How about "God, you're perfect." :)
The whole world is quiet. It’s warm, a comfortable temperature for Harry’s naked skin, and there’s a warm hand at the back of his neck, anchoring him. Harry can feel the heat radiating from the clothed thigh he’s leaning his forehead on, can smell honey and sandalwood under the faint tang of gunpowder.
“There, how do you feel?” Eggsy asks, his voice soft, pitched just so that each syllable relaxes Harry further, centers his world just a bit more.
“Good,” Harry says. He’s never been verbally expressive in this state, and by now they’ve been through this enough times for Eggsy to hum happily at the answer, moving his hand from Harry’s nape to his hair, petting soothingly.
“Alright, love, stand up.”
Harry stands, taking his time so that the rush of bloodflow returning to his feet doesn’t offset his balance. His knees ache a little from having knelt on the floor for so long, but the pleasant buzz in Harry’s bloodstream lessens the discomfort. He’s naked, as opposed to Eggsy, who is still sitting in the bedroom’s armchair, fully clothed, suit trousers and tie, with only his suit jacket missing. The only bare part of Eggsy is his feet, which Harry had spent a good few minutes kissing a while–hours, minutes, seconds, he no longer keeps track–ago.
“On my lap, facing me, babe.” Eggsy pats his lap, and Harry carefully climbs into the armchair, straddling Eggsy. He settles as close to Eggsy as he can, luxuriating in the warmth of contact, and Eggsy is always ever so indulgent, encouraging Harry with a hand on the small of his back, tugging him closer.
When Harry’s sitting just shy of leaning against Eggsy’s chest, Eggsy stops him and tugs his own tie loose. “Tilt your head forward, yes, like that. Thank you, love.” He wraps his tie around Harry’s eyes, taking care to make sure the blindfold isn’t done too tightly, cupping his hands around Harry’s jaw when he’s done. “You good?”
Eggsy’s hands–a killer’s hands, a protector’s hands, what does it matter when they love Harry all the same?–sweep down his neck, his shoulders, map out his chest and stomach, slide down Harry’s thighs. They don’t stray near Harry’s cock; that remains untouched for nights like these.
“God, you’re perfect,” Eggsy breathes, his reverence blindingly clear, even with Harry’s eyes covered.
The perfect one is Eggsy. Eggsy touches Harry like something to be worshipped, like something priceless. Eggsy drives the noise from Harry’s head when it gets too loud, when the screaming doesn’t stop. Eggsy makes the world quiet.
“Now, you’re going to stand up and follow me to the bed, and you’re going to be so good for me,” Eggsy says, his faith and love in Harry unwavering. “You’re going to be so good for me, Harry.”
Eggsy loves Harry. It’s in his touch, his eyes, his voice. It makes Harry want to yield, to be everything Eggsy asks him to be.
“Okay, love, let me take care of you,” Eggsy says, and the world is quiet when Harry takes the first step.
