#prompt 007

[riointhedark]

Name: Claudia Guadalupe Zapian Deleon Age: 92 Relation: Maternal Grandmother.

It's no surprise to anyone that Rio opens up to that his family life wasn't the best. His father all but hated him, a fact he now knows comes from him not being the man's biological child. His mother racked with guilt from the affair did her best to play peacekeeper between them but fell short. He was one of the lucky ones with a grandmother he could escape to. Claudia for as long as Rio could remember lived in a simple two-bedroom house in San Diego. His earliest memories of her are from when his dad was still a low-level officer and his mom worked as a nurse. She would pick him up after school and take him to the Panaderia to pick out a treat to eat. He would sit on the floor in the living room eating his sweet bread and doing his homework as she watched her shows. The never-waving feeling of love and warmth of her home is his fondest memory. As he got older she thought about how to pray, what candles to light who to which angel or saint to call on for help. This was his routine for years till his family moved away. When he was a teenager and life started to get rough for him the month he would spend with her over the summer was what he looked forward to the most. He never felt judged by her, not when he came out as bi or told her he had got a girl pregnant. She is and will always be Rio's rock.

When he first came to camp he was caught up in the whirlwind and missed a few weekend calls home and got more then an earful when he called. Now, that he is a little more comfortable in his abilities he takes his daughter every other Sunday to her house for breakfast. Claiming the mother removed to be closer to family and he got a job in the area. it's one of the things that grounds him and helps him anchor himself to something normal in his new fast-paced life. Rio is also lucky she hasn't asked about the black candle or the spirit she never heard of that he prays for protection too.

[castillon02]

“Make them clean their own guns,” Nguyen said, leaning her considerable bulk over Q’s desk. She was just starting her shift. “Or at least wear gloves.” 

Q kept plunging a bore brush soaked with cleaning fluid into the barrel of 007’s Walther PPK. His eyes burned with fatigue. “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

When he finished, he left with gun oil on his fingers, fingers that had traced over the gun’s every crevice, every curve and angle, every metal and electric anatomical fold. 

—

“Why not tell us to clean our own guns?” 006 asked. 

“I'm a control freak,” Q said. “Which is also why I know that yours is in the middle of the Atlantic and not in need of cleaning at all.” 

This was a lie. 006 had reported the gun lost at sea but had actually smuggled it back into his own flat, where it was currently residing in what Q suspected was his bedroom and knew for certain was the room that also had a backup earwig that Q had personally assembled, a Ka-Bar that Q had archaically sharpened on a whetstone, and one of the decoy keychains and keys (Alaska) that Q kept on his desk so that agents had something harmless to swipe. Probably there were other things that 006 also had in his nest, but they would be things that Q hadn’t touched and could only theorize about. 

Q was bad at lying. 

006 visibly recognized this, realized that Q was lying in his favor, and couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “Right,” he said. 

Q smiled. Fixed him with a specific knowing look. You don’t ask, I don’t ask. “If it hadn’t sunk into the fathoms below, I would recommend a new hammer spring. Sometimes these things get a bit fussy when you use a gun as a bludgeon. That’s part of why I do in-person maintenance.” 

Part of the reason; not the whole reason. 

006 muttered a Russian curse. “Thank you, Q.” 

“Happy to help.” 

---

001 brought his guns back clean, but with a new part in them each time; a replacement firing pin, hammer, ejector rod, bullets. 

Q always asked about the replacement. He did it before disassembling the gun, like a magic trick.

001 always grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I’ll get you next time,” he would say, wagging a finger at him. Perhaps you’re more fallible than you believe. 

“It’s good that you’re optimistic,” Q would reply loftily. No mistakes. I see your gun. I see your tricks. I see you. 

—

004 never cleaned her gun and always brought it back. Hers was a semi-automatic of Theseus, parts replaced naturally when there was wear and tear. 

“Same as always?” she asked when she picked up her kit. 

“Same as always,” Q confirmed. 

—

When Q was a child, he asked, “Mum, why do you always shout about your car keys in the morning? And why does Peter never know where his pencils are?” 

She frowned into the mirror and finished applying her lipstick. “Sometimes people lose things, dear.” 

“How?” Q asked, boggled. 

She looked at him with squinched eyes; that meant she was thinking hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “we forget where we put them, or someone puts them somewhere we don’t expect.” 

Q squinched his own eyes too. What could she be thinking so hard about?  

Mum smiled. “Tell you what, we’ll see if I can give you a demonstration after school, all right?”  

Mum didn’t turn on the telly right away after dinner like she usually did. Instead, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, you know how you asked about when I lose my keys? Does that ever happen to you?” She was trying to be casual about it, but if it were really unimportant then she would have asked during a commercial. 

“One time I pretended it did,” he told her, “because I was curious to see what it was like. So one day while you were doing the shopping I put one of my books on top of the telly and stomped around in the other room going ‘Where the hell is my story book?’ in a loud voice like you do with your keys. It was a little fun, but not much.” 

“It’s not fun to lose things. Do you know,” she asked, “where your story book is now?” 

“Yes, of course,” he said. His story book was immense and well-thumbed, so heavy that it made him grunt whenever he had to lift it, but he had already read through all of it at least four times. It had hard edges and corners that were beginning to bend; chocolate fingerprints littered the pages at the beginning because his hands had still been sticky from birthday cake when he first opened it—he can put his fingers on them now and see how much he’s grown. There’s a stain of pomegranate juice at the beginning of the Persephone story from the pomegranate that his mother had bought before they read it together; a special treat, expensive, but “you have to know what a pomegranate is before you read it,” she’d said, “otherwise you’ll wonder why they’re eating the seeds.”    

“And where is it?” his mum asked. She had to know that Q knew, because why wouldn’t he know? 

He answered anyway. She ‘humored’ Q a lot, she sometimes told him, so he could humor her this time. “In the vegetable drawer,” he said. “You came home for lunch and moved it there. But that’s a silly place for things that aren’t vegetables, isn’t it?” 

His mum closed her eyes and sighed, long and deep the way she did every so often when Q asked too many questions that she couldn’t answer. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “I’m lucky to have a son who knows that. But most people can’t keep track of their things as well as you can, so let’s not talk about it too much and make them envious, all right?” 

That was something he knew how to do. He had already had a few talks about not stirring the other kids up with how smart he was. Plus he could tell from the tightness in her voice, like when she talked to her boss’s boss or Q’s headmaster, that she was nervous. “Sure, Mum,” he said. “I won’t.”   

So he never mentioned it again. 

He also never lost his keys, or his rucksack, or his socks, or anything else he touched and touched often. He might as well try to lose his own foot.     

—

“You know, we can clean our own guns,” 002 said, dropping her pistol onto Q’s desk. “In fact, you’ll find I did.” 

Q smiled. “That will make it much quicker when I do it, then.” 

002 pursed her lips and blew a pink bubble with her gum, which Q Branch had also issued her. “And where do you want this?” She took the sticky wad out of her mouth and held it out to him. “Gonna chew it for me?” 

Q held out a petri dish. “We have better chemical analyzers than my tongue, I’m happy to say. We do want to see about the wear and tear on the product.” He met her eyes. “Reliability is important in our field.”  

002’s performatively petulant glare softened. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and next time you’ll make it into plastique instead of a tracker.” One corner of her mouth quirked up.

The sticks of gum were actually one of Q’s least favorite gadgets; like most gum, it was sensitive to heat, so he couldn’t hold it for long without destroying its structural integrity. Couldn’t sense what he usually sensed. But if it put a smile on 002’s face as well as being useful to her, he’d keep issuing it.   

—

“A gun and a radio,” Q said. He waved his hand at the corner of his desk where he’d perched the usual equipment case. “Earwig will be distributed at your landing site. Unless things go terribly wrong, the local team should be able to support you for this one.” 

Bond took the case. “Anything else?”     

Q looked up; he’d been double-checking Bond’s mission brief and wondering how much structural damage the Managua team could make excuses for. “Cufflinks.” He pulled a small box out of his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks, copies of ones that Bond already owned and wore frequently. “They have little folding knives in them.” He demonstrated how the outside half could be pulled apart to reach the blade in the middle. 

The corners of Bond’s eyes were all happy wrinkles. “Am I expected to need tiny knives?” 

“No,” Q admitted. “But you brought the Walther back last time and I thought you could use some positive reinforcement. May I?” He removed the old cufflinks and put the new ones on, his fingertips brushing against the warm skin of 007’s wrists as he did. “Good luck in the field, 007,” he said after he closed the last French cuff. “As always, try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”   

“As always,” Bond echoed, his eyes meeting Q’s before he left. 

The cufflinks weren’t just positive reinforcement, of course. They were a connection; this meant that it was even odds that Bond would destroy them. (Paradoxically, Bond had the best equipment survival rate when that equipment self-destructed; he wore the latest exploding watch for three months and four missions before he had to use it.) 

Q didn’t touch the other 00s, who stayed near their equipment, more or less, and who deserved their privacy, deserved not to have their footsteps tracked through the crevices of Q’s brain. In fact, he didn't touch anyone. Not if he could help it.

With Bond, Q made excuses for the tiniest bit of extra assurance, the mental tip-toe of 00 feet sneaking across the globe. 

—

“Make Hutchinson do it,” Nguyen said, back again. “He loves guns; he’d be thrilled to do maintenance on company time.” 

Q met her eyes. “I take personal responsibility for the equipment of our most senior agents. They deserve that level of consistency.” He changed out the cleaning swatch he was using. 

“How consistent will you be if you burn out because you never leave this place? Guns, radios, earpieces--you can delegate. Our work is important, but...” 

“I’m almost done,” Q said, implacable. 

Nguyen sighed. “Sleep well, Quartermaster.” She showed herself out.             

Q dried, oiled, and reassembled the gun. He would make sure to catch up with Doctor Who and a few blockbusters so he could convince Nguyen that he sometimes made an effort to think about things that weren’t work or work-related. They could collaborate on blueprints for a sonic screwdriver. It would be fine. 

He would even give the same advice if he were in her position. She couldn’t know that Hutchinson doing as simple a thing as cleaning a Double-Oh’s gun until it shone would be detrimental to the delicate safety net that Q had been building since he had arrived at Six.  

Q touched everything his agents went out with, enough that he could still sense 007's old Walther in Macau, 001's discarded ejector rod in Tunis, 004's stack of worn-out gun parts secreted in a tea tin hidden behind a book on his shelf because he liked the thrum of them all together like that, and there was always the risk, at work, that they'd be disposed of.

He never lost things that were truly his. Guns, radios, earwigs, cufflinks.

He hadn’t lost an agent yet either.

[bluebellofbakerstreet]

May Day

[tales-of-whales]

So. I brought you something. Promise not to cry or throw the vegetables at me.

Here, that's a James Bond/Mary Poppins returns crossover.

*leaves the thing on the ground. slowly backs off.*

The Cipher of Love

[melynen]

007 Fest: The Collab Prompt Table

It’s that time of the year again: your chance to give me prompts for the Collab prompt table. 😎 I’ll need nine (9) of them, but feel free to go wild and give me as many as you like. I’ll retain the right to choose the prompts that speak to me, but I might write more than just the required nine, you never know. 👀

Guidelines:

I still won’t write explicit stuff. Maybe some time in the future I’ll try it, but that time won’t be now.

I write anything from drabbles to ficlets to novellas. For Fest though, probably not novellas. 😆

While my all time favourite ship is 00Q, I am open to other ships too. If you want to see what I’ve already written, feel free to check my AO3, Celyan.

As July is my birthday month, I’d love to write a birthday themed fic or two.

So prompt away~ ✨

[mi6-cafe]

007 Fest 2024 Anon Prompt Exchange!

In our Anonymous Prompt Exchange, there's a place for you to prompt what you would love to see during 007 Fest 2024, our month-long July celebration of all things Bond.

The Anon Prompt Exchange is a fun way to look for inspiration, and every year we end up with some great fills!

The 007 Fest 2024 tab is open for new prompts starting NOW until June 30th! Once Fest starts, no more prompts can be added, but you'll still be able to link your prompt fills.

If there's anything special you'd like to see during 007 Fest this year, now is the time to add your prompt to the list!

(FAQs below the cut)

FAQs:

Does the prompts have to be 00Q? No, we love rare pairs (or OT3s or OTmores). Gen prompts are also great!

Does the prompt have to be sexy? No, we like cuddles, angst, crack, horror, and other prompt genres as well as some good old smut ideas!

Do I have to be signed up for 007 Fest to add to the prompts? No, you don't have to be signed up to add prompts. However, if you would like to sign up, you can find more info here!

[aniron48]

you don't step into love

It’s the rest of it that Q can do without—Bond's disappearing acts for months on end, his apparent inability to distinguish between being a honeypot and being honeypotted whenever he’s in the field, the casual way he bets his life at every turn as if it were one of the lower-value chips in a high-stakes game. Those sort of antics don’t get Q’s libido going, not by a long shot. They’re rather more likely to give him an ulcer. In other words, unlike Bonnie Tyler, Q does not need a hero. He’d be perfectly happy with a research librarian with a kind smile and a soft middle and a collection of cozy jumpers Q could raid when he wanted to, if such a man were on offer. When it comes to love, Q wants a harbor, and James Bond is a hurricane. And so his heart, at least, has never been in any sort of danger from 007. Until, unaccountably, the day that it is.

Another fic in the books for 007 fest 2023, and up on ao3! This one is based on the prompt, “Q being utterly impervious to Bond's charms until the day he sees James in glasses and falls hard and fast.”

I almost called this fic “oh. oh.” if that tells you where the vibe is at. I hope you enjoy, friends! 💜 🤓

[spiritofcamelot]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James Bond/Q Characters: James Bond, Q (James Bond) Additional Tags: Community: MI6 Cafe | mi6_cafe, MI6 Cafe 007 Fest 2024 Series: Part 1 of 007 Fest 2024

“I hear sizzling,” Bond said. “Are you cooking? It’s only lunch time there.”

“Had a remarkably free morning on the schedule so took the morning off. Treating myself to a lobster pasta.”

“The one I gave you the recipe for?”

The spoon clattered a bit as Q stirred the pan. “Yes. And I was able to stop by the market after work to get fresh lobster.”

“A rare treat indeed. I’m sorry to bother you at home.”

“I told R she could route you through if you were just on stakeout. How are things looking?”

Bond looked through the binoculars again, scanning the windows. “Nothing of interest. Hoisting what I think must be a six course dinner.”

“What are they eating?” Q’s lips smacked as he tasted the sauce. “Needs more salt,” he muttered.

“Focused on watching the door, not the food. But I thought I saw a member of staff wheeling a turkey earlier.”

“Eating turkey in Turkey. How perfect.”

“Not as perfect as dinner with you.”

“Cheesy.”

“Creamy. Make it for me when I get home?”

“Promise. As long as you prep the lobster. You’ve got much more practice than I.”

[bludelivers]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies), James Bond - Ian Fleming Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: James Bond, Alec Trevelyan Additional Tags: mature for murder, it's really only James/Alec if you squint, but i squint a lot Series: Part 2 of A Lethal Travelogue Summary:

A day in Paris means work for some, means a quick visit for others. Promises are made, challenges are issued, two men have dinner. * Inspired by my first time in Paris and excellent vibes.

--------

Apparently I’m into this writing thing because this poured out of me last night. At least this time I waited to edit and post it during the day lol. Hope you enjoy more of my city-themes ramblings. 

[emiliasilverova]

For @mi6-cafe's Moodboard March, here is my first ever moodboard... Janus themed (of course).

That was fun to make 😀

[bluebellofbakerstreet]

Q in Covent Garden. Inspired by @ato-the-bean's epic AU Truths Acknowledged

[tales-of-whales]

make me immortal with a kiss by talesofwhales (MI6 Cafe Prompt Exchange: Afterwards, Q kisses the scars he’s stitched for Bond.)

Hi there! That's how I spent my weekends (aside from cuddling Luciferase, who was not happy about this).

Now I show myself out.

[dartier]

To start off Fest, Team Q Branch is having a team song lyric prompt exchange. I picked @aprettyspy ’s prompt which is from “Love in The Dark” by Adele.

"Please, stay where you are. Don't come any closer. Don't try to change my mind. I'm being cruel to be kind."

"Please, stay where you are,” Q said, without even a glance or stutter of his fingers.

Bond, as always, paid him no mind.

“Don't come any closer,” Q said with full-on eye contact and scowl.

“Don't try to change my mind,” Bond said, his arms crossed, his stance steady. And then he lunged. Like a great stinking shedding middle-aged lion with absolutely no sense of decency. Or personal space.

“I'm being cruel to be kind," Bond insisted as he tried to get the better of Q.

“You’re being a dick to be a dick because—” Q waved in a gesture to encompass all of Bond “—you.”

Bond went for full-on PoutyMcPoutFace. Q was not deterred.

“It makes you sad,” Bond insisted with what lesser men might call earnestness.

“Who are you to police my emotions?! You wouldn’t know an emotion if you fell out of a helicopter, landed atop it and gutted it in a back alley!”

“You’re going to take one full sip, spit out the second and then airclaw at your tongue and make the mopiest faces—“

“Afraid I’ll cut into your allotted time for your magnificent sulk which is—“ Q pointedly looked at his watch—“13 hours and 59 minutes of the 14 hours remaining in the day.”

“—and whine until I finally put knock out drops in your nightcap once it’s gone 3,” Bond continued over him, the brute.

“I want Evie. You make a horrible girlfriend, Bond.”

Bond huffed and said, “Q,” with the levels of exasperation that burn right past smolder.

Q made eye contact while he steadily lifted the cup toward his mouth.

“Fine,” Bond said, “If you let me drink your poisonous horrible nostalgia drink, I’ll throw you over my shoulder like the cave man you purport me to be, drag you home—traffic signals be damned— let you sniff at my mouth like the ridiculous half feral kitten you absolutely are and then start off doing that thing with my tongue that drives you right out your infuriatingly brilliant mind.”

Q made a face.

“Unless you pass out in a puddle of drool on my lap because hair pets are your secret weakness.”

Q sniffed. “Evie would have the best ice cream and also sing to me.”

“Would Eve also have a massive—“

“You’d be surprised.”

“I really wouldn’t,” Bond said.

Q waggled his eyebrows and Bond snorted, then took Qi’s hand.

“Q.”

“And none of this over the shoulder nonsense. It’s bridal carry or not at all,” Q said.

“And it only took me 157 concussions to realize you’re the love of my life. But who’s counting?”

“Marie in Medical,” Q muttered, “That’s who.”

“C’mon, Q. Let’s go make your cats pause their plans of world domination.”

“As if they hadn’t already set them in motion long before you stalked me home.”

[polinprompts]

[aniron48]

Heals the Hurt Faster

Bond cuts his finger while cooking dinner with Q. Luckily, Q is well-stocked with—unicorn plasters?

My second creation for MI6 Café 007 Fest 2023! This one was inspired by the 2023 prompt table request, "Cutesy plasters for all those administrative papercuts and/or shallow slashes from broken glass and knives," as well as by this post by @mr-iskender that has lived rent-free in my mind for ages. (Alex, your mind never ceases to amaze! 💜)

You can read below the cut, or over on ao3.

They’re making dinner together in Q’s kitchen—calabacitas, a Mexican casserole with squash and ground meat and chiles—and Q is singing to himself under his breath while he rinses the chiles, which is doing things to Bond’s feelings that he’d rather not admit, and all the while Bond is simultaneously trying to chop the squash to Q’s specifications and chivvy a recalcitrant cat off the counter, and even that would have been manageable, except that Q looks up mid-song to smile at Bond, and he’s just distracted enough that he manages to nick the side of his left index finger with the tip of his knife.

It doesn’t even hurt particularly much—mostly, he’s annoyed that he’s bled on the cutting board, which will now have to be washed, and on a piece of the squash, which will have to be discarded—but Q must notice him drop the knife, because all of a sudden Q has thrown the chiles back in the colander on the counter, discarded his rubber gloves, and come to Bond’s side, taking Bond’s injured hand in his and pulling him to the sink so he can rinse the blood from his finger.

“It’s nothing,” Bond says. “It’s barely even bleeding.”

But Q hushes him, and holds his hand under the warm water for a moment longer before pulling a clean, dry flannel off the shelf and wrapping it around the finger.

“Hold that in place,” Q says, before turning and banging around in one of the cabinets next to the sink.

“Here we are,” he says after a moment, pulling down a first aid kit.

“Don’t you think that’s overkill?” Bond asks, frowning down at the ointment Q is pulling out of the tin.

“You’ll understand if I don’t take wound care advice from someone who once got on a two hour flight home with an untreated bullet wound,” Q says, dabbing the ointment on the cut, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“It was Ryanair,” Bond offers dumbly, unable to remember any of the surely impeachable reasons that he’d had at the time, caught up as he is in the gentleness with which Q is cradling his hand in his.

Q pauses, looking up. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”

Bond shrugs. “The seats hide bloodstains better than most.”

“That’s worse, actually,” Q says. “You do see how that’s worse?” He takes out a box of plasters from the kit, pulls one out, and starts to peel back the paper.

“Unicorns? Really, Q?”

“I keep it stocked for when my nieces visit,” Q starts, and then pauses to push his glasses back up his nose with his free hand, his cheek dimpling in a way that absolutely doesn’t make Bond’s heart lurch fondly in his chest. “Oh, who am I kidding, I like them as well. They’re cheering, and who doesn’t want a bit of cheering when they’ve got an injury?”

“It’s a nick from a chopping knife, Q, not a bayonet wound.”

“And a good thing, too,” Q says as he wraps the plaster carefully around Bond’s finger. “They don’t make plasters that large with unicorns on them.”

He brings the bandaged finger to his mouth and presses it carefully to his lips, and it is this, finally, that threatens to bring Bond to his knees.

“You’re fussing,” he says. No one has ever, he manages not to say, though only just.

“What’s the point of caring for someone if you can’t fuss over them?” Q asks.

“And you care for me, do you?” 

It’s meant to sound flirtatious, or arrogant, or to carry any number of inflections that will make Q roll his eyes, and drop Bond’s hand, and get back to making dinner. But it comes out distressingly earnest, enough so that Q doesn’t let go of his hand, and instead presses it against his chest.

“It would seem that I do,” Q says, and leans over to take Bond’s lips in his.

It’s what Bond has come to think of as a quintessentially Q kiss, soft and slow but not at all hesitant or indecisive. Q kisses with all of himself—loves with all of himself, Bond is beginning to think, but dares not entertain for longer than the instant it takes for the thought to flit across his mind, and it’s absolutely the pile of chopped onions that makes him keep his eyes closed as he leans his cheek against Q’s messy curls.

“It’s a miracle that I got you to retirement in one piece,” Q says. “Don’t think I’m not incredibly aware of that fact. And I’ve only just got you into bed with me, you know. Call me selfish if you must, but I fully intend to keep you whole and healthy.”

“With unicorn plasters?” He can think of worse fates, if he’s honest. He’s had worse fates; has been shot and burned and bruised and drowned and discarded, only to be yanked back into active duty practically before the needle is done pulling the last stitches through his abused skin. And yet somehow it’s led him here, to this man, who bandages an insignificant kitchen injury as if there were no use of his tenderness and his time that could be more important.

“If I must,” Q says.

You must, Bond wants to say, you absolutely must, but he goes for casual, instead, and says, “If you break it, you buy it, I suppose.”

“But I haven’t broken you,” Q says holding up Bond’s bandaged finger. “I’ve pieced you back together.”

“So you have,” Bond says, and it must not come out as flippant as he means it to—it must not come out flippant at all, because Q kisses him again, and even after the kiss ends, Q doesn’t let go.

[angstyandromanticwriting]

Lyutsifer Safin X Reader Cute prompt

“Don’t you remember what hugs feel like?” You asked Safin, who didn’t dare look up at you, awkwardly shifting on his feet.

“I think I forgot what human contact felt like,” Safin admitted, his voice quiet, as if he were ashamed or embarrassed at himself. You slowly approached him, wrapping your arms around him. Safin tensed for a few moments, before relaxing, hugging you back. “This feels nice,” he confessed. You then hesitantly pulled out of the hug, trying to place a small kiss on his lips, but he stopped you, stepping back. “You’re legally obligated to keep holding me, but I’m not ready for - that - yet,” he murmured, his voice hushed and shaking.

You sat back down on the chair and he sat opposite you, averting his gaze to the window. “So - Didn’t your family ever give you any sort of contact? Surely they’ve hugged you before,” you pried, though you felt bad for trying.

Safin wouldn’t meet your gaze, he was too afraid. “My family were never the touchy feely type,” Safin recalled. “I haven’t been hugged in years, until now,” he lifted his gaze to meet your’s. “Nobody has ever done that to me before, I’ve never felt anything like it. Can you do it again?” Safin asked and you nodded, pulling him into another hug, which he leaned into. “I just want to be held for a little while,” he confessed, feeling weak, but he didn’t care, not at this moment. “Do you mind if we stay like this for a little longer?” You shook your head, feeling as if you could stay wrapped in his warmth for a day. “I’ll always be in desperate need of your hugs, just to keep me sane. I never want to let go,” he spoke softly.

~~~~~

Hope you enjoyed this prompt! ❤️