Work Header


Work Text:

Eggsy's relationship with his heats is pretty fuckin' meh.  

His da had been long gone before being an omega meant anything other than an extra wellness check up at the GP every year and bully alpha boys from the next block of flats needing to get told off. His mum had treated the whole thing like another reason to wail high heaven every time Eggsy so much as wandered out of their postcode—don't even get him started on the marines. Outside of that, maybe it meant he took to taking care of Daisy a bit too easy but all in all Eggsy's like, yeah, fine, omega, heats, whatever.

That said, he's never been on a fucking press junket before, has he? Somewhere in the 12 countries, dozens of cities, infinite fucking hotel rooms and cars and flights, he's lost his pills and aces, that's fucking aces that is.  

"Fuck. Shitting fuck," Eggsy tells the sofa, his overturned luggage, the complimentary tray of fruits and cheeses and fucking — are those water crackers? He wonders if he can call down to concierge, ask, "Yeah, you all right, mate? Do you have any emergency icers? But like, only the mega expensive ones, since I'm allergic to the cheap ones they sell in every fucking pharmacy in the world?" 

He thinks about calling the fragile, alabaster pale beta his agent had foisted off on him as a PA, despite the fact that just hearing the words PA makes Eggsy break out in hives. He thinks about calling his fucking agent. He looks at his watch: 2:13 a.m.

"Fuck it, I'll go to urgent care in the morning. I'll keep till then," Eggsy decides, and goes to sleep.

He doesn't really wake up. 

He stops sleeping, though, sometime around 5 a.m., because he's on fire and the rub of his a-frame on his nipples is killing him and his arse is throbbing and his cock is tight and dripping on his belly and his thighs are so slick he can hear them rubbing against each other and shit. Fuck.

Eggsy's full response to going from an extra selected because the director was fucking obsessed with his trackies that day to eventually scamming his way into an actual film as an actor just five years later was a full-throated, "You're taking the piss." 

But when they'd told him, "Yeah, you'll be working closely with Harry Hart, won't that be nice," Eggsy had just gone pale all over in a combination of terror and all the blood in his body going immediately for his cock. He'd had to pretend to object to something in his rider to prolong the fucking meeting for half an hour until his erection was less horrifyingly obvious. Anyway, that's also why everybody leaves him fucking fruit everywhere, too.

It had been through a combination of militant self control and extraordinary amounts of pre-emptive wanking that Eggsy had gotten through filming with Harry, who smiled rarely but gorgeously and once told off the director for being bloody at Eggsy and then came to Eggsy's trailer during set up to check he was all right. Harry'd found him shaken and stuttering, and told Eggsy some nonsense story about being young and crap once (lies; Eggsy's jerked it to literally every one of Harry's films) and touched his shoulder affectionately before going to throw himself on the grenade of soothing the director for his earlier outburst.  

Mostly Eggsy had been shaken and stuttering because he'd almost zipped his cock into his trousers trying to hide how he'd been mid-wank when Harry had rocked up. 

The point is, if there is any one alpha in the whole wide world Eggsy cannot handle during a surprise, unsuppressed heat, it is Harry Hart. 

Like, porn will tell you heat is this bliss of nonstop orgasm and gagging for a knot but (a) nonstop coming gets sore-making after a while and (b) fine okay, Eggsy's actually gagging for a knot, but only because of the fucking biology of the thing. 

He can hear his phone gone mental where it's plugged in across the room, sort of, but mostly it's all he can do to keep desperately fucking himself on four fingers and wishing he was bendy enough to get his fist up inside. He's crying, he knows it. He wants so badly and he's not getting fucking anything much less any fucking and every cell in Eggsy's body is furious about it, and he can smell himself stinking up the room with musk and desperation.  

Eggsy's heats are fucking terrible but ordinary, and not so bad that you'd need an emergency kit for them, so it's weird that he's hallucinating hearing Harry, but there you go. 

"Eggsy?" his brain is saying in Harry's voice. "Eggsy, are you quite all right?"  

When he'd been 13 and starting to get abortive half-heats that just left him sticky and uncomfortable, versus soaked and gagging for it, he'd looked it up in the dirty medical book section of the library: some omegas got it so bad they were mostly comatose and reported hallucinating whatever alpha they felt most connected with. So maybe this is just some new and extra shite way his body's fucking with him, punishment for the six months he'd spent filming Kingsman in close quarters with Harry fucking Hart and now extra double punishment for this endless train job of a press junket.

"Eggsy — your PA is quite worried about you," his Harry hallucination says, because Eggsy's hallucination is fucking boring.  

"The least you could do is say something hot," Eggsy mumbles into his pillow — damp through with sweat, but who's he fucking kidding he's easy as fuck — cock twitching and his arse gushing, making the nasty noises of his fingers in his hole louder and wetter as he presses and presses in, trying to stroke his fingers where he wants them and fucking infuriatingly short. 

"I told him I'd come speak with you," Bad At Sexual Hallucinations Harry goes on, sounding muffled. "I know press tours can be…overwhelming. Can you just let me in?" 

Eggsy doesn't bother to muffle a whine, or the way he says, "Yeah, yeah, get in me," and curls up on his side so he can squeeze his thighs together and tighten around his fingers — the stretch so fucking good and just not enough.

Proving this is officially the least-helpful heat hallucination of all time, Harry doesn't start rumbling brilliant threats of sexual dominance, but there is the sound of bang and clatter outside in the hall, and Eggsy ignores it in favor of curling his fingers inside his arse and wailing into his pillows, feeling his cock leaking all over the sheets. 

"All right, this is your final warning, Eggsy," Shite Sex Dream Harry tells him sternly, which, shit, is totally working for him, so Eggsy bites his lip and rolls his hips back, back until he can feel his knuckles against his opening and he's so close — he's so fucking close — 

This, of course, is when the actual door to his actual room is actually opened by actual Harry Hart.

Eggsy is an embarrassing, ridiculous person, so obviously it was no surprise that he lasted less than two weeks into filming before someone discovered his monstrous crush and began laying into his poor life choices. Roxy, RADA-trained and upsettingly gorgeous, had apparently spent a week documenting Eggsy's revolting behavior before accosting him in the makeup trailer mostly topless with her face half done. 

"Jeeezus," Eggsy had wheezed, seizing at his chest and trying not to look anywhere below her perfect collarbones.

"You bring Harry tea, every day," Roxy had told him, with the intensity of a thousand annoying suns. "Do you know that you bring Harry tea, every day, in his favorite mug, which you run round craft services locating if it's not exactly where it ought to be, as if you are in fact the tea boy, and not third-billed on this film?"

Eggsy remembered turning bright red and trying to construct a convincing lie, and how Roxy had endured it for all of 30 seconds. 

"Also, yesterday, you literally wilted into his arms," Roxy had interrupted, ruthless.

"I was dizzy, yeah, from stunting," Eggsy had argued feebly.

Roxy had stuck her fucking mobile in his face. On its filthy, fingerprinted screen was an image of Eggsy in his fucking plaid boiler suit clutching at Harry's lapels, gazing up at him. It looks like the cover of a discontinued line of extremely offensive Mills and Boone books and Eggsy had grabbed for the phone, instinctive, to try and destroy the evidence.

Much later that day, Eggsy and Roxy had rocked up to set looking roughed up and thoroughly told off by the 2nd unit director for brutalizing one another. But Harry, being in many ways exactly the sort of benignly chauvinistic alpha who felt compelled to inspect Eggsy for injuries after every action sequence, had clucked over him with the tenderest of affection, and gone so far as to cup Eggsy's face and frown disapprovingly at the red mark on his cheek — left by Roxy when she'd shoved him into a cupboard to defend her mobile — so overall that had been pretty great. 

"More wilting, excessive wilting," Roxy had hissed at him, later that night.

The point is, Eggsy's Harry Hart situation is mortifying verging on farce, and the very last thing his fragile thread of dignity can bear up against is the clean linen and deep forest smell of Harry, filling up a room. 

Eggsy hears, "Christ," and then, "Yes, hi, it's me — it's an emergency, we'll need to cancel the rest of the day. Absolutely. Yes. Good," and then, "Also, have someone discreet send up some emergency icers, please. Quickly as you can."

"Don't work on me," Eggsy says, and then his eyes snap open to see actual Harry fucking actual Hart stood at the door to his room looking stricken. "Shit."

"What do you mean they don't work?" Actual Harry demands. 

"Shit," Eggsy says. "Shit shit shit," he says, and drags his fingers out of his arse — ow — too fast and rolls himself up in the wrecked duvet and feels his whole body go ice cold after running too hot for hours and hours. "Fuck." 

Actual Harry, who is apparently still on his actual mobile, says into it, "I'll call you back — Eggsy's fine, I have him — " yes, please, Eggsy's brain says " — I'll check in later," before hanging up and squaring Eggsy with a Look and asking, "Do you need a doctor?" 

Eggsy has a vivid, terrible image of TMZ tomorrow: UPSTART INGENUE UNWIN GETS HOT DOC VISIT!!

"No," he manages, wobbly and weak-kneed even though he's not even standing. 

Having Harry nearby always makes him wobbly and weak-kneed, and right now his mouth and his arse and his lizard brain are all screaming that if Harry's actually here, then why the fuck isn't he doing his job? why isn't Harry putting Eggsy on his bellyand sinking his dick where it belongs? 

"You're clearly in distress," Harry argues, like this is a time for fucking logic. "They make house calls. You need a prescription."

Eggsy barely keeps himself from saying, "I need to find out how many times I can come on your knot," in favor of babbling, "No — Harry, no, that's the last story I need gettin' out about me. Just — I'll be fine." 

Harry, where he's still keeping an ocean of space between them, looks unconvinced.

"Really," Eggsy lies. 

He's going to add, "it's fine," but the HVAC in the hotel room kicks in, and the recirculation gets him going fucking mental at the smell of Harry's skin, and Eggsy must make a noise, he must make a lot of them and they must sound awful, because by the time he checks back in it's to the hot weight of a hand on his wrist, anchoring him, and choking crush of a palm on his throat — pinning him to the bed, taking him down, a thumb dug into the pulse point under his jaw in the reassurance of a threat. 

"Eggsy," he hears. "Breathe." 

God, there's nothing Eggsy wants to do more than whatever the voice wants. He wants to be good. He can be good. He will be good, so Eggsy fights and fights and manages to suck in a breath, his lungs inflating, air rushing in and it's so good it's chemical joy, making him dizzy and the room brighten, until he blinks and blinks and he can see Harry, looming over him with a look on his face like he's fucking ravenous.

It's the first time since dawn, since this morning when he'd woken up hot and hurting and desperate that Eggsy's been able to think straight at all. Harry's got a couple of inches and a couple of stone on him, and the solid weight of muscle underneath his neat shirts and trousers feel so fucking good Eggsy could cry. And then there's the fucking smell of him, the way home smells after months away, and Eggsy wants to put his face into Harry's neck and beg — so he does it, why not at this point? Harry's already seen Eggsy three fingers deep up his own cunt and whining like a whore and this whole things fucked anyway so really Eggsy should just —  

"Don't," Harry growls at him, three-quarters pleading and the rest a command. "Eggsy, stop."

Harry's close enough that restraint's a complete afterthought for Eggsy, now. He just gasps desperate lungfuls of the smell of Harry, soaks up the heat of Harry into the parched desert of his skin, begs, "Please — I need it, I need youplease." This close, there's no way to lie, all of Harry's reassuringly gentlemanly affectations are being ripped wide open by the chemical firestorm of Eggsy's greedy, grasping body.  

But Harry doesn't give, he doesn't give anything. He doesn't take mercy and sink his teeth into Eggsy's neck or offer up fingers for Eggsy's mouth and he doesn't shove his way between Eggsy's thighs like he's meant to do. He just looks tortured and conflicted, the bruise he's gripping into Eggsy's wrist and into the side of Eggsy's neck deepening — and Eggsy leans into it because God, how he wants that mark, needs it to go purple and violent so he can admire it tomorrow and the day after and all month, gorgeous and stinging.  

"If I let go, will you stay still?" Harry asks him, hoarse. "I'll call someone for you — another omega, to look after you." 

Eggsy says, "no," but really it comes out a wailing, sulking sob. If Harry lets go, Eggsy will dig his claws into him, drag him down by his perfectly starched collar and dark jacket, tear away all of their human trappings and get what he wants. 

"What about someone else?" Harry asks, but it sounds awful, it sounds hurt coming out of his mouth. "Do you — is there someone I can call for you? A partner?"

To be honest, if some other alpha had rocked up, Eggsy'd probably go for their throat with his teeth — it's what he usually does if anybody tries to get close in on him during heat. But the thought can barely register over the way Eggsy can see something dark and jealous on Harry's face, in his eyes, and Eggsy thinks he'd do anything — even half fuck someone else — if it would get Harry to jettison his hesitation and fuck him. Eggsy can think this, feel this, abstractly, but his tongue is dumb and heavy in his mouth, and all he wants to do with it is lick into Harry's mouth, lap at his throat, run it round the crown of Harry's dick. 

"You," he manages, after an age, after an eon, he manages it. "I want you."

"That's your heat talking, Eggsy," Harry tells him, with reserved kindness and that infuriating paternalism that all alphas develop after they turn 35. It makes Eggsy want to fuck him up, grind down on him until Harry's a mess, feral, until he discards all of his careful manners and leaves Eggsy destroyed — too sore to walk.  

Harry's strong and he's heavy, and Eggsy can't get his hands up to touch, but he can roll his hips, grind the hard line of his dick through the thin duvet and into the solid meat of Harry's thigh. "I could be good," Eggsy hears himself pleading.  

Harry makes a noise like an Italian sportscar being throttled back, something fast and dangerous barely under control and — oh fuck, oh fuck, Eggsy thinks, faint and fucking rapturous — he tightens the hand at Eggsy's throat, until the oxygen is hitting his throat in fits and euphoric starts, until Eggsy's dick and his hole are throbbing.  

"You've no idea what you truly want right now, Eggsy," Harry growls at him, pressing closer, gorgeous with menace.

That might be true if Eggsy hasn't been half in love with Harry for months now — the brutally awkward crush from his first days of the shoot growing teeth and setting them into the juncture of his neck, where Eggsy wishes Harry would break the skin with a bite. Eggsy might have always been panting to get on his knees for Harry Hart, star of stage and screen, but he likes Harry, in a crippling, embarrassing way. He likes how Harry is always bloody late and has a genuine fondness for shitty, miniaturized dogs and has spent the entire fucking press tour overprotectively sweeping in to entertain bad interviewers and reporters while Eggsy's sat there useless like a sleep-deprived, overwhelmed stump. Eggsy's been gone on Harry for ages, but he'd given in on it a week ago in Seoul, when the latest of a long list of reporters had been chivvied off and Harry had taken one look at Eggsy's face and called off the rest of the interviews. They'd ended up in some shitty tent restaurant in the back streets of Gangnam instead, the entire restaurant perched on a street angled at roughly 30 degrees, drinking milk-white sweet rice liquor and getting off their faces. Mostly what Eggsy remembers about that night is blistering his tongue on pork belly and Harry's thumb, rubbing ssamjang off the corner of Eggsy's mouth, and how badly Eggsy had wanted permission to press a kiss into the whorl of Harry's fingerprint — to close his teeth over the meat of the digit and bite.

Eggsy's too gone to say all of that, and he doesn't have the bollocks anyway, but he can gasp, "I do — I've wanted you since ages, forever. I wanted you to kiss me in Korea."

"You were drunk in Korea," Harry says, but there's a crack in his voice, like a structural wall giving way.

"I've wanted you since before, long before, yeah?" Eggsy's babbling, blabbing. The only way he won't end up regretting this in the morning is if he wakes up still hanging off of Harry's knot. "I used to watch your awful fucking Merchant Ivory movies and wank. And last week you showed me pictures of your stupid dead stuffed dog on your phone and I went back to my hotel room and watched that horrible musical you did and wished you would hold my hand oh my God, Harry, Jesus are you going to fuck me or not?" 

Harry stares at him, color in his cheeks and his eyes hot, and Eggsy thinks — delirious — that if Harry doesn't kiss him, he'll immolate, burn to ash from inside out. He hopes Harry feels fucking shite about it.

But Harry just tightens the hand at Eggsy's wrist, flexes the palm on Eggsy's throat, just whispers, "Who could resist you?" and leans down so that he whispers, "And in this state," against Eggsy's mouth — his lips brushing over Eggsy's, and Eggsy can't help the whine that pours out of him. The way it pitches to make alphas indulgent, coddling, so that Harry will reflexively say, "Hush, Eggsy," and close those last millimeters between them. 

Harry kisses like he's starving — invasive — with teeth. It's just like and better than what Eggsy's always imagined, rougher and breathless, and Eggsy only gets to miss Harry's hand at his throat and wrist for seconds before he feels fingers at the duvet, jerking it away so that Harry can settle — proprietary — between Eggsy's soaked thighs.

"Oh, shit," Eggsy says, and it comes out a cracked wide whisper, high and raspy and already fucked out. 

He gets dragged by the hips to rub his dick against the belly of Harry's white shirt for that, the buckle of Harry's fuck off expensive belt cold against his bollocks, and Eggsy tries to roll his hips, tries to get any friction. He loops an arm around Harry's huge shoulders, slides the other one down, down the long curve of Harry's back to claw at the back of his trousers, drag him nearer, and Eggsy can feel himself dripping, the wet cloth now of Harry's suit. 

Harry doesn't bother softening the kiss, slowing it, it just gets meaner and sharper, and when Harry scrapes his teeth over Eggsy's lower lip, he slides a hand into the slicked up apex of Eggsy's thighs, too, ignoring his cock and rubbing straight for his hole. 

"What shall I do with you, Eggsy?" is what Harry says, when he finally pulls away, lets Eggsy drag in a breath and lets his body shudder and shudder, try to twist his hips so that the tips of Harry's big, thick fingers keep catching at his opening, keep getting soaked with the wet Eggsy's leaking nonstop now. 

Eggsy would sass him, but Harry arches over Eggsy's chest, so that now he can suck kisses into Eggsy's collarbones, bite at the dusky skin of a nipple, and Eggsy's entire body twists off the bed as Harry does it, and he wails and wails when Harry doesn't let up, keeps his teeth set in and sucks hard enough to be blissful fucking agony. It hurts and it's so so wonderful and Eggsy can feel his eyes getting wet now, too, lashes damp, and he swallows every noise he was making when Harry bypasses teasing and slicks three fingers right into Eggsy's arse — knuckle deep. 

Eggsy hears himself scream, and any other time, he'd come, he knows it, but right now it just makes him shiver and shake, makes him tighten at Harry's fingers greedily, makes his cock drool on his belly, making a mess. 

"Too far gone for that, I see," Harry murmurs, into the hot skin of Eggsy's sternum as he moves his mouth down Eggsy's chest, until he's Jesus Christ licking into Eggsy's naval, fucking filthy.

"Please, please," Eggsy says, not because he has too much pride to say, "I need your knot to come," but because it's the only word he thinks he knows right now. He knows "please" and maybe he knows "Harry," and he needs, desperately, to be taken care of, in a way that makes him feel absurd, overwhelmed. 

Harry murmurs, "Hush, darling," and, "I have you," and he does, slowly fucking Eggsy open on his fingers, until Eggsy's reached down to grab at Harry's shirt, his shoulders, whining as he rolls his arse back on the good ache of it, the deep, satisfying stretch

It's good, but it's not enough, and Eggsy hears himself whining again, gone nonverbal and pleading. But Harry seems to understand him, says, "I know, dearest, just a little longer," and presses a lingering, nearly sweet kiss to Eggsy's hip, and on Eggsy's skin Harry's mouth feels like a brand. Eggsy's never let anyone near him during a heat: they'd all smelled or felt wrong, but right now it's like he's starving, is consumed with a staggering hunger. He wants Harry's mouth on him and his fingers and the weight of his body, any marks Harry will leave behind. Eggsy wants Harry's cock tucked deep inside him, wants to tilt his hips so all Harry's come goes where it should, so Eggsy presents for his knot as gorgeously as Harry deserves.

He hopes Harry can tell, that all the chemical signals zinging through the room are translating for Harry, because he's gone past words, reduced to pulling at Harry's clothes and his hair trying to get what he wants as quick as he can. He feels petulant, needy in a way that makes him hotter and angrier all over. This must be what the books had talked about, that he'd been forced to read as a boy, the way genetic instinct kicks in where the wear and polish of civilization leaves off, because Eggsy yesterday had been too shy, even, to confess he thought Harry's suit looked very well on him. Eggsy, now, wants to sink his teeth into the corded muscle of Harry's pectoral and climb on top of him, have Harry tied up inside of him and jizz making his belly swell. 

Harry's fucking him open on four-fingers now, his other hand stroking down to press low on Eggsy's belly before he closes his massive hand around Eggsy's hip and jerks, drags him down the bed, further out of his nest of linens. Eggsy can feel himself now, the tight desperation of his hips and thighs melted away, the hormones gone into overdrive and making him a slick, soft mess: anticipating. 

"Eggsy, darling," Harry says to him, crooning, sweet, mouth close to jut of Eggsy's hip, "Are you quite certain about this?" 

Apparently Eggsy can still talk, because he grabs a handful of Harry's gorgeous hair, with its gorgeous gray starting to appear, and he twists. "If you don't tie me, now, I'm going to rip out a fucking handful of this," he says, and Eggsy means it.

Harry grins, wild and sharp in the eyes, and he says, "Where was this fire when that reporter from MTV was bullying you last week," as pulls his fingers free, reaches for this zip and belt of his trousers.

"I thought you were nice then," Eggsy pants, reaching down to help. Mostly he just reaches so he can touch: the thick, hot root of Harry's cock, the wiry hair, so he can drag the waistline of the boxer briefs out of the way. "I was trying to be on good behavior." 

"Ridiculous," Harry laughs, but he's sliding up Eggsy's body now, pressing himself in close and heavy along Eggsy's chest, curling one arm underneath him, gripping Eggsy's shoulder in an open palm — bracing — and it kicks up a chemical burn in Eggsy's belly, that flares outward through him. "You're a delight this way — "

And it's now that Eggsy feels the head of Harry's dick pressed up against him, an urgent pressure against him that's breathtakingly good, all the while Harry keeps fucking talking.

" — Mouthy — "

Eggsy's so fucking soaked it's easy for Harry to fuck into him, for the massive thick head of his cock to pop inside, the ring of muscle giving way. And Eggsy clutches at Harry's arms, at the fucking Dolce and Gabbana suit jacket Harry's still wearing as Harry makes him take it and take it and take it.

" — Wanton — " 

"Oh, fuck," Eggsy manages, he gasps, pitched high, because Harry's thick. Harry's thick  and heavy and his cock gets fucking thicker in the middle, and he's relentless fucking himself a space into Eggsy: patient, the ridge of his glans pressing against something deep inside that makes Eggsy buck into Harry, desperate for more.

" — Gorgeous," Harry concludes.

Eggsy feels the last length of Harry filling him up: the thicker base of his cock, the way he thinks he can feel it swelling up already, the hot skin of Harry's bollocks pressed tight against his arse, and he goes fucking mute. Harry's dick is too much, taking up too much space for there to be any air in Eggsy's lungs, and it's all he can do to throb and throb like the beating muscle of a heart around Harry's cock, his own prick drooling steadily onto his belly now, his nipples gone tight. 

"Breathe, breathe," Harry is whispering to him, forehead pressed against Eggsy's, as if he doesn't know that Eggsy can't, that there's no way, no matter how much Harry runs his hands down Eggsy's sides, kisses his throat, the well between his collar bones.  

They're so close, close enough Eggsy can feel the heat of Harry's mouth and he keeps trying and failing to breath until Harry chokes out, "Eggsy," and kisses him.

The movie's not got a romance or anything; it's mostly wildly over-choreographed action and terrifying stunts, but every scene Eggsy has with Harry is meant to be meaningful, charged. They'd spent hours together at Pinewood and during resets, Harry spilling on himself and swearing vociferously while trying to charm costume into not killing him. And all the scenes on the Kingsman tailor's set were murder, soft-lit close quarters, with Eggsy's character smiling up at Harry's character like he hung the moon and stars, and it'd been too fucking easy to do it, because when Harry smiles down at Eggsy, Eggsy never sees Agent Galahad, he sees Harry smiling down at Eggsy, and his body instinctively, instantly turns toward him, like a flower toward the sun. 

So for weeks and weeks and weeks, Eggsy has lived a fresh hell of standing on his mark under the hot set lights, being close enough to smell Harry's cologne, and staring up at him with barely concealed longing. He's curled his hands into fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch. He knows Harry's got better offers, but he can't kill the strange hope of it because every time Harry says, "Eggsy," he does it with such a fucking smile on his face that it makes something in Eggsy's chest explode.

"Unwin," Merlin, who is the meanest person and nicest director Eggsy's ever met, had shouted at him then, "if you keep fucking staring at fucking Hart with that fucking cow-eyed fucking face on, your shagging a princess at the end of this fucking movie is going to be completely fucking unconvincing." 

"Ignore him, Eggsy," Harry had instructed. "He's jealous of our chemistry."

In the background, Roxy had brandished her mobile, muttering, "Unbelievable." 

Harry kisses the way he does everything else: invasive, presumptuous. Eggsy takes to it the way he took to Harry handing him out of cars, guiding him down red carpets, pouring his fucking Perrier: he manages — finally — a blissful, dizzying breath, and melts into it, utterly fucking gives himself over. 

Harry scrapes his teeth over Eggsy's lower lip, tongue fucking its way into Eggsy's mouth. All the while, Harry grinds his dick slowly, patiently, at Eggsy, inside of him, making him feel like there're sparks flying upward, making him whine and gasp and his breath hitch out of him.  

"There you are," Harry says, when he breaks away, crooning. 

It's at once nothing at all and just like the way Harry herds him round in between hotel rooms for interviews, comes and sits with him during bafflingly quiet moments, sent him midnight texts asking after him — doting, sweet. It's dismantling, this, to have Harry splitting him in two with his cock and kissing him so patiently, like they've all the time in the world. The urgent neediness of Eggsy's heat's been subsumed by Harry's presence, by the good and reassuring smell of him and weight of his body, his dick, so Eggsy can even enjoy it, how lovely Harry is, how loving. 

His hands are sliding down to grip the backs of Eggsy's knees, pushing them up and — fuck — pinning them to his chest, and Eggsy's body knows what's coming better than his brain because his hips go loose and his arse clutches at Harry, greedy. 

Eggsy finds his voice, just long enough to say, "Harry, please."

Harry answers him in half syllables, in between languid, drugging kisses, "Of course, darling," he says, and hitches Eggsy closer — his cock sliding another half inch deeper, shit, shit, fuck — before he slides his mouth down to the curve of Eggsy's neck and bites.

Eggsy's whole body jolts, arching into the sharp tear of Harry's fucking teeth drawing blood, into the rough, impatient jerk of Harry's hips, snapping into Eggsy's arse now. He's screaming, probably, or at least he's shouting, a loud desperate noise he can't stop from bursting out, and Eggsy reaches down to grab at Harry's £3,000 belt to drag him closer, to try and get him deeper.

He's making the most awful noises, a continuous whine right into Harry's ear, begging, "Please, please, I need it, Harry, please," and shoving back on Harry's dick every time it drags in and out of him — his arse fucked open and swollen-soft, the slick still gushing out of him as he feels the base of Harry's cock thickening. Eggsy's bitten his lip bloody, his face is wet; he wants more, immediately, and he's never been more desperate or more in love with Harry than right now. He hurts, his whole body a massive bruise from the inside out, and it's so fucking good he can feel his cock dripping nonstop — every time the head of his dick gets scraped by the buttons on Harry's fucking shirt Eggsy wails, shivering — and he can feel it coming, something close.  

"Fuck," Harry says, gasps it into Eggsy's neck, keeps laving sloppy-open mouthed kisses into the open wound of his bite. "Fuck, Eggsy." 

Eggsy reaches between them, slides his hand down, down all the way. He doesn't touch his dripping hard-on, but he lets his fingers creep lower, behind where his balls are hot and tight, to where Harry's slamming into him, and Eggsy presses his fingertips to the stretched-tight skin of his arse, fucked open, so he can touch the knot as it gets big and bigger at the base of Harry's dick, as he works Eggsy open wider and wider to take it. 

"You fucking prick," Eggsy manages, but it comes out sounding depraved, like he's one of those heaving slags in pornos, which he guesses he is. He says, "You're supposed to ask first, before biting," but he says it splitting his fingers into a vee, so he can slide two down each side of the space where Harry's rutting into him, the skin hot from abuse and filthy slick, his arse split and gaping round the hot fist of Harry's knot, stroking in and out of him. Eggsy gets a deep, purring satisfaction, to know Harry's nearly caught, that he's scrubbed off all of Harry's polish until the monster shows through.

Harry huffs out a laugh, and he bites Eggsy again because he's a bastard, nevermind how Eggsy whines and leans into it, nevermind how the hurt transmutes into something else entirely, a chemical zip that runs through him like wildfire. 

"You let me feed you, you brought me tea," Harry growls, into the soft skin of Eggsy's bared throat, teeth grazing against his Adam's Apple, fingers tightening where they're holding Eggsy to him: pinning him down onto the bed now, Harry's knees sliding under Eggsy's hips to keep him tilted up, wide open. "You let me touch your mouth, you lowered your gorgeous head for me, showed me your neck — "

Eggsy's never taken a knot before, never let anybody try, and Eggsy knows now — feeling Harry grip him tight, hold him still and helpless, so that Eggsy's got no choice but to shake and shake and take it — that he was right before, that Harry's the only one for him, the only person who'd fit, who'd make them fit. He arches his back, feels the steady throb of Harry's bite, feels the hot, immediate pain of Harry's knot, tearing him in two, and feels his whole body's functions pared down to his heartbeat, his breath, stretching and stretching to make room — to let Harry in.

" — your whole body was a gorgeous provocation, Eggsy," Harry says, as rough as he's being with Eggsy. "This is me answering."

He says it against Eggsy's mouth, opened in a silent scream, in a long exhale, a desperate gasp as Harry's hips seal tight against his arse — no space left between them. 

Harry's murmuring nonsense, whispering it into Eggsy's throat, but Eggsy doesn't hear any of it: his whole body strung tight as he comes, his cock jerking, arse throbbing, heart beating out of his chest. It rolls over him like thunder, like waves, and as he's finally gasping, barely out of it, Harry grinds into him, the thick ache of the knot pressing cruelly on his prostate from the inside and one of Harry's hands pressing cruelly on his prostate from the outside and Eggsy's dragged under again.  

He comes and comes, loses track as one drags out into another, until he's grinding his teeth, until he's crying, until his vision goes dark at the edges as he sobs and Harry closes his mouth over the bond bite again. 

Eggsy was pretty drunk in Seoul, but he thinks that — bundled into the backseat of a taxi — Harry had cuddled him close, pressed a palm to the side of Eggsy's woozy head and pressed his cheek against Harry's shoulder. He thinks he remembers watching the lights of Gangnam blur past them outside the windows, remembers reaching out to fist a hand in Harry's jacket, needy and petulant like a romance novel omega, someone he's never let himself, or wanted to be with anybody else. He thinks he remembers clinging, too sweetly, asking Harry, "How come you don't have someone? How come you're not off with someone gorgeous tonight? Why are you here getting pissed with me?" 

The next day, hungover as fuck and getting shouted at by makeup for being a shambles of a human being, he'd written it off, but.

But Eggsy thinks he remembers Harry's lips on his forehead, Harry saying, "I am with someone gorgeous," before sleep and liquor had taken him, tucked him away for the night.

Eggsy comes to blissful.

He feels weightless, jointless, like all he is is the cooling sweat of his skin and the good rush of endorphins, the blurry, edgeless pleasure that's suffused him. He feels himself purring under the suffocating weight of Harry, who tries three times to move and has to be stopped three times by judicious application of Eggsy's teeth. 

The brutal thrust and perfect agony of the lock has given way, and Eggsy throbs lushly around the knot still seated inside. Earlier, stretched thin like the surface of a drum, he'd mostly known the intensity of Harry fucking him out, the concussive thud of their bodies, but now — lazy, tied up — he can just lie here and soak it in. The gorgeous anchor of Harry's knot is still pressed against Eggsy where it sends shivers through him. He thinks, blurry, of how lovely it is to kiss Harry, open-mouthed and indolent, to taste the tang of blood from his bite; loves the way his hips are pitched, so that the flood of Harry's come pours deep into Eggsy's belly, setting off a cascade of chemical triggers that make him positively lethargic, too spoilt and happy to move. 

"I'm too heavy for you," Harry murmurs, stroking a hand through Eggsy's hair and curling another arm around his back, pillowing Eggsy's neck. 

Now that Harry's not got him pinned like a butterfly, Eggsy can twine his legs round Harry's waist, lock his ankles. There's a positively filthy luxury in this: pressed fully naked against Harry's formerly fine clothing, the starched shirt he's sweated through, the trousers and suit that are hopelessly wrinkled and stained. Harry's right, he's too heavy for Eggsy, but Eggsy like it, how breathless he is, having Harry's face tucked right at his neck, where he can lip slow, sweet kisses over the bite — already sealing over — and Eggsy's still open for him, spread wide so Harry can roll his hips, send the knot rubbing Eggsy teasingly inside out, make him whine and whine.

"You incorrigible creature," Harry says, striving to sound cross, probably, but it comes out the same way everything sounds to Eggsy right now: indulgent. 

"You bit me, you have to be nice to me," Eggsy reminds him. 

He foresees using this as his response in all future interactions with Harry. You bit me, I get to keep you forever. You bit me, you're meeting my mum and we're lying about your age just a little. You bit me so we're buying my little sister a pony (together, because you bit me). If that slag Rupert Everett tries to touch your chest again I get to hit him with a folding chair because you bit me, and that's just rules.  

Harry's entire response is to lave open-mouthed kisses to Eggsy's throat, to murmur something indecipherable and grumpy-sounding into the skin under Eggsy's ear. It's an entirely acceptable response, especially paired with the way Harry's fingers tug at Eggsy's hair, how Eggsy can feel another rush of heat as Harry comes again, his knot still fat and thick between them. 

After, after Eggsy strokes his hands down Harry's back and murmurs lovesick garbage into Harry's ear, when Harry's eyes clear again, he gets handsy, coaxing. Eggsy makes complaining noises as Harry rearranges them as well as he can, keeping them sealed together — the tie holding firm — until Harry's on his side with his knees bent, Eggsy seated in his lap still lying on his back, staring dazed at the ceiling of his hotel room.

It's both lovely and terrible, because it leaves Eggsy vulnerable to Harry's wandering hands. He thumbs over Eggsy's nipples and scratches through the trail of hair under Eggsy's naval, rub Eggsy's come into the skin of his belly, down to his bollocks. Harry's fingers are sticky and hot and proprietary — pressing a thumb into Eggsy's mouth, opening him up for a kiss — and Eggsy knows they should talk, but it's easier this way, to let Harry drink kisses from him, for Eggsy to cup Harry's face, to squeeze down around Harry's knot to try and keep him longer, just where he is.  

"Did you mean it, then?" Harry asks him, breaking the kiss and whispering into Eggsy's mouth, as bruised and red as the rest of him. "When you brought me tea and showed me your neck, when you blushed up at me like the worst temptation?" 

Harry's reached down to close a fist around Eggsy's cock now, stroking him lazily, so that Eggsy's body is throbbing in time, and it's a struggle to say, "Yeah — all of it," when all he wants to do is throw his head back and arch his spine, rock into Harry's hands and get his knot settled deeper inside. 

"Well then, I suppose I did bite you," Harry returns, thoughtful, before he rubs his thumb under the head of Eggsy's cock and starts fucking him in earnest, pumping up his knot again. Eggsy hears himself keening, feels heat suffuse him head to toe, and he just clutches at the sheets and at Harry's filthy suit and holds on, just barely, before Harry sends him careening again, his throat hoarse from pleading.

They are forced, eventually, to have an actual conversation about it. 

Unfortunately, three studio executives and Merlin are all participants.  

Given that it takes them a full 48 hours — the fastest heat Eggsy's ever had, for reasons he is currently refusing to examine — to stagger out of Eggsy's hotel room, intervention from people with various professional interests is unavoidable. 

The studio execs, bless them, are as bloodlessly disinterested in the human element as ever, and once informed by Harry that he and Eggsy fully intend to continue their press obligations, appear completely mollified.  

"I'll let our marketing team know," says one of them, a bottle-blond steroid user in a suit that's about 1.5 sizes too small for his fascinatingly massive pectorals. "How comfortable are you with our disclosing your new relationship status?"

Eggsy says, "What."  

"Entirely," Harry says for him, settling an affectionate hand high on Eggsy's knee and giving him a squeeze. The touch is sufficiently distracting that Eggsy almost doesn't choke when Harry goes on, "I've been informed that since I bit him, I'm to be responsible for him."

"Nice to me," Eggsy hisses at him, completely aware of how red he is, and how prominent the monstrous fucking bite mark Harry left on him is, in the bloody t-shirt Harry'd insisted he wear this morning like a fucking pervert. "I said nice to me."

This bullshit continues into the much less bloodlessly disinterested meeting with Merlin, who spends the first 15 minutes of it calling Harry an astonishing combination of profanity and invective. Eggsy would take notes, except for when he reaches for his mobile to make a recording for posterity Merlin zeroes his terrifying gaze on him.

"If he's coerced you into this, just come right to my trailer, lad," Merlin says.

Harry sighs, like he hears this constantly, which leaves Eggsy saying, "What," again.

But Merlin's back to Harry already; if he had any hair, Eggsy's pretty sure he'd be tearing it out of his skull.  

"You fucking menace. You unbelievable doaty fuck. You gommy scrote," he roars. 

Harry's summary response is to look impatiently at his watch and help himself to another casual grope of Eggsy's inner thigh. Any minute now, Eggsy's going to put a stop to this, but at the moment he's busy being buoyed by a combination of embarrassment and overwhelming affection for Harry. For being so nonchalant about this, for facing the inevitable tide of publicity and likely vile headlines the same way he seems to face everything: unmovable, impossibly sure of himself — and now of Eggsy, too.

Later, once Merlin's done with them, and then the publicists have an opportunity to tell them off, and some other randoms Eggsy's not quite sure have the right to be tellin' them off, they're left — finally — alone again. 

"You're really sure," Eggsy says, and feels like a fucking wanker doing it, feels thick and too nervous, and he clasps his hand over Harry's hand, where it's on his thigh because if Harry says he's changed his mind, Eggsy will have to clutch at his fingers and beg.  

Harry just turns his palm underneath Eggsy's, so that their fingers lace together, fitted.

"Unless you're harboring your own doubts?" Harry asks, polite and too forgiving. 

Eggsy shakes his head, no. But he thinks about the stories he's heard, about bonds formed in the flashfire of heat that don't take, how those emotional ties will dissolve, like a bone knitting in reverse. Eggsy can't imagine being on this fucking press junket and watching Harry fall out of love with him. 

"Then there is no doubt in me, Eggsy," Harry tells him, softly, and brings their linked hands together so press his mouth along their laced fingers, and he's looking steadily into Eggsy's eyes when he says:

"I intend to keep you — for as long as you'll have me." 

Eggsy's terrible vision of TMZ afterward was more or less correct.  


Despite what he tells Harry, it's worth it. Every fucking shitty headline.