It is no secret that Harry’s tongue has always merrily danced across the thin thread between disobedience and brilliance — merging disrespect with wit, cheek with charm, jumping from one extremity to another effortlessly. Being a man of eccentric, yet fine, taste himself, Tom could have not found a lover worthier of his time than Harry.
But still a man he remains, made of flesh and blood and a patience that has yet to be proved limitless. His foolishly cunning angel has taken upon himself to test Tom’s tolerance, even when he’s face down and sobbing.
“Come on, old man— ah,— those rusty j-joints holding you back?”
Through muffled words and wet eyes, his face pressed down while his butt remains in the air, utterly under Tom’s mercy, — or rather, lack of — he still runs his mouth with the same disrespect he daily shows towards his friends, demanding a sweet treat or making a sarcastic joke. Only now he stands bare before Tom, his spine bent like a violin, trembling and producing such melodious moans as Tom plays with his strings.
His words morph into a lewd sob when the head of Tom’s cock kisses the sweet spot harboured in the divine softness of his insides, his lovely thighs trembling. Tom only tightens his fingers around Harry’s narrow hips.
Tom’s pace is nowhere near leisure, yet upon Harry’s bratty demands that he gives him more, he is purposefully not granting Harry his wish — he is aware he has trained his angel to endure, yearn for brutish pleasure only Tom could give him, yet such requests shall be made mannerly, something Harry is not able to do; perhaps purposefully. Through gritted teeth and unmet demands, Harry ceases to hold his tongue.
“Seems like age is c-catching up to you, I’d have to find someone—“
Tom seethes, yanking his boy up from the elbows and slamming his back against his own chest, sneaking his arm upfront to violate the delicate neck with his ruthless grip. The new angle takes Tom’s cock deeper, ragingly invading Harry’s insides at a new depth. Tom tightens his fingers around his throat as Harry cries.
“Watch that tongue, child, before I cut it off.” His hiss lands right by Harry’s ear, a tremble travelling through Harry’s body. Despite the unforgiving grip on his throat, he is yet to regret his behaviour as he readies himself to spill out more idiocy. Provoked to fury, Tom covers his mouth with his open palm, pinching the small nose shut with his fingers. Harry’s unreleased breath catches in his throat.
“Such vulgar behaviour, not an ounce of gratitude towards those who give you so much. Parenting issue, that is.”
His pace has slowed down drastically, each drag of his cock against velvety insides making Harry whimper.
“If I had raised you, you’d be better behaved.”
Harry clenches around him, a groan clawing its way through Tom’s throat.
“You would know what manners truly are, what it means to respect your elders, those who yield power,” his teeth graze Harry’s neck, “those whom you beg to pleasure you.”
“I’d shape you into what every man would want of his creation — a courteous, obligingly devout child. You would not object against my word, under any circumstance, the word of your patriarch.”
Yet always, always Harry submits to Tom’s every command, when beneath his dominant hand — down on his knees, on his back, riding Tom’s cock, his face, spread out with his knees apart and legs in the air.
Although unhurried, every time Tom’s hips move forward, they slam with unimaginable force, caressing Harry’s sweet spot mercilessly. When his boy unexpectedly melts further into his arms, Tom grins.
“You’d want that, would you not, love? My constant attention poured onto you, your education, your growth?” His face nuzzles into Harry’s hair, “Having me look after you relentlessly, your existence my sole concern?”
He lets go of Harry’s mouth, delirious air flowing in through his mouth as his boy takes pathetic breaths, smaller hands grabbing Tom’s over his hips. Tom pushes them so they both fall over, his crushing weight covering Harry whole. He sets a brutal pace, providing Harry with what he had been asking. Mouth open wide and face buried in the pillow, Harry could only cry his heart out.
“Would you bring your little boyfriends or girlfriends over, excited to introduce them to me? Taking them to your room and silently closing the door, hoping I do not hear you engaging in blasphemous acts behind my back?”
His thrusts never once miss the spot nestled deep inside Harry. He threads his fingers into soft, charcoal hair, yanking his head up. The wetness of Harry’s cheeks glistens. Tom whispers right by his ear.
“I’d stretch you open on my cock and fuck your little hole right in front of their eyes while you weep for me.”
Harry’s sounds of pleasure make for the most beautiful song, a sacred nocturne.
“It is only right, yes, angel? Demonstrating how you ought to be taken care of, what you truly need. A caring, dedicated man making sure his beloved fawn’s needs are met and fulfilled. But what a shame, how you’d remain unwed for so, so long,”
His lips curve, malice darkening his eyes.
“Nobody could pleasure you like I do, nobody could give you what I do. No soul would dare to come near you, not when you belong to me.”
Tom presses his lips over Harry’s eyelid.
“You’d be mine from birth to death.”
Reaching the culmination of his pleasure with a wretched wail, Harry knows he already is.
