I've never written before, so forgive me if it isn't the best! I always feel like it's difficult to come with convincing/compelling reasons that characters would go from hating each other to loving each other, particularly with such specific/particular characters such as the guitar god himself. I figured the best way is to exploit his guitar prowess! Hopefully it was suitable :) thank you for reading!

[moodyboozewriting]

beer bottles (pickles the drummer x reader)

1980's Pickles confesses to you after a Snakes n' Barrels show. gender neutral reader, no use of y/n warnings: alcohol consumption

Stepping outside, you breathe in the sickly fresh air of cigarette smoke. The packed-in, alleyway venue leaves much to be desired, but you figure it’s better outside than in there. There’s something about tonight that’s too much to handle. There’s no notable difference in Snakes and Barrels’ performance, but a particular sickness of the swaying crowd and their drunken belligerence has warded you away. You look up at the few visible stars through the haze, lighting up a cigarette of your own as you inch further from the club entrance.

A man approaches you, and you quickly dismiss his advances. You’re in no mood to deal with unwanted flirtations tonight, and silently thank fate as the wham of the guitar lures the man back into the club.

You sense the Snakes and Barrels set ending before you hear it, soon to be graced with Pickles’ typical ‘fuck you and goodnight’ to the insatiable crowd. A few more stragglers headed inside to join the mob for the next band, and you can hear the beast pulsate in anticipation. The thought makes you shudder, despite your relief at being all but alone now outside. Of course, it isn’t long before Pickles shows up. His hair is somewhat deflated, the egg whites and hairspray not quite holding up over the wild performance. His makeup streaks off in beads of sweat that have come to lie still on his face, soaking into his beard and leaving his skin gleaming. He hauls his equipment bag onto his shoulder, giving you a gleaming smile. You welcome him with a soft “good job”, not quite feeling up to anything more. Despite his apparent idiocy, Pickles is damn perceptive. He grabs your hand and pulls you towards his Yamaha Virago, and you’re glad for the darkness that hides your blush.

“C’mon, I got somethin’ to show ya,” he insists, turning briefly to wink at you.

As he does, his new eyebrow piercing glints in the reflection of the full moon. You hop onto the back of the bike, clasping your arms around him. As you two travel further out from the city and into the countryside, you finally begin to relax. You relish in the feeling of the wind whipping through your hair, and you’re grateful for the leather jacket Pickles lent you. The cold doesn’t seem to bother the Wisconsonian much, as he pushes the Virago to its limit with little more than a tank top and an overshirt (worn only at your constant insistence). Paved roads give way to dirt paths, and Pickles is winding you up a dark forest hill. Only the headlight of the bike illuminates the path in front of you, and you can’t help but squeeze his midsection a little tighter with every rock the wheels fly off of. The way the harsh light glances off the trees ahead of you does little to ease your nerves. You wish you could ask him where you two are headed, but can’t seem to get a hold of the redhead over the lashing wind. Just when you feel you’ve had enough, the bike slows to a crawl as you emerge from the treeline. The scene in front of you is dazzling: the glittering lights of the city are splattered far and wide beyond a sheer cliff face. You’re so taken aback that for a moment, you forget who you’re with before the bike leans and Pickles pulls out the kickstand to rest it on.

Not forgetting his gentlemanly side, Pickles hops off the bike before extending a hand to help you. When you draw your eyes to his face, you find that his smile glitters even more strongly than the urban lights below. In his smoothness, Pickles quickly retrieves two beers from his bag and guides you to a flat rock by the edge. He brings the neck of one bottle up to his face, popping the cap off with the sides of his teeth, and hands it to you, still smiling.

“You’re gonna fuck up your teeth doing that,” you chastise him.

“Yeah, but I ain’t done it yet,” he responds, still with that carefree grin.

You take the beer from him anyway, taking a gracious gulp as he opens his own.

Sometimes, you and Pickles can enter a zone where neither of you has to talk. This doesn’t seem like one of those times, however, as you notice him anxiously fidgeting from the corner of your eye. You enjoy another moment of peaceful scenery and silence before taking another large swig, finally comfortable enough with your nerves to breach the silence.

“Pickles?” you ask tentatively.

He almost drops his bottle from how badly he startles, wild eyes matching his wild hair as he nervously glances in your direction.

“Yeah, dude?”

“What’s going on with you? You’re jittery as fuck and won’t even look at me. Something on your mind?” You try to be gentle with him, but the words roll off your tongue and out of your mouth faster than you can control.

He freezes his fidgeting, looking around before tossing his head back and killing nearly half a bottle of beer and taking a deep breath.

After all that, he can only muster up a single word, barely squeaking it out.

“Date?”

You frown, turning to face him fully.

“What?”

“Date.” He repeats with more confidence. Your eyebrows furrow.

“Date… what. What are you talking about, man?”

“Me.”

“Christ, Pickles, I dunno what the fuck that means. Who’s dating you? What on earth are you-”

“Do you want to?” He asks softly, staring at the ground.

“Pickles…” is all you can say, shocked at what he’s asking.

“I mean you don’t gotta, I got plenty a’ girls an’ guys, I mean they’re basically linin’ up- not that I think you’re like a groupie or nothin’ I just-” he rambles on, so you stop him short as soon as you gain your composure.

“Pickles, stop. Yes.”

“Yes, like yes I got people or like-” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.

You lean in and plant a firm kiss on his lips. When you lean back, he’s staring at you in shock. You watch as his expression morphs into elation, and Pickles laughs. He laughs until he’s doubled over, wheezing, and you’re worriedly pulling his shoulders up to administer his inhaler. He still smiles when he looks up at you.

“Ah dude, I was freakin’ out, totally thought you weren’t into me for a sec there,” he laughs, and you smile back.

“Good to know you still get nervous sometimes,” you tease, cupping his jawline and toying mindlessly with his earring.

“W-what dude no, I totally don’t, I mean, I don’t know what you’re even talking about,” he stutters out, his blush rising to his ears.

He shies away from the contact, citing a quiet, “hey, that tickles…” as you watch him fondly.

“So… your place?” You ask with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pickles nods enthusiastically.

He reaches out a hand and helps you up. Neither one of you decides to let go.

[moodyboozewriting]

NSFW Simon “Ghost” Riley Drabbles

info: gender neutral, 18+ NSFW

warnings: guns, choking (will be prefaced)

- telling ghost you’ve always thought about doing it with the mask

- he’s all game like ‘why didn’t you ask sooner??’

- usually he’s all soft and cuddly, but his demeanor changes when he dons the face covering

- he’s picked the skull-plate mask, vying for optimum effect on you- and it’s working

- he’s not without his usual grace however, when he lifts you effortlessly and tosses you playfully onto your back as if to say ‘you already know i can push you around, i don’t need to show you that’

- it’s the casual display of strength and power that starts to pool tingling feelings in your lower belly

- ghost hovers over you resting your ankles on his shoulders and grasping your thighs with his large hands. he’s not holding too tightly, just enough to leave brief red marks where his fingertips pressed

- his eyes roll back as he enters, the only visible part of his face which you can’t help but zero in on

- his hands roam as he presses into you, looking down through the eyeholes to watch in fascination as his cock disappears inside of you

GUNS BELOW:

- if you’re into it, he might press the tip of his unloaded SMG to your lips, gently prying them open. going past your teeth. he pushes your tongue around until you’re slobbering all over the end of the barrel

- if you’re not too into that, he’ll even let you hold his pistol, his eyes squinting in a smile as you playfully wave it around in his direction

- if you ask, he’ll press a handgun into your forehead (you’ll later look in the mirror and see the slight indents the cold metal left in your skin)

CHOKING BELOW:

- with the handgun to your head, he leans forward to take your throat in his hand, pressing into the sides and slowly limiting your airflow to a comfortably tight restriction

BONUS FLUFF:

- aftercare with ghost is comfortable as always

- he pulls off the mask to reveal a flushed face and ruffled matted hair, a silly grin on his face

- he cleans you both up and cuddles up to you, making sure your comfortable and hydrated as he throws something onto the TV for you two to watch :)

[moodyboozewriting]

red flags and long nights (ghost x soap)

pt. 3/? // pt. 1 here

hey y'all, i dont know if anyone is actually following this story at this point but i was sad so i wrote this. hope you like it.

warnings: referenced SA, nightmares, canon-typical violence, references to ghost's backstory

At some point in the still-dark hours of the morning, Johnny coaxes Simon to his own bedroom. Simon collapses into bed, his hand catching on a broad shoulder and yanking it down as he falls. A surprised yelp comes from the body he’d grabbed as Simon gathers Johnny up into his arms and tugs the comforter over the both of them. John smiles in the dark, squirming around until his face is level with Simon’s enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Simon melts like he always does, because simply put he never stood a chance of keeping himself together. John wraps his arms around him in turn. For the first time in his life, Simon is at peace. 

He should have known it wouldn’t last. It never does. Simon hasn’t even realized it when he jolts awake. He can feel malice of Manuel Roba coating every inch of his skin. He recoils under the hands of men and women as they touch him. They poke, prod, grab, feel, push, pull, grope and seize at every inch of him they can. He shoves at the oppression blanketing him, but is only greeted by more hands on his body. He takes a swing. He’s met with quick relief as the tactile feelings subside. The relief bars his mind from noticing the sickening crack of bone against supple flesh and the resulting yell of pain. It’s the thud that wrenches him from the clutches of his dream. Simon looks around, his head clearing as he remembers where he is. Who he’s with. Simon scrambles out of bed and to his feet, retreating to a corner with inhuman speed. He watches in terror as Johnny looks up at him from the floor, his hand held tightly over his nose while blood oozes through the gaps in his fingers. Before John can speak, Simon tears himself away to the bathroom to slam and lock the door. Johnny is quick to follow, banging on the door and calling out for him. Simon can hardly hear Johnny’s voice over the sound of his own heavy breathing, his arms clamped in a vice over his head. The banging on the door becomes more frantic, escalating to a crescendo before it disappears entirely. The sound is then replaced with the light clanking sounds of small pieces of metal, which go soft after the lock clicks open. Simon doesn’t hear any of it, too lost in the terrible image that was Johnny. Johnny was hurt. He hurt Johnny. He barely heard John’s soft voice calling out to him again, or the uncovering of his first-aid kit from under the sink. What he does here are John’s footfalls as he gets nearer, the anticipation of them coming closer making Simon tense up further. He strains himself to hear Johnny as he speaks- even now searching for the comfort that his voice brings Simon. John’s voice fades into his consciousness. 

“Simon?” 

He speaks so softly. Simon doesn’t deserve to be spoken to so softly.

“I’m alright, Simon. Nothing’s broken. I’ve stopped the bleeding and I’m alright.”

Simon only shudders.

“Can I hold your hand, Simon?” 

He nods a little, unable to help himself given how enticing that offer is. Johnny grabs his hand, gently pulling it upwards until Simon can feel something else besides skin against his fingertips. A gentle slope, unbroken but covered snugly in bandages. 

“Feel tha’? Nothin’s broken” Johnny murmurs softly, kissing the splits of skin on Simon’s knuckles. 

Simon can’t find it in himself to feel the pain.

“I’m going to take care of these alright? The antiseptic will sting, I’m sorry.”

Johnny does more than just take care of Simon's injured joints. He takes care of Simon’s heart, soothing the erratic mess of beats to a calm staccato. He takes care of his lungs too, which had been inflating and deflating so quickly it had started to hurt underneath his ribs. Simon only realizes that Johnny’s done when he feels the gentle squeeze of his hand.

“Simon, can you look at me love?”

Simon doesn’t want to, but good God he is weak for that nickname. He’s so weak it’s unfair, he thinks, as he lifts his watery gaze to meet John’s. He doesn’t know what he expects to find in Johnny’s eyes, but he finds himself surprised at the tenderness of them. Johnny gives him such a tender look. Simon wants to cry all over again. 

“I won’t touch you all of a sudden like that again, Ah promise. Just come back to bed with me, love.”

The offer is far too good for Simon to refuse. He nods jerkily, letting Johnny help him up as they return to the bedroom. It’s Johnny’s turn to pull him into bed, wrapping Simon softly in the blankets and taking him in his arms. Johnny runs his fingers through Simon’s curls with one hand and soothes his back with the other. The whole way from the bathroom to the bed, Johnny murmurs quiet praises and affirmations. It seems like the words are meant only for the quiet of the flat as Simon is pulled towards safety. Simon shuffles down, instinctively burying his head into Johnny’s warm chest. He revels in the feeling of being surrounded by Johnny’s strong arms, his sweet voice and loving words. When Johnny kisses the top of his head, it’s heaven. It makes Simon feel so terrible. So guilty.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny,” is all he can muster. John shushes him all the same.

“It’s alright Simon. Ya didnae know it was me. I forgive ye.” Johnny must be sleepy the way his accent is thickened, and Simon feels even worse.

“I can’t promise I won’t wake you up again,” he whispers dejectedly. It doesn’t seem to affect Johnny in the slightest.

“That’s alright, my love. Jus’ get tae sleep and Ah’ll keep ye safe.” His words are getting less coherent and more Scottish, and it helps Simon muster up a weak smile against his chest. “I love you Johnny.”

“Ah love ye too, Simon…”

Just like that, John is out like a light. Simon sighs into his chest. Maybe like this, bundled securely in Johnny’s arms, he could try and finally rest.

[moodyboozewriting]

red flags and long nights (ghost x soap)

pt. 2/? // pt. 1 // pt. 3

hey y'all, this ended up much longer than i had intended so enjoy. i have a part 3 planned, so let me know in the comments or in my dms or reblogs if you'd like to be tagged when it goes up. as always, please read the warnings.

warnings: sexual references/mentions, mentions of Simon's childhood (child abuse, neglect, etc)

special thank you to @purplekitten12, @despairingrat, and @mayan2006 who wished to be tagged in pt. 2. i appreciate the support more than you all know, let me know if you want to continue to be tagged. i hope you guys enjoy this part

It’s some time before Simon calms, taking in air as if it’s his first time. Johnny’s comforting hands are on his shoulders and behind his neck, and his voice seeks to soothe the hurt from Simon’s heart. Johnny moves to get up, and Simon is powerless to stop him. He stares hard at the ground as he hears shuffling, his mind already beginning to spiral. But as quick as Johnny is gone, he’s back. He’s placing a cool glass of water into Simon’s hand, encouraging him to take small sips and gently rubbing his back. It’s so much, and it makes Simon want to break into tears all over again. But with nothing left to cry, Simon just stays where he is, staring at the floor. As much as he tries to run away and hide in the parts of his brain that feel safe, he’s forced back to reality by Soap’s gentle touch. 

“It’s late, Simon. You need to rest,” comes his ever-discerning observation.

Simon attempts to make a sound of affirmation, only for it to come out as more of a grunt instead. It’s times like these, he determines as he pushes to his feet, that he wishes he could be Ghost. Ghost has strength and resilience to him: Ghost doesn’t feel, he doesn’t need to. Simon is Ghost’s pitiable counterpart: he’s weak and emotional, a wreck of self-pity. They’re two sides of the coin that is him. He wishes he could be Ghost all the time, but you can’t have one side without the other. In this withered vein, Soap has what he can never achieve. Soap is Johnny, and Johnny is Soap. The perfect blend of a balanced person. Something that Ghost-Simon can’t even fathom being. He’s the empty shell of a man who never existed to begin with. 

“Soap-” 

“It’s Johnny. Here, now, I’m Johnny.”

Simon frowns as Soap guides him to sit on the couch. “Got a problem with tha’?” He almost teases, settling in next to him. Soap doesn’t sit too close, but he’s still within arms reach and Simon is eternally grateful.

“You’re always Johnny,” Simon starts hoarsely. “And you’re always Soap too.”

Soap Johnny shakes his head, seeming to struggle in finding his words. “I’m not always Soap. Just like how you aren’t always Ghost, I-” He takes a deep breath to regain his footing.

“I want to be John, when you’re Simon.” Like a freight train, a thought strikes Simon, and he’s glad he’s not standing because of how weak it makes his knees. He quickly recalls a time he’d overheard Gaz and Soap talking in the common room. Soap was eager to hear about Gaz’s family, but when Gaz asked about his in return, he abruptly shifted the subject. In the blink of an eye, it was like the question had never been asked. Ghost had shrugged it off then- that’s exactly what he’d do, so it can’t be that abnormal. 

The times when Ghost becomes Simon, he’s always alone. Whether in the cold, gray comfort of his lieutenant’s quarters or the blank emptiness of his flat, he was only Simon when left alone. If that’s how he experienced being Simon, when did Soap get to be John? Was he ever really allowed to? Is he comfortable enough to? It’s in this rapid succession of thought that Simon comes to a sound conclusion: for a fact, he had been wrong. Soap and John were never one in the same. Rather, all he’d ever experienced was Soap. Ghost presents so drastically different to Soap that Simon had altogether overlooked this as a possibility. So caught up in his mangled ideas, he entirely misses the way Johnny’s eyebrow twitches in slight curiosity. 

“Simon?”

He snaps to focus again, which he seems to be doing a lot of tonight. Despite how vulnerable he feels with his emotions written on his bare face, he stills his mind and takes a breath as he reaches for John’s hand. Johnny did this for him. More than anything, he wants to do it for Johnny too. John’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the action, but his hand grips Simon’s tightly in response. Simon drags his gaze upwards, daring to look John in the eyes and hoping he doesn’t subsequently drown in them (at least not too quickly). 

“I’m not good at this… at talking. I’m afraid of messing this up. I’m afraid that if I do mess it up, that I won’t get another chance to…” Simon slows, taking another breath as Johnny squeezes his hand. He knows the gesture was meant to be reassuring, but he can’t stop the way it makes his heart beat vigorously underneath his ribs. 

“...that I won’t get the chance to show you how much I care about you.” 

Zoned into his own mind, barely even seeing John’s reaction despite staring him in the face, Simon marches forward. Even with his surge of determination, his last statement comes as a meek whisper.

“How much I love you.”

When Simon zones back into reality, he can only stare at John as his stomach churns in abject horror. There are tears streaming down John’s cheeks, his brilliant blue eyes flooded with no sign of easing up. Aside from it all, Simon can’t help but notice how beautiful Johnny looks with his skin flushed and eyes wide with emotion. He squeezes Simon’s hand impossibly tight, and Simon does his best to squeeze back as he begins to swallow rising panic. He made John cry twice in the span of about ten minutes, already kicking himself for having done so. 

“I’m- I’m sorry Johnny, I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry Johnny, please,” he mumbles quickly, using his free hand to brush away John’s tears as best he can. 

He desperately gulps down his fear and John shakes his head silently, taking a few moments to gather himself together enough to speak coherently.

“Don’t be sorry. I love you too.” 

“But I made you- wait what?”

This makes Johnny laugh. An honest to god, genuine laugh. It may have been through tears, but it’s more than enough to make Simon’s heart buzz pleasantly in victory. Johnny wipes the remainder of his tears, taking both of Simon’s hands in his. He gives Simon that soft, effortlessly dazzling smile as he repeats his words again.

“I love you, Simon.”

Simon just blinks at him, before something deranged in his mind takes over and he has to muffle his laughter. Johnny giggles too, and it’s perfect. They sit for a moment to hold each other’s hands and catch their breaths from all the emotional turmoil. Just like that, Johnny grins and opens his arms to Simon.

“C’mere ye bampot.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice (barely has to ask once) to send Simon careening into his arms as they crash land sideways on the couch. Simon’s nose finds a home in the crook of John’s neck, his arms wrapped tightly around the other’s midsection. 

“Dunno what that means but it better be sweet,” he mumbles into Johnny’s skin. 

Simon can feel the rumble of Johnny’s chest against his when he laughs, and it makes his heart immeasurably full. “Yer an idiot” “Maybe. As long as I’m your idiot though.” Johnny laughs again, Simon can’t help but grin. 

“A Brit belonging to a Scot? Now imagine tha’” 

“Don’t have to imagine, Johnny.”

“Right you are then.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of them, and Simon has never felt more comfortable with another person. He takes a deep breath, and it feels like he’s breaching water after drowning for hours. The thought makes him shudder a little, which he tries to cover up as a random jolt, but nothing gets past John. 

“Simon? What’s wrong, love?” God, the nickname makes him feel all sorts of warm and fuzzy and downright sinful. Despite the desire curling in his lower belly, he still can’t shake the tears springing to his eyes as he attempts to burrow his way into Johnny’s skin. He gently pries Simon from the comfort of his neck, and Simon lets out a disgusting whine that he did not intend to let see the light of day. He’s too much of a mix of emotions, the pain in his heart warring with the fire in it, a dreadfully even match-up. He opts to squeeze Johnny tighter, not wanting to face those sharp blue gaze he’d surely crumble underneath the weight of. Curse Johnny, in all his love and adoration. He lifts Simon’s chin gently. The last time he was touched so gently, it was by his mother as she comforted her terrified boy. He never knew what it was like not to have a debilitating weight on his shoulders. His mother helped him through it, before he failed her. Now Johnny’s lifting it, and it kills Simon to know he’ll never deserve such tender treatment. When Simon looks up guiltily, he’s genuinely surprised at the sight. Johnny’s gaze isn’t jagged and piercing like he’d anticipated, but incredibly soft and swimming with held up tears. It makes Simon frown on instinct. Johnny shouldn’t cry. He should never cry. God, he didn’t want to make Johnny cry again. 

“Please don’t cry,” he tries to comfort, but it comes in a whisper. It’s a scared, despondent statement, and Simon feels like a child again. He doesn’t want his mother to cry anymore. He tries his best, but he’s only ten years old, and his mother continues to weep. Johnny lasso’s his memories and pulls them away, and Simon’s mother fades from his forethought. He reaches out for her, silently begging her to stay with him, but she just smiles sadly as she disappears with his thoughts. That’s right. She’s not coming back. But Johnny is here. And Johnny smiles at him. 

“I only do it when I worry about you,” Johnny says, like it’s easy to love Simon. 

“You shouldn’t.” 

The statement comes before he can even think about it, and it’s Johnny’s turn to frown at his words. 

“I should. I get to decide what’s worth worryin’ about, aye?”

Johnny cups Simon’s jaw, and Simon leans into the touch like it’s his first time feeling such a thing. And it is. At least, it’s the first in a long time. He closes his eyes, sighing in both defeat and contentment. 

Simon doesn’t even realize how far he’s leaned into Johnny’s space until he feels the other’s soft breath against his skin. He lets his eyes flutter open, and Johnny looks nothing short of angelic underneath him. His pupils are blown out, but not far enough to conceal those beautiful blues. It makes Simon smile. For once, Johnny seems nervous as a faint pink creeps up his necks to his cheeks. 

“You’re so pretty,” Simon mutters without even realizing it. 

All it does is deepen Johnny’s blush, and Simon is oh so fond. 

Simon watches intently as Johnny’s adam's apple bobs, suddenly feeling the urge to sink his teeth deeply into the other’s exposed throat. 

“What do you need, love?” Simon asks, weaponizing that sweet nickname against its giver. 

“Kiss me. Please. God, I need it,” It all comes out in a jumble, and Simon can’t do anything but oblige. 

He leans down and presses a kiss to Johnny’s lips: as soft and sweet as he can manage. And it’s perfect, the way that Johnny kisses him back with equal softness and desperation. At this moment, everything is perfect. Johnny is perfect, and Simon feels elated.

[moodyboozewriting]

red flags and long nights (ghost x soap)

pt. 1/?

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence and gore, implied/referenced SA, ghost's past, hurt/comfort, angst

pt. 2 here

Simon wakes to a resounding silence. It ricochets off the walls, and it’s loud. It’s the loudest he’s ever felt. Louder than gunshots, or the explosions of bombs. Louder than the silence that followed the last crash, his mother’s voice snuffed out in the face of unbidden cruelty. He holds his breath, the way he might have once done to listen for his father’s footsteps and gauge their direction. But there are no footsteps now. He lays back down. He can’t go to Johnny’s, not now. Johnny is in medical, and it’s Simon’s fault. Johnny got close. Too close. And Simon, in his infinite wisdom, let it happen. His idiocy would get Johnny killed, he knew it. So he stayed away. He let Johnny wake up alone every day of the week while he remained confined to his quarters, dreaming of gore. Every bit of violence Simon has ever seen is plastered onto Johnny, and those he hadn’t. He tries to save him, he really does. But his hands fail, and he’s pulling Johnny’s liver out roughly. Frantically scooping his brains out of the bowl of his skull even though they’re falling apart in his hands. He’s digging through Johnny’s body, sobbing as he squeezes his heart so hard it pops to coat his hands a mess of warm blood and viscera. Johnny’s ocean blue eyes are always open. Staring up at him. Sometimes Simon does vile things to him. Stuffing his bloody gloves in Johnny’s mouth while he shoves his hands where he’s sure they aren’t wanted. Sometimes, Johnny’s still alive. Dead or alive, Simon always throws up after those ones. 

It makes Simon miss the hallucinations. At least then, he knew it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his mind coming up with what he saw. But there are no hallucinations now. And Simon knows it’s too personal to be someone else’s sick images planted in his head. No, this was him. Simon’s own mind grew weeds, invasive and vile, as they fed on his heart and began to swallow him whole. Bit by bit, like a python swallowing prey, it consumes him. He barely registers a meeting with Price. He’s approved- no, encouraged- to take a week of leave. He blinks, and he’s in his apartment. His four barren walls, settled between two abandoned parking lots where Manchester teens play hooky and shoot the shit at odd hours. Something in him register’s the time, a comfortable 0300. He drops his bag on the floor, feet like lead carrying him to his bed. He vaguely registers his phone lighting up with a message before he passes out. 

Simon awakes from his restless dreams with a start. The sound of banging rises up above his heavy breaths and thundering heartbeat, and it takes him a moment to realize that it isn’t coming from the volatile couple next door. No, in fact, it’s coming from the door. His door. Fuck. Simon scrambles out of bed, wiping the sweat from his brow as he ambles to the front door. He swings the door open, and a hand poised to bang again nearly hits him in the face. He barely flinches, but the impact doesn’t come. Instead, he gets a rough clap on the shoulder. It startles him out of his daze, and all he can feel is the strong grip of the hand grasping him. 

“Bloody Jesus Ghost, ye look like shit.”

And Simon can’t help his heart stuttering. His eyes drift down to meet Johnny’s. Vibrant, sea-blue stares back pointedly. Vividly. There’s life in his eyes, Simon thinks. He repeats it in his head: Johnny is alive. 

“Are ye gonna let me in or just stare at me forever?”

Johnny snaps Simon out of his daze for the second time in only minutes. He shuffles awkwardly to the side, holding the door open. It’s an invitation. Johnny knows Simon would have slammed the door in his face if he really didn’t want him there. But Simon is weak for Johnny alone, so he lets him in. Johnny stands with his arms crossed as Simon closes the door. Simon wants to recoil under his gaze, feeling exposed despite the surgical mask over his face. That pointed look never left Johnny’s face. It makes Simon want to squirm, or flee. 

“You didn’t come.”

It’s a simple statement, but it packs enough of a punch to make Simon want to double over in pain. But he can’t, not in front of Johnny, so he stares back.

“I don’t remember making any promises, sergeant.” 

His response is clipped. Johnny only gets angrier. It simmers underneath his skin, slowly building. 

“I had to hear from Price that ye’re fine.”

He forces his eyes to roll. Johnny deserves better. Simon will make him see that.

“Don’t see why that warrants a home visit.”

A conflicted look flashes across his face, and Simon doesn’t know what it means.

“Oh come off it, Ghost. Don’t act like we’re not-“ 

Johnny starts, but Simon doesn’t let him finish.

“Not what, Soap? Last I checked you’re a sergeant and I’m your lieutenant.”

Johnny stares at him dumbly.

“Tha’s it? Just a sergeant and his superior officer? Tha’s all ye think of us?”

Simon’s eyes narrow. They tell Johnny that he’s toeing a dangerous line. Johnny stares back defiantly. He knows, and he doesn’t seem to deter him.

“Anything else you came to tell me, Sergeant?” Ghost responds in that same clipped tone.

Johnny stares at him with an unbridled ire, and it tears Simon up inside. He feels the sudden urge to rip open his skin, pry his ribs apart and yank out his heart to present to Johnny. To give it to him unhindered, to tell him it’s you, it’s always been you. But all he does is stare. He remains frozen in his spot, staring down into the crystalline azure sea he’d happily drown in every day for the rest of his pathetic life. 

“Would it kill ye to just… fuckin’ talk to me for once?” 

There’s something else in Johnny’s eyes now. If Simon reached out and moved the layers of anger, he might be able to catch a glimpse of something more. But Johnny is well-guarded, and Simon’s never been good at picking people apart. Not emotionally, anyways. Simon just stares at him. He can hardly bear to do anything else.

That’s when Johnny decides he’s had enough. He just sighs, tearing those perfect blues away from Simon and walking towards the door. Simon’s heart jumps up into his throat as if it means to expel itself, since its owner was too damn cowardly to do it himself. Simon cringes as a choked noise bubbles up from his chest and out of his mouth, sudden and unbidden. Johnny stills, but he doesn’t turn. Simon has barbed wire wrapped tight around his vocal cords. He can’t do anything but follow after Johnny, his hands shaking as they hover over the man’s broad shoulders. He’s grateful when Johnny turns around, so he isn’t held with the monumental task of making contact. His relief is dispelled immediately when he sees those blues swimming with unshed tears. Simon has to swallow to keep his heart from leaping right out of his mouth and into Johnny’s waiting arms. 

“Johnny…” is all that comes out at first. It’s weak and pathetic, just like him. 

“I can’t… I don’t… talking is…” it all comes out in a sorry, nonsensical stream, and Simon finds that his legs are giving out as he sinks to his knees. This isn’t what he wanted to do, or what he wanted to say. He presses the heels of his palms frustratedly into his closed eyes, trying (and failing) to repress a stuttering sob. Simon can’t look up. He doesn’t want to watch as Johnny turns heel and walks out of Simon’s dingy Manchester flat. A beat passes, but then by some miracle he feels strong arms wrapping around his bowed head. Simon wonders if he’s started to hallucinate again. He feels gentle fingers in his hair, soft words in his ear and warm breath by his jaw through the mask. It’s all too much. Simon breaks, falling apart hopelessly in the arms of the only person he’d ever loved like this. He clings to Johnny as he sobs, fists tight around the fabric of the Scot’s t-shirt. He feels a hand rub soothing circles onto his back, and it only serves to break him further. Johnny lets him break, holding the shattered pieces together in his arms. The fabric of his mask is so loaded with tears he thinks he might waterboard himself, so he pulls away slightly to pull the thing off before collapsing into Johnny’s chest again. 

It’s miserable and pathetic in the way that only Simon can be. He’s helpless as Johnny’s fingers dig deep into the recesses of his fractured mind, pulling out the weeds with the strength of armies and the tenderness of him. “M’sorry, Johnny.” 

His words are slurred and incomprehensible as his heart, and they feel like his first words in years. John just hushes him softly with that untamed care of his.

Simon repeats himself, strings of broken and desperate apologies tumbling from his lips as he only clings tighter. His spell is only broken at the sound of an always comforting voice. 

“Simon,” it says softly, sweet hands beckoning him to raise his chin a little. He complies, because of course he does. 

“You don’ have to apologize to me,” Johnny's voice reassures, as if Simon’s whole world isn’t crashing down. 

But that’s just it. He’s Simon. He’s always been Simon, and he’s always hated it. It wasn’t just Simon he hated, but Johnny too. He hated that Johnny saw Simon. Saw him buried beneath the layers of Ghost, dug him out and wiped the dirt from his hands as they walked from the grave. And Simon, as gone as he already was, just followed. He would follow, for as long as Johnny would lead him.

[moodyboozewriting]

Leon S. Kennedy with artist!reader

Imagining Leon with someone who's an artist.

Asking him to pose for a painting or drawing, and him being nervous about being a good model: "Is this okay?"

Him getting comfortable after you confirm the pose, humming pleasantly along to any music you play. Occasionally he even requests you to play certain songs.

His reaction to seeing your finished artwork, because you won't let him see any of the progress in case it turns out poorly. He's absolutely speechless, his eyes roaming up, down and around your artwork. "It's... incredible..."

You blushing because it 'really isn't that impressive' and you 'messed up everywhere' and honestly you 'should really start all over again'.

He shakes his head, grabbing your paint-covered or charcoal-blackened hands and reassuring you warmly. "It's perfect"

[moodyboozewriting]

citrusy (narancia ghirga x reader)

pt. 1/?

warnings: loss/trauma, hurt/comfort, angst, confessions

reader is gender neutral

"Narancia?" you ask. He's sitting in front of you, his stare burning into the tablecloth of the restaurant. The others had already upped and left. Your eyes meet Bucciarati's cautiously lingering gaze. He gives you a nod and a knowing, telling look. You nod back. Narancia is the closest to you out of the team, but your relationship stretched beyond the rambunctious attitudes and the laughs you two share. You became aware of his backstory at his eventual consent to Bucciarati to share it with you. Not just this, but you're acutely aware of him. The ways he reacts, his moods, his tendencies. Not to mention the extra attention you'd been paying to him in the wake of realizing your crush. You can read him the best, to put it simply. But this? This was a new frontier altogether. "Nara?" you continue to question. Leaning over, you place a hand on his shoulder. "We going?" you ask him, standing up from your seat at the end of your question. The fog over Narancia's head gently lifts, though he doesn't return to his usual. "Yeah." He doesn't mutter it, but the word has no feeling behind it. He walks past you and out of the restaurant, already questioning Abbacchio about the details. You decide not to linger, joining the group feeling far from the dark haired boy.

Upon your return to the safe house, you note that Narancia wastes no time in wrapping things up and disappearing to his room. You remain in the kitchen in the early dark, sipping a glass of wine and listening to quiet conversation between Bucciarati and Abbacchio. In the dim light, you pensively reflect on the mission. Narancia didn't say much. Whatever he did say was hard to place. It never quite felt like he was there. He didn't seem to actively avoid you, but he never seemed to get close. You couldn't help but make a note of every time you saw him standing furthest in the group from you. By now everyone had disappeared, Giorno having been most recent departure. Zoning back in, you realize their conversation had gone quiet. You look up at the two men sitting on the couch opposite you. Bucciarati is looking calmly at you, while Abbacchio shifts and stares at the quietly flickering fireplace. "That obvious?" You laugh softly, in a quiet voice to not be audible from any of the bedrooms. Bucciarati's gaze softens, and Abbacchio grunts in acknowledgement. "He would let you in if you knocked." your capo says. You're reassured by his expression. At the same time you're pretending not to notice the way they sat so close together, how the hands laying between them rested up against each other. "Go kid, he's probably still awake." You ignore Abbacchio's nickname despite the fact that he was only a few years older than you. "You can leave the glass," Bucciarati assures. "We'll finish up in here." You nod, silently thanking them for their wisdom and smiling secretly at the evidence of progress between your particularly avoidant and/or crush-clueless friends.

Your fist hovers unsurely close to the heavy material of Narancia's door. After what feels like eons, you raise your fist softly and tentatively to the door. "Go away," says a quiet voice from behind the door. In the same manner you reply "It's me." "It's unlocked," comes the reply. Quickly and quietly you enter Narancia's room, not wishing to stand out in the hallway feeling lost any longer. As your eyes adjust to the darkness you see the outline of him sitting in bed. He doesn't lay down, and his knees are held loosely to his chest. If it weren't for the present circumstances, you would have noticed his chosen garments of just a loose tank top and sweatpants. You take up the spot beside him on the bed, not wanting to force conversation. Narancia shifts closer to you, and you're oddly reminded of the subtle moment you had witnessed earlier. As the back of your hand finds its place against his, you listen intently for his voice. Part of you fears it may be so quiet that you manage to miss it. "…Birthday..." You strain further to just barely make out his sentence from the silence. "I don't remember when her birthday was." He admits this quietly: to both you and to himself. You silently released a breath that you felt like you'd been holding all day. You raise one arm, allowing Narancia to fall into your side as your arm travels behind his back and rests with your hand at his side. He seems to soften into your hold, the dark obscuring your mounting blush. You nearly feel your heart sink when you begin to feel his breathing become uneven. You subconsciously pull him closer and he lays his head tiredly on your shoulder. His position has him turning in slightly and lean his folded knees over your thighs. You feel the heat at your face increase from the gesture, doubly glad he can't see your face. You find your fingers rubbing comforting circles on Narancia's side as he allows his guard to slowly slip. You rest your cheek on the top of his head, allowing the sweet scents of his hair products to fill your senses.

After a while, Narancia's breathing steadies. In accordance with the lateness of the hour, you shift away from the boy and move to leave the bed. Narancia sits up abruptly at this, grabbing your arm. Taking the hint you settle back in next to him. Once you settled again, Narancia spoke for only the second time since you’d entered the room. "Thank you." It's so very quiet you almost miss it. You're suddenly emboldened, you twist to face him and take the risk of wrapping your arms around the boy. Burying your face in his exposed shoulder, for a moment you fear you've made a mistake. First he lays still, but subduing your nerves he stirs into action to return the embrace. He sighs softly, and the weight of his breath tickles the side of your neck. Narancia leans backwards with his arms still around you, pulling you back as you fall into the plush mattress with him. You let out a yelp from surprise and you can feel Narancia quietly giggle from underneath you. He dispels your fear and worry, as if to remind you he was still the better and healing Narancia you knew. You can’t help but smile as you shift into place next to him. You keep your arms around each other as your legs nearly dangle off the side of his bed. Looking at him now you can see long lashes on closed lids. You can’t resist mapping his face by his freckles. Narancia opens his eyes slowly to look back at you, a smile coming to his lips when you lock eyes. It’s now that you realize the situation you have at hand, wrapped up in Narancia’s strong arms lying in his bed. His eyes seem to search you and you feel a heat coming to your cheeks. He reaches forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Narancia?”

He hesitates before moving to speak.

"Narancia?" you ask.

He's sitting in front of you, his stare burning into the tablecloth of the restaurant. The others had already upped and left. Your eyes meet Bucciarati's cautiously lingering gaze. He gives you a nod and a knowing, telling look. You nod back. Narancia is the closest to you out of the team, but your relationship stretches beyond the rambunctious attitudes and the laughs you two share. You became aware of his backstory at his eventual consent to Bucciarati to share it with you. Not just this, but you're acutely aware of him. The ways he reacts, his moods, his tendencies. Not to mention the extra attention you'd been paying to him in the wake of realizing your crush. You can read him the best, to put it simply. But this? This was a new frontier altogether.

"Nara?" you continue to question.

Leaning over, you place a hand on his shoulder. "We going?" you ask him, standing up from your seat at the end of your question. The fog over Narancia's head gently lifts, though he doesn't return to his usual. "Yeah." He doesn't mutter it, but the word has no feeling behind it. He walks past you and out of the restaurant, already questioning Abbacchio about the details. You decide not to linger, joining the group feeling far from the dark-haired boy. Upon your return to the safe house, you note that Narancia wastes no time in wrapping things up and disappearing to his room. You remain in the kitchen in the early dark, sipping a glass of wine and listening to quiet conversation between Bucciarati and Abbacchio. In the dim light, you pensively reflect on the mission. Narancia didn't say much. Whatever he did say was hard to place. It never quite felt like he was there. He didn't seem to actively avoid you, but he never seemed to get close. You couldn't help but make a note of every time you saw him standing furthest in the group from you. By now everyone had disappeared, Giorno having been the most recent departure. Zoning back in, you realize their conversation had gone quiet. You look up at the two men sitting on the couch opposite you. Bucciarati is looking calmly at you, while Abbacchio shifts and stares at the quietly flickering fireplace.

"That obvious?" You laugh softly, in a quiet voice to not be audible from any of the bedrooms. Bucciarati's gaze softens, and Abbacchio grunts in acknowledgment.

"He would let you in if you knocked." your capo says. You're reassured by his expression. At the same time, you're pretending not to notice the way they sat so close together, how the hands lying between them rested up against each other.

"Go kid, he's probably still awake." You ignore Abbacchio's nickname despite the fact that he's only a few years older than you.

"You can leave the glass," Bucciarati assures.

"We'll finish up in here."

You nod, silently thanking them for their wisdom and smiling secretly at the evidence of progress between your particularly avoidant and/or crush-clueless friends. Your fist hovers unsurely close to the heavy material of Narancia's door. After what feels like eons, you raise your fist softly and tentatively to the door.

"Go away," says a quiet voice from behind the door.

In the same manner, you reply "It's me."

"It's unlocked," comes the reply.

Quickly and quietly you enter Narancia's room, not wishing to stand out in the hallway feeling lost any longer. As your eyes adjust to the darkness you see the outline of him sitting in bed. He doesn't lie down, and his knees are held loosely to his chest. If it weren't for the present circumstances, you would have noticed his chosen garments of just a loose tank top and sweatpants. You take up the spot beside him on the bed, not wanting to force conversation. Narancia shifts closer to you, and you're oddly reminded of the subtle moment you had witnessed earlier. As the back of your hand finds its place against his, you listen intently for his voice. Part of you fears it may be so quiet that you manage to miss it.

"…Birthday…"

You strain further to just barely make out his sentence from the silence.

"I don't remember when her birthday was."

He admits this quietly: to both you and to himself. You silently released a breath that you felt like you'd been holding all day. You raise one arm, allowing Narancia to fall into your side as your arm travels behind his back and rests with your hand at his side. He seems to soften into your hold, the dark obscuring your mounting blush. You nearly feel your heart sink when you begin to feel his breathing become uneven. You subconsciously pull him closer and he lays his head tiredly on your shoulder. His position has him turning in slightly and leaning his folded knees over your thighs. You feel the heat on your face increase from the gesture, doubly glad he can't see your face. You find your fingers rubbing comforting circles on Narancia's side as he allows his guard to slowly slip. You rest your cheek on the top of his head, allowing the sweet scents of his hair products to fill your senses. After a while, Narancia's breathing steadies. In accordance with the lateness of the hour, you shift away from the boy and move to leave the bed. Narancia sits up abruptly at this, grabbing your arm. Taking the hint you settle back in next to him. Once you settled again, Narancia spoke for only the second time since you’d entered the room.

"Thank you."

It's so very quiet you almost miss it. You're suddenly emboldened, you twist to face him and take the risk of wrapping your arms around the boy. Burying your face in his exposed shoulder, for a moment you fear you've made a mistake. First, he lays still, but subduing your nerves he stirs into action to return the embrace. He sighs softly, and the weight of his breath tickles the side of your neck. Narancia leans backward with his arms still around you, pulling you back as you fall into the plush mattress with him. You let out a yelp from surprise and you can feel Narancia quietly giggle from underneath you. He dispels your fear and worry, as if to remind you he was still the better and healing Narancia you knew. You can’t help but smile as you shift into place next to him. You keep your arms around each other as your legs nearly dangle off the side of his bed. Looking at him now you can see long lashes on closed lids. You can’t resist mapping his face by his freckles. Narancia opens his eyes slowly to look back at you, a smile coming to his lips when you lock eyes. It’s now that you realize the situation you have at hand, wrapped up in Narancia’s strong arms lying in his bed. His eyes seem to search you and you feel a heat coming to your cheeks. He reaches forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Narancia?”

He hesitates before moving to speak.

“I like you. A lot.”

[moodyboozewriting]

grove magic (rolan x reader) pt. 2/2

part 1

reader is gender neutral

“Huh?” You tilt your head to the side to emphasize your confusion at his proclamation.

“The person I… I like.”

It's unclear whether you're leaning slowly towards him, or if it's the typical effect of a few to many glasses of wine. It is at this moment that you vaguely recall a teasing conversation between yourself and the three tiefling siblings regarding Rolan’s love life, and an irritated admittance from him that he was, in fact, interested in someone. You can’t help but laugh. “You’re still thinking about that?” Rolan can’t seem to do much but nod his head. Despite your response- or maybe because of it- his expression is serious. Rolan says nothing, but you can feel his insecurity seep through his skin and slip through your fingers into the open air. You could hardly believe the words you just heard, if it wasn't for the fidgeting individual in front of you. You don't realize you're staring until Rolan shuts his eyes and covers his face with his hands, quickly stammering to cover up his most recent advances. As he brings his hands up to his face, he essentially pushes your hands off of him.

"Forget I said anything. It means nothing anyhow," he says through his fingers, shrinking away from your extending hand that he didn't even realize was there.

"Rolan..."

"Really, you can disregard it. Definitively just my drunken stupor speaking and-"

"Rolan."

He peers at you through wet eyes and slightly parted fingers. You lean in closer- this time intentionally- and gently grasp his wrists to pull his hands down from his face. Once you can clearly see him- emotional as he looks- you can't help but to tenderly cup his face in your palms. "I like you back." For a moment, the silence between you two is so vast that you count each breath you exchange without realizing it. You allow your thumbs to absent-mindedly brush at his cheeks, doing away with pesky tears that track paths down his soft skin.

You suddenly feel flushed again, and this time not from your beverages of the night. Holding the sides of his face, you don't feel compelled to let go. In fact, you feel compelled to do quite the opposite: holding him a little tighter and leaning in. You can feel now the heat radiating from his skin, the soft puffs of his wine-sweetened breath on yours. It seems that your eyes flicker briefly from his eyes down to his lips, and back up to continue maintaining eye-contact with him. He nods slowly in response: a quiet and wordless conversation occurring between the two of you. You lean in further, but it's Rolan who closes the minute gap between the two of you. You can feel his hands come to rest atop your person: one cupping your jaw and another beginning to delicately explore your hair. You hum into his soft lips as his nails pleasantly and softly scratch at your scalp. His fangs nip at your bottom lip as he smiles into the kiss, making you giggle in the drunken state you forgot you were in. Upon your realization you pull away slightly to admire the tiefling before you.

You see an expression flit across his face. One that's rare to see on him, but one that you've nevertheless seen a few times this night. It's a face of uncertainty, briefly displaying all of Rolan's insecurities and hesitations in the center of his face. It's one of hope too, and longing: portraying Rolan's desperation for you to see him- truly see him- and to know him. For that moment, his confident façade fades away into the oblivion of his outward projections. You run the pad of your thumb under his eye, doing your best to calm his worries just by holding him softly.

"I..." he starts, appearing once again to be so uncharacteristically unsure of himself, "I have to say this because if I don't say it I will regret it."

You raise an inquisitive eyebrow, watching Rolan's eyes dart everywhere around the environment, consistently failing to meet your own. 

"I wanted to say," Rolan starts, taking a deep yet hesitant breath. "I wanted to thank you. For saving my people and for convincing me to stay. I would have regretted leaving, in time. So thank you."

You smile as sweetly as you can at him.

"I'm glad I could help you," you offer.

"And thank you for... this," he blushes though it's hard to see.

You can't help but smile once again, kissing the tip of his nose just to watch him flush.

-----

I hope this is well liked :) If enough people like it I'll maybe write a follow-up but it feels fitting to end here.

[moodyboozewriting]

grove magic (rolan x reader) pt. 1/2

part 2

reader is gender neutral

If only you’d been more guarded, perhaps you would have anticipated the insistent shove Astarion gives you from behind.

The force of the push sends you stumbling forward, and you find yourself suddenly wishing you hadn’t taken such a massive swig from your chalice (after much goading from your sly elven companion). Tripping over yourself, you find that you’re quite lacking in control of your motor functions. Still reeling, you find your shoulders firmly gripped by two concerned hands as you crash into a very solid figure. Oh… fuck… off. You can feel Astarion’s coy smirk burning through the back of your skull, the smug bastard. Steeling yourself as best you can from the effects of the alcohol, you steady yourself against Rolan’s biceps.

“Looks like someone’s had a few too many already,” he chides. You hope it’s as playful of a comment as it sounds to your ears. “Do you always get yourself gone as a drunkard as soon as you’re done saving the day?”

“Rolan!” Snaps Lia, who you could not be more grateful for at this time. As she ushers you to the bench to sit beside her and Cal, she begins to scold Rolan. You sit and sway lightly, watching them argue and smiling at quips from Cal. Lia and Cal don’t seem to see it, but when he rolls his eyes Rolan looks at you as if to say ‘can you believe I’m being reprimanded like this’. His teasing smile makes you giggle, and you return his exchange by jokingly shaking your head.

From eve to dusk, and dusk to night, you merry-make with Rolan and his siblings. You drink, and you laugh, trying not to focus (but undeniably noticing) the stolen glances and private smiles. By the end of the party, Cal and Lia had passed out on cots: you and Rolan had just about enough self-preservation to throw warm furs over each of them.

“Come,” Rolan slurs, stumbling in a way that is typically unbecoming of his stature, “I want to show you our place.” You follow Rolan as he grumbles something nonsensical about how it isn’t ‘their place’, but it is as much as they could find in the safety of the grove. The two of you stumble away from camp, and not without you noticing how Astarion gives you a sly look before ducking into his tent for the night. Still with a half-full bottle of wine in your grip, you make it through the front door of the small place Rolan and his siblings had been residing in. From what your spinning gaze could tell, it seemed quaint and quiet. Books lined the shelves- no doubt belonging to the wizard. Speaking of, said wizard had sprawled out on the sofa against one wall of the room. Smiling at his uncharacteristic demeanor, you saunter as well as you can over and join him to sit by his legs. He slaps a hand over his face and waves in the general direction of you and the bottle. “I don’t think we should have any more of that,” he groans. You nod, placing the bottle on the low table in front of you. He suddenly sits up, clearly regretting the speed at which he does so, and clutches his head in one hand. You laugh softly, amused at how little drunk Rolan seems to think about his actions before executing them. To be entirely fair, you weren’t much better in that department. On cue, you reach out with both your hands and hold the sides of his face, bringing the tiefling’s gaze up towards yours. His own hand falls from his face to rest on your wrist, and a comfortable silence blankets the two of you. “M’stilling your head,” you mutter, not really believing the excuse you give. “To help with the spinning.” He slowly nods, eyes not leaving yours. He gazes at you with an innocence you rarely get to see from him- the stress and gravity of the tiefling’s situation seemed to always loom over him. Rolan doesn’t move, save for the light and languid swishing of his tail as it hangs off the side of the sofa.

“It’s you.”

[moodyboozewriting]

red eyes and mornings after (leone abbacchio x reader)

genre: fluff-ish recommended song: are we still friends by tyler the creator warnings: drinking/drug use/intoxication, light/implied nsfw reader is gender neutral

You can see the light behind your eyes. Looking around the room, you can't help but giggle at the way the shadows overlap and merge and soothe each other. Abbacchio smiles at you; a true rarity. The two of you alone in the safe house. Anything can happen, no?

You wanted to know him. The tall, beautiful, dark stranger who you feel you've known your entire life and lives before. At first it was just to relax. Take half of a little rose colored delectable, offering Abbacchio the other half. Wanting more and feeling impatient, another delight was split. Now you're laying across the couch as an involuntary (but quite invited) seductress, shirt riding up and waistband hanging low. In the dizzy and the haze you cast your gaze up at him. He takes on an opposite form to you, standing stoic and yet lost in the feelings of his own world. You smile, laughing quietly without incentive, communicating with his silence. His silence opposes your activity, as you find yourself talking to yourself with him as a compulsory listener. The jazz spinning from the record player buzzes in and out of your mind, but Abbacchio hears it all too well. In your state, you feel emboldened by the fog and haze. You stand to meet Abbacchio though he stands much taller than you. Loopy and dazed, you trip conveniently into his unconditional embrace. Sighing in content, you pull him to the sofa (giggling and muttering all the while).

So here you are. You're tired, he's tired. He's under you, gently supporting your head with one arm while the other wraps back around the pillow that in turn supports his head. As your highs subside, you drift down and close to Abbacchio's preserved heart.

When Bucciarati returns, he flicks on a soft light. Smiling softly at the sight he's greeted with, he lays a blanket over the merged figures on the sofa. And he flicks the light off again.

[moodyboozewriting]

remembrance (pannacotta fugo x reader)

genre: hurt/comfort/angst recommended song: daddy issues by the neighbourhood warnings: panic attacks, violence, blood/gore, reference to SA, trauma reader is gender neutral

Library. Books. golden Light through window panes. Soft shadows. Quiet. Glass. The pungent scent of cologne too expensive to name. Deep, dark shadows. "Fugo" Blood on the velvety curtains. Heavy breathing. Drip Drip Drip... "Fugo?" "Oi, Fugo? Ya listening?" He looks up through overgrown bangs of golden blonde. "What?" Mista's eyes search him, but not for long. Not nearly long enough to notice. The drone of talk continues, circling ahead of Fugo's lilac vision. He is no longer thinking about the purpose of the gathering. He yearns to retreat, to delve into the depths of his persistent mind.

In the darkness of the room he can't help but proclaim to himself. A contemptible attempt at attaining some understanding. Lost in the throes of remembrance, he feels. Hands. Greedy, vile things they are, violating his mind through steeped memories. He cannot not feel in his skin, the sharpness of his nails as they sunk in deep at his sides. Dark crimson seeps out with no regard for Fugo's sickly war. Sickly, he is. His sun never rises, but the moon knocks at the door. Fugo cannot move. He can't hear you. The soft raps at the door disappear like your voice at the meeting. Your image frozen in the winters of his subconscious, which is grievously unattainable. You slip into the room after hearing nothing in response. Worry etched on your face, invisible to him in the dark. It takes all of hell for him to notice you, but in hell he is tormented and notice he does. Your presence shifts his mind. He is suddenly aware. Too aware. He knows acutely of the shards of glass, the spilt water and array of tiny lacerations in his sides. But he cannot. No, he will not look up. He cannot bear his state, much like you cannot bear to see him in it. You approach his spot on the floor tentatively as he retreats upon himself at your slow advance. "Fugo" you call softly to his conscious mind. He forces himself to allow your words to enter his headspace, despite all the spitting back at himself he did. "I'm here, Fugo." Unfortunately, you know him well. Too well you know his method of thought, and the horror that racks his being. You sit in front of him slowly. Though he allows you into his space, it is not easy. Despite the confessions, the kiss, the dates and the care, you knew that this part may never get easier to deal with. Yet deal with it you do, and happily so. Your mumblings of affirmation soothe him, easing his grip on himself and allowing him to raise his leaden head. You continue slowly, putting both hands out halfway to him. Palms facing upwards invitingly, you sit and allow Fugo to make the contact. Once connected, you massage his quivering hands. Guiding him through his breathing, you don't allow your voice to waver as much as it tries. As his breathing steadies and his shakes subside, you give both his hands a small squeeze. Feverishly he returns it, a world of thanks in his mind. Coming down from his fear, Fugo leans closer to you until his forehead rests delicately against your collarbones. Understanding his wish without thought, you wrap your arms around the boy and hold him closer. He sighs, leaning further into you. You can feel the dampness of his relief-riddled tears on your chest as he breathes shallowly. It feels like an eternity and no time at all before Fugo clears his throat. Sitting up, he winces at the soreness in his back. "How about the bed?" you ask quietly, and he nods in lieu of a verbal response. The both of you rise to your feet, and Fugo stretches out his physical aches and pains. He's still holding your hand. He won't admit it, but he refuses to let it go. Guiding him under the warm covers, your comfortable sigh eases the tension in Fugo's heart. Some time passes, and you thought he had fallen asleep already yet he sucks in a sharp breath before speaking so quietly you would've needed to strain to hear him if he weren't so close. "Hey...?" You pull yourself even closer to him, feeling his soft breaths settle on your cheeks like fairy dust. "Thank you." It's a simple two words, but they warm your heart and make your face grow warm anyways. "Of course," you smile, hoping he can hear it in your voice. "I will always be here for you." The sigh he emits is short, and sounds satisfied. Still smiling, you shift over and place a plush kiss upon Fugo's forehead. His arms tighten around your form, still refusing to let go.

"Goodnight."