#<- Sound of a nail being hit squarely on the head...Harry's so handsome

[bumblingbabooshka]

'Parturition' is so brave for being the yaoi ship trope episode of Voyager. "Neelix and Tom Paris had a physical.....fight." Also continuing Tom's beautiful habit of loving both infidelity and child abandonment with all his heart. Also, wonderful out of context quote: "I had no right to push that pasta in your lap."

[onbeinganangel]

warmup ficlet for @the-starryknight! she picked 'i know we’re not together but i might die today so i’m going to kiss you just in case there is no later' from this wee list of kisses and asked me to drarry it up and I rubbed my hands together in glee knowing fully well i was about to put together a hell of an angst sandwich

not beta'd, not edited, just angst with a happy ending directly from my heart to yours! (cw: some canon-style mentions of blood, violence, injury and also kind of patient/healer relationship)

damned if you do it and damned if you don’t

(draco/harry, 1.8k)

Draco had pictured it so often throughout his life he sometimes couldn’t honestly believe he had made it all the way to twenty-seven.

He remembers saying it after being thrown on his arse by the family Abraxan. He’d been very little, then. Five or six, maybe. He’d cried, big fat tears running down his face, and when his Mother finally managed to pull his tiny fists down and stop him from hiding his crying behind them, he’d announced, “Maman, I am dying.” She had assured him he very much wasn’t. They’d had scones with big heaped spoonfuls of clotted cream and raspberry jam in the garden and he’d soon forgotten about his fall.

A few years later, he fell off his broom and straight into the lake. Dobby had spelled him dry to avoid him getting in trouble and he was still heaving, coughing up water and panicking when he told the Elf, “Dobby, I am dying.”

Then there was the incident at Hogwarts. He still felt the sharp talons on his skin way after the hippogriff was far, far away, as he bled, holding onto the gashes on his arm and announced to the whole class, “I am dying, it’s killed me!”

Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, it was more constant. It was the heavy burn of the Mark settling on his arm, it was the feeling of all his organs lighting up in pain and his bones breaking under Crucio after Crucio, it was the sounds of Nagini slithering outside his bedroom door at night, the sickening thud of death, the unsettling screaming, his aunt’s shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice, Greyback’s growls. A neverending chant of “I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, I am dying” inside his head.

It was confiding in a ghost, it was crying because the fear of failure was so intense he reckons he would have preferred to be dead then, it was the only person he believed was actually kind and pure and incapable of willingly inflicting pain on anyone slashing him open and leaving him for dead on a bathroom floor. Draco had looked at Snape, murmuring spell after spell over him, and he’d whispered, “I am dying.”

It was learning how to be numb, how to not feel, how to keep everyone out of his mind and away from his thoughts, it was the paralysing terror of crawling around in the shadows, the bone-deep dread of dropping leftover bread rolls on the floor by the bars on the dungeon and kicking them swiftly into the other side, where they kept his classmates. It was sneaking a blanket or two down and saying to himself, “If they find out…”

It was the persistent horror of knowing you don’t believe in what you’re doing and knowing you’re damned if you do it and damned if you don’t. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Draco would lie in his bed at night — his own at home, his own in the dorms, Pansy’s in the girls’ dorms when it got bad, and he would say it to himself, hoping it would become true, “I am dying.”

But he hadn’t. Despite all odds, Draco is happy. Twenty-seven. He’s got friends, a flat, a job he loves and he’s good at. He’s no longer spat at on the streets. He survived, he made amends, he managed it all. Most of all, he had managed not to die.

Until now, that is. This time he’s pretty certain he won’t be afforded such luck. He feels the curse hit him square on the chest. It’s his own fault, really, for not realising there was someone already in the room he entered. He’d been too busy throwing a rather flourished Incarcerous across the room at the two potions dealers he’d been running after for the past five minutes to notice the third man.

Draco is falling backwards before he has time to even think about anything, his wand clanking noisily seconds before he joins it on the floor.

Then: “Incarcerous.” He hears it — muffled but there. And after, “Fuck, Draco.”

He’s way too familiar with the way his Auror partner works not to know it’s him when the strong arms wrap around him and pull him up. “Oh, Merlin,” he hears. His eyes flutter back open for a couple of seconds and he can tell he was right, even if it’s all blurry: red robes, orange hair, worried blue eyes.

Fear. “I am dying,” he thinks. “Harry,” he says.

“You’re gonna see Harry alright,” Ron says. “He’s gonna have words about having to heal you again,” it’s almost like a joke. Like a Ronald-typical joke. But there’s an edge of worry there. There’s panic. Ronald doesn’t panic.

And it dawns on him. Draco tries to look down but it’s all red. The burgundy of his robes, the sticky dark red of drying blood on his hands and the fresh and vivid blood still pouring out of his chest. He’s not gonna make it to St. Mungo’s, he’s never going to make it to Harry.

“I am dying,” he says, and Ron makes a noise that can only be described as half agony, half agreement.

It smells like St. Mungo’s when he wakes up thinking “I am dying.” Very faintly, he hears the same voice he always hears in his dreams. Maybe he is dead. The voice never sounds like this in his dreams, though: disembodied, frantic, quick. Draco catches half words, half sentences, half conversations that don’t make sense. A different voice is saying “just do it” and “you’re powerful enough” and “sod protocol” and “I am his partner, I brought him here.” The voice from his dreams responds with things like “unstable” and “I don’t know” and “can you please try” and a “I can’t get in touch with her” and “not without consent forms” and a louder, angry “he’s not going to d—“

Draco tries to move towards the voice.

“Draco!” Says the first voice and three pairs of feet come towards him.

“Don’t try to open your eyes, don’t try to talk, don’t try to move, okay? We have stopped the bleeding for now, but we’re still trying to reverse the curse.”

“Harry.” His Harry.

“Yes, hello. We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I am dying,” Draco croaks out.

“I won’t let you.”

Draco wants to speak. He wants to say “I am dying, I don’t want to die without telling you,” but he has no strength. His thoughts are going faster than the newest Firebolt as he hears Harry tell whoever else is in the room (Ron?) to leave. He wonders if this is it. This what they show you in the films: your life flashing before your eyes right before you die. He thinks of Harry shaking his hand after his Auror graduation ceremony. “Well done, Malfoy,” he’d said. He thinks of that first time he’d been invited over to Ron and Hermione’s, a few weeks after he became Ron’s partner, and Harry had laughed at his stories, lips wine-red and plump, eyes kind like he’d never expected. He thinks of every moment of almost in between them, every moment where Draco considered blurting it out, saying what was on his mind. The Christmas Gala as he towered over Harry and fixed the little chain on his robes for him, and that night at that dingy club for Hermione’s birthday where they’d stared at each other for forty minutes and when Draco had decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he found out that Harry had left. Or just last month when they’d gone out to buy a housewarming present for Luna and ended up eating leftovers on Harry’s sofa, exhausted from people and walking. There are too many. Too many instances of hesitation, too many “nearly-but-not-quites.”

And he’ll die and won’t ever get the chance to tell him, to kiss his handsome, stupid, precious face, and it aches — it hurts almost as much as that spot just to the left of his breastbone where the Curse had hit, where he was profusely bleeding not long ago.

“Closer,” he manages, very quietly.

Harry approaches, but not close enough, not even close enough for Draco to grab at him.

“Cl— clos—uh—closer,” he tries again.

And Harry’s right there, by his bed and he looks beautiful in his Healer robes (unheard of, really) and Draco is blinking his view into a sharper focus and listing all the things he knows he loves, the things he doesn’t want to forget: the white-ish storm of a scar that slashes through Harry’s eyebrow, the shiny (shinier than usual?) green eyes, the touch of stubble, the slightly crooked nose, the lips — oh, the lips, plump and sweet looking and Draco will never get to find out just how sweet. And then, he has to do it. Because if he’s going to die anyway, he may as well use his last breath on this.

He pushes himself off the pillow slightly and his hand pulls Harry’s green robes closer until their lips meet, clumsily and hard — Harry not expecting it, Draco waning from the efforts of pulling Harry closer, but Draco will die knowing he’s kissed Harry. And if there’s no later, at least he’s done it. At least Harry knows.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Harry says, and pushes him back down. Gently, like everything he does.

“But—“

“I know, darling. Me too.”

Darling? Harry… too?

“I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m going to heal you and we’ll do that again. I’ll take you to dinner, or brunch, I know you like brunch. Or just coffee. We’ll go to the pictures. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go flying. We’ll go clubbing and I’ll dance with you, I promise I will, and I’ll let you tell me how bad I am. I’ll find you a copy of that book you were talking about with Hermione, no matter how much it costs. I’ll throw my name around if I have to, okay? And we’re going to do that again, properly. When I’m not your healer and you’re not hurting. I’m going to heal you now, you just—“ he stops, then, breathing wild and panicked.

Then, a small sob. A kiss to his forehead. Draco doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“You just hold on, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

And Draco would cry if he had the strength, he would say yes to all those plans and more, but he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s magic sinking into his body like and he holds on, just like he was told to. He holds on, even if he doesn’t know exactly to what. And he thinks maybe he’ll get lucky again, and he’ll stop picturing himself dead like he’s been doing his whole life. Harry’s magic feels like love, like poetry, like cascading words of affection whispered into the space between his ribs, it feels like hope. And Draco holds on and thinks to himself, as loud as a thought can go, “I am not dying.”

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

PART TWO FOR THE ANGST

“I’m holding on to pieces of us

That I just can’t let go

I know this is a desperate kind of love

But it feels like it’s home.”

- Wait, NF

A/N: After many, many, MANY requests to continue with the threesome angst, here’s part two. This is part one if you missed it!!

SIAC MASTERLIST

///

Two hours and thirteen minutes.

That’s how long Y/N’s been locked in their room while Harry’s been simmering in hellfire as he paces around the apartment, worried out of his mind and sick to his stomach, his own pancakes and eggs threatening to make a reappearance.

He’s worried about their relationship— about what might become of it, or what might not become of it. If he had known this whole threesome idea was going to end this way, he would’ve canned it immediately.

Would’ve never brought up the concept at the bar they were at the night before when that girl was ogling both him and Y/N from across the room, a small smile playing her ruby lips. Would’ve never let Y/N say a tentative yet intrigued “yes,” would’ve never walked up to the woman and offered to buy her a drink, and would‘ve never let her into their home if he knew it was going to end with his girlfriend this torn apart.  

He’s sick to his stomach not only about the whole ordeal, but sick with himself��for what he did to one of the most important people in his life.

Harry didn’t know the extremity of it when it was happening— he assumed it would just be a bedroom game, much like when Y/N tied him down and teased him with a vibrating cock ring, or when he took her over the knee and spanked her until she was dripping across his thighs. It was intended to be a punishment for hogging him the whole time because it was called a “threesome” for a reason, and he felt bad when he‘d chanced a hazy glance over Y/N’s shoulder as she rode him and saw the girl sitting there with her arms crossed over her bare chest, looking sad and unsatisfied.

So, he had pushed his girlfriend off himself and tied her to the headboard with his belt, whispering in her ear about how greedy she was being and that it wasn’t fair to their guest. The harsh talk was said in the same manner he went about talking to her when he edged her for coming too soon or whenever she touched herself without his permission— it was said with a bedroom mindset and not a genuine one.

Y/N had squirmed and whimpered an apology and begged him to let her go, tugging at the restraints as Harry shook his head slowly and pushed off her writhing body.

“Gotta learn to share.” Was all he muttered, turning to face the young woman behind him, who was already crawling towards him with a hungry glint in her hazel eyes.  

Everything had been going fine so he doesn’t know exactly where the line was crossed, but he guesses it was when Y/N had mewled his name all shaky and hesitant, pleading with him to come back to her. And now that he remembers it vividly, a fresh pang of guilt hits him square in the chest, causing his lungs to throb and throat to tighten in shameful sadness.

Harry should’ve known.

He should’ve been able to distinguish the pain in Y/N’s quivering voice from the usual tone she used in bed when begging. Should’ve paid more attention to how she’d drawn into herself, her legs crossing and drawing up to her chest as she shifted onto her side on the bed, trying to tug her wrists loose. Should’ve been more attentive when he thought he’d seen tears glistening on her flushed cheeks and the way the corners of her tainted lips were dipped in a frown that wasn’t like her at all.

“Harry, please…” His tear ducts pulse warningly as her voice from last night echos in his head, the mood regretful and distressed and full of so much hurt that he thinks himself stupid to not have noticed it before.

But he hadn’t listened.

He’d ignored it thinking it was just her trying to cheat her way out of her punishment, simply glancing away from her face and up to the unknown girl bouncing on his cock and gasping against his sweaty neck, moaning his name into his ear and yanking at his curls as he dug his nails into her ass and whimpered about how tight she was. How amazing she felt. How she was such a good girl and a great fuck and delivering endless praise that he didn’t know was hurting Y/N.

He didn’t know that with every compliment, every moan into the girl’s mouth, every tug at her long blonde hair, and every grunt he released into the tense atmosphere of the room, he was jamming the knife deeper into his girlfriend’s heart without a single clue of the way she was quietly sniffling in the lonely corner of the bed.

And then it really hits him when he’d fucked up and he can’t help screwing his eyes shut in utter shame and heart-wrenching guilt, raking a hand through his tangled curls and shoving his face into his palms, refusing to allow his eyes to cry because he didn’t deserve to feel sorry for himself.  He deserves every last drop of anguish and sorrow that was pumping his heart an abysmal black.

Harry had royally screwed up when he had looked over the woman’s jolting shoulders and locked his cloudy, orgasm-drunken eyes with Y/N, biting his swollen lips into his mouth as his large hands gripped the guest’s waist, slamming her against his prick with his toes curling against the mattress and his face contorted in sheer rapture.

He’d fucked up when, through his eyes, he had shown Y/N how incredible this random stranger was making him feel and given her the impression (as unintended and mistaken her perception of the gaze had been) that what the unknown person was giving him was better than anything she had ever and could ever offer him.

Harry had fucked up when he had panted out to his already emotionally drained girlfriend one sentence that had been the last nail in his coffin, taunting her with his body and not with his heart, but it was delivered as if he truly believed it to the core.

“You know what she is, Y/N? She’s a good girl— she knows how to share and knows how to make me come so fucking good, obeying me as she should. Such a good fucking girl, aren’t you, darling?” He had glanced up at the person, squeezing her ass rewardingly and smirking. “Better than Y/N’s been, that’s for sure.”

Harry had said it with the same innocent intentions as he had been carrying the whole time, wanting to make it a proper time-out for his naughty girlfriend. What he wasn’t aware of was that Y/N no longer was in the same mindset he was in, but was taking every blow personally. Every pet name he called the woman was the same ones he used for her, and every compliment he gave the opposer was one he had given to Y/N before. They all lost their meaning to her because here he was, whispering them to this person who had no emotional ties with him but was receiving the same treatment he gave her,his actual partner.

And so she had shrunk back against the headboard and stared at her bare lap, the darkness of the room hiding her tears as they slid down her face and splattered across her thighs and wet the sheets. She pressed her forehead to the cold surface of the backboard and tried to block out the sounds of the two bodies connecting a few yards from her, skin slapping as needy gasps, moans, keens, and mewls bounced off the matte walls of the bedroom, knocking around the inside of her skull and against the back of her already sore eyes, pushing more tears out of them.

When everything was said and done, Harry had untied her bruised wrists, leaning down to catch her eyes and not realizing how red and swollen they were.

He’d pressed an amused kiss to her forehead and hummed a cocky, “Share next time, sweetheart,” which the other girl had responded to with a teasing giggle that made Y/N’s blood boil.  

Harry had snuggled her into his chest without a second thought as the newcomer cuddled against his back and pressed her face to one of his broad shoulders, to which he responded with a content sigh because he felt warm and cradled.

But for the rest of the night, Y/N kept her hands to herself and didn’t return his caresses of affection, feeling like she was going to throw up as hot tears stained her cheeks. As the other two members of the party slept soundly, she wallowed in the hollow pain coursing through her veins and scraping at the inside of her chest until morning came and the girl rose to leave.

Harry hadn’t known Y/N was faking sleep as he also got up, offered to make the lady breakfast and made small talk as he flipped pancakes onto her plate.

He hates himself because now he knows Y/N had heard him asking about her life and college and laughing at her jokes. She’d heard him thank the woman for the fun night and open the door for her as she left and heard them exchanging phone numbers “in case you ever want to do it again, give me a call, handsome.”

So now Harry sits here with all of this shredding his insides to bits while the only girl he truly loves is closed off in their bedroom— literally and emotionally— refusing to even as much as hear him speak because he had hurt her beyond compare, even though it had been unintentional.

He simmers in his self-hate for a while longer, bouncing his knees and picking at the lint on his flannel pajama pants and recovering a t-shirt from the laundry because it’s grown chillier in the living room.

When he can’t take it anymore and he feels like there’s a clawed animal climbing up his ribcage and using his heart as a trampoline, he pushes himself up from the sunken couch and makes haste towards where his girlfriend resides.

As he slowly turns the knob to enter, rehearsing a more detailed and heartfelt apology in his head, the door suddenly swings open.

Y/N stands on the other side, clad in a pair of worn jeans and her Pentatonix sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail with silky locks framing her pretty and splotchy face, the air from the vent above blowing the pieces across her swollen red eyes.

“Hi…” Is all he manages to get out in a voice thick with regret, his tone soft and worried.

She simply gives him a tired and emotionally bare glance, shouldering past his body with no remorse.

Harry stands there for a second, not sure what he should proceed with, but then he reacts instinctively and goes after her, inching down the corridor that leads back to the living room.

He comes upon her as she’s slipping her old converse sneakers over her mitch-matched socks, exasperatingly pushing her flyaways from her cheeks as she grabs the car keys from a Ceramic-It-Yourself bowl on the kitchen counter.

Harry dares to speak up.

“Sweetheart?” The word is gentle and hesitant. “Where, uhm…Where are you headed?”

She contemplates him with the same blank, inanimate eyes, sniffling lightly and rubbing at her nose with a sweater paw. “Out.”

He winces at the blatant harshness of her voice as it stings his chest, his heart deflating and plummeting into his stomach. “Oh…”

Y/N makes her way down the hall that leads to the front door of their apartment, shoving her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and reaching for the handle.

Harry rushes after her, calling out softly down the small corridor as he wrings his big hands nervously. “When are you gonna be back?”

“Later.” The same deadpan and unattached attitude.

“Alright, well, be careful, okay? Call if you need—“

She slams the door shut so hard that the picture frames on the walls rattle.

“Me…” Harry finishes his statement to the cold walls of their home, feeling small and useless, like he’s stuck in a maze with no exit. The tears that he’s been holding back finally make an appearance across the quivering waterline of his eyes and he looks down at his shaking hands, concerned dread settling into his bones at not knowing where his girl is going or if she’ll even be coming back.

“Call if you need me.” He repeats to himself in the form of a sigh, wiping at his dribbling nose with the back of his wrist.

And, it might be his guilty conscious playing tricks on him, but he swears he hears Y/N’s muffled, distant voice answer, “I won’t.”

[agent-absinthe]

Excerpt from Honeyed Pt. 5

I won’t make any promises as to when this will fully be up by I hope this tides y’all over for a bit!

“What do you think about the current state of the Kingsman stocks and the company outlook?”  Percival asked, his gin and tonic lying forgotten in his hand as he and several others looked to Elise for her answer.

“Well, considering the fact that it’s been over six months since the company began its partnership with Microsoft I think it may be hitting that plateau of investing interest.  The stocks will probably fall a little, but I think Kingsman is in good enough health to afford to pay off some extra dividends and get that enticement back up.  Maybe offer a special deal to college students, they already love the brand and any promise of growth in their lives is always a welcome one.  I mean just by getting out there and talking about it on campuses could generate more cash flow than we have coming in from current holders.”

Elise took another drink of her cocktail and smiled at the sharply dressed business men, who nodded their approval and drank with her. Hamish had deposited her at the bar and went off to deal with some formal business matters, his colleagues becoming very curious about who Merlin was carrying around on his arm.  Percival had not expected an actual answer out of her, then again if anyone was going to bring in a gorgeous girl that knew her shit it was Merlin.  He was currently leaning against a table talking about quarterly results with several of their biggest stockholders including Joseph Hesketh, who was quick to ask about his date.

“She’s a cute little thing isn’t she?  Looks a bit young too, Hamish I didn’t take you as the uh, cradle robbing type.  Not following in Hart’s footsteps are you?”  Joseph’s eyes locked on to Eggsy across the showroom floor, the sugar baby brat was in line for a promotion that his son should be getting instead.

Merlin was on his fourth dram of good scotch so the insult didn’t sting as much as it should have, “She’s 23, tha���s not exactly a cradle robbing age.”

“My apologies, where did you find her?  She looks like she’s getting comfortable over there with Percival, seems quite friendly.”  He said it with a laugh, nodding to the bar where Elise had her hand over her mouth giggling at something the Software Developer said.

Hamish immediately scowled, his buzz turning his own insecurities to irrational anger in seconds, he huffed and turned back to Joseph downing the last bit of his drink before answering the question.

“Elise just likes to please, probably laughing at one of his fucking computer puns-“

He watched them talk excitedly to one another for several more minutes until Percival excused himself and Elise put a hand on his forearm as they said goodbye- an innocent gesture of friendliness.  Merlin took it as anything but.    

Elise was back at square one of sipping her drink alone when a younger man who didn’t seem so impressed with her knowledge slid across the bar to her side. He was handsome- curly hair, sharp cheekbones, a jaw of marble- and apparently didn’t realize who she walked in with.

“And who’s date are you then?  Must have cost him a fortune to have you all dressed up, although I will say the company knowledge is a very good touch.”

“Pardon me?”  Elise prayed she heard him wrong, her heart beginning to beat faster.

“Oh, drop the act.  Half of these old bastards in here have an escort or a whore on their arms instead of their wives.  You look far too uncomfortable in those diamonds and dress to be used to anything and I don’t see a name tag on you which means you are not part of the American sales team, obviously.  So the question still stands; are you an escort or are you a whore?”

She was caught in the headlights.  Eyes wide, heart hammering.  Was it that obvious that she didn’t fucking belong in here in these clothes? Was she that much of a low class fuck up?  

“Oi!  Charlie, how ‘bout you back the fuck up there, bruv.  Maybe try not to be such a posh fuckin’ prat, ya?”  Oh, Eggsy.  Thank fuck Eggsy.

This only made Charlie laugh, “Ah!  A sugar baby!  That was my next choice.  Ugh, do you lot just run in packs now?  God, I have to know who’s willing to pay to try and pull a Pretty Woman on you though. Is it Bors?  I bet it’s Bors-”  

Eggsy was aggressively protective of Elise, he remembered his first time being thrown to these wolves and dammit if he was going to let Charlie fucking Hesketh ruin Elise’s night.  He was prepared to make an absolute scene and embarrass the fuck outta Charlie, luckily there was no need for that because right at that time Hamish was making his way to them.  The look on his face less than pleased.  Elise didn’t notice it though all she knew was that he was coming for her and she wouldn’t have to stand around like a lost puppy.  

“Hamish!  Honey, Eggsy was just introducing me to one of the other U.K agents!”

The sudden terror on Hesketh’s face was enough to make Eggsy put a hand to his mouth to try and stifle the laugh that was going to bubble up.

“Hesketh, your father’s asking for ye, best go see to it.  And Eggsy, Harry is around here somewhere, go keep him out of trouble.”    

“Of course!  Lovely meeting your date, sir!”  Charlie turned sharply and drug his own feeble date along with him.

“Thank goodness you came back, I missed you.  I was starting to get really uncomfortable, these people are vultures- ah!  Hamish stop, Hamish that hurts.”

He had a possessive hand on around her upper arm, blunt nails biting into her as they paced across the room Merlin’s long and now quick gait made Elise have to hold up the front of her dress so that she wouldn’t tread on it.

“I do not appreciate you disrespecting me like tha’.”

“Disrespecting you? How?”  Elise felt like she had somehow been dropped into a nightmare.  What the fuck was happening?  

“Y’ were flirting.

Ah, Percival.  She rolled her eyes, "How? How was I flirting? I was trying to make a good impression!”

The hand around her arm tightens, nails now cutting into the skin. Hamish would wake up tomorrow with dried blood under them and have no memory of where it came from.  He pulled her closer to him and fixed his gaze on her, eyes heavy and dark with rage.  Fear now joined the growing shame as she looked up at him suddenly painfully aware of how small she was despite the heels that nearly put them on fair ground, but anger was also making its way into her system.

"Why are you acting like this?!"

"ME? You're the one soliciting with everyone else here!"

"Soliciting?! Hamish, you told me to socialize! What's wrong? Did you not know I was fucking smart? Did you not think I'd be able to talk to people here? I'm trying to look like someone who belongs here with you and not-" and you huff and look down embarrassed, Charlie’s words still echoing in her head.

"Like what? Oh like a paid date?  A whore?"

"... ya.”

He tosses her arm down and seethes, "Well that's all you are. I paid for everything on ye and I paid for you.  That makes you mine so, fuckin’ act like it.  Keep your mouth shut, stop flirtin’, and for fuck sake keep your hands to yourself.”

Elise turned her head away and blinked, fuck don’t cry don’t cry it’ll make the scene worse.   Bile was at the back of her throat, chest suddenly so tight she felt like she couldn’t fucking breathe.  Even though no one was watching them, Elise had never felt more humiliated in her life.  No one made her feel more humiliated than Merlin had just now, the whole relationship of trust and intimacy now broken down into labels.  The power dynamic more clear now than ever.

“I need a fuckin’ drink.  When I get back, ye better be here and have lost that attitude.”  Another scotch was definitely not what he needed, but at this rate nothing mattered.

Her voice was small and strained from trying not to cry, “You’re not who I thought you were.”

Hamish didn’t respond and instead stormed off leaving Elise on her own again.  She couldn’t stay here, not after that- he made it perfectly clear what he thought about their arrangement.  Made it clear that there was not a mutual respect, she was just some young piece of ass he could pay to carry around on his arm when it was convenient.  A panic attack was blooming in her throat, mascara already starting to run and blur her vision.  Elise was able to slip out the patio door before any of her sobs became vocal, how could she have been so fucking stupid?

“Somethin’s wrong.”  Eggsy had seen some of the exchange, saw Elise slip out.  His stomach was in knots.

“Darling, I’m sure everything is fine-“

“No, it ain’t.  Go stall Merlin, I need to make sure that El’s ok.”  

He handed Harry his martini and made for the door leaving the accountant looking a little bewildered.  It was easy enough to find her.  Elise was sitting on the steps leading to the gardens, it was a chilly night and most of the drunk crowd was happy to stay inside where it was warm.  To try and quell her sobs Elise was biting her fist, anything to keep the pathetic sounds from coming up.

“Elise?”  Eggsy knelt beside her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, she instantly leaned into him and he held her, “What ‘appened?  Is this about what Charlie said- don’t listen to him!  He’s just a posh snob, don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

All of his words of comfort fell short as soon as she spoke, “Hamish called me paid for.  Basically said I was just his whore.  Eggsy, I-“

More sobs came up from her lips, but Eggsy already had his phone out to grab her an Uber, one arm still protectively around her shoulders.  His own anger making his blood boil, he had to get her out of here before Hamish fucked up even more.

“Shhh, I’ve got ya a ride, they’ll take ya back to Merlin’s so you can get your car.  Go home, take a shower, don’t think about him, love.  I’ll call you in the morning and we can figure out what to do.  If you want to end it ya got every right to.”

“If I leave-”  Panic showed plainly on her face.  Panic and fear.

“Hey, ‘arry and I will handle him.  He’s gonna have a lot to answer for tomorrow, what he did was fucked and ya don’t deserve to be treated like that.  Now come on, they should be pullin’ up front soon.”

The poor Uber tried talking to her but eventually just handed her a box of tissues and turned up the music, it was a merciful gesture and she made sure to tip them well.  Once inside Elise could feel the exhaustion and shame seep into her, filling every fiber like she had been infected by something.  After the dress, jewelry, shoes, and lingerie lay neatly folded on a chair in his bedroom she pulled on some spare clothes she kept at the house and left, wanting nothing more than to curl up in the shower at home and finish crying.