Lust (Tastes A Little Like Madness)
Words: 8,990
Pairing: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
Beta: None.
Warnings: Sex, faery!Harry, otherwise a muggle!AU. Possible mind-control or drugging, if you see it like that, or just the magical seducing abilities of faeries.
Silent as he could, Tom stepped his way through the dense forest. It was quiet around him, the birds ceasing their lonely song and small animals hiding away in their burrows as he passed, the sky growing ever darker above him with the oncoming night. Out here where the trees were denser it was pitch black, the canopy of trees blocking out even the bright white light of the moon, or the barest glimpse of the stars.
It was foolish of him to come out here, especially so alone, and it was uncharacteristic of him to do something so foolhardy, but something - and he didn't know what - had drawn Tom here, the pull growing stronger every night as his resistance grew more and more feeble. It was a strange beckoning, the source tugging not at his heart or mind or body, but instead at something deep inside him, something fundamentally the centre of his being. His soul, perhaps, he told himself. It would make sense, but what did it matter really? Whether it pulled at his body or soul, the pull only ever grew stronger, increasing in intensity until Tom could no longer feasibly resist.
He, Tom Riddle, was helpless.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he told himself it was his choice to be here. After all, a call that pulled on his very being like this could not have been ordinary, could only be some fantastical, magical thing. And to encounter such a phenomenon here, so near to a mind-numbingly ordinary town as he lived in, was unexpected to say the least. Little Hangleton did not seem like the place strange things happened, but the hovel where self-important, ugly folk bred and spread like rats, taking their privileged, weak minds and sharing their ordinariness like a vicious disease. Though Tom suspected now that he was not as near to home anymore as he imagined. A strange impulse crept up Tom's nape, and for a split second, there was utter stillness. He didn't dare breathe, freezing where he stood mid-step, and then the barest whisper passed by Tom's ear.
He turned suddenly, his knife sliding into his hand, the movement as smooth as clockwork in a way that belied his extensive experience with the weapon, but too late - there was nothing to be seen. He swallowed, his every breath seeming abnormally loud in the frozen forest, but try as he could he could not get it to slow. He closed his eyes, told himself to focus - 1, 2, 1, 2 - and brought his breath and racing heart back under his strict control. He was strong, powerful. He would not let himself fall to fear of the unknown – he was cleverer than that. Slowly, he let his tense fingers relax, easing his grip on the hilt of his knife when-
There! The barest slip of a shade, rushing past his shoulder and out of his sight before he could blink. He turned swiftly in the direction it had gone and ran after it, all hesitation or inhibition disappearing as the need to catch whatever creature it was overcame his senses. He ran, lungs and legs burning with exertion but never slowing as he caught sight of the shadow, dancing around trees like they weren't even there. He could not see more, but as he ran it grew lighter and lighter – almost like sunrise from behind the thinning canopy - and Tom could swear he saw glowing green eyes staring right at him.
Before Tom knew, it seemed like the blanket of trees above him opened up, letting the moon's soft gaze fall onto him, and Tom saw the figure he'd been chasing for the first time. He was beautiful in ways that were clearly inhuman. His skin glowed silver with the moon, as if it were made of that very light, and his lips bled the red of dying prey. He was delicate in his build, and yet Tom knew instinctively that he was stronger than any human imaginable. He stayed perpetually ahead of Tom no matter how fast he ran, and the creature's laughter tinkled in the trees like the most delicate silver bells. The trees rustled along, and Tom thought it sounded like they too laughed in joy with the unknown figure.
The boy danced ahead of him, petal-soft skin and long hair the colour of the darkest obsidian winding it's way around trees with an ease and grace Tom could only envy. He turned about corners on dancer's feet, light as a dream, and Tom wanted so badly to touch him that it rose in him like a physical thirst, the pain blooming harsh and vicious in his throat. He ran for so long it seemed like the entire night had passed in his futile chase, ran until his legs were no longer capable and his lack of breath made black circles in his vision, and still he never caught up to the elusive figure of the boy running from him.
He woke up to the glaring light of the morning sun in his eyes. He groaned, sitting up and shading his eyes as he blinked the sleep away lazily, and found himself in the grass at his manor's backdoor at the crack of dawn. Eyes widening, he rose swiftly - stumbling briefly in his haste - and made his way back to his rooms, trying to avoid all the waking servants. If any of them had found him...
He had to work hard enough to gain the respect of the servants and nobles around here - being the bastard son to a man who claimed his mother had been a witch did not constitute well to the public's favour, but Tom did it. He was intelligent, handsome, and charismatic so it was no surprise when he rose quickly in public regard. He certainly did not need his strange night-time wanderings to cast a shadow on all that work.
And yet, as Tom changed into a soft blue nightshirt and climbed into bed, he realised that the actual reason was that he just didn't want anyone to know why he'd been out. It was his secret, his boy, and he could not risk a possible intervention.
The scent of honeysuckle followed him fast into his dreams.
The next time he yielded to the urge was only a few days later, but not for lack of trying. The craving started off the very morning he woke up in grass, and despite Tom's best attempts only grew stronger as the nights passed. He spent his evenings staring at the moon from behind the glass of his window, clutching hard at his arms in a futile attempt to keep himself still where he was.
He didn't sleep - couldn't, for his mind was filled with the heavy sent of honeysuckle and gleaming green eyes under a silver moon and dancing until his feet grew so sore he could barely move without falling. Some of the events he dreamed had never actually happened in his memory, and yet there the images were, just as vibrant as the memories he knew to be real and keeping him effortlessly from falling into blissful oblivion.
His father had started to notice his distraction, the dark shadows that grew under his eyes, his lack of appetite. He had already subjected Tom to his entitled sneering, his whispers of pathetic, weak, unworthy and the glint in his eyes that told Tom to get himself back under control, or so help him God.
But Tom wasn't under control, did not own his own mind any more so much as that mysterious figure now did, and it was infuriating. All of his ambition seemed suddenly pointless, pale and grey in comparison to the glamorous visions that haunted him. And so, a few nights after his initial excursion into the woods, Tom gave into the urge once more and crept out of the house to search out his boy.
He found him almost immediately, sitting by a small stream Tom hadn't even known was there. The water was silver and clear as a mirror under the cloudless sky, and the figure looked more like an apparition than anything solid. He sat on a large rock at the shore, brushing slender fingers through the ink of his hair and curling bright red and white flowers into it.
As Tom neared, the blossoms seemed not dead but alive, as if they were seeking life straight from the hair itself and growing with it, into it. The boy did not look up, so Tom took another step closer, and another, until he was at the edge of the trees and the shadows that cloaked him.
He stood there a long while, staring as if bewitched at the smooth white skin, the bright red lips, the way the shape of his face curled into shadow where it was tilted down. He noticed the little tip of an ear poke through pitch black hair, pointed instead of rounded the way Tom's were, and he thought suddenly that this must be one of the fabled little folk.
A faery.
He took another step, into the light, and the faery stood suddenly, his hands falling away from his hair. He wore something that vaguely resembled a robe, made of a material that might have been silk, but that he was sure he'd never seen before. He stood straight but was surprisingly small - short enough to only reach what Tom reckoned to be the middle of his chest.
He took another step closer, and closer, quiet and slow as if approaching a wild animal until he stood just a step away, and all Tom had to do was lunge forward and grasp him. He seemed confused, tilting his head as if he'd never seen a person look at him the way Tom did, as if he didn't know what Tom craved. He was almost vibrating with energy and wild magic, as if he could just now decide to run and be across the glade in less time than it took for Tom to blink.
He leapt forward suddenly, catching the being by surprise and wrapping his arms tight around the slim body. The faery struggled, delicate and desperate as a trapped butterfly, but just as a butterfly he was helpless to escape from Tom's firm grasp. His eyes were wide and incredibly green, like the meadows in spring, and he stilled suddenly in Tom's arms as they refused to loosen.
They stared at each other, silent, for a lengthy while. Tom wanted to touch him all over, to kiss him and keep him, but he was afraid that if he let go or loosened his hold for even a second, that his faery would manage to escape him. So instead, he watched as the boy cocked his head and slid a slim hand up, trailing slowly up his side and his chest until fingers were brushing his bare neck and jaw. His red lips were parted, and as Tom watched - utterly transfixed - the tip of his pink tongue poked out just the slightest bit. It was a small, innocent gesture made in the most absentminded of ways, and yet Tom couldn't help the reaction his body had to it. His little fae boy was just so utterly beautiful, so unknowingly seductive, that he could not stump the arousal that heated his blood.
He ducked his head and ran his nose up the smooth skin of his neck, taking in the strong scent of honeysuckle and hibiscus. He smelled delicious, and Tom couldn't help but peek out the tip of his tongue, running it ever so delicately up the skin just to taste the sweetness of it. And as his erection hardened, it settled against the body clutched so tightly in his arms as was inevitable, rising until there was a very prominent, obvious weight pushing against a scarcely covered, shapely leg.
The boy froze, utterly still the way a deer tenses when it senses danger, but does not yet know from where the predator will pounce. He raised his eyes slowly from where his fingers had been toying gently with Tom's ear, and looked him straight in his eyes. He didn't blink, and as Tom watched, his pupils seemed to grow and grow until his eyes seemed almost completely black, and when Tom looked down at his lips and hands and body again, he seemed more alike to the predator than the prey.
Suddenly, his little touches were the enchantments of a seducer, badly veiled in their attempts to feign innocence. His body seemed open now, inviting and sinful, although objectively nothing changed. But Tom was caught in his yearning, his mind dazed with the taste of the boy's skin and the crisp scent of hibiscus, and had no clarity of mind to consider that he was being effortlessly bewitched, put under a spell of carnal need. He could only slide a hand down the smooth back beneath his palm, only a thin cloth between Tom's skin and his faery's, until it rested in the small of his back.
And even then, as it rested on the swell of a round bottom, he could not control the need to slip even lower down, so slowly that it seemed he must be afraid of being stopped if he went too fast. His faery's sweet hands framed his face now, fingers perfectly curled around the edge of his jaw as his mind went blurry, and he lowered his mouth to the lips below him. He held onto the faery's behind now, two hands cupping its round shape like they were meant for them, but just as he reached to touch his lips to the boy's, they disappeared.
He looked up belatedly, cold air hitting his heated body like ice, and saw the figure of his fantasies standing at the edge of the trees. His flushed cheeks cooled at the distance, but the desire between his legs still hung heavy and heated his desperation furiously. He took a step, mouth open to call out, and stretched his hand out as he took another. And yet - before he could say anything - the boy was gone, leaving nothing behind but the fire in Tom's veins and the ghostly sensation of a slim, perfect body pressed so tightly to his own.
He spent his nights thinking constantly about the fae boy, though perhaps 'thinking' was too weak a word for it. It was more that he relived it, all the time. His dreams became visions so real that he could swear to the wind blowing in his hair, the cloying scent of honeysuckle and hibiscus in his nose, and his days became a walking daydream. He was unable to focus, unable to concentrate on his father's heavy frown or his stepmother's ugly scowl, or even the thinly veiled disgust in the eyes of his acquaintances.
He should have cared. This was what he had built his life around, what he had pushed through the dirty dregs of society's lowest for. He has worked so hard to stand as an heir, an intelligent bachelor and a jealousy-inspiring figure despite his beginnings among the poor, forgotten orphans of Little Hangleton, and here he was throwing it all away. And yet, he couldn't care. The dark-haired, green-eyed figure haunted him, lived in the very heart that beat underneath his skin, and he craved the sensation of such absolute freedom like a man possessed. That absolute rapture, the lack of anything but his wildest wishes come to life was something he couldn't come back from, no matter how hard he tried.
And, in fact, why would he ever want to? His world seemed so dull, so grey and dead without the magic and vibrancy of that other place that it seemed utter stupidity to try and stay away. And so he tried, escaped to the dense trees whenever he could conceivably get away without detection, only to utterly fail every time. There was a part of him that was terrified that he'd scared the fae away, that he had moved onto some other place with some other hopelessly devoted man, and the thought burned him.
He refused to imagine the boy with anyone else, to think of some other pair of hands on his smooth skin or a foreign pair of lips kissing that perfect cupid's bow. He could not let himself think that way, lest he crumble from despair, or go wildly mad in his rage.
The next time he saw the fae boy was during another excursion into the woods. The moon was a perfectly round disk in the sky, and despite several foreboding, dark clouds it shone with more than enough light to see by. It had been weeks since he'd last seen the boy, but it had felt like an absolute eternity to his human mind. He felt almost lost, like a man desperately walking on through the wild in the vague hope of finding civilization, except that on this case he was walking away from society.
It was by absolute accident that he came across the gathering. He was so deep in the woods that he couldn't remember which direction home was in. A part of his mind told him this wasn't realistic - that this forest should not be so deep or dark. People lived here, hunted here, and it was not nearly so big as it seemed. And yet Tom wondered if he hadn't accidentally stumbled across an invisible boundary, and come across an entirely other world.
The first thing that registered was the music. It was distant, and so unclear with that distance, and yet still it sounded absolutely beautiful to Tom - like the music of heaven itself had bestowed itself upon Tom's mortal ears. And as he neared, the sound of faint bells and strings coalesced with another sound, a type of humming that sounded like no instrument that Tom recognised. It wasn't until he could see the vaguest shadows twisting among the trees that he realised the sound was singing.
He neared hesitantly, his eyes widening as he did. There was a whole circle of them, moving in shapes that felt wild and primal, the way a wolf was wild and primal. And as he watched the shapes move in the shadows, his breath caught at the familiarity of one.
Because he recognised the faery boy in the centre as the one who'd enthralled him so effortlessly, and he stood out even amongst his beautiful partners in his human-like, bright shape amongst shadowed companions. His figure was timeless and genderless in it's ethereal beauty as it curved and span, falling into himself as if he was withering and then circling outward as a blooming flower. He was a hummingbird, fast and exited and sudden, and then an extended arm curved at the wrist to reveal a swan, graceful in its poise.
He wanted to touch so badly that it ached everywhere, a live current running through the wires of his veins just under his skin so that it was a constant struggle not to let his feet lead him straight to where they were being pulled so incessantly. His boy was innocence, love and purity in his every action, and then he was sliding down an invisible body with hands gliding and lips parted, red and slick as his body undulated like a snake, smooth and sharp. Tom was inclined to do nothing more than to walk right into that circle, run his fingers through the wild hair and rest his cock on those cherry red lips. It was an obsession. He was well aware that he was helpless to it, that he was losing himself to this. But he just didn't care anymore.
He didn't know how long he watched, but though it felt like hours the night seemed no less young for it. All he knew was that, after a small eternity, the boy finally turned to look straight at him. He stiffened as if there was lightning running through his body, as if the boy had switched something on within him just by touching his gaze to Tom's.
His eyes were bright, luminescent green, and they didn't look sweet or seductive anymore, but dangerous. 'Unholy,' his mind whispered, and he shivered at the thought as the younger faery stalked its way towards him, his partners parting like water before him and never ceasing in their wild, feral dance.
Tom swallowed hard as he neared, the mix of fear and arousal burning his body like fire could not, but he stood still as the boy approached him. He walked with the grace of a predator, all smooth lines and hard, concealed muscle. He'd looked slim, almost dainty when Tom had first seen him, the danger of him hidden underneath a flawless skin of innocence and beauty. But now, in his element and among his kind, his true wildness shone through and Tom wondered how he'd ever convinced himself he could hold the faery against his will.
The faery had neared him now, was within touching distance. He smiled, and his mouth was full of small, sharp white teeth, made for ripping flesh to pieces. Made to rip prey to pieces. Tom knew somewhere deep down that being human didn't save him from those teeth, and though it terrified him to die like that he couldn't find it in himself to step away. And then there was a split second where those eyes softened and widened, and suddenly Tom was hit with the knowledge that he'd seen this boy before-
"Harry," he gasped, his mind flooding with the images of a sweet, kind boy who'd looked just like this - happy green eyes and coal-black hair and who'd loved him, loved him until he'd just disappeared one day and-
"I looked for you!" he cried out, feeling strangely frenzied. He didn't know if he was angry or excited or just desperate, but the fae boy just ran his delicate fingers up his chest like Tom was a sculpture, like Tom was perfect, and then he was holding Harry. The very next moment they were kissing, and Tom was heavy and desperate and he pushed forwards, like a weight lay in the cage of his ribs and pulled his weight down on top of the boy without his permission. Harry was sharp, the knives of his nails and teeth and knees pushing into him making Tom bite, almost involuntarily. The delicate skin broke like that of a grape, and in Tom's mouth his wound tasted like honey and smelt like broken petals, like the perfume of a rich, luscious garden torn to shreds and then he was falling-
His eyes widened, and for a minute he felt like he was going to fall and bruise, break into a million shattered pieces on the grounds like the delicate glass sculpture he felt like. The feeling of vertigo overwhelmed him for one brief moment and he clung to the frail body in his arms, but instead of hard ground there was softness like nothing he'd ever experienced before, like one might imagine clouds or angel's wings to feel like. The warm, sinuous body stretched over him, unwinding like a snake - both deadly and beautiful, majestic and bold in its danger.
Harry's eyes were dark jade, angry and lusty and Tom shivered at the promise in them, his mouth reaching up desperately as his hips slotted perfectly into the space between soft thighs, and he pushed up in a frenzy. He did it again and again, thrusting like a man gone wild, like a teenage boy discovering the pleasures of warm bodies for the very first time, until euphoria overcame him and he tensed still, his mouth opening in a soundless cry as he spilled himself.
He thought he'd blacked out for a second, his sight spotty with dark circles as he unclenched them and looked straight up into a green-gold canopy of sunlight and leaves. He felt boneless, exhausted after the madness of his longing, but even as he could not imagine moving, he twitched with the thirst to as the body of his partner rested over him. Harry mewled in satisfaction as he pressed into him, the sound oddly cat-like as he did. He pushed his hands almost as if by accident into Tom's chest and hips and groin whilst rearranging himself, but Tom knew better.
He growled, his mind going hazy again, but he was so tired, so lazy - he just needed to sleep a while with the beautiful, comfortable body of his lover slotted so intimately into his own, a sight to see beneath the golden sun.
"Just a while," he whispered, and his voice was hoarse as if he'd been screaming. Perhaps he had, but if so then he didn't remember anymore. "Stay with me," he said then. His eyes closed in a blink, and he found that he could not open them again, feeling as if there was something incredibly heavy pressing them down. There was a soft kiss on his half open mouth, and then he was gone into the warm embrace of sleep, in the arms of a faery boy he'd met once before.
He woke up alone, and couldn't prevent the pang of heavy disappointment in his chest at the realisation. A part of him wanted to go back to sleep straight away, back so sweet dreams where he wasn't alone, but his mind felt the clearest it had in a long while. For the first time he felt the urge to find out where he was, how he got here, and how Harry had become what he had. Because the boy at the orphanage hadn't looked anything like the sultry, inhuman figure that had seduced him last night, and yet he couldn't deny the brief shine in identical green eyes that told him all he needed to know.
He lay there for a while, just enjoying the fresh breeze and soft grass and gathering his thoughts, before he sat up. He was in the same glade, but it looked somehow vastly different. Or perhaps his memory, so distorted with the sensations of pleasure at the hands of his lover, seemed to paint the sky with more gold than was there, the grass softer than it really was, the flowers brighter. It didn't matter, he told himself, and rose up onto his feet. It took him a second, but he realised then that he wasn't wearing shoes anymore. His bare feet curled in the green blades of grass, and for a minute he looked around as if he was going to see the footwear perched a few yards away on a rock, waiting for him. But they were nowhere to be seen, and the grass was as soft as any carpet regardless, so Tom found he didn't particularly miss them.
As he thought, he began to walk. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in this world, but if he was completely honest with himself it didn't matter, as he wasn't planning on going back. No, even when clear of mind, he simply could not bear the thought of returning to his grey world with his bitter father and jealous step-mother. So it was decided that he would stay where he was. But the more important matter to consider was his Harry, who he had now met again in the most unlikely of places when he imagined him to be dead.
Tom had never been a sweet or social child, but even so Harry had managed to worm his way into Tom's good graces and make a home there, until Tom became so insanely protective and affectionate with him that it scared him. And the thing was, Harry was odd - more odd than even Tom, and he'd gotten teased somewhat fierce for it too. But Harry had never had a mean bone in his body, so unlike Tom - who the other children had learned to stay away from pretty quickly - he just bore it and let the bullying continue.
And Tom tried his best to keep him away from all of it. But he was a child himself, wasn't he? And so, when one day Harry just disappeared into thin air, he'd been so sure that the other children had taken it to far and hidden the frail, broken body somewhere in a shadowed corner away from decent eyes, but nobody else had cared enough to look. Tom had, of course he had, but then his father had found him, and Tom was off to richer pastures where he'd have to spend all his time thinking of his posture and his accent and subtle insults that you needed to return just as subtly, lest you become a joke amongst polite society.
And now here, he'd found the little boy who'd loved him so unconditionally, and he wasn't the same. Tom reckoned that he'd changed too, somewhat, but this was different. Tom had thought him dead this whole time, and all the while...
But underneath the upset exterior, Tom knew exactly what it was that frustrated him the most. Because he'd abandoned Harry, hadn't he? He'd let sleeping dogs lie and moved on because it was easier to forget, to hate himself for every caring about another person, to think of it as a rectified mistake. Underneath the anger, there was shame, hot and thick and threatening to choke him, and Tom didn't know what to do anymore.
He reached the end of the glade and saw, just hidden by the first line of trees, the boy who's presence weighed so heavily on his mind. He looked more human than Tom had seen him yet, but now that he knew what to look for Tom could see the small signs hinting at his otherworldly nature. The pointed ears, the sharper teeth, the slight upturn to the corners of his eyes. As he stood and stared a while, he wondered if those hints had always been there, hidden under the thick veil of Tom's ignorance, and Harry stared back just as silently.
He seemed sad, maybe a little heartbroken. He waited for Tom like a bird on the edge of flight, like a cat ready to pounce. He seemed afraid, Tom realised, and immediately softened. "Harry," he murmured. It was quiet, but still Tom was far enough away that Harry should not have heard or reacted. And yet the boy- faery, whatever he was - stiffened, his green eyes widening at the affection in Tom's eyes.
Because though the magic was still there, always an electric current under his skin, it was no longer clouding his mind. He could remember the orphanage, the manor, how much he'd demanded respect and power and hated the nobles that surrounded him, how much he'd loved - as much as he was able, at least - the only boy in the world who'd cared about him at all, and how he clearly hadn't loved him enough because he'd forgotten, moved on as soon as a man who looked just like him turned up in the doorstep with a strained smile and frigid eyes.
He stepped closer, and his heart hurt like someone had pierced it with an arrow, like he was dying but much too slowly, feeling the life drain away from him like water slipping from between fingers no matter how hard you tried to grasp at it. He wanted to turn his face away, the sight of Harry's pretty eyes reddening his face in shame and discomfort. How could he look at Harry and call his name when, as far as he knew, he'd left the boy broken and dying in some alleyway, perhaps watching and waiting for him, hoping for the bastard that never cared enough to come? But his gaze was demanding, and Tom could not look away from its power, could not deny him this.
"Harry," he said again, moving ever closer. They stood only a few feet away from one another now, close enough that Tom could see the slight downturn to the fae's lips, the darkening green of his eyes, the slight tension in his fingers. He saw all this, and wondered if Harry could still feel the betrayal, the pain of being forgotten, or if the years had worn it away. He wondered how Harry could stand to touch him then.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost like he was afraid of being hurt, afraid of the anger that Harry might display at the pathetic display of remorse. "I'm sorry," he said again, louder, but it didn't help. He lowered his eyes to Harry's lips and chest, mouth working soundlessly as he tried to find the right words, but then Harry was so close that Tom could smell the scent of him, morning dew and late night frost and midday rain, and the ever-present sweetness of honeysuckle underneath it all. His senses were overwhelmed with the significant presence so suddenly that he startled in response, jerking not backwards in surprise but forwards in barely contained hunger.
His faery boy smiled as if he knew exactly what Tom thought, and splayed a delicate hands on his bare shoulder, the fingers curving in the barest hint of possible claws. His touch was surprisingly warm, and Tom relaxed involuntarily at the gentleness of it. "This is a new start," Harry said then, and his voice was like nothing Tom remembered and everything like the most delicate of bells, like the passionate wild drum of a chasing heart and the powerful rush of a deadly river. It bought chills to Tom's spine and pleasure to his chest, even before he registered the words.
"Forget about the past," the faery told him, running soft fingers down the skin of his chest and to his already heavy erection. He looked down, surprised at his arousal, surprised at his inattentiveness to his own desire, and looked back up. He was surrounded by red and pink and orange, the tall clusters of blossoms rising suddenly around where they stood, crushed beneath their feet. 'Snapdragons', his mind told him. It was important, maybe, and he opened his mouth, but forgot why even as he did it. His mind was already cloudy with lust and his body burned as he tried to move, whether to break away or press himself closer, and all he could see was green, green, green.
That evening there was a change. It was almost unnoticeable at first - the slightest difference in the atmosphere, the deepening of an ever-present thrum in the air that told him to be on guard, to pause and scent the air like an animal. When the night finally fell the forest was pitch black, dead silent, and he hung on the edge like a man waiting for the guillotine to fall.
There were emotions in him that were foreign, or were they merely strengthened? The need to run, to hunt, to take what he wanted by force of necessary. Was this what man really was underneath the skin and lies - an animal? Once he'd have called this barbaric, savage, and yet he had never felt freer than he did now. He was at the edge of death and life, his body aching in expectance of pain and pleasure alike. He stood barefoot and barely clothed in the midst of dark trees, and yet now he could see, could hear the previously indescribable creeping of insects and small mammals.
Was this not power? A power different to what he'd once aspired to and worked for, but who cared for pretty words when he could do, when he knew that - if he so wished - he could rip the throats out of every single one of those pigs and never be stopped, never be caught? Wasn't this more precious then, more valuable than the constantly tainted regards of nobles, when he knew that decades could pass and they'd still be whispering of the bastard son that'd taken the titles because the wife could not concieve? He felt the energy in his muscles, ready to move at the vaguest thought with speed that - before - would have been blinding, and basked in the absolute euphoria of the knowledge that it was.
The moon hung full and pregnant tonight, her silver gaze illuminating everything as clouds lifted like a veil. His sight was cleared, and just for a second he saw them - the predators and the prey, waiting for the call of the wild. He saw, among the smooth, agile bodies of those they'd chase, Harry. The fae stood with his back to them, but his back was bare to Tom's eyes, and Tom would recognise him anywhere. He'd recognise that skin, the smooth glow of it, and the scent that he could catch on the faintest breeze even now.
Honeysuckle. Hibiscus. Snapdragon.
There was a brief turn, a bright green glance, and then Tom was left waiting, waiting and aching for the moment that-
They were off. He raced, his muscles pumping and limbs moving fast enough that he felt like was flying. His feet barely touched the soil under him, and though the sweated he could not feel the tiredness, the exhaustion from exertion he should have. He felt like he could run forever and never slow, always following the trail of the one he hunted - the scent, the small indents where perhaps Harry would have stepped, the fragile branch he might have snapped as he passed. The Hunt split, each of them going off to their own prey, and Tom stayed ahead of them all like a king before his people.
He followed his prey, his little fae boy like a wolf on a rabbit's trail, scenting and sensing even when his eyes did not see the fleeting shadow of the lithe body passing. There were trees and trees between the two of them, but they didn't matter. It might take him forever, but eventually he'd catch up to the faery, and Tom hardened almost instantly at the thoughts of what he'd do to Harry then. How he'd push him down into the soft soil and mount him just like that, how he'd touch and kiss and bite the soft white skin until it was red and purple, how he'd fuck him until his arse was wide open and leaking.
He growled, becoming desperate for Harry, and somewhere further away his love heard him and understood, and ran faster. Tom would catch him, would win and prove to Harry that he was worth it, that he was strong and fast and clever. He'd never leave again. They'd have to pry his dead body away from Harry.
He ran faster. His body moved to swerve around trees almost before he could think it, his reflexes so fast it felt like he must have been moving through water before. He followed a trail he could never have comprehended before, but may as well have been a glowing path leading right to his objective now. And indeed, there - his love moving around trees like they were his partners in a dance, his long black hair winding around them in soft caresses like it had so long ago, when Tom had first set eyes on him.
He'd been too human then, too weak, to live Harry. He wasn't anymore, and he would prove it. He'd catch Harry this time.
As he neared, he could almost hear Harry's heart thumping over his own, hear his breathing louder than the air in his own lungs. It wasn't so, really, but Tom was so attuned to Harry now that it may as well have been. Harry seemed frenzied, wild in his need to escape Tom's clutches, but he wouldn't. Not this time.
He turned, green eyes flashing, and slowed almost imperceptibly as he did, but it was enough. Tom leapt and tackled him around the waist, twisting so that Harry landed on his chest rather than the ground and then turning so fast his love barely blinked, trapping him beneath the bulk of his body.
His fae boy moaned, pushing his hips and chest up as he pretended to struggle. Tom laughed low and dark at the display, leaning down to push his nose into Harry's neck and scent there. He smelled like always - honeysuckle and hibiscus, and Tom almost involuntarily pushed his erection into Harry's thigh.
"You just need to ask, love," he groaned out, and then he was pushing the flimsy cloth up to Harry's armpits and thrusting inside, not pausing at all as he fitted viciously inside his beloved's body. Harry whined and pushed his legs further out, biting and scratching and kissing everywhere he could reach. He licked at Tom's mouth and pushed his feet into the small of Tom's back hard, urging him to go faster, to take him harder, to fuck him like the most primal part of his brain urged him to.
So Tom did, revelling in the slick slide of his erection into Harry's arse, aided by some sort of natural lubricant that made him want to push his tongue there later and taste. He snapped his hips up into Harry's as fast and hard as he could, losing himself in passion and the dizzying scent of Harry, and twisted the two pink nipples on the faery's chest until they were swollen and red and Harry was crying - actual tears dripping from his beautiful green eyes and down his temples in steady rivulets until they disappeared into the pitch black tresses of his hair.
Tom leant down and licked them up, and tasted sweet instead of salt - honey and sugar and cold water when one is incredibly thirsty, like the sweetest milk. His Harry was crying in pleasure, pleasure that Tom was giving him, pushing himself up into his body as if he was desperate for more, more, until they were both empty husks devoid of anything more to give.
He came to that thought. His body tensed and he shouted, pushing in hard as he emptied himself into Harry. Immediately, he unsheathed and dropped down to take his lover into his mouth, to lick and suck and swallow his swollen red erection as his fingers twisted inside the well-fucked hole until Harry too was crying out in orgasm, and Tom was swallowing everything he was given.
As they lay in their afterglow, Harry's soft black hair pooling on his chest, Tom leant down and kissed him lazily. "You're mine now," he whispered, his voice hoarse from all the shouting.
Harry gazed up at him, teeth sharp and the upward curve of his lips just as dangerous. "Or," he said softly, eyes glinting in secret pleasure, "is it you who belongs to me?"
'His voice still sounds like the most delicate bells,' Tom thought distantly, losing himself in those eyes. 'Like music.' He didn't know why it mattered.
Tom had never let himself become completely helpless, not since the first time. And it had been so long a time since he'd felt it, that complete vulnerability, that'd he'd forgotten the sensation of it. The feeling of being unable to fight back, of being helpless to obey, to agree despite what you thought and felt in the deepest parts of yourself.
And yet here he was, experiencing a seduction of the mind and body and the very soul, helpless to accept the wild emotion that burned through his body as he danced and laughed with beings from another world. He could not turn away from this fantasy, and why would he? What was there, in his dull, grey village of constant, mind-numbing politics and petty struggles compared to this wild world of everything. Why would he go back when he'd seen how much more there could be?
And there were the most delicious of foods here, foods he had never seen before, could not imagine in his wildest dreams - fruits that bloomed from flowers in the blink of an eye, wines and milk that changed from cold mint to a burning spice as his fancy changed from second to second, foods he didn't have a name for that burst across his tongue like small explosions of taste or changed into colours of a hue his eyes had previously been unfamiliar with. Colours not seen anywhere on earth, not by humans.
But was he still on earth now, and was he even human anymore?
There was sun on his back and the scent of fresh flowers in the air and music - music played by the faeries themselves, a spell all of its own, and everywhere they danced, a wild twisting of bodies that simultaneously reminded Tom of predators and their prey, of joy and sorrow and the sheer force of sensation, the physical pleasures and the way that his mind and heart could be chained without ever realising it, and was he chained? He could not tell, and perhaps that was the wildest thing of all.
Because there in the centre he danced, twisting around bare bodies as he had around trees the first time Tom set eyes on him, looking at him with those eyes that Tom had followed here, inhumanly beautiful in a million ways all at once. He was life and death and all in between, just as much a force of nature as a waterfall, or as gentle as the flap of a butterfly's wing.
Did he have Tom in the palm of his hand, wrapped around his impossibly elegant fingers? Why, the better question would be if Tom was here because he was enchanted, or because he'd let himself fall in love with a creature who did not abide by the same rules he did - and even then, what did it matter if Tom had come here forcefully spellbound or willingly? He was equally lost either way, and it made no difference in the end.
The fae were always dancing, always celebrating - and why wouldn't they, Tom asked himself? They had so much to celebrate, after all. And Tom, too, had so much to celebrate now, so much to dance for as he watched the figure of his dreams and nightmares alike twist before him, beckoning him ever closer. He followed the pull, unable and unwilling to even try to turn his mind elsewhere, and rejoiced in the euphoria that coursed through him as he joined in, as Harry's twisting body joined with his, and he started moving in tandem. He felt like a small part of a larger work of art - the subject, but not the only beautiful detail in the painting that was this scene, and he touched the lover before him freely.
They danced and turned without tiring, and Tom had never felt so immortal, so eternal, as he did then. There were a million colours in his eyes, a million tastes in his mouth, and he felt dizzy with the sensation of it all. He swooped down - swooped, as if he were more bird now than human - and kissed open, pliant lips in beautiful desire. Perhaps being here for so long - had it been long? He couldn't tell - had changed him so much, fundamentally, that he was more bird now. Or perhaps it was something other, with the compulsion that pulsed through him, the hunger that pushed him to push his fae's body down in turn into a bed of vibrant red, orange and pink blossoms. To climb on top of his pliant body and press against him until they were locked together like they'd grown into each other like that, fixed together and belonging there as an eagle and its wings belonged together.
And his Harry's legs opened like a blooming flower and he smelled desire and sharp hibiscus, so thick and heavy in the air that it choked him and made his blood into fire that burned as it flowed, and he gasped "more" like he was dying and his beloved was the air. They still kissed, messy and uncontrolled now as Tom ran his fingers down his lover's body to the pink hole that lay before him, naked and for his eyes only, and slipped his fingers inside.
His lover was slick, perfectly ready for whatever Tom wanted to do to him, and the knowledge of it excited Tom. He saw, almost like a vision, another Tom sheathing himself inside another Harry, taking him until they were both exhausted and drenched in the sweat and seed of their sex, and swelled without a touch between his legs. Harry's eyes twinkled like stars in the night, like he knew what went through Tom's mind and rejoiced in it. The fae boy arched his back, never once looking away from Tom's eyes as he did so. His legs widened for Tom, smooth white thighs settling snugly around Tom's hips in invitation, and he stretched his arms up to wrap around Tom's throat to pull him closer.
"Do as you wish," he whispered softly into Tom's ear, his tone low and husky and stirring, so Tom pleasant down and kissed him again. The joining of their lips was nothing but animalistic and violent, their teeth clashing until Tom could taste the sharp coppery tang of his own blood, and the sweet ambrosia of his faery lover's life-blood intermingled with it. He licked hungrily, and Harry laughed at him as his sought the taste with a strange sense of desperation.
His fingers curled into the long black strands of his lover's curls for leverage as he pushed his face closer, undulating his hips in the space between Harry's legs almost unconsciously. He gasped for breath, diving back almost instantly for more as he pushed up harder into Harry's arse. His free hand migrated up from where it held onto the faery's hips to grasp two delicate wrists, slim enough that his one hand was large enough to immobilise them both where he held them above Harry's head. His other hand unwound slowly from the wild curls of Harry's hair and moved down to hold his cock still. He kissed Harry again, lightly pressing his lips against his lover's, and pushed the head of his erection against the pink rim to Harry's arse, pressing it there without breaching the hole. His sweet little faery whined at him, his eyes wide and green and wet as he stared up at Tom, and the man has never felt so powerful as he did then, with Harry needing so desperately what only he could offer him. He smirked darkly, and with one hard thrust pushed into Harry's body until his cock was fully sheathed inside the warmth and clenching tightness of Harry's arsehole.
He groaned loudly, but did not give his lover time to adjust as he started a punishing pace, snapping his hips up into Harry's sweet body as fast as he possibly could. He felt both dizzy with the intensity of sensation and completely focused, needing Harry to cry out his orgasm, and for him to come so deliciously deep inside the fae's body that he stayed there evermore. He pushed his tongue into Harry's mouth, tasting him, their mouths battling in an intense twisting of lips as their bodies made furious love. It wasn't long after that Harry's body tensed, bowing sharply upwards like the taut string on a bow as he came with a loud cry, and Tom came almost immediately after, the sight of his lover's bliss pushing him past the brink as he filled Harry up with a guttural moan of his own.
They lay, panting, for a while. Their bodies cooled, and with it the sweat and seed on their bodies. Tom noticed, for the first time, the cool breeze, the grass and flowers swaying with the gentle currents. He thought, distantly, that he should probably feel cold, but it felt like there was a barrier protecting him.
He looked down at Harry's lazy smile and satisfied smirk, and felt an electric thrill go through him at the darkness in those beautiful eyes. Almost unwillingly, he felt his cock, still nestled inside his lover's body, stir in desire and lust, and he almost wanted to cry. Wasn't it too soon? He felt like he was losing his mind in ardour, like he'd walked into a trap and never seen the danger until he been well and truly tangled in the web, but he could not find it in himself to regret it, to wonder if another existence where, though he may have more power over his own mental faculty, he would be without Harry, and without the otherworld he brought with him.
He whined as his hips started moving almost of their own accord, and he looked down at Harry, who still smirked at him. His canines seemed sharper than they should be, and his eyes were deliciously shadowed and dangerous. He licked his red, swollen lips with relish - lips that Tom had made that way, by biting and sucking on them in the throes of passion - and leaned up until his mouth hovered by Tom's ear.
He brushed against the soft, delicate skin there, biting at the rim lightly and kissing the hollow underneath as Tom's hips sped up in their thrusting. He giggled, his hands tangling themselves into Tom's hair as he pulled him down closer to his naked chest. "Your lust," he whispered, his voice indescribably pleased. "It tastes a little like madness."
Honeysuckle - To attract Faeries
Hibiscus - To attract love, lust and passion
Snapdragon - Symbolises deception and graciousness