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take a chance (it wasn't what you know)

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Eggsy loses her virginity to the sweet, nerdy, cute boy that sits next to her in Environmental Science her third year of Sixth Form. He asks her out to one of the school dances, head ducked down, thick dark hair obscuring his dark green eyes but not his plump pink mouth.

She’s not remotely interested in the dance but she had been interested in that mouth, very much so. Call it hormones or puberty, whatever, but she knows what would come after the dance, so she says yes, endures an hour and a half of shitty EDM remixes in the school aud and tight thrift shop heels and awkward dancing with the boy before he finally, finally pulls a slim key card from the pocket of his wrinkled trousers and flashes it at her unsurely.

She plucks it from his hands, spins around and throws him what she direly hopes is a remotely flirty wink over her shoulder before leading him out through the doors.

Thirty minutes later, she is spread out on a motel bed - a bloody motel, Christ - and he is above her, kissing her much too enthusiastically, too much teeth and not enough tongue. His hands are fiddling with the slip around the waist of her dress like he is unsure he’s allowed to take it off of her. Patience was never her virtue and she ends up stripping them both, rolling her eyes when he produces a rubber from his wallet but nicking it from his fingers nonetheless. She tugs it over his cock and that’s when the whole scenario starts feeling all too real - that’s when she realizes she doesn't like how his mouth tastes like shitty fruit punch, that she doesn't like his thick dark hair as much as she initially thought, that she’s barely wet.

She still lets him fuck her though, because Eggsy fuckin’ Unwin does not chicken out, and because she just wants to get her first time over and done with. She ain't never took a chastity pledge or whatever; she closes her eyes and fists her hands in the sheets and listens to the boy grunt above her, tries to trick herself into thinking the dull ache she feels right now is actually pleasure.

The boy is done all too quickly and she’s pretty sure she doesn't come but she still pretends to jerk her hips after he spills into the rubber, mostly so he’ll pull out and she can leave. He does pull out right afterwards anyway, wordlessly, gives her a jerky nod and then slips to the loo, and she tugs her dress on and grabs her heels and bloody bolts.

The second time, it’s better in the way that there’s a little more familiarity and that she feels more comfortable in her own skin, but that’s kind of it. The bloke is an awful handsome towny that works down at the docks, the ones she visits once in a while by herself when she needs to clear her head, and they’ve lowkey been flirting one her past couples trips, but it ain't lowkey this time round, not when it’s dark and they stumble into an alley near the Black Prince, tipsy and giggling.

He snogs her breathless as his hands romed under her jacket, squeezing her tits before wandering down the line of her abdomen, sliding under the waistband of her jeans and, subsequently, her knickers. It feels really good at first, two of his firm calloused fingers sliding over her folds, a nice tease that makes her shudder in anticipation and rock forward and down into his palm, but it’s replaced with discomfort as soon as he slides them inside her.

In the end, she distracts him with a handie, sucking at his stubbled jaw as she jerks him off, and he curls into her when he comes all over her fingers and wrist. It’s gross. She smiles blandly, glad he can’t really see her in the dark, lets him tip her head up and kiss her a couple more times before she slips away.

Once she gets home, she locks herself into the loo straight away, steps under the spray of the shower and wills the ache in her cunt away with cold, cold water.

It’s a bird, the third time. She’s absolutely breathtaking, sweet and feminine and soft and she makes Eggsy hate herself a little, just a little, makes her wonder why on Earth she’d ever want to shag someone like Eggsy.

In the end, she’s not the orgasm Eggsy’s been needing either; it’s fun at the beginning, better than the previous blokes, clutch her hips and suck at her sweet bottom lip, slide down her body and tug her knickers off, lick into her. But she tries to reciprocate, and Eggsy desperately wants her to, but it takes much too long to tip Eggsy over the edge, has both of them flushing in annoyance and embarrassment at the end.

There’s no one after them three, because Eggsy put shagging far, far away in her mind afterwards. To her, there’s really nothing she’s missing out on, anyway; she’d much rather get into a fight with someone than fall into bed with someone.

And it stays like that for years until one day, she becomes motherfucking Cinderella and sort of really falls head-over-heels for her motherfucking fairy Godfather.

The first time she realizes she’d like to shag Harry is the first time it really hits her, because looking back on it, she’s definitely thought about it subconsciously before. “Diffused a dirty bomb,” Harry says, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at the front cover tacked on the wall Eggsy’s currently jabbing her index finger at. He looks artfully rumpled - jacket off, one hand tapping at a glass of scotch, hair falling from its previous immaculate style, white dress shirt crinkled, leaning back lazily in his chair.

She tears her eyes away from the spread of his legs. “Uh.” It’s hard to focus now, because all of the sudden she feels more interested in his cock than asking him how on Earth the headline BRAD PITT ATE MY SANDWICH came to be. “Diffused a dirty bomb, ‘tis all, nothin’ more’n that. You sound like a bloody fool, for your information.”

She lets her arm drop back to her side and carefully avoids looking back at him as she strides over to the chair in the corner of the room, flopping back down on it. “I’m going to be a shit Kingsman, if I’ll become one at all, y’know.”

He raises an eyebrow, mouth in a tight line, and leans forward. “And why is that?”

I don't think a Kingsman’s supposed to wanna shag their higher-up, first off. “A Kingsman does all of this shit. You did all of this shit,” she says instead, waves a hand around the room and grins, albeit mournfully. “I can’t do none of this.”

“Nonsense,” Harry says, and she finally looks back at him, feels a mixture of too many damn things at the hard expression on his face. “You will be a fine Kingsman.”

She’d never believe it from the mouth of another, but for this man, she thinks she’d save the fucking world just to keep his faith in her.




So she goes and becomes a Kingsman, except, shit, she’s never going to be able to save the fucking world, because she’s going to die right the fuck now. She’s been rolled onto her belly, face scraping the gravel, wrists bound at the small of her back, and the bloke standing above her seems pretty bloody angry, if his garbled shouts in French and pistol pressed between her shoulder blades is any indication.

It was scary at first, but now it’s dragging on too long - he’s been yelling for fucking hours, probably, he has a lot of baggage. Should probably invest in a shrink or summat. She spits a couple tiny rocks from her mouth, shakes her head, and twists so she can meet his eyes, sobs a little too forced, “please don't hurt me.”

The bloke barely falters as he raises one rage-trembling hand and points to a pile of very dead men, all very dead because of her doing. Oh well. It was worth a shot. She lets her cheek smack back on the gravel and waits for death to come down and sweep her up into its loving arms, when the doors behind the both of them go smashing open.

Bit dramatic.

“Har - dammit - Arthur?” she calls, and then the bloke above her becomes the bloke beside her, flopping down with a bullet clean between his eyebrows. “Oh, it is you. Come untie me, please, thanks.”

Harry does no such thing, not that she actually believed he would. His blood-spattered Oxfords make an appearance by her and then her world is turning upside down as he leans down, hauls her up, and tosses her over his shoulder like a bag of flour. “I’m going to fuckin’ kill you,” she says to his arse. It’s a very nice arse.

“I just saved your life for the fifth time, and you’ve still not yet managed to grasp the concept on how to thank one,” Harry sighs.

“You better watch your fuckin’ back, Hart, and I mean this a hundred percent.” She wriggles, not because it’ll make her feel any more comfortable; no, so it’ll make him feel uncomfortable, the twat. She can’t really tell anything in her current position but she hopes it worked. Who would like someone wriggling over their shoulder anyway?

And then she remembers that Harry isn't like your average normal, sane person, and then she pouts because there’s nothing else to be done.

Harry totes her back to the plane because apparently he, Roxy, and Merlin got everything under control while she was ‘fooling about,’ as he puts it, voice clipped. He still unties her wrists before Roxy can get to her though, and then produces a tiny tube of aloe vera cream and rubs it over her rubbed-raw skin.

“Ah fuck,” she sighs, watching his thumbs rub over her pulse point and down her veins slowly and carefully through half-hooded eyes. “That really hits the spot.”

His eyes peer at her over the rim of his glasses, and she just gives him a cheeky wink before letting her head thump back against the headrest attached to hear seat, drawing her arms in once Harry’s finished and rubbing her wrists. “Thanks. You could’ve, like, undone the ties earlier on though.”

Her eyes have slipped closed now, and she doesn't really expect a reply as she settles back for the remainder of the ride. She gets one though, pressed right by her ear so no one else catches it presumably - “I quite enjoyed the picture you made though.”

Her eyes snap open like she’s a bloody wind-up toy but it’s still a second too late; Harry’s already up and reclining back in his own seat, glancing out the plane’s window. She could believe the words were just a figment of her increasingly fevered imagination if not for the way his mouth is turned up at the one corner ever so slightly. It’s undoubtedly effortless, yet it makes her want to jump his bones.

She has to keep her legs crossed for the rest of the flight.




When it becomes too much for her to just hold in her head, she resolves to tell Roxy about it. Roxy’s smart - no, Roxy’s bloody brilliant, she’ll know what to do. Maybe. Hopefully.

They have the two assailants on their knees at the moment, holding them back with two pistols trained at their heads. The silence in the room is starting to become deafening and a bit uncomfortable, so, keeping her eyes on her villain, she says, “hey, Rox.”

“Yes, Galahad.”

“Oh, shit. Right. Hey, Lancelot. I think I may want to shag Harry.”

Roxy loses it. Her grip on the gun slips and she whips around, staring at Eggsy with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Arthur?” she hisses, then, “Really?”

Eggsy furrows her brows. “Is that weird? I mean, he’s fit as fuck, ain't he? Who doesn't want to shag him. Be real.”

Roxy still looks at a loss, but she’s found her footing again, glaring back at her guy and tilting her gun up once more. “I - well. Have you?”

“What? God no, I’m shit at getting lads into bed, you don't know half of it.”

The bloke she has down on his knees looks up. His nose is bleeding a right mess all over his chin and neck. “I say you should go for it, dude. You’re pretty hot.”

Eggsy blinks at him. “Y’think?”

“Yeah,” the bloke shrugs. “I mean, if this Arthur dude doesn't want to fuck someone like you, then it’s definitely his problem, not yours.” He finishes his little statement off by dragging his eyes down Eggsy’s frame, a little too noticeable through the tight-fitting Kingsman suit.

Eggsy blinks again. “Oh. Thanks.”

“He might be turned off by the fact that you’re wearin’ a suit,” pipes up Roxy’s hostage. “Dudes don't like that shit, when girls tryna be like dudes.”

Eggsy very near blows his head off right then and there. But she has to remember that these guys have little chips inside their heads that Merlin needs for some reason. “A suit is the modern knight’s armour,” she tells him sweetly instead.

“Oh dear,” Roxy says. “We’ll have to kill them now.”

Eggsy doesn't want to kill her guy. “What? Why? I didn't tell them we’re Kingsman. Shit.”

Roxy’s pistol goes off twice in quick succession, two bullets sliding clean through their hearts without affecting their precious heads. “Merlin’s going to have my arse because of this,” she huffs, pockets her pistol and adjusts her glasses. “Merlin? Present?”

“Yes, Lancelot,” Merlin replies, and Eggsy hears it too, through her glasses. Which she is still wearing. Which she’s been wearing since the start of this whole mission, and during when she told Roxy she’d like to shag Harry. She suddenly feels awful faint. “Report back, I’ll send agent Bedivere to collect them.”

“Yes, sir,” Roxy says, and Eggsy faintly echoes her into the mic.




Eggsy studiously avoids Merlin for the next week. There aren't any missions for her and Roxy, thank God, but she still finds herself needing to duck into too many rooms when she sees Merlin walking down the opposite hallway down at HQ. Roxy even mentions once, off-handed, while they’re at the shooting range, how Merlin’s noticed he doesn't see her very often recently.

“Funny that,” Eggsy says, and shoots off a round of bullets. “I’m here nearly all the time.”

It’s when she finds herself in the dining room with Merlin and hides under the head chair that he says, “I know you’re there, Miss Unwin.”

She stays quiet and still, until she sneezes suddenly and hits the top of her head against the leg of the table. “Bloody fucking hell -”

When she appears, rubbing her skull and glaring daggers at Merlin, he barely looks up from his tablet as he says, “I, too, think you should - how did he put it? - go for it?”

She squints at him for a moment, not quite understanding what he’s saying, before it dawns on her and she nearly faints from embarrassment. “Uh. Could you pretend you ain't ever heard that? It’d mean a lot to me.”

“Eggsy,” he sighs, finally looking up. “I could go on and lecture you about how a Kingsman never knows how long they have, about how secrets like this shouldn't be kept, things like that, but I’ll just tell you again - you should just tell him.”

Eggsy rubs her head again, thinks distantly to grab an ice pack for it later on. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “Now, could you please go down to the shop? They’ve been taking my head off requesting you for another fitting.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly, nods and forces her legs to move. “Yeah, ‘course.” She pauses in the doorway though, looks back at him and says, “thanks, by the way.”

“You can thank me by getting a move on, Eggsy.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, but does so.




Down to the fact, she’s not sure how exactly to go on and tell Harry she’d really like to fuck him. She only realizes this when she’s striding into his office, tall and confident.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Unwin,” Harry says without looking up from the screen of his laptop. His jacket’s off, and his sleeves have been rolled up to the bend of his elbow. She nearly walks right back out the door.

Except she doesn't, because, reminder, Eggsy fuckin’ Unwin never backs down from shit. “You owe this pleasure to me, obviously,” she says, very cleverly. “I decided to grace you with me wonderful presence this fine evening.”

Lightning crackles outside, and the rain starts hitting the windows particularly hard. Harry glances up at her and raises one elegant eyebrow, well, elegantly. She curses in her head.

“Right then,” she says, and tips her chin at the vacant chair in front of his desk. “Can I sit?”

“By all means.”

She’s pretty sure that’s Fancypants for yes, so she does, folding one leg underneath herself and watching him tap away silently. There’s a glass of scotch by his elbow, and his glasses have been folded and are resting on the table on their back. It’s a familiar picture, and it makes the unease she feel lessen a bit.

“What’re you up to?” she asks finally, when the silence is just right but also just enough to make her skin go tight.

“Looking over a few mission reports,” he murmurs, and presses down on the delete key a couple times. His eyes are still fixed steadily on the screen.

“Oh,” she says. The queasiness is back, full-throttle. Everyone thinks she’s an idiot, and she herself knows she ain't the smartest of the bunch, but she is aware when she’s not wanted around. “I can go, leave you to it.”

She stands up, but his hand darting out and grabbing her wrist stills her quick enough that she bangs her knee right against the table, hard enough that both the lamp and laptop jolt. She’s too aware of how bad she is at wooing to even feel ashamed at this point. “No, Eggsy,” he says, and his face looks unsure, though his eyes on her are fixed, careful. “It’s alright.”

She’s pretty sure her eyes go comically wide at that, embarrassingly so. “O-kay then,” she says, sits back down and rubs her hand over where’d he touched her. She can still feel it under her skin, like, literally, and it’s the cheesiest yet most wonderful thing that she can’t help but smile a little dumbly.

He notices. “Did I hurt you?”

“What?” she asks, “are you serious?” and when his stoic face doesn't go any less stoic, she shakes her head. “Uh, no, mate. I can take more ‘n that.” Stoic face cracks a grin at that, and she flushes. “Jesus, you perv.”

“I deny that claim.”

“Oh, do you? Only a young boy would pop a stiffy at something so lame, Harry, admit it.”

He doesn't respond verbally for a moment there, just closes the lid of his laptop and leans back in his chair, looks at her over the rim of his glass. He’s still smiling. “I think anyone admitting they can take more than that would arouse anyone.”

She wishes she was drinking something too at the moment; spitting it out all over the place would have been fitting, and she’s always wanted to do it. “Arousing, you say,” she says, and wills herself not to go starry-eyed and hazy-headed and cotton-mouthed and pink-cheeked, wills herself to go about this as an adult would. She is an adult anyway, no matter how young all the other Kingsmen make her feel (even Rox). “So you’re aroused, Harry, is that what you’re saying?”

He bits the rim of his glass. What the absolute fuck, that shouldn't be charming in any manner, but it is, in so many manners. She slaps her palms on the desk and bends over it, leans over until she’s only centimetres from his handsome face, plucks the glass from his hands and sets it down without spilling it everywhere (small successes). If he doesn't respond, she thinks quickly, she can pretend she’s here only straightening his tie or something, except he’s not wearing a tie, shit, what else can she play it off as -

- nothing, really, because he’s cradling the back of her neck and kissing her. His thumb is rubbing reverently over her nape, and when she gasps helplessly he smiles against her mouth, and shit, she is gone, she is fucking done for, her heart has been captured in his palm and every romantic yet cringey metaphor ever, etcetera.

She leans forward and kisses him harder, uses one hand to steady herself by gripping his shoulder, feeling out the strong ripple of muscles underneath her fingertips - ugh - and when she needs to breathe, she pulls back and sucks in a few breaths, meeting his eyes steadily. “I think,” she says, a little brokenly, “I wanted you to do that the first time we met.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry replies, just as quiet, “when you so kindly thanked me for bailing you from prison and then told me I had a silver spoon shoved up my arse.”

“Exactly,” she tells him, and kisses him again, shorter, briefer, more promising, because she can, and isn't that a lovely thought. “Exactly.”




A week later, they’re in the dining room, and the papers scattered all over the table are the papers they’re supposed to be working on at the moment, but Eggsy much prefers it right now, pressing Harry up against the walls by his lapels and snogging him for as long as he likes.

Until Merlin interrupts, that is. “You’re supposed to be working on those papers? The ones currently falling off the table?” comes his voice from some corner of the room, and Eggsy immediately stumbles back, nearly thumping back against said table. “Glad you went for it, Galahad, by the way.”

“Uh,” she says, clearing her throat. Harry’s still leaning back against the wall, smiling at her with a mixture of fond and amusement. She furiously tries to tamp down the blush creeping up her neck. “Thank you, Merlin.”

“Also -”

Bye, Merlin,” she nearly wheezes, and his grumble is followed by what definitely sounds like a switch, hopefully flicking off. She smooths down her jacket and meets Harry’s eyes, smiles weakly. “Should get back to them papers so he won't come back, huh.”

Harry takes a step forward, and she suddenly feels like prey as he comes along and crowds her back into the table. “We can take them round my place,” he says lowly, and she’s sure her brain nearly combusts. It’s like a purr, and it hits her right in her lower belly.

“Sounds brilliant,” she exhales, twisting around and grabbing every sheet she can manage.




It occurs to her, only when Harry’s got her on his (very soft) bed, kneeling between the spread of her thighs and kissing between the valleys of her tits, that if there is one and only one person on this very planet that could make up for all the shitty orgasms she’s had in the past, it would hands-down be Harry Hart.

The thought makes her grin up at the ceiling excitedly, makes her reach down and slide her fingers through his loose hair easily.

Of course, there’s the very impossible possibility Harry’s fucking terrible at sex too like everyone else ever appears to be, and if that possibility occurs right now, then she’ll have no choice but to ditch Kingsman and become a villain, the very person they’ll have to hunt down. Don't say she never gave any warning.

Harry’s hands squeeze at her hips just then, thumbs sliding under the waistband of her trousers, and he nips at her navel in a way that makes her want to squeeze her thighs together, a reminder of what’s to come. Good thing she’s pretty sure she’ll never have the need to become a villain now; she would have been downright terrible at it.

He strips her of her pants gently, kisses her calves and the nearly-sensitive sides of her knees and the very sensitive insides of her thighs, and she can’t help but wonder how he fucks, if he ‘makes love’, if he’s animalistic, if he’s boring while doing so. She’s sure he does it with the finesse he does everything else ever with, though.

And then she isn't wondering about anything at all because his mouth is on her through the material of her knickers, and then her knickers are gone too, and then there’s just his mouth on her, and.

He licks broad from taint to clit and she squirms, eyes slipping shut and mouth dropping open wordlessly when he presses into her cunt. She’s wet, she knows that, more wet than she’s ever been before, and she thinks he’s pleased with it because he hums, his clever tongue giving a generous lick.

It’s a little strange at first, unsure, but there is something oddly awesome about having a fit, studious older man knelt between your thighs, trying what appears to be his absolute best to you feel good. She plants her feet on the bed and when he starts really eating her out, like he wants her to come right now, she rocks her hips down against his mouth a little, wants desperately to see if she’s getting his face wet too but wants desperately to come just as much.

She can feel it, the hot, squirmy feeling in between her thighs and pooling in her belly. She tugs at his hair harder then, hooks one leg over Harry’s shoulder to pull him in closer and have more leverage to grind against him harder. He pulls back for a quick moment, like he needs to breath, probably, and then comes back with one arm resting firmly over her hips, holding her down, sucks at her clit.

Shit. She comes, toes curling and right leg kicking out, nearly hitting him in the back. It’s wordless - the whole thing was - and she’s never been conscious and gone that long without hearing herself speak. Harry glances up the line of her quaking stomach, and roughs out, “good?”

Good. She feels like her soul’s been sucked from her body, shown around heaven, and then dropped back down. She wishes she were more familiar Fancypants language; surely there would have been a word better than good to describe it. “Great,” she says breathlessly, traces his mouth with shaky fingers. It’s so, so wet. Her cunt throbs, and, when she can speak without panting (or without panting too hard, anyway), she tugs at his hair. “Get up here, now, ‘n show me what else you can do.”




What else he can do turns about to be a whole damn lot - they stay in the bedroom for the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, getting up to shower (he very politely and very vaguely deflects her lewd shower sex comment) and eat a bite, though that also ends up with some more snogging against the kitchen counter.

At HQ the next day, she’s just finished doing up the zip to her uniform when Roxy stumbles into the room, fixated on her mobile. When she looks up, she does a double take.

“Oh, God,” she says, and when Eggsy raises an eyebrow at her, she points to her own neck. “You have a little, er, something there.”

Eggsy gives her a crooked grin. “You think I don't know it?”