Pairing: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
Theme: Five Stages of Grief - No. 3 Anger
Notes: I haven't been online -at all- for the last four days. I've had sad messages from my friends, who think I've left them forever, and also, haven't been able to write any of my drabbles. They're all going to be late - but I'm doing them -right now-. So you'll see them all in the next couple of hours. I am SO sorry that they're late. I hope it's okay...
When Riddle tells Harry what he plans to do to him, the boy naturally rebels. He fights the bonds and throws looks of desperation at the castle walls as he shouts his denial. Where is Dumbledore, his omniscient saviour? Why isn’t he here to save him? Surely…surely this can’t go on in his castle.
But Riddle knows more about the castle than even the both of them put together. This place is his playground; and with all that cleverness, he knows all its secrets. This room might as well be the Chamber of Secrets, for all the likeliness of being found here.
He screams for help, and when it doesn’t come he gets even angrier; and Riddle just stands back and listens, enjoying the show. Finally, Harry is exhausted from battling his restraints, from yelling for help that will never come. His eyes have lost their energetic glow, and he only yanks at the chains once as his greatest enemy climbs onto the bed over him and caresses his body with vile possession in his gestures. Tom flicks his tongue out to taste the sweat on his neck – he’s like a constrictor appraising his catch before he devours it.
Riddle shrugs off his robes, letting them slide down and rest distractingly over Harry’s feet. He can feel them even more surely than he can feel the firmer touches; that is, until a hot arousal brushes against his own limp member, and it’s like being stabbed in the groin with a poker. He has no choice: he gasps despite himself, and tries again to summon an angry glare; one that doesn’t come, because he can’t look menacing debauched as he is. He even tries to speak, but his mouth his dry, and his tongue has turned to lead.
Tom continues to caress him. He spends the larger part of an hour just touching Harry. Even in his burning hatred, there is nothing to stop even the most determined person from becoming aroused in these conditions. And being touched like that, by this person, and liking it…? He’d rather be fighting the Hungarian Horntail again.
He tries his hardest to be angry. He tries so hard, and sometimes he succeeds in spitting out a hated word; but Tom Riddle is careful, he prepares Harry so well that when he enters him, the boy lets out a breathless moan. Harry pants and wriggles, and he begs – but even though it sounds like begging for more, he is really saying ‘stop, please stop – oh please stop, Tom – stop, Master…’ And when they come together, the pleasure searing the both of them and turning their skin into living third-degree burns; he is still full of hatred; only now the anger has died, and he begins to sob instead.