Man oh man, I've been thinking about this ask since it dropped into my inbox. I've had a particularly shitty day today and I'm writing this for #selfcare and because I really want Professor Steven Grant to top me.
Rating: Explicit 18+ (By proceeding to read beyond this warning, you agree that you are 18 years or older)
Content: Explicit Smut, Professor Grant au, daddy kink, p in v sex (unprotected, wrap it up folks), dirty talk, desk action
The first thing you noticed about Professor Grant was how someone so broad could contort himself into a smaller, shrank version of himself. Your Egyptology professor was someone who began the class hunched over, meek and quiet during introductions but by the end of the class he was expanded, arms spread out and voice booming with passion over the subject matter. He always went over. You didn't mind.
You also noticed during these moments of an expanse that his hands were particularly large. When carrying a textbook, you noticed how his thick fingers would grip around the spine, sometimes setting it down on the desk to finger out a specific page with such slow tension it felt like the world was going too fast and too slow at the same time.
So on a Wednesday afternoon when you found yourself in your professor's office, his hands on your neck and his thick erection pressing up against you, you had a brief moment to yourself where you remembered fantasizing about this exact scenario for weeks.
"Oh fuck, you like that don't you?" Professor Grant panted in your ear, grinding against your skirt. "You dirty little girl, you filthy thing."
You just had some questions regarding a paper you had written. He was happy to oblige. You were both incredibly nervous. Whenever you had spent any time with Professor Grant in class or seeing him around campus, there were always long lingers, a touch on the shoulder that lasted a bit too long. So it was no surprise that the first time you spent any proper time alone together ended up with his hands hoisting your skirt up.
He bent you over his desk, erection still between your cheeks as he gripped at your ass. He gave you a hard smack as you tried your best not to cry out so anyone could hear.
"I bet you can't take it harder." He gritted through his teeth. You turned to him, hair splayed out on the desk, cheeks flushed and showed an inviting smirk.
"Harder, daddy." You moaned. Steven groaned above you, using his broad hands to lift you up by the throat and by the breasts.
"Is my good girl gonna let daddy fuck her on his desk? My dirty girl going to work for that higher grade?" He slides his hand that was on your breast towards your panties, feeling the wet pool between your legs as he slides them over and guides himself to your entrance.
"Please let me feel your thick cock Professor Grant." You whisper, and you feel him slowly slide into you. His girth surrounding your folds as you feel incredibly full. He continues to hold you up by the throat, slowly upping his pace until you heard the noises of your wetness and him bucking into you. You wouldn't be able to take it much longer.
"You're squeezing daddy's cock so tight, such a good girl." You were blown away by how the shy Professor Grant could go from meek to so controlling in seconds. Sure, it was always the quiet ones but you never expected his hand wrapped so tightly around your throat as he whispered dirty words into your ear.
"I think I'm gonna cum." You were nearly out of breath, lightheaded as you felt him taking you from behind. He made you feel so full.
"Not yet." He growled, he turned you over, pushing you onto his desk and lifting your legs up towards your stomach. As he slowly inserted himself back into you, you felt yourself begin to lose control. He was so slick and pressed up against the spot inside of you that was making you clench. You could barely muster words, mouth agape while small whines came out.
"Please, daddy. I want you to feel me cum all over your cock, Professor."
He slammed himself into you, giving you harder strokes, the room filled with your grunts and the noise of your hips snapping together. "Go on then, cum for daddy. Squeeze around my cock."
Those words made you release on him, Steven groaning at the juices surrounding his cock. You felt so tight, so perfect, he nearly felt himself cum.
You panted below him, seeing stars and taking a moment to come down. In awe that Professor Grant could make you release like this. He looked down at you with a devilish grin.
"We're not done yet, you've got to earn your marks, little girl."
Prompt: “sorry isn’t going to help when i kick your ass!”
Day 38 i may or may not need to work on consistency....i generally don’t have this much of a life 😂
————
‘Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!’ It was such a crude phrase to be scrawled so sweetly along his collarbone in flowing cursive script, completely against the (presumed) desired intent of the words. When it first exploded across Harry’s skin, he’d been a mix of enthralled and repulsed—much of the repulsion probably came from his mother’s shrill voice and demands to cover such vile words (to cover the mark of his future love) and unstated but well felt assumptions that this was somehow his fault.
Well, she had ‘forever, Princess’ delicately written across her wrist, so there’s that.
So he spent 16 on hiding it, covering it at his posh schools and at friend’s houses, keeping it hidden like a scar.
“Your phrase better not have any swears in it, young man.” His mother had said one evening, unprompted, after a drink too many—after Harry had already started his Kingsman training and learned that swears were the least damaging thing a person could do to one another.
“Perish the thought, Mother,” Harry had said, smiling and calming, wondering where Father had gotten to and wondering, perhaps for the first time, if ‘forever, Princess’ had been from him.
His mother nodded, once, decisive, “well, make sure you clean her up before bringing her to any family gatherings; your aunt would have a field day with anyone not properly polished.”
Harry expected the surge of hot around his neck, of embarrassment at his mark being discussed so callously, of his soulmate being called out for their less than flattering phrase. But instead the heat that builds is one of anger; anger at the assumptions of his mother, of his aunt. Of anyone who would take the soul behind those words and judge them on something that couldn’t be controlled. Whoever they are (and Harry has doubts they will ever be a woman as his mother suggests), they deserve to be cherished, most of all by Harry. He won’t let himself or them be shamed anymore.
“I’m sure they’ll be perfect, Mother.” Harry sets her glass down and covers her with her shall, “now I must get back, good bye.”
——
He was brash and immediately combative and Harry found himself enthralled. Gary ‘Eggsy’ Unwin was as far from posh and polished as one could get, but my god was his heart in the right place.
Harry repeated again that this was for Lee, this was to repay a debt much overdue. But repaying a debt would have been getting the boy out of jail and giving him a sizable endowment—it did not involve crashing him into the ludicrous life of a Kingsman. But for some reason, Harry just couldn’t get go.
——
The train sped by and Harry’s heart raced, even as he knew that Eggsy was fine, that Eggsy’s section of track had dipped at the precise moment it needed to to save the boy after he absolutely smashed his last test.
When the train passed and Eggsy slowly rose from below the tracks, Harry felt his heart all but burst with pride. It wasn’t the posh dinner rules or the language lessons that made Eggsy great, that made him a Kingsman, it was all Eggsy. Everything about him was perfect.
“Bloody well done, Eggsy.” Harry says, and then, because he can’t help it, “I’m so very proud of you.” Comes out over the quick sound of Eggsy’s labored breath as the reality of his situation hits home. He’s alive, and Harry is here, standing over him, making sure he’s protected, always.
“What the ever loving fuck, Harry.” Eggsy struggles once against his bonds, like this time will be different. It isn’t, so he just looks up at Harry with clear demand.
“I’m terribly sorry, dear boy,” Harry starts at the closest bond, his right leg, “but Kingsman always has one more test.”
“Sorry?” Eggsy gets out on something half way to a laugh, “Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!”
Harry’s hand stills on Eggsy’s ankle and it feels like the words are burned anew into his skin. Of course it would be this boy, of course it would be Eggsy. How could it ever be anyone else?
“Hey!” Eggsy pulls him out of his revive, “stop whatever moment you’re having and finish untying me; I finally know who says the goddamn embarrassing as fuck phrase on my ribs and I’m debating on kissing or killing you.”
“Oh.” Harry says and then grins, “well, glad I could be of service.” When the last bond is undone Eggsy pulls Harry into a hug that feels right, feels like the world is falling into place.
His mother may have never liked Eggsy but Harry couldn’t imagine this beautiful phrase of will and tenacity belonging to anyone else. Also he kind of deserves to get his arse kicked every once in a while.
If you are still taking prompt ❤ Hartwin no.13 "are you flirting with me?", "you finally noticed?"
I am forever and always taking prompts! You actually are the first person to request one, so i guess that means technically i’m taking prompts ‘now’? Thank you so much for requesting this, it was so fun to write.
For anyone keeping track, this is day 18 of my self challenge :)
———
Harry opened his eyes the slightest bit. After years of this sort of thing, he knows to be cautious when coming back to consciousness—never quite sure what side might have picked you up when you were out. Even if you feel asleep in your own bed.
But Harry hadn’t fallen asleep in his own bed, he’d fallen asleep across the world in a hospital barely fit for the people in it, hooked up to IVs and floating on drug induced clouds. And then he’d woken to patients and doctors alike fighting and killing and if he’d had the energy he would have jumped into the fray too—he’d gotten so far as falling out of his bed, pulling IVs and causing alarms to go off all around before the air cleared and Harry could breath as himself again. He never wants to lose control like that again—knowing it can be taken from him is…
He’s not waking up in that ramshackle hospital, though it certainly still smells like a hospital. There’s a softer cream to the walls than Kentucky, and more than that there’s a boy—his boy—jumping up from his chair.
“Harry!” Eggsy is wound so tight but trying so hard to restrain himself, Harry can see it in the flush of his cheeks and the way he keeps unconsciously leaning closer only to yank himself back, “you’re awake…” he sighs, almost to himself before continuing, “Don’t ever do that again. I’m going to get the nurse.”
He’s gone before Harry can even wet his lips. He’s at Kingsman. He’s home.
Eggsy comes back with Darleen, who quickly goes to work checking his vitals before asking Harry the mundane questions of his name, rank and number, who the prime minister is and what he remembers. Eggsy hovers behind her, a tangible bout of energy that Harry keeps finding his eyes drawn too. Goodness, Eggsy looks more worried than he had when he was in jail. God, doesn’t that feel like years ago.
“…alright,” Harry gets out after the formalities and about four glasses of water, “I think that’s enough of that. Clearly I’m still breathing.”
Darleen gives a very unimpressed look, “And I would like to keep you that way.” She turns to Eggsy, pointing a finger accusingly, “Nothing strenuous.”
Eggsy gives a sheepish grin and watches her walk from the room. Harry supposes she is beautiful, but it surely the boy can do better than her. Not that there’s anything wrong with Darleen, she’s a fantastic nurse, it’s just that she has a stronger hand than what Eggsy needs and besides—she may be in a relationship. It would never work; he should just stop now before he gets hurt. (Who is he talking to again?)
Eggsy turns to him once Darleen is around the corner, taking a rushed step closer and grabbing the hand that isn’t stuck with needles, folding it into his own.
“Hey.” He grins like an unrestrained child.
“I’m glad you’re here, Eggsy.”
“Yeah?” Eggsy asks, leaning closer still, propping his elbows on the bed in atrocious manners but he’ll let it go this time.
And then, because Harry is hopped up on pain killers and really a quite insensitive man at heart, instead of saying ‘so sorry for what I said to you in anger, that is no excuse and I apologize and respect your decision not to forgive me’ his mind takes in that Eggsy is here and that he is in Kingsman’s medical ward and says:
“I didn’t think they’d let you back in here.”
Eggsy pauses, face losing some of that shine, and Harry would berate himself if he could think straight. He leans away, just a bit and Harry frowns at the loss.
“Well, lot has changed since you’ve been gone, bruv.” Eggsy clears his throat, “why don’t you sleep some? I’m sure you’re tired.”
“Tired?” Harry gives a little laugh, “I’ve been unconscious for who…knows ho…w long I’m …not…”———Eggsy is there when he wakes up—in clothes much different than his usual. It looks almost like…
“Is that the suit I gave you?” Harry scrunches up his face, “was going to give you.” He amends.
Eggsy almost startles, looking up from whatever was in the file he was looking at and grins at Harry, “Sure is! Works like a charm and everything,” Eggsy runs his hand down his lapel and Harry can’t be blamed for following it’s trajectory.
“But the tie.” Harry can’t help but notice it’s different than the stripped navy one he chose.
“Yeah,” Eggsy looks down at the time he has, a charcoal grey, that while nice, doesn’t give the look as much movement as the other would have, “it got a little roughed up.” Eggsy shrugs, looking away before turning back and giving a cheeky grin, “But you’re here, so you can always give me another one.”
“Well I suppose I must.”
“Good.” Eggsy cheeks look pink—the hospital is obviously too hot for a suit. ———By the time he’s out of the hospital wing, he never wants to see the damn place again. Eggsy was very kind to visit as often as he did, and bring Harry trinkets and more kindly, good discussion. He’d learned soon enough that in his absence Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin had gone and saved the world and Eggsy was now a full fledged member of Kingsman, final test be damned. It did something to him, to know that Eggsy was excelling, was living up to his potential and surpassing Harry so splendidly. He still had much to learn, but as Eggsy himself said, Harry is still here and more than willing to help.
Eggsy visited as often as he was able around missions, sometimes with Roxy or JB in toe, and Merlin came in with a huge stack of files the moment Darleen said he could to give him a debrief on what the state of the world at large was. While he had visited before, it was only under Darleen’s watchful eye as talking shop would ‘upsetting the delicate healing process’ or some nonsense like that.
Nevertheless. The world wasn’t teetering as much as he expected, which was pleasantly surprising. What was not so pleasantly surprising was that in his unconscious, he’d been unanimously voted in as the new Arthur by the remaining Kingsman agents. It was backstabbing of the highest order.
“Here,” Eggsy sets a parcel down on the ornate desk that now belongs to him. Harry raises one eyebrow in a way he hopes his intimidating. Eggsy just bites his lip to stop smiling. Harry sighs and opens it—he hopes Eggsy’s not doing this out of any misplaced guilt about Harry being unable to preform standard field operations. If Harry was a little less selfish, he would ask the boy to stop. But he’s not, so here they are.
“Is this…” Harry slowly pulls out the figurine.
“It’s Arthur’s round table!” Eggsy can’t stop himself; “There you are at the head,” he points to the little figure in the most regal clothes that doesn’t look anything like Harry (Harry also decided not to mention that there can’t be a head to a round table), “and there’s Merlin on your right, and then Lancelot over there and Perceval next to her, and then that’s me to your left, Galahads represent.” He takes a moment, “I didn’t name the others, so that’s up to you.”
“How…kind.”
Eggsy laughs, a strong laugh that fills the room and Harry can’t help but smile, “Come off it, it’s funny as hell. Your real gift’s in the bottom.” He cocks his head towards the parcel.
There’s a receipt in the bottom—Harry takes it out and looks at Eggsy who wiggles his eyebrows. It’s a receipt for…
“No,” Harry feels his jaw drop.
“Oh yes.” Eggsy gives a giddy little laugh, and the excitement fills Harry, “It’s finally time that Mr. Pickles had a sibling.”———Ms. Pickles jumped at JB again, trying to get the poor dog to play when clearly he just wanted to nap.
“Stop letting your dog harass JB.” Eggsy says from the kitchen as though he has a sixth sense for JB. They’re at Harry’s house after a long walk with the dogs, and Eggsy is fixing them a late breakfast.
Harry is much more than capable and said such, but Eggsy must have noticed the fine lines of tension on his face (the headaches, while infrequent, were something close to debilitating) and demanded he sit and be waited on for once (“It’s gentlemanly of me, Harry, you should be all over that.”).
“She’s just looking to play a little, no harm done.”
Eggsy snorts, “I cannot believe how poorly trained you’ve let her be, it’s shocking.”
“She is a princess and deserves to be treated as such.” Harry clicks his tongue and Ms. Pickles trots over for the chin scratches that are imminent, “Besides, she’s a gift, you know, and deserves the utmost respect.”
Eggsy laughs and turns off the kettle, “You should treat the gift-giver like a prince then; it’s only fair.”
“Well I tried to cook him breakfast but was banished from the realm.”
Eggsy snorts, coming into the dining room and setting a full plate in front of Harry, “eat your food, Harry. You can pamper me later.” He winks.
The food is delicious, though it may have been the company. ———Harry’s been Arther for…a while now. Time moves oddly when in these types of positions. But he’s been in this seat for a while and it’s the first time he’s wondered how Chester died.
He was told that Eggsy did it, that he came back and finished Chester off after figuring out his plan, but there’s one thing to hear it in Merlin’s crisp, factual tone and another to see it. Harry finds the video surveillance from that day and sets it up to place on his tablet, suddenly feeling the great desire for some popcorn, even though he knows the video ends in death. ———“I’d rather be with Harry, thanks” Eggsy’s voice is tinny across the playback speakers but there’s no mistaking what he said. There’s no mistaking the look on his face when he watched Chester drink the drink that would kill him—the drink meant for Eggsy.
Harry sets down the tablet, taking a moment to put pieces together that had been payed out perfectly for months now.
“Hey Harry,” Eggsy walks into his office, without knocking as always, at home in Harry’s space. Harry finds he quite likes that, “I brought you some of those fancy cherry cordials you’re always going on about. Figured my pleb palate won’t be able to tell the difference but worth a shot, yeah?” Eggsy looks up from his bag and makes a face, “What’s wrong? Why you look like, I don’t know, the Queen just came in and farted or something?”
“Eggsy,” Harry gets out then tries again, feeling much more nervous than a man his age has any right to, “Eggsy, are you flirting with me?”
Eggsy’s eyes lock on his for a moment before he laughs, a short burst that forces its way past his lips, almost involuntarily. Oh. Well then. That does answer that, doesn’t it? Harry look at the tablet in front of him. He’s misread situations worse than that before, surely. Just can’t think of any that went quite this bad.
“You finally noticed?” Eggsy laughs again and when the words actually register Harry’s head snaps back up. Eggsy already looking at him, smile shy around the edges but confident in that beautiful way that he always is.
Harry gets up fast enough that his chair (his heavy oak chair) falls backwards and makes his way over to Eggsy faster than is probably warranted Eggsy’s half way through hey be careful, you’re still healing you idiot when Harry’s upon him, cupping Eggsy’s chin in both hands and pulling him in for a kiss that should have happened ages ago, but he’s so glad is happening now.
Eggsy sighs into it, a happy little sound that gives off faint edges of surprise like he can’t believe this is happening. If anyone has room for those doubts, it should he Harry—Eggsy shouldn’t doubt for a second that he is the best thing that could ever happen to someone, the best thing that ever happened to Harry.
His lips are soft and warm and he melts into it, bringing his arms around Harry’s neck as Harry moves one of his around Eggsy’s waist, pulling him closer and relishing every sparking point they touch. His mouth is inviting and the slide of his tongue makes Harry pull him closer, makes him bit at Eggsy’s lip and bask in the moan Eggsy lets out.
Breaking away is hard, and Harry can’t do it, not fully—he buries his face in the crook of Eggsy’s neck, licking and kissing and nipping the exposed flesh and drinking in every sound, every shaky breath and shiver that works through Eggsy’s body.
Harry pulls back, just enough to look Eggsy in the eye, “you beautiful, amazing boy. It’s my turn to flirt with you.”
missed a day >.< this one is begging to be a longer story, but i had to cut it so i can finish packing...note that there’s a brief description of torture in this one.
Edit: This now has a sequel here if anyone wants to read it :)
———
Dear Diary,
Let it be known this is done under duress. Apparently, not being a bloody field agent does not get you out of psych evaluations and ‘recommended’ methods to cope with ‘high stress levels’ and ‘worrying tendency to identify job performance as self-worth’. I bet they didn’t make Boothyard do this. You get kidnapped once and then everyone suddenly thinks you’re a delicate flower.
Hell, Bond got kidnapped (I guess it’s just called captured when they’re agents…which actually is now making me quite offended that when I was taken it was called kidnapping) on 7 of his last 15 missions. I don’t see him writing a damn diary about it! (Although god, imagine that.) Besides, what’s the point of keeping a diary if it’s mandated and also!! Your psychiatrist will be reading it? Maybe I should start writing in code.
01000110 01110101 01100011 01101011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01000100 01110010 00101110 00100000 01011001 01100101 01101110 00101110
———
“What is…that?”
Q turned, not the least bit surprised to see James standing there behind him. He had a mission coming up and was obviously ready for his kit. Q did a little ritual over the case, always so sad to see the fine pieces of machinery go when the chance of them returning was so dismal. Instead of focusing on the kit, though…Q followed his eyes to the little journal on his desk. It was covered in stickers (most of them shiny, some of them hello kitty gifted by a little one on the tube who got three on before he or her mother noticed) and attached in the pen holder was a pen with a fuzzy feather top. It was rainbow.
Can’t blame the man for noticing it, it was a rather stark deviation from the normal color pallet and maturity level of Q’s desk.
“Oh, that old thing?” Q pat the top with a little more force than necessary, “my psych assigned diary. I figure if they choose to treat me like a child I may as well oblige.”
James took a moment before speaking, “And what, pray tell, made them think you need it?”
Q blinked, “Does that mean you’ve done it too?” That was a bit of a surprise. The double-o agents seems to thrive on their disregard of ‘normal’ coping, of medical, and of psych all together.
“Answer the question, Q.” James had the audacity to roll his eyes.
“Now I’m very curious,” Q can’t help it, “what do you write in it? About the girls you like? About more interesting ways to destroy my tech?”
“Mostly survivors guilt.” James says, nonchalant.
Well, that answers that, “Oh…” damn it, now he’s obliged to answer James’ question regardless of if this is an interrogation tactic or not. He gives a half shrug, “Dr. Yen assigned it after the kidnapping.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know, I thought it was all very much over the top as well.” Q fights a sigh, “Now your kit—”
James shakes his head, “No, wait, you were kidnapped?”
Q blinks, ignores the chill that goes down his spine; “I knew they didn’t release that on the official channels but I assumed you’d know none the less.” Q clears his throat, “Now, your kit.”
James quiets then, but there are a lot of questions behind his eyes. Who’s to say if Q focuses on his tech a bit more than he normally would.
———
Dear diary,
I didn’t realize it had been kept quite so secret. I should have known, we are a spy organization. But I was {Q hesitates over the word, crossing out kidn and captu wishing suddenly that he was using his standard pencil instead of this purple inked mess of a pen} gone for 11 days. I guess I figured they would have told the double-os at least, maybe brought them in to help find me. Not that I needed anyone’s help, of course, I mean I got out of there myself, didn’t need anyone rescuing this damsel.
But the fact that {Ja is scribbled over fully; must remember that this will be read} there were agents I’m the primary handler of that didn’t notice at all. What excuse were they told when I wasn’t on the comms? Would they have just kept been given excuses until the forgot to keep asking?
My cats were fed, at least. Moneypenny thought I would come back, or at least held out enough hope to not sell my apartment and put my cats in a shelter after 11 bloody days.
R had been searching non-stop—bless her, I think she needs this exercise more than me. Poor girl looked like she hadn’t slept since I’d left; keeping all the missions on track while searching for me. It was her and Riley and Sunil that found me on the security footage after I got out of that place and got me a pickup. It’s not like I was forgotten or anything. {Why do I feel forgotten? Q stares at the line in it’s stark purple ink for a long moment before crossing it out. He doesn’t want to talk about that with himself, let alone Dr. Yen.}
Regardless. R has finished debriefing me on all active missions that I’d missed some portion on, and overall everything is going well. Testing of the new laser pen fell behind during my absence but it’s to be expected. It will give me something to do tomorrow when most of my active agents are in transit.
———
“Q, Sir, we really need you in the pit.” Laila said, standing at the threshold of his office, seeming a bit more frazzled than normal. There are no alarms (auditory or silent) going off around her, so the attitude was a bit perplexing.
Q puts the soldering iron down on it’s stand and takes off the magnification glasses, replacing them with his own, already getting up and heading towards her, “What’s the matter?”
“Sir, one of the agents is being belligerent; requesting to speak only to you before moving forward with his mission.”
That’s a new one; “Alright then, transfer the secure line to my station please, Laila.”
It’s always nice, walking out to the floor, seeing his people working away. Standing at the center of it is like being cocooned within the greatest minds of London. It’s safe.
“Yes?”
“Q”Jame’s voice is instantly recognizable, “I’ve arrived in Paraguay and will be rendezvousing with the contact at 1430.”
Q waited. Nothing.
“And?”
“That is all.”
Q blinked, glad that James couldn’t see the confusion that must certainly be coving his face, “You called me away from my prototypes to give me a standard mission update that you could have given to any one of my people?”
“Had to make sure you were still around, Q”
“Still—” it clicks, “Oh. Well. Yes, I am very much still around.
“Good.” Is that a smile in his voice or is Q projecting? “I’ll check in again after the rendezvous.”
Q’s throat clicks, dry; “I’ll be here.”
————
Dear Diary,
When will this little experiment be over? It’s been a half month! I haven’t got much free time at all, and wasting it in this damn book isn’t helping anyone. Least of all me.
—————
“I notice you haven’t actually written anything about the kidnapping?” Dr. Yen asks, looking through his entries with a clinical eye.
“I much prefer to call it capture.” Q says in leu of an answer. The sticker covered mess looks silly in her hands, but she seemed to have enjoyed his take on ‘making it his own’ even if he’d been doing the antithesis of that. Granted, some of his minions have added stickers to it too—so next to hello kitty is a ‘back it the fuck up’ sticker in fancy script with an old school desktop monitor showing the phrase, and a sparkly unicorn that Trevor insists is from his kids but Q has his doubts. If he leaves it on his desk unattended, when he comes back there are always new stickers. No one ever opens it, respecting some privacy that doesn’t really need respecting (it’s not like there’s anything of substance in there), but it’s a nice gesture none the less.
Dr. Yen smiles, “Of course,” Q wishes she were a bit more of a dick like Dr. Reynard had been—it was easier to dismiss someone when they were being an ass, “I notice you haven’t written about your capture—or escape for that matter—at all. There are some references to it, but no detail. Do you have any thoughts on why that is?”
Q takes a sip of tea. It is nice that these meetings are uninterrupted tea time—though he could do without the conversation.
“There’s nothing important to say about it.” Q set the mug down, making sure to be gentle about it, “it’s all done, and I don’t exactly plan to get kidna—captured again.”
Dr. Yen gives an amused smile, “no one really plans to get captured at all.” Then, “Sometimes the act of writing down an experience”—she stopped using ‘traumatizing experience’ a while ago, Q did not have a traumatizing experience, thank you—“can solidify it in our reality. It may be difficult to do that at first, but once it is solidified, we can begin to process it in a healthy way.”
“It’s already written up in the after-action report.”
“Yes, but that was what happened, not how it felt to be going through those things.”
Q rolls his eyes, “do you want me to write a soliloquy on how sad and lonely it was and how I felt abandoned by MI6 and made peace with my death? Or maybe how it transformed me in ineffable ways and I have a new lease on life?”
It was so annoying to lay on that perfect level of sarcasm to have it disregarded so thoroughly, “If that’s how you feel, yes.” God she’s so earnest.
“Well it wasn’t” Q snapped out. He picked up the mug again and took another sip. Setting it down extra soft, with barely a ‘clink’ on the glass table, “Excuse me, I must be more tired than I thought.”
“Not to worry,” Dr. Yen smiled, “your job is stressful any given day of the week, it’s certainly understandable. Please do give it a thought though as you go through this week. Sometimes putting things to paper allows our minds to ‘get it out of our system’ instead of having it linger in our subconscious.”
“Very well. I will give it some thought.”
————
Dear Diary,
Lets give it the old college try, shall we?
I admire James Bond. He’s one of our best field agents, though his record for returning his tech is abysmal. He seems to come back from the brink of death more times than a cat and never seems to let it affect him. Always ready for the next mission.
I want to be like that. He’s been through so much, the loss of M, the burning of his home, the burning of so many false starts at a normal life, and he comes back and he may be battered but he’s still whole. Undoubtedly whole.
I get kidnapped once and now I can’t even get a good nights sleep unless I’m folded awkwardly on the little couch in my office, and of course that sleep is poorer for other reasons.
I know I’m capable, I know I can destroy countries and get myself out of most any situation that I find myself in, but I didn’t realize exactly how that situation would affect me. I haven’t lost confidence in my abilities, but maybe loss of confidence in my security? Is it just a waiting game to see when I’ll next be thrown into the back of a van, drugged, and then wake up in a windowless room, IV in my arm strapped to a chair with no fucking idea how much time has passed? When will I next find myself threatened and beaten? The soles of my feet slashed, so dehydrated that I can’t put my head up without feeling dizzy?
Obviously I can survive it. I have.
The thought of it happening again…it’s terrifying. And it can happen at any time.
And I thought I admired James because he looked like a good lay. Maybe it’s because he seems unbreakable and I worry I’m already broken.
————
Q stared at the pages for a long time. Was he supposed to feel hollow?
He tore them out, crumpled them like a secret and then lit them on fire. This was a spy organization after all, no point in letting that level of weakness get out.
————
Dear Diary,
Laila got a new corgi puppy. Despite being a cat person, I have to admit it’s quite cute.
Prompt: “Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?
Day 32! Have some hartwin lovin’
————
He’s young and brash, still too rough around the edges to be a Kingsman but with enough raw talent and determination to take on the world. It’s when that gaze turns on Harry that he feels pinned in place by those blue eyes, that he truly sees all of Eggsy’s potential.
“Harry, I love you.” It’s stated as a fact, a challenge filling up the air between their chairs in his study.
Harry carefully sets down his tea glass so he won’t crush it—or drop it. Eggsy never, ever ceases to amaze him. But this time he can’t, he can’t get swept away in Eggsy’s words, he won’t survive the fall.
“Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”
“Want to make?” Eggsy snorts (how is such an action still endearing?), “Harry it ain’t no decision, it’s not something I can change. Hell, even if I could I wouldn’t want to.”
“Eggsy, your young.” Harry sighs, looking down at swirling tea leaves and not the gorgeous man in front of him, “So, so young. You will fall in love again, a deeper, better love that will make this feel like a…dream.”
“Harry. This is a dream—right now. One I don’t want to wake up from.”
Harry can’t help a wry smile; “When did you become a poet?”
Eggsy laughs and it’s like bells, “Merlin has us reading a bunch of posh stuff.”
——
“Now I don’t want you to be alarmed—” Merlin says, which, of course, makes Eggsy immediately alarmed.
“What’s wrong, what’s going on?” Merlin makes something of a pinched face, “It’s Harry. Is Harry okay?”
“What did I just tell you.” Merlin snaps without heat, starting to walk away from the pack on their run—Eggsy’s not about to be left behind.
“Well you didn’t finish tellin’ me nothing, bruv.” Merlin sends him a look, “Merlin” He amends.
“Harry is alive—” (“Oh thank god” Eggsy sighs out) “—but he is unconscious. A little bit of a coma.”
Eggsy stops short, they’re now in the bowels of the mansion, “a little coma? That’s some bullshit right there”
Merlin has the audacity to roll his eyes, “It’s medically induced.” He motions Eggsy forward and into a medical room where Harry is laying there on the bed, unmoving, “It’s not his first time and certainly won’t be his last, knowing this idiot.”
Eggsy swallows, tries to remember that the beeps are good, they’re even and strong. But it’s hard when Harry’s laid out like that, looking nothing like his normal self.
“I thought you should know.”
“Yeah…” Eggsy steps forward, going over to the little seat set up at Harry’s bedside.
“You’ll have your mentor meetings with Perceval for the time being, with Roxy.”
“Okay.” Eggsy gives a distant nod, unable to look away. Harry looks almost wrong without his glasses on.
“The nurse will be in in 15 minutes.” Merlin’s voice sounds from the door, “I want you back on the track in twenty at the most.”
“Got it, gov.”
Merlin mumbles something, but then it’s just him—them. Eggsy and Harry. This is not how Eggsy expected his next meeting with the man to go.
“Hey…” Eggsy lifts a hand to hold Harry’s before pulling it back, feeling like he’s not allowed, “You know I really do, right? I really do love you.” Eggsy clears his throat, keeping his voice low, “I’m not just some kid like you seem to think. I’ve been through a lot of life already, enough to know that you’re the best thing that’s ever come into it. Get better, alright?”
——
“So, twenty-four hours, huh?” Eggsy wiggles an eyebrow like he hasn’t just gone through one of the most intense experiences in his life.
“Yes Eggsy,” Harry’s smile is fond and warm, perhaps too open on the heels of such a brilliant success. Harry knew Eggsy could do it, he knew all along, but to be able to see that Chester knows it too, god…Pride will definitely be the sin that gets him. “I was thinking I teach you how to make the perfect martini as our first task.”
Eggsy whoops, throwing up a fist in excitement, trotting behind Harry like a puppy, “god Harry, I love you—this is going to be the best night ever.”
Harry can’t be blamed if he lets the phrase sit, if he doesn’t challenge the shine in Eggsy’s eyes. It’s only a harmless little crush, and Eggsy’s generation says ‘love’ with very little gravitas.
——
“Harry, I love you, I love you so much.” Eggsy cries out around aching sobs, staring at the screen in front of him that shows a placid blue sky, soft white clouds drifting overhead, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you.” The sound of a gunshot still rings in his ears.
——
“Well I’m certainly not going to tell him,” Eggsy hears Merlin say from around the corner, “you’re the sod that thought it better to bloody hitchhike your way back instead of calling like a domed civilized person.”
“Can you blame me for not wanting to use a phone?”
Eggsy’s eyes go wide. That—that was—
He’s bursting into the room without a moment’s pause; Harry’s there, standing on his own two feet. Looking battered and bruised (so much gauze around his head), but still whole. Alive.
“I’ll be going now.” Merlin says somewhere from Eggsy’s left but Eggsy can’t be arsed to notice. Harry is here and he’s alive.
It takes three tries before he can get out a word, “Harry.”
Harry smiles, open and uninhibited, “Eggsy, my boy, I heard you’re a knight now.”
“You fucker,” Eggsy gets out in a wet sort of laugh, feeling so many things at once it’s overwhelming. He runs the few steps still separating them and all but crashes into Harry, pulling him into a hug with no plans of ever letting go.
“God I missed you, Harry.” Eggsy mumbles into Harry’s collarbone, feeling Harry return the hug with the same level of dedication.
“I’ve been doing some thinking, Eggsy,” Harry says into his hair, “and do you recall when I mentioned you would have other loves in your life?”
Eggsy snorts, “yeah well fat chance at that, Harry.”
“Right. Good.” Harry clears his throat, “Because I think I’ve reversed my decision on that.”
Eggsy looks up at Harry’s face, still refusing to let Harry go; “Oh?”
Harry nods once and Eggsy can’t help his grin.
“Hey Harry?”
“Yes my dear boy?”
“Tell me you love me.”
Harry brings a hand up to cup Eggsy’s cheek, touching him like he’s precious, “I love you so much, Eggsy.”
“I love you too, Harry.” Eggsy barely gets out around their first kiss.
“Ango, kid, we all know you’re a huge nerd.” Taako sighed, “put the book down and go let Mookie put dirt in your hair or something.”
Angus looked past the picnic tables they were set up on to where Mookie was actively rolling around in a ditch; “…Sir.” It comes out an interesting mix of plaintive and ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’
“Yeah none of that kiddo,” Taako laughed, “today is your day off.”
“Then shouldn’t I be allowed to do what I want with it, Sir?”
“Nope!” Taako pulls the book out of Angus’ hands and slaps it shut (he does fold over the page Angus was on, he’s not a monster); “Magnus, you’re favorite—keep this away from the kid, will you?”
Magnus takes the book with a laugh, “Gonna come get it?” He holds it high above his head, well above Angus’ reach. He’s growing, but the day he reaches Magnus’ height is the day Taako forces a potion down his throat to stop the growing.
“…I’ll go see what Mavis is up to.”
“Not even going to try?” Magnus’ arm starts to fall, “for old times sake?” The poor fighter droops.
“Don’t fall for that Mag—”
“MAGE HAND!”
A spectral hand develops from Angus’ outstretched arm and the book is grabbed back Angus gives a happy exclamation that transfers into a yelp when Magnus starts after him. They both run further into the green space.
“Do I want to know?” Kravitz asks, coming from a tear in the plain to Taako’s right.
Taako angles his cheek towards Kravitz for a welcome kiss, “Just getting some exercise is all. Did you bring the parsnip?”
“Of course.”
Merle smiles that huge, welcoming smile—the one that Taako has gotten wary of.
“What?”
Merle gives a little shrug all innocent like.
“Nope, you gotta share after being creepy like that, ya boy’s got to know.”
“It’s just…” Merle takes a moment to consider before shrugging, “Welcome to fatherhood.”
Taako feels his cheeks redden, but he’s not about to let Merle beat him with sincere and well meant compliments, “Which one, Magnus or Ango?”
Merle laughs and heads over to Mookie and Mavis leaving Taako flushed and Kravitz amused and confused.
“What was that about, love?”
Taako gives a half little shrug and ignores how is ears heat up, “ya boy is a good father figure. ‘Natch.” Taako clears his throat, “now start chopping, Lup and Barry are gonna be here soon.”
Kravitz gives Taako a little forehead kiss; “of course.”
Prompt: “Why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?”
Day 36! And first time doing anything for the Witcher, so here’s to hoping it’s okay :) binge watched the Netflix series a few weekends ago lol.
—————
“Well, if this all goes completely sideways, I can at lest know that I’m the prettiest offering of the two of us.” Jaskier says with a bit of a laugh, feeling lightheaded. He’d given up on struggling against the ropes binding them but from the chafing against his wrists fairly soon after waking up, Geralt had not.
Geralt grunts, one of those grunts that signifies Jaskier has been heard but perhaps not listened to. Jaskier sighs and leans more fully against Geralt’s back, even if it makes Geralt’s work a bit harder. If this truly the end of his life, he’d like to at least not be ignored. Jaskier’s gaze falls on his lute, set nicely against the wall, ready for him to pick it up and start a song—at least they hadn’t broken it this time.
“Geralt,” Jaskier turns his head slightly towards the Witcher, as if that would make him more likely to get some kind of reaction, “doesn’t this remind you of something?” Jaskier lets the sounds of Geralt’s struggle go on only a moment before he continues, “it’s our first meeting of course, when we really started to bond—figuratively and literally of course—and you realized you couldn’t go a day without yours truly.”
Geralt says nothing.
“Oh come on, I’m on deaths row here! Why can’t you at least appreciate my sense of humor?”
“You’re not going to die.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Geralt, really, they’re making sacrifices to the Fey, of course they have to go with the handsome musician, it’s practically law.”
“You’re not going to die.”
Jaskier blinks and turns his head as much as he can, wishing he could see Geralt’s face and wishing he had a bit more control of his fine motor skills. God what did they put in that stew?
“Come now White Wolf, we knew this day would come.” Jaskier extends his legs and knocks his feet together absently, “You’re a Witcher, you were always going to live longer than me.” A beat, “Maybe I should compose a song for myself and have you sing it in my honor, hmm? I do still think you have a novelty singing voice hidden under all those monosyllables.”
Geralt lets out an angry huff, “These people are so afraid and so blind that they sacrifice people for trinkets dipped in blood. Fey aren’t going to concern themselves with yearly sacrifices; it’s something else, something worse. And you are not going to be these people’s next victim.”
“Not Fey?” Jaskier asks; after all this time with Geralt you’d think he’d be better at identifying creatures—in his defense they haven’t actually come across any Fey, and when he was with Geralt months felt like years—in a good way, for him at least.
“Worse.” Geralt grumbles out, “Man.”
Two towns folks come in looking nervous and gaunt. Jaskier tries not to sigh at the fact that they’ve been taken captive by a town of frightened rabbits, but then they did drug their food.
“The skinny one.” A large man at the door instructs.
“Skinny?” Jaskier says, aghast as they come closer to him, “I’ll have you know I am svelte, I am toned, I am an absolutely perfect body composition! Look at these shoulders! Skinny…” Jaskier snots.
“Cover his mouth too.” The man says, clearly not amused. Absolutely no one is honoring his wit today it would seem.
The moment the first rope is loosened is the moment these town folks lost. Jaskier uses an outstretched leg to trip the colt of a girl bent over their binds and Geralt yanks on the rope hard enough to give Jaskier rope burn, but more importantly hard enough to unravel the rest, freeing his arms and then untangling his feet quick enough.
The children scurry back, wide eyed and afraid. The man at the door, the only man that appeared well fed in the whole town, looks most afraid as Geralt stands to his full height and looks down at his with golden eyes that flash—golden eyes that Jaskier has sung songs about enough to know their full effect on those that have crossed the Geralt of Riviera, the White Wolf.
“You will pay for this.” Geralt says and the threat of it drips from his words, making even Jaskier shiver. Geralt steps forward and grabs the man by the collar, tight enough that the man stars to claw at Geralt’s hands to no avail; “Where are you keeping the Kudan prisoner?”
“D-don’t hurt me!” The man grovels immediately, already trembling.
“Tell me.” Geralt does not like to ask twice.
“Geralt doesn’t like to ask twice!” Jaskier adds from the floor, still picking at his bonds. He may or may not be drugged still, just a little bit, from the food that was used to subdue them. No wonder the man was surprised to see Geralt fight back so effortlessly. Another Witcher perk.
The man says something, Geralt says something back, and it continues for a moment as Jaskier finally gets his hands free and tries for his legs. The girl he’d toppled slowly creeps forward, looking between Geralt and the man again and again. Jaskier should probably be worried. But when she’s close enough she too starts picking at his binds, untangling them with deft fingers, whispering wet apologies under her breath.
There’s a cracking sound and then a thud and Jaskier doesn’t have to look up to know that the man is dead and Geralt got what he needed. His heavy footsteps circle back and the girl scrambles away. Jaskier is hauled up by his shirt back and held up by a strong arm around his back.
“Don’t forget my lute!” Jaskier gets out, reaching for it without the coordination to walk forward himself.
Geralt mumbles something—not real words—but the boy, the other frail child, grabs it and hands it to Jaskier from as far away as he could.
“You won’t hurt us, will you?” The girl asks, brave for one so afraid.
“This guy?” Jaskier pats his hand wherever it reaches on Geralt behind him (somewhere along the side of his face, after missing twice), “of course not, he only hurts bad people and bad monsters and you’re neither!”
“They did drug your food.”
Jaskier makes a dismissive noice, “wasn’t the first time won’t be the last.”
Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier can’t see it, but he can feel it happen.
They get out into the sun and the world feels new; the fresh air outside of that stuffy barn gives Jaskier something of a new lease on life—that or it just helps clear out the fog in his mind.
“Wow, I could have really been sacrificed in there.”
“No you wouldn’t have.” Geralt half grunts out, going for the stables that Roach is in and dragging Jaskier along, “I wouldn’t have let them.”
“Aw, you sneaky Witcher, keep that up and someone other than me might think you care.”
Geralt says nothing, but sometimes that was confirmation enough.
