Chapter Text
Eventually, all the hotel rooms begin to run together.
Nimbus Sporting Goods is decent enough to never send Harry to a total dump, but it’s never anywhere luxurious either. It’s an endless stream of beige paint, inoffensive art, and beds that aren’t really uncomfortable but don’t manage to be cosy, either.
It’s perfect for Harry, really—how impersonal it all is. He glides into these nearly identical rooms, sets down his suitcase, and feels anonymous—like a ghost. It’s easy to lie to himself in these places; to pretend that nothing he does here matters. None of it is real. His slate remains clean. He’s just stepping into someone else’s life for a little while.
By day, he’s Harry Potter, Senior Sales Rep for Nimbus Sporting Goods.
He grabs a coffee and stale pastry from the hotel lobby and drives to a conference centre. Like the hotel rooms, each conference centre is nearly indistinguishable from all the others. He sets up his table showcasing all of Nimbus’s most popular products. While over the years the product line has changed, the overall display has not. Every piece reliably goes in their places.
Harry is the company’s top salesperson for a reason. He’s charismatic and gives off the air of someone truly passionate about what he’s selling. He’s still physically fit, despite being closer to forty than thirty, and the people who come to these conferences respond well to that. He looks like someone who actually puts these products to use. He spends most of the day smiling and joking with whoever approaches his table. He can’t even say he hates it, repetitive as it all is.
Over the years, he's become friendly with some of the other reps, but he never accepts their offers to go out for drinks when the day ends.
Because after five p.m., once he packs away his display, he returns to his hotel room, takes a hot shower, and eats takeaway while watching whatever’s on cable.
With that routine completed, he can finally open the Grindr app on his mobile and become Lightning.
Lightning—like the name suggests—strikes fast and hard. He’s just in town for the night. He’s not looking to form an attachment—just for fun. A beautiful man to spend the evening with is only a few simple taps away. It’s easy. It’s meaningless. Nobody will ever know. Nobody will get hurt.
At least, that’s what Harry tells himself.
This weekend’s conference is in London, so Harry is spoiled for choice once he opens the app. He stares at the sea of headless torsos on his screen and gets a message before he even has the chance to explore any of the profiles further.
premium bussy: party and play?
Harry closes the message without responding. Almost immediately, another pops up from a user called Daddy Hunter, which he also disregards. He’s thought about it before—not necessarily being a sugar daddy, but having some sort of prolonged arrangement. It would be nice to meet the same man every time he comes to the city, not have to deal with the awkwardness of learning a new body with every encounter.
But Harry understands people. He knows that even if someone initially agrees to something casual, they end up wanting more eventually—if not money, then some sort of commitment. It’s too messy, too big a risk of his carefully segmented lives colliding.
And then there’s the most frightening prospect of all—Harry might be the one who ends up wanting more.
It’s better not to think of such things at all.
Harry chats for a while with Hung Btm, who seems like a promising prospect at first. But he wants Harry to meet him for drinks beforehand, and Harry has no interest in leaving his hotel room. London is a large city, so it’s doubtful that Harry will run into anyone he knows at a gay bar featuring a drag queen impersonating Angela Lansbury—but there's always a chance. Either way, it's not a huge blow; Harry has plenty of other messages to look through.
He taps one from someone simply called Tom. It surprises him slightly—he rarely sees anyone list just their first name. It's always 11in & 420, cumpuppy, or SEND HOLE PICS. In comparison, a simple name like Tom seems innocent and polite.
Tom: Good evening.
Harry navigates to Tom’s profile. It’s a face picture—a far too beautiful one that nearly makes Harry click away. A potential catfish. Still, Harry stays to read the bio.
Tom, 21
Med student. Don’t be boring.
Too young, Harry tells himself. Possibly not even a real person. Tom’s skin is pale, impossibly smooth. His hair is dark and falls in loose curls, one strand perfectly centered on his forehead. His eyes are dark and doe-like, framed by long lashes. His mouth is perfectly pouty, cheekbones sharp. He looks like a runway model—not someone who would be messaging Harry.
It might be a waste of time to reply, but Harry reasons that it’s still early enough in the evening to tug at the thread of his curiosity.
Lightning: Hello. How are you?
Tom: Decent enough.
Tom: [photo message]
Harry exhales sharply through his nose. That was fast. He’s well aware of why he—and everyone else—is on this app, but it still irritates him slightly when someone starts sending explicit photos after only a handful of messages. Maybe he’s old-fashioned.
But it’s not the type of photo he was expecting.
It’s a laptop sitting on a desk, a large window looking out over the London skyline in the background. A mug of tea rests on a coaster beside the computer, alongside neatly arranged writing utensils. The screen displays a Word document filled edge to edge with dense medical jargon that Harry has no hope of interpreting.
Tom: I decided I deserved a study break.
Lightning: Med school, huh? I bet you don’t get too many study breaks.
Tom: I manage well enough. Are you in the city for work?
Lightning: Yes. Just for one more night.
Tom: What do you do for work?
Harry pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He doesn’t usually disclose anything so personal; it’s rare anyone even asks. Still, he decides that responding is harmless enough.
Lightning: I work in sales. Sports equipment. Pretty dull compared to what you’re preparing for.
Tom: I don’t think it’s dull. What you do takes its own kind of intelligence. I bet you're talented at connecting with people. It's admirable.
Harry finds his lips curving into a smile. It’s a simple compliment, really—nothing to get excited about. But Tom didn’t need to say it. Harry is quite certain Tom’s inbox must already be filling by the dozens. Tom is gorgeous; he doesn’t need to waste time on pleasantries. He could have anyone he wants.
Lightning: That’s sweet of you to say. Though in my opinion, being a doctor and saving lives is far more admirable.
Tom: Maybe I just like money ;)
Lightning: There are probably easier routes to getting rich.
Tom: True, but I don't mind a challenge. Do you?
Lightning: I suppose not, assuming that it's a challenge as lovely as you.
Tom: I can be as easy or as hard as you like. Both even.
Lightning: How long of a study break are you planning for? Would you like to come over?
Tom: Yes.
Harry’s heart thuds in his chest. There’s an edge of anticipation roiling in his gut, one not usually present in these encounters. Quickly, he types out his hotel address.
Lightning: I’m in room 1031.
Tom: I’ll be there in 20 minutes.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Harry hears the knocks—three short, efficient raps. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised by the punctuality. Tom is young, yes, but he’s a medical student. He’s probably uncommonly disciplined.
Harry glances around the room as he walks to the door, checking for anything that needs tidying before he lets Tom inside. He’s already spent the waiting time looking everything over. Everything is as spotless as before. He's even moved his suitcase into the closet so there's hardly a trace of him staying here at all.
When Harry opens the door, Tom looks exactly like he does in his photo—if anything, even better. Harry tries not to make his surprise obvious. He’d assumed, at the very least, that Tom had edited his picture with Facetune or something similar. He didn’t think it was possible for anyone to have such smooth skin.
“Hi,” Harry says with a warm smile. “Come on in.”
Tom nods and breezes past him into the room. He’s taller than Harry imagined, a few inches taller than Harry himself. He’s dressed almost as if for a date—black slacks and a crisp white shirt. His watch looks expensive, as do his shoes. The hotel room suddenly feels smaller and shabbier than before.
This is not the sort of place Tom ought to be, Harry finds himself thinking. He should be laid out on white silk, fed strawberries from a silver tray.
Tom still hasn’t said anything. The room is silent but for the too-loud hum of the air-con and the clack of Tom’s steps. He’s looking around the room, his face strangely blank, and it makes Harry’s stomach squirm. He clears his throat to break the silence, but Tom remains quiet, staring intently at the painting on the wall—swirls of muted browns, greens, and blues too precise to truly be abstract.
“Not exactly high art, is it?” Harry tries to joke, letting out a forced chuckle.
Tom only hums in reply, tilting his head, eyes unmoving.
Usually, it doesn’t take long for Harry to get a sense of what someone wants from these encounters. Some people want to chat first; some want to get straight to the point. Some want it fast and rough. Others want it slow and sensual, like they’re real lovers, if only for the night. Even if the sex is temporary, Harry still wants his partner to feel valued and cared for.
He can’t get a read on Tom, and it unsettles him.
“Would you like a drink?” Harry asks.
Tom turns, looking at Harry for a long moment before responding. “Water would be lovely.” Tom’s eyes, which had seemed sweet and boyish in his photos, appear far more intense now.
Harry doesn’t have any bottled water—just some cheap lager in the fridge. Even if he did, it probably wouldn’t be the sort Tom prefers. He seems like the type to drink something expensive, like Perrier or Evian. Harry feels a prickle of shame as he plucks a Styrofoam cup from beside the coffee maker, holding it out like an inadequate offering.
“Tap water okay?” he asks.
“Sure,” Tom replies.
Harry fills the cup at the sink, acutely aware of the heat of Tom’s gaze crawling up his spine. When he finishes, he finds that Tom has moved.
Tom is now sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed tightly at the bone. His hands are folded neatly in his lap—like a choirboy. Harry walks over and hands him the cup; their fingers brush.
The contact is brief but it makes Harry’s pulse jump hard, enough to make him feel lightheaded. He feels suddenly and irrationally nervous, like he's never done anything like this before.
He quickly turns away to grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, heat creeping up his neck.
“Alright if I have one of these?” Harry asks, already twisting off the cap.
“Of course,” Tom says.
His eyes track the movement of Harry’s hands as he lifts the bottle to his lips. With Tom’s stiff and formal manner, Harry might have worried that he was regretting the choice to meet up with someone older; that he didn't find Harry attractive. But the way his eyes linger now, cheeks slightly flushed, makes his desire obvious.
For a mad moment, Harry considers that maybe Tom has never done anything like this before. Quickly, he dismisses the idea as absurd.
Harry sits down next to Tom, just far enough away that they aren’t touching—but easily could.
Tom has large hands, long and slender, making the cup look small in his grasp. He takes a careful sip, his throat moving as he swallows. He’s so young, choosing to just have water. Harry feels like a dirty old man with his hand wrapped around the neck of his beer bottle.
Still, meeting an older man for sex hardly seems consequential compared to the life-altering decisions Harry himself was making at twenty-one. He isn’t sullying Tom. He doubts Tom will even remember this night years down the line. Harry certainly doesn’t remember every anonymous body he’s shared a bed with.
And yet, Harry has a strange feeling that he will carry this night with him long after it’s over—that he’ll hold on to it with perfect clarity, returning to it in quiet moments once he’s back in his ordinary life.
First, though, Harry needs to move them past the stale silence stretching between them.
“What sort of doctor are you planning on being?” Harry asks.
“A surgeon,” Tom replies.
Harry inhales sharply, impressed. Becoming any kind of doctor requires intelligence and discipline far beyond anything Harry possesses, but surgeons—surely they have to be the cleverest of them all.
“I’ll be exploring all the disciplines once I begin my residency,” Tom continues, voice warming, “but I’m rather set on becoming a neurosurgeon.”
Harry’s eyes widen. That has to be the most difficult path Tom could choose.
“Well,” he says, “you don’t do things halfway, do you?”
Tom’s lips curve up into something between a smile and a smirk—undoubtedly dripping with satisfaction.
“Never,” he says.
Tom lifts the cups to his mouth once more, taking a longer drink this time. His eyes never leave Harry’s face, even as he sets the empty cup down on the bedside table. His lips are damp—soft, flushed, and overwhelmingly inviting.
“You want me, don’t you?” he asks.
It doesn't sound coy or teasing. Just a statement of an undeniable fact. It's arrogant really, but Harry’s groin stirs all the same.
“God,” Harry says, voice rough, “I do.”
Tom tilts his chin up, jaw tightly set, displaying the long column of his throat.
“Have me, then,” he breathes.
The invitation feels charged, like he's daring Harry to refuse.
Harry nearly spills his beer as he scrambles to set it down. He’s barely had any of it—not that it matters now, when there’s something far more intoxicating on offer. His hand is sweaty from where he has been tightly gripping the bottle. Harry wipes it against his trousers in a way that he hopes is subtle.
Tom seems to be waiting for Harry to move—to take the lead. Almost reflexively, Harry cups the back of his neck in a gentle hold and pulls him just enough to close the distance between them. The first kiss is soft, tentative. It feels like teenage fumbling, but Harry should know better. Tom goes very still for a moment, before sighing and melting into it. His lips are soft, just as Harry imagined they would be. Harry is suddenly hyperaware of the roughness of his own mouth, the faint scrape of stubble against Tom’s skin.
Up close, Tom smells incredible—like burnt sugar and something woodsy—it makes Harry’s head spin. It makes Harry want to taste him, so he does, pressing the flat of his tongue against the length of Tom’s neck. A sudden, foolish impulse flares to bite down there—to mark there, to ensure he won't easily fade away.
He pushes the urge away with some effort, settling for a light nip at the skin instead.
It seems absurd now—impossible— that Harry was ever unsure of what Tom wanted from this. As his hands slide up to carefully work at the buttons of Tom’s shirt, clarity washes over him: Tom wants—no, needs—to be worshipped. Completely.
Harry tells himself he can manage that, just for tonight. He vows—recklessly—to give Tom everything.
Harry returns to Tom’s mouth, kissing him more deeply now, pressing his tongue against the seam of Tom’s lips until he’s allowed inside. Tom opens without hesitation. Harry takes longer to remove Tom’s shirt than he usually would, keeping his fingers deft and precise, even in his haste. He’s careful not to pull off any of the buttons. The fabric slides under his hands, smooth and expensive—silk maybe.
Tom pulls back just long enough to help Harry free his arms from the sleeves. As Harry tosses it aside, he catches a glimpse of the label stitched into the collar.
Armani.
The sight stabs Harry with anxiety. For one absurd moment, he considers picking it back up to fold neatly—if only to undo a fraction of the mess he's making.
But Tom doesn’t give him the chance. He fists the fabric of Harry’s white cotton shirt—purchased on clearance from Marks & Spencer—and pulls him back in, unyielding. Harry goes with him, helplessly.
Gone, it seems, is the boy who had been sitting as if carved from cold marble only minutes before. Whatever loose tether Harry had on his restraint snaps.
His heart jumps in his throat. Harry pushes against Tom’s bare shoulder, guiding him away from the edge of the bed. Tom lands on his back, limbs loose and open. Harry hovers over him, his gaze dragging over the pale chest, the soft stomach.
Tom’s lashes flutter in invitation.
Harry bends down to lightly bite at Tom’s collarbone. His hand glides down Tom’s waist, squeezing. He moves lower, swirling his tongue around a pebbled nipple. Tom gasps sharply, stomach caving. Harry stays there, relentlessly, until the gasps turn into soft broken moans.
There’s a slick noise when Harry pulls away.
A dark flush climbs Tom's chest, creeping up his throat, blooming scarlet at his ears. The sight—the evidence of Tom unraveling—sends a low surge of satisfaction through him.
“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Harry says, the words slipping free. “The most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
Tom’s lips twitch, his eyes gleaming with something smug. Harry senses the I know at the tip of Tom’s tongue, so he leans down to take it from his mouth before it can be spoken.
Their tongues tangle. Each time Harry pulls back, his breathing sounds far too loud to his own ears. His hands drift down to the button of Tom’s trousers—also made of a fabric that’s unmistakably luxurious.
“Alright if I—?”
Tom nods, hips already shifting as Harry pulls them down. The sight of the silk briefs beneath makes Harry's mouth water. There’s an obvious bulge within them—further confirmation that this beautiful creature wants him.
Harry suddenly becomes aware of the weight of his own clothes, the stiff collar scratching at his neck. The discrepancy between his state and that of the nearly nude boy beneath him makes him feel filthy. But at the same time it makes his cock twitch, trapped and aching.
He presses his palm against the front of Tom’s briefs, feeling the heat of his arousal. Tom jerks forward, needy, impatient.
“What do you want, baby?” Harry asks, his voice hoarse and teetering on the edge of uncertainty. “I’ll give it to you—anything.”
Tom’s mouth parts. For a second, it seems as though he cannot speak. Then, almost a whisper: “Take me. Make me yours.”
Harry inhales so fast it makes him dizzy. He hates having to look away, even for a moment, to open the drawer of the bedside table and pull out a bottle of lube and a condom. He drops them to the side and immediately returns his attention to Tom.
Harry tugs at Tom’s waistband. Tom lifts his hips and then the briefs are gone—joining the rest of Tom’s expensive things on the worn shag carpet.
The sight of Tom completely nude knocks the breath from Harry’s lungs.
Tom’s cock is long, flushed, and petal-pink. Moisture has gathered at the tip, and Harry is immediately ravenous to taste it. The skin around it is bare—completely hairless and smooth. Tom shifts, spreading out, eagerly putting his perfect body on display. Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. The air feels thick around him, heavy with anticipation.
There’s a triangle of dark moles dotting Tom’s hip. Harry is drawn there first, almost as if pulled by a magnet. He kisses the spot, traces the moles with his tongue, nibbles at the skin.
He hears Tom’s breathy little sighs above him and is seized by the need to bring out more—see how far he can push, strip him down, shatter him.
Harry leans in and laps at the bead of arousal at the tip of Tom’s cock. It almost tastes sweet. His tongue drags down the slit before he swallows the head.
There’s a startled inhale above him, which fades into the loveliest moan Harry has ever heard.
Harry wraps a hand around Tom’s shaft, moving with deliberate slowness as he takes Tom deeper. Tom’s moans spill out in a steady stream now, each one feeding a desire in Harry that feels bottomless.
When the pitch of the moans rises, Harry pulls off, determined to prolong the experience. His fingers move to the tight furl of Tom’s entrance, a light testing press.
“Can I taste you here, sweetheart?” Harry asks.
Harry loves rimming, but he knows not everyone does. When Tom doesn’t respond, Harry looks up to check on him.
Tom’s cheeks are aflame, mouth open, eyes glassy. He looks overwhelmed. Undone.
Before Harry can figure out how to respond, to offer an apology or reassurance, Tom makes a low fractured sound. Then, sweet as spun sugar, he rasps, “Please.”
Harry doesn't hesitate.
He ducks his head back down. Tom shifts, spreading himself further without being asked. Harry groans. He nearly reaches for his throbbing cock, but catches himself just in time. He closes his eyes tightly, breathing in sharply to ride out the urge. The wait will make this all the more agonizing. More perfect.
Harry licks his lips and finally dives in, licking and sucking at Tom’s hole like a man possessed. The sounds echoing through the room are obscene—wet and relentless punctuated by Tom’s steady cries.
Tom is almost painfully tight. Surely, the tightest Harry has ever encountered. The press of Harry’s tongue hardly breaches him. He gathers saliva in his mouth, intent on opening him up.
With his head still buried in Tom’s arse, Harry reaches up blindly across the bed until his fingers finally close around the bottle of lube.
As Harry generously coats his fingers, an unsettling thought flickers: Is this Tom’s first time? Harry quickly dismisses it. Nobody this perfect could ever be untouched.
Harry tells himself that he’s not ruining this beautiful boy.
Still, he clears his throat. “I’m going to put a finger in,” he says. “That alright?”
“Please,” Tom says again, his plea beautifully wrecked.
As Harry presses the first finger in, he’s overcome by a flood of cold certainty. Nothing will ever compare to this. He’ll spend the rest of his life chasing this high; anyone else he brings to his bed will barely scratch an itch that runs bone-deep.
Even with that thought lodged uncomfortably in his sternum, Harry doesn’t stop. He can't.
Slowly, he moves his finger in and out. “How does that feel?”
“Good,” Tom replies.
Harry curls his finger, searching. “How about that?”
“Fuck!” Tom chokes, his body arching off the bed.
Harry grins, finding the spot again and again. When he’s able to fit a second finger, Harry takes Tom’s cock back into his mouth.
Tom’s words collapse into incoherent sounds. His breathing is sharp—like shards of glass. His moans blur into something dangerously close to sobbing as Harry works him open with single-minded focus.
As Harry slides in a third finger, Tom shouts something—possibly a warning—but Harry is unable to comprehend it before Tom cries out and spills down his throat.
Harry works him through it, humming in pleasure as he swallows down the spend, feeling Tom clench tightly around his fingers. When Tom’s cock softens, Harry pulls off, removing his fingers so he can sit up and take in the state he’s left Tom in.
Tom’s eyes are closed, one hand splayed over his chest as if he’s trying to anchor himself. Harry shifts to fill the space beside, propping himself up on one elbow, watching the rise and fall of Tom’s chest as his breathing gradually evens out.
Tom’s eyes fly open. They feel endless—like a black hole in the depths of space, pulling Harry in. Harry lets out a startled sound when, suddenly and without warning, Tom pounces. He rolls Harry onto his back, straddling his hips.
“I need to see you,” Tom gasps. “All of you. I need to feel all of you.”
Harry can only manage a frantic nod as Tom starts tugging at his shirt, nearly hard enough to tear. Harry shifts to help, yanking it over his head and flinging it aside.
Tom’s eyes roam hungrily over Harry’s bare chest. He leans down to mouth at Harry’s neck. A brief twist of fear coils in Harry’s stomach—he imagines Tom leaving bruises there, marks Harry can't explain away. But Tom’s kisses are open-mouthed, wet, and sloppy.
Then Tom buries his head in the thatch of hair at the centre of Harry’s chest and inhales deeply.
His body goes slack.
Harry pets gently at Tom’s sides, letting him do whatever it is he’s doing—nuzzling?
With Tom’s sudden, possessive weight pinning him down, Harry is acutely aware of his cock—hard, throbbing in time with his pulse. Tom is so quiet, so lax, that Harry wonders if he might be drifting off. That would be—well, it would be really disappointing. But Harry bites back the flash of irritation, reminding himself to be a gentleman.
As he’s imagining how he might maneuver himself to sneak a wank without waking Tom, he suddenly feels fumbling, greedy hands at the front of his trousers.
Tom’s head pops back up. He stares at Harry with renewed intensity, pupils blown wide.
“Want you,” he says, the words slurred.
Harry manages a shaky nod and moves to help. Tom’s warm hands shove under the waistband of his pants, tugging impatiently until everything comes off in one rough motion.
Tom stares at Harry’s cock with such startling focus that Harry feels compelled to look down as well, just to see what all the fuss is about. After such a long period of neglect, his cock looks angry—swollen and nearing purple. Coming out of a thick patch of hair, it looks vaguely threatening compared to Tom’s pretty pink cock, which is stubbornly twitching back to life.
Tom reaches down to brush his fingertips across the head—just barely—but it’s enough to make a shudder rack through Harry.
“I need it,” Tom says. “Inside of me.”
Harry gulps. He needs that too—urgently. Still, he has concerns.
“I think I might need to open you up a bit more,” Harry says.
He hopes he doesn’t sound conceited, but his cock is larger than average, and Tom is so unbelievably tight—
“No,” Tom says.
There's a flash of something almost hostile in his eyes but it's gone almost as quickly as it appears. His expression smooths.
“I can take it.”
“Sure,” Harry breathes out. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”
Tom’s mouth curves with a regal sort of triumph. “How do you want me?”
Any way. Every way.
Harry’s mind scatters through all the possibilities. On his front or his side would be most comfortable for Tom, but then Harry wouldn't be able to see that lovely face.
“On your back,” Harry decides.
Tom’s answering smile suggests that was the correct choice. He climbs off Harry and gracefully falls back onto the bed, thighs opening invitingly.
Harry reaches for the condom, tears it open, and rolls it on quickly. He has never skipped this step, yet for a moment he imagines taking Tom without a barrier. Recklessly hot and close.
He violently pushes the thought away and reaches for the lube instead. He slathers his cock with a truly obscene amount—a last-ditch effort to show mercy to the beautifully stubborn boy beneath him.
“Legs up for me, yeah?”
Tom complies immediately, long, elegant limbs lifting. Harry runs his hands down his thighs, kisses the hollow behind his right knee, then guides them higher until Tom is nearly folded in half.
Tom looks so beautiful—a perfect offering. Harry nearly looks away, feeling unworthy of such a sight.
Harry grabs hold of his cock, gently squeezing the shaft as he guides it toward Tom’s hole. He draws a steadying breath as the head kisses the entrance.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I want it,” Tom says. His face shows no hesitation, no fear—only desire.
Harry pushes in slowly, keeping his eyes trained on Tom’s face, searching for any sign of discomfort. Tom’s pink, wet lips part on a breathy sound, but he doesn’t wince. Harry tells himself he’ll have the strength to pull back if Tom shows any obvious signs of pain.
Tom is so hot, so tight around Harry’s throbbing cock. He’s never felt anything so perfect. His mind fills with nonsense—how he would carve out a space inside Tom, make a home for himself there, never leave.
“You feel so good,” Harry babbles. “You’re taking me so well, baby.”
Tom moans, eyes fluttering, lifting his hips up to guide Harry deeper. Once Harry is fully inside, he stills. He reaches out to stroke Tom’s hip, a soothing gesture, meant for both of them, he thinks.
Tom smirks, clenching around him. “Fuck me,” he says, a bratty edge cutting through.
Harry thrusts, slowly at first. He already feels dangerously close to the edge. He looks up, focusing on a water stain on the ceiling, trying to hold on.
Every movement draws the sweetest sounds from Tom. Soon enough, his crawling pace—his attempt at gentleness—can’t be sustained. He speeds up, snapping his hips.
The abrupt shift startles Tom for a moment, his eyes growing wide. Then he smiles, his moans breaking into ragged cries of pleasure. Harry leans down to swallow them, pressing his tongue into Tom’s hot mouth. Blunt nails scrape down his back, and Harry finds himself wishing they would draw blood.
“Perfect,” Harry sighs into his mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”
Tom kisses him with bruising force. Harry winds his fingers through Tom’s damp, dark waves and pulls.
Everything narrows to pure sensation—the echo of wet slaps, the mixture of mingling moans.
Harry recklessly sucks at Tom’s throat, battering his prostate at a punishing pace, chasing oblivion.
Tom cries out, clenching rhythmically around Harry’s cock as he comes—completely untouched.
It’s enough to send Harry over the edge, a rough grunt torn from him as his own orgasm crashes through him.
Afterward, he presses his sweaty forehead to Tom’s, shuddering as his breath returns.
Harry kisses him slower, sweeter, as his cock begins to soften. Usually, after Harry comes, he’s eager to say goodbye so he can shower and get some sleep. But now, as this comes to an end, he feels a clawing need to draw it out further.
Reality seeps back in and Harry pulls out. He removes the condom and turns away to toss it into the rubbish bin.
When Harry moves to stand, Tom makes a soft sound that resembles a protest. Harry looks back, his chest tightening as he takes Tom in.
In his haste, Harry hadn’t bothered to dim any of the lights in the room. Now the fluorescent glow is painfully bright, enough to spark a sharp ache in his temple.
Tom’s delicate features are thrown into stark relief—pale skin mottled with crimson, sweat sheening his brow. Moisture clings to his lashes.
Harry’s stomach twists with self-loathing. He feels as though he’s desecrated something holy—wrecked a tender innocent thing. His eyes hone in on the marks on Tom’s throat, the bruises blooming along his waist and hips where Harry’s fingers had dug in too deeply. His chest is splattered with spend.
Tom is trembling.
Harry is a monster.
He’s seized by the need to undo the damage he’s done—to put the pieces back, to return Tom to the clean, sharply composed young man who first knocked on his door.
Blood roars in his ears as he starts to rise. He’ll soak a flannel with warm water, clean Tom gently, like an act of penance.
Fingers close tightly around his wrist.
“Stay,” Tom says, his stare sharp but his voice soft, small.
Harry obeys, settling back down so Tom can curl against him. Tom sighs, pressing close as Harry strokes the curve of his spine.
They lie like that in silence for a long time. Harry’s eyes grow heavy, and Tom looks close to sleep as well.
Harry can’t bring himself to ask him to leave.
“Let me clean you up,” Harry murmurs, kissing Tom’s cheek. “We can sleep after.”
Tom hums, loosening his hold just enough so Harry can slip free. Harry quickly gathers what he needs from the bathroom, turning off the lights as he returns until only the bedside lamp remains.
Tom’s eyes are heavy narrow slits. He barely reacts as Harry wipes away the dried come and lube. Once Harry’s done the best he can, he sets the flannel aside and flicks off the lamp. The room is plunged into darkness.
Harry slides back into bed, pulling the duvet over them. Tom’s head settles against his chest.
Harry lies awake long after Tom’s breathing evens out, staring into the pitch black abyss.
He doesn't quite manage to convince himself that nothing monumental has occurred before he falls prey to his exhaustion.
The distant blare of a car alarm jolts Harry awake, his throat dry and his head swimming. It takes several minutes for him to remember where he is, and only after that—once he realizes he’s still naked—do the events of the previous evening drift back to him.
The air-con is rattling horribly; someone really ought to look at it. The barest trace of morning light peeks through the curtains, so it must still be early. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table confirms it’s only a little after six a.m. He still has time.
The last day of the conference is the shortest. He’ll work until lunch and make it back home in time for dinner.
There’s a small sound to his left—the slide of skin against skin—and Harry realizes that Tom is still in bed with him. He’s never had anyone stay overnight before, no matter how good the sex was. Though he remembers falling asleep with Tom, he’d assumed the boy would eventually wake and leave.
But it’s probably for the best that he didn’t, Harry decides. It wouldn’t have been safe for someone as pretty as Tom to be out alone in the city so late at night. The hotel isn’t in a bad part of town, necessarily, but Harry had still taken the posted warnings seriously enough to remove all valuables from his car.
Besides, with Tom still here, Harry can admire him—soft with sleep. The light is too dim to take in all his features, but what Harry can see is lovely. Tom looks completely relaxed, mouth pleasantly pouted, breathing soft and even. No snoring. No wheezing. He looks even younger this way—a thought that makes Harry’s stomach twist with guilt.
For a moment, Harry considers taking a photo, just to remember him by. He immediately feels like a creep and discards the idea. Besides, he has no idea how he’d hide something like that if anyone ever looked through his phone.
Tom murmurs something in his sleep and presses closer. At the very least, Harry can indulge in touching him a little longer before he’s forced to say goodbye. He wraps his arms around Tom, gently caressing the silk-smooth expanse of his back. As tempted as he is to move his hands lower—to grasp and squeeze that gorgeously tight arse—he restrains himself, unwilling to wake him.
Even so, being this close to the nude body of arguably the most handsome man Harry has ever seen has an obvious effect. His cock begins to harden quickly, twitching where it’s pressed against Tom’s thigh.
Before Harry can pull away, Tom stirs, smiling as he opens his eyes.
“Good morning to you, too,” Tom says, his voice still raspy with sleep.
Harry feels his cheeks warm. “Sorry,” he blurts. “I shouldn’t have—”
When Harry tries to retreat, Tom draws him back in.
“Don’t apologize,” Tom says. “You can touch me all you like.”
He presses closer, hips moving in lazy circles as his lips brush Harry’s ear. “You could’ve even taken me in my sleep—I wouldn’t have minded waking up with you inside me.”
Heat floods Harry’s entire body. He would never presume to do such a thing. Never would even consider—but coming from Tom’s mouth it's suddenly the hottest thing he’s ever heard.
“Fuck,” Harry breathes.
“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” Tom replies.
They’re on the same page, then. Brilliant. He hadn’t intended to fuck Tom again this morning, but now he’s fairly certain he’ll die if he doesn’t.
Harry manages to fish out the lube and another condom while his limbs are still tangled with Tom’s. Last night, he’d been patient. Now he’s desperate, working Tom open quickly, efficiently.
Even so, he hesitates as his finger brushes Tom’s swollen rim. “You okay? Sore?”
“Feels good,” Tom gasps as Harry slides a finger inside. “I like that I can still feel where you’ve been.”
Dear God.
Harry imagines it vividly—Tom days from now, sitting in a classroom, unable to focus, unable to sit comfortably because he’s still remembering how Harry’s cock felt inside him.
Harry kisses him hungrily as he works him open, sucking on his tongue, biting at his jaw.
Tom is looser this morning, easier to prepare, but still a deliciously tight grip around Harry’s cock when he finally slides inside.
Long legs wrap around Harry’s waist, clinging as Harry fucks him into the mattress. Tom is exquisitely responsive—every thrust, every touch, every kiss drawing out gorgeous sounds.
He’s so beguiling. So easy to get lost in. The world seems to narrow until there’s nothing but the softness of Tom’s body, and Harry’s only purpose is to claim and worship it.
After a particularly hard thrust, Tom lets out a broken sob. Harry feels Tom’s cock twitch and pulse where it’s pressed against his stomach, drenching them both. Once again, Harry hasn’t even touched him.
“You’re perfect,” Harry growls. “So sweet. The sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”
No one else should be allowed to have this, he thinks—but doesn’t dare say.
Harry dips a finger between them, gathering Tom’s release. He brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean. Perfect. Somehow not bitter at all. He quickly gathers more and brings it to Tom’s lips so he can taste as well.
Tom moans around his finger, lashes fluttering. Harry comes hard enough that his vision whites out, collapsing on top of Tom in a boneless heap.
He stays buried inside Tom a little longer, exchanging languid kisses. Eventually, though, unease prickles at the back of his neck, and he turns his head to check the time. The number glowing on the screen draws an exasperated sigh.
“You have to leave today, don’t you?” Tom asks.
“Yeah,” Harry grumbles.
Reluctantly, he slips out of Tom. For the moment, everything outside this room feels distant—irrelevant. He wants to keep Tom here, sweet and pliant beneath him, until the sun burns out.
But Harry gathers his resolve and gets up.
Tom remains stretched against the pillows, looking so fetching that Harry nearly climbs back into bed. He resists—but his gaze still lingers. Tom catches it and winks.
Anyway, Harry reasons, Tom probably has places to be, too. Studying. Friends. Brunch, perhaps. He seems like the type—mimosas, eggs Benedict, maybe even a bit of caviar.
“I should shower,” Harry says. To his ears, he sounds rather like a pouting child.
Then, without thinking, he adds, “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”
For a moment, Tom looks pensive, and Harry thinks he’s about to be refused. That would be better. Truly. This morning has been nothing but one reckless decision tumbling into the next.
Then Tom smiles. “I would like that.”
The shower isn’t meant for two people. There’s awkward maneuvering, bumped limbs—but their laughter comes easily. Once again, Harry finds himself lost in the moment.
At first, they make a show of washing each other. They do need it, after all. But soon enough, Tom sinks to his knees and takes Harry into his mouth, and priorities shift rapidly.
Before Harry’s mind can fully catch up with his body, he has Tom pressed against the shower door, gripping his hip as he pushes inside him again.
“How the fuck are you still so tight?” Harry groans. Truly, he thinks Tom must have magic in him.
Harry wraps a hand around Tom’s cock as he thrusts. He could probably make Tom come untouched again, but he wants to feel that lovely cock spasm against his hand as he brings him to the edge.
He gets his wish soon enough. Tom comes with a hoarse cry, and Harry follows, spilling into Tom’s warm heat.
Then Harry realises what he’s done and he feels like he's been drenched with ice water. He pulls out, watching his release trickle from Tom’s swollen red rim.
He hadn’t worn a condom.
“Shit,” Harry gasps, panic seizing his lungs. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I didn’t think—”
Tom only laughs, turning to press his lips to Harry’s. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m clean.”
“I am too,” Harry says quickly. “Promise. But still, I should have—”
Tom silences him with another kiss. “No need to fret,” he soothes. “I really enjoyed you coming inside me. Filling me up. I’ve wanted it this whole time—I just didn’t know how to ask.”
“Christ,” Harry sighs, eyes lifting heavenward. “You’ll be the death of me.”
Tom smiles—smug, satisfied—and reaches for the flannel.
Once they’re both clean and dry, Harry can no longer delay the inevitable. They dress mostly in silence. Tom’s clothes are wrinkled from the floor, but somehow he still looks perfect—like he could walk out of here and blend seamlessly into High Street.
“It was really nice to meet you,” Harry says after walking him to the door. “I had a really nice time.”
“Give me a ring the next time you’re in London,” Tom replies.
Harry allows himself one last lingering kiss.
“Sure,” he lies gently.
As much as he wants to—God, how he wants to—that would be the sort of choice that would burn his life to ash. Better to leave things here, where the memory can stay soft and fond for them both.
On the drive back to Ottery St Catchpole, Harry puts on a podcast—something Hermione recommended about the suffragette movement—and tries to reorient himself. He can’t focus. The host’s voice dissolves into noise as Harry drifts through memories of soft skin, tight heat, and beautiful, desperate sounds.
Sooner than he’s ready for, he pulls into his driveway. He takes out his phone and opens Grindr. One last time, he scrolls through his messages with Tom, smiling faintly to himself. Then he closes the app, presses his finger to the icon, and drags it to the trash.
He watches the wheel spin as the app deletes, feeling something dangerously close to grief.
Then he gets out of the car and walks toward his house to greet his wife.