For One Night Only
Author: Am-Chau Yarkona
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Lucius
Summary: Lucius' master has given him a reward.
Warnings: non-con, whore!Potter.
Author's notes: thanks to serasempre
and language_idling
for the betas. prillalar,
142978,
and tradesland,
you did say
you wanted this. Written for the non-con challenge at pornish_pixies,
even though I can't post it there.
Lucius closed the door behind him, and looked down, admiring the dark-haired boy
spread on the bed, his for the taking in this quiet, luxurious room. The boy—a
man, technically, since he was at least twenty, but still young of face—had
pale skin, whitened to vampiric shades by the years in the Dark Lord's brothel.
His limbs were straight and clean, and nothing marred the sweeping lines of his
naked body. His hair was dark, messy, flopping down over his forehead and back
onto the simple white cotton of the pillowcase.
"Ah, the rewards of faithful service," Lucius sighed. The boy raised
his head, defiant despite the magic which held him down. The mop of hair shifted
with the movement, and something on his forehead caught Lucius' eye, and held
it.
There was a scar there: a simple zig-zagging curse scar.
What a reward. His Master—his wonderful, clever and occasionally generous
Master—had given him not just a whore; not just a male whore; but the ultimate
whore, the defeated Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter, his for the taking.
Lucius licked his lips and reconsidered his approach. A mere fuck was not
sufficient for so delicious a prize.
This would be a truly glorious domination. A shame, really, that he could never
tell Narcissa about it.
The boy—Harry Potter, and how his heart sang with that thought—was already
held down by magic, but something more solid would be much more satisfying…
Lucius flicked his wand (he'd learned that spell at school, never guessing how
useful it would be), and Potter was handcuffed at the bed-head, Muggle-style.
That added the extra edge of kink Lucius was looking for: a defender of Muggles,
subdued with Muggle tools, even if they were magically produced.
Of course, the poetic irony was satisfying, too.
He stepped forward slowly, thinking. He would not, he decided, disrobe. Potter
was naked already (clean, pale skin, marred by scars in only a few places;
presumably from his childhood, since magic tended to heal things flawlessly.
Merlin, the boy was beautiful). He would stretch this out as long as his
already-insistent arousal would allow.
The mattress dented as he knelt on the bed between Potter's legs. The boy's eyes
gleamed green and hate-filled—the same colour as Lily's eyes, Lucius realised.
Three years below him, but pretty enough to be noticed even by the jaded
Slytherins. And how Severus had lusted after her!
That was beside the point. He reached forward, wanting to touch the fine skin.
It trembled under his fingers, and he saw Potter tense, trying to control it.
"That's right, Potter," he whispered, low and harsh. "Be afraid
of me. You are in my Master's power, and now in mine."
Potter opened his mouth as if to speak; but some carefully-crafted aspect of the
control spell went into action, and no sound emerged. He shut it again, his
malice-filled glare.
"All mine," Lucius said again. "You were so very clean, and now
we get to sully you."
His hands roved forward: over Potter's thighs, corded, still, with Qudditch-player's
muscles; over Potter's hip-bones, gracefully curved; and onto Potter's chest,
with its smattering of hair, now heaving as he jerked and struggled, his efforts
to escape given new force by the indignity of his position. Even as he
struggled, though, his cock was hardening. Touch and fear aroused; they always
did.
He sat back, and muttered, "Volubilis." The restraining spell turned
Potter over, twisting his arms and exposing his rounded buttocks and the expanse
of his back to Lucius' exploring hands. He stretched himself on top of Potter,
feeling the softness of his skin, and paused there, to enjoy the sensation of
long limbs-green eyes-arching back Potter, bucking beneath him, gasping, and
unable to escape.
His erection became more demanding, and he sat up again. A few buttons were
enough to free his cock. As Lucius reached for the lubricating potion, he
whispered "Sonorus," under his breath, thinking that it would be
interesting to see if Potter would realise that his sounds were audible to the
man above him.
Potter was already gasping, and now Lucius could hear it, where before he had
only seen the quick motions of Potter's chest. It excited him, and as he rested
his weight back over the boy's hips and thighs, he imagined that he felt some of
the struggles become efforts to gain friction rather than freedom. He lifted
Potter's hips and shoved a pillow under them, decreasing the friction for the
time being.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you, Potter?" Lucius hissed, and thrust
into the boy's tight (but, he noted in passing, carefully prepared—this one
was being looked after—) arse. It was a tribute to the training Potter had
acquired recently that even while been thoroughly fucked, he could deduce which
answer Lucius wanted, and nod.
Lucius banished that thought from his mind—nothing could end a sexual
encounter as quickly as guilt, as Narcissa had sad reason to know—and
reassured himself that Potter's answer had been genuine.
Potter's gasps became louder as Lucius settled into a rhythm. He tried to keep
it slow, to hold off orgasm for as long as possible, but soon his voice joined
Potter's. The boy's arse, rubbing on his thighs and belly, the mingled moans,
the thought of who was under him…these things made Lucius increase the speed
of his movements frantically, grunting with the effort, the sensation spiking
from the base of his spine and pushing him higher, closer.
Potter thrashed under Lucius' tightly-gripping hands, and the extra movement was
just enough. Lucius came with a cry that would—later, when he recalled
it—make him glad for the silencing charms on the room.
He fell forward once more onto Potter's back, and rested his cheek in the boy's
shoulder while the fog of orgasm passed.
Sleep came, but as he drifted he was amused to hear Potter mutter, "Now
there's a wet patch, you bastard." Soon his time would be up—the
'trustee' prisoner who kept the brothel for them was firm about such
things—but for now, there was a warm body, and the soft pillow of Potter's
neck… Lucius dozed.