both hands holding onto the wire

After Kaz and and Inej it was time for these two beauties! They mean incredible much to me and the suns fits them so well. This was also the most fun one from the pose to do!

Enjoy! <3

Nina and Matthias will be next / last! Find the Kaz and Inej one here;

She’s only five, he tells himself, it isn’t her fault we’re in this mess. 

And even if it was Plumje’s fault that they have been kidnapped, Wylan can hardly hold that against her. No, this is the administrative cock-up of half-rate criminals who have not seemed to realise that their father will not be paying anyone for his children’s ransom. 

Wylan takes a breath and puts on a smile that feels more chipper than he has the energy to maintain. “Why don’t we play another game?” 

Plumje looks at him warily, not seeming very chipper either. “I don't want to. I want to go home.” 

“We’ll be home soon. Why don’t we pretend to be princesses again?” 

“How do you know we'll be home soon?” 

Wylan manages not to roll his eyes. “Because Jesper is going to come to get us.” He hopes so, at least. “You remember Jesper, don’t you? He made you that doll. The green one.” 

Plumje's brow creases. “Is Jesper your best friend?”

“I… suppose so.”

“Mummy says that Mister Adem is her best friend.” 

Wylan bites his bottom lip, fighting against every urge he has to burst into laughter. “Is he?” 

“Yes. I like Mister Adem, he brings me dolls too. They aren't green, though.”  

“I'm sure Jesper would make you—” 

But before he can muse about what type of toy Jesper might attempt to make, the door to their room opens. 

Plumje perks up with childish naivety. Wylan’s hand clenches into a fist, heart beginning to kick in his chest. 

At the door a man leers, dressed not in Barrel flash but the unwelcome black of a mercher’s henchman. Saints only know whose, or what they want with their hostages, but Wylan doesn’t trust the lecherous smile on his face. 

Quite right not too, it seems, when the man says, “Boss told me to grab the little one.” 

The words don't register in Wylan's head at first; he simply isn’t used to having to look out for people who can't take care of themselves. That is why he braces for hands on his body when the man approaches, and why he is caught so off guard when their captor goes for his little sister. 

Plumje lets out the most ungodly loud scream Wylan has ever heard in his life. 

The man who grabbed her startles — Wylan might have done the same thing, once, but two years with her mother's singing and a habit for bomb making has steeled his nerves plenty. 

The past two years have also been spent at the side of a man with absolutely no impulse control, which is to say that Wylan thinks of Jesper’s rash recklessness and little else when he decides to throw himself at his sister's captor. 

The three of them go down in a heap. Plumje screams again, somehow even louder. There's a thud of fists, and the familiar wail of a battered child, and Wylan sees red. 

He doesn't think. It is like watching a moving painting through glass, and after it all Wylan won't really be able to put words to what he does next. 

Truthfully, he's still thinking about Jesper. It's hard not to think of Jesper when there's a gun in the mix. 

But chaos is rife and gives Wylan an opportunity. He grabs the man’s gun from his holster, cocks it, aims, and shoots him in the head. 

The sound reverberates through the room, shattering glass. Against the plush furnishings and expensive curtains, it feels odd and unwelcome. 

For a very long moment, the ringing in his ears does not subside, but when it does Wylan registers the sound of sobbing. 

The gun slides free from his fingers and hits the stone floor with a clunk. It's hardly safe, but his one and only priority now is Plumje. 

She throws herself into his arms before he can even sit up properly. Without thinking Wylan wraps his arms around her frame, pulling her into himself.

“It's okay,” he says, muffling the words into her curly blonde hair. “You're fine, see? And I am too. It was a loud noise, but it's over now.” 

Plumje weeps loudly into his chest, small fists clinging tightly onto the torn fabric of his shirt. Wylan can't imagine she'll let go any time soon, but the thought of forcing her to makes his chest ache. 

He used to grip his mother's skirts when he was just a boy, tighter than ever when a new tutor came to teach him. Fear, locked into a white-knuckled grip. Had he tried that with his father's coattails he'd have likely have his fingers broken, but he never dared. 

Wylan kisses the top of Plumje’s head, hugging her tighter against his chest. 

Still crying, Plumje allows herself to be lifted into the air without complaint. Wylan keeps his hand on the back of Plumje head to make sure she doesn't see any more blood than she already has. He pauses only to liberate the gun he dropped earlier and tuck it into his trousers, then   carefully toes open the door to their room. 

“I thought you said Jesper was going to come get us,” Plumje mumbles, words barely intelligible through snot and tears. 

“Well, sometimes plans change. Now let's play the quiet game, hm?” 

“Mummy doesn't play that one very much. She isn't very good at it.”