A/N:
thank you to Dutch (itsevanffs on AO3) for being my vibe check for the sexy times.
for reference, tom is 20 and harry is in his 50s. oop.
irrelevant but also relevant: i imagine this harry potter either as a dimension-traveler or a time-traveler. he landed a decade or something before tom was even born, then went out of his way to reform the hogwarts education system specifically to prevent tom from becoming a dark lord.
soooo it worked... it worked a little too well... cause tom took one look at dilf harry and started simping hard. but hey. who wouldn't?
anyway my bottom tom crusade continues. create the content you want to see in the world etc etc. i wanna see bratty tom get wrecked, so here we are.
tags/warnings:
explicit content, age difference, praise kink, power dynamics, office/desk sex, over-stimulation
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A Moment of Your Time
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A moment of your time, Minister Potter?
Tom loathes the words. They leave the mouths of the bootlickers, the halfwits, the bottom of the Ministry barrel. The Minister owes no one his time, least of all the dullards who have to ask for it.
Minister Potter is far too generous in a world where generosity is often taken advantage of. He knows all his employees by name and addresses them with familiarity. He gives everyone at the Ministry his cheerful hellos, his warm smiles. He gives and he gives, so much that it's a wonder he has anything left at all for himself.
Tom works as an assistant in the Department of Mysteries. His work is important, but it is guarded by layers of secrecy and piles of paperwork. The Minister, however, is a man privy to these affairs. He visits their level from time to time, as he does with each department in the Ministry.
It is an exciting time for all when the Minister comes to call. Tom does his best to stand proud, to be worthy of note, to be special. Minister Potter smiles at them all, but he doesn't smile at Tom—at least, he doesn't smile in the same way. When Minister Potter looks Tom's way, his lips curl differently and his gaze lingers a touch too long.
Tom stares back, unabashed. Salt and pepper hair that always looks windswept, brilliant emerald green eyes, and broad shoulders that once carried a rowdy Gryffindor Quidditch team to victory seven years in a row. Tom has checked the student records to be sure. He has seen the photographs.
Said photographs showcase a handsome young man with a great love of flying and the leadership skills required to guide a group of hot-headed teenagers to victory.
How quickly Tom has learned that the Minister's genial nature does not mean weakness. Bigotry is not tolerated. Corruption is not tolerated. Minister Potter's strength of will is to be admired and his moral compass is impeccable. That is not to say he is perfect; the man is a risk-taker through and through. He can be quick to temper when the right barb lands the wrong way.
But Minister Potter's work is flawless, respectable. He has been involved at the highest levels of the Ministry for years. He pushed reforms that have modernized Hogwarts education. He rewrote legislation to ease the way for Muggleborn students and their families. There is a scholarship—one that Tom was granted in his fifth year for achieving the highest O.W.L. marks to date—funded by Potter vaults. If not for Minister Potter, Tom's Hogwarts education would have been very different.
After an inappropriate amount of research that involved scouring archived editions of the Prophet for photographs, sixteen-year-old Tom had written a lengthy thank-you letter to Mr. Potter, as was appropriate to do for such a generous donor. He had received a brief, but polite, reply in response. It had been disappointing, but a high-ranking Ministry official would have little time to spare for a fifth-year Hogwarts student, even a brilliant one.
Still, that hadn't stopped Tom from wanking every other night to photos of the older man. Something about Harry Potter was different. Tom had never felt more attracted to anyone else, older or otherwise, but he was willing to dismiss it as the result of teenage hormones.
At Tom's Hogwarts graduation, Mr. Potter was there. As a favour to Professor Slughorn, he'd said. Harry Potter had shaken Tom's hand and smiled. He had asked about Tom's NEWTs and plans for after Hogwarts. Harry's presence was warm, comforting. His grip was firm and reassuring. Tom had been… not smitten... but the strength of his attraction had not faded, and thus was stronger than ever after such a delightful in-person exposure.
That night, while his classmates drank their weight in firewhiskey at the Leaky, Tom pictured himself in a secluded hallway—crushed against the wall by a taller, larger form—and fucked his own fist until he came with a hoarse cry of Harry's name.
After graduation, Tom spent a year at Borgin's, toiling away, wasting his talents. It was not where he wanted to be, but he'd had little choice due to his lack of blood status. It was only due to a chance conversation between Borgin and Harry that Tom at last arrived at the Ministry, where he truly belonged.
This time, Tom is unwilling to be cast aside and ignored. He will not lose his chance. He will climb the ladder of Ministry peons until he reaches the very top, until Minister Potter at last gives him the acknowledgement he deserves.
Because Minister Potter treats everyone kindly, regardless of their gender, race, or blood status. Minister Potter treats everyone the same except for Tom.
It is maddening. At all hours of the day, Tom ponders the man's behaviour. He learns the Minister's routine and sets about orchestrating... incidents. He flashes a smile that would weaken the knees of nearly anyone in this madhouse of a Ministry. He presents his most impressive achievements, achievements that have won him accolades and respect in the eyes of his peers.
Tom has been at the Ministry for just over a year, just as long as Harry has been Minister, yet Harry only ever offers Tom mild congratulations for a job perfectly done.
Minister Potter needs to look at him. Needs to see him. When their eyes do meet, is that indescribable emotion Tom glimpses in the man's eyes the product of something more? If that emotion is anything like what Tom feels, the way his chest tightens whenever Harry is near, as if his heart beats for the sole purpose of breaking out of his ribcage, then there is more to this situation than meets the eye. There has to be.
Tom's handsome face is a gift, a glittering gem that draws attention wherever he goes. It is also a weapon, composed of porcelain angles that mask the wolf within. If it is his appearance that attracts the Minister's attention, then Tom might be satisfied, but the way his name sounds in Harry Potter's mouth, soft and round and familiar, inspires him to hope for more. It stirs an ache in him.
Tom has always hated his name—the plainness of it, its link to the father who never wanted him—but in those brief instances where Harry forms the syllables with care, with kindness, Tom almost likes it.
He thinks Minister Potter must like him, to treat him this way. To act indifferent but gentle, to let his eyes linger in ways they never linger on others.
So Tom dreams and plots until the perfect opportunity arises. It is a late Friday evening; nearly everyone has gone home. Tom knows the Minister's schedule, however, and so he snatches up a last-minute task from his supervisor, Rookwood, and makes haste for the Atrium.
Harry Potter is there, as Tom knew he would be.
"Minister Potter," Tom greets, walking forward with grace. He never runs, not like Rowle, who is eager-to-please and has done nothing worthy to substantiate his behaviour.
"Tom," says Minister Potter. The caution in his tone is barely discernible, but Tom notices it. Tom notices everything.
The Minister's glasses catch the gold lights of the Ministry atrium. His eyes crinkle slightly on the sides. The man is on his way out, on his way home. Alone, of course. There are rumours of lovers, of men and women alike, but at the end of the day, Minister Potter has no spouse to speak of.
Tom pauses to breathe in, to commit the sight of his Minister to memory. Today, Minister Potter wears bottle-green robes with silver trimmings. The green compliments his eyes. The fabric is cut well and flatters his figure—not that he needs it. Minister Potter is fit for his age, the result of many weekend Quidditch matches with friends, or so Tom's heard.
Riding a broom, well, that requires finesse, doesn't it? It requires strong core muscles. Tom would like to run his hands over the man's abdomen to uncover the truth for himself, but that is a thought for another time.
"Tom?" Minister Potter licks his lips; it is a nervous habit, but it jolts Tom's thoughts back to their previous track—the delirious track of unbridled lust.
"Apologies," Tom replies, "I must have lost my train of thought." He pauses for effect, drops his gaze a few inches down, then says with wonderment, "Are those new robes?"
Minister Potter flushes. Tom grins inwardly with triumph at the sight. They've played this game before. Tom wins every time. "Are they too much?"
"Nonsense. They're quite flattering." Tom smiles this time, the practiced smile of a charming young man with a bright future.
To Tom's dismay, Minister Potter's momentary disquiet fades to neutrality. He straightens his robes out, polite demeanour in place as he says, "Thank you. Did you have something you wanted to ask me?"
Who am I to you? What do you think of me? Do you want me?
"Rookwood asked me to deliver this to you before you left for the day."
"Oh, wonderful." Minister Potter takes the folder from him. Their fingers touch briefly. Tom watches the progress of the folder as Minister Potter's hand makes an admirable attempt at holding steady. It's absurd, the excess of words that leap to Tom's mind. Wonderful. Lovely. Delightful. All of this and more, he attributes to the presence of his Minister.
"Is—is that all?" The repetition gives Minister Potter away. It gives so much away—
A man who cowers to no one, who frightens even the oldest of Pureblood families into compliance, stutters when Tom touches his hand.
Tom leans in, close enough that it could be construed as scandalous if not for the nearly-empty Atrium, and presses his palm over the man's chest. There is a fluttering heartbeat, the palpitations that confirm more than professional interest. That confirms Tom is someone more, someone special.
"Have a lovely weekend, Harry."
Lesser men would be sacked for this, Tom knows. He watches as Minister Potter's expression hardens like stone, his lips flattening with disapproval. Tom is unfazed, lost in his own certainties. If he were to stand closer...
Minister Potter does not pull back the way his ruddy cheeks and furrowed brow would suggest he ought to. He holds still and pins Tom in place with his beautiful eyes. "Watch yourself, Tom." It is a serious warning, but the power Harry emanates is positively mouthwatering. Tom does not shrink back from it, no, he wants to lean into it, to drown himself in the Minister's magic with the hope that it might merge into him and stay there.
In this moment, what Tom wants is the answer to his unspoken question. Though it pains him to do so, he tears his eyes away and scans the Atrium for unwanted company. Then, once he is assured the place is empty—it must be, for such a late hour on a Friday—he resumes his examination of the Minister.
"Do you think about me?" Tom demands.
"I—what? No." This time, Minister Potter allows his confusion to settle over his face.
Knowing he is seconds away from incurring Minister Potter's anger, Tom berates himself for his impulsiveness and rephrases: "Who am I, to you?"
The response is firm. Minister Potter pries Tom's hand off his chest and tosses it aside. "You're Tom Riddle."
"I don't believe you."
"You—" The diatribe dies abruptly, replaced by an eerie calm that raises the hairs on the back of Tom's neck. Minister Potter's heavy breath passes like a shroud through the air between them before he says in a rough voice, "You have no idea what you're talking about."
The words are cold, downright inhospitable. Minister Potter has never looked upon him with such dislike before. Tom swallows his unease, intent on seeming unbothered. "I think I do. You don't treat me like you do the rest. I'm different." There is a plea tucked into the end of his sentence, a plea that Tom refuses to acknowledge, his desire to be acknowledged and praised above all else.
His Hogwarts professors ask after him constantly. His supervisor and co-workers adore him. Tom Riddle is beloved by all, yet it is the attention of the Minister he wishes to command. It is Harry Potter's attention and favour he craves for undefined reasons.
"You are different," repeats Minister Potter. Surprise flashes across the Minister's face in the wake of his own admission. A mistake? A mistake that Tom accepts, cradles close like a sacred promise. "You are… you have a bright future here at the Ministry, Tom."
It is a hollow, placating statement. Tom dislikes it immediately. "I am more than that. I can be. I will be." For this man, he could be anything. He could be a right hand, a weapon, a lover. Tom has aspirations of being Minister someday, but in the meantime, he can settle for being Harry's partner.
"I think... it's best if you go home," Minister Potter says softly. Tom hears the threat underneath, gentled by the man's compassion and empathy. Go home, it says. Leave this be.
Tom feels sixteen again, discontent and disregarded. He hates it. He won't stand for it. "And if I refuse to?" Refuses this refusal of his person. This denial of what lies between them, the mystery of those unreadable eyes, the hum of danger that dances over Tom's skin like pinpricks of static. He has waited too long for this opportunity to slip away from him.
"Leave before you do something we'll both regret." The Minister's voice is fraught with strain, with the tension that pulses in the air, heavy waves of natural magic gathering in response to their emotions.
Regret is for cowards. For those afraid to make leaps, for those too weak to seize what they want. Tom sheds his outer robe and folds it neatly. He shrinks it down and places it in his bag while the Minister watches him with confusion.
Once the robe is gone, Tom undoes his cufflinks and rolls up his shirtsleeves. He takes his time with it, drinks in the Minister's attention like fine wine. Tom's arms are lean, the veins faintly visible; his wrists are slender, the fingers of his hands long and delicate.
Tom cants his head to the side and raises his hands to his neck, to his tie and the buttons beneath it, to the pale column of his neck. He is pretty, he knows. Men look at him when they shouldn't, and the Minister is no different.
"Having regrets?" Tom asks quietly. "I think not."
Minister Potter's jaw ticks with irritation, but he does not move. Is he waiting to see if Tom will continue to strip in front of him, here in the empty Atrium where anyone can walk in and see them? The idea has merit. If someone did come, would the Minister whisk them away?
Tom won't be refused. Not here, not like this. Tom knows better; if he was to press himself into the Minister's arms, he would not be denied. He is so sure of this that he is willing to risk it all, to leave his future in the capable hands of the man standing before him.
"You like me," Tom says. "You want to see me succeed. You never say so, but it's true."
"I'd like to see you going home, Tom."
"Not without you, Harry."
"Over-familiarity does you no favours—"
Tom lurches forward, all lips and teeth, sealing the rest of the words away. Sealing the reprimand away. The Minister's hand seizes his wrist hard enough to bruise, but Tom feels no pain; he hears the man's grunt of surprise, feels the magic that flares between them, the burn of stubble against his own clean-shaven skin.
Minister Potter could flatten him—his magical core is much stronger than Tom's. If they dueled, Tom would need to rely on speed and cleverness to see himself to victory. But they will not duel, Tom thinks dizzily as he rebalances his weight, shifting to lean against the Minister's chest, to press himself closer, to feel the muscle he'd dreamed of touching minutes earlier.
Too soon, the warm lips beneath his own are wrenched away. They are both panting: Tom with heady arousal, the Minister with anger and exertion. It doesn't last long before Tom is unceremoniously shoved against the nearest wall, brick and mortar pressed cold and sharp against his back.
"Too far?" Tom says, smirking. The hand on his chest spreads over his heart, fingers digging into the fabric of Tom's dress shirt. Tom licks his lips and tastes iron.
"Too far," Minister Potter agrees breathlessly. "I could have you fired for this."
"But you won't." The wall is uncomfortable, but Tom braces his shoulders against so he can arch his back. The hand pinning his left side down pushes down in response, prompting Tom to lift his free hand to his collar and, with a practiced motion, flick open another button.
Minister Potter stares at the v-shape of Tom's open shirt for longer than is strictly appropriate. Tom wants to kiss him again, to slot their mouths together and let the heat of arousal consume him, but he thinks there is the very real threat of Minister Potter's hand coming up to strangle him if he does, so he holds still. He can behave—somewhat.
"Well?" Tom asks in a lazy drawl thick with amusement. "What will you do, Minister?"
The Minister looks him up and down. Tom preens silently, waiting, sure that this moment will be what pushes them over the edge.
"You're ridiculous," Minister Potter declares after his perusal is done.
Tom is offended, and it must show on his face because the Minister's lips curl into a smug smile.
"It all comes so easily to you, doesn't it? Everything comes easily to you. Doing magic. Charming people into doing your bidding. I can't say you've never worked a day in your life—that would be untrue—but you've never had to work hard for anything you have and it shows."
The scolding is not delivered unkindly, but Tom feels anger rise to colour his cheeks. "I graduated Hogwarts with the highest marks in over a century. I even bested Dumbledore." Minister Potter speaks fondly of the man. Tom hates it, hates Dumbledore. Tom is better than Dumbledore in every conceivable way—Harry should be speaking and thinking of Tom and Tom only.
Minister Potter continues as if Tom hadn't spoken. "No one denies you anything. Jobs, money, attention. Everything Tom Riddle wants, he gets."
This makes him sound like a child. A pompous, spoiled child. Tom seethes, aware that his wand is a soundless spell away from leaping into his hand. Indignation clouds his judgement, he knows, but it also fuels him. He could take what he wants—or at least he could try.
Green eyes bore into his. "And now Tom Riddle wants me, is that it?"
The question is innocuous, but the tone is very, very dangerous. Tom meets Minister Potter's unreadable gaze with his own. To admit his desire would give up too much. To confess his wants would open him to vulnerability, to weakness.
However, this is not a man who will submit to him. Harry Potter is the Minister for Magic, is older than Tom by nearly three decades, and is more powerful by far. For Tom to get what he wants—who he wants—he will have to make concessions.
"I want you to fuck me," Tom says between gritted teeth. It is as truthful as he can bring himself to be.
Minister Potter nods once. His hand moves, sliding up and up until it cradles Tom's throat with delicacy. Tom swallows for emphasis, permits the motion of his Adam's apple to roll downwards, brushing against the Minister's rough, calloused palm. It feels good. Tom has the urge to undo another shirt button, but for once he reins in his impulse and waits to see what will happen.
As if reading his thoughts, Minister Potter shifts backward. His fingers remain wrapped around the column of Tom's neck, but his expression is thoughtful, calculating, like Tom is an evocative marble statue, frozen in place for thorough assessment.
Tom holds as still as he can. He is being touched, which is what he wants. He is being looked at, being given the attention he deserves. This he will excel in, as he does with everything else. This, too, will come easily to him. When Minister Potter's eyes touch upon his, Tom flutters his lashes and offers a demure smile.
"Brat," says the Minister, but it sounds fond. "Do you think that tempts me?"
If Minister Potter was the kind of man who fell prey to such weak flirtations, he would not be nearly as interesting. Tom likes the difficulty, the push and pull of their dance together. However, he is also restless and determined to get a reaction. "How shall I tempt you, then?" Tom asks boldly, chin tilted upwards in defiance.
The Minister's hand drops away as he steps back abruptly, leaving Tom half-slumped against the wall, disoriented by the sudden distance between them. Tom scans the Atrium for workers, for an explanation, but his instinctive action is halted by the Minister's firm but insistent cough. Reluctantly, Tom shifts his gaze back to the figure of his obsession.
"On your knees would be an excellent start."
Fine. He can play this game. Slowly and without breaking eye contact, Tom lowers himself to the ground, spreading his legs wide as he goes. His shirt is halfway undone, wrinkling distastefully as his body curves to accommodate his new position; his trousers draw taut against his thighs as they flex against the cotton fabric.
Tom does struggle towards the end—the sluggishness of his movements makes it difficult to balance. He has to be careful lest he topple and sprawl himself at the Minister's feet.
As soon as Tom's knees touch the floor, the Minister's hand returns to him, winding like garden vines through his hair. "Very good."
Tom wonders if other men have come before him, if other men have knelt at the Minister's feet, servile and desperate. They are nothing, no one, but the worry plagues Tom nonetheless. Surely the Minister has his pick of bedfellows—
Minister Potter roughly tugs Tom's head backwards, stalling any other thought. Tom whines low in his throat without thinking. The sudden jerk is painful, but not overly so. His muscles burn the slightest amount and the stretch is not yet uncomfortable.
"If you want me to fuck you," says Minister Potter, "then you'd best pay attention to me. I've no time for your games and tricks, Riddle."
The use of his surname hits differently. Tom bares his teeth in a devil's grin and leans back, throwing his weight in the direction of the Minister's grip. His scalp hurts as Minister Potter yanks him forwards, but it is a momentary pain, forgettable in the face of the ecstasy that will come.
The Minister squats down and leans in until his face is inches from Tom's. He appears amused to have cornered Tom in such a submissive position. Tom licks his lips once, twice. The pink of his tongue catches the Minister's eye, an innocent curiosity dangled before a predator.
"Sir?" Tom asks mildly.
Minister Potter laughs at him. The sound is rich and full of delight. It fills the air around them with a heavy warmth that settles over Tom from head to toe like a soft, well-worn quilt. "Am I 'sir' to you, now?" he asks. "Is that who I am to you?"
Tom hates to be predictable. He hates to be read, to be an open book. Harry will not fall for his tricks, but that doesn't stop Tom from trying them. It is in his nature to poke and prod, to uncover the cracks and pour himself into them until they widen irreversibly. "You are everything," he says honestly, and takes pleasure in the way Minister Potter's eyes widen.
"Am I a challenge, then?" the Minister muses. "If I'm honest, I never knew you to be inclined towards men."
"Not men." Tom is compelled to correct him. "Only you." He would not do this for just anyone, and he hopes that Harry knows this.
"How generous," drawls Minister Potter. He releases Tom's curls and straightens, patting Tom's head gently as if to soothe the minor ache left behind by his manhandling.
Tom hums under his breath. "Will you keep me here like this?" Tom asks, because he can, he can ask whatever he likes now. "Anyone could happen upon us. What would they say if they saw me kneeling like this, my mouth at the level of your cock?"
"They'd say I should fill it," Minister Potter retorts. "But that's what you want, isn't it?"
Tom likes that idea. He would like anything this man gives him. His own cock is half-full and straining against his trousers. They've hardly kissed and Harry has yet to touch him for more than a few moments, but Tom is restless, bursting at the seams with energy.
"Now that I think on it," Minister Potter continues, his tone distinctly unbothered, "this explains a lot of your behaviour. I don't suppose your presence at my meeting last week was a coincidence?"
"Of course not."
"Or when you dropped that stack of papers outside my office?"
"Didn't I catch you staring, sir?"
"No doubt your arse caught the attention of everyone in the room."
Tom stifles a smirk. He doesn't think it'll do him any favours to show his smugness outright. "You flatter me," he says brightly. "Sir," he adds as an afterthought, just to keep their fun facade going.
Minister Potter sighs and releases his arms from their folded position over his chest. He extends his foot to nudge at one of Tom's knees. "You flatter yourself without much prompting."
Tom eyes the toe of the Minister's shoe as it travels up his thigh. He huffs in displeasure when its progress pauses midway. "Must I undo more buttons?" Tom asks petulantly, looking up from beneath his lashes.
"I think you've done quite enough on your own," Minister Potter says with a grimace. "You'll do what I tell you, or you won't do anything at all."
Tom knows what he must look like, flushed and practically panting for it, his legs spread while the Minister's shoe rests mere inches from his cock. He is halfway to debauchery while the Minister has yet to remove a scrap of clothing.
"Then tell me," Tom snaps, frustrated. "Tell me what you want me to do."
"I'm glad you asked."
Unceremoniously, Tom is hauled to his feet with wandless, wordless magic. Harry's hand seizes his collar and drags him into a bruising kiss. Tom stumbles into the pseudo-embrace, his heart racing wildly as he moans into the Minister's mouth. The man nips at Tom's lower lip hard enough that it smarts, then withdraws.
Tom lurches forward in response to the departure and is stopped by Minister Potter's firm grip on his shoulders. "Not here," says the Minister, his eyes shining as he slides his hands up and down, squeezing roughly. "My office?" Minister Potter asks aloud. "I could bend you over my desk and fuck you on top of my most important documents until you couldn't see any of their letters, let alone remember their contents."
Tom likes that idea; his cock twitches in agreement. "Yes," he breathes, eager for them to move locations and—hopefully—lose more items of clothing.
"Or my flat, where I can tie you up properly? Have you ever been at anyone's mercy, Tom? I could make that happen for you." The Minister trails a finger along Tom's jaw, pausing at the point of his chin before dipping down his neck and stopping at the clavicle. "I'd wrap you up and hang you from my bedroom ceiling until you were begging for me."
Tom pauses to stare at the man's reddened lips, at the bite mark he'd left earlier. Restraints sound uncomfortable, but Tom is willing to try them despite his unease. Harry would not hurt him—would not hurt him more than he wanted to be hurt.
"Maybe another time," Harry says, his voice softening. He takes Tom's left hand in his and raises it to his lips for a kiss, stubble scratching over the delicate skin of Tom's knuckles.
"Your office," Tom agrees. He wants to see the Minister's desk. He'll knock everything off of it, all the documents, the treaties and the trade agreements. Nothing will be as important as Tom, nothing else will be worthy of Harry's attention once he's buried deep in Tom's arse.
Harry pulls Tom close; the gentle embrace catches Tom off guard. "Hold tight, sweetheart."
The world constricts as Apparition takes hold of them. Magic surges as Harry carries him through the Ministry's most powerful wards. It's exhilarating; Tom wonders why the Minister bothers with using the Floo at all. Each layer of magic that ripples over them is a momentary rush, a free fall. Tom curls his fingers into the velvet texture of the Minister's cloak and relishes in their shared body heat. Even the disorientation of Apparition cannot take this from him.
The carpet of the Minister's office is hardly beneath Tom's feet when he is spun about and shoved into the hard edge of a desk. Several items clank loudly, likely held in place by Sticking Charms, as Tom throws his hands out to catch himself. The back hem of his shirt is rucked up, pinched by wandering hands and tugged out from his trousers.
Tom doesn't like this position. He wants to see, to touch. With a grunt, he jerks away and twists his body around so he can gaze up at the Minister. "Not like that," Tom says, elbows braced awkwardly on the desk as Minister Potter looms over him with an amused expression. "I want to see you."
"I thought we established that this isn't about what you want, Tom," muses Harry, but he dips his head and captures Tom's lips in a deep, languid kiss.
Tom shuffles around, trying to sit himself properly on the edge of the desk so he can touch freely. The Minister cups Tom's face with both hands, calluses rough against Tom's smooth skin, the familiar, masculine scent of his cologne clouding Tom's senses.
At last, Tom finds his balance and lifts his hands to the Minister's chest, to the clasp of his cloak, to the tie of his robes. The fancy cloak pools at their feet, heavy fabric falling silently to the floor.
"That cloak is expensive, you know," the Minister rumbles, turning his head to nip at Tom's neck. Tom tilts his head back to allow him better access. "More than your monthly salary."
"And now it is on the floor," Tom says, satisfied, nimble fingers plucking away at the Minister's shirt buttons. Arousal is inebriating; the world is sweet and full of delights. Everything is perfect, just as Tom knew it would be.
Minister Potter laughs again. He presses kisses to Tom's throat, to his collarbones. It is not the rough, hard pace that Tom imagined for them, but he isn't complaining just yet. Soon enough, Tom's shirt joins the cloak on the floor. Large, warm hands run gently over Tom's bare torso.
"I'm not going to break," Tom says, irate. He reaches for the Minister's belt and begins working it off.
"Oh, I know." Harry's eyes glimmer with amusement. He rolls Tom's nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching slightly. Tom feels his face redden further, feels his cock throb in his pants. "But you're very pretty, and I find myself taking the time to enjoy that."
They've had plenty of time to enjoy themselves. There are better pleasures to chase now. Tom works the man's belt off and tosses it aside, deliberately careless with his aim. The buckle hits something that crashes loudly on its way down, but Tom doesn't turn to look. His attention is focused on his Minister's reaction.
"I should have made you wait longer," Minister Potter says with a sigh, shifting forward until his breath fans directly over Tom's forehead. Their hips slot together as the Minister bears down on Tom with a sizable amount of his body weight. "Then again, you're naturally this impatient, aren't you?"
Tom tips his head back and offers a lazy grin. Already, he feels fuzzy with his arousal, boneless and moldable in the Minister's embrace. His skin, unbearably hot, itches against the thick fabric of his trousers and the cool fabric of the Minister's open cotton shirt.
"On another occasion," the Minister continues, reaching down between them to grasp at Tom's trousers, to run a large palm over the clothed bulge and give it a teasing squeeze, "I would see you on your knees with my cock stuffed in your mouth, as I mentioned." Tom feels the buckle of his belt come undone mere seconds before the Minister's hand finds its way down into his briefs.
"But your impatience is catching," Harry breathes, shoving Tom's trousers the rest of the way down with his free hand, "so we may postpone that for another day." He finishes the sentence with a firm, dry twist of Tom's cock, a mix of pleasure and pain. The roughness of the Minister's palm on his sensitive skin is unlike anything Tom has ever done for himself. Tom bites back a strangled noise of incoherence and struggles to remain upright, unwilling to show weakness.
They kiss for a fourth time—is it the fourth? Tom's begun to lose track—and it feels good, it feels almost possessive. The warmth of Minister Potter's tongue is heavy in his mouth; Tom moans softly around it and twists his fingers into the Minister's shirt to keep balance. The hand wrapped around Tom's dick works at an incessant pace, stroke after stroke until Tom's knees go wobbly from the flames of lust crawling slowly up his spine.
Lost in this mindless pleasure, Tom slides far enough down on the desk that his half-naked arse lies uncomfortably against the edge of the wooden surface. Minister Potter pauses his ministrations to adjust their joint posture, moving his hands to support Tom's waist as he does so.
Tom protests, a needy whine in the back of his throat at the loss of the Minister's hand and mouth. The sound is loud in the silence of the office. Embarrassed and irritated with himself, Tom snaps his jaw shut and attempts to blink some clarity back into his vision so he can focus.
"You'll get fucked sooner if you keep those noises up," comments the Minister.
Mild outrage heats Tom's face. He isn't some common whore who'll moan and beg for it. Tom tries to pull away, to regain control of the situation, but instead finds his face tipped into the Minister's neck instead as his arse is lifted clear off the desk.
There is a brief shuffling followed by the chafing of fabric as Tom's pants are yanked downwards. Tom yelps in annoyance as he is set back down, but he has no time to complain before the Minister is upon him once more, spreading Tom's thighs open and settling into the gap.
Tom's cock is hard and flushed pink at the tip. The Minister gives it another stroke, as though to reward Tom for good behaviour. Despite the spike of pleasure that shoots through him at the temporary touch, Tom is furious, but his anger is at war with his lust as the Minister drags his hands over Tom's thighs, kneading and warming the flesh as he works his way up.
"You're better like this," Minister Potter says smoothly, his eyes wide, the rings of green dark and greedy. "What a sight you make, sweetheart. I don't think I could have imagined you any better. Tom Riddle in my office, spread out on my desk, long-limbed and pliant, waiting to be fucked by me."
Tom remains annoyed, but at this new angle, he can appreciate the Minister's chest, his broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. Then Minister Potter leans in to kiss him again, a soft peck compared to before. The gentleness continues as he proceeds to lavish kisses over Tom's neck and torso. Tom sighs at the attentiveness and relaxes somewhat, burying his hand in Harry's loose grey curls, but he is also getting impatient again.
"Get on with it," Tom says. His voice sounds funny, not quite distant, not quite present.
The Minister's tender touch recedes as he straightens and finally works his cock out from his pants. It is bigger than anything Tom has taken before. Tom lets himself stare, lets himself imagine that thick length buried inside him, fucking him open. It looks so big that it has to feel good. Minister Potter doesn't touch himself—instead he brings his hands to grasp Tom's arse, opening the cheeks wide and brushing his thumb lightly over the rim.
Tom shudders, tingles scattering over his arms. His senses are heightened, his body tense and alert. His elbows, braced on the desk, shift unsteadily from side to side. Harry licks his lips and nuzzles the side of Tom's leg, nipping sharply with his teeth when Tom squirms at the sensation.
"Going to open you up for me now," the Minister tells him. "Have you done this before?"
"Yes." Twice with different partners, but not with someone of Harry's size and purported experience.
"Hmm." Minister Potter pinches Tom's inner thigh once, then touches the pad of his thumb back to the rim of Tom's ass, applying the slightest amount of pressure there. "You think you want to be fucked without due care, but you don't. I promise you, you don't. Not for your first time with me. I'm going to take excellent care of you and you're going to thank me for it, is that clear?"
For one long, ridiculous moment, Tom wants to be picked up again so he can cling without being thought of as needy. He imagines being held close, cradled by strong arms—but now is not the time. Tom shakes himself of his errant desire so he can answer the Minister's question.
"Yes," he says.
"Yes, sir," Harry corrects him.
Tom clicks his teeth together once, reminds himself who he is with, reminds himself that the phrasing of 'first time' promises more times in the future. They are not finished with each other just yet, and they won't be for some time to come. "Yes, sir."
The Minister smacks Tom's ass once—it doesn't hurt in the slightest, but it is firm enough that the sound of palm against flesh is very audible. "Good boy."
The praise twists something deep in Tom's chest. Twist and untwist. Momentary pleasure and displeasure. Tom inhales, slow and deep, willing his lungs to stay steady, and rocks down against the Minister's hand.
"Alright," Harry says, more to himself than to Tom. When the man's hand returns to Tom's flushed skin, his fingertips are dripping with what can only be lubricant. "Are you ready, sweetheart?"
Tom nods, unable to speak.
"Legs up, please."
Tom does. He holds his own legs up so that the Minister can have easy access to his ass, to his hole. His dick throbs, eager, precome beading at the tip.
Minister Potter wastes no time. He works Tom open with precision, fingers pressing in all the right spots, stretching and prying. There is a burn, but it's a good burn, a burn that spreads into a fever as Tom grinds down. Two fingers twist and turn, pumping in and out until Tom feels a jolt of white-hot pleasure burn up his spine as Harry hits his prostate. A pitched gasp escapes him as he struggles to get closer, to get more.
"That's it," Harry murmurs. "Just like that. Almost ready for me."
Tom has been ready since the beginning. "I'm ready," Tom says in a rush. "Give it to me—"
A third finger slides in, wet and hot and filling him up but not nearly enough. Noises pile up in Tom's throat, moans and cries of pleasure. He closes his lips around them, unwilling to release them until he gets what he wants.
"You'll be ready when I say you are." Minister Potter's conversational tone is at odds with the filthy sound of his fingers sliding in and out of Tom's hole, smearing lubricant all over until they're both dripping with it.
The Minister is far too good at what he's doing, Tom thinks blankly. Unexpectedly good. They need to move this along so Tom can learn just how good Harry Potter is at the rest of sexual intercourse.
"Fuck me," Tom demands, right before Harry's clever fingers press deep down inside of him, back on the spot that makes his brain disconnect from his body. Tom's legs go weak, now held up by the Minister's broad shoulders, and his breath catches several times as the Minister kisses his forehead and tells him how good he is, how good he will be.
Tom is close to coming already, his toes curling with the headiness of it all. "I'm ready," he repeats in a ragged voice. "Get on with it."
The Minister narrows eyes at him. Tom scowls in return. The teasing needs to stop, needs to stop, needs to—
With what self-awareness he has left, Tom tilts forward and mouths at the Minister's neck with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. "Please?" he mumbles, affecting a demure air as he nuzzles at warm, tanned skin with the tip of his nose. The Minister wants him to be good, and so he can pretend, he can play the role.
Harry's hand withdraws, leaving Tom's hole achingly empty. "Asking nicely is something I can get behind," he says briskly, like they're doing business, then lines himself up with Tom's entrance and pushes in.
Tom chokes as the blunt head of Minister Potter's hard cock prods his hole, pushes past his rim with a wet sound and keeps going.
"Oh, oh, oh," Tom babbles as he feels himself split wide. It is the sweetest pleasure that burns only faintly. Tom's muscles go slack, his mouth dropping open as Harry gradually sinks in all the way. When the Minister bottoms out, Tom's entire body trembles, a thousand tiny pinpricks of pressure-pleasure erupting all over his sweaty, flushed skin.
"Fuck," Harry swears, voice rough with arousal, dropping his head to touch his damp forehead to Tom's. "Fuck, Tom, you're so—"
Tom whimpers, his arse stuffed and twitching with overstimulation as he adjusts to the hot, hard intrusion. He can only grip the Minister's forearms with desperation as the man bears down on him, covering Tom's body with his larger one, bending him in half with his weight. Slowly, the two of them begin moving, rocking back and forth. The pace is agonizing, all tender and no teeth, too leisurely for Tom to be truly satisfied.
But oh, it does feel good. It feels like floating, like Tom is stretched-out taffy between one moment and the next, buoyed by the steady thrusts of Harry's cock. Pleasure warms Tom from head to toe, the Minister's body a heavy blanket over his hips and ass and chest.
"Good boy," Harry breathes softly. He nibbles at Tom's jaw, then at his earlobe. "So good for me. So good on my cock, taking me so well. Perfect. Wonderful." His hands—so warm, too warm—grip Tom's hips as he pumps in and out, slow enough that Tom can feel every thick inch that drags along his inner walls.
The spot where their bodies meet is positively electric; it feels strangely erotic to be so close, to feel such intimacy. Tom clenches down, grinds his hips until he's half-falling over the edge of the desk, only propped up by the slick thrust of the Minister's cock in his arse. "Faster," he groans, frustrated. The pressure building in him is not enough; his body is begging him for release. He is so close to coming.
The thrusts slow, then stop. Tom writhes on the desk, his heart pounding as he tries to move, to feel, to claim his pleasure. The Minister is still inside him, he can feel it, so why—
Harry hums low in the back of his throat. He reaches for Tom's cock and strokes it lazily. "You're going to come just like this," he says to Tom. He is smiling. "With nothing but my hand on you and my cock in your ass. Then, once you're done, I'm going to flip you over and fuck you until you cry."
Tom's breath catches. He can't help it, he doesn't even have the wherewithal to be angry. He is a bundle of nerves, a frothing concoction of untamed desires. His pleasure is at Harry's mercy.
"You wanted this," the Minister whispers, dragging his hand up Tom's shaft so he can rest his thumb on the tip, rubbing small circles there. "You wanted me and now you have me. I don't even need to move, do I? Your hole is so greedy, squeezing so tight. Trying to keep me inside."
Tom struggles to grind down, to fuck himself on the Minister's cock, but the hand on his hip holds him down until the pressure becomes painful and he is forced to stop. He could move from side to side, but he thinks Harry won't like that, so he can only lie here and take what is given to him.
"Fuck," Tom says, the word punched out of him, "oh, f-fuck, I—" He is pinned to the desk by the man's dick and hands and nothing else. A fresh wave of heat washes over him, teased out by the hand gripping his cock. It is at that moment when Tom realizes what will happen. He realizes he is going to lose.
"I'll give you what you need," Minister Potter promises, and god, does Tom believe it. The hand on his dick feels amazing, chases every thought out of his brain until all that remains is blinding, brilliant ecstasy. The Minister's hand, slick with lube and precome, works Tom's cock until Tom's head slumps back, knocking against the desk. It hurts, but the hurt is so far away that it might as well be non-existent. Instead, Tom lets out a strangled moan that may or may not feature Harry's name in it.
The Minister dips his head and kisses the noise out of Tom's mouth. Tom cannot fathom the Minister's discipline, how he can hold still when all Tom wants to do is flip them over so he can ride the man's cock to completion and then some.
"Are you close?" Minister Potter asks softly. The bare amount of pressure he is applying ought to be illegal.
"No," Tom lies. The lie is punctuated with a muted groan as Harry presses gently at the base of his cock, right above his balls. He squirms, clenching around the hard length inside of him, igniting another burst of pleasure deep in his gut. "Oh," Tom gasps, "oh—"
The Minister noses at Tom's cheek, dragging soft lips over his cheekbones. "You'll get there, sweetheart. I'm going to get you there, right there…" Harry sighs, twisting his wrist, squeezing Tom's dick just enough to make Tom's vision spot around the edges. "You're so beautiful like this."
Tom feels beautiful. He feels so good, so snug and safe, held close and stuffed full of cock and praised to the high heavens. His pleasure rises gradually into ecstasy; when he finally comes, relief loosens his entire body as he spills himself into Harry's hand with a faint cry. Spurts of his come paint the Minister's wrist and fingers, marking the tanned skin.
"How was that?" Harry's free hand comes up to pet at Tom's hair. "Did you like that?"
"Yes." Tom's speech is embarrassingly slurred, the coherency fucked out of him. "Yes, sir," he adds hazily.
"Told you I would take care of you." The Minister steps back, his dick sliding out despite Tom's half-hearted protest. His hands move back to Tom's hips, caressing the skin and bone there. "Now be a good boy and turn yourself around for me."
Tom can hardly think, let alone stand on his own, but he does as he's told, twisting his body until his elbows are braced on the uncomfortable wooden surface of the desk. Minister Potter traces his empty, gaping hole with a fingertip, then pushes in and tugs down, stretching Tom's rim out.
"Pretty boy," Harry says. His voice is so deep with lust that Tom shudders in response to hearing it. The Minister shifts to grip Tom's arse with both hands, rubbing and massaging the flesh, exposing Tom's wet hole to the cool office air.
Tom's cock hangs limp and spent, but it twinges as the damp tip of Harry's cock rubs at his entrance. Tom sucks in a deep, greedy breath. He is going to be fucked now, properly. He is going to be fucked just like this, bent over the desk, until the Minister fills his arse with come.
His orgasm has drained him of energy, but Tom had not been the brightest student at Hogwarts for nothing. He can't use his body, but he can use his words. "Fuck me, sir," Tom says, usual filter gone as he lets his mouth run, "fuck me hard, the way I know you've dreamed of doing, right on top of your pristine desk, Minister Potter, make me feel it—"
"You fucking brat," Harry says, not without fondness, as he grasps Tom's hips with both hands and rams home.
Tom lets out a wild gasp as his entire body jerks forward. Fuck, he's so full. Everything is blistering hot, intense pressure that makes his head roll back. He screws his eyes shut and slams his palms face down on the wood, trying to hold his position as the Minister sets a punishing pace that rattles the desk and all its contents. He can take it, he can take it.
A hand buries itself in Tom's curls, guiding his head back, curving his spine. "You were meant for this," Minister Potter says roughly, "meant for me. All of you was meant for me." He kisses the nape of Tom's neck with a tenderness that contrasts the harsh pace of his lewd, wet thrusts.
Tom moans, his vision glazed over with bliss as his body lurches back and forth, jostled with the merciless fucking that drives him into the desk. The hand in his hair lets go as the Minister's chest crushes down on his back, heavy and warm and lovely.
"Isn't this what you wanted, Tom?" Harry breathes, pressing open-mouthed kisses up the line of Tom's shoulder blades. "A... nice... cushy... Ministry... desk job…" Before Tom can answer, the Minister bites down, all teeth, into the soft flesh of Tom's neck.
Tom cries out, not from pain but from surprise and heavenly pleasure. His legs are lax, buckling from the staggering sensations, but the Minister keeps him speared in place, keeps fucking into him, keeps him bent over. Tom's pale skin will imprint pink and red from the desk, will bear the marks of the Minister's heavy hands on his hips and ass, but that isn't enough for Tom. He'll have to try harder, later, to convince Harry to go further. Tom wants to leave marks of his own on the Minister's skin.
"Gorgeous," Minister Potter murmurs. "Tell me how much you want this. Want me."
"F-fuck," Tom says haltingly, interrupted each time the wind is knocked out of him by the Minister's cock slamming against his prostate, "fuck you."
Minister Potter takes that as a challenge. His grip becomes bruising; he pistons in and out until Tom's raspy moans are scarcely heard above the wet sounds of Harry filling him up again and again and again. Tom clenches down and tells the Minister to go faster faster just like that until his dick swells back up, and soon his swollen erection bounces in time with each harsh thrust of the thick cock in his arse.
The Minister takes Tom in hand and works at getting him off for the second time. It doesn't take long—Tom is feverishly hot, panting and cursing with every breath. Deep in his bones, he aches for this, for Harry. When he comes, Harry's name is the prayer on his lips, an aching cry, an impractical, wordless plea for absolution.
The harsh fucking does not relent. Minister Potter, true to his word, keeps pace, adjusting the angle of his hips and battering Tom's prostate until the world melts into blurry colours and noiseless sounds and searing heat. Tom's mind tips out of its orderly, methodical processes and careens, headfirst and screaming, into something entirely new and abstract.
The Minister bends Tom over the desk, fucks him silly until Tom, overstimulated and halfway to a third orgasm, lets out a watery sob. Harry seems to tire of the brutal pace after that, slowing his thrusts as he runs his hands reverently over Tom's back and arms, tracing invisible patterns. Then he takes Tom's wrists in hand and pins both arms down, holding them to the small of Tom's back with a gentle grip as he rolls his hips slowly against Tom's ass.
Tom's face is plastered to the wooden surface of the desk. His moans and sobs have tapered off into heavy pants and quiet whimpers. Minister Potter's hand runs through Tom's damp hair, fingernails stroking lightly over the scalp as he dips his head to murmur endearments into Tom's ear.
"Tom," says Harry, "Tom, sweetheart, you've been so perfect today."
Tom nods distractedly and sighs when the Minister kisses his cheek. His muscles are beginning to strain, but they don't hurt just yet.
"You're mine now." Minister Potter's hand trails to the nape of Tom's neck and rests there for a moment, squeezing down. He's panting as his thrusts grow sloppy, signalling his approaching orgasm. "Know that you're going—going to come back to me. No one else will ever—will ever come close to making you feel this way."
Tom can't deny the words, even if he wants to. His body is pliant and obliging, his flesh dedicated to the Minister's pleasure. This is what he wanted, what he could have hardly imagined. This is where he belongs.
Harry comes with a hoarse exhale of Tom's name, spilling himself in spurts. Tom is distantly aware of the dampness, of the come that trickles down his thigh when the Minister pulls out of him. Soon enough, that discomfort is vanished with magic and Tom is pulled into Harry Potter's arms.
They curl up in the Minister's large office chair. Tom sits on Harry's lap, head tucked under the man's chin. Tom feels sleepy. His sore muscles twinge with tenderness while Minister Potter cuddles him and peppers his face with soft kisses. Domestic affection. Tom wrinkles his nose but doesn't turn away—it feels nice, admittedly.
"Happy Friday," Harry says after some minutes have passed.
Tom mumbles something nonsensical in response, prompting the Minister to chuckle at him.
"Am I taking you home with me after all?" he asks in an amused tone.
Tom has enough sense left in him to answer that question. "Yes," he says, snuggling closer, pressing his nose into the older man's neck. They have more things they need to try. "Weekend stay," he tacks on, just to be clear.
"So eager." Harry's hand rubs circles over Tom's back. "Can't say I'll complain about having you in my bed."
Tom decides he can accept the notion of being 'had'. The Minister's flat is bound to be nicer than his own, anyway. Once they've established a proper relationship, Tom will see about closing the professional gap in addition to the personal. Being the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister has its appeal.
Harry kisses Tom's temple. "I can hear you thinking. Seems next time I'll have to try harder to wipe you out."
He had, though. For a long, blissful moment during their coupling, everything had been nothing. Tom's mind had been clear, like a calm ocean on a sunny day. "Next time," Tom murmurs, trailing his hand down Minister Potter's chest, petting the hair there.
The Minister catches his hand around the wrist. "Not any time soon," he reprimands. "Not all of us got to lay around and get fucked, you understand."
Tom feels smug at having worn the man out. "I'll ride you next time," he promises, grinding his sore arse against the Minister's thigh. He'll work himself on Harry's cock until the man is sobbing and overstimulated from the pleasure of having Tom wrapped tight around him.
Minister Potter grunts and tips his forehead against Tom's cheek. "You'll be the death of me, you mean."
Tom is unrepentant. All of Harry will be his. "How often did you think of me?" he asks. "Before." Does he remember the letter Tom had sent?
Harry drops Tom's hand back onto his lap. When he speaks, his voice is pensive, quiet. "I always think of you, Tom."
Tom licks his lips and offers the Minister a sultry look. "Did you think of fucking me?"
"Until you practically dropped yourself in my lap? Not particularly, and certainly not at the start. You were only a boy when we met, remember?"
Tom doesn't like that answer as much as the other one, even if he understands it. "You will now," he decides, leaning close and nipping at the sensitive skin of the man's neck. His hands start to wander, to rub at the Minister's shoulders and biceps. Harry is very handsome. Tom likes the smell and taste of him.
Minister Potter sighs and settles a hand on the small of Tom's back. "I didn't realize I mattered so much to you."
Tom presses his nose to the soft underside of Harry's jaw. "You do. You're mine." He maps out Harry's skin with his hands and teeth. He runs the tip of his tongue over faint scars and dark sun spots, tasting sweat and musk.
"Old enough to be your father," Harry continues, but he doesn't push Tom away. It's far too late for that, anyhow. Now that they've fucked, Tom has all the leverage he needs to keep Harry Potter in his life forever.
"Not too old to fuck me," Tom says smugly, then yelps when Harry pinches his side.
"If you're this worked up so soon, you're going to get dressed," Minister Potter declares, rudely sliding Tom off his lap. Then he stands and stretches, the strong lines of his nude body exuding power even in the dim light of the empty office.
Tom doesn't want to get dressed. He wants to keep going. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Harry's waist, pressing their bodies close together. He knows that if he offers gentle affection, he won't be turned away, so he places a tender kiss to the top of the Minister's left shoulder and holds tight.
"I'm not fucking you again," the Minister says pointedly. Then he amends, "At least, not yet." He swats at Tom's arse. "Get dressed so I can take you home, brat. Unless you want my House-Elf to see you naked."
Tom scowls, but releases his hold and does as he's told, picking his clothes up off the floor and putting them on. Once he's done, Minister Potter wraps him up in the expensive cloak that he had previously tossed to the floor. The material is rich and smells purely of Harry. Tom clutches the clasp and permits the Minister to envelop him in a casual embrace.
Harry likes affection, Tom reminds himself. Harry requires courtship. With this in mind, he rests his head upon the Minister's shoulder and hums in contentment as the squeeze of Apparition bears down upon them, whisking them away.
.
END
A/N:
thank you for reading! pwp is, as always, out of my usual element. i'd enjoy hearing what you thought about it!