A/N (5/15/12): This chapter is dedicated to slayer of destiny, who went through far too much trying to placate readers on AO3 that her story "Sweet Release" is only nominally dubious consent, because Sherlock WANTED it, damn it!
My point? This is SLASH, HET, AU, OOC, PWP, OC, M/F/M, TMV/ALF/SzS, M, OMFG, and O.O - OK? It involves Dominants and Submissives in unapologetic glory. Clear enough? (And how lame is it that my original character's initials make her sound like Dumbledore's poodle? Sheesh.)
Clarification of Warnings: Upcoming chapters will feature lemons. Also an orgy. Um, let's see…. Multiple combinations of male/female/male sex. Citrusy goodness. Homosexual and heterosexual horizontal mamboing. Three hot magicals making … uh … hot magic. Tabs A and C will be inserted into Slot B repeatedly, and tabs and slots may be interchangeable. And there will be creative disobedience to the instruction sheet, until someone yells "Twister!" or "Bingo!" or "Cramp!" or "Shit, I lost my contact!" My point? This is rated M. And although they have their place, warnings such as this in an M-rated fic for everything that isn't a Rob & Laura Petrie sex life can get a little bit silly to those of us who don't live in a white bread, politically-correct, get-a-waiver-for-everything-and-be-as-bland-as-you-can-to-offend-no-one world. If you're the kind of person who has a "trigger" and doesn't want to stumble onto something that sends you into a bad memory, then please, just don't read my stories. I will not spend all my white space forever warning about every possibility. For all I know, I may throw in bestiality (remember the goat thing in "Did You Know" – and yeah, someone nagged me about that, too. Honestly, who has a bad memory trigger about an old man humping a goat?) I may include defilement of textiles, or insults to the type of people who have turned acknowledgment of diversity into the newest form of bigotry. If you don't want to risk it, don't read it!
Happy Reading & Blessed Be, y'all!
WyrdSmith
oooooooooooooooooooo
LITTLE THIEF
End of Ch1: The Dark Lord's Librarian
Now, studying the priceless locket that held half of his ancient love's soul, and the young woman who had obtained it for him but also seemed to have captured part of his own soul for herself, Thomas shook his head in wonder. Had she chosen this item simply in an effort to prove she could steal something that rightfully belonged with the Heir of Slytherin and return it to Thomas as a demonstration of both her skill and her devotion? Perhaps she thought so.
Magic was certainly capable of such a deceit.
With an intense surge of pure elation, Thomas Voldemort suddenly found himself with the possibility – nay, the probability – that his most precious and hopeless dream could come true.
Tonight.
Barking a quick order to his two old friends to secure the Orb, Thomas lifted his little Alaria into his arms, tightened his grasp on Slytherin's locket, and headed purposefully upstairs to the Master Suite and Salazar's portrait.
It was time to make some magic. Dark, delicious, utterly delectable magic.
ooooooooooooooooo
PICTURE PERFECT
By the time he entered his private suite, the house elves had completed their work. The imposing man nodded approvingly at the changes he saw as he strode through his private parlor and into the bedroom.
In his arms, Alaria le Fey was just beginning to stir back to wakefulness, lines of pain furrowing her forehead and drawing her arched eyebrows together in protest. Blinking painfully, she peered through narrowed eyes and tried to understand what was happening.
Distantly, she heard her Lord's distinctive baritone murmuring quietly to someone, and heard an even deeper male voice reply. She tried to concentrate, knowing that she could not afford to be inattentive if her Lord was present in the room with her, but the blinding pain in her head and practically bleeding from her eyes defeated her.
Even as she sank back into unconsciousness, she did not realize that the comforting warmth surrounding her were the arms of the Dark Lord Voldemort.
ooo
From his portrait prison, Salazar Slytherin looked down on the petite witch in his beloved Thomas's arms and shook his head in reverent disbelief. She looked so small, lying there. Delicate. Fragile.
It was so hard to comprehend that this tiny little woman had just recently powered some of the most difficult of the lost magics ever heard of, and in doing so, had returned to Salazar the means to bring blood and muscle and blessedly beating heart to his endless half-life. Alaria le Fey had reached across hundreds of miles and storm-tossed sea to open a desk drawer and retrieve hope and life and soul to the tormented matebond of Salazar and Thomas.
Through the horcrux clutched in Thomas's hand, Salazar's soul could be rejoined to itself; whole once more. And through the very nature of the beautiful creature lying unconscious before him, the crushing loss of the grimoires that contained the painstaking, magical details to return Salazar to physical life was negated. They did not need to have the written spells and potions and wisdom that would help them find that magic.
Alaria le Fey was that magic.
Even through the portraiting barrier that separated him from his true love, Salazar could feel the truth of the young woman Thomas cradled. Earlier, as he watched discreetly from his portrait in the Study, he had felt her bond magic, faint but growing stronger with every moment. He had been astonished to realize that he felt attraction to the unprepossessing little witch, and slightly hurt to understand that Thomas felt the same. But as she knelt at the stone table, Salazar watched the small woman wield power and magic like a priestess of his day, offering gift upon gift to her Lord and Master. To his Thomas.
And he had approved as Thomas began to consider the possibility of allowing her into his life, his bed – their bed, even if the joining of the two, powerful wizards had never once involved true touch or physical bonding. By the time Thomas had decided to include Alaria le Fey in his life, Salazar was wholly in agreement. She was powerful, intelligent, attractive, interesting – and delightfully submissive, despite her feisty demeanor. Given what little he knew of the dearth of the young woman's social life, he felt it likely that she herself did not even realize how very submissive she was, or would be, with the proper mate. 'Mates,' he corrected himself. Salazar had been resigned to his ongoing survival of observing, loving, but never touching, his beloved Thomas, but he knew that such an existence was torment to his living, breathing lover. Poor Thomas could not really live so long as Salazar merely survived, untouchable and unattainable. It was a gift of the Fates, that the little Librarian had drawn Thomas's eye. It was a blessing.
And then, she had retrieved her last gift, held securely in Thomas's arms, and had handed to her Lord and Master the living soul of Salazar Slytherin.
As if he was following Salazar's thoughts, Thomas's arms tightened protectively around the delicate form he held pressed to his chest. And as two sets of blood-red eyes met, the two men trembled with the knowledge that this little fae was the priceless key to the rarest of bonds. Just this morning, they had been grimly-accepting of their roles as a soulbonded pair separated by time, death and the coldblooded machinations of those who worked to defeat the Old Ways of magic. But now, less than a full day later, they stared together at the miraculous, magical fae who would ignite their bond, change their destinies and join them together in an almost unheard-of triadic soulbond.
And she didn't even know it.
"Your bath is ready, Master," came Bastion's reedy voice. Salazar barely glanced at the house elf, although Thomas turned slightly to look sternly on the small servant, who stood with complete poise near the bathroom door. If one formed an opinion based on Bastion's demeanor, one might believe that the scene he looked upon was common, as if the sight of Master Thomas standing in his bedroom holding an unconscious witch and preparing to bathe her was in no way interesting.
That was the value of rewarding one's house elves. Had Lucius been anywhere nearby, Thomas would have smirked at him. Or crucio'd him for being nearby.
Probably both.
"Go," Thomas said quietly to Bastion. With a deferential nod, the elf popped out of the room, and Thomas felt an extra level of wards and seals settle over his private suite. From now until Thomas or Salazar commanded it, no one would enter or leave his rooms except Bastion, and he would do so only under extreme need. All else was prepared.
Eyes meeting in a last moment of contemplation, Salazar smiled gently at his beloved mate and sent a wave of encouraging magic, warm with love and rich with passion, to Thomas. Without hesitation, Thomas turned and carried his irreplaceable burden into the richly-appointed bathroom, sensing Salazar moving through his portrait into the room with him.
Kneeling to lay Alaria's whimpering form down upon the thick, soft rug, he studied her face for a long moment, taking in the delicate features that he had mistaken for merely pretty, and observing the pain that wrinkled her brow and marred her aura. He ran a gentle hand through her hair, and murmured low, "Thank you for all that you have done for us, little wonder, and for all that you are about to do. I can barely fathom the sacrifices you made, the dedication you showed, in bringing your gifts to fruition for me. Now, it is my right and my privilege to bring your efforts full circle. I pledge you, Alaria le Fey, I will always protect, provide for and cherish you, from this moment forward."
He began to gently, carefully, remove the young woman's clothing as Salazar leaned closer from his portrait near the massive bathtub filled with scented water, watching with reverent eyes, and murmured a solemn and hushed, "As will I, young one. I do so vow."
ooooooooooooooooooo
"Alaria," a voice murmured. It was deep and low, and somehow familiar. Rousing slightly, she flinched as the pain in her head surged, and tried to retreat again into deeper unconsciousness.
The voice wouldn't let her.
"Alaria," it said more firmly, but still low in deference to her pain. "Wake just a little. Take this potion to ease your reaction headache." A cool, glass vial nudged her lips, insistently, until she opened her mouth to protest and the potion flowed into her mouth and down her throat.
Swallowing reflexively, she raised a shaky hand to push the bottle away, although it was already retreating. As she moved, she heard the sound of splashing, and wondered at it. Opening her eyes to look, she flinched sharply at the pain that stabbed through her head along with the light, and closed her eyes with a moan, turning her head slightly to hide as best she could. Her face moved against a source of steady warmth and comfort, and she sought shelter against it without hesitation.
Merlin, she felt so tired! Even as she yearned for sleep, she automatically struggled to call up her mental schedule for the lunar and ritual cycle for the yew and the diamond-glass. She wrinkled her brow in thought, eyes still stubbornly closed, and tried to recall whether she had done the latest blessing or did she still need to do it. What date was this, anyway? The last thing she remembered was writing yet another almost panicked note to that stodgy old Goyle, trying to figure out still another way to say – without saying – that she was dangerously close to storming the elaborately-carved doors of the Dark Lord's Study and demanding his attention for the … for.. the …
Silver-flecked aquamarine eyes flew open with a startled gasp as Alaria abruptly recalled all of the details of the past several hours. But as water splashed around and over her and she choked and flailed, completely at a loss as to her current environment, she had a brief moment of ironic acknowledgement of the fact that she was clearly missing some vital information.
Such as, why was she in a bathtub? Slim fingers cautiously ran across her stomach and she blinked in shock.
Naked! She was in a bathtub, naked. Why? Not that she particularly wanted to be in a filled bathtub while clothed, but still! Confused eyes looked around and focused abruptly on the wickedly smirking portrait of a darkly handsome wizard who was staring down on her with heated, crimson eyes.
Naked in a bathtub with a peeping tom! What the hell? It took a moment for her to process that she had said that aloud, or the meaning of the reply when the smirking wizard in the portrait said with amusement, "No, my dear. I would be a 'peeping Salazar', if we are to be accurate. He, on the other hand, would fully qualify as a 'peeping Tom'." The wizard's long, silver hair moved slightly, catching the light as he nodded toward something behind her.
Hands positioned over her bosom, Alaria stared in mortification at the portrait and replayed the words, praying there was some other meaning possible. She wasn't stupid, of course. Even with a migraine, fast-receding, she was more than capable of putting together an allusion like that with the fact that she had just spent several hours in the presence of the Dark Lord she had served faithfully for thirty months now. Of course, she got the joke. Lord Thomas Voldemort / 'Peeping Tom'. Ha ha. Funny.
Didn't mean she was going to look. Nope, not a chance. She was going to summon that big, fluffy towel over there, wrap it around herself, and do her level best to leave this situation without ever looking at the man whose naked chest and strong arms were currently supporting her while she reclined against him, bewilderingly nude, in the biggest damn bathtub she had ever seen.
Determinedly ignoring the lecherous, lordly wizard who was watching in dark amusement, she concentrated on summoning the towel. Wordlessly and wandlessly. Not easy to do when naked and mortified and afraid in the presence of two virile males. Even if one of them was just paint and magic.
A wet, muscular arm circled around her waist while the man's other arm lifted, allowing the wizard to push her head back onto his slick, powerful chest. She felt a chin settle on top of her head, cradling her comfortingly, as the Dark Lord's voice rumbled compassionately, "Not going to happen, baby. You're here to stay."
She couldn't help it. She whimpered.
ooo
This couldn't be happening. This kind of thing just didn't really happen. Alaria lived in a world filled with magic and mystery, and she could say without hesitation that this kind of thing just did not happen. Especially not to boring librarians who sidelined in magical theft.
But as the Dark Lord Voldemort carefully and calmly bathed her, disregarding her protests and blushes and struggles to cover herself, he and the ensouled portrait of Lord Salazar Slytherin explained exactly what was going on, and why these things apparently can and do happen. Furthemore, that it is happening right this moment, right here, right now – to her.
Whether she liked it, or not. Whether she agreed, or not. Whether she cooperated, or not. Tonight she was bonding with Lord Voldemort, and then somehow they were going to bring Salazar Slytherin back to life, and he would bond with her – and apparently, the two wizards would bond with each other, too. An incredibly rare, trillion-to-one, triadic union.
Whether she wanted it, or not.
It happened around the same time that she felt her Lord's magic, accompanied by an even darker magic, brush up against her and start to twine around her magic, as if it had every right to be there. As if, somehow, they had earned the right to fuse to her, and her to them. She didn't know where it was coming from, or why she had never felt it to such a degree before. She only knew that when Thomas stood and lifted her from the tub, water streaming off their bodies, the eyes of the two wizards moving over her naked skin ignited something she had only rarely experienced.
Defiance.
Without really thinking about the fact that she was challenging the Lord to whom she had sworn allegiance, the Darkest and most powerful wizard alive today, Alaria pushed herself from the helpful arms, yanked the towel from his hands and swirled it around herself, and then tilted her head back and glared up into startled crimson eyes.
It was only as the eyes began to darken with anger that she saw the handprint on his cheek slowly deepening.
Huh. She must have slapped him. That was probably what the sharp crack was she had heard. Normally, she would have been mortified at her own actions and terrified at what was to come. But angry defiance was flooding through her, and her blood was heating in rebellion, and her magic was trying to crackle and lash out.
In the portrait, an increasingly keen-eyed Salazar observed as aquamarine eyes met crimson in pure challenge, and he could almost visually see the transitions as Alaria the Librarian moved aside – for Alaria le Fey.
Salazar watched, intensity in his posture and his stare, as his two soon-to-be-bondmates faced off. He had been stunned to see the charming, delightfully shy little beauty suddenly emerge from the bathtub like a young battle goddess. Stunned and painfully, shockingly aroused. Even as he watched, he saw what was human in the small woman retreat, submerged beneath the primal magic and animalistic instincts of a true fae. Old magic lived and breathed once again, igniting the pull between the three and setting off a magical series of events that would lead to the re-embodiment of Salazar and the completion of their triadic bond.
Breathless in awe at the sight of the fae creature spitting defiance and magic in their private suite, Salazar's mind travelled back to the milquetoast stories that were what Light wizards taught their young about the deadly fae. In the few, endless heartbeats before battle commenced, Salazar recalled how he had laughed when one of the younglings – a Malfoy, Lucius's child – had related to him the version of the faeries told at the now hopelessly Light-oriented Hogwarts. Draco had disdainfully related to him how the redheaded, freckled chit had listened breathlessly as a 'buck-toothed, bushy-headed mudblood' had spoken of sweet, sparkly, adorably feminine creatures of the Elements who befriended humans, played mischievous little games, saved lives and retrieved lost objects with equal kindness, and routinely fell in love with muggles. Young Draco had stalked past the wide-eyed romanticists, seized Old Magic: True Tales of the Fae from the shelves in the Restricted Section, and dropped the book onto the table with an ominous thump. He then leaned over the shoulder of the naïve know-it-all and drawled mockingly, "If you wish to claim magical heritage, know the damn heritage. A true fae wouldn't sparkle and flirt; they would sooner drive you mad with terror before sending you to their pets for their supper." And as he stalked away, he spat with pure disgust, "Mudbloods!" , and then proudly and publicly accepted his subsequent deduction of house points and detention, given at dinner by Dumbledore in an attempt to cow young Malfoy. Draco had reputedly received applause by all the Dark children in the Great Hall and most of the professors.
Salazar had determined the truth of Draco's story, related with pride by Professor Snape, and then arranged to reward the young Dark wizard. Lucius was justifiably proud of his heir, and informed him that Draco was using his irrevocable open access to the Hogwarts Library to further the cause of the Dark. He had even provided the insufferable mudblood with a completely restricted text which she had coveted, on the condition that she read five of the true histories Draco provided her and wrote a paper on the validity of the cause of the Dark. She had apparently written a series of papers, good enough to be considered for publication, on the fallacies of 'fairy tales'. Numerous muggleborns and other witches and wizards of the Light were deeply resentful of her attempts to 'slur' their sweet, fluffy fairies, imps and elves.
He wondered what those breathless, foolish people would think if they could see his and Thomas's 'sweet little fairy' right this moment. He was fairly certain they would run for their mommies – or their pet Headmaster. Urinating all the way.
No, his little Alaria le Fey was in no way a cuddly creature of a Light-slanted fairie tale. Not at the moment, anyway. She was not a fairy; she was faerie. Gone in an instant was the confused, embarrassed, beautiful little witch of the bathtub. In her place, was a virago.
Alaria's eyes shone in her face, aquamarine light intermixed with purest silver sparkles. Hmm, perhaps that was where muggles got the idea of sparkling fairies? If so, that proved conclusively that they were idiots. Those ageless eyes were filled with magic and power, and Salazar was certain if a non-magical being looked upon her at this moment, it would be dead. There was no compassion in those eyes, nothing of humanity. This was a magical creature, ruled by power and instincts. She was all regal fury and beautiful defiance. And he and Thomas could see, in every line of her outraged form, in every flash of her otherworldly eyes, that she was fully prepared to be lethal in defense of herself and her bed.
After all, a Submissive Fae is still very much a Fae.
Long, wild, multi-colored hair seemed to come alive with magic, and the enthralled men suddenly realized that her hair was not really blond, red and brunette. It was gold, platinum, copper, bronze—metallic. Like her beautiful eyes, Alaria's hair was magical metal; soft and silken to the touch, but reflective, refractive and highly conductive – or disruptive – of power. Their little bondmate was designed by nature to store, create and transmit magic.
Her hair was literally swirling and flashing in the waves of emotion that infused her aura. Her eyes were alight. Her skin flowed with ethereal life. By all the gods and goddesses, she was exquisite.
And really, really pissed.
Thomas had watched her rapid transition from 'I'm-a-quiet-Librarian' to 'I'll-kill-you-if-you-touch-me' with narrowed eyes and tensing muscles. Alaria had become fully immersed in her creature aspect within seconds, moving from panicked consideration of their implacable words to enraged defender of her virtue with no warning. It was a little bit frightening, in truth, knowing that he had to subdue, seduce and demand submission from the living she-devil who was beginning to prowl around him, startling eyes fixed on him and lethal intent evident in her flexing claws – 'when did that happen?', he thought wildly – and raging magic. Somehow, he had to subdue and seduce her, without most of his magic, and Salazar got to sit and watch. It was maddening!
It was also exhilarating. Sending a mocking look of dark promise at Salazar, who smirked and saluted, Thomas pulled his mind fully into tight focus and allowed his baser instincts to come forward. Their little fae wanted a fight for freedom, but he would give her a true, magical creature, dominance mating display. There was a damn good reason both he and Salazar had blood-colored eyes.
That wasn't exactly a common, human trait, after all.
Thomas tightened the wards that prevented magical casting and mentally threw that rope to Salazar, who seized it with a will and snapped the wards down beneath his indomitable power. Now, the only person in the room who could cast was Salazar. From this point forward, it would be a purely physical battle for dominance.
He took her by surprise, launching from a standing position forward and smashing into her lithe form before she could leap away. Wrapping strong arms around her, he lifted her struggling body and brought her to the floor, following her down and pinning her beneath his greater weight.
There was very little chance that Alaria would win this fight, but she didn't seem to understand that. As
Thomas's heavy body launched across the room and brought her crashing to the floor, she twisted and fought like the wild thing she was. Pinned to the floor, she was halfway out of his arms and almost free before he caught her again and hauled her back. Every single second before he successfully trapped her completely, he paid for in blood. By the time she was tightly and securely in his arms, he was bleeding from dozens of scratches and a couple of bites, and the enraged woman he fought to secure was doing her best to head-butt him. And still she fought, teeth bared and snarling like a caged tigress.
It might have been a function of their creature heritage, or maybe just another aspect of being a very dominant Dark Lord, but her struggles only managed to incite her ardor. With every furious wiggle and scream of rage, Thomas's arousal grew. In his present state, if she managed a lucky knee-strike, he would be crippled for days.
Apparently, Alaria had the same thought, and committed herself wholeheartedly to the attempt. Her efforts backfired on her spectacularly, though, because not only was Thomas successful in confining her struggles and forcing her into immobility, but he was also incensed at her antics. It did not matter to him, in any way, that Alaria was, in a sense, the victim here. He did not care that she was left with no choice, and that she was angry and afraid. He did not care that she was reacting instinctively, and that her very nature had demanded he prove his dominance.
What he cared about was the fact that his submissive was not submitting. And when she tried to put her knee into his groin, he put her in her place. Emphatically.
From his portrait, confidently containing the allowable magic in the room and closely observing the dominance and submission display between his mates, Salazar felt a deep, rumbling purr in his chest when he watched Thomas – beautiful, strong, powerful Thomas – pin the wildly struggling Alaria to the carpeted floor, force her head to the side, and seize her at the tender joining of neck and shoulder in a sharp, powerful bite of claiming. Eyes glowing an eerie blood red, canine teeth sharper and more elongated than normal, bloody scratches highlighting the naked skin gleaming over his clenching and rippling muscles of arms, back, buttocks and thighs – Thomas was the living embodiment of a Dominant mate.
Salazar had never wanted Thomas so badly as he did at this moment. But he wanted Alaria as well. 'Soon,' he crooned to his nude, bloodied mates, scowling a bit at the towel Alaria stubbornly clung to, licking his lips in pure desire as Thomas asserted dominance over Alaria and hissing in approval as her innately submissive nature took her over.
ooo
Delighting in and fighting with the freedom that the emergence of her fae nature gave her, Alaria had felt powerful and confident, unashamed of her nakedness and untroubled by her smaller form. Even when he knocked her to the floor, Alaria had been certain she could escape from Thomas and flee. She had never even considered, once she was fully infused in her fae aspect, that any dominant would ever conquer her. She was beautiful and wild and indominatable; it was only arrogance for this foolish creature and his disembodied mate to seek her submission! She ignored the thrill of warning that ran up her spine at the sight of his glowing red eyes and lengthening canines. It did not matter that he was a stronger creature than she, because she was a true fae and would not be conquered.
When his teeth sank into her Vedas core, her chakra of innate nature, and her body went lax, she could not believe she had lost. But his growl of pure dominance, demanding she show her submission, vibrated through her core and forcibly subdued her defiance. Before she could summon enough human thought to resist, her fae had taken the decision from her, uttering a soft whine of compliance and tilting her head to further display her vulnerable throat to her mate.
'Her mate,' she thought bitterly, and keened in distress. She was afraid, now. Both her human and fae aspects were in full agreement on this point: no dominant ever treated his submissive mate with dignity and respect and freedom. Alaria had known a boy at Hogwarts, a submissive vampire, who was already marked and claimed by his Dominant at age eleven, and was so constrained by the elder vampire that he could not even walk unescorted through the hallways. Everything she had worked for, all that she had tried to accomplish, now seemed lost with the teeth that clamped on her Vedas core. The worst part of all was that she had started all of this herself, by arrogantly retrieving what she knew to be a stolen Slytherin heirloom from Dumbledore's desk. She wondered if Harry had known what he was truly doing when he told her what the Headmaster had shown him. Had Harry intentionally sought her imprisonment in the bed of the Dark Lord? Confused and afraid, she complied with her Dominant's demand and released the shards of magic she had managed to gather and shape into a weapon, throat clenching on a sob as the magic vaporized and blew away on an unseen breeze.
Rewarding her with a purring growl that allowed her frozen limbs to unlock, Thomas removed his teeth and carefully, proudly began to lick her blood off of the claiming bite. Tears leaked from Alaria's beautiful eyes and rolled down the sides of her face, some ending up beneath Thomas's tongue and earning his attention to her distress. As his own creature receded, the wizard became aware of her shivering and shuddering and realized that she was still frightened, still confused – and still unbedded. He approved of her fear, knowing that it was a true indication that the purity of her nature matched her virginal body. This was as it should be; they were magical creatures, despite being partly-human, and this was their Way. He had earned the position as her Dominant mate. She was his submissive, and he had every right to her body. In truth, had he for some unimaginable reason chosen to abstain from bedding her, her own magic would have turned against her. Yes, she was afraid of him and of their imminent mating, and he would use this time to begin to teach her to trust him, to enjoy his attentions, and to submit as her nature – and his – demanded. Full humans might not understand this, but they didn't have to. Thomas and Alaria and Salazar were not just better than humans, but they were better than most magical creatures. A triadic union was royalty.
Gently licking away her tears, Thomas murmured soft words of comfort and praise, but he firmly removed Alaria's protesting hands as she struggled to cling to her towel. With a stern look of warning, he moved back slightly, untucked the magically-sealed towel, and pulled it from her body. Both Thomas and Salazar smiled slightly as their frightened submissive tried shyly to cover herself with just her trembling hands and long hair. Running an appreciate gaze over her now nude form, Thomas had to take her hands in his own and pin them to the floor as he studied her bared body. A few feet away, he heard his beloved Salazar's throatily purred, "Beautiful, is she not, beloved?" and nodded in reverent agreement. He cast a brief glance over to meet Salazar's eyes, and felt his arousal spike higher at the sight of his powerful mate's hard erection pushing against his trousers. Sweeping his burning, ruby stare over Salazar, he said huskily, "You're overdressed."
With a shared look of anticipation, Thomas turned back to rise to his knees and lift Alaria into his arms, gaining his feet easily. Her indrawn gasp of surprise at his strength made him want to purr in pride and approval of her appreciation, unashamed of his arrogance. He had every right to be arrogant: in his fifth decade, with dark hair just beginning to silver and small character lines showing that he smiled often enough and thought deeply, Lord Thomas Voldemort was a stunningly handsome man in his prime. His nakedness revealed powerful muscles and an overall form that would inspire artists. His broad shoulders and chest were sculpted, his legs long and beautifully muscled. His buttocks were visibly hard, his trim waist was firm and defined. His stomach was flat and taut, seeming to belong to a much younger man. And his manhood, rising proudly from a nest of dark, curly hair, was long, thick and fully engorged.
He was everything a Dominant male should be, and more. And Alaria was terrified.
When he crossed the room and laid her down upon the soft velvet bedspread, Alaria began to shiver. She didn't know what to do when he stepped back to the side of the bed, standing with feet apart and hands on hips, powerful thighs and taut stomach highlighting his fully aroused masculinity. The look on his face was worrying her: his crimson eyes were somehow darker, his face slightly flushed and normally neat hair uncombed. She didn't want to look his face, with the expression she could only describe as 'hungry'. Briefly dropping her eyes was a mistake, as her gaze was drawn unerringly to the truly intimidating sight of his heavy arousal. Fidgeting, she struggled and failed against his unvoiced command that she not cover herself; it was impossible for her to lie here, nude, and not try to preserve her own modesty. Despite the giggling recounts she had unwillingly overheard from her former dorm mates about moments such as this, Alaria was most emphatically not overwhelmed with lust. Mostly, she was just feeling awkward, afraid, angry, upset, uncomfortable, afraid, bewildered, anxious and afraid.
After all, she had always kept her body very much to herself, along with her emotions, and suddenly she found her 'reward' for her incredible gifts to the Dark Lord was to be forcibly bound not only to him, but to his own mate, too. So, yes, she was afraid. And definitely overwhelmed; this was all well beyond her experiences. She had only ever had very mild episodes of her creature nature rising to the fore, and none of them had prepared her for the all-consuming force of what had just occurred. Furthermore, her creature was shivering and shuddering right along with her, as she dealt with the reality of having a bleeding and painful claiming bite on her neck, given by the gleaming-eyed Dark Lord who was currently standing naked and aroused at the side of the bed as his heated stare swept over her with a look of pure ownership.
Again shifting uncomfortably, Alaria could not contain a small whimper of distress as she was overwhelmed by the knowledge that she was now also feeling something similar to excitement, although not quite. She was fully aware of what was going to happen to her, of what first the Dark Lord and then, supposedly, Salazar was going to do to her body with their bodies. She was twenty-seven years old; even though she was a virgin, she did understand the mechanics of it all. Perhaps it was an aspect of her fae heritage, but Alaria was pure by choice. That was obvious to anyone who could see an aura: anyone who had a strong sexuality could be identified by the …. the sort of sultry humidity….in their aura. Virgin or not, the aura of most people clearly showed active sexuality. Even masturbation would reflect in an aura enough to bely virginity. But Alaria le Fey was different.
She had never joined the other girls in their giggling speculations and explorations, never being in the smallest bit interested in what sounded uncomfortable, undignified and messy. She had simply assumed that her lack of sexual interest was normal for her, and that she would live and die as a true asthetic, with no real enjoyments beyond that of the intellect. She had been perfectly happy with the idea of dying a virgin, and had managed to discourage even the most determined suitors (not the least of whom was the Triton who had blessed the Orb she gave the Dark Lord).
But now, she had no choice. Now, suddenly, she was not just the Dark Lord's devoted servant. Out of absolutely nowhere, with no warning of any kind to prepare her, she abruptly was immersed in her own aspect as a magical creature – something she had barely even needed to know, up til now. Her life had taken a terrifying, unexpected turn, and suddenly she belonged to Thomas, and would also belong to Salazar, and they would be using her body whenever and however they wanted it. She had never even had a clue that she was anything less than pushy, feisty and boring, but suddenly she was a submissive mate, apparently to two of the most dominant of all dominants anywhere, of any time. Ever! She had no control at all. No decisions were hers to make.
And, for some reason, that knowledge made her incredibly happy.
Even as she struggled to come to terms with her overwhelming thoughts and feelings and circumstances, she watched Thomas Voldemort as he watched her. After her first attempt, she did not look at him directly – having a nude, aroused, dominant male giving a close, heated inspection of her own unclothed form was far too disconcerting. She was completely incapable of brazening her way through this situation, even without the newly-awakened fae aspect within her spirit that kept trying to get her to lay back and display herself for her mate's approval.
After seeing his hard manhood jump a little of its accord when his roaming eyes glanced toward the foot of the bed, Alaria flushed even more intensely and followed his stare. She almost choked on her own spit when a second pair of molten crimson eyes captured her eyes, standing almost as close to her as Thomas was. Blinking in complete surprise, Alaria realized that the back wall of Thomas's enclosed bed, which she had assumed would be simply more of the dark, velvet bedcurtains that surrounded the bed in a dark, comforting cocoon of privacy, was in fact a huge, magical painting. From ceiling to footboard, bedpost to bedpost, was a life-sized magical painting that extended the flow of the view with perfect continuity. If someone were to lay in this bed against the pillows and gaze straight ahead, it would look as if they were simply staring at the rest of the room, complete with velvet curtains that wrapped behind the view in the foreground. The illusion was perfect, and it was impossible for Alaria to remember that she was looking at a portrait at all. Because there, at the foot of the bed, was a single, comfortable reading chair, positioned on a wide dais and facing the bed. Anyone who sat in it would be looking directly into the bed on which she currently lay, naked and shivering. The raised height of the dais on which the chair rested would provide a wonderful view of the occupants – and activities – of the bed.
And sitting in that chair, naked to the waist, with long, silver hair unbound and flowing down his powerful back, trousers on but unfastened at the waist, long legs stretched out and bare feet seeming to rest on the foot of Thomas's bed, was Salazar Slytherin. His stare looked like lava, burning red and dangerous, as he studied her.
Alaria's bared, nude form trembled on the bed, beautiful hair spilled wildly about her and partially obscuring her face. The multi-colored tresses that tried to cover her only enhanced her beautiful face and figure, and through the fall of hair over her face, he could just barely see her brilliant, aquamarine eyes watching him with trepidation. Heated crimson eyes followed the line of long hair downward, enjoying the flare of her hip and shadowed dip of her waist that were both revealed and concealed by the metallic, silken waves. He especially appreciated the sight of one rosy nipple peeking out, enhancing the soft weight of her breast.
His heavy stare moved to sweep over Thomas, his beautiful masculine body nude and aroused. Salazar's tongue swept lazily over his own bottom lip as he watched a drop of pre-ejaculate form on the flushed head of Thomas's beautiful cock, and he felt his own, heavy cock beginning to twitch in response.
Alaria felt very much the way any prey must feel beneath the hungry stare of not one, but two, powerful, hungry alpha males. Her nipples hardened in response to her trembling, and her mind as screaming at her to run when the two pairs of molten crimson eyes swept her naked body with looks of pure ownership. Watching Salazar, reclining in his chair with predatory grace, Alaria saw from the corner of her eye the way Thomas smiled down at her as he put one knee on the bed, raising an eyebrow in question to Salazar.
She could not restrain the strong shudder that took her entire body when Salazar murmured to her, his deep voice sensual and comforting, "Fear not, little one. We'll take excellent care of you, always." He then dropped his hand into his lap, palming his heavy erection slowly, and said to Thomas in a voice like darkest chocolate, "It is time, beloved. Take her."
As Thomas moved, all Alaria could do was whimper.
oooooooooooooooooooo
A/N2: Long explanation below that basically says that, regarding the triads or pairings in this fic, Dominants rule and Submissives are glad they do. Just read the rest if you still feel you don't understand my position on dubious consent and dom/sub as they relate to fanfiction. Although why you'd care what I think is beyond me! It's a pure rant from here; stop now & go read another awesome fanfic.
Still here? You people are nuts. (Welcome to my world! Have an ice-cold Coke Zero and a slice of oreo pie, and enjoy the irony with me.) Okay, here's my RANT ON WARNINGS AND A P/C WORLD. (Seriously, y'all don't need to read this, y'know!)
This is a borderline magical creature fic about Dominants, Submissives and has limes & lemons that follow those rules. Remember the old Harlequin Romance bodice-rippers that used to be sold next to Woman's Day magazine and the Snickers bars? Just like that (well, maybe a bit better and with more puzzle pieces), only these days we have to include a whole host of warnings that I find more offensive than the contents I'm warning you about. I think that the fact that this is rated Mature, and that I have faith in your intelligence and ability to stop reading if you don't like it, should be adequate, unless an author is putting in something really extreme that wouldn't get past your average "Silhouette Romance" publisher. I read about dominant males taking what they want and the women who love them (anyone else remember Gone with the Wind?) when I was twelve and borrowing paperbacks from the library.
I do not object to warnings when appropriate! If something has bdsm, chan, pedophilia, rape, gore, etc., then yes, there needs to be a warning. But I don't write those things, and I resent like hell the people who think that a story like "Did You Know" requires a warning for bestiality and rape. It's insulting to the readers, and to me. There is a big damn difference between writing about sexual abuse of animals, and having a third-person, one paragraph, past-tense reference to an animagus getting humped by his brother. If that tiny, humorous scene actually sent someone into screaming nightmares, then we are doomed as a society to a life of carefully not offending anyone, anywhere, for anything, and dying of blandness. I don't live in Stepford, thank you very much, and so if I make an off-color joke, or like the idea of my husband having a Rhett Butler moment despite my protest that I haven't shaved my legs and feel ugly that night, GOOD FOR ME! We need to stop apologize ahead of time for the remote possibility that something we say or do or write may, by chance, not be to someone else's taste. This is not a children's story, it's rated M for a reason. But, for the record, if I did write a children's story, I guarantee you that it would describe a zebra as both black and white, it would be just fine with a gander and a rooster dating each other, it would have no problem openly declaring that the mama cat was yowling weird and screamed and walked funny after the papa cat gave her a private talking-to, and it would be okay with the fact that all of the creatures ganged up on the bullying pig and the next day the lunch room served ham sandwiches and hot dogs.
Regarding this fic, in case this chapter didn't already clue you in, it's gonna have some of the same Reader's issues that slayer of destiny had to deal with in "Sweet Release", so let me be clear: In the world I have created, when a true Dominant mate (or two) has a true Submissive mate, the rules change. The Dominant is commanding, assertive, bossy, protective, and yummy as hell. The Submissive – despite initial resistance built into the DNA - is okay with that (freaking ecstatic with that!)no matter how he or she reacts on the surface. The Submissive will not be offended, and will probably treasure it, when his or her Dom(s) uses pet names like "little one", etc. And the Dominant has an intelligent, instinctive, magical understanding of and love for his or her Submissive, which ensures that – no matter how forceful or controlling the Dominant may be –the Submissive is cared-for, protected and happy. If you want me to call this dubious consent or non-consent, fine. But as a survivor of a few things that haunt my dreams, I can honestly say that I know what qualifies as non-consent, and this isn't it. Still, if you have a "trigger" about these things, why on earth are you reading these stories?
RANT COMPLETED. You few who make Dolores Umbridge seem intelligent and introspective may now commence hate mail.
Blessed Be!
WyrdSmith
