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.
Those people who constantly reblog your stuff but you never really talk:
I do notice my regulars. You guys are the best.
“Regulars” makes me feel like a bar-tender…
Wiping down my dash at the end of an evening, I see your read-more, over-hear your rant in the tags, so I pour you a drink.
“…what’s troubling you, kid?”
It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday As the regular crowd tumbls by There’s an old fandom queen blogging next to me And her little gray tags catch my eye
She says tumblr I’m feeling like shit today can you send me some posts for a smile can we talk about slash, can you fill up my dash so I won’t have to think for a while
Laa dahdah didee dah La dahdah didee dah dadum
Fill up my dash, you’re my followers Fill it with pictures and fic Yeah we’re all in the mood for some memery And occasional pictures of dick
Now Jill is a centaur novelist And she writes of her girlfriend and wife She reblogs from Toni, who’s in My Little Pony, And probably will be for life.
As the staff implements wretched changes And we think of how aliens bone We are writing a lot about loneliess: It’s much better than writing alone.
AND sometimes we blog about politics
And sometimes we blog with a beer
And when I proudly boast that I’m older than most,
They say ‘gross, what are YOU doing here’.
… mentally singing this with the correct tune has given me feelings. I object.
My boyfriend just woke up, mostly still asleep and told me “don’t worry, it’s getting better” in a heavy, American accent, which is unusual for an Australian man.
“Why are you American?” I asked, to which I got:
“Sorry, it’s getting better” in a stereotypical posh English accent.
“Why are you English?” I asked, amused.
“What is he normally?” He managed to ask.
“He? You’re not anyone else, you’re you.”
“Ugh, me” was the last thing he said, in a right proper Aussie accent before he fell back into proper sleep.
Bitch just thwarted a ghost possession by judging his accents
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