Chapter Text
LordVolDeMort777:
Look at this fucking fag. Lmao.
CedricDigOnTheseNuts:
dude, how old are you?
LordVolDeMort777:
Old enough to rape you, Gaylord.
Tom snickers, toggling his screen over to Harry’s Instagram account. It says he was last active twenty-three minutes ago, but he hasn’t responded to any of Tom’s messages.
Scrolling through the backlog, Tom cycles through the same twelve pictures he’s seen a hundred times, rubbing himself absently through his shorts.
The most recent shot is of the two of them. Harry’s cheeks are dusted with sugar, traces of cotton candy lingering at the corners of his mouth. He’s smiling into the camera as Tom avoids the lens entirely: looking, instead, at Harry.
After a while of this—zooming in and out of the images, scanning his tagged photos for anyone with too much interest in Harry—his laptop dings.
ForgeAndGred:
Looks like the real homo here is you, sissy.
Tom sits up immediately.
LordVolDeMort777:
Shut the fuck up you fucking cuck. I’m the furthest thing from gay.
NevillePowerBottom:
@CedricDigOnTheseNuts Look at his pfp lol. This kid’s the biggest twink I’ve ever seen
LordVolDeMort777:
I’m not a fucking fag. Fuck you and your mom you stupid fucking beta
Seamus_OutAndProud:
Right. Do the world a favor and sterilize yourself, retard.
LordVolDeMort777:
I’ll fucking kill you. You think this is a joke you virgin? I’ll show up at your fucking house you goddamn moron and jam my cock up your fucking
His phone dings.
Finally.
He grabs it with shaking hands, still buzzing with adrenaline—with the thrill of the chase, the way his blood had rushed watching the reactions flicker across his screen.
Now, Tom’s heart skips a beat for a different reason. It leaps at the name on the display, before tripping over its feet entirely at the second message.
From: Harry
that last video was rly good lol
From: Harry
[IMAGE.318]
Fingers now trembling with excitement, Tom closes out of X, pulling up Harry’s image on the big screen. It takes a second to load, but when it does, the translucent pool of liquid on his belly is unmistakable.
Tom can make out the silhouette of a pale, slightly curved shaft. It’s resting on Harry’s tummy, soft and perfectly smooth.
Tom’s mouth waters.
From: Tom
Come over right now I want to see you.
He reaches into his pants and hits send.
Tom—gay.
How ludicrous.
“Wanna play FIFA?” Harry asks, lying on his side under Tom’s covers.
His hair is still damp from the shower, clinging in soft tufts to his brow. He smells like Tom—like his soap—and rightness of it all fizzles like Pop Rocks in his belly.
Tom crowds in closer, until their noses nearly touch. “Later,” he whispers.
Harry blinks slowly. Even in the fading light, Tom can make out every one of his lashes. They kiss his skin when they flutter, casting shadows along the highest points of his cheeks.
“Mkay,” Harry mumbles, voice already blurred with sleep.
His breath tickles Tom’s mouth, and Tom parts his lips, wanting all of it—for the well of Harry’s lungs to empty into his own; for every sigh and whisper to belong to him. To swallow him whole, taking a piece of him inside, where it could curl up in his own chest. Safe near his heart, away from the greedy, grimy fingers of the rest of the world.
The sheets rustle as Tom presses closer. Darting his tongue out, the ghost of Harry lingering on his lips, he presses the slick curl of it to Harry’s throat—gently—sighing against the warm, clean skin.
Harry’s lungs hitch, a broken inhalation, but he doesn’t say anything. As he stiffens, Tom’s tummy melts under this strange, new heat: breaking open like the midday sun; sliding down the sky, scraping hot against the pavement. Teething at the earth until the asphalt bubbles like tar.
Tom kisses him again, a little higher this time, skirting his mouth up the column of Harry’s throat. It’s closer to a caress than a proper kiss, more a slow, territorial drag of lips against skin. Harry’s pulse flutters beneath him, and Tom groans, possessive, struck mad by each quivering tick he draws from it.
It beats for me—right, Harry? Tell me it’s true, that it only shivers under my touch.
Eventually, Tom leans in further, nuzzling open-mouthed along Harry’s neck. His teeth catch slightly, sharpening the wet drag of his mouth, and just like that, everything is more: brighter, clearer, starker.
Harry makes a helpless little sound as Tom’s canines graze his jaw, shivering when Tom repeats the motion—firmer this time, deliberate. He’s chasing that squirming in his tummy, the fuzzy static in his brain urging him forward.
Harry’s hips twitch instinctively. His knee nudges between Tom’s thighs, and Tom presses back until they’re locked together completely, limbs tangling in the angles of each other's bodies.
Curling tighter around him, Harry’s hands slide up to clutch at Tom’s back. Fisting in the fabric of his shirt, he bunches it up in his palms, nails scratching down Tom’s spine—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind Tom that they could.
He shudders.
Harry’s skin glows faintly in the moonlight seeping in through the wide bay window. The gauzy curtains hang open, fluttering softly as the fan whirs above them—ambient sounds that only emphasize the pleasure. Each shuffling breath or snap of fabric is amplified in the blurred quiet; louder without the rest of the world to distract them.
Tom noses at his jaw again, and Harry whines, hooking a leg over Tom’s hip—dragging him closer until their bodies are perfectly flush. Tom whimpers at the sudden, perfect pressure: chest to chest, hearts knocking against the prongs of each other’s ribs.
He lets out a small, broken sound against Harry’s skin—a soft, keening noise he can’t quite swallow—and Harry’s hips twitch again, shallow and clumsy. They both gasp at the friction, at the heat and weight of their bodies sliding together.
For a moment, everything is perfect: the push and pull, the warmth of Harry’s skin, the dizzying, dazzling nearness. The feeling of Harry’s cock, hard and perfect, rubbing against his own.
Every nerve seems to spark at once, drawn tight to the rhythm of their breathing. Narrowing in on the too-loud sounds, hitching and desperate. On the way that Harry trembles, gasping, crying: Tom, you feel so—
And then the door creaks.
Tom freezes, teeth poised over Harry’s throat. Harry stays wrapped around him, hands locked at his spine. He holds Tom tight to his body, even as the hinges whine.
“Boys,” Tom Senior says softly, his head appearing around the doorframe. “It’s late.”
Tom hisses against Harry’s skin, fingers digging into his back. “We know,” he snaps, bristling.
His father studies them for a moment. Blinking once, slowly, his expression is unreadable.
Tom says nothing. He only stares back, gaze flat and cold; impassive and unfeelingly blank. He can’t believe the man’s sudden sense of propriety.
“There’s cocoa,” Thomas says at last. “Why don’t you get some for you and Tom, Harry?”
Harry glances at Tom for a moment before shrugging. “Mkay.”
In an instant, he’s letting go, rolling onto his feet with a soft thud. The faint scrape of his socks against the floor echoes briefly.
The air is suddenly freezing.
Tom sits up, scowling fiercely, as Harry ducks beneath his father’s arm. Leaving. Tom crosses his arms over his chest, but his father lingers, hand still on the knob.
When the door shuts behind Harry, he clears his throat. “Does... Son, does Harry’s father know...”
“Know what?” Tom asks flatly.
“I.” His father clears his throat. “About… you and Harry, Tom.”
Tom snickers. Seriously? That’s what this is about?
His father’s carefully blank face twitches when he laughs—an involuntary spasm at the corner of his mouth—and Tom feels a thrill of satisfaction.
“Duh,” he snorts. “Do you think he’s retarded?”
“Tom.” His father exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Everyone knows Harry and I are best friends,” Tom gloats.
For a moment, Tom senior just stares. His face, typically handsome and haughty, creases oddly—as if he can’t quite decide how to respond to what Tom has just said.
“You—” he begins, then falters.
The look he gives Tom is confused, almost pained. After a moment, however, he simply shakes his head, leaving without another word.
What an idiot.
Thank God Tom is nothing like him.
When Harry returns with the cocoa, Tom is sprawled back in his bed.
His dick feels funny—a little achy—and his tummy is hungry for something other than hot chocolate. So, as Harry breezes through the door, two mugs in his hand, Tom parts his legs.
“Here,” Harry says, handing him the one with more marshmallows. “What did your dad want?”
Spreading out on the comforter, leaning back against the satin pillows, Tom shrugs. “I think he has a crush on your dad.”
“What?” Harry shrieks, cocoa spilling slightly over the lip of his glass.
“Careful,” Tom hisses, eyes flicking to the small pool of liquid forming on the floor. Mary’s going to be such a bitch in the morning.
“He really said he had a crush on my dad?”
Tom snickers, before blowing on the rim of his mug. “He was obsessed with talking about him. Should have known he was a faggot—he’s always wearing that stupid pink apron.”
Harry looks down at Tom’s salmon pajama bottoms, expression eerily reminiscent of the one Tom’s father had worn earlier. Maybe the cocoa was giving them both indigestion?
Tom sets his mug down on the bedside table; the ceramic clinks against the wood, spilling over the top a little, leaving a murky puddle of cocoa beneath the base.
Oh well—surely Mary gets paid more than enough. It’s her job to clean up after him, anyway.
Harry takes another sip of his, slurping, and Tom would have complained if it were anybody else. He loathes those kinds of noises—his grandmother always said he had delicate sensibilities.
When Harry pulls back, a bit of foam clings to his lips, sugary and milk-white. Tempting and impossible to ignore. Tom licks his own lips as the hunger rises again.
He wants a taste—not of the sludge at the bottom of his cup, but from the source. The lingering sweetness of cream, warmer and richer when supped from Harry’s skin.
Tom remembers his taste: the salt of Harry’s come, lapped off his own wrist. The way they had merged, the sweat of Tom’s skin mixing with the translucent liquid.
Unable to resist, he darts forward.
Harry startles, more of the hot chocolate spilling over his cup, but Tom just shoves the mug to the floor, sending it clattering.
“Careful,” Harry says, but it’s all for show.
Tom catches his wrist and tugs until Harry’s flat against the mattress. Arms pinned loosely above his head, knees drawn up near his chest, there’s just enough room for Tom to fit between them. So he does, curling back into Harry’s space like they’d never been interrupted.
“Tom—”
“Shh,” he whispers, draping himself over Harry’s body. His hips wriggle against Tom’s, pinned beneath him, and Tom feels so powerful.
Harry keeps looking up at him, eyes bright and curious, dick hard through his flannels.
“Feels funny—” Harry whines, still twitching against him, and Tom can’t believe how perfectly everything has worked out for him. How effortlessly he’s gotten just what he wanted.
“Ngh.” Tom shifts, pressing his weight more firmly into Harry, rolling his hips harder. Their dicks slide together through the thin flannel of their pajamas, all dry pressure and heat.
If they were naked, it would be like their dicks were kissing.
Tom thinks about it—about Harry sprawled out in his bed, miles of that warm, tanned skin, green eyes watching him with adoration—and that funny feeling coils in his belly.
“’M gonna—”
Harry pants, face hot, eyes cloudy. “Me too—”
Tilting closer, Tom presses himself into the crook of Harry’s neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. The second his teeth sink into the meat of Harry’s shoulder, he’s coming.
“Harry—”
Harry thrusts a few more times, bumping against Tom’s dick, already sensitive and sticky. He ruts into the dark spot blooming in Tom’s track bottoms, and then suddenly he’s shuddering, coming apart with a whine that dissolves so sweetly into Tom’s skin.
Lightheaded, Tom pulls back enough to watch: studying the way Harry’s lashes flutter, fingers tightening in the duvet. They’re still held above his head, even without Tom making him, and the thought is enough to make his mind spin.
He wants this. He wants you.
Harry’s dick twitches against his own, and Tom’s balls draw up weakly, another thin stream of come spilling between them. He can feel it as Harry breaks apart, shivering beneath him, though his eyes never leave Harry’s face.
In the darkness, evening teething at the window, early starlight presses through the glass. Silver slats spill across the floorboards, soft swatches of moonlight that lap at the wood, and Harry is caught perfectly in their glow.
Washed in the cold tones of twilight, he looks mythic—like something out of a storybook, a dashing knight or heroic prince. Tom’s heart flutters, bees buzzing strangely in his chest.
Leaning down, he presses a kiss to one moon-washed cheek.
“I love you, Harry.”
And Harry smiles—with one missing tooth, and no idea that he belongs to Tom Riddle.
Or all the things Tom would do to keep him.