Synopsis: In Merlin’s lab, theory meets catastrophe in a test that redefines innovation. Kingsman may have built one Merlin, but somehow they ended up with two. And one of them likes fire.
Content warnings: lab hazards, reckless experimentation, humor under pressure, themes of mentorship and innovation vs. impulse control, Crown being a menace
Word Count: 524 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The Round Table was used to innovation.
Merlin’s lab had always been the birthplace of brilliance—quiet hums and sudden brilliance wrapped in mint tea and offhanded sarcasm.
But today?
Today was different.
Today, Merlin was standing in front of them at the weapons bay with a satisfied gleam in his eye, flanked by several armored cases and a whiteboard already cluttered with impossibly dense notes and hand-sketched diagrams.
And beside him,
Perched on a workbench, legs swinging, coffee in one hand and absolute chaos in her eyes,
Was Crown.
“Alright,” Merlin began, tone clipped, efficient. “The new upgrades are reactive. Armor coating’s density adjusts on impact based on heat signature and kinetic velocity. Field tests confirm 63% faster recovery from ballistic strikes and full resistance against subthermal ignition. Don’t ask me what that means in plain English. If you can’t read the chart, you don’t get to use the toys.”
“Charts are pretty,” Gawain muttered, half to himself. “The real question is if it breaks.”
The moment Merlin opened his mouth Crown slid off the bench.
She snatched Lancelot’s sidearm clean off his thigh holster in one smooth, practiced move.
He blinked. “Did you just—?”
Bang.
The bullet hit the center of the test plate mounted on the dummy rig, sparking clean off the armor’s core plate.
Bang.Another shot. Higher velocity.
Bang.A third—aimed low, sharp, meant to test fracture points.
Every Knight flinched.
Except Arthur.
Arthur tilted his head slightly, arms crossed.
Not stopping her.
Just watching.
Crown paused, checked the monitor feedback.
“No cracks. No thermal deviation. You win this round, Lazul.”
Merlin didn’t even lift his head from his tablet.
“Stop shooting my prototypes, Wyvern.”
She scrunched her nose, mock-innocent.
“I didn’t set anything on fire.”
“Because you were banned.”
“Unfairly.”
“You tried to test flammability by aiming a drone into the engine room.”
She rolled her eyes. “It was one fire.”'
Arthur exhaled sharply.
Not quite a laugh.
But his shoulders shifted, just enough for the Knights to clock it.
Galahad stared at Crown like she was a walking HR liability.
Percival took a careful step back from the test rig.
Gawain, eyes wide, leaned toward Bedivere.
“Mate… She’s another Merlin.”
Bedivere, blinking at the shattered impact plate, replied:
“But with worse impulse control.”
Tristan murmured, “She doesn’t test tech. She fights it.”
Lancelot just frowned and looked at his holster. “She’s the reason I triple-buckle everything.”
Merlin didn’t argue.
Just scrawled another note on the chart and added, dryly:
“I had one brain. Now I have two. One just happens to enjoy property damage.”
Crown raised her cup. “To innovation.”
Merlin toasted her with his tablet stylus.
Arthur shook his head, half-smiling.
“As long as it holds in the field.”
“It will,” they said in unison.
And for a moment, it was clear—
Kingsman didn’t just have Merlin anymore.
They had two.
Two minds.
One precise, composed, strategic.
The other relentless, chaotic, and utterly unwilling to let tech leave the lab until it survived her.
And the Round Table?
They adjusted.
Because with Crown and Merlin at the helm of innovation, their gear didn’t just evolve.
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Synopsis: A field report in six parts. Five moments where chaos saved the day, and one that reminded the Round Table they were more than soldiers—they were a team.
Content warnings: pseudo-military violence, explosions, injury mentions, tactical improvisation, mild alcohol use, inerberation, found-family camaraderie.
Word Count: 1437 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
1. The Ambush at Blackridge Pass
The wind howled through the canyon, carrying dust and the low growl of approaching engines.
The Knights held position–Lancelot crouched on the north ridge with Percival covering his six, Galahad and Bedivere in overwatch, with Arthur at the center–every movement precise.
The mission appeared straightforward: intercept the convoy carrying kidnapped diplomats, secure their release, and escape before enemy reinforcements arrived.
Yet Crown, crouched beside Merlin in the cramped mobile command truck, felt a knot of unease. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the topographical map spread out before them, tracing the convoy’s route.
The plotted pattern seemed too deliberate, almost like someone was putting on a show.
“They know we’re here,” she muttered.
Arthur’s voice crackled in. “Explain.”
She tapped the screen. “Lead vehicle’s hanging back. It should be up front and sweeping. They’ve already cleared the canyon and are waiting for us to hit first.”
Silence.
“Lancelot, Percival—hold fire. Galahad, scan the upper ridge.”
Three seconds.
Galahad’s voice dropped. “Six snipers. High ground. We’d have walked right into it.”
Arthur's glance toward Crown, viewed through the drone feed, was brief but charged.
“Adjusting plan.”
They allowed the convoy to roll smoothly into the designated kill zone, a carefully calculated trap woven into the rugged terrain.
As the lead truck, its tires crunching over gravel, crossed the marked trigger point, Crown, cloaked in shadows, gave a subtle nod of confirmation. In an instant, Bedivere, perched tensely on the ridge above, pressed the detonator with steely resolve.
The ensuing rockslide was nothing short of surgical, a deliberate orchestration of chaos.
Boulders, each the size of small cars, plummeted down from the steep canyon walls, crashing with thunderous roars and effectively sealing the escape route behind the convoy.
The dust settled and the Knights descended from their vantage points with chilling precision. Clad in dark tactical gear, they moved like phantoms, swiftly neutralizing hostiles before any could muster the resolve to regroup.
The silence that followed was palpable, broken only by the distant echoes of falling debris and the soft rustle of the wind through the canyon, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
The target never knew what hit him.
As the dust cleared, Percival clapped her back. “Lucky you overthink.”
She didn’t look up. Just scrunched her nose at him. “It’s not luck. Just pattern recognition.”
2. The Undercover Operation Gone Wrong
Crown had glided through a hundred galas like this: full to the brim with power games behind silk gloves and vintage wine, secrets whispered between toasts.
Tonight, she played the part of an arms broker–poised, elusive, dangerous. While Gawain, all charm and calculated menace, played her partner.
The aim tonight: Gather intel and nick a small trophy from an identified black arms dealer.
But their mark, a veteran with a kill streak longer than his résumé, wasn’t biting.
Too careful. Too still. Watching Gawain too closely.
Then it clicked. His eyes narrowed, just slightly. Recognition.
“Cover’s blown,” she murmured, brushing Gawain’s wrist like a casual touch.
He didn’t flinch. “How do you want to play it?”
She turned to the dealer with a smile, leaning in as if about to whisper something scandalous.
“You know,” she said lightly, “the last time I attended one of these, someone tried to poison me. Terrible business.”
She plucked Gawain’s drink from his hand—slim crystal, amber liquid—and downed a sip.
The dealer’s eyes locked on hers.
She didn’t blink. Wouldn't be the first time she rolled the dice for poison.
“A shame,” The mark said finally. “Wouldn’t want to bring too much excitement to work functions though.”
“Me too,” Crown said smoothly. “It was briefly entertaining at the very least.”
The tension cracked. The conversation flowed. The mark relaxed.
Later, slipping into a stolen sedan with intel in the glove box, Gawain gave her a look. “You’re insane.”
She didn’t slow. “And you adore it.”
3. The Sniper’s Dilemma
It was supposed to be clean.
Tristan had the target in his sights—a high-ranking operative moving through the compound. One clean shot would drop a key operative and clear the way for the infiltration team.
The target moved into position.
But then, out of nowhere, a child darted into view. Kicking a ball, oblivious to what was unfolding.
His finger hovered. Breath steady. Scope unblinking.
“Crown.”
She was nearby, perched two rooftops over. She saw it, too.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Arthur’s voice cut in, sharp. “You lose this chance—”
“I know.”
She was already moving.
Descending the aging fire escape, she leaped onto the scaffold like an agile cat, its metal frame creaking under her weight.
In her mad dash, she intentionally toppled a precarious stack of rusted metal crates, the loud clang echoing through the stillness of the courtyard.
Instantly, the compound erupted into chaos—blaring alarms pierced the air, accompanied by frantic shouts and the sound of hurried footsteps.
The child ran.
The target turned.
Tristan pulled the trigger.
One clean shot. Body down. No collateral.
They exfiltrated fast, slipping through the compound’s outer perimeter before the response team even knew where to look.
Back at the rendezvous, Tristan broke the silence. “That was reckless.”
Crown buckled in, calm. “It was calculated.”
He looked over. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
She met his gaze. “Neither did you.”
4. The Cyber Heist
"Remind me why she's here again?" Bedivere muttered, fingers flying over the keys. His screen blinked with firewall layers, each more brutal than the last.
“To keep you humble,” Merlin replied from his comms feed, voice dry.
They were shoulder to shoulder at the edge of a blacksite server cluster. Bedivere was deep in code, fingers flying, muttering in hex and sarcasm.
Crown leaned closer, her expression annoyingly serene as she watched the screen illuminated by flickering lines of code and flashing red.
Bedivere's snapped at her, “You could help, you know.”
“I am helping,” Crown pointed at the monitor, her voice steady and calm. “You’re hammering the gate. That subroutine's nothing but a bluff. The real access is nested three layers deep behind that formidable firewall—There. Stop right here.”
She pressed her finger against a specific line of code, causing him to abruptly halt his relentless sequence.
Crown began tapping in a few additional lines, deftly copying fragments into others. The screen flickered ominously then cleared.
Access granted.
Bedivere froze. “...How.”
“I thought like the guy who built it,” she said, “Not like the guy trying to break it.”
“She's a menace,” Bedivere muttered.
Merlin whistled low. “Yeah, she’s intolerable.”
Crown smiled. “You’re welcome.”'
5. The Last Stand
They were cornered in a gutted warehouse, bullets slicing through the air, ricochets too close for comfort. The Knights were down to limited cover and counting seconds.
The extraction team was late.
Arthur’s voice cut through the gunfire. “Suggestions.”
Crown checked her watch. “Give me sixty seconds.”
She was gone before anyone answered.
She slipped into the dark, moving low and fast. Her eyes tracked the layout—weak points, fuel lines, pre-set explosives she'd planted hours earlier just in case things went awry
She circled behind a loading crane and triggered the detonator.
The far side of the warehouse collapsed inward, taking three enemy flanks with it. Screams and confusion echoed through the structure. What was a trap had become a funnel—and the Knights struck hard.
By the time the extraction team breached the back entrance, it was a clean sweep.
Arthur glanced at the wreckage, then at her. “You planned that.”
Crown dusted herself off. “Didn’t like the layout.”
Galahad exhaled. “One day, we’re going to have a conversation about what goes on in your head.”
Crown flashed a grin. “You won’t like it.”
+1: The Time She Made It Fun
They’d survived a brutal op. No fatalities, high-value asset extracted, mission success overall. Spirits were high.
So naturally, Percival decided to test the limits of Crown’s humanity.
“You can’t drink me under the table,” he announced at the nearest dive bar. “You may be a tactical savant, but I outweigh you by eighty pounds.”
“Bold,” Crown replied, already flagging down the bartender.
The Knights circled them like gamblers at a prizefight.
Thirty minutes in, Lancelot was already filming. An hour in, Percival’s vision stared to blur.
“Swear, I think you drugged me,” he said, slumped over the bar.
“I’m just better at pacing,” Crown replied, entirely upright.
Arthur stood nearby, arms folded. “Is this going to be a disciplinary issue?”
Merlin handed him a drink. “Relax, Arthur. It’s team bonding.”
Percival groaned into his glass. “I hate you.”
Crown leaned over, clinked her drink against his forehead. “Too kind, Percy.”
Synopsis: Crown’s first full briefing with the Round Table doesn’t go as planned; it goes better. Precision meets improvisation, and for the first time, the storm learns the language of strategy.
Content warnings: professional tension, leadership pressure, tactical discourse, smug pseudo-insubordination, themes of trust and adaptability.
Word Count: 1268 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Location: Kingsman War Room – 0700HTime: Crown’s First Official Briefing with the Round Table
The war room was humming with low-level tension.
Not hostile—just charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Arthur stood at the head of the table, stone-faced, as always. Lancelot and Percival leaned against opposite walls, arms crossed. Galahad looked like he’d been practicing indifference, though his hand hovered over his pen. Bedivere’s laptop was already open—his cursor blinking in an untouched window. Tristan sat motionless, unreadable behind sharp eyes. Gawain had a smile that was too relaxed to be real.
And then Crown stepped in.
White hair swept back, boots silent on the polished floor, expression unreadable. She was early. That threw them. Not smirking. Not sarcastic. Hair half-tied, coffee in one hand, dossier in the other.
She didn’t bother sitting right away. Just scanned the table once, then the board, then Arthur.
Merlin gave her the smallest nod.
She gave none back but they both understood it. He knew how she moved. And he knew exactly what was about to happen.
Arthur began the briefing.
STRAT BRIEFING – 0730 HOURS
“We’re running a dual-entry on the Santorini compound,” he says. “Primary route through the south cliff, secondary via perimeter breach.”
Crown flicks her pen.
“Point for Clarification.”
Not loud. Not defiant. But the command in it was unmistakable.
Lancelot glanced up without moving. Tristan didn’t blink. Bedivere stopped typing mid-keystroke. Galahad looked from Crown to Arthur, but said nothing. Gawain leaned forward a millimeter, then sat back again. Percival’s eyes narrowed—not suspicious, just reading the room.
Arthur’s pen stilled mid-air.
Crown stepped toward the board.
“Your strategy assumes the target uses a mirrored breach based on their last three runs.”
Arthur gave a slight nod. “It’s consistent with their pattern.”
“But the pattern ends at their last failure,” she said. “You’re accounting for repeat behavior from a unit that just lost a quarter of its numbers and went dark for three weeks.”
“That’s a given.”
“Nope. Clarify the timeline. Don’t assume we’re all in your head.” She pointed to the western edge of the perimeter, where the patrol data was thinner.
“They’ll adapt. They have to. I’d bet money on a westward push with civilian interference to force a split. That blind spot here—” Crown circled it “—is the most logical chaos entry. And we’ve left it lightly netted.”
Arthur was already pulling up the secondary grid.
“Why split the team?” she asks innocently.
“Diversion.” Arthur doesn’t flinch. “Force the opposition to split resources.”
She taps her lip. “Except the cliff team will be exposed during rappel, and snipers don't ordinarily like messy lines of sight.”
“I can adjust,” Tristan says.
“You shouldn’t have to,” she counters. “Why are we forcing compromise when Gawain can just mimic the tech’s voice and redirect patrols from inside while Bedivere hacks into their security system?”
The room stills.
Gawain, caught mid-sip of his coffee, lowers the mug slowly. “I can do that,” he says, surprised.
“Thought so,” Crown replies sweetly. “You’re better with infiltration than we give you credit for.”
“Percival,” Arthur said without looking up, “West flank rotation.”
“L-It’s Light,” Percival sat up a little straighter and tries not to fumble. “One team, hourly sweep. Low threat rating on the last pass.”
Crown shook her head. “That’s not enough.”
Then, calmly, “If they test our predictability, we can’t hold that corner without a response team and a sniper anchor. You want them funneled east, not pouring through the back.”
Arthur turned to the board, added a new layer to the map, and didn’t dispute her.
He just said, “Tristan.”
The sniper spoke for the first time, even-toned. “I’ll take the subroof vantage. Three lines of fire. Can compensate if they bring vehicles.”
Crown didn’t smile. She just nodded.
Then added, “And if they don’t bring vehicles—if they use hostage flow instead—we need a plan that doesn’t hinge on Lancelot reaching the breach first.”
Still no one spoke. But the room shifted.
Not in protest. In understanding.
“Galahad.” she asked.
He answered, measured. “I can engage lead negotiator delay tactics. Buy time for team movement.”
“Good,” Crown said. “Gawain’s voice mimic interference should account for all possible voice access prints.”
“Script’s ready,” he said. “Can layer in confusion, make them stall or reroute.”
Now she looked at Arthur.
“Let them believe the front is the path of least resistance. But we prepare for a second strike coming behind it. That’s the real play.”
Arthur exhales—barely. Not annoyed. Calculating.
But he didn’t challenge her.
He turned back to the board, adjusted the operation timing by thirty seconds, and said, “Consultant Crown’s revisions stand. Adjust your roles accordingly.”
RECON BRIEFING – 1600 HOURS
Later, they gather in the briefing room. Bedivere's screens flicker with digital layouts. Arthur begins assigning roles, voice smooth, no hesitation.
“Percival, on breach. Lancelot, flank cover. Tristan—”
“Needs eyes,” Crown interrupts. “You’re sending the sniper blind.”
Arthur turns to her. “Satellite coverage is narrow.”
“So put me on the field instead of ghosting me on support. I’ll tag targets and draw fire if it gets loud. Tristan gets precision.”
Tristan tilts his head. “You want to run with me?”
“Only if you can keep up,” she says. “But sure, let’s call it a date.”
A low laugh ripples from Percival. Galahad claps twice in mock applause.
Arthur watches her. Says nothing.
She holds his gaze.
“Permission to update mission strat, Commander?”
“...Granted,” he answers coolly. “But you clean up the debrief.”
She smiles, all teeth. “Only for you.”
DOWNTIME — 2130 HOURS
The op’s complete. They’re bruised, half-exhausted, but it went exactly as she outlined. Tristan's kill count doubled. Gawain had so much fun impersonating a drunk Greek guard that even Bedivere cracked a smile.
They lounge across mismatched couches, eating whatever passes for dinner. Lancelot is still in his tac vest. Galahad’s barefoot. Merlin is typing in the corner with the weariness of a man who’s been watching her rewire Arthur’s unit one barb at a time.
Crown has claimed the middle of the largest couch like a queen in a den of wolves.
“So,” she says lightly, stealing a bite from Percival’s plate. “Who’s writing my commendation?”
“No one,” Arthur mutters from across the room. He’s seated by the window, gloved and redoing the sutures on Lancelot, but his eyes are warmer than his voice. “You rewrote half my plan.”
“Improved it,” she corrects. “You’re welcome.”
Percival grins. “I’ll write it if she stops stealing the snacks”
“You’re strong. You’ll survive.”
Bedivere passes her a folder—mission diagnostics.
“You were right,” he says without fanfare.
She pretends to swoon. “Say it again, but slower.”
Tristan huffs a laugh. “Aren’t you trouble.”
“I’m brilliant,” she replies, sprawled sideways, head almost touching Galahad’s knee. “It just looks like arrogance on smaller people.”
Gawain, lying upside down on the armrest like an overgrown cat, lifts his head. “You gonna tell Arthur he’s pretty too, or should we take bets?”
The room freezes.
Crown’s eyes flicker toward the Commander, then back to Gawain.
“I tell him with my silence,” she says, mock-poetic. “And my excellent strategy work. And the fact that he hasn’t reassigned me.”
Arthur almost smirks as he pulls away from patching up Lance’s hand by the lounge chair. Doesn’t deny it.
Later, when they filed out, still silent, Merlin caught Arthur’s eye from his spot in the back.
Took a sip of tea.
Then smirked.
“Fun, isn’t it?” he said. “When the room gets smarter just because she’s in it.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
But the next day, Crown’s chair was already at the table before she arrived.
Synopsis: Crown’s official partnership with Merlin begins with a simple truth: hurricanes aren’t leashed, they’re charted. The world calls it regulation; Merlin calls it trust.
Content warnings: institutional politics, discussions of control and volatility, loyalty vs. bureaucracy, themes of trust and chosen family, quiet solidarity
Word Count: 284 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
She walks in sharp.
White shirt, boots scuffed from an off-book infiltration yesterday, a pen tucked behind her ear like a weapon.
Merlin is already seated.
Tablet on. Holograms live. Jacket folded. Face unreadable.
She drops into the seat across from him.
“You had the option to assign someone else.”
He doesn’t look up.
“I had options. You only work with me.”
She tilts her head.
“Because I’m special?”
Now he looks up. Slowly. Precisely.
“Because no one else is qualified to control a force of nature.”
A pause. Then, cool and measured:
“You don’t train a hurricane. You chart its path.
You don’t muzzle a blade. You hone it.”
Her mouth quirks into a quiet smile. “Awh. You called me a natural disaster..”
“I called you my natural disaster.”
She stills.
He leans forward. “You don’t get leash work, Wyv. You get tethered. To me.”And when Command starts wondering why I bent protocol, I want you to remember one thing—”
He pulls up the file. Her name, her background. Redacted in places even she can’t access.
“—I asked for you.”
“And you don’t ask for anything.”
“I don’t need to. But I chose you.”
The day after, Command accepts the fact a living enigma walks Kingsman’s halls.
No one questions the pairing.
Because who the hell tells Merlin Lazul what he can’t do?
He has final clearance on systems that would cripple global defense grids.
And now he’s tethered himself to a consultant who doesn’t even wear a Kingsman pin.
Why?
Because he knows what she is.
Because he built the game board, and she’s the only one who moves pieces he can’t predict.
Synopsis: A quiet evening at a pub turns into the Knights’ most unorthodox gathering yet. Crown arrives as more than a rumor, and the team finds themselves dragged into a dinner none of them expected. Between shared food, sharp banter, and too many side-glances, the Round Table begins to realize they are no longer bracing for her exit. Instead, they are bracing for the possibility that she might stay.
Content warnings: social tension, team dynamics under strain, strong language, rivalry and attraction, themes of belonging and found family, Arthur’s composure tested by Crown’s boldness, a lot of tension
Word Count: 3214 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
HQ – 19:13
Percival sat at the edge of the couch in the ready room, flipping a protein bar between his hands like he was deciding whether or not to commit to dinner.
Bedivere hadn’t looked up from his screen in twenty minutes.
Then he paused.
“Merlin just left,” Bedivere said.
Percival grunted. “And?”
“On time.”
That got Percival’s attention.
He turned.
Bedivere was still staring at the door like it had said something rude. “And he was...dressed.”
“He’s always dressed for Command meetings,” Percy said, confused.
Bedivere didn’t blink. “Said ‘catching up with a contact.’ And smiled.”
The two of them sat there for a moment in increasingly suspicious silence.
Then Bedivere opened the team group chat and fired off a message.
[Bedivere]: Merlin just left HQ on time
[Bedivere]: He’s wearing his nice blazer.
[Percival]: he SMILED on the way out
[Gawain] Forreal???
[Lancelot]: I’m concerned
[Galahad]: So either the second coming is upon us or he’s meeting someone
[Tristan]: I wasn’t even aware romance came preloaded in his system.
Pub – 19:26
The watering hole wasn’t fancy, but it was neutral ground.
Lancelot and Tristan had been dragged there by two other unit heads, half-listening to someone gripe about quarterlies and gear shortages.
Tristan nursed a pint. Lancelot was making slow work of a whiskey.
Then Lancelot blinked. Sat up straighter.
“Elbows down,” he muttered.
Tristan followed his line of sight.
Across the pub, tucked into a corner booth, sat a white-haired woman with her legs crossed at the ankle and a bowl of fries between her hands.
Crown.
Dressed down in a slouchy jacket and civilian boots, expression blankly curious, like she’d wandered into the bar by accident and stayed out of spite.
The table was set for two.
She dipped a fry into hummus. Ate it. Scrolled through her phone.
“She’s not supposed to be here,” Lancelot hissed.
“Is she ever supposed to be anywhere?” Tristan asked.
Lancelot reached slowly for his phone.
“Don’t,” Tristan said, but too late.
Lance lifted the camera. Focused. Tried to snap a quick photo from across the room.
At the exact second before the shutter clicked, Crown turned—deadpan—and posed. One eyebrow arched. Chin tilted.
Lancelot yelped and dropped the phone.
Tristan barely caught it.
The group chat lit up instantly.
[Lancelot]: SHE’S HERE
[Lancelot]: CORNER BOOTH PUB 12
[Lancelot]: TABLE FOR TWO SHE’S EATING FRIES
[Tristan]: She posed for the camera. He dropped the phone. It was very embarrassing.
[Galahad]: she WHAT
[Gawain]: I THOUGHT SHE VANISHED
[Percival]: what do you MEAN “posed”
[Bedivere]: i KNEW something was off
[Percival] well shite, I NEED to see this
Tristan looked up again just in time to see the door open.
Merlin walked in.
Wearing his blazer with actual buttons and no tablet in sight.
Crown stood up, calm as ever. She walked up to him like this was routine.
Merlin raised a hand and gave her a light karate-chop to the top of the head.
She pouted.
Rubbed her scalp like it stung. Then stole his phone.
Tristan and Lancelot watched, stunned, as Crown led Merlin back to the booth, pointed at the plate of food like she was giving him an assignment, and watched until he took a bite.
Merlin didn’t argue. He ate.
Then he said something, and even from across the pub, they could hear the fondness in his voice:
“Your cooking’s still better.”
Tristan flinched.
Lancelot made a strangled sound in his throat.
[Lancelot]: …I think we figured out who Merlin was meeting.
[Percival]: NO
[Bedivere]: Called it
[Gawain]: WAIT I'M COMING OUT OF MY MEETING I WANT TO SEE THIS
[Tristan]: i think we’re witnessing courtship
[Galahad]: domestic espionage??? On my Wednesday evening??
[Lancelot]: i want off this team
[Percival]: she is going to kill us and make it look like an accident
[Bedivere]: she probably already has the plan written out
Lancelot looked over at Tristan, pale.
Tristan just took a slow sip of his pint and said:
“Maybe let’s pretend we didn’t see this.”
Party at Corner Booth 12
The Knights didn’t sit together.
Not officially.
Lancelot leaned against the bar with a half-finished drink and a very intentional line of sight.
Tristan had migrated to a high-top with a direct angle on the back booth.
Gawain claimed the stool nearest the door, legs stretched like a man who could relax if he wanted to. He didn’t.
Galahad was “reading” a drinks menu he had memorized.
Bedivere hadn’t even ordered anything—just held his phone and occasionally looked at nothing.
Percival stood near the arcade corner, pretending to be engaged by a dart game.
All of them were listening.
They didn’t have to strain.
Crown and Merlin sat in the far booth. Back wall, biggest table in the room.
A plate of hummus and fries sat between them.
Her jacket was shrugged off, sleeves pushed up. Merlin’s collar was undone. Both had drinks they weren’t touching.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be there,” Crown was saying.
Merlin raised a brow. “No?”
“Flew in for something last-minute. Was meant to head out next week. Was only gonna drink a few then pop on out but I... noticed your drones.”
“You always were nosy.”
She scrunched her nose at him. “You painted them black against the midnight blue sky. What did you think would happen?”
Lancelot flinched like she’d aimed it at him.
Tristan sipped his beer. Didn’t blink.
“This wasn’t your op,” Merlin said.
Crown shook her head. “Got invited by a high society sorority girl. Saw the pattern. Recognized your tech. Got curious.”
She plucked another fry off the plate and popped it into her mouth. Casual.
“And then?”
She shrugged. “Saw how bad it was going. Decided to help.”
There was a pause. Not tense—just quiet.
“I saw the feed after,” Merlin said.
Her fingers slowed. Just slightly.
“I saw your face when you thought no one was looking. When you realized everyone got out.”
She didn’t deny it. Just looked at the fries like they might say something clever if given time.
“They’re a solid team,” she said eventually. “Sharp. Clean movement.”
“They’re not used to chaos.”
“They handled it.”
Merlin watched her for a long moment.
Not soft. Just steady.
There was something in his posture that hadn’t been there since she landed. Something that looked like… relief.
He picked up his glass. Sipped.
“Onboarding is in the works,” he said, voice even. “Now that you’ve made yourself available, Kingsman wants to formally bring you in as an asset.”
She groaned and dropped her head to the table.
“Oh god, more paperwork.”
He reached over and tugged her cheek like an older brother trying not to smile. “Dignity, Grayson.”
She muttered something unintelligible into the tabletop.
“Say it like an adult.”
She lifted her head. “Fine. I accept your boring bureaucratic offer.”
“Good.”
“Are you gonna be around at the very least?”
“Can’t have you galavanting too far without your handler.”
She beams a little from where she’s cheek planted on the table.
He huffs at her fondly.
A pause.
Then: “Are they joining us for dinner?”
Merlin blinked. “...Who?”
Crown tilted her head.
“You didn’t notice?”
He turned slowly.
Caught the precise way Lancelot looked down at his glass.
The way Gawain had gone suspiciously still.
The fact that Tristan hadn’t looked away once.
The clatter when Percy dropped all the darts he was holding.
The way Bedivere was half hidden by a pillar but very much staring.
And the way Galahad was still flipping the same page of the drinks menu like it contained state secrets.
Merlin closed his eyes. Let out a sigh.
“They’ve been listening.”
“Of course they’ve been listening,” Crown said, smug. “That’s why I got the biggest booth. You’re all so nosy.”
For Lack of Introduction
They didn’t walk over all at once.
It started with Gawain, of course. He slid into the booth like it was a diplomatic maneuver, all grin and false chill, clearly hoping that if he acted casual enough, no one would call it out.
Then Percival followed. Tristan next. Galahad sat down like the seat had been reserved for him. Bedivere ghosted in with a drink he hadn’t paid for. Lancelot sat last—stiff and too quiet.
The energy shifted.
Crown looked up from her fries, chewed slowly, then gave them a small, polite nod.
No handshakes.
Just: “What are you all getting?”
There was a beat.
Then Lancelot, ever the brave one, gestured toward Merlin.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Merlin didn’t look up from his menu.
“You’ve already met.”
Crown smiled faintly at her plate. Dipped another fry in hummus.
They hesitated.
One by one, they began placing orders, awkwardly paging through the menu like it might protect them.
Then the door opened again.
Arthur entered, coat sharp, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the table like he already knew what he was walking into.
He slid into the only open seat—between Lancelot and Merlin.
“I saw the group chat,” he said, voice low but level. “Figured this saved me the hassle of trying to contact you.”
Crown didn’t miss a beat.
“If you’re that kind of man,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, “I’m very good at being chased.”
The table flinched.
Merlin didn’t even blink.
He rolled up the menu and smacked her lightly on the back of the head.
“Easy,” he said, then passed the menu to Arthur.
Crown pouted. Rubbed the back of her head like she’d been mortally wounded.
Arthur accepted the menu without comment.
No one spoke.
Not right away.
But the tension had shifted.
Just slightly.
Like they’d stopped bracing for her to run—and started bracing for her to stay.
Strategic Tempo
Plates clinked. Drinks shifted. Nobody touched the menus anymore.
They weren’t exactly comfortable, but they’d settled.
Crown was lounging in the corner seat of the booth, arm resting along the back cushion, picking through a bowl of fries like she hadn’t just hijacked their mission less than forty-eight hours ago.
Tristan had the edge seat, elbow resting on the table. Gawain was sprawled—stretching his legs under everyone’s feet like he was owed the space. Galahad sat straight-backed, arms crossed, mouth pinched in thought.
Lancelot was visibly tense. Not combative, just coiled, seated between his Commander and the enigma herself.
Percival leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Bedivere’s, who sat next to him, tablet in one hand, fork in the other—food untouched.
Crown didn’t seem to notice the weight of the table around her. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care.
Tristan nodded toward Merlin, then to her. “So you’ve cooked for him.”
Crown didn’t look up. “Unfortunately.”
“Don’t ask.” Merlin sighed.
Tristan raised a brow. “Can’t be that bad.”
Gawain chuckled. “Seems like he’s still holding a grudge.”
“I’m not,” Merlin said.
“She’s not denying it,” Galahad added.
Crown dipped another fry in hummus. “He hated boxed cookies for a week after I made real ones.”
“Girl Scout cookies,” Merlin muttered. “She made them better than the real thing and ruined all nostalgia.”
“So just naturally a menace,” Lancelot muttered.
Arthur finally spoke up, eyes never leaving hers.
“You mapped the op,” he said. Calm. Direct.
Crown raised an eyebrow. “Bit blunt, Commander.”
“Am I wrong, Agent Crown?”
Her smile curled at the edge. “Yeah. It’s true.”
Percival leaned in. “How?”
Crown tilted her head. “You lot want the short version or long?”
“Start short,” Galahad said.
Crown stretched slightly. Her movements were lazy, but her eyes were alert.
“I read people,” she said. “That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Percival asked.
“When you break a person down, they stop being unpredictable. Not fully. But enough.”
She pointed at him. “You lead with your body before your head. Lancelot here feints left even when he thinks he won’t. Galahad stalls when his line breaks—just a breath too long.”
Galahad scowled. “I do not.”
“You do,” Merlin said.
Crown gestured to the whole table. “Merlin calls them algorithms. I call them patterns.”
Arthur’s posture didn’t shift, but his focus sharpened.
“The long version?”
“I read the team. The layout. The mark flow. I clocked the drones the moment I turned onto the block. Recognized Merlin’s signature.”
Crown’s voice didn’t rise, but her cadence shifted—measured now.
“Bugged cameras. Delayed feeds. Tactical misdirection in the wrong places. I knew the op was compromised before I stepped inside.”
“And you still stepped in,” Arthur said.
“I didn’t care about the gala,” she said simply. “But I wasn’t going to walk away if his team was heading into a kill box.”
She didn’t look at Merlin, but everyone else did.
Merlin stared at his drink. Said nothing.
Arthur studied her for a long beat.
“You predicted the collapse point.”
“I saw your command logic with excellent tools running parallel to broken terrain. You were pushing the right rhythm but half visibility wasn’t doing you any favors.”
“And you adjusted for it,” Arthur said.
She nodded once. “Before it cost anyone their life, Commander. You’re very welcome.”
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.
“You think in overlap.”
“So do you,” Merlin said.
Arthur looked at him.
Merlin shrugged. “It’s why I didn’t have trouble adjusting to you. I was already used to her.”
That landed.
Lancelot leaned back, clearly recalculating.
Percival looked at Crown like she’d rewritten the floor plan under his boots.
Gawain muttered, “We were matching her tempo without realizing it.”
Crown smiled. Just a little.
“I didn’t write your playbook,” she said. “I just got the gist of it enough to edit the margin notes.”
Arthur leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
“You followed the intent,” he said.
Crown didn’t blink.
“I matched it, Commander. There’s a difference and you’ve seen that yourself in play.”
Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“Then tell me where I would’ve cracked.”
She didn’t hesitate. “06A.”
He nodded. “Galahad’s fallback.”
“You flagged it early but didn’t open it. Smart—keeps the path in reserve. But your lock routing was still connected to the external override.”
“It didn’t trigger.”
“No. Because it was set to trigger after fallback was declared.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I watched him run toward it,” Crown said. “Watched the delay. The hesitation.”
“You kicked the other available door open.”
“Not too hard. That’d be unladylike.”
Percival made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Arthur glanced at her. “You saw that moment coming before I did.”
She shrugged. “You would’ve seen it half a second later. By then, too late.”
“You knew Tristan had the angle.”
“I adjusted for it. Saw the corridor line from the room his mark’s companions ran out of. He was a variable. You were the constant.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “I don’t usually like my variables making decisions before I call them.”
“Well, I don’t usually like watching well-run ops get turned into footnotes.”
That should’ve landed sharp.
But Arthur didn’t flinch.
Instead, he nodded slowly.
“Fair.”
At the end of the table, Bedivere cleared his throat. “She rerouted five enemy patrols with no access to our map. I reviewed it.”
“Because she didn’t use your map,” Merlin said, tone mild. “She built her own.”
Crown sipped her drink. “Yours was three minutes behind real-time in key sectors because of the video feeds looping. You were catching up quickly though, that’s honestly impressive.”
Arthur studied her. “Your timing is calculated.”
“So is yours.”
“Your instinct is to interfere.”
“My instinct,” She leans towards him, “Is to correct.”
Arthur looked at her a beat longer.
“I should hate that.”
“But you don’t,” she said.
The silence that followed was heavy—but not hostile.
Like the air had thickened around them. Not with tension. With recognition.
The team wasn’t just listening anymore.
They were watching something settle.
Something new.
Something aligned.
The Offer on the Table
Arthur set his glass down with quiet precision.
“You’ll be coming in under consultant status,” he said.
“That’s in the blasted paperwork, yes.”
“If you need adjustments from the team to function—”
Crown’s expression shifted.
Not sharp. Just—annoyed.
Merlin might have muttered here we go under his breath.
“Oh, how generous,” she said, mockingly polite. “Good to know my general impression after my performance is ‘delicate’.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the implication.”
“No?” She leaned forward, elbow braced on the table, fingers loose around her drink. “Because it sounded like you lot were asking if I wanted special treatment.”
The rest of the table went very still.
“I don’t want accommodation, Commander.” she said. “I don’t want anyone shifting around to make space for me. I’m not here to belong.”
Her gaze locked with his. Calm. Certain.
Arthur didn’t react.
No flicker. No tilt of the head. Just a man waiting to see how the next sentence landed.
Crown smiled faintly.
“There’s no need to impress me, Commander. I’m not here to outmaneuver your people. I’m not replacing anyone.” She leaned in just a little. “But since you’re making it worth my attention, I’ll bite.”
“Bottom line here is I want to see where your team breaks.” She continued. “Then I’ll write the parameters to make sure it doesn’t happen twice.”
She tilted her head. “Or I want your best—and I’ll show you how easily I can melt your wax wings.”
That was when it hit the room.
Gawain choked on his drink.
Percival’s ears flushed pink. He stared hard at the table.
Bedivere looked genuinely offended by how close this sounded to a romantic threat.
Galahad muttered, “Nope,” under his breath and sat back with crossed arms.
Lancelot, unfortunately seated directly between Crown and Arthur, looked like someone had locked him in a heat lamp.
Tristan didn’t move but he did raise a brow.
Merlin rolled up the pub menu and thwacked her on the shoulder.
“Too strong, Grayson,” he snapped.
Crown didn’t flinch. “He asked.”
Arthur was still looking at her.
Not smiling.
Just... watching.
Not like she was dangerous.
Like she was interesting.
“Almost smiled,” she said softly.
Arthur didn’t confirm.
But he didn’t deny it either.
Team GC, Post-Dinner
[Bedivere]: she said wax wings.
[Galahad]: she said it like it was a compliment
[Percival]: was it not???
[Tristan]: i think it was a threat
[Gawain]: why did it SOUND LIKE FLIRTING
[Lancelot]: i was RIGHT THERE.
[Lancelot]:BETWEEN THEM
[Lancelot]: you all owe me hazard pay.
[Gawain]: bold of you to assume you weren’t collateral
[Bedivere]: she didn’t even blink when Arthur locked eyes
[Galahad]: i’m not built for this level of psychological threat
[Percival]: i’m not convinced they weren’t communicating in strategy-speak and emotional violence
[Gawain]: she’s like if a chessboard wore boots and had cheekbones
[Tristan]: she saw all of us and chose to aim for him.
[Lancelot]: you’re making it worse.
[Merlin]:
[image attachment: Crown at a market, basket full of brownie ingredients]
[Merlin]: congrats. she’s making brownies
[Merlin]: you’re all going to hate café food for a month
[Bedivere]: i’m not ready
[Galahad]: you mean we’ll survive long enough to taste it???
[Percival]: i’ll take my chances
[Gawain]: what do you mean “hate café food,” café food is—
[Merlin]: inferior.
[Tristan]: i’ll bring the milk.
[Lancelot]: DO NOT ENCOURAGE HER
A/N: Long Chapter! Thank you so much for sticking around
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Synopsis: After a proper encounter with her at the Estavros op, Arthur and Merlin weigh Crown’s place in the Round Table. For Arthur, she undermines the chain of command; for Merlin, she sharpens it. Their private argument leaves Arthur unsettled by how closely her instincts mirror his own. Later, in the rec room, the Knights piece together her impact in their own way. Between dry banter, reluctant admissions, and a kettle gone cold, they begin to recognize that Crown is no longer just a disruptive outsider. She is already shaping the rhythm of the team.
Content warnings: leadership tension, themes of loyalty, trust, and adaptation, Arthur’s restraint under pressure, Merlin’s quiet conviction, found family dynamics, strong language, subtle humor in downtime scenes.
Word Count: 669 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Debrief
The briefing room was quiet.
No screens lit. No feeds running. Just Arthur, seated behind the long table, and Merlin, leaning back against the opposite wall like he’d been waiting there since the mission ended.
Arthur drummed his fingers once on the sealed notebook in front of him.
“She’s unpredictable.”
“Yes,” Merlin said.
“She doesn’t wait for orders.”
“Nope.”
Arthur looked up.
“She doesn’t ask for clearance.”
Merlin shrugged one shoulder. “She reads the board and moves.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “That’s not how this unit works.”
“She could have left you compromised,” Merlin said. “But she didn’t.”
Arthur stared at him.
Merlin’s voice didn’t waver. “She adapts. She listens. She learns the rhythm of a team faster than most people notice the tempo’s changed.”
Arthur didn’t speak.
Merlin pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate.
“She doesn’t need to lead. She doesn’t want to disrupt. She finds the objectives and reinforces them.”
“But she does it her way,” Arthur said.
“Yes,” Merlin replied. “And her way doesn’t cost lives. It never has.”
Arthur went still.
“And you trust her,” he said. Not a question.
“I do,” Merlin said.
He leaned his hands on the table, knuckles braced.
“She doesn’t wait for permission, but she doesn’t cross the line. She never pushes until something breaks.”
Arthur said nothing for a long time.
Then finally:
“If I bring her in, it has to be clear. She works with us. Not above us.”
Merlin nodded. “She’ll listen. Especially to you.”
Arthur raised a brow.
“You seem sure of that”
Merlin’s expression didn’t shift.
“Because you’re the only one whose orders already match the way she thinks.”
Knight Recreational Room
The lights were half-dimmed at the Recreational Room of the Knights of the Round Table.
A few mugs sat on the counter. Someone had put the electric kettle on and forgotten about it.
Lancelot was seated on a stool near the wall, half napping.
Percival sat on the edge of the couch, forearms on his knees.
Bedivere had a tablet open in his lap but hadn’t touched it in five minutes.
Galahad was lying sideways across two chairs like it was a couch made for him and him alone.
Gawain, of course, had claimed the armchair—clean, composed, ready to complain.
Tristan sat by the windowsill, quiet as ever.
“So.” Gawain breathed. “Arthur cleared her.”
“Yep.” Tristan mumbles.
“After finally meeting her on that solo op she broke into.”
“Affirmative.” Bedivere hummed.
“And Merlin of all people wants to be her handler.” Percival chimed in.
“Seems about right.” Galahad muses.
“...Right. So now begs the real question.”
They all turn to look at Lancelot.
“How exactly do you bring in a ghost?” Lancelot looks at them.
No one answered right away.
“She’s not a ghost,” Bedivere muttered. “Just. Very hard to track.”
“She’s deliberately hard to track,” Galahad said. “There’s a difference.”
“She rerouted our entire op from a stolen comm and somehow just sauntered into our Commander’s solo one,” Gawain offered, not even lifting his head. “And then vanished both times before extraction.”
Percival leaned forward. “Did she even have an extraction?”
“She was the extraction,” Percy said. “She exfiltrated herself.”
Tristan didn’t speak, but his eyes flicked to the door like he was already wondering if she was listening.
“Anyone actually seen a personnel file on her?” Lancelot asked.
“No,” Bedivere said.
“Not a full one,” Galahad added.
“Doesn’t exist unless she wants it to,” Gawain said.
There was a pause.
Then Lancelot muttered, “What kind of name is Wyvern anyway?”
“The kind that doesn't need a second one,” Percival said.
“She’s not going to slot into a training module,” Galahad said. “She’s going to test us faster than Arthur does.”
“And that’s saying something,” Gawain added.
The kettle clicked off.
No one moved to get it.
Tristan finally said, “She’s not going to announce herself.”
They all looked at him.
“She’ll come in sideways,” he said. “When we’re already moving.”
Synopsis: In Merlin’s lab, he and Lancelot weigh the reality of bringing Crown into the fold. Command calls her volatile, Merlin calls her necessary, and Lancelot reluctantly agrees. Between paperwork, quiet confessions, and unspoken loyalty to Arthur, they both admit she may be trouble, but she is trouble worth keeping.
Content warnings: institutional politics, discussions of control and volatility, loyalty vs. bureaucracy, themes of trust and chosen family, dry humor, quiet solidarity.
Word Count: 934 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
One Hour Earlier
The overhead lights hum softly, casting a warm glow over the cluttered laboratory. Paperwork fans out much like a topographical map of Merlin’s mind: controlled chaos in motion. It’s not messy, just well-used and well-lived, much like everything in this office that is always in progress.
Merlin is hunched over the corner terminal, glasses set aside, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His expression conveys that he’s one complication away from declaring war.
The door creaks open without ceremony.
Lancelot steps in, holding a manila folder in one hand and something resembling relief in the other.
“Got your handler routing. Admin’s stamped it. Command had opinions, but I told them I’d rather eat glass than explain it again next quarter.”
Merlin straightens with a low crack of his knuckles as he takes the file.
“Cor, you’re a saint,” he says.
“I’m a staff sergeant with patience,” Lancelot replies. “You’re the one who volunteered for her.”
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch with practiced ease as if the place already belongs to him.
“I’d take your emotional bandwidth over another Command cycle. Counted three departments trying to ‘subtly suggest’ she’s too volatile to handle.”
Merlin doesn’t look up as he signs the first six pages with mechanical precision.
“She’s been off-radar for years. Just needed the right fire under her to reappear.” He glances up. “You’ve been waiting for her to say yes all this time?”
“Kingsman has,” Merlin replies. “I just made sure she doesn’t think they wasted her time.”
He pauses just long enough to meet Lancelot’s gaze.
“Don't get me wrong, she is volatile. That doesn’t mean she’s wrong for us.”
“Just means she’s wrong for them,” Lancelot finishes.
“You get it.”
They fall into a comfortable silence that only comes from shared burdens—the kind that doesn’t need words to support it. Two men who’ve both fought to keep Arthur upright, surviving the worst of Kingsman’s internal warfare, yet still capable of dry humor and quiet grace.
Merlin finishes the file and signs the final line.
“You know most of HQ thinks I took this assignment because they believe I can handle her.”
Lance leans back slightly.
“Can you?”
“She doesn’t need handling.”
A pause.
“She needs someone who won’t flinch when she sharpens the room.”
Lance grins slowly, knowingly.
“Then it’s a good thing it’s you. Most of HQ still isn’t sure she exists. Half of them think she’s some off-book weapon Training is using to scare the interns.”
Merlin taps the edge of the file.
“They’ll find out soon enough.”
Lancelot flips through the routing sheet, scanning it with the low-key focus of someone who’s been in the structure long enough to know what parts of the paperwork administration would find fault with.
“So she’s not internal?”
“External consultant. Independently contracted.”
“You’ve been pretty insistent to be her handler.”
“Can't say I didn't fight for it.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you why.”
“Because no one else would’ve lasted a month.”
Lance watches Merlin lean back, the spark fading into something thoughtful. His fingers tap a rhythm on the edge of the desk.
“She gives her loyalty to people,” Merlin says quietly. “Not institutions. Not flags. And certainly not Kingsman.”
Lancelot doesn’t interrupt.
“They’ve been chasing her for years,” Merlin adds. “She never even blinked.”
“So what did she do,” Lance asks softly, “to make you blink?”
“She showed up. She always does.” Merlin exhales, a breath that’s half-smirk, half-confession. “She’ll be good for us, whether she stays or not.”
Lancelot flips through the recitals.
“No dorm?”
“No perks. No cafeteria access. She can use the training wing if her assigned unit is on-site.”
“And minimum load?”
“Hundred fifty hours monthly. Any unit can request her, but only through me. Otherwise, she’s on tech development with me.”
Lancelot nods once.
“You assigning her to a unit?”
Merlin exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if the question has been clawing at him for days.
“Nothing permanent or she’ll be turned off. She needs room to orbit. But if she keeps circling the same axis…”
He trails off, and Lance watches him.
“She’ll end up where she belongs,” he finishes.
“Here. With us.”
Merlin meets his eyes. “Exactly.”
A beat of comfortable silence follows.
“Well,” Lancelot stretches slowly and deliberately, rolling tension out of his shoulders. “Arthur’s got enough on his plate letting this happen.”
“Command’s never clean, Lance.” Merlin pulls at his rolled sleeves. “I speak enough of their red tape to know how this needs to go.”
“That’s why he’s got both of us.”
Merlin hums. “You handle the fallout.”
“You preempt it,” Lancelot nods back.
“I write the plans,” Merlin murmurs, “Knowing you’ll break just enough of them to save lives.”
Their grins mirror each other, weather-worn, familiar, and true.
Not balance. Not symmetry.
Compensation.
The terminal pings. One new update from Arthur’s Sensitive Op.
Merlin swivels in his chair and clicks the message open on the big screen behind them.
ACTIVE UNIT CROSSOVER – SOLO OP CMD LANCASTER
ADDITIONAL: CONSULTANT GRAYSON SIGNED IN.
They stare at it for a moment.
Then Lancelot laughs, full-throated and delighted.
“Oh, Arthur’s going to implode. That man thrives on order.”
“She’s exactly what he needs.” Merlin’s smile is small, sharp, and certain. “Chaos with a compass.”
Lancelot lifts a brow. "We don't need another reason for Arthur to malfunction."
“Oh, he will.”
“And that’s worth smiling for?”
Merlin doesn’t miss a beat.
“Because if we play our cards just right, she might finally teach him how to feel again.”
A/N: We stan the Left Hand (Merlin) and the Right (Lance)
Synopsis: Arthur enters the field alone, only to find Crown already moving through the op with dangerous ease. Their collision threatens to derail the mission, yet their instincts fit together with unnerving precision. What should have been a liability becomes an alliance, and Arthur is left to reckon with the fact that Crown’s chaos might be the edge he cannot command.
Content warnings: espionage, infiltration, knives, firearms, close-quarters violence, tactical deception, physical injury, themes of mistrust, rivalry, uneasy cooperation, ogling at a man, Arthur’s restraint challenged by Crown’s unpredictability, undertones of attraction, fake moaning.
Word Count: 1512 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The Black King
Beyond the callsign, beyond the clean edges of the Kingsman emblem—
he’s known by another name, whispered with reverence and caution through steel-lined halls:
The Black King.
Arthur Lancaster is not deployed for motion.
He’s deployed for outcome.
He isn’t the first piece on the board.
He is the final one.
The moment you see him, it's already too late.
Tonight, he moves alone.
The Wrong Room
The manor’s upper-level with the afterglow of its afternoon gala sparkles beneath a starless sky, awash in pretense and tightly choreographed shadows.
Arthur’s body drops down from the roof like a controlled weapon—rappelling fluidly through dead air, gear wrapped tight against muscle honed by years of silent war.
Steel-blue eyes sweep the perimeter.
Not blinking. Not wondering.
He doesn't guess.
Arthur Lancaster calculates.
He lands clean on the penthouse balcony.
Slips through the window like the promise of regret.
Target: Foreign Minister Estavros.
Objective: confirm firsthand his trafficking deals are laundering weapons-grade bio-compounds.
Method: Watch. Wait. Move only if extraction fails.
Until the room is wrong.
Arthur enters shadow-quiet—
and Estavros is already there.
In hindsight, he should have known better and suspected the intel was poisoned.
Another unit processed this information. It had neither been cross checked by his team nor verified by Merlin before the briefing.
Arthur somehow landed in a penthouse suite, silent as a shadow, only to find himself face-to-face with the target he was supposed to be surveilling from a distance.
The minister’s eyes widened. His hand twitched toward the bedside drawer—likely a weapon. Arthur’s fingers brushed his own knife in his belt by his hip, calculating whether he could neutralize the situation before alarms were raised.
Then, a voice—smooth, teasing, and entirely too amused—cut through the tension.
"Oh, Minister, I do apologize," came the lazy, familiar drawl. "My boytoy was told this was my room."
Arthur’s head snaps toward the open doorway.
There she is.
Wyvern Grayson.
Not as the Kingsman-adjacent strategist Crown that worked with his unit on the gala op just days before—
but as herself.Silk-draped. Emerald-rouged. Danger with her hair loose and eyes built to command kings.
She leans one shoulder against the frame, the satin robe slipping just enough to make his lungs forget their function.
She smiles.
Not sweet. Strategic.Like she knows exactly what she looks like right now and has chosen to weaponize it.
“Told him twice which suite to go to,” she sighs, strolling in.
“But alas. Men never listen.”
Arthur stiffens as she brushes past him.
Heat, silk, perfume. Poisonous grace. She doesn't look at him. Not yet.
He watches her bare legs carry her forward with casual authority, each step too slow for someone not fully in control of the room.
Her hips sway like she’s mocking the laws of physics.
Arthur’s jaw clenches.
Arthur had heard of serendipity, but this? This was just his luck failing catastrophically.
The minister blinks at her in recognition and relaxes. Of course he does.
Crown was never just decoration.
She’s been at the elbow of prime ministers and in the ear of monarchs.
Whispers of coups softened by her advice.
Whole regimes steered by her fingertips.
A kingmaker.
Which is why she was assigned the callsign Crown.
Arthur doesn't speak.
Because right now, he's still calculating:
The fastest way to neutralize the minister if things go south
The exit route through the adjoining hall
Why the hell Wyvern Grayson is here on his mission
Wyvern turned her dazzling, almost too-rehearsed smile at the minister. "I trust you’ll forgive him? I’d hate for this little misunderstanding to reflect poorly on our negotiations later."
The minister’s suspicion wavered harder. He exhaled, nodding. "These things happen. Just ensure he doesn’t make such mistakes again, Miss Grayson."
And she steps closer to Arthur.
Presses one manicured hand to his chest.
“See what I have to deal with?” she says sweetly, playing a little bit with the strap of his tac harness.
“Love when they come themed.”
Arthur does not respond.
But he very seriously considers homicide.
The minister waves them off.
The door clicks shut.
Realignment
And the second it does, Arthur steps toward her instantly.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Crown turns, finally letting her gaze land on him—slow, deliberate. “I could ask you the same.”
She walks to the minibar like she owns the walls.
Arthur follows.
Towering. Shadowed. Still simmering with restrained heat.
His gear clings to his frame like molded weight.
He’s all spine, shoulders, legs that could end negotiations if he pressed you against a wall.
“This is a Kingsman op,” he says tightly.
“Correction,” she purrs, pouring a drink.
“I’m letting Kingsman piggyback off an infil I’ve been orchestrating for three weeks.”
He doesn’t take the martini she offers.
She laughs under her breath.
“Didn’t think you’d drink on duty. But you’re very good at standing there looking like divine retribution in combat boots.”
Arthur doesn't rise to it.
But his eyes drop for a fraction of a second.To the curve of her mouth, still smiling.
She smirked over the rim of her glass after he rejected her offer for a martini. “Just because I don’t have a callsign that screams ‘medieval sword’ doesn’t mean I’m not involved.”
Arthur exhaled sharply.
Synergy Enabled
"I’m here because the minister is under Kingsman surveillance for illegal weapons trafficking." His arms remained folded.
"Fascinating,” Wyvern tapped a finger against her glass. “Well, I need him alive long enough to expose the offshore accounts he’s been funneling money into. Said accounts are funding a hit team that’s targeting a Waverly-linked intel leak. I need access to reroute the funding chain.”
Arthur’s gaze sharpens.
“That wasn’t in our brief.”
“Well, your brief is two days old. My data’s newer.”
She tosses her phone on the table and Arthur catches it midair without looking.
Arthur’s brow furrowed as he parses through the annotated briefing. "You wanted access to his accounts?"
"Just long enough to make some…edits to his financial history.” She waves her hand vaguely. “Maybe leak a document or two. Nothing too dramatic."
Their eyes lock.
Something clicks.
Crown reads people.
Arthur reads rooms.
Their intel stacks without effort.
Arthur’s silence was enough of an answer. She grinned.
"That’s the spirit," she said. "Now, let’s discuss how we’re getting there without alerting security."
Arthur rolled his shoulders. "Minimal interference. No unnecessary risks."
Wyvern saluted him with her glass, gaze clearly fixed on the tight curves of his back. "Yes, sir."
He scowled harder.
The Cover-Up (Again)
Two hours.
That’s how long they need before the minister’s meeting ends and both operations can execute with no crossfire.
But Arthur’s trapped in her suite.
And Crown is the storm outside the gates.
She watches him move—
Every shift of his shoulders, every low-slung motion, his ass when he pivots toward the window.
She smirks. “Functional and aesthetic. How fortunate.”
He exhales slowly.
“You’re not helping.”
“Not trying to.”
A soft sound echoes behind them like distant footsteps.
Arthur has one hand on the hilt of his blade. Suddenly, she’s behind him before he hears her move.
Her breath ghosted against his ear.
"Mute him, Merlin."
A soft click—then silence.
Arthur barely had time to register the comms going dead before Wyvern moaned.
Deep. Raw. Too real.
Arthur’s brain bluescreens.
Then the knock at the door.
She shoves him down and he lets her.
More stunned than off-balance.
Her weight straddles him.
Her thigh brushes his hip.
Her hands slide into his hair.
And Arthur—
The Black King—
Gets swept up by the momentum
And his gaze drifts down at her lips.
Too long.
Too hard.
And doesn’t move.
"Sit pretty," she whispered. "And don’t move."
Arthur was torn between strangling her or waiting for this absolute disaster to play out.
And then the door burst open.
Armed men stormed in.
Wyvern barely turned, her fingers still resting lazily in Arthur’s hair. She let out a long, suffering sigh.
"Honestly. Can a woman not have fun in peace?"
The mercenaries froze, their gazes quickly taking in the scene.
Arthur, sprawled out, disheveled. Hand hovering above the small of her back.
Wyvern, standing over him with a knee against his waist, looking thoroughly inconvenienced.
The moan.
The lead assailant coughed. "Our apologies, ma’am. We were told—"
Wyvern waved a lazy hand. "Out. Now."
The hardened criminals and ruthless hired killers uttered half-hearted apologies as they hurriedly returned the shadows.
Arthur stared at the now-empty doorway. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
“You’re welcome,” she says, smoothing his hair, eyes bright with wicked amusement.
And he lets her.
Just for a second.
Then he exhales.
Straightens.
Tightens the gear across his chest.
Arthur inhaled through his nose. "Never do that again."
She leaned down, smoothing his hair with infuriating gentleness. "Sorry for the theatrics, love."
Then, without another word, she slipped away.
Arthur watched her go.
Then, jaw tight, he exhaled, straightened his suit, and refocused.
The mission was still on.
And Wyvern Grayson was the most infuriating woman he had ever met.
Synopsis: The Knights formally debrief, still trying to parse Crown’s unpredictability. To them, she’s a ghost; too deliberate to track, too fast to control. Tristan voices it simply: “She’ll come in sideways. When we’re already moving.” Their Commander listens in silence, his eyes heavier than his words. For the first time, the Round Table isn’t talking about a mission. They’re talking about her.
Content warnings: strong language, informal tension, discussion of surveillance and unpredictability, institutional mistrust, paranoia within the team, themes of being “haunted” by a disruptive force, loyalty vs. suspicion within a found family dynamic, subtle foreshadowing of Crown’s integration, Arthur’s fixation on Crown implied through silence and observation.
Word Count: 815 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The debrief room had quiet lighting, but sharp edges.
Arthur stood at the head of the table. Jacket still on. Posture unreadable. He hadn’t touched the console in front of him since walking in.
The Knights were in place, but not settled.
Lancelot sat with his arms folded and one heel bouncing under the table.
Galahad was stone-faced, still fixing the line of his sleeve.
Percival leaned forward with both elbows braced.
Bedivere had his tablet open but hadn’t moved past the first screen.
Tristan was still by the wall, one shoulder pressed into it like he’d never left the op.
Gawain had tilted his chair back just enough to annoy someone. No one had spoken.
Arthur finally broke the silence.
“We executed under pressure. The room was unstable. Objectives were met. Now I want the gaps.”
No one moved.
Then Lancelot exhaled through his nose and sat forward.
“She caught my knife.”
Arthur’s expression didn’t change.
“It dropped. Half a second. Mid-transition between two engagements. She caught it mid-air and used it. Dropped a guy I didn’t see yet.”
He tapped the edge of the table with two fingers. Fast. Controlled.
“That’s not awareness. That’s reading the room before I even stepped into it.”
Arthur nodded once. “Next.”
Galahad sat back, voice clipped.
“She armed me. Left holster. I was clean going in.”
He adjusted his sleeve again like it annoyed him more than the memory.
“She walked past. I felt the shift. Safety was off, grip adjusted. I didn’t check—because by the time I reached for it, I needed it.”
He gave a thin smile. “Didn’t even make a show of it.”
Percival leaned forward slowly, voice heavier.
“She rerouted me.”
He looked at Arthur.
“Service corridor. Flagged it sealed myself. I was already looping out when she passed me. Told me I was finally running the right direction.”
He paused.
“I checked the door. It was open. No alert. No breach. My mark was right past it.”
He shook his head once.
“She didn’t wait to be asked.”
Arthur let that hang. Then looked at Bedivere.
“She compromised my feeds,” Bedivere said. Quiet. Tight.
He didn’t look up.
“Five looped visuals. No flicker. No static. I would’ve missed them.”
He pushed the tablet forward with two fingers. Brought up the frame.
“She dropped onto the lens from above. Drew lipstick straight across the center. Full coverage. Forced the feed to glitch.”
He looked at Arthur now.
“She flagged the lie manually.”
Arthur didn’t react. Just shifted his gaze to the next seat.
Gawain didn’t speak right away.
He was sitting like he’d been framed for a crime he almost enjoyed.
“She took my comm,” he said. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t warn me.”
He rolled his shoulders once. “Then she threw herself into my arms, screamed about a rat, and detonated a ballroom evacuation with the emotional range of a stage actress on her third espresso.”
There were a few suppressed exhales around the table.
Gawain leaned forward, voice dry.
“I didn’t say a word. She just used me. And it worked.”
Arthur looked to the far corner.
Tristan didn’t shift.
“She moved the people,” he said.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just facts.
“She cleared the crowd away from my scope. Civilians, staff. One body at a time. Made the room align before it broke.”
He added, “I saw her once. In a reflection. Just long enough for her to know I saw her.”
The room went quiet.
Arthur’s gaze swept across them.
“You all saw her,” he said. “One-on-one. Not coordinated. Not briefed. Not deployed.”
He looked at Gawain.
“She gave you something.”
Gawain blinked. “Oh. Right.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim black notebook. Leather-bound. Compact.
“Gave it to me after the ballroom cleared. Slid it into my pocket and said something about funeral cards.”
Arthur took it. Flipped it open.
Merlin moved closer—only slightly. Like he already knew what was coming.
Inside: sketches. Route diagrams. Guard overlays.
Some of it matched what had been uploaded to the team.
But there were additional notes. Target behaviors. Alternate flanks. Behavioral loops.
A corner list of names—unflagged marks. One already circled twice.
On the final page:
You’re welcome
Drawn beneath it: a small, sharp-cornered crown.
Arthur stared at the notebook for a beat.
Then closed it.
“She moved faster than we did,” he said.
Merlin nodded once. “She always does.”
Arthur turned the book over once in his hands.
“Half of this wasn’t in the file.”
“She sent what we needed,” Bedivere said.
“She held the rest,” Galahad added. “Until it wasn’t hers to keep.”
Arthur exhaled. Not annoyed. Just...processing.
“She’s good.”
“She’s chaos,” Lancelot muttered.
“She’s effective,” Percival said.
“But unpredictable,” Galahad added.
Arthur tucked the notebook into his coat.
“We keep the notes.”
He didn’t say more.
Didn’t say we keep her.
Because he hadn’t decided yet.
A/N: Thank you for reading so far! We love smug women in this house.
Synopsis: The Knights informally debrief and irritation spills into the open. Lancelot, Percival, Galahad, Bedivere, Gawain, and Tristan each air their grievances — each inadvertently admitting Crown anticipated their blind spots. Merlin shrugs it off with familiarity: “That’s Crown for you.” To Arthur’s silence during the Command brief, the truth is sharper: She was never undermining him. She’s matching his intent faster than his own men.
Content warnings: strong language, post-mission debriefing conflict, Knights airing grievances, aggressive reactions to being vulnerable, mild descriptions of tactical failure, themes of blame-shifting, institutional pressure, gendered suspicion (Crown as the outsider woman among an established male team), psychological tension, rivalry within a found family, Crown correcting others’ blind spots, Arthur’s silence framed as authority and unease.
Word Count: 1308 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Merlin sat in the debrief room, spine straight, coffee cooling beside him.
The feed was paused. Crown stood mid-motion—hip turned, hair caught mid-swing, the final hostile already off-balance behind her.
The image looked more like choreography than combat.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
The door hissed.
Lancelot stepped in like he was still ready to punch something. His gait was clipped. Boots tracked in dust. Shirt untucked. He looked at the screen first, then at Merlin, then crossed to the far chair and dropped into it like the mission had taken a piece of him with it.
“I don’t like her.”
Merlin didn’t glance over. “Morning to you too, Lance.”
“My knife slipped. She caught it. She shouldn’t have been behind me.” He was tense, leaning forward, fingers folded together like he was waiting for someone to argue.
“You dropped it.”
“She threw it like it was planned,” Lancelot muttered. “Dropped the guy I hadn’t even seen yet. Mid-turn. Like she was staging it.”
The door opened again.
Galahad entered with that soft, precise grace that came with being infuriatingly hard to rattle. He still wore his button-down from the night before, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like it hadn’t been fully retired.
He paused at the table, taking in the screen.
“Are we unpacking the mystery woman?” he asked, voice dry.
“Not by name,” Lancelot snapped.
“Ah,” Galahad said. “So it is her.”
He took the seat beside Lancelot, back straight, legs crossed, every motion deliberate.
“She gave me a sidearm,” he said, tone too casual.
Lancelot turned. “Since when do you carry on infil?”
“I wasn’t,” Galahad said, annoyed. “I was dressed for ballroom blending. No hardware. I felt the weight drop into my holster mid-turn.”
He raised a hand, gesturing loosely.
“Grip adjusted. Safety off. Left-handed.”
His voice sharpened.
“She anticipated my draw hand before I even pulled.”
The door opened again.
Percival stepped in like he had nowhere else to put his frustration. His shoulders were still squared, jaw tight. He stood for a moment at the edge of the table before pulling out a chair.
He didn’t sit down so much as settle.
“Look, I don’t know if we’re allowed to talk about it.” He looks like he could be bouncing on his heels in excitement “The service corridor leading to the south one was sealed.”
Lancelot looked over. “Yeah?”
“Flagged it myself. Forgot about it for a bit while I was looping around when she passed me. Said someone was finally headed in the right direction. Just kept walking.”
He rubbed at the back of his neck.
“When I got there, the door was already open. Not forced. Not hacked. Just. Waiting.”
He glanced toward Bedivere’s usual seat.
“There was a pin in the lock. Gold. Engraved. Not ours.”
The door hissed again.
Bedivere entered like he’d been awake too long. He still wore the same wrinkled button-up from the night before. One sleeve was rolled too high. He didn’t sit.
The others turned as he seemed coiled like a tight spring
“Lipstick,” he said. “Full pass across the camera. Triggered the feed to glitch just long enough to expose the loop.”
He flipped the tablet around, showing the frame. The red smear. The flickering frame reset.
“She didn’t disable the fake feed. She embarrassed it.”
He dropped the tablet on the table, not hard—but with finality.
“I found four more loops after that. All clean. All invisible until she made me look.”
Before anyone could respond, the next door opened.
Gawain strolled in, dragging one hand through his hair like it was a form of stress relief. His shirt was half-tucked. His comms earpiece was still dangling from one pocket.
He stopped just inside the room. Saw the feed. Saw their faces.
“Okay,” he said. “If anyone says the words ‘feral rat,’ I walk.”
Lancelot snorted. “She threw herself into your arms.”
“I was ambushed,” Gawain said. “Physically. With flair.”
“She used you like a prop,” Galahad said.
“She commandeered me,” Gawain corrected, sitting with a dramatic sigh. “One moment I’m working a gallery. The next, I’m the centerpiece of a high-society evacuation.”
He threw a hand up.
“Used my body. Screamed in my ear. Started a stampede. Four marks followed the flow straight into the east wing like it was choreographed.”
“You looked shocked,” Bedivere said.
“I was violated.”
“You looked like you enjoyed it,” Lancelot muttered.
“I did not.”
“She used you effectively,” Merlin said, still watching the feed.
“She used all of us,” Gawain said. “With style.”
Then Tristan’s voice cut in from the wall. No one is sure how long he’s been standing there.
“She moved the room.”
He didn’t shift from where he stood; arms folded, eyes steady, posture immovable.
“She didn’t clear a shot. She made the crowd open one.”
Heads turned.
“I saw her. Reflected in a mirror. She wasn’t even looking at me. But she let me see her. Just long enough.”
Merlin finally turned from the feed. Set his mug down with quiet precision.
“My personal life,” he said, “is not up for discussion.”
The room went still.
No one pushed.
Then Percival leaned in.
“Is she joining us again anytime soon?”
“Not yet,” Merlin said. “Command’s about to offer her. First call is ours since we worked well with her.”
Another pause.
“She’s dangerous,” Lancelot muttered.
“She’s clean,” Bedivere said. “Too clean.”
“She’s spooky.” Percival folds his arms.
“She’s already better than we are,” Gawain said.
“She made us better,” Galahad corrected.
“She covered us,” Tristan said.
Merlin looked at each of them. Then back to the screen.
“That’s Crown for you.”
Across the base, Arthur sat in the glow of the Command terminal, fingers steepled as he gave his own debrief.
Galahad’s exit route opened seconds before he called for help.
Tristan’s shot cleared with no civilian in sight.
Percival’s door wasn’t unlocked as it had never been locked.
Bedivere’s feeds didn’t flicker until red hit the glass.
And every time Arthur had opened his mouth to issue a command—
She was already halfway through executing it.
No disruption. No hesitation.
Arthur’s steel-blue eyes flickered as Command’s voice crackled through the line.
“She was an asset, then?” Their tone was neutral, but interested. “We’ve had our eyes on her for some time. A prize hire. She’s only recently been available for fieldwork.”
Arthur’s jaw tensed, his posture as straight as ever. Dark hair slicked back, with just a touch of premature gray at the temples. A commander’s presence, deliberate in every movement. “She was effective.”
“Good to hear.” A pause. “Because of your team’s strong record, Lancaster, and how well the Round Table’s got on working with her, we want to offer her to your team as a consultant before she becomes available to the rest of Kingsman. Should you need extra help or expertise, think of her as a resource that your unit can access first.”
Arthur didn’t reply immediately.
His team was a perfect machine—precise, deadly. They didn’t need outsiders, especially ones that were like a spanner in the works.
But she wasn’t just interference, was she?
She was something else entirely.
Command clicks off the call, a touch smug. The infamous Commander has been finally stumped, it seems.
“The decision is yours, Lancaster.”
A/N: Alternate title - Terrifying Men Turned On and Afraid of Being Read Like a Fucking Book
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Synopsis: Crown joins the op. She insists she’s not there to steal Arthur’s thunder but to fulfill her promise: backup, delivered on her own terms. She hands the Round Table critical intel they didn’t know they needed — and proves her point in the field, derailing routines and exposes the op's blindspots to their advantage. For the first time, the Black King’s orders are matched — if not outpaced by a complete stranger.
Content warnings: action, just a butttload of action, violence, tactical combat, firearms, infiltration, bodily harm, improvisation under fire, death by firearm, strong language, themes of trust and suspicion, found family dynamics tested by intrusion, deliberately irritating men, institutional tension, women in men fields, Arthur’s restraint vs. Crown’s unpredictability, hints of rivalry and grudging reliance.
Word Count: 3088 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The comms were silent. The kind of silence that came when protocol failed to account for reality.
Someone had flushed the ballroom. No casualties. No signal.
And now she was speaking on their frequency like it was hers.
She broke the tension with a soft sigh.
“…Sorry, darling. Keep forgetting what they call you here.”
No callsign. No rank.
Just familiarity and a level of calm that didn’t belong in the middle of a high-risk op.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Then Merlin, composed as ever, exhaled. Just once. “Agent Merlin.”
Her voice came back, light.
“Noted, Agent Merlin.”
Then the ping.
A file dropped into the system. External. Secure. Seamless.
Merlin passed it along without pause.
Arthur watched it open across the network.
The air changed.
No one spoke right away. But he could feel it.
Bedivere was the first to break the silence.
“…This isn’t from our recon.”
Gawain leaned forward.
“This is weeks ahead of our recon.”
The pictures were detailed. Schematics. Patrol paths. VIP logs. Guard rotations.
Hand-drawn. Time-stamped. Precise.
Not adapted from Kingsman files. Written and drawn from scratch.
Arthur didn’t need to be told.
It wasn’t just better. It was corrective.
He was already adjusting the op in his head.
And still, Merlin said, evenly,
“Now you’re just showing off, Wyvern.”
The name landed like a trigger pull.
Arthur glanced at the feed.
He didn’t flinch. But the name came with weight.
Wyvern Grayson.
A name the Round Table had read in redacted logs.
The reason half the treaties in Eastern Europe held.
The reason the other half didn’t.
Gawain’s voice was quiet, realizing who’s standing next to him. “She wasn’t supposed to be here.”
She came back on the comms, as if she’d always been in the game.
“Not here to steal your thunder, Commander. I believe the phrase is: back up, as promised.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
She had shifted the battlefield in under three minutes.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t brief.
Just corrected course.
He’d be lying if he said he couldn’t see the angles. Where her intel and version streamlined theirs. Where her calculations shaved off risk.
What mattered was that she was right.
“What’s your position?”
“Where I need to be.”
He didn’t like the disruption. But she wasn’t wrong.
Her intel was cleaner. Her timing precise.
And Merlin?
Not even remotely surprised.
Arthur gave a clipped nod, more to himself than the team.
“Fine. Let’s shut this down.”
The mission went off like a starting pistol.
Gawain adjusted his cuffs, already moving. “I’ll sweep the West wing.”
“East, hotshot.” Crown said, smoothly. “Unless you want to miss all the fun.”
He paused. Just long enough to register it.
“…East it is,” he said, a grin tugging at the edge of his voice as he turned on his heel.
In the security booth, Bedivere’s fingers danced across the tablet.
He surged down the north hallway. A guard stepped into his path.
One twist. Drop.
Another raised a rifle.
Lancelot swept low, cracked ribs with a knee, and pivoted out—
his knife slipping from his fingers mid-motion.
He didn’t pause.
“Hallway secure,” he said into comms. “Two hostiles down.”
A blur passed him.
Crown.
She caught the falling blade one-handed without breaking stride.
Turned. Threw.
The knife sank clean into the chest of a third man, rifle raised and aimed squarely at Lancelot’s back.
She kept walking.
“Make that three,” she said, not even looking back.
At the corridor’s end, she glanced over her shoulder.
A half-smile.
Then gone.
Bedivere’s workspace was glowing like a bomb was about to go off.
Six camera feeds open. Three more in debug. One ear filtering team comms, the other feeding Arthur filtered alerts.
He dragged a split-screen thermal map over two static hallways and a flickering signal in the northwest stairwell.
“South junction’s flagged. North wing too stable. Could be clean or fake—we’ve got a ten-frame delay but no source corruption.”
He pinged it. Logged it. Kept moving.
Arthur’s voice came over the line. Controlled. Irritated.
“You’re still showing no movement at junction six. Tristan’s got a lock—why hasn’t it triggered?”
Bedivere’s fingers flew.
“I’m seeing zero on motion. Static audio pattern. Timestamp holding... no drift.” He frowned. “Looks real.”
In his earpiece: Lancelot grunting through a fight. Galahad dryly announcing a takedown. Gawain half-laughing mid-mission.
Then—
A new visual ticked live.
Crown.
Not in the hallway.
Above it.
She swung down into frame from the ledge, heels scraping glass like she wasn’t mid-op but mid-performance.
Evening dress. Lipstick in hand.
She looked up into the camera. Right at it.
Then started writing across the lens.
Large, looping strokes. Red on grey feed.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then the hallway glitched.
The footage stuttered—jumped half a frame behind.
Then again.
Bedivere’s blood chilled. “No—”
He scanned it. Timestamp off. Lighting pattern caught on loop.
The hallway wasn’t quiet. It was too perfect.
“Visual loop confirmed. Feed’s poisoned. They buried movement behind a burn-in,” he said, fast now. “Shutting it down—cross-checking adjacent junctions—”
Four more collapsed under the same test.
Every one of them flagged clean. Every one of them false.
He toggled backups.
Real footage slammed into the interface like cold water.
Guards running. One agent being flanked. Another hallway where nothing was supposed to be happening—was.
Bedivere rerouted the tactical layout with one flick and tossed a full update to Arthur’s board.
“Looped feeds terminated. Five total. I’ve restored real-time visuals and rerouted tracking.”
Arthur watched as half the board corrected.
Routes redrew. Markers snapped back. The noise started to make sense again.
He stared at the hallway Crown had appeared in. The one that had read “clean” for ten full minutes.
The lipstick still smeared across the lens before it cut.
Not vandalism.
A flare.
He stepped back. Processing.
She hadn’t destabilized the mission.
She’d exposed the illusion that it was stable in the first place.
Arthur’s jaw set. He didn’t say a word.
But something in his expression cracked.
Because in the middle of chaos, she hadn’t reacted to it.
She had peeled it back.
And everyone else was just catching up.
Percival sprints down the hall, his boots pounding tile. “Commander, approaching the service corridor. Should save ten seconds to target.”
“That route was sealed during prep,” Arthur replied. Calm. Sharp. “Adjust to secondary.”
“Shit. Right. Copy.” He slowed, preparing to pivot.
Footsteps soft and quick cut across his path.
Then she passed him.
White hair loose to her waist, steady stride, dressed for the event but built for the field. Cool gaze, unreadable. No insignia. No rush.
She didn’t look surprised to see him.
“Finally,” she said, tone smooth, “Someone running in the right direction.”
He turned, thrown for half a second. “Wait, you’re—”
She smiled like it wasn’t a secret and kept moving.
He blinked, then clicked comms.
“Sir. I think I just saw Crown.”
A beat of silence.
Arthur’s reply came flat. “Did she speak to you?”
“Said I was heading the right way.”
Another beat.
“Then stay your course,” Arthur said. “Take the corridor.”
Percival pivoted back and picked up speed.
The door ahead stood slightly ajar. He slowed just enough to clock the scene.
A gold pin glinted in the lock—curved, delicate, nothing Kingsman-issued. A fingerprint left with intent.
Inside, three targets.
His mark stood mid-room, facing a cabinet. A guard to his left leaned against the wall, scrolling a tablet. Another crouched by an equipment crate, head down.
Percival moved.
He charged through the threshold in one clean motion. The standing guard turned just as Percival hit him like a truck—shoulder to chest, full force. The man’s body cracked against the wall and dropped.
The crouched guard reached for a weapon.
Percival lunged, grabbed his arm mid-draw, and slammed it down hard against the crate edge. Bone gave. The man screamed. Percival drove a knee into his ribs and let him fall.
The mark took off.
Percival ran.
Closed the distance in five steps, wrapped a hand around the man’s collar, and yanked.
The mark stumbled, caught air, then hit the ground hard. Percival dropped on top of him, wrenched his arms back, zip-tied his wrists tight and high.
He stood, yanked the man upright like dead weight, and clicked comms.
“Mark secured,” Percival said, breath steady but hot. “Three down. South corridor clear.”
He turned once, halfway out the door. The gold pin still sat in the lock, catching the low light.
Same glint he’d seen in her purse when she passed him.
He didn’t say a word.
But something in him shifted.
Then he kept moving.
Galahad moved through the West Wing like he was making an entrance.
Crisp lines. Polished stride. One hand adjusting the cuff of his jacket like a ritual.
Two targets ahead.
The woman stood near a partition wall, pretending to take a call. The man loitered by the stairwell, trying too hard to look bored.
He set his rhythm, slow and centered. A performance.
Then Crown passed him.
White hair. Unreadable eyes. No sound but the hush of her steps across marble.
No warning.
Something touched his hip.
A second later, he felt it—the weight of a pistol settle cleanly into his holster.
He blinked once.
Oh?
A gun.
He hadn’t brought one.
He didn’t react. He never missed a cue. But his mouth pressed into a sharper line.
The catering cart rolled between him and the woman. Too smooth to be coincidence.
It clipped her hip. She shifted two steps left. Irritated.
Now framed in the glass. Like a gift.
He moved.
One smooth pivot. Taser drawn from under the napkin tray.
Pressed to her spine, down she went.
No noise.
He turned on the second mark. The man reached into his jacket, confident.
“You’re underdressed,” Galahad said, already raising the pistol surreptitiously gifted.
The man’s fingers came up empty.
Real panic this time.
Galahad moved faster than he looked capable of.
A full pivot. Grabbed the man’s wrist mid-motion.
Twisted. Drove a knee into his gut, flipped him onto the floor, and put him down hard.
He straightened. Ran a hand down his jacket. Breathed out slowly.
Tapped comms.
“Two down. West wing clear. And someone’s been cheating.”
He looked at the pistol Crown had gifted him. Then at the unconscious man, whose holster was sewn clean but empty.
She hadn’t interfered.
She’d rewritten the ending of the scene.
He ran a hand down his lapel, exhaled sharply, and said, under his breath,
“Well, that was nearly tragic.”
Then, quieter still:
“No wonder Arthur’s twitching.”
Then—
A soft breath. A flick of his coat.
And scene.
Gawain didn’t usually take suggestions from people he hadn’t vetted.
But something in the way she said it had stuck like a dare dressed in silk.
So now he was here.
East Wing.
And as much as he hated to admit it Crown had been right.
His primary target was posted near the service door, fidgeting with a cufflink like it might explode.
Three more from his list had filtered in behind him, all looking for exits that didn’t exist.
He circled the room slowly. Glass in hand. Eyes half-lidded. Smile soft.
All he needed was a break in the tempo.
That’s when he saw her.
Far end of the corridor.
Just a glimpse—white hair, poised stride, calm in a room full of chaos.
Their eyes met. One beat.
She didn’t nod. Didn’t signal.
But he understood the moment she broke eye contact.
Now.
The light above him exploded.
Silent shot. Glass rained down like confetti. Darkness rolled across the ballroom like a curtain drop.
He moved before the first footstep shifted behind him.
Fifteen seconds.
He reached the primary target in three strides, caught him by the lapel, and spun him behind a column.
Palm to the throat. Elbow to the temple. Out cold.
Second target was already turning when Gawain charged.
He faked high, ducked the swing, swept the man’s legs out from under him and cracked his head against the tile on the way down.
The room buzzed. Emergency lights kicked in.
He stood. Smoothed his jacket. Adjusted his cuffs with theatrical calm.
Toggled comms.
“East wing secure. Two down.”
Pause.
“Also, someone let Crown know her sense of timing is... obnoxiously perfect.”
He glanced once toward the hall.
She was already gone.
Because of course she was.
He chuckled, half under his breath.
“And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”
Then he faded back into the ballroom like nothing had touched him.
Tristan lay still above the ballroom.
Breath controlled. Stock tight to his shoulder.
Scope tracking the mark through movement and noise and glass.
The man was good at drifting.
He never stopped moving, never broke completely from the crowd.
But he was nervous. That would cost him.
Tristan stayed patient.
The shot wasn’t ready.
He adjusted his elevation by a fraction, followed the mark across the top edge of a floral display—
Until, he caught a reflection.
Not the mark.
White hair. Steady gaze. She wasn’t looking at the room. She was looking at him.
In the gilded frame of a mirror across the hall.
He flinched. Just for a second. Small. Tight. Immediate.
Snipers didn’t get seen. Not even by allies. Especially not during a live op.
But she had him. And she wanted him to know it.
She moved out of frame.
He exhaled slowly.
Then noticed it.
Guests repositioned themselves as the center of conversation shifted. Not drastically. Not frantically.
A couple rotating as they turned to laugh. A server drifting left instead of right.
Little shifts. Measured.
And every one of them was clearing his angle.
Crown was moving the room. Based on his line.
He rechecked his breath. Felt the tension shift below.
That’s when the op broke.
Lancelot tore through the hallway of the eastern wing and passed the clear doors pursuing two armed men—fast, lethal, close-quarters chaos.
Percival came in loud. A freight-train charge through the ballroom’s opposite flank with what can only be described as the grunt of men being thrown across the hall the opposite way.
The crowd surged. Screams. Motion. Glass splitting underfoot.
The mark spun. Wrong direction.
He turned straight into Tristan’s field.
Clean. Center mass.
No civilians in range.
Tristan squeezed the trigger.
The shot was soft. Suppressed.
The body crumpled without a sound.
He toggled comms.
“Target down. West perimeter clear.”
His eye stayed in the scope a moment longer.
The mirror was empty now.
Crown was gone.
No radio. No signal. No need.
She’d found his angle, moved the bodies, and cleared the shot.
All before the first trigger pulled.
He adjusted the bolt. Realigned. Recalibrated.
Then went still again.
Already watching for the next one.
“I’m being pursued hotly. And not in a good way.” Galahad’s voice was sharp in Arthur’s ear. Footsteps pounding. Breathing ragged. Gunshots whizzed past him. “I thought doorway 06A was supposed to be open!”
Arthur turned toward the screen fast.
Galahad was mid-sprint, coat snapping, arm braced to keep balance as he cut the corner into the hallway.
He hit the turn into the junction hard.
The exit should’ve triggered.
It didn’t.
Arthur’s blood chilled.
“Bedivere,” Arthur snapped. “Why hasn’t it triggered?”
Bedivere was already moving.
“It’s listed green! System shows it’s cleared—wait—mechanical’s not responding—!”
The feed glitched. A split second of stillness.
“Try down the hall.” Crown’s voice purred for half a second.
A chair skidded across the tile in the opposite direction, loud enough to turn heads.
Galahad flinched mid-stride but kept going as the fire momentarily ceased.
Arthur’s screen snapped back into clarity.
Galahad cleared the breach, sprinted into the corridor—and behind him, stamped into the doorframe—
And there, just for a second, it caught the edge of the frame:
A heel print. Impossibly clean. Formal.
Stamped hard into the splintered wood.
Evening-wear tread.
His chest tightened.
She had opened it. Earlier. Without a word.
Arthur toggled to Tristan’s scope feed.
“Visual on Galahad. I’ve got him. Corridor’s covered.”
Arthur didn’t move.
Galahad had survived not because the system worked—but because she moved first.
Not after orders. Not waiting for clearance.
She had listened to his strategy. Understood his intent. And executed ahead of him.
Arthur watched as the floor map redrew around the move.
Corridors shifted. Doorways pre-cleared. His team turning without knowing why it was working.
She wasn’t freelancing.
She was following him—but faster.
He keyed the comm once.
Low. Controlled.
“Let her run with it.”
Then he stepped back from the board—
and realized the mission had stopped reacting to him.
It was accelerating around her.
One final rogue agent lunged from behind her.
No hesitation.
Crown shifted her weight, caught his wrist, and drove a knee into his ribs.
A sharp pop. Dislocated shoulder. He crumpled.
She kept walking.
Arthur scanned the feed one last time.
All hostiles neutralized.
All VIPs intact.
No casualties. No second guessing.
Just execution.
He clicked the comm.
“Mission complete.”
Arthur stood at the edge of the ops table, eyes on the feed.
The Knights were gathered now—silent, steady, watching.
The ballroom was still.
Galahad was brushing debris off his coat.
Lancelot and Percival had already moved to cover.
Tristan’s rifle had gone quiet.
Bedivere was already syncing data.
And Gawain?
He stood at ease, hands in his pockets, wearing the same expression he’d had when she first borrowed his comm—like he’d been waiting to see how this would end.
Crown approached without a word.
She stepped up to Gawain and slipped his second comm back into his jacket pocket.
“I did say I’d make it run smoothly,” she said, calm as anything.
Gawain gave a low breath of a laugh. Quiet. Amused.
No one else spoke.
At the ops console back at base, Merlin leaned back with a slow exhale.
“Show-off.”
Crown glanced sideways without breaking stride.
“If I wanted to show off,” she said, “I’d steal the spotlight.”
Then she turned to the rest of them.
Looked each one of them in the eye.
No speech. No need.
Just a once-over and a wink.
“But hey,” she added, “I do like making good men shine.”
And then she walked out of the gala.
Heels clicking.
Pace unhurried.
Presence undeniable.
Arthur didn’t speak.
But he was still watching.
And he knew—
This wasn’t over.
Wyvern Grayson had just entered the game.
And Kingsman?
Kingsman played for keeps.
A/N: I loved writing the action scenes here. It felt pretty gratifying having everyone flex and Crown being deliberately irritating here.
Synopsis: At a London gala, Kingsman Commander Arthur Lancaster and his unit the Round Table execute a covert op with ruthless precision until things take a turn for the worst. An unaffiliated woman clears the entire ballroom in under two minutes, improvising chaos as strategy. Her callsign: Crown. The Knights see recklessness. Arthur sees interference. Unfortunately, she's the only shot they have to salvage the op and get out safely.
Content warnings: violence, covert operations, firearms, tactical maneuvers, mild descriptions of injury, strong language, institutional corruption implied, high-stakes espionage, themes of control vs. improvisation, death, sniping, using private mobiles at work, tension between rigid authority and unpredictable tactics.
Word Count: 1580 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Kingsman wasn’t just an agency. It was a myth forged in silence—an espionage syndicate so deep underground, most governments only knew its name when their power had already slipped through their fingers. What they did know was this: when Kingsman deployed, it meant containment had failed.
And when failure threatened to rewrite history, Kingsman turned to the Round Table.
Eight operatives. Handpicked. Lethal. Each capable of toppling a regime—or resurrecting one.
They weren’t elite. They were legends.
And tonight, they were all that stood between a ballroom full of global power brokers and an untraceable massacre.
The Command Room pulsed with the cool glow of surveillance feeds. Ballroom. Rooftop. Corridors. Every angle monitored. Every second counted.
Callsign Arthur stood at the center of it all, rigid and composed. His frame was all sharp lines and coiled calm, the silver at his temples stark against slicked-back dark hair. He looked carved from command itself.
Beside him stood Agent Merlin, a figure of quiet intensity and wiry frame. His dark hair, perpetually tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed, framed his face, which was focused intently on the mission brief in his hands; memorized after countless readings. The blue light from the large screens bathed the room in a cool hue, causing his glasses to gleam as he adjusted them.
His skin retained a sun-kissed glow despite contrasting sharply with the sterile environment of their dimly lit command center.
“The Knights are in position, Commander Lancaster.” he drawled as he handed over the datapad with a meticulously folded sleeve.
Arthur didn’t fidget as he took it. Both men never take their eyes off the screen.
He didn’t blink more than necessary.
He watched. He waited.
Click.
He pressed his comm into place. “Status.”
One word. Flat, precise. It erupted along the line like the sound of a starting pistol.
A Gala in the Heart of the City
The gala glittered with polished danger. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet shadows. Money that made enemies.
Intel flagged two threats: a bomb or an armed assault.
Possibly both.
And the Knights of the Round Table were in position.
Agent Lancelot lounged at the bar, tux straining slightly against his fighter’s frame. He stirred a drink he hadn’t touched, eyes scanning the room like a wolf waiting for the herd to panic.
“Two tailers near the wine cart,” he murmured. “One’s pretending to text. Poorly. Thinks lowering the backlight of the screen makes him subtle.”
Arthur’s voice came back, clean. “Mark them. Don’t engage.”
Agent Galahad stood near the VIP section, wine glass in hand, smile just sharp enough to cut. His voice was velvet, timed to a beat between flattery and threat.
“VIP Three’s drunk enough. Wager they’d start listing shell companies if I blink at him the right way.”
Merlin cut in, dry as sandpaper. “We’re not licensed for confessionals.”
Meanwhile, Agent Percival was posted at the north entrance like a wall disguised in formalwear. His stance never shifted, but his voice was low and grim.
“Security detail just doubled. Civilians are twitchy. One twitch and we’ve got a stampede.”
Merlin’s voice filtered in. “Could be they’re spooked.”
“Or they know more than we do,” Percival replied. “One woman near the lobby was sobbing into her purse.”
Agent Bedivere was hunched over his tablet in a hidden security tower, eyes narrowing.
“Encrypted RF chatter in the east wing. Not ours. Frequency’s jumping. Whoever’s transmitting is mobile.”
Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Trace it. I want a fix and an angle.”
“On it,” Bedivere muttered. “But we’ve lost visual on the northeast stairwell. That’s not interference. Someone physically unplugged the camera.”
Agent Gawain ghosted through the crowd, warm grin still on but tighter.
“Telecom CEO just exchanged something with the ex-spook. Flash drive, maybe. Now they’re splitting up. This is coordinated.”
Arthur’s jaw set. “Shadow op or external threat?”
“Both,” Gawain said. “Feels like we walked into someone else’s war.”
Up on the rooftop, Agent Tristan spoke for the first time in minutes. His voice was quiet, unshaken.
“Two men unloading crates. Civilian clothes. I can’t confirm weapons, but one just covered the crate with a thermal blanket.”
Arthur’s attention snapped. “Confirm the convoy.”
“Armored truck. No tags. No traffic record. They’ve got two more crates. I give it five minutes before they’re inside.”
Arthur turned to Merlin. “Pull feed. Scan for logos, serials, anything.”
Merlin’s screen flashed. “No identifiers. Whatever this is, it was scrubbed clean. Logistics confirm: nothing should be coming in tonight. That convoy is off-grid and fully armed.”
Galahad’s voice came sharper now.
“VIPs are scattering. One’s still in the ballroom. Two just took the stairwell. Last one ducked into a service wing. Fuck, it’s the negotiator from the Manila accord.”
Arthur’s pulse jumped. “If he dies, that treaty collapses.”
“And if the CEO upstairs gets taken,” Merlin added, “We lose access to the entire Balkan satellite network. Half the defense grid goes dark next quarter.”
Bedivere cuts in faster now.
“Signal’s deteriorating. We just lost rooftop cam three. Jamming’s active and tightening. If they hit the ballroom with those crates, we’re too late.”
Arthur flipped channels. “Command. This is the Round Table. Immediate backup required. Threat is active.”
There was a pause. Too long.
“Nearest unit is thirty minutes out, Commander Lancaster.”
Arthur’s hand curled into a fist. His voice stayed low, but it cut like glass.
“I have six operatives and a ballroom full of targets. If you don’t move, we will fail containment and lose the upper tier of three allied defense networks.”
Still nothing.
Then Tristan, colder now:
“They’re mobilizing. Not prepping. I repeat, mobilizing. The crates are open. I can’t see inside, but one of them just pulled gloves and a radio out of a false panel.”
Bedivere’s feeds blinked hard.
“Multiple floors losing visual. System override from outside. Someone’s inside our lines.”
In the ballroom, a waiter tripped and dropped a tray then didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he disappeared into the crowd. No ID tag.
Arthur’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“We need a door. Or we’re going to burn alive in a gala full of billionaires.”
Merlin’s hands moved fast. “Command’s stalling. Emergency override locked. I’m trying a private channel—”
Buzz.
Merlin’s personal phone lit up.
One message.
Hey. Need help or you got this?
No name popped up immediately. No insignia. Just the casual threat of someone who already knew the answer.
Merlin tapped into the ballroom camera, or what was left of it.
There she was.
A woman stood motionless in the chaos—white hair pinned up with a hairpin. The ballroom pulsed around her: fleeing staff, flickering lights, rising confusion.
But she remained still, composed. Eyes like steel under storm clouds locked on the camera feed.
Merlin let out a quiet breath and tapped out a message, eyes on her.
Go ahead.
She smiled as her phone vibrated and then tapped her phone once, then again.
“Backup is en route. She’s already in play. Let her handle it.”
Silence followed.
Then Percival’s voice, low and wary: “Did Command just say she?”
In the ballroom, Gawain blinked hard as someone cleanly plucked an earpiece from his ear. He turned, halfway through a pivot—
And froze.
She stood there.
Unbothered. Like she hadn’t just ghosted into a high-security event through blind spots only Merlin could map. Her dress matched the ballroom’s palette perfectly. Her smirk did not.
She slipped the comm into her own ear.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, voice light and lethal. “Heard we were improvising.”
Arthur’s voice cracked like a blade. “Identify yourself.”
She sighed. Almost playfully. But not quite.
“You called for backup. I picked up. I assumed that’s what you lot needed.”
Arthur’s tone dropped, clipped and cold. “Unless you can somehow clear the ballroom, there’s not much you can offer.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she moved.
No rush. No panic. Just a brief, graceful slide of her hand as she brushed a passing waiter’s tray. One flute of champagne tilted, fell—
—right into the lap of an heiress whose family had been blackmailing prime ministers since the Cold War.
The white hair woman shrieked.
“RAT! THERE’S A RAT!”
The scream was shrill. Cutting. Infectious.
A domino effect. A diplomat startled and bumped into a server. Someone stepped on a heel. Glass shattered.
And just like that, the ballroom detonated.
Security rushed in the wrong direction. Guests bolted, stumbling toward exits, tripping over each other in a wave of panic. A centerpiece caught fire. Chairs fell. One man ran into a pillar hard enough to knock himself unconscious.
In under sixty seconds, the floor was clear.
The feed caught a wide shot: empty ballroom, spilled champagne, fractured silence.
“…What in the actual hell,” Percival muttered.
Arthur stared at the feed.
“That’ll do.”
She smoothed her dress, as though she hadn’t just caused a high-society meltdown. Then handed Gawain a small, leather-bound notebook—light as a promise.
“A little gift for your Commander,” she said. “If he’s signing the funeral cards, he might as well make it an informed decision.”
She turned to leave.
Arthur didn’t move. Not at first. But Merlin looked at him and Arthur didn’t need to know what it said.
We’re out of other options.
“Halt,” Arthur called.
She paused mid-stride.
A quiet settled in the room. Arthur exhaled once, steady but thin.
“What else can you do?”
She smiled. Not wide. Not soft.
Like someone who had just been invited to cause more damage.
A/N: Thanks for reading! As you can probably tell, I was binging Spy x Family when this was first drafted lol.
Synopsis: When a mission at a London gala goes horribly wrong, an unaffiliated woman steps in and rewrites the rules. She clears a ballroom in under two minutes, derails the Round Table’s perfect rhythm, and introuced herself with a smirk as Crown.
Commander Arthur Lancaster, the Black King, heads the Round Table unit of Kingsman with structure, silence, and ruthless efficiency. He doesn’t tolerate interference. Yet Crown’s presence keeps proving indispensable: catching blind spots, humiliating poisoned intel, even reframing an op Kingsman shelved for five years.
To the Knights, she’s disruptive.
To Command, she’s dangerous.
To Arthur, she’s an intruder who matches his intent faster than he can speak it.
In Volume 1 of DOMINION, the real question isn’t whether the Round Table will survive the field.
Medical Themes: wound care, bandages, stitches, and one incident of withheld medication (antidepressants).
Sexual Tension: flirting, close-quarters intimacy, suggestive banter; no explicit sexual content in Volume 1.
Power Imbalance: Commander/consultant relationship, handled carefully but noted for reader awareness.
👉 Please read responsibly. Themes may be triggering for some readers.
Updates: Weekly here on Tumblr | Monthly in 4-chapter chunks on Tapas
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Chapter count: 21
Aside count: 12
Released Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Aside 1 (21 Sept 22:00 EDT or 22 Sept 10:00 PHST)
A/N: The difference between Chapters and Asides is that the latter are usually shorter visually in my head or a single scene. Think like an omake? The story can be read without the asides, and you won't be too lost.
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Espionage has a rhythm, a protocol, an unspoken language of control. Crown prefers improvisation.
Welcome to the shadowy world of Kingsman—an elite intelligence agency operating beyond governmental reach, where even more elite operatives carry Arthurian callsigns and missions play out like chess matches. Arthur Lancaster commands the Round Table: structured, disciplined, and ruthlessly efficient.
Enter Callsign Crown.
Unaffiliated. Unpredictable. Undeniably brilliant. She doesn’t belong to Kingsman, yet she always seems to know its moves. And just enough to counter them. When Crown walks into a mission, it’s not to participate; it’s to rewrite the rules entirely. Now, Arthur’s team is forced into an uneasy alliance with a woman who redefines what it means to be a spy: smug, strategic, and dangerously in control.
Found family dynamics: a team tested by loyalty, trust, and Crown’s presence
Emotional strategy: conversations as loaded as weapons, silence as tactical as speech
In DOMINION, the real mission isn’t survival. It’s control. And Crown? She intends to hold all the pieces.
⚠️ This story contains violence, strong language, trauma references, institutional corruption, medical themes (incl. antidepressants), well-handled power imbalance, and alcohol use. Contains mild sexual tension but no explicit sexual content in Volume 1.
Current Projected Volume Count: 9
Released Volumes:
Volume 1 [ONGOING]
Updates: Weekly here on Tumblr | Monthly in 4-chapter chunks on Tapas
A/N: This is my first time posting a full-length story here on Tumblr, so feedback is welcome (but please be kind!). This is a brainrot project that started as a reimagined Kingsman AU and spiraled into a maxed-out Google Doc. No characters from the OG film or comics — this is all OCs. Enjoy!
