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A gentleman's personal cycle is his private affair. It is not to be brought up in polite company, nor with anyone besides the omega's family.
At uni, Harry enjoyed a brief dalliance with an omega woman who regarded this as symptomatic of omega oppression and the alpharchic need to control omega sexuality. Harry didn't entirely disagree, but it's hardly a fight he wants to have more often than necessary.
Besides, Harry's of an age where his time goes more than it comes. When he was younger, he ticked along like clockwork: a neat three days every two months, with a margin of error no wider than a couple of days. Since rounding the other side of forty, it's been three days every three months, or six.
He doesn't hate it. He'd go on suppressants if he did. Yes, it's a mild inconvenience, but it's a manageable one. If Harry's honest, it's even enjoyable. Though there are certainly other ways he'd rather spend a weekend vacation, he does rather enjoy having a few days to luxuriate in desire.
It's proven useful more than once. When Harry was younger and fresh out of training, he took down a half-dozen low-level Soviet hitmen when they were knocked stupid by the smell of his approaching heat. That had been a good day. It'd certainly been something to remind the other boys of the next time they got it into their heads to pick a fight with the only omega Kingsman agent.
Still, it's certainly a more pleasant experience when it's not spent alone. Most omegas Harry's age have married, bred, and divorced by now. No one's on the market for fifty-year-olds with brain damage and a hush-hush, highly-demanding job. He's had some success dabbling in casual flings with fellow Kingsman agents, but they're in short supply these days.
Harry spent his first heat after Kentucky alone in a Belfast safehouse, glutting himself on his hands and whatever he could get them on. He shudders at the memory—head pounding, mind half-crazed, his fine motor skills still too stilted and awkward to give him even the almost-relief self-pleasure offered. Even now, nearly a year gone and more or less recovered, Harry still wakes in the middle of the night sometimes with his arm so stiff he almost screams. Injections and stretches have taken care of the worst of it. But back then, so soon afterward, he was a mess of more pain than pleasure.
Harry hasn't had a single heat since. So it's with mixed feelings when, after nearly a year back from the dead, he notices he's overeating and overtired and overanxious. He knows the signs at this point. He steps up his workload, delegates as necessary, and plans for at least three days off to luxuriate in his bedsheets until he's fully sated.
In retrospect, he shouldn't have even bothered. It's not as if anything else in his life bothers to proceed according to plan of late.
———
"Harry, you've gotta let me crash at yours. Daisy's got an ear infection or something. Mum's takin' care of it, but the cryin's gonna drive me mental. Please, mate, help me out here."
Harry closes his eyes. A significant part of him (probably the part that's going to be leaking within twelve hours) wants to say yes. The other, more sensible voice says that the only worse idea possible would be a stroll through Eggsy's old neighborhood in full heat.
"Just the night. I'll be outta your hair by morning."
Harry chews on the inside of his cheek and considers. It's early yet. His appetite's only just dropped off from the ravenousness of the previous few days. He has at least twenty-four hours before he actually goes into proper heat. And it's nice having Eggsy around, making the place less lonely. He's…revitalizing.
"Come on," Eggsy wheedles. "Roxie's out on mission, I can't ask her. Help me, Obi-Wan."
Harry smiles despite himself, and something warm unfolds in his chest. Oh, hell. That is a dangerous feeling. It's certainly not a friendly one.
Still…he's sure he can usher Eggsy out in plenty of time. And the boy is in a tight spot.
Harry pretends to sigh dramatically. "Fine, yes. Bring a bottle of wine. I'm cooking."
As he cuts off the call, he cuts off the nagging suspicion that he is taking a very, very big risk.
———
"You'll have to take my word that my cooking is usually of a higher caliber," Harry says.
The chicken is overcooked, the sauce is over-seasoned, and he'd forgotten to put the pasta on until the last second, so it's rather more al dente than it should ideally be. Privately, he attributes this to the lethargy of early heat.
Eggsy raises his eyebrows as he wipes a smear of red tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth. "You are fucking jokin'," he says. "Harry, I would suck cock for a worse meal."
Harry suppresses a number of lewd replies to that and settles for an indulgent, mildly disapproving smile. Never mind if he has to cross, uncross, and re-cross his ankles. It doesn't count if it's under the table. "Thank you for that colorful image," he manages.
Eggsy grins and forks another bite of chicken into his open mouth. Harry does likewise and tries not to look at Eggsy's mouth, or think about how widely it opened, and what else it would look good open around.
He takes a slightly overlarge drink from his wine glass. It's really not bad wine, bordering on quite good. It's also altogether possible that he has had rather a lot of it, judging by the swimmy quality to his vision when he leans forward to set the glass back down. All in all, it's probably time he retired.
"If you'll excuse me," he says, folding his napkin and setting it by his plate. "No, no, I don't want to rush you; take your time. I'm just a bit overtired."
Eggsy frowns a little, which is so touching it makes Harry's heart throb. "You're not sick too?"
"Oh no, nothing like that. Just a long week. You know where everything is? Guest room, spare towels, all that?"
Eggsy waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Go take your nap."
Blessedly, Harry's able to stand and take his plate into the kitchen without looking too drunk. Likewise, he manages to get to his bedroom, change into his pyjamas, and collapse into bed. He really wasn't lying. He is surprisingly tired. Oh well. In the morning, he can send Eggsy on home and settle in for three or four days of self-indulgence. He's got time.
———
Harry doesn't have time.
At four in the morning, he wakes up quite literally gasping for it. He winces and tries to focus on slow, deep breaths. He aches. His pajamas are sticking damply to the backs of his thighs, the sheets to the thin layer of sweat on his skin. Just as he gets in one good inhalation, his stomach cramps, then clenches tighter, then tighter, wringing out shimmers of sensation somewhere between pain and desperate need.
Harry shoves the sheets off and kicks them away. The movement of his legs sparks a hot spike of need up through him in a familiar, urgent way. He has barely a second to brace before he's sweating and shivering through another spasm, gritting chattering teeth and already praying for it to end.
It was having Eggsy around that did it, Harry would wager. The proximity of an alpha catalyzed his body's natural processes, so instead of twenty-four hours, Harry got six. God, what a bastard. Who gave him the right to be an alpha?
Harry grinds his teeth and doesn't think of the bulge in Eggsy's trousers when he sits like a whore, slouched low in his seat and legs spread, and he tries not to imagine it hard and jutting and hungry, or imagine the bulb at the base swelling because of Harry, because of what Harry is doing to him.
Harry grinds his teeth. No. He's not seducing Eggsy purely to satisfy his primal urges. If he seduces Eggsy it'll be under his own terms. He can satisfy his primal urges with him later.
In any case, if he's going to have any hope of dissipating the fog of "fuck me" he's emanating, Harry's going to have to shower.
He rolls out of bed. Right out of the gate, he has to catch himself on the bedpost when his legs wobble and nearly crumple beneath him. A lance of need spears up through him, warming his face and forcing him to gasp for breath.
Steady. Easy.
Harry tries again, with more care. He's still rather coltish, but he gets down the hall to the bathroom without more than one or two stumbles when a spasm ripples through his gut and makes the world tilt sickeningly sideways.
Once safely in the bathroom, Harry sheds his clothes like they've offended him and half-collapses into the shower. The water is icy cold at first—Harry hisses and pulls a face—but once it warms up, it's unbelievable. Harry relaxes into the spray and moans in satisfaction. God, that's bloody incredible.
He gropes above his head until he gets hold of the soap and scrubs himself down. It's the scent points that are most important: neck, armpits, groin. Harry lingers there for longer than strictly necessary. He doesn't properly masturbate—that's never satisfying, not now, not at this point—but he does wrap one soapy hand around his cock and slowly drag it down. All it does is make the desire that much sharper and more intense. With a grumble, Harry lets his hand fall away and twists the tap off. Getting dressed again would be a pointless venture, so he just towels off, wraps the same towel around his waist, and tries to get back to his room as quietly as possible.
He nearly makes it all the way.
Halfway down the hall, Harry pauses to slap a hand to the wall, double over, press one fist into his gut, and pant, and that's what undoes him.
"Harry?"
Oh, God.
Harry doesn't look up, but he can smell him. Eggsy's scent is already rising in response to Harry's, all bright and sharp and pungent.
"Oh," Eggsy says, "I—sorry, mate, I didn't know it was—uh. Your…time."
Harry gets his breath back. Laboriously, he pulls himself upright. "Yes, well," he says, as if he'd been caught undressed after noon. "I would've warned you had I more advance warning, but as it is I was, ah...caught unawares."
Eggsy seems to drift forward, as if by accident. "Have you got anybody?" he asks softly. "I mean, is somebody comin' to take care of ya?"
Harry's eyes slide sideways. He shakes his head.
Eggsy is very, very close. Under his robe, it's plain he's in nothing but pants. Harry swallows.
Eggsy reaches out and takes Harry's hand, fingers curling delicately around Harry's wrist before sliding down into his palm. The touch tingles, electric.
"Eggsy," Harry says, "I should—"
"Could I?" Eggsy says, before Harry can warn him off. "If you want me to, that is."
Harry chokes back a hysterical laugh. "My dear boy. All you ever had to do was ask."
Even now he's given permission, Harry can sense Eggsy's hesitation. With another choked-back laugh, he realizes: the boy is trying to act the gentleman.
A surge of affection swells in Harry's chest, propelling him forward so he takes Eggsy by the shoulders, drives him back into the wall, ducks his head down, and brings their lips together in a mess of a kiss.
"Yeah, Harry," Eggsy moans around his mouth. "Yeah, like that."
Harry's cheeks burn at how that sort of talk makes his cock twitch and his core clench. He crowds in closer to Eggsy and brings the heat of his erection up against the solid bulge in Eggsy's pants. Harry gasps. Eggsy just grunts, a dark, gruff sound, like a level of his higher functions have just been shut off for the time being.
"Yes, God, right here," Harry says in between kisses.
Eggsy blinks. "Wait, shouldn't we—bed."
He's made a decision by the end of the sentence. At the same time, Harry slides mouth over Eggsy's jaw, tilts his head back, and scrapes his teeth down to his neck, which affects the lad's motivation.
"Fuckin' hell, Harry," he breathes.
Harry is practically doubled over, his fingers in Eggsy's hair craning his head back and baring his neck so he can lavish kisses and soft bites over the expanse of it.
But then Eggsy's hands are planted on Harry's chest, shoving him off with enough force that Harry has to stagger backwards. Eggsy leans against the wall and breathes through his mouth.
"Not out here," he says, voice gone gruff and low with lust. "C'mon. Bed."
The shock of the push has cleared Harry's head enough for him to realize what a truly, utterly cracking idea that is.
Eggsy moves towards the bedroom first. Harry follows hot on his heels. Both of them strip as they go, Harry dropping his towel and clambering onto the bed while Eggsy sheds his dressing gown, shucks his pants off, and kicks them away, before straightening and facing Harry with an expression of cautious eagerness, like a pupil showing off his hard-earned top marks.
Harry raises his eyebrows. Top marks, indeed.
Eggsy doesn't miss Harry's fixation. "You like what you see?" he asks, suddenly all bravado.
Harry meets Eggsy's egotism and raises him one thorough course of Wit and Good Breeding. "It's certainly nothing to laugh at."
But Harry's clear-headedness is a passing thing. It's only seconds before his stomach tightens and he has to arch his back and grit his teeth through a spasm. When he opens his eyes again, Eggsy's above him on hands and knees, caging him in and wearing a gob smacked expression.
"Fuck, Harry," he whispers. "You look like you're fuckin' dying, mate."
Harry closes his eyes and looks away. "Yes, well," he says. He quickly exerts control over the quaver in his voice. "I believe there was an offer of assistance."
Eggsy lunges in and kisses him again. This time, they're laid out, totally naked, free to grab and squeeze and stroke to their hearts' content. Harry reaches back and around and dares to do just that. He massages Eggsy's arse with both hands, giving a little pinch to one cheek. Eggsy groans and grinds his hips down into Harry's. Their cocks rub past each other with a static shock of sensation that catches in Harry's pelvis and ignites. Suddenly, he can't stop moving, desperate bucking up and dragging down. It's humiliating. It's inflammatory.
"Gonna fuck you," Eggsy says around Harry's mouth. "You want it? Come on, tell me. Tell me you want it."
Harry gasps. Eggsy crawls up and off him.
"Turn over."
Harry scrambles to do it, then colors a little at Eggsy's small laugh.
"I don't recall asking you here to laugh at me," he says.
Eggsy chuckles. "Yeah, you're right."
He lays the flat of his hand on the lowest curve of Harry's back and gently presses down. The curve of Harry's spine deepens, forcing his arse up further. Harry's breath breaks on a vocal exhalation. Eggsy lets his other hand rest on the curve of Harry's arse.
"What did you ask me for, Mr. Hart?" Eggsy asks. He's dropped his rough South London accent for his best "Posh People" impression, which is very good indeed. It sounds not unlike a boy Harry had a painful crush on at Eton, which does things to Harry that he would rather not think about. "Ask me again."
Harry scoffs. "Oh, God, if I'd known you were going to be this sort of alpha, I'd—"
Eggsy spanks him.
It's not hard, just the single smack, but it makes Harry jerk and cry out, and of course he would pick up on that particular inclination, of course.
"Come now," Eggsy says, scolding like a primary school teacher. "Do as you're told."
Harry scoffs. "Please. I asked you in because I wanted you to fuck me silly, and instead you've decided to turn it into some stupid fucking game. If I wanted—"
Eggsy spanks him again. This time, it's harder, like he means it, and it leaves Harry gasping and quivering. Eggsy leans in and puts his lips to Harry's ear.
"Do you want me to stop?" he whispers.
Harry realizes he's being offered an out. If he wanted, he could say, "Yes, stop, and get the hell out of my room," or "Well, the hitting, yes, stop that, but I'm certainly game for the sound buggering if the offer's still on the table," or even, "I want you to quit talking and fuck me already, if you think you can take me."
Instead, Harry chooses a third option: he tilts his hips up and presents himself for his lover. There's a little wince at a lance of heat that spikes up through him, a little tremble to his limbs.
But he holds steady, and says, "Come on, boy. I had harder whippings from sixth-formers at Eton."
"Fuck."
Eggsy spanks him hard—hard enough that Harry cries out—and then does it again, and again, and then Harry is half-shouting from the sting and the emotion and the spiraling, sickening desperation that's making his legs shake.
Eggsy rubs at the reddened handprints he's left and crowds in close enough that his prick comes into contact with Harry's slick skin. "Fuck, you loved that," he breathes.
Harry squeezes his eyes shut. "Please," he whispers. He's not sure if it was loud enough for Eggsy to hear, so he says again: "Please, I want it. You."
He's slurring his words. He can't bring himself to care. Has he ever been so far out of his mind so early in heat before? Doesn't matter. He rocks back and forth on his hands and knees and groans. Eggsy's cock is riding right in the cleft of his arse, but it's not—it isn't where he—
"Fuck, fuck, you're amazing," Eggsy says. He leans back a little, pushes his cockhead down, and eases forward until he's only just outside.
Harry may sob.
"God, I wanna be good for you."
Eggsy's leaning back in, sliding in through the slickness of Harry's body, parting him and filling him up inch by inch until he's in, he's all in, except for the soft swell of the half-formed knot. It's just what Harry needed. He throws his head back and moans in relief. Eggsy runs his hand from Harry's arse up his spine to the back of his neck.
"Good?" he asks.
Harry nods. "Could…move."
"Oh. Yeah."
With a sinuous motion of his hips, Eggsy moves, and it unlocks the breath in Harry's lungs.
Harry's head is clearer now that he's getting what he needs. He's gained focus and drive, and that's given him clarity. He clenches around Eggsy. It triggers a little spasm that distracts Harry enough to make him whimper.
"Jesus, Harry, you're too much."
Harry drops his spine and gasps when the change in angle lets Eggsy drive his cock straight up into him, all the way.
"Fuck," Eggsy spits out.
"Please," Harry chokes, and isn't sure what he's begging for.
Eggsy's hips snap forward, driving the breath straight out of Harry's body in a shocked, incredulous noise.
"You like that?" Eggsy says, with his lips against Harry's ear. "Is that good?"
And of course he has to be like this. It's not enough for the boy to fuck like a harlot, all madness and wild abandon. No, he had to be caring, and attentive, and all-around a good-hearted man to boot. If it were the usual stream of alpha rutting babble, Harry could've ignored it. But he can't shut out this. Weeks from now he'll wake up wet, remembering what it felt like when Eggsy Unwin asked him how he liked to be fucked.
Harry bites his lip and nods.
"Say it for me." It's a command, technically, but it's been softened first by the gentleness of Eggsy's tone and then with the added "for me," giving it the trappings of a request. "Tell me how it feels."
Harry nearly chokes on a gasp as Eggsy drives in with particular force and accuracy. "Bloody brilliant," he slurs. "God, Eggsy, if I'd known. I would've made you have me against the dressing room mirror."
Eggsy groans. "Next time, maybe."
"You'd look incredible."
"Fuck, Harry, you got no idea what you look like right now."
"Imagine what I'd look like then," Harry challenges.
"Don't want to. Look at you now, all pink and wet and wanting everything I can give ya."
That accent, that stupid accent, why does it turn Harry on so hard it hurts? He clenches his teeth together and tries to disregard the threatening tremors in his gut. This first time happens once, and Harry doesn't want it to be over yet.
"Let it go," Eggsy croons. "Come on, Harry. I know you're holdin' out. Just let it go."
"Ah. I need—" It's the knot, it's fully formed, if Eggsy would just—
"Can you take it?"
"God, yes," Harry says in a rush.
Eggsy doesn't wait a second longer. He kicks his hips forward and his knot pops in, obliterating, overwhelming.
It's the last straw. Harry shouts and reflexively fists his hands in the sheets, squeezing and relaxing with every little jerky thrust. His insides are roiling with heat, liquid anticipation pooling in his groin and building, building, quivering until—
—he throws his head back with a roar, tightening around Eggsy in a spectacle of an orgasm. Eggsy half-howls, sinks his teeth into Harry's shoulder, and shakes as he ejaculates over and over.
This feels like ages. Probably, it's only about two or three minutes.
Finally, finally, Eggsy relaxes his hold on Harry's shoulder—the skin tingles where his teeth were—and gets a deep breath in that he lets out with a sigh.
"Down slow?" he says.
Harry nods. He's not entirely sure of his powers of speech yet.
Eggsy maneuvers them down onto their sides with just a little hiss of pain when Harry moves too quickly and tugs at Eggsy's knot. Harry winces in sympathy.
"Ah. Sorry."
"No, no, it's fine. You?"
Harry snorts. "Believe me, Eggsy, I am absolutely fine."
"Good. 'm glad. You're fuckin' lovely, you know."
Eggsy nuzzles at the back of Harry's neck. It makes Harry feel unsettlingly warm and cozy in a way entirely separate from the hot lust of heat.
"Er…thank you." God, Harry is over fifty years old. How can he be rendered this stupidly tongue-tied by a boy half his age who just fucked him silly?
"And I really like you. Like, really, really. An' it's not just because I'm drunk on your scent neither."
Harry's gaining a bit of footing beneath him here, now. "Oh, really."
"I mean, I am talkin' about it 'cause I'm drunk off you. But I swear, Harry Hart, you ask me in the morning—"
Harry clears his throat. "Ahem. Three days."
"—if you ask me in three days if I really, really like you, like in that way, I will definitely say yes. Or at least I'll come over all stupid and bug-eyed, which means yes."
Harry covers his mouth. His shoulders are shaking.
"Oi! What's so fuckin' funny, old man?"
Harry shakes his head. "No. Nothing. I…thank you. You're…er, pretty fucking lovely yourself."
In a little while, Eggsy's knot will recede, Harry's body will relax, and Eggsy will ease out. Not long after that, Harry's heat, currently burned out to glowing embers, will rekindle itself. He'll be insatiable for days. By the end of it, they'll be too exhausted to hold themselves up.
But for now, Eggsy's forehead is resting against the upper vertebrae of Harry's spine and his breath is warm and soothing on Harry's skin. Harry can still lick his lips and taste him there. When that dissipates, he can taste him again. For now, Harry is gloriously, entirely indulged.