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Harry ran his hand along the fence, counting steps and chainlink squares alike as he walked the familiar path back to Privet Drive from Stonewall High. His secondary school wasn’t in a great part of town, which was probably the reason that Dudley and most of the other kids in his neighborhood whose parents had social-climbing aspirations attended private academies instead. NO TRESPASSING signs were a common sight, and seemingly every other yard was home to mean dogs that would charge the fence with a snarl and a rattle of metal when he passed; no matter that he’d come this way five days a week for years now, always with a “Who’s a good boy” or “It’s just me again, just Harry” in a gentle, nonthreatening voice. The creatures around here weren’t used to kindness and didn’t trust it when it came.
The smooth, almost-silent purr of an expensive engine crept up from behind him, out of place in this neighborhood of ex-council flats and vacant lots filled with weeds and litter. He let out a weary sigh at the sound, but it escaped between lips that couldn’t help but turn up at the corners just slightly. It wasn’t his fault if this was the most interesting and positive interaction that happened in the vast majority of his days. He forced himself to keep walking, to pretend like he didn’t notice a thing.
The hum shifted from behind to directly beside him, now accompanied by the whirr of an electric window being rolled down. A long, lean arm and hand extended through the opening, pianist’s fingers tapping on the car’s sleek dark-green, almost black exterior; it was shortly followed by a strong shoulder and a face with equally sharp lines at the jaw, nose and cheekbones.
”Get into the car, Harry,” the man at the wheel said. His voice was a low rumble that matched that of his luxury Aston Martin, belied by a mostly playful tone.
Harry kept walking, at a pace deliberately chosen to force the car to keep moving, but only at a near-impossibly slow rate. He trained his eyes forward, only letting himself glimpse his pursuer from the periphery, like the things in the shop windows he’d never be able to afford. “Hello again, Tom.”
It had started a few months ago, back in September, when Harry had just started his final year. He didn’t know what a man like Tom, whose tie and haircut on any given day probably each cost more than Harry’s entire existence was worth, could be doing in this area; his best guess would be that he owned some (or all) of the properties, but didn’t landlords this posh have people to handle that kind of thing? Either way, on that first autumn day, Tom had slowed down and called out to Harry. Introduced himself like they were at one of Uncle Vernon’s dumb business mixers, and then—he still couldn’t really believe it, even though it had continued to happen almost every subsequent day since—asked if he’d like to come home with him. Just like that. From the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes as he raked them up and down Harry’s scrawny, Stonewall grey-clad body, the implications of what they’d be doing at that home couldn’t be more obvious.
”Get the hell away from me,” Harry had said, springing backward and palming the switchblade knife he kept on him for this walk, ever since he’d gotten mugged once when he was fourteen. Tom had only laughed.
“Oh, that’s quite alright,” he’d said with a smile that had an almost boyish charm, despite the crow’s feet and silver temples that marked him as old enough to be Harry’s father. “I wouldn’t have looked twice if I didn’t think you’d be a challenge, you know. Just take this, and let me know when you change your mind.” He’d held out a business card—black, embossed, probably also worth more than a week’s ordinary wages—between two slim fingers; when Harry only continued to back away slowly, his eyes never leaving the predator before him, he leaned through the window and let it flutter gently to the ground.
“Don’t feel the need to dirty those pretty hands of yours,” Tom said, hand already on the gearshift to pull away. “I’ll be in touch.”
Harry had stood there, still as a statue, waiting until the car was out of sight and hearing range and he could no longer smell its exhaust and its driver probably wasn’t lurking around a corner watching him through an angled mirror—and then he’d stepped back into the street and picked up the card. Just so he could do some research, he told himself. Just so he’d know who he was dealing with.
Tom M. Riddle, as it turned out. CEO of Slytherin Corp., one of the top-ten wealthiest men in the country (starting from nothing, with an upbringing in an East End children’s home), forty-two years old and never married or even linked to anyone romantically. In other words, nobody who’d be maintaining an interest in someone like Harry for very long, that was for sure. Hell, he probably just did it for a laugh, something to spice up his long, dull days of wealth and power.
But then he’d shown up the next day as well. And the next, and the next. By the end of the week, he’d started calling Harry by his name (how? School records? Private investigator?). Harry had initially been terrified. He had no one he could tell that would step in to help; no one who’d even look for him if he ever went missing, most likely.
Tom never actually did anything, though—beyond, arguably, stalking him for those few blocks every school day. He never even so much as got out of the car. He’d only pull alongside Harry, one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out the window, and chat idly for a while (regardless of whether he got any response); always making the same offer before he drove away, never overstaying his nonexistent ‘welcome’. He’d vary up the phrasing or the specifics of his pitch, adding what were probably supposed to be enticements:
”Let me give you a ride, at least. It’s chilly today; my Vanquish has heated seats.”
”I’d love to show you around my penthouse in the city. The view from the balcony is exquisite—though not quite comparable to the one I’m enjoying now.”
”Just say yes, Harry. I would take such good care of you.”
The offers were tempting, Harry could admit that to himself at least. The idea of being kept and cherished by someone, a person who’d see to all his needs and wants that had gone unmet for as long as he could remember. But it was too good to be true; he knew that. For someone like Riddle, being kept was no different from being detained, and all the wealthy man was really dangling before him was a chain.
Still, he did start greeting and saying goodbye to him by name. It seemed only polite to do so, when Tom was so weirdly gentlemanly about his harassment.
”Get in the car, Harry,” he repeated now, his voice cajoling. “I’ve just made a stop at my favorite bakery in town. The pastries are still warm; can’t you smell them?”
Harry could. His stomach let out a rumble, much louder than that of the engine; there was no way Tom didn’t hear it. “No, thanks,” he said to cover the embarrassing noise, and continued walking, stepping off the curb at the corner and crossing the next street. Tom matched his pace for two more blocks; if anyone in the houses they passed wondered about why a car straight out of a magazine had been frequenting their dingy lane so regularly, they didn’t emerge to make their curiosity known.
”The leaves have almost all fallen now,” Tom sighed wistfully, just as Harry reached the familiar yellow-painted house with a bulldog that reminded him uncomfortably of Ripper. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.” He began creeping away, but left the window down until their usual exchange was completed:
”’Bye, Tom,” Harry said softly, and watched the taillights fade into the distance.
And so it went, day after day, as the trees went from ragged to completely bare and the weather grew colder. Often it was near dark, or past it even, when their rendezvous occurred; but Tom always offered, and Harry always said no.
Until one day—in the heart of winter, when the holidays had passed but it was still bitter cold and the skies had been sleeting for a week and all he had to look forward to back ‘home’ was some tepid broth more chores until bedtime—he didn’t.
*
Harry lay under the silk sheets, the fabric sliding luxuriously over his bare backside, his head buried in the cloudlike pillow that smelled of Tom’s shampoo. He could just detect the glow of morning spring sunlight through his closed eyelids, shining through a window through which the view—when he cared to get up and take it in—really was undeniably exquisite.
He heard muted noises (soundproof insulation) coming from the kitchen and rolled over, replacing the scent of sandalwood with the equally enticing aroma of eggs, bacon and butter. A groan of anticipatory pleasure escaped his lips; three months and he was still nowhere near used to this, maybe never would be. He kept his eyes closed (if it’s a dream don’t wake me) until the muted sounds turned to louder footsteps and the smells grew so strong his mouth watered, and finally the bed dipped beside him and he felt familiar long, slim fingers caress his shoulder.
”Wake up, my sleepy darling. Or should I say, stop pretending to be asleep?”
Harry cracked an eye open and marveled in the sight of Tom there, freshly showered and clad only in a black dressing gown and snug boxer briefs over his fit, statue-like body. Part of him wished he could still see the mussed hair and sweat-slick skin from their activities last night; but the marks Harry left on the man’s neck and collarbone in the throes of ecstasy remained, peeking out over the robe’s collar.
“How can you always tell?” he asked, pouting with his lips still slightly red and swollen from kisses. Tom smirked.
”Harry, precious, I’ve spent hours watching you sleep; I know what your breathing sounds like, both when you’re truly dreaming and only resting your eyes.” He shifted closer on the bed, picking up the large tray of breakfast he’d brought with him and laying it across Harry’s lap, then fluttering open a napkin and tying it tenderly around the younger man’s neck. “Are you hungry?”
”It’s nice to see you’re still stalking me, even though I actually live with you now,” Harry quipped, but nonetheless he budged up into a sitting position and took in the food spread. “Mmm, yes, starving—hey, what’s under the bell thing?” He pointed past the perfectly poached egg and colorful plate of exotic fruits to a small plate with a round, silver cover still on top.
”It’s called a cloche, darling.” Tom picked up the silverware and began preparing the food, cutting the meat and bread into bite-sized portions; he took a strip of toast and dipped it into the runny egg yolk. “Be a good boy and clean your plate, and you’ll find out what special surprise I’ve brought for you today. Now, open for me.”
This had become a fairly regular routine, over the past months of cohabitation in the aerie-like flat near the very top of London. Tom liked to bring Harry breakfast in bed and then feed him by hand, tender morsels liberally interspersed with kisses. That very first morning, he’d been mortified, still hardly able to believe what had happened: that he’d finally given in to Tom’s silver tongue, accepting the illusion of a warm bed and hot meal in exchange for his youthful body and god knows what else; but, more than that, that the promise had been kept, that he’d truly been brought to the lap of luxury and treated with loving, respectful hands instead of tied up or left dead in a ditch somewhere. It was too much, he’d told Tom in a panic, pushing the rich food away and insisting he could see himself out, pick up something cheap at a cafe on his way home—
“No.” Tom’s tone had brooked no argument; even less so, his firm hand on Harry’s chest pushing him back down into the sheets and mattress. Then, more playful and seductive but still deadly serious: “You swore last night to do whatever I wished, Harry. And I have been wishing for this for a very long time now.”
It had taken time and many more reassurances, but Harry could mostly accept the daily pampering now; the breakfasts and other meals, and the infinitely hot showers where Tom stood behind him and scrubbed his scalp until he nearly melted into the tiles, and the clothes bought and tailored just for him so they felt as comfy as a second skin, on the infrequent occasions he needed to get dressed. He accepted it even if he could never truly believe he deserved it; and for both those reasons, he now often joked with his lover while the older man performed his careful ministrations.
“I think I was already a pretty good boy for you last night,” he teased now, obediently opening his mouth for the incoming eggy ‘soldier’. “And pretty open, too—mmmph.”
“Yes, and you deserve a treat, but we also have to replenish your energy after such strenuous exertions,” Tom purred. “Which flavor of juice would you prefer today?”
They continued like that for the better part of an hour, Tom alternating fork-and-spoonfuls with snatches of conversation, discussion of their plans for the day and the latest goings-on at Tom’s work or Harry’s schooling (all private tutors now, arriving for a few hours each day to make sure he had a proper education, tailored to his schedule and the unique “learning style” he hadn’t even known he had). When he’d eaten his fill—plus a little more, as Tom constantly reminded him that he needed to gain weight and stretch his shrunken stomach—he dabbed at his mouth with the “bib” and let his eyes drift back to the mysterious silver cloche.
”Ready for your reward?” When Harry nodded eagerly, Tom chuckled and picked up the covered plate, setting the tray with the other remnants aside on the nightstand. He scooted up even further so they were practically reclined next to each other again, then lifted the cloche to reveal…
Liquid gold. Or it sort of resembled it, anyway; sitting on the dish was a thick chunk of raw honeycomb, the dozens of interlinked yellow hexagons lightly crusted with pale wax and oozing generously with the thick, sweet liquid. Harry’s mouth began to water almost as heavily at the sight, despite feeling plenty sated just minutes ago.
“Hmm, it seems you like my gift.” Harry’s eyes flicked back up to Tom’s dark brown ones; they were almost as liquid and golden as the honey in the sunlight, with the pupils dilated wide. “Lie back, my love…”
He obeyed, settling back onto the pillow and tipping his chin up, his throat bobbing in anticipation of more than dessert; Tom’s face floated into his field of vision, and then his hand, holding the honeycomb in his bare fingers, uncaring of how it turned his perfect skin sticky. He hovered it over Harry’s mouth for a moment, letting just a drop or two fall onto his tongue.
“Uhhhnnn.” He couldn’t help but groan; the tiny amount of concentrated sweetness was better than any of the cheap, empty packaged treats he used to consume from petrol stations or the school cafeteria back when he was starving. It tasted like sunshine, like the spring that followed his last cold winter.
”There we are, now.” Tom lowered the chunk so it was within reach of Harry’s lips; but when he reached up to grab it and steady himself, the older man only clucked his tongue and took both of his wrists in his free hand, pinning them gently but firmly above his head.
“Only from me,” he chided, his voice a deep croon. “You know the rules.”
Harry hummed contentedly; he did know this game, one of Tom’s favorites. Only eat from my hands, only come on my cock, no touching, no touching. It was a little unnerving at first, relinquishing so much control, feeling like he was receiving without giving anything in return; but Tom never pressured him, only assured Harry again and again that his pleasure was a gift in itself, his bliss multiplied a thousandfold for his lover. Now he opened his mouth wider, making way for the comb itself.
It was a feast for the senses. The crystallized-sunlight taste exploded now onto every part of his palate, letting him experience the entire fullness of it, how its notes of sweet and tart and savory harmonized so well with the flavors of fruit and meat that still lingered in his mouth. He worked his tongue into the tiny holes and crevices, licking each chamber clean of its golden bounty; and then, when he reached the end of the latticed chunk and encountered the smoother but nearly-as-sweet pads of Tom’s fingers, took those into his mouth as well, sucking gently and tracing the same loops and whorls that had trailed over his body just hours ago.
He could hear himself moaning. It took him a while to realize that Tom was too, the sounds layering and blending together until it was impossible to tell which was which.
They worked their way through it, just like that. When Tom apparently felt confident that Harry would not move or reach up again, he released his hands and rewarded him with more touches, sensual strokes along his chest and sides or through his hair. Harry finished with his tongue and moved on to nibbling at the crunchy, chewy hexagons themselves, taking care to frequently graze Tom’s fingers with his teeth but never biting hard enough to hurt—though he was far from sure that Tom wouldn’t enjoy that just as much. The fruit of flowers carried by buzzing insects, cultivated and guarded jealously for weeks, now finally dissolving into pure sugar against his tongue, until the last of it was gone.
*
“Tell me right away if it’s too tight,” Tom murmured in his ear, his large hands running up and down Harry’s wrists, soothing even as he slowly cinched the metal circlets closer to his skin. “Or if you want me to stop. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
”I want to,” he said, looking his lover firmly in the eye. “I’m the one who suggested this, remember? But…” he felt a gooey smile spreading across his face at Tom’s care, his ever-attentiveness to Harry’s particular sensitivities and needs, “thank you, all the same. For making sure I know.”
”Always.” Tom ratcheted the handcuffs one final time and engaged the lock, swiping his fingers between metal and skin to ensure there would be no pain or lasting marks. “Does that feel good?”
”Great, more like.” He meant it, too. His arms tingled pleasantly where they were cuffed above his head, the silver chain between the two bracelets looped around part of the headboard so he was fully trapped, giving Tom free reign to pleasure—or exquisitely torture—him in any way he pleased until they were both spent, or Harry begged for mercy and Tom felt generous enough to give it.
Or until he felt even the slightest bit frightened or uncomfortable, in which case Tom had been very clear that he was to say the safe word immediately and they would proceed straight to tenderness and aftercare. But Harry was optimistic that wouldn’t be a problem.
He wanted this. Wanted to feel held and kept and owned by Tom in every way—at least for now, for fun and pleasure, during these stolen midnight hours when they both always felt especially free to play and experiment.
After all—he’d finally begun to understand—even if Tom owned him, Harry possessed him back in every way that counted. Held his heart in a way no other had, as the man told him over and over until he believed it at last. Right in the palms of your pretty hands, he’d murmured in his ear, on spring mornings and lazy summer afternoons and autumn walks in St. James’s park through falling leaves, on dark winter nights where the cold and sleet lashed against the thick triple-paned windows but never came inside. Be careful with it, my darling. Be gentle.
He flexed his fingers, stretching his body in anticipation as Tom hovered over him like an epicurean over a feast, debating which delicacy to sample first. The handcuff chain clinked softly, the seamlessly welded links jingling against each other, and it sounded like the sweetest music, not a prison door.
As Tom began to touch him in earnest, ravishing down his body from his mouth to his sensitive nipples, to his stomach and thighs and even the backs of his knees and his feet, Harry let himself go, moaning and keening high in the back of his throat and outright screaming when his lover brought him to the edge again and again, only to pull back every time—pulling his lips off Harry’s aching cock or withdrawing a finger from his hole after barely brushing his prostate, just to start the process all over again with soft, chaste kisses and nips at his earlobes. He could see Tom growing more and more aroused himself in turn, his own cock straining and his breath speeding up and catching sharply every time Harry whined or arched his back, their pleasure shared and doubled like always. When he couldn’t take anymore and shouted, half-incoherent with need—“Fuck me, Tom, fucking hell, take me now and don’t stop till you make me come”—the other man seemed more than ready, making no more than a token show of reluctance before he settled between Harry’s legs and lined himself up, his eyes rolling back and a long, shuddering moan escaping him as he slid all the way home in a single thrust.
Harry clenched his fists above his head, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks, desperate not to be freed so much as to touch Tom, to feel him in return. In compensation, he lifted his legs and wrapped them in a vicegrip around the other’s waist, locking them together as closely as possible while still leaving room for that delicious, rhythmic movement in and out.
“Tom—Tom—“
”Oh, darling.”
When they reached their peak in near-unison, Tom only slumped down against Harry for a few moments, panting heavily to regain his breath, before he rolled them both to the side and slid up the bed so their faces were nearly touching, though their lower halves remained intimately connected. Without taking his eyes off Harry’s, he scrabbled against the headboard for the cuffs, fumbling until he found the locking mechanism and released it; blood rushed into Harry’s arms again, and the first thing he felt was Tom’s fingers as they twined tightly with his, the pulses at their wrists beating in syncopated time, the metal of the still-attached bracelet cool against both of their heated skin. Harry sank his other hand deep into Tom’s soft, sweat-dampened hair, carding and combing through the thick dark strands, and his blissed-out brain purred with hazy satisfaction at the notion that nearly every possible part of their two bodies were touching, joined.
...But not quite. Slowly, his eyes drifted back over to their clasped hands—to the single, loose cuff now dangling on its chain between them—and a deeply, almost primally appealing idea crept into his mind.
He slid his fingers once more through the salt and pepper at Tom’s temples and down to his cut-marble cheekbone, pulling him into a deep, slow kiss. Then, when his lover was well and truly distracted plundering Harry’s mouth, he reached over, grasped the loose handcuff—and in a single quick movement, cinched and locked it back around Tom’s wrist, so the two of them weren’t just connected but inextricably linked.
Tom’s eyes popped open in surprise at the decisive-sounding click; he withdrew from Harry just far enough to get a better line of sight, and stared at the chain with undisguised delight and a not-small amount of hunger.
“So is that how it is, then, precious?” he crooned, using his free hand to reach around, stroke the small of Harry’s back and move down to cup his arse. “You want to be bound to me forever, never to leave my side again?”
”Yes.” Harry snuggled even closer against Tom, nuzzling his face into his chest, that heady smell of spice and sandalwood. “Mine.”
”Mine,” his partner agreed, pressing a kiss to their entwined fingers before burying his own nose in the messy raven locks, inhaling a deep sigh of utter fulfillment and completion.