#headtailor

[avnahcollection]

DC Universe Doom Patrol Premieres February 15th! I am so grateful 🙏🏾 to have worked with Black Panther Tailor @lexthecre8tor on this prodiction of Doom Patrol! Thank you for being the best Head Tailor, I appreciate you and the whole team! #Repost from @lexthecre8tor. TODAY TODAY DOOM PATROL DROPS ON THE DC APP! I've seen most of the first episode and when I say "DC may be in to something" you have to see for yourself! We put in so many hours to meet deadlines with little prep time but there is no "I" in team! Even though I was head tailor it could not have happened without some great people doing what they do. . . #lexthecre8tor #headtailor #itailor #patternmaking #periodclothing #igdaily #instafam #doompatrol #teamwork #cutandsew #garmentconstruction #superheroes #seamstress #local479 #iatse479 #union479 https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt6qc5lhVGE/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1fmbrwdzykp9t

[mannersmademan]

Finally! A smile from Alistair! #headtailor #percival (kingsman) #kingsmanthesecretservice #kingsman the golden circle #kingsmantailors (at Savile Row London)

[deepfriedtwinkie]

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VI)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2kw

note: this is the only part without any Merlin in it BUT IT’S IMPORTANT FOR LATER OKAY (don’t cry, Harry will think you don’t like him)

pt. I  | pt. II  | pt. III  | pt. IV  | pt. V

.

.

By now, the compound has been home for so long that Harry is almost enamored to see London again. It’s easy to forget how much he loves these streets, the shops, the throngs of people going about their days. Easy to forget, but easier to remember.

He walks primly at the elbow of his proposing agent, a man named Martin Turner. The same who’d first met him as a ten-year-old, enthralling him with images of the world of gentleman spies. A world he’d never known to be real, until then, even with what his mother did for a living. Gentlemen were a much rarer breed in her work, after all. Some of her stories could turn a woman to the nunnery.

As Agent Lamorak, Martin has been kept away for nearly the whole of Harry’s training so far, busy with some mission or other, always jet-setting this way or that. They’ve spoken only a couple of times, but it’s no bother. Obviously, it’s more than understandable. All the more reason to take him up on his sudden invitation, delivered in person this morning in the training room, clear out of the blue.

They enter the tailor shop, Martin holding the door. Harry smiles, hands in his pockets, taking in the atmosphere for the first time through a proper candidate’s eyes. His last visit here felt like a new world. This time, it feels like coming home. He’s quite ready to get used to that feeling.

“’Morning, Simons,” Martin greets the headtailor.

“Good morning to you, sir.” The old man’s only movement seems to be the quiver of his mustache. “May I be of assistance to you gentlemen?”

“Yes, in fact, you may, Simons.” Martin’s head tips toward him. “I’d like for you to meet Harry Hart, my proposal for one of the open positions.”

As he was raised to do, Harry gives his hand, and the headtailor accepts. They shake. “How do you do, sir,” Harry says with a smile.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Simons here is nothing less than the best this business has got, Harry,” Martin boasts. “You’ll be taken good care of with him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, sir.”

Then he blinks so rapidly he may have to blame the mothballs.

“Wait, sir… ‘Taken care of?’”

Simons politely withdraws his hand, which is fine, because it leaves Harry’s free to drop to his side like the dead weight it is. The way Martin is looking at him makes him wonder if perhaps there’s a television camera hidden somewhere, and his own expression will be plastered on newsstands and billboards by morning.

“You didn’t think I’d let you finish out the program without your own Kingsman souvenir, did you?” Martin grins. “The hell with that. It’s time you were fitted for your first proper bespoke. Unless you object, of course.”

“No sir!” Well, that could have been less of a yelp. He swallows, tempers himself, and tries again, managing formality despite his whole face splitting ear-to-ear. “I mean…no, sir. Thank you, sir. I’d be quite honored.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.” The agent points to a heavy door of oak, off to Harry’s left. Simons comes out from behind the counter, a cloth tape measure hung over his shoulder, and Martin claps him on the back. “Give him the works now. This young man is our honored guest.”

“Of course, sir.” Simons does his best impersonation of a five-star doorman, motioning Harry into the room. “This way, please, Mr. Hart. Fitting room one.”

It’s the last thing on earth he’d have to be asked twice. He hustles forward, grateful it doesn’t turn into a cartwheel.

“I’ll be out here when you’re through,” Martin calls.

The fitting room is one of the plainest cubicles of space ever knocked together by man, little more than patterned wallpaper, brass hooks, and varnished wainscoting, but it takes Harry all of four seconds to decide that he loves it every bit as much as the rest of the place. He’s patient with Simons’s meticulous taking of his measurements, lifting arms on command, turning this way and that, holding various swatches of fabric to his chest for God knows how long. That’s the difference between the Kingsman Tailors and anywhere else. When he works here, he’s going to have to do something kind for Simons. A thank-you note, perhaps, with something for his trouble inside. Cinema tickets or something. It’s terribly kind of him to go out of his way for this.

In good time, the tailor excuses himself, returning moments later with a garment bag draping both tabled arms. “Try this, sir,” he bids, hanging the bag on one of the hooks. “It should give you a fair idea. If you find it’s to your liking, then we will proceed with alterations.”

He’s never stared so reverently at a bag before. “Thank you… Thank you kindly.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

This is it. This is the moment he’s imagined since he was a ten-year-old boy, pinning horrible drawings of suits between the butterflies on his walls. The concrete start of his new life.

The garment bag is shed to the floor before Simons is even fully gone. His brain suggests some analogy to a chrysalis, but he can’t be bothered to spare a thought to connect it. He strips to briefs and socks, dressing quickly, his back turned staunchly to the mirror. Stealing a glance too soon will ruin something about this. He isn’t sure what, but it matters.

In a moment, it’s done. He feels the places that need taking in—cuffs at his knuckles, rumpled elbows, puddles at his feet—but he doesn’t care. It’s the most comfortable thing in the world.

He turns around.

The suit is blue, he notices properly. A very, very dark navy blue. Fine pinstripes crawl the length of it. Simons has picked him a tie to match. Navy, with a slim white stripe, centered with a slimmer note of red. He takes in the two rows of handmade buttons. The press of the lapel.

Harry blinks the blur from his eyes. It is the most exquisite thing he’s ever worn.

We’ve done it, Mother. I wish you could see your boy now.

He’s making a mental note to phone her as soon as possible when another tap comes on the door. “Pardon me, sir. Agent Lamorak requests to have a look, if you’ll oblige coming out for a moment.”

He’s absolutely bursting to show someone, anyway. Lamorak will do wonderfully for now. Harry turns the heavy knob, consciously matching his stride to the elegance a suit like this commands. His expression, on the other hand, is under no such control.

Martin stands from the couch, letting out a long whistle. “You’ve outdone yourself, Simons. A few tucks and it’s a work of art.”

“Very kind of you to say, sir.”

“And this comes in the lot, yes?”

“Already ordered to your specifications, sir.”

“You’re a fucking gem.” Martin smiles Harry’s way, holding out a finger with each next word. “Bulletproof, water-resistant, flame-resistant, and conceals up to thirteen highly-classified armaments. There’ll be nothing you can’t do in this, believe you me.”

He believed it already. In front of the showroom mirror, Harry gives a crisp tug to the jacket, straightening his posture even further than it was to begin with. “I really don’t know what to say, sir. I can’t possibly thank you enough; I know this isn’t typical for only a candidate…”

“Nonsense. You’ve earned it.” His mentor takes a pull from a rock glass he’s been holding. Gin, it looks like. “Your weapons and written test scores were absolutely phenomenal.”

Yes, they were, weren’t they? He can’t help it. He’s had a feeling.

“And I’m not permitted to tell you specifics, but I can say that you’ve earned Arthur’s attention on almost every one of your practical tasks.”

That reminds him to ask. He makes eye contact through the mirror, rather than twist round in the suit. “If I may, sir, what was in those parcels we retrieved on the mountain, anyway?”

“In the envelopes? Those were floppy disks.” Swallowing another sip, Martin makes quotations with his hands. “‘Encrypted files of critical importance to international security.’ That’s this year’s bullshit for ‘Arthur’s Doctor Who fan club mailing list.’ Gives him an excuse for missing the last fifteen meetings.”

“You’re kidding.” Of course he isn’t.

“Of course I’m not.”

Why did I ask?

He’s basking in the jovial moment until Martin’s demeanor goes stony, his gaze laser-focused through the window. His tone changes in the drop of a hat.

“Harry, do as I say. Whatever you do, don’t counteract or seem suspicious,” he mutters levelly. “Time to prove your place in the family business.”

The miniature bell above the door jingles. In comes a portly man in an expensive windbreaker, lighting directly on Lamorak. Harry watches, indifferent neutrality on his face, as the newcomer ignores Simons entirely, no acknowledgment—sorry, Simons, he’d do well to remember you’re a person, too—and instead, steps up to grasp Lamorak’s hand.

They shake cordially. “Mr. Kuznetsov,” Lamorak’s far brighter with his greeting than he might’ve been. “On schedule as always.”

“Mr. Evansbee.” An alias; his name is Turner. And this man’s accent is Russian. “How could I miss one of our treasured conversations?” Lamorak set this meeting. Not the first, or the tenth, either. What kind of conversations?

“Please, allow me to introduce a star pupil of mine from the university. I’m helping him to look his finest when he represents us at St. Hugh’s next month. Oliver Greene, this is Mr. Kuznetsov, one of my trustworthiest colleagues.”

Harry doesn’t need a cue. Seamlessly he adopts his new self, shaking the hand he’s offered. “How do you do, sir.”

“I get by.”

He sends Lamorak the most innocuous look he’s got. “Shall I leave you to it, Professor? You’ve been more than enough help already.”

It’s the right decision. Nothing he gets in return suggests a forthcoming reprimand. “Yes, good lad, Oliver. You can go and get your things. I’ll see you in lecture on Monday.”

“Very good, sir. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Kuznetsov.”

“The pleasure is all mine, of course.”

Whatever you do, don’t counteract. His only move is to beeline for the fitting room, then, the outing finished just as quick as it began. The last he sees of Martin, he’s hooked an arm around the Russian’s shoulders, leading the way to the sofas, carrying on a lively discussion in whispers.

So this trip was no coincidence. Harry is implicitly careful as he removes each piece of his suit, hanging one at a time for Simons to collect. He isn’t disappointed. It should have occurred to him from this morning. Whatever Lamorak’s working on must be drawing to a close.

Besides. He could have met the contact here alone. No part of that required having a custom suit made.

Be grateful you were invited in the first place, and don’t ask why it’s over.

Well. He can’t make promises about the second part.

“Good-bye, Simons,” he says aloud near the exit, after saying a silent one to the suit in the fitting room. “I’ve left everything sorted for you.”

“Wonderful, sir. Good-bye.” It’s almost their last exchange, until the tailor catches himself. “Oh, and one more thing, sir?” He’s scribbling in a leather folder.

Harry stops, halfway through the door jamb, hoping it doesn’t count as counteraction. “Yes?”

Simons looks up, beaming friendliness. “I’ve located your file with us to store your measurements. Isn’t today your birthday, sir?”

Yes, it is. He’s all but forgotten that for the past ten minutes.

Harry smiles back. “Twenty-first,” he confirms.

“Happy birthday, sir.”

It’s certainly shaping up to be.

.

pt. VII  | pt. VIII  | pt. IX

[kingsmaned-blog]

❛       the changing       times don't impede you, arthur. dare i say       it makes things more interesting---- yet       i'm... ... sensing a full demurring to my       candidate.          ❜

[gilesian]

headtailor

       “ Arthur. Very kind          of you to drop by. ”

[charnpiione]

headtailor​

as head of the kingsman, arthur has done this job for a very, very long time. he has perfected the skill of what to say, what not say, how to say it, and when to say it. he’s much too old now (despite his disgruntled half-grumblings) to carry out a mission on the field.

he has always been a charming man, a man that never needed to yell, nor raise his voice. it came in handy in several instances throughout his career. the longer he stays in the role of arthur, the more he’s gotten to know how many hats he has to don.

he’s viewed as a father figure, a counselor, a mentor, and a leader, and sometimes, it was difficult to know exactly which hat he was supposed to wear.

when it came to roxy, he knew she didn’t want any coddling. she has fought tooth and nail, and pride is conveyed on her features. but it is not the type of egotistical pride that arthur wants to put down. it is pride in the sort that roxy is quite certain what she does is for the greater good — and arthur can certainly stand behind that. he’s quiet, letting her settle and process the words before he finally speaks once more.

"— that isn’t to say you shouldn’t get that looked at.” he murmurs, chatising softly with a pointed look over the rim of his spectacles. “you must also know your own mortality.”

                Roxy Morton is a BLOODHOUND,    who had certainly felt the drive to                 succeed even before falling into the grasp of the  KINGSMAN. the fact                 remained  that pain meant  little to  her, that  the way her lungs burned                 underwater,   that how her head had pounded after falling from heights                 unimaginable,  how  her  arm  is  going  numb  from the slice -- meant                 relatively nothing. it doesn't bother her. PAIN can be ignored, though a                 loss in PRIDE certainly tasted much worse. 

                she takes a glance to the slightly bloodied hand     ( that she is making                 sure doesn't drip onto the carpet --- that would be unseemly, surely )                 and  nods,  allowing  a  small  grin  to  seep  into  her  calm expression. 

                                                         ❝ I will... I do. ❞

                though sometimes  it  was  difficult to remind one's self one was not a                 G O D  when  standing  on  top of the world with a gun in your hand --                 although she  was the  measure of  a  TRUE  GENTLEMAN,   she still                 needed   work   on   the   remembrance   of   her   still   human   blood. 

                                  ❝ Is there anything else you needed of me? ❞

[gcldengirl]

"now the first time you kill somebody, that’s the hardest."

TARANTINO FILM QUOTES MEME.

                              ❛  You sound so wise... ❜  

              But the truth was that she didn’t think it was hard, not  precisely.  She  did  feel              scared,  but  for  herself  and  her own  reputation. Could the king’s daughter be               taken from her castle? Killing Myrtle was certainly a mistake, and although she              convinced herself that that woman was nothing but vulgar and replaceable, she               actually hated her, she had ruined Daisy’s golden fantasy.

                                  Perhaps,  deep,  deep  inside she was glad                                  to see her proven to be, in fact, disposable. 

               God forbid!, that made her feel like a bad person. But she wasn’t one, right?                She had to be the lovely,  pure and innocent Daisy. It was the role she had               decided to play and the one she had to stand by. 

                             ❛  Do you think that hate makes it any easier?                            Or that some lives are more important than others?  ❜

[kaykingsman-blog]

{ headtailor​ }  kingsman rp;;

She thanks the valet, and rewards him generously for fetching the door for her. He smiles, offers to wait for her, but she tells him he needn't bother. No telling how long her visit will be; she's counting on longer. 

It feels like ages since she's looked upon that familiar display window. The suites are stunning, as usual, but reminiscing isn't why she's come. Fixing her coat around her collar, as if to prepare herself for what is inside, she grips the knob and enters Kingsman. 

It smells the same; fabric, leather and secrets. It brings the faintest smile upon her scarlet lips, but she's quick to erase it once she's met with the tailor at the front. She didn't recognize him. ❝Afternoon, ma'am. Can I get you anything?❞

❝ Yes. You can get me Arthur.❞

He's hesitating, but nods while reaching for the little phone on the counter. 

❝ Tell him it's Kay.❞

He does so, and after a brief moment, he hangs the phone up and turns to her, gesturing for her to head into the back. ❝ Right this way, ma'am.❞  

She thanks him, though he needn't bother giving directions; she knows this place better than most. In no time she's standing right outside the conference room, and with a gentle knock on the oaken door, she opens it and steps in.

❝ Hello, Arthur. It's been awhile.❞

[charnpiione]

"There are two kinds of pain. The sort of pain that makes you strong. Or useless pain. The sort of pain that’s only suffering."

                                                    the suit is our armour 

                 she listens intently,  straight-backed and broad-shouldered—Arthur has                 a way of speaking that DEMANDS attention, even though he is but mild                 toned && soft.  she respects him.  greatly.  hides her bleeding side from                  view as best as possible. 

                                                  but we cannot rely on it 

                 && what he says is true — her complaining  earlier  in the day suddenly                  feels  very  foolish  ( that  was the type of pain which will only make you                  stronger, Roxy —deal with it, it’s okay… ) and she must reminds herself                 that wounds are physical —that tear in her tweed jacket is only material. 

                                         we must have faith in ourselves

                 her head bows gently in an understanding nod. she refuses to suffer—                 refuses  to  let  this  chance  slip  from  her,  the  chance  for something                 greater.      she  will  never  achieve  this  title — LANCELOT — if  she                  succumbs  to  suffering.  she  will  be  strong.  she  will  prove  herself. 

                                       to endure what pain becomes us

                                                     ❝ Thank you, Arthur… ❞

[oscarhunt]

Head tailor OL in the workshop early this morning. #oscarhunt #tailoring #headtailor #menswear #sartorial #menssuits

[akingsmxn-blog]

                   "So how is it you became a Kingsman--"                    He also wondered how this guy managed to                     claim the title Arthur but he knew when to keep                    his mouth shut.

headtailor :: starter call