hi! i haven't done anything like this in a rlly long time 🧍♂️ but i am very very into project moon these days and i love x readers so! i thought i'd make one of these :D
🫧requests are open🫧
info
warnings
🐚there will be spoilers! i am currently all caught up! however if i post something related to a brand new canto/intervallo, i will add a spoiler warning and put it under a read more
🐚if there are any common triggers i'll list them above a read more
🐚i am going to do my best to keep everyone in character but i'm shy be nice 👉👈
requests
🐚i can do headcanons, scenarios, and oneshots! please specify which you'd like or i will decide for u >:3
🐚no nsfw sowwy
🐚reader will be written as gender neutral
🐚i can write for mirror worlds! it might take me a bit longer sometimes bc i wanna make sure im portraying them right
characters
🐚limbus company
yi sang, faust, don quixote/sancho, ryoshu, meursault, hong lu, heathcliff, ishmael, rodion, dante, sinclair, outis, gregor
my friend showed me a screenshot of this announce line from the final fight of canto vii in the mirror dungeon and this was the first image to pop into my head
Faust being pestered by a clingy reader while she's busy doing research or whatever nerd stuff she does until she eventually folds perhaps
what if we kissed in the engine room of mephistopheles 😳 anyways i wrote this as "pre-relationship but there is definitely a mutual crush there" because i thought it would be cute
pestering her ~ faust
The engine room of Mephistopheles was far from your usual haunts, and yet you found yourself pathing there before your room at the end of most work days. And most of your off days. Really, any chance you could get. And whenever any of the other sinners asked where you ran off to, you would always insist that you were just in your room, or that you'd snuck off of the bus for a walk. Most would roll their eyes or scoff, some even implied you were a liar, and once or twice Sinclair had asked you to “stop using him as an alibi, seriously, it's not that big of a deal that you two are hanging out,” whatever that meant.
“What are you working on?” You always asked her when you came in, knowing fully well that whatever explanation she gave was going to fly right over your head. Usually, as you waltzed over to sit right on the edge of the little work table that's crammed into the furthest corner of the room, she graced you with an attempt.
Not this time, though. This time, she continued tinkering away with something. That wasn't unusual; she tended to get so caught up in her work that she'd process whatever you said to her a few minutes later, proceeding with conversation like you'd only just spoken. But the minutes ticked by, and that icy blue gaze never broke away from the contraption in her hands.
“Hey, Faust?”
A few blinks. She rarely looked at you when she spoke, at least about her projects anyway, but she usually at least acknowledged you with a soft hum that harmonized with the whirring of the machinery around you. It seemed like whatever she was toying with, it was important.
“Fa-ust?” You drew her name out.
“Yes?” She muttered, the first word you'd heard from her. By some miracle, she didn't sound annoyed.
You sighed, watching as a bolt began to roll ever so slowly towards the edge of the table. “Just making sure you're in there.”
“Faust has not gone anywhere.” She said. Some hair fell into her face, and though you noticed right away, she didn’t seem to. She was too enraptured in her current task.
“I can see that.” You grabbed the bolt right before it could fall off the ledge, keeping it safe in your palm, rolling the sharp edges between your fingers.
“What are you working on?”
Faust inspected what she was working on for only a moment, something that looked more like a mass of wires than a real project to you. She placed some sort of cover over it, and picked up a wrench. “What we discussed last time.”
“Oh, for the high beams?” You cocked your head.
She didn’t look up. Only held her hand out, so soft and smooth with her nails carefully manicured, something you wouldn't have expected from someone who worked on machines or wielded a sword like Walpurgisnacht.
All you could focus on was that one errant lock of hair, an uncommon occurrence with her typically very intentional look. Obscuring her pale face, lit by the harsh light of the work lamp. Each stray strand suddenly exposed, glinting.
With the hand not holding the screw, you reached out. Her hair was as soft as you expected, not silky but definitely smooth, and you at the very least had the sense to not dally when you tucked it behind her ear.
Faust's eyes snapped up to yours, that expectant hand faltering. All the two of you could do was stare at each other. You, mouth agape, cheeks burning, and stunned by your own actions. Faust, clearly trying to figure out whatever the hell you had just done. Cheeks ablaze in the lamplight.
Lately, and only in private, Faust had been an odd combination of softer and yet more distant. Like she crawled out of her shell, only to back away to protect the softest parts of herself when you got too close. You expected it to be like one of those, when she would shy away or stiffen up. When your shoulders would nudge or you'd back into each other, and she would look at you like you'd just stepped on her left foot every time. Just about the only thing that told you she had any fondness for your company was that she allowed you to be in the same room as her when you weren't working. When she was occupied, but let you hang around and talk to her.
You had to wonder; did she enjoy your company as you did hers? Were your distractions welcome? Did she look forward to these moments together the same as you?
“Yes.”
“Huh?” You replied, intelligently.
There was no change, save for her eyes averting again. You found that you missed them on you the moment she looked away. “This is for the high beams.”
“Oh! Um. Cool.” What a scholar you were. A true wordsmith. As your hand fell to rest on your knee, you could still feel her hair slipping through your fingers. You couldn't tell if she had forgotten about that bolt she'd been needing or if she maybe, just maybe, had other priorities at the moment.
When she reached out expectantly again, you handed her the bolt she had reached for initially. A shiver ran up your spine at the brief brush of her skin on yours, and that was enough to keep you quiet. For a minute, at least. You couldn't help yourself.
“Hey, F–”
She sighed. Actually sighed. Faust had gotten fed up with the other sinners before, but she had never actually sighed at you before. Maybe you really had crossed a line earlier.
You hung your head. “...sorry.”
Faust set her wrench back down, addressing you properly. Or as close to it as she tended to get. Instead of asking you to pipe down, she surprised you. “You haven't eaten dinner.”
“I'm… sorry?” You apologized again, like you'd done something wrong. Did that offend her in some way? The rations were portioned very carefully, but nutrition related calculations certainly couldn't be the hardest thing Faust had to figure.
“You came straight here after leisure time was announced. It would be optimal for you to eat now, before it gets too late.”
It wasn’t like her to try to be polite like this. Usually, she was much more to the point. You assumed, with a churning feeling of regret in your gut, that she was just trying to get rid of you. It was hard to blame her, after you'd gone and done… that.
“Oh. Maybe.” You said solemnly. Later, once you were done wallowing in embarrassment and licking your wounds, you could give her a proper apology. For now, distance was probably the best.
Faust rose from her chair at the same moment you got down from the sturdy old table, and that made you freeze mid motion.
She draped her coat over her shoulders, making her way towards the exit. Only sparing you a brief glance over her shoulder, she asked, “Are you coming?”
She… wanted you to come with her? She wasn't mad?
You nearly tripped over your own feet following behind her, emerging into the warmly lit hallway together. It wasn't often that the two of you left together, since you typically tapped out to go to bed long before Faust even considered the idea. Always saying something about how she didn’t need as much rest as you did, that she would just eat later, the like. It felt odd to be headed to the kitchen with her, especially this late in the evening when all of the other sinners had run off to do their own thing.
“...you…”
Her voice, so unusually uncertain, nearly made you jump despite its softness. It was so quiet that you almost wondered if you'd just been hearing things. But then you remembered who you were with right now, how easily she saw through you, and she made doubly certain to remind you of as much just in case.
“You do not ‘pester’ me.”
She couldn't look at you even as she read your mind aloud, and that much was nothing new. But her eyes flitted around more, and her cheeks were dusted a soft pink. She almost looked like she was trying to duck into the neck of her sweater, like that confession was worth hiding from. It wasn't, but it was worth a great deal to you even still.
Forcing your heart out of your throat, you nodded your head.
“...good to know.”
You'd have to “not pester” her more often, if that was the case.
(“Does that mean I can help when I visit you from now on?”
“Absolutely not.”)
word count 1,465
i was working on this fic on the clock but it was super busy today so as i was furiously writing the rough draft between tasks all i could envision was this
still working on the last of them in my inbox but i'm opening requests back up! may be a bit slow tho 🧍♂️faust oneshot is inbound either tonight or tmrw morning 💃
Can you write something cute and fluffy for Hos Ryoshu or just Ryoshu in general?
i'm very emotional about her all the time. just did LCB ryoshu for this one but @.flowerdustedstars has some PEAK house of spiders ryoshu content if ur looking!
just a sketch ~ ryoshu
Ryoshu didn’t used to draw you this often.
You don't mind. Not just because the drawings are flattering, though that certainly has something to do with it. You wouldn't go so far as to say that she draws an idealized version of you, but there's a certain fondness to each stroke or deep hue that only you can see– when she lets you see them. Of the many that she's done, you'd only been allowed to look at a few.
All that aside though, you don't mind because it seems to bring her some sort of peace. Something to do with herself when she can't stand to be left with idle hands. She's tried out all sorts of mediums, from pencil sketches to small watercolor paintings. How she decides which to use and when is a process only she's privy to; You don't have the same eye for this as her.
“Hold still.”
It should be embarrassing how quickly the movements of your hands cease at her order, left hovering in a gesture as you cease your rambling about something that doesn't feel too important anymore. It's such a familiar demand at this point that it feels like second nature to obey, though when you turn your head to look at her she frowns and waggles the charcoal stick at you.
“Y.M.T.M. Bad model.” She scolds you, but there's no venom to it when her voice is so soft it's almost lost in the sound of scribbling on paper. She's focusing hard, uncaring of her hair in her face as she hunches over the sketchpad. Really, she should know the value of a proper posture when she's working like this, but your countless warnings have fallen on deaf ears each time anyway. She's likely been sitting curled up around her work much longer than she's known you.
“I didn't know I was modeling.” Is your quiet defense of yourself, a frown tugging at your lips.
“I wasn't–” you huff, but don't dare to move from your pose. There was no point in trying to argue with her, she looks too pleased with herself whenever she tries to get under your skin.
Sitting in silence with Ryoshu is nothing new. She talks more these days, at the very least with you, but she isn't one to just try to fill in quiet spaces. She never seems to mind you making conversation, so long as she isn't expected to reply when she has nothing to say. It's just harder when you know that she's a mere foot away, working on another portrait of you. The act isn't as embarrassing as it was the first few times, but there's a question you've been sitting on for a long time.
“Hey… how come you're doing this so often?” Your voice feels much too loud once you find it, even if it's hardly more than a whisper.
That red gaze just flits to your face for a moment, then moves back to the hand she must be working on sketching.
“Y.D.L.I?”
“It’s not that.” You assure her. The grip on the charcoal loosens a bit. Some tension you hadn’t noticed leaves her shoulders.
“You just didn't used to this much.”
She's a lot quieter today. As of late, she gets near silent whenever she draws you. A mix of concentration and something you can't quite place, face hidden in her hair save for the brief moments she takes to memorize an aspect of your pose. A teasing remark here and there, mostly directed at your inability to just hold still. Now you can see that she's trying to figure out how to respond, her movements on the sheet no less certain.
“...It's just in case. These memories of us sitting here, they're E.S. I don't…” Ryoshu doesn't need to finish the thought. Honestly, you feel a little silly for not having figured it out on your own.
You would reach out if you weren't currently locked in position. Or if she wouldn’t flick your forehead for trying to “coddle” her, muttering something under her breath about not needing your pity. So you both sit in silence, her sketching away at you while you're frozen in place. All she says is to stop making that face, and you're not really sure what she means, but you try to school your expression into something as neutral as possible.
“Can I see?” You manage to ask before she closes the sketchpad with that signature finality, fingers already poised on the edge of the cover.
It's not like Ryoshu is shy about her art. Sketching isn't exactly her preferred medium or anything, but unless she wants to get scolded for forcing a rewind, there's no way for her to use her actual specialty on you. These recent pieces just seem to be much more personal. More precious. Now that you understand why, you handle that sketchpad carefully, in a way you almost expect her to scoff at you for. Like her memory of the last few moments will fray if you aren't gentle. She hands it over, not quite hesitantly, but not thrilled about letting it go.
It's good. It's always good. There's confidence in the way she draws, either born from experience or from her own self assuredness. But there are little aspects to it that you can make out, the spots she focuses the hardest on recreating. Your face, particularly your eyes– she had lamented once (grumbled, really) about struggling to get them just right. Then to your hands, frozen mid-air in perpetual motion. Your favorite sweater, the design laid out as accurately as it could be. The date on the corner of the page.
The drawing almost feels like a love letter. Her reason for making it, the adoration etched into each line, makes your heart squeeze in your chest. You must be looking too sappy. Maybe the tears in your eyes are making your fresh perspective a little too obvious. Because something bops your nose, and the paper is pulled from your grasp when you're busy sputtering and trying to regain your bearings.
Ryoshu's fingers are smeared with charcoal, and you take note of the black on her callused fingertip when she pulls back. You nearly go cross-eyed trying to see the smudge on your nose, rubbing it on your hand and undoubtedly making it worse.
“It's J.A.S. No need to act like it's a masterpiece.” Despite her aloof look, leaning back on one hand with the sketchpad in the other, she wears a ghost of a smile.
You look up from the gray smear on your palm, uncaring of how unserious you look for this sort of conversation. The dopey smile you wear doesn't aid you much either. “It’s sweet.”
Ryoshu scoffs. She hasn't been referred to as “sweet” many times. When you first met her, you couldn't have ever imagined being the one calling her such a thing. Still, there's the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks, that sketchpad held close to her chest as though she's cradling the real deal.
If she isn't in the mood for a heart to heart, that's alright. Maybe later you'll remind her that you'll be around to help create new memories, should these ones have to be sacrificed to draw her sword again. You don't mind making them again and again if you have to.
this is the third part of a request i got like 3 weeks ago 💃 get gregored on
general gregor headcanons
🫧gregor has such atrocious self-esteem that you are undoubtedly going to have to be the one to take the first real step. he's fond of you in a way that he isn't with the other sinners, in a way that he usually isn't with anybody (at least that's gone anywhere), but he has no intentions of acting on it because he can't fathom the idea of you returning his feelings
🫧you have to take things slow with gregor. he'll come around eventually, but much more subtle, fleeting forms of affection are best at first-- even if they leave him longing for more. your hand brushing his as you walk, or your pinkies briefly linking. the first time you kiss him on the cheek, he turns bright red and chokes on the smoke from the cigarette he'd been puffing on. once you slowly warm him up to it, he really likes to drape his arm over your shoulders or even let you lean your head against him. he still greatly prefers to see you coming, so no bear hugs from behind or anything of that sort, but he doesn't mind you initiating a loose hug every now and then, though he probably won't. he's usually either the little spoon, or you can sleep with your head on his chest. the arm makes cuddling a bit of a process to get used to, once he finally works up to the point of being able to sleep in the same bed
🫧speaking of the arm, just don't bring it up unless he does first. he typically chooses to either ignore it in a form of faux acceptance. it's not like you're walking on eggshells or anything, but you regarding it with neutrality is the best thing for him; it's there and there's no purpose in pretending it isn't, but pointing it out doesn't help either.
🫧gregor can yap, but he's also a good person to seek out when you need to talk. he offers you a safe place to just vent, and if you really want advice he can try... or direct you to someone who might be able to actually help. either way, you're pretty safe from judgement with him. he cares for you, and he wants to be there in any way he can. it feels reciprocal to him in a way; he'll always feel like he needs to pay you back in some way for simply being with him
🫧definitely a quality time sort of guy. he doesn’t care what the two of you do, but he really just likes to have some chill alone time to just be. grab some takeout, a pack of cigarettes, listen to his stories and tell him yours. he'll be the happiest bug in the city.
🫧he craves a normal life, or whatever version of that he could have in the city. he knows that he could, potentially, find that with you... but he also worries that he'll prevent you from having it. the stares, the constant reminders of the war, the fact that at any time his arm could react and hurt you. gregor feels like he's just dragging you down with him
🫧i touched on this in the poly headcanons but i can't see gregor using many petnames, aside from the occasional "liebling" or "babe" when it's just the two of you. not picky about what you call him! honestly kind of flattered to get called by terms of endearment at all
gregor is someone that is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. he waits for everything to go downhill, to make a stupid mistake, even if he tries to brush it off with a cynical laugh. you have to assure him that you're capable of making your own decisions and knowing what you want, enough to really hammer it in. he's not always the best at expressing it, but he truly is grateful for you, and he's getting better at accepting your relationship as a real, stable thing
how does fishy react (or perhaps crashout) when her beloved distorts because Certified Canto Trauma
this was delectable anon ty. wrote this as more of a scenario but i may revisit the concept as a oneshot one day 👀
ishmael with a distorting s/o
She can fix this.
Through the blood roaring in her ears and her mind going a mile a minute, there is one thing that Ishmael grapples to latch onto over and over. She can fix it. It is reversible. And she has helped reverse it before, numerous times.
Back then, it didn’t feel so painful. She didn’t care if she gave the other distortions a good thrashing to get through to them; it was for the best. It helped them, in the end. But you? She didn't want to do that to you. You're the last person she'd ever want to beat back to their senses, but it's too late now. Kissing it better wasn’t an option.
“I should've done something.” Her jaw hurts from how hard she's been clenching her teeth by the time she finds her voice, each word gritted out.
Yi Sang, miraculously still alive after how hard he'd hit the floor a few moments ago, drags his sleeve across his forehead, smearing blood across his pallid skin. “You could not see the depths of their suffering. Many times, it eludes us until–”
“It shouldn't have. I know them.” She snaps. Her grip on her mace tightens until her fist shakes, her knuckles turning white. Her left arm feels all sorts of wrong– something is very off about her shoulder– but she can't bring herself to care as she forces herself back to her feet.
“I know them, and I didn't see it.”
Oh, but she'd seen the way you shook, how you retreated to your room to hide every evening as Mephistopheles drew nearer to your home District. The dread painted plain as day across your face as they crossed the border, how tense you were, your nerves pulled taught until they'd inevitably snap. She did try to be there; tried to reach out, tried to help. Maybe her suggestions hadn't come out quite right, maybe they weren't good enough at all. Drawing from her own experiences, so very different from yours… perhaps that did more harm than good.
And right before you distorted, she saw how tired you were. In an all encompassing, deeper-than-bone sort of way. The Bough was right there, across the ground that was drenched with blood and littered with your shattered memories, and you could scarcely move. She couldn't get through to you then, with your eyes glazed over and your legs long since fallen out from under you, words and fleeting touches no longer enough to ease your suffering.
Ishmael looks to Dante, positioned at the edge of the battle and already facing her, and her message is unspoken but heard as they nod their prosthetic. She's going all out, and she expects backup. You're decimating everything around you. Hurting the others– your friends. Some are dead, some are favoring certain limbs and calling out your name and platitudes like that'll be enough, and she can't quite get herself to scoff because before, it might have been. The thought only makes her heart ache worse, because she can already hear your apologies now. She can feel your guilt, palpable as you hang your head, shielding your eyes from the damaged bodies of your colleagues.
Dante's going to pick them all up, though. Again and again. And they are going to drag you back from the ledge, kicking and screaming, no matter how hard you make it. You won't be swallowed up by your past, they're not going to let you. Ishmael can't let you.
She couldn't get through to you before. Couldn't get through the defenses you'd built up, nor the remnants of her own. But she hefts her mace, and makes one thing very clear as her shield lies discarded in the dirt.
She will this time.
i eat ishmael angst for breakfast lunch and dinner
how does fishy react (or perhaps crashout) when her beloved distorts because Certified Canto Trauma
this was delectable anon ty. wrote this as more of a scenario but i may revisit the concept as a oneshot one day 👀
ishmael with a distorting s/o
She can fix this.
Through the blood roaring in her ears and her mind going a mile a minute, there is one thing that Ishmael grapples to latch onto over and over. She can fix it. It is reversible. And she has helped reverse it before, numerous times.
Back then, it didn’t feel so painful. She didn’t care if she gave the other distortions a good thrashing to get through to them; it was for the best. It helped them, in the end. But you? She didn't want to do that to you. You're the last person she'd ever want to beat back to their senses, but it's too late now. Kissing it better wasn’t an option.
“I should've done something.” Her jaw hurts from how hard she's been clenching her teeth by the time she finds her voice, each word gritted out.
Yi Sang, miraculously still alive after how hard he'd hit the floor a few moments ago, drags his sleeve across his forehead, smearing blood across his pallid skin. “You could not see the depths of their suffering. Many times, it eludes us until–”
“It shouldn't have. I know them.” She snaps. Her grip on her mace tightens until her fist shakes, her knuckles turning white. Her left arm feels all sorts of wrong– something is very off about her shoulder– but she can't bring herself to care as she forces herself back to her feet.
“I know them, and I didn't see it.”
Oh, but she'd seen the way you shook, how you retreated to your room to hide every evening as Mephistopheles drew nearer to your home District. The dread painted plain as day across your face as they crossed the border, how tense you were, your nerves pulled taught until they'd inevitably snap. She did try to be there; tried to reach out, tried to help. Maybe her suggestions hadn't come out quite right, maybe they weren't good enough at all. Drawing from her own experiences, so very different from yours… perhaps that did more harm than good.
And right before you distorted, she saw how tired you were. In an all encompassing, deeper-than-bone sort of way. The Bough was right there, across the ground that was drenched with blood and littered with your shattered memories, and you could scarcely move. She couldn't get through to you then, with your eyes glazed over and your legs long since fallen out from under you, words and fleeting touches no longer enough to ease your suffering.
Ishmael looks to Dante, positioned at the edge of the battle and already facing her, and her message is unspoken but heard as they nod their prosthetic. She's going all out, and she expects backup. You're decimating everything around you. Hurting the others– your friends. Some are dead, some are favoring certain limbs and calling out your name and platitudes like that'll be enough, and she can't quite get herself to scoff because before, it might have been. The thought only makes her heart ache worse, because she can already hear your apologies now. She can feel your guilt, palpable as you hang your head, shielding your eyes from the damaged bodies of your colleagues.
Dante's going to pick them all up, though. Again and again. And they are going to drag you back from the ledge, kicking and screaming, no matter how hard you make it. You won't be swallowed up by your past, they're not going to let you. Ishmael can't let you.
She couldn't get through to you before. Couldn't get through the defenses you'd built up, nor the remnants of her own. But she hefts her mace, and makes one thing very clear as her shield lies discarded in the dirt.
She will this time.
i eat ishmael angst for breakfast lunch and dinner
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
2087
izzy806
yousharknotpass
