Happy Birthday, love! *smishes* May your day be filled with cookies, gifts and loads of hugs. :) I hope you have an amazing day! ♥
The most amazing makesometime is currently bringing another TWT piece to life and requested a little, ah, food for her muse. xD This is the excerpt she gave me:
Miles: “You think I don’t want to fight for her? I would goddamn jump at the chance.”
Nathaniel: “Then why don’t you?”
Miles: “Because, dear brother. She’d still pick you. You know it, I know it. Hell, she knows it. It’s the fucking elephant in every room we’re in together and I’m sick of it.”
(I am on FIRE this morning. I might even get this done today :O) You are so freaking awesome. ♥
Wash knows she has no chance against both of them at the same time (hell, it’s already hard enough to spar with just one of them) but she is not above fighting dirty and when the Commander and the Colonel have her down on the mat, she goes pliant beneath their hands, arches her back and moans softly, causing both men to loosen their hold on her, groaning against her skin, and it is then she strikes back.
Guns and T/W/T is going to be the death of me.
Wash feels them standing behind her, the Commander on her right, the Colonel on her left side, their heat wrapping around her, making her shiver, but it is the moment they both draw the guns, pointing them at the enemy, and step closer, their chests brushing her back, that the first flash of desire rushes through her.
And another one because I want to. xD
Hiding in the shadows, they are standing chest to back and chest to chest, the Colonel’s gun digging into her left hip, the Commander’s holster resting just beneath her right breast, and when they hear voices coming their way, the brothers step that one inch closer, pulling her back further into the dark, and Wash sucks in a sharp breath, her body going rigid, as their weapons shift just right.
Sometimes Nathaniel really hates his brother, wants to punch him, just to shut him up for good, to stop making Wash blush a beautiful shade of red as Miles runs his fingers along the three scars at the right side of his head and, with a smirk on his lips, calls them Wash’s Mark since it had been her who stitched him up.
Jim isn’t one for art, never has been, but the way the early sunlight falls across their bodies, paints them in different shades of gold, the Commander’s hand cupping Wash’s neck in a distinctively possessive manner as he kisses her, a flash of tongue and teeth, the Colonel’s arm slung low over her waist, moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth trails along shoulder, makes Jim wonder if he hasn’t been missing something out.