Actions

Work Header

like a slave to your touch

Work Text:

The thing about growing up around the likes of Dean is that you can never afford to let your guard down. When sharks smell blood, they attack. Eggsy had learnt that the hard way. The first time he’d come home crying about a skinned knee after Dean had moved in with them had been the last time he’d come home crying about anything at all.

He’d also learnt how to deal with it: don’t let ’em see you bleed. It’s better to talk back, stand your ground. Put up a fight. People like Dean respect that, for some paradoxical reason. Sometimes when Eggsy mouthed off to him Dean would just grin and relax back into the sofa, maybe even wave a crumpled tenner in Eggsy’s direction and tell him to go get lost for a while, kid.

Don’t mean he wouldn’t still lose his shit other times, though.

Point being, Eggsy has always been tough, defensive, confrontational. He’s always had to be.

But everything is different now. Dean is out of the picture. No matter where Eggsy goes, no matter how long he’s gone, he can always be sure that his mum and Daisy are safe and happy. At HQ, in the fitness centre’s boxing ring, Roxy kicks his arse on a daily basis, but she stops to apologise and fetch him an ice pack when she accidentally draws blood, so there’s a world of difference there, too.

You need to take that chip off your shoulder, Merlin had told Eggsy all those months ago, and he was right. Eggsy knew that. But that doesn’t mean he was prepared for what would happen when he started letting his guard down.

 


 

The first time the feeling crops up is when he returns from his first major overseas mission. (V-Day doesn’t count towards his tally, as, according to Merlin, that was just Eggsy’s “alternative final task”. Eggsy tells him he’s full of shit. Merlin tells him to watch it.)

Harry is waiting for him in the dining room at the shop. He’s sitting at the head of the table with a bottle of champagne, two champagne flutes, and that subtle look of mild satisfaction that is well familiar to Eggsy by this point. It’s the same look Harry gets after a satisfying fight, or when complimenting Eggsy on his training results.

“Sit down, Galahad,” Harry says. “It’s time to introduce you to yet another Kingsman tradition.”

“Nonsense,” Merlin’s voice comes in through their transceivers. “You’re full of—”

“It’s time to introduce yet another Kingsman tradition,” Harry corrects himself smoothly. He takes off his glasses and gently places them on the corner of the table, next to his mobile phone. “Do sit down, Eggsy. Let’s have a toast to your success. You did splendid out there. Not,” he says as he pours the champagne, “that I would’ve expected anything less from you.”

Eggsy hooks his own glasses into the collar of his button-down and pulls out a chair. The chair opposite the one from which he’d watched Chester King pop his clogs, that is. The last thing he wants to do is inadvertently tempt fate and jinx the new Arthur. It’d be inconsiderate, to say the least; the medical team had put a lot of effort into keeping Harry alive in the first place. “So I’m assuming you spent like 500 quid on this, yeah?” he says, taking one of the champagne flutes.

“It’s from the Tesco around the corner,” Harry says placidly. “Cheers, Eggsy. Congratulations on a job well done.”

As they clink their glasses together, Harry’s phone starts vibrating. He reaches for it, lets out an irritated noise. “Shit. I’ll have to take this one, I’m afraid.”

Eggsy drains his glass in one go. “All work and no play, eh, Arthur?” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Makes me a very, very dull boy indeed,” Harry says. He heaves himself to his feet with a world-weary sigh. “Well, you go get yourself checked out. And if you run into Merlin, please let him know I’ll meet him at HQ as soon as I can.”

He walks past Eggsy, briefly placing a hand on his shoulder in the process. Harry’s fingertips graze Eggsy’s neck, and that’s when Eggsy feels it—a sudden, intense yearning roiling somewhere deep within him, like a chasm opening up at his core.

The feeling hits him like a punch to the gut, so hard and so unexpected that he’s sure his knees would’ve given out if he’d been standing.

“Arthur speaking,” Harry says into his phone as he exits the room.

Eggsy pours himself a refill, downs it quickly. Allows himself to believe—makes himself believe—the alcohol is to blame for his burning face, his racing heart.

 


 

It ain’t as though Harry had never touched him before. On the contrary, Harry is and has always been very generous in his distribution of affection towards Eggsy. Never hesitates to praise him, or to send him a warm smile when they pass each other in the hallways at HQ. (“Arthur.” “Galahad.”) Often casually touches Eggsy’s side or his elbow by way of goodbye after an assembly, or when they part after having drinks together. Which is something they used to do a lot more often back when Harry was still recovering and hadn’t taken on all of Arthur’s responsibilities yet.

Nothing about this touch had been different. So there really ain’t no reason for Eggsy to be dwelling on it.

To be thinking about it at all.

Maybe, he thinks later, when he’s passed the mandatory medical check-up and received several pats on the back from several of his colleagues and is nodding off with Daisy in his lap and the telly on in the background, it had just been the champagne.

Either that or residual excitement from the mission. It’d been an important mission, right, important enough for there to be debate about which agent to send in. “Can the boy handle it?” Percival had asked, sceptical, and before Eggsy could rise to the bait Harry had said, not a hint of doubt in his voice, “Yes, he can,” and that had been it. Decision made. So to have proven Harry right by pulling off the mission swiftly and successfully, to have proven his competence to the other knights…

Yeah, that’s it.

That must’ve been it.

 

Except that night Eggsy has a vivid dream of kneeling in front of someone, of being held down. His head bent, steady pressure on the back of his neck. A warm hand; a strong hand. The anchoring presence of that someone right behind him.

And it’s insane how good this simple touch is making him feel, how calm and grounded he feels, how right it feels to just close his eyes and give in—

He wakes up hard, throbbing. He must’ve been rutting against the mattress, just enough for his pyjama bottoms to ride down his hips and the head of his dick to grow slick with precome. And it’s easy, so easy, to reach down, give himself a few firm strokes, fuck up into the tight circle of his fist. Think about that warm pressure, that calming presence.

And that’s it, it’s about that. It ain’t about Harry at all. None of this ain’t about Harry. He ain’t thinking about Harry, ain’t thinking about Harry’s broad shoulders or his rich voice or his steady confident hands or the way he sometimes smiles almost imperceptibly when Eggsy does or says something that amuses him, ain’t thinking about Harry’s callused fingertips brushing against his skin, Harry forcing him to his knees, holding him down—

Eggsy stifles his moan in his pillow, wipes his hand on the leg of his pyjama bottoms. Rolls onto his back and blinks at the ceiling and thinks, Shit, I’m fucked.

 


 

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Merlin is earnestly explaining a new gadget to him when suddenly his stomach dips with the thought—the memory—of Harry’s hand resting in the curve of his shoulder.

In his mum’s kitchen, spooning apple sauce onto a plate for Daisy, he finds himself distracted by the thought of Harry’s fingers burrowing into the hair at the nape of his neck.

While sparring with Roxy, the thought of Harry’s warm breath against the shell of his ear makes him lose focus, allowing Roxy to tackle him to the mat.

The next time he passes Harry in the hallway at HQ (“Arthur,” he says; “Galahad,” Harry says, with a small nod, a smile) he can feel a blush work its way up from under his collar, and he cuts his eyes away quicker than usual.

He tries not to pay too much attention to it. Harry is, objectively speaking, a good-looking bloke. And it ain’t like Eggsy’s never had interesting thoughts about mates of his before. There ain’t nothing too weird about this. It’s just a little inappropriate and inconvenient, that’s all.

But the thoughts evolve.

At first there’s nothing overtly sexual about them. Then, out of nowhere, he’s hit by the thought of kneeling naked in front of a fully dressed Harry.

Nothing too weird about that, either. Everybody likes a good-looking bloke in a suit.

But then, that night, when he’s about to fall asleep: the thought of Harry’s hands sliding around his throat from behind, fingertips under his chin, tilting his head back.

Harry’s thumbs tracing his jawline, his cheekbones, his earlobes. “Close your eyes,” Harry says quietly, and Eggsy does, mindlessly obeys the order, melts back into the touch. The hard line of Harry’s cock pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Good boy,” Harry says, thumbing at the corners of Eggsy’s mouth, and Eggsy opens up for him without having to be told, sucks down the fingers Harry presents him with like he’s starving for it. He runs his tongue between them, swallows around them hard.

Harry hums in approval. His other hand curls tighter around Eggsy’s throat, pulling him closer.

“God,” Harry says in a low voice, “look at you, look how much you’re loving this,” and Eggsy shudders as he comes, his orgasm leaving him so fucking wrung out that he can’t even be bothered to pull his hand from his boxers. He just lies there, in his room, in the dark, his chest heaving and his mind racing until he finally falls asleep.

 


 

Maybe it’s some sort of reverse form of Stockholm syndrome. Or, what do you call it when people develop feelings for their shrink? Transference? There’s a term for that, and Eggsy thinks it might be kinda like what’s going on here.

After all, he wouldn’t have any of this if it wasn’t for Harry. Wouldn’t have a job, wouldn’t have a proper place to live, wouldn’t have Roxy and Merlin in his life. Hell, maybe he wouldn’t even have been alive. Dean had been a ticking time bomb, and he’d seemed quite determined the last time he’d pulled a knife on Eggsy.

(The term is indeed transference, Roxy tells him, “and no, Eggsy, that’s not kinda like what’s going on here. What’s going on here is that you’ve got a massive hard-on for your boss.”)

 

But then, maybe Eggsy has always had it, this—this longing, this craving. The need to be overwhelmed, overpowered, dominated. The need to surrender control for a little while. The need to have someone trustworthy enough to surrender control to. Maybe it’s always been there, lying dormant under his skin, waiting until the time was right for it to surface.

 

Once, fleetingly, Eggsy considers the possibility of all this being the result of the lack of an actual father figure in his life while growing up.

Then again, that don’t exactly explain why he wants to suck Harry’s brains out through his dick, either.

(He doesn’t share this short-lived theory with Roxy. Sometimes, some things are better left unsaid.)

 


 

It gets so bad so fast that he can hardly stand to be around Harry anymore.

Eggsy avoids the fortnightly Kingsmen assemblies whenever possible, only checking in when his presence is required. The meetings are usually boring as fuck and not mandatory anyway, so it ain’t as though anyone is likely to notice he is desperately trying to steer clear of any and all situations where he might get the overbearing urge to feel Harry’s long, thick, elegant fingers curl inside him.

Fortunately, Harry’s promotion had already significantly reduced their number of moments together, and Eggsy is often out in the field anyway. After a handful of domestic jobs, Merlin dispatches him to Barcelona for a month, where he infiltrates a human trafficking ring by seducing the son of one of the capos.

It’s a reconnaissance mission, and a straight-forward one at that. All he has to do is gather as much incriminating evidence as possible, preferably enough for the Spanish government to take matters into their own hands. Eggsy ends up spending most of the time working on his tan and sipping martinis in Adalberto’s garden while his bugs record everything that is said inside the villa.

(One time, while waiting for Harry in Arthur’s office, Eggsy got bored and picked the lock of the file cabinet. The first piece of paper he encountered in the folder marked UNWIN, G. was a recent progress report that stated, in Merlin’s small, neat handwriting, Galahad’s methods are unconventional yet undeniably effective.)

Adalberto is young—Eggsy’s age—and fit and he has an incredibly skilled mouth. When it is time for ‘Kyle’ to return home from his ‘holiday’, Adalberto drives him to the airport. “You will call, yes?” Adalberto asks, and Eggsy nods. They share one last kiss, and then Eggsy gets out the car and walks into the airport and doesn’t think about Adalberto ever again.

 


 

These are a few of the things he does think about:

Harry crowding him back against the wall of one of the fitting rooms, pinning his wrists above his head and kissing him.

Harry pushing him face-first against the wall of one of the fitting rooms, pinning his wrists to the small of his back, winding his tie around them to keep them in place.

Harry’s breath ghosting maddeningly across Eggsy’s skin as he details, in a soft voice, all the things he’s going to do to Eggsy, all the things he’s going to make Eggsy do to him.

Harry’s fingers twisting into his hair, pulling his head back, Harry’s lips against the side of his throat.

Harry cradling Eggsy’s face between his hands as his cock fills Eggsy’s mouth.

Harry spreading him apart, first teasing him open with light touches, then finger-fucking him until he comes, not stopping after that, Eggsy’s body a live wire quivering with overstimulation, his eyes watering, his voice growing hoarse.

Harry ordering Eggsy to call him sir.

Harry calling Eggsy my good boy, my sweet boy.

Harry bending him over the long table in the shop’s dining room and fucking him.

(And sometimes, sometimes he thinks about:

Harry  bending him over the long table in the shop’s dining room and fucking him while people—nameless, faceless people—watch them.

Harry keeping him on his knees for hours on end, maybe under his desk; making Eggsy blow him a few times, using Eggsy’s mouth whenever he happens to feel like it, and the rest of the time Eggsy is just there, kneeling naked with his hands in his lap, Harry occasionally reaching down to idly stroke the hair at the nape of his neck.

Harry slapping his cock against Eggsy’s cheek, dragging the wet tip all over his face.

Harry coming all over his face, Harry ordering Eggsy to suck his come off his fingers, Harry calling him a filthy slut, a needy whore for loving this as much as he does.

Eggsy doesn’t know where the thoughts stem from—some of them seem counterintuitive if nothing else—and part of him almost doesn’t dare to go there, not even within the privacy of his own imagination, but they get him dizzyingly hard every time.)

 


 

They’re out for drinks with a newly hired aeroplane engineer, giving her a crash course in all things Kingsman, when Roxy says, “Well, and then there’s Galahad over here, who is sort of Arthur’s pet.”

“Rox!” Eggsy says.

“What? It’s common knowledge that you’re his favourite. I mean, come on, he doesn’t exactly try to hide it.”

The new girl laughs. Roxy smiles at her and winks at Eggsy over the rim of her pint glass.

The conversation moves on, but those two words continue to play on a loop in Eggsy’s head. Arthur’s pet.

Harry’s pet.

He excuses himself to go to the loo. On his way there he pushes past a guy with a packet of Pall Malls half sticking out his back pocket, and he impulsively swipes it. He exits through the back door of the pub, is grateful to find a lighter in the near-empty packet.

He lights a fag, watches the smoke dissolve in the crispy air. He exhales hard, but the heavy feeling in his lungs is sticking there like glue.

 


 

“Galahad,” Merlin says, stalking into the fitness centre with his clipboard under his arm. “A word, please?”

Eggsy adjusts the pace of his treadmill slightly. When Merlin arches an eyebrow at him, he rolls his eyes and pauses it instead. “Sure, guv. What’s got your knickers in a twist?” he asks, wiping the sweat off his face and throat with his towel.

“Let’s pretend I didn’t hear just that,” Merlin says stoically. “For your sake.” He places his clipboard in front of Eggsy on the treadmill console. “Here’s the mission report Jamie wrote up after your last assignment. You’ll see—”

Eggsy says, “Jamie?”

Merlin gives him a long-suffering look. “Your long-distance back-up on that case. As well as every other case you worked this past month. Ring a bell?”

“Right,” Eggsy says, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “Guess I just kinda been thinking of her as ‘not-Merlin’.”

“Very touching.” Merlin taps the screen. “Well, the next time you talk to not-Merlin, don’t forget to thank her for attempting to cover your arse. That said, even this impressively euphemistic account of your latest antics doesn’t—”

A wave of anger rises in Eggsy’s throat. “I got the job done, didn’I?” he says hotly, bracing his hands on the front bar of the treadmill.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “You did. What you also did was blow up the entire top floor of the building.”

“I got the job done!”

“You made two civilian casualties, Galahad,” Merlin says, louder.

“What—guv, are you takin’ the fucking piss? A dislocated shoulder and a bloody concussion, that’s what we calling civilian casualties these days?”

Merlin stares at him and says nothing. Eggsy takes a deep breath, reigns himself in. When he looks down at where his hands are clenched around the bar, his knuckles are bone white.

“You acted recklessly,” Merlin says. “And your stubbornness, your resourcefulness, your willingness to take risks, these are all qualities Kingsman appreciates in you. You know that just as well as I do. But we’re not in a global crisis anymore, alright? There’s a line, Eggsy, and you crossed it.” He pauses. “Listen, son, if we’ve been pushing you too hard…”

There’s no doubt as to who the ‘we’ in his sentence refers to. Eggsy’s mind goes hard – Hart. He chokes back a laugh, scrubs a hand down his face. Maybe you’re right, Merlin, he thinks. Maybe I am going mental.

He asks, “Should I consider this an official warning then?”

“You should consider this an official invitation to get your bloody act together,” Merlin says, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Aye aye, guv,” Eggsy says, saluting.

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitches upwards as he retrieves his clipboard. “I knew you’d be trouble,” he says, shaking his head. “I knew you’d be trouble from the start. I told Harry, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Oh, sod off. We both know I’m the best male field agent you got.”

“Trouble,” Merlin says plaintively as he walks to the door.

“You love me and you know it,” Eggsy calls after him before cranking up the pace of the treadmill again.

 


 

In Eggsy’s defence, he does try to be—and succeeds at being—better for a while. Keeps his head down, catches up on paperwork. Goes to that week’s assembly and makes no attempt to raise anyone’s hackles for a change. He even manages to have a five-minute chat with Harry afterwards without thinking about Harry forcing him to his knees and fucking his mouth.

Roxy is going to be so proud of him.

“Good to see you, Eggsy,” Harry says, and he touches Eggsy’s hip before walking away. Not a fleeting touch; a lingering one, his thumb absently skimming across the jut of Eggsy’s hipbone.

Eggsy can still feel the ghost of Harry’s hand on him by the time he arrives at HQ and gets intercepted by an uncharacteristically agitated Merlin.

“We need you in Scotland,” Merlin says, pressing a manila folder into Eggsy’s hands. “Retrieval mission. It’s an emergency. No time to lose here, Galahad. Read the briefing on the plane. Can you handle this?”

“Please,” Eggsy scoffs.

The file is scant, but operating in the dark is second nature to him by this point. Top secret organisation and all, highest level of discretion, all that mumbo jumbo. It’s a retrieval mission; person A took something from person B and person B wants it back. It’s as simple as that.

And it is that simple. After getting dropped off by the plane, it takes him less than fifteen minutes to incapacitate the three men guarding the warehouse and the two remaining ones he finds inside, guarding a metal door. “About to retrieve the package,” he tells Jamie through his transceiver, and he slides open the door, and—

Eggsy stands paralysed for a second, then drops down into a crouch and forces himself to smile.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out with one hand. “Hey, c’mon, let’s get you home to your mummy and daddy, yeah?”

The little girl—cheeks puffy and wet with tears and, fucking hell, one of them bruised, and fairly badly, too, by the looks of it—blinks at him a few times, then nods and takes his hand. He picks her up and turns around.

One of the men he took down earlier groans.

Eggsy could shoot a stun dart, lay out a smoke screen. He could send the man back to unconsciousness with a swift kick to his temple.

“Hey,” he whispers to the little girl, shifting her weight to his left arm. “Can you close your eyes and cover your ears? Can you do that for me, love?”

The girl nods again and hides her face against his chest.

“Yeah, just like that,” Eggsy says, “that’s a good girl,” and he walks up to the man and fires three bullets into the back of his head.

 


 

It’s well past midnight by the time he gets back to HQ. Merlin ain’t around, thank fuck.

Jamie comes to find him in the medical ward. “Arthur’s expecting you at the shop,” she says nervously as one of the nurses places a plaster with a smiley face on it over a cut on Eggsy’s knuckles and tells him he’s good to go.

Harry—Arthur—is waiting for him in the front room of the shop. He’s sitting on one of the sofas with his legs crossed, a pot of tea and two teacups on the low table in front of him.

Eggsy walks in saying, “There ain’t no fucking way I’m gonna apologise for—”

“Galahad,” Harry interrupts him. “Please sit down.”

Eggsy does. His hands are trembling, he realises, but it ain’t ’cause he killed a man in cold blood and it ain’t ’cause he’s about to cop a dressing down from his boss. If anything, it’s gotta be a combination of exhaustion and lack of food—when was the last time he ate?—and the rage still seething inside him, making it hard to think straight.

Harry pours the tea, motions for him to take one of the cups. It’s too hot to hold. Eggsy takes it and cradles it between his palms anyway as Harry clears his throat and starts talking to him in a dispassionate voice. Arthur’s voice.

Eggsy sits and looks at his hands, willing them to stop trembling. They don’t. He picks up on some of Arthur’s words and phrases here and there; irresponsible and understandable but unnecessary and shouldn’t have sent you in and Merlin and reckless and wound too tight and troubling and probation active immediately.

His chest feels hollow. He can’t wait to go home and shower and sleep. He closes his eyes and sees the little girl’s bruised, tear-stained face and he opens his eyes again. He looks at the smiley plaster on the back of his hand.

He closes his eyes again.

He doesn’t realise Harry—Arthur—has stopped talking until Harry says, quietly but insistently, “Eggsy, look at me.”

And Eggsy does, because he can’t not obey that voice.

The look Harry gives him is one full of warmth and concern, and Eggsy feels like he’s inhaling shards of glass. Which ain’t ’cause he shot a man in the head, or even ’cause he failed Kingsman, or Merlin, or Arthur.

It’s because he failed Harry.

Then again, in a way he’s been failing Harry for months now.

Harry asks him something but he can’t reply because his throat is refusing to work. He sets down his teacup and blinks angrily at his hands, swallows. It hurts. Fuck. He rubs the bridge of his nose and tries to take a deep breath. That hurts, too.

The next thing he registers is Harry standing right in front of him, towering over him with one hand on his shoulder. “What do you need?” Harry asks, simply.

“Nothing,” Eggsy says.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Eggsy stays silent. It ain’t lying if he don’t say nothing.

“Eggsy,” Harry says again, and his hand is no longer on Eggsy’s shoulder but curling around his chin, tilting it up. Harry’s other hand slides around the back of Eggsy’s head, fingertips pressing firmly against the base of his skull.

Eggsy shivers. Thinks he shivers. He can’t be entirely sure. The weight of the kill, the bone-deep fatigue, the feeling of Harry’s hands on his skin—his mind is processing it all in a staccato way, a web page loading in slow bursts. Everything feels hyperreal but strangely dream-like at the same time, not unlike the thoughts he’s been having. It wouldn’t surprise him if he was to wake up now, in his bed, alone.

“You’re unanchored,” Harry says. He’s frowning. “We haven’t been giving you the guidance you need. I’ve been too busy…”

This ain’t your fault, Eggsy thinks muzzily. It ain’t Harry’s fault that Eggsy broke the rules—unnecessarily took the life of an unarmed man, a man he could’ve easily taken down any other way. And he’d done it with a kid in his arms too, a little girl, a girl not much older than Daisy from the looks of it.

His breath is coming in short, shallow bursts. He closes his eyes, forces himself to inhale deeper. Fuck, Unwin. Get it together, will you?

Harry is still holding his chin, tilting his head back slightly. When Eggsy opens his eyes again, he meets Harry’s gaze. There is something in Harry’s eyes, a smouldering look that sends a flare of heat down Eggsy’s spine. He involuntarily arches up into Harry’s touch.

The hand on the back of Eggsy’s head flexes. Eggsy holds his breath. The hand slides lower, comes to a rest on Eggsy’s neck. A warm, authoritative weight. Harry squeezes, and Eggsy lets out an embarrassingly shuddery exhale.

Running his thumb along the underside of Eggsy’s bottom lip, Harry asks, quietly, “How long have you been needing this?” and maybe it’s the surreal quality of the situation that makes Eggsy huff out a breath and answer honestly, consequences be damned.

“Months.”

His voice is hoarse.

Harry doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop running his thumb along Eggsy’s bottom lip, studying his face. He’s so close that Eggsy can smell his cologne.

He can’t be sure how much time passes until Harry says, softly, “Tell me if this isn’t want you want.”

And then, after a beat, he leans down and kisses Eggsy.

Eggsy’s heart must have been racing throughout their entire conversation. Hell, it wouldn’t even surprise him if it hadn’t slowed down since he fired those three bullets. Somehow, though, it’s only now that he becomes aware of the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears.

He lets his mouth go slack, opens up for Harry’s tongue without thinking about it. Harry’s hand slides down from his chin, fingertips pressing lightly against the sides of his throat.

Eggsy’s pulse roars louder. He’s straining to meet Harry’s mouth, and Harry is leaning down uncomfortably. The angle doesn’t seem to matter much to Harry, though; when he pulls back for a second, it’s only to mumble something before kissing Eggsy again, harder. Something like, “God, you have no idea how much I’ve—”

Which is… surprising ain’t the right word. Eggsy’s been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to dwell much on the matter of reciprocation, but he ain’t no idiot. Even if Roxy hadn’t pointed it out to him repeatedly, he’s seen the way Harry looks at him sometimes. He just never really—

Eggsy winds his arms around Harry’s neck and tugs to pull him down. Unexpectedly, Harry pulls back from the kiss completely. He unwinds Eggsy’s arms, takes his hands, squeezes them.

“Eggsy,” he says earnestly, in a soft voice. “You’ve had a horrendous day.”

Eggsy almost feels sick with how fast his heart is beating. He feels dizzy with the kiss, the speed at which everything is changing. He feels thrown off balance, but that don’t mean—

“I know what I want,” he says, tongue almost stumbling over the words. “Fuck, Harry, I’ve been needing—I’ve been wanting this for—” Fuck, he ain’t even sure. Maybe, on some level, he’s wanted this since the moment they met. “I know what I want,” he repeats.

“I don’t doubt that,” Harry says with a small smile. “But I would still like you to take a moment to think before you answer my next question.”

Eggsy nods.

Harry says, “Let me take you home.”

 


 

Harry drives the same way he does everything else: with ease and elegance and a touch of impatience.

They don’t speak, but it’s a companionable silence, not an awkward one. By the time they arrive at Harry’s house, Eggsy has come back to himself a little bit. Enough for it to hit him that this is real, this is happening. His heart is still pounding wildly in his chest. He feels a little unsteady on his feet as he gets out of the car and follows Harry to the front door.

Harry pauses with his key in the lock. He half-turns to look at Eggsy. “You must promise me,” he says, “that if at any point you change your mind, or feel uncomfortable in any way, you let me know immediately.”

Eggsy huffs out a laugh. “What, like, you want me to use a safeword or something?”

“As far as I’m concerned, words such as ‘wait’, ‘hold on’ and ‘stop’ will suffice,” Harry says evenly. “Unless, of course, you would prefer a safeword?”

The calm, almost bland matter-of-factness with which he poses the question—like this definitely ain’t the first time he’s posed it to someone—makes a hot flame of lust lick up Eggsy’s back.

“Er,” he says. Fucking hell, he’s blushing. It’s a good thing it’s dark out. He clears his throat. “Oxfords, not brogues?”

Harry’s face breaks into a smile. “Get in, you little shit.”

 

Once inside, Harry asks Eggsy to take off his shoes. His hands, Eggsy notices as he bends down to untie his shoelaces, are still trembling. He stuffs them into his pockets and follows Harry into the living room on socked feet.

“Sit down,” Harry says, adding, when Eggsy starts drifting towards a random armchair, “on the sofa, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Yessir,” Eggsy mumbles under his breath, but he does as he’s told.

“You stay here,” Harry tells him. “I’m getting us a drink.” He adds, dryly, “And Eggsy? Don’t forget to breathe.”

“Yeah, alright,” Eggsy says. “That’s hilarious, Harry, thanks.”

He sinks back into the cushions, takes a few deep breaths. Uses this opportunity to take stock of the situation. Harry’d kissed him, for fuck’s sake. Harry had kissed him and said God, you have no idea how much I’ve— and taken him home and Eggsy is starting to feel more and more out of his depth here.

He ain’t got no fucking clue what’s gonna happen from this point onwards. The thought fills him with equal amounts of nervousness and an almost unbearable sense of anticipation.

Harry returns with a bottle of water and two glasses of whiskey. Eggsy reaches for his as soon as Harry places it in front of him, but Harry says, sternly, “Not yet.”

Eggsy arches an eyebrow at him. Harry arches an eyebrow back at him and settles down next to Eggsy, a metre or so of space between them. He takes a sip of his whiskey and then nods for Eggsy to take his.

“You know,” Eggsy says after a few long, much-needed swallows, “this ain’t exactly what I had in mind when you asked me to come home with you.”

“Really,” Harry says. “What did you have in mind?”

Eggsy can feel his cheeks flush. It’s the alcohol, he unconvincingly tells himself. The corners of Harry’s mouth twitch up into a small smirk, and God, he’s.

“Finish your drink and put the glass down,” Harry says in a sterner voice than before.

Eggsy, the hair at the back of his neck standing up as realisation begins to dawn, obeys.

“Good,” Harry says, setting down his own glass. “Now take off your jacket.”

Eggsy shrugs out of his suit jacket, hangs it over the armrest of the sofa. His skin feels hot and clammy under the weight of Harry’s gaze.

Harry says, voice low, “Take off your tie.”

Eggsy’s hands are still a little unsteady. His fingers slip on the smooth silk, once, twice, three times. He glances at Harry, who is watching placidly, drink in hand. Sitting there watching him like nothing out of the ordinary is happening here, like it’s just an average Thursday night. The prick.

Eggsy finally manages to undo his tie. He folds it up and puts it on the coffee table, then reaches for the top button of his shirt out of habit.

“I didn’t tell you to do that,” Harry says sharply, and Eggsy’s hand jerks back as though it’s been stung—because that’s exactly what it feels like. Every word Harry utters, every order he gives is sending a sharp jolt of something through Eggsy’s body. The word ‘pleasure’ don’t quite cover it; it’s something more, something all-encompassing. It’s making him feel light-headed and almost eerily calm.

He’s all too aware of the sound of his own breathing (deep, loud) in the quiet of the room.

“Eggsy,” Harry says. “Come over here.”

There’s something in his tone of voice that makes Eggsy wonder if this is the second time Harry is saying it. Did he zone out for a second?

He moves over to Harry, not quite sure what’s expected of him. Fortunately, Harry takes over. He manoeuvres them until Eggsy is straddling his lap, both hands on Harry’s shoulders for balance. Harry’s hands are on his hips, thumbs snaked under his shirt. They feel warm and rough against his skin.

“Is this alright?” Harry asks.

“Depends,” Eggsy says. “Is this the part where I get to kiss you again?”

Harry smiles, nods.

This kiss is different—there’s no uncomfortable angle, no palpable uncertainty on either side, and Eggsy feels so much calmer. He combs his fingers through Harry’s hair, deepens the kiss the way he wasn’t able to at the shop. It grows messy quickly, Harry’s hands forming a warm anchor at the base of his back, flexing when Eggsy makes a noise and rocks down against Harry’s crotch. He reaches for the collar of Harry’s shirt, starts thumbing at the top button.

Harry breaks away, says, “Eggsy.”

“But—”

“Not right now,” Harry says, “not tonight,” and he gently pulls Eggsy’s hands away from his collar and then they’re kissing again, warm and wet and slow.

He’s probably right, Eggsy thinks hazily. Drunk sex ain’t never a good idea, and he’s starting to feel quite fucking close to drunk. World fuzzy around the edges, a low ringing in his ears. The feeling of Harry’s hands on his skin and Harry’s mouth sliding wetly against his more intense somehow, magnified by that weird drunk focus you get sometimes.

Eggsy realises he’s moaning quietly into Harry’s mouth, steadily grinding down against him, and it’s embarrassing but he can’t seem to make himself stop. He becomes aware of the fact that his eyes are closed, that his eyelids feel too heavy for him to open them again. He’s aware of the feeling of Harry’s fingers brushing through his hair, Harry touching his face, stroking his cheek. The padded shoulder of Harry’s suit soft against his forehead, Harry’s voice saying words he can’t seem to fathom into meanings.

 


 

Eggsy wakes up thirsty as fuck and hungrier than ever. He blindly reaches for the bottle of water on the coffee table and downs half of it before sinking back down on the sofa to get his bearings.

Apparently, he’s slept in his suit trousers and his button-down. A blanket has been thrown over him. The blanket smells like Harry, and Eggsy’s stomach jolts at the memories of last night crowding to the forefront of his mind.

The smell of bacon is heavy in the air. A headache Eggsy hadn’t known he was nursing starts pounding when he gets to his feet. He rubs his temples as he pads towards the source of the smell.

Harry is in the kitchen, standing at the stove with a spatula in his hand.

“Good morning,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I been hit in the head with a fucking sledgehammer,” Eggsy says truthfully. “The fuck you done to me? Put something in my drink?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches. He’s wearing a soft-looking sweater and his hair looks fluffy; he hasn’t styled it yet. If Eggsy hadn’t already known how badly he wanted this man, he certainly would now.

“Of course I didn’t,” Harry says. “Bacon?”

“Only if there’s eggs.”

Harry makes an offended noise. “Of course there are eggs. Please, sit down.”

Eggsy shovels down his breakfast without really tasting it, too hungry to think about anything while doing so. Which is a good thing, really, because otherwise he probably wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about any of this. Waking up on Harry’s sofa; Harry cooking him breakfast in a soft-looking sweater. Harry sitting opposite him with a cup of coffee within reach, reading the paper, occasionally glancing up at Eggsy with a mildly amused look on his face.

It’s also a good thing that Eggsy has been having the whole oh-my-God-I-want-to-fuck-my-boss crisis for long enough now that he’s become a total pro at it. It would’ve been quite awkward if he had launched into that crisis right here right now, at the breakfast table with said boss after—yeah, after what, exactly?

“Alright,” he says, sitting back and pushing away his plate, wiping his mouth. “So what exactly are we doing here?”

“Having breakfast,” Harry says. He points at his newspaper with the pen in his hand. “Also, the crossword.”

“Right,” Eggsy says. “What about the whole…” He waves a hand around.

Harry puts his pen down, leans back in his chair. “Well, that depends,” he says. “What would you like us to be doing?”

Eggsy gives him a look. “Would you like me to spell it out for you?” he deadpans. “Or would you like me to show you?”

 

The answer, as it turns out, is both.

Harry’s infuriating preoccupation with manners, Eggsy reaches a whole new level of infuriatingness when Harry insists on engaging him in a Serious Conversation before finally agreeing to get down and dirty with him on the reg. (“And, like, I dunno, boss me around a little, yeah?” Eggsy says, refusing to break eye contact no matter how hot his face grows. “Last night you asked me what I need. I think—I think that’s something I need.”)

Sitting here on opposite sides of Harry’s breakfast table, discussing their age difference, their work relationship; it feels surreal, but in a completely different way from how last night felt surreal.

“Look, Harry, I ain’t no fucking kid,” Eggsy says eventually, losing patience. “I told you yesterday, I know what I want. I been wanting this for a while now and that ain’t gonna change, alright?”

“I know that,” Harry says. “But Eggsy, the way you responded to me last night…”

“What about it?” Eggsy can feel the back of his neck flush. “Enlighten me, old man.”

Harry looks at him, then gets to his feet. He takes their plates to the sink, brings Eggsy a refill of coffee without asking him if he wants one. (He does.) After placing the cup in front of Eggsy, Harry puts his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder. His thumb digs in at the base of Eggsy’s neck, and Eggsy leans back into the touch, eyes sliding shut almost of their own accord.

“This,” Harry says quietly. “This right here. God, look at you.”

Eggsy has imagined Harry uttering that particular string of words in many different situations of varying degrees of depravity. A full-body shiver overtakes him.

Harry’s other hand comes up to rest on his other shoulder. The back of Eggsy’s head is touching Harry’s chest. It’s moving up and down rapidly, as though this is affecting Harry as much as it is affecting him.

It is affecting Harry as much as it is affecting Eggsy, Eggsy realises, and the thought of that is almost as intoxicating as Harry’s touch.

“This is what I want,” Eggsy says emphatically, his voice sounding like it’s coming from very far away, and from the way Harry kisses him—hard, no restraint, one of his hands fisting into Eggsy’s hair to pull his head even further backwards—he can tell that Harry believes him.

 


 

Probation is, well.

He goes home, does laundry. Writes up a mission report. Cleans his flat, catches up on TV shows. He still goes in to HQ for his daily exercise session with Roxy, where Merlin somehow manages to bully him into talking to their shrink. She says some shit about fear of failure and overcompensation and feelings of inadequacy and he snorts at her and shouts at her and eventually decides that maybe she’s got a point.

He takes his mum out for lunch once a week, frequently has Daisy over for sleepovers. Goes on a couple of trips to the zoo with her and JB. Hangs out with Ryan and Jamal, tries out a couple yoga classes.

All in all, it could’ve been worse, he guesses.

 

Sex with Harry ain’t like nothing Eggsy’s ever experienced.

It ain’t nothing like he’d expected, either.

Perhaps the most surprising thing is that it feels as natural as breathing. Eggsy’s had his fair share of painful one-night-stands and excruciating morning-afters; he knows how uncomfortable the whole process of sex can be. Especially when it’s with people you actually know.

Conceivably even more so when said people are twice your age, and technically your boss, and more or less single-handedly changed your life for the better.

Yeah, it’s safe to say that Eggsy had been prepared for some awkwardness and clumsiness, at the very least. Clearly he had been underestimating the opiate-like effect of Harry’s touch on him, as well as the extent of Harry’s determination to excel at everything ever—including, predictably, sex.

The first time they fuck, Eggsy is pretty much choking on his tongue within the first fifteen minutes. “Oh my God, your mouth,” he manages, and Harry doesn’t even have the decency to try and suppress his smug smile, the arrogant bastard.

As Eggsy discovers during said first time, Harry fucks the same way he drives: with ease and elegance and a touch of impatience. He doesn’t even wait for Eggsy to finish undressing himself, but instead strides over to him, fully and confidently naked with his half-hard cock bobbing between his legs, to yank Eggsy’s shirt down his shoulders and carelessly let it fall to the floor.

(“What the hell,” Eggsy protests.

“Leave it,” Harry says, pushing him down onto the bed.)

The mission Harry appears to have chosen to accept for the evening is to touch Eggsy everywhere with his hands, and then again with his mouth for good measure. The sight of Harry Hart settled between Eggsy’s legs, kissing down his chest and stomach as though it’s all he’s ever wanted in life—it’s a bit overwhelming, is what it is. No one ain’t never paid this amount of attention to Eggsy’s naked body before, ain’t never worshipped him like this. Least of all someone like Harry.

Harry trails the juts of Eggsy’s hipbones with all five fingertips, then chases the touch with his lips. His hands slide down to where Eggsy’s legs are spread for him and push them even further apart. He kisses his way down the insides of Eggsy’s thighs, the tip of his nose brushing against the backs of Eggsy’s knees. Fucking hell.

Eggsy pulls Harry up by his hair to kiss him again and to give them both a breather. Harry doesn’t stop moving, though; he rocks gently against Eggsy, the hot hard lines of their cocks pressed tantalizingly against Eggsy’s stomach. His thumb skims over Eggsy’s nipple, and Eggsy arches up from the bed, gasping into Harry’s mouth.

Harry makes an appreciative noise. “So sensitive,” he murmurs.

He presses down harder, and Eggsy moans.

“So responsive.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy gasps, biting down on his bottom lip when Harry repeats the move.

Harry huffs out a laugh. He continues kissing Eggsy, the pad of his thumb still slowly rubbing Eggsy’s nipple in firm, deliberate, maddening circles. It’s taking Eggsy all he’s got not to hump Harry’s thigh like a horny teenager, like a fucking dog.

Seconds later, he finds himself doing it anyway.

He turns his head away from the kiss, stifles a heartfelt “fuck,” in the pillow. Without missing a beat, Harry dips his head and starts kissing the side of Eggsy’s neck. He lightly pinches Eggsy’s nipple, and shit, Eggsy ain’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to take this.

And they haven’t even got to any actual power play yet, he realises, heat pooling in his stomach. Harry had suggested starting out slow, to test the waters, so to speak. Ease into it.

(“You saying you wanna take me for a coupl’a test drives first?” Eggsy had asked, wagging his eyebrows, and Harry had nodded, said, “Quite right, Eggsy. We shall have to save my extensive collection of spreader bars and ring gags for another time,” and waited until Eggsy had turned about fifty different shades of red before admitting he did not in fact have such a collection.

“Yet.”)

Harry ends up bringing Eggsy off with his mouth before settling in for the long haul with lube and latex gloves and condoms, which sets the tone for quite a few of their future sessions.

Eggsy can’t really tell whether it’s because Harry is an impatient bugger, or because he thinks Eggsy has no stamina and wouldn’t last long enough (which, rude), or simply because he enjoys watching Eggsy writhe and pant while he’s still the picture of composure himself. Maybe it’s all of these reasons combined. In any case, Harry likes to either bring Eggsy to or push him over the edge of orgasm before getting down to whatever he’s got planned as the main event of the evening.

“Afraid you won’t be able to keep it up, bruv?” Eggsy quips one time—in the first or maybe second week of their relationship—when Harry slides down Eggsy’s body and takes him into his mouth before even bothering to undress himself.

Harry doesn’t give any indication at all of having heard what Eggsy said. After Eggsy comes in Harry’s mouth, though, Harry keeps going, fingers and tongue unrelenting, until Eggsy is keening, until his feet are scrabbling against the mattress and he’s fisting his hands into the covers and biting down on his knuckles to keep from crying out.

And Harry just keeps going, teasing the head of Eggsy’s dick with firm strokes of his tongue, driving his fingers into him over and over and over again.

Eventually, Eggsy can finally—finally finally—feel a second orgasm starting to build. Just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to; when he was starting to think it was physically impossible. As Harry sinks into him, Eggsy comes with a desperate, choked sound, and even then Harry just keeps going. Even when Eggsy drags his nails down Harry’s back viciously enough to leave scratch marks and sobs out every single fucking swearword he knows.

Harry is taking ages, fucking into him with slow, precise thrusts. Eggsy almost howls when Harry’s dick brushes against his prostate and his entire nervous system seems to light up, overstimulated though it is. He is this fuckin’ close to telling Harry to stop, that he can’t take it, can’t fucking take it it’s too much it’s—

By the time Harry’s body finally stutters to a halt, Eggsy has lost all sense of time. The inside of his throat feels scraped raw. He can’t tell whether his cheeks are wet with sweat or tears. Both is probably a good guess.

“You were saying?” Harry asks brightly after pulling out and disappearing for a moment to throw away the condom and grab a towel.

“You’re a huge fucking arsehole is what you are,” Eggsy says in an embarrassingly hoarse voice.

Harry smiles.

Eggsy closes his eyes. He’s too knackered to move, to think. He lets Harry take care of clean-up, his body twitching warily when Harry wipes away the dried come on his stomach. He keeps his eyes closed, allows Harry to rearrange his limbs. Lifts his hips when Harry tells him to, lifts his arms when Harry tells him to. Rolls over when Harry tells him to. Begrudgingly allows his head to be lifted out of the pillows and obediently sucks on a straw when Harry tells him to.

The end result of this whole exercise is Eggsy curled against Harry’s side, clad in an obscenely soft pair of Harry’s pyjamas. The covers are drawn up all the way to his chin, Harry’s fingers carding slowly through his hair. Eggsy finds himself listening to Harry’s heartbeat—he swears even Harry’s fucking heartbeat sounds smug, what the hell—and timing his breathing to it as his eyes droop shut again.

“You did exceptionally well for me tonight,” Harry murmurs to him right before he nods off, kissing the top of Eggsy’s head, and Eggsy goes warm all over at the praise.

 


 

After a few weeks, Eggsy, still damp and loose-limbed from a training session with Roxy, drifts into Harry’s office and says, “Hey, so, d’ya think you could tie me up tonight?”

That evening, Harry cooks him dinner. It’s comfortable as usual, but there’s a crackle of anticipation in the air. It keeps Eggsy alert throughout the meal, keeps him hyper-focused on Harry’s every move. It makes his mouth go dry at innocent little things like Harry idly scratching the side of his jaw, or the way Harry’s fingers are wrapped deftly around his cutlery.

They watch the news afterwards—Harry a warm solid presence against Eggsy’s side, arm slung casually over Eggsy’s shoulders, thumb stroking back and forth. Eggsy’s breath hitches when Harry’s hand moves higher, curls around the back of his neck. Lingers there, heavy and full of promise.

After the weather report, Harry says, “Go upstairs. Get undressed. Wait for me in the bedroom.”

It’s the same voice he used that very first night (Eggsy, look at me; take off your tie; come over here), the same voice he’s been using to tell Eggsy things like not yet and on all fours, please and open your mouth for me, Eggsy and slow down, there’s no rush, we have plenty of time. Eggsy’s on his feet and halfway across the room before he even becomes aware of having moved.

He decides to kneel next to Harry’s bed. Naked, with his back to the door and his hands clasped together behind his back. Just ’cause he’s curious as to what it’ll do to Harry.

After a while, there’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They come to an abrupt halt in the doorway, then continue into the room.

The sound of a drawer rolling open, smoothly.

Harry’s fingers slide into his hair. They stay there for a long moment. Then, Harry says, “On the bed, Eggsy.”

Eggsy obeys, lies down on his back in the centre of the bed. Harry—still dressed in his suit trousers and button-down, no shoes, no tie—kneels next to him. He keeps his expression carefully blank as he uses two of his neckties (of fucking course, Eggsy thinks) to tie Eggsy’s wrists to the headboard, but Eggsy can read in Harry’s eyes how affected he is.

He suppresses a shiver. The look in Harry’s eyes, fuck. It instantly makes him want to be better, makes him want to draw more of it out of Harry. See how far it can stretch before it breaks. He closes his eyes and lets himself melt into Harry’s touch, breathes quietly, tries not to move. Tries to be good.

“God, Eggsy,” Harry says softly.

Eggsy glances up at him through his eyelashes.

“My beautiful boy,” Harry whispers, running his fingers along the inside of one of Eggsy’s wrists, and this time Eggsy does shiver.

Harry is the first to blow his load for a change. He’s got Eggsy’s legs hooked over his shoulders and his hair hanging in his eyes in sweat-damp strands, his face flushed a deep shade of red. He looks fucking stunning, and he looks ravished, even though Eggsy’s technically the one being ravished here, he supposes.

Then again, he has no way of knowing what he looks like himself right now. He might look equally out of it. He certainly does feel out of it, courtesy of the idea of being so utterly at Harry’s mercy; Harry so fully in charge of his pleasure, deciding when and how to give it or take it away. Harry so fucking visibly, so viscerally getting off on the idea of Eggsy deliberately relinquishing that power to him.

“We should try and do something like that in one of the fitting rooms at the shop sometime,” Eggsy suggests afterwards. “Wanna see what I look like when you fuck me like that.”

He bites down on a smile when Harry says, “Oh, Jesus,” and lets his head drop to Eggsy’s shoulder.

 


 

They do end up having sex in one of the fitting rooms once, but when it happens, Eggsy ain’t really in no position to watch himself. In fact, he ain’t really in no position to do much except, well, beg for Harry to fuck him, really.

He’s on the ottoman in the middle of the room, on his stomach. His shoulders are aching; his arms are pulled down under his body to where his knees are out to the sides, spread wide, kept in position by the spreader bar his wrists are tied to.

Yeah, turns out Harry wasn’t entirely kidding about those.

(“You keep bondage rope and a fuckin’ spreader bar in your office?” Eggsy had said. “Arthur, you kinky freak.”)

Harry is leaning over him from behind, one of his hands braced on the back of Eggsy’s neck and the other curled around his hip. He’s breathing heavily, which Eggsy finds completely unfair, if he’s honest. It ain’t as though Harry is the one lying in an uncomfortable position on an ottoman of all things, restrained and painfully aroused, with his lover cruelly refusing to give him more than just the tip.

“Harry, please,” Eggsy keens again. At first he’d refused to beg, even when Harry had paradoxically tried to coax the words out of him by laying out a trail of kisses across the curves of his shoulders and whispering a soft litany of come on, Eggsy, beg for me, please, I want to hear you beg against his skin; now, he can’t seem to stop. “Please, please, just fuck me, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so, please just fucking—”

“Really?” Harry says, clearly straining to sound calm and unaffected. Eggsy can hear the tremor in his voice. “You’ll be a good boy for me?”

Eggsy closes his eyes and presses his cheek against the upholstering, which is damp with his sweat. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, Harry, I promise.”

“Interesting,” Harry says. “I seem to remember you promising me something similar before.” He shifts ever so slightly. There’s the faintest tug of his dickhead inside Eggsy, and Eggsy moans, tries to chase the feeling. Harry squeezes his hip in warning. “And then breaking that promise.”

“It ain’t my fault Percy walked in,” Eggsy defends himself for the umpteenth time.

“You neglected to lock the door,” Harry reminds him for the umpteenth time.

“Well, he shoulda knocked. Ain’t got no manners, that one.”

“Hmm,” Harry says contemplatively. “Perhaps he’s the one I should be punishing, then.”

Eggsy bristles at the thought. “No.”

“No?”

No,” Eggsy says, thrusting his arse upwards for emphasis. It appears Harry isn’t anticipating the move, because he doesn’t keep Eggsy’s hips in place this time, instead sliding an inch or so deeper into Eggsy. Eggsy gasps, feverishly attempts another thrust.

Harry’s grip on his neck becomes vice-like in an instant. Eggsy’s breath catches, his cock twitching. He is so damn hard it hurts. He grinds down, the underside of his dick brushing against the insides of his wrists, and his breath catches again. It ain’t much, but it’s something at least. A vague hint of friction.

“I thought you were going to be a good boy for me,” Harry says, fingers digging into the meat of Eggsy’s hip.

“Said I’d be a good boy if you fucked me,” Eggsy says breathlessly.

“Hmm,” Harry says. He pauses, then says, “Alright then.”

And without a warning, he thrusts into Eggsy, filling him to the brim. Eggsy makes a noise he had no idea he was capable of making—something in-between a gasp and a moan that tapers off into a low, desperate whine. He flushes, not with embarrassment but because Harry says, under his breath, “Fuck, Eggsy.”

Eggsy can’t see the look on Harry’s face right now, but he knows. He knows exactly what Harry looks like right now, and it’s a look that makes Eggsy feel…

Is it bad if it makes him feel powerful?

(“Nope,” Roxy tells him when he asks her that question later, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Not at all, friend. Not at all.”)

Eggsy also knows he’s got Harry where he wants him now, can tell the brakes are off. Fuckin’ finally. He pushes back against Harry’s dick, says, “Yeah, yeah, Harry, c’mon, fuck me,” and smiles when Harry’s hands flex helplessly where they’re clenched around Eggsy’s neck and hip.

Harry’s breathing sounds ragged. He’s fucking into Eggsy with sharp short thrusts, the rushed kinds of thrusts that happen when you’re about to climax.

Well, his dickhead has been lodged inside Eggsy’s arsehole for an awfully long time now, Eggsy supposes. Shit, yeah, maybe this was as taxing on Harry as it was on him.

Eggsy keeps murmuring Harry’s name, little words of encouragement. He has no idea what exactly he’s saying—variations on Harry and yeah yeah c’mon and fuck and feels so good and you feel so good, he supposes—but whatever it is, it’s working. Harry keeps gasping, keeps thrusting, keeps stuttering out Eggsy’s name until he abruptly stops moving.

Eggsy’s shoulders and the insides of his thighs are burning marvellously. His cheek feels raw where it’s been rubbing against the upholstering. When Harry’s hand finally curls around his dick, he comes with a full-body shudder at the very first swipe of Harry’s thumb across the tip.

The throbbing in his shoulders morphs into a flood of pain when Harry unties him and helps him into a sitting position. Eggsy’s breath catches. Harry’s hands are on him in an instant, warm around the ache. Eggsy leans back against Harry’s chest (which is still heaving, he notes, inwardly preening a little) and allows himself to relax into Harry’s touch and think about nothing at all for a bit.

Harry wordlessly massages the ache away, moves on to his other shoulder. When he’s done, he takes Eggsy’s face between his hands, presses a long kiss to his temple. Then another one, and another one, kissing down Eggsy’s cheek until Eggsy gets the hint and tilts his head up for a proper kiss.

Harry tastes like salt and Earl Grey tea. His fingers are hooked under Eggsy’s chin and the way he kisses Eggsy is slow and thorough, as though they have all the time in the world. As though there ain’t nothing Harry would rather be doing than sitting here kissing Eggsy. It’s flattering, but after a while Eggsy can no longer resist the urge to pull away and say, “So I take it this is you admitting I was a good boy for you, yeah?”

“Don’t push it, Eggsy,” Harry says sternly, stroking a hand down the side of Eggsy’s face and kissing him again.

 


 

The thing about working for a spy organisation is that there ain’t no such thing like confidentiality.

The thing about fucking your boss is that there is such a thing like conflict of interest.

These two things combined mean that everybody knows what Eggsy’s done to get himself suspended, and that Harry doesn’t get to decide when Eggsy can return to work. Instead, the knights take a vote. They agree on a six-week suspension.

By that time, Eggsy feels like he’s either going to implode or thrum out of his fucking skin.

He’s been logging several hours a day at the fitness centre and the shooting range, but it’s not enough. Sure, it keeps him busy, gets his heart pumping, but it ain’t the physical aspect of the job he misses. He misses the adrenaline, the thrill of thinking on his feet and solving problems under pressure. The sense of accomplishment after a job well done.

He hates feeling fucking useless like this.

There’s a constant itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. It settled there towards the end of the first week, and it refuses to go away. It don’t budge no matter how many squats and push-ups he does, no matter how many miles he runs without advancing a single fucking step.

Halfway through his probation, he punches the screen of his treadmill console hard enough for it to shatter.

Towards the end of the sixth week, he gets into an argument with Roxy at HQ. He ends up in the tech lab with a bag of ice pressed to his black eye (“Shoulda seen the other guy, guv,” he says to Merlin, who warily shakes his head and refrains from commenting), playing Angry Birds on one of Merlin’s tablets.

Harry comes to collect him towards the end of the afternoon. He’d left early that morning, after Eggsy had bitched at him about—fuck, he can’t even remember. The breakfast dishes, maybe. Harry doesn’t say nothing about their argument, just kisses Eggsy’s uninjured cheek and asks him if he’s ready to go. He doesn’t mention the injured cheek either.

There’s still a hint of strained awkwardness in the air between them. Eggsy’s eye socket is throbbing. He feels tired in a way that ain’t got nothing at all to do with exertion. The opposite, if anything.

On the bullet train, he touches Harry’s knee. “Sorry ’bout this morning, yeah?” he says, and Harry threads their fingers together, squeezes his hand.

 

When they get home, Eggsy collapses face-down on the sofa, and Harry disappears for a while. He returns with a piece of black cloth in his hands.

“I would like to try something,” he says.

“Is that,” Eggsy says, lifting his head to squint at the piece of cloth. “Is that a blindfold?”

Harry nods. “Do you trust me?” he asks, eyes still trained on the blindfold.

(“The point of the final test was trust, Eggsy,” Merlin had told him one evening, back when the world was still fucked and Harry still presumed dead. “Kingsman has no need for mindless obedience, or cold-bloodedness, or agents who believe that the goal trumps the means no matter what. The final test is to confirm that when I hand you a gun and I tell you to shoot your dog, you trust the gun not to be loaded. The point is that I can trust you to trust me.”

“Sounds a lot like mindless obedience to me, guv,” Eggsy had said.

“Yes, well,” Merlin had said, after a beat, “that’s the reason why you’re not Lancelot, isn’t it.”)

Eggsy moves into an upright position. “Depends,” he says, just to be contrary. “You mean in general or in this specific situation?”

Harry gives him a look.

Eggsy says, “Well, what’d you have in mind?”

“Just this,” Harry says. “For now.”

He strokes the blindfold with a single fingertip. It looks soft. The skin of Eggsy’s forearms ripples with goose bumps.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. He clears his throat. “Come on then.”

The blindfold is soft. It feels warm across Eggsy’s eyes. Harry leans in close while fastening it; Eggsy can smell his aftershave, feel his breath ghost along his skin. He impulsively tilts his chin up for a kiss, and he gets one, a sweet, dry peck on the lips.

“Alright?” Harry asks when he’s done, and Eggsy reaches up to touch the blindfold. He releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His eyes had closed of their own accord when Harry had stretched the fabric across them, and he opens them again now, blinks against the darkness.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says. “It’s…”

Weird, he was going to say, but he finds the word doesn’t quite apply.

“Yeah,” he says again.

“How does it feel?”

Eggsy shrugs one shoulder. He feels calmer already, although that could just be from holding still and staying quiet while Harry put the blindfold on him. Could just be the familiar intoxicating effect of Harry’s mere touch and presence on Eggsy. “Fine,” he says. “Relaxing, I guess.”

“Good,” Harry says quietly, brushing a hand through Eggsy’s hair. Eggsy leans into the touch, and the cushions dip as Harry shifts slightly. “Would you like to lie down?” Harry asks, cradling Eggsy’s head between his hands and gently coaxing it down, into his lap.

Harry, apparently, had meant it when he’d said just this, for now. He doesn’t initiate anything, doesn’t ask Eggsy to do anything. Eggsy just lies there, adjusting. Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Listening to the sounds coming from Harry—his steady breathing, the rustling of his sleeves, his fingers hitting his iPad screen with crisp, purposeful taps.

It’s quiet and comfortable in the same way the first few weeks of their relationship were. Back when Eggsy still felt relatively sane and in control of himself.

“Probation sucks,” he says.

Two of Harry’s fingertips skim along his jawline. “I dare say that’s the point of it, dear.”

“Well, that don’t make it suck any less,” Eggsy mutters.

Harry makes a non-committal noise.

Eggsy groans and rolls onto his side, presses his cheek into Harry’s thigh. He keeps his eyes closed for a while. He doesn’t manage to fall asleep despite the mellowing effect of Harry’s body heat, of Harry’s fingers moving idly through his hair and stroking the back of his neck. He felt sleepy earlier, but now he feels—different. Deeply calm, sure, but alert as well, aware not only of the sounds Harry is making but also of the beat of his own heart and the low, even hum of his pulse in his ears.

He opens his eyes again. The darkness remains. It makes his stomach swirl with heat.

“You gonna keep me like this?” he asks, his voice a little rough. “Feed me my tea and all?”

“If that’s something you’d like,” Harry replies easily.

Eggsy considers it. It’d be awkward, he decides, Harry spooning actual food into his mouth as though he’s incapable of fending for himself. Another time, maybe. “Nah,” he says. “Seems impractical. Besides, I’d rather you feed me chocolate-covered strawberries or something.”

“Not at all demanding, are we?” Harry says. There’s an undertone of amusement to his voice, and though Eggsy can’t see it, he knows the way Harry is looking at him: with a small smile, his eyes crinkled up around the corners just a bit.

I love you, Eggsy thinks up at Harry from his safe little cocoon of warmth and darkness.

It’s something neither of them have said out loud yet. As far as Eggsy is concerned, it’s something that doesn’t really need to be said out loud. In a way, it feels like they’ve been working towards this, this moment right here, from the day they’d met. Not the blindfold, necessarily, but with the benefit of hindsight everything else—everything that’s happened between them—seems self-evident, inevitable in a way. Like maybe they were meant to be.

Made for each other, Eggsy thinks. It’s a thought that makes him want to giggle hysterically.

He sits up and reaches for Harry, feels his way up Harry’s arm and shoulder to his face. Takes Harry’s head between his hands and angles it towards his own. It takes him a couple of tries to locate Harry’s lips, and by the time he manages to align their mouths Harry is laughing quietly.

“Oh, shut up,” Eggsy says. “You feel free to do something like this blindfolded and report back to me on how it went, yeah?”

“Are you trying to tell me that neither the Marines nor Merlin blindfolded you at any point during your training?” Harry says.

“Well, neither Merlin nor the Marines taught me how to kiss someone while blindfolded, if that’s what you’re asking,” Eggsy says. “Did teach me some other stuff, though. I could disarm you and snap your neck if you wanted.”

He bets that’s something Harry’d be into, too. Freak.

“They went easy on you, then,” Harry says, rudely ignoring Eggsy’s last sentence. How very unbecoming of him. “As for me, I would be able to pull off an entire honeypot mission handcuffed and blindfolded.”

“God, you’re so full of shit,” Eggsy says fondly, and he smooths his tongue into Harry’s mouth before Harry can come up with a witty reply.

Eggsy wonders if their kisses always sound as filthy as they do to his ears right now—the wet sounds of tongues meeting and lips sliding against each other, the loud exhales, the soft half-formed noises erupting from the backs of their throats. He hopes they do. Fuck, he really hopes they do.

He tries to manoeuvre himself into Harry’s lap, ends up straddling one of Harry’s thighs instead. He grinds his half-hard cock down against it and revels in the quiet moan the move earns him. He immediately can’t wait to hear it again, can’t wait for Harry’s hands to clench around his hips hard enough to bruise. Can’t wait to feel Harry come undone beneath him.

The fastest way to go about that is to lean in and whisper into Harry’s ear, in the low voice he knows gets Harry all hot and bothered even though Harry (unconvincingly) claims to be impervious to it, “Can I suck you off?”

A sharp inhale. “Eggsy,” Harry says, in his sensible voice, which is a voice Eggsy doesn’t like to hear when they’re having sex. Or are about to have sex. Or ever, really, come to think of it. Harry, for all his rock-solid self-confidence, can be one of the least sensible people Eggsy knows. Merlin would back him on this.

“Please,” Eggsy breathes, feeling for Harry’s crotch to palm his cock through his trousers. “Harry, please let me suck you off.”

Harry says, “Are you—”

Eggsy pushes down, and Harry gasps, his hips twitching upwards. Eggsy bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

“You cheeky bastard,” Harry says.

“Hey now, that ain’t no way to talk to someone who’s about to have your dick in his mouth,” Eggsy chastises him. He supports himself on Harry’s shoulders as he unfolds his legs and gets his feet under him, then slides down to the floor to settle between Harry’s legs. “Manners maketh man, innit?”

Before Harry can complain about Eggsy pinching his line, Eggsy is already leaning in to mouth at the bulge of Harry’s half-hard cock in his trousers.

“Please,” he breathes, “please, Harry, can I,” and he knows he’s won when one of Harry’s hands threads into his hair to pull his head backwards. Fabric rustling; a zip being undone. The heady smell of Harry, making Eggsy’s mouth water.

Although all of this is familiar territory, it’s different this way. His temporary inability to see makes all input from his other senses seem closer somehow, more overwhelming. Harry’s hands on the back of Eggsy’s head feel warmer and heavier than ever, even more grounding than usual. When Eggsy wraps his lips around the tip of Harry’s cock, he moans embarrassingly at the taste.

It’s difficult to concentrate, and before long Eggsy just lets his jaw go slack, lets Harry’s hands guide him. Lets Harry thrust into his mouth, move his head up and down, use him whichever way he pleases. Eggsy’s own hands are curled loosely around Harry’s ankles. He could touch himself if he wanted to, but he finds he doesn’t want to. He’s content just being here, feeling Harry’s movements get increasingly uncoordinated and his fingers dig into Eggsy’s scalp, listening to Harry’s choked-back groans and his quickening breath.

The blindfold, Eggsy registers hazily, reduces everything to this moment: him on his knees, Harry’s taste on his tongue, Harry’s cock heavy in his mouth. Harry’s gentle yet firm hands keeping his head right where he wants it. The smells and sounds of sex. Just this; nothing else. All other thoughts and feelings—boredom, frustration, guilt—blocked out by nothing more than a thin strip of fabric.

He feels impossibly, almost frighteningly calm and safe like this.

Afterwards, when Harry has come in Eggsy’s mouth and, from the sounds of it, tucked himself back into his trousers and is still taking deep, shuddery breaths above him, Eggsy rests his cheek against Harry’s thigh. He ends up staying like that for what feels like hours.

The feeling stays, too.

Harry offers to return the favour, but Eggsy shakes his head. At some point Harry offers to cook, but Eggsy’s not hungry. He doesn’t want to move and he doesn’t want Harry to move. All he wants is to be here, knelt at Harry’s feet with his cheek resting on Harry’s thigh and one of Harry’s hands in his hair. All he wants to do is stay as still as possible and make the feeling last. And it does; it’s still there when, in the dimmed light of their bedroom, Harry takes off the blindfold and softly, carefully presses his lips to Eggsy’s eyelids and holds him close.

 


 

Eggsy’s first mission back makes him feel higher than any drugs ever could.

Merlin’s voice in his ear, the cool weight of the gun in his hand, the prickle of sweat under his suit… he’d fucking missed it, alright. Though he ain’t been at the whole spy business very long, he still feels like he was born for this, like maybe this is what he was meant to be doing all along. Same with his relationship with Harry, it feels like everything in his life has been leading up to this somehow. It’s as though all the scattered little pieces of his existence have fallen back into place at last, in a far stronger configuration than before.

He wants to share these thoughts with Harry. The most eloquent way to go about this, evidently, is to work a plug up his arse in the showers at HQ after his medical check-up and then changing back into normal clothes, going to Harry’s office, entering without knocking and unapologetically launching himself into Harry’s lap to engage him in a long, sloppy snogging session.

The look on Harry’s face when his fingers (fucking finally) dip into the back of Eggsy’s jeans and stumble upon the surprise is priceless.

“Oh, you slut,” Harry says—purrs, almost; Eggsy can practically feel Harry’s chest vibrate under his palms. “Too fucking impatient to wait for tonight, were you?”

Eggsy hums in confirmation. His veins feels like there’s fire running through them. It’s probably two-thirds residual adrenaline from the mission, but the other one-third is definitely because of Harry. Harry’s blown pupils, his now-dishevelled hair. The fact that he’s sitting here in his fucking shirtsleeves with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The way his voice dips under the weight of the word slut, his fond tone reclaiming the word, reshaping it to mean something else entirely.

Eggsy already can’t wait to hear him say it again.

“Wanted you now,” he mumbles against the side of Harry’s face, Harry’s skin like fine sandpaper under his lips. Harry gets the kind of five o’clock shadow that’s imperceptible to the eye but rasps agonizingly against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs when he’s going down on you. Eggsy flushes even hotter thinking about that. “Jacked off in the shower, but it wasn’t enough. Couldn’t wait to feel you inside me.”

“Fuck, of course you couldn’t,” Harry breathes. “God, look at you, you greedy little…”

Eggsy’s body jerks when Harry works one dry fingertip in next to the plug. He gasps when Harry yanks the plug back, moans when Harry pushes it into him again.

“You like that, don’t you,” Harry murmurs against Eggsy’s mouth, nipping lightly at his bottom lip and then biting down harder. The tiny flash of pain makes Eggsy arch closer, the bulge of his hard dick meeting Harry’s stomach.

Harry’s other hand is snaking up his chest, forefinger and thumb closing around his nipple. “Is this what you wanted, Eggsy?” he whispers into Eggsy’s ear, rubbing Eggsy’s nipple between the pads of his fingers. Eggsy stifles another moan in the curve of Harry’s shoulder. “Is this what you came here for?”

Harry teases Eggsy’s nipple until it’s almost too much, then soothes the ache with broad flat strokes of his thumb. A wave of pleasure crashes down Eggsy’s spine. He bites down on the collar of Harry’s shirt, squeezes his eyes shut.

“Well?” Harry demands, pressing down sharply.

“N-no,” Eggsy stutters, although he’s of half a mind to give in, to ask Harry—beg Harry—to make him come like this instead. Harry fucking him with the plug and playing with his nipples until he can’t fucking take it no more. Hell, he’s pretty much halfway there already anyway. It’s a tempting thought, but… “Wanted you to fuck me nice and proper.”

“Is that so,” Harry says. “I assume you brought supplies, then?”

Eggsy scoffs. “Is your next question gonna be ‘did you lock the door’?”

“Good boy,” Harry says, pleased. He feels up Eggsy’s arse and thighs until encountering the lube and condom in one of his pockets and fishing them out. “Very well. On your feet, Eggsy.”

Eggsy obeys. The plug shifts inside him as he moves, kissing his prostate. His breath catches, and he reaches behind him to grip the edge of Harry’s desk for support.

“Other way around, please,” Harry says, standing up and kicking his chair back. Eggsy turns around, the edge of the desk a hard line against his stomach. He gets down onto his elbows, hanging his head and parting his legs in anticipation when he hears the clang of Harry’s belt buckle and the soft snick of expensive leather sliding through belt loops.

Harry chuckles. “Eager, aren’t we?” He smooths a hand down Eggsy’s back. “I’m afraid you’re skipping a step, dear boy. Still have to take off your clothes.”

“Didn’t hear you give me permission to do that, did I?” Eggsy asks the polished mahogany of Harry’s desk. He smugly registers the long pause before Harry unceremoniously pushes Eggsy’s legs together again and reaches around for his fly. Eggsy toes off his shoes to help Harry get him out of his underwear and trousers faster. The air in the office is cool against his naked lower body, and he shivers.

“You’ll warm up again quickly enough,” Harry tells him in a low voice. “I promise.”

“Not if you keep taking your time like this I won’t,” Eggsy retorts, choking on the last syllable when Harry slaps him across the arse, hard, before placing one hand on each cheek and spreading them. Eggsy rests the side of his face on the desktop, tries to glance up over his shoulder. He can’t see Harry’s face, but the thought of Harry staring at the base of the plug nestled between his arse cheeks makes his heart beat faster.

“Like what you see?” he asks, wriggling his hips for effect.

“Certainly,” Harry says. “But you’re being awfully impudent today, Eggsy. I’m contemplating whether I should gag you.”

“Aw,” Eggsy says. “Don’t wanna hear me cry your name when I come, do ya?”

“Darling, by the time I let you come you won’t even remember your own name, let alone mine,” Harry says matter-of-factly. He goes for the base of the plug again, pulls it out. An explosion of sparks rips through Eggsy’s body when Harry drives it back into him, harder than he’d expected, and he gasps out Harry’s name. He can actually feel his toes curl, for fuck’s sake.

Before Eggsy can recover from the first thrust, Harry repeats the move, and then again, and again, and again, over and over until Eggsy loses count. He is quiet as he fucks Eggsy with the plug, doesn’t—as he is wont to do—taunt Eggsy or tell him how pretty he looks, all splayed out for Harry like this. He’s relentless and methodical about it, and all Eggsy can do is pillow his head on his forearms and try to keep his voice down.

When he arches up from the desk after a particularly vicious thrust, Harry’s other hand slots in place around his neck, roughly forces his head down again.

After the next thrust, there’s a merciful pause. Eggsy lies there panting, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His upper lip is prickling with sweat. Harry’s grip on his neck doesn’t waver. There’s the sound of a cap snapping open, the wet sounds of Harry slicking himself up.

Eggsy almost chokes on his next breath when the plug is hauled out of him and replaced with cold fingers. Who’s the impatient one now, eh, he wants to say to the bloke who can’t even be bothered to take two bloody seconds to warm the lube up between his hands, but then the fingers are replaced with the blunt pressure of Harry’s dickhead. Eggsy threads his fingers together and rests his forehead on them, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

“I’m going to come inside you,” Harry tells Eggsy as he slowly pushes in. “And then I’m putting that plug back in when I’m done with you, and you’re going to keep it in till we get home tonight, and you’re going to feel my come drip down your thighs while I fuck your mouth. Do you understand?”

He’s almost completely inside Eggsy now. Eggsy takes a shallow, shuddery intake of air. Harry squeezes his neck. “I asked you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Eggsy breathes. “Yes, sir.” The word slips out almost involuntarily. He can feel Harry shudder against him.

“God,” Harry says. “Eggsy.”

Eggsy wishes he could see him; wishes he could see the blush riding Harry’s cheekbones, the lust clouding his eyes. Harry always looks so fucking good when they’re shagging. The fact that he’s still fully dressed only adds to the mental image—Harry in his pressed trousers and his crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up, bending Eggsy over his desk and taking him from behind. Shit, Eggsy wishes someone was filming this.

Harry pulls back and thrusts into him again, deep, hard, and Eggsy stops thinking altogether. As with the plug, Harry keeps driving into him, sharp fast thrusts, holding Eggsy down with one hand in the curve of his shoulder and the other tight around his hip. When Harry hits Eggsy’s prostate and Eggsy lets out a helpless noise, Harry says, voice breathy and low, “Yeah, you like that? Is this what you wanted?”

Eggsy moans.

“I watched you,” Harry tells him without changing the punishing pace. “Couldn’t help myself. Went to the comms centre and stood behind Jamie and watched you on the monitors. You—fuck—you have no idea how bloody good you look out there.”

He nails Eggsy’s prostate again, and Eggsy sobs out yet another moan, fingertips digging into a groove in the wood of the desk.

“Couldn’t wait to have you back here,” Harry says. “And then you show up like this—too fucking impatient to wait for me to finger you open, weren’t you—”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says breathlessly. “Yeah, fuck, Harry—”

His arse cheeks are burning like mad from Harry’s hips colliding harshly with them with every thrust. His face feels like it’s on fire too, each of Harry’s words like the caress of a flame. Harry’s strained, barely-composed voice—Eggsy wants to hear more of it, wants to hear that paper-thin layer of composure crack, and he pushes back, murmurs Harry’s name again. Clenches around him to try and coax another stream of words from those beautiful lips. When that doesn’t work, he reaches behind him with one hand, squeezes Harry’s thigh. He can feel it quiver with effort.

“Harry, c’mon,” Eggsy begs. “Harder, fuck me harder. I can take it, you know I can, c’mon—”

“Fuck,” Harry chokes out above him, and Eggsy gasps out a breathless laugh at the amount of desperation in that single syllable. He digs his fingernails into the meat of Harry’s thigh, tries to spread his legs even wider.

“Fuck, you slut,” Harry says again, in awe, and Eggsy keens, his balls actually tightening at the word. “You love this, don’t you? You love being such a perfect slut for me.”

“Only you, Harry,” Eggsy gasps, clutching at Harry’s thigh. “Only for you.”

He doesn’t know whether it’s a coincidence or if it’s these exact words that send Harry over the edge, but he’d like to believe it’s the latter.

Harry surprises Eggsy by pulling out once he’s come and spinning Eggsy around, anchoring him back against the desk with one hand low on his stomach. Before Eggsy has any idea what’s going on, Harry’s dropped to his knees, two fingers shoved knuckle-deep inside; Eggsy’s cock engulfed by wetness and heat.

“Oh, fucking fuck.” Eggsy grabs two handfuls of Harry’s hair to ground himself. “Jesus Christ, warn a guy, why don’t—”

Harry sucks on the head of his dick, cheeks hollowing, and angles his fingers just right, thrusting upwards, and Eggsy swears to God he almost fucking blacks out as he comes. He stays where he is, slumped backwards over the desk, as his breathing returns to normal.

“Well, that was violent,” he manages eventually, pushing himself into an upright position again.

Harry has collapsed in his desk chair, is tucking himself back into his trousers with a glazed look in his eyes. Eggsy catches sight of the plug lying forlorn under the desk, and he pulls a face. “You better clean that thing before putting it anywhere near me again, mate.”

Harry looks at him. “I’m sorry?” he says, voice faint.

Eggsy nods at the plug. Harry follows his gaze, blinking owlishly. He clearly—endearingly—doesn’t get it, and Eggsy laughs, leans in to kiss him. “At least you’re pretty,” he tells Harry, and Harry hums and presses their foreheads together.

 


 

It never fails to surprise Eggsy, the effect Harry’s touch has on him.

He ain’t entirely sure it’s normal. Surely most people don’t feel this way, don’t feel this intoxicated by the mere physical presence of their lover, significant other, whatever.

The way Eggsy feels about Harry, it’s got nothing to do with mindless infatuation. He ain’t lovestruck, alright. This is different, more profound. It’s all bound up with feelings of trust and safety and vulnerability and many other feelings, probably. Feelings that Eggsy hasn’t yet managed to pinpoint for himself, that Roxy hasn’t yet managed to identify in their late-night phone calls or after-work chats over drinks. It’s unlike anything he’s ever known.

(“I’m like putty in his hands, Rox,” Eggsy had complained once, and Roxy had shrugged, said, “You give him permission to turn you into putty in his hands. That’s an important condition, isn’t it?”)

The way you responded to me, Harry had said almost reverently all those nights ago, marvelling at the effect his touch had on Eggsy.

And the effect hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown stronger. The feeling of Harry’s hands on his skin pulls Eggsy under oh so easily if he allows it to. And he often allows it to, because he knows—instinctively knew from the start—that he can trust Harry with this. Knows he can trust Harry to make the right calls; knows he can trust Harry to know what he wants, what he needs. Knows it is safe to lean back and close his eyes and relax to the point where he feels like he’s floating just below the surface of a calm ocean, and for a while he doesn’t have to do nothing but listen to Harry’s voice.

For a while, nothing else matters.

Sometimes Eggsy doubts that other people could even feel this way because for him it’s all so intricately tied up with Harry. Harry fucking Hart, with his lightning-quick temper and his flair for the dramatic. Harry who had torn through a bloodthirsty congregation and emerged as the last man standing with hardly a scratch; Harry who’d got shot in the head and survived against all odds, “like a fucking cockroach,” as Merlin had said, affection palpable in his voice.

Harry, whose hands have killed dozens of people—efficient, effortless kills—and who now uses those very same hands to toss Eggsy off in the mornings and, in the afternoons, to knead the tension of the day out of Eggsy’s shoulders just as effortlessly and efficiently. Harry, who once pulled Eggsy towards him in the cereal aisle in Waitrose and unceremoniously shoved his hands under Eggsy’s shirt and his tongue into Eggsy’s mouth because “that woman over there was regarding us in a most unfriendly manner”.

Eggsy can’t imagine anyone feeling the same way he feels when he’s with Harry because he himself can’t imagine ever feeling the same way with anyone but Harry.

It’s wonderful.

It’s also terrifying as shit, and it was bound to cause him a minor meltdown at some point. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it one, as it turns out, but a meltdown nonetheless.

There’s nothing in particular that triggers it, nothing unusual about the situation that sets him off. They’re in Harry’s bed, naked. Eggsy has already taken care of his morning wood by rubbing off against Harry’s stomach, and now he’s lying lazily across Harry’s chest, idly fondling Harry’s half-hard dick as Harry traces circles on his skin.

As Sunday mornings go, this one’s about as perfect as they get.

Harry is talking about—something. Eggsy doesn’t know what. Cock rings, maybe. Something like that. Whatever. He’s too content to care, the calm settled bone-deep. Drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, his mind shrouded in fog too thick to let anything else in. He registers the presence of Harry’s words but not the meaning of them. He blinks, focuses for a second.

“Would you do that?” Harry asks, in a quiet voice. “Would you do that for me?”

His fingertips warm against Eggsy’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Eggsy murmurs reflexively. “Yes, Harry.”

I would do anything for you.

The thought leisurely bubbles up through the fog. It takes a couple of seconds for it to solidify, for his brain to match the correct words to the feeling, but once it does Eggsy knows it’s true. He has killed for Harry, hasn’t he, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. He would do anything for this man.

The realisation takes his breath away.

Quite literally, that is. On some level of consciousness, Eggsy is aware of the fact that it feels like his chest is constricting, like there’s a metal band drawing tight around his lungs. On another, more powerful level of consciousness, he still doesn’t care. As long as he’s here, curled up to Harry with Harry’s fingers tracing warm circles on his skin and Harry’s voice in his ears, it doesn’t matter. Everything is alright.

And fucking hell, that’s a twisted thought, isn’t it.

He jerks his head back, out of Harry’s reach.

“Eggsy?” Harry says, alarmed.

“Gimme a second,” Eggsy says. He rolls onto his back, gulps in a mouthful of air. He can’t fucking think with the fog in his mind. It felt blissful just a few seconds ago, but now it feels—oppressive. Unnerving.

Harry’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm. The pressure on his ribcage lifts somewhat.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, “look at me,” and Eggsy almost automatically, involuntarily obeys.

He stomps down on the impulse, shakes off Harry’s hand. “I said gimme a fucking second, didn’I?” he says through gritted teeth, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He covers his face with his hands. “Fuck. Just—”

“Eggsy,” Harry says again, and Eggsy swears to God he’s about to lash out when Harry continues, “I’ll—is there anything I can get you? A glass of water, perhaps?”

“Just,” Eggsy tells his hands, “go make me some tea or something, will you? I just need—”

“A second,” Harry says. “I understand. I’ll be downstairs.”

He lingers for a moment before walking out of the room. Eggsy’s stomach sinks a little more with every step he hears Harry take, wavers uncomfortably at the soft click of the door falling shut.

Eggsy scoots backwards on the bed until he’s flush against the wall. He looks at his hands in his lap, takes a couple of deep breaths. The fog in his head has dispersed; the surge of panic has ebbed away as abruptly as it had risen. He’s already starting to feel like he overreacted.

But then, the thought of it, of one single man holding the power to make him feel that way—

He reaches for his mobile on the nightstand and calls Roxy.

“Eggsy,” Roxy says when she picks up. “I was just about to text you. You’ll never guess who I ran into last night.”

Eggsy scrubs a hand down his face. “Nope. Shoot.”

Roxy says, voice bright, “Digby!”

“What?” Eggsy says. “I thought Merlin and I’d blown his head off.”

“No, that was Charlie. Digby was one of the sidekicks, remember? Apparently he works in the bank district now.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“What did he say? Did he recognise you?” Eggsy pulls his knees up to his chest, rests his elbows on them. The sound of Roxy’s voice is making him feel better already. Rox’ll know exactly what to say; she always does.

“Yeah, he did. Asked me if I was still working for that super secret spy organisation he didn’t make it into, and then of course I had to kill him for breaking the confidentiality agreement. Needless to say, it got quite messy.”

“Ha, ha.”

“No, just kidding. What he did do was ask me out, though.”

“Shut up,” Eggsy says. “For real? What’d you say to him?”

“That I’d rather snog my fucking poodle.”

“Rox!”

Kidding, of course. I told him thanks but no thanks and he smiled like that was the answer he’d been expecting all along and then we went our separate ways again. He wasn’t so bad, really. It was fun running into him.”

“You only think it was fun because you beat him to the position.”

“Why must you always think the worst of me?” Roxy chastises him. “So, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothin’,” Eggsy says. “Just felt like hearing your voice is all.”

“That’s cute.” She waits.

Eggsy leans his head back against the wall. “Right, so this thing between me and—”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Roxy interrupts him. “I just so happened to walk past Arthur’s office the other day. The sounds coming from behind that door… indescribable. Reckoned you should know.”

Rox!

“If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought Harry was ritually sacrificing a goat in there,” Roxy continues, adding, in a thoughtful voice, “Then again, you never really know with Harry, do you?”

“Alright, that’s it. I’m hanging up,” Eggsy says. “I changed my mind, I don’t wanna have no heartfelt conversation with you no more. And I’m cancelling our plans for Tuesday as well.”

“Please. As if you have anyone else you can talk to about this.”

“I wha—excuse me? I could’ve called my mum, or Merlin, or Jamal—”

“And say what? ‘Hey Jamal, or Mum, for that matter, so this super secret spy organisation you don’t know I work for, right, yeah, that one, well, I’m shagging the boss of said super secret spy organisation, who is twice my age, by the way, just as a side note, and I kinda get off on him bossing me around in the bedroom as well and it’s been a couple months now and I’m starting to get worried that I might be getting too attached or overly dependent on him or whatever’?”

Fuckin’ Roxy. Won’t even allow Eggsy to have a proper meltdown about this.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Eggsy admits.

“God, can you imagine springing that line on Merlin, though? He’d lose it completely. He’s stressed out enough as it is.”

Eggsy groans. “Alright, Rox, you got me. You’re the only person I could’ve called. Now say the thing.”

“Which thing?”

“You know, the words-of-wisdom-from-the-best-friend-in-a-romantic-comedy thing, yeah? Tell me that Harry and I are, I dunno, totally MFEO and I ain’t got nothing to worry about. Something like that.”

“Getting overly dependent on someone is never advisable, though,” Roxy says contemplatively. “Even if the two of you are totally MFEO.”

Rox.”

Eggsy,” Roxy says, mimicking his tone of voice. “Alright then, answer me honestly. Have you ever felt overly dependent on anyone?”

“No,” Eggsy says. “But—”

“Have you ever felt averagely dependent on anyone?”

Eggsy draws in a breath.

“Answer me honestly,” Roxy repeats, softer.

“No,” Eggsy sighs out. “No, I guess not.”

“Well, in that case, have you considered the possibility that it might be the mere novelty of such an emotional attachment, rather than the intensity of it, that has you quivering in your boots?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eggsy says. “You been sitting on that one for a while, haven’t you?”

“I’ve got the keywords written on a Post-It stuck to my fridge door,” Roxy says sweetly. “I’d expected this call earlier, to be honest. You held out slightly longer than I’d expected. Still on schedule, though.”

“I swear to God I’ma hang up on you.”

“That’s alright, I’ve run out of words of wisdom anyway. But Eggsy?”

“Yeah?”

“If I had to put money on either one of you being at risk of getting too attached, it’s not you I’d be betting on,” Roxy says. “I mean, seriously, have you seen the way that man looks at you? If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought you hung the moon based on that look alone. You’ve got him whipped, mate. The matter of whom is holding the actual whip is irrelevant in this respect.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Eggsy says, and Roxy’s still laughing when he ends the call.

 

Harry’s in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. He turns around when Eggsy comes in. “Eggsy,” he says in a neutral tone of voice. “How are you feeling?”

Eggsy shrugs one shoulder. He feels sheepish and self-conscious, but he ain’t about to tell Harry that, is he. “I’m sorry ’bout freaking out,” he says instead.

“Don’t apologise for that,” Harry says, face pinched tight. “Never apologise for that. It’s me who should apologise, I should’ve noticed you were un—”

“I love you,” Eggsy cuts in, taking the plunge. If he’s in over his head anyway, he might as well admit it out loud. Regardless of whether it needs to be said or not. “You know that, right?”

Harry looks at him. “Well,” he says, after a beat. “Yes.”

“‘Well yes’?” Eggsy echoes incredulously. “The fuck is that supposed to mean? I thought you knew.” Hell, he ain’t exactly been subtle about it.

“Well,” Harry says again, a little more sharply this time. “I suppose it means that initially I wasn’t certain whether it was me specifically you wanted, or just someone to ‘boss you around a little’, as I seem to recall you putting it back then.”

A peal of laughter wrenches itself from Eggsy’s throat before he can stop it. “What,” he says, because the thought of anyone, let alone Harry himself, misjudging how much of a fucking goner Eggsy is for this man is hilarious.

Harry’s eyes go hard, the way they do when he feels cornered and is about to get real defensive. “Well, you can’t very well blame me for the fact that you weren’t very clear in communicating your intentions, can you now,” he says petulantly, and Eggsy can’t help it—he laughs again.

“Alright,” he says, “so let me be clear now, yeah? I fuckin’ love you. I’d do pretty much anything for you, and that’s what—that’s why I freaked out.”

I love you so much it scares me, he thinks but doesn’t say. This ain’t really that kinda movie, after all.

But then, maybe it is. Sort of. It does certainly appear to be turning into one, against all odds and expectations. A rated-18 version of the kinds of feel-good romantic films Harry gets all choked up about and then pretends not to be affected by. And then he gets all huffy when Eggsy playfully calls him out on it.

Eggsy’s life once changed from a bleak indie drama into an upbeat spy thriller overnight. He guesses this most recent genre twist from porn flick to sappy shit is fitting, in some way.

The tense line of Harry’s shoulders has sagged a little.

“I thought perhaps you’d suddenly realised what a terrible mistake you made,” he says. “Woke up on Sunday morning and found yourself in the bed of a man twice your age, talking about cock rings of all things. I thought perhaps I’d scared you off at long last.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “Gonna need to try a whole lot harder than that to scare me off, bruv,” he says, moving into Harry’s space.

Harry spreads his legs to accommodate Eggsy. “You know,” he says, carefully touching the pad of his thumb to Eggsy’s cheekbone, “situations like those are why people use safewords.”

“I think we handled ourselves just fine without one,” Eggsy says. “Wanna go back upstairs for a retry?”

 

(Much later, they do eventually agree on a safeword, albeit for the opposite reason.

Harry is fucking Eggsy within an inch of his life. He took ages teasing Eggsy open with his fingers, then opening him up further with his tongue, then with a toy; fucked Eggsy with it until Eggsy was this close to coming, then withdrew it and went right back to light touches and kisses. Eggsy’s bathing in sweat, his neck cramping from having his head thrown back into the pillows, his mouth dry because he can’t stop talking, babbling, fuck, Harry, holy shit, I can’t, fucking—

And then suddenly Harry stops.

“The fuck?” Eggsy moans pitifully, kicking at Harry’s lower back with his heels. “What the fuck, Harry, why’d you stop? Don’t be a fucking arsehole.”

“You said you couldn’t take it!” Harry says, visibly affronted.

Eggsy squints up at him. “What?”

“You said ‘stop, stop, I can’t fuckin’ take it’,” Harry says. “How much clearer are—”

“Wha—how the fuck—just fucking keep going, Jesus Christ.”

“That, my dear boy, was yet another example of why people use safewords,” Harry says to him afterwards, and that’s how they end up settling on Oxfords not brogues anyway.)

 


 

And they lived happily ever after—with the occasional hiccup here and there, that is. Which was only to be expected; Eggsy’s life may be many things, but it certain as hell ain’t no fairy tale.

He and Harry get into plenty of arguments over the years, because they’re both too stubborn and hot-headed for their own good. Sometimes Eggsy storms off in a huff with JB on his heels, and other times Harry gives him the silent treatment and goes as far as to spend the night on the sofa. Their arguments are loud and petty, and they laugh about them afterwards more often than not.

One time they tear into each other over something work-related during a Kingsmen assembly. It’s the kind of argument even Percival seems hesitant to get in on. “Let us agree to disagree,” Harry eventually suggests, voice frigid and faux-polite, and Eggsy, who wants to claw his face off when Harry uses that voice (either his own face or Harry’s face, he ain’t picky), sneers, “Sure thing, Arthur,” and they move on to the next point of business, the tension in the dining room so thick you could cut it with a knife.

When everyone has left the room, they get each other off on the long table, Harry threading his fingers into Eggsy’s hair and yanking at it as Eggsy rakes his nails down Harry’s heaving chest, bites angry red marks into the skin of Harry’s throat hard enough to make him cry out. Harry spills into Eggsy’s palm, their fingers linked as they jerk him off together, and Eggsy blows his load between Harry’s thighs, slicked up with sweat and saliva and Harry’s own come.

“I still think—” Harry starts afterwards, while tucking his shirt back into his trousers, and Eggsy says, “For fuck’s sake, Harry, would you just shut the fuck up about it already,” and they part with a bruising kiss.

Admittedly, those aren’t the kinds of arguments they have most often, but they are the ones Eggsy tends to remember most vividly (especially when he’s on a mission, stretched out across a hotel bed, alone, cock in hand, glasses recording his every move, Harry’s breathing heavy in his ear), so.

 

Unsurprisingly, the dangers of the job also complicate things at times.

Harry leaves for the States to assist the CIA on a case. He’s supposed to be gone for a maximum of three weeks. Eggsy sends him texts and snapshots and videos to keep him entertained. Then Harry’s stay gets extended, and Eggsy is forced to get increasingly inventive with his actions and positions.

When Harry comes back home, he ties Eggsy’s ankles and wrists to the bed—their bed, unofficially, by now; even JB has been allowed to move in—and rides Eggsy agonizingly slowly. He’s a fucking sight to behold like this, working himself on Eggsy’s cock, going however fast or slow he feels like, taking Eggsy however deep or shallow as he wants. Pausing a few times to catch his breath and wipe his hair off his forehead and smile down at Eggsy. Eggsy, who is unable to touch, unable to move, unable to do anything; reduced to a spectator, as impotent and frustrated as Harry must have felt, watching everything Eggsy’d sent him over the past few weeks.

For some reason, that moment is all Eggsy can think about the next time he finds himself in a tight spot.

Not the way Harry had cupped his cheek and kissed him softly before he’d boarded the plane with Roxy; not the quiet “I love you more than anything,” Harry had whispered into his hair just a couple of nights ago, when he must have thought Eggsy had drifted off to sleep already. Instead, Eggsy can’t stop thinking about the dizzyingly tight clench of Harry around him; the mouth-watering view of Harry’s ab muscles contracting rhythmically as he fucked himself raw on Eggsy’s cock; the way both their voices had remained hoarse for hours afterwards.

He tells Roxy this—the gist of it, that is, not the details. Merlin definitely wouldn’t appreciate overhearing those. Roxy wheezes out a laugh, then winces. “You’re fucking unbelievable, Unwin, you know that?” she says breathlessly, her fingers twitching under Eggsy’s. The wound is still bleeding, Eggsy notes, the dark stain spreading from under their palms despite the constant pressure they’re keeping on it.

“Oh, no,” Roxy says. “Not that look. Bad look. Get it off your pretty face, Galahad.”

“We need to get you the fuck out of here,” Eggsy says, not for the first time. “Merlin?”

“Extraction team’s on its way,” Merlin comes in through their transceivers, also not for the first time. It becomes less comforting with every iteration. “Just a few more minutes, Lancelot. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

There’s a crackle on Merlin’s end of the line, a distant voice saying, “What’s the status?”

Eggsy’s heart gives a vague little squeeze at the sound of Harry’s voice. It’s not an entirely positive squeeze; Merlin would only call Arthur into the comms centre if a situation turned truly dire.

“Lancelot’s down,” Merlin tells him. “Galahad is sharing some—interesting anecdotes to keep her with us. Also to raise my blood pressure, I’m sure.”

“Well isn’t this embarrassing,” Roxy says from where her head is pillowed on Eggsy’s thigh. “First time I manage to get myself gravely injured on a mission and everyone up to and including Arthur is around to witness it. Just bloody marvellous.” Her eyes flutter shut for a second.

“You didn’t get yourself injured,” Eggsy says. “It was my fault. I didn’t see him till it was too late.”

“Do me a favour and make that very clear in the mission report, would you?” Roxy says. “I’d rather not go down in history as the first female Kingsman agent who got herself killed during her second year of service on a mission with only a moderate pre-assessment level of risk. Kidding,” she adds. “Jesus, Galahad. Don’t pull that face either.”

“Fuck you, Rox. You ain’t nearly as funny as you think you are,” Eggsy says, wiping the sweat off Roxy’s forehead with his sleeve. She’s getting paler by the second, fuck. “Back-up’s welcome any bloody time now, guv.” He can hear feet drumming, voices echoing, and he sits up, Roxy making a noise of complaint when the movement jostles her head. “Fucking finally.”

“No, Galahad,” Merlin says slowly. “That’s not the extraction team. I’m afraid you’ve got incoming. Seven—no, eight of them, no weapons as far as I can tell, but—”

“Oh, bollocks,” Roxy says at the same time as Harry mutters fuck on the other end of the line. “Help me up, would you?”

“Your tibia’s shattered, love,” Eggsy reminds her. “You ain’t getting up again anytime soon.”

“Alright, so hand me a weapon,” Roxy says, pushing up onto one elbow. “Chop chop, we ain’t got all day.”

“We’re out of bullets,” Eggsy says. “My umbrella’s broken, we got nothing.”

Roxy stares up at him. “Wow,” she says, and for the first time since shit went down there’s something akin to fear in her eyes. Eggsy can’t even remember the last time he saw this look on her face; during the skydiving task, maybe, back when they were in training. A lifetime ago. “We really cocked this one up, didn’t we?”

I cocked this one up,” Eggsy reminds her, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“The extraction team has entered the building,” Merlin says, unflappable as always. “Just keep your heads cool and lay low, kids. If these guys get close, pretend to be dead.”

“That’s some brilliant fucking advice, guv,” Eggsy snarls at him. “Got any more of that?”

“Well, you could always try to distract them with your charm and sunny disposition.”

The footsteps get closer, the voices growing louder.

“Hold on,” Eggsy says, sitting up—Roxy groans—and reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket. “I think—”

“There’s no need, Galahad,” Merlin says. “It’s too great a risk. Wait for back-up to arrive, they’re almost there. These people may not even be armed.”

“Last time I thought someone wasn’t armed they shot Roxy in the shoulder and broke her leg in half,” Eggsy says, patting his other pocket. “Better sorry than safe, mate.”

“It’s not broken in half,” Roxy protests. “I’ll have you know my foot’s still attached.”

“Galahad, stand down,” Harry’s voice comes in, sharply. “That’s an order.”

Eggsy finally locates the lighter, pulls it out.

“Galahad,” Merlin says.

Harry says, “Eggsy.”

“Yeah, respectfully, fuck your orders,” Eggsy says, flicking on the lighter and hurling it down the corridor as hard as he can, curling himself around Roxy to protect her from the blast of the grenade.

 


 

“I can’t believe the fucking nerve of you,” Harry says as he pushes into the medical ward and stalks up to the bed Eggsy is sitting on. “The two of you could’ve died, you hear me?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. I hardly even bruised my ribs.” He decides not to mention the burns on his back until Harry stops looking so, well, harried. And pissed off. “And I got us out alright, didn’t I?”

“You should have waited,” Harry says in a cold, tight voice. “Back-up was right around the corner, literally—you should have followed our orders, you had no way of knowing the grenade would—”

“I have wicked aim,” Eggsy interrupts him.

“You were reckless,” Harry says, louder, “and irresponsible, and disobedient, and—”

“Oh, sod off, Arthur.” Eggsy has to raise his voice to talk over Harry; apparently they’re shouting at each other now. The nurse who was bandaging Eggsy’s wrist is discreetly slipping away through the door. He can’t blame her. “You trying to tell me you ain’t never disobeyed no single order in your life? Huh? ’Cause you either being a liar or a hypocrite here.”

“That’s—”

“It ain’t different, Harry, and you know it,” Eggsy cuts in. “Yeah, I was reckless and disobedient. That’s who I am. That’s who Kingsman hired, alright? And you can teach me, you can guide me, but in the end I make my own bloody decisions. Just like you did when you was Galahad—and don’t gimme that fuckin’ look, you know it’s true. And you can lecture me for that, hell, you can fire me for it if you want, but you can’t act like you didn’t know that about me.”

“Of course I know that about you,” Harry says loudly, desperately. “Why do you think I’m so—of course I know that. And it terrifies me.”

“So what, you want me to sit tight and be a good little boy whenever you tell me to?” Eggsy scoffs. “Newsflash, Harry. You don’t own me. In the bedroom, you can boss me around to hell and back, and I eat that shit up, you know I do, but out here there’s gonna be times when I disagree with you. And you better fucking respect that.” He’s running out of breath. He inhales deeply; his ribs protest.

“Fuck,” Harry says, actually rubbing his temples. Prick. “You infuriate me sometimes, you know that?”

“Oh, you think working with someone like you is such a fucking walk in the park then? ’Cause—” Eggsy presses a hand to his ribs, his breath catching in his throat.

“You’re hurt,” Harry says, taking a step closer.

“Yeah, Harry, I’m in a bloody hospital bed here. What’d you expect?” Eggsy says, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “Roxy out of surgery yet?”

“She’ll be fine,” Harry says absently, sitting down on the edge of Eggsy’s bed. “It’s a clean break. Let me see—”

Eggsy sighs, lifts his shirt.

Eggsy,” Harry says, reaching for the bruises.

“These ain’t got nothing to do with the grenade,” Eggsy tells him. “You don’t get to be pissed off at me for these.”

The pads of Harry’s fingertips are cool and gentle against his abused skin.

“So there are other injuries I do get to be pissed off about,” Harry deduces, and Eggsy inwardly curses himself for not being more careful about his wording. Least subtle spy in the history of the world or not, Harry’s still a spy. Well, a retired one, but still.

“Burnt my back,” Eggsy says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Nothing too bad, though. Suit took the brunt of it.”

“Ruined a perfectly good suit for no good reason,” Harry says mournfully. “If you’d have just waited five more seconds—”

“Yeah, but then I’d have run the risk of missing out on an opportunity to get doted on,” Eggsy says.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “What on earth makes you believe you deserve to be doted on?”

“Please,” Eggsy says. “You won’t be able to fuckin’ help yourself. Even when I’m perfectly fine you can’t help but treat me like a prince half the time. When you ain’t roughing me up or shagging me senseless, that is.”

“And what’s so wrong about that?” Harry says, indignant. “I don’t—”

“Seriously?” Eggsy says. “Next we’re gonna argue about how you treat me right?” He pats the mattress. “C’mere, you crazy old bastard.”

“I need to get back to work,” Harry says, moving closer anyway. “And you need to go home and rest. I’ve arranged for a taxi to come pick you up.”

“I am resting,” Eggsy protests. He leans his head against Harry’s shoulder. “See? Totally resting.”

“You need to go home and rest,” Harry repeats. “In your own bed. Our bed.”

“I don’t see what’s so different about that.”

Harry makes a vague noise. “Oh, nothing, really,” he says. “Except I can’t very well suck you off in the infirmary now, can I? It would be inappropriate.”

Eggsy swallows. “Thought you was cross with me,” he says, cheeks heating up at the thought of Harry kneeling in front of him, Harry’s mouth hot and wet around his cock, sucking the last vestiges of tension right out of him.

Harry sighs. “Darling, how could I possibly stay cross with you for displaying the very same characteristics that made me fall in love with you in the first place?”

“Well, yeah, that’s pretty much what I said a minute ago,” Eggsy says, threading their fingers together. Harry’s palm is warm against his. Harry’s entire body is warm against his, and it’s making him feel sleepy. “What was that you said about a taxi?” he asks, stifling a yawn.

 

Back home, he falls asleep with JB curled up on the foot of the bed. He wakes up sore all over, to a text from Roxy. Expecting daily flower deliveries and frequent visits. X. He shoots her a reply, heaves himself to his feet and into the bathroom to gulp down a couple of painkillers and a tall glass of water.

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark out. JB is trotting to the bedroom door, panting. When the door opens, he yelps excitedly.

“Shush, JB, you’ll wake him up,” Harry’s voice says quietly. There’s the sound of fabric rustling, and then of fingers scritching through fur. Eggsy can hear Harry whisper some more things to JB—he can’t make out what—as the sound of Harry’s footsteps recedes, the stairs creaking under his weight.

Eggsy wakes up again when the light comes on, despite the fact that Harry immediately dims it to the lowest setting. He tries to keep his heavy eyelids from falling shut, watches through his eyelashes as Harry starts undressing. Takes off his cufflinks, carefully places them inside the top drawer. Unbuttons his shirt and hangs it over a hanger, smoothing out the creases and hooking the hanger over the door of the wardrobe. Socks and shoes are next. Harry sits down on the bed, back to Eggsy. Muscles rippling under his undershirt. Eggsy would reach out to feel them move if he wasn’t so tired.

Harry gets back to his feet, pads out of the room. The distant noise of the bathroom vent coming on.

Eggsy drifts off again until the mattress dips, Harry getting into bed beside him, making himself comfortable.

“Thought I was gettin’ a blowjob,” Eggsy mumbles into his pillow, though it sounds more like “mmmblowjob” to his own ears.

Harry laughs softly. “Are you awake enough?”

Eggsy scrunches up his nose. “Mmm,” he says, by way of answer.

Harry leans over him to kiss his temple. “Don’t worry, my dear, you’ll get your blowjob,” he says, turning off the lamp.

“Love you,” Eggsy murmurs, and it doesn’t matter that he’s out like a light before Harry’s reply comes. He knows what it is; he’ll hear it for many years to come.

 

(The next morning, he wakes up with his uninjured wrist handcuffed to the bed and his cock halfway down Harry’s throat.

Afterwards, Harry refuses to let him go for hours, and instead alternates getting Eggsy off with feeding him chocolate-covered strawberries.)