#and also makes me face palm because ofc he made them

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Recently found out the Palantíri were gifted to the Numenorians by the Eldar and it’s given me *ideas.* So the Palantir were made by Fëanor right. And it’s safe to assume they were kept by the Fëanorians, unless Maedhros decided to gift one to Fingoflin for communication, but I don��t think that would’ve gone over well for anyone.

So here’s my two theories:

1. Each son of Fëanor has a set of Palantír. I think it’s safe to assume there were more than seven made? I think it’s written that Elendil managed to ‘save’ seven of them, but don’t quote me on that. (It doesn’t really matter, this works either way. Also imagine little Tyelpë on his tip toes facetiming his uncles 🥲)

When their various fortresses fall, most of the Fëanorions manage to save at least one of their seeing stones. When Maedhros and Maglor end up in Amon Ereb alone, they have all their brothers’ Palantir but no use for them.

Enter Elrond and Elros. They come to love them, care for them. And vice versa. When they’re sent to Gil Galad, Mae and Mags send these pieces of their family with them. Maybe they can find some good use for them, a final legacy for Fëanor that doesn’t end in blood. Maybe it’ll keep them safe.

(I’ll go into detail of how they end up in Numenor below)

2. Celebrimbor ended up with Curufin’s Palantir in Nargothrond, and Mae and Mags sent the rest his way at some point before their final Silmaril run. They don’t have anything else, and their nephew deserves something made before madness consumed their family. Something made out of pure curiosity rather than pride that doesn’t have too many bad memories attached.

Celebrimbor appreciates the gesture but has no real use for them. He’s not particularly ambitious as a lord. Doesn’t have any need for immediate long distance communication, and in all honesty would likely be accused of spying if he did start using them (no matter if that isn’t how they work.)

Then he hears that Elros, who he’s gotten to know fairly well alongside Elrond over the years of the War of Wrath, is heading off to Numenor. He decides to give the new King something as a token of their friendship, and to keep in touch with his twin from a distance, the way the sons of Fëanor once did. And unlike many others, they won’t scorn his grandfather’s work.

Elros is managing a pretty large kingdom, so he takes the bulk of them. Elrond keeps one.

Later on, Elrond’s (not used since the death of Elros’ children) is lost in the fall of Eregion when he desperately tried to use it to find Celebrimbor. And of course Elendil manages to bring seven Palantir to Middle Earth when Numenor falls.

[fuckmysuguru]

JJK MEN + SEX POSITIONS.

18+, smut, sex positions ofc, dirty talk, impact play.

It's been... a while lol. I dunno what made me do this, but I'm sure someone has done it before. Anyway this is my take on it, have fun.

SATORU GOJO + LAZY DOG; He loves to touch, nothing new. With his hand on your lower back and the other one holding your hip, Satoru leans down to leave a trail of kisses at the nape of your neck. This is one of his favorites because he can see everything, and it won't make you as tired as regular doggy. "Love to watch this pretty ass bounce back," He says, spreading your cheeks and watching his cock slide in and out, almost as if he is hypnotized. If he is feeling particularly mean, he will push your head further into the bed. He can push his hips all the way in, he can slap your ass until it burns, and you beg for him to stop— he won't— and he can either cum inside you and watch it drip, or cum all over your back only to smear it with his fingers like the nasty dog he is.

SUGURU GETO + FACE TO FACE; Wrapping your leg around his hip, Suguru groans into your neck, holding you close, feeling your breasts against his chest. He loves how close you feel, how he can kiss you if he wants to, to enjoy that feeling of his tongue sliding against you as his cock stretches you perfectly. Suguru adores to see every little expression, from the way you furrow your brows every time the tip of his fat cock nudges against that sweet spot, to the way your eyes roll back when he sneaks a hand between your sweaty bodies to circle your clit. "Look at me when you cum, angel," He whispers. Bonus points if he stays inside you after, falling asleep with his arms around you.

NANAMI KENTO + MISSIONARY; You can laugh, but you will cry the second he slides in. Nanami lifts your legs, draping them over his shoulders and kissing your ankles as he drives into you, holding your jaw to keep your eyes on him. "Can you feel me, sugar?" He asks, letting go of your face to lay his large palm flat on your lower stomach. "Can you feel me moving inside you?" Oh, yes, yes you can. On a rough day— well, he loves to see how much he can push your legs closer to your chest, fold you in half as he fucks you into oblivion. His eyes will see everything, admire how your breasts bounce and how your back arches, how you grip his forearms and how you scream his name as you cum around his cock.

CHOSO + 69; Poor little angel, if he could live with his head between your thighs, you know he would. Choso moans like a bitch in heat when he eats you, and this position is no exception. He laps at your slick, using his thumb to rub your clit— just like you taught him— and desperately buckles his hips as you take him into your mouth. He wants the best of both worlds but it feels so good his head just becomes a blabbering mess. He is a messy eater, he leaves your thighs sticky with his spit and your slick, and don't get me started on how he will beg to cum on your face. You know you are in for a long ride when he gives you those puppy eyes and says: "Can you sit on my face, please?"

TOJI FUSHIGURO + DOGGY; You saw that coming, I know. He is rough, that's common knowledge. Toji grips your hips and drags you back into his big, fat cock as if he had something against you. He slaps your ass and thighs, even your back if he feels like it. He yanks your hair and says the most foul things. "If you could look at yourself— such a slut for my dick," Which... might be true. He doesn't stop until your pussy is overstimulated and filled with his cum, until your hands give up and he has to hook an arm under your stomach to pull you back up, obviously giving you a hard slap so you remember where you are and what you should be doing. One thing is for sure, he will cum inside every single time.

SUKUNA + COWGIRL; He is a greedy bitch. He wants you to do all the work until you can't no more and he will complain nonstop. He is also the type to slap your ass and thighs, even your face if you stop bouncing on his dick. "Come on, you can do more than that," He laughs, rolling his eyes and leaning down to suck on your nipples. His teeth graze the swollen nub, and he bites down, watching you squirm and feeling your pussy squeeze his cock. "Such a lazy slut, you wanted it so bad, and now you are disappointing me," It comes to a point where he knows it's his turn. He bends his knees and holds your hips, lifting them and fucking you so hard, all you can do is moan and choke on your own words. "Now I have to do all the fucking job, but what's new?"

𓆩⟡𓆪 English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistakes.

[chastiefoul]

valentines gone wrong ft. childe, scara, and neuvilette

a/n: yes. you read that right valentines work on september!! this is just something random i wanna write one day when i'm lying down and ofc i can't wait until february next year (also how is it alr almost 2 months since i posted something???) tags: just fluff, light-read, and everything in-between, modern au (?) just don't think too much abt it hehe - summary: it's valentines and of course you have plans to give sweets to your lover. however because one thing and another, you had to entrust it to someone else in hope it will be handed safely to them. what happened when it didn't?

childe

you went home excited, anticipating his reaction to your handmade sweets, however what greets you at the door was a sulky childe, who avoided eye contact as if his life depended on it as he limits himself to a a sentence everytime you ask him something.

“something happened today, babe?” you asked him worriedly, the chocolate was the back of your mind seeing the state of your boyfriend in. “oh something definitely should have happened,” he quipped, his lower mouth sticking out slightly. “that sounds like a dig at me, did i forgot something?” you asked as you follow his gaze to what he thought must be the most interesting flower vase ever. he shrugged, refusing to give you more.

frustrated by his rejection to tell you what’s wrong, you held his face with both of your palm, turning his face to yours. although the move met no resistance, childe still refused to look at you in the eyes and only now his childish grumbles turned into such a sad expression.

“baby? please tell me what i did,” you were gentle with it, rubbing your thumb below his eyes. “...late.”

“what?”

“chocolate. where’s mine? i saw you gave your friends one so i don’t think im crazy to expect one too, especially as your boyfriend.” he pouted and you swore it looked so adorable and so out-of-character of him that you wanted to kiss him—wait.

“huh? but i did give you one!” you claimed, confusion rose inside you. “huh? but i didn’t get it...” childe’s face matched your expression. “well technically i gave it to scara to give it to you.. did he not... give it to you?”

“i wouldn’t be this insufferable if i got one, you know that, but no he didn’t say anything—and also really babe? scara? the guy who hates and made fun of me every chance he got?” he crossed his arm, raising an eyebrow, as he questioned your questionable decision-making. “hey give me a break, i was in a rush there thinking i couldn’t give you the chocolate in time. and he made me say please three times before he said he would consider doing it-oh i see how i was wrong there.” your line of ramble humbled you, the silence was loud.

“maybe he just put it in your bag or something?” you offered. “you really think he’s someone who’d do that?” he asked. “in desperate times i’d give even scara the benefit of the doubt,” you stated, opening childe’s bag. and there it was, put nicely at the very top, your chocolate for your lover.

you smiled, for all the shit-talk scara gave everyone on a daily basis you knew you could count on him. “see? i knew he’s actually a big softie for stuff like this.”

childe practically runs to your side. “my chocolate? aw babe so you really didn’t forget me!” he peppered kisses all over your face, then clasping the sweet to his chest like it’s a new-born baby. “of course i’d never. but maybe next year i’ll just give it directly to you.”

“yeah? please do, today’s event just wasn’t great for my heart.”

neuvilette

“welcome home, dear.” you greeted him cheerily as he just arrived home. it was quite late, and you had entrust the chocolate you were supposed to give to him at a reasonable hour so he could enjoy it instead of giving it to him at home.

he kissed your temple in return, a smile you’re still head over heels for on his lips. but it doesnt quite reach his eyes. 

“what’s wrong?” you asked carefully. “nothing is wrong,” he replied, somehow looking nervous. “yet it’s strange for you to be looking so fidgety. tell me?”

“well,” he paused a little, stroking your hair as he pondered the best way to approach the sentence he’s about to say. “i saw you today giving chocolates to navia and wriothesley.. i couldn’t talk to you because i was in a rush to deal with an urgent case,” he said, not looking at you on the eyes. “oh, did that bother you? it’s just they’re such good friends of mine and it’s only friendship cookies-“

“no, dear of course not. i know you’re a loving person who always appreciate those around you, it’s just..”

“just?”

neuvilette looked like he didn’t hear the rest of the words after that you did make some for the white-haired male. a smile bloomed on his face as he shook his head. “no problem i will ask them about it tomorrow. i’m just delighted you kept me in your thoughts.” a gentle expression was loyal on his features. “well of course neuvillete, you hardly ever leave my thoughts, don’t you know?” he chuckled. “i’m familiar with that you see, considering you never leave mine as well.”

the next sentence was almost audible as he spoke. “do i not get one..?” he asked ever so softly sounding a little sad, his calloused hand ran across your arm, tracing along your vein as it touched your fingers and you're sure there's something wrong in your head because all you could think about that second was how adorable the usual charismatic man was being. yet you held your smile.

“of course you do! did it not reach you? i asked the guard in front of your door because i afraid i’d bother you at work hours. sorry neuvilette, i promised i made some for you, and i was so proud of it too...”

scara

“no i’m not.” he said, with the worst frown you’ve seen on him for a while and that’s saying a lot.

“you’re definitely sulking,” you said. “shut up,” he grumbled. “hey i was supposed to be one who’s doing the sulking. we’re nearing the end of the day and you haven’t even mentioned about the chocolate i gave you today!” you retorted out of frustration but most of all confusion because you had no idea what made your lover fall into such a bad mood.

“what.”

“what?”

“say that again,” scara said, “that i gave you chocolate?” you asked. “no you didn’t, you liar!” he complained, his frown deepened if that’s even possible. “wait what? i swear i asked childe to give it to you earlier today! i was ambushed by customers today at the shop so i was scared i couldn’t give it to you on time so i asked him. did it not get to you?” you explained.

“i came home empty-handed didn’t i? also really, that dense fool?” his displeasure was obvious upon the new information you couldn’t help but chuckle slightly. “don’t look so disgusted, he’s not that bad.”

“sure, although you know what’s bad? that i don’t have my chocolates right now.” he crossed his arm, fuming almost looking like a child who got their toys taken. “alright enough of your pouting. we’ll interogate him later. for now, i seem to have leftover ingredients, i’ll make you a new one.” you approached him, combing through the back of his hair as you planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. he replied by pulling you closer as he nuzzled into your neck. “it better be good,” he mumbled.

at the end you didn’t even make it to 5 minutes before scara followed you to the kitchen, insisting that he made it together too because he was ‘watching over you so you don’t mess up’ but personally i think he just felt bad because you need to make a new one and wanted to help you any way he can. that’s something he’d never admit even if there’s a gun pointing at his head, though.

[birdiewriteslit]

OMGGG!!! i saw ur post abt luke requests and im so glad i did bc i have also had a terrible poseidons daughter!reader brainrott

could you write smth about luke and pd!reader sneaking out to go on a date and then getting caught and sassed out by percy?? 🫶

yes ofc! we love persassy here

luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

warnings: just persassy and a make out sesh

for the sake of this fic let’s pretend that curfew and harpies don’t exist at chb

The knock came at 10:30 pm. You were feeling very lucky in that moment that Percy was a heavier sleeper than you. You tiptoed to the door, opening it slowly and as quietly as possible.

The moment you turned to face Luke after closing the door with caution, his lips were on yours. You pulled away before he managed to convince you to continue right there in front of your cabin.

“Luke!” you whisper shouted. “You can’t do that here.”

He grinned, bringing both hands to your waist, squeezing once. “What? I can’t kiss my girlfriend?”

“Your secret girlfriend, and no, not until we’re at least fifty feet away from the cabins,” you reminded him.

“Stop pretending you don’t want to,” he said, teasing.

He was right, you were pretending. You were flustered by the kiss, and he could tell. You kind of hated how good he was at knowing and how he was even better at making it worse.

“Let’s just go,” you said, not looking at him as you grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the beach.

You eventually made there, getting stopped by Luke’s advances on you every once in a while. He settled next to you on the sand, and tugged at the string on your hoodie. “Can we make out now?”

You gave him a look, one that he knew didn’t actually mean no, even though you tried to make it look like you were serious. “Damn, give me a second. Why’re you so desperate tonight?”

“Because I love you,” he said plainly, swinging an arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss your cheek. “And I haven’t seen you all day. Is it a crime to miss you?”

You rolled your eyes even though you were blushing. “Stop being so sweet.”

“Stop being so beautiful,” he countered, wasting no time in dropping his head down to meet your lips. You brought your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks and deepening the kiss.

He shifted your legs over his lap with his free arm, the other one pulling you even closer, his fingertips grazing over your hair.

You let your fingers tangle themselves in his curls, slightly tugging at them. He let out small noise, curling his hand around your neck and running his thumb along your jaw. “Oh, Luke,” you moaned into his mouth.

“So, I’m guessing this isn’t the way to the bathrooms?”

Your brother’s voice made you spring away from Luke, pushing him back with your palm on his chest.

Your face was burning as you made a large effort to not make eye contact with Luke. “Percy, you know where the bathrooms are.”

“That’s beside the point. What are you doing with this freak of nature?” he asked, quite seriously, as he folded his arms over his chest.

“Freak of nature?” Luke protested, but Percy held up one hand to silence him.

“Didn’t ask for your input.” He gave Luke a dirty look before turning to you. “Are you going to explain yourself? Hm?”

“We’ve been seeing each other,” you said, looking cautiously over at Luke. “For a while now.”

“A while? You’ve been settling for this pervert for a while?”

“Settling isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Pervert isn’t either,” Luke added unhelpfully.

“Well, judging by what I just walked in on, it’s the one I would use,” Percy said. “Come on, Y/n, let’s go to bed, which is where we’re supposed to be because it’s nighttime.”

“But-“

“No buts! Let’s go.” He turned on his heel and started to walk away.

“And here I was, thinking he liked me,” Luke said despairingly.

You stood, wiping sand off of your pants. “He’ll come around,” you reasoned.

“Please, give me one more kiss before I have to say goodbye forever,” he said dramatically, taking your hand and rising to his knees.

You giggled. “You’re so weird.” But you still indulged him, leaning down to press your lips to his.

“Stop doing that!” Percy shouted in the distance.

[lovebugism]

can we talk about the first time you suck bby boy eddie's fingers? like it's all innocent and everything but he'd be sooo turned on. because I think about it a lot

✶ ┄ EDDIE'S FINGERS !

summary: you're obsessed with eddie munson's fingers. so obviously when you have the opportunity to put them in your mouth, you're going to. pairing: eddie munson / f!reader warnings: finger sucking??? it's a little bit suggestive a/n: anon... you're so right. this is absolutely something everyone should be talking about.

( MASTERLIST )

here’s the thing about eddie

the kid’s got some gorgeous fucking fingers

and all of the rings he wears just adds to it really

he’s just trying to bake a cake for wayne’s birthday but that's seriously all you can think about

you’re sitting on the counter behind him while he tries to figure out how to work the mixer by the stove that’s been collecting dust about as long as he’s been alive

his back is to you and you can see the muscles of his back flexing through his t-shirt while he tries to put the thing together

and you try to warn him about putting it on the highest speed immediately but he doesn’t listen

so obviously he gets cake batter all over his arms

his so very, very pretty, beautiful arms—

thankfully you’re not in the splash zone so you come out unscathed

but eddie’s a total mess and so is the counter

everything (including him) is covered in batter and flour and sugar

and he just keeps adding to the mess

he’s so concentrated on making sure everything tastes right he doesn’t care about anything else

when he successfully gets the cake into the oven with minimal damage done, he starts working on making the icing from scratch

because ofc he made everything from scratch

i seriously believe that this man is a whole ass baker and no one can tell me otherwise (baker!eddie anyone???)

but he keeps taste-testing each batch and you can’t help but watch him so intently

he dips his fingers into the bowl like an animal and scoops the icing up to his mouth 

his cheeks hollow while he sucks the sugary substance from his fingers

and you watch the profile of his face contort from delight to disgust and then to confusion

he furrows his brows and scrunches his cute lil nose

and walks until he’s standing between your legs

“can you taste this for me, babe? i can’t tell if it’s good or not”

he all but shoves the bowl at you

and he’s basically holding it with the palms of his hands because 1. it’s sticky and messy and 2. his fingers are also sticky and messy with bits of icing still on them and his rings

“i don’t know… are you sure it’s not gonna poison me?”

“pinky promise, sweetheart”

and obv he’s expecting u to go for the wooden spoon he’s got sitting in the bowl

so you can imagine his surprise when you grab his wrist and bring his fingers to your mouth

he almost drops the entire fucking bowl

he watches with suddenly heavy eyes as you suck the icing from his knuckles

and flick your tongue at the tip of his fingers

and then tilt your head to the side to lick off the remaining icing on his silver rings, just for good measure

your eyes flutter shut a little and you hum and the taste

and eddie’s breathing gets all heavy and his eyes glaze over

because holy shit now he wants you to do that to his dick

you pull back with a nod

“could use a little more sugar”

eddie pulls back and hopes his face isn’t as red hot as it feels

“yes ma’am”

got any blurb requests? send 'em here if you want! ꒰◍ᐡᐤᐡ◍꒱

[bruisedboys]

Hi, your celly looks so fun! May I please request candy cane with either Finnick or Steve (whoever you're feeling) and face? I feel like you're so good at those moments of quiet intimacy and would love to see what you do with that. Ofc absolutely no worries if not, love you regardless!

(Also sorry if this sent more than once, my laptop died and I wasn't sure if it went through)

mae!! hi my lovely, I went with finnick for this one because I just couldn’t resist hehe. ily and thank u for the request x

join the celebration

prompt: sender turns receiver's face towards them.

finnick odair x fem!reader

“Let me look at you, honey.”

Finnick takes your face in one hand and turns you carefully to face him, your head propped up on two pillows. You’re feeling rather poorly, and his worried doting is a lot to manage, but you can’t deny that you’re really enjoying being looked after by him.

You meet his eyes over a sea of blankets and he grins, all lopsided and stunningly handsome. “There’s my pretty girl,” he says. “How’re you feeling, sweet thing?”

“Okay,” you say weakly. Better now he’s touching you like you’re made of starlight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your cheek. His fingers feel cool on your hot skin. “How’s your throat?”

“Not very good,” you admit. It aches when you swallow and it hurts to talk. It’s no use downplaying how you feel to Finnick. He knows when you’re lying and he’ll get it out of you in the end, anyway.

Finnick hums sympathetically. “I’m sorry, honey.” His fingers dip below your jaw and he presses gently against the side of your neck, presumably checking for swelling. He must find nothing, because he takes his hand back and smiles at you. His palm rests over your chest, warm and heavy. “Would you like me to make you another lemon and honey drink?”

“Yeah, please,” you nod. His hands feel nice on your aching body. You wonder if you can persuade him into cuddling you for the rest of the day. It wouldn’t be very hard to convince him, you think.

Finnick squeezes your shoulder gently. “Can I get you anything else?”

“A hug would be nice,” you suggest, hopeful in your miserable state.

Finnick visibly melts. He’s a mixture of utterly fond and very pitying when he says, “Of course, sweetheart.”

He bends at the waist to scoop you into a warm hug. You let him do most of the work, his arms working around your upper back to lift you very slightly off the mattress and into his chest. He’s warm, and he smells really nice. You bury your nose in the juncture between his shoulder and neck and breathe him in, wheedle your aching arms around his waist. He rubs your back, your skin prickling from his warmth.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful,” he says softly. “Let me get you that drink, and then I’ll hug you all you want, okay?”

He’s so sweet on you. You wonder vaguely if his overbearing sweetness is what made you sick in the first place. You wouldn’t be surprised.

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[on-a-lucky-tide]

HELLO!

Thought of asking you bc I ADORE your writing, the way you write the NikPrice ship is by far my fav, I would've wrote it myself but I love your way of writing more heh.

BUT price, having a nightmare or ptsd attack at night, but not waking nik up nor does he wake up. Prob just stirred a bit. But he doesn't end up telling him, cause hes a big strong boy he doesn't want to show nik how vulnerable he really is. But nik notices how tense he is during the day, which ofc worries him. Que the emotional conversation maybe a cry and long hug :3

If you haven't written something like this anyway! Also ty for the follow made me giggle and die a bit inside from happiness <3

Thank you for this prompt and your fic is below, but! Please write. Write your heart out, bud. No one can write like you do and the world is richer for having your art in it. So please. Write this too. Even if just for yourself.

Price spent three years in a Gulag. That leaves a mark.

cw: PTSD, nightmares, mention of torture, dissociation, depersonalisation, shameless canon blending.

"Prisoner 627, confirm which names on this list are undercover operatives."

"Price, Jonathan, Captain, 9-0-5-1-2-1-0."

A rib cracked. He spat blood onto the table next to the file. The ropes around his wrists tightened.

"Prisoner 627, confirm which names on this list are undercover operatives."

"Price, Jonathan, Captain, 9-0-5-"

He bit through his bottom lip when the fist landed. Someone stepped forward to intervene. You don't break their faces because then they can't talk. Interrogation 101. He coughed. More blood, and they yanked him upright by the hair.

"Svyazat yego."

The chair clattered to the floor as he was pulled from it. The ropes cut only for his hands to be chained above his head. The same knife sliced his shirt off, the rags falling around his shoulders. Metal tools rattled to his left, the embers from the nearby fire stirred by an iron.

"Last chance, prisoner 627," his interrogator held the list of names in front of his face. He recognised five of them. He had attended the wedding of one, "confirm which names on this list are undercover operatives."

"Price, Jonathan, Cap--"

His voice broke as pain tore through his back.

Price woke tangled in damp sheets, his body paralysed. The scream couldn't even rip out of his throat because his lungs needed air to make noise. Through sheer force of will, he drew his first shuddering breath, pulling himself back from the precipice.

See: digital clock. 04:30.

Taste: dry mouth. Need a drink.

Feel: hot, no; cold... both? Damp sheets.

Hear: breathing, not mine.

Price sat up slowly, forcing movement through his limbs like he was prying them from manacles. The next breath was easier. Burned less. He dropped his face into his palm and shivered in the cold. Feel: cold, he updated on his mental map.

Breathing, not mine. Price looked over his shoulder to the sleeping face of his lover. Half nuzzled into the pillows, his black hair splashed over crisp white cotton, Nikolai was serene. A small mercy.

All the manuals would tell you about wounded soldiers waking screaming and begging in the night, perhaps wetting themselves in terror at the ghosts haunting the inside of their skull. They warned against storing weapons nearby, of sleeping in the same bed as your loved ones in case you lashed out. There was a laundry list of suggested therapies and interventions too.

Sometimes, Price wished he woke screaming, because at least then he would know he was alive. His throat and lungs would burn as he roared, his hands would flail and he would be left panting, raw, but fighting. Alive. Now, in the numb silence, he wasn't sure.

He touched his cold wrist with cold fingers and just felt... cold. Like an absence of something. Prisoner 627. No name, no identity; a nothingness stored in a castle with hundreds of other voids where people should have been. Everything human about them stolen away until just the cold and the pain remained.

Price stumbled from the bed, his legs barely working as he groped his way out of his bedroom. He had to sleep with the doors open these days, even on base. Even if it was just a crack, a sliver, he still needed to be able to lift his head and see an escape. A beyond the little box room of his quarters. Not imprisoned, not restrained.

His feet registered the change from carpet to tile as he navigated his way down the hall to his flat's little kitchenette. Lit by the full moon streaming in through the balcony door, Price managed to fill the kettle and set it to boil.

There was a small blue light inside - one of those modern glass varieties that showed all the bloody limescale on the inside - and it illuminated Price's face against the black laminate of the back splash behind the hob. Price stared at the phantom image, blue and featureless, and saw nothing of himself.

He remembered being rescued, watching the castle fall to the joint task force attacking it, but when you spent three years bleeding in a place, did all of you really ever get to leave? When they spent those three years chipping away at you, breaking parts off, what was left to bring back at all?

As he stared at the ghostly blue outline of his own face, he felt a disconnect. A hollowness where that familiarity with self should be. Lost in the cold and the dark. Prisoner 627.

The kettle clicked loudly in the silence and he startled. His heart beat hard against his rib cage, felt like a distant echo, and he drew another deep sigh. Numb fingers pawed at the cupboards and he found his Liverpool FC mug, the one his sister had got him for his birthday while he'd still been in training at Sandhurst. There was a chip missing out the rim, dark stains and scrapes in the ceramic at the bottom that would never wash out; evidence of hundreds of cups drunk, a small shard of a life lived. An anchor to himself.

As he poured the water over the tea bag and dumped four teaspoons of sugar in, Price fluttered his fingers through the steam, rubbing his thumb through the dampness it left on the tips and letting the sensation crackle through his nerves. He drew another breath and muttered, "Price, Jonathan, Captain..." Prisoner 627.

He cupped both hands around the mug and carried it slowly, stumbling, towards the balcony window. The sky wasn't quite dark anymore, but a fuzzy, ashen grey. His eyes turned east. And he waited.

Waited...

Unmoving. Frozen in place. Like the cold had taken root and turned him to stone. The only things that kept him anchored were the cooling mug of tea clasped between two hands and the yellow light bleeding over the rooftops of the Clydeside.

The sun chased the dark away across the sky, bleeding an ombre of fire into the midnight black. With the sun came the heat. He couldn't feel it though. One hand left the mug, alive with warmth, and played in the dust motes illuminated by the morning light. They whirled around his fingers in white spirals, untouchable light.

He turned the key in the balcony doors and staggered outside, thrusting his arm into the dappled orange light passing through his neighbours fluttering laundry. "Price, Jonathan, Captain, 9-0-" he leaned over, and--

"John!"

Nikolai's hand wrapped his elbow, pure, scorching heat and strength, and it knocked the breath from Price's lungs. He nearly dropped his mug, but Nik caught that too, scooping beneath it as he drew Price to him in a bear hug.

His ear fell against Nik's chest, listening to his heart thundering on the inside. Ba-dm-ba-dm. Price's hand lifted and buried itself in dark chest hair, feeling it run between his fingers, soft, warm. The sensation rolled through him, cracking away the ice, and he turned his face into it with a shivering gasp.

Alive.

I'm alive.

The mug clattered on the glass surface of the little balcony table they had smoked at only the night before, Price lost in his thoughts while Nikolai had watched him pensively from the other chair. Both big hands now free, one stroked up his back to grasp his neck, and he shuddered again.

Nik looked terrified, his usually calm eyes blown wide, glistening. "You nearly fell," Nik said, so softly, and yet so clear. So real. Price touched his lips, relaxing into his hold.

"Was fine, Nik. Just got a bit carried away with the sunrise."

Nik glanced at the rooftops, his brows knitted together. "It is... pretty, but better viewed from inside, hm?"

"Yeah, s'pretty chilly out here, ain't it?"

Nik hesitated before he let go and Price missed the warmth of his arms immediately. He followed inside, let Nik pull him onto the sofa and drag one of the big fleece blankets over them. The heat of his body as it closed around Price's burned with intensity and a stuttering gasp broke out of his throat. Nik only held him tighter.

Every moment he laid there, wrapped in the bed warm scent, a piece of Jonathan Price thawed. From the tips of his toes to the cheek pressed to Nik's chest, warmth and feeling returned, bringing with it a sense of reality and connection to the world. To himself.

"Why were you on the balcony, John?" Nik asked. Price got a sense that he was afraid of the answer, and wasn't entirely convinced he would be given the truth anyway.

"In Petrovpavlosk, my cell faced east," Price said. "Would watch the sun rise every morning. It was like... No matter what they did, no matter what they broke away, if I could feel the sun on my skin, then I was still alive. Still me. Not just a dead man walkin'."

Nik sighed, burying his face in Price's hair for a few deep breaths. "You thought you were there again?"

"Dunno if I ever really left, Nik."

They held each other in silence as the light continued to creep into the flat, illuminating the empty bottles of beer they had left on the coffee table to clear up. "I sensed these past weeks you have been struggling, I know the anniversary of your escape is soon, and I feared you were..."

"That I was gonna throw myself off an' give Beryl a fright."

"John, do not joke about these things..."

"'m sorry, I... I wasn't gonna do it, Nik. Swear to you. I..." he struggled upright a little and Nik let him go reluctantly, "I struggle in the cold. The winter is... I dunno... it's like the cold makes me think I'm still there. That I never got out. That this," he glanced around the flat, his voice cracking as he spoke, "is just some dream my mind made up to escape to. I... I didn't know whether I was real, whether I was me... or... I didn't... Nik, I didn't know whether I was even alive, I..."

Nik's fingernails raked through his beard and he leaned into it. Felt them graze gently over the soft skin beneath his ear, and then into his hairline to draw him down. He yielded to the kiss, mouth opening desperately to let Nik in; he pawed at Nik's chest, stealing stuttering gasps as their tongues worked together.

He didn't notice the tears until he pulled back and one dripped from his chin to Nik's chest. "You are here, solnyshko. Right here, with me," Nik whispered. "Captain Jonathan Price, serial number 9-0-5-1-2-1-0," Nik took the hand on his chest and placed a kiss to the knuckles, "Bravo Six, you are home."

Price crumpled into Nik's arms and his shoulders shuddered as he sobbed. No longer mute, no longer cold, no longer frozen out of his own fucking body, the raw pain of it sunk its claws in, overwhelming and savage.

Nik's hands stroked down Price's back to the burn scars at the base; an uneven, mottled pattern that stretched over his right hip. The sensation was sporadic, some sensitive, some numb, but the muscles underneath still seized with pain. Nik placed his warm palm over them, chasing away the last shadow of Petrovpavlosk hanging over him.

As the morning ticked over and the rest of the block woke up, Nik dragged Price back to the kitchen and pushed a pan into his hands. He stood behind him, huge body looming as a bulwark, chin on Price's head, hands caressing his belly and chest, as the eggs cooked.

Home, Price's mind offered weakly, battered and bruised from its fight with the cold. Home.

[mikobeautifulheart]

drunk megumi kissing you like there's no tomorrow. (no smut please!!!)

so like, everyone here is aged up to 18+. yuji and nobara wanted to see how megumi reacts when he gets drunk. they purposefully mix alcohol to one of his cold drink. he drinks it, goes to my dorm and then.... yeah..... it is up to you now.

ummm, maybeee you could make him pin me to the wall or my bed UGH!! JUST MAKE IT HOT!! A HOT MAKE-OUT SESSION!!!!

and ofc, write this only if you're comfortable enough.

thank you in advanceeeee!! <3333333333

Ask and you shall receive. Also its mostly unedited but I wanted to get this done for you ASAP. Hope its what you had in mind-ish? There is no smut and I tried to get it as hot as possible in my mind rn. Hope you enjoy!

BTW ur my first request so...congrats?

DrunkMegumi! And his over due confession.

Word count: 1398

TW: I guess you technically drugged Megumi?

Is he really dead on the inside? (Drunk Megumi confession)

Yes all characters are aged up to 20 and there is not a hint of smut. Just uh…Hotness.

Being a sorcerer is many things. It's a sacrifice of giving up on desires like love. And it's also years and years and yearssss of built up stress. 

Everyone gets stressed right? Between Yuji and Nobora, Megumi only has two moods. Kill and annoyance. 

Knowing that there had to be more to their reserved friend they both tried to come up with a plan on their assigned mission together. Anything that would bring out this ‘Hidden side’ of Megumi.

“What if we put him on a really fast roller coaster” Yuji said

“What are you, 15? No one goes to those amusement parks any more moron.” Nobora said her eyes twitching from all the ideas they have come up with. Nothing on their list would seem to work on Megumi. He was to ‘Dead on the inside’

“Wait. we’re not 15 any more” Yuji said his eyes brightening with an idea

“Yeah, so spit it out.” Nobora said on the verge of punching Yuji square in the face.

“Megumi's 20th birthday is next week…”

Nobora stops walking, sensing that Yuji might actually be onto something.

“What if we…mess up his drink, ya know, maybe hand him the wrong cup”

“YOU IDIOT, YOU'RE RIGHT” Nobora yelled slamming her fist into her palm. Of course whether this was the ‘right thing to do’ was completely thrown out the window, when you were as desperate as them nothing mattered anymore.

Buzzz

Your phone rang in your pocket.

“It's Yuji. You said looking at the contact name then at Megumi.”

He sighed in annoyance but you knew he really meant that you should pick up. So with a swift hair flick to the side you put the phone to your ear. 

“Yuji, are you okay? Is Nobora alright?” You asked

“Y/N you gotta help us. It's about Megumi's birthday, we have a plan but we need you to do it because there's no way Megumi is going to trust us.”

Alarm bells are going off in your head because whatever those two have come up with can't be good, especially when Megumi is the target. You turn away from Megumi before responding.

“Look you two I don't know what you planned but it can’t be good. ”

“No, no wait” Yuji said, interrupting you.

“Don’t you wanna see Fushiguro tipsy?”

You paused. You've never seen Megumi drink, let alone anywhere near drunk.

“How do you suggest we do that?” you asked.

“Happy birthday to Megumiiiiiiiii, happy birthday to youuuuu”

“Alright cut it out already” He maybe 20 but he still acts like the 15 year old Megumi.

You start serving the cake while Yuji is silently escaping to the kitchen with the big bowl of punch he made with a secret ingredient and Nobora hands over some gifts to Megumi while he doesn't suspect a thing. 

You don't know why but your heart is racing. Maybe because you're nervous to see Megumi drunk, or that he would catch on before the plan was even in action. Or maybe the fact he was staring at you the whole time.

Probably that last one.

Its no secret you and Megumi got close over the years but it seemed like you were close enough to go to the next level he would pull away and you guys would go back to square one. Well after years of this happening you eventually learned that you’d never be more than friends. So that's how it stayed. But on those rare occasions that Megumi would make you feel nervous, he would really make you feel butterflies.

Yuji comes back into the room with the bowl of ‘punch’ handing out cups to everyone. When he gave one to Megumi, he could see Megumi's hesitation.

“What's the matter, Fushiguro? You don't like it? That's sad because Y/N made it for your birthday especially.”

You whipped your head around. Now you understood why Nobora and Yuji needed you to execute the plan.

“There's nothing weird in there if you were concerned, go on tell him Y/N” Nobora said, giving you the ‘go along with it’ look.

“Yeah…Its just tropical fruit juice and sprite ‘n whatever you mumbled the last bit not even knowing what the punch really was”

Megumi looked at you and the cup.

“No it’s just-I thought I had a bug in mine” he said before downing the whole cup.

That's how it was most of the night. He just kept drinking and drinking without a change.

“Maybe he has a high alcohol tolerance?” Yuji texed Nobora, clearly losing his excitement.

“Maybe you didn't put enough alcohol in” she was clearly annoyed that Megumi seemed to have no reaction so while Megumi left for whatever he left for, she snuck a whole nother bottle of alcohol in.

“Guys don’t you think this is going too far?” You asked, getting tired as it reached 10:00. You had missions in the morning you didn't want to keep being tired.

“Maybe your right” Yuji sighed

“This might all be a wasted effort”

“Where is Megumi anyways?” Nobora asked. You guys haven't heard from him in the past 10 minutes.

So you all snuck into Megumi's room to see him passed out on the floor.

“There's the reaction you were looking for” You said

Disappointed, Yuji and Nobora Help you put him on his bed and head to his door. 

“Good night guys” you said

“Aren't you coming?”

“I’ll do a quick clean up and then leave” You said with a yawn evident in your voice. 

“God I dont get why Megumi didn’t wife you up at all” Nobora sighed before walking out the door after Yuji shutting the door behind her.

“I thought about it, '' Megumi said, suddenly appearing behind you making you jump, not expecting his presence.

“Megumi?!”

His words were slightly slurred and his footsteps were slow. He was drunk.

“Uh umm I was going to do a quick clean up then leave but I can leave now if you want-” You said not knowing what Megumi was on about.

Suddenly you felt strong hands push you onto the door.

“Megumi?” you said, your face heating up.

“Megumi, you're drunk…you're not thinking straight right now, just go to sleep and drink water in the morning.”

“Do you care about me?”

You paused. Yes you wanted to say. For years since school and still now.

“Why would you ask that?” you asked turning your head to the side to avoid his gaze.

“You never dated another guy in the time ive known you…I…I took your life from you because I wanted you.” he mumbled. He sounded sorry like he really robbed you of your life, but honestly it was the opposite.

“Your right, i didn't date another guy because i did care about you, I still do and-”

Before you even finished you felt something soft on your exposed neck.

“MEGUMI?!” you squealed in sheer shock and surprise.

“‘M sorry, I was scared I would lose you if I became too attached , ya know? But 'm older now and i can’t keep living like this.” he said in between breaths

“‘N I just…I can’t”

He pulled away just to lift you off the ground bridal style to his room. He walked in and placed you on the bed and collapsing right next to you arm slung around your waist.

“Look Megumi, I said you were drunk okay? You just need to sleep” you got ip to leave before his hand caught your arm and pulled you back down.

“I'm sorry” he mumbled before holding the back of your head and giving you the most alcoholic kiss ever. Even if you tried you knew you couldn't pull away. You felt hot tears on your cheek. The guilt he felt for not doing this sooner, for making you wait, for making himself wait. His lips pulled away and trailed down your neck and shoulders. He pulled you closer. 

“Best birthday present ever” He said before going back to your lips.

THANK YOU FOR READING ♡

BONUS: “Man, I really wanted to see him confess or somethin’” Yuji said while walking back to his dorm with Nobora.

“Yeah I guess that guy really is dead on the inside '' she sighed disappointed.

AUTHORS NOTE: It's 1:30 rn but I really wanted to write this so its mostly un-edited. Sorry. AND REBLOGS ARE WELCOMED as per usual. :) Gn everyoneee.

[lunart-06]

My Makoto Naegi angst analisis thing (Hc)

(PLEASE KEEP IN NOTE): That this is just my general idea of him, kinda scared to share this cause qjdnnejf I know everyone has different opinions on Makoto so I'm just posting this in my own prespective of him. (It's a little messy cause I am unstable and disorganized when I write this so beware ooo)

Here's the art I made for this

So like, I believe Makoto has issues I think we all established that, and the moment when komaru mentioned of how he changes a lot in UDG (but still hold some same aspects of traits and habits that just makes him.... him) after managed to contact him the first time. It strucks me so bad that it gaves me a migrane /vpos

Like, Makoto earned his new title of the ultimate Hope (with the capital H and everything) just by defeating Junko the ultimate despair? By that point he was seen by the world as the savior and as the first and only hope they have thought lost for YEARS

Makoto's ability to move everyone by just words to which he probably didn't even realised the power he held over it. He's just incredibly passionate and its because his whole body speaks GENUINE emotions, his stubborn willpower and determination undeterred by despair and everything Junko herself has set up for.

It is something not everyone has the luxury to have. His optimism. But that's the thing.

Makoto was the ultimate Hope, only because he was just optimistic in nature. It was the flock of the moment during the last trial, his contagious optimism is what everyone, his friends, the world, preceives as Hope. The enlighting feeling of inspiration by just words of support and motivations for the first time since years after the tragedy started.

But again. Thats the thing. The "Hope" they admire, they clung onto, they worshipped, and they DIE for, was his mere optimistic nature. Just like he said himself "Optimism is all I'm best at".

Its cause well, it's true. (Kinda)

All he was ever good at in his view was just being that. When I rewatched future arc I sense how unBEARABLY useless he is without that title and usual positive nature, and his words don't reach the leaders of future foundation from attempting to kill one another (aside from certain ones, and at the very end ofc, but even then it was too late to prevent the deaths). His words doesnt even managed to reach Ryota from preventing him in using the Hope brainwash video.

It just further shows how.... normal he is

Despite the title, it just shows that he is nothing but a normal guy. He's not some god everyone preceives him to be, he's just some dude that was placed in a wrong time and place.

It's like all the good he is being- well, normal. Like typical "good kid". Somehow it kinda hurts to think about it, like you're obligated to see all positive in lives for it as everyone depends on you for such.

And now the whole world was in the palm of his hands.

I feel like he's scared, despite his strong stand and brave, determined face, he is a normal, ordinary guy that scared to lose what he was ever good and seen by everyone as. Being optimistic and hopeful.

Its like he's not allowed to even be sad for a moment to cry his hearts out. Because the world depends on him, his friends depends on him, he rely on them too much, he cant lose hope cause if he does, the world will fall apart AGAIN, and people will die AGAIN (just like his classmates, just like the people who died for him) he doesnt think he can handle that the second time.

Since that one thing Makoto despises the most is violence. Death to be exact.

He was probably exhausted but he cant yet, he has to keep moving forward, for the world's sake, his friends' sake, his only remaining family; his sister's sake, and for the sake of those who had died so he can carry out their hope that was left behind.

Theres also this quote that remind me of him:

"I'm scared that the moment I look like I'm suffering. Noone will believe me anymore"

Because like. He really cant do things as much without his friends. All he has was his hope; his positivity, determination, and optimistic nature. So he stood tall, facing despair, putting up a strong look just so people of the world, and his friends know, that they all can trust him. To have faith in him.

Because being optimistic is all he's best at.

That hope he has held dearly was destroying him internally. Scary thing is it? Despair isnt what was breaking him. It was the very thing that he was good at. And the very thing everyone thought of when they see him.

Just like junko when you think about it. She- ultimate despair, destroyed herself by the very thing she is (basically executed herself in the last trial) and now makoto was doing the same thing.

"The world's hope", "the strongest who never falters at the face of despair", "the savior", "their guiding light"

How much longer should he keep that up? Before everyone realised that he's nothing but just an ordinary, plain, boring guy?

How much longer should he fall before allowing himself to hit the ground?

A sprout who never truly managed to grow old, it's choose to shelter other by it's leaves, holding still, unmoving.

Yet its roots slowly rotten by parasites and disease, trying to keep the earth together. They can't die now, they're the protector, the hope of it all. <-(quote by one of my friend Ele, which I think is neat in itself, considering Naegi's name means sappling or seedling in general ajdhwjdj)

He may have survived the first killing game that birth his title as the Ultimate Hope,

He may have survived the second killing game in the Neo world program that shows us how devastated it must be for Makoto that Nagito would go that far for the sake of hope, how Makoto's words and hope does not reach the remaining survivor,

He may survived the third killing game in the Future Foundation where it must be devastating that he's unable to understand the victims fully from preventing them to try and kill eachother off ("don't try pretending you understand them, you don't understand them at all" kinda feel), where he watched as Kyoko died for his hope, not telling him THAT she will die, letting him live because not only that he was the closest friend she ever has, but knowing her; she thinks that the world still need the ultimate hope, and because of that, she was ready to accept her fate for it, because she was assured that Makoto is strong enough to move forward even when it's hard, because she has faith in him. Because she believes that Makoto will never give up Hope.

Eventhough he had survive countless scenarios where he could die anytime of those. I feel like eventhough he had survived multiple times.. he had died, multiple times as well, to become who he is now (multiple rebirth symbolism). To the point where he is unrecognizable in his own eyes, the feeling of the old him far out of reach, who is he now?

Things are so simple to him back then, why does things don't make sense to him about himself now?

He may never feel lonely outside, because he believes that his friends will always have his back, he believes that there will always be someone that could give him a hand.

But here, in his own mind, in his own exhaustion, in his own struggle, in his own confusion, he is completely all alone. This one is his alone to go through, his friends has too much on their plate already to handle this, he relied on them too much already.. (in a way, perhaps, he try to rely on others less).

Theres soooo many I wanna say about him but this is the general idea of my view on him, or er, version ig? His accidental savior complex that is.

And don't make me start of his self-sacrificial tendency. /lh

[kelin-is-writing]

how would dabi react to s/o having a huge fear of thunderstorm?

[and, I'm so sorry for this, but I have a (shameless) request; I'd really appreciate it if you could write about this a little bit long (if you have time and want to do it ofc) ? because I have a fear of thunder and I'd like to read it when there's thunderstorm, to help me to get through it. thank you sm! <3]

anon, as someone who’s scared shitless of thunderstorms, this asks actually hits home for me lmfaosdjksdjskdjkdjk

dabi x fem!reader

it was saturday night and like always you two were sitting on the couch chilling and watching a movie for your usual marathon, commenting from time to time about the characters or the various scenes, everything was going smoothly and you both were relaxed; him sitting at your right in his usual position, elbows resting on the back of the couch manspreading while you just sat at his side cross-legged talking cheerfully about what you were watching. everything was awesome until suddenly, after a few mumbled rumbles, a loud on came from outside making you slightly flinch on the spot, something that dabi noticed right away turning towars you “is everything alright baby?”, he questioned leaning forward to have a better look at your face, you’ve suddenly turned pale and he could also see that you were slightly trembling, but despite all that your lips curled up in a trembling smile, uselessly trying to reassure him “yeah su—”, but you were cut off by another rumble that came louder than the one before, making a meancing flashlight explode outside and a scared shriek come through past your lips as you pulled up your hands to cover your ears while literally throwing yourself against dabi’s chest, welcomed by his arms that naturally went to surround your shoulders, one hand resting on the back of your head “you know you don’t have to act strong or tough around me.”, he calmly called out to you while looking down tenderly at your quivering figure as he caressed your head soothingly, hoping that would help you feel better “it’s just that– i don’t want you to think i’m overdramateek!”, you yelped once again as another thunderstorm broke out in a loud rumble, that made it seem like the walls were vibrating, your arms going to surround dabi’s torso, holding tightly onto him for dear life as you went to bury your face onto his chest.

he was taken a little aback from what you told him and also the way you were trembling uncontrollably, the way right now you were looking so defenseless and weak in his hold made him clench his jaw at remembering what you said; the raven haired villain shifted to pull up a leg on the couch, then he pulled you between them holding you even tighter while dragging you with him as he went to rest his back against the armrest while you were resting onto his chest, still trembling like a leaf “i would never mock your fears princess.”, his deep husky voice vibrated through his chest and then all over your body, sending a wave of reassurance and warmth that slowly made your trembling lessen by the second “that’s why never keep things to yourself and act tough, just lean on me.”, you relaxed your shoulders after listening to his words and lifted your head finding your faces one inch away from the other; his cerulean eyes glanced down at you intensely and you responded the same way, the second later he leaned down while you moved up to meet him midway and just like that your lips pressed together into an endearing loving kiss, molding together for a few moments before you two parted with a little ‘smooch’, never looking away from one another once your eyes locked.

you huffed a brief laugh before resting your head against his cleavage with an happy smile, an hand going to stop over his chest “i’m so thankful for your existence dabi, really.”, after this you felt his heartbeat quicken under your palm and your smile widened at hearing clearing his throat, most probably embarrassed, like every time you praised him or told him sweet words. it was simply so endearing to you.

“i’m truly thankful for your existence too, y/n.”, you opened your eyes widening them in surprise, when you were about to move your head to take a look at him though, dabi placed an hand on top of it gently pulling it down on his cleavage again “don’t... not now at least...”, dabi told you with weak voice, clearing his throat once again before he started to caress slowly and tenderly your hair, trying his best to make you relax and not think about the thunderstorm outside.

you hummed in response, conceding to the arsonist what he asked of you, smiling all giddy because you knew that right now he was beet red all over his face. dabi simply couldn’t handle all at once that amount of love, sincerity, kindness and endearingness, not without falling in love with you more as seconds goes by at least.

[astronyu]

Sketches and commentary on the Folly ref sheet for RAT's newest plush! (info below the cut vvv)

(note: RAT commissioned me to make the character ref sheet, which is NOT the plushie schematic that Makeship actually uses as reference to produce the plushie)

This is the first sketch we sent to Makeship!

I'm starting to add details to push Folly's identity a bit more and differentiate her more from RM (Rat Maid), i.e. neckline, nose, gloves, blush. Lots of curves! (And I also added two rats instead of one <3O~ <3O~)

At one point we considered giving her the eye design shown on the right (red thread embroidered around her eye) as a reference to her MC skin's glowing eyes, but we decided eye shadow was a better look. also it looks like sans undertale

This is the back! The Folly skin has a long pretty bow, but it's scrapped by the end because A. her hair obscures everything on her back and B. as we went along we increasingly afraid of the sheer mass of fabric building on this plushie.

Most of her palette is colorpicked from the original minecraft skin by Arathain (who also made RM!) but iirc we made the ears pinker and lighter. You can see their OG tweet featuring the Folly skin here!

Onto the dress design!

RAT wanted the Folly plush to feel like more than just a recolor, so he had me redesign her dress. I started off with an inspo board focused on elements we wanted to keep-- Folly's lighter palette, the middle slit of her dress, the off-shoulder straps, and the overall maid theme.

You'll notice that Folly's expressions here are kind of all over the place (I don't think she's ever looked that sympathetic in her life). I think I made these sketches before I finalized her face, where RAT requested some mixture of murderous intent with mischief, but in a subtle way. Later down the line the specific smirk Folly has actually gave the physical plushie a lot of trouble (faces do not scale easily on cone shaped snouts).

The first alternate dress designs!

RED: RAT (paraphrased), PURPLE: me ofc More refined sketches! As you can see here RAT's working me to the bone with all of his requests. It's okay though, b/c after I sent him the completed ref sheet I got to watch him turn on Makeship. (KIDDING, KIDDING)

Overall, I was looking for a dress that felt regal, beautiful, and unconventional, while still feeling like a maid dress. Wow, after physically typing that out I feel like face palming. "I need a dress for a GODDESS also a uniform good for housekeeping please" (???)

After feedback, I focused more on variations of the 2nd option.

You'll see at the last Folly, I combined the 2nd variation with the tie ribbon, the layered dress design, and long puffy sleeves. I decided to bring over the long puffy sleeves specifically because I hoped that they would give Folly a more interesting silhouette that of course contrasts with RM.

(To be fair, this contrast isn't very visible on the plushie itself but it is fun to draw.)

And finally, the second and last ref we sent to Makeship!

imo Makeship did an INCREDIBLE job translating the design to plushie!! I'm sure there's plenty of challenges Makeship's plushie makers have to deal with that we don't see, so I always specify that I'm only responsible for the initial drawing when people ask me if I "made" the plush.

One really delightful surprise were the 3d rats; we didn't think they were possible but they were (ilu makeship)!! You'll probably also notice that Folly's eyes look pretty different--- they were changed slightly in each step and ultimately ended up softer, which is interesting because I feel that it kind of mirrored how RAT's approach to Folly as a character changed in the months of the plushie's development (and up to her release!).

And that's all I have for my part of the plushie! I always love working with RAT on projects and plushies are a highlight. They're especially surreal to think about when we all used to joke about them before RAT really blew up.

ofc, the shill if you want to get her: Makeship Folly plush and RM's ref sheet if you're curious: Rat Maid plushie ref

i think the campaign ends about October 7th, 2023, but you and i are very likely to be in different time zones so if you're interested doublecheck with the site. if the date has long past then ig this is just a fun little time capsule for you, which can also be pretty cool :)

[rdiowx]

Kinktober day two

Snowballing with Mikey way

Not proofread

Warnings!: does this count as cumplay guys? Both reader and Mikey are angry in this, derogatory names thrown both ways, snowballing (basically kissing with cum in ones mouth in this case), slut shaming sorta kinda Probably, amab reader for plot purposes ofc (rubs hands together evilly) switch Mikey and reader

Hands on your skin, thats all you felt as you were pushed against the wall. A heated argument about god knows what by now had lead to your best friends hands roaming your body with little to no care about where they ended up as his lips met yours. Only taking a break to tell you how fucking annoying you were there was no doubt your lips were swollen by the attack made on them, they felt numb, tingling as you reciprocated the action. “You’re such- a fucking whore.” You grumbled, words getting cut off each time Mikey leaned back in to continue his assault. He couldn’t help but laugh before responding. “Says you.”

Didn’t take you long to get fed up with him, having dealt with his attitude for months. Pushing him back continuously until his legs hit the back of the bed in the shitty hotel room you both had to share. A soft thud was heard as his back hit the sheets, you following close after. It was your turn for your hands to wander his body, grabbing his hips and pulling them into yours as you continued to explore his mouth. “Fuck..” Mikey whispered against your mouth as he felt your cocks grind against one another. Your kiss turning sloppy as you both became aware of how horny you were, Mikey began to take off his shirt before you decided he wasn’t moving fast enough and took matters into your own hands pulling it off of him yourself.

“Have you always been this impatient?—” Mikey teased before being cut off with a groan as you palmed him through his pants and boxers. “Shut up.” You demanded with a blank look on your face as you made quick work of his pants. You could see the glare on his face but you just didn’t care, you didn’t care he was mad at you, or that he slept with other people, you didn’t care because you knew that the only person who did what you could do to him was you. Mikey moved to sit up before pulling off your shirt as well, you assumed he didn’t wanna be the only one naked. You were sorta glad he did, you wouldn’t let him know that though.

You forgot what happend as soon as his lips met yours, but you knew you were angry and you weren’t letting him get away with it that easily. Trailing your hand up towards his face you attached your lips to his neck, knowing his body like the back of your hand you knew exactly which spots made him squirm. You had him a mess in no time, it made you feel good about yourself but there was also this voice in the back of your head that wanted to take it further, to edge him and make him apologize to you. “Why are you staring at me like that?” Mikey asked with the glare which you reciprocated once he destroyed your focus, like he kept doing time and time again.

Trying not to lose your temper you respond, “lay down.” He quickly followed your order, eager to see what you were gonna do, making your way up towards the top of the bed where Mikey was, you made yourself comfortable between his legs. Teasing the head of his cock as you slipped your hand in his boxers you used your wrist to push them down the tiniest bit before pulling them all the way down with your free hand. You could feel him twitch in your hand as you held it, not moving your hand yet to tease him. You relished in his noises and begs for you to do something, a sadistic smile on your face as you watched him.

You squeezed the base of his cock drawing out a whimper before moving your hand up so your thumb could circle the tip. His hips bucked up at the feeling causing your hand to slip down back to the base. You decided to move your position so your legs were on top of his so he didn’t try anything like that again. Eventually you grew bored with your teasing and began to stroke his cock slightly, a loose grip on in because while you were bored you didnt want to give him too much satisfaction, you didnt wanna look like a push over. “You’re so pathetic, You’re already close from my teasing Mikey.” You laughed at him, you could tell by the way he looked away he was embarrassed. “So much for a slut, You’re whimpering like a virgin. What happened to Mikey ‘half of new jersey all of warped tour’ way?”

It took you by surprise when you were suddenly overpowered and pinned to the bed. Struggling from his grip was useless as he proved to be way stronger than you at the moment. “Fuck you.” Mikey spat before attacking your lips again, pulling back before you go the chance to return the action. Moving his body up yours you were met with his cock, now leaking from the teasing he endured just minutes before. You opened your mouth instinctively, as if it were second nature from the multiple times you’ve done this before. Wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock you were met with groans from above you, Mikey pushing his cock slightly deeper into your mouth by the second.

“I knew that the only thing your mouth was good for was talking shit and sucking my cock, its like it was made for it.” Mikey rambled, fucking your face at an even pace. You could tell he was still sensitive from before and wasn’t going to last long though. You reached up to hold his hips, not having much else to grab besides the sheets of the bed you were on. Mikey didn’t stop until he reached his release, cumming into your mouth. As he recovered he didn’t give you a chance to swallow as he pulled you into a rough kiss both of your saliva mixing with the cum in your mouth as it went into his mouth from yours.

After catching your guys breaths you were met with Mikey taking off your pants, fingers hooking on the waist line. “What? You didnt think we were done did you?” He questioned looking up from your thighs where your pants now sat. The wet spot in the front of your boxers now visible to him as he chuckled. After getting your pants off he slipped your cock out of your boxers as you did to him before, taking your cock into his mouth you bucked your hips up on purpose causing him to gag before glaring at your smirking face. He pulled off before responding: “asshole.” He rolled his eyes before slipping you into his mouth causing you to moan.

“You love me.” You retaliated chuckling before leaning back on your hands, lifting one to tangle in his hair. You could see him side eye you from his spot on your cock before going back to his previous movements. It didnt take you long to cum, having neglected yourself in favor of teasing Mikey made you sensitive. Pushing Mikeys head down as you cum down his throat forcing him to swallow, the rest landing on his face not being able to swallow it. “I do, love you.” He panted, trying to catch his breath. “I know.” You responded, gathering some of the cum on his face on your fingers and sticking them in his mouth.

————-

Bonus:

“You owe me five bucks.” Frank said from the room over holding his hand out, a bored expression on his face. Ray only groaned before slapping the money into his hand and went back to reading about a video game while Gerard just rolled his eyes in disgust in the chair next to them as he wiped his makeup off from the show.

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Fifteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 5K

Notes: We’ve got Tom, a little of Douglas and Bess, and lot of Tom again. A little worried about this chapter because obviously from here I’m going to be filling in the gaps that the show left out and going beyond. Also, for the sake of the timeline of my story, I’ve brought the Blitz forward to June rather than September. In the TV show, I think Tom spent longer in the hospital judging by the weather and Manchester’s preparation for the Blitz. On with the chapter.

June 1940

Tom glanced at the pile of clothes on the bed. Jacques, the doctor who had tried to restrain him a few days previous, stood guarding the door.

“Put it on, now.”

Tom shrugged off the loose-fitting shirt he had been given, the one that probably belonged to some poor bastard long since six feet under, and pulled on the green shirt and scratchy trousers left for him on the bed.

“What the fuck do you call this outfit?” Jacques ignored him. “This your revenge?” Still Jacques said nothing, and Tom winced as he pulled the braces over his injured shoulder. “I know you speak English, you understood full well when I was calling you a coward.”

Despite himself, Jacques smiled. Through the bravado and arrogance, it was impossible not to like Tom Bennett. He looked over his shoulder to see Tom adjusting his jacket. The Englishman approached the door but Jacques stopped him and held a finger to his lips.

“Come,” He beckoned Tom back to the bed, where he withdrew a sheet and indicated for Tom to lie down.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Jacques shook his head. “Jesus,” Tom swung his legs and lay down as Jacques drew the sheet over him.

“Off to the morgue, my friend,” Tom could hear the smile in Jacques’ voice. He held his palm to his thigh, and the photograph of Bess he had snuck into the pocket there. The things he was doing to get back to her. He smiled, thinking of how she would laugh. Above him, Jacques whispered, “Here we go,” and Tom felt the trolley pushed through the ward doors. Through the sheet, he watched the flicker of muted light as he passed along the corridor. For what felt like ages, Jacques rattled the trolley through the makeshift hospital.

“You, sir!” Fuck. Jacques halted the trolley bearing Tom.

“Yes, my German friend. How may I help you?” Jacques’ voice was muffled above him, and Tom’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. He steeled himself as Jacques and the German spoke. Tom was certain this wouldn’t be the first time he’d encounter Nazis on his escape, but it would be just his luck to get scuppered now. His palms started to sweat. Unable to take a deep breath, for fear of being seen, Tom did the only thing he could to relax. He thought of Bess. He wondered what she would be doing now. At the hospital? On a date with James? God he hoped that bastard made her happy. In truth, Tom couldn’t imagine Bess with another man than him, and for once it wasn’t his selfishness speaking. Bess let very few people know her, and he counted himself one of those lucky few. He was certainly the only man anyway, aside from perhaps her father and Albie. Maybe she was making something for a client, those elegant fingers dancing over the fabric. His heart rate quickened. Don’t think about her fingers. She could be at the piano, or Belle Vue with the girls. He imagined her dragging Roberta to the carousel; Hattie and Jude would have jumped on willingly. Would she tell them about him winning the coconut for her, or would she keep him a secret too?

The light above him darkened and Tom held his breath as the shadow of a hand passed over his face. This was it. He’d never see Bess again.

“How did he die?”

“Hard to tell,” Jacques’ voice was quick, and the shadow disappeared. “Hardly anything of him left.”

There was a moment’s pause, and Tom felt his chest burning with the need for oxygen. Footsteps passed by, and the trolley resumed its journey. Tom’s exhale was slow, but his mind raced. Surely they were almost there. As if on queue, he felt the trolley hit another set of doors and the light darkened. The white sheet was ripped off him and Jacques and Webster towered over him. They were in a storage cupboard.

“You’re gonna lie low here until the evening. When our contact arrives, we’ll come get you.” Webster said as Tom hopped of the bed. He looked around at the cleaning materials and cobwebs.

“Couldn’t have found me a comfier spot? Don’t think much of the way you take care of your dead, mate.”

Jacques smiled as Webster sighed. “Sit tight. It won’t be long.” The door shut behind the doctors, and Tom was left alone with the spiders and his thoughts of home, and Bess.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

The day was unusually chill for June, and Bess was heading home from her day shift at the hospital. A blanket of cloud covered the sky yet there was no threat of rain, just a light breeze as the bus trundled from the centre of the city to her home on its suburban outskirts. She caught a man looking at her legs, and she surveyed him in turn. He was fairly handsome in an old-fashioned way, with his moustache and neat hair however, the double-breasted suit he wore looked like a smoking jacket and Bess sniggered. Taking this gesture as a flirtatious advance, the man smiled and sat next to her. Bess sighed. The man said nothing and Bess rolled her eyes. Turning to face him, she saw him staring at her legs once more. Caught in the act, his eyes flashed to her face. Up close, he looked nearer middle age than she had initially thought. She also noticed the wedding ring he wore as he smoothed his hair. Just then, the bus went over a pothole and the book she had on her lap slipped. The pair both went to pick it up but the gentlemen got there first. Bess held out her hand for it.

“I’ll hold it for you.” Ah, so he was one of those posh buggers up from London on war work. The ones who always seemed so smug about their part in the war effort. Nice and tidy, making orders for other people to dirty their hands with.

“I can hold it myself, thank you.” Bess’ hand didn’t move, and the stranger placed the book there. He said nothing for a few more moments, and Bess was about to remark on what a miracle it was he had a wife with such poor game when he spoke again.

“Where are you heading?”

“Longsight.”

“God,” The man scoffed. “What on earth for?”

Bess looked at him with a small smile and batted her eyelashes. The gentleman leant closer. “I’m from Longsight.” She stared with prideful amusement as panic flashed across the man’s face. He vacated his seat and stood at back of the bus until his stop. He didn’t look at Bess’ legs again.

When she got off in Longsight, a few teenage boys whistled as they cycled past the remnants of a bombed-out church. Bess shooed them good naturedly. That was yet another thing Tom knew about her that no-one else did. He had said so during their argument; she liked the attention of men. Something about being the one that now held power of them rather, as it had been growing up, the other way around. There was even a fraction of time on the bus when she angled her legs so the stranger could get a better look. Despite the fact, these small flickers of attention were all she could stand these days. Since Tom’s disappearance, the thought of another man made her queasy. Her dates with James had ceased; their night at the picture house stalled due to Albie’s death and Bess’ mind with him and Tom only. In the café of Manchester Art Gallery, she gently broke it off with the solider. He took it well, kissing her hand as she wished him well and asked that he write to her. Bess doubted he would, but her care for the man was still there, if not deep affection.

She turned into their street and stopped. Even from the end of the road, Bess could still make out the black ribbon still tied to her father’s door. It waved at her in the wind, and Bess chose to walk on the opposite side of the street, delaying seeing her family until the evening. Arriving at her destination, she looked through the window and felt her heart constrict. Douglas was alone at the kitchen table, magnifying glass in hand as he poured over a stack of newspapers. She sighed and knocked on the door. The faraway stare that Douglas gave her when he opened it told her that his mind was still in France with his son.

“Hello,”

“Alright, Bess love?” Douglas wiped his hands on his trousers agitatedly and tried desperately to smile at her.

“I just thought,” Bess suddenly felt enormous, as though the attention of everyone in the street was on her. Why had she thought it a good idea to come and bear over Douglas’ anxiety? She cleared her throat. “I just thought, I haven’t seen much of you recently, and was missing your company.”

That did it. Douglas seemed to come round and his face softened. Though his mouth didn’t move, his eyes smiled and he stepped aside to let her in. “You missed Lois, I’m afraid,” He seemed bashful that Bess would want to spend time with him. “She’s off singing with Connie at the RAF base.”

“Ah, I wonder if she’s seen our Roger-”

“’Our Roger’, is he?” Douglas smiled and set about making tea. “Are we to have some happy news at last?”

“God, I hope so.”

Bess glanced about the table. Newspapers of all publishers were scattered about, scribbles in the margins and photographs circled. A notepad lay open next to her and Bess snuck a look at it. A timeline of the Dunkirk invasion, from what Douglas had gleaned from the news.

HMS KEITH SINKS

Bess swallowed thickly and averted her eyes as they began to water. If he’d been on the ship, they’d surely know his fate for certain.

“Here you are,” Douglas passed her a cup of tea and sat in his rocking chair by the hearth. Bess sat in the armchair opposite him, and they spent an hour talking quietly about all that had happened since she moved to Manchester. They spoke lovingly of dear little Jan and giggled at Mrs Chase, though Bess sensed that Douglas held a quiet regard for her. Bess told him about her nursing, and he held her hand as the subject turned to Albie and her family.

“Been keeping an eye on your dad,” Douglas said quietly.

“Thank you,” Bess whispered.

“I think your Cora and Dot are more than capable, but, well, you know…” His voice trailed off and Bess knew he was inferring her father’s temper when beer and whisky were involved. Douglas sighed. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to do right by Lois, and Tom-Tom-“ He sighed again. “I have all this love inside me, and nowhere to put it. At least your Dot and Cora and dad can have it.”

He scrunched his nose, as though trying to retract what he had just said. It was exactly what Tom would have done, and she grinned. Bess didn’t know what came over her, but Douglas was so like his son in that moment, she leant across their entwined hands and placed a kiss on his lips.

They froze. Douglas looked at her, utterly stunned. Heat flushed Bess’ cheeks.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” She stood quickly and covered her face. “Oh my God-”

She span in a circle, not knowing what to do.

“Bess, love-”

“I’m so sorry, Douglas. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me-” Tears were pricking her eyes.

“Bess, love,” Douglas laughed. “Bess! It’s alright,” He stood and pulled her hands from her face so that he could look at her. “It’s alright, come on.” He sat her back in the armchair.

“It’s just-” Bess dried her eyes with shaking hands, still embarrassed by her actions and Douglas’ kindness. “I don’t know who I am anymore. My head is all over the place, and just then, you were so like Tom-” She stopped. Shit. Douglas watched her pensively and Bess wanted to run away.

“It’s the one thing people always overlook about us quiet folks,” he said after a few moments. “We’re not speaking, but we’re always observing. I knew my Tom was keen on you, has been for years. He’s never committed to much but I’ve seen the ways he skitters about after you.” Bess let out a watery laugh. “And here you are, just as keen on him.”

That was all it took. Bess leant her head in her hands and let her tears for Tom come break free. “I miss him so much,”

“I know, love, I do too.” He took Bess’ hand again. “I should have told him I loved him.”

“Me too.”

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Tom walked through the hallways of the reception. Webster had come by only a minute before. The contact was here. Shaking out his hands and loosening his shoulders, he squared himself, ready for anything. Confrontation, a fight, running away, death. He touched the photograph in his pocket.

“Come on, Tom Bennett, you can do this.” He jogged down the stairs, eying everyone in the foyer. They went about their business. “Come on.” He reached the foot of the stairs and made for the door when a hand stopped him. A girl. She nodded and beckoned that he follow. She couldn’t have been much older than Dot and, with her hair tied in a headscarf and her wide-legged slacks, he thought deliciously of Bess. A long-lost Vaughn sister.

“I was expecting a man,” Tom said lowly in her ear as they walked briskly down the dark Paris street.

“So was I,” she retorted. God, she was exactly like Bess. Tom smiled looked over his injured shoulder. “Security in that place is mad. It’s a miracle I only died once.” The girl ignored him. Perhaps it was too much to hope that she would be like Bess in and listen to his attempts at humour.

“Take my hand,”

“What?” She was certainly more forward than the Longsight girls, Queenie Warren aside.

“Take my hand. If we look like lovers, we are less likely to attract attention.”

He couldn’t help himself. Adventure was on the horizon and he was going home. Something of pre-war Tom peaked out from its hiding place. “If there’s anything else you want me to do to look like your lover, you know, just say.”

The girl rolled her eyes and tugged at his hand a little harder. He hissed.

“Careful of the shoulder,”

“Ssh!” Her voice was urgent. “Don’t let on that you’re injured.”

“Well don’t try and pull my arm off,” he whispered back. Once more, she rolled her eyes and led him away from the hospital. For at least an hour, they walked down backstreets, cut through nightclubs and hid in bushes to avoid Nazi checkpoints. The French woman said nothing to him, only marched him towards freedom. When at last they were free of the city’s centre, Tom asked her name.

“Claudette.”

“Claudette..?”

“Just Claudette.”

“Right,” She was a damn sight more annoying than the Vaughn girls. “Well, I’m Tom-”

“I know, but only for a few more hours.”

Tom was about to ask her what this meant when she came to a sudden stop outside a small apartment complex. She knocked on the door and it opened immediately. Tom watched as Claudette spoke in hushed whispers to the gentleman on the other side of the door. He eyed Tom suspiciously but let them in. Immediately, Claudette hurried up the spiralling stairway and it was an effort for Tom to keep up. When he was at her side, Claudette knocked on a dark door adorned with the number three. Beside the number, a small symbol had been scratched into the wood. Again, she spoke in a hushed voice to whoever was on the other side before they were allowed in.

It took a moment for Tom’s eyes to adjust, for the room was lit with covered lamps. A few people looked up their position at a table in the centre of the room. They were punching the keys of their typewriters frantically and did not say hello. Through another door they went, and Tom surmised that this had been the kitchen before the flat it was converted into a rescue base. A scrawny man was hunched over some paper, tweezers in hand. Next to him was a pot and paintbrush. The man picked it up and coated a small, stamp sized piece of paper in a whiteish liquid before placing it on the larger sheet in front of him with the tweezers. It dawned on Tom what they were doing. Forging papers.

“Ouch!” He yelled in pain as yet another stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the wall.

“They shot him,” Claudette said lazily. The man who grabbed Tom hmphed and placed him in front of a white screen.

“Stand there,” he raised a camera in Tom’s face and it clicked. The flash was bright, and before he could regain his sight, Tom was buffeted out of the kitchen and told to sit on one of the many chairs scattered around the lounge. The man hurried away with the camera.

“They’ve turned the bathroom into a darkroom,” Claudette said, noticing Tom’s confusion as his eyes followed the man. “Your papers will be ready in a few hours. Get some sleep, we have a long day tomorrow.” With that, she left to speak to her friends typing in the foyer. Tom sat where he was left as people worked around him. Not once did they look at him, or say hello, and the reality of what he was doing sank in. He was the first on a long list of people they were going to help escape. They had to get this right. Sprawling across three chairs, he took out the picture of Bess and traced her face. The dark curls, the rosebud lips, the steely eyes. Whatever sleep he had that night was fitful, but always full of her.

The next day, they left before dawn. A sea of fearful faces watched on as Tom and Claudette left the apartment; he shook hands with the forger and waved adieux as they hurried down the stairs and into the dark light of sleeping Paris. He was no longer Tom Bennett, but Laurent Proulx. At least, that’s what his ration card and passport said. The aim was to get to the earliest train out of Paris in order to avoid the checkpoints. Together, he and Claudette would travel to Bayonne by train and from there to Urrugne by any means possible.

The journey, as it turned out, was easier than Tom anticipated. By that evening, he and Claudette were in Bayonne, sleeping in an abandoned barn. He’d have preferred a bed, but evaders can’t be choosers. Someone along the Comet Line, for that was the name the resistance planned to give it, had left food for them under a bucket. Cheese, bread and half a bottle of wine. He spent the night gazing at the stars beyond the dilapidated roof, clutching the photograph and thinking of Bess.

Claudette woke him with a start, already dressed and offering a crust of bread.

“We have a long day ahead. You’ll need your energy and your wits.”

Blackbirds were bleating beyond the barn, and Tom saw the first rays of dawn inching through the roof. As he told Webster he would, they followed the coast. After seven hours on foot, avoiding the roads and checkpoints, they came to rest beyond a pine forest clearing near Urrugne. From the pack upon her back, Claudette produced tomatoes, ham, a flagon of water, and half a loaf of stale bread. She ate hastily, ripping into the bread and humming a little. At her feet, a map lay open and she studied it. Tom leant against one of the trees, savouring every mouthful. What he would give for one of Lois or Cora’s roast dinners. Had he ever had any of Bess’ cooking? A few cakes at parties, but she normally made do with helping Cora. He took out the photograph and looked at it fondly. Sadly.

“Who is she?”

Tom was lost in Bess and only vaguely registered Claudette’s voice. “Hm?” he said through a mouthful of bread. Claudette pointed to the photograph in his hand.

“The woman in the picture, who is she? I’ve given up counting how many times I’ve seen you staring at her.”

Tom smiled boyishly to himself, and tucked Bess into the pocket of his shirt.

“Bess,” he said, watching as Claudette considered the name. “We grew up together.”

“And, is she waiting for you at home?”

Tom’s bottom lip quirked. “I don’t know.” I hope so. Claudette seemed to read his mind.

“She gave you a photograph, didn’t she?” Tom smiled at her. After he reached his freedom, he would never see Claudette again. What was the harm in telling her? Again, she knew what he was thinking. “I know you want to tell me about her.”

“And you know that curiosity killed the cat,”

“But satisfaction brought it back!” Tom laughed at her. “Come on, Monsieur Proulx, you’ve got eight lives left. Tell me about this one you share with Bess.”

Tom thought a moment. The history of Tom Bennett and Bess Vaughn was a long one, and the right moment had to be chosen to begin their story.

“We both lost our mothers when we were young. My mam was Marie, and hers was Etta. They were thick as thieves, that means best friends in England. Anyway, Bess didn’t really talk about her mam after she died. The only time she did was when I found her crying by the bins behind the house. That’s the thing about Bess. She never says anything, but she does everything. When I was about sixteen, I had a massive argument with my dad and went to the cemetery to chat to mam. Bess and her sisters used to take picnics down to Etta’s grave and spend the day with her, and they’d just convinced me of how calming it can be. So, I went down to chat to mam. And I’m a Manchester lad, see, I don’t chat about my feelings. But I’d been there an hour or so when a tin can landed next to me. I looked up and saw Bess was walking along with her own tin can attached to a bit of string. Right across the graveyard it spread. She sat by Etta’s grave and, connected by those two tin cans and a piece of string, she let me know that she understood. I didn’t have to talk to her, I didn’t have to tell her how I felt, she was just letting me know that she knew.”

He paused to rest his head against the tree. Claudette said nothing, just waited for him to continue.

“You’d be thick as thieves and all. Not many people can put up with me, but you’ve both managed. She only wears make up when she wants to feel strong, normally when we go dancing-”

“I love dancing,”

“See! You’d love each other. It’s one of the few times she wears dresses too. Loves a good pair of trousers. She’s a seamstress by trade, trained at a posh outfitter in Manchester and makes clothes for her family. Best dressed girls in the north.”

“What are her sisters called?”

“Cora is the eldest, had to grow up before her time, like my sister Lois. She’ll always have your back. She’s a classic. Elegant and kind. The younger one is Dot, a real firecracker. Eats men for breakfast and never lacks energy. Bess is in the middle with Albie, their brother. I was friends with Albie first as he’s only a year younger than me. Then I met his sister. Really, the only thing we have in common is our stubbornness.” Tom sat up, well into his story of Bess. “She used to follow my dad around, he’s dead quiet too, always asking him questions about the world. I think it was her curiosity about everything that attracted the bullying. Their dad, Fergal, is Irish and that combined with her quietness made her a target. Cora and Dot have red hair, and Bess’ is much darker. Everything makes her stand out. Some boys at school used to call her a witch and one day poured milk on her head. Something snapped and I sort of became her protector after that. In turn, she always listened to me when dad and Lois couldn’t cope. Then she went away to Manchester. God, Claudette, when she came back it was like staring at the sun.” He took the photo from his pocket and showed it to her. “She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She walks like she owns the ground, so full of attitude, absolutely terrifies the lads that used to bully her. Lois always says that Bess is a real woman’s woman. And let me tell you the men line up to dance with her.”

He stopped again, thinking about the night he first kissed her. That red dress she wore to the dance. Fuck.

“So why didn’t you snap her up?”

“Eh?”

“Well, you said you didn’t know if she’d be waiting for you,”

“I fucked it up. I kept her a secret because I was ashamed of who I was and wanted to make sure I didn’t ruin the only good thing I had. And I ruined it anyway. That’s not to say she didn’t play her part.” He huffed a laugh, remembering the heat of their argument. “She’s jealous and insecure. Takes the slightest offence at anything, so bloody hot-headed.”

“And stubborn,”

“And stubborn.” Despite himself, Tom smiled. She thought he wanted to keep her secret, but the reality was, he wouldn’t change her for anything.

Claudette smiled too. “You must love her very much. To see her faults and love her as you do,”

“You what?” Tom spluttered as he made to sip the flagon of water. “I-what? I mean, Christ-”

“Falling in love is easy,” Claudette continued. “People do it all the time. But staying in love, that’s a choice. The more we know someone, the more we see their faults. To want them despite that, that’s real love.”

Tom stared at her, open mouthed. A tidal wave of realisation slapped him into sense and he stood abruptly. “We have to get going.”

Claudette laughed at his awkwardness and stood too. “That’s the spirit! Bess awaits!” And within five minutes the food was packed and the pair were making their way through the pines towards Spain, whispering lowly to each other as they did. It was just three hours later that the trees began to thin. Ahead, in a clearing of long grass, two men approached. Fear ran up Tom’s neck.

“What do we do now?” Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Claudette stopped and turned to him.

“We say goodbye.”

“What?” His fear subsided, if only a little, and made way for confusion.

“We are in Spain now, these men will get you to Gibraltar.”

“What?” Tom looked around in amazement. What he had expected, he didn’t know. Blazing sun and gorgeous women to appear at the compass point between France and Spain? “When did we cross the border?”

“I’d say, and hour ago?” Claudette grinned.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have celebrated in the way only a man and a woman can.” He sidled up to her teasingly and she smacked him away.

“Save it for your darling,” She prodded a finger into the pocket where the photograph of Bess lay. “Well, this is my job done, I’ll hand you over and go home.”

“Really?” Despite his annoyance at her, she had helped save his life. “Don’t you want to come with me?”

Claudette laughed as she strolled towards the two men. “More people to save!”

Tom glanced back over his shoulder before hurrying after her.

“Claudette. Claudette!” She turned round to be enveloped in his arms. “Thank you, stay safe.”

“You too, Monsieur Proulx.”

Notes: I did a fair amount of research on how evaders would have escaped from Paris and based Tom’s route on a real-life account of an English pilot. Not much of that research will come into play, but it’s good to know considering this is where we left Tom at the end of the series. I’ve also changed his interaction with Claudette a little, just to make it fit where Tom is at this point in my story. A lot of people that helped evaders and escapees used codenames, so I’m assuming that is the same for Claudette. See you soon!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

[lillylvjy]

LILLY

FERRIS WHEEL DATE WITH WILBUR???? also maybe a kiss scene when it stops at the top 👉👈

yes ofc I can aimi! This is adorable!

Warning// kissing, tooth rotting fluff, let me know what I missed :)

Not edited!

We keep this love( in photographs)

You always admired Ferris wheels. When you were little you were determined to own one one day. You loved how they looked at night. Loved how they looked when you at the very top. It felt like you were at the top of the world.

So when you told Wilbur your love for them, he was determined to go on one with you any chance he got. And when you both were visiting America for his tour, there was a fair just a couple miles away. Perfect!

When Wilbur told you he had a surprise, you were thinking it was going to be another dinner date or maybe a movie. But when you pulled into the parking lot of the fair, your face lit up in a matter of seconds.

“Wil! This is amazing!” You exclaimed as Wilbur came over to your side of the car and opened the door for you before you could do anything.

“I knew you’d love it. C’mon love. What do you want to do first?” Wilbur asked as he took your hand and led you to the ticket booth.

“Hm. Games! We’ll leave the Ferris wheel for last.” You told Wilbur as he got the tickets and led you over to the game area.

Wilbur attempted to do the ring toss and failed with flying colors. You didn’t even try because you knew you would fail. You both tried the water game (idk what it’s called). Wilbur won that game and won a prize. He picked out the small teddy bear hanging up and once he received it, he gave it to you.

“Here. I know you don’t like big things and plus I wanted to win you something.” Wil said as you took it. You mailed at the bear in your hands and then back up at Wilbur.

“Thank you my love.” You said, giving Wilbur a kiss on the cheek. You began to walk away until you felt a hand catch your wrist and pull you back.

“Love, I think you missed.” Wilbur said with a stupid smirk on his face.

You rolled your eyes and went closer to him as you grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him.

You pulled away and looked at him. “Better?” You asked him.

“Better.” He smiled down at you as you took his hand and led him to the rides that were there.

“Ok…. Which one?” You asked him.

“What about that one? Don’t you like basically float?” Wilbur said, pointing at the zero gravity ride(?)

You smirk, “You sure?” You asked for confirmation.

“Yeah. I mean it won’t damage me. Might make me a little dizzy.” He said, way too confident for this.

“Ok let’s go then.” You said, pulling him into the line.

After you both got off the ride, you were perfectly fine as Wilbur walked wobbly off of it. You laughed as your grabbed his arm.

“You good?” You asked him as he looked at you with wide eyes.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good.” He said, shaking his head, almost like getting his eyes to stop playing tricks on him. “Ok no more. It’s either we get food or go on the Ferris wheel.” He asked.

You laughed at his comment and looked at the Ferris wheel. “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel now. The suns setting and it probably looked super pretty from up there.” You said as you looked at Wilbur. He smiled and nodded at you both started walking to the ride.

Once you both got into a cart, and strapped in not so safely, you were off. The ride was jagged and creaky but that’s what made it fun! But apparently for Wilbur, it was like he was going to die at any second.

“Are you sure you enjoy these that much?” He asked, gripping your hand hard and looking around as you guys went up.

“Wil! Your fine! It won’t break. I promise. And if it does. At least I’m with you.” You smiled at him. He smiled back at you as you guys made your way to the top.

As you came to a stop, you looked out and saw the horizon. The sky filled with yellows, oranges, purples and pinks. It was beautiful. Like a scene out of a movie that didn’t seem real. You wished you could touch it or hold it in the palm of your hands and admire it for all it’s worth for as long as you live.

“Wil. This is gorgeous. Are you seeing this?!” You looked over at him to see him smiling at you. “Wil. Look at the sunset, not me.” You moved his head over a nudge so he was facing the sunset. But he just brought his eyes right back to you.

“Yeah. But you’re the only gorgeous thing I want to look at love.” He said, booping your nose. You blushed and looked back out at the sunset. “Nuh uh! I’m not done.” Wilbur brought your face back over to his and kissed you. Slow and lovingly. He held your face gently as he deepened the kiss, as if you’d break at any moment.

The moment was interrupted as the ride shook and began moving again. Wilbur yelled out of horror and gripped onto you. You laughed at his face and doubled over in your seat.

“Jesus! Calm down Wilbur. You’re acting like a cat. Aww my cute little cat!” You said as you put on a baby voice.

“Shut up!” Wilbur laughed at you. You both settled down and you grabbed his hand as you laid your head on his shoulder. “I love you darling. So much.” He said as he kissed your forehead.

“I love you more Wil. So much more.” You said back to him and he rested his head on yours.

“You still didn’t look at the sunset did you?” You asked.

“Nope!”

[vampykween]

HI MICCC :3 hope you are well!! i’ve been brainrotting about ur singledad!simon and here’s a list of scenarios nd thoughts that’s been plaguing my mind

what if poppy got into a fight at school? the fight was short because you pulled them apart almost instantly - but she still got her hair pulled and a scratch on her cheek, and poppy knows from simon that fighting isn’t the best option, but when simon answers your call and hears poppy’s crying in the background, how would he react!!

the way kids like to overshare and have no filter, i can see poppy casually telling you stuff like “yeah my daddy has no friends” or “daddy doesn’t talk much”.. and then when simon comes to pick her up, maybe you two have a small convo and you accidentally slip up and mention what poppy’s told you about him.. then he looks and poppy and you like 🤨what else did you hear..

Oklfldldg how does simon do father daughter nights! is he the type to play competitively in games with her or does he always let her win? does he like taking her out to eat or does he prefer cooking at home :3

AAAA okay last one i promise:3 how do the other kids react to poppy’s behemoth of a dad? are they scared? do they think he’s a mafia boss of some sort? or do they find him incredibly awesome and think he’s a giant from those action movies

(ofc u don’t have to do all of them if u don’t want to OR if u don’t want to spoil anything for the series, just some thoughts! take ur time<3)

hi bby! i am very well right now actually and this made things even better, i could kiss your brain truly mwah <3

i will be saving these ideas because this gave me much needed inspiration and motivation for this series. also sorry if i didnt go as in depth with these, but the longer they sat in my drafts i realized i was never going to remember to finish oops! also i hope you dont mind i will be stealing the oversharing poppy idea if fits perfectly with what i have going for part 3 hehe

✴︎ I feel like simon would be fuming, at whom he’s not even sure. I imagine that some kid said something rude and snarky to her and she couldn’t take it anymore and popped on them, and you’re shocked because poppy is normally such a sweet little girl. Simon would definitely hug poppy close because seeing his baby hurt cuts like a knife, takes her out for ice cream and then chides her because omg! has she lost her mind fighting at school, but also he’s a tiny bit proud she’s a fighter like him. 

✴︎No because Poppy would most definitely do this, in her head she’s just rattling off mundane things about her father, but you’re sporting a frown because there’s a tiny part of you that hates the idea of Simon being alone with just poppy. Not that it’s any of your business though (you would definitely have to remind yourself of that).

Simon is groaning at his daughter’s perceptive nature and how willing she is to share every thought she has. When you waved him over to where you were during school pick up, Simon was praying something bad hadn't happened.  “Mr. Riley, err Simon, sorry.” you correct yourself quickly at the raised eyebrow look he gives you. “Is everything okay… like at home?” you’re mentally face palming at the way you blurted out the very intrusive question. You sense his shock by the question by the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. “Why-” he looks down at Poppy who’s swinging her tiny hand in his, not paying any attention to the conversation you two are having, “What did she say to you?” You wring your hands nervously, the older man’s deadpan stare makes  you feel like you’re in trouble for some reason. “Poppy mentioned to me that you don't have any friends or talk much to anybody. I don't mean to pry, really I swear. Kids will tell you anything, i'm sure you know. After what happened with the family tree thing and-” You're cut off by Simon’s large hand settling on your shoulder, clearly an attempt to calm you down and halt your rambling, but it has the opposite effect and all you can think about is how enormous his hands are and the weight of it grasping you.  “No need to apologize, Poppy talks my ear off about you. I’d be surprised if she didn’t talk to you about things. And you don't need to worry about me, luv. Im fine being alone, i've got my little petal and that’s enough f’me.” There’s an aura of wistfulness in his words, that makes you want to push him for a more truthful answer, but you chide yourself at your thoughts. You barely know this man. Whatever longing you think is in his voice may as well be a projection of your own sadness; a failed long term relationship will do that to a person. 

✴︎Definitely loves to play games but does not let Poppy win because he wants her to learn how to lose and be okay with it. (You would applaud this btw, this is every teachers’ dream. Trust me on that). Their father-daughter nights also will be movie nights with as many sweets as poppy desires because Simon won't bend to anything but her little puppy dog eyes. I feel like even though he’s not the best cook ever Simon would go out of his way to cook Poppy’s favorites for her. Especially like on a saturday morning and wakes her up with breakfast in bed because why not spoil his little girl if he can. 

✴︎I think it's a mix of both really. I imagine Poppy goes to some nice fancy school because why not lol. And some of Poppy's classmates have snooty rich parents who turn their noses up at Simon so their kids are kinda wary of him too. I think Poppy would hype up her dad so much at recess time. Telling stories of how he used to be a ‘super cool soldier’ and all the other kids would be staring in awe like omg your dad is so cool, my dad just does people’s taxes lol.