#IM SORRY IT SCRATCH AN HITCH IN MY BRAIN | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yoonpobs · 3 years

Text

bad boy good thing xv. | m

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: oral (m receiving), jk and oc in their feelings :c, fluff n cuteness tbh

words: 7, 816

summary: a series of drabbles where you’re confused and jungkook’s confusing

a/n:

im so sorry for the late update but it's finally here!!! it's been a hectic few weeks w my exam preparation coming right around the corner too :c

anyway!!!! we've got some smut after a while 👀so for visual purposes pls imagine jk from the butter mv, specifically his hair and eyebrow piercing ...

i hope you enjoy this chapter !!!

Safety was a very important aspect of your life. Everything that you did, you always weighed the realistic possibilities of you regretting your decision; mind running at one hundred miles per hour while you drew a mental mind map of every possible outcome you could possibly predict. It was exhausting to have your mind immediately come up with worst-case scenarios where the risk was realistically a meagre five per cent against the other ninety-five, but you were a chronic overthinker by nature.

You steered far from doing things that would end up causing more harm to you and your environment because you knew that there was no actual reason why you could justify getting completely wasted at a party. If it was for fun—surely, you’d vehemently oppose that the next morning.

Your friends, or even anyone who knew of you; always lamented you for your tendency to remain in your bubble. You knew that overall, you were an overthinker and that most of the time—nothing of what you conjured would actually happen purely because, well—your friends are still alive, and so were you. You just missed out on ‘fun’.

But old habits died hard. Maybe that was why the most reckless and impulsive thing that you did—was with Jungkook.

Out of all your friends, Jungkook was the one person that really did whatever he could get his hands, feet or body to do.

He was very determined by nature and a natural daredevil at that. You remember on multiple occasions where he and his family went on a family vacation, and he came back with stories of his adventures swinging from the top of a cliff upside down, getting a snake to wrap itself around his neck—and by far the most impulsive one, returning with a small tattoo of said snake on the back of his neck.

Jungkook was so unpredictable that neither of your friends could ever tell what he’d do next. And you supposed that added to his charm, but it didn’t take away from the five stages of absolute shock that you’d go through when you witness another one of his unpredictable tendencies.

Like right now.

“Please say something,” he laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck while you can only gape at him.

“Purple.” You blurt.

He blinks before his eyes dart upwards as his finger twiddles a few strands of hair between them.

“Yeah,” he hums, “It looks a little blue in some lights, though.”

You nod your head slowly, still processing what is probably the lesser surprising one between the two things that have you double-taking at his figure when you first greeted him at your door.

“That’s … not all,” you say slowly.

Jungkook offers you a lopsided grin that stirs something in your belly, and you don’t know if it’s his hair, or the fact that he’s starting to wear shorter sleeves as the weather begins to get hotter; his tattoos on display as it trails upon his arm—or if it was because of the—

“Eyebrow piercing?” He raises a brow, particularly the one with the eyebrow piercing as it glints under the natural sunlight that filters in the hallway, “So. Do you like it?” He asks, smile still small as he leans in for you to get a better look.

Your breath hitches when his face gets closer, but not enough for it to be insinuative in any way. It was just you and your weak-willed nature whenever it came to Jungkook. You hoped that he wasn’t able to see the way that your ears undoubtedly redden under the proximity.

“What matters is if you like it, Jungkook,” you remind him softly, shyly looking down to your feet.

He sighs, resting an arm against your doorway in a way that makes him look as large as the width of your door. His gaze is still calm and steady, lips curled ever so slightly as he rests his eyes on you.

“I know. But I care if you like it or not,” he retorts.

You scoff, waving him off, but a small grin still threatens itself onto your face.

“Well you shouldn’t,” you huff.

“Why not?” He hums as he cards a hand through his hair. Even if it’s a bright colour and you’re sure that it required copious amounts of bleach and hours at the salon to get the final result—it still looks soft when he swifts through the locks.

“Because,” you lull, “My opinion doesn’t matter. If you like it and you think it’s pretty then that’s more than enough.”

He clicks his tongue against his cheek before his eyes dart down. You’re still avoiding his gaze because you weren’t ready to have your senses assaulted with the way he’s crowding you in the doorway of your own home.

“You’re trying really hard not to compliment me right now,” he teases.

“I am not!” You splutter, ears turning red. Your eyes dart to your feet. “… but if it matters then … I like it. It’s pretty.”

Jungkook’s grin is nothing short of wide when his head reaches out to smooth your hair out of your face that forces you to look up at him. You attempt to keep your heart beat at bay, even if the way he looks pleased with your futile trial of complimenting him. In reality, you thought it looked more than just pretty. Jungkook looked … hot. He was already attractive as he was, and his confident yet quiet nature made him exponentially hotter—but his long, purple hair and the new eyebrow piercing just made him even sexier.

“It matters.” He smiles, cocking his head to the side as you bashfully step aside to allow him to enter your apartment.

He settles in like he’s the missing piece to the lonely nights you spend on your dining table studying away for a test or an exam. And you suppose that Jungkook’s always fit right in, wherever you were. He was a comfortable presence in your life, even when the two of you were in high school and he’d come over for tutoring lessons. Or when it’d be just you and him in your mother’s car while you taught him how to drive.

Jungkook’s somehow always filled in the other seat in your life when there called for two. Even when you note that he still sits on one foot while the other hangs off the couch, a habit he’s had since he was young, or the way that he’s still stupidly polite not to sprawl himself across your couch like Jimin and Taehyung did whenever they were over. Jungkook’s always been there and you were always there to see.

“So … what’s up?” His voice interrupts the daydream that got you a little more soft than you’d like. You shake your head as you shut the door behind you, turning around to fully face Jungkook.

“The ceiling?” You reply lamely, a soft chuckle escaping your lips when you see him roll his eyes.

“Ha ha,” he mocks, “I meant if there was anything you wanted to talk about. You know—since you texted me to come over.” He finishes with a raise of his brow.

You still as your brain processes his words. You did text him first. You had just finished a lengthy meeting with the student union and didn’t feel like studying just yet—and you just so happened to have been thinking about Jungkook when you caught a glimpse of your phone (when were you not).

You didn’t have a reason, even if your conscience would argue that you did and it was because you missed him. Even if you were the one that needed time. Your heart and mind wanted two different things, but they both revolved around Jungkook. So, you compromised and settled for a simple text.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, shuffling towards your couch as you plop in the loveseat across from him.

He ogles the way that you chose a seat that wasn’t the one that he was sat on. He doesn’t point it out, though. Instead, a firm line settles on his lips before he leans back to your couch, eyes still trained on your figure.

“You don’t need to sound so shy,” he says, “I’ll always come if you’re the one that’s asking.”

Your eyes widen when your head darts up. When you look at him, you swear that you’d melt because he was looking at you with mirth dancing in his eyes. The somewhat dim lighting of your living room made him look so … cosy. He looked more comfortable, probably knowing that you weren’t going to nag at him for manspreading at the way you can only stare. You don’t know if it’s on purpose but you’re sure it is—but Jungkook’s eyebrow piercing is strategically exposed when he raises a brow, flicking his bangs aside. Your brain short-circuits.

“It’s not—I’m not—I’m not …” You stutter when he catches you looking like a deer caught in headlights. But all he does is let out a deep chuckle before reaching an arm out.

You stare at the arm that extends itself, eyes trailing up the limb as you gawk at his tattoos. He wasn’t one to flaunt, even though he didn’t pretend like he didn’t have any. So even your friends didn’t catch much of his tattoos unless he was at the gym or changing during practices with the way he practically lived in long sleeves. But now, it was just you and him, in your living room while he practically invites you over with his smile and doe eyes.

“Come ere’,” he mumbles as you continue to stare, “Next to me, please.”

You blink a few times when you realise that he’s beckoning you over with the arm that’s extended. You buffer for a second when he continues to smile at you with that easy grin of his, the one that’s both able to calm you and reduce you into a mess of nerves. But after a few beats, your limbs start moving at their own accord as you push yourself off the couch, slowly inching towards Jungkook and the empty spot next to him where you plop down into.

“Here?” You ask softly.

He laughs, and it’s a nice sound. Your mind had been muffled ever since he first showed up with that new hairstyle of his and that Godforsaken eyebrow piercing, and now when he looks at you like you were the only thing that he’s ever wanted—your heart can’t take it.

“Closer.” He encourages with a tilt of his head. Then, he delivers the final blow. “Just wanna hold you.”

You freeze, hands stilling on the plush of your couch as you were about to shift closer. The words are still processing in your mind even if you knew exactly what he said and what he meant. The heat on your face was definitely proof of that.

“Oh my God, don’t just say that!” You cry, burying your head into the back of the couch when you turn away from him.

Jungkook’s still laughing at you, hands clutching his stomach instead of trying to reach out for you as you whine into the fabric. He was killing you and your poor heart, and he was doing a damn good job at it. He didn’t need to do much because his presence was always enough to reduce you to absolutely nothing and a pile of mush.

It was this ambiguous back and forth that you’ve settled into with Jungkook after your last serious conversation that had your heart weaker and softer than ever. Every moment you spent with him, even in the crowd of your friends—you knew what you wanted. But there was still an irrational (and insecure) part of you that wanted to wait. To see if he actually meant his confession or was he driven by desperation to keep a friend close.

You should’ve had faith in Jungkook the way he blindly and willingly put in you. Even if you were the more unstable one between the two of you. But your mind worked endlessly to remind you of what the two of you shared, and who you had to share him with—and how she was everything that you weren’t.

“I’m sorry!” He laughs, and you feel a hand reach around your waist to tug you upwards as you squeak at his show of strength. “Was that too much?” He asks softly when you’re facing him, face definitely still flushed as you avoid his face and opt to stare at the chain around his neck.

Even that was making your insides feel funny.

“No …” You mumble, leaning forward until your forehead is pressed against his chest as his fingers drum against your waist. “I’m just shy.”

He chuckles.

“You don’t have to be shy.” He tells you, “It’s just me.”

You blink up and narrow your eyes at him.

“That’s not fair! You can’t just turn up to my house looking like—that—and expect me to be fine!” You huff, gesturing towards his entire frame as he simply listens with an amused raise of his brow.

He tilts his head to the side and even has the audacity to look confused when he smirks at you.

“Me? What did I do? It’s just hair dye and a piercing.”

You huff.

“It’s just hair dye and a piercing,” you repeat in a low voice, clearly meant to represent him as his face scrunches adorably at your impression of him.

“That’s not how I sound like.” He deadpans.

You stick your chin up snootily with a satisfied smile.

“You so do. You sound that dumb with what you just said.” You retort petulantly.

Jungkook stares at you for one long second before he’s pulling you flush against his chest with a wide grin on his face as he attempts to smother you with his arm. You squeal when you feel his fingers around your waist as he squeezes the flesh. He manoeuvres his way around your body until you’re perched on his lap, hands reaching out against his chest so that you could establish some distance (which you fail miserably at).

The room is filled with your gasps and Jungkook’s cackles, and with the way he’s crowding your body with his own—all you can smell is Jungkook. He smells fresh, as always. Especially since he chooses to opt-out of cologne and pays favourable attention to the type of laundry detergent, body wash and shampoo that he uses that gives him the boyish, clean and charming natural scent that he has. And it drives you insane.

So when you look up at him through your lashes in a break when Jungkook’s heaving at how he’s attempted to tickle you, and all you can see is how good he looks with his purple hair paired with the way he unconsciously licks at his lips to wet them; and the eyebrow piercing and tattoos. You melt—and so does your filter.

“Can I suck your dick?”

Granted, that isn’t a question you pose after he’s just tickled you in good faith while giggling away with his doe-eyes, or even the way his hands are placed at a respectful distance away from your bum. And it definitely isn’t a question that Jungkook’s expecting because his eyes shoot wide open, while his foot kicks up hard enough that it crashes against your coffee table.

“W-What?!” He cries, hands gripping your shoulder to push you away so that he can get a proper look at your face.

And it’s on fire.

But you can’t take back your words, especially when Jungkook’s looking like he demands some sort of explanation.

“I—I …” You stutter but your body is lax in his, and your thighs are still straddling Jungkook’s. You aren’t stupid or that naive, so you definitely know the firmness that presses against your inner thigh is a sign that he’s not opposed to your proposition.

Before you can say anything with how your mouth fails you, Jungkook snaps up until your foreheads nearly crash against each other as he presses his palms against your cheeks, staring you intently in the eye until you’re squirming under the scrutiny.

“I don’t hate it.” He assures you softly, but his eyebrows are furrowed. “But I need to hear it from you that you know what you’re saying.”

You blink at him and all Jungkook does is wait for you patiently. What were you saying? That you wanted to suck his dick? You did. You wanted to do a lot of things to and with Jungkook. Curse him for turning up looking the way he did and meddling with your restraint on needing time. But there was a brewing feeling of need in your chest that wants to please Jungkook, that wants to see him quiver under your tongue the way he has had you before. They weren’t all pleasant memories, purely because your poor heart has had to fight to disassociate your feelings from pleasure when you couldn’t do it.

But you’ve never made Jungkook feel good, at least in the way he was able to do for you.

“I-I—” you mumble, eyes darting everywhere but Jungkook’s gaze doesn’t waver at all. You take a deep breath, nibbling on your lips as your eyes dart up to the ceiling before they return to his face. He’s still waiting. “I want to. I really do.” You assure him, your own hands reaching out to clutch at his collar.

Jungkook’s cock twitches in his pants, and you feel it. You give an experimental swivel of your hips because you know it must feel good for Jungkook. And it does with the way his breath hitches, but his hands leave your face to grab at your hips to stop your motions. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but all Jungkook does is sigh.

“You don’t have to …” he whispers, “I—you said you needed time and I don’t want to ruin this. What we have.”

You purse your lips.

“I know I said I needed time but I want to, Jungkook,” you tell him seriously, “What happened before was a product of our miscommunication but it’s different now,” your eyes are firm when they stare into his, your face leaning forward for emphasis, “Unless you don’t want me to—”

“Baby, no,” he reaches out to pull you closer to his chest, “I do. God—I can’t think of anything else but … I don’t want to fuck this up.” His eyes flutter shut as he rests his forehead against your breast bone. It’s not sexual at all, and you can hear the genuine frustration that laces Jungkook’s voice.

“You won’t,” you say softly, reaching a hand through his hair, “I want to learn. I want to learn how to make you feel good too.” You whisper.

Jungkook releases a low groan that makes your stomach clench in desire. You realise that throughout the escapades that the two of you have engaged in, you were the vocal one purely in the sense that you were whining, moaning and sobbing in pleasure at Jungkook’s doing. But Jungkook was vocal in the way he spoke to you. Even if it was mean and you found yourself crying after it happened because he pretended that you didn’t exist—there was something about the way he guides you through your highs in that raspy voice of his that made you cum harder each time.

“You’re serious?” He asks, finally looking up to confirm with you.

You nod your head.

“Dead.”

He nibbles on his lips, as his eyebrows scrunch in focus. He was heavily contemplating your offer and even if you never propositioned any male to suck his dick before, you’ve never heard of a case where they’d be hesitant to receive one. But you and Jungkook were different. You knew what you felt for him, and he knew what he felt for you—and somehow that made your odd request all the more important for the both of you.

“We’ll be okay, right?” He asks hesitantly, afraid. Your eyes soften as you nod.

“I want this, Jungkook.” You tell him again, and you’d repeat it as much as you can for him to know.

He sighs deeply.

“If at any point you feel … overwhelmed … just say the word and we’ll stop, okay?” He says, holding you by the shoulder while he hardens his eyes at you in seriousness. You nod your head as you scramble off his lap in a motion fast enough that Jungkook can’t process it.

Before the both of you know it, you’re on your knees, settled in between his legs as you peer up at him. Your heart was thundering in your chest because you had no idea what the fuck you were doing, but you wanted to do this. All because of that damn hair and piercing of his.

“Your knees,” he murmurs, attempting to tug you up but you’re stubborn when you stay rooted in position, eyebrows furrowed in determination as your jaw ticks.

“Isn’t this how it goes?”

“They’re going to hurt,” he points out.

You roll your eyes before narrowing them at him.

“Do you usually complain this much before you get your dick sucked or what?” You snap, patience wearing awfully thin.

Jungkook’s eyes widen at your blunt statement, especially when you reach out to rest your palms on his thighs.

“I don’t mean …” he mumbles, hands gripping the couch because he’s too afraid to touch you, “It’s not like that and you know it.”

You sigh, leaning your cheek against his kneecap and he feels his heart go into overdrive. It was different, with you. This wasn’t just another girl that wanted to suck his dick for his approval or whatever—this was the girl of his dreams, readily waiting to learn how he liked it. Though he’d argue that he’d like anything you do to him because his love-glasses blinded him that way. But there was still fear ebbing away at his heart, terrified at screwing it up even if you were the proposer in this case.

“Jungkook, I’m not going to disappear on you after this,” you say softly, still peering up at him, “I want this.”

Your heart tightens when he hesitantly reaches out to rest a hand between strands of your hair as he tilts your head upwards. Something about just sitting between his legs as they sprawl out wider to accommodate your body seems do domestic and intimate. Even the context of the situation makes you tingle from your fingertips all the way to your toes—you were here to learn, from Jungkook; on what he liked and didn’t.

You didn’t plan this. Admittedly you and Yena have talked on more than one occasion about how you really wanted to sleep with Jungkook—you didn’t have a timeline for it. It felt weird to put a date to it so you shoved the thoughts aside even if they popped up every once in a while. This just so happened to be one of those moments where your mind ventures into a more explicit territory whenever you were with Jungkook.

“I know you need time but …” his eyes flutter shut before he leans his head back into the seat—eyes staring up at the ceiling as if he was searching for answers that he didn’t have with himself. You wait because you suppose that’s the least you could do when you made him wait for you while you attempted to deal with your own feelings. When he looks down, his eyes are gentle yet resolute, “You know I love you, right?”

He sounds nervous even if he’s said it before. But the words don’t fail to make you flush or evoke the tremble in your ribcage—a signal from your body that tells you that it’s only Jeon Jungkook that could ever make you feel this way.

“God,” you huff, but the corners of your lip twitch and that’s enough to tell Jungkook that you did. You knew. “Can you teach me? Please?”

You’re pressing forward again, eagerly shifting on your knees as Jungkook takes one long look at you as if he was memorising this image to eternity. When he decides he’s satisfied, he rests into the seat before gently coaxing your hands away from his thighs and towards his—

“Start here,” he guides with a low voice, large palm encasing your smaller ones as you feel the metal of his zipper come into contact with your skin.

You blush, but you were an overachiever for a reason. The potential embarrassment of fumbling is tucked away in your mind, your only concern and fascination lie with the fact that Jungkook’s already hard that you feel him brush against your wrist.

“Don’t you need to get hard?” You ask softly.

Jungkook blinks before he’s giving you that devastating smile of his, the one where only one corner of his lips turn up into an amused grin while you tilt your head at him in an inquisitive manner.

“I’m really hard right now,” he assures you; and to prove his point, his hand guides yours over the outline of his cock. You gasp because it’s the first time you’ve felt anything but your own intimates in your grasp.

You involuntarily squeeze your thighs together, appreciating the way that Jungkook’s beginning to bite on his lips while he focuses his attention purely on you. You knew just from feeling alone that Jungkook was not your averagely-sized male.

“O-Oh,” you breathe when your hands begin to work at their own accord—slowly unbuttoning his jeans, working your way down the zipper. The entire time, you’re occasionally looking up for any signs of approval from Jungkook, the resolved student in you needing appraisal from your teacher. And he picks up on your prompts, smiling at you gently even as his breath begins to turn uneven at the way you’re still gently pulling his pants down.

“You’re doing great,” his hand cards through your hair until his thumb reaches your cheek, rubbing a gentle motion to be paired with his words.

You smile to yourself, feeling more confident to tug his jeans down his thighs. You knew that Jungkook was well-built, it was a fact given that he was an athlete who frequented the gym more than any place on campus. He had impeccable stamina, even before he took football seriously—but the way that his thighs clench under your clammy hands only prove your point. But all you can really focus on is the outline of his cock from his boxers.

“Can I …?” You ask hesitantly, reaching out to tug at the hem of his boxers.

Before you can do anything, his hand stops your wrist as you immediately pause in your ministrations. Your eyes widen, fully ready to pull away in case you did something wrong. What if he didn’t like it? What if he changed his mind or that you were bad—?

“Stop thinking,” he chides, “I want this. I love your hands, anything that you do,” he whispers in reassurance as you swallow. “How about you feel me first? Over the boxers. Baby steps.”

You exhale, nodding your head as your hand reaches to cup his length in your hand. You gasp in tandem with Jungkook, feeling the heat radiate from his dick as you give an experimental squeeze. You look up to gauge his reaction, and you suppose it’s good with the way his breath hitches. He doesn’t say anything and you take that as your cue to continue, your hand squeezing tighter upwards, right before your thumb rubs over what you think is the tip.

“It’s wet,” you blurt.

You’re about to hastily apologise because who the hell points that out before giving someone a blowjob?

“Yeah,” he releases a shaky breath, “I’m so hard right now you have no idea.” He laughs, throwing his head back.

You don’t say anything else, but you continue to work your way up and down his length over the cloth—and for some reason, you feel like it never ends. The heat from his cock, the stirring in your belly or the wetness that begins to accumulate between your own thighs. His hand rests in your hair in a gentle way, simply remaining there as he allows you to have your way on his cock.

That realisation makes you feel the need to go further, so you do. You squeeze until you reach the base of his cock, and you feel the outline of his balls. You briefly read online that some guys liked it when you squeezed—so you did. And Jungkook nearly lurches forward and knees you in the face when you do.

“Fuck, baby,” he chokes in a laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, but your heart isn’t there when you grin in satisfaction to yourself. The term of endearment doesn’t fall onto deaf ears either, and it shoots straight to your core.

Deciding that you weren’t happy with just fondling him above his boxers, in one swift motion; said fabric now drapes over his thighs and you’re welcomed with the sight of Jungkook’s engorged cock staring you straight in the face.

You assume it’s bad taste to just stare at someone’s intimates as if you were dissecting the anatomy right as you were about to get down to business. But you couldn’t help it. Jungkook had such a … pretty looking cock. You don’t know if penises could look aesthetic nor were you going to be superficial and say that penises should look a certain way. But he had such a pretty cock and it only made you want to shove it all the way down your throat. But your inexperience tells you to relax because you weren’t about to embarrass yourself like that.

“Do you … hate it?” Jungkook asks tentatively.

He wasn’t particularly an insecure person. He knew he was good looking and had a great body—he worked hard for it! But that’s because he never cared about anyone and what they had to say enough for it to affect his self-confidence. But you were the one person that he’s sought for validation ever since he was just a teenage boy, before the muscles and the confidence he’s developed over the years.

Especially when he was so hard that he thinks he’s going to bust a nut the second your mouth touches his cock—the way that you’re staring only makes him anxious.

“You’re really big,” you tell him, eyes peering up, “And pretty.”

Jungkook blushes. He can’t believe it but the fact that he’s the one that’s flustered when you were the ‘inexperienced’ one only goes to show how whipped he was. He almost laughs, but your hand is touching his bare cock and he nearly chokes at the firm grip you immediately take. He really almost laughs, because even now—you were a quick learner, an observant student who already probably knew what he liked.

Your hands twist upwards when you jerk him off, and Jungkook tries his best to keep his hips at bay even if he’s letting out low groans the tighter you squeeze. Your eyes occasionally dart up to observe his reactions, and you’re pleased to see that his mouth is slightly agape whenever his breathless pants leave them. You didn’t know that pleasuring someone else could feel this fulfilling for yourself—but you liked it. You liked the way he felt in your hand, the precum that oozes out from his tip that taints your fingers—and you especially liked the way his head is thrown back while the grip in your hair tightens simultaneously.

“You could spit on it,” his shaky voice interrupts your mental dialogue as you look up at him. He cocks his chin towards his cock as you were hyper-focused on his length. You note that you barely could wrap your fists around him and that you needed the help of both hands.

“Would you like that?” You ask.

He nods.

“It chafes when it’s dry,” he points out.

You open your mouth in acknowledgement as you nod your head slowly. You remember when he had spit on your pussy, and even if it was in the heat of the moment and you were already wet enough—you liked it. But you also note that the way you’re jerking him off his dry so you rev the spit up in the back of your throat before you lean forward, allowing the glob of spit to drop down his cock.

The breathless groan that he lets out immediately shoots to your core as you peer up at him. He’s already looking at you do, and you feel compelled to shoot him a small smile. And when you do, he groans even if your hands have momentarily stilled as you raise a brow at his reaction.

“How are you still so cute,” he huffs.

You blink.

“Are you really calling me cute right before I’m about to suck your dick?” You deadpan.

He sighs, but his hand rubs a gentle circle on your head.

“It’s a good thing,” he promises, “Can’t you feel how hard I am right now? You could breathe near my dick and I’d probably nut.”

You snort, even if the compliment is super boyish and very Jungkook—you feel your heart swell. You’re both terrified and how you’re reacting to his simple words, but the cheesy grin he sends you from above only makes your stomach feel lighter and your heart soar higher.

“So how do you like it?” You ask.

It’s a little too odd to be having this conversation as your hand continues to work lazily on Jungkook’s cock. He seems to not mind, especially when his hips occasionally buck upwards to chase the feeling. He blinks in an attempt to focus on your query and not how good your hand feels around him, even if it’s in a rest.

“How about you just start with the tip?” He suggests.

You nod your head before you lean forward, and you don’t know if Jungkook feels it—but your heartbeat is beating rapidly against your chest. You’re not … scared, but you’re also a little scared. Mostly because it’s a foreign territory and you’re unsure how it’d taste (even if Yena warned you from having high hopes). But Jungkook ate relatively healthy and drank a lot of water; and worked out regularly.

You finally kiss the tip, and Jungkook just about melts, cock twitching at the contact as you stick your tongue out to take a tentative lick of the precum that oozes out from his hip. It’s not pleasant, nor is it anything to puke over. You’re partial to it, mostly because you’re super turned on and you like the way that Jungkook seems to be eagerly waiting while his other fist that isn’t in your hair grabs at the couch in anticipation.

You don’t intend to be that erotic, but you don’t break eye contact even when you envelop the tip into your mouth. It’s the widest part of Jungkook, and it’s already a pleasant stretch to your lips when you run your tongue on the underside of his cockhead.

“Y-You sure you n-need me to—ah—teach you?” He asks breathlessly when you use your free hand to jerk the base of his cock.

You hum around his length, and Jungkook groans in tandem, hips jerking upwards in response as you feel his cock briefly drag against the roof of your mouth. He’s about to apologise, especially when he leans forward, but you briefly release him to shake your head.

“I’m a big girl,” you tell him with a grin.

Jungkook chuckles before resting back. He can’t quite believe that you’re on your knees right in front of him, sucking his dick like an obedient student. It’s eerily similar to many of his high school wet dreams, and it probably exceeds them with the way you’re sucking him back into your mouth; slowly inching your way further until you’re halfway down.

Your mouth is hot, and in fact—a dream. It’s probably the fact that it’s you that Jungkook feels all his senses be elevated in a way he’s never felt before. It was the way that his heart soars in his chest while his stomach caves in when he feels your tongue swipe under his shaft.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he croons, hand carding tenderly through your hair, “Be careful of your teeth.” He adds on when he feels the scrape of them against his cock.

He didn’t hate it, but he rather enjoys the softness of your mouth without the fear of you chewing his dick off.

You look up at him apologetically, but he only returns it with a half-hearted smile—purely because your hand is working its way on what you can’t fit into your mouth just yet. You’re an impeccable learner, and Jungkook thinks that he didn’t need to guide you at all with the way you’re doing everything just right. Or maybe it’s his love-sick mind that makes everything feel infinitely better. Maybe other guys wouldn’t like it—but his heart only drops when the thought arrives. He wanted to be the only person that could feel your mouth this way.

Your tongue is working hard when it continues to slobber against his cock. And he doesn’t know if you’re doing it on purpose, but you’re messy when you vacuum your cheeks—spit pooling at the sides of your mouth when you bob your head up and down. All Jungkook can feel is your mouth, and beads of sweat are already accumulating at his hairline while his breathing turns uneven with the only things escaping his lips are moans and groans.

You’re enjoying the way that Jungkook looks like he’s slowly losing control of himself and his tongue. All he’s doing is moaning, even the grip in your hair tightens when he unconsciously pushes your head further down on his cock. You realised that sucking dick wasn’t that theoretical as you thought it was. You were simply observant, gauged what made Jungkook’s breath hitch, what he didn’t react much to—and you knew for a fact that he appreciated the slobber.

And the spit. And the squelches of your lips meeting his cock. You did, too. It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but you were drenched just by observing Jungkook’s reactions. That only spurs you on further when you work harder, hand reaching down to cup his balls as you hear Jungkook release a breathy whimper. The sound immediately shoots to your core as you let out a moan of your own.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “You’re fucking evil.”

He’s breathlessly laughing, but you don’t let it hinder your actions. If anything, his words drive you further when you push his cock further into the cavern of your mouth, the gasp leaving his lips a sign that he probably didn’t expect that. You feel his stomach clench when you continue to bob your head up and down, and you’re giving yourself a mental pat on the back at the way you’re able to labour your own breathing through your nose. You were a natural if you did say so yourself.

“M’ gonna cum,” he mumbles through a moan, hand tightening around your hair as you take that as a sign to squeeze his balls harder. His hips jerk, hitting the back of your throat that has you briefly gagging around his cock. The visual and the sound sends Jungkook into overdrive, his balls feeling heavier by the second and in desperate need of release. He wants to apologise, but you don’t seem to mind with the way you continue to hollow your cheeks and function around his length.

“Where can I—fuck—where can I cum?” He rushes his words out, shallowly thrusting into your mouth as you hum around his cock.

He pulls out by pushing you back with a firm palm on your shoulder as your eyes widen, and when he’s shooting ropes of cum onto your face as it drips down your neck. You weren’t sure if he was supposed to cum that much, but it keeps on coming as you sit there obediently with your mouth open, in case it lands anywhere else. Jungkook’s groaning above you as he jerks himself off through the last bits of his orgasm, his hazy eyes darkening further when he spots the white that paints your face.

“I thought guys liked it if we swallowed?” You tilt your head to the side and Jungkook thinks he’s about to die.

“You’re actually going to kill me if you do that. So no. Not today.” He snorts, relaxing back into the couch as his post-nut clarity starts to hit him. He stares at the ceiling, feeling immensely satiated.

“This is like a facial at the spa,” you mention off-handedly as you climb up between his thighs, cum still staining your face. And Jungkook can’t believe it, but he thinks you look so cute painted with his cum. It’s a primal instinct the way that his eyes linger longer, feeling territorial with the way that he’s the only one that gets to see you like this.

“You’re so weird,” he snickers but you pout at him. And you do the next thing that gives Jungkook a heart attack.

Your tongue swipes over your lips where some cum remains, and even if his cock is flaccid—he feels it twitch in interest.

“Not bad. A little salty but overall … meh,” you shrug your shoulders as Jungkook gawks at you.

“You …” he trails off, “God.”

You smile up at him, all innocent as if you didn’t just give him the suck of his life—as your first time sucking dick.

“So? How was it?” You ask eagerly, leaning into his chest. He wants to ask about the cum that’s drying on your face, but you don’t seem to mind. You were so weird, but that only makes his heart grow fonder.

“Do you conduct feedback sessions after every blowjob?” He asks sarcastically.

You roll your eyes, “Do you want me to? I mean—I could offer my services elsewhere—”

Jungkook pinches your hip in retaliation, the insinuation making him growl as you snicker. He can only stare at you in amusement, especially when you’re still grinning up at him. Gone was the shy girl that proposed this, even if he noticed the flush on your cheeks and on the tip of your ears. It was insane how you took a one-eighty, but Jungkook appreciated it. He appreciated you.

“Ten out of ten. Magnificent. Absolutely life-changing. Thought I saw the gates of heaven for a second.” He teases.

You roll your eyes but a small smile appears on your face as you glance down to fiddle with your fingers. Jungkook can only stare at you, and he can’t fully describe this feeling but his heart feels so … full. So completed, even if you sucked his dick. He’s always felt this way, but there was something about you being wrapped in his arms after you had his dick in your mouth that made Jungkook go crazy. Crazy enough for him to blurt out the next thing on his mind.

“I want to be with you.” He blurts.

Your eyes dart up in shock as they widen. But Jungkook is as resolute as ever, a dopey grin still on his face.

“W-What?” You stutter.

He reaches for your hand, still slightly sticky with the slick from his cock but he doesn’t care. Not when you intertwine your fingers with his so seamlessly, so easily like you were meant to do so.

“I want to be with you. In whatever way you want to have me.” He murmurs, peering straight into your eyes.

Your heart stutters in your chest as you try to find the words to respond with. But you can’t. Your mind is still recovering from what you just did, and your heart is soaring. But there’s a part of you that’s hesitant. You knew it was unfair, for making Jungkook wait—but you were still scared. You were scared that he’d get bored of you, or what the two of you share one day. He may be ready to leave it all behind, but you don’t think you could deal with having to say goodbye to Jungkook in that way.

And it’s as if he can read your hesitation, he brings your intertwined hands to his lips before pressing a kiss to your knuckles, eyes still soft when they remain on your frozen state,

“I’ll wait,” he says softly, “For as long as you need me to. Until you’re ready.”

“J-Jungkook …” you mumble, flustered when you look away.

He nudges his nose against your cheek, pressing a smile to your jaw as you hum in embarrassment.

“I fucked up.” He says. You’re about to interrupt but he seems to have his own things to say. “I said things that hurt you. I did things that hurt you and I can’t ever forgive myself for that. I know you’re not punishing me and I never once thought that way. Even if that isn’t the case, the least I can do is wait. Not only because of what I did but because no matter what—I want to do this right this time.”

He looks up to you and his gaze is so earnest that it makes the words get trapped in your throat while you stare at him.

He smiles, soft and gentle when he rubs a thumb across your cheek.

“I’m serious about this. About you. Even if you decide that you don’t want this or that your feelings have changed … I’ll still be here.”

Jungkook takes your breath away as you gape at him. The silence he leaves you with only makes you reaffirm your stance on how you feel for him. Yet, you can’t give him an answer now. Not when your mind still remains hesitant, and Jungkook didn’t deserve hesitant. Even if he’s hurt you—he didn’t deserve your confusion. Neither of you did.

You lean into him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. It’s intimate this way, the way that his cum dries on your face and that his dick is still out. It’s almost funny, but Jungkook wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d wait—for as long as he had to. And he’d do it over and over again, for you.

#bad boy good thing #bbgt #bts #bts fics #bts series #bts angst #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook series

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strangeradventuresofp · 3 years

Text

symphony (arthur morgan x reader)

this story involves smut!! please do not read this if you are not over 18 years old

a/n: not entirely back to writing yet, but i did this and i sorta like it so lemme know what you think. also this is my first time ever writing smut that wasn’t for a roleplay so im super nervous about it. but anyway have a story with my favourite boy

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It felt like your gut had been ripped open, like there were pins where your heart was before it cracked and shattered into thousands of fragments that would never be found. It was like someone had put a bullet in your skull and it was rattling around, hitting against every nerve and causing as much damage as it went along.

Your blood turned to ice in your veins at the sight of him. Never had you seen him look so weak. So helpless. How in his voice he seemed okay despite the state of his body – at least two open wounds, his shirt stained multiple shades of red that weaved in with brown from what had already dried. Hot tears stung in your eyes when they studied him. Despite the warped vision, it was obvious to anyone that he was in pain. How his face contorted and twisted whilst Miss Grimshaw washed over his wounds to get a better look. The grunts and curses that left his dried lips were unbearable to listen to.

Once you tore your eyes away from him, you assessed the others in the scene. Dutch stood at the foot of the table, his arms crossed over his chest and his hands balled into fists so tight that his knuckles whitened and cracked. Every now and again he mumbled words of encouragement or instructions to tell Miss Grimshaw what to do, despite her knowing much more about how to patch someone up.

Miss Grimshaw had taken charge immediately, as soon as he had been brought into camp by the others on the job. She removed his shirt swiftly, washing his wounds with a cloth and water. Her expert hands cauterised his wounds and though she winced at every sound of discomfort, she knew that she was helping, and so she continued.

Tilly was around helping Miss Grimshaw, running to get things that she needed presently or that she would need, or that she might need just in case. She fed him alcohol for the pain and listened close when she was asked to do something to help.

You? You simply stood there, frozen. Miss Grimshaw had asked you for something, but you neither moved nor even heard her request for your brain was travelling at a speed that caused you physical pain. The noises he made left an awful taste in your mouth, knowing that you couldn’t help despite wanting to more than anything in the world.

It was about then that Hosea took your hands in his and gently pulled you away with a “Come on, sweet girl.” And though you protested, you let him take you, because you couldn’t do anything else. You couldn’t just stand and watch him as he was an inch away from death. It hurt. Hosea took you far enough away that you couldn’t hear the sounds of pain that each felt like a bullet to the chest.

He held you to him, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Hosea.” Was the first thing that came out of your mouth once you had remembered how to use your voice. The man smiled a fatherly smile.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.” He assured, though you couldn’t seem to meet his eye. Gently, he squeezed your hand as a sign of reassurance. Though, reassurance for what, you couldn’t be entirely sure. “I know you wanted to help. It’s difficult when the people we love get hurt.”

You scoffed. “I… I don’t even know what bein’ in love feels like. But, I guess, maybe…” Trailing off, your mind began to wander just as the thoughts pulled a sigh from your lips.

“Hosea, I don’t—”

“Do you think I don’t see the way you look at him?” Hosea asked with a raised eyebrow, clearly amused that you had tried to deny his claims.

“Sweetheart, you look at him like you’re starving and he’s a hot meal.”

“I do?” Your voice sounded so small against the deafening silence. As much as you wanted to deny it, Hosea was right, and he knew it. It was terrifying. “I—I’ve never been in love before.” Startling thoughts began cascading down you. You and Arthur were close, real close. You told each other everything. You could be vulnerable around each other. You were there for each other. Was all of that about to be ruined because you were stupid enough to catch feelings?

“What do I do?”

Hosea chuckled at that. “Get some rest, sweetheart. Try not worry about him, he’ll be fine. He always is.” While you appreciated his attempt of reassurance, you honestly didn’t feel much better at all. Instead, your brain was flooding with the thought of being in love with Arthur on top of the question of whether he was actually going to survive his injuries.

You stayed just out of camp for a while longer, until you could hear the noise inside start to die down until it was obvious that everyone was asleep. You crept back in, being sure to not make too much noise, you didn’t want to wake anyone. No, not that, you didn’t want anyone to know that you were visiting him. Grabbing a chair, you pulled it up beside where Arthur’s was body was lay and took a seat. You looked over him, humming lightly, Miss Grimshaw really did a good job of patching him up. Your hands wrapped themselves around one of his, and you simply sat at his side until morning, being sure to move away at least two hours before everyone else woke up.

~~~

A few weeks later

~~~

Chores. Although you helped out on jobs sometimes, since Arthur and Hosea taught you how to shoot properly, you enjoyed helping out around camp, too. It was the least you could do to help out Miss Grimshaw, considering she saved the man that you loved. Besides, most members of the camp were out either on jobs or shopping, or at saloon, so, you were spending your time washing clothes to help out.

Arthur, luckily, survived his injuries and although he was still recovering, he was back up and out on jobs again. Dutch did make sure not to put him on any dangerous (by his standard) jobs, despite Arthur protesting because he’s fine, it was just a couple of scratches and—Goddamn it, Dutch I don’t need supervision, I’m alright and—

“Careful you don’t rub a hole in that shirt.” A deep chuckle came from beside you. Your head snapped up immediately at the sound.

“Arthur!” You only then noticed how hard you had been squeezing the shirt in your hands and how hard you were scrubbing it against the washboard. Loosening your grip, you smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I—Wait a minute, what the hell are you doing up and around? Dutch told you that you rest today.” A laugh left Arthur’s lips as he held his hands up in surrender. “You should be resting.” With that, you stood, ushering him back to his tent where he could lay down. He took a seat on his bed, looking up at her with a strange expression. Was he… Nervous?

He reached out for your hand, gently tugging you over to take a seat beside him. Instead of letting go of your hand, he held it, his gaze fixed on it. He delicately traced over the veins that peeked through your skin, too delicate, like if he held you any firmer that you would shatter before him. His eyebrows drew together, and you hummed slightly, searching his eyes.

“Arthur? Y’alright?” You asked softly, your eyes furrowing in concern.

“I’m alright, darlin’, I just…” He took a deep breath. “Going through all that and, not knowing whether I was gonna die, it, uh, it made me realise a couple things. Shit, uh…”

“It’s okay. Take your time.” You assured, a smile crossing your face. Arthur looked up at you, a troubled look in his eyes that gave you an awful feeling in your stomach. You breathed out through parted lips, ready to take in the bad news that he was about to tell you. His eyes flickered slightly, quickly looking down your lips before he swallowed thickly, looking back up at your eyes.

“It made me realise that, I’m terrified of losing you. And—And I think that I… Shit. I’m in love with you.” Arthur’s face burnt up entirely as he confessed, flushing red from head to toe. When you didn’t respond, only blinking blankly at him, he pulled his hands away from yours, looking away as he rubbed the nape of his neck anxiously. Your hand reached out to cup his cheek, tilting his face back to you where you planted a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. You could feel how his breath was pulled from his lungs as you did so and his eyes lit up, though his face still looked worried.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan. More than anything in the world.” And with that, his lips captured yours in such a way that had your own breath hitching at the sensation. Your lips danced against each other’s rhythmically, and your chests moved up and down in sync.

You had always loved Arthur. From the moment that he had saved your life in the woods when you first met. This big, scary outlaw meant everything to you. This gang was the closest thing you had to family. No, it was your family. Things had always been different with Arthur, though. Things you had never given a second thought about until now. Longing glances from across camp, touches that were a little too long to simply be considered friendly. Putting his arm around you at the campfire so that you wouldn’t be cold, bringing each other stew so that the other wouldn’t starve. The way he spoke to you; how his voice changed to be much softer when he addressed you. The urgency in his voice when he thought that you were in danger. The way that he always worried about you, just how you worried about him. The way that he looked at you, just how you looked at him.

It all made sense now.

The kiss was incapsulating. In this moment where nothing else mattered, merely you and him. You each opened your mouths, delving your tongues in to dance with the other as your tastes swirled together. He tasted like honey and cigarette smoke, you tasted like wild berries and rum. His hand hovered over the curve of your waist for a few seconds, before he hesitantly placed it down, pulling you close to his chest. Your arms snaked up his chest and wound around his neck. Arthur hooked an arm around your waist, gently lifting and shifting you over to sit in his lap.

You broke the kiss, breathing heavier than usual as you looked at him. A sweet shade of rose covered the cheeks that you gently pecked before stroking with your thumbs whilst you cupped his face.

“We don’t have to go any farther.” Arthur declared; his voice low despite there being no one around. You breathed for a moment, scared of all the new feelings that erupted throughout your body. Though, the fireworks in your stomach couldn’t be denied. So, you smiled.

“You—Your wounds…” You mentioned, and he chuckled softly.

“Darlin’, I’m fine. But we can stop if you ain’t comfortable.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

A smile spread over Arthur’s lips at your words and he hummed in response. “Tell me if you wanna stop, okay?” He asked, cupping your cheek, to which you nodded before leaning in to kiss his lips once again. You couldn’t get enough of him. He tasted so good. Whilst your lips worked against his, his practised hands ran over your body and his fingers began to work at the buttons on your shirt, threading them back through the hole before pushing it off of your shoulders. His hands moved up to knead softly at your breasts, rolling your nipples between his calloused fingers which earned a mewl from your throat.

He pulled away from your lips, jaw falling slack when his eyes fell over your now bare top half. He hummed as his excitement grew, moving your head to the side with his thumb before burying his face in your neck which he peppered with open mouthed kisses and gentle nips that began to purple the flushed skin, branding you to him. With your noises of approval and your fingers unthreading the buttons of his blue shirt egging him on, he began to suck the skin at your clavicle to which a breathy moan was pulled from your throat.

Shrugging his shirt from his shoulders, you moved your legs on either side of his hips, straddling him. Your fingers gently caressed each of his scars that you felt. He was beautiful. As he continued to leave his mark on you, your hands reached up to tangle in his locks, tugging ever so slightly, but a growl left him, nevertheless.

“Do it again.” Arthur pleaded, his lips brushing against your skin to cause goose bumps. A low groan fell out of his kiss swollen lips when you repeated the action. His large hands cupped your ass, pulling you closer against him, his arousal rubbing against you through layers of fabric that separated you from feeling all of him. You needed to feel all of him. You moaned at the contact, fumbling messily with his jeans while you kissed him, but he pulled away.

He picked you up, laying you down before he shed himself of the remainder of his clothing. While his back was turned, you did the same. When Arthur turned around, he bit his lip at the sight of you, flushed, sprawled out for him on his bed. He licked his lips hungrily, cock twitching before he lay above you, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips which you held while his hand dug lower. His fingers spread you open, teasing by gently brushing against your clit. He smirked at your wetness.

“Arthur—” You whined. “Please.” He took your endorsement, groaning in delight at the sounds you made when he quickened his pace, curling his fingers inside you. The hot coil began to grow in your stomach, and he watched as you writhed beneath him, moaning deliciously at how good he was making you feel. His cock was painfully hard and ached for release, but he wouldn’t stop until he had brought you over the edge at least once before he fucked you.

“This for me?” Your hips bucked up in a silent plea for more friction and he chuckled slightly into your mouth before pushing a digit inside you. With a sharp inhale beforehand, you moaned in approval, causing him to add a second finger, pumping in and out of you at a slow pace.

“So good for me, darlin’.” Arthur’s voice was husky when he spoke, his words wrapped in lust and desire, eyes dark with adoration. His free hand reached up to toy with your nipples, pinching gently, teasingly to bring you closer to your release.

It wasn’t until your hips bucked uncontrollably and a strangled cry left your plump lips that Arthur pulled his fingers out of you, the hot coil snapping in such a wonderful way that left you aching for more. His mouth opened and closed around his fingers, coated with your juices. When the taste hit his mouth, a low groan rumbled in his chest, and the mushroom head of his member leaked with arousal.

Arthur didn’t touch himself once until he had brought you over the edge one more time with his tongue alone, and when that hot coil broke in your stomach once again, he lapped up the remainder of your juices, making sure to not waste a single drop by licking along the insides of your thighs for any excess. His cock throbbed painfully from the influx of lust, his hand stroking himself up and down a couple of times before he pushed himself into you. The sound you made from him entering you alone nearly made Arthur cum there and then, but he was determined to make you feel good. After pushing in about halfway, he pulled back out completely, groaning at the sight of your slick on his cock. You whined at the lack of contact, reaching to touch him but he swatted your hand away.

“I don’t think so.” He said with a chuckle before pushing into you entirely. You cried out, digging your nails into his shoulders, loving how he stretched you. “Mm—” Arthur’s hips thrusted against yours once as he moaned at how you clenched around him. “Such a good girl for me.” He set a fast pace, each thrust increasing in power and might, and soon enough an animalistic desire consumed him, his hips clashing against yours. Your names left each other’s lips among curses and beautiful sounds of pure pleasure. Series’ of moans spilled out from your reddened lips.

Arthur kissed you, hard. You could feel the swelling of your lips. The bristles of his unkempt stubble tickled your skin. When your tongues met, you groaned at the taste, your taste. Your nails sunk further into his skin and he groaned at the sensation, his spare hand reached down to focus your sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb. His cock throbbed against your walls as the familiar feeling began to grow in your stomach once again. He pounded into you with a near primal hunger, your plea for him and your beautiful sounds being the only thing to fill his ears. Arthur made his own share of delicious noises, both of your voices ruined with pleasure though it sounded like the most stunning symphony.

You felt your third climax nearing, the white-hot coil repeating but so much stronger than before. With your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands on you, he made you feel wanted. He made you feel loved. It was nearing closer, and closer and you covered your face to which Arthur removed your hands from your face, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other returned to its spot at your clit.

“Nuh-uh, darlin’. Hafta see you.”

Soon enough, your release washed over you like a wave of pleasure. A ravishing sound forced itself from you, your legs trembled, your body shaking violently from the pleasure. Arthur felt your climax all over him, his body entirely racked with pleasure. As you clenched around him, he pushed in once more and pulled out, releasing with a husky shout that you would dream of for weeks on end. His juices lay atop the bedsheets and he sighed happily, pulling you in for a soft, loving kiss.

Arthur reached over into his pile of clothes to find a dark piece of cloth, his bandana. He soaked in some water from a bucket outside his tent and gently dragged it over you skin, revelling in how incessantly beautiful you were. At first, when he reached your folds, you whined from the overstimulation, but soon relaxed at the feeling.

Once you were cleaned up, he lay beside you, cradling you in his strong arms. You pecked his lips before resting your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Your eyes fluttered closed and Arthur hummed contently. “I love you, darlin’.”

lmk if you want to be added to any of my taglists!!<3

“I love you too, Arthur.”

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one-boring-person · 3 years

Note

You forced this upon yourself😂 you forced this rambo simp.(and i dont mind)

Okay this may not be as good! But! Im giving you the liberty to take it where you want!(because i love your little details and how you express the feeling in your writing i- AH! Its great. I cant say it enough, it’s great. I mean it.)

How about Rambo finally getting enough courage to show The rancher around the tunnels, in a date sort of way!(they don’t know thats actually where he lives. Aka that photo i showed you before.) i really saw how the rancher was so happy to have him at their house, I’d love to see rambos side of scheduling a house tour and date type deal!! Maybe him even sitting and showing the rancher through all his old photos, and them just in awe because wow. He’s so much cooler than they even thought! He just so nervous and surprised seeing them so interested in him after all this time alone, and them just- in awe of him.

( i also really think it would be funny seeing rambo go through his friends house and seeing-“why the hell you have so many plants???” And just. Adorable assassin living with a wholesome and loving hardworking s/o)

Ah! Im sorry if that’s not as good!! But hey, you feel free to describe their antics and relationship as you will!!

I think I may have run a bit with this, but I hope you like it regardless!😊💛

I've Got Your Back, You've Got Mine.

John Rambo (Rambo IV/V) x reader

Warnings: mention of death, mention of war, mention of injury, mention of PTSD, mention of violence, (possible flash warning for gif?)

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The heavy knock on the door surprises me where I'm sitting, the sharp sound snapping me from my thoughts. Looking over at it from my position at the table, I frown and set down my spoon, standing to go answer, unsure of who it is: I'm not expecting anyone today. Colt looks up from his place on the floor, the dog just as curious as I am as to whom it may be, though he doesn't bark, so it must be someone we know. He watches me as I cross the room, going straight to the door.

Opening it, I'm somewhat surprised to see my neighbour, John, standing there, a tentative smile on his face as he looks me over appreciatively, his gaze drawing a blush to my face.

"Mornin' (Y/n)." He greets, rough voice friendly as he waits for me to let him in.

"Morning John." I smile back, delighted to see him, "What can I do for you?"

I step back, waiting for him to enter, which he does so with a nod of thanks.

"Since when have I needed a reason to see you?" The veteran chuckles, the sound reverberating within me, my brain subconsciously storing the action away for later recall. Gently, John moves into my space, one hand coming to lightly rest on my hips as the other cups my face, drawing me in for a slow kiss.

Kissing back, I feel a glow of happiness flare up in me at this contact: he's never really one to initiate touch like this, so it's a whole lot more intimate when he does. Relaxed, I loosely wrap my arms around his neck, languidly caressing his dark hair as our lips move together.

Being the killjoy he often loves to be, Colt pushes in between us, nosing at John's leg, tail wagging enthusiastically as he recognises the familiar man, the dog as fond of his company as I am. Chuckling, John and I pull apart, looking down at the large canine between us, the dark eyes staring up at us imploring us to pay attention to him. Still smiling, John lowers a hand to scratch Colt's head, ruffling his floppy ears a little as the dog instantly allows his mouth to hang open, tongue lolling in content.

"Hey, Colt." The veteran greets, biting back a laugh as the dog pushes me out of the way, nudging at John's stomach.

"He never gets that excited to see me." I complain jokingly, standing back to watch the two interact, a smile playing at my lips.

"Sure he does." John replies, eyes fixing on mine with an expression of fondness, one that had me weak at the knees.

"He really doesn't, he just sits in the corner and whines at me until I feed him. Isn't that right?" I address the dog himself, giving him a light slap on the rear, his ridiculous height meaning I can quite easily reach it, "Anyhow, did you need something? Or did you just come here to kiss me? I can't say I'll complain if that's the case."

Cheekily, I wink at the veteran, leaning back against a nearby counter.

"As nice as that sounds, it's not the reason I came by." He chuckles, blushing lightly, "Though that does sound good."

Grinning, I nod my agreement, only now taking in his body language: he's nervous. His hands fidget, rubbing his fingers over scars and lines on his palms, and he shifts from foot to foot every now and then, small tells he's never quite managed to hide from me.

"Is something up?" I ask him, slightly more serious this time, unnerved by his discomfort.

"No, no, not at all. I, err, well, I just wanted to ask you something." He rubs the back of his neck, head tilted to the side as he regards me, dark eyes fixed on mine.

"Ok, go for it." I prompt him, curiosity sparking my interest.

"Well, do you wanna come to mine? I mean properly, like in the house." John cocks his head to the side, lowering his arm again.

Blinking, I feel shock flood my system, before it turns to unbelievable happiness that he's trusting me enough to come into his private space. Initially, I can't find the right words, somehow struggling to respond, until I find my tongue again.

"I would love to, John." I agree, features lighting up as my mood brightens, "There's nothing I've really got to do today except train up one of the younger horses, so I've got as long as you want after that."

"Great. Is four o'clock alright?" The veteran smiles broadly, though he still looks somewhat nervous.

"Yeah, should be. I'll be there." I promise him, taking up my Stetson from the table as I briefly turn away to put away the plate I was using, having lost my appetite in my sudden excitement.

"I'll get it tidy." He says, looking around the room again, "I'll never understand why you have so many plants in your house. It's like a damn jungle."

At his comment, I laugh loudly, glancing around at the variety of different houseplants I have placed on various shelves, the greenery practically covering every available surface.

"Because it's way too dry to grow anything like this outside all the time. Anyway, they look nice." I shrug, calling Colt to my side as I follow John from the house, grabbing my jacket from the hook as I pass.

"But why so many?"

Once again, I shrug, following him over to a nearby post, where he's hitched Bandit, the horse I gave him a few months ago. The buckskin stallion paws at the ground, his pale coat looking as clean as ever even as he noses at the dust, the dark colouring around his eyes (the reason for his name) and legs standing out much more in the bright sun. As we approach, he looks up, snorting in greeting.

"He's looking good." I acknowledge, admiring the strong stallion appreciatively - I had reared Bandit from a foal, before I had given him to the veteran as a gift four months ago, hoping it will help him to grow his own ranch. My plan had worked, and John now has four horses, including Bandit, as well as a couple of other animals, such as a cow, a pig and five chickens. I'd sold him a couple of goats as well, but we soon found out that John and goats just didn't get along. At all.

"Yeah, he's doing well, too. Takes the training very well, too." John runs a hand through the stallion's dark mane, untying the reins.

"That's good. Reckon he'll be ready for a competition soon?"

"Should be."

Snorting again, Bandit pulls at the reins, clearly eager to get going, especially as Colt moves up to sniff at the horse's back legs. I quickly whistle him over, knowing Bandit has always been shifty around the dog.

"I'll see you at four then." I finally say, unwilling to say goodbye, even if it is only for a few hours.

"Yeah, see you then." John smiles, leaning in to kiss me again, keeping it brief this time, leaving me wishing for more, as he always does.

"See ya." I grin, watching him climb into the saddle, still somehow fluid in doing so despite his age.

Gathering the reins in hand, John adjusts himself in the saddle, before he smiles down at me again as he gently urges Bandit into motion. Obediently, the stallion moves into a swift trot, which turns into a faster canter as the two move off down the driveway, heading towards the split in the fence separating our land. I watch as they go, still finding myself enraptured by the sight of the muscular man sat astride the horse, Colt eventually snapping me from my mind as he barks at me. Shaking my head, I follow him towards the stable.

Hours later, having showered and cleaned up, I feel a sense of relief go through me as I hoist myself into the saddle secured into place on Leo's back. It's relaxing, the stallion beneath me more relaxed than the youngster I've been trying to train all day: she never gave me a break. Seemingly sensing this, as he always does, Leo flicks his ears back and nickers softly, very lightly pawing the ground as I give him a pat on the neck, glad to have a more reliable horse taking me where I need to be.

Tilting back my Stetson, I take the reins in hand and ease the stallion into a trot, intending to let him pick up his own pace, my trust in this horse far greater than in the mare from before. Obediently, Leo moves into the correct gait, the two of us moving as if as one, years of riding together having made it easy for us to become in tune with each other. Together, we start off down the road towards John's ranch, the new path we've created beaten and well-used, allowing for relatively easy riding. Leo's hooves pound the dry ground rhythmically, my hips moving in time with his every stride, the relaxing movement helping to calm the nerves that have sprung up inside me.

A part of me is still unconvinced about going into John's home. Yes, I had helped him rebuild it and had seen very little of the inside rooms, but it still feels as if I'm intruding upon the veteran's safe space, his reprieve from the cruelty of the world he lives in. Something about that doesn't sit right with me, but I tell myself it's John's decision to make, not mine, so I should trust him, which I do, wholeheartedly.

I'm still torn by the time I reach the main house, where John is already sat waiting for me in his rocking chair, dark eyes fixed on me as I approach. Lifting a hand to him, I smile and slow Leo to a halt, praising the horse as I climb down, the gray stallion nosing affectionately at me. Swiftly, I tie him to a nearby post, only to stop when John calls out to me.

"Put him in the stable for the night." He instructs me, gesturing for me to follow him as I try to fight back the sudden onslaught of racing thoughts at his implications: he wants me to stay the night?

"Sure, thanks." I smile back at him, walking after him with Leo in tow.

"Don't worry about it. It's not fair on him if he has to stay out all night." John waves me off with a short grin, "How'd training go?"

I groan.

"Not great. That horse has it in for me, I swear." I complain, rubbing at my arm, remembering the moment I got the new bruise forming there.

"Oh yeah?" He muses, looking amused.

"Yeah. She threw me off eight times!"

"Eight times? Wow, must be a new record." The veteran jokes, something that stirs up the familiar fondness inside me at his more personable behaviour.

"I reckon so. Painful one to set, though, I'll tell you." I remark, smiling broadly as we enter the stable, where I quickly house Leo next to Bandit, removing his tack and other gear.

"Must be." John watches me work, leaning against the door to the large building, muscular arms crossed over an equally muscular chest. Turning back to him, I have to stop and admire the bulging of his biceps as his hands grip his forearms, the veins I've come to love laying out a pattern on the tanned limbs. Everytime I see them, I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me, holding me safe and secure against his solid body, wishing I could feel his hands splayed against me more often.

"Like what you see?" John interrupts my thoughts, voice teasing as he lifts an eyebrow at me, almost smirking at me.

Blushing furiously, I avert my gaze, lifting a hand to gently tap the brim of my Stetson out of my vision.

"You know I do." I laugh nervously, before I look back up at him, "Anyway, since when do you use pickup lines?"

"Since I figured out they get you all flustered." His playful tone is new to me, though it's gone almost as soon as I see it, his guarded expression falling back into place as he returns within himself, probably thinking he overstepped some invisible boundary.

I still can't help stammering for a response, his gruff tone awakening something within me.

"Heh, I guess you're right." I stutter, going over to him.

Nodding, he keeps his expression straight, leading me out back to the house, where he quickly welcomes me inside.

"I tried to tidy it as much as possible, but it's still a bit messy." The veteran apologises, observing the interior of his home critically, even as I do so in awe.

The rooms, from what I can see, are mostly filled with sparse furniture, a few chairs here and there, an old sofa, a couple of vanities and dressers, with a mantlepiece in most, if not all, of them. He hasn't used much colour, but what he has used is tasteful and works well with the overall appearance. The walls, however, are what really draw me into the place.

They are littered with photographs and memorabilia, frames and objects cleaned and polished so they shine brightly in the afternoon sun, many smiling faces visible in them. Curious, I go over to one wall, looking over the array of pictures, which I now recognise to be images of John and his friends from the years he spent here. Amongst them is a creased black and white photo of a young John sat astride a horse not unlike Bandit, a broad grin on the boy's face as he stares at the camera from under a mop of thick black hair. I can feel a small smile creep onto my face at the sight of the veteran looking so happy and carefree, something I've not seen very much of at all in my time around him.

"That was my first horse, Hector. I had him until I left for the army." John says from behind me, sounding somewhat quiet, eyes softened from nostalgia as he stares at the picture along with me, "I loved him a lot, but my father always said he wasn't good enough."

His words hang in the air as I stay speechless, listening intently to what he's saying to me: it's the first I'm hearing about his life before he came here again.

"What happened to him? Hector, I mean." I ask him quietly, tearing my eyes away to look up at John.

The veteran shrugs, appearing somewhat remorseful.

"I'll never know, but I reckon my father sold him as soon as I was gone."

"Oh." I frown, glancing back at the photograph.

"The horse was getting old by that time, though. He probably wasn't much use." John chuckles wryly, moving away towards the stairs nearby, "Do you want to see upstairs?"

"Yeah, sure." I nod, following him as he ascends to the second floor, which I now see consists of three different rooms.

He takes me to the farthest, opening the door to reveal an old study, which looks as if it hasn't been used in a good few years.

"This was my father's study, where he did all his business. I was never allowed in here as a kid." John sweeps his arm around the room, staying by the threshold, as if abiding by a rule that no longer exists, "Not that I go in here that much as an adult."

I look around, finding the neat area interesting: images of a young John hovering by the door, waiting for his father to finish business entering my head.

"It's nice, I like it." I remark, turning to find him smiling very slightly at me.

"It's the only room in the house that's exactly as it used to be. I haven't had time to do up the others properly." John says, leaving the study and going back down the hall, where he opens the other two doors to reveal a bathroom and an empty room.

A dull curiosity flares up within me as I realise one thing about the top floor, but I easily find a solution to it, following John back down the stairs. As we go, however, I realise that my assumption is wrong, as the only other rooms down here are missing the one thing I'd expect in any house.

"Where do you sleep? I haven't seen a bed or anything anywhere." I ask him, cocking my head to the side as he takes me to one final door.

"I'm gonna show you." He smiles at me, before he opens the door.

I blink as I see the dark steps descending into the ground, unease biting at my throat as I flash John a hesitant look. A cool draft wafts up from the black depth, but John only chuckles and moves down into the space below, gesturing for me to follow.

"It's perfectly safe, don't worry." He calls to me, a light flickering on as he reaches the bottom of the steps, illuminating the path to me.

Swallowing, I gingerly step down the stairs, emerging into a tunnel of sorts, my curiosity piqued as I take in the chiselled walls around me, the rock cast in an odd light from the naked bulbs positioned along the length of the cavern. Struts of wood hold the ceiling steady, wiring hanging off of them in places where he's had to hastily put it all together. John watches as I take in the passage, a thoughtful look in place on his face.

"What is this place?" I wonder aloud, still taken aback by the oddity of having a tunnel beneath the house that stretches off in both directions.

"This is my safe space." The veteran informs me, urging me along with him as we go further into the tunnel, walking together for a minute before we emerge out into a larger room of sorts, which is well lit.

My eyes widen as I realise exactly what he means.

The room acts as his bedroom and bathroom, and also has space to sit and relax, the whole area having a homely feel to it. What was missing in the rooms in the house can be found down here, including more photographs, though these ones seem different to the others. They adorn the walls, all except one, which is decorated with a variety of weapons, both guns and knives. Going over to it, I look over the rifles and shotguns hooked onto the wall, struck speechless as I then turn my attention to a machete, the blade honed but chipped from use, seemingly out of place as it hangs beside another, smaller hunting knife.

Moving on, I regard the photographs, only now realising that they're military pictures, many of them containing images of a youthful John in fatigues and uniform. A smile creeps back onto my lips as I feel my eyes land on a particular image of a group of men, where I can see John standing amongst them, a triumphant grin on his face, long locks of dark hair held back by a strip of fabric around his head. The others also smile, though there's something bittersweet about the inscription at the corner of the photo: Baker Team, Vietnam. As I look past the other pictures, I notice that the team slowly dwindles, beaming faces becoming drawn and solemn, eventually just leaving two people behind. Beneath this image is another inscription: Baker Team Survivors.

"That was my team in 'Nam." John says suddenly, voice husky as he remembers the friends he had, "None of them made it back. Not really."

Eyes wide, I look back at him, taking in the distant look in his own eyes, the barely concealed grief still raw in his expression as he stares at the photographs. Noticing my gaze, John gestures for me to come sit on the edge of his bed with him, the veteran pulling another photograph from it's place on his bedside table. Doing so, I make sure I'm not touching him, but am close enough to reassure him, waiting patiently for him to start talking of his own accord, knowing that this is a sensitive subject for him.

After a moment, he starts, his voice low as he pulls me into his stories, taking me through suffocating jungles and blistering heats, through recon and rescue missions, through bloody gunfights and hellfire, through hours spent in torturous situations. He puts me in his shoes as he loses every single member of his team to the gruesome fight he should never have fought, the harrowing grief and pain of letting go of a comrade, someone who's supposed to be by your side for as long as the two of you can stay alive, laid bare for me to see and experience. And even as he moves on, back to familiar territory in the States, the fight never leaves him.

Facing harassment in what should be his safety and security, I can feel every bit of betrayal, of anger and grief that he felt as he is let down by his own country time after time, used again and again by the authorities to do their dirty work, only to be cast aside when it doesn't go their way, the old catchphrase he once lived by, "I've got your back, you've got mine" completely meaningless in this hollow life. His disgust in humanity is plain to me as he outlines his most recent forays into warfare, where the rage he felt is once again transferred to me, and I experience the violent need to take out the parasites in the world that destroy anything good that he did. It's as if I'm there with him, through everything, his description and memories so vivid they chill me to the core, keeping me hooked on his every word.

After a long while, he eventually trails off, and I realise there's a tear rolling down his cheek, his body shaking a little as he holds himself back. My heart breaking, I have to fight the urge to reach out and pull him into an embrace, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. I place my hand on his shoulder instead, rubbing the tight muscles soothingly until he looks up at me with the most heart-rending gaze I've ever seen in my life. At that point, my resolve breaks.

Carefully, I lean in and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling the veteran towards me. He goes willingly, sobs wracking his body as he wraps his own hands around me, burying his face into my neck, tears flowing freely now as he lets himself go, each pained sound agonising to hear. Tightening my grip, I lay back onto the bed, allowing him to press his body around me, holding me against his muscular form as I rub his back, whispering soothing things to him as his breathing starts to calm a little. It takes time, but eventually he starts to relax, body going limp as he lays in my arms, his larger form awkwardly wrapped around mine as he depresses his face into the crook of my neck.

I barely hear his broken voice as he whispers to me.

"Thank you."

Breathing in his familiar scent, I just mould myself closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he does the same to my neck.

"I'm here for you, John. I'm here, and I'll never leave. Not as long as I live, I promise."

#rambo x reader #rambo imagine #rambo #rambo 5 #rambo last blood #rambo 4 #sylvester Stallone #John Rambo x reader #John Rambo imagine #John Rambo

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murderousginger · 4 years

Text

Demons & Angels

Warnings: Menton of drug use. Smutty sexy things. They're criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word count: 2211

Song here

(gif by @nofckingfighting)

You worked yourself up all afternoon to show up at his door. You'd had enough of Tommy Shelby and his attitude. You were sick of him brushing off your ideas, keeping you in the dark except for your small part in whatever plan he had. You were tired of hunting him down to speak to him and his words always being so clipped with you. He kept you at a distance, careful to not touch you as if dealing with a leper.

He might be the devil of Small Heath but you thought you had been friends well enough for him to spare you a look, a thought, a smirk. Something. And so you were on his doorstep that night, late enough to ensure he was home, knocking so rapidly that you almost knocked Finn in the head when he cracked the door open. Your anger waffled as Finn looked at you.

"Oh, sorry Finn," you say as you look to your feet.

"Why are you knocking like a copper this late, (Y/N)?" He asks, wide-eyed. "Arthur was 'bout ready to blow the door out."

"Sorry, I just wanted to talk to Tommy," you say, looking anywhere but at the child in front of you. "Is he home? Can I speak with him?"

A large hand grips the door above Finn's head and pulls the door wider. Arthur sticks his head out, scowling.

"Fuckin' hell, (Y/N)," he barks. "Why are you here at this hour? I nearly blew your head off. Come in, come in."

They both retreat and you come in, closing the door behind you. Finn is dressed for bed already and Arthur is half dressed, his shirt half buttoned, as if he was just about to sink into sleep himself.

"I came to talk to Tom," you say, regaining your conviction.

"At this hour?" Arthur squints. "He doesn't know you're coming, does he?"

You shake your head as you clasp your hands together.

"No, but-"

"This can't wait till mornin'?" He scratches the back of his head. "It's late, love, and I'm sure any business--"

"It's not business and I'm not leaving without talking to Tommy," you raise your voice a little, panic lacing through your tone as you realize you might not be allowed to see him. You'll lose steam by morning, unable to meet his eyes and tell him how you feel.

Arthur nods, his head down as he pauses before he looks back to meet your eyes, his voice calmer, softer.

"Right then," he nods to Finn, "you, off to bed. Now."

Finn does as he's told, eyes wide.

"Right," Arthur clears his throat. "Right. Well. Something I need to tell you first, right, is that Tom's…"

He trails off, his hand waving as if to catch words in the air to fill his mouth.

"Tom's not himself right now," he says finally, meeting your eye as if to push the meaning into your head.

"Not himself?" You repeat, dropping your chin to your chest.

"Yuh," he said, nodding more vigorously as you catch his words. "He's more, y'know, calm… right now. He's had a bit of opium to sleep and he might not be in full form."

"Opium?" You frown. "Why's--"

"He takes it to sleep," Arthur says as he shuffles in place. "He don't talk about it much. I think you'd be alright."

He squints as he smooths his mustache down.

"A woman shouldn't set 'im off like I do," he mutters to himself. "Come'n, love, I'll show you his door."

Arthur walks to the stairs and goes up them before you find your feet and follow, more questions than answers from the interaction. You both stop at the first closed door at the top of the stairs, and Arthur points to it as he steps away from it.

"He's just there," he said, continuing his walk down the hall. "Wait 'til I'm out of sight, or I'll set him off, and we don't want fuckin' war flashbacks tonight, love."

Your eyes widened as your hand froze over the doorknob.

"Just be easy," Arthur said, his hands gesturing wildly. "It's all a bit of a dream to him right now."

Arthur disappeared into his room as you stared at the door, uncertainty tainting your anger. You were used to unaffected, strong, stubborn Tommy Shelby. Who would this man be behind the door?

You finally took a deep breath and turned the knob, moving into a room of heavy sour smoke. It tickled your nose as you looked at the mostly bare walls. The only furniture was a wooden chair, an end table, and the small bed that Tommy Shelby lay across as he contemplated the ceiling as if you weren't there.

You closed the door, fidgeting as you sank into the wooden chair.

"Tommy?" You call, hoping it would snap him out of whatever was happening.

He frowns as he turns to you, scrutinizing you before he looks back to the ceiling.

"That's new," he says to himself with a shrug. "I suppose she's been on my mind but it's not normal to conjure."

"Conjure?" You ask, lost in his words.

"I see spirits, love," he says. "Not the living. You can be off now."

His words brush you off like a maid and rekindles your resolve.

"Why have you been pushing me away?" You ask as you sit on his bed near his feet with your arm propping yourself up as you watch him. He took a deep breath.

"Do you think I tell people things?"

He stayed still, a picture of calm waters, as he laid on his bed with his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

"And I do?"

"You're telling me now."

"No," you sputter, "I'm asking a question."

"People don't ask questions about things they have no care for."

"Have you always been this obstinate, Tommy Shelby?" You shake your head as you look to the ceiling.

A heavy silence fills the room as you both stare above to the blank ceiling. You fall into your head, the dark corners that you retreat to when you can't quite grasp those around you, and you start to shuffle through the worst explanations to fill the silence. This was a terrible idea. I'm a fool.

"I am cursed," he said, breaking you from your thoughts. "Everything I touch gets tainted. Broken."

You soften as you look over, your mouth shut in fear a response would silence him. His face is pinched, his eyes searching above him, as if he can't find the words. There's never the right words.

"You fit," he said. "You don't flinch at the violence. You don't flinch at the business. You've never given me the look."

He stops, finally looking down to his feet to look over you, through you. His eyes cover your every curve and he gives a slight nod before he looks back up to the ceiling.

"The look?" You whisper, afraid that anything louder would stop him, take him out of whatever trance had him. Whatever the opium opened in his head.

"Disgust," he said. "Fear. Loathing. You've never stopped looking at me like I'm just a man."

"You've never been anything else to me, Tommy," you say as his face drops, his blue eyes melt over you like clear skies.

"I am to everyone else," he lowed.

"Should I be afraid of Thomas Shelby, Devil of Small Heath?" Your eyebrow quirked up involuntarily, taunt thick in the air.

He smiled at his epithet on your lips, the words rolling out of your mouth. They didn't have the usual feelings behind them that he had grown used to. You knew the answer before you asked and nothing would change your certainty.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He says it like he isn't there, like his words aren't really attached and settling into the world around him. It just tumbles out of his mouth without thought. He mulls the words over once they're in the air as if he hadn't actually considered it before that moment.

Your heart catches in your throat, expanding, exploding in your chest. He looks down to you, mouth slightly parted as he looks over you again, his words settling into his brain.

"Odd," he says, watching you frozen in place as he sits up. "I've never placed that thought. But that would be why you're here now, innit? You've been in the back of my brain so long you've appeared. The opium conjures what I reject."

"Why reject me, Tom, when I've always been by your side?"

"Why poison the only good?" He breathes out. "I'm done with this talk. You're like a mirage, if I touch you, you're gone."

You sit frozen as he cocks his head and reaches out as if to move a curtain away. His fingers ghost over your lips as his mouth slacks and his eyes flare. Shock and anger fight over his features like lightning in a summer thunderstorm.

"I'm not disappearing, Tom," you whisper against his fingertips. "The opium didn't conjure me. You touched me and I'm still here, unbroken."

"Fuck."

It's all he uttered. Sharp. Succinct. He pulls his hand back as if he burnt himself on you.

"Kiss me."

He buries his face in his hand, muttering nonsense to himself.

"I'm telling you I feel the same," you rasp, your heart fluttering as the words fill you with a jolt of fear. "You can't confess your feelings and refuse to kiss me."

"I'm afraid to kiss you," he breaths out, flustered by his own words. His hand wipes his mouth and shakily hangs in his lap.

"Why?"

"Because if I start I don't know if I can stop."

"Who says I want you to?"

Tommy hesitates but his hand finds your cheek, his thumb brushing it softly. Your hand finds the base of his neck and you pull him to you, your kiss hungry. Tommy matches your passion, his hesitation dripping away in the flames as you taste the whiskey on his tongue and a sour taste you can smell in the air around you. You breath out a soft moan as he bites your lip and his hands cup your face as his kisses move across your jaw.

"That sound," he growls as he pulls you into his lap, "I'll spend forever in that noise."

You chuckle, but your breath hitches as he kisses the soft spot on your neck. You wrap your arms around him and squirm in his lap. His teeth rake the spot and you're seeing stars, fucking planets orbiting your head. You moan louder and he growls into your skin, ripples of pleasure shooting down your spine.

"You like that," he says like it's fact, and it is. Oh, it is.

Your dress is over your head before you realize, only the cool air causing goosebumps across your flesh makes you register it's disappearance. He presses you back, pulling you both backward before his hand finds your chest and he lays you flat on your back.

"Hell is the absence of that noise you make," Tommy mumbles as his hands run along your legs and his nose tickles your thighs.

He searches, tests you, settles there as if he's willing to do anything to keep that noise in his head. You moan lightly when he touches the right spot and grow louder as he dives in, his hands pressing into your skin harder as your body wriggles from the intensity of the feelings he gives you. He hums as you arch your back against the bed.

You hiss, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite as you push against him. There are other people in the house and you can't yell the house down. You look down to see the crinkle of amusement around his eyes and his hand reaches to pull yours from your mouth.

"Your brothers are in the house, Tommy," you whine, fighting to keep your voice down as your eyes roll back.

"They've heard worse, love," he said as he climbs your body, his words growling down your ear. "But I've never heard something so sweet. Moan my name again."

He got his way. Tommy Shelby always got his way.

When both of you collapse together, breathing hard in each other's arms, Tommy pulls you close to his chest.

"I broke my rule for you," he says as he kisses the top of your head.

"Tommy Shelby has rules?" You twist to look up at him. "I always thought you look at rules and pass them by."

"I am selective with which ones I follow," he says as he pulls your lips to his. "I just have the one I've never broken."

"And that is?" You smile lazily, tired and enjoying his touch.

"Don't endanger the innocent."

Your brows knot together as you open your mouth to protest.

"My hands on your skin put you in danger," he says before you can speak. "I've put a target on your back with my bloody hands."

You kiss him slow and soft.

"Well," you say as you pull back. "I guess the devil of Small Heath will just have to protect me, then."

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby x reader #storytime with murderousginger #promptmurderousginger

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fuckyeahharryhart · 4 years

Text

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research)

-----------------

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage.

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest.

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business.

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation.

They had reached an impasse.

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat.

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.”

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm.

“Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating.

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.”

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch.

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders.

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.”

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps.

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them.

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right? Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman? Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.”

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips.

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm. “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink.

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.”

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens.

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.”

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time.

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light.

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was.

Outlined by a dazzling white light.

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room.

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light.

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away.

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world.

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next.

He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do.

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click.

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t ABC.

They were W. T. F.

The door opened.

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency.

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul.

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache. Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated.

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links.

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side.

They wore their incredulity in silence. Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited.

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them.

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said.

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years.

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.”

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did. He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.”

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.”

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity.

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.”

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension.

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady.

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless. They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice.

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly.

Eggsy words were dressed with caution.

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

“Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.”

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.”

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect.

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming. Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation. Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver.

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied.

“Harry, it’s me.” The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place.

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation. “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.”

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly.

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds.

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.”

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger.

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause.

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket.

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges.

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?”

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size. It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been?

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”.

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different.

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit.

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him.

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.

And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat.

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued.

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind.

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.”

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly.

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice.

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.”

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.”

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know.

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end.

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends. Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.”

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization. We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.”

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement.

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern.

“Harry, what happened?”

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.”

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life.

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life.

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly.

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost.

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.”

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.” It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with. It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation.

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation.

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor.

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent.

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague.

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?”

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon. Take the out, the told himself.

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position.

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously.

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand.

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action.

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

——

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit. This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.”

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.”

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease.

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated.

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name?

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately?

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58”

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment.

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of?

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused.

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

“I was attempting to be modest.”

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.”

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning.

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged.

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names.

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in.

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable.

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward.

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest.

Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding.

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia.

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest.

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.”

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.”

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.”

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained.

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.”

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.” replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there. In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning. This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him.

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected. In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on.

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.”

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury. We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall.

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell. Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering.

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside. These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed.

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward.

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place.

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency.

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely. His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities.

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected. As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms. At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with.

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed.

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat.

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger. The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding.

There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face.

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement.

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

“How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile.

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger.

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through. Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.”

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.”

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying.

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation. A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time.

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between. It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease.

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.” He explained.

Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation.

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged.

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality. For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar.

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself.

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill.

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back.

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side.

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course.

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless.

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one.

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon.

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload.

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it.

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it. He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”.

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe.

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different.

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side?

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive.

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose.

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been: “My name is Harry Hart.”

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization.

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively. He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?”

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for.

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in.

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback.

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head.

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity.

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents.

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words.

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself.

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive.

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one.

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment. Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman. He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely.

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information. He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss. What was he to do with this information? Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started.

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.”

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality.

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try. They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment. Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory. Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function. It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable. However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own. With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”

“I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration. Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones.

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table.

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word.

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained. He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver.

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic.

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.”

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them.

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.”

Harry was nothing if not direct.

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel.

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded.

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.”

He softened both his voice and his manner.

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender.

“Do you understand?”

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad.

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

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obibabykenobi · 4 years

Text

————daddy issues

𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚒 𝚡 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚗!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

warnings: angst, daddy issues, some fluff

summary: reader struggles with attachment issues to obi and he comforts

(hi!!! this is my very first oneshot, so constrictive critism is encouraged! i hope you guys liked this one. i was inspired by the song Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood and just wanted to dive right into this. i kinda like this whole writing thing so please send in some requests and ill try to see if i can make it happen!)

it was a late night on Coruscant, however the night life was still very much alive. you lay there in your chambers, starring up at the ceiling and listening to the roaring sounds of the night. you hated it here, the temple, the feelings you had to keep in a lock deep down into your very being, and you hated him.

you knew that was a lie. he was magnetic, electric. his own voice rang alarms in your head. his gentle touches rose goosebumps. his presence made you lose all ability to breathe. he had to have sensed it by now, after all these years of training you everything he knows.

when you first realized your feelings for him, you were sure it was nothing and just admiration for a father figure. you were oh so wrong. you realized it was more, with one particular conversation.

you two had been training in a meadow, the most calming place for you to gather your thoughts. after many hours of relentless mind and force controlling on little bugs or rocks, your master decided to let you take a break. he sat down beside you on the ground with a huff.

“another successful day.” he mentioned. he looked over at you with his charming smile. you nodded and laughed. “yea, it was.” a comfortable silence settled between you two. it was nice, but thoughts were whirring inside your brain, not able to handle the thought of him sitting next to you, the man who’s been by your side for years and you’re trying so hard to keep your composure.

he looked over at you with concern in his eyes. the beautiful golden hour hue decorating his face. “little one, your thoughts are so loud.” you know he couldn’t comprehend what you’re saying, but can just hear your brain making a fuss. “sorry...”

“what’s wrong, my young Padawan?” he faced his body in your direction, complete focus and attention on you. you kind of squirmed in your spot. you brought your legs up to your chest and settled your head on your knees, looking at him.

“how do you do it?” you asked. you watched as confusion took over his features. “do what?”

you looked down at the grass, watching a bug land on a blade. “having no father...how do you do it? I’m sorry if...if I came off a little too strong there, master.” you heard a sigh and looked up at him. you watched as he started playing with the grass.

“i had many people to look up to. it was hard at first, not having any father to play catch with. or a mother, but the teachings, Qui Gon...” he trailed off. you watched as he bit his lip. you shouldn’t have brought it up, you wanted to so badly take back your words.

he put a reassuring hand on yours. “it’s quite alright.” his eyes softened. “Master Qui Gon was...a father to me.” he looked directly into your eyes. “and if you see me as one too, ill do whatever I can do for you.”

from that day forward, you’ve been hopelessly attached to your master, Obi Wan Kenobi.

you heard a knock at your door, you could sense it was your master. your heart was beating a mile a minute. with a shaky “come in, master.” he brought himself in.

“i came to drop off your robe, you seemed to have left it in the training room.” he sat down a neatly folded robe at the desk across the room. it wasn’t your robe, yours was in the closet like it always was.

“master, why are you really here?” you asked with a teasing tilt to your voice. he let out light huff and sat at the edge of your bed. “you caught me.”

the city lights and dark purples/blues coming in from the window danced on his face. he was enchanting. you sat up and scooted down the bed to sit next to him. “what’s up?”

“i should be asking you that, i could hear your thoughts all the way across the temple.” you froze. you awkwardly scratched your head. “hah, sorry about that. just worried about our next mission.”

he raised a suspicious eyebrow at you. “I know a lie when I hear one.” you awkwardly shuffled in your spot. he couldn’t know, he couldn’t. he couldn’t know about your embarrassing attachment to him because of your daddy issues and how you’ve been thinking so much about running away with him.

“padawan, id like to try something. but you have to let your shields down.” you whipped your head up to look at him. he was going to read your mind. “i don’t-...im not sure thats a good idea.” he folded his arms.

“young one, i can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” you gulped. having a mini debate in your head. you would finally feel free, having him know the truth. but if he knew, he would transfer you to another master. or even worse, another Jedi temple. you don’t know what you would do if you couldn’t feel him around you anymore. you gripped the sheets with your hands, biting your lip. you didn’t want to leave him. you wanted to see him. but...what if he doesn’t send you away? what if...he understands and helps you? what if he...reciprocates? what if-

he snapped his fingers in front of you. “stars to y/n?” you looked up at him. in a quiet, reassuring voice that could lull you to sleep, he says “i just want to help you.” your mouth felt dry, but how could you say no to ocean eyes like his. you nodded, allowing him acces to your mind. he softly told you to close your eyes and to relax. you tried very hard to relax. you felt his fingers touch your temples, you felt him knock on your shields. you let them down, let all of them down. he was finally going to know everything.

after a few minutes, you felt his fingers slowly leave you. you opened your eyes, looking at him. he looked so sad, so...vulnerable.

he saw everything. he saw the admiration that turned into deep feelings. he saw the sorrow you had built up. he saw the locked box full of thoughts, thoughts about him. he saw the issues you go through. he saw your mind yearning for him and his everything.

“oh, darling. come here.” he said. he immediately brought you into his arms. that’s when you started crying, so quietly into his neck. he felt guilt ridden, and horrible for not being able to be there for you and not knowing. that’s when he realized he knows exactly what you’re going through. “im so sorry, little one. if i would have known your feelings...”

he’s the one taking the heat for it all, and you’re so surprised he’s not disgusted. you gripped onto him for dear life. your body wracked with sobs. “it’s okay to cry, little one.”

after what seemed like many hours of soaking his robe, you finally broke away from his arms and looked up at him. “you’re not mad...why aren’t you mad?” you asked.

both his hands gently cupped your cheeks. his thumb wiped a single tear away from your cheek. your lips were still quivering from how affectionate he was being. “because i know exactly how you feel, you’re not alone.”

your breath hitched. your hands wrapped around his wrists, you leaned into his touch. “on...on which part?” your voice wavered.

you touched foreheads, you felt his breath on your face and all you could do was stare at his lips, and watch them as he said “all of them.” he gently connected his lips with yours.

#obi wan x reader #obi wan imagine #obi wan x y/n #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan fluff

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thewritingstar · 4 years

Note

26&27 with Butch and BC?

26. “Do you ever think?” “27. I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

Okay I’ve never, at least I don’t think I have, written in 1st person perspective. So imma try it and you should all let me know what you think. If its good great if not be honest because I trust the opinions of you very much.

----

This was bad, this was really bad. I thought the situation was under control, Blossom told me it was! But the pounding in my head was becoming too much.

Of course right when I feel my brain pulsing, Bubbles loud ass had to belt out a sonic scream, in soprano none the less. My hands cup around my ears as the pounding increases. If I wanted to fly, I would be met with even more pain.

Flying and headaches are a no go.

From above I can see the monster stand and rush behind the building to be out of sight.

“Hey Butters.” That voice.

“Not fucking now Butch.” I scold and thankfully my head lets up.

I don’t even have to turn to know hes wearing that shitty grin before waltzing his pansy ass over to me. “What ya doing?” He asks in such an annoying matter. Fucking asshole.

I can only scoff. “Saving the day moron, now get lost.” I try to shoo him away but like a pesky bug, he won’t leave.

“I know that dumb ass. Red sent me to get you. We got a new plan.”

My eyes finally meet his. “New plan? Blossom didn’t-”

“Yeah don’t remind me. I’m not sure she even knows what I’m about to do.” His laugh was dark and my shoulders shuttered.

“What are-HEY WHAT THE FUCK.” My scream is muffled as my body is jolted into the air and-did this bitch just throw me? I can feel the impact of the ground behind me as my head looks towards the sky.

The stomping of the monsters feet vibrates through my body and my eyes widen as I understand now. Human bait. Fucking great. “Do you ever think?” I yelled as a shield activated just inches from my face allowing for the fire breath of the monster to not roast me alive.

“Nope.” He smirks before hosting me up like some fucking rag doll, yeah my boyfriend was absolutely the kindest.

So now my face is plastered into his chest and another shield encapsulates us like a bubble of steel. How come he got this cool ass power? Where was mine? Hello chemical X? Yeah thanks for giving everyone special powers but me, fucking douche bag.

The claws scratch at the dome and I can just see the moment where we become cat posts for the overgrown lizard. I may have super powers but I don’t trust this plan, especially since it didn’t come from leader girl. Brick might rival her in almost everything but she had the title of commander and leader for a reason, not his dumb ass.

“Butch.” I try to reason with a growl. Maybe he’ll drop it so we can get out of here and just blast the son of a bitch but he doesn’t listen but tightens his hold on me.

“Relax” And in a flash the shield disappeared and reformed smaller around us, barely saving us from another claw.

This death grip on me doesn’t allow me to get away and even if i could, I wouldn’t be able to tear down the electric green force field.“ I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

Above us i hear another crash come down on the shield. The impact made it bubble and I heard his breath hitch. “Just shut up woman. We are not gonna die so quit bitching” He scolds me as if im not the one whose gonna die first if the thing were to fall.

I can heard the scream of Bubbles again and my head goes back to a violent pounding. I can also hear Blossom scolding the fucking shit out of Brick as they attack he monster while its still occupied with the hamster ball bait that is us.

“Your hair smells good.”

“Fucking creep.”

“um yeah i think I can say that about my girlfriend ass wipe.”

“Well you smell like shit.” Lies. He smelt like fresh pine but he didn’t need an ego stroke, not when we are being useless due to him.

He lets out a chuckle and I only roll my eyes and don’t even try to wiggle out of his grasp. Its a little comforting knowing that I had the person I trusted most by my side in times like this.

“They are almost done.” He says and I forget that the only view I have is of him. His face is stern as he focuses on the monster and yeah know, not killing us. One of his arms is stretched to the side to keep the force up and I wonder what it would feel like to have that sort of power at my disposal.

“Remind me why we were bait and not the blues?” It really wasn’t fair. Bubbles secretly loved being the bait. The way she flew faster than anyone was kinda cool and she had always loved tag as a child.

“Because Boomer isn’t fire proof and neither is Goldilocks.” And with that another flame of fire hits the surface followed by Blossoms ice and a loud crash.

It makes sense and soon I feel the breeze hit my back and I never noticed how stuffy it was inside. Butch still has a hold on me before pressing a small kiss to my lips. “See. I wouldn’t let ya die babe.” He winks and I wanna hide my smile but I can’t.

“Yeah whatever.” I lightly smack his arm before he finally releases me. “Still sucks we couldn’t do anything, or at least I couldn’t”

He wants to respond but before his mouth can open a large pink blast sends him flying into the nearest building with a loud crash.

“DO NOT EVER DO THAT AGAIN BUTCH!” Blossom yells before turning towards me and grabbing my cheeks. “Oh Buttercup I’m so sorry, someone.” She glares at her boyfriend who is sitting on the sidewalk pouting next to his blue eyed brother who looks like he is gonna cry, poor dude. “Decided to use you as bait and I for one did not agree because you could of just smashed that monster and we could have been done with it.”

I bit back a laugh before hugging her. “Its okay Pink, you saved the day so all is well.” She huffs and nods.

“I guess so but it was still dumb. I am surprised you didn’t try to kill Butch.”

I looked towards where she sent him flying and he finally stands up from the rubble with a thumbs up and I laugh out loud this time. “Yeah but I trust him. Now Im going to go see if he’s alright and maybe you should deal with your puppy dog.”

Blossom smiles softly before turning. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“Me too.” And I mange to get to my boyfriend who is leaning against the rubble.

“Sup babe.” He has a cut on his forehead and I swipe away the blood.

“Looks like you got a good beating.”

“At this point I don’t know who the real monster is.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Blossom yells from fifteen feet away.

“GOOD!” He yells back with a smile. “I’m her favorite.”

I snort before he throws an arm around me. “Well Boomers my favorite.” I joke.

“THANK YOU.” We hear Boomer shout before Blossom tells him he is still on time out and not even Bubbles puppy eyes can make her reconsider.

We both laugh. ‘So wanna go get a milkshake?” He asks.

“Sounds good as long as you never use me as bait again.”

“no promises.”

“Ass wipe.”

“Bitch”

“i love you.”

“I love you too.”

-----

Hi heres me never writing 1st perspective ever again cause its TRASH!!!! Also i think they would be in high school or maybe 19 in this? idk your choice but anon im sorry if this was trash.

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oh-theatre · 5 years

Text

Sycamore High: Together (Chapter 12)

A/N: I LOVE TED, CHAD AND HENRY IM SORRY BUT I JUST DO. Also yay Alice!! But also nooo Alice...

summary: Henry does his best to comfort a very scared Ted, Bill and Paul figure out how to deal with their emotions. Murder seems to be their favorite option so...

words: 2,348

warnings: Crying, negative thoughts, cursing, hinted abuse, cheating, past trauma, murder mention, angst

Ao3 link

Ted was feeling a whole different kind of embarrassed now. A kind of embarrassment of being held and comforted by his biology teacher in the middle of a hallway. The sudden realization of his current position hit him as he quickly pulled away from a reluctant teacher. The old surgeon looked at him, his eyes filled with a fiery rage that all but soothed Ted. Then, he heard it. Ted quickly turned to find himself surrounded by his classmates, all taking photos and murmuring amongst themselves. He flushed an awful shade of pink hiding away until a commanding voice filled his ears.

“Get the hell away” Ted turned to find Bill of all people seething. Ted could practically see the fire coming out of his ears. “All of you, go back to your useless lives and leave my friend alone” The hallway fell silent at Bills very calm, but very angry outburst. Then something happened that shocked Ted more, the group listened to him. Slowly but surely, small groups of kids made their way to class until the hallways were once again empty. Empty except for a shivering Ted, a very angry professor, 4 concerned friends, and a be-speckled boy. Ted couldn't meet their eyes, he couldn't face them, not yet. He sighed shakily and turned to the professor and pleaded. His eyes burned with incoming tears but once the older man met the young boys gaze he understood.

“Bill, its Bill right?” He started, Bill turned to face the pair cluttered on the ground. His former anger seeped away and Ted recognized his soft friends face returning. He nodded eagerly. “That was… extremely helpful of you but you kids should make your way back to class now” Bill went to protest clear concern riddled his face but the professor continued, “I will take care of Ted and make sure he gets home safely” Ted cursed himself, they were so close, but of course the professor wouldn't know.

“No!” Bill cried suddenly, Ted winced at his volume but turned to his friend. He took a deep breath “Y-you can't take him home!” The professor furrowed his brows, clearly confused. Bill’s breathing hitched, and he himself began shaking. Paul noticed and put a reassuring hand on his smaller friend. “You just can't… ok? Call my dad… he will pick Ted up” Suddenly the professor was no longer staring into the eyes of a concerned friend but was met with a fiery glare “Do not take him home” Paul took his friend reassuring him over and over before finally the four made their way to the classrooms. Ted looked expectantly at the suspenders wearing boy who stood still. He looked at him and upon further examination noticed how puffy his eyes were-

Oh god

I made him cry

That…That is the opposite of everything I wanted

All I wanted was to make him smile

But I hurt him

Ted felt his breathing increase rapidly and his body shakes more violently. He clutched on to the professor unconsciously who without hesitation took him in. He heard the older man voice questions and concerns but he couldn't speak.

Monster!

Failure!

What would your father think?

“NO!” Ted cried painfully, he fully nestled himself in the clutches of the professor who allowed him to. Tommy stood his ground and watched the confident boy crumple in front of him. His heart hurt, he hated seeing Ted this way. He carefully kneeled next to the pair and placed a soft hand onto Teds back, fully expecting Ted to recoil or push him away but was surprised by how the motion was welcomed. Tommy allowed Ted to adjust to this before he glanced at the professor and they made a silent communication. Tommy took both his arms and carefully wrapped them around Teds much larger figure, the professor let go slowly keeping his attention on the boy. Tommy held Ted who was now much calmer, he was exhausted. He greeted the hug from the smaller boy happily because he was just so tired. His head ached with, his entire body was frail and weak, his hands were barely felt as hot sweat seared through them. He nestled his head into Tommy's neck and felt himself shut down. He closed his eyes after taking a deep breath and allowed himself to just turn off.

~~~

“I'm going to commit murder” Bill stated confidently (Same Bill)

“Bill” Paul yawned “Don't… don't do that” He said weakly, Paul was exhausted and had already spent enough time calming down his friend. He had a million things wracking his brain, worry for Ted flooded him, exhaustion seeped through him, boy am I broken.

“I am! I'm gonna… I'm gonna-” His friend paused voice growing in anger and annoyance “Kick his head” Bill declared, even he sounded unsure in his words.

“I'm sorry” Paul said half asleep “You're going to… correct me if I'm wrong… kick his head?” Bill let out a huff of annoyance before continuing his rant.

~~~

“Ted, how are you feeling?” Henry asked looking at the young boy who now sat on the couch in the teacher's lounge. He was leaning onto another boy that Henry recognized, Tommy Sweet. The smaller boy kept a protective arm around Ted, Henry felt a flutter staring at the scene. Ted let out a tired groan and opened his eyes rubbing them, Henry felt himself swoon. He had seen the boy around the halls and in his classes, he always seemed so arrogant and outgoing and confident but here, now? He was small, and tired and scared. He was sweet and Henry couldn't help but want to give the teen everything he wanted. Although Henry could tell, he rarely asked for anything. “Ted?” He repeated softly, not wanting to startle the boy.

“Hmm” Ted hummed weakly, he rubbed his eyes once more and sat up slowly. He looked around at his situation and Henry saw a flash of panic in the boy's eyes, Tommy must have seen it too. He moved quickly, strengthening a careful hug around the boy, Ted pleaded silently for an explanation, Tommy nodded and ran reassuring fingers through Ted's hair. “W-what's… what am I doing here?” Ted managed after a moment between the boys.

“We brought you here to… get some rest and get you away from everything” Henry explained cautiously, he kneeled in front of the boy offering him a glass of water. He took it calmly and drank it slowly, it burned his throat, but Henry looked too happy for Ted to say anything. “Ted… Bill warned me not to take you home… is there something I should know?” Ted swallowed nervously and wished to be anywhere else than here.

“I..I…” Ted began but much to his luck, the door burst open. He felt disappointed, he was so close to telling someone

What would your father think?

“I'm here!” The overly charismatic Theatre teacher burst into the lounge carrying supplies and a blanket. Ted immediately perked up at the sight of his teacher, Chad had always been a favorite. Henry spun around eyes wide, worried filled them, Ted’s curiosity peaked. “I know you told me not to worry, but how could I not? Ted is one of my students and I..I” The excited man was interrupted by a loud sneeze causing the two boys to flinch. “Excuse me…” He mumbled. Henry let out a very exasperated sigh. “I just wanted to help”

“Dearest” Henry called

Record scratch

Ted’s eyes widened at the simple word, it was said with annoyed adoration. Ted tilted his head slightly looking at the two eccentric teachers. And then… everything happened

“You should be at home-”

Home? Like their home? That they share? Or like-

“-Resting, you're sick love”

Can you call your friend, who is also a teacher, love?

Dearest

They are cute

Disgusting!

That last one was clearly something his father left in him. Would it always be there? This gnawing feeling anytime he thought he could enjoy being who… who he is? Ted was pulled out of his thoughts as his theatre teacher let out a small groan and flashed Henry a very small look. It was clearly a familiar look, Ted looked to Henry who seemed as though he had just melted entirely.

“Fine, but only because I can't stand your puppy eyes” Henry finally decided, Ted was bewildered, what the fuck is happening? The two teachers turned back to face Ted and immediately began to worry at his look of horror.

“Ted? Ted are you alright?” Chad rushed over, keeping a safe distance. He didn't want to overstep his boundaries or get the poor boy ill. Ted gave them a very empty confused look, why were they so worried?

Were they together?

Can you do that?

Be together?

What wou-

Ted heard a familiar giggle that once again pulled him out of his own mind, he turned to the right where he found himself still slightly leaning on Tommy. He didn't move, he didn't want to but Tommy was displaying an unusual amount of giddiness. Tommy met the eyes of a very confused Ted, and two almost glaring professors and immediately stopped.

“Sorry, um… but I think..” He paused looking to Ted “Respectfully sirs… I don't think he knew you two were..” He cleared his throat uncomfortably “Together” That last part was barely whispered. The pair of professors looked to Ted re-examining his look of bewilderment before bursting into their own small fits of laughter.

“Our apologies Ted” Henry said collecting himself “We didn't mean to… ambush you” Chad snickered more behind him, this boy was absolutely precious. “But… and I don't mean to make fun of you… how could you not know?” Henry asked innocently, Ted scrunched his brows, a tad annoyed.

“You...how… well I..” He thought for a moment

Oh my god

How could not have known?

It was painfully obvious

They shared the same last name! You absolute buffoon!

“My mistake” he mumbled defeated, he was exhausted at this point. All the energy of this new revelation drained out as he unknowingly plopped back onto Tommy's shoulders. He heard the three others let out soft small laughs as his eyes felt heavy and he drifted off once again.

Maybe I could do that one day

Be married…

And so his slumber brought him there.

~~~

“There is something he is not telling me Chad” Henry argued quietly in the corner of the lounge. He looked over at the boys who had both now fallen asleep. “Bill was pretty adamant about him NOT going home... “ Chad took Henry's hand rubbing comforting circles in the palm like he had done many times. Henry was one for over-exerting himself and causing so much stress to fall upon his shoulders.

“Henry… I love you, very much-”

“I love you” Henry said unconsciously interrupting his partner, it's not my fault, I hear the phrase and I just have to say it back. Chad gave a soft roll of his eyes, you are such a dork, He thought.

“Well I’d hope so, we are married” He teased before moving on “But love, you cant be this… oblivious” Henry perked up “Come on you're smart, I'm not one to make assumptions but-” He saw Henry's confused face, oh brother. “A young teen, raised religious might I add” He begins to explain, Henry listens “Finds out he might like more than what he is supposed to, he-” Chad ponders for a moment “He comes out to his parents… and suddenly his friends don't want him at his house? He moves away anytime someone tries to touch him? And he means well but did you see the look of disgust at the revelation that we were together?” Chad gives Henry an expectant look. Suddenly the pieces fall into place.

“You're not saying…” Henry gasps slightly, Chad quickly interjects

“I'm not one to make assumptions ok? I would never judge on the first encounter but… I don't know if I feel comfortable letting that boy go home… did you see the bruises on his arm?” Chad's voice gains an unhealthy amount of concern and his breathing hitches. “I just… Henry” He pleads, Henry nods quickly pulling his husband into a comforting hug.

“I know… I know..” Henry strokes Chad's hair lovingly “But it won't be like that ok? We can do something this time, I promise…” Chad nestles into his neck nodding, unsure of his promise but grateful at the attempt.

~~~

“Ugh, he's such a dick!” Alice exclaims upon returning home, Paul groans annoyed at her volume. She throws her things on to the couch, as Paul lazily does the same. He curls up into the blanket left there and dozes off peacefully. Alice rolls her eyes at him, he snores ok? It's annoying.

“Language! Alice Matthews, what have I told you about-” her mother enters the room spotting a sleepy Paul, her voice softens as she makes her way over to the tired boy. “About your language” She finishes in a whisper, pulling the blanket further over Paul and kissing him lightly on the forehead.

“But Mom…” Alice whines, almost immediately being shushed by her mother “I caught him cheating on me! Again” She huffs, she feels herself get emotional. She wasn't the type to do so. Her bottom lip quivers, as her eyes threaten to explode with tears. Her mother spots this and goes over quickly embracing her daughter. She strokes her daughter's hair adoringly, as Alice buries her face into her mother's shoulder. “I don't understand what I'm doing wrong” She claims defeated.

“Nothing, you're doing nothing wrong my little wonderland” Her mother soothes her, continuing her reassuring practice. Alice laughs sadly at the nickname and allows herself to cry into her mother. No doubt soaking her mother's clothes, not that she cared, she just wanted her daughter to be safe. They stayed in peaceful silence, as sadness and love breezed through the air.

However, one more fiery emotion was wafting around. It was filled with bitter anger and a very fed up manner.

I'm going to kill him, Paul vowed silently.

#tgwdlmhs #sycamore high #musical theatre #theatre #musical #starkid #tgwdlm #the guy who didnt like musicals #joey richter #jon matteson #corey dorris #robert manion #jeff blim #mariah rose faith #writing #my writing #ao3 #archive of our own

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burlybanner · 5 years

Text

Syzygy - 7

Syzygy - An AU of Infundo (post-Infundo Chronicles).

Chapter 7: You Can’t Handle the Truth

Summary: It takes a village to raise an alter. Link to Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 Note: Alcohol trigger warning.

** "You...wait. You're what? Where?"

Tony smirked behind his sunglasses and Bruce knew something was wrong. Tony's body language was off, really, really off. "Korea," Tony barked. "Emergency SI meeting I couldn't miss. I had to jet out at three am just to make it on time for this fuckin' shithole of a gathering." Tony sighed, ran a hand through his hair.

He's lying. Bruce knew it as soon as Tony finger-combed his hair. He shyly glanced at Steve and noticed the other man's lips had thinned.

So Steve saw it too.

"Well, stay safe then," Steve muttered. "You're gonna be back soon, yeah?"

"Six...seven days. Tops."

"Gonna hold you to that, Tony."

"Yeah," Bruce sighed. He felt his lip quiver as he tried imitating a brave smile. "Miss you."

"Heh. I'll be back before you can say Jack Daniels, Pooh. Can't keep me away. Ciao, lovelies."

And he cut the connection before either Bruce or Steve said anything else.

Steve folded his arms and inhaled while staring at the blank video screen. His cheek jumped as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. "You buy any of that?"

Bruce ran his tongue over his bottom lip and took in Steve's soldier stance. He was livid. Bruce didn't blame him, because he felt the same. "Not a word."

"Mmhm. You buy the whole, 'Hulk broke the GoPro so the feed didn't load' crap either?"

Bruce scratched his neck. "Nope."

Steve snorted angrily and stared at his toes. "Jarvis," he growled. "What protocol's up for last night's north kitchen feed, from say...eleven PM to two AM?"

"Protocol 1-1 A, 2B, B2, B3. Zero. Zero. D. Zero."

"Fuck."

Bruce closely echoed Steve sentiment even if he didn't say it. "Absolute lockdown," Bruce murmured. Hell, he wasn't the computer science genius Tony was. They couldn't view what happened even if they wanted to.

"Hulk...Hulk must've said or done something," Bruce whispered. "That's the only reason--"

"Don't, Bruce. God, please. Don't." Steve drew him close and hugged him, even though he wanted to break down too. "It's not your fault. It's...whatever screw's loose in Tony's head right now. He ran but we're gonna have to let him, until he's ready to come back."

"I...I don't think I can handle not knowing." Bruce shuddered once in Steve's arms then pulled away. "If it's my fault I need to own it. I--I have to. Especially if H-Hulk...if I hu-hurt--"

"Shhh..."

Steve comforted Bruce again and kept his hold on him. God, he was gonna kill Tony for this passive aggressive bullshit.

"I need to find out what happened," Bruce snuffled. He rubbed his nose and quickly wiped under his glasses. "Tony doesn't do this. He wouldn't do this to us. To me."

"I know, Bruce, but--"

"No." Bruce firmly stood his ground. "It's not normal. The clues are around here. We'll...just unearth every rock no matter how ugly it is."

Steve smiled sadly, but gave Bruce a little half-shrug. "Okay. We can try. But where should we search first?"

Bruce paused a moment. "Jarvis," he said. "What are the protocols for the data Tony worked on, prior to late last night?"

"No protocols exist, sir."

A bitter smile broke across his lips. "Good."

Jarvis had private abilities few knew about, ones he'd cobbled together on his own without Tony's prompting. When he discovered Jarvis’ hidden talents, Tony was awestruck but absolutely thrilled: his AI had learned to interrupt the subtleties of negative human behavior to avert mental breakdowns. How cool was that?

"Sir," Jarvis softly prompted. "I know you've muted me, but I feel insistent."

"N'now, J." Tony's slurred speech wasn't unknown to the AI, and Jarvis easily interpreted the garbled words. Video was only partially effective since Tony’s wristwatch angles hampered his abilities, but Jarvis could easily make out a desk and his creator’s slouched posture over a bottle of Glenlivet Reserve, 25y. A twin of the same had also been opened, but not nearly as depleted.

"G'wan...G'wan home."

If the AI could sigh, he would. He did not believe the amount of alcohol consumed was particularly safe. Over the years his creator’s tolerance levels had changed, and it took far less alcohol to endanger the updated safety protocols.

"If you persist, I will need to contact the authorities per emergency health protocol 1, aka, 'Pepper's Law.' " Unbidden, Jarvis monitored Tony's respiratory and heart patterns and immediately ran quick calculations. Alcohol was a known sedative at higher levels, and his creator had not imbibed this heavily in many years. In conclusion, imbibing so much now after a period of comparatively light drinking could cause dangerous consequences.

"You've had thirty ounces of whisky in less than two hours, sir. I'm obliged to, per the vernacular, 'cut you off.' "

"Hmf." Tony sloppily sloshed another shot in his glass but Jarvis wasn't entirely sure if he could recognize the tumbler at this point.

"Sir."

Tony huffed tiredly and stared at the shot glass. But something must have activated within him, as he seemed to ponder the drink and observe it. Then he flung the glass into the trash, along with his second bottle.

"Fuck. Fuckin' sucks, J."

"What does, sir?" Sometimes, Jarvis learned, the best option of all was to keep people talking. He would continue to monitor sir's health levels, and if they dipped below dangerous levels, he would immediately call an ambulance and the hotel concierge. "Oblige me, please."

Tony ran a hand through his hair and the camera angle jarred from the desk and careened back-first onto the bed. Jarvis could review the ceiling, noting the sleek, rotunda designs of a four-star hotel room. "World. Shit. World spins. Spins."

"Alcohol at extreme levels create the illusion of a 'spinning planet,'" Jarvis agreed. "However, it's simply a density difference between the cupula and the fluid in your ear canal--"

Tony chuckled darkly. "Y'sound like 'im."

"Who, sir?"

"Brucie Bear. Juuust like 'im. Fuck. It's...it sucks. He. He's not the same."

"How so, sir? Could you elaborate?" Jarvis made a few other calculations. His creator would, most probably fall into an unconscious state in three minutes or fewer, depending on their conversation. He would continue to monitor his health, however. His BAC would continue to climb but should remain below emergency protocol levels.

Barely.

The voice in the room hitched, and Jarvis' camera jiggled and the feed included a blurry smudge. "I dunno...gotta say, wasn't expectin' it. Me an' Cap, we gotta...gotta change us. Regro. Renog..."

"Renegotiate?" Jarvis offered helpfully.

"Yeah. That. Poor Bruce..."

Tony trailed, and Jarvis wasn't sure if he'd succumbed to sleep. His heart rate and breathing slowed enough to warrant it.

"Jarv," Tony finally mumbled. "He doesn't...does he know?"

"If you're referring to Professor Banner's knowledge of an additional altar, I do not believe so, sir. Not according to what I could determine."

Tony grunted. "We gotta tell 'im. Dunno how. He's gotta know. S'ok to tell 'im, J. I give you permish."

"Understood, sir."

But Jarvis wasn't sure if Tony heard him, as the audio echoed with tortured snoring.

Bruce knew he had maybe a day to piece the clues together. As soon as Tony returned to his right mind he'd be locking down everything left and right to hide the events leading to last night.

"Jarvis," Bruce said. His fingers flew across Tony's keyboard while ideas poured into his head, ideas born from desperation. He glanced at the output before checking his companion notes. "Run 13:52 through 15:40, double speed."

"Same parameters, sir?"

"Yeah."

Bruce tented his fingers and leaned in close, viewing the feed from yesterday's main living room. He was eating cookies, with Steve and Tony fondly looking on. He was a little messier with the crumbs than usual - but...wait. There.

"Jarvis. Pause."

The feed stopped. Tony's expression had changed from lustful abandon to...something less quantifiable. Tony was scrutinizing him, and Bruce drank in Tony’s frozen posture. His boyfriend’s eyes were unnaturally cautious as he checked Bruce out, and it was the same expression Bruce remembered catching at lunch, although the frown fleeted as quickly as Bruce caught it.

Bruce grit his teeth and muttered softly. "Tony, what are you hiding in that big, beautiful brain?"

"Hey."

Bruce startled at Steve's hand on his shoulder. "Sorry. You finished your snack, so now you get four sandwiches with sodas, chips, and a half dozen monster cookies."

Bruce snorted and tore into the food as soon as Steve handed him the bags. He started in on the chicken pesto hoagie and dumped on a few chips, for a crispier crunch. "I could've had the bots get something for me from the kitchen." He tsked when a few globs from his lunch plopped on his shirt.

They provide napkins for a reason, Banner, he sighed, pulling one from a bag and tucking it under his chin.

"Nah. I know you too well. You'll disappear into your project and forget to eat. Can't waste what we've done so far, gotta at least maintain you."

"Mmph." Bruce nodded. He pointed to one soda, noticing it was opened and waiting. "You put in the gainer fuel?"

"Yep. So you'll probably get hungry in a while. But I'm ready." He held up another bag of food.

Bruce chuckled and took giant gulps from his soda bottle.

Steve put down his own bag and ambled over to Bruce's screen. His hooded expression scanned the frozen video feed and Bruce sighed.

"Do you see it?"

"I think so." Steve’s fingers ran across Tony's paused visage. "He's hiding something. Weighing out the pros and cons, mulling over consequences." He frowned at Bruce. "You and he can get like that in the lab, sometimes, and it's impossible to talk to you two when you're like that."

"Sorry." Bruce smiled and threw the empty soda bottle into the recycling bin. "We do go into 'science mode' a lot, leaving you out."

"I'm used to it." Steve seemed to ponder something and anxiously tapped the screen. "But I...may have part of the puzzle. Tony didn't want me to say anything, but due to current events I think I should."

Bruce sat back in his chair with a frown. It popped and squealed under his large frame; Tony mentioned adjusting it soon, but it probably needed changing in the next few weeks the rate he was gaining.

"Enlighten me," he murmured coldly.

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled a chair to him. He sat and grabbed for Bruce's hand, but Bruce subtly moved it. "Okay, then. It'll probably make you mad to be honest."

"Better angry than clueless." Bruce tapped his fingers against his desk. "Spill it, Steve."

"We had a talk yesterday. During your after breakfast nap."

Bruce turned to face Steve fully, his expression unreadable but undeniably chilly. "What about?"

"I, ah. I told Tony that I thought--" he rifled a hand through his hair and puffed out a gust of air while Bruce kept his glare on him. "It's the Hulk. I told Tony that I thought Hulk... was finding a way into your subconscious to manipulate you."

"What?"

"Yeah. It's a theory, though. I'm not sure if--"

Bruce whipped around to the screen, ignoring Steve while his fingers tore across the keyboard. It couldn't be possible, but hold on. What if--

He brought his gainer formula on the screen and anxiously scanned it, but he couldn't find anything wrong. "There's no way...he couldn't have. He's not that smart..."

"Who, Hulk?"

Bruce put a hand to his lips. Dismay pushed at his temples and created the headache from hell, but this was--no. Hulk didn't. Couldn't. But how?

"Talk to me, Muffin. Please."

He waved off Steve but still felt a hand on his shoulder, trying to be supportive, but it felt wrong somehow. Not right.

"Doctor Banner."

Was that Jarvis?

"Jarvis, unless it's Tony put it on the back burner for me." He brought up the screen with his notes and frantically poured over the minutiae of each section. He told them he hadn't finished the testing phase but Hulk used it anyway - but Hulk couldn't have possibly understood.

Or could he?

He began to shiver. "T--this doesn't feel...right. This--"

"Bruce, sweetheart. Please talk to me. You're getting worked up."

"Doctor Banner. You have a message."

His head felt floaty. He began disassociating and losing his sense of self but he had shit to do they had to find Tony...

"Doctor Banner, please. It's an emergency."

"An...a what?"

"Captain Rogers, I recommend fetching a bottled water from the lab mini refrigerator near Master Stark's console."

"On it, Jarvis."

Steve sounded worried. Why was Steve worried?

"Doctor Banner. Can you hear me?"

"Hh...Yes, Jarvis," he said softly. "I...I'm here."

"Please remain calm."

He jumped when something cold pressed into his trembling hands. "You were turning half green, Bruce," Steve said softly but Bruce barely acknowledged him. It felt hard to breathe. To think. "Drink it. Please."

"You have an emergency message," Jarvis repeated.

"From...who?"

"I was instructed to play a message for you once you reviewed your notes. Please review the video feed piping into your monitor. Should you like, you can ask to view it alone or with Captain Rogers."

"I'd...like to stay," Steve murmured. Bruce could almost feel gentle thumbs digging into his jumpy, tense back muscles. "If that's okay with you."

Bruce gulped down the icy water and let the shock of it clear his mental cobwebs. The hazy feeling mostly evaporated, but he didn't feel 100% normal. "If it's serious, Jarvis, I think Steven and I should see it together." Especially since he couldn't quell the weird feelings of dread suffocating his rational mind. "Thanks, Steve."

Steve slowly massaged Bruce's arms and kissed his temple, further calming him. "Of course."

Bruce suddenly felt pressure on his back and over his shoulders as Steve draped his body over him, covering him like a warm, heavy cloak. The effect grounded him. Made him feel comforted and safe. His synapses began firing like turned switches, nerve to cell, one by one. Steve knew what Bruce needed without saying anything and that's why Bruce loved him so much - he understood the power of timely touch and silence when Bruce so desperately craved it.

"Thank you," Bruce whispered, and he leaned into Steve's strengthening hug.

Fortunately Jarvis knew well enough to wait until he'd calmed down. "I was instructed to preface this recording," he began. "It will be alarming, but it is not a prank. I've also been instructed to freely answer any additional questions, although I am more interested in what the video has to say."

Bruce frowned. "Wait, you didn't view it?"

He imagined the AI would be frustrated, if it had the capacity. "No, Doctor Banner. I was instructed not to until..."

"By who?"

The video began playing.

"By me," the person said.

A person who looked exactly like Bruce.

#polyamory #chubby bruce fic #infundoau #chubby bruce banner #steve rogers #tony stark #bruce banner #american pi #science bros #hulk #stark spangled banner #bhm #chubby kink #syzygy #starkspangledbanner syzygy #professor hulk

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writing-in-riverdale · 6 years

Photo

Twin Andrews - part one

( a rosie original )

riverdale x oc

a/n: im re-writing my first and favourite small series ‘Twin Andrews’! i feel like it needed a reboot so now that i have the inspiration im going to try and redo the entire series from scratch!! please read along it’d mean the world. also i’ll be doing a taglist so if you’re interested let me know. yours forever, ro 🦋

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

“I’m nervous.”

YOU admit to your brother as you shift on the uncomfortable leather seats in Archie’s pick up. The truck reeked of testosterone it was a concoction of lynx and sweat. What you assumed was a day old bag of pops containing an almost eaten cheeseburger and stray fries wasn’t helping with the smell either, the small green tree hanging from his mirror doing nothing to dispel the horrible stench.

”You’ll be fine,” He promises. You glance over at your brother, taking him in for the first time since you landed; it’d been 3 years away from your twin. You were 13 when you left, just entering high school. You honestly felt lost without him, like a piece of you was somewhat gone, but it was here in Riverdale the entire time.

Archie was exactly eight minutes older than you, and he liked to remind you of that every chance he could. You both inherited the same fiery red hair as your mother and the chocolate brown eyes from your father, he was almost a head taller than you, but you both seemed to get your sportiness from your mother. Although you were quite the clutz, you still enjoyed sports, unlike your born-to-be-a-football-star brother who was praised for his golden footwork.

You turn away from the redhead as your breath seems to hitch in your throat, your heart taking an audible jump when it pounds through your chest as you take in the surroundings. It was only 7 pm on a Sunday night, but the air was nippy and the sky was already a shade of black - sprinkling with stars. The tall street lights and the neon red sign illuminating the small car park was enough to tell you that you were at Pop’s famous chock’lit shoppe.

“If this isn’t a blast from the past,” You sigh as cars litter the car park. The diner seemed to be bursting at the seams with customers, some spilt outside - cigarettes hanging from there mouths. There’re so many varsity jackets that you lose yourself in the crowd.

“It looks really busy, maybe Betty couldn’t get our booth and went home?” Your brother turns into an open spot, shutting off the ignition as he twirls his keys in his palm. He had that wicked smile playing on his lips, and you knew that there was no way he was letting you stay inside this truck.

“C’mon, Red, she’s excited to see you,” You let out a small breath and unclip your seat belt, sliding out of the car and into the cool night air. The sound of the jukebox and peoples’ overlapping conversations travelled through the small carpark as the door of the diner swings open and closed.

As the two of you make your way toward the door, you grow nervous. You can feel gazes already falling upon you, your flaming red hair drawing unwanted attention to yourself, not to mention that your brother is wearing a bright blue jacket and happens to be one of the most popular kids at RHS. You realised that sneaking into town unnoticed wasn’t going to go as well as you had hoped.

The small, gold bell rings as Archie pulls the door open; he ushers you in and you step into the warm diner, the smell of burgers and bacon hitting you square in the face. Your stomach made an almost inhuman sound as your mouth waters at the aroma coming from the kitchen. You had no idea you were hungry, but now there was no way you were leaving this place without a greasy cheeseburger and fries.

Pop, the man himself, moves toward the front counter; he looked exactly how he did three years ago, a little tired and overworked but he still had that glint of imagination in his eyes. You almost think he doesn’t recognise you (you were a little slimmer than usual, tanner and your hair had gotten quite long). But your thoughts were short-lived when he passes the counter and envelops you in a tight hug, giving you the warm Pop’s smile that you’d missed over the years.

“What will it be, Miss Andrews? The usual?”

You share a smile at your brother, before nodding at the older man, “Two of the usual sounds amazing.” Pop nods, scribbling down the orders and then rushing off into the kitchen.

You scan the room looking for a familiar face, until your eyes settle upon a familiar blonde ponytail. You stop in your tracks as you stare at the fair skinned girl, nervousness growing a pit in your stomach. You hadn’t seen her since you were 13, and you’d never even got the chance to say goodbye before you were ripped out of the small town life and thrown into the city.

What if she hates me?

Had it been you, you would have hated it: leaving for 3 years without a single call or text, never knowing what had happened or if you were even okay. You were surprised that she even wanted to see you after all this time.

She sits there in all her glory, Miss Elizabeth Cooper. She looks thinner and she’s wearing makeup, not a lot but enough to notice - wringing her wrists and glancing constantly out the window. It’s like she’s looking for someone: for us.

You start to walk towards her booth, excitement and worry bubbling up inside of you as the distance between the two grows smaller and smaller. Smaller and smaller, until you’re pulled to a halt, your chucks squeaking against the clean white tiles beneath you and drawing a crowd as the sound screeches through the crowded diner.

“I didn’t tell her you were coming,” The words fall out your brother’s mouth and you swivel toward him, a million emotions swarming through your brain as you look at the pale boy - seeing a hint of guilt on his face. Before you get the chance to escape before anyone else notices you, a small voice from behind you made your shoulder slump in defeat.

“Lydia?” You hear her whisper in disbelief, she wasn’t sure if her mind was playing a trick on her or if her best friend with the cherry red hair was here - standing a few meters away from her in your signature chucks. After years of radio silence, there you stood.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breathing unsteady. You couldn’t believe that your brother had tricked you into coming here. You thought forgiveness was on the horizon, but she looked just as distraught as you felt.

“You haven’t called me Lydia in ages,” You try a tired smile, watching as the eyes of the blonde dart between you and your brother - almost like she was waiting for you to just disappear. Almost like she was afraid to say something or make any sudden movements, otherwise you might vanish.

The diner seems to go silent, watching as the two of you staring at each other, not knowing what to do. You feel self-conscious and suck in a depth breath, trying to focus on anything that wasn’t Betty or the millions of kids sitting in the neighbouring booths.

Your brother breaks you from your trance as he moves past you and toward the girl, wrapping her in a tight embrace. He pulls away, proceeding to give her an ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I was bringing your best friend back’ look.

“She had no idea you didn’t know,” He defends you. Your brother was always good like that; he had your back no matter what. Call it big brother intuition. Betty moves her bright blue eyes toward you giving you the ‘get your ass over here so I can hug you’ look.

You feel a slight weight lift off your shoulder and you walk over to the blonde, throwing your arms around her neck in an embrace.

God, had you forgotten how good Betty’s hugs were.

Tears prickled in your eyes as you take in her scent. She smelt like strawberries and sweet perfume, and it reminded you of your childhood spent dancing around Betty’s bedroom.

“It’s so good to have you back,” She whispers. You can hear the shakiness in her voice as she pulls away, dabbing at her under eyes before straightening herself up looking to see if anyone had noticed her cozy embrace with the Andrews twin. You give her a small sad smile.

“It’s good to be back,“ You let yourself relax as the three of you slide into the booth, the touch of your skin hitting the red leather seats feeling familiar and comforting. You can still feel Betty’s gaze on you as she sits down next to you, blinking to make sure you were still here.

You find a large grin stuck on your lips as you soak in the happy atmosphere. It’s what you missed the most about Riverdale; the nights like this, in Pop’s with friends and copious amounts of fries. The diner looks the exact same as it did when you left. It held a lot of memories, both good and bad.

Your eyes wander over to the table diagonally from where you were sitting. It was that very table that your parents had taken you and Archie one cold November night to tell you that they were filling for a divorce. You were 13 and the diner smelt like eggs and coffee, it was quiet but everyone seemed to know what was happening beside the two of you. Mum let you have dessert because she felt bad - you didn’t eat that night, or for a while after.

Your eyes continue to roam to the front end of the diner where the jukebox was perched right near the register. You remember countless days after school in which you, Betty and Archie would stick quarters in the jukebox and play ‘September’ by Earth Wind and Fire, and dance across the tiled floor until Chuck Clayton told the entire school that you danced like a loser. You were 10 and it was the first time and last time you were ever picked on. Archie simply gave him something funnier to laugh at.

Everything in this place reminds you of countless memories, enough to make your eyes sting with nostalgia. Your brother and Betty were deep in conversation when the diner bell chimed. A load of teens push through the door, filling the main floor. You glance up through your lashes and your heart races at the sight.

Betty glances up and waves down her friends before turning to you, ”I’m sorry I invited a few friends. I hope you don’t mind.” You shake your head, glancing upwards and plastering a small smile on your face. Here we go.

It was about 0.2 seconds before the brunette boy came bounding straight over to you, pulling your small frame out from the booth and into his steady frame. Boys been working out. You return the embrace, rocking back and forth on your heels.

”Well if it isn’t Lydia Andrews,” He pulls back giving you a wink before holding you at arm’s length and examining you. A thousand thoughts are running through his head as he glances at you; you weren’t the same 13-year-old girl, he knew that for sure.

”Hi Kev,” You laugh for the first time since arriving, a shit-eating grin plastering on the boy’s pale exterior. ”I can tell somebodies been hitting them gym, hottie alert!” You gawk and he rolls his eyes at your remark, taking a look at your figure. You weren’t exactly skinny back in middle school, but now you’d dropped the extra weight and you couldn’t be happier about it.

”Please, you’re the one who’s turned into a complete smoke show,” He pushes your shoulder playfully, taking the open seat next to you and mumbling a bunch of compliments in your ear. You watch a raven-haired girl squish into the seat next to your brother.

She’s definitely not small town, has to be a new addition to Riverdale. She may as well have written ‘city girl’ on her forehead in black marker.

”Archiekins, aren’t you going to introduce me?” You cringe at the nickname as the girl glances up at your brother - nudging him slightly. Kevin nods his head softly as you look up at him. Don’t ask.

”Ronnie, meet Lyd. Lyds, Ronnie.” The girl shoots her hand across the table. You wearily stick your hand out and join with hers, sharing a long firm handshake.

”I’m-”

”Archie twins?” She finishes, looking lovingly up at your brother. You nod, sensing the tension falling on the table - your best friend practically burning holes in Veronica’s head.

”Are you dating my brother?” You quiz, confusion raining over you. Archie never mentioned any Veronica to you. Would he really not tell you if he got a girlfriend? Were you really that out of touch with your twin?

”No!” Betty replies before Veronica has the chance to, her eyes wide and everyone silences at her sudden outburst. She composes herself before trying to mask her discomfort, “Ronnie is new here. She goes to RHS.”

You nodded, getting the feeling that something else was happening that you hadn’t figured out yet. Betty looked annoyed as she wondered why everyone thought Archie and Veronica were dating. They weren’t right for each other, she told herself.

”How long have you been in town?” She tilts her head, sipping her chocolate milkshake.

”Only a week, but I already feel like I’ve lived here all my life,” Her smile covers her face and you simply smile, not taking any of her words as genuine.

“You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl,” She raises her eyebrows at your remark, pursing her lips slightly. Her eyes scan you as she notices that you aren’t like your brother. You’re more different than you look.

“New York, Upper East Side,” She answers, curing your curiosity. You nod slowly.

”California,” You reply back and she nods her head, looking up at your brother - obviously not quite understanding why you’d left half your family to move to a different state.

“I moved with my mum after the divorce. My parents didn’t want to do the whole custody battle debacle so they decided half of everything, including us,” A sigh falls from your lips as you avoid any eye contact with your brother. You remember the nights leading up to the move when your parents fought over who got Archie, your mum drew the short straw.

”Well, I’d say we’re pretty lucky to have you back. Right, Archiekins?” Veronica elbows my brother as he scratches the back of his head, the tension filling the small booth. You were too consumed in your thoughts to notice that Archie had dipped his head down to whisper something inaudible in her ear.

“I’ll cheers to that,” Everyone lifts there glasses in one swift motion, clinking them together as they reach the middle. You dip your finger into the cream sitting on your shake as the others converse in conversation, too tired to make any effort.

The sounds of laughter and hollering comes for the front of the room as you watch a large swarm of blue and yellow stumble into the diner, curiosity catches your tongue as your eyes trained on the centre of the group as the teens jump their way through the booths - making a ruckus.

”Finally, something good to look at,” Kevin sits upright and nudges you slightly. You break from your trance as you follow his gaze; your eyes lock on the tall raven haired jock, your heart jumping straight into your throat as he catches your gaze, his lips turning up into a smirk and sent to you.

You feel Kevin’s long fingers jab at your sides, ”Why is Reggie staring at you?”

Your eyes widen, ”Reggie? As in Reggie Mantle?! That’s Reggie?!” You gawk, trying to hide your rosy cheeks. Reggie got hot.

”Oh my god, he’s coming over here,” His eyes pop out of his head as he shakes your arm rapidly, he does his best ‘let’s subtly tell your best friend a cute guy is approaching you’ look.

You jolt upright, knocking over your milkshake glass and spilling it all over your denim shorts. You cuss under your breath and stand from the booth as quickly as you can, trying to get as far away from the boy before he saw you drenched in the chocolate shake.

Your efforts fail as your chucks slip on the tiles and your body goes hurtling toward the floor, only to be saved by a pair of arms. You freeze on the spot as Reggie’s large hands rest on your waistline, his warm fingers touching the exposed skin on your hips - the skin lighting on fire at the embrace. His big brown eyes bore into yours.

”Yo, Reggie,” The boy is ripped from his thoughts and he lifts you up, setting you firmly on the ground. His hands slowly slip from your hips, stuffing them into the pocket of his black denim jeans. You looked both familiar and like a stranger. He couldn’t figure you out.

“Hey,” He whispers, only loudly enough for you to hear.

”Andrews,” He nods, glancing once at the tall redhead before looking back to you, then back to your brother. You could see the cogs moving in his head as he slowly began to recognise who you were. A laugh escaped his pink lips. He couldn’t believe what he saw. He turns to his group of friends immediately, ”Holy shits, it’s Lyd Left Feet!”

Laughter fills the small diner as the realisation that the dorky thirteen-year-old with the bad dancing was actually the girl standing right in front of them. You reach over and snatch your bag out of the booth, sprinting past the neighbouring booths making a b-line for the front door. You pushed as hard as you could with shaky arms, before colliding with another body.

”Lydia?”

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peterparkesfluff-blog · 6 years

Text

Let Me Help You (Part 1)

Spidey Imagine (hopefully this idea wasn't written before, if so, I’m sorry)

Living is with an abusive family member was the worst thing that could happen to a teenager who only seeks happiness and redemption . You were living in this endless nightmare that you hoped it will end when you go to college , but because of how things were , you were losing the hope of going to college or even getting a job in the future . You weren't just losing hope , but you were giving up on yourself as well . Things got worse and worse , at school you couldn't concentrate and be that A+ girl that you were once , you lost your friends with no specific reason , but inside you knew that it was probably because you didn't fit in anymore , you weren't smart anymore , you weren't beautiful anymore , nothing was the same . It all started when your sister died , your parents got divorced and yes , at first it was painful for everyone , but you were an united family till at some point when your mom decided that she deserves someone better than your dad , and that's how your life turned upside down , your whole world crashed on your shoulders . The violence began and there was no stopping it , as it turned out , you couldn't let yourself not loving your dad and that was eating you alive because everytime you looked into his eyes , you saw no remorse , no mercy , like he wanted you to fall apart , but there were quiet days , when nothing happened and as the stupid girl that you were , you thought that maybe things will stop and begin to get better .. The homecoming was close enough and there was that little hopeful part of you that still remained inside that maybe the boy you were in loved with and also your neighbour , will ask you to come with him , but of course , that didn't happen . You and Peter were close friends since you moved in the neighbourhood , you were going with him to school , studying together , along with Ned sometimes, watching Star Wars and having debatings , building the Death Star , everything . You , Peter , Ned , even MJ and Liz Allen and the rest of the group were the nerds of the school , but having one another helped getting through the bullying and everything . But I guess , after the death of your sister , you izolated yourself for a while and they understood , but things never came back to normal , not even Peter , he changed a lot in the last 8 months , he was always dissapearing , sometimes at night he was sneaking out causing you to wake up , but you never actually saw him , you just heard the window scratching as usually like when you were coming to study nights . Also , when you were trying to have a conversation with him , he always seemed so tensed and stressed , and you decided to give him a break , maybe something happened to him and he needs time like you did . So you thought , till the homecoming finally was finally here . Still dissapointed and hurt that Peter didn't even bother to ask if you're going , or anyone from the ''nerds '' , you decided to go and talk to them like old times . Poor you , hopeful that someone will talk to you . Being there was the worst decision that you ever made and you instantly regreted it . Not even an hour in homecoming and something already happen . As you walked in , kind of happy you didn't drawn attention because your dress wasn't a big deal , you saw your group and you smiled at the sight of them being together , reminding you of old times . As you got closer , your breath hitched in your throat when you saw Peter and Liz dancing , so close and they seem so happy . You swallowed hard , thinking of the nights when Peter talked about Liz and you gladly listened to him till at some point when you realized that you feel less and less happy when he talked about her like she was the only one , i mean , yeah , Liz was so beautiful , smart , caring and one of your closest friends , it hurted when you admitted to yourself that she was the one for Peter , maybe you and Peter weren't meant to be , but that didn't stopped the developing of your feelings for him .You stopped for a second and then kept walking , hopefully MJ and Ned will talk to you .

''hey '' you said as you approched them . It took them a second to realize who was talking to them . MJ greeted back , simply as usual , and Ned stuttered as he said ''hi '' back .

'' what are you guys doing-''

'' im just gonna go and get myself a nice piece of cake '' MJ said as she walked away . You weren't surprised , that was MJ , at least she stayed the same . YOu turned to Ned to finish your sentence , but he excused himself to go and talk to Peter , leaving you alone . You sighed to yourself and watched the others dancing . just staying there , like an idiot . You tried to avoid looking at Peter and Liz , and focusing on other pairs . Standing there , alone made you realize how worthless you are , and how your life ended in the moment your family fell apart . YOu bit your lower lip , trying not to brust into crying . You felt your throat clentching at how much pain you were feeling . This was your only chance to prove yourself wrong , but you spectaculary failed , like every other times . You couldn't stand it anymore , that feeling of failure and worthlessness . ''It's my fault '' , you thought to yourself as you were walking fast out of the gym , covering your mouth and holding your stomach as you let all that pain in . You arrived home , quietly not to wake your father , that was missing , him to wake up and hit you . You closed your bedroom' door as you began to silently cry . The fact that you couldn't even cry properly to let everything out made it even worse . After a few minutes, everything was silent and numb . For a while you just sat in your room , analyzing the situation and this time you didn't find any solution and it began not to hurt anymore . There was only one avaliable and you hardly admitted it to yourself , in the end , giving in and accepting the fact that it was over . You took off your dress and dressed normal , took your jacket ,scarf and beanie . As you walked up to the roof , you looked at the city and its beautiful lights . On the roof , you took a good look at the clear sky , seeing the stars , remembering how you used to come with your sister and always trying to count them . A smlie that faded appeared on your face . You walked to the edge and for one last time you looked at the town , breathing the cold air , tears spilling out of your eyes as for th last time you searched for hope , but this time it was over , and you lost . You looked at your feet and down the street , some whimpers of pain escaping your mouth ,you closed your eyes and calmed down , waiting for the perfect moment to jump . Minutes has passed , and your brain brought all the negative thoughts , giving you all the reasons , till suddenly you felt a hand on your right shoulder and heard a soft, calm voice from behind saying `` Don't jump'' . Your eyes widened and you didn't look back till from the corner on your eyes you could see a figure dressed in red and blue . Slowly you turned your head towards the person . It was the one and only Spider-man . It was shocking ,he was real after all . Many people claimed to saw him but you never did so it was a doubt . You swallowed quickly as even through the mask you could see that he was sad . You looked at him a bit , still processing what happened . You shaked your head in denial and close your eyes , turning your head back in the initial position .

''why not ?'' you asked more like a whisper , you could barely speak with your sore throat . He didn't sat anything , he was trying to understand the situation .

''i just don't see a point.. '' you cried , finally admitting to someone , even if you didn't know who he was . He was next to you , a little behind , but he could see your face . Behind the mask , Peter was scared , so scared and panicked , he could feel the tears threatening the corner of his eyes . ''How could I let this happen '' he asked himself in dissapointment . He shaked his head and focused on the situation and what he should to say . For the first time , Spider-man was speechless and had no idea what to do . '' I'm just drowning ..'' you said once more . He didn't know what he was doing, but he softly took your hand and place it on his chest . Still not looking at him , he said ''you feel it..?'' as your fingertips felt his rushed heartbeat . You didn't know what to say . '' It beats , for a purpose ..o-okay ?'' . You frowned and clentched your jawline , warm and salty tears still streaming down your red cheeks . ''we can try and fix this ..t-together.. alright? we can do it together , i'll help you , i promise '' . You felt your chest exploding at his words , and especially at the word ''together'' . With your hands still in his , you turned around carefully not to lose your balance . He helped you stand on your feet and in the same time you quickly hugged each other , his body was still shaking and he left a releaved sigh as he brought the back of your head closer . It's weird how a hug from a stranger can change so much , but you let it happen , you let it in just like everything .

After maybe half an hour or maybe more , you were back in your room with as well-said Spider-man . Well,kind of in your room , he was just at the window with your little cold hands in his .

''Look ,i gotta go to solve some big problems and prevent some chaos that might come over Queens ,but-`` he said slightly squizzing your hands tighter ''i promise you , i will come back and then maybe , if you want , we can..we can talk, but only if you want , its not like an oblig-'' he kept strumbling over words so you decided to nicely intrerupt him

''I'd like to '' you said softly and slightly shaking your head ''Now just go and save us '' you gave him a tired smile before he took off . You could see him swinging from building to building heading god knows where . Carefully enough you closed the window and sat on your bed in the dark , exhaling that breath you were holding for hours . Looks like part of you was afraid that you might actually end your suffering forever . You covered your closed eyes with your cold hands because they were burning from crying and from all the overwhelming emotions that you felt in one night . You took your boots off and dragged your body up in the bed . you wanted to stay awake but you were so exhausted and you needed rest , so eventually your mind gave in and fell asleep .

In the morning , being the first day of your week off , you woke up with the worst headache and your stomach was screaming for food . Still in the clothes you had from the earlier night you got off from bed , whimpering because of the pain from the headache, you brought your hand up to your forehead and held it there a bit . Standing up hurted more and you felt like your head just exploded . You leaned into the desk from your right with your eyes shut and then you tried opening them slowly so the day light won't hurt that much . As you opened them you noticed a strange bag right next to your window and surely wasn't yours . It was a bag full of mostly junk food and a smoothie , they never smelled better . You turned the package around and on its side was written '' I didn't want to wake you up . Hope this will cheer you up a bit . Hope to see you at 9pm . Spider-man '' . You simply smiled at the kind gesture .

Peter, on the other hand , was a completely mess . Confused, hurt, both pshyhically and mentally , exhausted and the most , he was terrified because of what he witnessed . His best friend, his first friend he ever had could've been gone in this moment if it wasn't for Spider-man to show up . He was finally home, in his bathroom , cleaning one of his injury he's just got . Frustrated tears filled his tired eyes as a frown etches its way onto his face . In his mind , only flashbacks of childhood and teenage memories he had with you . He shut his eyes closed and got a strong grip of the edges of the sink , his head bowing down . How could he not notice ? He felt alone and guilty . He couldn't blame anyone else but himself . Hours later , he felt like he was going to break so he thought about telling someone about what happened to you . It wasn't okay and someone should know . As May passed his bedroom ,he thought about telling her , maybe she could give him some good advice or even maybe help y/n . He kept thinking for a bit , assuring himself that nothing bad is going to happen if he does this . He went to the kitchen , where May spends most of her time , she was cooking something of course , her back facing Peter . Peter cleared his throat before he started talking .

''hey may ? '' he simply asked . She was really concentrated and determinated to finish the dish she was currently cooking , so she quickly turned around and replied ''yeah ? what's up ? already bored in your week off ? '' .

''Um , no..'' Peter stated as he approched May . He was standing next to her with his arms helping him lean on the kitchen sink . ''..there is this thin-situation actually where I simply...don't know what to do '' Peter rambled with his voice trembling every word making aunt May to turn her head straight to him , seeing how sad he actually is . Her mouth was slightly open and wrinkles of worry etched onto her forehead . She dropped everything that she was doing and took a few steps to get a closer look to Peter .

''What happened ?'' her voice was soft, caring in her tone, worry in her voice . Peter sat down on the cozy couch , his head still down , looking at the floor . May was still standing in front of him close enough for Peter to lean his head on her , her hand gently carresing his back . '' I screwed it up..'' he stated, May didn't said anything, she gave him time to tell her .

''It's abou-...''he could feel the tears forming at the corner of his eyes . Too much was going on in his life as well . He rubbed his hands together as he felt another wave of tears fleeding his eyes . ''It's about Y/n '' He breathed out , swallowing hard and closing his eyes shut .

''y/n ? like y/n , your y/n ? '' May's voice rised a bit , surprised that Peter finally talked about her, May noticed that Peter didn't say anything about her for a while , or even seeing each other as they used to . Aunt May always saw you in the mornings because you were always late to school , sometimes you chatted ,but since things with Peter were off you kinda didn't see a point of bothering May too . Peter nodded as May looked at him with sad eyes, he looked drained and exhausted . She gently sat right beside him, her hand not leaving his back as she kept tracing paterns on Peter's back .

''Do you wanna talk about it ?'' She asked calmly . He took a deep breath in , closing his eyes once again remembering the whole thing , realizing how much he ignored you the past few months , there were those small moments where you just walked up to him in the cantin and he just found lame excuses to leave , not because of you , but because of what was happening to him and the city , he never meant any harm especially to you or anyone . He realized how many times he turned you down, just like the others , you needed them, not them, but Peter to be there for you just like you were there when uncle Ben died . If it wasn't for Spider-man , a stranger to show up , you would've died alone . With a shaky breath he started telling aunt may what happened , of course , avoiding the spider-man parts and replacing them with him needing some time alone on the roof because things didn't go so well at the Homecoming . Aunt May wasn't just upset of what she just heard , but she was terryfied that she was right all along . She knew that your dad wasn't doing well and from time to time it happened to hear things breaking down the building , it happened sometimes to see a lightly bruise on your cheek or the tiredness on your face from the lacks of sleeping .

''May , you okay ?'' Peter asked . May was a few steps away , her back facing Peter once again .

''Yeah, i'm okay, i'm fine , i just-it's a lot to take in , that's it ''

There was a long silence in their apartament , only some heavy sighs filling the room , till May spoke up .

''Maybe we should invite her to dinner ..tonight ? But without mentioning anyhting about what happened , it's better that way ''

Peter looked at the clock . 8.30pm . He had to go and see y/n in 30 mins , i mean Spider-man has to .

''I'll try and talk to her '' He lied , heading to his room leaving May to prepare dinner .

Meanwhile , you were just sitting in your room, in the dark as always , laying on your bed while you listened to music . The day passed really slow but you were too tired so you mostly napped through it . You knew that in 30 minutes you had to go on the roof and meet your new found friend , Spider-man .

At 9pm you were going up the fire escape , slightly shivering because of the cold of January . You were surprised when you saw Spider-man already there ,his back was facing you so you just simply said ''hey'' making him jump and turn around in a split of a second . You raised your left arm apparently with a bag , different from the one he gave it to you . ''Thought you might be hungry '' you simply stated , giving him a small smile . You could tell that he was surprised at your kind of calm, steady attitude compared to yesterday, but he knew that it was just temporary and inside you were breaking . He came closer , his body language showing you that he was a bit nervous , or maybe he has no idea what to do . You handed him the bag and he awkwardly took it . ''Get it together , Peter'' his voice ringing in his head .

''Thanks-Thank you ..'' he stuttered remembering you of Peter . ''i'll eat it later, it just-i can't really eat with my mask on and yeah..''

''oh...no ,it's fine ..i should've thought about it ..''

There was this awkward silence between you two, you could feel him staring at you but you looked at the city trying to avoid the eye contact , it was always intimidating . You decided to end it because your chest felt like a bomb about to go off .

''so did you sav-''you were intrerupted by the sudden hug he was giving you . His muscular arms wrapped around your back bringing you closer . This time the person who needed a hug wasn't you , was the person behind the mask . Your mind was blocked for a few seconds , it was still processing what just happened . You hugged back feeling the warmth of his body that slightly stopped your shivering . He pulled away just enough to be at a resonable distance .

''I'm sorry , I just believe that you deserve more of those ..'' he said with a lower voice . The words hitted you hard . Did you ? Do you actually deserve them ? You mumbled a 'thanks' because you didn't know what to say . You sighed because you had so much to tell him but you didn't know if he wanted to hear it .

Accidentally , you both started talking in the same time .

''Look, I-'' you stopped and giggled at the fact that you said the same things .

''You first '' he pleaded .

'' I was going to...thank you , for the other night , where I-um..you know ..''you trembled every word and you hated yourself for that . You were that kind of person that even if you're dead inside or even sad , you act like nothing had happened , more like you didn't want to remember . Behind the mask Peter was seriously speechless, he had no clue what he should do nor say .

''I just ..i'm having a hard time lately and things became too rough , out of my control and i guess, stupid me thought of a way to ..escape ? i don-i don't really know ..'' you said .

''I don't want you to thank me for anything that i did last night ...i just...i just wanna know..'' Peter was trying his best not to give in or let his Peter Parker voice out . His voice was clearly shaking so he swallowed to get it togheter .

''I'd like to know why...''he said it more like a whisper but it was loud enough for you to hear it . He saw that you were staring at him with your lips slightly parted . For a moment , you were analyzing him and what he said . You pursed your lips and shoved your frozen hands in your pocket , your eyes not leaving the masked hero .

''I mean-I mean if that's okay , i don't want to push anything or make you uncomfortable...i'm just worried ..'' he quickly stated .

''worried? worried about me ? '' you didn't mean to sound harsh ,but you wanted some truthful facts .

''yeah..about you..and what would've happened if i wasn't here ..last night ..'' every word he said made you realize that if he wasn't there , you wouldn't be here right now . You looked down at your feet , thinking for a second '' should i tell him ? '' . Long silence between you two , only the sound of cars driving was heard .

''well..spider-man , would you like to hear my story ?'' you said with a less confident steem .

And that's how it started , you told him the essential things , but you stopped when it came about your father . He was a fight-crime hero ,he would try to stop your dad or the worst case scenario , he would take him away from you and the thought of being alone , since your mother left far away without the desire of seeing you or your father ever again . So you didn't tell him . You just said you aren't close as you used to be and things aren't going to get better between you and and your father . Also you didn't mention anyhting about Peter or your friends , you just said that you drifted apart .

In the end, after you finished his bag of junk food since he insisted you to eat and you were never the kind of type who refuses food .

'' is it okay if we are going to meet again ? '' he shyly asked . You felt this spark of joy in your chest . He wanted to talk to you again , he wanted to listen .

''sure..but ..uhm..if it's not much to ask , do you have a name ? like , i feel bad calling you Spider-man , plus it's too long '' you chuckled at the end .

''oh , is it now ? '' he sarcastically said . '' how about Anakin ? how does that sound to you ?'' he laughed .

''Star Wars much ? '' you teased raising an eyebrow at him .

''I'll see you, y/n'' he waved before he swinged to another building .

Back in your room this time with the lights on , you were sitting on your chair with your head titled up staring at the celling . That night was nice . Few minutes , you heard a knock at the door and since your father never bothers to answer , you sat up and walked to the door . When you opened it your heart stopped . It was May . You frowned and your jaw dropped and then you frowned again .

''May?? ..oh my god , hey '' you looked around the room making sure your dad doesn't come and you stepped out the door , closing it behind you .

''wh-what brings you here ?'' you said as you hugged her back . wow , you missed her hugs and her pep talks . late girl nights because peter was the first to fall asleep .

''well..'' she said with a big bright smile . ''i cooked thai food , your favourite and i thought maybe...you wanna have dinner with us ? '' she hopefully asked .

''us ? like us ? you , me and peter us ? '' you stuttered .

Her smile began to slowly fade and you hated to see that . You gave in and said .

''Yeah ! sure , i'll come..sorry-it just , i haven't talked to Peter or you in a while and my brain is pretty slow at processing ''

As you walked in the apartament , the usual smell of flowers and food was in the air and nothing was really changed , everything was pretty much the same .

''wow, it's been a while since the last time i was here '' you breathed out . Aunt May walked to the kitchen as she replied to you ''just feel like home , honey '' . You stopped at ther words because those were the exact same words she said to you when you first came in . You looked over the couch where you usually crashed on after coming with Peter after school and when you usually played video games with him and aunt May and sometimes even with uncle Ben . You and Peter were competitive when it came to video games and studying so that resulted many arguments over simple things . You awkwardly walked to the kitchen table , sitting down where you usually sat snd Peter usually sat right in front of you . You also remembered when you and Peter tried to surprise May by cooking meatloaf which turned into a total disaster . Or that one time you were working with Peter on a biophysisc project and you two were cuddled up and making sciences jokes and May saw how happy you were and brought the food in Peter's room . You missed this , even the stupid science shirts . On the kitchen counter you noticed some of the old pictures frames , and you thought ''they didn't throw them away..'' .

''Is Peter going to join us ? '' you finally asked because you were beginning to feel anxious that he is probably in his room and he doesn't even bother to come and say ''hello'' to you .

Peter wasn't going to come . He was so dissapointed and pissed that the Vulture couldn't stay in his cage for one night and he knew that he let you down once more . He texted May apologizing he won't be able to come because of a project with Ned and May insisted for him to come back home but of course he couldn't .

''uhm ...sadly, no , he has this project with Ned for pshysisc that has its due tomorrow ..'' you could feel your eyes watering because the project was for yesterday and Peter and Ned already presented it . You clentched your fists trying to resist not to cry in front of May . ''come on , you've done this a million times , just pretend you didn't hear it '' your inner voice said . You bit your lower lip and avoided the eye contact with her .

''y/n..'' she calmly said as she saw you fall apart right in front of her . You shut your eyes and brought your hands covered by the long sleeves of the sweater . You felt your throat clentching and that was the signal that you need to calm down so you don't brust into crying . May quickly brought a chair next to you and hugged you as your face was still covered .

''shh, it's okay '' she ran her hand up and down your back that was rising up and down from the heavy breathing . At that moment , Spider-man swang on the building he is living and he stopped at the kitchen window , witnessing what was happening between you and May . He pulled his mask off and watched the whole thing , the feeling of guilt going through his veins . '' I should've been there '' he said to himself before he couldn't stand what he was seeing so he just went up at your meeting spot . He covered his mouth to stop the heavy breathing and he just put his mask back on so no one can see him falling apart .

After you and May had a long chat about how Peter and you drifted apart in the past months , you left and went to your apartament . After brushing your teeth , you changed in some comfortable clothes and went to bed . You read yourself to sleep , living the lamp on . Peter also stayed outside your window till you fell asleep , making sure you are okay and nothing bad happens to you . He was so tired ,but watching you gave him the feeling of safety . He noticed the lamp on and he knew how much you hate to sleep with any kind of light on . He had a debating to either leave it that way or come in and turn it off . He decided to go in , carefully not to wake you up .He tip toed till he was next to your bed and turned off the lamp , only the city lights helping him to see a part of your face . He chuckled when he remembered the way you used to fell asleep , all covered in blankets with at least 3 books around you . He risked himself to pull the blanket up to your neck and slowly remove that book from your hands . He was getting sleepy only looking at you so he decided to leave .

#peter parker x reader #peter x reader #spidey imagine #peter parker #ned #mj #michelle #liz allan #spiderman #spider man: homecoming #marvel

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