#berlin spin off

[marinagail]

Oh god.

I'm excited for BERLIN.

But THIS...

No way they try to make DAMIAN el professor 0.2.

The way he dressed and acted like Sergio. It's the one that made me so cringe.

Not trying to judge, but Bruce and Keila??? Kelia smelling bruce?? I mean,

I'm not trying to judge, i'm not trying to complain so much, but please, you have so many fans here that is excited for this... But THIS... Lol

Don't make me loose hope here.

[bleulone]

KEILA and BRUCE in 1.02 Anchor and Lobo | BERLÍN (2023-)

+ the wink™

[imogenkol]

Laura Berlin as Queen Emma of Normandy in Vikings: Valhalla season 3

[sweetestberryofthebunch]

Scars On My Mind (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Ever heard of the Daughters of Liberty? When Agatha appears at your doorstep covered in blood with a knitting needle peeking out of her elbow, you certainly wish you hadn’t. Here’s how it went.

Content/Warnings: WitchKiller!Agatha, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Injury, So Much Blood, Open Wound, Angst, Mild Mentions of NSFW Content, no beta we die like the Daughters of Liberty

This fic is a gift for @marril96 who made a gifset for me in return! Ily, let's swap again! It was so so so much fun to dive a little deeper into Agatha’s Witch Killer days with this, and make her a little vulnerable for once!

The rain started on Thursday night and hadn’t stopped since. A continuous drumming against your window, the world outside tainted a muddy grey. It was the earliest hours of Saturday now, Friday had passed silently without you noticing, the continuous waterfalls of raindrops on the windows not letting up to let the days pass either. The vinyl player kept playing as Friday had slipped into Saturday too, the kettle kept simmering as you prepared a boiling cup of Agatha‘s favourite tea blend. Even as the days drifted away, the world kept going. Boiling hot water turned into lukewarm turned into cold, the vinyl finished playing, spinning to a halt. The rain kept thrumming.

You sighed, leaning back on the couch, eyes fluttering shut. Agatha was late, like, even later than usually. And you were tired, sleep tugging at your bones with gradually more and more urgency.

But it was useless to go to bed, no matter how often she insisted you shan’t wait for her. You wouldn’t find much sleep anyway. Not on nights like this. When Agatha was out with other witches, when she set out to … feed? Kill? Siphon?

Well, it was hard to find any rest while she was out there like that.

She may have laughed when you’d admitted to that, throwing her leather jacket over her shoulders before pulling you into a quick kiss by your neck.

„There’s nothing to worry about, darling. I do this all the time.“

But still, as the front door to your little nyc apartment swung open and she sauntered out, chirping a „See you tonight, honey!“, over her shoulder at you, the pit in your stomach remained. The ghost of her palm on the back of your neck remained.

You sighed, taking a sip of the cold tea you’d prepared. If she wasn’t coming home in time, you certainly wouldn’t let the water go to waste.

They’d just raised the prizes for utilities on you. And while Agatha had just laughed and mentioned some inactive bank account she had in Germany that she‘d simply pull from, you couldn’t help but stress about it.

It wasn’t that you didn‘t trust her, so far every time she’d mentioned some savings from one of her many, many lives it had always been true. But just because she was an undying, centuries old witch who didn’t have to concern herself with mundane things like paying bills didn’t mean you could just shake those things off the same.

You had no magick, but you did have your name on a lease. But so far, she’d always made it work somehow, whether that be with her old account of when she lived right beside the Berlin Wall ten years ago or by selling a quick spell or curse to some unassuming person desperate enough to pay for one. You weren’t even sure if she actually performed real spells all of the time. Your Agatha was a scam artist through and through, but you wouldn’t have her any other way.

You took another sip of tea, watching the rain pour down the window. Sometimes, you wondered how many more of you there had been. Agatha was good at dodging those questions, but one night, when you wouldn’t let off even after she’d made you come undone multiple times on the couch, she’d handed you a little cardboard box.

„I try not to be traceable and I can’t exactly show you baby pictures, but some stuff just sticks.“

The contents of the box were fragile, some paper so frail you barely wanted to touch it. Little notes, handwritten poems, a few pages torn out of books. A pencil sketch of the bunny that lived in a cage beside your bed, that she always made sure to drape a blanket over before going down on you. An ink sketch of her, without the worry lines on her forehead or the little wrinkles around her eyes. But, as always, with the amulet she never took off her body.

A few photographs. Black and white on flimsy film paper, Agatha in a flapper dress, feather in her hair and a cigarillo between her lips, legs spread as she leaned back on a barstool. Agatha in the same dress, smiling over her shoulder at the camera, a dark skinned woman in a matching dress sitting beside her, raising her champagne flute at the camera.

Jenny Kale, you knew from her stories, the most brilliant potions maker Agatha had ever met. And the most annoying one. They‘d fallen off, you assumed it had something to do with Agatha‘s habit of power grabbing.

But, there was also a Polaroid.

A Polaroid that lay on the coffee table in front of you now.

A Polaroid that had not left your mind since you’d found it.

Agatha with a wild, unkempt perm and uneven bangs, black liner smudged around her eyes, in a black tank top, arm stretched out to take the picture. But, what actually caught your eye was the arm wrapped around her waist, tight enough to bunch up the fabric of her shirt, revealing a thin line of pale skin of her lower stomach. The person hugging her was out of frame, all you could see was an arm, and a shoulder pressed into Agatha‘s, and the way the witch seemed to hold back a laugh. The handwriting under the picture was messy, and the black marker had faded over the years.

For my love A.H. 1982 - We can be heroes forever and ever

And then what you‘d assumed was once a heart, but got smudged by someone touching the ink before it had dried.

It was exactly what you‘d been looking for. Proof that there had been people before you. That you weren’t her first lover in the 350 long years of her life. Of course you weren’t, that’d be foolish to assume!

But still, the find had punched a hole into your stomach that had only hollowed out the more you thought about it.

How many other people had she taken a liking to, how many non magickal people had she moved in with, let them sign leases and contracts for her as she ran off to suck the magic out of the local witch community of wherever she found herself? How long had this been going on? How long until she’d move on?

Sure, you were young now, but other than her, the clock was ticking for you. Would you just wake up one day and find her gone? And would she bother to keep your picture? And, even if all of this was nothing, why would she hide it from you? She‘d told you about Jennifer Kale, but she‘d never ever mentioned living with someone during her time in Berlin, or any era before that.

You bit your bottom lip, hissing when you tasted the metallic tinge of your own blood.

Did you want to be just another picture in her little box of memories? Did she even deem you worth remembering?

It was stupid to think like that, and you knew that, but it was harder not to let the uncertainty consume you.

But, you were smart enough never to ask her about it directly. Your wild, fierce, unapologetic witch. You loved her, you had realised that the moment her eyes met yours for the first time, and you loved everything about the chaos and the magick and the passion that she brought into your life. Maybe that was why the potential answer scared you so much. Better to keep holding onto your belief than to risk knowing you didn’t mean as much to her as she did to you. Better to live in the harmony of what you had built with her.

You wish you‘d never asked her about her prior life, had never opened the paper box. Now that you had the Polaroid in hand, it was impossible to put down.

A sound ripped you from your self deprecating thoughts. A faint scratch, just loud enough that you were sure you hadn’t imagined it. Another one. Like a dog scratching at a locked front door … or a key that kept missing the hole it belonged into, and instead kept hitting the rough wood of your door.

You sat up. „Agatha?“

No answer. Fuck.

You knew Agatha had her enemies, it was impossible to live that long without them. Hell, there was a whole coven formed of the daughters of her prior victims, a piece of information you preferred to not think about too much. After all, you saw what she was capable of, saw her cast runes around the entire apartment to keep out evil spirits, the way she glowed after siphoning, the daily use of telekinesis and the occasional prodding your mind - which she swore was to remind you to keep up the mental wards she‘d taught you, and totally not because she enjoyed the image of her that danced around your thoughts since the day you met.

Wards you made sure you had up and intakt now as you grabbed a candelabra on your way towards the front door - the first weapon you‘d spontaneously found.

Another scratch at the door, then a grunt, and a little thud, like something was falling into the wooden frame.

„Agatha?“, you asked again, louder.

Panting, whoever was on the other side of the door was breathing heavily.

Here goes nothing. You bit down on your lower lip, fingers tightening around the candelabra. Twisting the doorknob, you held your weapon high, ready to strike. The wooden door flew open, you held your breath … only to immediately let it go in a loud shriek.

In front of you was in fact Agatha, however, this was not how you had expected her to return. Her shirt was torn and ripped apart, shreds of fabric barely clinging onto her. if you hadn’t known, you would have never guessed it used to be white fabric, for it was covered in mud and dirt and … a worrying amount of blood. There was so much blood. On her clothes, her face, her head. Like someone had dumped a bucket of red over her head. Agatha herself was shaking, her body leaning against the wooden doorframe, the key she was holding in her right hand quivering with every rattling breath she took. Her left arm … your stomach twisted. Her left arm was completely bare, the sleeve ripped away at the seam, and her skin was covered in dark red crusts of dried and fresh blood. It hung useless at her side, and as she shifted from one foot to her other, you saw a single, long piece of hard plastic sticking right out of her elbow.

Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you instinctively had to reach for the wall, not trusting your knees to support your weight right now.

Agatha’s eyes were open wide, blue piercing at you as she panted, a now dried drop of blood had run right between her eyes and down her nose. She looked insane. You felt insane.

And yet, she had the nerve to cock her brows at you. „The candlestick? Seriously? Do you have any idea how much that thing is worth these days?“

Slowly, you dropped your arm, the makeshift weapon sliding out of your grip and tumbling to the floor.

Agatha winced, like that was what really caused her pain right now.

„Agatha!“, you gasped, swallowing hard.

The witch bit her bottom lip, hard, before heaving her own body closer towards the entryway, pushing for you to let her in.

„I got ambushed“, she exclaimed, even though that didn’t explain anything at all, „This little bunch was smarter than they seemed. In theory at least“, she laughed, but it only made her grit her teeth, „All the spells and curses in the world, and they stab me with a fucking knitting needle!“

You gulped. So that was the thing peeking out of her elbow.

Glassy blue eyes found you, her glare bewildered, almost panicked. „Are you done now? I would love it if we could at least move this out of the hallway, before we wake the neighbors!“

Finally, you snapped back into reality. Agatha was injured, badly, and she was also leaving stains of red on your doorframe and the „Welcome Home“ doormat in the hallway. But those were problems for later.

Right now, you needed to get her to safety. You surged forwards, grabbing her by her uninjured shoulder, pulling her right arm around your neck.

„Lean onto me“, you instructed, kicking the candelabra out of your way as you slowly guided her into the apartment.

She was cold to the touch, too cold for your liking, but she still managed to tut at you anyway. „What would you say if i kicked your hairdryer around like that?“

You let the front door fall shut behind you, other arm wrapping around her waist to support her further.

“I would say Thank You Honey for not letting me bleed out on the doormat! but you can practice that later.“

That made her snort, and you felt her entire body wince in pain.

„Stop being funny“, she hissed, her right hand digging into your shoulder as you slowly guided her towards the couch, step by step, „It hurts.“

You finally reached the plush sofa and carefully sat her down. Agatha‘s body collapsed against the cushions with a groan, her head rolling back.

„Hey!“, you snapped your fingers right in front of her face, „Sit up! Don’t you dare faint on me!“

Her eyes fluttered, and you felt panic rise in your chest. Your palms found her cheeks, cupping her face gently as you pulled her head back up, forcing her to look at you. Blue eyes blinked up at you, pupils dilating when they closed in on your face.

„Agatha“, you said, taking a deep breath more to calm yourself than her, „I‘m gonna go grab the first aid kit, but I need you to stay with me, okay? No fainting. Can you curl your fingers for me?“

Her right hand curled into a weak fist with no issues, while her left hand laid beside her uselessly. You swallowed. „Okay, keep doing that. Clench, and unclench, exactly. I‘ll be back in a second.“

She blinked twice, and a small smile found her blood covered, cracked lips. „You’re worried about me“, she drawled deliriously, healthy hand coming up to poke your side. The touch was a lot weaker than you‘d like. „That’s hot.“

You bit down on your tongue. „You’re unbelievable“, you shook your head, making sure her own head was supported by the cushions behind her before letting go, „Keep clenching your fists!“

To your relief, the first aid kit was right under the sink in the bathroom, fully stocked and ready for you. On your way back out, you grabbed a towel as well.

Agatha was still sitting up when you came back, already digging through the first aid kit as you walked, pulling out bandages, alcohol wipes, and the little bottle of superglue you kept in the kit. You sucked your cheeks in, thumb running over the little tag on it. The next fifteen minutes were going to suck.

Glassy blue eyes watched you as you spread out your new findings on the coffee table. Her breath came in heaves, but at least they were even and her chest didn’t quiver with every gush of air that surged through her lungs anymore.

„How are you feeling?“, you asked, needing her to stay awake, stay with you at any costs.

Luckily, she had it back in her to let out a humourless chuckle. „Like shit. Those bitches betrayed me like I didn‘t teach them everything they knew.“

Even as you cut open the plastic baggy holding a bandaid, you had to give her a long look over your shoulder.

„Betraying the witch that was gonna betray them? How dare they.“

Agatha opened her mouth in protest, but then you sat back up on the couch next to her, the cushions she was resting her injured arm on shifting, and instead a high, pained whimper left her throat. The sound rang through your head and you pressed your lips together, carefully positioning her arm so the needle stuck in it was facing you.

„I‘m sorry“, you took a deep breath, „You‘re not gonna like me for the next few minutes, but I need you to stay still for me, okay?“ Your eyes found hers, and you gave her a firm little nod.

„What?“, Agatha's voice was weak, brows creased in confusion, her eyes barely focusing on you. You gave her a soft smile, hand closing around the knitting needle slow and firm. „Look out the window babe“, you softly hummed and Agatha‘s head rolled to the other side, lashes fluttering.

„Don’t turn around“, you said. But of course, she immediately turned back.

“The window Agatha!“, you sighed exasperated, not waiting for her to listen this time.

„Okay, one, two…“ Before you could say the next number, you gritted your teeth. With one firm tug, the knitting needle slid right out of her open wound.

Agatha screamed, flinching under your firm grip, head thrown back against the couch.

The needle made a wet sound as you pulled it out that made your stomach turn. Thick, red liquid was stuck to the plastic as well as fresh blood immediately pooling out of the wound at her elbow.

You quickly pressed the towel onto it, gripping Agatha’s arm tight so she couldn’t pull away, even as she screamed. The whimpers leaving her throat echoed through your bones, and you had to bite down on your cheek harder.

„I‘m sorry baby“, you pressed out, glancing over at her face. Fresh, salty tears ran down her face, parting the dried crusts of blood on her cheeks. She was biting down on her tongue, hard enough to draw blood, holding back her sobs as best as she could.

„Fuck you“, she sobbed weakly, eyes closed shut and you had to chuckle.

„That’s okay. Let it out.“, you hummed, pressing the towel down onto the wound with one hand. The pale blue fabric was quickly soaking up red, and you had to act fast, worried she was going to lose too much blood.

With your free hand you reached for the superglue, the lid already off, clear, stale liquid at the tip.

„I have to do one more thing that you‘re not gonna like“, you said, keeping your grip on her arm tight as she tried to pull away.

„No! Stop! That’s enough!“, she yelped and it took everything in you to stay firm. The wound needed closing, no matter how much it would hurt.

„Agatha!“, you held her tight, giving her a firm stare that held no room for discussion. When you saw the way her bottom lip was quivering despite her pushed forward chin, your voice softened.

“I‘m trying to help you. Just one more thing and you‘re done, I promise.“

Agatha swallowed hard, leaning towards you.

You let her, gently pressing your forehead to hers.

„That was scary“, she murmured, „They were so smart about it. Didn’t blast me once. Instead…“, her shoulders twitched in an attempt to shrug, the sharp pain causing her to wince.

„Instead you came home with a knitting needle in your arm“, you nodded, craning your neck. Your lips brushed over her forehead, the bittersweet mix of mud and blood on your tongue as you pressed a gentle kiss right over the crease she always pulled when she was in pain, but trying to be brave about it.

„This was terrifying, but you’re being so strong“, you leaned back again, enough to look her in the eyes one more time, „Let me close the wound and then it‘ll be over, I promise.“

And she let you.

As you pulled the towel away to inspect the wound closer, Agatha looked the other way, her right hand coming up to her mouth as you pulled the skin together. As you dropped the clear glue down onto the gash, pulling it closed with one hand and handling the bottle of superglue with the other, she let out another blood curdling scream, muffled only by her teeth digging into her own hand. But, it worked. The moment the liquid began to thicken, the bleeding stopped.

It took all the alcohol wipes of the kit to get her arm cleaned up, working quickly and in silence, knowing well not to talk to Agatha as hot tears ran down her cheeks. You made sure to save a wipe for the bite mark on her right hand too, and then once you were positive all of her injuries were cleaned, you finally reached for the bandaids.

By the time she was all patched up and in clean clothes (you‘d thrown her bloody shirt and all towels it had taken to get the muck off her face into the bathtub, a problem for later), the two of your curled up underneath a blanket, her healthy shoulder squeezed up against yours, the sun was coming up.

Finally, it had stopped raining too.

The two of you had shared a can of microwaved ravioli, and slowly but surely, the color was returning to Agatha‘s cheeks. You wrapped your arm tighter around her, nose nuzzling into the crown of her head. Her hair still smelled of metal and cinder, but that didn’t bother you right now. What mattered was that she was still with you, that her body was warm against yours and her breathing even.

The blanket rustled as she shifted in your hold, right hand coming up to rest over yours.

„Now.“, Agatha took a long breath, thumb running over your knuckles as she held your hands in hers. Finally, she seemed fully back to consciousness.

„Tell me why you‘ve been pondering all night instead of sleeping like I told you to.“

„What?“, your brows furrowed, tilting your head to the side in confusion as you glanced down at her.

Agatha nodded towards the coffee table, blue eyes fixed on a specific object scattered between the leftovers of your once organised and stacked first aid kit. „I doubt you‘re using that as a bookmark.“

Between scissors and a piece of bandage you‘d cut off, there was still the Polaroid you‘d taken from the box of her private possessions. Now, there was a single drop of blood on it, right above the black marker writing.

„Oh my god!“, you quickly reached for it, „I‘m so sorry, I‘ll clean that off!“

Before your hand could reach the photo, Agatha‘s unharmed arm lunged forward, hand closing around your wrist. Despite how pale she still looked, she pulled you back to her with no trouble, wrapping the blanket around you two tighter. Injury or not, there was still magick power running through her veins.

„Darling“, her pale eyes found yours, „Look at me.“

You didn’t dare break the eye contact she established, even though it was the last thing you wanted to do right now, ears hot with embarrassment.

„Have you been thinking about that?“ she asked, and you knew exactly what she meant. Her long, long life before you, the nature of your relationship. The only thing on your mind for days now.

„I mean, it‘s stupid!“, you shook your head „It’s naive to think I‘m something special, you’ve had such a long life already,“ you poked her side, „Even though that‘s hard to believe right now.“

Agatha‘s hoarse chuckle made you smile despite everything weighing on your mind.

„I‘m going to stop you right there.“

With her healthy hand, she tried to push herself up, eyes fluttering shut as she groaned in pain. You instinctively reached for her shoulders, helping her sit up and lean against the sofa cushions.

Her hand found your cheek, palm gently cupping your cheek.

„You are something special“, her voice was low and you swallowed hard.

„Do you think I could do this with just anyone? I was just bleeding out on your couch.“ Her eyes found yours, giving you a firm little nod. „Have there been others? Of course. A witches lifespan depends on her powers, and I‘m not exactly the type other witches want around for long. It can get lonely.“ Her lips pursed into a little smirk, brows rising. „But thanks to you, it‘s not. And thanks to you, it won’t end just yet either.“ She chuckled, raising her bandaged elbow with a sharp inhale.

Your hold on her shoulders tightened just the smallest bit, holding her upwards. Her thumb ran over your cheek, and you couldn’t suppress your smile at the touch.

„What I am saying is yes, there have been lovers before you. But that does not diminish your presence in my life, and it does not make you any less special. To be quite honest, you‘re the first person to have pulled a knitting needle out of my elbow.“

She let out a little laugh and soon, you joined in. Agatha‘s hand tugged at the back of your neck, and you willingly let her pull you into a sweet, gentle kiss. Her lips brushed against yours with the familiarity of someone who had practiced plenty, pushing her chin forward into the kiss like she knew you loved her to do, and you let out a little laugh in return, teeth grazing over her bottom lip just the slightest bit. Exactly the way that made her groan, pull you in tighter, kiss you with more and more fervour, until you’d bite down on her plump lip for real.

But not right now. You pulled away before she could coax you into something more, giving the shoulder of her injured arm a gentle tap as you raised your brows at her.

„Not now Agatha! You literally almost died today.“

She let out an exasperated sigh, but then opted to wrap her healthy arm around your waist instead, pulling you closer. „But I didn’t, thanks to you.“

You gave her a warning glare but obliged as she pulled you into her lap, arm wrapped around you and your hands resting on her shoulders. She leaned forward, lips grazing over your neck just enough to make you gasp before nuzzling her face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, a spot she had found she fit perfectly into one time while napping and loved ever since. Your hands found her hair, fingers slowly running through the thick, dark waves falling down her back. She hummed against your neck at the feeling, and you felt your heart swell at the sound. Even if all of this was fleeting, at least right now, you could provide a safe space for her.

You pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the faint scent of the lavender oil she liked to brush through her hair.

Even if you were but a fleeting moment in her life, maybe in 10, 20 years she‘d think back to you and miss the way her nose perfectly nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“I love you, Agatha“, you whispered, so quiet, you could barely hear it yourself, „Try not to get killed while I‘m still around.“

If she heard you, she didn’t answer.

You pulled her even tighter.

[its-time-to-write]

I wrote this in light of the Euros last night. If you don’t know, England lost to Spain and it was absolutely brutal. So for context, this fic takes place post-match in Berlin. (I also knocked this out in forty minutes to distract myself from the fact that I have to rewrite the mafs fic from scratch😭😭)

enjoy.

twentysomethings

The creak in the hotel hall is the only warning you get before there’s a knock on the door. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s on the other side, so it’s no surprise when you open the door to reveal Jamie Tartt.

“It’s late,” you comment when you see him. You tilt your head. “You alright?”

Jamie doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen. You move aside to let him in and shut the door.

You move to sit on the bed, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Shit, sorry,” you say. “Didn’t want to change into pajamas when I got home.”

You pull the England kit over your head, leaving your undershirt on. You do your best to conceal the name on the back and toss it on the floor beside the bed.

You’ve known Jamie for years. He was friends with your cousins growing up, so you’d seen him on and off since childhood. You’d ended up dating for a few months, and your parents had been surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

“He’s been in love with you for ages,” your mum had said.

You had laughed. 

Jamie had done a spectacular job working past your defenses. “I won’t leave you,” he promised. “I love you.”

And you believed him.

You’d sworn off dating after a particularly bad heartbreak, but Jamie was determined.

And who are you kidding, you loved him too. You would have done anything he asked. 

You did. You moved to be with him, figured out how to make your job work remotely, sacrificed just so you could be with him. But he was worth it.

The breakup was a shock, to say the least.

He never could give you a straight answer as to why, and before you knew it you were on a flight back home. 

The rumors started a few days later which was silly, because no one even knew you and Jamie were dating. Or that you knew each other. Or anything.

No, the rumors had nothing to do with you; they just linked his name to a gorgeous blonde model, saying he’d been seeing her for weeks.

That hurt worse than anything else. The evidence was mixed, not terribly reliable, but there was enough of it for you to consider it may contain truth.

He didn’t text, didn’t call. Didn’t try to convince you it was a lie, so you believed it.

Why else would you have ended?

You thought you knew him, thought he wouldn’t cheat. Breaking up and moving on is one thing, but sleeping with someone else while you were together… it was earth-shattering. 

Especially because he knew.

He knew how hard it was for you to trust. He knew what he was doing when he held your hand and kissed your temple.

You did know him, though. He hadn’t been cheating on you, it was just the stupid rumor mill, but you were still broken up so it didn’t fix anything. You still had no explanation.

All this time, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. You know exactly why he’s in your room so when you pat the spot on the mattress next to you, he doesn’t have to say anything before he’s on top of you.

He’s pent up, all anger and sadness, but he presses soft kisses along your neck and jaw in a stark contrast.

—

“We should shower,” Jamie says when you’re done. It’s the first thing he’s said that isn’t your name or false promises that he loves you.

“I’m tired,” you say. It’s true; your head’s spinning and if you close your eyes for longer than a minute, you’ll fall asleep.

Jamie makes a face, not quite a grin but certainly not the frown that’s been affixed to his face and says, “You run the shower and I’ll change the sheets, yeah?”

You groan and roll out of bed as Jamie rummages through the closet for extra sheets.

“You weren’t with mum and Simon,” he says in the shower later.

“No,” you say, swiping your thumb under his eye.

He’s silent, waiting for you to say more, but you don’t. You’d been in the stands with the general public, as you’d always preferred. Less likely to be noticed that way. 

He says, “You were wearing an England kit.”

You shrug. “Not a real one. Didn’t want to spend £89 on something I’d wear once. Not like anyone can tell.”

“Hm,” he says, turning off the water.

You shiver. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Fuck no,” he says, wrapping first himself and then you in a towel. He looks at you questioningly and you half-nod, resigned to the fact that you’re going to let tonight run its course. 

Jamie picks you up, bridal style, and kisses you as he carries you back to the bed.

“We’re going to have to shower again,” you warn.

“No, you’re going to have to shower again,” he corrects as he kisses your hipbone.

You yawn, and he props himself up to look at you. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” he teases.

You smile, “You’re the one who came to find me, my love.”

The words roll so easily off your tongue that you won’t realize exactly what you said until later. If Jamie catches it, he doesn’t say anything.

An alarm goes off early in the morning. It’s not yours, you’d set yours for 10:00am. Jamie reaches to turn it off then pulls you close. 

“Gonna sneak back?” you yawn. He buries his face in your neck in response.

“Jamie,” you sigh. “You have to go back.”

He still doesn’t say anything so you wiggle to get face-to-face with him. He’s centimeters away, and you indulge in a moment to study his face. This is the last time you’ll have him in your bed, so you’re allowed to enjoy it.

You ask, “You did well, you know that, right?” but he shrugs and tries to turn his face away.

“Jamie,” you say again, “you did well. I’m so proud of you. You played in the Euros for god’s sake. You were in the starting eleven for the finals! That’s amazing. You made it so far.”

“Not fucking far enough,” he mumbles, and you kick him.

“Don’t be an asshole to yourself. Enough people will do that for you.”

He shrugs again. “You coming back to England?” he asks in an effort to change the subject, and you let him.

Not that this topic will be much easier than England’s loss to Spain.

You shake your head. “Going to Ireland to see the family.”

“Then England?” he asks, but it’s with a false kind of hope. He already knows what’s coming.

“Jamie.” You taste the way his name sounds on your tongue for one of the last times. “I can’t keep doing this to myself. I’d go anywhere you asked, do anything for you. I’d let you hurt me over and over again, but- it’s just not healthy. You know I love you and I know you love me. But we love other things more. You’ll always choose football over me, and I’ll always choose my job over you. You broke up with me, if you recall, and you never fucking told me why.”

He whispers, “Will you forgive me?” and the way he toys with your hair makes you realize he already knows your answer.

“I was only mad at you that Monday,” you say. “I shouldn’t have called and I shouldn’t have yelled, but that was the only day I’ve ever been mad at you. I’ve already forgiven you.”

There isn’t much more to say after that. Instead of trying to fill the silence Jamie pulls you closer under the covers. You lay there for far too short a time before you say, “We need to get up.”

Unwillingly, Jamie lets you go. He’s still in bed watching you as you begin to change.

“That’s got to be a crime,” he groans as you clasp your bra. 

“Fuck off,” you grin. “You’ll see some again.”

You don’t say, you’ll see mine again, because he won’t. He wipes sleep from his eyes and sits up.

“I don’t want to leave,” he confesses, and you understand.

“This isn’t real life,” you tell him. “Besides, now you get a holiday. It’s going to be okay.”

Jamie sits for a moment longer, then gets up to put on last night’s clothes.

“Mum gave me your room number,” he says when he’s all dressed.

“I figured,” you respond. “She’s the one that invited me.”

Jamie nods. She’d told him the whole thing after the match and he’s glad he hadn’t known you were in the stands.

You say, “Well.”

Jamie says, “Well.”

He crosses the room to pull you into what is arguably the best kiss of your entire life.

“I love you,” he says between kisses. You push him gently toward the door, but he’s still kissing you.

“I love you,” he says again.

“Jamie,” you reply, but you mean the same thing.

He kisses once, twice, three times in the doorway before taking a last long look at your face.

He’s crying again, and it’s worse seeing it in person than it was seeing it at the match.

Something wet slides down your cheeks, and you realize you’re crying too.

“You have to let me go,” you choke out. “I’m so sorry. You have to.”

He nods, gripping your hand.

Jamie presses his forehead to yours one last time. “I love you,” he whispers.

You breathe, I love you too, then he’s gone.

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

Grant was one of Speirs’s best sergeants. The captain was not about to let this man die. After they learned of the incident, Speirs and Lieutenant Jack Foley swerved madly through the country lanes and personally ushered the comatose GI back to base. A disheveled Army doctor greeted them at the aid station, but declared there was nothing he could do to save the sergeant’s life. “Bullshit,” Speirs responded. He and Foley lugged the lifeless Grant back to the jeep and sped off in the direction of Saalfelden—hoping to find a physician of greater use.

Word of the shooting spread like wildfire throughout Easy Company. Earlier that evening, a stone-cold drunk David Webster had collapsed face first onto his bed. He still wore his soiled fatigues when a comrade frantically awakened him. “Get up, Web! For Chrissake, get up!” “Uh-uh,” Webster mumbled as he rolled over. “Grant’s been shot. Go out on the roadblock!” “What?” “A GI shot Grant. The bastard’s loose in town. Captain wants a noncom on the roadblock right away.” Webster did not know Grant well but developed an impulsive urge to hunt the would-be killer responsible. “Web” remembered the sergeant as a “sunny, quiet, golden-haired boy from California.” What sort of paratrooper could commit such a transgression against one of his own? “Everybody up!” shouted an equally enraged Liebgott. “Outside on the double!” Webster’s head was spinning. The burst of action, movement, and adrenaline caused the private to stumble down the stairs. Slinging a bandolier of ammo over his shoulder, the bruised and hungover private darted outside to join his vengeful friends.

Meanwhile, Speirs and Foley discovered a Berlin-trained brain surgeon in Saalfelden. Through hours of tedious work, the doctor achieved a medical miracle and was able to spare Grant’s life. This bout of luck failed to diminish Easy Company’s sudden hatred for Craver.

~ Jared Frederick & Erik Dorr

[ineylesian]

THRASH

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY X READER

AO3 | KINKTOBER 2023 MASTERLIST

DEBRIEF | ghost has been avoiding you since your last deployment. you think he’s hiding something.

WARNINGS | smut, handjobs, slight degrading, semi public sex, dom! reader kinda?, smug ghost

WORD COUNT | 1k

THIS WORK IS MEANT TO BE READ IN AN ADULT READER’S POINT OF VIEW. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Finally.

“Where are you going, Riley?”

Your hand encloses around the base of his arm, twisting cruelly as the other spins him your way. Black polyester shifts at your fingertips, and you feel his muscles twitch under the jacket.

Ghost looks down at you, eyes faintly parted in shock. You nearly recoil at the sight. His features are ridden with fatigue— eyeblack smudged carelessly around his lashes, hollowing out sunken eye bags that make it look like he hasn’t slept for days.

You open your mouth to question him, until your knee knocks against the fly of his jeans. Glancing down, you find yourself pressed against the outline of his cock, strained against denim and nearly searing through it.

“Huh.” You smirk, lips painted coy. “Having a rough week, honey?”

Ghost sinks down partially on the wall you have him pinned against. His hood is far gone by the winds, and you’re surprised the cigarette he dropped hasn’t blown away yet. Smile sticking to your face, one of your feet stomps on it, languidly dragging the remains against concrete.

“Thought you wouldn’t notice I wasn’t around.” His voice is low, gravely and thick with impatience because he knows he’s caught. “Guess I’m not the only bad one here.”

There’s a low ambiance from inside, softly buzzing the wall he’s pushed up against. His gaze drifts to the side, fighting the urge to push you off of him and take to the woods.

The night is young, the sun gone some hours ago when you and the rest of the Task Force arrived. Instead of drowning yourself in liquor from your recent success in Berlin, you took to shadows and scathed trees in search of your Lieutenant. He’s aware that you’ve been worried sick about him since you touched down in Germany, and he’s also aware that you no longer care due to the erection pressing against your leg.

Ghost looks back at you, shallow blues swallowed by a forlorn sky.

“Well, you got me right where you want me.”

It’s been a few days, nearly a week since you’ve seen even a shadow of Ghost around. He’s been avoiding you because of something like this? Trying to flip if on you when he’s cornered? Ridiculous.

“Always trying to soften the blow on yourself.” You scoff, fingers looping around the frame of his belt buckle. “You’re pathetic.”

Your hand pulls on the last of the zipper, pushing his belt loop to the side, and tugging his boxers down. Ghost groans, low and savory, his cock nestled against a faded scar on his abdomen. Your hand moves from the band of his underwear, fingers daintily running along the base of his dick.

Mild hums join in with the music from inside, and you hear boots kicking up dust from the exit around the corner. Ghost reaches for your hand, but you’re quick, moving the other to delve under his mask. His lips quiver under the cold press of your hand, and you smile, pressing him further toward the wall.

“Don’t want other people hearing us, yeah?”

He nods, half heartedly, blonde eyelashes shifting under amber lamplight. You hum, smoothing your pointer finger along the tip of his dick. Pre drips against your skin, warm and sticky. Low vibrations hit the hand that covers his mouth as you lather his length in his own mess.

It’s loud, the squelch that joins squawking crows and chilling drafts. Ghost’s breath is warm against your skin, choppy and dripping with saliva as you work his dick. His face drips with sweat, skin warm to the touch despite the winds that roll over it.

“Needed me this bad, huh?” You simper, teasingly squeezing his balls, hung low and heavy. “I wonder what the others would think, not being able to keep your dick in your pants. What’s gotten into you, Riley?”

Riley. He shudders, hips involuntarily bucking toward your hand. You grin, tongue lining your teeth in satisfaction. He was right, you have him exactly where you want him.

“Well,” you release your hand from his mouth, increasing the pace of your strokes as you do so. “Got anything to say?”

Ghost gasps at the release, pooling fogged breaths to the night air, other hand wiping the spit from his chin.

“A little disciplinary action couldn’t hurt.” He sighs, eyes smug and gratified. “Think I’ve learned my lesson, but you can finish your punishment if you’d like.”

You roll your eyes, watching with exasperation as his lips quirk up. He always does find a way to turn things in his favor.

“Dick.”

He hums, quiet and bobbing softly against his adam’s apple. You feel his dick throb in your hold, hot and slick against your palm. Ghost cocks one of his fingers up, motioning for you to let off. Your hand leaves his chest and his neck cranes forward, arm snaking around your waist to hold you against him.

His lips taste as they always do, remnants of war and gunpowder mixing with ashes from his last cigarette. His canines prod at the flesh of your mouth, loosening only when he feels his release nearing.

Through parted lips he moans, low and satiated. You savor every noise, feeling the last waves of ecstasy wash off as warm liquid leaks over your fingers. You part, sloppily wiping his mess of the black of your pants as he tidies himself.

“Cheers, lovie.” He tilts your chin up, the ghost of a smirk disappearing with the rise of his mask. “Won’t go off your radar like that again, yeah?”

[brotherwtf]

fantasy au with succubus/incubus gale secuding human bucky

fucking love this idea and I'm actually gonna throw it into canon bcs I have a really really good hc for this

when John's plane goes down, he doesn't land in a field but instead in the woods in Berlin, parachute catching on the branches and sending him careening into the ground, head spinning as he tries to get up and gather his parachute, but he ends up passing out on the ground before he can gather his wits

he wakes to the sound of branches rustling, instinctually reaching for his gun and pointing it at the sound from where he lies on the forest floor, hand shaking as his unfocused eyes try to find what had made the noise

there's a figure in the distance, half obscured by the large trunk of a tree and John clicks the safety of his gun and points it at the figure, not saying a word in case it doesn't see him

it creeps forward, inching ever closer to John and into the light, and John has his finger poised on the trigger to shoot when the figure fully steps into the clearing

it's Gale, immaculate as ever in his dress greens and perfectly quaffed hair, youthful eyes and perfect skin, petal lips wrapped delicately around a toothpick, feet crunching the branches as he walks closer to John on the ground

John can't find any words, all of them lodged in his throat as he sees Gale, Gale walking towards him good as new, like he hadn't been shot down at all

"Buck, what happened?" John asks, voice croaked and head pounding as he tries to speak

Gale just shakes his head, mouth pulling into that small smile he always reserved for John, stopping in front of him with perfectly polished boots and the perfect cloying scent of his aftershave. He doesn't say a word as his delicate fingers start to unbutton the brass buttons of his uniform jacket, doesn't say anything as he shirks it to the ground, eyes watching John's like a hawks as he sits up on his knees, watching Gale take off his uniform.

He doesn't know why he can't look away, his eyes trained on every one of Gale's movements as he starts working on his shirt now, slowly, ever so slowly undoing the buttons and revealing pale, almost milky skin underneath. John's breath is rapid, his head pounding as Gale shrugs the shirt off, letting it fall to the ground like a billowing parachute.

John's mouth is dry, his hands moving on their own accord as he reaches upwards for Gale's waist, fingers burning when he touches the heat of Gale's skin. Gale makes a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and blood roars in John's ears. His hands creep until his fingers are splayed across Gale's lower back, pressing the heat of him until John's lips are pressed to his stomach.

It tastes like a drink of cool water after months of dehydration, like warm soup touching your tongue after years of hunger, John can't get enough of the taste of Gale. Gale takes John's hair and pushes him away, a small and pathetic sound leaving John's lips as he's pushed to the ground, but it's almost worth it when he sees Gale between his legs, muscles flexing as he crawls up to John's waist, those same fingers undoing John's flight suit, breath hot on John's stiff cock.

John doesn't remember getting so hard, but he can't bring himself to care when Gale's perfect lips wrap around the head of him, dipping his tongue into the slit all while looking up at him through perfect blond eyelashes. John doesn't remember Gale being so perfect like this, or maybe he was and John was just a fool not to notice.

When Gale takes John's entire length down his throat he can't help but throw his head back at the sensation, burning with pleasure as Gale bobs his head up and down, bright blue eyes locked in on John's when he lifts his head up again.

"Fuck, Gale, God I missed you so much, fuck... what happened to you?" John says, words hitching up on a moan when Gale takes all of him down his throat again.

Gale doesn't say a word, just moans and shakes his head around John's cock, closing his eyes so John can see the perfect fan of his eyelashes across his cheek.

It almost burns when John comes, hands gripping the ground to try and get some purchase while Gale holds his hips down, come and spit gathering at the corners of his mouth as he tries to take all of it down his throat. Gale chuckles and swallows it all, sticking his tongue out between his teeth as if he were showing John he had swallowed it all. John reaches a shaky hand up and cups Gale's cheek, running his fingers through that golden blonde hair of his and sighing. Gale leans into the touch, pleased with a slight flush over his cheeks.

"I'm okay, John. Don't worry," Gale whispers, voice hoarse from having John's cock down his throat.

John feels like he could cry. His throat burns, his eyes well up, and he lurches forward to take Gale in his arms.

"You have no idea how much I missed you. God I was so fucking worried about you, you couldn't have died, I knew you couldn't have," John chokes, tears clogging his eyes and his throat.

Gale's stiff against him, but he tentatively raises his arms up to wrap around John, slow and steady as he tucks his face into John's neck.

John doesn't remember passing out, but when he wakes up, Gale is no longer there, and he feels that empty dread all over again as he calls out for him.

[xtarmanderx]

Fuck it Friday

Thanks to @jamieroyjamieroy and @fairytalegonewronga03 for the tags! Here’s another never before mentioned snippet from a fic!

-

Rocker’s phone lights up with an incoming call on his day off. He frowns, wiping his hands on the rag he’s been using while tuning up his car, and glances at the name. Chris A. His brow furrows in puzzlement as he considers why she might be calling him. Just as he reaches for his phone, it lights up again. Incoming call from Commander Hicks. His blood runs cold. He answers it, taking a deep breath to steady himself: “This is Rocker.”

“Donovan.” Commander Hicks begins and Rocker’s knees buckle. He gets himself onto the floor before he can collapse, one palm flat on the ground as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Luca?” He croaks out, his heart hammering in his chest.

“He’s still in Berlin. Rocker…it’s Erika.”

“She…” Rocker starts and stops, swallowing thickly. “How?” He asks, struggling to keep his voice in check.

“GSW to the chest. I just delivered the news to her sister-“

“You should have called me sooner.” Rocker growls, scraping his nails against the rough floor. “I should have-I should have been the one-“

“Rocker,” Hicks says patiently, “you weren’t here.”

“And if I had been, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” He snaps, anger and sorrow at war in his chest.

“Donovan,” Hicks tries again. He doesn’t want to hear it. He stares down at the line of red staining his garage floor, his nails aching, and feels bile climb up his throat.

“I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up and then empties his stomach next to his classic car, heaving until only acid burns his throat. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he ended the call. When he finally looks at it again, his vision blurs at the sight of Luca’s contact photo. He swipes to ignore the call, swearing as he accidentally accepts the FaceTime request. He can’t see Luca through tears and the angle’s all wrong right now.

“Sweetheart?” Luca asks softly.

“I-I can’t talk about this right now,” he gasps. “Luca, please.”

“Deacon’s on his way to pick you up. We don’t have to talk about it, okay? Just let me stay on the phone with you.”

“I need to get ready. I was tuning up the Mustang.” Rocker tells him, his voice low and scratchy.

“I’m sure you have time for a shower, honey.” Rocker’s phone buzzes with an incoming call from Chris and his breath hitches. “Hey, talk to me. What is it?” Luca asks immediately.

“Chris keeps calling me. I should…” He trails off and sobs, reaching up and wrapping both fists in his hair. “I need you.” He admits, the words breaking as he says them, like the exhale is strong enough to tear through anything. “I should have been there,” he whines.

“Rocker, sweetheart, no one-“

“It should have been me.” He regrets the words as soon as he hears Luca curse, but he’s too busy spinning out to register what the man says next. The next thing he knows, Deacon and Hondo are in his garage and they’re helping him onto his feet.

Low pressure tags: @equallyloyalandlethal, @spiderraeken, @exhaustedpirate, @rubydaiquiri, and @sunnywithachanceofbi and anyone else who wants to do it!

[marinagail]

How Berlin spin off should be.

[bleulone]

BEGOÑA VARGAS as CAMERON in BERLÍN (2023-)

[tiva-challenges]

TIVA CHALLENGES is a fanfiction writing project for fans of Tony and Ziva from NCIS (2003) running before the spin-off NCIS: Tony & Ziva drops, with new writing prompts every month! Organized by @television-overload and @indestinatus .

What if we had a time machine?

What if Kate had never died? What if Tony and Ziva had never met? What if Tony had stayed as team leader? What if Ziva hadn't been found? What if they had never left Paris? What if the Berlin accident hadn't happened? What if Ziva had been pregnant earlier? What if Tony hadn't left Tel Aviv? What if Ziva had told Tony about Tali?

What if they had been together since the start?

MARCH'S PROMPT:

Tiva: What If?

Additional information under the cut:

🌀 This month, we are looking for fics that answer the question, "what if?" These will likely be canon-divergent alternate universe fics, springing off from a point in canon of your own choosing. They can be as simple or complex as you wish, all we want is for you to explore how things might have changed if one choice, one moment, was different. Most importantly, have fun with it!

🌀 Works will be revealed Friday, MARCH 28th, at 16:00 GMT.

🌀 The subcollection for posting this month can be found here. If you have trouble figuring out how to post to a collection on AO3, check out our tutorial.

🌀 If you post yours here on Tumblr, make sure you tag us so we can share it! The tag for this project is #tivachallenges.

Lastly, as always, if you have any questions, please reach out, and we'll be happy to answer them! Happy writing! 🌌

[blorbosexterminator]

In the newest interview, alvaro said that big chances that professor wouldn't be in the spin off because it's berlin's project and focusing on his new cast or crew. He said this one (Berlin) is separated from LCDP. Does that mean that we wont get Palermo too? 😢 I mean, if the whole 8 eps are just about berlin having fun with strangers he pretends to be friends with, whats the point of watching? The only thing we can hope, maybe the plot would be good, but from the teaser, I too have a doubt about it.

I haven't seen that interview (if those are his exact words, "big chance" is a weird way to phrase it since shooting is done, he's either in it or he's not lol.) Anyway, I wouldn’t take too much away from his words. They are pretty much a rephrasing of what Pina has been saying. They might mean Sergio won't show up at all, or that Sergio will only show up through a cameo, not in as a central way as LCDP. And that makes sense to me either way. I would personally love a cameo but generally regarding Sergio, it makes sense that he wouldn't be present through all his brother's heists and gangs and day to day life (which was already established in canon).

So I wouldn't compare Sergio's situation with Martín. At least on a textual level. Once established that Andrés had met Martín, it would make zero sense that Martín wouldn't be there since we know from canon Martín has been on his side for ten years prior to the monastery flashbacks. And generally speaking, there is not a single character from LCDP that belongs more in Berlin the show than actual lcdp lmfao. Martín's entire construction in canon was in the framework of Berlin.

That's not to say the show won't be about Berlin having fun with strangers for 8 episodes lmfao. That will probably be it. But I'm still in the belief that Palermo will guest-star or cameo in the last episode, as a form of Berlermo's first meeting. And I think if Rodrigo agrees and Netflix grants Pina a second season, he might be a main character going forward. I don't think there is a lot to hope for from the spin-off but I still believe it will be better and more surprising than we imagine now.

[miz-chase]

I am still thinking about Brennan having to leave the country after her father's trial. She put herself up as a prime suspect, a murderer of the chief of the FBI, and now the whole world knows it. The post-court case press failed to move on. The FBI has to stop using her as a consultant, she's too compromised, too in the public eye.

She moves to Europe, maybe Berlin, taking an intern with her. Takes up a professorship, consults here and there, but mostly only works with historical cases.

A few months later, Booth shows up. He's exhausted, stretched too thin, too broke to really afford the trip and a hotel, but he does it anyway. Shows up in her lab and charms his way in.

At first, she gives him the ice-queen cold shoulder. Threatens to have him thrown out by security. But she never does it, she just unloads on him in frustration then storms off to her office.

He's worried, but only a little. He knows her ebbs and flows. Stands there, chatting with Wendell, spinning a poker chip in his fingers. Eventually, like he knew she would, Brennan reopens the door to her office, stares at him, beckons him in.

They're stiff, awkward, at first, catching up. As words pass, she leans closer, her hand resting on his knee, her head on his shoulder, her arm wrapped around his elbow. Once she latches on, she wont let go.

He knows not to rush her. In her own, sweet time, she finds it in herself to look him directly in the eyes. Parts her lips, tilts up her chin. Somehow now, after all this time away, it seems irrational to not kiss him.

He doesn't end up needing the hotel after all. Pity it's too late to get a refund.

[djloveyou3000]

Belladonna

Chapter twenty nine

Few weeks earlier

Bell’s therapy session had just ended, and they were rolling their shoulders, trying to work out the tension as they grabbed their coat. Russell, as usual, stood off to the side, arms crossed, a silent observer who didn’t interfere unless necessary. His sharp gaze flickered between Bell and Dr. Leslie, always hyper-aware, always analyzing.

Then Dr. Leslie spoke, casually but pointedly.

“It’s been a while since I last saw Kate and Philip.”

Russell’s expression remained unreadable, but Bell didn’t miss the way his entire body tensed, the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his hand curled into a loose fist by his side.

Dr. Leslie continued, either unaware or unconcerned by his reaction. “Why don’t you bring them by sometime? Unless, of course, that woman is still giving you trouble.” She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.

Bell, who had been focused on gathering their things, suddenly froze.

Kate and Philip?

They had never heard those names before.

Bell turned their gaze to Russell, searching for any hint of recognition in his face. His jaw remained locked, and his eyes darkened with something unreadable. He still hadn’t said a word.

Then, it hit them.

Bell’s grip on their bag tightened. Are those… his children?

Their stomach twisted violently, like they had been punched in the gut.

Russell had kids? And he never told them?

A cold feeling settled in their chest. Their mind raced with questions, each more painful than the last.

He never told me. Not in Berlin, fine, I get that. But after? After everything? We’re married. How long was he going to keep this from me? Does he not trust me? Does he think I’m unstable? That I’d react badly? That I’d do something?

Bell felt dizzy.

Their heartbeat pounded in their ears as realization after realization crashed into them.

What else hasn’t he told me?

The room suddenly felt too small, too suffocating.

Dr. Leslie must have noticed, because she gave Russell a firm squeeze on the shoulder before shifting the conversation.

“Bell, your chart is… interesting,” she said, flipping through some papers.

Bell barely heard her, their thoughts still spiraling. But they forced themselves to focus. “Good or bad?”

Russell spoke at the same time, his voice slightly strained. “Well?”

Dr. Leslie exhaled through her nose. “It’s not bad,” she said, looking at Bell. “Your brain has all your memories—it’s just shutting them away. The MKUltra conditioning might be gone from your system, but your mind is still defensive. It’s only giving you what you want when you’re relaxed. During hypnosis, your brain isn’t actively protecting itself, so it allows you to access bits and pieces.”

Bell blinked. “That’s funny. Because all I saw was a really nice resort on a magazine .”

Russell let out a quiet huff, the closest thing to a laugh. His lips twitched slightly. “Very funny, Bell.”

“But,” Dr. Leslie continued, undeterred, “it could work. You just need to let go. You’re always so tense, so anxious. If you don’t loosen up, your mind will keep blocking itself.”

Bell swallowed, shifting uncomfortably.

Russell didn’t say anything, but his expression was serious.

The rest of the session passed in silence, but Bell’s mind never stopped spinning.

By the time they arrived home, their emotions were a tangled mess of confusion, betrayal, and hurt. The second they stepped inside, they couldn’t hold it in any longer.

They turned, arms crossed. “So, you’re not gonna—how do you Americans say it?—talk about the elephant in the room?”

Russell exhaled through his nose, shrugging off his coat. “What, you wanting to go to the beach?” he asked, tone indifferent. “Don’t worry. I have a place in mind.”

Bell narrowed their eyes. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Russell rubbed his temples. “There’s nothing to say.”

His tone was sharp. Final.

Bell scoffed, stepping closer. “Oh, yes, there is.” Their voice wavered—not with anger, but with something deeper. Hurt. “How could you not tell me you’re a father?”

Russell froze.

“You have kids.” Their voice cracked slightly. “What happened to ‘we don’t keep secrets in this marriage’? What else are you hiding from me? Do you not trust me? Did you think I would react badly? That I’d—”

They stopped, their throat tightening.

“This marriage,” they whispered, “is it built on lies?”

Their breathing quickened, and before they could stop themselves, the words spilled: “If this marriage is just secrets and lies, then maybe we—”

They never got to finish.

Because Russell snapped.

“DON’T YOU DARE FINISH THAT FUCKING SENTENCE.”

His voice roared through the room, making Bell flinch as he grabbed them—one hand gripping their face, the other clamping down on their arm with bruising force.

His chest was rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

“You think it’s easy?” he growled, his fingers pressing into their skin. “You think it’s fucking easy to tell you I have kids? That I don’t have custody because of that bitch?” His breath was hot against their face. “You don’t think I want to see you and them together? Huh?”

Bell’s stomach twisted at his words.

“If you ever suggest what you were going to say again,” he hissed, voice low and venomous, “then I’ll give you three options.”

His grip tightened.

“One. I can lock you up and fake your death.”

Bell’s breath hitched.

“Two. I can get that shit out of your head. But it will be painful.”

Bell’s heart pounded.

“And the third option?” Russell smirked cruelly. “I won’t tell you what it is.” His thumb brushed their cheek, deceptively gentle. “But I’ll let your imagination run wild.”

Bell’s eyes widened in horror.

And just like that, he let them go.

Before they could process what just happened, Russell pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with practiced ease.

Then, without warning, he grabbed them again—his lips crashing against theirs in a harsh, possessive kiss.

Bell struggled, pushing against his chest, but Russell only tightened his hold, forcing them to inhale the smoke as he exhaled into their mouth. Their lungs burned, and when he finally pulled away, they coughed violently, their eyes wide in shock.

Russell leaned back lazily, taking another drag as he watched them. His eyes, hidden behind his aviators, made him unreadable.

That same stupid expression was on his face—the same one he wore in West Berlin.

Bell clenched their fists, biting back a remark, knowing it wouldn’t end well if they spoke. Instead, they straightened, glaring at him, before silently walking past him toward the bedroom.

Russell took another slow drag of his cigarette, watching them go.

But behind his shades, his eyes never left them.

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