Stand Against the Moon // Tomarry

Chapter 13: Twelve - No Regrets

Harry bit back a whimper as he slammed into the wall, face-first. Riddle came to stand behind him, pressing in close and hot, and breathed into his ear, "If I didn't know any better, Sol, I'd think you were avoiding me."

Harry closed his eyes, because he totally was, but he wasn't about to admit to it, so he scoffed and pushed against the wall just enough to suggest that he'd like to move away now. "Don't be ridiculous. You're the one who said you didn't want to touch the schools and then focussed all your attention on the British Ministry. Just because you are stuck in one country–" He fell silent with a gasp as both of their clothing vanished, Riddle's cock coming up to nestle against the crack of his arse. "Cheat," he complained.

"I don't like your excuses," Riddle informed him. "As you pointed out to me, we possess apparation, and you have your mad little doorways; distance is hardly a factor, and time zones are a minor hurdle." A hand slid around in front of him, long fingers wrapping around his cock in a way that had become all too familiar in the past month.

"Tom," Harry heard himself whisper, more plea than demand. He didn't want to talk about his avoidance, hadn't meant to even see Riddle today, except the bastard had to go and hunt him down. And slam him into a wall. And–

Riddle's free hand pushed Harry towards the left slightly, then raised his right leg, the arm curling around to his front helping to brace Harry against the shift in balance. "Hold that," he ordered.

"You're trying to kill me," Harry complained even as he extracted his claws from the wall – he'd have to remember to repair it before he checked out of the hotel – and caught his leg under the knee.

"If I was trying to kill you, my Sol, you wouldn't be naked," Riddle pointed out just before two fingers pressed into Harry. More sudden than he was used to, after almost a week of absence, but he welcomed the burn.

"I'm not sure I believe you about that," Harry managed to get out before Riddle pressed hard against his prostate and Harry's body decided to prove how near the end of his rope he was by climaxing.

Riddle chuckled in his ear, warm and low, and his fingers withdrew. "At least I know you haven't been testing your minions for possible mates while you've been away," he murmured.

Harry grimaced. "Bastard."

He didn't say, 'How could anyone replace you?' or 'Not all of us can so easily pretend our heart isn't involved in our dalliances', though he could have. And if he wasn't watching the hangman's noose approach his lover's neck, his own hand destined to drop the floor beneath him, he might well have, because he didn't believe in hiding the extent of his affection for another.

Riddle entered him, too rough, and yet entirely perfect, groaning into Harry's ear and helping to support Harry's leg, fingers lacing carefully between Harry's quasi-claws. (He really needed to get a handle on that particular reaction to sex.)

Their laced fingers was the only sign of gentleness, as Riddle pounded into him hard and fast, trusting in Harry's natural durability and improved healing to keep him in one piece no matter how rough Riddle got. And Harry, trapped with a noose in one hand and an axe in the other, pressed back against his lover, needing the abuse, the burn of pain up his spine.

Dumbledore had been right, in that other reality: There are worse things than Death.

-0-

"Was that a goodbye fuck?" a voice asked snidely as soon as Voldemort snuck back into his London flat. Smack-dab in the middle of muggle London, because no one would be stupid enough to look for him there. Except for Potter, probably, and his most terrifying servant.