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Sweet Disorder

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“Maybe you should get over here and fuck me,” Eggsy said, sprawled on his belly on the living room sofa, watching Coronation Street and going spare with boredom.

“Maybe you should get over here and take what you want,” Harry replied from his desk, and oh, that was absolutely a dare. He was being uppity, which meant he had to be put in his place. But then, Eggsy relished putting him in his place, so perhaps Harry was hoping to reward Eggsy, in addition to rewarding himself.

Hm. Eggsy reflected on that, for a second—should he go over there and take, like Harry had said, or lure Harry over here and take, anyway?

In the end, the thought of riding Harry’s cock in that great, big leather chair of his propelled Eggsy off the sofa and across the room, and he straddled Harry when he got there, sweeping the file that had been propped on Harry’s lap to the floor.

Harry’s lap was Eggsy’s. Nothing else deserved to be there. Ever.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “You’re a messy child, aren’t you?”

“You’ll clean up after me,” Eggsy said, not even bothering to make it an order, because Harry would. He always did. “You love cleaning up after me, don’t you?” He tangled a fist in Harry’s hair, and yanked, so that Harry’s head jerked backward and his glasses tumbled off his nose, as well.

Harry hissed, but his eyes narrowed and glittered, hungry and dark.

“You love it when I hurt you, too.”

“You’re a little devil,” Harry said, but he kept his hands to himself, because Eggsy hadn’t told him he could touch, yet. Sometimes, Eggsy wouldn’t let Harry touch him, until Harry was mad for it, begging for it.

Sometimes, but not today.

Eggsy smirked, and said, “Lift me onto the desk. Hands on my waist, but they shouldn’t wander.”

Harry did as he was instructed, and the surge with which he hoisted Eggsy effortlessly onto the desk was as breathtaking as ever. It made Eggsy hard, to think that he had all of that under his control, that he could command that powerful, deadly, well-trained body.

A body that he suddenly, desperately had to see.

“Off with your clothes. And hurry it up.”

Harry unbuttoned his shirt, neatly and efficiently, folding it over the back of his chair after undoing his tie and shrugging off his suspenders. His trousers were similarly quick work, and wound up draped next to the discarded shirt.

When Harry was naked, he stood before Eggsy, all scarred muscle and unselfconscious grace. It was entirely like being regarded by a lion, poised to leap—a lion that wouldn’t leap unless its tamer gave it leave to do so.

Eggsy took it all in, a view that he had long since memorized, but that still, inexplicably, felt new.

“My clothes, now.” He stuck out his arms. “Take your time. Tease me. You know how.”

A small smile flickered around the corners of Harry’s clever, mobile mouth, drawing attention to it, probably as he intended.

Harry unwrapped him exactly as if Eggsy were a gift—with care and devotion, with patience and finesse, bending to kiss Eggsy’s collarbone after pulling off Eggsy’s T-shirt, and peppering those same damned chaste kisses across Eggsy’s chest, not even pausing to suck on a nipple, the bastard.

Well. Eggsy had demanded to be teased.

That mysterious smile of Harry’s reappeared when Harry got to Eggsy’s sweatpants, and Eggsy’s hips hitched upward.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re great at this,” Eggsy muttered, and Harry chuckled quietly. He knelt, dragging Eggsy’s pants off as he went, and kissed Eggsy’s bare feet, parting his lips wetly, sliding them up Eggsy’s right ankle, and then up his leg, excruciatingly slow and devastatingly attentive, not missing an inch, all the way to Eggsy’s underwear-clad balls.

The moisture cooling in the wake of Harry’s light, warm, worshipful kisses raised goosebumps along Eggsy’s skin, making him shiver, and when Harry licked Eggsy’s prick through his cotton briefs, Eggsy arched, returning his grip to Harry’s hair and tugging at it.

Harry’s eyelids were heavy, and he was wearing that dreamy expression he wore whenever Eggsy let Harry service him with his mouth, whether it was swallowing Eggsy’s cock or rimming him until Eggsy ejaculated all over the sheets. God, Harry could do that for forever, and Eggsy gasped at the sense-memory of it, overlapping with the very present sensation of Harry peeling off his clammy, sticky underwear.

“You’re leaking,” Harry said, and his voice was husky, soft, as dreamy as his expression. “Would you like me to taste you?”

Harry’s own erection had thickened, lying swollen and flushed against his thigh. It looked vulnerable, there, exposed and defenseless and inviting, and so Eggsy pressed the sole of his foot to it, curling his toes inward, digging them in slightly.

Harry groaned, thrusting involuntarily at the gentle scratching of Eggsy’s nails. “You’ll be the death of me,” he said, scarcely managing to stop mid-thrust, and Eggsy removed his foot, even though a part of him was tempted to have Harry come, just like that, helpless and in Eggsy’s thrall.

“Get in me,” Eggsy said. “Prep me, if you have to—”

“Oh, I have to.”

“And get in me, already.”

“As you wish,” Harry said, gracious despite the color high in his cheeks, the perspiration beginning to dampen his temples. He rose and retrieved the lube from the first drawer of his desk, uncapping it, and that was annoying, how he didn’t fumble in spite of his lust, competent in this as in all tasks.

Annoying, and sexy. Damn it.

Eggsy spread his legs, bracing himself on his elbows so he could stare at Harry’s fingers sinking into him, shiny and slick, two of them up to the knuckles in a single, silky, gorgeous glide, because Harry had fucked Eggsy that morning and Eggsy had been just as eager for it, then.

Harry found his prostate, a spark that flashed, bright and electric, up Eggsy’s spine.

Eggsy quivered and glared. “If you make me come on anything other than your cock, you won’t be coming, at all.”

“My apologies,” Harry said, and left Eggsy’s prostate alone, but immediately worsened things by adding a third finger, stretching Eggsy enough to be a promise, but not enough to deliver on that promise.

Eggsy shifted, growing restless and impatient, but perversely savoring it when Harry refused to hasten his pace, because if Eggsy didn’t expressly tell him to, Harry inferred that Eggsy was enjoying it as it was.

Harry’s thumb massaged the rim of Eggsy’s hole in steady circles, and his gaze was fixed on Eggsy’s face, unerring and focused.

“Are you ready?” Harry murmured, like Eggsy hadn’t been ready for five million years, and hadn’t been using Harry to drive himself to distraction.

“The chair,” Eggsy said. “Wanna ride you on the chair, fuck, Harry—”

In a blink, Eggsy had been lifted again, and then dropped, directly onto Harry’s dick, as Harry sat and hauled Eggsy on top of him.

Eggsy cried out in shock, his prick spurting a string of pre-come, because Harry had entered him as swiftly and brutally as he’d needed, Harry’s unbelievable girth just abruptly inside of Eggsy, stuffing him so thoroughly that it was as though Eggsy were being split in half.

Eggsy grabbed Harry’s shoulders and said, “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” because he had to do the moving himself, had to take this, claim it, like Harry had wanted him to, like Eggsy wanted to.

He rode Harry with savage, grinding twists, being as ruthless with himself as he was with Harry, but Harry remained immobile, the strain of it tensing his jaw. He was clearly aching to give it to Eggsy like he could, but wouldn’t, because he never did what Eggsy didn’t ask him to. Because he was perfect. Because he was…

Harry’s abs rippled when the tip of Eggsy’s stiff, bouncing cock skidded against them, dribbling messily onto Harry’s stomach. Harry was breathing like he was in pain—deep, ragged inhales that ended in equally ragged moans, the sounds torn from him as Eggsy sped up, slamming down on Harry faster and faster. Each plunge was smoother, better, easier, because Eggsy was opening up and opening up, until he felt loose and slutty, glorious and wild and lit with friction, a tinder set alight with heat and movement.

Harry’s head was tilted back, the tendons of his throat standing out in stark relief, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every harsh, guttural noise that escaped past his gritted teeth, his forced paralysis turning into shudders that shook him without his consent.

He was allowing himself to be taken apart, sliver by sliver, allowing himself to be utterly disarmed, and the fact that he was giving Eggsy this, giving Eggsy his surrender and his trust, made him more incandescent and beautiful in that moment than Eggsy could bear.

Eggsy bit those corded tendons in Harry’s neck, feeling cruel and tender at once, feverish and starved and viciously possessive. But he also yearned to protect Harry, to cherish him as Eggsy was cherished, so he wrapped his arms around Harry and held him close, sweat-slippery and tight, letting Harry feel it when he came, in wracking, blinding pulses that had Eggsy’s hips stuttering, that had him clenching repeatedly on Harry’s cock.

Harry withstood the milking Eggsy gave him, because he hadn’t been permitted to orgasm, but his pupils were blank and blown and gone when Eggsy urged his chin down to look at him, to kiss him sloppily, skimming his tongue across Harry’s now-sagging mouth.

“Please,” Harry rasped, “please.”

A molten joy filled Eggsy, a fierce, glowing pride, and he said, “You can come, Harry. You’ve been so good, you’ve done so well—”

And Harry came, still unmoving, simply shooting into Eggsy’s greedily twitching arse, his eyes rolling back. Harry loved being praised, almost as much as he loved Eggsy. He’d reached the point where he couldn’t climax without Eggsy praising him, that it had become a necessity, and Eggsy adored that about him.

Eggsy continued holding Harry through the aftershocks, running his palms firmly up and down Harry’s back, whispering soothingly to him.

Eventually, Harry mumbled, drugged and muzzy and drowsy: “The chair is ruined.”

Eggsy snorted. “It’s a chair, not a virgin. You can disinfect it, later.”

“I believe it may have to be reupholstered.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” After several minutes of wordless snuggling, Harry seemed to recover himself, and Eggsy nudged him. They were glued to one another, filthy with drying semen and reeking of sex. “Shower?”

“A shower you expect to be carried to, no doubt,” Harry sighed, but caved in at Eggsy’s cheeky grin. “You exhaust me,” he said, getting up and carrying Eggsy to the bathroom, feigning fatigue with every step.

“I’ve seen you destroy a terrorist base with ten hours of constant bone-breaking and skull-shattering. You don’t fool me, old man.”

“I can’t, can I?” Harry said, fondly, and somehow contrived to switch on the shower without dislodging Eggsy.


“Ah, so I’m either a fake or a show-off?”

“You’re mine, is what you are,” Eggsy said, and as the scalding water beat down on them, he leaned in to kiss Harry again, lingering and sweet.