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A savage hiss of pleasure echoes through the room as Voldemort empties himself into the quivering body pinned beneath him.
The orgasm is satisfying, but it’s not the highlight of his evening. It’s a vulgar, animal bliss composed of equal parts spasming muscles and spurting fluids. His mouth floods with saliva, his balls draw up, his eyes well with involuntary tears, and his throat closes tight as his body shakes its way through the mess of climax. His soul sings with the simple joy of it; tight, wet, hot, home. Voldemort’s hips flex, thrusting forward as he grinds each wad of cum deeper, his member pulsing with hot and primal satisfaction as he floods the hole he has claimed as his own. Every tendon in this artificial body pulls taut in the aftershocks, forcing his spine to curl in on itself as his toes dig for purchase in the bedsheets. His nails carve painful, bloody crescents into the thin skin of his horcrux’s thighs as he gives into the bestial instinct to breed, however futile the effort.
Even as Voldemort milks his orgasm for all it is worth and buries himself as deeply as he can in the heat of his horcrux’s unwilling flesh, his mind is free to observe. His thoughts are clear, barely affected by the climax still rippling through his veins. Rather, Voldemort watches every subtle shift of expression that passes across the face of the man pinned beneath him with unblinking greed, hoarding them in the vault of his mind like the most precious of stones.
Sex is such a petty entertainment compared to the thrill of watching Harry Potter break apart.
For the moment, Voldemort watches Harry throw his head back in ecstasy. His dark brown hair is matted and stuck to his skin by sweat and tears, and his mouth forms a rosy ring as he rides out the waves of his own cresting pleasure in little shivers and silent, airless cries. His cock, flushed and heavy, throbs erratically against his stomach as it stripes his chest in cum. The first splash nearly reaches his chin just as the next paints his chest in white. His prick pulses half a dozen times in all before stopping, drooling the last of the man’s copious seed in wet ribbons that pool in the shallow depression of his belly button. The slick, mottled skin of his glans is almost purple in the aftermath of orgasm, sitting bruised and swollen against the paler flesh of Harry’s belly as the man struggles to catch his breath. His muscles flex and shift as he jerks within the Dark Lord’s hold, curling in on himself as his pleasure continues painfully, drawn out by the unceasing pressure against his prostate, before he crumples back against the sheets with a gasp like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
His swollen prick gives one final weak spurt, and Voldemort loosens his bruising grip on the man’s hips so he can glide a thumb across the sensitive head, digging his nail into the fluttering slit just to watch his favourite toy try to twist away from his touch with a hoarse whimper. The last pearlescent dribbles of cum stick to his fingers, and Voldemort—never one to deny himself— brings his hand to his mouth and tastes it. The fluid is salty and bitter, musky and thoroughly unenjoyable. The Dark Lord savours it anyway: the literal fruit of his labours.
Harry’s eyes remain closed for long, endless moments. His hands are stretched above his head, wrists loosely bound to the headboard in silvery conjured rope, and his fingers curl and uncurl in slow, lazy movements as he winds his way back towards lucidity. It is endlessly fascinating to watch him piece himself back together, to take in the way the man goes from soft and lax in pleasure to stiff and closed off, hiding away his vulnerability behind the rigid shield of his pride. Harry sets his jaw as he tenses with a subtle fury and a hurt that deepens every time Voldemort has the pleasure of witnessing it. It’s a subtle change, but it fascinates him – every night, the pain Harry shows him grows a little more complex, a little more nuanced.
Every night, there’s a little more trust to break, and the Dark Lord savours every drop of that damaged spirit, lets it sit bitter and black and hateful on his tongue until he’s dizzy and drunk off of it.
When his horcux’s dark lashes begin to flutter open at last, it’s all Voldemort can do to stay still, to keep his own mask in place as he watches those avada eyes flash up to pin him with a glare that would set a lesser wizard alight. The heartbreak in them is glorious, and the Dark Lord’s softening prick gives a valiant twitch as the boy’s wrathful magic wraps around them like a pyrrhic shroud.
The ropes around his treasure’s wrists are beginning to smoulder with green-gold embers, but they do not break. Fate may have declared them equals, but raw strength isn’t the only thing that matters and Voldemort knows his horcrux, inside and out. He’s woven the spell too tightly to be snapped by something as weak as accidental magic. “Why,” Harry asks, and his voice is a flat thing, a broken thing, with enough pain and misery and confusion welling up beneath the surface to make Voldemort shiver with joy.
“Because I wanted to,” Voldemort tells him. It’s not a real answer, but it’s also the truth, or as close to it as he knows how to convey it.
“I don’t understand,” Harry whispers, and he turns his head away, hands rising up to grip the bars of the headboard in tight fists. “I don’t understand. Why now? Why fucking now?” He spits the last sentence out with venom, and he lets go of the headboard to yank on the ropes, pulling them taut and sending multi-coloured sparks flying.
The struggle makes him tighten around Voldemort’s prick, and it’s too tight, too hot, too much for how sensitive he is in the aftermath of his orgasm, but the thought of pulling out is more than the Dark Lord can bear. He rides out the exquisite agony of it, and presses his hand against the man’s soft belly to feel it clench beneath him as Harry fights the ropes holding him in place.
It’s easy to imagine he can feel the shape of himself inside Harry, a faint swell pressing against his fingers to mark the place where they are joined deep inside. It’s just a fantasy. He’s already far too soft for it to be real, but the idea is still enough to send a little shock of pleasure through the Dark Lord’s veins. It thrills him to think of the way he’s marked his beloved horcrux, the way he’s left him saturated and stained with his essence deep inside in a manner that will never wash out.
The Dark Lord slides his hands up Harry’s flanks, forcing the other man’s hysterical thrashing to still as Voldemort trails his hands up the red, bloodied remnants of lips and fangs with reverence. He dances his long, slender fingers across the shallow indentation of ribs and presses them into the ruddy kiss of blooming bruises like a pilgrim retracing his steps. Harry shudders beneath his hands, blind to the divinity of his own flesh.
“Don’t,” Harry snaps, and Voldemort laughs. As if there’s any inch of Harry’s flesh he hasn’t already claimed; as if there’s any part of him left unsullied. He owns his horcrux down to his very soul. Not even God himself could untangle them, so tightly has Voldemort stitched them together, so thoroughly has he made them one.
He leans down to try to lick the snarl of Harry’s mouth with a giddy grin. Harry bites down on his invading tongue, but Voldemort presses his fingers painfully against the hinge of the man’s jaw and forces his mouth to open. He kisses his horcrux lazily, feeding him the blood that drips from the open wounds on his tongue and swallowing down every horrified sound that leaks out in reply. He doesn’t stop until the cuts have healed, and even then, he chases the taste of himself in Harry’s mouth for long minutes, supping at the chalice of his lips until the blood they shared is only a faint, coppery memory.
It’s just another way Voldemort’s embedded himself inside his horcrux, and the thought satisfies him, scratches the itch that is always scrabbling at the back of his mind; the yearning to return home, to slip his tattered soul back into the tiny space carved out just for him and be at peace, the way he was before.
Right now, sated and content, it’s easy to push that desire aside, but by tomorrow night, Voldemort knows the itch will be back. Not that it matters – he knows just how to scratch it.
When he pulls away at last, Harry’s mouth is bruised and swollen, and his killing curse eyes are glossy and rimmed in red. Tenderly, Voldemort presses his mouth to the corner of one eye and tastes the unshed tears gathered there with a kiss and a featherlight flick of tongue.
Harry’s breathing hitches, and he sobs, a barely-there hiccup of breath that’s more poignant and stirring than any nightbird’s song.
Voldemort hushes him gently, laying a hand across his beloved’s face and brushing down over his eyelids. Obediently, Harry closes them, the sweep of his thick, tear-clumped lashes whispering against the Dark Lord’s palm like a ghost. Even his scar lies quiescent beneath his fingers, the buzz of dark magic reduced to a murmur by exhaustion and grief. He can feel the heat of Harry’s tears against the pads of his fingers as the other man loses the fight to hold them at bay, the last bit of warmth left in him trickling down the Dark Lord’s hands and dripping from his fingertips.
“Why,” Harry repeats, and the rage in him is gone, grown cold and numb as his magic falls away in loose, heavy coils. The smouldering ropes extinguish, shining silver and unmarred beneath the ash. He lies lax against the bed again, all of the fight drained out of him, and Voldemort mourns its loss. “Why rape me now? Why tonight? Four years in this – this sham marriage, and this is the first time you’ve ever touched me. I don’t understand…”
“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort whispers, leaning down to brush his mouth across the curved shell of his horcrux’s ear. “This isn’t the first time.”
“Obliviate.”