Work Text:
Going Under
Eggsy applies his thumb to the reader to lock the gun store, and slings his gym bag over his shoulder. Just the barest pause that tells Harry to expect something he feels the need to appear ever-so-casual about.
“You know, like… informed consent? Negotiation. All that jazz..?”
Well, what an opening salvo that is. Harry thinks he might be proud. He’s certainly something. The presence and pressures of ongoing missions abruptly slip backwards, and there instead is a sense of heat that comes from knowing Eggsy has been spending a significant portion of critical operation at the very least fantasising, and by the sounds of it planning some sort of more elaborate sexcapades and waiting for the first passible moment of privacy to pop the question. Colour him intrigued.
“What happens then, yeah…” Eggsy brushes the side of his own jaw with the backs of his knuckles, and looks up. “What if there's something I want to do, because I'm pretty fucking sure you want to do... but if I ask you, it'll ruin it?”
The list of potential is a short one, and everything on it is a lethal incendiary as far as Harry’s concerned. He takes a thoughtful moments as not to give himself away so fast Eggsy will laugh at him, under the guise of checking he’s returned all his kit, and steps in the direction of the door in no sort of hurry.
“The element of surprise is key?”
“Yeah, kinda. That and I think you'll say you don't want it because you'll think it's too much on me or something, which is bullshit.“
He’s quite likely got a point, on all fronts.
“I think you know me very very well. Better than I'm comfortable with, at times. Would there be any reason I couldn't use a safe word, or an equivalent?”
“Nah. But you would need to. No wouldn't cut it. “
Harry also suspects he will promptly and conveniently forget the word exists in the presence of anything Eggsy feels the need to work up to like this, but it wouldn’t do to tell him that considering he’s gone to so much trouble.
So he shrugs.
“Then I’d say I’d expect anything we’ve previously used as a safeword to serve, and I’d trust in your ability to read things… you always know when something’s off. I trust you.” That Eggsy does not push for further reassurance is testament to how far they’ve come, and the degree of proper, thinking-with-the-correct-head thought he’s given this: he already knows that. “And I don’t think either of us fantasise about anything that would mortally wound me so we can always talk it out afterwards if it doesn’t go quite to plan.”
“Yeah, you say that, but you definitely do.”
“… we aren’t talking about those, are we?”
Eggsy smiles, big and with the sort of brightness that covers a laugh at whatever inopportune tell he’s remembered. “Nah, not this time.”
Honestly, It doesn’t narrow it down much.
***
A Tuesday night immediately following a pretty hairy mission in which he single handedly takes down the heavy section of a Serbian drug mob is not really when Eggsy was planning to bust out his meticulously planned attempt to corner the market of Harry’s fantasies, but he’s also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It's not as though he was banking on high romance but he was probably at least gonna save it for an anniversary or something… but as usual the mission’s served as a sobering reminder that saving anything for too long in the future is, at best, fucking daft in their game and the bland, basic bedsit safe house they find themselves in presents him with the perfect opportunity: a fully tiled wet room.
He’s been mulling over scenarios for something like this long enough that there are now multiple variations filed away to choose from, but this is an ideal practicality for just about all of them: no bubble-bursting mopping up or laundry to interrupt the afterglow, aftercare, the fucking… debrief, whatever, the point is they can do it in a clean dry bed.
Besides. He reckons there’s something a little comforting about being somewhere other than your own home for the freaky shit. At least the first time: If it all goes sideways, at least you ain’t gotta cringe at it every time you open your eyes in the morning.
So tonight’s the night, and for all this is for Harry, Eggsy is thrumming.
They do the usual sweep for safety and find all the secret tamper seals intact; unsuspecting, Harry puts their takeaway on the counter of the kitchenette - there’s a microwave, at least - and stashes the gin in the conspicuously empty fridge. But the way he looks at Eggsy says that after the few days they’ve had, that’s a higher up the priorities list than dinner, and other things are more pressing still.
The familiar peaceful clarity settles like a melting in Eggsy’s chest, a quiet that’s entirely inside his ears. Take the shot. It says. Jump. Or, Whatever this shit is.
If you'd asked him a few years ago, he'd have imagined he'd struggle with the idea of putting Harry through this, like he'd feel guilty. Guilty for what? It’s his fucking thing. And this filthy, beautiful disaster of a man has gone over and above to make every one of Eggsy’s sexual fantasies come true, unearthed a few new ones, given him some he definitely wouldn't have had otherwise and then fulfilled those too. And fuck it, maybe this comes into that last category because power is fucking intoxicating, and knowing he can do something like this to a man like Harry and know without a breath of doubt that he’ll be thanked for it, let alone standing to tell the tale, is no small wonder.
Not that he will be telling the tale. Harry might, if you get a bottle of wine down him: there’s no interrogation Eggsy’s seen come close to taking him down like a good cab sav in the company of friends but that’s not Eggsy’s problem. More like a source of pride, if he gets this right: Harry’s a certified freak seven days a week with some acquired tastes, it takes quite a man to keep that satisfied, Eggsy reckons.
Not just satisfied, but on his toes. Because sure, Harry was happy to go without “indulging this particular quirk” as he’d put it, in that Waitrose-and-cricket voice as though he’s not talking about the sort of bullshit even the underground fetish clubs have signs up telling you not to get up to. But then fate had other plans, he showed his hand, Eggsy showed himself to be game as fuck which was a slight surprise to all involved but Harry’s giddy gratitude was a powerful thing and of course Eggsy was going to run with it.
Alright, it took a bit of gentle interrogation - strictly of the fun sort- to get enough material to work with: Harry initially dead set on his defence that it was the desperation that he liked but that one had gone over in a gentle breeze, extending quickly to include "really wanting to, and taking the due joy in the relief", especially in unusual circumstances. Which Eggsy quickly extrapolated to figure included ‘wanting to do it anywhere or any way he shouldn't.’ And as it happens, things that feel a bit like he shouldn't be doing them are a sweet spot for Eggsy, too: The moment he gets into that "shouldn't be doing this, it's naughty" headspace he's generally having a really good time and this? It's harmless, innit. Gross to some, insignificant to others, Probably something to do with repression but Kingsman don't pay all that money for a shrink for him to analyse himself.
There’s no specific trigger, nothing that needs to have happened in advance for this scene to work… at least, not for Eggsy’s fantasy. Does meticulously planning a kink scene to fulfil your lover's desires count as a fantasy? Well, he’s wanked over it at least once, so, yes. For Harry, he reckons all it takes is a mood, and the sort of grabby, intense, borderline angry-hot they get after fights like today’s combined with the soft, safe rush of a mission squared away is just about perfect. And Eggsy has to give himself credit for a couple of absolute bad boy moves during this one; Harry’s not really stopped looking at him since and Eggsy’s been there, knows that train of thought, the quick drum of adrenaline under holy fuck I get to tap that or whatever Harry’s equivalent is.
And yeah, Eggsy was the shit today.
So about time he acts like he fucking knows it, since he knows how welcome that is. Grabs a handful of the front of Harry’s shirt and kisses him, hard and open. Bites his bottom lip. It’s nothing to do with it, really, but it’s a challenge; Eggsy’s no-words way of saying I’m feeling like making your life difficult a little bit, you in for the ride? And from the way Harry melts into it, tilts his head to offer his throat, the answer is a beautifully clear green light. There’s a groan in there somewhere that makes Eggsy want to give the lot up and just have him right there against the counter in the kitchenette because he can, but some miraculous higher function chimes in that if he thinks this power feels good he ain’t seen nothing. And it’s right.
Eggsy undoes Harry’s belt and pushes so Harry gets the message and steps out of his trousers; unknots his tie and pulls it free, flings it somewhere in the direction of a bag. Glasses more carefully on the end of the counter. Harry takes his socks off himself, which is a good shout, so he follows suit cos he can’t be dealing with wet socks. Plus, the shirt and boxers layer always makes Eggsy wish harry wore those little sock suspenders but he doesn’t, which is probably a good thing right now not least because it means Eggsy doesn’t have to admit he finds them a bit sexy. Fuck only knows why.
“Now. I’m gonna take a bit of a running leap at this one and it’s gonna mean you speaking all the way up if you’re not into it.”
After a second to be sure the message is received and understood, he uses a passionate hand in the hair to grab Harry by the nape of the neck and drag him - backwards himself, possibly not what Harry was imagining when he taught him the Argentine Tango but fuck it - into the bathroom. No misdirection about why: if that almost uncatchable hitch of breath was because Harry’s put two and two together, all the better.
"Because you won't tell me what you really fucking want. You think you're subtle, but you ain't."
Harry chuckles against Eggsy’s neck, warm and deep and caught bang to fucking rights.
"I know exactly how filthy your mind is. And I know what a slut you are for me…” it takes a beat to get that one out but he sees it hit how it’s supposed to and it’s good, he’s got the hang of the vibe: not of dominance so much as not to be argued with because he’s fucking right as he knows it. “That you'll do anything."
The happily-surprised mmhmm from Harry is definitely an affirmative. The lack of an actual word even more so: the rush of blood tends to render him almost nonverbal for those key few seconds. So Eggsy gives them both a moment, Harry to shake the haze, to bring himself back to sharp focus. Stay frosty. There’s no rush. And that’s the tone he needs now: patient and sober.
"Leads me to one solid fucking conclusion, Harry. And that's that you're holding out on me."
A wry smile.
"I'd never."
Eggsy sums up every ounce of his strength to wear across his shoulders, pulls that attitude that's got him out of - and into - so many fights out of his boots. Draws up to his full height, which is nothing on Harry standing, but he doesn’t let that change the way he squares up to him.
"Is that a fact, yeah?" Cold. Dangerous. Just the way he knows Harry loves it. "On your knees."
He sees the way that lands. The way Harry breathes from the bottom of his ribs to cover what would otherwise be a gasp, and goes easily before Eggsy can even put a hand on his shoulder.
But he does it anyway, so Harry can feel like he was shoved if he wants, if that makes any difference to him. Not clear if he wants to feel like he’s put up a fight to this; there’s definitely a challenge in his eyes but that might just be do it, Eggsy.
So Eggsy spits on him, not under any pretence other than because he can, and yeah, he was right on that front too. Harry's dark eyed, wrong footed, and in a way it's a shame because Eggsy could really use a little more encouraging feedback when he really goes for this role but he knows from abundant experience that when he stuns Harry silent he's nailing it.
"Nothing to say? You just going to let me push you around?" He brings the tone back to teasing. He doesn't actually want Harry to fight him, though he'd be up for a grapple if that was something he's into but it doesn't seem to be. Harry's about the willing surrender. No restraints, no force. Just the power of the knowledge that Eggsy knows he wants this.
What exactly it is that he’s surrendering to, Harry either hasn’t processed yet or knew, somewhere deep down, in less than a heartbeat but didn’t dare hope, because it’s so obviously only when Eggsy unzips and Harry sees that his cock is soft - barely, for now, at great effort at that but that’s not the point - that he realises what's actually happening here.
"Now are we going to pretend this is something I'm making you do, or are you going to admit you want me to piss on you?”
A sharp inhale through the nose, and Eggsy knows, not only is he on the money but he was right to commit to it.
Harry visibly shudders on the breath out and drops his head.
Eggsy prompts him with a knuckle under the chin and whoo, fuck, turns out that feels as good to do as it does receiving.
“Yes.” Almost inaudible.
“Didn’t catch that.”
“Yes I fucking want it.” Oh and he almost sounds angry, except he ain’t, but Eggsy knows how Harry’s fought with this one, even gave him the option to go down the pretending-to-be-forced route but he didn’t take it, so it’s his job to make sure Harry knows this way’s more fun for him too.
“Good.” He winks. Softens his tone, grabs a handful of Harry’s hair and yanks his head back, bends down to stage whisper in his ear, “cos I been thinking about how good you look soaking wet.”
Harry blinks up at him, tries to catch him in a kiss but misses, breath fast like he can’t quite believe this is happening; kneel relaxed and perfect like he’s been wanting it to for a really, really long time. Goes for his buttons and for a minute Eggsy thinks he’s got the clothing situation wrong but after a hurry to undo a couple Harry just splays the neck of his shirt out a bit, and see that? That’s the sort of filth that gets him into this trouble.
The hurry freezes, waiting, and for a second of sticky heat Eggsy thinks he won’t be able to do it but he closes his eyes, swallows, brings the physical rush back in to the needling in his bladder, the insistence of his dick in his hand.
Eggsy breathes all the way out, and lets loose.
It takes a moment; the first splash against Harry’s chest through his shirt instinctively makes him want to stop, something quick and hot like humiliation burning up his back but he fights the instinct down; reminds himself this is good, this is what Harry wants and he’s doing it. Searches for the sense of relief and finds it, not only in Harry’s expression but in his own body, because he did need this and he’s well fucking aware that it’s welcome.
Eggsy almost laughs a little huff of relief and the noise Harry makes in response is barely audible, probably embarrassing, something between a whimper and a squeak in any other context Eggsy would wind him up about it for a week but right now it’s the sound of victory and it’s all going to Eggsy’s head really fucking fast. It’s all happening so fast; soaking through the cotton of Harry’s shirt, weighing it to his body, showing Eggsy a tight little nipple, the slope of his chest.
He’s well hydrated, more by luck than judgement, he didn’t know they’d get this set up when he necked that two litre bottle of iced tea but fucking hell, C4 fumes make you thirsty. Even so, he knows there ain’t long to play with and Eggsy spends it holding eye contact, watching Harry’s face, the dreamy flutter of his eyelids as he lays this against all the fantasies he’s never quite admitted to but has no hope at all of denying now.
Eggsy chances it; directs the stream up to Harry’s collar, to bare skin. Harry murmurs, swallows a lost little moan and turns his face very definitely towards. Ducks, just the tiniest bit until piss is splashing onto his cheekbone, dripping off the side of his jaw.
Heat scalds Eggsy’s face, up his back like pins and needles but he forges on, touches his hand to Harry’s wet face. It’s now or never.
“Open.”
Harry does it but Eggsy still tucks his thumb into Harry’s mouth to pull his bottom jaw down, and it’s a trickle by this point but it runs into his bottom lip and of course he’s not about to make him drink it but he doesn’t see Harry spit, neither and Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? Why is he like this and why does it turn Eggsy on so much?
A sharp little twinge says empty and Eggsy moves fast before the doubt can kick in.
“Stay there.”
He keeps one hand softly on Harry’s neck whilst he turns the shower on to rinse him down and given the state he’s already made of him, the sight of water streaming right over Harry, pouring down his face, flattening his hair, breaks something unknown in Eggsy’s brain but now isn’t the time to question that. He strips his own shirt off in a series of clumsy one handed yanks, drops it into the bottom of the shower so that he can return the hand that isn’t anchoring him to Harry to the other place he needs it.
A shake that turns into a tug and before he knows it he’s fully hard and Harry’s dripping wet and staring at him like he’s starving and fuck it. This was not the plan but Eggsy’s got too hard too quickly not to cash in on Harry being on his knees and grateful with his mouth open. Doesn’t know why he wants to wash himself off, that ship’s kind of sailed but whatever, Harry accepts his cock, gratefully, there’s no other word for it, and starts sucking on him with the sort of unrestrained enthusiasm that never loses its effectiveness. And though he’s like that anyway the vague yarn that he might be doing it because he feels like he has to is hot as fuck to Eggsy for some reason.
Eggsy tips his head back into the douse of the shower, just to clear his head enough to be able to feel. Wild, ain’t it? Somewhere along the line playing the role because he knows it gets Harry off has turned into to something he gets off on.
Fucking quickly, at that. The heat of Harry’s mouth, the eagerness of his tongue feels like a thank you, a desperation to make him feel good and Eggsy is not going to argue. A few good thrusts that nudge him up against the back of Harry’s open throat and the knowledge he doesn’t even have to think about whether he’s going to swallow and Eggsy’s done for, orgasm forcing a couple of choked groans and a “nhh, fuck” out of his mouth, making his knees shake.
He didn’t need to be standing up anyway. On the floor he can kiss Harry, strip his soaking clothes off whilst he mumbles into his mouth about what a mess he’s made of him, water drumming down on the both of them, and feel the shake in Harry’s core up close. Manoeuvre him round in what’s now a shower puddle but who knows if Harry clocks that, if it matters. Pushes him forward so that Harry naturally braces on all fours and before he can ask what’s going on - not that he seems to make any attempt towards it - Eggsy crowds over his back, still half-hard dick snugged into the cleft of Harry’s arse, and reaches round to take him in hand.
“You’re a state,” he snarls into Harry’s hair, but it comes out in a loving sort of way, and Harry does that kinda groan-laugh like they both know he’s guilty as fucking charged and can’t keep the pretence up any longer: they’re not living whatever batshit mental dynamic that just was full time; theyre just two people so into each other that anything one of them’s a bit into has this tendency to snowball and the weirder it gets the more they seem to like it. Getting off on their own absurdity, he guesses.
And it’s immediately obvious Harry would like to be getting fucked right about now and maybe he should have saved himself for that: taken Harry just like this with fuck all prep and fuck all warning, just railed him into the floor in the wet. It’s definitely the sort of thing Harry would fantasise about, but the reality is a kind of risk Eggsy ain’t happy about even if he is enjoying throwing his weight around. Too much coordination required when they’re both trembling for different reasons and for what payoff? He’s still gonna come for him.
Harry’s ribs heave hard against Eggsy’s chest, his left elbow wobbles and Eggsy has just about got the strength left to swing his left arm under Harry’s armpit and round his chest and hold his weight up for him. Eggsy spits in his hand though that’s an effort, Christ, but it’s worth it. Harry is lost to it instantly, head lolling, he gets all of about half of a truly broken noise out and comes before he’s even finished it, like it’s taken him by surprise, like the surprise isn’t that he’s still going considering how hard this has hit him.
Call it a mission success, for sure, but the net consequence of Eggsy’s throwing his well laid plans out when presented with a decent opportunity, despite the lack of laundry, is that they’re now naked and drenched on the floor and the hot water seems to have run out - fuck knows when that happened - so Eggsy hauls them up and grabs a towel to bundle Harry in. Give the safe house it’s due, basic it may be but the towel is massive and fluffy and the towel rail is heated. He wishes he’d thought of that; wonders whether to take the credit for it if Harry thinks he did it on purpose.
“Well,” Harry says against the side of Eggsy’s face when they’ve been stood cuddling in a bathroom doorway for long enough to breathe without making that little shuddery noise like you’ve been crying and that’s the seal on it really: the moment Eggsy truly knows he was right at every single turn, that he’s nailed it and how much that says about their ability to understand each other’s deepest desires. Harry is clearly not going to process anything nearly so complex for some time. “Fuck.”
“You okay?”
“I’m wonderful.” He catches Eggsy in an open kiss, all breath and tongue. Bites at his lip and fuck, who needs that at this point? “You’re wonderful.”
Still, a little reassurance never killed anybody.
“You enjoyed yourself?”
“I think you did a fine job.” It’s a hair short of an I’m proud of you but the vibe is there, somehow, and it makes Eggsy’s head spin. He did that. Gave Harry something he wanted too much to even say out loud and got him all dreamy and sex drunk like that. “I think… champagne is called for. And something to eat, and a good ten hours’ sleep...” Harry trails off in a manner that, combined with the hand on the small of Eggsy’s back suggests more than ten hours will be spent in bed.
It’ll have to wait. They’re both still fucking twitching.
An hour or so later they’re dry, fed, still munching their way through a bag of Kettle Chips with a second glass of bubbly - Harry had been very insistent on sacking the gin off and getting the proper stuff delivered, reckons it’s not on to toast anything significant with Prosecco “or heaven forbid, Cava,”, as if the fact he even felt the need to propose a toast about this ain’t fucking ridiculous but absolutely on brand for him - when Merlin calls to check in. Mission questions that sound like small talk considering he must already know the answers before he gets to his point. Or suspicious lack of one.
“I just want to know when you started expensing JustEat deliveries of Champagne.”
“Do you.”
It ain’t even a question, and Eggsy knows that as soon as he hears the restrained glee measured out under Harry’s nonchalant tone, Merlin will be starting to regret asking the question already, if he wasn’t in fact just calling to make his omnipresence known, that this is his subtle I’m onto you though fuck knows how he’d know.
Having someone watching your every move will make you paranoid after a bit, Eggsy guesses.
“You don’t even like Champagne.” There’s definitely suspicion there, and he’s known Harry very well for a very long time. Eggsy starts to get that creeping hot caught out sensation up the back of his neck. And then it’s joined by a heat lower down that Eggsy really shouldn’t be as surprised by as he is by this point. They have got to have words about what Harry’s doing to him.
“Maybe I’ve acquired a taste.” Harry takes a sip of his champagne, making eye contact with Eggsy sideways over the tablet.
Merlin has already hung up. Considering the two of them are basically telepathic at this point and Harry’s got that deliriously smug look on his face he only ever lets a couple of people see, there is zero chance that doesn’t mean exactly what Eggsy thinks.
“You are legitimately fucking disgusting.”
Harry raises his eyebrows, and stretches back.
“I think that might be the pot accusing the kettle, you know.”
“Yeah, alright. You complainin’?” But he says it strategically, adjusting the waist of his lounge pants to sit just right on his hips and looking up to catch Harry dead in the act of staring. And winks.
“A gentleman doesn’t fish for compliments.”
“Gentlemen don’t do none of that neither.” He ticks his tongue and nods in the direction of the bathroom; climbs onto the bed, up to straddle Harry’s lap, probably with the intention of a cuddle but it turns into a slow, heated crawl because it’s all gone to his head and face it, they’re not gonna be doing anything but getting gently wankered on Champagne and fucking until they have to go home so there’s no point pretending.
The jostle of Eggsy’s weight on the mattress tips Harrys glass, and the Champagne spills and splashes onto his stomach, runs in a little sparkling golden rivulet down towards his navel that makes Harry gasp and freeze for a second, and it ain’t even cold, what’s he…
The penny drops.
Eggsy looks Harry dead in the eyes, and licks it off.