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Come Get It Boy

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Telling a man once that he’s beautiful is an indulgence, but having him believe it is nothing short of a disaster of your life.

Harry allows himself a touch of melodrama in his reflections, just a touch. It is, after all, suitable to their environment, which can only be summarized in a combination of words including “high” and “class” and “sex” and “dungeon.” Of course Rue Catalina chooses to describe itself in a different set of words, as a service in which powerful men are provided access to their deepest, most meaningful fantasies, fantasies that would never hold up to the stale fluorescent lights of their law firm or political office. A necessary release if you will.

Harry appreciates fine language and an ability to sand away rough edges; is he not, as Eggsy would put it, a posh wanker? But flowers and diamonds aside, this is a sex club that he and Eggsy have been sent to infiltrate, which would ordinarily not be an issue as sex clubs rarely have overwhelming security, except for the more pressing issue of Eggsy being entirely too beautiful for his own good.

It hurts Harry, a little. Like a soreness in his brain.

“How’d you wanna do this?” Eggsy asked him before the job, not even bothering to hide his grin. “You wanna pretend to be, like, a thing together?” He’d wriggled his fingers to indicate that thing, in this case, meant sordid sexual relationship, and Harry had given him a cold look.

“I think not,” he’d said. “Our cover will be colleagues. Merlin has already falsified a history of my patronage in the club databases. As your mentor and a longstanding, if infrequent, visitor to Rue Catalina, I have made the decision to introduce you to a new lifestyle and the particular... luxuries that go alongside it.” It is, he thinks, not too far off from his own relationship with Eggsy if you swapped ‘sex club’ with ‘top secret government agency.’ Harry’s head hurts.

“Peachy,” Eggsy had said. “If we’re ‘colleagues’, I better find a nice suit to wear.”

He does. Most assuredly, he does. Harry had known him for a lovely young creature when he had first spied Eggsy at that police station, but as with mostly truly fierce desires in his life he had tamped down on it and moved on. Eggsy was not for his bed, he’d decided. Eggsy was for queen and country, and Harry has seen enough spectacularly ruinous workplace relationships to know that someone like Eggsy would only be a weakness, a ticking bomb dangling, however attractively, off his arm, ready to go off at any minute. Harry has weaknesses, faults, all those normal human frailties, but the difference with him and most other men is that he doesn’t pursue adding more to that collection if he can help it.

Eggsy is not yet a fault. Eggsy is an exquisite young man in a suit with a very expensive cut, moving through the rooms of Rue Catalina like sticky toffee, smiling with sharp teeth. His smile rarely reaches his eyes and that must be purposeful, Harry thinks, because it would be so very easy for the patrons to mistake Eggsy for one of the club’s boys. He has that look to him, his skin so soft, his gait so loose and unhurried. But Eggsy wants to make it clear that he is not for the patrons to touch; he is here to choose, and like any arrogant young prince he wants a good selection.

Harry follows Eggsy, ostensibly being his benevolent mentor but at the same time looking for their target, Geoffrey Hyneman, an oil and gas tycoon that the Kingsmen need answers from regarding a recent murder in Soho. The reclusive Hyneman typically frequents Rue Catalina on Thursday nights and this may be their only chance to get him alone with minimal security detail; normally the man travels with a pack of hired ex-military guards. Eggsy is looking for Hyneman too, scanning the rooms, but Eggsy is also preoccupied talking to one of the club’s so-called odalisques, describing what he wants in a partner tonight.

“Dark-haired,” he says, smiling genially. “Fit of course. A sort of man who might’ve gone to Eton or Oxford back in the day, y’know what I mean?” He turns around and flicks that smile at Harry.

The man they bring for him is all of these things, and stunning. Eggsy looks him up and down, and then reaches out a hand. “Tell me your name.”

“Westley,” the man says softly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Westley,” Eggsy says, sounding so sleek and upper crust that Harry knows he should be proud but instead he is irritated, a hot unpleasant feeling thudding in his gut. He needs to take control of this situation, regain some of his much-vaunted equilibrium. Eggsy will do fine without him, so Harry makes his departure, leaving Eggsy with Westley while he roams the other rooms in search of Hyneman.

Sex club decor is very much the same the world over, as if everyone in the business purchases their furniture from the same red light district IKEA catalogue. The plump settees and chardonnay-red carpets go hand in hand with the gilt-framed portraits painted in an imitation of Botticelli, and the air contains a fragrant latticework of sandalwood, orchid, and sex.

It’s all rather dull. Only the people are of interest to Harry, some preferring to dally in the open atriums while others play in private locked rooms. Harry quickly eliminates the atriums from question and then incapacitates an odalisque in a quiet hallway to hack into her tablet and view the club's booking system. After placing her gently in a broom closet to wake up in a few hours, he opens his earpiece connection to Eggsy and says, “Galahad." It's not as bitter as he would have thought to pass on his old codename. "Hyneman is in the Swan Room. Extricate yourself and head over. I’ll meet you there.”

“Got it, guv’ner,” Eggsy laughs.

Eggsy is dishevelled when they meet up, Windsor knot undone, but Harry doesn’t point this out. It’s Eggsy who brings it up, looking Harry sideways and saying, “We just talked, me and Westley. He told me about his childhood and his family dog in Suffolk.”

“You’re a consenting adult and a Kingsman,” Harry says. “Do as you like.”

“You ain’t bothered by it then?” Eggsy asks, pressing, always pressing.

Harry gives him an amused look, drawls out his next words. “My dear, why would I be?”

Eggsy flushes. “Dunno, I just thought… maybe… I guess it was just my dumb fantasy but I thought...”

Harry does not let him finish that sentence. “On my count, Galahad,” he says, “three, two, one--” But Eggsy slides his wrist over the door sensor and it clicks.

“Filched a master key from Ms. Catalina. Come on now, or are you gonna stand there forever waiting?”

Oh you little shit, Harry thinks.

Hyneman is mid-fuck with a svelte blond, long twentysomething legs thrown over Hyneman’s shoulders while they both grunt like machine guns. When Harry and Eggsy enter, they don’t even notice. But two bodyguards appear from the pool of shadows near the bathroom, and it’s only when the fight begins that Hyneman and his partner stop fucking; the blond yelps and grabs a bathrobe while Hyneman tries to shield him.

Harry takes care of the blond. He jabs fingers to crucial pressure points on the blond’s neck and knocks him out temporarily -- can’t go having screamers running down the hall alerting everyone else. That done, he advances on Hyneman while Eggsy handles the bodyguards with two roundhouse kicks and a discreet application of his taser. Hyneman looks at the ruin of the room, eyes wide, and doesn’t even put up a fight when Harry pins him to the wall.

“We’re here to have a nice chat with you,” Harry says conversationally. “If you cooperate I promise no one will be unduly hurt and we’ll all wake up tomorrow morning a little more bruised than usual but no worse for wear. How does that sound?”

“Fuck you,” Hyneman says, sliding down the wall. He’s wearing a Rolex, rose gold and probably worth a small estate property in a place doused with sunshine. He fiddles with the Rolex while Harry hands Hyneman over to Eggsy and goes to sweep the room, checking it methodically for bugs. He finds one underneath the bed and another taped inside a vase; he tucks them into his suit pocket. As he straightens he sees Hyneman flip open the face of his watch, sees a glimpse of powder nestled inside.

Three things happen very quickly after that: Harry starts moving, Hyneman purses his lips and blows the powder out, and Harry barrels into Eggsy just in time to knock him out of the way. The force of Hyneman’s breath sends the grainy yellow powder scattering where Eggsy used to be but Harry now is instead. Eggsy stumbles against the wall and hits his head. Harry flings up an arm to block his face from the powder but he’s wasted too much time getting Eggsy to safety; he breathes it in. He starts coughing violently while Eggsy rights himself and knocks Hyneman out immediately.

“Shit!” Eggsy says, his knuckles raw. “Harry, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, still coughing, raising an arm. The inside of his mouth is caked with a thin, chalky film. He runs to the washroom and spits and spits and spits it into the sink. He starts feeling nauseous. His legs give out.

Eggsy opens the com-link to Merlin and says, all business, “Hyneman and associates unconscious in the Swan Room. Send someone over to pick them up. Harry’s been dosed. I need to take him back to headquarters for a medical check ASAP.”

Harry doesn’t hear Merlin’s reply, but soon Eggsy is coming into the washroom and hauling him up with deceptive strength, leaning Harry against his shoulder. “Come on, old man,” Eggsy says. “Up and at ‘em.”

“Your cheer is quite insufferable,” Harry tells him.

“Ain’t it?” Eggsy says.

“I can walk properly by myself, thank you very much.”

“Sure,” Eggsy says but doesn’t let go. Harry knows that he could push him away if he wanted; even in his compromised state, he’s stronger than Eggsy and even more importantly, crueler. He could make Eggsy back away from him with a few well-placed words. But knowing is a different game from wanting, and he feels impossibly flush underneath the collar, heat beginning to roll through his skin like a monsoon, huge heavy sheets of it until sweat slicks his shirt to his skin. He shrugs out of his suit jacket. Eggsy helps him and drops it to the ground.

“Pick that up,” Harry says.

“Nah, we’ll come back for it,” Eggsy says, and his mouth is right up against Harry’s ear, which feels all of a sudden like too much to handle.

“No. Pick it up.”

“Harry, I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Eggsy says, “but stop being such an enormous vain tosser and let’s get out of here.” He puts his hand against the small of Harry’s back, guiding him out the door like a skittish foal, and Harry is no longer certain whether the spark that scorches through him is anger, humiliation, or something wholly different. It should be anger; he is the one who coddles, who coaxes, who instructs. This new role he does not want, but the contents of his skull are swirling the way water goes down a clogged drain, and it’s damned difficult to summon up the proper remark to make Eggsy stop, if that is even what his over-eager body wants at all.

Eggsy, the impertinent boy who is pushing Harry out of Rue Catalina and onto the street, where there is a Kingsman car and Roxy waiting.

“Hyneman’s still out,” Eggsy tells her. “I’ll take the car back to HQ.”

“Is he all right?” Roxy asks, peering at Harry.

“I’m superb,” Harry tells her, peeling himself away from Eggsy. “None of this rubbish or I might be forced to break someone’s wrist.” The two junior agents ignore him utterly. He swipes a hand over his brow. It comes away completely wet. Bloody sex clubs; he hasn’t done a job in one in years and for good reason, clearly. He should have insisted Roxy or someone more suitable accompany Eggsy and then stayed at home with a cuppa black tea and a recently published book on Soviet Union history that he’s been meaning to read. Harry takes pride in being simultaneously incredibly deadly and incredibly boring; it’s only Eggsy who lately makes him feel like he needs to make attempts otherwise.

Never get involved with bright young things, he thinks while gritting his teeth. It’ll only ruin your lovely nights in and hurt your back as well.

The Kingsman car is blessedly dark inside, which helps with the little bursts of light firing behind Harry’s eyelids. The driver is separated from the back seat by an opaque partition. It’s only when Eggsy opens it and gives directions that they start moving. Eggsy closes the partition and fusses over Harry some more while Harry gives him the iciest look he can summon given that his entire body feels like it’s sinking into a warm bath. It is, he realizes with growing distaste, a rather nice feeling.

The nice feeling lasts about two minutes. Then the heat starts again in a second iteration, his blood moving through his arteries like dark chocolate while his skin feels stretched tight and itchy over the structure of his muscles. His core temperature starts to increase dramatically. It’s when the hot clench begins settling in his groin that Harry thinks, How delightful, I’ve been hit with sex pollen.

“Eggsy,” he says very calmly, shifting to hide his hard-on. “You need to get out of the car.”

“You’re barking mad, is what you are,” Eggsy scoffs, slouching against the seats like a sullen teenager.

“Galahad,” Harry says in that same calm, polite tone. “I’m afraid what Hyneman blew at me is a type of quick-acting neuro-aphrodisiac and it would really be in your best interests to leave this car and let me go the rest of the way alone.”

Eggsy’s eyes are very white in the darkness. Then he blinks and his lashes are long and thick. “Won’t it be worse if I leave you alone?”

“I shall manage,” Harry says.

“But what if I want to help?”

“I am afraid, my dear, that is impossible,” Harry says, realizing his mistake only after he speaks it, because the word impossible to Eggsy is the red flag in front of the bull. Eggsy licks his lips and looks down at Harry’s quite-difficult-to-hide-now erection. Harry’s cock jumps at the attention. He bites back a groan that’s been threatening to bubble out of his vocal chords this entire time.

“You’re in pain,” Eggsy says, “and it’s a long way back to HQ.”

“Be that as it may--”

Eggsy swerves for another tactic: softness. It’s so unexpected on him that it takes Harry aback a second, disarms him casually. “I’ve seen what untreated sex pollen does,” Eggsy says, breathing his words across the distance between them. “And I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think that maybe, maybe it’s something we can do again? After?”

Harry stares at him, agonized.

“You told me I was beautiful,” Eggsy says accusingly. “That time after the Khalaji mission.”

“I thought you were dead,” Harry hisses.

“Oh, sorry for apparently having the guts to be both beautiful and alive!” Eggsy shoots back. “Like, fuck! If it takes a bomb nearly blowing me up for you to admit that we got something between us, that I’m something to you other than just a tool, then maybe I should go find another bomb, yeah?”

Harry nearly slaps him across his face. “You’re being childish.”

“Says the man who tells me I’m beautiful when I’m swooning in his arms, and then won’t let me give him a hand job to save his life,” Eggsy retorts. “What is it, bruv? You got someone else? You got two penises and an incurable skin rash? Tell me. I’ve already stalked your files. I know you’re a ‘confirmed bachelor’ and you cry sometimes when watching Coronation Street. If that ain’t begging to get laid, I don’t know what is.”

Harry is now so hard that he’s struggling not to thrust up into air. Eggsy’s scooched forwards so that there’s barely any space remaining between them; a single bump on the road could topple Eggsy into his arms. Harry is thankful they’re sitting down because his knees have developed all the consistency of custard, and his spine is one long aching curve up into the electric storm of his brain. He tries to think logically despite his body’s complete indifference to doing so.

“You are a pestilence upon my life,” he says to Eggsy, who smiles and puts a hand on his inner thigh, waiting.

Harry may not go out seeking his weaknesses, but there are times when his weakness is a .45 caliber bullet aimed straight at him with no cover. He leans forwards slightly. Eggsy takes it as his cue and clamours over him, really very ungracefully considering they’re in the back of a moving vehicle, but the weight of Eggsy’s body on his lap is a welcome one. Harry moans as he buries his fingers into Eggsy’s hair and scratches his nails over Eggsy’s scalp.

Eggsy shivers. “Come on,” he taunts, “kiss me already,” and Harry, boiled over with heat and desire and panting open-mouthed want, does.

He kisses with teeth, not bothering to be gentle -- if Eggsy wanted gentle, after all, he should have gone to someone else. This isn’t to say Harry isn’t capable of being occasionally gentle. There is a soft, rather foolish part of him that pictures taking Eggsy home, laying him out on his bed, and exploring sinew and scars with the tips of his fingers, quiet thoughtful touches that would make Eggsy pant and writhe for something more. Harry would give him that more, but only when he was ready, and only when he had learned all the kingdoms of Eggsy’s body to his satisfaction.

There might be time for that, later. That Harry thinks there could be a later must mean the pollen is truly messing with him now, and he bites the bottom of Eggsy’s lush lip while Eggsy gasps into his mouth and his hands fly up, clutching Harry’s shoulders. There really isn’t much room in the backseat of the car. Harry slides a hand underneath Eggsy’s arse, fingers flexing against the lovely fabric and even lovelier muscle, and hoists Eggsy up into his lap. Eggsy goes willingly, eyes dark, cheeks flushed.

Their erections slide against each other. Harry lets out a hiss while Eggsy moans. “Harry,” he says, nudging their noses together while trying to seek another kiss. “Harry, you have no idea how long I been thinking about this.”

Harry gives him another kiss, wet and messy. Then while Eggsy is sweetly begging for more, he ignores him entirely and starts divesting Eggsy of his suit -- roughly, not bothering to take any care with the fabric or the buttons, yanking the tie loose until it’s dangling half-destroyed from Eggsy’s neck, which he layers kisses onto, wrapping his lips around the furious bob of Eggsy’s Adam’s apple. He sucks gently while Eggsy keens, and then kisses round and round Eggsy’s exposed collarbone, scraping his teeth over all that gorgeous pale flesh.

Eggsy tries to get up higher on his knees to straddle Harry. It would be easier if Harry loosened his grip on him, but Harry’s not about to do that, so Eggsy ends up awkwardly hanging onto him, eyes closed and breath fierce as Harry kisses him everywhere: on his neck, on his throat, on his chin, on his eyelashes. “My god,” Eggsy breathes shakily, “how are you so patient?”

He’s not, really, but the drug hasn’t reached its full effect in his body yet, and he wants to take time now while he still can. Before his brain shuts off and the only thing he’ll be capable of is hoisting Eggsy’s legs over his shoulders and taking his arse like an animal. It’ll be rough on Eggsy; Harry means to prepare him for it.

“Lube,” Eggsy mutters, half-wild. “I, uh, somewhere, here.” He starts patting his pockets, but Harry shushes him with a kiss and does the work instead, finding a small packet of lube in Eggsy’s suit jacket.

“Hmm,” he says, while Eggsy turns red.

“A Kingsman is always prepared, innit right?”

Harry presses him against the slippery leather seats and kisses him slowly. “You do learn well,” he says approvingly. Eggsy shudders, fingers clenching and unclenching on Harry’s shoulder as Harry undoes the buttons on Eggsy’s trousers and wraps his hand around Eggsy’s cock, bringing it out to the dim light for proper admiration. “Very nice,” he purrs, and Eggsy shoots him a look like obviously, but then Harry is jerking him slowly, and Eggsy’s spine turns into water.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, “yeah, yeah, fuuuuuck.”

“Enjoying this, my dear?”

“Sod off,” Eggsy says, embarrassed, but Harry just laughs deep in his throat and tugs at Eggsy at his own pace and time while Eggsy writhes prettily in Harry’s lap.

It’s even warmer in the car now. Harry’s body is burning up; he is damp behind his knees while his eyes feel incredibly dry and bloodshot. After a while it becomes imperative that he stop torturing Eggsy and start removing his own clothes instead, because he cannot bear to have them on any moment longer; they feel like a steel exoskeleton weighing down his flushed skin. Eggsy helps him, and they make quick work of it, peeling Harry out of his shirt and pushing down his trousers to his thighs.

Eggsy, shameless slut, immediately sits on him and starts rubbing his wet cock against Harry’s stomach, dragging it through the thatch of Harry’s chest hair. “Mmm,” he says, and Harry goes speechless at the way strings of Eggsy’s precome catches on his hair and lingers there.

Then thought escapes his head and he drags Eggsy roughly up for a kiss, handling him brutally while Eggsy moans his name over and over again. “Harry, now,” he begs. “I can’t wait -- it’s got to be now, please.”

How can Harry deny this beautiful boy? How can he deny the hot oven clench of his own body? He opens the packet of lube with less-than-elegant motions and slicks his fingers up, turning Eggsy over so that Eggsy is lying across his lap with his arse exposed, his luscious pink pucker twitching as Harry studies it. “Please,” Eggsy groans, and Harry circles his arse with his wet fingers, loving how it makes Eggsy shake.

He should have done this earlier, when he was thinking more clearly. Now, as he prepares Eggsy, he’s hurried and not particularly kind, sinking his fingers inside Eggsy and crooking them without warning. A scream bubbles from Eggsy’s throat, and Harry drinks the perfect sound up into his skin, smiling as he drops a kiss onto Eggsy’s hair. “Relax,” he instructs, thrusting his fingers in again.

“I’m trying!” Eggsy wails.

“Well, you simply must do your part,” Harry says, “because when I fuck you, it will be whether you are ready or not. You’ll take me regardless, won’t you?” He slides the flat of his palm over Eggsy’s arse, slapping it gently. “You’ll let me fuck you as hard and rough as I like, and I am nearing my wits’ end, so I promise it will be very hard and rough indeed.”

Eggsy moans incoherently in reply. Harry scissors him with his fingers for a little while longer, watching the lube drip out of Eggsy’s increasingly loose arse, and then he lifts Eggsy up with easy strength and forces Eggsy to straddle his thighs. Eggsy goes with him, dazed and plaint, and buries his face in Harry’s shoulder while Harry positions the fat head of his cock against Eggsy’s red pucker. He barely gives Eggsy any time to adjust; with a quick shove, he brings Eggsy down.

It’s the same time the car hits a pothole. Eggsy screams. Harry rubs his back encouragingly while Eggsy bites down into the flesh of Harry’s shoulder and convulses. It feels wonderful. Eggsy feels wonderful around Harry’s hot cock. Harry lifts Eggsy up by his hips, hard enough that he’ll leave bruises tomorrow, hard enough that he means to leave bruises, and brings Eggsy up and down again. Eggsy throws his head back and sobs.

Is this what Harry was avoiding earlier? Now that he has Eggsy on him, pierced through with Harry’s cock, it seems impossible that he would have ever willingly denied himself this. He picks up a fast, rough rhythm, setting Eggsy to work; the boy’s thighs will be burning by the end of this, and it’s his own fault if he hasn’t kept up with proper physical training. Harry pushes up into him again and again, marveling at the heat of Eggsy’s body until it’s difficult to tell which one of them is the feverish one; is it him with the sex pollen, or Eggsy, whose face is mottled red and who makes little wounded noises every time Harry drives him on his cock.

Harry feels a shard of tenderness. He rubs a thumb over Eggsy’s cheek as he thrusts. “If you want to stop, you must tell me,” he says. “It’ll kill me to do it, but I will, if you ask.”

Eggsy shakes his head and claws at Harry’s back. He brings his hips sharply up and slams them down.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry tells him.

Eggsy shivers and cries out.

“It pains me to tell you how beautiful you are,” Harry admits, and when Eggsy tilts his head to look at him and he sees the expression on his face -- feverish and lost in pleasure and oh so hopeful -- Harry lets the last rein of his self-control go slack in his grip. “Eggsy love,” he says, “ride me, go ahead, I know you can do this.”

Eggsy hurries to obey. His young thighs strain as he starts fucking himself furiously on Harry’s cock. Harry rests his hands on Eggsy’s hips and keeps them there for balance, protecting Eggsy from falling over onto the car floor while he rides him. Eggsy’s mouth is open and his breath is a staccato beat, his thighs slick with sweat and effort. He buries his fingers in Harry’s hair, holding onto it tightly, and Harry lets him, watching Eggsy’s face as Eggsy bobs zealously on Harry’s cock. Each time Harry sucks his breath in with the white hot pleasure of it: the way Eggsy struggles to push Harry in that first little inch, and then the sweet pop as Harry goes in and slides the rest of the distance into Eggsy’s arse.

Eggsy has set himself a punishing rhythm. Harry can see how much it’s costing him and the flex of his thighs. As the car turns down another street and the street lamps wash through the windows, silhouetting the sharp angle of Eggsy’s cheekbones, Harry lets Eggsy stop. Eggsy slumps against him in his lap, panting hard, and Harry grants him a moment of reprieve before Harry starts pistoning his own hips and fucking Eggsy all over again.

Eggsy makes a sound like a wild animal, and hangs onto Harry as they go that final stretch, Harry taking from Eggsy’s body exactly what he wants from him. Harry’s a bastard; he fucks Eggsy until Eggsy is crying out with it, high pitchy moans that surely the driver in the front must be able to hear, but the thought makes Harry even more glad and vicious, and he fucks Eggsy all the harder, forcing Eggsy to sob through clenched teeth for all the world to hear.

Eggsy arches his spine, showing Harry the wine-dark bite marks all over his collarbone, and Harry takes Eggsy over the edge of orgasm, grinding in deep until Eggsy is nearly blacking out as he comes, head lolling on his shoulders as he gasps for breath, splattering Harry’s chest with ropes of come. The sight of it is too much for Harry to handle, and he muffles a curse as he digs his heels into the floor, thrusts in five more times, and comes so roughly it makes his head hurt. His orgasm roars through him like a trigger detonation, bright and hot, and he buries his face in Eggsy’s hair as he shouts.

The car comes to a stop. The driver bangs on the ceiling. “Gentlemen, we’re here.”

Eggsy lifts his head weakly from Harry’s shoulder. “Perfect timing,” he says, voice scraped hoarse. He’s too knackered to move; they both are.

Harry raps the ceiling. “Give us a moment. Private business to discuss.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver says, and stalls the engine.

Harry has a lap full of blissed-out Eggsy; he takes advantage of it by rubbing his knuckles over Eggsy’s fucked-open arse, and watching with satisfaction his own come dripping out. Eggsy shivers as globs of semen slide down his thighs and says, “You’re a dirty old man.”

The heat of the sex pollen recedes sharply with that comment. Harry begins to be able to think again. “Perhaps this was a mistake after all,” he says, shifting Eggsy aside to begin the processes of cleanup, but Eggsy grabs his chin with surprising strength considering how boneless he was a second ago, and forces their eyes to meet.

“Nuh uh Harry,” Eggsy says, “you don’t get to back out like this.”


“I let you be all bossy while we were fucking, but now I’m telling you how it’s gonna go,” Eggsy says. “We’re gonna clean up and get out of this car once our legs start working, yeah? Then we’ll check in with medical, report to Arthur, touch base with Roxy, and then, when all the paperwork is filled and all the Is are dotted and the Ts crossed, we’re gonna stroll to my place and have a talk.”

Harry makes a skeptical sound, which Eggsy silences with a finger to his lips. “An actual talk, which I know repressed Englishmen don’t do, but I got tea in my cupboards you won’t hate, and more importantly, I got a bed, a big one.”

“Is that so,” Harry murmurs.

“It’s so,” Eggsy says smugly, “now what’d ya say?” All the while he’s talking his hand remains on Harry’s shoulder, never letting go, and Harry can feel the slight nervous tremble of his fingers, the uncertainty that shadows the text of his words, and ah. Harry knows that he is a weak man, a human man, a man like any other, a man who once told Eggsy Unwin that he was beautiful and meant it, a man whose heart sits like a summer stone in his chest. And it’s that very weakness that drives him now to turn his head and kiss Eggsy’s knuckles, bruised from their earlier fight in Rue Catalina, touching the tip of his tongue to Eggsy’s skin, mixing in salt with sweat and warm blood. Eggsy. Oh his dear Eggsy.

“All right,” he says, letting himself stumble. “I suppose, after all, the night isn’t over yet.”