⚠️MDNI⚠️ Dainsleif And Aizen’s Girl

The room was bathed in soft, dim light as you patiently waited for Harry on the bed. You wore a delicate nightgown, your eyes fixed on the pages of a book. Moments later, the sound of the bathroom door opening caught your attention, and you looked up to see Harry emerging, wearing his eyepatch.

Harry lay down beside you, his lips gently pressing against your cheek in a loving kiss. Your smile graced your face as you placed Harry's book on the bedside table, your fingers briefly intertwining. Holding his face, you caressed his cheek, your touch daring to almost reach the eyepatch.

But, as had become routine, Harry instinctively grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from the eyepatch. Your gaze met his, a mixture of desire and curiosity shining in your eyes. The question that had been kept inside for so long escaped your lips, soft and sincere: "When will you let me see, Harry?"

A heavy sigh escaped Harry's lips as he hesitated, his insecurities threatening to suffocate him. He couldn't bear the thought of you recoiling in horror, mirroring the reactions of others who had seen his scar. His voice trembled as he shared his fears, confessing his reluctance to reveal his vulnerability.

You listened attentively, your unwavering eyes showing your support. You gently squeezed Harry's hand, your touch pleading for him to trust you. Your voice was gentle yet resolute as you assured him, "Harry, I love you. I want to see all of you, even the parts you consider imperfect. Trust that my love for you surpasses any external flaw."

Harry's hesitation persisted, his desire to protect himself conflicting with his longing for intimacy. He tried to pull away, retreating into the shadows where his fears could be contained. But you refused to let him go, your grip on him firm and unwavering.

A tear trickled down Harry's cheek, his emotions threatening to overpower him. He couldn't comprehend why you would want to see the scar that had haunted him for years. In a vulnerable whisper, he questioned, "Do you think I'm repulsive, Bedivere? Is that what you'll see when I remove this eyepatch?"

Your touch softened, your fingers caressing his face, wiping away his tears. Your eyes met his, your voice full of conviction as you denied his self-deprecating words. "No, Harry. You're not repulsive. You are beautiful, inside and out. The scar doesn't define you. It's just a part of your journey, a reminder of the strength you possess."

Harry tried to scoff at your words, his gaze averted. He questioned the sincerity of your declaration, bitterness tainting his voice. But you were determined to make him see, to make him believe. You gently guided his face back to yours, ensuring your eyes met once more.

Your voice held unwavering certainty as you repeated your affirmation. "You are good, Harry. With or without the scar, you are worthy of love and adoration. And I love you, scar and all."

Harry's grip on your hands tightened, his voice a mere whisper as he made a plea, "Promise me, Bedivere. Promise me that you will still see me the same way, even when the eyepatch is gone."

Bedivere promised, accepting Harry as he was, scar and all. And so, with your unwavering support echoing in his heart, Harry gathered the courage to finally remove the eyepatch. He sat in front of you, his hands trembling as he reached out to gently remove the eyepatch that had concealed his scar.

You watched him with tender eyes, your heart pounding with anticipation. You knew this was a pivotal moment for Harry, one that could deepen your connection or reinforce his fears. You tried to keep your expression neutral, not wanting to pressure him.

Harry's eye, once covered by the eyepatch, was now exposed to the dim room light. The scar tissue was evident, a reminder of the pain he had endured in the past. He kept his focus on you, studying your face intensely for any sign of your true feelings.

When your eyes met, your expression softened with empathy and unwavering love. But as you looked into his missing eye, you shrugged slightly.

Before you could say anything, Harry quickly turned away, his emotions building within him. He didn't want to face the possibility of his fears becoming reality – that you found his appearance repulsive.

You called out to him, your voice filled with concern, "Harry, please, wait!"

But Harry was already running down the hallway and down the stairs, desperate to find some solace. He locked himself in the bathroom on the ground floor, feeling a mix of anger and self-loathing. He couldn't bear the thought of you seeing him as anything other than the strong and capable person he tried to be.

The bathroom door closed with a resounding click, and Harry found himself alone, staring at his reflection in the sink's mirror. His heart hammered in his chest, his hands trembling as he brought them to his face. His eye socket, once hidden by the eyepatch, stared back at him, a raw reminder of the past.

Tears welled up in Harry's remaining eye as he gazed at the scarred landscape before him. The sight sent a wave of self-disgust through his veins, his own reflection amplifying the insecurities that had plagued him for so long. He couldn't bear the idea of you witnessing this grotesque sight, of seeing his expression marked by revulsion or pity.

A choked sob escaped Harry's lips, and he quickly covered his mouth with his trembling hand, trying to muffle the sound. He leaned against the sink, the weight of his emotions threatening to crush him. In that moment, he felt utterly alone, consumed by his self-perception of ugliness.

A gentle knock on the bathroom door interrupted his despair, and Bedivere's voice, filled with concern, called out to him. "Harry, please, let me in. Let me hold you."

But Harry couldn't face you, confront the possibility of your rejection. His voice faltered as he choked out a response, his words mixed with anguish. "I can't, Bedivere. I can't bear to see the disappointment in your eyes."

Bedivere's voice held an unwavering determination as she pleaded with him, "Harry, I love you. Every part of you. Please let me be there for you."

Harry's resolve faltered, his desire for comfort battling his fear of rejection. Finally, he unlocked the bathroom door, his hand shaking as he turned the knob. Bedivere stood before him, his eyes full of compassion and unwavering love. You held out your arms, your embrace a beacon of comfort amid his turmoil.

With a mixture of anxiety and longing, Harry took a step forward, surrendering himself into your arms. You held him close, your touch grounding him in the warmth of your love. Harry's tears flowed freely, his body shaken by sobs as he clung to you, his anguish pouring out in waves.

You tenderly stroked his hair, whispering comforting words. Your voice was a balm to his wounded soul as you reassured him, "Harry, you are not defined by your scars. You are defined by your courage, kindness, and the love you bring to the world. You are beautiful to me, inside and out."

Harry buried his face in the curve of your neck, his tears moistening your skin. He whispered amidst sobs, "But Bedivere, when you saw me, you flinched. I couldn't bear it."

Your touch softened, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his back. You lifted his face, your eyes meeting his with unwavering devotion. "Harry, I flinched not because of what I saw, but because I felt your pain. I flinched because I realized how much you've been carrying alone. But that doesn't change how I feel about you. You are still the person I love, and I'm here to support you through it all."

Harry's grip on you tightened, his body trembling against yours. In that vulnerable moment, he allowed himself to be enveloped by your love, to shed the self-imposed burden of shame. Your presence became his sanctuary, a place where he could begin to heal, to see himself through your eyes and find beauty in the scars that marked his journey.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, Harry felt a glimmer of hope ignite within him. With you by his side, he knew he could face the world, unmasked and unafraid. Together, you would rewrite the narrative of his scars, transforming them from symbols of pain into testaments of resilience and love.

In that quiet moment, as your hearts beat in sync, Harry realized that the true strength lay not in hiding his imperfections, but in embracing them. You had shown him that love was not contingent on physical appearance, but on the depth of their connection and the beauty of their shared journey.

With renewed determination, Harry released his grip on you and took a step back. He gazed at you with gratitude and a newfound sense of self-acceptance. His voice, though still tinged with vulnerability, carried a spark of newfound confidence as he said, "Thank you, Bedivere. Thank you for seeing me, scars and all. I'm ready to face the world, knowing that your love will always guide me."

You smiled, your eyes shining with pride. You intertwined your fingers with his, your touch a reminder of your unwavering bond. "You don't have to face the world alone, Harry. We'll navigate this journey together, supporting and uplifting each other every step of the way. I love you, scars and all, and I'm here to stay."

High Sex Drive:

Luis Sera:

Always down for a quick flirt that turns into something way steamier in under five minutes.

He’ll crack a dirty joke mid-mission just to see if you’re in the mood, and honestly, he usually is.

Luis has a thing for risky locations; be it on lab tables, abandoned cabins, you name it.

His love language is also morning sex too; he wakes up hard and ready to make you late for whatever you had planned.

He’s got stamina for days and loves going multiple rounds with little breaks in between.

Teasing him even a little bit, like brushing against him or whispering something, and he’s immediately craving you.

Luis is very vocal; lots of Spanish dirty talk mixed with praise that’ll make your knees weak.

He keeps a surprisingly well-stocked “emergency” drawer with supplies because he hates being unprepared.

Post-mission adrenaline makes him extra horny; expect to get pinned against the nearest wall.

Definitely the type to send you flirty texts or voice notes describing exactly what he wants to do when he gets back.

Carlos Oliveira:

Is honestly down to fuck almost anytime you give him the green light.

He gets super handsy after a good workout or fight, adrenaline turns him on like crazy.

Loves picking you up and fucking you against walls, showing off how strong he is.

Carlos can go all night if you’re up for it; the man has ridiculous endurance.

He’s very giving; will spend ages between your legs just because he loves the way you sound.

Morning wood? More like everyday wood because he's that's down bad for you.

Gets turned on by your confidence; the second you take charge he’s craving you even more.

Shower sex is one of his favorites; wet, slippery, and he gets to hold you up.

He’s the “I’m bored, wanna bang?” type when things are too quiet.

Aftercare king but also round-two king; he’ll cuddle you and then start kissing your neck again.

Jack Krauser:

Wanna know a fun fact? Did you know that his sex drive is as intense and aggressive as his combat style? He sure as hell does.

He gets off on the power play such as pinning you down with his grip or entire weight, manhandling you and so on; consensually of course.

Post-mission Krauser is FERAL; expect rough, possessive sex that leaves marks.

He can fuck for hours and still want more, especially if he’s been away on long ops.

Dirty talk is low and growly, telling you exactly how he’s going to wreck you.

Training sessions easily turn into horny sessions because he loves when you’re sweaty and worked up.

Has a high libido even when injured, will still try to pull you into his lap.

Loves when you challenge him; it makes him want to dominate you even harder.

He’s not subtle; if he wants you, he wants you and he’s gonna be grabbing your hips and letting you know.

Craves raw, primal sex more than anything else.

Jake Muller:

Surprisingly has a high sex drive he tries, and sometimes fails, to hide.

Once he’s comfortable with you, he’s all over you; jealousy and protectiveness turn into hungry sex.

He’s got Wesker genes so his stamina is insane; he can keep going way longer than most.

Loves angry sex or make-up sex after arguments.

Jake gets turned on by danger and risk; quickies in sketchy locations are his thing.

He’s all hands when you’re alone, always pulling you close.

Late-night sex is definitely a daily expectation with him.

Secretly loves when you tease him until he snaps and takes control.

Gets horny after fights or when he’s pumped up with adrenaline.

Once he lets his guard down, he’s surprisingly insatiable.

Karl Heisenberg:

This chaotic metal man is horny 24/7 and doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise.

He’ll fuck you on his workbench surrounded by scrap and tools, no shame.

Uses his powers in creative and filthy, ways during sex and loves your reactions.

High energy = high libido; he can go multiple rounds and still want more.

Teasing him is dangerous; he’ll bend you over the nearest surface immediately.

Loves rough, loud, messy sex with lots of biting and scratching.

Gets turned on by your anger or when you argue with him.

Late-night workshop sex is extremely common because he barely sleeps.

He’s vocal about what he wants and expects you to be the same.

No such thing as “too tired for sex” with Heisenberg; he’ll wake you up with his mouth if he has to.

Moderate Sex Drive:

Leon S. Kennedy:

Has a healthy sex drive but he’s not thinking about it 24/7; though work usually comes first.

He gets in the mood after a successful mission when the adrenaline finally settles.

Loves lazy morning sex where you both take your time, especially on his rare off days.

Teasing works on him but he won’t jump you immediately; he’ll let the tension build first.

Pretty vanilla most of the time but can get surprisingly passionate when he’s really into it.

He likes quiet, sensual nights more than wild ones.

After a few drinks he gets a bit handsy and more direct about wanting you.

Post-mission cuddles often turn into slow, comforting sex.

He’s down when you initiate, and he’ll match your energy perfectly.

Chris Redfield:

Chris has a solid moderate drive, strong but not overwhelming.

He gets horny after intense workouts or when he’s been training hard.

Loves when you ride him after a long day; it helps him unwind.

He’s more about quality over quantity, one really good round is usually enough.

Physical touch turns him on fast, especially back rubs that turn into more.

He can go a few days without and be fine, but once he’s in the mood he’s focused.

Protective sex is his thing; slow, deep, and reassuring after dangerous missions.

He’s surprisingly vocal with low groans and praise when things heat up.

Gets turned on by your strength and confidence more than anything else.

Piers Nivans:

Pretty balanced SP he enjoys sex but doesn’t crave it every single day.

He loves quick, intense sessions when time is limited between missions.

Being in uniform around you can turn him on more than he admits.

He’s a switch but leans a bit dominant when he’s stressed.

Enjoys making out for a long time before moving to the main event.

After a good fight or successful op, he’ll pull you close for some energetic sex.

He’s clean and prepared; always has supplies ready without being obsessive.

Gets in the mood from deep conversations that turn flirty late at night.

He matches your pace really well and makes sure you’re satisfied.

Billy Coen:

It is moderate but with a bit of a rough edge from his past.

He enjoys sex as a way to feel close and forget the world for a while.

Can go a while without but once he starts, he’s very attentive and thorough.

Loves holding you tight during sex, lots of body contact.

A bit old-fashioned in the sense that he prefers actual beds over risky spots.

Teasing him works but he’ll get you back later when you least expect it.

Gets turned on by quiet domestic moments that suddenly feel charged.

He’s protective even in bed, always checking if you’re okay and enjoying it.

He’s down for round two if you want it, but one solid round usually satisfies him.

Glenn Arias:

Got that classy moderate drive; therefore he's sophisticated in his restraint but still very physical when the need comes.

He enjoys sex as part of romance and connection more than pure lust.

Loves taking his time with foreplay and setting the mood.

Can get pretty intense once he’s worked up, especially after dealing with business.

Travel and hotel rooms bring out his hornier side.

He’s very good at reading your signals and acting on them smoothly.

Enjoys both soft and slightly rougher nights depending on the vibe.

Gets in the mood from elegant dates that end back at home.

He’s vocal in a low, sexy way that makes everything feel hotter.

Balanced, so he can go days without but makes it worth it when it happens.

Zeno Wesker:

The need for sex within him sits comfortably in the middle; controlled but present.

He prefers meaningful encounters over random hookups.

His Wesker blood gives him good stamina, but he doesn’t need to use it every day.

Gets turned on by intellectual tension that slowly turns physical.

Loves deep eye contact and intense, focused sex.

Can be a bit possessive in bed but in a hot, attentive way.

After long missions he craves reconnecting through slow, passionate sex.

He’s experimental when in the right mood but not overly wild.

Morning sex with him feels luxurious and unhurried.

He makes sure you’re completely satisfied before he’s done.

Low Sex Drive:

Albert Wesker:

Pretty low, like as low as the bottom of the ocean; he sees it as a distraction more than a need most days.

When he does want it, it’s calculated and intense, but it’s not often.

He prefers quality over frequency; one really controlled session satisfies him for a while.

Power play turns him on more than anything, but he won’t chase it constantly.

Missions and experiments come first; sex is way down on his priority list.

He can go weeks without and barely notice, honestly.

When he’s in the mood it’s sudden and dominant, with that smug little smirk.

Loves making you beg just to remind himself he’s in control.

After really big victories he might pull you in for some arrogant, possessive sex.

Cuddling? Not really his thing; though once it’s done, he’s back to work.

HUNK:

An extremely low sex drive because hello? It's HUNK. This man is all mission, all the time.

Sex is rare and only happens when the tension builds up after insane ops.

He’s very quiet and efficient about it when it does happen.

Doesn’t initiate often; you usually have to be the one to push things.

Even when horny he’s still kinda stoic; minimal dirty talk, maximum focus.

Can go months without and be completely fine with it.

Prefers quick, no-nonsense sessions that get the job done.

His mask stays on sometimes because he’s just that committed to the vibe.

Post-mission adrenaline might spark something, but it fades fast.

He’s not cold, just super disciplined and low on cravings.

Victor Gideon:

He's more into schemes and power than bedroom stuff. Dr. Gideon has better things to do, ladies.

Sex is like a luxury he indulges in only when it fits his schedule.

He can be surprisingly selfish when he’s in the mood, expecting you to match his pace.

Long periods of zero interest, then random bursts of intensity.

Prefers fancy settings and a bit of roleplay to make it feel special.

Doesn’t get randomly horny; it has to be planned or triggered by ego.

Can go a long time without any issue; his mind’s usually elsewhere.

When it happens he’s theatrical and dramatic about it.

After a big win or successful plan he might celebrate with you.

Still affectionate in his own weird way, but sex isn’t a daily thought.

The Merchant:

With the kind of business he does, his drive is super low for he's too busy trading and surviving.

He’s casual about it when it happens, like “Stranger, fancy a quick deal in bed?”

Loves mixing humor and flirting even during sex.

Can go ages without because he’s always on the move.

Prefers simple, no-fuss encounters when the mood strikes.

Gets turned on more by good conversation and bargains than pure lust.

He’s surprisingly chill and relaxed about the whole thing.

Might disappear for weeks and come back like nothing happened.

Occasional horny moments after a really good trade day.

Keeps it light-hearted, sex with him never feels too serious.

Ethan Winters:

Ethan has a low sex drive, especially after everything he’s been through.

He’s more focused on survival and protecting his family than getting laid.

When he’s in the mood it’s soft, caring, and very intimate.

Can go long stretches without thinking about sex at all.

Loves slow, emotional connection over wild passion.

Trauma sometimes makes him hesitant, so it’s rare and gentle.

He’s very giving and attentive when it does happen.

Prefers quiet nights at home where things feel normal.

The night went like clockwork. You read whilst Harry got ready for the night, undressing and redressing in his pajamas before he headed to the bathroom to finish up. Every night followed the same pattern. As the bathroom door shut, you continued your reading, but as a few minutes went by, and then ten, you looked up from the pages. You looked at the bathroom door, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion and concern. Harry was taking an unusually long time in there. 

Sitting up further, you placed your book on your nightstand, before slipping out of the bed, your feet landing on the soft carpet below. Walking over, you hesitantly knocked on the door, calling out, “Harry?” Silence. You frowned, before opening the door. There, Harry stood, hands pressed against the sink, hunched over, staring down at the white porcelain. There was a hardened expression on his face, a look that you had come to know well and recognize. 

Without a word, you stepped closer, reaching for his hand. The contact seemed to break whatever trance he was in, his body stiffening before his gaze met yours. There was a quiet sadness in his eyes, but there was also something else - a longing, a vulnerability that he wasn't used to showing. You raised his hand up, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles. One after the other, your lips soft and tender. His hand, once cold and tense, relaxed in your touch, and you could feel the relief in the way his fingers lightly curled against your skin. The tips of them brushed along your soft skin as you pressed little kisses along his palm. 

You wished you could take away his pain - emotional, physical, and everything in between. But you couldn’t. All you could do was be there, offer comfort, ease his burden, and love him in every way you knew how. And if it meant helping him forget, even for just a little while, you would do it a thousand times over.

Silently, you led him back to the bedroom, your hand in his as you pulled the covers back, urging him to get into bed. He did so without protest, his movements slow, almost hesitant. Slipping under the blankets, you positioned yourself above him, straddling his waist, and let your hands rest gently on his abdomen. You gazed down at him, your heart swelling with the overwhelming love and care you had for him. He looked up at you, visible eye soft but wary, and you could see the battle he was waging within himself.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned down, your lips hovering just above his. Without a word, you began to kiss him. The same little kisses that you pressed against his hand, brushed along his skin.  Starting at his chin, you trailed your lips to his cheek, then to the other, before caressing down his jaw, grazing his nose, and forehead, before finally brushing the corners of his lips. Harry lay still beneath you, his breath catching for a moment before he exhaled slowly. 

He reached up, his hands finding purchase on your waist, fingers lightly digging into the fabric of your sleep shorts; he shut his eye. You continued your journey, pressing kiss after kiss, decorating his skin in little invisible pink tingles of your love. Slowly, you sat back up, hands slipping down his chest before resting back upon his abdomen. You bit your lip, hesitant as you reached up and slowly took hold of his glasses. You felt Harry's hands on your waist tighten, but they relaxed again as you slid them off, folded them close, and sat them on the bedside table.

You had seen his eye before. Or at least, the space where it used to be. You were no stranger to it. Where his eye used to be was a scar, the wound has long since healed, only leaving a small opening of tissue; overall, you didn't know how to explain it, but that didn't matter. He was still as beautiful as the day you met him, all those years ago. You felt a deep warmth fill your heart as you admired him. You couldn't help it. You could look at him forever if you could.

Leaning back down, you pressed another soft kiss to his chin, your lips lingering for just a moment before you whispered, "Beautiful." You moved to his cheek, kissing it gently, then to the other, each time adding the words as you went. "Gorgeous," You murmured, your lips brushing against his skin. "Handsome," You followed the path along his jawline. "Hot," You breathed against his forehead, "Pretty," You said, your lips lingering on the corner of his mouth. Then, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his eyelid, your voice barely a whisper as you spoke, "Stunning." And, finally, you pressed a gentle kiss to the scar, the scar that marked his resilience, and whispered, "Breathtaking."

When you pulled back, he chased your lips, making your smile widen as you leaned back down for one more. Pulling back again, Harry gave you a small smile, his eyes glimmering. Smiling back at him, you brought your hands up, cupping his face. Your thumbs stroked over his cheeks, brushing away stray tears that had gathered there. You brought your hands forward, tilted your head, and pressed a light kiss against his lips. "I love you, Harry." You spoke, shutting your eyes, nuzzling your nose against his as you continued, "I love all of you."

One of his hands left your waist, reaching up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb brushing along your skin. And with a swift movement, he flipped you both over, pinning you beneath him on the mattress. You let out a surprised giggle, your heart racing as his nose brushed against yours, mirroring the tender gesture you had shown him.

"I love all of you, too, darling," He whispered, his voice low and full of admiration for you, and only you. Slowly, his lips met yours - his silent thank you - and you melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair. His kisses always left you breathless, making you crave more.

As he pulled away, his body shifted, laying upon you but careful not to put his full weight on you. His face nestled into the warmth of your neck, his arms wrapping around you. You sighed contentedly, running your fingers through his hair; your nails lightly grazing his scalp. It didn't take long until Harry's breathing softened and he fell asleep, and you were close behind him. Your eyes began to flutter, a silent yawn escaping you, the rain outside lulling you to sleep. As you drifted into dreamland, your hand still buried in his hair, you heard the faintest of paws hitting the ground before Mr. Pickle Jr. hopped back up on the bed, curling up at your side.

~~~

As the days passed, you found yourself grappling with the weight of the secret you carried, the knowledge of your impending demise lurking in the shadows of your mind. Deep down, you knew you had to tell Harry eventually. He was your friend, your confidant, someone you trusted with your life. But the fear of how he would react, of the pain it would cause him, held you back.

You and Harry had been through so much together, bonded by the trials and tribulations of life as Kingsman agents. You had faced danger head-on, stared death in the face more times than you could count, but this was different. This was a battle you couldn't fight with fists or gadgets. This was a battle against time, against an enemy you couldn't see or touch.

It had all started on a mission, just like any other. Some evil idiot with grandiose plans of spreading a new type of deadly virus in New York through the water supply. You and Harry were sent in to eliminate the threat, to neutralize the danger before it could spread. And you had succeeded, taking down the man responsible for the virus with precision and skill.

But what you hadn't anticipated was the insidious nature of the virus itself, its ability to infect even the most cautious of agents. Hours after the mission had ended, after the adrenaline had faded and the dust had settled, you received the devastating news. You had contracted the virus, a death sentence lurking in your bloodstream, waiting to claim you.

In the weeks that followed, you tried to carry on as if nothing had changed, as if the specter of death looming over you was nothing more than a distant shadow. You continued to report for duty, to fulfill your obligations as a Kingsman agent, all the while hiding the truth from those closest to you.

Only a select few knew of your condition, the Kingsman doctors who had been tirelessly working to find a cure, along with Arthur and Merlin, your closest allies within the organization. They had sworn to secrecy, to keep your condition hidden from the rest of the world, to spare you the scrutiny and pity that would surely follow if the truth were to come to light.

But despite their best efforts, you couldn't shake the feeling of isolation that gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, the fear of facing your fate alone. And so, you continued to push yourself, to throw yourself into your work with a fervor born out of desperation.

Each day brought new challenges, new obstacles to overcome, but you refused to let it break you. You were a Kingsman, damn it, and you would face death with the same courage and determination that had defined you as an agent.

As the days turned into weeks, the black lines on your body began to appear, starting on your stomach and seeming to grow more pronounced with each passing day. Concerned, you made your way to the medical area of Kingsman to find out about it, showing the lines on your belly to Doctor Sarah, one of the organization's trusted physicians.

Dr. Sarah wasted no time assessing the situation, immediately ordering blood tests to better analyze the mysterious phenomenon. As she prepared to draw blood for the tests, she asked if you were experiencing any symptoms. With a sigh, you nodded, feeling a heaviness settle in your chest as you began to roll up the sleeve of your Kingsman suit, revealing your forearm.

"I've been feeling more tired than usual," you admitted, wincing slightly as Doctor Sarah tied a band around your arm to prepare for the needle. "And it seems like everything I put in my stomach is being repelled. I can hardly eat, and even walking has become painful."

Before Doctor Sarah could respond, there was a knock on the door, and Harry entered the room, concern etched on his features. Doctor Sarah scolded him gently for not waiting for someone, but allowed him to come in before she resumed her task of drawing blood.

"Kay, what are you doing here again?" Harry questioned, his voice filled with genuine concern as he focused his attention on you. "This is the third time this week you've been to the medical area."

You ignored his inquiry, your gaze fixed on Doctor Sarah as she finished taking your blood. With a smile, you thanked her and straightened your shirt, grabbing your suit jacket from one of the nearby chairs.

Turning to face Harry, you feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, your tone carefully neutral as you made your way towards the door.

But Harry wasn't fooled, his brow furrowing in frustration as he followed closely behind you. "Kay, don't do this," he pleaded, his voice soft but firm. "You're avoiding me, and I don't know why. Please, talk to me."

Feeling Harry's presence at your side, you hesitated for just a moment, the weight of your secret bearing down on you like a leaden cloak. But with a deep breath, you continued on your way, your steps quickening as you made your escape from the medical area.

"I'm not avoiding you, Galahad," you replied, your voice strained with the effort of maintaining your composure. "I've just been... busy the last few days."

But Harry wasn't about to let you off the hook that easily, his determination evident in the way he matched your pace, his eyes boring into yours with unwavering intensity.

"Kay, I know you're hiding something from me," he insisted, his voice soft but firm. "And I'm not going to let it go until you tell me what's going on."

You stopped in your tracks, the weight of Harry's words hitting you like a ton of bricks. With a heavy sigh, you turned to face him, steeling yourself for the confession you were about to make.

"You're right, Harry," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper as you met his gaze. "I've been hiding something from you for a while now, and... it's time to tell you."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you were about to reveal. But he certainly didn't expect what came next.

"I like you, Harry," you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. "I'm... in love with you."

The confession hung heavy in the air between you, the weight of it pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. It wasn't a complete lie - you had harbored feelings for Harry for some time now, feelings you had kept buried deep within your heart for fear of rejection.

But now, faced with the prospect of your own mortality, you couldn't bear to keep the truth hidden any longer. And so, you had made a deliberate choice to reveal your feelings to Harry, knowing that it would provide a plausible explanation for your recent behavior and, more importantly, that it would drive him away.

Harry's eyes widened in shock at your confession, his features frozen in disbelief as he processed your words. For a moment, the silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken emotions and unvoiced fears.

But then, with a sigh, Harry reached out and took your hand in his, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Kay," he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of sadness and regret, "I had no idea... I'm sorry."

You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Don't be," you replied, your voice tinged with resignation. "I knew you would never feel the same way, Harry. You're a Kingsman through and through, and I... I'm just a friend."

With those words, you pulled away from Harry's touch, your heart heavy with the weight of unrequited love. Turning on your heel, you walked away, leaving Harry standing alone in the hallway, his gaze following your retreating figure with a mixture of regret and longing.

But deep down, you knew it was for the best. You couldn't bear to burden Harry with the knowledge of your impending demise, couldn't bear to watch him suffer as you wasted away before his eyes. And so, you had made a deliberate choice to push him away, to spare him the pain of losing someone he cared about.

As you disappeared around the corner, tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You were a Kingsman, damn it, and you would face your fate with the same courage and determination that had defined you as an agent.

As the weeks passed and your condition worsened, you found yourself confined to your bed at home, the pain in your stomach becoming unbearable. You lay there, feeling weak and helpless, unable to get up or eat anything of substance. The black lines that had started on your stomach now snaked their way up toward your neck, a grim reminder of the disease ravaging your body.

You had been in bed for two weeks now, having left the Kingsman hospital wing after receiving the devastating news that there may not be a cure for you. Unable to bear the pitying looks from those around you, you had made the difficult decision to come home, to spend your final days in the comfort of your own bed.

Merlin called you practically every day, his concern palpable even through the phone. But you couldn't bring yourself to answer, having told him that you would only reach out when you felt that your time was near, so he could take care of your final arrangements.

Alone and in pain, you lay in bed, the weight of your impending death pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. The days stretched on, blending into one another as you drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain in your stomach a constant reminder of your mortality.

But amidst the pain and despair, there were moments of fleeting clarity, moments when you allowed yourself to reflect on the life you had lived. Memories of missions and adventures with Harry and Merlin filled your mind, bringing a bittersweet smile to your lips as you reminisced about the good times you had shared.

But as the days wore on and your strength waned, those moments became few and far between, replaced by a sense of resignation and acceptance. You knew that your time was running out, that soon you would be nothing more than a memory, a footnote in the history of Kingsman.

And so, you lay there, isolated and alone, the black lines creeping ever closer to your neck as you waited for the inevitable end. But even in your darkest moments, you refused to give up hope, clinging to the belief that somehow, someway, you would find peace in the end.

Today was another day like the others. You curled up in bed, the pain in your stomach a constant companion as you ignored the persistent ringing of the doorbell at your house. Whoever it was could leave; you just wanted to be left alone to wallow in your misery.

As the doorbell finally stopped ringing, you let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the temporary reprieve. But just as you began to drift back into the numbing embrace of sleep, there was a knock on your balcony door, startling you out of your reverie.

You sat up, a mixture of irritation and confusion clouding your thoughts as you made your way to the balcony. What the hell was Harry doing there? You opened the door, the cool breeze of the evening washing over you as you faced him, a frown marring your features.

"What are you doing here, Galahad?" you questioned, your voice tinged with annoyance as you met his gaze.

Harry waved a paper in front of your face, his expression a mixture of sadness and anger as he demanded to know why you kept it from him. Confused, you glanced down at the paper, your heart sinking as you realized what it was.

It was an exam paper, a paper from one of your recent medical exams, detailing your morbid condition in stark black and white. You felt a lump form in your throat as you tried to find the words to explain yourself, to make Harry understand why you had kept it from him for so long.

But before you could speak, Harry's voice cut through the silence like a knife, his words laced with pain and betrayal. "Kay, why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his brown eyes searching yours for any sign of an answer.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, choked off by the weight of your guilt and shame. You had never seen Harry look so sad, so angry, and it tore at your heartstrings to know that you were the cause of his pain.

"I... I didn't want to burden you, Harry," you finally managed to choke out, your voice thick with anguish as you met his gaze. "I thought it would be easier if you didn't know, if I just... faded away quietly."

But Harry wasn't having any of it, his frustration evident in the way he shook his head, his eyes blazing with emotion. "You idiot," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out and pulled you into a tight embrace. "Do you really think I would have let you face this alone? That I wouldn't have been there for you every step of the way?"

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you buried your face in Harry's chest, his words washing over you like a balm to your wounded soul. In that moment, you realized just how much you had underestimated his love and devotion, how much you had underestimated the strength of your bond as friends and comrades.

"I'm sorry, Harry," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest as you clung to him like a lifeline. "I'm so sorry for keeping this from you, for shutting you out when I needed you the most."

Harry ignores your excuses and pulls away to look at you, his determination evident in the firm set of his jaw and the steely resolve in his eyes. He promises you that he will find a cure, that he will search the whole world if he has to, to ensure your well-being. But you shake your head, your gaze filled with resignation as you admit the harsh truth.

"There is no cure, Harry," you whisper, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper as you meet his gaze. "The only person who could even produce a cure is the creator of the virus himself. And... I killed him."

Harry's expression softens with understanding, his brow furrowing in concern as he processes your words. For a moment, he is at a loss for words, the weight of your confession hanging heavy in the air between you.

But before he can respond, you feel a sharp pain rip through your abdomen, doubling you over in agony. Harry's eyes widen in alarm as he rushes to your side, his hands gentle as he helps you to lie down on the bed.

You try to protest, to reassure him that you'll be fine on your own, but Harry scolds you, his voice filled with frustration and concern. "Stop pushing me away, Kay," he insists, his eyes blazing with emotion as he meets your gaze. "Just stop. You don't have to go through this alone."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak as you meet Harry's gaze. "I'm sorry, Harry," you whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "I didn't want to burden you with this. I thought... it would be easier if you didn't know."

But Harry shakes his head, his expression softening as he reaches out to brush a stray tear from your cheek. "How dare you even lie to me like that?" he murmurs, his voice laced with pain and betrayal. "Is that why you said you were in love with me? To keep me away?"

You don't have the strength to protest, to explain yourself, so you let him believe that his confession was nothing more than a lie. Harry continues, his voice filled with regret as he admits his own shortcomings.

"I don't want to lose you, Kay," Harry murmurs, his voice filled with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. "It hurt when you walked away from me, avoided me for so long. And when you lied and said you loved me... a part of me liked it, knowing this. I don't understand why, Kay. I've never known how to deal with feelings, and so I moved even further away from you, allowed it, thinking you would overcome your feelings for me."

You meet Harry's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to find the right words to respond. "Harry, I..." you begin, but before you can finish, he cuts you off with a gentle touch, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender caress.

"Don't," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. "Don't say anything, Kay. Just let me be here for you, please."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you nod, unable to find the strength to argue with him. In that moment, all you can do is surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotions that threatens to consume you, to let Harry's presence wash over you like a soothing balm.

And then, without warning, Harry's lips find yours in a soft, tentative kiss, sending shockwaves of electricity coursing through your veins. It's not the first time you've kissed him - on missions, it's common to pretend to be a couple to maintain cover - but this kiss feels different, somehow. It's filled with a depth of feeling that you've never experienced before, a silent declaration of Harry's love and devotion that transcends words.

For a moment, you're lost in the sweetness of the kiss, the warmth of Harry's embrace enveloping you like a protective cocoon. But as the kiss deepens, passion igniting between you with an intensity that takes your breath away, you can't help but feel a pang of guilt gnawing at the edges of your consciousness.

Harry loves you, he's confessed as much, but you can't bring yourself to believe it. It's just pity talking, you tell yourself, his concern for you clouding his judgment. But as Harry pulls away, his eyes blazing with an emotion that leaves you breathless, you can't deny the truth any longer.

"Kay," he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion as he cups your face in his hands, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. "I love you, more than anything in this world. Please, let me be here for you. Let me show you how much you mean to me."

You shake your head, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try to push him away. "No, Harry," you choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "You don't love me. It's just pity, I know it is. You're just feeling sorry for me."

But Harry's expression softens, his eyes filling with a tenderness that steals your breath away. "Kay, look at me," he murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. "I love you, with every fiber of my being. And I will do whatever it takes to prove it to you, to show you that you are not alone."

As he protests, his voice filled with desperation and determination, you feel a surge of conflicting emotions washing over you like a tidal wave. On one hand, you want to believe him, to trust in his unwavering resolve to find a cure and save you from the clutches of death. But on the other hand, you can't shake the overwhelming sense of despair that threatens to consume you, the knowledge of your impending demise looming over you like a dark cloud.

But Harry refuses to let you wallow in self-pity, his hands gentle but firm as he holds your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Kay, look at me," he insists, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You can't give up, not now. I refuse to let you surrender to this disease without a fight."

You try to turn away, to avoid his penetrating gaze, but Harry's grip on your face tightens, his brown eyes blazing with an intensity that leaves you breathless. "Even if it's too late," you protest, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to find the words to explain yourself. "Even if there's no hope left... I can't keep fighting, Harry. I'm tired, so tired."

But Harry shakes his head, his expression filled with a steely resolve that takes your breath away. "Then let me fight for you," he murmurs, his voice filled with determination. "I swear, Kay, I will find a cure, no matter what it takes. Even if I have to go to hell itself and resurrect that bastard who created this virus, I will not rest until you are safe."

You want to believe him, to trust in his promise to save you from the jaws of death. But deep down, you know that the odds are stacked against you, that the virus coursing through your veins is a formidable enemy that cannot be defeated with mere words and promises.

And yet, as you meet Harry's gaze, the flicker of hope in his eyes reignites something deep within you, a spark of defiance that refuses to be extinguished. "Please, Kay," he pleads, his voice soft but urgent. "Fight, if not for yourself, then for me. Resist, for me. I can't bear to lose you, not like this."

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to find the strength to carry on, to fight against the relentless tide of despair that threatens to drag you under. But as you look into Harry's eyes, filled with a love and devotion that transcends words, you realize that you can't give up, not now, not ever.

With a deep breath, you nod, a silent vow passing between you and Harry in that fleeting moment. "I'll fight," you whisper, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper as you meet his gaze. "For you, Harry. I'll fight until my last breath, if that's what it takes."

Of all the things you expected that day—being dragged into a secure American facility in the middle of Kentucky, tied to a chair by a cowboy, and interrogated next to a scowling Scotsman and an emotionally frayed Eggsy—seeing Harry bloody Hart alive and shaving was not one of them.

But there he was.

On the other side of the two-way mirror. Shaving. Calmly. As if the world hadn’t buried him in a marble tomb months ago.

You stared. Hard.

His face looked the same—clean, sharp lines, that slight dimple when he frowned in concentration, eyes still a soft, steady brown. Except… something was off. A hollowness in his gaze. An unfamiliar hesitation in how he handled the razor.

And then the cowboy drew his gun. Harry didn't flinch. Eggsy shouted.

And you didn’t move when Ginger untied your wrists, even as Merlin rubbed the blood back into his fingers and Eggsy made a beeline for the mirrored glass. You just… stayed in your chair. Staring.

Harry interacted with them—Merlin and Eggsy—like they were strangers.

He blinked at Merlin with mild politeness, extended a hand, introduced himself as "Harry Hart, lepidopterist," and recoiled slightly when Eggsy tried to hug him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brow wrinkled with unease. “Do I… know you?”

Eggsy’s face broke right there. Cracked wide open. The same kid who wore Harry’s legacy like a crown and curse.

You looked away. Just for a second.

“Alpha Gel,” Ginger was explaining beside you now. “It’s a medical miracle. Basically, it seals off brain trauma, suspends neurological degeneration.”

You blinked, turning your head.

“What?”

“We didn’t know who he was at first,” Ginger continued. "He’d been shot point-blank to the head… but the Alpha Gel kept him stable. Physically, he healed. But the memory loss—it’s a side effect. Sometimes temporary. Sometimes…”

Your gaze returned to the glass. Harry sat cross-legged on the bed now, a book open in his hands, reading with the same serene detachment he used to wear while waiting in the briefing room.

Like nothing had happened.

Merlin cleared his throat. “Kay. Maybe you should go see him.”

You didn’t even look away from the glass. “No.”

Eggsy turned. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

You exhaled through your nose. “He doesn’t remember you. Doesn’t recognize Merlin. I doubt he’d remember me.”

“Ginger said a strong emotional stimulus could bring it back,” Eggsy insisted. “Seeing someone he has a connection with might—”

“I barely had a connection with him,” you cut in sharply, finally turning to face them. “We tolerated each other, at best. I was the agent he rolled his eyes at in meetings. The one who always left the mission briefings five minutes early to avoid hearing him drone on about suits and manners. You really think that’s going to trigger a miracle recovery?”

Eggsy tilted his head, an almost sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s exactly why you should go.”

“Eggsy—”

He stepped closer, his voice softer now, more serious. “You said it yourself. You barely got along. Maybe seeing you stirs something ugly. Maybe he remembers why he barely tolerated you. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to crack open whatever’s blocking the rest.”

You stared at him, jaw set, throat dry.

“Sometimes,” Eggsy continued, voice low, “it’s not love or friendship that brings someone back.”

He glanced toward the mirror.

“Sometimes, it’s the person who knew how to piss you off just enough to make you feel alive.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Harry was still in the room, flipping through a book now—something old, leather-bound, maybe poetry or history, it was hard to tell. His legs were crossed, one foot bouncing gently in a rhythm you recognized from years of briefings. It was him. It was Harry. But it wasn’t. And that did something to your chest you didn’t quite have the energy to analyze.

You and Harry could barely stand each other.

That was the story everyone knew. You disagreed on mission structure, on training protocol, on the proper use of violence, and yes, on tailoring. You argued in war rooms, bickered in field ops, and traded barbs that were just polite enough not to qualify as misconduct. You were the agent who drank black coffee and wore boots to the pub; he was the agent who corrected your Latin and wore a three-piece suit to the jungle.

Some agents believed the two of you hated each other. But when Merlin called you—his voice brittle, careful—you were in a safe house in Lyon, wrapping up an extraction gone sideways. “He’s gone,” Merlin had said. “Valentine shot him. Point-blank. There’s nothing left.”

And you’d felt it. That pang.

It messed with you, losing another Kingsman. Always did. But this one? It settled differently. Somewhere between guilt and disbelief. A strange silence had followed you through the rest of that mission.

And now—of course—he was alive.

The lucky bastard.

You took a long breath, set your shoulders back, and stepped into the observation room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Harry looked up. He saw you. That was clear.

But there was no recognition in those brown eyes—just quiet assessment, a cautious narrowing of the gaze. He closed the book in his lap and straightened a little, every movement clean and controlled. He wasn’t afraid. Just… measuring.

You didn’t blame him.

You moved slowly, staying by the wall. “Name’s Kay,” you said, voice even. “I’m Kingsman. Like you used to be.”

Harry’s brow creased, mouth twitching faintly downward. “Harry Hart,” he said after a pause. “Though I’ve been told that name doesn’t mean much anymore.”

You didn’t acknowledge the sting. Instead, you nodded toward the drawings on the wall—dozens of butterflies, meticulously sketched. “Papilio machaon,” you said, pointing. “Nice detail on the tail extensions.”

He blinked. “You know your butterflies.”

“My father was a lepidopterist,” you replied. “Taught me how to pin specimens before I learned to tie my shoes.”

Harry’s posture shifted. The line of his jaw softened, just a bit. He glanced at the drawing, then back at you.

“I’m a lepidopterist,” he said carefully, almost like a question.

You tilted your head. “So you’ve mentioned.”

A pause. A flicker in his eyes.

Then—he smiled.

Small. Faint. But real.

Harry stood up suddenly, the book forgotten on the bed, eyes lighting up with that flicker of interest you remembered all too well from briefing rooms and field maps. “And that one—Danaus plexippus,” he said, gesturing to the sketch on the far wall. “The monarch. Fascinating migratory patterns. I was told once they can travel up to three thousand miles, did you know that?”

You nodded faintly, arms crossed as you leaned against the wall. “Mm. Impressive.”

“And this,” he continued, now pacing, pointing at another set of meticulously drawn wings, “is the Morpho menelaus—see the iridescent blue? Not pigment, actually. It's structure. Microscopic scales reflecting light.”

You hummed. “Harry, I’m not the one who hit my head. You don’t have to recite the encyclopedia at me.”

He blinked, slowing just a bit. “Oh. Apologies, I just—sometimes I speak aloud to center myself. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“Hard to overwhelm me, Hart,” you replied dryly. “But go on. You’re clearly enjoying yourself.”

You heard the muffled voices on the other side of the mirror—Eggsy, Merlin, Ginger, and Tequila, all watching.

Inside the surveillance room, Eggsy leaned in, arms folded tightly. “Alright, what the hell is this? Thought they hated each other.”

“They bickered,” Merlin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Eggsy squinted at the glass. “No, there’s something off about this. They look like... I dunno. Like they’ve done this before.”

“They have,” Merlin said, quiet, eyes locked on the two of you through the mirror.

Eggsy frowned. “You gonna explain that, or are you just gonna keep sipping your little secrets like they’re aged Scotch?”

Merlin hesitated, then glanced at Ginger, then at Tequila. The latter raised a brow, silent but expectant.

Merlin sighed. “She was one of Harry’s pupils.”

“What?” Eggsy barked.

“First batch after Gawain. She passed her trials and took the name Kay. Harry trained her himself. They lived in adjoining flats. Worked almost every mission together for nearly three years.”

Ginger turned her head slowly. “That doesn’t sound like two people who can’t stand each other.”

“It wasn’t,” Merlin muttered. “At first.”

Eggsy tilted his head, brows drawing together. “What happened?”

Merlin didn’t answer immediately. He watched through the glass as Harry pointed out another species on the wall, eyes bright with focus, while you shifted your weight with barely concealed impatience. There was something familiar in the rhythm. Something that had once been effortless.

“It was a mission in the Pyrenees,” Merlin said finally. “Bandit cell extraction. Midwinter. Brutal terrain. Harry and Kay were covering the east ridge. Things went sideways—gunfire, smoke, bad visibility. Harry got shot in the thigh. Through and through, but bad. The bandit took off through the snow, and Kay had a choice—go after him, or help Harry.”

Eggsy swallowed. “And she...”

“She went after the bastard. Took him down, called in extraction. But by the time she doubled back, Harry had taken another round and nearly bled out.”

Ginger exhaled sharply. “Shit.”

“Wasn’t her fault,” Merlin added. “She followed protocol. Secured the target. Harry would’ve done the same.”

“But he didn’t see it that way,” Tequila muttered.

“No,” Merlin confirmed. “He didn’t.”

He could still hear it—the shouting. The sound of raised voices echoing off the infirmary walls. Sharp, brittle. The clash of two people who should’ve known better how to wound each other.

You were standing at the foot of the bed, hands still bloodstained, jacket half-torn, face pale but set like stone. Harry was upright despite the IV, pale as paper, jaw tight with pain and fury.

“You’re out of your bloody mind,” he’d spat. “You left me there.”

Your eyes flashed. “I didn’t leave you.”

“The hell you didn’t,” he growled, pushing himself upright with a grunt, ignoring the sting in his leg. “You had a choice.”

“I made the right one,” you shot back. “I followed protocol. We had a priority target—”

“I was bleeding out in the fucking snow!”

“And I came back,” you shouted. “You weren’t dead. You weren’t even unconscious. I secured the bastard and I came back—just like you would’ve done.”

Harry scoffed, cold and bitter. “You don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“Yes, I do,” you snapped, voice shaking now, not with uncertainty—but anger. “Because you taught me. ‘The mission comes first.’ That’s what you said. Over and over. Drilled it into me like gospel. You made me choose, Harry. And I did.”

Merlin flinched when Harry’s voice cracked on the next words.

“I trusted you.”

You stared at him, breath coming hard and fast, chest rising like you were ready to fight him for real.

“I trusted you,” Harry repeated, quieter now, voice rough. “And you left me to die.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Or maybe he was—just past the point of caring.

You clenched your fists. “Why are you angry? The mission was successful. We got the target. You lived.”

“That’s not the point,” he hissed. “The point is, I would’ve stayed.”

You went silent.

Then your voice dropped—dead quiet.

“That’s not what you taught me.”

Harry inhaled, sharp and tight, and looked away. His hands trembled faintly where they rested on the bed. His mouth opened to speak—then closed.

And then, softly, like it physically hurt to say: “I wouldn’t have left you.”

Merlin hadn’t known if you heard him. You didn’t answer. You just turned, walked out of the infirmary, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Merlin had stood there a long time, clipboard in hand, watching Harry stare at the ceiling. The older agent looked more wounded than he had from the bullet, eyes hollow, jaw clenched so tight Merlin swore it would crack.

“Kay’s young,” Merlin said finally. “She’s still learning.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“She made a call. A hard one.”

Still nothing.

“You would’ve done the same, Harry.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless. “Maybe. But it wouldn’t have cost me her.”

After that, everything changed.

You and Harry went cold. Cold like winter. Cold like protocol.

You still briefed together, still fought side by side, but the heat—the tension, the subtle push and pull that had once lived between you—was gone. Replaced with silence. With clipped orders and avoided glances. The sort of quiet that only forms when affection dies and pride is too wounded to bury the body.

They said you couldn’t stand each other.

But Merlin knew better.

It wasn’t hate. It was heartbreak. Left unspoken. Unmourned.

And now, Harry was alive. But the years of silence still sat between you, heavy as ever.

Would you speak it now? Merlin didn’t know.

But through the glass, he saw the way you watched Harry—jaw tight, eyes wary, every nerve in your body alert but tethered.

He saw the way Harry’s brow furrowed just slightly when you spoke—like something in him was trying to remember.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant there was still time.

Inside the room, the silence stretched. You spoke of butterflies, nodded at his facts, watched his brows knit in thought as if something was just beyond reach. Then you stepped back, hands at your sides, throat tight with words that had no business surfacing.

“I should go,” you said finally, already turning toward the door. But before you could leave, you felt the soft pull of something—his hand, wrapping lightly around your wrist. Not forceful. Just… tethered.

You froze, gaze flicking down to the point of contact. His fingers were warm. Steady.

You looked at his hand, then up at him.

Harry blinked, as if realizing what he was doing, and quickly pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice quiet, guilt flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to— That was inappropriate.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I just…” He hesitated. Then, with a quiet breath, added, “Do you think you’ll come back?”

You blinked.

Harry gave a faint, almost self-deprecating smile, glancing down at his shoes. “It’s just… the doctors here, they’re kind, but they don’t know anything about lepidopterism. And it’s terribly dull having conversations about diet and neural function when all I want is to discuss the difference between a comma and a tortoiseshell.”

Your chest tightened.

He lifted his eyes again—brown, soft, tentative. “But you do. You know about them. I like that.”

That part was real. Even if the rest of him was still fragments.

You looked away, jaw tense. “I’m busy, Harry. I have a schedule.”

His face flickered—just slightly. A small crack in the smooth composure. Disappointment, quickly buried. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”

A long pause stretched between you.

For a moment, you remembered the old days—the old him. The way his voice dipped when he spoke to you after long hours in the war room. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You remembered your hands brushing as you passed files, the late-night debriefings, the quiet cups of tea when neither of you could sleep.

You remembered thinking—just once, just briefly—what if?

But you never acted on it. Never dared. Because the mission came first. And because he was Harry Hart. Your superior. Your teacher. Your friend.

Or at least, he had been.

“I’ll try,” you said finally. Quiet. Noncommittal.

Harry’s eyes flicked up again. Hope sparked. Then faded.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

You nodded once, sharply and professionally, then stepped out without another word. Behind you, the door clicked shut. And the silence inside the room returned.

You didn’t come back.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

Harry waited, legs crossed neatly beneath him, book untouched in his lap. He didn't say much, but he watched and listened. Once, when the nurse handed him his lunch and asked how he was feeling, he responded, "Better, I think, if someone brought back the lepidopterist."

She smiled politely. Wrote something on her clipboard.

But you never came.

That boy—Eggsy, they said—he came every day. His energy filled the room like a storm cloud about to burst. Loud. Sad. Hopeful. Annoying. A blur of too many emotions in a track jacket and a cocky grin. He brought sweets and magazines, sometimes old vinyl records he swore Harry used to like. He played them through a portable speaker while Harry drew on the walls.

Eggsy talked. About training. About suits. About someone named Roxy, someone named Arthur, a dog called JB. About how Harry once made a grenade umbrella look “sexy as hell.” About how everything was better when Harry was around. About how everything went to hell the second he left.

Harry listened. Smiled when appropriate. Nodded when expected. Sometimes, he asked about you.

Only in passing. Only softly.

“Is Kay well?”

“She still busy?”

Eggsy always hesitated—just for a second—before answering. “Yeah. She’s busy. But she’s fine. Said she might come soon.”

Harry would hum. Smile faintly. Then go back to his book. But the books no longer held his focus.

The butterflies didn’t, either.

He’d started dreaming—long, strange dreams that clung to him like fog. Butterflies at first. Monarchs drifting through halls of glass. Iridescent wings brushing his skin like whispered names he couldn’t recall.

But then came the snow.

Endless. Quiet. Suffocating.

He’d wake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, nails dug into the mattress as if trying to claw his way out of something. It always left him shaken, though he couldn’t say why. Couldn’t even explain it properly. He didn’t know why snow terrified him. Only that it did.

He tried to tell someone once—one of the medical aides—but she just patted his shoulder and wrote “active imagination” on the chart.

It wasn’t imagination.

He could feel the cold. Feel it in his teeth, behind his eyes, in the phantom ache in his thigh where he sometimes limped without understanding why.

One morning, while reading a volume of Victorian poetry, the room filled with water.

No warning.

One moment, he was turning a page. The next, water surged from the vents, cold and rising fast, climbing past his knees before he even registered the danger. He stood quickly, dropping the book, shouting for help as panic gripped his chest. He couldn’t swim. He could, technically—but not like this. Not in a sealed room with no exit and water that smelled faintly of bleach and memory.

By the time someone burst in and drained the flood, he was shaking. Soaked. Silent.

He didn’t speak until the bald man came.

Merlin.

That was the name he gave. Said they’d known each other. That he’d been trying to trigger memories.

Harry stared at him, expression carved from ice. “You could have killed me.”

Merlin didn’t flinch. “You weren’t in real danger. We were monitoring your vitals.”

“You think that makes it better?” Harry snapped. “You drowned me.”

“It wasn’t real drowning. It was simulated. The sensors would have—”

Harry stood abruptly, the soaked trousers clinging to his skin, the cold still pressing into his spine. “You could have asked me questions. Played music. Shown photographs. Talked to me.”

Merlin was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, “We tried all that. You don’t remember any of it.”

Harry stared at him, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“And what would have happened if I did remember?” he asked quietly. “Would you have locked me in here anyway? Kept poking the wound until I bled properly?”

Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again.

That was answer enough.

Harry turned away, his voice low. “I want to see my mother.”

The silence behind him was heavy.

“Harry,” Merlin said carefully, “your mother passed away. Years ago.”

Harry didn’t move.

“I want to see my mother,” he repeated, quieter now. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home, for now.”

“No,” Harry said, sharper. “It isn’t.”

Because home wasn’t white walls and observation windows. It wasn’t unfamiliar voices telling him what to eat, what pills to take, how to breathe. It wasn’t dreams of snow and butterflies that meant nothing but made him feel everything.

Home… home had smelled like something.

Like clean wool and old books. Leather polish. Rooibos tea. Something warm. Something grounding.

Something—someone—missing.

He went quiet after that. Stopped speaking to Eggsy. Stopped sketching butterflies. Just stared at the wall sometimes. At a spot near the corner, where, on a restless night, he’d scrawled something with a pen he'd smuggled from the nurse’s tray.

Just a name.

Kay.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it meant.

But the letters came back again and again.

Every few days, he wrote them in the corner of the mattress seam. On a tissue box. On the back of a food tray.

And sometimes… when he closed his eyes, he’d see you.

A flash of boots. A sharp tongue. The scent of rain and clean sweat. The feeling of being watched—not in fear, but in challenge. As if someone was daring him to get back up.

He didn’t know what that meant either. But it mattered.

And he was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever tell him why.

The night before his departure, Harry Hart stood at the small table by the window, meticulously folding the few belongings he’d been allowed to keep. The suitcase was modest—brown leather, scuffed at the corners, something Merlin had brought him to replace the stark plastic of the facility-issued duffel. Inside were the basics: neatly folded shirts, trousers, a pair of gloves, a crisp white handkerchief. But Harry’s attention lingered on the smaller items.

A comb. A silver pocketwatch that didn’t work. And a bottle of aftershave.

It was the aftershave that gave him pause. He unscrewed the cap and brought it to his nose. The scent was clean, old-fashioned—vetiver, a hint of bergamot, and something else underneath that tugged at a corner of his mind. It smelled like Kingsman. Like a hallway he couldn’t quite remember walking down, a coatroom he couldn’t quite picture, a ritual he’d forgotten but still craved.

Harry stared at the bottle a long while before setting it in the suitcase, centered and upright, as if it were the most precious thing he owned.

Then the door creaked open.

Eggsy stepped in, his expression unsure, his trainers scuffing the floor. “You decent?”

Harry turned, a brow raised. “I’m packing. Not bathing in the moonlight.”

Eggsy let the door close behind him, moving to lean against the wall with crossed arms. “So it’s really happening, then. You’re off to chase butterflies.”

“I prefer the term ‘document rare species in under-researched migratory zones,’” Harry corrected dryly. “But yes. My accommodations in Ecuador are confirmed. Merlin pulled a few strings.”

Eggsy nodded slowly, watching him. “Looks like you’ve got all the essentials.”

Harry gave a faint smile and held up the aftershave. “Including this. I don’t know why I like it. But I do.”

“That’s cause it smells like you,” Eggsy said, voice softer. “The you I remember.”

Harry’s smile faltered. He turned back to his suitcase.

“I’m not him,” he said. “Whoever you knew before… I’m a collection of tattered pages from a book someone tried to burn. Bits and pieces. A few instincts. A couple phrases. But the man you want—he’s gone.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy said flatly.

Harry blinked.

“You can say all that fancy poetic stuff, but you’re still the guy who trained me. The one who taught me that manners maketh man and not all heroes wear spandex. The man who looked at a chav in a track suit and saw potential.”

“I don’t remember that,” Harry said evenly.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Harry’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t reply.

Eggsy pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “Look, maybe you don’t remember all the missions or the codes or the fact that you once threatened to shoot someone over table manners—but I do. And I’m not ready to say goodbye to you. The world’s not, either.”

Harry gave a faint huff. “I’m not the world’s concern.”

“You’re mine,” Eggsy said, voice hardening. “You turned me from a caterpillar into a butterfly, remember? You said that—once. That the ugly bits didn’t matter as long as you came out stronger in the end.”

Harry turned toward him, arms folded, brow furrowed. “Even if I said that, what exactly do you want from me now?”

Eggsy stepped forward. “I want you to come with me.”

Harry frowned. “Where?”

Eggsy grabbed his wrist, tugging gently. “You’ll see.”

“Eggsy—”

“No arguments. No questions. Just trust me.”

Harry didn’t move for a moment. But then he heard it.

A name.

“We’re going to see Kay.”

Harry stopped breathing.

His eyes flicked to Eggsy’s hand on his wrist. Then up to Eggsy’s face. “Kay…”

“Yeah,” Eggsy said, voice gentler now. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Harry blinked, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “She knew about butterflies,” he murmured. “She… she said I was reciting an encyclopedia.”

Eggsy smiled. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Harry swallowed. “I could talk to her. About… Danaus plexippus. The Morpho menelaus.”

“And maybe,” Eggsy said carefully, “about everything else.”

Harry hesitated—then nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Take me to her.”

And with his suitcase forgotten and the aftershave still lingering in the air, Harry followed Eggsy out the door. He followed Eggsy out into the night, the air crisp and still. The wind tugged gently at the hem of his coat as they stepped beyond the warm glow of the Statesman’s security lights and into the darker stretch of the lot behind the facility. There, seated on a worn bench beneath a flickering lamp, was you.

You sat with your legs crossed, one boot resting against the edge of the bench, a cigarette dangling between your fingers. The ember glowed orange in the dark, illuminating the faint curve of your cheekbone and the subtle arch of your brow as you looked out at the stars. Harry slowed when he saw you. His breath caught.

You smoked?

The question slipped from his mouth without thought. “Do you smoke?”

You turned your head sharply. Your eyes moved from Harry to Eggsy, and back again. Your expression was unreadable.

“What is he doing out here?” you asked, voice low but not unkind.

“He wanted to see you,” Eggsy said, his voice careful, almost apologetic. “Said he needed to talk.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just looked down, inhaled one last drag, and stubbed out the cigarette against the metal arm of the bench. Then you stood, wiping your fingers on your trousers like the gesture could erase the tension from the air.

“Take him back inside.”

Harry flinched at the dismissal. “Wait.”

You didn’t stop.

“I—” Harry stepped forward, his tone urgent. “Why didn’t you come see me?”

You stopped walking, your back half-turned to him. He saw your shoulders shift—just slightly—but you didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you enjoy talking to me?” he asked, brow furrowed, voice gaining a faint edge of confusion. “I thought we... connected. I thought maybe—”

“You’re not him,” you cut in, quiet and firm.

Harry froze.

You started walking again, your boots crunching softly over the gravel, the darkness slowly swallowing your outline.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, louder now. “Why are you walking away?”

Still, you didn’t respond.

“Wait!” Harry called out, his voice ringing sharp through the still Kentucky night. You didn’t stop. The gravel crunched under your boots, each step slower than it needed to be, as if part of you expected—hoped—he’d follow.

And he did.

Harry moved after you on instinct, one long stride cutting the distance between you. But as he stepped off the paved path into the shadowed gravel, something gripped him low and hard—an ache that twisted behind his right thigh. He staggered, just slightly, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth as his leg buckled, phantom pain slicing through flesh long healed. He blinked, breath catching. He knew this pain.

He had felt it before.

Snow. That was the first thing that hit him. Not here, not Kentucky—but snow. Cold biting through the fabric of his trousers. Wetness soaking the wool. The scent of blood in the wind. His hands pressing to his leg. A hole in his thigh. The taste of metal. The gunfire still echoing faintly through the Pyrenees. The pain wasn’t real now, but it had been then. He’d lain in the snow, alone, the world muffled by winter and blood, waiting for something—someone—who never came.

Eggsy, a few paces behind, caught him by the arm before he fell. “Harry? Whoa, mate—what’s wrong?”

Harry’s eyes were wide, unfocused. His lips parted as though he couldn’t breathe.

Eggsy gripped tighter, worry shifting to fear. “Harry—Harry, what is it?”

“She left,” Harry whispered, the words torn from some deep part of him. “She left me.”

Eggsy stilled.

Harry’s voice came again, hoarse now, shaking. “In the snow. I was bleeding. I couldn’t walk. And she—she went after the target.”

He blinked down at the ground, breath hitching. “She left me to die.”

Eggsy inhaled sharply, realization dawning. “You’re remembering.”

Harry’s eyes burned. “She left. I called her name—I told her I couldn’t move, that I was hit—but she ran. Said she’d come back. But she didn’t.”

“She did,” Eggsy said gently. “She came back, Harry. But it was too late.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t listening anymore.

“I thought I was going to die there,” he said, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. “I remember lying on my side, staring at the sky, thinking, ‘This is it. I’m going to die, and I never told her.’”

Eggsy frowned. “Told her what?”

“That I love her.” Harry’s voice cracked on the words. “That I would’ve stayed. If it had been her on the ground, if she’d been the one bleeding—I wouldn’t have left.”

Eggsy stepped back, stunned, hope flashing behind his eyes. “You remember all that? That’s it, innit? You’re back!”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on your silhouette, still retreating into the dark beyond the lamplight. She was leaving again.

And it was happening all over.

Not again.

“Wait!” he called, louder this time, taking one step forward despite the echo of pain in his leg. “Don’t walk away from me!”

You didn’t stop.

His heart pounded.

Then—his voice sharpened, clear as a blade in the night. “Stop! [Your Name]!”

Your entire body stilled like you’d been struck. You turned slowly, your breath caught in your throat, heart in your mouth.

He knew.

You looked back at him. The glow of the overhead light cast long shadows across his face, but you saw it—saw the way his eyes locked on yours. Brown. Burning.

“Please,” Harry said softly now, almost broken. “Don’t leave. Not again.”

For a moment, all sound disappeared.

The file room was dim, the old overhead bulb flickering faintly as you reached for the top shelf, heels clicking softly against the tile floor. You were alone—or at least, you were supposed to be. The rest of HQ had cleared out for the night, save for the few agents still trickling in and out of the range. You preferred working late. No distractions. No one watching.

But you should’ve known better.

Because a moment later, the unmistakable scent of Harry's cologne—spiced sandalwood and gunpowder—wrapped around you like silk, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

“Harry,” you warned without turning, your voice clipped. “We agreed—”

“That you’d let me rot in domestic obscurity if I flirted during briefings?” came the smooth baritone at your back, warm and amused.

You stiffened. “You were smirking when I assigned you the Madrid escort. That wasn’t subtle.”

He stepped in closer, his breath brushing your neck. “I was hoping to be punished.”

“You were,” you replied crisply, still facing the files. “And now I’m here fixing your paperwork, because you let Lady Whitmore’s Pomeranian escape during a parade.”

His fingers brushed your waist.

“I caught it,” he murmured. “Eventually.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You climbed a sculpture of the Virgin Mary in full morning coat and nearly made the front page of ¡Hola!.”

Harry chuckled, and the warmth of his body pressed into your back. “Well, you do like me on my knees.”

You walked away from him.

Not quickly, not dramatically—just with the steady grace of a woman who knew the rules and knew how to follow them. Your heels echoed against the cold tile as you moved toward the central cabinet, spine straight, hands composed.

Behind you, Harry followed—his hands tucked neatly in his trouser pockets, his stride casual, unhurried, as though the man hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear beside a cabinet of top-secret documents.

Romantic relationships were strictly forbidden in Kingsman.

Not the relationship itself—no, agents could marry, date, fall in love if they were stupid or stubborn enough. That wasn’t the problem. The rule was that no evidence of such affairs could ever taint the sanctity of Kingsman headquarters. It was a workplace. A sanctum. Professionalism reigned. Everything else belonged behind closed doors.

After all, they were British. Gentlemen.

And that was why no one knew that you and Harry Hart had been married for nearly seven years.

You were Arthur’s secretary. Occasionally, his shadow—stepping into the role unofficially when he traveled or was otherwise indisposed. You gave out assignments. You reviewed dossiers. You made decisions that could send someone’s husband, daughter, brother into danger—and your own husband was no exception.

You had to be impartial.

And you were. You gave Harry the same cold professionalism as any other agent. Sometimes colder. Especially when he was misbehaving—flirting in the conference room, brushing too close behind you during mission briefings, whispering things no married man should be allowed to say in his wife's ear while she was trying to send him to Kazakhstan.

You punished him with tedium. Escorting bratty heiresses. Restocking the armory. Filing mission reports that took three nights and a stiff drink to finish.

He always took it in stride.

And then, when the doors were locked, and the curtains drawn, he punished you right back—on your knees, against the wall, sometimes over the very desk where you had handed him his last humiliating assignment.

But here and now—here in the dim file room, with the door shut and the bulb flickering—none of that could exist. Not openly. Not if you wanted to keep your job. Not if you wanted to keep him safe.

So when you felt the heat of his body behind you again, the faint press of his chest as he leaned just close enough to inhale your perfume, you didn’t turn.

“Harry,” you warned, voice quiet, clipped, controlled. “We’ve discussed this.”

“We have,” he murmured, voice low, almost casual. “You said I couldn’t touch you at work.”

“I meant it.”

He came closer.

You felt the quiet drag of his breath brush the back of your neck first—warm and familiar—before the soft weight of his hands found your waist. It wasn’t a grab, or a pull, just a quiet press of presence. Of insistence.

“I miss you,” Harry murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the words curling beneath your skin like smoke. “Is it really so terrible to want a few minutes with my wife? Even here?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t. Not with the way his fingers were stroking lightly along your waist, not with the scent of him—spiced sandalwood, pressed cotton, and something warm and distinctly him—clouding your senses.

“This isn’t the time,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the file in front of you. “Or the place.”

“No,” he agreed, voice velvet-smooth. “But it’s the only time I’ve had you alone in days. And that’s becoming intolerable.”

“Harry—”

You didn’t get the rest out.

Because in one fluid motion, he spun you.

The file slipped from your hands as you gasped, your back hitting the cabinet behind you, and before you could utter a single protest, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t hard. Wasn’t fast.

Just... hungry.

Seven years of marriage had taught Harry how to kiss you when he needed you quiet. This wasn’t for dominance. It wasn’t even for pleasure.

It was for want.

And damn you for letting yourself lean into it.

You tried—truly, you tried—to scold him, to push gently against the fine wool of his suit jacket, to mumble some half-hearted protest between kisses about how this wasn’t appropriate, how you were at work, how anyone could walk in—

But your fingers betrayed you, curling into the fabric at his lapels.

And the way he sighed, the way his mouth softened just barely against yours as if grateful, thankful, wrecked you.

You let him kiss you again. And again. A softer one, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the shape. One at the corner of your mouth. Another at the edge of your jaw.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered breathlessly against his lips, your eyes fluttering shut.

Harry pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “And yet, you married me.”

Before you could come up with a witty retort, the door creaked open.

You both froze.

There was a beat. Then—

“Oi.”

Harry turned first, stepping calmly aside, as if he hadn’t just been seconds from taking his wife against the records of Cold War satellite interceptions.

Eggsy stood in the doorway.

Mouth open.

Eyebrows halfway to his hairline.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Am I—” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Did I hit my head on the way in or are you two… like… together together?”

You and Harry exchanged a look.

Then you cleared your throat and bent to retrieve the fallen file. “Eggsy,” you said smoothly, professional mask snapping into place, “this is a secure storage room. Do you mind?”

Eggsy’s jaw dropped further. “Are you having a snog in HQ?”

Harry straightened his cuff. “Technically, she was doing paperwork. I was merely expressing my devotion.”

“You were snoggin’ like teenagers behind the science block!”

You sighed, turning to Eggsy with narrowed eyes. “If you repeat a single word of this to anyone, I will personally assign you to surveillance detail in Greenland.”

Eggsy blinked. “That’s not a real threat.”

“She invented that detail since we got married", Harry added, brushing an invisible speck from his jacket. “It is real.”

The younger agent opened his mouth, paused, then tilted his head with dawning horror. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait—you’re married?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to. Harry reached out, took your hand, and laced your fingers together with the calm confidence of a man who’d already waited too long to do it openly.

Eggsy stared.

“You married Arthur’s secretary?”

“I married my wife,” Harry corrected evenly. “Titles are incidental.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

Harry’s lips twitched into the faintest, most satisfied smirk. “Language, Eggsy.”

And with that, he guided you gently out of the file room with all the poise of a knight escorting his queen.

Eggsy remained behind, stunned, blinking at the empty room.

A – Aftercare

Precise. Clinical. He unbuckles his cufflinks with the same care he uses to untie you. A warm flannel to clean you, a soft kiss to the shoulder, and a glass of single malt pressed into your palm. He won’t say much—but he’ll stay, silently brushing your hair back like he’s memorizing it.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight.”

B – Body Part (Favorite)

Yours? Your thighs. He adores them. Grips them like reins. Kisses the insides as if they hold government secrets. His? His mouth. Proper, elegant, and absolutely filthy when unbuttoned. He knows it, too. “Darling, if I’m not using my words, I should at least put this mouth to good use.”

C – Cum

A gentleman doesn’t gloat. But he glows. He comes with a soft grunt, forehead pressed to your neck, hips grinding until you’re stuffed full. Never pulls out unless you ask. Always finishes inside if you let him.

“Look at you. Wrecked. Full of me. Quite the image, isn’t it?”

D – Dirty Talk

Subtle and surgical. He won’t degrade you—he’ll undo you with whispered praise and maddening control.

“Is that what you want, sweetheart? To be told you’re beautiful while I’m buried inside you?”

His voice is silk. The kind that ties wrists to bedposts.

E – Experience

Obscene amounts. Spies don’t get to be choosy. He’s seduced for Queen and country—slept with diplomats, enemy agents, civilians, and one very persistent bartender in Tangier. But none of them meant a damn thing.

You? You unnerve him.

“You’re the first one who’s ever made me forget the mission.”

F – Favorite Position

Missionary—but not the boring kind. Hands pinned. Eye contact. Slow, deep strokes while he talks you through it. Loves watching you fall apart beneath him.

Alternatively: against the wall. Hands above your head. Tie still on.

G – Groaning

Rare, but devastating. A low, velvet sound that slips out when you suck just right or clench around him mid-thrust. He curses under his breath—posh and breathless.

“Bloody hell… you feel like heaven.”

(If he whimpers, it’s game over.)

H – Hair

Groomed. Always. Not a strand out of place unless you put it there. He keeps his chest and below neat—Britishly tidy. But he won’t shave completely. “I rather like how you whimper when my stubble grazes your thighs.”

I – Intimacy

Buried beneath layers of custom tailoring and stiff upper lip. But once it’s there? It’s intense. Quiet gestures. Slow undressing. A hand over yours when you’re trembling.

When he lets himself feel, he feels.

“You undo me. Do you understand that?”

J – Jacking Off

Disciplined. But not immune. He’ll jerk off in the shower thinking about the way your mouth hesitated right before you said his name. If he’s away on a mission? Audio messages. Every sound you make is archived like intel.

K – Kinks

- Restraint (his or yours—it doesn’t matter, as long as someone’s tied down)

- Praise kink (“You’re brilliant, sweetheart. Taking me so well.”)

- Power play (he’s in control—but so are you, if you know how to take it)

- Mirror sex (he needs to see)

- Voyeurism/light exhibitionism

- Delayed gratification (he’ll edge you all night if you let him)

L – Location

- Discrete. Luxurious. Risky, but clean.

- Kingsman tailor’s dressing room

- Private train car

- The leather seat of his umbrella-secured car

- Anywhere with a mirror

- Hotel balconies overlooking international embassies

M – Marking

Subtle. Controlled. A handprint on your hip. Finger-shaped bruises on your thighs. Hickeys in places only he gets to see. He marks you like he’s drafting a map—one only he can read. “This is classified. Mine. Understood?”

N – Nudes

Never sends any. Too dangerous. But he hoards yours. Folders locked behind biometric security. One with you in his dress shirt, undone at the collar, panties in your hand. He’s stared at that one more times than he cares to admit. When you ask? “I’m more of a live performance man, myself.”

O – Oral

Giving: Obsessive. He’ll spend hours between your thighs like he’s unpicking a puzzle. He keeps eye contact. He wants to see the moment you break.

Receiving: Civilized… until it’s not. He starts with polite restraint—one hand on your head, a soft “That’s it…”—but ends with your throat full, his tie wrapped around your wrist.

P – Pace

Controlled. Precise. Measured like a marksman’s shot—until you beg. Then it’s hips slamming, voice breaking, your name grinding out of his teeth. “You asked for this. Every inch.”

Q – Quickies

If the suit stays on, it’s a quickie. And if it’s a quickie, it’s up against a wall or bent over a desk with your panties still around one thigh. Silent, intense, and always leaves you trembling. “You’ll walk into that gala with my come dripping down your legs. Smile, darling.”

R – Risk

High. He’s a spy. Risk is the job. He’s fucked you in safehouses with guns under the bed, inside surveillance vans, and once in a Kingsman boardroom when the cameras were “mysteriously offline.”

If you want safety, date a banker.

S – Stamina

Brutal. You’re the one gasping for water while he’s straightening his cufflinks. He’ll fuck you through jet lag, blood loss, or an active security breach. His focus is lethal—and so is his desire.

T – Toys

Elegant. Understated. Expensive. Custom leather cuffs. Silken blindfolds. A glass plug engraved with the Kingsman insignia (a private gift). He has a velvet-lined case that locks. He won’t show it to just anyone.

You? You’re not just anyone.

U – Unfair

Devilishly. He’ll edge you with his mouth for hours just to watch your thighs tremble.

“You look so pretty when you beg. Say it again, love. Louder this time.”

V – Volume

Quiet. Dangerous. That low, rough voice curling around every command. But get him close—really close—and you’ll hear it. That hoarse gasp. That shattered whisper of your name like a secret slipping through his teeth.

W – Wildest Fantasy

He takes you on a mission. Disguised as husband and wife. You fuck in a marble hotel bathroom while your “target” eats dinner two floors below.

The tie stays on. The silencer stays nearby.

He whispers:

“Let them all think we’re harmless. Only I know how ruined you are underneath that dress.”

X – X-ray

Sleek. Refined. Like a sabre. Long and deceptively thick at the base. Just enough curve to hit that devastating angle every time. And he knows how to use it.

You’ll feel it for days.

Y – Yearning

Controlled… until it’s not.

Harry wants you like a scar. Something permanent. Painful. Real. He’ll act cool, reserved—until the door closes, and he pushes you up against it with shaking hands.

“You don’t know what you do to me.”

Z – ZZZ (Sleep)

Dresses again after. Can’t help it. It’s the training. But once he knows you’re asleep, he’ll slip back into bed behind you, fully clothed. One arm wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck.

Harry Hart wasn’t used to being denied affection.

Not by you. Not by the woman he’d sworn to come home to.

But when he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple—quiet, almost apologetic, the kind of kiss that usually melted things between you—you turned your face away.

He paused, lips grazing only the edge of your cheekbone, and lingered there a second too long. You didn’t meet his eyes. Your hands were busy with the laundry, folding a pair of his socks like they were weapons in disguise.

Harry straightened. He didn’t insist.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and murmured, “Alright… what is it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You kept folding—shirt, pants, mechanical. He watched the tension in your shoulders.

He tried again, softer this time. “Sweetheart…”

Your head whipped around, fast. “No. Not today.”

That froze him in place. His mouth tightened. “Right.”

The silence stretched like something fragile and brittle.

“I know about the mission,” you said quietly, still not looking at him. “The one two nights ago.”

He didn’t ask how. Harry knew better. You were clever—always clever—and these things had a way of getting to you eventually. Maybe the suit smelled different. Maybe the hotel receipt slipped past him. Or maybe you just knew him too damn well.

“I can’t say no to those missions,” he said calmly. “Arthur assigns them. You know how it works.”

“I knew you were a spy,” you snapped, turning to finally face him. “I didn’t know I was marrying a man who’d be paid to cheat on me.”

That hit him like a punch to the sternum.

His voice sharpened. “Do you think I want to do it? Do you think I don’t hate it just as much as you do?”

You dropped the towel you were folding. “No,” you snapped. “I don’t. I don’t think you hate it at all. I think you like it.”

Harry recoiled slightly, like you’d slapped him.

“I think you like the thrill,” you hissed. “The power. Sticking your cock in beautiful strangers—men, women, doesn’t matter—and then coming home like nothing’s happened. Like I’m just supposed to pretend it doesn’t count.”

His jaw tightened. “You know that’s not fair.”

“No,” you said. “What’s not fair is that you get to fuck your targets for Queen and Country, and I get to wash your boxers wondering if you held them the same way you held me last night.”

“Stop it.” His voice was dangerously low now, controlled. “You think it doesn’t tear me up? You think it doesn’t disgust me to come back and see you folding the laundry like nothing’s changed—when I have changed? That it doesn’t kill me to know I’m hurting you with every mission I can’t refuse?”

You stared at him, eyes glassy, but hard. “Then why keep doing it?”

“Because I have no choice!” he barked. “That’s what I signed up for. That’s what you married into.”

You blinked, your voice trembling now. “Then maybe I shouldn’t have.”

That was the final cut.

Harry’s breath caught, his expression stiffened. “What are you saying?”

You looked away.

“I’m saying I’m tired, Harry,” you said quietly. “Tired of pretending this marriage is sacred when your job treats it like it’s expendable. I’ve been thinking about talking to the lawyers.”

It was the silence that followed that did it. A cold, heavy thing.

Harry’s whole body went still. His fingers twitched once, but he didn’t move. He just stared at you, like you’d vanished right before his eyes.

“You want a divorce?” he asked, almost too quietly.

You didn’t answer.

Harry turned without a word and left the room.

You stayed there.

Finished folding the rest of the laundry.

Not out of spite. Not out of coldness.

Just because it had to be done.

You placed his socks in the top drawer, refolded a shirt you’d wrinkled in your frustration. Then you headed down to the kitchen, moving on autopilot toward the rice you’d left on the stove earlier.

But you didn’t make it that far.

Because when you passed the living room—

Harry was sitting in his armchair, perfectly still.

His elbows rested on his knees, one hand covering his mouth, the other gripping his wrist. His head was bowed, eyes closed. Not a single sound came from him.

Except—

A tear slipped down his cheek.

Then another.

He was crying. Silently. Stoically. As if holding back even that pain was part of the job.

He noticed you there.

But made no move to hide the tears.

Instead, slowly—painfully—Harry stood. The movement was stiff, as if he’d been sitting there frozen in regret for far longer than he let on. Then, with no hesitation, no pride left to hold, he walked toward you—quiet, sure, and aching.

And he dropped to his knees.

His arms wrapped around your legs before you could move, before you could protest, and he held you there like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. His forehead pressed to your stomach. His breath was shaky, uneven. His fingers curled against your calves.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t give up on me.”

You froze. The words hit like ice.

“Harry,” you said, your voice uncertain, wavering. “Get up. Don’t—don’t do this—”

“No.” His grip tightened. “No, I won’t. Not until you hear me. Not until you know I’m begging you not to go.”

You reached down to push at his arms, but he wouldn’t let go. He clung tighter, like the thought of releasing you would undo him completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse, raw. “I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

“Harry—stop—”

“Don’t give up on me,” he murmured again, over and over, like a prayer. “Don’t give up on me. Don’t ask for a divorce. Don’t take yourself away from me, I—I needs you—I come home to you—you’re the only thing I need to fucking breathe.”

Your breath caught. The heat of him against your stomach, the weight of him kneeling—Agent Galahad, the unflappable gentleman, the indestructible weapon of Her Majesty’s Secret Service—reduced to a trembling man begging at your feet.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

You tried again, more firmly this time. “Harry—stop it. Get up. This isn’t you.”

His head shook, pressed still to your middle.

“I mean it,” you said. “You think kneeling changes what I feel? Every time you come home from one of those missions—every time I look at your mouth and wonder who it’s been on—it breaks something in me, Harry.”

“I know,” he choked. “I know. And I’ll stop. I’ll lie to Arthur, I’ll fake an injury, I’ll do anything—anything—I’ll shoot myself in the fucking leg if I have to, but please—please don’t leave me.”

You flinched at the desperation in his voice. It didn’t suit him. It shattered you.

And yet—

You still felt hollow.

Your fingers brushed through his hair, slow, conflicted. He leaned into it like it was mercy.

“How would you feel,” you whispered, voice shaking, “if it were me?”

He stilled.

“If I came home with hotel receipts and unfamiliar perfume,” you said quietly. “If I looked you in the eye and said, ‘It’s just part of the job.’ If I spread my legs for strangers—touched them the way I touch you—kissed them, fucked them—and then came back to you like nothing happened?”

Harry was quiet. Dead quiet. Still clinging to you, but breath held, jaw clenched.

“Would you forgive me?” you asked.

“No,” he rasped.

You swallowed hard. “Then how am I supposed to forgive you?”

His voice cracked. “Because it wasn’t real. It never is. It’s hollow. Cold. I don’t feel a fucking thing, not for them. I save every part of me for you.”

You stared down at him—this man of polished shoes and tailored suits, now sobbing into your stomach like a child. The man who saved the world for a living. The man who broke yours with every mission he couldn’t say no to.

“I don’t want someone who saves the world, Harry,” you said. “I want someone who won’t destroy me to do it.”

That hit him like a bullet.

He looked up at you then—eyes rimmed red, lips parted, his face so exposed it almost hurt to look at.

You let go of him.

Not with a scream. Not with a slam of doors. Just… gently. Your fingers unthreaded from his hair. Your body leaned away. You stepped back.

And without a word, you turned toward the kitchen.

Harry didn’t follow.

You didn’t expect him to.

The rice had burned. You cursed softly under your breath when the scent hit you, acrid and sharp beneath the lid. Not ruined, but the bottom had crisped, turned that faint shade of tan that meant the heat had been too high, or you’d been distracted for too long.

You scraped the good part out, muttering under your breath, and turned off the stove. Started plating.

Behind you, Harry stayed in the living room. You could hear the shift of his weight as he lowered himself to the floor, back against the wall just beside the armchair. A quiet thud. Then silence.

No footsteps. No rustle of clothing.

Just the low, strained sound of someone trying not to cry too loudly.

He was still in his suit. Still immaculate, apart from the tear-stained shirt clinging to his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there on the floor of your home—the man who wore three-piece suits like armor, now crumpled like an apology.

You didn’t look back.

You finished dinner. Mechanically. Rice, chicken, a bit of salad on the side. You couldn’t remember what dressing he liked. You used olive oil and cracked pepper and hoped it wouldn’t matter tonight.

Eventually, maybe fifteen minutes later—maybe more—you turned toward the hallway and called softly, “Dinner’s ready.”

There was a pause.

Then you heard the shuffle of movement. The faint creak of knees. A sniff. And then—

“Coming,” Harry said, voice hoarse, barely above a murmur.

When he stepped into the kitchen, his shirt was wrinkled and damp where he’d wiped his face. His tie was askew. His hair, usually so carefully combed, was a mess from where he’d clutched it with both hands.

But he stood up straight. Even now. Still trying to hold on to what little dignity he had left.

You didn’t say anything.

You simply reached for the plate you’d started assembling.

“The rice is a bit burnt,” you said calmly, as if nothing had happened, your voice clipped but not cold. “Only at the bottom, though. It’s still edible. You want it or not?”

Harry blinked at you, brown eyes raw, still faintly red. He swallowed. Nodded once.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Please.”

You passed him the plate, your hand brushing his briefly—barely.

He took it with care, like it might break if he gripped too tightly. Like you might break.

You both sat down at the table.

The scrape of silverware. The hum of the refrigerator. The world still spinning, somehow.

Harry ate in silence. Slowly. Each bite measured, like chewing rice might steady him again. He didn’t look at you at first. Just focused on the plate like it was a landmine he had to dismantle.

You watched him for a moment. Then looked away.

“You forgot to take off your jacket,” you said after a while, your voice soft, neutral.

Harry paused mid-bite. He looked down at himself. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh,” he murmured, as if the concept was foreign. “Right.”

He slid it off wordlessly. Folded it neatly over the back of the chair. The gesture was automatic. Trained. Still clinging to the habits of a gentleman, even now.

You took a sip of water. Pushed the rice around your plate.

He cleared his throat.

“The salad’s good,” Harry said, almost bashful. “You didn’t put that awful bottled dressing on it.”

You arched a brow faintly, not quite smiling. “Didn’t feel like poisoning you today.”

A ghost of a chuckle escaped him. Just one. It died fast.

But it was something.

He put his fork down after a moment and glanced at you properly—his voice quiet but steady. “Are we… are we alright?”

You looked at him for a long time.

Then said, “We’re eating dinner.”

His expression flickered. He nodded once, swallowing hard.

“Right,” he murmured. “Of course.”

You both kept eating. One forkful at a time. Not lovers tonight. Not enemies. Just two people at a kitchen table trying not to let the world fall apart between them.

And somehow, the burnt rice didn’t taste so bad.

You didn’t say much after dinner.

Just cleared your plate, rinsed it in the sink, and murmured, “I’m going upstairs.”

Harry nodded. Didn’t ask to follow. Didn’t try to kiss you goodnight. Only watched as you climbed the stairs, your silhouette soft in the warm kitchen light, the sound of your bare feet fading down the hallway. You didn’t close the bedroom door completely. But you didn’t leave it open, either.

It stayed ajar.

A metaphor in oak.

Harry turned back to the dishes. He washed them slowly. Carefully. Not like a chore—but like something he could control. A task with clear boundaries. Soap. Rinse. Dry. Stack.

The clink of porcelain was the only sound in the house.

He lingered there at the sink when it was done, his fingers resting against the edge of the counter, water still dripping from his wrists. He stared down into the clean basin for a long while, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

Then, without drying his hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Merlin answered on the second ring.

“Harry?” came the familiar Scottish voice, low and slightly groggy. “Bit late for a call, isn’t it?”

Harry said nothing at first. Just sat back down at the table, the same one where he’d eaten a silent dinner with the woman he loved less than half an hour ago. He looked at the empty chairs. The plates drying on the rack. The jacket still folded on the back of the chair.

Then he exhaled, long and slow.

“I think she’s going to leave me,” he said.

There was a pause on the other end.

Then, carefully: “You want to run that by me again?”

Harry let out a brittle breath. His voice was steady, but hollow. “She said she’s been thinking about lawyers. About ending things.”

“Bloody hell.” A pause. “Harry, I—”

“I don’t blame her,” Harry interrupted. “I don’t. God knows I’ve given her every reason. She’s lived through every consequence of this job without ever signing the contract.”

Merlin was silent again. Listening. Always a better listener than people gave him credit for.

“I kneeled tonight,” Harry said, his voice barely audible. “I actually dropped to my knees and begged her.”

“Christ.”

“I didn’t even think. It just happened. One moment I was watching her walk away, and the next—I was holding onto her like the ground was disappearing under my feet.”

The line crackled softly. Merlin didn’t speak.

“I don’t know what to do if she leaves, Merlin,” Harry continued, voice breaking at the edges now. “She’s my reason. I walk through fire for a living, and I’ve always been able to do it because I knew I was coming home to her. She’s not just the thing I protect—she is the home.”

He swallowed. Looked down at his hands. They were still wet.

“I could survive bullets, knives, explosions. I could survive losing my sight, my leg, my fucking mind. But if she walks away from me…”

He trailed off.

Then whispered, “I don’t know who I am without her.”

Merlin let the silence hang for a long time.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Honest.

“You’re not the only Kingsman who’s lost something to the job, Harry. But you’d be the first to lose her while she’s still in the house.”

That cut deep.

Harry closed his eyes.

“She’s upstairs,” he said softly. “Not even five metres away. But it might as well be an ocean.”

Another pause.

“You love her,” Merlin said.

“More than anything I’ve ever touched.”

“Then stop treating her like a detail to manage. You’re not in a briefing room, Harry. You’re not defusing a bomb. You’re in your own bloody kitchen, about to lose the only thing that ever made you human.”

Harry pressed his fingertips to his brow.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know.”

There was a rustle on the other end. Merlin clearing his throat. “Listen. Get some sleep. Let it settle. Tomorrow—talk to her. Not as Galahad. As Harry.”

Harry nodded slowly, even though Merlin couldn’t see him.

“Thank you,” he said.

Merlin sighed. “You’re a bloody idiot, but you’re my friend. Just don’t cock this up worse than you already have.”

The line went dead.

Harry sat at the table for a long time after. Long after the phone was set down. Long after the kitchen light began to dim with the softness of night.

He looked toward the staircase.

He didn’t climb it.

Not yet.

Instead, he rose slowly from his chair, crossed to the jacket draped over the back, and slipped his hand into the inside pocket.

From it, he pulled a worn photograph.

It was small. Slightly creased. Taken years ago.

You were smiling in it.

Not for the camera—but for him.

Your eyes were lit with something unguarded. Something warm.

Harry looked down at that smile like it was a map. A compass.

And for the first time in a long time…

• Harry would never mean to offend you or snap at you in any way, so when he does it’s just as much of a shock to him as it is to you afterwards. He’s usually very calm and polite, even in stressful situations, so he must have been under a severe amount of stress to even snap at you unintentionally.

• Despite what others may think of him, he would absolutely grovel to you in private if you’re truly not willing to forgive him. It only takes one bad look for him to start trying to get on your good side again and will beg if he feels like he’s not getting through to you in private.

• It would get quite emotional for him, mainly due to him not being used to being vulnerable or exposing his deeper feelings quite often. He’s extremely reserved, so when his emotions do come out they’re quite powerful which shows how genuine his grovelling for forgiveness is.

• Not only is he going to grovel, but he’s also going to do things for you that may win back your favour or your forgiveness for him snapping at you. Small acts of service would be his way of expressing his affection, much easier than him showing emotion in various ways, so this would be one of the first things he would resort to if he can’t get through to you.

• The guilt would be visible on his face whenever he sees you, even if you have forgiven him. So, even if he’s done with the grovelling and begging for your forgiveness, he’ll still make it very much known that he’s sorry for whatever he said for you for quite a while after the incident.