The Devil's Playground was the most exclusive nightclub in London, if not all of Europe.
So, frankly, Harry wasn't entirely sure how he came to be bathed in its flawlessly concocted ambiance, with music pounding in his ears and an entirely delicious drink cold against his palm.
But it had something to do with the deaths.
The invitation had simply turned up one day. Handwritten, on card that would make the finest wedding invitations look cheap. It smelled of something indefinably enticing.
Harry wasn't normally one for clubbing, much preferring pub crawls where he could hear himself think and enjoy a few reasonably priced pints and good conversation. Even he had to admit, however, that this was bloody impressive.
He carefully weaved his way through the crowd, wishing that he had Ron or Hermione here. Any familiar company would do. He sat down at one of the sofas in the lounge area, and took a nervous sip, scanning the room for his … client.
The whole place practically breathed intimacy, with discreet dark corners that somehow seemed more private than sordid as they might do elsewhere.
There was a heady sort of aroma in the air, just like the scent on the envelope.
He was sat there for five minutes, before a woman approached him. Tumbling dark hair, scarlet lips, and bold gleaming eyes like some great cat.
"Come with me. He will see you in the VIP room," the woman murmured.
His legs still felt a little jellied, but he got up calmly enough. The music was muffled in the VIP room, and he couldn't help but be aware of the envious eyes tracking his movements as he stepped in.
It took him a moment to see the man, but when he did, he failed in not staring. His insides swooped.
"You …" His voice went hoarse.
"Hello, Harry. It's a pleasure to see you again, even under such unfortunate circumstances."
It started maybe half a year ago, with too many drinks on his 21st birthday.
"You sent the invitation?"
It ended with sharp, sweet kisses dotting his throat, with his heart feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest, and a voice like honey caressing his senses. Well, it was supposed to end there. With him lying there feeling like he could die from pleasure.
Since then, the dreams lingered. Snatches of a sensuous mouth, of dark eyes in the night that seemed to flash a peculiar scarlet at certain angles, of a face classically handsome in a way that would make even angels weep.
It had always made a decent sort of anecdote, when such things came up.
All he'd ever got was a name – 'Riddle'. It had seemed fitting at the time, and even more so now to come face to face with the man here, of all places and scenarios.
"Were you expecting someone else?" The bastard had the audacity to seem amused, and rose slowly. "Let me get you a drink before we start."
"Start?" Harry absolutely did not squeak. Did not imagine all the things they could start, all the hazed promises whispered huskily in his ear. Riddle looked far too knowing, even as he raised a cool brow.
"You are a private investigator, yes? You contacted my secretary regarding recent disappearances?"
"Right. Yes – yes I am, uh, sir. And I did."
"Sir," Riddle repeated, with a hum. He definitely seemed amused now, practically purring the honorific out.
Harry nearly gritted his teeth, cleared his throat and sat down for a more professional front.
"You're rather young for a private investigator," Riddle continued.
"You're rather young to be Lord Voldemort."
Over the course of the last several weeks, he'd had numerous clients approach him in regard to a series of disappearances, and even deaths, occurring throughout the London area, many being linked to night clubs, highbrow and less so.
The Orchid Lounge. Wonderland. Temptation. The Siren's Kiss.
It hadn't taken Harry long to figure out the potential link between these popular clubs, were that they were all owned by Lord Voldemort Corporations.
He had to admit that he'd never expected to have slept with the man though. That was a curve ball.
"I'm older than I look, I assure you." A small smile flittered briefly over the other's lips, distracting Harry's attention. He wanted to kick himself. He was a professional, damn it. Then the smile vanished, as the man leaned back, taking a sip of his drink – eyes fixed on him. "So, how exactly is it that I can help your investigation, Harry?"
His insides swooped all over again with the way his name fell from Riddle's mouth. Was that normal?
"Have you been alerted to anything suspicious?" Harry leaned forward. "Or does anyone perhaps have a vendetta against you or your company, which would cause them to target your businesses?"
"It's possible," Riddle waved a hand. "It's a competitive industry. I have many rivals who would be more than happy to see me fall to ruin. I can provide you with a list, if that would help. You have my full co-operation, providing I have your full discretion. I'd rather not lose customers."
"People are dying."
Riddle raised his brows.
"And you have my full co-operation. I can give you a tour now, if you think you'll find evidence. Or…" the man rose smoothly, taking a few slow steps towards him, "I can have some more drinks brought in, and you could make your night more worthwhile."
Harry's mouth ran dry. His head tilted back, as Riddle's arms braced on the back of the sofa either side of him.
"I'd hope you're not trying to distract me, Mr Riddle."
"Would you like the full tour then?" Riddle replied, gaze dipping over his mouth.
Harry half wanted to accuse the man for never telling him that he was Voldemort, but given the circumstances of their meeting such a comment was ridiculous. Even if they hadn't been rather … preoccupied, it wasn't the type of conversation that necessarily came up. It hadn't been a matter of evasion, he was sure.
And what would he have done, if he knew, anyway? Not done it because his one night stand happened to be one of the richest and most powerful men in London?
… well, when it was put that way…
"I'll take the tour. If there truly is no evidence and you haven't seen anything, then it won't take too long, will it?" Harry dared, staring back. Their gazes locked for a moment, before Riddle straightened just as gracefully, leaving the space of air cold around him.
"As you wish."
Harry was actually a professional.
He insisted that to himself as, just over an hour later, he found himself thrown against the wall of the VIP room, with Riddle closing the gap between them. Lips claimed his, hands tightening around his wrists and pinning them above his head.
The want had been growing inside him from the second he stepped into Riddle's proximity. Searing, startling, blood-rushing want that hovered on the edges of his bones even as he carefully had a discussion with the bartender over the possibility of spiked drinks.
"So, uh, how old are you actually?" he couldn't help asking between breaths. Riddle laughed, nipping at his lips.
"How old do I look?" the bastard teased him, eyes gleaming. It was dizzying, those kisses, and a hand slipped just as quickly beneath his shirt, gliding over heated skin. Riddle was cool to the touch, but seemed to be growing warmer every second.
Harry had forgotten that; the chill of him.
Hips ground against his, and the question of age disappeared to irrelevance. Riddle obviously couldn't be that ancient. He looked to be about Harry's age!
He kissed back, fiercely, before Riddle's mouth trailed to his neck, latching on and sucking. Harry suspected it would be marked a blooming purple in the morning.
"You're lovely," Riddle murmured, pausing in his ministrations as Harry's head tipped back once more with a soft gasp. "I could just eat you up, Harry." Breath puffed along his throat, nose trailing along the line of his jugular.
Harry laughed again, feeling giddy.
"We're in the middle of a murder investigation!"
"All the more reason to appreciate the finer details of life." Cooler air hit his flushed skin as his torso was deftly bared, Riddle seeming to find all the most sensitive spots even faster than he had last time as his mouth dipped once more. Harry shivered, reaching out for the expensive suit in turn.
What did a double one night stand even mean or become?
A moan slipped breathless out of his mouth, his trousers straining.
Normally, it was in his nature to be dominant, and certainly to reciprocate the pleasure in some manner. Riddle made it so easy to get swept away and tangled up in lust, to the extent that doing anything but taking it required more effort than it should. Like he could quiver and crumble more easily.
He pushed forwards, until Riddle's knees hit the sofa from earlier, making him sit as Harry straddled his lap. At some point, he'd lost his trousers too. Riddle still seemed far more dressed and less disheveled in comparison, though the red swell of his lips seemed obscene with the force and press of kisses.
Had this happened, last time, too? It was a little blurry, admittedly. But he was far more sober this time.
"My turn," he said, pressing his hand to Riddle's mouth as the man leaned forward to kiss him again. The other's eyes flickered briefly with surprise, even darker than before with hunger.
A hand curved around his back, pulling him closer on Riddle with a hand slipping to his arse. He groaned as the friction surged through him at the roll of Riddle's hips, and the man took the opportunity to press two fingers into his mouth.
"There's a good boy," Riddle breathed, fingers rubbing against his tongue. Harry nipped at the fingers in response, receiving a snort. "Feisty as ever, aren't you?"
Harry hummed, eyes gleaming wickedly as he moved his head carefully, tongue lathing, immediately seeing Riddle's pupils dilate to an impossible amount. He took the opportunity to find a new occupation for his mouth, ravaging the man's throat and counting it a success to get him the rest of the way out of his clothes, groaning with desire.
He paused at the lust-filled but undeniably considering look he found he was on the receiving end of.
"It's nothing." A truly sinful smirk crossed the man's face. "I'm just thinking about what I'm going to do with you. What do you think?"
"I'm sure you'll think of something."
He claimed Riddle's lips for his own, feeling the laughter rumble all the way through him, as the music throbbed outside the door.
He ended up riding the man, teasing him with shallow thrusts, with his fingers gripping Riddle's sides tightly to hold him still. The other's skin felt searingly hot against him now. The world was spinning, as fingers clenched in his hair. Praises offered in his ear.
When he came to himself again, he was a mess of sensation, suddenly cold. He felt blissed out to the point of shakiness from his climax, head pressed into Riddle's neck where it had sagged, as fingers stroked through his hair still, soothingly.
"Deep breaths," Riddle crooned, hips thrusting up again apparently just to see Harry squirm and gasp with helplessly oversensitization. Harry was trying to remember at which point he'd stopped being the one in control of the situation.
But he felt exhausted, too exhausted to even lift himself up. Riddle looked positively radiant. His vision hazed, before righting itself a little as a softer kiss was pressed to his lips, his chin captured between Riddle's forefinger and thumb.
"That's it, just sleep it off." That smile crossed the man's lips again. "I'll see you again soon enough."
When he woke up in his own bed, he only had the vaguest memories of how he got there.
The bodies, when they were found, never had any valid cause of death. Or, at least, they never had anything explainable.
The closest signs were those of severe drug withdrawal, especially with the blown pupils and dehydration, which was why Harry had been so eager to question the bartenders about possible drinks spiking. But even then there had been no definable substance or toxin in the victim's systems – nothing that couldn't be linked just as easily to attraction or arousal.
It was maddening.
His best bet was still some form of drug.
The clubs themselves were either coincidence, because something of the clientele attracted – or it was something to do with Riddle. A vendetta, perhaps.
He scanned through the subtly scented list, and tried not to think about the man it reminded him of.
He failed. Utterly. He couldn't get 'Lord Voldemort' out of his head, even less now than after their first one night stand. Oh, he'd manage to concentrate on his work for a while, but then inevitably a stray thought about the man would slip in.
Of course, Riddle was very attractive, but still. Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Just the thought of the man's mouth made heat plunge into his stomach.
It had been almost a week since he'd seen the bastard.
He got himself more coffee, to ward off lingering tiredness. He had the horrible feeling that he might be coming down with something.
The line outside the Devil's Playground went all the way down the street and around the corner, with people begging for a chance to get inside.
It was difficult to even get close to the door.
"I need to see Riddle," he said – then again, louder, when the bodyguard didn't hear him. The man gave him a dismissive, dull sort of look.
"Do you have an appointment?" It was obviously mockery over a genuine question, and Harry's jaw clenched.
"Will you at least tell him I came by? Harry Potter."
Harry loathed the pitying look he got and, for the first time, he couldn't help but wonder if a lot of people came clamouring at the door for the man's attentions. If Riddle fucked anyone in his clubs who took his fancy. He remembered, now, that he'd wound up in Wonderland on his 21st.
He tried not to let the thought bother him, though awfully and pathetically it made something spasm inside his gut and since when the hell was he that guy? Especially over some bloke he'd met twice, however gorgeous?
"I'm a private detective," he felt the urge to add. Just so that they didn't get the wrong impression.
"Harry Potter. Got it. We'll pass it along."
Harry couldn't say he was convinced as the man rolled his eyes and turned away from him to the shunting crowd.
It was, therefore, an extreme surprise when Riddle turned up at his small rented office the next day. It seemed strange to even see the lord in clear light, and daytime. He was wearing dark shades, which he tucked into his pocket as he stepped in.
Harry froze where he was previously absorbed in his files and his pounding headache.
"You wear glasses," Riddle noted, as a casual form of greeting. "Huh. They suit you." He seemed to all but glide over to the small, cramped desk, reaching out and sliding the thin round frames off of his face. Harry scowled.
"Yes, I wear glasses. So could you give them back? You've gone significantly fuzzy."
"I still like your contacts. It's a shame to hide such pretty eyes, as cute as the glasses are." The glasses were nonetheless slid painstakingly back into place, the touch lingering on his cheek.
Harry cleared his throat, leaning back, even as colour rose on his skin again, damnably. The world sharpened to focus once more, the weight of Riddle's scrutiny with it as the man smiled at him.
"Can I help you with something?" Harry asked, automatically.
"I don't know, can you?" Riddle leaned on his desk. "Crabbe told me that you came looking for me at the Playground. How's the investigation coming along?"
"They can't pinpoint the cause of death," Harry frowned. "It's strange. I've never seen anything like it. It's like they just … withered."
"Sounds dreadful. What are you going to do about it?"
"Keep looking for leads," he replied. There was little else he actually could do. "If I could only figure out the cause of death, narrowing the suspect list down would be so much easier. I can't find any connection to anyone on that list you mentioned." He glanced at the man. "It was nothing important. I just thought you might want an update, you know, generally."
"I'll make sure Crabbe lets you in next time," Riddle promised, giving him a grin that didn't quite seem appropriate to an update. Harry rolled his eyes.
"You're incorrigible. Do you do this a lot?"
"Do what a lot?" Riddle's head tilted. "Fuck people in my VIP room?"
"Would it bother you if I did?"
"I couldn't care less," Harry's chin jutted up. "I figure what you do in your own time is your business, so long as it's not hurting anyone. I'm just … well, it's another possible motivation, isn't it? Jilted lover? You've probably messed with some powerful people. It's not like they let just anyone into the Devil's Playground. Do you have a list of regular attendees that I could take a look at?"
"The Orchid Lounge, let alone the Devil's Playground, if that's what you're asking, are known for their exclusiveness, discretion and confidence. My clients pay well to party in privacy. I would be betraying their trust to give you the lists, Harry."
He realized suddenly, too, that he still didn't know Riddle's first name. On most documents, he was 'Lord Voldemort'.
Harry vowed to look it up.
"People are dying," he said again, instead. "Surely you're betraying their trust further by not doing everything you can do to guarantee their safety? It's not going to go unnoticed forever."
Riddle was silent for a moment.
"Do you do all your work alone?"
"Huh?" Harry's brow furrowed at the change in topic, before he shrugged. "Largely. My friend, Ron, in the police academy, will lend a hand occasionally. My other friend, Hermione, studies Law. So sometimes I consult her too. But yeah, I guess. Why?"
"Aren't you concerned about trouble? Poking your nose somewhere that you shouldn't?"
"What's life without a little danger?" Harry countered, though something lurched a little inside him. But his insides had been rolling, with a distant shivering sort of nausea, for the last day or so anyway. Getting stronger by the minute. "Believe it or not," he forced a grin, "I can look out for myself."
"You don't look well." Riddle pressed a hand to his forehead. The touch was mercifully cool, to the extent that Harry wanted to lean into it. "I hope you're not overtaxing yourself."
"I'm fine." He resisted the urge to snap that it was none of Riddle's business.
"Maybe I could make you feel better…"
"You know I'm working, right?" Yet, Harry laughed. Really, Riddle truly was insatiable. The hand smoothed back through his hair, and the man craned the rest of the way to kiss him across the table again, slowly. Harry opened his mouth to protest, with a huff, but Riddle took the opportunity to deepen the kiss until Harry was biting back a moan again and he was half hauled across the table in turn.
His eyes flickered a little, glazed. The want, the need, seemed to have erupted fully in his chest again. He was already half hard. His head spun with it.
"Let me take care of you, Harry," Riddle murmured, holding his gaze, voice low and honeyed again. Coaxing. Before teasing once more. "If you're busy, I'm sure I can make it quick." One hand remained on the back of his neck, the other pushing his files and papers aside.
"The walls here are thin as heck. This isn't your VIP room."
This was insane. Since when did this become his life? Riddle rounded the table, to where he was still sitting.
"Then I'll have to help you if you can't keep yourself quiet." A hand slipped down, stroking him through his growing feebler excuses until he was grinding forward into Riddle's touch again, groaning.
His bones seemed to ache less, the headache fading. He felt better than he had in days.
That time, he ended up bent against the table, legs splayed with an obscenely expensive tie stuffed into his mouth.
It was only with the growl of "mine" in his ear, that he started realizing that this definitely wasn't one-night-stand level anymore.
Three days later, and Harry felt worse than ever.
He was throwing up, and it felt like someone had a lit a fire in his brain. It was eating and burning him up alive. His hands were trembling, and … well, even in what could only be fever dreams, he couldn't stop thinking about Riddle.
But he also didn't want to turn up at the man's club like a needy wreck. He had no idea what the parameters were of their relationship … dynamic … three-night stand or whatever it was. But he was sure it would pass, along with the sickness haunting him.
Food had lost all taste and flavour, and by day four he couldn't stomach it at all.
The doctor could find nothing wrong with him. The only thing he could comment on at all was, embarrassingly enough, sexual frustration.
It was then that Harry started thinking.
It was now Friday night and the Devil's Playground was heaving with even more people than normal.
He turned down a complimentary cocktail, not particularly wanting to be sued if he vomited all over the fine upholstery. It took an excruciating hour (where he half wanted to just go home, but not as much as he needed to see Riddle – for professional reasons, obviously) until he was allowed into the VIP room.
"Harry," Riddle greeted, lounging in his usual spot and waving a hand to dismiss the dark-haired woman and the blond man who had been sitting with him. "You look dreadful."
Harry shifted uncomfortably.
"Whatever the killer's using," he started once the man's colleagues had left, "I've been exposed to it somehow. Don't worry, it's not contagious or we'd have a much higher body count already." He sat down on the sofa opposite before he fell down.
Riddle's head tilted.
"I think it's a matter of repeated exposure," Harry continued, gripping the edge of the seat tightly to stop himself from ridiculously edging closer in his current state, and to keep himself steady. "At first I thought it might be the incense you use being tainted somehow, if it wasn't a substance in the drinks … but whilst the exclusivity in The Orchid Lounge and The Devil's Playground accounts for why more people aren't affected, it would not explain why you're not sick … why are you smiling?"
Everything in Harry craved contact. Something in his chest spasmed.
"Come here, Harry," Riddle murmured. "It seems like an age since I last saw you."
Harry blinked, and half felt he should protest. Because he was ill. And possibly dead if he didn't figure this out soon, so as handsome as Riddle was, they really needed to concentrate on the case and – and somehow he'd already crossed the room.
Riddle's arms wrapped cold around him, as he was pulled to the other's torso.
Something nagged at his mind again; as much as he could think straight anyway, or think of anything at all except how nice Riddle felt pressed against him, and how good he smelled. Like the incense.
"What's happening to me?" His voice was hoarse. "What have you done?" He could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. He'd already identified Lord Voldemort as a link and –
"I am not causing these deaths and disappearances," the man said against his ear.
Harry still felt he should get up. But it was difficult to get his limbs to co-operate, when he was the most comfortable he'd been all week. All night, tossing and turning unable to find a good spot, but right now he could have melted.
"You know what's happening."
"I know everything that happens in my domain. There hasn't been another body, has there?"
Riddle's fingers stroked through his hair, nails gently teasing the scalp every so often. It was mortifying, the way Harry craned into the touch. Unable to help it. "Would you like an explanation, Harry? I can give it to you if you ask nicely."
Riddle's hand crept beneath his shirt again, as he was still trying to organize his muggy thoughts. The fingers felt blessedly cold against his fevered skin. Harry's teeth gritted to bite back what could maybe perhaps be classified as a bloody whimper and what the absolute hell was this?
"That's not asking nicely," Riddle chided. Fingers dragged up his torso now, lips pressing into the racing pulse at the side of his neck. Harry shivered.
Riddle laughed – a sound of absolute delight, followed by a nip to Harry's throat.
"Oh my, I knew I liked you. It's impressive that you're still this coherent after this long, truly. I could tell you just for that. Listen carefully now – and let me help you out of that shirt. You look rather flushed."
The glide of material seemed something distant, dreamlike, in comparison to the mouth still against his throat. God, his head…
"Do you know what an Incubus is?" Riddle asked.
"That's insane." Harry blinked, connecting the lines and the dots easily enough, even if it was, well, absurd, from what little he knew of mythological creatures. Which was, in this case, essentially: sex demon.
"Is it?" Riddle returned. "The police would certainly think so, I suppose. If you approached them."
An entirely different sort of chill went down Harry's spine at that oh-so-casual comment.
"Nonetheless," Riddle had that damnably amused tone of voice again. "Assuming Incubi exist … one could assume that the first time a mortal beds an Incubus is harmless. Merely an unforgettable night for the human, the demon's feeding doing no lasting damage."
Unforgettable. Harry had the awful impulse to laugh. Riddle's fingers pressed beneath his chin, tipping his head back so that the man could capture his lips. The man … demon, apparently … god, he couldn't call him a demon. That was just mad!
Riddle carefully adjusted his glasses again, curling Harry to face him on his lap, knees settling on either side of the other's thighs.
"The second time would bring about the first signs of the withdrawal effect," Riddle purred.
Oh bloody fuck.
"Chill," Harry whispered. "Nausea. Symptoms escalating."
"Depending on the strength of the mortal and the proximity of the Incubus in question, yes," Riddle kissed him once more, slow and indulgent. "You're very strong, Harry."
"Fuck you so much," he hissed back, livid. "How many times, assuming, until I end up in a body bag on the street corner? Four?"
"Oh, it's not that simple, regardless of what a google search might tell you. But myths never get everything right, do they?" Riddle laughed softly. "The myth would have you believe that each time we feed … pleasure and desire being our diet of choice, so to speak … that we drain life."
"That's not true?"
"It's withdrawal from us that causes death. For example," Riddle's hand brushed the front of his trousers. "If I were to leave you alone now, you would, how did you put it? Ah, wither. The longer you go without, the worse it gets. Much like an addiction."
"So you did kill them," Harry spat. "You fucked them, and then you tossed them."
"Oh no … they're not mine. I told you I wasn't behind that. Not really. Generally, I only feed on a person once. Far less hassle. Three times a thrall, strength regardless. No turning back. No recovery."
"A thrall?" Harry managed.
"I'm sure you'll find out. Intimately."
"The murders are other Incubi then?" Harry's brow furrowed. "What, are your clubs some kind of hunting ground for them?"
"Essentially yes. I do cater to specialized clientele, yes. Most of the time, when they abide by my one-feed rule, it simply makes for one hell of a party. Human and demon alike. Disappearance – thrall connection. Murder – rejection," Riddle hummed.
"Don't worry. I dealt with the culprits. It won't happen again, certainly not on my property. It's bad for business, you see."
"So, of course, all that's left is for me to die, so no one will find out," Harry said. He gave a hollow, disgusted sort of laugh. "No more of those awkward questions."
Had he mentioned that he could have kicked himself? Of course, even when he suspected something was wrong, how could he have ever expected this? And how the hell could he have guarded against it? Who in their right mind would jump to the conclusion of a bloody demon?
"That was the initial plan," Riddle agreed. The git gave his aching length a squeeze, making his breath hitch. "It would be easy."
The worst part was that it was difficult to bring himself to move away either way. Maybe because Harry knew withdrawal would inevitably kill him, and that it was only the cocoon of Riddle nuzzling against him with an obscene parody of affection that kept the sickness back. The pain and the nausea, the clamminess like there was no warmth left in him.
"But then, I decided I liked you, and would rather keep you."
"Lucky me," Harry snapped.
"Being kept by an Incubus is very enjoyable, I assure you. There are worse fates."
"Aside from the fact that if I don't fucking sleep with you, I die of your creepy demon withdrawal?" Harry shook his head, a wild glint to his glazed eyes.
"You have such a way with words," Riddle replied dryly. "But yes. You seem to be keeping up, despite your current condition."
How did this happen to him? How?
"Exactly how long do I have?" Harry growled.
"It depends on the person." Riddle made a mock thoughtful sound. "As I said, you're remarkably strong. Or stubborn. Not that everyone would even survive to thrall stage, and even then they would have been on their knees before me, crawling desperately at this point. Every twenty-four hours would keep you functioning without negative effect."
Twenty-four hours. Jesus.
"I meant how long until I die."
"You are not going to die. I told you, I'm keeping you."
"What are you going to do, tie me to your bed?"
"Oh, at some point probably," Riddle smirked. Harry loathed the hot shudder that sunk into his blood at that. "But I won't keep you prisoner. I don't have to. You've no doubt noticed already that you feel compelled to seek me out. The longer you wait, as I said, the stronger the effect, until you're so mad with want that all you'll be able to think about is how to please me. You'll be practically rabid just for a kiss."
"You're lying." He had to be lying, right? And yet, if being this close alone had already soothed the urge to throw up…
"Walk away then." Riddle shrugged, watching him with those dark eyes. "And we'll find out how long I can keep you begging prettily when you come back."
Harry took a deep breath, trying to consider his options, somehow, through the hum and throb of need.
"Wouldn't you starve if I left?"
"I can find someone else easily. But, as I said, I've decided I rather like you. And I'll have you either way." Riddle's nails dug into his chin. "You're mine."
Harry eyed him carefully.
"Until you get bored."
"You've managed to be interesting so far – but yes."
Fuck. Bloody fuck. Harry tried to think through a plan of action again, but his mind kept diverting to the movements of Riddle's mouth. To the way his hand brushed over Harry's skin. To the way even the smallest shifts on the demon's lap reminded him of want all over again. He certainly didn't want to just surrender to this though.
Well, he did. But he didn't.
"And the killings will stop," he verified.
"Case closed, Detective Potter," Riddle said, with what Harry could only consider unholy satisfaction. His jaw clenched. After a moment, Riddle kissed him again, harder this time. "It's really not so bad. As I said, it's even very enjoyable for you, as you certainly weren't complaining before. You keep your own mind and sense of self too, as well as your independence, so long as you're not so foolish as to deny us both in some misguided pride. There are, as I said, worse fates."
Harry knew he had a thousand more protests than just that in his head, but – unsurprisingly in light of new information – he was struggling to think of them as Riddle's lips glided along his shoulder.
He supposed that was rather the point. An Incubus, from what little he knew or had just picked up, was a creature and incarnation of desire. Everything about Riddle was designed to lure him and trap him, to tempt and corrupt. He wouldn't have been surprised if the demon's appearance changed to cater to the preferences of his victim of choice. It would explain why the bastard could seem so bloody perfect, even when he did this. Even when Harry suspected that the only reason the demon hadn't kidnapped him and kept him a more literal prisoner, was because he didn't have to. As Riddle had said.
He wetted his lips, mouth dry. His head was spinning still.
Either way, Harry had lost his freedom, somehow, between the first smile and the first kiss and now.
"Just give up," Riddle urged softly, a peculiar gleam of scarlet visible in his eyes now as he stroked Harry's cheek. "Just give in to me."
The Incubus' hips rolled up, slowly, just to unravel him more.
"You tricked me into this," Harry accused.
"I'm a demon. Were you looking for moral integrity?" Riddle's lips twitched.
Harry glared, shoving himself away with great effort. Riddle watched him, head tilting once more.
"Not even something to substantiate you whilst you try to run?" the bastard smirked. "A kiss is not going to keep you going for long. Go too far, Harry, and you won't get back in time. It would be such a waste."
There had to be a cure. Something to lessen the effect. He refused to live life on a leash.
Riddle didn't even look like a demon! Though maybe his appearance was masked. Or something.
Harry wanted desperately to walk out, for a decisive exit – but common sense decreed that he should at least give himself a good head start. Or maybe Riddle was just in his head, whispering that it was common sense like the devil he was.
Still, Harry needed food, water. And to be able to stomach those, he suspected he needed Riddle. Damn him to hell. It wasn't like before, or even how it had been at the beginning of the week. The kisses had revived him a little, but they certainly weren't enough and those eyes were telling him so. He swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Riddle crooked a finger.
"Come on. There's a good boy, let me help you."
"I'm going to bloody well destroy you for this."
Harry latched upon Riddle's lips like a drowning man.
His new thrall was lovely like this.
Tom had him frustrated and needy for bordering on three hours now.
He'd noticed the first time that Harry wasn't the submissive type, and he'd quite liked that considering most fell to their knees before him at a touch and a whispered promise. It was refreshing.
But he liked him like this too; eyes glazed and pupils blown as cavernous and hungry as any demon's. Every inch of him straining towards the necessity of his own pleasure, hands bound and legs spread as Tom took the time to catalogue every quivering part of his new acquisition.
It had been an examination long enough coming.
Tom had come to the conclusion that Harry suited his bed. The green silk really brought out those poisonous eyes. All in all – a veritable feast, laid out just for him. One he fully intended to indulge in.
Harry's lips were permanently parted by harsh pants, soft moans and gasps and everything else that he could wring out until Harry was an exposed nerve of twitching pleasure.
He'd written himself across the human's skin, painting his insides, wrapping his senses up and ensnaring them until there could be no doubt on the matter of belonging.
"Please …" It was the prettiest thing he'd ever heard.
Harry craned towards him, back arching. His voice was a desperate, cracked voice, roughened over time.
Tom mouthed against flushed skin, palms smoothing over trembling calves as he lavished attention to hip, and inner thigh. Anywhere except where it was most needed, really.
Harry's eyes fluttered.
"Hmm. What was that?" He smiled against tender skin, feeling thoroughly satisfied with himself.
He was a creature of insatiable appetite, it was true. Voraciously hungry, always needing the fire dancing in somebody's veins to warm him up and make him feel alive again.
Harry's arms jerked with the desire to reach out. To touch, and take, and savour. Tom paused to stroke a thumb over his cheek, relishing the way Harry's head lolled towards him, nudging against him. Paused a moment longer to press their lips together, able to taste the desperation, the hovering pleasure so drawn out that it became a form of torture in itself.
It was like a slow-cooked roast. He could practically see the heat rising from the boy.
In the low flicker of light, some might have sworn to have seen the imprint of dark wings shadowed against the wall as he claimed his ill-won prize.
And he was never letting it go.