Harry lives for that moment when he can feel the blunt, oozing head of Eggsy’s cock pressing against his hole, seemingly too large to possibly fit. And though he’s had plenty of experience taking it up the arse, there’s always that one moment that lasts for the span of a heartbeat and lifetime where he thinks the tight ring of muscle won’t yield.
“Open up for me,” Eggsy urges. “Come on.”
Harry moans, resting his cheek against his forearms, digging his elbows into the mattress, angling his hips back, breathing deep and out—
It always does, though—and with an inevitable, delicious burning, no matter how much lube Eggsy uses, where Harry feels like he’s being pried apart. Eggsy’s prick stuffs him up and he feels massively full, sweetly aching, positively fit to bursting with cock.
“So tight, Harry.” Eggsy grinds a little into him, running blazing trails across his back.
He loves it, stuffed with Eggsy’s cock, pummelled beneath the onslaught of his immediate vigourous, merciless thrusts. Eggsy grips his hips bruisingly tight, fucking in so hard, his balls rhythmically slap against the tops Harry’s thighs.
“You feel so good, darling,” Harry moans, muffled by his arm. “So good. I love your thick cock fucking into me. Harder, please.”
And bless him, Eggsy somehow, impossibly, does, until Harry feels like his body’s gone numb with bliss, transported to stuffed arse nirvana, at which his prostate is the centre of the entire fucking universe.
He comes in an epiphany, sees God, and learns the secrets of life all in one split second, crying out and slumping, barely aware of Eggsy driving into him with one last forceful shove before coming inside him, curling over his back like a creeping vine.
When their pulses return to steady state and the sweat begins to cool, Eggsy gingerly pulls out, leaving Harry with a gaping absence between his legs, clenching around an empty mass that’s only ameliorated by Eggsy fingering the slopping mess of his hole, pushing back in all his dripping come.
people in fanfiction are so good at identifying v specific smells. I literally struggle to identify vanilla when I’m sniffing a candle labelled “VANILLA” how are these kids getting woodsmoke, rain, mint, and a whiff of byronic despair from a fuckin tshirt
Once I read a fic where they were like “he tasted like” and I’m expecting the typical formula (1 cooking ingredient + 1 natural phenomenon + “something uniquely [character name]”) but instead they said “he tasted like mouth” and it was one of the greatest fic moments of my life
click and drag to find out what your shitty fanfiction kiss tastes like
He’s been feeling funny all week. Slightly sick, a little
nauseated, his hands shaky. He keeps dropping things. When Papa came home last
night Credence was fast asleep on the sofa, all the lights out, dinner still
out on the counter. He barely remembers being picked up and carried to his bed,
fingers knotted into his Papa’s cable knit sweater, nuzzling his cheek into the
soft wool, breathing in warmth and safety.
“Are you unwell, Credence?” his father asks him in the morning,
the back of his cool hand pressed against Credence’s cheek. His fingers span
the length from his lips to his ear and Credence shivers, eyelashes fluttering
down over his cheekbones. “You’re a little warm,” Papa says, concern turning
his mouth down and forming a fine line between his heavy brows. “Why don’t you
stay home from school today?”
“Oh – okay, Papa,” Credence says obediently. His hand falls from
Credence’s face and his stomach drops. He doesn’t know why – he wants Papa to
keep touching him, keep his lovely cool hand soft against Credence’s face. In
the wake of its loss he feels hotter and sicker than ever, feverish and
trembling.
OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS ENTIRE DAMN FIC YOU NEED TO READ IT IT’S SO PERFECT THE IMAGERY AND CREDENCE AND GRAVES AND THE SEX AND AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
“It’s been thirty fucking years, Merlin” Eggsy breathes into the com, his fingers tracing over Harry’s cheekbone. He doesn’t look a day older or a day dead.
“We’ve got a clean up crew on the way. They’ll take care of it, Arthur.” Merlin says, soft but insistent. Eggsy knows he should leave. He’s done with this particular organization’s beat-down. There’s nothing left to fight, no more new-age brainwave hackers or kids with slicy wands that remind him of star wars. And that’s probably why he’s so shocked – he knows half the organizations they take out have some ties or allegiance or shrines to Valentine, but this one. This was just a tiny terrorist cell with a good engineer and a creative event planner.
So it doesn’t make sense that they have Harry Hart’s body frozen in their basement, not a hair out of place since the last time Eggsy saw him tear apart a church and die in twenty-fourteen.
“Arthur.”
Eggsy’s not listening. He’ll leave when he feels like it, he decides, but then the unthinkable happens – he feels breath on his palm.
He can’t really help it. Eggsy kneels by the now open pod and slips a hand beneath Harry’s slack shoulders, lifts him so he can press his ear to Harry’s chest.
Slow, steady under the Kingsman issued suit, he hears a heartbeat.
“Oh god,” he whispers, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric. “Harry, oh my god.”
“Arthur?” Merlin asks.
“Send a medic.”
“What? Are you injured? How serious?”
“Fuckin’ serious as shit, you send in everyone we can fuckin’ spare Merlin. He’s breathin’.”
“What?”
“You ‘eard me. Harry bloody Hart is alive.”
There’s a muttered curse from the other end of the line, but Eggsy’s stopped listening. All he can think of is the dimmed memory if the day he lost Harry, the old scar it left on his heart, the days spent missing him and trying to move on and remind himself that he was being stupid because he and Harry weren’t the air and sky to each other, they weren’t, no matter how his young and wild heart had dreamed of it.
“Sorry mate,” he says, through tears but with a tiny edge of hysterical humor. It dies on his next words, growing to a whisper “Sorry it took so long.”
For @sozdanie-gryazi-eternal – sorry it’s a little more vague than a concrete moment. I’m rather horrible at writing Credence in any capacity other than precious cinnamon roll. I just can’t nail that timid, religious guilty lit he’d have to his thoughts.
Thank you! I’m pretty sure that one’s my favorite. It’s like a giant pile of fluffy blankets and I just want to roll around and cocoon myself in it. ^w^
I feel like if I could figure out what Harry does for a living in that verse I might be able to actually write it? As it is I don’t know why he even needs to get dressed in the mornings, lol. Breakfast? But then what?
Even given the slightly relaxed uniform standards in engineering, Techie sticks out like a sore thumb, in more ways than one. “Techie” is not even his real name, just a nickname, like he’s a ‘trooper or something. His bionic eyes were installed so poorly that his eyes are always rimmed red with irritation and rust, which he makes worse by constantly rubbing at them. He barely ever looks anybody in the eye, mumbling his technical expertise to their feet—or, if he’s feeling bold, their chest. And his hair is always greasy.
Matt and Techie do the do for the first time (Techie’s first time, Matt’s first time with a guy) under the watchful gaze of Matt’s Lord Ren recruitment poster. It’s been a rough couple weeks, so this is an exercise in pure indulgence.
when i forget to log into ao3 and i have to click proceed to see an adult fic, i actually get a kick out of it. like i am an old timey queen and my bard is apologetic: “gentle lady, dicks doth touch in this next ballad. would you prefer another?” and i give him a gesture of command like, “nay, you may proceed, minstrel. bring forth the tale of dicks”
a paper mache bucket ... tumblr mirror 