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The Gentleman's Guide to Heat

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Eggsy isn’t surprised by the fact that the Kingsman appear to be nearly all alphas. Spies can’t be too far off from the military, after all, and that had been chock full of them.

He’d pegged Harry for an alpha the second he’d seen him, despite the cologne he wore to mask all traces of pheromones. That sort of thing wasn’t uncommon, especially on posh punters who saw themselves as above that sort of thing right up until they rolled the windows down on their Rolls and got a whiff of Eggsy on a street corner. Being an omega in the Royal Marines had been a right pain, but back home it had its advantages when you were short on cash. He was a good ways off from his heat, but he’d have been well prepared to take Harry’s knot in exchange for his freedom. What else could a posh bloke in a suit like that want from a guy like him?

Eggsy had been decidedly wrong about that, but he hadn't been wrong about his first impression of the Kingsmen. Merlin is a beta, but he’s the only one Eggsy sees for quite a while once he’s shut up with the other candidates, milling around and avoiding putting his mother’s name on the body bag for as long as possible, sizing up the competition. Pack of public school wankers, every last one of them alphas, even the two girls, though they seem nicer than the rest. The whole dorm room reeks of pheromones, alphas in tight quarters marking their territory. Eggsy smears menthol salve under his nose and finds it no end of amusing.

Training is long, slow weeks of hard work punctuated by near-death experiences that result in their group shrinking little by little. Eggsy soaks it up like a sponge, so engrossed in learning everything from French to basic computer science to Brazilian jiu-jitsu that he doesn’t notice the heat creeping up the small of his back, masked by layers of healing bruises and exhausted muscles from hours of sparring followed by endless runs that leave even the strongest of the alphas among them crawling into their communal showers at the end of the day. None of them know what day it is much less what month, the cooler air and yellowing leaves the only clue that autumn is upon them.

He sits up in bed at the end of the first week of October to find every remaining candidate in the room staring at him, nostrils flaring as they breath in the scent of the slick pooling on his sheets. He ends up with a badly sprained wrist from the chaos that ensues before Merlin wades into the melee, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and dragging him bodily into the infirmary’s safe room. He manages to note deliriously that it’s not as dusty from disuse as he thought it’d be before the tranquilizer takes effect and everything is cool and blurry for a while.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says when things come back into focus, his body buzzing with the over-sensitized feel of emergency suppressants. It puts his teeth on edge, makes him sensitive even to the dimmed lighting in the infirmary and makes the swollen heat in his healing wrist even more painful, but it’s far better than how he’d expected to end up, so he’ll take it.

“For what?,” Merlin prompts, eyes on the scrolling feed of his clipboard. Eggsy wonders what the other candidates are doing and then decides firmly not to think about them just yet.

He won’t apologize for being an omega. He won’t.

He settles on, “For losin’ track of time. I shoulda known it was coming up. I had suppressants in me kit--” Merlin looks up at him abruptly, eyes so sharp that Eggsy snaps his mouth shut hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

“Rat poison cut with benzos that you picked up on the street for a tenner? You’re not ever to use that shite again. Understand?” Merlin’s voice is thunderous and brooks no argument, as commanding as any alpha Eggsy’s ever met, though his hand is gentle when he squeezes Eggsy’s shoulder on his way out.

Eggsy’s next heat passes without anyone noticing, perfectly suppressed without a single side effect thanks to a barrage of blood-tests and the Kingsmen’s top-notch medical research facility in Vancouver, of all places. He gets a dog and learns 17 ways to kill a person with a paperclip and thinks that maybe, just maybe, there are places in the world that he can be safe.



When it’s all over and he’s balls-deep in some Swedish bird who might be royalty of some sort but definitely has a thing for being fucked in the ass by omegas who’ve just saved the whole fucking world, Eggsy will think that there’s very little left that can surprise him. He’ll be wrong.

Harry Hart isn’t dead; is in fact sitting at the head of the table looking at Eggsy like nothing’s happened at all, and Eggsy accepts his next mission with nothing more than a clipped nod. He’s Galahad now, and Merlin calls Harry “Arthur” without missing a beat. Eggsy vomits into the gutter outside the tailor shop, careful not to get any on his Oxfords, and then he goes to work.

The world had gone to shit thanks to a nutjob with a plan, but it wasn’t all bad. Eggsy’s never turned his nose up at a steady job, and there’s more than enough work to go around. Organized crime -- the sort that would have had a lot of guns on hand when things went tits up -- had mostly wiped itself out, but that had created a power vacuum into which far less organized crime had crowded. Any jumped-up little shit with ambition that fancies himself the next boss meets with a timely end and Eggsy comes home every night tired enough to sleep without dreaming.

In Beijing he chases a ratty little arms dealer through streets that would have once been cripplingly overcrowded but are now just bustling. The next day, the papers are all debating whether it’s too soon to resume the football season.

In Dubai he poses as Roxy’s kept omega and they steal back a hard drive full of biological weapons storage locations. The next day, the headlines scream about an American Presidential succession scandal.

And so it goes.

Forgiving Harry is a process, made somewhat more difficult by the fact that Harry won’t tell him how he survived. It’s above Eggsy’s pay grade, it seems, and that’s fine. It’s fine.

Harry’s the youngest Arthur they’ve had in a long while, still well fit for duty, and being down 5 agents until more can be trained up, they need every active agent and viable alias out in the field. With Roxy getting her best results alongside Percival, it makes sense that he gets missions alongside Harry. Eggsy squares his shoulders at the Round Table and resolves not to let anything effect his work. He may be Galahad now, but Harry is Arthur for a reason and Eggsy still has a lot he can learn.

So he learns. He learns that Harry stares at him when he thinks Eggsy can’t see him and he learns that Merlin finds this highly amusing, especially when it distracts Harry enough that he nearly fucks something up. Nearly. He learns that Harry’s left hand has the slightest tremor when he’s stressed and that Harry is never stressed when holding a gun. He is, however, stressed when Eggsy has to flirt with a particularly handsome alpha at some green technology expo in California. All the pictures Harry takes pretending to be a touristy tech nobody are just slightly blurry.

They’re off for a bit on separate missions, but then they team up for a run down to Monaco, picking up the pieces of some human trafficking ring with links to a terrorist network, based out of a casino. It’s a weird little island of splendor still standing in the middle of the mostly-abandoned former playland of the rich and powerful. Eggsy wears a tux and orders a watered-down martini like he’s James fucking Bond just to make Harry laugh. The traffickers end up in lockdown with what’s left of Interpol, but Eggsy doesn’t see the papers the next day because he’s barricaded in a boiler room in an Islington East tube station because it’s Wednesday and his heat shouldn’t have started until well past the weekend.

The room’s too small, made smaller by the bulk of the pipes taking up one side of it and Harry’s presence taking up the rest. Eggsy huddles in an empty corner, vision slowly tunneling, then blurring, certain of the fact that if Harry were to lose control, there’s absolutely nothing that Eggsy could do to stop him.

A night passes before Merlin’s team tracks down their weak distress signal, and Eggsy sweats in his corner, blinking blindly into the dim lights and soaking through his pants, breathing in the sharp, hot answering scent of Harry just inches away from him. Harry watches, and breathes in deep lungfuls of the thick air between them, and never once touches him.

He learns to trust Harry again.



The prison is little more than a hole in the ground, a warren of dirty cages for the criminals and an open “yard” for them to kill each other off in. The air is thick with the smells of the squalid dump of a town above, shit and rot over sea salt. It takes a while for him to be able to smell himself through it, but alpha noses are sensitive.

This was supposed to be a rescue mission.

The men who come for him are a pack of wolves, alphas and betas with slavering jaws, taunting and squabbling amongst themselves as the first hot tendrils of need thread through him. Their fighting turns more serious and three of the betas die before he even sees Harry, mud-smeared but unmistakable in the remains of his suit. He skirts the edges of the yard, eyes keen as one of the smaller alphas gets mouthy, tries to stake a claim, and gets gutted for his efforts. Those calm brown eyes are what Eggsy focuses on.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, dirty broken fingernails and the stink of unwashed hair behind him, and Harry’s eyes are no longer calm. Through the blur that sinks over him as his heat starts in earnest, Eggsy watches Harry kill two dozen men with his bare hands and a half dozen more with his bared teeth. There are more of them, hiding in the cages and staring out from the dark as Harry wipes blood off his hands, his arms, his chin.

Eggsy watches through watering eyes, the need in him now sharp and demanding. He’s never been this wet in his life. Its dripping down his legs, staining the sand under his knees, and his wrists are pulled bloody against the rope they’d used to tie him. He has to….he has to…

Harry turns toward him, takes a step, and he’s so close. Eggsy can smell him now, rich alpha scent like baked cinnamon filling up his lungs, driving out everything else. Harry is hard, the front of his ruined trousers bulging and wet with it, and Eggsy drools around the rag pulling at the edge of his mouth, pushes against the crude restraints, shoves his knees further apart in the sand. He has to let Harry know he wants him -- wants this. Has to show his alpha…his...he has to...he has to...

The merciful blackness of the extraction team’s tranquilizer dart has never been less welcome.



“A gentleman doesn’t beg, Eggsy.”

“Ain’t no fuckin’ gentleman righ’ now, ‘arry,” He slurs, face half mashed into the pillow where Harry’s hand on the back of his head has shoved him. He has no control at all over his mouth at the moment, tongue lolling out as he pants and drools into Harry’s thousand thread count sheets. Harry’s fingers tighten in his hair, gripping until it hurts and Eggsy makes a sound like he’s gagging.

“That you aren’t,” Harry answers, a chuckle behind his voice even as he sounds prim and proper as ever, three fingers knuckle-deep in Eggsy’s sopping arse because Harry fucking Hart is a fucking teasing cunt and Eggsy had told him so, what felt like ages ago now, when he was coherent enough for those sorts of sentences. Harry leans closer, pressing his cock against the back of Eggsy’s thigh just to make him keen. It’s blood-hot, even against Eggsy’s overheated skin, and already starting to swell at the base, thick enough that it’ll hurt and Eggsy wants it.

“Please please please…” becomes his mantra, every shuddering exhale colored by it, until Harry’s fingers slide out of him and he screams, only partly muffled by the pillow.

“Come now, Eggsy,” Harry chides him, and his voice is just slightly hoarse now. Eggsy wishes he could turn his head and see him, but Harry still has a grip on his hair like a vice, holding him in place. “Where are your manners?” And then his fingers are back, two of them alongside his thumb, spreading Eggsy wide around the hot, blunt head of Harry’s cock, and Eggsy couldn’t answer even if he wanted to.

Harry slides in and in and in, stretching him to his limit and then pushing further. Harry’s knot is starting to swell and the feel of it against Eggsy’s hole makes him gush slick down his legs, down Harry’s, until the weight of it’s easing inside him, expanding in a rush as Harry starts to come. Those lethal, elegant hands with their manicured nails dig into the muscle of Eggsy’s hips hard enough to draw blood and the copper tang of it mixed with the smell of Eggsy’s slick makes them both moan. He uses the leverage to pull Eggsy back against him, spreading his legs wide to seat them together as tightly as possible.

The pressure is unbearable, the crush of Harry’s hands around him and Harry’s knot inside him, the thick heat of Harry’s cock filling Eggsy up, the hot press of Harry’s balls against his hole where they’ve drawn up, soaked in slick and clenching hard as they both pant through the first wave of Harry’s orgasm. It’s intoxicating like a fever dream, the very edge of delirium, and Eggsy knows he’s begging but he doesn’t know what for. He barely registers the rough pull of Harry’s hand along his own cock, the whipcrack of pleasure that spills along his spine as he comes, because everything is bright white static all around him and he lets himself fall into it headfirst.

He wakes up slowly, awareness clicking back on like a bank of security monitors flipping from scrambled static to crystal clear images, one by one. It would be worrying, against all the training they’ve beaten into him over the last few years, if it weren’t for the hot press of the body up against his back and the unyielding mass of the knot still inside him. They’re on their sides now, Harry pressed up behind him from shoulder to ankle. There’s a sharp ache there, in the meaty swell of muscle that connects his shoulder and neck, and Eggsy’s suspicion is confirmed when he feels the broad, wet swipe of a tongue over the spot where Harry’d bit him.

A sudden tremor runs through Harry, and Eggsy groans at the tight heat in his belly as Harry comes again. He can’t have been out for long, if Harry’s still swollen up tight inside him like this, but it’s hard to tell. When Eggsy recovers enough to look back over his shoulder, Harry looks wrecked. Gone is all that cool reserve and in it’s place is a new flushed, disheveled sort of perfection. Harry’s hair, impeccably styled even in the thick of battle, is falling into his face in sweaty clumps.

“Now who’s a gentlemen, ay?,” Eggsy breathes, and Harry’s eyes pop open in surprise at the sound.

He’s all pupil, the barest hint of golden brown at the edges of his irises, and it takes Harry a good ten seconds to focus enough to do anything more than stare at him. Still, Harry’s the very best, and he proves it by summoning up enough smug imperiousness to grate out a perfectly even, “I’m always a gentleman.”

Eggsy snorts, joyful and reckless, clenching down hard on Harry’s knot just to hear him curse through the sharp, sudden rush of another orgasm.



Eggsy rarely suppresses his heats anymore.

Within a year they fill up their ranks, a few brand new agents, a few brought in from other agencies. The Round Table is complete again, and the position of Arthur isn’t without its perks. A solid week off every three months or so, Eggsy finds, is just the right amount of R&R to keep him on his game, and absolutely no one questions it. He ignores every single one of Merlin’s knowing looks.

Without suppressants, he learns to use his heats. The few days of ramping up before a heat are his favorite. The siren scent of an omega on the edge is enough to loosen the tongue of most alphas or to lure them wherever he wants them so that another team can take over whatever dirty work follows. He plays it fast and loose, riding the searing razor edge of his own hormones, senses sharpened by feral mating instinct. On the day before his heats, he’s a one-man wrecking crew, glorying in explosions and massacred bad guys.

He might be getting a bit of a reputation. It’s fantastic.

When he arrives back from his latest mission, the burnt-sugar scent of his impending heat filling up the back of the company car with its put-upon beta driver, he gives his report to Arthur and watches the way his nostrils flare. Harry’s knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the table as he thanks Eggsy with a curt, “Galahad.”

“Arthur,” Eggsy nods. “Always a pleasure.” He takes his leave, as gentlemanly as you please.

He gives it two more heats like this before Harry Hart breaks and mounts him bent over the Round Table. He’s got 50 quid riding on it, and Galahad plays to win.