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Duty Calls

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Duty Calls


“Harry! I was…” There's no sense to a this is not what it looks like because it looks very much like Eggsy is having a wank on the sofa, and it looks like that because that is exactly what is happening. “...I wasn't expecting you back.”

“Evidently.” Harry can't help but grin at him. What a session it looks like he's interrupted too: Eggsy seems to be settled in, trousers round his calves, lube and tissues next to him, cushions scattered in a manner suggesting the sort of indolent sprawl Eggsy would compare himself to one of Harry's French girls if he tried to sketch him in -  as he does sometimes - and phonescreen lit although it dims automatically before Harry can get a look at what's on it. “Don't let me interrupt.” He kisses Eggsy in greeting as he goes to pass him, though, and Eggsy laughs against his teeth.

“You can stay. Not like… you don’t have to finish me off or nothing. But I ain't kicking you out your own living room.”

Harry takes the invitation which he feels sure is at least to sit down on the sofa beside Eggsy and pull him into a cuddle. He doesn’t go straight for touching him up, despite his own response to what he walked in on: he acknowledges the difference between wanting to relieve tension and having any desire to turn it into a two player sport. Still, Eggsy’s not making any attempt to cover himself up, and Harry’s strangely compelled by his casual nudity, his shameless arousal.

Eggsy sinks happily against his side, palming his cock casually whilst he waits for Harry to get comfortable. It's a bizarre tilt to the domestic fantasy but Harry finds  the sharing of this new intimacy simultaneously heartwarming and mindblowingly erotic, but he'll try to wait until it's played out to indulge his own impulses because anything else would change what this is at a fundamental level. He keeps his tone even: interested but composed.

“What were you watching?”

“Well it weren't fuckin’ Deal or No Deal. Have a guess.”

Harry tuts at him. He knows it was porn, he just meant… “You're welcome to the pay per view, you know.”

“Don't tell me you've got the same pin for that as...? You're unbelievable. Fucking super spy. Anyway, thanks but I kinda know where I'm looking, you know?”

It occurs to Harry that he has literally never contemplated Eggsy's preferences when it comes to erotica. He's not deliberately avoided thinking about it, though it does feel a step into his privacy considering Harry has joyfully exclusive rights to the rest of his sex life, save the odd occasion on which work lands them in a tight spot it's easiest to sleep their way out of. Still, the fact they're having this conversation and it hasn't been derailed with any urgency suggest Eggsy might have something he's been waiting for the opportunity to share.

“Let's watch, then. What's your poison?” He offers it with a hand sliding down Eggsy’s stomach to take up a grip around the base of his prick, gradually nudging his own hand up to either play with the head or let go and let Harry take over.

“Nah. It's well embarrassin’.”

“You know all my guiltiest fantasies.”

Eggsy looks him dead in the eyes. “Pretty sure I don't.”

He certainly knows far more than Harry would have let on had his hand not been forced by various circumstances, and Eggsy takes great delight in exploiting Harry's kinks at every possible opportunity, gleeful little pervert that he is. The honesty in his look seems to remind him of that, and Eggsy slowly reaches for his phone.

Harry plays a very quick guessing game with himself. He's secure enough that nothing Eggsy might be watching would bother him: if he had to place a bet based on Eggsy’s face before he taps in his code, confirms it with his thumbprint and reopens the window he'd have gone for girl on girl.

He's wrong. Really, astronomically wrong.

The bodies on screen are definitely, hulkingly male, and the prevalence of olive-drab and patriotic paraphernalia cues Harry in to what he’s looking at pretty quickly.

So, Eggsy's into a bit of the armed Forces kind of civil service. Full of surprises in-fucking-deed .

“Ahh. And have you found anything particularly interesting?”

Eggsy shrugs it off, the picture of forced nonchalance, of what are you going to do about it, though it’s cut with amusement because whatever is going to be done about it is obviously going to be enjoyable, despite his immediate embarrassment. “Eh. It's about eight thousand versions of the same video to be fair. Always is.”

“Is it?” It’s an invitation. “It’s not a category I’ve found myself wandering in, What’s the set up?”

Eggsy shuffles, pressing his body into Harry’s side and his cock into his grip. He’s closer, but the closeness makes it easier for him to avoid eye contact.

“'s all American for some reason… normally some older officer getting the suspiciously buff newbie cornered in the barracks and “testing out his loyalty” or some bollocks.” He does the actual air quote marks, and Harry notices his fingers are shiny.   “Like a hazing ritual. Sort of makes sense at a bit of a stretch. They say jump, you gotta say how high, sir , or you're scrubbing bogs for a week or you're out on your ear, aint ya?  They say drop and give me twenty, you do it. Drop and give me head?” He snaps off an American-style salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Arousal floods down Harry's body in a heavy, hot rush, and Eggsy blushes to match.

 “It's daft but it gets the job done.”

Another bolt of heat shoots through Harry, though at what he isn't sure. Perhaps the idea of Eggsy’s pleasure not as an indulgence but something perfunctory but vital, a necessary chore in the day of this virile young animal he shares a bed with. Besides, for Harry that same task would be a labour of love.

“It only looks half done, from here.”

“Three quarters, maybe,” Eggsy smiles and wraps his hand around Harry’s, both on his dick, giving it a little squeeze as if to check or prove his point.

Harry kisses the side of his neck. “Shall I leave you to it, or would you like a hand?”

“Prefer a mouth if there's one going.”

The videos get forgotten, Eggsy so easily more interested in the experience of Harry going down on him even though Harry would have been happy for him to keep watching. It's a shame, actually: as soon as he thinks about it, the idea of Eggsy using Harry for the physical stimulation whilst he reads or watches something that turns him on is the sort that sears itself into his fantasy as an immediate need and turns his already piqued arousal into an ache.

Eggsy’s ‘three quarters’ turns out not to be at all optimistic and Harry's task is a ridiculously easy one with a quick payoff. The sheer simplicity of it makes it a thought to bear in mind for the future, too, and Harry is utterly at peace with how filthily desperate that will sound when he offers.

He clambers back onto the settee next to Eggsy, who has an equally untaxing job of evening the score without any additional visual stimulus because Harry’s fully invested in a mental montage of Eggsy masturbating in their bed whilst Harry’s been at work, in the shower, asleep…

With the impetus off - and there’s something strangely lovely about sitting in the living room fully spent before they’ve even got round to dinner - the porn chat becomes a more academic source of entertainment. They divert through mocking some of the more absurd “if you like this video, what about this?” links, the hilariously clumsy titles (Eggsy insists Ryan has a DVD called ‘Massive Flaps Five’, isn’t sure if it’s the fifth in a series or about a troupe of friends going on an adventure with cucumber sandwiches, staunchly denies having actually watched it in either case), the strangely universally phenomena of gradually escalating weirdness until the post orgasm crash in which you suddenly snap out of it and wonder what the fuck you'd come to, how you'd got there and more pressingly why.  Harry gamely reveals his penchant for watching people take on amateurly home-engineered fucking machines; Eggsy confesses to having had an experimental tug to one of those tickling videos even though he then insists  that in reality if anybody attempts to tickle him he'll use them for Krav Maga practice.

And that’s exactly it, isn't it: just because one finds something visually stimulating or interesting, does not necessarily mean it's something they want to put into practice. Wishful thinking aside, Harry wouldn't want to presume that Eggsy had any inclination to dig out his full Marines dress uniform… or, better yet, a vest and belted combats, boots, dog tags,   the hat …  and go in for any of that chain of command stuff in the reality of their bedroom..

Still, “Bareback Bootcamp Initiation: New Recruit gets Drilled!” continues to echo around in Harry’s mind for some time.




[ I lied to you, H ]

Harry tamps down on the reflexive flush of panic. If Eggsy were about to confess something upsetting, he highly doubts he’d begin the conversation so casually over Whatsapp at eleven in the morning. The second message appears before he has a chance to check, perhaps because Eggsy realises his joke may not be received as well as he intends.

[ about the army porn.]

Harry had wondered when that was going to put in another appearance. Naturally, after realising it was Eggsy’s go-to material he’d found himself combing through site after site for his given criteria, partly so he’d be informed if Eggsy suddenly decided he wanted to play; partly because he found himself aroused by proxy, turned on by the idea of Eggsy being turned on by watching whatever mindless musclebound nonsense Harry had found himself clicking on. There appeared to be a couple of main themes: recruits dared to do things with each other in the manner of playing chicken, with nobody wanting to be the one who backed down first until someone was balls deep in someone else and having a wonderful time of it thank you; or an officer “bullying” some pretty young thing into a shag he daren’t refuse and won’t tell anyone about, although the morally dubious overtones tended to be dropped once the fucking started with much the same result: mutual if staggered orgasms, a lot of grunting and improbable quantities of spunk.

In any case the entire genre seemed to hinge around power imbalances and some truly abysmal dialogue, which seemed to be part of the charm, somehow. Harry wasn’t sure he was quite the equal to getting Deputy Lieutenant Eggsy to sound off a chant about sucking cock but he’d give the rest of it a good old college try. But Eggsy had denied any interest in making fantasy reality when Harry had gently asked, even if Harry hadn’t quite believed him.

[You've thought about making it happen one day? There's nothing wrong with that.]
[Tell me.]

[you ain't gonna like this]

Harry thinks, but does not type, that if Eggsy’s starting like that he almost definitely is. His perversities are not Eggsy's problem. Harry watches the typing icon appear and disappear.

[Our 24 hours. The last recruitment test. I think about that a lot and it's an amazing memory for us just the way it is. Well apart from it going tits up but hey it worked out alright cos here we are.]

Harry bites at his thumbnail and glances over at JB, who is pulling fruitlessly at a chair cushion with his teeth and making a noise like a train. How different life might have been, had it not been for his stupid, lovely little origami arrangement of a face. [But?]

[But like. Huh. Sometimes I like to think about what ways you could test your recruit  in 24 hours alone.]
[Like… ]
[...seeing how far we'd go just because a superior said to, even if it were way out of our comfort zone?] The parallel is obvious, now it’s laid out, and Harry wonders which came first. The messages kee pinging up.
[Testing out how much trust we’d put in you? Obeying orders?]
[or I could see like you'd maybe have wanted to make sure I knew my place. Like you'd wanna check that I could do exactly what you told me without chatting back.]

Harry gets it, instantly, and with it comes the inspiration on how to play along, to tease it out. If it comes to nothing else, just having a conversation with such heated potential along with his coffee is an enjoyable diversion, the idea of Eggsy sitting wherever he is nursing an inconvenient semi. He's in the shop, as far as Harry is aware.  That's worth the effort in itself. [And what if what I told you to do seemed strange or inappropriate?]

[That's the test, innit. Don't need no explanation except you said so]
[id have passed btw]

He sees why he hesitated. The spectre of abuse of power had dogged them in their early days, biting at the heels of Harry's conscience… but he'd always known the truth, and that was years ago. Have they come far enough to play act at coercion?

The throb of his erection says of course they have.

[you’d like it if I pulled you aside and made you prove your loyalty? Show how far you'll go to get ahead?]

[ fuck yes.]
[but it wouldn’t be, like]
[it wouldn’t be Kingsman if we did it. Nothin too real. Marines or army or whatever made up bullshit it always is in the porn.]

[historical accuracy not paramount. Understood.]

[you’d make a great sargeant major ]
[Well no you'd be a fuckin nightmare but proper fit.]
[I'd serve under you any day.]

[And is this… some very secret,  shameful affair that shouldn't be happening? Or is it just what it is? Some sort of rite of passage?]

[Nah Nothing heavy. Probably normal. Boys will be boys.happens all the time right?] and a winking face

Ah, that’s easier. The undercurrent of manipulation is incidental to Eggsy, can be dropped entirely in favour of an entirely nonsensical “and now we just happen to be fucking” narrative that seems to work in porn and absolutely works for Harry. [does it indeed? You really must tell me a few more stories from your marines training.]

[None of it was that fun but I can make some up if you want. ]

Touching, how much bolder he is when it's about turning Harry on. What would he choose to tease him with, Harry wonders? The belated, irrational jealousy for some imaginary hot young squaddie, pushing Eggsy into some empty room for a secret fumble? Or Eggsy by himself, trying to keep quiet in his bunk with his fist around his cock and his peers asleep around him, knuckles between his teeth and toes curled into the mattress? The latter, presumably, would require far less embellishment and Harry suddenly wonders why he's not explored that thought before, because it's disgustingly appealing, and he does have Eggsy's explicit retrospective consent to fantasise all he wants. Goodness knows Eggsy’s pried for quite enough detail about Harry’s wayward school days, and there's probably something horribly wrong in there but it's entirely mutual and welcome and that seems to be all that matters now.

[I think I could put you through your paces. I'd love to see how well you take orders.]

[Yeah, that will do it.]
[Fuck. We gonna?]

[Absolutely. May I put in a request for the uniform?]

[ Filth, you are.]
[I'll go pick it up from my mums after work .]

And then inexplicably an aubergine and some raindrops… oh.



Harry manages to procure an officer’s uniform from Kingsman’s stores and is high-percentage confident he can return it just as secretly, and as long as he doesn't slip and put in the expenses for the dry cleaning Merlin might not even kill him. On balance, it may just be worth it anyway, although he gathers very little of Eggsy's experience hinges on their attire. That's just a daydream Harry couldn't let pass him by.

It's sheer happenstance that the evening they'd earmarked - and Eggsy had ribbed him mercilessly for the planning but one cannot launch into a costumed and partially scripted roleplay without some level of preparation - happens to come at the end of a working week rounded off with fitness tests. Harry is exempt by virtue of having redone his so recently and therefore called in to assist with the monitoring and assessment, so not only does he get to finish off his Wednesday analysing the finer details of Eggsy, wet and muddy, grunting with effort as he hurls himself round an obstacle course but nobody can even tell him off for it .

It means that when the time comes, Harry is far better prepared for his performance than he expected to be. Not that playing the part of Eggsy's exasperated, inappropriately infatuated superior was ever going to be much of a stretch.

God, he'd been a temptation, with his surly obedience and his reflexive, almost defensive “-sir”s. The fight in him for just about everyone except Harry, for whom he would as like walk straight off a cliff as make his bed or polish his boots.

Harry didn't want to break that spirit, but by Christ he’d wanted to put him over his lap and spank the attitude out of him. To put him over a table and fuck him until he couldn't remember his name, much less answer back. To use the wiles at his disposal to make Eggsy would do absolutely as he was told, and watch everyone else be dazzled by how Harry had brought this little shit to heel.

There's a knock on the office door. Since it's the office inside Harry's house, there's only one person it can be, but suspension of disbelief begins with his “come in.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Eggsy is heartstopping. It's not even a proper uniform - it turns out he'd grown out of his kit, which was obvious in hindsight - but what he's cobbled together is perfect: unspecific enough to excuse their lazy inaccuracy and completely obscene. The ribbed cotton of the grey-green vest is  indecently tight, vacuum packed to every curve of muscle, stretched enough by his pecs for his nipples to show through the fabric as tiny raised points, and tucked into the belted waist of his combat fatigues, in turn tucked into his flawlessly polished boots.

The boots are authentic as, Harry notes, are the dog tags dangling against Eggsy's chest and that of all things makes Harry feel frighteningly close to swooning,

And the hat. That absurd beret Harry's always thought did wonders for a man is every bit as dashing as he feared it might be on Eggsy, playing up the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, setting off the crystaline clarity of his eyes; just there as a neat reminder of the discipline that Eggsy manages to make such hard work for everybody involved.

There's time for a delighted grin to pull at Eggsy's lips and be smoothed determinedly back down in Harry's awestruck silence.

Holy buggering hell. He is already resigned to the humiliation of asking Eggsy to put it all back on later so that he can take a couple of photos on his phone. Harry is too old and too grateful for the luck in his life to bother with pretences these days.


“At ease, Unwin.” Eggsy startles slightly before pulling up straight and then settling his feet apart and Harry remembers that this is in fact his fantasy too. First and foremost, in fact. “Some of my fellow officers have raised concerns about your ability to follow orders. They've noted you answering back, and resisting instruction, and generally being a pain in everyone's backside.”

“With all due respect, sir , they come out with some stupid shit.”

“You've got a problem with authority.”

“I ain't got a problem with you.”

Harry sighs, and settles back in his desk chair. He fiddles deliberately with the studs at his cuffs, drawing it out to make sure Eggsy's paying full attention, not that he doubts it.“Did you ever play ‘Simon says’ as a child?”

“Yeah. Weren't no good at it.”

“There's a surprise. It's a lot like that, you see, except there is no Simon and you're supposed to do everything I tell you. That’s how this all works, and I don't care if you've got better ideas or you don't agree.  You do as you're told. Understood?”

Eggsy grumbles an agreement.

“Prove it. Push ups. Start with twenty.”

“Awh guv, come on.”

“Fifty. And now It's going to double every time you challenge me. Do you see how this works?”

“Yes sir.”

Fifty is perfect as it turns out: just enough for him to break a sweat, and Harry would be genuinely happy to watch Eggsy do push ups all day, to watch the muscles of his shoulders bunch and lengthen, but he has been working hard and furthermore he does the fifty without complaint, so there's no excuse to give him more.

Eggsy rolls his head back, stretching the pain from his shoulders as he climbs to his feet. Harry waits until Eggsy meets his eyes, waiting for more instruction, to shove the plastic pot of paper clips off his desk onto the floor.

“Pick those up.”

“You have got to be taking the piss.”

“Is there some part of obeying your superiors without arguing the toss you have trouble understanding, Private?” He thinks he sees Eggsy shudder, and almost whistles with relief but then composes himself. “Do you want more press ups? Or to be put back on basic? Do you want to be sent home?”

“No sir.”

Harry smiles. “Facing the other way, then, if you would.”

Eggsy wouldn't need to ask why even if he were willing to risk it: the wriggle of his arse as he bends over to collect up the clips is clearly intentional.

“Better,” says Harry, when Eggsy turns and places the box of clips on his desk. Then moves it to the other side when Harry points, and then back again. “Good. Take your hat off.”

Eggsy looks confused but he does it, and his hair tufts up from the crown with the speed.

“Good. Put it back on.”

Back on the hat goes. Harry would have been sad to see that out of the equation just yet.

“On your knees.”

Eggsy goes - if Harry hadn't already been hard as iron, he'd have nothing to worry about now - and Harry steps forward to bracket Eggsy's knees with his feet, and his hands go to his fly.  He undoes his trousers without ceremony but with a deal of satisfaction at the way Eggsy watches him before arranging his expression back into one of surly confusion as Harry pulls his cock free from his boxers and the leaves of his starched white shirt. 



“What did I say about questions?”

And Eggsy opens his mouth.

There's distinctly less attempt at a narrative once Eggsy gets to work on sucking Harry off. He makes no attempt to act shy or pretend he doesn’t want to, as though the whole scenario makes flawless and unquestionable sense. There’s the occasional snap of an order “deeper, there you go, good”  and then Eggsy blinks a nod up at him from under that fucking hat, a momentary break of whatever numbered wall exists around their silly fantasy, and the reality of what he's offering, asking for, sinks through Harry like a knife through warm butter.

Harry throws Eggsy’s beret off to the side, takes up a one handed hold in the dry softness of his hair and uses it to slide Eggsy’s mouth, ever so gently, along his cock. He pushes himself into the hollow of Eggsy's cheek just to watch his mouth bulge with it, to feel the silky smooth wetness of that skin rub over the head before he angles straight down his throat again.

Eggsy's hands go to the backs of Harry's thighs: flawless obedience, excellent for pushing and pulling him to contribute to the pace and ideal for a well placed pinch should he actually be choking, so Harry lets himself get into it, forcing his cock deep into his mouth and further until he feels the muscles squeeze around him, sees the flex of Eggsy's abs as he fights his gag reflex, and then draws back to let him breathe. His cock throbs between Eggsy's lips as he gasps around it. But Eggsy makes no move to resist, so Harry puts both hands in his hair now and thrusts back in to the hilt, out and in again, quicker until Eggsy is choking, spluttering between thrusts, drool slipping down his chin and tears running freely from the corners of his eyes. Eggsy groans with satisfaction though and keeps his throat as slack as he can; breath heavy through his nose, eyes lifted up to Harry's face every now and then in either gratitude or challenge.

When Harry pulls out of his mouth, Eggsy tries to follow him for more but Harry uses his hand hold to keep that tongue away from his cock and pull Eggsy up to standing, making most effective use of their height difference to kiss him from above with his head yanked back and feel the moan that gets out of Eggsy. Beautiful. Eggsy is impossibly hard and hot through the canvas of his trousers against Harry's thigh, so something about it all is working for him and Harry burns up with the desire to please him, with the satisfaction of being able to be what he wants. Still kissing him, his hands go to Eggsy's belt to unfasten his trousers and get them down so he can fill his hands with the firm flesh of Eggsy's arse, and his grunt of frustration when he realises he’s got the boots and everything to navigate is short lived because it's a privilege of his imaginary rank: he can make Eggsy do it.

“Get these off.”

“Yes sir.”

An amount of wriggling and wrestling and then both trousers and boxers are discarded in an untidy puddle on the floor and there is Eggsy, bottom half naked - cock absolutely dedicated to the theme, standing to attention - with his boots still on.

Rather than freezing up as he fears he might, Harry all but body-tackles Eggsy back onto the desk. He can't wait any longer; can't hold up the flimsy pretence that this is a game to him, that he's not besotted and gormlessly desperate for the boy under him, for the body his hands are groping over and pulling at for one more minute. He needs Eggsy. He needs to get his prick back into wet heat and take what’s been so obediently offered to him, and he needs it now.

Harry panics, momentarily, because he's genuinely concerned he won't have the patience for decent preparation, but finds Eggsy has gone the whole hog on the porn set up and has done that in advance: not only is he lubed and stretched but a slim black silicone plug holds Harry's place for him.

Eggsy catches him staring, and manages a heavy-lidded smirk.

“Supposed to always be prepared, ain't we?”

“That's the scouts.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Cheeky.” But god, he loves this boy, in that moment not for the fathoms passed between them but for the fact he can slip that toy out of the searing clutch of his body, run a sloppy handful of lube over himself and replace it with his cock in a matter of seconds. He could drop it all, then: the roleplay has served its purpose, got him here, but there may still be some mileage in it for Eggsy so he tries his best to regain a bit of command -  at the very least over himself - and get back into character.

“Legs up, and hold them.”

Eggsy salutes him weakly on the way to grabbing the backs of his knees and pulling them up to his shoulders, shameless and easy. Perhaps it's something about following instructions that sets him free from inhibition - I was only doing as I was told - or perhaps he just wants it that badly, now. By the sounds of it he's watched variations of this scene played out enough times, and then Harry wonders if this will ruin it, if he’ll need to find something else to capture his imagination next time he's got that pretty, throbbing prick in his hand and his fingertips teasing at his arse.

No teasing now: the pace of Harry's hips is unforgiving, selfish, as is befitting of his role, which is his story and he's sticking to it. Eggsy's cock lays rigid and red on his gleaming, flat belly, jolted with the slam of their bodies and glistening where it's leaking. He goes to put a hand to it but Harry growls “what were your orders?” And Eggsy snatches his hand back to hold his legs up.

It keeps Eggsy focused, spread and open for Harry to push in deep and fill him right up, the head of Harry’s cock hitting him just right for him to whisper “Yeah. Yeah, there,” but not for him to be able to do anything but lie back on the desk and take it in response. He starts to let himself go then, whimpering and groaning as Harry pounds into him, holding him by the hips; Eggsy shuts his eyes, and Harry finds himself wondering if he’s thinking about them or all the scenes they’re echoing, find he doesn’t mind either way. He  lets one leg drop to rest on Harry's shoulder and the other come down around his hip, the weight of his boot heel pressing into Harry's arse as if to spur him on, not that he needs it.

Eggsy tosses his head back and moans long and deep in his chest, and it has time to sing through Harry's nerves before Eggsy thinks to muffle himself. Harry would rather he didn't, if anything; in the heat of the moment he's not at all put off by the idea of the neighbours getting an earful of how well his boy’s getting fucked, but  he knows Eggsy is more comfortable being quiet, is actually more likely to come fast and dazzling when he's trying to keep it down, so he even hisses a “ shhh ” at him.

And he looks almost as close as Harry feels. He's pulling at his own hair and fumbling across his chest, hand creeping down in the direction of his cock but Harry slaps him away and spits in his own hand.

“Hands off.  You’ll get what I give you.”

“Ha- sir, please… fuck…” Harry shows mercy,  takes up a grip on Eggsy's cock and starts up a slow, firm stroking. “Oh, yes . Thank you, sir.”

Being thanked for it is just too much: the deep staticky pleasure wound up in Harry's core starts unspooling fast, running away from him. The heat of Eggsy’s body is heaven but secondary somehow to the sight of him: eyes squeezed shut, biting at the back of his hand and then settling for pulling his vest up from the waist and stuffing it in his mouth, dog tags clinking as the chain goes between his teeth. It doesn't stop the lost little noises of pleasure coming out through his nose.

Lust seizes at Harry, the new view of Eggsy’s sweat-drenched abs clenching with tension is too much for him to last; he has one chance at this finishing in style, possibly a long shot but Harry's done for anyway,

“Come. Now.” Eggsy blinks up at him, helpless, overwhelmed. “That's an order, Private.”

Like a miracle, on a gritted whimper that sounds like it might even be an attempt at “ yes sir” he does. Snaps backwards into a straining arch and comes over Harry's hand, over the glistening ridges of his own belly, and Harry follows him before he's even finished spilling over, burying himself as deep as their hips will let him and shuddering through the bliss of release with Eggsy still twitching around him.

Heaving, come-spattered and sweat-drenched though it is, in his exhausted pleasure Harry finds that eggsy's body makes a perfectly decent, comfortable place to rest his weight. He could fall asleep there, sprawled on top of boy and desk, despite the corners and the knees and the raw stink of sex, if it weren't for the wriggling.

“Harry,  get off me. It's a million degrees in here, I'm going to die.”

Harry does back off and down him without a word, but stops on the way to lap the come from Eggsy’s skin. It's cooling, thickening, curdled with sweat and utterly disgusting. Utterly worth it for the look on Eggsy’s face.

“You are rank . There's something wrong with you. You need help.”

“Is that any way to speak to your superior officer?”

“Fuck right off.” He tries to sit up. “Urgh. Nope. Harry, get me a towel will you? And a coke out the fridge?”

Shattered in all the most pleasing ways, Harry just salutes him.




[You got some explaining to do H]

It’s a worrying message to recurve out of the blue, but Harry's conscience brings up nothing to suggest it's anything but a gambit, so he waits out the icon that tells him Eggsy is already following up.

[u did say I could have at the pay per view]

He had said that. He remembers very clearly. He also remembers the context in which he said it and can only conclude that Eggsy is currently in some state of undress and arousal in their living room, the poor dog shut in the kitchen so  there won't be any uninvited bollock-snuffling, flicking through the porn-on-demand services in search of something to take his fancy. Harry contemplates calling it a day on his errands and going home to offer his assistance. He fails to see why this requires him to explain anything.

[u know I can see your recently viewed, right?]

Oh . bugger.

[does that really require any explaining?]

A shocked face emoji. [what if I'm jealous?!?! We ain't never done that]

That's loaded and harry isn't sure whether he wants to reassure Eggsy that there's no need for all that and potentially talk himself out of the possibility, or suggest that they could and risk implying he isn't satisfied with what's already on offer. He evidently takes too long thinking of the correct response.

[what about this. Is this of interest.]  it's followed quickly with a picture, hastily taken in their living room.

Harry turns on his heel and hails a cab.