Good Night, Darling

[ Nothing's fair in Love and War ]

Summary: wet dreams, third wheeling, and teen romance

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Harry let out a breathy moan, his eyelids flickering and his body urging him to press closer to Tom. It was like he'd been waiting for this moment for years, as if he'd been attempting to stave off an addiction and, in the end, succumbed to the urge.

Maybe he had been wanting this for a while, but the thought was fleeting and all Harry wanted was Tom Riddle's hands. Cold but callus free, currently dipped underneath the hem of Harry's shirt and grasping at his waist. His back arched into the touch, and he realised he's moved to straddle the other man.

He pulled away from the kiss, panting and wide eyed and now almost a head taller than Tom. Harry rested his arms around Tom's neck, his knees around Tom's waist– the need to touch was so very strong.

He looked smug, and Harry wiped the knowing smirk from his face with an aggressive kiss that caused droplets of blood to bloom on Tom's lips. He tasted tangy now, metallic, but Harry didn't stop. He didn't want to stop, as he wound one hand through the soft locs of Tom's hair and allowed the other to grasp firmly at the side of his neck.

Harry bucked his hips forward, gasping into Tom's mouth and grinding down at the cold feel of his fingertips on bare skin. Tom groaned, a throaty sound that went straight to Harry's groin, and dug his nails into Harry's hips. It would leave a mark, surely, but Harry knew that they had left each other many a mark before. This would be no different.

Tom let out a longing, moaning sound when Harry tightened his grasp on Tom's neck, pulling away from the kiss to see the blood stained lips he'd left behind. It was exciting, enticing to see the man so dishevelled because of what he'd done–

Harry jerked awake, chest heaving and falling with an alarming quickness. He slowly but surely calmed his breathing, falling back down into the warm sheets of his bed, and squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't believe–

No, that was a lie.

He couldn't begin to fathom why he'd had such a dream, and with Tom of all people. Sure, they'd been sleeping in the same bed all summer, but that hadn't meant anything. Besides, Tom was interested in someone else. Someone that wasn't him.

Not that Harry was interested in Tom, not in that way. But he was attractive, certainly– all sharp angles, and seemingly sensual smirks. Even in second year he could have appreciated that.

It was only because he was a teenager again, his damned hormones getting in the way again. Harry turned onto his side, frustrated, and staring at the curtains that separated his bed and the rest of the room. That separated his bed, and Toms. The teenager was likely fast asleep, plotting a way to make whoever he had a crush on fall in love with him.

He huffed out a sigh, pulling the duvet cover closer to his chin.

It was just one dream, it didn't mean anything. It didn't have to mean anything.

And even as Harry willed himself to sleep, there was an inkling that it did, after all, mean something. A dream like that isn't something Harry could brush under the rug easily.

"Good Morning, Hadrian," Tom said lightly, passing him in the bathroom with his small bag of creams and products. He paused, brow creasing, as he heard no reply. Tom turned, a raised eyebrow.

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?" He prodded, unable to restrain from using the muggle idiom.

Hadrian flushed an appealing shade of pink, tinting his cheeks rapidly and eyes darting around the room in an attempt to avoid looking at Tom. Odd.