#we’ll see if inspiration strikes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

arts-bloody-rose · 15 days ago

Text

Blood of A Rose - One of A Kind (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - After having been together in their unspoken relationship for some time, (Y/n) suggests that they have their own first date.

Notes - Y’all I’m alive 🤚🏻 This is for a request from @odditycircus-2002 asking for a date night between this beautifully twisted couple 💕

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list or have a request!

Word Count - 2,739

Warning(s) - Art honestly, violence, minor gore

Song Inspiration -

Matt Maltese - As the World Caves In

(Y/n) stood next to her bed at her house, folding her laundry while Art was curled up on top of the sheets across from her. Only the lamp on one of her nightstands was lit, casting a warm and dim glow over the room. Soft music filled the room, creating a calmer atmosphere as they soaked in each other’s presence.

Art’s eyes traced her every movement, fascinated by how meticulous she was with such a simple task.

As she grabbed her clothes that were put on hangers and opened the larger wardrobe to put them away, she eyed the clothes inside. There wasn’t an overwhelming amount, but there was enough for every occasion. Though she never participated in such occasions. As she hung up the last article of clothing, she was struck with an idea.

“Hey, Art?” The clown perked up at her delicate voice. “I was wondering about something.” (Y/n) continued as she finished putting away the rest of her clothes in her dresser.

Art sat up enthusiastically, hands folded in his lap with his legs outstretched in front of him as he grinned in anticipation.

She smiled in adoration at his behavior. “What if we had a special night together?” (Y/n) asked timidly, moving to straddle his lap and began to fiddle with his ruffle collar.

Art’s expression was thoughtful. Curious, yet it held a sense of confusion.

“I don’t mean what we usually do. I mean just us… going out and enjoying each other’s company.”

Art gave her an almost offended expression, motioning between the two of them and then holding his hands up in question with a level of sass.

“Listen!” (Y/n) giggled and placed her hands against his chest.

Art crossed his arms, leaning in with his ear impatiently.

“I mean like a date.”

His expression turned into surprise, hands coming up to his cheeks.

“We can go out and grab some good food, watch a movie together.” (Y/n) continued persuasively, reaching to take his hands and held them together in front of her. “I can dress nice and pretty for you.”

Art looked her up and down seductively, wiggling his eyebrows as his tongue peeked out between his teeth.

“We’ll see.” (Y/n) chuckled. “Does that sound good to you though?” She asked seriously, thumbs brushing the back of his gloved hands. He nodded eagerly and she leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose. “Good. Tomorrow then.”

In her small, dimly lit room, (Y/n) stood in front of her dresser, carefully applying her makeup in front of the mirror hung above it. Music hummed in the background, giving her a boost of confidence as she stood back and admired her more gussied-up appearance. Her reflection was striking yet soft, a haunting beauty.

The personification of her work.

The air smelled faintly of old paint, charcoal, and the earthy scent of the countless roses and odd trinkets Art had collected for her over time. But there was also a new scent that clung to the air; the smell of her perfume that she kept for special occasions such as this.

A small smile played at her lips as she thought of him. How he’d watched her work in silence, eyes gleaming with admiration, his chilling presence somehow making her feel seen and safe. She felt his encouragement in ways no one else could understand.

(Y/n) pulled herself from her thoughts and took a deep breath. It was their first official date, and she wanted to look perfect for him in her own way. Wanted the experience to be perfect in their own way.

She reached for a necklace Art had gifted her; a small, golden locket with a delicate engraving of a thorny rose. Inside was a piece of paper, a drop of both his and her own blood dried into it - a blend that was terrifying and alluring, representing their unspoken vows to each other.

She fastened it around her neck, letting it rest close to her heart.

A knock on her door brought her out of her thoughts, sending a flutter through her chest, settling into her stomach as nerves began to set in.

The knocking turned into impatient pounding and (Y/n) took one last look in the mirror, feeling a surge of butterflies that she only ever felt when she was with him.

She opened the door to find Art standing there in his signature outfit, his face painted with that wild, almost taunting grin. There was one subtle change to his attire, however.

At the base of his neck sat a simple black bow-tie. And it oddly fit into his usual monochromatic look.

When she met his eyes, his expression softened - just slightly - when he saw her, as if she were his masterpiece.

He didn’t need words to express himself, his eyes saying all that she needed to know.

Perfection.

There was no need for small talk or pleasantries; they shared a quiet understanding, a mutual appreciation for the darkness they both embraced.

“Hey.” (Y/n) nearly whispered abashedly, hands fidgeting in front of her as she burned under his gaze.

Art’s head suddenly shook, knocking him out of his frozen state and snapping to attention with a wide grin. He playfully adjusted his bow-tie, then bowed low, holding his hand out to her dramatically as he held eye contact.

(Y/n) giggled and delicately placed her own into his palm, watching as he began to kiss it, slowly working his way up her arm before finally landing on her cheek.

Her cheeks reddened as his hand still held onto hers, then linked their arms together and led them out of their hideout.

The streets of the city lay quiet beneath the shroud of night. Beneath the glow of scattered streetlights, accompanied by the eerie stillness of their surroundings, it felt like a hidden stage set just for them. The night’s chill bit at her skin, though she didn’t mind. It was refreshing, almost calming, matching the small flickers of excitement she felt in Art’s strange company.

Even then, she simply stepped closer to him, practically molded into each other as they strolled towards the town.

It felt odd seeing Art out and about without his bag, and even weirder for himself as it felt like a piece of himself was missing. But as strange as it seemed, he agreed not to bring it for the sake of their experience.

Beside him, (Y/n)’s heart fluttered as she snuck glances at the man she called her own. She could burst with tears, break down in front of him and fall to her knees with praise and pronounce her undying love in cliche romance.

But she could only stare.

And for the first time, Art nearly felt an unfamiliar flutter in his own stomach as he, too, snuck glances at the woman beside him. His grin was plastered, unwavering and unreadable to anyone who saw it. But inside, behind his stone-cold eyes, he was more confused than ever before as his chest threatened to twist itself at the sight of her.

As they approached a rather new take-out restaurant on the edge of the city, (Y/n) wondered if he’d even be interested in a simple meal. Art’s appetite, she suspected, leaned more towards the bizarre, but he seemed to humor her. He cocked his head, miming curiosity in her culinary interests, his odd, silent laughter filling the spaces between her nervous suggestions.

Art nodded in agreement and patted her hand, remaining outside while she went in to order.

Following a few moments deliberation over the menu, she chose a few dishes she thought might suit both of their tastes. Anything with rich flavors, meats, and smoky spices, all packed neatly in small cardboard boxes.

After what felt like an eternity, Art jumped when he heard yelling from inside the building and busted through the door, figure tense and expression twisted into violent determination.

Behind the counter, (Y/n) pulled out a pen from a man’s jugular, a bag of food sat on the counter beside them. Blood spewed out of his neck as he held his hand over the wound, gargling for help and collapsing onto the floor.

Art immediately relaxed, watching as she tossed the pen onto the counter and finally looked over at him with an indifferent expression. She huffed and rounded to the other side, grabbing the bag of food with her clean hand and making her way over to him.

Art crossed his arms and tapped his foot, looking at her impatiently. When she reached him she casually wiped off the blood on her hand onto his suit as he rubbed at his stomach with a frown.

“Trust me, I’m hungry too.” Art pointed at the counter in question. “He called me a slut.” (Y/n) pouted.

Art took her wrist and lowered it, eyes set on where the still-gargling man was before making his way over to him.

“Art, I thought we were hungry.” She practically whined as she watched him disappear behind the counter as he crouched down to the man.

(Y/n) sighed and took a seat in one of the booths, picking at her fingers as she waited for him to finish.

Eventually, they left the faint glow of the restaurant with food in hand and strolled towards a cemetery just down the road that they had passed.

The night felt alive in that stillness, and (Y/n) found herself unwinding in ways she never did around others, and the same seemed to occur with the notorious clown.

The iron gates creaked as Art swung them open with a flourish, bowing theatrically as (Y/n) stepped through. Her cheeks warmed, and she smiled shyly, clutching the take-out bag. They found a secluded spot under an ancient oak tree, far enough from the main path to avoid anyone who might’ve been around.

Taking their seats, they ate in companionable silence, Art gleefully tearing into his food with exaggerated enthusiasm, each bite accompanied by silent laughs and approving nods. (Y/n) found herself chuckling, feeling at ease as she nibbled at her food.

There was something strangely poetic about it, about their peaceful picnic among the tombstones, two souls savoring the comfort of isolation in a world that rarely understood them.

At some point, (Y/n) set down her food, watching Art as he looked down at his food while he ate, behavior deceptively innocent when he looked up and around every now and then with wide and curious eyes.

Her own turned to look at the tombstones with a kind of reverent curiosity. Her mind began turning, imagining stories for each name etched in stone. She leaned back against the oak before speaking.

“Do you ever wonder what they’d think of us?” she asked, motioning to the graves. “Sitting here, sharing a meal. As if… we’re normal people.”

Art cocked his head, his silent laugh haunting but surprisingly warm. He raised his hand, pointing a gloved finger at her before tapping his own chest and waved his hand. He found amusement in the thought of two misfits being perceived as ‘normal’, finding solace where others might see only fear or strangeness.

(Y/n)’s smile softened. She felt understood, and that feeling lingered in her chest like a fragile ember, warming her.

She looked back out at the tombs, scanning over them before she found one she thought was particularly amusing. She nudged Art with her shoulder as she chuckled.

“Look at that one.” She pointed and Art squinted to read it.

Guess I have tomorrow off. The epitaph read.

Art nodded and held his stomach in laughter, (Y/n) joining him as she held onto him with her head on his shoulder as she cackled and wheezed.

Art popped up at the new sound, pointing at her and impossibly laughing even harder as he watched her cover her mouth in embarrassment.

Her hand lazily slapped at his arm. “Asshole!” She choked out as she struggled to catch her breath. Art wiggled his eyebrows and used his fingers to tell her for shame.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes as their laughter died, moving to stand as Art stood quickly beside her. He pushed her back down and she collapsed back into her spot, looking up at Art with an offended expression.

Her expression flattened when he brushed himself off and held out his hand in a gentlemanly manner.

(Y/n) clicked her tongue and reluctantly took it, then shrieked when she was suddenly yanked up and collapsed into his chest.

She looked up at him and he gazed at her promiscuously, looking her up and down. (Y/n) swatted at his chest, then pulled away to pick up their mess and tossed it into a trash bin as they left hand-in-hand.

When they entered her house, (Y/n) pulled off her shoes and made her way to the couch, Art trailing closely behind her. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, clicking through until she found a slasher film that she thought he would enjoy.

“Have you had ice cream before?” She asked him curiously as she walked to the kitchen. She looked back to see him shaking his head. “You want to try some?”

Art grinned excitedly and rubbed his hands together, shoulders hunched as he creeped over to where she stood at the fridge.

He watched as she pulled out a tub of neapolitan ice cream, followed by two bowls, spoons and an ice cream scooper. When she opened the tub, he eyed it for a moment before he dug his finger into the chocolate portion and brought it to his nose to smell it.

(Y/n) watched him with a small frown, raising an eyebrow at him. He finally ate it off of his finger, and with it still in his mouth, his eyes widened.

Art suddenly snatched the tub, knocking over a bowl in the process, and practically trotted over to the couch to plop down onto it.

“Hey!” (Y/n) tried, but he ignored her and simply dug into the ice cream with his fingers.

She sighed and crossed her arms, contemplating before she grabbed one of the spoons and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past her lips, giving up on the irritation and instead finding his behavior adorable.

She met him at the couch and curled up next to him, starting the movie before she became too comfortable. She was careful as she scooped her own ice cream, mindful of where his fingers touched to not get any of the grime that inevitably contaminated it.

As the movie played, (Y/n) would be lying if she said she was paying attention to it. Truthfully, she was more so focusing on his reactions, however minuscule they were.

Despite his sadistic behavior, he seemed so innocent in this state. Almost childlike with the tub of ice cream in his lap, coating his fingers and lining his mouth as his wide eyes took in what played before them. He laughed whenever someone was murdered, but that was only to be expected from him.

She chuckled softly to herself, grabbing a napkin from the coffee table in front of them once he set the now nearly empty tub aside. (Y/n) waited patiently as he licked at his fingers until they were nearly pristine before she wiped at his mouth. He flinched at first with a frown, throwing her a side-eye, but eventually gave in.

When finished, she fully snuggled into him, Art reaching an arm around her to pull her closer and resting his head on top of her own.

As he watched the movie, she closed her eyes, closely listening to the rhythm of his heart. She noticed how it picked up with his laughter, with his anticipation before the next kill. How it slowed during the more calm scenes of the film.

Before she knew it, she had fallen asleep. And when the movie ended, Art went to slap her thighs in his enjoyment for what he watched, but stopped himself when he noticed her peaceful form wrapped around him.

His mouth formed an ‘o’ and he looked around, wondering what to do. Art then relaxed his face with content, shimmying to get himself comfortable before he closed his eyes alongside her.

Tag List: @callsignwidow @hoe-for-daddywise

#art #art the clown #art the clown x reader #damien leone #david howard thornton #terrifier #terrifier 2 #x reader #blood of a rose #fanfiction #david howard thornton x reader #terrifier 1 #terrifier x reader #terrifier 3 #franchise #slashers #slasher movies #art x reader #fanfic

117 notes · View notes

starlightguh · 3 months ago

Text

An Artist Always Signs His Work

Word Count: 1,879

Tags: inappropriate uses of paint, Oral f!receiving

AN: 18+ Smut !MDNI¡ I started working on this before the Rafayel banner announcement and wanted to finish and post this before the new card dropped! I’ve truthfully not been the biggest Rafayel girly but lately he’s shown up in some spicy dreams of mine so I hope this does him justice 💕

I was taking my time doing my hair for a little outing with Tara that I had planned, when my phone started buzzing. I pause my hair routine and see Rafayel’s picture with his contact name: My Sushi <3 light up my screen.

I answer with a cutesy ‘Hellooo’ and am met with a disgruntled groan from the other end.

“I can’t do it! I won’t do it! I simply cannot draw anymore no matter how much Thomas threatens me!”

“Woah, slow down what happened?” I stifle a laugh at his dramatics.

“They expect me to have a new painting for that gallery by the end of this week and I just can’t! No matter how much I’ve painted nothing is giving that inspiration I need….You have to come help,” his voice sobbed on the other line.

“Rafayel I can’t, I have other engagements today I can’t just drop everything to help you with your art,” I sigh at his drama.

“Oh so you hate me. I get it. Well I see how much you care about me and my dying wishes, so I’m hanging up now,” his voice was full of sass as he then hung up on me.

I let out a long exasperated groan and gave Tara a phone call, “hey girl I might have to rain check on our tea date.”

“Oh that’s funny you called first! I actually ran into Dr.Greyson and am kinda caught up with him right now…We’ll definitely touch base and reschedule when I see you at work! Bye girly!”

Well that was easy. I continue to finish getting ready to go see my dying artist…

~~~~~~~~~

Im buzzed into Mo art studio with no problem. I didn’t bother calling Rafayel back since I knew where he would be whether I showed up or not.

“Knock, knock,” I call out as I open the doors to his studio space.

“Studio’s closed, I'm busy passing away…” Rafayel, whose clothes were covered in various paint colors, was laying on the floor with his arm covering his eyes.

“But I came to revive you.”

He lifts his arm away from his face and he lets in a sharp little gasp as he takes in my appearance.

I was a bit dressier than usual in my shiny short white dress and my hair and makeup done. I smiled down at his stunned expression as the pupils of his eyes darken.

“I think I’ve found my inspiration,” he says with a bit of a confident smirk.

He slowly lifts up his torso and smiles up at me before holding out his index fingers and thumbs to create a frame of me in his vision.

“Oh so that’s why you wanted me to come here, you needed a muse?”

He stands up and his taller height makes me lean my head back a bit to glance into his deep sea blueish eyes. Rafayel placed his hand under my chin and moved my face from side to side, appraising my facial features.

“Not necessarily, but your beauty has striked my inspiration. Come here while I paint,” he takes my hand and drags me to the center of his studio.

He has me sit on top of a stool in front of the background of his flowing white curtains as he sets up a canva and easel in front of me.

I sit a bit awkwardly, unsure of what to do with myself. So I kick my feet a bit as Rafayel is pouring the paints he wants to use on his wooden pallet.

His eyes are scanning the scene before him as a mischievous smirk crosses his face, “I think the subject needs more color.”

I look down at my white dress and frown, “Well I didn’t exactly bring anything else.”

He wordlessly strides over to me, and with a paint brush he slashes a stroke of blue paint on my bare arm.

“Hey! Rafayel! What are you doing?!” I shout as he laughs while splashing my skin with more paint.

“I'm just painting on my lovely canvas,” he smirks and then dips his hand in some of the paint on the pallet.

He places his forehead against mine while letting out a shaky breath as his paint covered hand slowly and sensually caresses down my bust to my waist. As his hand is the paint brush that has now ruined my dress, he stops at my waist and grips it.

“Raf,” I whisper as I glance at his plush lips. His eyes were now dark and intimate as he no longer stared at me like his muse, but rather his meal.

He lets out a huff and leans his head down to place a soft kiss at my pulse point in my neck. The only sounds I could hear was the smacking of his lip’s against my skin and the shakiness of my own breath.

I felt his nose drag up against my neck as he then brought his lips to my ear to whisper to me, “You know, when I paint, I prefer to paint subjects in their most natural state…”

He purred in my ear and pulled away a bit as he dipped his hand in his pallet and proceeded to set it down as he covered both hands in colors.

“Rafayel,” I said in a warning tone as he now has both of his hands on my body and ruined my dress with shades of blues and purples. “You owe me a new dress.”

He looks down at the paint covering my arms and seeing his hand prints on the dress he hums and nods, “You’re right….Let’s get this canvas to her natural state then.”

Before I could process what he meant by that, he had unzipped my dress and removed it off my body. I let out a yelp as the cold air touched my now exposed skin.

“This too,” he grumbled and popped my bra off immediately.

As I sat on this stool naked in nothing but my panties with wet paint covering my arms, I looked at him annoyed as my face with hot with embarrassment, “Shouldn’t you stop fooling around and actually work on your painting?” My eyes glance to the now abandoned easel he had set up.

His hands were all over my skin, his soft fingertips gently tracing paths around my breasts and sternum, leaving color in its wake. “But I am working on my painting dearest, it’s already beautiful,” he says in a whisper before leaning down to capture one of my plump mounds in his mouth.

I wrap my legs around him and let out whimpers as his tongue swirls around my sensitive bud. His face is now getting paint on it from the trails his fingers left behind earlier.

As he pulls away from my breast with a smack he stares up at me as he goes to give the other one attention. My face contorts as the feeling of his lips breaks my composure. His deep eyes are drinking in my expression as his mouth works on me and I close my eyes and turn my head away to hide from his intense gaze.

Rafayel pulls away and moves my head to face him, leaving more stains of paint as he does, “Look at me.” His voice sounds deeper than his usual teasing tone and is full of command.

I open my eyes and as I do he leans in and kisses me with a fierce intensity. His hands cup my jaw and I wrap my arms around him as his tongue parts my lips and dances in my mouth.

I drag my fingers into his purple hair as he groans into my mouth. When he pulls away I’m panting as our lips are still connected by a strand of saliva. He licks his lips with a smirk and he bites his bottom lip as he takes in my panting and flushed form.

“This is almost the vision I have,” he says as he crouches down to get more paint on his hand. He slides his hands that are wet with fresh colors up my legs as he parts them to have me sit in a straddle pose on the stool. “Beautiful.”

His hands grip my thighs as he stares at the small wet patch that’s dampened my teal cotton panties. Rafayel, like a man possessed, slides his hands underneath both sides of my underwear to slide them off me. My legs follow his path as the cotton is now cast aside and his hands are holding my painted thighs apart to expose my wet center to his vision.

“Now that I’ve painted my canvas, it’s only right that I sign my work,” his voice rumbles as he gets closer and closer to my center and he gives a lick on my slit.

“Raf-“ I pant and go to grab the back of his head, but he stops my movement with a grip on my wrist, “Don’t move or you’ll ruin the portrait.”

He lets my wrist go and dives into my center, drinking in my dripping essence with his thirsty lips. I can’t help but grip the sides of the stool and lean my head back with a moan.

The contrast of his hot mouth on me in comparison to my cold body covered in wet paint made my mind melt. I was drowning in pleasure as I could hear the lewd squelching and smacking of his mouth on my dripping pussy.

I could feel more than hear him growl as I placed my legs on his shoulders and my toes dug into the fabric of his white shirt.

“Gods Rafayel…I’m gonna,” I squeal as I close my eyes and feel his tongue on my clit.

As I focus on my breathing I can feel his tongue make what feels like the shape of an R on my slit, followed by an A then F….

I could feel my lower body tighten and heat up as I was close, “Rafayel please I’m-I…” I sputtered out as he made it to Y in his name.

He pulled away for a moment and his voice was filled with lust, “Come. Let go for me.”

When he went back to my clit and quickly finished spelling his name he then slid his tongue inside my needy hole and I instantly came undone on his mouth with a high pitched moan.

As I was breathing heavily from my orgasm, Rafayel pulled away with half of his face dripping in my juices. He smiled and licked his lips, “Perfect stay like that.”

He stood and rushed over to the actual canvas and quickly began trying to immortalize my pleasure in a painting on his canvas.

Needless to say he had to repose his muse with a few more orgasms to ‘get my expression just right.’

The finished product was me covered in paints of blues and purples and completely fucked out of my mind, while his actual portrait depicted a naked woman being swallowed up by the sea. I was too embarrassed to acknowledge that her pleasured face was what Rafayel saw as he expertly pulled out of me over and over again that day.

~fin~

#love and deepspace #lads smut #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #lads rafayel #lads rafayel x reader #lads fanfic #lads x reader #rafayel love and deepspace

89 notes · View notes

nerdlydelicious · 2 years ago

Text

If the fact that I made 30+ memes about the topic didn’t make it clear enough, I’ve basically gone half feral over grizzled Rusted Knight Jaune. I can’t wait to learn more about his time in the Ever After and how he’s changed.

And yes, I do believe that he is the Rusted Knight from Alyx’s story, not just his heir or replacement. Maybe that will wind up not being the case, but we’ll have to wait and see.

But do you know what’s really wild about Jaune being the Rusted Knight?

Everyone knows who he is. ‘The Girl who Fell Through the World’ is obviously a classic that’s been read by just about everyone as children. All of his friends, his classmates, his family, those kids he walked to and from school in Mantle. Hell, even their parents.

Everyone knows who he is.

Imagine Blake listening to Kali or Ghira read her the story, waiting for her favorite part: when the Rusted Knight rides in on his Jackelope to save Alyx from the Jabberwalker.

Imagine Weiss daydreaming about a knight riding to the rescue of his princess on the back of a big bunny, sweeping her up in his arms and riding off into the sunset to live their happily ever after.

Imagine Yang eagerly listening to Tai or Summer describe the knight clashing with the Jabberwalker and cheering when he strikes it down. Imagine Ruby being inspired by the Rusted Knight to be just like him: a hero who’s always there when they’re needed.

Imagine Pyrrha wanting to become the very best warrior just like him, unaware that she would play a role in forging his legend.

Imagine Nora and Ren huddled up together in a cave, taking shelter from a storm and reading about how the Rusted Knight fought and slew the big monster, taking comfort in the fact that at least in the fairy tails the heroes always win.

And imagine Jaune with a toy shield and sword, pretending he’s the rusted knight, being carried on his father’s shoulders as he duels with an imaginary Jabberwalker, unaware that he’s recreating his own battles.

Imagine Cinder huddled under her thin sheets, reading the book by moonlight and wishing a knight would take her away to a magical world where everything was okay.

Imagine Emerald reading the story of the Ever After from a book she stole, using it to teach herself how to read word by word.

Imagine Mercury wishing a knight would fight his Jabberwalker and protect him from his own father.

Just think about how Blake of all people reacted when he arrived to fight the Jabberwalker. She was giddy with excitement at seeing one of her childhood heroes in the flesh. If Jaune hadn’t removed his helmet, she probably would have asked for his autograph.

From Vale to Menagerie, the children of Remnant know the story of Alyx’s journey, and they know the Rusted Knight. When they play Ever After they argue over who gets to be the Rusted Knight and fight the Jabberwalker. And some of those children, knowingly or otherwise, are influenced by him to grow up and fight their own world’s monsters, to become huntresses and huntsmen, to be the defenders of Remnant and the shield between the innocent and the Grimm. Just like how the Rusted Knight has defended the Ever After from the Jabberwalker.

Jaune is one of Remnant’s childhood heroes. And I think that’s beautiful.

And yes, I did cry a bit while writing this. Thank you for asking.

#jaune arc #rwby #rwby volume 9 #rwby vol 9 #rwby spoilers #rwby vol 9 spoilers #rwby volume 9 spoilers #rwby speculation #jaune arc appreciation

878 notes · View notes

delicatebarness · 5 months ago

Text

winters widow | chapter v

Summary: The entourage arrives in Brooklyn to a grand feast and an eventful jousting tournament.

Warning: Arranged Marriage. Violence and Combat. Injuries. Emotional Tension. Subtle Aggression.

Word Count: 1850

Spotify Playlist | Pinterest Board | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: Oh, Lord James. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Approaching the outskirts of Brooklyn, Lord James rode ahead as he signaled the bannermen to form a protective circle around you and Honeybreeze. The silhouette of the capital loomed in the distance, spires reaching up to the skies.

The bustling sounds of the city reached your ears as the gates came into view. Children laughed as they played in the streets, merchants calling out their wares, and the clatter of hoovers against cobblestone filling the air.

Alpine slowed to a trot as Lord James allowed your entourage to catch up. Falling back to your side, he turned to you, his expression serious. “We’ll be meeting the Prince and your sister at the palace gates,” he informed you, an undertone of unease as he kept his voice steady.

You nodded, fidgeting with the reins in your hand. “Yes, my lord.”

Moving through the city streets, you attracted curious glances from the citizens. It was inspiring and intimidating, the grandeur of Brooklyn’s architecture and its people's energy. The palace walls towered, adorned with banners and the royal crest causing your heart to race as you neared.

A contingent of royal guards greeted you as the gates of the palace opened. Stood at the forefront of the palace was Prince Steve, a striking figure in regal attire. His presence commanded respect and admiration. Your eldest sister, Natasha, stooks beside him. Her radiant smile was a beacon of comfort. Stepping forward, her eyes lit up upon noticing you.

“Nat!” you exclaimed, dismounting Honeybreeze without assistance as you rushed to embrace her. “I’ve missed you!” you whispered, holding tightly onto her.

Natasha’s eyes filled with warmth and concern as she pulled back slightly, taking your cheek into her hands. “You’ve traveled far, and I’m sure you’re exhausted,” she whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Stepping forward, Prince Steve’s eyes were kind and welcoming. “Lady Romanoff, it’s an honor to meet you, finally,” he said, offering his hand. “Your sister… and Lord James have spoken highly of you.” he smiled, kissing gently against your knuckles, respectfully.

“Thank you, my prince,” you spoke softly as you curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

As you exchanged pleasantries, a familiar face emerged from the place. Yelena, your other older sister, approached, her usual Belovian armor adoring her figure. A mischievous smile tugged at her mouth. “Ah, seems I arrived just in time,” she teased, embracing you. “Quite the city, isn’t it?”

You laughed with a sense of normalcy amidst the formalities. “I’m glad to see you, Lena.”

Exchanging words with your sisters, you noticed the anticipation in Lord James’ eyes. It was evident that seeing his friend again meant a great deal to him, he had been waiting for this moment.

“Prince Steve,” Lord James began, his voice steady as he stood beside you. “It has been too long.”

Prince Steve’s eyes sparkled while widening as he turned to face Lord James. “Bucky! My longest, and oldest friend,” he said, stepping forward and embracing him tightly. “It has– three months since my last visit to the Reach, I believe.”

The two men held each other for a moment, all who watched could sense the bond of their friendship. Lord James’ expression shifted back to one of stoic duty as the two men pulled apart. His posture was rigid and his eyes sharp as the warmth faded, replaced by his usual distant demeanor.

Noticing his friend's change, Prince Steve chose not to comment. He was instead, gesturing to the group with a bright smile. “As a token of our hospitality and to celebrate the arrival of the realm's great Houses, I am pleased to announce a jousting tournament to be held in honor.”

A murmur of excitement ran through your entourage, it was a chance to see the prowess of the kingdom and to enjoy festivities. Lord James nodded toward Prince Steve as his eyes hardened.

“A tournament is a fitting welcome, my prince,” Lord James spoke with a formal bow. “It will be an honor to witness Brooklyn’s finest knights.”

A knowing look consumes the Prince’s eyes as they linger on Lord James. “I expect you’ll be participating, Bucky? Your skills with a lance are legendary, after all.”

Stiffening slightly, Lord James’ eyes flickered to yours briefly before returning to Prince Steve. “I believe my jousting days are behind me, my prince.”

The prince didn’t push further. Turning to you and your sisters, his smile widened. “We have arranged a grand feast tonight, and the tournament will commence tomorrow.”

Your heart swelled, and excitement and nervousness coursed through you. “Thank you, my prince. We look forward to it.”

The formalities concluded and you were led to your chambers. The opulent corridors and lavish decorations were a stark contrast to the simpler surroundings you have known at Winter’s Reach. You marveled at the splendor, your excitement began infectious.

The grand hall was a sight to behold, banners of House Rogers adorned the walls, and the long table was laden with delicious dishes. The room buzzed with laughter and chatter as music filled the air and nobles from across the realm reconnected.

At the head of the table sat the King and Queen, Prince Steve and Natasha beside them. You were seated nearby, with Lord James on your other side. Across the table, your sister, Yelena, sat with a few other lords, her expression unreadable.

“To love, loyalty, and the bonds that unite us all,” King Joseph II Rogers proclaimed, his voice carrying across the hall. “May this union between House Rogers and our honored guests, House Romanoff, be a beacon of prosperity and harmony for generations to come.”

Raising your goblets in unison, the assembled nobles echoed the sentiment with a heartfelt cheer. Glancing at Lord James, you caught his eyes for a fleeting moment, and a hint of vulnerability flickered in his expression, masked by the stern resolve that defined him.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself lost in conversation with a visiting noble from the Eastern Isles. Yet, every so often, you would drift your gaze over to Lord James, his focus shifting between his plate and the lively crown.

Prince Steve extended his hand to Natasha as he gracefully guided her to the center of the room. The floor cleared around them. You watched as their dance was a beautiful display of elegance as other couples began to gather.

Anticipation fluttered in your chest, you hoped that Lord James would ask you to dance. Even for a moment, the thought of being in his arms made your heart race. But, as you turned your gaze to him once more, he remained seated.

Forcing a smile, you watched as several noblemen approached ladies asking for a dance, and disappointment settled over you.

Yelena stealthily stood behind you and observed the exchange. She leaned in and whispered. “He’s a stubborn one, isn’t he?”

Flinching at the sudden sense of her presence, you sighed, nodding slightly. “Yes, that he is.”

Lord James remained distant as the evening turned to night, cold and unyielding as ever. Even for just a moment, you prayed for a moment when he might let his guard down. Yet, it never came.

The excitement in Brooklyn reached a fever pitch as the upcoming jousting tournament was in preparation. The arena was abuzz with spectators from across the realm, noble houses eager to showcase their finest in the lists.

You sat with Lord James, Natasha, Yelena, and Prince Steve in the royal viewing box, overlooking the tournament. Casting a golden glow over the assembled knights, the sun shined brightly overhead. The crowd roared with anticipation as the first challengers took their places, readying their lances.

A lord from a neighboring house caught your attention amid the spectacle. He was tall and imposing, armor adorned with the sigil of his house, confidently he rode toward the lists. He made a sweeping gesture as his eyes locked onto you, signaling his request for your favor.

You felt a flutter in your stomach at being asked to grant a favor. Such gestures were usually reserved for Natasha, yet this unexpected attention excited you. Without hesitation, you reached for the red ribbon, embroidered with your house crest, handing it to the attendant who then delivered it to the eager lord.

Lord James stood beside you, law clenched as his gaze fixed upon the unfolding scene. His demeanor cracked slightly, a furrow in his brow betrayed his displeasure. He said nothing as you glanced at him with a small smile, his jaw tightening even more.

Commencing with thundering hoovers and splintering lances, the knights demonstrate their skill and bravery. Proving formidable, the lord who had requested your favor, unhorsed several opponents with precise strikes. Each victory was met with cheers, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride.

As the tournament progressed, Lord James unexpectedly disappeared from his seat in the royal viewing box. Concern grew as you noted his absence. However, as the next match was about to commence, there was a murmur through the crowd.

Emerging from the entrance leading to the lists, Lord James with his armor gleaming with his House colours, held a steely and determined expression. You watched in awe as he readied himself.

There was a shift in the atmosphere as Lord James took his place opposite the knight who had received your favor. The herald’s call rang out, and the two knights charged towards each other with thundering hooves, their lances held steady.

In a clash of steel and determination, Lord James struck with great precision, unseating the lord in a decisive victory. Erupting into cheers, the crowd marveled at Lord James. With a triumphant smirk, he dismounted gracefully from Alpine, his eyes set on the fallen lord.

Striding toward the grounded knight, he reached down to retrieve the favor you had granted earlier. “I believe this belongs to me,” he declared before briefly meeting your gaze. There was an edge to the words as if a silent message of challenge hung in the air.

An expression of begrudging respect conveyed over the fallen lord's face as he looked toward Lord James. He handed over the ribbon, and Lord James straightened before returning to the viewing box.

There was a palpable tension in the air when he rejoined you. Simmering intensity in his demeanor as he sat, eyes refixed ahead on the ongoing tournament.

Ever perceptive, Prince Steve broke the silence that settled. “I thought your jousting days were behind you, Buck,” he remarked with a half-smile.

His jaw stayed tight as Lord James nodded curtly in response.

“You were magnificent out there, my lord,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you placed a reassuring hand on his arm. Your favor secured in his palm with a tight grip.

Despite the excitement around you as the tournament continued and the remaining knights vying for glory, your mind kept returning to Lord James. Whispers of admiration followed him, underscoring his place, a formidable knight in his own right and as a protector.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

134 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 5 months ago

Text

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 3

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

A/n: I watched episode 2 and went... yeah he needs an emotional support wife <3

I don’t flinch at the sound of steel. I stand steadfast on the outlook over the yard, my hair loose about my shoulders, my gown one of Baratheon black and gold. The clouds over King’s Landing this morning are heavy and ominous. I could almost imagine I am back at Storm’s End, watching the knights spar in the courtyard before the drum tower.

Aemond is a graceful fighter, but brutal and precise. He has no taste for tourneys, he does not fight for performance. He parries and deflects the blows from Ser Arryk’s sword with ease, then once he finds an opening he makes short work of disarming his opponent, forcing him to his knees and placing the blade against his throat.

The closeness between Aemond and I ebbs and flows. As of late we are making good progress; I’ve been watching his morning sparring sessions for the last few weeks. Afterwards we’ll retire to his chambers and take luncheon together before we part ways until the evening. Last night we dined with the Queen, and having returned me to my chambers, he kissed me.

He does not smile when he looks up at me from the yard. His expression is gentle and not quite passive. He says I am a good wife. He says he is content to have me by his side, and yet he leaves me to an empty bed each night. I keep waiting for the moment he’ll decide we are ready to fulfil our vows. In the meantime I despair that I am no different from any girl at the Red Keep who dreams of a handsome husband and a perfect marriage which is not yet in reach. At least Helaena has her children to keep her occupied; I might as well be unmarried.

Aemond and Ser Arryk take their positions again.

Aemond lurches forward to strike first. His opponent meets him with swift, succinct blocks, but Aemond is eager to match him in speed. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders as he moves, but he must keep his head in the right position, he must not let his blindspot leave him vulnerable to an attack.

I catch glimpses of his face as he moves, his lips pressed together, his single eye dark and determined.

A nervous feeling flutters in my belly.

A small crowd has gathered to watch them, nobles, other knights, servants, looking upon my husband with both admiration and fear– I feel a sense of pride in the awe Aemond inspires.

Suddenly he falters.

Ser Arryk takes the opportunity to disarm him, but Aemond is not one to concede easily. He draws the knife on his belt, ducking to avoid Ser Arryk’s blows, until he’s close enough to aim the knife at the knight’s throat.

Ser Arryk anticipates this and drops his sword, fighting with his hands to keep some distance between Aemond’s knife and his skin. The crowd is anxious now. The slashes of Aemond’s knife are too close. I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from reacting too obviously.

Ser Arryk grabs Aemond’s right wrist with his left hand, and throws a fist towards the left side of his face– his blind side.

I feel the impact as if I’ve been struck in the stomach.

Aemond freezes, dropping his knife. He covers his face with his hands. There is no blood that I can see but my heart races.

I’m halfway down the steps before I realise what I’m doing.

Ser Arryk is horrified with himself, trying to offer some help to the Prince, only for Aemond to push him away. Servants gather, unsure of what to do, hovering around him like he is a wounded beast.

I push people out of my way so I can reach him. I place a hand over his, where he cradles his eyepatch. His breathing is quick and heavy, his hand is shaking under my palm.

I whisper, “I’m here.”

He tugs at my sleeve, a bruising grip sinking through the fabric and into my skin, around my very bones. He leans into me, his forehead pressing against the top of my head. “I’m fine,” he grits through his teeth.

“My Lady,” Ser Arryk begins, “I’m sorry– I must have acted out of impulse– I–”

“Fetch a maester,” I order.

“Not necessary,” Aemond says.

Ser Arryk hesitates.

“Fetch a maester!”

“No!” Aemond says, suddenly straightening his back and releasing me from his hold. My heart sinks at the sight of his scar, flared, red, angry. He keeps his fists clenched by his sides, denying himself the pain. “That will be all, Ser Arryk, I shall retire to my chambers.”

He marches off and I trail helplessly behind.

Full chapter on AO3

#my fics #florismond #floris x aemond #floris baratheon x aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fic #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #floris baratheon #aemond targaryen smut #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fic #asoiaf fanfic

108 notes · View notes

snowy-vee · 8 months ago

Text

ALL MINE (5) Re-Done. MUST READ AGAIN

CHECK MY PINNED POST!

DAILY CLICK!!!!

DON'T STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE JUST BECAUSE THE STRIKE IS OVER! NOBODY WILL BE FREE UNTIL EVERYONE IS FREE!

oblivious loser bsf! ellie williams x posesive popular bsf!fem reader

INDEX

n/a: I'VE CHANGED THINGS AND I MIGHT'VE FOUND INSPIRATION after watching 'You' again, if my narrative seems like Joe's, so sorry, I am obsessed with the man. BARE WITH ME, much shorter chapter then the one before

You were running, feeling the sweat drops sliding down your face. Your legs felt tired, but you knew that if you stopped now, you’d likely collapse on the ground. Still, you kept increasing the speed on the treadmill, wanting to challenge yourself more.

“Are you done? We need to talk.” Jesse was beside you on another treadmill, but he was still, just leaning against it, watching you. You stopped the machine, gradually reducing the speed.

“I hope this isn’t bad news. I’ve had to put up with a lot from those two this week; I don’t plan on hearing from you that everything’s going wrong now,” you said before starting to drink water to hydrate your dry throat. The truth was, you had started frequenting the campus gym much more than before because it was unbearable to hear Ellie talk about Dina or see Ellie and Dina acting cute in the apartment.

Acting like it didn’t bother you was becoming a very difficult task, and there were times when you would simply cut Ellie off mid-conversation and lock yourself in your room. The next day, you’d have to lie about something. You couldn’t bear the thought that the small plan you had with Jesse would fail. You had been helping him with things like knowing where Dina was at any given time, if she was excited about some new show, if she had any other favorite candies, or to keep Ellie busy so he could have some alone time with Dina.

While Dina’s visits had been decreasing, you still saw her around the house. That wasn’t enough for you; she had to disappear from your lives.

“I’ve been thinking that maybe you should participate more too.”

“I already do. It’s not easy keeping them away.”

“No, I mean you should start seducing Ellie,” you frowned at his words, confused about what he meant. “I can win Dina back, but likewise, Ellie could give it a shot, as both are currently single and Ellie’s interest lies solely with Dina, I think.”

You nodded slowly, seeing the point of his words. You hadn’t thought about also having Ellie eating out of your hand; she had to desire you as much as you did her.

“Well, Ellie and I are going to my vacation home next weekend for Spring Break. I can try something there; we’ll be alone for two days before my family arrives.”

“I know. I have a date with Dina that and this weekend.”

“A date?”

“Well, she’s coming to my house to help me study,” Jesse clarified, handing you your bag. “Keep me informed if anything changes between you and Ellie.”

“The same goes for you” you grabbed your bag and waved him goodbye as you left the gym.

Whistling, you went through your phone, swiping insta stories ¡Bingo! They were on a date in some place so you had the house by yourself for maybe a couple hours. The bus took it’s time to arrive but the trip to the apartment was quick.

You were going to shower, sleep and maybe fantasize a little bit. You could wake up on a Saturday morning and start scheming from the very first ray of sunlight.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

And you did. Your whole week revolve around Ellie and being in her space more than anything, pleasing her, hanging out with her, making excuses just to have her by your side.

“I just need some help to prepare things for the trip” you would say declining the call of Dina on her phone while she was in the shower “I want to have a great time, I’m so tired of studying all my free time”

“I can help, yeah” Her voice sounded a little muffled because of the water running, you were mesmerized looking at her figure, at least, the shadow. “I just have to let Dina know, we’ve made plans, maybe you can tag along?”

You? Tag along? Why did it had to be you the one tagging along and not Dina? You huffed in annoyance.

“Can you pass me my towel?”

“You could always get it yourself, I’ve seen you naked before”

“I don’t want to wet the floor!” The water stop running and she popped he head and her arm, waving it so you could give her the towel. You were fast to leave the phone where she left it before, you threw the towel at her.

Sighs left your dry mouth as you remember. It’s been hard this week, so hard to balance cheer practice, studies, keep Ellie around, keep Ellie’s phone close, keep Jesse informed, keep Dina away, make Jesse inform you, stay pretty, stay consistent, don’t stop the motion.

The Friday morning, you were in the library, first time of the week that you actually spent time alone. Not fully since you met Jesse at first to talk about them and after collecting and exchanging information you went to the furthest table to study and concentrate in your work.

Now you were gathering your books and laptop because Ellie had sent you a message saying she was going home already, that she was going to pick you up, that you should be ready. You saw her at the door, but she wasn’t alone and seemed to be arguing with the other person.

With every step you took, you could see more of the other person’s face, it was Dina. They both fell silent the moment you opened the door and greeted them, Dina looked you up and down and turned her attention back to Ellie “Please don’t stop talking to me this week, we’re both angry about different things and it’s best if we calm down and talk another time”.

And with that she walked into the library bumping your shoulder on purpose, you opened your mouth offended and turned to Ellie “What is her problem with me? Just know that I’m holding back because it’s your something, but otherwise…”

“I don’t even know if we’re still a thing” she muttered grabbing your backpack and starting to walk “Come on, we need to pack our bags for the Easter trip.”

You nodded looking inside the library as Dina and Jesse seemed to be studying together while laughing, you couldn’t be happier. The plan was working, but it wouldn’t be complete until Ellie and Dina broke up completely.

When you got home, you went into your room and saw that your bed was full of clothes and your travel bag was almost full. You sighed as you got down to work and finished packing your bag and cleaning your room, once you finished you went into Ellie’s room only to find her lying on top of the pile of clothes. “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be out of here in less than two hours and I remind you that you’re supposed to drive there.”

“I don’t even know what to put in.”

“Ellie, you’re like an NPC, you always wear the same clothes, just put three pairs of trousers, five shirts, one pair of pyjamas and two swimming trunks, we’ll swap clothes if we have to.”

“I’ll pass, how about I stay here? I wouldn’t want to spoil your holiday with your family.”

“No way, you’re family too, my mother loves you as if you were her daughter, I’ll help you!”

‘Like a daugther soon to be in law’ you thought, pushing her to the edge of the bed and starting to look through her clothes to see what she could and couldn’t wear. It didn’t take long and Ellie took the opportunity to clean her room and prepare some snacks for mid-trip.

Soon you were both changed into comfortable clothes and inside the car ready for the journey. Oh, what a trip this one was going to be ¿Ellie and Dina upset with each other? The cream decorating the cupcake ¿You maintaining her occupied so she could barely have time to check on her phone and lose contact with Dina while Jesse did his thing? Cherry on TOP.

taglist;; @boobdrug @lovelyxbaby @pedropascalsbbg@cherryimaa @yumimak @amberputh @cattjull @carylinflors @ghostlyfangs @teawithnosugar @azxulaa @elliesexual @gato-chino @divinesdior @yumimak @abbystoy @gosomewjere @isitadinosaur @sourgummywormsss @rhehhwfehwfqd @bubblymilktee @mulan-but-gay @liasxeatt @lookforthelight1 @slynxs @doveocean @onlinelesbo @cinematicdilfs @icedsimpsayo @mikellie @angelicagellyka @hopeless-y @abbystoy

101 notes · View notes

milf-murdock · 1 year ago

Text

Manchester Mixup

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon’s non-British partner that doesn’t realize there’s a Man City football team and a Man U football team and buys the wrong tshirt ☠️ Warnings: language, just some domestic fluff A/N: It’s also very much giving Domestic!Simon Riley and I love it, your honor. short little drabble because this seemed fun and I was proper confused when I found out there were, in fact, two Manchester teams

Earl Grey or an herbal blend? You silently debate between the two tea options before a click of the kettle tells you the water is ready. “Earl grey it is, then,” you mutter, preparing your mug for the boiling water and letting it steep as you set a timer for the recommended time.

The pre-game show plays from the tv in the living room and you lean against the open wall between the living room and kitchen to catch a bit of the show while your tea brews.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Simon asks incredulously as you come into his view. He’s sat on the couch, his pint halfway to his lips when he notices the offending item.

You glanced down at your shirt in confusion, tugging out the hem to get a better look at the logo displayed across your chest.

“It’s a Manchester shirt I picked up in preparation for the big game. I figured I’d represent your team seeing as we’re here now, so I guess they’re sort of my team now too,” you shrug as your timer goes off for your tea. Heading back to the kitchen, you gingerly remove the tea bag and toss it in the bin before adding what Simon always considers to be an offensive amount of milk and sugar. Regardless of the cheeky comments directed your way, though all in good fun, you still felt like you were adapting more and more to what you would consider “British Culture” as the days passed since you came back to settle down with Simon.

“Who knows, babe, maybe it’ll it be good luck,” you chirp pleasantly, walking back in the room carefully with your full teacup in hand before placing it on the coffee table.

“The fuck it will be,” Simon gives your shirt a dirty look. “Wrong fucking team, love.”

Your brows furrow and you look down at your shirt again. “No…it’s Manchester, Simon.” You adamantly point to the MCFC logo. “And it came in this super pretty blue color,” you carry on absentmindedly, completely impervious to Simon’s faux look of outrage at your compliment.

“Sweetheart,” he says with a sigh, trying his best to fix you with his firmest stare, whilst also trying to withhold his own laugh at the situation. “There are two Manchester teams: Man City and Man U.”

“Two teams?” Your brows furrow even deeper. “How can one city have two teams? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Just the way it is—I didn’t make the teams up,” Now it’s Simon’s turn to give his shoulders a shrug.

“Hmph.” You cross your arms in front of your chest, a playful sort of irritation seeping through. “So two teams, huh?”

“Yup,” Simon gives a solemn nod.

“And this is the wrong one?” You gesture vaguely to the shirt.

“‘Fraid so, darling.”

The dramatic sigh that escapes your lips is worthy of its own Oscar. And then, inspiration strikes and a smile starts to tug at the edge of your lips.

You saunter the last few remaining steps toward Simon, standing between his open legs.

“Guess you’ll have to take it off of me then,” you suggest as you flash him a suggestive smirk.

“Oh it’s beyond just taking it off, love,” he sighs in exasperation. “We’ll need to go burn the bloody thing in the alley way.”

Simon huffs out a laugh before two strong hands grab your hips and pull you forward onto his lap, familiar lips finding your own.

Masterlist ✧ Ask Box

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you

189 notes · View notes

suzdin · 1 year ago

Text

DATURA

Summary: Dave and his team have been sent to kill you, but the night pans out differently than you anticipate.

Warnings: ¡SEX POLLEN! Implied noncon due to sex pollen. Fictional drug use. Mentions of weapons/guns/murder (duh). Threeway sex. Gun play, unprotected p in v, creampies, masturbation (f), fingering, spit roasting, oral (m receiving), use of sex toy on reader, anal, spitting, light degradation, choking, spanking, rough sex, squirting, let me know if I missed anything. No use of y/n. Picture is for aesthetics only, as reader is not given a physical description.

This fic is extremely feral and not for everyone, and that’s okay. <3

Word Count: 4,800-ish

Taglist: @kellybelly1978 @ohheypedrito @darkheartgatita @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @sonderosa @missladym1981

And of course I dedicate this to @survivingandenduring and @kateispunk for holding a gun to my head until I wrote this inspiring me to write this 😘

——

Dave prods his index finger at the highlighted portions of the floor plans on the tablet, which he presents to his compatriots.

“There are entrances here, here…and here,” he points out, tapping the third for emphasis. “She’ll be expecting those. Watching them.”

Dave brushes his bottom lip with his thumb, brow creasing in contemplation.

“Ari and Resnik can head off the two main entrances. Joel, you take the side. And I’ll enter…here.” He places a finger where there’s a hastily drawn ‘X’ facing a private alley and courtyard.

“Don’t see a door or window,” the tall, tan man to his left drawls, placing a hand on his hip.

“Right. There’s a secret entrance there which leads to a crawl space left over from the city’s bootlegging days. None of the residents know. And guess where it exits?” Dave asks, eyes darting between the three men.

He places a finger where the bedroom closet would be.

A smirk twists Joel’s mustache. “Shit,” he says, scratching thick, weathered fingers through his scruff. “Gonna hit ‘er from all sides.”

“Exactly,” Dave responds, mirroring the way his companion places his hands on his hips. “We’ll strike at 10 PM sharp. That’s when the main festivities begin. No one will hear a thing.”

——

Dave crouches next to the hatch that leads to the secret door beneath the building, long since defunct due to the city’s proclivity for flooding.

A crackle resonates through his ear piece.

“Miller. Anything?” Dave asks.

“Nothin’,” Joel answers in a low southern lilt, positioned at the bottom of the narrow stairwell on the east side of the building, clicking the safety off on his Glock.

“Ari, Resnik? Station yourselves. Miller, I’m going in.”

“10-4,” Joel returns.

Dave yanks up on the metal hatch and it opens with a jarring creak, drowned out by the roar of the crowds on Bourbon Street and another jazz band playing their rendition of Oh When The Saints Go Marching In for probably the 1,000th time that evening.

He slips in easily and finds a peeling red door, which is shockingly ajar. A stray cat rushes out with a shriek, spitting feline obscenities at him.

“Fuck!” Dave snarls as the dark, furry void streaks past him and into the night.

“What’s goin’ on?” Joel’s voice.

“Nothing. Fucking cat. I’m inside.”

A low, throaty chortle sounds through Dave’s ear piece.

“Eat shit, Miller. Start heading up. I should reach her apartment in five.”

“Unless there’s more cats guarding the place.” This time it’s Ari’s voice. Dave pointedly ignores him.

The crawl space is narrow and damp, crushing in at him from all sides and choked with cobwebs and god knows what else, but it’s surprisingly not the worst place he’s ever been.

The space quickly dead ends into a ladder that looks like it’s seen far better days, rusting from the bolts outward. Dave can’t help but wonder if it will support his full body weight.

“‘M at her front door,” Joel remarks through the ear piece.

“Climbing the ladder now,” Dave responds as he begins his ascent, gripping the bottom rung and giving it a hard jostle to test its integrity.

The metal rungs protest and groan under his weight, but the structure holds true.

The boys had thought it absolutely ludicrous when Dave had come to them for their help with the hit. Four men for one single woman?

Bullshit. A waste of time and resources.

That is until they’d familiarized themselves with your rap sheet. Just shy of forty murders in less than a decade, and a weapons and ballistics specialist to boot.

But it would all end tonight, and that price on your pretty little head would be a nice cherry on top.

He reaches the hatch leading into your closet a moment later, twisting the mechanism that holds it flush to the wooden floor above.

He draws the Beretta from the holster on his hip, clicking off the safety as he strains his hearing to listen for something, anything, that would give him pause; that would make him abort the mission.

He hears nothing but the music seeping in from the streets through the century old brick.

“I’m in, Joel. I’m in,” Dave whispers, lifting the hatch as he silently crawls inside your closet, the scent of you overwhelming his senses, making his nostrils flair. Cock already half hard in his dark denim jeans at the prospect of another name scratched off his list.

Your name.

——

Joel makes short work of unlocking your door, pushing it open with his foot as he replaces the Glock with the heavier semi-automatic at his back, holstering the pistol on his hip.

His face pinches. You hadn’t even locked the deadbolt, despite having one, a feeling of dread slithering up the crease of his scrotum, perspiration pricking at his skin.

You’ve been waiting for them.

You register Joel first, his heavy footfalls impossible to conceal under the creak of the original wooden flooring. It’s almost laughable how loud they’re being, Joel making a ruckus behind you and the other rustling somewhere in your closet, probably smelling your panties for all you know.

Joel finds you at an open window, back facing him as some loud pop song he doesn’t recognize drifts up from the Quarter below. You’re naked aside from a short, black pleated skirt that barely ghosts the lower curve of your ass, a silver and white fox tail peeking out from beneath the hem of said skirt.

Though he can’t see it from his current vantage, a gun rests on the window sill in front of you. You’re starting to think you won’t be needing it. Not when the man at your back could have already taken a clear shot at you and didn’t.

You lean slightly forward, revealing more of your ass to Joel and cheering as you catch a handful of colorful Mardi Gras beads from one of hundreds of floats below, waving your arms triumphantly over your head before you slip the necklaces around the lovely column of your neck.

Joel spots Dave then, mocha brown eyes shifting to his comrade, his expression unreadable. The Beretta drawn to shoulder height, trained at your head, but he isn’t pulling the trigger. Not yet.

Lowering the rifle, Joel lifts a fist in the air to signal to Dave, take the shot, asshole.

But he doesn’t, and neither does Joel, staring at your bared skin, the exposed hills and valleys of your body. Two men reduced to little more than their base desires in mere seconds. Exactly what you were expecting.

You finally shut the window and turn to face them when they do nothing but stand there, transfixed by your beauty. You’re wearing a masquerade mask in royal purple that’s trimmed with gold lace, cinched tightly behind your head.

You won’t be needing a gun when you can use sexuality as a weapon. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Took you long enough,” you admonish, eyes drifting back and forth between the two men.

The larger one is broad and older, unkempt curls swirling away from his head, dusted with silver. The beard tracing his jaw is dark and patchy, a thick mustache framing his upper lip.

A red and black flannel stretches across the expanse of his upper body, tucked into dark wash jeans, ending with heavy work boots. His eyes darken in their regard of you.

His companion is also broad, only just less so, and younger than his comrade by what you guess to be ten or fifteen years. His face is clean and smooth with the barest hint of shadow, plush lips pushed outward in bewilderment, a black beanie pulled down to conceal his dark hair, matching the rest of his attire.

“Love the outfit, but a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” you ask the younger of the two men. The edges of his lips twitch upward in amusement.

You sway your hips slightly, making the tail between your legs wag to and fro, enticing the two men to ease closer. And they do. Exactly where you want them.

Dave notices your fingers dancing across the lid of a small metal box in the nick of time.

A new party drug originating from Ibiza, its purpose intended to act as a powerful aphrodisiac amongst the most experimental, but as with most things, too much could be dangerous, in rare cases fatal. It usually came in tab form, but it had been sold to you as a fine powder, and your plan was to drug them senseless until they fucked each other to death or you killed them, depending on how bored you got.

You grasp the ornate metal box in your fingers and flick your wrist outward, hurling the contents in a direct trajectory at Dave’s face, which would have hit the intended target had he not been ready to deflect the strike with a hastily lobbed pillow from the nearby sofa.

The cloud the hit produces is magnificent, a shimmery white mist which coats your face and lips and everything else in its path, inhaled through your sinuses and entered through your bloodstream as traces of the powder land on your tastebuds.

You spit and claw at your face, but it’s too late, and you know it.

You’re fucked in more ways than one.

The affects are almost instantaneous, a fiery hot inferno that builds low in your core, a lance of pain sawing through you from the inside out. Your pupils dilate and everything is suddenly too bright, too painful, every source of illumination having a halo that almost resembles a mushroom cloud in its brilliance, its potency.

You feel the sticky slick coating the inside of your thighs and you double over, clutching your guts, tears pricking at your eyes.

“Whatsa matter, darlin’?” Joel asks, your show of pain bringing him immense joy. “Can’t handle what you dish out?”

His cock strains against his jeans as he watches you and you groan, spreading your legs as you slip a finger between your folds in a bid to quell some of the ache. “Fuck…” you grit.

“Jesus, York, the hell’s wrong with her?” Joel questions.

Dave can only stare, transfixed, palming himself over his jeans.

Both men can’t help but jump when Resnik’s voice comes through the ear piece, so lost in your body they almost forgot why they were there to begin with.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

“Good,” Dave responds. “We’re…negotiating.”

“Negoti— fucking seriously?”

“Yes,” Dave answers firmly, his voice a low and husky. “I’ll explain later. For now, stay in a holding pattern, and make sure no one enters the building.”

Resnik starts to say something else, but Dave flicks off the ear piece and tosses it to the floor before he can finish, already forgotten. Joel follows suit.

“Help, please,” you whimper, stepping toward Joel as you fumble in desperation at his jeans. “Need it bad. It hurts.”

Joel abandons his weapons, drunk at the sight of you. His massive hands circle your waist, squeezing, desirous, lifting your skirt to cup your ass, exposing the tail tucked between your cheeks to Dave. You keen and without thinking, Joel bends forward to press his lips to yours.

“Miller, stop —“ Dave spits sharply, but it’s too late. Joel kisses you, deep and wanton, tongue swiping hungrily at your lips, and within seconds he receives his own dose of the drug, though not nearly as much as you.

He spins you in his grasp and hikes your skirt even higher up your waist, revealing your pussy to Dave, dragging two thick, callused digits between your dripping folds, bumping your clit. You moan and press your ass against him, the hard line of his cock nudging at the plug, heightening your pleasure.

“Y’like that, darlin’?” Joel murmurs into the shell of your ear.

“Yes,” you answer too quickly. “But I need your cock.”

“That so?” he answers gruffly, making quick work of his jeans as he shucks them off like a second skin, the drug already firmly rooting itself in his brain.

He tugs his boxers down, fat cock springing free from its confines as he shoves you forward, folding you in half over the couch with a broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades, notching himself at your entrance and pushing himself inward with reckless abandon.

You grunt at the reprieve, the sting of how forcefully he invades you, how he fills you.

Dave watches the events unfold in stunned silence, lips parted and skewed, unbuckling his belt as his eyes fixate on your face, your lovely sparkling eyes. The way your mouth hangs open when Joel begins railing into you with everything he has to give.

He reaches forward and plucks the mask from your face, discarding it, so he can see you. See how well you take it.

He drags the pad of his thumb along your succulent bottom lip, pressing it against your tongue, to the back of your throat, teasing. Testing.

He exhales a groan when you don’t gag.

He quickly steps out of his jeans and boxers, climbing onto the couch in front of you, roughly gripping the sides of your face so that your lips pop open for him.

You take him into your mouth without question, mewling softly, your throat and jaw burning with effort as he sinks himself into you.

Dave presses the barrel of the gun against your temple, his voice a snarl as he says, “Try anything and I’ll spray your pretty little brains all over these walls, sweetheart. Understood?”

You nod around him in affirmation as he begins rutting into your mouth, his other hand fisted tightly in your hair.

It isn’t long before Joel drags your first orgasm out of you, every muscle in your body constricting, relieving the pain only temporarily before it flares up again, white hot and slithering through your veins like molten metal.

“Thassit, darlin’. Takin’ that dick like a champ,” Joel praises, giving your ass a sharp slap. Every thrust of his hips knocking against the plug secured firmly in your ring of muscle.

“Fucking whore, letting two men enter you,” Dave growls, the gun pressed so squarely against your skull, it’s sure to leave an indentation.

Joel finishes inside you expeditiously with a low growl, panting into the small of your back as he collapses forward, knees smarting.

“Quick on the draw as always, Miller,” Dave tuts, clicking his tongue.

Dave’s fingers twist at your roots as he pulls you further onto his length, bottoming out with a shudder at the back of your throat.

“Fuck off, York,” Joel retorts, still fully hard inside of you. He tugs at the end of the tail, smirking playfully, causing you to moan.

“What if I shoved my dick up your ass next, sweet girl?”

You whimper around Dave in reverence. For both of them.

“Not a chance. That ass is mine,” Dave snorts. “Soon as I’m done with this mouth.”

Joel doesn’t argue. Your pussy feels too good, the way you squeeze him, and it isn’t long before he’s railing you hard again, never having gone soft, even at his age.

You cum a second time, soaking Joel, your release splashing down his muscular thighs. Your moans reverberating through Dave’s cock.

“Fuck, I’m not going to last like this…” Dave grunts as he pulls himself free from you with a pop of your lips, jaw hanging slack as Joel’s unforgiving pace doesn’t falter behind you.

“Trade places, Joel,” Dave demands.

“Not a chance,” Joel growls, the sounds of his hips slamming against your ass lewd and depraved.

“Now, Miller,” Dave reiterates, eyes deepening a shade as he lifts the gun away from your head to aim it at Joel.

“Fuck,” Joel spits, extricating himself from you as he and Dave exchange places. “Fine.”

Joel’s wide palms cup your face and he doesn’t waste time stretching your jaw and throat beyond their limits because fuck, he’s girthy. You taste the cocktail of you and him on your tongue.

He circles the outside of your throat with his hand and squeezes, feeling himself moving in your esophagus, grunting deeply as he watches you take him.

You jolt when you feel something cold, rigid and foreign dashing through your folds a second later, realizing in abject horror what is happening just as Dave pushes it inside of you and begins fucking you with it.

You moan, eyelids fluttering closed and Joel grunts deep in his chest, hand tightening around the cradle of your throat.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, slut? You like being fucked with my gun?” Dave grits from behind you.

You make a sound of supplication that tells Dave yes, yes you do.

He grins in satisfaction and drives the gun deeper, angling it just right, making you keen. The resulting squelch is deafening and obscene.

He pulls another orgasm out of you almost immediately, once again temporarily relieving the bubbling pain, sobbing around Joel, who’s already filling your mouth with more of his seed, spilling down your throat with a snarl.

He slows only for a moment, still hard as iron, ready to go again. And again.

Dave drags his lips up the curve of your ass and sinks his teeth into the meat of one of your plump cheeks, clamping down. You writhe against him at the small dagger of pain that courses through you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Dave purrs, giving the smarting cheek a slap.

As he continues to fuck you with the barrel of the pistol, his other hand skirts your tight star of muscle, fingers dancing around it.

His hand curls into the synthetic material of the tail, reveling the softness against his fingertips, and begins to tug slowly, lightly, testing.

You initially clench out of instinct, but relax your muscles as understanding settles over you, allowing him to pull it free from your puckered hole, letting it drop to the couch.

“Such a good girl,” Dave croons, tilting his face forward to place a chaste kiss there, the tip of his tongue darting out to circle your rim. You whine and arch into his touch.

“You should have some of this drug, York. Y’won’t have to worry about lastin’ then.”

“No,” Dave says as he lifts his head above your ass to lock eyes with Joel. “One of us needs to keep a clear head.”

“C’mon,” Joel taunts, swiping a finger through the mix of powder and tears still on your face. “Have a taste. Live for once.”

Joel extends his offering to Dave, hovering just over your lower back, inches from Dave’s lips. The men stare each other down, each of their movements slowing, much to your displeasure.

Dave eventually resigns himself, taking Joel’s fingers into his mouth and giving them a good laving with his tongue, tasting the sweetness of the drug, the saltiness of your tears.

Without warning, Joel succumbs to another high, exhaling a sputtered groan as you swallow what he gives you — what little of it there is at this point.

The drug makes quick work of Dave, twisting him into some kind of untethered beast as he drags multiple orgasms out of you with the barrel of the gun, his tongue flicking hungrily against your ring of muscle.

There isn’t a part of you that isn’t on fire. With desire, pain, fear. Fear that this will never end, that these two men will rip you apart from the inside out before all is said and done, but in spite of yourself, in spite of everything, you don’t want it to end.

“Lie back, Joel,” Dave commands and Joel does so without hesitation, his age getting the better of him, welcoming the relief he’ll receive as he makes himself comfortable on your couch.

Likewise, you’re happy for your jaw to have a momentary reprieve, as well, rubbing your tired muscles with your fingers as you catch your breath.

“Get on top of him,” Dave barks at you.

You willingly climb atop Joel, panting, lining yourself up with the slick head of his shaft. Joel’s heavy arm comes up to bar across your hips, pushing you down onto him until you sink all the way to his curls. The new angle making you keen and arch.

Dave presses you forward until your chest is flush with Joel’s, flattening you out before him. Joel doesn’t miss the opportunity to wrap his lips around yours again, kissing you sloppily, roving the wet heat of your mouth with his tongue, making you whimper as you begin riding him.

Dave spreads your cheeks apart and spits a globule of saliva at your puckered entrance, pressing two digits inside easily.

“Good thing you already loosened up that ass for me. You can take both of us, can’t you, sweetheart?” Dave murmurs and you simply nod, not wanting to tear your mouth away from Joel.

He lines himself up, placing the weeping slit of his head against your muscle as he begins pushing inward, inch by agonizing inch. Though you’re properly loosened up, there’s still a slight sting as your muscles contract and pulsate around him, stretching to accommodate his size.

You pant in hitched breaths, never having felt so full, so sated, before. It’s like they’re everywhere inside of you, consuming every inch of you like rabid jackals. Joel’s arms lacing around both you and Dave as both men begin to move independently within you.

You soon discover why they work so well as a team. Within minutes their movements are synchronized, a coordinated dance with you placed right in the middle, every downward thrust from Dave immediately proceeded by an upward lance from Joel. And they somehow manage to maintain said synchronicity for quite some time, even as they’re filling you to the brim with their cum.

They pump you full of themselves and you continue to drench them with every orgasm they drag out of you, your shared fluids sluicing down your bodies, soaking the cushions of the couch below.

It’s okay, you can just burn it if you actually end up surviving this. But hey, if you don’t, what a way to go, right?

Everything begins to meld together after a while, lines and vision blurred, your bodies practically stitched together at the seams, a perilous dance between the three of you in the throes of passion when the drug reaches its peak.

Their hands paw at you, knead you, your flesh supple and malleable under their large palms. They dig their fingers in, branding you, bruising marks left in their wake. Your head twists to and fro, tongue snaking between your teeth as you alternate between locking lips with both of them. You aren’t certain, but you think you see Joel and Dave link lips a few times as well, but it’s difficult to ascertain for sure, each scene of debauchery bleeding right into the next.

It goes on like that for hours, Dave and Joel occasionally switching roles, manipulating your overwrought body into a host of varying positions.

You have to stop a few times. For water, or just to take a break and a quick breather before you’re at it again, both men claiming your body like the primitive animals they are.

Dave has to call off his two remaining men when they practically try to beat down your door, understandably mystified and concerned, drinking in the vision laid out before them when Dave answers the door naked as the day he was born.

He sends them away when their motives shift and they make a sudden plea to join, letting them know in no uncertain terms that you are for him and Joel only.

You pout as you watch them leave, ever eager for more, but you don’t allow yourself to dwell on it, the three of you getting right back into the swing of things the moment they’re gone.

——

You must have shifted to the bedroom at some point during the night, as you rouse from sleep between two massive furnaces of men, a thin sheen of perspiration coating your still naked bodies.

You extricate yourself from the tangle of limbs and climb out from beneath them. You could easily put an end to them right now, if you were so inclined. But there’s something oddly endearing about the way they’re passed out in your bed, practically cuddling one another, Joel snoring like a chainsaw, that gives you pause. You’re amazed you were able to get any sleep at all with them in your bed.

You give them a final glance before you hastily make your way to the bathroom to clean up.

——

After your shower, you slip into a set of loose and comfortable sweats — a stark contrast from last night — tucking your pistol into the band of your sweatpants. You know, just in case.

You sweep up the remaining powder, making sure to wear proper PPE this time, salvaging as much of it as you can, should you ever need it again. As a weapon next time, you tell yourself.

Once done, you wander into the kitchen, chewing on two naproxen tablets before chugging what seems like a gallon of water to alleviate your dehydration and the various aches and pains riddling your body.

You’re starving so you put on a pot of coffee and whip up a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, enough to share. You plate the eggs and bacon on a platter and place them in the center of the table while you finish up the toast.

Your back is to Dave when he enters the kitchen. You feel the boards shift and you spin on the balls of your feet, drawing and raising your gun. You aren’t at all surprised when you find him doing the same — holding the same gun he fucked you with — dressed only in his boxers, your eyes locked, staring each other down in a deadly game of chicken.

“Easy now, kids. Thought ya worked out your differences last night,” Joel chides as he steps into the kitchen next to Dave, adjusting himself in his boxers.

You swallow, eyes blown wide, and you lower your gun first, even though you shouldn’t. After an uncomfortable beat, Dave does the same.

“We good?” you ask him.

“Yeah. Good.” Dave furrows his brow at you, unconvinced, but willing to play nice. For now.

“Smells great, sweetheart,” Joel says, seating himself at the table, helping himself to a plate.

You make a motion for Dave to sit.

“Could be poisoned,” he warns Joel, who flashes him and incredulous slant of his eyes.

“Fuck sake—“ you grit, scooping up a spoonful of eggs and shoving them into your mouth, canting your eyebrows at Dave as you inhale them. “Satisfied?”

Neither of them says a thing, but you catch a glimpse of Joel’s smirk below his mustache as he begins shoveling food into his mouth.

You finish preparing the toast and pour each of them a cup of coffee before serving yourself.

“Thanks,” Dave says, quietly, his eyes sliding down your body, tongue trailing his lips.

“You know, I don’t even know your names,” you say, glancing between the two men.

“Dave,” he replies. “And this is Joel.”

“Well, you already know my name. Nice to meet you, Dave and Joel,” you say.

Silence settles between the three of you while you eat, you seated between them, pouring more coffee when their cups inevitably empty.

You stay like that for a while, mulling over what to say next.

Dave is the first to break the silence.

“Thank you. For breakfast. And for…last night,” he says, averting his gaze.

You smirk.

“I’m not a bad person, you know.”

“Never said you were,” he responds.

“Just a name on a piece of paper.”

“That’s right. The infamous Datura.”

“I don’t kill indiscriminately like you do. I kill bad people. Corrupt politicians. Crooked cops. Genocidal maniacs.” You swallow down a swig of coffee. “But I guess I should have known better than to take out a senator’s son this time.”

“You know, we’re all putting our lives on the line, too, by not completing the contract,” Dave explains. “Should probably get the fuck out of dodge. Maybe you, too.”

His lips skew into a ghost of a smirk, eyes mapping the gentle slopes of your face.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

“We might need an extra set of eyes, if that’s the case.”

You smile, leaning across the table, resting your chin in the bowl of your palm. Your eyes sparkle sweetly as they shift between Dave and Joel.

“Dave, are you offering me a job?”

His hand comes up to hook around the back of your neck, lips crashing into yours as his other hand grips and squeezes your hip, making you whine when his fingers graze one of many tender spots.

You hear a throaty chuckle rise from Joel next to you.

“Take it that’s a yes, darlin’.”

FIN.

#pedro pascal #writing #fanfic #romance #smut #author #pedro fanfic #dark romance #dave york #joel miller

173 notes · View notes

nightowl374art · 6 months ago

Note

what are miles tattoos? i know he has the PR flag, the elbow web, sunflowers, and a key with a G on it (i think that’s what that is…lol)

also will we see 42’s married life and kiddos? 🥹

I may try to create a more detailed piece showing off their tattoos, but you have a good grasp on what’s there already 👌

He and Gwen each have a few couple tattoos, so as you mentioned Miles has a key with a G and to match, Gwen has a lock with a M (maybe a bit corny but I think it’s kinda cute). Miles also has “Brooklyn” tattooed on his left bicep in graffiti font, as well as E-65 on his right wrist.

The sunflower is actually supposed to be a daisy (I didn’t draw it very elaborately I know so easy mistake). I wanted Miles and Gwen’s tattoos to be artsy (as I imagine them being designed by Miles) but also to show how close of a couple they are. Based on the comics, Gwen’s birthday is in April and a daisy is one of the April birth flowers. She too has Miles’ birth flower, which can be a gladiolus or poppy (I went with a poppy bc I think it fits better with his personality) but that’s the gist, like I said, I may put them together on a larger scale so everyone can see what they are and who knows, I may add more.

And regarding 42, if inspiration strikes maybe we’ll get to see 42’s future life and possible babies ✨

60 notes · View notes

missmaywemeetagain · 1 year ago

Text

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving 💗🧣🦃

A very happy Thanksgiving weekend to those who celebrate! ❤️

This blurb came out of nowhere, in a fit of Thanksgiving inspiration (and a special thanks to Norah for inadvertently nudging me towards a Thanksgiving prompt)! Because of this, it is not overly edited or revised. I will say, I'm not sure yet just how canon I want this to be in terms of the PS Universe, but I figure it came out of me for a reason, so I decided to go with it for now.

I think my current moody headspace influenced the vibe for this--for us fans, it's a slightly indulgent "what could have been" scenario. But that's PS in a nutshell, isn't it? 🥹

Anyhoo, I hope this hits you in the feels! And I hope you know just how much you matter to me, even though I've been a bit MIA recently.

Much love xoxoxox, Madi 💗

TW: It's 1977, so...medical issues/trauma/strife. Panic attack. Thanksgiving stress. A little hint of sexy at the end bc I couldn't leave you on a melancholy note! 💋

A Pink Scarf Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1977

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. P, but the oven is out. Lamar took a peek, but the thing is as cold as ice and don’t look like it’s gonna be warm any time soon,” Mary says, looking as distraught as you feel. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch it sooner.”

The naked, trussed, and cold turkey on the counter mocks you.

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Mary. We’ll…figure something out,” you try and reassure her, but it feels like a weight has just been placed on your chest. You pinch the bridge of your nose to stave off the massive headache that began early this morning when Nicky barged into your room at the crack of dawn sobbing because he’d had a nightmare that Mr. Gobble Gobble, a monster turkey, had eaten Daddy instead of the other way around.

This was one of many nightmares that your poor little boy had suffered since August, but certainly the first starring a murderous Thanksgiving turkey. He’d barely been consolable and neither of you had gotten back to sleep.

You take a deep breath, holding back the tears that threaten your vision.

Today needs to be perfect. It was supposed to be perfect.

But you should have known. After all, this year has been far from perfect.

You force yourself away from the wave of despair trying to overcome you. No, we’ve been lucky, you think. It could be so much worse.

Unfortunately, your nerves are shot, which makes sense considering the last few months you’ve had. You’ve kept it together so well. You’ve had to. For Nicky. For Elvis. But that tried resolve begins to crumble with the pressure of it all, as though everything that has happened is hitting you all at once.

Now you have a house full of hungry people, Elvis will be home any minute, and your usual quick-footed problem-solving skills have flown out the window. Your hands begin to tremble.

The panic swells as the kitchen swarms with people looking to you for direction, and in that moment, Nicky runs through the adults, chased by one of the other kids. It happens so fast—you barely have time to register the commotion before disaster strikes.

You watch in horror as the kids fly into the sideboard, knocking the precious side dishes and desserts onto the floor with a resounding crash.

The collective gasp of the adults in the room sends your panic into overdrive.

Thanksgiving is officially ruined.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you shout. The entire room goes silent. It’s not everyday Elvis Presley’s calm and collected wife loses her shit. No, that is something usually reserved for the man himself.

“Well, that’s not quite the welcome home I was expecting,” a familiar baritone chuckles from behind you.

You whip around, your bottom lip quivering. “Elvis?” you whisper.

He’s standing right here—standing! On his own!—leaning on his cane for support, a twinkle in his eye that you haven’t seen in ages. One you weren’t sure you’d ever see again. And the sight of him finally being home again after so many months in the hospital is more than you can bear. After standing tall and strong for him for so long, you crumble into a thousand pieces. An uncontrollable sob chokes out of you, your tears overflowing.

“Aw, honey,” he says quietly, slowly making his way to you, waving everyone else out of the room with the commanding flick of his hand. They exit in a flash with their concerned and pitied looks. Not that you care, because the second you can, you are falling into your husband’s open arms.

“I’m so sorry…your homecoming…it’s all ruined,” you sob into his chest, being mindful of the long scar down the center. Feeling the warmth of him engulfing you is overwhelming. His scent, untainted by antiseptic and hospital smells for the first time in a long time, swirls around you, caressing your senses.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it all out, Satnin,” he coos, stroking your hair with his free hand. “Hers has been so strong for hims, but hims is home now.”

The tenderness of his baby talk in your ear sends a fresh wave of tears to your eyes, staining the silk of his blue dress shirt. He’s dressed up, you think absently, knowing this is a huge thing. Even before that fateful August morning, he’d been mostly wearing his tracksuits when he wasn’t performing. He’d been so uncomfortable and in pain, you’d understood why.

You bury your head into his neck, pent up emotions violently shuddering through your body as you let your tears fall freely for the first time in months. You can barely breathe with how you wedge yourself into him, with how he holds you tight. He’s so much slimmer now that the edema is gone and his colon has been tended to, you realize, but he’s still soft in all the right places. You still fit against him perfectly, and his grip on you makes you realize he understands just how raw you are.

You cry more, thinking about how the last time he was here was when you’d found him unresponsive on the bathroom floor. How you’d never been so scared in your entire life, not even when you yourself had brushes with death.

It's a miracle he’s here at all. None of you, doctors included, were sure if he’d ever step through the doors of Graceland again. Not after the heart attack, or the coma, or the complications from his various surgeries. It had been one blow after another, for weeks, months. But somehow, in true stubborn Elvis fashion, he’d pulled through.

He’d gritted his way through healing, through physical therapy, through weaning off so many of the meds he’d been on before and during his hospital stay, and he hated every second of it. He’d been livid about the colostomy, but you’d had no care for his vanity when you’d had to make the decision to save his life. You didn’t care if he hated you because at least he’d be alive to tell you so. He’d gotten past it, mostly, especially once he was feeling better.

The entire ordeal had terrified him. Something had changed in him in those weeks he’d lingered between life and death, something he wasn’t ready to talk about just yet, but even with all the setbacks, his determination to come home was intensely motivating.

Which is why you’d wanted it to be special, and why it being Thanksgiving had so much meaning. Elvis was finally coming home. Then everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.

“I wanted everything to be perfect for you. You deserve it,” you say quietly, sniffling, holding him as tight as you dare without wanting to hurt him.

“Darlin’, just bein’ back home with you and Nicky is more than I ever dreamed of. I don’t need no big fancy dinner or welcome home committee. I jus’ need you.”

You pull back then, your heart about ready to burst, and look at him. He looks downright debonair with his silvery hair (which you’d convinced him not to dye back after it had grown out during his illness), freshly cut and shorter than it had been in years, fluffy but brushed back off his face in a style reminiscent to when he was younger. His apple cheeks are full and have more color than they’ve had in months.

“What?” he asks looking down at you, almost bashful under your gaze.

You reach up and cup his freshly shaven cheek, smooth and soft under your palm. Those deep ocean blue eyes of his threaten to swallow you whole. Staring into their depths, you don’t want to imagine a world without him in it anymore.

“I just love you,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out without choking up again. “So much.”

Eyes shining, Elvis pulls you up and into him. His lips are as sweet and as soft as you remember when they press into yours. The kiss is full of yearning, of love, and of everything you two have been through the past twenty years. It’s truly like coming home.

The kiss turns hungry then, more so than you expect. It’s been so very long since you’ve had each other in this way and it surprises you how readily your body remembers, despite all the pain and trauma you both have experienced. You open for him, and he moans when his tongue brushes against yours. A fiery wave of heat blisters through you then, hastily banishing away your tears.

Despite all the challenges you’ve faced over the years, you’ve always felt the pull of him in your soul. You’ve always wanted him, neededhim, even when you convinced yourself to forget because you thought you couldn’t have him. And now, after almost losing him for good, you can think of nothing else but him. The warmth of his body pressed against yours causes you to melt. The way his lips and hands roam over the curves of your body sends you soaring.

You thought you’d never have this again. It had almost broken you.

“I’m here, baby. I’m home, I promise,” he mutters into your skin, as if reading your mind.

You kiss him deeply, yanking him into you by his pretty shirt, taking his breath away.

He pulls away and presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel him sway on his feet, a little unbalanced.

“Good news—looks like Little Elvis is back in working order,” he says breathlessly, pressing his thickening erection into your belly. He seems pleasantly surprised.

Honestly, with everything dire that happened, it hadn’t even crossed your mind as a concern, but it makes sense that it could be an issue. You grin up at him with the knowledge that it isn’t, then roll your hips against him.

He groans. “Bad news—not sure I have the energy to do all the things I wanna to ya, and we got a house full of people.” Doesn’t stop him from grabbing a handful of your bottom, however.

“Oh, that’s never stopped us before, now has it?” you muse, walking your fingers gently down his chest and over his belly to palm his length.

“Lord have mercy, woman,” he moans, his eyes fluttering closed. You notice him lean more heavily on his cane and instantly ease up. One blue eye opens with a quirked brow. “Hey now, I din’t say stop.”

You laugh. “Well, it seems dinner is ruined anyhow,” you say, surveying the disaster of broken dishes and scattered food all over the floor, and the cold, raw turkey on the counter. “Maybe we better get you upstairs to rest.”

Rest is, of course, the furthest thing from your mind now, which you let him know with a little squeeze to his butt.

“Mmhmm, yes, I definitely need to lie down,” he mumbles as he peppers you with kisses. Suddenly, he freezes against you. “But, honey, I-I-I’m not sure how much I can do,” he whispers, a wave of uncertainty washing over him.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Real slow. One step at a time, like fumbling teenagers,” you say lightly, cupping his face and looking up into his eyes. “Or we can just kiss and hold each other. I’m just happy you’re here, baby.”

He nods, seemingly reassured by this. “I know I don’t say it as much as I should, but I thank God every day for you and for what we have together, Satnin,” he says quietly, brushing your hair behind your ear, kissing you gently. “I love you.”

Your heart and body ache for him. “We better get you upstairs to “rest”before I start crying again,” you snuffle, laughing, slowly walking with him toward the stairs.

“Well, tears aren’t entirely off the table…I can think of a couple good ways I can make you cry,” he teases, nibbling at your ear.

“Elvis Aaron, you did not just…” you gasp.

“What??” he says innocently. “Am I wrong?”

A shiver runs down your spine and settles in the heat of your belly.

You’ve missed him. Terribly.

But you do have so much to be thankful for this year, namely for the infuriatingly talented, generous, and stubborn man you married and are gingerly leading up the stairs for the first time in months.

In fact, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

@littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog @xenaspace3-blog

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

#a pink scarf thanksgiving #pink scarf universe #elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis 1977 #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis fic #elvis x you #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis imagine #big daddy elvis #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction

128 notes · View notes

catboydogma · 4 months ago

Text

where the stray things go

codywan week 2024 sol master list (solsterlist)

codywan week 2024 day 4 prompts, sol edition: video game au, "subtle" witty banter during the war

notes: this is maybe the most niche au ive ever written. fellas, the bar was on the floor and i have laid down on top of it. welcome to sol's codywan overwatch au. if you haven't played overwatch or don't know the lore, don't worry! most overwatch players don't know the lore either :) this can stand alone, mostly. huge thank-you to @calamity-aims for being my sounding board and giving me so much inspiration by being in the batshit au corner with me. title from white roses by glass animals

wc: 2,346

cross-posted to ao3

All this could have been avoided if Cody had been allowed to pick the infil site. Their landing had been rough but serviceable—the pilot, who only answered to “Kit,” had been grinning and cracking jokes to ease up nerves even as he evaded turret fire and nearly strafed them into the ocean. They’d gotten into the control center all the same, even if Kit had to stay behind with the JEDI heavy to repair the shielding system.

“Commander, these numbers are all wrong,” Crys hissed. “I can take out the security feeds, but this base is way farther along than we thought it was. I mean, we were expecting the turrets and a couple OR14 tanks on top of the usual. But this is—”

Cody exchanged looks with their “combat medic.” In the SEP, that really meant “this medic will make sure you don’t die, and he’s going to do that by killing the other guy first.” Kix had the steadiest hands of any soldier Cody had worked with, whether they were on the scalpel or a biotic rifle. The other medic was another JEDI loan, a woman who wore a combination of robes and light body armor.

“We’re running out of time,” Cody finally said. “We won’t get another chance to destabilize the Donghae Omnium. This mission is critical to the war effort.” They wouldn’t have sent Cody otherwise—though Cody had his suspicions about that. The higher-ups were fond of sending SEP soldiers into situations with unwinnable odds. Their own homegrown, red-eyed time bombs.

Gregor, another SEP soldier like Cody, laughed and thumped the front of his power armor. “De oppresso liber, Commander. Overwhelming odds is the name of the game. Hey, you think I could beat 17’s KIR on this one?”

“If you think you can take out more omnics than times you get incapacitated, feel free,” Kix said, dry as anything. “Much less top the Strike Commander.”

“Feedback loop established,” Crys murmured, catching Cody’s eye. He’d gone through SEP like Cody and Gregor, but every soldier took to it a little differently. Cody had gotten an even spread of improved reflexes, metabolism, strength, and speed. Gregor’s enhancements had maxed out his strength and metabolism, letting him shake off hits that would kill or cripple an unenhanced human. Crys’ were subtler; he was even faster than Cody, if not as strong, and the chems had somehow boosted his cognitive performance. They’d made it possible for him to undergo cybernetic procedures that would have been deemed much too risky for any unenhanced human.

“We’re in?” Cody checked the safety on his pulse rifle.

“Affirmative. We’ll be going in hot. Patrol patterns will only get tighter as we near the control room. And—” Crys grimaced, electric blue eyes flashing with computerized input. “—if we can’t find an exit fast after we secure the central control hub…”

Cody nodded. “Kit and Sgt. Drallig will secure our exfil.”

“I’m tapped into the alarm system, but there’s a chance for it to be tripped manually,” Crys warned.

“Then we’ll take out any omnics we come across before they can get to it.” Cody gestured for his squad to move out.

Their movement further into the base was easy. Too easy. Every one of them was on high alert yet they still didn’t see the ambush until they tripped it—a full squadron of OR14s blockading the corridor with not one or two but three fucking Bastion turrets and a shielding unit for the whole goddamned party. Fun for all ages.

Then the second wave of war machines flooded into the corridor behind them in a pincer attack that would have made 17 cry big ugly tears of joy, and the mission was officially FUBAR.

Cody was about to start making his peace with the world at large when the razor-sharp head of an arrow sprouted from the chassis of the OR14 tank bearing down on him. He stared, mouth dry and tasting of char and blood. Sizzling blue light arced along its shaft and the OR14 buckled as its electrical systems shorted out.

“I’m hit!” Crys shouted over comms. Gregor was holding their backline and going toe to toe with another pair of OR14 tanks for his efforts. But this wasn’t a sustainable position. And even with SEP enhancements, they couldn’t hold forever.

“I’ve got you.” Kix swore viciously over comms as he ducked behind cover, half-dragging Crys behind him.

They hadn’t even gotten to the control room yet. Much less secured it. Whoever had given Overwatch HQ the stats on this base, they’d been lying out of their ass. Cody resolved to get back to Geneva just to wring necks over it. Let alone—

“You should not have let your guard down,” an imperious voice said. A tall man hauled Cody up like he weighed as much as a kitten. His face was half covered by an armored cowl but dark eyes and heavy eyebrows were furrowed in a scowl at him. Innocuous against his Japanese-style body armor and shoulder quiver of high-tech arrows, a head of auburn-bleached hair gleamed in the harsh LEDs of the control base.

Cody’s pulse rifle got slapped back into his hands and it felt like his brain got rebooted at the same moment. “Who the hell are you?”

“The man that is about to save your life,” the archer replied. “You have the technology to disable the control room once you breach it then, yes?”

“This is a classified—”

“Good.” The archer nodded. He had the gall to wink at Cody over the cowl. “You don’t have to spill all of your secrets yet, Commander. I like my allies a little more… long-lasting.”

Bloody hell. Cody grinned despite himself and wiped the blood off his brow from where a stray shard of shrapnel had almost taken his eye out. “Talk after. Take out the control room now.”

“That kind of forthrightness is what I like to see in a man,” the archer purred as he nocked an arrow and drew his bow. The weight on that thing had to be over forty, forty-one kilos, but the man did it easy as breathing.

Another fighter—especially one as good as this archer—made all the difference. He took down an OR14 from around a corner without breaking a sweat. Half his shots connected in ways that seemed to bend the laws of physics—scatter arrows, rebounds, trick shots from across the entire fucking corridor, all while the man flipped and twisted through the air like an Olympic acrobat.

Crys was able to break open the central hub after a round of healing nanite injections from Kix. Gregor held the doors as their point of defense while Crys uploaded a series of viruses that would cripple the omnium’s comms network and foul their navigations systems, rendering them ducks in a barrel when the local MEKA forces swept in to wipe the rest of the base out.

All this while the archer trashed different parts of the server room alongside Cody, wrecking hardware and banks of data drives. He took an inordinate amount of glee from swinging his bow into monitors and kicking through holographic projectors.

“I’ll clear you a path out,” the archer said when he was done.

“How do I know you’re gonna make it out after me?” Cody asked and checked the charge left on his magazine. They could make it out. This was far from the desperate last stand Cody had thought they’d be making. All thanks to—

The archer hesitated, gloved hands flexing on the grip of his bow. “Is this you asking for my number, Commander? I’m not usually so easy as all that.”

“I can’t buy you drinks if I don’t even know your name or how to contact you,” Cody replied. He stepped closer even as every instinct he had screamed at him to step away, that this man was—somehow—more dangerous than any omnic or tank. “And I’m not the kind of man to leave a dept unfulfilled.”

“No debt,” the archer murmured, dark eyes studying Cody’s face intently. He reached out to brush the tips of his gloved fingers across Cody’s brow, where the shrapnel had torn his face open. It was already clotted and healing, the too-hot feel of inflammation telling Cody that his body was working overtime to seal the wound. “You should get this looked at. Unless you want a dashing scar as a keepsake of our time together. But you don’t seem to be a sentimental man, Commander.”

“I might surprise you.” Cody caught the archer’s wrist, studying him in turn. His roots were showing under the bleach job. They were as ink black as his eyebrows. Thin crow’s feet lined his dark and narrow eyes, expressive for all that the cowl hid his mouth and nose. He hadn’t noticed the curved sword strapped to his back until now. On first guess, it might have been a katana—but Cody didn’t know enough about swords to identify it at a glance. Strangely archaic weapons for such a skilled fighter. It only made Cody hungrier—for more time, more intel, a greedy wish to see his face uncovered.

“Ben,” the archer finally said. “I don’t doubt that, Commander. I… travel often. But you’ve made a convincing argument for those drinks.” He plucked a thin, metallic token out of some hidden pocket and tucked it into a pouch on Cody’s tac belt with nimble fingers. The feel of Ben’s hand on his belt had a thrill of—something running through him.

“That’s Drallig on the line,” Crys said into comms, voice oddly strangled. “Exfil secured.”

“Move out,” Cody barked. He took a hasty step back from Ben, who only smiled—if the wrinkling by his eyes meant anything. “You have an exit?”

“Commander,” Ben purred, nocking another one of his strange and sparking arrows, “let’s just say… my backdoor is very well secured.”

Kix let out a strangled noise. He had one of Crys’ arms over his shoulders, the slicer looking like he’d lost a little too much blood as they’d lingered in the control room.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Lt.,” Cody barked as he passed Gregor. “We have an exit to make.”

“Sir yes sir.” Gregor saluted him with one of his hulking rotary cannons and the comm line exploded into laughter.

Back at base, Cody suffered 17’s scrutiny while his face was sutured back together in a medic’s tender loving care. He had healed too fast, sealing in the shrapnel. The wound needed to be sliced back open, cleaned, and then stitched together again.

“Yeah, that’s gonna scar,” 17 said with a vicious laugh.

Pot. Kettle.

“You recognize this?” Cody flipped 17 the token “Ben” had left him with.

17 caught it out of the air and turned it over in one big hand. His face was unreadable—but maybe that was all the scarring. He’d no doubt already read Cody’s brief. “I knew you’d left something out. You’re a shit liar, kid.”

“That’s a yes.” If 17 knew who Ben was… and Ben had known Cody by name—not unusual in and of itself. Cody was a high-ranking soldier in a global peacekeeping force fighting against the worldwide invasion of the omnics. The Omnic Crisis was wreaking havoc on a scale never before seen but it was also engendering collaboration on an unprecedented level. MEKA, SEP, JEDI, Overwatch, the Crusaders, Volskaya… the best way to unite humankind was to give them a common enemy.

“Yeah. See this?” 17 held up the token so the light glinted off the strange symbol in the corner. It almost looked like a pair of dragons twined together—in an embrace or locked in battle, Cody couldn’t tell. “That’s old blood Yakuza. The Shimada clan. Word was that they all died out after the eldest son went batshit and murdered half the family. Bye-bye, little brother. Bye-bye, gramps. Man was set to succeed the throne of one of the most powerful crime families in East Asia. Instead he wiped them out in a matter of weeks and disappeared off the map.”

“How do you know…?”

17 tapped the token and slid it across the flimsy bedside table to rest by the head of Cody’s medical cot. “The twin dragons are a symbol of power and blood ties. Only the ruling heads of the family got ‘em as their insignia. Out of every high-ranking asshole in the Shimada Clan, only one survived the bloodbath. Take a guess, kid.”

Cody swallowed. The level of skill, the cutting-edge gear, the sharpness in Ben’s eyes… it made too much sense for him to reject it out of hand.

“Shimada the elder is bad fucking news,” 17 said flatly. “Any man that can betray his family like that—crime bosses or not—is a big fat warning sign. You hear me, Cody?”

Yes. Warning sign. Bad news. Danger. Absolutely. Cody saluted 17 and fought down his wince when the movement pulled at his stitches and bruises.

“Bloody hell,” 17 muttered, throwing his hands up in disgust. “Why do I even bother. You know what, kid, if you want to chase after rumors and ghosts, that’s your call. It’s not like I’ve got sixteen years of wisdom on you or anything.”

“Fifteen and a half,” Cody said and bared his teeth up at 17. Never let it be said that he wouldn’t hold his oldest brother to a certain standard of integrity and truthfulness.

“Fucking brat,” 17 muttered. But he scrubbed his knuckles over Cody’s curls in a way that meant affection for him and gave him a sharp nod. That was as good as a big shiny medal and a commendation, coming from 17.

After 17 left the room with the medic, Cody pulled the token over to him and gingerly laid back among his stiff medbay-issue pillows. The center of the metal token was smooth and slightly worn down. His own thumb fit perfectly into the imprint and the metal warmed to his touch.

#overwatch fanfic #tcw fanfic #codywan #codywanweek2024 #codywan week 2024 #commander cody #alpha-17 #obi-wan kenobi #a heat rash in the shape of the show me state

37 notes · View notes