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Slap.
Harry hissed, his knees trembling as a smooth palm smacked against his arse. The hit stung, the burn shooting up his spine like a million sparks of electricity.
It was the first of a series of slaps, and Harry already felt like he was going collapse. The pain was unbearable, the magic the man had woven had somehow made him annoyingly sensitive to even the subtlest press of a finger.
Hell, even Voldemort's soft breaths at the back of his neck shot fire along his veins. Its heat like the rays of the afternoon sun with the way it burned . It made his stomach clench and his cock throb, insides twisting for more. Always more . This an unbearable agony that Harry did not want, rebelled against, but could not escape even if he wanted to.
The magic was impossible to deny. It gripped onto him more tightly than the bounds that were keeping him perfectly restrained in Voldemort’s hold.
"I will beat submission into your flesh, Harry," Voldemort murmured into his ear, his breath making that unbearable heat twist within his insides when it fanned across the shell of his ear. "I have more than enough time to temper this defiance."
Harry's cock twitched at the words, unable to stop the humiliation from coloring his cheeks a bright red. A reaction Harry wished he hadn’t had, didn’t feel tugging insistently at his navel. How he hated this, detested the way this magic, this connection between them, had somehow managed to blur the lines between pleasure and pain. It was deplorable, and sick , but—
It feels good, doesn’t it? An insidious voice in his head said. Its purr and delighted tenor so similar to Harry’s own voice that it sickened him. It was his , but also not. This was someone else, some thing else that Voldemort had awoken with the briefest whisper into his ear.
An incantation that made his skin throb, his heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird in his chest. It was artificial; a hoax fabricated by the Dark Lord to make him lean into his touch, Harry was convinced. There was no other explanation.
Though trying to convince himself of this fact grew more difficult the longer he remained here, trapped within Voldemort’s chambers. Dressed only in his bare flesh, a collar wound tightly around his throat.
Like some pet. It was infuriating that that was what he essentially was. A trophy.
A fingernail digging into his arse tore him from the angry thought, tip following along the swell of his bump, smearing sweat and blood along his skin. Harry shuddered, a wheeze stuttering past his lungs. It wasn’t painful, but it rocked him. Tugged at his innards, elicited reactions that Harry did not wish to have.
It’s the magic, Harry, it isn’t you, Harry chanted within his head, fingers squeezing into tight fists.
Are you sure? Do you actually believe that? Another voice replied, the same deformed version of himself. It sounded amused, doubtful of the direction Harry’s thoughts had gone.
No, it’s not me...it isn’t. It’s magic, it’s—
The fact that you can’t see him?
Harry stopped for a moment, recalling something Hermione had told him once before. A story, a discussion she’d been having with Ginny about sensory deprivation and the like. He hadn’t been paying attention, uninterested in the conversation when he’d been deeply engrossed in a game of exploding snap.
Blind the eyes and you can heighten all sorts of sensations. It increases sensitivity, after all. It’s why it’s a popular method of torture... Yes, that had to be it.
It was the fact that Harry couldn't see Voldemort that heightened each whisper of air against his flesh. It all made sense. That had to be it.
It wasn’t Harry, it was Voldemort’s subtle mind games at play that had made him into this...that had made the subtle echoes of Harry’s gasps, and the iron taste in his mouth so visceral.
A game, that was what this all was. A slow, trickle of distress and unease the back of one’s mind. Oozing doubt, sowing unrest within his heart until Harry knew nothing but these sensations the Dark Lord evoked in him. The bastard was doing it on purpose. Did it to make his suffering worse, to make everything harder to deny.
Harry clenched his jaw, the skin of his back rippling into gooseflesh when cool air brushed along his spine, pulling him out of the angry dialogue of his mind. It was like being submerged in cold water, realization a sharp blade embedded between his ribs.
He was still tied up, arms tied above him by his wrists, and his naked back exposed to the man's gaze. A shrewd pair of eyes that had taken its fill of his skin, of his suffering long before the games had taken a far different turn...
Harry was standing on shaking legs, bent slightly over so that the Dark Lord had unfettered access to his arse. His body displayed like some offering to a merciless God that planned to slake his thirst on his body. Salivating, perhaps, at raking its nails across his back and marking him in places that no other ever would.
Much like how the flagellants had torn into their back with leather whips, punishing themselves for the evil that swept along their shores with merciless hands.
Punishment for the evil they’d let roam across the Earth...
The irony of it all was not lost to Harry. It made him want to laugh derisively, to taunt the bastard because that was what Harry was. He was a sacrifice, a martyr. His body pliant flesh that would yield to the sharp edges of Voldemort’s existence. It was what they had agreed to, of course. His body in exchange for the lives of his friends, his soul the steep price for the safety of those he valued most in the world.
This arrangement was clearly not to Harry’s favor. One-sided, toxic in every conceivable way, if Harry was being honest. But this was hardly surprising. The Dark Lord, though insane, was no fool. He was far from it, in fact.
Not that it stopped Harry from fighting him at every turn, snarling and struggling every chance he got. Agreement or no, Harry vowed he would never willingly offer himself after the first time Voldemort slaked his thirst on his flesh.
Once to seal the deal, but only once. He had made himself perfectly clear when he signed himself away that he would never be his, tone bitter and acidic when he scrawled his name into the parchment and watched magic bloom.
Only once to seal the deal, but he would never give himself entirely. Smearing ink, and blood across the parchment, writing that particular clause into the magical contract to ensure that neither one of them went against their word.
The Dark Lord wasn’t a fool, but neither was Harry. Signing away his body, temporarily lending him his soul, was one thing, but his will and mind—
No, Harry would sooner chew glass than ever give up his fire. He would never allow Voldemort to break his spirit like porcelain. He had his own followers for that sort of game. Even if this arrangement was no than that of a pet and its master.
“In your bloody dreams,” Harry groused back, a pained hiss tearing from his lips when Voldemort smashed his palm unforgivingly into his arse. He felt that sharp pain travel up his spine, twist along his innards with its intensity. The magic, Voldemort’s bloody spell, had virtually shred his pain tolerance. A deliberate choice from the Dark Lord’s part, Harry was certain.
Bastard.
Harry writhed within his restraints, struggling against them even if he knew it was fruitless. There was no fighting against the Dark Lord’s power. No escape when the monster wanted to play, to relish in his pained screams.
It was more for his peace of mind. The fighting, the snark, the insults he couldn’t help shouting every opportunity he had.
That didn’t mean, however, that he didn’t want to be free. No, that wasn’t it at all.
Don’t get him wrong. He wished more than ever that he could move, could maim the bastard in some way. Harry yearned for his freedom. He was a child of the skies, the son of chaos and instinct. It went against his very nature to be confined this way. Even more so when it denied him the pleasure of pissing the arsehole off.
The games always ended early when he managed to infuriate the Dark Lord. It was predictable. One carefully worded insult paired with a well-timed kick always a successful means of getting Voldemort angry enough to cut the shit and cruciate him until he drank his fill of Harry’s screams. It was agony, unbearable in many respects, but it was better than letting the Dark Lord do as he pleased.
Better an angry Dark Lord than a scheming one...
But Voldemort had anticipated all this, it seemed. The man, before Harry could protest, had tied his ankles down onto the ground with only a flick of his wand. It had been so fast that Harry hadn’t even had the presence of mind to punch him before his arms, too, were tied high and above his back. Denied him any means of escape without uttering a single word.
It was possible that Voldemort was still incensed about the last time. Harry tried not to snicker at that, recalling how Voldemort had been foolish enough to leave his legs free…
It was a wonderful memory.
Voldemort’s angry roar when Harry had kicked him between the legs, the most delightful sound he’d ever heard. It was a miracle in and of itself that the Dark Lord had not killed him for that slight. That enraged hiss and the violence that had come thereafter had been terrifying, of course. There was no doubt of this since Harry still carried the scars of that encounter on his back. But Merlin, he’d do it again.
It’d been so worth it. Not only did he surprise the Dark Lord, but he cut the festivities off as quickly as they had ensued, gave him some respite before the Dark Lord would seek him out again for another battle of wills.
Those two weeks without Voldemort’s power games had been heavenly...
And so very unlike the current situation Harry now found himself in. The Dark Lord had ensnared him this time around. Better than even the Devil’s Snare had when he had been a wild child back in First Year—
Another slap was beaten against his arse and Harry tried to recoil, a choked gasp fleeing his mouth from the agony. The pain somehow built from the previous smacks, always worse, and more terrible than the last. His body didn’t get far, however, there was no running from this, he was under the Dark Lord’s gentle mercies now.
Merlin help him.
A warm breath curled around his bare neck, and Harry shivered, recalling once again that he was naked. Bare before Voldemort’s crimson gaze with no means of escape. A lamb awaiting its inevitable slaughter at the hands of a borish beast. A position that always made Harry feel disgustingly vulnerable.
He hated it.
And Voldemort knew this well, knew this better than anyone just how unnerved this made Harry. It was impossible to be unaffected, to remain level-headed even knowing that Voldemort would not kill him. There were worse fates than death, Harry knew this better than anyone, had learned this sad fact in the past.
But toss it, this situation certainly took the cake. There was no worse fate that being stuck here with the Dark Lord after all, bound and naked. Unable to do anything more than receive whatever punishment the bastard deigned to give him.
Especially when the Dark Lord knew more than he should have, having slipped into his mind during one of their sessions when Harry had been...distracted. There, the man had seen his thoughts, had ripped out particular information he hadn’t wanted Voldemort to know.
That knowledge of what Voldemort had done still rankling him because Voldemort wasn’t supposed to know where those thoughts dwelled. He wasn’t supposed to slip into his thoughts when he was coming apart from the pain and find out that he was—
Harry banished the thought immediately, unwilling to follow the direction it was heading.
Another slap came, and Harry’s spine bent, mouth twisting into a pained cry at the sparks of agony that lit up inside him. A pressure swelled within him that he didn’t want to acknowledge, that he didn’t want to think about.
Fuck.
Harry thought he might go insane, embarrassed and swollen with misplaced anticipation. At this rate, he’d bloody bruise. He wouldn’t be able to sit on any bloody surface without recalling the feeling of Voldemort’s hand on his arse.
"F-fuck you," Harry gasped when Voldemort slapped his arse once more, the pain nearly enough to make Harry see white. More real, somehow sharper, than the last with how it skewered his insides—traveling up his coccyx all the way up to the back of his neck.
"Is that a request?" Voldemort purred into his ear before smoothing his hand against Harry's hip and palming at Harry's stiff prick, his humiliation making his insides curl in an entirely different way now. "...do you want me to relieve this Harry? All you need to do is say the word. I may undo the spell and allow you your release..."
Harry moaned, his legs nearly giving out on him when unwanted pleasure suddenly consumed his entire being, the combination of pain and pleasure bringing making that budding pressure in his navel ache. It brought him so close to that cliff that he nearly tasted it in the back of his throat, felt its flutter against his navel like the rhythmic beating of his heart. But it wasn’t enough, not nearly close enough for him to fall from the precipice.
Harry wanted to scream with frustration, to shout with anger. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want—
"S-shut up, quit playing games," Harry hated the weakness in his voice, the breathless quality to his tone that he just knew Voldemort reveled on. It couldn’t be helped, however. Voldemort knew more than he should, knew how to bring him near that edge without letting him crest. There was no such thing as immunity when it came to the Dark Lord, especially when that thumb traced his slit just so, thumb grazing the underside of his oozing cock.
“But you enjoy these games, Harry, I have seen it in your mind,” Voldemort purred, finger palming more firmly on his cock to smear more of his fluids over his shaft. Heat spread from his cheeks down to his chest from the humiliation, reminded once again of what Voldemort had seen in his head. Wet shlicks loud and unmistakable with the way they cut through the utter stillness surrounding them.
Voldemort curled his hand more tightly around his shaft, and then stroked him once. A sharp smack meeting his bare arse in perfect sync with the movement.
Harry eyes shot open, a wanton moan fleeing his mouth because that felt so good. It hurt, god did it hurt, with the way the pain only increased as the blows came. He knew pain shouldn’t have made him feel this way, knew that this agony was wrong. That to get off on Voldemort’s touch, to get off on the pain the monster bestowed upon him was the foulest thing imaginable.
But you enjoy it, don’t you? A voice hissed into his mind, seductive and alluring. A different sort of heat swelled low in his belly, and Harry closed his eyes briefly at the way it hooked inside him.
Bloody hell.
“I know you enjoy the pain, I know you enjoy when I chase you into the darkness, when I hold you down and hurt you,” Voldemort pressed closer behind him, mouth a sliver away from the shell of his ear. Harry’s insides coiled like a tight spring in response, unable to stop his excited breathing when Voldemort chose that moment to dig sharp nails into the delicate flesh of his arse. The same place the Dark Lord had been slapping with his hand.
A low moan tore from Harry’s mouth, and he leaned into Voldemort’s hand, ecstasy spiking through his insides when he felt a sharp pain, and then warm droplets begin to drizzle seconds thereafter. Voldemort had drawn blood.
“Fuck, can’t you just be q-quiet,” Harry moaned, throwing his head back when Voldemort laughed into his ear and slapped his arse again, and again. The blows rained down on him in no discernable order. They were random, alternating between one cheek to two, or both. Pausing, at times, between blows whenever Harry anticipated the next one.
Yesss.
Harry shook with the force of them, nearly climaxing from the pain alone. Frustrated that Voldemort always seemed to lighten just as he was near it, as his toes curled with the promise of his first orgasm of the evening.
“You know what to do, Harry,” Voldemort crooned, hand stilling to caress the sensitive flesh. Peppering him with disgustingly gentle and soft touches that made Harry want to weep. It wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t enough stimulation to get him off. “Tell me what it is that you want.
Harry bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, wanting nothing more than to tell Voldemort where he could shove his words, but knowing that doing such a thing would only make the suffering worse. Voldemort wasn’t a patient man. He was cruel. The worst sort of sadist Harry knew. He played with his food, watched it break apart within his fingers only to mend it back together to start the process all over again.
Pain was Harry’s kryptonite, his weakness while pleasure was his undoing, the means by which Voldemort kept him cooperative enough to play his games. It was how he managed to force Harry to bend even with a contract in place, and it was sickening to see just how well that worked.
“I am not above leaving you here all night without release, above having others come into our playroom to witness just how much of a masochist you are…”
Harry swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down at the dark amusement in the man’s tone. The threat was unmistakable. Voldemort was not above doing such a thing. He had very nearly done that to him once before when Voldemort had decided to punish him at the Headmaster’s Office in Hogwarts.
Refuse him, Harry, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind him torturing you in front of—
Harry spoke before he let the thought finish, unwilling to let the mere idea of such a thing percolate in his brain. Just the threat that Voldemort might pick up on that voice, might see something else was enough to force, even him, to swallow his pride.
“P-please,” Harry said through clenched teeth, irked that he'd given in so easily. But between the threat, the man’s touch him, and his proximity to his own orgasm, Harry wasn’t left with many options.
Fucker.
Harry needed to cum badly. He’d been denied for what felt like hours now. He couldn’t stand another bloody moment being edged in this fashion.
"Your begging sounds exquisite, Harry," Voldemort said, and Harry cried out when the man smacked his arse viciously, Harry's spine arching despite himself. It was the hardest hit Voldemort had given him yet, and Harry stomach quivered from its intensity.
"...I'll consider your request. But first, we still need to see to your punishment for your cheek."
Harry’s lips twisted into an angry snarl at the mischievous glee in the man's tone, shuddering when a sharp nail wedged itself between his cheeks to brush against his arsehole.
“Let’s see how long your pride will last. It seems you’ve...mistaken the nature of our relationship.”
Harry let out a growl that morphed into a pained whine when Voldemort shoved a dry finger inside and curled, brushing against his prostate instantly.
“Let us rectify this, shall we?”
Spit trickled down his chin, mouth parted into a silent scream when Voldemort barely pumped the finger inside before he was shoving a second finger after the first. The pain, the delicious jolt of ecstasy, twisted ‘round his belly.
Voldemort’s palm was still playing with his cock, and it was only after Harry grinded into it, desperate for his release that Voldemort squeezed the base hard enough to hurt.
“P-please, just,” Harry said before he was cut off once more by a third finger being forced inside, shoved up to the knuckle. The dryness of those long and thick fingers chafed his insides, rubbed him raw, but Harry couldn’t find it within himself to care.
Not at that moment, not when the pain felt so good.
“Say it, Harry,” Voldemort whispered into his ear, a forked tongue licking at the shell, drawing another spasm from Harry’s body.
“Tell me how much you like this, how much you enjoy how I touch you…” The Dark Lord’s voice was sly, a seductive lilt to the susurration that Harry could barely stand it.
God, I’m going to lose my bloody mind.
Harry rocked into his hand, but Voldemort squeezed and refused to move. A pitiful sound escaped him at being denied this friction, at being denied more pain when Voldemort stopped pumping into his arse seconds after that.
The man wanted him to beg. To voice the thoughts in his head, to admit to his own depravity.
Humiliation tasted foul in his mouth, rancid and acidic as they lodged in his throat.
Harry couldn’t believe what Voldemort wanted from him, what the bastard expected him to do. This wasn’t part of their agreement, this wasn’t a part of their arrangement, but—
I need to cum. Godric, I need to cum.
“I-I,” Harry stopped, swallowing hard when Voldemort’s fingers twitched inside him, when a forked tongue licked a wet line from his ear to the back of his throat. Heat and something forbidden and wrong lurched inside him in response.
“Go on, Harry, I am listening,” Voldemort purred, Harry’s lip trembling with both anger and frustration. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, burning from the intensity.
Everything revolted at the mere idea of doing what he was going to do. Protested, begged him not to. His pride ached in a way that it hadn’t since the day he’d agreed to sign himself away to the Dark Lord, and he hated this.
Hated Voldemort, hated himself, for hardening further in reaction. For delighting in some sick and twisted way at his undoing.
“I love it when you hurt me,” Harry began, words morphing into a pleased moan when Voldemort began to thrust inside him with his fingers, curling them just so to brush against his prostate.
“P-please touch me, hurt me, I-I need it.”
A shudder swept up his spine when Voldemort’s mouth brushed against his shoulder, a pleased hum vibrating against his throat.
“Good boy, Harry,” Voldemort said before the man’s teeth suddenly cut into his throat, drawing blood and tearing skin.
Harry screamed, body shuddering when Voldemort then tore his fingers from his arse, and then shoved his hard, wet cock inside his arsehole. Its girth stretched him to the point of pain, more than his fingers ever could. It hurt, tore him from the inside out and he loved it. Pulled apart, and gaping for him, screaming when Voldemort did not wait for him to adjust to start moving.
The monster pulled himself out and buried himself back in, setting a brutal pace that had Harry seeing white within seconds.
Yess.
Harry came hard, cock spurting white all over his stomach and on the carpet below. His eyes wide, his mouth open with tongue pressed against his lip as Voldemort ground into his arse mercilessly, milking Harry’s cock with his hand until not a single drop of cum was left in Harry’s prick.
Everything hurt. His cock, his arse, his neck where Voldemort chewed into his flesh, a delicious agony that drove him mad. He was meeting Voldemort’s thrusts with his own, mind black and deliciously empty of the shame that had made him fight for as long as he did.
This pain, this oversensitivity was everything. And Harry didn’t want it to end, wanted to feel that cock brand him from the inside out until he was leaking cum from between his legs for days. His body marked and aching, reminded of Voldemort’s torture for weeks after until Voldemort fucked him again.
More.
Voldemort continued to stroke his sensitive cock, finger nail now digging into his slit until a sharp twinge cut through his insides there as well. Burning, twisting, and unmaking him just as Voldemort’s brutal thrusts against his prostate undid him. A second orgasm began to form, building lowly in his belly, cock hardening at the abuse.
“Such a needy thing you are,” Voldemort groaned after tearing his mouth from Harry’s neck, breath puffing against his ear as he took Harry from behind, his legs shaking beneath him, but fortunately upright from whatever spell Voldemort had cast to keep him standing in the middle of the room.
“I will satisfy all of your needs, show you just how much you need me, my little horcrux,” Voldemort said between thrusts, sounding breathless and excited to Harry’s ears. The man wasn’t unaffected, not nearly as in control as he wanted to make himself out to be. The stuttering of the man’s hips was all the evidence Harry needed to know this fact.
It made misplace pride swell within him to do this, to unmake the Voldemort in this way. A monster he was, but even he had weaknesses. And those just so happened to be forced into the light by the very body the Dark Lord was pounding into without mercy.
More.
Then, Voldemort bit into his neck a second time, teeth gnawing into the flash, and Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, body shuddering and falling slack in Voldemort’s magical restraints.
His cock oozed cum this time, spent from the first orgasm. It was incomparable to the stream that was currently drying on the ground and on his belly, but it didn’t matter to Harry. None of it did.
Not when Voldemort froze inside him and warmth suddenly flooded his insides, filling him to the brim with his cum. Not when rivulets of blood streamed down his shoulders and back from when Voldemort viciously bit at him, blood and sweat like light kisses along his spine. Everything was blissfully static.
A peace Harry sank into without resistance, uncaring of the fact that it was Voldemort that had brought him such delicious peace. That he had spent himself, not on the warm brush of pleasure along his spine, but from pain. The only thing, the only feeling that truly made him feel alive.
The seconds seemed to lapse into minutes, and minutes to what seemed like hours. Neither of them moved, save only to take in staccato breaths into their lungs. It was peaceful, and Harry almost let himself fall asleep in this bizarre position. Almost let himself forget who this was, whose cock was buried inside him until—
Voldemort started laughing. The shrill sound enough to startle him from his stupor, to rip him apart from the haze that had clouded his senses, that had blinded him to nothing else but his need for pain.
Horror seized him, followed by shame. A twisted, noxious thing that snuffed all the air from his lungs.
What have I done?
“Oh Harry,” Voldemort crooned, amusement and malice woven perfectly into his voice. His laughter a ghost that lingered in the dead air around them. The stench of sex, blood, and sweat was thick in chamber, but Harry paid none of that any mind. All he felt was terror.
“Did you not wonder why I allowed you to keep your mind?”
Harry didn’t move, unresponsive to the man’s words. Realization crept along his brain, muddying the horror that was suffusing his veins.
Oh Merlin, what have I done?
“There was never a need for me to do so. It was already mine.”
Harry wanted to deny it, to protest that he wasn’t. He belonged to himself, his mind was his own.
The words refused to come.
Something held him back, something he didn’t want to admit to, to acknowledge.
“No cheeky retort? No sassy answer?” Voldemort asked, delighted by Harry’s lack of response. As if he were relishing in the noxious emotions percolating in his mind. The ones he could not see, but could somehow sense.
Just as Voldemort had always been able to.
“Do not fret, my horcrux. It is only fitting that it be this way.”
Harry failed to see how this was fitting at all. This was wrong. This was—
A warm hand curled into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and Harry released a sharp breath. The gentleness after the brutality of their coupling, when his insides still ached from where Voldemort’s cock was still buried inside him, a shock to his senses.
“A soul, after all, is stronger than the mind.”