Lovely
“Harry.”
Harry shivered, unable to repress the unconscious reaction when a clawed finger pressed lightly against the nape of his neck. It was surprisingly gentle, the touch like a cold breeze brushing along exposed skin.
But that was not why Harry felt like his heart would burst, or why his hands felt clammy with sweat. No, there were many reasons why he felt like he would pass out right then and there.
“Vol–” Harry tried to say, but the words became tangled along his tongue. Lost, and never to be regained when the finger teasing along his neck dropped lower, ghosting along the center of his naked back.
And then the one finger multiplied. It was no longer one, but two, then three, then four, until a cool palm laid right at the middle of his back. Harry felt each ridge of the man’s fingers, felt each callous and each dip in the spidery digits as they teased and danced across his naked back.
It made gooseflesh rise wherever it touched him; heat building right beneath the thin layer of flesh as if someone had cast an Incendio from inside him.
It was always this way when the man touched him. It always felt like he were going to melt, like his skin was going to fall away and expose white bone.
“Such exquisite reactions at the merest press of my fingers. It never ceases to amaze me just how attuned you are…”
Harry swallowed back a curse when the hand dipped lower, the man’s nails scratching along the naked skin until Harry felt a sharp pain shoot along his spine. The man had drawn blood, but Harry did nothing to stop him.
After years, Harry had grown accustomed to the man’s more sadistic needs. There was no real way for them to be intimate without some sort of pain component bleeding into the passionate touches.
“…just how much your soul craves to become one with mine. It is intoxicating that you, my destined enemy, could crave this just as much as I.”
Harry moaned, pleasure dancing along the back of his closed eyes when that hand squeezed his arse roughly. The hand kneaded at the firm muscle, massaging away the hours of exercise he had put in earlier that afternoon with the department.
It was amazing just how good it could feel, how his soulmate could erase the hours of stress and abuse from work. Especially when it was his lover that made his work more difficult than it was.
Sleeping with the Dark Lord tended to bring those sorts of consequences. But it was the price he needed to pay. It was the deal they had both agreed to, and now, here they were.
Their skin pressed against skin, heat making caramel skin red with desire.
“S-speak for yourself. I may have proposed this idea to protect Britain from potential catastrophe, but that does not mean I–”
“There is no need for you to posture here, Harry. There is no Rita Skeeter to record our interactions. No politicians here to vilify you for your decisions. You made your proposal and I am merely here to collect…” the man hissed from above him, another hand dancing along his bare arse. “…the spoils.”
It was true.
Harry had been the one to approach Voldemort with his ridiculous proposal. He had been certain that Voldemort would not agree; that he would lift a hairless brow at him and fling the first curse he could think of in response.
But Voldemort had not. The man had heard him out, and after hours of negotiations, agreed. It had been an absolute shock to have been invited inside, without a wand pressed into his ribs, and asked to sit.
But the plan had worked. It had certainly required more out of Harry than he had initially planned, but it was better than the alternative.
Harry couldn’t sacrifice any more lives for this war. He had lost too much, and although it was disgusting what he had agreed to do. The nature of their…bond certainly made their interactions more palatable than what was possible.
“S-still, I will not behave like one of your sycophants. This is business, and it will never be anything else,” Harry nearly choked when Voldemort’s grip became unbearably tight. The man’s vicious nails dug into the flesh, and it took everything within Harry in that second to remain still.
“I don’t think you understand the nature of our agreement nor the nature of the bond we share, Harry.”
Voldemort’s voice was soft, but Harry knew that the man was upset. Harry could always tell, even when the man pretended to be otherwise.
Though, the fact that Voldemort was practically clawing into his arse was possibly a good indicator of the man’s…mercurial mood.
It didn’t stop Harry from scoffing, however. More than accustomed to the Dark Lord’s childish tantrums.
It could never be just a quick fuck, it always had to be about their bond.
Harry wished it could be simple. That their relationship was nothing more than a piece of paper for the greater good of Great Britain.
But this was not the case, not when he had Voldemort’s soul mark was smack in the middle of his forehead.
“It’s you that doesn’t get it. I may have your mark, but I am not yours. We have chosen to set aside our…hostilities when we made these negotiations. My word that I would not interfere in your bid for power in the outside world in exchange for your non-interference in Great Britain. My body in exchange for the lives of those that had fought against you. The list goes on. Pieces of me are yours to do with as you like…but I am my own, and not even this mark can change that.”
Harry whined when Voldemort spread his cheeks apart, his hips canting upwards wantonly at the feeling of cool air pressing against his puckered entrance.
“It is not simply the mark that makes you mine…” Voldemort hissed, and Harry cried out when a finger touched along his rim, the ticklish sensation making heat twist along his navel.
Harry didn’t need to be a genius to know just where Voldemort was heading with this. But Harry did not resist, his hard prick rubbing against the silken sheets beneath his nude body in excitement.
“Your body knows my touch, craves it when you are distanced from me…”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the words died as quickly as they manifested in his head, the push of Voldemort’s now un-clawed into his tight arse robbing him of his ability to speak. Harry hated when the man did this, but it would be a lie if he said it didn’t feel good to have him burrowing inside.
Their contract had been in effect for five years now. So Voldemort knew his body better than he had a right to.
“T-that’s not how it works–”
“That is precisely how it works, Harry.”
Voldemort cut him off smoothly, before shoving another finger inside without hesitation. The stretch burned, ripping a pitiful cry from Harry’s lips. The bastard had not thought to lubricate his fingers.
Sodding prick.
“Right now, you are still hard in spite of my less than gentle explorations. The pain? Hardly a deterrent. In fact, I might say…” Voldemort murmured thoughtfully, twisting his fingers to brush against Harry’s prostate without fail. “…it excites you.”
Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head at the sensation, the explosion of delicious heat making his toes curl and his spine bow; the feeling nearly making the world fade from his understanding.
The burn that had made the sensation uncomfortable had nearly melted away from the continued grind of Voldemort’s fingers. Though, it could never quite mask the pain the initial intrusion always brought. Especially when Voldemort’s fingers went in dry and the man’s digits were hardly small.
“S-shut up,” Harry said through soft pants, his hands fisting into the silk sheets at either side of his head.
“You and I both know you enjoy a little pillow talk. I have certainly not forgotten the thoughts you practically shouted into my mind earlier in our…agreement.”
Harry clenched his jaw, frustration and irritation making his lips curl into a snarl.
Why did he always have to bring that up…?
“Fuck off,” Harry cursed.
He didn’t need the bloody reminder. Not when he had to live with the fact that he was fucking his parents’ murderer for the greater good. He didn’t need that now, not when he wanted to simply fulfill his end of the bargain and return back to his cozy office in the Ministry of Magic.
“Fuck is certainly the correct term. I am certain that is the purpose of this evening…among other, more interesting things, don’t you agree?”
Harry failed to respond when Voldemort forced another finger inside, the burn returning with a vengeance now that the digits were no longer teasing along his prostate.
Fighting back tears of pain, Harry grit his teeth and allowed Voldemort to stretch him to his heart’s desire. Voldemort was a prick, yes. But he wouldn’t break Harry completely. The man would be utterly bored without some sort of challenge to stimulant his allegedly genius mind. It benefited them both for their play to never go beyond life-threatening.
But it certainly didn’t stop Voldemort from prodding at that line. If Harry showed any sort of weakness, there was no doubt that Voldemort would seize it like the good Slytherin he was.
“F-fuck,” Harry moaned when Voldemort rammed his fingers into his prostate. The burn, forgotten entirely when Voldemort hissed something unintelligible from above him to moisten his insides.
Harry wanted to weep with relief.
“My Harry,” Voldemort said, his voice now coming from several centimeters from Harry’s neck. The man, now, likely leaning over him like the light trailing after darkness.
“So mine…” Voldemort purred before plunging his fingers inside, thrusting them at a pace even Harry could not keep up with. His hips gyrated against Voldemort’s fingers, the ecstasy making his moans sweeter and breathier the longer Voldemort touched him.
“So beautiful…” and then Voldemort’s free hand was slipped between his parted thighs and stroked him in perfect sync with the fingers pushing deep into his arse.
Harry felt his mind blank, forgetting entirely where he was and with whom.
“My precious soulmate….”
The words came in perfect parseltongue, and it was the only warning Harry had before his orgasm ripped through him. His mouth hanging open to release a heart wrenching cry from the intensity, unable to stifle the sound when Voldemort’s skilled fingers continued to abuse his hole and tug, twist, and flick across the sensitive head of his prick.
The touches had been too much, and the parseltongue had been the tipping point.
As it always was.
“Lovely.”
And this was only the start of the evening.