Tom's hair isn't black. Not like Harry's, which is thick and unruly, coarse to the touch and devoid of light. Tom's hair is a dark brown, glossy almost, the color of Jacobean. Harry dislikes many things about his life, but one of them is not the feeling of the thin locks as his hand rakes through them. Tom hums lightly under the ministrations, pleased at the attention as always. He's writing letters on the desk, Harry leaning curiously over his shoulder as he distractedly eases them both down in play. Tom isn't the first man Harry was ever with, neither the second, and the other could be old-fashioned to a fault.

He'd been genuinely impressed - a momentous occurrence - by Harry's particular brand of intimacy, that's when this whole shenanigan really took off, and Harry was slowly allowed more room inside the Dark Lord's study. It's laughable that when it comes down to it, the most powerful Dark Lord of Britain is just a man. When Tom's innate desire for blood and violence intermingled with heat and sweat, the smell of sex was accompanied by moans of pain. It'd been too easy; the thought still brought an amused smile to Harry's face.

"I hardly think the finer point of our treaty with the giants is what you find amusing." Tom doesn't ask questions. He comments, makes his curiosity and desire for knowledge evident but ignorable. It's a trap; he expects Harry to answer, to provide for his most inane wish, so attuned to him that he doesn't even have to query. It hadn't been easy, reading the Dark Lord's mercurial moods at first, but years down the line, Harry's an expert.

"I just remembered something." Tom's hand stills in its flowing motion.

"Oh."

"I'm thinking about when we met," Harry elaborates. "I thought you were going to take me right then and there," he leans in, hot breath on a familiar ear, "mark me in front of the entire street." His fingers are a spider, tantalizing as they crawl over the shoulder and under the Dark Lord's robes. Tom's body - a mixture of magic and luck, the lovechild of blasphemy and a miracle - is taut under the flowing fabric, and Harry enjoys the way his nails trail down the dips of muscle. He takes a moment to tease the patch of skin where the last ab rests, and the growing begins, framed by two sharp hipbones and covered in fuzz. Tom is muscular if only by virtue of being thin, and underneath, he's all sharp angles and pale, unmarred skin. "I would've let you."

A shudder rolls through Tom, easy to miss if Harry hadn't been looking for it as he licks a strip from the neck up into the back of Tom's ears just as his hand finally grips the thick cock asking for attention. It's been more and more common for Tom to forego underwear through the years. He knows that it makes Harry hot, and today is no exception.

Tom had been waiting for it, for Harry, for the things Harry can do to him.

He hadn't planned this out, but the moment was too right to miss. He strokes Tom's length with experienced fingers in a familiar, slow, and meaningful like Tom preferred. He is a demanding lover, but more than hurried and desperate, he likes for Harry to take his time. (Tease him into it, though he'd never say so out loud. It's okay because Harry knows anyway.) When Tom lets out the tiniest sigh, clearly giving up on finishing his letter, Harry backs away and lets his own dressing fall to the floor. The heavy material makes nary a sound as it slides down the length of his body, but Harry has no doubt that Tom doesn't miss the sound or what it means.

He tiptoes from behind the chair, high on the anticipation. He's done this a hundred times, but it just does not get any less thrilling. Besides, Tom surprises him often enough, and the things they've done together have been as painful as they are gratifying. Harry knows what people think happens behind closed doors, but they don't have an idea. Maybe it's that - for a long time - pain was all that Harry knew, and now it doesn't feel right when it's missing from him. It leaves him feeling like something terrible is coming, like the respite is only lulling him into a false sense of normalcy. The quiet is unnerving when you're waiting for thunder. And when Harry lived with... well, he'd come to hate the days he was left alone. Whatever took time to prepare was sure to make Harry suffer. The thought sours the moment a little, will Harry ever...

"Hadrian," Tom's voice calls from behind his armrest. He hasn't moved from where Harry left him hard and aching to undress, and he won't. Tom doesn't chase pleasure; pleasure must seek him. And so, Harry leaves unwanted memories behind him and takes careful steps towards Tom. He circles around his chair, slowly lifting a leg over as his own aroused cock flashes by Tom's line of sight before Harry straddles him. He throws his head back as his arousal presses down against the Dark Lord's through the softness of his robes. It feels good, not mindblowing as it might look, but Tom likes the show. He gets off on Harry losing himself to the pain and the heat, enjoys the idea of subjugating such a proud creature to nothing but the thought of sex and pleasure. (Harry gets off on pushing as many of his buttons as he can.)

Harry doesn't - not really - there's a sliver inside him, an anxiety-riddled voice that never goes quiet. He's good at ignoring it though, he presses further into the chair, bent knees on either side of the Dark Lord's covered tighs. So close does he leans in to kiss him that his cock is trapped in between their stomachs.

Tom's lips are velvet soft under his, and he's quick to take control of the kiss, one hand coming up to pinch one of Harry's perked nipples, and the shudder that travels down his spine is real enough. Tom rolls the nub in between his fingers, just barely, and Harry can't focus as an experience tongue slides into his mouth. It is hot and nimble, pushing and pressing inside Harry in a way that conveys dirty, malicious intent. Tom kisses Harry like he knows every corner and crevice of him, like Harry's an old toy taken out for a ride, like he's well-known and worthless. He kisses him like he's got better things to do, but decided on this, and Harry should sink to his knees and kissed his robes. (He hasn't, and he will never.)

The utter need to always come out on top, to shred Harry's dignity shouldn't be such a turn-on for the younger man, but the disdain coupled with the petting slide into him like molten lava coalescing in his belly. He pushes his cock further into Tom, but the pressure of being in between them is barely enough for how hot Harry feels all over. Tom smirks into his mouth, suddenly pinching down hard on Harry's nipple, and Harry might whimper.

"You're always so eager, Harry," Tom murmurs, exchanging his mouth for the bare skin of his neck. Harry's back curves as his head falls back to give him further access. The way he's done it, he's barely comfortable, but that's part of the game. He bites down, hard enough that Harry feels the teeth sink into flesh. He yelps, instinctively moving away, but Tom keeps him in place with a warning hand on his prick. The sudden shock of stimulation is confusing. Harry's neck is throbbing, but Tom's hand on him squeezes him just shy of pain, and the rough feel of it as it barely moves on him is conditioned to make him complacent. (Harry's been through a lot when Tom's hand is on his dick.)

When they meet eyes again, Harry is frazzled at the blood staining the other's lips. There's a dark blush peeking out from under Tom's robes, and it's a spike of pure pleasure that wracks Harry. He's done this a hundred times, and Tom might get off on thinking that Harry's just a lucky glutton for pain that lives to be under his thumb. Harry finds the humiliation exciting, but what really does it for him, what keeps making him come back to be spanked and tortured over and over again, is how wrong Tom is about Harry. The day will come when Harry's plan comes through, and just the thought of its success makes him hard, drives him wild with desire. Tom thinks Harry's a slut just for him, but revenge, revenge is the master Harry follows.

Like every time, when Harry is clearly invested in their play, when his cock is up and straining, flushed in need, Tom takes a moment to rake his finger over Harry's figure. His eyes trail a well-worn path through his marked neck and swollen nipples, down tanned skin to his flushed prick before straying to a hipbone. There hides the root of Harry's troubled life. Tom's long fingers caress the Deathly Hollows symbol delicately like he has done every single time before.

"Mesmerizing," he mumbles.

"You know-" Harry takes a moment to still his heartbeat "-I don't appreciate you doing that." Red eyes mirror back to him, sitting on him like this, Harry's just at the same height as Tom's gaze. "Albus Dumbledore is the last thing I want to think about when I'm about to ride your cock." Once, the crass, blunt statement would've gotten a rise out of Tom, but the other is too used to Harry by now. His eyes shine with hidden interest. He knows some of what went down between Harry and Dumbledore, but not all. Harry knows better than to run out of secrets to share. The hands on his cock slicked, and Harry hisses at the sudden change in sensation. Wandless magic, Harry acknowledged distantly, what a show-off.

"I'd still dissolve you into a pitiful mess, no matter what memories you conjured." Unlikely, Harry thinks, but lets himself play along. Tom's hand on him, the hand of the most powerful wizard in Britain, does things to him and as the other sneaks into his ass, prodding at his entrance. A sharp keen escapes him. He was pent up today, why he started this whole thing, but first, he needs to get business out of the way. He clutches on to Tom's shoulders, pressing his forehead to him in a vaguely intimate gesture as he squeezes his eyes shut and purposely loses himself to the feeling of a finger sliding into his ass. He's loose, always is these days, but Tom's dick is merciless when it's inside him anyway.

"I don't want to think about him anymore, Tom," Harry whines, pushing back on the single-digit that refuses to move.

"Is that so," Tom voices, interest peaked. Just like Harry has learned all of Tom's cues, so has Tom knew Harry's. The younger teen bites his lips, ducking his head, embarrassed.

"No, it's just..." but his voice goes out. Tom's hand moves, and - when they're like this - it's never good news for Harry. The feel of a cockring is familiar, cool metal sending off sparks as it meets Harry's overheated skin. Tom's hand on him, warm and rough, ups its ante, and Harry cannot help the way his hips buckle to meet him even as a second finger finds it's way inside him. Tom's fingers are unfairly long too.

"What was that?" Tom demands, looking pleased and unruffled as he brings Harry to the edge. Again, he bites his lip and shakes his head. It comes faster than he intends, but the pressure under his skin is driving him a little crazy.

"I see." Tom's desk is cleared in one swift move, by magic or hand, Harry cannot tell. Too lost in the warmth and the friction and sheer want slamming into him. Harry's back screams as he's thrown onto the desk with a strength that promises a bruise and leaves him out of breath. Tom doesn't even slip out the fingers that have started scissoring his ass. "Do you wish to try that again, Hadrian?"

"No, T- My Lord, I-I just..." Harry writhes on the feeling, but it's not enough; he's stretched enough, barely needed it, and now he wants more.

"You just...?" Harry stays quiet, maybe because he cannot form the words around his lips. The hands touching him vanish, and he opens his eyes to see what's happening. Tom is looking down on him. He's pleased that Harry has once again failed to answer his question. Harry's hands glue themselves to the table, and he knows that whatever the Dark Lord has planned, it's going to hurt. His legs hang over the edge of the table, his knees equally bound, and he briefly notices that the Dark Lord's chair is tilted backward, probably thrown out as Tom stood to carry Harry. "It's okay, Hadrian," the Dark Lord shushes, "sometimes people need prompting before they can be honest." Dread and anticipation curl in equal measures inside Harry, his traitorous cock strains against the cockring unabashedly.

Tom reaches somewhere behind Harry's ear, and Harry barely processes the wax spoon before bright green, boiling wax splatters onto his stomach. Harry screams, his back arches back so tightly Harry swears it's going to snap, and tears blur his vision. It's not only the heat; it's the way Harry can feel it eating through his skin to meet the muscles underneath, it's the smell of burning flesh, and it's how it won't stop. Harry kicks out a leg, losing awareness of where he is when there's a wet, warm mouth on his cock. It shouldn't feel right; it shouldn't. But as the wax cools, the buzzing warmth under his skin remains, Harry slumps back onto the table exhausted and dizzy, and only the feel of a wet tongue keeps him awake. The pressure to orgasm, absolutely wrecked as Harry is, takes nothing to build, but it never takes over, no matter how much Harry wants to.

"M-my lord," he gasps, every twist sending agony down his spine as the flesh protests still under the care of the still-warm wax. It all blends to feed his need. "Please."

"What was it you were going to tell me, Hadrian?"

It takes Harry a moment, then two.

Right.

"Isn't it..." he begins, trying to catch his breath, "isn't it time, my Lord?" Ruby eyes narrow in interest. "You are more powerful, Tom," Harry meets his eyes, green echoing trust and adoration. It doesn't matter what he does to him; Harry's belonged to Tom for a long time. It's hard to focus amidst the arousal and the pain. "You want to make a move at the end of the tournament, I'm sure... I..." he lets his gaze fall, letting out a whimpering as Tom encourages him once more with a slick hand on his cock. It's almost too much, so on edge already and no release possible. Harry takes it home, half-lidded eyes finding red as he cries, tears slipping down the sides of his face as his hips rise up to meet the hands of the man who murdered his grandparents. Harry's shame knows no bounds. He looks pathetic, and he loves that; he loves what it does to Tom. The way his fingers tighten around Harry's slim hips, hard enough to leaves bruises to discover the next day. "I just want him gone," Tom's other hand squeezes at Harry's erection and the teen and jerks up. He's not sure when Tom disrobes himself, but then, his thick length slides into Harry without resistance. Harry's whole body tightens, pulling at the raw skin of his stomach, and he screams again, hoarse and desperate.

It's nothing like the pain of before; this is heated and pleasant and wild. Tom pounds into him as Harry gasps and moans, crying and bound, there's blood on his stomach - not a lot - but enough that it slides off him and stains the table. It's not the first time Harry bleeds on top of Tom's desk. (It won't be the last.)

"So you want me to get rid of Dumbledore? How spoilt, Hadrian." The spank is nothing compared to the burning, but the move is always so undignified. It makes Harry feel so childish. The only other people who spanked him were the Dursleys, and Harry has to bite down the laughter that bubbles up at the reminder of what happened to them.

"Tom, please, only you..." For a moment, Harry's not sure what he's asking for, Dumbledore's death or release. Their bodies are sweat-stained, and the room feels sweltering as it presses down around Harry from all sides, the world narrowing to the pinpoint of pleasure where Tom hits Harry the electric spot inside him. Harry's going to be hoarse tomorrow if he keeps screaming like this, choked and begging for more "Hah, only you can do it. I can't-" Harry sobs "-no one else, and I can't... I can't keep seeing him. People still think, hah, hah, hah, still think you're afraid," the thrust into him is fierce, "you can... show them, ah!" Suddenly, the cockring is gone. The orgasm, holding on to the edge for a while now, hits Harry like a train. Harry's hips stutter forward, an involuntary movement egged on by the feeling of Tom coming inside him. He stays put, but Harry has not enough sense of self to say anything else. He's dead, mind completely blank. Tom comes to, stroking Harry lazily, fingers roaming over his cock and burned stomach, taking time to stain the fingers in his blood. It all sends tingles of oversensitivity and pain down to his toes, but Harry cannot possibly move, only squeeze his eyes shut.

"You're so useless after coming," Tom mutters, thrusting in mildly inside Harry, who cries as his prostate gets touched and touched again. "I bet you could go again; what would it take to take you going? More wax? Your scream was beautiful."

Harry whimpers but forces himself to nod anyway. Over and over, if Tom wants him again, Harry will gag for it if he has to. He doesn't. Instead, Tom pulls out of Harry without fanfare and says:

"I shall give it some consideration."

He leaves Harry shaking and cold right there on the table, still bound.

It shouldn't feel like a win, but Harry has the feeling it is.

Writing this story is always like "vague idea frenetical writing existential crisis bc wtf did i just write stressing about people hating it posting anyway."

Welp, there's no flashabck today bc wtf this is 3k of porn? emotional abuse? who knows really.

what did u think of tom and harry?

ly & take care,

dee