Scented
ABO—
“Look at your neck. Look at the marks I left. You are mine. And solely mine.”
Harry snarled in response to Voldemort’s words, unwilling and resistant of the impulse that warred inside him to obey. It was a soft croon, a decadent utterance at the back of his head that urged him to bridge the gap between their bodies.
But Harry refused to comply even if it physically pained him to be away—to resist this man that had ingrained himself into Harry’s mind.
“Fuck you.” It was the only response Harry could think of at that moment, his stomach in knots when the Dark Lord rose from his throne to glide over to where Harry stood frozen several feet in the chamber. Harry was completely naked, save for the marks that Harry did not want to think about coloring his skin different shades of blue and red.
The colors reminded him idly of a Monet painting, of the blurring of the edges of his skin like that of a canvas. He was no longer the white that he had used to be—no longer the untied Omega he wished he remained.
Voldemort saw to that. He had sank his teeth so deep into Harry’s flesh that there was little for Harry to do but buck and scream as the man drank his blood.
Harry had been overwhelmed, ripped apart from the force in the man’s jaw. And then came the pain. Harry had felt like his soul had been split apart, a pressure so sickening in his gut that it still shocked him that he had not died the instance Voldemort had claimed him.
It was pure agony, like hot knives carving their way into his chest. It was shocking that no one saw fit to tell Harry just how painful a soul-bond could be.
But he supposed, binding yourself to Voldemort who had little soul left could do that. Perhaps, it wasn’t normally this painful and it was Voldemort’s…unique circumstances that made this worse?
“How…vulgar, Harry.” Voldemort’s voice no louder than a whisper. “Shall I show you how mine you are? Drown you in my scent until there is little doubt in your mind that you belong to me?” His tone set something aflame in Harry’s stomach, despite the softness of the Dark Lord’s usual hiss.
There was no doubt that his words were a threat.
“I am not yours. I don’t care if we have a soul-bond. I am my own person.”
Then Harry was scrambling back, resisting the thrumming beneath his skin to give in, when the man continued to move slowly towards him. Harry wanted to whimper and growl as he watched Voldemort prowl in the dark, his scent growing more overpowering—and his magic; oh how his magic called for his own, the intensity of it giving Voldemort’s essence some sort of sentience as it sought Harry’s own.
Harry’s magic was clear and pristine despite how sullied he felt when Voldemort bonded to him. Despite the painful ecstasy of Voldemort’s teeth sinking into his neck rather than the painless sensation of a killing curse. Harry had been prepared to die, to meet Death at the other side and rid himself of the shard of Voldemort’s soul that held tightly to his own.
But Voldemort had had other plans, ripping into his neck with such a savagery that it shocked even the Death Eaters in the clearing. The Dark Lord ripping Harry’s clothes off in his desperation to lay his marks on Harry’s skin too much for them to see.
Harry had been grateful the Alpha had not sought to take him then, content with simply binding their souls indefinitely. Sealing both Voldemort’s immortality and Harry’s fate.
It was the only reason he didn’t fight the pull of side-along apparition when it came; Voldemort whisking them away from the battle in an instant. The familiar pulling at his navel all the warning he had before he was no longer in the clearing, but in the throne room he currently found himself in.
And then Harry had scratched and clawed at Voldemort for release, managing to pull away completely from the Alpha that had so sullied him. He had made it as far as the soul-bond allowed, the reality that he could no longer escape a heavy weight on his mind when Voldemort had not chased after him, but had simply sat himself in the throne to watch Harry struggle against the bond. It had been silent for a few good minutes before Harry, beyond frustrated, had started to snarl and hiss at Voldemort from where he stood—unable to stop himself from provoking the man. It was the only thing that Harry had had left—his body had betrayed him and his soul was no longer his own. All he had had left was his mind and he would be damned before he let Voldemort take that too.
Even if Voldemort’s scent was overpowering and his magic just as oppressive. A rich darkness to the hue that reminded Harry of dark chocolate, of the spicy notes of black licorice in the back of one’s throat.
It made resistance more difficult, made something within Harry purr when Voldemort’s magic chased him in the dark in that moment. There was a dark thrill beneath his skin that he did not wish to acknowledge, one fed by the soft croon in the back of his head weaving promises of how good it would feel to be—
No!
Harry focused his attention back to Voldemort, grateful that he did not stop moving despite the war sounding within his head. Voldemort was still a good distance away, seeming to take his time in the poorly lit room to watch Harry run backwards. Harry turned ‘round then, unable to stomach the amusement in the Dark Lord’s eyes any longer.
In reality, Harry knew that running made things worse. That it would only incite the beast to give chase and take him. But he could not help the fear he felt; the fact that he had bonded with a monster.
He wanted to scream his horror into the universe in hopes that he could somehow free himself of this nightmare. He wished that he could just wake up back in Number 4 Privet Drive to realize that this was only a dream and not the reality that he was living. But this was reality, and it turned his stomach how his body pulsed with this…need. This heat that Harry had only ever felt a week before his heat.
“Stay.”
And Harry seized up completely, his body refusing to comply with his mental commands when Voldemort uttered the order. His feet were glued to the ground, his hands clenched into tight fists as he tried to resist the man’s soft order. If Harry had known that this was what happened to bonded Omegas, he would never have gone to the clearing alone. He would have never risked his literal neck.
But he was supposed to die. How was Harry supposed to know that Voldemort would make him his Omega? He had thought the man wanted to kill him, not—
“Let me go.” Harry tried not to sound like he was begging, to keep the plea out of his voice when the sound of Voldemort’s robes became louder and louder in the chamber, the distance between them shortening. Harry sounded desperate, angry and wounded, the words too similar to begging for Harry’s liking, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t remain silent while his world was completely tilted on its head.
Harry felt something coil in his stomach at just the thought of Voldemort touching him. The man had been gracious enough not to take him within view of his followers—to save Harry that humiliation. Harry was sure it had nothing to do with wanting to protect his own modesty, however. Voldemort was an Alpha, and a possessive bastard.
Knowing him, it was more so for his own interest than for Harry’s sake.
And now, they were alone.
It was only Harry and Voldemort in the room, save for their own soft breaths in the dark. No one would dare enter this chamber without Voldemort’s explicit order—there would be no interruptions, not when Voldemort had essentially set his Death Eaters to capture or kill the remaining rebels at Hogwarts.
“Let you go? There is nowhere for you to go, my Little Omega.” Harry shuddered at how close Voldemort sounded, his body melting into Voldemort’s chest when Voldemort’s arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s middle, the touch inflaming Harry’s bare skin. Harry growled, the sound weaker than he intended it to sound, but Voldemort’s pleased purr made something clench in his insides—his breath catch.
He could feel slickness pooling between his legs, horror and dismay cutting through his mind when he realized just how wet he was.
When did I—
“I can smell your arousal, Harry.” He shuddered when Voldemort whispered the phrase into his ear. “I can practically taste how desperately you want this despite your pitiful denials.” Harry bit his lip until he drew blood, silencing the whine that threatened to leave his lips when Voldemort pressed his lips to his throat then, too close to where Harry’s pulse was beating wildly beneath his skin.
If Voldemort wanted, he could bite into that skin and bleed Harry out. He could rip through Harry’s jugular and splatter his blood on the concrete ground beneath their feet. And Harry would be unable to stop him, his body still stubbornly refusing to move after his Alpha had given him an order.
“You may have my body, but I will never want you. This is a physical response, and it will never be anything mor—“
Harry’s breath caught when Voldemort nipped at his throat, his split tongue gliding over his skin to soothe the sting of his bite. Harry cursed at the sensation, hating how hyperaware he was of Voldemort’s body pulsing waves of heat at his back.
“G-get off!” Harry stammered out, wincing at how breathless his voice sounded when Voldemort’s hands smoothed down his sides, his nails scratching at the naked skin. It made gooseflesh rise over his exposed flesh, lighting a flame of want that made the moisture between his legs more obvious.
Harry’s heart was beating too quickly, he felt like it was ready to burst.
“This is a soul-bond, Harry. Your bear more than just my mark on your neck.” Voldemort murmured the words into Harry’s neck, the sensation of his teeth pressing on Harry’s skin making his gut clench, his cock flush with arousal, and his arse slick with desire.
Harry could smell Voldemort’s own arousal in the dark, the musky note of it just as exciting as the feeling of Voldemort’s teeth on his neck. Harry wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but when Voldemort’s hand slipped between his legs to trail his fingers over the glistening head of his cock, Harry whimpered.
He bloody whimpered as if he’d never wanked a day in his life. Harry was beyond mortified, his cheeks warm and his eyes wet with embarrassment at just who it was that elicited such feelings in him. He felt like he was choking, his throat blocked as Voldemort’s scent practically drowned his senses. Harry could nearly taste Voldemort’s thick arousal in the back of his throat, the scent almost viscous as he shut his eyes in effort to ignore it.
But it only made things worse.
Harry moaned when Voldemort’s grip on his hip became painfully tight, his nails drawing blood as the other hand on his cock began to move. It was a slow pace, meant to tease and tantalize rather than push Harry over the edge.
It was more to prove a point, Harry knew. There would be no reason that Voldemort would be this patient when they were utterly alone.
“Look at yourself…look at how you unravel under my hands.” Harry’s eyes snapped open instinctively, lowering his gaze to watch Voldemort’s hand jerk and twist at his cock. It was erotic—it was too much for him. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and pretend that he was anywhere but there, that he didn’t enjoy the way Voldemort’s hands felt across his naked skin.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t. He should—
“My touch is what has you writhing beneath me…” Voldemort licked up his neck before pressing his lips to Harry’s ear to whisper the sinful words. “My voice is what has you whimpering with need,” Voldemort hissed when Harry bucked his hips into the man’s hand, unable to stop himself when he felt himself edging closer to orgasm.
“My soul is what holds you here.” Harry again bit his lip so hard it bled when Voldemort’s hand on his hip suddenly scratched up his side, a painful burn awakening something Harry did not wish to acknowledge.
“There is nowhere for you to go, no other place for you to be than in my bed.” Voldemort’s pace became brutal and Harry felt like he’d been thrown overboard, his senses overwhelmed by the sound of the Dark Lord’s own growl and his scent.
Merlin, his scent.
It was like freshly brewed coffee—dark chocolate tossed into the drink. Harry could only watch how slick Voldemort’s hand became with his pre-cum, the fluid catching the light from the sconces in the room. It was vulgar—depraved how the sight of it only made the situation more dire and exciting.
How it made it more thrilling, made his brain foggy.
Harry didn’t realize he was moaning in earnest until he felt Voldemort’s chest vibrate with a pleased growl, the sound of it tipping Harry completely over the edge.
Harry came with a soft cry.
Harry could no longer keep his eyes open, finally disobeying his Alpha’s command in that instance to properly ride out his climax. Harry’s throat felt dry from how wide his mouth had opened, parted into a silent scream as he splattered over Voldemort’s hand until there was nothing left of himself to spill. He was panting heavily, completely spent as he tried to calm his racing heart—unable to ignore the reality of what they had done.
Of what Voldemort had made him do.
Harry pushed the miserable thought as far into the back of his mind as he could, unwilling to open the floodgate of self-loathing and disgust he felt coiling within him. His body was practically a boneless heap, total exhaustion settling into his bones from the aftermath. It was so intense, Harry was unable to stop himself from slumping in Voldemort’s firm grip.
The man’s body was scalding, threatening to fan the flames Harry had only just seconds earlier, extinguished. He wanted to move away, to escape from the feeling of moisture between his legs, to hide the wetness trailing down his thighs, but his muscles were sluggish. It felt like he had run several laps rather than had the most intense orgasm of his life.
He didn’t resist when Voldemort lifted him into his arms, his body refusing to comply when the man carried him back to his throne. It looked blurred to Harry—the monochromatic color of the room making it difficult to discern just how the throne looked.
Had it been gold? Was it wooden? Was it made of stone? Harry was not sure at all at that precise moment. But what did it matter, really? There was no reason for him to debate the bloody texture of the chair when he had practically been—
Harry silenced the thought before it went any further, focusing instead on trying to squirm his way out of the man’s hold. It was tight, his hold so strong that it was almost impressive that Voldemort had such strength in his thin frame.
Harry never considered Voldemort could be just as physically strong as he was magically—that the arms carrying him back to the throne, and now, laying him gently on the cold stone of the throne, could be so powerful. It stoked something prideful in the back of his mind.
That his Alpha could be so—
Harry’s blood ran cold, something hot pulsing through his veins at the implication of his own thoughts. Voldemort was most certainly not his Alpha. He did not want this bond—he did not desire this connection. He never asked to house a piece of Voldemort’s soul and give up a piece of his own to assure Voldemort’s success against the Light.
Voldemort was his enemy.
“Don’t touch me!” Harry managed to sputter before Voldemort crowded him into the throne, leaning above him like some specter before seizing him by his leg and yanking it around his waist, and doing the same to the other.
Harry’s face was on fire, unsure of what to do when he felt Voldemort’s finger prod his arsehole with one long, clawed finger. He was moving too quickly for Harry to follow, still drunk on the high from his orgasm mere seconds earlier.
Voldemort’s finger felt sharp, the threat of it pumping adrenaline through Harry’s veins.
The man could literally rip him open.
“W-what are you--?” Harry hissed when Voldemort’s nail suddenly poked into him, his other hand gripping his thigh so tightly Harry would surely have bruises.
“Does it make you nervous how easily I can split you open?” Voldemort whispered, the red in his eyes trapping Harry’s own nervous gaze instantly. It was by far the dumbest question Harry had ever heard. He was more than nervous, he was bloody petrified.
But he didn’t have time to voice his concerns before Voldemort whispered something foreign under his breath and shoved that very finger up his arse, the intrusion eliciting a startled cry from Harry’s lips. It burned despite how moist Harry still was from his earlier orgasm—the sensation of his walls wrapping around Voldemort’s fingers enough to make him squirm uncomfortably in Voldemort’s grip.
“Not enough, it seems, to silence those insolent thoughts, I see.”
And then Voldemort shoved a second finger, the stretch burning so intently that Harry could not stifle his cries when Voldemort’s nails prodded at his insides. His stomach twisted from the sensation, his mind fogging over with pain and pleasure when Voldemort’s scent suddenly assaulted him.
The smell was enough to soothe and fan Harry’s own arousal, to make his soft cock harden with his own excitement. Harry was absolutely terrified at his own reaction—his own rational mind warring with the beast inside him.
Voldemort’s eyes held a knowing gleam, as if they could read into Harry’s thoughts as he continued to push and prod inside of Harry’s arse for something—his typically impassive face riveted by whatever it was the man could see on Harry’s own face.
And just as Harry thought he could grow accustomed to the sensation, Voldemort was forcing a third finger inside, the stretch too much too fast for Harry to handle. Harry writhed and squirmed, reaching out to stop Voldemort’s unwanted intrusion while he still retained some sanity left, but his attempts failed.
Voldemort’s amused laugh was the only warning Harry had before his arms were pinned to his own chest, leaving him totally defenseless. Harry’s eyes widened in shock, unable to hide the fear swirling in the depths of his eyes.
Harry was at a loss at what to do. His panic and hysteria making his lips screw into a grimace as he tried to determine what to bloody do. When his struggles did not give him the answer he needed, Harry knew he was totally fucked.
So he did what he was best at—pissing the dark lord off. It was better to be tortured than to be forced to experience this.
“What? Afraid you aren’t good enough to force me into submission by your own hand?” Harry grunted out, trying to ignore the pain of Voldemort’s nails practically scratching at his insides. It should have hurt more than it actually did—he should have felt like he was being shredded apart.
Had Voldemort done something to his own nails then? Had that been what he whispered under his breath?—
Voldemort merely rose a hairless brow at him, before twisting his fingers inside Harry just so.
Harry saw stars.
“You were saying?” Voldemort punctuated his words by plunging his fingers deeper inside Harry, hitting something that robbed all the words from Harry’s throat. Harry was groaning and moaning from the continuous assault, Voldemort’s fingers not letting up despite how dangerously close to the edge Harry was getting.
Harry didn’t know what that place inside him was—didn’t know it could feel that good, that it could be so bloody overwhelming. He felt like he was losing his bloody mind every single time Voldemort prodded at it.
Harry didn’t even feel the man’s nails anymore. The sounds leaving Harry’s lips nonsensical.
“I can’t quite make out what you’re saying. Care to repeat that?” Harry tried to gather his thoughts, screwing his lips to shape the words he wanted to speak, but Voldemort chose that instant to release the bruising grip on his thigh to play with Harry’s cock.
Harry choked on his words, feeling so close to orgasm that he was bucking into Voldemort’s fingers without regard for who was fucking him with his fingers. He could care less at that precise second, the overwhelming pleasure and Voldemort’s comforting scent blindsiding him.
Just as he was nearing the edge, about to tip over, Voldemort abruptly removed his fingers from his arse. Harry was about to protest, to damn himself further, by demanding that the man finish what he started—
Harry screamed.
Voldemort plunged his cock inside him, the stretch nothing like the fingers that had been previously thrusting inside him. He struggled against the force keeping his hands still, trembling and whimpering when Voldemort did not wait for Harry to adjust.
His pace was brutal—the slickness of his insides not enough to make the intrusion less uncomfortable.
“I can make this quite painful, Harry.” Harry grimaced, his lips screwing into a painful line when he noted the way Voldemort’s lips twitched into a smirk at his response.
“T-take it out.” Harry grit out, his breath catching when Voldemort continued to jerk inside him, purposefully avoiding the spot inside Harry that had had him nearing the edge.
“I can rip screams from your lips all night if you wish.”
Harry gasped when Voldemort squeezed Harry’s cock painfully with his hand, the grip tight enough to force another pained cry from his lips. “I can keep you on the cusp of lucidity for hours as I take you like this.”
Harry believed him. The mirth in Voldemort’s eyes enough evidence that Voldemort would enjoy every second at Harry’s expense.
“Crucio.”
And then Harry was screaming, shouting so loudly from the tops of his lungs that it hardly mattered to him that Voldemort groaned appreciatively above him. Harry’s flesh felt as if it was being ripped apart—his vision completely obscured by his own unshed tears as he tried to hold them back.
He refused to cry—not in front of this man. He absolutely refused to seem weak.
“You flutter so pleasantly around me, Harry. But this is not what you fear, is it?” Voldemort’s voice was labored, the only other sign that the man was not as unaffected as he made himself out to be. “No, pain you expect. This is what you want.”
Harry continued to scream through the agony of the torture curse as Voldemort fucked him for a few more seconds before ending the curse abruptly. Harry slumped against the stone throne, trying to calm his breaths as he watched Voldemort continue to move within him.
He felt each push and pull on his walls—the discomfort of it was nothing compared to being cruciated, but it was no picnic either. Harry had to admit that Voldemort was not wrong that he much preferred the pain of this—that it kept him grounded and to himself. That his mind remained blissfully free of the cloud of desire that Voldemort’s scent and touch forced on him.
“But pleasure…that is what truly frightens you.” And then Voldemort jerked inside him, slamming the strange spot inside him so hard that Harry did not have the time to stifle his cry of pleasure. It was like a punch in the gut, Voldemort’s painful grip on his cock shifting to a gentler and teasing hold as the hand played with Harry’s cock.
Harry was overwhelmed, his senses thrown completely by the abrupt switch from pain to pleasure. Voldemort was slamming into the spot in earnest then, seemingly emboldened by Harry’s cries of pleasure.
“St-ah!” If Harry could move his hands, he would have been scrambling to find his balance—to do anything to ground himself as Voldemort drowned him in the thick smell of his own arousal and his touch. The muscles of his arse clenching tightly around Voldemort’s cock each time it plunged into him, filing him up and milking a pleased moan from Harry’s lips.
Merlin, it felt so good.
Harry wanted to die. He wanted to drown in the sensation and die all at the same time.
And then he felt Voldemort’s swell suddenly within him, the only warning Harry had before Voldemort’s cock began to slam more furiously into Harry’s prostate; his hand brutally jerking Harry’s cock until Harry came with a pleasured scream.
All Harry could see was white and red, Voldemort’s glittering eyes on his until Harry had no cum left. He was oversensitive, utterly spent as Voldemort continued to fuck into him until his cock was so swollen that it could no longer move. Harry felt full, split completely on Voldemort’s cock as Voldemort’s seed filled him to the brim.
Harry was more than a little grateful in that instance that Omega males could not get pregnant then. Trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart as Voldemort knotted him for what felt like an eternity. It was at least one less threat to the many Voldemort presented to him.
Harry was relieved when it finally ended—when the man slipped his cock from inside him. But that feeling was short-lived. The predatory gleam in Voldemort’s eyes enough to make Harry’s insides hot and cold as he scooped Harry back into his arms.
He felt utterly trapped.
“Did you think we were done? How…naïve.”