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#verai marcel
verai-marcel · 2 years
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Of course @playstationmademe tags me in a meiker thing. Kiss kiss.
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Josephine Lewis (OC for my book, originally RDR2 OC) & Min (RDO OC) (with wavy hair, I guess?)
Tagging whoever would like to make lovely characters!
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shootybangbang · 4 months
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The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]
Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang
[Ao3 link]
[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader
[Rating]: Mature
[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]
[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.
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The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]
for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted
This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.
More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 
broken cabinet.
Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.
broken cabinet. sorry. :’(
[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]
You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.
Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.
How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.
And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.
Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.
This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 
God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–
Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 
Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…
…Oh.
It’s Morgan. What the fuck.
“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.
“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”
Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”
He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”
Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”
The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.
“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”
His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”
As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”
Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.
“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”
He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 
A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.
“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”
You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”
This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.
It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.
“Are you, um…”
Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”
Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”
“Yes,” you reply weakly.
For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”
He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.
The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?
I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.
Oh. He hates it.
Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”
“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”
It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”
“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”
You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”
“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”
You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.
Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”
“Catsitting,” you say.
“’…s’cuse me?”
“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”
“Cats can get anxiety?”
“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 
Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”
You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.
He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”
Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.
Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.
You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.
“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.
“No?”
“Figured you’d prefer snails.”
“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.
“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”
“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”
He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —
“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”
“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”
“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”
The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”
He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 
For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”
“You’re not what, exactly?” 
“I don’t know,” you say weakly.
He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”
Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–
But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”
Huh. What.
“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”
“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.
“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”
When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.
“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.
***
You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.
“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”
Sebastian stretches and yawns. 
“I hit on the maintenance man.”
He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 
“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”
Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.
“Okay, one bottle drunk.”
He sniffs haughtily.
“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.
“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”
***
You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?
The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.
“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 
You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.
But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.
The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.
Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.
“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.
“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.
“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”
“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.
Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.
You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.
Of course my mind goes there.
Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.
“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”
His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”
He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 
“Mr Morgan—”
“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”
You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.
Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.
Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—
The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.
For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.
“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”
“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”
Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.
“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.
“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”
You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .
***
Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.
A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.
“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”
Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”
“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”
He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 
“Do you like her?”
He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.
“Because a girl as pretty as her…”
“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”
As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.
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redwritr · 7 months
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There is SO much I want to say about your story, but I already feel self-conscious at the length of this message. I can not wait for the final instalment and trust you completely in your decision to either offer Arthur and Nell their happy ending or to break all of our hearts as in the game - either way, I know it will be beautiful and that I will cry and then start reading again from the beginning. Thank you for your words. Flo x /5
Flo, thank you so much. I’ve been working on the ending every day, but tbh it's been a bigger challenge lately - your messages just lit a new fire under me, to see it read this way, and especially to see Nell appreciated for the way she cares for him, and vice versa. Thank you for reading rb, for sharing this and your experience with the game, and for this truly kind and timely encouragement❤️
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riskpig · 3 months
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3 People I'd Like to Know Better
Tagged by: @wetcatspellcaster 🖤
Last song: Lay All Your Love On Me - Abba. The spouse had tried to revoke my goth card when I told him their music is dark.
Favorite Color: Purple, pink, and black.
Currently Watching: At this very second, Neil Newbon's latest BG3 playthrough VOD. In general, I'm catching up on Dimension 20. I'm a couple series behind and I want to be ready for Fantasy High: Junior Year! On the last episode of Burrow's End and Aabria has me WEAK from the emotions!!! Plus, I'm also watching Buffy for the first time for my YT channel (a reaction channel, gross, I know, but it's drawn attention to the thing I really care about, which is my art).
Last Movie/TV Show: Klaus. My mother had never seen it, and I needed a crying buddy. I am a total Grinch when it comes to Christmas, but that movie doesn't count!
Spicy/Savory/Sweet: Savory!!!!!!!!! Don't get me wrong, I am weak for a cheesecake, cookies, or ice cream. But I'm a beast for a good enchilada or roast.
Relationship Status: Married, and very happily. Been together 15 years, married for 8 of it. And he's been very patient with my Astarion fixation. Poor bastard has had to put up with my Vegeta and Rumplestiltskin (OUAT) obsessions before that.
Current Obsession: Baldur's! 👏 Gate! 👏 3!👏 I've been playing D&D since 2016 (was drawn to it by The Adventure Zone), so I was naturally very curious about this game. Now, I don't think of myself as a gamer at all! My spouse bought it for himself, and I watched him play, and I was like "Oh, wait! This actually looks doable!" And then he encountered Astarion on the beach, and I said "Well, honey, this is about to be my entire life."
Last thing you googled: "pizza restaurants in [redacted]" The spouse and I are house hunting, so we were checking out what's on offer in our potentially new hometown.
Tagging: @verai-marcel @bludazey @eelqueen 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
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goodmorgan · 4 months
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What’s your favorite Arthur smut(s) 👉👈 besides your own of course
Thank you for asking! 💖
Here are some of my recs:
Fics on Tumblr:
Out of Touch by @redemptionbaby
Neighborly Affection series by @verai-marcel
Seven Deadly Sins series by @twola
Loss of virginity by @amorgansgal
Fics on AO3:
The Debt by louderthanbombs
Desire of the Wolf by Talkin_to_a_Lady
The Scenic Route by crispywriter
Please be mindful of each fic's tags and enjoy! :)
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twola · 8 months
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im just wondering if you could do a short story with arthur getting ‘jealous’ of you at a bar for flirting with other men? 👀 and he later makes you regret pissing him off? *wink wink*
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Learning The Hard Way
Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI
➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link
In which Arthur needs to teach you a lesson.
taglist: @pinkiemme, @redwritr, @mykneeshurt, @bimbo-dollz @verai-marcel @shootybangbang @cowboydisaster
CW: There’s a bit of back and forth in this one… that devolves into physicality. Obviously, I do not condone any type of domestic violence. So we’re gonna go with that this type of play is consensual.
Many thanks to my meowdy pardners - @verai-marcel, @shootybangbang, and @redwritr - for helping me shine this one shot until it gleams!
Your voice rings out in the night through the camp, where Lemoyne’s heavy humidity hangs low. “You ain’t my husband, you ain’t my daddy, you ain’t anyone to tell me how to do my job!”
“You listen here- ”
You burst out of the tent and stomp toward the lakeshore, away from the orange firelight glowing toward the center of camp. Fortunately, the night is loud enough, and your voice doesn’t jar the entire camp, drowned out by cicadas and the rumble of men drinking after dinner.
Not that you’re particularly concerned about making a scene. No, you couldn’t give a shit about that. Your temper flares and your boots slap against the muddy grown as you clench your fists, skirts swishing at the speed of your gait.
But even with your artificially elongated stride, the loud footsteps that follow you eventually catch up to you as you reach the wood line away from the glen. 
You’re yanked back by your elbow and turned around to come face to face with an equally aggravated outlaw, wrinkles set deeply in his frown as his eyes narrow under the brim of his dark hat.
“I’ll damn well tell you when you’re bein’ stupid about a job. Coulda got yourself picked up by the law on that last stage,” he hisses, and you scowl in return as you yank back your arm from his grip, “Ain’t no way you’re doing this one.” 
“No, Arthur. Just because we’re sleepin’ together doesn’t mean you can order me around like some little housewife.”
Arthur Morgan’s scowl deepens. “You ain’t comin’ on this job and that’s final.” 
“Fuck you.” You seethe, turning on your heel before he grabs at your arm again, yanking you backward.
“Get your ass back in that tent, you little-”
He doesn’t see the whip-fast arc of your other hand before it connects with his cheek. It sends his hat flying to the ground and he immediately lets go of your arm, reeling from the blow.
“It’s over. I’ll get my things out of your tent and back to my own. You ain’t gonna treat me like I’m some prissy little thing. I don’t need this and I don’t need you.” You enunciate the last word with venom in your tone, spinning on your heel again to walk in the other direction, along the wood line, skirting the edge of the camp toward where the horses are hitched.
You needed some kind of outlet to quell the hotness of your blood after the fight, and stomping around camp wasn't doing it.
Hiking your skirts, you hurry toward your spry little gelding, dapple coated and one boy you know you could always count on. He neighs softly as you untie his rein frm the hitching post. You run your hand through his black mane.
“C’mon now boy. Let’s get outta camp to blow off some steam, sound good?” 
As if he can understand you, he nudges against your shoulder with his nose and you laugh as you move to pull yourself up into his saddle. You tighten the strap on the holster mounted on his saddle, your repeater at the ready should you need it.
Without a look back, you guide him into the freshly-borne night, at a gallop before you even hit the main road.
-
But alas, breathless riding through Scarlett Meadows can quell your aggravation but so much. As the moon rises in the sky, you slow your gelding down upon the red-dirt path leading into Rhodes - the Parlour House in the distance is lit up, beckoning visitors with its warm glow.
A drink or two. That would certainly help you unwind. 
Laughter and music waft into the warm night as you slide down from your horse, hitching him to the post right outside the main porch. You straighten your skirts before tucking back stray hairs along your temple as you step onto the porch and push your way through the door.
Indeed, the saloon is full of people tonight gaily drinking away their wages. You weave your way through the crowd to the bar, where you order yourself a whiskey from the bartender, tossing him a few coins when he slides the glass to you.
The drink goes down far too quickly to alleviate your frustration. Barely takes the edge off. It’s not the first time you and Arthur have gone at it - but you know, you know you were right. You were robbing stages before Arthur was your bedmate, before you joined the gang. He’s just going to have to learn to give you your space to do your work.
Hell, no one ever told him not to go on a job. Damn double standards.
Though… you can’t lie to yourself too much. There is a corner of your heart that is warmed by the fact he’s concerned for you - that he wants you safe. No one has wanted that for years.
No. You were an outlaw first. And damned if Arthur Morgan makes you some camp filly to warm his bed.
“Why, ma’am, you look like you could use another drink.”
You turn your head toward the man. His cheeks are flushed with drink and the starched collar of his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. A silken waistcoat. Probably a Gray or a Braithwaite cousin. Pomaded dark hair and a clean-shaven face. All of the trappings of a feckless rich boy who had never seen a hard day’s work in his life. 
Completely the opposite of Arthur. 
You give a smile, leaning on your elbow, “Suppose I could…”
He nods to the bartender immediately, and a glass of whiskey appears in front of you at the bar.
You sip at it slowly as he steps closer, his elbows nearly touching yours. A subtle air of fancy cologne; of bergamot and southern jasmine, wafts off of him as he begins to engage you in conversation. 
One drink turns into two. Turns into three.
The man’s arm wraps around your waist, landing on your hip, pulling you to near sit in his lap on the barstool. “Pretty little thing like you - we don’t get that much here out in Rhodes.”
You lean into him. Who knows where this could lead. Maybe you could have a little fun tonight. Maybe you could rob him after. Maybe he was just what you need to get a certain brooding outlaw out of your system.
“What do you say about headin’ upstairs for the night?” You whisper as you toy with the lapel of his waistcoat. The golden chain of his pocket watch glints under the lanterns. A sly smile creeps across your face.
He can barely contain himself, grinning from ear to ear, and leans in to nip at your jaw. You giggle in response. He helps you slide off of his lap and presses his lips to your ear, whispering things he wants to do to you all night as he squeezes your hip.
“Just you wait here, sweet thing - I’ll get us a room and we can continue on.”
You smile a roguish, knowing grin that betrays your intent as you return to the barstool. The bartender pushes another glass of whiskey in front of you, which you down quickly, sucking air between your teeth as it burns on the way down.
You tense up as you feel a body moving too close behind you, a man with a large frame leaning into the bar behind you, crowding you in.
The tang of tobacco and whiskey wafts into your nose before you’re yanked from your seat.
-
By the time you’ve regained your bearings and your footing as you’ve been dragged out the side door of the Parlour House, you recognize what’s going on.
Just like you recognize that black hat.
“Get off me, Arthur.” You yell but are fairly helpless to do anything but be dragged along the path to the empty stable.
The outlaw gruffly snorts in your direction, his large hand clamped on your upper arm. As you reach the stable, your shoulders slam against the wooden wall of the workroom he had cornered you into.
“Your goddamn mouth - I need to remind you who you belong to.” Arthur hisses, groping roughly at your breast with one hand. The other grasps at your skirts and starts hiking them upward. You’re forced face down on the workbench, Arthur’s hand across your back to hold you down, your bucking unable to move against his strength. You squawk indignantly as your bloomers are yanked down your thighs and puddle near your ankles.
“Sure as fuck, ain’t you-”
The loud smack of skin on skin cuts you off, and you yelp in painful surprise at the sting of his palm on the bare, pale skin of your behind.
“Wanna try again?”
Your ass throbs as he removes his large hand from your skin, but with his other placed down hard against the small of your back, you’re unable to move from where he has you pinned to the table.
“I said, sure as fuck ain’t you-agh!”
You cry out, louder, as he swings again, hitting you square across your rear with a searing smack.
“Honey, ain’t making me happy to do this, but you gotta learn your lesson, and seems like this is the only way to get through that thick head o’ yours.”
You hiss at him, glaring daggers. 
Smack.
“Changed yer mind yet?”
“Fuck you.”
Smack.
After the fifth blow, tears start to leak from your eyes as you clench your fingers on the table. You aren’t going to be able to ride for a week at this rate - your ass is red and hot, but you also can’t deny the moisture accumulating just below, starting to trickle down your inner thigh. Goddamnit.
“You belong to that man you were battin’ your eyes at?” He seethes behind you, and you growl in response, unwilling to give him satisfaction.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
The eighth blow makes you cry out in pain, and Arthur falters. When he removes his hand from your rear, he slides his palm down to trail over your thigh for a moment. He pauses, pulling back up and rubbing his palm over your behind almost tenderly. But you know, you know, that he felt your slick as he swept his fingers across the backs of your thighs.
“Y’ready to stop all this nonsense?” Arthur drawls, softly, slowly, as if he were trying to calm a skittish horse. The circles he’s gently rubbing on your sore ass feel almost pleasant, and you don’t clench your fingers nearly as hard on the edge of the table. Your tears have stopped, leaving a drying trail down your cheeks.
You don’t respond - you can’t - because at that moment, he slips his hand down, down between your thighs to caress your glistening folds, and you gasp in surprised pleasure as he presses his knuckle against your clit. You widen your legs without thinking, giving him more access. 
“Think you are…” he rasps, and gently moves his fingers against you, placing one arm on the table next to you to lean over your frame. His large frame smothers yours, clothed hips brushing against yours gently.
You whine and shiver beneath him. You know you’ve already lost.
“What d’ya need, sweetheart?”
“I-I… agh- I need-” You stumble over your words, your knees shaking as he pushes that finger within your cunt, suckling on your earlobe as he leans further over you. You can feel his thickening cock against the back of your thigh as he gently presses his hips forward against you in time with the strokes of his finger.
Arthur presses a second finger inside you and a needy cry escapes your throat, your hand shooting forward to grab his, forcing your fingers through his free hand. His breath is warm against your ear and he chuckles, curling his fingers as you moan. God, his hands are so big, his fingers filling you so much better than your own.
“F -fuck …” you stutter out, pressing your hips back against his hand, “A-Arthur… I need you.”
The outlaw extricates his hand from between your legs and you whine in dismay at the loss. Strong hands encircle your waist and lift you from where you are laid out on the table, and through no small feat, he turns you and winds his hands under your thighs, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist, your arms wound around his neck. 
It’s then that you look at him, for maybe the first time all day, caught drowning in the pools of his blue eyes. You can barely feel him stepping forward, carrying you, his hands firm under your thighs, careful not to touch the inflamed skin of your rear.
Your back is pressed against the wooden wall of the barn, but he doesn’t crowd you in at all. He leans in, and uncontrollably, you do too. When your mouths meet, you give a little sigh, opening your lips and permitting him to enter, his tongue pressing against yours as a rumble bubbles up from his chest.
“Shouldn’ta yelled at you,” he breathes against your lips, and as much as you can, you shake your head at him.
“Shouldn’ta run off,” you whisper in between kisses, the wet sounds of lips meeting nearly drowning out your low reply.
“Shouldn’ta hit you.” 
“You know I liked it.” You whisper with the hint of a smile ghosting across your lips.
“Little spitfire, you are.”
Arthur presses his hips forward into yours, and the long, full column of his cock in his pants presses against your bare folds, and you moan and throw your head back, gyrating your hips against him. He swears under his breath, one hand leaving your leg and furiously working the buttons of his fly as he retracts his hips just enough to work his pants open.
It's only a moment more before you feel the hot head of his cock press against your weeping opening, and he presses his lips to yours desperately as he juts his hips forward, greedily swallowing your moan as he quickly pushes himself inside you.
Your hands fly to his hair, fingers interlaced with honeyed locks, and his hand returns to your thigh as he starts to retract his hips and thrusts them upward in a slow rhythm, the wet noise of skin joining loud and stark in the night.
“ ‘M yours, Arthur.” You breathe as your eyes flutter with the slow, languorous rhythm he’s set. He leans in and takes your lips in a passionate kiss as he presses himself deeper within you.
“Was never a question,” he replies with a smirk, as he draws back enough that his forehead still leans against yours as he rolls his hips upward.
You frown slightly, but Arthur leans in for another kiss that steals your breath away. He’s a natural, of course, in the art of stealing. Your breath, your heart. Everything.
“You’re mine, Darlin’,” Arthur whispers against your lips, “You’re mine, ‘nd I’m yours.”
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cheesewedge · 3 months
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3 People I'd Like to Know Better
@verai-marcel tagged me because she's NOSY, so here we are
Last song: "Rhythm of Love" by Plain White T's
Favorite Color: yellow and red
Currently Watching: I'm finally giving Succession a shot
Last Movie/TV Show: My boyfriend and I recently watched the first two Netflix Christmas Prince movies so we could scream about how bad they were
Spicy/Savory/Sweet: Anything but spicy. My white ass can't handle anything else.
Relationship Status: My bf and I are coming up on our six-year anniversary
Current Obsession: still red dead
Last thing you googled: job opportunities lol
Tagging: @photo1030 @sadieadlersnecktie @littlecritchley
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immajustvibehere · 2 years
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Vibin's FicRecommendations
Honestly, this is just a way for me to remember and revisit my favourite fanfictions on Tumblr :) this gets updated regularly.
Here is my masterlist!
Arthur Morgan x Reader
fluffy/teen:
Exit Wound by @icarus-fell-in-spring
High Noon Heat by @a-gal-with-taste
Sweet as Sugar by @amorgansgal
Ain't Goin' Nowhere by @outlaw-scribble
Lost and Found by @yeet-or-be-hawed
Daydreams and Daisies by @widowsblake
Downtime and a Bath by @red-dead-scribbles-ff
I Will Sit With You In The Dark by @photo1030
whiskey n' rain by @stars-kiss-the-sky
untitled by @kioplama
untitlled by @aslutforarthurmorgan
I Got You by @photo1030
Graphite and Gratitude by @bimrsadler
A Proper Woman by @moody-cowdaddy
Drunken Flirtations by @red-dead-scribbles-ff
The Morning After by @romancebywaterfalls
Ohio is for Lovers by @widowsblake
an admiration for perennials by @reaveries
spicy/explicit:
The Art of Thievery (I) by @shittybundaskenyer
The Art of Horsemanship (II) by @shittybundaskenyer
The Art of Dealin' a Good Hand (III) by @shittybundaskenyer
Oneshot: In which Arthur takes matters into his own hands by @shootybangbang
Returned Favors by @a-gal-with-taste
Wild Horses by @widowsblake
VDL Gang Gang Bang by @amorgansgal
Short Fuse by @widowsblake
observance by @william-butcher
Rough Rendezvous by @bimrsadler
Easy Rider by @bimrsadler
Pleasure and Purpose by @bimrsadler
Crimson snow by @leechmilf
Honeybee, Horse Thief (1) by @unusual-raccoon
Honeybee, Horse Thief (2) by @unusual-raccoon
Honeybee, Horse Thief (3) by @unusual-raccoon
Tricksters by @sad-sweet-cowboah
Alternative Payment by @verai-marcel
All Tied Up And Nowhere To Go by @alwaysaslutforarthurmorgan
Forget Me Not, Honey, Killshot by @shittybundaskenyer
Dutch van der Linde x Reader
fluffly/teen:
The Duality of Man by @dutchvanwinkle
Obi-Wan x Reader
fluffly/teen:
your thoughts are loud by @spidersbane
My opponent's weakness by @scribble-dribble-writes
Soft by @honestlywtfisgoingon
Silent Suffering by @imaginesfordifferentfandoms
tired. by @hellotherekenobi
spicy/explicit:
Hearts Finally Mending by @murdockussy
Like turning on the light by @full-time-make-believer
The Lesson 1 by @djarinlyy
The Lesson 2 by @djarinlyy
The Purest Love by @honestlywtfisgoingon
Simm!Master x Reader
Give Her Back by @deep-space-elf
Please let me know if I didn't tag something/someone properly! This took about an hour of copy 'n pasting...
Don't take the fluff or spicy labelling too strictly...if the fanfiction didn't label it specifically I improvised a bit.
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vixstarria · 4 months
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Last Sentence Challenge
I was tagged by @verai-marcel
Last sentence you wrote in a fic, count the number of words in the sentence, and tag that many people - go.
Mine is "I think I've earned a reward." - I think I can get away with 5.
P.S. More smut soon.
Tags: @spacebarbarianweird @littlejuicebox @opensorcerygames @emraev1212 @ineadhyn
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wintersongstress · 1 year
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Hello friends, it’s that time of year again ♥ I want to thank some of you for still reblogging my occasional gif sets and leaving sweet comments, for creating your own art and sharing it for the joy of others, and just for the sense of friendliness that oozes from your familiar icons. You are all such a delight to follow and I’m super grateful to be able to come onto this site and interact with you. It makes me smile and warms my heart, and I wanted to take a moment to give a shout out to my favorites. You deserve to know that your presence in talking about and sharing the things you like is valuable. Thank you all for being so wonderful. 
Happy New Year and best wishes! 🤗💖🎉🎊 
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a-d: @actuallyhansolo 🤍 // @ammihan 🤍 // @apocalypsekid //  @theashenphoenix 🤍 // @ayrennaranaaldmeri // @bonniemacfarlane // @boozerman // @dicax-asina
e-k: @fettboba // @foundynnel  // @galerion // @thegunslingerstragedy 🤍 // @halfwayriight // @the-halo-of-my-memory 🤍 // @hereticstations // // @hoovesmadeofsteel​ // @in-darker-dreams​ // @itspapillonnoir 🤍 // @jacobseed // @kazanyamaokas // 
l-o: @littlestarofthewest // @liurnia // @mary-marion // @miss--river 🤍 // @miyku // @nocticulas // @nonewingedangel // @onewingedangels  🤍
p-s:  @pagonyban 🤍 // @prairiemule // @preciousgyro  🤍 // @raccoonscity // @rivetingrosie4 🤍 // @rxkuyo // @a-shakespearean-in-paris 🤍 // @shallow-gravy 🤍 // @shandrias // @sillygamingartghost // @snowthroat // @stedebonnets 🤍 // @sternbagel 🤍 // @stonemasons // @sweeetestcurse​ 
t-z:  @tendersugarr // @tobiasrieper  🤍  // @traceylader // @ugh-my-back  // @vault21 🤍 // @verai-marcel // @vindicia  🤍
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clareguilty · 1 month
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Last Line Tag Game!
I was tagged by @kordyceps who is also in Steter hell with me 💖🥰💖🥰
My last line is from a BDSM Stetopher fic I'm working on:
A blindfold, rarely used, was folded next to their softest, gentlest paddle and a spool of silky rope. Stiles was the only one of the three of them that could handle ropes, and even then he usually preferred the padded set of cuffs.
Tagging @ivymarquis @gaeadene @moonlit-jellies @verai-marcel and (knocking on a stranger's door here) @darkisrising
No pressure but i'd love to see what ur working on 💖
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lusus--naturae · 3 months
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@illithiad @verai-marcel
If this guy gave you an astral tadpole, would you eat it?
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shootybangbang · 1 month
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WIP Tag
Tagged by @verai-marcel, @redwritr, and @readingcoco to share a line from a WIP-- thank you guys for sharing your own work! Here's a humble contribution from the upcoming Talking Bird chapter:
------
Three years ago, the streetlamp beneath Yulong’s bedroom window had still been cracked. The glow it cast had stretched a spiderwebbed shadow of fragmented glass across your bare back as you laid over his sheets. Shifting grid of black and gold, with a dark eyed girl caught in its strands. 
《Cheating bastard,》 you seethed.
《C’mon, Lee. We talked about this. 》
《I don’t care.》
《Told you before we ever got involved that I was gonna keep sleepin’ around. And that you were free to do the same. 》
《You fucked the baker’s wife.》
《And you said you weren’t the jealous type.》
《… you fucked the baker too, I was told.》
Yulong’s lip curled. He looked away, clenched his jaw to keep stifled the wince that twitched through the muscles of his face and neck. 《You know what I am. Told you that, too. Remember?》
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redwritr · 1 month
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WIP/Last Lines Tag
delighted to be tagged by @verai-marcel, @readingcoco and @cassietrn for wip/last lines, so here are a few from the last chapter (sorry; I guess brevity has never been the soul of Redbird...)
and having been treated to their recent samples/posts, as well as a taste of @twola's upcoming work, without an ounce of pressure, tagging @shootybangbang, @reddeaddufus, @cheesewedge, and @docdalas 💗
A small dust storm rose from her hooves and his boots as he turned her, planted on one heel and pivoting slowly. He brought her in close, felt her strength resist him and relax. Dodged her as she dodged with him, around left, around right, touched her shoulder, brushed her flank with his lariat coil. They stopped, skirted, and scuffed up clouds that cleaved like powder to their sweat and eyelashes. 
Gradually she let his rope curve around and lap at her fore and hind legs, over her back, at her belly. Let him dress her with that rope, tightening the loop around her hind quarters, leading her around him in a C-shape, pulling under her near foreleg and gently drawing it up, bringing her to a skittering stop on three legs, releasing her. Calm.
Dutch ambled up after breakfast, a toothpick in his teeth, and stood next to John.
“How long’s he been at it?”
“Sunup I guess.”
“Yeah sunup,” one of the stable hands said. Four of them sat up on the top rail, elbowing each other. Cocky about the work they could do in an afternoon, breaking mustangs by means of a sturdy rope and some grit, and watching this big guy who had unbuckled not one but two irons from his hips before he went in, and who stood there gentling a buckskin filly with the bushy end of a rope like he was painting her portrait. 
The only way Boadicea could take him. Daughtering this one now. Just showin you all the ways I got you.
Dutch posted up with one boot on the rail and watched, chewing his splinter while Arthur took up his jacket again, dusted it over her back, pulled it away, showed it to her. When she reeled, he got her attention back, minding her signals. She calmed, went soft in the halter and he stopped. Stepped back.
“You intending to break that filly or dance with her, cowhand?”
“She don't wanna be broke. Eyes on me, girl.” He touched her flank with his jacket and she swerved to face him. 
All them wolves out there don’t matter.
Dutch laughed. Said something to the boys on the rail and they laughed with him.
He didn’t hear because she was watching him now. 
Ain’t that right, girl.
He should’ve known there would be a catch. She took the saddle easy; too easy, he would realize, later, and love her all the more. He cinched it snug. Fed her the snaffle bit. Fastened her. 
In the settling dust he walked to her near side, gripped the saddle horn, and jostled her a few times. Jumped up and down hanging on, letting her spook and calm to his pressure and his voice. He touched his toe in the left stirrup, stood up and came back down. Stood again, let her feel his weight and the loom of him over her, and back down.
Easy there, you’re new to me too.
For a moment, she gave him the attention of all her senses. Let him keep his boot in the stirrup while he stood planted by her side wondering which of them would move first. 
Then, already feeling her power build and testing his own idiocy, he swung up on her.
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cybersmallz · 1 year
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Gush about your OCs!
tagged by the wonderful @ellie7652 🫶 thank you so much! i’m gonna go ahead and tag @itzsassha @afterdark-vp @playstationmademe @verai-marcel @katsigian 😌💜
Rules
• Post 5 facts about your OC
• Visit the #cyberpunk 2077 tag and reblog from 5 people you don’t know to spread some love! don’t forget to add some loving tags 🫶
• ofc, tag others if you can!
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PERSONALITY & CHANGES
1. V can be described as a sarcastic hardass who rarely smiles for the right reasons. She laughs at her own jokes and shits on others purely because she enjoys being a dickhead even to those close to her. She may not be the nicest but has a heart deep down beneath her cyber implants; if you’re lucky to find it you’ll come to learn that her love language is acts of service. She’s not one to stress or over think-she just does, even if that results in a heavy trigger finger. After getting stuck with Johnny’s construct, watching Jackie die, and literally getting murdered, however, her stress levels become high and anxiety begins to make its way in, causing her to have excessive amounts of heartburn and acid reflux. Her hard exterior diminishes quickly and is replaced with a vulnerable woman who actually does care about her life and the few people she managed to call friends
BACKSTORY TIDBIT
2. Vanessa’s mother, Nina, was a prostitute who also sold drugs on the side for extra eddies. She was pretty neglectful of Vanessa and left her to fend for herself from the moment she was able to feed herself. Long days, even longer nights, little V decided that the only person she could depend on was herself. This resulted in her becoming a merc in her preteens, which came surprisingly easy considering not many people thought that the little malnourished Russian girl wouldn’t have been capable of being such an avid thief and con artist. A big advantage for her to sneak around and get the job done quickly and quietly. When Vanessa turned 16, she stole her mother’s inhaler stash and sold it on the street to afford food for the week. It wasn’t long after did she find her mother’s lifeless body in their apartment’s bathtub, scavenged for parts and brutally murdered. Her death was a Scav retaliation for not being able to supply her end of the drug deal - which wouldn’t have happened if Vanessa never stole the drugs in the first place.
3. Vanessa never forgives herself with what happened to Nina, even if she wasn’t the best mother. Wretched with guilt and anger, she made getting revenge on the Scavs and firing every last bullet into their gonk brains her main priority. If it killed her, so be it, at least she made it right in the end. When she eventually found their hideout, they were coincidentally already in a firefight with the Valentinos which meant…she had absolutely no chance here - but that wasn’t going to stop her! Unfortunately, little V did not last long as one of the Scav’s bullets flew across her cheek and ripped it clean open (this is how she gets the scar on her cheek she can be seen sporting in my vp shots). The Valentinos won the fight with few casualties, one of them being Jackie Welles. The next few weeks he and Vanessa would get to know each other in the hospital, with Mama Welles growing more and more attached with each passing moment. She agreed to adopt Vanessa into her family and have her work at El Coyote Cojo for proper, clean earned cash as she healed up. Jackie quickly became a big brother figure and best friend to Vanessa which led to them teaming up for merc work…till his death
LOVE LIFE
4. Vanessa’s love life is quite the roller coaster. She considers herself pansexual, preferring the company of joy toys and casual hookups rather than investing in a serious relationship - in fact, in her 27 years of life, she never actually had one at all. She sees them as a waste of time and a recipe for vulnerability and disaster. This all changes when she is stuck with Johnny Silverhand’s construct - and falls in love probably for the first time in her life. Nothing about it was healthy, with the first notion being that johnny was, well, dead. But as time went on, those dreadful long nights became some of Vanessa’s favourites because Johnny actually listened to her. They were more alike than she ever cared to admit, and actually shared the same sense of humour and values. When Johnny and Vanessa visited his grave cite, he told her that he loved her for the first time. He already knew her answer would be the same, considering he could see inside her head and hear her thoughts. He knew before she even did, which was wild to him. It made their relationship extremely complicated, and painful, and most of all…lonely…to never kiss each other, hold each other…knowing that this road only ended in death from either side.
5. Lastly, Vanessa developed a physical relationship with Kerry not long after he learned that Johnny was inside her head. He crash landed into an infatuation with her because of his deeply routed trauma with Silverhand, though he would never admit it to either himself or V. Neither of them loved each other, or wanted it to go anywhere beyond a physical relationship…but they were both so incredibly lonely that the warmth of each other was the remedy they both needed for the time being. Late night texts and booty calls, drunken kisses and and hysterical laughs…it was like a drug for the both of them. It also pissed Johnny off which made it all the more fun for Vanessa. She felt angry she couldn’t physically be with him, so why not upset him and make him jealous over someone that could actually make her feel good?
If you made it this far and read everything, I thank you 🥲🫶 I always get nervous talking about my ocs in fear of maybe someone not liking her or disagreeing with my ideas, but yknow what? I’m just so god damn in love with Vanessa and her story that she has easily become my favourite oc 100%. Thank you for reading and have an amazing day chooms 💜
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oc meme
Inspired by @thetavolution
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B A S I C S
Full Name: Saverio Antonio Marco Aquila
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Pronouns: He/Him
O T H E R
Family: Marco Aquila (father), Maria Aquila (mother), Giorgio Aquila (uncle), Teodora Aquila (aunt), Bruja Aquila (cousin), Dracon Aquila (cousin), Fortuna Aquila (cousin), Giacomo Aquila (grandfather)
Birthplace: Neverwinter
Job: Guard Captain
Phobia(s): Acrophobic
Guilty Pleasure: Writing poetry and candle making
Hobbies: Woodwork, masonry, weapon upkeep, women (his words, not mine)
M O R A L S
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Sins: Lust, Pride
Virtues: Loyalty, Valiance, Dependable
T H I S  O R  T H A T
Introvert / Extrovert
Organized / Disorganized
Close-minded / Open-minded
Calm / Anxious / Restless
Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between
Cautious / Reckless / In between
Patient / Impatient / In between
Outspoken / Reserved / In between
Leader / Follower / Flexible
Empathetic / Unempathetic / In between
Optimist / Pessimist / Realist
Traditional / Modern / In between
Hard-working / Lazy
R E L A T I O N S H I P S
OTP: Saverio/Shadowheart (in game), Saverio/@thetavolution's Ingrid
Acceptable Ships: Karlach
OT3: None
Brotp: Yes -
- Lae'zel: The two have the same level of fighting spirit, especially once she becomes more comfortable with him.
- Karlach: They spar, drink, and talk for hours while playing various games.
Tagging @gehrmans-apprentice, @verai-marcel
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