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One eccentricity

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“In conclusion,” Eggsy says, “It’s all bollocks and they’re all lying. Oral is shit. I’ve had a better time off the 148 to White City than I have off any bloke.”

“Can’t disagree!” Roxy cackles cheerfully. “Which bus did you say? Shall we get another bottle?”

This is the conversation Eggsy blames, later.


The thing is, it could have all been so pervy. Harry could have been so pervy, and she’d never have put up with that shit, so she never would have known about Kingsman and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. But he’s never acted like it means anything that she’s a girl, never looked at her tits or glossed lips or the curve of her hips in her joggers. He’d told her he saw a young woman with potential like he saw the whole of her and not like he wanted to see her on his dick. He’s never made any of it sexual, so she doesn’t think of him like that. Even though he’s a good looking man, obviously, fit as. Which is even though he’s older than her mum. Even though he’s sort of her boss. Even though he needs someone to rumple up those suits of his, take his glasses off and say why Mr Hart, but you’re beautiful-

Not thinking about him like that.



And then, then she says it. Even though she does know Harry, and she knows he’s a gentleman, really is, in all senses of the word, that it means something to him, that he really lives it-

“Don’t know what I’m telling you my shagging problems for, you posh boys, you probably got no idea what a woman looks like when she’s having a good time, yeah?”

- that he will do anything, anything, to answer a direct challenge, and he turns in the doorway where he was doing his best to beat a tactful retreat and raises an eyebrow.


And that’s how Eggsy ends up slumped halfway down the bench in fitting room two, muffling her moans with her own hand because her legs are over Harry’s shoulders and his head is between her thighs and his mouth-

Fuck fucking hell and Jesus fucking Christ his mouth, she’s already come twice and suddenly she’s lost, too deep and spiralling too far into letting herself be pleasured.

Then his mouth is gone but she’s only just whimpering and noticing that, completely beyond herself, when Harry’s beside her on the bench, moving her where he wants her in one smooth glide, one leg over so she’s half in his lap, still open to him, fingers sliding into her cunt and her hair at once, gentling her with her head on his shoulder and his lips at her temple at the same time as he’s driving her up to another orgasm.

“The thing about those boys your age,” he murmurs, “is that they think there’s some technique they can learn, some objective thing that makes them good in bed.” He pushes in another finger at the same time his palm jerks hard against her clit and Eggsy full on screams, this climax stronger and fuller and better than the others and she sees stars, fuck that, sees God, loses it, so grateful for Harry’s body steady against hers as she trembles against him, shakes her head against his low praise of how good she is, how beautiful she is when she comes.

“They don’t realise that the only skill is in paying attention to the person you’re with,” he finishes. “In understanding what they want. In giving it to them.”

Eggsy gasps out a laugh. The pads of his fingers are circling her clit again now, lightly and precisely, and she wouldn’t even have said she liked that, would’ve said it was too much, but after the intensity it turns out it’s just what she needs and she relaxes into it, into Harry and the fact of what they just did.

“Harry,” she says, turns her face further into his neck and grasps at the lapel of the jacket he’s still wearing, his cock a hard hot bulge under her arse.

“Darling girl,” he says, answers, promises, and closes his arms safely around her as his mouth finds hers.