Chapter 6 – Pomegranate Kisses
The darkness that creeps into the sitting room cannot conceal blazing crimson that hungrily stares at the old-fashioned cut-throat razor that is being offered up. All those anxious hours of waiting and scheming appear to not have been necessary at all, his soul mate utterly enraptured the very second Harry displays a hint of his intentions.
"What trust you put in me," the Dark Lord whispers, slinking closer with the shadows until long limbs drape themselves all over Harry from behind, whose mouth still tastes of cinders from the ageing potion he'd taken – measured with more precision this time to achieve the desired result of his scar-littered, wiry body.
"You make it sound as if it would be wise to regret this," he replies, breath hitching with each feathery touch. The razor blade gleams as he dangles it in front of his Intended.
The answer comes in the form of deft fingers that undo the sash of Harry's light robes. Having resized them before taking the potion to not instantly stand naked in the middle of the room now seems quite pointless. Nails rake a path over his stomach as soon as it laid bare. Harry freezes up, breath hissing through his teeth at the sensation. A single unguarded moment – a second of blanking out, the thumping of his heart overtaking any rational thoughts under Voldemort's touch - is enough for the blade to switch owners and for the robe that is barely clinging to Harry's skin to be peeled away further, slipping down from his left shoulder.
Lips are fervently pressed to the newly exposed skin, and Harry struggles against his own fight-or-flight response when the sharp edge of the razor is set to his throat at an angle used for killing rather than its intended purpose, while a ravenous mouth with more teeth than tenderness leaves a trail of marks up the side of his neck. A nip of his earlobe feels sharp enough to draw blood, though nothing trickles down.
"It's certainly the first time someone has voluntarily handed me a weapon. Do you not believe it is cause for regrets?"
"I recall a certain someone harping about trust. Should I revoke the trust I have put in you, my Lord?"
Playing with fire is a thrill he is discovering all anew when a carnal growl conveys Voldemort's displeasure at Harry's game. His Intended is not the type of man to concede to a loss, changing tactics in the blink of an eye. The onset of night is countered by a hundred candles flaring to life (which certainly hadn't been there a few minutes ago) and once Harry's squinting eyes have gotten used to the light, he's been pushed into a reclining chair, forced to look up at the Dark Lord from a far too defenceless position. Voldemort hasn't bothered fixing Harry's state of undress, the robe hanging open and askew so the only piece of cloth protecting his modesty is a pair of black briefs - which at the moment don't leave much to the imagination, to his partner's obvious delight if the shameless stare is any indication.
"Without a single touch?" Voldemort teases with a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, infernal demon that he is.
Harry feels a bit like an exquisite piece of meat being put up at an auction under that greedy look. The mental image that evokes, of being tied down on a stage as Voldemort raises bids to mind-boggling numbers to stake claim, does nothing to calm down Harry's straining erection. Having never delved much into fantasies beyond the limited scope of a sheltered and thought-to-be-straight teenage boy, it throws Harry to be confronted with these new discoveries - in his third relationship, not to mention having technically reached his forties. He just hadn't had the mindset for sexual activities with all the wars going on.
Too embarrassed for a witty reply, he silently asks to drop it by looking away and offering up his cheek. The primary reason for conjuring a razor hadn't been to get it pressed to the hollow of his throat, after all.
Voldemort thankfully stops himself from barraging Harry with further comments, inspecting the blade in the candlelight as his finger glides across its spine. "No enchantments?" he questions. "These usually come with a hair-softening and lathering charm to erase the need for hot towels or cream."
"My pile of Christmas presents included sweaters and sweets, I can't blame my godfathers for thinking I might not need a magical razor anytime soon," Harry grumbles. "I conjured one from memory, no idea how to cast any of those spells."
The older man hums, tapping on different points of the blade until it emits a white sheen. By what knowledge Harry has gathered across the span of his lives, enchanting is a delicate art that requires weaving charms and objects together in harmony. A single spell can take days until the property sticks enough to properly use. The expansion charm on Hermione's handbag had been a week-long process. Had Voldemort just enchanted this within seconds?
Severely impressed, he comments with awe: ''You're brilliant at everything, aren't you?''
The smile he is given in return is far less lecherous than before. ''Magic is effortless when you adore it, which I have always done. To even greater heights now.''
Why now? he wishes to ask, until an obsessive scarlet look searing tanned skin makes the question quite redundant. Now, because of Harry. Now, because of Magic's precious gift in the bond that completes them. Voldemort is such a hopeless romantic, and Harry's chest warms from being so cherished. The thought makes him feel far better about their current position. His soul mate might get swept away by their budding intimacy, but would never wilfully put Harry in true danger.
That knowledge does not decrease the number of nervous butterflies that have hatched in his stomach. When nimble fingers grasp his chin and cold steel is put to skin in short, sharp strokes, Harry is tense as anything. Shallow breaths and soft scraping are the only sounds that compete with his heartbeat. That is, until during a second in which the blade is lifted, Voldemort casually slides a hand down the naked chest as if he owns it, a strangled sound wrenched from Harry's throat breaking the loaded silence.
"Do you not enjoy this?" his soul mate whispers as he presses a pointed nail directly against the underside of a hardened nipple. When it slowly scrapes back and forth across the sensitive bud in a similar fashion as the edge of the razor blade that had just worked on his face, Harry wordlessly squirms. It's clearly not a sufficient answer, for Voldemort hisses: "Do you?" mouth pressed against the shell of his ear. A second finger joins, tugging and pinching the poor nub until it is red and puffy. Each touch sends a trail of sparks to Harry's loins, the arousal that had started to wane crashing over him with full force until his cock is begging to be touched.
"If you can't tell, you should get your eyes checked, dear," he defiantly pants, not giving Voldemort the satisfaction of reducing him to a whimpering mess. The effect is perhaps slightly negated when a particularly vicious twist with more pain than pleasure has him arching off the seat. "F-fuck," he gasps, shocking himself by how much he enjoyed that.
"You'd better keep still if you don't want to accidentally get nicked, love," the other cruelly instructs, setting the blade to Harry's jawline again. As the man resumes his 'work', Voldemort's left hand continues its torture, leaving cold trails across ribs and collarbones, now and then rubbing or scratching the left nipple while leaving the other achingly untouched.
When his infuriating fiancé finally moves onto shaving the left cheek – not switching hands to hold the handle, which Harry knows to be a deliberate move to keep the other one available for assaulting the already-overstimulated peaked bud, as Voldemort is ambidextrous – Harry decides to make his own life more difficult. In the fraction of a second that he doesn't risk an injury from sharp steel, he boldly shoves his briefs down to expose the throbbing cock that is starting to become painful from chafing.
"Something nice to look at as a reward for taking care of me," Harry says, too aroused to remain awkward about his own state. Maybe he'll care in the morning, looking back on his wanton behaviour, but certainly not now. Light-headed from all the attention, he stares straight into beautifully vibrant eyes as he clenches his arse and raises his hips from the chair to draw that gaze southwards. As if that were necessary, when Voldemort is for once left struggling to compose himself, the tip of his tongue wetting a pale bottom lip as he drinks in the sight.
"I will have you tonight."
The statement is said as if it's an unshakable fact, as if even a crashing meteor wouldn't be a severe enough threat to stop the Dark Lord from getting what he wants.
As much as it twists Harry's insides with unmistakable excitement, he can't help but sabotage himself with resistance. "What, I don't get a say?" he half-jokes. Perhaps part of this hesitance is the wording, for it very much sounds like Voldemort has unanimously decided Harry will be the one being pressed into the pillows underneath a hard body, when he's not sure how ready he is for that step after only having lain with women.
"I'm the one with a knife here, darling. Besides, you let me wait sixty-five years to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. You owe me, don't you think?"
Disgruntlement makes way for astonishment when Harry fully registers the meaning. ''Wait, will this- will this be your first time…?''
The question appears to amuse his Intended more than anything. "You know my opinion on human interaction. No bonding could be fulfilling without being blessed. Did I not make it abundantly clear that I have been waiting for you, darling?''
''Well- for a relationship yes, but I thought-'' he stutters, thrown off by this sudden revelation of him being the more experienced one in this field. It does not compute with the previous touches, each one expert and measured, as if rehearsed a thousand times on faceless bodies that Harry would like to set aflame.
''There was never a point in having anyone else be so close to me, emotionally or physically. Not until you,'' Voldemort lovingly replies, a genuine air of happiness exuding from him as he presses a soft kiss to Harry's brow. "Which is why..." Instead of finishing the sentence, Harry is pushed fully back into the reclining seat, the razor set back on his face.
He's torn between holding onto the lingering rush and the comforting joy that comes from the certainty of being the one and only for his soulmate. It leaves Harry in a state of confusion, even when beyond doubt, his partner is very much in the same mindset as before as gaunt fingers wander lower to touch the trail of hair just above the base of Harry's prick. The comfort ebbs away when they move further down, enclosing around the shaft to experimentally massage the erogenous skin they find there. Harry abruptly turns his face away from the blade, highly aware of how impossible it will be to lay still when Voldemort's next goal is to pump blood back into his already-leaking cock. Said man merely softly laughs and relentlessly continues. The grip shifts, becomes firmer, even as steel catches up with Harry by following the line of his jaw.
The edge dips to scrape his throat, starting the most delicate part of the process, and all Harry can do is close his eyes and breathe through his nose as one jerk after the next endeavours to coax dangerous spasms out of him. The touch becomes slippery when a thumb catches onto the weeping tip, circles it before Voldemort coats his own palm in pre-cum and sets a faster pace. Failing to get his quivering body under control, Harry's legs subconsciously, invitingly, fall open. He can't stop the needy wheezes that are drawn from his throat, nor the inevitable moment his head thrashes from side to side, thoughts of danger stuttering to a halt, inhibited by balancing on the edge of his first climax.
He's not allowed to fall. Empty air is all his twitching cock remains wrapped in. With blurry vision from tears that have formed in the corners of his eyes, Harry questioningly looks up at his partner, whose face has contorted into an animalistic sneer, pointy canines visible behind pulled-back lips. The lethally sharp blade trembles an inch away from Harry's skin, reminding him of how that sudden, careless movement absolutely should have left a painful cut. That it hasn't means that in contradiction to all the uttered threats, Voldemort actively avoided slitting his throat – despite the wizard's excellent skills in all fields of magic, healing included.
The ire that radiates off the older man seems to be pointed inwards rather than directed at Harry: the furious stare is aimed at pale fingers that hold the handle of the blade in a grip so tight that ivory knuckles turn faintly pink. As if the hand has dared to commit treason against its Lord and Master.
As much as Harry had attempted to avoid being injured while in a lucid state of mind, the sight before him makes him want to corrupt, even at the expense of his own health. Moving carefully, he gets up from the chair and takes the wrist that is being punished with seething anger, brings it back to his throat. "I know you want to see it. One cut, you can have. I'll permit it."
"Harry..."
The quiet hiss is electrifying. Seeing the mighty Dark Lord so torn, wishing to protect while fighting the primal instinct to surrender to violence, only serves to rile Harry up more. Arching up against his Intended, he slowly and deliberately rubs himself against the silky robes that cover Voldemort's thigh – gods, he's so close - and doubles down: "You'll take good care of me after, won't you? After you have taken all you need, your silver tongue covered in the shine of my blood..." Boldly, he emphasises the words by pressing the palm of his hand to the sizeable bulge still covered by fabric - thin enough that little is left to the imagination.
"Remember that you asked for this," is the only warning as Harry is grabbed around the waist and pulled through something that feels like a rubber tube.
Disorientated by the sudden side-apparition, he tries to regain his footing upon landing in their bedroom - catching a glimpse of soft red light and rose petals covering the floor - but Voldemort gives no opportunity to, twisting and shoving Harry until the edge of the bed hits the back of his knees and he is pushed back-first into soft duvets. The contrast makes the sharpness against his throat even more prominent, and this time the blade leaves a painful gash where dragged across skin.
"You intoxicate me, love," Voldemort groans, lowering his head to lap at the blood welling up from the wound. The drag of a wicked tongue evokes a whole new flood of sensations that tempts Harry into throwing his last reluctances overboard about unquestioningly giving into every last one of Voldemort's demands. Only the pain cuts through the haze of lust that tries to erase the remnants of resistance.
Harry suppresses any noises that threaten to spill from his lips, distracting himself from the sting by grasping a hold of his partner's robes. When realising the style does not allow for it to slide off easily, he wandlessly vanishes the offending clothing with an impatient growl. "You're so beautiful," he compliments, desperately touching every inch of snowy skin within reach. He cups the back of Voldemort's head with one hand, trailing down a bony spine with the other. An attempt to grab a handful of the man's arse is sadly thwarted by their height difference and current position, fingertips barely grazing the edge of subtle curves.
Voldemort breaks the hold easily, lifting himself up to cage Harry, feverishly staring down with gold dripping from pale, thin lips. The movement firmly slots their hips together, a heavy cock trapping Harry's own length. Hard and slick, Voldemort rocks against him until the unmistakable scent of sex leaves Harry dizzy. Impossibly long fingers encircle both their girths at once, pumping to create more friction.
Air has become a faraway dream, lungs constricting and toes curling as Harry is driven to the edge so shortly after being denied. He knows – he knows - that Voldemort won't let him finish yet, but hips buck into the perfect, merciless hand regardless as if they have robbed Harry's mind of its willpower.
"Voldemort..." he wheezes when expectation turns into reality, the now untouched head of his prick pulsing with need.
"Yes, darling?" the other answers, but not before a wet finger trails down Harry's shaft and dips between his thighs, coming to a rest at exactly the spot Harry has dreaded. Unsure how to voice his concern without driving his fiancé away, Harry opens and closes his mouth, body growing rigid. Crimson eyes narrow, Voldemort halting his pace. "Ah... do you not like this?"
"I don't know," he mumbles, looking away. "I've never been with a man and until a few months ago, didn't think I ever would be. It's not as if I have – erhm – experimented on myself down there. You?"
"I have... and although it felt pleasant, I must admit that the thought of dominating you appeals to me far more. With our compatibility, I hadn't imagined that to be an issue."
"Magical compatibility."
His Intended merely hums at that, bending down to press a soft kiss to the corner of Harry's lips. "There are many ways in which we can pleasure each other, yet I can't deny that it would please me if you were to try this. Of course, say the word and I'll stop without protest, love."
Anticipation hangs thick in the air as they both wait for Harry to finish his inner struggle. He isn't sure whether the offer is fair, for there's no talk of switching positions if he were to deny it. Then again, Voldemort just admitted he's tried and knows he isn't into it, whereas Harry has no clue how it would feel. Taking a leap of faith, reassured by being able to put a stop to it at any moment, he mutedly nods. The smile it earns him is almost enough to brush away his fluttering nerves. Almost.
Those nerves are absolutely shattered when his lips are captured in long, slow kisses that taste faintly sweet instead of metallic as he'd anticipated. With each stroke of Voldemort's tongue, he relaxes a little bit more, until he barely registers the thin, slick finger that presses inwards. Only when it slides in up to the first knuckle does Harry become fully aware of the sensation, far better than he'd feared it would be. There's no pain, only an odd pressure and sparks of renewed lust as his insides are massaged. Wriggling around and clenching his arse, he adapts to the sensation, strangely feeling emptier rather than fuller the deeper the finger is pushed inside. "I need... more?" he says after a while, when there is an unfamiliar ache that he tries to decipher.
"If your heart desires more, you shall have it," Voldemort darkly chuckles, ecstatic by this development. He pulls out for a moment, effortlessly lifting Harry's hips to shift him in a different position, then pushes tanned legs apart and upwards until Harry's hole is exposed. "What a gorgeous flush," the older man hisses, gaze roving over his prize. "But you can do better than that."
"S-shut up, you-oooohhh." Two fingers bully past his rim, erasing some of the needy emptiness that had been waiting to be filled. The new angle allows deeper penetration than before, maddening in the best possibly way. Moaning, his head falls back into the pillows as Voldemort moves ever faster, fingers curling until white sparks rob Harry of vision and speech more coherent than an eager scream. If the Dark Lord were to be thrown in Azkaban for any crime, it should be for not insisting to try this sooner. When his fiancé delightfully asks: "More?" Harry has long lost the ability to reply verbally, enthusiastically nodding as a third finger spears him.
"Such a picture..." Voldemort groans, wet sounds indicating that he's masturbating to the sight his debauched Intended makes. Harry becomes vaguely aware of having been turned over on his stomach in between thrusts. He doesn't want to know how he looks with his arse on display like this, worked open and skin covered with glistening sweat. His mind unhelpfully provides the image anyway, which turns him on more than he will openly admit.
"More?" a voice dark and rich as honey sinfully offers again, though when Harry makes a noise of agreement, he is betrayed by the hand slipping out. Left with nothing but memories to fuel this newfound need to be stuffed, he is about to protest when Voldemort shushes him. "Patience."
Sharp nails and teeth trail over the back of Harry's thighs until he shivers, travel up the curve of his arse, across his spine… Every one of his vertebrae is lavished attention on, lips that whisper incantations in a foreign language kissing each one and leaving a prickle of pure magic behind that winds him up until every cell in his body feels like it has molten lava poured into it. "W-what-" Harry manages to weakly mumble upon realising he is unable to move or concentrate on anything but the all-encompassing heat that rapidly spreads from the centre of his back to his limbs.
''The spinal cord is a vital part of the central nervous system,'' Voldemort whispers as he arrives at Harry's nape. He murmurs another unfamiliar word, driving what feels like a red-hot spike of pure lust through the skin. If Harry could move, he would be grinding into the sheets to relieve some of the friction. Now, the tip of his straining, leaking cock hangs just above the bed. ''I planted a spell into it: pomegranate kisses,'' the man explains, icy breath granting a moment of respite from the heat as it caresses the shell of Harry's ear. ''A treat to ease the rest of the way.''
'What way' he is about to ask when strong arms wrap tightly around his chest and Voldemort leaves no space for either air or thought as the blunt tip of his erection slides against the crack of Harry's arse and teases at the abused, fluttering entrance.
''I have waited too many years for this to hold back a second longer, darling,'' he says in lieu of an apology, then presses inward, the thick cockhead spreading Harry open much further than before. "Oh…. Oh, that is-" Voldemort groans, nails digging into skin as he grapples for control.
''Brilliant,'' Harry gasps in answer, struggling to breathe. Each time he inhales, the spell his Intended cast moves through his body like ink in water, setting him ablaze with desire so great that he couldn't feel pain if he tried. ''Move,'' he urges, having difficulty using his tongue to form words or lick drying lips. ''I can't but I need-''
''The paralysis is purely psychological and will fade,'' Voldemort assures him, ever the teacher. ''Your nerves are overwhelmed by the stimulation.''
Harry does not care for explanations, not when he is rigid with want that Voldemort is refusing to do something about quickly enough. He loudly cries out, subconsciously throwing his head back when his fiancé pulls out to reposition himself, then slides in to the hilt. Choking on his own saliva, Harry tries to keep up as Voldemort sets a brutal pace, barely able to wrap his head around the onslaught of pleasure assaulting every inch of his body. Pressure builds up in his sack with each stroke, his prick swells with the need to be touched and it's all Harry can think about as he sags into the pillows, drool dripping from his slack mouth. After having been so close to climaxing multiple times, it almost catches Harry off guard when he finally soaks the sheets, streams of cum sputtering out with each slam of Voldemort's hips. Just as he is about to catch his breath and sort his thoughts in any coherent shape or form, does his fiancé still, grunting quietly as the buried cock twitches and releases a gush of warm seed.
Spent now the high tension built up since Harry had handed over the blade has crumbled, a bony body collapses on top of him. It's quite heavy, perhaps to blame on how thin and battered Harry himself is in his old form, ribs practically jutting out. Blissfully, he relishes in the feel of being shielded from the outside world like this. For a Dark Lord who's spent most of his life alone, Voldemort is surprisingly clingy, curling up like an overgrown cat. There is physical warmth to the touch now – though whether the man has taken on Harry's own natural heat or if the earlier arousal played a part remains a mystery.
The intensity of their coupling ebbs away in lazy waves as minutes pass in cherished reverie. Through his eyelashes, Harry finally peeks at the décor, happy to have confirmed that he hadn't been the only one with seduction in mind today. The rose petals he'd paid brief attention to as he'd trampled them are scattered across every surface, a deep velvety red that matches the floating ambient lights and candles, scented ones that soon replace the smell of sweat and semen with a musky fragrance. So, this is what his Intended had meant with having prepared for the occasion enough to not let Harry 'ruin' their first time. At least he won't need to feel bad for pushing, then. It's sweet, even if the room gives off a similar vibe to heart-shaped confetti he'd rather ban from his memories...
Harry is very aware of the stupid grin that seems to have permanently settled on his face, and tries to scrub it off with his hands, as his Intended will absolutely not stop preening if he were to catch it. As Harry runs his fingers up and down supposedly cleanly-shaven skin, nails unexpectedly catch onto something coarse: a single strip of remaining hair running from chin to Adam's apple.
"Hey, you did an half-arsed job!" he laughs, turning around to face his soulmate.
Voldemort huffs disdainfully, inspecting the exposed throat. "I did incredible, with all the distractions that I was faced with. One has to expect a few broken planks when sailing into jagged rocks. Besides, I could hardly finish the job properly after you gave me a taste of your blood," he finishes, as if that is a valid excuse.
"I'm not sure I understand your fascination with it fully, but I'm glad to have one more ace up my sleeve to woo you."
Making a disbelieving sound, the other abruptly sits upright, eyes wide with an incredulous stare "How could I not? What runs through your veins was lost to legends, darling. That which alchemists have spent centuries trying to recreate: ichor, the golden elixir of life that grants immortality and eternal youth! Only Flamel succeeded in a weak imitation of it, yet now you are living proof it is not merely a tale."
The elixir of...
"Wait..." Harry stutters, having difficulty comprehending the implications. "Are you saying I'm like a- a living Philosopher's Stone?"
"Far more than that, although your blood does indeed have similar properties." The answer is said so casually, like Voldemort hadn't knowingly consumed it – for this reason? No... his Intended was already immortal in his own right, and he'd hardly have use for a potion of eternal youth. The serpentine, ethereal form Voldemort had crafted did not betray his true age in the least.
Age... With dawning horror, Harry blurts out: "I won't grow older? At all? Are you telling me I'm going to be stuck at eleven?"
"I don't see why that is a concern," Voldemort dismisses, languidly stretching long limbs before draping himself all over Harry once again. "You are currently already annoyed by your physical limitations and searching for solutions. I made a promise to look into ways to grant your wish of returning to this-" He presses a chaste kiss to Harry's chest, "-permanently, and sincerely doubt it will take longer to achieve that than it would have for you to naturally grow into any age you'd find acceptable."
He makes it sound so logical, so simple, but what if no potion or ritual can be found...? If mages haven't come up with such a spell in the past millennia...
"Your doubts will only hamper us," Voldemort sagely speaks. "A second spent worrying is one wasted, as it contributes nothing."
Easy to say for a man who has everything he wants and enough self-confidence to never second-guess a single step when gracing the ground with his gorgeous feet. Harry can't completely dismiss the advice, though, as it's true that his current line of thoughts won't help in finding a solution. It'll only take away from what little time they have left lying here like this. Only a single cauldron with ageing potion had been ready early due to the accidental addition of phoenix down. Harry wants to cherish every flask Voldemort managed to get out of that batch until they'll run out for a while, needing to wait on the rest. With the hour spent dancing around and inside each other, it won't be long until he'll be trapped again in a form Voldemort refuses to touch in this nature.
"Then, let's spend our seconds better," he suggests, shoving Voldemort off his chest and using the momentary shock to climb on top of his soul mate. "I think I need some more practise in kissing..."