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The lawn is strung with fairy lights, glittering in the trees and shimmering off of champagne glasses in people’s ring-laced hands and on pristine white tablecloth that seems to go on for miles. Women in sleek evening gowns and men in impeccably tailored suits shake hands and make small talk, laughing at old stories from the past. The high walls of Eton loom over it all, and as soon Harry and Eggsy get their name tags from a bored-looking boy—a prefect who drew the short straw, Harry had explained, with a wry smirk—Eggsy says, “I’m going home.”
Harry’s grip on his elbow stops him before he can head back to the cab. “Nonsense, we haven’t even tasted the bacon-wrapped scallops.”
“I can’t do this,” Eggsy protests under his breath. “I expected a school reunion to be in some cramped, smelly gym. Not—not—” He winces, taking in the sheer oozing of posh in one place. Eggsy’s dolled up in cologne and pomade and a tuxedo with dark green lapels that Harry proclaimed brought out his eyes. “Harry, I—”
“Harry!” an older man, dark hair peppered with silver, calls, waving with his free right hand. The other, Eggsy notices, is holding a small silver tray littered with the bacon-wrapped scallops Harry had mentioned earlier. “Is that you? God, you’ve aged well!”
“I can say the same for you,” Harry smiles, and to Eggsy’s surprise, embraces him, clapping one hand twice on his back before pulling away. Clutched in between his fingers is a single scallop, and Harry pops it in his mouth whole before saying, “Best-looking in our year—except for me, of course.”
The man roars with laughter. “Oh, you flatter me. Haven’t changed at all, have you?”
“Swore I never would, and I remember us signing that pledge with George and a ridiculously large bottle of scotch from the kitchens.” Harry looks around the lawn. "Where is George, by the way? I’d like to see him.”
“Oh, George…” The bloke then sighs. “It was awful, Harry, he was trapped in an elevator with two other men on V-Day—“ He bit his lip. “He never stood a chance, I guess. But if you don’t mind me asking…what happened to your eye?”
Harry’s smile becomes stiffer, and Eggsy squeezes his arm in solidarity. “V-Day.”
“Harry, I’m so sorry,” the other man says, looking truly apologetic. “I shouldn’t have asked.” He then rapidly changes the subject: “What I should have asked is who this young man on your arm is.”
“Ah, yes,” Harry says proudly, voice brightening. “This is my partner, Eggsy. Eggsy, meet Higgins.”
“Higgins?” Eggsy asks, briefly amused, but quickly sticks out his hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you.”
Higgins clasps his hand in his momentarily before releasing it to point accusingly at Harry. “Partner?”
“The love of my life,” Harry says, and Eggsy feels himself blush. “I met this man only two years ago and was infatuated him on sight. It took me a ridiculously long while to realize that I’d fallen arse over tits with him, but once I figured that out, we’ve had smooth sailing ever since.” He presses a kiss to Eggsy’s forehead, and Eggsy briefly preens under Harry’s attention.
Higgins whistles. “Ha-art,” he murmurs, “he’s really got you wrapped around his finger, eh? Who knew you’d be wedded and bedded, while most of us are stumbling around single?”
“A few are married, I see.” Harry nods towards a group of birds flashing their wedding rings in the corner, all while their overly-smug husbands look on. The sight makes Eggsy feel rather queasy, and he takes a bacon-wrapped scallop from Higgins’ tray and chews. It’s salty, the scallop a little chewy from sitting out for a while, but the crispy bacon makes Eggsy want to moan. He knows now why Higgins stole a tray.
“Trophies on both sides,” Higgins now sniffs. “I dare say I haven’t seen a couple quite as infatuated as you two.” He grins at Eggsy. “Young man, who knew you could snag our resident heartbreaker?”
“Alas, the heart puns,” Harry sighs.
“Heartbreaker?” Eggsy asks, turning amused eyes towards Harry.
“Harry here slept with everyone and everything—”
“Oh, most untrue—”
“Most true.” Higgins smirks. “Even took it up with some head boys, a foreign exchange student from Spain, and Professor—“
“That,” Harry interrupts quickly, “is a flat-out lie, and you know it.” He pulls Eggsy closer, craning his neck at a man in a pin-stripes suit, with a bird that looks like an older Roxy. “I do believe I see Brogan from rugby and his lovely wife—“
“Oi, Brogan! Sophie!” Higgins calls, attracting amused looks all around. “Come here and meet Harry Hart and his lovely, young husband!”
"Our hard-hearted Hart!” Brogan cheerfully proclaims, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Changed your mind about romance, yeah?”
Eggsy laughs at the annoyed look Harry barely conceals at the moniker, then goes red again when Harry introduces him as “the love of my life.” Brogan’s wife smiles sweetly, shakes Eggsy’s hand, and asks about his suit.
“He tailored it himself,” Harry says proudly, though Eggsy didn’t do it completely on his own. He’d spent a ridiculous amount of time being coached by Andrew, the head tailor, and learning how to sew tiny stitches that made his fingers cramp, how to measure and design and pick fabrics and colors, and how to incorporate all the fancy Kingsman add-ons and baubles. Harry told him that making a suit of his own was a classic Kingsman tradition, and although Eggsy enjoyed Harry massaging his aching hands and running silk and wool and velvet over Eggsy’s exposed skin, he had been immensely relieved when it was all done.
Brogan whistles, impressed. “Saville Row tailor? At your age? How did you meet?”
“I saw potential in him,” Harry easily says, omitting the obvious parts. He then spins a tale of seeing Eggsy drawing designs on napkins at a café near the shop and of training him to be an apprentice; by the end,the three people look almost enchanted. Harry doesn’t mention Eggsy’s police record or the fact he’d never gone to university or his failed Marines training, and Eggsy, although he’s insistently defensive about his background at work, is relieved. One of the drawbacks of working at a spy agency is that everyone finds out each other’s secrets, and Eggsy’s tired of pitying or judgmental looks on occasions when he has to go undercover in a rough spot of town or seduce a stranger, usually playing a naïve young lad.
He and Higgins, much to Harry’s dismay, talk about Harry’s various disregard for the rules, and Harry chats with Brogan and Sophie about various classmates. Harry’s hand remains on the small of his back during the entire conversation, and Eggsy can feel the heat through his suit. He tries and fails to hide his grins when Harry kisses his cheek or drops a casual mention of Eggsy’s virtues, much to the amusement of everyone, especially Higgins.
Harry sings his praises all evening, and Eggsy’s cheeks resemble the wine by the time they sit down to eat. Blokes and birds alike coo and look over at him with envy, and Eggsy has several asking him how he ensnared the elusive Hart-breaker.
“You had quite a reputation,” Eggsy says, when they’re both on the dance floor, waltzing around the various couples.
Harry sighs. “I’m afraid I was quite a show-off and exactly the person you would have disliked.” He delicately spins Eggsy, carefully guiding him away from a bloke tripping over his own feet. “Arrogant, rude, and prone to talking during chapel.”
“Did you really sleep with all those people?” Eggsy asks, wincing immediately after the words come out of his mouth. He’s never asked Harry about his past relationships, and Harry never asked about his, except to ask if he was involved with Princess Tilde before he invited Eggsy to go to the opera with him. Eggsy simply doesn’t want to bring up his past, a little embarrassed that he’s fooled around and had a few dates here and there, but never a proper relationship before, even though Roxy said it was perfectly fine and that she herself hadn’t truly fancied anyone yet. His and Harry’s large age gap had been discussed together well before Eggsy moved into Harry’s bedroom, and Eggsy simply assumed Harry, fit and clever and wonderful, had plenty of fit and clever and wonderful relationships.
He previously preferred to not think about it, but now, Eggsy, surrounded by people who knew a different Harry Hart, careless and flighty and who swore in Latin and who played rugby, wishes to know who Harry was attracted to, how he met them, if he loved anyone.
Harry sighs. “No, Eggsy. I did mess about with a few, but a great many tales are just false. Fodder for gossip. I never took anything and anyone too seriously until Kingsman, and even then, I never…well, it’s hard to maintain relationships once you’re there. When was, for example, the last time you saw Jamal and Ryan? The last time you had a proper Sunday roast with your mother and sister?” He then draws Eggsy up to his chest, hands settling on his back as the music slows. “It’s a hard environment for those who love as strongly as you do.”
“But with other…colleagues?” Eggsy asks, mindful of the dancers whirling close to them. “People who worked with you?”
“If I did, they never lasted long.” Harry presses a kiss to his neck. “I love you, Eggsy. I’ve never felt so strongly for anyone before, and every time you look at me or I mention you, I still can’t believe such a young, talented, and handsome man is mine.”
“I can’t believe the same,” Eggsy says. “And the fact that you tricked me into coming to your reunion—“
“Darling, I enjoy showing you off, and I fear Kingsman is tired of me parading you around.”
Eggsy ducks his head, blushing at the implications as the song comes to the end, and a few people start coming off the floor. “So, this was what? A chance to show me off?”
“You’re an exemplary asset, but you’re not just an asset.” Harry tucks his arm into Eggsy’s, and they stroll together back to the table. “I wanted to catch up with my classmates, yes, but I wanted you to come and have everyone admire the man underneath. I know Kingsman can be difficult for you sometimes.”
Eggsy plops down on a chair Harry sweeps out for him. “Well, I’m having a good time—“
“Shit,” Harry suddenly hisses, then leans over in his own seat to whisper in Eggsy’s ear: “That man coming our way—wire-rimmed glasses and freckles—that’s Rupert. Prefect. He’s never been fond of me; we fought like mad during our years, especially when I became a prefect.”
“A prefect? But your mates said you got into trouble—“
“The authorities assumed it would teach me responsibility.” Harry shrugs. “All it did was give me a bit of power to hold over the snobs I disliked and occasional privileges. But Rupert—God, we were rivals in every sense of the word. What a knob he was.”
“Twelve o’clock, love,” Eggsy mutters, just as Rupert sits down right across from them.
The man smiles thinly. "Hart. How much did you pay this lad from secondary to come here?”
Beside him, Harry bristles, and Eggsy mentally winces. Harry didn’t mind when people insult him; Eggsy thought Harry rather looked forward to it so he could fire back, but Harry didn’t enjoy people insulting Eggsy. He’d told Harry that he was no fragile waif whose honor needed defending, but Harry simply doesn’t tolerate it. Already, his fists are clenching tightly on the table.
Eggsy puts on his best posh accent and sticks out his hand. “How do you do? I’m afraid my partner here hasn’t introduced us.”
“Rupert,” the man says, looking surprised and perhaps a little perturbed. “And you are Mr. Hart the younger?”
“The one and only,” Eggsy replies, quickly glancing at the man’s left hand, then makes a show of looking around the room. “Where’s your partner? I’d love to meet them.”
“Don’t have one,” Rupert chokes. “Too busy,” he adds, rather lamely.
Eggsy favors him with a sympathetic smile. “Harry and I met through work. Is there someone at your business place who fancies you? Catches your eye?”
Rupert smiles stiffly. “None yet, I’m afraid.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble,” Eggsy says. “Prefect and all. I hear you gave my Harry a little trouble in school.” He then presses a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Don’t worry, love, there’s no competition.”
As if on cue, Eggsy hears the opening drumbeats of a Frank Sinatra song. “Ah, forgive me, but I’d like to take Harry for another turn around the floor.” He makes sure to give Harry his best and brightest smile. “Come on, love, let’s dance.”
“What was that?” Harry then asks on the dance floor, sounding a little breathless.
“He looks like the sort of man who likes to fight, and you gave it to him when you both went to school here, yeah?” Eggsy shrugs. “The best way to infuriate some people is to be superior but composed. The trick to being polite is making sure it doesn’t look like you’re bowing down.”
“My clever one,” Harry praises, kissing the corner of Eggsy’s mouth.
“Believe it or not, but Charlie helped me perfect my technique.”
Harry makes a face. “Surely he didn’t volunteer.”
“Oh, no, but I used him as a test subject,” Eggsy replies. He hasn’t thought about Charlie for a while, ever since Merlin began compiling a list of the known dead a week after V-Day. The list had been distressingly long, and Roxy herself knew a few of the families hiding out in Valentine’s bunker, including the Heskeths. Eggsy didn’t know how to feel about Charlie’s death; there was no love lost between them, but there was no sense of triumph when Merlin quietly told them both that Charlie’s body had been confirmed. It seemed like Charlie’s pettiness and treachery had gotten buried within the frantic missions, Harry’s unexpected return, the chaos of Kingsman’s restructuring, and trying to get the world to a calmer atmosphere.
“Did you infuriate him?”
“Obviously,” Eggsy says. “I’ve caused my share of troublemaking. Guess we’re more alike than we know.”
“I assure that I was more of a ditherer than an outright—shit,” Harry mutters again. “Don’t look now, but I spy my headmaster.”
“So, you were trouble,” Eggsy teases. “What’s the game plan?”
“Be stiffly polite and carefully respectful,” Harry suggests, standing up a bit straighter when the music stops.
“Harry Hart,” the man says, looking at him up and down. He’s leaning up against what looks like a carved, wooden cane with intricate designs, dressed to the nines in coattails, of all things. With his wispy white hair and liver-spotted hands, he doesn’t look intimidating at first, but the downward turn of his lips makes Eggsy think twice. “Strange to see you after all these years. I hear you’re a tailor?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replies genially, which makes Eggsy start a little, since he’s never heard Harry call anyone sir without some sarcasm. “Kingsman, Saville Row.”
The headmaster then glances at Eggsy. “And I assume this is the husband that’s been the talk of the night?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry’s gaze doesn’t break away from the older man, but his arm winds tightly around Eggsy’s shoulders. “Eggsy. Eggsy, meet my former headmaster, Shabandar.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Eggsy says, in an accent quite not East End and not quite posh, and offers his hand to shake, nearly wincing when the man’s grip, despite his age, makes his bones slightly creak. “How’ve you been doing this evening?”
“Quite well. I hear that you’re a tailor. How does that suit you?”
Eggsy barely resists making a suit-related pun, because honestly. But he instead answers, “I like it very much; I travel a lot on business, making sales and such, and it’s interesting, meeting all sorts of people in so many places.” Which is true, though his job often involves more shooting than talking.
“And you get to do that at such a young age? How old you are you?”
“Twenty-five,” Eggsy replies, preparing for a wince, or worse, a look of disgust, but the other man only inquires, “And where’s your family from?”
“East London.” Eggsy looks him in the eye, chin tilted high. “I grew up in Rowley Way.”
“Rowley Way? That’s where my wife is from.” Eggsy blinks in surprise, but Shabandar continues, “She teaches medieval history at Oxford. Are you fond of it?”
“I like the literature.” Horrifyingly, his mind goes blank, trying to come up with titles Roxy’s mentioned having to read in university, but can only say, “Like, uh, Game of Thrones. The books are so much better than the show.” He hasn’t really had time to get past the first novel—the rest are mostly were being used as a doorstep at the house—but Roxy ranted so much about them and the show that he could pick it up. “The references to the War of Roses? If one knows his English history, one can perhaps predict who shall win. And I also like the legends of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table. Galahad’s my favorite.” Eggsy says, winking very subtly at Harry.
“Hart,” the headmaster says, clearly impressed. “It looks like you married a respectable young gentleman. Unexpected, especially from you.” He nods to Eggsy. “Intelligent lad, he was, but didn’t often apply himself.”
Harry looks torn between laughing or dropping his jaw. "Ah, of course. My dear Eggsy is…rather educated and…motivates me to do the work I do.”
"Well, I look forward to having you two around for tea, then,” he says. “Drop me a line when you two aren’t busy with the shop; the missus and I would fancy having some company, since our lad went abroad for uni just this year.”
“Congratulations.” Eggsy smiles. “Of course.”
Harry’s headmaster shakes his hand again, then Harry’s, and politely demurs his farewells, heading over to where a young woman with graying brown hair swept up in a bun near the refreshments table is standing.
“Well, how did I do?”
“You charmed my headmaster. In all my years…” Harry shakes his head. “You’re a miracle, darling.”
They dance the rest of the night away, eating bits of hors d’oeuvres and drinking too much champagne, before calling for a cab and waving to a group of Harry’s mates on the way out, who hoot and holler obscene things that make the cab driver blush and Harry mutter darkly before slamming the door shut.
“I thought they’d be stuffy,” Eggsy admits when they get home. JB’s snoring loudly on the couch, and Harry’s leading him to their bedroom, with the lights still out and the moonlight shining between the open blinds.
“Oh, they could be, if the occasion called for it. But outside of those functions, we were just an ordinary lot of students.” Harry smiles wryly. "I regret not keeping in touch with them.”
“Even Rupert?”
Harry smirks. “Well, no. But you handled him quite well, if I do say myself. You even impressed my headmaster so well that he might propose marriage.” Eggsy smacks him in the arm, and Harry laughs. “Everyone loved you, my dear.”
“Who knew a chav could charm a group of toffs?”
“Eggsy.” Harry steps forward and cups his face in between large palms. “You’re not a chav. You’re a gentleman.” Pressing his forehead against his, Harry breathes, “You’re amazing.”
The kiss makes Eggsy’s toes curl and heart melt like hot butter over toast. Harry coaxes moans out of him with probing lips and tongue, and his fingers scritch the back of Eggsy’s neck to make him arch against Harry’s body and sigh. But Eggsy makes Harry sigh, too, when he starts slipping his hands underneath Harry’s close-fitting jacket and pressing back against his mouth.
“Why don’t you get out of these clothes?” Eggsy breathes, and Harry smirks.
“You first,” Harry says, mouth wickedly curving, and Eggsy mutely nods.
Harry then strips him of his suit, piece by piece: slipping first the jacket off his shoulders and nearly draping it over the chair, then unknotting the silk bowtie and tugging it slowly through the collar, before whisking it off and setting it on top of the jacket. Lifting his arms obligingly, Eggsy allows Harry, after he’s unbuttoned his shirt, to carefully undo the emerald-and-gold cuff links and set them down with tiny clinks on the nightstand. The shirt comes off, and Harry briefly runs his hands over Eggsy’s chest.
“I love you.”
Eggsy laughs. “I love you, too.” He preens a little when Harry takes his hands away to give the exposed skin a long, almost hungry look. “Like what you see?”
“Oh, my darling, I most certainly do.”
“Then do me,” Eggsy retorts, and mock-groaning at the pun, Harry pulls him in for another kiss.
At last, Harry’s fingers fumble at his belt in the dark, and Eggsy tenses in anticipation at the soft click of the buckle, waiting for Harry to tug his cock out from his trousers and take him in his mouth.
But Harry doesn’t. He tugs Eggsy’s pressed slacks down, then his ridiculously expensive underwear, and bends down to begin unlacing his oxfords.
“You don’t have to do that,” Eggsy mutters, cheeks heating at the sight of Harry on his knees, still in his suit.
“I know,” Harry says so sincerely that Eggsy briefly wonders if he’s taking the piss. “I want to.”
“To be my butler?”
“Valet,” Harry corrects. His voice drops to a low, playful tone. “I’m at your service, milord.”
Harry’s words go straight to his cock, and Eggsy can feel Harry’s smugness emitting from his body as he tugs off Eggsy’s left shoe, then the other. “At my service?” he asks. “What will you do to me?”
“Do for you, you mean.” With every sentiment Harry utters, he loses a piece of clothing: “I’d clothe you in the softest silks that will caress your skin when I can’t”—off comes the jacket—“feed you the plumpest, ripest grapes from my family’s vineyard in Italy”—then his shoes—“draw you the warmest, most sweet-smelling bath after the wine tour”—his socks—“massage your aching joints after hikes along the countryside”—his trousers—“take you to Venice and row us myself on one of the gondolas—“ his underwear—“walk you across the bridges over the canals”—his tie—“and when we get back to our hotel room, I’d kiss you so deeply that you’ll forget your name—“ his shirt—“but not mine.”
Harry stands before him, fully nude, still clutching his black bowtie in his hand, and Eggsy stands on his toes and kisses him, walking backwards with his hands on Harry’s shoulders to the bed.
Harry’s bedpost is oak and solid, so when Harry winds the strip of fabric around the bedpost and Eggsy’s right wrist, Eggsy knows that it will hold, pull tight against his skin, make him helpless to Harry’s roving hands.
Harry presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Ready?”
Eggsy nods.
“To start?”
“Oxfords.”
“To stop?”
“Brogues,” Eggsy says, clearly.
Harry then drapes himself on top of him, holding Eggsy’s face between his palms again and kissing him. Eggsy’s entire body is buzzing with eagerness and anticipation—and impatience, also—and Harry keeps him waiting for a while. He pulls away so that he’s standing over Eggsy, eyes behind the spectacles roving over Eggsy’s body, spread out and taunt for him.
“Recording this?” Eggsy asks.
Harry pauses. “Do you want me to?”
Eggsy thinks, then shakes his head. “Maybe later. For now, I just…” he hesitates, before softly admitting, “I just want it to be just us. Not performing for the camera.”
Nodding once, Harry puts them face-down on the nightstand, then sinks down to his knees, looking up at Eggsy through soft, affectionate eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
Eggsy flushes red. He’s sure it’s going to spread across his chest, to the nipples Harry loves to tease. “Stop.”
“Why not tell the young man I love these things?” Harry bends down and presses a brief, almost chaste kiss to his forehead. “Why not tell him he’s clever and intelligent and sweet and loving and utterly, utterly perfect.” Harry then kisses his neck, the hinge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his chest, with each new thing. “Your other wrist? Is that all right?”
“Yes, Harry,” Eggsy breathes, nodding to the unraveled bowtie, the strip of black cloth draped over on the chair.
Harry takes it, lovingly wrapping his left wrist, and tying it to the bed. “Is this comfortable? Too tight?”
Eggsy tugs it. The pressure’s tight so that he’s bound securely to the bedpost, but not enough to cut his circulation or leave bruises. “Perfect.”
"Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yeah,” Eggsy murmurs, then says, more loudly, “Yes, Harry.”
Harry slowly trails his fingers up Eggsy’s legs, then up, up, up his calves, his thighs, his hips. Calloused but gentle, Harry takes Eggsy’s hips in his palms and briefly squeezes. “Strong. Remember your mission in Russia?”
Eggsy grins. “Do you want me to snap your neck in between my thighs? No offense, Harry, but I’m not into that much.”
Harry squeezes a little tighter. “Cheeky. You do realize that I was going to worship your muscled thighs?” He then directs his gaze to settle in between them. “But I’ve since changed my mind.”
Reminded of Harry’s grip on his naked thighs and the silk ties binding him to the bed, Eggsy feels a zip running up his spine and shooting through his veins like liquid silver. He briefly yanks against his bonds, both testing and teasing. Harry’s tied him up before; Harry himself dislikes being restrained, but Eggsy likes it. Likes knowing that Harry can hold him down and not tear him apart, knows that he’ll stop whenever Eggsy says, knows that Harry can take Eggsy apart, but only if Eggsy wants.
Once, on his birthday, Eggsy was bound with the flat knot resting against his heart that pressed gently into his chest. Eggsy liked rubbing the pressure away when the ropes fell loose around and on his body. He’d liked it even more Harry clucked over the marks and kissed each one.
But this is gentler, in a way. This is silk. If Eggsy tries hard enough, he could break them, but it won’t come to that. Never. Harry would untie him long before Eggsy went into a panicked state.
“Eggsy?” Harry asks carefully.
“Oxfords,” Eggsy breathes. If his hands were free, he’d yank Harry by the hair and drag him down himself. He briefly considers wrapping his legs around Harry’s head and yanking him down, holding him in place as Harry fucks his mouth.
But it’s not that kind of night, so he simply squirms impatiently when Harry kisses him again. “Thank you for telling me what you want. Now, my darling, may I ask: may I suck your cock?” His breath is tantalizingly warm and wet against his skin.
So, Eggsy spreads his hips a little bit farther, bending his knees easily, wordlessly telling Harry what he wants.
Harry’s tongue traces upwards, mouth not closing around Eggsy’s cock right away, but Eggsy closes his eyes and sighs anyway. He can feel Harry’s gaze, a spy’s eyes taking in his pleasure and analyzing each and every twitch. Long and elegant fingers, the kind that make glove makers swoon, wrap around the base.
Eggsy jerks back, nearly slamming his head against the headboard.
“Oh, Eggsy,” Harry sighs, kissing his neck. “You’re so responsive.” His palm squeezes around Eggsy’s cock, patiently, repeating the motion until he decides to slide the pressure up and down. Eggsy’s already pearling at the tip. “You’re so lovely.”
He then takes Eggsy into his mouth, nose poking into soft skin and wiry curls. Lips touch the tip of his cock, then a tongue licks and sucks, gently, ever so gently. Eggsy slips farther and farther, Harry’s tongue curling and flicking, his throat and lips worshipping Eggsy’s cock, savoring it, before pulling back slowly, then pushing up again. Repeating the motion, Harry’s hands also move to stabilize Eggsy’s jerking hips, fingers pressing tightly into his skin.
“Harry,” Eggsy hears himself groan, “Harry, I’m going to—not yet, please—”
“You don’t want me to taste you?” Harry asks lowly. “To savor the salt of your skin, your sweat, your pleasure?”
“I want you in me,” Eggsy says, looking down at Harry, into his dark brown eyes. “I want to feel you.”
Harry’s fingers probe him, and Eggsy’s legs open wider, hips arching off the bed, for easier access. He’s always meticulous and gentle and generous with the lube and the stretching, so Harry slips into Eggsy as easily as breathing. Eggsy’s legs are up, toes pointing at the ceiling, and Harry’s arms encircle them like an embrace, knees on the bed.
Harry’s eyes are closed. “You’re so good, Eggsy. So good.” His fingers trace over Eggsy’s lips. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” Eggsy breathes. “Oxfords.”
And he takes Harry’s fingers into his mouth.
The other man groans, deep in his throat, as Eggsy swirls his tongue and sucks the digits like a cock, tasting the sweat and lube and his own precome. Harry’s fingers are calloused and cracked in some places, and the raspiness against Eggsy’s soft tongue makes him shiver. Every time he has Harry’s fingers in his mouth—deadly weapons on their own: ones that deactivate bombs and locks, ones that make goons double over and gasp, ones that grip and fire guns and Rainmakers—Eggsy’s reminded of Harry’s power. So much power as Arthur, as an agent, as a man, and yet, they can touch Eggsy so gently, so lovingly.
The pace Harry sets is almost too slow, and Eggsy can’t even settle his own hands over Harry’s hips to get him to move faster. Harry’s kisses on his chest and shoulder and neck and face fall like rain, and Eggsy does his best to crane his neck and plant returning ones on every part of Harry’s body he can reach.
“Harry,” Eggsy gasps, tugging against his restraints, making the bed posts creak and groan. “Harry, go faster.”
“I can ride you,” Harry whispers in his ear, and Eggsy doesn’t bother repressing a shiver. “I can straddle you, my legs across your hips, and swallow your cock. Would you like that, Eggsy? Would you like that after this?”
Eggsy’s on the pinnacle of it, the quivering oblivion that makes him collapse like a star, loose-limbed and gasping and happy to be alive. “If I can last,” he manages to say.
“You’re young,” Harry dismisses teasingly. “Surely after a bit of rest, you can find it in you to come more than once tonight. Or more than twice—”
“Harry!” Eggsy strains up, silk pressing against his skin. “I can’t—I’m wound up, you bloody—” Before he can say anything else, Harry swallows his next words with a kiss that makes Eggsy’s mind go white-hot, and he’s spilling onto his own stomach and chest, lips still on Harry’s.
When Harry pulls away, he unties Eggsy, who murmurs something incoherently, making Harry laugh in that fond way of his. “I love you,” he says softly, just as Eggsy’s beginning to drift into that sated, sleepy embrace of sleep.
“I know,” Eggsy mutters, eyes closed, and indeed, he does.