#but again with every broken ass system ever. what even is the alternative.

[moe-broey]

The Maine shooter has been found dead, btw. In case anyone was wondering.

[ato-matsuri]

On Agartha

Been a while since I’ve written a long text post, most of all one about Fate. It honestly inspires a lot of rambling in me, after all. But I don’t think, this time, it’s due to its good writing, the emotions it makes me feel, or anything good. This, my friend, is about Agartha. I should probably prelude that this contains a metric shit ton of Agartha spoilers. If you haven’t seen Agartha, and you’re actually wanting to see the story -- scroll past. But, having played through Agartha completely and rested on the story for a bit, I think I want to repeat what everyone else has for ages lol.

Agartha, on paper, is incredible. A subterranean world built off fantastical story off fantastical story, made by a woman known for her ability to weave story after story, within stories, on the fly, and from a database of every possible Arabian Nights tale. Where the fear Scheherazade has due to Shahryar's endless abuse and fearmongering has stretched even to men as a whole due to literal years of having to survive Shahryar. Where the only leaders were queens, where the only rebellion force was a man so horrifically corrupt that he'd easily fall for the tricks she played. Her intent -- to reveal magecraft forever, removing any power magecraft has, saving her from ever having to fight and face kings -- and die -- ever again. That... sounds pretty good when I describe it that way, huh? Now if only it were executed with any modicum of sense.

From the beginning, Agartha's writing struck me as remarkably odd. It was like I was watching someone desperately try to emulate Nasu's writing style -- but had absolutely no idea what made Nasu's writing so good. Its exposition dumps, rather than being interesting, ended up being thoroughly boring -- as they focused on the mundane, like the fact that moss glows to light up the landscape -- instead of the magical implications of a world like Agartha even existing to begin with. Albeit, with the mystery of Agartha at that time, we can safely assume that there wasn't much to focus on, but then why spend so damned long talking about this stuff?

The worldbuilding, while passable, feels fairly flawed in execution. The idea of a world made the way Agartha was could've made for some interesting commentary about the way men treated (and still do treat) women in modern society, but Agartha not only misses the point, but tumbles head-over-ass into the uncanny valley and makes the whole thing sound like a continent-wide BDSM session. There's barely any actual subtle or well-done symbolism to showcase misogyny in this way -- and while hyperbole can serve a good point at times, the hyperbole combined with the strangely sexual writing of these segments makes it feel less like commentary and more like a badly-done doujin.

For example -- El Dorado was as simple as it gets. Men are slaves/breeding machines/whatever. The whole 'breeding machine' thing is played off extensively, even with Penth -- a minor at this stage, mind you -- comments on using the protagonists as such breeding machines. I'll come back to this later, because this serves as another point.

Ys was a fucking cool concept -- a world ruled entirely by rampant consumerism and chaos. Men, in this world, are still second-class citizens, pretty much the playthings of the women around them. I say that Ys is the best kingdom comparatively, as it was at least more bearable than its other kingdoms, but it still felt weirdly sexual in its writing tone. Of course, following tone, Dahut (who I'll get back to later) smashes men constantly, and is very keen on fucking Guda as well, following a trend. It's played for comedy, mostly, but it's still uncomfortable as all hell. Even so, I note it's more bearable because it's a very slightly more subtle take on the whole 'misogyny' allegory -- these people are using men for basically whatever they want, and tossing them away after. I'd compare it to a few true crime cases of people who murdered, or assaulted women for no good reason at all, purely out of a want that was either denied (for good reason), or that the want itself was to inflict harm. While the allegory still does feel unintentional here, it's at least slightly less unintentional. It was probably mostly just by accident due to Agartha's generally uncomfortable writing style, but the allegory here feels a little more potent when it's not so blatantly a BDSM fic.

I hate the Nightless City, despite it again being a cool concept. A 'utopia' where speaking out at all means death -- where men are in concept free citizens, but in practice fall victim to the law if they look at someone funny. Again, in concept, great allegory. The law does not treat men and women the same -- and while it differs depending on the case which is preferred, the vast majority of the time, women are pretty much shafted by the legal system (see Brock Turner), especially in very conservative areas. Cases can be made for both genders being shafted, of course -- but for the purpose of this allegory, picking out the prejudices of the legal system against gender is a fair critique. But, like everything else Agartha does, these neat ideas fall flat in practice.

They barely touch at all on the allegory, and nobody seems to even realize it in the cast, making me further believe the allegories aren't intentional at all. In due fact, it's as if the writer didn't even realize that this could be read as an allegory. The men's plights make some sense, as they were yoinked out of nowhere into a world that hates them. But the Servants and Guda don't think about it at all past the 'wow men are slaves that sucks' -- barely even considering that this could be an allegory the world's creator made due to their own horrific circumstances. They do point this out, but to my knowledge, it's very late -- when Scheherazade's called on her bluff, only then is it ever mentioned, and only in passing at that. If anything, the fact they point this out so close to the ending makes the ending itself that much more insulting. But before I get to the ending, I think there's something else about Agartha that sets the scene for just how awful it is -- and that's the way the characters are written, and the dialogue that comes of it. For this, I'll split it up into the characters who portray this the most. I'll even describe their personalities in Agartha's context.

Guda: Crouching pervert, hidden Mash stan. A few non-sequiturs of Guda complimenting Mash despite the mood being completely broken by it. Guda's incapable of taking a situation seriously in Agartha, even when the world's basically due to be changed forever. They keep cracking jokes, creeping on Astolfo/d'Eon, and other such things even when people are literally dying all around him. For that matter, I clearly recall the scene where -- for no real reason -- Guda just changes gears with Mash in tow, and starts trying to decipher d'Eon's gender. There's absolutely no real context to this, nor any reason for Guda to do this. Further noted is the fact Guda has worked with d'Eon before, and should've probably realized d'Eon's situation by this point. The Nasuverse has always been a bit, er, behind on gender norms and such, but it's so prevalent in any scene with d'Eon it hurts -- especially in that particular scene.

Astolfo: Oddly enough, the most tolerable person here (sans one other person). Agartha's refusal to take itself seriously works remarkably well for Astolfo. And while Astolfo isn't exactly written well here either, the fact that Astolfo's always been a bit loopy makes them seem, well, more in character. They're responsible for some of the funnier moments in Agartha, with their input composing approximately 3/4 of the, like, seven or eight funny moments in Agartha proper. Even so, Astolfo's appearance sometimes hurts Agartha as much as they help it, probably since Astolfo is a bit of the reason Agartha won't take itself seriously.

d'Eon: Deserved fucking better. The previously mentioned scene was the worst offender by far in my eyes, with it coming out of fucking nowhere. d'Eon's paired with Astolfo as a buddy and fighting partner, which itself could've made for good material -- instead, d'Eon is constantly dragged into Astolfo's fanservice-y gimmicks, and d'Eon themselves are pretty often creeped on by Guda. I'd go out on a limb to say that d'Eon's implied dislike of gendered clothing (see the maid outfit) made their scenes wearing such outfits far more uncomfortable, especially with how distinctly sexual the Agartha humour is. I just hated it.

Columbus: I can't fucking believe I'm saying this, but Columbus was the funniest character in Agartha. And I don't even think that was intentional. Something about how unabashedly horrible he was caught me completely off guard -- I thought he'd end up sort of like Napoleon at a glance, someone whose Spirit Origin was completely changed due to Europe's collective worship of the dude -- but holy FUCK was I wrong. Something about the hilariously cursed faces Columbus pulls, combined with his loud-and-proud irredeemable evilness, made him a blast to watch -- and an even bigger blast to beat the shit out of. His, uh, toothy grin still cracks me up even a few weeks after playing it.

Penthesilea: One of a very large amount of people who really deserved better. She barely ever shows up -- and when she does, she voices her desire to turn Guda and co. into a breeding machine/slave (recall she's like. 16?), and pretty much throws the whole 'reasonable-ish zerk' thing out the window instantly, because Agartha decided to forego decent writing in favour of 'funny berserker hates achilles haha brrrrrr,' therefore losing pretty much all the characterization they could've given her. The lack of 'alternate views' that show her in greater detail make this far worse, which I'll go into later.

Dahut: God, wasted potential out the asshole! A woman who made an entire world that fucked around and needlessly consumed stuff, she's the epitome of such a belief. But that's all she is. I'd be able to forgive this awful writing if Scheherazade, who 'implanted' Drake onto Dahut, was a bad writer -- but she's fucking Scheherazade! Dahut's a completely flat character, who constantly tries to bed (and kill) Guda, and generally likes the idea of needless consumption. That's literally it. Again, could be explained if Dahut had difficulty keeping control of Drake's body and conscience -- but this isn't explored either! She's just a walking, talking missed opportunity.

Wu: God, look at her design. Do I even need to say more?! She falls under the same problem that the other rulers do -- shallow characterization, no opportunities to flesh them out, etc.

Scheherazade: She could've been so fucking amazing. Scheherazade's story is one ripe with interpretations the Fate series so loves to utilize -- and on paper, her character is amazing. It'd only be natural for someone like Schez to be this deeply traumatized after so many days on death's door -- not many could really get through that okay. The incredible storyteller who fears death, kings, and unconsciously, men as a whole -- creating Agartha as a subtle way of ensuring none of them harm her while she prepares her ultimate plan of revealing magecraft to the entire world. However, as with the other Agartha characters, she becomes cripplingly one-note. Bringing her fear of death above all else, she comes off as an unreasonable asshole, constantly freaking out about death and preserving exclusively herself to a fault. While one could argue it's partially due to a Pillar's influence, Phenex doesn't seem to have a hold on her at all -- it's a basic alliance, and nothing more, as the ending shows us. It just leaves her as a one-note death avoider, with no other character traits at all. I'd go into further detail, but I'm saving that for later.

Fergus: God fucking damnit, man. A literal child version of Fergus, who the entire cast constantly expects to sexually harass every woman in sight. He's a one-note flanderization of Fergus, just without the one character trait Agartha gave Fergus. It just makes him... boring, a character whose only character trait is his refusal to hit a woman. Like... Come on. The fact the entire team is so sure this literal child will start trying to hit on women is just uncomfortable to witness, and the fact he slowly starts gaining these traits feels less like him 'meeting his fate' as Fergus, and more like Agartha wants an excuse to sexually harass more of the cast.

The Fucking Ending I'm giving this its own category, because of just how much of a punch to the face it was. In short -- the plan to reveal magecraft is revealed, more jokes are made, bla bla bla. Agartha can't keep a serious mood at all. ...But the final few scenes take it to a whole other extreme.

Wu Zetian comes out of nowhere despite being squashed by Megalos earlier, stuffing Phenex into a pit of her weird water shit, placing Phenex in a state of 'life and death.' Child Fergus then sac's his own Spirit Origin to summon Fergus inside himself(???), thus gaining the power of Caladbolg to weaken Phenex enough for the player to destroy. ...However, Child Fergus just summoned Fergus inside his own body. So, what happens when you put Agartha!Fergus, a one-note sexual harasser, into the body of a child? You get the final scene of Agartha. For some reason, I guess you need more help from others to take out Phenex. To this end, Fergus decides to convince Schez to join their side. I'd like you to recall that FGO!Scheherazade is implied to have the trauma of Shahryar's abuse, sexual and physical, burned into her memory -- not just the whole death thing. In every form of the story, Shahryar abuses her in such a fashion almost nightly. It's to the point where Schez' first line of defence, and much of her skills, are as much oriented around storytelling as they are charm and seduction (moreso the former than the latter, albeit), because her defence mechanism was that as much as it was storytelling, to keep her abuser happy. This is a part of why Agartha is the way it is -- to keep such men away from her. Hell, there's not a single King in sight, save technically Fergus, and Chaldea's d'Eon and Astolfo. Fergus knows this. Hell, he heard this being called out. He's well aware how terrified she is. So, what does he do?

SEXUALLY HARASS HER. He claims she has to live to have kids. That men and women have to live to have kids. He claims that she should live, because he'd smash her. ...Now, that's insulting enough -- moreso, that it's played dead serious. Nobody even as much as calls him on such a shitty persuasion tactic, and nobody even mentions how awful it is to sexually harass a woman who'd been sexually assaulted at best for the better part of almost three straight years. AND IT. FUCKING. WORKS.

SCHEHERAZADE. IS IMPLIED. TO BE INTO IT.

And because of this, she's swayed to join the heroes and seal Phenex away for good -- giggling about how Fergus' worldview was partially correct even as she fades away. The epilogue features Fergus, sexually harassing Scheherazade ON SIGHT -- calling out 'tits on my 12:00' or whatever, as Scheherazade darts off. However, Schez isn't avoiding him due to trauma. She's avoiding it because, while she's into it, she doesn't want to 'die' so fast. This fucking ending highlights among the biggest issues with this damned Singularity. Even Blavatsky coming out of fucking nowhere to Deus Ex Machina a grail and help into Guda's hands -- despite seemingly being slaughtered by Columbus in a (admittedly a bit funny) way to get the base of the Resistance -- means nothing to me compared to the blatant slaughter of two characters at once. Fergus is a total horndog even outside of Agartha's reach, but he even notes he respects his partners' consent, and doesn't overstep his bounds if he makes them uncomfortable. Scheherazade isn't exactly trusting in the slightest, least of all in Agartha - she barely even begins trusting Guda due to Guda treating her with actual respect. Even then, she isn't actively prostrating herself for Guda in that sense, very likely due to the fact that's more of a defence mechanism to her rather than something she'd enjoy, due to extreme trauma. Albeit, Fate writing does leave the possibility in the air for Guda specifically, but that's very likely just due to Guda being Guda and being careful to treat her properly and help her than anything else (and also the whole 'self insert harem' thing, I guess, but that's a hell of a lot easier to ignore esp in contrast to Agartha) And yet, we see that epilogue, that butchers both of them in one fell swoop so badly that I almost ended up hating both of them. Agartha's biggest problem is that it tried to be deep and intriguing, while having the writing quality of the goddamned Valentine's events. It picked all the right characters to have an incredibly intriguing storyline, and fell flat because the author decided that playing sexual harassment, d'Eon's everything, and even the most serious scenes for comedy was more important than telling a story even half as meaningful as the chapters before it. Lo and behold -- to my knowledge, Minase wrote it. Of course he did. He chose the best, the most interesting characters he could find, and made them so fucking one-note that the story lost all its charm in moments. He chose to emulate Nasu without understanding what made Nasu's writing so good. He chose to make Agartha a laugh fest despite simultaneously trying to make it 'deep.' He chose to fall head-over-ass over a possibly interesting allegory into misogyny and fall right into sexualizing it to the point of feeling like a femdom BDSM fic. And go figure the only character he did decently was Christopher fucking Columbus. I have a hatred for Agartha I can't reasonably place anywhere else. Prillya was just as shitty, but I ignored it, because Prillya itself wasn't great, so of course the crossover sucks too. Valentine's events written by him weren't great, but whatever, it's a Valentine's event. Septem, written by someone else, was similarly not great. But it wasn't insulting. It simply wasn't great, and had a lot of wasted potential. But its ending wasn't out of character to the point of being insulting. Its story didn't make incredible mythological and historical figures too infuriating to like anymore. It didn't almost ruin entire Fate characters for me. Not the way Agartha did. I should probably contextualize that Scheherazade is among my favourite mythological figures. I introduced myself to her through Magi (lmao) due to further research into the base stories -- as well as a favourite Magic: The Gathering card, Shahrazad, which forced you to play a game within your game, like how Arabian Nights featured stories within stories.

Even in Fate outside of Agartha, I liked her. Her design didn't make much sense to me considering her character, but whatever, I didn't need to think too hard of it. It's just a design, and despite my hatred of Penth's design, I still love Penth as a character, so I can handle Schez. But Agartha painted her in such a way that all the subtlety and interesting parts of Schez went completely out the window. No longer was there any hidden references to the aftereffects of her life beyond 'i dun wan die,' and there was hardly an ounce of sympathy or kindness in her bones at all. While her being an anti-hero made some sense, especially as she was only a normal person with far above-average storytelling prowess, there was a point when she stopped being a 'good, but terrified person' and started being a complete asshole. And Agartha was that time. If it weren't for her Interlude, which redeemed her considerably, and Ooku, which did wonders for her character despite being written by Minase (as I believe Nasu was overseeing him at that point), I very likely would've never gone for her at all, despite my love of the myth. In Conclusion This rant is just to say that Agartha is bad. Horrific. Insulting, even. At every step where it could've been good, it tumbled head-over-ass into the most insulting, uncomfortable shit you could imagine. It failed to take itself seriously, and paced itself like a comedy event, but simultaneously acted as if it expected its audience to take it seriously. Like a clown brigade deciding to take on Les Mis, it loses all of its punch when every few lines is interrupted by a jab at Fergus, sexual harassment, or something that comes close to being cool before suddenly turning into a badly-timed joke, or suddenly becoming laden with dialogue so sexual it feels straight out of a porno. It's aggravating, awful, and with only brief reprieves of bareable comedy in between long, long lengths of hellish text and awful characterization. The only good part was the gameplay -- which, laden with interesting mechanics not seen elsewhere, was legitimately fun. My take? Avoid all Agartha cutscenes and plot, and just play the gameplay. The gameplay's fun, and if enjoyed on its own, would probably make for a far better experience than observing the story surrounding it. But good gameplay doesn't make up for a horrible story, especially in a game where plot is as important as it is in F/GO. Agartha's a pile of shit in my eyes, but that's ultimately only my opinion, and nothing more. If others have an opinion counter to mine, that's completely fine -- and don't let this analysis ruin your fun with Agartha if you enjoyed its plot. To be frank, I'd be happy if you enjoyed it where I could not. And if you think my takes are misinformed, or if I missed a spot (or overreacted to a spot), that's what the reblogs and comments are for! I'm definitely not the kind of dude who has the final say in matters like this -- this is only what I picked up. Thank you for reading!

[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....

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2020 Day 1: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics

A Bite to Remember | @darmysasagiri

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1104 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Alpha, Top Cas/Bottom Dean, Mating Bites, One Night Stands Summary: Alphas can't mate Alphas, everyone knows this, or do they?

Oblivious Mates | @fangirlingtodeath513

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1984 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester,Castiel (Supernatural),Dean Winchester,Knotting,Mating Cycles/In Heat,Heat Sex,Rut Sex,A/B/O,Friends With Benefits,Consensual Somnophilia,Mating Bites,Misunderstandings,Lack of Communication,Fuckbuddies,Spooning,Cuddling & Snuggling,Naked Cuddling,True Mates,Scenting Summary: Dean and Cas have been heat/rut fuck buddies for a while now, but Dean's starting to get second thoughts. His feelings evolved a long time ago but now he's feeling guilty about holding Castiel back from finding his true mate.

Sun Warmed | @suckerfordeansfreckles

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2586 Main Tags/Warnings: alpha Cas, omega Dean, first meeting, house-sitting, a bit of voyeurism Summary: Dean is a little bitter, but only in the safety and privacy of his own head, and definitely never around his brother and his new sister-in-law. Because those two really do deserve all the happiness in the world. And just because Dean wishes for a little happiness for himself, he will not ruin their bliss. The thing that’s a little hard on Dean, lately, is that during the past few months, Sam and Eileen’s new house somehow started to feel more like home than his own apartment does. He’s not even over that much, but he feels so safe and good and happy, here. It’s a space he feels like himself in, and it’s not really the company, it feels more like the energy around their house, the amazing smell seemingly haunting Dean when he drives back home and slowly loses it. He’s not sure which flowers Eileen planted that smell this way, but he’s been meaning to ask her for months. Currently, Sam and Eileen are in Hawaii for their honeymoon and Dean gets daily selfie updates while he house-sits for them. And somehow, during all of that and while accidentally flashing a guy, he figures out where that amazing smell comes from.

Essential Services | @Imbiowaresbitch

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3444 Main Tags/Warnings: Roommates, omegaverse, explicit sex, top Cas/bottom Dean, alpha Cas, Omega Dean, mating bites, quarantine, pandemic, heat/rut sex Summary: Cas has been sent home to work as an unessential service. When he arrives, he realizes his roommate Dean clearly wasn't expect him to arrive. What happens when they finally give in to each other?

Kiss Me, Kill Me | @saltnhalo

Rating: Mature Word Count: 4668 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Dean, Assassin Castiel (Supernatural), Guard Dean Winchester, Assassin Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, True Mates, Scenting, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Murder Husbands Summary: Seasoned hitman Castiel Novak is just looking to take out his target and get paid, but should've accounted for the fact that he may not be the only assassin at tonight's party... Cue the mysterious, green-eyed man who is more of a match for Castiel than anyone he's ever met.

Up On The Rooftop Greenhouse | @envydean

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 5017 Main Tags/Warnings: alpha!michael, omega!dean, Beta!Castiel, Arranged Marriage, truemates, defying truemates, fighting destiny, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Kisses, Wedding ceremonies, pack houses, mentions of potential abuse of power Summary: Michael Shurley is Dean Winchester's true mate. Except, Dean has been in love and dating the Winchester house gardener, Castiel Novak, for nearly three years and Dean doesn't want that to stop. He needs to find a way out of the impending wedding before it's too late, especially when Michael shows his true colours.

A Strange Place To Find Love | @navajolovesdestiel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6159 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Omega, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Dean, Heats, ruts. Knotting. Happy Ending Summary: The Alpha/omega Rut/heat Center was the brainchild of a ‘more progressive, more caring’ government. In reality, it was just a way to stop Alphas from jumping unmated omegas when they were in rut, and to stop unmated omegas from getting knocked up during a heat by some Alpha they picked up, then having to go on welfare because the Alpha wouldn’t pay pup support. Dean Winchester worked for the center as a willing omega. Castiel Novak decided to give it a try.

Steel and Whiskey | @saltnhalo

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6207 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Dean, Mafia AU, Mobster Castiel, Mobster Dean Winchester, Mistaken Identity, Explicit Sexual Content, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Dean Winchester, Topping from the Bottom, Knotting, First Meetings, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural) Summary: When Castiel agrees to meet with the leader of the Winchester pack in the heart of his territory, he does not find the alpha he’s expecting. Instead, he meets an omega in Dean Winchester’s apartment with stunning green eyes and an alluring air of danger. Someone should have warned Castiel that the Winchester leader is not an alpha.

Just Here For A Good Night | @saltnhalo

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 6646 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fraternities & Sororities, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Top Castiel, Bottom Dean, Team Dean's Red Ass, Dom/sub Undertones, Dom Castiel, Fluff, Frat Boy Castiel Summary: In which Dean is looking to get laid at an Alpha Phi Alpha party, and sets his sights on Castiel, who's just trying to make sure that nothing bad happens on his watch.

Are You Real, Dean Winchester? | Maleyah (AO3)

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7447 Main Tags/Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements (not between Dean and Cas), Mental Health Issues, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega Castiel, Mating Bond, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Medication, Near overdose, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hallucinations Summary: Castiel struggles to survive in a world that was never right for him to begin with. So far, he has always survived his turbulent mind... because despite everything, his broken brain, his loneliness, the never-ending struggle, he's a fighter. One night, exceptionally reckless, borderline overdosed on his meds, he wanders the streets, foregoing his self-preservation. Hoping for the end, almost finding it, unless his brain is throwing him for a loop again. ... Only to be found by Dean Winchester.

Did you get my reference? (WIP) | @spnsmile

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 8918 Main Tags/Warnings: Top dean w/ bottom castiel, explicit Summary: Take Dean, most handsome CEO with very pretty face and just your typical successful Alpha who owns his own company at the age of 30. But despite popular belief, Dean has one problem he needs to solve before an international conference: he hates the smell of unmated Omegas. Come Castiel, a clumsy word-class geek literature major who appeared in front of Dean in the middle of a raging river. His scent drives Dean's instinct to bite, plus he gets rid of all other scents in the air. Now Dean only has to convince him to be his plus one. Which means having a talking encyclopedia who trips in its own legs. How can Dean protect his high-wired True Mate from other Alphas and himself?

It's A Hard Knot Life | @navajolovesdestiel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 10874 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Omega, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega Castiel, Punk Castiel, Rape, Tattoos. Knotting Summary: Dean walked up the counter and his nose was filled with the scent of peticior and sandalwood. He took a deep breath. The guy never looked up. Dean cleared his throat. Nothing. He rapped his knuckles on the counter. The guy didn’t look up, but he said, in a gravelly voice that gave Dean shivers, “Yeah?” “I was wondering if you had the latest CD by St Paul and the Broken Bones?” The guy looked up and Dean found himself looking into eyes so blue, he didn’t have a name for the color. The black eyeliner just accentuated their color. “We have a system here for finding things. It’s called alphabetically, you may have heard of it? That means the S’s are right between the R’s and the T’s.” Then he went right back to reading his book.

Black Rose Tattoo | @navajolovesdestiel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 10989 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Omega, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Dean, Tattoo Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor. Explicit Sexual Content, Knotting, Pups, Dean is demisexual Summary: Dean heard the motorcycle before he saw it. He looked out the big front window of his shop, and waited until the cycle appeared. He watched the Alpha pull to the curb, stop the bike, get off and take off his helmet. He’d watched the same scene every day since he’d opened the flower shop next to the tattoo parlor. The Alpha shook his perpetually messy hair and walked to open his shop, out of Dean’s view. Dean sighed and went back to work.

Palaces of Rome (WIP) | @tucuxia

Rating: Mature Word Count: 11291 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester/Alpha Gabriel, Alpha/Alpha pairing, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Gabriel Summary: Despite his size and his father's expectations, Dean presented as an omega. Infertile, male omegas have no rights in Rome, so John arranges to sell him to the son of the Emperor in an attempt to provide his alpha son, Sam, a better life. Sam joins the army under General Gabriel's expert tutelage, swearing to become a warrior famous enough to buy his brother back. Dean accepts his place in the prince's harem, but he's about to stumble upon the biggest secret in Rome, one that has kept hundreds of thousands of male omegas enslaved for almost eight hundred years. The secret will either push Rome into an age of peace and prosperity or it will shatter one of the greatest empires in the ancient world.

Something Dark | kradarua (AO3)

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 16466 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega Castiel, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Rough Sex, Rimming, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Thief Dean Winchester, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Castiel, Dark Sam Winchester, Dark Charlie Bradbury, Possessive Dean Winchester, Illegal Activities, Torture, Sexual Slavery, Murder Husbands, Killer Castiel, Killer Dean Winchester, Top Dean/Bottom Castiel Summary: Castiel looked even wilder in person. Dean let his eyes roam over his (now fully clothed) form, smiling appreciatively. He inhaled deeply, curious to find no real trace of a scent. “He’s on scent blockers,” the employee explained. ""Running this auction is involved enough without having to settle claim disputes if an omega’s scent triggers some alpha’s rut.” That suited him fine; both he and Sam were on scent blockers most of the time and he’d planned on requiring that Castiel stay on them too. It helped with anonymity. “Thank you,” he said, “That will be all.” The employee gave a small bow and left to service the other high bidders. “Well, Cas,” Dean said cheerily, “Let’s go home.”

Porn and Peonies | @navajlovesdestiel

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 20865 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe Alpha/Omega, Porn Star Dean Winchester, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Mpreg, Mating, Switching Summary: When Cas accidentally meets his favorite porn star, Dean Smith, he's thrilled. He never expects what comes next with Dean Winchester, Alpha to his omega.

Mulanatural (WIP) | @tucuxia

Rating: Mature Word Count: 33385 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Beta Adam Milligan, Mulan (Disney) Summary: Dean Winchester is possibly the worst omega in his town; he's too big, too strong, and way too dominant. When the Matchmaker rejects his suit for a mate and the Huns invade China, he has to pretend to be an alpha to save his brother's life, but he may well lose his own in the process. Worse, he may dishonor his whole family.

A Symphony of Flavors | @wargurl83

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 43223 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chefs, Minor Character Death (offscreen) - Freeform, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Verse, thar be smut here, Top Cas/Bottom Dean Summary: Master Chef Castiel Novak likes his life ordered. Controlled. Sensible. He's an Alpha with no mate and no hope of finding one. His life is turned upside down with the death of his sister and taking guardianship of his nine-year-old niece, Claire. Add to that, there's a new sous chef taking up space in his very orderly kitchen with his loud music and brash attitude, and for some reason Castiel just can't take his eyes off him. Dean Winchester loves to cook, love his mom, and loves kids. His goal has been to work with Chef Novak for as long as he's been in Kansas City. What he wasn’t prepared for was an Alpha all of his own…

The Nuances of Pack Politics (WIP) | @tucuxia

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 72679 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - High School, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Castiel/Alpha Dean Winchester, ,Alpha Sam Winchester, Omega Gabriel Summary: Castiel and Gabriel Novak are having a hard time fitting into their new school, constantly harassed by older alphas now that they have lost the familiar protection of their own brothers. The Pack, a group that claims to welcome and protect omegas at their high school, may offer them a chance to change all of that, as long as they can get in.

Grown-Ups Making Grown-Up Choices | @carrieosity

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 81039 Main Tags/Warnings: Humor and Fluff, Pining, Self-improvement, Self-worth issues, Comedy, Awkward Flirting, Mating, Sexual Harassment, Threatened Non-Con (brief), Healthy Relationships Summary: Dean is a grown-ass man - he can take perfectly good care of himself, thank you very much. Except that sometimes the easier or more fun choices aren't always the right or best ones, and, all right, maybe thinking ahead and working the long game isn't his strongest suit. It's fine! He's fine. When he meets Castiel, he realizes that flying by the seat of his pants may not be the best way to attract the super-serious (gorgeous, funny, genius) Alpha. Dean's shrink has been telling him he needs to start making ""grown-up choices,"" and if that's what he has to think about in order to make Cas fall for him, then he'll give it a whirl.

Celestial War (WIP) | @tucuxia

Rating: Mature Word Count: 151571 Main Tags/Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Dean/Omega Castiel, Alpha Sam/Omega Gabriel, Alpha Crowley/Omega Balthazar, Mating Cycles/In Heat Summary: The three tribes--Celestial, Wilderness, and Spellbound--have been at an uneasy stalemate for generations, but a prophecy about four omegas could bring about a full-scale war that will destroy them all.

don't care where you've been (WIP) | @thanks-tacos

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 240842 Main Tags/Warnings: Omega Dean, Alpha Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean, Past Rape/Non-con, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Arranged Marriage, Abused Dean Winchester, Caring Castiel, Happy Ending, full tag list in the fic Summary: Dean's life is finally changing. After years of enduring Alastair's abuse, the alpha dies and Dean's married off to the next alpha the system pairs him with - Castiel. The man is strange and distant, but not exactly bad, and Dean's determined to be on his best behavior and not mess up the chance he was given. Soon enough, though, he fucks up anyway and has to call the alpha for help. Castiel's lived his entire life without an omega by his side, and he was fine with that. He doesn't know how to proceed once he's suddenly married to a beautiful man who's obviously been through a lot. Omegas were always a confusing subject to him, so he tries not to interfere much - neither of them is there by their choice. But when Dean calls for help, he understands he's going to have to set some things straight and engage more.

[mell-bell]

Fight so dirty (but your love so sweet) - Part III

The Mandalorian x Reader

Part 1 / Part 2  / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

Words: 5135                      

Series Summary: You are sent to hunt down a Mandalorian, the odds aren’t exactly in your favor

Chapter: 3/8

Author’s notes: You guys are seriously the best thank you for reading!!! I love you all. When I first wrote this I thought it was gonna be short but once again it kinda imploded and thus 5000 but such is life. So sorry if there are spelling mistakes or such I’ve edited so many times I’m going crosseyed. I think I tagged everyone who asked, if not please just drop me a message! Hope you guys enjoy!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, no! Put that down!”

A gruff shout pulled you from sleep.

With a groan, you rolled over burrowing back into the warm blanket, pulling the long sleeves of the shirt you had stolen over your frozen fingers.

That infuriating man refused to pay for any type of heating system on this ship, claiming his armor and your clothes would be enough to keep you both warm.

“Stop!”

A crash echoed from the front of the ship as if something had slammed into the front window.

Your eyes shot open, squinting against the sun shining into the room. You focused your eyes at the clock, groaning at the blinking numbers. You had only slept for two hours.

Ever since you had escaped from the Imperials and Stormtroopers almost a month ago, you had been jumping from planet to planet.

Two weeks ago, you had thought you found a safe place. But four days after your arrival, a mercenary had broken onto the ship, slipping through a panel in the dead of night. Mercifully, the Mandalorian had dealt with him quickly before any harm could be done. But when he showed you the fob, you knew they were still tracking the little green child.

It was then that you both decided someone should guard the ship at night. At first, the Mandalorian had claimed he would take every night and even though you knew better, you let him try. It wasn’t until two days later when he fell asleep in the middle of eating lunch that you told him you would be alternating nights.

And you had been on guard duty last night. The man and child sound asleep inside while you froze your ass off sitting outside the ship staring into the dark forest.

You landed here three days ago and although everything seemed quiet, you both knew not to risk it now.

Risk wasn’t in his vocabulary anymore. Your Mandalorian had basically become your shadow. Anytime you left the ship, he would be at your back.

At first, you found it annoying, but one day in a market, a stranger had grabbed onto your arm. And you almost snapped. If he hadn’t stepped between the two of you, you would have shot the innocent man. Now knowing that he was always just a step behind you was a weight off your chest.

Rolling out of bed, you pulled on some heavy socks grumbling at the fact that he had picked the one planet where it was heavily snowing. Running your hands over your eyes trying to rub the sleep from them, you began to make your way through the ship. As you grew closer to the cockpit you could hear muffled curses and continuous bangs.

“What on Hoth is all this racket-“  You froze, the words catching in your throat at the sight before you.

The Mandalorian was sprawled on the ground, tangled up in a net, his finger pointed sternly at the little green child perched on the pilot’s seat, who chirped excitedly when he saw you.

Your face broke out into a wide smile but before you could make a noise, the warrior moved his gaze toward you.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You nodded solemnly fighting back laughter, a small snort escaping before you turned on your heel and left the room.

Stepping to the side, out of sight, you listened quietly as the man continued to reprimand the little child quietly before explaining how to be safe around his weapons.

Still chuckling quietly to yourself, you made your way to the back of the ship where you had created a makeshift kitchen and dining area.

There was no way you were going back to bed now.

Life together had become somewhat of a domestic thing. This ship had become home. You had argued with the Mandalorian for days when he stated he was giving you his room. You had even slept in the cockpit one night just to spite him. But when he promised to build himself his own room, you finally relented.

Things between the two of you had taken some time to get back to normal. The guilt that had been eating away at the Mandalorian had faded. He didn’t tiptoe around you anymore. But you could see it in his movements and actions.  He purposefully alerted you when he was around or how he never let you out of his sight. You were slowly moving on from what had happened to you. And for the most part, you had. But the lingering trauma was still there.

A quiet shuffle sounded behind you, alerting you to the child who waddled through the door. You reached down, passing him a bowl of soup. The child began to slurp happily, as you grabbed him placing him up on a chair at the table before turning back to finish cooking.

The little child had become a fixture in both of your lives. The child loved to hear you babble on about nothing. So, when you would work around the ship you would tell him what you were doing. Even the quiet warrior had begun to talk to him. Though it seemed like most of the time he was reprimanding him for touching things he shouldn’t.

“…Is that my shirt?” You heard a soft voice behind you.

Throwing a glance over your shoulder at the Mandalorian in the doorway, you chuckled, “That it is.”

“Why?”

Your brows furrowed confused at his statement, “What?”

“The shirt. Why are you wearing it?”

“It makes me feel safe.”

After a beat of silence and a slight tilt of the man’s head, you realized what you had said.

Stumbling over your words, you frantically sputtered out, “Nope, I mean the cold- uh, do you want some soup?”

You continued to babble about random things, making the small child chitter, all while ignoring the man who hadn’t moved an inch since you had spoken to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I need you to spar with me.”

You leaned against the opening of the back of the ship, looking down the ramp as the Mandalorian tinkered on an outdoor panel. He turned around and slowly looked you up and down. Instinctively, you stood up straighter.

He nodded, “Get dressed and let’s go.”

You had healed nicely. Your hands had healed rather quickly, barely scarred, the salve the Mandalorian rubbed on it each night saw to that. The scar on your stomach was no more than a fleeting memory. Your ribs, on the other hand, still tweaked here and there. But after a month of rest, you were getting antsy.

You hadn’t been able to keep up with your usual regime without injuring yourself further. You had ripped your stitches more than once lifting something too heavy. And you had even tried to do some pushups one day, but when the Mandalorian walked past just in time, he lifted your whole body up and placed you back on the bed with a stern warning to rest and heal.

But it had only been a month. You should be back in fighting shape in no time.

Five minutes later, you hit the ground with a thud and groaned. The Mandalorian gently kicked your side, prompting you to get up.

He held out his hand and you raised yours to his. But when you saw it shaking, you curled your fingers into a tight fist trying to brush it off and instead reached down to the ground to push yourself up.

As the Mandalorian put you through the motions, he did so slowly. You expected your muscles to do what they were used to. But your body was stiff and too slow.

As you tripped, and fell, and missed, you grew frustrated. You slammed to the ground again and again. Your body was screaming and when the man before you asked if you wanted to stop, you ignored him. You got to your feet, wiped the blood from your nose, and raised your arms to start again.

He hesitated.

But when he saw the determination in your eyes, he sighed and started back up.

He reached out to help every time you fell, but when you didn’t take his hand, he pulled back with a sigh and continued to attack you knocking you down over and over.

After completing the first few exercises, he chucked you a baton as he held out his own.

You started slowly as you felt your muscles begin to remember the exercises that had been drilled into your head. But you could feel him holding back. He wasn’t hitting you hard. And you purposefully gave him opportunities to take you down. But he didn’t.

You pushed him, “Come on, hit me. I can take it.”

“Stop.” He warned as you swung out at him wildly.

“I can take it.” You growled.

He shook his head, taking a step back as he dodged your aggressive attacks, “You just started training. You need to take it easy.”

You let out a grunt of annoyance as he easily ducked your baton again.

“You never had problems attacking me before. Don’t go easy on me now, I’m not gonna break.”

He shook his head as he slammed the baton down at you again. Your arm screamed under the pressure but you still pushed back at him.

“Come on.” You shouted, reaching out and shoving him back.

He swung out and soon you were going faster and hitting harder. Right. Left. Right. Duck. Jump.

You smiled as you landed a blow. And then another. But you had been overconfident. Without warning, just like he had done before, he kicked out your legs from beneath you.

You slammed to the ground and looked up just in time to see the baton coming down at your head.  

Only you didn’t see the baton. You saw a stormtrooper’s gun. Your eyes slammed shut, and you flinched back, as you tried to sink into the ground. When nothing hit you, you relaxed minutely.

A gentle hand touched your arm and you shot to your feet, quickly backing away from the Mandalorian. He held out his hands in a peace offering, gently placing the baton on the ground.

“I don’t need your pity.” You spit out.

He took a step forward reaching out, but you pulled away and took off down the hall.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, when you were lying on the roof of the ship, looking at the stars, that he came to you.

He laid silently next to you, giving you the choice to start the conversation for yourself.

“I thought I was ready.” You whispered so quietly that when he didn’t respond you thought he hadn’t heard you. You sat up pulling your legs into your body, holding you shaking hands in tight fists.

“It’s going to take time.”

You pressed your shaking hands to your face, “We don’t have time. I need to be strong, not weak.”

He reached out, gently pulling your hands away from your face, covering your smaller ones in his, “You will be.”

You smiled, “Stronger than you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He chuckled.

“You know one of these days I want to spar you without your armor and see how you hold up.” You teased pulling a hand back to poke at his chest plate.

“You couldn’t handle me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the month drew to a close, you sat down to shift through the food and supply rations you had left. Jumping from planet to planet this past month, you hadn’t had time to check what you were low on.

You sat propped against the wall as you checked off the last box of supplies. Frowning down at the numbers in front of you, you quickly counted and rechecked finding that it hadn’t been an error on your part.

Dropping the pad to the ground, you groaned closing your eyes.

A soft coo sounded next to you, and you peeked, seeing the green child chittering in front of you.

“Hey, go get your dad will you?”

The green child chirped as he began to waddle away.

A few minutes later, footsteps echoed in the ship as they grew closer. You were still leaning against the ship, your eyes closed.

You didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“We need money. One of us needs to take a client on.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“We’re running low on food. And supplies. We’re not going to last another month. I know it’s a risk but it’s one we have to take.”

The man sighed. And you opened your eyes, smiling when you saw the child resting happily in his arms.

“Fine.”

“Great!” You smiled jumping up, “I know just the place to go.”

A few hours later, the Mandalorian landed the ship on the outskirts of a forest.

Pulling on your red cape, you skipped happily past the warrior and child on the way down the ramp, “It’s nice to be back.”

This planet was a happy reprieve to the desolate snow planet you had just been on. The forest was in bloom in colorful flowers, the green of the trees brightening up the world around you. Taking a deep breath, you walked slowly along the trail, smiling at the chirping animals in the trees. The Mandalorian was on edge as he followed behind you, looking left and right as if he expected an enemy to come flying out of the trees.

“You said you had contacts here.” His voice steady, but you know he was wary of trusting anyone.

You nodded, “When I worked with Commander Trax, she sent me here for a long mission, I lived here for a month helping the citizens.”

Stopping at a tree abloom with bright yellow flowers, you smiled pulling a few off the twigs. You turned with a smile and bent down passing one to the little green child, motioning that he could eat it. And soon he was chomping down making happy little sounds, as you all continued along through the forest.  

“Where are we going?”

“The cantina. If there’s any work under the table, it will be there. And hopefully, we’ll find my contact there. Easier than having to knock on every single door in town.”

As you reached the end of the tree line, the Mandalorian passed you one of his blasters. You rolled your eyes but shoved it in the back of your pants before you took off down the street.

It looked exactly the same. The town was small but homely. The market place bustling with merchants and buyers. You had loved living here.

As you continued down the street, you waved at the citizens you passed by. A few recognized you and greeted you by name, welcoming you back.  

The Mandalorian walked slowly behind you, the child at his side. People passing by said hello and he offered each of them a solemn nod.

When you reached the door to the cantina, you waved back at the warrior silently telling him to remain behind. But when you walked through the door and all the blasters went up, you sighed.

The Mandalorian stepped in front of the small child and pushed you behind him, his own blaster raising as his gaze scanned the bar.

You moved around him, pushing his blaster down, “He’s a friend. I promise. I’m looking for Nyko.”

Murmurs echoed through the crowd of people before suddenly everyone parted and a woman walked toward you.

You smiled and the older woman smiled widely in return, “Well look who it is!”

She waved at the other’s to drop their weapons. Everybody obeyed and immediately turned back to their own conversations, though they were still throwing wary glances at the Mandalorian, who had moved to stand silently in the corner.

The woman walked right up to you, pulling you into a hug.

“Long time no see. What are you doing here? With a Mandalorian no less.”

You nodded toward the back corner, and she responded by placing her arm around your shoulders leading you to the furthest table in the back. Your Mandalorian followed behind you like a shadow.

“We’re looking for work under the table.”

Nyko nodded solemnly, this was business, “I’m assuming it has to do with that little green fellow.”

The Mandalorian started forward but you held up a hand.

“Yes.”

Nyko nodded, “I can probably find you something, but I’ll warn you things in the underworld work differently then you’re used to around here. You’re going to need to Compete if you want to work.”

You stiffened slightly and the Mandalorian stepped closer to you.

“Got yourself a watchdog here.”

“More like a partner.”

Nyko eyed the man curiously before she waved her hand, and people appeared out of the woodwork, joining you at the table.

Papers were passed around and introductions were made.  

The Mandalorian watched in amazement as all the citizens looked and talked to you with respect.

You seemed to fit in nicely here. You looked happy.

You nodded one more time and gathered all the intel of the table, holding out your arm you waited and Nyko grabbed yours.

“Don’t wait five years next time you stop by to say hello. I wish you luck in the Competition.”

You smirked and her eyes glinted as she knew it was all but a joke to you.

Stepping out of the cantina, you began to walk back toward the ship, the Mandalorian and green child following behind. As you walked, you passed him the map Nyko had given you.

“We’re going to meet here. Gather your weapons. I will meet you once I stop by a few places to grab some supplies.”

You went to step away but a hand grabbed onto you.

“Be careful.” His voice was deep with worry.

You knew he had heard Nyko mention the Competition.

“You don’t need to worry about me here.” You offered him a sad smile.

You walked down the street missing the soft, “But I do” that fell from his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You hadn’t been out of sight from your Mandalorian since you got back, and it put you on edge. Although you knew this was a safe town you couldn’t help the lingering feeling that someone was going to come out of the shadows.

As you reached the outskirts of town, you reached back making sure your blaster was easily accessible. With a deep breath, you followed Nyko’s directions through the trees. Left. Left. Right. Over the bridge. Right at the yellow tree.

The Competition was infamous around here. Hunters would step forward to compete. To decide who would be given the bounty. The winner’s reward was the puck.

Your red cape swept behind you as you pushed your way through the crowds of people. There was a reason you didn’t want him here with you. Didn’t want him to see you this way.

You shouldered another person out of the way, growling when they turned around to look at you. This was a big event. Bets were placed. Winners were rigged.

But you were here to win.

You stalked up to the table in the center, people moving out of your way when they saw your red cape float out behind you.

With a grin, you shoved your way to the front of the line, pushing the man in front out of the way you slammed your hand down on the table, “I’d like to enter.”

The man behind the desk sneered at you, but that quickly changed when you placed a heavy bag of coins in front of him.

Passing you a number, he took your coins testing the weight in his hand, “Good luck.”

“I won’t need it.”

You had only competed in a Competition once before, but this one was different. There weren’t any rules. People died here. You could kill, maim, and still win.

As you stood in line with the nine other contestants, you found maybe one or two that would cause you some trouble. A man twice your size, with a knife peeking out from his sleeve. And a woman small and slim, with a wicked grin on her face, you knew a mercenary when you saw one.

The first task was easy enough. Target practice.

Top five moved on.

You took your turns throwing well, until the last shot when you purposefully missed a target.

The man next to you snorted and you feigned defeat.

Next was an agility competition.

You had never jumped on these so-called agility poles before, but your quick footwork from the workouts the Mandalorian put you through helped you fly through.

It was down to two.

You and the man with the knife.

The last task. The cage fight.

You swallowed as the mixture of cheers and boos echoed throughout the cold room, the cage closing in around the two of you.

Pulling off your cape, you quickly wrapped your hands before facing the man who stood in the way of your bounty puck.

The bell rang and with a feral grin, you launched yourself at your opponent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You arrived back at the ship, limping slightly, sporting a wide grin on your face.

The Mandalorian looked up and when he caught sight of you, stood quickly walking over, lifting your chin so he could see the growing bruise on your cheek.

You waved him off, “I’m fine.” You pressed the puck in his hand. “I’m gonna go clean up, you look into that.”

The man watched worriedly as you limped your way up the ramp.

After cleaning up, you met the warrior at the base of the ramp, he was packed and ready to go. Grabbing your pack from him, you swung it over your shoulder before following him back into town.

He worked quickly. In the few minutes you had taken to get ready, he had already scouted out where your bounty was located.

Motioning for you to do the honors, you kicked in the door. The dozen people in the room began to scatter, tripping over each other to reach the door. Pulling out your baton \, you began to knock their legs out from beneath them, only moving on when you didn’t see the face from the puck.

You grabbed the shirt of a man, hauling him to his feet, “Where is the man named Ronzan?”

The man frantically motioned to the back door. The Mandalorian shuffled over silently, his blaster raised as he kicked open the door. A scream sounded from inside and you grinned, letting the man from your grip go.

The man, known as Ronzan, was on the ground pleading with the Mandalorian standing over him.

Ronzan froze when he saw you,  “I have money please.” He begged.

You rolled your eyes before reaching out and shocking the man, who fell back to the ground unconscious.

“You’re carrying him.” The Mandalorian stated, prodding the man’s body with his boot.

You looked down at the man and sighed. Reaching down you were about to haul him up when you heard a whimper echo in the room.

Furrowing your brow you began to look around the room. Pushing a desk against the wall, you pulled back the rug to find a hatch in the ground. With a quick whistle, you motioned to the Mandalorian in the corner to help you pry up the hatch.

The hole that opened up was dark and deep, the whimpers you had heard echoing from below. Reaching out, you grabbed onto the Mandalorian’s hand before stepping over the edge. The man slowly lowered you down into the dark hole. When your feet still didn’t touch the ground, you braced yourself.  You squeezed his hand once and he let you drop.

You fell far, rolling once, twice, before pushing yourself to your feet. Reaching for the walls, you began to walk slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness around you.

“Hello?” You called out.

You continued walking when you suddenly tripped over a chain on the ground. Reaching out to grab it, you held it as you followed it. And at the end, you found a young girl.

“Hey...”

The girl flinched backward as you reached out. You hesitated. Reaching down you pulled a tool from your pack using it to snap the chain off.

“He can’t hurt you anymore. We need to go.” You pulled the girl up, she was freezing. She wrapped her arms around you and you held her close as you led her down the cold hall.

When you made it back to the hole above, you saw the Mandalorian looking down. He vanished from view and a second later, dropped down a rope that had knots tied in it.

Placing the young girl's hands on it, you prompted her to start climbing.

When she was close enough to the top, the Mandalorian above reached down grabbing onto the girl, pulling her up easily.

The young girl looked up at the warrior in awe, her hands hesitantly reaching out to touch the cool metal of his armor.

You pulled yourself to the surface just in time to see the young girl reach up to touch the Mandalorian’s helmet. The man flinched back and the girl shot back cowering in on herself.

You rushed forward, pulling the girl over to a bench, where you kneeled down in front of her.

“He’s a friend. A Mandalorian. Do you know what that is?” You prompted.

The girl shook her head, throwing a nervous gaze at the armored man.

You offered her a smile, “Well, he’s one of the best warriors in the galaxy. He can’t take off his helmet because if he does he won’t be allowed to put it back on. And doesn’t he just look dashing in it?”

You waited for the girl to nod her head.

“Alright, well I think it’s time to go.” You held out your hand, waiting for the girl to take it.

You motioned to the man in the corner, and you could feel the glare the Mandalorian gave you underneath his helmet as he lifted up throwing the unconscious man over his shoulder.

The trek back to the underworld was long. But a little less than an hour later, you had dropped off the unconscious male and received notice that the credits would be transferred to you.

On the way back to town through the forest, the young girl began to chitter on in a different language, you nodded your head along with her every time she looked at you.

When you reached the bustling town, you leaned down to the girl, “Do you recognize this place? Does your family live here?”

The girl nodded and began to drag you through the crowds. When she reached a small hut at the edge of town, she burst through the door. Inside you heard the clatter of objects and multiple gasps and shouts.

You cautiously stepped through the doorway to find the young girl in the arms of an older woman. You stepped forward, startling the woman, but when the younger girl began to speak in a different language to her mother, she relaxed.

Reaching out, she grabbed your hand tight, “Thank you, for saving my daughter.”

You offered her a smile, as you gazed around the small hut, the open room scarce of belongings, a cluster of young children crowded together on a bed in the corner.

Clearing your throat, you motioned to the older woman, “If you wouldn’t mind, I have something I would like to show you.”

The woman nodded slowly confused, but quickly gathered her children and followed you out the door.

On the other side of town, you unlocked the door to a small house that had long since been boarded up. The woman and her children stepped through the doorway. The youngest took a step forward, throwing a glance back at you, but when you just nodded at him he smiled before taking off to explore the new house.

“What is this place?” The Mandalorian wandered around the room, his hands drifting over knickknacks on the tables. He stopped in front of the fireplace when something caught his gaze. He stepped forward, reaching out and grabbing a photo propped on the mantel. It was you.

“This is where I used to live.”

You looked down at the key in your hand before turning to the young girl beside you, “This is yours now.”

The girl wrapped herself around you thanking you profusely. Her mother tried to resist but you assured her that you knew it would be in good hands. She promised to keep the door open if you ever wanted to come back.

You nodded as you slipped a piece of paper with your contact information into her hand, “If you ever need anything.”

She nodded tears in her eyes.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How did- why-“ The man was at a loss for words as you walked back to the ship.

“After my parents died, before I worked for Commander Trax, a man like that owned me. I got hired to do some work at a young age and got in too deep before I realized he had complete control of me. Commander Trax saved me.”

The man nodded, “You changed their lives.”

You knew.

“I never told you about my helmet, how did-?”

You cut him off, “I worked with a Mandalorian in the past. I learned a lot from him. He told me about many of your beliefs. That’s why I never pried. It’s your right.”

The rest of the walk was made in silence.

When you finally made it back to ship, you paid the woman Nyko had hired to watch the little green child.

She happily passed him over, claiming he had caused too much chaos and that she was sorry for the mess he had caused on the ship.

The child settled comfortably in your arms as he chittered excitedly. You spoke softly to him in return.

As you began to climb the ramp, the Mandalorian reached out grabbing your arm, “Thank you.”

You shot him a smile.

Later that night, you were lying on the top of the ship staring at the stars. The transfer had gone through, the credits now officially yours. You had been paid handsomely.

Soft footsteps vibrated against the metal of the ship as the man settled beside you, “You could be happy here.”

“I could.” You agreed.

“You could s-“

You sat up abruptly before he could finish his sentence and he followed. Turning to look at him, you leaned over pressing your lips to the cold metal of his helmet.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagged: @sargesbestgirl @abysswhiskey11 @yourfavoritearchangel @pedro-pascal-online @x-wingwarriorbbpoe8 @damnittjim @trickei @countessren @fun-sized-widow-bites @thefandomzoneisdangerous @ichigomiluku @bakerstreethound @clonesdeservelovetoo @bananyaaa @loveleah @javert-delacour @zoogrl05 @live-the-beautiful-game @maryan028 @ignimbritetcax @kaidad @kaimoar @yana-versio @peitromoximaff @alittleraincloud @fuckhead-writer @dottie-witch @nowheredreamer @pandalandalopalis @loveharrington @sw0rd-girlfriend @lex0h @piquantbarnes @go-commander-kim @finefangirl @lmao5sosimagines @bandofmarvels @nayploonthedoon @tchallaudakux @allthosepacheeks @i-think-of-dean-moriarty @otherthingsinhead @songofcosplay @cloudykooks @spooky-nob @takemebillyhargrove @flyingowls @funkygreensucculent @andromeda-sighs @audiblesmirk @out-worn @lessthancooljay @whtvrwhizzer @banana-batman @panic-monsters  @vamprlestat @clevervast @ghelp0 @just-another-fangirls-posts @jinthusiastsss @c1996 @maldo559 @yelenasnatashas @chewymoustachio @heyo--its--mo @hexqueensupreme @ozzy-bozzy @spideydobrik  @t-rexmoreliket-flex @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @teenagememetonight @salted-barbed-wire​

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 5 [18+/NSFW]

<- Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 ->

Summary: After your not-boyfriend, Frederick Chilton, turns out to be not-dead, you hope you can elevate your status from fuckbuddies. Maybe be honest about how you feel? But honesty is haaard... especially when he is more closed-off than ever.

(This is probably my favorite chapter. It has actual smut. And ridiculous idiots, and fluuuuuuuff)

5,075 words

After Hannibal fled, leaving a bloodbath in his wake, Dr. Frederick Chilton returned to the land of the living and to administrating his psychiatric hospital as if he had simply been away on vacation.

Likewise, your relationship resumed where it had left off. You thought things would be different now—that you would be more honest with your feelings, and he might open up, too—but nothing changed, except for the things that changed in a direction you didn’t like.

“Oh, Doctor Chilton, I need help,” you purred, leaning seductively against the doorway of his office. He sat up rigidly in his leather chair and stammered a greeting with failed nonchalance.

Since his return, his voice shot up an octave whenever you walked in the room. He was like a shy teenager with his first crush, and you could only assume he was re-learning how to exist in the world after trauma. What else would it be?

Slinking up to his desk, you unfastened the top buttons of your shirt. He swallowed, hungry, but not immediately pouncing upon you with a lewd promise growled in your ear and a firm grasp on your hip like he used to do. New reserves of insecurity crouched beneath his skin like lions hidden in tall grass. It broke your heart to see that timidity in his eyes, but it was all incentive for you to work harder to relax him.

“I’m afraid I don’t have insurance, doctor,” you pouted, pushing aside a stack of papers to sit on his desk. “And mental health care is prohibitively costly because of a broken for-profit system, leaving the most vulnerable populations without access…” you put an emphasis on vulnerable, biting your lip.

He quirked a brow. “Your sexy-talk needs work.” 

“Oh, doctor,” you moaned, sliding off the desk and straddling his lap to pull at his tie. “Until we get universal healthcare”—you brought the end of his orange tie up to your mouth and bit it, gazing coquettishly into his eyes—“surely there’shh some ofther way I can pay you…” you lisped, mouth stuffed full of tie. 

He never knew it was possible to laugh, be annoyed, and aroused at the same time, but you were always teaching him new things. 

“That would be a severe ethics violation,” he said sternly, brows lowered, but clearly teasing. You snorted. 

It was impossible to remain self-conscious around someone flirting so badly. His hesitation melted away as he turned your awkward role-play around on you, so you moved on to phase two. Sinking to your knees at the foot of his chair, half under his desk, you smoothed the fabric of his pants over his lap, rubbing his inner thighs to coax his legs open and position yourself between them.

He drew in a sharp breath, but disguised it as a gasp of offense. “This is highly inappropriate. I am going to have to ask you to leave my office. Future visits will be attended by a nurse to ensure proper conduct, or I can refer you to another psychiatrist,” he said in a dry monotone, fully committed to playing hard-to-get. You growled in annoyance at him in between bursts of laughter. He patted your head patronizingly. “Now, now, I am a magnanimous doctor. I am not angry with you as a patient for this behavioral outburst… just disappointed.”

You licked your lips. Challenge accepted. You ran your hands over the front of his dress pants until you found the outline of his cock, and stroked it through the fabric, arching your back while giving him your best please-fuck-me look. He swallowed.

Unzipping the fly, you reached into the warmth of his pants, searching through a bed of curled hairs until you found his cock and drew it out to admire. The skin was velvety and soft, pulsing with heat as you gave it a few slow strokes, watching it grow larger and more firm. You loved it at its full arousal, when it took its sculptural form and shape with veins running up the underside of the shaft, when the foreskin pulled back and the domed pink head stood out, ready to plunge itself into you. 

God, you loved his cock. 

“On the other hand,” he quickly changed his mind, “perhaps I require a demonstration of this ‘alternative payment.’ For the sake of due diligence.” 

Your brought your tongue to its head and gave a teasing lick, tasting the salt of his precum, then kissed it like you would kiss his lips. You pecked a series of kisses down the length of his shaft until you were buried in his neatly trimmed curls, lips brushing the wrinkled skin of his balls, then flattened your tongue against his cock and traced a torturously slow wet line from the base to the tip. 

“I confess... you are my most attractive patient,” he said in a shaky, staggering breath, one side of his lips quirking upward. His chest was rising and falling rapidly now. He wanted more. “That is very good.” Not content with you stopping to look up at him, his hand cradled the back of your head, pushing you down and urging you to continue. “But I will need more payment than that.”  

Taking his entire thick cock in your mouth, you slid down it until he hit the back of your throat and you gagged, eyes watering a little as you adjusted to having your throat stuffed full of him, jaw forced open wide. His manicured fingers curled into your hair, gently petting you. “Easy,” he soothed. 

It was nice sucking the dick of someone as fastidiously clean as Frederick Chilton. You always appreciated that as you began, moving slowly up his shaft until your lips were only closed around the swollen head, licking it gently, then faster until you felt his fingers tighten. He always tasted faintly of soap and very little else. His sedentary lifestyle helped as well; he was never running around and building up a nasty sweat. It was a pleasant little bonus to the whole affair. His cock was the most delicious you’d ever had.

Your head bobbed up and down in his lap with renewed vigor, building a rhythm with his hand gently guiding you to his preference (which you followed to please him, and deviated from to get a reaction). You loved watching his face—his breathing as he struggled to control it, the way his mouth twitched, and his eyes watched you work. That desperate little whine in his throat when you broke his rhythm, which grew into a low moan he tried to suppress when you started a new one.

He gave you instructions: slower, faster, use your tongue... just like that. Good. You twisted, and sucked, and pumped his base with your hands, gliding your tongue along the underside of his cock until the exquisite moment when he broke down, and stopped trying to keep his breathing (and noises) under control. By the end, he was a shaking mess mess, barely able to stammer out “k-keep going!” You loved to watch the moment he surrendered to you completely, his fingers digging into your scalp as his hips jerked helplessly, and his mouth falling open as he released into you, moaning and gasping so loudly the staff were sure to hear. 

You kept him buried in your mouth as his hot seed spilled on your tongue, swallowing every drop until his muscles stopped their convulsions, and you licked his cockhead clean. Cleaning up was a pain in the ass otherwise (and Frederick might implode if any got on his dress pants), but also, his largely vegetarian diet made him taste exceptionally sweet. You smiled up at him and ran your tongue over your lips as he panted, a sheen of sweat on his brow. 

As he was coming down, the phone on his desk rang, and naturally, the ambitious jerk answered it without so much as a thank you, or even putting his dick away. Orgasm complete: never mind you, back to work. Based on his half of the conversation, it sounded important—something about a publishing deal for a book he writing on Hannibal the Cannibal. The tone of his voice took on that haughty smarter-than-you air as the topic turned to intellectual property rights, and he was clearly driving for more money. So you started sucking his overstimulated dick. He gasped loudly into the receiver, and stared down at you in horror as he tried to cover for it. “I apologize. A bee got into my office, and I have to swat it.” He pushed you off his lap, eyes sparking like choppy waves on a windy sea.

“That was rude,” he growled when he got off the phone, a somewhat deranged smile slanting up one side of his face. He bent you over the desk and slapped your ass, whispering promises into your ear of how he would pay you back later.

You knew he would keep his promises. Each one. He had a lot more aggression to work out lately, and while you weren’t its target, a good hard fuck always made him feel better. You knew when you went to his house tonight you were guaranteed to have a lot of fun in a lot of positions—but you also knew when you were done, he would usher you out with some excuse for why you could’t stay.

That was the biggest, and worst, change. You thought the incident would bring you closer, but he hadn’t let you spend one night with him since the day he was shot.

It made you feel cheap.

Worse, it meant you were drifting apart. He used to be grateful (though he would never admit it) that you were there for the nightmares. When he woke up shaking he would turn to hold you, crushing you against his chest like a teddy until the shaking stopped, and he drifted back to sleep still holding you tight. You would have thought he would need you there more than ever, now. Something made him stop trusting you.

  *****

“Did I do something wrong?”

You were in the cramped passenger seat of his midlife-crisis Porsche cabriolet as he drove you home yet again, and a silence had fallen over him. It was a warm spring night with beautiful stars in the breeze above you glowing their brightest, albeit faded amid the glow of Baltimore’s city lights.

“Not at all. I am simply setting healthy boundaries, darling. I begin to suspect you only like me for the amenities.”

His house was new—he did not want to move back into the place he had found Abel Gideon dissected, and Hannibal had slaughtered and arranged two FBI agents for display—and even more grandiose than the last. All of the staircases were spiral for some unfathomable reason (because it was fancier), and it contained an entire gym, pool, gourmet kitchen, and a television the size of an actual movie theater screen. The bath had hot-tub jets.

Admittedly, it was nice staying there. It made you feel like someone who’d seen the inside of a country club. But his answer was complete bullshit.

“You know I don’t care about all your fancy crap,” you groaned.

“Do I? You told me you only stayed the night because my house was nice, and you enjoyed my coffee.”

Ouch. OK. Called out. “Obviously I was lying! I only like your stuff because it’s part of who you are—I can’t imagine you not being shamelessly bourgeoisie—not because I want a sugar daddy. If that’s what you’re worried about… why don’t we stay at my apartment?”

The thought never crossed his mind that you might call his bluff. He was horror-stricken.

“At your little… chalet?” he said like he was poking a dead bug with the end of a stick.

“It’s an apartment.”

Trapped by his own logic, instead of dropping you at your front door, Frederick got out and hobbled up the narrow staircase with you.

“My god, what is this? For ants?”

“It’s called a full bed, Frederick, and there’s plenty of room,” you answered with a little annoyance creeping into your voice. You knew he was prissy, but from the moment he set foot in your two-bedroom (which you could barely afford) he had been acting like he was in a decrepit slum. It was hilarious, actually, how living like a normal human being made him squirm.

He flopped down into the middle of the mattress, a sullen expression on his face like a toddler in a time-out. “You cannot expect me to sleep on this prison cot.”

“Move over,” you nudged him, crawling onto the covers beside him. “There’s plenty of room if we cuddle.”

He didn’t look interested in cuddling at the moment, however. He stared up at the ceiling like he was about to explode. You smiled. Even at his bitchiest and sulkiest, there was no one else you would rather spend time with. He tugged at your heartstrings. You admired his profile—his square brow that could express so much emotion (right now: petulance), the new scar on his cheek that was clearly the source of some embarrassment to him (though you thought it looked rugged), the stubble down his jaw with the slightest hint of grey. He was just so handsome.

Seeing his scar this close up was rare, as he always tried to keep you on his right side whenever you were seated or laying next to each other. You rested your chin on your arm and smiled at him, but he didn't smile back, or even glance over. He just stared at the ceiling like you weren’t even there. You waggled your eyebrows suggestively, hoping to get a laugh (or an irate glare that was secretly a laugh).

No response at all. He was moody.

You rolled on your side to cuddle him, intent on kissing that scar, but when your hands touched his chest, he flinched, recoiling with a surprised yelp.

That was the last straw. His nostrils flared and eyes widened as if this was the gravest indignity he had ever suffered. He jumped up from the bed frantically saying, “I have to go.”

And he did. Just like that.

You tried not to cry. He was being a jerk. He was going through post-traumatic stress. He just needed space, and it wasn’t your fault, you said, but you counted up all of the ways it was your fault anyway.

You were always so blunt and rude with him. As much as he deserved it when he was being officious, exploitative, surly, or generally the poster child for “check your privilege,” he probably didn’t want to be around someone who called him out all the time. It was a miracle he tolerated you at all. You’d gone easier on him since he returned from the dead, but maybe he simply didn’t want a rude fuckbuddy anymore.

You decided you wouldn’t bother him. He needed space, and you constantly showing up at his office and calling his house wasn’t helping, and it obviously wasn’t what he wanted.

Not three days went by before he called wondering where you had been. You could hear him trying to hide the worry in his voice, and the relief when you told him you were fine, and not angry. He wanted to see you. Not just the usual tryst, either: he wanted to take you out for dinner.

You had no idea what was going on.

  *****

Chilton was terrified when you stopped calling him. His greatest fear hit him deeper than a scalpel—that you were dead. Hannibal was back from wherever it was he went, and he was killing off everyone close to his enemies. Or any other of hundreds of killers. When it was clear that nothing horrible had happened to you, and you were, in fact, alive, he realized his second greatest fear—he had fucked up and finally driven you away.

A few of his exes used to give him the cold shoulder when he had committed some error, like failing to spoil them with gifts or expensive dinners, or pretending to forget their name. Maybe you, too, were punishing him, and he still had a chance to win you back. It seemed very likely that you wanted more from him than just sex. He had been selfish and unreciprocal with you—though outwardly, you never asked for anything else, except to stay the night. But he could never do that, not anymore.

Instead, pampering you at a Michelin-star restaurant seemed like a good start.

  *****

Dinner with Chilton that night made it clear why you had never gone out on a proper date with him before. His world was not your world.

As you walked in, you were fairly sure the maître d' glared at you for wearing what you considered your nicest outfit—but given that your typical dinner was boxed mac n’ cheese in your underwear, your best may not have been up to standard.

Frederick was at the bar waiting for you, severely out-dressing you in a formal black suit and dazzlingly contrasting tie, but didn’t make any underhanded comments on your attire. He crossed the room to meet you, flashing that used-car-salesman smile he hadn’t used on you since the first time you met, and offered his elbow in a revoltingly genteel fashion. It was like he was a stranger.

The the maître d’hôtel guided you to your reserved table, and Frederick set his cane to the side, sat, and crossed his legs. You felt like you were being interviewed. Was this an interview? From an inner pocket of his suit jacket, he produced and handed you a silver-inlaid pen that cost more than your rent.

“I don’t want this.” You left it sitting on the white tablecloth and stared at it like an alien artifact, trying to figure out what made it better than a two-dollar pen from the drugstore. Maybe he could still return it.

He got flustered, blinking in confusion, then held his chin up haughtily, jaw clenched. “No accounting for taste, then.”

You groaned. For some reason he wasn’t pretending to be wounded this time, he actually felt rejected. Over a stupid overpriced pen. “Fine! I’ll take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you caved in, snatching it off the table. “But if we break up, I’m pawning this.”

His mouth curled, primed to make a retort, but then went slack.

Was he thinking of breaking up?

Was that what dinner was about? That’s right—that trick of breaking up in a public space so you won’t cry and make a scene. It would explain why he’d been acting so nervous and distant lately. Why else would he suddenly want to take you out?

An awkward silence fell over the table. You wished this place had paper napkins you could stress-doodle on with your stupid new pen. Was it a breakup gift? Were breakup gifts a thing?

The waiter blessedly interrupted to take your orders, which Chilton gently assisted you with because everything was in French, the menu did not have pictures, and none of it appeared to be mac n’ cheese. He also ordered an entire bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild for the table, which you divined from the slight puffing out of his chest was meant to impress you.

When it didn’t, things went back to being sulky and awkward. By the time the bread arrived at the table, he had already downed a glass, and reached to pour himself another.

Instead of grabbing the open bottle, he completely misjudged the distance and knocked it on its side with a string of swears. Dark red liquid poured out onto the table. Acting quickly, you reached to pick it up, but collided with Chilton who was also trying to salvage the bottle, and succeeded only in batting it toward him where a puddle of wine began overflowing over the edge onto his suit.

Puddle! Spilling! You needed to mop up the excess quickly! You grabbed slices of baguette and started soaking it up.

“Why are you using bread when there are napkins for this?” Chilton hissed.

“I don’t know! You’re the dumbass who knocked over the Roth IRA Burgundy.”

His eyes bulged from his skull. “Rothschild! Bordeaux! And it wasn’t that bad until you flung it at me!”

“Do you want to help, or do you want to continue berating me?”

“I am more than capable of doing both!” he cried, grabbing a napkin and righting the bottle.

The table was a complete disaster. Wine even got all over your stupid fancy pen, which matched the stupid fancy pen in his office. Oh. That was sort of sweet, actually. As you wiped it dry, you noticed it had your name inscribed around one of the silver rings.

The waiter hurried over to assist, and Chilton looked positively mortified.

“Sorry,” you shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little clumsy.”

After much fussing and cleaning was finished, Chilton sat back in his chair, eyes boring into you. He swallowed.

“Why did you...?”

“They already think I’m a mess, this way they’ll at least let you back in here.”

“Well, that is very…” a dark blush crept up his neck from under his collar. “You didn’t have to do that"

You reached your hand across the fresh tablecloth, and he took it, rubbing soft circles in the flesh between your thumb and forefinger. (It was a testament to your familiarity that the massive, ostentatious gold ring he always wore no longer felt in the way when you held his hand.) His eyes lingered on you, and the blush continued working its way up to his face.

Things felt open enough to quietly ask, “So, what is all this, anyway? You’ve never wanted to take me out before.”

“I assumed you wanted something from me; you have been ignoring me,” he bristled slightly at your density. “If this is not it, then what?”

You blinked. He really thought you’d been holding out on him to… get something? And the way his voice strained when he asked, “then what?” told you he would do whatever it was you requested.

You shook your head at the tablecloth and squeezed his hand. “The way you left the other day, I assumed you didn’t want to be around me.”

“Oh.” The brilliant psychiatrist hadn’t thought of that.

He didn’t apologize, and you knew he never would (about anything—it was one of the reasons so many people wanted to punch him), but his demeanor softened and any resentment you’d been holding onto faded with his dumbfounded expression.

“So.” You cleared your throat. “How’s… uh, psychiatry?”

“Well, most daily therapy sessions I have delegated to focus on writing…” He launched into a mundane description of his work, and you just… talked. Like a normal couple. It was strange in its ordinariness, but it was nice to not have your entire interaction revolve around getting dick. It made going back to his mansion after dinner and getting dick even more meaningful. You were sure this time he would let you stay.

When he tried to send you away again, you had had enough.

  *****

“I don’t understand, what changed?” you asked a little too brusquely and immediately regretted it. “I know you need space,” you breathed out in a more understanding tone, “but I need to know where we stand… Do you want to break up with me?”

He froze in the middle of throwing a shirt on over his bare chest and dropped it back into the dresser, turning to gawk at you with shocked-wide eyes. “What? No! Of course not.”

That was a relief at least. “Then why won’t you let me stay?”

He was far too exposed: his abdominal scar still prominently pointing up to his blaze of brown chest hair, and you, ambushing him in his own bedroom. “You cannot let it go, can you? You want to know?!” he snapped, limping resentfully across the room. He had reached a breaking point. “It’s because I cannot sleep with the prosthetics in.”

“The...” your brain crashed and you frantically clicked enter on the reboot screen, “...prosthetics…?”

He scowled. “Did you believe the bullet passed neatly through the copious empty space in my skull without causing any collateral damage? That this little scar is the sum total of my injury?”

Of course. You hadn’t even considered that there was more to his near-fatal shooting than what you saw on the surface. It was breathtakingly ignorant now that you thought about it. He was shot. In the head. He spent weeks at an expensive medical resort where they could perform all kinds of reconstructive miracles, and he let you believe he was dead until they had finished whatever it was they were fixing.

“Show me.”

His face twitched. “You do not want to know.”

“I do.”

“Then I do not wish you to know.”

“Why?”

Emotion boiled under his face, but he breathed in through his nose and kept his outward composition calm, controlled. “It would change the way you see me. Every time you look at me, I do not want you to see that.”

You crossed the room to him. Gently, you put your hand on his arm, and slowly rubbed up and down. His breathing was shallow, controlled but barely. He didn’t push you away. You wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his neck, listening to his pulse whispering a swift beat. “I just want to know you, Frederick. Please.”

  *****

Doctors had seen it. That was by necessity: he had paid for the best cosmetic prosthetics available in the country to look exactly like his old self, with the exception of the scar on his left cheek which could never be fully hidden.

He had shown it to Mason Verger, but that, too, was different—a mutual display of their motivations for revenge. It was almost a contest to see who was the more disgusting, the most wronged.

You would not be the first to see his face, but you were the first whom he cared about disgusting. The first whom he cared about. He did not want to see you recoil from him in shock. He did not want to lose you. He did not want you to see the darkness hanging over him.

He acquiesced, but refused to make a circus display of taking his teeth out in front of you, and vanished into the master bathroom for a long time. As you waited, you rehearsed not reacting—not showing a hint of shock that would make him regret the choice to let you in—yet as each minute ticked by, you grew more and more anxious.

The door opened.

“Jesus fuck.”

His lower eyelid sagged without the support of a massive chunk of facial bone holding it in place, and the eye within was the milky blue-white of a fish preserved in formaldehyde. The skin of his cheek sagged over half a mouth of missing teeth, and the left corner of his lip hung slightly too loose.

“Eloquent as always,” he said, adding some bite to the word. He hoped you knew what a jerk you were.

You rushed in to hold him, and he stiffened, looking away. “Oh, your eye,” you whined. He must have been completely blind in it, but he masked it so well you never noticed. He flinched as you touched his face.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

You pulled your hand back and searched his expression. “Do you want me to stop?”

He thought about it, and huffed, rolling one eye. You were being so cute, and at least not fleeing in terror. He stuck his chin out. “Go ahead. Do what you want.”

With a sour frown, he let you explore his skin with your fingertips, finding scars and hollow cavities where bone was supposed to be. “You’re missing… oh, god, it must have shattered the maxillary bone, and,” you felt farther back, continuing to find hollow gaps. “Oh god, baby…”

“Do not pity me, it is unbecoming.”

“Heh,” you breathed, slyly sliding your hands up over his shoulders and arcing them loosely around the back of his neck. “I thought you didn’t care about my motivations,” you said, languidly drawing out each vowel.

That earned an irritated look, finally meeting your gaze. You grinned back.

“Sorry,” you said, biting your lip.

You kissed him all along the sagging side of his mouth, pressing your lips to every new contour and texture. A few worried noises escaped his throat, along with half-formed words of caution of what you might not want to kiss, but they were quickly swallowed by groans of pleasure as you worshiped his mouth, reveling in each new discovery. All his imperfections were perfect, and you wanted him to feel that in every touch, filling each glowing breath with all the love and acceptance in your heart.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore, but it itches.”

“I hate itches.”

“As do I,” he breathed.

You kissed him again, this time his tongue danced along your lips to taste you. It darted between your teeth, curling around your tongue as his strong hands snaked around the back of your head, pulling you harder into the kiss. He grunted, teeth clashing with yours as your lips interlocked with feral passion, consuming each other until your lips were bruised and you had to break away, breathless and panting.

“I’m so glad you're alive,” you smiled, trying not to let tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “You came back to me. You’re amazing, you know that? What you can survive.”

His chest puffed out a little. He was amazing, wasn’t he? But when he spoke again, it was sullen.

“I did not want you to see what a monster I’ve become.”

You shook your head. “You’re still beautiful. Absolutely perfect. I’m sorry it happened, but you know I’m going to love you no matter what…” You trailed off as a word snagged in your throat. Did you just say…

“You love me?”

Dry. Your throat suddenly felt drier than sandpaper, and swallowing didn’t fix it. You weren’t supposed to admit that to him. He was going to tease you, to twist it around somehow to use against you—

“I love you, too.”

[legendary-defender-of-fandoms]

So, to sum up Pink Diamond . . .

She kept demanding the other Diamonds give her a colony, even though she never demonstrated she possessed the maturity to oversee all aspects of Gem colonization (invasion, Gem production, harvesting, leading her Gems, etc.)

When she failed to get her way, she threw temper tantrums & used Pink Pearl as a punching bag, “but she didn’t mean it”

She abandoned Spinel on her garden by tricking her into playing the “Stand in One Spot Until I Return” game because Pink didn’t want to play with Spinel anymore but also didn’t think Spinel deserved a chance to make new friends & have her own life.

When she decided Earth was too awesome to let it be destroyed by her colony, she tried ditching her responsibilities instead of offering the other Diamonds constructive alternatives (even PERIDOT tried to propose ways to harness Earth’s potential & resources rather than just blowing it up with the Cluster).

The Diamonds thought she just wanted some new pets & created the Human Zoo, and Pink never considered that the humans kidnapped to populate the Zoo (which she didn’t want) had lives & families they probably wanted to get back to.

When her whining & responsibility-fobbing failed to work, she concocted the most half-assed of Scooby Doo schemes by creating a fake identity to start a fake rebellion to scare everyone away.

To make sure no one realized the “rebel Rose Quartz” wasn’t a REAL Rose Quartz, she Poofed & Bubbled every Rose Quartz & left them in her Human Zoo.

When her FAKE rebellion started to attract REAL rebel Gems who were unsatisfied with the rigid caste system of Era 1 Gem society, she sent them to be slaughtered in droves with strict orders to not Shatter any other Gems while simultaneously asking the other Diamonds to send their armies to quash the rebellion, hoping all the fighting would prove too bothersome & persuade the other Diamonds to let her abandon the Earth colony.

When Bismuth suggested that “Rose Quartz” should assassinate Pink Diamond to liberate the Earth Colony from her rule. “Rose” thought it would be better to Poof, Bubble, and hide her than to explain WHY she couldn’t Shatter herself. Bizmuth became just another casualty of the Diamonds.

When the rebellion failed to persuade the Diamonds to leave Earth, Pink decided to fake her own death & tricked Pearl into helping by appealing to her unrelenting loyalty & promising they would be together forever. And just to be extra sure she would never get in trouble, Pink swore Pearl to secrecy, leaving her trapped with her guilt & regret for centuries with no outlet because “Pink never wanted to look back.”

Faking her own death, however, led to the Diamonds razing the Earth (politically, they couldn’t let the rebellion get away with regicide unscathed - personally, they thought their daughter/baby sister was dead), Corrupting every Crystal Gem, Homeworld Gem, and innocent bystander Gem unlucky enough to still be on Earth & out of range of “Rose’s” shield.

Much like with Bizmuth, “Rose” decided it would be easier to Poof, Bubble, and store all of the Corrupted Gems rather than actively search for a cure for their condition (or, y’know, reach out to the Diamonds to let them know she was ok and would they mind fixing her broken toys friends?). When she wasn’t busy “playing” with all the organic life on Earth, anyway.

Pearl was promised eternity by “Rose’s” side, but “Rose” never swore herself to monogamy & dated countless humans WHILE PEARL WAS CLEARLY PINING FOR HER!!! Then again, “Rose” didn’t see any of her human partners as more than squishy playthings until Greg finally called her out on her bullshit.

“Rose” decided that playing with humans & living near humans wasn’t enough anymore - she wanted to BE human, and decided the only way to do this was to create a human-Gem hybrid with Greg & give up her physical form to let their child live.

Did she release Pearl from her vow of silence to better educate & protect her future child from Pink’s decisions? No.

Did she give Greg any hint of her past so he would have some idea what he would be getting into & decide if he was ok with having a child who would be hunted down by giant space goddesses for the crimes of his mother? No.

Did she give the surviving Crystal Gems any notes about how her leftover junk worked in case of emergencies (like the Light Cannons, the magic moss, Lion, etc.) No.

Did she leave anything behind for Steven/Nora to prepare themselves in case the Diamonds returned, or in case they ever had questions about their mother? No.

So, I must ask - was her willingness to die to bring Steven/Nora into the world her ONLY redeeming quality, or did she think giving birth & becoming human would be more like Fusion where she would still be conscious within the new life form?

[babiekeiji]

only you

pairing: kageyama tobio/f!reader  word count: 4678  warnings: nsfw! includes mafia themes, detailed sex, some blood, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, some sorta unrequited love (yes you already know i’m the biggest whore for this shit), some making out 

synopsis: kageyama tobio is part of a mafia and he can’t bear the thought of losing the ones he loved - and you don’t even know if you’re on the list.

a/n: HELLOOOO this is my first ever work here on tumblr i hope you guys like this one (even though it’s basically just . porn w a lil plot) yes leave me comments about how you guys liked this one!! hehe happy reading (◍•ᴗ•◍)

The night is quiet. 

The only sound you hear is the soft buzzing of the air conditioning system and the clink of the ice in your drink, starting to form little tears outside your glass. You place your head in your hands and turn to Yachi, another medic of the mafia you belong to. 

Yachi drums her fingers against the metal table she is sitting next to, anxious. “When are they coming back? It’s been nearly six hours.” 

“I wouldn’t expect this one to be so easy,” Sugawara says, putting the last batch of gauzes and bandage rolls on the same table where Yachi stays adjacent. He puts his hands on his hips, “I wouldn’t expect any of their missions to be easy.” 

Yachi begins to bite her nails in anticipation, her eyes pinned to the front doors of the manor. “Daichi would call, right? If he needed us?” 

“If he needed us that bad,” you respond, taking your drink, “He would. Otherwise, he’d let us wait here.” 

“I get worried for them every night they’re away,” Yachi muses, “We’re practically living in the middle of nowhere; it’s so hard to navigate at night.” 

Sugawara sits down beside you on the couch, reaching for your drink. “They’ll be fine,” he sips, “They’re good at what they do—the most they’ve ever come back with was Hinata with a broken wrist.” 

The silence ensues as the night grows. Sugawara falls asleep next to you on the couch, and Yachi gets up to make herself a cup of coffee. 

How are you? You text Kageyama, to which he responds after a few minutes. 

Almost done, he texts, I don’t know if anyone’s hurt. I’ll text you later on the way home. 

Okay, you reply. Take care. 

Keep safe. 

“What’d he say?” Yachi comes in and sits on the couch across from you, a steaming cup of joe now in her hands. “I was hoping he texted you.” 

“Kageyama doesn’t know the number of casualties,” you shake your head. “I don’t think we can call Kiyoko, either. They’re not exactly supposed to be on their phones in the gala.” 

“How’d they get into this super-secret, all-rich-people gala again?” She asks, “I’m almost never told how their missions usually work.” 

“Kiyoko hacks to get them in, I think.” You say, “Though this should be an easy mission for them. I hope there aren’t a lot of them injured.” 

“We’ll have to ask Daichi permission to leave soon,” Sugawara stirs, “We’re running out of medical supplies.�� 

“Oh, shit, we are,” you glance towards the few remaining materials on the wheeled table. “I can go out tomorrow. I’ve got a practical exam for anatomy at 2 PM.” 

“I’ll try to pick you up after school,” Sugawara answers. “But for now let’s try to get some rest.” 

Sugawara lets you study his body while he sleeps, all while Yachi herself starts to drift off while she holds the now lukewarm cup of coffee in her hands. Sugawara starts to correct you on your mistakes halfway; at least the best he can in his groggy state. “You’re going to fail that exam,” he blinks slowly, yawning. “Did you even bother studying?” 

“Yes, I did study!” 

“Then why do you think the needle goes through here—”

The ground rumbles, signaling the nearing of a vehicle. Sugawara’s eyes light up and Yachi is suddenly wide awake. He motions for everyone to keep quiet, waiting for a sign that the car outside is them. 

The familiar sound of Daichi’s car’s horn echoes in the night, and Sugawara is quick to run to the front door to let everyone in. 

Tsukishima enters first, supporting an unconscious Yamaguchi with his hand wrapped around his waist, Yamaguchi’s arm slung across his shoulders. “He was drugged,” He says, approaching Yachi. “Someone was onto us.” 

“Huh?” Yachi squeaks, quick to rearrange the couch’s pillows for Yamaguchi to lie on. “Settle him here, please.” 

“Hey!” Tanaka enters, a cut on his cheekbone, Nishinoya limping after him. “We did great!” 

“No, we didn’t,” Tsukishima rolls his eyes, sitting on the floor. “We would have been if Kageyama’s ass didn’t have to knock over the champagne tower.”

“Did he actually?” Sugawara asks, nudging Tanaka and Nishinoya to sit down on your couch. “Y/N. Get off. It’s time to work.” 

“Daichi and Kageyama aren’t here yet,” you muse, eyes not leaving the opened front door. “Why?” 

“Ah,” Tanaka waves his hand in excuse. “He’s getting an earful from our big daddy about how he almost compromised our mission and shit.” 

Hinata runs through the doors, telling you to get up hastily so he can sit on your spot. “I’ve got a scratch on my knee,” he points to the part of his leg pant that ripped, showing a long, thin line of a wound, “It doesn’t hurt so much, though, so you can treat me later.” 

You grab a rubber ribbon, a bottle of antiseptic and a few pieces of gauze. “Jesus, what did you land and trip on?” You ask as you begin to tie the ribbon above Hinata’s wound, trying to control the bleeding. Hinata leans back on the couch and closes his eyes. 

Nishinoya snorts, “That’s a story.” 

Sugawara puts a small bandaid on Tanaka’s cheek and ushers him off the couch so he can treat Nishinoya next. 

As you finish cleaning Hinata’s wound, you see Kageyama and Daichi walk through the door, the first looking dejected with his head looking down to his shoes as he walks. Though your heart flutters at the sight of your pseudo-boyfriend, you can’t help but wonder why exactly he’s so despondent. He’s usually up and at it with Hinata after missions, arguing about who exactly did better between the two of them until Daichi or Sugawara tells them to cut it out. Today, Kageyama didn’t even bother looking at you before he left the living room. 

Daichi settles in between Nishinoya and Hinata with a long sigh while Kageyama proceeds up the stairs of the manor, most likely heading to his room. 

“Jeez,” Suga says, feeling up Nishinoya’s leg. “You did a number on him this time.” 

“Ow!” Nishinoya says as Sugawara stretches his leg towards himself. “Ow, shit, stop!” 

“He can’t stop, idiot,” you chuckle, starting to tape the gauze to Hinata’s leg. “He needs to treat your leg so you won’t cramp later on.” 

“My leg just cramped, do you want me to cramp again?”

Sugawara stands up to get a hot pack for Nishinoya’s leg. Yachi is finished patching up Tsukishima and Yamaguchi and walks over to help Daichi. 

“I’m not hurt,” he stops her with a raise of his hand. “I just have an excruciating headache.” 

“Let me check your blood pressure at least,” Yachi says, going to grab her kit. “You might need more than a painkiller.” 

“Where is Kiyoko?” Sugawara asks, entering the living room with a hot pack and a cold pack, giving it to Nishinoya. “Here. Alternate these on your leg every fifteen minutes until the ache is gone. Shoo!” 

Nishinoya mumbles a quick thank you, Suga and leaves to his room upstairs. Daichi sighs for the nth time that night. “Kiyoko’s still out buying some supplies. She might not be back until dawn.” 

“Poor Kiyoko,” Yachi says as she finishes taking Daichi’s blood pressure. “You’re all good, Daichi. I’ll go fetch you a painkiller for your headache and you can go on and rest.” 

“Thanks, Yachi. You’re the best.” 

Hinata seems to have fallen asleep on the couch because you start hearing small noises of snoring coming from him while you roll his pant leg back down. Standing up, you move his face side to side slowly, checking for any more injuries before you leave. “Hinata’s all set,” you say, smiling. “And super asleep too.” 

“That boy almost died,” Daichi shakes his head. “He tripped and got left behind.” 

“How did you guys almost get caught…?” You ask, grabbing the blankets under the table for Hinata, Tsukishima, and Yamaguchi, who are all sound asleep. 

“Kageyama knocked over a champagne tower on accident,” Daichi replies. Yachi approaches him and asks him to hold his palm out so she can give him his painkiller. Daichi takes the pill and the glass of water and swallows it before saying, “And behind the champagne tower was the man we were trying to avoid. He recognized Kageyama right away and called his goons on us.” 

“Poor thing,” you say, glancing up to his room. 

“You should go to visit him, Y/N.” Sugawara smiles, sitting down beside Daichi. He yawns. “Better check up on your little boyfriend before he locks his door.” 

“Shut up, Sugawara,” you say as you collect some stuff to bring up to Kageyama. “He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“He isn’t huh?” Daichi chuckles. “Do you wanna explain why I’ve been seeing you go out of his room at 2 am lately?” 

“Shut up! Goodbye. I am going now!” 

“Hey!” Sugawara calls while you climb the staircase. “Not too loud tonight, okay? I have condoms in my room.” 

“Sugawara!” 

“They’re chocolate-flavored!” 

— 

Kageyama is silent. 

You don’t know how to react because he lies on his bed, back facing you, with almost all his mission clothes strewn on the floor—the expensive tie you picked out for him lies beneath his work table, his Gucci belt hung on his chair, his socks on his nightstand, his vest, dress shirt, and blazer was all thrown across the expanse of his room. He is left bare, with only his dress pants to cover him up. The small lamp that sits on his desk illuminates the room, albeit hardly enough for you to make out the shadows of his toned back. 

“Kageyama?” You whisper. “It’s me. I’ve got to clean you up.” 

He’s not the type to be so despondent after a mission. You don’t hear him cry, though—you wish you did because when you sit on the edge of his bed and look over to study his face, he’s staring straight ahead like he’s looking five hundred one meters away. You set down the pile of instruments and materials on the space of his bed and pat his leg softly, trying to comfort him at least. 

With the faint light of the room, you can see multiple cuts on his forearms and a bruise starting to blossom on his shoulder. His side is filled with scars and faded yellows of bruises from missions in the past. Kageyama’s hands seem okay—his knuckles are bloody and bruised, but it doesn’t look like the blood came from him. 

You scootch over to run your fingers through his hair. “Kags,” you say softly. “I’m here for you.” 

Kageyama closes his eyes and starts to shift so he’s lying on his back. He opens his eyes to look at you. “My best friend almost died today, Y/N.”

With the faint glow of his small lamp, you make out the tears that slip from his eyes. Kageyama’s eyes are glossy, and so full of love and emotion for his best friend as he starts sobbing, his hands instantaneously reaching up to wipe the tears off his face. You gently take his wrists away from his face and start swiping away each tear that comes out of his eyes. 

“Because of me,” he says in between sobs. “Because of me, Y/N. He almost died because of me.” 

He’s so beautiful when he’s overcome with emotion. 

But you don’t know what to say to him that will make him feel better. You don’t think saying that will make him feel better, so you sit in silence, wiping away his tears. 

He pushes your hands away to start angrily wiping his tears. 

He doesn’t stop crying as you prepare antiseptic-soaked cotton for his cuts. You gently take one of his arms and swipe the cotton slowly, slowly over his wounds, blowing over them right after to ease the burn. His crying is reduced to sniffles, and soon enough, he stops crying altogether. 

“You’re beautiful when you’re open to me like that,” you say, placing cute teddy bear band-aids on his smaller cuts. You take one of his hands and kiss all of his fingers. “I love knowing you trust me enough to cry to me.” 

He uses the same hand you kissed to cup your face. He looks at you with a blank look on his face, running his thumb over the expanse of your cheek. “I still have to patch you up,” you whisper. “Give me a few minutes, okay?” 

He nods and lets you handle him. 

When you touch Kageyama you feel like you’re holding something so fragile; you’re afraid that one single move you make on him will break him and make him hate you forever, but Kageyama’s always so gentle with you. He’s not going to flinch or groan in pain when you deal with him, because he knows you’re scared. He always tells you good job after you fix him up because he’s just that thoughtful. He stares at you with stars in his eyes while you wipe an alcohol round on his knuckles to get rid of the blood. 

“Where else are you hurt?” You ask, and he shakes his head. 

Kageyama pulls you to him and wraps his arms around you. “I was so scared, Y/N,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to lose Hinata.” 

You run your nails over the dip of his back where his spine is supposed to be, “You didn’t, Kageyama. You know to be careful the next time around.” 

He holds you even tighter if that were possible. “I don’t know, it’s just—what if I actually lost him this time? And if I did, it was because I was so dumb?” 

“Kageyama—”

“I almost got him killed, Y/N.” He pulls away and looks you dead in the eyes. “I almost killed my best friend.” 

You’ve had enough. 

You grab his face with both your hands and bring him to you to kiss him square on the lips. “You’re fine, Kageyama,” you say, before kissing him back even more. “You two will be alright.” 

Though you say such comforting words, your heart aches because you say them with every bit of love you have for him inside of you—but you know he won’t love you the same way you do. 

You know he won’t love you because he’s scared of losing you the most. 

Take the risk, you want to tell him, while you kiss him even more. I’m worth the stakes. Hug me. Kiss me. Fill me up. Love me, in all the ways you can. Love me in all the ways you want. 

Take the risk, you think, as you hold his face in your hands, your breaths mixing together as you look into his eyes, so intense, and so full of love, Love me. 

You shift to straddle his waist. Your mouth pecks the corner of his mouth and trails down to his jaw. “You’re okay, Kageyama.” You remind him again, as you bring your face back to him. You kiss him again, prodding your tongue to his mouth, which he gladly opens for you. Your tongue explores every flavor of him Kageyama has to offer, while Kageyama lets his guard down enough to start sucking on your tongue. You pull away to place your mouth on his neck, no spot left unkissed. 

Soon you begin sucking, licking, biting everywhere around his neck. He moans, “Fuck.” Kageyama places his hands on your hips, and you know exactly how to move them to get him riled up. 

As you continue to mark his neck, you grind on him faster, moaning in time with him. “Fuck, baby—” he breathes. “You’re so good.” 

You stop your assault on his neck to suck on his bottom lip, then his tongue. “Mmf,” he whines, hearing the lewd sounds of your mouth wrapped around his tongue. He pulls away to whisper, “Baby, stop.” 

You stop, doing your best to grind on him slower than before. “What’s wrong, Tobio?” 

He places a firm grip on your hips and squeezes his eyes shut, and it’s only now you notice that his breathing has gotten erratic. The warm glow of his lamp provides you the small shapes of the blossoming love bites on his neck and collarbones. “I.,” he whispers, shaking his head. 

“What do you want, Tobio?” You say, halting the roll of your hips on his clothed cock. You take one of his hands and lick up his thumb before putting it in your mouth. You moan, making the lewdest face you can. You can feel his cock twitch in between your thighs, which only drives you to continue your grinding, his thumb still in your mouth. You let go of his hand and place it back on your hips. “What do you want?” 

Kageyama’s eyes are closed in pleasure as you continue to grind on him. “Fuck,” he says. “You’re so hot.” 

You chuckle and lean down to kiss him square on the lips. 

Kageyama gets tired of your grinding and switches your places so he’s on top, humping his clothed, fully-hard cock uselessly against your pussy. He settles his forearms to the sides of your head and leans in enough just so your mouth is next to his ear, and you whisper, “My body is yours, Kageyama.” 

He moans quite loudly at that.

“Don’t say things like that, Y/N.” He says, hastily taking off your shirt and your sweatpants. 

“Why not?” You bite your nails, watching Kageyama get riled up. You arch your back as he reaches for your bra clasp, undoing it with ease and tossing it to the side, leaving you practically bare naked in front of him, save the panties you have on. 

He leaves a kiss on your lips first before going to lick the length of your throat. “You don’t know what you do to me, baby.” He sucks on the spot he knows you’re weakest and he has you moaning. 

Kageyama’s hips continue to grind against yours, his cock getting harder and harder by the second. The trails his own kisses down to the valley between your breasts and kisses both your under breasts before taking one nipple in his mouth and the other between his forefinger and thumb. 

“A-ah, Tobio,” you say, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure nearly overwhelms you. “Your tongue feels so..so good.” 

He releases the nipple in his mouth with a lewd pop, “Yeah? You like it when I have your tits in my mouth, baby?” 

“Mmm,” you nod as he takes the other one into his mouth and starts sucking harshly on it, this time biting it too. “Oh Tobio, fuck!” 

As he continues his assault on your breasts, he stops grinding to play with the hem of your panties. “Can I?” He asks, tugging. You nod hastily and he wraps his mouth around your nipple again, sucking even harsher this time. Tobio takes off your panties and drags a finger up and down your folds. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” Kageyama smiles. “This wet for me?” 

“Only for you, Kageyama,” you wrap your arms around his neck as he settles his face in between the crook of yours. “Only for you.” 

Every single touch Kageyama delivers feels like a lick of fire straight from the hearth of the gods; your skin hot to the touch. Kageyama’s fingers, palms, skin roaming everywhere on your body only leaves you wanting more and more of him to warm you up even further.

His calloused thumb starts to rub gentle circles on your clit, causing you to moan. He drags another finger up and down your slit before easing it into you. “I love that you’re so wet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, finally starting to piston his one finger in and out of you. “It’s so fucking hot.” 

He adds another finger and makes his pace inside of you even faster, and soon enough, you’re writing underneath him, tears in your eyes, the knot in your stomach starting to become irritating as Kageyama seems to be nowhere near letting you cum. Soon enough, he adds a third finger, which just has you crying in pleasure as his pace slows. “Kageyama,” you whine. “Kageyama, Kageya—”

He uses his other hand to cover your mouth. “Do you want the others to hear who’s fucking you good, Y/N? Is that what you want?”

You moan as his words drip in filth. He curls his fingers inside of you, finally reaching your sweetest spot. You moan and whine and writhe under him as he continues to pump his curled fingers inside of you. “You’re so loud, Y/N,” he chuckles. “I love that I make you like that.” 

“Only you, Kageyama,” you whisper, “Only you.”

He pulls his three fingers out of you so suddenly you whine from the emptiness. 

“Kageyama,” you moan. “I want you in me, Tobio.” 

Kageyama swears at your filthy words. He’s quick to stick two of his cum-coated fingers into your mouth for you to suck on, the other hand going to unbutton his pants. He pulls away for a second to take off both his dress pants and his underwear to finally reveal his cock—standing proudly, not quite lifted due to how heavy and girthy he is. His cock is already leaking precum as he strokes it in front of your wet pussy. “Like what you see?” He teases, prying your legs wide open. 

“I’d like it better if it was in my mouth,” you mumble, rubbing tight circles on your clit as he gets himself slick between your folds. “Or if it was actually—ah—in me.” 

He positions the head of his dick to your entrance, smiling at the heat that meets him. “Where’d you learn to talk like that, baby? That’s dirty.” 

You bite your nail and shrug, spreading your legs even wider for him. “I try to figure out what things you like to do while we fuck.” 

Kageyama pushes himself into you little by little, the stretch and the fill of his cock inside you burning but at the same time feeling like the best thing in the world. “Kageyama,” you moan as he leans down to place his head between the crook of your neck. You turn your head to the side so you can whisper into his ear, “You fill me up so good.” 

Kageyama almost growls at your words, inside of you balls deep now. His breathing grows more and more erratic with every centimeter of him inside of you. “Move, Kageyama,” you plea, raking your nails down his toned back. “Please, move.” 

“N-No, baby, I—” he shudders. “I can’t, I—fuck—you feel so good. I might cum with two thrusts.” 

Kageyama does his best to keep still, tense as he can be, while you wrap your hips around his waist and start moving on your own. 

“Stop.” Kageyama hisses. 

He then proceeds to fill you up to the brink again, balls deep, and pound into you at a monstrous pace. Kageyama’s not too big and not too long; he’s just enough that whenever he thrusts inside of you, you feel like heaven. His grip on your hips is sure to leave marks for days, but in the end, you know you love looking at them in the mirror, along with the love bites he loves to trail down your body—to you, it’s a sign of how much Kageyama loves you. 

At least, how you hope he does. 

Kageyama moans shamelessly into your ear, whispering I love the way you feel and You’re so tight. His filthy words only add to the knotting in your stomach, just as your fingers begin to rub tight circles on your clit. You moan as Kageyama finally gets to the spot only he knows how to reach, and from that point on, you’re nothing but a writhing mess underneath him. 

“Love it when you moan like that for me,” he says, kissing your cheek while also slapping your ass, the smack resounding throughout the room. “You make the most beautiful faces.” 

“Fuck, Tobio,” you whine as you throw your head side to side. You grab one of his hands and put it to your breast, to which he understands what to do right away. Kageyama begins toying with your nipple, and soon enough, is bringing one of them into his mouth once again, all while his thrusts never cease to hit your sweet spot. “Oh god, just like that..” 

He stops all his ministrations on your body, sitting up and spreading your legs even wider before he thrusts in and out of you again, watching you take him so effortlessly. “You’re so wet, Y/N…” he says, and the tone of his voice confuses you. “I..I love that you’re so wet…” 

Your libido suddenly disappears, and you reach up to cup his face. “Tobio—”

He jerks his face away from your touch and wipes across his cheeks—why was he crying? In the middle of sex too?

Nonetheless, he places your leg onto his shoulder and pounds into you again, this time, crying above you as well—and really, you don’t know how to feel because Tobio’s cock is hitting places your fingers can’t reach but at the same time his tears roll down the valley of your breasts and now you can’t help but cry too because everything just feels so good and wow Kageyama’s thumb is on your clit—

And you’re coming, his name on your lips like a mantra, again and again—Tobio, Tobio, oh god, yes! 

He stops thrusting and cums inside of you, his sobbing still continuing, groaning while he rides out his high inside you. “I—ah—I’m sorry,” he cries. “You felt so good around me and today was just so stressful—”

You smile cup his cheek with your hand, wiping away one of his stray tears with your thumb. “It’s okay, Tobio. You’re safe with me.” 

At that, Tobio bursts. 

No, he literally bursts—his face bunches up a little bit before he closes his eyes and starts crying so much. He collapses on top of you and just wraps his arms around your waist, crying and crying and crying and crying, snot starting to collect on your skin and tears rolling down the sides of your body. But you don’t mind. 

You really don’t mind, because these are the few moments you know are special between only you and Tobio; nothing else in the world can compare to you feel when you’re with Tobio, whether in sex or just in general—so all while Tobio shakes and stutters and cries and moans on top of you, you hold him tight, even tighter than you have before because you know you may never get to experience a love like this ever again. 

Even if you know he can’t love you back. 

Kageyama pulls out of you only then, going to lay beside you instead. “I’m sorry I cried while we had sex,” he sniffles. “I’m just—I’m so stressed.” 

“It’s alright,” you remind him, and you think you won’t ever stop reminding him that it’s okay to feel. Moving closer to him, you wrap your arms around him and bring his head to your neck. “At least I know you’re comfortable around me.” 

“I’m most comfortable around you, Y/N.” 

You inhale sharply, trying your best not to even think of saying it— 

“I love you, Tobio.” 

You’re so stupid. You already know what he’ll say next. I love you too, he’ll start. But you know I can’t. 

He sighs and clings on to you just as tight. 

“I love you even more...” 

And you’re left waiting. Waiting for the moment your back hits the ground after falling from the highest altitude in space. Waiting for the moment your heart breaks into fractions and pieces so you can piece them together right away, once again. 

But the fall never comes, and the night stays the same. 

The night is quiet, and so is he. 

[quietlyimplode]

@whumptober2020 - Day 19 - Survivors Guilt.

Day 1 - Waking Up Restrained // Day 2 - Kidnapped // Day 3 - Manhandled // Day 4 - Caged// Day 5 - Rescue // Day 6 - No More // Day 7 - Support // Day 8 - Isolation // Day 9 - Take Me Instead // Day 10 - Blood Loss/Trail of Blood // Day 11 - Psych 101 // Day 12 - Broken Down // Day 13 - Oxygen Mask // Day 14 - Alternative Prompt - Comfort // Day 15 - Into The Unknown // Day 16 - A Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day // Day 17 - Wrongfully Accused // Day 18 - Paranoia // Day 19 - Survivors Guilt

CW - Discussions of Child Abuse.

She’s looks at her hands.

“Nothing. It’s fine. It’s just thoughts.”

“Sometimes talking through your thoughts helps, right?”

“They’re not good thoughts.” She cautions.

“That’s ok, that sometimes happens.” He says carefully.

——-

She’s been cranky all day. He doesn’t want to bother her again with a suggestion to do something so he sits on the laptop and writes up mission specs, research into bows that can have delayed explosions once they hit and anything else that lets him sit with her but not interact. Every time he’s suggested something like getting something to eat or watch or do, he’s met with a ‘no’ or a look. He’s stopped now, the days pretty much gone. She’s been intermittent in reading and staring at nothing, he wonders if he should be concerned. It’s like she’s mulling over something, but whatever it is it must be a big something, because whatever got her into this funk is not going away anytime soon.

He throws a cookie at her and it hits her in the chest. Leaping up, she draws her gun on him. Hands up, he cocks his head. “That’s not the response I thought I’d get by throwing you my last cookie,” he says flippantly for someone how has a gun aimed at his head.

“What the actual fuck, Clint.” She puts the gun back under the pillow (god she has guns everywhere) and sits back on the couch. Where before she was laying down and relaxed, she’s now on edge. Whoops. He hadn’t meant to do that.

“You okay?” He checks in, knowing the answer is no.

“Yeah.. I -“ she lays back down, not finishing the sentence.

“You hungry?” He looks pointedly to the cookie now on the floor. “I can throw you something else?”

“No,” comes the response, then a beat and “thanks though.”

He gives up.

If she wants to be in a mood, that’s ok. He tries not to let it send him into one.

As a last ditch effort, he asks, “wanna spar?”

She looks up.

“Yeah. Yeah ok.”

He grins big. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, just let me get changed.”

He tells her he’ll meet her on the mats, and heads down to the gym, making sure they’re free and that no-one is around. They haven’t spared in ages and he’s seen her take on Steve. They’ve come to an understanding since they spoke the other day to come together in the gym. He knows Steve is going easy on her, hell she knows too.

She arrives in a zip up hoodie and shorts, still not ok with neck things, he notices.

“How you wanna do this?” He challenges.

“Wanna do take downs?”

“Umm. No. How about tagging?” The ‘game’ of choosing a body part and protecting that by all means whilst trying to attack your partners and tagging it. Clint finds it a good warm up game, but also helps to gauge where she’s at.

“Sure. What part? Head?” She follows up immediately.

“God Nat, are you angry with me? No. You’ve lost enough brain cells.” A wry grin.

“Ok, stomach?”

“Nah, how about butts?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But I chose next. Best to five?”

“Ok, but no heads,” he cautions.

They move around each other, Clint throws some easy shots, which are parried by Natasha, each choosing opportune times to attack. They’re up to 2 shots a piece when Clint calls for a break. They’ve been going for 20 minutes and he’s tired. Deconditioned might be the better word. Grabbing water from the nearby fridge he throws one to her, and takes another for himself.

“What’s up?” He says sitting on the mats next to her. “You’ve been in a mood all day, and you’re clearly not thinking here - I left several openings and you didn’t take one.”

She’s looks at her hands.

“Nothing. It’s fine. It’s just thoughts.”

“Sometimes talking through your thoughts helps, right?”

“They’re not good thoughts.” She cautions.

“That’s ok, that sometimes happens.” He says carefully.

“Do you ever think that we shouldn’t be here? That I shouldn’t be here?” She starts. He ponders whether to cut her off or let her go now she’s started, if he interrupts he worries that she’ll shut down. He lets her go on, prepared to cut her off.

“The odds of me surviving the Red Room, the sadists, the torture, the lessons; I can’t tell you how slim that was. It was only by chance that I survived that and others didn’t. Once, they had us locked in the basements with no food, only water and then gave us food after 5 days. I think the expectation was that we’d fight over it, kill over it. But you know, we were smart; we knew what they wanted and even though we knew we’d be punished; we shared it. I think we all thought it would be our last meal, we didn’t say it but I know we all felt it.. I don’t even remember their names. But I know their faces. The repercussion of that incident was, for lack of a better word, brutal.” She pauses takes a drink of water, Clint nods at her to continue, these are things Natasha never talks about. Things he’s only heard snippets of, from dreams or nightmares, from flashbacks to dissociation. Therapy must have opened some wounds right up, because volunteering this information is something he’d never thought happen. “we were separated after that. Only brought together for lessons. To fight each other. To best each other. Kill. Maim. Torture. To weed ourselves down to 28.” She takes a deep breath. “And now. Gods and monsters, we hold our own Clint, but I don’t have your skills, Tony’s armor, Bruce’s abilities. I have a boss who trusts my judgement on others but doesn’t trust me. Not enough to tell me that he’s faked his death or to tell me that Hydra was coming because in my previous life I was a turncoat, a ‘predatel'’ and that I might be playing both sides as well..”

Traitor, Clint’s mind supplies, tripping up on the Russian.

“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder, why me? Why did I survive it, when so many others didn’t? I’m not special or smarter or anything.. I just. I don’t even know..” she stops. Looks up at him.

“You know?”

He does. He really does. But he really doesn’t know how to address it other than talk of his own feelings of self worth. A story for a story, he supplied in kind.

“Barney would leave me, for hours, when we were at the circus. I didn’t trust any of them. Some of the others would pick on me, come looking for me when they knew Barney was out. I didn’t know at the time he was helping them with some pretty illegal shit, but I did know to hide myself, and I did know how to become invisible. There were others, my age, maybe older, that didn’t have that skill so when they’d move on from me, they’d go look for them. Beat them. Make them do tricks for the sheer fun of making them do something over and over again; taunt them. I’d watch, from up high, and wonder if I should save them from it. But if it wasn’t them, it’d be me. Those kids, they didn’t last long; they’d leave, some died and others; well I don’t really know what happened but I know it wasn’t anything good.” he grabs his own water and feels his heart rate quicken. Suppressing a memory.

“My point is, that there’s been shit that’s happened to us that no kid should go through. That’s not on us, yeah?”

She nods, slowly.

“And I suppose as adults we build our own support systems. Look at you, and how much work you’re putting into getting rid of this trigger? God Nat, we’ve made it this far. Not only that, we’ve found each other. And others that have our backs. Look at Tony; he’s done everything to make sure we are safe, Pepper keeps baking us shit, and Steve holds back on whooping our asses daily, Bruce and Cho, even Fury and Maria and May too. What are the chances we’d find them, or find a team that’s as fucked as us?” He smiles.

“Right?”

She nods slowly.

“I suppose.”

“It’s never going to go away, that feeling of why us.” He reckons. “but maybe it’s like the lottery; you win some you lose some.”

Natasha stands. Looking, he supposes, somewhat brighter.

“Come on slowpoke. It’s 2-2, someone has to win. Like the lottery,” she teases.

———

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone- Chapter 44

Title: Aftermath

Warnings: angst, profanity, mention of a suicide attempt, talk of mental illness

Tagging:  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @miss-smutty, @tragiclyhip​

Or read on Ao3 if that’s more your jam:   https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860450/chapters/77430731​

He spends the first ten minutes fighting off a panic attack. Chest impossibly tight and feeling as if it’s on fire; heart pounding and his hands trembling and a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow and gathering along his hairline. Head swimming and stomach lurching; the burn and the taste of bile as it gathers in the back of his throat. Legs threatening to give out from underneath him; forced to sit on the kitchen floor with his eyes closed as he leans back against the cupboards. Reminding himself to just breathe; drawing in deep, ragged breaths and releasing them slowly. Easily recalling one of many grounding exercises Doctor Klein had instilled in him years ago. A quick and surprisingly successful technique that he’s employed numerous times when he’s been alone; terrified he’d finally reached his breaking point and was in the process of losing his mind. And he can hear the man’s voice now; five things you can see, four things you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. Relief surging through him when it begins to work. The nausea abating and the room no longer spinning around him; heart rhythm slowing and the vice around his chest loosening.

The first time he’d an episode, he’d thought he was having a heart attack. Waking up from a dead sleep and finding himself filled with the most profound and overwhelming sense of terror and impending dread; the walls feeling as if they were closing around him and the pain and the tightness in his chest near crippling. He couldn’t even be sure if he’d been dreaming; if a nightmare filled with horrendous images of his wife and children being physically and sexually tortured had been what kickstarted things. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Horrific and brutal dreams involving his family tearing him out of many a night’s rest; sending him scrambling for the bathroom in order to vomit and then finding him sobbing uncontrollably in a fetal position on the floor. Taking several minutes for him to reach full consciousness; brain finally able to register his surroundings and identify them as familiar and convince him that he -and his family- were safe and sound. Suddenly aware of the touch of his wife’s hands and the sound of her voice. Finding her kneeling beside him and speaking to him in that soothing and patient way she’d long ago developed just for him; a palm moving in slow circles in the middle of his back as the fingers of her other hand repeatedly combed through his hair. Neither worry of fear clouding her eyes or furrowing her brow; displaying nothing but love and understanding and tenderness. She was no stranger to those kinds of moments; she’d seen many a fellow Marine wake up in the field in the midst of a panic attack or a night terror and had watched the methods deployed by field medics in how to properly handle them.

While he’d been comforted by the way she’d handled things before AND after, he’d also felt ashamed; sickened that she’d had to not only witness him at his most vulnerable, but be the one to render aid. Toxic masculinity, she’d said, when he’d admitted how pathetic it had made him feel; a woman half his size having to take care of HIM. Years having it drilled into him that any sign of weakness or display of emotion made him a lesser man; one that would never be respected or able to properly provide for his family, never mind protect them. She’d never laughed at the ridiculousness of it; never told him to simply get over that line of thinking or looked at him as if he WERE losing his mind. Instead listening quietly and intently; alternating between rubbing his shoulders or holding one of his hands in both of her own as he talked about all the ways his father had attempted to ‘teach’ him how a real man should be. Stern and strict. Controlling. Intimidating. Abusive. Admitting he was terrified of one day cracking and following in his own man’s footsteps; worried he’d begin treating her just as horrible as his mother had been so many years ago. And she’d leaned in to kiss him; cradling his face in her hands and using her thumbs to clear away the wayward tears that trickled down his cheeks. Pulling back and gracing him with that smile that’s always been reserved solely for him; so beautiful and pure and perfect and letting him know just how much he IS loved.

“You could NEVER be like him,” she’d assured him. “Ever. You have too good of a heart. Too big of one. And you love me way too much.”

It’s always been humbling; the blind faith she has in him, the adoration and respect she’s consistently shown. Over the years he’s battled with the belief that he doesn’t deserve any of it; this beautiful and incredible woman so full of light and brightness showing that kind of affection and love towards him. The one person solely responsible for everything that is good in his world; a stable home surrounded by the comfort and security that comes with the familiarity and routine of domestic bliss, seven incredible children that are the embodiment of everything that is amazing and beautiful about the two of them. She’d not only saved him that day on the Sultana Bridge, but in so many other ways as well; her patience and her unwavering loyalty and steadfast belief in him always helping him through every battle he’s faced

The one true constant in his life; the sleepy smile he wakes up to every morning and the warm body that presses against his and the tender touch and the soft kiss that he’s blessed with every night. His most steadfast supporter and cheerleader; spending weeks sleeping on fold out beds alongside of him in the hospital, always there in the recovery room when he comes to after a surgery, attending gruelling physiotherapy appointments and even lending a hand when she was heavily pregnant with Takota and Brooklyn. Never letting his misguided anger and frustration bring her down; always quick with a smile or a kiss to his cheek or a comforting and encouraging hand rubbing his back. No matter what, he’s always been able to rely on her being there. Enthusiastically greeting him the moment he walks through the door; whether he’s been gone a couple of days or a couple of weeks. Always happy to see him even if it’s through a FaceTime session; all the tension and the stress of the job evaporating the second she smiles and he hears her voice. Those little trips she’ll make into the gym or the office; bringing him something to drink or eat and then sitting quietly on the sidelines waiting for him to finish his workout or his job responsibilities. She’s always been there. Even during the darker and the more trying times; taking him back time and time again and forgiving the lies he’s told and overlooking the promises he’s broken.

When she leaves, he attempts to chase after her. Prepared to beg and plead with her to forget everything he’d said about wanting to die; just come back to the house where she’s safe and warm. He’ll do whatever it takes to make things right. To fix the mess that exists inside his head and become the man that she deserves; the rock and the fervent supporter and ferocious protector that she’s always believed him to be and he’s failed to live up to time and time again. He’ll tell her whatever she wants to hear; make promises that he fully intends to keep, attend more therapy if that’s what it will take, even do a stint in rehab to get all the carvings for the meds and the booze out of his system. There’s nothing he WON’T do for her; no monster or demon he won’t slay for her, no battle he won’t fight, no war he won’t suit up for. As long as she’ll just stay. Come back to their home and their children and their marriage; fulfill those vows of ‘til death to us part’. He wants to believe it isn’t about him; her need for breathing room and space. But he knows full well that he’s put too much of a burden on her; time and time again leaning on her and expecting her to give way more than she possibly has to give.

He has one foot out the door when the signs of life sounded from the floor above; giggling children and doors being tossed open and little feet racing for the bathrooms. And he has to abandon all plans on going after her; forcing himself to get his shit together for the sake of his children. There’s morning cuddles and kisses to give and mouths to feed. Tales of wild and vivid dreams to listen to and smart ass comments and jokes to laugh at. They rely on him more than she does; a grown woman that is fully capable of handling her own no matter what situation she finds herself tossed into. She’s strong and tenacious and extremely resilient; not needing him, but choosing to be with him and enjoying being provided for and loved and protected. His children fully depend on him; requiring him to put food in their bellies, having to assist the littles in getting clean up and dressed, being Tanner’s ‘person’ when it comes to needing stability and routine. And it frightens him in a way. The realization that she actually doesn’t require him; knowing full well that she’s more than capable of taking care of herself and their seven children. It further feeds into his belief that walking away would be easy for her; her strength and confidence urging to make a break for it. So self sufficient and so independent that one day she WILL decide that it’s all too much. HE’S too much. And his entire life will be forever altered.

TJ and Declan team up to keep the smallest kids busy; hunkering down with them in the living room and plying them with cartoons and their standard ‘appetizers’ of glasses of chocolate milk and poptarts. He tends to preparing breakfast; scrambling eggs and cutting and chopping various fresh fruits. Tanner stands on a chair beside him; excitedly rambling as he shares every detail about the extremely vivid and excited dream from the night before. Always the helper in the kitchen, he enthusiastically mixes three separate bowls of pancake mix because he always insists that ‘extras’ be added BEFORE starting the cooking process; bananas and chocolate chips for Brooklyn, raspberries and pineapple for Alannah and Millie. Tanner was the one he’d been most worried about; concerned that his mother’s uncharacteristic absence would frighten him and send his emotions into a tailspin. She hasn't just been Tyler’s constant, but the kids’ as well; practically raising them singlehandedly due to the job keeping away from home for weeks at a time. She’d spent six months being the only full time parent. Exhausting herself with caring not only for a home, but three preschoolers as well; Millie just shy of entering junior kindergarten and the boys still in daycare.

Mummy has always been there for ALL of the kids. Nurturing them and caring for them and spending the better part of seven years pregnant; selflessly sacrificing her body and some of her sanity in order to give him the large family he so desperately craved. Waiting until they were all old enough to be out of the house to make her dream of owning the bookstore come true; able to work around school and daycare schedules so she could spend as much as time as possible with them. And while it had been difficult at first for them to adjust to her being gone for prolonged periods of time, they’ve gotten used to it; accustomed with mum and dad going away -ALONE- for a week or two in order to give one another the attention and the time that they so rightfully deserve. They’re all strong in the belief and that faith that mummy will ALWAYS come back; never once fearing that if once she walks out the door, she’ll never walk back in. Mummy would NEVER abandon them.

It’s helped; keeping his body and his mind active. Concentrating on the simple task of making a meal and focusing on every word tumbling from Tanner’s mouth. Hearing the giggles and the conversations that drift into the kitchen from the living room. But the worry and the fear still nibble at him. It’s two fold; concerned not only that her time to think will lead her to the realization that she simply can’t deal with him and his issues any longer, and that there’s someone out there that would take advantage of her being alone. IF the neighbour is a threat, she isn’t working alone; too ‘out there’ with her curiosity surrounding him and his family to be the one in charge. It would be too obvious; her desperate attempts to get closer to him and cause issues in his marriage. Anyone with any background knowledge of him knows exactly what would hobble and weaken him; grabbing a hold of his wife and using her as a leverage. And as much as he tries not to allow his mind to go down that rabbit hole, it’s inevitable. The thoughts of what they’d do to her -mentally AND physically- enough to once again bring about the panic; chest tightening and his heart initially fluttering and then the pace quickening.

Five things you can see. Four you can touch. Three you can hear. Two you can smell. One you can taste.

He repeats it over and over again in his head. Thankful when his chest loosens and the nausea and the light headedness pass and his hands no longer tremble.

*****

Addie’s the last to join the family. Chin tucked into her chest and her hair falling over her face; a dramatic pout curving her lips and her normally brilliant and sparkling eyes dark and brimming with tears. Frederick the koala tucked tightly under her arm; not saying a word as she struggles to climb onto Tanner’s now empty chair. Impossibly tiny for five, but filled with confidence and independence and resiliency.

“What’s up with you?” Tyler inquires, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “You look like someone kicked your puppy. Didn’t sleep well?”

“I slept fine.” That voice is tinier than usual, sad and full of despair. And she brushes her hair away from her face and presses the heel of a palm into one eye, then the other. “Where’s mummy?”

“She had to go out for a little bit.”

“Where? Where did she have to go?”

“To do stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Mummy stuff. Things mummies do.”

“Did she go to the store? Is that where she went?”

“I don’t know, Peanut. She just had to go out.”

She heaves a heavy, forlorn sigh. “When will she be back?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

He consults the digital clock on the stove. “Thirty minutes.”

“That’s a LONG time,” Addie whines. “ Why didn’t she tell me she was leaving?”

“You were asleep. She didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Mummy never leaves without saying bye to us. And she never leaves in the morning. She’s always here when we get up. Why would she go somewhere? She never does that. That’s not a normal mummy thing to do.”

“Well, sometimes things come up,” he attempts to reason. “That we can’t help. Don’t take it personal, okay? That she didn’t say bye to you. She probably thought you wouldn’t be up until later; when she was already home.”

“Can I call her?”

He nods in the direction of the phone charging on the nearby counter. “You could, but she didn’t take her phone.”

“Now I’m really worried,” Addie promptly bursts into tears. “Mummy never forgets her phone!”

“Ads, it’s okay,” TJ assures her as he joins them in the kitchen. Scooping his little sister off the chair and into a tight, comforting embrace, her tiny arms and legs immediately circling his neck and waist. And he presses a kiss to her forehead and strokes her hair; body proceeding to sway side to side in an attempt to soothe her. “Mum’s forgotten her phone lots of times. She was always leaving it behind when I was your age.”

Addie sniffles noisily. “She was?”

“Yup. You know how many times she had to run back into the house? Or we had to drive all the way back to get it? Tons! You just weren’t around then. By the time you came around, she’d gotten better at remembering it, that’s all.”

“She’s coming back, right?”

“Of course she’s coming back. She wouldn’t leave us. Or dad. Why would she do that?”

Addie shrugs.

“She loves all of us. Way too much to ever leave us behind. She probably just had to go and help Ovi and Riya. It gets crazy; planning a wedding. Tons of stuff to do. They probably just needed some help.”

“You think that’s it?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s it. I mean, they wouldn’t ask dad. He wouldn’t be much help.”

Tyler grabs one of the dish towels from off the handle of the stove and playfully swats his older son upside the back of the head with it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mum would be better at that kind of thing. Weddings and parties and all that. That’s not exactly your field of experience, dad. You’re more the get the spiders and the snakes out of the house and fix and build stuff kind of guy. And a big time ass kicker.”

“Daddy DOES kick a lot of ass,” Addie agrees.

“Plus, he’s a WAY better cook,” TJ adds. “So isn’t it kind of good that he’s the one that’s here? That he’s the one who gets to make breakfast?”

She nods. “Daddy makes the best breakfasts EVER.”

“Exactly. Mum and dad know their strengths. People who work well together do. And they’ve been together a long time; ever since Millie was in mum’s tummy. That’s a long time to be in love with each other. If dad says mum will be back, then she will. He knows her better than anyone.”

A lump of emotion settles in Tyler’s throat and threatens to choke him. It’s a mixture of things that have him feeling weak and vulnerable. The level of tenderness and compassion that inhabits his oldest son; the patience and the understanding and the unbridled love he shows to the smallest of his siblings. Addie has especially taken to him; TJ her ‘person’ if daddy isn’t around to turn to for help or comfort. He’s both humbled by his son’s genuine praise and blatant adoration, but left feeling unworthy of it; knowing full well he’s broken many promises and disappointed his children in the past and often failed in his role as not just a parent, but a husband. And the fear continues to nag at him; the worry that either his wife will return and announce she simply can’t take it -HIM- anymore, or that a threat is just waiting in the wings to grab her.

“I wish she didn’t have to go,” Addie says, as her older brother’s fingers brush away her tears. “Mummy always spends time in the morning with me. When I first get up. Ever since I was tiny.”

“Ads,” TJ pushes his fingers through her hair; moving it off her forehead and making her giggle when he scrunches his face and brushes the end of his against hers. “You’re STILL tiny.”

“I meant tiny, tiny. When I was still in diapers. Mummy would get up with me and she’d make herself a tea and she’d get me a drink in my sippy and then she’d cuddle me on the couch and we’d watch tv together. It’s our ‘thing’. I don’t want to miss our ‘thing’.”

“I’m sure mum didn’t want to miss your ‘thing’ either,” her brother assures her. “It had to be really important for her to miss it. Mum would never just skip out on your ‘thing’ for no reason. Does mum EVER do that? Take off and not do something important with us?”

Addie shakes her head. “Never.”

“So it had to be something really big and really important for her not to be here. Don’t worry; mum will be back. Soon.”

“How soon?”

“I dunno. Probably in time for breakfast. She has to eat, right? If it would make you feel any better, I’ll do your ‘thing’ with you.”

“It’s mummy and my thing, though.”

“I’m sure mum would be cool with me taking her place just once. It’s just for today; tomorrow she’ll do your ‘thing’ with you again. You really think she’d mind?”

“I don’t think so. But just this once.”

“Just this once,” TJ promises. “I’ll even drink tea. So it’s like being with mum.”

You HATE tea. Like daddy.”

“Yeah, I do. I think it tastes like ass. But I’ll drink it anyway. If it makes the experience better for you.”

“You’d do that? For me?”

“Of course I would. You’re my Ads. It’s what older brothers do for their baby sisters. Especially one as cute and awesome as you.”

Addie’s eyes widen. “You think I’m cute? And awesome?”

“Your mum’s Mini Me, right? And mum’s cute and awesome. That means you are too.”

“I love you Tyler.” She presses a noisy kiss to each of his cheeks, then his lips. “You’re the best big brother. Ever.”

“Well, don’t tell any of the others…” he lowers his voice to a whisper. “...but you’re my favourite little sibling.”

“I knew it!” Addie whispers in return.

“I’ll make my tea and get your chocolate milk,” he says, and places her on the ground. “You go wait in the living room. Tell Declan I said to put what YOU want to watch on.”

“Okay!” She hurries from the room, then stops at the breakfast bar that serves as the divider between kitchen and dining room. “Don’t forget! It goes in my favourite cup!”

“I know. The purple one with your name on it in pink glitter. This isn’t my first rodeo, Ads. I got you.”

“You’re awesome, too!” she declares, and then hurries for the living room.

“You’re good with her,” Tyler praises his oldest son. “VERY good with her.”

“She really IS my favourite,” he admits. “I mean, don’t get me wrong; I love ALL of them. Even Millie. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“But there’s something different about Addie. The way I feel about her. Like, I feel like I HAVE to take care of her. Protect her. Maybe because she’s so small? And so cute? Maybe because she IS so much like mum? I don’t know. I just know how I feel. Does that make sense?”

“Total. And let’s face it; mum’s your favourite too.”

“Well, yeah. She’s my mum. She carried me inside of her. At the same time as Tanny. I love you, dad. You know I do. But that’s my mum.”

“You know, you’ve got more of her inside you than anyone realizes. And believe me, that’s a good thing. A damn good thing.”

“She’s my ‘person’. Like you are with Tanny. We all have our ‘person’. Mum is your person, right?”

“She is. Always has been.”

“Just like you’re hers. That’s what's good about you and mum. You’re not just married. You actually LIKE each other. You’re friends. BEST friends.”

“She’s definitely my favourite human. My favourite BIG human.”

“Dad…” TJ’s voice and face become sombre, and he lays a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “I don’t know what happened or what’s really going on. Or why mum really did leave. But I know she loves you. No matter what.”

The lump in his throat returns; tears well in his eyes.

“She’d never take off,” his son assures him. “There’s too much between you guys. I’m only ten and even I know that. And you what ELSE I know? I know that you guys are stronger together than you are apart.”

“Yeah…” Tyler swallows noisily. “...we are.”

“It’s going to be okay,” TJ promises. “YOU’LL be okay. You always are.”

****

She finds a cafe four blocks from home. A tiny hole in the wall place that she’s only stepped foot in once before; heavily scuffed and creaky hardwood floors, a half dozen mismatched tables with formica tops and metal chairs with weathered, red vinyl cushions, their full menu printed on chalkboards mounted on the wall behind the lone register. And she returns the waitress’ welcoming smile with a forced one of her own before making her way to the counter that stretches across the front window; sliding onto one of the bar stools and placing her knapsack style purse in her lap. While she’d been hopeful that the fresh air and warmer temperatures would help both clear her head and improve her mood, her nerves remain on edge; her shoulders painfully tense and the lingering uneasiness in her stomach no match for the deep and profound ache that has settled in her chest. It’s a hard thing to hear; the person you love more than anything in the world...who you’ve devoted your entire existence too...confess to thoughts of suicide. They’ve been there before; his brain attempting to convince him that her life would be better off without him in it. That he’d no longer be a burden on her. A broken and troubled man locked in a constant battle with his own mind; waging war against not only mental illness, but the demons of addiction and alcoholism.

Years ago he’d hit rock bottom. Weeks spent contemplating taking his own life; ending with a hand written suicide note on her pillow and a loaded gun in his hand. She’d returned to the house unexpectedly; forgetting her wallet in the bedroom and having to delay the start of a shoe shopping trip with the kids in order to retrieve it. There’d only been four of them then; Millie and the twin boys in daycare and Declan just shy of six months old, and she’d left them in the car with Ovi while she’d run inside. The house had been eerily still and quiet, yet she hadn’t given it much thought; assuming Tyler was either in the gym with his headphones on and music cranked or out working somewhere on the property. Her blood had run cold when she’d heard it; the faint, yet telltale sound of a magazine being snapped into a handgun and the safety being switched off. And she’d found him sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, revolver resting on his thigh and his finger hovering near the trigger. To this day she’d never seen him look the way he had in the moment he’d regarded her standing in the doorway; face stern and determined and his eyes impossibly dark and empty.

“You need to leave.”

Four simple words. His voice devoid of all emotion.

She had refused to turn around and walk away. It hadn’t even been an option; no matter how nervous or terrified she’d been. She had known that he wouldn’t pull the trigger with her in the room; even at that depth of darkness and despair, he wouldn’t want her to see THAT. Knowing it would haunt her for the rest of her life; her entire world altered and forever haunted by blood and gore and instant death. And he wouldn’t have taken them both out; brain still allowing him to realize that he couldn’t rob his children of BOTH their parents. Instead of leaving, she’d sent Ovi a text message saying to grab the extra keys to her car from their hidden place in the kitchen and take the kids into town; ordering him to keep them out until she called him and let him know it was okay to return. Then she’d simply closed and locked the bathroom door and sat down on the front and leaned back against it. She wasn’t leaving him like that; determined not to let his mind convince him that he needed a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Even to this day, she’s unsure of how long they’d sat there. Time slowly ticking away as they did nothing more than stare at one another from across the room. Tyler becoming agitated by her presence; upset that she’d interrupted him and was hampering from ‘getting on with it’. It had quickly turned to anger. Pissed off that she wouldn’t leave and that she wouldn’t listen to him when he said it was for the best; that his absence would make her and the kids’ lives so much easier. And she’d sat there silently as he ranted and raved at her; emotionless as he called her every hurtful name in the book in hopes of finally breaking her and giving her no choice but to abandon him. She hadn’t taken any of it to heart; knowing he was in the middle of what could possibly be a psychotic break and that getting all the pent up rage and fear and stress off his shoulders was the best thing for him. And when he turned the mean and degrading words towards himself, she’d slowly began moving towards him. Anything too sudden and too quick could have been bad news; aggravating him and angering him and sending him into a full out rage. Eventually she’d ended up sitting at his feet with her palms on his knees; eyes locked on his and her voice calm and steady when she informed him that she wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t the monster his brain was making him out to be. He was a big man with an even bigger heart, surrounded by people who loved him and wanted nothing more than for him to be alive and well. Reminding him to just breathe; to ignore that voice in his head and just listen to hers instead.

When he’d finally broken down emotionally, she’d been able to gingerly pluck the gun from his hand and remove the clip; tossing both where he couldn’t reach them and then kneeling between his splayed thighs. His face cradled in her palms as he openly wept; her heart breaking as she listened to all the hateful words -directed at himself- that spilled from his mouth. Pressing a series of light kisses across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose and over his lips; fingers combing through his hair as he begged and pleaded with her to help him. He was lost, confused, and terrified; wanting to die yet not wanting to leave her and his kids. In the end, he’d agreed to let her take him to the hospital, and she’d made quite possibly the hardest decision of her life: admitting him to the psychiatric ward and agreeing to have no contact -whether in person or by phone- for two weeks. It would give him the time to rest; body AND brain desperately needing a reprieve. And doctors would get the chance to analyze and investigate; come up with a diagnosis and a game plan and get him the help that he needed.

She hasn’t thought of it in years. That moment in Colorado when she’d come so close to losing him. It hasn’t been that bad since; able to get past the monsters and the demons that continue to haunt him, fighting through depressive episodes and always coming out the other side. And while she’d suspected that his brain has been playing horrible tricks on him and trying desperately to alter his version of himself, it had still hurt like hell to hear it; his confession knocking the air out of her lungs and nearly ripping her heart from her chest. She’s always been able to help him; yanking him away from many an edge, instilling confidence in him after Nathan had cruelly snatched it away, successfully convincing him that he needed medication or therapy. Now she feels helpless; no tricks or plans up her sleeve and simply no energy left to come up with any. It’s a lonely existence at time. A spouse with significant mental health problems and lingering physical issues caused by a list of traumas too vast to name.

For five years they’ve successfully fought back and kept the worst at bay. Learning and adapting healthy coping mechanisms, attending counselling -both separately and together- and making friendships with others in similar situations. This is the worst she’s seen him in a long time, and she knows how difficult it is for him to even get out of bed in the morning; fully aware that he’s at the point of putting one foot in front of the other simply because his family needs him to. She wants to believe that things will start to improve once they’re home. He’ll be back in his ‘happy place’; the warmth of the sun and the feel of the sand between his toes and the smell of the ocean. It’s comforting to him; their home at the end of a very secluded gravel road, the acres of property, and the water right in their backyard. The surroundings ground him. The sound of both the waves and the various wildlife that wanders their property, the wind that blows through the dense forest and tousles the leaves on the trees. He’s easily soothed there; usually needing nothing more than a hike through the woods or a surfboard and a couple hours with the waves to bring an end to even the roughest of ‘down moments’. But the fear is immense. The worry that not even being back in Australia will be enough this time. That he’s spiralling too hard and too fast and not even the water and the sun can make even the slightest bit of difference.

Tears threaten once more. Ones of heartache and fear and desperation. Wanting to reach out to someone...anyone...yet needing space at the same time. She’d avoid her familiar haunts out of fear of running into someone she knows. Wanting to avoid Jacobi with his endless and hopeful flirting and Frank with his dry humour and his well meaning concern and curiosity. Even Desi; the brother she would have loved to have growing up and who she absolutely adores. So compassionate and understanding; always lending a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on. Coming in contact with him would have only made things worse; fearing she’d not only lose it emotionally, but find herself unable to put the pieces back together and be of use to her family. Instead she’d stayed away; wandering in the opposite and unfamiliar direction and hoping and praying her mind would sort itself out before coming in contact with humanity.

It hadn’t worked. And now emotion threatens to choke her and tears prick her eyes; thankful for the oversized shades she’d slipped onto her face before leaving the house.

*****

“You okay, hun?” The waitress cautiously approaches; a glass of ice water in hand and concern on her face. Easily recognizing the tense shoulders and the repetitive, nervous bounce to her legs.

“I’m alright." Her voice quivers with emotion, and she noisily clears her throat. “Just a rough morning.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I heard that. A lot of people come in here when they’re feeling down. We're nice quiet, little place to escape to, I guess.”

Nodding in agreement, she reaches for the water offered to her; chewing anxiously on her bottom lip and quickly pulling her hands back when she notices how bad they’re trembling.

The waitress gives a compassionate, understanding smile and sets the drink down on the counter in front of her. “Do you know what you want, love? There’s no hurry and I’m by no means rushing you. You can take as long you need to decide or sit here all day if you want. Or until we close at three, at least.”

She casts a glance over her shoulder; hurriedly choosing a strawberry and apple flavoured and a plain croissant and then turning her attention to the bag in her lap. The kids had given it to her for her last birthday; picking it out themselves on a family trip they’d made weeks earlier to Cairns. Black leather with rose gold stitching around every edge and throughout the straps; a large rose gold heart -engraved with all of their initials- dangling from the zipper on the side pocket. She rummages through it, top teeth pressing into her bottom lip and her brow furrowing as her search comes up empty. Cell phone nowhere to be found amidst the chaos of old receipts, handfuls of take out napkins from places in New York City and back home, various small toys and trinkets the three littlest had gotten her to ‘hang onto’ and promptly forgotten about. Panic and frustration quickly sets in and has her dumping all of the purse’s contents onto the counter in front of her; trying desperately to hold back not only a flood of tears, but the string of profanities that threaten to burst from her mouth.

She knows the kind of drama it will cause at home. Not just her uncharacteristic early morning absence, but being totally ‘incommunicado’. Tanner and Addie will take it the hardest; the former not appreciative of even the smallest of changes or hitches to his normal routine and the latter used to their long standing ‘morning dates’ of tea and chocolate milk while cuddling on the couch and watching cartoons. And Tyler’s anxiety will be through the roof. Needing the reassurance that she’s fine; safe and sound and not in any danger and not harbouring any plans to abandon her family. The latter is pure paranoia; the long standing belief that she’ll one day see him as a burden and finally decide to cut ties. Logically he knows that she’d never walk away from him or their children; devoted to to their babies and loving him more than she ever thought she could love someone. But when his brain is waging war against him, he isn’t able to think rationally. Those internal voices screaming at him. Insisting that he’s simply too much work and completely undeserving of how she feels about him and the life they have together. And it’s him that she worries about the most; wanting to prevent his mental state from sinking even further and fracturing completely.

“Looks like you really are having a hell of a day,” the waitress comments as she returns with Esme’s order; placing the steaming mug of tea and the croissant on the countertop.

“I forgot my phone,” she frets. “Some days I swear I would lose my head if it wasn’t attached. And I need to call home. I REALLY need to call home.”

“I’ve got you, sweets.” The younger woman shoots her a wink and pats her shoulder comfortingly and then wanders off, quickly returning with a cordless phone and offering it with a sympathetic smile. “Someone there must be worried about you, huh?”

“A handful of someones. A husband. Seven kids.”

The other woman releases a long, low whistle. “YOU have seven kids? You’re not yanking my chain?”

“I’m not. I really do have seven of them.”

“All yours?”

Esme nods.

“Seven kids came from that tiny little body?”

“Yup,” she confirms. “Including two sets of twins.”

“Get out of here!”

“My second pregnancy was twins and my last one was twins. First time was two boys, then I had a girl and a boy.”

“I didn’t think that was possible. Having more than one set. How old are all these kids?”

“Almost twelve, ten and a half, eight, soon to be six, and four and a bit.” She finds talking about them calming; hands no longer trembling as she shoves objects back into her purse.

“That’s seven kids under twelve. And seeing as your littlest are four, you spent the better part of seven years pregnant. Intentionally?”

“A couple WERE surprises,” Esme admits. “Happy surprises. Very happy.”

“And all the same daddy?”

“All the same daddy. I know; it seems pretty far out there. Having that many. Especially in this day and age.”

“Not just THAT. But having that many and looking like you do? You must have found some fountain of youth or somethin’. I only have three and I feel like I’ve been through the damn ringer most days. You’re a lot stronger than I am, that’s for sure. And you must have the patience of a saint.”

“Oh trust me, I don’t. I have an extraordinary LACK of patience. My husband on the other hand? He’s a legend. He’s always Mister Calm, Cool, and Collected. Nothing much fazes him when it comes to being a dad.”

“Well what’s that saying? Opposites attract? You probably balance each other out.”

“We do. Somehow. He can be so serious and so quiet and introverted and I’m on the other end of the spectrum. He always jokes that he likes going places with me because all he has to do is stand there and smile and let me do all the talking.”

“Been married long?”

“Twelve years in October. Best twelve years of my life. Hands down. He’s a good guy." She smiles, and proceeds to repeatedly dunk the tea bag in and out of the steaming water. “A REALLY good guy.”

“Then you better give that really good guy of yours a call. Let him know you’re alright. Take your time. And enjoy your goodies.”

She gives a smile in appreciation. Waiting for the waitress to tend to other customers before dialling the house number; ten rings passing by before the call is sent to voicemail and she disconnects. She tries his cell next; frowning when that attempt also gets sent to messaging.

“Hey…” she begins, nervously drumming the nails on her free hand against the porcelain of her mug. “...you not answering your phone can only mean one of three things; you’re busy with the kids, you still refuse to answer numbers you don’t recognize, or you’re really pissed off and ignoring me. I hope it’s not the latter. I didn’t leave to punish you. Or make you feel bad. Or guilty. I just needed some time. Some fresh air. A chance to clear my head. It just really got to me; you admitting what you did. But we’ll deal with it and we’ll get past it just like we’ve gotten past so many other things. I love you, Tyler. No matter what your brain is telling you right now. And I’m safe and I’ll be home soon.”

Disconnecting the call, she sets the phone down on the countertop and slips her hands under her sunglasses; thumb and forefinger tightly pinching the bridge of her nose. Sighing heavily, she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. Desperate to control the hot, bitter tears that threaten to fall.

*****

She’s halfway through her second mug of tea when movement outside the window catches her attention; a blur of a fur trimmed hood on a winter coat, long blonde hair that shimmers in the sunlight, and the glint off the gold chain strap of a ridiculously expensive Gucci bag. Next year’s style; released to only a select few that could afford to pay the exuberant price and enjoyed outwardly gaudy accessories. Natalie had been so proud of that purse; making a conscious and annoying effort to draw as much attention to it as possible when she stopped by that morning. Launching into an unneeded and entirely unwanted explanation of being on the ‘short list’ at many high end boutiques courtesy of friends in high places. So obnoxious. That 'holier than thou' persona and her valiant -and completely unsuccessful- attempts to cause problems in someone else’s relationship. Delusional and determined and so very out of line.

The waitress greets the other woman by name when she first steps into the cafe, and when Natalie turns to head towards a seat the inevitable happens; eyes locking with Esme’s and her face blanching and her smile quickly disappearing.

The anger is immediate. The surprise visits and the other woman’s attempts to degrade and humiliate her while standing on her front porch, the spying out the living room window and then following her and Tyler on their date, the supposedly coincidental moments Natalie had managed to bump into him; whether alone or with the kids. They’d long ago stopped keeping secrets from another and he’d been quick to tell her about all the run ins with their new neighbour. Neither believed the incidents were random; Natalie not exactly hiding her interest in him, nor her attempts at causing problems between them. And now knowing personal information that neither of them are ever forthcoming about; placing the blame on an undeserving TJ when confronted.

It’s the latter that infuriates her the most. One of her children being dragged into some thirsty and pathetic woman’s drama. And when Natalie quickly turns on her heel and rushes out the door, Esme abandons her belongings and hurries after her, managing to catch up when the neighbour has to stop and wait to cross the street.

“I don’t fucking think so,” she snarls, and steps in front of other woman, preventing her from stepping off the curb. “You’re not going to run away. Not from me. You have pissed in the wrong woman’s front yard way too many times.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t…”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. Is this some sick little game of yours? Following Tyler and I around? Trying to act all surprised and pass it off as a coincidence when we run into you?”

“It IS a coincidence. All of it is. Just because you’re paranoid…”

“I’m not some stupid and naive little housewife, Natalie. I have been around sneakier and way craftier and sketchier people than you and believe me, I was never shy about calling any of them out on their bullshit. There’s no way they’re all coincidences. The night Tyler and I went on our date? We saw you watching us out your living room window. You didn’t exactly try and hide it. And then you just randomly show up at the same restaurant? Who was the guy? Just some stranger off the street? Did you really think we’d care? That you’re with someone? I don’t give a shit who or what you do. And I know damn well Tyler doesn’t either.”

“He’s certainly been pretty attentive. To me. For a guy that doesn’t care.”

Esme scoffs. “When he said you were delusional, I don’t think he realized just how far off the reservation you actually are.”

“He said that? He called me delusional? Why would he say that? Why…?”

“Because you ARE! You are off the charts delusional! And maybe you’re more than that. Maybe you’re legit insane. Because you are something else. You are conceited and annoying and plain fucking crazy. Who the hell do you think you are? Showing up at my house and talking to me like you do. Following my husband around. Do you actually wait for him to leave? Do you stand at your window and watch him go? Do you just wait around to see him and jump at the opportunity to chase after him? Because that’s not all creepy or stalkerish. What the hell is your issue?”

“We had a connection. At the park. At the restaurant that day. Yesterday at the American Girl store…”

“Oh my god,” Esme laughs. ”You ARE nuts. Certifiably. There was no connection. At least not on his end. He thinks you’re just as insane and unhinged as I do. Tyler is NOT interested in you. In anyone. I don’t know what planet you’re living on where you think you can just walk into someone else’s life and try and steal their husband away, but…”

“You can’t steal what wants to be taken.”

“I can guarantee that he doesn’t want to go anywhere. That my husband is happy. Satisfied. Extremely. And he’s not going to throw that or his relationship with his children away for someone like you. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. He has made that perfectly clear time and time again. He has told you to stay away from him. More than once. I don’t know what part of ‘fuck off’ you don’t understand…”

“He’s just putting on a good front. For you. Because he DOES love you. He’s just not IN LOVE with you. Not anymore. And it happens. It’s been over ten years. People fall out of love all the time. I mean, he obviously loves you as the mother of his children. You’ll always have that to bond you together.”

“There is something majorly wrong with you. You need help. PROFESSIONAL help. My husband DOES love me. In every way you can possibly love a person. I have never doubted that. Not a single moment in the past twelve and a half years. We have a good thing. A damn good thing. And we are not letting you screw that up. You’re obnoxious and you’re insane and I want you to stay away from him. Stay away from Tyler. He’s told you and now I’ve told you. And if I have to tell you again…”

Natalie smirks. “What would YOU do about it?”

“Why don’t you try me and find out? I have dealt with bigger and better and badder than you. And I’m still here. I am telling you right now; stay away from my husband and stay away from my kids. Don’t walk past our house. Go totally out of your way if you have to. But if I find out that you even go past a place where he is…”

“And you call me nuts? Listen to you. Willing to fight for some man.”

“He’s not just some man. He is my husband. The father of my children. And I will fight to the death for him. I will protect him no matter what. Against anything and anyone. Stay away from him, Natalie. He’s not yours to have. He’s not going anywhere. So go and find some cuckold house wife that will let you tie her to chair and force her to watch while you fuck her husband. You’ve got the wrong woman to mess with. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of ANYONE. Stay away from him.”

“Look at you. You say I’m pathetic? Look how you’re acting. Listen to things you’re saying. You’re possessive and controlling and…”

“Maybe if you had a husband that loved you and you loved in return, you’d understand why I’m being this way. But it sounds like you can’t keep ‘em. What happened to the District Attorney? In Chicago?”

Natalie blinks. “What?”

“Did you forget that the internet exists? That once something is on there, it lives forever? Couldn’t keep him happy, couldn’t keep a string of extremely wealthy -AND very much older- men happy before him. And then there’s the ex husband. Doesn’t he own a sports team? Hockey, right? In Columbus?”

“How do…?”

“What? You think you’re the only one that has ‘people?’” Esme makes air quotes around the last word. “You have no idea the circles I’ve travelled in. Or the people I’m still in contact with. Or the friends I have. I have ways of finding things out. Ways you’ve probably never dreamed of. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re not very good at it. You’ve made it more than obvious that you’re interested in Tyler; physically, sexually, personally. You haven’t even tried to hide it. So you’re either really new at all this, or just really, REALLY bad at it.”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not making any sense. Now if you’ll just…” Natalie attempts to step past her, but Esme stays firm; placing herself in the much taller women’s path and blocking her escape.

“You didn’t think I’d look into you? Or have someone look into you? We can dig deeper, you know. Much, much, MUCH deeper. And I don’t think you want that. So how about you cut the shit and stop your crap and stay away from my husband. From my FAMILY. Because you have no idea who you are messing with. What kind of damage we can do. So if you value your life the way it is, you’d keep your distance. Because if you don’t? We will turn over every stone and ruin you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That’s a promise. Like I said; we’ve dealt with bigger and better. Scarier. And dangerous. You’re nothing. You’re a small, harmless fish in a big pond. And it would be easy to ruin you. Is that really a chance you want to take?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Or who you’re talking about. I admit; I AM interested in Tyler. Very interested. And I’m not lying to you when I say there was a connection. One that he’s too afraid to act on.”

“You’re still on that, huh? Still insisting there's something there? There isn’t. And you damn well know it. Tyler would never, EVER, form a connection with anyone else. Especially with the likes of you. So knock it off, Natalie. It is all one sided and I’m sorry that hurts you to hear this, but my husband can’t stand you. He thinks you’re nuts. And he wants you to stay away from him. How many times does he need to tell you? How much plainer does he need to be?”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you. I’m sure at one time he loved you with everything he is and everything he has but…”

“He DOES love me. With everything he is and everything he has. And he loves his life with me. With his children. There is nothing between the two of you. There never will be. So unless you want things to get very unpleasant for you, you’ll back off.”

“Is that why he came onto me? At the American Girl store yesterday? Is that why he propositioned me? Suggested we abandon the kids for a bit and find a storage closet?”

Esme chuckles. “Right. Because THAT would totally happen. First of all, my husband is NOT a cheater. He is -and always has been- one hundred percent faithful and loyal. No other woman in the world exists to him. Not you, not anyone else. Just me. That’s it.”

“Is that what he tells you? Stroke the old ego? Let you think everything is okay and he’s not straying?”

“That IS what he tells me. I know Tyler better than he knows himself. And when he says things like that? He is one hundred percent genuine. I have spent twelve and a half years with that man. Sharing a bed with him. A life. I know him in ways no one else does. So don’t even try and pretend you have any clue who he is or what he thinks or how he feels.”

“And you call me the delusional one? That’s rich.”

“Second of all, even if he WAS a cheater, he would never do something like that; suggest something that crude and disgusting. Not with two of his children and his granddaughter right there. I don’t know what kind of married men you’re used to opening your legs for, but my husband isn’t like them. He is a decent, good man. Who loves his family. Who’d do anything to protect them. Who would stop at nothing to keep us all together. So you can try this bullshit until you’re blue in the face. You could talk all day about it; tell lies about him and try and convince me that he’s a horrible person and that he wants to leave me for you. I won’t believe you. Because I KNOW him. And I also know you’re a lying piece of shit.”

“Well you just know everything, don’t you,” Natalie sneers. “Little Miss Perfect. With her great marriage and her horde of children and all her money and big, beautiful house and amazing life in Australia. You’ve just got all the answers.”

“I am far from perfect. I’m the first one to admit I’m anything but. But I recognize a train wreck when I see it. And you are the biggest I’ve seen by far. Stay away from my husband and stay away from my kids. If you ever even think about dragging one of my children into your crap again, I will come to your house and pull you out by your hair and beat your ass in the middle of the street.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Mess with my husband or my kids again, and I won’t try. I will do it. Don’t underestimate me. Tougher people than you have made that mistake. Walk away, Natalie. If you know what’s good for you. I won’t tell you again.”

“You have no idea who you’re threatening, little girl. No idea at all.”

“God, you’re a real piece of work, you know that? And I’ve worked with some real winners, let me tell you. Just stay away. From Tyler, from my kids, from me. Or the next time you’re told? It won’t be this civil.”

Gathering the sides of her hoodie around her body, she crosses her arms over her chest to hold the fabric in place; eyes on the sidewalk as she begins the short trek back to the cafe. Exhaustion suddenly taking hold; a level of weariness that muddles your brain and seems to settle deep within your bones. She wants nothing more than to go home; kiss and cuddle her children and hear their voices and their giggles. And to be engulfed by those big, strong arms; so powerful and capable of so much damage, yet impossibly soothing and gentle at the same time. Her own arms curling around his waist; eyes closing as he tucks her protectively and lovingly into that solid, muscular chest. No matter how trying and stressful and scary a situation, everything in the world seems right when she’s with him; the warmth of his body and the familiar smell that clings to his clothing and the sound and the feel of his heart beating against her. It’s as if time stands still; everything and everyone else in the universe ceasing to exist. It’s always been like that; feeling safe and secure and protected whenever she’s in his presence. And she reminds herself that they’ve gotten through worse; the demons of his past, his ongoing battles with alcoholism and drug abuse, a six month separation, the aftermath of both trips to Dhaka. And each time they’ve only grown stronger; that intense and profound bond pulling them through even the darkest and scariest of situations. This too shall pass. It will take days. Weeks. Maybe even months. But It WILL pass. And as long as they remain a united front, nothing -or no one- could possibly destroy them.

She reaches for the handle on the cafe’s door just as another customer emerges. Slightly startled when the glass and metal swings towards her; giving a small yelp and jumping back and flattening herself against the brick behind her.

“Sorry about that, miss.” The patron steps through; placing a hand on the door and keeping it open for her. “Didn’t mind to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I was in my own little world and…”

Her voice trails off when she looks up at him, smile quickly fading. Heart hammering wildly in her chest; entire body going rigid and sweat gathering along her hairline as her stomach churns agonizingly. It’s been years since she's seen him; tall and barrel chested and broad shouldered light brown hair now almost completely gray, sparkling hazel eyes. Logically she knows it can’t really BE him. After all, Nathan had ended his life years ago in New Zealand; effectively wiping out any threat he could have posed, yet doing very little for the torment and the heartache that he’d caused her. The years of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse that very nearly broke her.

It isn’t possible. The dead simply don’t come back.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and lifts a take out cup of coffee to his lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m just...I’m…” she struggles to gather her composure. There’s a distinct twang to the man’s voice. Brooklyn, if she can recall from her time spent in New York City. Her mind swims; the shock of seeing a deceased man's face and the lingering terror that his hands, words, and body had long instilled in her. “I’m fine,” she manages a smile. “You just look like someone I used to know. That I was pretty close to. Took my breath away.”

“Good memories, I hope.”

“There’s some,” Esme admits. “But I’d be lying if I said there weren't more bad ones.”

“Well I hate hearing that. Especially coming from a pretty little thing like you. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I was in my own little world. It's just been quite the morning. To say the least. And seeing you…”

“What’s that that people say? About everyone having a twin out there somewhere? That’s probably the case. I’m probably that guy’s twin. Sorry if my face brings back some bad things for you.”

“It’s alright. I think I need to just get home. Back to my family. I’ll feel better then.”

“I hope so. You take care now. Sorry to have spooked you. You have a good day. With that family of yours.”

“I will,” she manages another smile; not as nervous and shaky. “Thank you.”

She remains in the open doorway, watching as he saunters down the street. No sign of a hitch to his left leg or a swing to the right hip; injuries Mark had sustained when a tank in a convoy he’d been travelling in hit a roadside bomb; the blast powerful enough to eject him from the light armoured vehicle travelling meters behind. Between the normal gait and the Brooklyn accent…

“Get it together.” she orders a loud, and briefly closes her eyes. “He’s dead. Long dead. There’s no way it’s him. It CAN’T be him.”

Taking in a deep breath, she releases it slowly and opens her eyes, frantically searching for the man that had stood before her just a few short moments ago. The sidewalk is empty for blocks. No sign of her dead ex’s ‘twin’; no one rounding a corner, no car pulling away from any of the curbs. Her heart begins to settle; the pounding in her chest and her ears relenting and the terror that once held her firmly in its grasp finally letting go.

[matsuoclan]

my kind of trouble

Pairing: Morgan x Det. Lucy Liang, aka Wayhaven’s biggest nerd Rating: E for making out, fingerfucking, semi-public sex. (MINORS DON’T INTERACT) Summary: Basically my take on what happened in the library if Nat had come along juuuust a little later 😏

[read on ao3 instead]

--

“And how much this room echoes when you’re screaming my name.”

Lucy swallows, unable to hide her shiver as she’s caught between Morgan and the library sofa. Morgan’s close, too close, and it takes a massive amount of effort for Lucy to tear her eyes away. Just fun, she reminds herself miserably. All Morgan’s looking for is some fun. 

Which is fine, but it’s not quite what Lucy’s looking for.

And yet.

Her eyes hone in on the lone fang peeking out of Morgan’s lazy smirk. The tip creates a divot in her bottom lip and in that moment Lucy wants nothing more than to know what that would feel like, Morgan’s fangs sinking into her skin.

She almost whines. Morgan dips her head to meet her eyes, eyebrows cocked in question.

It’s obvious that there’s something about Morgan that makes her lose all control of her faculties. Last night was proof enough. But there’s also something about her that makes Lucy almost welcome it, almost willingly set aside her carefully structured life for a little while and indulge a side of herself she didn’t know existed.

That is, until Morgan.

Lucy’s leaning up before she knows it. Morgan smirks infuriatingly for a beat before meeting her halfway in a kiss already well on its way to desperate.

Last night, Lucy justified, was a last ditch attempt to get Morgan out of her system before moving on and finding someone looking for more than fun. She’s not sure what to justify this as.

Morgan growls and bites at her lower lip, using her gasp as an opportunity to lick into her mouth and turn the kiss filthy. It’s all Lucy can do to keep up as Morgan wastes absolutely no time kissing the breath out of her, pulling Lucy roughly to her and sliding a hand up her back and into her hair.

This is fine. It’s totally fine.

“Up,” Morgan says roughly, picking her up like she weighs nothing and setting her on the sofa arm. She swoops down to recapture Lucy’s mouth again, kissing her hard as she moves into the space between her legs.

Lucy does her best to hold back her desperate whimpers, finding it increasingly difficult as the minutes tick by. Then Morgan does something wonderful with her tongue and a full-blown moan bursts out of Lucy’s throat, all pitched and needy.

Morgan’s hand tangles in her hair and tugs. Not enough to hurt, but enough to break the kiss. “There it is,” she says, eyes gleaming with cocksure pride. There’s a slight flush high on her cheeks and Lucy can only imagine how red her own face must be. “I was wondering if you lost your voice.”

“We’re in a library,” Lucy pants indignantly. “I’m supposed to be quiet.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Morgan’s grin is full predator. “That doesn’t matter when you’re with me.”

She leans back down to nose at the line of Lucy’s throat, biting down here and there and soothing the sting with her tongue. Eyes falling closed, Lucy tips her head back to offer up more room for Morgan to work with.

Morgan alternates between lavishing attention on her neck and greedily mapping out her mouth, like she can’t decide where to touch Lucy first now that she’s allowed. Lucy can’t blame her, not with her hands stroking up Morgan’s back and along her shoulders, doing all she can to press herself closer.

Her eyes fly open when Morgan’s mouth lands on her bare shoulder and she only has a second to comprehend that Morgan’s managed to unbutton her shirt before she’s being picked up once again, strong hands clamped under her thighs, only to be deposited with an “oof!” on the sofa cushions.

“Lay back,” Morgan orders, and Lucy scrambles to obey.

Her shirt’s unbuttoned and open, bra completely exposed, but that’s far from her mind as Morgan hovers over her on all fours, grinning like the proverbial cat with a canary.

Whatever this is, it’s nice to know that she’s not alone in her desire.

Morgan drops down to her elbows and catches Lucy’s mouth in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Lucy’s incredibly aware of how they’re pressed together from chest to calf, the full weight of Morgan settled on top of her, and she jolts just a bit when Morgan’s hand starts to wander up and down her side, stopping at her thigh where her skirt’s bunched up.

“Did I ever tell you how much this skirt does it for me?” Morgan pushes aside her hair to mouth at her neck.

“N-No?”

“Mm. Shows off your ass perfectly.” That goddamn smirk appears again as Morgan shifts her weight off to the side, watching Lucy splutter.

“Oh my god,” she says faintly, all the while Morgan’s hand inches up her inner thigh.

“What? You can’t honestly be surprised.”

No, Lucy isn’t. But hearing it out loud makes her squirm, just a little. Which is probably why Morgan said it.

Seemingly losing interest in speaking, Morgan once again bends her head to drag her mouth languidly down Lucy’s neck, down to the tops of her breasts. Her hand ghosts against the front of Lucy’s panties.

Lucy squeaks, barely holding back a whimper.

Morgan pauses. “Yes?”

Yes. Yes. Lucy nods emphatically.

She expects Morgan to slide her panties down her legs and toss them out of the way, but instead Morgan simply shoves the fabric aside and presses her fingers to where she’s already wet.

“You’re already wet,” Morgan says, but it’s not — teasing? Lucy can’t quite identify the tone, but she’d hazard a guess that it lands somewhere between pride and awe.

“Well, yeah,” Lucy says, trying to go for nonchalant, but it just comes out breathless.

The sofa is sort of cramped as they are, Morgan stretched out beside her. But it gives a reason for Morgan to press even closer as her fingers circle Lucy’s clit without touching.

Lucy’s breath hitches.

She wants to turn to Morgan, to slide her hands into Morgan’s jeans and do the same to get that fucking smirk off her face, but then Morgan strokes the pad of her thumb over her clit and all thought leaves her mind.

Lucy’s hands flex helplessly at her sides until Morgan leans in and catches her mouth in a hard kiss, and then she’s got a hand fisted into the front of Morgan’s shirt. 

When Morgan slides a long finger inside her, she moans Morgan’s name into her mouth like a mantra, unable to contain it any longer. Morgan seems to take it as encouragement. She angles her hand to grind the heel of her palm against Lucy’s clit while she adds a second finger, and Lucy’s hips jerk to meet every thrust.

“That’s it,” Morgan murmurs, breaking the kiss to suck a mark on the swell of Lucy’s breast, just above her bra. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her fingers crook inside of Lucy and with every stroke, Lucy hurtles closer and closer to the edge. All she can do is whine wordlessly, head thrown back against the couch cushions, as Morgan takes her apart little by little.

Lucy’s cry is sharp and loud as her pleasure crests, and Morgan’s eyes remain locked on hers as she comes, that cocky glint so, so familiar. Morgan continues rubbing little circles on her clit even after the ripples subside, only stopping when Lucy makes a broken whine at the back of her throat.

Jesus. That was…

“Good?” Morgan removes her hand and fixes Lucy’s panties before settling once more on top of her in a single smooth motion.

Lucy is too bliss-addled to be embarrassed over how winded she sounds. “God, yes.”

“Mm.” Morgan ducks down to kiss her quickly. “Good view for me too.” She keeps the kiss light and teasing as Lucy fights a rising blush, willing her heart to settle its wild staccato in her ribcage.

Lucy clears her throat and Morgan pulls back a little. Her eyes follow the string of spit connecting their mouths until Morgan licks her lips. “Yeah?”

“What about. Um.” Lucy fiddles with the hem of Morgan’s shirt. “What about you?”

Morgan stiffens, just a bit. “Ah. Looks like we’ll have to wait for next time.”

“What?”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

Lucy yelps when Nat appears in the doorway, all too aware of what she must look like: skirt bunched up at her waist, shirt splayed open, bra on display for everyone to see. But Morgan quickly pushes up onto her hands and knees, leaning to the side to shield her from Nat’s line of sight.

“Hello, Nat,” she drawls lazily, her head lolling back against her shoulder to greet her friend.

“Does this look like research to you?” Nat thunders.

“Actually, the detective and I were just talking about everything we could learn in this place—”

“Leave.” Nat’s words are both clipped and indignant. “We’ll never get anything done with you...taking up Lucy’s time.”

“In a minute.” Morgan turns back to Lucy, eyebrows raised. “You about done there, sweetheart?”

“What? Oh!” Lucy quickly buttons up her shirt with unsteady hands and tugs her skirt down to her knees again. Both articles of clothing are wrinkled beyond immediate fixing and Lucy flushes at the amount of pride in Morgan’s gaze as she takes in the mess she left behind. “Yes, I’m good.”

“Good.” Morgan leans down for a fleeting, hard kiss before she pushes up off the couch altogether and struts out the room with Nat close behind. Lucy manages a weak smile and a wave at Nat’s disappearing back.

Once they’re gone, Lucy groans and sinks into the couch, miserably wishing the cushions could swallow her up.

That went well.

[bippityboppitybibuck]

Scarred Bark, Broken Heart

15x18 coda/alternate ending of sorts || WC 2580, also read on AO3 here

MCD, depressed Dean, (Tree!Cas ???), brief mention of suicidal tendencies, open but hopeful ending, part one of a two part series, Canon divergence

Dean doesn't know what made him decide on the tree. They didn’t have a body to burn, not this time. They didn’t have a six-foot hole to dig and he felt odd putting a marker over unmarred earth. So when he stumbled upon a tree in the woods surrounding the bunker, one with a beehive tucked nine feet up he didn’t even realize he had popped out his pocket knife and started carving until the first three letters were written in the wet bark.

His throat burned as he worked. The same knife sliced skin wide so that protection could be painted onto a door that was never going to hold. Cas was always ready to bleed for him, always ready to do whatever he needed to keep him safe.

Tears threatened to ruin his work by blocking his field of view but each time he tilted his head to the sky and tried to breathe through it.

The squared-off letters seem to mock him once he finishes, if Cas’d been here the letters would have been beautiful, a burst of power and it could have been script etched into the wood. Instead, it's his blocky ugly writing.

Something hideous rears its head in his chest, and staring at the letters, staring at the name. He always deserved more than Dean could give him, than this world could give him. He deserves more than a scar in some bark in a forest hardly anyone treks into. He deserves more than to die without knowing—to die thinking he wasn’t loved.

Dean doesn't look to the sky as his eyes fill again. Sam always said he needed to let himself feel. That ignoring your trauma isn't the same as dealing with it. But he worries that if he gives into it fully he’ll never resurface. Drowned in his own mind with the pain and regret, the fear and the sadness that washes in like the tide when his guard drops.

So he doesn’t let himself sink, he treads as best he can, hearing Bobby’s gruff voice in his head just like when he was a kid, ‘keep your ears above water son, that’s the only way to make sure you stay alive out there’, it’s like Bobby knew exactly why he needed that information. Like he knew it wasn't about swimming.

He’s not sure how long he spends looking at the carving, or when the wind picks up and shakes shivers through his body. He’s not sure when the tears dry and the wracking sobs take over.

Cas looked at peace when it came for him, and it ruins him to know that. To know that loving him brought him to the one moment of true happiness. Loving a worthless, broken, fucked up killer—no. No, Cas said he wasn’t a killer, he wasn’t a monster or a tool to be used and thrown aside, and yet he killed another hadn’t he? Killed him by doing nothing at all because that's what happens, that’s his legacy, people get close to him and they get killed. They always get killed.

Dean’s not sure when he heads inside again, or how he finds himself at the tree almost every day, week in and week out.

For the longest time he can do nothing but look, words that fight to break free, stay trapped behind the years of burying what he always felt, stay tapped behind the last dam he has standing in his soul the soul Cas saved—a good lot that did. He knows the dam won’t hold forever and all he can do is imagine the damage when it does finally break.

He doesn't always go alone either. Sam takes trips to the tree by himself sometimes but mostly he goes when Dean does. Jack trails after him every once in a while too but they usually let him go alone.

The first snow of the season begins to fall as he stands at the tree, the beehive long since gone dormant, its occupants burrowing in for their months-long sleep. And God how Dean envies their ability to escape reality for longer than it takes to sleep off a hangover.

It’s early for the first snow, weeks too soon but the world has been colder since—well since.

It’s been a while since he last talked while he visited, the dam broke finally or rather the levels grew too high on one side and it began to leak. Still, back then he hadn’t said much of anything.

He tries to talk now, he tries to do the same as what he did at his father's grave all those years ago trapped in a djinn dream, trapped in a world that seemed so perfect until he peeled back its layers. Kinda just like the one he actually lived in.

“Ca-s,” his voice breaks before he manages to speak the single syllable. No one is around to notice though, no matter how much he wishes he was speaking to a person instead of an unfeeling unrelenting piece of wood. Still though, it's easier to talk when no one is there to hear it, he doesn't have to hold as much back.

“Cas, I-,” Dean lets out a rough hum as he collects himself. This speech is going to be different. He can feel it, the emotions within him seem to grow choppy, spilling over the dam wall more and more and he just knows that whatever happens, he won’t be returning to the bunker whole.

“I keep thinking, y’know, back to that night you walked into that barn in Illinois, you told me that good things do happen, and I mean it’s not like I expected you to, but you didn’t believe me when I told you that nothing good happens to me. I don’t know if in the time from then to no—I don’t know if you ever figured out that I was right or not but I think that the one good thing that happened to me was the worst thing to happen to me too.” Dean stares at his name, willing it to actually be him. The cold bites at his fingers and his nose. His toes grow cold in his boots but he doesn’t move to leave he barely even feels it anyways.

“When Chuck told us that you were the one who never listened,” he chokes out a broken laugh, “it honestly made perfect sense, you did always say that it was our story, that we were the thing that was real in a world of manufactured realities. And when he said it I swear it was like I was standing in that ratty kitchen, minutes before Lucifer rose, minutes before you di—died for the first time. And I thought as Chuck went on and on how maybe I wasn’t dreaming it up, maybe it wasn't Chuck’s doing, and I was going to try to talk to you about it, after a shit ton of booze mind you.” He’s quiet for a long time, the snow begins to blanket the space around him and he thinks about how he’ll never get to brush snow off of the lapel of Cas’ stupid trench coat.

Just the thought starts a domino effect, his mind rushing through everything he wanted and everything he’ll never get now and it’s so overwhelming it sends him to his knees. Of course, because he clearly will never be able to catch a break all it does is remind him of the last time they were in purgatory together, the fear and heartbreak that shook him to his core, the devastation of Cas brushing off what he wanted to say because fuck it was so much more than his prayer.

“You beat me to it though, and then—well we both know what happened next.” His fingers are ice when they wipe the tears from his eyes. They jolt him, a shock to his system.

“You never gave me a chance to respond, didn’t even give me a damn moment to process any of it. And you’re a selfish son of a bitch for that because that wasn’t fair, that wasn’t—. I needed you to stay, I needed you to hear it too. I won’t ever be able to stay mad at you because I never have been, not for any of the shit you pulled in the past. But that? That was a new low.” He sniffles from the cold or from his tears he doesn't know but he does it all the same.

“Y’know if you were here right now you’d tell me to go inside because humans catch colds so easily and you don’t know how fucking much I need to hear that now Cas.” His heart plummets in his chest again. He feels sick all over again so he clenches his jaw to keep from heading too far down that road.

“I remember the first time you got sick, god you were a nightmare the entire time and I dealt with Sam getting sick every year since I was old enough to open kids cold medicine,” Dean laughs thickly, tears lodged in his throat. The strain of holding it all back shreds at the muscle and it screams with every breath he manages to shake into his lungs.

“I remember everything Cas, all of it, every fight, every drink, every goddamn time we looked at each other. And yet I can’t recall a fucking thing because I thought I had more time. After everything we’d gone through, I still thought we would have more time. It's all broken and jumbled and set to static and I can’t handle it because it's crystal clear and as muddy as anything because I thought I’d be able to make more, replace what got muddled. I thought you had more time.”

He shuffles around and presses his back against the trunk of the tree. His ass is uncomfortable as hell what with the roots and the wet cold earth below him but his knees appreciate the switch.

“I’m having a hard time this time because a part of me thinks just like it did after the whole leviathan fiasco. I swear you’re going to come back, that this is all a mix-up, that if I wait just a little longer, hold on a little longer, put my gun down just one more night that you’ll be back. But it’s been weeks Cas and nothing’s changed. I wake up and I go to sleep in a world that doesn’t have you in it and I was always okay before because you were just there even if I didn’t have you like I wanted I still got to see you, watch you, lo—be with you. But now it’s all empty, and no matter how ironically appropriate that is given the dumbass move you made a year and a half ago, I’m hanging on by a thread man. And Sam doesn't know how to help, even with all his dead girlfriends as experience to draw from.” He’s quiet for a long time, chewing on his lip, flexing his fingers together as he just sits.

“He says I need to stop making jokes to cover it all up but that's all I know how to do. I mean you can’t mourn your mom if you have a baby brother to take care of so you joke. You can’t talk about what the internet says is PTSD because there are monsters to hunt and people to save so you joke. You can’t let yourself be vulnerable because that means death so you joke. You can't tell your best friend what you need to so you joke. You hide behind something safe because no one wants you to show what's really there.” Dean's mind is a mess right now, jumping from one point to another, skipping ahead and falling behind. He has so much he wants to say and it’s like he’s trying to say it all at once.

He can almost hear Cas’ voice admonishing him for thinking that he didn't have a support system, that he didn't have people who loved him and wanted him to be okay and it strips him raw. Because it’s only been a few months, how could he already be forgetting his voice, or which way he tilted his head when he didn’t understand some random human action, which foot he started with when he stood up from a chair, if he liked smooth or crunchy peanut butter better even if it was all molecules to him, what his arms felt like wrapped around him, how he sighed when Dean was being an idiot, what his smiles looked like as he sat at their kitchen table talking with Jack.

How was he already forgetting all of the little things that made him fall for the fallen angel, heaven's most loved, heaven's most corrupted.

His chest is cracked so wide every part of him falls inside, his very soul falls into the pit, tumbles down and down and down because there are a million things that he and Cas will never get to do but there are a billion things Cas will never do again.

Sure Cas’ll never learn to dance but he’ll never smile again. He’ll never have the chance to memorize the words to the songs Dean showed him but he’ll never feel the sun on his skin again. Or laugh or cry or sleep in late. He’s never going to make another milk run, be it a monster hunt or an actual milk run. He’ll never watch another bee documentary or hug his son again.

Cas lived hundreds of millions of years and yet there was so much he left unfinished, he’s been around for eons and yet he still died too soon.

It takes him a moment to remember that even if Cas had been around since the Cambrian explosion in reality he’d only experienced humanity for eleven years. And all of it was spent fighting, shouldn't he get a fucking chance to just live for a fucking second. Let himself relax, shake the weight off his shoulders, just be finally?

Dean turns and looks from his position at Cas' name, the angle is atrocious so he can barely see the etchings.

There are a billion things he’ll never do again, a million things he’ll never get to experience. And for someone who's given all that Cas has given to this world, that just won’t do.

“You told me love drove me, you said that I fought for everything because of love, that I taught you how to and fuck Cas I don’t know how that's possible. But I’ve fought for nearly forty years because of love and there's no way in hell I am stopping that now. I’m going to fight for you, I’ll fight Chuck for you, I’ll fight against the anger that still lives inside me and dammit I’ll fight to get you back because no fucking way am I losing you forever after that speech. If love drives me Cas then you, you…” Dean takes a deep breath. “Happiness is in just saying it, but I can’t tell a piece of wood, so I’ll wait until you are back, because I will get you back. I don’t care what it takes. You need to hear it, you deserve to hear it. You deserve to know.”

I’m working on a rewritten ending for Supernatural that is set after this little alt ending to 15x18 because the actual ending... left a lot to be desired. Turns out spite was in fact enough to get me writing again! So that’s good right??

[angrylizardjacket]

Run to Paradise {Nikki Sixx} Part 32

32. if we go down then we go down together

Summary: lola meets nikki's mom, gets a promotion, and tommy plays nurse, oh my!

Warnings: heroin use, mild gun violence, uhhh, lime i guess? like sensuality.

ragtag bunch of misfits: @starlalove @toofasttofallinlove @xrosegoldwolfx @obsessivesky @lovehelpmewrite @marvelismylifffe @lilytalebi @glitterdreamsz @freddiessmallnipples @crazysaladchopshop @dramatique-moi @calspixie @aryssav @catsoo12 @sweetshutter @silvertonguedserpent @shamelessobsessions @lavenderbones22 @keepcalm-and-beyou @scarecrowmax @nicholeh7 @unknownoblivion @sighsophiia @fruitinthebottom @misscharlottelee @local-troubled-writer  @redlipscrystalskies14 @kaitieskidmore1 @the-specific-oceans

{ MASTERLIST }

Nikki throws himself into his heroin addiction like his life depends on it, if only to be able to make it through a conversation with Tommy without blurting out that marrying Heather is a huge mistake.

"It's his mistake to make," Lola had to remind him, her touch gentle against his heated skin. Nikki, unaccustomed to not getting his way, and with a newfound sense of jealousy, is not handling it well. He alternates hot and cold whenever he interacts with the drummer, icing him out one minute, acting like they're closer than ever the next, and Tommy, ever the lost little puppy, is drowning in confusion.

"Is he on something new? Is it the zombie dust?" Tommy asks, slinging his arm around Lola as he murmurs to her conspiratorially. Lola's skin burns at the contact, but she refuses to let it show. He was hanging around her, he was touching her again, she'd take anything she could get.

"He's going through some stuff," she said with a tight smile, and Tommy makes a noise like he understands, "hey, if he - or you - need anything..." Tommy trailed off, but Lola understood, and she gives him a gentle thanks, and steps out from beside him. Things between them have been better, thankfully, but right now Lola's got bigger things to worry about.

The last thing Nikki needs in the middle of his sexuality crisis and having to watch one of the people he loved marrying someone else, was Doc's misguided attempts at being a good Samaritan. Doc had learned the hard way that to surprise Nikki or Lola, he had to keep the secret from both of them.

When Doc knocks on Nikki and Lola's door a few days before the end of the tour, just a week before Christmas, it's after a hard night of partying; the phone's ringing, Lola's already itching for a hit by the time she jolts awake to Doc's shouting.

"Answer the door, Sixx," Doc calls through the door, and Lola groans as Nikki swears beside her.

"It's our morning off," Lola whines, turning and burying her face into her pillow.

"When did we get food?" Nikki asks blearily, pushing himself up off of the mattress and the half-eaten burrito he had been lying on.

"Vince's suggestion," Lola mumbled, barely coherent, into her pillow.

"Fuck you both; Lola, I know you're in there," Doc continues banging on the door, but Nikki stands, delightfully pantsless, and makes his way to the door, grabbing a half-finished drink from the table on his way.

"Alright, asshole, calm down," Nikki snaps back as he opens the door to an already fully dressed Doc waiting for him. There's a long pause, followed by the faintest exasperated groan from Doc.

"Clean yourself up, you've got a visitor," his gaze flicks to Lola, stark naked, laying starfish on the bed with her pillow around her head to block out his voice, "I think you'll want to bring her too."

Nikki closes the door on his face, but complies.

"It's probably a reporter," Nikki doesn't even bother to shower before he's pulling on a pair of leather pants. Lola shakes her head beneath the pillow, enough of a movement that Nikki can interpret.

"Doc would have told me if it was," she tells him, before heaving a sigh and herself out of bed. They get dressed in mutual annoyed silence, broken only by Doc occasionally telling them to hurry up. Lola's wearing one of Nikki's singlets tucked into a miniskirt, while Nikki's wearing a polka dot shirt that neither of them will admit to owning, though they both look very good in.

Finally, as they open the door, Doc looks them both over, like a parent checking his children look presentable enough for their first day of school.

"Wash your faces," he instructs.

"Eat my ass," Lola snaps, right at the same time as Nikki tells him to suck his dick. Doc looks pained.

"Him I understand, but you? You've been doing so well," Doc sighed, his voice full of gentle disappointment, but Lola just crossed her arms; Doc's gaze flicks for a moment to her chest before her lets out a noise of annoyance, "and wear a damn bra; can this please be the one hotel lobby that doesn't see your nipples?" Nikki snorted a laugh at that.

"It's my morning off, you jag," Lola tells him, cocking her hip.

"Wash the puke off your face," Doc ordered the both of them, and reluctantly, they both stepped back, once more taking the satisfaction of slamming the door in his face. On the bright side, however, as Lola pulled on a leather jacket in favour of a bra, she hears Nikki going through his luggage. Once she turns to him, she sees him silently pull a needle and baggie from his luggage, waving them enticingly.

"Fine!" Lola shouts at the door, feigning anger, but her expression reads delight as Nikki searches his pockets for a lighter. They head to the bathroom, turning on the sink to mask the noise as they liquefy their heroin, and Lola sits up on the bathroom counter. She slides her skirt up until it's up around her hips, and Nikki leans into her, crowds her against the wall with his hand warm on her thigh, kissing her roughly. Lola sighs gently into his mouth, and when he breaks away to concentrate on injecting her, she lets her head fall back against the wall as the needle pierces her thigh, and the drugs flood her system.

When she opens her eyes, she sees Nikki watching her with a intense gaze, but gentle amusement, adoring how relaxed and trusting she was in these moments. He quickly refills the needle, and holds it out to her, offering his other arm. He braces against her thigh with his other hand as she injects him, and after capping the needle, the kiss they share is surprisingly tender.

With little more preamble, mostly due to Doc yelling that this face washing was taking too long, they did, in fact, was their faces and leave, looking as respectable as they could manage, despite Nikki bringing a bottle of JD with him. Both still mostly annoyed with Doc for ruining their sleep in, both Nikki and Lola are silent on the elevator ride down. As the doors open, however, Doc explains.

"Your mother called, Nikki; she asked to come to a show," he explained, and every muscle in Nikki's body seemed to tense at once. Like an icy wind had blown in, both he and Lola could feel the whole world shift to something wrong, "so I thought, with it being the holidays and all -" Doc seems so pleased, so self satisfied, as if he didn't have Nikki's personal devil smiling at the three of them like she's happy to see them.

Deana Richards stands and smiles and opens her arms for a hug from Nikki, approaching him like she has any right to, while he's frozen to the spot, looking more ill than usual.

"Merry Christmas, Frank," she tells him, and even Lola recoils at that, lip curled in a silent sneer at the woman.

"That's not my name," Nikki tells his mother as she hugs him, but he doesn't push her away, his grip white-knuckled on the neck of the bottle he'd brought. Lola's hands are in fists by her side, like she's aching for a fight, but this isn't her battle.

"My baby," Deana murmurs into Nikki's hair, holding him close. Nikki's heart aches with old, still unhealed wounds, as he leans into her embrace, just a little. "That song," his mother starts, stepping back a little, eyes wide and curious and gentle, "the one about looks that kill," at the mention of the song, Nikki's eyes flick to Lola, who's watching with a thinly veiled disgust, "it's about me, isn't it, Frankie?" But his mother draws his attention back, and Nikki feels the deeply buried rage and hurt simmering suddenly just beneath his skin.

He steps back, and her expression falls, from warm to uncertain, and she calls him Frankie again in confusion. In a split second, everything about Nikki changes, contorts with rage.

"That's not my fucking name!" He hollers, and throws the bottle to the ground, shattering it instantly before he storms off, and Lola wants to chase him, but Doc's after him and Deana says her name.

"That's what they call you, right? Lola?" She asks, and it takes everything in Lola's being not to sock the woman in the face, "his girlfriend?"

"I'm his partner," Lola spits icily, before turning sharply on her heel and stalking towards the sounds of Nikki's anger.

"You are not my fucking father, and you are not my fucking friend," he's turned on Doc, anger and betrayal in his eyes, in his voice, in his heart, "you're just another leech with your hands in my pockets who wouldn't be standing there right now unless you were getting something out of it, so just fuck off, Doc," Nikki snapped, bitter and hurting. When Lola reaches for him, her hand finding his, he flinches away for a moment before he sees it's her, and something in him relaxes, just a fraction. After a beat, he grabs Lola's hand and leads her to the elevators, all but yelling over his shoulder.

"Lo, you're our manager now; Doc, you're fucking fired."

It's not as simple as that; there's more signatures required than days in the year, and the rest of the band are hesitant. Mick, especially, trusted Doc to know what he was doing, and takes more than a little convincing; it's only with Lola promising that she's turned over a new leaf, and that she wants what's best for them, that he finally stops his quiet campaigning to rehire Doc.

Once the tour ends, she visits Doc, but he seems surprisingly nonchalant about it.

"I think if anyone can get them all in line, it's you," but she can sense the caveat he's working up to, "but that's only because you, more than anyone else, know who they really are." He hands her a hefty stack of folders, "this contains every contact I had for them, every schedule, every note I've ever taken for or about those assholes, as well as lists of venues they're banned from, parental watch groups that hate them, publicists and photographers who refuse to work with them, and hotels they have owed money in the past but somehow still let them stay there."

After a moment of strained silence, Doc steps back, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, giving her an appraising look.

"If you and your heroin addled, self sabotaging boyfriend make it through the next year alive, I'd wager you'd be unstoppable," he says, with a blunt honesty, and Lola frowns, but he barrels on, "I'll call Tom Zutaut and tell him I've handed over all the documents; he'll call and set up a meeting with you in the next few days."

"I didn't think I'd be sad to see you go," Lola tells him, but she shrugs after a moment of consideration, "and I'm not." But it's with a well worn fondness for the end of their routine.

"Working with you was one of the most painful experiences of my life, Lola," Doc tells her honestly, and Lola can't help but grin at that. After a moment, however, Doc's voice softens, "good luck, Miss Gone; I'll see you in hell," which would have made her laugh if it wasn't so heartfelt and sincere.

"See you in hell," she tells him with a warm smile, and leaves, closing the door on their bittersweet goodbye.

Lola all but drowns in paperwork, even with the tour at an end, she's trying to follow Doc's scheduled for their next album, working around Tommy's upcoming marriage. The label wants them back in the studio within six weeks of the tour ending, and Lola's fighting to keep up. She turns one of the spare rooms into an actual office, gets herself a business phone line, and starts getting tabloids delivered so she can keep a track on the band's public image through outside perspectives. She's getting calls from across the world for people wanting to interview the band, even her, and learns the hard way that Doc had been the one dealing with the band's fanmail. So now she's got a P.O box, and has to collect the mail daily, both fan and business inquiries, until she has to get a second P.O box, and make a whole new set of calls informing anyone wanting to work with the band, where to send their mail.

A month has passed before she realises, a month spent in a haze of work and heroin; Nikki's been spiraling in her peripheries, but she can't help him, he won't let her help him. He's icing her out, and so while Nikki's been locking himself in his cupboard, paranoid at all hours of the day and night, Lola's been feeling a little like Atlas, the weight of her world on her shoulders, the band's future.

The incident with Nikki's mom had broken something inside of him, something he didn't even want to consider fixing for reasons unknown to Lola. Couple that with Lola's long hours alone in her office, and Tommy being preoccupied with Heather, Nikki was on a knife edge.

"I'm losing you both!" He shouted at her through the cupboard door, paranoid, shaking, when Lola had just been trying to comfort him.

"Babe, you're not losing me, and you're not really losing -"

"Don't fucking lie to me, Lola!" Nikki had hollered, before growing worryingly quiet, "you're working with them." He hissed.

"Who?" Lola sighed, and Nikki practically snarled at her.

"They bugged the house, but I was too quiet so they want you to rile me up!"

"Nikki -"

"Get out!" Nikki shouted, banging on the closet door, effectively scaring Lola, making her jump, "get the fuck out!"

Nikki's been festering in his heroin-induced paranoia, trying to lock Lola out, interrogating her when she gets back about where she's been. She's been sleeping on the sofa more often than not, alone, while Nikki lays mostly catatonic in the bedroom closet. As Nikki relies more on the drug, Lola finds she's using it less, afraid of what Nikki's become, afraid she might become that herself.

It comes to a head the day Nikki fires at her through the front door after she gets back from the post office, telling her to get off his property, that she was a spy for the government, or Doc, or his mother.

"I've been in your office! You have my face in there a thousand times over! It's obsessive; you're obsessed!" He snarls, and Lola rests her forehead on the door.

"I'm your manager, I'm compiling articles on the band, baby, please," she tries, but it's clearly not the right answer. The bullet grazes her arm.

She doesn't know where to go. Reasonably, she should go to the police, or to hospital, or to Mick to have some kind of sense talked into her. But her nerves are shot raw, and there's only one person she trusts with her emotional state like this, the only person other than the man who'd fired at her.

"Nikki's locked me out," Lola's looked almost guilty standing in Tommy's doorway, with tear-stained cheeks and a trembling lip. There's a stack of letters in her hand, and her arm's bleeding.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" Is Tommy's first question, but Lola still won't look at him.

"He's acting paranoid," she swallowed hard, "threatened to shoot me if I opened the front door," Lola's voice is barely a whisper, "he did shoot me, a little," she admits, turning her arm so he can see where the bullet had grazed her, "he's scaring the shit out of me, I didn't know where else to go." It's like it's hard for her to admit, and there's an unfamiliar sincerity about her vulnerability. This isn't a ploy, she isn't trying to manipulate him, that much he can tell.

"He could have killed you, Lols," without thinking, he's inviting her in, stepping aside, his hand on her shoulder, warm and familiar.

"I know," her voice is weak, and he leads her through to the bathroom. She sits up on the bathroom counter as he goes to find Heather's medical kit. For a moment, with the water running, and him tending to her wounds, so gentle and no nonsense, Lola's hit with a wave of deja vu, of nostalgia for a time long past, and in an instant, her expression crumples as she can't even hold back her tears.

Tommy panics, still trying to apply cream and bandages to her upper arm, while Lola sobs beside him.

"How did we all get so fucked?" She demanded, "how did we go from being those kids in that shithole apartment, to this?" But he doesn't have an answer for her, just keeps tending to her, "how did I ever let myself hurt you?" She hears herself saying, and Tommy hands still where he's wrapping a bandage around her arm.

"We've all made mistakes, Lols," his voice is gentle, and he carefully makes sure the bandage won't come loose. As soon as her arm's free, Lola crumples, hunched over, her head in her hands.

"I'm so sorry I'm here, Tommy," and she means it when she apologises, "I know Heather doesn't like me, I just..." there's something that warms his heart, how she still trusts him so completely, even after everything.

"Heather's filming in New York for a few days," he tells her gently, wrapping his arms around her, "and you're always welcome here." They stay like that for a long while, together, Lola weeping and Tommy gently rubbing her back.

"I can't believe he shot at you," there's an anger in his voice that Lola hadn't been anticipating, and his grip tightened for a just a moment. But then, as soon as she'd heard it, it had passed, and Tommy stepped back, his grip gentle as he took her hands, "come on, Lols." Pulling her to her feet, he lead her to the living room, to the big, plush sofa there.

He bundled Lola up in blankets, with as many pillows as he could find, trying to make her comfortable as she still sniffled.

"Heather's got a whole bunch of girly movies," he explained, kneeling by the VCR cabinet, "we could watch -"

"Do you have Pinocchio?" Lola asks, voice small and watery, to which Tommy gives pause.

"Pinocchio?" He asks tentatively. Lola nods. Expression apologetic, he shakes his head. "I don't think anyone I know has it."

"I do," Lola says quietly, as if almost to herself, "bought it for myself for Christmas a few years ago; they only sold it for about a month and a half." She looked up, as if remembering Tommy was still there, "what's your favourite? I'm happy to watch that."

"I never took you for a Pinocchio fan," Tommy muses with a half smile, glad, more than anything else, that she'd stopped crying.

"It was dad's favourite; we'd go and see it every time it released in theaters."

"Dude that's adorable," Tommy told her with an affectionate sincerity.

"I know," Lola said with a faint, pleased smile, before brushing it off, "I don't care what we watch; you pick."

When she asks why he's being so nice, so accommodating, Tommy admits to missing her, to missing his best friend, though that's said with a moment of discomfort. He misses Nikki too, but now's not the time to talk about him. Instead, he asks what the letters were that she'd brought, and Lola's more than happy to tell him about how much fanmail the band gets.

They read through the letters and postcards, both adoring how earnest a lot of the words were. Lola had planned the sit the boys down to sort through and respond to any that caught their eye, and send generic letters back to those that didn't, but she and Tommy work through the few she'd brought that day without any fuss. The fans get to know that one of Lola's favourite movies is Pinocchio, while one of Tommy's is the sound of music, and Lola finds herself enjoying the work more than she had in the past month.

They get Chinese for dinner, and Tommy lets Lola eat most of the spring rolls, and they drink beer and watch TV and it almost feels like old times. They talk together, laugh together, and as the night wears on, Lola finds a familiar comfort in how sleepy she gets with her head on Tommy's shoulder.

A yawn escapes her, and Tommy moves automatically, moving her so she could lay her head in his lap, his fingers carding through her hair.

"Can I ask you something?" Tommy asks, only half paying attention to the ads.

"Of course," Lola says around another yawn, shifting to make herself more comfortable.

"You were just... just so okay with like, dating me and Nikki and Vince," he mused quietly, and Lola's not sure what to say to that, "and we were okay with it, but like, it could have been weird, but it wasn't."

"I know, I was there," Lola tells him with flat amusement, and Tommy laughs, giving a gentle, absentminded tug on her hair, to which Lola has to stifle a quiet groan.

"How did you know it was okay? To love all of us?" He asked, and Lola swallows, trying to find the right words.

"I didn't," she admitted, "I was just very, very lucky."

"Didn't what? Know if it was okay?"

"Know if it would work out," Lola clarifies, shifts a little, and Tommy's hand rests still in her hair, "but it did."

"And you just knew you loved us all?"

"I knew I wanted to be with you all, be friends, be fuck buddies, be, you know, more; the love came later." Lola turns now, from her side to lay on her back, to look up at Tommy with wide, curious eyes. He was looking back down at her like he hadn't in a long time, and his hand cups her jaw.

"Is it easy to love more than one person?"

"As easy as breathing, if you really do love them," Lola tells him, leaning into his touch.

"Can I ask you another question?" His voice is quiet, Lola nods once. "Did you really love me as much as you love Nikki?" Lola's breath catches in her throat, and suddenly her mouth feels dry; he's running his thumb so softly along her cheek bone, his other hand resting on her hair.

"You don't want me to answer that," Lola says, weakly, and something about Tommy's expression darkens as he jumps to conclusions.

"Because it's no, isn't it?"

"Because we're both weak, you know this, drummer boy, and you're about to get married, and- and-" but the dam breaks and there's tears in her eyes but she can't look away from him, "of course, Tommy, of course I love you as much as I love Nikki, but it doesn't matter now -"

He kisses her quiet, leaning in until she props herself up and meets him half way, kissing him hard. They fit together like they were designed to be in each other's arms, and Lola hates herself for what she's doing, how weak she's being, but to know that he still loves her, even a little, enough to still want her, she'll take it.

His touches make her feel like porcelain, like he thinks she's moments away from shattering, and perhaps her mind is, but her body is a different story. But she finds she doesn't mind, likes how tender he is and how gentle she wants to be in return, wants to tell him she still loves him with her fingertips on his skin when the words won't come out.

They make love like Lola hasn't in a very long time, precious and intimate, yet fully aware of how wrong this situation was. There's a mutual sense of regret shared in the shower, and Lola sits on the bathroom counter in the nude, not meeting Tommy's gaze as he redresses her wound.

"Did you come here for this?" He asks, voice a little guarded, and Lola swallows hard, shaking her head.

"No," she tells him honestly, "I just needed to be with the person who makes me feel the safest."

She stays the night in his bed, wrapped up in his arms, his warmth, his scent, and it feels like home. He offers to let her stay longer, but Lola rejects his offer, tells him she needs to head home and try and see if she can help Nikki.

"He shot you," Tommy frowned.

"He's going through a state of drug-induced psychosis, he needs help," she tells him gently, and Tommy nods, but then reconsiders.

"How do you know that?"

"Family history of psychosis; I researched a shitton about it after Doc pulled up all that info on my family," Lola explained. As she goes to leave, Tommy catches her good arm, and pulls her in for a hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Be safe, call me if you need anything," he tells her, and Lola steps away, sad smile on her lips.

"You know, we really need to learn to let go of each other;" Lola's smile doesn't reach her eyes, "you should be happy with Heather."

"So you're allowed to love more than one person, but I'm not?" The heartbreak reads on Tommy's face clear as day, and Lola can't look at him.

"It's different," Lola's voice is gentle as she finally gets to the door, "it would be different if Heather liked me."

"Would it?"

"If you wanted it to be."

Lola gets home to Nikki almost crash tackling her in an attempt to give her a bear hug, as he was shaking, muttering about how he'd thought he'd lost her, that she'd been taken. Lola kisses him gently and hides his gun, and when he offers her heroin, she takes it, if only to forget the feeling of Tommy's lips on her skin, and the sadness in his eyes when she'd left.

Going to his wedding wouldn't be fair on either of them, she needs to let him have his happy ending without her.

[breanime]

Getting A Dog With Logan Headcannons

So that bitch writer’s block came for me, but I wanted to try to get something together for you guys, my sweet little potato skins!

*gif not mine*

Logan’s family had owned a few purebred, prize-winning dogs when he was younger, and you’d had a dog as a kid

But now that the two of you were living together, you didn’t necessarily want a dog at the moment

(Taking care of Logan was already a lot on your plate)

But then your neighbors had been robbed, and Logan was committed to making sure that never happened to you

(in all fairness, your neighbors had been broken into by their own cousin, it was a whole thing, but still..)

“We’re getting a guard dog,” Logan had declared one day, sauntering into the apartment

You had tried to explain to him that your apartment had a fine security system, but he argued that it was nothing compared to the systems he’d seen in his life

(Damn rich Delos)

He spent the next few days listing out reasons a guard dog would be perfect, and how he’d make sure the dog was taken care of

He made graphs

and pie charts

and did a very convincing presentation in the bedroom that had you walking funny afterwards

So you had no choice but to agree

Which is how you found yourself sitting on Logan’s lap on the computer, researching ethical places to buy dogs in your area

And before you knew it, you were standing at the cashier’s, registering a super cute puppy to your names

Logan insisted on getting a puppy

(”If we get a puppy, he’ll grow up knowing us and he’ll guard us even better!” he had said, dark eyes wide and excited)

You walked the puppy together as often as you could, and he slept at the end of your bed most nights

Logan spoiled that puppy rotten, buying him all kinds of toys, doing full photo shoots with him, insisting on only feeding him the best, organic kibble

It was adorable

The puppy would get so sad when Logan was traveling for work, he’d whine and follow you around all day

But when Logan got back?

Your apartment would be full of the sound of happy barking and Logan’s chuckling

There were many a time when you’d come home to see Logan--your Logan, in his 300 dollar haircut and expensive 3-piece suit--on his back on the floor with the puppy on his chest, licking his face as Logan laughed his ass off

When there was a bad storm, you, Logan, and your puppy would curl up on the couch together, snuggled in Logan’s arms until the storm passed

Before you knew it, your puppy was no longer a puppy, he was a big boy

And your big boy would take a lap around the apartment every night before you went to sleep, checking that there was nothing at the windows or the door before bouncing back to your room and making sure you and Logan were tucked in tight

He knew when Logan was stressed from work, and would bring him a ball or a toy to distract him until Logan was smiling and laughing again

And he knew when you weren’t feeling good, and he’d come lay his 90+ pound body on your lap and just... sit with you until you started to feel better

And he knew, before anyone else knew, before you or Logan knew, that you were pregnant

He had been following you around more than usual, at your heels all day, growling when the delivery man came by, whining while you did chores until you sat down, and then he sat at your feet contently 

He stood at the bathroom door, making sympathetic noises, while you had morning sickness, and stood at your side when you told Logan you were pregnant

He and Logan made sure your pregnancy was as comfortable as it could be, refusing to let you do any kind of physical labor and waiting on you hand and foot

You spent many nights on the couch, head on Logan’s shoulder, dog in your lap, watching baby documentaries, with the two boys you loved most in the world

Well...three

The day you and Logan brought your son home, your dog was waiting for you at the door

He moved slowly and carefully, and you smiled as Logan led him to the couch where you sat with the baby

“Meet your new brother,” Logan had said, his voice low and happier than you’d ever heard him

You watched your dog as he approached, and he put his head on your lap, sniffing at the bundle in your arms

The baby made a small mewling sound, his tiny little hand stretching out towards the dog, and when you looked back at your grown-up puppy, you could have sworn...

...He was smiling

As time went on, your house was always filled with activity and love

Your son was almost always accompanied by the dog, giggling as the fluffy animal chased him around or licked food off of his sweet round face

Logan would sit on the floor, your son in his lap, as you sat beside him, throwing your dog’s favorite ball across the room so he could fetch it and bring it back to you

You found your son in the dog’s crate more than once, and you’d had to put the dog’s food bowl somewhere your curious toddler couldn’t get to at least once a week

There were pictures of the two of them all over your home: a photo of you, the baby, and the dog at the park that Logan had taken, a picture of Logan holding the baby while he rode on the dog’s back, pictures of your two boys cuddling together, of the dog standing watch at the baby’s crib, of Logan, covered in baby food, held your son while your dog tried to eat it off of him, a visual collection of some of your happiest moments

When it was time to move, your dog decided he had to personally check each and every box you packed, and you son decided he had to double check his check, and so you and Logan were made to pack the same box at least three times 

It took your dog a full week to get used to the new house; he alternated between sleeping at the foot of your son’s little car-shaped bed and walking around in the dark, making sure everything was okay

His barking once you up a few times that first week, as he got used to the sounds and sights of the neighborhood, but he was back to his routine shortly after

Your son would stumble around the house, bumping into things and giggling, while your dog followed him, making sure he didn’t seriously hurt himself and putting whatever he dropped or misplaced back where it belonged

The neighbors adored your family

“What a handsome husband you have!”

“I’ve never seen a young mother as beautiful as you, dear!”

“Would you look at the handsome little man! How big he’s getting!”

“There goes our neighborhood watch dog. What a good boy!”

Logan would always beam at the praise, one hand on your hip as you walked with your son and dog, enjoying the crisp autumn air or the warm summer sun

Your family was one of love, support, and easy affection. Between your son’s slobbery kisses, your dog’s loving licks, and your husband’s sinfully sweet kisses, there was a lot of love in your house

And as longed as you lived, your home was never broken into

*******************************************************************************************

That’s the best I can do tonight, ya’ll. Thanks for reading. 

Taglist: @lexxierave @loveintheroyalfamily @suchatinyinfinity@fanfictionrecommendations-com  @maxslime-blog @elanor-of-imladris@songforhema @lucielandss @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @themadhatter92@realduckvader @the-blind-assassin-12 @christinawxxx @anabella-baby @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @luminex3 @littlemermaidprobz @ashkuuuu@luckysstrikes @carlaangel86 @floralpeaceofmind @dylanobrusso@teacuplotus @iaintnofurry @thesumofmychoices @ymariejp @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @mrsjaxtellerfan @whovianayesha @holamor @drinix @rhabakoli @stories-you-wont-hear @king4thesirens @bellamys @marauderskeeper @charlylama @thesandbeneathmytoes @gollyderek @leahnicole1219 @evanlys19 @something-tofightfor @banditthewriter  @binbons-is-theloml​

[eddie-delacruz]

I Don’t Want to Fight You Forever | Eddsidy

Pairing - Eddie De La Cruz & Cassidy Stabbington ( @cassidystabbington )

Time - End of School/Early Summer

Setting - Cassidy’s dorm room

Summary - After months of not speaking, Eddie shows up at Cassidy’s to confess his feelings. 

Eddie:

Eddie clearly didn’t have a clue what his next step would be. He was standing at Cassidy’s dorm room door, like a fucking idiot. Obviously, he should’ve planned something to say but he didn’t. He was too nervous to think about it anytime he tried. There were several crumpled up papers with sorry ass words written on them. He knew that whatever he would put into paper wouldn’t help with the absolute mess of a way he left things.

Why he didn’t immediately go to Cassidy as soon as he broke up with Dizzy was as much a mystery to him as anyone who knew the situation. Which was currently just Maya. She’d tried telling him to go small, be genuine and meaningful but what the hell does that mean? Anything he did was meaningful because he meant to do it. Whatever it actually means, all he knew was that he couldn’t go big.

He’d already written a song, that didn’t go over well. He thought about doing something public— because where else besides Crownflicks is he supposed to get his “romantic” ideas from? That one is as good as anything to blow up spectacularly in his face. On the off chance she doesn’t believe him, he’d get rejected in front of the entire school. Not exactly the backlash he’d need after a not so greatly planned breakup.

So what impossible thing do you do when you want to tell the girl you have feelings for that you like her? Eddie finally knocked on the door to her room, clearing his throat as he tried to push back every single thought that was telling him this was stupid and that she probably hates him and doesn’t want to talk to him ever again. His hands burrowed themselves in the pockets of his jeans. If he can’t escape this maybe at least his hands can hide away for a while.

Cassidy:

If Cassidy thought long months of watching Eddie date a simpering child had been hard for her, they had proved to be nothing compared to the time after he and Dizzy had broken up. She’d been so stupid on Valentine’s Day, almost believing that he really cared for her the same way that she cared for him, letting their kiss haunt her until she’d hoped that maybe this was really it. Maybe the thing she’d wanted for so long was within her grasp, and Eddie would leave Dizzy behind and things could be different between them.

Hope was for suckers, though, and what a fool she’d been for letting it creep in, slipping past her hard exterior and into the softer pieces of her heart. It had taken months for Eddie to break up with Dizzy, and when he had, she hadn’t heard a single thing from him. She’d learned of their relationship ending through the rumor mill, right as she’d been working on her own song, one she’d recorded without even Diego knowing. It had been too raw, too real, and had revealed entirely too much about how she felt, watching Eddie with the wrong girl… only he wasn’t with the wrong girl anymore. She’d thought to give him the recording on his birthday, but he and Dizzy were already broken up then, and he hadn’t said a single word.

She was through hoping, now. Eddie’s silence had been deafening, and she’d gotten the message loud and clear. She wasn’t the one for him; he’d probably just temporarily lost his mind the last time they’d talked about stupid feelings, just like he’d lost his mind when he’d decided to date that stupid freshman at all. He’d probably gone running back to Maya like he always did, and somehow that hurt worse. Dizzy, she at least knew, couldn’t possibly matter that much to him. But even Cassidy cared about Maya; it was stupid to think anyone would want to stick around and wade through all her issues when someone like that was the alternative.

Cass had tried for years to get these stupid feelings out of her system, and though it hadn’t worked yet, summer was starting. She had three whole months to hide and throw herself into music with Diego, and maybe, just maybe, she could finally put her feelings to rest. Only she flung the door open at the sound of a knock, expecting to see her dumb cousin, or her musical partner, or even a friend like Maya.. only to find Eddie standing there instead. “I think you got lost somewhere,” she said immediately, her defenses automatically up. She’d spent so much time being mad at him, she didn’t really know how to act now that he was here, in the flesh, and not just a figment of her imagination, a figure haunting her daydreams.

Why was he here? Now, after so much time had passed? It hurt too much, and she had a feeling this was only going to hurt her more… She didn’t immediately retreat from the sight of him though; instead, Cassidy crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself too tightly.. She shouldn’t want to see him, after all her mental anguish, but the pull was still there, and she’d never been very good at ignoring it. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t slam the door in your face right now.”

Eddie:

It was stupid to think that just because of that Valentine’s day, her birthday, that things could change. But that’s why he did everything he did… right? When they kissed, finally he was able to put every single bit of feeling he had into action. The feeling he would get when she would just be in a room. When she would yell at him. When she’d challenged him. When they made music together. It was the best feeling he never could’ve described. Cassidy made everything go away that afternoon.

He didn’t care about what he was supposed to be doing, who was supposed to be with because it didn’t matter. She did. The whole relationship thing was a dud from the beginning, and Cass knew it before he even told her what was going on.

That was the whole reason he even had the incentive to break up with Dizzy. Other than, of course, trying to avoid having sex. It was already hard trying to hide what he’d been feeling and once he and Cassidy kissed he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer and before it got out he had to end it with Dizzy. How was he supposed to keep from saying that he didn’t want to spend whatever free time he had making music with her, “the enemy”.  

Cassidy deserved better. She didn’t deserve his silence yet he put her through it anyway. Because no matter what he told her, she never believed him. He wrote the song for her and she wouldn’t believe it. He’d tried telling her so many times how he felt, but it was all meaningless over text. If there was one thing he learned from their many many arguments and countless text threads, is that she hated him. Eddie had caused so much grief for her, and yet he still showed up at her door. Without any preparation on how he could possibly convince her that everything he’d ever said to her was true.

Eddie was speechless when he saw her standing in front of him. What could he say? There was no excuse he had for completely ghosting her. How could he have texted her or talked to her right after he broke up with Dizzy? He didn’t know what to say then and he sure as hell didn’t know what to say now. He’d felt a rush up his spine. His face running cold while his hands gradually heated. Finally, his hands pulled from his pockets and he began to rub them together to try and ease the discomfort. For the first time he couldn’t speak, he cleared his throat to recover it from it’s drying state. “Cassidy, we have to talk.” Was all he could muster up. Really? No shit. You disappear for weeks and now you want to talk? He repeated to himself before shaking his head. It has to be better than that. He can’t screw this up again. “I should’ve called.” Godmother, why was admitting this so hard? “It was stupid, but I need to talk to you. Just give me 5 minutes.”

Cassidy:

We need to talk? Cassidy had wanted desperately to hear from him for months now and all he could muster up were the most generic and lame ‘relationship’ discussion words in the English language? Cassidy’s fingers itched with the desire to slam the door in his face and keep him out, to stop him from having another chance to disappoint and underwhelm her… but instead, she rolled her eyes and stepped back from the door, leaving it open for him to come inside.

“You know, usually people say that when they’re breaking up with someone,” she pointed out once her back was turned to him, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “But since I’d…” Cassidy began, wanting to toss something biting and hurtful his way so that he could feel a fraction of the pain she’d been in during the stretch of silence. He’d asked why she still talked to him if she hated him so much, but it was impossible not to talk to him. It was so much worse than the fighting, a gaping absence in her life where he was supposed to be, and she only hated him so much because of how much she really didn’t hate him at all.

What if he really was here because he felt the same way? Was she really going to take whatever small step he was trying to make and throw it back in his face? That was her usual way, her usual method, and God knew it hadn’t gotten her anywhere so far. So instead of being defensive, Cassidy’s voice was small as she corrected her statement. “But since you’d never want to date me, obviously it’s not that kind of conversation, so what do you want?”

She didn’t like this feeling, the weak and uncertain one. She didn’t like giving him the upperhand when she usually tried so hard to fight and claw for it, but she had to know. Cassidy wanted so desperately to close this chapter in her life, to get over these feelings that never seemed to be on the same page as Eddie’s… but he was here now, and she was still just taking whatever little pieces he would give her. She hated herself for wanting all of him, and more for settling for just parts of him, but she hadn’t been able to change that yet, and it wasn’t suddenly going to change now.

Cassidy tapped a timer onto her phone as she waited for him to close the door and join her, settling on her desk chair instead of the bed so that he couldn’t sit next to her and make her brain all fuzzy with his closeness. She clicked start and set the phone down face-up on the desk, looking at him pointedly, trying to hide whatever flicker of hope she was sure was showing in her eyes. “Five minutes, go.”

Eddie:

Eddie never was that great with words. It was why he’d worked so well with Cassidy before. She always knew exactly what to say, the exact right words to fit whatever he wanted to sing about. Sure he could handle writing on his own, but if he was being honest with himself, he’d say his music never sounded more real when they came from her. He wondered if he ever gave her enough credit for that. Instead, he’s here giving her the most basic lines because no other words could come to mind.

She didn’t think he wanted her, and that was pointedly on him. He felt her words ring very loudly in his ear. Of course, he wanted to be with her. So why was this so hard? To say those words and tell her how he felt. Just hoping he doesn’t go back and repeat that pattern of breaking her heart.

Eddie walked into the room, turning to close the door behind him. This would have to be private. He’d spent the longest time talking to Maya about everything he should’ve been telling Cassidy and he was going to fix that now. Since she’d sat at her desk, he stood in front of her. Rubbing his hands on his pants, they’d suddenly gotten very hot and sweaty. “It is,” he simply stated before clearing his throat. ‘It is that kind of conversation.”

This was getting a little easier. Piece by piece he was letting the truth out with here. And this time it wasn’t over a text message. He was saying it to her face. His eyes darted to the timer. Okay, a little bit of added pressure. There was no way he could tell whether she would actually kick him out after 5 minutes, but there was a large chance she would. It’s not like he didn’t deserve it.

His throat was dry and he needed another second to gather his words. Everything Eddie wanted to say was becoming a jumbled mess in his head and he was just hoping he wouldn’t screw it up again. Where does he even begin? “Cass, I never should’ve dated her.” Admitting he was wrong, one of the things he was told to do. But it wasn’t like Cassidy didn’t know that already. He needed more, to tell her directly. “I wanted to be with you- I mean..” He shook his head, his eyes on hers. “I want to be with you.”

Cassidy:

Cassidy shifted in her chair as Eddie spoke, putting her hands underneath her so he couldn’t reach out to touch them. It took all her willpower not to have them go to her pockets, where she typically had some kind of pocket knife on her, but listening to him had her even more on the defensive than she’d already been. What the hell did that mean, that it was that kind of conversation? She’d heard his silence loud and clear; she didn’t need him to come here and stomp on her heart a final time.

Or… did she? Maybe all she needed was a straightforward no, an unequivocal rejection. Maybe then her heart could stop belonging to him, no matter how much she wanted to have it for herself, to give away to someone better instead. Only no matter how many people she met, none of them ever seemed better. God knew Eddie drove her crazy, but she also never felt more alive than when she was with him either. Even when they were fighting. Sometimes especially when they were fighting.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep from instantly fighting him now, though. She’d heard him out without interrupting his five minutes, or at least she’d try. Her eyes darted towards the timer again, a distraction so that they couldn’t well with tears as she waited to hear what came next… only what came next wasn’t him telling her that she needed to leave him alone, or that he wanted nothing to do with her once and for all. Instead, her head snapped back towards him, her eyes wide as she stared at his face for some kind of indication that he was fucking with her.

He looked sincere, though, and Cassidy really wasn’t sure what the hell to say to that. Of course he shouldn’t have dated Dizzy. Not just because of how much it broke her heart to see him with someone else, but for so many reasons. He deserved so much better than someone so simple-minded and immature, and Cassidy could only nod slowly in agreement, not trusting herself to say anything else. And thank God for her ability to shut up for once; if she were as combative as she usually was, if she were fighting him every chance she got, he might never have gotten the chance to say his next words.

I want to be with you. It was so simple, and it was what she’d wanted to hear for so long. Now that she was hearing it, she should have been elated, but instead a knot formed in her stomach, and what she was actually feeling was much more akin to dread. “You can’t mean that,” she said, taking one hand out from under her to hit pause on the timer. It wasn’t fair to take away from his five minutes just because she couldn’t stay silent and listen. She had to ask, though. She had to know if he really meant it, or if he’d just temporarily lost his mind now, without Dizzy in the picture. Still, even without Dizzy, there was Maya, and it just didn’t compute to her.

“I’ve wanted to hear you say that for so long,” she finally admitted, taking her other hand out from under her and wringing them together in her lap. “Probably since even before I broke up with Emmett. But now, I just…” was terrified, she finished mentally. She was terrified that he’d take the words back right away, or worse, that she’d finally get to have him only to lose him all over again. She was always scared of everything, of things that didn’t even mean anything; Cassidy should have known she’d be even more frightened when it came to something that mattered so much. “I’ve always been here, you idiot. I’ve always wanted you, so… why now? What the hell changed?” She unclasped her hands just long enough to hit ‘unpause,’ and then wrung them together again, unsure what else to do with them to combat her nerves.

Eddie:

Eddie was more than shocked himself at how long he'd been lying to himself. But as soon as the words had left his mouth he'd known it was something he'd wished he said so much sooner. Instead of being the stupid idiot he'd been before and letting his fame dictate his every move. "I mean every word of it, Cassidy. I should've known-" He stopped for a moment just to gather his thoughts. If he was going to give her an answer, he needed to make sure he said the right thing. 

It nearly broke his heart to hear how long she'd been waiting on him to get his shit together. To hear that she'd felt this way about him for so long and he had no clue. Or maybe he just wouldn't let himself believe it. She was always too good for him. "I didn't think I deserved-" No that's stupid. They were just excuses. He cleared his throat trying to think of something better to say. "That's the thing...I don't think anything's ever changed how I feel about you. I was just too fucking stupid to ever realize it."

Cassidy:

Cassidy snorted softly and agreed, "You are pretty fucking stupid. But I don't exactly make it easy for you, I guess, so uh... maybe that makes us even?" She shifted slightly, wringing her hands together once before letting them rest gently in her lap. She itched to reach out and touch him, to make sure that this wasn't all some crazy fantasy, but if it was make believe, she wasn't ready for it to end yet. She turned it over in her head, trying to figure out why now? She'd bottled things up for so long that she'd hit a breaking point, and he said nothing had changed, but... "Maybe we both just finally grew up a little," Cassidy posited, licking her lips to wet them. They'd gone dry hearing Eddie's words and trying to get herself to believe them, to understand that what she'd wanted for so long was actually within her reach.

"Or maybe how we felt about each other didn't change, maybe it was how we felt about ourselves. I don't know, maybe I'm just thinking too much." She'd seen enough cheesy Auradonian movies to know that this was usually the part where the girl threw herself into the guy's arms and kissed away all the problems they'd had along the way to finding each other. She normally wasn't that girl, always tempering her emotions and fighting her feelings, but she'd fought them for so long, and she was so tired. There were so many things she was feeling that she didn't know how to put into words yet, and for once, she was going to let herself act instead of just think. "Come here, you idiot," she conceded, reaching for his hands and trying to tug him down to her level. "Words aren't your thing, why don't you show me how you feel instead?"

Eddie:

Eddie wasn't entirely sure if he could convince that he was dfferent, that something about him had changed. He'd spent so much time trying to hide his true self from everyone. Cassidy had been one of the few people to ever fully see through it. To see who he actually was and despite everything she still was always there. She was right, maybe they both did just grow up and were finally able to let go of the things that were holding them back. And thank god he didn't have to.  "I think you're right....with all of it." His head shook slightly.

"All I know is that I can't keep the feelings in anymore." He felt a rush of relief wash over his face with everything out in the air. His hands meet with hers, letting himself be pulled down to meet her. Who knew his heart could be racing this much. All he wanted to do was sweep her off her feet and embrace her in his arms and to kiss her like he'd never get another chance to. A smile finally was placed on his lips as he closed the space between them, pressing his lips against hers. His hands moving so they were on either side of her face, holding the kiss.

Cassidy:

Cassidy's eyes widened. He thought she was right. How far they'd come, that either one of them was willing to say such a thing. There had certainly been times in the past when she'd thought Eddie might have a point about something or another, but she never would have conceded it to him. She was so tired, though. Tired of hiding from her feelings, tired of pushing him away, tired of seeing him with other people when all she wanted was for him to be with her... It felt good to let her guard down. To finally give in.

"I don't want to fight you forever," Cassidy agreed softly in the moment before their lips meant. Their kiss from her birthday was still burned in her brain, but no matter how much that had made her feel, that angry, tension-filled kiss had nothing on this. It wasn't a battle for dominance or a grudging chance to act on dammed up feelings; this was her finally letting herself have what she'd wanted for so long. It felt like coming home, and Cassidy's lips against his were soft, yet insistent, as she let the bitterness wash off of her under Eddie's touch. A part of her didn't want to stop; the old worries that if this moment ended, there wouldn't be another one creeping in.

They had to try to be different now, though. Otherwise, it would all amount to nothing, so with a reluctant sigh, Cassidy broke the kiss to take a breath, keeping her forehead resting against Eddie's. "I lo..." she began unthinkingly, the true depth of her feelings for him bubbled up to the surface. It was too soon, though; too much, too fast, so instead she whispered, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that. Can we not wait like five years before we do it again?" she asked with a nervous laugh.

[megalony]

All for Ellie- Part 1

This is a new dad! Ben Hardy series I have come up with which I hope everyone will like.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @luvborhap @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac

Summary: Ben has a daughter with his ex, and he is now happily married and has another daughter with (Y/n). But when his eldest daughter gets ill, the way to help her is to have a baby with his ex which stirs trouble with his marriage.

Ben Hardy masterlist

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

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"Do I look fucking happy to you? Do you think I planned this or that I wanted something like this to happen?"

Ben didn't shout. Ever.

When it came to tempers Ben had one of those that was like a candle that could burn down for years and not become close to reaching its end yet. It took more than anyone had ever been bothered to try to see Ben's temper flare and that was a good quality to have. But when it came to the people closest to him and his family that he surrounded himself with, that was when the end of the candle could just about be seen.

(Y/n) watched with slightly startled eyes as Ben suddenly seemed to come to life as if he were a waxwork in a museum moments before. His hands that had been clasped very tightly together propping up his chin were now balled into fists at his sides. His body was now shaking violently as the anger was causing adverse reactions from his system. He was no longer sitting on the edge of the bed like he had been seconds previous, he was standing in front of their shared bed in a manner that made him seem like a skyscraper in comparison to his wife. His shoulders stretched for miles at either side as his eyes were changing too. They were creased at the corners, blood vessels prominent like claws scratching and grasping around the whites of his eyes.

If (Y/n) didn't know any better she would have been sure that the man standing in front of her was not the person that she had married.

As Ben's anger seemed to be boiling over, (Y/n)'s willpower to have this conversation was quickly deflating like a balloon that had been popped with the sharpest of pins. There was no way around this conversation and they both knew that it was never going to be easy.

"How can you expect me to be fine with this-"

"I don't!" Ben spat the response back before (Y/n) had a chance to finish what she was trying to say. He wasn't crude or uncaring or a complete ass, he didn't expect to have this conversation and have (Y/n) be perfectly fine with everything that was going to happen and what had to change. He didn't expect her to say this was a perfect situation and feel happy or the same about it. Ben expected her to feel somewhat cheated and angry and sad and hurt and all the things in between. "I don't expect you to be fine I expect you to try and think about it because you know I can't do anything else. I don't want this either but I have no choice, it's for Ellie."

Ben felt like stomping his foot against the floorboards like a child having a tantrum because the argument was not working in his favour. He wanted to pull his hair out, he wanted to scream and shout and punch the walls. But he couldn't do that because it would help no one and do nothing.

Ben expected his wife to try and listen to him on this because he wasn't asking her permission here. As bad as it was, Ben knew that even if (Y/n) wasn't happy with this, he could do nothing else. This wasn't for him it was for Ellie and she was what mattered in this situation. If (Y/n) couldn't handle this then sadly Ben couldn't stop it. He couldn't say no and think of something else because they had no other options. If (Y/n) truly couldn't handle this then she knew where the door was and Ben wouldn't stand in her way.

"I know it's for Ellie but that doesn't make this easier Ben! Why is this the next step? How do you go from needing a donor to having a baby with your ex?!"

He couldn't help it. Those words infuriated him because it sounded like all of this was his fault. His hand reached out and slammed every item on the bedside table onto the floor. The sound of the glass bulb shattering upon impact didn't register in his ears, but the way (Y/n) shivered and took a step away from him did. His eyes seemed to dull down and lose the light they held seconds before as his lips curved down into an expression that was somewhere between a snarl and frown.

Tipping his head back to the point his neck would surely snap, Ben pressed his hands to his face as a groan passed through his lips, smothered by the palms of his hands.

"Because I'm not a match, Danni isn't a match and even Rosie isn't a fucking match. Ellie's been on that donor list for months and if we wait much longer I'll lose her. She's my baby girl, (Y/n). Tell me another way to save her and I'll do it but if you can't then you have to see that this is the only thing left."

The change from pure, untainted anger to utter sorrow and grief happened so quickly that (Y/n) took another step back. She had never seen such sorrow in Ben's eyes as they began to gloss over like they were plants being watered. It hurt so much to see Ben this cut up that (Y/n) felt tears in her own eyes as she couldn't give him an alternative that would be better for them all. (Y/n) couldn't tell Ben another way that he could save Ellie and she wished she had the power to do that. She wished that she could find another way that was less harmful to everyone that would help Ellie or to even reverse time and stop Ellie from getting ill.

But (Y/n) couldn't do that. If it could be done Ben would have done it already, this was the only option and he was going to take it even if (Y/n) couldn't accept it.

Ellie was Ben's eight-year-old daughter who he had with his ex Danni when they were both nineteen. He met and got together with (Y/n) when Ellie was two so she had been in (Y/n)'s life since she was a toddler. She was one of the sweetest girls (Y/n) had come to know and she loved her almost as if she was her own. But they had found out a few months ago that she had a form of blood cancer called leukaemia and she needed a donor for blood marrow because her blood was breaking down. Ben wasn't a match for her and neither was Danni and they were her parents.

Ben and (Y/n) had Rosie together who was two and it had been highly unlikely that she would be a match for Ellie since they had different mothers and the test showed that she too wasn't a match. Putting Ellie on the donor list meant it would take a while to find a match and they were running out of time.

The doctors had told Ben and Danni that there was a way to get a perfect match for Ellie so she could have the bone marrow and stem cells that she needed to get her blood better. But the way to do that was for them to have another child together. It was like IVF, the doctors would make the DNA make up of the baby so they would be a match for Ellie and right now it was all they had because there weren't that many donors and none of them were the match they desperately needed for Ellie.

Ben knew this was far from ideal but what else were they meant to do at this point?

He didn't want to have to tell Ellie that yes, he was married to someone else but now he was having a baby with her mum when they weren't together. That was hard to explain and they could hardly tell Ellie they were having a baby to save her, that wasn't a nice or easy thing to tell an eight-year-old. Nor did Ben want the conversation with Rosie when she was older that he had a daughter with someone else, then married (Y/n) and had her and then had another baby with his ex. Whilst still with Rosie's mum. It was just a situation that he wouldn't pick but it was the only one they had.

"You've woken Rosie."

Turning on her heels (Y/n) walked out of the room, pressing a hand over her mouth to stop herself from sobbing. She loved Ben with everything she had, always had done since the moment she met him and she loved Ellie too. (Y/n) had nothing against Ellie and when Ben had come home in tears telling his wife that his eldest daughter had a form of cancer, (Y/n) had broken down in tears too.

If this was the only thing that they could do to help Ellie then (Y/n) couldn't do anything about that. She would grin and bear it, she would stand by and watch Ben have another baby with his ex. This was something that (Y/n) couldn't change or control but that didn't make it easier.

In the beginning (Y/n) had been a little apprehensive about getting into a relationship with Ben because he had a young daughter. He had been a young father still in university when he had his child and he and Danni had split up before Ellie was even one. They were great friends but a relationship hadn't worked for them, they had been on great terms since they broke up and that was unnerving for (Y/n). She also didn't want Ellie to see her as the other woman who got in the way of her parents or who 'stole' Ben away from her but Ellie loved her. She loved Rosie too when she was born.

Seeing Ben have a baby with someone else after having a baby with her before and now having a child with (Y/n) wasn't going to be easy on any of them, especially the kids. But there was nothing else that they could do.

Ignoring the smashed lamp and the few other items that he had knocked to the ground, Ben followed (Y/n) out of the room a few paces behind her. He brushed his hands over his features to try and calm himself down as they both walked into Rosie's room. Seeing the toddler laying in the cot she hadn't been in for very long, now as awake as ever. Leaning over the crib, (Y/n) gently scooped the baby girl up, cradling her to her shoulder as Rosie's sharp cries rattled through her ears.

"Me and Danni broke up before Ellie was born." Ben's tone was back to the way (Y/n) knew it. Melodic, a slight edge to it as if his words were grating against his throat but he was speaking in his usual gentle tone again. His voice was quiet as if he didn't want to wake Rosie but she was already awake.

Turning around so she didn't have her back to him, (Y/n) bit her lower lip as she waited for Ben to continue. He never talked about his relationship with Danni, he always said it had never worked but he loved her as a friend. He liked to keep a lot of things private, even more so when the media was concerned but he always opened up to (Y/n) in the end.

"Three weeks later she came to my flat and told me she was pregnant. I didn't want to have a baby with an ex, I wanted to make things work for Ellie's sake but it was awful. Danni lived with me but it wasn't right, we rowed, shouted, stormed out, you name it and it happened. Four months after Ellie was born we had a row and I left. I got my own place and things were better, we could talk without fighting, it was great." Ben looked down to his feet as he spoke, a shiver running down his spine as he recalled what it was like.

Being with Danni in the beginning was great because they got along so well, they were great friends and the relationship was fine for a few months. Then things shifted, it was as if they couldn't do something without upsetting the other and they decided to call things off. But Ben had seen friends from broken families, he didn't want to bring a life into the world without at least trying to give them a stable home first. But if they argued and Danni stormed out, Ben was left wondering if she was alright, where she had gone, if she was coming back or not. He worried about her and the baby and he hated feeling like that.

When they split up things went back to how they should have been, Ben could talk to Danni and not argue, he had a good friend back and an amazing little girl in his life.

"When you and me were having Rosie it was so much better. We didn't fight, you didn't storm out and make me worry where you were going or if you were coming back. It's never felt with you like one of us was always doing something wrong. I don't want another baby with Danni because having Ellie with her was stressful enough and it isn't fair to do that to any of us. I don't want a child with my ex, I want kids with you but I have to think of Ellie. She's my first girl, if saving her means another baby with Danni then I'm so sorry sweetheart, but I have to."

Ben hadn't felt stressed or angry or worried or anything bad when expecting a baby with (Y/n). They weren't always at each other's throats, they weren't always shouting or storming out for days on end. They weren't forcing themselves to be together because of their child. With them, things felt natural and euphoric. Having another child with Danni wasn't what Ben wanted and he didn't want to bring another child up in a broken home. This would be confusing for all their children and it wouldn't be fair or ideal.

But they had Ellie to think of.

Ben would do absolutely anything for either of his girls and if that meant he had another child with someone he didn't particularly want to have a child with, then that was what he would do. Because Ellie was his daughter and that meant she was his world. If she died Ben would never recover, he couldn't lose either of his girls and the price of that was bringing another life into the world with someone he didn't want to do that with anymore.

"I'm not going to stand in the way, Ben. If you do this I'll stand by your side."