#harryhartfanfiction

[fuckyeahharryhart]

THE ART OF SEDUCTION Reader Insert

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments- reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, you were no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Your time with him merely reinforced what you already knew. And what you knew had, much to your chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment you shared space with him. Harry was beautiful, obviously. You determined that the moment you saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But it was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

Harry Hart’s appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. You had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry Hart was a tall man. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose.  Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If Harry needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height.  In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mould, and manipulate. And Harry Hart did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, you discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, you expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over yours as gesture of support and understanding. Harry was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in your mind, you realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into.  A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly.  A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, it was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though you had no way of knowing, you assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

Harry’s manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self.  He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation.   

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent.  Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

Harry Hart was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure maneuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, bergamot, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, Harry Hart had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when you had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to yourself, you allowed your curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think.  The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices.  Through your experience in human psychology, you recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. You were fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had you met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when you walked along side him so you wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus, when you walked with him, he always slowed and allowed you to maintain your own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one.  That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humor could enthrall even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When Harry turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. You were no exception. And you had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

You found yourselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when you both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way you preferred it as well.

Harry spotted you the same moment you lifted your gaze at the new arrival. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. You gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations. 

It was at one these clusters that he found you, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement Harry allowed himself while still on Kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached you, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that you were the one that was sharing this space with him.

You were dressed quite differently from how Harry first remembered you. Well, your clothes hadn’t been memorable, but you had been. Since you were not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify you yet, you took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, you were not quite regulation. If you were out in the field, you were in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. You even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so you could have more diversity. When you were at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, you dressed appropriately, but in your own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even Harry noticed the heads that turned when you walked by.

Walking toward you, Harry took the time to observe your appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, you remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be your most proper look. You were dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. Harry set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

You were dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the fabric as you shifted your knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, you had removed and draped over the back of your chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled your waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle.  Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Your makeup was minimal and natural. You looked like you had just somehow heightened your features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As Harry got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Your beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from your face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Your accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around your wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on your own pinkie. Your nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around your neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

Harry didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw you. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what you were wearing, but he could describe every feature of your face. The way you looked when you were reflective. The line of your jaw when you were determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw you, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when you had the opportunity to present yourself on your own terms. Harry thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that you were model beautiful, or that your features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought. 

Your beauty had substance. The fact that Harry knew what your skill set included, to know what you had overcome to be where you were, to be the person you were, made your beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what you were wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever you wore, you made it part of you. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way you wore it that made him notice you. You could have looked completely different, with completely opposite features. Harry would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

You posessed the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that Harry thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

Harry was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. Harry was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If you were not exactly who you were, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue you and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to you, or charmed by you if you weren’t exactly who you were. He would not want your as much as he did if you were any different. 

——

Harry set these thoughts aside as he approached you. Even though it was obvious you were alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

You awarded him with an amused smile. You always enjoyed his little game of manners.

You nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as you did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. Harry took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of you were now relatively stuck in your respective positions, where you couldn’t move without significant effort, Harry simply raised his glass in your direction. You followed suit.

You were pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with you. It was one of the first tells you would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence? Most often, if they lacked confidence, you would notice these tells immediately. One of your favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of your favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When you initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed.  The more you were partnered in the field, the closer you became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect you in ways that continued to make you increasingly uncomfortable.

You were aware his body was that of a man that you admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. You became aware of all the things that his body could do. You had the opportunity to observe him every time you were in the field, in combat, in action.

But you also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered you up after a surprising blast had knocked you off your feet. Hands that smoothed back your hair from your forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on your shoulder as you successfully accomplished a challenging task. 

You were aware that as your mentor, Harry had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, you imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against you, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. 

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of you, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when both of you were together, you allowed yourself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in your company, would they make direct eye contact? You took another small sip of your drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. You were very curious about HarryHart and you were feeling surprisingly playful. You wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. You waited until you caught his eye. Harry seemed amused and matched your eye contact with equal directness. You were pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on your part, you raised your glass to your lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. You held the scotch on your tongue, pulled it to the back of your mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before you swallowed.

Neither of you would look away first. You gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled your eyes a bit in amusement. You seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

Harry had never seen your in this kind of playful mood and he suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than you. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding your eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in your sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of your peripheral vision. You would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when you saw what he was going to do with it.

Harry held your gaze suddenly with an intense focus you were unprepared for. Out of the corner of your eye you saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

You had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but you kept his gaze. If you were uncomfortable, you didn’t show it. You hoped your gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. You seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at you with a focus and intensity that said you were the only woman on earth, and that he wanted you.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact. It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. Harry had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency.  He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle.  If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What you didn’t quite understand, was that the game you were playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. You were approaching what you thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why you were going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

You had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

You narrowed your gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

Harry saw the flush in your cheeks when you noticed what he was doing with his glass. Your breathing intensified. Your pupils dilated and there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Your eyes widened. Holy fuck, you thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, Harry was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at you the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

Harry was not only looking at you, he was positively devouring you with his gaze. You could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and you were not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there,  but now he added an aspect of himself that you had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry Hart, but it was also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

You fought to maintain your composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

Harry continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. You knew where he had his hand. You could feel the exact placement as if it were on your own body. The base of his palm would cup your center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between your legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

You saw in his eyes, that he knew, that you were not only being affected by his movements, but you were feeling sensations as if he were touching you directly.

It was the most erotic experience of your life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching you, had the ability to control your body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned you, that you were his, and he knows that you wants it that way. He can see it all over your face. He can see it in your eyes.

——

Harry wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into you. Allowing you to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. You would see it. Your mind would do the rest.

Harry saw your lips part, even the slightest bit. Your chest rising and falling under your ladylike blouse as your breath quickened. Your knees pressed tightly together. He watched your face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in your expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that you were feeling his movements in your body. Every time your brow would furrow, or you took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench your pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew you were feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

Harry knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of your face and body freely and openly. Your pleasure had reached a constant as you moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And you still did not drop your gaze. Harry knew, now that you were fully aroused, you would not break eye contact. You probably couldn’t at this point if you tried. For, half of your pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling your pleasure. And seeing that you pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified your pleasure. And you wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. Harry was finding out much about you in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure you knew about yourself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to your pleasure.

To see just how much you were under his thumb, pun aside, Harry paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched you. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of your brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. You probably didn’t even know you had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of your hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself grow harder. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more.  The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction.  Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

Harry began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw your body move as if you were receiving him.

He knew you were experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell you wanted to close your eyes and tip your head back. As Harry witnessed your need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim.  As if his finger were deep inside you, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

Harry knew, that you knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

You lips parted, your breathing grew heavier. You had no idea what was going to happen next, all you felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing you could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of you.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for you to break eye contact, then so be it.

Harry also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of you. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between you. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one you were feeling when you made yourself come.

Harry began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, your lips parting with cries that you desperately wanted to make that you would not let yourself, and still, you were trying to hold on. Psychologically you were making it harder for yourself, denying your own release would only make it that much more physically intense when you had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy.

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

Harry gave you a quick glance, where you were still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, you were just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

You knew you had to stop staring at Harry, so you looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set you off. You were still right at the cusp of your climax and your body was still so aroused you were afraid that any movement could push your over the edge. You wanted to tell Harry to leave, but you couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of you. All you could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what you did. You were waiting for your body to catch up with the rest of you and settle down. Harry was waiting patiently until you were ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, you glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and you began to relax a little, though your body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. You just needed to stay still for awhile.

You saw Harry watching you, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

 “And that, my darling,” Harry said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with you and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of you.  He did not want you to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at you.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

Harry reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before you clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard.

The thought made you flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All you could do is nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

Always the gentleman, he leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of your hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

You still couldn’t look directly at him so you turned your head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of your arm, you heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. You didn’t know if you were glad or disappointed.

You were grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. Harry was letting you chalk it up to a learning experience.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that you had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with you, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

No, the problem for the moment was that all Harry could see was your face as he pleasured you. How your lips parted, your breasts underneath your blouse, the flush of your cheeks. He wanted to hear what your cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make you cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. Harry had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken you and had you right there.

If he could do that to you with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring you with his entire body. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of your trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave you the pleasure he knew you so desperately wanted, joined together as he felt your body shudder around him when you climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard you cry out his name in pleasure.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 6

THE ART OF SEDUCTION SEXY HARRY HART FANFIC

HARRY HART FAN FIC: (sing songs) smut, smut, smut! Inspired by Harry Hart and his glass of scotch. And also the one below of him in his shirt, tie and shoulder holster.

HARRY HART/ ORIGINAL CHARACTER M/F

WARNINGS: Mature, Smut, light D/s, lust 

Words: 7600

SUMMARY Harry and Gwendolyn, after getting acquainted with each other, share a rare evening alone together in the Kingsman lounge. What starts out as an innocent challenge and a glass of scotch, leads Harry to teach a lesson on the finer points of the gentleman spy's art of seduction.

NOTES: This is part of my main series for KINGSMAN 3, but since this is the chapter with sexy gentleman spy Harry Hart combined with smut that many of us like the most, I decided to also separate it so it's easy to find and read on it's own. If you're looking for the whole story, check out my other fics. Still in progress though

------

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments, reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, Gwendolyn was no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Her time with him merely reinforced what she already knew. And what she knew had, much to her chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment she shared space with him. He was beautiful, obviously. She determined that the moment she saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But is was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

His appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. She had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry was a tall man. She would never forget the first choke hold he put her in. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose.  Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If he needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height.  In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mold, and manipulate. And he did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, she discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, she expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over an agents as gesture of support and understanding. He was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in her mind, she realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into.  A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly.  A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, It was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though she had no way of knowing, she assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

His manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self.  He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation.  

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent.  Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

He was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure manoeuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. His shoes would glow with a mellow shine. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, he had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when she had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to herself, she allowed her curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think.  The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices.  Through her experience in human psychology, she recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. She was fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had she met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when she walked along side him so she wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus when she walked with him, he always slowed and allowed her to maintain her own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one.  That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humour could enthral even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When he turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. She herself was no exception. And she had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

They found themselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when they both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way Gwendolyn preferred it as well.

He spotted her the same moment she lifted her gaze at the new arrival. Her eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. She gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations.  

It was at one these clusters that he found her, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement he allowed himself while still on kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached her, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that she be the one that was sharing this space with him.

She was dressed quite differently from how he first remembered her. Well, her clothes hadn’t been memorable, but she had been. Since she was not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify her yet, she took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, she was not quite regulation. If she was out in the field, she was in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. She even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so she could have more diversity. When she was at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, she dressed appropriately, but in her own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even he noticed the heads that turned when she walked by.

Walking toward her, he took the time to observe her appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, she remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be her most ladylike look. She was dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. He set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

She was dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the grain as she shifted her knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, she had removed and draped over the back of her chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled her waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle.  Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Her makeup was minimal and natural. She looked like she just somehow heightened her features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As he got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Her long, wavy, he had to admit, beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from her face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Her accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around her wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on her own pinkie. Her nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around her neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

He didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw her. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what she was wearing, but he could describe every feature of her face. The way she looked when she was reflective. The line of her jaw when she was determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw her, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when she had the opportunity to present herself on her own terms. He thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that she was model beautiful, or that her features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought.  

Her beauty had substance. The fact that he knew what her skill set included, to know what she had overcome to be where she was, to be the person she was, made her beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what she was wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever she wore, she made it part of her. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way she wore it that made you notice her. She could have look completely different, with the opposite features, petite and curly brown hair and brown eyes. He would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

This young woman had the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that he thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

He was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. He was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If she wasn’t who she was, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue her and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to her, or charmed by her if she wasn’t exactly who she was. He would not want her as much as he did if she were any different. But it was who she was, ironically, that kept him from her. She was Merlin’s daughter.  It was a knot too tight for him to untie.

——

He set these thoughts aside as he approached her. Even though it was obvious she was alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

She awarded him with an amused smile. She always enjoyed his little game of manners.

She nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as she did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. He took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of them were now relatively stuck in their respective positions, where they couldn’t move without significant effort, he simply raised his glass in her direction. She followed suit.

———

Gwendolyn was pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with her. It was one of the first tells she would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence with their own words? Most often, if they lacked confidence, she would notice these tells immediately. One of her favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of her favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When she initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed.  The more they were partnered on the field, the closer they became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect her in ways that continued to make her increasingly uncomfortable.

She was aware his body was that of a man that she admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. She became aware of all the things that his body could do. She had the opportunity to observe him every time they were in the field, in combat, in action.

But she also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered her up after a surprising blast had knocked them both off their feet. Hands that smoothed back her hair from her forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on her shoulder as she successfully accomplished a challenging task. Arms that held her after a devastating loss.

She was aware that as her mentor, he had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, she imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against her, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. While not in a chokehold.

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of them, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when they were together, she allowed herself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in her company, would they make direct eye contact? She took another small sip of her drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. She was very curious about Harry and she was feeling surprisingly playful. She wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. She waited until she caught his eye. He seemed amused and matched her eye contact with equal directness. She was pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on her part, she raised her glass to her lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. She held the scotch on her tongue, pulled it to the back of her mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before she swallowed.

Neither of them would look away first. She gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled her eyes a bit in amusement. She seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

He had never seen her in this kind of playful mood and Harry suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than her. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding her eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in her sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of her peripheral vision. She would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when she saw what he was going to do with it.

He held her gaze suddenly with an intense focus she was unprepared for. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

She had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but she kept his gaze. If she was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She hoped her gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. She seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at the young woman who sat in front of him with the focus and intensity that said she was the only woman on earth, and that he wanted her.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact . It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. He had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency.  He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle.  If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What she didn’t quite understand, was that the game she was playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. She was approaching what she thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why she was going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

She had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

She narrowed her gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

He saw the flush in her cheeks when she noticed what he was doing with his glass. Her breathing intensified. Her pupils dilated and there was nothing she could do to stop it.  

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Her eyes widened. Holy fuck, she thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, he was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at her the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

He was not only looking at her, he was positively devouring her with his gaze. She could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and she was not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there,  but now he added an aspect of himself that she had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry, but it also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

She fought to maintain her composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

He continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. She knew where he had his hand. She could feel the exact placement as if it were on her own body. The base of his palm would cup her center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between her legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

She saw in his eyes, that he knew, that she was not only being affected by his movements, but she was feeling sensations as if he were touching her directly.

It was the most erotic experience of her life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching her, had the ability to control her body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned her, that she was his, and he knows that she wants it that way. He can see it all over her face. He can see it in her eyes.

——

He wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into her. Allowing her to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. She would see it. Her mind would do the rest.

He saw her lips part, even the slightest bit. Her chest rising and falling under her ladylike blouse as her breathe quickened. Her knees pressed tightly together. He watched her face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in her expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that she was feeling his movements in her body. Every time her brow would furrow, or she took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench her pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew she was feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

He knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of her face and body freely and openly. Her pleasure had reached a constant as she moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And she still did not drop her eye contact. He knew, now that she was fully aroused, she would not break eye contact. She probably couldn’t at this point if she tried. For, half of her pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling her pleasure. And seeing that she pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified her pleasure. And she wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. He was finding out much about her in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure she knew about herself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to her pleasure.

To see just how much she was under his thumb, pun aside, he paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched her. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of her brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. She probably didn’t even know she had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of her hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself harden even more. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more.  The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction.  Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

He began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw her body move as if she were receiving him.

He knew she was experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell she wanted to close her eyes and tip her head back. As he witnessed her need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim.  As if his finger were deep inside her, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

He knew, that she knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

Her lips parted, her breathing grew heavier. She had no idea what was going to happen next, all she felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing she could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of her.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for her to break eye contact, then so be it.

He also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of her. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between them. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one she was feeling when she made herself come.

He began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, her lips parting with cries that she desperately wanted to make that she would not let herself, and the dear girl, was still trying to hold on. Psychologically she was making it harder for herself, denying her own release would only make it that much more physically intense when she had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy,

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

He glanced back over to Gwendolyn, where she was still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, she was just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

She knew she had to stop staring at Harry, so she looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set her off. She was still right at the cusp of her climax and her body was still so aroused she was afraid that any movement could push her over the edge. She wanted to tell Harry to leave, but she couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of them. All she could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what she did. She was waiting for her body to catch up with the rest of her and settle down. He was waiting patiently until she was ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, she glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and she began to relax a little, though her body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. She just needed to stay still for awhile.

She saw Harry watching her, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

“And that, my darling,” he said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with her and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of them.  He did not want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at her.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

He reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before she clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard!

The thought made her flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All she could do is nod. She didn’t trust her voice yet.

Always the gentleman. He leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of her hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

She still couldn’t look directly at him so she turned her head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of her arm, she heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. She didn’t know if she was glad or disappointed.

She was grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. He was letting her chalk it up to a learning experience.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that she had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with Gwendolyn, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

Now, the problem for the moment was that all he could see was her face as he pleasured her. How her lips parted, and her breasts underneath her blouse, the flush of her cheeks. He wanted to hear what her cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make her cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. He had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken her and had her right there.

If he could do that to her with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring her with his entire body. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until her took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of her trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave her the pleasure he knew she so desperately wanted, him deep inside as he felt her body shudder around him when she climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard her cry out his name in pleasure.

———

If you got this far, thanks for reading! There will be additional chapters, but I thought this could stand on its own. Hope you liked it! Comments are always welcome and appreciated.

Also to come is a chapter when they finally get together :O (Smut is the main reason I started to write about Harry Hart anyway :)

[fuckyeahharryhart]

THE ART OF SEDUCTION  PART 2 - UPDATE

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED (MAIN FIC)

Wanted to add this on to Part 2, but tumblr said that it was just too much..Had to add as another post..

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Harry felt as if he had been broken open. Not only was he vulnerable physically, mentally and emotionally with all of his being, another part of him had been laid bare. The surface of who he was felt burned away, revealing a new unguarded self without the shields that he had held up against anyone who sought more than he had to give.

At times, in the past, he had thought himself incapable of finding love. His hand had been dealt.  One year would pass by, followed by the next and no one would come to stir his heart. Years became decades. And then the decades had almost become a lifetime. Surely, it would have happened, with all the people that he’d met throughout the years. He had experienced affection, fondness, admiration and respect, and yes, lust and desire for the handful of women who had at one point, entered his life.

But he never felt the visceral sensation of wanting more of a person, not just physically, but more of everything. To experience more of them and experience more with them. The idea of revealing who he was to someone was foreign to him. It was the first time he felt compelled to share not only his life, his space, his time, but share more of who he was. The first time he wanted someone to know more about him.

He had spent his life guarding his privacy. Erecting boundaries so he could maintain a proper distance with the world around him and its inhabitance. He could count days worth of time skirting topics that threatened to glimpse inside the stronghold that held his most personal thoughts, feelings, experiences, emotions. He had blocked off countless attempts that tried to push deeper into his life beyond what he offered. The part of his life that was accessible to others, were the parts of his life that were visible, tangible, concrete things. He could share an evening, a dinner, a drink. Sometimes he could even share his bed. But once someone began to pry under the surface, wanting him to share his feelings, his history, his desires, his fears, he knew it was time to move on.  

Part of his disinclination for closeness was his life both as a soldier and a spy. He not only possessed the ability to turn off his emotions at will, but there was also the ability to armour himself against the emotions that others wanted him to recognise in themselves.

Of course he would recognise the emotion, anger, sadness, confusion felt by others, but these feelings failed to rouse in him a comparable response. Some women had wanted to matter more to him. How many times had he been forced into a situation where the only answer he could provide was, “Not as much as you would like me to.” Harry Hart was never one to fake an emotion he did not feel.

All of his relationships and friendships followed a pattern. They always ended. Merlin had been his closest and oldest colleague. His was the most recent loss. The remaining connection that he has was through Eggsy. Eggsy was the last remaining link to his past.

Part of his distance was in self preservation, but there was another aspect to his mindset.

He was in his late fifties, already past the age that most agents never get to reach. Not because they were no longer working. Not because they had retired. But because they had been killed in action. He could not begin to count the number of close calls that he experienced in the past. He had come out of circumstances that others wouldn’t have a prayer escaping. And when he thought the end had finally come for him, one afternoon in Kentucky, telling him his time was up, that all of his cards had been played, he pulled one last ace from his sleeve. Harry Hart had cheated death, too.

One could only skirt death so many times. Being a soldier and being a spy made one very familiar with death and mortality. They were ever present. Harry accepted his mortality long ago and he knew that his end would inevitably come. That it could every time he went on a mission. He was comfortable with his death.

What disturbed him was someone, who was not prepared to lose him, finding him gone suddenly, one day, without warning and unable to cope with the loss, never being able to know where, how or why. With closure never in reach. He did not want to leave behind someone who would grieve his passing. He could not bear the thought of leaving behind a beloved alone. He did not want a beloved to feel the pain of his loss.

Of course his colleagues would mourn, just as Eggsy and Merlin had mourned him when they thought him dead. And now, as he and Eggsy mourned Merlin at his passing. But agents knew what the life of a spy entailed. They were aware and prepared for the sacrifice.

And now here he was. Without ties as he had wanted. He might not be as spry as he was in his twenties, but was still one of the best agents to have ever donned the iconic Kingsman suit. The rigours of the life hadn’t worn him down. Plus, he had decades of experience and knowledge, which at times was even more valuable than physical prowess. However, inevitably, there would come the day when he was not fast enough, his mind not quick enough, his reflexes not immediate enough. When being Harry Hart would not be enough.  

Kingsman would go on without him. Even though he had no heirs, Kingsman would carry on his legacy. If he left someone else behind, outside of their circle, they would have no support to help with the loss. No memorial. Not even a grave to visit if they ever felt alone and needed something physical to represent that he was once a part of their life.

It was a suffering that he did not wish to impose on anyone, let alone someone he loved.

Where did that leave Gwendolyn and himself? The law of averages said that his time would come sooner rather than later and also sooner than hers. She admitted the day she joined them that, like Harry, she was leaving nothing of value behind. If they were to get involved, how would she feel then? Could she face another loss? She was a strong and capable person, one of the strongest that he had ever met. But that was an enormous burden to ask one person to carry. Since she had not officially dedicated herself to Kingsman, the support of the agency was not guaranteed. She was able to operate without a full commitment because he was Arthur and he gave her allowances that in turn gave her the room and space to work in such a way she felt comfortable. It was ironic that commitment made her insecure about her future.

Perhaps her refusal to plan was the same as his refusal to allow anyone to become close to him. A way for them each to hold pain and suffering at bay, whether it be their own or for the ones who could one day love them.

He had dug down far enough into the rabbit hole of “what ifs”. He pulled himself away from his thoughts and dedicated the full of his attention to simply be with her. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin underneath him, the feel of her body against his. She was spent. The intensity of the experience had left her in a state just below consciousness. A rest that was not quite sleep.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slowly drew himself from inside of her. All the while he was still firmly against her, pressing soft kisses to the side of her face and hair. A sigh escaped her lips, but her eyes did not open. He wanted her to know that while he was leaving her in one way, he was still fully present, and that he was with her in another.

As gently as he could manage, he gathered her up. Tucking an arm behind her knees wrapping his other around her back and under her own arm, he lifted her off of his desk and held her to his chest. Her head rested gently in the curve of his shoulder.

With quiet steps, he carried her over to his settee. Her presence, her strength, her skill, made him forget how slight she really was. She felt delicate in his arms. Not a word he would associate with her. Unless he was thinking about the shape of her mouth. One of his first thoughts about her, upon seeing her for the first time, was that her mouth was delicate. She had automatically wrapped her arms around his neck which allowed him to spread a knitted ivory throw over the sofa so she wouldn’t be resting on cold leather. Holding her tenderly, he lowered her onto the blanket. Rolling onto her side, she pulled her knees into her chest and drew her elbows to her knees.  One by one, he unfolded a leg so he could remove one of her heels and roll down a stocking, and then the next. When he was done, she curled up again.

A secure little ball. Her hands made little fists underneath her chin. She looked heartbreakingly beautiful to Harry. Perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen her. Completely natural, and without any shields. No caution, or a look that said she was trying to be strong. Her face was relaxed, without any need to hide an expression she did not want him to read. Her lips were soft. She felt real to him in a way that no other person had before.

He unfolded a second throw, a warm white, which was larger, softer, with a texture like fur and draped it over her entire body from her toe tips that were drawn close to her body, to under her chin so only the glow of her face and the darkness of her hair were visible.  He reached for a pillow for underneath her head. A large one also, with down batting that she could sink into.

Harry knelt down next to her head and simply stroked the side of her face. Making sure that she could feel his presence. She had taken, what was for herself, a great risk, and let herself be vulnerable. She trusted him to guide and protect her and he took his responsibility very seriously. So as long as she was with him and in his space, he would keep her safe. It was an unfamiliar sensation. There were never a great many occasions where he simply desired to just touch a woman in a delicate way, only because he wanted to feel the fragility of her skin, the softness of her hair. It was tender in a way that was both soothing to her, but also for him.

In case she could still hear him, he whispered in a deep, low voice, to make sure she wasn’t alarmed that he might be leaving her alone.

“I will be right back. I’m not going anywhere.”  

He stood up, adjusted himself and walked over to his closet, picking up his shirt and her blouse and skirt and any other articles of clothing were tossed aside on his way there. He removed the rest of his clothing, draping his slacks over the hamper. He pulled on a pair of relaxed drawstring silk trousers meant for lounging and reached for the dark, wine coloured dressing gown along with his slippers. He always had a spare set of essentials kept in his office. Not that he expected to use them for an occasion like this, but one is always best prepared.

He shrugged the robe around him and tied the belt loosely about his waist. He quietly stepped over to the bar and poured a glass of water before returning to Gwendolyn. He set the glass down gently on the end table, on top of a marble coaster. He eased himself onto the sofa, in the space between the top of her head and the arm rest. Feeling him taking a seat with her, she woke up enough to snuggle further up the couch so she could lay her head on his legs. He offered her the glass of water and he held her head as she took a few small sips. After she was finished, she turned to her other side and nestled into Harry’s lap.  He helped her rearrange her pillow and adjusted her blanket so she was comfortable, covered and warm. 

Reaching for a smaller pillow to support his head and neck, he settled in as well. He would rest here with her for the rest of the evening, into the night. Gazing down at her sleeping face, he felt a sudden surge of protectiveness that demanded she never be hurt. He knew it was impossible, but he felt it nonetheless. Kingsman followed the credo that life is only risked to save another. But if faced with a situation where Gwendolyn was in danger, he felt the primal instinct that would drive him to kill or destroy anyone or anything that would cause her harm.

He knew that he would not sleep, but would remain in a state that was rest. Morning would bring whatever it chose to bring. During the time from this moment until the sunrise, he would be with her soley, feel the rise and fall of her chest, the sound of her breath, the weight of her resting on his lap, her stillness when he placed a palm over her hip, or shoulder or hair. Harry would be with her.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 3 HARRY HART FAN FICTION Because they better give him a good story for the last Kingsman. In case they don’t, I wrote something myself.

PART  3

FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

MULTI PART SERIES:(My version of Kingsman 3)

Harry Hart x Original Character

Warnings: Reference to violence

Word Count: 5,000

OVERVIEW: After the events of Kingsman, The Golden Circle, Harry, Eggsy and the rest of the survivors rebuild their agency to it’s former level of integrity. A new player arrives unexpectedly, carrying memories of the past that will change the future of Kingsman.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Gwendolyn, having played her last card, shares a drink with Harry and Eggsy while she tells them who she is, where she came from and why she was spying on them.

------

The Black Prince Public House stood on a quiet corner in South London’s, Kensington. The pub dated back to the early 20th century and its name referred to the road where it stood. The wall were painted a dark forest green with black trim. Its name was displayed in gold. It was the place to go, its sign stated, for FINE ALES AND STOUT, but the three patrons inside, seated at one of the booths at the rear, decided that something a little stronger was appropriate after the evening’s turn of events.

Gwendolyn decided this was a drink she was waiting for her whole life and, therefore, if she was going to “celebrate”, was not the right word, perhaps “commemorate the occasion” was a better term, she was going to do it properly. She had acquired a taste for fine scotch and chose accordingly. She was quite sure the two men were slightly taken aback when she ordered three The Macallan 25’s, neat, for the table. She was fairly certain that this warm, friendly, unassuming neighbourhood pub would not carry The Maccallan M Edition, or the Silver Jubilee, or the Dalmore 64.  so she didn’t inquire, but even the cost of the three glasses would be relatively extravagant. The price wasn’t a concern of hers and she was sure it wasn’t a concern of the Kingsman, whose coffers went deep. She wasn’t beyond offending any gentlemanly sensibilities this evening. They were beyond chivalry. And she wasn’t about to tolerate either of them possibly ordering for her.

The two men regarded her if she were a new species of female. She probably was. There were female Kingsman agents, but they too, followed Kingsman protocol, regardless of gender. The behaviour, actions, mannerisms of all Kingsman were consistent, familiar, reliable, while she was under no such constraints.  If her behaviour this evening was unseemly, “unladylike”, she really couldn’t give a rat’s arse. She was here for a reason and her methods got her job done. Perhaps with less grace and finesse than she was hoping for, but she got her results.

The three short tumblrs of scotch were placed in front of them. It had been a very long time since The Black Black Prince had poured not one, but three from that particular bottle. As it was custom that the host, or hostess for this matter, make a toast and she didn’t yet make a move toward her glass, the two men waited to follow her lead. So now they decide to be polite, she thought.

“Well, then.” she began. She was slightly irritated at their seemingly perfect presentation, at least on Harry’s part. Eggsy was not beyond taking a more relaxed shape and leaned back into the booth. His tie was loosened and his suit coat unbuttoned. His hair slightly mused even though he did not participate in any of the more physical aspects of their evening, as if that was its natural state. He would have shrugged out of his jacket if it weren’t for his shoulder holster.

Harry Hart, returned back to his gentlemanly demeanour, sat straight, but comfortably, his suit and tie still perfectly in place. Even his hair had somehow returned to its initial state, smooth waves brushed back into shape. It made her feel somewhat uncomfortable to see him so poised after the physical contact they had made. She had flipped him over her head, had a knife to his throat, kicked him fairly hard in the shin, and he looked none the worse for wear. Only his expression, equal parts indignant, concerned, and vaguely offended, revealed that anything of interest had occurred.

In contrast, even turning toward him was likely to throw her off balance. A feeling she did not enjoy one bit. Just her quick glance in his direction and she could feel him behind her again, pressing against her, the long line of his legs, the broadness of his chest across her back, the sheer size of him, the smell of his wool suit and the cologne, soap or whatever made him smell so good and she felt a rush of blood rise up to her cheeks. She clenched her jaw and flushed. She was hoping that they would take it for her high emotional state after their confrontation, not the fact that she found herself neatly attracted to a man she only just met and almost twice her age.

His refined manner only made her that much more aware of her own disheveled state. Her hair, a black cloud that had been blown all over, her pedestrian attire, though not unattractive, in no way matched the elegance of their Kingsman suits. No cosmetics, no adornment, not that those elements of her outward appearance were particularly important to her, in the face of their stately masculinity, she felt decidedly unfeminine. And regardless of her feelings, she knew that her looks were as much of a tool for a spy as her words or actions. She convinced herself she wasn’t concerned just because she wanted Harry to find her attractive.

Her personal feelings seeped into her professional persona. She reeled back her thoughts and replaced them with a cool, calm, collected mindset with a specific objective. If she kept her personal feelings at bay now, she could let it all out after her mission was accomplished. She drilled into her brain, be smart now, feel later.

Until she felt differently, she approached this as she would any other meeting of an asset or target. What she needed from the relationship and how could she get them to do what she wanted was just as much about finding out what they needed, and how to make it seem she was giving them what they wanted.  Almost every relationship was based on a desire to be heard and understood. Wants and needs were always self-revealed, unwittingly or intently. She just had to listen.

Unfortunately, for this first meeting, she would be the one doing most of the talking. She knew being genuine, sincere, and honest, would be in her best interest.  The more and better we are heard and understood, she thought, the more we are willing to and want to engage and respond. The sensation of being listened to was a powerful motivator and feeling enhancer to all people, it was human nature.  It was why we befriended those that listened to us, worked for those that heard us, and fell in love with those that understood us.

——

“Well” she repeated, refocusing. She shifted her posture, drew her shoulders back, lifted her head a little higher, and held the space around her. Composing herself just as she would with any new asset would put her back on target. Remember your training.

“I’m sure you have many questions.” She opened up the table.

Harry, as direct as she, got right to the point.

“How are we to trust that you are really Merlin’s daughter? He never spoke of family.”

He folded his hands together, looking stern with a slight narrowing of his eyes, his brow with just a hint of a furrow.

Harry’s eyes roved over her, her posture, hands, the angles of her face. He listened to the inflections of her voice, searching for any tells that might indicate she was being less than honest. He looked for any hint of the tall Scotsman in this young woman. The loss of Merlin was still a wound that was raw. For both he and Eggsy. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone using his death as an excuse, no matter the reason, but especially if it was a false one.

“He wouldn’t have.” She replied bluntly. “

“ How much did you know of Hamish?” She asked.

She emphasised the pronunciation of his given name. Hay-mish.

“That is, before he came to Kingsman.”

The two men glanced at each other, but did not speak. Admittedly, they did not know of Merlin’s past. He never offered, and as gentleman, they never asked. They both knew that spies usually became spies because of something dark and fucked up from their past, and Harry had no doubt this was the same for Merlin. Hence, he never questioned his unwillingness to disclose his life prior to Kingsman. Harry was the same, just as unwilling to divulge his own personal information.

Eggsy, “That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone can say that.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, emphasising the importance of his words. They were low and sharp.

“If you really are who you say you are, then you know that his loss is one that we still feel every day.”

He shot a glance toward Eggsy, who more than anyone, felt the weight of his death.

“We will not condone anyone using his name for their own motives. Have you proof?”

She surveyed them for a moment. She considered her words and chose them with care. Her words were all she had and they carried a heavy weight. They had to be strong enough to deliver the message she was about to send. He eyes moved to her drink, still untouched.  Mindfulness was key. As was paying attention to their responses, observing them with the intent to understand. Through her words, she would see how they felt, what they were thinking, and most of all, what they wanted or needed.

She cleared her throat. She met one pair of eyes and then the other.  She poised herself to say something that, to her, held the utmost honour and importance. She took a deep breath in. At the end of her exhalation, she spoke. Her voice was low as well. Her words were even more powerful for her lack of emotion.

“My father’s favorite song was ‘Country Roads.’ by John Denver.”

The entire room seemed to suddenly quiet with stupefaction.

“My father was singing it, when he stepped off of a land mine to save both of your lives. And to save your mission. For my father, the mission always came first.”

For the two men, this was an impossible statement. No one, set aside Eggsy and himself had that knowledge. Not even other Kingsman.

Harry spoke, this time with frank disbelief. He wasn’t even questioning her. He was asking himself. Out loud. Without his familiar strength and surety.

“That is impossible. There is no possible way you could know that.”

With the same poise, the same simplicity, she explained.

“I was there when he died.” Observing their state of bewilderment, she clarified. “Via satellite and reconnaissance drones.” Which didn’t ease their confusion.

“If you worked with my father, you knew he was a brilliant strategist. He wasn’t merely good, he was gifted. He had the talent of an artist. Some of that talent filtered down to me. I’ll never be as good as he was, but I was good enough to hack the communication band that Statesman had in place for reconnaissance and I had access to audio and visual of the events that led to, and after his death.”

Impossible would never have the same meaning for them again. Because this young woman’s story was utterly impossible. Yet, here it was, an impossible situation.  

She turned slightly toward Eggsy and held his blue eyes with her grey. Her voice took on an undefinable emotion, “I know that he took your place on a land mine, Eggsy.”

And with that confession, he was forced to drop his gaze. Is this how Harry felt when he had to tell him that it was due to Harry’s own mistake that Eggy’s father died? Guilt was physical. It was a crushing weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe.

“I know that he died in the way that he wanted.”

She added with a note of empathy and understanding to slightly ease their guilt and their shock.  

“He was able to give his life for those close to him.”

Neither of the men could think of anything to say. Harry Hart, who was never at a loss for words, found himself unable to find a single word that would be appropriate for a time and situation like this.

Gwendolyn sighed internally. At least now she had their full attention. She was quite certain that she would not be interrupted this time around.

“Perhaps,”  she said. Her voice now carried a softer note. It was not the voice of an agent. It was the voice of a daughter.

“Perhaps, I should start at the beginning”.

“But first.” she paused and picked up her glass, holding her arm out toward the men, the glass in her hand.

Harry and Eggsy, first exchanging a look in the other’s direction, followed suit. Each man took a glass and waited, with the warm golden liquid breaking up the lines of dim light that hovered over their table.

She suddenly felt overcome once more, as she had been when she first stepped off the train and onto the concourse on her arrival. She channeled that emotion into her toast, which was brief and heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Holding up her glass, “To my father, Hamish Mycroft.” She paused. “And to Merlin.”

Each of them held the gaze of the other two as their glasses touched with a light, crisp ring. Each drank back its contents.

——

As three glasses hit the hardwood of the table. Gwendolyn began to speak. Her story was a long and complicated one. And unfortunately, the two men could tell, it would be a sad one. An unknown daughter of a colleague that you’ve known for most of your adult life doesn’t suddenly appear after his death with good news.

“My father, whose given name was Hamish Mycroft, was married. He had three children. Two boys and a girl. I was the youngest.”

The slightly blank, yet confused faces made it seem like she had already given them more information than they could process. She paused, gestured to the barkeep for another round. The scotch would do good to kick in soon, because her story was not going to get any easier.

“Before he had a family, he worked with far east intelligence, recruited after his time in the army, where he had been stationed in Tibet, Bhutan, and other East Asian territories.”

She nodded her thanks to the barman, who delivered their second round of drinks. The scotch should have been savoured, but she felt at the time, a tip back for her father was right, even though he would have been horrified to see her shoot back a scotch of such high quality. This one however, she would sip.

“While he was working as a field operative at the station in Bhutan, he met a very beautiful Bhutanese woman, Evelyn, my mother, who was also working intelligence, but as a handler. Based on their skill assessment, they were assigned to work as a team. They would run missions together. My father as the operative. My mother, his handler. Hence, I myself am half Scottish, half Bhutanese. If you’ve had difficulty pinpointing my ethnicity. It’s not a common pairing.”

“Even though the agency opposed ‘close and continuing’, inter-agency relationships and relationships in general, Hamish believed that he could live a normal life. That he could have a wife and family despite working in intelligence. They were an example of having a successful home life in addition to a successful career and they were very happy for a long time.”

Merlin as a husband and father were the farthest roles that Harry and Eggsy could imagine him in. The brusk, often testy, disagreeable scotsman, with all the warmth of a potato, with a wife and children.

Gwendolyn continued with her story. Pausing after a long stretch for a sip of her scotch, but for the most part, continuously and without any interruption from the two men. They were both a bit stupefied that one of their closest, most respected and trusted colleagues had an entire past of which they had no knowledge.

—

Hamish was smitten at first glance. On Evelyn’s side, it was more appropriate to say that she tolerated his presence . And even that was putting things kindly. Eventually, he was able to win her over with his rough Scottish brogue, his biting sense of humour and dry wit. Underneath the sarcasm and abrupt, even gruff personality, she sensed a very kind soul who possessed a good heart. It was simply being protected by a shield designed to keep people at arms length.

Though as handler and operative, there could be no shields. There could not be even a hairs breadth distance between a team, let alone an arms length. The operative’s life was literally in the hands of the handler. If they weren’t working, existing, breathing as one, it would be only a matter of time until the operative would find himself in a position where he needed his handler, but the handler wouldn’t be able to provide. Or the agent, not fully trusting his handler, withheld crucial information, therefore setting up his handler to fail in the case where he needs life threatening assistance. These relationships often ended in the death of the operative, as he had to fully entrust not only the capability of his handler, but also fully trust the person behind his earpiece. The relationship had to be based, on not only on professional compatibility, but on a personal and emotional connection as well.  Whatever jesting nature, or standoffish front either of them first presented to each other dissolved when they were on mission. The trust was profound. It was scary to know the circumstances they had been through together and how much each of them put their lives in the hands of the other.

Their relationship was highly personal, intense, and emotional. The nature of their relationship was a powerful force behind their choice to be together and to devote their loyalties to a single agency, with a singular mission, to preserve life and to protect the innocent. However, this often resulted in taking out some very bad, very large, very powerful players off the world’s stage. When they both proved themselves more than capable individually, and even beyond exceptional as a team, they were brought on to the Maximum Threat, Maximum Risk Special Operations Division, or MTMR.

The MTMR, only dealt with the worst of the worst, and then the unthinkable of the worst. These were the terrorists, the warlords, those with enough power and influence to bypass almost any law, any treaty and any world decree. Those who would violate human rights and the rules of engagement. They were the worst of the worst, but also the lowest of the low. In their eyes, life was a commodity to be traded, abused or without value and discarded at will. This is what happened when psychopaths achieved power. Without empathy, without a conscious, without a sense of right or wrong or any moral accountability, without any value of life. These were the most dangerous and most difficult enemies to engage. Not only could they commit the most horrible atrocities, they were usually narcissists as well, dynamic, charismatic, even charming. Therefore, their inner circle was comprised of sycophants who provided his narcissistic supply. They eliminated those that were either immune to their charms, or were beginning to understand the true nature of their personality, which was that of a very highly functioning psychopath.

In this division, Hamish did not operate in the field, but joined Evelyn in strategic planning and outcomes. They worked as a team. Hamish, with his knowledge of the field as a Special Operations Officer, possessed the skills to operate weapons and explosives, to take on missions to gather intelligence and destroy targets in hostile environments. He knew the dangers, the variables, the best strategies.

Evelyn provided critical thinking.  She had the ability to predict outcomes, to make the most difficult life and death decisions without hesitation and be a leader to her team . The pair became an invaluable asset to the division. It was proof to them, when the agency acknowledged their value, not as separate agents, not as a handler and operative, but as a team, that they could be in the world of espionage as husband and wife with a family. The agency saw that their success was based on not only their expertise, but BECAUSE of, not despite their relationship. The closeness, the sheer absolute trust that they had in each other, and their love kept them committed to each other and their work. They experienced both a fulfilling family life and successful professional life for longer than anyone could hope for in their line of work.

During their successful tenure in the MTMR Special Ops, one operation took precedence over all others. They were both actively involved, not only in gathering intel, but in the entire intelligence cycle.  First, with planning, identifying possible threats and what they needed to know about the threat with world leaders and decision makers. Collection, which was the division they both began in, the physical collection of target information through operations. Analysis, examining the new information, looking for connections, key points, new developments, and combining it with what they already knew, creating useful and actionable intelligence. Lastly, was Dissemination, where the new intelligence was discussed with politicians and decision makers who then decided whether to take action or if more information was needed.

It was during one of these cycles, where Evelyn and Hamish were assigned as head officers of a mission. It was a mission that resulted from intel that their team had collected, analysed and produced. The target was an international underground world leader, not of any established or recognised government. He threatened to destabilise society. Not through government or any means of authority. He wasn’t targeting positions of leadership. He wasn’t engaging in the trickle down theory. He was starting at the bottom. First, was taking out crops, tainting water supplies, poisoning livestock. He did not bother with small areas. He targeted the largest ones. Locations with the most impact and the widest effect.  Civil unrest was next. Which turned into peaceful demonstrations. Then came active protest. Followed by violent protest. Then it was rioting, looting. And when fear took hold, it was domestic terrorism. He was using the countries own people to destabilise the structure, the foundation of civilisation, which was based on people working together.

Apparently, he was not one to follow the saying, “The fish rots from the head down.” Meaning that without sound leadership, the people will eventually turn bad and die off. When in actuality, the guts, the contents of the fish begins to rot first. Perhaps the warlord followed this philosophy. Corrupt the innovators, the providers, the creators of sustenance, essentially the life givers, and civilised society will begin to rot from, not the head down, but from the inside out.

In conjunction with the US, the British Armed Forces and other key international allies, they were able to coordinate an airstrike. It was successful in so much that they destroyed their enemies home base, their world HQ and well as almost all of their high level leadership. However, they missed their main target. Also on the strike list, was the home of Azal Aamon, which was where he was supposed to be at the time of the strike. His family, wife and two children were to be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable in times of war. But after reviewing the DNA evidence to confirm the targets as deceased, his family was identified, but Aamon’s DNA was not found. No one had knowledge of how he was able to avoid or survive the attack. The last piece of intel that they had verified, was his location at the time of fire.

———

Inside the Black Prince, Gwendolyn paused. She reached for her drink, lifted the glass to her lips, and took a small sip. Harry saw her jaw working as she let the scotch rest on her palate, allowing it to reach all the areas of her tongue so she could appreciate its aromatic notes before she swallowed.  It was a gesture he was familiar with, one that he made every time he enjoyed his own drink, but it was especially interesting to see this decidedly, he was not a sexist in any way, shape or form, but this particularly male gesture take shape on her extremely feminine and delicate face. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. So he simply took her lead and followed suit with a swallow of his own. As did Eggsy, who was leaning forward at this point, his elbows on the table and his tie even more undone, as were the few top buttons of his shirt. Harry as always, remained properly attired.

She looked at both of them, her eyes inquiring, silently asking if they had any questions, if they needed any clarifications, to see if they understood. To confirm that they believed her.

Harry was particularly intrigued. Out of all the coincidences that seemed to be happening, he knew precisely, the mission she was referring to. The British Armed Forces did take part in the Aamon mission and he knew this because he was part of the BAF at that time.  He had been directly involved in the operations side of the mission. How was it possible that he had this experience in common with Merlin and it never came up in conversation? He thought back to the rare times where they would share stories, sometimes while waiting out a mission, or after a successful one, over a drink just like this. He recalled sharing a few stories from his time in the military, but thinking back, could not recall a single instance that Merlin even mentioned his time in the army, or anything really prior his employment with Kingsman. Harry only knew that he had been military. Out of all the possible connections that they had, one of the biggest ones that they shared remained unknown until after his death.

Gwendoyn was regarding him thoughtfully, knowing that he had made some kind of connection or realisation, but she didn’t mention it and he was grateful. He tipped his head, asking her to please continue.

“As you can imagine, this was seen as a failed mission on paper, since they did not terminate their main target. But in many ways it was a huge success. An operation of this scale, with multiple targets on the board, with international military and intelligence coordination, with minimal collateral damage, is typically unheard of, and my parents were honoured to have lead their intelligence division. I’m not sure if Kingsman participates in this particular tradition, but after high risk missions of this nature, officers and operatives, if it is feasible, are offered time off, mostly to decompress. The agency is aware that if their officers and operatives work at that level of intensity for prolonged periods of time, they will burn out. It’s not possible to sustain that level of stress at length without a chance to wind down.”

It was quiet. Gwendolyn has stopped speaking. Harry could see that she was taking time to collect her thoughts again. He wasn’t sure why she needed to. She was recalling a very complicated and personal story with an eloquence, a clarity and a dignity that he respected very much. She wasn’t just reminiscing about a story, reciting history, or a past event. Their comprehension was important to her. This wasn’t about her “getting something off of her chest”. He had the feeling that she could be very happy never having to say any of these words ever again. She wasn’t looking for support or understanding. She was making sure that THEY understood her story. It wasn’t sympathy for her that she wanted. She was looking for absorbtion  Particularly from Harry. Most likely because he had the longest relationship with Merlin. But she was fixing him with a very intense gaze that he was not quite sure what to do with.

Harry already felt a particular sadness. He knew where this story was heading. He might not know the specifics yet, but you didn’t need to be a spy to know there was no happy ending for her. Out of a family that was once a mother, a father, and two brothers, this woman was the only one sitting in front of them. His respect for her was growing with each moment. He was feeling quite sorry now, for treating her so roughly.

She picked up her story, dusted it a little, found where she left off and resumed. Her voice became detached once again, but her words never faltered.

“We were all on break. Because they both got time off, that meant the whole family was on break. It was very rare for us. For the family, for me, those times were very special.  I don’t remember many other times we had that kind of chance. Of course, outings were still agency outings. I was really too small at the time, six, but that was our life. I didn’t know any different then. But my parents, because of their positions, were at high risk for retaliation and we always had protection with us. My brothers and I had protocol, even back then. No speaking to strangers, at all. Never speaking about my parents, never offering any personal information. Never giving out my name. If we were ever to get lost, we were never to ask for them or speak their names. We had one number to call and it was not even theirs. It was the agency’s number, created just for us to have in case of an emergency. There was actually a person whose job it was to be prepared if they ever received a call from us. Very few people, and only those with high security clearance, had information about our family. We were referred to as assets. Not by our names.”

As she continued, The more emotion left her voice, the more matter of fact she became, as she became more composed, more stoic, Harry felt his sadness slowly turn into inevitable dread. He was also aware of the second mission that followed up the first air strike. He was also assigned operations support for the BAF’s involvement. He had heard stories about what had happened at intelligence HQ, but never anything confirmed. If she had been involved in that, it was worse than he thought.

------

Look for future posts :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Feedback, likes and reblogs are always helpful and much appreciated. If you have a chance, would love to hear your thoughts!

[fuckyeahharryhart]

FAN FIC: PART 7 KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

SUMMARY: A familiar face shows up at Kingsman. They discuss the possibility of a new adversary threatening the future of Kingsman.

WORD COUNT: 4800

Might be less developed as other chapters. I suck at plot.

------

A tall, decidedly handsome man pushed open the double doors of Kingsman Tailor Shop and strode in as if he owned the place. It was a possibility not to discount as he was dressed almost identically as the Kingsman agents. However, there was something quite different about this gentleman. His distinction had more to do with his bearing, the way he walked, the way he swaggered and less to do with his black leather cowboy boots and his silver flask belt buckle. Though these deviations from Kingsman’s regulation attire were noted. He seemed to take up more space, even though the shop was empty at the time. He was taller than Eggsy, but not quite reaching the heights of Harry, even with his heeled boots. And while Harry carried himself with a subtle, lean and long masculine grace, this man was robust and brawny. His build was closer to Eggsy’s, broad in the shoulders, strong and sturdy. Just taller. Bigger.

The man paused at the reception desk. Drove the pointed, business end of a Kingsman umbrella, the ferrule, onto the hardwood floor. He clutched the grip with both hands and announced his presence, while planting himself with his cowboy boots a little wider than hips width distance apart.

“Tell ‘em in the back that Agent Tequila’s here.” He hollered.

Aside from the smaller details, his voice was the identifying factor. The man announced his presence with a deep, masculine southern drawl. The accent had the formality of Received Pronunciation, but with a twist from across the pond.

He was Agent Tequila, from the United States. He arrived at Kingsman London to assist after the events of The Golden Circle depleted the Kingsman’s ranks. And because Champagne “Champ”, the head of Statesman, their U.S. counterpart, believed some time spent with the good ‘ole boys of Kingsman would add a little class and sophistication to the rough around the edges, but otherwise adept agent.

Tequila, on the other hand, regarded this stint as an opportunity, if not to corrupt the ranks of Kingsman, at the very least, shake ‘em up a bit. Loosen ‘em up. It didn’t have to be suits and ties ALL the time.

His own reflection caught his eye in one of the dressing mirrors and he gave himself a wink. He did have to admit that he carried the suit well and he did look mighty damn fine.  

Not a bad toss up for being a little less comfortable in his Levis and his snap button shirts. He did find himself missing his cowboy hat. The rounded felt hat from the London hat-makers Thomas and William Bowler, felt stuffy and small compared to his Stetson. Granted, it did have an older history in 1849, compared to 1865, but not by much. He was assured that the bowler, in conjunction with the rolled brolly, what they called an umbrella, was the look of a proper city gentleman. He still figured southerners could hold their own when you got right down to it. In the meantime, as long as they didn’t put a bur in his saddle, everything should be fine as paint. No sale on the cowboy boots and the belt buckle. Getting citified only went so far. But otherwise, he reckoned, when in Rome.

The door to one of the dressing rooms swung open and Eggsy stepped out. An odd place to be waiting, seeing that he wasn’t with a client. How the hells long as he been in there, he thought.

Tequila lifted a chin in his direction.

“Well, you got here faster than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition -”

He cut himself off when a second person followed him out of the room. Not a client, curiously, but a young woman he had never seen before. Her attire was similar to Kingsman agents, but not exactly. She was dressed in a slim skirt and suit set, a navy Prince of Wales check. Just as their suits were cut to fit a man’s shape, hers was cut to enhance the lines of a more feminine figure. Just as precise, just as exacting. Rather than a men’s dress shirt, she wore a feminine silk blouse with ruffled detailing. Rather than a tie, she had a silk scarf of the same pattern tied around the low bun holding her hair. Her black patent Mary Janes gave another several inches to her already tall height. She made really quite the fetching picture.

Well, there go my manners, Tequila thought.

Eggsy decided it was in all of their best interests if he took care of the introductions, just in case the brash southerner was about to come up with something that sounded slightly insulting. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his particular curious vernacular just yet. And Eggsy didn’t trust him enough not to say something offensive.

“Agent Tequila, I would like you to meet Gwendolyn Mycroft.” he gestured to the woman who stood next to him, “She is one of Kingsman’s newest additions.”

“Gwendolyn, this is Agent Tequila, he is part of Statesman, our equivalent agency based in the United States. I believe you are familiar with it.”

Eggsy stopped himself. He didn’t quite think it was an appropriate time or in good taste to mention she knew Statesman because she hacked into their computer’s mainframe and then watched her father die.

Gwendolyn held out her hand politely, with an inscrutable expression. It was the way she greeted all unknowns until she was able to form her opinion.

“Pleasure to meet you, Agent Tequila.” she responded properly.

Eggsy wanted to cringe when he saw Tequila take her hand and promptly kiss the back of it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Mycroft.” He drawled. Gwendolyn began to pull her hand back a fraction before he let it go. If she was amused or offended by his gesture, she didn’t let it show.

At least it wasn’t a double air cheek kiss, Eggsy thought. He continued. “Agent Tequila is also here to help us establish the foundation of the new Kingsman.”

Tequila, in Gwendolyn’s direction. “I guess you’re here to do the same.”

Her expression still hadn’t shifted. But her eyes had yet to leave Agent Tequila’s face.

Eggsy spoke for her. “Yes, she is also helping in Field work, Strategy as well as Research and Development.”

“Well don’t you sound as smart as all get out.” Tequila said as a compliment. “Why don’t you join us while Eggsy gives me a tour of this joint?”

Eggsy noticed that Gwendolyn’s expression had not changed a single bit since she first saw the agent from the south. And with Tequila pouring on more charm than usual, he was sure it was going to make for an interesting time at Kingsman. As he invited the agent to take a tour of the shop, he was suddenly very glad that he was married.

——

With the financial support of their new Kingsman distillery and additional backing from Statesman, they were able to begin the rebuild of the shop, ancillary locations and warehouses, though it would still be years until they were able to match the previous Kingsman’s massive collection of artillery, technology, and properties. Kingsman had been steeped in history. Many objects of historical significance they had lost were irreplaceable. But its complete destruction allowed them the opportunity to separate the wheat from the chafe, the good from the bad, to let go of archaic traditions that no longer held significance or value, and prioritise where their main focus should lie.

Reconstructing the Kingsman’s front was one of those top priorities. The tailor shop was running smoothly again, fashioning first rate bespoke menswear as it had prior to the explosions. Kingsman agents were supplied with new suits with fresh bulletproof lining. A new collection of accoutrements accompanied each agent. They prioritized the shop,  as well as rebuilding their armoury and weapons cache.

As long as the agents had their Kingsman armour and the accessories that completed the look, they were mission ready. The rest would be replaced in time. Historical buildings and 100 year old scotch couldn’t protect the world from all the horrible things men did to each other. It was the knights, the brave and honourable men and women that made up the ranks of Kingsman, that would carry on the ultimate mission of their organization, to uphold peace and protect life.

The Kingsman suit didn’t make the man, but the agents definitely embodied the suits as well as every gentleman spy should.  And being a gentleman spy was a matter of being four things. They were polite. They were courteous. They were well mannered. And they had a plan to kill everyone in the room at any given time.

———-

Gwendolyn’s appearance came, by chance, at the most fortuitous moment. While a drive-by shooting was not the most elegant tactic to remove players from the board, if done properly, it was effective. Fast and fatal with little fuss.  With less chance for blowback, but common enough where the news of a drive by shooting was not likely to stir the interest of the authorities other than to increase patrol and warn residents to take precaution.  

Most likely this kind of shooting would be treated as an anomaly. An unfortunate, one-of incident. It also kept agencies such as theirs, from raising alert to a possible threat.

The modus operandi of low life thugs and gangs that did not have enough sophistication for tradecraft, drive-by shootings usually had three purposes, as a warning, to take out a rival, or an initiation of a new member. It was doubtful that Kingsman was the target of a local gang. But sometimes gangs freelanced for those with more power.

Gwendoyn mentioned that it was quite possible that whomever or whatever wanted them out of the picture had outsourced or contracted the job. It would pose even less risk for the controlling party. On the other hand, anytime an organization no longer took care of wet work “in-house” there was always the possibility for indiscretion, for leaks. There was no honor amongst thieves for these kinds of criminals. The only means to motivate them was either through money or power or the fear of losing both.

If this adversary wanted Kingsman off the board, they had power and influence that went deep. Eggsy mentioned if they were able to identify both Harry and himself, have access to their schedule and whereabouts for any given day, that meant they had the resources for hi-tech surveillance. Setting up counter-surveillance should take precedence.

Not necessarily, Gwendolyn had pointed out. Sure it was time consuming and repetitive, but she was able to surveil the same, determine the same schedule, gather the same intel just by physical reconnaissance. Even though she had been a near constant presence for two weeks, she had not raised any suspicions. She was there, expecting Harry and Eggsy, just as the vehicle was. There was no sense setting up hi- tech counter surveillance if the adversary wasn’t using high technology surveillance to begin with.

Sometimes, low-tech, low-fi, the least expected method was the one that was used BECAUSE of it’s near obsolescence.  Gwendolyn emphasized that they shouldn’t rely just on tech to determine who the enemy was. Curious since one of her main strengths was in tech, but her father had always emphasised not to let her talents and skills become a crutch. A good agent looked at all angles of a problem, not just the angle that gave her the best view.

The Golden Circle left a large void in the criminal world that needed to be filled. Luckily, for Kingsman, that meant a lot of in-house fighting and attempts to gain power. Deals and alliances were made and broken. Backs were stabbed. Retribution was had. As challenging as it was to broker a deal in legitimate business matters, it was exponentially more risky when you were dealing with individuals who robbed, lied and killed for a living.

——

On an average London afternoon, slightly cloudy and overcast, with an occasional peek of sunshine through the clouds, Kingsman debated matters of life and death.

They were all seated at the long table in the new dining room, discussing the new threat. The table consisted of Gwendolyn, Agent Tequila, Galahad Sr. and Galahad Jr. They really had to do something about those codenames. But apparently, the name had significance to both Harry and Eggsy and neither of them was ready to give up the handle.

Ever since the betrayal of long-standing agents in both organizations, Chester King, the Arthur that betrayed Harry and Kingsman, and the discovery of Agent Whiskey as a traitor in Statesman, and of course, the destruction of Kingsman and all of its agents, they were taking more care of who was on a need to know basis.  In this case, the circle was a small one. Harry and Eggsy, since they were the targets, Gwendolyn for obvious reasons, and Agent Tequila, whose fresh eyes might be able to discern nuances they had overlooked. It was just as well the group was small. The other remaining active Kingsman were all in the field on other assignments. Everyone was having to do more with less.

Gwendolyn was seated at the head of this small gathering, not that she was taking up the mantle of Arthur. Since she was present at the time of the shooting, had reconnoitred the area and had the most actionable intel so far, she was assigned monitor for this little conference.  It was one of her first times leading a meeting at Kingsman. Herding cats seemed suddenly very relatable.  She was never one to be nervous or doubt her abilities, but the presence of three alpha males, each with strong personalities and convictions, two whose lives could depend on the conversation, kept her at the top of her game.

They were discussing the possibilities when Gwendolyn surmised.

“The way I see it, we are all agreed this was not a random shooting.”

Harry nodded. With his brow drawn together in concentration,  he was listening intently. Eggsy, twiddling his pen, was still pissed that they hadn’t even had a chance to return fire at the tossers. Agent Tequila was staring at Gwendolyn, throwing her a wink every time she glanced in his direction.

She chose to ignore everyone except Harry.

She was cautious not to let her gaze rest on him too long. Despite their evening together in the lounge, Harry treated her exactly the same as he always had. Helpful and kind. Still critical in moments where he knew she could do better. Supportive when he needed to be. He didn’t distance himself in any way. He was comfortable at her side, lightly touching her shoulder, her hand, her back when it was appropriate. If anything, she was modifying her own behaviour. She was careful not to touch him first or stand too close.  If she knew he was nearby or heard his footsteps, with his stride long and purposeful, her body would tense and her heart would beat faster as he approached.

If her eyes wandered and accidentally caught his gaze, he would throw her a wink and the tiniest hint of a smile before she had the chance to look away.  This new twinkle was the only change that she noticed. She had to struggle not to blush every time she saw it. She was determined not to blush in front of these three agents. She spoke clearly and with authority.

“This was a very specific attempt to hit very specific targets. In cases where low-fi is used, it is typically implemented when the actual adversary is either extremely powerful, well known, or technologically advanced, perhaps all three and therefore, wants to avoid using their own resources so they can remain unknown.”

“What about catching the perps?” suggested Eggsy, who still wanted to deliver a job to the face to someone, at the very least.

“The chances of apprehending the actual shooters is slim, but we can still approach that angle.”

She thought for a moment, then added.

“Perhaps we can give them an incentive to inform on their employer. However, I’m sure they have been threatened in the extreme to NOT cooperate with anyone seeking their information. In any case, we may be wasting time looking at a dead end.”

Her father had always looked at the bigger picture and she concentrated on doing the same.  

“What I find most suspicious, is the lack of direct, beneficial outcome resulting in the elimination of the targets.”, she said seriously. She was searching for the improbable.

“Thanks, yeah, for putting it so warmly.” Eggsy said, vaguely amused.

She raised her eyebrows a him, shaping her face into someone that should not be interrupted.

Agent Tequila offered his view point. It wasn’t very helpful, either.

“Seems like someone just wants to get rid of Kingsman. That’s one long ass streak of bad luck.” He shook his head. “Sorry boys, it looks like ya’ll got a lot of folks who wanna see you go down.”

Gwendolyn circled the conversation back to the topic at hand.

“What I mean is, what’s the goal?”

“Eh, to kill us, obviously.” Eggsy said pointedly, looking at the others for agreement. He leaned back in his chair. He assumed that was evident.

“Of course.” Gwendolyn explained with more patience than she felt.

“That’s the action.” She added, questioning, “What is the equal and opposite reaction that they are expecting to achieve?”

She focused on Harry and Eggsy.

“The two of you are obviously integral to Kingsman, but as someone who has been part of the beating heart of these kinds of agencies, they’re going about it the wrong way.”

“How so?” asked Harry. At least he was being encouraging.

“If your goal is to disable an organization, you don’t get rid of the players in the field.” She explained.

“You take out a source of power, such as information, communications. You wipe out their computer system, or target their armoury, or drain their funds. If you are going to take someone off the board, you take out the person who controls access. Sabotage. Make them inoperable, so that no matter how many men they have, no matter how large their army, they are not able to fight. They no longer have means of support.”

At the mention of sabotoge, armoires, wiping out systems, the other two men listened to her with increasing interest.

“That leaves the adversary free to continue their illegal activities without interruption. Not having to deal with threats gives them more resources for whatever generates them money and or power.”

“Not to offend, but after the beating the agency took after V-Day and the absolute knock out from The Golden Circle, most of your efforts have been on regrouping, rebuilding, reestablishing Kingsman’s presence. Kingsman has been mostly laying low. If you were on a revenge list, or you had an enemy that wanted to destroy Kingsman for good, that would have been the most opportune time. While the agency was at its weakest.”

She paused, making sure the men were both paying attention and following her train of thought. Her mind was working on all the possibilities. Experience told her that this was not a simple case of retribution. She was narrowing in on her point.

“Taking out two random agents - “

Eggsy drew back his head and balked, “Beg your pardon. Random?”

Even Harry looked vaguely offended.

Male egos, Gwendolyn thought.

“No offence meant of course. But, ultimately, when you get to the crux of it, in the end you are both agents. Exceptional agents, without a doubt. But taking out two agents, without a focused skill that the organisation’s structure relies on, has no point.”

“Unless,” she said, “that IS the point.”

Now the three agents all had the similar look of confusion on their faces. Three sets of furrowed brows and narrowed eyes turned toward her for clarification.

“Assassination.” She arrived at her point and from here, she was thinking out loud as much as presenting them with information.

Harry was intrigued and nodded slightly to himself. Eggy looked equally surprised and thoughtful. Even Tequila stopped looking at her as if she were a county fair ride he wanted to hop on and started to look involved.

“Assassination has two main purposes. To take out a political figure, a head of state, to disrupt the flow of command. Or, to demoralise the people under their leadership. In your case, you’ve already lost your head of state twice in the past two years.”

She turned to Harry.

“Harry, you’re not even officially Arthur. In fact, Kingsman is yet to designate a permanent head of state. Eliminating that position would do little to disrupt your chain of command. That logic is flawed.”

She continued to clear her path of reasoning, sifting the crucial from the non-essential.

“What’s left?” She asked.

“To demoralise the soldiers?” She made a point of looking around at the empty chairs.

“What soldiers? Most of your agency was destroyed, the agents killed. There are only a handful of working agents who are all out in the field. Most of them are not even in contact until their mission is complete. I have the feeling that we could all be blown up again and those agents would just continue on with their daily operations.”

“That’s lovely.” murmured Eggsy.

“It’s true, though.” Harry said in support.  Most of the agents in the field, the few that they had, were more than capable of handling their missions on their own with little support from HQ.

She leaned back into her chair until they were all awaiting her to continue. Assassination, was an interesting motive, aside from the actual killing and dying aspect.

“Another reason for an assassination,” she was honing the idea in her mind as she was speaking,  “Is to show the power of the organisation behind the killing.”

Her eyes narrowed as she circled her conclusion.

“I believe this was a show.” Her voice was low, secure with her words. Not too dissimilar from a gang initiation ritual, she thought.

“I theorise that this was an attempt of an organisation who has newly arrived into power. They are solidifying their new position by making a statement and asserting dominance over their rivals.”

The men began to shift in their seats, uncomfortable at the thought of a new powerful adversary.

“Please, gentleman. Hear me out.”

At the sound of being addressed gentleman, all three agents straightened up and, with respect, gave Gwendolyn their attention. There were some benefits of being a lady in a room full of men.

“What both of you are,” she said, speaking to both of the Galahads, “is venerated in the intelligence community and feared by the network of criminals around the world.”

She turned toward the younger, brash agent by Harry’s side. “Eggsy, you almost single handedly took out Richmond Valentine and stopped V-Day from being the world catastrophe that it could have been.”

He shrugged, a rare show of modesty for him. Though Gwendolyn had an inkling that he was being facetious. The shrug was more in the lines of “Who, what? Me? Nah, it was nothin.”

Now she turned to the older of the two. Fully engaged in the subject matter, Gwendolyn did not let her eye contact falter this time.

“Harry is part of spy lore now. Let all alone all that he’s done in the course of his career. And then to have survived Valentine’s bullet to the face? Essentially cheated death and to return in time to thwart the largest global hostage situation in history? With Eggsy? Of course, all missions are covet. Classified.  But word gets around through underground channels. For those on either side of good or evil. They must be aware of your existence. They’ve heard of your missions. They might not know exactly who you are, but apparently someone does.”

Harry, in his own dignified manner, accepted the compliments as a matter of fact.

“After the collapse of the Golden Circle, what better opportunity for those in the underworld to try to make a grab for power? It was all of their infighting that allowed you the time and space to rebuild. It seems like their restructuring is in place. Now, whoever has filled the void, needs to establish the new pecking order.  What better way than to take out the two most recognisable agents from one of the oldest, most respected agencies?” She asked the men rhetorically.

Gwendolyn knew what action needed to be taken.

“We need to know who the new power players are.” She said firmly.

The timing was outstanding. “Now what is the be all and end all, of all Galas?  Where only the richest, the most famous, and the most powerful go to see and be seen. THE event that not only national governments around the world use to network, but also the leaders that work underground, through less legitimate channels?

Harry and Eggsy looked at each other. They came to the same conclusion.

“The Monarch’s Ball.” They both said.

“Exactly.” Gwendolyn said emphatically.

“Sounds like a party.” Agent Tequila added.

This time, Harry, Eggsy and Gwendolyn confirmed simultaneously.

“It is.”

----

Thanks for hanging in there! Some chapters may be better than others....

[fuckyeahharryhart]

If you’ve been reading my fanfics, this is my original female characters wardrobe.

Her name is Gwendolyn.

She doesn’t have a code name yet.

She is Merlin’s secret daughter from his life before Kingsman when he was still Haymish Mycroft.

She grew up on her own at a secret branch of Kingsman.

She is also a badass spy who takes after her parents. Her mother, who was Bhutanese, was also a spy and was Haymish’s handler.

After the death of her father, she went to London to take her father’s place. 

SPOILER ALERT: She makes it with Harry Hart, because of course she does.

Imagine Merlin + the Queen of Bhutan = Gemma Chan

(who IRL is half Scottish! What?!)

FanFic link on home page:

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 5 FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

Summary: Harry Hart reminisces about his own military past with the British Armed Forces. He recalls the tenent that enabled him to survive as a member of the22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces.

WORD COUNT: 3377

Notes: These later chapters have had less time to plan - kind of literally trying things on to see what fits... :)

-----

In person, Harry Hart was also a man who had to make impossible decisions under unrelenting pressure. He had done it many times, during his time in the British Armed Forces, not just Kingsman. Many thought him to be cold and unfeeling in these instances. But even within these circumstances, he was still Harry Hart. Brave, dependable, strong and honourable. He was an advocate, a protector, an anchor. A rock within the Kingsman agency. Everything a mentor and leader should be. If fellow agents found themselves more and more often at his side, they would catch themselves beginning to wonder about the man who wore the impeccably tailored suit. The man behind the smooth, deep, steady voice. About the man himself. The man whose code name was Galahad.

He was an agent that lived up to his handle.  It was a noble name. Courageous. A name for a figure renowned for his gallantry and purity. A name bestowed upon the most perfect of all knights. It befitted him.

Harry was a gentleman through and through. It was impossible for him to be anything else. He was not only a gentleman in traditional terms, an upholder of chivalry, civility, well-mannered and unerringly polite. He was also a gentle man. This would seem incongruous with his work. However, it was part of the reason he was exceedingly good at his job. As soon as the work was done, the target neutralised, the mission complete, he let it all go. Letting any hardness or indifference fall away. Completely. He consistently put his life and the lives of others on the line, many times in very unpleasant circumstances, to say the least. To maintain a sense of balance, to maintain his sanity, not to speak of his humanity, the moment he took off his glasses, he was no longer Agent Galahad, he was Harry Hart.

Deadly assassins were not typically regarded as gentle. But Harry was not by nature a violent man. Neither was he destructive or combative, unlike many of his contemporaries who were drawn to the work because of its brutal nature. Harry was a Kingsman agent because he believed strongly in their purpose to uphold the good and protect the innocent, but also because he was just exceptionally good at the work. The art of spy craft and engagement. Exceedingly good. Disconcertingly good. In the same way one might be a talented piano player, or dancer or an artist. Like Gwendolyn mentioned, it was part a part of him.

He never questioned these skills. He considered them as natural to his character as his height or his brown eyes. He lived them for the majority of his life. He applied them in a manner that would best serve himself and the greater good.

Though he never spoke of it, most of his experience prior to Kingsman, he received during his training and deployment in the British Armed Forces. When he left the military, he was an officer of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces, a highly trained and specialised division of the British Army.

If Kingsman was the buffer that had honed and polished Harry Hart into the refined gentleman agent he was today, the SAS was chisel that first carved the man out of the potential stone. The SAS Special Forces had much in common with Kingsman.  Special operations were already a part of his lifestyle. Much like the agents of Kingsman, the men of SAS were especially designated, organised, selected, trained and equipped. They utilised unconventional techniques and modes of employment.

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment was responsible for covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, unconventional warfare and hostage rescue. Much of the information and actions regarding the SAS were highly classified, and were never commented on by the British government nor the Ministry of Defence due to the sensitivity of their operations. For Harry, discretion was not just advised, it was demanded.

He operated behind enemy lines, avoiding direct combat and detection by the enemy. He led commando operations, highly mobile , highly intense surprise raids. His role frequently involved covert direction of air and missile attacks, in areas deep behind enemy lines, placement of remotely monitored sensors and guerrilla operations.

The similarities only went so far. SAS utilised more traditional weapons of combat and warfare, riffles, machine guns, flash bangs, grenades. Whereas Kingsman had the freedom to me more creative, or constraints that made it necessary for additional ingenuity with it’s artillery, often fashioning gentlemanly accessories into lethal weapons. The SAS formal dress khaki uniforms weren’t as stylish and well tailored as Kingsman’s suits, but he did note that as SAS, the cap badge on his sand coloured beret depicted a downward pointing Excalibur, a sword wreathed in flames. Perhaps the sword was a foreshadow of his future as one of the twelve Kingsman’s knights.

If any of his colleagues were to know of his history with the SAS, the would probably respond with confusion. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe Harry Hart to to have the necessary skills. It was that they couldn’t imagine, their stylish, debonair, perfectly appointed quintessential gentleman secret agent in any other role other than Galahad. They were much more familiar with Harry in a Kingsman suit, taking out thugs with his weaponised brolly, rather than the iconic black overalls and the S6 British Army respirator of the SAS, carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5A3, or a C8 Carbine assault rifle, as well as any other item or weapon he might need in battle.

For those agents that were employed long enough with Kingsman, or heard stories passed around the years, it was suspected that Harry was a part of the Counter Revolutionary Blue team for Operation Nimrod during the Iranian Embassy siege. In 1980, from April 30th for a period of 6 days, a band of six heavily armed men overtook the Iranian Embassy in London. 26 people were held hostage. On the last day, after days of unsuccessful negotiations, the gunmen executed a hostage and threw his dead body from the Embassy windows. On that day, the SAS, implemented Operation Nimrod by abseiling from the roof of the embassy and breaking the windows for entry. The raid was over in just over 15 minutes. They were able to rescue all but one hostage and killed all but one of the six hostage takers. No one could confirm whether he had been involved or not. No one had the nerve or balls to ask Harry directly.

The last time Harry was on a mission of similar nature, was the capture of Falcon, a terrorist in the Middle East. He, Merlin and their recruits at the time, James and Lee, fast roped into enemy territory.  Fast roping, also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System (FRIES), was a technique for descending a thick rope to access difficult locations by air. It useful for Kingsman to deploy agents into enemy territories where their helicopter could not touch down. Unfortunately, that was the mission where Harry’s mistake cost Eggsy’s father’s life. That was the last time anyone ever saw the sight of Harry in a combat jumpsuit and respirator for a mission.

“Who Dares Wins.” It was the motto of the SAS unit of the British Army Special Forces. During his time in the service, this motto was the catalyst for many dangerous operations. In regards to Kingsman, he also found it appropriate as spies weren’t in the business of truth.

The selection for the Special Forces was as brutal as Kingsman recruitment, just in different ways.They would, however, fight for the title of the most dangerous job interview in the world. SAS selection was reported to be one of the most demanding military training courses in the world with a pass rate of less than 10%. It was a six-month test of strength, endurance, and resolve over the Brecon Beacons and Elan Valley in Wales, and in the jungle of Belize. With SERE Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape training to be the most psychologically challenging aspect. A Kingsman recruit had a one in 12 chance of securing said spot. It was also a test of strength, endurance and resolve mostly over the land and sky of London and the surrounding country side. It also included some fairly challenging psychological tests including one with a train tunnel with a false floor and another with a puppy and a gun. Many candidates failed out at this point. It took about the same amount of time.

In the field, he was indispensable. His experience in the military prepared him for life as a spy. He was exceptional at nearly every aspect of being an agent as he was as a soldier. Harry was able to fit seamlessly into Kingsman’s ranks because he already had specialised skills and experience. He was a highly-trained operative, specialised in sufficiency, stealth, speed, and tactical coordination. If there was a man designed to be a Kingsman agent, Harry Hart would be that man.

——

He did not get any enjoyment from destruction, violence or bloodshed. However, he was not opposed to participating or even instigating moments of sheer mayhem. During the course of his time at Kingsman, he had obliterated many targets and had amassed a shockingly high body count. He didn’t carry any guilt or blame, nor did he celebrate the bloodshed that resulted in their victory over a target. Harry simply accepted violence as part and parcel to the work of a Kingsman agent. To be limited, when possible, though, not altogether unavoidable.

Emotions played an important role in how he operated in life, in the greater world around him. Emotions were a path to a deeper understanding of one’s self and one’s relationships with others. They motivated one’s actions or inactions.  Feelings, along with survival instincts were key to one’s decision making processes. But when there was too much or when the emotion was overwhelming, as it could be in extreme cases of conflict or in the chaos of combat, it could make a soldier dysfunction. One of the tenets that had allowed him to not only survive, but to thrive in the military was “be smart now, feel later.”

Part of his success in the SAS was due to his ability to “switch off” his emotions on-demand in moments of chaos or conflict; combat, crises and other high stress activities, basically his entire time in service. He carried this over to his work at Kingsman. His ambivalence allowed him to remain cool, composed and collected in some very unnerving, seemingly impossible situations. In these instances, when other agents might panic, freeze, or be blinded by outrage, fall victim to their own anger and lose control, time would almost freeze for Harry. Allowing him very few precious moments to hyper focus on every minute detail of the circumstance they faced. His senses would sharpen, his mind would calm, his heart rate would slow and remain steady and even. His mind would become a blank slate where every piece of information crucial to their survival was at his fingertips. Irrelevant information fell by the wayside. Emotion was set aside. Sentimentality had no place. Feelings were insignificant.

Agents who accompanied Harry on the field and found themselves is one of these dire situations, would attest to this severe, drastic, unyielding and unfamiliar Agent Galahad. Someone who could evidently act without regard for their safety, well-being, or even survival. At times, even purposely placing them in even more danger or putting another agents lives on the line as if they were inconsequential to him. He would act as if it was nothing to leave behind an injured agent if it could protect the mission. It was as if they were as insignificant to him as an empty clip, a weapon that no longer had any use to him. To be discarded and tossed aside. During these times, Harry would be the cold, dispassionate, ruthless killer that was his reputation.

It was in these hard, stone-faced moments, where he fell into a meditative state or even hypnotised himself in the matter of seconds. Sometimes, only a split second was needed for him to see the solution, the way out, the answer that would get them out of what seemed like a “death and death” situation.

Emotions defined his humanity. But it also could get in the way when he needed to be operative. Thus, on occasion, he had to defer his humanity and be cold and analytical in the field, just as he had been in battle.

In these crucial moments, he needed to see all his available choices and not just what his state of emotions gravitated toward. The more severe an emotional response was expected from any given situation, the more likely it could negatively impact his ability to resolve a difficult task, complication or crisis.

Occasionally, that solution had to disregard his agents humanity, for that sentimentality would surely cloud his judgement, make him hesitate or doubt himself at the most critical moment. They could no longer be considered friends, or even colleagues. It was necessary to strip them of their identity, regard them without pity or remorse. As collateral damage. How hard would it be to achieve this state with family or loved ones, he thought. It was in these times that pure logic had to drive his actions and not be directed by his emotions.

Emotional detachment meant that he could focus and think clearly and act with precision in matters of life and death.

In these moments, there was space in his mind for nothing else except the situation at hand. And without fail, often past the point of all hope lost, no more options, no more cards to play, he would act in a manuever that was incomprehensible to them. Unthinkable. A tactic unfathomable and impossible for anyone else but Harry. Everyone, even the agent he seemingly had no problem disregarding, would come out alive. Often disbelieving, shell-shocked, nerves shot, not unscathed. Confused and outraged. But alive. Agents who experienced this side of Harry Hart, while they continued to admire and respect him, their esteem would now also carry a touch of reverence, incredulity, and awe.

Soldiers and agents not personally involved or had no emotional interest in their work, were able to perform their jobs better. It was a form of professional detachment.

It was not that he was unfeeling. Quite the opposite. It was as if he felt too much. His ability to remove and distance himself from situations was one of the main reasons he was so successful as an agent and continued to be so. Without this survival skill, the inevitable, at times, devastating losses he had faced, and would no doubt face in the future, would break even a better man. Though one would be hard pressed to find a man better than Harry.

What was seen as dispassionate, emotionless indifference was a preservation mechanism, designed to fiercely safeguard and defend a singularly compassionate soul, with a deep reverence for human life, and an immeasurable capacity to love.

But he had never been put in as difficult a position as Merlin.

———

There were not many stories that affected Harry on both a personal and professional level, but in terms of having a difficult past lead you down the path of becoming a spy, he found hers to be the most compelling. He was, not only impressed by her skills as an agent, he was moved by her emotional resilience, fortitude, courage, and most of all, like she said her mother had, her grit.

This was a young woman, whose odds were not just against her, they were set up for her to fail and fail hard. Who was able to overcome the most brutal experiences that anyone can face, let alone a child, and come out, not only adjusted, but stronger for her experience. The last time he had witnessed such strong will and raw, natural talent, was Eggsy.  And Eggsy’s father.

He sensed what she was going to ask. What would be the ramifications if she were to join Kingsman? They could certainly use the manpower. Their ranks had been severely depleted since the Golden Circle. Merlin’s expertise and guidance was missed almost as much as they missed the man himself. He understood why Merlin, Hamish, sent her away. A constant reminder of not only the lives he lost, but also the terrible way they were taken from him. A reminder of the life he had sacrificed so much for. The constant fear for her safety. Every time she was out in the field, wondering if he had to prepare for another situation like his wife. For Harry and Eggsy, she would always be a reminder of the friend they lost and the sacrifice he made.

He softened. How would it be, to have everyone send you away because your presence would only be a painful reminder of loss?

Eggsy turned to face him, looking absurdly forlorn as well. Like she was a lost puppy that he wanted to keep.

She smoothed her hair away from her face, brushing the length of it behind her while she squared up her shoulders.

She spoke frankly. “You are the last link that I have to my father. I want to take his place.”

When neither of them replied. She added plainly.

“You clearly have some issued that need to be addressed.” Referring to the car with the shooters and that someone was actively trying to kill them.

“It looks like you could use the help.”

Harry, in his most grave and serious voice, a voice that made even Eggsy straighten up.

“This decision on your part, should not be taken easily or lightly.” He watched her intently. He leaned forward to emphasis his point. “Do you understand all of the ramifications of your choice? You could find yourself in the exact same situation you were in when you were a child. Is that a possibility you can handle?”

Also leaning forward, she matched the seriousness of his tone.

“I have no family, no connections, no ties. I have nothing of value that can be used against me. I’m a trained and experienced agent. I was raised Kingsman and there is nothing of your organization that has been hidden from me. I understand very well.”

Not anything of value now, Harry thought. But considering the future? Yet Harry himself was of the same mentality as Merlin and his wife. Nothing came out of acting now for an eventuality that may never materialise.

There was silence from the two men. She certainly wasn’t going to plead or beg. She had done her part. She told her story. If they couldn’t recognise her value, she would leave right then and there.

She tried to hide her sarcasm, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. She leaned back into her booth, crossed her arms over her chest. With a bit of added confrontation.

“I’ve just saved your lives. What else do I have to do to prove myself?”

Harry contemplated. Eggsy contemplated the same. Even though they didn’t know what the other was thinking, they were both thinking the same. We are agreed. For Merlin.

Harry faced her again and with all of nobility, chivalry and honour that was based on centuries of tradition. “Welcome to Kingsman.”

Gwendolyn, in equal measures of dignity and respect. “Thank you.”

Now that was done, she thought, with a little more drama than she expected, but it had all been manageable.

“So it seems we have a problem. How can I help?”

And with that simple question, Gwendolyn found herself within the ranks of Kingsman.

----

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Comments, suggestions feedback always welcome and appreciated. Even if it's just to say Hi!

[fuckyeahharryhart]

PART 4 FAN FIC KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

SUMMARY:Gwendolyn continues to tell Harry and Eggsy her story about Merlin and her family.

WORD COUNT: 5,750

WARNINGS: Violence, non MC death.

NOTE: Again, this is backstory that I'm not sure is needed in the final edit. It's still a direct narration from Gwen, but is just a way for me to get her backstory out, account for the missing time, and how she got her skills. I'm afraid that it got too melodramatic....

I still need to find a better way to work it into the whole format of the story. 

------

They were on a family picnic, a very rare opportunity for them. It was a simple occasion. A clearing in front of a meadow of tall grasses and flowers. White clouds floating in a blue sky and butterflies. She didn’t know if they actually saw butteries, but her memory of the day had butterflies.  She remembered it being a particular treat. She remembered feeling happy. And feeling loved. Looking back, it always had to happen on the most beautiful of days. She couldn’t recall the specifics, but she remembered the tone of the day. She remembered sunshine, laughing, playing simple games like tag, or riding on top of her father’s shoulders. She remembered her parents smiling at each other, hugging, their arms around each other in relaxed in a way she hardly ever got to see them. She remembered picking flowers with her mother and making flower crowns for everyone. And being very pleased when each member of the family indulged her by wearing them, even her brothers. She remembers laughing. The laughter was the last good thing she remembered from that day.

No one knew how they were ambushed. No one knew how their location was leaked. No one knew how their security was compromised. No one knew who killed their personal detail.

Gwendolyn recalled the next part like she was reading a police report and Harry’s heart went out to her.

It was fast. An almost insignificant amount of time. It happened within minutes. Her two brothers were shot on sight, killed instantly. They didn’t even know what was happening. It gave her some solace, after she understood what occurred on that day and why, that they never had the chance to feel fear. That their last experience was laughing with their family. When she was still young, she sometimes wished that she could have been with them. That her last memory could be of laughing, too.

She and her mother were kidnapped. Her father was left behind. She was too young to understand what was happening. She just knew she was scared, and at least she was with her mother. Her mother was calm the entire time. Obviously, her mother had training on what to do in the event of a kidnapping. To stay calm, to stay alive. She tried to be like her mother. She was waiting for her mother to tell her when it was time to escape. As she got older and went through the same training, she realised that her mother, if on her own, would have probably been able to escape, easily. She had the tools, she had the knowledge and most of all, she had the grit. It was just that Gwendolyn was there. And her goal was not to escape, it was to keep her daughter alive.

At a certain point, they were drugged and she lost consciousness. There was a period of time, before the end, that she can’t remember.

The only thing that she knows about this part is what she was told afterward.

Evelyn and Hamish, following the first airstrike, were preparing for a second. Additional intel came in and they were able to track Aamon’s movements. Unfortunately, with a terror organization such as his, Aamon’s influence was felt far and wide and their roots went deep. In this case, it was cut off the head of the snake, but the head can still kill. They strategized a plan, similar to the first, multiple targets, all coordinated to strike at the same time. It was like weeding a lawn. The first round got most of them, the ones that didn’t die, when they began to grow again, go in a second time to clear the rest. The coordinated attack, since it was the effort, again, of several nations and their militaries, every aspect of the final play was set to a countdown, so each party could synchronise their operation with the whole plan. In a coordinated attack like this timing was, perhaps, the most crucial aspect for success.

Her mother and father developed the blueprint of targets and the specifications for the timeline. They were the ones responsible for overseeing the countdown as they were the ones that designed the plan. The program was set to initiate the strikes on a tiered scale, different strikes ordered at different times, depending on the origin of the strike and the final target. Once the program passed the recognition stage, there was no failsafe button. Once it began, it couldn’t be cancelled. The crucial time, where the program could be stopped was during initialisation, which could take up to 30 minutes to an hour or even longer. Depending on the coordination of the programs that were initialising all over the world. It was a very complex system that took expertise to devise and designed to be impossible to stop.

Evelyn and Gwendolyn were being held for ransom. They were taken to the same location as Aamon. He was holding them hostage, as leverage, so Hamish would call off the operation. He was the only other person, other than Evelyn, that had clearance to deactivate the program. A leak, or a mole, a double agent had been filtering information to Aamon and his men. The leak was how they were able to attack their family unawares at their picnic. The leak had made a mistake though, both of them didn’t have to be present at the same time to call off the strike, either of them could still make the order without the other. And it was either of them who could also intiate the attack.

Aamon, when he discovered that they could still trigger the strike, had his men contact Hamish at his headquarters via satellite and demanded a video feed.

—

Evelyn knew every step of the plan from the locations of the targets to the details of the countdown. She understood what has happening. Aamon believed that it took both of them together to initiate the airstrike. Now he knew that Hamish could proceed on his own and he was using her and Gwendolyn as ransom. Stop the strike or they die.

Evelyn went through the entire scenario in her head, filtered through counter scenarios, weighed option after option after option, predicted outcome after outcome. But this time it wasn’t for the mission. She knew the mission would happen. She had no doubt. Everything was already in place. She planned for it and she was ready. She was not concerned with her own life. She was devising a plan to keep her daughter alive. The man who was holding them was a psychopath. She needed to make that work to her advantage.

As a psychopath, he wasn’t even original. First of all, the reciting of all of his plans, all of the ways he was able to outsmart them, the bragging, the grandiose proclamations, the self serving narcissism. It was predictable. But it did work to her advantage. Of course the man had to tell her his plans to get Hamish to stop the countdown. Just as she thought he would. There was more cold hard fury than fear inside of her so she had to tap into the fear she felt for her daughter.

Aamon would threaten Hamish with one of their lives first as a “test” as the first chance to stop the strike. If he refused, the first chance would be killed. He would have one final chance. She knew the details of the countdown by heart. Once Hamish knew where they were being held, Evie knew that he was putting plans into place to try to get them out. As with everything, it was all about timing.

She had to make sure Gwendolyn stayed safe long enough for an exfiltration team to reach her. But they could only be deployed after the system went into failsafe mode. Meaning there was no chance to turn back.

Aamon planned on using Gwendolyn first and then Evelyn, last. She knew what a mother felt when protecting her child, it was fury, but she had to set that aside and pretend that for his own sake, he use her first. Aamon would not have time to go through hostage negotiations twice. He only had time for one and that meant one chance, one person. And if he wanted to get Hamish to stop the strike, it had to be Evelyn. She told him that Hamish cared for his daughter, but not as much as his sons. That compared to the death of his sons, that threatening Gwendolyn was a waste of time and time was something that they did not have if he wanted to stop the strike. It had to be one or the other and if he really wanted Hamish to call off the mission, let her speak to him directly. She would be able to convince him. That it would be smarter for him to use Evelyn. She kept on talking for as long as he would let her, allowing her to slightly feed his ego a little more at a time. Letting the time get away from him. She wanted to be as close to the end of the countdown as possible.

He agreed to her plan like it was his own idea. As they set up the video area, she brushed her daughters hair away from her face. Told her little one to be brave and that she loved her. She kissed the top of her head. Evelyn was going to do everything she could to keep her daughter safe. She hoped it would be enough.

—

It was a handlers worst nightmare. Though not technically a handler, Hamish was in HQ making the decisions, his wife in the field with their daughter. It was a husbands and fathers worst nightmare. He had to set that part of him aside. For all of their sakes.

He had the team in place and on hold to extract his family, he just needed to keep them alive until the program went into failsafe. Once he heard that Aamon was going to put his wife, Evelyn, on the feed, he immediately knew that she had a plan and she was going to transmit a message. He had to be prepared to translate whatever code she used. It turned out he didn’t need to.

Evelyn knew that having his daughter’s life at stake, would be the only way he would give into Aamon’s demands. But, if she has the chance to speak to him first, she knows exactly what she needs to say to convince Hamish, stay with the mission, save Gwendolyn, even if it means that she, herself has to die.  It would be the words that he would say to her if their positions were reversed.  They are committed to each other in the same way that they are committed to their training. Both of them were always aware that their work came withs risks and a situation like this was always a possibility. What allowed them to live a relatively secure life emotionally, was to be prepared and never let yourself suffer over something that hasn’t happened.

Evelyn would rather die on her own terms than to be used as ransom by a coward who would never experience a moments remorse. If it was only her and she knew she had no chance, she would use the entirety of her skills knowledge and expertise to take out Aamon along with her. But now, as she found herself in this exact scenario, she gave all of her effort, all of her skill, all of her expertise, not to get out alive, not to kill Aamon, but to make sure her daughter had the chance to live.

Evelyn let as much time as they needed to slip by. Aamon set her place in front of the camera. She is demanded that she beg Hamish to cancel the airstrike and save his family. She agrees. The video went live.

When she saw her husband, she spoke his name and she knew that he could hear her. This was her only chance. Their only chance.

“Hamish.”

“Evie.”

She spoke clearly and firmly and with absolute certainty.

“Emotion has no place in this scenario. Remember your training … And remember I love you.”

Hamish saw Aamon strike Evelyn. She fell out of frame. He knew Evelyn’s message to him was that she understands what he has to do. And that it’s ok. She knows she has die to give a chance for them to save Gwendolyn. She knows the mission has to happen for that’s the only way Hamish can signal the extraction team.

Hamish, with anguish that he doesn’t show in his face, but he feels in the depth of his heart, does not give confirmation and lets the program enter fail safe mode. He heard the gunshot that killed his wife just as he sent out the signal to his men to extract his daughter and get to safety before the strike.

Shots are heard in the feed. They lose video. But he can still hear the rescue team rushing the room. It’s chaos. He hears Gwendolyn crying for her mother. Hamish closes his eyes. He feels his heartbreak for his wife. At the same time, his knees weaken with relief. His daughter is still alive. He cues the rescue team to extract  Gwendolyn and clear out. It’s affirmative. Aamon realizes that he’s been thwarted again and that Evelyn lied to save her daughter. Fighting is heard as Aamon curses a lifetime of suffering upon Hamish before the audio cuts out.

—-

Gwendolyn stopped to take another swallow of her drink. Her eyes, though they were dry the entire time, were glassy with unshed tears.

She thought, I cried a lifetime of tears when I was six. I don’t have any left.

The two men were still rendered speechless. She witnessed their sorrow. For her yes, but also for the Merlin that they never knew. They felt sorrow for the pain their friend had experienced long before they had met him.

She wished her story was done. But when God handed her this tragedy, he gave with both hands.

“My father was never the same. He was a different man. Losing my mother in the way that he did. After losing my brothers, broke him in a way that he was never able to recover from.

“They never found proof of death for Aamon. I think that was a huge part of why it was so hard for him. They never found evidence that he was still alive, but that wasn’t good enough for my father. Aamon was a cluster B psychopath. As long as he was MIA, and that if he ever found out I was still alive, he would likely seek revenge and my life would always be at risk.”

“My father knew that the only way he could live was to know that I was safe. He could not face another loss. He retired from the agency, but he could not risk even the possibility that his last child be used against him. They offered protection, but he knew if they had been compromised once, it could happen again. It was never going to be the same. He was willing to live a life without me, as long as he knew I would always be safe. And I would never be safe unless he had Aamon’s proof of death. But they never found him.”

“I was six when I was sent away. Let’s say to the safe house that houses all safe houses. This was why he joined Kingsman. Part of the conditions of his employment was that I be taken to a secure location and provided for the rest of my life. I was to have zero contact. He was to have zero contact. Kingsman wiped my old life and gave me a new one. That was one of my toughest challenges meeting you. I had absolutely no proof that Hamish was my father. All of it had been destroyed and replaced by a completely new identity,

“He was forced to say goodbye to the last person he loved. As was I. With Kingsman’s assistance they faked my death, creating not only documentation, but physical evidence from DNA samples to dental records confirming that I also died in the airstrike.”

“I was sent away to Kingsman Safe Head Quarters. He could never have contact with me again. But if that was the price to ensure my safety then he would pay that price.  After my safety and future was ensured through Kingsman, he joined the London HQ in their research and development department. There, my father began his new life as Merlin, alone and unattached and determined to stay that way.”

“Ironically, I’ve been Kingsman almost as long as you have, Harry. In a sense, I was groomed to become Kingsman as well, but I suppose i was a bit too difficult to conform sometimes.”

“This is the Kingsman you only know about if you’re part of it. And you don’t want to be a part of it if you don’t have to. Because to be a part of it means that you’ve suffered terrible personal tragedy and your life is at risk. Their location is never disclosed, it changes periodically, everything is designed to stay, well, secret. If you have the opportunity to leave and decide to leave permanently, you never go back. You couldn’t go back if you wanted to. It’s kind of like the Kingsman version of a witness protection program. Mostly relatives of agents who are at risk, occasionally agents themselves whose lives are threatened. Someone whose death they had to fake, like me.“

“Incidentally KSHQ is also an independent international intelligence agency. Operating simultaneously as your Kingsman, but, let’s say, in a parallel universe with less stringent policies. We take care of many missions that Kingsman cannot not be associated with, for one reason or another. We were like Kingsman Black Ops.”

“We had very similar training, though. We all have the option, to go though the Kingsman recruitment process once we are old enough. If we are accepted we then begin trainIng as an agent. I started the pre-training when I was ten.  I started computer and technology, even sooner, so when I was around eight. Because of my father. I found out later that my skills mirrored his. I never reached his level of expertise though.”

“I would have started sooner if I were able. They discovered I had an aptitude for it and I kind of became a project for the trainers, to see how much they could teach and how much I could learn.

To an outsider, it would seem to be an interesting childhood, a rather odd way to grow up. But my childhood to that point couldn’t be described as traditional. Because I was raised around intelligence, from the moment of birth, there were many things that I understood on an instinctual level. Just as one learns how to speak by listening, observing and mimicking their parents, from the time I was born, I was also learning, perhaps subconsciously the lifestyle, the skill sets, the tactics, the mentality, of an intelligence agent.”

“My parents never hid what they did from us. They never spoke in secret. They were very open with us and wanted us to understand that our life had a set of rules that were different than others. They talked to us about death, that there was evil in the world, and that is was their job to protect families like ours, from all the bad things that people could do to each other. By the time I could walk and talk, I had protocol I was supposed to follow. We had escape plans. We were raised with survival skills. I was taught how to take cover.”

“But I wasn’t taught fear, I wasn’t taught to be scared. I was taught that fear was just an emotion, and that if I didn’t want to be scared I didn’t have to be. That if I felt scared or afraid, I could do something that helped me feel in control. I was told I was never helpless. That my feelings didn’t control me, that I could control my feelings. A pretty esoteric concept for a five year old. I’m sure I listened to them, but I never really understood what they meant until I was older. When I found myself automatically doing the things they taught us.”

“I think I was never afraid for my parents because they were never afraid for themselves or each other. The only times I was really afraid was when my brothers were killed, and we were kidnapped. My parents had taught us what to do in case we were kidnapped, what we could do to keep ourselves safe, things we could do to try to escape. They always knew it was a possibility.  They never hid the risks, but they never let the risks frighten us. When I was with my mother, all I was waiting for was her to tell me how we were going to escape, because I knew she could. I know now that she could, if she had been alone. I know now that she was trying to keep me safe.”

“And when my mother was killed. I was afraid then. I knew that something bad was going to happen, when my mother told me “be brave, little one.”  It was almost like a code. The only times I knew I was supposed to be brave was when something bad was going to happen. If I was told to be brave, it meant that I was supposed to get down, and find a place to hide, that I had to protect myself because they wouldn’t be able to.”

Gwendolyn’s tone had become thoughtful, reflective. “I saw her get shot. I saw my brothers get shot. It was very strange the way I understood death at that time. I wasn’t sad for them. It wasn’t the concept of death and dying that upset me. What upset me was that they were killed. I knew that it wasn’t fair. I knew that it wasn’t a way people should have to die. And then I knew what my parents meant, when they told me that there was bad in the world and that they were fighting to keep bad things from happening to good people. I was able to accept that she had been killed, trying to protect people, to protect me from this bad man. Murder is a hard lesson for a five year old.”

“The other part that was hard. When my father sent me away. My mother dying, no matter how traumatic it was when it happened. I was able to understand it. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but I knew why it did. I had a very black and white concept of good and bad and why people did what they did. My mother was gone. She died because she was a good person fighting against a bad person. Bad people killed my brothers. But five year old me did not understand why I was being sent away, by my father. I didn’t understand all the ramifications of what had happened. Not until after, did I know that my life was at risk, as was my fathers. That Aamon’s death was never confirmed. I didn’t know what a psychopath was. I didn’t know what revenge was. I just knew I was being sent away and that I had done nothing bad. I think that was the hardest.”

Harry was intrigued by her story, sorrowful for his old friend, and for this woman as a young child who was his old friend’s daughter. But also fascinated to hear the details of how her five year old mind had to wrap itself around mortality, and all the ways that life and death influenced how people live. The psychological effects of her experience must have been traumatic, but she seemed comfortable and matter of fact discussing what happened and what she had felt.

“Kingsman saw that I was different from the other children they had there at the time. They knew what I had been through and why I was there. They gave me a lot of psychological tests, making sure I didn’t have PTSD, or if I was holding trauma. They said I was surprisingly rational for a five year old. I was very sad about my mother and my brothers, but I was extremely upset at my father, because I could find no reasonable explanation why he sent me away. And that I could never see or talk to him ever again. Like he was dead. Apparently I kept on insisting that he wasn’t dead, and I wasn’t dead, so why did we have to act like it when, actually being dead, was a very sad thing. I couldn’t understand why someone would purposefully put themselves in this situation. I fought against it for a long time, until it just became another thing that was the way it was. And I could do nothing about it.

“When they found out how much of the ideology was already ingrained in me, they altered my course work “my schooling” to include more intelligence aptitude tests, problem solving skills, spacial relationships, critical thinking. It was designed to keep me interested. You can’t put a stack of books in front of a child and expect them to sit down and study. But they would give me puzzles and games, mazes, a set of tools to take something apart, or give me a toy that I had to figure out what it did and how it worked. They gave me things to take apart, and put together.”

“They showed me a gun. They didn’t know my parents had already taught us about firearms and to respect them.  I had never shot a live one myself, but I knew how they worked. My parents took us to the shooting range so we were comfortable with the noise. To see other adults using them responsibly. We knew how to load and unload, we knew how to aim. I was too small at the time, but by the time Kingsman introduced me to firearms, you can imagine their surprise when I took their gun and did just what my parents taught me.”

“First check the weapon to see if it’s live. If there is a bullet in the chamber, disarm it. Release the clip or magazine, check and see if it’s loaded. Load the bullets. Lock the clip back into place. Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. We were at the Kingsman shooting range. They didn’t stop me, so apparently, I just kept going, doing what I saw my parents and all the agents my parents worked with. It helped that is was a very small caliber gun, not much more than a BB gun. I took a shooting stance. I knew about aim, the sights on the gun, the recoil. I saw the target, I raised the gun, aligned the sites. Placed my finger on the trigger, focused on the front site and with as much control as my little hand had at the time, pulled the trigger straight back. I was about an inch off the target. They were surprised.”

While sipping the remaining scotch, she told the remainder of her story.

——

After her initial introduction to Kingsman, she began her ballistics and tactical training, hand to hand combat, martial arts. But she was also placed into technical training as well. When they saw she had the same inclinations as her father, she was placed in R and D, computer and strategic planning. Part of all Kingsman training for female agents included finishing school, how to be a proper lady, the art of seduction and espionage.  Which included neurolinguistic programming, how to be a skilled conversationalist, how to dress, how to carry one’s self, poise and posture and even dance.

Was it lonely, she thought. She didn’t feel particularly lonely, but she was most certainly alone. She was already familiar with the psychological and mental training for agents. To be removed from situations, to separate yourself from emotions and feelings when in the field. She never made any close friends during her time at Kingsman. She had pleasant acquaintances, mentors and trainers that she respected. But whether it be a conscious choice, she remained emotionally unattached. Mostly, she threw herself into her training. Learning and experiencing as much as she could.

With her technical skills, in her down time, she taught herself how to hack the Kingsman’s mainframe. Once she had access, when she wasn’t training, she was exploring the entire Kingsman world through its technology. Unknowingly to everyone, she became an expert in Kingsmans’ computer system. It also gave her access to all of Kingsman’s history, its agents and missions. And her father. Through exploring their data, she was able to trace the London network, breach their three tier security protocol, and access the system drive. Once in, she had a gateway to everything. Communications, transmissions, data, permission to view all of their files, mission plans, strategy. And best of all, authorisation to their closed caption security systems and the com feeds of every agent and handler. And so she spied on her father and spied on the spies.

What allowed her to survive her teen years at Kingsman was being able to access the London network and follow her father. It was almost as if she was with him. Even better in some ways, because not only was she able to see him and hear him through the comms, she was able to see in to his mind by following his programming strategy. She saw how he thought, how he solved problems, his speed and accuracy. His ingenuity developing new tools and weapons. Which she then, in turn, began to mimic.  When she knew he was on a mission, she would follow along, and to her pure delight, on certain occasions, she was able to, unbeknownst to her father, assist him with his plans. It could range from anything like taking down the city’s electric grid when she knew he needed it shut down. Cleaning up his trail if he didn’t have time as he went along on a time sensitive mission. To actually coding along side him in real time. As if there was someone helping him fill in the letters of a crossword puzzle, he would find some of his code already completed. She knew even this contact was dangerous, but she also knew that both she and her father would be able to keep their trails clean.

It pained her that she can never reveal her identity.  But on a few of the occasions, after she’s assisted him with a mission, she watched him sit back with a curious and thoughtful look on his face. Like he was tempted to do something, but knew he must not. It was risky for her to access his network, but it was but beyond dangerous for him to access hers. That would have opened up a traceable connection that could possibly compromise her position. So he can never know for sure, lest he put her in danger, but suspected that it was and it gave him comfort and pride to know she was out there somewhere and that at least they could have this contact.

She had followed their last two missions closely. She witnessed Eggsy’s recruitment and training. Harry’s death and recovery. She had to admit that she followed Harry Hart more frequently than she should have. Mostly she told herself, because he was the person that her father was the closest with and she wanted to know more about the man her father befriended.

When her father had died and the threat of leveraging her life was over, she was free to live as she chose. She could remain at the Kingsman Safe HQ, either just as a resident or to work as an agent. If she chose to, she can travel, or live anywhere she wants to. Part of the contract that Hamish had with Kingsman was that she be taken care of the rest of her life. She has a fund that provides much more than she needs even if she chooses not to work. The only caveat, if she chooses to leave the safe quarters, she can never return. If she wants to contact another Kingsman agency, she has to do so on her own. She will be offered no support other than financial.

After spending some time traveling, she decided that she wants to go to London and take her father’s place.  Since she can never return to the SHQ, the only people she really knows are Eggsy and Harry, though they don’t know who she is, and she has never met them in person. She had to find a way to meet them and let her join the team. The problem? She no longer had Kingsman’s resources. And after the events of the Golden Circle, London had intensified their security, had tightened their ranks and were wary of unknown individuals.

Swallowing the last of her drink, she concluded her story.

“With my father gone and Kingsman and its mainframe rebuilt after the bombing, I had no doorway into the new computer system, even if I was able to somehow get network access.”

She was finally showing signs of fatigue.

“The only way I could meet you,” she looked at Harry, “was in person.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading!  Look for more chapters. Comments are always more than appreciated :)