Archive of Our Own

They stand either side of the closed dining room door like sentries while the argument rages on inside. Victoria glances at the young agent when she senses movement, but he's already looked away, keeping his eyes demurely turned to the pocked oak floorboards. Still, there's something in his demeanour that suggests he knows he's being watched, a preening sort of tilt to his posture. He's got one hand slipped casually into his pocket, ruining the beautiful line of his tailored suit, and one long leg crossed over the other at the ankle as he leans there lazy and languid against the green silk wallpaper.

Adorable, really. He must have only finished his training five minutes ago, and now he's diligently trying to remember all his lessons on how to look like he's not a spy. It's ridiculously charming – that, and his dreadful bouffant hairdo. And the amused sort of glint in his eyes when he looks up again and catches her studying him. And – god – dimples as deep as graves when he drops her a lazy sideways smile.

"Arthur can argue for fifteen hours non-stop when he's got the devil in him," Galahad says. "I hope your boss has stamina."

"Oh, yes, he's got plenty of that." Behind the door M is barking something about a shambles, something about failed communication between the agencies, cross-contamination of missions. "Rather a prerequisite of MI6, you know."

"Ah." Galahad shifts his weight, lolling against the wall with just his left shoulder now so he can look at her properly: her eyes, lingering on her lips, down to the patch of skin bared above her open collar. Very, very interesting. "Then I presume that goes for you as well?"

"Naturally. I've pulled off"—she says it with the slightest emphasis, watching his face for a tell—"many a long, hard job in my time."

Galahad's pretty mouth drops open slightly at that, something half-amused and half-hungry managing to show itself in his eyes. Terrible poker face. What are they teaching spy recruits these days? "Fascinating," he murmurs, and that lovely, stupid grin drifts back onto his face as he finally removes his hand from his pocket and extends it towards her in front of the door between them. "Harry Hart."

"Victoria Winslow." She's half-expecting him to kiss her hand – it's the sort of archaic nonsense Arthur goes in for – but he shakes like a gentleman and releases her. "Good work this afternoon, by the way."

"A little 'too many cooks', don't you think?" His grin broadens, showing too many teeth and those bloody dimples again. "It's like a joke. 'How many secret agents does it take to save the life of a prime minister?'" The argument behind the door notches up a few more decibels, then there's the thumping sound of a fist hammering down on the table. Galahad, Harry, rolls his eyes, contemptuous and bored – which, god, should not be as attractive as it is. Victoria thinks vaguely that she'd be ashamed of herself, if she didn't make it a point never to be ashamed of herself.

"Bugger this. Shall we get a drink?" she suggests.

Harry's eyes flicker to her mouth again – somebody's going to have to do something about those tells, honestly. "I can send for a pot of tea, if you'd like," he says, settling his face into an expression of bland innocence as if he doesn't know exactly what she means, as if he's not starving for it.

"A drink in the bar of my hotel."

They bypass the hotel bar in the end; seems pointless to bother, really, when there's a bar in her suite. She mixes them a martini each and watches, amused, as Harry reaches past his own for the glass nearest to her and drinks from that instead.

"You don't trust me."

"I don't trust anyone."

"Very wise."

The gin makes him chatty. He's careful never to spill any real secrets, but he tells stories about his time in training – which was longer than five minutes ago, though only just – and talks easy, fluid nonsense about the weather and the view over Green Park. He's smooth with his questions, slipping them gently into conversation in a way that's not so much pressing for information as caressing. It's charming. Adorable little baby spy, doing his very best. Victoria tries to hide a smile behind her glass as Harry, jacket and glasses discarded somewhere and a glorious pink flush in his cheek, gestures in the air with his hands as he talks excitedly about some polo match he played in at Eton.

"Another drink?" she offers, and Harry laughs quietly, sprawled out on his back across the entire length of the brocade chaise with his hair in a mess and his shirt collar askew.

"Why not? Celebrate my first completed mission with the most beautiful woman in London."

"Flattery is beneath you," she tells him in fake reproach as she slips off her shoes and stands up to go to the bar.

"But truth isn't." He catches her hand as she passes and gazes up at her: drunk, but not too much, flushed and dimpled and starry-eyed. This time he does bring her fingers to his mouth, kisses gently across her knuckles, and a rippling little shiver runs down her spine and out to all her limbs.

"I'm old enough to be your mother, you know."

"Nonsense. My mother's forty-eight. You must be, what, twenty years younger?"

"Oh, I like you." She fights a smile and loses, trying to be mildly insulted by his eager by-the-book seduction attempt but really just charmed by how much effort he's putting into it. "Thirty-five. And you, Agent Galahad?"

"Nineteen."

"Bloody hell, is Kingsman recruiting straight out of nursery school?"

"I assure you I know what I'm doing," he tells her, mouth and breath warm against her hand, brown eyes warmer still with laughter and desire. Well. Alright then.

"Move over," she tells him, abandoning the plan for more drinks. "Let me sit down."

"Hm." He finally lets her hand go, but doesn't move: he stays exactly where he is for a long moment, gazing up at her, then his smile turns crooked and teasing. "You could always sit here instead," he says, tapping his forefinger gently against his chin. "If you think you'd find it comfortable, of course."

She'd laugh at him if he weren't already aware of how ridiculous he sounds; as it is, the knowing in his grin somehow twists the godawful line around and makes it work. A jolt of longing rockets through her, making her breathing catch until she forces it steady again and raises one eyebrow slowly, staring at Harry in silence until his smile starts to falter. It's strangely gratifying. Shake him up a bit, cocky beautiful little shit.

"Not much cushioning there," Victoria says eventually, "bony little sod," and the grin dances back into Harry's eyes, long lashes fluttering as he blinks up at her like some bloody Disney princess. She touches his cheek, slides her thumb across the sharp line of his jaw – which, yes, she can imagine being extremely comfortable there, thanks – and Harry chases the movement of her hand to press a clumsy kiss to the inside of her wrist. His own hands come to rest on her legs, fingers drawing up unexpected goosebumps on her skin until he reaches higher, one hand vanishing inside her pinstriped skirt and hesitating there, fingertips tracing the lace edging of her stocking.

"May I?"

"You already are."

He laughs, hums softly in agreement, and tickles his first two fingertips an inch higher still. "Please. May I?"

"Harry, for god's sake," she snaps impatiently and does it herself, knocking his hand out of the way and pushing her underwear down in a single quick movement. She hesitates then, half-convinced it's all bravado on his part and he's going to weasel out of it now she's actually taking him up on the offer – but there's blatant, unabashed want in his eyes when he touches her again, an amused sort of slant to his eyebrows as though he's suddenly realised he's giving himself away so prettily. He's obscene, an illustration from a banned book, all wet mouth and rosy cheeks and the flutter of long, ridiculous lashes as he fiddles clumsily with the zip and hooks holding her skirt closed. He manages it eventually – she waits there with her arms folded until he does; this was his idea, he can bloody well work for it – and the fabric slithers down around her ankles, leaving her standing there in only hold-ups and blouse.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

He shrugs, languorous and unconcerned, drawing teasing little swooping patterns across her skin before hooking one fingertip in the elastic lace band of her stocking as though he's trying to decide whether to take them off for her or leave them on. "The textbooks were very informative. Look, I'm presuming Merlin set all this up, he's been threatening to for months. But—"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

The dawning look of horror on his face is too delightful. "Oh no. I'm so sorry. I thought you were—"

"A hooker!"

"No." He covers his face with his hands for a moment, then peeps out between his fingers. He's behaving himself now, pointedly not looking at any part of her but her face. "I don't know how you do it in MI6 but they train us to be, you know, Jack of all trades. Seduction is the only test I did badly in, but my shooting scores were impeccable so on balance I turned out to be the best candidate. Merlin said be prepared for a retest at any time, so..."

His voice fades away to nothing and his closes the gap between his fingers, hiding in silence for a while.

"Agent Galahad"—it's difficult to sound imperious with your tuppence hanging out and a cringing teenager dying of embarrassment in front of you but she gives it her fucking all—"excuse the honesty, but you're a bloody terrible spy."

Of all the things, that's what kicks him back into action. "Am I?" he says, indignant. He burrows down the side of the chaise cushion with one hand, bringing out a slim black leather purse – her purse, the little shit, and god knows when he managed to lift that from her jacket pocket when she's not taken her eyes off him since M and Arthur stranded them together outside the meeting room door. "I know three of your aliases, I know from these train tickets you probably live in Maida Vale. That's not bad."

"That's not spying, that's picking pockets." She holds out her hand and Harry stares up at her for a moment, jaw set tight, stubborn, before he relents and hands the purse over.

"I told you I didn't trust anyone."

"Yes, and I'm remembering why I usually feel the same."

A silence, long and strained. Victoria stoops to collect her underwear and skirt with all the dignity she can manage – then Harry touches her again, his long fingers closing around her wrist, faltering and gentle.

"Do you mean you actually, you know, wanted to?"

Embarrassment is an emotion for other people, but there's a twinge of something uncomfortable in the bottom of her stomach and she doesn't approve of it at all. "Well, there's nothing decent on television on Wednesdays, is there?"

It makes him breathe out in a way that's almost a laugh, mouth twitching at the corners. "I meant it about the textbooks. Very detailed."

And that's it: decision back in place. "The idea of learning any of this from a textbook is fucking unacceptable," she tells him, and throws her clothing back onto the carpet. Harry gazes up at her from his place on the chaise, looking almost comically startled until his expression shifts, delight and hunger and something like a challenge when she sets one knee onto the cushioned seat between his thighs and leans down to capture his pretty mouth in a kiss. He surges up into it, murmuring some wordless noise of pleasure at the touch of her hand on the back of his head, her fingers closing around a fistful of his hair. This part he must have done before; he's confident, starting slow, letting her lead then sliding his tongue across her lower lip until she's shivering above him. She can feel Harry's hands on the back of her blouse, gliding over the white satin until he finds the hem and draws the fabric up her spine in a concertina of wrinkles.

"Off, please," he says softly, nimbly unhooking her bra and somehow managing to get it and the blouse off over her head without touching either the buttons at the front or her carefully rolled hairdo. His hands on her skin are skilled – she wonders vaguely who he practiced on; somehow can't shake the ridiculous image of a room full of trainee agents practicing clumsily on each other – and it's only seconds before she's settling on his body, warm and shuddering astride his thigh, riding the muscle there while his fingertips dance over ribs and vertebrae as though he's learning the shape of her. There's something magnificent in his eyes, a fervent sort of hunger; when Harry braces his heel hard against the cushion to give her a more steady surface to thrust against Victoria can't help closing her eyes, but when she opens them again he's still gazing at her and a hot little thrill ripples through all her limbs, tingling through her fingers where they're still twisted in his hair.

"I'm afraid I'm going to mess up your lovely suit," she tells him, breathing growing ever less steady as Harry's long fingers trail up her side to slide across her breast.

"I can't tell you how disappointed I'll be if you don't." His voice trembles over the last few words when the hand not on her breast finds her thigh again, the band of black lace at the top of her stocking. "God, I forgot you still had these on."

"Would you like me to take them off?"

"Absolutely not." For a moment his grin broadens – lucky me – then his tongue darts out to replace his thumb on her breast, circling her nipple, lips closing tight around and sucking carefully with his eyes on hers the whole time as though he's checking he's doing it right. As though the precocious little bastard can't feel he's doing it right through the sodden fabric of his trousers. He makes a noise against her skin when her fingers tighten in his hair so she does it again, testing, and he outright moans through his nose.

"Wonderful," she tells him, wanting to keep the approval in her voice to a decorous level – because he really doesn't need this fire fanning, he's already far too aware he's doing well – but not managing it at all. "I do love a boy I can tug about by the hair."

"Do your worst," Harry murmurs against her chest, kissing a frantic sideways line and taking her other nipple into his mouth, "rip the whole fucking mess out if it pleases you." He's gazing back up at her face above him, sucking the way he's figured out she likes it, hard and steady. She shifts astride his leg, starting a slow, sliding rhythm of her slick cunt against his ruined trousers while her free hand moves down between their bodies – hers bare, his still fully clothed – to press against the hot, hard line of his cock. He makes the loveliest noise at the touch, rocking up to meet her palm, and his mouth around her nipple goes slack and weak as all his focus fades away into helpless wobbly breaths. He scrambles to touch her then, as though he suddenly thinks he's fallen behind in whatever game they're playing: his fingertips slide over her knuckles where she's stroking his cock through the fabric of his trousers, reaching down to press his thumb against the thrumming ache in her clit. "What?" he asks defensively when she laughs, and Victoria shakes her head, she can't quite form the shape of words.

"Textbooks," she manages after a moment. "Good god."

"Yes. This particular diagram was extremely detailed." He's laughing too – silent, but she can feel the motion of it when he closes the hot circle of his mouth over her breast again, rough tongue wet and wonderful on her nipple, sucking her back to stiffness in his mouth. "I have done this before, you know," he says eventually when he releases her. "Just, well, not for a test."

The gentle motion of his thumb isn't enough. She moves an inch or two higher on Harry's thigh, pressing insistently against his hand until he gets the idea and pushes back, circling her clit faster and harder until she's breathless. "I'll gladly give you marks out of ten at the end if you work best under pressure."

"Will you?" Harry says eagerly, and she laughs again despite all her efforts not to.

"Why not. I'm curious to see how much bigger your ego can grow."

"Big enough." He rocks his hips up, driving the ridge of his cock harder against her hand. "Marks so far?"

"Six. Room for improvement."

She releases his hair at last when she feels him tugging against her grip, letting him fall back against the chaise. For a long moment he watches her – her face, breasts, her steady motion as she rides herself towards climax on his pinstriped thigh – then his lovely flushed mouth twists up in a devilish sort of smile and he moves both his hands to her hips, first helping her to rock against him and then, insistently, slowing her motions until she stops altogether. Before she can protest, Harry says nonchalantly, "I believe I extended an invitation earlier."

That's almost enough to set her off like a firework on its own. "You did," she replies, aiming for a matching indifference but far too breathless to sound anywhere close. He goes very still when she starts to move, kneeling first over his desperately straining cock, then wetting the pristine white fabric of his shirt, the broadness of his chest. She halts finally with her knees pressed up close into his armpits so she can look down at his face, the shift of myriad expressions there, making sure his bravado hasn't finally overtaken his desire. He stares back, steady, and then slowly raises one eyebrow in a maddening sort of get on with it gesture. Right, then.

She reaches for his tie, loosening the fat Windsor knot and slipping the silk out from underneath his collar, and unfastens the first few buttons. He swallows hard, she can feel the slide of his throat against the back of her hand, but otherwise stays perfectly quiet while she moves another few steps higher until his broad shoulders are tucked up firmly against the back of her knees.

"Don't stop," he says, a hoarse wavering little whisper as he slides his hands up her thighs to her backside and draws her closer to his face. "Not until I'm at least an eight."

"Harry, I won't stop until you're an eleven," she tells him firmly, and feels the hum of his laughter when she settles against his mouth. His tongue is on her at once, rough wet sliding velvet taking away the almost painful edge of the throbbing pressure he'd built up in her clit with his thumb before: he licks against her and delves deeper, finds a slick thrusting rhythm between clit and cunt that has her rocking hard against him, feeling every shift of his jaw as he works his tongue into her and all over her. There's your eight, she wants to tell him, but she can't breathe enough to speak so she just twists her fingers hard in his hair again to hold him still, fucking his face with long, slow strokes that leave him gasping as much as she is and shining wet from nose to chin. When she comes the first time it's with Harry's mouth on her clit and his hands pressing almost painfully into the flesh of her backside to grind her down harder against him; by the second he's got two fingers inside her, awkward and incredible. She's exhausted by the third, shuddering too hard to hold her own weight up any longer: she sits trembling against Harry's chest with his hands drawing shivery paths through the glimmering sweat on her thighs, and his tongue – a definite eleven now, bordering on twelve – flickering tirelessly against her clit until a last shockwave of heat rushes through her and she almost falls right off the chaise.

"Steady," Harry murmurs, sliding his arms around her waist to hold her there. There's something delicious in his voice, a sort of languid satisfaction, and it's there in his eyes too: lazy, only half-focused, with drooping, dreamy lids. "Alright?"

"Are you alright?" Victoria counters when she can speak again, one hand pressed over her thudding heart as if that's going to keep it from flying away. "I think I almost drowned you there."

"Yes, wouldn't it be terrible if you had to give me mouth to mouth?" Harry says innocently, mopping his wet chin on his sleeve cuff and eyeing Victoria mischievously over the top of his hand until she relents, shifts and wriggles down his body, kisses his messy mouth. For a while that's all there is, slow indolent kissing and the trail of Harry's fingertips drawing rushing little shivers of goosebumps into the naked skin of her back.

"You," she says suddenly, reaching between them for the buttons on his trousers, but Harry catches her hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing her fingers to keep them there.

"I finished before you did." He says it brazenly, even with a hint of pride; she can't tell whether it's to cover up embarrassment, or he's just genuinely this pleased with himself over absolutely everything he does no matter what it is. "And then again the third time."

"God." She wants to laugh again – ridiculous, wonderful boy – but there's still something to say, although she can't resist stroking her fingers through his ruined, sweaty hair as she does so. "Agent Galahad, congratulations on your successful retest."

"I fucking knew it," Harry says after a moment of blank silence. He's fighting a smile though – she's glad, more than she expected, that he's not upset by the deception, and settles down on his chest again with her head tucked under his chin, feeling the pull of his fingers searching for all her hairpins and carefully sliding them out.

"My report will be with Merlin in the next week or so. You're entitled to a copy if you'd like one."

"Fuck, no. Memory will suffice, thank you." It takes him a while to find all the pins, and then he spends another five silent minutes combing the curls free with his fingers. "Is your name really Victoria?" he asks eventually.

"Yes."

"Did I really make you come three times?"

Sigh. "Yes."

"Good," he says, contented, and stops fidgeting with her hair so he can slide his arms around her naked back and hold her closer.