wolfantlersinspace - Tumblr blog

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Abstraction

"Day 6" fic.

Prompts: Horns, cock worship

Thanks Brie for beta'ing, thanks enablers for helping me out with my demon dick~ love you all!

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | NC-17 | 1843 words

Harry shifted at the sudden tightness in his pants, eyes looking anywhere but Voldemort’s reptilian, unattractive (unbelievably appealing) face. He didn’t know what to do — he hadn’t really prepared for what would happen if it did work.

“I’m sorry to bother you, I just wanted to try out a spell I found. I don’t actually have any enemies—”

“I summon thee,” Harry spoke as clearly as possible, trying to keep the wobble from his lips. This wording was ridiculous, like a hoax or a joke. “To bringeth on myself the power to defeat mine enemies.”

One second past, then ten, thirty. Of course it was fake. The wording alone should’ve been enough warning. He closed his eyes, stretching his arms as far above his head as he could, yawn on his lips. He hadn’t slept well last night, and it was already showing. If only Aunt Petunia didn’t make him get up at the crack of dawn… He allowed himself a wistful sigh at the thought.

He hated it at the Dursleys, but he also knew they were the only family he had left, the last step before homelessness — as he’d been threatened with many times before. Sometimes he fantasised about running away or getting his own apartment in London, but they could never be anything more than distant dreams with the way the Dursleys acted. They wouldn’t let Harry leave despite how much they hated his guts. However, there was hope in a jar under a loose floorboard, lid screwed on as tightly as possible. Hundreds of pounds rolled up tightly, all the money he’d found in the streets or the schoolyard over the last eighteen years.

“Fascinating.”

The voice was cold and high, startling as it broke through the silence. Harry whirled around, eyes wide.

There he was, in all his serpentine glory. Lord Voldemort. His slitted red eyes watched Harry curiously, his pupils engorging as he raked his eyes down Harry's body. Harry flushed, wishing he could curl his body away from that all-seeing gaze. He thought Voldemort would be able to see right through him anyway, no matter what he did. He watched, transfixed, as Voldemort’s tongue — slitted, oh God — darted out to wet his lips, eyelids lowered temptingly, tauntingly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, I just wanted to try out a spell I found. I don’t actually have any enemies—”

“You do have enemies, boy, or the summon wouldn’t work.”

“I—” Harry flew through the air, coming to a stop at Voldemort’s feet. “What?”

“Hm,” Voldemort said consideringly, ignoring Harry’s question like he’d never vocalised it in the first place, and smiled. His sharp canines showed, and Harry couldn’t help but gulp. “You’ll do fine.”

“What?”

“You talk too much.” With a wave of Voldemort’s hand, a strange, silky ribbon fitted itself around Harry’s head, a thick knot slipping into the crease of his mouth and forcing his teeth apart. Voldemort had the audacity—

It really shouldn’t arouse him this much. But here he was, lying at a near all-powerful being’s feet, gagged and aching for him.

“I will deal with your enemies for you, but I don’t want your soul. I already had it, didn’t I?” Voldemort’s fangs gleamed. “I wouldn’t be in this form otherwise.”

It was true, Harry was very gay and very proud of it, despite the Dursleys trying to “stamp it out of him”. Destined for Hell, they called him. Apparently, they were right.

However, he didn’t understand what Voldemort meant by his last comment. Maybe he appeared in the form that would attract the summoner the most? That sounded like a stretch, even to Harry. He wished he could ask, but the ribbon stopped him, beyond garbled sounds.

“I want something else from you.” Voldemort paused dramatically. Harry tensed, worried. Would this be some awful deal, like his firstborn, or his life? “Your virginity.”

Oh. Oh, this was—

His breath shot out of his lungs.

Even if he wasn’t too happy about Voldemort killing the Dursley’s, he couldn’t think of a better way to lose his virginity. Voldemort was a demon, ancient and powerful — he’d certainly know more than Harry did.

He froze as Voldemort parted his robes, eyes shooting down to the bulge hidden in his pants. He hardly noticed the way he moved closer, holding his breath as he watched it get closer and closer to his eyes, his hands, his mouth. A couple of buttons were all that kept Harry from seeing what he held, and soon they were gone too.

Harry didn’t even notice the gag disappearing, gasping as he sank to his knees and salivating as he stared at the cock in front of him. It was huge, at least the size of Harry’s forearm (though he could admit that wasn’t… unrealistically sized — he was rather short), and thick, and underneath had small fleshy bumps. The head had a ring of those curious protrusions as well, angled downwards like an upside-down crown. He wanted to weave his tongue between them, to feel them against his tongue, to—

The realisation that he could do that, he could touch it and taste it made his head spin. He looked up, meeting Voldemort’s impatient slitted eyes and leaned forward, determined to take it all.

The cock was smooth against his tongue and those little spikes bent slightly when he reached them, not sharp like he’d imagined. He couldn’t take Voldemort’s cock very deep, sinking only a few inches before he had to stop, choking a bit. He wasn’t very sure what to do, but Voldemort’s hand landed on Harry’s head, curling through his hair and gently coaxing him down again, filling his mouth once more. He bobbed his head carefully, wiggling his tongue against the weight filling his mouth and Voldemort rewarded him with a groan, hand tightening.

Voldemort carefully eased Harry’s head down, further and further until he hit the back of his throat and he couldn’t take any more without gagging.

“Relax,” Voldemort said and he did. The next bob of his head had the tip of Voldemort’s cock slipping further than before, breaking past the seal of his mouth and into his throat. His eyes widened, and he almost pulled back to exclaim over it, but Voldemort held him firmly in place. He tried not to struggle, but he couldn’t breathe and suddenly he was choking—

Voldemort pushed him back and he swallowed desperately, his throat thick and strange. He gasped for breath and Voldemort watched him, clearly displeased.

“I’m sorry,” Harry choked out and blinked at the rasp in his voice. He sounded wrecked, like he’d been absolutely destroyed and not just held Voldemort’s monstrous cock in his throat for a few seconds.

Voldemort looked particularly satisfied at his state, said, “Make it up to me then, boy.”

Harry darted forward once more, running his tongue over the head, curling the tip around the weird spines. They seemed more sensitive than everything else and Harry took the cock deep into his mouth to the chorus of Voldemort’s heavy, hitched breaths. He didn’t know if he could take it into his throat again but he tried, pressing it so deep he almost choked and had to pull away, eyes welled with tears. But he kept working at it, stubborn enough that Voldemort helped him out, subtle magic tingling at Harry’s throat.

When it slipped back into his throat he didn’t panic, didn’t swallow around it and carefully held his breath as best as he could. He bobbed his head, not letting it escape from the depths of his throat, slowly sliding down to take more. He wondered if it showed, the massive cock bulging his throat like he imagined it did. His cock stiffened in his pants.

Voldemort thrust slowly, staying in Harry’s throat. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as Voldemort finally reached as far as he could go, Harry’s nose pressing against his hard pelvis. There was something so dehumanising about it, about Voldemort grabbing Harry’s hair and moving his head back and forth on the monstrous shaft. The soft spikes rubbed his tongue in such a strange way he wasn’t sure whether to be aroused or weirded out.

Arousal won out easily and Harry pressed a hand to his clothed cock, longing to relieve the pressure as Voldemort started fucking his face harder and harder. Spit drooled down his chin, tongue moving as best as it could against the sheer thickness of the shaft this far down. He loved it, he could admit that much, being turned into a mess for it. He wanted to be a mess for Voldemort, for his cock.

It wasn’t long until Voldemort was pulling Harry’s head along his cock like a human sex toy, using his face for his own pleasure. He slammed in, holding Harry as deep as he could until he shook from the lack of air, and Voldemort groaned as Harry pushed at his legs, trying to catch his breath.

“You can take it.” Harry wished he could shake his head, because no, no he couldn’t. But he did, despite the lack of air. Voldemort pulled away when he became lightheaded and he swallowed, finally emptying his mouth of the excess saliva. He swiped at his eyes, brushing away the streaming tears and Voldemort held himself out again, clearly waiting for Harry to hurry up. He wiped his mouth and steadied his breathing.

He could do this, he could take it. He had before.

Harry clenched his fists and took the tip into his mouth again, licking the slit, tasting the pre-come beading there. He kissed up the shaft, teasing licks along the ridge of bumps along the bottom. He flicked his eyes up, meeting blown black pupils and slid the length into his mouth, letting Voldemort take control again, fucking into his throat with ease. He held his breath as best as he could, eyes welling up once more.

It didn’t take Voldemort long until he was close, hips stuttering and breathy moans slipping out of his lips. Suddenly, Voldemort pulled out until only the tip remained in Harry’s mouth, ignoring his hoarse whine at the loss. It twitched and come burst onto his tongue, warm and strangely textured. He swallowed, but more kept coming, spurt after spurt landing on his tongue. It gathered thick in his throat and he couldn’t swallow any more, letting it dribble down his chin. Voldemort pulled out entirely, jerking himself as he finished, warm spunk landing on Harry’s face.

He wanted it back in him, he wanted it inside his throat, his arse. He whined again but Voldemort smiled, his teeth poking over his lip. He knelt in front of Harry, and he was struck at just how dangerous Voldemort was; he could kill Harry right where he sat with hardly a flick of the wrist. And yet, Harry wanted it, wanted him.

Hermione had always called him a bit of an adrenaline junkie, but this really solidified it.

“No, I think it’s time for the main course.” Voldemort trailed off, and Harry’s palms moistened, fingers slipping against the button of his jeans in his eagerness.

He couldn’t wait.

#tomarry #harrymort #short #smut #demon au #alternate universe

35 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

With God as Our Witness

I'm really bad at daily uploads, but this is day... 5's fic. I'm a bit burnt out, to be honest, so I may take a bit of break~ and work on something else instead. I have some ideas.

Prompt: Religion, discipline/punishment

Thanks to Brie for beta reading! Thanks to my enablers~

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Angst | 1197 words

“I don’t know if she’ll—” He couldn’t get the last word past his lips, and Tom’s fingers moved up his neck, wrapping around the length of his throat. Tom didn’t squeeze tightly, just enough to remind Harry that he was still there, he was real, and Harry leaned back into his chest with a sigh. “I apologise.”

Rain batted against the window panes, echoing throughout the dull, sparsely decorated room, sound only matched by the feverish scrawl of a nib on parchment. A man sat, hunched over a desk, counting small coins and scribbling down their numbers next to names.

They were donations, given by the poor, plagued people on the streets in exchange for the church’s protection and healthcare.

He cared for all the people in their congregation, and it was with a heavy heart that he waited for the clock to chime twelve, finishing the daily financial logging.

Tom came in on the final chime, door squealing as he pushed it open, and then his hand — bare, slightly damp — slid around Harry’s neck, settling heavily under the collar of his shirt.

“Another one dead; Xenophilius passed last night. The Lovegood girl is locked inside and boarded up.” Tom sighed, and his thumb carefully stroked Harry’s clavicle, head resting on Harry’s shoulder as he wrote it down. Half their parish was gone now. He couldn’t wait for summer to end and take with it the neverending sickness and death.

“She’s just a child, Tom.” He longed to bring her into his arms, to hold her tight and keep her hidden away from the dangers of the streets. She was such a sweet girl, if a bit absent-minded. “I wish we could put her in one of the spare rooms here.”

“You know it’s not possible.” Tom was right. Harry slumped, putting his quill down and turning, meeting Tom’s eyes.

“Don’t.” Tom’s breath was hot, heavy, and the sudden mood change from sad to sultry left him dizzy. Suddenly, Tom’s fingers had a different meaning, beyond comfort, beyond grounding. Harry gasped as Tom’s mouth found his neck and tilted his head, allowing Tom more room. He could feel the purple mark forming under his skin, and knew he’d be covering his neck properly tomorrow. The idea of Tom marking his skin was enough to set him alight, to inflame his body with need and want. “Did you finish the rest of your work?”

“No, I’m sorry. I—” He bit off, gasping as Tom’s teeth sunk into his neck, right over the previous mark. The tender skin ached, but arousal shot to his groin anyway.

He used to be embarrassed about his attractions, but Tom taught him better, taught him to accept himself and still follow their religion. First and foremost, their beliefs stood with the church, with God. It wasn’t against the Bible to be interested in men, to want the touch and taste of their skin on his lips. It wasn’t against the Bible to act on it — they’d gone through all the pages, combing through them rigorously before they took over here. They’d come a long way since they were young orphan boys with too much self-hatred and guilt to act on their mutual pinings.

“I believe you deserve to be punished then,” Tom said, and Harry whimpered as the hand around his throat disappeared, snaking down his body. Harry’s clothes were thick, as was customary, but Tom still found what he was looking for, no matter what Harry wore. Tom ran his fingers over the slight nub of Harry’s nipples and he gasped, pushing into it. “Start writing.”

“What?” Tom pinched and Harry’s hand shook as he sought the quill again, squeezing his legs together as Tom’s index fingers ran soothing circles over the covered skin. He wanted Tom to unbutton his clothes, to touch him properly without the painful friction of cotton against his sensitive skin. But this was a punishment — Tom didn’t want him to feel too good.

He carefully flipped through the pages, back to his previous work. Records were boring, but he found himself enjoying them the more often he had to do them. However, with a distraction like Tom, touching him so sinfully, he could hardly count at all. If his handwriting was a little more sloppy than usual, Tom didn’t mention it. When he slipped up Tom pinched and when he didn’t Tom stuck with those teasing circles.

By the end of the page he quivered with need, longing for Tom’s hand around him.

“Well done,” Tom said, sharp eyes catching everything. Harry shivered at the praise, a casual comment contrasted by the lust drowning out the normal tones of his voice. Like this, he made Harry want to submit himself, even if he never could. “But do you deserve a reward?”

Tom liked playing these little games, giving him questions with no answer. He didn’t reply, but it didn’t matter because Tom clearly had his mind made up already, fingers seeking the multitudes of small buttons lining the front of his robe. He let himself be bared to Tom’s eyes, with only the rain as their witness. The cold was biting here, drafts slipping in through little cracks and crannies hidden throughout the church despite the seemingly never-ending heat of the season. Harry’s nipples stiffened immediately, almost painful as his undershirt slipped off.

No one else had seen his skin once he reached majority and he didn’t mind having Tom be the only one to see him, with the scars from lashings across his back, the pucked scar on his arm where someone stabbed him. Tom had left his own marks as well, blooming in purples and gross greenish browns under the skin of his chest, his thighs, his neck. He liked them, the claims of ownership they were.

“With God as our witness,” Tom murmured, pinching Harry’s nipples and kissing his neck as he moaned. “I’d like to marry you someday.”

“Oh, Tom, I-I want it so bad—” He gasped, heat blooming in his stomach like a fiery furnace roaring to life.

“Then have it, have me.” Tom’s cold nose pressed into the dip behind Harry’s ear and he wanted to pull away, but Tom held fast, not letting him move away. “I’ve heard of people — men marrying, in a holy union. No one would have to know — just us and God. If he didn’t believe in our love he would’ve punished us for it by now.”

But weren’t they being punished right now, with death sweeping the streets and darting in and out of houses like a morbid dance of despair? He didn’t voice that thought though, nodding along to Tom’s crooning voice, eyes blurring as Tom finally, finally reached down and touched him, grabbing his groin through the thick fabric pooled above it. He wanted it, wanted Tom, even if they could never be wedded legally.

He looked out the window, at the streets where the poor lived, chimneys smoking as people cooked, the lingering stench of death cradling their city, and, selfishly, he wanted to spend the rest of his days with Tom here, together.

“Yes—”

Even if they didn’t survive the summer.

#tomarry #short #alternate universe #established relationship #angst #smut

7 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

apple (of your eye)

A few days late, but here's day 4's fic! Hope you enjoy~

Prompts: Dessert, clothing

Thanks Raven for the beta, thanks enablers for the support and anticipation.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | NC-17 | 3578 words

Harry, darling,” Tom crooned, fingers slipping over Harry’s jaw and down the smooth front of his nightgown. “You look stunning.” “Thank you, My Lord,” he said throatily, breath hitching when Tom’s fingers slipped over a hardened nipple. He swallowed, flushing as Tom's eyes followed the bob of his throat. “I always want to look good for you.” It was true; Tom was his life, his everything.

“Harry, darling,” Tom crooned, fingers slipping over Harry’s jaw and down the smooth front of his nightgown. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” he said throatily, breath hitching when Tom’s fingers slipped over a hardened nipple. He swallowed, flushing as Tom's eyes followed the bob of his throat. “I always want to look good for you.”

It was true; Tom was his life, his everything.

“I brought dessert today, darling,” Tom pulled out his wand, and Harry had to fight back the flashes of fear, panic, oh-Merlin-he’s-going-to-hurt-me he was sure almost appeared on his face. He didn’t know why they’d apply right now anyway; Tom was safe. Tom wouldn’t hurt him.

A tray of pies and tarts floated in, and Harry’s stomach growled (when did he last eat? He can’t remember but his stomach hurt so bad, he was sure it was eating itself) and Tom laughed.

“Hungry, are we?” Harry nodded, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Tom was so good to him. He sat patiently as Tom pulled over the soft armchair and sat down. “Come here, darling.” He patted his lap and Harry wandered over, easily sliding onto Tom’s lap like he did it every day. (Maybe he did do it every day but he couldn’t remember why can’t he remember?)

Tom’s arms settled around his waist, pulling him closer and he squirmed at the feeling of hard cock under his arse. It was a little uncomfortable, but Tom was so warm after the lukewarm numbness Harry always felt — he couldn’t help but bury himself into it. The tray hovered next to the chair, patiently waiting for Tom to take the first dessert off it. He chose something Harry didn’t recognise but contained a beautiful red jam.

“Open your mouth for me,” Tom said, and Harry did so, as obedient as ever. As Harry chewed — strawberry flavoured, with the most curiously textured pastry he’d ever tried — Tom’s fingers wandered, lightly brushing Harry’s chest until he had to make a conscious effort to swallow, and then wandering down, lower and lower, over his sensitive ribs and quivering stomach, until teasing touches grazed the edge of his short nightgown where it met the smooth skin of his thighs. “Darling, you shaved for me? Beautiful.”

Harry shivered at the quiet praise, lips parting as he watched Tom’s fingers push the hem of his nightgown higher until it bunched at the top of his thighs. He could see a ribbon tail now, black and silky against the off-white cotton, and he wondered if Tom could see it too. Tom gripped Harry’s thighs gently, rubbing the trembling skin of his inner thighs with his thumbs. (The skin there was so thin, and Harry wondered if Tom would be strong enough to sink his fingers in so deep they would never come out again, to pull and tear at his flesh and destroy him, destroy his ability to escape, permanently disable him just for a sick thrill.)

Tom’s fingers slipped higher, thumbs reaching the crease where his hip met his thigh and ran over the sensitive skin until he had to hide his face in Tom’s shoulder. The desserts were abandoned at this point, lonely even in their multitudes. It felt familiar.

“Oh good, you prepared yourself up for me,” Tom said, voice deep and dark as his fingers skimmed over the ribbon, growing harder as Harry squirmed in his lap. He pulled the nightgown up until Harry’s cock was bared to the room, limp and tied so tightly it had no chance of hardening at all. “You know exactly how I like you.”

“Yes, my Lord,” he whispered, hips involuntarily jumping as Tom’s fingers wandered down his shaft and over the head. He hadn’t been touched there in so long he didn’t think he could handle it anymore. Each pass of the pad of Tom’s thumb felt magnified by hundreds, thousands perhaps. “Please, no more,” Harry whimpered and slumped as Tom left it alone once again.

(Harry spat as a hand grasped his cock, as a voice said, “I’m going to make you come until you yearn for my touch. And then I won’t give it to you.”)

“Do you think you could take my cock tonight?” Tom’s voice held no question, but Harry nodded anyway. Tom hadn’t fucked him last night, and he’d tightened up accordingly. He was sure Tom would enjoy taking him tonight; Tom had an obsession with Harry’s long since lost virginity, and the tighter he was, the better.

Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit he enjoyed it too — the ache as Tom pressed in, the little bit of adjusting he took to handle Tom’s cock — and he always wanted a little rest afterwards for Tom liked to fuck long and slow, late into the night.

Tom lifted Harry enough to shift his own legs, spreading Harry’s legs out with his knees. Harry felt his face warm despite the lack of audience and he shivered as Tom’s fingers traced his hole (as light as a feather, like always) and then a felt light cramp in his abdomen. Tom’s finger dipped inside, suddenly wet from a spell of his own creation, and Harry wanted to pull his legs shut and curl up. His body was so sensitive it hurt, and he couldn’t fixate on anything but the easy stretch of Tom’s finger pressing deeper. His cock twitched and he moaned as Tom pushed his finger knuckle deep, and then pulled back and shoved another one in. It didn’t hurt, but the stretch made him tremble, hands grasping at the arms of the armchair for anything to keep him rooted in reality.

“Tom.” It felt like too much, having his fingers this deep. He wished for a pillow to bite, or something easier to grab than an armchair, but there was nothing, nothing but Tom and his (too much, too much) touches. His nerve endings were on fire, ignited by the slow thrusts of Tom’s Merlin forsaken fingers.

And then there was nothing.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he scooted forwards on Tom’s knee, giving him room to unbuckle his belt. He let Tom pull him back into the warmth of his body, and he couldn't help but wiggle at the feel of Tom's hard cock against his back. The length of it was searing hot, even though Harry's nightgown, and he flushed in anticipation.

Soon, it would be in him.

Tom tapped Harry’s hip, and he raised himself up, let Tom manipulate his body until he felt the head of Tom’s cock against him. His breath froze in his chest and he bit his lip. Tom left him waiting for a few seconds, just long enough to make him nervous (what if Tom decided he didn’t want to fuck anymore, what if he was bored—) and then the hands on his hips pulled him down, slowly, but, oh, oh fuck, he was so big—

Harry exhaled sharply, fingers clenching the arms of the chair again. It burned, an overwhelming stretch already, but he breathed through it, carefully lowered under the guidance of Tom’s hands. He was hardly halfway down. He whimpered as Tom kissed his shoulder, and then suddenly his arse was on Tom’s lap, fully stuffed with cock. Tom’s hands rubbed his thighs, coaxing him to relax more. By the Gods, he could hardly breathe with Tom’s hands running up and down his tingling skin. He was so bare, so open, so full he swore he felt it in his chest.

“You’re doing so good, darling. You’re so perfect for me,” Tom’s voice cut through the slight haze fogging his brain and he jumped, squeezing around Tom in surprise. Tom groaned, soft and low, and Harry shivered at the sound.

“Thank you. Thank you, My Lord,” he replied. His voice was light and airy; Tom probably couldn’t even hear him. “Thank you so much, I—”

Tom shifted him slightly, grinding their hips together and Harry moaned, embarrassingly loud in the silence. His feet couldn’t reach the floor like this, could hardly reach the floor in this chair anyway, and he couldn’t help the desire that unfurled in his gut at the thought. Tom could do whatever he wanted to Harry and he’d be helpless against it.

Tom held Harry’s hips firmly, rocking their hips together. It was almost too much, no, it was too much. The lack of stimulation over the last day had left him sensitive and needy, and he could hardly take it. Anything — everything — felt like too much.

With Tom’s permission, he might come instantly. Without it, however, he knew he could endure this torture until Tom was satisfied with him. Tom had trained that into his very soul.

“Open up,” Tom said, and Harry opened his mouth. This time, Harry could recognise the dessert. A custard square, with the smoothest, creamiest custard he’d ever tasted. He chewed carefully, taking care to swallow only when Tom’s rocking was least distracting. He’d rather not choke on pastry right now. “Did you enjoy that?”

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice right now, but Tom plucked his nipples sharply through the fabric of his nightgown, hard enough Harry winced in pain.

“Answer out loud, please.” The please was only a formality drilled into Tom during his youth, hardly a notion of politeness. However, it did ease Harry’s nervousness enough for him to answer.

“I did, My Lord.” Any food was welcome after the lack of it all day. Perhaps Tom had left him hungry to fill him with desserts? The entire platter, just for him. There were too many, he’d never get through them.

But he did. The slow, careful grind of Tom’s hips as he fed Harry pastry after pastry kept him just out of reality while he ate. A meditative haze fell over him and he let himself sink into it, allowing himself to be carried away by Tom’s words and touches.

“Harry, darling.” Tom’s hands were warm and soft as they ran up and down Harry’s sides, hidden underneath the fabric of his nightgown.

“My-My Lord,” Harry stuttered out, but Tom shushed him quietly.

“You’ve done so well, darling,” Tom said, crooned even. “You’ve eaten all the pastries for me. Good boy.”

And oh, those words made him tremble. His head tilted back onto Tom’s shoulder, eyes closed in desire. Tom’s praise felt like the best reward of all, better than a platter full of desserts or an orgasm. He wanted Tom to recognise his good behaviour, to reward him like this all the time, stuffed full of cock and so blissfully out of it he could hardly focus on more than what Tom was doing to his body.

Tom’s hands wandered once more, brushing over his sensitive nipples until he was squirming and Tom’s cock was hardening inside him once more.

“My Lord,” he gasped, and then there were teeth at his neck, biting and sucking until stars danced across his eyes. He tilted his head to allow better access, grinding as best as he could to make sure Tom didn’t stop.

“You’re so perfect for me, darling,” Tom said into the fragile skin of Harry’s neck, where he was sure it was mottled in bruises. “So receptive to my touch.”

This position wasn’t quite enough for Tom to come from, but Harry wished it was. There was an intimacy to it that he longed for in those long hours before Tom came back. He wished Tom could stay with him forever.

“Turn around for me, I want you to ride me properly,” Tom’s voice was low, but Harry heard it clear enough. It wasn’t often he got to take the top position, for Tom was far more interested in dominating than being in any position with lesser control.

Harry’s stomach clenched as he realised just what this was; a reward.

Tom had to help him turn around, but Tom was strong, lifting Harry off with ease. He moaned weakly at the feeling of Tom slipping out of him, and wobbled as his feet found the floor. Tom looked wonderful, his cock hard and glistening with lubricant, his pupils an endless void betraying how turned on he was. He licked his lips and Harry’s eyes were drawn to Tom’s mouth as he climbed back on the chair, resting his knees on either side of Tom’s hips. Sliding back down, taking Tom’s cock once more, felt like coming home.

“Oh Merlin, My Lord,” he gasped, grabbing Tom’s shoulders for balance. Tom’s hands rubbed soothing circles onto his hips and his muscles relaxed under the attention. “Can you kiss me?”

One of Tom’s hands cupped Harry’s cheek, his eyes softening just a little.

“Of course, darling.”

Tom’s lips were smooth and warm, and his mouth tasted of the careful blankness it always tasted of. Harry’s hands slid around Tom’s shoulders, pulling them closer together and he started moving slowly as Tom licked into his mouth. This position gave him much more freedom to move, and as he gained confidence allowed himself to bounce faster. He didn’t dare change the angle to allow himself more pleasure, but what he had was almost enough already.

When Tom pulled away to moan, Harry knew he was doing well.

“Good boy, you like this don’t you?” Harry nodded eagerly and Tom smiled, kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry couldn’t help but increase his movements, thighs flexing as he rose and fell in Tom’s lap. “Yes~” Tom hissed, and Harry clenched around him, the subtle guttural note of parseltongue made him tremble.

Harry loved seeing Tom lose control. The high flush on his cheeks, the slight glaze over his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers as he ran them over Harry’s hyper-aware skin. Tom did that now, hands slipping under the nightgown and rubbing up and down the length of Harry’s back, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Fuck, Tom’s touch, his little gasps as he grew closer and closer, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips parted were all too much. Harry almost sobbed when he accidentally leaned back as he rose, Tom’s cock brushing his prostate.

“Oh darling, you’re so good for me, taking my cock like this—” Filthy words spewed from Tom’s lips and Harry clenched in anticipation for the telltale tensing, the hot rush of fluid inside him.

Tom’s fingers found Harry’s hips and slammed him down prematurely, his head falling forward and sinking into the flesh of Harry’s shoulder so hard it ached, and Harry groaned as he felt Tom empty himself inside his body.

“Fuck,” Tom whispered, finally letting go with his teeth, leaning his head on Harry’s aching shoulder. Harry stroked Tom’s hair gently as he caught his breath. His need was still there, but it wasn’t important. If Tom wanted him to come, all he needed to do was say the word.

“You’ve done so well for me, Harry,” Tom said, leaning back in the chair and bringing Harry with him, pulling him against his chest. “I want you to keep yourself tied up for me. I want to try something.”

His strong, large hands gripped Harry’s thighs, lifting him up, and Harry quickly grabbed Tom’s collar as he stood, cock slipping out and leaving him empty. Tom walked them over to Harry’s nest of a bed, where Tom dropped him right in the middle of the nest of blankets Harry slept in. His stomach curled as he watched Tom tuck away his cock, and clenched as he felt himself leak onto the bed. Luckily, Tom was always kind enough to clean his bed after they finished together, erasing the evidence except that which remained in Harry’s body. He liked knowing Harry was carrying around his seed while doing his daily routine; Tom was perverse like that.

“I want to know if you can come untouched for me. Do you think you can, even with your cock tied up all prettily like that?” Harry knew he could. Tom had taught him well. He nodded.

Tom pushed Harry’s smooth legs up and Harry grabbed the backs of his knees, keeping himself exposed to Tom’s hungry eyes. He flushed as more come slipped out of his hole and Tom scooped it up, shoving it back inside. Harry moaned quietly and Tom smiled. His smile was pretty.

“I want you to stay like this, no matter what,” Tom warned, and Harry nodded. He’d managed it before, he could do it again. If he didn’t keep his legs up, he wouldn’t get to come. “Perfect.”

Tom renewed the lubrication spell and Harry shivered at the cool, wet feeling inside him. Tom’s fingers glistened obscenely in the candlelight. Tom ducked down, kneeling on the floor, and Harry looked up at the canopy roof, breath freezing in his chest as he anxiously waited for the first touch. He didn’t have to wait long, Tom’s finger pressed against him soon after, slick and chilly against his rim. Tom didn’t have to work very hard to slip inside, Harry was still loose from their previous fuck.

The first touch was so much more than he could handle and he turned his head, biting into the pillow next to him. Fuck, he didn’t think he’d last long, not with the way Tom had made him so receptive to any stimulation here. It didn’t take Tom’s searching finger long to find his prostate, and when he did Harry threw his head back, fingers already shaking, digging deep into the flesh of his thigh.

No, he wouldn’t last long at all.

Tom didn’t press very hard, instead using such teasing, light touches that Harry could scarcely breathe. He couldn’t focus on anything beyond Tom’s finger and the press of his teeth into the pillow, Tom’s smooth, low voice fading in and out in the background.

“Darling, you’re doing so well for me.” Tom was saying, voice like a prayer, “You’re taking it so well, you always take me so well. Such a good boy.”

Harry whined, pressing his face harder into the pillow. Gods, Tom’s mouth killed him, all the filthy words he spewed sending him deeper into the haze that rapidly encroached his brain once more. His fingers were slipping on his thighs, palms sweating, and when he adjusted his grip and held them tighter Tom finally stopped teasing, pressing harder into his prostate than he had before, free hand pulling the ribbon loose.

“—Come for me, my darling boy—”

Blood rushed through his ears, and Tom’s sinful litany disappeared entirely, and Harry’s back arched as he moaned, long and loud, come drooling out of his cock and pooling onto his stomach. Tom didn’t stop, a practised thumb rubbing Harry’s perineum as well. Harry could hardly see, his vision blurring until he could do nothing but close his eyes.

“Fantastic,” Tom’s voice was rough with want, and Harry gasped as he came back to himself at the sound of it. “You can take more, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said, though he didn’t have much faith in himself. His thighs trembled and his palms were now slick with sweat. His chest rose and fell with every deep breath. He both wanted more and wanted to run away so badly—

But he didn’t move from his position, he wouldn’t let himself give in to the urge, no matter how much his fingers tingled and his head spun.

“Please, please,” he whimpered, though he couldn’t figure out what he was asking.

Tom didn’t stop, touching him so expertly he couldn’t do anything but beg for it. Harry’s cock didn’t stop leaking, droplets of white come constantly ing in thick globs. Harry couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, his vision blurrier than ever, even with his glasses on.

It wasn’t long before Harry’s eyes rolled back, body trembling all over as another orgasm hit, rolling over the end of the last one. He was sure his legs would have dark purple bruises tomorrow, but now it was all he could do to prevent himself collapsing entirely.

“Good boy. I’ll stop here for you darling,” Tom was saying as he came back to himself once more and he fell back into the blankets, feet almost touching the floor as he let his legs go. His cock let out a futile twitch and his body jumped as Tom pressed once more against his prostate. He moaned weakly and longed to curl right up into himself, to sleep for days.

To have Tom take care of him.

“You were so good for me,” Tom said, and their eyes met. Tom was still handsome even though Harry’s eyes couldn’t focus, and he let out a pained whimper as Tom ran a hand along his thigh, reigniting his shakes. “I’m so proud.”

Harry couldn’t do anything but lie there, and move his head the tiniest bit in response, but Tom seemed happy enough with him anyway.

Tom’s cleaning spells were always strange, fuzzy almost, and the way they tickled today was too much.

“Sorry.” Tom didn’t sound very sorry but Harry couldn’t muster the words to argue with him, no matter how weak his arguments always were. He let out a vague sound, something between a whimper and a groan.

When Tom settled beside him, fingers curling in Harry’s hair, he couldn’t help but nuzzle into it, demanding more. The careful, gentle stimulus was enough to relax him, and his eyes closed, sleep overtaking him.

#tomarry #medium #dubcon #smut #unhealthy relationships #alternate universe

33 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

falling//fading

Day 3!

Prompts: decay, vulnerability

Beta'ed by Raven, as always.

Thanks to my enablers writing wouldn't be as fun without you all.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Hurt/Comfort | 451 words

No one hates Tom Riddle more than Tom Riddle hates himself.

No one hates Tom Riddle more than Tom Riddle hates himself. He’s not how one would expect self-loathing to manifest — he’s far too kind and caring. Inside though, hiding in his fragile, aching ribs, is a bone-deep hatred and with it comes rage, embarrassment and guilt.

His guilt sticks to his skin and courses through his veins, wholly a part of him. And he hates it. Guilt for being born, for not being like everyone else. The Orphanage was strictly Christian, and though he knows, logically, that the Bible stories must’ve been about magic, he can’t help but remember his nights curled up in his ragged blanket, fingers shaking as he asked for forgiveness in the dingy darkness of the attic after another magical outburst.

It’s guilt that leads him into Harry’s bed every night, and maybe love, if he could feel it at all. If it wasn’t immoral. Harry’s truly kind, caring hands brush his hair off his forehead and his kisses linger in unseen bruises marring Tom’s skin. And when Harry whispers, “Tom, Tom,” under his breath as Tom presses his fingers into his hips and his cock into his body, he wonders and marvels at the wonderful boy who cares about him as no one else has.

It aches in a different way, one much nicer than his usual. This ache guides him tonight.

“I want you instead,” he whispers into the quiet, patient darkness of the room. “Please.”

Harry is silent and then his hands move, cradling Tom’s jaw as he says, “Yes, yes, of course.” His lips press delicately against Tom’s cheek, and then down to his mouth. They don’t use tongue, but it feels as intimate as a French kiss.

It’s then Tom knows he’s not giving up something to the wrong person. He’s not lending out misplaced trust.

Harry’s fingers flit over his skin and his lips follow until he’s gasping, much like how Harry does under him. He bites the pillow as Harry opens him up, bruising his thigh with his lips and endearing words. He clings to Harry’s arms as he enters him, and kisses him with all he was, is, and will be. Harry’s mouth is like divinity finally answering his wretched prayers.

Afterwards, when he’s in a haze and his limbs are heavy, Harry grabs him a spare pair of pyjama pants and holds him tight.

“Why?” he asks, not expecting a response.

“Because you deserve the world,” Harry answers like he should’ve known.

Even if his skin feels like it’s falling apart and his body is decaying, he has Harry, until he becomes one with the leaves and mud, and worms and flies use his corpse as a home.

#tomarry #short #smut #hurt/comfort #religious guilt #internalised homophobia

20 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Fracture

Part 2 of my Gore/Kinktober collection.

Prompt: bruises, washing

Beta'ed by and dedicated to Raven (I know how much you love bruises (: )

Thanks to my enablers again, you four are fantastic!

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | NC-17 | 1145 words

Voldemort loved marking his body, imprinting his ownership into Harry's flesh in far more intimate places than his forehead. Voldemort washes Harry.

Splash, drip, drip. Cloth against his skin. It was smooth, one of those imported acromantula silk blends.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, watching the water ripple outwards from his shins and lap against the sides of the bathtub.

Voldemort’s hands were firm but not rough against his scarred skin, rubbing gently over the old wounds with the care of someone who understood the aches that still lingered years later. He was tempted to lean into it, to let the rhythmic feel of Voldemort’s fingers take him away from reality.

“You’re beautiful,” Voldemort whispered, reverent. He dropped the cloth into the water — splash — and pulled Harry back into his body, wrapping him in thin arms. It was strangely comforting. He let go of his legs, allowing them to slide back under the lukewarm water, leaning into the coolness of Voldemort’s skin. Maybe it should send a chill down his spine, being in the embrace of his parent’s murderer, but it didn’t.

(He’d spent night after night, skin crawling, in his adjoined bathroom, retching into the toilet bowl while Voldemort's spidery fingers trailed up and down his spine and blackened his core.)

The bruises on his knees were dark enough to be seen through the shallow water, and he remembered how he got them, kneeling on the floor in their bedroom for what felt like hours. Bruises covered his arms and hips too; Voldemort loved marking his body, imprinting his ownership into Harry's flesh in far more intimate places than his forehead.

Voldemort's fingers curled into the bruises on his hips now, caressing the aching skin with the lightest of touches and teasing moans of pain from Harry's mouth.

He could feel Voldemort's cocks against the small of his back now, throbbing where nothing had been only a minute before. His cock stirred against his thigh at the thought of Voldemort taking him, right here. No one would walk in; Voldemort's private quarters were blocked off to everyone, including the house-elves.

“Here?” Harry’s voice was hardly a whisper, but Voldemort’s sensitive hearing picked it up anyway.

“Only if you want to. I can always take you later.” He wasn’t sure he was prepared for penetration outside the comfort of the bedroom yet and Voldemort could sense his hesitation through the bond. Voldemort had never pushed him into something he hadn’t wanted — in relationships, at least, he had strong morals.

Voldemort’s hands skimmed Harry’s skin, wetting his chest with the soapy water and brushing over his nipples. Harry arched his back, pushing into the gentle fingers. Before he came here he wouldn’t have thought of such a place being so sensitive. Now, he knew of more erogenous zones than any of his classmates had. Voldemort was an encyclopedia of knowledge and Harry had it all at his fingertips.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Voldemort breathed into his hair, as close to a confession as Harry would ever get. Heat bloomed in his stomach, aching and tender. It had been a long time in the making, getting to this point together.

Dumbledore would be proud.

“I love you,” Harry said, voice tight, and he clenched his eyes shut as Voldemort pressed a kiss to his head, hands soothing as they slid up and down Harry’s sides.

And then Voldemort’s hand slipped down under the water and wrapped around Harry, lips sliding over the smoothness of Harry’s neck. He tilted his head for easier access, head lolling back against Voldemort’s shoulder. Voldemort’s hand was cool, tight, and Harry groaned, spreading his legs as best as he could to allow for better access.

Harry’s hand sought Voldemort’s spare one, fingers lacing together as Harry arched his back, hips shifting slightly. The water lapped delicately at the sides of the tub and Harry looked out the window, at the glazed grey clouds moving sluggishly across the blackened sky without a care in the world.

Voldemort was an expert at everything he did, and sex was no exception. He moved his hand slowly at first, pulling at Harry’s erection with an ease that showed his experience. Harry gasped as Voldemort’s thumb grazed the slit and bucked his hips up. Voldemort’s other hand released Harry’s and he sought the bruises on Harry’s hips, fitting his fingertips into the small circles perfectly. Harry groaned, gripping the edge of the bathtub with water slicked hands. Almost dizzy with need, he finally looked away from the window, seeking the comfort of Voldemort’s thin lips against his.

He eagerly opened his mouth at the touch of Voldemort’s tongue, gladly letting him take control, letting their slick lips glide together. Voldemort’s teeth lightly tugged at Harry’s bottom lip, and as he soothed the gentle bite with his long, tapered tongue Harry arched, moaning into Voldemort’s mouth as he came.

He slumped into the cocoon of Voldemort’s arms, letting Voldemort clean his softening cock as he found his way back to reality. Voldemort left soft kisses on his face, lips damp. When Harry looked down he could see globs of come lingering under the water, looking particularly disgusting for something that came as a result of feeling so good. In this easy calm of post-orgasm bliss, he was tempted to ask Voldemort about it; he seemed to have an answer for any question Harry could ever have.

“The water is tepid, we should get out now,” Voldemort said, fingers gliding over the bruised skin of Harry’s thighs, not pressing hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him of their existence. It was almost enough to arouse him again. In the end, unfortunately, his tiredness won him over and he decided he couldn’t be bothered rousing himself for another round.

He nodded, yawning, and they stumbled up, Voldemort helping him over the side, as he tended to do. Voldemort’s wandless drying charm warmed Harry’s goosebumped skin — much like clothing straight from the dryer did, in the very rare occasions he was granted that luxury at the Dursleys.

His bruises stood out against his sun neglected skin, and he couldn’t help but admire them, the pretty way they dotted his thighs and hips, his stomach and arms.

Voldemort was still hard, purpled erections standing proud against his deathly pale skin. Harry knew he was waiting to go to bed, for them to curl up together, Harry’s heat enough for the two of them. After he fell asleep Voldemort would use his body, seeking his own pleasure and using Harry to achieve it.

Waking up with come on his thighs, skin sticky and slick, hole aching from a pounding he couldn’t remember, left him aching with need in the mornings.

When he curled up under the plush duvet, Voldemort’s cool skin at his back, he fell asleep easily, Voldemort’s hand carding through his curls. Anticipation swirled in his gut and he couldn’t wait for morning to come once more.

#tomarry #harrymort #short #smut #dubcon #voldemort wins #alternate universe

15 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

he whistles and he runs

Hello, here's my first Kink/Goretober fic. Hope you enjoy it!

Prompts: Ritual, come-marking

Beta'ed by Raven and my boyfriend. Thanks for the advice, both of you (and my enablers).

And thanks to my enablers: J, Reign, Starry, and Elli~ (I hope you four especially enjoy this).

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | NC-17 | 4549 words

“Tom,” he murmured, ducking under a branch and nearly touching the top of Tom's diary with his lips, “I really don’t like this.”

“Tom, are you sure this is where I’m supposed to go?” Harry whispered, clinging tightly to a small, black book. It didn’t respond. He shouldn’t expect it to; Tom only answered when Harry wrote to him, despite how much Harry would love to talk to him face to face. The instructions had told Harry to walk along a narrow path deep in the forest, and so that’s where he would go.

Gnarled, knobbly trees grew far into the sky, their trunks covered in moss and lichens. Their exposed roots hid underneath agitated serpent vines, and thorny brambles clung to his robe like grasping fingers.

This deep in the forbidden forest was nothing good and everything dangerous. Not a single ray of light shone through the dense, leafy roof, and a swirling fog oozed out of graveyard lace flowers. The trees were so dense it was hard to see anything at all.

“Tom,” he murmured, ducking under a branch and nearly touching the top of Tom's diary with his lips, “I really don’t like this.”

The only sound was his footsteps, the crackling of leaves and cracking of sticks (and those strange hisses he couldn’t quite understand). He shivered then. What if Tom was wrong? Harry could get killed—

Tom wouldn’t intentionally put him in danger, Harry was certain. Tom cared about him, he’d told Harry so in the faded red firelight in the Gryffindor common room, long after everyone else had gone to sleep. Tom had teased him about spilling his inkwell across the diary in embarrassment for days.

The fog was so thick he couldn’t see the ground at his feet any longer. He gulped. They’d done an assignment on graveyard lace flowers last year. Harry didn’t remember much, except they grew where magical corpses lay, buried and decomposing. The small white flowers were dotted throughout the hazy grey that spewed from their centres.

A bird cawed, cutting through the silence like a knife. He froze, clutching the diary to his chest, heart pounding. His wide eyes darted around the area, flitting from tree branch to tree branch, but it was nowhere to be seen. Harry closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. It was fine. Everything was fine. He carefully opened his eyes again.

A scream caught in his throat, black feathers filling his vision. He ducked, but not before the bird (a crow? A raven?) clawed at his face, missing his skin by mere millimetres. He stumbled and fell hard on his knees, the damp ground squelching beneath his weight. His glasses fell, and when he picked them up again they were streaked in mud. He cleaned them as best as he could on his sleeve, but it just smeared around the lens. He put them into his pocket with shaking hands. If he squinted he could see well enough, anyway.

Tom’s diary had managed to stay in his sweaty palms — a small relief. His heartbeat was as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

Harry jumped each time sticks broke under his feet, eyes darting around, but there was nothing but eerie, blurry gloom as far as his eyes could see.

It wasn’t long before he stumbled into a clearing, suspiciously absent of the lingering mist. A stone altar stood proudly in the middle, painfully bright sunlight somehow breaking through the leafy roof and illuminating it. There were no grasses or flowers around the base, just compacted dirt and gravel.

It looked dangerous. He should turn back. Maybe he would’ve if Tom wasn’t resting against his chest, enclosed in a book and hoping for freedom.

Maybe he would if he wasn’t so Gryffindor.

He walked forward, placing the diary on the altar, ignoring the stabbing pain of his retinas as he entered the sun. His gut coiled in anticipation — he’d finally get to meet Tom, to see his face, his body. To meet the boy he thought he might do anything for.

(He ignored the doubt, doubt, doubt spreading through his veins like treacle, the sickening bile in the back of his throat like he knew something was about to go wrong any second.)

The moment he placed it right in the middle the altar seemed to glow, tiny, near-invisible runes lighting up all over the surface, like long, swirling vines.

A coiling black cloud swirled out of the book then, a sickening green around the edges. It pulled tighter and tighter and formed the curious shape of a boy, half a head taller than Harry and much more handsome, with dark eyes and hair. He wore a Hogwarts robe, just like Harry, but it looked old fashioned and second hand.

“Tom Riddle?” Harry asked, and Tom nodded, face carefully blank. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long.” An embarrassed smile stretched his lips, and he ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Tom probably thought he was a loon.

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry.” His footsteps were silent; Harry didn’t know he was standing in front of him until he was right there, grabbing Harry’s hand. He raised it to his mouth, carefully, precisely, and swept his lips across the back of it. Oh. Harry’s heart fluttered. “I need you to do one more thing for me. Incarcerous.”

Thick ropes bound Harry’s wrists behind his back and pulled his ankles together so close he couldn’t keep his balance. He toppled forward into Tom’s waiting arms.

“You made it so easy for me.” Tom waved a wand — Harry’s wand, how? — and levitated Harry over to the altar. Curiously enough though, he didn’t place Harry on it, dropping him on the ground right beside it instead. Another incarcerous and Harry couldn’t pull his calves away from his thighs. “Now, wait.”

“No, no, Tom, you can’t do this,” Harry pleaded, squirming in the tight ropes. Tom’s eyes flashed as they made contact with Harry’s, a snarl on his lips. There was something off about this whole situation, and Harry wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Behave yourself.” Betrayal stung his chest and he looked away, hurt. Everything stood still for a few moments, and then movement sounded behind him, on the other side of the altar. A squawk and a low gurgling made Harry choke, and his stomach lurched violently, but he managed to keep his lunch down.

Harry couldn’t hear anything beyond the subtle rustle of leaves, and a steady drip, drip, drip into a bowl.

He didn’t know what Tom was doing. Was he preparing to kill Harry? He didn’t think he’d be a good ritual sacrifice; he was young, a virgin even. He gulped — that probably made him even more alluring. But maybe that didn’t matter, maybe Tom only needed his magic or his soul.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, hands trembling.

“I hope you’re comfortable.” Tom’s voice floated over the altar and Harry jumped, tensing. At the shink of metal against metal his breath quickened, heart pounding. “I wouldn’t want to be a poor host, after all.”

Despite his fear, his pants tightened as Tom spoke. He clenched his thighs, but that just made his cock twitch against the fabric. Gods, he could hardly breathe.

A clatter, then soft footsteps. He looked up as Tom came into view, fixated on the slight smug smile and triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“Oh dear, it looks like you’ve got a problem.”

Harry flushed, inspecting the bushes behind Tom with feigned interest. “No—” he winced as his voice cracked. “No, there’s no problem.”

“Don’t you want me, Harry?” Tom said, pressing his foot against Harry’s crotch. He flushed violently as he realised how hard he was. “I think you do. I was there,” Tom said, glinting eyes betraying his excitement. Harry, however, ceased his struggling in horror. He was there, every time Harry had touched himself to thoughts of Tom, even though he’d known nothing but his handwriting and the nicer bits of his personality. He felt his embarrassment heat his cheeks and wished he could bury his face in his hands. “I could hear every single thought that ran through your head. You fantasised about me a lot, didn’t you?”

Tom finally stepped away, leaving Harry’s hard cock alone again. He didn’t know if it was a curse or a relief.

Harry watched as Tom crossed his arms behind his back, pacing.

“I was quite lucky I was found by you, of all people.” A wry smile formed on Tom’s face. “Harry Potter. Who else could it be.” Harry had to strain his ears to hear him. “But now,” he started, louder once more, “Now I have you here, scared. Scared of me. I’m almost disappointed, but your fear is absolutely divine. Everything you do makes me stronger, and it feels so good.” Tom tilted his head, angling it towards the sun, and inhaled so deeply Harry could see his ribcage rise. It was a provocative move, a successful move, for Harry’s cock twitched even as his fists clenched.

And he knew Tom knew what he was doing.

“The ritual I want to use to restore my body requires you to be willing.” Harry shot him a furious glare — how could Tom even entertain the notion? — but Tom gave him a dark, secretive look which left his hands limp and shaking. “Of course, if you refuse there’s always the alternative. Slowly, over the course of a few hours, I drain all your magic, life and soul. I didn’t think you’d like that one all that much,” Tom added when he saw the expression on Harry’s face.

“I need you to give yourself over to me, to give your body over to me.” Tom knelt down in front of him, grabbing his chin firmly. Harry couldn’t help but shudder, face warming as those long fingers curled around his jaw, thumb caressing the skin just under Harry’s ear. He could hardly breathe, the air palpable between them.

“Will you kill me,” Harry asked and Tom laughed, warm and low. His face was far too handsome, Harry thought, and then hoped with all his being that Tom didn’t hear him.

“Of course not, I’ve invested far too much into you to do away with you now.” Harry felt himself relax, reassured despite himself.

“Okay then.” Harry looked Tom dead in the eyes and licked his suddenly dry lips. “I’ll do it.”

“I knew you’d come around,” Tom’s eyes gleamed with mirth, and then he was standing up, moving away from Harry’s body. Without his touch, Harry’s skin was cold. “The ritual is simple, I’m sure you’ll understand what to do right away. You’re a smart boy.”

As Tom unbuttoned his pants it suddenly sunk in. A sex ritual? Harry hadn’t done anything like that before, beyond mistletoe kisses with his friends. He wouldn’t know what to do, or where to put his hands, or—

“Don’t panic,” Tom’s voice startled him, jarring in its clarity. “You’ll figure out what to do. I only need your face and mouth.”

Harry opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and jumped when he realised just how close Tom had gotten. He was trapped, Tom at his front and cold stone at his back. Those blasted ropes still restrained his arms and legs, and he couldn’t squirm away when Tom grabbed him by his hair, tilting his head up.

“Open,” Tom said, and Harry did.

Tom’s cock tasted like parchment and old leather. The alternative to the strange taste was death, however, so he didn’t complain. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. He’d only heard stories of blowjobs from Seamus, who always seemed to know everything about sex. Seamus acted like it was an innate talent everyone seemed to have, but Harry wasn’t too sure. Right now, he wasn’t sure he had the talent for anything at all beyond sitting still and letting Tom do what he wanted to him.

Tom let him gently run his tongue over the smooth skin and learn the weight of it against his tongue. He gave himself time before he closed his lips around it, sucking gently. The hand in his hair gradually loosened as Tom realised Harry was participating out of his own free will until Tom’s fingers were merely carding through the thick pile of curls. It was reassuring, and he felt himself grow more and more comfortable with what he was doing. Slowly but surely he worked his way down, further and further until he could take half into his mouth. Unfortunately, the back of his throat was an impassable object and Tom had to settle for less, though he clearly didn’t want to, Harry could feel the little thrusts of his hips.

Tom started letting out little gasps when Harry twirled his tongue or sucked with the right amount of pressure. He wanted to grab Tom’s cock, to jerk the bit he couldn’t fit into his mouth, but his hands stayed behind his back, wrists still wrapped up.

Apparently, even now, Tom didn’t trust him.

As he gained confidence, he allowed himself more, bobbing his head along Tom’s length, wishing he could feel the slight quiver of Tom’s thighs under his hands while he worked. He was used to the taste by now, couldn’t imagine cock as anything else.

Maybe, despite the deception, he still liked Tom, wanted him with all his being.

The hand in his hair tightened once more, and Tom positively shook as Harry sucked particularly hard, a low moan leaving his lips. Harry was aching in his pants, longing to reach down and touch himself, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t and it turned him on more.

“Harry, oh.” Tom’s eyes were glowing, reddish and bright as he met Harry’s, and then his cock was gone, leaving Harry’s mouth strangely empty. Tom took himself in hand, tugging with more force than Harry did for himself. “I’m gonna—”

The first spurt splattered across Harry’s eyebrows and he closed his eyes reflexively. He thought about saying something, but then realised he had nothing to say. Another spurt landed on his cheek, and then another across his nose and lips. He darted his tongue out and screwed his face up. It tasted like ink.

“Thank you, Harry,” Tom said, a nearly imperceptible wobble in his voice. “Will you run if I untie you?”

He wouldn’t, not like this (not without his wand). He could hardly breathe, his stomach clenching with need. He wanted Tom to touch him, to maybe reciprocate.

“No.”

As his circulation began moving through his hands and feet once more he couldn’t help but tremble, in anticipation, or need, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. He rubbed his wrists and ankles, pouting at the tingling in his extremities.

“I need you to get on the altar, can you do that for me?” Tom said softly, hand outstretched. Harry grabbed it, face warming at the tremble in his fingers. He let Tom pull him up, and carefully climbed on the altar. It wasn’t very comfortable to lie on — his only respite was that he wouldn’t have to be on it for long.

Here, when he turned his head, he could see what Tom had on the other side. A whole dead rooster, hung by its feet, bled into a bowl. By now its dripping had slowed to the point where it hardly drained at all, and the bowl underneath was filled with ruby red blood. There were other things as well; a bundle of herbs, a shimmering potion, and a small bag. Harry almost didn’t want to know what hid inside it.

“Look up for me,” Tom said, leaning over Harry’s head and blocking some of the glaring sunlight. Tom even looked handsome upside down.

Tom’s fingers moved through the come on his cheek, dragging it into the shape of runes. When Tom scooped some of the come from his nose and pulled his hand away, Harry could see it was dark, inky, unlike his own.

Tom drew a rune on Harry’s forehead, and another one on Harry’s neck, and then stepped away, leaving Harry’s eyes exposed to the brightness of the sunlight. He closed his eyes reflexively.

“You look good like that,” Tom said offhandedly, and Harry blushed, embarrassment burning coiling in his stomach. Strangely enough, he enjoyed being covered in Tom’s come, perhaps not this way in particular, but under different circumstances, he could be easily persuaded into it.

Harry heard Tom place the bowl of chicken blood down on the altar, the ceramic clinking against the smooth stone. He didn’t want to get covered in chicken blood, but he knew Tom needed him to be willing. He readied himself for the feel of blood (would it be warm, or cold?) but the sensation never came. He cracked an eye open, looking over at Tom when he heard the subtle sound of dripping fingers, and he couldn’t help but gasp.

Tom had shed his outer robe, shirt and tie — Harry could see them folded up neatly next to the bag — and Harry realised Tom was the slightest bit transparent. At some point, Tom had acquired a mirror (perhaps magic, or maybe it was in the bag. He wouldn’t put it past Tom to conjure one, however; Tom was a genius after all), and was carefully painting runes on his torso with his free hand. The blood made Tom’s pale skin look paler, and Harry flushed when he realised Tom caught him staring. Tom threw him a little smile and Harry flushed once more, squeezing his legs together. Gods, Tom’s mouth did things to him. The blood didn’t drip, somehow it started drying the moment it touched Tom’s skin. Magic, it had to be. But when Tom moved closer he could see it had sunk into his skin.

Tom really did have the characteristics of a book, even in this humanoid form.

“Now, relax. You don’t have to do a thing.” Harry did so, letting Tom tie something into the strands of his hair. They smelled sweet, their scent powerful enough to break through the overwhelming aroma of ink flooding his nose.

Tom chanted softly as he worked, smooth, rhythmic vocals falling out of his lips. It lulled Harry into a sense of security and safety, even if he couldn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure what language it was, but he thought it may be Gaelic.

He breathed carefully, deeply, as Tom brushed a stray curl off of his forehead and trusted Tom with his body, with his soul.

“You’re doing so well, Harry,” Tom whispered, and Harry’s lips pulled into a slight smile.

A powerful light feeling was rising in his gut, almost overwhelming its capacity and he knew it to be his magic, rising up and preparing to spread out of him to help Tom. There was something else there as well, something darker intertwining with his magic. Tom.

Tom finished his chanting, body tense, and Harry watched him disappear from view, hissing in pain.

Colour, everywhere, lighting up the very air around him, sparked through his fingertips and filled the grove with the most unimaginable lightness. Harry could drift away on the weightlessness of the magic, the easy way it eased inside his bones and ached to carry him away.

He could hardly tell as it faded, vision blurry and breath stuttering in his chest. It was the most magic he’d ever felt in his life, perhaps even more glorious than the magic of Hogwarts herself.

A groan sounded from the ground, and he pushed himself up unsteadily. Gods, he couldn’t even feel his legs, which he swung over the side of the stone and hopped down onto the ground. He didn’t feel the same, not with that intoxicating magic coating him. He stumbled over to Tom, his legs shaky, and collapsed on the ground next to him, uncaring of the dampness seeping through his pants.

“Tom,” Harry giggled. Tom looked like a right mess, but the transparent sheen had disappeared. Blood flaked off his skin, falling into the Earth below. “I can’t see through your head anymore. You’re real now.”

Tom coughed, pushing himself up a little. He seemed very out of sorts. “It worked? I—” He looked at Harry with wide eyes, an untamed grin spreading across his face. He looked the happiest Harry had ever seen someone. “Harry, I could kiss you.”

Harry flushed, and emboldened by the wild magic he said, “Why don’t you?”

Despite Tom’s shakiness, he pulled Harry down, and Harry landed half on top of him, fingers curling into Tom’s hair as their lips pressed together, fuelled by a chaotic fury. As their lips moved against each other, Harry couldn’t help but want more. He opened his mouth for Tom’s tongue, giving in to his dominance with desperate need.

He was still hard — he had been the entire time — and it made itself known when they shifted closer, Harry’s legs falling on either side of Tom’s hips.

“I should take care of you. I think you deserve it,” Tom said, a wicked smile on his face and Harry nodded eagerly. Merlin, Tom was a sight, streaks of dried blood cracked across his face and body, hair mussed and cheeks flushed. His lips were red, and Harry couldn’t help but think about kissing him again until they were purpling, of sucking and biting his lip until he lost control. And oh, didn’t that thought make him tremble. “Your mind, Harry—” Tom said, “—is delightful.”

He’d forgotten Tom had that wonderful trick, legilimency. Harry didn’t even feel Tom slipping into his mind.

He dove forward as Tom’s hands pulled him down and pressed their lips together, scraping Tom’s lip with his teeth and revelling in the soft moan that spilled from his lips. The feel of their bodies pressed together was spectacular, and he shivered at the feel of the long length hardening against his hip. He wondered if Tom felt the same about Harry’s.

Tom’s hands unbuttoned Harry’s shirt without care, tugging in frustration when the buttons refused to come undone and then moved to Harry’s school slacks, which he only pulled Harry’s cock out of. He couldn’t help but look down at himself, at the bead of pre-come sliding down the head. When he looked at Tom, his dark eyes were ravenous.

“Gods, look at you, face covered in my come, so hard for me,” Tom cut himself off as he grabbed Harry’s cock, seemingly relishing in the moan Harry couldn’t hold back. “Wonderful, you’re so responsive to my touch.”

Tom’s free hand trailed over Harry’s stomach, running through the hair there and up to his chest. The brush of Tom’s thumb against his nipple sent sparks down to his cock, which twitched needily in Tom’s grip. When Tom finally started jerking him off it was almost too much, and he curled over, hand on the ground next to Tom’s head. Each movement of Tom’s hands left his body aching for more and crying for release.

“Tom,” he whimpered helplessly, and Tom smiled the genuine smile from before, tightening his grip just a little and fuck—

He’d never felt a better orgasm in his life, his thighs trembling and hands shaking as he wanted to curl further into himself, to protect himself from Tom’s determined hand which milked him through it, squeezing until the very last drips were out. He couldn’t open his eyes for a while, head spinning and body exhausted. He was tempted to fall asleep right here, on top of Tom, without cleaning up anything. He could hardly breathe, his chest only accepting air when he forced it to.

“Merlin,” he breathed, opening his eyes to Tom, Harry’s come streaking his chest and stomach, one spurt even catching his chin. If he hadn’t just come, he’d get hard from this alone.

“Quite.” Despite his curt tone, Tom’s eyes were softened with fondness. At least, Harry hoped they were. “You don’t need to deal with me, I’ve already had enough for today.”

With reluctance in every movement, Harry forced himself to move. His legs were weak, and he helplessly collapsed next to Tom, who got up like he wasn’t sporting an erection as noticeable as a unicorn in a thestral herd. He still had Harry’s wand, though Harry wasn’t sure where he’d kept it. Tom waved it over his body and all the residue on his skin disappeared, and then he did the same to Harry. The spell cooled his skin until he was shivering, but he felt noticeably cleaner.

A couple of vanishing charms and all the evidence of the ritual was gone; the altar in the middle was the only thing remaining, as undisturbed as it had been before they’d come here.

“I can’t come back to the castle with you,” Tom said as Harry buttoned up his shirt. “But I like—I’d like to exchange letters with you.”

Harry flushed, suddenly finding his buttons very interesting. “That would be nice.” He looked up again, meeting Tom’s eyes as he said, “You didn’t have to trick me, you know. I-I’ve liked you for so long, I would’ve done it anyway.”

Tom was the one who flushed this time, a charming pink coating his cheeks. “Yes, well. I didn’t think you’d want to.”

Determination settled in Harry’s gut and he marched forward, refusing to get embarrassed, and he grabbed Tom’s hands in his own, looking up at him. Tom’s hair was back to the perfect state it had been when he’d come out of the diary, much to Harry’s dismay. However, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he’d seen Tom without his stuck up persona.

“How many of our conversations were real?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, pressing himself against Tom’s warmth. Tom looked away, a strange twist to his lips.

“Since December, when you said you’d like to sit with me in the Astronomy Tower and share my birthday with me, all our conversations have been truthful.” Tom paused. “The only lie I told you were the circumstances of the ritual.”

He remembered that night, where he sat alone at the top of the Tower, just him and Tom, trapped in the diary. Tom had told him a lot of things since then, had scrawled out his fears in his perfect handwriting and helped Harry with his own.

“I’m not happy you lied to me,” Harry said seriously but tightened his grip on Tom’s hands when he tried to pull away. “I am happy you’re being truthful now, though. And I’m happy you’re with me, in person I mean.”

Tom let Harry twist their fingers together, a curious expression on his face.

The way back to the castle was far less scary when he could follow Tom, who knew the way back. Tom gave him the diary at the edge of the forest, tucked under the shade of the trees.

“Write in it when you’re lonely, and I’ll always write back.” And with that he spun on his heel, disappearing in a swirl of black, flying away over the treetops.

When Harry got back to his dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, a small note rested on his pillow, a deep red rose on top.

Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight. TR

#tomarry #medium #smut #diary horcrux #dubcon #pre-relationship

16 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

The Balcony

The final one! This one is the lightest of the three by far. Hope you enjoy!

Beta'ed by Raven, mistakes are my own.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Angst/Romance | 802 words

“Not wallowing in self-pity, are we?”

Yes. “No.”

Riddle's teeth glinted as he smiled, quickly, shallowly. “Of course not. You wouldn't.”

Boys kissing with a side of angst.

After rounds of handshaking and introductions, the evening air was a stark relief after the congestion inside. As typical as it may be for Slughorn's parties, Harry found himself tired of socialising past the first few rounds of “my condolences”.

He swirled his punch — spiked, implied by the fuzziness of his thoughts — and leaned on the rail.

Slughorn and the house-elves had outdone themselves, as usual. Vines wound between the bars, their white flowers stained with glowing gold, and silvery, draping fabric flittered in the gentlest of breezes. He thumbed the petals, catching dust on his fingertip. They were thick and silky in a way he'd only known rose petals to be.

Harry hadn't been looking forward to tonight, not after the news he'd received only a week ago. Sirius' death hadn't yet sunk in, and its unreality left him floating through his days in a haze. He wasn't ready to face it, not yet. He wasn’t ready to be alone.

“Potter.” He hadn't heard the door open or close. Yet Tom Riddle stood, backlit by the warm pixie glow, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed. “Not wallowing in self-pity, are we?”

Yes. “No.”

Riddle's teeth glinted as he smiled, quickly, shallowly. “Of course not. You wouldn't.”

Harry had no time to think about what that meant; Riddle was right there suddenly, warm and real. It felt like waking from a dream.

The railing dug into his lower back yet he barely noticed, too focused on the lips against his, the slightest stubble catching on his chin, the hand in his hair and the thumb pressed into the narrow gap between his shirt and pants. It was too easy to respond in kind, to stand up on his toes, hook a leg around Riddle's hip and wrinkle his shirt at the sides.

Kissing Riddle was nothing like kissing Cho, Ginny, or Daphne; it was warm and slightly rough, and his stomach felt off and his fingers tingled. He was dizzy from want and need, even if he didn't know exactly what he wanted or needed.

Riddle's lips pulled away too soon and Harry whinged, high and bitten off. However, he didn't complain long; Riddle's long fingers dipped the slightest bit below his waistband, teasing his skin. Harry's eyes widened.

They couldn't, not here. But despite the risk, Harry's breathing grew heavier and heavier, almost loud enough to drown out the murmur voices inside. Anyone could look out right now, see Mr Perfect Prefect Tom Riddle with the Slytherin Quidditch captain on a balcony at a Slug Party. The curtains blocked the view from outside but not in; the only thing hiding them was the cover of night. Even that betrayed them tonight — the full moon illuminated everything without discrimination.

Riddle didn't slip his fingers deeper (Harry didn't know if he felt disappointed or relieved), and instead caught his lips again, pressing their bodies closer together with a smooth warm hand, branding the skin between Harry's shoulder blades. Harry’s hands slid eagerly into Riddle’s hair and then down onto his hips, feeling the shape of him under his palms. He wanted to put his hands everywhere at once (jealously wanted to be the only person to do it).

All he wanted was what he couldn’t have.

Riddle pulled away, leaving one last kiss on Harry’s desperate lips.

“We should return to Professor Slughorn's party. We wouldn't want anyone to miss us.” Riddle flicked his head and the hair Harry messed up fell perfectly into place once more. Surely it was magic. Riddle smiled — an ugly sort, because Riddle's nice smiles were lies — and stepped away, leaving Harry leaning against that uncomfortable railing trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

“Ahh, yeah. Give me a moment,” he said. Riddle nodded and slipped inside, blending seamlessly into the black, shapeless crowd, leaving Harry alone.

Those weird, fluttery feelings were back again, twisting up his stomach. The crush he had on Riddle needed to be nipped in the bud because Tom Riddle didn't do crushes or relationships or anything beyond sleeping around for information. Harry wondered what use he had; he wasn't super old money and the Potter family weren't particularly strong in politics. He stopped the train of thought abruptly after the idea of Riddle reciprocating bloomed in his head. He pushed off the railing with a frown and ripped at the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

Tom Riddle was infuriating and maybe Harry wanted to hold his hand sometimes—

Harry slapped the rail, grimacing at the sting and the residual ache in his palm, cradling it close to his chest.

Gods, that man was going to be the death of him, with his dark, emotionless eyes and charming, devilish words.

Maybe Harry wanted him to be.

#tomarry #short #angst #pre-relationship #character death

10 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

joke me something awful

My second upload for today, hope y'all enjoy!

Title from Fall Out Boy's I've Got A Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth.

Beta'ed by Raven, mistakes are my own.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Angst | 613 words

He remembered Ron's body; bruised, bloody, broken, on his kitchen floor.

The sky was overcast, bathing the kitchen in a dull, impersonal grey. Harry had just flicked on the kettle when Tom came in, running a hand through dishevelled hair.

"'Morning," he said, voice as blank as ever, and Harry returned the greeting in kind, spooning coffee and sugar into his cup. Tom sent it a look of disgust and busied himself with a teabag.

A bottle of red wine sat on the table, nearly empty, and Harry finished it off while waiting for his coffee to cool. He idly ran his fingers over the gouges in the wood, marks from last night, from ten years ago.

They reminded him of the wounds, deep, dark, all-encompassing, scratched over the very essence of his being. They hurt, they hurt so much, and he was sick and wrong for staying here with Tom, but he had nowhere else. He had no one else anymore.

Tom offered a pill of unknown origin, small, white, potent, innocent on the palm of his hand. Harry knocked it back with a sip of his coffee.

He remembered Ron's body; bruised, bloody, broken, on his kitchen floor. He remembered Tom—

The pill kicked in slowly, but by the time he finished his coffee, there was a movie grain haziness over everything. Tom sent him a dizzying smile across the table, and Harry sent a delirious, deranged one back.

The neighbour’s screams and yells forced themselves through the walls. Harry tilted his head back, listening to the ambience. There was a sense of… musicality to it, and he hummed gently.

He wasn't feeling much of anything; echoes of preestablished sounds bounced through his head, his arms and legs said yes and no when he thought of moving them.

Tom said something quietly, and Harry looked up at him. He was slumped against the wall, Not your concern repeated like a mantra under his breath. At some point, he'd acquired a bottle of whiskey, and he sipped on it leisurely.

He was handsome, Harry thought, felt, heard maybe. Perfectly proportioned; the pinnacle of man. And those curls, those damn soft curls falling into his dark eyes unless he styled them back. Harry used to think he loved Tom, but now he knew better. It was a shame he'd already fallen so deep he couldn't get out once more.

Harry stood up, filled with a strange energy, and his vision sparkled weirdly, splotches of black covering his eyes. He caught himself on the table, shuffling his way around to Tom, zombie-like. He collapsed on Tom's knee, snatching the bottle of whiskey from his hand and taking a swig. Tom watched him, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile flirting with his lips.

"I fucking hate you," Harry said, slurred more like, put the bottle on the table, and kissed Tom, clenching his shaking fists in the front of his rumpled button-down (they hadn’t changed in three days) and pulling their chests together. "You're the most infuriating asshole I've ever met, you—you killed Ron—"

This time it was Tom who kissed Harry, forcefully, sloppily. His hands (his murderous hands, which had wrapped around Ron's neck and slammed his head into the countertop) grabbed Harry's thighs.

Harry hated, hated, hated him so much, but he was all Harry had left. Parents; dead. Ron and Hermione; dead. The Dursleys; as good as.

All there was for Harry was Tom.

And Harry pushed himself up, hate lingering deep under his skin, sparking in his fingertips, etched into his sense of being, grabbed the bottle, stumbled to the bedroom.

"You coming?" he asked.

Tom stood up, followed, and knew Harry was just as trapped as he wanted him to be.

#tomarry #short #established relationship #unhealthy relationships #character death #drug use #alternate universe

1 note · View note

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Rhythm

So I had to be bullied into posting this (and the other two fics I'm going to post in a bit) because otherwise, my procrastinating ass would've sat on these for eternity. I hope it's decent, lol. (Oh my god they got rid of the horizontal line oh no idk how to add the keep reading in html.)

Prompt: At nights there were drums in the distance. Not the martial roll of marching, nor yet a threatening note of savage hate. Just drums, many miles away, throbbing rhythm for native dances or exorcising, perhaps, the forest-night demons. - Happy Ending by Mack Reynolds & Fredric Brown

This was also inspired by some trashy, problematic romance novel from the 80s or 90s.

Beta'ed by Raven. As usual, any remaining mistakes are my own. Please tell me if I'm missing any tags.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle Sr. | Genre what Genre | 1179 words

And then, drum beats.

Like peals of thunder, the drums sounded. Like the hoofbeats of a thousand horses or a tribe of celebratory savages. Harry woke to darkness, as he had for the past week.

Harry went to the window, warm feet chilling on the icy wood floor. He brushed away the long mosquito net, peering out as far as he could in the weak moonlight. In the grove, a place everyone had told him to stay away from, was a warm glow and a cloud of smoke. He pushed the window up to see further out, and as he leaned against the sill he marvelled at how loud they sounded, as if they were just outside.

According to Mrs Weasley, it was preparation for one of the festivals the native peoples threw. Sacred times, she called it, all hush-hush in the alcove by the stairs. She didn't elaborate much beyond that, and he didn't want to insult her by enquiring too far into her culture.

He sat for a while, listening to the rhythmic thumps of the drums, dozing slightly on the window seat. He leaned against the sill until light filled the sky once more, and he watched as the Weasley children ran across the grass and back into the servants quarters, barefoot and cheerful.

He found he could empathise with them easily. There was little joy to be found on the island, and hostilities everywhere he turned. Perhaps he could come to understand the music, in time.

—

The house was large, full of tasteful antiques and busts of family members long passed. Mr Riddle didn't seem to care much about it and instead cared more for profile and money. Mr Riddle hated cooperation and wouldn't even talk to Harry. He was given no leads, no one talked to him, and he hadn't even seen a photo of the man he was looking for.

Hunting down the man's estranged son seemed like a lost cause.

Harry nervously broached the topic of the drums at breakfast, once all the servants had left the room.

"Mr Riddle, sir, what is the festival the natives are preparing for?"

A vicious scowl twisted his features, filled with a hatred Harry had never seen before. "I don't care to know," he said. "Don't ask me of them again."

Conversation was often neglected at meals, and it was once again — easily discarded as if it were worth nothing more than the faintest passing interest. Harry ate his eggs out of politeness rather than hunger; his appetite ruined by Mr Riddle's anger.

His curiosity lingered though.

—

Harry slept the next night undisturbed by the drums, though thoughts of them lingered, like dust particles in the air.

—

Sweat coated his skin, and his body felt stiff. The smell of smoke and lavender overwhelmed his nose and tickled his throat like a cough which never came, and his mouth tasted bitter like he'd sucked on a lemon.

He blinked his eyes open, wincing at the painfully bright firelight. He went to rub at them as he yawned but stopped short when he realised he couldn't. Ropes, which hadn't been tight enough to notice earlier, rubbed against his wrists.

Fear spread through him, but he controlled it as quickly as it came. He knew fear as well as the back of his hand. He clenched his fists, evening his breathing out again. There was a throbbing in his head, a headache made worse by his lack of glasses and the flickering of fire in front of him.

And then, drum beats.

Thump, thump, thump, in time with the ache in his skull.

A hand cupped his cheek with more force than necessary, tilting his head up. It was impossible to see anything against the light of the fire, but he could make out a face after his glasses were carefully slid onto his face.

"Harry Potter," the person said, voice careful and hardly accented like the other natives he'd heard. "The latest addition at the Riddle House."

"What of it?" He found it hard to talk past the dryness of his mouth. The fingernails in his cheek pressed deeper, and Harry bit his other cheek to distract from the pain.

"That man," the figure said, dropping from his tall stance to a quick crouch, finally letting Harry see some of his face. It was enough, however, to make him gasp. "That man is scum."

He looked remarkably like Mr Riddle, but his eyes were dark, far darker than Mr Riddle's pale blue. His face was younger too, free of the frown lines plaguing his employer. The most stand out feature though, was the jagged scar running down his face, thick and raised enough to cast a slight shadow.

A woman came up to them then, preventing more dialogue from what could only be Mr Riddle's son. Her hair was wild, her smile deranged, and Harry thought she could be scary if he wasn't scared enough already. She whispered something in another language, perhaps French, and the man addressed everyone in the same tongue.

Harry could admire the way he commanded the people, the way they all froze the moment he opened his mouth. He couldn't see any faces from his unfortunate position close to the fire, but he could assume the Weasleys were there. In fact, from the vague outlines he could see, he guessed there were close to a hundred people in total; he hadn't thought there were that many on the whole island.

He finished his speech and kneeled in front of Harry again, a gentle smile on his face.

"It's unfortunate, but supporting that man means only one thing for you." He stood up once more, and a couple of people pulled Harry up to his feet.

They pulled him closer to the fire and his stomach sunk as he realised what was going to happen.

A sacrifice.

This was why Mrs Weasley hadn't told him more. Because her people were going to sacrifice him on their bonfire, perhaps consume his cooked flesh, and he would bet Mr Riddle's son was the one who chose him. No wonder Mr Riddle had been virtually useless during the investigation.

The drumming started again.

"Wait!" They stopped and Harry slumped between them. Perhaps he had been drugged; he was unnaturally lethargic. He found his footing under the man's intense stare, and said, "I don't support him, or whatever you mean by that. I’m unhirable on the Mainland, but he—he offered me a job here. He doesn’t like me—"

“Quiet.” The man looked at him for a few seconds, scanning his face with his eyes, and then there was the most curious sensation inside his head. Mr Riddle's son frowned, much more delicately than his father, like he didn’t do it often, and said, "He's telling the truth."

His relief was short-lived, however, when two things happened at once.

"We'll keep him, bring out the other one. We must feast."

A man holding a large stick appeared out of the sea of people, the weapon swinging towards Harry's head.

And black.

A little addition, just in case: I don't condone, endorse or support racism and I don't view native peoples as tribal savages. Thanks for reading! (:

#tomarry #gen #cannibalism #alternate universe #ritual sacrifice #human sacrifice

2 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Slow Hands

So, I have the work ethic and posting schedule of a sloth, and once again have work I did last month and only just got around to editing today. Good news? I have another couple of things I wrote last month which should be up soon. Title from Interpol’s Slow Hands.

Beta'ed by Raven (thanks for calling me gay for writing these garbage boys).

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Romance | 809 words

Harry was quite possibly the pinnacle of man, a Greek statue Tom felt he couldn't compare to. Tom waxes poetic about Harry in the early morning.

Harry was quite possibly the pinnacle of man, a Greek statue Tom felt he couldn't compare to. His body seemed carved by Michaelangelo himself, a Da Vinci drawing based on man's greatest features. His curls were inky black, pooling indistinctly on the pillow. He wasn't broad or strangely triangular (much like Lestrange). Instead, his body was a long line reaching from the point of his shoulder to his foot, the soft, subtle dips and rises of his waist, hips and legs hidden by the thick blanket.

The smell of generic 'hiking trail rainfall' soap surrounded Harry, cementing, in Tom's primal, very homosexual mind, how casually masculine he was. Alluring, charming, Tom would describe it. The scent was tempting, begging Tom to sink his teeth into Harry's neck, to bury his nose in Harry's hair as he touched him.

Harry was stirring, finally, waking with the dawn to keep Tom and his insomnia company until the day actually began.

His eyes were always bright and a smile lived on his ridiculously handsome face (when he was around Tom anyway — he regarded this with a particular feeling of accomplishment). Those brilliant eyes looked at him, the gold around his pupils hidden in the dimness of the early morning light.

"'Morning," Harry said, his voice gravelly with sleep, reaching blindly at the bedside table for his glasses. Tom's chest ached in that familiar way he'd come to associate with Harry's existence.

"Aphrodite would weep at your beauty," he said, revelling in the embarrassed smile Harry gave him.

"That's a new one."

"Only the best for you, of course."

Harry loved touching Tom's face, finding amusement in connecting the horrible freckles sprinkling his cheeks, light enough to look like specks of dirt. He did it now, thumb running under the permanent blue stains under his eyes, pressing hard enough on each freckle he could see in the dull light to pink Tom's cheeks.

"Your stray curl is back," Harry said, fingers moving to his forehead, tugging on the lock gently.

"At this rate, I don't think it'll ever leave." For years, since he grew his hair down to his ears, it had sprung right out of his careful styling to the point where he'd stopped trying altogether.

"Finally admitting defeat?" Tom knew better than to answer such a trap. The blow to his reputation wasn’t worth it, and he said as much.

The sky lightened in silence, Tom leaning on Harry's shoulder, burying his head in Harry's neck to breathe in the irresistible scent of his cheap soap. Harry's fingers ran through his hair, fingernails the perfect length to scrape his scalp satisfactorily.

Sunlight broke through the insidious, unfixable gap in the curtains before Tom spoke again.

"I made a new plan for world domination while you were asleep."

"Yeah?" Even hidden behind glass Harry's eyes were so very green, and his lips so red Tom couldn't help but steal a kiss.

"Yeah, with flow charts and bullet points too." Harry laughed, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. God, Tom loved him. "Thought you'd like that."

"Wanna write it out later? I'll see if it's as plausible as the stock exchange one."

Stubble lined the cut of Harry's jaw, thick and black like the rest of his hair and as stubborn as a mule, shadowing his cheeks insistently. It was prickly but tempting to run his fingers over. Tom rubbed his nose against it and ducked his head a little, biting the flesh of Harry's neck.

"Hey, no, I've got work," Harry half-heartedly complained, the hand in Tom's hair pressing him harder against Harry's skin. A sigh slipped through Harry's parted lips.

“Of course,” Tom said, leaving the skin a dark purple not even Harry’s tanned skin could hide. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Harry sat up and prodded his neck, wincing as he poked his new bruise. “I hate you.”

Tom watched as Harry got up and started his day, his stomach aflutter. Harry was a liar and a terrible one at that.

Harry’s back looked unbelievably strong in the aggressive shadows and Tom bit the inside of his lip as Harry slipped his underrobe on, muscles flexing. Knowing Harry willingly let him take control flooded him with desire and he turned away, watching shadows dart past the thin yellow curtains. He entertained himself counting the bird blobs until the rustle of clothes stopped.

A palm turned his face firmly and lips brushed against his, wet and lazy, disappearing the moment Tom reached his hand up to bury it in Harry’s curls. Harry winked and slipped out the door with an easy smile on his face. Tom threw on his clothes with half as much care, hoping to get into the kitchen before Harry drank the whole pot of tea.

And maybe to steal another kiss before Harry left for work.

#tomarry #short #alternate universe #established relationship #fluff

41 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Snapshot

I wrote this a few days ago, and then read The Secret History instead of hitting up my beta reader. But now it’s here, so enjoy!

Beta'ed by Raven.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Romance | 539 words

The fire was spreading an alluring warmth throughout the library; Harry watched the flames flicker in the grate. A strange sense of melancholy had overcome him, leaving him listless and unsettled. Voldemort indulged his mood, allowing Harry to sit by his feet as he read, his long fingernails carding gently through Harry's hair.

Voldemort's book smelt like ash and decay — a smell Harry associated with the Dark Arts — and by this point it almost comforted him.

"You're acting odd." Harry heard the telltale snap of Voldemort's book as he closed it, and fingers gripped his hair lightly.

Harry sighed. "I miss my friends."

"I can make another amendment for you," Voldemort said, hand sliding down to Harry's neck, rubbing the exposed bruises marring his skin.

"I'm not sure that would be a great idea." Neither Ron nor Hermione would believe he had the freedom to say no without the promise of pain afterwards. It was isolating and embarrassing, and he had sworn radio silence until Hermione's well-meaning yet invasive and hurtful letters trailed off once more.

Voldemort's fingers found their way around Harry's neck, and he tilted his head back to accommodate the width of Voldemort's palm against his windpipe.

"If you're sure," Voldemort said, though he didn't sound like he believed Harry at all.

Voldemort squeezed, and Harry welcomed the cut to his air supply, eyes closing as his head fell onto the chair between Voldemort's legs. These sudden power plays grounded him like he was finally rooted in the dirt after years of drifting on the wind. It wasn't about submission, Merlin knew Voldemort got enough of it from his followers. It was reassurance, comfort, from one man who had never known it to another who craved it like the very air he breathed.

"Beautiful," Voldemort whispered, and Harry opened his eyes, meeting reverent crimson. Voldemort's lips parted slightly and his other hand slid down Harry's cheek gently, the tip of his middle finger pressing against the dip between Harry's lips.

Voldemort's fingers were cold, despite him lounging by the fire for hours on end. He had confessed to Harry once, under the safe veil of night, that Harry warmed him to the bone, chased away the chill clouding his flesh since his resurrection.

Harry thought of the moment then, as Voldemort's fingers loosened from around his neck, and he hooked an arm around Voldemort's knee, kissing his clothed thigh lightly. He could feel curiosity and interest rousing Voldemort's end of the Horcrux link like a waking dragon.

There was a warmth spreading in Harry's chest, spilling through his stomach, and he held onto it, pushed it towards the dark patch in the back of his mind. Voldemort's eyes widened, a hand going to his chest as though Harry's feeling made him physically warm.

"I think you're beautiful too," Harry said quietly, reaching for Voldemort's other hand, which had fallen limp onto his knee. He intertwined their fingers carefully, smiling at the look of disbelief and wonderment.

Harry loved this man, and he thought maybe Voldemort loved him back, despite all odds. It was enough to fill the pain his friends left and more, and at that moment everything seemed like it could be okay.

#tomarry #harrymort #short #canon divergence #fluff #established relationship

31 notes · View notes

wolfantlersinspace · 4 years

Text

Libertyn

I wrote this about a month ago and finally got around to editing it. Please tell me if I'm missing any tags.

Beta'ed by Raven (much appreciation for your kind words) and Ursula (thanks for kicking my ass on the historical inaccuracies). Any remaining errors are my own.

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | NC-17 | 1231 words

Tom's prize lay hidden away at the top of the tower the dragon guarded.

The dragon had been unbelievably easy to subdue with his magic. An advanced sleeping spell and she had fallen just as easily as the men at the other side of his sword. She was immortal, he knew, frozen in time until the curse broke, and no sword nor spell could fell her permanently.

Tom's prize lay hidden away at the top of the tower the dragon guarded. The next obstacle, a dangerous moat, may have stopped many a knight. However, the flying magic he had created let him hop over it as easily as a log.

He climbed the steps in no time, an overpowered lighting spell let him past the curtain of Devil's Snare covering the entrance, and into the bedroom.

The room was large and domed, with long, draping fabrics around the bed and the arched windows. Paintings of historical events Tom had read about in Hogwarts covered the walls. But he only had eyes for the body on the bed.

The boy lay on his back, a crushed bouquet of black roses by his head and a stained linen undertunic was pushed up to his armpits.

Tom could see everything. He ran his gaze down the Prince's body, lingering on his well-defined lips; on the raspberry coloured nipples. On the smooth, lightly haired stomach; on the small cock nestled under a shock of black curls.

The boy's legs were spread wide and old stains mottled the blankets where other knights had left evidence of their arrival.

And now it's Tom's turn.

He hadn't dressed heavily and his tunic slipped over his head, finding a place on the floor with his scabbard and bag, and then his boots and pants.

He knelt between the boy's pliant legs, bending the boy's knees carefully until they helped show what Tom was truly here for.

He brushed his fingertip over the young Prince's hole and it secreted a thin lavender coloured fluid. The secretion was a gift Tom knew to be from one of the fairies to help ease the way to the breaking of the curse.

His cock was almost hard and just thinking of all the things he could do to the comatose boy stiffened it quickly in his palm. It took no time to lean over the boy's body and the moment he lined his cock up he thrust it all the way in.

Gods, the boy's hole was so tight and wet around him. He pulled back until only his cock head was breaching the Prince and then pushed forward so hard the boy was slammed into the headboard. Tom held him in a bruising grip and set a brutal pace, opening the boy's pouty mouth with his own. The feel of the unresponsive lips made him groan and he moved down, sucking dark purple kiss marks onto the Prince's sun starved pale skin.

He worked down until his head was level with the nipples. He sucked one into his mouth, feeling it harden under his tongue. Tom pulled back then, looking at the comatose boy. His cock had stirred to life against his stomach, hardly bigger than the pitiful size it had been soft. Tom didn't touch it; he never satisfied his partners unless he found it advantageous to his career progression.

He fucked into the boy's hole, his balls tightening as he prepared to breed the boy under him. Tom quickly slipped a pillow under the Prince's ass to keep his come from oozing out of the sloppy hole before he wanted it to. He bit down harshly on the boy's neck as he came, hips stuttering as he filled the wet sheath around him.

Tom pulled out quickly, using his magic to clean himself of the thin sheen of sweat built up over his skin, of the lavender slick covering his wilting cock. He left the boy as the mess he was, covered in evidence of Tom's desecration.

He was about to stand when the boy sat up, blinking blearily. "Who are you?" His voice was in the awkward stage between boy and man, and a sudden bitterness filled him.

The boy will wake when he's filled with the seed of his true love.

It was just typical of Tom's luck; Tom was probably the only one of all the men before who wanted him to stay asleep.

He looked at the boy, who had the most magnificent green eyes he'd ever seen. His pupils were blown wide in lust, and Tom looked down at the boy's untouched cock, draped in the thin fabric. Tom wondered if he could feel the seed deep in him, feel it and know it's Tom's, marking his territory. A coil of lust unfurled in his gut and his cock hardened once more.

"Your Prince Charming."

The boy's eyes went wide and he squirmed in place. "Oh. Then sir, can you please do that again?"

A smile spread across Tom's lips then, predatory. "Do you want more, darling? Come sit here then."

The Prince crawled over, climbing into Tom's lap with the most innocent smile he'd ever seen. His legs fell on either side of Tom's thighs and Tom lined himself up, slipping in as the boy sank down. His face changed abruptly, brow furrowed and eyes closed as he let out a moan.

Tom held the boy's hips and helped him rise and sink on Tom's admittedly large cock. Already the boy's legs were shaking and his face flushed, but he kept working at it until Tom decided watching him strain to keep going had lost its charm.

He pulled out, bending the boy over the side of the bed and thrusting his cock into the hole between his legs. The young Prince arched his back, rubbing his cock against the bed, and Tom grabbed his hair roughly, keeping his body bent. His pace was just as vigorous as before and every time he thrust into the hilt he made the boy gasp.

The boy came from only the friction of the bedsheets and Tom's ruthless thrusts. He trembled and sobbed and Tom angled himself so he was hitting the boy's prostate as extra torture.

"No, stop. Please, it's too much." The boy's shaky voice only spurred him on. Tom grabbed the Prince's arms and pushed them into his back, reaching his spare arm around to grasp at the boy's small cock. It was still hard and covered in come and he tugged it harshly, smiling at the way the boy shuddered and clenched around him, coming again.

Tom only allowed himself release now, and shoved his cock balls deep, defiling the young Prince with his seed for the second time that day.

He pulled out and redressed, leaving the boy quivering until he was ready to leave. He pulled his spare tunic from his bag and chucked it at the boy, who put it on carefully, hiding his wonderful body away. Tom wouldn't give him underwear, would instead let him feel the breeze around his cock and hole, make him remember it's Tom's come leaking from his ass.

Tom wasn't kind or gentle, and the boy would learn it quickly. But for now, as they made their way down the stone steps of the tower, he could at least maintain a sense of decorum.

"What's your name?"

The boy blinked, winced as he took another step down.

"Harry."

#tomarry #smut #age difference #dubcon #somnophilia #fairytale fusion

26 notes · View notes