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sfznyxio · 1 month ago

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-ˋˏ FLOW ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. with your auto workshop at risk of closing down, your best friend kira ryosuke offers to introduce you to people who are definitely in need of your high quality services: underground street racers of blue lock, whose obsessions are winning the races. however, your arrival at the track makes them think otherwise.

CHARACTERS. isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, kunigami rensuke, barou shouei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, yukimiya kenyu, otoya eita, karasu tabito, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

CONTENT. f!reader. street racer au. fluff. 1.3k wc. rewrite of flow at my old main blog @/verxsyon. reader is labeled as “kira (ryosuke’s) girl” because they are always seen together. possessive behavior (barou). mentions of violence (shidou & rin).

VERA. what’s better than egoist soccer players? egoist street racers. you know what could be better than egoist street racers? the reonagi divorce arc in hd— oops, lmao. you know what could be better than the reonagi divorce arc in hd? season 2 premiere this week and sae has more screen time! i also bought a reo figure in his high school soccer uniform to celebrate, and it was the last one too. lucky!

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ISAGI YOICHI

the heart. quickly becomes popular for his freshness to the arena. isagi is a good friend of kira, so there’s one more person you can trust. while in his care as kira meets up with his team, he gives you a tour of blue lock to keep you entertained. sweet and kind, he fetches you water and asks if you feel alright because the racers have been ogling at you since you arrived. interrupted by an uproar caused by a racer who is standing on his car with paint all over his body, isagi is beyond irritated.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. BACHIRA MEGURU

the monster. obsessed with spray paint and loves decorating his car with it. bachira is terrible at being an artist. playful and cheerful outside, he holds amateur art performances for the crowd before races to get them pumped up. his gaze makes isagi flinch when he is told by the latter to quiet down. you can still hear the warning of staying close to someone you trust. he emits a dangerous aura, a strong first impression. bachira feels the same when he’s up at your face, studying you intensely.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. CHIGIRI HYOMA

the surge. the fastest racer in blue lock, securing victories at the speed of light. as chigiri approaches bachira to scold him for scaring newcomers, his beauty is so unreal that you don’t even realize you’ve been staring at him. he apologizes for his friend’s antics, justifying that he acts like this before a highly anticipated race. unfortunately, chigiri is not in this one due to a leg injury but luckily has someone helping him to stay in shape: an orange-haired racer waiting at the garage in his car.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KUNIGAMI RENSUKE

the hero. kunigami has the highest endurance in blue lock, outlasting all racers in long-distance races. he acts like an older brother as he is very protective and solves issues in a civil manner, balancing out his friends’ hot-blooded personalities. kira trusts him enough to take you home as your best friend has matters to take care of. you thank kunigami for the ride and being nice to you. embarrassed, he says he’ll see you at the race and nothing else before zooming away.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. BAROU SHOUEI

the king. barou is the racer that kira complains about for as long as you can remember. he’s selfish and arrogant based on what you gathered so far from kira, claiming that the venue is his throne and the next race is his for the taking. his attitude fits your expectations; you already dislike him upon the first encounter. barou has the audacity to “claim” you as his prize when he wins this race. you’ll definitely follow kira’s advice to avoid him for sure when you see this guy again.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. MIKAGE REO

the heir. reo considers kira to be one of the best in the arena, besides his best friend, nagi, of course. a master of negotiations due to his status as the future chairman of a corporation, he hopes you will find his terms reasonable and collaborate with him as a business partner. but what he doesn’t expect is you playing hard to get. a pretty rich boy does deserve wild goose chase, making his pursuit exhilarating just like races at blue lock. nagi thinks that what he is doing is a waste of time.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. NAGI SEISHIRO

the genius. most people are happy with their achievements, but nagi does not care less as they’re essentially reo’s efforts. all he cares about are his video games and his cactus until you arrive to the arena with kira. all of a sudden, he attempts to impress you; “attempts” being the keyword. yet reo does the work once again by introducing him to you as his precious treasure and brags that you will see nagi’s full potential at the upcoming race. nagi doesn’t find you to be a bother, so he hopes to see you again.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. YUKIMIYA KENYU

the model. his charm is the focal point of his character, which drives the audience nuts. curious by nature, yukimiya wonders about the qualities you possess other than being “kira ryosuke’s girl” and how you manage to get the likes of barou, who treats everyone like trash, and nagi, who thinks of only going home, at your whim. seeing you teach nagi about car anatomy allows him to introduce himself. he believes that there is something special about you, but a friend of his thinks so otherwise.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. OTOYA EITA

the ninja. otoya claims to be not like his fellow racers and prefers to stay in the shadows. he doesn’t see you as an angel sent by god in the form of a mechanic to fix their cars, not understanding why everyone is smitten by you. he isn’t interested in interacting with you at first, however, that is proven wrong when yukimiya makes you laugh at a silly joke. it’s rude to make you feel unwelcome, so he decides to give you a chance. a crow- like racer mocks him for thinking he doesn’t find you attractive one bit.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KARASU TABITO

the assassin. all about good vibes and good times, karasu does not want anyone to act “mediocre” around you. many newcomers are notorious for never setting foot in this place after their first round. he is relieved to hear that you came at your own volition thanks to kira. majority of racers you met so far are nice to you, so he doesn’t need to worry about making an impromptu spiel of why blue lock is great. if you think he’s too friendly for your taste, what about the guy stalking you right now.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. SHIDOU RYUSEI

the joker. unrestrained both in words and action, shidou goes about his day and does everything as he pleases. judging by how yukimiya, otoya, and karasu are quick to shield you, he’s bad news. the altercation grabs kunigami’s attention, who he has massive beef with. being “kira’s girl” doesn’t phase him, nor your best friend going after his head for being near you. one of his rivals isn’t amused by the ongoing circus act, as if he didn’t break his nose in the previous race.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ITOSHI RIN

the puppeteer. rin has a score to settle with his older brother, sae, who is betting on shidou for the next race. physical violence is a usual solution to settle arguments, and it’s worse for rin to be involved in another fight with shidou, especially before a race that determines his fate and prove to his brother that he’s the best of the best. he doesn’t spare a glance at you or ask if you’re alright, as sae walks into the garage to check out the commotion.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ITOSHI SAE

the prodigy. sae is one of the top eleven racers at the underground. you now know that he is betting on shidou for the upcoming race. rin does not seem pleased. even if it’s not obvious at face value, everyone can tell that there’s bad blood between the brothers by the intense atmosphere created from their staring contest. sae looks at you then at his brother, who he scoffs at for his lack of concern for you. for a girl to experience this in the first week, he’ll stop by your shop as reparation after the race.

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hero-dualies-3 · 3 months ago

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@greenyball @footlongdingledong @evil-gang and anyone else who sees this

Picrew tag game!! Make your favorite OC, or make one of your favorite characters if you don't have an OC!

I got as close as I could to my favorite OC—Ash!

Tagging: @keirawantstocry @productofaritual @luminouslotuses @weird-coincidence-friend @watermelonfrog2 annnd anyone else! :D

Totally didn't forget the link.. anyone who already did it, redo if you want, idc :)

Here: picrew

#this is a fairly old oc (character for a dnd campaign that never started)#this is aloe vera and e got. really i’m not sure whether it counts as isekai or just taking on a sketchy job #but e got stuck in an afterlife doing shit for its god #e just wants to go back to eir previous party (who e was also involved queerplatonically with. polyamory win)#the thing about me and dnd is that i love the main plot. so all my characters are either really tired and trying to speedrun their way out #or have a bit of a hero complex #fun fact those heart shaped glasses are canon to their design. a gift from their party #have i mentioned that e’s a librarian barbarian. because i thought it was a funny combo #ANYWAY.#i do stuff

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shdo-xplosion · 1 year ago

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SLIMEBALL!AIZAWA X READER

Warnings: dubcon, explicit content, aizawa wrestles with his conscience but his dick wins, aloe vera as lube, talk of when reader was his student, almost somnophilia, fingering, p in v, creampie, cum play, fem-bodied reader, reader is white-coded, described as turning pink/red from sunburn

Word Count: 2.1k

Notes: my contribution to the Wet Hot Slimeball Summer collab! thank you to @bastardblvd for letting me join! i’ve been wanting to write aizawa for a little while now and this just possessed me. hope everyone has fun with it, and make sure to check out the masterlist for more slimy content!

He should wake you up, give you a nudge where you lay in your beach towel, but Shouta can’t bring himself to. Not when he has such a perfect view of your body, the arch of your back, the curve of your ass, the way your tits squish out from beneath you, your skimpy top barely doing anything to cover them.

Fuck, he should wake you up. Your skin is already turning pink. You’re going to have painful burn lines that will peel and turn into sexy tan lines, and Shouta has to shake his head to get the image out of his mind.

His sick mind. There must be something wrong with him. You were his student for fuck’s sake, and sure, you haven’t been for a few years now. Now you’re a big shot pro, one of the top 10, but he can still remember you sitting in the back row of his classroom, mouthy, obnoxious, still learning to control your quirk.

He remembers having to tell you to shut your mouth every single day, a mouth that he finds himself staring at more and more, lips parted and pouty, and Shouta wants to slide his fingers between them, feel your tongue on his fingerprints.

But he refrains, just bites the inside of his cheek and looks out at the waves.

The beach houses are nice, other pros having rented a few out for a nice little getaway. There are still heroes in the city to protect civilians, nothing to worry about. All Shouta has to do is relax.

He’s in a house with Hizashi, All Might, Snipe, and you, and his patience is running thin. Between Toshinori’s loud ass voice and Hizashi forgetting to turn on his hearing aids, Shouta is beginning to think that maybe he does deserve a little treat. Maybe he should indulge.

No. No. Ex-student. And the media would have a field day if anything ever got leaked. Not worth it. Definitely not worth it.

But hours later finds everyone back in their respective houses, resting after a long day in the sun. Hizashi and Toshinori are passed out and Snipe has retired to his room, probably also sleeping, leaving Shouta tired but awake, listening to you hiss every time you move.

“Jesus, I haven’t had a sunburn like this since I was a kid,” you whine.

“Should’ve put on more sunscreen,” Shouta replies. Or he could’ve just woken you up. Been an actual good person instead of perving on you in your bikini.

“I meant to! But the sun felt nice, and the waves were so soothing, and I just…”

“Dozed off. Just let all those UV rays cook you.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t need a lecture, Aizawa Sensei,” you scoff, and the way the old title makes Shouta’s dick twitch in his sweatpants. Fuck.

“You’re right, you’re right. How about I go pick up some aloe vera, then?” he offers. He needs to put some space between the two of you.

“What, I’ll stop whining?”

“Maybe,” he smirks.

Once he pulls on a shirt Shouta leaves and makes his way down to the little shop at the end of the street. All it sells is beach stuff, but lucky him, that’s all he needs.

One bottle of overpriced aloe vera and a meaningless chat with the cashier, and Shouta is on his way back to the house. He wonders if you’ll lather it on in front of him. Maybe you’ll even ask him to help.

The lightweight shirt you had put on earlier must be too much for your raw skin because you’ve gotten rid of it, walking around in a t-shirt bra and little shorts. Have you gotten even redder?

“Oh, thank god.”

“Let me throw it in the freezer for a few minutes,” Shouta says, pulling the bottle out of your reach when you practically lunge for it. “It’ll feel better cold.”

“But Aizawaaa,” you pout, sounding a lot like a petulant child, crossing your arms only to whimper and drop them back to your hips.

“It’ll be worth it. I promise.” Without giving it much thought he hooks a finger under your chin, thumb flicking your pushed-out bottom lip. When you don’t recoil from the touch, he fights to keep from pulling you closer.

Unfortunately, you don’t ask him for help when you apply the cold cream to your skin, but Shouta is granted a look at your hardened nipples through the material covering them, the icy aloe making you break out in goosebumps.

“Thank you for getting this,” you say genuinely. “It’s gonna make my nap so much easier.”

Shouta has always been good at hiding his emotions, so you aren’t able to see the disappointment he feels as he watches you retreat to your room, the green bottle in hand.

It’s fine though because an hour later he finds himself creeping in after you, eyes locked on your sleeping form. You’re lying on your stomach, likely to avoid the burn on your back that you weren’t able to reach. No blankets are covering you, the heat from your skin keeping you well warmed.

The bottle of aloe is on the nightstand, and Shouta reaches for it—room temperature now, and squirts some in his hand.

He’s doing you a favor, he reasons with himself. Your back is an ugly (beautiful) red, and he wants to help soothe you.

His hands on you don’t wake you immediately, just make you sigh and snuggle further into your pillow. Shouta gently rubs the remedy over you, as careful as possible. You feel so nice under his palms, so warm and smooth, the dip of your back calling to him. He could make you arch further, make your hips roll and buck. Your shorts ride low, waistband just above the swell of your ass, and Shouta wants nothing more than to rip them off, but he resists. Instead, he rubs up your sides, slowly and purposefully, fingers barely dipping beneath the elastic of your bra so that he grazes the sides of your tits.

That makes you stir, eyes slowly opening as tired little noises make their way out of your throat.

“”zawa?” you ask quietly, and his self-control breaks.

“Shh, just relax,” he tells you in a low voice. “It’s okay, m’just taking care of you.”

He sees your eyebrows furrow, and you try to roll over, but his strong hand presses against the small of your back to keep you from turning.

He unclasps your bra, squirts a generous amount of aloe between your shoulder blades, and begins working again. At first he thinks you believe that his actions truly are innocent. You can’t see or feel how hard he is in his sweats, how precum is already beading at his tip.

That belief is shattered when he moves his hands upward again, this time sliding under you to cup your tits.

“Aizawa!” You push yourself so that you’re sitting up awkwardly, but all it does is make it easier for him to grope you and press his lips to your shoulder.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t want this,” he drawls, smirking into your skin. “I haven’t forgotten about your little schoolgirl crush.” Because as much as you may have annoyed him in class, you still looked at him with hearts in your eyes. It was easy for him to deduce that all your smartass comments were just to get his attention.

“That doesn’t mean…” You trail off when he pinches both of your nipples, pulling a quiet moan from you.

“Just once, sweetheart. You owe me after teasing me the last few days.”

“I wasn’t…”

“Walking around in your short little dresses, prancing around with these pretty tits falling out of your bikini tops.” He gives you a tight squeeze before letting go of the plump flesh in order to trail his hands down further. “Let me have you just once.”

You only resist a little when he pushes you back down on the bed, face down again. You’ve lost your bra, and Shouta is quick to pull your cotton shorts down your legs, revealing that you’re wearing nothing underneath them.

He groans, groping your ass, bouncing your cheeks before spreading them to show your folds.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he growls, running a finger down your slit as far as he can. You’re already wet for him—such a good girl—but he still wants to get you slicked up and messy.

Shouta grabs the bottle of aloe vera once again, covering his fingers with it then slowly pushing two of them inside of you.

“Ahh, fuck, ‘zawa,” you gasp. With your cheek against the pillows, Shouta can see the way your mouth opens, eyes wide as they flick around to whatever you can see. Your body is tense, but you aren’t fighting him, thighs parting a little more.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he purrs. You don’t respond, just bite your bottom lip. Doesn’t matter. As long as you let him touch you he’ll be a happy man.

Pumping his fingers, Shouta stares at your reddened skin and gets the idea to mark you, presses his fingertips into your flesh then pulls them away, admiring the light circles they leave behind. Mesmerized, he grips your ass with one hand, squeezing to create those same marks just under the curve.

“Fuck, you’re sexy.” He punctuates it with a spank that makes you jolt, but you quickly melt when he curls his fingers a certain way. “You ready for my cock, baby? I’ll be gentle. I know you’re sore.”

A lie. He slicks himself up with more aloe then thrusts into your heat all at once, stretching you on his fat cock and holding you in place when you squirm.

“Y-you said… nnfuck.”

“I know what I said, but your pussy is just too—” he snaps his hips back and forth, eyes rolling in his head. “Too sweet. Can’t help it.”

Shouta tugs you up so that you’re on your knees, back pressed to him, and he knows the friction is hurting you, the coarse hair on his chest chafing your raw skin, but at this angle he can reach in front of you to play with your neglected clit, massaging it with two fingers.

“‘zawa let me… at least let me ride you,” you plead.

It’s a tempting thought, but… “you feel so good like this, though. So warm, taking my cock so well.”

He presses a hand low on your tummy, swears he can feel his dick moving, but he gets distracted when you let your head hang back to rest on his shoulder. Opportunity presents itself with your neck so open, and Shouta wraps his fingers around your throat, just barely squeezing.

He’s so deep inside you, cockhead nudging your cervix. Ohh, he wants to fuck you so full of his cum, wants to see you sprawled on the mattress dripping with him, wants to see you ruined.

Words stick in your throat, but your lips are moving like you want to say something. Shouta pants in your ear, “what is it, baby? What do you want?”

“Wanna—wanna cum,” you whimper, and now Shouta knows that you’ve fully accepted him. You’re not mad at him for fucking you, no. You want this. You want him.

“Cum, then,” he growls, nipping your earlobe. “Cum on my cock, I wanna feel your pussy—”

Your back arches painfully, sensitive skin pulling taut as you cry out and cream all over him. Feeling your cunt contract around him, Shouta fucks into you harder and deeper, using you like a rag doll as he gets lost in your climax, climbing to his own.

He’s not sure he’s ever cum so hard in his life, thick lines shooting from his dick and coating your guts. Shouta bites into your shoulder hard enough for you to yelp and try to slap him away, but all of his muscles are so tight that even his jaw is locked. His hips stutter as strings of white keep shooting into you, your used cunt so full of him that it starts leaking back out of you.

When he pulls out, Shouta scoops some of his cum out of you, dazed as he smears it down the pink of your spine.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask breathlessly, falling forward onto the mattress and glaring.

Shouta shrugs his shoulders. “Aloe works just as good as lube. Maybe cum’ll work well as aloe.”

“That’s disgusting.”

So is he. But at least he finally learned to relax on his vacation.

2023©️shdo-xplosion. please do not plagiarize or repost my work to any other platforms.

#aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #tw dubcon

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vera-deville · 1 year ago

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Vera's Hauntober 2023

Day 2 - Leaves (Hitoshi Shinsou)

09/14/2023 - 09/16/2023

Pairing: Hitoshi Shinsou x Reader

Word Count: 420

Warnings: Reader's a bit on the short in this one!

Gender: Gender Neutral

Taglist: @animusicnerd, @leonistic, @pyroxeene, @savanaclaw1996, @thequeenoffishburrito, @ellssbellss, @reshi-galaxy, @hanafubukki, @hitoshislover

"Ah, Hitoshi! I'm back!

Shinsou bites back a laugh, seeing Y/N carrying a multitude of bags, and a bunch of mini pumpkins (trying not to drop a single one). Y/N gave him a pained look, despite the cheery greeting before waddling inside the house to relieve their arms of the heavy weights that burdened them.

Leaning on his rake, Shinsou finally let out a low chuckle after Y/N went in the house. He wouldn't even bother trying to ignore the way his heart seemed to stutter every time he saw them.

Within minutes, Y/N was back, bright smile (and more importantly, without bags and things obscuring their figure), holding another rake.

"Either the neighbor's maple hates us, or one of us pissed off some wind deity or something in our past lives. My money lies on you," Y/N teased, tilting their head in the direction of the offending tree.

Shinsou rolled his eyes before continuing his long arduous mission of raking all the leaves that had fallen onto their property. "If anyone pissed off a wind deity, it's probably the person who's currently smacking the air with their rake," Shinsou teased back.

Y/N retaliated with a gentle jab to Shinsou's backside, and from there, it evolved into a sparring session Maki Zenin would be jealous of. With a jab to the left, and a block upwards, and a split when the rake cam just a little too close for comfort.

Y/N could see the excitement bubbling in Shinsou's eyes, the play fighting giving him a good change of pace. With their respective careers gaining traction and thus causing them to become more busy and not have as much time to each other or themselves, having little moments like this, ones where the only two people in the world who mattered were them and only them (though rare), were most welcome.

With one final move, Shinsou had beaten Y/N in their little sparring match, and because Y/N was so petty, they swiped their legs under Shinsou's causing him to fall next to them.

The two laughed heartily, throwing red and golden and glowing leaves at each other, feeling like children once again.

"We're going to have to clean all this up again, you know?" Y/N said.

"Lucky for me, I've got you helping me," Shinsou begins, sweet grin on his face as he leaned towards Y/N.

Peck.

Yeah, they could totally do anything as long as they were together.

Author's Note: That's Day 2 of Vera's Hauntober! This fic is admittedly shorter than the previous one, but it was still pretty fun to write. 29 more days left!

See you in the next fic!

Masterlist Hauntober 2023 Masterlist

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ewingstan · 9 months ago

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Ward thoughts post battle-involving-throwing-people-at-mercenaries:

I think that thematically, Ward would be stronger if Sveta-as-Tress actually hurt someone with her tentacles without it being brushed aside as alright or necessary. We've had her almost hurt Victoria a few times, and accidentally harming a mercenary—but one who was actively shooting at a child, so it was fine. She should’ve hurt someone and have it not be fine by this point.

I recently got far enough into arc ten to reach Victoria accidentally break a man’s arm, purposefully throw a lot of non-capes at enemies, and use her costume spikes to try and stab at someone's neck while internally ranting about wanting them to carry scars and bruises. And I think all this works for expressing one of the big themes of her character: Victoria is unable to not get involved in situations. The same chapter has her telling Crystal that she can't see herself not getting involved in Numerous times its suggested that this trait, which we'd usually regard as heroic and which is being applied to one of the more archetypal "hero" characters wildbow's written, often leads to Victoria making situations worse. She's a blunt hammer, and oftentimes swinging a hammer at problems will just break things. Problems have escalated unnecessarily, people who shouldn’t be in the field are taking bullets, it works as a theme. It pairs with the setup of The City as a place desperately trying to remake the world as it was without really dealing with the problems inherent to the post-apocalypse. Victoria seems to have lost most of her faith in various institutions, but still single-mindedly works in their interest, acting according to the law over what she thinks is right, because its the only way she knows how to act and she can't not act.

And to a certain extent "keeps getting involved despite it being bad for them and others" is an aspect of all the members of Breakthrough: Tristan keeps trying to be a hero despite it previously having contributed massively to the Vera twin's crisis. Kenzie trying so hard to involve herself with others and help them routinely leads to her hurting them, and her drive to become a hero and earn the affection of those around her has led to her taking two bullets. Rain keeps trying to redeem himself, but he's only just broken out of a Christian Identity compound and probably isn't the first person you'd want to have power over people. Ashley needing to be a big deal led to her spiral as a failed warlord, and re-entering the field as an undercover agent led to her killing a dude.

Now take Sveta. She is a person in a relatively fragile shell who, if that shell is destroyed, is at risk of harming everyone around her. And she is routinely throwing herself in the situations most likely to destroy that shell, often with lots of civilians nearby. This is obviously a bad idea, but if you subscribe to my reading of Ward as having "throwing yourself into a situation in a way you're not equipped to help with is harmful" as a central theme, then it works. But it would work a lot better if she actually hurt someone she shouldn't have while hero-ing.

(thanks to @n0brainjustvibes for pointing out the similarities between Kenzie and Victoria).

#leo reads ward #wardblr #wildbow #parahumans #sveta karelia #victoria dallon #leo says

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assortedseaglass · 1 year ago

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Injury Detail, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Word Count: 6.1K

October 1940

The bombardment started the second he rounded the corner.

“Got time to play?”

“Maybe later, Joseph.” Joseph Mason, his older brother Albert and little sister Betty ran along the ginnel in Tom’s wake. A few of the younger children, which were Mrs Mason’s Tom didn’t know, struggled to keep up on their chubby legs.

“Haven’t you got anything else to wear?”

Betty shushed her brother. “It’s his uniform!”

“Well?” Joseph ignored her. “Haven’t you?”

“Free sweets and tram tickets with the uniform, Joseph.” Tom continued ahead, his little battalion of children trotting along beside him. He smiled.

“What’s that?” Betty pointed to the silver coin pinned to his navy shirt.

“Distinguished Service Medal.”

“Are you a hero?” Albert suddenly seemed interested. Tom smirked.

“Always was, always will be.” Thank God Bess wasn’t here to hear him say that. Or Albie. He’d have laughed himself into next week.

“What you doing here then?” said Betty.

“Hitler sunk my ship, gotta find me a new one.”

“Did you kill any Germans?” Albert was still awed by Tom as he tried to keep up.

“Loads.” Tom said, turning on his heel. The children stopped abruptly and stared up at him. A wry grin quirked the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Killed a few kids an’ all.”

They shuffled back in fear. Mrs Mason told them to keep away from Tom Bennett before the war. Now he was back, and he’d actually killed people! Joseph found his quavering voice. “What for?”

“Asking too many questions.” Tom left them behind in the ginnel and turned into the street. The smile faded from his face. The kit bag on his shoulder fell to the floor and, for a brief moment, his mind stilled. The house. What had happened to the house? Why was there rubble across the road? His mind sped up, images flashing like a zoetrope through his mind.

“Lois?” he croaked, running to the house. “Dad!?” His feet carried him up the pile of bricks scattered outside the front door, and he peered into the kitchen. The table and chairs had splintered, fragments of them remaining, and he saw it. The bomb. Its inactive shell lying before the fireplace. Pressing his face against the little glass that remained in the window, Tom looked up. His father’s iron bedframe dangled precariously from the hole in the kitchen ceiling, and above it, the cold and grey Manchester sky stared back at him.

Tom slipped as he took a step back. His chest was rising rapidly, the panic that accompanied him every day since the Exeter awakening every nerve. Blood pumped through his fingers. He balled his fists a few times to regain their feeling. Find them. He was as untethered here as he was at sea. Find them. An image, Vera in her little cot, gazing up at the ceiling as it came crashing down around her, flashed into his eyes and he rubbed it away. Find them. He slid down the rubble pile and before he’d taken his first step towards the abandoned kit bag, terror froze him once more.

The Vaughn house. It was intact. Still standing, but the windows were boarded with black-painted wood. Tom hammered on the door. “Fergal? Dot?” He waited. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a whisper.

“Fuck.” The word hissed from his mouth in panic. He grabbed his kit bag and raced to the only place he could think of. The hospital. If anything’s happened, they’ll be at the hospital. And Bess – fuck – Bess will be on shift. She would have been on shift, why would she be in Longsight? Please let her have been on shift.

“They found you a ship then?” Joseph shouted with a smile as Tom ran past. He didn’t hear. All he could think about was his family. His little family, shrinking. I can’t lose anyone else, not after mum. Not after Vic. Not after Albie. Already, the world felt smaller as he ran towards the Royal Infirmary. Through the parks, ginnels and scrapyards, the world was the hiss of his breath, the thundering of his heart and thoughts of his family. He rounded into the dockyard, sprinting towards the canal bridge that led to the city’s centre. The dockyard.

In an instant he changed direction, pelting along the dockside between engineers and labourers. Some tipped their caps to him, offering their thanks and “welcome back”, others hissed at him to get out of the way. Still, Tom thought of only one thing.

“Fergal?” He called as he pushed through the crowd of workmen. “Fergal Vaughn? Does anyone know where I can find Fergal Vaughn?”

“Tom?” The rasped Cork brogue cut through the clatter of metal. Tom launched himself at the squat man in relief, his arms wrapping around Fergal’s broad shoulders. Fergal barely had time to comprehend this out of character display before Tom pulled back and unleashed a tirade of questions.

“The house-I-I went home and the house-” Fergal placed his hands on Tom shoulders to calm him but the young man continued. “Bess? Bess? Is she ok? And Dot? And-”

“They’re all fine, my boy. Just fine.” Fergal rubbed his shoulders soothingly. “It was the same strike as what got your place. Only blew the windows out, thank the Lord.”

“And Lois and Dad? And the baby? Where are they? I-I don’t know where to go,” Tom’s voice cracked, thinking of his childhood home destroyed, the last place that held any concrete memories of his mother. Through his panic, he saw a piece of Fergal’s lightness dissipate. The round and reddened face of Fergal Vaughn, the man Tom had known since childhood, displayed that one thing he had never seen cross it before. Pity.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Fergal said softly, taking Tom by the hand to sit between the metal sleepers and tell him everything.

Bess was in no mood to stop and chat. Sister Stern had given her a bollocking for not changing the beds quickly, and Joan was in a foul mood because the soldier she was seeing had dumped her unceremoniously. So when she approached Carver Mills to see Mrs Russo waving, her cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in the air, Bess groaned. The silk scarf wrapped about Mrs Russo’s head took flight on the autumn wind and bustled towards Bess’ feet, and she knew a conversation was unavoidable.

“Ta, Bess.” Mrs Russo said brightly, holding her hand out for the scarf.

“Hiya,” Bess rubbed her eyes and fussed with her keys.

“Had a good shift?” Mrs Russo’s voice was offensively loud.

“Yes, fine.” Bess shifted uncomfortably under Mrs Russo’s watchful gaze and tried to squeeze past the round woman to reach the door.

“I’m expecting best behaviour from you girls while I’m away at my daughter’s,” Mrs Russo said, tying the scarf around her permed hair. “Caught Joan trying to sneak in that new beau of hers-”

Bess pushed the door open wearily. “They aren’t together anymore.” Mrs Russo paused her bustling.

“Poor girl. I’ll see if I can get some chocolate at the corner shop. Try and cheat my ration book.” She winked and tottered away. “Ta-ra, Bess.”

The door to the old mill swung shut heavily behind Bess, and she trudged up the stone stairs towards her flat. A glint of light cut the gloomy stairwell in two, and Helen poked her head out of the door to her own flat.

“Bess! A few of us are going to The Crown tonight for a lock in, do you want to-” She stopped as Bess turned to face her. “Christ, you look awful. Tough day?” Bess could do naught but nod. “Tell you what. You stay home and rest, I’ll take Joan. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and all that. There’s bound to be a desperate soldier looking for an easy girl.” She laughed and closed the door.

A moment later and Bess was in the welcome peace of her little home. Smalls were strung across the kitchen on a length of rope. The morning’s empty cup of tea still sat on the rickety table beside an old copy of Vogue, the christening dress she was making for Vera abandoned on the armchair by the window. Since the start of the war, fabric was hard to come by, lace and silk especially. Douglas let Bess take a cutting from Marie’s wedding dress. She wanted something from each side of the family, and parting Robina from her store of antique lace had been a challenge, but she persevered. Still, the gown was almost complete. Bess removed her nurse’s wimple and placed it by the garment, running her fingers over the ivory silk. Darling Douglas. The christening couldn’t come soon enough. After everything, Lois needed some happiness. It would be even better with Tom on leave. Bess’ heart skipped and she padded to the bedroom. She perched by her simple vanity, a mirror balanced on a school writing desk, kicked off her shoes and took the stack of Tom’s letters out from the drawer.

October 16th can’t come soon enough. Lois’ food, Cora and Dot making a fuss. Little Vera and you.

The last letter was dated early September. Bess knew Tom couldn’t write all the time. He was either too busy onboard or, on occasion, they were prevented from writing during particular missions. Her only knowledge that he was ok were the continued reports of the Navy’s skirmishes on the wireless and in the newspaper. The HMS Keith had sunk, but Lois received a telegram that Tom was fine and awaiting the next ship home. Bess looked at the calendar on her wall. October 15th. Tomorrow. God willing, he’d be here with her, tomorrow. Instinctively, her hand reached for the photograph of Tom, now propped against the mirror. Every morning and every night, he watched her in sepia as she dressed and undressed. She kissed it and, placing it back, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Helen was right. She looked awful. The swift removal of her wimple caused tufts of the hair to stick up at odd angles. The uniform she wore was bloodied and dirty. Her hands, hard now from hours work at the hospital, were grubby. She wiped them on her face. Her dark eyes were framed by circles of purple and grey, and her usually plump cheeks were gaunt and pale. The only thing that remained were her full and pink lips. Against the dullness of her skin, they looked garish. Bess sighed and one by one removed her hair pins. Watching her hair come undone, in some places curled from the pins, others straight and frizzy, she wondered what it was that had so changed the Longsight boys towards her. How she went from “witch” to something desirable. What drove Walter Watson from bullying her to forcing himself upon her behind the Palais.

It wasn’t as though she had changed all that much from those difficult years to now. When presented with the option to speak or remain silent, Bess always chose the latter. That is, unless someone cast insult over her chosen few. Then, as Cora said, “there’ll be none so fierce as Bess on judgement day”. She wasn’t as kind as Cora, with her thoughtful gestures and selflessness. Nor did she have her gentle charm and beauty. Dot, on the other hand, was an entity unto her own design. Despite her tendency for the flighty and sudden outbursts of judgement, wherever Dot went, the sun seemed to follow. Funny and light, the world seemed brighter in her company. Bess still stared at her reflection. What did she bring? A haughty quietness that most found intimidating? Her use as a seamstress and pianist? Over her shoulder, she caught sight of the photograph pinned to the wall by her bed.

It was at Albie’s birthday celebration in the summer. Dot had taken it with the camera Harry gave Bess in the spring. In it, Tom and Bess stood side by side. His arm was gripped tightly around her middle, pulling her to him and highlighting the slightness of her waist and fullness of her hips. The blouse she wore, tucked into her slacks, curved around her breasts. At her ear, Tom was whispering something sinful; Bess could tell by the girlish giggle captured in celluloid. For the first time, she was embarrassed by the image. Her womanhood was so wantonly on display. So, that’s what the boys saw in her, that summer she came back from Manchester.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn. That little freak from school.”

Vomit rose to her mouth as the memory of stale smoke and alcohol flooded her nose. Bess’ eyes snapped from the image to her reflection. Gaunt face, dark eyes, grey skin.

“Then you came back from Manchester with this. And these-”

Bess rubbed her hand across the bodice of her uniform. Her chest felt tight. Heavy and not her own.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

The memory of Walter’s assault on her was plaguing Bess of late. With Tom at war and Douglas-. And Douglas-. Her two defenders were gone. At night, alone when she imagined Tom with her and her hand slid beneath her nightdress, Bess recalled the way his neck strained as he screamed at the man. The crack of his fist against skin. But no sooner had the memory of Tom’s dominance warmed her cheeks, chest, thighs, was Walter’s sweaty face swimming into view and ruining her bliss.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

Her near lifeless eyes blinked back at her in the worn mirror and, body humming with hatred, she pushed herself away from her reflection. The stool fell backward with a thunk onto the wooden floor and Bess stood motionless. The day had been full of misery at every turn. Bloodied soldiers to be sewn back together. Wrecked buildings pouring onto Manchester’s streets. Her own self-loathing. Too tired to drag her body to bed, Bess hovered at the centre of her room, lulled into an imitation of sleep somewhere between lucidity and nightmare.

Downstairs, the front door of the mill crashed closed, and she jolted from her half-sleep. Joan was obviously back from the infirmary and still in a foul mood. Bess sighed, ran a hand through her tangled hair and uncovered the duvet. The clock read 6 o’clock and she hadn’t even removed her apron. Beyond the door, Joan was tearing up the stairs of Carver Mills, her heels sounding more like jackboots as she pounded the steps. Bess stomped across the floor. Her hand closed around the doorhandle, ready to slam it shut-

BANG BANG BANG

She froze. From her spot in the bedroom doorway, Bess watched the front door rattle on its hinges. On tiptoe, she edged forwards. The thundering fists hammered on the door again.

BANG BANG BANG

She tried to remember if she had locked it behind her. No, of course she hadn’t. Shit. Only Mrs Russo and the other nurses had access to the flats; there was no need to lock it until curfew. Not even Helen or Joan, in her anger, would bang down the door. Bess rushed forwards, ready to bar the intruder as best she could. She knew there was little she could do to stop them. Even with her nurses’ strength and steeliness, an intruder would overpower her. Walter Watson flashed across her vision. What if he was home? What if Queenie or Frank told him where to find her?

BANG BANG BANG

Hang on. An intruder wouldn’t knock. Again, she froze, this time in confusion. The last knock had barely rung out when, as if in slow motion, Bess watched the handle turn. The door flew open and the person on the other side stormed in.

It was like watching a cat stalk its prey. The whites of his eyes burned like a wild beast��s, the blue at their icy centre darted around the room madly until they landed on her. They widened, then narrowed. A predator locking onto its next meal. For them, everything faded from view. The peeling wallpaper, the laundry, the few scattered belongings. Everything, except for Bess. Excitement, or was it fear, fluttered in her ribcage. The pathway to her was blocked by the kitchen table and, striding towards her, he threw it aside in one swift motion. She shivered, swaying where she stood at the flex of his hands. Bess barely had time to register his thin cheeks, the lines that framed his eyes, before those same hands gripped her face hard.

“Tom-” His mouth crashed into hers. It was hard, a clash of teeth and tongue. With her words stolen, Bess grew light-headed and struggled for breath between Tom’s harsh kisses. A hand moved from her face to her neck as she tried to speak, keeping her head in place against him. The other fell to her waist and gripped the flesh there roughly.

“Tom, I-” He silenced her. Swallowing Bess’ words, he roughly tugged the hair fisted in his hand and bit the exposed flesh of her neck with a growl. She whimpered, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support. For something real. Surely this wasn’t real? “Tom,” His assault on her neck was rough and through it, still Bess struggled to speak. “Tom, I thought-I thought you weren’t back ‘til tomorrow-”

He ignored her. The hand holding her waist moved to grope the fullness of her bottom and pull her harder against him. The strength of the action forced the breath from Tom’s chest in a huff as, overwhelmingly, his world became Bess. The scent of her sweat. Old perfume. Her pathetic whimpers. The small hands clawing at his body. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The ripe flesh of her bottom. The smell of her sex. He was an animal on the hunt. Uncontrollable. Terrified. Surviving. Hungry. He bit the meat of her shoulder and she cried out, at last pushing him away. Tom’s hands flew once more to the sides of her face and held her in his vice-like grip.

They stood watching each other. Beneath the furrow of Tom’s brow, the hard crease of his forehead, the usually bright eyes that Bess so adored, always full of mirth and mischief, were desperate. If she looked closely, she swore she could make out tears, taunting him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, the air passing through his flared nostrils. The line of his mouth was shut firm, though swollen from the way he kissed her, and his jaw- fuck, that jaw, was set hard and strong. Bess should have been worried. Scared even. Instead, her heart flooded with unease.

The dark eyes that Tom so adored, always full of certainty and knowing, were searching. Not disgusted by his depravity, or the violent lust with which he needed her. Her hands wound up his arms and grasped the hands still on her face, and Tom watched as the same emotion that had washed over Fergal’s face, washed over Bess. Pity.

He didn’t need fucking pity. He needed stability. Comfort. Home. Something real. One of Bess’ thumbs stroked the side of his hand and he snapped at its tenderness. Tom brought his face to hers, devouring her in a hungry kiss. He walked them backwards until Bess hit the bedroom door. Breaking momentarily from her lips, Tom bent down, a hand sliding up one of Bess’ stockinged legs, and hitched it around his waist. She barely had time to steady herself before he thrust his groin against hers, his hard length pressing against her through the sturdy cotton of his bell bottoms.

Still, he didn’t say a word. As Tom’s hands roamed greedily across her backside, her hips, her breasts, Bess tried not to think about his silence. It was true, she had imagined the devouring ferocity of what having him would be like when he returned home. But each time, it was bookended with tenderness. Whispered adorations and gentle devotions. Not this…anger. The first prickle of fear ran over her. Not at what he would do, but why he was doing it. She tried to reach out to him. To caress his face or run her hand through his hair. He batted it away, gripping her wrist and pinning it to the door as, with ferocity, he ground his hips into hers. The movements were hard and desperate. Whether by the hand caught beneath his bruising grip, or the urgency with which he rubbed his clothed length against her, Bess’ mind went blank and she moaned. At last, Tom spoke.

“Fuck.” His head lolled to nuzzle at her neck, and when she met his hips with the thrusting of her own, he growled. He could take no more of this. He lifted Bess over his shoulder and kicked the bedroom door open. It banged against the wall, and when Bess shushed him, he ignored her. Tom threw her down onto the bed and knelt between her parted legs. Without hesitation he tore at her uniform. Tom pulled the apron so hard its bow gave away, and he tossed it aside. His hands fisted her layers of skirt to reach her suspenders. He unhooked them roughly and pulled down Bess’ woolen stockings. The second ripped, and through the haze of her increasing arousal, Bess noted that they’d need darning. The thought vanished when Tom pushed her knees away and rolled her suddenly onto her front.

“Tom-” Whatever she was going to say died in her throat at the sound of ripping fabric and buttons hitting the floor. Tom tore the back of her bodice open, kissing the skin there as he pushed the sleeves away from her shoulders. Bess slipped out of her uniform, squealing when Tom let go of her. Her body fell forward onto the bed and he roughly pulled the skirt away from her legs. Bess was near nakedness now, and excitement warmed the apex of her thighs. When Tom pushed her small chemise over her bottom and smacked the skin there, she burned.

“On your knees.” His voice was low and cracked, as though his throat were full of gravel. Her cunt clenched. Immediately, obediently, Bess pushed her body off the bed. She was too slow for Tom. He grabbed her by the hips and wrenched her towards him. Resting on all fours, Bess tried to look over her shoulder. Tom pushed her face away. “Don’t look at me.” The darkness of his order made her shudder. She faced forward, toward the damp-stained wall and the photograph of her and Tom. The one she’d been gazing at mere moments before he arrived.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

No. She shook Walter’s words from her mind. This was Tom, not Walter. Rough and angry and needy, yes. But Tom. Not Walter.

Tom’s hands rested on the apples of Bess’ backside, and she felt him lean his weight there a moment. Heard him hit the ground. He was kneeling, wrenching the now soaked knickers she wore down her thighs and, before she could comprehend it, lapping greedily at her core. How long they stayed there, with Tom’s arms wrapped around her thighs as he worshipped her cunt, Bess couldn’t say. Only that with every grunt of his throat, every suckle at her sex, every eager flash of his tongue against her folds, the tension in her abdomen increased. The worry she could not put aside, did the same.

If the callous and unashamed way Tom devoured Bess caused her arousal and anxiety to grow, his next movement all but obliterated any thought of him regaining his senses. With one last smack to her bottom, Tom departed. Bess’ thighs clenched. His sudden absence was frustrating. Infuriating even. She knew she needn’t wait long for him, though. Atop the mussed bedding, the navy of his uniform shirt landed. A thud on the ground indicated he had abandoned his boots, and the hush of fabric and panted breaths told Bess he was battling with his slacks. She yearned to help him. To turn around and with fast hands rid him of his last barrier of restraint. But Tom knew Bess. He’d known her long enough, well enough, to recognise her craving for control and independence. Not today. Not now. She was alive. She was here before him, bottom raised, sweating gleaming at the dip of her back, panting with need, doing whatever he asked of her. Just as she began turning her head, he ran two long fingers through her wet slit and she moaned his name, pushing backwards against his fingers for relief.

“Sheath.” Tom grunted, taking himself in hand. He was painfully hard, precum already weeping from the angry head of his cock. His eyes roamed over Bess’ exposed heat, pink and slick and waiting for him. The urge not to drive forward, full into her, was overwhelming.

“We used the last before you left,” Bess was breathless, waiting. A hard warmth brushed against her entrance and she groaned. “Please, Tom.” He wasted no time. That was the certainty that the sheath didn’t matter. One hand one the small of Bess’ back, the other gripped at the base of his cock, Tom thrust forward, heading falling at the tight heat that welcomed him. Both hands holding the flesh of her hips, Tom withdrew himself from Bess before slamming forward. Bess buried her face in the bedsheets, muffling her cry. She had missed him these last months, and though her fingers temporarily satiated her longing, nothing could prepare Bess for the sensation of Tom Bennett filling her completely.

Over and over, Tom’s hips snapped into Bess’ cunt. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat pouring from his brow. The hands that held Bess in place were unmoving, the nails biting into her tender skin. Over and over, Bess moaned his name. When she tried to reach a hand back, desperate to touch him, Tom seized it and, body bent low across her back, held it against the bed. His breath was hot in her ear, hard with pants and grunts of what should have been desire. Between her paroxysms of pleasure, Bess thought they sounded angry.

Like all these other thoughts, they disappeared with every thrust of Tom’s cock into her. His passion was confirmed again when he gripped the auburn hair at the base of her neck and bit her pulse point. Pain fluttered through her veins and excitement lit her core. When Tom did it again, she sped towards painful release. Her hip was burning under his hand, the skin of her buttocks sore from the continued slam of his hip bones. Her back, bent and pressed against the bed, ached and the pulse of a headache crept under the spot were Tom pulled her hair taut. Tears were beginning to prickle her eyes, and when Tom pulled again on her hair, a mangled sob of pain and pleasure ripped from her throat as her walls spasmed around him.

That was it. With a final few violent thrusts, Tom spilled himself inside her. Blinding white light flashed across his eyes and his whole body seemed to crackle with electricity. This wasn’t a release of passion or love, but something more depraved. A violent shock to the system that proved he was still alive. Could still feel. He’d seen men charred beyond recognition, heard the tear of bombs through the sky and torpedoes in water. The groaning of metal as it gave way to bullets. Feared drowning, being mown down or else ripped limb from limb by enemy explosives. Come home to find his childhood didn’t exist and missed the death of his father, years after he watched is mother slowly succumb to nothingness.

Tom looked sideways at the body beneath him. Though her face was half-hidden in the bed, hair frizzy and in disarray, there was no mistaking the tear tracks that ran down Bess’ face. Her breath was ragged and erratic, the small whimpers she made so different to her usual sounds of pleasure. Tom pulled out of her suddenly and though she didn’t move, she gasped. He looked at her lying there, so still and vulnerable. With tentative hands, he caressed her legs and knelt on the bed to lie beside her body. She didn’t look at him, even turned away once he had brushed the hair from her face and, crumbling with shame, Tom buried his face in her neck and began to cry.

7 o’clock. The sun had just descended below the Manchester skyline and only Tom and Bess’ laboured breathing could be heard throughout the flat. Bess hadn’t moved. Not for a long while. Against his thighs, Tom could feel the gentle shake of her legs. Breath still shuddering from their exertion, her back occasionally brushed against his hard chest. The sight of her like this, quaking because of him, should have made Tom proud. But when she shivered, actually shivered, he felt nothing but disgrace. He should have ravished her when he got home. Instead, he'd used her. And she’d let him.

“Are you cold?” he whispered in her ear.

“A little, yeah.” Grabbing the quilt from the floor, Tom draped it over Bess, his warm hand beneath the patchwork rubbing lazily at her side. It was only then did she roll over to face him. Her small hand, with its long, dexterous fingers, brushed across his cheek. Tom knew she was studying him. “You’ve become a man far too quickly,” she said. Tom didn’t need her to explain. His hair was lighter, already on a stress-induced course to grey. The youthful fullness of his cheeks had gone, and now the skin stretched too tightly over his prominent cheekbones. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, he could see his skeleton sitting just below the surface of his pallid skin. He knew too, that the hardness had settled not just about his face, but in his soul. War had sunk its terrible claws into him, and the man he swore he’d never become, his father, was beginning to appear. Tom brushed some sweat-stuck hair from Bess’ forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She continued to stroke his face, and Tom placed a palm there to stop the action. If she carried on with this gentleness, he’d cry again.

“I just had to make sure you were real,” At this, Bess laughed.

“What do you mean?”

Tom sat up, leaning on his elbow and, distracted by the hair wrapped around his finger, hurried his words. “When I saw the house, I just panicked-And I didn’t know where to go and then I went to your dad-I was thinking-I was gonna come here but I didn’t know if you’d still-and then I went through the dockyard and your dad-your dad told me everything-and when he said you were ok I-I,” he took a shaking breath. “I had to come and see for myself. That you’re still here.”

Bess was silent. Her eyes darted about his worried face, unsure of what he meant. “Did you think something had happened?” It was Tom who looked confused now.

“Bess, I went home and the fucking house had been blown up and neither you or my family were anywhere to be seen.”

“But, I thought-”

“No. I didn’t know.” Tom spat. His anger was flaring again as he swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his bell bottoms. What he was planning to do, he didn’t know, and when Bess quietly said his name, he deflated, slumping back onto the bed. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, and immediately Bess was at his side, rubbing circles on his back and kissing his bullet wound scar. He collapsed against her, and slowly she pulled him back under the covers with her, his head resting against her naked chest.

There was nothing to be said. What could she say? Tom Bennett had been away at war and come home to learn his father had been killed by the very thing he was fighting. As if reading her mind, Tom spoke quietly into her chest. “What’s the point? We go and fight, to keep you all safe, and it doesn’t fucking work.”

“That’s not the only reason-”

“It is for me.” Tom said firmly. “I’ve got nothing else but my family, and you. You’re what makes this bastard war worth fighting.” Bess looked down at him. At his elegant nose and furrowed brow. At his lean and muscular body curled around hers, and her heart swelled with enormous affection for Tom Bennett. She kissed his head and he settled for a while. Content to have him home, nose buried in his hair, the first comforts of sleep beckoned to Bess.

“Your dad said you were there.” Though quiet, she jumped at his voice and, swallowing the lump that appeared in her throat, she murmured that yes, she had been there. Tom chewed his lip, considering his next question. After Bess, it was all he had thought about since Fergal told him of that night’s events. “What did he look like?”

Bess froze. “Tom, you don’t need-” He cut her off.

“It can’t be anything worse than what I imagine.”

He had a point. Gripping one of his hands in hers, she told him about the events immediately after the bomb detonated over his childhood home.

“Dadda was trying to get us back to the shelter, it was difficult to see because of all the smoke, but when the ambulance arrived, I could see it was Lois and Connie. And when Dadda came out of your house, there was blood on his uniform. I didn’t know what state your dad was in, but I knew that whatever it was, Lois couldn’t see him. So me, Connie and one of the paramedics went in to get him out.”

Tom sniffled against her chest and Bess hugged him tighter.

“He looked so peaceful, Tom. I won’t lie to you and say he was perfect; a beam from the ceiling got his arm so there was a messy gash there, lots of blood, and what I assume was falling rubble had caught his head. Nothing dreadful!” she quickly said when Tom flinched. “Just a few little cuts around his face. But he was sat in his chair by the fire, newspaper hanging out of one hand. Like he’d just drifted off to sleep. Thinking of you, I expect.”

“Shut up,” Tom wiped his nose. “He was probably thinking about Mrs Chase’s smalls-”

“The sooner you realise that your dad adored you, Tom Bennett, the better!” She pinched his arm. “You know, him and Lois had a fight that day. She’d gone off to work and he was so down in the mouth about it, we said we’d look after Vera that night.” Tom said nothing and she continued. “What did Lois say when you saw her?”

“Eh?” Tom looked up at her through his long lashes.

“Lois. What did she say when you saw her?”

Tom’s arm around her waist grew tighter. “I came straight here.” Bess hid her smile from him, trying not to let her joy show as she ran her hand again through his hair.

“I think perhaps you should go and see her. Now,” Bess added when Tom tried to argue. “Tom, she’s so unhappy. Missing you, and your pa, raising little Vera alone. I suppose Dadda told you about Vernon?” Tom nodded. “Go. Now.” She kissed the top of his head and shooed him from the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes: I read an article about a gunner who fought in the Battle of River Plate getting the Distinguished Service Medal, so I figured Tom would get one too. The HMS Keith actually sunk during the evacuation of Dunkirk but for the sake of the story, I made its sinking a little later.

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