Bottom Harry One Shots

Five More Minutes

Summary: Harry makes good on his promise of tying Tom up and having his way with him; Tom certainly isn't opposed.

Ship: TomRiddexHarryPotter

All credit goes to dutch (itsevanffs) on Ao3

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A moment of your time, Minister Potter?

Tom will never stoop low enough to say the words. He doesn't have to now, though, bound from the man's bedroom ceiling, thick rope digging into his thighs, his chest, his arms, the back of his neck. His eyes are covered by a strip of black fabric and a metal bar fixed to his thighs with wide leather straps keeps his legs spread, open.

Tom is breathless, can't tell which way is up quite right. His head is spinning deliciously and his ears are rushing; he's far past struggling in his bonds, limbs only twitching ever so slightly when Minister Potter brushes against them with calloused fingers. He's so hard, so desperate, but he won't beg, not quite yet. Pride is a horrendous thing, but Tom has it still, so he will maintain it for as long as he can.

The Minister is murmuring things that Tom can't quite grasp, the sound of the words far away. The breathlessness increases tenfold when he catches the tail end of praise - 'so pretty, just look at you' - and he gasps when warm fingers trace the chilled skin of his inner thighs, up toward his aching cock, brushing just shy of where Tom needs Harry to touch him.

He barely bites back a noise on time. Tom isn't sure what the noise would have been but he doesn't want the Minister to hear it, doesn't want to make the man think he's given up and take pity on him. For a moment he realises the notion is stupid - Tom is far beyond pity, having worked his way into Harry's bed all through his own doing and then having rather explicitly consented to being handled like this, but then he's overcome by determination again and the rational arguments slip out of his mind again as easily as they came. He will show Harry that he is worthy, that he can take whatever the Minister throws at him.

Fingers skim across his stomach and ribs and Tom's lips part in a silent exclamation, all of his previous convictions lost to sensation again. He hears himself make a noise and before he can berate himself for it he is rewarded, a calloused thumb pressing firmly against his perineum, rubbing little circles against it. He's fairly sure the Minister has had his fun already, come painted across Tom's skin like he's a masterpiece, but he's not sure if the man wants to go again, can't see if he's aroused once more with the blindfold obscuring his vision.

It doesn't matter, anyway. Electricity prickles up Tom's spine, heat pooling in his gut quickly enough he thinks he might come untouched and Tom squirms, bonds chafing against his skin. He's panting, blood rushing to his head as he tilts it back, a strangled sound escaping his throat. He's bound face-up, then. He vaguely remembers it, but the past seems so insignificant now, absolutely worthless in the face of his immediate pleasure.

He whines when the contact ceases, hands pulling away from his skin once more. The sound is startlingly loud and high-pitched enough in his own ears that Tom jerks, arms protesting at their prolonged position. "Sir," he gasps, out of his mind with need. All he gets in return is a rumbled laugh in his ear, warm breath ghosting against his cold skin. Tom seeks to arch into it, forgetting he is bound, and moans softly when he finds his movement useless.

"I do like it when you call me that," Minister Potter breathes against Tom's ear. "Are you ready to beg yet, sweetheart?"

Tom doesn't want to beg, wants to keep up the pretense that he's still in control, that he didn't sign it all over to Harry the moment he met the Minister's eyes and voiced his consent, but he's so close, and he wants to be touched, wants to feel loved. Still he tenses, pressing his lips together, intent on saying nothing.

It turns out to be for naught when he remembers to breathe and does, a whispered "Please," rolling off his tongue with his exhalation, having waited on the tip of his tongue to be spoken since they started this. Tom jerks again, surprised by his own defeat; his eyes flutter behind the blindfold, eyelashes brushing against the fabric.

"There we go," Harry murmurs, and his blessedly warm hands return to Tom's body, gripping his hips firmly and tracing down - up, Tom can't tell - to his knees, leaving warmth in his wake. "Good boy." Tom's about to plead again - he's already given up, he doesn't care anymore - when the Minister finally, finally wraps a hand around Tom's cock and in the same moment fills him with two slick fingers, seeking his prostate with single-minded focus. It's seconds - eternities - later that Tom is choking on air, spasming as he comes perhaps the hardest he's ever come in his life, burning friction of the ropes forgotten as his obscured vision floods white with pleasure, setting his veins on fire.

When he regains his vision he's no longer bound by the ropes but still suspended in the air by a warm press of magic, blindfold still on his eyes but tied loosely, able to slip down if Tom moves just the right way. He feels funny, skin prickling as if all his limbs had simultaneously fallen asleep and were waking back up. He's loose, relaxed, unable to grasp onto thoughts for more than a second. It's nice, if slightly disconcerting, but Tom knows he's safe in Harry's hands so he doesn't worry about it.

Something warm and damp is running across his skin, leaving trails that cool far too quickly for Tom's liking. He makes a soft noise, squirming in protest. A soft voice soothes him, warm fingers running through his hair placatingly, and Tom reaches up with his hand, now freed, and tugs down the blindfold, blinking up at the kind face of his Minister looking down at him.

Before Tom realises it his hand has dropped the black fabric of the blindfold to the floor and is reaching up toward Harry's face, white fingertips tracing against tanned skin, following the path of barely-there scars to the man's lips.

"Welcome back," those same lips whisper against his fingertips, curving up into a lovely smile that Tom wants very much to kiss. "Or," Harry continues, amused, "almost." Tom frowns - and is instantly placated when the Minister bends down to press his lips gently, briefly, against Tom's own. Before he can pull away, though, Tom throws his arms around Harry's neck and clings on, burying his face against Minister Potter's throat, raising his upper body to press against that comfortable warmth.

Harry huffs, amused, but doesn't move to detach Tom from himself, instead wrapping his arms around Tom's middle and casting a mild warming charm on the both of them, the brush of magic against Tom's skin as lovely as it is grounding.

"I still need to clean you, little koala," the Minister says fondly, pressing the damp rag against Tom's lower back and brushing it over his backside. Tom wants to complain but he's no longer cold so he figures he might as well let the man do what he wishes - so long as he isn't put down, that is. Tom is feeling slightly reckless and is very willing to put up a fuss.

"Can't you just use magic," Tom mumbles, and when Harry hums lowly in reply he can feel it in his bones.

"The Muggle way is gentler," the Minister says, not once ceasing his rhythmic movements, the soft cloth brushing against Tom's skin, cleaning off sweat and spunk and Merlin-knows-what and leaving a tingling sensation behind. "This way I can help reacquaint you with normal sensation, as well."

Tom grunts wordlessly against the man's toned skin, relaxing into the gentle attention. He thinks he likes this; perhaps just as much as the sex itself, though he'd never admit that. Being held close, being cared for... he likes it. He feels special. Loved, even.

He's almost disappointed when the rag disappears and Tom is laid down on the bed, dressed with rich red sheets. Tom was right; Harry's flat is much nicer than his own. He might convince the man to let him move in, he thinks absently, curling his fingers into the lavish sheets. He tenses when Harry pulls away, straining his neck to see where the Minister is going, if he's leaving - but he isn't, and Tom relaxes again when the mattress dips behind him before strong arms wrap around his waist and he's embraced from behind.

Tom barely registers reaching down and intertwining his fingers with Harry's before his eyes fall shut and he finds himself floating, perfectly warm and content, feeling the safest he has in years.