Anklet
It always began with a kiss.
A brush of lips on the jumping pulse at Harry’s throat, and then, it was a slow descent into madness that Voldemort was powerless to contain, was helpless to stop even when he understood that it was unacceptable, that it was beneath him to indulge in that noxious wrench of desire in his stomach.
It was impossible to control, these urges. They grew more powerful with each passing day, with each moment he had the boy in his care.
At first, it was something he ignored.
A brush of fingers on the boy’s neck, a tap on the boy’s leg with his own feet. Innocent touches. A show of possession, of ownership. All things that the boy had long since acquiesced to when his mind had been suppressed to…stymie some of the more upsetting traits the boy possessed.
He was no puppet; Voldemort had not yet achieved absolute control, but what they had, though flawed, sufficed for his purposes.
A boy that worshipped the ground Voldemort tread on, that both admired and sought to save him. Voldemort had sneered at that, but now—
As his fingers roamed over the roll of Harry’s spine, counting the bumps beneath his fingers as he explored the near flawless skin, Voldemort did not complain.
There was something about this boy, something that he could not quite put his finger on.
There was a connection, no doubt. It wasn’t skin deep, wasn’t something as crass as desire and want, as ridiculous as love or care. It was difficult to describe, to quantify.
The boy shuddered beneath his fingers, back arching to accept more of Voldemort’s touch, to indulge the Lord that the boy had unwittingly accepted into his own heart from the moment Voldemort had snapped that anklet on his leg.
Harry laid naked on his stomach, his arms bound above his head on silken sheets. Voldemort had not bound him, had only arrived to find his pet in this compromising position when he’d returned from his meeting in Bulgaria.
It was…astounding, even now.
“Touch me.”
There was no question there.
Voldemort still did not understand why he had closed the door behind him and entered the room, why he had glided through the darkness without breaking eye contact with the boy’s intent stare. He had complied, had climbed onto the bed and began to touch, to savour, to worship.
There was something beneath his skin, a compulsion, a murmur.
Touch him.
He should have been upset, should have been perturbed at this sudden need to lean forward and kiss along the naked slope of the boy’s neck, tongue devouring the salty sheen of sweat on the boy’s flesh. Voldemort didn’t worship. No, they worshipped him, pleasured him, honoured him.
But—
Touch him.
Voldemort’s fingers roamed over the boy’s shoulders, caressed the quivering skin until he reached Harry’s ribcage. Softly, Voldemort worked through Harry’s body with his hands. Voldemort’s mouth followed the winding path that his fingers made, lingering longer where Harry released a low moan, where Harry’s body writhed and twitched most.
No place went untouched.
His neck, his nipples, his back, his ribs.
Voldemort explored each one, kissed each one, worshipped each one with the same religious quality that one did a wand—one point at a time.
His fingers twisted and tweaked Harry’s nipples, teeth grazed the reddening skin of Harry’s neck. A slide of his tongue, a whisper of his lips, a cruel yank on the boy’s nipples, and Harry was a sobbing mess.
Then, he moved lower, pace steady and resolute. Intent. His skin was hot, his palms itching. Voldemort couldn’t contain that steady thrum in his heart, in his veins. He had to touch, he had to—
His buttocks, his lower back, his thighs.
Voldemort kissed along the boy’s spine, relishing the soft mewls of pleasure that the boy couldn’t contain. His fingers curled over the flesh of the boy’s buttocks, squeezing and releasing the skin. Massaging the flesh until it was red, Voldemort didn’t stop until he was spreading Harry open and diving in there too.
Touch me.
Harry’s words echoed in his mind, intoxicating and alluring. Spell-binding. He pushed his tongue into the boy’s furled entrance, spread him wider beneath the weight of his hands. The boy cried out, writhed and shifted.
A finger wedged its way inside and curled, and Harry was choking on his gasps and cries. Voldemort drank them in like fine wine, emboldened. Another finger, another insistent push of his tongue along the outer seam of the boy’s entrance, and Harry was coming undone beneath his hands.
Voldemort couldn’t get enough.
In and out.
In and out.
Voldemort pushed his fingers deeper, and kissed the swell of his arse. There wasn’t a single centimetre of skin that remained unmarked. Wet with saliva, red with arousal, Harry was rutting into the sheets, spreading his legs wider. The boy’s head was shaking too and fro, unable to remain still.
Harry’s words were garbled, incoherent. Voldemort still understood what the boy wanted, could still hear the words in his own head as he devoted his time to Harry’s entrance, teased and pleasured that tight ring fluttering around him.
Touch me.
Voldemort fucked him on his fingers, on his tongue, until the boy shuddered one final time around him, until he was spilling into the silk sheets beneath him. A stream of white in a sea of black, Voldemort admired the sight with something akin to awe.
Voldemort hadn’t touched his length, hadn’t grazed his nails across the pulsing vein beneath the shaft.
He didn’t need to.
That was the extent of Harry’s arousal, the extent of his devotion to Voldemort. To come only from behind.
Beautiful.
A suckle, a kiss, a bite, and Voldemort worked his way lower still. The back of the boy’s thighs, the concave of the boy’s knee, the hard muscle of the boy’s calves: Voldemort’s palms massaged them, teased at them until Harry was writhing again. He wanted to break Harry open, to take him apart one limb at a time.
Gorgeous.
All that Harry could do was quiver, let out sharp intakes of breath. Voldemort took in each sound, tucked it away for later review at another time, for when his own need became too much and—
When Voldemort reached Harry’s ankles, it was like the world narrowed to a single point.
The anklet glittered beneath Voldemort’s scrutiny. Winking. The compulsion, the urges cresting at the centre of him, sharpened. His jaw ached with its force, with the suffocating need catching in Voldemort’s throat.
Voldemort’s hands massaged the boy’s calves, thumb applying pressure on the muscle, nails dragging along the skin. Harry writhed, groaned, but didn’t say much else. He rarely did.
Not while Voldemort touched him in his chambers
Please.
There was a voice in Voldemort’s head, one he both did and didn’t recognise. It was a distorted sound, a shrill cry.
Please stop. Stop.
Over and over again, it begged. It wanted this to stop, wanted Voldemort’s hands to pull away from the temptation of Harry’s flesh, but Voldemort did not, could not even if he’d wanted to.
There was something about this boy.
His insides had never felt more alive, his chest so full.
Voldemort’s lips found the boy’s ankle, tongue curling to taste the skin hidden inside the anklet. Harry convulsed beneath his hands, toes and legs tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing.
Please stop—
Touch me.
Two voices. Two different desires.
Voldemort’s fingers seized the boy’s twitching leg, caressing the boy’s ankle and stroking along the golden metal until the boy was keening. By the sound of it, Harry was nearing his limits, on the brink of coming again.
It was strange how such a sound was enough to make his own stomach pinch, for his own blood to travel south in a steady thrum, thrum, thrum. Voldemort’s teeth ached, too wet and too empty now. He wanted to bite, to chew and gorge himself on that ankle, to—
Do it.
Voldemort froze and then pulled away from the boy, stomach acrid with horror, with realisation at what he’d done, had allowed himself to be seduced to do.
At what I had almost been manipulated to do.
The ankle twinkled innocently at him, but Voldemort paid it no mind. His mind was screaming, bellowing with rage and fury, with fear and want—
So much want.
Voldemort didn’t stop pulling back until he was a safe distance away from the boy, near the door. His heart was racing, his own length straining in his robes with his arousal, with his blood lust.
The urge to curse Harry was heavy on his tongue.
How dare he?
Voldemort wanted to howl, to break everything in this room, to break the boy lying in that bed, unmoving.
The anklet restrained Harry, suppressed his true self beneath muscle and bone. It couldn’t be removed. There was no undoing what was done, not without severing a limb. Harry could not escape, but—
He had tried and almost succeeded.
Voldemort’s lips twisted with a sneer, ignoring the prickle of something soft twisting along his senses, a something that was almost a whisper but was not.
The boy was clever, far more intelligent that Voldemort had given him credit for. To have influenced him, to continue, to influence him, even now, when Voldemort had taken it upon himself to separate himself from the boy was unacceptable.
Admirable, but unacceptable.
“You’re not going to escape, Harry.”
The boy in the bed did not respond. Voldemort did not expect him to. That wasn’t who he was speaking to. That boy on the bed already belonged to Voldemort, heart and body.
No, he was speaking to the soul.
The last of Harry’s resistance.
The ankle didn’t glimmer, wasn’t capable of speech with this much distance, but Voldemort was certain that the soul buried in that metal, containing all the wild spirit that Harry Potter possessed, had heard. The sensation of what felt like fingers on his skin, of an influence that went deeper than Voldemort could begin to describe, was evidence enough.
“Tempt me all you like, but in the end, it is I that will come away the victor.”
Voldemort said into the room, turning away from the boy that had all but passed out on the bed. A snarl worked its way on Voldemort’s lips. The body might have been nothing more than a shell of Harry’s former self, but there was still resistance there, still—
Voldemort had to keep his distance.
At least, until he learned just how to deal with the Boy Who Lived, until he owned every part of him.
Mind. Body. Soul.