A/n: Don't Own Harry Potter. Don't own Cover Image.
At His Mercy
The boy shouldn't have this effect on him. Nobody should have this effect on him, let alone the boy. Yet—
Strips of his cloak have come alive—shadows of fabric, striking and constricting like snakes—to ensnare the boy, wrapping around his body like vines around a tree.
The boy releases a choked cry, face flushed, writhing and twisting in his binds, pulling fruitlessly at his shackles. Sweat rolls down the boy's face and neck, disappearing past the collar of his stained shirt, as he pants and grunts in exertion.
His binds force him up, higher, suspending him in the air. His body is proffered like an offering before a god, throat bared, arms and legs spread, unyielding even as he futilely thrusts and struggles.
— he cannot deny that the sight is an appealing one. Erotic, even.
It is stirring feelings he'd thought lost, heat pooling in his stomach. Darting his forked tongue briefly past flat lips, he can scent his own arousal in the air. A grimace twists his mouth at the sign of his weakness.
But he has never been one to deny himself.
A flick of his wand hand and wards spring into place—silencing wards, repellent wards; he does not wish to be disturbed. The boy, too caught up in his own struggle, does not notice or take heed of the action, and Lord Voldemort allows himself a moment to study his prey.
The boy is scrawny and dirty, and his hair is deplorably messy. His most striking feature, his eyes, is obscured by large, tacky glasses. Altogether, he is rather plain; perhaps attractive in a ruffian sort of way, but still plain overall.
Despite this, the Dark Lord cannot help but want to see more. His slitted eyes, burning with a new-found hunger, crave the sight of the boy's bare flesh.
Because suddenly, unexpectedly, the game has changed, and Voldemort finds that he does not want to kill the boy. Not yet, at least.
Strips of fabric, those not already preoccupied with restraining the boy, begin a slow and sensual dance, twining around the boy like snakes about to mate. They are not harsh and confining like their brethren, but rather gentle and flirtatious.
The teasing shadows slither under clothing, exposing tantalizing skin with each pull downwards, until the boy's pants hang low on his hips, displaying delicious Adonis lines. Just a tease, just a glimpse.
Voldemort likes to take the time to play with his food.
The boy, Potter, Harry—does not realize what is being done, pays absolutely no heed to his low hanging pants, or the fact his shirt is being dragged upwards as well.
His mind is on war, on battle and survival, and entertains no other thoughts. How is he to know that, while his mind is concentrated on the Final Battle, Voldemort's mind is on the quivering abdomen muscles being revealed to him; that Voldemort's attention is entirely captivated by the treasure that hides at the end of the Adonis lines, just beneath the hem of Harry's pants?
With each struggle and jerking bid for freedom, Harry pushes his crotch forwards, unwittingly encouraging his enemy. Voldemort, cock straining in appreciation of Harry's accidental show, becomes impatient; growing bored of his own games, he bids the constricting and teasing material to bring the boy closer.
"You won't win, Tom," Harry declares boldly, breathlessly, as his constraints force him to kneel before the Dark Lord. He glares, stubborn and unyielding, into Voldemort's heated gaze.
Harry's gaze is heated, too—emerald fires of life and defiance—but for different reasons.
There is a certain power in having the boy bound at his feet, completely at his mercy, that Voldemort notices and delights in, before being distracted by the more pressing matter of sating his own desires.
"Actually," Voldemort hisses, crouching down, unaware that the boy no longer spoke the serpent's tongue, "I think I will. And you, Harry Potter, are going to be so eager for my touch, that you'll let me."
It's a promise, one Harry can't understand, and is therefore entirely caught off-guard when Voldemort's cold, spindly hands reach out and touch the trail of pubic hair starting at his navel.
His breath hitches, caught in his throat, and his eyes widen in disbelief and shock. When Voldemort's hand slides lower, following the trail of hair to the boarder of his low-hanging trousers, his mind is almost unable to compute.
"Wh-What are you doing?" Harry chokes, voice high pitched with panic as the hand slides under his pants to rest lazily at the base of his cock.
"I'm going to bring you pleasure beyond your wildest imaginations, Harry Potter, and you will beg for it. By the time this night is through, the war will be won and you will have been claimed—multiple times—by me. From this night forward, you will belong only to me; just as surely as your life has always been mine to take, your body will be mine to claim."
As he speaks, his hand languidly strokes the boy's flaccid member into attention, feeling as it hardens in his grasp. His tongue tests the air again, but this time he is greeted with, not only the scent of his own arousal, but Harry's as well.
It is intoxicating, utterly mouth-watering.
"S-stop, fuck, To-Volde-hmm—what are you-?!" Harry protests brokenly, confused, panicked, and, to his shame, turned on. He tugs at his wrists, but the shackling fabric is as tight as ever.
Voldemort's hand squeezes the head of his cock, and his hips involuntarily buck, thrusting upwards. Voldemort's serpentine face twists into a smirk, darkly triumphant, as he removes his hand.
Harry is embarrassed to notice that there is a smear of precum on Voldemort's palm that can only be his.
"Good boy, Harry," Voldemort hisses, only partly mocking. He uncurls from his—admittedly undignified—crouched position to observe the flushed, panting, and trapped boy through half-lidded eyes.
Harry's cock is hard enough from the Dark Lord's ministrations to push his already low-hanging pants down, leaving half of his arousal uncovered and free for Voldemort's admiration.
Pushing open his robes, Voldemort reaches inside to grab his own weeping length, roughly pumping the shaft. As he does this, he stares at Harry, relishing being the one to have debauched the boy so.
Cheeks aflame, Harry turns his head, humiliation churning his gut. He doesn't want to see Voldemort in such a manner any more than he wants Voldemort to see him in such a manner.
But he doesn't have a choice.
Giving an angry hiss, Voldemort's hand snatches his face, fingers digging painfully into his jaw as Voldemort forces his head back towards him.
"You will look at me!" he commands, suddenly irrationally angry. He wonders if perhaps the boy is thinking of someone else in his obvious lust—he can taste it just as surely as he can taste his own!—and the thought infuriates him.
"You will stare me in the eye, whether I am pleasuring you or myself, and you will think of no one but me!" as he spits this, he yanks the boy's pants the rest of the way down.
Harry gives a half-formed cry of protest, wishing dearly that he could still speak parseltongue, so that he may have at least an inkling as to what is going on, before swallowing a groan as Voldemort presses their flushed cocks together.
Harry chokes on his own saliva when Voldemort starts jerking their shafts against one another. The Dark Lord's hand moves rapidly along their joint lengths, massaging from tip to hilt, squeezing and rubbing and twisting. The friction is divine.
Fleetingly, Harry realizes with ludicrous hysteria that there is a war going on, and here he is, the supposed savior, with his dick pressed against the Dark Lord's.
It's twisted, it's sick, it's wrong and disgusting and hisfriendsaredyingoutthere, but it also sends delicious tingles racing down his spine, and he feels his joints locking in preorgasmic tension just before he erupts into violent release. Thick streams of cum shoot from his tip, coating both his own stomach and Voldemort's with his pearly white seed.
Voldemort follows soon after, releasing with a grunt. For a moment they lay unmoving, catching their breath, and Harry is sure things are going to go back to normal now. That Voldemort's had his fun, and now they would resume with the battle.
Harry is wrong.
They were not done yet, no, not even close.
Fin.