#sniperwithasmoke

hugo needs touch and to be touched at all times. he’s the casual intimacy, the roving hands, the sticky fingers. pin him down or tie him up and he’ll whine. his hands are used for expression in all forms. touch him, hold him, poke him, lean against him, play with his hair. touch touch touch touch touch.

bash uses touch as a means to an end. if his hands are on you it’s Only leading up to pleasure or pain. that’s not to say he can’t touch for other reasons, but he doesn’t necessarily think of it the way hugo does. he only seeks out touch when he wants to feel things. @sniperwithasmoke

and then max. touch averse, touch starved. he’s very glancing touches, fingers brushing as something is handed off. dancing around each other. he’s not necessarily afraid of receiving touch, but he needs to trust the person before he can trust the purposeful contact. @mirafirstmate

She sits beside him, her expression saying she has an argument to make and he'd best agree with her if he knows what's good for him.

@sniperwithasmoke​ said:  “   i  can  feel  you  staring  at  me .   ”

the art of domesticity starters - accepting 

A Grisha hiding amongst the First Army - improbable, but certainly not impossible. It seemed Nikolai was hearing more and more of children who had originally failed testing exhibiting power years later. Though, he never expected to find a Grisha within his own regiment. 

The first time he’d seen it was in the heat of battle. He had been thoroughly distracted by a Fjerdian with thing for battle axes. Though, out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Moran raise his hands and his opponent... just drop. 

Ever since, he’d kept an eye on him, watching for a repeat show. He could almost swear he’d seen him trying to practice on a particularly annoying soldier in their group, but it seemed Basher was smart enough to be sneaky about it. 

Survived isn’t a word Nicky would use, not in that sense. Basher had died. Plan and simple. No one has come out of a tiger den without damage, whether it was severe scarring, a missing limb or their life, no one came out unscathed. Did he even realise that that had happened? Did he not question his chest had been ripped open before his very eyes and now was miraculously healed?

Did he even recognise Nicky’s face from their dreams? 

“And you believe this?” He asked carefully, slowly, like he was suggesting the other man to reconsider his thoughts on what had actually happened. Nicky remembered how hard it was to come to terms with immortality. Booker had refused, denied everything and found himself at the bottom of a glass. Nicky himself had fought tooth and bone in a constant loop until he was forced to believe himself and his enemy were intwined. 

“Do you know the story of the Man-Eating tiger of Champawat? It’s believed the tiger killed up to four-hundred men, women and children, but one man was able to capture it and put an end to its life. What history does not tell you is that he had help. He would’ve surely died had he not been surrounded by locals; when his gun ran out of bullets, he had been lucky enough to have a local’s rifle on hand. 

          there is no proper, bottled feeling. that’s what fucks him off about it. no part of him should exist here, most certainly not him now. traipsing where he likes; opening cupboards, drawers, rifling, leaving a purposeful trail. the low evening sun lets off a glow through the high window that doesn’t touch him. jaw tight as he rips a few papers, lets the shreds fall to the floor before moving off down the hall... sebastian’s room first. moran- moran again, he wishes he could just hard reset, wishes he was more hardware than this made him fe-

          moran. one sweep of an arm and he’s sent everything on top of the dresser onto the floor. it feels right, invading. it feels like unorthodox revenge. alone, he doesn’t have to fully address what this has done to him. he can just continue playing empty, even as his teeth bite against the inside of his cheeks, as hands pull every piece of clothing he hadn’t bought for him off of their respective hangers. jim had wanted to be smooth and righteous, not this.

          checking his phone- it’s about time, considering the drive time between the pub and the flat. sebastian had really built his whole new life around this remnant, he’d 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒅— step 2, thumb drawing (steadily) across ‘𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛’; roughly £30 with a tip that’s more than half of what he’d ordered (a cobb salad), for one jim moriarty, to jim’s old sebastian's flat.

a sharp intake of breath,     a gulp before the shot vanishes down burned throat.     ❝     it is a celebration,     after all.      such a     good shot    needs to be revered.      not punished.      ❞

Bloody hell.

Fingers twitch at his side, elbows leaning on the bar and lips only giving the twitch of a grimace at the slight stick that cleaves to the sleeve of his jacket. The elderly gentleman next to him gives a warbled shout to the screen above, one hand toasting the winning rugby team with a gesture that spills half his drink, sending it raining down to what is a mire three inches from the detective’s jacket. A noise akin to a soft exhale passes through the Irishman’s nose, fingers moving to ghost over the hilt of the gun at his side, thoughts akin to a prayer hoping he doesn’t need it.