Chapter One: The Blacks

This is totally inspired by Mr. and Mrs. Smith, if you can't tell already… I am not apologetic. I am going through withdrawal from my other fic, When in Rome, so allow me this. This is only meant to be a short, fun project, so if you're interested in the concept let me know in the comments and I'll continue with it when I have the time.

"Mr. Voldemort wishes to see you," said Crouch. Tom didn't tear his eyes away from his phone and Crouch grew impatient, snapping his fingers in his higher-up's face. "ASAP! Sir," he added haltingly when Tom swivelled and glared at him.

"I am dealing with a crisis right now," hissed Tom in a low voice, directing as much venom as he could at Crouch with his eyes alone. "I will see my father when I am able to."

Crouch managed a pale sneer, though he backed away a few steps. "Make it happen within the next five minutes. The boss isn't in a patient mood."

Tom ignored him and turned back to his phone. The door to his office slammed shut behind Crouch and Tom immediately tossed his phone across the room and onto his leather sofa, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes.

The crisis he spoke of turned out to be centred around roses, of all things.

White or cream, he thought. White or cream for the wedding day?

He really ought to leave it up to Luna, who Harry had appointed as in charge of the flower business. But she had texted him the question, and Tom Riddle could never take the easy way out when he was asked to make a decision.

After a long minute of agonising over which colour was preferable, Tom stood, crossed the room and picked up his phone.

White, he texted back. White represented innocence, purity, new beginnings. The standard choice for a wedding. One could never go wrong with white.

I'm thinking cream.

The text from Luna zipped into his messages not two seconds later, and Tom fought the urge to tear his hair out.

Why the hell had she asked him if she had already made her own decision? But it was hardly the first time. Luna, old friend of Harry's, was that sort of person. She meant well but she was so absent-minded that she sometimes rubbed Tom the wrong way.

He had not anticipated that asking for Harry's hand in marriage would lead to this much trouble.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Tom turned to the mirror on his door and checked his appearance. Other than his hair now sitting in a disarray, he looked good. Tom rearranged his hairstyle, tucked his phone into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the doorhandle.

Thinking about the wedding was for after hours. During the day, there was work to be done.

Tom opened the door and stepped into the den of wolves.

As he passed by them, his colleagues all acknowledged him with hasty "sir"s before rushing away, eager to steer clear of him.

Draco was making coffee in the kitchen not far down the corridor. "Oh, Mr. Riddle!" he called, noticing Tom striding past.

Tom paused to allow the newest member of Death Eater to catch up with him.

Draco was the son of two of Death Eater's most elite assassins, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy – husband and wife. While their status did not boost Draco any higher up in the ranks, Draco was certainly more respected than most others who had only been around for a few years.

"What is it?" asked Tom and Draco gave a nervous chuckle.

"I, uh, I just recently read about your most recent assignment, in Mississauga," the younger boy said, moving carefully so not to spill his cup of coffee. "I'm very impressed, sir, it would never have occurred to me to use the kitchen stool to–"

"We do not discuss past assignments," Tom told him sharply. "As long as you accomplish your mission, it needs never be spoken of again. You would do well to remember that."

Even in their headquarters, their line of work was hardly one to chat about openly.

Draco blanched. "Of course. No disrespect intended, I'll… I have to take this to Ms. Carrow… good day to you."

Tom sighed. It was sometimes difficult to believe that he was only Draco's senior by two years. The newcomer had a lot to learn.

When Tom finally reached Voldemort's office, in the furthest and most secluded corner of the building, he knocked on the door and waited for admittance.

"Enter," came Voldemort's raspy voice, and Tom opened the door to reveal his adoptive father.

Voldemort was a tall and imposing man, pale of complexion with a bald head and startling eyes of russet, on the border between brown and red. Most people were terrified of the ringleader of Death Eater – with an exception to Bellatrix and himself. But Bella was bonkers, and Tom had known Voldemort since he was eight years old. He had been an orphan, moving through home after home because nobody wanted to keep a cold boy like himself. But Voldemort had seen potential in him and Tom had practically been raised by the man. Taking to the art of killing like a fish in water, Tom was accepted as a prodigy in their company, the best at what they did, trained by none other than the hand of Voldemort himself. Two decades later, Tom stood as the second-in-command.

Despite being an adoptive family, Voldemort nor Tom were naturally affectionate humans and there were no familial sentiments between the two. Voldemort had simply taught Tom how to hold his own in the world, and Tom had lapped it up like a cat given milk. Voldemort knew that he could trust his protégé, and in turn, Tom knew that he owed everything to him.

This wasn't to say that others were wrong to be frightened of Voldemort. He was both a formidable and ruthless person, but Tom understood that he was in no danger so long as he didn't poke the bear with a stick.

"Thomas," said Voldemort coldly, gesturing for him to take a seat in the chair on the opposite side of his desk. Said chair was acting as a perch for Voldemort's pet snake, Nagini. "You're late."

"My apologies." Tom reached out to stroke Nagini on top of the head. Funnily enough, Nagini had played a hand in raising Tom, too. She had only been a hatchling at the time but showed maternal instincts towards him, unusual of a snake. But where Voldemort was remote, Nagini was protective, spending long nights guarding Tom from the end of his bed.

She now blinked at him lazily before slithering off the chair, allowing Tom to use the chair after all.

Tom lowered himself into his seat and said, "I had to make a quick decision for the wedding."

"Ah, yes." Voldemort gave a thin-lipped smile. "Matrimonial bliss which is due to settle on your doorstep in – was it one month's time?"

"That's right." Tom met Voldemort's eye and didn't back down. He was perfectly aware of his boss's disapproval of the whole affair, but Harry would not interfere with the job and that was what mattered.

"Hm." Voldemort raised his hairless eyebrows before glancing down at the manila folder on his desk. Then he looked back up. "How is your fiancé, if I may ask?"

An image of Harry, beautiful and carefree, surfaced in Tom's mind and he immediately felt defensive. He never liked it when Voldemort focused his attention on him. "Harry's doing very well," said Tom. "He's returning from Auckland tomorrow night."

"Auckland?" Voldemort's piercing gaze darted back up. "The same place as Regulus Black, Augustus Rookwood and Amycus Carrow's assignment?"

"I suppose so."

Voldemort steepled his fingers together, eyes burning into Tom's own. "Your Harry certainly travels a lot, doesn't he? Didn't he return from Los Angeles, not two weeks ago?"

"He's an artist. He needs new sights for inspiration."

Voldemort was silent, contemplative.

Tom was quick to change the subject. "Any news of the Order?"

"Yes," said Voldemort, opening the manila folder finally. "That was exactly why I called you here, in fact. They're growing bolder and it's troubling." He handed a few papers to Tom. "We managed to locate their headquarter in London, but they're slippery as always and were swift to move. But we now have a lead."

"12 Grimmauld Place?" questioned Tom, scanning over the file. "I've never heard of it."

Voldemort drummed his long, skinny fingers on the arm of his chair, leaning forward conspiratorially. "That," he said, "is the Black family home."

If Tom had had a drink in his mouth, he would have spewed it across the table in surprise. "I think I misheard you," he said.

"The Black family home," repeated Voldemort. "Which begs the question – which Black is affiliated with the Order?"

Tom's brain began spinning at a kilometre per second. Surely not Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black. She would jump off a bridge if Voldemort bade her do so. Her sister, Narcissa, was also an unlikely option. Bella and Narcissa had another sister, Andromeda – but as far as Tom knew, she wasn't even located in London. Could it be Regulus, who had been sent to Auckland? There were so many Blacks, it was infuriatingly impossible to know.

Voldemort read Tom's face clearly and said, "This is your assignment – if there is a mole in our ranks, I want you to dig them up immediately and bring them to me for… questioning. Even if they aren't a mole but instead an outsider, bring the person to me."

"Roger that." Tom held his hand out for the folder on Voldemort's desk.

Voldemort handed it over. "I want him or her alive," he said sternly. "Do you understand me, Thomas?"

"I can't swear that they won't arrive unharmed," countered Tom, tucking the folder under his arm and standing. "But alive, yes."

"Good." Voldemort stroked Nagini's head. The serpent had crawled up his legs to settle on his lap. "This is a matter of great importance. It's the only lead we've had on the Order for years. Don't fail me."

Tom moved to the door, dipped his head. "When have I ever?"

As he pushed the door open, Voldemort added, "Oh, and Thomas?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Give Harry my best." The man's eyes gleamed red in the light streaming through the window. "It has been too long since I last saw him."

Tom's jaw worked – he remembered that meeting very clearly. He gave another stiff nod of his head and left. As he walked down the corridor, he flipped open the manila folder once more and scanned over the list of names Voldemort had provided. The Blacks were an extensive and well-respected family in society. It was going to be difficult to narrow down the possible Order member.

Oh well. He was Death Eater's best and brightest. He had time.

Rain belted against the window of the quiet café on the outskirts of town.

In Auckland, a storm was brewing.

Harry and Ron settled at a table in the back corner of the room so that they had full view of the room.

"The informant should be here soon," muttered Harry, checking his watch as it struck half past three in the afternoon.

"Could still be a set up," reminded Ron, patting the gun hidden beneath his coat.

Harry ignored him as a text buzzed in on his phone. He checked the message under the table.

Tom and I have chosen cream-coloured roses, wrote Luna. Is that fine with you?

Harry was unable to suppress his smile, right before he was overwhelmed with guilt. It was his and Tom's wedding, and yet he had played no role in helping to organise it due to being so busy on the field.

He blamed it on Albus Dumbledore. Harry reconsidered for fraction of a second. Actually, he blamed it on Death Eater, the illegal society of assassins who were making life tough for them all. Dumbledore was only doing his job as head of the Order to eradicate the group of inhumane criminals.

But either way, it meant that Harry was never home and he had to shunt his responsibilities onto his mother, Luna, Hermione and Neville (who was very keen to assist Luna with the preening of greenery around the venue). None of the four were field agents and typically remained at the home base so were willing to lend a hand. Even Tom, who was always so wrapped up in work, was managing to assist in small ways.

After this mission, thought Harry. After this mission, I'll request time out. Just until the wedding has come and gone.

"What can I get for you?" asked a waitress, dragging Harry back out of his thoughts.

"Oh, uh," said Ron, hurriedly consulting the drinks menu and picking something random. "We'll just get two Earl Greys."

The waitress nodded sagely, jotting this down on her notepad. "Brits?" she asked.

"Here for a holiday," lied Harry, smiling at her as she wandered back into the kitchen.

The bell on the door jangled and in walked a slim man in a dark trench coat. Harry and Ron watched as the man paused in front of the glass cabinet and scanned over the pastries on offer.

"No cinnamon rolls," he murmured aloud, turning and walking back out.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. There was the sentence they had been instructed to listen for.

They slipped around the table and followed the man back out onto the street, into the downpour.

Harry turned up his coat collar and lowered his head against the rain as they tailed the man down the slippery grey street. He ducked into an alleyway around the corner. Ron gave Harry a sharp nod of his head and Harry followed the man in, Ron remaining on the street to keep watch.

"The name's Regulus Black," the man said breathlessly once they were hidden away in the shadows, jumping straight to the point as he shook out his wet black hair like a dog.

Harry couldn't help from staring. "You wouldn't happen to be Sirius Black's brother?" he whispered.

"Yes," replied Regulus and Harry immediately evaluated him – he was like a less handsome version of his brother. "But we don't have the time to chat or else my colleagues will notice that I'm gone. I want to strike a deal with your boss, kid."

"Don't call me that," said Harry automatically – he was all too accustomed to people thinking that he was younger than he was (it was the height, he knew it). "What's your proposition?"

Regulus hesitated. "Is there only you or your friend for me to speak to? Are there no higher-ups?"

Harry bristled. "We've both been active for over eight years. That's high enough. So if you're concerned about time getting away from us, you'd better speed it up."

"I…" Regulus glanced over his shoulder as if he expected somebody to jump him at any moment – it wasn't unlikely, Harry supposed. "I'm willing to betray the Death Eater headquarters address and other information I know, but in return I would like this favour of mine to be recalled if ever I am in need of going into hiding."

Harry's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "And how did you come to know this address?" he asked.

"Because," said Regulus, "I am one of them."

If Harry had been a cat, his hackles would have raised right there and then. He took a step back, hand resting against the gun holster on his hip. He flipped it open, prepared to take swift action if necessary. "Is that how it is?" he asked tonelessly. "I ought to bring you into the Order, then."

Regulus's eyes flicked down to Harry's hand then back up to his face. "There's no need for that," he said, feigning composure but there was alarm in his eyes. "If you take me in, Death Eater will suspect that you're torturing me for information and assume that you know their private address."

"The Order does not torture people," spat Harry. "We're not like you."

"Exactly," said Regulus, opening his arms beseechingly. "And I see that now. Death Eater is corrupt, we hurt and kill people for information for our clients. I'm in a business of blood money, and I want to play a hand in its downfall. I want to help you."

Harry remained silent for a long moment. He wondered whether Sirius was aware that his brother belonged to Death Eater, was one of their assassins. Finally, he said, "We'll see about that. Give us the address and then we'll rendezvous in London at a later date."

"2272 Pointe Lane," said Regulus, "Great Hangleton. Pointe's with an 'e'."

Harry locked the address into his head. It was surprisingly close to home. "Beautiful," he said. "Well then, Mr. Black. Next time we meet, either we'll be discussing further details for your proposal. Or I'll be handcuffing you and taking you in. I guess that really depends on whether you've given me a faux address or note. Let's hope that it's not the latter, hm?"

Regulus gave a short nod. "It won't be." He looked at Harry for a moment and said, "You're awfully young to be in this line of work, aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-six."

This earned a small smile. "Still awfully young. I can see it in your eyes – you haven't yet seen the horrors of this world, but doing what you're doing, you're guaranteed to see it soon enough."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Black?"

"No, kid." Regulus looked as if he was considering patting Harry on the shoulder but decided against it in the end. "It's a life lesson."

Harry remained stoic of face. "I'd best be off, then. The Order will make good use of your information." He turned and began walking back down the dark alleyway, the rain falling around him as he approached the figure that was Ron on the street – when a gunshot fired behind him.

Bastard! thought Harry, whirling around – leave it to one of the assassins to shoot when your back was turned.

Regulus was still standing there in the rain, but there was no gun in sight. For a bewildered moment, he and Harry stared at each other. Then Regulus slumped forwards, hitting the ground with his knees before collapsing on his front. Harry looked at the prostrate body on the ground, befuddled, then Ron was charging at him from behind, knocking him over with a cry of, "Down!"

A bullet screamed through the air overhead, exactly where Harry had stood a second ago.

He and Ron scrambled behind a wheelie bin which was pushed to the side of the alleyway. Harry tore his gun out of its holster and flipped safety off. Taking a deep breath, he peered around the bin and sure enough there was a silhouette of another person down the other end of the alley.

The silhouette aimed and fired again – Harry pulled back behind their cover and the bullet ricocheted off the brick wall above them, leaving a graze mark.

"We need to get out of here," said Ron loudly above the rain, glancing around for an escape route.

"Wait." Harry had always been a good shot – it was what he was known for. He wouldn't waste the opportunity to take down one of the enemy team.

Pushing sodden hair back from his face, Harry counted to five in his head before leaping to his feet, gun held steady in both hands as he fired at the silhouette. The shot jolted his body slightly but it found its mark.

The person fell soundlessly but Harry didn't lower his gun. He kept it trained on the spot he knew the person to be, knees slightly bent as he prepared to duck back down if there was a surprise attack.

No such thing came and Ron jumped up by his side.

"I'm going in," said Harry, eyes still positioned on the place of his target.

"Don't be an idiot," snapped Ron. "Whoever it is may have back-up coming in right now."

"There's definitely back-up." Harry's tone was grim. "The informant was part of Death Eater, and the gunman up ahead is almost certainly one of them. They travel in packs – more will be on their way."

"Then let's go! Two of us can't handle a pack. Wait–" Ron dropped down next to Regulus's body to check his pulse but evidently found none. He rose again. "The poor bloke's well and truly gone. But we'll have to leave him. Come on, Harry."

Harry didn't move, rain dripping into his eyes. He blinked his vision clear, his gun still focused forward. "There's an injured member of Death Eater down there. If we could capture him–"

"Then that would be brilliant," interrupted Ron, "but what are the chances of that? Slim, that's what. Let's go, we've got what we came for." He broke into a run out of the alleyway, trusting that Harry would come to his senses and follow him.

Harry looked down at Regulus's body. The blood from the gunshot wound was seeping through his clothes, a stark red stain across his back. Regret pulsed through Harry. No matter what the man had done in the past, he was still Sirius's little brother. Sirius, who had practically been Harry's third parent. So it didn't feel right to leave Regulus there, dead in a puddle.

It felt disrespectful.

We have no room for bleeding hearts in the Order.

Alastor Moody's words rung out in Harry's mind and he closed his eyes, shaking his head hard.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, restoring his gun to his holster. "There are worse ways to go." He took off after Ron and didn't look back.

When they arrived back in London the following night, the sky was overcast and dull. An average welcome home.

As Harry loaded his bags into the boot of Ron's car, Ron told him, "The offer's still open, you know. Mum and Dad are always happy to see you. Maybe Ginny'll be there, too." This came with a wink.

Harry and Ron had become friends in school at the age of eleven and during their teenage years, Ron's younger sister had developed a serious crush on him. Despite Harry's coming out and Ginny's multitude of boyfriends, to this day it was still a running joke.

Normally Tom would have been made jealous, being both a protective boyfriend and fiancé, but the Weasleys were like a second family to Harry and Ginny was basically his little sister. Even for a person like Tom, it was difficult to find anything to be jealous about in this situation so he let it slide.

"There's always a place for you under my parents' roof," continued Ron. "A late-night dinner by the fireside… it'll be like the good old days."

No matter how late it was when they arrived back, it had become tradition for the Weasley parents to host Ron and Harry for a few hours to hear all about their most recent escapade. But as of late, Harry rarely attended. He always had other places to be, whether it be visiting his parents or seeing Tom again.

But the offer was still tempting.

Harry considered Ron's offer yet again before coming to the exact same conclusion as he had last time Ron had asked. "I really shouldn't. I haven't seen Tom in a while and he gets worried if I'm off his radar for too long."

"Right." Ron slammed the boot shut, vaguely disgruntled. "Have you got your next art piece all made up for your next lie to him?"

Harry gave him a pointed look. "Yes, I have. I did some charcoal sketches on the flight to Auckland."

Ron snorted. "Seriously. You're getting married in a few weeks. When are you going to drop the artist pretence and tell him the truth?"

It was Harry's turn to snort. He highly doubted that his office-dwelling doctor of a fiancé would be fond of the idea of Harry's little adventures around the globe, most of which involved car chases, shoot-outs and blood. "Well, to be fair, Ron, I am an artist. It's just not my real job."

"Whatever." They climbed into the car and Ron cranked up the heater as he reversed out of the parking spot. "I know I'm not exactly one for giving relationship advice, but I think that it'd be better to tell Tom sooner rather than later that you're a field agent."

Harry looked out the window at the streetlights which zipped past the car like giant orange fireflies. "Maybe."

Most of the car ride went by in silence after that. Harry knew that Ron was right, but he felt as if he would be betraying the Order by telling anyone who was an outsider about it. Besides, it was one thing to tell Tom that he was a field agent but another to reveal that almost everybody else was in on the secret, too. In truth, all of Harry's family and friends were part of the Order and an excessively intelligent person like Tom would figure that out in a jiffy.

Ron pulled to the kerb outside Harry and Tom's place. The bedroom lights were on upstairs, but the rest of the house was dark.

"Say hi to your family for me," Harry said, climbing out of the car.

"Will do." Ron watched as Harry pulled his bags out of the boot. "See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah. Dumbledore's expecting us by nine o'clock."

"Want me to pick you up?" offered Ron.

"All good, mate, I'll give you a ride this time." Harry took out his last bag.

"Well, I'll probably sleep over at my parents' so you know where to find me."

Harry gave an affirmative thumbs up and slammed the boot door shut, watching as Ron pulled away in the old blue Ford Anglia.

Trudging up to the house, he fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the front door. Dumping his bags in the corridor, it suddenly struck him how drained he was from the whole trip. It wasn't as if he hadn't witnessed anybody die before – he had just never witnessed someone die who he felt connected to, if only by a tiny amount.

Harry tossed his coat up on its hook and switched on the lights over the stairwell. It had been one week since he had looked at these white walls, the cabinets decorated by photographs, candlesticks and books, or the winding stairs. Even before he had left for Auckland, he'd only been back at the house for five days. It seemed that life was always sprinting ahead of him, and he was being dragged along behind it.

Harry moved up the stairs, pausing by the bedroom door.

Tom had all the lamps on, sitting up in bed as he read The Cuckoo's Calling. He had on his reading glasses and his handsome face was tired.

Harry stood there and watched him in silence for a moment, his heart brimming full. His hand unconsciously brushed the ring on his left hand as he walked into the room.

Tom glanced up, removing his glasses as a breathtaking smile crossed his face. "Harry," he said in his deep, mellow voice, putting the book away.

Without bothering to get changed, Harry crawled across the bed and straddled Tom's lap, breathing against his lips, "I missed you."

"I missed you, too." Tom took Harry's face in his hands and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "How was Auckland?"

"It was lovely. New Zealand always is." Harry pressed his forehead against Tom's, gazing into his dark blue eyes, almost black. "But I've been thinking that maybe it's time for me to take a break from all this. Maybe settle down."

"If that is what you so desire, I can't complain." The corner of Tom's mouth tilted up and he brushed Harry's cheek with his thumb. "But you love travelling. Are you sure you want to stop?"

"Not permanently. Only until the wedding's over." Harry leaned into Tom's touch before a wry smile touched his lips. "And here I was, thinking that you'd love for me to stop travelling. Less likely that I'll meet a smoking hot bloke and elope with him."

Tom's eyes darkened. "I always rely on the fact that I'm the smoking hot bloke you'll elope with."

"Right. How could I forget?" asked Harry as Tom removed his glasses before kissing him, less chastely this time.

His tongue nudged at Harry's lips, asking for entrance, and Harry opened his mouth, grinding his hips against Tom's for better friction as their breath collided between them.

Though Harry could feel Tom's cock hardening beneath him, Tom tore his lips away from Harry's and said roughly, "You're not tired?"

"Never tired of you." Harry pulled away momentarily to yank his shirt off over his head before proceeding to work on Tom's.

"I'll never understand how you escape the clutches of jetlag," said Tom, tossing his shirt to the ground, his hair ruffled up.

"Stop talking," said Harry, running his fingers down Tom's toned chest. "It's been too long. I need you inside me. Now."

"Where do you get so much energy at this time?" growled Tom and bit down on the juncture between Harry's neck and collarbone. "It's goddamn past twelve o'clock."

Harry whined and rocked his arse against Tom's erection, the noise high and needy to his ears.

"Please, Tom," he begged. "Don't make me wait…"

Tom lapped at the bruise he had made on Harry's neck then swung the smaller male off his lap and onto the bed. Harry wriggled out of his pants and spread his legs, allowing himself a smug smile as Tom's gaze went straight to his hole, pupils blown wide with lust, before slowly moving up to Harry's face.

Without removing his eyes from Tom's, Harry sucked on a finger, looking up at him demurely from beneath his eyelashes then slowly traced his rim, pressing the tip of his finger in.

"Fuck, Harry," Tom ground out and pushed him down into the mattress, kissing him again. "You're such a tease."

"Only for you," Harry mumbled against Tom's lips. Tom moistened his fingers with spit and reached down, pushing inside Harry's hole with one finger.

"God, you're tight," he said, to which Harry countered, managing to sound somewhat indignant through his arousal, "Give me a break, I haven't masturbated in weeks."

Tom gave a low chuckle and worked on loosening Harry up, pressing in a second finger and scissoring gently. Harry involuntarily arched his back, opening his legs wider and lifting his arse higher into the air – a lewd invitation.

"Someone's impatient." Tom removed his fingers as Harry glared at him, doing nothing to bely the statement.

Freeing his cock, straining hard, Tom positioned himself at Harry's entrance, pushing the head in a small way – Harry let loose a muffled moan of pleasure, so Tom continued until he was buried in hilt-deep.

"Alright?"

"Better than alright." They remained in the same position for a moment, allowing Harry to adjust, and he wrapped his legs around Tom's waist, sucking a hickey into his throat. Once Tom began moving again, sliding his length in and out, he gripped Harry's hips hard enough to bruise, begin to breath coming heavier as pleasure coursed through his body and Harry whispered the dirtiest things into his ear.

"Fuck me harder, Tom," Harry breathed, dragging his fingers through Tom's hair. "I want you, please, please, please, please…"

His voice trailed off into gasps as the rhythm increased and their bodies rocked together harder, faster, the only sound in the room being Harry's low-pitched whines, the hiss of breath between Tom's teeth and the slapping of sweaty skin against each other.

Harry wrapped his fingers around his own cock and began pumping, seeking his own release as sparks ran like fire through his veins. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tom, faster!" he gasped.

Tom obliged with a groan of, "God, I've missed you," and he released Harry's hip with one hand, coming up and around Harry's cock to help.

Harry found his release first, the mewling sound escaping his lips louder and louder as two hands worked up and down his member. When Tom latched onto his collarbone with his teeth, he came hard, vision flaring bright and white temporarily as semen splattered across both his and Tom's stomachs. His body relaxing around Tom's, Tom slammed inside Harry one more time before he climaxed, releasing his load deep inside Harry, mumbling incoherent words against his skin, salty with sweat.

Collapsed on the bed, Harry smiled in content, filled up to the brim, and raised his head to kiss Tom. "I love you," he murmured, and Tom brushed his hair out of his eyes lovingly.

"I'm glad your home," he said quietly, sliding his cock out of Harry's loose and abused hole.

"Mm." Harry crawled beneath the covers of the bed, eyes closing as he was finally overcome by exhaustion. "I'm not going anywhere again. Not for a little while."

Tom slid up behind him, winding his arm around Harry's waist and pulling him in closer. With his nose buried in Harry's hair, he was able to forget for one night that he was the top assassin for an illegal company, and Harry was able to forget that he had just witnessed the murder of a man that day.

Both were free to drift into a sleep without dreams.

Like. I don't even know. This was planned as a one-shot, but I see potential for it becoming a series or a multi-chapter story. Tell me what you think in the comments. :)