Chapter Text
The first time Tom Riddle watches porn, he thinks the guy on screen looks a little bit like Harry: shoulders broader than his hips. Tanned skin and dark, mussed hair falling loose around his ears.
The woman underneath him is tugging at it, fistfuls of half-curls between her fingers, roughing it further. He imagines, as the woman moans—weirdly high-pitched and squeaky—what Harry might do if Tom pulled his hair like that.
He almost turns the sound down before the man pumps his hips faster, the slick noises between them intensifying. It’s punctuated by a strange, animalistic sort of grunting. After a moment, the man tenses, ass tight, letting out a deep, drawn-out groan, and the matter of the volume is forgotten entirely.
Tom’s breathing goes a bit funny, suddenly harder to fill his lungs all the way. His shorts grow a little tighter too, an unusual pressure building between his legs.
Harry—the man who looks like him, at least, and isn’t that funny—pumps his hips a few more times before drawing back, nice and slow. The camera gets a remarkably good shot of it, suddenly close up and high definition, as the man pulls out entirely, releasing his dick from the woman with a wet pop.
It’s thick and long, barely gone soft. Tom rubs his thighs together as it shoots out a few more globs of something white and sticky-looking.
Tom’s dick has never done that before.
The man on screen—who looks remarkably, astonishingly like his best friend Harry Potter—strokes his dick a few more times before letting it hang, finally, between his thighs. The hair down there, which neither Tom nor Harry has yet, is even darker than the hair on his head.
He wonders if that’s what Harry’s will look like when they’re older.
Three minutes later, feeling much more grown-up and tingly in his tummy, he puts his iPad down.
He has to show Harry.
“White stuff?”
Harry doesn’t say anything else at first—just keeps calling out positions into his mic, thumbs flying across the controller—until Tom waves sharply for his attention.
He hates it when Harry plays COD while he’s over. It’s something they should only do when they’re apart, so Tom can pretend they’re in the same room again. When Tom is actually here, Harry shouldn’t pay attention to anything but him.
But Harry was already playing with retarded Dean Thomas before he came over, so now he has to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed like a faggot while they finish the round.
“Yes,” Tom repeats, louder now. “It shot out of his dick.”
Snorting, Harry finally reaches up to mute his mic. Glancing behind him, he gives Tom one of his crooked little grins: the ones he saves just for him.
I’m your favorite, he thinks, smugly. They might get scraps of your attention, but you like me best.
It’s still not enough. But he’s fairly certain Harry wouldn’t like it if Tom tried to hide him in his closet again, so he’ll just have to wait until they’re old enough to live together.
Harry won’t need anyone else, then.
Either way, Harry dies in-game roughly thirty seconds later, ambushed during a reload. Strangely, he doesn’t seem too disappointed. If it were Tom, he would have smashed the controller against the desk a few times, at least.
“Weird,” Harry says, flopping back on the bed now. “Mine's never done that before.”
Tom can feel the weight of Harry's body in the mattress, sinking in a subtle dip toward him. He smells like strawberry shampoo and the lavender detergent his mum uses; the scent familiar and uniquely, pleasantly Harry.
Tom had asked Mrs. Potter what brand it was once, but she’d just blinked at him, with the strangest look on her face—like it was odd that Tom wanted to know what her son smelled like.
He loves Harry, but his mum can be a bit dense.
“Me either,” Tom replies, after a beat.
Shifting closer, he wraps Harry’s Minecraft comforter a little tighter around his shoulders before pressing his cold feet—too rough, toes pointed—into Harry’s thighs. He doesn’t whine or swat Tom away, however. Harry always gives as good as he takes.
It’s one of the things Tom loves about him.
Instead, he just snorts, grabbing Tom’s ankle: rugby-callused fingers curling around the bone. His nails dig in, just a little, and Tom shivers.
“Should we try?”
Harry blinks. “Huh?”
“Something might be wrong with us,” Tom drones, in his best condescending, matter-of-fact tone. The one that drives Mary, his housekeeper, totally schizo.
“You think?” Harry scratches the back of his neck, face scrunching.
Tom nods imperiously. Knowing, like always, that he’s about to get exactly what he wants.
He needs answers, that's all. Besides, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. And Tom, during his inaugural foray into pornography, had felt very satisfied.
“We won’t know unless we find out if we can make it happen.”
When Harry nods, as if this were a perfectly reasonable suggestion, pleasure—a kind that has nothing to do with sex—curls up in Tom’s belly. Licking its teeth like a house cat: one staring into the eyes of a particularly trusting mouse.
”Whatever.” Harry shrugs.
One of his hands lets go of Tom’s ankle, and before Tom can think of being mad, he’s offered a controller.
“Now, can we play Smash?”
From: Tom 11:17
From: Harry 11:24
lol
From: Tom 11:24
Did you watch it.
Tom refreshes the page.
And then again, after another agonizing minute, when there’s still no response.
From: Tom 11:26
Hello?
From: Tom 11:27
Harry. Text me back now.
Again.
And again.
And—
From: Harry 11:28
sry
Tom lets out the breath he’d been holding in protest. Dizzy, it takes him a moment longer than usual to type out his message.
From: Tom 11:28
Did you watch?
From: Harry 11:29
ya
From: Harry 11:29
no wite stuff tho
Rolling over, Tom relieves the sudden pressure on his dick. Tucking one thumb into the waistband of his boxers, the other curls tighter around his phone.
From: Tom 11:29
Try again.
From: Harry 11:31
ok
From: Harry 11:31
wbu?
Tom starts to feel a bit warm. Perspiration beads at his temple, shimmering at the hollows of his collarbone.
Lying down, the valleys of his bones are more pronounced. His hip—peeking out from his rucked-down boxers, where one pale wrist is snaking further into the fabric—appears as hollow as a bird’s.
From: Tom 11:31
Not yet.
Tightening his grip—with both hands now—he stares at the tiny, bolded letters.
From: Tom 11:31
Soon, I think.
The read receipt pops up again, but Harry doesn’t respond. Frustrated, heat curling in his belly, he wonders what Harry could possibly be doing right now that’s more important than this.
And then—
From: Tom 11:32
Harry?
From: Harry 11:33
mhm
Tom swallows.
From: Tom 11:33
Are you doing it right now?
His heart rattles.
The video is still playing in Miniscreen, but Tom isn’t watching. He’s only got eyes for the text bubbles as they dance across the screen.
From: Harry 11:34
lol
Wet noises are playing from a single AirPod secured in his ear. Every time the man slides all the way in, he makes a low, raspy little noise—melting Tom’s tummy into liquid. Intensifying each second he lies there, panting, waiting for Harry to respond.
From: Harry 11:34
ya
Tom’s toes curl, breath catching. Just thinking about Harry, sprawled across his sheets, fingers buried in his shorts—touching himself to the video Tom sent him—it’s enough to make him feel really funny again.
The hand not holding his phone speeds up one last time; the motion’s outline visible through his briefs.
From: Tom 11:35
Me too.
In the end, Tom doesn’t manage any of the white stuff. But after another moment of tugging, his eyes glued to the screen, the happy, tingly feeling spreads through his belly again.
Not looking at the woman with the disproportionate chest.
But at Harry’s poorly capitalized text messages.