Work Text:
Fuck.
“Potter?!”
Fuck. Merlin, his life was a disaster.
He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. He’d overheard him talking to Malfoy, telling him that a study session would be in order for that night, likely until late.
So… Harry had taken a risk. It was a rare occurrence, getting some alone time in the dorms, especially when you had to share with 5 other people, so for all of them to be gone…
It was a treat—one he’d wanted to take advantage of.
Getting into Riddle’s hamper wasn’t difficult, it wasn’t as if the man was warding it, but he still took a moment to let his hand hesitate over its prize before reaching down and lifting it from where it sat nestled amongst fellow dirty clothes.
After that, it was easy to shove the things against his face and inhale deeply. Riddle wore black silk briefs, the posh bastard.
Groaning, he let his eyes slide shut, huffing the fabric at the same time.
This… habit wasn’t something to be proud of, he knew, but with it being so easy he just… He just couldn’t help himself.
Riddle was pretty. So, so pretty, he whimpered against the crotch, let his tongue dart out and taste for a moment, with his dark eyes, that mole dotted right underneath, on his left cheek, and those full, pink lips…
And maybe he had let his attraction manifest as aggression on occasion. That was why the man hated him so much, and could Harry really blame him, when he had sabotaged just as many assignments, thrown just as many punches, and cast just as many spells as the other?
But since he hated him, since he’d never want him the way Harry wanted him…
Was it really so wrong, that he needed a little something to tide himself over?
His hips slid against the soft silk of Riddle's sheets, he had climbed underneath the covers and slipped off his own pants at some point or another, all the while rubbing his face against Riddle’s.
“Shit- Tom…”
His breath hitches, and suddenly it’s way too hot. He’s kicking the covers off of him, turning on his back, and letting his head fall, wanting to give himself a moment to recover, but…
The briefs are shoved against his mouth, his nose. Every breath he takes, he fills himself with Tom Riddle's scent, and…
It’s not long before he’s got his hand wrapped around himself, eyes squeezed shut as he presses the fabric into his mouth and arches practically a foot off the bed.
It’s in this position that Riddle finds him.
—--
His dark eyes surveyed the room.
Empty. Good.
With midterm exams fast approaching, he had wanted to make sure all of the year's material was fresh in the minds of his death eaters, as well as himself. With his plans rapidly becoming attainable with their looming graduation, it was imperative he and his followers remain in the higher ranks of their grade.
He, of course, would easily take first in the rankings, he thought while stripping himself of his Slytherin uniform, forgoing the sanctioned tight button-up for a soft cashmere sweater of a light green.
He shucked off his trousers as well, then, after a moment's consideration, his pants.
The tight trousers of his uniform made boxers too clunky to wear underneath; he'd ordered a few pairs of briefs earlier that winter, a tradition that had started in his 2nd year when a well-meaning year-mate had informed him of this fact.
(He had obliviated them, of course. He knew how to dress himself, thank you very much.)
The briefs, while quite attractive and soft, weren’t necessarily… comfortable. The damn things rode up no matter how many times he’d tried to stretch them out with charms, but he hadn’t thought to get a pair in a larger size when he’d mass owl ordered his clothes, and the stores ‘no refunds’ policy along with his lack of funding meant that for this year, he’d have to deal with tight underwear.
But, when out of uniform, it hurt no one for him to wear something a bit more agreeable, he thought as he slipped on an older pair of boxers.
Overtop, he slides his legs through the pants of some loose gray trousers, chucking his dirty clothes in his hamper as he passes it on the way to the door.
It’s as he does that he catches a faint shimmer coming from the mouth of it, a pattern of scales on the boxers that he’d made sure to request specifically when ordering. They were unique, and damn him if he liked his things to be recognizable when his clothes often ended up in piles on the floor, mixed with the garments of his 5 other roommates.
The shimmer disappears from view as he crosses the room's threshold, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder as he casually struts to the study session he had organized.
But left behind, forgotten in the pocket of his black trousers, sat his bone-white, yew wand.
—-
For a moment, he’s not really sure what he’s walked in on.
Potters on his bed, he’s got his trousers around his ankles and he’s thrusting up into a closed fist, breathy moans resounding from where he’s got his face hidden in…?
It’s… well, he sees its fabric of some kind, and considers that Potter might be trying to muffle himself. But then, then he hears him give a deep sniff, and a moan so loud is spilling out of his open mouth, and he can’t be trying to keep himself quiet if that’s how he sounds and-
“Potter?!”
The name wheezes out of him as if he’s been punched. Potter hears it, his body goes instantly rigid, and though he wishes he could, Tom can’t for the life of him make out the expression he’s got on his face, hidden behind the fabric he’s still got shoved halfway in his mouth as it is.
He had forgotten his wand. A tool that, above anything else, was essential to the study of magic. He had waved off his yearmate's concerns, feigning an excuse of a missing textbook as opposed to letting it be known that he had slipped up so significantly, as to ever allow his wand of all things out of his sights.
(When most offered their own books up as replacements, Tom had felt slightly appeased. Mostly annoyed though; he hadn’t been able to come up with a good reason for refusing their offers.)
He’d thought he’d known where he’d left it; likely in the pocket of the trousers he’d so carelessly shucked off earlier. His eyes had been trained on the hamper when he’d entered the room.
At first, he’d simply been surprised to see it closed; he thought he’d left the top open before leaving. Then a different kind of surprise had overtaken him when he’d turned to the bed.
Tom’s scandalized gaze flits to whatever Potter’s got halfway in his mouth, as opposed to where it’d been trained on his exposed crotch, and for a moment he simply feels the faintest hints of recognition before Potter's ripped the garment away from his bright red face.
It's when he does that it gives off the faintest sheen of scales, a pattern so familiar, so unique, and Tom suddenly knows.
Achingly slow, he drags his gaze from where it’s settled on the briefs that he’d been wearing only… What, half an hour ago? And where they now sit, clutched in Harry Potter's hands, to meet his mortified, green eyes.
“This isn’t… I wasn’t-”
“...But you were, weren’t you?”
There's a shaky grin forming on his face. He thinks it might look mean when Potter sees it and glances away. He doesn’t speak, just shifts in his embarrassment.
“Those… are mine. You’re in my bed. Tell me, what were you doing?”
He’s stepping closer to where Potter's sat.
He's practically squirming now, eyes fixed down to where he’s got his hands clenched into fists atop his thighs. The fabric he had been using as a kind of gag, now being used as a cover for the exposed flesh of his crotch.
Tom wants to rip it away and tells himself the only reason he does is because it’s his own briefs, his possessions. That he simply wants his property free from where Potter’s got it in his clutches.
“I was… I-I…”
“Go on.”
Potter's eyes suddenly shoot up, he looks surprised at how close Tom has gotten since he last looked. Tom takes one step closer, his knees bump against the mattress of the bed.
“I… Look, I didn’t mean-”
“For me to find out?”
Potter’s face is twisting, he’s getting desperate for some kind of out. Tom’s not so inclined as to give it to him.
“...Is this even the first time you’ve done this? How long?”
He’d said it more to embarrass Potter than anything, see the shame flood his features as he cried out that this was the first time he’d ever touched himself while mouthing on his rival's underwear, see the flush that would stain his cheeks pink as he struggled to contain his humiliation.
When he starts, looks away, and says nothing at all, Tom knows he’s struck gold.
It starts small, but soon enough, he’s full blown laughing. Potter’s face has turned the most delicious shade of red, and he can see tears welling up in his eyes, he’s so embarrassed.
The bed dips and creaks when he climbs onto it, Potter’s eyes shoot up and go wide as saucers, and suddenly he’s on top of him.
He looks good like this, with his green eyes blown wide, shirt half unbuttoned and pants caught around his ankles. When he reaches his hand down to his crotch, he can feel the bulge already forming from where he’s got Tom’s underwear pressed to it, the fabric he’d been getting off on now being used to hide himself.
Tom won’t have any of that. He tears his briefs away, and oh…
Slowly, without moving his eyes from where he’s got them fixed between Potter's legs, he raises his hand. The one that he’s got the briefs clutched in.
Pressing it against his face, he lets his eyes fall shut as he inhales. There’s something wet smeared against the front of them, he feels it pressed against his lips, right where they’d been pressed against Potter moments before. After a moment, he opens his mouth and begins tonguing at them the same way he’d seen Potter doing when he’d walked in.
“W-wait, you can’t-! this isn’t-”
Potter’s yet to form a coherent sentence, he realizes. There’s a wet kind of sound when he starts sucking on the fabric, and beneath him, he notices as Potter begins to shake.
“You… you…”
“Hm? Now there’s no need to be embarrassed, right?”
He pulls the briefs away, and a string of saliva connects his tongue to the crotch, which is damp and shiny with a mix of spit and precum.
Then, without a second thought, he’s tossed them over his shoulders and climbed onto Harry’s.
—--
Tom Riddle is sitting on top of him. Harry’s face, which had been pressed into the simple fabric of his used underwear moments before, is now smushed against the underwear still on his body.
He can feel him. Hot, and hard against his lips through the fabric of the old boxers he’s wearing.
And if he’d thought the scent before was overwhelming… Gods, now…
It was so much. It was too much. His eyes were rolling back in his head, and for a moment he was so, so grateful he no longer had himself gripped in his hand because he knew any kind of contact would be enough to send him toppling over the edge with how desperately turned on he is-
But then Riddle presses down on his face. And as the seconds tick by, he doesn’t pull up.
Harry can’t breathe, simply sucks in the fabric of his boxers when he opens his mouth to try. His airways are full of Riddle’s masculine, musky scent and fuck, it is too much-
Untouched, save for what he’d done to himself before Riddle walked through the door, Harry comes.
Above him, Riddle pulls off just enough to give Harry some air, and as he pants desperately against his crotch…
Fuck him, he hears Riddle start to laugh.
—-
There's something amazing about the way Potter’s body starts stuttering beneath him the second he’s got his full weight on his face.
And at first, he thinks it's discomfort, doesn’t really care if it might be, because he can feel each groove, each dip and bump of the face pressed tight against him, and fuck, if it doesn’t feel good.
But then he shifts, gets himself even closer, and…
Potter's hips lift practically a foot off the bed. He can feel his mouth working, desperate to pull in some air against unyielding fabric and flesh, and his whole body is trembling as if he’s just been electrified.
Then he’s collapsing back into the mattress. Tom lifts off him, not enough for it to be taken as a kindness, but enough to let him get some air. He’s left biting his lip as damp puffs of breath fan against his crotch.
It’s not enough to keep the chuckle building in his chest from spilling out of him.
He’s… fuck, he was just trying to find his wand. Look at him now.
Beneath him, Potter’s body goes rigid.
And he must think Tom is laughing at him. The thought, well, there’s no need for that kind of reaction, even if I had been, crosses him, but he does not voice it. Just lifts entirely off Potter and looks down at him, where he’s got his beet-red face caged between Tom’s knees.
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of the second pair of boxers he’s worn that evening and is pulling them down before Potter can speak. The fabric slides off, pools atop Potter's flushed neck and chest.
He stops, considers the view.
Potters got his half-lidded eyes caught on Tom’s prick, which is standing practically vertically in front of him.
Then he opens his mouth, just the slightest bit. Tom doesn’t know if it’s to say something, take a breath, or simply gape in awe.
And he wouldn’t know. He’s plunging himself into Potter’s open mouth before he gets the chance to do much more than that.
There's a stutter to Potter’s breathing the second he’s slid past his lips, but he soon falls into a rhythm as if he were born to suck a man's cock.
And Tom… Well, he thinks this may actually be going too well. Especially when Potter tilts his head a little, and the shift in position makes it so Tom drags against the soft flesh of his cheek before plunging deep into his throat and oh- oh Merlin-
He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the moan he can’t quite keep contained within himself, but there’s nothing he can do to hide the fact that Potter’s made him come in less than 20 seconds when the evidence of his orgasm is spilling down the man's throat.
“Fuck, that w-wasn’t-”
He's stuttering out an excuse, he, Tom Riddle, embarrassed, and flinching away. Trying to, really. He makes it barely further than a centimeter before Potter moans out in protest, shifting his head forward and plunging Tom deeper down his throat, forcing him to spill every last bit of himself into his greedy mouth with vigor.
And after what feels like an eternity of, quite possibly, the most intense orgasm of his life, Tom’s hips stutter to a halt. From where he’s got his mouth wrapped around his cock, Harry’s letting out these breathy little half moans, staring up at Tom in a way that almost makes his knees buckle because without speaking a word, he’s practically begging him for more.
And Tom…
Well. How could he not oblige?
—--
“...It’s been over an hour, do you think we should send someone down there to help him find it?”
“Are you mad? Even implying that he’d need some kind of help is suicide, if he needed any of us, we’d know.”
And sure enough, Tom’s rounding the corner just as those words have finished spilling from Draco’s mouth. The Slytherin king looks pleased, oddly so, for one who just supposedly spent an hour looking for his textbook, but he’s sitting down and gracefully flipping to the middle sections of his Defense book before Draco can say anything.
Some of the members of their study group shoot each other choice looks, but no one dares ask. If Riddle didn’t see fit to involve them in his business, they’d simply have to be content with not knowing.
But… Dammit, he’s curious!
“...Where’d you end up finding it, my Lord? Was it somewhere out of place?”
No one turns to look at them, but at the question, there's a noticeable lilt in the volume. Riddle glances up at him, and Draco flinches when he’s met with… not displeased eyes?
“No, no. Everything I needed was right on my bed.”
He smiles, then turns back to his book.
The volume rises to what it once was, and slightly unsatisfied, Draco turns away.
Because if it had been right there on his bed, why on earth had he been more than an hour?
—--
From underneath his invisibility cloak, Harry twitches and writhes on Tom’s bed.
He’d tossed it over him before leaving, called it ‘insurance.’ Then he’d stuck some kind of… rod inside of him, and it’s vibrating and growing and prodding around inside of Harry in a way that is decidedly magical, and is also just weak enough that it’s making him want to cry.
Because with his arms and legs bound as they are, he has no way to jerk himself off.
Which means, until Tom gets back from his study session, Harry can’t come.
He whines, clenches around the thing, and turns onto his stomach. The cool press of Tom’s silk sheets against his throbbing dick is a relief for barely a second before the hot, painful flush is overtaking him again, and he’s sobbing.
The sound, however, is muffled to practically nothing. The underwear that had been shoved into his mouth as a gag sees to that.
He can’t grind himself against anything, can’t stroke it with his hand, can’t do anything but sit there and think about how hard Tom’s promised to fuck him when he gets back… how hard he did fuck him before leaving.
He shudders, feels some of the cum trapped inside him ooze out when the rod shrinks itself to be just smaller than his hole, then expands-
His breath catches, and another sob racks out of him as his overstimulated body shakes.
Then the door’s swinging open. He whines against his gag, looks to it, desperate for Tom to be back from the library, desperate for some kind of release…
And Tom’s there alright.
But he’s brought the rest of their dorm-mates back with him.
—--
“...What was that just now?”
Draco’s the second person to enter. For a moment he thought he’d heard… crying? But as he surveys the room, he finds it to be empty. Even Potter’s bed is without an occupant, even though… He’d been certain he’d seen the curtains tightly shut, a sign that Potter had fallen asleep, before they’d left to go study.
“Hm? I heard nothing. Perhaps you're tired, Draco. We did push it a bit late tonight.”
The smooth reply comes from ahead of him. Riddle had entered the dorms first, and was pausing to throw his sweater into a hamper before climbing into bed. He reached out, grasped at thin air in a peculiar manner, then settled back with a sigh.
Draco cocks an eyebrow at him, then rolls his eyes and turns away with a huff.
“No thanks to you, and your little disappearing act for an hour. We didn’t even get started until 10 because of that, seriously, what even took you so long?”
Draco’s always been a little mouthy, but his own boldness surprises him. He hadn’t meant to sound so antagonistic, maybe he was tired.
It doesn’t seem to bother Tom, though. Hell, for a moment Draco wonders if he’s even heard him, when his eyes go unfocused and he hisses something under his breath.
But then he turns to Draco and tilts his head.
He smirks, then speaks.
“Something… rather important stole my attention. I assure you, it was a necessary break. Quite the enjoyable one too.”
With that, and with a flick of his wrist, the curtains of his bed are drawing tightly shut, all noise cutting off behind him as he does so.
After a moment, Draco shakes his head.
Whatever. It was late, and he honestly didn’t have the energy to decode his terrifyingly powerful roommate's cryptic comments.
—-
No. No nono no.
They’re all back. They’re all back.
He struggles against his bindings, then stills when he recognizes just how much noise that produces.
And for a moment Harry thinks, this is it. This is where he comes up, rips the cloak off me, and they all have a big laugh over ‘Fairy’ Potter, the pansy who got caught tonguing ‘the Kings’ bloody undergarments like a fucking lolly-
Then Tom does come up to him. He’s walking straight for his bed, everyone’s behind him, and Harry wants to die-
But… but Tom’s settling into bed beside him, sweeping his arm out and, when it makes contact with Harry’s, he loops them together and drags Harry against him.
He’s still nude, with a pair of boxers shoved in his mouth and a constantly shape-shifting dildo lodged deep in his ass, and he’s fallen practically into Tom’s lap as he’d been pulled over.
Draco’s looking at them… looking at Tom really.
And he’s whining about something or other, in that annoying nasally voice of his, and when the rod inside him pulses, Harry can only think to grind himself down on Tom, offer him some form of sign that he’d been waiting-
He feels Tom swelling beneath him, and shivers when a hissed whisper of, “good, good,” comes at his actions.
Then, he’s saying something to Draco, the curtains surrounding his bed are drawing shut and the cloak is being ripped off of him.
Tom is already panting. There’s something wild about the way he’s looking down at Harry, whose lifting his legs to wrap trembling thighs around his hips, drawing him close and tight and so fucking good-
He uses one hand to drop his pants, pushing the thumb and pointer finger of the other into Harry’s ass, brushing against the base of the rod that, at his touch, shrinks to about the size of a toothpick. Pinching it between his fingers, he pulls it out.
Harry gasps, hole fluttering at the odd sensation, of both the rapid size change and the feeling of the now thin rod dragging against him. Then, there’s a needy kind of sound spilling out of him before he can help himself, because he’s suddenly so empty.
But then Tom tosses the rod, now stick, away and he’s slotting himself up against Harry and- and the head of his cock is popping past the tight ring of muscles and burying deep inside-
“Thought about getting to do this the entire time I was gone,” he whispers.
“The thought of you, naked in my bed, with that thing fucking you open all the while…”
He shudders and pushes in further. Harry feels globs of old cum slipping out of his ass, all the fluid Tom had left inside of him earlier getting fucked out as he prepared to be filled anew.
“You know I made it thinking of you? Yeah, weeks ago when you got the house elves to put a hair-colour changing potion in my pumpkin juice, it was red for fucking days-”
He’s cut off when Harry hums out a cracked moan, just loud enough past the muffle of the gag in his mouth for him to hear. Sometime as he’d been speaking, his quick paced fucking had lulled, and Harry had noticed.
Tom huffs out a pleased laugh, Harry feels him grow inside of him.
And he starts fucking him twice as hard.
“I- was- nng,” he gets out between gritted teeth, “I made it so thin so you wouldn’t- notice I’d put it inside you, then during, class-”
He has to slow his pace then, Harry begins to cry.
He leans down to kiss his tears away, continuing at an easy pace, even as the body beneath him strains against him for more.
“During class some time, I planned to just… activate it.”
He shivers, reaches up a hand to finally tear the wadded up briefs out of Harry’s mouth.
He leans in, kisses him. Then pulls back to pant against his mouth as he gives a hard roll to his hips.
“What would you have done, when out of nowhere you felt yourself getting spread open? Would you be able to contain yourself, bite down any kinds of noises, and make it through? Would you reveal yourself instantly, would I get to see your shame at our peers, our professor, seeing you like that? ”
He’s speeding up again. Yes, yes, the words are spilling past Harry’s lips, his eyes are crossing.
“No matter what, I’d know, the entire time. It’d be,” he grunts, slamming himself into Harry, “practically as if I were fucking you, right there in front of everyone.”
Harry moans, fat tears slipping out of his tightly shut lids, in a perfect mixture of bone-crushing mortification and an all-encompassing, mind-numbing need for the man atop him.
And more, moan after moan, is drawn out of him as he is all but pounded into the mattress beneath him. He doesn’t know how long he lasts, if he lasts long at all, before Tom’s got his thighs in his hands, pressing his legs in an uncomfortable stretch to reach as far above his head as they’re able, and he’s pounding into his prostate.
All he knows is that he comes to, with lots of something warm and wet deep in his ass, the word Tom spilling from his lips like a prayer, and with the man himself pressing his face against his neck.
He feels the press of lips to the skin there, leans a bit into it, and then he’s being gathered up in arms larger than his own, pressed tight against the curves of Tom’s body.
They're still, comfortable, for longer than a moment. Harry’s about to fall asleep when the question has him shooting rapidly back into consciousness.
“...you never said earlier, how many times had you…?”
Tom trails off, and he doesn’t need to finish for Harry to guess what he’s asking.
With a burning face, he turns away from Tom. Behind him, the man presses flush to the back of him and peppers a few kisses down his nape.
“Harry…”
His face heats up. He buries it in his hands.
He doesn’t want to tell him.
It was… it was embarrassing.
“Harry.”
He’s still.
Then, he blows out a sigh.
“...5.”
For a moment, there's no response. He almost starts thinking there won’t be when he feels the faint tremors coming from the body behind him.
“What are you-? Are you laughing?”
He is. Fuck him, he is. Harry’s turned back to face Tom, and the bastard’s laughing at him.
“Sorry, just- you’ve done this 5 times? And I haven’t caught you?”
Harry, who for the life of him can’t figure out how, somehow blushes harder.
“You… technically did, the third time, but I think you just assumed they were mine, and I was checking if they were dirty or something-”
Riddle’s laughing again, even harder. Harry hits him with a pillow.
Then, when he’s cooled off a little, he turns to Harry with a filthy smirk.
“...You know, if you ever feel like trying for 6, I’d be open to letting you-”
“Shut the fuck up-”
—
END