Tomarrymort (however you wish), 10 or 29, or both if you are in the mood - no rush at all, thank you sooo much!!
<3
blindfolds and exhibitionism (tomarrymort)
warnings for additional dubcon and forced orgasms-- and alternate universe world building that will likely end up building out into a silly little fic full of more nonsense
unedited in this form
*
Harry is presented to the Dark Lord Voldemort in silks finer than his own family name. Is draped in a thread of gold, fine and twining up his wrists and arms, across his shoulders and down his back, twisting round his thighs, his knees, his calves. Gems splay across his throat, his chest, his hands and his feet, deep red like a splatter of old blood.
Harry is presented to the Dark Lord Voldemort in a crown as his war bride.
The entire hall is in an uproar, shouting and jeering, all with the smell of stolen mead and wine on their breath. They have been celebrating their victory for the last fortnight, sunup to sundown, eating out the stores that Grindelwald had so carefully hoarded from his people as the invading force all but bled the old king’s gold out in the market streets. Through the chaos, through the blood, a new reign was already being forged in the ashes of the last.
A new reign heralded by a monster with a pretty face. One that slipped into court months back. One that found Harry, peeling potatoes in the kitchens, even with three lines of nobility to claim. One that charmed his way up the ranks, to the old king’s ear, only to whisper a promise of death.
And here Harry stands, being presented by one pretty monster to another, like some roughed up diamond that’s been shined to gleaming just for show. A lowly kitchen hand presented before their new king as if he is something to be treasured.
This new monster, Harry notes, has scales. He sits, pale and towering and terrifying on Grindelwald’s old throne. He looks very bored– at least until Harry is brought before him by Tom Riddle. With Harry’s finery acting as bondage as much as it is decoration, he is caught, standing at the foot of the dais, unable to shy away from eyes as red as the jewels he’s wearing.
“Hello, father,” Tom Riddle greets, pleasant and almost chipper, a hand pressing at Harry’s lower back as he presents him to Lord Voldemort. “I’ve brought a gift.”
“So I see,” Voldemort replies, a pinch to his expression when Tom calls him father, though his disdain does not linger– gaze, instead, drawn to where Harry has been dolled up before him. “And what should I do with such a war prize?”
“I believe you should claim it.”
The voice comes from somewhere behind Harry. Somewhere he cannot look, head stuck forward with some sort of enchantment, ruby collar threatening to dig in and bite at the skin of his throat, otherwise.
“Isn’t that right, brother?” the voice asks.
Tom Riddle– smooth, charming, cruel Tom Riddle– scrunches up his nose and scoffs. Glares over his shoulder at whoever is approaching, until Harry can see an uncannily familiar face come up alongside his right.
Gone, however, is the youth of Tom Riddle’s face. In its place, someone a touch taller and broader stands, dark hair peppered with gray at the temples, but cheekbones just as cutting and eyes just as red.
Oh, Harry thinks. There’s three of them.
“Of course he should claim it,” Tom replies, something like a sneer marring that pretty face, though his distaste does not stop him from urging Harry forward a step, toward where Voldemort sits watching. “You should claim your prize for all to see.”
“A bit presumptuous,” the Other Tom mutters, and Harry almost flinches when he feels a second hand find his back. “Wouldn’t his private chambers be a more appropriate location?”
“Appropriate, Thomas,” Voldemort says, before Tom can bother snapping anything back, and as he curls two fingers, Harry feels the thread of gold wound all around him pull a touch tighter, tugging him up a step, and away from the two Tom’s touches. “I would agree. I would argue, however, that a touch of showmanship is necessary.”
The nobles here are not their nobles. They are the ones that have been won, swayed by clever tongues and satchels of gold. Stolen by threat or by promise.
Usurpers often find that they need to solidify their claim to a throne. Harry’s supposed lineage makes it all the simpler.
He was supposed to be a Duke’s son. And the remaining Black heirs have listed him as their intended successor, all thanks to months of Tom Riddle’s charming and a family tie Harry has no memory of.
Harry would think himself Cinderella, if any of this was what he wanted.
Walking up the steps to the throne under the compelling force of Lord Voldemort’s magic is a frightening thing. Being brought to stop just before him, chest rising and falling uneasily beneath a sprawling mess of rubies and dangling threads of gold, hands bound in front of him, bare but for the silk draped carefully around his hips, secured in place only by a belt in the shape of a golden serpent, biting its own tail.
Harry trembles in place. He does not look away.
“Where did my son find you hiding?” Voldemort asks, head a curious tilt as he takes Harry in up close. “I thought the last of the Peverells long since passed.”
“In the kitchens,” Harry answers honestly. “My uncle sold me to the kingdom’s service to repay a debt.”
“Is your uncle a Peverell?” Voldemort asks, and Harry can hear the threatening edge of it. “What of your parents?”
“No,” Harry replies. “I’m an orphan of this kingdom, my Lord. I only know what little of them I do thanks to your heir.”
When Voldemort scoffs out a laugh, he isn’t the only one. Harry imagines it must be the other one– Thomas.
“There is no need to speak of heirs,” Voldemort says. “Not when my reign will remain eternal.”
Harry isn’t certain what that means. It does not stop the shiver from slipping down his spine, fear like ice, chilling him to the marrow.
He does not get a chance to ponder it much further, either. Not when Voldemort snaps his fingers– and, just as quick, a slip of dark silk slides its way over Harry’s eyes.
He seizes in place, startled, and would shuffle back a step if it weren’t for the golden thread acting like shackles, delicately woven around his ankles. Instead, his breath grows shorter, world turned dark, nothing but noise and the cool air to accompany him.
“Did you know, little one,” Voldemort asks, voice a hush, a phantom in his ear that just makes him shiver more. “That the Peverell line has the only true claim to the throne?”
Something in Harry clenches tight. True fear leaves a spill of tears slipping from his eyes, wetting the silk blinding him to the jeers that have already begun to grow louder.
Still, he tilts his chin up, defiant in the only way he can be as he senses Voldemort climbing to his feet. As magic coaxes him around, dizzying, until Harry isn’t certain which way he’s facing anymore. As a large hand splays over his belly, claws teasing at the edges of the belt until, with a hiss, Voldemort commands the serpent to release its own tail, silk pooling at Harry’s feet.
Then, that hand is on his cock, palming his softness as Harry flinches in place.
“Well?” Voldemort asks.
Harry gasps, quivering, heat burning away whatever cool fear had taken root in his bones as he feels Voldemort’s robes– five, woven cotton, still stained red in places from their coup half a moon previous– and the press of Voldemort’s broad form all along his skin.
He is bare. Bared completely to the room, left on display, only clad in other treasures and only provided any amount of dignity by the hand currently cupping his prick.
“No,” Harry breathes, coming up a bit on his toes when he feels Voldemort’s palm begin to press. “I, ah– I didn’t know that.”
Behind him, Harry feels Voldemort hum. All around him, thrumming and pleased, welling up from Voldemort’s chest.
“You, little one, are the only true heir to this throne,” Voldemort tells him, in that phantom voice, like a dozen whispers in his head, and Harry knows that he’s the only one who can hear what he is currently saying. “Which is why I will bind you to me. To every part of me.”
His hand is warm. Coaxing. His voice a terrible temptation.
Harry feels his thighs quiver.
“Which is why I will claim your first seed, here, where my heirs can witness,” Voldemort tells him, rubbing steadily now, and Harry’s throat works as friction sends a scattering of sparks along his nerves. “Where the kingdom can.”
Harry has never been touched this way by another. Has only had fantasies and his own hands for pleasure.
Blind, bound, Harry can do nothing as the Dark Lord pets his cock to hardness. Can only gasp, hips helplessly twitching forward into that touch, leaking into Voldemort’s palm shamefully. Can only whimper as the jeering turns into wild cheers.
Harry feels Voldemort’s other hand splay over his collared throat. Feels the touch between his legs grow more urgent.
Feels something in his stomach begin to wind tighter and tighter still.
He gasps out into the atrium, breath hitching all the more as Voldemort pets over his prick until Harry is coming up onto his toes again, arching, cumming– spilling out behind the press of Voldemort’s palm with a warbling little cry that gets lost in the roar of the audience. Harry’s ears are left ringing.
“Pretty thing,” Voldemort coos, so that all can hear. “I think you’ll look lovely, ruling at my side.”
kinks: face-sitting (👀), daddy kink (👀👀), n good ol’ spanking
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
My goodness, we're on a roll.
OG Prompt:
- daddy kink, spanking, and face sitting. I don't actually have the face sitting here, but it will show up in a later chapter also with daddy kink and possibly spanking <3
More Warnings beneath the cut:
Warnings:
- graphic depictions of unrealistic sex, dom/sub, oral sex, rough sex, weird power dynamics, magic sex toys: enchanted shapeshifting semi-permanent anal plug, collars, thigh riding, cumming untouched, punishment, overstimulation, daddy kink, spanking, mild consenting nonconsent (CNC) (but mostly just instead of safewords, it’s Harry’s magic breaking things that indicates a potential slow down moment– basically Harry agreed to be a toy, he just wasn’t aware just who he’d been agreeing to be a toy to or how gross they could be), humiliation and praise kink, sadism/masochism, choking/breathplay (specifically with the use of a belt), forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, dry orgasms, aftercare
Part of my intent in undertaking this project is to use the arcade as lens through which to explore the history of the Australian city and its inhabitants. Within the arcades we find goods, ideas and people that came from all over the world, encapsulating ideas of global trade and migration, and even political and social changes, into a contained space.
