#the scene is off tone wise and I can’t fix it or figure out why

[lilyharvord]

Y’all I’m writing two smut scene at the same time, one for my argument fic and one for OtHatH and the one for OtHatH IS NOT HITTING THE WAY I WANT. So I might need some peeps to step up so I can bounce ideas. It’s gotta be the right tone ya know? 🫠

[masonscig]

water

wayhaven summer fic #5

pairing | nate x ramona

word count | 2.1k

warnings | mention of sex, an innuendo

author’s note | i tried to figure out how to get around nate’s aversion to water, and i hit a wall so... i dug around it and decided to write an actor!au !!!! i’d seen a comic months and months ago by @/pvnkvampr and another one that i can’t seem to find again, but i wanted to take that and apply it to nate and ramona! nate’s the type to fall in love with his costar after years of working together and you can’t convince me otherwise. also, to clarify !!! the beginning of the fic is supposed to be like nate x ramona’s romance route so any of the exposition centered around their relationship being fleeting/him being deeply in love with her is nate the character rather than the actor! (you’ll see lmao i’m definitely overexplaining) this is a bit of a stretch bc they’re on the water... and ramona drinks water. but whatever it works !!!!!

•─────────────────•

She was standing on the edge, looking out at the glimmering water, the sun, high in the sky, skipping off of each wave like a smooth rock.

The wind whipped her hair, tossing her short curls until they were unruly, and she was smiling.

Her grin was wide, eyes closed, as she inhaled, drinking it all in – the sunshine fueled her.

Half of Unit Bravo were under the deck, quietly stewing in annoyance. They’d given up complaining to Ramona, though. Frankly, she didn’t care.

Farah was passed out on the floor underneath a sliver of shade at the top of the yacht, chest heaving as she slept soundly. Ramona had taught her how to swim earlier, and she’d used all of her energy flailing around determinedly in the relentless July rays.

Nate watched her as she held her arms out to her sides, fingers outstretched, chin tipped towards the sky.

She was unbridled joy held together by the strings of her bikini, and she radiated a warmth that could rival even the summer sun itself.

So unrestrained that changes didn’t phase her – most conflict rolled off her shoulders in a way that startled Nate, a being who’d existed for hundreds of years and had seen the best and the worst of it.

Nothing baffled him more than this part of his existence.

The way love fell into his lap and he didn’t have to try anymore. 

But despite it all, he’d deluded himself into thinking it was permanent – they were permanent. And they weren’t. And that was okay.

“Oh, you’re back!” She grinned, stretching her arm out until her fingertips grazed his bare arm, her palm warm against his skin. “I was wondering what you were up to.”

“I had to do a quick wellness check of our crew –”

“– Oh my god, are Adam and Morgan still seething down there?–” She asked, cutting him off with a laugh.

“– Very much so, I’m afraid,” he said, his mischievous smile betraying his tone.

“I thought a tiny little shindig would be better than a huge shebang, you know?” She turned in his grip, back against the railing, his arms curled around the bare skin of her waist.

“You’re still trying to stump me? Give it a rest, love,” Nate laughed into the thick mess of curls at the top of her head, pressing a kiss to her sun-warmed strands.

“I will say a phrase you don’t know and then you’ll owe me some juicy Agency secrets,” she giggled, snaking her arms around his neck.

“Like what?” He asked, lips straining at corners, his grin threatening to falter.

“Like how the hell does Morgan wear jeans and no underwear? That’s something I can’t for the life of me wrap my mind around,” she all but shuddered.

“That’s an answer you’ll have to coax out of her, unfortunately.” He said, a bit distracted.

“You know you can keep your Agency secrets, mister secret agent. I have no need for ‘em,” she stuck her tongue out, still stained bright red from the margarita she’d finished hours before.

He must’ve looked puzzled, because she continued, inching in closer until he could feel her everywhere and it wasn’t in the least bit appropriate.

“We both know you have even juicier secrets to spill,” she said, before leaning in to whisper the last bit, her fingers tangled through his hair.

“And I’ll lap up every last drop of ‘em,” she murmured, kissing his earlobe.

The pads of his fingers were sunken into the flesh of her hips, and he tried desperately to anchor himself to spare the others, but he couldn’t get a grip on anything but her warm, warm, sunkissed skin –

He blanked.

His thoughts were scrambled and he couldn’t form words. Couldn’t recall the words he needed to say. But he could see the paper so clearly –

“Line?” He mumbled, feeling her go limp with disappointment in his arms.

Farah groaned from across the deck.

“Cut!” The director yelled, and all but stormed over to him. “What happened out there? You were on a fuckin’ roll! The chemistry was insane. God, I wish you could’ve been watching –”

“Don’t make him feel like shit over it, Craig,” she gently warned, stepping forward just a bit until she’d angled her body between them. “I flubbed my lines all last week and he was so patient with me.”

Craig sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, the wrinkled skin between his brows crinkling even further. “Alright, alright, I get it. Not gonna hound you over one take, but I need you to get it in gear, man. We’ve only got a couple more hours of sunlight in this godforsaken shitheap, and we’ve gotta wrap this part up so we can film the sunset kiss –”

“I understand. I won’t mess it up this time,” Nate promised, glancing over to his co-star with an apologetic smile.

Ramona shrugged, waving his statement away. “It’s fine, seriously. I’m totally okay with running that again.” “Speak for yourself! I’m dying out here,” Farah called from across the deck before turning back to the hair and makeup people, pursing her lips for more lip balm and sunscreen. “Please get it right this time, Agent Sewell.”

“That’s just the name of my character –”

“I’m well aware of that,” she yelled, cutting him off. “Method acting. You get it.”

His co-star shook her head, patting him on the back. “Don’t mind Miss Hauville. She’s just upset she was dragged out here to lie down on a hot sundeck like a dead body for half of an episode.”

He laughed at that, relieved that his co-star was keeping things light.

Truth be told, he’d had a rough time getting his on-screen family to cooperate with him, much like the character Nate Sewell.

Adam’s actor was a notoriously nice guy, but he had a knack for intense method acting, so he’d been a stoic asshole for months – there was no getting through to that guy when he was in filming mode. Morgan’s actress was a bit of a wildcard. She was fucking the executive producer and everyone except Craig knew it.

Farah’s actress was arguably the biggest success of them all – she was constantly booked and busy and effortlessly making headlines. And it was becoming increasingly obvious that she was only there as a favor, not because she wanted to.

She was a film star who never touched TV, but hell, she was half the reason millions of people tuned into the pilot episode.

The Wayhaven Chronicles wouldn’t be the same without her, or Ramona’s actress, the fan favorite. Yeah, she was the protagonist, but the cast, crew, fans, and everyone alike loved her.

And he had a bit of a crush.

He was aware that on set romances usually fell apart before they could really begin, but he couldn’t help it.

Not only did he spend nearly all of his free time with her running lines and hanging out in her trailer, but to make matters worse his character was canonically falling for hers, and… he found himself enamored with her, too.

He’d never admitted it out loud, and probably never would, but it was getting harder and harder to push those feelings away when they had to share an on screen kiss.

Season one wasn’t too bad, considering they were just testing the waters to see who the fan favorite love interest was out of the four of them, but by the end of it, social media had all but rioted to lock in the “Natemona” romance plot.

And there they were, well into season two, a handful of kisses shared (a lot more than that considering the reshoots and the practicing) and a plot decided.

And he was into her – way more than he’d like to admit.

The rest of filming went pretty smoothly. He got over his nerves and kissed her like a champ, and they got patted on the back for their realistic chemistry by all the execs and producers on set.

When they finally broke for a quick food break, she followed him to his trailer.

“People are gonna eat this episode up, huh?” She asked, closing the door behind them and grabbing a water bottle from his fully stocked mini-fridge.

“Surely they will,” he agreed, stepping around her to grab his salad from the fridge. “If they were rallying for the relationship before, they’ll be vindicated this episode.”

She laughed into the rim of her bottle before chugging it. “So why were you frazzled today? Something at home?”

He eyed her, raising a brow.

She held her hands up in mock surrender, before plopping onto the couch across from him. “You don’t have to answer, dude, I’m just lending my ear.”

He chewed thoughtfully, trying to choose his words wisely. He swallowed, took another bite, chewed.

His mind was just as blank as the deck scene.

He shook his head before setting his food down. “I’m sorry I’ve been off today.”

“I don’t care if you’re not feeling like yourself. It’s normal to have an off day. I just wanna know if you’re okay,” she said with a tenderness that he’d never heard from a co-star before. 

“To be quite honest, you’ve been distracting me,” he admitted, timidly.

She pursed her lips. “What can I do to fix it?” 

He squirmed in his seat. God, this was a lot harder than he thought it’d be.

“It’s, uh, nothing you can really fix. It’s all me.”

“Well, what can I do to help?”

He shook his head again, glancing away from her.

“Look, I know Craig’s been rough on us this week, but don’t let it get to you. We can practice more –”

“It’s not that, I promise.”

She waited, sensing that he had more to say. He took a deep breath, then continued.

“It’s something I don’t want to admit to you. It’s embarrassing.”

“Honey, my last job involved waxing places that would make your grandmother gasp. I promise nothing phases me,” she joked, running a hand through her hair.

“There’s… quite a few lines Nate says this season that I’ve resonated with,” he started, trying to figure out what he was gonna pull out of his ass.

She sipped her drink, waiting.

“Things like… ‘I care for you, Ramona’ and, uh, ‘You’re important to me’,” he said, twisting the ends of his summery button up shirt between his fingers.

“Yeah, same here. We’ve become really close –”

She stopped abruptly the moment she noticed the look in his eye. And the subtext hit her like a truck.

“The things Nate feels for Ramona… I find myself feeling for you,” he admitted, hesitantly, looking anywhere but her face.

“If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I’ve just developed a bit of a workplace crush that I can’t quite shake, and that’s my fault –”

She stood from the couch, and he glanced up at her, finally, nervous to see how she’d taken it.

And before he could register what was happening, her lips were on his – a sweet tender kiss. 

One that, scarily enough, felt exactly like the last time they’d kissed. And the time before that. And the time before that. And the time before that. 

When she pulled away, she cupped his cheeks with the softest touch in the world, gazing down at him with an expression like she’d gotten the best news of her life.

“Those kisses weren’t just practice to me, either,” she whispered, stroking the pad of her thumb across his stubble. “I just wasn’t sure if you felt the same.”

He blanked. Again.

He couldn’t find any words, so he did what Nate would do. What he wished he’d had the courage to do for over a year.

Gently enclosing his arms around her waist, he tugged her down to the couch with him, planting kisses across her face, cheeks, nose, lips, over and over and over, revelling in the broken giggles that erupted from her.

Maybe allowing the essence of Nate Sewell and how he loved pervade his life over the past year and a half of filming was the right step. It’d gotten him the girl, after all.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

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....

[whenimaunicorn]

The Heart of Admiration

Black Sails Fic: Charles Vane x Reader

Drabble combining two requests: “Imagine the moment Charles Vane realizes he’s fallen for you” and “ Vane falls for a highly competent female pirate, maybe from a rival crew? Maybe some mutual pining before they get together?”

There it is. That way you bite your lip, when you pause to consider your next words. That plump little lip bounces free as you take a breath to answer Jack’s question, and Vane feels his body warm. That must be the reason he’s so drawn to you.

“But the manufactured items are harder to fence,” you’re telling Jack now, your fine brows knitting together adorably as you haggle with the Ranger’s quartermaster. “So despite what you’re saying about the division of the plunder, the value is not in fact equal, not in practice, because the factory stamps make them easier to trace. Especially the silverware. My contacts don’t pay well for that sort of trouble, those that would even take them at all.”

You’re smart, too. Captain Fisher was quite fortunate to have landed you as his quartermaster, Vane muses as he nurses his ale, running his thumb back and forth across the edge of his cup. It’s always a pleasure to listen to you negotiate. Perhaps you’re even the reason why Vane agreed to work with your crew on this job in the first place.

Not that his own quartermaster isn’t quick-witted, too. “Melt down the bloody silver then,” Jack snaps at your quibbling.

“Another expense,” you retort, “see what I mean?” You sit back, adjusting your coat. The brocade is quite fetching, and flatters you well as you lean arrogantly on one jaunty elbow. Just feminine enough to stir a man’s loins, but there’s nothing that looks weak about you. Vane knows that’s something that draws him to you, too. “We’ll take the tobacco, instead. Easy enough to ‘damage’ the customs stamps.”

Jack scowls. Vane has half a mind to lift you into his lap right here, though he knows you’d strike him directly across the face for it. And probably try to call off the whole deal, at that.

Not that you’re negotiating from a position of strength. “Why should we give you the more profitable portion of the take?” Vane asks, leaning forward and regarding you from under his brow. He sees your eyes widen for just a moment after they meet his. He’s not sure what the reaction means, but it’s something, and Vane thrills at having the power to shake you. “We were the ones that emptied our hold to haul it all back. A rushed job, that wasn’t without loss of value.”

You take a deep breath before answering him, your breasts swelling tight and high above your corset. God, his palms are just itching to cover them and then make you do that again. “That,” you arch one perfect brow, “is not my problem. You have the bigger ship, it made sense that you would carry the plunder back to Nassau, but we have just as many guns as you, and just as many fighters.”

“Is that a threat?” Vane growls. Not because he’s truly feeling belligerent, mostly just because he enjoys riling you up.

“Charles, please,” Jack interrupts with placating hands, before you can respond to the escalation with more than a dark flash of your eyes. “Two against one is hardly sporting, for a civilized negotiation such as the one we are having right here. Why don’t we just order another round, and wait for Captain Fisher to arrive.” One expressive eyebrow raised, he flashes a look at you. “Your captain is joining us, is he not?”

Vane barely suppresses a shark’s smile. Everyone here knows that your captain is currently otherwise engaged. Though, outmaneuvered little thing that you are, you do not know that Jack and Vane are already wise to the reason for your captain’s absence, and have already taken measures. All Vane is waiting for now is a signal from his men.

“Of course,” you say in a clipped tone. “I can’t imagine what the delay might be.” Your eyes flit from Jack to Vane and back again. “Shall I go fetch him?”

You start to rise and Vane’s hand shoots out, clamping your wrist into the table. “No need for that, love.” He holds on a little longer than is necessary, even as you sit back down. He finds that he is both aroused and ashamed at his ability to make you nervous. If he wants a woman, he wants to conquer her, but some small voice inside him is whispering that with you, this should not be the way. He lets your hand go. “We can negotiate without him.”

You fix him with a level look, gathering your confidence as your posture straightens before him again. You nod. "What I was saying was, regardless of the larger size of your ship and the logistical consequences on the cargo storage, we were equal partners in the take. I am simply making certain we are compensated as such. The Ranger would not have been able to subdue the merchant’s escort without us.” There’s that fire in your belly again. That, that’s what it really is, Vane muses as he watches your lips form hot words. The reason that he cannot stop thinking of you at night. “Which brings me to my next point: adjusting the shares based on my crew’s heavier losses.”

Jack’s brows knit together again. “Are you suggesting we should be creating something other than an equal split now, after the job is already done?” He looks to his captain for support.

Vane sits back, taking a long pull off his tankard of ale. None of this matters anyway, not if Jack’s hunch about Captain Fisher turns out to be right. And look, there’s his man now, giving him the high sign from the doorway of the tavern. Vane stands up abruptly, letting his body crowd your personal space. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? And then we’ll come back to the idea of what kind of shares your crew deserves.”

He looks down to see the blood draining from your face as you follow his eye to the ugly grin on his crewman’s face. He offers you his arm, and you have no choice but to take it.

“Don’t be afraid, dove,” he says as he marches you to the front door, though he regrets the condescension of the pet name instantly. You are much more than a shivering bird. “Jack and I are open to striking up new negotiations with you, personally. Your captain, however…” he trails off as the two of you step out into the street, Jack close behind. Several of the Ranger’s best men have your captain held between them, his bloodied head drooping in defeat.

“Caught ‘im and his crew sneaking onto the Ranger, Captain,” Vane’s man reports. “Just like you said.”

Captain Fisher coughs, a wet and ugly sound that suggest internal damage. Vane smirks at the justice of that, and turns to you.

You are scowling up at him, that delicious lip thrust out in a last defiant effort. “Couldn’t let you hold all the chips while we quibbled over how they’d be split up,” you explain. There is very little remorse in your voice. “The captain was only attempting to secure our fair share.”

Vane presses a hand to his heart, pretending to feel a wound. “You didn’t think you could trust me?” He had already told himself it didn’t hurt, hours ago when he had figured out what you crew was up to. Why should you behave any differently than anyone he had ever met? You were only protecting your own, as any good leader should. His grip on your arm tightens.

“We were, in point of fact, going to deal fairly with you,” Jack interposes. The anger is showing on his face as well. “But now…”

“Now you get the monster you were expecting,” Vane finishes for him, voice low, purring over the rage that always feels so good to indulge. He nods toward his men. “Kill everyone that was caught boarding our ship. Don’t make a scene, but don’t take too long with it. Then board the Starling and seize her. No one takes over Fisher’s crew. The men that are left will have to find work elsewhere.”

Vane sees real fear in your eyes now. You swallow it, and face him calmly. “Am I to die too?”

Your bravery. Your spirit. Perhaps that, that is what is at the heart of his admiration for you. Warmth tempers the high of Vane’s rage, the spiraling emotions conspiring into a rushing feeling he hopes will never end.

“I believe there is room to talk about that,” Jack says to you, stepping closer and making Vane realize you two have been locking eyes without speaking for a potentially awkward length of time. “Seeing as your attempt to distract us with a false negotiation here in this tavern did not, in fact, distract or mislead us at all, given that we were wise to the ploy all along, a case could be made that you have not, in fact, done us any ill that must be answered.”

You tear your eyes away from Vane’s to regard Jack with suspicion. “Why?” Your voice is sharp and true. Shrewd even when others would be begging and desperate. What a woman Vane has found in you.

“Join us,” Vane blurts, feeling like his tongue is tripping over his heavy need for you to say yes. “You deserve a better crew than that one.”

Part Two

Black Sails Masterlist

[capriccio-con-espressione]

Possession

Genre: Smut

Warning: Sub!Kun, Dom!Reader, Profanity, Hair pulling, Semi-public handjob/oral sex (male receiving), Intense Degradation, Face slapping, Edging, Spanking

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: 

In celebration of WayV’s new comeback, I decided to bring some fucked-out subby Kun back in the scene again after some editing, to punish him for making me suffer from his visuals ugh

Originally intended to make it just a short blurb, but I kinda went overboard. The power Kun holds lmao

The degradation and insult are a bit intense, you’ve been warned, but of course aftercare is included. This is the result of mental breakdown due to Dom Kuntent overload in the fandom. The world deserves more delicious Sub Kuntent. Period.

Oh and last but not least, this smut is inspired by this gif. I am not gonna include it here directly because I will certainly get fl**ged. Anyways enjoy!

  Locking the door of the fitting room, you immediately slammed your lips into Kun's after pinning him to the ground, your movements getting rougher second by second. Somehow the gawking gazes and praises from the photoshoot staff have turned your sweet cutie into a cocky brat, confidence overflowing in him as he shamelessly boasted his unprecedented coquettish charms to anyone else but you. Triggered, you bit on his lip, and invaded his gasping mouth with your aggressive tongue, claiming your property.

  "Forgot who you belong to?" You demanded, glaring down at him as the slick string connecting both your lips proudly circumstantiated your dominance.

  "No I was just being friendly! I-mmf-" His defense was muffled by your intruding lips again.

  "Friendly? So necessary of you to ask that new stylist to fix the waistband of your slacks for you while you could've checked it yourself in that damn mirror at the site! And then you even dared to flex your abs in front of her when she did her job? So fucking friendly!" Kun winced at your firm tug on his hair and your nibble on the base of his neck, you didn't care about messing up his hairstyle since his shooting was over.

   "And all the sweet-talking to the other staff? Too legion to list them all! You must've let your filthy dickhead get the best of you huh?" You crept your hand under his waistband to squeeze his shaft, earning gasps after gasps from him.

  "I w-was just trying to break the ice..ahh...it was so a-awkward…" Kun's explanation for himself seemed pitiful now with his moans constantly cutting in between.

  "There are way too many ways other than flirting to break the ice, fuckboy. Flaunting your abs must have granted you some extra hormones to act up right in front of my damn face, right?" You pulled the checkered jacket down his shoulders, then slid it off his arms. 

  "Since exposing your flesh switches on your bad boy mode this much, I should strip more off you and properly tame you…until you are a humiliated mess begging me to stop." You chuckled as you lowered his pants, before grabbing a handful of his crotch then starting to caress it through his boxers. "Say, are you a bad boy by making mistress this mad?" You inquire the question you often include in your bedroom playtime, since from his response to it you can see if he’s in his submissive bad boy headspace or not. 

  "No, mmm-am not." Despite the stimuli building up Kun still managed a cheeky grin, showing his liking toward whatever you were intending. “Why so serious, when I was just-ahh!”

  Kun's retort was cut off by a slap across his face. "Still don't wanna admit how bad you've been? Looks like I'll have to keep teasing you instead of giving you what you want..." You darkly smirked as your hand cradled his jawline, fingers squeezing his cheeks so he could utter nothing but whiny whimpers, while your other hand continued to fondle his rock-hard balls and shaft strained inside the fabric, the tension too much for him to take.

  "Now answer me again, better wisely this time, are you a bad little sleazeboy or not?" You pumped his cock generously while releasing your grip on his cheeks.

  “Mmmf...yes I’ve been a sleazy little slut...so bad...mistress please stop punishing me…"

  Usually you would keep him clothed for much longer and tease him until he lost count of how many times he had begged, but since semi-public sex like this always excite you and minimize your patience, you were a bit too eager to get the real thing going 

  "Then is my slutty fucktoy sorry for having fun with other people blatantly without mistress' permission?" You finally pulled down the boxers to reveal his dripping cock, but with your arms crossed, not doing anything to it unless his response satisfies you.

  "P-please mistress I am sorry...really sorry…"

  You huffed in exaggerated mock disapproval as you flipped him over, draping him over your kneeling form, his bottom straight on your thighs before you inflicted loud smacks on it, erotic moans leaving him as his body tensed up and pressed even harder against you. “You aren’t sincere enough, perhaps you can only learn your lesson by letting other people outside the room overhear your spanking…”

  “No! Please don’t! Ummff-sorry I’ve been such a bad boy! Pleeaase-!” Kun’s tone of voice and facial expressions indicated that he liked this punishment a bit too much, far from what you intended for him. Therefore, you tossed him off back to the ground with a contemptuous look in your eyes.

  You then brushed your fingers along his length at an excruciatingly slow speed. "You don't really convince me to make me forgive you. Looks like I need to milk your remorse out of your dickhead really slowly..."

  "No no no mistress I may be an airy dickhead but I know where my place is for sure...hnngh...please I am terribly sorry for disrespecting you!"

  "How can I trust you to come up with the slightest valid apology possible when this is the only nerve bundle on you that is still properly processing right now?" You squeezed his leaking shaft, emphasizing your dismissive words. "You can't even think straight with your pathetic little airhead…"

  Kun felt the knot in his lower abdomen began to tighten at every insult you uttered, but still he managed to try his best to think properly and obey your rules, that is, to replace every pronoun regarding himself with humiliating words.

  "Ahhh...please mistress your stupid disrespectful little manwhore is extremely sorry and remorseful...hahhh...please mistress let this worthless cockhead cum…"

  Seeing Kun's eyes, now glossy with tears and lascivious desperation; his tone of voice, usually held so much authority, now stammering with demeaning words, you were satisfied with how his piercingly confident gaze back at the photoshoot a couple of minutes ago seemed laughable now. "Good boy, looks like you've been trained well." You expressed your approval for his self-degradation with your quickening pumping hand.

  Kun's moans become to get even more incoherent and evident as his pleasure intensified when you began to nibble as well as suck on his sensitive patches of skin, marking up his torso while still fist-fucking his throbbing neediness.

  "I am not the type to hesitate to declare who my possession is, and you should know better." You chuckled as you sucked a dark splotch on his right pectoral near his areola. "You should feel grateful that I didn't do this before the photoshoot, otherwise the photo retoucher is gonna be mad…"

  After marking your territory, your mouth traveled down to where he needed you the most, hastily sucking and slicking it up. Thinking you had full mercy on him, Kun tried to guide your movements, but ended up getting his wrists gripped tightly against his chest.

  "Now you're cocky again, hmm? Even have the gut to order me around with that filthy hand?" You glared and stopped completely, watching him gradually faltering due to the sense of loss.

  "No mistress I am not being cocky...I just...ohh...your mouth...hfff...feels too good...I can't help it...please I am begging you…"

  "Punishment is always punishment no matter what, no rules should be violated even if I am easy on you." You teasingly licked a stripe along his length. "Apologize and beg with some real earnestness. We don't have much time here before everyone is suspicious of us. If you fail to impress me I will make you walk out of here sporting that pathetic hard-on of yours and embarrass yourself."

  Kun struggled and squirmed, but soon figured that there is no use defending his last bit of self-esteem because from his past experience he learned that you are a woman of your word, in a hard way. 

  "Mistress your dumb filthy-minded slut is... really apologetic for being stupid...by mistaking the line between friendly and flirty...please...mmfff...mistress...your airheaded fuckboy is begging for forgiveness ...mmmm...please grant your mindless toy...who knows no manners... the permission to cum...pleeaaase…" 

  Even though his last plea dragged on, indicating his absolute desperation to end the ordeal, still the idea of getting caught with his pants down somehow excited him even more.

  You bobbed your head generously along his trembling form upon hearing his words. "You promise not to ever let your nasty hormones take over you again?" You still wanted to milk more degradation out of him.

  "Yes mistress...your shameless brat has learned the lesson......never gonna misbehave ever again...please...cum…"

  Noticing he was at the verge of breaking, you planted a reassuring kiss on his cheek which was blushing hotly with prolonged denied yearning, and immediately went down again to work him up along with your hands to finally allow the earth-shattering climax that he desired so much.

  "That's my good beautiful boy...relax and take deep breaths baby...I am here for you...you did so well…" You comforted your tortured boy with reassuring praises, giving him the delicate little touches, as well as some light-hearted pecks, that always calmed him down. After observing his breathing pattern had returned to normal and making sure that he was okay, you proceeded to clean up and gave him his casual wear, helping him to recover from the intense orgasmic haze and ready him for reality again, adorning the process with smiley eye-contacts, and encouraging words of how much your boy means to you.

  "Are you really okay with what I did just now babe?" You attempted to confirm his well-being once more before opening the door to the public, worried if there were any signs of distress.

  "You are definitely making it up to me with lots of cuddles when we're home, y/n." Kun pouts, feigning resentment in the cutest way you had never seen in your whole life before that warmed your heart. 

  "But," He continued with that adorable smile that never failed to make your heart flutter, as you couldn't help but lovingly pinch and caress his cheek. "I love every second of it. The way how you claimed me yours, so possessive, so hot…I am all yours..." His gaze became dreamily hooded as he placed a soft kiss on your lips. You shyly flinched a little at this sudden intimacy out of the blue and got flustered, sharply contrasting your dominant behavior earlier.

  "Uhm...right. I love you too, my precious prized pretty boy." You sweetly giggled as you both left the intense yet so tantalizingly memorable session behind that soon closed door, anticipating the private aftercare bliss awaiting ahead for you, proving that the aggressively possessive side and seemingly contradictory sweetly attentive side of you can coexist.

[theink-theiron]

Fairys Lost in Liones - Chapter One

Gajevy and Banlaine are my OTP's and I wanted to see a crossover between them and between Fairy Tail and Nanatsu no taizai, hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 Here

Levy could feel aching and pain all over her body as she woke up from a deep sleep, she opened her eyes and shuffled sitting up on the bed, wincing as she did. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around the room expecting to see the guilds infirmary, but that didn’t seem to be the case in this situation. Instead of white sheets they were pink and instead of Mira or Wendy stood beside her tending to her wounds there was no one.

“Where am I?” She muttered out groggily, speaking to no one in particular but hoping that one of her guild mates would answer her. The nerves were beginning to creep in as the predicament she found herself in began to dawn on her, alone, injured, and unaware of where she was or how she got there; With each passing second more questions arose but no answers were there to comfort her.

She slowly got out of bed, being mindful of her injuries that seemed to encompass the majority of her body, she stretched out her body a little hoping to ease some of the tension she was feeling both inside and out, she took another quick scan around the brightly coloured rustic bedroom that for the life of her she could not recognise, she was hoping it would be a guildmates bedroom or something like that but she didn’t think so, the whole place just felt a little… off.

It was at that moment that she realised two things A) She was covered in neatly wrapped bandages, so she assumed that whoever brought her here was friendly and B) That she was wearing an outfit that was more befitting of Lucy! a tight pink t-shirt that ended at her waist, the smallest blue mini skirt and belt, and one long blue sock. Not her typical state of dress however she was more concerned about who dressed her.  

Then it hit her, Gajeel, Pantherlily, Jet and Droy were all with her, the last thing she could remember was all of them heading out on a mission together, which she had just about managed to drag Gajeel onto. Are they here? Are they ok? A loud commotion from downstairs disrupted her train of thought, it sounded like a lot of people, maybe that was them. Even if not she would still have to leave the room at some point, so that’s what she did. Creeping down the stairway the ruckus got louder, people yelling and cheering maybe, but none of them sounded like any of her boys.

Reaching the bottom of the stairway and rounding the corner, she shyly walked into what seemed like quite a nice little restaurant and bar. How odd. But what caught her eye the most was that she could see the group people she is assuming found her.

“Look who’s finally awake” Straining her neck looking up she came face to face, well face to chest, with a pair of red eyes with a devilish glint in them, the man was grinning down at her but it wasn’t malicious it seemed more playful which actually threw her off a little bit. She had to take two steps back just to look at him properly, how tall is this man!? she thought, he easily towered over her, even more than Gajeel did. And why on earth is he wearing an apron instead of a t-shirt?

Six pair of eyes scattered around the room were all on her waiting for her to say something, but her nervousness temporarily got the better of her, she didn’t recognise any of these people or the place and Gajeel was nowhere to be seen the whole situation was very unsettling for her, she wished she didn't have to do it alone.

“Ban don’t scare her! Don’t mind him my. name's Hawk captain of scraps disposal!” A large pig pushed past the man she now knew as Ban to speak with her. He seemed rather outgoing. She heard Ban mutter out a quick ‘Sorry Master’ This pig wasn’t in charge was he?

“Uh hi, my name's Levy Mcgarden, it…it’s nice to meet you Hawk” She was taken back by the fact there was a talking pig for only a moment before she composed herself again, deciding to ignore the part about scraps, she had bigger questions at the moment.

“You’re not surprised by the talking pig?” Ban asked incredulously whilst leaning against the bar and wrapping an arm around a small blonde girl with big golden eyes, seriously who are these people?

“I know a talking cat so no” He nodded at her, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“I’m sorry but I’m so confused, who are you people?” She tried to remain polite but the whole situation was so strange.

“You don’t know? we’re the Seven Deadly Sins” A small blonde boy who seemed rather chipper then joined the conversation, but he also started groping a tall, beautiful white haired woman who kind of reminded her of Mira. The girl blushed but didn’t do anything. Levy immediately averted her eyes and decided to talk into the void instead as to avoid the embarrassing scene.

“Who?” Ok so the name ‘Seven Deadly Sins’ did not put here at ease. And she had never heard of them before, is that some sort of guild name perhaps?

“You’re not from around here are you” Another small brunette boy joined in with a deadpan tone, it wasn’t exactly a question more of an accusation. The blonde boy then introduced himself as Meliodas the leader of the Seven Deadly Sins, the Dragon Sin of Wrath and gave a very brief description of what they were, although it was confusing, an order of Holy Knights for the kingdom of Liones and… criminals. As interesting as it was to hear it raised a lot more questions than it did answers.

“What? There is no place called Liones or Britannia and there are no Holy Knights”  She knew of every country on Earthland and she was sure that she was right about this, but she also didn’t think that they were lying, what is going on?

“Yes, there is and that’s where you are right now” Meliodas said keeping his voice light, she could not seem to tell what he was thinking and everyone else was just looking at her like she was crazy, which to be fair she could understand.

“OH! Gajeel, Jet, Droy and Pantherlily where are they!?” She suddenly burst out looking frantically around the room, they must know where they are, they would have been with her right; she couldn’t be out here all on her own.

“There was only one other person with you, tall, dark hair, angry looking guy. He’s going to be ok, but he’s hurt bad, he’s upstairs resting now” Meliodas told her pointing at the staircase then heading behind the bar.

“Oh thank Mavis Gajeels ok” She sighed letting out a breath of air she didn’t know she was holding in, but that didn’t make her feel completely better as the other three still weren’t accounted for “But are you sure there wasn’t any else with us? A ginger guy, a big guy with dark hair, and a small black cat with a sword maybe?” It was a desperate attempt; she knew it but she had to ask maybe they had seen them somewhere else on their travels.

“No but that last guy sounds cool!” Exclaimed Ban jumping up a little, the blonde girl patted him on the shoulder and giggled signalling for him to cool down a little bit, which he did.

Worry took over her then, where on Earthland could they be? she hoped they were ok, with any luck they were still in Magnolia.

“You must be starving” The White-haired girl approached her and ushered her to sit down at the bar, they sat beside each other, and the blonde girl sat on the other side of her. “Ban why don’t you get started on some supper for everyone, the others should be back soon” Meliodas told Ban whilst he started fixing up some drinks for everyone.

The White haired girl accepted the drinks and divided them amongst the three girls “My name is Princess Elizabeth but don’t worry you don’t have to be formal with me” She smiled brightly at her and it actually did make Levy feel a bit better.

“Wow a Princess are you sure I feel like I should bow” Elizabeth giggled at that and shook her head.

“And my name is Elaine, I’m from the Fairy kings Forest '' There was something about Elaine that she couldn’t quite figure out, she looked young like Wendy, but her eyes gave her away she looked wise beyond her years.

“Ha that’s funny I’m from the Fairy Tail guild”

“You’re a fairy too!?” She beamed with excitement practically bouncing out of her seat.

“Are you a fairy!?” Shocked beyond belief this girl seemed genuine when she said too so that must mean…no. This doesn’t make any sense, she can’t be a fairy, this day just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

“Yes…why are you surprised?”

The guild wasn’t going to believe this, if this was real then she had just discovered actual Fairy’s, just imagining everyone’s faces when she told made her laugh internally.

“I’m sorry I know this might sound ridiculous, but you don’t have a tail do you?”

“No we don’t have tails! are you crazy?” The brunette boy shouted from the cushion he was currently laying on in the air, ok so that was a little weird. But now she could tell everyone the answer to the age-old question on whether Fairies have Tails or not, this was an amazing day, well if you don’t include everything else that has happened.

With everyone in the room looking at her like she was out of her mind she started to explain why she had asked, she told them about the guild and Fiory, hopefully they might be able to fill in some of the gaps that she was missing. They told her that they had no idea what she was going on about which by now wasn’t that surprising, but they said a mage called Merlin may be able to help, they would just have to wait for her to return. Apparently there were still a few people missing called Merlin, Escanor, Diane and Gowther.

Dinner was almost ready for everyone so she decided she should head up and check on Gajeel just to make sure he was alright.

“LEVY!” Everyone stopped at the sound of a fierce roar coming from upstairs, he rushed downstairs clearly ignoring any pain and each thud of his descent was getting closer and closer. Rounding the corner they locked eyes and he marched up to her gently grabbing her shoulders and checking her over noticing the many bandages, his eyes looked panicked and she could tell that unlike her the moment he awoke he leaped out of bed and instead of waiting to try and piece together what was going on he immediately went on a hunt.

“Are you alright?” He asked, staring at her. After a moment he realised how close they were and stepped back and let go of her shoulders opting to scratch the back of his head and look away from her to alleviate some of the awkwardness, she noticed a very light blush on his cheeks but passed it of as a reaction to all the adrenaline coursing through his system. She nodded and hoped that he didn’t see her light blush either though, but of course it was only because of the adrenaline

“Where’s Pantherlily and the two morons?” And who are all these people?” He motioned to everyone else in the room who were still looking at them intently, seeming a bit put off by the silence of the unknown presences.

She ignored his moron comment and then smiled thinking of introducing him to the new friends she had made, Elaine and Elizabeth were delightful and she didn’t know what to think of the guys yet, but they seemed alright too.  

“These are the Seven Deadly Sins” levy gestured around the room and the girls and Meliodas waved, Ban nodded his head, and the brunette boy rolled his eyes.

“What the hell is that, a boy Band?” Gajeel asked mockingly, still seeming a bit Sceptical though.  

“No but that would be cool” Meliodas shouted out from beside Liz and jumped up to look excitedly at Ban who also had a massive grin plastered over his face.

Gajeel however looked much like Levy did not too long ago as hearing that name didn’t really clear anything up. Oh well she had plenty of time to explain things to him in more detail later, she couldn’t wait to tell him about the Fairy’s.

But as ok as things seemed at the moment they were still in a dire situation; was this the result of the Dark Guild they were going to face?

[pengychan]

[Coco] Holy Fuck - Fake Priest AU

Title: Holy Fuck Summary: The missing sex scene between chapter 14 and 15 of Nuestra Iglesia, which no one asked for but @senoraluna​ and I wrote anyway. Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, OC. Rating: Explicit.

A/N: We got nothing to say in our defense. Check this out on Ao3 to see @senoraluna​’s art!

***

This was happening. He was here. 

Father John Johnson had to reiterate it in his mind, lest his own frenzied thoughts convinced him that Father Ernest in his room at nearly midnight was only another dream. He didn’t wish to question it again, allow any voice of doubt or any testing of wills, or he would lose his nerve entirely. Besides, from the strange - oddly amused, he would dare say - smile Father Ernest wore, it didn’t seem the man had come to any sort of realization that he should not violate his vows this way. The burden laid on him alone to either back out of the experiment or proceed. Someone was going to have to speak - he was going to have to speak because it dawned on him he was practically holding his breath. 

“I meditated the most efficient means to preserve as much of our modesty and dignity possible during this… sin,” he muttered. “If you simply turn about, kneel on the bed, lift your clothing, we should hopefully conclude within a brief few minutes and escape with… as much… discretion we can during something so unclean.” 

Now when he had rehearsed this plan in his head, and then aloud to the wall, it had seemed so very logical and precise. However the look Father Ernest was giving him suggested he had spoken in English or said something just physically impossible. 

Had he gotten it wrong? Truth be told his intimate details of sodomy came from limited sources; quickly passed sights in busy city allyways, piecing a visual picture of confessional details, and some faded, black and white prints of old vulgar vases in history books of the pagan Greeks. 

Unaware of his thoughts, Ernesto kept staring for several moments. Oh Jesus Christ he really thought Ernesto was going to let him top, didn’t he? If not entirely taken aback by the nerve of his, Ernesto might have laughed. The situation as a whole was slightly surreal, truth be told - there he was, about to fuck the insufferable white priest - but that absolutely took the cake. 

A few brief minutes, he said. Well, of course it would be a very short matter if he let the gringo lead; then he would be done and Ernesto would not. That idiota failed to grasp was that he hadn’t bothered to get there for a few short minutes. 

Well, no trouble. He was about to let that be known.

“If you think I’m letting you anywhere near my ass while you don’t have the first clue of what you’re doing, you’re very much mistaken,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m the one with prior experience here. So, you kneel on the bed.”

Fine, maybe that wasn't the most charming he'd ever been, but Padre Juan had a way to get under his skin. Figuratively. Whether he would ever allow that to happen in a literal sense, it remained to be seen.

“And allow you to-?” Juan’s face burned an even deeper shade than Ernesto had ever seen. “Oh no, no , I have read the, er- you know- the… texts on sodomy and it is the more mature man, the elder, the wiser , who is meant to lead t e act. ” He underlined each point with a gesture of the hand holding the candle, and gestured at the cot behind him. Lengthy statements when it was obvious he could hardly be much older. “And do watch your language there’s no reason for us to be crude about this. Besides I had gathered you hardly know much more than I!”

All right, fine, Ernesto thought. Fuck him, and not in the way he'd been intending to.

"Well. Since you're so old and wise, then you can certainly sort this out on your own," he said, and turned to the door. Amazing, how quickly he’d manage to piss him off. Almost a new record.

John watched him take a few steps, holding his breath. There it was, an out. Every chance to let this end without his own courage failing him. But then- how would he ever know? How could he fix this miserable state so he was no longer going around, maddened with repugnant fantasies distracting him from duties, like some deranged pagan? 

He’d been a proper priest for six years now, and never in all his time had he found leading a mass so distracting, or prayer so hypocritical when his mind was stuffed with thoughts about his fellow Father. How much longer until it became so unbearable the church learned he was slipping and cast him out? 

“Wait,” he mustered. “I wasn’t… seeking to offend you I do recognize you are…” And all he tried to hide reared itself forward in the volume his voice fell. “Doing me a great favor.” Another swallow, a gulp of his pride. “I am extremely out of my depth here and- and incredibly nervous.”

Ernesto paused, and turned slowly. He could see it plain as day now, the fear on Padre Juan's face, born of desperate hope and great terror of the pits of Hell. Was that bullshit about being his elder and more experienced an attempt at hiding all that? Of course it was. He could see that now.

Had he been more self-aware, Ernesto might have thought he knew something about hiding fear and doubts behind a thick layer of bluster and forced confidence - but he wasn't self-aware enough, and he did not think of that. What he did think was that, for the entire thing to go anywhere, Juan really needed to relax. He would probably be tight as a coiled spring otherwise, making sex pretty difficult for both. 

Ernesto had no desire to make that night… anything at all like the nights in the barracks. So he drew in a long breath, and turned fully to face him. "Then let me lead. I know what I'm doing."

For the first time, the unrelenting pair seemed to reach a decision where one surrendered without a migraine-inducing battle. John’s white flag came in a forced heavy exhale. 

“...So be it. How do you believe we should… go on then?” For such a self-assured leader of sermons, stumbling over words like this was so forgein and humiliating. 

And ah, what a chance that was for Ernesto - shoving him in the role of pupil for once, with him as the teacher of far more enjoyable lessons than the proper way to hold hosts during the Holy Communion. He held back a smile that would have been more of a grin, and nodded. Time to take charge. "Put the candle on the nightstand."

“The candle, of course, I wouldn’t dream of shaming us-” John startled, and swiftly blew it out.

Ah. That was… not what he had in mind. "... Juan." Ernesto's voice rang out through near-complete darkness. "I can't see a thing ."

“Oh good, good. I worried the moonlight would be too bright--” 

"I told you to put it down, not to blow it out. Do you have any matches?" Ernesto spoke slowly, chasing away the mental image of his hand hitting the back of Juan's head, repeatedly. It was tempting, but hard to achieve while unable to see anything.

“Ah, Ernest ,” The gringo had the audacity to punctuate his ‘correct’ form of names in response to his own being said in Spanish. “You’re not… proposing we look upon each other’s bare forms in the light?” 

"You can shut your eyes. I need to be able to see what I'm doing," Ernesto muttered. Truth be told he would probably be able to get things done in the dark with some patience, but with that last remark on his name good old Juan had used up all his extra rations of patience for the night.

“Ab- absolutely not!” the usually authoritative retort came out like a choke on bad wine. “We must be able to look upon each other in the future following this night with...with purity and without desire and if we see each other then…” he only realized the hole he was digging himself into once he’d said too much. 

Listen to him going, Ernesto thought, like he wasn’t struggling to even look at him as things were already. He smiled. "Ah, but is this not meant to test you?" Ernesto asked, sounding just a little smug. He stepped closer, blindly. Now that, Juan could not argue. 

“Test me, sí, but not ruin the purity of our relationship.” 

“ ‘To the pure all things are pure’. ” Ernesto couldn’t remember the rest of the verse, he only recalled that one because he’d read it over in mass a week ago. He couldn’t remember how it was in Latin either, but he didn’t need to: a simple test of who was more moral was all he needed to win. He took a step forward, now less than an inch away from Juan. Now either he’d admit to being less pure than him, or he’d go grab the matchbox. 

“I’ll...I’ll grab the matchbox,” the gringo relented, or perhaps searched for an excuse to scutter away. Even in the darkness, one could feel the body heat.

Ah, Ernesto thought, finally talking sense. He stood there in the dark and, as he waited, loosened his collar and began to unbutton the cassock. By the time a match was struck, casting a tremulous light in the room, his chest was bared. The air was a little chilly, but no matter; he’d get a chance to warm up soon enough.

John nearly tripped over his own bare feet when he turned about to the sight. “Oh you’re- uh- why are you… undressing?” he struggled to keep a neutral tone as he his eyes darted around the room like an incensed man, to gaze upon anything but the bare, brown, and clearly… robust body. 

Ernesto shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "What we plan on doing can hardly be achieved with clothes on - and certainly you do not want me to defile the holy cloth by wearing it during the act, do you?" he added, and pushed it off his shoulders. "I was rather surprised you suggested as much earlier."

Realization hit John like a slap. “Sí! We musn’t defile-- right -- I hadn’t expected you to show up wearing--” he stammered, struggling to not let the novice priest realize he had just remembered protocol better than himself. Not that there was precisely a protocol for… that kind of situation. It was simply not meant to happen. 

But oh God, John was so desperate.

“I’ll just-- give you your privacy, but... I will leave on my shift, it is... not a holy garment.” Then he closed his eyes, as if that would make Ernest’s nudity non-existent. It however didn’t counter the terrible part of himself that, especially below the waist, was painfully eager to see it. 

"Well then, do as you said earlier. Kneel on the bed, and worry of nothing." The smile was audible in Ernesto’s tone. It was like magic. Without a protest, a haughty look, a fuss, or even disapproving frown, Juan complied doing just that. And all this time he’d just needed to be naked. Well, that was… good to know. An effective way to shut him up, if not one he could use in public. 

Ernesto reached in a pocket to take a small bottle of anointing oil before discarding his cassock entirely, stepping closer to the bed. It was… almost alluring, seeing Juan like that: on his hands and knees, head bowed, waiting. Of course, that shift was in the way - but it was hardly a problem. 

Sitting behind him, Ernesto placed a hand over his ass through the thin fabric, giving it a firm squeeze.

“What in all creation!” 

The words jumped from John’s mouth so quickly it sounded like one. In an instant he recognized it was English, and cleared his throat and lowered his eyes. “Lo siento, I wasn’t expecting-- you’ll have to warn me.” 

When was the last time he had been touched anywhere forbidden? Boyhood surely, back in a time of innocence. Baths by the maids - and even in childhood he and the other boys knew better than to behave so vulgarly. And since he was cast out, he could only recall the rare hug initiated from the weeping women he comforted in his parish in America. No Mexican had been so grateful yet. Ironic, considering their habit of over-touching one another. 

Ernesto blinked, taken aback by the outburst, then chuckled. No man he'd been with had reacted like that to a simple touch, let alone in the army. It probably would have had the same effect regardless of who touched him, but Ernesto still found it… quite flattering. "Ah, my apologies. I will be careful." He placed his hand back on the gringo's rear, but didn't squeeze again. "I will pull up the shift now. All right?"

Oh God, getting warnings was only going to make it worse, wasn’t it? Just hearing him say it made John’s pulse quicken to a degree he could nearly hear it in his own ears. A fine layer of sweat coated his palms, making the coarse, nun-knit blanket beneath him damp. 

“Of course, of course, anything you deem necessary to get it over with. On second thought you needn’t… tell me everything.” 

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, and slowly pulled up the shift, exposing his rear. Somehow, it was… even whiter than the rest of him; he supposed it had likely never never been touched by the sun. He ran a hand over it and ah, it was soft . Even the hair was fine and blonde, reminding him of a baby chick - decidedly not a very seductive thing to point out, so he decided not to.

The gringo kept quiet, probably with every ounce of willpower, but then there was a strange humming sound. Almost like music, except that Padre Juan truly disliked secular music. "No?"

“No, or I will.. lose my nerve.” 

"Very well," Ernesto said, hand still on his ass. He stroked his thumb over it, and licked his lips. Ah, Padre Juan was far from a beauty, but the sight made his breath quicken all the same, his cock beginning to stir. It had been a  while since he’d last had a man. Dribbling some of the anointing oil in his hand, he slid his hand between his thighs, brushing it against his testicles. "Spread your legs a little."

“Why is your hand… wet?” John forced out the words like he was speaking against a gag. Which he nearly was, the amount his embarrassment was making every part of his body tense and lock, along with his subconscious attempt to bury his face in his hanging nightgown.

A hand was on his genitals.  

A hand that was not his. Dear God in Heaven. 

“Oil. To make it easier,” Ernesto said, choosing to omit the fact it was anointing oil, not something he’d just grabbed from the kitchen. Still, something about the tenseness of Juan’s back made him pause. He fell silent for a few moments and, for the first time, he hesitated. 

“... It’s not bound to work. We can stop.”

“You…” A note of surprise entered Juan’s voice. A few seconds passed, then a firmer press to his words slipped in his voice. “... I have to try. Even if you believe a remote possibility, I need a solution. I’m...desperate,” he admitted. 

It was a possibility, Ernesto supposed; back in the barracks, many men had wanted nothing more to do with the-- arrangement many of them had, after the first try. Ernesto didn’t precisely plan on leaving Padre Juan bleeding - he made it tempting but not like that, something in him balked at the prospect - but perhaps, once he did try, he would find he no longer desired it. That would be a bit of a blow to Ernesto’s pride, but he could handle that. Probably.

“... All right.” He pushed his thighs apart, just a little. And after all, if it kept the gringo here, whether he enjoyed it or not-- there would be no harm done right? He was clearly the type of man who could do with a release of pent-up tension. 

John resisted asking what the point of his actions were. Why a hand was rubbing oil, why his legs had to be parted to such a vulgar, showy position, and oh there was his answer. One of the fingers was there-- that untouchable, horrid little hole, that acted like a trigger making John’s head snap up. 

“Ah-- must you touch-- that’s rather unsanitary, do you have to soil your hand with… with...” his mind spun so quickly he could barely keep his words in order.  

“Just getting you ready.” Ernesto’s voice came out a little huskier than usual. “I know what I’m doing.” The other hand, the one without oil on it, came up to rub the small of his back, trying to soothe him. He was wound up like the spring of a clock, of course, just like expected.

Apparently there were more steps to this than ‘bend over and be done with it’ as John had bargained. So the man braced himself, closed his eyes and attempted to think of something else. God? No, too much guilt. Texas? Too sorrowful. Nature? God’s wonders- whoops, back to God again. Cigarettes. There, that was something to focus on. He could smoke as soon as this was over and calm down.

But the moment he began to allow his body even a little distraction, something worse crept in. Something even more forgein than the impure touches. It started as a tingle, like the faintest tremble of the smallest harp string, a pleasant noise so soft it could be easily overlooked unless you were holding the instrument and felt the reverberations through it. Something was being triggered from the finger circling his hole, and it was strange enough to distract him until he felt Ernesto’s finger begin to press against it. His mind stilled. There was guilt, there was horror, there was terror, there was unholy desire for more. “Is that-- are you-- are we doing the deed?” 

“Getting you ready.” That reassuring tone again, the hand still rubbing the small of his back - then the oiled finger pressed in a bit more, just enough to breach.

“You mean-- your finger...?” he choked out. It was important to remember he was a virgin, or Ernesto would be so royally offended. Honestly, only a virgin could mistake a finger for his cock. He was much thicker than that, thank you so very much. 

“Sí. Don’t worry.”

“Easier said than done, there’s something in -” No no, John mustn't allow himself to go into details or he may very well faint from the shock of all this. Instead he lifted one shaky arm to clutch the dangling gold cross around his neck. “C-carry on. I should like to hurry this along.” 

You really shouldn’t, Ernesto thought, unless you really want to explain to doctor Sanchéz how come you showed at his door with a torn-up asshole.

But saying any of that aloud would have probably made Padre Juan faint, so he bit his tongue and pushed in deeper instead - slowly, because damn was he tight. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought that he could lose a finger if he just clenched. His other hand kept rubbing the small of his back, trying to get him to loosen up. 

“Hmmmph...,” Another humming, muffled, noise from John, his face reddening as he found himself sink further to his elbows when a sudden ripple ran up his body from something odd the finger had stroked. The string of a harp again - but someone had just taken their whole damn hand and twanged a large string roughly making the entire instrument shake. He didn’t dare speak, it chanced a weird sound leaping out, or even worse acknowledging that whatever was happening right now was not, as expected, hoped and planned, miserably painful.

Quite the contrary, it sent shivers of pleasure up his spine - something that was not at all lost to Ernesto, because the gringo was… definitely not as good an actor as himself. There was no way he was simply clenching his ass around the finger for a show. 

“Surely it is ready,” Juan suddenly exclaimed, the words forced out from clenched teeth. 

Ernesto frowned, more than slightly offended. His cock may be on the shorter side, all right, but it was thick, had the idiota not noticed that?

“I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, and hooked his finger, pressing down on a spot that, if he was not mistaken-- ah, yes, now that moan was music to his ears. The next moment there was a muffled wince, the gringo biting something to stifle the possibility of another one. Of course. He’d gathered that Americans hate kissing, making noise, and this was all that rolled into a convenience package. 

John had never experienced anything like it, and from the strange jolt it sent to his own member, it was undeniably a sinful experience. It no longer hung anxiously between his legs but twitched upward, straight, a state he had awoken in horror many mornings to find it in - and thus then prayed away. 

Good God, he could not pray now. 

“Is- isn’t ready?” Even his voice had changed, lowering to a strange, husky, tone he’d never heard from himself before. 

"You need to try and relax," Ernesto said, and suddenly shifted - from sitting behind him to kneeling, and reached between his thighs with his free hand, palming at his cock. To no surprise whatsoever, he found him hard. "You're being more impatient than I expected."

“I, I just- just want to be cured is all, t-that is my impatience and lack of virtue-” The combined hands were making John’s words slur. Even from the light brushes he could feel warmth, a callous texture - all these things seeming to hit several strings at once making whatever was happening in him even louder. “Por favor, I-- I just want to get on with it-- you needn’t-- needn’t caress me like this.” 

Ah, right. Ernesto pulled back his hand, and hesitated a moment before sliding the finger out, nearly all the way, then back in - and once sure there was no pain, he pulled back some to press in another finger.

"You know, that's-- normal. As in, to be expected. You being hard." Who wouldn't want me? "I- have the same, uh, issue,” he added. Because damn he was hard, cock throbbing each time he allowed himself to pause and really look at the man before him, on his hands and knees, shift bunched up around his waist. He was no beauty but ah, he was soft - pudgy, more accurately - and smelled good, and he couldn't remember the last time a man had been so turned on by his touch alone.

“I understand basic human anatomy, and the sexual response in human beings.” 

It was delightfully vindicating that Juan’s attempt at a sharp, snobbish remark came out in what sounded like a drunken man’s slur, barely stitching each word together. “If you have the- the correct issue then do what you must with your member.” 

Ah, he certainly had a way to make this fun didn’t he? Ernesto might have rolled his eyes, if not for the fact he was so amusing to hear. He pushed in the entire second finger, slowly, and shifted to lean across his back, reaching around him to run a hand across his chest. His cock brushed against Juan's thigh, hot and hard, tip already wet enough to smear pre-come across his ridiculously white skin. He could feel the scars on his back too, rougher than the rest on him, against his chest.

"Soon," he murmured against his ear.

“Why the delay?” John mustered. That was it wasn’t it? The hot flesh against his leg. He couldn’t discern which emotion started a quiver in his thighs at the realization. “I am not afraid of pain, I welcome it, it will cure me.” 

"And get you on the position of having to explain the médico how come you have a torn asshole." Ernesto's voice was a little dry now. "I told you, I know what I'm doing." He scissored his fingers briefly, nuzzling the nape of his neck. Up close he smelled ever nicer, enough to forget how annoying he was, of incense and old wood and anointing oils. The only out of place smell was of faint tobacco too, which he could only assume came from a parishioner. It was… a world away from everything the barracks had been.

And it seemed the scissoring quelled any further protest from John. His shoulder blades rose as his back curled higher, his body struggling to react to whatever new feeling was being rushed through up his spine in high violent waves now. Without much realization he sank further into the bed-gripping the pillow to bite and hide his feverish, heated, face. Against his palm, the crucifix nearly punctured the skin from his grip. 

“I can’t-- por favor I can’t handle that, can-- can we get on with it?” It was an agonized groan a more experienced man would recognize as his own need for relief. In John’s case, it was his hope to replace this building sensation with something more muted. 

It wasn't every day someone begged Ernesto to fuck him. As in, it had happened, but not as often as he felt it ought to have. All right, maybe it wasn't precisely the fuck he was begging for, but he could twist the truth a bit. The gringo wanted him to get on with it, and get on with it he would. So he lifted himself, pulled out his fingers, dribbled more oil on his erection, and gripped his hips.

For the second, and surely not the last time that night, John was heavily humbled. The instant he could feel Ernest’s member pressed against his body, well, he felt quite foolish for having assumed his finger before was it. It felt terribly large, like its girth would tear him apart, and to his dismay his attentive member seemed to hop in delight at the prospect despite his more logical fears. Disgusting he thought of himself, trying his best to think on a prayer for this situation but Latin was so muddled in his mind at the moment.

It took every ounce of Ernesto's willpower not to just shove himself in. He could have-- he asked for it-- but at the same time, he worried he might cause tearing that might require medical attention. That would be inconvenient, and besides… besides, he didn't want that. No such care was taken on the barracks, either, and Ernesto didn't wish this to feel anything like it did those nights, much like he never wanted to return there. 

So, when he began prodding the entrance, he did so very, very slowly.

“D-deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet--” The whisper was a soft hissing sound from between Juan’s clenched teeth. Well people had called out to God before in bed with Ernesto but this was… new. Ernesto bit back a retort - “you can call me Ernesto” - before he gripped his hips a little tighter. 

Christ, everything about that man was smooth and soft, and it was warm, and the temptation to sink in and take his pleasure was hard to resist. He honestly couldn’t recall this much time ever passing between getting in someone’s bed and actually getting his cock in. Yet, despite being painfully hard, he forced himself to go slowly. A long breath and slow, careful push - letting only the very tip slip inside. He tilted his hips in circular movements, to ease it in. 

The Latin trailed off to soft wincing breaths. The discomfort was there now, just as John had wished for. He could ignore how his member still twitched with some unanswered want, so long as he focused on the tension in his rear - the stretching that felt impossible to accommodate, oh God what was happening. That is, until Ernesto’s slow movements seemed to give way to a pop of pressure, something settling inside forcing John’s head up with a sharp gasp.

“Is that-- have we… we done it?” Because there, I’m not enjoying it, experiment over, I’m cured. 

Ernesto stilled, still gripping his hips, breathing fast. The air felt scorching hot, his skin covered in sweat. Only the head was in, and the pressure, squeezing , was almost too much. Christ he was tight. Tight enough to make him worry that maybe it would be too much-- he wasn’t ready-- he’d rip something, there would be blood, and he didn’t want there to be blood. 

“Just got started, Juan.”

“You’re… you sound as though you’ve run a mile.” Now he was far too exasperated to snap ‘it’s John’, but in just enough of a state to recognize that. And recognize that seemed to be something his rebellious sex enjoyed. 

Because you’re being such a damn tease would probably not be the correct answer to give, especially as Juan clearly did not mean to be one and likely would need to be explained what Ernesto meant by that, which might result in a heart attack he’d very much rather avoid. However convenient Juan’s sudden and entirely natural death would be to him, at the moment he’d try to keep himself safe without having to kill anybody else. Even the passing thought brought forth invasive images. 

The memory of Alberto’s death - the unprotected back of his head, the gunshot and the spray of blood, the thump as the body fell on the sand beneath the beating sun and the terrified noise his horse had made - made it back in his mind for a brief moment, but Ernesto did his best to chase it away.

And there was no better distraction, he’d learned, than what he was currently in the process of doing. So he licked his lips and pulled back before he leaned in, tilting his hips, carefully pushing back in and then deeper, just another fraction.

“How… how much further?” Of course Juan would be this demanding in bed even without knowing what was even happening. Ernesto rolled his eyes.

“What, are you that eager?”

“I should like to cured, sí, I waited years for this.” Wait that came out wrong. “A cure, I mean, not-- I, ah-- just-- go on then.” Snapping back was difficult when his own breath felt like he was paying for it by the second. 

Ah, Ernesto thought, fuck this guy. Literally - still giving him orders, even like this. Very well, he could follow orders; he’d been trained to do just that, after all, in the army. He wanted to be fucked, and so he would be.

Ernesto scowled and almost, almost shoved in. But… ah, this was still so different, no matter how infuriating the gringo still managed to get even with his face into the pillow and legs spread for him. He was softer - this was softer - and Ernesto found he couldn’t manage to be deliberately harsh. He paused a moment, pulled back, and then he did push back in… but slowly, to avoid tearing. 

“Aren’t-- aren’t you moving terribly slow?” John muttered, oblivious of the great favor he was doing him. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake . “Do you really want to explain doctor Sanchéz how come your asshole is torn and infection is setting in?” The noise of alarm Juan made almost compensated for how annoying he was being.

“I… no. I didn’t consider… c-carry on,” he managed.

Ah, he finally got it, the second or third time he said it. And it looked like he could no longer bring himself to lecture him about cursing, which was a nice plus. Now that was… better, Ernesto supposed. He dared push a little further, rotating his hips - listening closely for any sound of discomfort or pain. Because really, if he did make him bleed, then Juan may not be the only one to find himself having to answer uncomfortable questions.

Truth be told John was so used to treating any sort of pain or blood as a symptom of serving God in the best and most selfless way, he wouldn’t have recognized the issue initially. It was so personal - all his feelings were - Ernest would be the last to know, last he’d tell, if any of this affair caused him terrible pain, even if their bodies were conjoined.  

Yet suddenly, when he was lost in his thoughts, there was no pain. There was that strange ripple of a feeling again from the way Ernest’s hips tilted to that… place in him. The side facing his stomach. That was more alarming than pain; John sucked in his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping it would pass to the tight, sore, discomfort again. 

Except it did not. It was tight, he was so full, but as Ernest leaned down across his back, pushed deeper, there was no pain.

“I… I believe you need to move faster,” he managed in a gasp. 

“Stop telling me what to do,” Ernesto groaned against his ear, pushing a little deeper. A hand reached to stroke his chest, the other down his stomach, between his thighs, just brushing his cock. 

“I- Yo-” John began in English and then slurred into Spanish, which deteriorated into a breathy syllable. The combination of sensations was making him light headed; he desperately searched in the back of his mind for pain, or even just discomfort, but didn't find any. This tingling was like someone was playing an instrument directly in his ear, drowning out all other sensation. 

Another push, a groan - Christ that felt good, so tight around him, and Juan finally being quiet was one hell of a perk. And he took nearly all of him, ah, maybe he was ready. Another groan, and Ernesto rolled his hips, taking a hold of Juan’s cock to stroke it. Full mast, of course he is, who could possibly resist him?

John nearly suffocated himself burying his face in the pillow; the heat and sounds were threatening to spill out of his mouth if he didn’t remain muffled. He couldn’t understand how someone could remain conscious through this. What was happening inside him and across his member threatened to overtake him like the most instant and powerful wine. His own chest was heaving heavily as he’d noticed in Ernest’s breath. God he shouldn’t have lit that candle again, he could only imagine the miserable state his face would be if Ernest moved around him and saw it. 

How could his cursed organ be so erect right now? Every part of this was humiliating - something must be wrong, he must not be doing it right. “A-are you sure, this is, right?” he had to press his words carefully, or else they would come out in gasps and groans. 

All right, Ernesto thought, he’d had it with his constant questioning. Time to shut him up, he thought, and rocked against him, squeezing his cock at the same time - ah, the tip was already wet with precum from it. His other hand wandered up his chest, found a nipple, and pinched. 

That did it, a groan slipped out of the gringo in an undeniable proof of Ernesto’s skill. Around his cock he could feel Juan’s body clench, pulse, build toward a peak. Not another word came out of his heavily accented Spanish questioning Ernesto’s efforts. And the only prayer he heard was ‘Oh God’ . Instead he could focus on just how satisfying it was to have finally found a way to shut him up. 

Not that shutting him up was the only satisfying part. Because oh it felt good, how warm he was around him, beneath him - how good he smelled, too. Ernesto couldn’t get enough of that. He leaned across his back, letting go of his cock to run both hands across his chest. This… he wouldn’t be doing this in the barracks, because that was only about getting quick relief and anything too gentle would be an insult to the manhood of both men involved. It would have gotten him odd looks at best, a punch to the face at worst. 

And none of the soldiers had felt that nice to the touch, either, all roughened skin and taut bodies, all of them with lice and reeking of sweat after a day marching under the sun. The gringo was soft, even the hair on his chest was so fine. Ernesto pressed further into him - Christ that felt good, pleasure beginning to pool in his loins - and nestled his face against the crook of Juan’s neck, breathing fast. 

“Lie down,” he rasped, letting his weight push him down slowly. “On your stomach.”

To his absolute surprise, the man complied. No question, no fuss, just a tentative pause before reclining entirely. He was clearly waiting, hoping, this would be the change he was looking for. Ah, that was… better. Ernesto grinned a little, holding himself up on his arms. Juan’s skin was so flushed, he was almost a bright pink all over. “You took it all,” he rasped. “You sure you were a virgin?”

“O-of course,” Padre Juan sputtered indignantly. He seemed so mortally offended by the suggestion, it made Ernesto chuckle.

“Just kidding, just kidding.” He leaned down on him, breathing fast, face pressed against his neck, and began to slowly tilt his hips - gentle circular movements as opposed to proper thrusting, because oh he suspected he wouldn’t last long otherwise.

And neither would the gringo, apparently. 

“P-pause-- por favor, wait--” Juan choked out suddenly, his entire form trembling beneath Ernesto’s weight. He had pulled his head and shoulders up as much as he could. Ernesto immediately stilled, waiting. Shit, had he been too careless-- was there tearing-- was he hurt?

For a few agonizing seconds Juan didn’t speak at all, then managed some anxious words. “So-something… something’s happening to me, I’m… I’m quivering, and-- and it feels like something is going t-to overtake me...”

Oh, Ernesto thought. He breathed out a sigh of relief. “It’s all right,” he muttered, and pushed himself up, still deep within him. He rested a hand over his shuddering back. “It’s all right.”

“I-...” John swallowed. He wanted words, an explanation, a discussion. But for once in his life, words failed him in every language he knew. Everything in his mind was cloudy; the only thing that was clear was how much his sex throbbed with a miserable coiled tension - and how Ernest’s pause made the tension nearly acute pain. 

Right now the younger priest’s reassurance, something he would gauff at in other situations, was enough to sedate his worry. So with surrender, he gave a shaky nod, dropping his chin to the pillow once more. There was more panting, moans, little ‘ah, ah, ah’ leaving him with each puff of breath to be muffled into the pillow - all very, very satisfying. 

“That’s it, relax,” Ernesto panted, and began rocking his hips again, slowly. It was almost a power trip getting him to listen like this. Because it was obvious when just those slight movements brought him to a surprised, harsh, climax - ass clenching his cock so divinely, a man who hadn’t yet learned how to suppress the symptoms of orgasms to keep face. 

John had never experienced anything like it, all his nocturnal emissions had been just that. Unconscious, muted by sleep. Awake it felt like something had just swept over his entire body, then rushed out of him, spilling out all the anxiety, tensions, pain of the evening into a small puddle between his stomach and the mattress. It took him several delayed seconds of consciousness to recognize he’d slurred out some mixture of an English exclamation and the Lord’s name. He laid there shivering, lips flushed, wet, and the crucifix now pressed against his rushing heart. In all the confusion he had let go of it. 

Well, that had been quick. Ernesto was rather flattered, but held back a remark and kept moving instead, so slowly, building up a slow, thorough pace. Juan was done, but he was not and ah, he-- deserved some release for a job well done, no? Yes, he decided, he did. He rested on John's back again, arms sneaking around him to pull him close, and kept going. It was-- heavenly, the heat and the tightness and the softness beneath him. 

But with his returning clarity, came more remarks from what sounded like the closest to drunk he would ever hear Juan.

“I… have we done it… is it over?” 

For a man who prided himself on manners, what an awful imposition during a sexual encounter. Ernesto rolled his eyes, and on a whim bit gently into his shoulder - not enough to leave a mark, no, not like back there. “No,” he panted, and tilted his hips a little harder. “Not yet.”

“Did… did you just bite me?!” The gringo managed to sound somewhat outraged despite how he was struggling to quell his pants. Baiting him to argue wasn’t going over very well, considering Ernesto no longer needed to be so cautious if he’d already gotten him off. Clearly the man wasn’t in pain anymore. 

Well then, he could be… a tad more vigorous, no? Ernesto smiled against his skin and instead of replying, he pulled out some to thrust back in - a little harder. 

John nearly bit his tongue. Sensation rocketed up his back, intoxicating, like a bullet. After that paroxysm his entire body had become so vulnerable, his mental wall to hate this lost underneath a sea of pleasant sensations swirling his words and thoughts at the moment. If he didn’t remain preoccupied with staying quiet he’d release some vulgar sound he’d heard in alleyways before. 

That didn’t make any less obvious to Ernesto how he enjoyed though, especially from how his breaths hitched, back arched, thighs lifted, and ass pulsed for further stimulation against his cock. Now that was more than a little flattering, a sudden thought entering his mind - could he make him come again? 

One way to find out. Ernesto drew back only a little, stilled - ah, was it just him or Juan had instinctively tried to lift his hips to keep him in - and he thrust in again, a sudden jolt of his hips, pushing him further into the mattress.

“Jesus H. Christ!” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before he could stop them - and oh, the immediate regret. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was something he hadn’t done since he was a boy. The embarrassment didn’t have time to settle in, he was too lost in it, his body now in control and struggling to get closer, to get more from Ernest. 

“Hmm? What was that?” Ernesto gasped out against his neck, moving again - sharper thrusts, deep, tilting his hips and searching for the right spot, the right angle. At that point, getting a moan out of him was a matter of pride.

“Nothing- uh- nada...” The gringo slurred back, shaking his head. Nice try. Another thrust, one deliberate into the spot he’d found with his fingers, and Juan threw back his head, making a noise through his clenched teeth like a man who had found the peace of divine ecstasy. There were no more complaints out of him. Only the subtle, trying to be discreet, movements of his body to let Ernesto thrust more smoothly.  

And ah, he wasn’t the only one in bliss, not anymore. It felt good, everything felt good - the clean sheets and the quietness of the room only broken by their panting and the faint slap of flesh on flesh, how soft he was and how good he smelled and Ernesto tried to draw it out, moving his hips in deep, languid strokes. He was close - Christ so close - but he could hold back, he could make it last. The wooden frame creaked, so softly, and he could see the gringo’s fingers were coiled into his pillow so tight they turned red. 

“Oh God,” What is happening. That was the only concise thought John could mange. Sin or cure was far from his mind right now. Moments of embarrassment would creep in, when he felt the sweat on his back, heard the soft clap of their bodies meeting, panting in his ear - but none of it made enough information in his mind to muster stopping. The only thing that jerked any awareness to his mind was when he felt Ernest’s arm slip under his thighs-and with shocking strength rip his hips up taunt to his groin. It knocked a gasp out of him. Since Ernest nearly strangled him for endangering that foolish townswoman, he had forgotten just how strong he was. 

“ D-don’t yank me! ” But he said it in the midst of a moan-and in English at that, rendering it useless as an attempt to try and find some superiority. He looked and felt wild. Hair sticking to his face and out at every angle. Perspiration was coating his skin, making his nightgown stick against his flesh. Was this Hell? It felt too good to be Hell, even if it was hot enough. 

A part of Ernesto’s brain wondered what the hell had he just said, but it was a really tiny part. The rest was much too taken with how good it felt, how open to him the gringo was now. He grasped his ass, spreading his cheeks to give himself better access-- deeper into that warmth that clenched around him -- and canted his hips, again and again, a barrage of sharp thrusts and mind-numbing pleasure, panting and gasping and refusing to slow down.

Christ to see Padre Juan like this - spread like this for him, moaning for him, moving against him - the haughtiness smacked out of him, the superior tone gone along with any intelligible words. Triumph could only be celebrated with a trophy, which came in the form of Juan’s shift. He was suddenly nearly tangling himself in it trying to pull it off - or just over his face. 

Ernesto decided the former and assisted by pulling it forward and then tossing it off the bed before he could change his mind. Now he could watch his entire body go pink as he fucked him properly. He was so close but he could hold on, just a little more, just a little more...

His efforts were rewarded. Juan shuddered against him once more and let out half a harsh groan - ‘Oh God’ - before he buried his face in the pillow. This time he didn’t fight it and nearly trembled out of Ernesto’s grasp from the convulsions. But oh no, he would not let him go that easily, and kept his hips locked even as their position shifted to flat on the bed. 

The sense of triumph rushed to his head, and Ernesto gave a sound that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so out of breath, so busy fucking him though his orgasm, chasing his own.  

John’s mind was too blank to be ashamed-nothing existed anymore. With the whip there was only pain, a numbness of the mind, a quieting peace that let his body lead his soul a moment. This… was the opposite. Delicious, flowing, explosive, flashes in his mind that quieted every worry he’d ever had or would for that night. 

“Ah-- fuck--” Ernesto moaned through his teeth. It was too much, the way he clenched around him, how he trembled, the sounds that left him - his thrusts became quicker, more erratic, pleasure coiling in his loins and it was only a matter of moments. He pressed in deep, dropped his head, and he came with a long groan. 

It was the quietest the room had ever been with the two of them in it. Each were panting heavily, lost enough to not recognize they now laid atop each other without needing to. The act was done. Polite parting could happen. But it took at least a minute before John finally lifted his head. 

“The...the candle’s too bright.” 

His accent had never sounded thicker, but he was barely aware. All of his rational thoughts were buried under a layer of hazy ecstasy lingering like an inhaled high. It didn’t even occur to him that he should be horrified at the thought he had another man’s seed within him. 

“Nhhh,” was the only response he got. Ernesto was panting on top of him, still in him, boneless and breathless and lost to the world. He couldn’t muster the strength or will to lift himself, let alone the breath to blow the candle. He just wrapped his arms around Juan, leaning his cheek on the back of his shoulder. “Close your eyes,” he finally mumbled. 

In that moment it seemed like a perfectly rational thing to do. John’s body was so light and heavy at once. His anxieties were lost on the ceiling, expelled with the rest of his wit from that second spending. They’d be saying they need to wash, they need to pray, they need to absolve each other, and why was he clinging to him? 

But they weren’t there. Instead the only voice in him decided that closing his very heavy eyelids from the invasive light would add to all the pleasant feelings he felt right now. And that Ernest’s presence was a comfort because, something told him in the back of his mind, these sensations could be so very bad if he was experiencing them by his own self. 

Ernesto felt him relax, and it was… odd, but not unwelcome. No need to get up quickly and mutter nonsense in Latin: he could keep leaning on him, bask in the sensation - oh so soft - for a while longer. Ernesto nuzzled the crook of his neck, already half-asleep and still dizzy with pleasure, and shut his eyes as well, breathing slowly in his scent.

A few minutes more, neither could argue another few minutes like this could cause any harm. After all the desert is cold at night. That was why they pulled the blanket up, it was just a subconscious need, not an invitation for Ernesto to stay all night. But a few minutes became ten, and washing seemed such a chore right now when it was so cold. The walk back to Ernesto’s room seemed so far, when it was so cold. Without a word to each other they finally agreed wordlessly - a feat only possible without clear-headed sobriety, it seemed - that falling asleep was just the more logical opinion. 

And while he would deny it later on, claiming he’d only chosen not to move in order not to disturb John’s sleep, Ernesto was the first one to let sleep claim in: he closed his eyes and let himself fall into a slumber, lulled by the warmth of a body beneath his own and a steady heartbeat beneath his ear.

Both were in the deepest sleep they’d had in years, fucked to exhaustion, when the candle finally extinguished on its own, melted down to the hilt.

[all-things-skam]

Incantava prompt: ‘‘I haven’t been okay for a long time.’‘ Ele is still struggling with her eating disorder. Edo notices something is wrong and tries to talk with her about it. Thanks!

Hi. Can you please write an Incantava fic in which Edoardo discovers Eleanora has an eating disorder. Of course only if you’re comfortable writing that

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Title: Old habits doesn’t die

Ship: Skam Italia | Eleonora Sava and Edoardo Incanti (Incantava)

At first, it was like Edoardo didn’t want to see what he was seeing. As if his brain didn’t want him to see what he was seeing and had tricked him and blinded him from the hard truth.

Why though? Why did his brain chose to filter his girlfriend’s silent sufferings? Did it think he wouldn’t handle it? Edoardo had had gone through his fair share of difficult thing in life going from his mother’s long and painful death to his blood brother assaulting his girlfriend under his roof, he could handle anything now.

It took Edoardo a couple weeks to realize something was off with his girlfriend and, once he caught on to what was going on, he was mad at himself for not remarking anything sooner. Knowing that the girl whom he cared the most about and loved with all his being had been suffering in silence and he hadn’t seen anything frustrated him. Edoardo felt like he had failed her, he had broken his promise to never hurt her.

Simple things she had said over the past two weeks came back in flashes as Edoardo was at Federico’s, lounging in his living room, chatting about their graduation party plans. With all those exams - and finals for Edoardo - Eleonora and he hadn’t been spending as much time together. These past weeks had been pretty stressful and hectic on both their ends, so they had little to no time to see each other beside sharing a couple kisses after school in his car or sneaking between classes. Edoardo had even tried taking her out for lunch, just to spend time with her, but, every times, he recalled her saying something like “I ate a big breakfast this morning” or “my stomach feels funny, I’d rather not eat and upset it” and now it felt like a punch in the gut. It was right under his nose and he didn’t notice anything.

The following day, Edoardo sat outside with his friends during lunch, smoking cigarettes as Chicco and Fede tried to convince Nathan that he should host the graduation party at his house because of his big pool. Instead of supporting the boys and backing them for their idea, Edoardo glanced at Eleonora, the fancy lunch she prepared herself all year missing from their table, having been replaced by a textbook. He could understand that she was feeling stressed at the moment and wasn’t hungry because of it but, she had to eat. Your body - and brain - needs carbohydrates to function properly.

And, this was another red flag to add to Edoardo’s list.

.

''Filo left on Wednesday night, will be out for the weekend,'' Eleonora announced, shutting the door behind them, turing to face Edoardo, grin on her lips.

He raised his eyebrows, crowding over her. ''Is he?''

Eleonora hummed, closing the distance between them to kiss him, hands founding their home on each other's bodies, kissing and pulling and caressing. Thank god Filippo was away or else he would've made sure to tease her about how she used to almost be a prude before Edoardo came into her life and now she's making out in the entry. Filippo never miss an occasion to embarrass his sister in front of her boyfriend.

They made their way to the couch, sharing kisses for a couple minutes before Eleonora got up and grabbed her laptop to put a movie. She wasn't kidding when she said they'd watch a movie.

The title appeared on the screen and Edoardo groaned. ''Are we really going to watch this movie?''

''Yes, we are!''

''The Favorite? Why are you doing this to me, Ele...''

Eleonora giggled at his dramatics and cuddled up against Edoardo, smiling at the feeling of his soft tee shirt under her cheek. ''Shh, it's starting.''

He rolled his eyes but still watched the entirety of the movie. And, if he had dozed off between scenes, it wasn't his fault.

''Well, that was a good movie,'' Edoardo said, waking up just in time as the credits rolled in.

Ele sat up, giving him a look. ''Bullshit, you slept through more than half the movie,'' she pointed.

Edoardo laughed, stretching a bit as Eleonora brushed away a stray curl that fell on his forehead, right above his brow. ''Sorry.''

''I'll put on another but, don't fall asleep this time.'' She pulled away and pointed an accusing finger at him. ''I'm watching you, Eduardo.''

''Ugh, will you ever stop calling me that?'' He grabbed his phone and checked the time, realizing it was almost seven. ''Why don't we go and fix some dinner. We can eat while we watch the next movie. What are you feeling for? Say and I'll cook it for you.''

She chuckled, loving how Edoardo was always up to show off his cooking skills. ''You won't find anything in the fridge, Filo ate everything before he left and, true to his fashion, he didn't go grocery shopping.''

''Oh. Okay. We can order in or I can go to the store and cook up something.''

Eleonora bit down her lip. ''Tempting but, I'm not really hungry.'' She moved to search for the next movie, trying to find something that won't make Edo fall asleep.

''You're not hungry or you don't want to eat?''

The words were out before he realized it. It wasn't his intention to bring it up like this but, now it's out and he couldn't go back.

Edoardo watched Eleonora tensing beside him, shifting away from him. By her reaction, he knew that he was right.

She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to act as natural as possible. ''W-why are you asking me this?''

Edoardo knew it was a delicate subject to bring up and dive in. He had to be careful with his words and chose them wisely because no one who has a disorder of any type liked to have them figured out and pointed out.

''I'm not blind. I notice things.''

Ele shook her head, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. ''I don't know what you're talking about... I'm just not hungry, Edo. Why do you have to make a big deal out of this and jump to absurd conclusions?''

Lying and denying was a way for people who suffered from eating disorders to hide their secret and, sometimes, they weren't aware that they were ill which would pain Edoardo even more if it was Eleonora's case.

But, it wasn't. She was aware of what she was doing, she was just terrified of having been caught so she used lies to get herself out of the situation but Edoardo wasn't going to let her get away with it. Eating disorders were serious matter and dangerous for your health - especially when they get out of hand.

''I'm not jumping to conclusions, this had been going on for a moment. You're avoiding food every occasions you get. What have you been eating for the past two days if Filippo emptied the fridge before he left?''

''No. No, you're seeing things the wrong way, I-''

''Don't play dumb with me, Eleonora!''

She flinched at his tone and Edoardo realized his mistake. He didn't mean to yell at her. Trusting others was something Eleonora had difficulty with and Edoardo knew it. He was just so fed up with all the lies and wished she would trust him enough to not feel forced to lie to him. He'd rather her say she isn't ready to talk about it than lie to his face.

A tear slipped down her cheek but she didn't wipe it. Her gaze was down, fingers shaking on her lap. Gently, Edoardo slid closer to the edge of the couch, closer to her, and covered them with his, stopping them from shaking.

Although he knew that starving herself and skipping meals was wrong, he also knew scolding and yelling at Eleonora wouldn't do any help.

''I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm sorry. I just- Seeing you like this breaks my heart...and it scares me too.''

''I know what I'm doing. I know when to stop,'' she pressed, sounding a bit unsure of who she was trying to convince, him or herself.

''Do you?'' Edoardo asked, getting more concerned about her and her health and well being when he noticed how her cheekbones were more proheminent and her wrists smaller.

''You don't have to worry about me. I've done this before.''

Her temptative to reassure him went down the drain because Edoardo's concern broadened at the release of worrisome new information.

''I've always been respectful of your wishes but, I can't this time. I can't not worry about you. This is what humans do, we worry about the ones we care about and you mean so much to me, Eleonora. You're the person I care the most about in my life and I'm not going to judge you, I just want to understand why you're treating your body this way. What's pushing you to do this? Is it...me? Did I ever-''

''No. No, Edo.'' She shook her head, squeezing his hands, soothing his sudden fear. ''It's not you.'' She casted her eyes down. ''I...I haven't been okay for a long time.''

Ele took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to put all her feelings to words. She had never told this story to anyone, not even her brother with whom she was very close to.

At first, she was hesitant, worried Edoardo would look down at her from his Villa boy pedestal but, she was so wrong to think that he would think less of her. He had always been accepting and understanding with her, why did she think, even for a second, he wouldn't accept this side of her as well.

''I was twelve when it started. I didn't do it for you reasons you think, at least not at first. I never had control over anything in my life. My parents's divorce and absence, the many moves; none of these were my choices. I was looking for control. Something I could have full control on, something only me could have control on. The majority of the time, my parents working full time jobs - and Filo had a lot of friends, he was rarely home too - so it was easy to skip meals without anyone noticing. I hadn't banned food from my body though, I wasn't starving myself.''

Eleonora shifted on the couch, getting uncomfortable and uneasy as bad memories returned.

Gently rubbing her arm up and down in comfort, Edoardo looked at her with the softest eyes. ''Hey, you don't have to continue if you don't feel comfortable telling me,'' he said, not wanting to pressure her or force her to go through though old memories.

She shook her head. ''I have to do this. I...I want to tell you.''

''Okay.'' He tucked a piece of hair behind her head, caressing her cheek. ''Take your time.''

''Then, things started going downhill in my personal life. My obsession with control got out of hand and, like a lot of young girls, I found myself staring at the mirror, hating at my reflexion. I told myself I would stop when I'd reached a certain weight but, it's a vicious circle, you know. You'll never be satisfied with the way you look regardless how little you weight. One day, I was alone at home and fainted from not eating. That's when I ended it all; no more skipping meals, no more starving myself. That's also when I started learning how to cook. I wasn't good at it but it helped me control and chose better what I was putting in my body.''

This might justify her acts from the past but, what about now? What drove Eleonora to fall back into her old habit? Was it her need for control? Was it- No. Edoardo had never made any off-hand comments about Eleonora's look. He had teased her once of twice about an ugly sweater and collared shirts but, it was light hearted.

''What about now?'' he asked.

She furrowed her eyebrows, not completely understanding his question.

Eating disorders are one of those things you'll have to live with for the rest of your life once it entered it. Above all, it's a mental illness, not physical which means it's something you'll have to mentally work on in order to recover but, alas, there's always going to be a risk of relapse.

''A relapse doesn't happen without a reason.''

Biting her lip, Eleonora looked up at Edo, shrugging. She had been so stressed lately that she couldn't recall exactly when she fell back into her old patterns. ''I don't know. I...I don't know. It might be stress? I really don't know...''

''It's okay. We'll figure it out.''

We.

Her heart felt warm. She wasn't alone in this anymore, she had a supportive boyfriend by her side. Tears filled her light green eyes and Edoardo leaned close, passing an arm around her protectively, kissing her shoulder and up her neck, his curls tickling on its way.

She closed her eyes and let herself melt into Edoardo's touch. ''Okay.''

Chin on hooked on her shoulder, he cocked an eyebrow. ''Now...what about some ice cream?''

Ele's eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite desert. ''Pistachio?''

[technoskittles]

Fanfic author asks

I didn’t get any asks regarding this but I still kinda wanna answer the questions anyway so here goes

1. What was your first fic and could you stand to reread it today?

I refuse to say what my first fic was and that should be answer enough to the second part

2. What’s your most recent fic and how far do you think you’ve come?

Most recent fic is Something Good Can Work

I think I’ve come pretty far from when I first started writing. I know there’s some things I could always be better at, but I’m way happier with the stuff I was writing 5 and 10 years ago.

WAY happier

3. In your opinion, what’s your best fic?

Oh geez that’s kind of hard because there’s a few I’m pretty proud of.

If I had to name one, it’d probably be lost & different. It’s one of my longest oneshots to date and I ended up finishing it in 2 days so...go me.

4. In your opinion and without looking at any numbers, what’s your most popular fic?

Shot in the Dark. Hands down.

5. Is there any fic that makes you super happy to reread and remember you wrote that?

Pure Feeling probably. I think it’s mostly because it’s kind of out of place for me (I don’t typically do fics involving kids so it’s a nice change of pace)

6. Is there any fic that makes you super embarrassed to reread and remember you wrote that?

A lot of my older fics from when I wrote for Teen Titans and Soul Eater. Dark times man....dark times.

7. What’s the fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

Pure Feeling absolutely. And I actually do want to finish Fall From Eden, but I wanna rewrite it (I first published it about 4 years ago and not only do I want to fix some things plot-wise to incorporate more of canon into it, but there’s a lot I’m not happy with that I want to try and fix)

I also have a sequel lined up for Shot in the Dark.

But if I had to pick one, definitely Pure Feeling. I want to be able to actually finish a multichaptered fic for once and by dammit I’m gonna do it.

8. What’s the oldest (longest since last update) fic you most want to continue (unfinished or no)?

That would be Shot in the Dark. There were a lot of things I wanted to do with that AU and while I don’t think I’ll get to most of it, I do at least want to finish the sequel.

9. Have you ever written for a fandom without watching/reading/playing the source material?

Nope. I don’t write for things I don’t have an interest in and typically if I haven’t consumed it, I’m not interested

10. Have you ever written for a fandom without reading other fanfic for it?

A couple, yeah. I wrote a fic for Jessica Jones (although, after I did I ended up reading a couple fics for it).

Also did a couple of fics in my early years of writing for some stuff that people probably know nothing about (but if you’re curious, Princess Ai and Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl)

11. Have you ever written a fic for a concept you know someone else has done before? How did it impact your writing process or feelings after posting?

I feel like it’s hard not to? Most concepts in general have typically been done before by someone. We don’t create in a vacuum.

But if I do a concept I know I’ve seen before, I typically always try to make it my own somehow. Because since it’s been done before, others have most likely seen it, so I want to show them how mine is different. I like to push the boundaries, combine different concepts together, and really create a piece that makes it unique enough to set myself apart. 

I like using general concepts and deconstructing them before reconstructing them into something new that I like and want to share. And it’s always nice after I publish it and get feedback to see that people really enjoy the stuff I write.

12. Have you ever written a fic and decided never to publish it? Why?

Oh plenty for sure. More often than not, I started writing it and got stuck and then a) took so long I lost interest or b) took so long that I forgot where I was going with it

13. What’s the biggest change between your style when you started in fandom and today?

If we’re talking about style, I think that’s a bit harder to pin down depending on what I write. But I’ve noticed that with particular oneshots I’ve become more abstract in my writing so that’s cool

14. What’s the biggest change in your taste between when you started in fandom and today?

I used to read just about anything if it had my ship when I was younger, but as I grew older I became more and more picky. Some things can turn me off a fic completely. 

I also have really grown to dislike fics that are WAY to cliche and tropey. I love tropes as much as the next person, but I feel like some people just don’t do enough with it to really make it interesting. The more cliche your fic is without much else brought to it, the easier it is for me to forget it.

15. Have you ever purposefully written one fandom/fic idea over another because you knew it’d be more popular?

Nah. I don’t typically like writing things I’m not passionate about because it’s hard to hold my attention to finish it. If I write an idea, it’s because I wanted to, not because I figured it’d get me a lot of feedback.

16. Have you ever stopped writing a fic/for a fandom because it wasn’t receiving enough attention?

Not really. Like I said before, if I don’t write for it, it probably means I’m not awfully interested anymore

17. In your opinion, what’s your most overrated fic?

If we’re talking about any fics, probably one of the ones I wrote for Teen Titans in my earlier days.

But if we’re talking more recent, Talking Body. Idk. I just don’t think that fic is as interesting as I thought it was at the time but it blew the fuck up regardless

18. What’s your most underrated fic?

Hybrid. I’m mostly upset because it didn’t get as much attention as the prequel before it considering that garnered a lot of attention but...c’est la vie

19. If you had to pick one fic/scene/chapter of your work to describe your entire portfolio to a stranger, which would you pick?

Probably pillars. It’s probably one of the most interesting fics I’ve written in terms of formatting.

20. Have/Would you ever rewrite a fic? If yes, would you take the original down?

Like I mentioned before, I do want to rewrite Fall From Eden. And yes, if and when I eventually get to that, I would be replacing all the chapters currently up.

21. If someone starts kudosing and commenting your fics in a spree and has a few works of their own, would you go look through theirs?

Not typically. I appreciate the onslaught of feedback, trust me, but I prefer to parse through the fic lists of the ships of my choosing and read from there

22. Has there ever been anyone who’s made you freak out because they read your work and followed/favorited/reviewed?

Not that I can remember. I’m sure it’s happened, I just can’t remember it haha

23. What’s the nicest review you’ve ever gotten?

Oh jeez that’s a tough one I can’t remember them all.

This is one that’s stuck out though

“ You really captured what post-traumatic self-destructive behaviors feel like while staying so true to their dynamic as well as getting the characterization right to the T despite the fact that the show itself is obviously much less grim (not that it's not angsty, just far from this.) Beautifully written, the repetition and the parallels really put it all together. This piece hit home. I'll remember this one. Thank you for writing it. Thank you for sharing. “

-from as my World d[ivides]

24. What’s the meanest review you’ve ever gotten? Do you think the reviewer intended it?

I’ve gotten plenty of mean reviews but most of those are from my earlier days of writing. I can’t remember any particular ones so I also couldn’t tell you if the reviewer intended it or not

25. What constructive criticism, however well-meaning, always makes you feel bad when you see it in a review?

I wouldn’t say it makes me feel bad, but I know one review I’ve seen a couple of times is when people tell me that my writing gets too prose-y. The main reason it rubs me the wrong way is because while I’m sure they’re trying to be helpful, prose is part of my style less than the logistics and structure.

My descriptions can be a bit much sometimes I guess, but more often than not, it’s there for a reason. Whether it helps set the mood, gives insight to the characters’s thoughts/motivations/feelings that really set the story, or because I want to immerse the reader in the best way possible by painting a picture. 

So it’s just annoying when people tell me to tone it down because it’s too much for them. If you don’t like prose, then read something else. 

26. What aspect of your writing do you most enjoy to see praised?

My characterization. 9 times out of 10, that’s the thing I get most anxious about, so when people tell me I nail it it always makes my goddamn day

27. If you could only ever write crossovers or single-fandom fics ever again, which would you pick?

Single-fandom. Not a huge fan of crossover fics

28. if you could only ever write for a single crossover or a single fandom again, which would you pick?

Oof. That’s really tough because like I said, my interests change all the time. I typically jump from fandom to fandom and write for whatever I’m obsessed with at the time.

I guess if I had to pick though...RWBY probably. 

29. Does the division of your writing across fandoms line up with your reading? What’s the biggest discrepancy?

I’d say it’s about even for what I’m interested at the time. Biggest discrepancy though would probably be....either Miraculous Ladybug or Fairy Tail. 

I just don’t write much for those and read a lot so...

30. Do you continue to write for a fandom after you’ve moved on or do you focus solely on the new one?

Sometimes. Not too often. Because usually I’m so hyperfocused on the new shiny thing that most of my ideas end up being for that

31. Who’s the one character you’ve just never managed to get perfectly right?

I always worry that I do that for every character I write for haha.

I think my major concerns regarding that right now are Scorpia and Entrapta. For some reason I feel like they’re really difficult to write for.

32. Who’s the one character who shines without you even trying?

Yang probably. Maybe Adora

33. Is there any particular character whose scenes always wind up being longer/more frequent than you expected? Does the quality hold up?

I don’t think so?

34. Was there any fic that you wrote that really surprised you in the fandom reaction? Was it just by the numbers or did they take it an entirely different way?

I’d have to say as my World d[ivides] really surprised me. I really wasn’t sure how people would respond to that one given that it deals with a VERY sensitive subject and was positive I’d face a little bit of backlash. But honestly everyone actually really loved it and I got so much nice feedback from it.

35. Have you ever written a ship into a fic without meaning to?

Not usually

36. Have you ever sincerely written a ship you do not support into a fic?

Nope

37. Have you ever purposefully bashed a character/ship in a fic?

Not that I’m aware of

38. Have you ever purposefully written something you know your readers would find uncomfortable/would not enjoy? If yes, why?

I think that would probably be Sunflower. And if you’ve read that fic you know exactly what I mean.

If you haven’t read it, I won’t include spoilers, but I did explain myself at the end of it

39. Do you consider yourself to have a readership?

I think I have a few loyal readers yeah (and I love all of them)

40. Do you feel like you put out enough content?

HA!

41. If you cross-post your fics on multiple sites, do you have a favorite? Are there certain fics you would only post on certain site?

I used to crosspost when I first started on AO3 but after awhile I gave up bc I didn’t like ffnet’s set-up nearly as much. Sometimes I’ll post fics here on tumblr but I fucking HATE the formatting so...not much

42. How many views has your most popular fic gotten?

6,156 views (that would be Shot in the Dark)

43. Your least popular?

173 views - Scared to Breathe

44. Do you follow/favorite/kudos/comment/review more stories than you have received?

That’s really hard to say. I read a lot but I do have a few really popular stories so...

45. If you had to call yourself an author of a single genre (besides fanfic) what label would you give yourself?

I think my specialty is angst. You can ask most of my friends. 

46. Do you consider yourself a diverse author?

I try to be. But I do think I lean towards certain areas 

47. If someone you know in real life who isn’t involved in fandoms asked to read your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you recommend they read first?

Errrr...probably not? I tell people that I write fics, but I always get nervous when it comes to the thought of them actually reading them. It feels too personal somehow. Like, that’s a part of me I don’t usually let people see.

The only person who has is my boyfriend. And even then I get nervous when he does it

48. Does anyone you know from outside of fandom know you write fanfic? Are they involved in the same fandom too?

Yeah like I said, I’ve told some people. And they area typically interested in the original content, but I don’t know how involved they are in fanfiction or fandom itself

49. Has anyone in your life ever read your fanfic just because you wrote it?

My boyfriend

50. Has writing fanfic had a significant impact on your life? Would you say it’s entirely positive?

I would like to say it has. I’ve been writing for about 10 years now and it’s really opened up a lot of doors for me. I’ve met some really great people through fic and fandom. I’ve also grown as a writer after being at it for so long which has, strangely enough, helped me regarding essays and papers for school. 

Writing is kind of just what I do now. It’s one of my only contributions to fandom, so it’s nice to know I can take part somehow in generating content.

[shrewful]

WIP’s & Main Characters; A List

It’s time I actually started functioning like an actual writeblr, folks! With this guide, y’all can (must, I mean. this is a demand and not a request) ask me questions, request info or short stories on certain WIPs or characters, and generally force me to put what's in my head on paper — er, screen.

Apex Tempest (Previously Perish & Prosper) 

My beloved main WIP, constructed from the corpses of about three or four other failed WIPs. This WIP is fantasy, but world-building heavy, partially founded on the idea that everything — and I mean everything — would be completely original. No borrowed gods, no monsters from real-world myths, and no Tolkien species; Apex's gods (entities) are vague and strange, it's monsters are grotesque, but elegant, and in later books that will take place in the same world, will feature a cast of original fantasy species. Apex Tempest's plot follows the story of the climax of two entities' eternal battle through their disciples — pseudo-demigods, for the folks at home — and how their plans are foiled by a deal, a rogue destiny, and gay rights.

Spirit In The Woods, or, El’ai is our intrepid main character. They are a special flavor of crouching moron, hidden badass. From being raised by skeleton smoke ghosts in the half-dead forest island of Akther, they have little to no social skills they can use when they head to the mainland (they’re also just naturally a bit oblivious). At the same time, El’ai is not only an incredibly good fighter but has a bold heart of gold; they do good for the sake of doing good, and while it may not seem too important, this sets them apart throughout the book as the one to move the plot along. 

Velvera is both our villain and love interest; surpassing enemies-to-lovers to the coveted, strange, and confusing grey area of enemies-AND-lovers. I could write a three-page essay on her character; she’s a bit complicated, so I'll be fleshing out her personality and relationship with El’ai through chapter tidbits and short stories. In short, she’s a dissociated biologist who is so dissociated that she literally agreed to end the world in exchange for the ability to manipulate cells — an ability which she almost only uses to study biology, like the big disaster nerd she is. 

Mauve City

2nd to main WIP right here, probably. Follows the story of Sodapop Bonegreive, affectionately nicknamed ‘Bone’; an 18-year-old boy looking to become an animator. However, his plans are thrown off the rails when his uncle‘s business goes completely downhill, leaving their little family with not very much to live off. Bone turns to the internet for job opportunities and acquaints Morgan, who guarantees him that he can earn enough money to fund both his family and college funds in just a single year. Bone accepts, and before he can pack his bags, finds none other than Morgan lounging on his windowsill the next day. What follows is a trip to Mauve City; a rust-belt city that both became prosperous and disappeared from the worlds’ memory in a matter of years, and Bone’s transformation from art student to mobster on the streets of the city with no rules. 

Bone is the main character, and of all my characters of any WIP, the most beloved thus far. I legitimately have no clue why, of all my characters, Bone has garnered the most affection over the past few years amongst my friends. At his core, he is awkward, unsure of himself, but generally well-meaning, but the circumstances he is put under force him to develop a new persona; sly, debonair, cold, and professional, but with wit and mischief to go around. 

Morgan is morgan. oh boy

Lucile is always at Morgan’s right hand; they were once in a relationship, but not anymore, though Lucile still sticks by him. She is grim, quiet, beautiful, but in a melancholy way, like a stone angel. She has a bigger part to play in the second book that is only hinted at, but here, she is a friend to Bone and something of a behind the scenes player. 

Below are my 2nd-Tier WIPs; they are far less active or developed than the ones above. 

Wind Up, Dollface, and Ickster

These are my oldest standing WIPs with, surprisingly, the least amount of details character-wise; Wind up and Dollface are two sister books that have events that occur at the same time, while Ickster is the two’s prequel. They can be read in any order. In Ickster, magic is discovered and thus known as ‘Ick’; the sentient plasma with strange qualities that is theorized to make up souls. This force can be used in many different ways, and thus, as It Do(TM), the government creates a branch of the military known as the Icksters, dedicated to using the new force as a weapon to fight in an upcoming war. Ick becomes the worlds’ most coveted technology, and the Icksters, whose masks and cowls were originally designed to hide their identities, become celebrities, and their masks and cowls individualized and made unique to give them special identities. One thing leads to another, bing bang boom, Ick-based armageddon and fallout time! Many years in the future, we find ourselves in our two sister books; in Wind Up, our main character is made of metal and glass and goes on a quest to discover her creators, and in Dollface, our main character is made of cloth and stuffing and goes on a quest to overthrow their creators. Why? How? I guess you’ll have to read it, bucko!

Ickster never got any solid main characters; I wasn’t even going to write ut as a book. It was originally just going to be the backstory discovered in the sister books until I realized that it was rad.

Dollface’s main character is Tink, who I am renaming sometime; a human-sized wind-up doll with amnesia and a missing dad. They go on a search to find said dad and end up uncovering ancient mysteries and wracking up a band of companions along the way. 

Dollface’s main character is unnamed as of yet, but basically, they’re a life-sized ragdoll who goes about freeing his people.

The Adventures of Deadhead, & How Charlotte Saw Red (ADHCSR)

We’re now getting into the Megaspace (will explain... sometime.) Earth books; this, The New Inferno, and Fairy Floss all take place in the same world. The setting is urban fantasy, and while there are quite a few sci-fi esc crazy metropolises in this world, our story takes place in mediocre not-big-enough-to-be-a-proper-city, but-too-urban-to-really-be-called-a-town Slatesburgh, and surrounding suburbs. We follow the story of Charlotte, daughter of a disaster of a witch, and her best friend; Deadhead, the living corpse her mother put together, because why not? They start a band with rotating other members and slowly make a name for themselves, playing against bands of satyrs, vampires, and more, all whilst trying to keep a considerable distance from Charlotte’s unwelcome admirer, Sweetheart. Meanwhile, local mistreated lad makes a deal with an evil warlock trapped in the body of a raven for power so that he can fix the mess that the adults of this godforsaken town created, and it’s up to Charlotte and the band to make sure he doesn’t create a regime in the process (because again, the adults of this place are useless). 

Charlotte fucking rocks. She’s quiet and straight-faced to create a no-nonsense image but is a purveyor of nonsense herself -- being one of the most responsible people in the book, whilst also having a solid philosophy of doing the first thing that comes to her head, which tends to be either a blessing due to having great ideas, or a curse due to magically-backed anger issues. She’s another character you gotta read to know, but what is for certain, is that her design is rad. 

Deadhead is a lovable wreck that moves the plot along by virtue of being kidnapped every 2 chapters -- no one knows how or why Charlotte’s mom made them, and since no one wants to deal with Charlotte’s mom, they tend to just snatch them up. They’re the type of person to take the cigarette out of your mouth and eat it when they pass by you.  

Ochre is the villain/main character of the semi-political subplot. After being kicked out of his house by his guardians and almost dying of hypothermia -- something the magic counsel was supposed to prevent -- Asmodeus, a warlock, comes to offer him a deal. Asmodeus is a warlock; once incredibly powerful and considerably evil, but after the crusade against warlocks, was turned into a bird like all the other warlocks. Asmodeus can’t use his power himself, but had figured out how to seep his magic into another being; and, stumbling upon this emotionally manipulatable teen, decides to take him under his literal wing. 

Welcome to Summersbook; the Quadrilogy

Though these four books are Megaspace books, they do not take place on the same earth as the others. But it’s still earth. I’ll explain later. These are all semi-realistic fiction; while they definitely could happen in the real world, there will be more than a few times where you will need to suspend your disbelief. They follow the stories of the Senior, Junior, Sophomore, and Freshmen classes of Summersbrook Highschool and their various hijinks, each with its own tone; the Senior book follows Gamboge, a wise and intelligent kid that speaks, dresses, and acts like a stereotypical ‘hick’ and is treated as such until other kids of his grade stumble upon him for wisdom, comfort, and good dialogue -- all until the end, where the people Gamboge helped band together to help him back. It’s focused on provoking thought and is centered around dialogue and character relationships rather than action. The Junior class follows Lucky Bird of the Bird family and her plucky, painstakingly nicknamed compatriots as they try to improve the quality of their town and the lives of their friends. This book is filled with hijinks and mischief, and while there are a good few emotional moments, it’s mostly a feel-good adventure between best friends. The Sophomore class is my favorite; Summerbrooks’ in-famed Cannibal Class is filled with a colorful array of inexplicable geniuses with too much time on their hands. This would be far from an issue, if not for one moment; when Wulver Bathgate asks his compatriots how they’d go about making a quick buck. What follows is a capitalist drama, taking up the mantle of ‘comedy’ only because of the whiplash that follows going between “there’s a communist coup d'é tat” and “in room 101 with the drama kids” in the same sentence. The freshmen class’s story isn’t quite decided yet.

Gamboge is, as previously stated, the stereotype of a hick at first glance. He’s almost as pale as he is pink with sunburn at any given moment in time, wears torn jorts, rarely a shirt, and some variety of a loppy-brimmed hat. Every day after school, he sits in the same patch of grass and moss under the same tree, and every day, more and more new faces show up for his rumored good advice. Though he does dispense some good words of wisdom throughout the book, he struggles to get through to himself

Fletcher Blue is someone who you get to know through bits and pieces of dialogue throughout the Senior book. 

Lucky Bird suffers big-family-with-cool-siblings syndrome; each of her siblings had a claim to fame, whilst Lucky, well, didn’t -- all except Lucky’s famed luck. Lucky begins her quest to improve her dingy town out of a need to validate herself but quickly finds herself with different reasons along the way.

The Sophomore Class’s characters are yet to be solid.

Fairy Floss

Dr. Bealiamonte, local space mutant scientist, created 6 super-artificial intelligences designed to watch over the world known as the Noble Intelligences; Helium, Neon, Argon, Krypton, Xenon, and Radon. What followed was an unprecedented period of peace and prosperity -- but, that period came to a screeching halt. The intelligences had been given bits of human emotion and empathy, but not too much. They were also given the ability to criticize themselves, leading to their eventual discomfort with the fact that they didn’t entirely understand their subjects, the humans, even if they ruled well anyways. Thus, the Nobles created the second generation of super-intelligences, effectively built with the emotional capabilities of a human and the computing capabilities of a supercomputer. These were known as the Halogens; they almost immediately became unstable and began wreaking havoc. In response, The Odd Fellows, a secret society bent on the protection of the world, sends out operatives to stop the raging robot-gods, with Fairy Floss amongst their ranks. Both sci-fi and fantasy, because hell yeah. 

Fairy Floss has the most beloved design of all my characters, in my humble opinion, though I accidentally made her look like a Black Panther; beret, small circular sunglasses, a pastel pink shawl, tall black boots, and braid-bun. Still working on the personality, but her first language is Esperanto. 

The New Inferno 

The New Inferno follows Dante, our local debt-swamped fresh college graduate, with nowhere to live except the particularly stereotypical haunted-house esc victorian home passed down to him by his eccentric rich grandfather. Dante is almost-but-not-really surprised that this house isn’t actually as abandoned as it seems; it houses a variety of ghosts that Dante’s grandfather had collected over the years. These ghosts reveal that Dante’s bloodline, which is able to be traced back all the way to the Dante, Dante mother-trucking-Alighieri, Durante-di-gott-damn-Alighiero-degli-trucking-Alighieri, has the unique ability to interact with those from the afterlife and its associated creatures. From this fact, his ghost compatriots suggest a way out of Dante’s financial issues; ghosts are actually quite plentiful, all stuck in the mortal world after leaving some sort of business unfinished. This is not-so-pleasing to demons and angels, as they are the ones who manage the afterlife, and having a soul out of place is like having an itch un-scratched or a box-unchecked; after all, mortals aren’t the only ones who can’t rest until things are finished. Thus, when Dante assists a ghost in completing their business and thus sending them wherever they need to be, he often gets a reward from the angels or demons that receive them -- usually via finding 50 bucks in the street or winning a lottery he never entered. But, things start getting hectic when those angels and demons begin requesting more and more -- and, before he knows it, there’s a demon on his futon and what looks to be a flaming mass of golden rings, eyes, and wings in his kitchen. Will our coffee-fueled protagonist make his way out of the forest dark? Who knows! Dante sure doesn’t. 

As my newest WIP, Dante is also very fresh and not too developed. Upon ask, I will actually start writing a solid personality. I’m not entirely sure on what hour of writing this I’m on, so I’m gonna leave this at that.

[activatingaggro]

no good (she’s up to no good)

Quick drabble to cover something that happened off-scene during a PC chat between Melete and Orivar, featuring said PC log. Because sometimes you’re just mostly doing chat rp between your schedule.

It isn't often that you and Melete get time to just laze around.

But you like the days like this, when it's the two of you in your hive. There's no demands. There's no need to focus on anything. Melete always gets anxious when the two of you haven't met for a perigee or more. Date nights always get an edge to them, like the two of you are making up for lost time. Between that, and the fact you can't acknowledge you're matesprits, it's so..

Performative.

You like Torrent girls! You can't really hold it against them when they get all.. torrent-y about things, but that doesn't mean you don't prefer things like this: just the two of you, lounging around in your bed, with Melete on her phone and the blankets tangled around your legs. Your matesprit's leaning against you, the small of her back curled into the crook of your legs. Her hair's draped across you, and so long as you're careful, she doesn't mind you playing with the ends.

You're in the process of braiding one when she sighs, loudly, and lays down her phone on her knee.

"Too rough?" You let go of the strands, but she's already shaking her head. "No," she says, "you are fine. It's.. mmm."

"What do you think of mutants?" she asks, peering down at you, and you don't know what she's thinking of.

"Ahhh. Bold move, thinking I think, mah," you say, and blow a raspberry at her.

Melete merely looks at you for a moment, her face passive. Then she lifts a hand. Delicately, with great precision, she brushes back your bangs. Then she presses her palm to the center of your forehead, long fingers curling over your skull. "The brain is the most complex organ within a troll's body," she says, soft, but firm. "It controls our consciousness. It controls every move that you make. When you breathe, you are engaging in thoughts, even if you are not programmed to notice them. When you blow a raspberry, or become glib, you are engaging in thought, and a deliberate choice with them."

"I enjoy hearing your thoughts. Your views are refreshing, and there is no need for self-deprecation."

You blink at her.

Then you laugh, burying your face in her side, so her hair's hiding your face. She stiffens. Melete doesn't like sudden contact! But you don't move, letting your head rest against her, and after a few seconds, she loosens up. "So earnest lah," you complain, voice muffled. Hesitantly, she pats you on a shoulder. "So, so, so earnest! What supposed to do with, huh? Make me damn humji sia, green in face."

"You're supposed to get over it," she says, "and answer the question."

"Ughhh," you complain, but you roll over onto your back, so you can look up at her. "Mutants, orh orh. Geneslips? Not cusps, yeah?"

"Cusps are legal in all provinces and districts, per regulation 5304.91 of the Imperial Genetics Regulatory Commission. The use of the term mutants - or geneslips -" There's a hint of disapproval there. You grin at her, apologetic. "- for cusps is derogatory at best, and more likely, just an active show of malice, with the intention of emotional harm."

"Right. Geneslips.." She's just asking you because you're jade, you're sure. That's the plight of growing up in the caverns, even for as short of a time as you ended up spending there: everyone expects you to have opinions, and thoughts, and knowledge of everything related to genetics, and the slurry, and the grubs that come out of it.

They're right, of course. But that doesn't make the topic any less fraught. Vadaya's the sort of troll that most would consider a mutant, even if they're wrong. So is Pepper, with her wings, however tightly she keeps them rolled, and no matter how useless they are in function. They'd be wrong, on both of those cases.

Most jades consider you a mutant, though. Jades don't have psi. They aren't exactly wrong. "Shouldn't contribute," you finally say. "Should be fixed in slurry. But, eh, if they already here -" You can't quite shrug. You can roll your eyes, though, letting your lip curl. "No harm to them, leh." Your tone's a little dismissive, but Melete doesn't seem to mind: she's nodding, her expression thoughtful. "What they gonna do? Weird eyes, weird ears, weird psi - ahhh, can still contribute, yeah? Not /their/ fault."

"I agree." Melete's voice is always soft, soft, soft, with hard edges to the end of her words. It's such a strange combination, but it suits her. "Why waste resources by culling them? It is wasteful." She pauses. "And it is cruel," she amends, watching you. "It is the fault of the caverns, what goes into the egg, not on the troll who comes out of them. Do you agree..?"

The fault of the caverns sticks in your teeth. But you're not a cavern jade, and Melete's watching you. You shrug. "Yeah lah," you say, and it isn't quite a lie. "Mistakes happen, yeah? No point pointing fingers."

"I have a maroon bothering me. Some sort of mutant," she says, and holds out her phone.

Earlier, she'd been talking to Hadean. You only know him vaguely! Oh, you've talked to him plenty, on and off, but it's hard to read the chat, sometimes, and harder to keep track of the trolls that don't bother with quirks. You only ever remember that he's mean, and he's maroon.

The handle on the screen is not Hadean's. It is also, unfortunately, intimately familiar.

-- mistingHafgufa [MH] began pestering bloodyBones [BB] at 19:27 --

[07:28] MH: What did you write down about me.

[07:34] BB: why are you curious? [07:34] MH: How long have you been keeping fucking notes. [07:35] BB: do demands usually get you the responses you desire...? [07:36] MH: //Why// are you keeping notes. [07:36] BB: i do not believe they do. [07:38] MH: Answer my question and I'll answer yours. [07:46] BB: i wrote that you are in current possession of my harpoon. [07:52] MH: And I'm curious because I don't fucking like people keeping tabs on me. [07:52] MH: Now answer my other questions. [07:53] BB: haha. [07:53] BB: i am sorry to say that you are free to make as many demands as you like. [07:53] BB: but remarkably. [07:53] BB: i am not actually obligated to fulfill them. [07:53] BB: good light.

-- bloodyBones [BB] ceased pestering mistingHafgufa [MH] at 19:53 --

You can feel the weight of Melete's eyes on you.

Oh, you know about Melete's lists. She catalogues everything, from hatchdays to favorite foods. You'd asked to see your file, and Vadaya's, back when you'd first found out. It's a little strange, but your matesprit's strange. All of the Torrents are strange.

They're trained to be that way. It's not worth a second thought.

You open your mouth. Melete clears her throat. "Continue scrolling down," she says, and you do.

-- mistingHafgufa [MH] began pestering bloodyBones [BB] at 20:20 --

08:20] MH: No. Get back here. [08:21] MH: Who the fuck do you think you are? [08:21] MH: Why the hell are you going online and trying to record things about people? [08:21] MH: First Hadean, now me? [08:21] MH: What are you, some sort of shriveled up husk of a shut in who can't even figure out how to talk to people in a chat room so you start fucking recording what people do? [08:22] MH: Are you a serial killer going after rusts? [08:22] BB: hm. [08:22] MH: What //possible// reason could you give that would ever justify the use of recording what people do or say in a fucking //random chat room.// [08:22] MH: How many snuff films do you watch a day, creep? [08:23] MH: Tell me, do you have a favorite blood splatter too or something? Why rusts? Is it because 'we die better'? [08:23] MH: Or because it's easier? [08:23] BB: does lashing out at others make you feel more in control of your fear? [08:23] BB: because, if so, you should reconsider your methods of coping. [08:24] BB: i do not think that lashing out at a stranger is entirely wise. [08:24] MH: Oh yes, because someone being really upset about being recorded by some strange blueblood they don't even know the name of... means I'm afraid. [08:24] MH: What kind of fucking reach is that. [08:24] BB: yes. [08:25] MH: I've killed weevils more terrifying than you. [08:25] BB: of course you have. [08:27] MH: So? [08:27] MH: What's the answer? [08:28] BB: do demands usually get you the responses you desire...? [08:28] BB: because i am sorry. [08:29] BB: but they are not going to in this case. [08:29] MH: What's it like being a self important pompous sociopath? [08:35] BB: how is your lusus doing? [08:38] MH: Big and birdy. [08:38] MH: So when should I expect you to show up at my front door asking for my 'beautiful skin and blood' for your serial killer art project? [08:38] MH: Is it after you skin Hadean? [08:40] BB: how is my spear doing? [08:41] MH: Sharp and ready to be jabbed into your skull. [08:41] BB: of course. [08:41] MH: Why are you keeping notes? [08:42] BB: my apologies. [08:42] BB: we are well past the point where i answer your questions. [08:42] BB: was there anything else..? [09:07] MH: Clear your fucking notes of anyone in the fucking chat room below teal or I'll find you and I'll drill a hole in your head to pour acid into it.

-- mistingHafgufa [MH] ceased pestering bloodyBones [BB] at 21:07 --

Melete isn't your moirail. She isn't your clade, and she isn't Vadaya, or Pepper, no matter how fond of her you are. So you take a deep breath, letting the air drag in and curl into your stomach, until the world feels a little less red.

It doesn't matter how upset you are. You're not the one having words with a glorified mutant. You're not the one getting death threats. That's all on your matesprit, and she's more than old enough to handle her own business, without you wading into it. "She bother, lah?" you ask, finally, once your tone's even. "Big, big, big bark for pupa."

Melete's not an expressive troll. Her face's always just a little blank, with flat, rigid ears, and features that might as well be carved from stone. Even after nearly a sweep of dating, you're not sure you know how to read her moods.

It works, really, because you're not sure that Melete knows how to read her moods, either. The silence drags on as she turns over the question, and it's only the soft intake of air that warns you she's coming to a conclusion. "No," she decides, with a crisp kind of finality. "She is a terrified adolescent, is she not? Young trolls lash out. Her threats are hollow. And to take her opinion seriously would be bizarre. She does not know me. I do not care for her to know me."

"But," she says, words as slow as molasses, "it would be appreciated if trolls could be less.. vitriolic, when I have only aided them in the past. I don't see what inspires this sort of behaviour. Does it produce results?"

"Produces back of hand," you say, but Melete's looking at you, and you swallow the rest of the vitriol that wants to bubble up.

Vadaya and you.. you have different tastes in people. You don't like Iconic, but you don't need to like him, for all that he's very nearly clade: you just need to stay civil, and make sure you ask the right questions and say the right things with Daya so that he feels supported in the relationship. It's not hard, even if it gets a little tedious. Iconic skirts you when he can, and so it's manageable.

Mostly manageable. Neither of you have told Daya about the car chase, and there's been a silent agreement that you won't. It would be unfair, you think, if he hadn't been similarly close-mouthed about Tomie - but that's the plight of the corps, in your battery and outside of it. Everyone's relationships are defined by the things that no one wants to say.

It works, mostly. You don't like Vadaya's quadrant, and you don't like his friends, but he never needs to hear that from you. And it's easy enough to avoid, usually.

When they aren't threatening to kill your matesprit.

"She message again," you decide, your words slow and even, "add me, yeah? Will handle. Girl all pai kia, but, eh, not your problem, mah. Will not let be. She want pok kai, can have."

"There is no need for that, Nanako. I have spoken to her moirail." She shrugs, shifting away, and you let her. Melete moves like a piece of origami: she unfolds herself one limb at a time, as careful as she thinks her skin will rip, as she stretches herself out across the bed, close enough that her side is brushing yours. She gets tired of close contact, but you've learned there's an affection in the fact she stays near, anyway.

"Thank you, anyway," she says, prim. There's still a line between her eyebrows, fine enough that it ought to barely count as an expression, but it's loosening.

You huff out a laugh. "Nooo, no thanks! Just pity things." When you beam at her, she smiles back, gradually. "Pity you, Ete," you add, and this is part of the reason you like lazing about better. When it's just the two of you, there's things you can say. "Know that, right?"

"Of course," she says. "I pity you as well."

[incarnateirony]

Regarding: “Original SPN”

And not a rant re: hypocrisy on "Kripke's vision", but the shift in tone in the show that draws protest from certain wings. In fact, some level of agreement, but not to the threshold they would want.

Once in a while I task myself to a ground-up rewatch; currently I have a review project to bulk out for a new SPN fansite a friend is running, involving that. So again, I booted up 1x1-2-etc.

Kripke favored a strong survival-horror genre. In the timeline we began, the "gamer dudes" of 1x2 had FRONT LINE technology in the form of the first brick of the DS and one of those blackberry looking abominations. Sam and Dean spent 1x1 huddled around a library computer using a search engine that looked like some webcrawler sh*t.

And that's just it. It was 2005. And while that doesn't sound that long ago to many of us - culturally, that's a short eternity.

Kripke chose wisely with David Nutter directing and producing his first two episodes. Nutter excels in taking a few episodes of a show and pitching it into a powerful tone that feels like its own movie. Most of us know him by his work in Game of Thrones, wherein he puts more work in than his normal tenure of 1-3 eps and moving on. And while some of our direction waffled, there's a distinct difference in the level of engagement Sam and Dean have in these seasons. HOWEVER- and most CRITICAL-

When Kripke started SPN, he had an idea: two brothers and the road, surviving in an intensive horror genre. But also, apocalypse was the end game, an issuance to divine and cosmic relevance of the characters. At first, Anna was slated to be Dean's hand and Ruby Sam's, but due to ... /issues/ - we'll put it like that - McNiven and Collins were traded, as were the intentions of their character arcs, within a few episodes.

By 2009 the world had already begun to change around SPN just as this advent kicked off. Social media had been rapidly expanding in a few years. Data-capable, mini-computer cellphones were becoming the commonality in the hands of the population with each passing day; laptops weren't 20 pound dreams for rich folk anymore. And horror was less the drive of the apocalypse story ridge, rather than a fantasy tilt.

This of course bears no relevance to my mention of Sam & Dean's engagement yet, but is instead setting the scene for the transition that happened.

As Kripke's vision began to manifest in its final chapters (S4-5), Supernatural tilted into a higher fantasy genre; and yes, it ran its course. While the show was successful enough to continue on past the original 5 year plan, several things had changed:

Technology threshold of the world, changing the survival scheme If Sam and Dean were going to remain any way competent, they had to upgrade, and suddenly, it's a lot harder to constantly have no phone/connection/way to search; as a result, our baseline tone graduated partially due to this but also,

Power threshold of the world has escalated, Because once you've made bundles of friends in high places, how do you expect to reset the show back to purely monsters of the week and have that be any kind of threat or interest to the GA?

In theory, one might say the moments would stay the same, but many stories ran their course: The struggle with Jess' death, the need to vindicate it by finding John The mystery of the demon, the deals made.

And in result, the moments that /drove/ our initial deepest, most intensive brother moments had gone up in smoke. And yes, we can always brew up new reasons for brother moments, but without the rosy glasses of nostalgia, looking in review, the deep and critical impact seeding under the initial moments drawing remembrance would literally never be there again. Trying to even draw another situation so deeply framed without calling on other bonds drawn through the show is, itself, a wildly critical error as at best we'd have to continue to retroactively patch in giant swaths of childhood history that was already very clearly framed and mapped out by the end of S5.

With the inability to set back to the original power threshold, the inability to realistically reset to the original technology threshold, the inability to reset to the original shared drive and struggle, and the inability to reset thus back to the original survival vein that motivated the characters, those moments would literally never be able to be framed the same way again. And that's not a problem - that's Kripke's vision. Kripke wanted S5 to escalate. And if you didn't want to watch the show after that escalation, and only want to hold to what is deemed the original vision, then it is advised to stop here. Stop trying to go back to S1-3. It is literally impossible.

In result, the only way to continue to build new drives for the brothers was to call on staple characters. While yes, I feel S6-7 handled that poorly in their management of Castiel, pretending we could just zap-back to the initial brotherly struggles and support is a distinct departure from the development and resolutions gained over the course OF Kripke's original journey. Sam's soulless? Cool, let's fix that - but past that, what does that leave? Yeah, crippling depression, we get that; Sam's in the trials? Almost hit the vein. It really tried. But it wasn't the same personal damages that initiated a shared fixation over the same topic. It was always a salve, and always needed another offset. And due to the chaos-ratings-crash that nuked out S7, removing Castiel as the offset - as an attempted solution to focus on brothers - clearly didn't work without the rest. Maybe if we could go back to 2005 where cell phones were bricks and we had to panic for library computers to get information, sure; maybe a few mental gymnastics to write some new traumatic backhistory into Dean to launch similar to how Sam launched early on. But even then, we can't turn back time. We can't erase season 4-5. It is what it is.

Kripke has since, repeatedly supported the show - so he isn't upset about its direction. But the question here is, if one is standing for the value of S1-3 we need to review what WAS the value. SPN modernized with the times and, by nature, survived. By S8, Carver tested permanent cast import and by S12, even Singer - the ultimate bro-stan - had come to acknowledge him as a lead; and that really is the dawning of SPN Part 2. It's almost a different series, as sad as it is to say. S1-3 is its own beast, extending as far as 5; the original vision. S1-5; S6-7 was a lot of chaos and figuring it out. And S8-13 is a high fantasy adventure show for all of the reasons listed above. But it literally can not be reset to the vein of 1-5. It can't. There's zero way to do it without losing the GA.

I can pitch all day into the acquisition of the phantom lead effect, the S8-9 uptick that slid us into position for S9 to be the highest season in industry curve, and talk on and on about the values of this modernization; but in a way, due to everything S4-6, 8-13 outperforming 1-3, it'll sound like I'm devaluing 1-3; and I'm not. 1-3 had a lot of great content, and in a way, I do miss those pure moments. But if I miss those moments, I turn on Netflix, boot up the old seasons, and watch it over again - because the characters, the show's world, and the real world have all changed in such a way that I know we can never realistically get that back - but I can enjoy it in nostalgia.

I just wish there was some way to really enlighten those that are literally violently nostalgic into understanding what caused this transition. That yes, I understand, and I miss those days, but if I want those days back... I just watch those days. If you don't enjoy the show now, that's... fine? Go watch the old show then. But they are literally incapable of producing a show with the base beat that's being demanded, these days. Because despite their best attempts at patching in brother episodes or moments, there's always a bundle of people saying it isn't enough, isn't the right direction - because it's not like how it used to be. But it can't be. It won't be. That is a literal impossible standard to fulfill.

So the question is: Do we continue to watch in bitterness? Can we not just go watch the seasons we love and leave others alone that like the new evolutions, leave the crew alone? If one does not want to adapt and expand, why are we here? This day can never come again; and if what is being given is not enough to fulfill them, then it may be time to consider these points. If every angle they've tried with the brothers ever SINCE the motions of the Silent Majority are not enough (5+ years), then perhaps it's time to just let it go. Since then we've had Sam and the trials, we've had Sam and Gadreel, we've had the Mark of Cain, and Amara - an equal shift of brother to brother centric storyline. S12 is a bit of a clusterfuck IMO for everyone on every side, but S13 has a different angle - and some don't like it. And that's okay, you don't have to like it, but there's absolutely no point in dragging it. Because if this modernization ruins it for you, there's no point in screaming about Kripke's Vision. Kripke's been quite clear about his support lately. This is in fact the direction his vision led. It always escalated, always ramped up, always hit a higher volume than scrubbing for ghosts and wendigos. And if that's where your interest ended... just let it go man. Nobody's putting a gun to your head to tune in or tweet about it.

The show stopped being that show at least 8, if not 10 years ago for all of the reasons above. That's an awfully long time to talk about a show being destroyed. Like... during the course of 2-3 times the amount of resulting content. It may be worth acknowledging that this is the show, period.

Have a good one, ya'll.

[betterwithchocolate-blog1]

Sherlock/ Sherlolly headcanon

I tried to make it a bit more realistic/ different from what I usually see. Hope you enjoy! :)

Warning beforehand: Gory scenes, swearing and violence

Written by @betterwithchocolate​

Length: about 2000 words

***

It had been a rainy day in London. Though as nightfall approached, the gentle afternoon drizzle had twitched into a heavily pouring shower with wind so vile it scratches and burned every inch of exposed skin raw.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was walking down Baker Street, thankful he had a large upturned collar to protect him from the harsh weather. He did not mind it, though. In fact, he liked the rain, especially when it came storming and breezing as heavily as it did tonight. It reminded him of himself in a way, of his unstoppable obsessive energy, of the way his mind could spin and race in every direction.

Ironically, the storm never caused his thoughts to run wild. The heavy rainfall caused doused the sounds of the city in white noise, and allowed him to think.

His feet splashed on the pavement as his flat came into view, and Holmes was immediately alerted towards the figure in front of his flat, sitting on his steps. The figure was hunched over, face in their hands, knees pulled in to the chest. They were unprotected from the weather, not even wearing a coat. From a distance, Sherlock could tell it, she, was a woman. 

As he approached the woman, more detail of her became visible. His mind starting analysing immediately, in the way he was accustomed to.

“Woman. White blouse. Approximately 1.60 metres tall. Blonde-ginger hair. No coat. Why? Did she lose it?  No. She chose to, otherwise she would’ve looked for cover. Hunched? Crying? Probably. Yes. Why? Six possible reasons. Not important. Who? Ginger hair, petite posture. Strong, unbothered by the storm. Molly.” 

As he got closer, he could see more detail of her face. “Blood. Injured on cheekbone and forehead. Two likely reasons for crying.”  Immediately Sherlock quickened his pace towards her and stopped abruptly before her, his coat moving after the sudden change of speed.

“Molly.”

She took her head out of her hands and looked up to Sherlock, she was doused in rain, though not crying. Sherlock noticed that the injuries were made by blunt object with sharp protrusions, and that they were somewhat more severe than he had initially thought, since most of them had been hidden in her hands.

She had cuts on her cheek, multiple sets of two gashes parallel to each other. One likely explanation. That arrogant prick-

“Sh-Sherlock,” Molly stuttered. “I can’t- I don’t know why-” She put her head in her hands again, but only for a brief second.

Sherlock took off his coat and wrapped it around Molly.

“Let’s get you inside.” He already felt the icy water leaking through his shirt. “Up you go.” He said as he helped her stand.

Molly wiped the rain and blood from her face, and Sherlock saw a tinge of pain move through her expression as she did. 

Sherlock helped her up the steps, making sure the coat protected her at all times.

“Mrs. Hudson! Tea!” He yelled as he opened the door for Molly. She was shivering a bit, but suppressing it.

Quickly enough, Mrs. Hudson stepped into the hall. “Sherlock, how many times have I told you that I‘m not your-” Mrs. Hudson was cut off by herself, the moment she laid eyes on Molly. “Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh dear!” Were the only sounds heard from her as she turned towards her flat, followed by the rattle of cups shortly after.

Sherlock helped Molly up the stairs. Her hands were trembling, her breath were quivering.

Upon entering his flat, he let go of Molly, and quickly fetched a pile of clothes from his room before walking back to her.

“Sherlock I want to explain...”

“No need. You are cold and dehydrated, likely in shock. Go take a shower first, warm yourself up, and make sure to clean your wounds.”

“But there’s more”

“Yes. I’ve noticed.” He said, and then thought he might’ve spoken too loudly. Quickly he added “Just go shower, we will discuss that after you get yourself warmed up. Okay?”

Molly nodded as she took the pile from Sherlock’s hands. “Okay.”

She walked towards the shower, but before she got in Sherlock turned around in her direction and said “Oh, and leave the door unlocked.”

She nodded again in understanding and then stepped into the bathroom with a small smile, even though Sherlock saw she was in pain.

He was going to tear Tom apart.

***

After Molly had went into the bathroom, he had put on his coat and went outside to face the heavy rain again, before getting in a cab and driving towards Molly’s flat, or rather several streets removed from it. The last few streets he crossed by foot with a steady, fast pace, hands in his pockets, collar upturned. He looked sternly on a fixed point in front of him, before shaking his expression as he climbed the steps in front of Molly’s flat. He put on a mask of friendliness as he rang the doorbell, as he so often had done before.

“Hello?” Tom’s voice sounded from the intercom.

“Yes tom hi!” Sherlock said, in a joyful tone. “Good to talk to you. I was wondering, is Molly home? There is a very urgent matter I must discuss with her”

“Oh hi Sherlock, No... She’s not at the moment unfortunately.”

“Oh. Good. Because I eh, actually, I came to see you.” Sherlock hated mistreating his sentences like this. However, he knew it would have the desired effect. There was a short silence.

“You, you came to see me?” Tom sounded positively surprised. “Eh, okay, yeah sure. Come on up.” His words were followed by the sound of the buzzer. Sherlock grinned. He had known Tom was gay from the moment he saw him. However, he now regretted not telling Molly about it. He just didn’t want to spoil her relationship like he did before, when he first met Moriarty.

He pounded up the stairs, letting his friendly face fall off of him like a brick, and taking off his shawl to put it in his pocket. When he reached Molly’s door, he knocked lightly. Tom opened immediately.

“Hi.” Tom had a smile on his face; Sherlock saw Tom’s knuckles were bruised. He felt disgusted.

“Hello.”

“Come in.” Tom opened the door a bit wider and let Sherlock through. “You know I doubted whether you were gay,” Tom started, as he closed the door.

The moment the door lock clicked behind him, Sherlock whirled and turned around towards Tom, cutting off his sentence. Tom started smiling, though Sherlock wasn’t smiling at all. Before Tom could start speaking again, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar with one hand, and gave a sharp hit with the palm of his other towards Tom’s nostril bone. His head snapped back, his eyes pressed shut with pain. His nose started to bleed. “What the hell!” Tom yelled.

Sherlock yanked Tom forward, letting him trip over his leg, making tom fall face first to his own living room floor. Before he could get up Sherlock quickly delivered a large kick towards Tom’s abdomen, making him curl up and groan almost pitifully. It was a kick enough to injure, not to maim. He probably wouldn’t feel a thing of it anymore in a week, in contrast to the pain molly would have to endure the following month.

“Please!” Tom yelled out, coughing out the blood streaming from his nose. “Please stop!” Tom wretched as Sherlock paused and looked down at him, his gaze disgusted. “I-I, What have I done to deserve this? Are you just doing this for fun?! You’re insane! Bloody psychopath! Get away from me!” He tried to get up, though Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards the kitchen, in which molly had gotten stone flooring laid. When they reached the kitchen Sherlock dropped Tom the way a child would drop an insect after being told its toxicity, and then crouched down beside him.

“First of all,” Sherlock started as he held Tom’s neck backwards in an unnatural angle. “High functioning sociopath.”

“Second of all, you might want to look towards the bruises on your knuckles on your hand regarding as to why I’m doing this. Based on the intensity of the wounds, you must’ve hit with this hand at least seven, no, eight times. Quite recently, it appears, the scabs are still very fresh, wouldn’t you say?”

“Molly was just a stupid b-”

“It would be wise for you to shut up now” Sherlock interrupted “You see, Tom, if there is something I do not stand for, It is domestic abuse or other forms of physical mistreatment towards those smaller than your own size.” Sherlock got up and put the heel of his shoe right atop of Tom’s bruised hand. “If you ever again get the, I must say, extremely idiotic idea to lay a hand on Molly Hooper, please remember this visit of mine, and choose otherwise.”

Tom groaned in pain as Sherlock added pressure onto the hand.

“Actually, allow me to make that decision for you.” Sherlock said, as he lifted his foot up and brought the heel down hard on Tom’s hand, shattering at least three finger bones and two bones connecting the wrist and knuckles. Tom screamed, though not very loud.

“Have I made myself clear?” Sherlock asked. The only response he got was a painful cough through clenched teeth. After that, Sherlock turned around and showed himself out. On the front steps, he phoned Lestrade, saying that there had been a burglary at Molly’s flat, and that Tom had gotten himself quite injured in the process.

When George arrived at the scene, Sherlock told him that Molly had ran to his flat in the panic, that she was soaked wet in rain and just as beaten up as Tom was, which lestrade found odd.

“The odd thing was, inspector, that Miss Hooper had multiple pairs of parallel cuts across her cheek, and I couldn’t quite place with what object she had been attacked.”

“All right, Sherlock, We’ll look into it.”

Completely ignoring with what George had said, Sherlock responded “Have you noticed the ring Tom wears, has 2 stones in it?  An intricate design, even if I do say so myself.”

Lestrade was silent for a second. “Yes it is, now that you say so.”

Sherlock smiled at Lestrade briefly before turning around on his way home. “Goodnight inspector!”

***

As she stepped through the door, the storm behind him had calmed to a continuous gentle drizzle, tapping softly on the windows as he heard the warm crackling of the fire in his flat upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson told him John had gotten home while he was out; he had checked on molly’s injuries and was now out to get her some painkillers. He wanted to say that that had hardly had been necessary, for he had a plenitude of painkilling narcotics upstairs. Nevertheless, he decided against it.

In his living room, Molly was sitting on a pillow in front of the fire, with a blanket wrapped around her and her second cup of tea in her hands. She was facing the fire, staring blankly into it. She turned her head when she heard him come in.

“Sherlock hi, I noticed you had gone, um, out.” She looked down.

He took of his wet coat and put it on the coat hanger. “Yes I did, I paid a short visit to Tom. Though the weirdest thing happened, I got there, and he had been beaten up by a burglar.”

Molly looked up, surprised, shocked perhaps. “He was? What happened?” Sherlock walked towards her, and sat down next to her in front of the fire.

“Possible broken nose, broken hand and multiple injured vital organs. He’ll be fine though, don’t worry. However, there is one thing has got me thinking.”

“And what’s that?”

“The hand that was broken had already been injured before. He had hit someone today, multiple times, and hard.” He paused a second before he continued. “But you were the only one that had been with him all day long.”

Molly snivelled a bit, though Sherlock didn’t see any tears. Sherlock saw she realised why he had gone out, and she only said a three small words in response.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

He pulled her close to his chest

“No need.” He said. “He’s never getting near you again.” Then he leaned his cheek on her head and rocked her lightly.

“You’re safe now, Molly Hooper, you’re safe.”

***

[strawberryjmilk]

spell on you | kim seokjin

word count: 2356

based off of the movie ‘hocus pocus’

warning: there’s a fight scene and also virgin jokes idk

As if you weren’t staring death in the face, you smiled. The dark eyes that looked deep into yours seemed to flicker between happiness and deception, unsure of how you should be treated. Your lungs froze and your heart leaped - in fear or distaste, you didn’t know.

“My, my,” a voice taunted you. He knew what he was doing, the boy who smirked at you. He knew of the way your heart jumped in excitement and fear. He knew that the lingering curiousness in your eyes would overrule any other emotion. “What to do with you, little lamb?”

How did you get into this situation? You could only think of Yugyeom’s teasing smile - he was your first friend. When you moved to South Korea, you definitely didn’t expect this. So, why did you do it?

Why did you light that damn candle?

“Say, Y/N,” Kim Yugyeom lazily drawled out. He was a tall boy - what he lacked in muscle he had in height. His slender body could easily intimidate anyone. His soft voice, however, even made the strongest hearts stutter. Maybe this is why he was your first friend in your new town. “Do you know of the legend of Kim Seokjin?”

“Obviously not,” Rosé rolled her eyes. She twirled a piece of orange hair as she chewed on a piece of gum. “Y/N is new to town, remember?”

“Who’s Kim Seokjin?” You managed to ask. Once the two of them began to bicker, they’d never stop. Yugyeom wiggled his eyebrows at you while Rosé just rolled her eyes.

“Only the best witch in South Korea,” Yugyeom informed. He paused to grab his phone and you assumed he was looking up the exact legend of Seokjin. “Witches were killed ages ago, right? Well, the best one in South Korea was Kim Seokjin. He was powerful and had a nasty attitude. But, he was attractive so many people didn’t suspect that he was a witch.”

“Once he was found out, though,” Rosé spoke from where Yugyeom left off. She seemed to know the story by heart as her eyes lit up. “He was killed immediately. Of course, the most powerful witch couldn’t just go down without a fight. So, he vowed to come back and get justice on the town that wronged him.”

“How would he come back?” You hated how interested you were in the story. But, you found yourself on the edge of your seat as your friends continued the story.

“A week before Halloween,” Yugyeom started. He paused, as if for a dramatic tone. “If a virgin lit the red candle in his old cabin, he’d come back and take said person with him.”

“His cabin still stands, of course,” Rosé nodded. She seemed to believe the legend and that scared you a little. Rosé was a wise girl - if she believed the story, why wouldn’t you? “It’s like a museum of sorts. But, it’s always closed during October - just in case.”

“That can’t be real,” you shook your head. It seemed like a fairy tale to you - witches weren’t even real. Still, a little part of you screamed at the thought of it being a week before Halloween. “Right?”

“Believe what you want, Y/N,” Rosé clicked her tongue. She shook her head sadly as she sighed. Someone called her name and grabbed her attention. Yugyeom looked at you with a smirk.

“Wanna go see if the legend is true?” Yugyeom asked. You rolled your eyes and sighed. A big part of you said yes - what harm could it do if the entire thing was fake? A smaller part of you, however, knew how incredibly wrong this could go if it turned out to be true.

You found yourself in front of Kim Seokjin’s cabin at 11:36 pm. Yugyeom had told you to meet him at 12, but you found yourself already there and it eery how close you lived. Your new town seemed to bring a lot of surprises and you weren’t too sure how to feel about that just yet.

“Let’s go, Y/N,” Yugyeom hummed happily. He guided you into the cabin with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely like a runway model. You couldn’t help but pout at how pretty everyone around you was. “Time to meet Mr. Seokjin.”

“If this even works,” you reminded Yugyeom lightly. You felt like eyes were following you as Yugyeom opened the cabin door. A chill ran through your spin as you noticed all of the cobwebs - the place truly looked abandoned. “It could all be fake, Yugy.”

You soon arrived in what you assumed to be Seokjin’s living room. The red candle was to the far left wall with a plaque underneath it. Here lies Kim Seokjin’s soul and hatred, it read. Do not light! The click of a lighter caught your attention.

“Well,” Yugyeom said with a playful smirk on his face. Slight fear was seen in his eyes - he didn’t know what to expect, either. “Go light the candle, little virgin.”

You rolled your eyes at your new friend. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the lighter from Yugyeom’s hand. You inched forward until you were eye level with the candle and you lit it without hesitation. With the candle lit, you paused, waiting to see if anything would happen. When nothing did, you turned to smile at Yugyeom, only to notice he’d left.

“Looks like you’re alone, little lamb,” a voice chided. You turned to see a man standing beside the lit candle. He had an air of arrogance around him and the hard look in his eyes on emphasized that. He tsked, mockingly shaking his head at you. “You shouldn’t have done that if you won’t even say hello.”

“What the hell,” you muttered to yourself. You gulped as the black haired male in front of you blinked innocently. This can’t be real, you thought to yourself. No way could this actually be Kim Seokjin.

“So, you’re the virgin who lit my candle?” Kim Seokjin continued to tease you. He slowly raked his eyes up and down your figure. Titling his head, he nodded approvingly. “I wouldn’t mind fixing that.”

“How is this real?” you found yourself asking out loud. Seokjin just grinned at you but his smile wasn’t nice. It was smug, deceitful, and all around cruel.

“Oh, it’s real, little lamb,” Seokjin patted your head as he walked around you. The nickname he’d chosen for you seemed to stick. “Ah, there’s my spell book! I can do many things with this, little lamb.” He shuffled through the book with a thoughtful expression. You found yourself glancing at the front door, wondering if you could escape him. “But, what shall we do with you? You’re mine now, after all.”

“What?” You don’t remember Rosé or Yugyeom mentioning anything about that. They only said you’d be taken with him. But, what exactly did that mean? What did happen after Kim Seokjin came back?

“You don’t know?” Seokjin acted shocked. The innocence in your gaze seemed to stop Seokjin’s thought process. His eyes glazed over and almost darkened as he smirked down at you. “You’re mine now, little lamb.”

You gulped as Seokjin stood in front of you. Crouching until he was nose to nose with you, Seokjin bumped his nose on yours. His smile seemed to soften as he looked at you again.

“Let’s make a deal,” Seokjin proposed. He stayed in his crouched position, making sure your nose was always touching his. “I’ll give you until Halloween. If you like me, I get to keep you. But, if you don’t, I’ll go back alone on Halloween like I’m supposed to.”

And that’s where you found yourself now. Seokjin raised an eyebrow at you as you smiled. Could be fun, you thought. You’d have an all powerful witch on your side. You shrugged at Seokjin, the movement causing your nose to brush against his even further.

“Well, little lamb?” Seokjin asked again. He seemed to be impatient with your answer. Seokjin raised an eyebrow as he slowly moved away from you. You felt like you could finally breath as the raven-haired boy moved to be a few inches from you. “What will it be?”

“Let’s play your game, Kim Seokjin,” your confidence seemed to amuse Seokjin. He raised an eyebrow at you and his smirk seemed to grow.

“Then we shall,” Seokjin spoke quietly. He leaned down again until his nose was pressing against yours. The move didn’t shock you anymore, though you could feel a blush raising on your cheeks. “My little lamb.”

A downside to your deal with Kim Seokjin was that only you could see him. As you sat in your desk the next day, Seokjin sat on the desktop, swinging his feet as if to trip anyone who walked by you. As Yugyeom walked in, you couldn’t help the glare on your face.

“Kim Yugyeom,” you spoke lowly as he sat beside you. The blue haired boy only smiled sheepishly at you. “Tell me why you left me yesterday.”

“Sorry, Y/N,” Yugyeom chuckled. You could see Seokjin look between the two of you with a raised brow. “But, hey! At least we can say the legend isn’t true. Or, maybe you weren’t a virgin after all.”

You sneered at Yugyeom, if only he knew. A scoff came from your left and you did your best to ignore Seokjin’s obvious annoyance. As he raised his pointer finger, you nonchalantly pushed it down. No one knows what he’d do to Yugyeom. Said blue haired boy just shook his head and chuckled again.

It had been three days. An endless three days with Kim Seokjin pestering you endlessly. How were you supposed to like the guy if he only annoyed you?

A sigh left your lips as you walked home from the library. You had been researching all about Kim Seokjin and his life before it ended. As expected, this town was obsessed with Halloween and the likes of Kim Seokjin. You brought your jacket closer to your body, feeling a chill that wasn’t caused by Seokjin. Actually, you didn’t know where the witch boy was.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a voice called out. You ignored the obvious drunkard and continued walking. You could hear footsteps and immediately rolled your eyes. All of the self-defense you knew was roaming around your mind, just in case. “Come on, don’t be like that!”

“Screw off,” you mumbled to yourself. You could hear the man walking faster, so you copied his actions. You were only a few blocks from home, where hopefully your vengeful witch was.

Your thoughts were cut off as a hand grabbed your hair and yanked you backwards. A shriek left your mouth as you hit the concrete below. A sickening chuckle was heard as the drunk man towered over you. Quickly, you swing your leg against his, causing him to collapse. You scrambled to your feet and began to run until you bumped into a chest. Terrified with adrienline running through your veins, you pushed against the chest. You relaxed tremendously when you noticed the familiar smell of cinnamon - it was always Kim Seokjin’s favorite spice to brew potion with.

“You,” he spoke deeply. You’d never been scared of Seokjin before but now, you’d hate to be the man on the receiving end of his glare. “Are you messing with my little lamb?”

“What of it?” The man slurred. You turned your head as you heard choking. The drunkard was inches off of the ground and he continued rising. He grasped his neck as his face slowly turned blue.

You looked up at Seokjin once the man collapsed to go the ground. His eyes were a swirling galaxy of purples that soon faded to their empty darkness. He looked down at you and seemed to soften. Cupping your cheek, he ran his thumb over slight bruise across your cheekbone. You didn’t notice it when you fell but the entire right side of your face seemed to throb now.

“You okay?” Seokjin whispered. You nodded before looking at the man’s corpse once more. The black haired male guided you to your house, tucking you safely in your bed. He ran his finger gently over the bruise again, a sad look in his eyes.

“Thank you, Seokjin,” you said. Seokjin smiled a gentle smile at you - it was different from his normal smirks. Your body seemed to heat up with a blush. “Maybe you’re more of a knight than a witch.”

“Only for you, little lamb,” Seokjin spoke. He ran his hand through your hair until you fell asleep. When your body relaxed and your breathing deepened, Seokjin smiled again. He leaned foreword and kissed your forehead. “Only for you.”

It was now a day before Halloween. After your incident, Seokjin hadn’t left your side. He was now walking beside you as you looked up at the starry sky. A few hours from now, and Kim Seokjin would have to leave you. You had felt an odd comfort from the witch boy.

“So,” Seokjin broke the silence. He looked awfully handsome as he walked beside you with his hands in his pockets. “Have you decided to come with me, my little lamb?”

The question reminded you of the deal you’d made. If I ended up liking Seokjin more than I should, you thought to yourself. You bit your lip in thought. I’ll go with him and be ‘his’. But, what does that even mean?

“You’ll stay with me,” Seokjin spoke as if he read your thoughts. He looked down at you with a half smile. “And be my assistant of sorts. You’ll help me haunt people, in a way, since no one will see me. Everyone you’ve met will forget you and you’ll become invisible, too. So, what do you say?”

You shrugged and pursed your lips. You looked up at Kim Seokjin and echoed what you’d thought over a week ago. “Could be fun.”

So, as you grabbed Kim Seokjin’s hand, you found yourself ascending into a happiness you didn’t know existed.

this is late I know I’m sorry anyways I hope you enjoyed! the namjoon imagine will be up soon!

taehyung | jungkook | jimin | seokjin | namjoon | hoseok | yoongi

[darkestsight]

Random Scene #16

(Rip + team fluffy crack somewhat inspired by certain posts made here on tumblr)

When Jax and Ray strode on to the bridge several minutes late for the team’s post-mission debriefing, they were greeted by two surprises.

The first was the conspicuous absence of their captain. Considering it was Rip who insisted on having these debriefings in the first place and who lectured anyone and everyone that was late or failed to attend, this was very odd. The rest of the team were all there however, Martin looking rather worried, Sara looking rather annoyed, and Mick looking, rather disturbingly, amused.

The second surprise to greet them as they entered the bridge, and the more startling of the two, was an unexpected new arrival seated on the console in the middle of the room.

Eyebrows lifted as high as they could go, Jax said, “Uh, guys. What’s a cat doing in here?”

“Oh, hey, how cute,” said Ray in turn. “Can I pet him?”

The cat, an orange tabby, turned to look at them, the end of its tail twitching.

Mick snorted. “Sure, go ahead,” he said with a smirk.

Grinning, Ray took a step forward.

Sara held up a hand halting Ray’s progress towards the cat. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

Ray’s shoulders slumped, his whole body sagging in disappointment.

Still gazing at the tabby, Jax shook his head. “You do know Rip’s going to blow a gasket when he finds out about this.”

“I can assure you, Jefferson,” said Martin, “the captain is well aware of the situation.”

“And he’s okay with it?” said Jax, disbelievingly.

The cat narrowed its eyes, its tail swishing back and forth.

Mick’s smirk grew larger. “I’d say he’s pretty pissed off.”

“Are you sure I can’t pet him?” asked Ray, taking another hopeful step towards the cat. “I’ve always been pretty good with cats. I mean I haven’t been able to spend that much time around them because of my allergies but the ones I’ve met always seemed to like me.” Sara sighed rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Ray, that’s not a cat.” More than a little perplexed, Ray said, “Um, I think I know a cat when I see one.”

“Yeah,” said Jax. “Fur, four paws, whiskers, a tail. That’s a cat.”

“Just look at it,” said Sara. “Really look.”

Still confused, the two obeyed gazing at the cat.

The cat gazed back at them, the disgruntled look of exasperation on its face all too familiar.

“Oh, my God,” said Ray, taking a step back. “That’s... that’s...”

“No way,” said Jax, his eyes widening. “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

“That’s... that’s Rip!”  Ray exclaimed, finally getting the words out.

“Yup,” said Sara, wearily nodding her head.

Ray stared at the cat in astonishment. “But how....?”

Feeling an unexpected flare of guilt, Jax narrowed his eyes at Martin. “Grey?”

The professor winced slightly. “Yes?” he said, trying and failing to look innocent.

Jax rolled his eyes. “What did you do this time?”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

Jax gave him a pointed look.

“I, uh...” Martin swallowed, his guilt now obvious to even those without a psychic connection to him. “Well, you recall how the time pirate we took care of had that large collection of stolen items?”

“Yeah,” said Jax, circling his hand in the air as he prompted Martin to continue. “And?”

“Well,” Martin continued, reluctantly, “the captain and I were going through them trying to determine if any of them needed returning to their proper places. The time pirate had quite a few interesting things in that collection, things from all across the timeline, and one of them happened to be a bronze statue of a cat. I was merely examining it. There was no way I could have possibly known it was a mystical artifact or that my examinations would inadvertently... uh... activate it.”

“You turned Rip into a cat?” Ray said in disbelief.

“Accidentally,” insisted Martin.

Sara held up her hands. “Placing blame isn’t going to help us,” she said. “What we need to decide is what to do next.”

“Buy a litter box?” Mick suggested.

Sara gave him a look.

“What?” said Mick with a shrug. “I like him better this way.” He took a step towards Rip, arm outstretched reaching to scratch the cat under the chin. “Who’s a cute kitty witty.”

Eyes narrowing even further, the cat hunched its shoulders and let out a low growl, its tail beating against the console.

Mick wisely backed off though the smirk never left his face.

“So, that’s really Rip in there?” said Jax, gazing curiously at the cat. “I mean that’s his mind in that body and he actually knows what’s going on.”

“Based on his reaction to Mick, I’d say yes,” said Sara.

“Mmrrow,” said the cat, a noise part yowl and part growl.

Ray leaned closer to the cat. “I wonder what he’s trying to tell us.”

“He said ‘Will you please stop this pointless prattling and concentrate on figuring out a way to turn me back,’” said Gideon, the A.I.’s voice making them all gaze up at the ceiling in surprise.

“You speak cat?” said Martin, incredulously.

“I do not,” said Gideon.

Ray frowned. “Then how do you know what he said?”

“He’s my captain,” was Gideon’s only response.

Sara raised her eyebrows. “Okayyyy,” she said. “Putting that aside for now, what do you think we should do?” she asked addressing Rip.

“Mrow,” said the cat.

“Perhaps you could start by researching the statue that caused this mess in the first place,” Gideon translated for him.

“You think it might be able to turn you back?” asked Martin.

“Yowl!” Rip cried.

“How the hell should I know I’m a bloody cat,” said Gideon, her pleasant tone a complete contrast to the words she was speaking.

“Boy,” said Jax. “Rip sure is one grumpy cat.”

“Oh, Grumpy Cat,” said Ray, grinning, a dopey look in his eyes.

“Now that’s a cat,” said Mick.

“Guys,” said Sara in exasperation, trying to bring their attention back to the matter at hand. “Rip’s right. We need to focus on fixing this. Ray, Martin, why don’t you start researching the statue. If that doesn’t work, I know a guy back in 2016 who might be able to help out.”

“Meowl,” said Rip, forlornly.

“Please tell me you’re not talking about John Constantine,” Gideon provided.

Sara put her hands on her hips. “Yes, John Constantine. Is that going to be a problem?”

The cat just glared at her.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sara said, sternly. “If it’s his help you need, then it’s his help we’re going to get. Do you want to stay a cat forever?”

Rip hung his head, looking completely miserable.

Sara’s expression softened. Stepping forward, she reached out and plucked the dejected cat off the console.

Rip’s eyes went wide with panic as his legs dangled comically in the air. When Sara brought him close to her chest and cradled him in her arms, he settled down somewhat though he still looked thoroughly offended by her actions.

Smiling, Sara lightly stroked the cat’s head and scratched him behind the ears. “Don’t worry, Rip. I’m sure we’ll have you back to normal in no time.”

“No fair,” said Ray, pouting. “How come you get to pet him?”

Head cocked to the side, Sara gave him a smug smirk.

The sound of an electronic shutter interrupted them and everyone turned towards the source.

Jax, his phone still pointed at Sara and Rip, shrugged. “You know Kendra’s always complaining we don’t send her enough pictures.”

“That’s true,” agreed Martin. “And this is unprecedented. It would be wise to uh... document the phenomenon while we still have the chance.”

“Don’t forget to send me copies, kid,” said Mick.

Ray quickly added, “And me.”

From Sara’s arms, Rip the cat glared at them letting out another low growl.

“Oh, shush,” said Sara and she started scratching him behind the ears once more.

Rip managed to maintain his angry glare for another second or two but it soon fell away, his eyes closing as the tension left him and his body unwillingly melted under Sara’s gentle touch.

Grinning, Jax took several more photos while very quietly Rip began to purr.

[harry-writings]

It’s Because I Love You

- The one where you’re in love with him but he likes your best friend

Masterlist linked in bio 

Harry’s been drinking all night.

It all started off with Savannah, whom he went to Lexi’s Bar with a couple of friends. It was a tradition they all had that carried throughout the past couple of months. Because Friday night meant cheaper alcohol, and Y/n’ s closing shift.

They were all having a good time, Y/n serving them drinks and they all drank their week away. It was just a night of celebrating the end of the week, where stress could be left behind for at least a couple of hours.

Everything was great until Harry got too handsy. It wasn’t his fault, he thinks, they had been talking for months and he had no particular reason to refrain himself from wrapping his arms around Savannah, considering she’s let him do it many times before.

But tonight, she wasn’t going near him, which was a drastic change from her previous attitude with him earlier that night.

So now, he’s stranded at Lexi’s Bar past closing hours, tipsy out of his mind. Savannah left without a word, abandoning him at the bar with no other ride home. 

“Jesus, Harry!” Y/n gasps, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest when she makes her way back to the bar. "What the hell are you still doing here?!”

Their friends had left a while ago, only Harry remaining slumped against the bar with an empty glass of Malibu. She wasn’t aware of his stay, in fact, it was her closing shift and the bar had closed twenty minutes ago. Only the slight sound of the radio and the clanging of dishes Y/n was washing could be heard throughout the scene.

He looks like a mix of frustrated and upset, a clear shadow of sadness in his eyes as he looks up at her. He frowns a bit, looking back down at the empty glass that’s fiddling in his hands as he lets out an almost inaudible sigh.

“Do you mind driving me home?” he asks guiltily, “Savannah was my ride but she’s not really speaking to me right now.”

Y/n furrows her eyebrows at the softness of his words, an evident tone of helplessness when he spoke. She nods her head slightly, reaching over to grab his finished drink.

“Gonna wash this real quick,” she mutters, “you can grab your coat, I’ll be right out.”

Harry nods while shooting her a small smile through his frown. He’s always been extremely appreciative of her efforts with him. He knows damn well no other person would be able to treat him the way she does. She put him first, always, and it had always been something Harry never fully understood. She went out of the way for him whenever he needed it most, without the smallest hesitation. And if he needed someone to talk to, even if it was about the horrendous traffic on his way to work, she was always there to listen to him.

He can’t lie, he feels guilty that it’s her closing shift and she’d have to be driving out of her way in order to take him home. But in all honesty, he had nobody else. Savannah left without a word after Harry tried desperately to get her attention, his other friends following shortly after in one car, leaving Harry stranded alone at the bar with Y/n still working. So, really, this was his only option.

When Y/n returns to the front of the bar, she remains silent as she grabs her coat off of the hanger. She looks at him from the corner of her eye, watching as his fingers rub harsh circles against his temples, a gesture he’s always done when he was stressed. He shook his head slightly, shutting his eyes tightly as he fixes the jacket hanging swiftly from his shoulders.

She bites her lip, curious eyes wandering around his slumped frame. Seeing Harry distressed makes her feel upset. Witnessing him at a time of stress was extremely rare, and something about it makes Y/n’s stomach drop. He was always so positive, always making sure the people around him were smiling. He has the type of personality others strive, because he's so selfless and effortless at everything he does, it’s the part of him Y/n always loved and admired.

“What happened? You okay?”

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh, his nose flaring as he closes his eyes momentarily.

“Savannah’s just so confusing sometimes. I like her a lot, but she’s hard to keep up with. It’s like she’s into me one minute and the next like I’m completely wasting her time, you know? I don’t know what she wants from me anymore.”

Y/n nods, understanding completely what he’s talking about. Savannah often does this to him—to most guys, actually.Because of how different they both are relationship-wise, it’s almost impossible for Harry to adjust to Savannah’s ‘hard to get’ character. Harry prefers to not waste any time when it comes to dating. If he likes someone who reciprocates feelings, he immediately takes action. That’s how he always was with his past girlfriends, taking no time to start a relationship with them.

Savannah, however, loves the game. Being chased amuses her, almost makes her feel as if she’s worth something. Because of her undoubtable beauty and irresistibly charming personality, she always makes the man work for her liking. Her character always made guys frustrated but exposed them to an entirely different relationship. Her hot to cold attitude made men feel intimidated, yet motivated them to catch her. Because, undoubtedly, she’s the ultimate catch no guy could ever ignore.

It had always been that way, too. When Y/n and Savannah both hit puberty, Savannah was the irresistible one. Her figure curved at all the right edges, her tan complexion naturally glowing, and she started to expose herself to new people.

She wasn’t shy of anything. Any opportunity to take on a challenge called Savannah’s name. She was constantly seeking adventure and finding new people to get along with. Which, of course, wasn’t hard at all. Everyone liked Savannah, it was almost impossible not to.

Y/n, however, was the exact opposite. She was beautiful, but not 'Savannah beautiful.’ She was paler, not a spot of makeup on her face. Her body was a bit more frail than hers, her curves not as extenuated. She was more introverted, as well, only speaking when she felt was necessary. The only way she was able to make friends was through Savannah’s courageous behavior.

And although Savannah and Y/n had an unbreakable bond since middle school, being Savannah’s best friend screwed up Y/n’s love life tremendously. It hurt Y/n a lot throughout her high school years. Being best friends with the most beautiful girl wasn’t easy for her, if anything, it made her feel less about herself. It’s the exact reason why she hasn’t dated in years. Because guys Y/n liked always ended up falling for Savannah.

Which is exactly what’s happening with Harry.

Y/n first met Harry when she began working at Lexi's. It was her first Friday night shift during the summer. It was her first week after training, so she wasn’t quite used to the busy weekends and late hours, but she didn’t mind it.

She was rearranging glasses at the bar when Harry first walked in. Her breath hitched in her throat when she first saw him enter. She could have sworn her heart had jumped out from her chest in that very moment. He was beautiful, a different kind of beautiful, too. He was so effortless at it—the way he moved and the way he presented himself; he had confidence in himself without flaunting it.

He was wearing tight black jeans with a pink floral see-through button up, flowing loosely from his shoulders. His chest was in great view, as well, the cross hanging from his necklace dangling perfectly between his pecs. His hair was freshly cut, his face freshly shaved and had an aroma of a cologne Y/n wasn’t familiar with. It was unique, though, like him, and all-in-all made him more attractive than she already perceived him to be.

Her eyes went wide when he claimed the barstool in front of her, her actions coming to a halt as her eyes hawked over his every move. She genuinely forgot how to breathe, his physical features overwhelming her in ways she’s never experienced before. The world around her seemed to fade as she admired every part of him she could see.

He was just so breathtaking.

It wasn’t until one of the other bartenders dropped a glass onto the floor that Y/n was pulled out of her trance. She quickly shook her head, slowly coming back in touch with reality. Thankfully, he hadn’t seemed to notice her presence yet.

She shook her head again before working to dry the remaining shot glasses. She just had to make it a couple of hours without completely embarrassing herself in front of him, that’s all she had to do.

Her eyes drifted slightly to him again when he lifted his right leg up against the unoccupied barstool next to him, leaning over before his fingers started working to retie his shoelace.

“The usual.” he spoke, eyes still cast downward.

Y/n looked around behind the counter, checking to see if he was talking to someone else. Considering she had just started working there a week ago and hasn’t served him yet, she was completely clueless as to what he was ordering.

“Uh..”

He looked up from his shoes, eyes diverting right into hers as a sense of realization reached his features.

“Oh, I see,” he giggled, “Sorry, love. I wasn’t aware there was a new bartender in town.”

His voice was both raspy and smooth in the most elegant way she’s ever heard. His accent was so incredibly thick she could visually see it by the way his lips moved. And his giggle, with the slight smirk he developed made her heart flutter in her chest.

Y/n nodded, smiling slightly at him.

“Yeah, just started a week ago. Nobody’s ever ordered ‘the usual’ before.” she joked, nervous laughter falling from her lips as she tucked loose pieces of hair behind her ear.

He grinned at her, his cheeks turning a bit peachy. He had to admit, she was gorgeous, and clearly had a great sense of humor. He could tell she was shy, though, by the way she wasn’t confident in her words and the way her cheeks flushed whenever he spoke to her.

“Cute” he muttered ever so slightly, Y/n almost thought she imagined it, “‘The usual,’ at least for me, is a Malibu Bay Breeze. Bit heavier on the cranberry juice, a bit lighter on the pineapple.”

Y/n nodded, muttering a quiet “coming right up” before gathering the ingredients. Harry watched her as she poured it all together, mixing the essential ingredients, admiring her gestures and movements whenever he said something that made her smile.

They talked for hours that night, getting to know each other. Y/n was mesmerized, completely and utterly captivated at how somebody like him could possibly exist. He was everything she’s ever dreamed of—there wasn’t any part of him she didn’t find alluring. This was the only time she’s ever spoken to him, yet she found herself feeling something she’s never felt before.

And the feelings only got stronger with time. Every Friday for four months, Y/n found Harry coming into Lexi’s earlier than he usually did, and every time he’d come she prepared him a Malibu Bay Breeze—heavy on the cranberry, light on the pineapple.

He stayed with her until closing, until the last light went off and the music went down. And after she was off her shift, he took her to the 24-hour movie theater that hardly anybody went to in those early hours of the morning. Instead of watching, however, they spent the entire movie goofing around with popcorn and sharing fond memories of their childhood.

To say Y/n had fallen hard for Harry was an understatement. She was completely and unconditionally in love with him.

The feeling he had given her never subsided—he never failed to give her a feeling of euphoria whenever he spent his Friday nights with her. And the more he opened up to her, and the more she opened up to him, the more it felt right. He felt right, no part of her doubted that for a second. He captured her heart and she knew there was no way in hell she was ever getting it back.

Savannah even began to notice her shift in mood ever since her Friday night shifts began. It was as if she turned into an entirely different person. She seemed more confident in herself, and Savannah started noticing the softest of smiles illuminating on her face every so often.

Y/n was the happiest she had ever been before, she swore she was on cloud nine. Y/n started to believe nothing could have torn her down. Nothing.

But then, it happened.

Savannah showed up to Lexi’s during Y/n’s regular Friday night shift. It was a little past midnight, arriving back from her aunt’s wedding—which Y/n would have attended if she didn’t need the money (and if it wasn’t during her shift Harry was a frequent customer in).

She ran in with a long eggplant purple dress, which had a long slit along the leg. Her hair curled in perfect waves that fell loosely down her shoulders, her makeup illuminating and extenuating her flawless features.

“Y/n!” She squealed, scurrying her way to the bar while nearly tripping over her six-inch heels.

Y/n saw Harry’s eyes widen at the sight of her. Of course she visited her when Harry’s here, and of course, she visited when she looked as beautiful as ever. Y/n knew the second Savannah walked in that it was over, every possibility of her and Harry building up to a relationship has been knocked down to the ground.

Y/n closed her eyes momentarily, because she started to feel every part of her heartbreak, and it was the most painful feeling she’s ever felt. Harry’s only seen Savannah for a couple of seconds and he was already looking at her in a way he never has with Y/n.

She gritted her teeth harshly, because how did she think this wouldn’t happen? This was always how it ended, and even if Harry ever liked Y/n enough to start a relationship with her, she wouldn’t be able to hide him from Savannah forever.

“Guess what!” she yelled once she found her way to the bar, leaning against it so she was as close as possible to Y/n.

“What?” Y/n smiled weakly, unable to rid the aching in her chest.

“The photographer at the wedding asked me to be a model for his pictures! And not only that, but he just started working for Top Shop, said he could talk to some people for me to make this work! Can you believe it?! Savannah Turk, next top model! Gosh, I’m so excited!”

Y/n smiled widely. It was always Savannah’s dream to become a model, and she could definitely pull it off. In all honesty, she was shocked she wasn’t one already.

“That’s great, Savannah!” Y/n gasped, “I can’t believe this! I’m so happy for you!”

They both reached over to hug each other, Savannah jumping up and down as small squeals fall from her lips. Once they let go, Y/n is quick to fix up Savannah’s favorite drink as she claims the barstool next to Harry.

Harry’s heart began to race as she scooted closer to him. She was completely breathtaking. He had never seen someone like her before, every part of her intrigued him. She drew him in, and there was no way in hell there was any chance of going back.

“I’m Harry, by the way.”

Savannah let out a slight “push” as she waved her hand in the air.

“I know, Y/n doesn’t shut up about you.”

Y/n’s eyes widened, but quickly refrained against her shocked expression as she let out a nervous laugh. God, they couldn’t know about her feelings, because she hadn’t told anybody about how she felt about Harry and certainly wanted to avoid talking about it while he’s practically gawking over Savannah.

Harry looked up at Y/n with a playful smirk resting perfectly on his face.

“Well, who else is going to get me through my Friday night shifts?” Y/n laughed.

Harry lifted his drink up to her, eyebrows lifting as he smirked at her, “And who else is going to get me through my loneliness, eh?”

Ouch.

Savannah’s eyebrows lifted, a wide grin on her face as she looked over to Harry. And by God, he surely was a sight to see.

“Oh, so ‘Friday night shift boy’ is lonely? Don’t know why Y/n hasn’t taken advantage of that yet,” Savannah smirked, “I know I would have.”

Y/n nods again, mustering up a sympathetic smile to him. She doesn’t want any part of Savannah’s games to make him feel bad about himself. None of what he’s feeling is his fault, and every atom in her body aches for him to know that.

“I’m sorry, Harry” she whispers, “I know how much that can hurt, you don’t deserve it.”

He gives her a soft smile, but it falls just as quickly as it spreads. His gaze falls to the floor, eyebrows furrowing as he shakes his head softly.

“I just can’t keep doing this with her.”

His soft and Bambi eyes look up at her in sorrow, a frown stretched on his lips at the strain his heart has endured.

“I don’t know what more I can do, Y/n.”

And as selfish as it sounds, the first thought that comes to her mind after the hopeless words leave Harry's mouth is you can love me back.

Because, God, if he loved her, she wouldn’t keep him waiting. She wouldn’t keep him under the impression that he’s not good enough. No, Harry’s fulfilled every part of her wildest dreams, and she would never let a day go by without making him feel the way he deserves—loved.

Despite her selfish thoughts that she desperately wishes she could say to him, she pushes them all aside. Harry needs her, he needs her to be the friend that will be there for him in the latest hours of the night. He needs her shoulder to lean on, and she can't deny the chance to help him through this and make him feel better.

She doesn’t respond to him, only slinging her bag around her shoulder and pointing her head toward the exit doors.

“We can talk about this later, yeah? Lets just get you home first.”

The ride to his house was silent, mainly consisting of the soft tune on the radio and Y/n’s hushed voice singing along. With the alcohol still buzzing inside Harry’s head, he didn’t mind the silence they shared. It was comfortable because Harry wasn’t in the mood to discuss his anticlimactic relationship with Savannah. He just needed someone to listen to him, to be there for him, and Y/n was his favorite company.

When they arrive at his house, Y/n is basically carrying Harry to his door.

“Yeah, alright, you—that’s right, you’re good” she huffs, the weight of his body making it a struggle for her to walk.

He isn’t drunk enough for her to completely guide him, but he is stumbling a bit and does find himself tripping over his own two feet a couple of times.  

Y/n giggles, shaking her head as she walks him through his front door. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have made you that many drinks. Thank God you weren’t planning on driving, that would have been a mess.”

Harry doesn’t have much time to respond before she sits him down on his couch. She runs her thumb along his forehead softly, wiping away some of the sweat before smiling at him softly.

"Gonna make you some tea, now.”

Harry shakes his head, his hand reaching to grab her wrist.

“Love, you don’t have to,” Harry shakes his head, “you’ve been making everybody’s drinks all night.”

She shrugs, a small smile tugging on her lips.

“I don’t mind. You’re upset, I want to make sure you feel better, alright? I know that Savannah does this to you and I don’t—“ she pauses, closing her eyes softly, “and I don’t want you to keep thinking that this is your fault.”

His heart swells at her words, his large hands reaching out to grip her small ones.

“Would you mind just—just lying down with me for a bit? I don’t want the tea, just need your company right now.”

Y/n frowns slightly, and she isn’t sad because she doesn’t want to be with him. What makes her sad is the intimacy of holding him would give her no chance to escape her feelings. Whenever she feels the heartbreak sneaking back up on her, she always finds a way to distract herself from the pain. Whether it was rearranging her bedroom, organizing the books on her bookshelf, or focusing on her work, there was always a way to escape the pain.

But it’s when she feels him—whether it’s the touch of his hand, or a rub of the shoulder—when she feels his skin ignite her and when she feels the warmth of is body against her, there was no running away from the harsh reality she’s been living in. There is no escape from the thought that she’s in love with someone she can never have because all she feels when she feels him is broken.

And it’s in these moments she finds herself being most selfish. Because he needs her now, holding him, reassuring him that everything will be okay. He’s going through the same feeling she is, and all she can think about is her stupid self and her broken heart, even when he needs her most.

She lays down on his couch first, which Harry finds particularly inviting. He lays with his head face down against her neck, legs tangled in between hers with his arms wrapped around her back. He loves cuddling with her. She’s just so soft, and she feels cozy, especially after he drinks heaps of alcohol. He hasn’t cuddled with her for a while, either, and holding her against him now already makes his shitty night somewhat tolerable.

“Thank you for being with me, Y/n” he mumbles against her collar bone, the fabric of her t-shirt moving against his lips. “And I’m sorry I made you drive me back.”

She giggles softly, her fingers brushing through his messy bed of curls. She feels him relax into her the more she rakes his hair, and he doesn’t hesitate to keep her motions going.

“It’s okay, didn’t have any other plans. Besides, I kind of miss being alone with you sometimes.”

He hums in response, pressing his cheek further into her neck. His eyes shut, his body relaxing to the sound of her heartbeat, which he feels thumping perfectly against his chest.

“S’good to me” he mumbles, “don’t know what I’d do without you, you know.”

Y/n feels her heart skip at the words he spoke against her, her whole body getting an overwhelming sense of despondency.

“Harry, I—“

“I think I’m gonna keep fighting for her” Harry interjects.

His voice is slurring now, his half-asleep daze making his words all jumbled. But he knows what he’s saying, and Y/n knows, too, and her heart plummets. Her throat suddenly begins to choke on cries she wasn’t aware had come so quickly. It’s just another reminder, just another confirmation that Savannah always gets what she wants, even if Y/n wants it more.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna give up on her yet. If I like her, I gotta fight for it, right? She’d be well worth it, too.”

Y/n tries desperately to blink away her tears, and she’s forever grateful that the light is off in his living room when she fails to do so.

“I—I think you should do what you want, Harry” her voice shakes as she speaks, “I’ll be here for you either way.”

Harry holds her tighter, humming in response again, because he’s already falling asleep and finds no energy in him to answer her.

She wishes with everything in her that she can scream, scream at him for being so fucking stupid and oblivious to her love. And the worst part is that she can’t even blame him. She had an entire four months where she could have confessed her feelings, where she could have told him how in love with him she was.

But would it have changed anything? Would they have just ended up in this shitty situation anyway?

And it isn’t until Harry’s passed out on top of her, his breath spreading along her chest and his fingers rubbing her back in his slumber that Y/n realizes she could spend forever laying here with him, all wrapped up against his body. She could fall asleep like this every night, after a long day of work and empty wine glasses on the coffee table. She could see everything, everything she’s ever envisioned, with him.

And it’s in this moment she realizes that she can’t keep doing this anymore, either.

Her cheeks dampen with her tears, hands shaking in his hair. Never would she think she’d have to let him go, but seeing his face rest so peacefully on her chest, she knows she has to.

“I love you, Harry.” She cries, her fingers gripping onto the roots of his hair.

“God, Harry, I love you so much.” she sobs.

If Harry wasn’t such a deep sleeper, she would have never dreamt of saying all of this. But he’s remaining asleep, lips parted as he snores, the alcohol in his veins making him almost immobile against her.

“You deserve to be happy, Harry” she whispers, “I shouldn’t hold you back.”

Her body is shaking, soft cries leaving her lips and endless tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t want to let go, she doesn’t want to stop loving him in the way she does now. Because even though it hurts, she doesn’t want to imagine a day without him.

But she has to. For him.

Her thumbs rub along his cheekbones, her eyes admiring his features one last time.

“And it’s because I love you—“ she pauses, swallowing thickly as her shaking lips press tentatively against his forehead, “that I have to let you go.”