#and my body would be inert and undefinable

[rigberts]

I can't be like "men are awful" bc I have to let go of needlessly divisive and cynical statements like that if we are to ever truly move past this gender based culture war that drives us into hateful movements like trans exclusionary radical feminism and right wing incel communities but also there are so many men out there that are awful.

[decaying-words]

Freaks

Victor Zsasz x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 3.3k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, scarification, wounds, blood, virgin AO3 • All my stories

"His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins."

Freaks

Gloved fingers, frigid and dispassionate, trace sinuous patterns over the trembling features of my face, smooth and silk-like in appearance, a stark contrast to his, marked and scarred with conscious volition. His marble pallor adorns vicious cuts, the more recent ones reminiscing of crimson snakes crawling over his visage, disfiguring his traits and expressions; they sink deeply in the flesh and split his lips, discolored and cruel. There is a perverse design behind them, a morbid compulsion that makes it difficult to avoid and occult, so I don’t, or can’t really; my eyes are locked on his scars, frightened and terrified. He takes great pleasure, I believe, in seeing me anxious and petrified.

His leather thumb, demanding and inquisitive, caresses my lower lip, opening my mouth and revealing the warm cavity. He tilts his head, pensive and silent, while my eyes search for his, search for a reassurance I know I won’t receive. Truthfully, I’m unsure why I came to him willingly; or perhaps I do, and this frightens me even more. 

I used to timidly stare at him from a distant booth of a questionable bar we would both happen to frequent, our unknown encounters going from coincidental to deliberate; and while I have never even approached him, I couldn’t help but detail his striking appearance. Always impeccably dressed in elegant leathery and velvety pieces, his body, gnarly and marked, seemed oddly sublimed. A bizarre charisma that would keep my thoughts racing at night, fingers working quickly on my engorged nub.

Days turned to weeks as I obsessed and yearned for his touch, foreign and forbidden, knowing full well who that strange man was and the crimes he committed, not dissimilar to visiting sharks at the aquarium. I would pretend to be busy working on some undefined task on my laptop, nursing drink after drink, always strategically positioned in a booth in front of him, creating wild and fantastic scenarios in my head on how I would seduce him and how he would make tender love to me; scenarios that would content my inexperienced soul, while occulting the harsh reality of his character.

I suppressed a yelp when he found me in the bathroom tonight, blocking the exit door, toned arms crossed and dark eyes drilling holes in my mind. I’ve never been so close to him then, and I vividly remember the raw panic I felt standing in front of Victor Zsasz. If you keep looking at me like that, he said in a deep and surgical tone, I might well turn to stone. Face flushed with shame and fear, eyes laying inert on the ground, I could barely find the strength to mutter a quasi aphonic apology.

Cocking an hairless brow and tilting his head, he considers me for an instant, impatient and expectant. Perhaps I had too much to drink tonight, or perhaps I was driven by an unknown divine intervention, but in a soft and timid voice I murmured what could have been a confession. You fascinate me. He smirks, smug and proud, reminiscent of a demon luring a soul, and I am the willing participant of my own downfall. We leave the bar together that night.

His gloved thumb moves from my parted lips to my throat, his fingers tracing the contours of the rolling muscles underneath the delicate skin. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time; while my romantic nature imagined my first time under different conditions, I cannot ignore the tremors in my thighs when his knuckles brush my pulsating flesh. How bad could it be, I ask myself naively, my heart beating frantically at the foreign and completely new touch.

One word, sharp and glacial, that annihilates the last hope of romance I could have and makes me question my decision to bring him home. Undress. I do as I’m told, moving in a way I imagine would be languid and sensual under his unappreciative and disinterested gaze; instead, it feels humiliating and bitter. He stops me when I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, leaving me in my underwear. Lay down. 

The air feels cold on my heated skin as I lay with the grandiose limpness of a corpse on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen. I do not think much when I feel the mattress dipping next to me, then a sharp yelp breaks the otherwise quiet room as the cold touch of his leather glove caresses my bare thighs. Having now removed his coat, Victor wears a rolled up shirt, exposing his viciously scarred arms, the tally marks too great to count. One for each person he’s killed, I think to myself; and the thought shouldn’t make me feel so warm but it does, as much as seeing his dark gaze exploring my pristine flesh while his fingers massage my plush thighs. I feel a cruel shiver when he removes his gloves languidly, revealing two perfect hands, delicately defined and marked like the rest of his body. My breath hitches and he notices it, cocking an hairless brow at me with an amused light in his eyes, building up a sinful anticipation, one that makes my sex pulsate instinctively. 

A broken moan dies on my lips akin to a hiccup when his bare hands, warm and surprisingly soft, caress my legs up and down. There is a faint smile on his face, lips slightly parted, as a somber thought darkens his gaze. I like your thighs. I want to mark them. This is not a suggestion, I understand.

Wiggling on the bed, panicked and terrified, Victor then grabs me by the waist and immobilizes me on the mattress, towering over me. His face merely a few centimeters away from mine, he presses his index finger over his mouth, shushing me. Heavy tears threaten to run and spill, and Victor sighs softly, brushing them away from the corner of my eyes with his thumb. You won’t be another tally mark, he promises. I’m unsure this will be enough to calm me down. Not when his hand slips in his pocket and retrieves a butterfly knife that he opens in front of me. The blade, delicately and tastefully engraved, beams in the dim light of the room; it is perfectly clean and cared for.

His scarred lips find my neck, the sensation as devastating as it is confusing. His kisses are passionate and hungry, licking the sensitive flesh there and progressing slowly. Each and every one of his kisses drag a string of breathy moans out of my throat, almost making me forget about my previous panic, the overwhelming sensations disorienting. His mouth is on my collarbone, then my sternum, then my covered breast… Never have I ever experienced such fire inside of me, my legs quivering with desire, my stomach knotting and twisting, as Victor draws a path with his mouth on my body, until finally does he reach my thighs, where he stops and contemplates the skin.

Desire turns to fear again, an emotional rollercoaster that seems to displease him. I’m not the burlap guy; I don’t get off when you’re scared, he scoffs. No, I imagine not. I expect him to get off to my ripped flesh. Nonetheless, I swallow my tears and nod at him, unsure why I am even humoring him. When he smiles, looking up at me, dark orbs shining like stars, I feel my sex throb shamefully. He then presses a chaste kiss on my immaculate skin, murmuring a word dripping with honey and that makes my heart race. Good girl.

The pain is stark and burning but not unbearable I realize; a stark contrast with the intense and unique horror my mind is feeling right now, hissing through my teeth, screwing my eyelids shut and squirming on the bed. I feel his hands holding me still while his breath caresses my scorching flesh, shushing me to no avail. When I feel the cruel blade leaving my skin, warm blood dripping from the fresh wound and running down my inner thigh, I pant heavily, a brief sense of relief soothing my nerves. But I was wrong to relax that soon, as a renewed agony, more vicious and noticeably deeper assaults my flesh, dragging a frank shriek out of my throat. I cry honest tears, begging for him to stop, thrashing on the bed while his free hand immobilizes me. If you keep moving it’ll be worse, he warns. But how could it be, when my entire mind is screaming bloody murder and my body is tearing apart under his brutal instrument?

The torture lasts for an eternity, hot tears ruining my face and heart beating so frantically it could give up at any moment. It burns, the acidic pain radiating in my entire body, my ravaged thigh throbbing ferociously. It feels nightmarish, so much that my brain seems to numb me, in a last act of mercy and love. Until I hear the butterfly knife close, and his voice, soft and deep. Wasn’t that bad, was it? Yes, yes it was. 

Through wet eyelids, I tentatively peek at my leg, my heart sinking instantly at the bloody mess of torn flesh. It is hard to even decipher what he marked through the crimson ocean covering the skin and soaking the bed sheets underneath. Propping myself up on my elbows, I take a closer look at my lover from Hell, nestled between my legs and admiring his art; Victor pants heavily, face delicately flushed with an unmistaken arousal. Something boils in my stomach, a lighter feeling that makes me heave. Do you feel it now? he asks. The endorphins? You’ll feel real good very soon. I do not understand.

It burns again, atrocious and vivid, when his tongue, warm and wet, laps my wound; yet this time, there is something much more insidious, more sinful following the depraved sensation. The feeling is confusing, overwhelming, but a heinous pleasure replaces the discomfort and washes over me, making my sex throb and my nipples harden, a voracious desire to touch him, and be touched by him. Victor moans lustfully as the tip of his tongue dips into the cuts like one would lick a cunt, his fingers caressing the exposed insides, and through the agony I swear I can feel it in my core, can feel a soul-crushing liquid bliss building up inside of me.

Victor kisses my cuts, his fingers rubbing them open, and in a quasi delirious state I regret that they aren’t deep enough to be fucked. It feels numb, my brain doing a stellar job at occulting any pain and pumping me with relaxing and pleasurable hormones, and now I understand. Rolling my hips, I stare at his scarred face devouring me, begging him for more, more of this perverse and obscene pleasure only he can give me. He smirks devilishly, dipping his tongue in one of the deeper cuts he gave me, tearing the flesh open, and more burning pleasure follows as I throw my head back and wail.

My hand reveals my breasts, toying with an erected nipple, while the other slips inside my underwear, surprisingly soaked, and caresses my engorged, swollen clitoris in a familiar pattern. Victor slides his thumb inside the now almost translucent fabric, pulling it to the side to have a better view of my glistening cunt. I feel two fingers caressing my vulva, stimulating my lips, while the flat of his tongue licks the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. 

I feel it coming now, a devastating orgasm, sinful and immoral, about to crash and break me, one that will without a doubt forever alter my mind, distort my heart, and ruin my definition of pleasure, as I shriek and scream incoherent praise, filthy curses and his name.

Legs quivering and now a panting mess, I gently push him, beg him to stop, and he does, thankfully, after pressing one last kiss on my raw thigh. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time, but I can’t complain, not when I just saw the stars of a doomed sky with the force of a tsunami, despite the permanent marks he just gave me. Oh God, he marked me.

Through half lidded eyes, I can clearly see Victor’s positively feral state. Breathing heavily, an exquisite flush on his face and a vicious tent in his pants, I understand that we are not done yet. His fingers hook under the elastic of my underwear and remove them while I squirm to unclasp my bra, presenting myself completely bare in front of him. His reaction is immediate, passionate; he bites, until the skin breaks, until blood spills and I scream and shriek, thrashing on the mattress, mourning my pristine and untouched flesh, pushing him when he forces himself on me, scratching his skin even though it makes him moan louder. He defiles me, marking my breasts, my hips, and everywhere his teeth can sink in, sucking and licking blood, leaving less permanent souvenirs of his presence. The pain is shooting now, throbbing and lively, but he shushes my sorrow, kissing my new tears, murmurs sweet praises as if I was a lover, while he undresses.

His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins.

His cock, untouched and intact, stands proudly, his glans a delicious shade of carmine; the first one I’ve seen in real life, but my inexperience does not prevent my feverish mind to crave it. Wrapping my hand around it, it is warm, throbbing and full of life; loud breathy moans break his throat and make my sex throb, but his hand presses gently on my sternum, keeping me on the mattress and making me understand that he’s reaching his limit. 

His fingers caress my stomach with a tenderness that feels alien from him, before dipping lower and caressing my sensitive clitoris. I whine and moan softly, but manage to find the strength through my clouded mind to warn him. I’ve never… Victor looks at me quizzically before fully comprehending what I just confessed. There is a dark glow in his eyes as he bites his lip, a wolfish, devilish grin on his face. Staring at my sex with curious care, his thumb delicately opening my untouched hole, revealing my intact hymen; he hums deeply, his cock twitching with interest.

Victor spits a generous globe of saliva in his hand before spreading it on his cock, rubbing its head against my folds. The sensation is warm, soft and foreign, as I grab the sheets next to my head, humming appreciatively. A gentle pressure against my hole, and I look at him with slight panic. Aren’t you going to prepare me? I ask, but he chuckles darkly. Oh, no, don’t want to waste it. Waste what, I wonder? But before my mind can process his words, I feel him push. Oh God, he’s pushing, mercilessly, with no preparation, and it hurts, oh it hurts.

I hit his shoulder, tell him it hurts, beg him to stop, a now familiar circus it seems like; but Victor does not care, does not listen, or perhaps he does and enjoys hearing me suffer, in a true sadistic manner; he shushes me, encourages me somehow, until his cruel cock is completely sheathed deep inside of my pulsating cunt, splitting me in half, every single nerve of my body screaming and shrieking. I clench my jaw, staring at the ceiling, until I feel him remove himself in an equally painful movement. Victor hisses and moans, looking at his now bloodied cock, my blood on his cock, as if it is the most beautiful sight in the world; that viscous blood glistening and beaming on his angry cock. He pants loudly like a wild animal, a thin veil of sweat covering his burning body, watching his sex spearing my insides, defiling my most intimate parts, tormenting my anatomy, blood, precum and other fluids dripping down my ass. 

He rolls his hips surprisingly slowly and smoothly, but it is still too much and too painful for me, whining and yelping when his tip brushes against a spot too sensitive, or when my walls tense and refuse to welcome him willingly. His voice trembles when I protest, I know, I know it hurts; I believe he likes it when I’m suffering, maybe because he thinks that pleasure transcends pain.

After an eternity of torturous thrusts, I finally feel my body easing slightly, muscles relaxing around his cock, until, beyond the waves of agony, I can feel liquid bliss pooling inside of me, reminiscent of my earlier orgasm. I moan frankly, allowing my body to relax, welcoming all of his vigor and brutality, and Victor hums, caressing my face and kissing my forehead. Good girl.

His pace quickens now, thrusting fiercely inside of my aching hole, his hand lifting my knee to give him a deeper angle while he groans like a wolf and I wail and cry out, entire body sore and all of my senses assaulted, unsure what I’m feeling, unsure if this is the proper way to do it, all I know is that I have too much of it and also not enough, that I need it to end but also need it to continue, with the wounds on my thighs viciously throbbing again as his sides brushes against them. He looks at my blood, splattered on his lower stomach, on my inner thighs, cursing under his breath, in a quasi delirious state, proud and aroused.  He moans louder when his thrusts get more frantic, more irregular, choking the air out of my lungs when his hips give up and his orgasm comes, devastating and brutal, in an animalistic groan.

He stills, spent and panting, almost wheezing, body covered in sweat, until he removes himself, slowly, carefully. His come drips out of my hole in a pink shade, his cock glistening and crimson; his trembling hand pumps himself, spreads my blood on his length in breathy moans. My cunt aches and throbs in agony, used and open for the first time by Victor Zsasz.

He does not roll over and hold me like one would expect from a lover. This bothers me, somehow. Instead, he leaves the bedroom with his clothes in his arms and goes to clean himself, leaving me bare and shaking on the bed, with the limpness of a corpse; and truthfully, I am not sure he didn’t kill me, metaphorically speaking. There is a cruel clarity unveiling my vision, one that should make me feel awful, ashamed even of this aberrant night, but I feel content, satisfied, as if this improper desire, this filthy pleasure was always inside of me, all it needed was a Victor Zsasz to nurture it. 

When Victor comes back, he looks as impeccable as he normally does, dry and freshened up, holding his coat over his arm. I cock a brow at my phone in his hand, typing something, while I’m wondering how he found it and how he unlocked it. I should be upset, but I am too drained to protest. He throws my phone on the mattress, right next to me, offering me a polite smile and nodding in my direction.

Call me if you want to play again is all he says before leaving my apartment, leaving me with an agonizing body and much to think of.

[minty-mumbles]

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep Ch. 2

Chapter Summary: Wild’s an odd one, for sure. Too bad Sky won’t just ask him about it.

Read it on AO3 Here

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

~~~

Sometimes, if they were important, things he Saw would repeat themselves.

For instance, he had grown used to seeing a halo of holy light behind Sun almost every time he looked at her. It was the light of the goddess shining though, he was certain. The fact that it was almost always visible spoke volumes to her power.

One symbol that Sky had Seen often was the number nine. When Sky was young he would See the number nine absolutely everywhere.

Nine shadows stemmed from him, and not just the normal one. Nine bright stars would shine in the evening sky every night before the rest. Nine wildflowers growing in a perfect circle.

The number nine repeated over and over, seared forever into his mind.

He hadn’t known what it meant, but he rarely understood what he Saw when he Saw it. Sometimes, he only understood after the events that he Saw had come to pass.

And besides, he knew that What-Will-Be would come to pass, regardless of his interference. So, he was content to let this mysterious recurring symbol lie. He knew he would understand when he would understand, and not a second sooner.

And now, he was traveling with eight companions who all shared the hero's spirit. He was still surprised. Not in his wildest dream was this what he thought the symbol of nine would mean. But still, thanks to the Seeing, he was more prepared for it than some of the others in the group.

He didn’t tell them about how he could See. He had become so used to keeping it a secret, that it never truly occurred to him that he could tell these men. They were well equipped with knowledge of the strange and fantastical. They would have believed him.

Instead, he kept the knowledge of his strange gift close to his chest. After all, Sky knew that none of them could See as he did. They did not share this strangeness with him.

That was not to say that they were not strange. Sky could See the strangeness in all of them.

He could See fur sprouting from Twilight’s face, see the marks on his face glow in the light of the setting sun.

He could See the wind bend around their youngest, see the waves bow before him.

He could See fairies glow brighter in the presence of Hyrule, and could See him glow brightly in return.

They are all strange like that, in one way or another. Sky was just the only one who could See it.

The strangest of them all was the Champion.

When Wild was near, he blurred the line between seeing and Seeing. The Seeing seemed to bleed into the real world around the champion.

(This had only happened with one person before. Sun. And only after she had come into the full power of the goddess. Sky tried his hardest to ignore the implications of that. He didn’t want to think about it, frankly, and there was no real way to know if it was coincidence or correlation, anyways.)

Sometimes, Sky would go to pick an apple that he could have sworn was there, only to find that the apple had been What-Once-Was. Sometimes he ignored the sting of pain he felt after a battle, assuming it to be What-Will-Be, only to find that he was truly injured.

And it wasn’t just inert objects that were affected by this strange blurring of the lines.

Seeing scars reopen and wounds reappear was familiar to Sky.

What was not familiar was looking at the bleeding wound, and not knowing if what he observed, he observed because he was Seeing it, or because it was really happening. Sky was in a constant state of worry, having to take cues from others to see if the wound he could see on them was actually there, or if Sky was just Seeing things. It was exhausting, honestly.

It wasn’t just the blurring of Seeing and seeing that was so strange about Wild.

It was also the way wilted flowers perked back up after Wild walked past. The way food never seemed to rot around him, preserved from the moment it died.

The way the hits he landed on monsters seemed so final, seemed to cut so deeply that the monsters had no choice but to perish. The way they fell to the ground, as if gravity had increased three times over, with no opportunity for the monster to regain its footing for one final burst of energy.

The way spirits drifted after Wild wherever he went, too many for them to be his loved ones form before the calamity. They clung to him, screaming and pleading unintelligibly.

The way that whenever one of their number was extremely injured, and even Hyrule could do nothing for them, Wild would bend over their body for just a moment. The way that, when he stood back up, hope was suddenly restored that the injured would live, somehow or another.

Sky knew that the others could sense some of this. Those who were more magically attuned, Hyrule, and Legend were more aware of it, but all of them could feel that something was off with the champion. He was the same as them, carried the Hero’s spirit just like them, and yet he was different. Other, in some strange, undefinable way. Sky was just the one who came the closest to defining it. Not that he wanted to.

Although he wasn't very magically attuned, Wind was perhaps the most aware of it. Sky had seen Wind's eyes track the spirit forms of those lost souls that followed Wild around. He did not know how the sailor came by the gift of seeing spirits, but it was not his place to ask, if Wind didn’t bring it up first. They all had secrets, after all.

That was part of the reason Sky was so set on ignoring the things he Saw regarding all of his traveling companions, but Wild especially. It was his life that Sky was seeing, intruding upon without his knowledge. Sky would try to respect that as much as he could.

The other part of it was that Sky wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. Some things were best left unsaid.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

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.

KINGSMAN III Fan Fiction REDACTED Part 1 (in case they mess up the last Kingsman movie)

Because I’m both excited an afraid of what they are planning for the last Kingsman. I, as well as A LOT of people were pissed that they killed off Merlin, let alone all the others. This is my Fan Fic for what I thought should happen in Kingsman 3 and how they could possibly bring Merlin back....And A LOT of Harry Hart, and some new characters, too..

MULTI PART SERIES:(My version of Kingsman 3)

Harry Hart x Original Character 

Warnings: Reference to violence 

Word Count: 5,900

Summary: 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.

-----

PART 1

The evening was still warm and pleasant as the sun dropped behind the last of the buildings overlooking the London skyline. For a few brief moments, when the final rays of light glanced off the windows facing the west, the sky seemed to flame.

The sun struggled to hold its place, but as it conceded, the day began its transition into night. A new energy would begin to blanket the momentary quiet streets.

So the sun set on another day in London. Saville Row stilled once more as store fronts closed up and settled down for the evening.

Further along the walk, two gentleman were about to descend the stone steps of one of the shops. One man stood a little taller, a little older, more distinguished than the other. Both were impressively attired, as would be the case if they were in the company’s employ. But of course, this was to be expected. What this street was best known for was being the undeniable home of hand-crafted British bespoke - thus named because when customers used to choose their cloth it was said to "be spoken for".

The older gentleman, the taller of the two, had broad shoulders and a lean figure, with long legs and a silhouette that suggested strength and movement. The younger man, though shorter, had a compact, sturdy build with a wide chest and a distinctly strong jaw line, sandy hair and blue eyes. He had the shape and movements of an athlete, and the personality to match. Gregarious, enthusiastic, like a puppy who was just beginning to grow into his paws.

It might have been the younger man’s youthful exuberant energy and confidence that caught your eye, but it was the older man whose quiet, distinguished gravitas that held your gaze and kept it.

As twilight embarked on its journey to introduce the night sky, the new Kingsman shop glowed with golden light among the dark streets of London. In the heart of Savile Row, the street was, perhaps, a bit too quiet.

The younger man was jesting the older in the manner of both a comrade and a son. And with the patience of both a father and the derision of an older brother, the man, resigned to be the long suffering confidant, obliged the mischief with a somewhat exasperated, but affable, good nature.

“So.” The younger man queried. “You gonna get one of them new Kingsman cars for your birthday?”

He eyed him with a sideways glance. “What would you know of my birthday?” the stately gentleman countered, skeptical.

“Know it was long time ago.”  He chaffed under his breath.

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it.” He replied briskly.

“You gonna have a do?”

“Rubbish.” “ he replied, unamused.

“You should.”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind.” However, the quip in his voice and his doubtful expression suggested that he had already dismissed the notion as utterly preposterous.

They both took the steps down to the pavement and toward the waiting car. The new taxis, upgraded with first rate technology, were still in production. In the meantime, hire cars were made available for their use.

“When are the Kingsman cars gonna be ready, anyway?”

The older man he reached down to unlock the car door.  He was about to reply when the key fob was shot out of his hand.

Apparently, not soon enough, he thought as he dropped down to the ground. Who ever had taken that shot was sending a message, and if the message included bullets, it was best to fall below the line of fire.

More gunfire erupted, this time from a different direction. Mayhem, of course. He sighed. Would he never be able to enjoy a quiet evening ever again? Perhaps he was getting too old for this.

His expectations for a peaceful, uneventful evening were simply entertainment for a higher power. Every time one makes a plan, he thought reaching for his own weapon, God laughs. He would be sure to bear that in mind next time.

——

If the word gentleman were to take on a physical shape, that shape would look like Harry Hart.  If you were in his presence, you had no choice but to look at him. No other option existed. It was as if there were an unseen magnetic force that held your gaze upon him.

Harry Hart was a man you saw immediately. He carried an air of timelessness. There was neither a sense of young or old. Nor future or past. He was both modern and old world. He was a contradiction that somehow made perfect sense.

He was an arresting figure. From his dark horn rimmed glasses, all the way down to the impeccable shine of his black Oxford shoes. The immaculate cut of his bespoke suit emphasized the sleek masculine lines of his body and he carried himself as naturally and as easily as though he was born to wear it.

The suit seemed to enhance his movements, rather than hinder or constrict. He presented a certain ease and grace of movement, as if the lines of the suit knew how he moved and thus moved with him. But even as he grew still, the suit would hang perfectly in place.  Only a slight movement of his hand would smooth out his jacket or a flick of the wrist to adjust his cuff links.

He existed as if being Harry Hart was effortless. Without a hint of doubt or hesitation. A man who was never one to question his purpose in life or in his work.

There was no denying, that even in his late fifties, that Harry Hart was a handsome man. Each individual feature was attractive, but it was the man, as a whole, that was truly beautiful. He was the kind of being that if he were to walk by, he would turn the heads of both men and women. All intrigued for reasons they wouldn’t be able to explain in words.

If you asked someone in passing what he looked like, they would say he was handsome. But if queried further they would be curiously unable to recall any exact details of his physical appearance.

It was the rare quality of a person completely at ease in his own skin, who never doubted the reason for his existence or the meaning of his life. Who does not need or desire anything that lies outside the present moment. He possessed a rare, undefined quality that communicated without speaking a word. It said honor, integrity, decency and benevolence.

Harry Hart was the sum of all his parts.

Yet, one could not deny that he was a man of exemplary physical characteristics. If you had the opportunity to sit and observe him for longer than a passing moment, you would determine that his presence, his immediacy, was also due to the fact that he was a very tall man, a substantial man, with broad shoulders, slim hips, and long legs that were able to carry him with a grace and elegance that was inimitable.

Looking more closely, you would notice the pleasing structure of his face, clear, golden brown eyes below a strong brow and a smooth broad forehead. His hair was a light brown, made even lighter by the dusting of silver at his temples and around his ears. His hair was combed back and styled into smooth waves, but if left on its own you suspect that it would be a little wild, a little untamed.

He also exuded strength and power, but not in a purely physical sense, for his suit covered his body from the nape of his neck to the soles of his feet. These qualities seemed a part of him, naturally. He was not a man who worked out for vanity. His strength was not an end to achieve, in and of itself, but rather the means for a greater purpose. As opposed to the bulk muscle of a weight lifter, whose strength was inert, motionless, without purpose, whose power lacked a driving force. Harry’s strength seemed lighter, more balanced and suggested the movement of a precision instrument, guided by an expert hand.

If, perchance, you were able to see him in his own surroundings or with people close to him, you would be able to glimpse the finer points of his character.

That his clear brown eyes could see into anyone he chose to observe. He had the ability to maintain eye-contact with a singular focus that was unwavering, direct, sometimes disconcertingly so. He could speak as clearly with his gaze as he could with words. Or, if needed, close himself off to any inquiries that might not be welcome.

But also, those brown eyes, with just a little softening, could exude kindness, warmth, and affection. Or at other times, a twinkle of amusement or mischief. Maybe a slight narrowing, a hint of displeasure, maybe concern, a glint of approval.

Perhaps, in a quiet moment, you had the chance to hear his voice.  Deep and calm, soothing even. Articulate. He was not known for his garrulousness, so the words he did speak were deliberate, communicating precisely what he wanted to say. Measured pauses of silence were often as eloquent as his words.

Surprisingly, he was a more quiet man. You expected his voice to be louder, but then you realized that his tone and his pace were calculated. He wanted whoever he was speaking with to be present and concentrate on his words.

But just underneath the steady low, tones you could hear the steely vibrations of a more dominant voice. Just as his physicality suggested a latent power he only need to tap into. Never one to shout or yell to be heard, all he needed to do was unleash that forceful voice to ensure the attention of those around him.

Unknowingly to those around him, all of these features made Harry Hart a lethal and ruthless secret agent with the ability to annihilate his enemies with ease. His mind was sharp and exacting, honed by years of training, experience in the field, and natural talent and skill. Combined with his physical prowess and his innate unflappable nerve, he was nearly unstoppable.

Yet, even beyond these features, could be found a hint of something more, a softness, a gentleness, a kindness and a vulnerability. If only someone took the time to look for them.

—

In the hushed shadows of the evening, as the sky blackened and welcomed the night, a lone figure stood in the shelter of the darkness. A female figure, though it would be difficult to tell at first glance. Ambiguously attired in appropriate, but unremarkable clothing. She was tall and slight. Her features were obscured beneath the cap she wore. Which was her intention.

Her objective was to observe, and even so, remain unseen. To achieve this, she had to be unmemorable, forgettable, average, so she could continue her surveillance without raising scrutiny. Careful not to linger too long in one spot, she continued to move steadily in the direction of the two men. She remained within the shadows between buildings, in a store front, near a set of stairs.

She maintained her air of causal nonchalance.  Under the pretext of quietly browsing at the collection of mens wear and accessories, she paused on the landing of a closed shop. As would anyone just getting off of work and arrived too late, after the shop closed and chose to stay and window shop.  The two men were conversing as they closed up.

Keeping a close eye on her subjects, she simultaneously scanned for possible counter surveillance. Watching out for other people, watching her as she watched her mark. Recording all the people she saw along the street, the make and models of the cars that drove past, any subtle shifts in the temperature and feel of her surroundings. An aspect that appeared out of place, shop lights that remained on past closing, a delivery lorry that arrived behind schedule. Anything that fell beyond the edges of the routine she had documented over the past four weeks. Her sharp sense of hearing, honed to listen and analyse approaching sounds, vehicles, the footsteps of nearby people, their gait, speed and direction, would alert her to any suspicious activity that was out of her immediate view.

After all, Kingsman was a covert intelligence agency, performing under the umbrella of a bespoke tailor shop. but in the end, they were all just spies practicing tradecraft.

——

For the last fortnight, the routine of the two men remained the same. Surprisingly sedate and unremarkable. They would meet at the shop in the mornings, between 8:00- 8:30am. Opening hours were 9am to 5:30 am during the week from Mondays to Friday. Saturdays were 10am to 3pm or by appointment. Closed on Sundays. They followed this schedule diligently, which simplified her task. Perhaps there were some outings during the day for either of them. As the days passed, one indistinguishable from the next, she began to suspect that they had a secondary location.

It would make sense. Kingsman was their backstop, their front organization so they could keep their intelligence operations secret. Many individuals entered the doors to their shop. Some stayed suspiciously longer than others. After detailing the amount of foot traffic stepping through their shop, she gathered that they must have an ancillary site, or an annex, whether it be at this location, or somehow connected.

An unusual number of clients entered the store, but the corresponding number of customers did not exit the shop. With the size of the shop, the footprint of space that was available, she estimated there to be at least three fitting rooms in addition to the showroom, workshop, a studio, and perhaps a small living area. The shops of Saville Row were not known for being expansive. Most could be termed cozy if one was being generous. She highly doubted that the number of well dressed men that she saw entering the shop, but not leaving, were entertaining themselves with tea and biscuits and conversation for most of the day. However, at the onset of the eve, without fail, after she was able to distinguish the clients from the employees, one by one, like rabbits out of a warren, they stepped out from the front doors and disappeared into the city for whatever evening they had planned.

—

Her first fortnight was spent mapping out the city, learning its lines of traffic, communication and commerce, so she could build an internal map in her head. At sunrise, she was a figure on the move. Walking one day, riding the Tube the next. She traveled up and down the streets. She took the Overground, the tram, the light rail. But mostly she walked. She walked through the markets with their fresh bread and curries and trendy second hand clothing. One day the Tate Modern stood to her right. The following day she walked past with the Natural History Museum on her left. She noted how the morning light struck the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and how the sunset on the two western towers of Westminster Abbey. She crossed the River Thames via the London Bridge and then crossed back by the Tower Bridge on her return. She walked from Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square and then around to the National Portrait Gallery.

Though the sites were beautiful, she wasn’t sightseeing. However, she was, indeed taking mental snapshots wherever she went.

She wasn’t memorising routes.

She was learning the lay of the land.

She was following the flow of the River Thames.

She was reading the structure of the city.

She was noticing points of convergence.

She was looking for routine and repetition.

She was identifying patterns.

She sought out patterns from the cities routes to the naming of streets. If she had to go on the run, time wouldn’t stop so she could check her phone or ask for directions. She needed to know where she was going, and if she needed to, how to get back.  Knowing where she’d just been was as important as knowing where she was going. So the same way she was mapping where she was going, she utilised a post-route mental street mapping technique to backtrack. Reliance on technology could be a weakness and she made a point to “go analog” when it was opportune. And if her confidence yielded to encroaching doubt, she always circled back to square one.

Always remember your training.

She was trained to look for signs of directions no matter where she was.

And to do that, she first had to establish a known point.

——

She commandeered Kingsman as her known point, a sort of home base, but for mapping purposes. She used it rather than her hotel since it was the main site of her surveillance. It was the logical choice. If she mapped properly she would be able to maintain where she was in relation to the shop no matter where she was in the city. Having Kingsman as her known point helped her connect the mental map she was creating in her head to the physical landscape of the city. If she ever found herself lost, she could use her known point as a sort of primitive means of navigation. All roads lead back to Kingsman, she thought with irony. For her, they actually did.

From her known point, she determined where north, south, east and west were. In any direction she went, no matter how near or far, she continued to add on to her mental map, making it more comprehensive and precise.  The architecture of the city was invaluable. She used the landmarks to help her navigate distance, direction, and orientation. If it was a full overcast day, she wouldn’t be able to rely on the sun’s location in the sky to determine time and orientation. But if she knew the history of the city or how the architecture was initially planned, she could use structures as directional indicators. Studying which sides of a structure shows bleaching or corrosion could also help her determine cardinal directions or aid in maintaining a “heading” of travel without drawing attention herself, without seemingly wandering around lost.

Half of this knowledge she would never have to use. Hell, 99% would just be filed away, never to have an occasion to be helpful. But today’s preparation determined tomorrow’s achievement. Or, depending on her mood, as one “Big Ben” once said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”  Regardless of attitude, she had to be prepared for any scenario. There would be no second chances. She had no safe house, no handler guiding her, no fancy tech at her fingertips. Every operation of hers was a black operation. If there was blowback, she was the first and last in line. There was no station that she could return to, no case officer to back her up, no one to offer her operational security, no diplomatic cover, no plausible deniability. There was no protocol she could follow for what she had planned. She was acting purely on instinct and intuition and the intelligence that was already in her possession. It was all she had. SHE was all she had. She was all she ever had.

——

When she first arrived in the city, she was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the city itself, true, like it was a living and breathing entity. But mostly, she was overwhelmed by the purpose of her journey. Her reason for being in London. It was a delicate mission with an uncertain outcome and could easily be derailed by a single misstep. She was determined not to make one. Hence the extra time for reconnaissance and surveillance. Failure was unthinkable.

She had journeyed from Paris, underneath the channel, to London via Eurostar. The high speed train was clean and modern. It ran on time. She found the seats comfortable. The Wifi connection was strong and she had plenty of outlets to charge her many devices. She was pleased to avoid Heathrow, as she found the whole process of flying a test of her patience. When she arrived at London St. Pancras International in the evening, she collected her few belongings. Which mostly consisted of her laptop, two smart phones and a tablet. Securing her bags, she stepped off the train, onto the platform and followed the flow of arriving travellers.

When the station opened up to a huge concourse, she was greeted with the sparkle of brightly lit, colourful shops. An impressive range of high end luxury stores and boutiques, selling everything from perfume, to crystal, to gourmet foods. Bars and restaurants were brimming with patrons. Clinking glassware, the shuffle of plates and silverware underscored the many voices all layered within their conversations. Among the droves of people, there were the homecomers and those who were departing for their own destinations. Immersing her senses with the spirit of the evening, her pace subsided until she halted to a standstill. She was a rock that split the stream of travellers and they flowed on either side of her. She felt them pass by. They posed little interest to her. She asked herself, one final time, if she was doing the right thing. She stood underneath beams of the vaulted ceiling that curved high overhead. She witnessed all of these people, coming together, converging, merging on this one spot, this open space where paths meet.

She took a deep breath in. She took a long breath out.

She hoped that the path she had chosen was the right one.

Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder she stepped into the stream and disappeared within the throng of journeyers, the transients, and the seekers.

-----

Back at Saville Row, at the top of the street, she spotted the front end of a dark blue, two door Vauxhall Corsa turn the corner. Twice now, she had seen the same vehicle drive past. The likelihood of the same car, navigating the one way streets and having to backtrack to come around the same corner a third time, was not happenstance. It might be the third most common car in London, but when the plate had the identical three letter identifier, HFK, it was not a coincidence, and in fractions, she was fully alert.

The length of Saville Row, from one end to the other was less than 900 feet.  Which left her with only heartbeats to decide what to do. Asking herself “what if” would burn through seconds she did not have. That was a rabbit hole not to fall into. The best way to stay calm and focused was to decide what to do next. A suspicious car rolling down the street could mean anything, from something as simple and innocuous as a tail, to something as dangerous as a kidnapping, to an attack with possible devastating effects, if they had a VBIED, a vehicle borne improvised explosive device.

Clearing her mind of anything outside her assessment of the possible threat, she processed the information in-front of her.  Having something to concentrate allowed her mind to remain focused no matter what was happening in the background.

Identify the problem. When you saw hoof prints, you thought horse, not zebra. The circumstances were less than ideal for a kidnapping; the vehicle too small, the street too prominent, two targets rather than one. For a VBIED, while it could be a VERY effective way to eliminate two targets at once, unless they were thinking of suicide bombing, the vehicle should have been set up in advance with a trigger mechanism to ignite the device, like a pressure plate or a vibration switch. Could their taxi have been booby trapped with a device? She observed no suspicious activity. Was there another vehicle on the street that could be hooked up with a secondary explosive device? Certainly, an effective means of blocking the entire area against police and emergency staff. The blue Corsa could be used as a road block or could carry a remote trigger. Two explosions, without knowing the payload of the bombs, could not only be devastating, but catastrophic. The rabbit hole was slipping under her feet. Too many “what if’s”. She stepped back from the edge and bet on the horse.

Once again, she closed the door to any uncertainties. What kind of problem was this? She recognised the set up for a drive by shooting when she saw one.

Something was going to happen next regardless of what she did. So when that something happened, she wanted to be the deciding factor. Again, what to do next?

Shooting the vehicle would only incapacitate their transportation. They would still be dangerous. She could take out the windshield and the driver at the same time. But they would surely have a second shooter, especially for two targets, and he would still be active and armed. Plus, if she had time to take out the second man, that meant the second man had time to take out one of his targets. One out of two was still one too many for her. Which led her to her course of action.

For the two men to survive, they needed to get down. And she wasn’t talking about ducking.  Not dodging, not looking for cover. They needed to hit the ground, and hit it fast. With feeling. Her options? If she just pulled a warning shot, chances were likely that they would look around for the source of the gunshot, and there was no way to distinguish her shots as “friendly fire”.  Friendly fire could still kill, regardless of the intent. The bullet didn’t care why it was fired. When there were bullets coming in your direction from an unknown gunman, it was all enemy fire.

Because of their training, they would react instinctively to the sound of gunshots.  Experience would tell them to take cover, quick draw their own weapons, and return fire in the direction of where the shots came from. For once, she cursed their skills. When the target was not aware that the gunshot they just heard was friendly fire or a warning shot, that just meant that the shooter aimed and missed. Thus the shooter was a poor shot, giving them a chance to shoot back.

She needed to make her threat as immediate as she could. Instinct would tell them the only option for survival was taking cover. A shot above their heads would definitely get their attention, but that still didn’t guarantee that they would move out of the line of fire. Not her line of fire, but from the threat. A single shot had to tell them she could have easily killed them, the bullet did not miss, the shot was intentional, and the message was, GET DOWN NOW. Bonus points if they rolled. That would be even better.  Where to take that shot? If she missed her target, well, saying that would be bad, would be the understatement to understate all statements.

Firing her gun was her last option. Regrettably, it was her only option. She was carrying illegally, and with no doubt, would alert both sides to her presence. Even though they would have minimal information, she preferred they didn’t even know that information existed.

Many things would result from putting her gun into play.  If she used her gun for a warning shot, then she had to be prepared to be directly involved in a fire fight. And if she was going to be in a firefight, she damn well was going to come out on top. And if she was forced to fight, she would sure as hell fight to win.

She processed all of this in the matter of seconds. Her weapon was drawn before her last thought completed its message.

Her final thought. Fuck.

She wasn’t extravagant with her choice of firearms. She preferred performance and reliability over looks. A Glock 26 sub-compact was her pick for conceal carry. It had less recoil, more on target accuracy, and a fast rate of fire for a gun of its size. Compact enough to be easily concealed, even on her slim frame. A shoulder holster was her carry position of choice. Other positions risked printing. It still had sufficient barrel length to get decent performance out of her ammunition. Ten round magazines were her preference, though it had the capacity for more. She found it cumbersome on the field and only used larger capacity mags when she was target practicing. With the smaller barrel, it had a little more lift than her full size weapon, the Glock 19, but she could compensate easily for the difference between the two. She always kept one in the chamber, ready to be fired. Now she was very glad she did.

The blue coupe rolled toward the men at a deliberate pace as they descended the few steps to the pavement. Tinted windows and the glare of the streets lights blocked her view of the car’s interior. She kept its position in the periphery of her mind. As she drew her weapon, she was comforted by its familiar weight, shape, feel, and the trust that she had with the nuances of its operation. When her weapon was on her, whether holstered or drawn, it became, essentially, an extension of her own body, and thus, was as personal to her as the hands that used it.

No matter where or how she shot her weapon, whether it be for practice, self defence, or to kill, she always returned to the same training, every single time, no matter her target. Repetition, after all, was mastery.

Accuracy was paramount. The biggest lesson she had ever learned?  If you didn’t hit what you intended to, you would, of course, hit something else. And you were the one responsible for it.  Guns didn’t miss, shooters missed. The bullet would land wherever the muzzle and front sight were pointed when the trigger was engaged.  If she didn’t hit her mark, it happened because her front sight and the muzzle were pulled, pushed or jerked out of alignment with the straight line between her eye and her target. And if it deviated, it did so because of the way she manipulated the trigger. Basically, a missed shot was down to user error.

When firing her weapon, she always came back to the relationship between her front sight, rear sight, trigger, her eye and the target.

The more precise the shot, the more precise her sight picture had to be. And this had to be one of the most precise shots she’d ever had to take out in the field. What had she been thinking about understatements?

Well, whatever she thought fell aside and she focused singularly on the task in front of her.

She adopted her modified weaver stance, by instinct.  Feet a little wider than shoulder width. Knees soft. Dominant foot slighty behind the other. Her weight was evenly distributed, but she was  leaning forward just slightly and angled away from her target. Basically, a boxer’s recovery stance.

She looked at the exact spot on the target that she wanted to hit

She visualized a straight line between her eye and that spot.

She raised her weapon and brought it up to eye level.

She relaxed her grip until it felt natural.

She made sure that front and rear sight intersected the line she drew between her eye and the target.

She levelled the top of the front sight with the top of the rear sight.

She changed her eye focus from the spot on the target to the front of her gun, until her sharp focus centered on the front site.

She could still see her target in line in the distance.

She softened and relaxed the muscles of her face until it felt peaceful.

She shifted her weight just the tiniest bit to the balls of her feet to minimise the lift of the muzzle.

She curled her index finger around the face of the trigger until it nested in the perfect spot.

At the bottom of her exhalation, with just the amount of pressure necessary, no more no less, she smoothly pressed the trigger straight back to the rear.

The sharp report rang in her ears. As the muzzle lifted from the recoil, she kept her focus on the top of the front sight,  and maintained alignment with the invisible thread that was pulled tight from her eye, completing her follow throughprecisely at the same time as her bullet hit its mark.

All of this happened, seamlessly, without hesitation, within fractions of a second. In situations such as these time and space had no meaning.

She had just triggered, pun intended, a chain of events that she hoped wouldn’t end in bloodshed. But if it did, she had faith that it wouldn’t be theirs.

The two men fell to the ground, already reaching to draw their own weapons. Without a second thought, she adjusted her aim and stance toward the vehicle that was now passing by the store front. Its window was rolled down and she could see the barrel of a large handgun materialise from the darkness. A shot fired in their direction. She didn’t bother noting the make and model of the gun. Most likely an illegal side arm. Her whole process started from the beginning once more, this time with the anticipation that she may have multiple targets to shoot between.

Her next shot hit the barrel of the weapon before it could pull a second round.

She stole a quick glance at the two men on the ground. Shit. Rather than lining up with the shooters in the car, the older gentleman immediately turned his head in her direction. He was looking for the original shooter. He was good, he nearly zeroed in on her exact location despite gunfire coming from two separate sources. She weighed her options. She could pull back so as not to be seen, but if she did, she would no longer have sight on the car. She could not be certain that they had been incapacitated and without being certain, she couldn’t drop her cover fire position. It would leave the two men vulnerable.

With misgiving, she stayed in place. And, fuck, for a split second their eyes met. She and the car both pulled off one last shot, hers hitting, theirs missing the mark before the vehicle decided that the unknown in the equation was more than they had bargained for. They sped off without her getting a good look at the passengers. They were banking on the element of surprise but she had knocked all of their chips off the table before they could cash out.

Gunfire, uncommon in the streets of London, especially in high traffic, upscale areas like Saville Row, would definitely be suspicious. Reports would be made to the police. She wasn’t sure what the protocol for the two Kingsman were, if they would handle the situation as civilians or remain under the cover of Kingsman, which operated outside the rules of law. She wasn’t waiting around to find out.

She holstered her weapon, adjusted her face and body to a person of no significance or consequence, turned, and took her leave in the opposite direction.

----If you got this far, thanks for reading! First time for a posting a longer fanfic. Apologies for any first timer quirks. Let me know what you think! Liked it, loved it, hated it, burn it, no worries, all feedback is welcome. (but of course, I hope you had at least kinda an enjoyable time.) ALWAYS FEEL FREE TO REBLOG or send to someone who might be interested.