#lanselots

james buchanan barnes is officially the spookiest bitch around, anons or no anons

When Harry first broke the news, Eggsy hadn’t known if he aught to laugh, cry or just fucking swear himself blue. It’s possible he did a bit of all three, to be honest, but he can’t really remember. One thing he does know is that he’s had enough of people dying only to not have actually been dead at all. Granted it’s only happened twice now, but that’s still enough to knock about 10 years off his life from the stress, he reckons. Besides, it isn’t fair when only some of them get to come back. It certainly isn’t right to make him hope like that. (The chances that he’s one day going to find his father, Merlin, JB and Brandon hold up in a secret bunker together are unlikely, and yet. And yet.) 

None of of that is what’s actually going through his head right now though. No, that’s more of a fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck situation to be honest. What if Harry got it wrong? What if Roxy doesn’t remember him? What if she’s mad at him? What if this is all some cruel prank? The thoughts play ‘round his head in a loop, until they suddenly stop all at once to be replaced with what feels like static. Because-because fuck, there she fucking is. A few more scars since Eggsy last saw her, but standing and breathing and fucking alive. The static has spread all across his body, into his lungs and for a moment he can’t breathe or hear. All he can do is stand there and look at her because if he looks away she might be gone again. Then she moves slightly and the spell is broken. Even though he is still aching from the fight in Poppy’s Land, he runs as fast as his fucking legs will carry him across the room and towards her. It’s possible he’s shouting her name like a mad man, and alright, he’s probably crying a bit but fuck. 

love ; sex ; ships . / sel

it’s a moment spent not on breath for oneself, to slip from the structure enforced and stand among those left as a pinnacle of support and as an arrow for direction ( much needed, where in silent moments there is a tremble, steady hands do shake with the weight carried and the tremor of a shattered heart ); rather, a moment spent to busy those hands and sharpen focus — plans set, mutations sought and tools of the trade made for a man he needs to touch to know is real. 

it’s long nights at a monitor, watching videos play and finding the minute threads to pull and pluck that bring forth the motion into chaos. preparation for a fear of ‘not enough’ and mistakes and how they cause that first fall of the domino. it’s the training given, the firmness of a hand upon one’s shoulder and a gaze into eyes as he tells them ‘ remember your training ’. because he knows there is the threat of break, there’s a loss shared and energy stored that fractures calm surface and he’ll take and take until the calm is there once more. 

it’s a blanket against a curled form asleep on the couch. a stack of old books dodged and an indoor plant moved by a light that’s warm and seems to kiss it too goodnight. it’s how he keeps a murmured word to himself, a precious thing held in heart as he makes sure she’s comfortable, how there’s the slip of a cushion against her head and the brush of wild hair away from face. it’s a goodnight, a sleep tight, and a ‘you did well, today’ he hopes carries into her dreams. 

it’s a secret kept, subtle touch and the swallow of words and how he almost ignores the man seen in the reflection of the mirror. it’s things beyond the rules, beyond the protocol; busy hands and a willingness to move heavens and earths. he won’t speak of it, won’t allow it attention; let it slip in the undercurrent of what’s had between them. they both know, after all — clear there with the shake of his head, the pinch of the bridge of his nose and three words replaced: you mad bastard. 

it’s a promise spoken with touch; hands that glide along bare skin, upward against the line of his spine, the splay of palm and the press of lips and puff of air against flushed skin. it’s kisses, the press of a forehead against the other and smiles against skin. something soft. something private. he holds, and there is the promise to stay, that what’s found won’t stray, won’t get lost again. it’s how he murmurs a name instead of a letter with a certain reverence made to cause a tremble. 

popular text starters.