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Present and Correct

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Present and Correct

 

You get used to someone, when you live with them. Eggsy’s got used to Harry’s footsteps; his scent; the way he looks like two entirely different people when he wakes up curled and mostly - if not entirely - nude, versus when he's poured into a perfectly pressed suit, ready for work.

Once in a while, though… damn.

They’ve barely crossed paths today. Harry’s off to some fancy charity dinner to butter up a mark and Eggsy’s been at HQ, so they’re the proverbial ships passing in the night, Harry in the bathroom when Eggsy gets home and Eggsy cooking an approximation of carbonara in his gym shorts and a t-shirt when Harry appears in the doorway all done up in his flair on black tie du jour: Blackwatch tartan trousers and a midnight blue velvet blazer, crisp white shirt, silk bow tie, black rimmed glasses and hair just so.

“How do I look?”

“Fucking hell.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

It’s the most honest one he can give. He could tell Harry he looks handsome, or some shit like that. Suave. Sexy. Debonair. Fucking gorgeous. But from the smirk on his face as he looks at Eggsy, standing barefoot and barely dressed in their kitchen, he’s at least two thirds of the way to knowing it.

Eggsy wouldn't have said he had a thing about it, as such. There’s just something about the pristine, mature, put-together look that presses his buttons, makes him want to tempt the animal out from underneath. Makes him want to get on his knees and know his place. Harry wears that authority so well, he'd only have to click his fingers and point, looking like that, and Eggsy would hit the deck any time, any place.

Fair play, perhaps he's a bit weaker for it than some but he can't really imagine anyone who likes men to any degree not being completely gut punched by the way Harry wears a suit: the attention to detail, the power in his bearing, the sheer bloody perfection of him where the skill lies in making it all look effortless, when in fact it is an art form which Harry has mastered like he masters everything he puts his mind to.

He can fucking master me if he likes.

When Harry crosses the kitchen, Eggsy isn’t sure where to put his hands, or his eyes, so he just stands staring. Harry is flawless; Eggsy doesn't feel like he can afford to touch him; wouldn't know where to start.

Harry’s got his own ideas, apparently. He puts his hands straight on Eggsy’s polyester-clad arse and pulls him close; the tiny lift of his Oxfords means Eggsy has to properly get up on the balls of his feet to reach his lips, pressed against the expensive layers of his suit, and something about all of that is just filthy.  Eggsy feels like a doting housewife, swept off his feet in the process of making his man dinner, except his dinner is for one, sadly, and his man is swanning off to drink champagne and eat something fancy and unpronounceable that doesn’t taste anywhere near as good as everyone pretends it does: Eggsy knows the drill.

He’s pretty glad he doesn’t have to go with him, actually. Harry doesn’t need the back-up, and more to the point there’s just no reasonable excuse to send Eggsy along, which is just fine with him because he’s getting hard already and there’s no way he’d be able to sit next to -  or worse, a short distance from - Harry looking like that all night and not do something drastically inappropriate. Not like it would be the first time, but they do try not to make a habit of it.

Plus, there's something lovely... comforting, easy, a bit dirty somehow... about staying at home whilst Harry goes off to work looking like that. It's a shame there'll be nobody who knows Eggsy’s waiting for him, nobody Harry can share a sly smile with about what he's got to go home to, although he wouldn't put it past him to slip it into a chat with a friendly stranger purely for his own entertainment. it’s happened before and of course they’re not surprised...why wouldn’t a man like Harry have a bendy twenty five year old blonde stashed away? Eggsy might not be exactly what they’re picturing, which is just a bit hilarious because what Eggsy’s imagining them imagining involves a lacy French Maid’s outfit or perhaps strappy red lingerie, but he knows he’s exactly the version Harry would choose, every time.

And Eggsy will be waiting, impatiently but trying his best, horny and willing and flexible in every sense for whatever Harry might want. It's no less than a man like him deserves,  after all, and maybe Eggsy likes to feel like he has to earn it, sometimes.

Harry definitely feels his interest.

“I’m awfully sorry you couldn’t accompany me this evening.”

“I'm not,” Eggsy says into his shoulder. “JB and I’s got big plans to watch TV, laze around and get crumbs in your sofa, and pine after you whilst you're out being all busy and important.”

“Mmhmm. I'm not sure who’s the worse influence, of the two of you.”

“Neither, as long as you're alright with me slobbering all over you and humping your leg when you get ‘ome.” It’s obvious, but Harry still grins at him. “At least I’m house trained…”

Harry raises an eyebrow and oh, if he's thinking about bringing up all that shit again then he'll definitely be up for where Eggsy’s mind is going.

“You're not gonna be too late?” Harry shakes his head with confidence. “You want me to wait up for you?”

“There's no need, it's not-”

Harry is listening to his words, and not his tone. Eggsy interrupts him and dials it up a notch.

“You don't want me to be your good boy, an’ stay put until you get home, all obedient like, and be ready and waiting upstairs for you when you get in?”

Oh . Well, if you're feeling so inclined, I'll…” Harry loses the end of his sentence staring unfocused into Eggsy’s eyes, at his mouth. “I'll let you know when I'm on the way home, or if plans change. The usual… words, the usual-?”

“I've got it, Harry.” Eggsy gives him a firm peck on the lips, mouth closed, and pushes him away. “Go! You're late.”

“Fuck it,” says Harry, and jogs out to the waiting cab.

 

***

 

There’s not a lot on telly Eggsy particularly wants to catch up on or can without Harry bitching at him for watching without him, and JB has evidently tired himself out on having Harry home all day,  because he’s out for the count within the hour, on his back curled up like a cashew and snoring like a labouring jet engine.

It leaves Eggsy plenty of time to get himself pretty.

He puts the radio on in the bedroom for some sense of time passing whilst he has a shave; brushes his teeth; trims his pubes; files his nails; tweezers out that one fucking weird straight eyebrow hair that grows in a different direction to all the others, because fuck that guy, letting the immaculately groomed side down. Then he takes a long, hot, very thorough shower and does the necessary to get properly clean and just lubed up enough to be comfortable. Nowhere near enough that more won't need to be done, especially if Harry is out for another couple of hours, but enough to give the idea that he's ready and willing, that he was prepared.

As he’s slathering up with body lotion - it’s got cocoa butter in it, he smells like a fucking milkybar, it’s amazing - in front of the mirror, Eggsy notes that he's surprisingly free of cuts and bruises, save for a couple of pale blue scuffs on the insides of his elbows from the fly press in the gym. He hopes it won't last - that tomorrow he’ll have bruised knees and bite marks, fingerprints, carpet burn, you name it - but for now he is as close to perfect as he’ll get, and Harry likes to see him like this: well kept; not an antithesis to his own neat presentation but a complement to it. An accessory, if one might be inclined to this in such objectifying terms… and fuck, is Eggsy inclined. Like, he has to cut the feeling himself up with the body lotion short in case he gets too inclined.

On the bright side, he's ready, but it leaves nothing but to potter around until he hears from Harry that he’s coming home. He can’t very well sit down, but he’s too in the zone for that anyway. So he makes sure the bedroom’s immaculate, takes the laundry basket down bollock naked and oiled up like a chippendale; lights a couple of candles, because why not?

He's starting to get a bit tense - it would, after all, be shit luck if surveillance and integration turned into a gun fight the night Eggsy’s put this much effort into getting a bit - when his phone pings.

[ All went well. Still awake? I'll be home in ten. H X ]

[waiting like I promised. You wanna let yourself in. Im upstairs ;) xxx]

That  just leaves enough time for Eggsy to get in position, to set the scene so that Harry will understand the bits he doesn't quite know the words for about what he wants to do, how he wants it to feel, just by looking at him - they're good at that. This is not about lounging on the bed with a rose between his teeth: after a moment’s dithering, Eggsy goes for kneeling by the end of the bed, in full view of the bedroom doorway. Granted, it’s a bit full on, but Harry would have let him know if plans had changed, so he kneels as comfortably as he can, in case Harry’s been optimistic with his timings again.

It is probably only ten minutes or so. Long enough for his knees to start aching just a little and for the candles to flare properly to life and nicely supplement the dimmer lamps, and Eggsy knows how the shadow and the soft light looks good on his body. Maybe he should have kept some pants on at least, left something to the imagination, but it’s too late for fussing about it now because he hears Harry’s keys in the door and the answering moment of mania as JB loses his shit because he hasn’t seen him for three hours.

Yeah, Eggsy knows the feeling.

It’s just enough domesticity to bring him back to earth for a moment, to take his mind off the thundering of his heart in his chest and his pulse points, then those footsteps are on the stairs, then softer, slower on the hallway carpet, and Harry's polished black Oxfords stop just in view in the doorway.

“Eggsy? I’m - … wow.”

It might be at the mood lighting, the effort, the whole picture or just for him, but Eggsy doesn’t look up because that’s part of it. He only speaks when spoken to, moves how he’s told to; doesn’t touch uninvited or look above Harry’s knees when they’re playing this game that they don’t really have a name for yet.  It's never been scripted so much as sketched out: a few ideas from Eggsy, a couple of confessions from Harry, the odd thing Eggsy is reliably informed he's blurted out when Harry’s been jacking him off, but they seem to be on the same page even about the bits that haven’t really been said, some deep and unspoken understanding of what works and how, even if not quite why.

“You look exquisite,” says Harry, soft and hot and dry. His steps forward are slow, like he's drinking in the sight of Eggsy so exposed in case he's dreaming. “That’s… that’s a very good kneel, you’ve remembered well.”

“Thank you, sir.” He knows there’s a right way to do it, and he’s practiced. Knees shoulder width apart, putting everything on show; back straight;  chin up but eyes down; hands behind his back. Just thinking about placing his limbs right flooded him with that same weird excitement but it’s nothing on hearing Harry sound so pleased with him: that makes Eggsy go to stupid, ecstatic jelly every time. Maybe that’s a little bit weird but there’s worse things, ain’t there.

“But you're missing something, I think.”

Something akin to fear squeezes in Eggsy’s throat, the idea of not being perfect for Harry immediately unbearable in his vulnerable state, but there's a warmth in his voice that soothes it as quickly as it starts: Harry means something nice, he always does.

Harry steps away, reluctantly, it seems from his pace; produces the brown leather collar from the third drawer of the bedside cabinet on his side and lays the leash that matches it - as yet never used - on the bedspread. None of the other bags or pouches of toys come out just yet, Eggsy notices, and he suspects they won't tonight, not that he'd say no. Eggsy would say no to prescisely fuck all at this point. His stomach tenses up just at the sight of the collar, looking almost dainty in Harry’s big, clever hands as he opens it up and stretches it out.

Eggsy tips his chin up further without being asked, and maybe it hides the way his eyes want to roll up with the shiver of excitement that goes through him. The leather is cool and reasonably soft against the skin of his throat, and he savours the feeling of Harry fastening it so reverently: the brush of his fingertips sends shivers skittering out under Eggsy’s skin, so sensitive in anticipation of that first touch; the momentary squeeze as Harry pulls the leather past the pin so that it falls into the correct hole sends an unexpected seize of arousal down Eggsy’s body before it relaxes a little. That too? Really? Alright.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” The sir is a bit of a military hangover, but it feels right, somehow. Wrong, jarring, but perfect. And he knows Harry likes it, pervert that he is.

Harry’s hand pushes through Eggsy’s hair in a slow, appreciative stroke, then another, and his voice is a soft rumble.

“You'll stay there. I have some work to attend to.”

Eggsy can't help the little hitch in his breath. It's not that he particularly wants to kneel there for any set length of time, but he knows any work not done in the cab could wait until the morning, so that means Harry wants to push him, to play with him. Most likely he's making some work up just for the excuse to sit across the room with his tablet and look at Eggsy, but he can't look up to check. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor just in front of him, and listens to the soft tapping of Harry pretending he's got something important to do.

Of course, he could also actually be busy saving the world whilst Eggsy kneels naked except his collar by Harry’s bed, willingly stripped and objectified, waiting to be given something to do for him. It doesn’t matter that he’s got missions of his own: at that moment, in his head, his only mission - his only purpose - is to look pretty, and make Harry happy, and it’s not like it’s not blatantly obvious what that’s going to entail under the circumstances.

It doesn't help - or it really, guiltily does - that Eggsy’s determined look to the floor also gives him such an uninterrupted view of his own body. It's a nice pose to hold: keeping his back straight reminds him to keep his core tight, showing his abs off, and his thighs would probably look pretty good holding the kneel if his cock weren't demanding his attention before he can look that far. He's been hard since the shower, rock solid since Harry walked in and purred at him, and isn't flagging at all for the time spent kneeling in silence, unable to tell if Harry is still appraising him - his body, his obedience - or casually treating him as part of the furniture whilst he gets on with his work. Either seems to be just fine by Eggsy’s hard-on, honestly.

Eggsy fights to keep his breathing quiet and steady, to get his nerves and excitement under control but he doesn't really have anything else to focus on. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Every time he swallows, the collar pulls against his neck. He thinks about trying to distract himself, get his mind elsewhere but it feels too good to wallow in how he feels, in the anticipation of what Harry's going to do with him when he's finished with whatever he’s doing, and not knowing how long he’ll take only makes it worse. He could drop his work down, stride over and haul Eggsy onto the bed by his neck at any second. Or he could just leave him there and keep working, maybe take a break to read his book, do whatever he wants to do knowing full well Eggsy will be there, still nude, ready and at his service the moment Harry decides to pay him some attention, unless he wants to do something really over the top like put his feet up on him in the meantime...

Eggsy’s cock throbs and a drop of precome rolls from the tip to spot onto the carpet. He looks up before he can stop himself, to see if Harry’s noticed, whether maybe he heard that tiny splot on the floor over the slow, forced rasp of Eggsy’s breathing.  No, he’s engrossed in whatever he’s typing, long fingers tapping fluidly around on his tablet screen. Eggsy realises he's shaking with tension, and breathes out so hard trying to pull himself back together that he has to gasp a breath back in, which makes Harry look over at him, and he snaps his eyes back down to the floor.

“Have you forgotten your rules, Eggsy?”

“No sir. Sorry, sir. “

There's no ‘ you will be ’, no suggestion of punishment. Instead, Harry walks over to investigate the reason for his inattention.

...And Eggsy hears a lovely little intake of breath.

“Are you dripping on my carpet?”

Well, yeah, what if he is? Eggsy’s not afraid or even nervous, not anywhere close but for some reason his answer comes out on a whimper.  “I can't help it.” He's embarrassed, sort of, he supposes, in the kind of way that almost wants Harry to grab him by the back of the head and make him lick it up. So, not really.

There's laughter under Harry’s voice too, surprised and happy -  not mocking at all - and as deep as Eggsy is sinking into his fantasy he knows there's no way Harry is anything but pleased and probably turned on by it, even if he's making an attempt to sound cross.

The first soft touch makes him flinch even though he wants it like nothing else: Harry draws his index finger up the underneath of Eggsy’s rigid cock, wiping up another clear bead that's starting to dribble from the head, about to add to the tiny puddle on the floor. Eggsy twitches as harry’s fingertip traces over the wet ridge and circles in on the leaking slit.

“No, I suppose you can't.”

As quickly as Harry can thumb a glistening droplet away another forms, and Eggsy hisses through his teeth at the repeated sensation of him swiping the liquid off with a stroke. He could come like that if either of them had the patience. Two fingers of Harry’s free hand tuck under Eggsy’s chin and tip him back up to meet Harry’s eyes at last, blown almost black behind his glasses in the soft light, and Eggsy feels his jaw go slack. “You've been ever so well behaved, waiting patiently like that. Stay there.”

Harry steps away and Eggsy does exactly as he's told. That goes for not looking back down, now that he's met his eyes: he hasn't told him to, Eggsy wouldn't have to even if he did, and it feels more right to be able to stare harry down, or look through his eyelashes at him, depending how it pans out.  It also means he gets to watch Harry shake his sleeves down, a rare indulgent tell that he's trying to compose himself that simultaneously reminds Eggsy of the sort of strict teachers Harry must have had at boarding school - because they sure as fuck weren't making their way down to inner London comprehensives or Eggsy might have paid a bit more attention in humanities, if you know what he means - and makes something warm and tingly curl out from Eggsy’s belly and sink down to his balls.

Harry turns back, and in his hands is the brown leather leash that matches the collar. It’s stiff as Harry unfolds it and the bends remain as slight kinks that Harry tries to pull flat between his hands, with a gentle snap.

Eggsy’s stomach flips properly, one leap on top of another that froths up in his core and he makes a noise he couldn’t describe and hopes Harry doesn't hear, because it’s just pathetic what that does to him. 

It's better now they're making eye contact; catching fire, a war of nerve and hunger marching on every time their eyes meet. We don't have to be doing all this , the looks seem to both beg and challenge at the same time. And it's true, they could pack in tarting about, sixty-nine and be asleep in half an hour… twenty minutes, at this rate, let's be real… but the answering smiles say not a fucking chance . It's way too good.

If Eggsy didn't already feel like purring, Harry’s blunt, neat nails ghosting under the line of his pecs, dragging up over his nipple would do it. Eggsy flexes for him and gets a fond little ‘ tsk ’ for his trouble, but he knows Harry loves it and surely that's what he's there for, to be admired.

Harry clips the leash onto the ring at the front of the collar, and gives it a little tug that makes Eggsy shuffle forward on his knees.

“Come.”

He just about could, too.

Harry walks the long way around, to Eggsy’s side of the bed because that's just enough distance for the lead to stretch taut and pull him, first down onto all fours and then to crawl.

We’re one of those couples, Eggsy thinks suddenly, out of nowhere, and he'd laugh if he weren't so blindly, consumingly turned on. It doesn't seem that ridiculous now, actually, and it's not like anyone can see…

Eggsy has a sudden, vivid, fully formed image of what they look like - Harry the polished, suited embodiment of money and power with Eggsy, collared on a leash with nothing to offer the equation but his body, being beckoned, pulled up to join him on the bed - and it hits him like an electric shock, like a current down his back to his dick. Harry needs to put him to good use, now . Eggsy is not letting him pull him around on a lead for the good of his fucking health, thanks.

Harry uses a slow wind of the leash around his hand to pull Eggsy right up for a kiss, to draw him against him, and Eggsy goes happily in a loose, lithe crawl, treating Harry to his most predatory smile on his way up. His skin drinks in all the new sensation: the pressure of Harry's touches, the thick weave of his trousers, the heat of his skin burning through his shirt, the hard little points of his buttons. Eggsy’s mind only has room for how naughty that feels, how exposed he is, how Harry can touch him anywhere however he wants and he doesn't have the same power, can only let himself be touched.

Not that there’s a single touch he wouldn’t bask in. It ain’t like the videos Eggsy found when he went looking: people were always pretend-mean to their … subs? Is that what this is? Is that what he is? It makes him shiver, the idea of having some sort of title in this capacity, of being Harry’s anything, specifically… but it's all insults and belittling and harsh punishment, and Eggsy doesn't want that, and Harry gets it.  Harry kisses him gratefully, touches him wondrously like Eggsy is to be savoured, another luxury that belongs here, with his fancy candles and his posh furniture and his ridiculously expensive sheets. A treat Harry’s kept for himself. An indulgence after a hard day’s work.

Eggsy kneels over him still when Harry stops, letting him look and touch all he wants, but not doing anything without being told. He puts his hands behind his back, just to make the point, and Harry hums in surprised approval.

“Beautiful and well behaved. Aren't I lucky?”

Eggsy just grins. It tickles over his skin, warms him all the way through. Not for the first time, he wonders at what point it became inevitable that his craving to hear Harry talk to him like that would end up with him on his knees; at what point he started wanting it to, and what order those moments came in. It doesn’t actually matter. Especially not now.  All he knows is that Harry praising him, Harry enjoying him, turns him on like nothing else.

Hands still behind his back, Eggsy drops to nuzzle down Harry’s body, because there’s something in Harry’s pause, in his eyes, that’s as good as an instruction and Eggsy has no doubt that’s what he’s supposed to do. Not like it’s a hardship, because he’s been gagging to get up close and personal with the desperate bulge mocking those oh-so-precisely-tailored trousers ever since he looked up enough to see Harry every bit as helplessly aroused by his little display as he’d hoped. Harry’s equally impressed when Eggsy manages to untuck a leaf of his shirt with his nose, or at least at the wide-eyed meekness with which he looks up for help with getting any further without using his hands.

He should feel stupid. It sounded stupid, in his head, a bit demeaning, but it ain't like that.  Harry never makes him feel inadequate or thick or whatever, would be horrified by the mere suggestion, but he just likes to feel less than Harry, sometimes. It's somehow comforting and exciting at the same time, looking at him and thinking how the fuck did I get a man like that, and then immediately following it with thinking that it might be because he looks fucking good like this, that a fit body and an open mind are currency enough. It turns him on when people think Harry's obviously only with a boy like him for the sex, probably because he knows it's not a word of the truth but it's hot to think about, to pretend. And if that's what Eggsy’s driving at then he's sure as hell going to deserve Harry, to be the most giving, most game, most fantasy-fulfilling  Five star shag Harry has ever had. He's used to the finer things, after all.

There's no real reason he can't use his hands, it’s not against the rules, but he keeps them folded neatly in the small of his back, ducks down and opens his mouth for Harry to feed his cock into.

Harry groans before he even makes contact really: that frustrated, pleading noise like he wants to tell Eggsy off for being too much everything even though he loves it.  It's obviously not going to be a long blowjob but he couldn't exactly not suck him off in this mood. Eggsy makes a big enough deal of it anyway, all showy swipes of his obediently stuck out tongue,  hollowing his cheeks when he sucks and looking up. Even if they were being strict about it He imagines the ‘eyes down’ rule would probably be lifted for sucking cock.

Harry runs his hand through Eggsy’s hair, possibly looking for a handhold, and then settles his grip on the collar to pull him down. The heavy handedness is good for Eggsy , sends squeezes of lust up his body: Harry’s knuckles push just slightly into his windpipe and for the second time in a short while Eggsy thinks he may have to bring up the fact that he’d maybe be up for getting choked out, just a little bit. none of it is comfortable and absolutely all of it is so blindingly hot that he feels it like an ache, like something he needs. Luckily, the languid bend of Harry’s legs allows Eggsy to press his erection against the firm surface of Harry's shin, not quite hard enough to hurt, and where the brushed fabric of his trousers is soft enough not to burn he finds himself grinding a little, for the scant relief that brings. The first wave of sparkling, prickling pleasure has already rushed up his back by the time he realises what he's doing, and Harry does not look about to stop him.

“That's it. Take what you want.”

Harry looks awestruck. The tops - doms? Nah, Eggsy can't take that seriously - in stuff he's watched are all a bit distant, obviously enjoying it but pretending so hard not to be, and Eggsy was a bit worried it might go that way: into Harry treating him with cold disinterest. But Harry looks at him like a wild animal he's awed to have domesticated; like he's something rare and dangerous, as well as beautiful, and Harry daren’t make any sudden movement for fear of shattering his illusion of control.

It comes out a little more petulantly than he intends. “Do you want me to come?”

Harry chuckles, but it's like coals on a fire.

“You're not that close yet. But I wouldn't mind at all.”

Wouldn't mind’ , he says, like its inconsequential to him when and whether Eggsy gets off, even though Eggsy knows better. It still makes him shiver, and he understands that what Harry really wants is to see him enjoying giving him head so much that he wants to rub himself off doing it. Fuckin said I'd end up humping his leg… but he does, because he's weak and it feels good, that solid pressure and gentle friction where he aches for it, all the moreso for having his mouth stuffed full. And he loves how stiff Harry is through it, that absolute proof Eggsy’s doing his job right.

It's quick and getting desperate, both of them making a fair bit of noise now but not actually saying anything, and they could come like this but it feels a bit of a waste, and god, by then it's hard to stop, but Eggsy forces himself.

Harry seems to think something similar at the same time, reaches over and behind him to pull at his arse cheek, and Eggsy shuffles off his leg and around to the side to make it easier for him whilst Harry is fiddling around with the lube. Ain’t nothing smooth about that little manoeuvre, but it does the job. There's a distinct little wet spot just below the knee of Harry's trousers where the head of his cock was rubbing, and if Eggsy has his way the whole lot is going to end up a lost cause or a very expensive trip to a very forgiving dry cleaners, and he knows harry will be nothing but chuffed about it, smug tosser that he can be once he's well laid. He’ll probably make Eggsy go with him to pick it up and isn't that a thought.

The fabric of Harry's sleeve brushes over the curve of Eggsy’s arse, luxuriously soft and surprisingly cool on his skin, and Eggsy would  rub against it but the press of Harry’s lube-wet fingers into his arse crack demands his attention first. One slips in easily despite the awkward angle as soon as it finds its mark and the soft, pleased noise Harry makes when he feels what's already been done makes Eggsy’s heart flutter, because he knows what’s coming. Hopes he does.

“Oh, good boy .” Harry’s finger stretches up to stroke deliberately over his prostate straight away, sending that sharp roll of pleasure right through Eggsy’s stomach and his cock by way of reward. “You've made it so easy for me, haven't you, sweetheart?.”

Eggsy can only mumble some sort of affirmative because he doesn't want to stop tonguing around the head of Harry’s cock.  Harry’s slipped a second finger in, snug but comfortable beside the first, and the extra pressure on Eggsy’s sweet spot is mind bending: a proper sweat springs out across his shoulders and down the middle of his chest, he scrunches his eyes shut and moans through his nose. The warm rinse and the quick slick of Sylk from the shower makes it easy, his body quickly catching on that yeah, this was what he wanted: Harry’s purposeful, skilled touches taking all the shortcuts to making him lose it.  The rest is just fancy wrappings.

Except…  there's something uncomfortable, a tiny point of cold hardness pressing into his arse cheek that almost hurts, and then he realises it must be the stud of Harry’s cuff link and Eggsy melts from the inside out. Because Harry is still all done up in all his finery, with only his cock out and his fingers in Eggsy’s arse, getting him ready to be fucked, and Eggsy has never been so ready for it.

Harry responds well to the noises he's making, takes his cue and slips his fingers out, and there’s a clumsy but enjoyable sort of tussle as Eggsy waits for Harry to move him, waits for the hands around his biceps pulling him up and off Harry’s cock and dropping him more than pushing him away; for Harry to swing his legs around and climb on to his knees; for him to take a handful of Eggsy’s  hips and move him around even though it’s obvious he knows where Harry wants - “ face down, arse up, there's a good boy” -  as Harry fumbles to unclip his braces and shrug out of his jacket at the same time.

“Keep-” Eggsy swallows down a mouthful of spit that tastes of Harry and tries again. “Don't take the suit off.”  It's completely out of his role to give orders but fuck it, it's a more important detail to the fantasy than his own willing silence at this point and Harry seems only too happy to abandon stripping down in favour of just grabbing onto Eggsy’s hip to steady them, lubing up and pushing in.

Time always seems to stop for a moment when Eggsy first has Harry all the way inside him.  There's the searing fullness paired off with the strange sensation of a circuit being completed, like it's a state they're returning to. And it doesn't matter how many times they do it like this... how long it's been since Eggsy got his mouth around the fact that he didn't think he needed to strictly top all the time if Harry wanted to play around... it always takes him that first long moment to get his head together, to process the intensity and the pain and the bliss of it, and somehow Harry always, always knows the exact moment the pieces fall into place to start moving.

He starts slow, despite the urgency of the mood, a nice smooth rocking, not drawing out too far just yet before he fills Eggsy up again; nothing too demanding whilst he adjusts.

Eggsy spreads his knees further apart, sinks into it; lets his weight fall onto his chest on the bed, mashing his face into the covers so that he doesn't have to try to muffle the noises he makes when Harry fucks him in this position: he knows Harry won't want him to. He lets himself go and just feels, just rides with it, like he's letting Harry use him, like the fact he’s loving it is just by the by. And he likes it when Harry's rough with him, because he loves being reminded how strong he is and it makes him feel like Harry wants him too badly to remember to be gentle, which can't be far off true at times. He savours the weird changes of rhythm where Harry’s maybe watching - slowing down to stare at where his prick disappears into Eggsy’s body, watch it sink in until the crisp zip on his fly digs into Eggsy’s arse and the felty fabric of his trousers touches the backs of his bare thighs - or maybe just trying to pace himself.

Harry breathes heavy, but touches softly. His thrusts are hard and rough but his grip is careful, tentative, and Eggsy finds himself yanking against each hold Harry gets him in, in the hopes of having some bruises to remember this by, and then pointedly putting his wrists back into Harry’s hands when he automatically lets him go. Harry chuckles at that, the first time, throaty and hot, and the second time he makes sure to dig his nails in and make Eggsy yelp. He deserves that, just like he deserves the smack on the arse that comes next for being cheeky. Likes it, too.

Harry picks his wrists up and bundles his hands gently into the small of his back and Eggsy keeps them there as best he can, but he’s off balance. Like that there's nothing to brace him at all and he's just rammed straight down into the bed, rocked along it with the thrusts of Harry's hips, groaning and puffing because it's knocking the breath right out of him. Eggsy just lets it happen, lets the pleasure spread out and finds that instead of drowning the discomfort it’s swimming with it, making him hotter and god, he needs it. Just as Eggsy’s about to start whining and squirming, like he might even cry because it feels so good, Harry grabs both of his wrists in one hand and his hipbone in the other and rides into him like one of those fucking bull machines at the fair, and he doesn't even need to tell Eggsy he's coming because Eggsy can feel it in the off-beat clenches of his hands, the kick of his hips, the twitching and the barely there spread of warmth.

Eggsy thinks it’s probably for his benefit that Harry gives him a little smack on the bum and a shove when he pulls out; leaves Eggsy panting, tingling, clenching; lets him wallow in it all whilst he regroups and Harry gets himself in some sort of order.

Harry is sitting back against the headboard again by the time Eggsy musters the strength to turn round, and he looks debauched. His bow tie is very slightly askew, his hair entirely fucked and his cheeks pink, but other than that he's pristine: his jacket still sits correctly, his trousers hold their crease despite the damp patch from Eggsy rutting on them, his shirt is still buttoned, he's still got his bloody shoes on. But his cock is out, wet, flushed and softening, and the bed’s a state of creases and wet bits and black scuff marks.

And there, amidst it all, Eggsy kneels as still as he can manage with his arse throbbing, awaiting instruction. He’s come this far, and he’s not sure whether the game stops now Harry’s got his end away or whether it waits for him to catch up. He seems to be answered by Harry gently holding his arms out to him.

“Up here, please.”

Yeah, he could go a cuddle, especially if that's what Harry wants to round off with. It was all about him getting to do what he wanted, Eggsy can always- 

“I want you in my arms when you come.”

Oh. And there's something serious, almost threatening in his face, a hungry darkness in his eyes that makes Eggsy wonder for a moment what he plans to do to him or make him do to get him there, before firmly concluding he doesn't give a shit. The scramble up the bed is undignified and Eggsy takes a moment to read in Harry’s positioning that he wants him sat sideways rather than straddling - and why, and fuck yes, that will do - and then flings himself onto him even whilst Harry’s wrestling to get his own arms out of his sleeves.

“I'm going to have to lose the jacket, I’m afraid. I'll boil, it's velvet.” His expression is all business considering he hasn't got his breath back properly yet and he’s trying to sincerely apologise for not maintaining black tie when he fingers Eggsy into oblivion. It’s alright, he’ll deal with it. Eggsy doesn’t blame him at all, actually, because he can feel Harry burning up through his shirt, wet with sweat and Eggsy isn't sure how he can bear to have him sitting on him but he isn't about to bring it up.

Harry dips Eggsy back and cradles him with one arm around his back under Eggsy’s arms and kisses him fiercely, full of hunger and urgency even though he's just come. His fingers track determinedly to Eggsy’s arse and he shifts him around to where he can easily slip the middle two inside, and Eggsy doesn’t try to stop himself moaning. He’s all about being manhandled and he’s already so, so close. Harry’s fingers are comfortably slim, easily wet enough although whether he lubed up again or that’s just Harry’s come inside him Eggsy has no idea, doesn’t care, maybe sticks to thinking about the latter as Harry kisses down to suck and  - yes - bite at the side of his neck and the top of his shoulder.

Eggsy is lost to dignity, to anything that isn’t going to get pressure against his prostate right fucking now because Harry obviously hadn’t realised how close he was, to finish when he did without complaint, but that doesn’t matter now he’s more than making up for it.  He squirms almost sideways in Harry’s lap, scissoring his legs to give him better access, which has Harry hitching up Eggsy’s leg onto his shoulder with something between a huff of effort and an actual growl at the display, and yeah, it feels like it should be embarrassing but fuck it, Harry loves it when he's slutty, and it's working for Eggsy.   Harry's fingers are right up inside him straight away, deep enough to give him room to flex and pull so firmly against Eggsy’s sweetspot that the need for orgasm is like pins and needles, sharp and hot all over him. He knows the second he gets a hand to his cock it will all be over, so Eggsy keeps his hand off and hauls in enough breath in to manage a helpless please... sir , please…”

Oh shit, yes. Go on, darling.”  Harry blinks at him in wonder, like he hadn’t thought to hope Eggsy might come so soon, let alone ask permission for it.  “Come for me, good boy, that's it. I've got you.” And he has, both bodily and in that he continues to work his fingers to milk Eggsy’s orgasm out of him even once Eggsy drops his own hand away, not needing it, gasping deeply from the bottom of his chest as come satters him up to the nipples and the bliss wracks all the way through him, making him shake in Harry’s arms.

Harry waits until he's done  - really , completely wrung out, molten and boneless, - and gives Eggsy a while to squeeze and flutter around two fingers until his body is calmer before he pulls out and, filthy beast that he is, wipes his fingers on the sheets.

“Ugh,” says Eggsy, partially in scorn and part in satisfaction. Grim, is what that is: they keep babywipes in the drawer for a reason, Harry.

“Mmm,” agrees Harry, also apparently reduced to nonsensical syllables by the same overwhelming, satisfied tiredness that has him flopping back and gesturing loosely to his shirt buttons with a still-slick hand . “You're so fond of this rigmarole… you can do the honours.”

It's a small price to pay, Eggsy supposes: hauling his liquified, panting form up to sitting for long enough to reach over and undo Harry's buttons, snap his braces loose and help him wriggle out of his trousers. Even though he's pretty much done with it all now he's come he takes the few seconds to appreciate pulling the ends of the silk bow tie and feeling it slip apart, getting his fingers into Harry's collar and loosening it down for him… and then he runs out of energy. Fuck it. Harry sitting there well spent in an open shirt with the tie slung around the neck, otherwise bollock naked and gleaming with well-earned sweat is one he can deal with, not a bad one to have as the last image of the night because he lets his eyes close before he's even laid down. He’s earned it.

“You're going to sleep now, are you.”

“Uhuh. S’well late.”

“No shower?”

“N’morning. Gotta change the sheets anyways cos you're rank.”

Harry has the sense and the decency not to argue, instead pulling Eggsy into a very welcome cuddle and kissing at his hair and temples as he snuggles down. Eggsy vaguely hears words like ‘gorgeous’ and ‘beautiful, ridiculous creature’ as he rubs his face against Harry's chest, finding his way into his shirt, trying to get the skin comfortable. He’ll roll away when he's fallen asleep but there's something really comforting about staying so close to him, just for a bit. Little pleasurable shocks keep trembling out down his limbs and making his cock twitch just gently with satisfaction.

Harry is panting, dazed; of the two of them, definitely the more winded by the whole experience. He’s one to talk, he’s in proper need of a shower but Eggsy loves the smell of him; a hint of imperfection that’s a gift for him, somehow.

With strong, loving fingers under Eggsy’s chin, Harry lifts his head to coax him to take a few sips from a glass of water which he does, gratefully, but awkwardly and with his eyes shut. There's a quick pinch at his throat and then the clink as the buckle of the collar falls free and Harry takes it off, placing it on the nightstand. Eggsy had forgotten all about it, would happily have gone to sleep in it; will eaven happier fall asleep with Harry caressing what might be marks on his throat just gently, with the backs of his fingers.

“You know, it was dreadfully difficult to concentrate tonight, knowing I’ve got something so beautiful to come home to?”

“I'll tell JB,” mumbles Eggsy, half asleep. “He'll be made up you called him beautiful.”

“He knows he is. Takes after you. Nearly as well trained, too.”

Eggsy yawns. “Yesterday you said he looked like the bastard lovechild of one of the Gargoyles off the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and a medium sliced loaf of Hovis.”

Harry snorts and whether that's at the memory of his own wit or that Eggsy recalls it so exactly a day later is not obvious. Eggsy’s going to make a blog one day: Shit My Ridiculous Boyfriend Has Called My Dog. But not now, because then the rest of it sinks in slowly, and Eggsy presses his face into Harry’s chest and thanks every force imaginable that there was no overlap  - unless you counted what Merlin had described as ‘a remarkable dedication to eye fucking’ - between him coming under Harry in a professional context, and … well. The way better one.

Because he's not really sure how he'd deal with Harry appraising his performance at work now, other than obviously getting a boner if it was favourable -  which would be super fucking awkward - and going to bits if it wasn’t. He guesses he'd still be as besotted and as keen to impress him, but how rewarding that would be without this to tie it all together, he isn't sure.

“Goodnight, my darling." Harry kisses his hair and Eggsy feels like he says something, certainly means to, but probably doesn’t because he’s too knackered to do anything but sloppily kiss the bit of Harry’s chest his mouth haens to be resting on.

It’s worked out a lot more fun, this way.