
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8036674.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kingsman_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Harry_Hart_|_Galahad/Gary_"Eggsy"_Unwin
  Character:
      Harry_Hart_|_Galahad, Gary_"Eggsy"_Unwin, Michelle_Unwin
  Collections:
      Dark_Kingsman_Block_Party
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-14 Words: 2963
****** Treacherous Servant ******
by InOmniaParatus
Summary
     Some people, Harry decided, simply needed to be taught lessons.
     Manners, human decency, parenting—the general population seemed to be
     either completely inept or wilfully ignorant. It set his teeth on
     edge.
     He couldn’t fathom what it was that caused this lapse—honestly, most
     things were common sense. Don’t let bad men hurt your child, for
     example. It was a simple concept, generally taken care of by basic
     maternal instinct.
     And yet, here he was reading little Gary Unwin’s hospital record and
     the related arrest report of one Dean Baker.
Notes
     Part of the DKBP Secret Santa
     Freebird is basically the best, as always.
      
     Self-justification is a treacherous servant.
     - Wellington Mara
Some people, Harry decided, simply needed to be taught lessons. Manners, human
decency, parenting—the general population seemed to be either completely inept
or wilfully ignorant. It set his teeth on edge.
He couldn’t fathom what it was that caused this lapse—honestly, most things
were common sense. Don’t let bad men hurt your child, for example. It was a
simple concept, generally taken care of by basic maternal instinct.
And yet, here he was reading little Gary Unwin’s hospital record and the
related arrest report of one Dean Baker. The police were going to have to
release Baker soon, of course, because the boy’s mother made all the typical,
red flag excuses about clumsiness and boys-will-be-boys and the social worker
couldn’t get the boy to speak at all.
Lee would be rolling in his grave.
And that was the bit that stuck in Harry’s craw--Lee was an altogether
protective creature, a dedicated father, a good man. He’d only been dead eight
bloody months, and already the widow had moved on to a man who abused her son.
And it was most assuredly abuse. Tripping down a stairwell simply couldn’t
cause fractures in that spiral pattern.
Anything could happen and it likely would; Harry saw it in hundreds of
scenarios through his work. The human race was nearly impossible to convince
that the worst could happen to them. People know, in abstract, that bad things
happen. People die of cancer every day, for example. Everyone knows this, they
cluck their tongues mournfully and they donate a couple of pounds to the
charity tin when they’re asked, but they never truly think that it will touch
their lives. That’s just something that happens to other people.
You see the same sort of thing when serial killers are caught: Some baffled
neighbour is always in front of a camera, telling all and sundry watching the
evening news that they simply cannot believe what has happened. He was such a
nice bloke, they say. This is such a quiet town, such a community. Things like
this just don’t happen here.
And Michelle Unwin was a prime example of that mentality. Most mothers, when
faced with the overwhelming evidence that their child has been abused—perhaps
even having witnessed it—would scream it to the world, a steady finger pointed
at the villain, and keep screaming until they’ve locked up the abuser and
thrown away the key.
They do not, in Harry’s varied experience, keep things quiet. They do not lie
to doctors. They do not somehow convince their frightened, broken child to stay
silent. No, that’s a different type of mother altogether.
Women like Michelle Unwin are sure it’s just this one time, honey. It won’t
happen again. He was just in a bad mood, was just cross because he had a hard
day at work. They tell themselves that the most recent incident was the last
time, that things will get better if only they behave better. Or the children
aren’t so noisy. Or the office wasn’t so stressful. They tell themselves that
nothing truly bad will happen. It’s just an accident, a bit of temper. It’s not
really child abuse, like you see on the news. That sort of thing happens to
other families. Worse ones.
Women like Michelle Unwin never truly believe that tragedy can affect them
until it does, and Harry refused to pick up a newspaper one morning and read
that Lee Unwin’s son, with his clever eyes and pudgy cheeks, had been murdered
by his mother’s drunken lout of a boyfriend.
She’d have to be shown what happens if she allowed dangerous men access to her
little boy. It was the only way.
He told her as much, too, but he didn’t reckon she believed him yet. Or perhaps
she did. It was difficult to tell once he shot her with that paralysing dart.
The ball gag and restraints didn’t lend themselves too well to conversation,
either.
No matter. The lesson was meant to be a visual one, anyway.
He shut the wardrobe door, the vent slats on it shimmied open enough to give
her a front-row seat, just as the flat’s door opened and a little voice called
out: “Mum! I’m home!”
Harry made his way down the hall, the unvacuumed rug keeping his footsteps
silent, and listened to the boy’s rambling.
“Can I go play some footie with Ryan and Jamal? I won’t get my cast dirty,
swear down.”
He kept on pleading and promising for a few moments more, moments where Harry
admired his energy, his resilience. Eggsy must’ve been so frightened through
his ordeal and all the while been grieving his father, and still he was
bounding around, smiling and laughing and begging to kick a ball around with
his mates.
It made him happy to know that the boy had Lee’s strength, that he’d rise above
his father’s death and his mother’s neglect, that he’d slough off Baker’s
abuse--and even what was about to happen here with Harry--like a snake sheds
its skin.
He was a good, strong boy, and Harry felt a surge of pride.
Eggsy let his book bag fall to his feet and raised his chin defiantly. “Who are
you?” he asked, in a tone that clearly implied  and what do you want ?
Harry smiled at the boy, calm and reassuring. “Hello, Eggsy. I’m Harry. I was a
friend of your father, do you remember?”
The boy didn’t answer, anxiety starting to sharpen his soft, handsome features.
“Where’s my mum?”
Harry suppressed the urge to sigh. He supposed he ought to be glad that someone
had at least instilled stranger danger into the boy.
“I’m afraid it’s just you and me for now, Eggsy. I’d like you to follow me,
please.”
Eggsy took a step backward towards the door. “Listen, mister, I ain’t gonna
tell no one you’re here. I’m just gonna leave and wait for my mum.”
Harry smiled, less softly now, and lifted his hand to show his Kingsman-issued
pistol—not to point, not even to threaten, really. Just to show the boy where
things stood.
Harry reached forward and placed his hand lightly on the boy’s trembling
shoulder. “Follow me, Eggsy.”
He led the child down the hall and into Michelle’s bedroom, applying gentle
pressure to his tiny shoulder until he sat on the hideous floral duvet. He felt
like a bird under Harry’s large hand—tiny and fragile, pulse hammering wildly.
Part of Harry fretted that he might break the boy. Part of him ached to.
“Now,” he started, more to fill the silence and get things moving along than to
actually explain anything. He shut the bedroom door with his foot. “There is a
very important reason I’m here, Eggsy, but I won’t burden you with it. The only
thing you need to know is that if you’re a good boy and do everything I ask of
you, everything will be alright. I’ll even take care of the nasty man who did
that to your arm. Would you like that?”
The boy remained silent, his bright, fearful eyes darting from Harry’s gun to
the door before settling on the stranger’s face.
Harry crouched down, hoping that being eye level with the boy would be less
intimidating for him—if only slightly. He dropped his hand from the boy’s
shoulder to his knee, slowly and whisper-soft, and pressed his other hand and
the gun within it against his hip. Harry could feel the heat and soft curve
though the scratchy trousers of Eggsy’s school uniform.
“You can do that, can’t you, Eggsy? You can be a good boy for me?”
He slid his hand from the boy’s knee, ghosting over his thigh to cup the front
of his trousers.
Eggsy’s round little face instantly flushed pink and his bottom lip wobbled
pitifully. He painted such a lovely and wretched picture that Harry was at once
painfully hard and hopelessly enamoured.
He kneaded his palm over the boy’s crotch, letting the sounds of their laboured
breathing fill the room. He struggled against the urge to go faster, to take
and consume and devour until they were both spent. This opportunity was a rare
and precious thing, Eggsy was a rare and precious thing, wiggling and
whimpering against the firm pressure of his hand, and Harry refused to allow
himself to fuck it up, to do anything but savour it.
His fingers trembled with excitement as he drew the boy’s zip down. Eggsy
became still and silent when Harry drew his trousers and Pokemon pants down to
his knees, obviously taking Harry’s good boy request to heart even as his eyes
welled up with tears.
Harry didn’t take his eyes off the boy’s face as he wrapped two fingers around
his firm little cocklet and began to stroke gently. He was rewarded with a
gasp, soft lips parting to expose a set of too-large front teeth and an
enticingly pink tongue.
He stared, fixated, at the boy’s mouth while his fingers worked the boy up,
changing the rhythm and speed until he was a writhing, mewling mess and Harry
thought he might go mad with want.
Eggsy whimpered when Harry withdrew his hand to fumble his own zip, and Harry
wasn’t sure if it was the sound that made him moan or the sudden feeling of
cool air against his sensitive cock. Eggsy’s eyes widened at the sight and he
shifted back a few inches.
Harry stood, pulling Eggsy closer to the edge of the bed as he went. He grasped
the boy’s chin with his forefinger and thumb—not hard enough to hurt, but
firmly enough to show him that skittering away wouldn’t be permitted. Once the
boy had stilled, Harry tapped gently on his rabbity teeth.
“If you bite me,” he said, voice gravelly. “I will rip these right out of your
mouth. And there won’t be any new ones coming in to replace them, will there?”
It took a few moments to find a comfortable angle, but then Eggsy’s mouth was
heaven. It was smaller, of course, than he was used to, but seemed somehow
softer and hotter. Harry quickly decided that nothing in life could feel as
good as pressing his cock against the spongy heat at the back of Eggsy’s
throat, except perhaps the glorious retching spasms as the boy gagged and
struggled against him.
He grasped the back of Eggsy’s neck with his free hand and settled his other
hand—and the gun—atop the boy’s head, mindful of the trigger. He used his grip
to push and pull the boy, fucking into his mouth and moving his little body
with as little effort and care as he would a rag doll.
Eggsy, for his part, could not be more perfect. His sweet, pudgy face had
turned so red and his cheeks were wet with tears. His tiny hands pushed against
Harry’s thighs, ineffective but oh so erotic, and when Harry drew back to allow
the boy a few gasping breaths, thick saliva dripped down his chin.
“Please,” the boy gasped. “Please, I can’t br—”
Fucking Eggsy’s mouth was perfection, and Harry wanted more and more. He wanted
to carry on for hours, to feel Eggsy’s hot tears fall on his cock and his angry
little fists beat against his sides. He wanted to hear the boy choke on his
cum, wanted to clamp his hand over the boy’s mouth until he’d swallowed every
drop of it.
But as he felt his orgasm approach, he realised that he didn’t want this to end
quite yet. He didn’t only want to hear the boy choke, he wanted to hear the
boy, full stop.
He  wanted— needed —more, and, after all, he wanted to ensure that this lesson
would sink in properly, didn’t he?
Harry gripped the boy by the hair and pushed him backwards onto the bed. Eggsy
rolled over onto himself, still coughing and choking, paying no mind to Harry
as he collected a bottle of lotion from his mother’s bedside table.
He wrinkled his nose at the mess Eggsy made of the duvet. He could feel the boy
tremble as Harry pulled him across his lap and shoved his trousers down by his
trainers.  He wondered if Eggsy knew what was next, if he’d guessed, if he was
afraid.
He gave Eggsy’s bum a squeeze, because he couldn’t help himself, and took a
moment to appreciate the sight before him. The boy was slimmer than he was
eight months ago, and taller, too. His growth spurt left him a bit gangly, with
narrow hips and spindly limbs that made Harry want to see how far Eggsy could
bend. His skin was silky-smooth and perfect.
Harry silently slipped his gun back into its holster and clicked open the
lotion. He dribbled a bit onto two of his fingers and paused a moment to
consider what he was about to do.
With his clean hand, he reached across the boy’s still-panting body and secured
his upper arm with a firm grip, right above the cast. Harry didn’t want to set
the boy’s recovery back, after all. He wasn’t a monster.
So he secured the boy’s injured arm and, without warning, pushed two fingers
into Eggsy’s remarkably tight hole.
Eggsy screamed and kicked his little feet. He begged for Harry to stop in a
high, wheedling voice that only spurred Harry on.
He relished the feeling of the tiny, smooth body bucking and writhing against
him as he scissored his fingers. A glorious litany of  it hurts  and  please
and  stop  filled the air and, perhaps best of all, Harry could still feel
Eggsy’s firm cocklet pressing against his knee.
He pressed the pads of his fingers against Eggsy’s prostate, rubbing in a
small, circular motion. The boy’s begging morphed into panting and needy,
whimpering sounds. His struggles became friction-seeking wiggles.
Harry felt it, the moment Eggsy came. He could feel the glorious squeeze around
his fingers, the tensing of Eggsy’s tiny body under the weight of Harry’s
grasp. He longed to know how it would feel around his throbbing prick in place
of his aching fingers.
He pulled out of the boy and shifted them on the bed, wiping his fingers on the
hideous duvet before covering Eggsy’s body with his own.
The boy was so,  so  small beneath him—a fragile, quivering rabbit beneath the
body of a hungry wolf—but he let himself be manhandled into the position Harry
wanted him in. He kept the boy on his stomach, legs pressed tightly together.
Harry was surprised to find he quite liked Eggsy this way, too—pliant and
trembling.
He slicked a palmful of lotion onto his cock and pressed himself between the
squeeze of Eggsy’s thighs. Fucking himself into the warm friction felt
exquisite, hovering over such a little, perfect body felt powerful.
He was close—so close—in an almost embarrassingly short amount of time, but he
was so worked up and so turned on that he didn’t mind. He just wanted to come,
to mark the boy, claim him as his own. He only needed something to push him
over the edge.
Harry rose up onto his knees, watching his cock thrust in and out of smooth,
spindly thighs, and spread the boy’s full arse cheeks with his rough palms.
He just wanted to—just a little—just for a moment—
Eggsy shrieked when Harry pressed his cock into his tight little hole and
arched his back up like a cat. He struggled even as Harry came, painting the
inside of the boy with his release.
Harry sighed as he pulled out of his shallow sheath, content and gratified. He
wanted to capture the moment, this view forever and wished that he’d thought to
bring his glasses along.
Eggsy was a vision, sprawled on the bed with his limbs akimbo. His chest heaved
with shuddering breaths. Harry’s come leaked from Eggsy’s abused hole and his
chubby little face was pink and streaked with tears.
Harry thought he looked lovely.
He tucked himself back into his pants and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Does your arm hurt?” he asked gently.
Eggsy sniffled and nodded.
“Let’s find you some paracetamol, then.”
He lead the boy to the loo, scavenging behind the mirror until he found the
little bottle and a cup, and instructed Eggsy to sit on the edge of the tub
until he returned.
It took him a bit to find plastic bags and rubber bands, but he was pleased to
find Eggsy exactly where he left him.
He sat on the toilet and, without a word, pulled the boy closer so he could
start wrapping the boy’s cast in the plastic. He was as gentle as he could
be—and as thorough—and when he was done, he wrapped the boy in a hug.
Eggsy smelled of sunshine and sweat. Harry knew, then, what he would do.
Once he settled his little friend in the shower and tore his eyes away from the
way the water beaded on Eggsy’s skin, he made his way across the corridor and
opened the wardrobe door.
Michelle Unwin put as much hate as she could into her angry glare, though it
was a bit hard to tell if the tears that streaked down her face were from what
she’d seen or from the way the paralyzing darts kept her from blinking. In the
end, like many things, it didn’t matter.
Harry pulled his gun from its holster and a suppressor from his pocket. While
he screwed the suppressor on, he looked Eggsy’s mother dead in in the eye and
spoke to her:
“You know, I think I’ll keep him.”
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