Miscellaneous Lena'n'Max ficlets
Monday, January 7th, 2019 10:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ossobucoThese are just some Lena'n'Max prompt-fics that I've posted to tumblr over the years and which renshai reminded me I should probably post here?? For reasons?
Prompt: my destiny is in your hands (May 2015)
Lena is not the kind of person who trusts easily–the last time she’d treated someone she’d just met with less than a healthy amount of suspicion, they’d tried to kidnap her dog–so she really can’t explain to any of the Saints why she’s driving point with the six-and-a-half-foot-tall wildcard they’d pulled out of a cage fight days before, who has spoken all of ten words since (and all of them to Lena), who still tenses visibly when anyone carrying a weapon leaves her line of sight, and who very well might be slightly unhinged.
After the retribution she had exacted for the last attack on a Saints caravan, Lena had assumed that no one would be stupid enough to attack them again so soon. It was meant to be an easy way to put Max through her paces, maybe let her blow off some steam, or at least give her some time outside of Saints Row in the relative safety of a group. In retrospect, of course, she should be used to people’s stupidity always exceeding her expectations.
The marauders are flying Gamma Goat colors, which puts them far out of their usual territory, and their attack is fast and desperate. The Saints actually struggle to hold them off, and Lena sees at least one of them take a bullet. She sees two Gamma dirt bikes charge in her rear-view mirrors, coming up on either side of her as she steers left, away from the supply rig. She sees them pass her, and she pulls her gun.
She doesn’t see the charges they’ve placed on her fenders until the bikes are already peeling away.
Diving out of the car at a hundred kilometers an hour is only slightly better odds, but she’s already swung her door open when there is a diesel roar from just behind her, and a strong hand clasps her arm and pulls–she closes her fingers around one of the straps of Max’s harness, snapping and cracking in the wind, and manages just enough of a jump to propel herself out of the car–she’s in the air and there is no way in the war boys’ twisted Valhalla that she’s going to land anywhere other than on the hard ground, probably taking Max with her–
The motorcycle swerves and the sand shrieks under its tires, and Lena lands somehow on the very front of the seat, splayed in Max’s lap with one of the woman’s burly arms almost cradling her to keep her from falling to either side. Lena quickly adjusts to straddle the bike and face forward, but Max’s arm is still wrapped around her torso, tight and secure and, really, not anything Lena feels like complaining about.
Fifty or so yards away, the charges go off and the car crumbles into a mess of aluminum and flames.
“Damnit, I liked that car,” Lena shouts, readying her gun, and she’s pretty sure that Max is grinning as they race back to the fray.
Prompt: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/etc (July 2015)
Few people who’ve met Lena in person have ever doubted her force of personality, whether she’s chatting up (or sizing up) marks at the Broken Shillelagh or staring down a rival crime lord, no weapon needed to make him fear for his life. How well this will translate on the campaign trail–Lena’s experience at public speaking having been mostly limited to pre-firefight morale boosts–is anyone’s guess, but backstage at their first rally, the recently-declared presidential candidate is the picture of nonchalance. She is currently lounging among the sound equipment, her immaculately-pressed gray suit fitting her every muscular curve. She perilously waves around a plastic cup of ice water as she and Pierce hash out some good-natured argument about minimum wage increases; Max isn’t listening too closely, being somewhat distracted by the way the stage lighting shades the elegant curve of Lena’s skull and casts multicolored shadows in the hollow of her throat.
“There’s my VP!” Mid-sentence, Lena hops down from the spare amplifier and bumps her shoulder against Max’s, a familiar gesture with just enough strength behind it to make Max plant her feet. “How do I look?”
“Amazing.” Anything Max could say would be an understatement, as far as she’s concerned. “Lemme adjust your tie?”
Lena’s full Windsor isn’t in any need of it, but she tilts her chin up obligingly, and dons a coy smile as Max leans down, much closer than necessary for the stated task. They kiss once, just briefly, and then Lena’s arms have found their way around Max’s neck, and they are kissing again with increased vigor, Lena’s teeth grazing Max’s lips.
“Okay, okay, break it up before we have to redo the Boss’s makeup,” Shaundi interrupts, having marched over at some point in the last few seconds. “You’re on stage in thirty seconds.”
“Knock ‘em dead, babe.” Max actually straightens Lena’s tie, this time, and they both chuckle. Lena takes both of Max’s hands, gives them a quick, playful squeeze, and there’s a familiar, inspired sort of light in her eyes as she replies, “yeah, you know it.”
Kiss prompt: Hands On The Other Person’s Back, Fingertips Pressing Under Their Top, Drawing Gentle Circles Against That Small Strip Of Bare Skin That Make Them Break The Kiss With A Gasp (July 2017)
It’s the closest that anywhere in the wasteland comes to silence, in the catacombs burrowing down into the bedrock under the thick blanket of sand. The low rumble of the generator doesn’t reach as deep as the sleeping quarters, and if anyone else in the compound is awake and moving around, they’d have to be on one of the upper levels. The Archangel is thankful enough for this on most nights–as both a light sleeper and a warlord invested in hearing if anyone is trying to get the drop on her–but it’s especially valuable at this moment as she’s intently listening for signs of approval in Max’s breaths.
(Lena doesn’t know exactly what’s been going on between them, if she’s honest, and it’s hard to have a serious talk with a woman of as few words as Max is at the best of times, but as long as the newest and by far most attractive member of the Saints isn’t complaining, neither can she.)
Max’s inhalation hitches as Lena brushes her lips against the side of Max’s neck, over one of the many scars that shine white on her tanned skin. She nuzzles under Max’s jaw, and, eyes closed, tilts Max’s face towards hers. Max’s breath shakes again as their lips meet, a puff of hot air in Lena’s mouth, and Lena grins as she kisses–grins even more as Max’s arms drape softly around her shoulders.
Lena’s hands find Max’s waist, tracing the tattered hem of the former pit fighter’s shirt, then skimming underneath it as Max leans in ever closer. Her fingertips find Max’s spine between the hard cords of muscle on either side, and she traces a few inches up and down it with her fingernails–
“Fuck,” Max gasps, dusty and dry, but the space between their lips only lasts as long as the word and another hungry breath of air.
Kiss prompt: against a wall kiss (August 2017)
The elevator door opens at the end of the long hallway to Lena’s office, and it’s immediately obvious who has just arrived, because her trio of ferocious and loyal guard dogs have gone scampering down the hall like a litter of over-excited puppies–no barking or snapping or even so much as growling. This is how they have always reacted to Maxine Eshkibog, even the first time that Stilwater’s best mechanic and inveterate do-gooder fought her way through the Ultor Corporation compound with nothing but a baseball bat and her bare fists. Neither Lena nor the very expensive dog trainer she keeps on retainer are quite able to explain it.
“Easy, little bros,” says Max, heavy footsteps drawing closer, then the sound of a plastic bag crinkling. “There you go–hey, buddy, there’s enough for you, too–yeah, who’s a good girl–”
The dogs are crunching contentedly on whatever treats Max has brought for them this time, and then the footsteps stop outside of Lena’s door. She sighs and presses a button on her desk–the door buzzes and slides open.
Max makes a kind of awkward, wincing face as she ducks inside (one of the dogs follows and lies down beside the desk, gnawing happily on a pig’s ear). Lena hits the button again and the door hisses shut.
“I’m sure you’re wondering,” Lena starts with the utmost indifference, “why I’ve invited you here today.”
“Ummm,” drawls Max with what Lena is sure–despite everything–is completely genuine curiosity. “Because I stopped one of your bank heists? Again?”
“Try again,” Lena says with a barely-withheld smirk.
“Because… I knocked out your two best enforcers and left them tied up on the steps of the courthouse for the cops to pick up?”
“Nope.” She stands up from her leather desk chair, slowly stalks forward towards the pink-mohawked giant until Max’s dark eyes land on her uncertainly. Despite Lena’s pressing on until they’re mere inches apart, Max holds her ground stubbornly–until Lena reaches for the woman’s shoulders, and her resistance melts away under Lena’s gentle shove. Her back hits the wall with a soft thud, eyes closing and lips parting to meet Lena’s kiss without any hesitation whatsoever.
Even in her four-inch heels, Lena can only just reach Max’s lips. The other woman obligingly tilts her head down a bit to kiss more easily, her hands finding Lena’s waist; Lena touches Max’s wrists and glides her fingers up Max’s arms, over the faintly raised lines of her tattoos, over rolled-up sleeves that barely fit her muscular arms.
“Still wondering?” Lena purrs against the corner of Max’s mouth.
“Oh,” Max says, chuckling a little breathlessly. “Right, uh. Yeah–I mean, no. I just wasn’t sure if… after the bank thing, if we were still…”
Lena grins and reaches up for Max’s collar, deftly undoing the first button of her un-ironed plaid shirt. “Who gives a fuck about the bank? That’s just business–this is way more important.”
Kiss prompt: Lazy Morning Kisses Before They’ve Even Opened Their Eyes, Still Mumbling Half-Incoherently, Not Wanting to Wake Up (April 2018)
The king-sized bed takes up a good three-quarters of the old dorm room, and Jesse McCree takes up at least three-quarters of the bed, limbs spread in every direction on the memory foam mattress (Lena and Max had hijacked nothing but the best from the delivery truck unloading at the nearest factory outlet). Despite being almost twice his size, Max takes up considerably less space; her right arm is presently wrapped snugly around Jesse’s waist, and her left has got Lena’s arm held in a vice grip to her chest—not that Lena has any objection to staying curled up against her. She is warm and impossibly comfortable, her forehead pressed into the pink curls at the tail of Max’s mohawk, where Max’s snoring vibrates pleasantly in her temples.
Lena is moments from drifting back to sleep, eyelids half-closed against the early morning light, when Max utters a particularly deafening snore—takes a deep, sleep-heavy breath—and rolls over, eyelids fluttering but not quite opening.
“Mmrrph,” she sighs, and Lena takes her chance. She kisses the corner of Max’s lips, immediately feeling them curl into a smile and part to return the gesture more fully. Max’s kisses are usually a little sloppy, a little unpracticed, but always much gentler than her appearance and outward attitude would suggest, and this time, they are particularly delicate. Lena isn’t sure if it’s a result of the early hour, or an attempt not to wake their impromptu bedfellow, but again, she can’t complain.
The moment ends with Max’s nose buried under Lena’s jaw and her arms firmly around Lena’s waist, their ankles tangled together, Lena’s palm on Max’s cheek.
“So,” Lena prompts, brushing a few stray curls back from Max’s forehead, “good idea, am I right?”
Max chuckles against Lena’s throat, and the way her shoulders feel more relaxed than Lena thinks she’s felt them in weeks speaks volumes. “See if he’ll bring the archer next time,” she mumbles after a second.
“Hmm.” Lena digs her fingers in lazily around Max’s shoulder blade. “I thought you and Hanzo didn’t get along.”
“We don’t, but like…” Max’s arms shift as she gesticulates behind Lena’s back. “Have you seen him?”
It’s Lena’s turn to laugh, and she can’t quite muffle it in Max’s neck in time. Jesse rolls over and yawns mightily, his arms stretching wide—one of which ends up resting inconveniently across the side of Max’s head, the elbow narrowly missing Lena’s temple.
She’s just glad it’s the human arm and not the prosthetic as she shoves it back off of them. “Jesse McCree, you’re a fucking menace.”
“Well, maybe so,” he drawls, accent even thicker than usual in the receding fog of sleep, “but I notice y'all haven’t kicked me out of bed yet.”
renshai reminded me I should probably post here?? For reasons? Prompt: my destiny is in your hands (May 2015)
Lena is not the kind of person who trusts easily–the last time she’d treated someone she’d just met with less than a healthy amount of suspicion, they’d tried to kidnap her dog–so she really can’t explain to any of the Saints why she’s driving point with the six-and-a-half-foot-tall wildcard they’d pulled out of a cage fight days before, who has spoken all of ten words since (and all of them to Lena), who still tenses visibly when anyone carrying a weapon leaves her line of sight, and who very well might be slightly unhinged.
After the retribution she had exacted for the last attack on a Saints caravan, Lena had assumed that no one would be stupid enough to attack them again so soon. It was meant to be an easy way to put Max through her paces, maybe let her blow off some steam, or at least give her some time outside of Saints Row in the relative safety of a group. In retrospect, of course, she should be used to people’s stupidity always exceeding her expectations.
The marauders are flying Gamma Goat colors, which puts them far out of their usual territory, and their attack is fast and desperate. The Saints actually struggle to hold them off, and Lena sees at least one of them take a bullet. She sees two Gamma dirt bikes charge in her rear-view mirrors, coming up on either side of her as she steers left, away from the supply rig. She sees them pass her, and she pulls her gun.
She doesn’t see the charges they’ve placed on her fenders until the bikes are already peeling away.
Diving out of the car at a hundred kilometers an hour is only slightly better odds, but she’s already swung her door open when there is a diesel roar from just behind her, and a strong hand clasps her arm and pulls–she closes her fingers around one of the straps of Max’s harness, snapping and cracking in the wind, and manages just enough of a jump to propel herself out of the car–she’s in the air and there is no way in the war boys’ twisted Valhalla that she’s going to land anywhere other than on the hard ground, probably taking Max with her–
The motorcycle swerves and the sand shrieks under its tires, and Lena lands somehow on the very front of the seat, splayed in Max’s lap with one of the woman’s burly arms almost cradling her to keep her from falling to either side. Lena quickly adjusts to straddle the bike and face forward, but Max’s arm is still wrapped around her torso, tight and secure and, really, not anything Lena feels like complaining about.
Fifty or so yards away, the charges go off and the car crumbles into a mess of aluminum and flames.
“Damnit, I liked that car,” Lena shouts, readying her gun, and she’s pretty sure that Max is grinning as they race back to the fray.
Prompt: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/etc (July 2015)
Few people who’ve met Lena in person have ever doubted her force of personality, whether she’s chatting up (or sizing up) marks at the Broken Shillelagh or staring down a rival crime lord, no weapon needed to make him fear for his life. How well this will translate on the campaign trail–Lena’s experience at public speaking having been mostly limited to pre-firefight morale boosts–is anyone’s guess, but backstage at their first rally, the recently-declared presidential candidate is the picture of nonchalance. She is currently lounging among the sound equipment, her immaculately-pressed gray suit fitting her every muscular curve. She perilously waves around a plastic cup of ice water as she and Pierce hash out some good-natured argument about minimum wage increases; Max isn’t listening too closely, being somewhat distracted by the way the stage lighting shades the elegant curve of Lena’s skull and casts multicolored shadows in the hollow of her throat.
“There’s my VP!” Mid-sentence, Lena hops down from the spare amplifier and bumps her shoulder against Max’s, a familiar gesture with just enough strength behind it to make Max plant her feet. “How do I look?”
“Amazing.” Anything Max could say would be an understatement, as far as she’s concerned. “Lemme adjust your tie?”
Lena’s full Windsor isn’t in any need of it, but she tilts her chin up obligingly, and dons a coy smile as Max leans down, much closer than necessary for the stated task. They kiss once, just briefly, and then Lena’s arms have found their way around Max’s neck, and they are kissing again with increased vigor, Lena’s teeth grazing Max’s lips.
“Okay, okay, break it up before we have to redo the Boss’s makeup,” Shaundi interrupts, having marched over at some point in the last few seconds. “You’re on stage in thirty seconds.”
“Knock ‘em dead, babe.” Max actually straightens Lena’s tie, this time, and they both chuckle. Lena takes both of Max’s hands, gives them a quick, playful squeeze, and there’s a familiar, inspired sort of light in her eyes as she replies, “yeah, you know it.”
Kiss prompt: Hands On The Other Person’s Back, Fingertips Pressing Under Their Top, Drawing Gentle Circles Against That Small Strip Of Bare Skin That Make Them Break The Kiss With A Gasp (July 2017)
It’s the closest that anywhere in the wasteland comes to silence, in the catacombs burrowing down into the bedrock under the thick blanket of sand. The low rumble of the generator doesn’t reach as deep as the sleeping quarters, and if anyone else in the compound is awake and moving around, they’d have to be on one of the upper levels. The Archangel is thankful enough for this on most nights–as both a light sleeper and a warlord invested in hearing if anyone is trying to get the drop on her–but it’s especially valuable at this moment as she’s intently listening for signs of approval in Max’s breaths.
(Lena doesn’t know exactly what’s been going on between them, if she’s honest, and it’s hard to have a serious talk with a woman of as few words as Max is at the best of times, but as long as the newest and by far most attractive member of the Saints isn’t complaining, neither can she.)
Max’s inhalation hitches as Lena brushes her lips against the side of Max’s neck, over one of the many scars that shine white on her tanned skin. She nuzzles under Max’s jaw, and, eyes closed, tilts Max’s face towards hers. Max’s breath shakes again as their lips meet, a puff of hot air in Lena’s mouth, and Lena grins as she kisses–grins even more as Max’s arms drape softly around her shoulders.
Lena’s hands find Max’s waist, tracing the tattered hem of the former pit fighter’s shirt, then skimming underneath it as Max leans in ever closer. Her fingertips find Max’s spine between the hard cords of muscle on either side, and she traces a few inches up and down it with her fingernails–
“Fuck,” Max gasps, dusty and dry, but the space between their lips only lasts as long as the word and another hungry breath of air.
Kiss prompt: against a wall kiss (August 2017)
The elevator door opens at the end of the long hallway to Lena’s office, and it’s immediately obvious who has just arrived, because her trio of ferocious and loyal guard dogs have gone scampering down the hall like a litter of over-excited puppies–no barking or snapping or even so much as growling. This is how they have always reacted to Maxine Eshkibog, even the first time that Stilwater’s best mechanic and inveterate do-gooder fought her way through the Ultor Corporation compound with nothing but a baseball bat and her bare fists. Neither Lena nor the very expensive dog trainer she keeps on retainer are quite able to explain it.
“Easy, little bros,” says Max, heavy footsteps drawing closer, then the sound of a plastic bag crinkling. “There you go–hey, buddy, there’s enough for you, too–yeah, who’s a good girl–”
The dogs are crunching contentedly on whatever treats Max has brought for them this time, and then the footsteps stop outside of Lena’s door. She sighs and presses a button on her desk–the door buzzes and slides open.
Max makes a kind of awkward, wincing face as she ducks inside (one of the dogs follows and lies down beside the desk, gnawing happily on a pig’s ear). Lena hits the button again and the door hisses shut.
“I’m sure you’re wondering,” Lena starts with the utmost indifference, “why I’ve invited you here today.”
“Ummm,” drawls Max with what Lena is sure–despite everything–is completely genuine curiosity. “Because I stopped one of your bank heists? Again?”
“Try again,” Lena says with a barely-withheld smirk.
“Because… I knocked out your two best enforcers and left them tied up on the steps of the courthouse for the cops to pick up?”
“Nope.” She stands up from her leather desk chair, slowly stalks forward towards the pink-mohawked giant until Max’s dark eyes land on her uncertainly. Despite Lena’s pressing on until they’re mere inches apart, Max holds her ground stubbornly–until Lena reaches for the woman’s shoulders, and her resistance melts away under Lena’s gentle shove. Her back hits the wall with a soft thud, eyes closing and lips parting to meet Lena’s kiss without any hesitation whatsoever.
Even in her four-inch heels, Lena can only just reach Max’s lips. The other woman obligingly tilts her head down a bit to kiss more easily, her hands finding Lena’s waist; Lena touches Max’s wrists and glides her fingers up Max’s arms, over the faintly raised lines of her tattoos, over rolled-up sleeves that barely fit her muscular arms.
“Still wondering?” Lena purrs against the corner of Max’s mouth.
“Oh,” Max says, chuckling a little breathlessly. “Right, uh. Yeah–I mean, no. I just wasn’t sure if… after the bank thing, if we were still…”
Lena grins and reaches up for Max’s collar, deftly undoing the first button of her un-ironed plaid shirt. “Who gives a fuck about the bank? That’s just business–this is way more important.”
Kiss prompt: Lazy Morning Kisses Before They’ve Even Opened Their Eyes, Still Mumbling Half-Incoherently, Not Wanting to Wake Up (April 2018)
The king-sized bed takes up a good three-quarters of the old dorm room, and Jesse McCree takes up at least three-quarters of the bed, limbs spread in every direction on the memory foam mattress (Lena and Max had hijacked nothing but the best from the delivery truck unloading at the nearest factory outlet). Despite being almost twice his size, Max takes up considerably less space; her right arm is presently wrapped snugly around Jesse’s waist, and her left has got Lena’s arm held in a vice grip to her chest—not that Lena has any objection to staying curled up against her. She is warm and impossibly comfortable, her forehead pressed into the pink curls at the tail of Max’s mohawk, where Max’s snoring vibrates pleasantly in her temples.
Lena is moments from drifting back to sleep, eyelids half-closed against the early morning light, when Max utters a particularly deafening snore—takes a deep, sleep-heavy breath—and rolls over, eyelids fluttering but not quite opening.
“Mmrrph,” she sighs, and Lena takes her chance. She kisses the corner of Max’s lips, immediately feeling them curl into a smile and part to return the gesture more fully. Max’s kisses are usually a little sloppy, a little unpracticed, but always much gentler than her appearance and outward attitude would suggest, and this time, they are particularly delicate. Lena isn’t sure if it’s a result of the early hour, or an attempt not to wake their impromptu bedfellow, but again, she can’t complain.
The moment ends with Max’s nose buried under Lena’s jaw and her arms firmly around Lena’s waist, their ankles tangled together, Lena’s palm on Max’s cheek.
“So,” Lena prompts, brushing a few stray curls back from Max’s forehead, “good idea, am I right?”
Max chuckles against Lena’s throat, and the way her shoulders feel more relaxed than Lena thinks she’s felt them in weeks speaks volumes. “See if he’ll bring the archer next time,” she mumbles after a second.
“Hmm.” Lena digs her fingers in lazily around Max’s shoulder blade. “I thought you and Hanzo didn’t get along.”
“We don’t, but like…” Max’s arms shift as she gesticulates behind Lena’s back. “Have you seen him?”
It’s Lena’s turn to laugh, and she can’t quite muffle it in Max’s neck in time. Jesse rolls over and yawns mightily, his arms stretching wide—one of which ends up resting inconveniently across the side of Max’s head, the elbow narrowly missing Lena’s temple.
She’s just glad it’s the human arm and not the prosthetic as she shoves it back off of them. “Jesse McCree, you’re a fucking menace.”
“Well, maybe so,” he drawls, accent even thicker than usual in the receding fog of sleep, “but I notice y'all haven’t kicked me out of bed yet.”
no subject
Date: Thursday, January 10th, 2019 01:10 am (UTC)that last one particularly is cute as hell
(no subject)
From: