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Arthur & Lancelot

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Roxy comes into the drawing room in her party dress, hair mussed and lipstick smudged. Harry hasn't been following the mission so he has no idea whether it was a fuck or a fight that caused the untidiness, though he knows from experience there's not a great deal of difference sometimes with her - she's rough when she wants something, when she's with someone she knows can take it, and it's glorious.

"You're back early," he says over the top of the newspaper he and Merlin are sharing, Merlin reading through his glasses feed from home the way they sometimes do on nights apart. "I didn't expect you until the morning."

"Mm. Finished ahead of schedule. Fourth time in a row, I believe - surely that's worth a pay rise, Arthur?"

She doesn't mean it, smiling back over her shoulder when she says it as she's pouring them both a drink from the whisky decanter in the corner. She doesn't need a pay rise; the agents' wages are astronomical, even considering the worth of what they do.

"How about a patronising pat on the head and a 'well done you'?"

"By all means, if you'd like to lose your patting hand." She comes over to the sofa and hands Harry his drink, leaning in close to tap the brim of his glasses. "Is Merlin in there?"

"Of course."

"Hello, Merlin."

"He says hello and he's not a goldfish, so kindly don't tap him."

"Tetchy. Shouldn't he be asleep by now? It's nearly three in the morning."

Roxy steps out of her high heels, sighing with relief, and sets her glass down on the floor so she can take up the rest of the space Harry's not already in, settling her head down against the far cushion and swinging her feet comfortably into his lap. This is where they've come to almost a decade since V-Day: from a politeness that bordered on the uncomfortable as she figured out her place in the organisation, through a tentative friendship Eggsy practically forced them into, through a long-term undercover mission as a married couple when they were both injured at the same time and not fit for any work except dreary surveillance, to this whatever they are now. Companions of a sort, with all the shared disdain for their old-money families and the dramas and expectations that come with them - and of a different sort, ever since the smoulder of vague physical attraction on both sides was stoked to a furnace by boredom and proximity and the necessity of sharing a bed.

"He's still on Venezuela time. I've been trying to bore him to sleep with the financial pages, but I forgot I'm married to a dreadful pervert who gets excited by incomprehensible lists of numbers."

That makes her laugh, though it fades off into a quiet pleased little moan when Harry folds his paper on the coffee table and picks her foot up instead, pressing his thumb into the reddest part that's been carrying her weight all night. "You might as well have given him a Red Bull."

"I can put up with being talked about or feet," Merlin says in Harry's earpiece, "but both at once is a bit too much for me. I'm signing off."

"Sleep well," Harry says softly, helpless smile pressed to his whisky glass at the familiar disgruntled note Merlin always gets in his voice when he's nearly asleep but not quite there yet. "Talk tomorrow."

"Feel like I chased him off, sorry for invading," Roxy says, though she wiggles her stockinged foot in Harry's grip to get him moving again so she's clearly not that sorry at all.

"Nonsense, I'm sick of staring at this tripe anyway. Besides, why he'd want to sit up all night watching me read the dullest paper in the world when Eggsy's asleep in his bed I shall never know."

"Exhaustion, I expect." There's laughter in her eyes, though she's doing a fairly good job of keeping the grin off her face. "I sparred with Eggsy for a while in the gym last week and the poor thing moved like a marionette with broken strings. You'll both kill him between you if you don't give him a fallow day every now and then, and yourselves as well."

"Please, you wouldn't be saying that if you saw the way he begs for more."

"God no, thanks very much but I saw enough of Eggsy to last me several lifetimes when you stuck us in that terrible communal room in training." She's starting to wriggle against the sofa cushions, impatiently flexing her foot in his grip until he takes the hint and digs his thumb in harder, massaging the sore spots until she's humming the same kind of beautiful cracked sounds of pleasure she makes when he's got his face between her thighs. "Speaking of mystifying behaviour, I'll never understand why you want to touch my revolting hooves."

"Less revolting than the parts of me you've had in your mouth, surely?"

"But they didn't have blisters on." It's the same half-hearted objection she made the last few times as well, but it never sticks. Wearing Louboutins to walk from a car to a restaurant table looks difficult enough, never mind wearing them to win a six-on-one fight. "You realise my objections don't mean stop?"

"Of course."


Harry takes her left foot in his other hand as well, feeling the silk whisper of her stocking slide under his fingers when he starts to rub away the aches from that one too. The way she's stretched out with her feet in his lap is making her dress ruck up in wrinkles around her thighs, showing a sliver of the black lace top edge - a tantalising contrast against the sheer nude silk hugging her legs and the deep velvety blue of her impossibly bulletproof cocktail dress. The colour suits her and she knows it, it's her favourite to wear - was the first colour Harry ever saw her in, at least in person, back on the night of the train test a million years ago.

Roxy notices where his eyes are lingering, of course. She notices bloody everything. It makes her smile shift from pleasure to pleasure, a teasingly wicked sort of undertone suddenly lurking in the curve of her pretty mouth. "If you'd like to see more then I suggest you don't stop what you're doing."

She hitches her skirt an inch or so higher as an incentive. Twenty minutes of enthusiastic massage later it's flipped up around her waist and her fingertips have disappeared beneath the waistband of her underwear, though she's not touching herself properly yet. She seems determined to make him wait for it, as always - like the time she cuffed him to his own bed with a plug in and went for the world's longest most indulgent bubble bath, before finally strolling back with her harness, a cast of Merlin's cock, and apparently some vicious plan to work him up so high that he'd promise her the world in exchange for a fuck that left him sobbing into his spit-soaked pillow. Like the time she sent him a snap of a different naked body part every ten minutes for the entire duration of a flight home from Chile, then went straight to his office when the plane landed and rode his face through three orgasms, only two of them hers.

"Please," he says dutifully - he knows she never gives in to the first request, but better make a start at least or they'll still be here at breakfast time. In response Roxy only points her toes and digs him gently in the ribs until he gets back to work.

She starts moving at last another fifteen minutes later, hand disappearing beneath the black stretch of satin and thighs sprawling open even more than they already are. Harry can't see much but the motion and fumble of her knuckles moving under the fabric, but it's enough - her heel accidentally finds the hardening swell of his cock, and she laughs breathlessly and moves away.

"Me first. You later."

"Me at the same time as you, usually, whether you touch me or not," Harry points out. He has a vague sense that this is something other people might be embarrassed about, though he's quite sure that's only because they've never seen the delighted look of near-triumph in Roxy's eyes when she realises he's made a mess of himself like a desperate teenager despite being sixty years old.

"Yes, that's true." She slides her hand out of her knickers - Harry can see the lamp light catching on her slick fingers - and into her bra, drawing out the tiny knife she keeps there. She flicks it open with her thumbnail, springing the scalpel-sharp blade out of the beautifully carved little walnut handle, and Harry can't help remembering the times he's seen her use this thing to kill or persuade - the silent slide of it entering an artery or slipping between someone's ribs - when she spins it deftly between her fingertips and plunges it through the satin she's holding tented away from her cunt with the other hand. The blade whispers through from the top edge to one leg hem and then the other like it's cutting through gossamer, or through air, then Roxy retracts the blade to tuck it back into its hiding place. "You can stop now," she says, glancing down to where his hands have already stilled on her feet, and traces her shining fingertips from bared cunt to clit, dragging Harry's hungry gaze with them like a bloody cat chasing a laser pointer. "Here instead. If you're not tired."

"If I ever say I'm too tired then I'm an impostor wearing my face and you'd better execute me immediately." There's something delicious about doing this clothed, or mostly clothed - in their magnificent suit and cocktail dress, Harry with his jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and Roxy with her underwear shredded to rags ready for his mouth, or at least he assumes. He asks anyway, "Fingers or mouth?" and Roxy smiles indulgently down the length of the sofa at him, tracing her eyes all over his body with a heat he can almost feel like stroking fingertips.

"How about both?"

"How about both," Harry agrees fervently, and slips to his knees on the plush rug to coax Roxy's legs over his shoulders in a way that's become as familiar to him over the last year as Merlin's sleepy cock in his mouth first thing in the morning or the careful, wonderful thrust of Eggsy's dripping fingers. When you might die any second, Eggsy said once, stroking Harry's hair and waiting for Merlin to get back from the airing cupboard with new sheets to replace the ruined ones, seems fucking stupid not to live like you know it.

She shudders at the first touch of his tongue, he can feel the tremors in her legs and her muscled stomach where he's resting his hand. The other slips between her thighs, dipping one fingertip and then two into the pooling heat of her cunt as his tongue finds the rhythm she likes best, a relentless wet swipe over her clit that leaves her breathing his name in something that might almost be a plea if this were anybody but Roxy. It's a demand instead coming from her, one he always revels in obeying, and as he presses his fingertips inside the wet clench of her cunt he feels her fist twisting in his hair, tugging sharply, always a sign he's getting it right. He follows where she pushes and pulls him, lets her wriggle and writhe against the slope of his nose and the ready point of his tongue, and feels her start to come around his thrusting fingers before he's even started getting out of breath, which means there's absolutely no reason to stop. Instead he continues exactly as he is, letting her direct him with fumbling words and impatient tugs on his hair. The noise that staggers out of her when he slides his tongue in as far he he can get it alongside his fingers is as glorious as it always is: ragged reverence for whatever he can give her, a feeling he knows all too well from what she gives him in return.

"On your back," Roxy says, "I want to--" but she doesn't need to finish, he already knows what she wants, and he can tell by the ravenous look on her flushed face that she knows how much he wants it too. There's a curious perfection in the way she fits over him like this every single time: the stretch and press of her thighs bracketing his broad shoulders, the weight of her on his chest when she's too exhausted not to rest on him two or three rounds in, all the heat and scent and the slick wetness of her gliding on his chin, soaking into his collar and the knot of his tie.

His fingers find the bands of lace at the top of her stockings and linger there, stroking gently, a sensory anchor to keep him grounded where he is when he feels like his mind's about ready to float off to the stratosphere - "You're so good at this," Roxy murmurs, "you're so good," and Harry comes in his trousers shaking and gasping with Roxy's fingers clenching and releasing in his hair, with her second orgasm slicking his lips and his thundering heart beating a syncopated rhythm with hers.