Actions

Work Header

the little death

Work Text:

"Thomas," Voldemort chides, stalled in the doorway of their study at the sight of his double with a head bobbing leisurely in his lap.  "Is that blood?" 

There's a bite just below his collarbone, bleeding sluggishly. Another, already wrapped up, at his wrist, as though he'd received it earlier in the evening. Trousers undone and pooled at his ankles, belt and all, reveal a third bite on his inner thigh. Fresh and staining the velvet chair beneath him, along with the slick mess of spit and spend rolling down the chin of whatever little harlot his other self has brought into their home this time. 

"You brought a vampire into my study?" Voldemort asks, more tired than offended. 

"Our study," Tom grins, then groans, clutching at the dark hair of this evening's lover; Voldemort had given up long ago trying to convince his younger self that indulgence comes at a cost.  "And you aren't a vampire, are you, lovely?" 

The head in his lap doesn't do much to reply, not that Voldemort can see. But then Tom is hissing a string of curses, is baring his teeth, is quaking apart with Voldemort to witness.  He can hear the lewd, slick sound of each swallow. 

Disturbing as it probably should be, Voldemort is far too amused by his other's quick unraveling. Though, he supposes, he has not been here long.

But to further his amusement, the man who set such a scene withdraws on a gasp, and when he speaks, it is not the usual simpering of Tom's usual partners-- all desperate to stay in the good graces of, or for the power of, the Dark Lord and Minister's so called son. 

"You talk too much," he says, voice rough but no less scathing, and then he is pushing to his feet and batting one of Tom's groping hands away as he wipes his chin off with the other.  "If I wasn't half starved, I wouldn't be here, you know." 

It's the man's eyes that snare Voldemort first, the moment he turns to face him. They're impossibly green and startlingly bright, sharp even as they're half clouded with something like satisfaction. More to the point, they indicate he is most certainly not just a simple minded blood sucker. 

His mouth is stained red, lips swollen, and his hair and clothes are a mess.  It looks far too human, considering how utterly inhuman he is. A face like an imp, like some fae creature straight out of the forest, and even from a few paces away, Voldemort can sense an energy from him that could bring weaker men to their knees. A succubi, perhaps, though they were impossibly rare to find. 

Either way, Tom had seen fit to bring such a powerful creature into their home.  With a polite bow of his head, Voldemort greets him. 

*“Forgive my… progeny’s behavior,” Voldemort says.  “And forgive my mistake.” 

The creature cocks his head over, eyeing Voldemort with a leisurely sweep of that impossible gaze.  Where in the world did Tom find him? 

“You’re both quite sharp, aren’t you?” he asks, and Voldemort would be offended, Tom would be offended, if they both obviously hadn’t noticed how dangerous such a reaction might be; the man steps closer, gaze narrowing, arms folding over his chest as he appears to size Voldemort up.  “You’re stronger, though.” 

Voldemort hears Tom make a disgruntled sound.  Ignores his clumsy scramble to right himself so that he may reinsert himself into the conversation in favor of the man holding his gaze with such unwavering fearlessness.  It isn’t something he sees often, outside of his own self. 

“I’m the original,” Voldemort says, carefully, and the man awards him with a brilliant little smile.  

“I figured as much,” he says.  “It is not often a weak wizard that defies death’s call.” 

For the first time, perhaps in his life, Voldemort feels something like a chill run down his spine. 

“Pleasure to meet you, of course,” he says.  “Voldemort, isn’t it?” 

Voldemort glances over the man’s head at where Tom is pulling his trousers up, his grin cocky and crooked, his eyes knowing.  Voldemort would throttle him, if he could.  

“Yes,” Voldemort says.  “And you are?” 

“Harry.  Just Harry.” Harry says, giving a polite dip of his head, though his curious little smile never diminishes.  “There’s power in a name, you know.” 

“There is,” Voldemort says, and something, some alarm that he hasn’t heard since he was a small child, goes off in the back of his mind.  “Would it offend you if, perhaps, I asked just what has been invited into my home?” 

“There’s power in that, too,” Harry says, his smile going cheeky, and Voldemort thinks he should be very frightened of this man, despite the coiling heat of want that forms in his belly as he realizes that whoever, whatever, this man is, it is not to be trifled with-- he can see why Tom brought him home, now; they’ve always been terribly attracted to powerful things.  “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough for that.” 

It nearly sounds like an invitation.  The promise-- in his eyes, so green, so dark-- is a tempting one. 

Then, Tom is there, snaking an arm around Harry’s waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek.  “Come now, Harry.  Surely you’re still hungry.” 

Voldemort does not think he’s ever had the joy of witnessing someone roll their eyes at any version of himself.  Or, at least not for a very long time.  

“I’m perfectly sated,” Harry says, slipping from Tom’s grip.  “I’ll be taking my leave now.  It truly was a pleasure.” 

He’s already slipping around Voldemort, too.  Already departing without a backward glance, as though they aren’t the two most powerful wizards alive, as though they could never threaten him, not even if they tried.  

Voldemort’s stomach winds tight. 

“If you’re ever hungry again,” Tom jostles past him to call after Harry’s retreating back.  “Do feel free to stop by.  I’m certain we could figure something out.” 

It gives Harry pause long enough for Voldemort to catch one last glance of those green eyes.  Then, with a little nod, Harry departs. 

“Stunning, isn’t he?” Tom asks, practically giddy, and as much as Voldemort would like to chide himself, there is something unnameable and enticed unfurling within his own chest.  

“Terrifying,” Voldemort admits. 

Tom’s smile is a sharp thing.  “Yes.  He is.” 

And then he is leaving to, heading for his own room down the hall, taking the scent of sex and power with him.  

In the months afterward, Harry keeps showing up, over and over, in increasingly sexual circumstances with Tom taunting and teasing and tempting Voldemort until he eventually-- inevitably-- snaps.  

It was to be expected.  Harry was doing very little to dissuade either of them, and they were both fully aware that he had no compunction against voicing his thoughts.  

Worse, the more he came over, the less he hid. 

The last time, right before Voldemort found himself yielding to those green eyes, Voldemort had stood and watched as Harry consumed his fill of Tom right in the middle of the parlor.  It had been a cold night, the howling outside, and Voldemort had been caught, mesmerized by the play of firelight on Harry’s skin as he wrapped himself around Tom’s back.  As he stroked his younger self off, he’d wrapped a fine black tail at the base of Tom’s cock, and when lightning struck somewhere close outside, Voldemort could see the hint of horns, the narrow lines of his pupils, the sharp promise of his teeth as he sank them into Tom’s throat right as Tom’s spend spilled out over his hand.  

Harry was not human.  He was not a wizard.  He was not anything Voldemort had ever seen before. 

And Voldemort wanted him.  

So when Voldemort walked in upon them-- again-- in his own bed, Harry rising and falling with sinuous grace, with strong thighs, with muscles flexing under skin glistening with sweat, it was an easy decision to shed his robes and join them.  

Tom had grinned, lascivious, from his spot splayed out on his back, enjoying the terrible minx finding pleasure in his lap.  Had known, eventually, Voldemort would want the powerful creature he so unabashedly brought around.  He’d just gotten rather tired of waiting.  

As Voldemort kneels up onto the mattress, Harry doesn’t miss a hitch.  He glances over his shoulder, lips parted and gaze perfectly dazed, and Voldemort doesn’t even need to ask before he leans in to catch his mouth.  Harry tilts his head back, laps at what desire he can surely taste on Voldemort’s tongue, and moans as Tom reaches around to spread him wide.  Hand splayed at Harry’s throat, thumb pressing at his jaw to keep Harry’s eyes on his, Voldemort shuffles in close behind him and touches where he is slick and already spread wide.  

“Do I need to prepare you further?” Voldemort asks, groaning as sharp teeth nip at his chin.  

Harry never stops moving, not even as he shakes his head.  “Just fuck me.” 

It feels like an impossibly tight fit, squeezing in alongside Tom’s cock, considering it is already impaling Harry so thoroughly.  Harry moans and lets his head rest back against Voldemort’s shoulder as they work themselves together.  He pants, chest flush and heaving, and Voldemort feels that tail he’d witnessed before wrap itself around his thigh as he and his other self both pull Harry down onto their combined girth.  

He’s a vision, taking them both, trembling between them and around them.  Voldemort grinds in, a proprietary hand at Harry’s belly, rutting into the tight heat of him as Tom grunts below.  He moans so sweetly that Voldemort cannot help but sink his fingers into Harry’s mouth, groaning when Harry lets him. 

“Bite if you need to,” Voldemort tells him, and then they’re moving. 

Tom and Voldemort both, holding Harry steady on his knees, withdrawing right as the other does, a driving in with the same fluid motion.  With the same relentlessness.  With the same desire to fuck, to take, to have.  Harry grunts, his spine arching, and the sharp pain at Voldemort’s hand is hardly a deterrent.  

They fuck the breath out of him, each time that they drive in.  Voldemort can feel his lower abdomen quiver against his palm.  Can see his eyes roll back as they keep him steady and still through each jarring inward thrust.  

They finish Harry first.  Take him and touch him and taste him until he’s spilling out and gasping in their hold.  

Following afterwards is equally as inevitable as everything else.  

Sprawled out between them, not long after they’d all found their own ends, Harry turns over on the bed and pins Voldemort with that inhuman stare.  Like the death curse, he thinks.  

“I won’t need to feed for another month,” Harry says, gaze bright, grin crooked.  “Thanks for that.” 

Voldemort has no idea who this man is.  No idea what he is.  He should strike the creature down, in whatever way possible, before this all becomes worse. 

“Our door is always open,” he says, instead. 

Delighted, Harry smiles.