Finger sucking, thigh biting, very tiny underpants Hartwin filth
Eggsy unfastens the ribbon and flips up the cardboard lid, eyeing the four eclairs lined up inside like perfect little jewels. “So what’s what?”
“Dark chocolate and Earl Grey,” Harry says, fingertips hovering over each in turn. “Raspberry and rose. Blackberry cheesecake. Salted butter caramel.”
“They’re so pretty,” Eggsy croons in the same voice he uses when he’s praising a passing stranger’s extremely tiny dog, then looks vaguely embarrassed with himself and laughs a bit, taking a self-conscious swallow of beer. “Almost don’t wanna eat these, seems rude to put your mouth all over art like that. Like sucking off the David statue for instagram.”
“People don’t do that, surely?” Harry asks, fascinated and horrified, caught somewhere extraordinarily painful between being disgusted at the idea of such sacrilege and knowing he’s still going to spend the next several nights picturing Eggsy getting off with a very pale giant now the idea’s been planted. Eggsy just grins and shoves the box closer to Harry.
“No, you, I insist. They’re a gift, after all.”
“Yeah, but how am I meant to choose? They’re all fucking masterpieces.” His hand hovers over the box for a moment, fingers twiddling in a way that makes Harry wonder whether he’s doing a silent eeny meeny miny moe, then he carefully lifts the blackberry one, gives it a hungry inspection from every angle, and takes a bite. Pink cheesecake cream immediately oozes out of the sides, clinging stickily to his fingers and thumb, and he takes his merry time licking it all back off again making lush little mmm noises the whole way.
Harry stares very hard at the tiny print on the label of his beer bottle, willing the sweat at his temples to get back inside his skin and stop causing a scene.
“Oh my god it’s actually cheesecake on the bottom, it’s biscuit crumbs.” Yes, Harry thinks despairingly, I can see that, your cursed tongue is chasing every single spilled one around and around your fingers. “You didn’t have to go fucking nuts, I woulda been more than happy with some limp soggy Greggs offering.”
“I’ve never been in a Greggs and I certainly don’t intend to start now,” Harry says, eyes still averted, although he can’t block out the sloppy sounds of Eggsy’s greedy tongue cleaning up the last of the spillage. “You deserve—”
He stops abruptly before he can embarrass himself further. So does Eggsy, hesitating with his first two fingers lodged in his mouth to the middle knuckle then sliding them out wetly, glistening with saliva and the last traces of leftover cream. “What?” he asks, giving Harry a bit of teasing side-eye and a nudge in the arm with his elbow.
“Nicer things than that,” Harry manages.
“Well, first of all fuck you because Greggs is the actual bollocks and you’re a snob.” Suddenly Harry finds the eclair in front of his face, held up so close to him that his eyes can’t focus on it and it blurs into a pinkish smudge. “Let’s half and half these, I don’t wanna miss out on any of them.”
Too taken aback to do anything else, Harry obediently takes a bite of the eclair. Again, the filling oozes out the sides as the layers compress, coating Eggsy’s sticky fingertips anew.
“Huh,” Eggsy says softly, turning his hand this way and that, inspecting the mess of cream and crumbs. He’s crept closer, the warmth of his leg pressed right up to Harry’s. “You missed a bit.”
Perhaps more than most people a Kingsman agent should understand the value of a good long hard think before you go barging into something foolish, but Harry’s never really been very good at that sort of thing. He can fixate and fret as well as anyone, but still there’s that impudent little gremlin somewhere deep down in his brain that springs shamelessly to life the moment it sees a monumental opportunity open up that didn’t seem to be there before. It’s the thing that gets him flinging himself up the outside of a house without permission to steal vital information. It’s also the thing that makes him look Eggsy brazenly in the eye and suck both offered fingers between his lips.
Eggsy makes a beautiful, unspellable little noise in his throat. Voice trembling, very quietly, he says, “Good, right?”
“Wonderful,” Harry murmurs, holding Eggsy by the wrist to turn his hand over and clean off every speck of cream with his ravenous tongue.
Eggsy gives a startled, hushed little giggle, as though he’d expected a different answer and is absolutely blindsided to have received this one. He squeezes the eclair gently in his other hand, scooping a fingerful of bulging cream filling from the side and bringing it back to Harry’s mouth, where the flat of Harry’s tongue meets the underside of Eggsy’s finger and curves up on either side to lick it clean with a starving swipe. The sweetness and tartness of the blackberry cream floods his mouth—then Eggsy’s tongue is there as well, it’s his tongue that touches Harry’s mouth before his lips do, which is such a beautifully backwards approach to a kiss that a galaxy of goosebumps shivers right up the length of Harry’s spine to explode like fireworks in his brain. He sits perfectly still, unwilling to move in case it shatters this tentative little soap-bubble moment, and lets Eggsy explore him: Eggsy’s tongue, careful and uncharacteristically timid, flickers tiny hesitant touches to the sugar traces on Harry’s lower lip, and when he swallows audibly the shivering little breath he lets out after falls as warm as a kiss on Harry’s mouth, although it’s still not a kiss, not yet.
“Harry,” Eggsy murmurs, then makes that shaky little laughing sound again when he feels the tip of Harry’s tongue tracing the line of his cupid’s bow in return. “I think we got it all.”
“Yes,” Harry agrees. Their noses bump gently. Eggsy sighs again, a quivering lovely hopeful little sound.
“I’m gonna sit on you,” he says, then repeats it more decisively, his jaw set the way it is when he’s talking himself up to do something brave out on a job. “I’m gonna fucking sit on you for a bit. Right on your lap.”
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