Since Eggsy’s in the bathroom anyway, he submits quietly when Harry — so excruciating and subtle it reads like a beacon — suggests he wash up and calm himself. Out of spite, and because Eggsy’s pretty fucking sure Harry’s taxidermy dog is staring at him he washes his balls aggressively and with the soap he remembers smelling off of Harry’s starched-perfect collar, from the particular line of his jaw.
“Fuck,” Eggsy says, because the unanticipated-should’ve-fuckin-anticipated side effect obviously is that now his cock’s flush and wanting, stiff against the heel of his palm. He presses his face into the corner of the shower, moaning because Harry probably knows exactly what his taxidermy dog is watching right now and that only makes it better.
Eggsy thinks about Harry sitting casual like, one leg crossed elegant over the other, that hand on his face with two fingers at his mouth. He’d probably give directions, raise his eyebrows, treat this like showing Eggsy fine dining or how to waltz or anything else, and Harry would say, “Again, please,” and Eggsy comes with a choked-off gasp and a knuckle dug into the soft skin behind his balls — fuck.
He spends another minute or ten maneuvering the rainwater shower head to and fro out of paranoia that not every molecule of jizz has gone down the drain. Which, what’s the fucking point, because Harry will know anyway. Probably Harry has the entire house wired, and is sat on a divan somewhere reading Ovid watching Eggsy dig his fingernails into tile grout to make sure there’s no semen left over.
He gets out of the shower and the dog watches him dry off with the glassy, disapproving eyes of an animal whose owner had passed his Kingsman exam. Eggsy hears himself tell it, “Fuck off,” only sort of quietly, so it follows Harry would call out:
“There’s a change of clothes, folded on the shelf.”
It’s a worn-soft rugby shirt, with holes in the cuffs, and Eggsy has a small out of body experience thinking where Harry might have got this. How he would have been younger, the way he’d be covered in dirt and grass and laughing, tackling boys onto the pitch and how he would have pinned them down with his arms and his thighs and —
“Jesus, what?” Eggsy mutters.
The shirt’s a bit broad on him, too long in the sleeves, but the apparent only other item of clothing for him is a pair of soft trackies — no pants. Eggsy looks down at his cock, at the way it’s getting pink and half hard again and then the way the waist of the sweats will barely cling to his hips and knows he’s not got the option of tucking anything under any elastics for the cover of dignity. Fucking hell.
He drags the shirt down as low as it’ll go and gives up, tromps outside with a cloud of steam into the quiet hush of the house, follows the shaft of yellow lamplight to Harry.
Harry’s at his desk, in that red-walled room plastered with bloody tabloid covers, and Eggsy tugs and tugs at the cuffs of his — of Harry’s shirt because he doesn’t know where to sit. If he should go to the chair in the corner, if he should stand here and wait for his bollocking. Well, another bollocking. He looks at the diary on Harry’s desk, the cup of tea, set aside, at Harry’s long fingers where they’re flat and final against the amber grain of the wood and tries not to look at Harry’s throat in the apex of his collar.
The shower worked, Eggsy thinks, half wild with it, because he’s clearheaded now, pricked all over with heat and experiencing a growing sense of wild shame. He’s stood here in this posh office in this posh house and staring at the fraying cuffs of this shit rugby shirt and thinks it’s the only thing fit for him in the whole of these rooms. He’s fucked up, he’s fucking fucked up and this thing he was good at’s gone from him now, like this office and this house and this man will be, too.
Eggsy tries to say he’s sorry, but it won’t come out his mouth, words jammed into him like a bone in the throat. He scrubs at his face, at his forehead, because his head hurts and he’s dizzy and he wants — suddenly, desperately — for Harry at least to keep him.
He manages to say, “So,” and swallows the rest. If Eggsy keeps going he’ll say something awful. He’ll get down on his knees and beg.
Harry clears his throat into the silence, that’s so big it’s bursting out of the room now. He moves his long fingers and he presses them to his shirt, and he asks, “So — are you feeling clearer now?”
Eggsy nods since that’s not saying things. He makes himself stop touching his face, makes himself look up with a deep breath — bracing like he does for a punch, a kick.
It’s worse than either or both, and Harry looks tired, his mouth slack with disappointment. He’s pressed that hand on his shirt there, over his chest like it’s helping to hold something in, and Eggsy’s eyes get hot and hurt from staring so hard, his knees twinge, and he thinks about JB’s rotten, sweet little face and the fucking hideous training uniforms for the proposals and he thinks about the bigness of everything he’s broken.
Eggsy’s said all sorts of shite under duress to make someone stop looking like that, but this isn’t Dean in a rage or his mum in a state. This isn’t his sister, who he can cuddle close, press kisses all over her sweet face and over her damp eyelids and whisper nonsense to until she hiccups and hiccups and the sobs go away. But it’s the same desperate 3 a.m. feeling, when she’s been colicky all night, and Eggsy puts his hands on his face so he can force himself to stop staring, so that when he says, “I fucked up,” he doesn’t have to look at Harry as he’s doing it.
Harry doesn’t say, “Yes, you did,” or “Get out,” or tell him he regrets ever springing him. Harry sighs, one of those deep ones that comes from somewhere tired and old, and he says instead, “Come here, Eggsy.”
Eggsy thinks he’ll stay right in the doorway, thanks, or hesitate, but his feet move on their own, shuffling over the rug until he stops short at the corner of the desk and he feels compelled to grab onto it — to use it for balance.
“I’m not angry with you, Eggsy,” Harry says, mild.
“Yeah fucking right,” Eggsy snaps back, like his knee kicking up, fuck.
Harry’s eyebrow goes up and up, the hand leaves his chest. It goes back to the desk and one of those heavy fountain pens, and Eggsy catches himself watching the way Harry’s thumbnail goes into the slit between the top and the shaft and swallows as his throat goes suddenly Sahara parched.
“I was…frustrated,” Harry allows, and now something crooked mad like a smile goes across his face, on his mouth, and Eggsy finally has a reason to look away from that fucking pen now, from Harry’s big thumb. “I should have anticipated this outcome.”
Eggsy doesn’t hide his flinch because he couldn’t if he wanted. “What, that I’d fail?”
“That you’d spare Jack Bauer,” Harry corrects, sounding tired and something like fond and Eggsy doesn’t know what to do with that.
Eggsy in the shower, getting cum on the tiles, was braced for shouting, a punch. He’s got Harry here smiling at him, fond, and it makes him itchy, impulsive.
“Still fucked up though,” he tries.
Harry’s proper smiling now, still tired, though. He’s slouched deep in his seat with his knees opened and his thighs spread out and Eggsy can’t look at Harry’s face, so he ends up looking at his feet, at the place where his trousers cuff over his ankle, and Eggsy gets dizzy and dumb and wonders if he pressed a kiss there — open mouthed — would Harry forgive him. Would Harry let him stay.
He must stare too long or zone out or the heaviness of the day must hit all at once, because Harry’s suddenly much closer. Eggsy gasps a little at the shock of it, because Harry’s right fuckin’ there, ducking his head, pressing a palm to Eggsy’s shoulder — his thumb in that dip between Eggsy’s throat and his collarbone.
Eggsy asks, “What?” and Harry’s thumb rubs a circle into his skin, into his neck, before his hand trails down Eggsy’s arm and down his side, until Harry’s directing him with fingers at the hip.
“Upstairs, Eggsy,” Harry tells him, the way posh fucks talk to horses on the telly.
Eggsy means to tell him to go fuck himself, but it’s just easier to let Harry steer him out of the red office, down the quiet hallways and the thick rugs. Harry’s house is fine and quiet and hushed, like Harry, and Eggsy leans into the hallways like he leans into Harry’s hands. He goes up the stairs and he doesn’t look at the way his fingers shake on the bannister, how he clutches at the railing.
He ends up in a room with sage-green walls, a neat bed invitingly made up with some advanced pattern matching linens and JB already curled up in mumbly ball of paws and fur at the foot of it. Harry says to sleep, that they’ll discuss things in the morning, and, “This is only a temporary inconvenience, Eggsy,” with an easy certainty no one else has ever had about Eggsy before.
“How’d you know?” Eggsy asks, because he has no idea, but Harry knows all kinds of things. He opens doors literal and metaphorical and into rooms full of semiautomatic weapons. “That this ain’t it for me?”
It’s dark in the room, the curtains drawn, and Harry’s standing limned in the light from the open door. Eggsy can only see the halo around his face, shaping his shoulders, that catch the back of his hand as he’s reaching out again, touching fingertips to Eggsy’s cheek. He’s smiling that fond smile from downstairs again, and this time it’s thick with the dense heat of how close they are to each other in this room.
“I know — because I’m not done with you, Eggsy,” Harry promises.
Thus it is fucking not Eggsy’s fault he’s still awake, four hours later, lying on his back in the double bed of Harry’s guest room pitching a tent in the covers, staring at the ceiling.
He’s started and stopped rubbing one out no fewer than four separate times. Each time, Eggsy can’t fucking believe he’s edging himself in Harry Hart’s fucking bed and decides he’s just going to fucking come and pass out, before he does anything stupid(er) tonight. But then he gets so far as imagining Harry doing his washing and finding the cum stains on his trackies or changing the linens and calling Eggsy to heel and maybe making him lick it off the sheets. Eggsy would enjoy it if the Harry inside his sexual night terrors didn't look so fucking sad the whole time, and it wilts Eggsy’s cock straightaway. But then the cycle starts up again because Eggsy will think, what if he's not sad? what if he’s angry? These scenarios end, uniformly, in some sort of fucked-up-hot punishment, and that leaves Eggsy staring at the fucking ceiling again, experiencing vivid images of Harry folding his belt over in his hand, closing his palm around the buckle, and telling Eggsy this is only ‘cause he’s been a bad boy.
There’s that part of his lizard brain, the one that loves JB and Daisy and My Fair Lady and ain’t ashamed of any of it, the one that buys cherry lip gloss and knows how posh girls and boys like a bit of rough. It’s whining at him nonstop at this point, telling him how Harry’s just down the corridor, that Eggsy could have him, have the weight of his dick in his mouth and Harry’s fist in his hair, and how the sting and suffocation of it would be almost as good as forgiveness.
That’s about the point Eggsy realizes his feet are cold because he’s out of bed and halfway down the hallway.
“Shit,” he whispers, to an ugly fucking horse painting on the wall.
“Fuck,” he tells a a plaque. He tries to read it but he gets so far as ‘Harrow’ before his brain refuses to process the rest of it. “Fuck,”he tells it again.
Harry’s either used to living utterly alone or prepared for some eventuality where Eggsy has a screaming nightmare or somesuch. His bedroom door’s opened about a foot — a dim orange light from in the wall eating away at the inside darkness of the night. Eggsy stands in the doorway and and his own breath is mad, frantic. He feels his pulse and it’s rabbiting away under the skin. This feels like jumping off the tallest buildings in the council estate; this feels like jacking that car and driving it backward away from the filth.
He tells himself, “Fuck it,” and crosses the threshold, light on this feet like they’d taught all the proposals. This probably isn’t what they meant that skill set for, but it gets him to the foot of Harry’s bed. Considering Harry’s a proper fucking gentleman spy, Eggsy lets himself be smug about that for a beat or two.
Harry sleeps halfway on his side, in actual striped pajamas. His hair’s got a curl to it, brushed across his forehead, unlined in sleep, and the thick, black frames of his glasses are folded next to a book on the bedside table — the whole room bathed in moonlight. Harry sleeps with the curtains opened, and Eggsy wonders if the glass is bulletproof or if Harry’s just that cocky.
Either way, he gets a knee up at the foot of the mattress, holding his breath. Any minute now, Harry’ll open his eyes. He’ll say, “Eggsy, no,” and Eggsy will joke it off, bolt for the guest room and try to suffocate himself before daylight. Any minute.
Until then, Eggsy figures it’s practice, yeah? Keeping himself sharp, to tug up the blankets, the sheets, to skim a palm along the body-warm sheet underneath and to duck his head into the linens.
Harry’s got long legs and nice feet — fuck, what’s it coming to, that Eggsy’s thinking nice feet — and Eggsy’s careful, so careful, about where he puts his hands and what he touches. He starts slowly, just a hand on Harry’s ankle, and when he doesn’t get a roundhouse kick to the face or a bullet in his spine he slides it up, over the cuff of the pajama bottoms and along Harry’s calf, to the well of his knee. This is mad. It’s maddening. It’s like flying out of the airplane or punching the double-sided mirror and finally getting air and broken glass out of his split knuckles on the other side — giddy and terrifying and fucking perfect.
Lizard Brain Eggsy is the one who closes his hands over Harry’s hips, right? He’s the one driving when Eggsy curls over Harry, breaths hot and panting over the fly of the pajama bottoms and feels himself get greedy at the thought — imagines how his mouth would probably stretch around the base of Harry’s dick.
And then there’s a hand fisted in his hair, dragging him — shit, fuck, Christ — up the hard line of Harry’s body until Eggy’s red-faced and staring into Harry’s granite expression: his jaw’s an angry line, his eyes narrowed.
“Eggsy,” Harry says, and how he sounds so calm when Eggsy’s hands had landed one on his chest and the other slipped between his side and his arm, a thigh between Harry’s legs, blanketing him, Eggsy has no clue.
He says, “Uh.”
Harry’s entire right eyebrow is all about how that’s a weak fucking retort.
“I just,” Eggsy tries again.
“Oh, go on,” Harry invites.
That makes Eggsy’s elbows and knees weak, and thanks, that means instead of Eggsy coming up with a brilliant excuse it just means Eggsy is rubbing his half-hard-getting-all-the-way-there cock into Harry’s hip.
“Fuck,” he swears. “Shit. Sorry, fuck.”
Eggsy tries to pull away, honest he does. He tries to roll off the bed and make a run for it, only Harry’s eyes get dark and heavy, and the hand in Eggsy’s hair gets tighter, until his scalp stings and Eggsy realizes his head’s being pulled back, that Harry’s looking at Eggsy’s mouth now — his throat.
“If you’re here out of misplaced guilt, Eggsy, you may go immediately,” Harry informs him, and every syllable is fucking perfect. So off-puttingly posh Eggsy instinctively wants to fuck him up, wrinkle him, take him down a notch.
He croaks, “I ain’t here for that,” because it’s fucking embarrassing but also true.
“I’m not easily bribed, either,” Harry goes on, but he sound softer now, more like a man who was just asleep a minute ago, before he woke up to find a boy perched heavy breathing over his dick.
Eggsy should be fucking mortified but his cock's still pressing into Harry’s hip and he feels it twitch, desperate. Shit. “I ain’t here for that, either.”
Now Harry looks wide awake. He asks, “Then why are you here, Eggsy?”
Eggsy’s parched, suddenly. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. His hands would be shaking if they weren’t doing that shite job of holding him up. His head’s a riot, there’s clatter and din there, and all Eggsy can think is all the things he’d wanted to be and how none of them had happened, how Harry had given him the chance to be a Kingsman and how Eggsy’d fucked that, too. And how even though it’s greedy, even though he’s got no right to ask, he thinks Harry might say “yes” if Eggsy asks for this — asks to fucking have this at least, if he can’t have any of the rest of it.
“I want this,” he says finally, because there’s nothing else to say. There’s a lot stuffed up in his throat, too complicated, and if he tries to explain himself he’ll never stop; he won’t get what he wants, either. So he just repeats, “I — want this.”
Harry stares and stares into Eggsy’s face, long past the point where it’s uncomfortable and until Eggsy’s squirming, mortified, but not willing to pull out of Harry’s grip. Eggsy finds himself babbling, “Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” when Harry finally sees what he’s looking for — when his brittle, flat expression changes in a blink, and his voice drops an octave, and he gives Eggsy’s hair a little jerk and he says:
“Far be it for me to deny you.”
Eggsy’s not a fucking idiot. You don’t almost become a Kingsman if you’re a fucking idiot, but he stares like a fucking idiot — at Harry, at the hot flush on Harry’s cheek — until Harry sighs, impatient, and twists his hand where it’s clutched in Eggsy’s hair, starts shoving Eggsy down the length of his body.
This time, the covers go down with him. Eggsy has no idea how Harry’s done it, but the blankets and the warm cavern of linen folds away, until Eggsy finds himself curled over Harry’s longer body, his face aflame and his heartbeat gone mental and Harry’s hand still in his hair — directing.
“Have you changed your mind, Eggsy?” Harry asks him, and it sounds forgiving.
Don’t you dare, Eggsy thinks, and shakes his head so he can feel the scrape of Harry’s nails, the tug on his scalp. The sharp sting is turning into a low ache and it feels so fucking good Eggsy doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Harry settles, somehow, melting further back into the soft expanse of his bed. He looks satisfied and smug and vicious, too. Eggsy thinks it’s only right something in his belly quakes at that look, shivers until it makes his ass throb and his dick twitch.
“Then I don’t see why my cock isn’t already down your throat, Eggsy,” says Harry fucking Hart Jesus Christ, so matter-of-fact it’s somehow better stroke worse.
Eggsy has all kinds of sharp retorts, but they all flush out of his head in the flood of immediate, crippling adrenaline. He feels like someone’s revved his engine and tugged out his spine: he’s hot and flushed through, hands weak, and he sees the way his fingers shake as he tugs at the waist of Harry’s pajama bottoms, drags them down the cut of his hip, revealing milk-pale skin and the sharp line of muscle and bone.
The Harry that Eggsy saw occasionally during training, who maintains a polite distance and holds himself apart, is always folded into well-tailored suits, three layers of clothing. He’s not cold, exactly, but there’s no warmth to him, just the promise of banked danger that gets Eggsy desperate and fucking panting. This close, he can feel the heat steaming upward from Harry’s skin, and he pulls and pulls at the fabric until he can finally see the shape of Harry’s cock in the shadow light.
Eggsy’s mostly sucked cocks in the dark, had a drunken toss or two. He’s never really looked at the dicks in his mouth, that he’s stroked off, wrist twisting; he’s never really wanted to. Those blokes weren’t the point, the fucking was the point. Of course here, now, fucking’s the point, too, but it’s fucking Harry, and Eggsy looks and looks: at the dark red flush of Harry’s dick, the neat thatch of dark hair at the base, the foreskin stretched tight around the thick shaft — the bead of cum at the slit.
He risks looking up, and it’s a mistake, it’s a fucking mistake, because Harry’s just staring at him, patient and firm and expectant. Because Harry’s still got his hand in Eggsy’s hair and his cock’s still filling, tightening, curving up, and Eggsy hears himself make a fucking horrible noise and dips his head down, sucks a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the base of Harry’s dick like he’s starving for it.
Harry’s skin tastes clean and a little bit like the sweat of sleep, and Eggsy makes that fucking noise again and closes his hand over the shaft, rubs his thumb just under the head of Harry’s cock. Eggsy noses at the base so he can lick over the hot, heavy weight of Harry’s balls — God he wants to suck one into his mouth — and he licks up the vein along the bottom of Harry’s dick, until he can close his mouth over the head and suck.
Harry’s salty and good in Eggsy’s mouth, a reassuring weight on his tongue. Eggsy leans into it, breathes in roughly through his nose and tips his head forward, moans and runs his tongue just inside Harry’s foreskin, where it stretches around the head of his dick.
Eggsy wants to be good, wants to be better than anybody Harry’s ever had before. So he’s careful — he takes his time. He keeps his fist tight at the base of Harry’s dick and pops his jaw, swallows him in, greedy and deep, until the cockhead is tight in the back of his throat and Eggsy thinks he can feel the vein along the shaft throbbing on his tongue. He hollows his cheeks and he curls his tongue, bobs his head in shallow little jerks and listens to Harry’s breathing — coming faster now — focuses on the way Harry’s pulling on his hair, how Harry’s rolling his hips now in stop-start fits. Eggsy would tell him to give it up, to give in, that Eggsy wants to wake up with his throat too sore for talking and his mouth bruised from being face fucked but he’s busy: drooling all over Harry’s dick, moaning and moaning and still starving for cock, taking Harry deeper and deeper.
From the start, Harry’s read Eggsy all over, seen right through him, so Eggsy’s not surprised that he’s barely had time to think about how he wants to feel ruined that Harry gives it to him — just like that.
Harry changes his grip, changes how he’s got his long fingers fisted in Eggsy’s hair, says, “Eggsy,” like it’s a warning, and then Harry’s shoving Eggsy’s mouth down on his cock, until the head of his dick is in Eggsy’s throat and Eggsy's gagging and gasping around it. Harry holds him there for a few years, thrusts out and in just in micrometers, rubs Eggsy’s red, wet cheeks along the base of his dick and lets out big cat purr: satisfied.
“Your — mouth, Eggsy,” Harry tells him, sighing, and Eggsy makes a sobbing noise in answer, chokes it out in a slutty, desperate whimper around the cock in his mouth.
Harry stays there, shoved deep halfway into Eggsy’s chest like a blade or a gun, until Eggsy’s dizzy and seeing black at the edges of his vision. Eggsy thinks about shoving at Harry, struggling at all. He doesn’t do any of it. He stays there with one hand on Harry’s hip and the other fisted in the sheets and chokes on Harry’s dick like it’s an honor.
Overhead, Eggsy hears, “Perfect,” before Harry finally pulls out, drags his cock out of Eggsy’s throat and his mouth and rests the dripping head of it on Eggsy’s swollen, bruised lower lip. Eggsy sucks in heaving breaths, tasting precum and lapping at the slit of Harry’s dick, kittenish, too dizzy from the euphoria of a sudden burst of oxygen for much more — his heart exploding in his chest.
“All right, Eggsy?” Harry asks, and Eggsy thinks he says, “yeah, yeah,” but it comes out a raspy plea for more: inarticulate, just needful sounds and no syllables at all.
Harry understands him just fine though. He grins, savage, and tucks a thumb in Eggsy’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He says, “Strip and lie on your back.”
Eggsy mostly follows orders on instinct, peeling out of the rugby shirt and kicking off the sweats, the waistband catching on his cock before it slaps back — wet — against his belly, getting jizz in the trail of hair from his naval to his groin. Eggsy figures he’s a sight, and likely Harry agrees, because he’s licking his mouth and helping to pin Eggsy to the mess of the bed with a hand, scraping his blunt nails down Eggsy’s chest.
“Do you know how you looked, Eggsy?” Harry asks, barely calm — the kevlar of his spy training barely containing the volcano in the bass notes of his voice. “When you shuffled into my office, pink-cheeked and wet haired? Barefoot in that shirt and those trousers?”
Eggsy mumbles, “You left me those clothes.”
“Forgive an old man his pleasures, Eggsy,” Harry chides, and fuck, reaches down to run the side of his thumb along the bottom of Eggsy’s cock, root to tip. “And this is beautiful, too.”
Eggsy feels his entire body buck into the touch. He cries out and his vision blurs; he’s so fucking overstimulated, everything mixing up pain and pleasure signals already.
“Lovely, all of it,” Harry murmurs, and swings a leg over Eggsy’s face, his sac heavy and hot and Eggsy lifts his neck so he can swipe his tongue over it, just for a taste, to try and suck one of his balls into his mouth. Harry pinches him hard in the tit in punishment for that, and when Eggsy opens his mouth to yelp, Harry puts his cock back inside — slides his dick right into the gape of Eggsy’s already-red lips and feeds it to him inch by torturous — thick — inch.
Fuck, Eggsy thinks. Sort of. It’s hard to hold a thought in his head like this. Mostly all he can do is focus on keeping his jaw wide, focus on keeping his teeth clear, gag on the bitter salt streaks of come that Harry’s leaking steadily now — that Harry's fucking into his throat in long, unhurried strokes.
There's nowhere to put his hands, Eggsy thinks crazily. Like this, he’s got no leverage, is at all the wrong angles to drag Harry to him or push him away. Harry’s got him like this so all Eggsy can do is keep his throat open and get fucked, to take it how Harry wants him to take it, for as long as he wants, and it’s so fucking hot Eggsy has to grab his own dick, squeeze tight at the base. He can feel himself getting wetter and wetter, dripping down onto his fingers.
“Pull your knees up,” Harry tells him — he sounds winded now, words coming out punctuated by fast, brutal jerks into Eggsy’s mouth — “pull them against your chest.”
Eggsy whines, but he was almost a Kingsman and negotiating his thighs while making sure nothing interrupts his facefucking isn’t even in the top ten of difficult fucking challenges from his time as a proposal. He has to squirm until everything’s in place right, and when he forgets himself and grazes Harry’s cockhead with just the softest edge of teeth — it gets him another vicious twist to the nipple. That shouldn’t make his cock drip so much harder but it does, until Eggsy can feel himself leaking a pool of milky come onto his belly.
“I’ll have to wear the glasses, next time we do this,” Harry says, matter-of-fact, like the way he’s fucking a space into Eggsy’s throat for himself is just marking a place for the future. Fuck, maybe it is, Eggsy thinks, and his cock spews another sticky half load at that. “You should see, Eggsy — you are a vision. You belong in someone’s boudoir; you take to it so beautifully.”
Eggsy whines and whines and whines. He doesn’t know what he wants, he just wants it right fucking now, and he needs both hands to hold his knees up, so his poor neglected cock gets ignored, leaking all over his stomach. Every time Eggsy swallows, his throat closes like a fucking vice around Harry’s cock and he tastes come dripping down his tongue and he’s delirious with it, out of this world with it.
But Harry knows, Harry can understand him, because Harry says — he sounds stricken now, gasping, too — “Hush, Eggsy, I have you,” before he slicks the long fingers of his right hand in the jizz on Eggsy’s belly and reaches down to rub it into Eggsy’s hole.
Eggsy figures he’d be screaming his head off if he wasn’t half blacked out on dick. All he can do is twist and struggle with his body curled up like this, pinned at the head by Harry’s cock and at the end by Harry’s fingers — which just rub and rub at the tight muscle of his opening, coaxing Eggsy soft and sloppy, yielding.
“Eggsy, I’m going to come in your mouth — very shortly,” Harry manages, and shifts enough so that now with every stroke Eggsy’s got the hot heaviness of Harry's balls on his mouth, too. It’s so fucking degrading and Eggsy finds it as chemically addicting as he should hate it, and it leaves him swallowing frantically around Harry’s dick, trying to make it good so he’ll earn it when Harry feeds him a load.
Harry, so appreciative, just sighs, “Lovely boy,” and Eggsy feels Harry’s other hand now — the one not rubbing hotter and hotter at his hole — close open-palmed over his throat and squeeze and that’s it — that’s it.
Eggsy comes so hard his hair hurts, that he manages to shout around the cock in his throat when Harry shoves three sticky-slick fingers into him — knuckle deep — so his ass has something to flutter around, to milk at. He gets cum on his chin and his lower lip, and Harry just fucks it into Eggsy’s throat along with his own, jizz frothing out of Eggsy’s mouth and leaking down the corners and into his hair even though he's swallowing as fast as his orgasm-dumb body will let him.
Everything after that is just reflex responses: breathing, holding his knees up until Harry stops swearing and gasping and says, “Legs down now, dearest,” and sucking slow and careful on Harry’s cock as it softens in his mouth — licking him clean.
Eggsy zones out a bit, high on come and endorphins. It takes a while to return about half way, and when he blinks out of it, it’s to Harry’s flushed and handsome face hovering over him — wiping at Eggsy’s mouth with a warm, wet flannel.
“Hi,” Eggsy tries to say. It comes out as a croak.
“Don’t speak — you’ll start feeling sore soon,” Harry counsels, but he says it indulgently, and punctuates it by swooping in to press a lingering, close-mouthed kiss to Eggsy’s throat. During this, the flannel travels down Eggsy’s chest and wipes gently at his belly, his sticky cock, before moving down to his ass.
Eggsy can feel it, too, the beginnings of an ache in his jaw, the scraped-raw feeling in his throat. But he wants something else, too, so he fumbles his hands until he manages to cup Harry’s face, and he makes complaining noises until Harry catches on.
“Oh,” Harry says, flushing all over, as if this, after everything, is shocking.
Eggsy grins up at him, wild, and tips his face up, tips his mouth up. He knows what he must look like: fucked out and used up. His lips must be a swollen, bruised mess, and every time Harry looks at his face Eggsy hopes he remembers being holstered in Eggsy’s throat. All of that is great — all of that is aces.
But Eggsy would also like a kiss, please, and so he makes that complaining noise again, and Harry drops the flannel off the side of the bed and mumbles, “Of course, my apologies,” and boxes Eggsy in — drags him in closer — presses their mouths together.
It’s soft at first, just sipping at each other, until Eggsy laughs into the kiss and bites at Harry’s mouth, sharp, greedy — just asking for it.