There was a scar on Eggsy’s left eyebrow. It ran in almost perfect 45-degree angle, cutting a neat line through the brow. It was thin, like it was drawn with a flesh-colored pencil. Sometimes, the scar was almost inconspicuous, especially when Eggsy was tired and rubbed his face with his hand, pushing his brows into disarray.
Like everything else about his young boy, Harry found it utterly fascinating.
He loved to kiss it or trace his finger gently along the scar, relishing the way Eggsy’s eyes fluttered closed and he tilted his head to give Harry better access, revealing the rapidly beating pulse point just under his jaw to Harry’s hungry lips. And because Harry couldn’t help himself, kissing the scar on Eggsy’s brow often led to activities that left them both panting and thoroughly satiated.
Neither of them had complaints about that, mind you.
”Where did you get that?” Harry asked one day, after pecking a row of kisses along Eggsy’s temple.
”What?”
”That scar on your brow.”
Eggsy shrugged and pressed closer to nose Harry’s neck. ”Frum a beer bottle or a broom. Don’t remember.”
His hand trailed along Harry’s side, making him shiver, but it wasn’t what made Harry pause.
”A bar brawl?”
Eggsy snorted. ”Nah, it was ’un frum Dean, just like most of me scars.”
He said it in such an offhanded way that Harry let out an angry breath.
Eggsy raised his head, giving him an incredulous look. ”What?”
”Eggsy, you can’t just say it like that!”
”Well, how wos I supposed to say it then? Dean used to smack me around a lot. Things like that leave scars, luv.”
Harry lowered his forehead on Eggsy’s chest and let out a long-suffering sigh. How could he explain to Eggsy what unsettled him so, when he couldn’t even explain it to himself?
Gently, Eggsy poked him in the head. ”Hey, no need to get all worked up. It’s nothing.”
”It’s definitely not nothing!” Harry scoffed into his skin, almost petulant.
He didn’t feel like ravishing Eggsy anymore, he wanted to wrap his precious boy into his arms and never let go. Sensing his mood, Eggsy squirmed a bit, and then settled with a contented sigh.
”Y’know, you can always make new marks on me skin,” he shyly suggested after a moment.
This time, when Harry shivered, it was all on Eggsy.
To Harry, Eggsy’s skin was a canvas: wide, open planes to trace his affections with lips and fingers, to press down his marks as if to say I was here. It wasn’t about possession — even though Harry was man enough to admit he was possessive about his lover, almost ridiculously so for an old man — it was about making a statement. Eggsy might have gained his first scars through pain and suffering, but Harry was damn well going to make sure his new marks were there because they both wanted to.
They were a brand, signs of worship.
If the way Eggsy let out strangled moans when Harry bit his marks on the soft skin on his thigh or lower abdomen was anything to go by, he too was amenable to Harry’s interpretation.
True, Harry found every single scar on Eggsy’s skin fascinating. He wasn’t above playing favorites, however.