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The door is locked, so it's not as if anyone will interrupt them. Not as if anyone was particularly dim witted enough to try, not when Head Auror Potter slams the Minister of Magic's door shut behind him after storming through the reception.  

And despite this knowledge and a particularly potent silencing spell cast at the door, Harry still muffles his moan against his wrist, face pink, eyes glassy.  

"Oh, darling," Tom practically croons, the absolute bastard, angling his hips just right.  "Look at you. You're a mess." 

If Harry had the wherewithal, he'd hex the smug sod right in the face. As it is, Harry's already got cum on his stomach and Tom’s not inconsiderable length buried inside of him. Tom had made fairly quick work of disrobing him and laying him out on his desk not long after Harry had gotten him off while on his knees.  Harry could still taste Tom's spend in his mouth as Tom had given him his first orgasm of the evening with clever touches and a wicked mouth.  

By then, though, Tom was already worked up again-- or, perhaps, he never came fully down-- and it's how Harry finds himself clutching the edge of the desk as Tom fucks him at a vicious pace. 

"Don't--" Harry gasps, another thrust jarring more papers loose, his heels digging in at Tom's lower back, as if to try and keep him from pulling away.  "Don't pretend indifference, Minister." 

Tom grins down at him, mouth half open as he pants, and his teeth look so very sharp.  "I would never attempt such a farce, darling.  When have I ever shown you disinterest?"

"Not once," Harry says. 

"Exactly," Tom says, and he's pushing Harry's knees up, his grip under his thighs unyielding and scalding, so that he can see where they're connected, so that he can drive a little deeper.  "You look so lovely like this-- like you were made for me.  If only you'd let me have you whenever I wanted." 

Harry quivers.  Whenever Tom interjects these dalliances with hints and promises of something more, Harry cannot help but feel his stomach drop, something small and old and desperate aching for that connection. 

Tom presses a kiss to the inside of his knee, dragging a strangled sound from Harry's throat as pace shifts from those sharp, claiming thrusts to something smooth and deep and insidiously good.  It has Harry squirming, has him arching, has him clawing at the wood beneath him. 

"You're-- ah, you're--" Harry aches-- between his thighs, low in his belly-- and he moans even as he flings a hand out to press at Tom's waist, fingers curling into his robes, like he's not sure if he's trying to drag him in deeper or if he's trying to get him to slow down long enough for Harry to catch his breath.  "You're so persistent, today."

"I want to take you home," Tom confesses, unabashed, using honesty as a weapon just as sharp and ruthless as when he spins lies.  "You won't let me.  Forgive my instincts for wanting to claim a bit more of you, today." 

Harry huffs, but his eyes are rolling back because Tom is pressing him down and rutting into him with a bloody breeding thrust, as if he has a cervix to for that cock to reach.  He feels taken.  He feels impaled.  

He feels the beginnings of Tom's knot catching at his rim.

Harry jerks beneath him, breath ripped from his chest.  " Tom-- I can't-- it won't--"

"You can," Tom tells him, dropping a hand to thumb at where he's so slick and so split open, and Harry bucks as his throat works around a low keen while Tom eases into a deep, blissful grind.  "I'd certainly like to see you try.  I want you tied to me in any way I can get, Harry Potter.  I want to feel you on my knot.  Would you try for me, darling?" 

"Coercive prick," Harry accuses, but his face is burning and his chest aches and he wants-- 

Tom presses at his rim with both thumbs.  Ruts deeper, as Harry's jaw goes slack, spreading Harry open with his hands so that he can watch as his knot starts to swell a bit more.  Enough that Harry can feel it, threatening to spread him more, his body beginning to protest, to tighten, to pull trembling and taut as Tom withdraws. 

"Knot me," Harry breathes, and it is worth it to see the way Tom's mask completely crumbles into the greedy, selfish creature that always lurked underneath.  

It's worth the sudden, violent rush, the desperate rut of a man chasing his end. Worth the way it makes Harry cry out and squeeze his eyes shut.  Worth the bruises that Tom will heal later, and the aching back he'll soothe. 

It is even worth the overwhelming, mind-breaking pressure of his knot.  The way it finally gets to swollen to withdraw. The way it grinds deep and keeps growing and growing-- 

Harry whines, pushing at Tom's chest, baring his teeth up at him. Tom groans with a deep shudder, bucks forward in a way that knocks Harry dizzy, and gods his knot-- 

"You perfect thing," Tom breathes, pressing down against him, folding him so that he can press kiss after drugging kiss to Harry's open mouth.  "You terrifying, perfect little thing." 

He's cumming. Knotted in him and filling him, he's so big and there's so much and Harry has never felt so full.  He's so full and still Tom is rutting and is still cumming and still filling him and Harry--

A hand on his own length.  A tongue licking past his teeth.  It's enough. It's too much.

He's not prepared for the intensity of it. For the way he greys out for a moment, far too underprepared for the bliss this particular coupling would bring.  

Nor is he prepared for the shaking sensation of vulnerability that comes when he blinks himself back into awareness, Tom anchoring him down, fingers in his hair, smile just as smug as it is satisfied. 

"Look at you, darling," he says, kissing his jaw, rocking forward just to make Harry tremble.  "You're a mess." 

"Tom," Harry breathes, and his voice is so lost, so utterly spent.  "Take me home will you?" 

It's worth it, to see the way his eyes go wide and his smile dimples his cheek.  It's definitely worth it.