Quentin keeps his hand on the back of Eggsy's head, fisting into his hair now, pulling a little. He swats again, again, again. On his ass, on the back of his thighs. Sometimes he pauses, lets the welts and warmth settle in.

Eggsy looks lovely, with the blossom of bruises from the wack of the crop. The rod of it has caught, purposefully, over his thighs. Now, more than ever before, he wants to have this technology. Not for this purpose, but to engineer it into his own.