Prompt fill, sort of. Drabble. Hartwin manipulation, (slight) mutilation, obsession

(Note: I don’t know what happened here.)

Eggsy has the barrel of his own gun down his throat when he learns Harry is alive.

He can still taste the metallic traces lingering on his tongue as he rushes to the medical ward, glasses nearly hanging off his nose and flashing with Merlin’s somehow perfectly timed message. The pistol itself lies forgotten in fitting room three.

He barges in and finds him, asleep, but breathing, a déjà vu from only few months ago, but alive, oh so alive. He feels his pulse through his fingertips, lingering on the soft skin of his wrist. Bruised, battered, scarred, in pain…but alive.

He is awake, Merlin tells him, likely to be fit for duty in a month, if not weeks. He will take up his mantel as Galahad, once again.

For some reason he has yet to discern, this does not make him happy.


Weeks later, he decides.

After bringing Harry home, to the house he had only briefly occupied, after sitting down to dine with him over vintage wines and Chinese take away, talking and smiling at their own personal little jokes, the subject of V day is breached, of their argument, of what was said and left unsaid.

So he tells Harry of his murder of Chester King—for that’s what it is, murder, however much of a disloyal prick the man was—and of the ultimatum he had been given.

“So I told him, ‘I’d rather be with Harry, thanks’.”

There is a heavy truth to it and something else— different—that he tastes in the memory of gun oil on his tongue. If anyone could understand, he thinks, it’s Harry. And he does. He can read it in the warmth of his eyes and quirk of his soft lips and the soft hum of pride that never fails to ignite a fire rushing through his veins. He has come to crave it, this recognition, this acknowledgement.

Eggsy needs to make Harry stay.


The first step is to create a keep. The opportunity comes when the election for the next Arthur comes up.

For being an organisation of spies, it is laughably easy to put on the face of a concerned mentee when he plants seeds and nurtures them with within each and every one of the knights. “Is not Galahad awfully pale as of late? I do believe his reflexes were rather dulled in his last spar, don’t you think so?”

He stands by the table and watches Percival nominate Galahad for the position of Arthur, only voicing his “aye” after two other knights give theirs.

There is discontent in the tight smile Harry wears as he picks up the mantel at the head of the table, resigning himself to a post of less active duty, ironically on word of appraisal of his skill and loyalty through his career.

Eggsy kneels and his pleased smile brushes across his King’s knuckles as he takes his oath.


The next step is to appoint a keeper.

It isn’t hard to solicit an invitation to Harry’s house and stash of alcohols for re-takes of their cocktail lessons. It is slightly harder (though not awfully so) to slip the Kingsman issued drug into Harry’s drink.

He ruffles the sheets around before moving Harry to the bed, and undresses him, then himself, stewing their clothes in logical order along the hallway and the bedroom floor. The conspicuous bruises on his hips are self-inflicted, and so are his other aches, but he thrusts his fingers in harder and trusts the visuals and a faked limp will be enough to convince Harry’s drug laden mind in the early morning hours. He leaves bruises on Harry, too, and a hickey that will poke up from beneath his collar, which will unavoidably be noticed by their colleagues. Perfect. The decision to leave his cum across the sheets is purely an afterthought, but he gives himself points for dramatic effect.

Eggsy then slides into the bed, pulls Harry’s limp arm across his waist, and waits.

Hours later, when Harry stirs behind him, Eggsy feigns waking and puts on a pleasant smile he really doesn’t really have to fake as he turns to his “lover” and softly murmurs “Good morning.”

It is somewhat tantalizing to watch the expression of a man trained to not show anything unwillingly go through every stage from painful denial to shocked acceptance of his “actions”.

Eggsy lets his smile fall and eyebrows furrow in a display of worry. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and Harry curses beneath his breath.

There is an act, a scene of apologies and confusion, and of attempted amends, “I hadn’t intended” and “I am deeply sorry”, that Eggsy brings together with a hitched breath and near watery eyes as he says, “But you said you loved me.”

Harry’s stricken look tells Eggsy he has won, and the man soon embraces him tightly and tells him that yes, of course, he does, and perhaps it isn’t as far from the truth as either one of them thinks. Either way, it works to his advantage, and the actual sex they have later that morning is an advantage, too.


And so, Eggsy knows where Harry is, day in and day out, for when he is not in his office he is in his home or in bed, and, incidentally, so is Eggsy.

He learns his security details and his timetable, his every meeting and plan, and makes sure the chances for any harm befalling his King is zero to naught. Any information regarding Harry is practically handed to him from knights and handlers alike after he made sure the development in their relationship did not go unnoticed.

Except then, weeks later, Eggsy is sent on a recon mission estimated to last about a month, and he has yet to make arrangements for such situations, and finds himself stuck in Siberia with little to no knowledge of what is going on at home. For now, he will have to entrust Merlin with the safety of their King.

He completes the mission in three weeks, but by the time he gets back to London the wizard has already failed him and he has to grit his teeth while he watches Harry’s feed as he runs through the streets on Venice, gunfire hailing over him.


He had known, of course.

Harry, in every waking moment in Arthur’s chair, itches to get out. Headstrong and capable, he assigned himself to a mission to help pick up the loose ends after V-day.

Harry returns, scratched and with a broken ankle, but no worse for wear, a somehow satisfied wildness to his air as they patch him up in the medical ward.

Eggsy isn’t happy.

He lets Harry know as he pulls him out of his wheelchair and assists him up the steps to the door.

“I can’t lose you again, Harry,” he tells him later, when he stands in the living room, Harry in the chair across from him. “You know that—know what I’d do—and yet you go pulling this shit.”

Harry doesn’t reply, partially wanting to display indifference, partially due to the duct tape Eggsy has found use for, but his eyes tell Eggsy what he needs to know.

“You know why I have to do this.”

There is a muted yet somewhat satisfying crunch as the hammer cracks his kneecap.

about the dream scene in invicta, invictus

I feel like Hawke’s dream wasn’t even a sex dream, even though Fenris interprets all pleasure and comfort as being sexual. It’s just… here’s this woman who’s been on her guard, armor on, hackles up, her entire life- running from Templars as a child, concealing her magic, constantly a refugee living in hiding, then running from the Blight. hoping Tevinter will be a sanctuary but instead it’s just a gilded battlefield, because Tevinter social politics are merciless to beautiful unmarried heiresses and even crueler to foreign abolitionists. Maybe she eats a random kebab from a food stand and ends up curled in her bedroom racked with cramps for days afterward, and still isn’t sure it wasn’t just ordinary Bad Chicken. Maybe a persistent suitor at a party drugged her wine and challenged her to a fencing match when she fended off his advances; on the legal battlefield, other enemies move against their estate and reputation. Carver is brilliant with a sword but no match for magic, and sweet Bethany sees every act of kindness as genuine, and her parents rely on her to safeguard their legacy and act on their behalf. Even with wit and magic, it’s hard to be so alone and have so many people relying on you.

She’s drowning on dry land, barely surviving- and then Fenris sweeps into the treacherous maze of her life.

And just like that, she no longer has to worry about a knife in a dark corner, because she’s no longer alone. Fenris doesn’t even have any ulterior motives. He’s just going to unobtrusively trail after her with those luminous eyes that take in everything, drop the occasional witty comment that lifts her mood into laughter, and seem surprised at his own responding smile. And if anyone tries to harm her, he’ll leap with fluid grace between her and her enemies. Okay, so he smells like leather and wine and clean sun-warmed skin, and his hair looks a lot like baby goats and dandelions, and every movement of his long fingers seems deliberate.

But what matters most is that she’s never felt so dammed safe.  

So I think maybe she was just dreaming of a steady hand on her shoulder and the shift of muscles at her back, that low rumble of a voice saying “Rest now. I’ll stand guard.” And maybe his fingers carding through her hair, or a moment of breath against her cheek. Careful, grounding touches that let her know she’s not alone, that she will never be alone again, that she can let her guard down at last.

And Fenris, who’s never even sidled through the neighborhood of safety, has no idea why the peace and comfort his presence provides means so much to Hawke.

anyway @loquaciousquark that’s my theory